The Bravo (45 page)

Treating, as we are, of the vices of the Venetian system, our pen has
run truant with its subject, since the application of the moral must be
made on the familiar scale suited to the incidents of our story. It has
already been seen that Gelsomina was intrusted with certain important
keys of the prison. For this trust there had been sufficient motive with
the wily guardians of the jail, who had made their calculations on her
serving their particular orders, without ever suspecting that she was
capable of so far listening to the promptings of a generous temper, as
might induce her to use them in any manner prejudicial to their own
views. The service to which they were now to be applied proved that the
keepers, one of whom was her own father, had not fully known how to
estimate the powers of the innocent and simple.

Provided with the keys in question, Gelsomina took a lamp and passed
upwards from the mezzinino in which she dwelt, to the first floor of the
edifice, instead of descending to its court. Door was opened after door,
and many a gloomy corridor was passed by the gentle girl, with the
confidence of one who knew her motive to be good. She soon crossed the
Bridge of Sighs, fearless of interruption in that unfrequented gallery,
and entered the palace. Here she made her way to a door that opened on
the common and public vomitories of the structure. Moving with
sufficient care to make impunity from detection sure, she extinguished
the light and applied the key. At the next instant she was on the vast
and gloomy stairway. It required but a moment to descend it, and to
reach the covered gallery which surrounded the court. A halberdier was
within a few feet of her. He looked at the unknown female with interest;
but as it was not his business to question those who issued from the
building, nothing was said. Gelsomina walked on. A half-repenting but
vindictive being was dropping an accusation in the lion's mouth.
Gelsomina stopped involuntarily until the secret accuser had done his
treacherous work and departed. Then, when she was about to proceed, she
saw that the halberdier at the head of the Giant's stairway was smiling
at her indecision, like one accustomed to such scenes.

"Is there danger in quitting the palace?" she asked of the rough
mountaineer.

"Corpo di Bacco! There might have been an hour since, Bella Donna; but
the rioters are muzzled and at their prayers."

Gelsomina hesitated no longer. She descended the well known flight, down
which the head of Faliero had rolled, and was soon beneath the arch of
the gate. Here the timid and unpractised maid again stopped, for she
could not venture into the square without assuring herself, like a deer
about to quit its cover, of the tranquillity of the place into which she
was to enter.

The agents of the police had been too much alarmed by the rising of the
fishermen not to call their usual ingenuity and finesse into play, the
moment the disturbance was appeased. Money had been given to the
mountebanks and ballad singers to induce them to reappear, and groups of
hirelings, some in masks and others without concealment, were
ostentatiously assembled in different parts of the piazza. In short,
those usual expedients were resorted to which are constantly used to
restore the confidence of a people, in those countries in which
civilization is so new, that they are not yet considered sufficiently
advanced to be the guardians of their own security. There are few
artifices so shallow that many will not be their dupes. The idler, the
curious, the really discontented, the factious, the designing, with a
suitable mixture of the unthinking, and of those who only live for the
pleasure of the passing hour, a class not the least insignificant for
numbers, had lent themselves to the views of the police; and when
Gelsomina was ready to enter the Piazzetta, she found both the squares
partly filled. A few excited fishermen clustered about the doors of the
cathedral, like bees swarming before their hive; but, on that side,
there was no very visible cause of alarm. Unaccustomed as she was to
scenes like that before her, the first glance assured the gentle girl of
the real privacy which so singularly distinguishes the solitude of a
crowd. Gathering her simple mantle more closely about her form, and
settling her mask with care, she moved with a swift step into the centre
of the piazza.

We shall not detail the progress of our heroine, as, avoiding the
commonplace gallantry that assailed and offended her ear, she went her
way on her errand of kindness. Young, active, and impelled by her
intentions, the square was soon passed, and she reached the place of San
Nico. Here was one of the landings of the public gondolas. But at the
moment there was no boat in waiting, for curiosity or fear had induced
the men to quit their usual stand. Gelsomina had ascended the bridge,
and was on the crown of its arch, when a gondolier came sweeping lazily
in from the direction of the Grand Canal. Her hesitation and doubting
manner attracted his attention, and the man made the customary sign
which conveyed the offer of his services. As she was nearly a stranger
in the streets of Venice, labyrinths that offer greater embarrassment to
the uninitiated than perhaps the passages of any other town of its size,
she gladly availed herself of the offer. To descend to the steps, to
leap into the boat, to utter the word "Rialto," and to conceal herself
in the pavilion, was the business of a minute. The boat was instantly in
motion.

Gelsomina now believed herself secure of effecting her purpose, since
there was little to apprehend from the knowledge or the designs of a
common boatman. He could not know her object, and it was his interest to
carry her in safety to the place she had commanded. But so important was
success, that she could not feel secure of attaining it while it was
still unaccomplished. She soon summoned sufficient resolution to look
out at the palaces and boats they were passing, and she felt the
refreshing air of the canal revive her courage. Then turning with a
sensitive distrust to examine the countenance of the gondolier, she saw
that his features were concealed beneath a mask that was so well
designed, as not to be perceptible to a casual observer by moonlight.

Though it was common on occasions for the servants of the great, it was
not usual for the public gondoliers to be disguised. The circumstance
itself was one justly to excite slight apprehension, though, on second
thoughts, Gelsomina saw no more in it than a return from some expedition
of pleasure, or some serenade perhaps, in which the caution of a lover
had compelled his followers to resort to this species of concealment.

"Shall I put you on the public quay, Signora," demanded the gondolier,"
or shall I see you to the gate of your own palace?"

The heart of Gelsomina beat high. She liked the tone of the voice,
though it was necessarily smothered by the mask, but she was so little
accustomed to act in the affairs of others, and less still in any of so
great interest, that the sounds caused her to tremble like one less
worthily employed.

"Dost thou know the palace of a certain Don Camillo Monforte, a lord of
Calabria, who dwells here in Venice?" she asked, after a moment's pause.
The gondolier sensibly betrayed surprise, by the manner in which he
started at the question.

"Would you be rowed there, lady?"

"If thou art certain of knowing the palazzo."

The water stirred, and the gondola glided between high walls. Gelsomina
knew by the sound that they were in one of the smaller canals, and she
augured well of the boatman's knowledge of the town. They soon stopped
by the side of a water-gate, and the man appeared on the step, holding
an arm to aid her in ascending, after the manner of people of his craft.
Gelsomina bade him wait her return, and proceeded.

There was a marked derangement in the household of Don Camillo, that one
more practised than our heroine would have noted. The servants seemed
undecided in the manner of performing the most ordinary duties; their
looks wandered distrustfully from one to another, and when their
half-frightened visitor entered the vestibule, though all arose, none
advanced to meet her. A female masked was not a rare sight in Venice,
for few of that sex went upon the canals without using the customary
means of concealment; but it would seem by their hesitating manner that
the menials of Don Camillo did not view the entrance of her who now
appeared with the usual indifference.

"I am in the dwelling of the Duke of St. Agata, a Signore of Calabria?"
demanded Gelsomina, who saw the necessity of being firm.

"Signora, si—"

"Is your lord in the palace?"

"Signora, he is—and he is not. What beautiful lady shall I tell him
does him this honor?"

"If he be not at home it will not be necessary to tell him anything. If
he is, I could wish to see him."

The domestics, of whom there were several, put their heads together,
and seemed to dispute on the propriety of receiving the visit. At this
instant a gondolier in a flowered jacket entered the vestibule.
Gelsomina took courage at his good-natured eye and frank manner.

"Do you serve Don Camillo Monforte?" she asked, as he passed her, on his
way to the canal.

"With the oar, Bellissima Donna," answered Gino, touching his cap,
though scarce looking aside at the question.

"And could he be told that a female wishes earnestly to speak to him in
private?—A female."

"Santa Maria! Bella Donna, there is no end to females who come on these
errands in Venice. You might better pay a visit to the statue of San
Teodore, in the piazza, than see my master at this moment; the stone
will give you the better reception."

"And this he commands you to tell all of my sex who come!"

"Diavolo! Lady, you are particular in your questions. Perhaps my master
might, on a strait, receive one of the sex I could name, but on the
honor of a gondolier he is not the most gallant cavalier of Venice, just
at this moment."

"If there is one to whom he would pay this deference, you are bold for a
servitor. How know you I am not that one?"

Gino started. He examined the figure of the applicant, and lifting his
cap, he bowed.

"Lady, I do not know anything about it," he said; "you may be his
Highness the Doge, or the ambassador of the emperor. I pretend to know
nothing in Venice of late—"

The words of Gino were cut short by a tap on the shoulder from the
public gondolier, who had hastily entered the vestibule. The man
whispered in the ear of Don Camillo's servitor.

"This is not a moment to refuse any," he said. "Let the stranger go up."

Gino hesitated no longer. With the decision of a favored menial he
pushed the groom of the chambers aside, and offered to conduct Gelsomina
himself to the presence of his master. As they ascended the stairs,
three of the inferior servants disappeared.

The palace of Don Camillo had an air of more than Venetian gloom. The
rooms were dimly lighted, many of the walls had been stripped of the
most precious of their pictures, and in other respects a jealous eye
might have detected evidence of a secret intention, on the part of its
owner, not to make a permanent residence of the dwelling. But these were
particulars that Gelsomina did not note, as she followed Gino through
the apartments, into the more private parts of the building. Here the
gondolier unlocked a door, and regarding his companion with an air,
half-doubting, half-respectful, he made a sign for her to enter.

"My master commonly receives the ladies here," he said. "Enter,
eccellenza, while I run to tell him of his happiness."

Gelsomina did not hesitate, though she felt a violent throb at the heart
when she heard the key turning in the lock behind her. She was in an
ante-chamber, and inferring from the light which shone through the door
of an adjoining room that she was to proceed, she went on. No sooner had
she entered the little closet than she found herself alone, with one of
her own sex.

"Annina!" burst from the lips of the unpractised prison-girl, under the
impulse of surprise.

"Gelsomina! The simple, quiet, whispering, modest Gelsomina!" returned
the other.

The words of Annina admitted but of one construction. Wounded, like the
bruised sensitive plant, Gelsomina withdrew her mask for air, actually
gasping for breath, between offended pride and wonder.

"Thou here!" she added, scarce knowing-what she uttered.

"Thou here!" repeated Annina, with such a laugh as escapes the degraded
when they believe the innocent reduced to their own level.

"Nay, I come on an errand of pity."

"Santa Maria! we are both here with the same end!"

"Annina! I know not what thou would'st say! This is surely the palace of
Don Camillo Monforte! a noble Neapolitan, who urges claims to the honors
of the Senate?"

"The gayest, the handsomest, the richest, and the most inconstant
cavalier in Venice! Hadst thou been here a thousand times thou could'st
not be better informed!"

Gelsomina listened in horror. Her artful cousin, who knew her character
to the full extent that vice can comprehend innocence, watched her
colorless cheek and contracting eye with secret triumph. At the first
moment she had believed all that she insinuated, but second thoughts and
a view of the visible distress of the frightened girl gave a new
direction to her suspicions.

"But I tell thee nothing new," she quickly added. "I only regret thou
should'st find me, where, no doubt, you expected to meet the Duca di
Sant' Agata himself."

"Annina!—This from thee!"

"Thou surely didst not come to his palace to seek thy cousin!"

Gelsomina had long been familiar with grief, but until this moment she
had never felt the deep humiliation of shame. Tears started from her
eyes, and she sank back into a seat, in utter inability to stand.