The Bravo (37 page)

"They promised me that this should not be done again!" he said. "But
they forget their pledges, fiends as they are!"

"Carlo! thou forgettest that this is the palace of the Doge!" whispered
the girl, while she threw a timid glance behind her.

"I forget nothing that is connected with the Republic! It is all here,"
striking his flushed brow—"what is not there, is in my heart!"

"Poor Carlo! this cannot last for ever—there will be an end!"

"Thou art right," answered the Bravo hoarsely. "The end is nearer than
thou thinkest. No matter; turn the key, that we may go in."

The hand of Gelsomina lingered on the lock, but admonished by his
impatient eye, she complied, and they entered the cell.

"Father!" exclaimed the Bravo, hastening to the side of a pallet that
lay on the floor.

The attenuated and feeble form of an old man rose at the word, and an
eye which, while it spoke mental feebleness, was at that moment even
brighter than that of his son, glared on the faces of Gelsomina and her
companion.

"Thou hast not suffered, as I had feared, by this sudden change,
father!" continued the latter, kneeling by the side of the straw. "Thine
eye, and cheek, and countenance are better, than in the damp caves
below!"

"I am happy here," returned the prisoner; "there is light, and though
they have given me too much of it, thou canst never know, my boy, the
joy of looking at the day, after so long a night."

"He is better, Gelsomina. They have not yet destroyed him. See! his eye
is bright even, and his cheek has a glow!"

"They are ever so, after passing the winter in the lower dungeons,"
whispered the gentle girl.

"Hast thou news for me, boy? What tidings from thy mother?"

Jacopo bowed his head to conceal the anguish occasioned by this
question, which he now heard for the hundredth time.

"She is happy, father—happy as one can be, who so well loves thee, when
away from thy side."

"Does she speak of me often?"

"The last word that I heard from her lips, was thy name."

"Holy Maria bless her! I trust she remembers me in her prayers?"

"Doubt it not, father, they are the prayers of an angel!"

"And thy patient sister? thou hast not named her, son."

"She, too, is well, father."

"Has she ceased to blame herself for being the innocent cause of my
sufferings?"

"She has."

"Then she pines no longer over a blow that cannot be helped."

The Bravo seemed to search for relief in the sympathizing eye of the
pale and speechless Gelsomina.

"She has ceased to pine, father," he uttered with compelled calmness.

"Thou hast ever loved thy sister, boy, with manly tenderness. Thy heart
is kind, as I have reason to know. If God has given me grief, he has
blessed me in my children!"

A long pause followed, during which the parent seemed to muse on the
past, while the child rejoiced in the suspension of questions which
harrowed his soul, since those of whom the other spoke had long been the
victims of family misfortune. The old man, for the prisoner was aged as
well as feeble, turned his look on the still kneeling Bravo,
thoughtfully, and continued.

"There is little hope of thy sister marrying, for none are fond of tying
themselves to the proscribed."

"She wishes it not—she wishes it not—she is happy, with my mother!"

"It is a happiness the Republic will not begrudge. Is there no hope of
our being able to meet soon?"

"Thou wilt meet my mother—yes, that pleasure will come at last!"

"It is a weary time since any of my blood, but thee, have stood in my
sight. Kneel, that I may bless thee."

Jacopo, who had risen under his mental torture, obeyed, and bowed his
head in reverence to receive the paternal benediction. The lips of the
old man moved, and his eyes were turned to Heaven, but his language was
of the heart, rather than that of the tongue. Gelsomina bent her head to
her bosom, and seemed to unite her prayers to those of the prisoner.
When the silent but solemn ceremony was ended, each made the customary
sign of the cross, and Jacopo kissed the wrinkled hand of the captive.

"Hast thou hope for me?" the old man asked, this pious and grateful duty
done. "Do they still promise to let me look upon the sun again?"

"They do. They promise fair."

"Would that their words were true! I have lived on hope for a weary
time—I have now been within these walls more than four years,
methinks."

Jacopo did not answer, for he knew that his father named the period only
that he himself had been permitted to see him.

"I built upon the expectation that the Doge would remember his ancient
servant, and open my prison-doors."

Still Jacopo was silent, for the Doge, of whom the other spoke, had long
been dead.

"And yet I should be grateful, for Maria and the saints have not
forgotten me. I am not without my pleasures in captivity."

"God be praised!" returned the Bravo. "In what manner dost thou ease thy
sorrows, father?"

"Look hither, boy," exclaimed the old man, whose eye betrayed a mixture
of feverish excitement, caused by the recent change in his prison, and
the growing imbecility of a mind that was gradually losing its powers
for want of use; "dost thou see the rent in that bit of wood? It opens
with the heat, from time to time, and since I have been an inhabitant
here, that fissure has doubled in length—I sometimes fancy, that when
it reaches the knot, the hearts of the senators will soften, and that my
doors will open. There is a satisfaction in watching its increase, as it
lengthens, inch by inch, year after year!"

"Is this all?"

"Nay, I have other pleasures. There was a spider the past year, that
wove his web from yonder beam, and he was a companion, too, that I loved
to see; wilt thou look, boy, if there is hope of his coming back?"

"I see him not," whispered the Bravo.

"Well, there is always the hope of his return. The flies will enter
soon, and then he will be looking for his prey. They may shut me up on a
false charge, and keep me weary years from my wife and daughter, but
they cannot rob me of all my happiness!"

The aged captive was mute and thoughtful. A childish impatience glowed
in his eye, and he gazed from the rent, the companion of so many
solitary summers, to the face of his son, like one who began to distrust
his enjoyments.

"Well, let them take it away," he said, burying his head beneath the
covering of his bed: "I will not curse them!"

"Father!"

The prisoner made no reply.

"Father!"

"Jacopo!"

In his turn the Bravo was speechless. He did not venture, even, to steal
a glance towards the breathless and attentive Gelsomina, though his
bosom heaved with longing to examine her guileless features.

"Dost thou hear me, son?" continued the prisoner, uncovering his head:
"dost thou really think they will have the heart to chase the spider
from my cell?"

"They will leave thee this pleasure, father, for it touches neither
their power nor their fame. So long as the Senate can keep its foot on
the neck of the people, and so long as it can keep the seemliness of a
good name, it will not envy thee this."

"Blessed Maria make me thankful!—I had my fears, child; for it is not
pleasant to lose any friend in a cell!"

Jacopo then proceeded to soothe the mind of the prisoner, and he
gradually led his thoughts to other subjects. He laid by the bed-side a
few articles of food, that he was allowed to bring with him, and again
holding out the hope of eventual liberation, he proposed to take his
leave.

"I will try to believe thee, son," said the old man, who had good reason
to distrust assurances so often made. "I will do all I can to believe
it. Thou wilt tell thy mother, that I never cease to think of her, and
to pray for her; and thou wilt bless thy sister, in the name of her poor
imprisoned parent."

The Bravo bowed in acquiescence, glad of any means to escape speech. At
a sign from the old man he again bent his knee, and received the parting
benediction. After busying himself in arranging the scanty furniture of
the cell, and in trying to open one or two small fissures, with a view
to admit more light and air, he quitted the place.

Neither Gelsomina nor Jacopo spoke, as they returned by the intricate
passages through which they had ascended to the attic, until they were
again on the Bridge of Sighs. It was seldom that human foot trod this
gallery, and the former, with female quickness, selected it as a place
suited to their further conference.

"Dost thou find him changed?" she asked, lingering on the arch.

"Much."

"Thou speakest with a frightful meaning!"

"I have not taught my countenance to lie to thee, Gelsomina."

"But there is hope.— Thou told'st him there was hope, thyself."

"Blessed Maria forgive the fraud! I could not rob the little life he has
of its only comfort."

"Carlo!—Carlo!—Why art thou so calm? I have never heard thee speak so
calmly of thy father's wrongs and imprisonment."

"It is because his liberation is near."

"But this moment he was without hope, and thou speakest now of
liberation!"

"The liberation of death. Even the anger of the Senate will respect the
grave."

"Dost thou think his end near? I had not seen this change."

"Thou art kind, good Gelsomina, and true to thy friends, and without
suspicion of those crimes of which thou art so innocent: but to one who
has seen as much evil as I, a jealous thought comes at every new event.
The sufferings of my poor father are near their end, for nature is worn
out; but were it not, I can foresee that means would be found to bring
them to a close."

"Thou can'st not suspect that any here would do him harm!"

"I suspect none that belong to thee. Both thy father and thyself,
Gelsomina, are placed here by the interposition of the saints, that the
fiends should not have too much power on earth."

"I do not understand thee, Carlo—but thou art often so.—Thy father
used a word to-day that I could wish he had not, in speaking to thee."

The eye of the Bravo threw a quick, uneasy, suspicious glance at his
companion, and then averted its look with haste.

"He called thee Jacopo!" continued the girl.

"Men often have glimpses of their fate, by the kindness of their
patrons."

"Would'st thou say, Carlo, that thy father suspects the senate will
employ the monster he named?"

"Why not?—they have employed worse men. If report says true, he is not
unknown to them."

"Can this be so!—Thou art bitter against the Republic, because it has
done injury to thy family; but thou canst not believe it has ever dealt
with the hired stiletto."

"I said no more than is whispered daily on the canals."

"I would thy father had not called thee by this terrible name, Carlo!"

"Thou art too wise to be moved by a word, Gelsomina. But what thinkest
thou of my unhappy father?"

"This visit has not been like the others thou hast made him in my
company. I know not the reason, but to me thou hast ever seemed to feel
the hope with which thou hast cheered the prisoner; while now, thou
seemest to have even a frightful pleasure in despair."

"Thy fears deceive thee," returned the Bravo, scarce speaking above his
breath. "Thy fears deceive thee, and we will say no more. The senate
mean to do us justice, at last. They are honorable Signori, of
illustrious birth, and renowned names! 'Twould be madness to distrust
the patricians! Dost thou not know, girl, that he who is born of gentle
blood is above the weaknesses and temptations that beset us of base
origin! They are men placed by birth above the weaknesses of mortals,
and owing their account to none, they will be sure to do justice. This
is reasonable, and who can doubt it!"

As he ended, the Bravo laughed bitterly.

"Nay, now thou triflest with me, Carlo; none are above the danger of
doing wrong, but those whom the saints and kind Maria favor."

"This comes of living in a prison, and of saying thy prayers night and
morning! No—no—silly girl, there are men in the world born wise, from
generation to generation; born honest, virtuous, brave, incorruptible,
and fit in all things to shut up and imprison those who are born base
and ignoble. Where hast thou passed thy days, foolish Gelsomina, not to
have felt this truth in the very air thou breathest? 'Tis clear as the
sun's light, and palpable—aye—palpable as these prison walls!"

The timid girl recoiled from his side, and there was a moment when she
meditated flight; for never before, during their numberless and
confidential interviews, had she ever heard so bitter a laugh, or seen
so wild a gleam in the eye of her companion.

"I could almost fancy, Carlo, that my father was right in using the name
he did," she said, as, recovering herself, she turned a reproachful look
on his still excited features.

"It is the business of parents to name their children;—but enough. I
must leave thee, good Gelsomina, and I leave thee with a heavy heart."

The unsuspecting Gelsomina forgot her alarm. She knew not why, but,
though the imaginary Carlo seldom quitted her that she was not sad, she
felt a weight heavier than common on her spirits at this declaration.

"Thou hast thy affairs, and they must not be forgotten. Art fortunate
with the gondola of late, Carlo?"

"Gold and I are nearly strangers. The Republic throws the whole charge
of the venerable prisoner on my toil."

"I have little, as thou knowest, Carlo," said Gelsomina in a
half-audible voice; "but it is thine. My father is not rich, as thou
can'st feel, or he would not live on the sufferings of others, by
holding the keys of the prison."

"He is better employed than those who set the duty. Were the choice
given me, girl, to wear the horned bonnet, to feast in their halls, to
rest in their palaces, to be the gayest bauble in such a pageant as that
of yesterday, to plot in their secret councils, and to be the heartless
judge to condemn my fellows to this misery—or to be merely the keeper
of the keys and turner of the bolts—I should seize on the latter
office, as not only the most innocent, but by far the most honorable!"