AND here we find that persons of our acquaintance were sharers in the wide-spread alarm.

One who saw not Don Abbondio, the day that the news were suddenly spread of the descent of the army, of its near approach, and destructive proceedings, knows very little of what embarrassment and consternation really are. They are coming! there are thirty, there are forty, there are fifty thousand! they are devils, heretics, antichrists! they’ve sacked Cortenuova! they’ve set fire to Primaluna! they’ve devastated Introbbio, Pasturo, Barsio! they’ve been seen at Balabbio! they’ll be here to-morrow! — such were the reports that passed from mouth to mouth; some hurrying to and fro, others standing in little parties; together with tumultuous consultations, hesitation whether to fly or remain, the women assembling in groups, and all utterly at a loss what to do. Don Abbondio, who had resolved before any one else, and more than any one else, to fly, by any possible mode of flight, and to any conceivable place of retreat, discovered insuperable obstacles and fearful dangers. ‘What shall I do?’ exclaimed he: ‘Where shall I go?’ The mountains, letting alone the difficulty of getting there, were not secure: it was well known that the German foot soldiers climbed them like cats, where they had the least indication or hope of finding booty. The lake was wide; there was a very high wind: besides, the greater part of the boatmen, fearing they might be compelled to convey soldiers or baggage, had retreated with their boats to the opposite side: the few that had remained, were gone off overladen with people, and, distressed by their own weight and the violence of the storm, were considered in greater peril every moment. It was impossible to find a vehicle, horse, or conveyance of any kind, to carry him away from the road the army had to traverse; and on foot Don Abbondio could not manage any great distance, and feared being overtaken by the way. The confines of the Bergamascan territory were not so very far off but that his limbs could have borne him thither at a stretch; but a report had been already spread, that a squadron of cappelletti had been despatched from Bergamo in haste, who were occupying the borders to keep the German troops in order; and those were neither more nor less devils incarnate than these, and on their part did the worst they could. The poor man ran through the house with eyes starting from his head, and half out of his senses; he kept following Perpetua to concert some plan with her; but Perpetua, busied in collecting the most valuable household goods, and hiding them under the floor, or in any other out-of-the-way place, pushed by hurriedly, eager and pre-occupied, with her hands or arms full, and replied: ‘I shall have done directly putting these things away safely, and then we’ll do what others do.’ Don Abbondio would have detained her, and discussed with her the different courses to be adopted; but she, what with her business, and her hurry and the fear which she, too, felt within, and the vexation which that of her master excited, was, in this juncture, less tractable than she had ever been before. ‘Others do the best they can; and so will we. I beg your pardon; but you are good for nothing but to hinder one. Do you think that others haven’t skins to save, too? That the soldiers are only coming to fight with you? You might even lend a hand at such a time, instead of coming crying and bothering at one’s feet.’ With these and similar answers she at length got rid of him, having already determined, when this bustling operation was finished as well as might be, to take him by the arm like a child, and to drag him along to one of the mountains. Left thus alone, he retreated to the window, looked, listened; or, seeing some one passing, cried out in a half-crying and half-reproachful tone: ‘Do your poor Curate this kindness, to seek some horse, some mule, some ass, for him! Is it possible that nobody will help me! Oh, what people! Wait for me, at least, that I may go with you! wait till you are fifteen or twenty, to take me with you, that I may not be quite forsaken! Will you leave me in the hand of dogs? Don’t you know they are nearly all Lutherans, who think it a meritorious deed to murder a priest? Will you leave me here to be martyred? Oh, what a set! Oh, what a set!’

But to whom did he address these words? To men who were passing along bending under the weight of their humble furniture, and their thoughts turned towards that which they were leaving at home exposed to plunder; one driving before him a young cow, another dragging after him his children, also laden as heavily as they could bear, while his wife carried in her arms such as were unable to walk. Some went on their way without replying or looking up; others said, ‘Eh, sir, you too must do as you can! happy you, who have no family to think for! you must help yourself, and do the best you can.’

‘Oh, poor me!’ exclaimed Don Abbondio; ‘oh, what people! what hard hearts! There’s no charity: everybody thinks of himself; but nobody’ll think for me! And he set off again in search of Perpetua.

‘Oh, I just wanted you!’ said she. ‘Your money?’

‘What shall we do?’

‘Give it me, and I’ll go and bury it in the garden here by the house, together with the silver and knives and forks.’

‘But . . . ’

‘But, but; give it here; keep a few pence for whatever may happen; and then leave it to me.’

Don Abbondio obeyed, went to his trunk, took out his little treasure, and handed it to Perpetua, who said: ‘I’m going to bury it in the garden, at the foot of the fig-tree;’ and went out. Soon afterwards she reappeared with a packet in her hand containing some provision for the appetite, and a small empty basket, in the bottom of which she hastily placed a little linen for herself and her master, saying, at the same time, ‘You’ll carry the breviary, at least!’

‘But where are we going?’

Where are all the rest going? First of all, we’ll go into the street; and there we shall see and hear what’s best to be done.’

At this moment Agnese entered, also carrying a basket slung over her shoulder, and with the air of one who comes to make an important proposal.

Agnese herself, equally resolved not to await guests of this sort, alone as she was in the house, and with a little of the money of the Unnamed still left, had been hesitating for some time about a place of retreat. The remainder of those scudi, which in the months of famine had been of such use to her, was now the principal cause of her anxiety and irresolution, from having heard how, in the already invaded countries, those who had any money had found themselves in a worse condition than anybody else, exposed alike to the violence of the strangers and the treachery of their fellow-countrymen. True it was that she had confided to no one, save Don Abbondio, the wealth that had fallen, so to say, into her lap; to him she had applied, from time to time, to change her a scudo into silver, always leaving him something to give to some one who was poorer than herself. But hidden riches, particularly with one who is not accustomed to handle much, keep the possessor in continual suspicion of the suspicion of others. While, however, she was going about hiding here and there, as she best could, what she could not manage to take with her, and thinking about the scudi, which she kept sewn up in her stays, she remembered that, together with them, the Unnamed had sent her the most ample proffers of service; she remembered what she had heard related about his castle’s being in so secure a situation, where nothing could reach it, against its owner’s will, but birds; and she resolved to go and seek an asylum there. Wondering how she was to make herself known to the Signor, Don Abbondio quickly occurred to her mind; who, after the conversation we have related with the Archbishop, had always shown her particular marks of kindness; the more heartily, as he could do so without committing himself to any one, and, the two young people being far enough off, the probability was also distant that a request would be made him which would have put this kindness to a very dangerous test. Thinking that in such confusion the poor man would be still more perplexed and dismayed than herself, and that this course might appear desirable also to him, she came to make the proposal. Finding him with Perpetua, she suggested it to them both together.

‘What say you to it, Perpetua?’ asked Don Abbondio.

‘I say that it is an inspiration from Heaven, and that we mustn’t lose time, but set off at once on our journey.’

‘And then . . . ’

‘And then, and then, when we get there, we shall find ourselves very well satisfied. It is well known now that the Signor desires nothing more than to benefit his fellow-creatures; and I’ve no doubt he’ll be glad to receive us. There, on the borders, and as it were in the air, the soldiers certainly won’t come. And then, and then, we shall find something to eat there; for up in the mountains, when this little store is gone,’ and, so saying, she placed it in the basket upon the linen, ‘we should find ourselves very badly off.’

‘He’s converted, he’s really converted, isn’t he?’

‘Why should we doubt it any longer, after all that’s known about him, nay, after what you yourself have seen?’

‘And supposing we should be going to put ourselves in prison?’

‘What prison? I declare, with all your silly objections, (I beg your pardon), you’d never come to any conclusion. Well done, Agnese! it was certainly a capital thought of yours! And setting the basket on a table, she passed her arms through the straps, and lifted it upon her back.

‘Couldn’t we find some man,’ said Don Abbondio, ‘who would come with us as a guard to his Curate? If we should meet any ruffians, for there are plenty of them roving about what help could you two give me?’

‘Another plan, to waste time!’ exclaimed Perpetua. ‘To go now and look for a man, when everybody has to mind himself! Up with you; go and get your breviary and hat, and let us set off.’

Don Abbondio obeyed, and soon returned with the breviary under his arm, his hat on his head, and his staff in his hand; and the three companions went out by a little door which led into the churchyard. Perpetua locked it after her, rather not to neglect an accustomed form, than from any faith she placed in bolts and door-posts, and put the key in her pocket. Don Abbondio cast a glance at the church in passing, and muttered between his teeth: ‘It’s the people’s business to take care of it, for it’s they who use it. If they’ve the least love for their church, they’ll see to it; if they’ve not, why, it’s their own look-out.’

They took the road through the fields, each silently pursuing his way, absorbed in thought on his own particular circumstances, and looking rather narrowly around; more particularly Don Abbondio, who was in continual apprehension of the apparition of some suspicious figure, or something not to be trusted. However, they encountered no one: all the people were either in their houses to guard them, to prepare bundles, and to put away goods, or on the roads which led directly to the mountain-heights.

After heaving a few deep sighs, and then giving vent to his vexation in an interjection or two, Don Abbondio began to grumble more connectedly. He quarrelled with the duke of Nevers, who might have been enjoying himself in France, and playing the prince there, yet was determined to be duke of Mantua in spite of the world; with the Emperor, who ought to have sense for the follies of others, to let matters take their own course, and not stand so much upon punctilio; for, after all, he would always be Emperor, whether Titius or Sempronius were duke of Mantua; and, above all, with the governor, whose business it was to do everything he could to avert these scourges of the country, while, in fact, he was the very person to invite them — all from the pleasure he took in making war. ‘I wish,’ said he, ‘that these gentry were here to see and try how pleasant it is. They will have a fine account to render! But, in the mean while, we have to bear it who have no blame in the matter.’

‘Do let these people alone, for they’ll never come to help us,’ said Perpetua. ‘This is some of your usual prating, (I beg your pardon), which just comes to nothing. What rather gives me uneasiness . . . ’

‘What’s the matter?’

Perpetua, who had been leisurely going over in her mind, during their walk, her hasty packing and stowing away, now began her lamentations at having forgotten such a thing, and badly concealed such another; here she had left traces which might serve as a clue to the robbers, there . . .

‘Well done!’ cried Don Abbondio, gradually sufficiently relieved from fear for his life to allow of anxiety for his worldly goods and chattels: ‘Well done! Did you really do so? Where was your head?’

‘What!’ exclaimed Perpetua, coming to an abrupt pause for a moment, and resting her hands on her sides, as well as the basket she carried would allow: ‘What! do you begin now to scold me in this way, when it was you who almost turned my brain, instead of helping and encouraging me? I believe I’ve taken more care of the things of the house than of my own; I’d not a creature to lend me a hand; I’ve been obliged to play the parts of both Martha and Magdalene; if anything goes wrong, I’ve nothing to say: I’ve done more than my duty now.’

Agnese interrupted these disputes, by beginning, in her turn, to talk about her own grievances; she lamented not so much the trouble and damage, as finding all her hopes of soon meeting her Lucia dashed to the ground: for, the reader may remember, this was the very autumn on which they had so long calculated. It was not at all likely that Donna Prassede would come to reside in her country-house in that neighbourhood, under such circumstances: on the contrary, she would more probably have left it, had she happened to be there, as all the other residents in the country were doing.

The sight of the different places they passed brought these thoughts to Agnese’s mind more vividly, and increased the ardour of her desires. Leaving the footpath through the fields, they had taken the public road, the very same along which Agnese had come when bringing home her daughter for so short a time, after having stayed with her at the tailor’s. The village was already in sight.

‘We will just say “how d’ye do” to these good people,’ said Agnese.

‘Yes, and rest there a little; for I begin to have had enough of this basket; and to get a mouthful to eat too,’ said Perpetua.

‘On condition we don’t lose time; for we are not journeying for our amusement,’ concluded Don Abbondio.

They were received with open arms, and welcomed with much pleasure; it reminded them of a former deed of benevolence. ‘Do good to as many as you can,’ here remarks our author, ‘and you will the more frequently happen to meet with countenances which bring you pleasure.’

Agnese burst into a flood of tears on embracing the good woman, which was a great relief to her; and could only reply with sobs to the questions which she and her husband put about Lucia.

‘She is better off than we are,’ said Don Abbondio; ‘she’s at Milan, out of all danger, and far away from these diabolical dangers.’

‘Are the Signor Curate, and his companion, making their escape, then?’ asked the tailor.

‘Certainly,’ replied both master and servant, in one breath.

‘Oh, how I pity you both!’

‘We are on our way,’ said don Abbondio, ‘to the Castle of . . . .’

‘That’s a very good thought; you’ll be as safe there as in Paradise.’

‘And you’ve no fear here?’ said Don Abbondio.

‘I’ll tell you, Signor Curate: they won’t have to come here to halt, or, as you know the saying is, in polite language, in ospitazione: we are too much out of their road, thank Heaven. At the worst, there’ll only be a little party of foragers, which God forbid! — but, in any case, there’s plenty of time. We shall first hear the intelligence from the other unfort............