Chapter XXVIII.

"There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor."

JOB.

The manner in which the Council of Three held its more public meetings, if aught connected with that mysterious body could be called public, has already been seen. On the present occasion there were the same robes, the same disguises, and the same officers of the inquisition, as in the scene related in a previous chapter. The only change was in the character of the judges, and in that of the accused. By a peculiar arrangement of the lamp, too, most of the light was thrown upon the spot it was intended the prisoner should occupy, while the side of the apartment on which the inquisitors sat, was left in a dimness that well accorded with their gloomy and secret duties. Previously to the opening of the door by which the person to be examined was to appear, there was audible the clanking of chains, the certain evidence that the affair in hand was considered serious. The hinges turned, and the Bravo stood in presence of those unknown men who were to decide on his fate.

As Jacopo had often been before the council, though not as a prisoner, he betrayed neither surprise nor alarm at the black aspect of all his eye beheld. His features were composed, though pale, his limbs immovable, and his mien decent. When the little bustle of his entrance had subsided, there reigned a stillness in the room.

"Thou art called Jacopo Frontoni?" said the secretary, who acted as the mouth-piece of the Three, on this occasion.

"I am."

"Thou art the son of a certain Ricardo Frontoni, a man well known as having been concerned in robbing the Republic's customs, and who is thought to have been banished to the distant islands, or to be otherwise punished?"

"Signore—or otherwise punished."

"Thou wert a gondolier in thy youth?"

"I was a gondolier."

"Thy mother is----"

"Dead," said Jacopo, perceiving the other paused to examine his notes.

The depth of the tone in which this word was uttered, caused a silence, that the secretary did not interrupt, until he had thrown a glance backwards at the judges.

"She was not accused of thy father's crime?"

"Had she been, Signore, she is long since beyond the power of the Republic."

"Shortly after thy father fell under the displeasure of the state, thou quittedst thy business of a gondolier?"

"Signore, I did."

"Thou art accused, Jacopo, of having laid aside the oar for the stiletto?"

"Signore, I am."

"For several years, the rumors of thy bloody deeds have been growing in Venice, until, of late, none have met with an untimely fate that the blow has not been attributed to thy hand?"

"This is too true, Signor Segretario—I would it were not!"

"The ears of his highness, and of the Councils, have not been closed to these reports, but they have long attended to the rumors with the earnestness which becomes a paternal and careful government. If they have suffered thee to go at large, it hath only been that there might be no hazard of sullying the ermine of justice, by a premature and not sufficiently supported judgment."

Jacopo bent his head, but without speaking. A smile so wild and meaning, however, gleamed on his face at this declaration, that the permanent officer of the secret tribunal, he who served as its organ of communication, bowed nearly to the paper he held, as it might be to look deeper into his documents. Let not the reader turn back to this page in surprise, when he shall have reached the explanation of the tale, for mysticisms quite as palpable, if not of so ruthless a character, have been publicly acted by political bodies in his own times.

"There is now a specific and a frightful charge brought against thee, Jacopo Frontoni," continued the secretary; "and, in tenderness of the citizen's life, the dreaded Council itself hath taken the matter in hand. Didst thou know a certain Antonio Vecchio, a fisherman here in our Lagunes?"

"Signore, I knew him well of late, and much regret that it was only of late."

"Thou knowest, too, that his body hath been found, drowned in the bay?"

Jacopo shuddered, signifying his assent merely by a sign. The effect of this tacit acknowledgment on the youngest of the three was apparent, for he turned to his companions, like one struck by the confession it implied. His colleagues made dignified inclinations in return, and the silent communication ceased.

"His death has excited discontent among his fellows, and its cause has become a serious subject of inquiry for the illustrious Council."

"The death of the meanest man in Venice should call forth the care of the patricians, Signore."

"Dost thou know, Jacopo, that thou art accused of being his murderer?"

"Signore, I do."

"It is said that thou earnest among the gondoliers in the late regatta, and that, but for this aged fisherman, thou would'st have been winner of the prize?"

"In that, rumor hath not lied, Signore."

"Thou dost not, then, deny the charge!" said the examiner, in evident surprise.

"It is certain that, but for the fisherman, I should have been the winner."

"And thou wished it, Jacopo?"

"Signore, greatly," returned the accused, with a show of emotion, that had not hitherto escaped him. "I was a man condemned of his fellows, and the oar had been my pride, from childhood to that hour."

Another movement of the third inquisitor betrayed equally his interest and his surprise.

"Dost thou confess the crime?"

Jacopo smiled, but more in derision than with any other feeling.

"If the illustrious senators here present will unmask, I may answer that question, haply, with greater confidence," he said.

"Thy request is bold and out of rule. None know the persons of the patricians who preside over the destinies of the state. Dost thou confess the crime?"

The entrance of an officer, in some haste, prevented a reply. The man placed a written report in the hands of the inquisitor in red, and withdrew. After a short pause, the guards were ordered to retire with their prisoner.

"Great senators!" said Jacopo, advancing earnestly towards the table, as if he would seize the moment to urge what he was about to say;—"Mercy! grant me your authority to visit one in the prisons, beneath the leads!—I have weighty reasons for the wish, and I pray you, as men and fathers, to grant it!"

The interest of the two, who were consulting apart on the new intelligence, prevented them from listening to what he urged. The other inquisitor, who was the Signer Soranzo, had drawn near the lamp, anxious to read the lineaments of one so notorious, and was gazing at his striking countenance. Touched by the pathos of his voice, and agreeably disappointed in the lineaments he studied, he took upon himself the power to grant the request.

"Humor his wish," he said to the halberdiers; "but have him in readiness to reappear."

Jacopo looked his gratitude, but fearful that the others might still interfere to prevent his wish, he hurried from the room.

The march of the little procession, which proceeded from the chamber of the inquisition to the summer cells of its victims, was sadly characteristic of the place and the government.

It went through gloomy and secret corridors, that were hid from the vulgar eye, while thin partitions only separated them from the apartments of the Doge, which, like the specious aspect of the state, concealed the nakedness and misery within, by their gorgeousness and splendor! On reaching the attic, Jacopo stopped, and turned to his conductors.

"If you are beings of God's forming," he said, "take off these clanking chains, though it be but for a moment."

The keepers regarded each other in surprise, neither offering to do the charitable office.

"I go to visit, probably for the last time," continued the prisoner, "a bed-ridden—I may say—a dying father, who knows nothing of my situation,—will ye that he should see me thus?"

The appeal which was made, more with the voice and manner, than in the words, had its effect. A keeper removed the chains, and bade him proceed. With a cautious tread, Jacopo advanced, and when the door was opened he entered the room alone, for none there had sufficient interest in an interview between a common Bravo and his father, to endure the glowing warmth of the place, the while. The door was closed after him, and the room became dark.

Notwithstanding his assumed firmness, Jacopo hesitated when he found himself so suddenly introduced to the silent misery of the forlorn captive. A hard breathing told him the situation of the pallet, but the walls, which were solid on the side of the corridor, effectually prevented the admission of light.

"Father!" said Jacopo with gentleness.

He got no answer.

"Father!" he repeated in a stronger voice.

The breathing became more audible, and then the captive spoke.

"Holy Maria hear my prayers!" he said feebly. "God hath sent thee, son, to close my eyes!"

"Doth thy strength fail thee, father?"

"Greatly—my time is come—I had hoped to see the light of the day again to bless thy dear mother and sister—God's will be done!"

"They pray for us both, father. They are beyond the power of the Senate."

"Jacopo, I do not understand thee!"

"My mother and sister are dead; they are saints in Heaven, father."

The old man groaned, for the tie of earth had not yet been entirely severed. Jacopo heard him murmuring a prayer, and he knelt by the side of his pallet.

"This is a sudden blow!" whispered the old man. "We depart together."

"They are long dead, father."

"Why hast thou not told me this before, Jacopo?"

"Hadst thou not sorrows enough without this? Now that thou art about to join them, it will be pleasant to know that they have so long been happy."

"And thou?—thou wilt be alone—give me thy hand—poor Jacopo!"

The Bravo reached forth and took the feeble member of his parent; it was clammy and cold.

"Jacopo," continued the captive, whose mind still sustained the body, "I have prayed thrice within the hour: once for my own soul—once for the peace of thy mother—lastly, for thee!"

"Bless thee, father!—bless thee! I have need of prayer!"

"I have asked of God favor in thy behalf. I have bethought me of all thy love and care—of all thy devotion to my age and sufferings. When thou wert a child, Jacopo, tenderness for thee tempted me to acts of weakness: I trembled lest thy manhood might bring upon me pain and repentance. Thou hast not known the yearnings of a parent for his offspring, but thou hast well requited them. Kneel, Jacopo, that I may ask of God, once more, to remember thee."

"I am at thy side, father."

The old man raised his feeble arms, and with a voice whose force appeared reviving, he pronounced a fervent and solemn benediction.

"The blessing of a dying parent will sweeten thy life, Jacopo," he added after a pause, "and give peace to thy last moments."

"It will do the latter, father."

A rude summons at the door interrupted them.

"Come forth, Jacopo," said a keeper, "the Council seeks thee!"

Jacopo felt the convulsive start of his father, but he did not answer.

"Will they not leave thee—a few minutes longer?" whispered the old man—"I shall not keep thee long!"

The door opened, and a gleam from the lamp fell on the group in the cell. The keeper had the humanity to shut it again, leaving all in obscurity. The glimpse which Jacopo obtained, by that passing light, was the last look he had of his father's countenance. Death was fearfully on it, but the eyes were turned in unutterable affection on his own.

"The man is merciful—he will not shut thee out!" murmured the parent.

"They cannot leave thee to die alone, father!"

"Son, I am with my God—yet I would gladly have thee by my side!—Didst thou say—thy mother and thy sister were dead!"

"Dead!"

"Thy young sister, too?"

"Father, both. They are saints in Heaven."

The old man breathed thick, and there was silence. Jacopo felt a hand moving in the darkness, as if in quest of him. He aided the effort, and laid the member in reverence on his own head.

"Maria undefiled, and her Son, who is God!—bless thee, Jacopo!" whispered a voice, that to the excited imagination of the kneeling Bravo appeared to hover in the air. The solemn words were followed by a quivering sigh. Jacopo hid his face in the blanket, and prayed. After which there was deep quiet.

"Father!" he added, trembling at his own smothered voice.

He was unanswered; stretching out a hand, it touched the features of a corpse. With a firmness that had the quality of desperation, he again bowed his head and uttered fervently a prayer for the dead.

When the door of the cell opened, Jacopo appeared to the keepers, with a dignity of air that belongs only to character, and which was heightened by the scene in which he had just been an actor. He raised his hands, and stood immovable while the manacles were replaced. This office done, they walked away together in the direction of the secret chamber. It was not long ere all were again in their places, before the Council of Three.

"Jacopo Frontoni," resumed the secretary, "thou art suspected of being privy to another dark deed that hath had place of late within our city. Hast thou any knowledge of a noble Calabrian, who hath high claim to the senate's honors, and who hath long had his abode in Venice?"

"Signore, I have."

"Hast thou had aught of concern with him?"

"Signore, yes."

A movement of common interest made itself apparent among the auditors.

"Dost thou know where the Don Camillo Monforte is at present."

Jacopo hesitated. He so well understood the means of intelligence possessed by the Council, that he doubted how far it might be prudent to deny his connexion with the flight of the lovers. Besides, at that moment, his mind was deeply impressed with a holy sentiment of truth.

"Canst thou say, why the young duca is not to be found in his palace?" repeated the secretary.

"Illustrissimo, he hath quitted Venice for ever."

"How canst thou know this?—Would he make a confidant of a common Bravo?"

The smile which crossed the features of Jacopo was full of superiority; it caused the conscious agent of the Secret Tribunal to look closely at his papers, like one who felt its power.

"Art thou his confidant—I ask again?"

"Signore, in this, I am—I have the assurance from the mouth of Don Camillo Monforte himself, that he will not return."

"This is impossible, since it would involve a loss of all his fair hopes and illustrious fortunes."

"He consoled himself, Signore, with the possession of the heiress of Tiepolo's love, and with her riches."

Again there was a movement among the Three, which all their practised restraint, and the conventional dignity of their mysterious functions, could not prevent.

"Let the keepers withdraw," said the inquisitor of the scarlet robe. So soon as the prisoner was alone with the Three, and their permanent officer, the examination continued; the Senators themselves, trusting to the effect produced by their masks, and some feints, speaking as occasion offered.

"This is important intelligence that thou hast communicated, Jacopo," continued he of the robe of flame. "It may yet redeem thy life, wert thou wise enough to turn it to account."

"What would your eccellenza at my hands? It is plain that the Council know of the flight of Don Camillo, nor will I believe that eyes, which so seldom are closed, have not yet missed the daughter of the Tiepolo."

"Both are true, Jacopo; but what hast thou to say of the means? Remember, that as thou findest favor with the council, thine own fate will be decided."

The prisoner suffered another of those freezing gleams to cross his face, which invariably caused his examiners to bend their looks aside.

"The means of escape cannot be wanting to a bold lover, Signore," he replied. "Don Camillo is rich, and might employ a thousand agents, had he need of them."

"Thou art equivocating; 'twill be the worse for thee, that thou triflest with the Council—who are these agents?"

"He had a generous household, Eccellenza;—many hardy gondoliers, and servitors of all conditions."

"Of these we have nothing to learn. He hath escaped by other means—or art thou sure he hath escaped at all?"

"Signore, is he in Venice?"

"Nay, that we ask of thee. Here is an accusation, found in the lion's mouth, which charges thee with his assassination."

"And the Donna Violetta's, too, eccellenza?"

"Of her, we have heard nothing. What answer dost make to the charge?"

"Signore, why should I betray my own secrets?"

"Ha! art thou equivocating and faithless? Remember that we have a prisoner beneath the leads, who can extract the truth from thee."

Jacopo raised his form to such an altitude as one might fancy to express the mounting of a liberated spirit. Still his eye was sad, and, spite of an effort to the contrary, his voice melancholy.

"Senators," he said, "your prisoner beneath the leads is free."

"How! thou art trifling, in thy despair!"

"I speak truth. The liberation, so long delayed, hath come at last."

"Thy father----"

"Is dead," interrupted Jacopo, solemnly.

The two elder members of the Council looked at each other in surprise, while their junior colleague listened with the interest of one who was just entering on a noviciate of secret and embarrassing duties. The former consulted together, and then they communicated as much of their opinions to the Signor Soranzo, as they deemed necessary to the occasion.

"Wilt thou consult thine own safety, Jacopo, and reveal all thou knowest of this affair of the Neapolitan?" continued the inquisitor, when this by-play was ended.

Jacopo betrayed no weakness at the menace implied by the words of the senator; but, after a moment's reflection, he answered writh as much frankness as he could have used at the confessional.

"It is known to you, illustrious senator," he said, "that the state had a desire to match the heiress of Tiepolo, to its own advantage; that she was beloved of the Neapolitan noble; and that, as is wont between young and virtuous hearts, she returned his love as became a maiden of her high condition and tender years. Is there anything extraordinary in the circumstance that two of so illustrious hopes should struggle to prevent their own misery? Signori, the night that old Antonio died, I was alone, among the graves of the Lido, with many melancholy and bitter thoughts, and life had become a burden to me. Had the evil spirit which was then uppermost, maintained its mastery, I might have died the death of a hopeless suicide. God sent Don Camillo Monforte to my succor. Praised be the immaculate Maria, and her blessed Son, for the mercy! It was there I learned the wishes of the Neapolitan, and enlisted myself in his service. I swore to him, senators of Venice, to be true—to die in his cause, should it be necessary, and to help him to his bride. This pledge have I redeemed. The happy lovers are now in the States of the Church, and under the puissant protection of the cardinal secretary, Don Camillo's mother's brother."

"Fool! why did'st thou this? Had'st thou no thought for thyself?"

"Eccellenza, but little. I thought more of finding a human bosom to pour out my sufferings to, than of your high displeasure. I have not known so sweet a moment in years, as that in which I saw the lord of Sant' Agata fold his beautiful and weeping bride to his heart!"

The inquisitors were struck with the quiet enthusiasm of the Bravo, and surprise once more held them in suspense. At length the elder of the three resumed the examination.

"Wilt thou impart the manner of this escape, Jacopo?" he demanded. "Remember, thou hast still a life to redeem!"

"Signore, it is scarce worth the trouble. But to do your pleasure, nothing shall be concealed."

Jacopo then recounted in simple and undisguised terms, the entire means employed by Don Camillo in effecting his escape—his hopes, his disappointments, and his final success. In this narrative nothing was concealed but the place in which the ladies had temporarily taken refuge, and the name of Gelsomina. Even the attempt of Giacomo Gradenigo on the life of the Neapolitan, and the agency of the Hebrew, were fully exposed. None listened to this explanation so intently as the young husband. Notwithstanding his public duties, his pulses quickened as the prisoner dwelt on the different chances of the lovers, and when their final union was proclaimed, he felt his heart bound with delight. On the other hand, his more practised colleagues heard the detail of the Bravo with politic coolness. The effect of all factitious systems is to render the feelings subservient to expediency. Convention and fiction take place of passion and truth, and like the Mussulman with his doctrine of predestination, there is no one more acquiescent in defeat, than he who has obtained an advantage in the face of nature and justice; his resignation being, in common, as perfect as his previous arrogance was insupportable. The two old senators perceived at once that Don Camillo and his fair companion were completely beyond the reach of their power, and they instantly admitted the wisdom of making a merit of necessity. Having no farther occasion for Jacopo, they summoned the keepers, and dismissed him to his cell.

"It will be seemly to send letters of congratulation to the cardinal secretary, on the union of his nephew with so rich an heiress of our city," said the Inquisitor of the Ten, as the door closed on the retiring group. "So great an interest as that of the Neapolitan should be propitiated."

"But should he urge the state's resistance to his hopes?" returned the Signor Soranzo, in feeble objection to so bold a scheme.

"We will excuse it as the act of a former council. These misconceptions are the unavoidable consequences of the caprices of liberty, Signore. The steed that ranges the plains in the freedom of nature, cannot be held to perfect command, like the dull beast that draws the car. This is the first of your sittings in the Three; but experience will show you that excellent as we are in system, we are not quite perfect in practice. This is grave matter of the young Gradenigo, Signori!"

"I have long known his unworthiness," returned his more aged colleague. "It is a thousand pities that so honorable and so noble a patrician should have produced so ignoble a child. But neither the state nor the city can tolerate assassination."

"Would it were less, frequent!" exclaimed the Signore Soranzo, in perfect sincerity.

"Would it were, indeed! There are hints in our secret information, which tend to confirm the charge of Jacopo, though long experience has taught us to put full faith in his reports."

"How! Is Jacopo, then, an agent of the police!"

"Of that more at our leisure, Signor Soranzo. At present we must look to this attempt on the life of one protected by our laws."

The Three then entered into a serious discussion of the case of the two delinquents. Venice, like all despotic governments, had the merit of great efficiency in its criminal police, when it was disposed to exert it. Justice was sure enough in those instances in which the interests of the government itself were not involved, or in which bribery could not well be used. As to the latter, through the jealousy of the state, and the constant agency of those who were removed from temptation, by being already in possession of a monopoly of benefits, it was by no means as frequent as in some other communities in which the affluent were less interested. The Signor Soranzo had now a fair occasion for the exercise of his generous feelings. Though related to the house of Gradenigo, he was not backward in decrying the conduct of its heir. His first impulses were to make a terrible example of the accused, and to show the world that no station brought with it, in Venice, impunity for crime. From this view of the case, however, he was gradually enticed by his companions, who reminded him that the law commonly made a distinction between the intention and the execution of an offence. Driven from his first determination by the cooler heads of his colleagues, the young inquisitor next proposed that the case should be sent to the ordinary tribunals for judgment. Instances had not been wanting in which the aristocracy of Venice sacrificed one of its body to the seemliness of justice; for when such cases were managed with discretion, they rather strengthened than weakened their ascendency. But the present crime was known to be too common, to permit so lavish an expenditure of their immunities, and the old inquisitors opposed the wish of their younger colleague with great plausibility, and with some show of reason. It was finally resolved that they should themselves decide on the case.

The next question was the degree of punishment. The wily senior of the council began by proposing a banishment for a few months, for Giacomo Gradenigo was already obnoxious to the anger of the state on more accounts than one. But this punishment was resisted by the Signor Soranzo with the ardor of an uncorrupted and generous mind. The latter gradually prevailed, his companions taking care that their compliance should have the air of a concession to his arguments. The result of all this management was, that the heir of Gradenigo was condemned to ten years' retirement in the provinces, and Hosea to banishment for life. Should the reader be of opinion that strict justice was not meted out to the offenders, he should remember, that the Hebrew ought to be glad to have escaped as he did.

"We must not conceal this judgment, nor its motive," observed the Inquisitor of the Ten, when the affair was concluded. "The state is never a loser for letting its justice be known."

"Nor for its exercise, I should hope," returned the Signor Soranzo. "As our affairs are ended for the night, is it your pleasures, Signori, that we return to our palaces?"

"Nay, we have this matter of Jacopo."

"Him may we now, surely, turn over to the ordinary tribunals!"

"As you may decide, Signori; is this your pleasure?"

Both the others bowed assent, and the usual preparations were made for departure.

Ere the two seniors of the Council left the palace, however, they held a long and secret conference together. The result was a private order to the criminal judge, and then they returned, each to his own abode, like men who had the approbation of their own consciences.

On the other hand, the Signor Soranzo hastened to his own luxurious and happy dwelling. For the first time in his life he entered it with a distrust of himself. Without being conscious of the reason, he felt sad, for he had taken the first step in that tortuous and corrupting path, which eventually leads to the destruction of all those generous and noble sentiments, which can only flourish apart from the sophistry and fictions of selfishness. He would have rejoiced to have been as light of heart as at the moment he handed his fair-haired partner into the gondola that night; but his head had pressed the pillow for many hours, before sleep drew a veil over the solemn trifling with the most serious of your duties, in which he had been an actor.