Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (distant reading .txt) 📖
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Montreal was alone in his chamber when it was announced to him that a young Italian craved an audience. Professionally open to access, he forthwith gave admission to the applicant.
The Knight of St. John instantly recognised the page he had encountered at Avignon; and when Angelo Villani said, with easy boldness, “I have come to remind Sir Walter de Montreal of a promise—”
The Knight interrupted him with cordial frankness—“Thou needest not—I remember it. Dost thou now require my friendship?”
“I do noble Signor!” answered Angelo; “I know not where else to seek a patron.”
“Canst thou read and write? I fear me not.”
“I have been taught those arts,” replied Villani.
“It is well. Is thy birth gentle?”
“It is.”
“Better still;—thy name?”
“Angelo Villani.”
“I take thy blue eyes and low broad brow,” said Montreal, with a slight sigh, “in pledge of thy truth. Henceforth, Angelo Villani, thou art in the list of my secretaries. Another time thou shalt tell me more of thyself. Thy service dates from this day. For the rest, no man ever wanted wealth who served Walter de Montreal; nor advancement, if he served him faithfully. My closet, through yonder door, is thy waiting-room. Ask for, and send hither, Lusignan of Lyons; he is my chief scribe, and will see to thy comforts, and instruct thee in thy business.”
Angelo withdrew—Montreal’s eye followed him.
“A strange likeness!” said he, musingly and sadly; “my heart leaps to that boy!”
Chapter 10.III. Montreal’s Banquet.
Some few days after the date of the last chapter, Rienzi received news from Rome, which seemed to produce in him a joyous and elated excitement. His troops still lay before Palestrina, and still the banners of the Barons waved over its unconquered walls. In truth, the Italians employed half their time in brawls amongst themselves; the Velletritrani had feuds with the people of Tivoli, and the Romans were still afraid of conquering the Barons;—“The hornet,” said they, “stings worse after he is dead; and neither an Orsini, a Savelli, nor a Colonna, was ever known to forgive.”
Again and again had the captains of his army assured the indignant Senator that the fortress was impregnable, and that time and money were idly wasted upon the siege. Rienzi knew better, but he concealed his thoughts.
He now summoned to his tent the brothers of Provence, and announced to them his intention of returning instantly to Rome. “The mercenaries shall continue the siege under our Lieutenant, and you, with my Roman Legion, shall accompany me. Your brother, Sir Walter, and I, both want your presence; we have affairs to arrange between us. After a few days I shall raise recruits in the city, and return.”
This was what the brothers desired; they approved, with evident joy, the Senator’s proposition.
Rienzi next sent for the lieutenant of his bodyguard, the same Riccardo Annibaldi whom the reader will remember in the earlier part of this work, as the antagonist of Montreal’s lance. This young man—one of the few nobles who espoused the cause of the Senator—had evinced great courage and military ability, and promised fair (should Fate spare his life (It appears that this was the same Annibaldi who was afterwards slain in an affray:—Petrarch lauds his valour and laments his fate.)) to become one of the best Captains of his time.
“Dear Annibaldi,” said Rienzi; “at length I can fulfil the project on which we have privately conferred. I take with me to Rome the two Provencal Captains—I leave you chief of the army. Palestrina will yield now—eh!—ha, ha, ha!—Palestrina will yield now!”
“By my right hand, I think so, Senator,” replied Annibaldi. “These foreigners have hitherto only stirred up quarrels amongst ourselves, and if not cowards are certainly traitors!”
“Hush, hush, hush! Traitors! The learned Arimbaldo, the brave Brettone, traitors! Fie on it! No, no; they are very excellent, honourable men, but not lucky in the camp;—not lucky in the camp;—better speed to them in the city! And now to business.”
The Senator then detailed to Annibaldi the plan he himself had formed for taking the town, and the military skill of Annibaldi at once recognised its feasibility.
With his Roman troop, and Montreal’s brothers, one at either hand, Rienzi then departed to Rome.
That night Montreal gave a banquet to Pandulfo di Guido, and to certain of the principal citizens, whom one by one he had already sounded, and found hollow at heart to the cause of the Senator.
Pandulfo sate at the right hand of the Knight of St. John, and Montreal lavished upon him the most courteous attentions.
“Pledge me in this—it is from the Vale of Chiana, near Monte Pulciano,” said Montreal. “I think I have heard bookmen say (you know, Signor Pandulfo, we ought all to be bookmen now!) that the site was renowned of old. In truth, the wine hath a racy flavour.”
“I hear,” said Bruttini, one of the lesser Barons, (a stanch friend to the Colonna,) “that in this respect the innkeeper’s son has put his book-learning to some use: he knows every place where the wine grows richest.”
“What! the Senator is turned wine-bibber!” said Montreal, quaffing a vast goblet full; “that must unfit him for business—‘tis a pity.”
“Verily, yes,” said Pandulfo; “a man at the head of a state should be temperate—I never drink wine unmixed.”
“Ah,” whispered Montreal, “if your calm good sense ruled Rome, then, indeed, the metropolis of Italy might taste of peace. Signor Vivaldi,”—and the host turned towards a wealthy draper,—“these disturbances are bad for trade.”
“Very, very!” groaned the draper.
“The Barons are your best customers,” quoth the minor noble.
“Much, much!” said the draper.
“‘Tis a pity that they are thus roughly expelled,” said Montreal, in a melancholy tone. “Would it not be possible, if the Senator (I drink his health) were less rash—less zealous, rather,—to unite free institutions with the return of the Barons?—such should be the task of a truly wise statesman!”
“It surely might be possible,” returned Vivaldi; “the Savelli alone spend more with me than all the rest of Rome.”
“I know not if it be possible,” said Bruttini; “but I do know that it is
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