"That is well thought of; you will be as safe as in Paradise."

"And are you not afraid here?"

"We are too much off the road. If they should turn out of their way, we shall be warned in time."

The three travellers decided to take a few hours' rest: as it was the hour of dinner, "Do me the honour," said the tailor, "to partake of my humble fare."

Perpetua said she had provisions enough in her basket wherewith to break her fast; after a little ceremony, however, on both sides, they agreed to seat themselves at the dinner table.

The children had joyfully surrounded their old friend Agnes; the tailor ordered one of them to roast some early chestnuts; "and you," said he to another, "go to the garden, and bring some peaches; all that are ripe.

And you," to a third, "climb the fig-tree, and gather the best figs; it is a business to which you are well accustomed." As for himself, he left the room to tap a small cask of wine, while his wife went in search of a table-cloth. All being prepared, they seated themselves at the friendly board, if not with unmingled joy, at least with much more satisfaction than they could have antic.i.p.ated from the events of the morning.

"What does the signor curate say to the disasters of the times? I can fancy I'm reading the history of the Moors in France," said the tailor.

"What do I say? That even that misfortune might have befallen me,"

replied Don Abbondio.

"You have chosen an excellent asylum, however; for none can ascend those heights without the consent of the master. You will find a numerous company there. Many people have already fled thither, and there are fresh arrivals every day."

"I dare to hope we shall be well received. I know this worthy signor: when I had the honour to be in his company he was all politeness."

"And," said Agnes, "he sent me word by his ill.u.s.trious lordship, that if ever I should need a.s.sistance, I had only to apply to him."

"What a wonderful conversion!" resumed Don Abbondio. "And he perseveres?

does he _not_ persevere?"

The tailor spoke at length of the holy life of the Unknown, and said, that after having been the scourge of the country, he had become its best example and benefactor.

"And the people of his household--that band?" asked Don Abbondio, who had heard some contradictory stories concerning them, and did not feel, therefore, quite secure.

"The greater part have left him," replied the tailor, "and those who have remained have changed their manner of life; in short, this castle has become like the Thebaid. The signor curate understands me."

Then retracing with Agnes the visit of the cardinal, "What a great man!"

said he, "a great man, indeed! what a pity he remained so short a time with us! I wished to do him honour. Oh, if I had only been able to address him again, more at my leisure!"

When they rose from table, he showed them an engraving of the cardinal, which he had hung on the door, from veneration to his virtues, and also to enable him to a.s.sure every body that it was no likeness; he knew it was not, as he had regarded him closely at his leisure in this very room.

"Did they mean that for him?" said Agnes. "The habit is the same, but----"

"It is no likeness, is it?" said the tailor; "that is what I always say, but other things being wanting, there is at least his name under it, which tells who it is."

Don Abbondio being impatient to be gone, the tailor went in search of a vehicle to carry the little company to the foot of the ascent, and returned in a few moments to inform them it was ready. "Signor curate,"

said he, "if you wish a few books to carry with you, I can lend you some; for I amuse myself sometimes with reading. They are not like yours, to be sure, being in the vulgar tongue, but----"

"A thousand thanks, but under present circ.u.mstances I have scarcely brains enough to read my breviary."

After an exchange of thanks, invitations, and promises, they bade farewell, and pursued, with a little more tranquillity of mind, the remainder of their journey.

The tailor had told Don Abbondio the truth, with regard to the new life of the Unknown. From the day that we took our leave of him, he had continued to put in practice his good intentions, by repairing injuries, reconciling himself with his enemies, and succouring the distressed and unfortunate. The courage he had formerly evinced in attack and defence he now employed in avoiding all occasion both for the one and the other.

He went unarmed and alone; disposed to suffer the possible consequences of the violences he had committed; persuaded that it would be adding to his crimes to employ any methods of defence for himself, as he was a debtor to all the world; and persuaded also, that though the evil done to him would be sin against G.o.d, it would be but a just retribution against himself; and that he had left himself no right to revenge an injury, however unprovoked it might be at the time. But he was not less inviolable than when he bore arms to insure his safety; the recollection of his former ferocity, and the contrast of his present gentleness, the former exciting a desire of revenge, and the latter rendering this revenge so easy, conspired to subdue hatred, and, in its place, to subst.i.tute an admiration which served him as a safeguard. The man whom no one could humble, but who had humbled himself, was regarded with the deepest veneration. Those whom he had wronged had obtained, beyond their hopes, and without incurring any danger, a satisfaction which they could never have promised themselves from the most complete revenge, the satisfaction of seeing him repent of his wrongs, and partic.i.p.ate, so to speak, in their indignation. In his voluntary abas.e.m.e.nt, his countenance and manner had acquired, without his own knowledge, something elevated and n.o.ble; his outward demeanour was as dauntless as ever.

This change, also, in addition to other reasons, secured him from public retribution at the instigation of those in authority. His rank and family, which had always been a species of defence to him, still prevailed in his favour; and to his name, already famous, was joined the personal esteem which was now due to him. The magistrates and n.o.bility had rejoiced at his conversion, as well as the people; as this conversion produced compensations that they were neither accustomed to ask nor obtain. Probably, also, the name of the Cardinal Frederick, whose interest in his conversion, and subsequent friendship for him, were well known, served him as an impenetrable shield.

Upon the arrival of the German troops, when fugitives from the invaded countries fled to the castle, delighted that his walls, so long the object of dread and execration to the feeble, should now be regarded as a place of security and protection, the Unknown received them rather with grat.i.tude than politeness. He caused it to be made public, that his doors would be open to all, and employed himself immediately in placing not only the castle but the valley beneath in a state of defence: a.s.sembling the servants who had remained with him, he addressed them on the opportunity G.o.d had afforded them, as well as himself, to serve those whom they had so frequently oppressed and terrified. With his old accent of command, expressing the certainty of being obeyed, he gave them general orders, as to their deportment, so that those who should take refuge with him might behold in them only defenders and friends. He gave their arms to them again, of which they had been deprived; as also to the peasants of the valley, who were willing to engage in its defence: he named officers, and appointed to them their duty and their different stations, as he had been accustomed to do in his former criminal life. He himself, however, whether from principle, or that he had made a vow to that effect, remained unarmed at the head of his garrison.

He also employed the females of the household in preparing beds, straw, mattresses, sacks, in various rooms intended as temporary dormitories.

He ordered abundant provisions to be brought to the castle for the use of the guests G.o.d should send him; and in the mean while he was himself never idle, visiting every post, examining every defence, and maintaining the most perfect order by his authority and his presence.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

As our fugitives approached the valley, they were joined by many companions in misfortune, who were on the same errand to the castle with themselves: under similar circ.u.mstances of distress and anguish, intimacies are soon matured, and they listened to the relation of each other's peril with mutual interest and sympathy; some had fled, like the curate and our females, without waiting the arrival of the troops; others had actually seen them, and could describe, in lively colours, their savage and horrible appearance.

"We are fortunate, indeed," said Agnes; "let us thank Heaven. We may lose our property, but at least our lives are safe."

But Don Abbondio could not see so much reason for congratulation; the great concourse of people suggested new causes of alarm. "Oh," murmured he to the females when no one was near enough to hear him; "oh, do you not perceive that by a.s.sembling here in such crowds we shall attract the notice of the soldiery? As every one flies and no one remains at home, they will believe that our treasures are up here, and this belief will lead them hither. Oh, poor me! why was I so thoughtless as to venture here!"

"What should they come here for?" said Perpetua, "they are obliged to pursue their route; and, at all events, where there is danger, it is best to have plenty of company."

"Company, company, silly woman! don't you know that every lansquenet could devour a hundred of them? and then, if any of them should commit some foolish violence, it would be a fine thing to find ourselves in the midst of a battle! It would have been better to have gone to the mountains. I don't see why they have all been seized with a mania to go to one place. Curse the people! all here; one after the other, like a frightened flock of sheep!"

"As to that," said Agnes, "they may say the same of us."

"Hush, hush! it is of no use to talk," said Don Abbondio; "that which is done, _is_ done: we are here, and here we must remain. May Heaven protect us!"

But his anxiety was much increased by the appearance of a number of armed men at the entrance of the valley. It is impossible to describe his vexation and alarm. "Oh, poor me!" thought he; "I might have expected this from a man of his character. What does he mean to do? Will he declare war? Will he act the part of a sovereign? Oh, poor me! poor me! In this terrible conjuncture he ought to have concealed himself as much as possible; and, behold, he seeks every method to make himself known. It is easy to be seen he wants to provoke them."

"Do you not see, sir," said Perpetua, "that these are brave men who are able to defend us? Let the soldiers come; these men are not at all like our poor devils of peasants, who are good for nothing but to use their legs."

"Be quiet," replied Don Abbondio, in a low but angry tone, "be quiet; you know not what you say. Pray Heaven that the army may be in haste to proceed on its march, so that they may not gain information of this place being disposed like a garrison. They would ask for nothing better; an a.s.sault is mere play to them, and putting every one to the sword like going to a wedding. Oh, poor me! perhaps I can secure a place of safety on one of these precipices. I will never be taken in battle! I will never be taken in battle! I never will!"

"If you are even afraid of being defended----" returned Perpetua; but Don Abbondio sharply interrupted her.

"Be quiet, and take care not to relate this conversation. Remember you must always keep a pleasant countenance here, and appear to approve all that you see."

At Malanotte they found another company of armed men. Don Abbondio took off his hat and bowed profoundly, saying to himself, "Alas, alas! I am really in a camp." They here quitted the carriage to ascend the pa.s.s on foot, the curate having in haste paid and dismissed the driver. The recollection of his former terrors in this very place increased his present forebodings of evil, by mingling themselves with his reflections, and enfeebling more and more his understanding. Agnes, who had never before trod this path, but who had often pictured it to her imagination, was filled with different but keenly painful remembrances.

"Oh, signor curate," cried she, "when I think how my poor Lucy pa.s.sed this very road."

"Will you be quiet, foolish woman?" cried Don Abbondio in her ear. "Are these things to speak of in this place? Are you ignorant that we are on his lands? It is fortunate no one heard you. If you speak in this manner----"

"Oh," said Agnes, "now that he is a saint----"

"Be quiet," repeated Don Abbondio: "think you we can tell the saints all that pa.s.ses through our brains? Think rather of thanking him for the kindness he has done you."

"Oh, as to that I have already thought of it; do you think I have no manners, no politeness?"