He conceived that the sword-cut had rendered Barto imbecile, and pulled his hat down his forehead, and patted his shoulder, and bade him have cheer, patronizingly: but women do not so lightly lose their impression of a notable man. His wife checked him. Barto had shut his eyes, and hung swaying between them, as in drowsiness or drunkenness. Like his body, his faith was swaying within him. He felt it borne upon the reeling brain, and clung to it desperately, calling upon chance to aid him; for he was weak, incapable of a physical or mental contest, and this part of his settled creed that human beings alone failed the patriotic cause as instruments, while circumstances constantly befriended itwas shocked by present events. The image of Vittoria, the traitress, floated over the soldiery marching on Milan through her treachery. Never had an Austrian force seemed to him so terrible. He had to yield the internal fight, and let his faith sink and be blackened, in order that his mind might rest supine, according to his remembered system; for the inspiration which points to the right course does not come during mental strife, but after it, when faith summons its agencies undisturbedif only men will have the faith, and will teach themselves to know that the inspiration must come, and will counsel them justly. This was a part of Barto Rizzos sustaining creed; nor did he lose his grasp of it in the torment and the darkness of his condition.
He heard English voices. A carriage had stopped almost in front of him. A General officer was hat in hand, talking to a lady, who called him uncle, and said that she had been obliged to decide to quit Verona on account of her husband, to whom the excessive heat was unendurable. Her husband, in the same breath, protested that the heat killed him. He adorned the statement with all kinds of domestic and subterranean imagery, and laughed faintly, saying that after the fifteenthon which night his wife insisted upon going to the Opera at Milan to hear a new singer and old friendhe should try a week at the Baths of Bormio, and only drop from the mountains when a proper temperature reigned, he being something of an invalid.
And, uncle, will you be in Milan on the fifteenth? said the lady; and Wilfrid, too?
Wilfrid will reach Milan as soon as you do, and I shall undoubtedly be there on the fifteenth, said the General.
I cannot possibly express to you how beautiful I think your army looks, said the lady.
Fine men, General Pierson, very fine men. I never saw such marchingequal to our Guards, her husband remarked.
The lady named her Milanese hotel as the General waved his plumes, nodded, and rode off.
Before the carriage had started, Barto Rizzo dashed up to it; and Dear good English lady, he addressed her, I am the brother of Luigi, who carries letters for you in Milanlittle Luigi!and I have a mother dying in Milan; and here I am in Verona, ill, and cant get to her, poor soul! Will you allow me that I may sit up behind as quiet as a mouse, and be near one of the lovely English ladies who are so kind to unfortunate persons, and never deaf to the name of charity? Its my mother who is dying, poor soul!
The lady consulted her husbands face, which presented the total blank of one who refused to be responsible for an opinion hostile to the claims of charity, while it was impossible for him to fall in with foreign habits of familiarity, and accede to extraordinary petitions. Barto sprang up. I shall be your courier, dear lady, he said, and commenced his professional career in her service by shouting to the vetturino to drive on. Wilfrid met them as he was trotting down from the Porta del Palio, and to him his sister confided her new trouble in having a strange man attached to her, who might be anything. We dont know the man, said her husband; and Adela pleaded for him: Dont speak to him harshly, pray, Wilfrid; he says he has a mother dying in Milan. Barto kept his head down on his arms and groaned; Adela gave a doleful little grimace. Oh, take the poor beggar, said Wilfrid; and sang out to him in Italian: Who are youwhat are you, my fine fellow? Barto groaned louder, and replied in Swiss-French from a smothering depth: A poor man, and the gracious ladys servant till we reach Milan.
I cant wait, said Wilfrid; I start in half-an-hour. Its all right; you must take him now youve got him, or else pitch him outone of the two. If things go on quietly we shall have the Autumn manoeuvres in a week, and then you may see something of the army. He rode away. Barto passed the gates as one of the licenced English family.
Milan was more strictly guarded than when he had quitted it. He had anticipated that it would be so, and tamed his spirit to submit to the slow stages of the carriage, spent a fiery night in Brescia, and entered the city of action on the noon of the fourteenth. Safe within the walls, he thanked the English lady, assuring her that her charitable deed would be remembered aloft. He then turned his steps in the direction of the Revolutionary post-office. This place was nothing other than a blank abutment of a corner house that had long been undergoing repair, and had a great bank of brick and mortar rubbish at its base. A stationary melonseller and some black fig and vegetable stalls occupied the triangular space fronting it. The removal of a square piece of cement showed a recess, where, chiefly during the night, letters and proclamation papers were deposited, for the accredited postman to disperse them. Hither, as one would go to a caffe for the news, Barto Rizzo came in the broad glare of noon, and flinging himself down like a tired man under the strip of shade, worked with a hand behind him, and drew out several folded scraps, of which one was addressed to him by his initials. He opened it and read:
Your house is watched.
A corporal of the P ka regiment was seen leaving it this morning in time for the second bugle.
Reply:where to meet.
Spies are doubled, troops coming.
The numbers in Verona; who heads them.
Look to your wife.
Letters are called for every third hour.
Barto sneered indolently at this fresh evidence of the small amount of intelligence which he could ever learn from others. He threw his eyes all round the vacant space while pencilling in reply:V. waits for M., but in a box (that is, Verona for Milan). We take the key to her.
I have no wife, but a little pupil.
A Lieutenant Pierson, of the dragoons; Czech white coats, helmets without plumes; an Englishman, nephew of General Pierson: speaks crippled Italian; returns from V. to-day. Keep eye on him;what house, what hour.
Meditating awhile, Barto wrote out Vittorias name and enclosed it in a thick black ring.
Beneath it he wrote
The same on all the play-bills.
The Fifteenth is cancelled.
We meet the day after.
At the house of Count M. to-night.
He secreted this missive, and wrote Vittorias name on numbers of slips to divers addresses, heading them, From the Popes Mouth, such being the title of the Revolutionary postoffice, to whatsoever spot it might in prudence shift. The title was entirely complimentary to his Holiness. Tangible freedom, as well as airy blessings, were at that time anticipated, and not without warrant, from the mouth of the successor of St. Peter. From the Popes Mouth the clear voice of Italian liberty was to issue. This sentiment of the period was a natural and a joyful one, and endowed the popular ebullition with a sense of unity and a stamp of righteousness that the abstract idea of liberty could not assure to it before martyrdom. After suffering, after walking in the shades of death and despair, men of worth and of valour cease to take high personages as representative objects of worship, even when these (as the good Pope was then doing) benevolently bless the nation and bid it to have great hope, with a voice of authority. But, for an extended popular movement a great name is like a consecrated banner. Proclamations from the Popes Mouth exacted reverence, and Barto Rizzo, who despised the Pope (because he was Pope, doubtless), did not hesitate to make use of him by virtue of his office.