CHAPTER 18 PART 1 OF THE BETROUGHTH For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading done by Jules Harlech of Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. The Betrothed by Alessandro Manzoni, Chapter 18, Part 1. That same day, the 13th of November, an express arrived to the Signor Podesta of Lechio, and presented him with a dispatch from the Signor of the High Sheriff, containing an order to make every possible strict investigation, to ascertain whether a certain young man, bearing the name of Lorenzo Tramiglino, silk weaver, who had escaped from the hands of Predici Egregii Domini Capitaniii, had returned Palame Velclam to his own country, Ignatum, the exact village, Vernum in Territorio Lucy, Quadsi Compertum Fiorit Sicessi. The Signor Podesta must endeavor quanta maxima delegentia ferere poterit, to get him into his hands, and having sufficiently secured him vedelisit, with strong handcuffs, seeing that the insufficiency of smaller manacles for the aforementioned person has been proved, must cause him to be conducted to prison, and there detained under strong custody, until he be consigned to the officer who shall be sent to take him, and in case either of success or non-success. Plisibus Sumatis And of all his sayings and doings, what is found and not found, what is taken and not taken, Dilegenter Referatis. After humanely assuring himself that the object of inquiry had not returned home, the Signor Podesta summoned the village constable, and under his direction proceeded with a large retinue of notaries and bailiffs to the above mentioned house. The door was locked, and either no one had the key, or he was not to be found. They therefore forced the locks with all due and praiseworthy zeal, which is equivalent to saying that they proceeded as if taking a city by assault. The report of this expedition immediately spread in the neighborhood and reached the ears of Father Cristoforo, who no less astonished than grieved, sought for some information as to the cause of so unexpected an event from everybody he met with. He could only, however, gather airy conjectures and contradictory reports, and at last, therefore, wrote to Father Bonaventura from whom he imagined he should be able to acquire some more precise information. In the meanwhile, Renzo's relations and friends were summoned to depose all that they knew about his depraved habits. To bear the name of Tramaglino became a misfortune, a disgrace, a crime, and the village was quite in a commotion. By degrees, it became known that Renzo had escaped from the hands of justice during the disturbance at Milan and had not since been seen. It was whispered about that he had been guilty of some high crime and misdemeanor, but what it was no one could tell, or they told it in a hundred different ways. The more heinous the offense with which he was charged, the less was it believed in the village, where Renzo was universally known as an honest, respectable youth, and many conjectured and spread the report that it was merely a machination set on foot by the powerful Don Rodrigo to bring about the ruin of his unfortunate rival. So true is it that, judging only by induction and without the necessary knowledge of facts, even the greatest villains are sometimes wrongfully accused. But we who have the facts in our possession, as the saying is, can affirm that if Don Rodrigo had had no share in Renzo's misfortunes, yet that he had rejoiced in them as if he had been his own work, and triumphed over them among his confidence, especially with Count Attilio. This friend, according to his first intention, should have been by this time at Milan, but on the first announcement of the disturbances that had arisen there, and of the rabble whom he might encounter in a far different mood than tamely to submit to a beating, he thought it expedient to postpone his journey until he received better accounts. And the more so, because having offended many, he had good reason to fear that some who had remained passive only from impotency might now be encouraged by circumstances, and judge it a favorable opportunity for taking their revenge. The journey, however, was not long delayed. The order dispatched from Milan for the execution against Renzo had already given some indication that things had returned to their ordinary course, and the positive notices which followed quick upon it confirmed the truth of these appearances. Count Attilio set off immediately in joining his cousin to persist in his undertaking, and bring it to an issue and promising on his part that he would use every means to rid him of the friar, to whom the fortunate accident of his cousin's beggarly rival would be a wonderful blow. Scarcely had Attilio gone when Grisio arrived safe and sound from Manza, and related to his master what he had been able to gather, that Lucia had found refuge in such a monastery under the protection of the Signora so-and-so, that she was concealed there as if she were a nun herself, never setting foot outside the threshold, and assisting at the services of the church behind a little-graded window. An arrangement which was unsatisfactory, too many who, having heard some mention of her adventures and great reports of her beauty, were anxious for once to see what she was like. This account inspired Don Rodrigo with every evil passion, or to speak more truly, rendered still more ungovernable those with which he was already possessed. So many circumstances favorable to his design had only further inflamed that mixture of punctilio, rage, and infamous desire of which his passion was composed. Renzo absent banished Outlawd so that any proceedings against him became lawful, and even that his betrothed bride might be considered in a measure as the property of a rebel, the only man in the world who would and could interest himself for her, and make a stir that would be noticed in headquarters, and at a distance the enraged friar would himself probably be soon incapable of acting for her. Yet here was a new impediment which not only outweighed all these advantages, but rendered them, it might be said, unavailing. A monastery at Monza, even had there not been a princess in the way, was a bone too hard even for the teeth of a Rodrigo, and wandered in his fancy round his this retreat as he would, he could devise no way of or means of assaulting it, either by force or fraud. He was almost resolved to give up the enterprise to go to Milan by a circuitous route, so as to avoid passing through Monza and there to plunge himself into the society of his friends and their recreations, so as to drown in thoughts of gaiety, the one idea which had now become so tormenting. But, but, but his friends softly a little with these friends, instead of diverting his mind, he might reasonably expect to find in their company an incessant renewal and memento of his vexation, for Atelio would certainly have published the affair and put them all in expectation. Everybody would make inquiries about the mountain girl, and he must give some answer. He had wished, he had tried, and how had he succeeded? He had engaged in an undertaking, rather an unworthy one certainly, but what of that? One cannot always regulate one's caprices, the point is to satisfy them, and how had he come off in the enterprise, how? Put down by a peasant and a friar, and when an unexpected turn of good fortune had rid him of one, and a skillful friend of the other, without any trouble on the part of the principal person concerned, he, like a fool, knew not how to profit by the juncture, and basically withdrew from the undertaking. It would be enough to make him never again dare to hold up his head among men of spirit, or compel him always to keep his hand on his sword, and then, again, how could he ever return to, however, remain in that village and that country, where, let alone the incessant and bitter remembrances of his passion? He should always bear about with him the disgrace of his failure, where the public hatred would have increased, while his reputation for power and superiority would have, for fortunately, diminished, where he might read in the face of every ragamuffin, even through a veil of profound references. A galling, you've been gulled, and I'm glad of it. The path of iniquity, as our manuscript here remarks, is broad, but that does not mean that it is easy. It has its stumbling blocks, and its thorns, and its course is tedious and wearisome, though it be a downward course. In this perplexity, unwilling either to give up his purpose, to go back or to stop, and unable by himself to go forward, a plan occurred to Don Rodrigo's mind, by which he hoped to effect his design. This was to take as a partner and assistant in his enterprise, one whose hands could often reach beyond the views of others, a man at once and devil, to whom the difficulty of an undertaking was frequently an incentive to engage in it. But this course also had its inconveniences and its dangers, the more pressing, the less they could be calculated upon beforehand, since it was impossible to foresee where one might be led, whence one embarked in an affair with this man, a powerful auxiliary certainly, but a not less absolute and dangerous guide. These thoughts kept Don Rodrigo for several days in a state of worse than tedious perplexity. In the meanwhile, a letter arrived from his cousin, informing him that the plot against the friar was going on very well, following close upon the lightning burst forth the thunderclap. One fine morning, Don Rodrigo heard that Father Christophero had left the convent at Pescara Nicole. This success so prompt and so complete, together with Attilio's letter, encouraging him onward and threatening him with intolerable ridicule if he withdrew, inclined Don Rodrigo still more to hazard everything rather than give up. But that which finally decided him was the unexpected news that Agnes had returned home, thus removing the one obstacle from around Lucia. We will relate how these two circumstances were brought about, beginning with the last. The two unfortunate women were scarcely settled in their retreat, when the report of the disturbances in Milan spread rapidly over Monza and consequently through the monastery. And following the grand news came an infinite succession of particulars, which multiplied and varied every moment. The portraits situated just between the street and the monastery was a channel of information both from within and from without, and eagerly receiving these reports, retailed them at will to her guests. Two, six, eight, four, seven had been imprisoned. They would hang them, some before the bakehouse of the crutches, some at the end of the street, where the superintendent of provisions lived. Aye, aye, just listen now, one of them escaped, a man somewhere from Lechio, or their bouts. I don't know the name, but someone will be passing who will be able to tell me to see if you know him. This announcement, together with the circumstances that Renzo would just have arrived at Milan on the fatal day, occasioned a great deal of disquietude to the women, and especially to Lucia. But what must it have been when the portraits came to tell them? It is a man from your very village who has escaped being hung, a silk weaver of the name of Tremaglino. Do you know him? Lucia, who was sitting, hamming some needlework, immediately let it fall from her hands. She became extremely pale and changed countenance so much that the portraits would certainly have observed it had she been nearer to her. Fortunately, however, she was standing at the door with Agnes, who, though much disturbed, yet not to such a degree as her daughter, preserved a calm countenance and forced herself to reply that in a little village everybody knew everybody, that she was acquainted with him and could scarcely bring herself to believe that anything of the kind had happened to him. He was so peaceable a youth. She then asked if it was known for certain that he had escaped and withered. Everyone says he has escaped. Where to? They cannot say. It may be that they will catch him again, or it may be he is in safety, but if they do get hold of him, you're peaceable youth. Fortunately at this juncture, the portraits was called away and left them. The reader may imagine in what state of mind for more than a day where the poor woman and her afflicted daughter obliged to remain in this painful suspense imagining the causes, ways, and consequences of this unhappy event and commenting in their own minds or in a low voice with each other on the terrible words their informer had left unfinished. At length, one Thursday, a man arrived at the monastery in search of Agnes. It was a fish monger of Pescaronico going to Milan as usual to dispose of his fish, and the good father Christophero had requested him, in passing through Manza, to call in at the monastery, to greet the women in his name, to tell them all he knew about this sad affair of Renzo's, to beseech them to have patience and put their trust in God, and to assure them that he would certainly not forget them, but would watch his opportunity for rendering them assistance, and in the meantime would not fail to send them all the news he could collect every week, either by this means or a similar one. The messenger could tell nothing new or certain about Renzo except of the execution put into his house, and at the search that was being made for him, but at the same time that this had been hitherto in vain, and that it was known for certain that he had reached the territory of Bergamo, such a certainty it is unnecessary to say was a bomb to poor Lucia's wounded heart. From that time her tears flowed more freely and calmly. She felt more comforted in her secret bursts of feeling with her mother, and expressions of thankfulness began to be mingled with her prayers. Gertrude frequently invited her into her private apartment, and sometimes detained her there a long time, feeling a pleasure in the ingenuousness and gentleness of the poor girl, and in hearing the thanks and blessings she poured upon her benefactress. She even related to her in confidence a part, the blameless part, of her history, and of what she had suffered that she might come there to suffer till Lucia's first suspicious astonishment gradually changed to compassion. In that history she found reasons more than enough to explain what she thought rather strange in the behavior of her patroness, especially when she brought in to her aid Agnes's doctrine about the characters of the nobility. Nevertheless, though sometimes induced to return the confidence, which Gertrude reposed in her, yet she carefully avoided any mention of her fresh causes of alarm, of her new misfortune, and of the ties which bound her to the escaped silk weaver, lest she should run any risk of spreading a report so full of her shame and sorrow, she also parried to the best of her ability all Gertrude's inquisitive questions about herself previous to her betrothal. But this was not so much from prudential motives, as because such an account appeared to the simple-minded girl more perplexing, more difficult to relate than all she had heard, or thought it possible to hear from the senora. In the history of that lady there was oppression, intrigue, suffering, sad and mournful things, but which nevertheless could be named. In her own there was a pervading sentiment, a word which she did not feel it possible to pronounce when speaking of herself, and as a substitute for which she could never find a parry phrases that did not seem to her mind indelicate, love. Gertrude was sometimes tempted to be angry at these repulses, but there always appeared behind them so much affection, so much respect, so much gratitude, and even so much trustfulness. Sometimes perhaps that modesty, so delicate, so sensitive, and mysterious, displeased her still more on another account. But all was quickly forgotten in the soothing thought that every moment recurred to her mind when contemplating Lucia. I'm doing her good, and this was true. For, besides the asylum she had provided, these conversations and her familiar treatment were some comfort to Lucia. The poor girl also found another satisfaction in constant employment. She always petitioned for something to do, and when she went into this Senora's Barler, generally took a little needle work with her to keep her fingers employed. But what melancholy thoughts crowded her mind wherever she went, while plying her needle, an occupation to which hitherto she had given little attention. Her reel constantly presented itself to her view, and with the reel, how many other things. The second Thursday, the same or another messenger arrived, bringing salutations and encouragement from Father Christopher, and an additional confirmation of Renzo's escape, but no more positive information about his misfortunes. The reader may remember that the cappuccine had hoped for some account from his brother Friar at Milan, to whom he had given Renzo a letter of recommendation. He only replied, however, that he had seen neither letter nor person that a stranger from the country had certainly been to the convent in search of him, but finding him out had gone away and had not again made his appearance. The third Thursday, no messenger came, which was not only depriving the poor woman of an anticipated and hoped-for source of consolation, but as it usually happens, on every trifling occasion, to those in sorrow and suspense, was also a subject of much disquietude and a hundred-termending suspicions. Agnes had, for some time, been contemplating a visit to her native village, and this unexpected non-appearance of the promised messenger determined her upon taking such a step. Lucia felt very strange at the thought of being left without the shelter of every mother's wing, but the longing desire she felt to know something and her sense of security in that guarded and sacred asylum conquered her great unwillingness, and it was arranged between them that Agnes should watch in the street the following day for the fishmonger, who must necessarily pass that way on his return from Milan, and that she would ask him to be so good as to give her a seat in his cart to take her to her own mountains. She met with him accordingly and asked if Father Christopherl had given him no commission for her. The fishmonger said that he had been outfishing the whole day before his departure and had received news nor message from the father. Agnes then made her request, which, being granted without hesitation, she took her leave of the signora and her daughter with many tears and promising to send them some news soon, and returned as quickly as possible. She set off. Reading done by Jules Harlec of Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. The journey was performed without accident. They passed part of the night in and in on the roadside, as usual, and setting off on their way before sunrise. Arrived early in the morning at Pascara and Ico, Agnes alighted on the little square before the convent, dismissed her conductor with many thanks, and since she was at the place determined before going home to see her benefactor, the worthy friar. She rang the bell. The person who came to open the door was Fra Galdino, the nutseeker. Oh, my good woman, what wind has brought you here? I want to see Father Christophero. Father Christophero? He's not here. Oh, will he be long before he comes back? Long, said the friar, shrugging his shoulders, so as almost to bury his shorn head in his hood. Where has he gone? To Remini. To, to Remini? Where is that? Hehehe, replied the friar, vertically waving his extended hand in the air, to signify a great distance. I'll ask me, but why has he gone away so suddenly? Because the Father Provincial ordered it, and why have they sent him away at all when he was doing so much good here? Ah, poor me! If superiors were obliged to render a reason for all the orders they give, where would be our obedience, my good woman? Yes, but this is my ruin. This is the way it will be. They will have wanted a good preacher at Remini. There are some everywhere, to be sure, but sometimes they want a particular man on purpose. The Father Provincial there will have written to the Father Provincial here to know if he had such and such a person, and the Father Provincial will have said, Father Christophero is the man for him, as, in fact, you see it is. O poor us, when did he go? The day before yesterday. See now, if I had only done as I first wished, and come a few days sooner, and don't you know when he may return, can't you guess at all? Eh, my good woman, nobody knows except the Father Provincial. If even he does, when once one of our preaching friars has taken the wing, one can never foresee on what branch he will finally alight. They are sought after here, and there, and everywhere, and we have convinced in all the four quarters of the globe. Rest assured, Father Christophero will make a great noise with his course of lent sermons at Remini, for he doesn't always preach extemporary, as he did here, that the poor people might understand him. For the city pulpits he has his beautiful written sermons, and his best robes. The fame of this great preacher will spread, and they may ask for him at. I don't know where, besides we ought to give him up, for we live on the charity of the whole world. And it is but just that we should serve the whole world. Oh dear, dear, again cried Agnes, almost weeping. What can I do without him? He was like a father to us. It is the undoing of us. Listen, my good woman, Father Christophero was certainly an admirable man, but we have others, you know, full of charity and ability, and who know how to deal with either rich or poor. Will you have Father Antonasio, or Father Girolamo, or Father Zachariah?  I don't say that he is a good preacher, because everybody has his particular gifts, but he is just the man to give advice, you know. Oh, holy patience exclaimed Agnes, with that mixture of gratitude and impatience that one feels at an offer in which there is more good nature than suitableness. What does it matter to me what a man is, or is not, when that good man who is no longer here was he who knew all our affairs and had made preparations to help us? Then you must be patient. I know that, replied Agnes. Forgive me for troubling you. Oh, don't say a word, my good woman. I am very sorry for you. And if you determine upon consulting any of the Fathers, the convent is here, and won't go away. I shall see you soon when I collect the oil. Goodbye, said Agnes, and she turned towards her little village, forlorn, perplexed, and disconcerted, like a blind man who has lost his staff. Rather better informed than Fra Galdino, we will now relate how things had really happened. Immediately on Attilio's arrival at Milan, he went as he had promised Don Rodrigo to pay a visit to their common uncle of the Privy Council. This was a committee composed at that time of thirteen persons of rank with whom the Governor usually consulted, and who, when he either died or resigned, his office temporarily assumed the command. Their uncle, the Count, a robed member, and one of the oldest of the Council, enjoyed there a certain authority. But in displaying this authority and making it felt by those around him, there was not his equal. Ambiguous language, significant silence, abrupt pauses in speaking, a wink of the eye that seemed to say, I may not speak, flattery without promises, and formal threatenings, all were directed to this end, and all, more or less, produced the desired effect, so that even the positive declaration, I can do nothing in this business, pronounced sometimes in absolute truth, but pronounced so that it was not believed, only served to increase the idea, and therefore the reality, of his power, like the Japan boxes which may still be occasionally seen in the apothecary shop, with sundry Arabic characters stamped upon them, actually containing nothing, yet serving to keep up the credit of the shop, that of the Count which had been, for a long time increasing, by very gradual steps had at last made a giant stride, as the saying is, on an extraordinary occasion, namely a journey to Madrid, on an embassy to their court, where the reception that he met with should be related by himself. To mention nothing else, the Count Duke had treated him with particular condescension, and admitted him into his confidence so far as to have asked him in the presence, he might say, of half the court, how he liked Madrid, and to have told him another time, when standing in the recess of the window, that the Cathedral of Milan was the largest Christian temple in the king's dominions. After paying all due ceremony to his uncle, in delivering his cousin's compliments, Atelio addressed him with a look of seriousness, such as he knew how, and when to assume. I think I am only doing my duty without betraying Rodrigo's confidence when I acquaint my uncle with an affair, which, unless you interfere, may become serious and produce consequences. One of his usual scrapes, I suppose, I can assure you that the fault is not on Rodrigo's side, but his spirit is roused, and, as I said, no one but you can. Well, let us hear, let us hear.  It is quite sufficient for those to have to do with them who are obliged, whose business it is, and here he sighed, but you can avoid them. Signor Uncle, I am bound to tell you that Rodrigo would have left them alone had it been possible. It is that friar who is determined to quarrel with him, and has tried in every way to provoke him. What the? has the friar to do with my nephew. First of all, he is well known as a restless spirit who prides himself upon quarreling with gentlemen. This fellow, too, has taken under his protection and direction, and I don't know what besides a country girl of the village whom he regards with an affection. An affection, I don't say of what kind, but a very jealous, suspicious, and sullen affection. I understand, said the Count, an array of cunning intelligence shot across the depths of dullness nature had stamped upon his continents, now, however, partially veiled under the mask of a politician.  I don't know what designs upon this. Taken a fancy, eh? Taken a fancy. I know the senor Don Rodrigo too well, and it needs another advocate besides your lordship to justify him in these matters. That Rodrigo, senor uncle, may have had some idle jesting with this girl when he met her on the road. I can easily believe he is young, and besides, not a cappuccine, but these are mere nonsense, not worth mentioning to my noble uncle. The serious part of the business is that the friar has begun to talk of Rodrigo as he would of a common fellow, and has tried to instigate all the country against him. And the other friars? They don't meddle with it, because they know him to be a hot-headed fool, and bear a great respect to Rodrigo. But, on the other side, this monk has great reputation among the villagers as a saint, and I fancy he doesn't know that Rodrigo is my nephew. Doesn't he, though? It is just this that urges him onward. How, how? Because, and he scruples not to publish it, he takes greater delight in vexing Rodrigo, exactly because he has a natural protector of such authority as your lordship. He laughs at great people and politicians, and says that the court of Saint Francis binds even swords and the rash villain, what is his name? Bra Cristoforo of Cetatilio and his uncle taking a tablet from his desk and considerably incensed, inscribed within it the unfortunate name. In the meanwhile, Cetatilio continued, this fellow has always had such a disposition. His former life is well known. He was a plebeian who possessed a little money and would, therefore, compete with the noblemen of his country, and out of rage at not being able to make all yield to him, he killed one and then turned Friar to escape the gallows. Bravo, capital, we will see, we will see, exclaimed the Count, panting and puffing with an important air. Lately, continued Cetatilio, he is more enraged than ever, because he has failed in a design which he was very eager about. And from this my noble uncle will understand what sort of man he is. This fellow wanted to marry his protégé, whether to remove her from the perils of the world, you understand, or whatever it might be. At any rate, he was determined to marry her, and he had found the man another of his protégés, a person whose name my honoured uncle may not improbably have heard, for I dare say the privy council have had some transactions with this worthy subject. Who is he? A silk weaver, Lorenzo Tramiglino. He who Lorenzo Tramiglino exclaimed his uncle, well done, my brave friar. Certainly, indeed, he has a letter for a crime that, but it matters not very well. And why did Don Rodrigo tell me nothing of all this, but let things go so far without applying to one who is both able and willing to direct and help him?  Here his uncle drew a long breath and put his hand to his forehead, as if to intimate the fatigue he underwent in the settlement of so many intricate undertakings. He felt in a manner bound, continued Atelio, not to give you any additional trouble. And besides, I will tell you the whole from what I can gather. He is so vexed, so angry, so annoyed at the insults offered him by this friar, that he is more desirous of getting justice for himself by some summary means than of obtaining it in a regular way of prudence by the assistance of your lordship. I have tried to extinguish the flame, but seeing things taking a wrong course, I thought it my duty to inform your lordship of everything who, after all, is the head and chief prop of the house. You would have done better to have spoken a little sooner. True, but I continue to hope that the thing would die off of itself, or that the friar would, at last, come to his senses, or would perhaps leave the convent as is often the case among the monks, who are one day here and another there, and then all would have been quietly ended, but now it is my business to settle it. So I have thought, I said to myself, the senor, my uncle, with his discretion and authority will know well enough how to prevent a quarrel, and at the same time secure Rodrigo's honor, which is almost as it were his own. This friar, thought I, is always boasting of the girdle of St. Francis, but to employ this girdle seasonably it is not necessary to have it always buckled around one's waste. My noble uncle has many means that I know not of. I only know that the father provincial has, as is but right, a great respect for him, and if my honored uncle thought that the best course in this instance would be to give the friar a change of air, two words. Your lordship will be pleased to leave the arrangement to the person it belongs to, said his uncle, rather abruptly. Oh, certainly exclaimed Attilio with a toss of his head, and a disguised smile of disdainful compassion. I am not intending to give advice to your lordship, but the regard I have for the reputation of the family made me speak, and I am afraid I have been guilty of another error, added he, with a thoughtful air. I fear I have wronged Rodrigo in your lordship's opinion. I should have no peace if I were the cause of making you think that Rodrigo had not all the confidence in you, and all the submission to your will that he ought to have. Believe me, senior uncle, that in this instance it is merely, come, come, you two won't wrong each other, if you can help it. You will always be friends, till one of you becomes prudent, ever getting into some scrape or another, and expecting me to settle it. For you will force me to say so.  All these blessed affairs of state. Attilio made a few more excuses, promises, and compliments, and then took his leave, accompanied by, be prudent, the count's usual form of dismissal to his nephews. Chapter 19 Part 1 of the Betroth This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading done by Jules Harlock of Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. The Betroth by Alexandro Manzoni. Chapter 19 Part 1 If a weed be discovered in a badly cultivated field, a fine root of sorrel, for example, and the spectator wish to ascertain with certainty whether it has sprung up from seed, either ripened in the field itself, or wafted thither by the wind, or dropped there by a bird in its flight, let him think as he will about it. He will never come to a satisfactory conclusion. For the same reason we are unable to decide whether the resolution formed by the count of making use of the Father Provincial to cut into, as the best and easiest method, this intricate knot, arose from his own unassisted imagination, or from the suggestions of Attilio. Certain it is that Attilio had not thrown out the hint unintentionally, and however naturally he might expect that the jealous haughtiness of his noble relative would recoil at so open an insinuation. He was determined at any rate to make the idea of such a resource flash before his eyes, and let him know the course which he desired he should pursue. On the other hand the plan was so exactly consonant with his uncle's disposition, and so naturally marked out by circumstances that one might safely venture the assertion that he had thought of and embraced it without the suggestion of anyone. It was a most essential point towards the reputation of power which he had so much at heart that one of his name and nephew of his should not be worsted in a dispute of such notoriety. The satisfaction that his nephew would take for himself would have been a remedy worse than the disease, a foundation for future troubles which it was necessary to overthrow at any cost and without loss of time. Command him at once to quit his palace, and he would not obey, and even should he submit it would be surrendering of the contest, a submission of their house to this superiority of a convent. Commands, legal force or any terrors of that nature, were of no value against the adversary of such a character as Father Cristoforo. The regular and secular clergy were entirely exempt not only in their persons, but in their places of abode. From all age jurisdiction, as must have been observed even by one who has read no other story than the one before him, otherwise they would often have fared very badly. All that could be attempted against such a rival was his removal, and the only means for obtaining this was the Father Provincial, at whose pleasure Father Cristoforo was either stationary or on the move. Between this Father Provincial and the Count of the Privy Council there existed an acquaintance of long standing. They seldom saw each other, but whenever they met it was a great demonstrations of friendship and reiterated offers of service. It is sometimes easier to transact business advantageously with a person who presides over many individuals than with only one of those same individuals who sees but his own motives, feels but his own passions, seeks only his own ends, while the former instantly perceives a hundred relations, contingencies, and interests, a hundred objects to secure or avoid, and can therefore be taken on a hundred different sides. When all had been arranged in his mind the Count one day invited the Father Provincial to dinner, to meet a circle of guests selected with superlative judgment, an assemblage of men of the highest rank whose family alone bore a lofty title, and who by their carriage, by a certain native boldness, by a lordly air of disdain, and by taking of great things in familiar terms succeeded, even without intending it, in impressing and on every occasion keeping up the idea of their superiority and power, together with a few clients bound to the house by a hereditary devotion, and to its head by the servitude of a whole life, who, beginning with the soup to say yes, with their lips, their eyes, their ears, their head, their whole body, and their whole heart had made a man by dessert time almost forget how to say no. At table the noble host quickly turned the conversation upon Madrid. There are many ways and means of accomplishing one's object, and he tried all. He spoke of the court, the Count Duke, the ministers, and the governor's family, of the bull-baits, which he could accurately describe having been a spectator from a very advantageous post, and of the escurial of which he could give a minute account because of the Count Duke's pages had conducted him through every nook and corner of it. For some time the company continued like an audience attentive to him alone, but by degrees they divided into small groups of talkers, and he then proceeded to relate further anecdotes of the great things he had seen as in confidence to the Father Provincial, who was seated near him, and who suffered him to talk on without interruption. But at a certain point he gave a turn to the conversation, and leaving Madrid proceeded from court to court, and from dignitary to dignitary, till he had brought upon the tapas Cardinal Barbarini, a cappuccine and brother to the then reigning Pope Urban VIII. The Count was at last obliged to cease talking for a while, and to be content to listen, and remember that after all they were some people in the world who were not born to live and act only for him. Shortly after leaving the table, he requested the Father Provincial to step with him into another apartment. Two men of authority, age and consummate experience, now found themselves standing opposite to each other. The noble Lord requested the Reverend Father to take a seat, and, placing himself at his side, began his follows. Considering the friendship that exists between us, I thought I might venture to speak a word to your reverence on a matter of mutual interest, which it would be better to settle between ourselves without taking any other courses which might, but without further preface, I will candidly tell you to what I allude, and I doubt not you will immediately agree with me. Tell me, in your convent of Pescaronico, there is a certain father, Cristoforo of? The Provincial Bow Descent. Your paternity will be good enough, then, frankly, like a friend, to tell me, this person, this father, I don't know him personally. I am acquainted with several cappuccine fathers, zealous, prudent, humble men who are worth their weight in gold. I have been a friend to the order from my boyhood, but in every rather numerous family, there is always some individual, some wild, and this father, Cristoforo, I know by several occurrences that he is a person, rather inclined to disputes, who has not all the prudence, all the circumspection. I daresay he has more than once given your paternity some anxiety. I understand this is a specimen, thought the Provincial in the meantime. It is my fault, I know that blessed Cristoforo was fitter to go about from pulpit to pulpit than to be set down for six months in one place, especially in a country convent. Oh, said he aloud, I am really very sorry to hear that your Highness entertains such an opinion of Father Cristoforo, for as far as I know he is an most exemplary monk in the convent, and is held in much esteem also in the neighborhood. I understand perfectly your reverence ought. However, as a sincere friend, I wish to inform you of a thing which is important for you to know, and even if you are already acquainted with it, I think without exceeding my duty, I should caution you against the, I only say, possible consequences. Do you know that this Father Cristoforo has taken, under his protection, a man of that country, a man of whom your paternity has doubtless heard mention, him who escaped in such disgrace from the hands of justice, after having done things on that terrible day of Saint Martin's things Lorenzo Tramiglino. Alas, thought the provincial, as he replied, this particular is quite new to me, but your Highness is sufficiently aware that it is part of our office to seek those who have gone astray to recall them. Yes, yes, but intercourse with offenders of a certain kind is rather a dangerous thing, a very delicate affair, and here, instead of puffing out his cheeks and panting, he compressed his lips and drew in as much air as he was accustomed to send forth with such profound importance. He then resumed, I thought it as well to give you this hint, because if ever his Excellency, he may have had some business at Rome, I don't know though, and there might come to you from Rome. I am much obliged to your lordship for this information, but I feel confident that if they would make inquiries on this subject they would find that Father Cristoforo has had no intercourse with the person you mention, unless it be to try and set him right again. I know Father Cristoforo well. You know probably already better than I do what kind of a man he was as a layman, and the life he led in his youth. It is one of the glories of our habits, in your account, that a man who has given ever so much occasion in the world for men to talk about him becomes a different person when he has assumed this dress, and ever since Father Cristoforo has worn the habit. I would gladly believe it, I assure you. I would gladly believe it, but sometimes, as the proverb says, it is not the cowl that makes the fryer. The proverb was not exactly to the purpose, but the count had cited it instead of another, which had crossed his mind. The wolf changes its skin, but not its nature. I have facts continued he, I have positive proofs. If you can know for certain interrupted the provincial, that this fryer has been guilty of any fault, and we are all liable to err, you will do me a favor to inform me of it. I am his superior, though unworthily, but it is therefore my duty to correct and reprove. I will tell you, together with the unpleasing circumstances of the favor this father displays towards the person I have mentioned. There is another grievous thing, which may, but we will settle all this between ourselves at once. This same Father Cristoforo has begun a quarrel with my nephew, Don Rodrigo. Indeed, I am very sorry to hear it. Very sorry, indeed. My nephew is young and hot-tempered. He feels what he is, and is not accustomed to be provoked. It shall be my business to make every inquiry on the subject, as I have often told your lordship, and as you must know, with your great experience in the world, and your noble judgment, far better than I, we are all human and liable to err. Some one way, some another, and if our Father Cristoforo has failed, your reverence must perceive that these are matters, as I said, which had better be settled between ourselves, and remain buried with us. Things which, if much meddled with, will only be made worse. You know how it often happens, these strife and disputes frequently originate from a mere bagatelle, and become more and more serious as they are suffered to proceed. It is better to strike at the root before they grow to a head, or becomes the cause of a hundred other contentions. Suppress it and cut it short, most reverent Father. Suppress and cut it short. My nephew is young, the monk, from what I hear, has still all the spirit, all the inclinations of a young man, and it belongs to us who have some years on our shoulders. Too many are there not, most reverent Father. It belongs to us, I say, to have judgment for the young and try to remedy their errors. Fortunately we are still in good time. The matter has made no stir. It is still a case of a good principius obsta. Let us remove the straw from the flame. A man who has not done well, or who may be a cause of some trouble in one place, sometimes gets on surprisingly in another. Your paternity, doubtless, knows where to find a convenient post for this friar. This will also meet the other circumstance of his having, perhaps fallen under the suspicion of one who would be very glad that he should be removed, and thus by placing him at a little distance we shall kill two birds with one stone. All will be quietly settled, or rather there will be no harm done. The Father Provincial had expected this conclusion from the beginning of the interview. I, I, thought he to himself, I see well enough what you would bring me to. It is the usual way. If a poor friar has an encounter with you, or with any one of you, or gives you any offense right or wrong, the superior must make him march immediately. When the Count was at last silent and had puffed forth a long-drawn breath, which was equivalent to a full stop, I understand very well, said the Provincial, what your noble lordship would say, but before taking a step. It is a step, and it is not a step, most reverent Father. It is a natural thing enough, a very common occurrence. And if it does not come to this, and quickly to, I foresee a mountain of disorders, an iliative woes, a mistake, my nephew, I do not believe. I am here for this, but at the point at which matters have now arrived, if we do not put a stop to it between ourselves without loss of time, by one decided blow it is not possible that it should remain a secret, and then it is not only my nephew, we raise a hornet's nest, most reverent Father.  You understand me?  Their honor will come in, it will become a common affair, and then even one who is a friend to peace, it will be a great grief to me to be obliged. To find myself I, who have always had so much kind feeling toward the Cappuccine Fathers, you reverent Fathers, to continue to do good, as you have either to done, with so much edification among the people, stand in need of peace, should be free from strife and in harmony with those who, and besides you have friends in the world, and these affairs of honor, if they go any length extend themselves, branch out on every side, and draw in half the world. I am in a situation which obliges me to maintain a certain dignity. His Excellency, my noble colleagues, it becomes quite a party matter, particularly with that other circumstance. You know how these things go? Certainly, said Father Provincial. Father Christophero is a preacher, and I have already some thoughts. I have just been asked. But at this juncture and under the present circumstances, it might look like a punishment, and a punishment before having fully ascertained. Pshah! Punishment! Pshah! Merely a prudential arrangement, a convenient resource for preventing evils which might ensue. I have explained myself. Between this in your account and me, things stand in this light. I am aware, but as your Lordship has related the circumstances, it is impossible, I should say, but that something is known in the country around. There are everywhere firebrands, mischief makers, or at least malicious priors, who take a mad delight in seeing the nobility and the religious orders at variance. They observe it immediately, report it, and enlarge upon it. Everybody has his dignity to maintain, and I also, as superior, though unworthily, have an express duty, the honor of the habit. It is not my private concern. It is a deposit of which your noble nephew, since he is so high-spirited as your Lordship, describes him, might take it as a satisfaction offered to him. And I do not say both of it, and triumph over him. But is your paternity joking with me? My nephew is a gentleman of some consideration in the world. That is, according to his rank and the claims he has. But in my presence he is a mere boy, and will do neither more nor less than I bid him. I will go further and tell you that my nephew shall know nothing about it. Why need we give any account of what we do? It is all transacted between ourselves as old friends, and never need come to light. Don't give yourself a thought about this. I ought to be accustomed to be silent. And he heaved a deep sigh. As to gossips, resumed he, what do you suppose they can say? The departure of a monk to preach somewhere else is nothing so very uncommon. And then, we who see, we who foresee, we who ought, we need not give ourselves any concern about gossipings. At any rate, it would be well to try and prevent them on this occasion, by your noble nephews making some demonstration, giving some open proof of friendship and deference. Not for our sakes, as individuals, but for the sake of the habit. Certainly, certainly, this is but fair. However, there is no need of it. I know that the cappuccines are always received as they ought to be by my nephew. He does so from inclination. It is quite the disposition of the family, and besides, he knows it is gratifying to me. In this instance, however, something more marked. It is only right. Leave me to settle it, most reverent father. I will order my nephew. That is, I must cautiously suggest it to him, lest he should suspect what has passed between us. It would not do, you know, to lay a plaster where there is no wound. And as to what we have determined upon, the quicker the better. If you can find some post at a little distance, to obviate every occasion. I have just been asked for a preacher at Remini, and perhaps, even without any other reason, I should have thought of. Exactly apropos, exactly apropos, and when. Since the thing must be done, it had better be done at once. Directly, directly most reverent father, better today than tomorrow, and, continued he, as he rose from his seat, if I can do anything, I or my friends, for our worthy Cappuccine Fathers. We know by experience the kindness of your house, said the Father Provincial, also rising and advancing towards the door behind his vanquisher. We have extinguished the spark, said the Count, walking slowly forward, a spark, most reverent father, which might have been fanned into a widespreading and dangerous flame. Between friends, two or three words will often settle great things. On reaching the other apartment, he threw open the door, and insisted upon the Father's first entering. Then, following him in, they mingled with the rest of the company. This nobleman employed a studied politeness, great disparity, and fine words to accomplish his designs, and they produced corresponding effects. In fact, he succeeded by the conversation we have related in making Father Christoforo go on foot from Piscaterinico to Remini, which is a very tolerable distance. End of Chapter 19, Part 1. Chapter 19, Part 2 of The Betrothed. This is a Libra Box recording. All Libra Box recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Reading done by Jules Harlock of Mississauga, Ontario, Canada. The Betrothed by Alessandro Manzoni, Chapter 19, Part 2. One evening, a Cappuccine arrived at Piscaterinico from Milan with a dispatch to the Father Guardian. It contained an order for Father Christoforo to repair it once to Remini, where he was appointed to preach the course of Lent sermons. The letter to the Guardian contained instructions to insinuate to the said friar that he must give up all thoughts of any business he might have had in hand at the neighborhood he was about to leave, and was not to keep up any correspondence there. The bearer would be his companion, by the way. The Guardian said nothing that evening, but next morning he summoned Father Christoforo, showed him the command, and made him take his wallet, staff, maniple, and girdle, and with the Father whom he presented to him as a companion, immediately set off on his journey. What a blow this would be to the poor friar, the reader must imagine. Renzo Lucia, Agnes, instantly rushed into his mind, and he exclaimed, so to say, to himself, Oh my God, what will these poor creatures do when I'm no longer here? But instantly raising his eyes to heaven, he reproached himself for want of faith, and for having supposed that he was necessary in anything. He crossed his hands on his breast, in token of obedience, and bowed his head before the Guardian, who, taking him aside, told him the rest of the message, adding a few words of advice and some sensible precepts. Father Christoforo then went on into his cell, took his basket, and placed therein his breviary. His sermons and the bread of forgiveness bound round his waist a leathered girdle, took leave of his brethren whom he found in the convent, went to request the Guardian's blessing, and then, with his companion, took the root which had been prescribed for him. We have said that Don Rodrigo, more than ever resolved to accomplish his praiseworthy undertaking, had determined to seek the assistant of a very formidable character. Of this personage we can give neither the name, surname, nor title, nor can we even venture a conjecture on any one of them, which is the more remarkable, as we find mention of him in more than one published book of those times. That is the same personage, the identity of facts leave no room for doubt, but everywhere a studious endeavor may be traced to conceal his name, as if the mention of it would have ignited the pen and scorched the writer's hand. Francisco Rebola, in his life of the Cardinal Federico Boreamio, speaking of this person, says, a nobleman as powerful by wealth, as illustrious by birth, and nothing more. Giuseppe Ripamonte, who, in the fifth book of the fifth decade of his storia patria, makes more exclusive mention of him, describes him as one, this person, that person, this man, that personage. I will relate, says he, in his elegant Latin, which we translate as follows. The case of one who is being among the first of the great men of the city, took up his residence in the country, where, securing himself by the force of crime, he said that not justice and judges, all magisterial, and even all sovereign power, situated on the very confines of the state, he led an independent life, a harborer of outlaws and outlawed one time himself, and then safely returned. We will extract, in the sequel, some other passages from this writer, which will serve to confirm and elucidate the account of our anonymous author, with whom we are traveling onward, to do what was forbidden by the public laws or rendered difficult by an opposing power, to be the arbiter, the judge in other people's affairs, without further interest in them than the love of command, to be feared by all, and to have the upper hand among those who were accustomed to hold the same station over others. Such had ever been the principal object and desires of this man. From his youth he had always had mingled feelings of contempt and impatient envy at the sight or report of the power, encounters, stripes, and oppressive tyranny of others. Young and living in a city, he omitted no opportunity, nay, even sought for them of setting himself up against the most renowned of this profession, either entirely to subdue them, to struggle with them, and keep them in awe, or to induce them to solicit his friendship, superior to most in riches and retinue, and perhaps to all in presumption and intrepidity. He compelled many to retire from competition. Some he treated with haughtiness or contempt, some he took as friends, not however on an equality with himself, but as alone would satisfy his proud and arrogant mind, as subordinate friends who would be content to acknowledge their inferiority and use their hands in his service. In fact, however, he became at length the great actor and the instrument of his companions, who never failed to solicit the aid of so powerful an auxiliary in all their undertakings, while for him to draw back would be to forfeit his reputation and come short of what he had assumed. He went on thus till, on his own service and that of others, he had gone to such a length that neither his name, family, friends, nor even his own audacity, suffice to secure him against public proclamations and outlawry, and he was compelled to give way and leave the state. I believe it is to this circumstance that a remarkable incident related by Repa Monti refers, on one occasion, when obliged to quit the country, the secrecy he used and the respect and timidity he displayed were such that he rode through the city on horseback followed by a pack of hounds and accompanied with the sound of the trumpet, and in passing before the palace of the court left an insolent message with the guards for the governor. During his absence he continued the same practices, not even intermitting his correspondence with those of his friends who remained united to him, to translate literally from Repa Monti in the secret alliance of atrocious consultations and fatal deeds. It even appears that he engaged the foreign courts in other new and formidable undertakings of which the above-sighted historian speaks with mysterious brevity. Some foreign princes several times availed themselves of his assistance in important murders and frequently sent him reinforcement of soldiers from a considerable distance to act under his orders. At length it is not exactly known how long afterwards either the sentence of banishment against him being withdrawn by some powerful intercession or the audacity of the man serving him in place of any other liberation. He resolved to return home and in fact did return not however to Milan but to Castle on his manor situated on the confines of the Bergamaskan territory. At that time, as most of our readers know under Venetian government and here he fixed his abode, this dwelling we again quoted Repa Monti was as it were a dispensary of sanguinary mandates. The servants were outlaws and murderers. The very cooks and scullions were not exempt from homicide. The hands of the children were stained with blood. Besides this amiable domestic circle he had, as the same historian affirms, another set of dependents of a similar character dispersed abroad and quartered, so to say at different posts in the two states on the borders of which he lived who were always ready to execute his orders. All the tyrannical noblemen for a considerable distance round had been obliged on one occasion or another to choose between the friendship or the enmity of this super imminent tyrant. Those however who at first attempted to resist him came off so badly in the contest that no one was ever induced to make a second trial. Neither was it possible by maintaining a neutral course or standing, as the saying is, in their own shoes to keep themselves independent of him if a message arrived, intimating that such a person must desist from such an undertaking or cease to molest such a debtor or so forth, it was necessary to give a decided answer one way or the other. When one party came with the homage of a vassal to refer any business to his arbitration, the other party was reduced to the hard alternative of either abiding by his sentence or publicly declaring hostilities, which was equivalent to being, as the saying is, in the last stage of consumption. Men who were in the wrong had recourse to him that they might be right in effect, many being in the right yet resorted to him to pre-engage so powerful a patronage and close the way against their adversaries, thus both bad and good came to be dependent upon him. It sometimes happened that the weak oppressed, harassed, and tyrannized over by some powerful Lord, turned to him for protection. He would then take the part of the oppressed and force the oppressor to abstain from further injuries. To repair the wrongs he had committed and even to stoop to apologies or, in case of his proving stubborn and unbending, he would completely crush his power, constrain him to quit the place where he had exercised such unjust influence, or even make him pay a more expeditious and more terrible penalty. In these cases his name, usually so dreaded and abhorred, became, for a time, an object of blessing. Or, I will not say this justice, but this remedy, this recompense of some sort, could not have been expected under the circumstances of the times, for any other either public or private source. More frequently, and indeed ordinarily, his power and authority ministered to iniquitous desires, atrocious revenge, or outrageous caprice. But the very opposite use as he made of this power produced in the end the self-same effect, that of impressing all minds with the lofty idea of how much he could will and execute in spite of equity or inequity, those two things which interpose so many impediments to the accomplishment of man's desires, and so often forced him to turn back. The fame of ordinary oppressors was, for the most part, restricted to the limited tract of country, where they continually or frequently exercised their oppression. Each district had its own tyrant, and these so resembled each other, that there was no reason that people should interfere with those from whom they sustained neither injury nor molestation. But the fame of this man had long been diffused throughout every corner of the Milanese. His life was everywhere in the subject of popular stories, and his very name carried with it the idea of something formidable, dark, and fabulous. The suspicions that were everywhere entertained of his confederates and tools of assassination contributed to keep alive a constant memento of him. There were nothing more than suspicions, since who would have openly acknowledged such a dependence, but every tyrant might be his associate, every robber one of his assassins, and the very uncertainty of the fact rendered the opinion more general, and the terror more profound. At every appearance of an unknown ruffian, more savage looking than usual, at every enormous crime, the author of which could not be at first pointed out or conjectured, the name of this man was pronounced and whispered about. Whom, thanks to the unhappy circumspection, to give it no other epitaph of our authors, we shall be obliged to designate the unnamed. The distance between his castle and the palace of Don Rodrigo was not more than seven miles, and no sooner had the latter become a lord and tyrant than he could not help seeing that, at so short a distance from such a personage, it would not be possible to carry on this profession without either coming to blows or walking hand in hand with him. He had, therefore, offered himself and been accepted for a friend in the same way that is as the rest. He had rendered him more than one service, the manuscript says nothing further, and had each time been rewarded by promises of requital and assistance in any cases of emergency. He took great pains, however, to conceal such a friendship, or at least of what nature and how strict it was. Don Rodrigo liked well enough to play the tyrant, but not the fierce and savage tyrant. The profession was to him a means, not an end. He wished to live at freedom in the city, to enjoy the conveniences, diversions, and honors of social life, and for this end he was obliged to keep a certain appearance, make much of his family, cultivate the friendship of persons in place, and keep one hand on the scales of justice, so as on any occasion to make them preponder it in his favor. Either removing them altogether from view, or bringing them to bear with double force on the head of some individual, on whom he could thus more easily accomplish his designs than by the arm of private violence. Now, an intimacy, or it would be better to say an alliance with a person of such notoriety, an open enemy of the public power, would certainly not have advanced his interests in these respects, and particularly with his uncle. However, the slight acquaintance, which he was unable to conceal, might pass very well for an indispensable attention towards a man whose enmity was much to be deprecated, and thus it might receive excuse from necessity. Since one who assumes the charge of providing for another without the will or the means, in the long run consents that his protégé should provide for himself up to a certain point in his own affairs, and if he does not expressly give his consent, at least he winks at it. One morning Don Rodrigo set off on horseback in the guise of a hunter, with a small escort of bravados on foot. Grisio at his side and four others following behind him, and took the road to the castle of the unnamed. End of Chapter 19, Part 2 Chapter 20 Part 1 of The Betroved This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Betroved by Alessandro Manzoni Chapter 20 Part 1 The castle of the unnamed was commandingly situated over a dark and narrow valley, on the summit of a cliff projecting from a rugged ridge of hills. Whether united to them or separated from them, it is difficult to say, by a mass of crags and rocks, and by a boundary of caverns and abrupt precipices, both flanking it and on the rear. The side which overlooked the valley was the only accessible one, rather a steep eclivity certainly, but even an unbroken. The summit was used for pastureage, while the lower grounds were cultivated and scattered here and there with habitations. The bottom was a bed of large stones, the channel according to the season, of either a rivulet or a noisy torrent, which at that time formed the boundary of the two states. The opposite ridges, forming so to speak the other wall of the valley, had a small cultivated tract, gently inclining from the base, and the rest was covered with crags, stones and abrupt risings, untrodden and destitute of vegetation, excepting here and there a solitary bush in the intersties or on the edges of the rocks. From the height of this castle, like an eagle from his sanguinary nest, the savage nobleman surveyed every spot around where the foot of man could tread, and heard no human sound above him. At one view he could overlook the whole veil, the declivities, the bed of the stream, and the practicable paths intersecting the valley. That which approached his terrible abode by a zigzag and serpentine course appeared to a spectator from below like a winding thread. While from the windows and loopholes on the summit, the senior could leisurely observe anyone who was ascending, and a hundred times catch a view of him. With the garrison of bravos whom he there maintained, he could even oppose a tolerable numerous troop of assailants, stretching any number of them on the ground, or hurling them to the bottom, before they could succeed in gaining the height. He was not very lightly, however, to be put to that trial, since no one who was not on good terms with the owner of the castle would venture to set foot with its walls, or even in the valley or its environs. The bailiff, who should have chance to be seen there would have been treated like an enemy spy, seized within the camp. Tragical stories were related of the last who had dared to attempt the undertaking, but they were then tales of bygone days, and none of the village youths could remember having seen one of this race of beings, either dead or alive. Such is the description our anonymous author gives to the place. Nothing is said of the name, and for fear of putting us in the way of discovering it, he avoids all notice of Don Rodrigo's journey, bringing him at one jump into the midst of the valley, and setting him down at the foot of the ascent, just at the entrance of the steep and winding footpath. Here stood an inn, which might also be called a garden house. An antique sign suspended over the door displayed on each side in glowing colours a radiant sun, but the public voice, which sometimes repeats names as they are first pronounced, and sometimes remodels them after its own fashion, never designated this tavern but by the title of the Malanote. At the sound of a party approaching on horseback, an ill-looking lad appeared at the doorway, well-armed with knives and pistols, and after giving a glance at them, re-entered to inform three ruffians, who, seated at table, were playing with a very dirty pack of cards, reversed and laid upon one another like so many tiles. He who seemed to be the leader, rose, and, advancing towards the door, recognised a friend of his masters, and saluted him with a bow. Don Rodrigo, returning the salutation with great politeness, inquired if his master were in the castle, and, receiving for an answer that he believed so, he dismounted from his horse, throwing the reins to Tiradrito, one of his retinue. Then, taking his musket from his shoulder, he handed it to Montenarola, as if to incumber himself from a useless weight, and to render his assent easier, but in reality, because he knew well enough that no one was permitted to mount that steep who carried a gun. Then, taking out of his purse two or three Berlinghe, he gave them to Tanabuso, saying, wait here for me, and in the meantime enjoy yourself with these good people. He then presented the esterable chief of the party with a few gold coins, one half for himself, and the rest to be divided among his companions, and at length, in the company of Grisso, who had also laid aside his weapons, began to ascend the cliff on foot. In the meanwhile, the three above mentioned bravos, together with their fourth companion, Squintinoto, what amiable names to be served with so much care, remained behind with the three players, and the unfortunate boy who was training for the gallows, to game, drink, and relate by turns their various feats of prowess. Another bravo belonging to the unnamed shortly overtook Don Rodrigo in his assent, and after eyeing him for a moment, recognised a friend of his masters, and bore him company by this means sparing him the annoyance of telling his name and giving a further account of himself to the many others whom he met, and with whom he was unacquainted. On reading the castle and being admitted, having left Grisso however outside, he was conducted a roundabout way through dark corridors and various apartments, hung with muskets, sabers, and partisans, and each of which a bravo stood on guard, and, after waiting some time, was at last ushered into the room where the unnamed was expecting him. The senior advanced to meet Don Rodrigo, returning his salutation, and at the same time eyeing him from head to foot with the closest scrutiny, according to his usual habit, now almost an involuntary one, towards anyone who approached him, even towards his oldest and most tried friends. He was tall, sunburnt, and bald, and at first sight this baldness, the whiteness of his few remaining hairs, and the wrinkles on his face would have induced the judgment that he was considerably beyond the 60 years he had scarcely yet attained. Though, on a nearer survey, his carriage and movements, the cutting sarcasm of his features, and the deep fire that sparkled in his eye, indicated a vigor of body and mind, which would have been remarkable even in a young man. Don Rodrigo told him that he came to solicit his advice and assistance, that, finding himself engaged in a difficult undertaking from which his honour would not now suffer him to retire, he had called to mind the promises of his noble friend, who had never promised too much or in vain, and he then proceeded to relate his infamous enterprise. The unnamed, who already had some indefinite knowledge of the affair, listened attentively to the recital, both because he was naturally fond of such stories, and because there was implicated in it a name well known and exceedingly odious to him, that of Father Christophoro, the open enemy of tyrants, not only in word, but also when possible in deed also. The narrator then proceeded to exaggerate, in evidence, the difficulties of the undertaking, the distance of the place, a monastery, the senora. At this word, the unnamed, as if a demon hidden in his heart had suggested it, abruptly interrupted him, saying that he would take the enterprise upon himself. He took down the name of our poor Lucia and dismissed Don Rodrigo with the promise, you shall shortly hear from me what you are to do. If the reader remembers that infamous agedio, whose residents adjoined the monastery where poor Lucia had found a retreat, we will now inform him that he was one of the nearest and most intimate associates iniquity of the unnamed, and it was for this reason that the latter had so promptly and resolutely taken upon him to pledge his word. Nevertheless, he was no sooner left alone, than he began to feel, I will not say repentance, but vexation at having made the promise. For some time past he had experienced not exactly remorse, but a kind of weariness of his wicked course of life. These feelings which accumulated rather in his memory than in his conscience were renewed each time any new crime was committed, and each time they seemed more multiplied and intolerable. It was like constantly adding and adding to an already incommodious weight. A certain repugnance experienced on the commission of his earlier crimes, afterwards overcome and almost entirely excluded, again returned to make itself felt. But in his first misgivings, the image of a distant and uncertain future, together with the consciousness of a vigorous habit of body and a strong constitution, had only confirmed him in a supine and presumptuous confidence. Now, on the contrary, it was thoughts of the future that him bittered the retrospect of the past, to grow old, to die, and then it was worthy of notice that the image of death which in present danger, when facing an enemy, usually only nerved his spirit, and inspired him with impetuous courage. This same image, when presented to his mind in the solemn stillness of the night, and in the security of his own castle, was always accompanied by a feeling of undefined horror and alarm. It was not death threatened by an enemy who was himself mortal. It was not to be repulsed by stronger weapons or a readyer arm. It came alone. It was suggested from within. It might still be distant, but every moment brought it a step nearer, and even while he hopelessly struggling to banish the remembrance of this dreaded enemy, it was coming fast upon him. In his early days, the frequent examples of violence, revenge and murder, which were perpetually exhibited in his view, while they inspired him to daring emulation, served at the same time as a kind of authority against the voice of conscience. Now an indistinct but terrible idea of individual responsibility and judgment independent of example incessantly haunted his mind. Now the thoughts of his having left the ordinary crowd of wicked doers, and surpassed them all, sometimes impressed him with a feeling of dreadful solitude. That God, of whom he had once heard, but whom he had long ceased either to deny or acknowledge, solely occupied as he was in acting as though he existed not. Now at certain moments of depression without cause and terror without danger, he imagined he heard repeating within him, nevertheless I am. In the first heat of youthful passion, the laws which he had heard announced in his name had only appeared hateful to him. Now when they returned unbidden to his mind, he regarded them in spite of himself as something which would have a fulfillment, but that he might suffer nothing of this new dequietude, to be apparent either in word or deed, he carefully endeavored to conceal it under the mask of deeper and more vehement ferocity, and by this means also he sought to disguise it from himself or entirely to stifle it. Ending, since he could neither annihilate nor forget them, the days in which he had been accustomed to committing iniquity without remorse and without further solicitude than for its success, he used every endeavour to recall them and to retain or recover his former unfettered, daring and undisturbed will that he might convince himself he was still the same man. On this occasion, therefore, he had hastily pledged his word to Don Rodrigo that he might close the door against all hesitation. Feeling, however, on his visitor's departure, a failing of the resolution that he had summoned up to make the promise, and gradually overwhelmed with thoughts presenting themselves to his mind, which tempted him to break his word, and which, if yielded to, would have made him sink very low in the eyes of his friend, a secondary accomplice, he resolved at once to cut short the painful conflict and summoned Nibbio to his presence, one of the most dexterous and venturesome ministers of his enormities, and the one whom he was accustomed to employ in his correspondence with Egidio. With a resolute countenance, he ordered him immediately to mount his horse, go straight to Monza to inform Egidio of the engagement he had made, and to request his counsel and assistance in fulfilling it. The worthless messenger returned more expeditiously than his master expected, with Egidio's reply that the undertaking was easy and secure. If the unnamed would send a carriage which would not be known as his, with two or three well-disguised bravos, Egidio would undertake the charge of all the rest and would manage the whole affair. At this announcement, the unnamed, whatever might be passing in his mind, hastily gave orders to Nibbio to arrange all as Egidio required and to go himself with two others whom he named upon this expedition. Had Egidio been obliged to reckon only on ordinary means for the accomplishment of the horrible service he had been requested to undertake, he certainly would not thus readily have given so unhesitating a promise. But in that very asylum where it would seem all ought to have been an obstacle, the atrocious villain had a resource known only to himself, and that which would have been the greatest difficulty to others became an instrument to him. We have already related how the unhappy senora on one occasion lent an ear to his addresses, and the reader may have understood that this was not the last time, that it was but the first step in a career of abomination and bloodshed. The same voice, rendered imperative and almost authoritative through guilt, now imposed upon her the sacrifice of the innocent creature who had been committed to her care. The proposal was frightful to Gertrude. To lose Lucia to an unforeseen accident, and without any fault on her part, would have seemed to her a misfortune, a bitter punishment. But now she was enjoined to deprive herself of her society by a base act of perfidy, and to convert a means of expiation into a fresh subject for remorse. The unhappy lady tried every method to extricate herself from the horrible command. Every method except the only one which would have been infallible, and which still remained in her power. Guilt is a rigid and inflexible tyrant, against who all are powerless but those who entirely rebel. On this Gertrude could not resolve, and she obeyed. It was the day fixed, the appointed hour approached. Gertrude retired with Lucia to her private apartment, and there lavished upon her more caresses than usual, which Lucia received and returned with increasing affection. As the lamb, trembling under the hand of the shepherd as he coaxes and gently urges it forward, turns to lick that very hand, unconscious that the butcher waits outside the sheepfold, to whom the shepherd a moment before has sold it. I want you to do me a great service, one that nobody but you can do. I have plenty of persons ready to obey me, but none whom I dare trust. On some very important business, which I will tell you about afterwards, I want to speak to the Father Guardian of the Cappagins who brought you here to me, my poor Lucia, but it is absolutely necessary that no one should know that I have sent for him. I have nobody but you who can secretly carry this message. Lucia was terrified at such a request, and with her own native modesty, yet not without a strong expression of surprise, she endeavored to dissuade her by adducing reasons which the Shinora ought to have understood and foreseen. Without her mother, without an escort by a solitary road in an unknown country, but Gertrude, instructed in an infernal school, manifested much surprise and displeasure at finding this stubborn opposition in one whom she had greatly benefited, and pretended to think her excuses very frivolous. In broad daylight, a mere step, a road Lucia had travelled only a few days before, and which could be so described that even a person who had never seen it could not possibly go astray. In short, she said so much that the poor girl, touched at once with gratitude and shame, suffered the words to escape. Well, what am I to do? Go to the Convent of the Cappagins, and here she again described the road. Ask for the Father Guardian, and tell him to come to me as quickly as possible, but not to let anyone know that he comes at my request. But what shall I say to the Portress who has never seen me go out, and will therefore be sure to answer whether I am going? Try to get out without her seeing you, and if you can't manage it, tell her that you are going to such a church where you have vowed to offer up some prayers. Here was a new difficulty for Lucia, to tell a falsehood, but the Signora again showed herself so vexed by her repulses, and made her so ashamed of herself for interposing a vain scruple in the way of gratitude that the poor girl, stupefied rather than convinced, and greatly affected by her words, replied, Very well, I will go, and may God help me, and she set off. But Gertrude, who from her grated window followed her with a fixed and anxious look, no sooner saw her set foot on the threshold than overcome with an irresistible emotion, she exclaimed, Listen, Lucia! Lucia turned round and advanced towards the window, but another thought, the thought accustomed to predominate, had already prevailed over Gertrude's unhappy mind. Pretending that she was not yet satisfied with the instructions she had given, she again described to Lucia the road she must follow, and dismissed her, saying, Do everything as I have told you, and return quickly. Lucia departed.