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Chapter XXIIIPart I.
Part I.
Lucia had aroused herself only a short time before, and part of that time
she had been striving to awaken herself thoroughly, and to sever the disturbed
dreams of sleep from the remembrances and images of a reality which too much
resembled the feverish visions of sickness. The old woman quickly made up to
her, and, with a constrained voice of humility, said: `Ah! have you slept? You
might have slept in bed: I told you so often enough last night.` And receiving
no reply, she continued, in a tone of pettish entreaty: `Just eat something;
do be prudent. Oh, how wretched you look! You must want something to eat. And
then if, when he comes back, he`s angry with me!`
`No, no; I want to go away. I want to go to my mother. Your master
promised I should; he said, to - morrow morning. Where is he?`
`He`s gone out; but he said he`d be back soon, and would do all you
wished.`
`Did he say so? did he say so? Very well; I wish to go to my mother,
directly, directly.`
And behold! the noise of footsteps was heard in the adjoining room; then
a tap at the door. The old woman ran to it, and asked, `Who`s there?`
`Open the door,` replied the well - known voice, gently.
The old woman drew back the bolt, and, with a slight push, the Unnamed
half opened the door, bid her come out, and hastily ushered in Don Abbondio
and the good woman. He then nearly closed the door again, and waiting himself
outside, sent the aged matron to a distant part of the castle, as he had
before dismissed the other one, who was keeping watch outside.
All this bustle, the moment of expectation, and the first appearance of
strange figures, made Lucia`s heart bound with agitation; for, if her present
condition was intolerable, every change was an additional cause of alarm. She
looked up, and beheld a priest and a woman; this somewhat reanimated her; she
looked more closely; is it he or not? At last, she recognized Don Abbondio,
and remained with her eyes fixed, as if by enchantment. The female then drew
near, and bending over her, looked at her compassionately, taking both her
hands, as if to caress and raise her at the same time, and saying: `Oh, my
poor girl! come with us, come with us.`
`Who are you? demanded Lucia; but without listening to the reply, she
again turned to Don Abbondio, who was standing two or three yards distant,
even his countenance expressing some compassion; she gazed at him again, and
exclaimed: `You! Is it you! The Signor Curate? Where are we? . . . Oh, poor
me! I have lost my senses!`
`No, no,` replied Don Abbondio, `it is indeed I: take courage. Don`t you
see we are here to take you away? I am really your curate, come hither on
purpose on horseback . . .`
As if she had suddenly regained all her strength, Lucia precipitately
sprang upon her feet: then again fixing her eyes on those two faces, she said:
`It is the Madonna, then, that has sent you.`
`I believe indeed it is,` said the good woman.
`But can we go away? Can we really go away?` resumed Lucia, lowering her
voice, and assuming a timid and suspicious look. `And all these people? . . .`
continued she, with her lips compressed, and quivering with fear and horror:
`And that Lord . . . that man! . . . He did, indeed, promise . . .`
`He is here himself in person, came on purpose with us,` said Don
Abbondio; `he is outside waiting for us. Let us go at once; we mustn`t keep a
man like him waiting.`
At this moment, he of whom they were speaking opened the door, and
showing himself at the entrance, came forward into the room. Lucia, who but
just before had wished for him, nay, having no hope in any one else in the
world, had wished for none but him, now, after having seen and listened to
friendly faces and voices, could not restrain a sudden shudder: she started,
held her breath, and throwing herself on the good woman`s shoulder, buried her
face in her bosom. At the first sight of that countenance, on which, the
evening before, he had been unable to maintain a steady gaze, now rendered
more pale, languid and dejected, by prolonged suffering and abstinence, the
Unnamed had suddenly checked his steps; now, at the sight of her impulse of
terror, he cast his eyes on the ground, stood for a moment silent and
motionless, and then replying to what the poor girl had not expressed in
words, `It is true,` exclaimed he; `forgive me!`
`He is come to set you free; he`s no longer what he was; he has become
good; don`t you hear him asking your forgiveness? said the good woman, in
Lucia`s ear.
`Could he say more? Come, lift up your head; don`t be a baby: we can go
directly,` said Don Abbondio. Lucia raised her face, looked at the Unnamed,
and seeing his head bent low, and his embarrassed and humble look, she was
seized with a mingled feeling of comfort, gratitude, and pity, as she replied,
`Oh, my Lord! God reward you for this deed of mercy!`
`And you a thousandfold, for the good you do me by these words.`
So saying, he turned round, went towards the door, and led the way out of
the room. Lucia, completely reassured, followed, leaning on the worthy
female`s arm, while Don Abbondio brought up the rear. They descended the
staircase, and reached the little door that led into the court. The Unnamed
opened it, went towards the litter, and, with a certain politeness, almost
mingled with timidity, (two novel qualities in him,) offered his arm to Lucia,
to assist her to get in; and afterwards to the worthy dame. He then took the
bridles of the two mules from the driver`s hand, and gave his arm to Don
Abbondio, who had approached his gentle steed.
`Oh, what condescension!` said Don Abbondio, as he mounted much more
nimbly than he had done the first time; and as soon as the Unnamed was also
seated, the party resumed their way. The Signor`s brow was raised: his
countenance had regained its customary expression of authority. The ruffians
whom they passed on their way, discovered, indeed, in his face the marks of
deep thought, and an extraordinary solicitude; but they neither understood,
nor could understand, more about it. They knew not yet anything of the great
change which had taken place in their master; and, undoubtedly, none of them
would have divined it merely from conjecture.
The good woman immediately drew the curtains over the little windows; and
then, affectionately taking Lucia`s hands, she applied herself to comfort her
with expressions of pity, congratulation, and tenderness. Seeing, then, that
not only fatigue from the suffering she had undergone, but the perplexity and
obscurity of all that had happened, prevented the poor girl from being
sensible of the joy of her deliverance, she said all she could think of most
likely to recall her recollection, and to clear up, and set to rights, so to
say, her poor scattered thoughts. She named the village she came from, and to
which they were now going.
`Yes!` said Lucia, who knew how short a distance it was from her own.
`Ah, most holy Madonna, I praise thee! My mother! my mother!`
`We will send to fetch her directly,` said the good woman, not knowing
that it was already done.
`Yes, yes, and God will reward you for it . . . And you, who are you? How
have you come . . .`
`Our Curate sent me,` said the good woman, `because God has touched this
Signor`s heart, (blessed be His name!) and he came to our village to speak to
the Signor Cardinal Archbishop, for he is there in his visitation, that holy
man of God; and he had repented of his great sins, and wished to change his
life; and he told the Cardinal that he had caused a poor innocent to be
seized, meaning you, at the instigation of another person, who had no fear of
God; but the Curate didn`t tell me who it could be.`
`Lucia raised her eyes to heaven.
`You know who it was, perhaps,` continued the good woman.
`Well; the Signor Cardinal thought that, as there was a young girl in the
question, there ought to be a female to come back with her; and he told the
Curate to look for one; and the Curate, in his goodness, came to me . . .`
`Oh, the Lord recompense you for your kindness!`
`Well, just listen to me, my poor child! And the Signor Curate bid me
encourage you, and try to comfort you directly, and point out to you how the
Lord has saved you by a miracle . . .`
`Ah yes, by a miracle indeed; through the intercession of the Madonna!`
`Well, that you should have a right spirit, and forgive him who has done
you this wrong, and be thankful that God has been merciful to him, yes, and
pray for him too; for, besides that you will be rewarded for it, you will also
find your heart lightened.`
Lucia replied with a look which expressed assent as clearly as words
could have done, and with a sweetness which words could not have conveyed.
`Noble girl!` rejoined the woman. `And your Curate, too, being at our
village, (for there are numbers assembled from all the country round to elect
four public officers,) the Signor Cardinal thought it better to send him with
us; but he has been of little use: I had before heard that he was a poor -
spirited creature; but, on this occasion, I couldn`t help seeing that he was
as frightened as a chicken in a bundle of hemp.`
`And this man . . .` asked Lucia, `this person who has become good . . .
who is he?`
`What! don`t you know him?` said the good woman, mentioning his name.
`Oh, the mercy of the Lord!` exclaimed Lucia. How often had she heard
that name repeated with horror in more than one story, in which it always
appeared as, in other stories, that of the monster Orcus! And at the thought
of having once been in his dreaded power, and being now under his merciful
protection - at the thought of such fearful danger, and such unlooked - for
deliverance; and at the remembrance of whose face it was that had at first
appeared to her so haughty, afterwards so agitated, and then so humbled, she
remained in a kind of ecstasy, only occasionally repeating, `Oh, what a
mercy!`
`It is a great mercy, indeed!` said the good woman. `It will be a great
relief to half the world, to all the country round. To think how many people
he kept in fear; and now, as our Curate told me . . . and then, only to see
his face, he is become a saint! And the fruits are seen so directly.`
To assert this worthy person did not feel much curiosity to know rather
more explicitly the wonderful circumstances in which she was called upon to
bear a part, would not be the truth. But we must say, to her honour, that,
restrained by a respectful pity for Lucia, and feeling, in a manner, the
gravity and dignity of the charge which had been entrusted to her, she never
even thought of putting an indiscreet or idle question; throughout the whole
journey, her words were those of comfort and concern for the poor girl.
`Heaven knows how long it is since you have eaten anything!`
`I don`t remember . . . not for some time.`
`Poor thing! you must want something to strengthen you?`
`Yes,` replied Lucia, in a faint voice.
`Thank God, we shall get something at home directly. Take heart, for it`s
not far now.`
Lucia then sank languidly to the bottom of the litter, as if overcome
with drowsiness, and the good woman left her quietly to repose.
To Don Abbondio the return was certainly not so harassing as the journey
thither not long before; but, nevertheless, even this was not a ride of
pleasure. When his overwhelming fears had subsided, he felt, at first, as if
relieved from every burden; but very shortly a hundred other fancies began to
haunt his imagination; as the ground whence a large tree has been uprooted
remains bare and empty for a time, but is soon abundantly covered with weeds.
He had become more sensitive to minor causes of alarm; and in thoughts of the
present, as well as the future, failed not to find only too many materials for
self - torment. He felt now, much more than in coming, the inconveniences of a
mode of travelling to which he was not at all accustomed, and particularly in
the descent from the castle to the bottom of the valley. The mule - driver,
obedient to a sign from the Unnamed, drove on the animals at a rapid pace; the
two riders followed in a line behind, with corresponding speed, so that, in
sundry steep places, the unfortunate Don Abbondio, as if forced up by a lever
behind, rolled forward, and was obliged to keep himself steady by grasping the
pommel of the saddle; not daring to request a slower pace, and anxious, also,
to get out of the neighbourhood as quickly as he could. Besides this, wherever
the road was on an eminence, on the edge of a steep bank, the mule, according
to the custom of its species, seemed as if aiming, out of contempt, always to
keep on the outside, and to set its feet on the very brink; and Don Abbondio
saw, almost perpendicularly beneath him, a good leap, or, as he thought, a
precipice. - Even you, - said he to the animal, in his heart, - have a cursed
inclination to go in search of dangers, when there is such a safe and wide
path. - And he pulled the bridle to the opposite side, but in vain; so that,
grumbling with vexation and fear, he suffered himself, as usual, to be guided
at the will of others. The ruffians no longer gave him so much alarm, now that
he knew for certain how their master regarded them. - But, - reflected he, -
if the news of this grand conversion should get abroad among them while we are
still here, who knows how these fellows would take it? Who knows what might
arise from it? What, if they should get an idea that I am come hither as a
missionary! Heaven preserve me! they would martyr me! - The haughty brow of
the Unnamed gave him no uneasiness. - To keep those visages there in awe, -
though the, - it needs no less than this one here; I understand that myself;
but why has it fallen to my lot to be thrown amongst such people? -
But enough; they reached the foot of the descent, and at length also
issued from the valley. The brow of the Unnamed became gradually smoother. Don
Abbondio, too, assumed a more natural expression, released his head somewhat
from imprisonment between his shoulders, stretched his legs and arms, tried to
be a little more at his ease, which, in truth, made him look like a different
creature, drew his breath more freely, and, with a calmer mind, proceeded to
contemplate other and remoter dangers. - What will that villain of a Don
Rodrigo say? To be left in this way, wronged, and open to ridicule; just fancy
whether that won`t be a bitter dose. Now`s the time when he`ll play the devil
outright. It remains to be seen whether he won`t be angry with me, because I
have been mixed up with this business. If he has already chosen to send these
two demons to meet me on the high road with such an intimation, what will he
do now, Heaven knows! He can`t quarrel with his illustrious Lordship, for he`s
rather out of his reach; he`ll be obliged to gnaw the bit with him. But all
the while the venom will be in his veins, and he`ll be sure to vent it upon
somebody, How will all these things end? The blow must always fall somewhere;
the lash must be uplifted. Of course, his illustrious Lordship intends to
place Lucia in safety: that other unfortunate misguided youth is beyond reach,
and has already had his share; so behold the lash must fall upon my shoulders.
It will indeed be cruel, if, after so many inconveniences and so much
agitation, without my deserving it, too, in the least, I should have to bear
the punishment. What will his most illustrious Grace do now to protect me,
after having brought me into the dance? Can he ensure that this cursed wretch
won`t play me a worse trick than before? And, besides, he has so many things
to think of; he puts his hand to so many businesses. How can he attend to all?
Matters are sometimes left more entangled than at first. Those who do good, do
it in the gross; when they have enjoyed this satisfaction, they`ve had enough,
and won`t trouble themselves to look after the consequences; but they who have
such a taste for evil - doings, are much more diligent; they follow it up to
the end, and give themselves no rest, because they have an everdevouring
canker within them. Must I go and say that I came here at the express command
of his illustrious Grace, and not with my own good will? That would seem as if
I favoured the wicked side. Oh, sacred Heaven! I favour the wicked side! For
the pleasure it gives me! Well; the best plan will be to tell Perpetua the
case as it is, and then leave it to her to circulate it, provided my Lord
doesn`t take a fancy to make the whole matter public, and bring even me into
the scene. At any rate, as soon as ever we arrive, if he`s out of church, I`ll
go and take my leave of him as quickly as possible; if he`s not, I`ll leave an
apology, and go off home at once. Lucia is well attended to; there`s no need
for me; and after so much trouble, I, too, may claim a little repose. And
besides . . . what if my Lord should feel some curiosity to know the whole
history, and it should fall to me to give an account of that wedding business!
This is all that is wanting to complete it. And if he should come on a visit
to my parish? . . . Oh, let it be what it will, I will not trouble myself
about it beforehand; I have troubles enough already. For the present, I shall
shut myself up at home. As long as his Grace is in this neighbourhood, Don
Rodrigo won`t have the face to make a stir. And afterwards . . . oh,
afterwards! Ah, I see that my last years are to be spent in sorrow! -
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