Italy : 43. The Bag Of Gold

I dine very often with the good old Cardinal * * and, I
should add, with his cats; for they always sit at his table,
and are much the gravest of the company.  His beaming
countenance makes us forget his age; nor did I ever see
it clouded till yesterday, when, as we were contemplating
the sunset from his terrace, he happened, in the course
of our conversation, to allude to an affecting circumstance
in his early life.
  He had just left the University of Palermo and was
entering the army, when he became acquainted with a
young lady of great beauty and merit, a Sicilian of a
family as illustrious as his own.  Living near each other,
they were often together; and, at an age like theirs
friendship soon turns to love.  But his father, for what
reason I forget, refused his consent to the union; till,
alarmed at the declining health of his son, he promised
to oppose it no longer, if, after a separation of three
years, they continued to love as much as ever.
  Relying on that promise, he said, I set out on a long
journey; but in my absence the usual arts were resorted
to.  Our letters were intercepted; and false rumours
were spread -- first of my indifference, then of my incon-
stancy, then of my marriage with a rich heiress of Sienna;
and, when at length I returned to make her my own, I
found her in a convent of Ursuline nuns.  She had taken
the veil; and I, said he with a sigh --- what else remained
for me? --- I went into the church.
  Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the conversation,
very many have been happy though we were not; and,
if I am not abusing an old man's privilege, let me tell
you a story with a better catastrophe.  It was told me
when a boy; and you may not be unwilling to hear it, for
it bears some resemblance to that of the Merchant of Venice.
  We were now arrived at a pavilion that commanded
one of the noblest prospects imaginable; the mountains,
the sea, and the islands illuminated by the last beams of
day, and, sitting down there, he proceeded with his usual
vivacity; for the sadness, that had come across him, was
gone.
  There lived, in the fourteenth century, near Bologna,
a Widow-lady of the Lambertini family, called Madonna
Lucrezia, who in a revolution of the State had known
the bitterness of poverty, and had even begged her bread;
kneeling day after day like a statue at the gate of the
Cathedral; her rosary in her left hand and her right held
out for charity; her long black veil concealing a face
that had once adorned a Court, and had received the
homage of as many sonnets as Petrarch has written on Laura.
  But Fortune had at last relented; a legacy from a
distant relation had come to her relief; and she was now
the mistress of a small inn at the foot of the Appennines;
where she entertained as well as she could, and where
those only stopped who were contented with a little. The
house was still standing, when in my youth I passed that
way; though the sign of the White Cross, the cross of
the Hospitallers, was no longer to be seen over the door;
a sign which she had taken, if we may believe the tradi-
tion there, in honour of a maternal uncle, a grand-master
of that Order, whose achievements in Palestine she
would sometimes relate.  A mountain-stream ran through
the garden; and at no great distance, where the road
turned on its way to Bologna, stood a little chapel, in
which a lamp was always burning before a picture of the
Virgin, a picture of great antiquity, the work of some
Greek artist.
  Here she was dwelling, respected by all who knew her;
when an event took place, which threw her into the
deepest affliction.  It was at noon-day in September that
three foot-travellers arrived, and, seating themselves on
a bench under her vine-trellis, were supplied with a flagon
of Aleatico by a lovely girl, her only child, the image of
her former self.  The eldest spoke like a Venetian, and
his beard was short and pointed after the fashion of Venice.
In his demeanour he affected great courtesy, but his look
inspired little confidence; for when he smiled, which he
did continually, it was with his lips only, and not with
his eyes; and they were always turned from yours. His
companions were bluff and frank in their manner, and on
their tongues had many a soldier's oath.  In their hats
they wore a medal, such as that age was often dis-
tributed in war; and they were evidently subalterns in one
of those Free Bands which were always ready to serve in
any quarrel, if a service it could be called, where a battle
was little more than a mockery; and the slain, as on an
opera-stage, were up and fighting to-morrow.  Overcome
with the heat, they threw aside their cloaks; and, with
their gloves tucked under their belts, continued for some
time in earnest conversation.
  At length they rose to go; and the Venetian thus
addressed their Hostess.  'Excellent Lady, may we leave
under your roof, for a day or two, this bag of gold?'
'You may,'  she  replied  gaily.  'But  remember,  we fasten
only  with a latch.  Bars  and  bolts  we  have  none in our
village; and if we had, where would be your security?'
----- 'In your word, Lady.'
  'But what if I die to-night?  Where would it be
then?' said she, laughing.  'The money would go to
the Church; for none could claim it.'
  'Perhaps you will favour us with an acknowledgement.'
  'If you will write it.'
  An acknowledgement was written accordingly, and she
signed it before Master Bartolo the Village-physician,
who had just called on his mule to learn the news of
the day; the gold to be delivered when applied for, but
to be delivered (these were the words) not to one --- nor
to two --- but to the three; words wisely introduced by
those to whom it belonged, knowing what they knew
of each other.  The gold they had just released from
a miser's chest in Perugia; and they were now on a
scent that promised more.
  They and their shadows were no sooner departed, than
the Venetian returned, saying, 'Give me leave to set my
seal on the bag, as the others have done;' and she
placed it on a table before him.  But in that moment
she was called away to receive a Cavalier, who had just
dismounted from his horse; and, when she came back,
it was gone.  The temptation had proved irresistable;
and the man and the money had vanished together.
  'Wretched woman that I am!' she cried, as in an
agony of grief she threw herself on her daughter's neck,
'What will become of us?  Are we again to be cast
out into the wide world? . . Unhappy child, would that
thou hadst never been born!' and all day long she
lamented; but her tears availed her little.  The others
were not slow in returning to claim their due; and there
were no tidings of the thief; he had fled far away with
his plunder.  A Process against her was instantly begun
in Bologna; and what defence could she make?  how
release herself from the obligation of the bond?  Wil-
fully or in negligence she had parted with the gold;
she had parted with it to one, when she should have
kept it for all; and inevitable ruin awaited her!  'Go,
Gianetta,' said she to her daughter, 'take this veil,
which your mother has worn and wept under so often,
and implore the Counsellor Calderino to plead for us
on the day of the trial.  He is generous, and will listen to
the Unfortunate.  But, if he will not, go from door to
door; Monaldi cannot refuse us.  Make haste, my child;
but remember the chapel as you pass by it.  Nothing
prospers without a prayer.'
  Alas, she went, but in vain.  These were retained
against them; those demanded more than they had to
give; and all bad them despair.  What was to be done?
No advocate; and the cause to come on to-morrow!
  Now Gianetta had a lover; and he was a student
of the law, a young man of great promise, Lorenzo
Martelli.  He had studied long and diligently under
that learned lawyer, Giovanni Andreas, who, though
little of stature, was great in renown, and by his con-
temporaries was called the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of
Doctors, the Light of the World.  Under him he had
studied, sitting on the same benc with Petrarch; and
also under his daughter Novella, who would often
lecture to the scholars, when her father was otherwise
engaged, placing herself behind a small curtain, lest her
beauty should divert their thoughts; a precaution in this
instance at least unnecessary, Lorenzo having lost his
heart to another.
  To him she flies in her necessity; but of what assist-
ance can he be?  He has just taken his place at the
bar, but he has never spoken; and how stand up alone,
unpractised and unprepared as he is, against an array
that would alarm the most experienced? --- 'Were I as
mighty as I am weak,' said he, 'my fears for you would
make me as nothing.  But I will be there, Gianetta;
and may the Friend of the Friendless give me strength
in that hour!  Even now my heart fails me; but, come
what will, while I have a loaf to share, you and your
Mother shall never want.  I will beg through the world
for you.'
  The day arrives, and the court assembles.  The claim
is stated, and the evidence given.  And now the defence
is called for --- but none is made; not a syllable is
uttered; and, after a pause and a consultation of some
minutes, the Judges are proceeding to give judgement,
silence having been proclaimed in the court, when Lo-
renzo rises and thus addresses them.  'Reverend Signors.
Young as I am, may I venture to speak before you?  I
would speak in behalf of one who has none else to help
her; and I will not keep you long.  Much has been
said; much, on the sacred nature of the obligation ---
and we acknowledge it in its full force.  Let it be ful-
filled, and to the last letter.  It is what we solicit, what
we require.  But to whom is the bag of gold to be de-
livered?  What says the bond?  Not to one --- not to
two --- but to the three.  Let the three stand forth and
claim it.'
  From that day, (for who can doubt the issue?) none
were sought, none employed, but the subtle, the eloquent
Lorenzo.  Wealth followed Fame; nor need I say how
soon he sat at his marriage-feast, or who sat beside him.