The Betrothed Part 34

"Good news! I! I have h.e.l.l in my soul, and how can I bring _you_ good news! Tell me, tell me, if you know, what good news could you expect from such a one as I?"

"That G.o.d has touched your heart, and is drawing you to himself,"

replied the cardinal calmly.

"G.o.d! G.o.d! If I could see! If I could hear him! Where is G.o.d?"

"Do you ask me? you! And who more than yourself has felt his presence?

Do you not now feel him in your heart, disturbing, agitating you, not leaving you a moment of repose, and at the same time drawing you towards him, and imparting a hope of tranquillity and of consolation; of consolation which shall be full and unlimited, as soon as you acknowledge _Him_, confess your sins, and implore his mercy!"

"Oh! yes, yes; something indeed oppresses, something consumes me. But G.o.d--if it be G.o.d, if it be He, of whom you speak, what can he do with me?"

These words were uttered in a tone of despair; but Frederick calmly and solemnly replied, "What can G.o.d do with you? Through you he can exhibit his power and goodness. He would draw from you a glory, which none other could render him; you, against whom, the cries of the world have been for so long a time raised--you, whose deeds are detested----" (The Unknown started at this unaccustomed language, but was astonished to find that it excited no anger in his bosom, but rather communicated to it a degree of alleviation.) "What glory," pursued Frederick, "will accrue to G.o.d? A general cry of supplication has risen against you before his throne; among your accusers, some no doubt have been stimulated by jealousy of the power you have exercised; but more, by the deplorable security of your own heart, which has endured until this day.

But, when _you_ yourself shall rise to condemn your life, and become your own accuser, then, oh! then, G.o.d will be glorified! And you ask what he can do with you? What am I, feeble mortal! that I should presume to tell you what are his designs respecting you; what he will do with this impetuous will, and imperturbable constancy, when he shall have animated and warmed it with love, hope, and repentance? Who are you, feeble mortal, that you should think yourself able to execute and imagine greater things for the promotion of evil and vice, than G.o.d can make you accomplish for that of good and virtue? What can G.o.d do with you? Forgive you! save you! accomplish in you the work of redemption!

Are not these things worthy of him? Oh! speak. If I, an humble creature--I, so miserable, and nevertheless so full of myself--I, such as I am,--if I so rejoice at your salvation, that to a.s.sure it, I would joyfully give (G.o.d is my witness) the few years that remain to me in life, Oh! think! what must be the love of Him who inspires me with the thought, and commands me to regard you with such devotion as this!"

The countenance and manner of Frederick breathed celestial purity and love, in accordance with the vows which came from his mouth. The Unknown felt the stormy emotions of his soul gradually calming under such heavenly influence, and giving place to sentiments of deep and profound interest. His eyes, which from infancy "had been unused to tears, became swoln;" and burying his face in his hands, he wept the reply he could not utter.

"Great and good G.o.d!" cried Frederick, raising his hands and eyes to heaven, "what have I ever done--I, thy unprofitable servant--that thou shouldst have invited me to this banquet of thy grace,--that thou shouldst have thought me worthy of being thy instrument to the accomplishment of such a miracle!" So saying, he extended his hand to take that of the Unknown.

"No!" cried he; "no! Approach me not! Pollute not that innocent and beneficent hand! You know not what deeds have been committed by the hand you would place within your own!"

"Suffer," said Frederick, taking it with gentle violence,--"suffer me to clasp this hand, which is about to repair so many wrongs, to scatter so many blessings; which will comfort so many who are in affliction, which will offer itself, peaceably and humbly, to so many enemies."

"It is too much," said the Unknown, sobbing aloud; "leave me, my lord!

good Frederick! leave me! Crowds eagerly await your presence, among whom are pure and innocent souls, who have come from far to see and hear you, and you remain here to converse----with whom?"

"We will leave the ninety and nine sheep," replied the cardinal; "they are in safety on the mountain. I must now remain with the one which was lost. These people are perhaps now more satisfied than if they had the poor bishop with them; perhaps G.o.d, who has visited you with the riches and wonders of his grace, may even now be filling their hearts with a joy, of which they divine not the cause; perhaps they are united to us without knowing it; perhaps the Holy Spirit animates their hearts with the fervour of charity and benevolence; inspires them with a spirit of prayer; with, on your account, a spirit of thanksgiving of which you are the unknown object."

So saying, he pa.s.sed his arm around the neck of the Unknown, who, after resisting a moment, yielded, quite vanquished by this impulse of kindness, and fell on the neck of the cardinal, in an agony of repentance. His burning tears dropped on the stainless purple of Frederick, and the pure hands of the bishop were clasped affectionately around him, who had hitherto been only habituated to deeds of violence and treachery.

The Unknown, after a long embrace, covering his face with his hands, raised his head, exclaiming, "Oh! G.o.d! Thou who art truly great and good! I know myself now; I comprehend what I am; my iniquities are all before me; I abhor myself; but still--still I experience a consolation, a joy--yes, a joy which I have never before known in all my horrible life!"

"G.o.d accords to you this grace," said Frederick, "to attract you to his service, to strengthen you to enter resolutely the new way he has opened to you, where you have so much to undo, to repair, to weep for!"

"Miserable that I am!" cried he, "there is so much--so much--that I can only weep over. But at least, there are some things but just undertaken, that I can arrest--yes, there is at least one evil that I can repair."

He then briefly related, in the most energetic terms of self-execration, the story of Lucy, with the sufferings and terrors of the unfortunate girl; her entreaties, and the species of frenzy that her supplications had excited in his soul; adding, that she was still in the castle.

"Ah! let us lose no time!" cried Frederick, moved with pity and solicitude. "What happiness for you! You may behold in this, the pledge of pardon! G.o.d makes you the instrument of safety to her, to whom you were to have been the instrument of ruin. G.o.d has indeed blessed you!--Do you know the native place of the unhappy girl?"

The Unknown named the village.

"It is not far from this," said the cardinal; "G.o.d be praised! And probably----" so saying, he approached a table, and rang a little bell.

The chaplain entered, with an unquiet look; in amazement he beheld the altered countenance of the Unknown, on which the traces of tears were still visible; and glancing at that of the cardinal, he perceived, through its wonted calmness, an expression of great satisfaction, mingled with extraordinary solicitude. He was roused from the astonishment which the contemplation excited, by a question of the cardinal, if, among the curates in the hall, "there was one from ***?"

"There is, most ill.u.s.trious lord," replied the chaplain.

"Bring him hither immediately," said Frederick, "and with him, the curate of this parish."

The chaplain obeyed, and went to the hall where the priests were a.s.sembled. All eyes were turned towards him. He cried aloud, "His most ill.u.s.trious and reverend lords.h.i.+p asks for the curate of this parish and the curate of ***."

The former advanced immediately, and at the same time was heard, amidst the crowd, a _me?_ uttered in a tone of surprise.

"Are you not the curate of ***?" said the chaplain.

"Certainly; but----"

"His most ill.u.s.trious and reverend lords.h.i.+p asks for you."

"Me?" replied he, and Don Abbondio advanced from the crowd with an air of amazement and anxiety. The chaplain led the way, and introduced them both to the presence of the cardinal.

The cardinal let go the hand of the Unknown as they entered, and taking the curate of the parish aside, related in few words the facts of the story, asking him if he knew some kind female, who would be willing to go to the castle in a litter, to remove Lucy thence; a devoted, charitable woman, capable of acting with judgment in so novel an expedition, and of exerting the best means to tranquillise the poor girl, to whom deliverance itself, after such anguish and alarm, might produce new and overwhelming apprehensions. After having reflected a moment, the curate took upon himself the affair, and departed. The cardinal then ordered the chaplain to have a litter prepared, and two mules ready saddled. The chaplain quitted the room to obey his orders, and the cardinal was left alone with Don Abbondio and the Unknown. The former, who had kept himself aloof, regarding with eager curiosity the faces of the Unknown and the cardinal, now came forward, saying, "I was told that your ill.u.s.trious lords.h.i.+p wished to see me; but I suppose it was a mistake."

"There is no mistake;" replied Frederick, "I have both a novel and agreeable commission to give you. One of your paris.h.i.+oners, whom you have regarded as lost, Lucy Mondella, is found; she is near this, in the house of my good friend here. I wish you to go with him, and a good woman whom the curate of this parish will provide, and bring the poor girl, who must be so dear to you, to this place."

Don Abbondio did his best to conceal the extreme alarm which such a proposition caused him; and bowed profoundly, in sign of obedience, first to the cardinal, and then to the Unknown, but with a piteous look, which seemed to say, "I am in your hands; be merciful: _parcere subjectis_."

The cardinal asked him of Lucy's relations.

"She has no near relation but her mother, with whom she lives," replied Don Abbondio.

"Is _she_ at home?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Since," replied Frederick, "this poor child cannot yet go home, it would be a great consolation for her to see her mother; if the curate of this village does not return before I go to church, I beg you will desire him to send some prudent person to bring the good woman hither."

"Perhaps I had better go myself," said Don Abbondio.

"No, no; I have other employment for you."

"Her mother," resumed Don Abbondio, "is a very sensitive woman, and it will require a good deal of discretion to prepare her for the meeting."

"That is the reason that I have named some prudent person. You, however, will be more useful elsewhere," replied the cardinal. He could have added, had he not been deterred by a regard to the feelings of the Unknown--"This poor child needs much to behold some person whom she knows, after so many hours of alarm, and in such terrible uncertainty of the future."

It appeared strange, however, that Don Abbondio should not have inferred it from his manner, or that he should not have thought so himself; the reluctance he evinced to comply with the request of the cardinal appeared so out of place, that the latter imagined there must be some secret cause for it. He looked at the curate attentively, and quickly discovering the fears of the poor man at becoming the companion of this formidable lord, or entering his abode, even for a few moments, he felt an anxiety to dissipate these terrors; and in order to do this, and not injure the feelings of his new friend by talking privately to Don Abbondio in his presence, he addressed his conversation to the Unknown himself, so that Don Abbondio might perceive by his answers, that he was no longer a man to be feared.

"Do not believe," said he, "that I shall be satisfied with this visit to-day. You will return, will you not, in company with this worthy ecclesiastic?"

"_Will_ I return!" replied the Unknown: "Oh! if ever you should refuse to see me, I would remain at your door as a beggar. I must talk to you, I must hear you, I must see you, I cannot do without you!"

Frederick took his hand, and pressing it affectionately, said, "Do us the favour, then, the curate of the village and myself, to dine with us; I shall expect you. In the mean time, whilst you are gathering the first fruits of repentance and compa.s.sion, I will go and offer supplications and thanksgivings to G.o.d with the people."

Don Abbondio, at this exhibition of confidence and affection, was like a timid child, who beholds a man caressing fearlessly a rough-looking mastiff, renowned for his ferocity and strength. It is in vain that the master a.s.sures him the dog is a good quiet beast: he looks at him, neither contradicting nor a.s.senting; he looks at the dog, and dares not approach him, lest the good beast might show his teeth, if only from habit; he dares not retreat, from fear of the imputation of cowardice; but he heartily wishes himself safe "at home!"

The cardinal, as he was quitting the room, still holding the Unknown by the hand, perceived that the curate remained behind, embarra.s.sed and motionless, and thinking that perhaps he was mortified at the little attention that was paid to him, compared with that which was bestowed on one so criminal, he turned towards him, stopped a moment, and with an amiable smile said, "Signor Curate, you have always been with me in the house of our Father; but this man _perierat, et inventus est_."

"Oh! how I rejoice at it!" said the curate, bowing to them both very reverently.