The Bravo (33 page)

Gino bowed his head in submission, though he cast a look behind to make
sure that none of those agents, whom his master set so openly at
defiance, were within ear-shot.

In the meantime the gondola proceeded, for the dialogue in no manner
interrupted the exertions of Gino, still holding the direction of the
Lido. As the land-breeze freshened, the different vessels in sight
glided away, and by the time Don Camillo reached the barrier of sand
which separates the Lagunes from the Adriatic, most of them had glided
through the passages, and were now shaping their courses, according to
their different destinations, across the open gulf. The young noble had
permitted his people to pursue the direction originally taken, in pure
indecision. He was certain that his bride was in one of the many barques
in sight, but he possessed no clue to lead him towards the right one,
nor any sufficient means of pursuit were he even master of that
important secret. When he landed, therefore, it was with the simple hope
of being able to form some general conjecture as to the portion of the
Republic's dominions in which he might search for her he had lost, by
observing to what part of the Adriatic the different feluccas held their
way. He had determined on immediate pursuit, however, and before he
quitted the gondola, he once more turned to his confidential gondolier
to give the necessary instructions.

"Thou knowest, Gino," he said, "that there is one born a vassal on my
estates, here in the port, with a felucca from the Sorrentine shore?"

"I know the man better than I know my own faults Signore, or even my own
virtues."

"Go to him at once, and make sure of his presence. I have imagined a
plan to decoy him into the service of his lord; but I would now know the
condition of his vessel."

Gino said a few words in commendation of the zeal of his friend Stefano,
and in praise of the Bella Sorrentina, as the gondola receded from the
shore; and then he dashed his oar into the water, like a man in earnest
to execute the commission.

There is a lonely spot on the Lido di Palestrina where Catholic
exclusion has decreed that the remains of all who die in Venice, without
the pale of the church of Rome, shall moulder into their kindred dust.
Though it is not distant from the ordinary landing and the few buildings
which line the shore, it is a place that, in itself, is no bad emblem of
a hopeless lot. Solitary, exposed equally to the hot airs of the south
and the bleak blasts of the Alps, frequently covered with the spray of
the Adriatic, and based on barren sands, the utmost that human art,
aided by a soil which has been fattened by human remains, can do, has
been to create around the modest graves a meagre vegetation, that is in
slight contrast to the sterility of most of the bank. This place of
interment is without the relief of trees: at the present day it is
uninclosed, and in the opinions of those who have set it apart for
heretic and Jew, it is unblessed. And yet, though condemned alike to
this, the last indignity which man can inflict on his fellow, the two
proscribed classes furnish a melancholy proof of the waywardness of
human passions and prejudice, by refusing to share in common the scanty
pittance of earth which bigotry has allowed for their everlasting
repose! While the Protestant sleeps by the side of the Protestant in
exclusive obloquy, the children of Israel moulder apart on the same
barren heath, sedulous to preserve, even in the grave, the outward
distinctions of faith. We shall not endeavor to seek that deeply-seated
principle which renders man so callous to the most eloquent and striking
appeals to liberality, but rest satisfied with being grateful that we
have been born in a land in which the interests of religion are as
little as possible sullied by the vicious contamination of those of
life; in which Christian humility is not exhibited beneath the purple,
nor Jewish adhesion by intolerance; in which man is left to care for the
welfare of his own soul, and in which, so far as the human eye can
penetrate, God is worshipped for himself.

Don Camillo Monforte landed near the retired graves of the proscribed.
As he wished to ascend the low sand-hills, which have been thrown up by
the waves and the winds of the gulf on the outer edge of the Lido, it
was necessary that he should pass directly across the contemned spot, or
make such a circuit as would have been inconvenient. Crossing himself,
with a superstition that was interwoven with all his habits and
opinions, and loosening his rapier, in order that he might not miss the
succor of that good weapon at need, he moved across the heath tenanted
by the despised dead, taking care to avoid the mouldering heaps of earth
which lay above the bones of heretic or Jew. He had not threaded more
than half the graves, however, when a human form arose from the grass,
and seemed to walk like one who mused on the moral that the piles at
his feet would be apt to excite. Again Don Camillo touched the handle of
his rapier; then moving aside, in a manner to give himself an equal
advantage from the light of the moon, he drew near the stranger. His
footstep was heard, for the other paused, regarded the approaching
cavalier, and folding his arms, as it might be in sign of neutrality,
awaited his nearer approach.

"Thou hast chosen a melancholy hour for thy walk, Signore," said the
young Neapolitan; "and a still more melancholy scene. I hope I do not
intrude on an Israelite, or a Lutheran, who mourns for his friend?"

"Don Camillo Monforte, I am, like yourself, a Christian."

"Ha! Thou knowest me—'tis Battista, the gondolier that I once
entertained in my household?"

"Signore, 'tis not Battista."

As he spoke, the stranger faced the moon, in a manner that threw all of
its mild light upon his features.

"Jacopo!" exclaimed the duke, recoiling, as did all in Venice
habitually, when that speaking eye was unexpectedly met.

"Signore—Jacopo."

In a moment the rapier of Don Camillo glittered in the rays of the moon.

"Keep thy distance, fellow, and explain the motive that hath brought
thee thus across my solitude!"

The Bravo smiled, but his arms maintained their fold.

"I might, with equal justice, call upon the Duke of Sant' Agata to
furnish reasons why he wanders at this hour among the Hebrew graves."

"Nay, spare thy pleasantry; I trifle not with men of thy reputation; if
any in Venice have thought fit to employ thee against my person, thou
wilt have need of all thy courage and skill ere thou earnest thy fee."

"Put up thy rapier, Don Camillo, here is none to do you harm. Think
you, if employed in the manner you name, I would be in this spot to seek
you? Ask yourself whether your visit here was known, or whether it was
more than the idle caprice of a young noble, who finds his bed less easy
than his gondola. We have met, Duke of Sant' Agata, when you distrusted
my honor less."

"Thou speakest true, Jacopo," returned the noble, suffering the point of
his rapier to fall from before the breast of the Bravo, though he still
hesitated to withdraw the weapon. "Thou sayest the truth. My visit to
this spot is indeed accidental, and thou could'st not have possibly
foreseen it. Why art thou here?"

"Why are these here?" demanded Jacopo, pointing to the graves at his
feet. "We are born, and we die—that much is known to us all; but the
when and the where are mysteries, until time reveals them."

"Thou art not a man to act without good motive. Though these Israelites
could not foresee their visit to the Lido, thine hath not been without
intention."

"I am here, Don Camillo Monforte, because my spirit hath need of room. I
want the air of the sea—the canals choke me—I can only breathe in
freedom on this bank of sand!"

"Thou hast another reason, Jacopo?"

"Aye, Signore—I loathe yon city of crimes!"

As the Bravo spoke, he shook his hand in the direction of the domes of
St. Mark, and the deep tones of his voice appeared to heave up from the
depths of his chest.

"This is extraordinary language for a—"

"Bravo; speak the word boldly, Signore—it is no stranger to my ears.
But even the stiletto of a Bravo is honorable, compared to that sword of
pretended justice which St. Mark wields! The commonest hireling of
Italy—he who will plant his dagger in the heart of his friend for two
sequins, is a man of open dealing, compared to the merciless treachery
of some in yonder town!"

"I understand thee, Jacopo; thou art, at length, proscribed. The public
voice, faint as it is in the Republic, has finally reached the ears of
thy employers, and they withdraw their protection."

Jacopo regarded the noble, for an instant, with an expression so
ambiguous, as to cause the latter insensibly to raise the point of his
rapier, but when he answered it was with his ordinary quiet.

"Signor Duca," he said, "I have been thought worthy to be retained by
Don Camillo Monforte!"

"I deny it not—and now that thou recallest the occasion, new light
breaks in upon me. Villain, to thy faithlessness I owe the loss of my
bride!"

Though the rapier was at the very throat of Jacopo, he did not flinch.
Gazing at his excited companion, he laughed in a smothered manner, but
bitterly.

"It would seem that the Lord of Sant' Agata wishes to rob me of my
trade," he said. "Arise, ye Israelites, and bear witness, lest men
doubt the fact! A common bravo of the canals is waylaid, among your
despised graves, by the proudest Signor of Calabria! You have chosen
your spot in mercy, Don Camillo, for sooner or later this crumbling and
sea-worn earth is to receive me. Were I to die at the altar itself, with
the most penitent prayer of holy church on my lips, the bigots would
send my body to rest among these hungry Hebrews and accursed heretics.
Yes, I am a man proscribed, and unfit to sleep with the faithful!"

His companion spoke with so strange a mixture of irony and melancholy,
that the purpose of Don Camillo wavered. But remembering his loss, he
shook the rapier's point, and continued:—

"Thy taunts and effrontery will not avail thee, knave," he cried. "Thou
knowest that I would have engaged thee as the leader of a chosen band,
to favor the flight of one dear from Venice."

"Nothing more true, Signore."

"And thou didst refuse the service?"

"Noble duke, I did."

"Not content with this, having learned the particulars of my project,
thou sold the secret to the Senate?"

"Don Camillo Monforte, I did not. My engagements with the council would
not permit me to serve you; else, by the brightest star of yonder vault!
it would have gladdened my heart to have witnessed the happiness of two
young and faithful lovers. No—no—no; they know me not, who think I
cannot find pleasure in the joy of another. I told you that I was the
Senate's, and there the matter ended."

"And I had the weakness to believe thee, Jacopo, for thou hast a
character so strangely compounded of good and evil, and bearest so fair
a name for observance of thy faith, that the seeming frankness of the
answer lulled me to security. Fellow, I have been betrayed, and that at
the moment when I thought success most sure."

Jacopo manifested interest, but, as he moved slowly on, accompanied by
the vigilant and zealous noble, he smiled coldly, like one who had pity
for the other's credulity.

"In bitterness of soul, I have cursed the whole race for its treachery,"
continued the Neapolitan.

"This is rather for the priore of St. Mark, than for the ear of one who
carries a public stiletto."

"My gondola has been imitated—the liveries of my people copied—my
bride stolen. Thou answerest not, Jacopo?"

"What answer would you have? You have been cozened, Signore, in a state,
whose very prince dare not trust his secrets to his wife. You would have
robbed Venice of an heiress, and Venice has robbed you of a bride. You
have played high, Don Camillo, and have lost a heavy stake. You have
thought of your own wishes and rights, while you have pretended to serve
Venice with the Spaniard."

Don Camillo started in surprise.

"Why this wonder, Signore? You forget that I have lived much among those
who weigh the chances of every political interest, and that your name is
often in their mouths. This marriage is doubly disagreeable to Venice,
who has nearly as much need of the bridegroom as of the bride. The
council hath long ago forbidden the banns."

"Aye—but the means?—explain the means by which I have been duped, lest
the treachery be ascribed to thee."

"Signore, the very marbles of the city give up their secrets to the
state. I have seen much, and understood much, when my superiors have
believed me merely a tool; but I have seen much that even those who
employed me could not comprehend. I could have foretold this
consummation of your nuptials, had I known of their celebration."

"This thou could'st not have done, without being an agent of their
treachery."

"The schemes of the selfish may be foretold; it is only the generous and
the honest that baffle calculation. He who can gain a knowledge of the
present interest of Venice is master of her dearest secrets of state;
for what she wishes she will do, unless the service cost too dear. As
for the means—how can they be wanting in a household like yours,
Signore?"

"I trusted none but those deepest in my confidence."

"Don Camillo, there is not a servitor in your palace, Gino alone
excepted, who is not a hireling of the Senate, or of its agents. The
very gondoliers who row you to your daily pleasures have had their hauds
crossed with the Republic's sequins. Nay, they are not only paid to
watch you, but to watch each other."

"Can this be true!"

"Have you ever doubted it, Signore?" asked Jacopo, looking up like one
who admired another's simplicity.

"I knew them to be false—pretenders to a faith that in secret they
mock; but I had not believed they dared to tamper with the very menials
of my person. This undermining of the security of families is to destroy
society at its core."