“My gondola has been imitated—­the liveries of my people copied—­my bride stolen.  Thou answerest not, Jacopo?”

“What answer would you have?  You have been cozened, Signore, in a state, whose very prince dare not trust his secrets to his wife.  You would have robbed Venice of an heiress, and Venice has robbed you of a bride.  You have played high, Don Camillo, and have lost a heavy stake.  You have thought of your own wishes and rights, while you have pretended to serve Venice with the Spaniard.”

Don Camillo started in surprise.

“Why this wonder, Signore?  You forget that I have lived much among those who weigh the chances of every political interest, and that your name is often in their mouths.  This marriage is doubly disagreeable to Venice, who has nearly as much need of the bridegroom as of the bride.  The council hath long ago forbidden the banns.”

“Aye—­but the means?—­explain the means by which I have been duped, lest the treachery be ascribed to thee.”

“Signore, the very marbles of the city give up their secrets to the state.  I have seen much, and understood much, when my superiors have believed me merely a tool; but I have seen much that even those who employed me could not comprehend.  I could have foretold this consummation of your nuptials, had I known of their celebration.”

“This thou could’st not have done, without being an agent of their treachery.”

“The schemes of the selfish may be foretold; it is only the generous and the honest that baffle calculation.  He who can gain a knowledge of the present interest of Venice is master of her dearest secrets of state; for what she wishes she will do, unless the service cost too dear.  As for the means—­how can they be wanting in a household like yours, Signore?”

“I trusted none but those deepest in my confidence.”

“Don Camillo, there is not a servitor in your palace, Gino alone excepted, who is not a hireling of the Senate, or of its agents.  The very gondoliers who row you to your daily pleasures have had their hauds crossed with the Republic’s sequins.  Nay, they are not only paid to watch you, but to watch each other.”

“Can this be true!”

“Have you ever doubted it, Signore?” asked Jacopo, looking up like one who admired another’s simplicity.

“I knew them to be false—­pretenders to a faith that in secret they mock; but I had not believed they dared to tamper with the very menials of my person.  This undermining of the security of families is to destroy society at its core.”

“You talk like one who hath not been long a bridegroom, Signore,” said the Bravo with a hollow laugh.  “A year hence, you may know what it is to have your own wife turning your secret thoughts into gold.”

“And thou servest them, Jacopo?”

“Who does not, in some manner suited to his habits?  We are not masters of our fortune, Don Camillo, or the Duke of Sant’ Agata would not be turning his influence with a relative to the advantage of the Republic.  What I have done hath not been done without bitter penitence, and an agony of soul that your own light servitude may have spared you, Signore.”