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Betrothed (version 2 Dramatic Reading)

<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2> The host, seeing that the game was about to be carried too far, approached Renzo, and entreating the others to be quiet, endeavoured to make him understand that he had best go to bed. But our mountaineer could think of nothing but name, surname, and proclamations; yet the words bed and sleep, repeated frequently in his ear, made at last some impression, and producing a sort of lucid interval, made him feel that he really had need of both. The little sense that remained to him enabled him to perceive that the greater part of the company had departed; and with his hands resting on the table before him, he endeavoured to stand on his feet; his efforts would have been, however, unavailing, without the assistance of the host, who led him from between the table and the bench, and taking a lantern in one hand, managed partly to lead and partly to drag him to the stairs, and thence up the narrow staircase to the room designed for him. At the sight of the bed, he endeavoured to look kindly upon the host; but his eyes at one time sparkled, at another disappeared, like two fireflies: he endeavoured to stand erect, and stretched out his hand to pat the shoulder of his host in testimony of his gratitude; but in this he failed: however he did succeed in saying, “Worthy host, I see now that you are an honest man; but I don't like your rage for name and surname. Happily I am also——” The host, who did not expect to hear him utter one connected idea, and who knew from experience how prone men in his situation were to sudden changes of feeling, wishing to profit by this lucid interval, made another attempt. “My dear fellow,” said he, in a tone of persuasion, “I have not intended to vex you, nor to pry into your affairs. What would you have had me do? There is a law, and if we innkeepers do not obey it, we shall be the first to be punished; therefore it is better to conform. And after all, as regards yourself, what is it? A hard thing, indeed! just to say two words. It is not for them, but to do me a favour. Now, here, between ourselves, tell me your name, and then you shall go to bed in peace.” “Ah, rascal! knave!” cried Renzo, “do you dare to bring up this cursed name and surname and business again?” “Hush! you fool! and go to bed,” said the host. But Renzo continued to bellow, “I understand it, you belong to the league. Wait, wait, till I settle matters for you;” and turning to the door, he bellowed down the stairs, “Friends! the host is of the——” “I spoke in jest,” cried the host, pushing him towards the bed, “in jest; did you not perceive I spoke in jest?” “Ah, in jest; now you talk reasonably. Since you said it in jest—they are just the thing to make a jest of——.” And he fell on the bed. “Undress yourself quickly,” said the host; and adding his assistance to his advice, the thought occurred to him, to ascertain if there were any money in Renzo's pockets, as on the morrow it would fall into hands from which an innkeeper would have but little chance of recovering it; he therefore hazarded another attempt, saying to Renzo, “You are an honest youth, are you not?” “Yes, an honest youth,” replied Renzo, still endeavouring to rid himself of his clothes. “Well, settle this little account with me now, because to-morrow I am obliged to leave home on business.” “That's right,” said Renzo “I am honest. But the money—we must find the money——!” “Here it is,” said the host; and calling up all his patience and skill, he succeeded in obtaining the reckoning. “Lend me your hand to finish undressing, host,” said Renzo; “I begin to comprehend, do you see, that——I am very sleepy.” The host rendered him the desired service, and covering him with the quilt, bade him “Good night.” The words were scarcely uttered before poor Renzo snored. The host stopped to contemplate him a moment by the light of his lantern; “Mad blockhead!” said he to the poor sleeper, “thou hast accomplished thy own ruin! dunces, who want to travel over the world, without knowing where the sun rises, to entangle themselves with affairs they know nothing of, to their own injury and that of their neighbour!” So saying, he left the apartment, having locked the door outside, and calling to his wife, told her to take his place in the kitchen, “Because,” said he, “I must go out for a while, thanks to a stranger who is here, unhappily for me;” he then briefly related the annoying circumstance, adding, “And now keep an eye on all, and above all be prudent. There is below a company of dissolute fellows, who, between drink and their natural disposition, are very very free of speech. Enough—if any of them should dare——” “Oh! I am not a child! I know what I ought to do. It could never be said——” “Well, well. Be careful to make them pay. If they talk of the superintendant of provision, the governor, Ferrer, and the council of ten, and the gentry, and Spain and France, and other follies, pretend not to hear them, because, if you contradict them, it may go ill with you now, and if you argue with them, it may go ill with you hereafter; and take care, when you hear any dangerous remarks, turn away your head, and call out ‘Coming, sir.’ I will endeavour to return as soon as possible.” So saying, he descended with her into the kitchen, put on his hat and cloak, and taking a cudgel in his hand, departed. As he walked along the road, he resumed the thread of his apostrophe to poor Renzo. “Headstrong mountaineer!”—for that Renzo was such, had been manifest from his pronunciation, countenance, and manners, although he vainly tried to conceal it,—“on a day like this, when by dint of skill and prudence I had kept my hands clean, you must come at the end of it to spoil all I have done! Are there not inns enough in Milan, that you must come to mine! at least, if you had been alone, I would have winked at it for to-night, and made you understand matters to-morrow. But no; my gentleman must come in company, and, to do the thing better, in company with an informer.” At this moment he perceived a patrole of soldiers approaching; drawing on one side to let them pass, and eyeing them askance, he continued, “There go the fool-punishers. And thou, great booby, because thou saw'st a few people making a little noise, thou must think the world was turned upside down; and on this fine foundation thou hast ruined thyself and would have ruined me; I have done all I could to save thee, now thou must get thyself out of trouble. As if I wanted to know thy name from curiosity! What was it to me whether it were Thaddeus or Bartholomew? I have truly great satisfaction in taking a pen in my hand! I know well enough that there are proclamations which are disregarded; just as if we had need of a mountaineer to tell us that! And dost thou not know, thou fool! what would be done to a poor innkeeper, who should be of thy opinion (since upon them the proclamation bear hardest), and should not inform himself of the name of any one who did him the favour to lodge at his house. Under penalty of whoever of the above-said hosts, tavern keepers, and others, of three hundred crowns,—behold three hundred crowns hatched; and now to spend them well,—two thirds to be applied to the royal chamber, and the other third to the accuser or informer. And in case of inability, five years in the galleys, and greater pecuniary and corporal punishments, at the discretion of his Excellency. Very much obliged for such favours, indeed!” He ended his soliloquy, finding himself at his destined point, the palace of the Capitano di Giustizia. There, as in all the offices of the secretaries, there was a great deal of business going on; on all sides, persons were employed in issuing orders to ensure the peace of the following day, to take from rebellion every pretext, to cool the audacity of those who were desirous of fresh disorders, and to concentrate power in the hands of those accustomed to exercise it. The number of the soldiers who protected the house of the superintendant was increased; the ends of the streets were defended by large pieces of timber thrown across them; the bakers were ordered to bake bread without intermission; expresses were sent to all the surrounding villages, with orders to send corn into the city; and at every baker's some of the nobility were stationed, to watch over the distribution, and to restrain the discontented by fair words and the authority of their presence. But to give, as they said, a blow to the hoop, and another to the cask, and increase the efficacy of their caresses by a little awe, they took measures to seize some of the seditious, and this was the principal duty of the Capitano di Giustizia. His blood-hounds had been in the field since the commencement of the tumult; and this self-styled Ambrose Fusella was a police officer in disguise, who, having listened to the famous sermon of Renzo, concluded him to be fair game. Finding that he had but newly arrived from his village, he would have conducted him immediately to prison, as the safest inn in the city; but in this, as we have seen, he did not succeed. He could, however, carry to the police certain information of his name, surname, and country, besides many other conjectures; so that when the host arrived to tell what he knew of Renzo, their knowledge was already more precise than his. He entered the accustomed hall, and gave in his deposition, that a stranger had come to lodge at his house, who would not tell his name. “You have done your duty in giving us the information,” said a notary, laying down his pen; “but we know it already.” “That is very singular!” thought the host; “you must have a great deal of cunning.” “And we know also,” continued the notary, “this famous name.” “The devil! the name also. How do they know that?” thought the host again. “But,” resumed the notary, with a serious air, “you do not tell all.” “What is there more to tell?” “Ah! ah! we know well that this man carried to your house a quantity of stolen bread—bread acquired by theft and sedition.” “A man comes with bread in his pocket; am I to know where he got it? if it was on my death-bed, I can say, I only saw him have one loaf.” “Thus it is! you are always excusing and defending yourselves! If we were to take your word for it, you are all honest people. How can you prove that this bread was honestly acquired?” “Why need I prove it? it is nothing to me. I am an innkeeper.” “You cannot, however, deny, that this, your customer, had the audacity to complain of the proclamations, and make indecent jokes on the arms of his Excellency.” “Pardon me, signor; how could he be my customer, when I never saw him before? It was the devil, saving your presence, who sent him to my house. If I had known him, there would have been no need of asking his name, as your honour knows.” “However, in your inn, and in your presence, seditious and inflammatory conversation has been held; your customers have been riotous, clamorous, and complaining.” “How would your honour expect me to pay attention to the absurdities uttered by a parcel of brawlers. I attend only to my own affairs, for I am a poor man. And then your honour knows, that those who are lavish of their tongue, are often lavish of their fists, especially when there are many together.” “Yes, yes, they may have their way now; to-morrow—to-morrow, we will see if the heat is dislodged from their brains. What do you think?” “I don't know.” “That the mob will become masters in Milan?” “Certainly!” “You shall see, you shall see.” “I understand—I know the king will be always the king; but he who has taken any thing will keep it. Naturally a poor father of a family has no desire to give back; your honours have the power; that belongs to you.” “Have you still some people at your house?” “A number.” “And this your customer, what is he about? Is he still labouring to excite the people to sedition?” “This stranger, your honour means; he is gone to sleep.” “Then you have a number? Well, be careful not to let them go away.” “Am I to play the constable?” thought the host, but said nothing. “Return to your house, and be prudent,” resumed the notary. “I have always been prudent. Your honour can say that I have never made any disturbance.” “Well, well; but do not think that justice has lost its power.” “I! Good heavens! I think nothing. I am an innkeeper.” “The same old tune. Have you nothing more to say?” “What else would your honour have me say? Truth is one.” “Well; you have done enough for to-day: but to-morrow, we will see; you must give more full information, and answer all questions that shall be put to you.” “What information have I to give? I know nothing; I have hardly brains enough to attend to my own affairs.” “Take care not to let him go away.” “I hope your honour will remember that I have done my duty. Your honour's humble servant.” On the following morning, Renzo was still in a sound and deep sleep, when he was suddenly roused by a shaking of the arms, and by a voice at the foot of the bed, crying, “Lorenzo Tramaglino!” He sat up, and rubbing his eyes, perceived a man clothed in black standing at the foot of his bed, and two others, one on each side of the bolster. Between surprise, sleep, and the fumes of the wine, he remained a moment stupified, believing himself to be still dreaming. “Ah! you have heard at last! Lorenzo Tramaglino,” said the man in black, the notary of the preceding evening. “Up, up; get up, and come with us.” “Lorenzo Tramaglino!” said Renzo Tramaglino. “What does this mean? What do you want with me? Who has told you my name?” “Few words, and get up quickly,” said one of the men at his side, seizing him by the arm. “Oh! oh! what violence is this?” cried Renzo, drawing away his arm. “Host! oh! host!” “Shall we carry him off in his shirt?” said one of the officers; turning to the notary. “Did you hear what he said?” said he to Renzo; “we will do so, if you do not rise quickly, and come with us!” “Why?” demanded Renzo. “You will hear that from the Capitano di Giustizia.” “I! I am an honest man; I have done nothing; I am astonished——” “So much the better for you! so much the better for you! In two words you will be dismissed, and then go about your affairs.” “Let me go now, then; there is no reason why I should go before the capitano.” “Come, let us finish the business,” said an officer. “We shall be obliged to carry him off!” said the other. “Lorenzo Tramaglino!” said the notary. “How does your honour know my name?” “Do your duty,” said he to the men, who attempted to draw Renzo from the bed. “Oh! don't touch me! I can dress myself.” “Dress yourself, then, and get up,” said the notary. “I will,” said Renzo, and he gathered his clothes, scattered here and there on the bed, like the fragments of a shipwreck on the coast. Whilst engaged in the act of dressing, he continued, “but I will not go to the Capitano di Giustizia; I have nothing to do with him: since you put this affront on me, I wish to be conducted to Ferrer; I am acquainted with him; I know he is an honest man, and he is under obligations to me.” “Yes, yes, my good fellow, you shall be conducted to Ferrer,” replied the notary. In other circumstances he would have laughed heartily at the absurdity of such a proposition, but he felt that this was not a moment for merriment. On his way to the inn, he had perceived so many people abroad, such a stirring—some collecting in small quantities, others gathering in crowds—that he was not able to determine whether they were the remnants of the old insurrection not entirely suppressed, or the beginnings of a new one. And now, without appearing to do so, he listened, and thought the buzzing increased. He felt haste to be of importance; but he did not dare to take Renzo against his will, lest, finding himself in the street, he might take advantage of public sympathy, and endeavour to escape from his hands. He made a sign to his officers to be patient, and not exasperate the youth; whilst he himself sought to appease him with fair words. Renzo meanwhile began to have a confused recollection of the events of the preceding day, and to comprehend that the proclamations, name, and surname, were the cause of all this trouble; but how the devil did this man know his name? And what the devil had happened during the night, that they should come to lay hands on one, who, the day before, had such a voice in the assembly, which could not be yet dispersed, because he also heard a growing murmur in the street. He perceived also the agitation which the notary vainly endeavoured to conceal; therefore, to feel his pulse, and clear up his own conjectures, as well as to gain time, he said, “I comprehend the cause of all this, it is on account of the name and surname. Last night, 'tis true, I was a little merry; these hosts have such treacherous wine and, you know, often when wine passes through the channel of speech, it will have its say too. But if that is all the difficulty, I am ready to give you every satisfaction. Besides, you know my name already. Who the devil told it to you?” “Bravo! my good fellow, bravo!” replied the notary in a tone of encouragement. “I see you are in the right, and you must believe that I am also. I am only following my trade. You are more tractable than others. It is the easiest way to get out of the difficulty quickly. With such an accommodating spirit, you will soon be set at liberty; but my hands are tied, and I cannot release you now, although I would wish to do so. Be of good courage, and come on boldly. When they see who you are—and I will tell—Leave it to me—quick, quick, my good fellow!” “Ah! you cannot! I understand,” said Renzo. “Shall we pass by the square of the cathedral?” “Where you choose. We will go the shortest road, that you may be the sooner at liberty,” said he, inwardly cursing his stars at being unable to follow up this mysterious demand of Renzo's, which might have been made the subject of a hundred interrogatories. “Miserable that I am!” thought he, “here is a fellow fallen into my hands, who likes no better fun than to prate. Were there but a little time, he would confess all in the way of friendly discourse, without the aid of rope. Ay! and without perceiving it too. But that he should fall into my hands at such an unlucky moment.—Well, it can't be helped,” thought he, while turning his head and listening to the noise without, “there is no remedy: this will be a hotter day than yesterday!” That which gave rise to this last thought was an extraordinary uproar in the street, which tempted him to open the window and reconnoitre. There was a concourse of citizens, who, at the order given them by the patrole to separate, had resisted for a while, and then moved off, on all sides, in evident discontent. It was a fatal sign to the eyes of the notary, that the soldiers treated them with much politeness. He closed the window, and remained for a moment undecided, whether he should conduct the enterprise to an end, or, leaving Renzo in the care of the bailiffs, go himself to the Capitano di Giustizia, and relate the whole difficulty. “But,” thought he, “he will tell me I am a poltroon, a coward, and that it was my business to execute orders. We are at the ball; we must dance, it seems. Cursed crowd! what a damned business!” He, however addressed Renzo in a tone of kind entreaty, “Come, my worthy fellow, do let us be off, and make haste.” Renzo, however, was not without his thoughts. He was almost dressed, with the exception of his doublet, into the pockets of which he was fumbling. “Oh!” said he, regarding the notary significantly, “Oh! I had a letter, and some money here, once, sir!” “When these formalities are over, all shall be faithfully restored to you. Come, come, let us be off.” “No, no, no!” said Renzo, shaking his head, “that won't do: I must have what belongs to me, sir. I will render an account of my actions, but I must have what belongs to me.” “I will show you that I have confidence in you; here they are. And now make haste,” said the notary, drawing from his bosom the sequestered goods, and consigning them, with something like a sigh, to Renzo, who muttered between his teeth, as he put them in his pocket, “You have so much to do with thieves, that you have learned the trade!” “If I get you once safe out of the house, you shall pay this with interest,” thought the notary. As Renzo was putting on his hat, the notary made a sign to the officers, that one of them should go before, and the other follow the prisoner; and as they passed through the kitchen, and whilst Renzo was saying, “And this blessed host, where has he fled?” they seized, one his right hand, the other the left, and skilfully slipped over his wrists, hand-fetters, as they were called, which, according to the customs of the times, consisted of a cord, a little longer than the usual size of the fist, which had at the two ends two small pieces of wood. The cord encircled the wrist of the patient; the captor held the pegs in his hand, so that he could, by twisting them, tighten the cord at will, and this enabled him, not only to secure the prisoner, but also to torment him, if restless; and, to ensure this more effectually, the cord was full of knots. Renzo struggled and exclaimed, “What treachery is this? to an honest man!” But the notary, who had fair words prepared for every occasion, said, “Be patient, they only do their duty. What would you have? It is a mere ceremony. We cannot treat people as we would wish. If we did not obey orders, we should be worse off than you. Be patient.” As he spoke, the two operators twisted the pegs; Renzo plunged like a skittish horse upon the bit, and cried, “Patience, indeed!” “But, worthy young man,” said the notary, “it is the only way to come off well in these affairs. It is troublesome, I confess, but it will soon be over; and since I see you so well disposed, I feel an inclination to serve you, and will give you another piece of advice for your good, which is, to pass on quietly, looking neither to right nor left, so as to attract notice. If you do this, no one will pay any attention to you, and you will preserve your honour. In one hour you will be at liberty. There are so many other things to be done, that your business will soon be despatched; and then I will tell them——. You shall have your liberty, and no one will know you have been in the hands of the law. And you,” pursued he, addressing his followers in a tone of severity, “do him no harm, because I take him under my protection. You must do your duty, I know; but remember that this is a worthy and honest youth, who in a little while will be at liberty, and who has a regard for his honour. Let nothing appear but that you are three peaceable men, walking together. You understand me!” and smoothing his brow, and twisting his face into a gracious smile, he said to Renzo, “A little prudence,—do as I tell you; do not look about; trust to one who has your interest at heart! And now let us begone.” And the convoy moved forward. But of all these fine speeches Renzo believed not a word. He understood very well the fears that prevailed over the mind of the notary, and his exhortations only served to confirm him in his purpose to escape; and to this end to act directly contrary to the advice given him. No one must conclude from this that the notary was an inexperienced knave. On the contrary, he was master of his trade, but at the present moment his spirits were agitated. At another time he would have ridiculed any one for pursuing the measures he had now himself employed, but his agitation had deprived him of his accustomed cunning and self-possession. We would recommend, therefore, to all knaves by trade, to maintain on all occasions their sang froid, or, what is better, never to place themselves in difficult circumstances. Renzo, then, hardly found himself in the street, when he began to look around, and listen eagerly. There was not, however, an extraordinary concourse of people; and although on the countenance of more than one passer-by you could read an expression of discontent and sedition, yet each one pursued his way in quietness. “Prudence! prudence!” murmured the notary behind him. “Your honour, young man, your honour.” But when Renzo heard three men, who were approaching, talk of a bakery, of flour concealed, of justice, he began to make signs to them, and cough in such a manner, as indicated any thing but a cold. They looked attentively at the convoy, and stopped; others who had passed by, turned back, and kept themselves a short distance off. “Take care; be prudent, my good fellow; do not spoil all; your honour, your reputation,” said the notary in a low voice, but unheeded by Renzo. The men again twisted the pegs. “Ah! ah! ah!” cried the prisoner. At this cry the crowd thickened around; they gathered from all parts of the street. The convoy was stopped! “He is a wicked fellow,” said the notary in a whisper to those nearest him; “he is a thief taken in the fact. Draw back, and let justice have its way.” But Renzo perceived that the occasion was favourable: he saw the officers pale and almost dead with fright. “If I do not help myself now,” thought he, “so much the worse for me;” and raising his voice, he cried, “My friends; they are carrying me off, because I cried, ‘Bread! and justice!’ yesterday. I have done nothing; I am an honest man! Help me, do not abandon me, my friends.” He was answered by a light murmur, which soon changed to an unanimous cry in his favour. The officers ordered, requested, and entreated those nearest them to go off, and leave their passage free; but the crowd continued to press around. The officers, at the sight of the danger, left their prisoner, and endeavoured to lose themselves in the throng, for the purpose of escaping without being observed; and the notary desired heartily to do the same, but found it more difficult on account of his black cloak. Pale as death, he endeavoured, by twisting his body to work his way through the crowd. He studied to appear a stranger, who, passing accidentally, had found himself in the crowd like a bit of straw in the ice; and finding himself face to face with a man who looked at him more intently and sternly than the rest, he composed his countenance to a smile, and asked, “What is this confusion?” “Oh! you ugly raven!” replied he. “A raven! a raven!” resounded from all sides. To the cries they added threats, so that, finally, partly with his own legs, partly with the elbows of others, he succeeded in obtaining a release from the squabble. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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