Priest succeeded priest, in repeating the masses, while the attentive throng listened, as if each of its members felt that his own honor and importance were elevated by this concession to one of their number. In the square the maskers gradually reappeared, though the alarm had been too sudden and violent, to admit a speedy return to the levity which ordinarily was witnessed in that spot, between the setting and the rising of the sun.
Chapter XXIII
*
"'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race."
ROGERS.
When the fishermen landed on the quay, they deserted the gondola of the state to a man. Donna Violetta and her governess heard the tumultuous departure of their singular captors with alarm, for they were nearly in entire ignorance of the motive which had deprived them of the protection of Father Anselmo, and which had so unexpectedly made them actors in the extraordinary scene. The monk had simply explained that his offices were required in behalf of the dead, but the apprehension of exciting unnecessary terror prevented him from adding that they were in the power of a mob. Donna Florinda, however, had ascertained sufficient, by looking from the windows of the canopy and from the cries of those around her, to get a glimmering of the truth. Under the circumstances, she saw that the most prudent course was to keep themselves as much as possible from observation. But when the profound stillness that succeeded the landing of the rioters announced that they were alone, both she and her charge had an intuitive perception of the favorable chance which fortune had so strangely thrown in their way.
"They are gone!" whispered Donna Florinda, holding her breath in attention, as soon as she had spoken.
"And the police will be soon here to seek us!"
No further explanation passed, for Venice was a town in which even the young and innocent were taught caution. Donna Florinda stole another look without.
"They have disappeared, Heaven knows where! Let us go!"
In an instant the trembling fugitives were on the quay. The Piazzetta was without a human form, except their own. A low, murmuring sound arose from the court palace, which resembled the hum of a disturbed hive; but nothing was distinct or intelligible.
"There is violence meditated," again whispered the governess; "would to God that Father Anselmo were here!"
A shuffling footstep caught their ears, and both turned towards a boy, in the dress of one of the Lagunes, who approached from the direction of the Broglio.
"A reverend Carmelite bid me give you this," said the youth, stealing a glance behind him, like one who dreaded detection. Then putting a small piece of paper in the hand of Donna Florinda, he turned his own swarthy palm, in which a small silver coin glittered, to the moon, and vanished.
By the aid of the same light the governess succeeded in tracing pencil-marks, in a hand that had been well known to her younger days.
"Save thyself, Florinda—There is not an instant to lose. Avoid public places, and seek a shelter quickly."
"But whither?" asked the bewildered woman, when she had read aloud the scroll.
"Anywhere but here," rejoined Donna Violetta; "follow me."
Nature frequently more than supplies the advantages of training and experience, by her own gifts. Had Donna Florinda been possessed of the natural decision and firmness of her pupil, she would not now have been existing in the isolated condition which is so little congenial to female habits, nor would Father Anselmo have been a monk. Both had sacrificed inclination to what they considered to be duty, and if the ungenial life of the governess was owing to the tranquil course of her ordinary feelings, it is probable that its impunity was to be ascribed to the same respectable cause. Not so with Violetta. She was ever more ready to act than to reflect, and though, in general, the advantage might possibly be with those of a more regulated temperament, there are occasions that form exceptions to the rule. The present moment was one of those turns in the chances of life, when it is always better to do anything than to do nothing.
Donna Violetta had scarcely spoken, before her person was shadowed beneath the arches of the Broglio. Her governess clung to her side, more in affection than in compliance with the warnings of the monk, or with the dictates of her own reason. A vague and romantic intention of throwing herself at the feet of the Doge, who was a collateral descendant of her own ancient house, had flashed across the mind of the youthful bride, when she first fled; but no sooner had they reached the palace, than a cry from the court acquainted them with its situation, and consequently with the impossibility of penetrating to the interior.
"Let us retire, by the streets, to thy dwelling, my child," said Donna Florinda, drawing her mantle about her in womanly dignity. "None will offend females of our condition; even the Senate must, in the end, respect our sex."
"This from thee, Florinda! Thou, who hast so often trembled for their anger! But go, if thou wilt—I am no longer the Senate's. Don Camillo Monforte has my duty."
Donna Florinda had no intention of disputing this point, and as the moment had now arrived when the most energetic was likely to lead, she quietly submitted herself to the superior decision of her pupil. The latter took the way along the portico, keeping always within its shadows. In passing the gateway which opened towards the sea, the fugitives had a glimpse of what was going on in the court. The sight quickened their steps, and they now flew, rather than ran, along the arched passage. In a minute they were on the bridge which crosses the canal of St. Mark, still flying with all their force. A few mariners were looking from their feluccas and gazing in curiosity, but the sight of two terrified females, seeking refuge from a mob, had nothing in itself likely to attract notice.
At this moment, a dark mass of human bodies appeared advancing along the quay in the opposite direction. Arms glittered in the moon-beams, and the measured tread of trained men became audible. The Dalmatians were moving down from the arsenal in a body. Advance and retreat now seemed equally impossible to the breathless fugitives. As decision and self-possession are very different qualities, Donna Violetta did not understand so readily as the circumstances required, that it was more than probable the hirelings of the Republic would consider the flight perfectly natural, as it had appeared to the curious gazers of the port.
Terror made them blind, and as shelter was now the sole object of the fugitives, they would probably have sought it in the chamber of doom itself, had there been an opportunity. As it was, they turned and entered the first, and indeed the only gate which offered. They were met by a girl, whose anxious face betrayed that singular compound of self-devotion and terror, which probably has its rise in the instinct of feminine sympathies.
"Here is safety, noble ladies," said the youthful Venetian, in the soft accent of her native islands; "none will dare do you harm within these walls."
"Into whose palace have I entered?" demanded the half-breathless Violetta. "If its owner has a name in Venice, he will not refuse hospitality to a daughter of Tiepolo."
"Signora, you are welcome," returned the gentle girl, curtsying low, and still leading the way deeper within the vast edifice. "You bear the name of an illustrious house!"
"There are few in the Republic of note, from whom I may not claim, either the kindness of ancient and near services, or that of kindred. Dost thou serve a noble master?"
"The first in Venice, lady."
"Name him, that we may demand his hospitality as befits us."
"Saint Mark."
Donna Violetta and her governess stopped short.
"Have we unconsciously entered a portal of the palace?"
"That were impossible, lady, since the canal lies between you and the residence of the Doge. Still is St. Mark master here. I hope you will not esteem your safety less, because it has been obtained in the public prison, and by the aid of its keeper's daughter."
The moment for headlong decision was passed, and that of reflection had returned.
"How art thou called, child?" asked Donna Florinda, movi
ng ahead of her pupil and taking the discourse up, where in wonder the other had permitted it to pause. "We are truly grateful for the readiness with which thou threw open the gate for our admission, in a moment of such alarm—How art thou called?"
"Gelsomina," answered the modest girl. "I am the keeper's only child—and when I saw ladies of your honorable condition fleeing on the quay, with the Dalmatians marching on one side, and a mob shouting on the other, I bethought me that even a prison might be welcome."
"Thy goodness of heart did not mislead thee."
"Had I known it was a lady of the Tiepolo, I should have been even more ready; for there are few of that great name now left to do us honor."
Violetta curtsied to the compliment, but she seemed uneasy that haste and pride of rank had led her so indiscreetly to betray herself.
"Canst thou not lead us to some place less public?" she asked, observing that her conductor had stopped in a public corridor to make this explanation.
"Here you will be retired as in your own palaces, great ladies," answered Gelsomina, turning into a private passage, and leading the way towards the rooms of her family, from a window of which she had first witnessed the embarrassment of her guests. "None enter here, without cause, but my father and myself; and my father is much occupied with his charge."
"Hast thou no domestic?"
"None, lady. A prison-keeper's daughter should not be too proud to serve herself."
"Thou sayest well. One of thy discretion, good Gelsomina, must know it is not seemly for females of condition to be thrown within walls like these, even by accident, and thou wilt do us much favor, by taking more than common means to be certain that we are unseen. We give thee much trouble, but it shall not go unrequited. Here is gold."
Gelsomina did not answer, but as she stood with her eyes cast to the floor, the color stole to her cheeks, until her usually bloodless face was in a soft glow.
"Nay, I have mistaken thy character!" said Donna Florinda, secreting the sequins, and taking the unresisting hand of the silent girl. "If I have pained thee by my indiscretion, attribute the offer to our dread of the disgrace of being seen in this place."
The glow deepened, and the lips of the girl quivered.
"Is it then a disgrace to be innocently within these walls, lady?" she asked, still with an averted eye. "I have long suspected this, but none has ever before said it, in my hearing!"
"Holy Maria pardon me! If I have uttered a syllable to pain thee, excellent girl, it has been unwittingly and without intention!"
"We are poor, lady, and the needy must submit to do that which their wishes might lead them to avoid. I understand your feelings, and will make sure of your being secret, and Blessed Maria will pardon a greater sin than any you have committed here."
While the ladies were wondering, at witnessing such proofs of delicacy and feeling in so singular a place, the girl withdrew.
"I had not expected this in a prison!" exclaimed Violetta.
"As all is not noble or just in a palace, neither is all to be condemned unheard, that we find in a prison. But this is, in sooth, an extraordinary girl for her condition, and we are indebted to blessed St. Theodore (crossing herself) for putting her in our way."
"Can we do better than by making her a confidante and a friend?"
The governess was older, and less disposed than her pupil to confide in appearances. But the more ardent mind and superior rank of the latter had given her an influence that the former did not always successfully resist. Gelsomina returned before there was time to discuss the prudence of what Violetta had proposed.
"Thou hast a father, Gelsomina?" asked the Venetian heiress, taking the hand of the gentle girl, as she put her question.
"Holy Maria be praised! I have still that happiness."
"It is a happiness—for surely a father would not have the heart to sell his own child to ambition and mercenary hopes! And thy mother?"
"Has long been bed-ridden, lady. I believe we should not have been here, but we have no other place so suitable for her sufferings as this jail."
"Gelsomina, thou art happier than I, even in thy prison. I am fatherless—motherless—I could almost say, friendless."
"And this from a lady of the Tiepolo!"
"All is not as it seems in this evil world, kind Gelsomina. We have had many Doges, but we have had much suffering. Thou mayest have heard that the house of which I come is reduced to a single, youthful girl like thyself, who has been left in the Senate's charge?"
"They speak little of these matters, lady, in Venice; and, of all here, none go so seldom into the square as I. Still have I heard of the beauty and riches of Donna Violetta. The last I hope is true; the first I now see is so."
The daughter of Tiepolo colored, in turn, but it was not in resentment.
"They have spoken in too much kindness for an orphan," she answered; "though that fatal wealth is perhaps not over-estimated. Thou knowest that the state charges itself with the care and establishment of all noble females, whom Providence has left fatherless?"
"Lady, I did not. It is kind of St. Mark to do it!"
"Thou wilt think differently, anon. Thou art young, Gelsomina, and hast passed thy time in privacy?"
"True, lady. It is seldom I go further than my mother's room, or the cell of some suffering prisoner."
Violetta looked towards her governess, with an expression which seemed to say, that she anticipated her appeal would be made in vain, to one so little exposed to the feelings of the world.
"Thou wilt not understand, then, that a noble female may have little inclination to comply with all the Senate's wishes, in disposing of her duties and affections?"
Gelsomina gazed at the fair speaker, but it was evident that she did not clearly comprehend the question. Again Violetta looked at the governess as if asking aid.
"The duties of our sex are often painful," said Donna Florinda, understanding the appeal with female instinct. "Our attachments may not always follow the wishes of our friends. We may not choose, but we cannot always obey."
"I have heard that noble ladies are not suffered to see those to whom they are to be wedded, Signora, if that is what your eccellenza means, and, to me, the custom has always seemed unjust, if not cruel."
"And are females of thy class permitted to make friends among those who may become dearer at any other day?" asked Violetta.
"Lady, we have that much freedom even in the prisons."
"Then art thou happier than those of the palaces! I will trust thee, generous girl, for thou canst not be unfaithful to the weakness and wrongs of thy sex."
Gelsomina raised a hand, as if to stop the impetuous confidence of her guest, and then she listened intently.
"Few enter here," she said; "but there are many ways of learning secrets within these walls which are still unknown to me. Come deeper into the rooms, noble ladies, for here is a place that I have reason to think is safe, even from listeners."
The keeper's daughter led the way into the little room in which she was accustomed to converse with Jacopo.
"You were saying, lady, that I had a feeling for the weakness and helplessness of our sex, and surely you did me justice."
Violetta had leisure to reflect an instant, in passing from one room to the other, and she began her communications with more reserve. But the sensitive interest that a being of the gentle nature and secluded habits of Gelsomina took in her narrative, won upon her own natural frankness, and, in a manner nearly imperceptible to herself, she made the keeper's daughter mistress of most of the circumstances under which she had entered the prison.
The cheek of Gelsomina became colorless as she listened and when Donna Violetta ceased, every limb of her slight frame trembled with interest.
"The Senate is a fearful power to resist!" she said, speaking so low as hardly to be audible. "Have you reflected, lady, on the chances of what you do?"
"If I have not, it is now too late to change my intentions, I am the wife of the Duke of San
t' Agata, and can never wed another."
"Gesu! This is true. And yet, methinks, I would choose to die a nun rather than offend the council!"
"Thou knowest not, good girl, to what courage the heart of even a young wife is equal. Thou art still bound to thy father, in the instruction and habits of childhood, but thou mayest live to know that all thy hopes will centre in another."
Gelsomina ceased to tremble, and her mild eye brightened.
"The council is terrible," she answered, "but it must be more terrible to desert one to whom you have vowed duty and love at the altar!"
"Hast thou the means of concealing us, kind girl," interrupted Donna Florinda, "and canst thou, when this tumult shall be quieted, in any manner help us to further secresy or flight?"
"Lady, I have none. Even the streets and squares of Venice are nearly strangers to me. Santissima Maria! what would I give to know the ways of the town as well as my cousin Annina, who passes at will from her father's shop to the Lido, and from St. Mark's to the Rialto, as her pleasure suits. I will send for my cousin, who will counsel us in this fearful strait!"
"Thy cousin! Hast thou a cousin named Annina?"
"Lady, Annina. My mother's sister's child."
"The daughter of a wine-seller called Tomaso Torti?"
"Do the noble dames of the city take such heed of their inferiors! This will charm my cousin, for she has great desires to be noted by the great."
"And does thy cousin come hither?"
"Rarely, lady—we are not of much intimacy. I suppose Annina finds a girl, simple and uninstructed as I, unworthy of her company. But she will not refuse to aid us in a danger like this. I know she little loves the Republic, for we have had words on its acts, and my cousin has been bolder of speech about them, than befits one of her years, in this prison."