consequences, she said, of having refused all the offers that had been made her; her female friends asserted that she had never found any one willing to take her.

“Coming,” said Perpetua, as she set in its usual place on the little table the flask of Don Abbondio's favourite wine, and moved slowly toward the parlour door: before she reached it he entered, with steps so disordered, looks so clouded, and a countenance so changed, that an eye less practised than that of Perpetua could have discovered at a glance that something unusual had befallen him.

“Mercy on me! What is it ails my master?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Don Abbondio, as he sank upon his easy chair.

“How, nothing! Would you have me believe that, looking as you do? Some dreadful accident has happened.”

“Oh! for the love of Heaven! When I say nothing, it is either nothing, or something I cannot tell.”

“That you cannot tell, not even to me? Who will take care of your health? Who will give you advice?”

“Oh! peace, peace! Do not make matters worse. Give me a glass of my wine.”

“And you will still pretend to me that nothing is the matter?” said Perpetua, filling the glass, but retaining it in her hand, as if unwilling to present it except as the reward of confidence.

“Give here, give here,” said Don Abbondio, taking the glass with an unsteady hand, and hastily swallowing its contents.

“Would you oblige me then to go about, asking here and there what it is has happened to my master?” said Perpetua, standing upright before him, with her hands on her sides, and looking him steadfastly in the face, as if to extract the secret from his eyes.

“For the love of Heaven, do not worry me, do not kill me with your pother; this is a matter that concerns—concerns my life.”

“Your life!”

“My life.”

“You know well, that, when you have frankly confided in me, I have never——”

“Yes, forsooth, as when——”

Perpetua was sensible she had touched a false string; wherefore, changing suddenly her note, “My dear master,” said she, in a moving tone of voice, “I have always had a dutiful regard for you, and if I now wish to know this affair, it is from zeal, and a desire to assist you, to give you advice, to relieve your mind.”

The truth is, that Don Abbondio's desire to disburden himself of his painful secret was as great as that of Perpetua to obtain a knowledge of it; so that, after having repulsed, more and more feebly, her renewed assaults; after having made her swear many times that she would not breathe a syllable of it, he, with frequent pauses and exclamations, related his miserable adventure. When it was necessary to pronounce the dread name of him from whom the prohibition came, he required from Perpetua another and more solemn oath: having uttered it, he threw himself back on his seat with a heavy sigh, and, in a tone of command, as well as supplication, exclaimed,—

“For the love of Heaven!”—

“Mercy upon me!” cried Perpetua, “what a wretch! what a tyrant! Does he not fear God?”

“Will you be silent? or do you want to ruin me completely?”

“Oh! we are here alone, no one can hear us. But what will my poor master do?”

“See there now,” said Don Abbondio, in a peevish tone, “see the fine advice you give me. To ask of me, what I'll do? what I'll do? as if you were the one in difficulty, and it was for me to help you out!”

“Nay, I could give you my own poor opinion; but then—”

“But—but then, let us know it.”

“My opinion would be, that, as every one says our archbishop is a saint, a man of courage, and not to be frightened by an ugly phiz, and who will take pleasure in upholding a curate against one of these tyrants; I should say, and do say, that you had better write him a handsome letter, to inform him as how——”

“Will you be silent! will you be silent! Is this advice to offer a poor man? When I get a pistol bullet in my side—God preserve me!—will the archbishop take it out?”

“Ah! pistol bullets are not given away like sugarplums; and it were woful if those dogs should bite every time they bark. If a man knows how to show his teeth, and make himself feared, they hold him in respect: we should not have been brought to such a pass, if you had stood upon your rights. Now, all come to us (by your good leave) to——”

“Will you be silent?”

“Certainly; but it is true though, that when the world sees one is always ready, in every encounter, to lower——”

“Will you be silent? Is this a time for such idle talk?”

“Well, well, you'll think of it to-night; but in the meantime do not be the first to harm yourself; to destroy your own health: eat a mouthful.”

“I'll think of it,” murmured Don Abbondio; “certainly I'll think of it. I must think of it;” and he arose, continuing—“No! I'll take nothing, nothing; I've something else to do. But, that this should have fallen upon me——”

“Swallow at least this other little drop,” said Perpetua, as she poured the wine. “You know it always restores your stomach.”

“Oh! there wants other medicine than that, other medicine than that, other medicine than that——”

So saying, he took the light, and muttering, “A pretty business this! To an honest man like me! And to-morrow, what is to be done?” with other like exclamations, he went towards his bedchamber. Having reached the door, he stopped a moment, and before he quitted the room, exclaimed, turning towards Perpetua, with his finger on his lips—“For the love of Heaven, be silent!”

CHAPTER II.

It is related that the Prince of Condé slept soundly the night preceding the battle of Rocroi; but then, he was greatly fatigued, and moreover had made every arrangement for the morrow. It was not thus with Don Abbondio; he only knew the morrow would be a day of trouble, and consequently passed the night in anxious anticipation. He could not for a moment think of disregarding the menaces of the bravoes, and solemnising the marriage. To confide to Renzo the occurrence, and consult with him as to the means—God forbid!—He remembered the warning of the bravo, “not to say one word”—otherwise, ahem! and this dreadful ahem of the bravo resounded in the ears of Don Abbondio; so that he already repented of his communication to Perpetua. To fly was impossible—and where could he fly? At the thought, a thousand obstacles presented themselves.—After long and painful deliberation, he resolved to endeavour to gain time, by giving Renzo some fanciful reasons for the postponement of the marriage. He recollected that in a few days more the time would arrive, during which marriages were prohibited. “And if I can keep this youngster at bay for a few days, I shall then have two months before me; and in two months who can tell what may happen?” He thought of various pretexts for his purpose; and though they were rather flimsy, he persuaded himself that his authority would give them weight, and that his experience would prevail over the mind of an ignorant youth. “We will see,” said he to himself: “he thinks of his love, but I think of myself; I am, therefore, the party most interested; I must call in all my cunning to assist me. I cannot help it, young man, if you suffer; I must not be the victim.” Having somewhat composed his mind with this determination, he at length fell asleep. But his dreams, alas! how horrible—bravoes, Don Roderick, Renzo, roads, rocks, cries, bullets.

The arousing from sleep, after a recent misfortune, is a bitter moment; the mind at first habitually recurs to its previous tranquillity, but is soon depressed by the thought of the contrast that awaits it. When alive to a sense of his situation, Don Abbondio recapitulated the plans of the night, made a better disposal of