Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (distant reading .txt) 📖

The Council was broken up—Rienzi hastened to his own apartments. Meeting Villani by the way, he pressed the youth’s hand affectionately. “You have saved Rome and me from great peril,” said he; “the saints reward you!” Without tarrying for Villani’s answer, he hurried on. Nina, anxious and perturbed, awaited him in their chamber.

“Not a-bed yet?” said he: “fie, Nina, even thy beauty will not stand these vigils.”

“I could not rest till I had seen thee. I hear (all Rome has heard it ere this) that thou hast seized Walter de Montreal, and that he will perish by the headsman.”

“The first robber that ever died so brave a death,” returned Rienzi, slowly unrobing himself.

“Cola, I have never crossed your schemes,—your policy, even by a suggestion. Enough for me to triumph in their success, to mourn for their failure. Now, I ask thee one request—spare me the life of this man.”

“Nina—”

“Hear me,—for thee I speak! Despite his crimes, his valour and his genius have gained him admirers, even amongst his foes. Many a prince, many a state that secretly rejoices at his fall, will affect horror against his judge. Hear me farther. His brothers aided your return; the world will term you ungrateful. His brothers lent you monies, the world—(out on it!)—will term you—”

“Hold!” interrupted the Senator. “All that thou sayest, my mind forestalled. But thou knowest me—to thee I have no disguise. No compact can bind Montreal’s faith—no mercy win his gratitude. Before his red right hand truth and justice are swept away. If I condemn Montreal I incur disgrace and risk danger—granted. If I release him, ere the first showers of April, the chargers of the Northmen will neigh in the halls of the Capitol. Which shall I hazard in this alternative, myself or Rome? Ask me no more—to bed, to bed!”

“Couldst thou read my forebodings, Cola, mystic—gloomy—unaccountable?”

“Forebodings!—I have mine,” answered Rienzi, sadly, gazing on space, as if his thoughts peopled it with spectres. Then, raising his eyes to Heaven, he said with that fanatical energy which made much both of his strength and weakness—“Lord, mine at least not the sin of Saul! the Amalekite shall not be saved!”

While Rienzi enjoyed a short, troubled, and restless sleep, over which Nina watched—unslumbering, anxious, tearful, and oppressed with dark and terrible forewarnings—the accuser was more happy than the judge. The last thoughts that floated before the young mind of Angelo Villani, ere wrapped in sleep, were bright and sanguine. He felt no honourable remorse that he had entrapped the confidence of another—he felt only that his scheme had prospered, that his mission had been fulfilled. The grateful words of Rienzi rang in his ear, and hopes of fortune and power, beneath the sway of the Roman Senator, lulled him into slumber, and coloured all his dreams.

Scarce, however, had he been two hours asleep, ere he was wakened by one of the attendants of the palace, himself half awake. “Pardon me, Messere Villani,” said he, “but there is a messenger below from the good Sister Ursula; he bids thee haste instantly to the Convent—she is sick unto death, and has tidings that crave thy immediate presence.”

Angelo, whose morbid susceptibility as to his parentage was ever excited by vague but ambitious hopes—started up, dressed hurriedly, and joining the messenger below, repaired to the Convent. In the Court of the Capitol, and by the Staircase of the Lion, was already heard the noise of the workmen, and looking back, Villani beheld the scaffold, hung with black—sleeping cloudlike in the grey light of dawn—at the same time, the bell of the Capitol tolled heavily. A pang shot athwart him. He hurried on;—despite the immature earliness of the hour, he met groups of either sex, hastening along the streets to witness the execution of the redoubted Captain of the Grand Company. The Convent of the Augustines was at the farthest extremity of that city, even then so extensive, and the red light upon the hilltops already heralded the rising sun, ere the young man reached the venerable porch. His name obtained him instant admittance.

“Heaven grant,” said an old Nun, who conducted him through a long and winding passage, “that thou mayst bring comfort to the sick sister: she has pined for thee grievously since matins.”

In a cell set apart for the reception of visitors (from the outward world), to such of the Sisterhood as received the necessary dispensation, sate the aged Nun. Angelo had only seen her once since his return to Rome, and since then disease had made rapid havoc on her form and features. And now, in her shroudlike garments and attenuated frame, she seemed by the morning light as a spectre whom day had surprised above the earth. She approached the youth, however, with a motion more elastic and rapid than seemed possible to her worn and ghastly form. “Thou art come,” she said. “Well, well! This morning after matins, my confessor, an Augustine, who alone knows the secrets of my life, took me aside, and told me that Walter de Montreal had been seized by the Senator—that he was adjudged to die, and that one of the Augustine brotherhood had been sent for to attend his last hours—is it so?”

“Thou wert told aright,” said Angelo, wonderingly. “The man at whose name thou wert wont to shudder—against whom thou hast so often warned me—will die at sunrise.”

“So soon!—so soon!—Oh, Mother of Mercy!—fly! thou art about the person of the Senator, thou hast high favour with him; fly! down on thy knees, and as thou hopest for God’s grace, rise not till thou hast won the Provencal’s life.”

“She raves,” muttered Angelo, with white lips.

“I do not rave,—boy!” screeched the Sister, wildly, “know that my daughter was his leman. He disgraced our house,—a house haughtier than his own. Sinner that I was, I vowed revenge. His boy—they had only one!—was brought up in a robber’s camp;—a life of bloodshed—a death of doom—a futurity of hell—were before him. I plucked the child from such a fate—I bore him away—I told the father he was dead—I placed him in the path to honourable fortunes. May my sin be forgiven me! Angelo Villani, thou art that child;—Walter de Montreal is thy father. But now, trembling on the verge of death, I shudder at the vindictive thoughts I once nourished. Perhaps—”

“Sinner and accursed!” interrupted Villani, with a loud shout:—“sinner and accursed thou art indeed! Know that it was I who betrayed thy daughter’s lover!—by the son’s treason dies the father!”

Not a moment more did he tarry: he waited not to witness the effect his words produced. As one frantic—as one whom a fiend possesses or pursues—he rushed from the Convent—he flew through the desolate streets. The death-bell came, first indistinct, then loud, upon