The Bravo by James Fenimore Cooper

Author:James Fenimore Cooper [Cooper, James Fenimore]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781620118085
Publisher: Duke Classics
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter XVI

*

"Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights,

And I shall slumber well—but where?—no matter.

Adieu, my Angiolina."

MARINO FALIERO.

When the Carmelite re-entered the apartment of Donna Violetta his face was covered with the hue of death, and his limbs with difficulty supported him to a chair. He scarcely observed that Don Camillo Monforte was still present, nor did he note the brightness and joy which glowed in the eyes of the ardent Violetta. Indeed his appearance was at first unseen by the happy lovers, for the Lord of St. Agata had succeeded in wresting the secret from the breast of his mistress, if that may be called a secret which Italian character had scarcely struggled to retain, and he had crossed the room before even the more tranquil look of the Donna Florinda rested on his person.

"Thou art ill!" exclaimed the governess. "Father Anselmo hath not been absent without grave cause!"

The monk threw back his cowl for air, and the act discovered the deadly paleness of his features. But his eye, charged with a meaning of horror, rolled over the faces of those who drew around him, as if he struggled with memory to recall their persons.

"Ferdinando! Father Anselmo!" cried the Donna Florinda, correcting the unbidden familiarity, though she could not command the anxiety of her rebel features; "Speak to us—thou art suffering!"

"Ill at heart, Florinda."

"Deceive us not—haply thou hast more evil tidings—Venice—"

"Is a fearful state."

"Why hast thou quitted us?—why in a moment of so much importance to our pupil—a moment that may prove of the last influence on her happiness—hast thou been absent for a long hour?"

Violetta turned a surprised and unconscious glance towards the clock, but she spoke not.

"The servants of the state had need of me," returned the monk, easing the pain of his spirit by a groan.

"I understand thee, father;—thou hast shrived a penitent?"

"Daughter, I have: and few depart more at peace with God and their fellows!"

Donna Florinda murmured a short prayer for the soul of the dead, piously crossing herself as she concluded. Her example was imitated by her pupil, and even the lips of Don Camillo moved, while his head was bowed by the side of his fair companion in seeming reverence.

"'Twas a just end, father?" demanded Donna Florinda.

"It was an unmerited one!" cried the monk, with fervor, "or there is no faith in man. I have witnessed the death of one who was better fitted to live, as happily he was better fitted to die, than those who pronounced his doom. What a fearful state is Venice!"

"And such are they who are masters of thy person, Violetta," said Don Camillo: "to these midnight murderers will thy happiness be consigned! Tell us, father, does thy sad tragedy touch in any manner on the interests of this fair being? for we are encircled here by mysteries that are as incomprehensible, while they are nearly as fearful as fate itself."

The monk looked from one to the other, and a more human expression began to appear in his countenance.

"Thou art right," he said; "such are the men who mean to dispose of the person of our pupil.

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