and compel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheld Perpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. He called to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate, endeavoured to enter into discourse with her.
“Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulations to-day.”
“But it must be as God pleases, my poor Renzo.”
“I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons I cannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he is unable or unwilling to marry us to-day?”
“Oh! you think then that I know the secrets of my master.”
“I was right in supposing there was a mystery,” thought Renzo. “Come, come, Perpetua,” continued he, “we are friends; tell me what you know,—help a poor young man.”
“It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo.”
“That is true,” replied he, still more confirmed in his suspicions—“that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy to behave unjustly to the poor.”
“Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because—I know nothing. But I can assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is not to blame.”
“Who then is to blame?” asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intently for a reply.
“I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speak in defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been through too great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful, knavish, and who fear not God.”
“Overpowerful! knavish!” thought Renzo; “these cannot be his superiors.”—“Come,” said he, with difficulty concealing his increasing agitation, “come, tell me who it is.”
“Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because—I know nothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to do so. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thing from me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us.”
Thus saying, she re-entered the garden hastily, and shut the gate. Renzo turned very softly, lest at the noise of his footsteps she might discern the road he took: when fairly beyond her hearing, he quickened his steps, and in a moment was at the door of Don Abbondio’s house; he entered, rushed towards the little parlour where he had left him, and finding him still there, approached him with a bold and furious manner.
“Eh! eh! what has happened now?” said Don Abbondio.
“Who is this powerful personage?” said Renzo, with the air of one resolved to obtain an explicit answer; “who is he that forbids me to marry Lucy?”
“What! what! what!” stammered Don Abbondio, turning pale with surprise. He arose from his chair, and made an effort to reach the door. But Renzo, who expected this movement, was upon his guard; and locking the door, he put the key in his pocket.
“Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair but myself; and, by heavens! I’ll know it too. Who is it, I say?”
“Renzo, Renzo, for the love of charity, take care what you do; think of your soul.”
“I must know it at once—this moment.” So saying, he placed his hand on his dagger, but perhaps without intending it.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Don Abbondio, in a stifled voice.
“I must know it.”
“Who has told you?”
“Come, no more excuses. Speak plainly and quickly.”
“Do you mean to kill me?”
“I mean to know that which I have a right to know.”
“But if I speak, I die. Must I not preserve my life?”
“Speak, then.”
The manner of Renzo was so threatening and decided, that Don Abbondio felt there was no possibility of disobeying him. “Promise me—swear,” said he, “never to tell—”
“Tell me, tell me quickly his name, or—”
At this new adjuration, the poor curate, with the trembling look of a man who feels the instrument of the dentist in his mouth, feebly articulated, “Don—”
“Don?” replied Renzo, inclining his ear towards him, eager to hear the rest. “Don?”
“Don Roderick!” muttered he hastily, trembling at the sound that escaped his lips.
“Ah! dog!” shouted Renzo; “and how has he done it? what has he said to you to—”
“What? what?” said Don Abbondio, in an almost contemptuous tone, already gaining confidence by the sacrifice he had made. “I wish you were like myself, you would then meddle with nothing, and certainly you would not have had so many whims in your head.” He, however, related in terrible colours the ugly encounter; his anger, which had hitherto been subdued by fear, displayed itself as he proceeded; and perceiving that Renzo, between rage and astonishment, remained motionless, with his head bent down, he continued in a lively manner, “You have made a pretty business of it, indeed! You have rendered me a notable service. Thus to attack an honest man, your curate, in his own house! in a sacred place! You have done a fine thing, truly. To wrest from my mouth, that which I concealed, from prudence, for your own good. And now that you know it, what will you do? When I gave you good advice this morning, I had judgment for you and me; but believe me, this is no jesting matter, no question of right or wrong, but superior power. At all events, open the door; give me the key.”
“I may have been to blame,” replied Renzo with a softened voice, but in which might be perceived smothered anger towards his concealed enemy, “I may have been to blame, but if you had been in my situation—” He drew the key from his pocket, and advanced towards the door.
“Swear to me,” said Don Abbondio with a serious and anxious face.
“I may have been to blame—forgive me,” replied Renzo, moving to depart.
“Swear first,” said Don Abbondio, holding him tremblingly by the arm.
“I may have been to blame,” said Renzo, freeing himself from his grasp, and immediately springing out of the room.
“Perpetua! Perpetua!” cried Don Abbondio, after having in vain called back the fugitive. Perpetua did not answer. The poor man was so overwhelmed by his innumerable difficulties, his increasing perplexities, and so apprehensive of some fresh attack, that he conceived the idea of securing to himself a safe retreat from them all, by going to bed and giving out that he had a fever. His malady, indeed, was not altogether imaginary; the terror of the past day, the anxious watching of the night, the dread of the future, had combined to produce really the effect. Weary and stupified, he slumbered in his large chair, muttering occasionally in a feeble but passionate voice, “Perpetua.”—Perpetua arrived at last with a great cabbage under her arm, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if nothing had happened. We will spare the reader the reproaches, the accusations, and denials that passed between them; it is sufficient that Don Abbondio ordered Perpetua to bolt the door, not to put her foot outside, and if any one knocked, to reply from the window that the curate was gone to bed with a fever. He then slowly ascended the stairs and put himself really in bed, where we will leave him.
Renzo, meanwhile, with hurried steps, and with a mind unsettled and distracted as to the course he should pursue, approached his home. Those who injure others are guilty, not only of the evils they commit, but also of the effects produced by these evils on the characters of the injured persons. Renzo was a quiet and peaceful youth, but now his nature appeared changed, and his thoughts dwelt only on deeds of violence. He would have run to the house of Don Roderick to assault him there; but he remembered that it was a fortress, furnished with bravoes within, and well guarded without; that only those known to be friends and servants could enter without the minutest scrutiny; and that not even a tradesman