Chapter XVIII.

"Pale she looked,
Yet cheerful; though methought, once, if not twice.
She wiped away a tear that would be coming."

ROGERS.

The hours passed as if naught had occurred, within the barriers of the city, to disturb their progress. On the following morning men proceeded to their several pursuits, of business or of pleasure, as had been done for ages, and none stopped to question his neighbor of the scene which might have taken place during the night. Some were gay, and others sorrowing; some idle, and others occupied; here one toiled, there another sported; and Venice presented, as of wont, its noiseless, suspicious, busy, mysterious, and yet stirring throngs, as it had before done at a thousand similar risings of the sun.

The menials lingered around the water-gate of Donna Violetta's palace with distrustful but cautious faces, scarce whispering among themselves their secret suspicions of the fate of their mistress. The residence of the Signor Gradenigo presented its usual gloomy magnificence, while the abode of Don Camillo Monforte betrayed no sign of the heavy disappointment which its master had sustained. The Bella Sorrentina still lay in the port, with a yard on deck, while the crew repaired its sails in the lazy manner of mariners who work without excitement.

The Lagunes were dotted with the boats of fishermen, and travellers arrived and departed from the city by the well known channels of Fusina and Mestre. Here, some adventurer from the north quitted the canals on his return towards the Alps, carrying with him a pleasing picture of the ceremonies he had witnessed, mingled with some crude conjectures of that power which predominated in the suspected state; and there, a countryman of the Main sought his little farm, satisfied with the pageants and regatta of the previous day. In short, all seemed as usual, and the events we have related remained a secret with the actors, and that mysterious council which had so large a share in their existence.

As the day advanced, many a sail was spread for the pillars of Hercules or the genial Levant, and feluccas, mystics, and golettas, went and came as the land or sea-breeze prevailed. Still the mariner of Calabria lounged beneath the awning which sheltered his deck, or took his siesta on a pile of old sails, which were ragged with the force of many a hot sirocco. As the sun fell, the gondolas of the great and idle began to glide over the water; and when the two squares were cooled by the air of the Adriatic, the Broglio began to fill with those privileged to pace its vaulted passage. Among these came the Duke of Sant' Agata, who, though an alien to the laws of the Republic, being of so illustrious descent, and of claims so equitable, was received among the senators, in their moments of ease, as a welcome sharer in this vain distinction. He entered the Broglio at the wonted hour, and with his usual composure, for he trusted to his secret influence at Rome, and something to the success of his rivals, for impunity. Reflection had shown Don Camillo that, as his plans were known to the council, they would long since have arrested him had such been their intention; and it had also led him to believe that the most efficient manner of avoiding the personal consequences of his adventure was to show confidence in his own power to withstand them. When he appeared, therefore, leaning on the arm of a high officer of the papal embassy, and with an eye that spoke assurance in himself, he was greeted, as usual, by all who knew him, as was due to his rank and expectations. Still Don Camillo walked among the patricians of the Republic with novel sensations. More than once he thought he detected, in the wandering glances of those with whom he conversed, signs of their knowledge of his frustrated attempt; and more than once, when he least suspected such scrutiny, his countenance was watched, as if the observer sought some evidence of his future intentions. Beyond this none might have discovered that an heiress of so much importance had been so near being lost to the state, or, on the other hand, that a bridegroom had been robbed of his bride. Habitual art, on the part of the state, and resolute but wary intention, on the part of the young noble, concealed all else from observation.

In this manner the day passed, not a tongue in Venice, beyond those which whispered in secret, making any allusion to the incidents of our tale.

Just as the sun was setting a gondola swept slowly up to the water-gate of the ducal palace. The gondolier landed, fastened his boat in the usual manner to the stepping-stones, and entered the court. He wore a mask, for the hour of disguise had come, and his attire was so like the ordinary fashion of men of his class, as to defeat recognition by its simplicity. Glancing an eye about him, he entered the building by a private door.

The edifice in which the Doges of Venice dwelt still stands a gloomy monument of the policy of the Republic, furnishing evidence, in itself, of the specious character of the prince whom it held. It is built around a vast but gloomy court, as is usual with nearly all of the principal edifices of Europe. One of its fronts forms a side of the piazzetta so often mentioned, and another lines the quay next the port. The architecture of these two exterior faces of the palace renders the structure remarkable. A low portico, which forms the Broglio, sustains a row of massive oriental windows, and above these again lies a pile of masonry, slightly relieved by apertures, which reverses the ordinary uses of the art. A third front is nearly concealed by the cathedral of St. Mark, and the fourth is washed by its canal. The public prison of the city forms the other side of this canal, eloquently proclaiming the nature of the government by the close approximation of the powers of legislation and of punishment. The famous Bridge of Sighs is the material, and we might add the metaphorical, link between the two. The latter edifice stands on the quay, also, and though less lofty and spacious, in point of architectural beauty it is the superior structure, though the quaintness and unusual style of the palace are most apt to attract attention.

The masked gondolier soon reappeared beneath the arch of the water-gate, and with a hurried step he sought his boat. It required but a minute to cross the canal, to land on the opposite quay, and to enter the public door of the prison. It would seem that he had some secret means of satisfying the vigilance of the different keepers, for bolts were drawn, and doors unlocked, with little question, wherever he presented himself. In this manner he quickly passed all the outer barriers of the place, and reached a part of the building which had the appearance of being fitted for the accommodation of a family. Judging from the air of all around him, those who dwelt there took the luxury of their abode but little into the account, though neither the furniture nor the rooms were wanting in most of the necessaries suited to people of their class and the climate, and in that age.

The gondolier had ascended a private stairway, and he was now before a door which had none of those signs of a prison that so freely abounded in other parts of the building. He paused to listen, and then tapped with singular caution.

"Who is without?" asked a gentle female voice, at the same instant that the latch moved and fell again, as if she within waited to be assured of the character of her visitor before she opened the door.

"A friend to thee, Gelsomina," was the answer.

"Nay, here all are friends to the keepers, if words can be believed. You must name yourself, or go elsewhere for your answer."

The gondolier removed the mask a little, which had altered his voice as well as concealed his face.

"It is I, Gessina," he said, using the diminutive of her name.

The bolts grated, and the door was hurriedly opened.

"It is wonderful that I did not know thee, Carlo!" said the female, with eager simplicity; "but thou takest so many disguises of late, and so counterfeitest strange voices, that thine own mother might have distrusted her ear."

The gondolier paused to make certain they were alone; then laying aside the mask altogether, he exposed the features of the Bravo.

"Thou knowest the need of caution," he added, "and wilt not judge me harshly."

"I said not that, Carlo—but thy voice is so familiar, that I thought it wonderful thou could'st speak as a stranger."

"Hast thou aught for me?"

The gentle girl—for she was both young and gentle—hesitated.

"Hast thou aught new, Gelsomina?" repeated the Bravo, reading her innocent face with his searching gaze.

"Thou art fortunate in not being sooner in the prison. I have just had a visitor. Thou would'st not have liked to be seen, Carlo!"

"Thou knowest I have good reasons for coming masked. I might, or I might not have disliked thy acquaintance, as he should have proved."

"Nay, now thou judgest wrong," returned the female, hastily—"I had no other here but my cousin Annina."

"Dost thou think me jealous?" said the Bravo, smiling in kindness, as he took her hand. "Had it been thy cousin Pietro, or Michele, or Roberto, or any other youth of Venice, I should have no other dread than that of being known."

"But it was only Annina—my cousin Annina, whom thou hast never seen—and I have no cousins Pietro, and Michele, and Roberto. We are not many, Carlo. Annina has a brother, but he never comes hither. Indeed it is long since she has found it convenient to quit her trade to come to this dreary place. Few children of sisters see each other so seldom as Annina and I!"

"Thou art a good girl, Gessina, and art always to be found near thy mother. Hast thou naught in particular for my ear?"

Again the soft eyes of Gelsomina, or Gessina, as she was familiarly called, dropped to the floor; but raising them ere he could note the circumstance, she hurriedly continued the discourse.

"I fear Annina will return, or I would go with thee at once."

"Is this cousin of thine still here, then?" asked the Bravo, with uneasiness. "Thou knowest I would not be seen."

"Fear not. She cannot enter without touching that bell; for she is above with my poor bed-ridden mother. Thou can'st go into the inner room as usual, when she comes, and listen to her idle discourse, if thou wilt; or—but we have not time—for Annina comes seldom, and I know not why, but she seems to love a sick room little, as she never stays many minutes with her aunt."

"Thou would'st have said, or I might go on my errand, Gessina?"

"I would, Carlo, but I am certain we should be recalled by my impatient cousin."

"I can wait. I am patient when with thee, dearest Gessina."

"Hist!—'Tis my cousin's step. Thou canst go in."

While she spoke, a small bell rang, and the Bravo withdrew into the inner room, like one accustomed to that place of retreat. He left the door ajar—for the darkness of the closet sufficiently concealed his person. In the meantime Gelsomina opened the outer door for the admission of her visitor. At the first sound of the latter's voice, Jacopo, who had little suspected the fact from a name which was so common, recognised the artful daughter of the wine-seller.

"Thou art at thy ease, here, Gelsomina," cried the latter, entering and throwing herself into a seat, like one fatigued. "Thy mother is better, and thou art truly mistress of the house."

"I would I were not, Annina; for I am young to have this trust, with this affliction."

"It is not so insupportable, Gessina, to be mistress within doors, at seventeen! Authority is sweet, and obedience is odious."

"I have found neither so, and I will give up the first with joy, whenever my poor mother shall be able to take command of her own family again."

"This is well, Gessina, and does credit to the good father confessor. But authority is dear to woman, and so is liberty. Thou wast not with the maskers yesterday, in the square?"

"I seldom wear a disguise, and I could not quit my mother."

"Which means that thou would'st have been glad to do it. Thou hast a good reason for thy regrets, since a gayer marriage of the sea, or a braver regatta, has not been witnessed in Venice since thou wast born. But the first was to be seen from thy window?"

"I saw the galley of state sweeping towards the Lido, and the train of patricians on its deck; but little else."

"No matter. Thou shalt have as good an idea of the pageant as if thou had'st played the part of the Doge himself. First came the men of the guard with their ancient dresses—"

"Nay, this I remember to have often seen; for the same show is kept from year to year."

"Thou art right; but Venice never witnessed such a brave regatta! Thou knowest that the first trial is always between gondolas of many oars, steered by the best esteemed of the canals. Luigi was there, and though he did not win, he more than merited success, by the manner in which he directed his boat. Thou knowest Luigi?"

"I scarce know any in Venice, Annina; for the long illness of my mother, and this unhappy office of my father, keep me within when others are on the canals."

"True. Thou art not well placed to make acquaintances. But Luigi is second to no gondolier in skill or reputation, and he is much the merriest rogue of them all, that put foot on the Lido."

"He was foremost, then, in the grand race?"

"He should have been, but the awkwardness of his fellows, and some unfairness in the crossing, threw him back to be second. 'Twas a sight to behold, that of many noble watermen struggling to maintain or to get a name on the canals. Santa Maria! I would thou could'st have seen it, girl!"

"I should not have been glad to see a friend defeated."

"We must take fortune as it offers. But the most wonderful sight of the day, after all, though Luigi and his fellows did so well, was to see a poor fisherman, named Antonio, in his bare head and naked legs, a man of seventy years, and with a boat no better than that I use to carry liquors to the Lido, entering on the second race, and carrying off the prize!"

"He could not have met with powerful rivals?"

"The best of Venice; though Luigi, having strived for the first, could not enter for the second trial. 'Tis said, too," continued Annina, looking about her with habitual caution, "that one, who may scarce be named in Venice, had the boldness to appear in that regatta masked; and yet the fisherman won! Thou hast heard of Jacopo?"

"The name is common."

"There is but one who bears it now in Venice. All mean the same when they say Jacopo."

"I have heard of a monster of that name. Surely he hath not dared to show himself among the nobles, on such a festa!"

"Gessina, we live in an unaccountable country! The man walks the piazza with a step as lordly as the Doge, at his pleasure, and yet none say aught to him! I have seen him, at noonday, leaning against the triumphal mast, or the column of San Theodoro, with as proud an air as if he were put there to celebrate a victory of the Republic!"

"Perhaps he is master of some terrible secret, which they fear he will reveal?"

"Thou knowest little of Venice, child! Holy Maria! a secret of that kind is a death-warrant of itself. It is as dangerous to know too much as it is to know too little, when one deals with St. Mark. But they say Jacopo was there, standing eye to eye with the Doge, and scaring the Senators as if he had been an uncalled spectre from the vaults of their fathers. Nor is this all; as I crossed the Lagunes this morning, I saw the body of a young cavalier drawn from the water, and those who were near it said it had the mark of his fatal hand!"

The timid Gelsomina shuddered.

"They who rule," she said, "will have to answer for this negligence to God, if they let the wretch longer go at large."

"Blessed St. Mark protect his children! They say there is much of this sort of sin to answer for—but see the body I did, with my own eyes, in entering the canals this morning."

"And didst thou sleep on the Lido, that thou wert abroad so early?"

"The Lido—yes—nay—I slept not, but thou knowest my father had a busy day during the revels, and I am not like thee, Gessina, mistress of the household, to do as I would. But I tarry here to chat with thee, when there is great need of industry at home. Hast thou the package, child, which I trusted to thy keeping at my last visit?"

"It is here," answered Gelsomina, opening a drawer, and handing to her cousin a small but closely enveloped package, which, unknown to herself, contained some articles of forbidden commerce, and which the other, in her indefatigable activity, had been obliged to secrete for a time. "I had begun to think that thou hadst forgotten it, and was about to send it to thee."

"Gelsomina, if thou lovest me, never do so rash an act! My brother Giuseppe—thou scarce knowest Giuseppe?"

"We have little acquaintance, for cousins."

"Thou art fortunate in thy ignorance. I cannot say what I might of the child of the same parents, but had Giuseppe seen this package by any accident, it might have brought thee into great trouble!"

"Nay, I fear not thy brother, nor any else," said the daughter of the prison-keeper, with the firmness of innocence; "he could do me no harm for dealing kindly by a relative."

"Thou art right; but he might have caused me great vexation. Sainted Maria! if thou knewest the pain that unthinking and misguided boy gives his family! He is my brother, after all, and you will fancy the rest. Addio, good Gessina; I hope thy father will permit thee to come and visit, at last, those who so much love thee."

"Addio, Annina; thou knowest I would come gladly, but that I scarce quit the side of my poor mother."

The wily daughter of the wine-seller gave her guileless and unsuspecting friend a kiss, and then she was let out and departed.

"Carlo," said the soft voice of Gessina; "thou can'st come forth, for we have no further fear of visits."

The Bravo appeared, but with a paleness deeper than common on his cheek. He looked mournfully at the gentle and affectionate being who awaited his return, and when he struggled to answer her ingenuous smile, the abortive effort gave his features an expression of ghastliness.

"Annina has wearied thee with her idle discourse of the regatta, and of murders on the canals. Thou wilt not judge her harshly, for the manner in which she spoke of Giuseppe, who may deserve this, and more. But I know thy impatience, and I will not increase thy weariness."

"Hold, Gessina—this girl is thy cousin?"

"Have I not told thee so? Our mothers are sisters."

"And she is here often?"

"Not as often as she could wish, I am certain, for her aunt has not quitted her room for many, many months."

"Thou art an excellent daughter, kind Gessina, and would make all others as virtuous as thyself. And thou hast been to return these visits?"

"Never. My father forbids it, for they are dealers in wines, and entertain the gondoliers in revelry. But Annina is blameless for the trade of her parents."

"No doubt—and that package? it hath been long in thy keeping."

"A month; Annina left it at her last visit, for she was hurried to cross to the Lido. But why these questions? You do not like my cousin, who is giddy, and given to idle conversation, but who, I think, must have a good heart. Thou heard'st the manner in which she spoke of the wretched bravo, Jacopo, and of this late murder?"

"I did."

"Thou could'st not have shown more horror at the monster's crime thyself, Carlo. Nay, Annina is thoughtless, and she might be less worldly; but she hath, like all of us, a holy aversion to sin. Shall I lead thee to the cell?"

"Go on."

"Thy honest nature, Carlo, revolts at the cold villany of the assassin. I have heard much of his murders, and of the manner in which those up above bear with him. They say, in common, that his art surpasseth theirs, and that the officers wait for proof, that they may not do injustice."

"Is the Senate so tender, think you?" asked the Bravo, huskily, but motioning for his companion to proceed.

The girl looked sad, like one who felt the force of this question; and she turned away to open a private door, whence she brought forth a little box.

"This is the key, Carlo," she said, showing him one of a massive bunch, "and I am now the sole warder. This much, at least, we have effected; the day may still come when we shall do more."

The Bravo endeavored to smile, as if he appreciated her kindness; but he only succeeded in making her understand his desire to go on. The eye of the gentle-hearted girl lost its gleam of hope in an expression of sorrow, and she obeyed.

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