Abellino had already passed six weeks in Venice, and yet, either
from want of opportunity, or of inclination, he had suffered his
daggers to remain idle in their sheaths. This proceeded partly from
his not being as yet sufficiently acquainted with the windings and
turnings, the bye-lanes and private alleys of the town, and partly
because he had hitherto found no customers, whose murderous designs
stood in need of his helping hand.
This want of occupation was irksome to him in the extreme; he panted
for action, and was condemned to indolence.
With a melancholy heart did he roam through Venice, and number every
step with a sigh. He frequented the public places, the taverns, the
gardens, and every scene which was dedicated to amusement. But
nowhere could he find what ho sought--tranquillity.
One evening he had loitered beyond the other visitants in a public
garden, situated on one of the most beautiful of the Venetian
islands. He strolled from arbour to arbour, threw himself down on
the sea-shore, and watched the play of the waves as they sparkled in
the moonshine.
"Four years ago," said he, with a sigh, "just such a heavenly
evening was it, that I stole from Valeria's lips the first kiss, and
heard from Valeria's lips for the first time the avowal that she
loved me."
He was silent, and abandoned himself to the melancholy recollections
which thronged before his mind's eye.
Everything around him was so calm, so silent! Not a single zephyr
sighed among the blades of grass; but a storm raged in the bosom of
Abellino.
"Four years ago could I have believed that a time would come when I
should play the part of a bravo in Venice! Oh, where are they
flown, the golden hopes and plans of glory which smiled upon me in
the happy days of my youth? I am a bravo: to be a beggar were to
be something better."
"When my good old father, in the enthusiasm of paternal vanity, so
oft threw his arms around my neck, and cried, 'My boy, thou wilt
render the name of Rosalvo glorious!' God, as I listened, how was
my blood on fire? What thought I not, what that was good and great
did I not promise myself to do! The father is dead, and the son is
a Venetian bravo! When my preceptors praised and admired me, and,
carried away by the warmth of their feelings, clapped my shoulder,
and exclaimed, 'Count, thou wilt immortalise the ancient race of
Rosalvo!' Ha, in those blessed moments of sweet delirium, how
bright and beauteous stood futurity before me! When, happy in the
performance of some good deed, I returned home, and saw Valeria
hasten to receive me with open arms, and when, while she clasped me
to her bosom I heard her whisper 'Oh, who could forbear to love the
great Rosalvo?' God! oh, God! Away, away, glorious visions of the
past. To look on you drives me mad!"