appeased. “You! who will do nothing for me! What proof do you give me of your affection? Have I not supplicated in vain? Have I been able to obtain—”
“Yes, yes,” replied Lucy, hastily, “I will go to the curate’s to-morrow; now, if you wish it. Only be yourself again; I will go.”
“Do you promise me?” said Renzo, softening immediately.
“I promise.”
“Well, I am satisfied.”
“God be praised!” said Agnes, much relieved.
“I have promised you,” said Lucy, with an accent of timid reproach, “but you have also promised me to refer it to Father Christopher.”
“Ha! will you now draw back?” said Renzo.
“No, no,” said Lucy, again alarmed, “no, no, I have promised, and will perform. But you have compelled me to it by your own impetuosity. God forbid that—”
“Why will you prognosticate evil, Lucy? God knows we wrong no person.”
“Well, well,” said Lucy, “I will hope for the best.”
Renzo would have wished to prolong the conversation, in order to allot to each their several parts for the morrow, but the night drew on, and he reluctantly felt himself compelled to depart.
The night was passed, by all three, in that state of agitation and trouble which always precedes an important enterprise whose issue is uncertain. Renzo returned early in the morning, and Agnes and he busied themselves in concerting the operations of the evening. Lucy was a mere spectator; but although she disapproved these measures in her heart, she still promised to do the best she could.
“Will you go to the convent, to speak to Father Christopher, as he desired you last night?” said Agnes to Renzo.
“Oh! no,” replied he, “the father would soon read in my countenance that there was something on foot; and if he interrogated me, I should be obliged to tell him. You had better send some one.”
“I will send Menico.”
“Yes, that will do,” replied Renzo, as he hurried off to make farther arrangements.
Agnes went to a neighbouring house to obtain Menico, a smart lad of twelve years of age, who, by the way of cousins and sisters-in-law, was a sort of nephew to the dame. She asked and obtained permission of his parents to keep him all day “for a particular service.” She took him home, and after giving him breakfast, told him he must go to Pescarenico, and show himself to Father Christopher, who would send him back with a message.
“ Father Christopher, you understand; that nice old man, with a white beard; him they call the Saint.”
“I know him, I know him!” said Menico: “he speaks so kindly to the children, and often gives them pictures.”
“Yes! that is he; and if, Menico, if he tells you to wait near the convent until he has an answer ready, don’t stray away; don’t go to the lake to throw stones in the water with the boys; nor to see them fish, nor—”
“Poh! aunt, I am no longer a baby.”
“Well, behave well, and when you return with the answer, I will give you these new parpagliole.”
During the remainder of this long morning, several strange things occurred, calculated to infuse suspicion into the already troubled minds of Lucy and her mother. A mendicant, but not in rags like others of his kind, and with a dark and sinister countenance, narrowly observing every object around him, entered to ask alms. A piece of bread was presented to him, which he received with ill-dissembled indifference. Then, with a mixture of impudence and hesitation, he made many enquiries, to which Agnes endeavoured to return evasive replies. When about to depart, he pretended to mistake the door, and went through the one that led to the stairs. They called to him, “Stay, stay! where are you going, good man? this way.” He returned, excusing himself with an affectation of humility, to which he felt it difficult to compose his hard and stern features. After him, they saw pass, from time to time, other strange people. One entered the house, under pretence of asking the road; another stopped before the gate, and glanced furtively into the room, as if to avoid suspicion. Agnes went often to the door of the house during the remainder of the day, with an undefined dread of seeing some one approach who might cause them alarm. These mysterious visitations, however, ceased towards noon, but they had left an impression of impending evil on their minds, which they felt it impossible altogether to suppress.
To explain to the reader the true character of these suspicious wanderers, we must recur to Don Roderick, whom we left alone, in the hall of his palace, at the departure of Father Christopher. The more he reflected on his interview with the friar, the more was he enraged and ashamed, that he should have dared to come to him with the rebuke of Nathan to David on his lips. He paced with hurried steps through the apartment, and as he gazed at the portraits of his ancestors, warriors, senators, and abbots, which hung against its walls, he felt his indignation at the insult which had been offered him increase. A base-born friar to speak thus to one of noble birth! He formed plans of vengeance, and discarded them, without his being willing to acknowledge it to himself. The prediction of the father again sounded in his ears, and caused an unaccustomed perplexity. Restless and undetermined, he rang the bell, and ordered a servant to excuse him to the company, and to say to them, that urgent business prevented his seeing them again. The servant returned with the intelligence that the guests had departed. “And the Count Attilio?” asked Don Roderick.
“He has gone with the gentlemen, my lord.”
“Well; six followers to accompany me; quickly. My sword, cloak, and hat. Be quick.”
The servant left the room, and returned in a few moments with a rich sword, which his master girded on; he then threw the cloak around his shoulders, and donned his hat with its waving plumes with an air of proud defiance. He then passed into the street, followed by six armed ruffians, taking the road to Lecco. The peasantry and tradesmen shrunk from his approach; their profound and timid salutations received no notice from him; indeed, he acknowledged but by a slight inclination of the head those of the neighbouring gentry, whose rank, however, was incontestably inferior to his own. Indeed, the only man whose salutations he condescended to return upon an equal footing was the Spanish governor. In order to get rid of his ennui, and banish the idea of the monk and his imprecations, he entered the house of a gentleman, where a party was met together, and was received with that apparent cordiality which it is a necessary policy to manifest towards the powerful who are held in fear. On his return at night to his palace, he found Count Attilio seated at supper. Don Roderick, full of thought, took a chair, but said little.
Scarcely was the table cleared, and the servants departed, when the count, beginning to rally his dull companion, said, “Cousin, when will you pay me my wager?”
“San Martin’s day has not yet passed.”
“Well, you will have to pay it; for all the saints in the calendar may pass, before you—”
“We will see about that!” said Don Roderick.
“Cousin, you would play the politician, but you cannot deceive me; I am so certain that I have won the wager, that I stand ready for another.”
“Why!”
“Why? because the father—the father—in short, this friar has converted you.”
“One of your fine imaginations, truly!”
“Converted, cousin, converted, I tell you; I rejoice at it; it will be a fine spectacle to see you penitent, with your eyes cast down! And how flattering to the father! he don’t catch such fish every day. Be assured, he will bring you forward as an example to others; your actions will be trumpeted from the pulpit!”
“Enough, enough!” interrupted Don Roderick, half annoyed, and half disposed to laugh. “I will double the wager with you, if you please.”
“The devil! perhaps you have