THE MASTERPIECES OF

                           GEORGE SAND




                  AMANDINE LUCILLE AURORE DUPIN,
                         BARONESS DUDEVANT




                           VOLUME VII




                         THE PICCININO

                     THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS




                The Masterpieces of George Sand
             Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness
                  Dudevant, _NOW FOR THE FIRST
                   TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED
         INTO ENGLISH THE PICCININO, AND THE LAST OF THE
                   ALDINIS BY G. BURNHAM IVES_

           _WITH SIX PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY
                       ORESTE CORTAZZO._




_VOLUME I_




_PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
GEORGE BARRIE & SON
PHILADELPHIA_




[Illustration: _EXAMINING THE ABBÉ'S PAPERS._

_He opened and ran through several other papers
which mentioned none but unknown names, and
which Mila burned without looking at them._]




CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER
I. THE TRAVELLER
II. THE TRAVELLER'S STORY
III. MONSIGNORE
IV. MYSTERIES
V. THE CASINO
VI. THE STAIRCASE
VII. A GLANCE
VIII. THE INTRUDER
IX. MILA
X. PROBLEM
XI. THE GROTTO OF THE NAIAD
XII. MAGNANI
XIII. AGATHA
XIV. BARBAGALLO
XV. ROMANTIC LOVE
XVI. CONCLUSION OF MAGNANI'S STORY
XVII. THE CYCLAMEN
XVIII. THE MONKS
XIX. YOUTHFUL LOVES
XX. BEL PASSO AND MAL PASSO
XXI. FRA ANGELO
XXII. THE FIRST STEP ON THE MOUNTAIN
XXIII. THE DESTATORE
XXIV. IL PICCININO
XXV. THE DESTATORE'S CROSS
XXVI. AGATHA
XXVII. DIPLOMACY
XXVIII. JEALOUSY
XXIX. APPARITIONS
XXX. THE FALSE MONK
XXXI. WITCHCRAFT
XXXII. THE ESCALADE
XXXIII. THE RING
XXXIV. AT THE FOUNTAIN
XXXV. THE COAT OF ARMS




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE PICCININO

VOLUME I

EXAMINING THE ABBÉ'S PAPERS

THE CARDINAL'S ESCORT

THE BALL AT THE PALMAROSA PALACE

AFTER THE FÊTE

THE CONFERENCE WITH THE PICCININO

MILA SURPRISED AT THE FOUNTAIN




INTRODUCTION


_The Piccinino_ is an imaginary tale, which does not attempt either to
depict any precise period of history or to describe accurately any
country. It is a study in color, dreamed rather than felt, wherein
correct strokes are few and, as it were, accidental. The scene of this
romance might have been placed anywhere else under the skies of Southern
Europe, and my sole reason for selecting Sicily was that I happened to
have a collection of fine engravings before my eyes at that moment.

I had always been conscious of a longing to draw my little brigand
chief, as others have done. The brigand chief who formed the principal
motive of so many novels and melodramas under the Empire, under the
Restoration, and even in romantic literature, always proved generally
entertaining, and the principal interest always attached to that
awe-inspiring and mysterious personage. It was most ingenuous on the
part of the public, but so it was. Whether the type was
terror-inspiring, as in the case of Byron's brigands, or, like those of
Cooper, deserving of the Monthyon prize for virtue, it was enough that
those heroes of despair should have legitimately earned the halter or
the galleys, for every tender-hearted and virtuous reader to love them
devotedly from the first page, and to offer up prayers for the success
of their undertakings. Why, then, should I, on the pretext of being a
reasonable person, have deprived myself of the pleasure of creating one
of them according to my fancy?

Being fully persuaded that the brigand chief had become a part of the
public domain, and belonged to every novelist, as do all other classical
types, I determined to try at least to make that personage, occupying as
he does so abnormal a position, possible and true to life in his
character. Such a mystery envelops Byron's pirates that one would not
dare to question them, and that one fears or pities them without knowing
them. Indeed we may as well say at once that it is by virtue of that
unexplained mystery that they appeal to us; but I am not Byron, and my
novels are not poems. I desired, for my own part, to draw a perfectly
intelligible character, encompassed by romantic circumstances, who is
somewhat exceptional in himself, but with whom my indulgent reader can
become acquainted, little by little, as with any ordinary mortal.

                             GEORGE SAND

Nohant, April 22, 1853.




THE PICCININO




TO MY FRIEND

_EMMANUEL ARAGO_

IN MEMORY OF A PLEASANT EVENING




I

THE TRAVELLER


The region called _piedimonta_, which surrounds the base of Ætna, and
of which Catania forms the portion nearest the level of the sea, is,
according to the declared opinions of all travellers, the loveliest
country in the whole world. It is that fact which impels me to place
there the scene of a story which was recently told me, but of which I
was forbidden to reveal the real _locus_ or the real characters.
Therefore, dear reader, pray take the trouble to transport yourself in
imagination to the district called Valdemona, or _Valley of the Demons_.
It is a beautiful spot, which, however, I do not propose to describe in
great detail, for a sufficiently good reason: namely, that I am not
familiar with it, and one cannot depict very faithfully what one knows
only by hearsay. But there are so many excellent books of travel that
you can consult! unless, indeed, you prefer to go thither in person,
which I would that I, too, might do, to-morrow, provided that it was not
with you, reader; for, in presence of the marvellous beauties of that
spot, you would rebuke me for having described it so ill, and there is
nothing more disagreeable than a travelling companion who is constantly
preaching at you.

In default of something better, my fancy is impelled to lead you rather
far away, beyond the mountains, and to leave in peace for a time the
quiet country districts wherein I usually like to frame my tales. The
moving cause of this fancy is exceedingly puerile, but I propose to tell
it to you.

I do not know whether you remember, assuming that you do me the honor to
read me, that I placed before you last year a novel entitled _The Sin of
Monsieur Antoine_, the scene of which was laid on the banks of the
Creuse, and especially among the ruins of the ancient château of
Châteaubrun. Now that château exists, and I drive thither at least
once in every year, although it is about ten leagues from my own home.
This year I was very coldly received by the old peasant woman who has
charge of the ruins.

"Look you!" she cried, in her half-Berrichon, half-Marchois patois, "I
don't think much of you; my name is not _Janille_, but _Jennie_. I
haven't got any daughter, and I don't lead my master round by the nose.
My master don't wear a blouse; you lied about him. I never saw him in a
blouse, etc., etc. I don't know how to read, but I do know that you've
been writing lies about my master and me. I have no liking for you now."

This harangue apprized me that there still lives, not far from the ruins
of Châteaubrun, an old man named Châteaubrun, who never wears a
blouse. That is all that I know about him.

But it proved to me that I must needs be most circumspect when writing
of La Marche and Berry. That was at least the tenth time that something
of that sort had happened to me, and every time persons bearing the name
of some of my characters, or living in the localities I have described,
have flown into a passion with me and accused me of slandering them, not
deigning to believe that I took their names by chance, and that I did
not know of their existence.

To give them time to become calm again, before I return to that region,
I propose to make an excursion to Sicily. But how shall I avoid making
use of a name that belongs to some inhabitant or some portion of that
celebrated island? A Sicilian hero cannot be called Durand or Wolf, nor
do I find on the map of the country any name which rhymes with Pontoise
or Baden-Baden. I really must baptize my actors and my stage with names
that have some rhyme in _a_, _o_ or _i_. I will take those which are
easiest to pronounce, so far as is possible, without much heed to
geographical accuracy, declaring beforehand that I do not know a cat in
Sicily, even by reputation; so that I cannot possibly intend to point at
any particular person.

Having made this statement, I am free to choose, and the choice of names
is the most embarrassing question that confronts a novelist who wishes
to become sincerely attached to the characters he creates. In the first
place, I need a princess who has a resounding name, one of those which
give you an exalted idea of the person who bears it; and there are such
lovely names in that country! Acalia, Madonia, Valcorrente, Valverde,
Primosole, Tremisteri, etc.--they all ring true on the ear, like perfect
chords. But if perchance there has ever happened in any of the patrician
families which bear the names of those seignorial localities, an
adventure like that which I am about to describe--a delicate adventure,
I confess--why, I am sure to be accused once more of evil-speaking or
calumny. Luckily, Catania is very far away; my novels do not, in all
probability, pass the lighthouse of Messina, and I trust that the new
pope will do in charity what his predecessor did without knowing why:
that is to say, keep me in the Index; then I shall be entirely at
liberty to speak of Italy, certain that Italy, and with still stronger
reason Sicily, will never suspect it.

Consequently my princess shall be called the Princess of Palmarosa. I
defy you to find sweeter sounds or a more flowery meaning in any name in
any novel. And now for her Christian name, we must think of that. We
will call her Agatha, because St. Agatha is the revered patron saint of
Catania. But I will urge the reader to pronounce the name _Agata_, even
if I should happen inadvertently to write it in French, otherwise he
will miss the local coloring.

My hero's name shall be Michelangelo Lavoratori, but we must never
confound him with the illustrious Michelangelo Buonarotti, who died at
least two hundred years before my man's birth.

As for the period in which the events are supposed to take
place--another unpleasant incident of the beginning of a novel--you are
entirely at liberty to select it yourself, dear reader. But inasmuch as
our characters will be actuated by ideas now in circulation in the
world, and as it would be impossible for me to speak to you as I should
like to do of the men of past ages, I fancy that the story of the
Princess Agatha of Palmarosa and Michelangelo Lavoratori belongs
somewhere between 1810 and 1840. Fix the precise year, day, and hour at
which we begin our narrative to suit yourself; it is a matter of
indifference to me, for my novel is neither historical nor descriptive,
nor does it pride itself at all upon being exact in either respect.

On the day in question--it was in autumn and broad daylight, if you
please--Michelangelo Lavoratori was descending diagonally across the
gorges and ravines which alternate with each other from the slopes of
Ætna to the fertile plain of Catania. He was coming from Rome; he had
crossed the Strait of Messina, he had followed the highroad as far as
Taormina. There, intoxicated by the grandeur of the spectacle which his
eyes beheld in all directions, and uncertain whether to choose the
seashore or the mountains, he had gone forward to some extent at random,
torn between his impatience to embrace his father and sister, whom he
had not seen for a year, and the temptation to go a little nearer the
gigantic volcano, compared to which it seemed to him, as to Spallanzani,
that Vesuvius is simply a parlor volcano.

As he was alone and on foot, he had lost his way more than once in that
wild region, intersected by vast streams of lava which form on all sides
steep mountains and valleys filled with luxuriant vegetation. One
travels far and makes very little progress when he must constantly
ascend and descend over a distance quadrupled in length by natural
obstacles. Michel had taken two days to travel the ten leagues, more or
less, which lie between Taormina and Catania as the crow flies; but at
last he was drawing near his journey's end, indeed, he had arrived; for,
after crossing the Cantaro and passing through Mascarello, Piano-Grande,
Valverde, and Mascalucia, he had at last left Santa-Agata on his right
and Ficarazzi on his left. Therefore he was only about a mile from the
suburbs of the city; if he had walked a quarter of an hour more, he
would have reached the end of the adventures of a pedestrian journey,
during which, despite the fascination and the enthusiastic admiration
which such natural scenery inspires in a young artist, he had suffered
considerably from heat in the ravines, from cold on the mountain-tops,
from hunger, and from fatigue.

But, as he skirted the wall of a vast park, on the slope of the last
hill which he still had to cross, and as, with his eyes fixed on the
city and the harbor, he quickened his pace to make up for lost time, he
stumbled over the stump of an olive-tree. The pain caused by the blow
was most acute; for, after two days' travelling over sharp slag, and
pozzuolana as hot as red-hot ashes, his shoes were sadly worn and his
feet cruelly bruised and sore.

Being compelled to stop, he found himself in front of a niche in the
wall, containing a madonna. This little chapel, sheltered by a stone
projection and provided with a bench, offered a hospitable resting-place
to wayfarers, and to beggars, monks, and others a convenient station at
the very door of the _villa_, of which our traveller could descry the
handsome buildings through the orange-trees planted in a triple row
along an avenue of considerable length.

Michel, more annoyed than cast down by this sudden hurt, dropped his
travelling satchel, seated himself on the bench, and rubbed his injured
foot, but soon forgot it to lose himself in meditation.

In order that the reader may understand the reflections which his
surroundings suggested to the young man, it is essential that I should
introduce him somewhat more fully. Michel was eighteen years of age and
was a student of painting at Rome. His father, Pier-Angelo Lavoratori,
was a mere dauber, a decorator, but very skilful in his line. And, as is
well known, in Italy the artisans whose business it is to cover walls
and ceilings with frescoes are almost all genuine artists. Whether from
tradition, or from natural good taste, they produce some very attractive
decorations; and in the most modest abodes, even in wretched taverns,
the eye is charmed by wreaths and rosework done in a fascinating style,
or it may be by borders simply, the coloring of which is happily
contrasted with the dull tints of the panels and wainscoting. These
frescoes are sometimes executed as perfectly as our wall-papers, and
they are much superior to them, in this respect, that one detects in
them the greater ease of manner of work done by hand. Nothing can be
more dismal than the stiff and regular decorations produced by
machinery. The beauty of Chinese vases, and, indeed, of Chinese work in
general, is attributable to that capricious air of spontaneity which the
human hand alone can impart to its work. Grace, freedom, boldness, the
unexpected, and even ingenuous awkwardness are, in decoration, elements
of charm which we are losing day by day, as we depend more and more upon
the resources of machinery and looms.

Pier-Angelo was one of the most rapid and ingenious of these
decorators--_adornatori_. He was a native of Catania, and had reared his
family there until the period of Michel's birth, when he abruptly left
his province and settled in Rome. The reason he assigned for this
voluntary exile was that his family was increasing in size, that there
was too much competition in Catania, and that consequently his work no
longer sufficed for his needs; wherefore he proposed to seek his fortune
elsewhere. But people said under their breath that he had fled from the
resentment of certain all-powerful patricians who were devoted to the
court of Naples.

Everyone knows the bitter hatred of that conquered and down-trodden
people for the government on the other side of the strait. The Sicilian,
proud and revengeful, rumbles incessantly like his volcano, and
sometimes erupts. It was whispered that Pier-Angelo had been involved in
an attempt at a popular uprising, and that he had been obliged to fly,
carrying with him his brushes and his household goods. To be sure, his
social and kindly temperament seemed to contradict such a supposition;
but the lively imaginations of the good people of the suburb of Catania
must needs devise an extraordinary motive for the disappearance of one
so loved and regretted by all his confrères.

At Rome he was hardly more fortunate, for he had the sorrow of losing
all his children there except Michel; and ere long his wife died in
giving birth to a daughter, whose young brother was her godfather, and
who received the name of Mila, a contraction of Michelangela.

Having lost these two children, Pier-Angelo, albeit more melancholy, was
much more at ease financially, and by dint of earnest work, he succeeded
in giving his son an education far superior to that which he had himself
received. He displayed a predilection for that boy which almost amounted
to weakness, and Michel, although poor and obscure, was a veritable
spoiled child.

Now, Pier-Angelo had spurred on his other sons to work, and had imparted
to them early in life the ardor which was consuming him. But, whether
because they had succumbed to excessive toil for which they had not
received from Heaven the same aptitude and strength as their father, or
because Pier-Angelo, finding his family reduced to three persons, no
longer deemed it necessary to have assistance, it is certain that he
seemed more anxious to handle tenderly the health of his last remaining
son, than to provide him betimes with a means of livelihood.

Nevertheless, the child loved painting, and in play produced fruit,
flowers, and birds, in which the coloring was exquisite. One day he
asked his father why he never introduced figures in his frescoes.

"What do you say? figures?" replied the good man, who had an abundance
of common sense: "one must paint very beautiful ones, or else let them
alone. Figure painting is beyond such talent as I have been able to
acquire, and whereas people think well of my garlands and arabesques, I
should be very sure of making connoisseurs laugh if I should attempt to
represent limping cupids or hump-backed nymphs dancing on my ceilings."

"Suppose I should try!" said the child, whom nothing daunted.

"Try on paper, and however successful you may be for your years, you
will soon see that you must learn before you know."

Michel tried. Pier-Angelo showed his son's sketches to some
connoisseurs, and to some painters too, who saw that the child had much
talent, and that it would be well for him not to be confined too closely
to the drudgery of mixing colors. Thereupon, Pier-Angelo determined to
make a painter of him, sent him to one of the best studios in Rome, and
relieved him entirely from preparing colors and daubing walls.

"One of two things will happen," he said to himself with good reason;
"either the child will become a master, or, if he has only trifling
talent, he will come back to the trade of decorating with knowledge that
I do not possess, and he will be a workman of the first order in his
line. In either case he will have a freer and more comfortable life than
mine."

Not that Pier-Angelo was dissatisfied with his lot. He was blest with
that improvidence, that recklessness, one might say, which are
characteristic of the most laborious and most robust men. He always
relied upon destiny, perhaps because he relied most of all upon his
strong arms and his courage. But as he was a very shrewd and intelligent
observer, he had already detected in Michel the gleam of a spark of
ambition which his other children had never had. He drew the conclusion
that the measure of happiness with which he had been content would not
suffice for that more delicately balanced organism. Tolerant to excess,
and thoroughly convinced that every man has aptitudes which no other man
can estimate accurately, he respected Michel's impulses and inclinations
as manifestations of the will of Heaven, and therein was no less
imprudent than generous.

For that blind complaisance was certain to lead, and did in fact lead to
this result--that Michelangelo became accustomed never to suffer, never
to be thwarted, and to look upon his own personality as more important
and more interesting than that of other people. He often mistook his
caprices for desires, and his desires for rights. Moreover, he was
attacked early in life by the disease peculiar to fortunate mortals,
that is to say, the fear that they may not always be so fortunate; and
in the midst of his progress he was often paralyzed by the fear of
failing. A vague disquietude seized upon him, and as he was naturally
energetic and bold, it sometimes made him sullen and irritable.

But we shall obtain a better conception of his character by following
him in the reflections he made at the gates of Catania, in the little
chapel in which he had taken his seat.




II

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY


I have forgotten to tell you, and it is important that you should know,
why Michel had been separated from his father and sister for a year
past.

Although he earned his living readily at Rome, and despite his happy
temperament, Pier-Angelo had never been able to accustom himself to
living abroad, far from his cherished fatherland. Like the genuine
islander he was, he regarded Sicily as a land favored by Heaven in every
respect, and the mainland as a place of exile. When the Catanians speak
of the terrible volcano which overwhelms and ruins them so often, they
carry love of country so far as to say: _Our Ætna_!--"Ah!" said
Pier-Angelo, on the day that he passed near the lava fields of Vesuvius,
"if you had seen our famous Catanian wave! that was grand and wonderful!
You would never dare to mention yours again!" He referred to the
terrible eruption of 1669, which sent a river of fire to the very centre
of the city, and destroyed half of the population and buildings. The
destruction of Pompeii and Herculaneum seemed to him a jest.--"Psha!" he
would say proudly, "I have seen bigger earthquakes! You should come to
our home if you want to know what an earthquake is!"

In fact, he sighed incessantly for the moment when he could see again
his dear furnace and its beloved gate of hell.

When Michel and Mila, who were accustomed to his cheerful humor, saw
that he was pensive and downcast, they were grieved and disturbed, as
always happens with respect to persons with whom mental depression is a
rare phenomenon. Thereupon he confessed to his children that he was
thinking of his native land. "If I were not in excellent health," he
said, "and if I did not constantly argue with myself, homesickness would
have killed me long ago."

But when his children spoke to him of returning to Sicily, he would wave
his hands in a significant way, as if to say: "I cannot cross the strait
again; I should escape Charybdis only to fall into Scylla."

Once or twice he inadvertently said to them: "Prince Dionigi died a long
while ago, but his brother Hieronymo is still living." And when his
children questioned him as to what reason he had to fear Prince
Hieronymo, he shook his finger and said: "Hush! I should not even have
mentioned those princes before you."

But it happened one day that Pier-Angelo, being at work in a certain
palace in Rome, picked up a newspaper which he found on the floor, and
showing it to Michel, who had looked in upon him on his way from the
Museum of Painting, he exclaimed: "What a misfortune it is for me not to
know how to read! I will bet that there is news from my dear Sicily in
this paper. Look, look, Michel, what is this word here? I would swear
that it was Catania. Yes, yes, I can read that name! Come, look and tell
me what is going on at Catania in these days." Michel glanced at the
paper, and saw that it was proposed to light the principal streets of
Catania with hydrogen gas.

"Great Heaven!" ejaculated Pier-Angelo; "think of seeing Ætna by
gaslight! How beautiful that will be!"

And he threw his cap up to the ceiling in his joy.

"There is more news," said the young man, looking over the paper. "The
Prince-Cardinal Hieronymo of Palmarosa has been obliged to suspend the
exercise of the important functions which the Neapolitan government has
entrusted to him. His eminence has been stricken by paralysis, and his
life is deemed to be in danger. Pending a definite decision from the
medical profession concerning the mental and physical condition of that
noble personage, the government has entrusted his functions temporarily
to his excellency, the Marquis of----"

"What do I care to whom?" cried Pier-Angelo, snatching the paper from
his son's hands with extraordinary excitement, "Prince Hieronymo is off
to join his brother Dionigi in the tomb, and we are saved!"--Then, after
trying to spell out Prince Hieronymo's name for himself, as if he feared
that his son might have made a mistake, he returned the journal to him
and bade him read the paragraph again, very carefully and very slowly.

When this was done, Pier-Angelo crossed himself devoutly.

"O Providence!" he cried, "Thou hast permitted old Pier-Angelo to
witness the extinction of his persecutors, and to return to his native
city! Embrace me, Michel! this event is of no less importance to you
than to me. Whatever happens, remember that Pier-Angelo Lavoratori has
been a good father to you!"

"What do you mean, father? Are you still in any danger? If you must
return to Sicily, I will go with you."

"We will talk of that later, Michel. Meanwhile, silence!--Forget
everything, even the words that have escaped me."

Two days later, Pier-Angelo folded his tents and started for Catania
with his daughter. He would not consent to take Michel, despite the
latter's earnest entreaties.

"No," he said, "I am not certain that I shall be able to settle at
Catania, for I had the papers read to me again this morning, and they
don't say that Cardinal Hieronymo is dead. They don't mention him at
all. A personage so favored by the government, and so rich, could not
recover or die without a great sensation. So I conclude that he is still
alive, but that he is a little better. His temporary substitute is a
most excellent nobleman, a true patriot, and a friend of the people. I
have nothing to fear from the police so long as we have him to deal
with. But if by a miracle this Prince Hieronymo should come back to life
and health, I should have to return to Rome at once; and in that case
what good would it have done to make you take this journey, which would
interrupt your studies?"

"But," said Michel, "why not wait until this prince's fate is decided,
before you start yourself? I have no idea what you have to fear from him
and from your presence in Catania, father; for you have never chosen to
explain yourself clearly in that respect; but it alarms me to have you
start, all alone but for this child, for a land where you are not
certain of being well received. I know that the police officials of
absolute governments are suspicious and troublesome; and if you had
nothing worse to fear than a temporary imprisonment, even then what
would become of our little Mila, all alone in a city where you no longer
have any acquaintances? Let me go with you, in heaven's name! I will be
Mila's protector and defender, and when I see that you are comfortably
settled and in no danger, then I will return to Rome and resume my
studies, if you care to remain in Sicily."

"Yes, Michel, I know, I understand," replied Pier-Angelo. "You have no
wish to remain in Sicily, and your youthful ambition would be
ill-content with a long stay in an island which you believe to be
destitute of all resources and monuments of art. You are mistaken; we
have such noble monuments! Palermo fairly swarms with them. Ætna is the
grandest spectacle that nature can offer to a painter, and we have
painters, too. Morales filled our fatherland with masterpieces worthy to
be compared with those of Rome and Florence!"

"Excuse me, father," said Michel, smiling, "Morales is not to be
compared with Raphael, Michelangelo, or any of the masters of the
Florentine school."

"What do you know about it? That is just like children. You have never
seen his great works, his best pieces; you will see them in Sicily. And
such a climate! such skies! such fruit! A veritable land of promise!"

"Very well, father, permit me to go there with you," said Michel. "That
is precisely what I ask."

"No, no!" cried Pier-Angelo, earnestly. "I forgot myself in sounding the
praises of Catania, and I do not want you to go there with me now. I
know that your loving heart and your anxiety for us urge you to it; but
I know also that your real inclination does not lie that way. I want the
desire to come to you naturally, when the hour of your destiny has
struck, and when you will kiss the soil of your fatherland with love,
instead of treading it, as you would do to-day, with disdain."

"These reasons are of little weight, father, in view of the anxiety I
shall feel during your absence. I prefer to be bored and waste my time
in Sicily, rather than to let you go there without me and pass my time
here dreaming of dangers and disasters."

"Thanks my child, and farewell!" said the old man, embracing him
affectionately. "If I must tell you explicitly, I cannot take you. Here
is half of all the money I possess; be careful of it until I am able to
send you more. You can depend upon it that I shall not waste my time at
Catania, and that I will work energetically to procure the means for you
to continue your painting. I shall need time for the journey and to get
settled; after which I shall find plenty of work, for I had many friends
and patrons in my country, and I know that I shall find some of them
there still. Do not dream of dangers and disasters. I will be prudent;
and although duplicity and fear are not my ordinary failings, I have too
much Sicilian blood in my veins not to be able to display the cunning of
an old fox, at need. I know Ætna as well as I know my own pocket, and
its ravines are deep enough to keep a poor fellow like me hidden for a
long while. Besides, I have maintained friendly relations with my
kinsfolk, as you know. I have a brother a Capuchin, who is a _great
man_. Mila will find shelter and protection with them, if need be. I
will write to you--that is to say your sister will write for me--as
often as possible, and you shall not be left long in uncertainty as to
our fate. Do not mention the names of the Princes of Palmarosa, unless
we mention them to you first."

"And meanwhile," said Michel, "shall I not know what I have to fear or
to hope from these princes?"

"You? nothing, upon my word," replied Pier-Angelo; "but you do not know
Sicily; you would not have the prudence that is absolutely necessary in
countries that are subjected to foreigners. You have the ideas of a
young man, all the ardent ideas which circulate here in Rome, under the
cloak of lax administration, but which, in Sicily, are hidden and held
in reserve under the ashes of the volcanoes. You would compromise me,
and they would manufacture a conspiracy against the court of Naples out
of a single phrase thoughtlessly uttered by you in your fervent
liberalism. Farewell once more; do not detain me. I must see my country
once more! You have no idea what it means to me to have been born at
Catania, and to have been away eighteen years; or, rather, you do not
understand it, for it is true that you were born at Catania yourself,
and that the story of my exile is the story of yours! But you were
brought up at Rome, and you look upon Rome as your country, alas!"

A month later Michel received, by the hand of a mechanic who arrived in
Rome from Sicily, a letter from Mila, which informed him that their
journey was most successful; that they had been welcomed with open arms
by their relations and former friends; that Pier-Angelo had found work
and valuable patronage; but that the cardinal was still living, although
not greatly to be feared, because he had withdrawn from the world and
from public affairs. However, Pier-Angelo did not wish Michel to join
him, for no one knew _what might happen_.

Until then Michel had been depressed and anxious, for he loved his
father and sister dearly; but, as soon as his mind was at rest with
respect to them, he involuntarily rejoiced that he was at Rome and not
at Catania. His life there had been very pleasant since his father had
permitted him to devote himself to painting. Favored by his masters, who
were attracted to him not only because of his happy aptitude, but also
because of a certain elevation of mind and of language above his years
and his condition, received in the society of young men much richer and
more aristocratic than he--and we must admit that he was much more
accessible to their advances than to those of the sons of artisans, his
equals--he devoted his leisure to the cultivation of his brain and the
enlargement of his circle of ideas. He read rapidly and greedily, he
frequented the theatres, he conversed with artists; in a word, he
prepared himself wonderfully well for a free and noble existence, to
which, however, he was by no means certain that he could properly
aspire.

For the resources of the poor painter in distemper, who sent half of his
wages to him, were not inexhaustible. Illness might put an end to them
at any time, and painting is so serious and profound an art that one
must study many years before one can hope to make profitable use of it.

This thought terrified Michel, and sometimes cast him into the deepest
dejection. "O father!" he was saying to himself, when we met him at the
gate of a palace near his native town: "Did you not, through excessive
affection for me, do yourself as well as me a great injury, by urging me
on in the pathway of ambition? I do not know if I shall succeed, yet I
feel that it will be very hard for me to resume the life which you lead,
and for which fortune destined me. I am not so strong as you; I am a
degenerate in the matter of physical strength, which is the stamp of
nobility of our race. I cannot walk, I am fatigued beyond measure by
what would be simply healthy exercise for you, at sixty years of age.
And here am I used up, wounded in the foot, by my own fault, by reason
of my absent-mindedness or my awkwardness. And yet I was born among
these mountains, and I see children running over these sharp lava beds
as I would walk on a carpet. Yes, my father was right, this is a
beautiful fatherland; one may well be proud of having issued like the
lava, from the sides of yonder terrible mountain! But one should be
wholly, not half worthy of such a glorious origin. He should be a great
man and fill the world with peals of thunder and lightning flashes; or
else he should be a stout-hearted peasant or a determined brigand, and
live in the desert, without other resource than a carbine and a pitiless
heart. That too is a poetic destiny. But it is too late for me; I have
learned too many things, I know the laws, society and mankind too well.
That which is heroism in these artless and uncivilized mountaineers
would be cowardice and crime in me. My conscience would reproach me for
having succeeded in attaining grandeur by genius and the gifts of
civilization, and for having relapsed, from impotence, to a condition of
brigandage. So I should have to live an obscure, insignificant life!"

Let us leave Michel for a little while to nurse and rub his aching foot,
and inform the reader why, despite his love for Rome and the pleasant
days he passed there, he found himself now at the gates of Catania.

From month to month his sister had written to him, at her father's
dictation: "You cannot come yet, and we cannot make any decision
concerning our own future. The sick man is as well as a man can be who
has lost the use of his arms and his legs. But his head still lives and
retains a remnant of power. Here is some money; be careful of it, my
child; for, although I have all the work I want, wages are lower here
than at Rome."

Michel tried to be careful of the money, which represented to him the
sweat of his father's brow. He quivered with shame and dismay when his
young sister, who worked at spinning silk--a very common industry in
that part of Sicily,--secretly added a gold piece to her father's
remittance. Evidently the poor child subjected herself to great
privations to obtain for her brother the wherewithal to amuse himself
for an hour. Michel vowed that he would not touch those gold pieces, but
would save them and carry back to Mila all her little savings.

But Michel loved pleasure; he craved a certain amount of luxury, and he
did not know how to save. He had princely tastes, that is to say, he
loved to give, and rewarded handsomely any _facchino_ who brought him a
picture or a letter. And then too, painting materials are very
expensive. Again, when Michel was in the company of wealthy young men,
he would have blushed not to pay his scot like the rest. So that he ran
in debt to a small amount, albeit very large for the budget of a poor
decorator. There came a time when, the debt imitating the snow-ball, it
became necessary for him either to fly in disgrace or to resign himself
to take up some more humble occupation than historical painting.
Trembling with rage and grief, Michel sacrificed the gold pieces which
he had determined to carry back to Mila some day. But, finding that he
was still far from solvent, he confessed everything in a letter to his
father, blaming himself with something very like despair. A week later a
banker forwarded to the young man the sum necessary to pay his debt, and
to live some time longer on the same footing. Then came a letter from
Mila, who said, still at Pier-Angelo's dictation: "A kind friend lent me
the money I have sent to you; but I shall have to work six months to
repay the loan. Try, my son, not to run in debt again until then, for if
you do we shall have arrears of indebtedness which we can never
discharge."

Although Michel had never been reprimanded by his father, he expected
something in the nature of a rebuke this time. When he realized the
excellent man's inexhaustible kindness and philosophic courage, he was
heartbroken, and though unable to blame himself for errors into which
his position had irresistibly led him, he did blame himself, as for a
crime, for having accepted that too brilliant position. He formed a
mighty resolution, and was assisted in carrying it out by the idea that
he was consummating a great sacrifice, and that if he had not the making
of a great painter in him, he had at all events the heroism of a great
character. Thus vanity had much to say in this effort of his will, but
it was an ingenuous and noble vanity. He paid his debts and bade his
friends farewell, announcing his purpose to abandon painting and to work
with his father at his trade.

Then, without informing his father of his coming, he packed in a bag a
few choice clothes, a sketch-book, and a number of boxes of
water-colors, not realizing that those symbols of luxury and art showed
that he carried the thought of luxury and art with him; and he started
for Catania, where we have seen him on the point of arriving.




III

MONSIGNORE


Despite this heroic renunciation of all the dreams of his youth, poor
Michel experienced at that moment a sort of grief-stricken dismay. The
journey had diverted his thoughts from the consequences of his
sacrifice. The sight of Ætna had exalted his imagination. The joy he
felt at the thought of seeing his excellent father and his dear little
sister had sustained his courage. But this unlucky accident of a
trifling wound in the foot, and the necessity of halting for an instant,
gave him leisure for reflection for the first time since he had left
Rome.

Moreover, that was an exceedingly solemn moment to his youthful mind. He
saw before him the domes of his native city, one of the loveliest cities
in the world, even to him who comes from Rome, and the one of all others
whose location is most imposing to the eye.

This city, so many times devastated by the volcano, is not very ancient,
and the style of the seventeenth century, which prevails in its
buildings, has not the grandeur or the pure taste of earlier periods.
Nevertheless, Catania, built upon an extensive plan and of antique
spaciousness, is of a Greek type, taken as a whole. The sombre color of
the lava from which it has risen again and again after being swallowed
up by it, as if it had found the seeds of renewed life in its own ashes,
after the manner of the phœnix, the open plain which surrounds it, and
the cruel reefs of lava which have taken root in its harbor, as if to
darken with their stern shadow even the shimmer of the waves--everything
about the city is majestic and melancholy.

But it was not the aspect of the place that engrossed the thoughts of
our young traveller. His own plight made it seem to him more gloomy and
terror-inspiring than it had been made by the passage of the flames that
belched forth from the cave of the Cyclops. He saw before him a place of
trials and of expiation, in face of which a cold perspiration burst from
every pore. It was there that he was about to bid farewell to the world
of art, to the society of enlightened men, to unchecked reveries, and to
the studious leisure of the artist summoned to an exalted destiny. It
was there that he must resume, after ten years of a highly-favored
existence, the artisan's apron, the hateful sizing-pot, the conventional
festoon, the decoration of reception rooms and corridors. And, worse
than all the rest, it was there that he would have to work twelve hours
a day and go to bed exhausted, lacking time and strength to read or muse
in a picture gallery; there that he must resign himself to do without
other society than that of the Sicilian common people, so poor and so
unclean that the poetic charm of his features and his intellect could
scarcely penetrate the rags and degradation of poverty. In a word, the
gate of Catania was, to that poor exile, the gate of the accursed city
described by Dante.

At the thought, a torrent of tears, long held in check or turned aside,
rushed from his eyes, and whoever had seen him thus, young, comely,
pale, seated outside the gate of a palace, with his hand lying
carelessly upon his injured foot, would inevitably have thought of the
gladiator of old, wounded in combat, but weeping for his defeat rather
than for the pain.


[Illustration: _THE CARDINAL'S ESCORT._

_The bells of a number of mules ascending the
hill, and the appearance of a strange caravan coming
directly toward him, forcibly changed the current of
Michelangelo Lavoratori's reflections._]


The bells of a number of mules ascending the hill, and the appearance of
a strange caravan coming directly toward him, forcibly changed the
current of Michelangelo Lavoratori's reflections. The mules were superb
creatures, richly caparisoned and decorated with plumes. On their long
purple saddle-cloths gleamed the insignia of the cardinalate, the triple
cross of gold, surmounted by the little hat and tassels. They were laden
with baggage and led by servants dressed in black, with gloomy,
suspicious faces; then came abbés and other ecclesiastics, with black
short-clothes, red stockings and large silver buckles on their shoes;
some on horseback, others in litters. A very stout individual, in a
black coat, with his hair in a bag, a diamond on his finger, and a sword
at his side, rode gravely upon a magnificent ass. From his air of
importance, somewhat more candid than the crafty expressions of the
churchmen who surrounded him, he could readily be identified as his
eminence's physician. He escorted his eminence himself, who was carried
in a chair, or rather in a great box, by two powerful men, beside whom
walked four relay bearers. The whole procession consisted of about forty
persons, and the uselessness of each one of them could be measured by
the rapt meditation and humility depicted on his face.

Michel, deeply interested in the passage of this procession which
surpassed all that Rome had to offer in that direction, that was most
classic and superannuated, rose and stood near the gateway, in order to
obtain a nearer view of the principal personage's face. He was the
better able to gratify his curiosity, as the bearers halted in front of
the enormous gilded gate, while a sort of abbé, with a repulsive
countenance, dismounted and opened the gate himself with an air of
authority and a peculiar smile.

The cardinal was a man far advanced in years, who had once been
corpulent and florid, but was now pale and emaciated, as the result of
gradual and cruel decay. The skin upon his face, once tightly stretched,
now relaxed, hung in innumerable folds, and imparted to the face a
strong resemblance to a field furrowed by the passage of a torrent.
Despite these ghastly evidences of decomposition, there was a trace of
imperious beauty upon those lifeless features, which could not or would
not make the faintest movement, but amid which two great black eyes
still glowed, the last sanctuary of a stubborn vitality.

The contrast between the stern, piercing glance and the corpse-like face
impressed Michel so strongly that he could not avoid a feeling of
respect, and he instinctively bared his head before that feeble remnant
of a powerful will. Everything that indicated a forceful, imperious
nature produced its effect upon that young man's imagination, because he
was himself ambitious of power and authority, and, except for the gleam
of those tyrannical eyes, it is doubtful if it would have occurred to
him to remove his straw hat.

But, as his modest garb and his dusty shoes indicated a man of the
people rather than a great painter in embryo, the cardinal's people and
the cardinal himself naturally expected to see him kneel, which he did
not do, and his neglect scandalized them terribly.

The cardinal was the first to notice it, and as his bearers were about
to pass through the gate, he made a sign with his eyebrows which was
instantly read by his physician, who rode always beside him, and was
ordered to keep his eyes always fixed upon those of his eminence.

The doctor had just enough wit to understand from the cardinal's
expression that he wished to manifest some desire or other; so he
ordered a halt, and advised Abbé Ninfo, his eminence's secretary, the
same who had opened the gate with his own hand, and with a key taken
from his own pocket. The abbé hastened forward, as he had done before,
and placed his body in front of the door of the chair in such way as to
conceal it from the rest of the procession. Thereupon there took place
between his eminence and him a mysterious dialogue, so mysterious that
no one could say whether his eminence made himself understood by speech,
or simply by the play of his features. Ordinarily the paralytic
dignitary uttered nothing more than unintelligible grunts, which became
a frightful roar when he was angry; but Abbé Ninfo understood those
grunts so well, when assisted by his eminence's expressive glance and
his intimate knowledge of his character and designs, that he interpreted
his master's wishes and ordered them executed with an intelligence, a
rapidity and a careful attention to details which bordered on the
marvellous. Indeed it seemed altogether too supernatural to be accepted
as genuine by the other subordinate priests, and they declared that his
eminence had retained the power of speech, but that by virtue of the
most profound diplomacy, he preferred not to use that power except with
Abbé Ninfo. Doctor Recuperati asserted however that his eminence's
tongue was paralyzed as completely as his arms and legs, and that the
only living portions of his being were the organs of the brain and of
the digestion. "With those," he said, "a man may live to be a hundred
years old, aye, and shake the world, as Jupiter shook Olympus, simply by
contracting his eyebrow."

The result of the strange dialogue between Abbé Ninfo's sharp eyes and
the eloquent eyebrows of his eminence, was that the abbé turned
suddenly to Michel and motioned to him to draw near. Michel was strongly
tempted to do nothing of the sort, and to compel the abbé to walk to
him; but the Sicilian spirit suddenly awoke in him, and he stood on his
guard. He recalled all that his father had told him of the dangers to be
dreaded from the wrath of a certain cardinal, and, although he could not
tell whether the man before him was paralyzed or not, it suddenly
occurred to him that he might very well be Cardinal Hieronymo, of
Palmarosa. Thereupon he determined to dissemble, and he approached the
gilded, decorated chair adorned with his eminence's crest.

"What are you doing at this gate?" the abbé demanded in a surly tone.
"Are you of the household?"

"No, your excellency," replied Michel, with apparent tranquillity,
although he was tempted to strike his questioner. "I am passing by."

The abbé glanced into the chair, and apparently he was given to
understand that it was useless to intimidate wayfarers, for he suddenly
changed his tone and manner as he turned again to Michel.

"My friend," he said benignantly, "you seem unfortunate; are you a
mechanic?"

"Yes, your excellency," said Michel, resolved to speak as little as
possible.

"And you are fatigued? you have come a long distance?"

"Yes, your excellency."

"But you are strong for your years. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

Michel could safely risk that falsehood; for, although he had as yet no
beard on his chin, he had attained his full growth, and his active and
restless brain had already caused him to lose the first bloom of youth.
In this last reply he complied with a special injunction which his
father had laid upon him when they parted, and which came to his mind
most opportunely: "If you come to Sicily to join me one day or another,"
said old Pier-Angelo, "remember that, until you have actually joined me,
you must not say a word of truth in reply to people who seem to you
curious and inquisitive. Tell them neither your name, nor your age, nor
your profession, nor mine, nor whence you come, nor whither you are
going. The police are more meddlesome than shrewd. Lie boldly and have
no fear."

"If my father should hear me," thought Michel, after he had thus
distinguished himself, "he would be satisfied with me."

"It is well," said the abbé, and he stepped away from the prelate's
door, so that the latter could see the poor devil who had thus attracted
his attention. Michel's eyes met the moribund's terrible glance, and he
thereupon felt more distrust and aversion than respect for that narrow
and despotic brow. Warned by an inward presentiment that he was in a
dangerous position, he changed the customary expression of his face, and
substituting sheepishness for pride therein, he bent his knee, hung his
head in order to escape the prelate's scrutiny, and pretended to await
his benediction.

"His eminence blesses you mentally," said the abbé, after consulting
the cardinal's eyes, and he motioned to the bearers to go forward.

The chair passed through the gateway and proceeded slowly along the
avenue.

"I would like well to know," thought Michel, as he looked after the
procession, "whether my instinct deceived me, or whether that man is the
enemy of my family."

He was about to continue his journey, when he observed that Abbé Ninfo
had not followed the cardinal, but was waiting until the last mule had
passed, in order to lock the gate and restore the key to his pocket.
This strange caretaking on the part of a man so close to the cardinal
was well calculated to make an impression on him, and the keen, sidelong
glance which that unattractive personage stealthily bestowed upon him
impressed him even more.

"It is evident that I am already watched in this unhappy country," he
thought; "and that my father did not dream of the enmities against which
he warned me to be on my guard."

The abbé motioned to him to come to the gate just as he withdrew the
key. Michel, persuaded that he must play his part more carefully than
ever, approached with an air of humility.

"Here, my boy," said the abbé, offering him a small coin, "here is
something with which to refresh yourself at the first tavern, for you
seem to be very much fatigued."

Michel repressed a thrill of indignation. He accepted the insult, put
out his hand and thanked the abbé humbly; then he ventured to say:

"I am grieved that his eminence did not deign to give me his blessing."

This well-acted bathos dispelled the abbe's suspicions.

"Console yourself, my child," he said, in a nonchalant tone; "Divine
Providence has been pleased to deprive our holy cardinal of the use of
his limbs. Paralysis permits him to bless the faithful only with his
mind and heart."

"May God cure and preserve him!" rejoined Michel; and he went his way,
very certain now that he was not mistaken, and that he had had a lucky
escape from a perilous meeting.

He had not taken ten steps down the hill-side when, as he turned a
corner, he found himself face to face with a man who was close upon him
before either of them recognized the other, so little did they expect to
meet at that moment. Suddenly they both cried out at once and clung
together in a passionate embrace. Michel was in his father's arms.

"O my child! my dear child! you, in this place!" cried Pier-Angelo.
"What joy and what anxiety for me! But joy carries the day and makes me
braver in spirit than I was a moment since. I was thinking of you and
saying to myself: 'It is lucky that Michel is not here, for our affairs
might well become serious.'--But here you are, and I cannot help being
the happiest of men."

"Never fear, father," Michel replied; "I became prudent as soon as I set
my foot on my native soil. I have just met our enemy face to face; he
questioned me, and I lied in a way to do your heart good."

Pier-Angelo turned pale.--"Who? who?" he exclaimed; "the cardinal?"

"Yes, the cardinal in person, the paralytic in his great gilt box. It
must be the famous Prince Hieronymo, who was the terror of my childhood,
and who seemed to me all the more terrible because I did not know the
cause of my fear. Well, dear father, I assure you that even if he still
has the will to do harm, he has not the power, for all varieties of
infirmity seem to have conspired together to crush him. I will tell you
of our interview; but tell me first of my sister, and let us go at once
and surprise her."

"No, Michel, no, the most important thing is for you to tell me how you
happened to see the cardinal so close. Let us go into this clump of
trees; I am not at all easy in my mind. Tell me, tell me quickly! He
spoke to you, you say? Is it certain that he spoke?"

"Let me reassure you, father, he cannot speak."

"Are you sure of it? You told me that he questioned you."

"I was questioned in his behalf, I suppose; but, as I observed
everything with perfect coolness, and as that caricature of an abbé who
acts as his interpreter is too thin to conceal the whole interior of the
chair, I saw plainly that his eminence spoke with his eyes only.
Moreover, his eminence is stone deaf, for when I told my age, which the
abbé asked me for some unknown reason, I saw the abbé lean toward
monsignore and hold up his ten fingers twice over, and then the thumb of
his right hand."

"Dumb, helpless, and deaf to boot! I breathe again. But how old did you
say you were? Twenty-one?"

"You told me to lie as soon as I set foot in Sicily."

"It is well, my child; Heaven aided and inspired you in that encounter."

"I think so, but I should be much more certain of it if you would tell
me how the cardinal can be interested to know whether I am eighteen or
twenty-one."

"That question cannot interest him in any way," said Pier-Angelo, with a
smile. "But I am overjoyed to find that you remembered my advice and
that you have suddenly acquired this prudence, of which I didn't believe
you to be capable. But tell me again, what did Abbé Ninfo--for it must
have been he, I am sure; was he very ugly?"

"Frightful; he squints and has a flat nose."

"That's the man! What else did he ask you? your name, or your province?"

"No, no other direct question, except as to my age, and my brilliant
reply to that seemed to satisfy him so entirely that he turned his back,
promising me his eminence's blessing."

"And his eminence didn't give it to you? he didn't raise his hand?"

"The abbé himself told me a little later that his eminence was entirely
deprived of the use of his limbs."

"What! that man spoke to you again? that fiend of hell came back to
you?"

As he spoke, Pier-Angelo scratched the back of his neck, the only spot
on his head where his restless hand could find any hair. It was a sign
with him of great perturbation of spirit.




IV

MYSTERIES


When Michel had told the story of his adventure to the most trivial
detail, and Pier-Angelo had admired and applauded his hypocrisy, the
young man said:

"Now, father, pray tell me how it happens that you live here, without a
mask and under your own name, without being molested, whereas I,
immediately upon my arrival, must resort to stratagem and stand on my
guard?"

Pier-Angelo seemed to hesitate a moment, then replied:

"Why, it is a very simple matter, my child! I was charged with being a
conspirator long ago; I was put in prison, and probably escaped the
gallows by flight. The formal prosecution had already been begun. That
is all forgotten, and although the cardinal must have known my name and
my face at the time, it would seem that I have changed greatly, or else
his memory is much impaired, for he has seen me here, and must have
heard my name mentioned, without recognizing me and without the faintest
indication that he recalled the old affair; that was a test which I was
resolved to make. I was summoned by Abbé Ninfo to work in the
cardinal's palace; I went there boldly, after taking measures to ensure
Mila's safety in case I should be cast into prison without process. The
cardinal saw me and did not recognize me. Abbé Ninfo knows nothing
about me; so that I am, or at all events I was, free from anxiety on my
own account, and was just about to write you to come and see me, when it
began to be rumored in the city, a few days ago, that his eminence was
visibly improved, so much so that he was going to pass some time at his
country house at Ficarazzi yonder; you can see the palace from here, on
the hillside."

"Then the villa a few steps away, where I just saw the cardinal enter,
is not his own residence?"

"No; it belongs to his niece, Princess Agatha. Doubtless he thought that
he would make a détour and call upon her as he passed; but this same
visit worries me. I know that she was not expecting it--that she had
made no preparations to receive her uncle. He must have wanted to give
her an unpleasant surprise, for he surely knows that there is no reason
whatever why she should be fond of him. I greatly fear that this is a
cloak for some wicked design. In any event, this sudden activity on the
part of a man who, for a whole year, has only moved about in a wheeled
chair up and down a gallery in his city palace, gives me food for
thought, and I say that we must pay close attention to everything now."

"But after all, father, all this does not tell me what danger there can
be for me personally! I was barely six months old, I believe, when I
left Sicily; I fancy that I was not implicated in the conspiracy in
which you were involved?"

"No, of course not; but new-comers are watched. Every man of the people,
young, intelligent and from across the strait, is assumed to be
dangerous, permeated with the new ideas. A single word from your lips,
spoken in presence of a spy, or extorted from you by an informer, would
be enough to put you in prison; and when I went to claim you as my son,
it would be vastly worse if that wicked cardinal should by any chance be
restored to health and to the exercise of power. Then he might remember
that I was accused long ago, and he would apply to us, by way of
sentence, the proverb: 'Like father, like son.' Now do you understand?"

"Yes, father, I will be prudent. Rely on me."

"That is not enough. I must be perfectly sure of the cardinal's state of
health. I do not propose to let you enter Catania until I know what to
expect."

"But what will you do to find out, father?"

"I will remain in hiding here with you until we have seen the cardinal
and his procession start for Ficarazzi. It won't be long. If it is true
that he is deaf and dumb, he will not have a long interview with his
niece. As soon as we no longer run the risk of meeting him there, we
will go to the Palmarosa palace, where I am at work now. I will conceal
you in some corner; then I will go and consult the princess."

"Is the princess in your interest, then?"

"She is my most powerful and most generous patron. She employs me a
great deal, and I hope that, thanks to her, we shall not be persecuted."

"Oh! father, was it she who gave you the money which enabled me to pay
my debts?"

"Lent it my boy, lent it. I knew well enough that you would not accept
alms, but she gives me so much work that I can pay her gradually."

"You may say: 'Soon,' father, for I am here! I have come to pay my debt
to you; my journey has no other purpose."

"What, my dear child! have you sold a picture? have you earned some
money?"

"Alas! no. I am not yet skilful enough or well enough known to earn
money. But I have arms, and I know enough to paint frescoes for
decoration. We will work together, my dear father, and I shall never
again have to blush to think that I am leading the life of an artist,
while you are wearing out your strength to gratify my misplaced tastes."

"Are you in earnest, Michel?" cried the old man. "You really mean to be
a workman?"

"I am fully determined upon it. I have sold my canvases, my engravings,
my books. I have given up my lodgings, thanked my teacher, bade farewell
to friends, to Rome, to glory. It was a little hard," added Michel,
feeling that his eyes were filling with tears; "but embrace me, father;
tell me that you are content with your son, and I shall be proud of what
I have done!"

"Embrace me, my dear boy!" replied the old decorator, pressing his son
to his heart, and blending his own tears with his. "It is a fine thing,
a noble thing that you have done, and God will reward you abundantly for
it, I promise you. I accept your sacrifice, but let us understand each
other: it is for a time only, for a time which we will make as short as
possible by working rapidly to pay our debt. The experience will be
useful to you, and your genius will grow instead of being extinguished.
Between us, thanks to the excellent princess, who will pay us well, we
shall soon have earned money enough for you to return to your real
painting, without remorse and without imposing any privation on me. That
is agreed. Now let us speak of your sister. She is a perfect prodigy of
wit, that little girl. And how she has grown and how beautiful she is!
so beautiful that it's enough to frighten a poor devil of a father like
me."

"I propose to remain a workman," said Michel, "for with a modest but
sure livelihood I can succeed in establishing my sister in life
according to her rank. Poor dear angel! Think of her sending me her
little earnings! And I, poor wretch, intended to bring them back to her
and was forced to sacrifice them! Ah! it is horrible, yes, detestable,
to try to become an artist when one has poor relations!"

"We will speak of this again, and I will find a way to revive your taste
for your destiny, my child. But, hark! I hear the gate creaking--the
cardinal is leaving the villa; let us not show ourselves; we shall soon
see them going down on our right. You say that Ninfo opened the gate
himself with a key that he had? It is very strange, and very disturbing
too, to find that the good princess is not safe in her own house, that
these people have false keys to violate her privacy unexpectedly, and
that they evidently suspect her, since they spy upon her in this way!"

"But of what can they possibly suspect her?"

"Why, suppose it were only of protecting people whom they persecute! You
assure me that you have become prudent, and in any event you will
understand the importance of what I am going to tell you. You know
already that the Palmarosas were entirely devoted to the court of
Naples; that Prince Donigi, the oldest of the family, Princess Agatha's
father, and brother of the cardinal, was the wickedest Sicilian that was
ever known, the enemy of his fatherland and the persecutor of his
compatriots; and that, too, not from cowardice, like those who go over
to the side of the conqueror, nor from greed, like those who sell
themselves; he was rich and fearless; but he did it from ambition, from
his passion for domineering, in short, from an inborn wickedness that
was in his blood and caused him to take the keenest delight in
terrifying, tormenting, and humbling his neighbor. He was omnipotent in
the time of Queen Caroline, and, until it pleased God to rid us of him,
he inflicted all the harm he possibly could upon the patriotic nobles
and the poor devils who loved their country. His brother continued that
wrong-doing; but now he is going, too; and if the dying lamp still casts
a faint gleam, it is simply a proof that it is dying. Then all the
clientage of the Palmarosas, among the people of Catania, and especially
in the suburb where we live, will be able to breathe freely. There are
no more males in the family, and all the vast property, of which the
cardinal still has the income of a large part, will fall into the hands
of a single heiress, Princess Agatha. She is as good as her relations
have been bad, and her heart is in the right place. She is Sicilian to
the marrow and detests the Neapolitans! She will have great influence
when she is entirely in control of her property and her acts. If God
would permit her to marry and take into her house some worthy nobleman
as right-minded as she, that would change the tone of the administration
somewhat, and better our lot!"

"Is the princess a young woman?"

"Yes, still young, and might marry as well as not; but she has always
refused to do it thus far, in the fear, so far as I can understand, that
she would not be free to choose for herself.--But here we are close to
the park," added Pier-Angelo; "we may meet somebody, so let us talk of
indifferent matters only. I urge you, my child, to use here nothing but
the Sicilian dialect, which we very wisely used at Rome so long. You
have not forgotten your native language, I trust, since we parted?"

"No, indeed," replied Michel.

And he began to talk Sicilian with great volubility, to convince his
father that there was nothing about him to indicate the foreigner.

"That is very good," said Pier-Angelo; "you have not the slightest
accent."

They had made a détour and entered the park by a gate at a considerable
distance from that at which Michel had encountered Monsignore Hieronymo;
the gate was open and the numerous marks on the gravel indicated that
many men, horses, and wagons habitually passed in and out.

"You will see here a great hurly-burly, most contrary to the ordinary
habits of the household," said the old painter to his son. "I will
explain it to you. But let us say nothing yet, that is the safest way.
Do not look about you too much, nor have the surprised air of a
new-comer. And, first of all, hide that travelling-bag among the rocks
near the waterfall; I shall remember the place. Rub your shoes in the
grass, so that you won't look like a traveller. Why, I believe you are
limping, are you hurt?"

"Nothing, nothing, a little fatigue."

"I am going to take you to a place where you can rest without being
disturbed by anyone."

Pier-Angelo made several détours in the park, leading his son through
shady paths, and thus they reached the palace without meeting anyone,
although they heard a great deal of noise, which increased as they drew
near. They entered a corridor on the lower floor and walked rapidly by
an enormous room, filled with workmen and materials of all sorts,
assembled there for some incomprehensible purpose. The men were so busy
and making so great an uproar that they did not notice Michel and his
father. Michel had no time to understand what he saw. His father had
instructed him to follow him step by step, and he walked so fast that
the young traveller, utterly exhausted as he was, found it difficult to
keep pace with him in the narrow halls and steep stairways.

Their journey through that labyrinth of secret passages seemed very long
to Michel. At last Pier-Angelo took a key from his pocket and opened a
small door on a dark corridor. Thereupon they found themselves in a long
gallery, adorned with statues and pictures. But the blinds were drawn
everywhere, and it was so dark that Michel could distinguish nothing.

"You can take a nap here," said his father, after he had carefully
locked the little door and removed the key; "I am going to leave you
here; I will return as soon as possible, and then I will tell you what
we are to do."

He walked the whole length of the gallery, and, raising a portière
embroidered with armorial bearings, pulled a bell-cord. In a few seconds
a voice answered inside, and a dialogue followed, in so low a tone, that
Michel could not hear a word. At last, a mysterious door was partly
opened, and Pier-Angelo disappeared, leaving his son in the darkness,
chill, and silence of that great empty room.

At times, however, the echoing voices of the men at work below, the
sound of the saw and the hammer, snatches of song, laughter, and oaths
reached his ears. But the noises gradually died away as darkness
approached, and, after two hours, the most absolute silence reigned in
that unfamiliar abode in which Michel found himself imprisoned, dying of
hunger and weariness.

Those two hours of suspense would have seemed very long to him if sleep
had not come to his aid. Although his eyes had become accustomed to the
darkness of the gallery, he made no attempt to inspect the objects of
art which it contained. He had dropped upon a rug, and fell into a sort
of lethargy, interrupted sometimes by the tumult below, and the
uneasiness which one feels when sleeping in a strange place. At last,
when nightfall was followed by the cessation of the work, he slept
soundly.

But a strange cry, which seemed to come from one of the rose-shaped
openings which supplied the gallery with ventilation, woke him abruptly.
He instinctively raised his head and fancied that he saw a faint light
on the ceiling. The figures painted thereon seemed to move for an
instant. Another cry, fainter than the first, but so peculiar that
Michel was perturbed by it and moved to the lowest depths of his being,
sounded over his head. Then the light vanished. The silence and darkness
became so intense that he wondered if he had not dreamed.

Another quarter of an hour passed, during which Michel, excited by what
had just happened, did not think of going to sleep again. He feared that
his father was in some danger which he could not define. He was
horrified at the thought that he himself was a captive and unable to
assist him. He examined all the doors and found them all securely
locked. He dared not make any noise, for, after all, it was a woman's
voice that he had heard, and he could not understand what connection
there could be between that cry and his own situation or Pier-Angelo's.

At last the mysterious door opened, and Pier-Angelo appeared, carrying a
candle whose flickering light imparted a fantastic appearance to the
statues upon which it fell one after another. When he stood beside
Michel, he said in a low voice: "We are saved; the cardinal is in his
dotage, and Abbé Ninfo knows nothing of our affairs. The princess, for
whom I was compelled to wait a long while, because she had people about
her, is of the opinion that we should make no sort of mystery about you.
She thinks that that would be worse than simply to announce your return
without any affectation. So we will go back to your sister, who is
undoubtedly anxious because I am so late. But we have quite a little
walk, and I suppose you are dying of hunger and thirst. The steward of
the household, who is very kind to me, told me to take you to a little
buttery, where we shall find something to eat."

Michel followed his father to a room which had on one side a glass door
with a curtain covering the glass outside. This room, which was in no
wise remarkable, was lighted by several candles, a fact which astonished
Michel somewhat. Pier-Angelo, observing his surprise, said that it was a
room where the princess's first lady's-maid came every night to
superintend the preparation of her mistress's supper. With that he
unceremoniously began to open cupboards and take out cold meats,
preserves, wine, fruit, and innumerable delicacies which he placed
helter-skelter on the table, laughing at each new discovery he made in
those inexhaustible cupboards--all to the unbounded amazement of Michel,
who failed to recognize his father's customary discretion and pride.




V

THE CASINO


"Well," said Pier-Angelo, "don't you propose to help me? You sit there
with your arms folded and allow your father to wait on you! Do at least
take the trouble to eat and drink yourself!"

"Excuse me, dear father, you seem to me to do the honors of the house
with a self-possession which I admire, but which I should not dare to
imitate. You also seem to me to be very much at home here."

"I am more comfortable here than at home," rejoined Pier-Angelo,
nibbling at the wing of a chicken, and offering the other wing to his
son. "Don't expect me to give you such suppers often. But make the most
of this one without false shame; I told you that the majordomo
authorized me to do this."

"The majordomo is simply a higher servant who pilfers like all the
others, and invites his friends to make themselves comfortable at his
mistress's expense. Excuse me, father, but this supper is distasteful to
me; my appetite has all disappeared at the thought that we are stealing
the princess's supper; for these Japanese plates filled with delicious
sweetmeats were not intended for our mouths, nor even for that of his
highness the majordomo."

"Well, if I must tell you, that is true; but it was the princess herself
who bade me eat her supper, because she is not hungry to-night, and she
supposed that you would have some reluctance to sup with her servants."

"Your princess is extraordinarily kind," said Michel, "and shows a most
exquisite delicacy of feeling with respect to me! I confess that I
should not care to eat with her lackeys. But, father, if you do it, if
it is the custom of the house, and a necessity of my new position, I
will be no more fastidious than you, and will accustom myself to it. But
how did it ever occur to the princess to spare me that petty annoyance
to-night?"

"Because I spoke to her about you. As she is particularly interested in
me, she asked me many questions about you, and, when she learned that
you were an artist, she declared that she would treat you as an artist,
and that she would find an artist's work for you in her house, in short,
that she would show you all the consideration you could possibly
desire."

"She is a very generous and very thoughtful lady," rejoined Michel, with
a sigh, "but I will not abuse her good-nature. I should blush to be
treated as an artist, side by side with my father the artisan. No, no, I
am an artisan myself, neither more nor less. I prefer to be treated like
my fellows, and if I eat here to-night, I propose to eat to-morrow where
my father eats."

"It is well, Michel; those are noble sentiments. I drink your health!
This Syracuse wine gives me courage, and makes the cardinal seem no more
formidable than a mummy to me! But what are you looking at so intently?"

"It seems to me that that curtain behind the glass keeps moving. There
is certainly some prying servant there who doesn't like to see us eating
such a delicious supper in his place. Ah! it will be very disagreeable
to have to deal with those people all the time! They must be carefully
handled, of course, for they can do us an ill turn with their masters,
and deprive an honest artisan, who happens to offend them, of a good
customer."

"That is true, generally speaking, but there is nothing of the sort to
be feared here. I have the princess's confidence; I deal with her
directly and without any orders from the majordomo. And, then, her
servants are excellent fellows. Come, eat in peace, and don't keep
looking at that curtain, which the wind is blowing."

"I assure you, father, that it isn't the wind, unless Zephyr has a
pretty little white hand with a diamond ring on the finger."

"In that case it must be the princess's first lady's-maid. She must have
heard me tell her mistress that you were a well-favored youth, and she
is curious to see you. Sit round this way, so that she can gratify her
curiosity."

"I am much more anxious to go and see Mila, father, than to be seen by
her ladyship the first lady's-maid. I have eaten my fill; let us go."

"I will not go until I have applied once more to this excellent wine for
courage and strength. Drink with me again, Michel! I am so happy to be
with you, that I would get drunk if I had the time!"

"And I am happy too, father; but I shall be still more so when we are at
home with my sister. I do not feel so much at ease as you do in this
mysterious palace: it seems to me that I am watched, or that some one
here is afraid of me. There is a silence and solitude here which do not
seem natural to me. People do not walk and show themselves as they do in
other places. We are stealthy in our movements, and we are being
stealthily watched. Anywhere else I would break a pane of glass to see
what there is behind that curtain--and just now, in the gallery, I had a
terrible shock. I was awakened by a cry, such a cry as I never heard
before."

"A cry, really? How does it happen that I heard nothing of the sort,
although I was very near you, in the same part of the palace? You must
have dreamed it!"

"No! no! I heard it twice; a faint cry, it is true, but so vibrating, so
peculiar that my heart beats fast when I think of it."

"Ah! that is just like your romantic mind! Now I recognize you, Michel;
it delights my heart, for I was afraid that you had become too
reasonable. However, I am sorry, for the sake of your adventure, to be
obliged to tell you what I think about it, which is that her highness's
first lady's-maid must have seen a spider or a mouse as she passed
through one of the corridors that surround the great gallery of
paintings. Whenever she sees one of those creatures, she utters
frightful shrieks, and I take the liberty of laughing at her."

This prosaic explanation annoyed the young artist a little. He hurried
his father, who was inclined to forget himself over the Syracuse wine,
and half an hour later he was in his sister's arms.

The next day Michelangelo Lavoratori was installed with his father at
the Palmarosa palace, to work industriously there the rest of the week.
The work in progress was the decoration of the enormous ball-room
constructed of wood and canvas for the occasion, adjoining the peristyle
of that beautiful country-seat, and opening on the gardens on every
side. The princess, who ordinarily lived in strict retirement, was about
to give a magnificent fête, in which all the wealthy and noble
inhabitants of Catania and of the neighboring villas were to take part.
Her reason for this departure from her usual mode of life was as
follows:

Every year the first society of that neighborhood co-operated to give a
subscription ball for the benefit of the poor, and each proprietor of a
spacious house, whether in the city or the country, was supposed to lend
it in his turn, and to pay a portion of the expenses of the fête when
the circumstances would permit.

Although the princess was exceedingly charitable, her taste for
seclusion had led her to defer offering her palace; but her turn had
come at last. She had most generously assumed the whole burden of the
fête, agreeing to pay all the expenses of the ball, including the
decorations of the ball-room, music, etc. By reason of her generosity,
the sum realized for the poor promised to be quite handsome, and, as the
Villa Palmarosa was the most superb residence in the province, and all
the preparations were on a magnificent scale, the fête promised to be
the most brilliant one ever seen.

The house was full of workmen, who had been at work a fortnight on the
ball-room, under the direction of Barbagallo the majordomo, a man of
wide experience in such matters, and under the preponderating influence
of Pier-Angelo Lavoratori, whose taste and skill were already well known
and highly esteemed throughout the province.

On the first day, Michel, true to his agreement and resigned to his lot,
made garlands and arabesques with his father and the apprentices in his
employ; but his probation was confined to that day, for on the following
morning Pier-Angelo informed him that the princess wished him to
undertake the painting of allegorical figures on the ceiling and canvas
walls of the ball-room. The selection and size of the subjects was left
to his discretion; he was requested simply to make haste and to have
confidence in himself. That task did not require the care and finish of
a durable work; but it opened a wide field to his imagination, and when
he realized that he was in possession of that vast space, upon which he
was at liberty to cast his fancies without restraint, he had a moment of
genuine bliss, and he was more intoxicated than ever with his profession
of artist.

His enthusiasm for the commission was greatly increased when the
princess sent word to him, through his father, that, if his work was
simply passable, it would be accepted as full payment of the sum lent to
Pier-Angelo for him; but that, if it earned the praise of connoisseurs,
he should be paid double.

Thus Michel was on the point of becoming free in any event, and perhaps
rich for a year to come, if he displayed any talent at all.

A single apprehension, but a very weighty one, chilled his joy; the day
for the ball was fixed, and it was not in the princess's power to
postpone it. A week remained, only a week! For an experienced decorator
that was enough, but for Michel, who had never done anything of the sort
on a large scale, and who could not refrain from looking upon it as a
matter in which his self-esteem was deeply involved, it was so little
that he shuddered at the bare thought.

Luckily for him, having worked with his father in his boyhood, and
having watched him work a thousand times since, the processes of
water-color work were familiar to him, as well as the geometrical
principles of decoration; but when he attempted to select his subjects,
he was oppressed by the superabundance of his ideas, and the prodigality
of his imagination put him on the rack. He passed two nights drawing his
compositions, and all day on his scaffolding, adjusting them to the
space at his command. He did not think of sleeping or eating, or even of
improving his acquaintance with his young sister, until his work was
definitely laid out. At last it was done, and he transferred his labors
to the courtyard of an old ruined chapel in the centre of the park,
where his canvas ceiling, forty feet long, was stretched on the ground.
There, assisted by several zealous apprentices, who handed him his
colors all ready for use, and walking barefooted over his mythological
sky, he prayed to the muses to impart to his trembling hand the
necessary skill and boldness; and at last, armed with a gigantic brush,
which might fitly have been called a broom, he sketched his Olympus and
worked with so much fire and hope that the canvas was ready to be put in
place two days before the ball.

He had still to superintend its removal and installation, and to retouch
such parts as were necessarily damaged in that process. And then he also
had to assist his father, who, having been delayed by him, still had
many borders of wainscots and cornices to finish.

That week passed like a dream to Michel, and the few moments of repose
in which he indulged seemed to him delicious beyond words. The villa was
wonderfully beautiful inside as well as outside. The gardens and the
park gave one an idea of the earthly paradise. Nature is so teeming in
that country, the flowers so beautiful and sweet, the vegetation so
luxuriant, the streams so clear and swift, that art has little to do in
order to create fairyland around the palaces there. Not that blocks of
lava and vast fields of ashes do not, here and there, present the image
of desolation beside the Elysian Fields. But those horrors add to the
charm of the oases which the volcanic flames have spared.

Villa Palmarosa, situated on the slope of a hill whose rugged summit was
exposed to the ravages of Ætna, had existed for centuries amid
continual disasters which it had been privileged to contemplate
undisturbed. The palace was very old, of a graceful type of
architecture, borrowed from Saracen models. The ball-room, which now
concealed the façade of the ground-floor, presented a striking contrast
to the dark coloring and severe decorations of the upper floors. Within,
the contrast was even more striking. While all was uproar and confusion
on the ground floor, all was tranquillity, order and mystery on the
floor above, where the princess lived. At meal times Michel entered that
silent portion of the mansion, for the little room with the glass door,
where he had supped with his father on the first evening, was reserved
for him, as a special and mysterious favor. They were all alone there,
and if the curtain moved again, the movement was so slight that Michel
could not be certain that he had inspired a romantic passion in the
first lady's-maid's breast.

The palace being built against the cliff, the princess's apartments were
on a level with terraces embellished with flower-beds and fountains; and
by descending a narrow flight of steps, boldly cut in the lava, one
could reach by that means the park and the open country. Once Michel
wandered into those Babylonian flower-gardens suspended over a
terrifying abyss. He saw the windows of the princess's boudoir, which
was two hundred feet above the main entrance of the palace, and yet she
could go out of doors to walk without descending a single step. Such
boldness of conception and such charm in the construction of a dwelling
made him giddy both physically and mentally. But he never saw the queen
of that enchanted abode. At the times when he went up to her apartments
she was taking a siesta or receiving visits from her intimate friends in
the salons on the second floor.

This Sicilian custom of living on the upper floors, to enjoy the fresher
air and more perfect quiet, is found in several Italian cities. These
private apartments, generally small and quiet, are sometimes called the
_Casino_, and, with their private gardens, form, as it were, a distinct
dwelling above the main palace. This of which we are speaking was set
back from the front and side walls of the lower building by the width of
a very broad terrace, so that it was concealed, and, as it were,
isolated. At the back it formed a building of a single story, on the
level of the flower-garden, since the lower edifice was built against
the cliff. Viewing it from that side, one would have said that a stream
of lava had flowed against the palace and hardened there, and had
blotted out one whole side of it up to the level of the Casino. But the
villa had been constructed in that way to avoid danger from fresh
eruptions. Looking at it from the direction of Ætna, one would have
taken it for a small summer-house perched on top of a rock. Not until
you had made the circuit of that mass of volcanic débris did you
discover a magnificent palace, consisting of three great structures, one
upon another, and climbing the hill backward, so to speak.

Under any other circumstances Michel would have been curious to know if
this lady, who was said to be lovely and gracious, was, poetically
speaking, worthy to inhabit so noble an abode; but his imagination,
engrossed by the hurried work which had been entrusted to him, paid
little heed to other things.

He felt so fatigued when he laid aside his rough brush for an instant,
that he was compelled to fight against drowsiness in order not to
prolong his siesta beyond half an hour. Indeed, he was so afraid that
the zeal of his companions might abate, that he took that brief interval
of rest by stealth in the gallery of paintings, where his father would
lock him in, and where it seemed that no one ever set foot. Two or three
times he lacked courage to go and pass the night in the suburb of
Catania, although his house was among the first on the road from the
villa, and he consented to allow his father to procure a bed for him in
the palace. When he did return to the wretched hovel where Mila bloomed
like a rose under glass, he neither saw nor comprehended anything that
took place about him. He confined himself to kissing his sister and
telling her that he was glad to see her, but he had no time to
scrutinize her or to talk with her.

The day before the fête was a Sunday. It only remained to give a last
glance and a finishing touch to the work. He determined to dress with
some care and to stroll about the city after escorting Mila to the
evening service. He soon learned the location of the principal churches,
squares, and buildings. Lastly, his father introduced him to several of
his friends and relations, who welcomed him cordially, and with whom he
strove to be amiable. But the contrast between that environment and the
society he had frequented at Rome made him sad in spite of himself, and
he retired early, longing for the morrow; for, in presence of his work,
and under the spell of the noble edifice in which he labored, he forgot
that he was of the common people, and remembered only that he was an
artist.

At last that day of hope and dread arrived, the day on which Michel's
work was to be applauded or ridiculed by the élite of Sicilian society.




VI

THE STAIRCASE


"What! no farther advanced than this?" cried the majordomo, in despair,
rushing in among the workmen. "Great God! what are you thinking of? The
clock will strike seven in a moment; at eight the carriages will begin
to arrive, and half of this room is not yet draped!"

As this apostrophe was addressed to no person in particular, no one
replied, and the workmen continued to work with more or less speed, each
according to the measure of his strength and his skill.

"Room, room for the flowers!" cried the controller of that notable
branch of the establishment. "Put a hundred boxes of camellias in rows
along the benches!"

"How do you expect to arrange your boxes of flowers before the carpets
are down?" queried Master Barbagallo, with a profound sigh.

"And where do you expect me to put my boxes and flower-pots?" retorted
the head gardener. "Why haven't your upholsterers finished their work?"

"Ah! there you are! why haven't they?" said the other, in a tone of
intense indignation.

"Room! room for my ladders!" cried another voice; "the orders are that
everything must be lighted at eight o'clock sharp, and that doesn't give
me any too much time to light so many chandeliers. Room, room, I say!"

"Painters, take away your ladders," cried the upholsterers, in their
turn; "we can do nothing as long as you are in the way."

"Such confusion, such an uproar, it's a second Tower of Babel," muttered
the majordomo, wiping his brow. "I did all that I could to see that
everything was done at the proper time; I warned everyone more than a
hundred times; and here you are, all in a muddle, disputing the ground
with one another, in one another's way, and making no progress at all.
It is hopeless! it is disgusting!"

"Whose fault is it?" said the man with the flowers. "Can I put my
wreaths on bare walls and my flowerpots on rough boards?"

"And can I climb up to the ceiling," said the man with the candles, "if
my ladders are taken away to lay carpets? Do you take my men for bats,
do you want me to make thirty honest fellows break their necks?"

"How do you expect my men to lay their carpets," said the chief
upholsterer, in his turn, "if the painters don't take away their
ladders?"

"And how do you expect our ladders to be taken away if we are still on
them?" shouted one of the painters.

"The fault is all yours, you daubers!" cried the frantic majordomo; "or,
rather, your master is the only culprit," he added, noticing that the
young man whom he addressed glared fiercely at him at the epithet of
dauber. "It's that old madman of a Pier-Angelo, who is not even here to
direct you, I'll wager. Where can he be? At the nearest wineshop, I'll
stake my head!"

A voice, still full and resonant, broke forth at the highest point of
the ceiling with the refrain of an old ballad, and, on looking up, the
wrathful majordomo saw the glistening bald head of the
decorator-in-chief. Evidently the old man was laughing at the majordomo,
and, being master of the field, proposed to put the finishing touches to
his work at his leisure.

"Pier-Angelo, my friend," said the other, "you are making sport of us!
That is too bad of you. You act like an old spoiled child, as you are;
but we shall lose patience at last. This is no time to laugh and sing
your drinking-songs."

Pier-Angelo did not deign to reply; he simply shrugged his shoulders as
he talked with his son, who was even higher up than he, shading the
dress of a dancing-girl of Herculaneum, who swam in a blue canvas sky.

"There are enough figures, enough folds and shading!" cried the
majordomo, beside himself. "Who in the devil will ever look up there, to
see if there's anything wrong with your divinities in the firmament? The
general effect is there, and that's all that is necessary. Come, come
down, you old fox, or I'll shake the ladder you are standing on."

"If you touch my father's ladder," exclaimed young Michel, in a voice of
thunder, "I will crush you with this chandelier. No jests of that sort,
Signor Barbagallo, or you will be sorry for them."

"Let him talk, and go on with your work," said old Pier-Angelo, calmly.
"Disputing takes time; don't waste your breath in empty words."

"Go down, father, go down," said the young man. "I am afraid that in
this confusion they may give you a fall; I shall finish in a moment. Go
down, I entreat you, if you expect me to retain my presence of mind."

Pier-Angelo descended the ladder slowly; not that he had lost, at sixty
years of age, the strength and agility of youth, but in order to make
the time that his son required to complete his work seem less long.

"What folly, what trifling!" said the majordomo to the old man. "You
work over these temporary canvases as if they were to be exhibited in a
museum, whereas they will be rolled up and stored in a garret to-morrow,
and will have to be covered with different figures for the next fête!
Who will thank you for it? Who will pay the slightest attention to
them?"

"Not you; everybody knows that," retorted the young painter,
contemptuously, from the top of his ladder.

"Hush, Michel, and attend to your work," said his father. "Everyone
takes pride in doing the best he can," he added, looking at the steward.
"There are some who take pride in claiming the credit of all our labors!
Come! the upholsterers may begin. Give me a hammer and some nails, you
fellows! As I have delayed you, it's no more than fair that I should
help you."

"Always a good comrade!" said one of the upholsterers, handing the old
painter some tools. "Come, Master Pier-Angelo, let art and trade lend
each other a hand! One must be mad to get into trouble with you."

"Oh! yes," grumbled Barbagallo, who, contrary to his customary reserved
and courteous habit, was in a savage humor that evening; "that's the way
everybody pays court to the obstinate old fool, and he doesn't care a
fig how much trouble he makes for others."

"Instead of grumbling, you ought to help at the nailing, or by lighting
the candles," said Pier-Angelo, with a mocking air. "But, psha I you are
afraid you might spoil your satin breeches and tear your ruffles."

"Master Pier-Angelo, you are altogether too familiar, and I swear that I
will never employ you after to-day."

"God grant it!" retorted the other with his accustomed phlegm,
accompanying himself with sturdy, measured blows of the hammer upon the
nails which he drove in quick succession; "but, on the very next
occasion, you will come and implore me, and say that nothing can be done
without me; and I, as usual, shall forgive your impertinence."

"Well!" said the majordomo to Michel, as he came slowly down his ladder,
"is it done at last? That is very fortunate! Quick! quick! help the
upholsterers, or the gardeners, or the lamplighters. Do something to
make up for lost time."

Michel eyed the majordomo with a haughty air. He had so entirely
forgotten even the idea of becoming a mere workman, that he could not
imagine how that subordinate could venture to order him to take part in
tasks unconnected with his special duties; but, just as he was about to
make a sharp retort, he heard his father's voice calling him.

"Come, Michel, bring us some nails here, and help these good fellows,
who won't finish in time without us."

"Nothing can be fairer," the young man replied. "I may not be very
skilful at that work, but I have good strong arms for stretching. Come,
what must I do? Tell me, you fellows!"

"Good!" exclaimed Magnani, a young journeyman upholsterer, outspoken and
full of animation, who lived next door to the Lavoratori family in the
suburb. "Be a good comrade like your father, whom everybody loves, and
you will be loved as he is. We have been told that, because you had
studied painting at Rome, you were inclined to be a little conceited,
and you certainly do go about the city in a coat that is hardly fitted
for an artisan. You have a very pleasing face, to be sure, but people
blame you for being ambitious."

"Where would be the harm?" rejoined Michel, working industriously beside
Magnani. "Who is not entitled to be ambitious?"

"I like the frankness of your reply, but every man who wishes to be
admired should begin by winning affection."

"Am I hated, pray, in this country, where I have just arrived, and where
I know no one as yet?"

"It is your own country; you were born here, your family is well known
here, and your father highly esteemed; and the very reason that
everybody has their eyes fixed on you is that you have just arrived.
People think you a comely fellow, well dressed and well built. So far as
I am able to judge, you have talent, the figures you have sketched and
colored up yonder are not mere vulgar daubs. Your father is proud of
you, but that is no reason why you should be proud of yourself. You are
still a child, you are several years younger than I; you have almost no
beard on your chin; you have never had an opportunity to furnish proofs
of courage and virtue. When you have suffered a little because of the
hardships of your condition in life, without complaining, then we will
forgive you for carrying your head high and swaying from your hips up as
you cross the street, with your cap over one ear. Otherwise we shall
tell you that you are trying to impose on us, and that if you are not an
artisan, but an artist, you had better ride in a carriage and not look
the young men of your own rank in the face; for, you see, your father is
a workman like us; he has talent in his line, and it may be more
difficult to paint flowers, fruit, and birds on a cornice than to hang
draperies at a window and arrange colors to harmonize in furnishing a
room. But the difference isn't so great that we are not cousins-german
in trade. I do not think that I am any better than the carpenter or
mason; why do you think yourself above me?"

"I have no such thought," Michel replied; "God preserve me from it!"

"In that case, why didn't you come to our artisans' ball last night? I
know that your cousin Vincenzo wanted to bring you, and you refused."

"Do not form a bad opinion of me for that, my friend; it may be that I
am of a melancholy and unsociable temperament."

"I don't believe it. Your face says the contrary. Forgive me for
speaking to you without ceremony; it is because I like you that I
reproach you in this way. But our carpet is all nailed here; we must go
somewhere else."

"Two or three of you to each chandelier!" cried the head lamplighter to
his men; "you will never finish if you scatter so!"

"I say! I am all alone!" cried Visconti, one of the lighters, a stout
fellow and fond of the bottle, who, having a little wine in his brain
already, did not hold the lighted match within two inches of the candle.
Michel, impressed by the lesson Magnani had given him, placed a stool
under the chandelier and attempted to assist Visconti.

"Ah! that is right!" said the latter; "Master Michel's a good fellow,
and he will have his reward. The princess pays well, and moreover she
wants everybody to enjoy themselves in her house on fête days. There
will be a supper for us after the dessert of the nobility's supper, and
there'll be no lack of good wine. I have already had a little on account
as I passed through the pantry."

"And so you are burning your fingers!" said Michel, with a smile.

"Perhaps your hand won't be as steady as it is now, two or three hours
later," retorted Visconti; "for you will come to supper with us, won't
you, young man? Your father will sing us his old ballads, which are
always good for a laugh. There'll be more than a hundred of us at table
at once! Ah! what a lark we will have!"

"Make room, make room!" cried a tall footman, with gold lace on all the
seams of his livery; "the princess is coming to see if everything is
ready. Make haste, stand aside! Don't shake the carpets so hard, you
raise a dust. I say! you lighters up there, don't drop the wax so! take
away your tools, make a passage!"

"Well," said the majordomo, "now you will hold your peace, I trust, you
workmen! Come, make haste; if you are late, at least act as if you were
hurrying. I won't be responsible for the rebuke you are going to
receive. I am very sorry for you. But it's your own fault; I can't
justify you. Ah! Master Pier-Angelo, this time you have no excuse for
coming to beg for compliments."

These words reached young Michel's ears, and all his pride reawoke in
his heart. The idea that his father could _beg for_ compliments and
receive reproaches was intolerable to him. If he had not as yet been
able to see the princess, he could fairly say that he had made no
attempt to see her. He was not one of those who run eagerly at the heels
of a wealthy and powerful person, to feast that person's eyes with the
spectacle of puerile and servile admiration. But this time he stooped as
he stood on the stool, seeking with his eyes that haughty personage who,
according to Master Barbagallo, would in a moment humiliate an
assemblage of intelligent and willing mechanics with a gesture or a
word. He remained in that position, considerably above the level of the
crowd, in order to see better, but all ready to jump down, rush to his
old father's side, and answer for him if, in a spasm of too great
affability, the heedless old man should allow himself to be insulted.

The vast apartment which they were hastening to complete was nothing
more than an immense garden terrace, covered on the outside with such a
wilderness of foliage, garlands and streamers, that one might have taken
it for an enormous bower after the style of Watteau. Within, movable
floors had been laid on the gravel. Three great marble fountains,
decorated with mythological characters, were not at all in the way in
that extemporized ball-room, but formed its most beautiful decoration.
There was sufficient room to promenade and to dance between those
graceful piles. They discharged their jets of limpid water into
veritable thickets of flowers, beneath the resplendent glare of the
great chandeliers, which spangled them with sparks of light. Benches,
arranged as in an ancient amphitheatre, dotted with rose-bushes here and
there, provided numerous seats for the guests and did not impede the
circulation.

The ceiling was so high that the main stairway of the palace, an
admirable piece of architecture, adorned with antique statues and jasper
urns of the most beautiful patterns, was wholly within the ball-room.
The white marble stairs were newly covered with a purple carpet, and the
lackeys who preceded the princess having swept back the crowd of
workmen, there was a solemn void about the foot of the staircase.
Everybody instinctively held his peace in anticipation of a majestic
spectacle.

The workmen, impelled by a feeling of curiosity, ingenuous and
respectful in some, mocking and indifferent in others, all fixed their
eyes on the great carved doors at the top of the staircase. Michel felt
that his heart was beating fast, but it was with anger no less than with
impatience. "Who in God's name are these nobles and wealthy mortals," he
said to himself, "that they walk so proudly over the altars and
platforms that our degraded hands construct for them? A goddess of
Olympus would hardly be worthy to appear in such state, at the summit of
such a temple, to the base mortals prostrate at her feet! Oh! insolence,
falsehood and mockery! It may be that the woman who is about to come
forth before my eyes is a woman of narrow mind, of ordinary parts; and
yet all these bold, strong men, uncover at her approach!"

Michel had asked his father very few questions concerning Princess
Agatha's tastes and character; and even those few questions Pier-Angelo
had answered, especially of late, in an absent-minded way, as his custom
was when anyone introduced a subject foreign to the train of thought
induced by his work. But Michel was proud, and the thought that he was
about to be brought face to face with some one prouder than himself
aroused a feeling of anger and something like hatred in his heart.




VII

A GLANCE


When the Princess of Palmarosa appeared at the top of the stairs, Michel
thought that he saw before him a girl of fifteen, she was so lithe and
slender in figure and in attitude; but, at each stair that she
descended, he discovered an additional year upon her brow; and when he
saw her near at hand, he concluded that she was about thirty. That did
not prevent her from being beautiful; not resplendent and superb, but
pure and sweet, like the bunch of white cyclamen she carried in her
hand. She had a reputation for grace and charm rather than for beauty;
for she had never been a coquette, and did not seek to create a
sensation. Many much less beautiful women had kindled passions because
they had chosen so to do. Princess Agatha had never furnished food for
gossip, and if there had ever been any profound emotion in her life,
society had never had any positive knowledge of it.

She was very charitable, indeed, it might be said that her only
occupation was the distribution of alms; but it was done without parade
or ostentation, and she was not called the mother of the poor. In a
majority of cases the people whom she assisted did not know the source
of the assistance they received. She was not a very regular attendant at
church, although she did not avoid religious services. She had artistic
tastes, and surrounded herself most discerningly with the most beautiful
objects and the noblest minds. But she did not shine in the centre of
her social system, nor did she make a pedestal of her connections or her
wealth. In everything it seemed that she preferred to do as all the
world did, and that, whether from apathy, from good taste, or from
inward timidity, she had made it an object in life never to attract
notice. There never was a more inoffensive woman. People esteemed her,
loved her without enthusiasm, appreciated her worth without jealousy.
But was she appreciated at her true worth? That is something that it
would have been difficult to say. She was not supposed to have a great
intellect. The highest praise that her oldest friends bestowed upon her
was to say that she was an absolutely reliable person and of a very even
disposition.

All this could be readily seen in the first glance that one cast upon
her, and young Michel, as he watched her descend the staircase with
careless grace, felt his aversion vanish with his dread. It was
impossible to retain a feeling of irritation in presence of so pure, and
calm, and sweet a face. But, as he had prepared, in his anger, to defy
the awe-inspiring glance of a domineering and splendid beauty, he felt
as if his mind were relieved of a great weight when he saw an ordinary
woman. He had an instinctive feeling that, even if she came to scold,
she would have neither the energy, nor, perhaps, the spirit to be
insulting. His heart became calmer, and he gazed at her with increasing
tranquillity, as if the refreshing fluid emanating from a serene mind
had found its way from her to him.

She was richly but simply dressed in a heavy silk gown of a dull milky
white, without ornament. A small circle of diamonds embellished her
glossy black hair, parted in bands over a smooth, pure forehead.
Doubtless she could have worn richer jewels, but her coronet was a work
of art of most excellent workmanship, and did not weary her small,
admirably poised head with a dragging weight. Her shoulders, half bare,
had lost the interesting thinness of early youth, and had not yet
attained the luxuriant rotundity of the third or fourth youth. There
were still some delicate lines in her figure, and in her every movement
a careless suppleness, which seemed to be unaware of its own existence
and to pose for no one.

With the end of her fan she slowly waved aside the footman and the
majordomo, who were exerting themselves to make room for her, and passed
before them, stepping easily and without awkward haste over the boards
and rolls of carpet which still lay in her path; and with a sort of
heedlessness, humble or lordly, as you please, allowing the long folds
of her beautiful white silk dress to drag in the dust left by the feet
of the mechanics. With no sign of repugnance, perhaps without observing
them, she brushed against the perspiring workmen, who could not step
aside quickly enough. She passed through a group of gardeners, who were
moving huge boxes, and did not seem to notice or to be disturbed by the
danger of being crushed or wounded. She returned the salutations of
those who saluted her, without the slightest assumption of superiority
or patronage, and when she was in the midst of the swarm of men, boards,
ladders, and canvas, she halted very calmly, looked about to see what
was finished and what was not, and said in a mild and encouraging voice:

"Well, _gentlemen_, do you hope to have everything finished in time? We
have barely half an hour."

"I will answer for everything, my dear princess," replied Pier-Angelo,
approaching her with a cheerful air; "don't you see that I am putting my
hand to everything?"

"In that case, I have no fear," said she, "and I rely also upon
everybody here. It would be a pity to leave such a beautiful piece of
work unfinished. I am exceedingly pleased. It is all conceived with
taste and executed with great care. I thank you very much for the pains
you have taken to do the work well, _gentlemen_, and this fête will
redound to your glory."

"My son Michel will have his share in it, I trust," rejoined the old
decorator; "will your ladyship deign to permit me to present him to you?
Come, Michel, come and kiss the princess's hand, my son; she is a kind
princess, you see!"

Michel did not move a muscle to approach them. Although the way in which
the princess had _scolded_ his father had touched him and won his heart,
he was by no means inclined to humble himself before her. He was well
aware that the Italian custom of kissing a lady's hand denotes either
the respectful homage of a friend or the prostration of an inferior,
and, having no right to claim the former title, he did not choose to
descend to the other. He removed his velvet cap and stood erect,
affecting to look the princess in the face with perfect self-possession.

Thereupon she fixed her eyes upon him, and, whether because her features
wore an expression of kindness and cordiality in contrast to the
careless good-nature of her manners, or because Michel was assailed by a
strange hallucination, he was stirred to the lowest depths of his being
by that unexpected glance. It seemed to him that a searching flame,
intense and penetrating, entered his very soul from the great lady's
soft eyes; that an ineffable affection, coming forth from that unknown
heart, had taken possession of his whole being; in short, that the
Princess Agatha said to him in language more eloquent than any human
words: "Come to my arms, come to my heart!"

Michel, bewildered, fascinated, beside himself, shuddered, turned pale,
approached with an involuntary, convulsive movement, tremblingly took
the princess's hand, and, as he was about to put it to his lips, raised
his eyes once more to hers, thinking that he had been mistaken, and that
he could in that way put an end to a dream that was at once painful and
delicious. But those pure and limpid eyes expressed a love so absolute
and so trustful that he lost his head, felt that his senses were leaving
him, and fell as if crushed at the signora's feet.

When he recovered his presence of mind, the princess was already several
steps away. She walked on, followed by Pier-Angelo, and when they were
alone at the farther end of the room, they seemed to be discussing some
detail of the fête. Michel was ashamed; his emotion rapidly vanished in
face of the thought that he had presented to all his companions a
spectacle of incredible weakness and presumption; but, as the princess's
kind words had electrified them all, and as they had all resumed their
labor with a sort of joyful frenzy, they sang and hammered, and bustled
about him, and his adventure was a mere incident, lost, or at least not
understood, in the crowd. Some had noticed, with a smile, that he bowed
lower than he needed to do, and that it was apparently an aristocratic
and gallant habit which he had brought from abroad with his haughty air
and his fine clothes. Others thought that he had stumbled over a board
when he was about to bow, and that his awkwardness had caused his
confusion.

Magnani alone had watched him closely and half guessed the truth.

"Michel," he said, after a few moments, when their work had brought them
together once more, "you seem very timid, but I believe that you are
insanely bold. It is certain that the princess thought you a handsome
fellow, and that she looked at you in a certain way which might have
meant something very different on the part of any other woman; but do
not be too presumptuous, my boy; this excellent princess is a virtuous
lady; she has never been known to have a lover, and if she chose to take
one, it isn't at all likely that she would begin with a little painter
in distemper, when so many illustrious noblemen ----"

"Hush, Magnani," said Michel, vehemently; "your jests wound me, and I
have never given you the right to laugh at me in this way; I won't
endure it."

"Come, no temper," rejoined the young journeyman; "I have no intention
of offending you, and when a man has arms like mine, he would be a
coward to insult a boy like you. Besides, I am not naturally unkind, and
as I told you before, if I speak frankly to you, it is because I am
inclined to like you. I feel that you have a mind superior to mine,
which attracts and charms me. But I also feel that you have a weak
character and a wild imagination. If you have more intelligence and more
refinement, I have more common sense and experience. Do not take my
reflections in bad part. You have no friends among us as yet, and you
could already reckon more than one enmity prepared to break out, if you
should incline to see what is going on around you. I may be able to be
of service to you in some way, and if you listen to my warning, you will
avoid many vexations which you do not foresee. Come, Michel, do you
scorn me, and reject my friendship?"

"On the contrary, I request it," replied Michel, moved and completely
conquered by Magnani's frankness; "and I propose to show myself worthy
of it by justifying myself. I know nothing, I believe nothing, I think
nothing of the princess. For the first time in my life I see so great a
lady at close quarters, and ----. But why do you smile?"

"You stop to ask about my smile to avoid finishing your sentence. I will
finish it for you. You find that a great lady is something divine, and
you fall madly in love with her. You love grandeur! I understood that
perfectly the first time I saw you."

"No, no!" cried Michel, "I have not fallen in love; I do not know this
woman, and, as for her grandeur, I do not know in what it consists. You
might as well say that I am in love with her palace, her dress, or her
diamonds, for thus far I have seen no other signs of superiority, except
excellent taste, in which we assist her materially, it seems to me, as
well as her jeweller and her dressmaker."

"As you know nothing more of her, that is well said," rejoined Magnani;
"but in that case will you explain to me why you nearly fainted when you
kissed her hand?"

"Do you explain it to me, if you can; for my part, I have no idea. I
knew that ladies had a way of using their eyes which was bolder than
that of a courtesan, and at the same time more contemptuous than that of
a nun. Yes, I had noticed that; and that blending of seduction and pride
drove me wild when I happened, against my will, to touch elbows with any
of them in a crowd. And that is why I hated great ladies. But this one
has a glance which resembles no other woman's. I could not undertake to
say whether it is voluptuous languor or good-humored torpor; but no
woman ever looked at me so, and ---- what can you expect, Magnani? I am
young and impressionable, and it gave me the vertigo; that is all. I am
not intoxicated with vanity, I swear, for I am perfectly certain that
she would have looked at you in the same way if chance had placed your
face before her instead of mine."

"I don't believe it," replied Magnani, pensively.

He had dropped his hammer and seated himself on a bench. He seemed to be
struggling painfully to solve a problem.

"Ah! young men!" exclaimed old Pier-Angelo, as he passed them; "you are
chattering and not working; only the old men know how to work fast."

Touched by the rebuke, Michel hastened to assist his father, after
whispering to his new friend that they would resume their conversation
later.

"Your best course," said Magnani, in an undertone, with a strange
expression, "will be to think as little as possible about it."

Michel loved his father fervently, and with good reason. Pier-Angelo was
a man of spirit, of courage, and of sound sense. An artist in his way,
he followed the good old traditions in his work, and was not irritated
by the innovations that he saw all about him. On the contrary, he very
quickly assimilated such progressive ideas as he was made to understand.
He was an easy-going, jovial mortal, optimistic in general, tolerant in
particular cases, almost never ascribing evil intentions, but never
paltering with them when it was no longer possible for him to entertain
his generous illusions. A straightforward, simple, unselfish soul,
content with little, entertained by everything, loving work for himself,
and money for others, that is to say, living from day to day, and unable
to deny his neighbor anything.

Providence had given the impulsive Michel the only guide he could ever
have accepted; for that young man was entirely different from his father
in several respects. He was restless, suspicious, slightly egotistical,
with a decided tendency toward ambition, instability and anger. And yet
his also was a noble nature, because it was sincerely in love with the
noble and the great, and surrendered enthusiastically when its
confidence was justified. But it is beyond question that his temperament
was less happy than it might have been, that his active and inquisitive
intellect often fed upon itself; and that his sensitive and excitable
mind sometimes made a desperate onslaught on the tranquillity of his
heart.

If a rough hand, the heavy hand of a mechanic desperately bent upon
money-making, or subject to all the jealous indignation peculiar to the
republican spirit, had undertaken to mould young Michel's mobile nature
and discontented mind, it would have driven them to exasperation and
would speedily have shattered or destroyed them. The improvident and
cheerful temper of Pier-Angelo had acted as a counterpoise and sedative
upon his passionate instincts. He rarely talked the language of cold
reason to him, and never thwarted his fickle inclinations. But the
fearless heedlessness of certain natures has a sympathetic effect which
makes us blush for our weaknesses, and acts upon us more powerfully by
example, by precepts nobly and simply put in execution, than all the
speeches and sermons in the world could do. It was by this means that
Pier-Angelo, while seeming to accede to Michel's desires and caprices,
still exerted the only ascendancy to which he could have been induced to
submit.




VIII

THE INTRUDER


Once more, when he saw his father doing the work of two, Michel was
ashamed of his absent-mindedness, and hastened to assist him. There was
still a temporary staircase to be erected at one side of the ball-room,
to communicate with a gallery on the floor above, and afford the
anticipated crowd an additional artery of circulation.

They could already hear numerous carriages rumbling in the distance over
that magnificent street which is proudly called the _Ætnean Road_, and
which passes through Catania in a straight line, from the water's edge
to the foot of Ætna; as if, to quote a traveller, "the people who had
erected their superb palaces along that road had intended to afford the
angry volcano a way befitting its majesty."

At critical moments, when the time is too short, when the hours seem
rather to gallop than to walk, when human forces are at odds with the
impossible in some feverish toil, very few men are endowed with
sufficient strength of will to retain the hope of triumphing at last. At
such moments it is simply a matter of quadrupling one's own faculties
and performing a miracle. Most of the workmen were utterly discouraged
and proposed to abandon that temporary structure and to conceal the
opening with flowers and pictures; in short, to inflict upon the
organizers of the fête the unpleasant surprise of a departure from
their plans. Pier-Angelo revived the courage of those who seemed
well-disposed, and set to work. Michel performed prodigies in the way of
assisting them; and in ten minutes, the task which it was said would
take two hours was completed as if by magic.

"Michel," then said the old man, wiping his head, which was bald to the
base of the skull, "I am satisfied with you, and I see that you are a
good workman; which, in my eyes, is an indispensable qualification for
any man who wishes to become a great artist. Everyone cannot work fast,
and most of those who make haste do bad work. We must not despise them
for that. In the ordinary course of affairs all work requires coolness,
calculation, orderly management, foresight, in short, common sense--yes,
even in loading a cart with stones, there are a thousand ways of going
about it and only one right way. One man will take too many on his
shovel, another not enough; one lifts his arm too high and throws the
stones over the cart, another doesn't lift it high enough and throws
them among the wheels. Have you never compared one thing with another
and reflected, as you watched the simple work of the fields? Have you
seen men digging? In that, as in everything else, there is one good
workman to twenty bunglers. And who can say that the man who does as
much work with the spade as four others, without tiring himself out and
without losing a second, is not a superior man, who would do more
difficult things admirably? Tell me, what do you think about it? For my
part, I have always had that thought in my mind, and by watching the
girls picking strawberries on the mountain, I can pick out the one who
will best manage her house and bring up her children someday. Do you
think I am talking nonsense? Answer me."

"I think that you are right, father," Michel replied, with a smile; "to
work quickly and well, one must combine presence of mind with an ardent
will; he must have fever in his blood and a clear head. He must be able
to think and act simultaneously. No, that power certainly is not given
to everyone; and it is a painful thing to see so many feeble and
incompetent organizations in proportion to the small number of placid
and powerful ones. Alas! I am alarmed for myself, notwithstanding the
praise you have just given me, for I rarely feel in that powerful and
productive humor, and if I was in that humor just now, I owe it to your
example."

"No, no, Michel, no example is of any use to the impotent. Poor
creatures! they do what they can, and that is an excellent reason why
those who are stronger and more capable should make it their duty to
relieve them. Do you not feel glad and proud to have done it?"

"You are right, father! you can find the noble and praiseworthy aspect
of my instincts better than I can myself. Ah! Pier-Angelo, you do not
know how to read, and you have had me taught a thousand things that you
do not know. And yet you are the light of my mind, and, at every step I
take, I feel that you are helping to open a blind man's eyes."

"That is well said!" cried honest Pier-Angelo, with artless joy. "I wish
that could be written down. It reminded me of when the actors recite
noble sentences on the stage. Let us see, how did you say it? repeat it
for me. You called me by my name, as if I were not here, and you were
thinking aloud of your old friend. Oh! I love fine words, that I do!
_Pier-Angelo, you do not know how to write_--you began so. And then you
compared yourself to a blind man whose light I was--I, a poor ignorant
fellow, whose heart sees clear for you, Michel, none the less. I wish I
could write poetry in pure Tuscan; but I only know how to improvise in
my Sicilian dialect, in which, provided you rhyme in _i_ and _u_ you can
always succeed in producing something that resembles poetry. If I could
I would write a beautiful ballad about the love and modesty of a son who
attributes to his old simpleton of a father all that he discovers about
himself; a ballad! there is nothing in the world more perfect than a
good ballad. I know a great many of them, but there are very few with
which I am perfectly satisfied. I would like to be able to supply
something that is lacking in them all. That reminds me that I shall have
to sing to-night at supper. Hum! after swallowing such a lot of dust!
but there will be plenty of good wine for the workmen to drink. Don't
you mean to come? Evidently you don't like to drink with everybody.
Perhaps you are right. They say that you are proud; but, on the other
hand, you are sober and dignified. You must do what suits you. After
all, it's of no use for you to talk, you will never be a simple mechanic
like me, whatever you may do. You help me at my work now, and that is
well done. But once our little debts are paid, you will return to Rome,
for I propose that you shall continue the noble studies that attract you
so."

"Ah! father, every word you say goes to my heart. Our little debts! it
was I who contracted them, not only for useful studies, but for foolish
diversions and insane, childish vanities. And when I think that each
year I pass at Rome costs you the whole avails of your toil!"

"Even so! for whom should I earn money, if not for my son?"

"But you rob yourself!"

"Of nothing at all. I find friendship and confidence wherever I am
employed; and except a little good wine, which is an old man's milk, and
which is neither scarce nor dear in our blessed climate, thank God! I
need nothing. What does a man of my age require? Must I think of the
future? Your sister is industrious; she will find a good husband. Is not
my present lot what my lot will be to my last hour? There is nothing new
for me to learn which I can put to any use. Why should I hoard money? to
hoard it for your maturer years would be absurd; it would simply be
depriving your youth of the means of developing and making sure of the
future."

"Alas! it is the thought of your future that terrifies me, father! An
old man's future is loss of strength, infirmity, neglect, destitution!
And suppose all your sacrifices were wasted! Suppose I should prove to
be devoid of virtue, intelligence, courage, talent! Suppose I should not
succeed in making my fortune, in finding a good husband for my sister,
and in assuring your comfort and security in your old age!"

"Nonsense! nonsense! it is insulting Providence to doubt yourself when
you are conscious of being disposed to do what is right. Besides, let us
put everything in the worst light, and you will see that nothing is
lost. I will assume that you are simply an ordinary artist; you will
still earn your living, and as you do not lack wit, you will know how to
be contented with such pleasures as are within your reach. You will do
like me, who, although I have never been rich, have never considered
myself poor, because my wants have never exceeded my resources. That is
a philosophy with which you are not familiar as yet, because you are at
the age of expansive desires and expansive hopes; but it will come to
you if your plans fail. Mind you, I do not admit that they can fail.
That is why I do not preach moderation to you now. Power is still
better. The man who aims true at the ring with his lance is drunk with
joy. He carries off the prize, and congratulates himself on having had
the courage to compete. But he who has broken several lances with no
result goes away saying: 'My luck is bad; I will not try again.' And he
too is pleased that he has profited by experience and has had the
courage to read himself a salutary lesson. But the evening breeze dries
the perspiration on my old forehead a little too quickly; I am going to
the pantry to eat and drink. As there is nothing more for you to do
here, you may as well get our tools together and go home."

"And when will you come home, father?"

"Ah! Michel, I don't know when or how! it will depend on how much I
enjoy the supper. You know that I am very sober, generally speaking, and
drink only to quench my thirst; but if they lead me on to laugh and
sing, and chatter, I get excited and have paroxysms of merriment and
poetic enthusiasm which carry me off to the moon; and then it's of no
use to talk to me about going to bed. Don't be anxious about me. I shall
not fall down in a corner, I am not a beastly sot; my drunkenness is
that of brilliant minds, on the contrary, and I never act more
reasonably than when I am a little mad; that is to say, I shall be at
work again here at daylight to-morrow, to assist in undoing all we have
done this week, and I shall be less tired than if I had passed the night
in my bed."

"You must despise me for being unable to find in wine the superhuman
strength that it gives you!"

"You have never cared to try!" cried the old man; and he added
instantly: "and you have done well! because at your age it is an
unnecessary stimulant. Ah! when I was young the lightest glance from a
woman would have given me more strength than the whole of the princess's
cellar would give me at this moment! Well, good-night, my boy."

As he spoke, Pier-Angelo started up the wooden staircase he had helped
to put in place, for he and his son had been talking in the garden,
where he had thrown himself on the turf to recover his breath. Michel
detained him, and, instead of leaving him, said with inexplicable
emotion:

"Father, are you entitled to remain at the ball after the invited guests
have arrived?"

"Why, surely," replied Pier-Angelo, surprised by the young man's manner.
"Several of us were selected from each branch of trade, about a hundred
men in all, to see that nothing goes wrong during the festivity. In the
midst of so much commotion, a board may give way, or a piece of canvas
get loose and take fire from the candles; a thousand accidents always
have to be guarded against, and a certain number of tried arms always
kept in readiness to repair them. We may have nothing to do; and in that
case we shall pass the night merrily at table; but, whatever happens, we
are at hand. Moreover, we have the right to go everywhere, in order to
have an eye upon everything and to prevent fire, confusion, the bad
smell from the candles that go out, the fall of a picture, a chandelier,
a vase, heaven knows what! We are always wanted, and we make a circuit
of the rooms, turn and turn about, if for nothing more than to prevent
pickpockets from creeping in."

"And you are paid to do this servant's work?"

"We are paid if we choose. To those who do it purely from good-will the
princess always makes some acceptable present, and for old friends like
me she always has a pleasant word and some delicate little attention.
And then, even if it brought me in nothing, isn't it my duty to place my
foresight, my activity, and my loyalty at the service of a woman whom I
esteem as much as I esteem her? I have no need of her assistance as yet;
but I have seen how she helps those who get into difficulty, and I know
that she would dress my wounds with her own hands if I were wounded."

"Yes, yes, I know all about that," rejoined Michel, gloomily;
"benevolence, charity, pity, alms-giving!"

"Come, come! Master Pier-Angelo," said a valet, who passed them at that
moment, "it is time to change your clothes. Take off your apron, the
guests are arriving; go to the dressing-room, or to the buffet first, if
you like."

"True," said Pier-Angelo, "we are a little untidy to rub elbows with
such beautiful gowns. Farewell, Michel, I am going to beautify myself.
Go home and rest."

Michel glanced at his own clothes, which were soiled and torn in a
thousand places. His pride returned; he slowly descended the steps
leading to the main ball-room and walked across it, amid the resplendent
groups which were beginning to appear. A young man who entered as Michel
was going out jostled him roughly. Michel was on the point of flying
into a rage; but he restrained himself when he saw that the young man in
question was as distraught as he.

He was a youth of some twenty-five years, of small stature and with a
most attractive face. And yet, both in his face and bearing there was
something peculiar which attracted Michel's attention, although he could
not explain to his own satisfaction why he should take an interest in
the stranger. It is certain, however, that there must have been
something unusual about him, for the door-keeper to whom he had handed
his card of admission glanced several times from him to the card and
from the card to him, as if he wished to make sure that it was all
right. He had not taken three steps into the room when other people
turned their eyes upon him as if by virtue of a contagious impulse, and
Michel, still standing by the door, heard a lady say to the gentleman
who escorted her:

"Who is that man? I do not know him."

"Nor do I," was the reply; "but what do you expect? In a company so
numerous as this is likely to be, do you fancy that you will not meet
many strange faces?"

"Of course, I expect to," replied the lady, "and we shall see, in this
ball for which anyone can buy a ticket, a mixture that will amuse us. To
begin with, I am amused by this person who has just come in, and has
stopped short under the first chandelier, as if he were looking for his
road through this huge room. Just look at him! it is very curious; he's
a handsome fellow!"

"Really, you are very much engrossed by that youth," said her escort,
who, whether lover or husband, knew Sicilian womankind by heart. And so,
instead of looking at the man to whom his attention was directed, he
looked behind, to see whether, while his attention was attracted in one
direction, someone on the other side did not hand her a note or exchange
a meaning glance with her. But, whether because she was really virtuous,
or by mere chance, she was sincere at that moment and looked at no one
but the stranger.

Michel did not go away, and yet he had ceased to think of the reckless
youth who had jostled him; he had espied, at the end of the ball-room, a
white dress and a coronet of diamonds which twinkled like pale stars. He
had seen the princess only an instant, and there were many other women
at the ball in white dresses, many other diadems of precious stones.
However, he was not mistaken as to her identity, and he could not take
his eyes from her.

The lady and gentleman who had noticed the arrival of the unknown young
man walked away, and Michel heard other voices at his side.

"I have seen that face somewhere, I don't know where," said a lady.

A pale, lovely young woman, who was walking with the last speaker,
exclaimed, in a tone which aroused Michel from his reverie:

"Ah! great God! what a resemblance!"

"Why! what is the matter, my dear?"

"Nothing; a memory, a resemblance; but it is not the same----"

"What are you talking about, pray?"

"I will tell you later. First of all, look at that man."

"That short young man? I certainly don't know him."

"Nor do I; but he bears a most appalling resemblance to a man who----"

Michel heard no more; the beautiful young woman had lowered her voice as
she walked on.

Who could that man be who had just come in, and who already produced
such a marked sensation? Michel looked at him and saw that he was
retracing his steps as if he intended to go out; but he halted in front
of him and said in a voice as soft as a woman's: "My friend, will you be
kind enough to tell me which of all the ladies who are already here is
Princess Agatha de Palmarosa?"

"I have no idea," replied Michel, impelled by an instinctive feeling of
distrust and jealousy.

"Then you do not know her?" queried the stranger.

"No, signor," replied Michel, dryly.

The stranger entered the ball-room and plunged into the crowd, which was
rapidly increasing. Michel looked after him and observed something
peculiar in his carriage. Although he was dressed in the height of
fashion, and with an elaborateness which bordered on bad taste, he
seemed ill at ease in his clothes, like a man who had never before worn
a black coat and close-fitting breeches. And yet there was in his manner
a something haughty and distinguished which did not denote the petty
bourgeois in his Sunday garb.

As Michel turned to go away at last, he saw that the halberdier who was
guarding the door was equally engrossed by the stranger's appearance.

"I don't know," he was saying to Barbagallo, the majordomo, who had just
accosted him, apparently to question him; "I know a peasant who looks
like him, but it isn't the man."

A third retainer came up and said:

"That must be the Greek prince who arrived yesterday, or one of his
escort."

"Or else some follower of the Egyptian envoy," said the halberdier.

"Or else," added Barbagallo, "some Levantine merchant. When those people
leave off their native costume and dress in the European style, you
can't recognize them. Did he buy his ticket at the door? You mustn't
allow anybody to do that."

"He had his ticket in his hand; I saw him present it all open, and the
door-keeper said: 'Her Highness's signature.'"

Michel had not listened to this discussion; he was already well on his
way to Catania.

He returned to his humble abode and sat down on his bed; but he forgot
to lie down. As he threw back his hair, the weight of which made his
forehead hot, he saw a small flower fall. It was a white cyclamen
blossom. How had it broken off and clung to his hair? There was no
reason for much surprise or uneasiness. The place where he had worked
and hustled about, gone hither and thither a thousand times, was so
thickly strewn with flowers of all sorts.

But Michel did not remember that. He simply remembered the enormous
bouquet of cyclamen which the Princess of Palmarosa carried when he had
stooped tremblingly and kissed her hand. He put the flower to his lips;
it exhaled an intoxicating odor. He took his head in both hands. It
seemed to him that he was going mad.




IX

MILA


The mental disturbance which our young painter experienced at that
moment was due to two causes, one an absurd sort of jealousy, which had
taken possession of him like an attack of fever, with respect to
Princess Agatha; the other, a feeling of disquiet, because he had failed
to obtain that noble person's approval of his paintings. Of course it
was not mere love of gain, the desire to be paid more or less
handsomely, which worked upon him thus. So long as he had been engrossed
by the fever of production, he had given very little thought to the
subject of the signora's personal opinion; he had thought only of
succeeding, of satisfying himself; then, having almost succeeded in his
own eyes, and having not as yet seen his mysterious patroness, he had
wondered, with more hope than alarm, whether he should find enough
enlightened judges in that province to establish his reputation upon an
undertaking of that sort. In short, he had had so much to do up to the
last moment that he had not had time to analyze his anxiety.

When he was quite alone, he found that he was strangely disturbed by the
knowledge that people were passing judgment on his work, and that he
could not be there. What prevented him? No orders related to his humble
position in society, but a poignant false shame, which he did not feel
the strength to overcome.

And yet Michel was not cowardly, either as a man or as an artist.
Despite his youth he had already reflected deeply concerning his future
prospects, and he had already reviewed concisely enough the list of
successes and reverses connected with his destiny. Feeling that he was
seized with faint-heartedness at the outset, he was surprised, and tried
to fight against himself. But the more he questioned himself, the more
fully he recognized his weakness, but would not avow its cause.
Therefore we will give the reader that information.

At the bottom of this depression and alarm there lay a feeling of
uncertainty as to the opinion the princess had formed concerning him.
Pier-Angelo had told him that morning that during Sunday her highness
had inspected the ball-room; but that, as he was not present, he did not
know what she had said. Master Barbagallo, being in ill-humor because of
the numerous vexations attendant upon the fête, had spoken very coldly
to him on the subject, but had not said that the princess seemed
dissatisfied or that she criticised anything. Whereupon honest
Pier-Angelo had added, with his usual confidence: "Never fear, she knows
what is what. It is impossible that she should not be satisfied beyond
what she expected." Michel had surrendered to that confidence without
paying much heed to the question whether it was justified. He had said
to himself that, even if the princess were not a connoisseur, there
would soon be enough connoisseurs about her to guide her judgment.

Moreover, he was afraid of everybody now because he was afraid of the
princess. She had looked at him in a way that had completely upset him;
but she had said nothing to him; not a word of praise or encouragement
had accompanied that glance, which was more than kind, it is true, but
for that very reason incomprehensible. And suppose he had been mistaken
touching the expression of her face! suppose that, when she thus fixed
her lovely, joy-laden eyes upon him, she was thinking of some entirely
different person--her lover, perhaps, for she must have a lover,
whatever Magnani might say!

At the bare idea Michel felt faint and sick; he fancied that he saw the
princess leaning on the arm of the fortunate mortal for whose sake she
pretended to entertain no thought of marriage. They were glancing
absently at the young painter's work, and smiling as they looked into
each other's eyes, as if to say:

"What does it matter to us? nothing is beautiful, nothing exists for us,
except ourselves."

Weary of suffering so entirely without reason, Michel thought to conquer
and tranquillize himself by adopting a superb resolution.

"I will go to bed," he said to himself, "and sleep like a prince, like a
hero, while people are criticising me, disputing and perhaps getting
excited about me in yonder palace. To-morrow morning, father will come
and wake me, and tell me whether I have won the laurel wreath or have
been hissed. What does it matter to me, after all?"

It mattered so little to him, in very truth, that, instead of
undressing, he dressed to go to the ball. In a most extraordinary fit of
abstraction, he arranged his beautiful hair, which would have been a bit
too long for a strictly fashionable patrician, but which formed a
beautiful frame for his intelligent and impassioned face. He removed
with the greatest care all traces of toil; he donned his finest linen
and his best clothes; and when he had glanced at his little mirror, he
decided, and with good reason, that no guest at the princess's ball
would present a more distinguished figure than he.

Having thus prepared for bed, he left the house, and when he had taken
ten steps out of doors, he discovered that an inexplicable preoccupation
was leading him in the direction of the Palmarosa palace. Indignant with
himself, he returned, took off his coat, tossed it on the bed, opened
his window and sat beside it, torn between the heroic determination to
retire and the irresistible temptation to go and witness the fête.

The countless lights of the palace twinkled before his eyes, the notes
of the orchestra reached his ears through the echoing night. Carriages
were rolling in all directions; no one was asleep in the city or the
outlying country. Indeed, it was not nine o'clock, and Michel felt
little inclined to sleep. He closed his window and started to take up a
book; but the cyclamen, which he had tossed upon the table in an
outburst of anger against himself, was the only object within his reach.

Thereupon it seemed to him that, through the delicate and penetrating
odor of musk exhaled by the pink-tipped petals of that pretty little
flower, he saw palpable images take shape and gather about him. Women,
lights, flowers, gushing waters, diamonds with a bluish gleam; and with
the things which seemed real, fanciful things were mingled as in a
dream. Lovely dancing-girls of antique times, whom Michel had painted on
the ceiling, stood forth gracefully from the canvas, and, raising their
azure and purple tunics above their knees, glided through the crowd, and
cast upon him as they passed lewd glances and mysterious smiles. Drunk
with desire, he followed them, and lost them, and found them again,
seizing one by her floating girdle, another by her transparent _peplum_,
but exhausting himself in vain efforts, in vain entreaties, to detain
them and give them substance.

Then a white female passed slowly and took sole possession of his
vagrant passion. She stopped in front of him and gazed at him, at first
with stony eyes, which gradually became animated and ended by flashing
flames, whereby he felt that he was being consumed. Lying motionless at
her feet, he saw her stoop over him. He fancied that he felt her breath
upon his brow; but instantly the giddy band of Latin harlots entangled
him in a network of multi-colored tunics and whirled him upward toward
the ceiling. Then he found himself alone on his ladder, smeared with
paint, covered with dirt, exhausted, gasping for breath, in a ghastly
solitude, dimly lighted by a vague gleam of daylight. Silence hovered
over the cold, deserted rooms; naught remained of his vision save a
little broken flower, whose fragrance he had exhausted by inhaling it.

This hallucination became so painful that Michel, in terror, pushed the
cyclamen away once more, thinking that there must be something soporific
or poisonous in its exhalations. But he could not make up his mind to
destroy it. He placed it in a glass of water and opened his window
again.

"Why suffer thus without reason and without any object?" he said to
himself; "is it a woman's glance, or the distant view of a great fête,
that makes my disordered imagination run riot thus? Very well! if the
mad creature is untamable, let her have her way; doubtless the spectacle
of what really is will either extinguish her frenzy or furnish it with
fresh food. I shall either become calm, or suffer in some new way; what
does it matter!"

"What is the trouble, that you are talking to yourself so, Michel?" said
a soft voice, while at the same time the door of his little chamber
opened behind him. And Michel, turning his head, saw his little sister
Mila, who approached him on tiptoe, with bare feet and her body wrapped
in a _piddemia_--a brown cloak worn by the women of the people.

No one in the world was so pretty, so sweet, and so lovable as Mila.
Michel had always loved her dearly. And yet her appearance at that
moment caused him some vexation.

"What are you doing here, little one?" he said; "why aren't you asleep?"

"Asleep already!" she said, "when I hear carriages rumbling through the
streets and see the princess's palace shining yonder like a star? Oh! I
cannot sleep! Our father made me promise to go to bed as usual, and not
to go running about the palace with the other girls, to try to look at
the fête through the open doors. So I went to bed, and although those
violins, which you can hear from here, made my heart beat time, I was
determined to go to sleep, when my friend Nenna came and asked me to go
with her."

"And you mean to go, Mila? to disobey your father? to loiter about that
house, which is all surrounded by servants, beggars and vagabonds, with
a hare-brained creature like Nenna? You shall not do it, I forbid you!"

"Oh! you needn't put on those high and mighty paternal airs, my dear
brother," retorted Mila, in an offended tone. "Do you suppose I am mad
enough to listen to Nenna? I sent her away; she is a long way from here,
and I was going to sleep again when I heard you walking about and
talking. I thought father was with you; but I saw through the crack of
the door that you were alone, and then ----"

"Then you came in here to chatter, in order to avoid going to sleep,
eh?"

"It is true that I have no desire to go to bed so early, and father
didn't forbid me to listen and look on from a distance at what is going
on up there! Oh! how beautiful it must be! You can see much better from
your window than from mine, Michel; do let me feast my eyes on that
beautiful bright light!"

"No, little one. The wind is cool to-night, and you have almost no
clothes on. I am going to shut the window and go to bed. Go and do the
same; good-night."

"You are going to bed; and have just dressed yourself! what did you do
it for, pray? Michel, you are deceiving me, you are going to see the
ball, you are going in! I will bet that you are invited, and that you
won't tell me so!"

"Invited! they don't invite people like us to such grand affairs, my
poor dear! When we enter that palace, we go as workmen, not as friends."

"What difference does that make, so long as you're there? Then you are
going? Oh! how I would like to be in your place!"

"Why, what is the meaning of this frantic desire to see this fête?"

"To see what is beautiful, Michel, isn't that all? When you draw a
beautiful figure, I take more pleasure in looking at it, perhaps, than
you do who drew it."

"But if you were there, it would be on condition that you were hidden in
some hole, for if they saw you, they would turn you out; you could not
even show yourself, much less dance!"

"Very true; but I should see the others dance, and that would be much."

"You are a child. Good-night."

"I see that you aren't willing to take me!"

"No, surely not; I can't. They would turn you out, and I should have to
break the head of some insolent lackey for insulting you when you were
on my arm."

"What! isn't there some little corner no bigger than your hand, where I
could hide? I am so small! Look, Michel, I could get into your cupboard.
Anyway, you could take me to the door without taking me in, and father
would not be angry to know that I was there with you."

Michel preached a beautiful sermon to Mila on the subject of childish
curiosity, and the violent instinctive longing which she felt to
intoxicate herself with the spectacle of patrician grandeur. He forgot
that he was consumed by the same longing, and that he was anxious to be
alone so that he might give way to it.

Mila listened to reason when Michel told her that he was going to assist
his father to overlook the decorations of the ball; but she heaved a
deep sigh, none the less.

"Well," she said, tearing herself away from the window, "it's no use to
think any more about it. However, it's my own fault; for if I had had
any idea that I should be so wild to go, I could very easily have asked
the princess to invite me."

"Now you are going mad again, just as I thought you were becoming
reasonable, Mila! As if the princess could have invited you, even if she
had taken it into her head to do it!"

"Why, of course she could; isn't she the mistress of her own house?"

"Even so! what would all those ancient dowagers, all those august
blockheads say, if they should see little Mila, with her velvet jacket
and striped skirt, dancing about among their noble dolls of daughters?"

"Let me tell you, that I might perhaps cut a better figure than all of
them, young and old!"

"That is no reason."

"I know that; but the princess is a queen in her house, and I will bet
that she will invite me to the first ball she chooses to give."

"You will ask her to, I suppose?"

"To be sure! I know her, and she is very fond of me; she is a friend of
mine."

As she said this, Mila drew herself up and assumed an air of importance,
so comical and so fascinating that Michel laughed and kissed her.

"I like to see, Mila," he said, "that you have no suspicion of anything.
And why should I deceive you? You will lose soon enough the trustful
illusions of your age of gold! But, since you know this beautiful
princess so well, pray tell me something about her, my dear little
sister; tell me how it happens that you are so intimately acquainted
with her, without my knowing anything about it?"

"Aha! Michel, you are curious to know that, now! But since you have
shown so little eagerness to question me, you will kindly wait a little
longer, until it pleases me to answer you."

"So it's a secret, is it?"

"Perhaps! what do you care?"

"I care very little, in truth, to know anything whatsoever concerning
this princess. She has a fine palace, I work there, she pays me, and I
care little about anything else for the moment. But nothing that
interests my little Mila can be indifferent to me, nor should it be
hidden from me, in my opinion."

"Now you are flattering me to make me speak. Well, I will not speak,
there! But I will show you something that will make you open your eyes.
See, what do you say to this pretty thing?"

And Mila took from her bosom a locket surrounded by large diamonds.

"They are fine stones," she said, "and worth I don't know how much
money. Enough to provide me with a marriage portion if I chose to sell
them; but I will never part with them, because they came from my best
friend."

"And that friend is the Princess of Palmarosa?"

"Yes, Agatha Palmarosa; don't you see her cipher engraved on the gold of
the locket?"

"Yes, that is true! But what is there inside this priceless trinket?"

"Hair, lovely light chestnut hair, with a touch of gold, naturally
curly, and so fine!" said the girl, opening the locket. "Isn't it soft
and glossy?"

"That isn't the princess's, for hers is black."

"So you have seen her, after all?"

"Yes, I just caught a glimpse of her. But tell me, Mila, whose hair you
wear against your heart, and in such a valuable locket?"

"How inquisitive you are! you are blind and dull, too, like all
inquisitive people. Don't you recognize it? Don't you remember where I
got it?"

"No, indeed, I do not."

"Well, put it against yours and you will recognize it, although your
head has grown a little darker in a year."

"Dear little sister! yes, I do remember now that you cut it from my head
the day you left Rome--and you have kept it all this time!"

"I used to carry it in a little black bag. My friend Agatha asked of
what saint I carried a relic in my scapulary, and when I told her that
it was my darling and only brother's hair, she took it and said she
would send it back to me the next day; and the next day she sent me by
father this lovely locket filled with your hair. However, some of it was
missing. The jeweller who put it inside either stole it or lost it."

"Lost it, that may be," said Michel, with a smile; "but as for stealing
it! This hair has no value to anyone but you, Mila!"




X

PROBLEM


"But, after all, what is the source of this friendship of the princess
for you," continued Michel, after a pause; "what have you ever done for
her that she should make you such presents?"

"Nothing at all. Father, who is on excellent terms with her, took me to
the palace one day to present me to her. She took a fancy to me; she
paid me all sorts of attentions; she asked me for my friendship, and I
promised it and gave it to her at once. I passed the day all alone with
her, walking about her villa and the gardens. Since then I go there when
I choose, and I am always sure of being well received."

"And you go often?"

"I have never been but twice, for it isn't long since I first knew her.
I know that the palace has been turned upside down this last week by the
preparations for the ball, and I was afraid of being in poor Agatha's
way when, of course, she had a thousand things to do. But I shall go in
two or three days."

"So that is the whole of the mystery, is it? Why did you need so much
urging to tell it?"

"Oh! because the princess said to me when I came away: 'Mila, please
don't tell anyone about the delightful day we have passed together and
the friendship we have formed. I have my reasons for asking you to keep
it secret. You shall know them later, and I know that I can rely on your
promise if you will give it to me.'--As you can imagine, Michel, I did
not refuse it."

"Very good; but you are breaking your word now."

"No, I am not. You are not _anybody_ to me, and, of course, the princess
didn't suppose I would have any secrets from my father or my brother."

"Does my father know all this, then?"

"Certainly, I told him about it at once."

"And he was neither surprised nor disturbed by this whim of the
princess?"

"Why surprised, please? It is your surprise that is very strange and a
little impertinent, Michel. Am I not capable of inspiring friendship,
even in a princess? And why disturbed? Is not friendship a good and
pleasant thing?"

"Still, my child, I am, if not disturbed, at all events astonished at
this friendship. Tell me this, which may explain it in some measure. Has
our father rendered Princess Agatha some great service?"

"He has done much beautiful decorating in the palace. He has made some
superb foliage in the dining-room among other things."

"I have seen all that; but he is well paid. The princess has taken a
liking to him because of his zeal and disinterestedness, I suppose?"

"Yes, that must be it. Isn't it true that anybody who knows father for a
little time loves him?"

"That is so. Then it is because of our excellent father that you arouse
so much interest in this great lady!"

"Oh! Michel, she isn't a great lady, I tell you! she's a good woman, a
kind, lovely woman."

"And what could she find to say to you, my child, for a whole day?"

"She asked me a thousand questions, about myself and father and you,
about our life in Rome, your occupations, our home life and our tastes.
I really believe that she made me tell our whole history day by day,
ever since I was born; I talked so much that I was tired out that
evening."

"It seems that this lady is terribly inquisitive; for what does it all
matter to her?"

"Now you mention it, I believe that she is a little inquisitive; but it
is a pleasure to answer her questions; she listens to you with so much
interest, and she is so pleasant! Come, don't speak ill of her, or I
shall be angry with you!"

"Very well, let us say no more about her; God forbid that I should teach
you distrust and dread, my lovely angel heart! Go to bed, now; father is
waiting for me. To-morrow we will talk again of your adventure, for
surely this great friendship with a beautiful princess is a marvellous
adventure in a life like yours--although she no more thinks of you now
than of the last pair of slippers she wore. No matter! don't put on that
injured air. It may be that, some day when she is lonely and idle, the
Princess of Palmarosa will send for you, to be entertained again by your
prattle."

"You don't know what you are saying, Michel. The princess is not idle,
and if you insist upon taking it this way, I will tell you that,
kind-hearted as she is, she has the reputation of being decidedly cold
with people of our station. Some say that she is proud, others that she
is timid. The fact is that she always speaks pleasantly and courteously
to the workmen and servants who come in contact with her, but that she
speaks to them so little, so little!--that she is noted for it, and that
some people who have worked for her for years have never known the sound
of her voice and have hardly seen her in her own house. So that her
friendship for father and me is no commonplace thing; it is genuine
friendship, and your mockery will never prevent me from relying upon it.
Good-night, Michel; I am not very well pleased with you to-night; I
never saw you with this sarcastic air before. You talk as if you meant
to say that I am only a little girl and no one can love me!"

"That is not my thought, so far as I myself am concerned, at all events!
for, little slip of a girl as you are, I adore you!"

"What did you say, brother? You adore me? that is a lovely word. Kiss
me."

The child threw herself into his arms. Michel embraced her lovingly, and
as she laid her lovely brown head on his shoulder, he kissed the long
hair that fell over the girl's half uncovered back.

But suddenly he pushed her away with a painful shudder. All the burning
thoughts that had excited his brain an hour earlier recurred to his mind
with the vividness of remorse, and it seemed to him that his lips were
no longer pure enough to bless his little sister.

He was no sooner alone than he rushed through the door of the old house
in which he lived, without pausing to close that of his room. To tell
the truth, he paid no heed to the distance he travelled, and, still
haunted by his dreams, he fancied that he stepped directly from the
landing of his attic to the marble peristyle of the villa. And yet it
was nearly a mile from the last houses of the suburb of Catania to the
gateway of the palace.

The first face upon which his eyes fell as he was about to enter the
ball-room was that of the stranger to whom his attention had been
attracted as he went away. The young man was walking slowly from the
room, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief trimmed with lace. Michel,
puzzled by his conduct, and wondering if it were not a woman in
disguise, resolutely accosted him.

"Well, my friend," he said, "did you succeed in seeing Princess Agatha?"

The stranger, who seemed absorbed by his thoughts, raised his head
abruptly, and darted at Michel a glance instinct with such inexplicable
distrust, and even malevolence, that the young painter felt a sort of
cold shiver run down his back. It was not the glance of a woman, but of
a forceful and hot-tempered man. The feeling of hostility is unfamiliar
to youthful hearts, and Michel's contracted as with a sudden pang. It
seemed to him that the stranger instinctively felt for a knife in his
gold embroidered satin waistcoat, and he followed his movements with
surprise.

"How does it happen?" said the other, in the same soft voice, in marked
contrast to his angry, threatening manner, "that you were a mechanic a
short time ago, and that now you are a gentleman?"

"The fact is that I am neither one nor the other," replied Michel, with
a smile; "I am an artist employed in the palace. Do you feel more at
ease? my question seems to have disturbed you greatly. However, one
question deserves another. Did you not ask me one without knowing me?"

"Do you mean to jest, signor?" retorted the stranger, who spoke in
excellent Italian, without any accent to justify the Greek or Egyptian
antecedents suggested by Barbagallo.

"Not in the least," replied Michel, "and, as for my accosting you, pray
pardon an impulsive exhibition of curiosity entirely free from
malevolent intention."

"Curiosity! why curiosity?" rejoined the unknown, clenching his teeth
and crowding his words together in peculiarly Sicilian fashion.

"Faith! I have no idea," replied Michel. "We have had enough discussion
over a thoughtless word; I had no purpose of offending you. If your
displeasure continues, do not look about for pretexts to begin a
quarrel, for I have no intention of avoiding it."

"Are not you the one who seeks to quarrel with me?" rejoined the
stranger, with a glance more threatening than the first.

"On my word, signor, you are mad," said Michel, with a shrug.

"You are right," retorted the unknown, "for I stand here listening to
the idle talk of a fool."

The words had no sooner passed his lips than Michel rushed at him with a
sudden determination to strike him. But, fearing lest he might strike a
woman, for the stranger's sex still seemed to him very doubtful, he
paused; and he congratulated himself when he saw that problematical
personage turn upon his heel and vanish so quickly that Michel could not
determine in what direction he had gone, and concluded that he had been
dreaming again.

"Surely I am beset by phantoms to-night," he said to himself. But as
soon as he found himself in presence of real mortals, he recovered the
notion of reality. He was asked for his card of admission. He gave his
name.

"Ah! Michel," said the door-keeper, "I did not know you. How fine you
are! You look like an invited guest. Go in, my boy, and pay close
attention to the lights. The pretty stuff that you have hung over our
heads would take fire so quickly! It seems that you are coming in for a
deal of praise. Everybody says that the figures are done by a master
hand."

Michel was offended at being addressed thus familiarly by a servant,
offended at being assigned to the duties of fireman, and secretly
delighted nevertheless at having obtained a triumph which was already
the talk of the antechamber.

He glided into the crowd, hoping to pass through unnoticed and to reach
some secluded corner where he could see and hear at his ease; but there
were so many people in the great ball-room that they brushed against one
another and trod on one another's feet. He was carried to the other end
of the vast structure before he realized the impetus that the compact
mass had imparted to him; and thus he arrived at the foot of the great
staircase. Not until then was he able to stop, gasping for breath, and
open his eyes, nostrils, ears, and mind, to the enchanting spectacle of
the fête.

Being somewhat above the flower-bedecked benches, he could see at a
glance both the dances in progress about the fountains, and the
spectators who jostled and squeezed one another to watch the dances. The
noise and glare and commotion were well adapted to dazzle and bewilder
a more mature brain than Michel's. What an array of lovely women,
marvellous jewels, white shoulders and resplendent head-dresses! What
majestic or alluring charms! What merriment, feigned or genuine! What
airs of languor, counterfeited or ill dissembled!

Michel was intoxicated for an instant; but when his eyes began to see
more clearly and to separate the countless details of the scene,--when
he asked himself which of all those women would be, in his mind, an
ideal model,--he looked up at the ideal figures he had painted in the
ceiling, and was better satisfied, vain-glorious youth, with his own
work than with God's.

He had dreamed of perfect beauty. He believed that he had found it in
the creations of his brush. He was probably mistaken; for it is
impossible to create a divine image without giving it human features,
and nothing on earth is blessed with absolute perfection. However that
may have been, Michel, still faltering and awkward in his art in several
respects, had approached as nearly as possible to perfect beauty in his
types. That was what impressed all those who examined his work; above
all, that was what impressed him when he sought among real persons the
personification of his ideas. Among the whole number he saw only two or
three women who seemed truly beautiful, and even those two or three he
would have liked to hold against his canvas, in order to take away from
one or give to another a certain outline or a certain coloring, wherein
they seemed to him to lack fullness or purity.

He was perfectly cool,--cool as an artist analyzing a figure,--and he
realized that the human countenance made up for its shortcomings in the
way of perfection of feature solely by the expression of life.

"I have drawn more beautiful faces," he said to himself, "but they are
not true. They do not think, they do not breathe, they do not love. It
would be better that they should be less beautiful and more animate.
When I roll up these canvases to-morrow, I will destroy them all, and
then I will change them, and, it may be, overturn all the ideas which
have guided me hitherto."

And he abandoned the quest for ideal perfection of form among the living
dancers whom he was studying, to watch their movements, their grace, the
attitudes of the body, the expression of the glance and smile; in a
word, the secret of life.

Enchanted at first, he felt that he grew cold once more as he analyzed
each being by itself. In all probability there are many ingenuous souls
among women and among men; but there are very few ingenuous faces to be
found at a ball in fashionable society. People there assume expressions
which are almost always at variance with their characters, whether they
are seeking to attract or to shun attention. Michel fancied that he
could see that some were hypocritically concealing their vanity, while
others arrogantly flaunted it; that this girl, who desired to seem
amorous, was cold and blasé; that the gayety of that other was dismal,
and the melancholy of a third a pretence. A parvenu strove to assume the
air of a man of noble birth; a noble strove to adopt the bearing of a
man of the people. Everybody posed more or less. The most humble tried
to seem self-possessed, and even touching timidity struggled to avoid
the awkwardness which triumphed over its efforts.

Michel saw several young mechanics of his acquaintance pass. They were
performing the duties which they had undertaken, and they attracted
attention by their manly appearance and by a touch of picturesqueness in
their holiday attire. The majordomo had evidently selected them from
among the most _presentable_, and they were well aware of it; for they,
too, posed artlessly: one put forward each shoulder in turn to display
its enormous breadth; another made the most of every inch of his great
stature as he passed many a diminutive great personage; a third elevated
the arch of his eyebrows to show the fair dames an eye as bright as a
carbuncle.

Michel was surprised to see those honest fellows transform themselves
so, and sacrifice the advantages of their natural dignity or their
attractive exterior by an affectation, perhaps involuntary, but
certainly ridiculous.--"I knew," he thought, "that all men eagerly
sought approbation, to whatever class or profession they might belong.
But why does this craving to attract attention suddenly deprive us of
the charm or the dignity of our manners? Can it be that the desire is
over-eager, or that the object is contemptible? Must beauty necessarily
be unconscious of itself in order to lose nothing of its splendor? Or am
I alone endowed with this intolerable clearness of vision? Where is the
intense enjoyment that I expected to find here? Instead of following
with interest the actions of other people, I am exerting myself to pass
judgment in cold blood on everything that meets my eye, and to deprive
myself of any external enjoyment!"

By dint of watching so closely and making so many comparisons, Michel
had forgotten the main object of his presence at the ball. He remembered
at last that he was especially desirous to study calmly a certain
figure, and he was about to ascend the great staircase and wander about
the interior of the palace, where all the rooms were open and lighted,
When, happening to turn his head, he saw close at hand a detail of the
decorations of which he had forgotten to observe the effect.

It was a rockwork grotto, which formed a recess of considerable size
under the staircase. He had himself decorated with shellwork, branches
of coral and picturesque plants, that cool retreat, at the farther end
of which an alabaster naiad poured water from her urn into a huge shell,
always brimming full of clear running water.

The taste Michel had displayed in all the details entrusted to him had
induced the majordomo to allow him to arrange many things as he chose;
and as this naiad had impressed him as a charming creation, he had taken
pleasure in placing in her grotto the prettiest vases, the daintiest
garlands and the finest rugs. He had spent a full hour surrounding the
mother-of-pearl shell with a border of moss, as fine and soft as velvet,
in selecting and arranging in graceful and charming disorder bunches of
iris and water-lilies, and those long ribbon-like leaves which harmonize
so perfectly with the undulating movement of running water.

Now the grotto was lighted by a pale light concealed behind the foliage;
and as everybody was intent upon watching the dance, the entrance was
unobstructed. Michel entered stealthily; but he had not taken three
steps when he saw a person seated, or rather reclining, in the
half-light, at the naiad's feet. He hastily concealed himself behind a
jutting rock, and was about to retire; but an irresistible fascination
detained him.




XI

THE GROTTO OF THE NAIAD


Princess Agatha was reclining on a divan of dark velvet, where her
graceful and noble figure resembled a ghost in the moonlight. Michel
could see her profile in the dim light, and the reflection of the
candles behind her outlined with admirable distinctness features as
delicate and pure as a young maid's. Her long full white gown assumed
all the shades of the opal in that soft light, and the diamonds in her
coronet shot flames of changing hue, now like the sapphire and again
like the emerald. Michel lost altogether the idea that he had formed of
her age when he first saw her. It seemed to him that she was a child,
and when he remembered that he had believed her to be above thirty, he
asked himself whether she was thus transfigured by a celestial radiance
or by a gleam from hell, wherewith she was able, like a sorceress, to
envelop herself in order to deceive the senses.

She seemed fatigued and depressed. But her attitude was modest and her
expression serene. She was inhaling the perfume of her bouquet of
cyclamen and playing idly with her fan. Michel gazed at her a long time
before he heard, or, at least, attached a meaning to the words she was
saying. She seemed to him lovelier than any of the beauties he had been
scrutinizing so closely, and he could not understand the unmixed,
boundless admiration which she aroused in him. He strove in vain to
examine her features in detail and analyze her charms; he could not
succeed. She seemed to be floating in a magic fluid which protected her
from being studied like other women. From time to time, thinking that he
understood her, he closed his eyes and tried to sketch her portrait in
his memory, to draw her in imagination, in strokes of flame, on the
black veil which he spread before his own eyes by lowering his lids. But
he saw naught but confused lines, and could not conjure up any distinct
face. He was compelled to reopen his eyes in haste and gaze at her with
anxiety, with intense delight, and above all, with surprise.

For there was a something indescribable about her. She was perfectly
natural; of all the women Michel had seen, she alone seemed to have no
thought of herself; she had assumed no studied air or manner; she did
not know, or did not choose to know, what people thought of her, what
they felt as they looked at her; she had the tranquillity of a mind
disassociated from all human things, and the entire freedom from
constraint that she might have had in absolute solitude.

And yet she was arrayed like a genuine princess; she was giving a ball,
she displayed her magnificence, she played her rôle of a great lady and
of a woman of the world, like any other, to all appearance. Why then
that madonna-like air, that inward meditation, or that rapt
contemplation of a soul above human vanities?

She was a living enigma to the young artist's restless imagination.
Something still more strange perplexed him beyond measure; and that was
that it seemed to him that he had not seen her that day for the first
time.

Where could he have seen her before? In vain did he rack his memory.
When he arrived at Catania her very name was strange to him. A person of
such exalted rank, and so remarkable by reason of her wealth, her
beauty, and her reputation for virtue, could not have come to Rome
_incognito_. Michel cudgelled his brain. He could recall no occasion
when he could have seen her; especially as when he looked at her, he had
a feeling, not that he had known her slightly, but that he had known her
intimately and for a long time, ever since he was born.

When he had exhausted his memory, he said to himself that there must be
some abstract reason for that sensation. It must be due to the fact that
she was the ideal type of beauty of which he had always dreamed, but
which he had never been able to grasp and produce. That was a poetic
commonplace. He was fain to be content with it for lack of a better.

But the princess was not alone, for she was talking; and Michel soon
discovered that she was tête-à-tête with a man. That was certainly a
reason to impel him to withdraw, but it was difficult to do so. To
preserve the mysterious obscurity of the grotto and exclude the
brilliant light of the ball-room, the entrance had been masked by a
heavy blue velvet curtain, which our inquisitive hero, by the merest
chance, had drawn aside a little way when he entered, without attracting
the attention of the two persons who were talking there. The entrance to
the grotto being only half as wide as the grotto itself, formed a frame,
not of artificial rocks, as would have been the case with us, in our
imitations of _rococo_, but of genuine blocks of lava, vitrified, and of
divers shades of color, curious and valuable specimens collected long
before in the very crater of the volcano to be set like jewels in the
masonry. This beautiful door-frame protruded far enough into the grotto
to conceal Michel, who was able to see because of its uneven surface.
But, in order to go out, he must raise the curtain again, and he could
hardly hope that both the princess and her companion would be
sufficiently engrossed not to notice him.

Michel thought of all this too late to avert the consequences of his
imprudence. It was too late for him to go out naturally, as he had
entered. Moreover he was nailed to his place by the most intense
curiosity and anxiety. Doubtless that man was the princess's lover.

He was a man of about thirty-five years, tall, and with a grave, sweet
face, wonderfully handsome and regular. In his manner, as he sat facing
Agatha at a distance, which indicated something betwixt respect and
intimacy, there was nothing to criticise; but when Michel had recovered
his presence of mind sufficiently to listen to the words that fell upon
his ears, he fancied that he could detect an indication of mutual
affection in this observation of the princess:

"Thank heaven it has not yet occurred to anyone to raise the curtain and
discover this delightful retreat; although I might naturally take some
pride in bringing my guests here,--for it is beautifully decorated
to-night,--I would like to pass the night here all alone, or with you,
marquis, while the fête and the dancing and the tumult run their course
behind the curtain."

The marquis replied, in a tone which did not indicate a presumptuous
man:

"You should have had the grotto closed altogether by a door to which you
alone had a key, and have transformed it into a private salon, whither
you could come from time to time to obtain some repose from the heat,
the glare and the compliments. You are not accustomed to society now,
and you were over-confident of your strength. You will be terribly tired
to-morrow."

"I am already; but it was not the crowd and the noise that broke me down
so in an instant."

"I understand that, my dear friend," said the marquis, pressing Agatha's
hand fraternally in his. "Try to think of something else, at least for a
few hours, so that your preoccupation may not be manifest; for you
cannot escape people's eyes, and, outside of this grotto, you have not
left yourself a single corner of your whole palace where you can take
refuge without running the gauntlet of obsequious salutations,
inquisitive glances--"

"And trite remarks with which I am already sated," added the princess,
struggling to smile. "How can anyone be fond of society, marquis? Can
you understand it?"

"I can understand it in the case of people who are satisfied with
themselves, and who think that it is always an advantage to exhibit
themselves."

"To my mind, the ball is delightful thus, at a distance, when we cannot
see it or be seen. There is something piquant--almost poetic--in the
buzzing, this distant music that we hear, and in the idea that people
are being amused or bored outside, and that we are not compelled to take
any part in it."

"But it is reported to-day that you are about to become reconciled to
society, and that this magnificent fête, which you are giving for love
of good works, will incline you to give or to see others. In short, they
say that you are going to change all your habits and reappear in the
world, like a star too long eclipsed."

"And why do people say such an extraordinary thing?"

"Ah! in order to answer that question, I should have to constitute
myself the echo of all the laudations to which you refused to listen;
and I am not in the habit of telling you even the truth when it bears a
resemblance to insipid compliments."

"I do you that justice, and I authorize you to-night to repeat all that
you have heard."

"Very well! People say that you are still lovelier than all those women
who take pains to appear lovely; that you outshine the most brilliant
and most admired women by a certain charm peculiar to yourself, and by
an air of noble simplicity which wins all hearts. They are beginning
anew to be surprised that you live in solitude, and--must I tell
everything?"

"Yes, absolutely everything."

"They say--I heard it with my own ears as I brushed against people who
had no idea that I was so near: 'What strange whim prevents her marrying
the Marquis della Serra?'"

"Go on, go on, marquis; say on; have no fear. They say, doubtless, that
I am the more ill-advised in that you are my lover?"

"No, signora, they do not say that," replied the marquis, in a
chivalrous tone; "and they will not say it, so long as I have a tongue
to deny it, and an arm to avenge your honor."

"Dear and generous friend!" exclaimed the princess, offering him her
hand; "you take that too seriously. I will wager that everybody believes
and says that we love each other."

"They may believe and say that I love you, for that is the truth; and
the truth always comes out sooner or later. That is why people know also
that you do not love me."

"Noble heart! But, now less than ever---- To-morrow I will talk to you
more freely on this subject than I have ever done. I will tell you
everything. This is neither a fitting time nor place. I must return to
the ball, where it is probable that my long absence causes surprise."

"Are you sufficiently rested and calm?"

"Yes; now I can resume my mask of impassibility."

"Ah! it costs you little to assume it, terrible woman!" cried the
marquis, rising and pressing convulsively to his breast the arm that she
had passed through his. "You are as invulnerable in the depths of your
heart as you are on the surface."

"Do not say that, marquis," said the princess, detaining him and looking
at him with a clear penetrating glance that sent a thrill through
Michel's whole being. "At this solemn moment of my life, that is a stab
of which you do not realize the depth. To-morrow, for the first time in
the twelve years that we have known without comprehending each other,
you will comprehend me perfectly! Come," she added, shaking her lovely
head, as if to banish serious thoughts, "let us go and dance! But first
let us say good-night to the naiad, so lovely in this light, and to this
charming grotto, which will soon be desecrated by the indifferent
multitude."

"Was it old Pier-Angelo who decorated it so beautifully?" inquired the
marquis, turning toward the naiad.

"No," replied the princess, "_it was he!_"

And hurrying from the room, as if impelled by a courageous resolution,
she suddenly drew the curtain aside and threw it upon Michel, who, by
unhoped-for good-fortune, was thus doubly concealed when she passed very
near him.

As soon as the disquietude due to his own situation as an interloper was
dispelled, he entered the grotto, and finding that he was quite alone
there, he sank upon the divan, beside the place the princess had
occupied. All that he had heard had agitated him strangely; but all the
reflections in which he might have indulged were overshadowed by the
last words that extraordinary woman had uttered.

Those words might have been an enigma to an absolutely humble and
innocent young man: "_No, it was not Pier-Angelo; it was he!_" What a
mysterious reply, or what extraordinary abstraction! But to Michel it
was not abstraction: that _he_ did not relate to Pier-Angelo, but to
himself. To the princess, therefore, he was a person whom it was not
necessary to call by name, and she spoke of him in that concise and
emphatic way to a man who was in love with her.

That inexplicable sentence, and the reticence which had preceded it, her
refusal to admit that she loved the marquis, that _solemn moment of her
life_ to which she had referred, that terrible shock which she said that
she had had during the evening, that important confidential
communication which she was to make the next day--did all of these
relate to Michel?

When he remembered the inexplicable glance she had bestowed upon him
when she saw him for the first time before the opening of the ball, he
was tempted to give way to the most insane presumptions. It is true
that, while she was talking with the marquis, there had been a moment
when her dreamy eyes had shone with no less extraordinary brilliancy;
but it seemed to Michel that their expression was not the same as when
they had looked into his. Glance for glance, he preferred the one that
had fallen to him.

Who could describe the marvellous and gorgeous romances which that rash
youth's brain developed during the next quarter of an hour? They were
all built upon the same foundation, the unheard-of genius of a young
artist who was ignorant of his own powers, and who had suddenly revealed
them in a brilliant and extensive piece of decorative work. The lovely
princess for whom that masterly work was undertaken had come often, by
stealth, to observe its progress, and during the week that the artist
had spent in the enchanted palace, taking his siesta and eating at
certain hours, in certain mysterious rooms, this invisible fairy had
come to gaze upon him, sometimes from behind a curtain, sometimes from a
rose-window in the wall. She had been smitten with love for his person
or with admiration for his talents--at any rate with an infatuation of
some sort for him; and that sentiment was so intense that she could not
summon the necessary self-possession to manifest it by words. Her glance
had revealed everything to him in spite of herself; and how should he,
trembling and bewildered as he was, find a way to tell her that he had
understood her?

He had reached that point when the Marquis della Serra, the princess's
adorer, suddenly reappeared before him and surprised him holding in his
hands the fan the princess had left on the divan, and gazing at it
without seeing it.

"I beg your pardon, my dear child," said the marquis, saluting him with
charming courtesy, "but I am compelled to deprive you of that object,
for which a lady has sent me. But if the Chinese pictures on this fan
interest you, I can place at your disposal a collection of interesting
vases and images from which you will be at liberty to choose."

"You are much too kind, signor marquis," replied Michel, offended by an
air of benevolence in which he fancied that he could detect an
impertinent assumption of superiority; "the fan does not interest me,
and Chinese painting is not to my taste."

The marquis perceived Michel's irritation, and rejoined with a smile:

"Presumably you have seen only coarse specimens of the art of that
people; but there are colored drawings, which, despite the elementary
simplicity of the process, are worthy to be compared with the Etruscan
vases in purity of outline and delightful artlessness of subjects. I
shall be happy to show you those that I own. It is a small pleasure
which I should be glad to afford you, but which would by no means pay my
debt to you, for I have taken very great pleasure in looking at your
paintings."

The marquis's tone was so sincere, and his face wore such an
unmistakable expression of kindliness, that Michel, attacked on his weak
side, could not refrain from saying ingenuously what he felt.

"I fear," he said, "that your lordship desires to encourage me by more
indulgence than I deserve; for I cannot suppose that you would stoop to
make sport of a young artist at the outset of his career."

"God forbid, my young friend!" replied the marquis, holding out his hand
with an irresistibly cordial air. "I know your father too well and
esteem him too highly not to be predisposed in your favor; that much I
must admit; but I can say to you in all sincerity that your paintings
disclose genius and give promise of talent. You see, I do not flatter
you; there are still great faults in your work, due to inexperience or
to overheated imagination: but there is a stamp of grandeur and
originality of conception which can neither be acquired nor lost. Work,
work, my young Michelangelo, and you will deserve the noble name you
bear."

"Are others of your opinion, signor marquis?" queried Michel, strongly
tempted to introduce the princess's name in the conversation.

"I think that everybody shares my opinion. Your defects are criticised
indulgently, your good qualities warmly praised; people are not
surprised at your brilliant performance when they learn that you are
from Catania and the son of Pier-Angelo Lavoratori, an excellent
workman, full of fire and spirit. We are loyal compatriots hereabout,
Michelangelo! We rejoice at the triumphs won by a child of the country,
and everyone generously claims a share in them. We esteem so highly
those who are born on our beloved soil, that we forget all distinctions
of rank, and nobles and peasants, artists and artisans, mutually
overlook their ancient prejudices and unite their prayers in a fervent
desire for national unity."

"Oho!" thought Michel, "the marquis is talking politics to me! I don't
know his opinions. Perhaps, if he has guessed the princess's feelings,
he proposes to try to ruin me! I will not trust him.--Will your lordship
tell me," he said aloud, "if the Princess of Palmarosa has deigned to
look at my paintings, and if she is not altogether dissatisfied with my
work?"

"The princess is enchanted, do not doubt it, my dear fellow," replied
the marquis, with extraordinary warmth; "and if she knew that you were
here she would come and tell you so herself. But she is too much engaged
at this moment for you to obtain speech of her. To-morrow, I doubt not,
she will give you the praise that you deserve, and you will lose nothing
by waiting. By the way," he said, turning again as he was about to leave
the grotto, "will you come and see my Chinese paintings, and some other
pictures not altogether without merit? I shall be delighted to see you
often. My country house is close at hand."

Michel bowed, as if to thank him and accept his invitation; but,
although he could not help being flattered by the marquis's gracious
manner toward him, he was depressed, crushed as it were. Evidently the
marquis was not jealous of him. He was not even disturbed.




XII

MAGNANI


Nothing is so mortifying as to have believed, though it were only for a
single hour, in the reality of a romantic, intoxicating adventure, and
to discover that you have simply been dreaming an absurd dream. Each new
reflection in which our young artist indulged cooled his brain and led
him back to the dismal field of probabilities. Upon what foundation had
he built so many castles in Spain? Upon a glance which he had doubtless
misinterpreted, and upon a remark which he must have misunderstood. All
the convincing arguments which offered a flat contradiction to his
extravagant conceit stood like a mountain in his path, and he felt that
he was falling back from heaven to earth.

"I am very foolish," he said to himself, "to give all my thoughts to a
problematical pair of eyes and to unintelligible words from a woman whom
I do not know, and whom consequently I do not love, when I have far more
important matters on hand. I must go and see if this marquis did not
deceive me, and if everybody really considers that my paintings show
genius in default of science. And yet," he continued, as he left the
grotto, "there is something that savors of mystery at the bottom of all
this, none the less. How does this marquis know me, when I never saw
him? How does it happen that he accosted me without hesitation, with
such familiarity, and called me by my Christian name, as if we were old
friends? To be sure, he may have been at some window, or in a church, or
on the public square on the day I walked through the city with my
father; or when I was looking at the aërial gardens of the Semiramis
who employs me, he may have been in one of those boudoirs, apparently so
tightly closed, whose windows look in that direction, and where he is
allowed, doubtless, to go and sigh hopelessly for her lovely capricious
eyes."

Michel walked through the crowd, and attracted no one's attention. His
features were not known, although his name had been on many lips, and
people talked freely of his work in his very ears.

"That is promising," said some.

"He still has much to learn," said others.

"There is much imagination and good taste; it pleases the eye and
interests the mind."

"True, but some of the arms are too long, and the legs too short; the
foreshortening shows extreme ignorance; the figures are making
impossible gestures."

"Agreed, but graceful, none the less. I tell you that this boy, for they
say he is a mere child, will go a long way."

"He is a child of our city."

"Indeed! well, he will go around it and no farther," retorted a
Neapolitan.

From first to last Michelangelo Lavoratori heard more kindly praise than
bitter criticism; but he felt many thorns while plucking many roses, and
he realized that success is a sweetmeat in which there is a plentiful
supply of gall. He was depressed at first; then, folding his arms across
his breast, and contemplating his work, without listening farther to the
opinion of others, he took account of its merits and defects with an
impartiality which triumphed over his self-love.

"They are all right," he said. "It promises, but pays nothing in
advance. I have already made up my mind to destroy these canvases when I
store them in the storerooms of the palace, and I will do better
hereafter. I have made an experiment upon myself, which I do not regret,
although I am not very well satisfied with it; but I shall know how to
profit by it, and whether this undertaking is favorable to my fortunes
or not, it shall be to my talent."

Having recovered all his lucidity of thought, and reflecting that he was
not one of those patrons who assisted the poor by purchasing a card of
admission, Michel determined to abstain from watching the fête and to
walk about alone in some quiet corner of the palace until he felt
absolutely calm and disposed to go home and to bed. His reason had
returned, but the fatigue of the preceding days had left a touch of
feverish excitement in his blood and in his nerves. He bent his steps
toward the Casino, whence he could go out upon the natural terraces of
the mountain.

The whole of that magnificent abode was illuminated and adorned with
flowers; the public were allowed free access to every part; but, after
once making the tour of the upper floors, the crowd ceased to go
thither. The bulk of the spectacle, the dancing, music, bustle, youth
and love, were below, in the great temporary ball-room. No one remained
in the upper galleries, on the graceful staircases, or in the vast
apartments, save an occasional majestic or mysterious group of solemn
personages discussing affairs of state, or great coquettes collecting
and detaining by their refined conversation certain chosen men around
their chairs.

Toward midnight all those who had not a direct interest in the affair,
or were not enjoying themselves, took their leave, and, the concourse
becoming less numerous, the fête was more enjoyable and more beautiful
to the eye.

Michel reached the princess's aërial garden by a small secret
staircase. At that elevation the breeze was very cool, and he felt
exceedingly refreshed and comfortable as he sat on the top step of that
staircase, near a fragrant flower-bed. The garden was deserted. Through
the silver gauze curtains he could see the interior of the princess's
apartments, also deserted. But Michel was not long alone; Magnani joined
him.

Magnani was one of the handsomest young men among the mechanics of the
city. He was industrious, intelligent, high-spirited, and honest. Michel
did not attempt to combat the friendly feeling he inspired, and in his
company forgot the embarrassment and distrust which he had felt from the
beginning with all the workmen with whom his father's position had
compelled him to associate. He suffered, poor boy, after years of
leisure, to be thrown with young men who were inclined to be a little
rough and noisy, who reproached him for looking down on them, and whom
he made vain efforts to look upon as his equals.

He confessed everything to Magnani, whom he saw to be the most
intelligent of them all, and in whose hearty outspokenness there was
nothing offensive or tyrannical. He confided to him all the ambitions,
all the weaknesses, all the intoxicating emotions, all the sufferings,
in a word, all the little secrets of his young heart. Magnani understood
him, excused him and talked sensibly to him.

"You are not wrong in my eyes, Michel," he said; "inequality of rank is
the law of society; everyone wishes to rise, no one wishes to descend.
If it were otherwise the people would remain in the brute stage. But the
people aspire to grow, thank God! and they do grow, whatever may be done
to prevent them. I myself strive to succeed, to possess something, to
reach a point where I shall not always have to obey, in a word, to be
free! But whatever happiness I may attain, it seems to me that I ought
not to forget the point from which I started. Unjust chance compels many
men to remain in poverty who deserve as well as I, perhaps much better,
to escape from it. That is why I shall never despise those whom I leave
behind me, and shall not cease to love them with all my heart and aid
them with all my power.

"I know that you shun your brothers in rank without despising them,
without hating them; you do not enjoy yourself with them, and yet you
would do them a favor on occasion; but beware! there is a touch of
ill-advised pride in this sort of patronizing affection, and, although
the day may come when it will be all right, remember that at the present
time it may well seem misplaced. You have more intelligence and more
knowledge of life than most of us, I agree; but is that a very real
superiority? Will not any poor devil who happens to have more wisdom,
virtue, or courage than you be entitled to consider himself your equal
at least, even if his speech is abrupt and his language vulgar?

"It will happen more than once in your career as an artist that you will
have to endure patiently the impertinence of the rich; indeed, if I am
not mistaken, an artist's life is likely to be a constant struggle to
shelter his individual merit from the contempt of the imaginary merit
attached to birth, power, and wealth. However, you are aiming for that
social level, without fear or shame; you accept the challenge in
advance, you propose to measure strength with the bitter vanity of the
great; how does it happen, pray, that that seems less offensive and less
unpleasant than the harmless familiarity of the humble? I could more
readily excuse the affront of an ignorant man than that of a coxcomb,
and I should feel more at ease amid the fisticuffs of my companions,
than when exposed to the graceful witticisms of my alleged superiors.

"Is it ennui that drives you away from us? Is it because we have few
ideas and little skill in expressing them? But perhaps we have something
else which would interest you if you understood it. The simplicity which
characterizes us has its noble side, which should arouse respect and
emotion in those who have lost it. Is it the faults or the vices that
are found among us that make you sick at heart? But are the upper
classes exempt from these same vices, which it pains me to see, and
which I am constantly on my guard against? Because they conceal them
better, or because in them debauchery of the mind colors and quickens
that of the body, does it follow that their vices are more estimable? In
vain do they, the fortunate ones of the age, cover their tracks; their
sins, their crimes become known to us, and often, almost always in fact,
they seek their confederates or their victims among us.

"Go on, Michel, work, hope, rise, but let it not be at the expense of
the spirit of justice and kindness; for in that case, although you might
grow in the opinion of some, you would descend proportionately in the
esteem of the majority."

"All that you say is true and wise," Michel replied, "but is the
conclusion well drawn? Ought I to pursue the career of art, and at the
same time associate exclusively, or at least by preference, with these
mechanics among whom fate willed that I should be born? If you reflect,
you will see that that is inconsistent, that the great works of art are
in the hands of the rich, that they alone own, purchase, and order
pictures, statues, urns, carvings, and engravings. To be employed by
them, one must needs live with them and as they live; otherwise
oblivion, obscurity and poverty are the lot of genius. Our ancestors,
the noble artists of the Renaissance and the Middle Ages, were artists
and artisans at once. Their position was well-defined, and was more or
less brilliant according to their talent. To-day all is changed. Artists
are more numerous and the rich are less powerful and magnificent. Taste
has become corrupted, the Mæcenases are no longer connoisseurs. Fewer
palaces are built; for one great collection that is formed, thirty are
sold piecemeal to pay debts, or because the heirs of the great families
prefer cash to monuments of genius. It is no longer enough, therefore,
to be a man of superior talent in order to find employment and honor in
one's profession. Chance, and, even more frequently, intrigue, cause
some to float, while others, who it may be are of far greater worth, are
submerged.

"However, I do not trust to chance, and my pride refuses to stoop to
intrigue. What shall I do, then? Shall I wait until some collector's eye
is attracted by a decorative figure, broadly conceived, on sized canvas,
and he is so impressed by it that he comes next day to the wineshop to
hunt me up and order a picture? Such good fortune may occur once in a
hundred times; but even then, on the day when it occurs to me, I shall
owe my bread to the patronage of the rich man, who is beginning to be
interested in me. Sooner or later I must bow before him and beg him to
recommend me to others. Would it not be better for me, at the earliest
possible moment, as soon as I am sure of myself, to quit the ladder and
the apron, to assume the external aspect of a man who does not beg, and
to present myself, with my head erect, among the rich? If I go out of
the wineshop arm-in-arm with the merry knights of the saw and trowel, it
is evident that I cannot enter the palace as a guest, but as a paid
workman; and at this moment, if I should venture to accost one of these
lovely women and ask her to dance, I should be spat upon and turned out
of doors within a quarter of an hour. The time must come, however, when
they will make overtures to me, and when my talent will be a title
capable of contending on equal terms with that of duke or marquis for
the triumphs of this world. But only on condition that my habits and my
manners bear the stamp and seal of aristocracy. I must be what they call
a man of good breeding; otherwise it would avail me nothing to be a man
of genius; no one would believe it.

"I shall not make my way as an artist, therefore, except by destroying
the artisan in me. I must succeed in becoming the free possessor of my
own works, and in selling them as an owner does, instead of executing
them like a day-laborer. Well! for that I must have reputation, and in
these days reputation does not go about looking for an artist in his
garret; he is obliged to acquire it himself by his own exertions,
consorting with those who award it, demanding it as a right and not
imploring it as alms. Tell me, Magnani, how I am to escape this dilemma!
And yet it pains me terribly, I assure you, to think that I must in some
sense deny the race of my fathers, and that I must submit to be accused
of idiocy and impudence by men whose brother and friend I feel that I
am. You see that I must go away from a country where my father's
popularity would make this separation more offensive to others and more
painful to myself than elsewhere. I came here to perform a duty--to
expiate my heedlessness at Rome; but when my task is done, I must return
thither, and from there travel the world over, in the disguise, perhaps
premature, of a free man. If I do not do it, farewell to my whole
future; I may as well renounce it to-day."

"Yes! yes! I understand," said Magnani; "you must set yourself free at
any price. The journeyman's work is slavery; the work of an artist is
the title of manhood. You are right, Michel; it is your right,
consequently your duty and your destiny. But how dismal and cruel the
destiny of an intelligent man is! One must cast off his family, leave
his native land, act a sort of comedy to induce strangers to accept him
as one of themselves, assume a mask in order to receive the laurel
wreath, take up arms against the poor who condemn him and the rich who
are loath to receive him! Why, it is horrible! it is enough to disgust
one with glory! In God's name, what is glory that one should purchase it
at that price?"

"Glory, as it is commonly understood, is nothing at all, I agree,"
replied Michel, warmly, "if it is nothing more than the trifling noise a
man may make in the world. Shame to him who denies his blood and
sacrifices his affections to gratify his vanity! But glory, according to
my conception, is not that! It is the manifestation and development of
the genius one bears within oneself. In default of enlightened judges,
warm admirers, stern critics, and even jealous detractors--in default of
opportunity to enjoy all the advantages, to receive all the counsels, to
undergo all the persecution which follow in the wake of renown--genius
withers and dies in discouragement, apathy, doubt or ignorance of
itself. Thanks to all the triumphs, all the struggles, all the wounds
which await us in a lofty career, we acquire the power to make the most
glorious use of our capabilities, and to leave a deep, ineffaceable,
forever fruitful trace in the world of thought. Ah! he who truly loves
his art desires glory for his works, not in order that his name may
live, but that his art may not die. And what would it matter to me that
I had not the art of my patron saint Michelangelo, if I should leave to
posterity an anonymous work worthy to be compared to the _Last
Judgment_! To make oneself talked about is more often a source of
martyrdom than of intoxicating pleasure. The serious-minded artist seeks
that martyrdom and endures it patiently. He knows that it is the harsh
condition of his success; and his success, not in being applauded and
understood by all, but in producing and leaving behind him something in
which he himself has faith. But what is the matter, Magnani? You are
sad, and you are not listening to me."




XIII

AGATHA


"Yes, I am listening to you, Michel, I am listening attentively,"
Magnani replied, "and I am sad because I feel the force of your
reasoning. You are not the first person with whom I have talked of these
matters. I have known more than one young mechanic who aspired to drop
his trade, to become a merchant, lawyer, priest or artist; and it is
true enough that the number of these deserters increases every year.
Whoever feels that he possesses intelligence instantly becomes conscious
of ambition; and hitherto I have fought such tendencies vigorously in
others and in myself. My parents, who are proud and obstinate like the
prudent, hard-working old people that they are, taught me, as a
religious precept, to remain true to family traditions--to the customs
of my rank; and my heart approved of that strict and simple code of
morals. That is why I have resolved not to seek success outside of my
trade, though I sometimes have to crush my own impulses. That is why I
have always roughly trampled upon the self-love of my young comrades as
soon as I saw it sprouting; that is why my first words of sympathy and
regard for you were warnings and reproaches. It seems to me now that,
until I had you to deal with, I was in the right, because the others
were really vain, and their vanity tended to make them selfish and
ungrateful. So that I felt fully justified in rebuking them, laughing at
them and preaching to them by turns. But with you I feel that I am weak,
because you are stronger than I in theory. You depict art in such grand
and beautiful colors, you feel so strongly the noble character of your
mission, that I dare not oppose you any longer. It seems to me that you
have a right to break down every obstacle in order to succeed, even your
heart, as I broke mine in order to remain obscure. And yet my conscience
is not satisfied with this solution. It does not seem to me to be a
solution. Come, Michel, you are more learned than I; tell me which of us
is wrong before God!"

"My friend, I believe that we are both right," replied Michel. "I
believe that at this moment we represent between us what is taking
place, contradictorily but simultaneously, in the minds of the common
people in all civilized nations. You plead for sentiment. Your paternal
feeling is holy and sacred. It is opposed to my idea; but my idea is
grand and true; it is as sacred in its passion for combat, as your
sentiment in its theory of renunciation and silence. You are following
your duty, I am enforcing my right. Bear with me, Magnani, for I respect
you, and each of our ideals is incomplete until it is completed by the
other."

"Yes, you speak of abstract ideas," rejoined Magnani, thoughtfully, "and
I think that I understand you; but in the concrete the question is not
solved. The society of the present day is struggling between two reefs,
resignation and resistance. Through love for my class I choose to suffer
and protest with it. From the same motive, perhaps, you choose to fight
and triumph in its name. These two methods of action seem to exclude and
condemn each other. Before the divine tribunal which will prevail,
sentiment or idea? You say, both. But on earth, where men are not
governed by divine laws, how can we possibly make those two extremes
harmonize? I seek in vain a means."

"But why seek it?" said Michel; "it does not exist on earth at this
moment. The people may free themselves and make themselves famous as a
whole by glorious battles, by good morals, by civic virtues, but each
individual of the people has his individual destiny; the destiny of the
man who feels that he was born to touch hearts is to live on fraternal
terms with the simple; of him who feels that his calling is to enlighten
men's minds, to seek light, though it be in solitude, though it be among
the enemies of his race. The great masters of art worked, from a
material standpoint, for wealth, but, from a moral standpoint, for all
mankind; for the poorest of the poor can obtain from their works a
revelation and appreciation of the beautiful. Let every man follow his
inspiration therefore, and bow to the mysterious designs of Providence
with respect to him! My father loves to sing rollicking ballads in
taverns; he electrifies his companions with them; the stories that he
tells sitting on a bench at a street corner, his cheery humor, and his
ardor in singing or in the common toil inspire all those who see and
hear him. Heaven has endowed him with the power of acting directly, by
the simplest means, on the vital fibres of his brethren, zeal in labor,
expansiveness in the hours of rest. For my part, I have a liking for
solitary temples, sumptuous, dark old palaces, venerable masterpieces,
studious reverie, the refined enjoyments of art. The society of
patricians has no terrors for me. I consider them too degenerate to be
feared; their names have for me a poesy which makes of them mere
figures, ghosts, if you choose, and I love to walk smiling among those
ghosts who do not frighten me. I love the dead; I live with the past;
and from the past I acquire my idea of the future; but I confess that I
have but little notion of the present, that the precise moment of my
existence has no existence for me, because I am always delving in the
past, and pushing all realities forward. In that way I transform them
and idealize them. You see that I should not reach the same ends as my
father and you, even if I used the same means. It is not in me to do
it."

"Michel," said Magnani, striking his forehead, "you have won! I must
absolve you and spare you my remonstrances henceforth! But I am
suffering, I am suffering terribly! Your words cause me very great
pain!"

"How so, my dear Magnani?"

"That is my secret, and yet I tell it to you without betraying its
sanctity. Can you possibly suppose that I have not some legitimate
ambition, some secret, deep-rooted desire to set myself free from the
servitude in which I live? Don't you know that all men have at the
bottom of their hearts the desire to be happy? And do you suppose that
the consciousness of a joyless duty causes me to wallow in delight?

"Listen and judge of my martyrdom. I have loved madly for five years a
woman whose rank in society places her as far above me as heaven is
above the earth. Having always considered it impossible that she should
ever bestow so much as a compassionate glance upon me, I cultivated a
sort of gloomy satisfaction in my suffering, my poverty, my forced
nullity among my fellowmen. With a bitter feeling at my heart, I
determined not to imitate those who are determined to succeed and who
expose themselves to the risk of being scoffed at from above and from
below. If I were one of them, I thought, perhaps the day would come when
I might gallantly raise to my lips the hand of her whom I adore. But as
soon as I opened my mouth to reveal the mystery of my passion, I should
undoubtedly be spurned, laughed at, trampled under foot; I prefer to
remain lost in the dust of my trade, and never to carry my insane
presumption so far as her feet. I prefer that she should continue to
believe it impossible that I could ever dream of aspiring to her. At all
events, while I wear the livery of the mechanic, she will respect the
suffering of which she knows nothing; she will not intensify it by
discovering it, by blushing because she inspired it, by deeming it
necessary to protect herself from it. Now, she passes me as she passes
anything which is of no consequence to her, but which she does not
consider that she has the right to spurn and crush. She bows to me,
smiles at me, and speaks to me as to a being of a different nature from
her own: that instinct is not manifest, but it is in her; I feel it and
I understand it. At all events, she does not think of humiliating me,
she would not do it; and the less reason I have for priding myself upon
the possibility of pleasing her, the less do I fear that she will insult
me by her pity. All this would change if I were a painter or a poet, if
I could present her with her portrait done by my trembling hand, or with
a sonnet indited by me in her honor; she would smile differently, she
would speak differently. There would be reserve, mockery, or compassion
in her kindness, according as I should have succeeded or failed in my
artistic efforts. Oh! how far that would remove me from her, how much
lower it would leave me than I now am! I prefer to be the mechanic who
renders her a service by selling her the use of his arms, rather than
the beginner in art to be patronized as a weakling or pitied as a
madman!"

"I approve what you have done," said Michel, who had become pensive in
his turn. "I like your pride, and I think that it would be a good
example to follow even in my position and with the projects which I
entertain, if I were tempted to seek love beyond certain obstacles,
which, though absurd, are enormous!"

"Oh! it is very different with you, Michel. The obstacles which would
exist between you and a great lady to-day will quickly be surmounted,
and, as you yourself have said, the day will come when those women will
make advances to you. Those words, which escaped from your heart, seemed
to me presumptuous and absurd at first. Now that I understand you they
seem perfectly natural and legitimate to me. Yes, you will win the favor
of women of the most exalted rank, because you are in the bloom of
youth, because your beauty is of a refined and somewhat effeminate type,
which gives you a resemblance to the men who are born to a life of
idleness; because you are accustomed to fashionable society, because you
have the instinct of good manners and seem perfectly at home in the
clothes you wear; for all these things, added to genius and success, are
essential to induce proud women to overlook the artist's plebeian
origin. Yes, you will be able to appear a man in their eyes, while I
should disguise myself to no purpose; I should never be anything but a
mechanic, and my rough shell would show in spite of me. It is too late
for me to begin: I am twenty-six years old! But I thrill with strange
emotion when I think that, five years ago, when I was still as pliable
as wax, if someone had encouraged and ennobled in my eyes the instincts
that were springing to life within me, if someone had spoken to me as
you have just done, I might have followed a course not unlike yours, and
have started upon a soul-stirring career! My mind was open to the
sentiment of the beautiful; I could sing like the nightingale, without
understanding my own notes, but with the power of untaught inspiration.
I could read, understand, and remember many books; I understood nature,
too; I could read in the sky and in the broad expanse of the sea, in the
verdure of the forests and the blue-capped mountains. It seems to me
that I might have been a musician, or a poet, or a landscape painter.
And love was already speaking to my heart; already she had appeared to
me from whom I cannot detach my thoughts. What a stimulus for me if I
had surrendered to my violent temptations!--But I forced them all back
into my heart, fearing to be false to my kindred and friends, fearing to
degrade myself in their eyes and my own by seeking to rise. I have
inured myself to work; my hands have become callous, and my mind as
well. My chest has increased in size, it is true, and my heart has kept
pace with it, like a polypus which feeds upon me and absorbs all my
vitality; but my brow has retreated, I am sure of it; my imagination has
collapsed; poesy is dead within me; I have nothing left except the
reasoning power, loyalty, resolution, and self-sacrifice--that is to
say, suffering! Ah! Michel, spread your wings and leave this land of
sorrows! fly, like a bird, to the domes of palaces and temples, and from
that height look down upon this wretched people, grovelling and groaning
at your feet. Pity me at least, love me if you can, and never do
anything which can lower you in your own eyes."

Magnani was deeply moved; but suddenly his emotion changed its nature;
he started, hastily turned his head and put his hand on the branches of
a dense clump of rose myrtle, which masked a dark recess in the wall
behind him. That curtain of verdure, which he put aside with a
convulsive movement, concealed the entrance to a secret passage, which,
as it presumably led only to the servants' quarters, was not open to the
princess's guests. Michel, surprised at Magnani's movement, glanced into
the passage, which was dimly lighted by a dying lamp, the farther end
being in total darkness. It seemed to him that he saw a white figure
gliding through the shadows, but it was so vague that it was hardly
perceptible, and it might have been an illusion caused by the sudden
introduction of a brighter light when the bushes were put aside. He was
about to enter; but Magnani detained him, saying:

"We have no right to watch what takes place in the reserved portions of
this sanctuary. My first curious movement was made without reflection; I
thought that I heard a light step close beside me, and--I was dreaming,
doubtless!--I fancied that I saw this bush move. But it was an illusion
due to the fear that seized upon me at the thought that I was on the
point of letting my secret pass my lips. I must leave you, Michel; these
outpourings of the heart are dangerous, they upset me; I feel that I
must withdraw into myself and give my reason time to allay the tempests
raised in my breast by your words and your example."

Magnani hurried away, and Michel returned to the ball. The confession of
his young companion, that he was beset by an insane love for a great
lady, had reawakened in him an emotion which he thought that he had
conquered. He hovered about the dancers, trying to divert his thoughts,
for he felt that his folly was as dangerous for the moment as Magnani's.
Many years must pass before he could consider that his genius had placed
him on the level of the most exalted social ranks; so that he derived an
agonizing sort of amusement from watching the youngest of the dancers
and dreamily seeking among them one whom he might some day gaze upon
with eyes inflamed with love and presumption. Probably he did not
discover her, for he transferred his fancy from one to another, and, as
one risks nothing by being hard to please in that variety of castles in
Spain, he continued to seek, and to discuss with himself the comparative
merits of those youthful beauties.

But in the midst of these aberrations of his brain he suddenly saw the
Princess of Palmarosa pass. He had been careful hitherto to remain at
some distance from the dancing groups, and to keep well out of sight
behind the benches of the amphitheatre; now he involuntarily approached;
and, although the crowd was not dense enough to justify or conceal his
presence, he walked on until he was almost in the front row, among
persons each nobler and richer than his neighbor. This time his
instinctive pride did not warn him of the perils of his situation. An
invincible magnet drew him on and detained him: the princess was
dancing.

Doubtless it was for form's sake, to satisfy the proprieties, or from
good nature, for she simply walked, and did not seem to take the
slightest pleasure in it. But she walked better than the others danced,
and, without a thought of striving to be graceful, she displayed every
variety of grace. That woman really possessed an extraordinary charm
which penetrated like a subtle perfume, and finally dominated or effaced
everything about her. One would have said that she was a queen in the
midst of her court, in some kingdom where moral and physical perfection
reigned.

It was the chastity of the celestial virgins with their omnipotent
serenity--a pallor in nowise extreme or sickly--which denoted the
absence of intense emotions. People said that the secret of that
mysterious life was either systematic abstinence from excitement or
extraordinary indifference. And yet her appearance was not that of a
lifeless statue. Kindness of heart lent animation to her somewhat
absent-minded glance and gave an indescribable sweetness to her faint
smile.

In the glare of those countless lights she appeared to Michel an
entirely different woman from her he had seen in the grotto an hour
earlier, when the peculiar light or his own imagination had made her
appear a little terrifying to him. Now her indifference was calm rather
than depressed, habitual rather than forced. She had recovered just
enough animation to vanquish the heart and leave the passions
undisturbed.




XIV

BARBAGALLO


If Michel could have removed his eyes from the object of his
contemplation, he would have seen his father playing a flageolet in the
orchestra a few steps away. Pier-Angelo had a passion for art in any
form in which he could assimilate it. He loved and understood music, and
played several instruments by instinct in almost perfect tone and time.
Having attended to several details of the fête which had been placed
under his supervision, and having nothing more to do, he had been unable
to resist the desire to mingle with the musicians, who knew him well,
and who took pleasure in his gayety, his attractive, kindly face, and
the enthusiasm with which he produced from time to time a shrill
_ritornello_ on his instrument. When the minstrel whose place he had
taken returned from the buffet, Pier-Angelo seized upon the vacant
cymbals, and, toward the end of the quadrille, was sawing with great
delight the heavy strings of the bass-viol.

He was enchanted above all things to play for the princess, who, having
espied his bald head on the platform among the orchestra, bestowed upon
him from a distance a smile and an imperceptible friendly nod which the
old man stored away in his heart. Michelangelo would have considered
perhaps that his father gave his time too lavishly to the service of his
dear patroness, and did not maintain strictly enough his dignity as an
artisan. But at that moment Michel, who believed that he had forgotten
or been cured of the effect of Princess Agatha's glance, had fallen so
completely under its influence that he cared for nothing but to
encounter it again.

His only fine clothes, which a lingering remnant of ineradicable
aristocratic feeling had led him to bring through the gorges of Ætna in
a travelling-bag slung over his shoulder, were of fashionable cut and in
good taste. His face, too, was so handsome and so noble that there
certainly was nothing to which exception could be taken in his person or
in his dress. And yet his presence in the circle immediately surrounding
the princess had, for some moments past, offended the eyes of Master
Barbagallo, the majordomo of the palace.

That individual, ordinarily the mildest and most humane of men, had
nevertheless his antipathies and his spasms of comical indignation. He
had recognized Michel's talent; but the young man's impatient air when
he ventured to address some trivial remark to him, and the small respect
he had seemed to entertain for his authority, had caused the majordomo
to look upon the painter with distrust and something like aversion.
According to his ideas--and he had made a special study of titles and
heraldry--nobody was noble but the _nobles_, and he looked upon all
other classes of society with silent but unconquerable disdain. He was
shocked and offended, therefore, to see the haughty palace of his
masters thrown open to what he called a mob--tradesmen, lawyers,
Jewesses, suspicious travellers, students, petty officers; in a word, to
anyone who chose to pay a gold-piece for the privilege of dancing in the
princess's quadrille. This subscription fête was a new invention,
imported from abroad, and it overturned all his notions of decorum.

The retirement in which the princess had always lived had assisted this
worthy majordomo to retain all his illusions and all his prejudices
touching the excellence of castes. That is why he became more and more
distressed, restless and morose as the night advanced. He had seen the
princess promise a contra-dance to a young lawyer who had had the
audacity to invite her; and when he saw Michelangelo Lavoratori gazing
at her at such close quarters with enraptured eyes, he wondered if that
dauber of canvas would not also enter the lists to dance with her.

"The world has turned upside down in twenty years, I see," he said to
himself; "if such a ball as this had been given here in Prince Dionigi's
time, things would have been managed differently. Each class would have
kept apart from the rest; they would have formed different groups, and
no group would have mingled with its superiors or inferiors. But here
all ranks are jumbled together; it's a bazar--an infernal revel!--But,
by the way," it occurred to him, "what is that little painter doing
here? He didn't pay any money; he has not even the right which anyone
can buy to-day, alas! at the door of the noble Palmarosa palace. He is
only admitted here as a workman. If he chooses to play the tambourine
beside his old father, or look after the lamps, let him stand back from
where he is now. I will take down his conceit a peg, and it won't do him
any good to play at being a great painter. I'll send him back to his
sizing. It's a little lesson that I owe him, as his old madman of a
father spoils him and doesn't know how to manage him."

Armed with this noble resolution, Messire Barbagallo, who dared not
approach the princess's circle himself, tried to attract Michel's
attention from a distance by making innumerable signs, of which the
young man remained utterly unconscious. Thereupon the majordomo, seeing
that the contra-dance was nearly at an end, and that the princess could
not fail to see young Lavoratori, who had planted himself so audaciously
in her path, determined to accomplish his purpose by a coup d'état. He
glided among the spectators like a hunting-dog in a field of grain, and,
gently passing his arm through the young man's, he tried to lead him
aside without any noise or disturbance.

At that moment Michel had met the glance from the princess which he had
been seeking and awaiting so long.

That glance had thrilled him like an electric shock, veiled though it
was by instinctive prudence; and when he felt some one grasp his arm,
without deigning to turn his head to ascertain with whom he had to do,
he repelled with an energetic dig of the elbow the indiscreet hand that
had touched him.

"What are you doing here, Master Michel?" said the indignant majordomo
in his ear.

"What business is it of yours?" he replied, turning his back and
shrugging his shoulders.

"You ought not to be here," replied Barbagallo, on the point of losing
patience, but restraining himself sufficiently to speak in a low tone.

"It is all right for you to be here, I suppose!" replied Michel, glaring
at him with eyes inflamed with wrath, hoping to get rid of him by
intimidation.

But Barbagallo had a certain courage of his own; he would have submitted
to be spat upon rather than fail in the smallest degree in what he
conceived to be his duty.

"I am doing my duty," he said; "go and do yours. I am sorry to disturb
you; but everyone must keep in his place. Oh! don't be insolent! Where
is your card of admission? You haven't one, I know. If you are allowed
to see the fête, it is only on condition that you look after the buffet
or the lights, like your father; let us see, what were you told to do?
Go and find the butler, and he will tell you what to do; and if he
doesn't need you, go away, instead of staring ladies out of
countenance."

Master Barbagallo continued to speak so low that nobody could hear him
save Michel; but his wrathful eyes and his convulsive gestures were
eloquent enough, and people were already beginning to look at them.
Michel had fully determined to retire, for he knew that he had no way of
resisting the order. The idea of striking an old man was most
distasteful to him, and yet never before had the blood of the common
people itched more fiercely in the hollow of his hand. He would have
yielded smilingly to an impertinence couched in polite phraseology; but,
not knowing what to do to rescue his dignity from that absurd attack, he
felt as if he should die of rage and shame.

Barbagallo was already threatening, under his breath, to call for help
to overcome his resistance. The persons who were nearest them glanced
with an expression of satirical surprise at this strange young man at
odds with the majordomo of the palace. The ladies gathered up their
skirts and drew back into the crowd, to be farther away from him. They
thought that he might be a pickpocket who had found his way into the
ball-room, or some insolent intriguer who was about to cause a scandal.

But just as poor Michel was on the point of swooning with wrath and
shame, for the blood was already roaring in his ears, and his legs were
giving way, a faint cry, not two yards away, drove all the blood back to
his heart. It seemed to him that he had heard that cry before, a cry of
grief, surprise and affection, all in one, in the midst of his sleep on
the evening of his arrival at the palace. Obeying an instinctive impulse
of confidence and hope, which he could not explain to himself, he turned
in the direction of that friendly voice and darted forward at random, as
if to seek refuge on the breast from which it issued. Suddenly he found
himself close beside the princess, with his hand in hers, which pressed
it tremblingly but warmly. That movement and that expression of their
mutual emotion were as rapid as the lightning flash. The amazed
spectators opened a passage for the princess, who walked across the
hall, leaning upon Michel, leaving her partner in the middle of his
final bow, the majordomo in utter dismay, wishing that he could sink
through the floor, and the spectators laughing at the good man's
discomfiture, and concluding that Michel was some young foreigner of
distinction recently arrived at Catania, to whom the princess made haste
to atone, with graceful tact and without useless words, for her
majordomo's blunder.


[Illustration: _THE BALL AT THE PALMAROSA
PALACE._

_When Signora Agatha reached the foot of the
great staircase, where there were few people, she
had recovered her tranquillity; but Michel was
trembling more than ever._]


When Signora Agatha reached the foot of the great staircase, where there
were few people, she had recovered her tranquillity; but Michel was
trembling more than ever.

"Doubtless she is going to show me the door herself," he thought,
"without allowing anyone to divine her purpose. She is too great and too
kind not to rescue me from the insults of her servants and the contempt
of her guests; but the advice she is going to give me will be none the
less deadly. This probably means the ruin of all my future prospects,
and the wreck of the life I have dreamed of will lie here on the
threshold of her palace."

"Michelangelo Lavoratori," said the princess, putting her bouquet to her
face to deaden the sound of her voice, which might have reached some ear
on the alert with curiosity, "I have discovered to-day that you are a
genuine artist, and that a noble career lies open before you. A few more
years of earnest work, and you may become a master. Then the world will
receive you, as you deserve to be received to-day, for the man who has
nothing more than well-founded hopes of his personal glory is at least
the equal of those who have only the memory of the glory of their
ancestors. But tell me if you are in haste to make your appearance in
this society which you have seen to-night, and whose spirit you can
already divine? If you wish it, I have but to say a word, to raise my
hand. All the connoisseurs here noticed your figures, and asked me your
name, your age, and your antecedents. I have only to present you to my
friends, to declare that you are an artist, and from this day you will
be so considered, and practically emancipated from your present social
position. Your father's humble profession, far from injuring you, will
be an added source of interest; for the world is always surprised to see
a poor man born with genius, as if artistic genius had not always sprung
from the common people, and as if our caste were still fruitful in
superior men. Answer me, Michel; do you wish to sup to-night at my
table, by my side, or do you prefer to sup in the buttery, beside your
father?"

This last question was put so concisely that Michel thought that he
could read his sentence in it. "This is either a delicately administered
but most severe lesson that I am receiving," he thought, "or else it is
a test. I will come forth pure!"--And at once recovering his wits, which
had been violently agitated a moment before, he replied proudly:

"Signora, most fortunate are they who sit at your side and whom you
treat as friends! But the first time that I sup with persons in
aristocratic society, it will be at my own table, with my father sitting
opposite me. That is equivalent to saying that it will never happen, or
that, in any event, many years still separate me from glory and wealth.
Meanwhile, I will sup with my father in the buttery of your palace, to
prove to you that I am not proud and that I accept your invitation."

"Your reply gratifies me," said the princess; "continue to be a man of
spirit, Michel, and destiny will smile upon you; remember that I predict
it!"

As she spoke, she looked him in the face, for she had dropped his arm
and was about to leave him. Michel was dazzled by the flames that gushed
from her eyes, usually so soft and dreamy, but animated for him
alone--that was certain now--with an irresistible affection. And yet he
was not disturbed by it as before. Either it was a different expression,
or he had misunderstood it at first. What he had taken for passion was
affection, rather, and the desire which had swept over him like a flood
changed to a sort of enthusiastic adoration, as chaste as she who
inspired it.

"But listen," added the princess, motioning to the Marquis della Serra,
who passed at that moment, to give her his arm, and thus admitting him
to a share in the conversation: "although there is nothing humiliating
to a sagacious mind in eating in the buttery, and although there is
nothing intensely exhilarating in supping in the salon, I desire that
you should do neither. I have reasons for that which are entirely
personal to you, and which your father must have explained to you. You
have already attracted attention to-day by your work. Avoid showing
yourself freely for a few days more, but without concealing yourself
with an affectation of mystery, which course would have its dangers. I
could have wished that you had not come to this fête. You should have
understood why I did not order a card of admission to be given to you;
and your father tried to remove any desire that you might have to be
present by telling you that, if you remained, you would be charged with
some duty which would not suit you. Why did you come? Tell me frankly:
are you very fond of spectacles like this? You must have seen as
beautiful ones at Rome?"

"No, signora, I have never seen any that were beautiful at all, for you
were not present."

"He wishes to make me believe," said the princess, with a smile of the
utmost amiability, addressing the marquis, "that he came to the ball on
my account. Do you believe it, marquis?"

"I am sure of it," replied the marquis, pressing Michel's hand
affectionately. "Let us see, Master Michelangelo, when are you coming to
see my pictures and dine with me?"

"He also declares," said the princess, hastily, "that he will never dine
with people of our sort without his father."

"Why this exaggerated timidity, pray?" said the marquis, fixing his eyes
upon Michel's with an expression of penetrating intelligence, in which a
touch of severity was mingled with kindliness; "can it be that Michel is
afraid that you or I would make him blush because he is not yet as
respectable as his father? You are young, my boy, and no one can expect
to find in you the virtues for which the noble-hearted Pier-Angelo is
admired and loved; but your intelligence and your excellent sentiments
are enough to justify you in going anywhere with confidence, without
being compelled to efface yourself in your father's shadow. However,
have no fear; your father has already promised to come to dine with me
the day after to-morrow. Will it be convenient for you to accompany him
on that day?"

Michel having accepted, struggling the while to conceal his confusion
and surprise beneath an affected ease of manner, the marquis added:

"Now allow me to tell you that we shall dine together on the sly: your
father was accused of conspiracy long ago; I am an object of suspicion
to the government; we still have enemies who may accuse us again of
conspiring."

"Well, good-night, Michelangelo, we shall meet again soon," said the
princess, observing Michel's bewilderment; "be charitable enough to
believe that we know how to appreciate real merit, and that we did not
wait for yours to be revealed before discovering your father's. Your
father has been our friend for many years, and if he does not eat at my
table every day, it is because I fear to expose him to persecution by
his enemies by making him conspicuous."

Michel was perturbed and out of countenance, although he would not for
anything in the world have given the impression that he was dazzled by
the sudden favors of fortune; but at heart he felt humiliated rather
than overjoyed by the affectionate lesson he had received. "For it was a
lesson," he said to himself, when the princess and the marquis, being
accosted by other guests, had walked away, after bidding him good-night
with a friendly nod; "these wise and philosophical grandees gave me to
understand clearly enough that their affability is a mark of homage
bestowed upon my father rather than myself. I am invited on his account,
not he on mine; so that it is not my merit which procures me these marks
of distinction, but my father's virtuous qualities. O God! forgive me
for the proud thoughts that led me to desire to enter upon my career
apart from him! I was mad, I was wicked; I have received a most useful
lesson from these great nobles, upon whom I sought to impose respect for
my origin, and who have, or pretend to have, a more heartfelt respect
for it than I have myself."

But the young artist's wounded pride soon recovered from this blow. "I
have it!" he cried, after musing a few moments. "These people are deep
in politics. They are still conspiring. Probably they did not even take
the trouble to look at my paintings, or else they know nothing about
art. They pet and flatter my father, who is one of their tools, and they
are trying to gain possession of me, too. Ah well! if they wish to
arouse Sicilian patriotism in my bosom, let them go about it in a
different way and not attempt to exploit my youth without advantage to
my reputation! I see their object; but they shall learn to know me. I am
willing to be the victim of a noble cause, but not the dupe of other
people's ambition."




XV

ROMANTIC LOVE


"But," said Michel to himself, "are the patricians all alike in this
island? Does the age of gold still flourish in Catania, and do the
servants alone retain the pride of prejudice?"

The majordomo had just passed and saluted him with a depressed and
crestfallen air. Doubtless he had been reprimanded, or expected to be.

Michel was passing through the dressing-room, resolved to go home, when
he saw Pier-Angelo holding the wadded great-coat of an old noble in a
light wig, who was feeling about for the arm-holes, shaking as with
palsy. Michel blushed at that sight, and quickened his pace. In his
opinion, his father was much too good-natured, and the man who allowed
himself to be waited upon thus gave an explicit contradiction to the
conjectures in which he had just been indulging concerning the
noble-hearted generosity of the great.

But he did not escape the humiliation he shunned. "Ah!" cried
Pier-Angelo, "there he is, monsignor! Look, you were asking me if he was
a handsome boy; look at him!"

"Ah! upon my word, the rascal is well turned, and no mistake!" said the
old noble, standing in front of Michel, and eying him from head to foot,
as he wrapped his coat about him. "I am much pleased with your
decorative work, my boy; I noticed it particularly. I was just telling
your father, whom I have known a long while, that you will deserve to
succeed him some day in his trade; and if you don't go about town too
much, you'll never land in the gutter. At all events, if you ever do get
there, it will be your own fault. Call my carriage for me. Be quick;
there is quite a cool wind to-night, and it's a bad thing when one has
just been in such a suffocating crowd."

"A thousand pardons, your excellency," rejoined Michel, frantic with
rage. "I am afraid of the wind myself."

"What does he say?" the old man asked Pier-Angelo.

"He says that your excellency's carriage is at the door," replied Pier,
struggling hard to keep from roaring with laughter.

"Very good; I will hire him by the day, with you, when I have work for
you."

"Oh! father!" cried Michel, as soon as the old nobleman had gone, "how
can you laugh? That impertinent man treats you like a footman, and you
accept such treatment with a smile!"

"It makes you angry," said Pier, "but why? I am laughing at your anger
and not at the goodman's lack of ceremony. Didn't I promise to help the
people of the house in every way? I happen to be here; he asks me for
his great-coat; he is old, infirm, foolish--three reasons why I should
take pity on him. And why should I despise him, pray?"

"Because he despises you!"

"According to your ideas, but not according to his conception of the
things of this world. He is an old devotee, formerly a great rake. In
the old days he seduced the daughters of the common people; to-day he
bestows alms on the poor mothers. God will forgive him for his early
sins, beyond any doubt. Why should I be more straitlaced than the good
Lord! I tell you that the differences which social customs create among
men are neither so important nor so real as you think, my child. They
are all disappearing little by little, and if those who are inordinately
sensitive would be a little less stiff, all those barriers would soon be
nothing but empty words. For my part I laugh at those who consider
themselves so much better than I am, and I never lose my temper. It is
not in any man's power to humiliate me, so long as I am at peace with my
conscience."

"Do you know, father, that you are invited to dine with the Marquis
della Serra on the day after to-morrow?"

"Yes, that is understood," replied Pier-Angelo, coolly. "I accepted this
invitation because he is not tiresome like most of the great nobles. Ah!
what a price some of them would have to pay me to induce me to pass a
couple of hours with them! But the marquis is a man of intellect. Do you
mean to go there with me? Don't accept unless you choose, Michel; do you
understand? You must not stand on ceremony with any one if you wish to
retain your openness of heart."

There was evidently a wide difference between Pier-Angelo's idea of the
honor conferred upon him by such an invitation and the idea that Michel
had conjured up of his triumphal entrance into society. Intoxicated at
first by what had seemed to him to be love on the part of the princess;
then bewildered by the amiability of the marquis, which tended to
diminish the force of the portent, but did not explain it; and, lastly,
irritated by the insolence of the man in the great-coat, he did not know
which way to turn. His theories concerning the victories of talent fell
to the ground before the heedless simplicity of his father, who accepted
everything--homage and disdain--with placid gratitude or satirical
amusement.

At the doors of the palace Michel met Magnani, who was also going away.
But, after walking a few steps, the two young men, revived by the
morning air, determined, instead of going to bed, to skirt the hill and
watch the rising of the sun, which was just beginning to whiten the
sides of Ætna. They paused on a small hill, about the half height of
Ætna itself, and seated themselves on a picturesque spot, having at
their right the Villa Palmarosa, still gleaming with light and echoing
with the strains of the orchestra; on their left the towering cone of
the volcano, with the vast slopes forming an amphitheatre of verdure,
rocks and snow to the summit. It was a strange and superb spectacle.
Everything was ill-defined in that boundless expanse, and the
_piedimonta_ could hardly be distinguished from the upper belt, called
_nemorosa_ or _silvosa_. But while the dawn, reflected in the sea,
suffused the lower portion of the picture with a pale, vague light, the
bold, jagged edges and immaculate snow of the peak were sharply outlined
against the transparent atmosphere of the night, which was still a deep
blue and studded with stars about the giant's head.

The sublime tranquillity, the imposing serenity of the towering peaks,
presented a marked contrast to the commotion all about the palace. The
music, the shouts of the servants, the rumbling of the carriages,
seemed, in the presence of placid, silent Ætna, a satirical epitome of
human life as compared with the mysterious abyss of eternity. As the
light grew stronger the peaks became less distinct, and the gorgeous
streamer of reddish smoke that had cut the deep blue sky became blue
itself, and wound upward like an azure serpent against an opal
background.

Then the picture changed, and the contrast was reversed. The commotion
and noise rapidly subsided about the palace, and the horrors of the
volcano became visible; the formidable inequalities of its surface, its
yawning chasms, and all the marks of desolation it had left upon the
soil from its crater to its base, even beyond the point from which
Michel and Magnani were gazing at it, even to the very seashore, where
Catania lies, imprisoned by countless blocks of lava as black as ebony.
That awe-inspiring marvel of nature seemed to be defied and insulted by
the joyous airs which the orchestra was playing, softly now, and by the
fast-dying illuminations which crowned the main façade of the palace.
Now and again the music and the candles seemed to make an effort to
revive. Evidently some indefatigable dancers compelled the musicians to
shake off their torpor. Perhaps the burnt-out candles set fire to their
collars of pink paper. One would have said, watching that brilliant and
echoing structure, that the heedless gayety of youth was struggling
against the prostration of sleep or the languor of sensual desire, while
the undying scourge of that sublime country sent its blazing smoke into
the air, a menace of destruction which could not always be defied with
impunity.

Michelangelo Lavoratori was absorbed by the spectacle of the volcano,
Magnani's eyes were fixed more frequently on the villa. Suddenly he
uttered an exclamation, and his young friend, following the direction of
his glance, saw a white figure which seemed to be floating in space. It
was a woman walking slowly on the high terrace of the palace.

"She, too," cried Magnani, involuntarily, "is watching the sun rise over
the mountain. She, too, is musing, and, it may be, sighing!"

"Who?" queried Michel, whose mind had hardened itself somewhat to eject
its own chimera. "Are your eyes sharp enough to see from here whether it
is Princess Agatha or her maid who is taking the air on the terrace?"

Magnani hid his face in his hands and made no answer.

"Come, my friend," said Michel, obeying a sudden inspiration, "be frank
with me. The great lady with whom you are in love is the Princess
Agatha?"

"Well, why should I not admit it?" rejoined the young mechanic, in a
profoundly sorrowful tone; "it may be that I shall soon repent of having
confided to a child whom I hardly know a secret which I have never
allowed those who should be my best friends to suspect. There must be
some fateful reason for this longing to unbosom myself which has
suddenly drawn me toward you. Perhaps it is the late hour, the fatigue,
the excitement caused by the music and lights and perfumes; I do not
know. Perhaps, rather, it is because I feel that you are the only person
here who is capable of understanding me, and that you are mad enough
yourself not to be too severe upon my madness. Well, yes, I love her! I
fear her, I hate her, and I adore her all at once--that woman who is
unlike all other women, whom no one knows, and whom I do not know
myself."

"I certainly shall not laugh at you, Magnani; I pity you, I understand
you and I love you, because I think that I can detect a certain
similarity between you and me. I, too, am excited by the perfumes, the
intense brilliancy of that ball, and the noisy dance-music, in which my
imagination detects such an undertone of gloom and melancholy through
its false liveliness. I, too, feel over-excited and a little mad at this
moment. I fancy that there is some deep mystery in our sympathetic
feeling for each other."

"Because we both love her!" cried Magnani, beside himself. "Why, Michel,
I guessed it from the first glance you bestowed upon her; you, too, love
her! But you are loved by her, or will be, and she will never love me!"

"Loved, I shall be loved, or am already! What are you saying, Magnani?
you are raving!"

"Listen to me; I must tell you how this disease took possession of me,
and perhaps you will understand what is taking place in yourself. Five
years ago my mother was ill. The doctor who attended her, for charity's
sake, had almost given her up; her case seemed hopeless. I was sitting
with my face in my hands, weeping bitterly, at the gate of our little
garden, which opens on a street which is almost always deserted, and
which ends in the fields on the outskirts of the town. A woman wrapped
in a cloak passed the gate and stopped: 'Young man,' she said, 'why do
you grieve so? what can I do to lighten your sorrow?'--It was almost
dark and her face was hidden; I could not see her features, and her
voice, which was extremely sweet, was unfamiliar to me. But her
pronunciation and her manner convinced me that she did not belong to our
class.

"'Signora,' I replied, rising, 'my poor mother is dying. I ought to be
with her, but, as she is fully conscious and I have reached the end of
my courage, I came outside to weep, so that she should not hear me. I am
going back to her, for it is cowardly to weep like this.'

"'Yes,' she said, 'we must have enough courage to lend some to those who
are struggling in the death agony. Go back to your mother; but tell me
first if all hope is lost? has she no doctor?'

"'The doctor has not been to-day, and I understand that he can do
nothing more.'

"She asked me the doctor's name and my mother's, and when I answered,
she said: 'What! has she grown so much worse during the night? he told
me last evening that he still hoped to save her.'

"These words, which she involuntarily let fall did not lead me to think
that it was the Princess of Palmarosa who was speaking to me. I did not
then know what many people do not know to-day, that that charitable
woman paid several doctors to attend the poor of the city, the suburbs,
and the country; that, without ever appearing in person, unwilling to
receive the reward of her good works in the esteem and gratitude of
others, she gave the most assiduous and careful attention to all the
details of our hardships and our necessities.

"I was too much engrossed by my grief to pay the same attention to her
words that I afterwards paid to them. I left her; but when I entered my
poor invalid's room, I saw that the veiled lady had followed me. She
approached my mother's bed without speaking, took her hand and held it a
long time, leaned over her, looked into her eyes, listened to her
breathing, and finally said in my ear: 'Young man, your mother is not so
ill as you think. She still has some strength and vitality. The doctor
did wrong to give up hope. I will send him to you and I am sure that he
will save her.'

"'Who is this woman?' my mother asked in a feeble voice; 'I do not
recognize you, my dear, but I recognize everybody else here.'

"'I am a neighbor of yours,' replied the princess, 'and I came to tell
you that the doctor is coming soon.'

"She went out, and my father at once exclaimed: 'That woman is the
Princess Agatha! I recognized her perfectly.'

"We could not believe my father; we supposed that he was mistaken, but
we did not have time to discuss the question much. Mother said that she
felt better, and the doctor soon arrived, ordered other remedies, and
left us, saying that she was saved.

"And so she was; and since then she has always insisted that the veiled
lady she saw at her death-bed was her patron saint, who had appeared to
her just as she was praying to her, and that the breath of that blessed
spirit had restored her life as by a miracle. We cannot disabuse my dear
mother's mind of that pious and poetic idea, and my brothers and
sisters, who were children then, share it with her. The doctor always
pretended that he didn't know what we meant when we talked about a woman
in a black _mazzaro_, who had just entered the house and gone out again,
saying that he was coming, and that my mother was saved.

"They say that the princess requires absolute secrecy from all those
whom she employs in her good works, and indeed they go so far as to say
that her modesty in that respect amounts to a mania. Her secret was kept
for many years; but the truth always comes out at last, and now many
know that she is the hidden providence of the unfortunate. But see the
injustice and absurdity of human judgments! Some of our people declare
that she once committed a crime, and made a vow to atone for it; that
her noble and saintly life is a self-imposed, terrible penance; that in
her heart she hates all mankind so bitterly that she will never exchange
a sympathetic word with those whom she assists; but that the fear of
everlasting punishment impels her to devote her life to works of
charity. Isn't it horrible to form such judgments? And yet that is what
I have heard said, in a very low tone, it is true, by old women who have
called to see my mother in the evening, and it is sometimes repeated by
younger people, who are impressed by these extraordinary conjectures.
For my own part, I was fully convinced that I had not seen a phantom,
and although my father, fearing lest he might lose the princess's
good-will if he betrayed her incognito, dared not repeat that it was she
who had appeared to us, he said it at first so naturally and so
confidently that I could not doubt it.

"As soon as my mother was convalescent, I went and offered to pay the
doctor for his services; but he refused my money, as did the druggist.
They replied to my questions according to the lesson that had been
taught them, that a secret association of wealthy and devout people paid
them for their trouble and outlay."




XVI

CONCLUSION OF MAGNANI'S STORY


"My brain began to work," said Magnani, continuing his narrative. "As
the grief that had overwhelmed me gave place to joy, the romantic
portion of my adventure recurred to my memory. The slightest details
stood out distinctly and assumed an intoxicating charm. That woman's
soft voice, her graceful figure, her noble carriage, her white hand,
were constantly in my mind. A ring which she wore, of a curious shape,
had attracted my attention when she felt my poor mother's pulse.

"I had never entered the Palmarosa palace. It is not open to strangers
or to inquisitive natives, like most of the ancient abodes of our
patricians. The princess has lived in retirement there, hidden from the
world, so to speak, ever since her father's death, receiving very few
visitors, going out only at night, and that very rarely. I had to watch
for an opportunity to see her near at hand, for I was determined to see
her with the eyes which I had for her alone thenceforth. I had never
desired before that time to see her features, and she had shown them so
seldom in ten years that the people of the suburb had forgotten them.
When she rode out the shades were lowered, and when she went to church
her head was completely enveloped in her black mantilla. Indeed, it was
commonly said among us that she had once been very beautiful, but that
she had had a scrofulous eruption on her face which made her so
frightful that she preferred not to show herself.

"All this was simply vague rumor, for my father and other mechanics whom
she employed laughed at these stories, and declared that she was the
same as always. But my youthful brain was affected, none the less, by
these contradictory reports, and my desire to see that woman was blended
with an indefinable dread which prepared me by slow degrees for the
madness of falling in love with her.

"One fact in particular added to my ardent longing. My father, who went
often to the palace, as a simple journeyman, to assist the master
upholsterer to hang and drape curtains and the like, refused to take me
there with him, although I was accustomed to go everywhere else with
him. He had often put me off with excuses which I accepted without
examining them; but when my longing to find my way into that sanctuary
became overpowering, he was compelled to admit that the princess did not
like to see young people in her house, and that the master upholsterer
carefully excluded them when he went there with his workmen. This
extraordinary restriction served only to inflame my desire. One morning
I resolutely took my hammer and my apron and entered the Palmarosa
palace, carrying a prie-Dieu covered with velvet, which my father had
just finished in his employer's workshop. I knew that it was made for
Signora Agatha; I consulted nobody, but took possession of it and
started.

"That was five years ago, Michel! The palace which you see at this
moment, so resplendent, with its doors wide open, and filled with
people, was just the same a month ago as it was at the time of which I
am telling you, just the same as it had then been during the five years
that had passed since she was left an orphan and mistress of her own
life, and as it probably will be again to-morrow. It was a tomb in which
she seemed to have buried herself alive. All the treasures to-day spread
out for everyone to see were buried in darkness under layers of dust,
like relics of the dead in a tomb. Two or three servants, dismal and
silent, walked noiselessly through the long galleries closed to the
sunlight and the outer air. On all sides thick curtains hanging before
the windows, doors which refused to swing on their rusty hinges, an air
of solemn neglect, statues standing erect in the shadow like ghosts,
family portraits that followed you with their eyes with a distrustful
air. I was frightened, and yet I walked on. The house was not so
jealously guarded as I expected. It had invisible sentinels in its
reputation for inhospitable gloom and the dread of its loneliness. I
carried thither the insane audacity of my twenty years, the ill-fated
rashness of a heart enamored in anticipation, and rushing headlong to
its destruction.

"By a chance which seemed like fatality, I was not questioned by anyone.
The few servants of that dismal abode did not see me, or did not think
of preventing me from proceeding, relying, perhaps, upon some Cerberus
nearer to the person of their mistress, whose duty it was to guard the
door of her apartments, and who, by some miracle, happened not to be
there.

"Instinct or destiny guided me. I passed through several rooms, I put
aside heavy, dust-covered portières; I passed through one more open
door and found myself in a very richly furnished room, where a
full-length portrait of a man occupied a panel of the wall directly
opposite me. I stopped. That portrait sent a shudder through my veins. I
recognized it from my father's description of the original, whose
character was then a much more common subject of anecdote and gossip
among our people than the peculiarities of the princess. It was the
portrait of Dionigi Palmarosa, Princess Agatha's father, and I must tell
you something of that terrible man, Michel; for it may be that you have
not as yet heard his name in this country, where nobody mentions it
except in fear and trembling. Indeed, I see that I should have mentioned
him to you before, for the hatred and terror which his memory inspires
would have explained to you in some measure the distrust, and even
malevolence with which his daughter, despite all her virtues, is
regarded by some persons of our station in life.

"Prince Dionigi was a fierce, despotic, cruel and overbearing man. The
pride of birth made him almost insane, and every indication of spirit or
of resistance on the part of his inferiors was punished with incredible
arrogance and severity. Vindictive to excess, he had, it was said,
killed his wife's lover with his own hand, and worried her to death,
poor creature, in a sort of captivity. He was bitterly detested by his
equals, and still more bitterly by the poor, whom he assisted, however,
on occasion, with lordly liberality, but in such a humiliating way that
one felt degraded by his benefactions.

"Now you will understand better the small degree of sympathy which his
daughter has acquired. It seems to me that the constraint in which she
passed her early youth, under the iron rule of such a detestable father,
may well explain her reserved disposition, and what I may call the
premature withering or repression of her heart. Doubtless she is afraid
of reawakening antipathies connected with the name she bears, by
entering into relations with other people; and if she avoids intercourse
with her fellow men, it is for reasons which should arouse the
compassion and deep interest of fair-minded persons.

"A single other fact will serve to exhibit Prince Dionigi's disposition.
About fifteen or sixteen years ago, I think--it is all very vague in my
boyish memories,--a young mountaineer in his service, being maddened
beyond endurance by the harshness of his language, ventured, they say,
to shrug his shoulders as he held the stirrup for the prince to dismount
from his horse. He was a worthy, honest fellow, but proud and of violent
temper. The prince struck him a vicious blow. Thereafter they hated each
other intensely, and the groom--his name was Ercolano--left the
Palmarosa palace, saying that he knew the great secret of the family and
that he would soon have his revenge. What was that secret? He had no
time to reveal it, and no one ever knew what he had to reveal; for they
found Ercolano the next morning on the seashore, murdered, with a dagger
bearing the Palmarosa arms in his breast. His relations dared not demand
justice, they were poor!"

Magnani had reached this point when the white figure they had seen
wandering about the terrace crossed the flower-garden once more and went
inside. Michel shuddered from head to foot.

"I don't know why your story has such an effect upon me," he said. "I
seem to feel the cold blade of that dagger in my breast. That woman
terrifies me. A strange superstition is creeping into my mind. A person
cannot have a murderer's blood in her veins without having either a
wicked heart or an unhinged mind. Give me a chance to breathe, Magnani,
before you finish your story."

"The painful emotion that you feel, the dark thoughts that come to your
mind," rejoined Magnani, "all fell to my lot at sight of Dionigi's
portrait; but I passed on and through another door; the staircase
leading to the casino was before me, and I found myself in the
princess's oratory, where I set down the prie-Dieu and looked about me.
No one there! I had no excuse for going farther; the mistress of that
depressing mansion had evidently gone out. So I must needs retire
without seeing her, lose the benefit of my audacity, and perhaps never
again have the courage or the opportunity.

"It occurred to me to make a noise to attract her attention, in case she
were in the adjoining room; for I was certainly in her apartments, I
could not doubt it. I took my hammer and struck the gilt nails of the
prie-Dieu, as if I were putting the finishing touch to it.

"My stratagem succeeded.--'Who is there? who is making such a noise?'
said a faint voice, with a pure and distinct enunciation which left no
doubt in my mind of the identity of that voice with that of the
mysterious visitor whose accents had not ceased to echo in my heart like
an ineffably sweet melody.

"I walked toward a velvet portière and raised it with the determination
born of a last hope. I saw a woman reclining on a couch, in a bedroom
sumptuously furnished in antique style: it was the princess; I had
roused her from her siesta.

"My appearance terrified her beyond words; she leaped into the middle of
the room as if she would fly. Her lovely face, whose gentle and somewhat
languid serenity I had been able to contemplate with admiration for a
second, was distorted by childish, incredible terror.

"I hastened to retrace the steps I had taken.--'I beg your excellency
not to be frightened,' I said: 'I am only a poor upholsterer's
apprentice, an awkward lout, ashamed of my mistake. I thought that your
highness was out, and I was working here----'

"'Go away!' she exclaimed, 'go away!'

"And with a gesture in which there was more bewilderment and dismay than
sternness and anger, she pointed to the door.

"I attempted to go, but I seemed to be rooted to the floor as in a
dream. Suddenly I saw the princess, who had risen with extraordinary
vehemence, turn as pale as a lovely lily; her breathing ceased; her head
fell back; her arms dropped at her sides. She would have fallen to the
floor had I not rushed to her and caught her in my arms.

"She had lost consciousness. I placed her on her couch, I was so
bewildered that it did not occur to me to call for help. Indeed what
would have been the use of ringing? Everybody was asleep or attending to
his special duty in that house, where silence and solitude alone seemed
to be absolute masters. May God forgive me! Twenty times since then I
have been tempted to enter her service as a footman!

"Oh! Michel, it would be impossible for me to tell you to-day what took
place within me during the two or three minutes that that woman lay
stretched out like a dead woman before my eyes, with her lips as white
and dry as pure wax, her eyes half-open, but strange and expressionless,
her dark hair falling over her brow on which the cold perspiration stood
in beads, and all that exquisite, refined beauty, above all comparison
in my thought. It was not the intoxicating flame of a gross animal
passion that was kindled in my plebeian blood. It was adoration, as pure
and timid and refined and mysterious as the being who inspired it. I
felt an irresistible longing to prostrate myself at the feet of a dead
and gone martyr, for I thought that she was dead, and it seemed as if my
soul were ready to leave the earth with hers.

"I dared not touch her; I did not know what to do to restore her. I had
no voice with which to call for help. I was motionless in my perplexity,
as one is when struggling violently in a horrible dream. At last a phial
fell under my hand, I know not how. She recovered consciousness little
by little, looked at me without seeing me, not understanding or seeking
to understand who I could be. At last she raised herself on her elbow
and seemed to be collecting her thoughts.

"'Who are you, my friend?' she said, seeing me on my knees by her side,
'and what do you want? You seem to feel very sorrowful.'

"'Ah! yes, your highness, God is my witness that I am very unhappy to
have frightened you so.'

"'You did not frighten me,' she said, with an evident embarrassment
which astonished me. 'Did I cry out?--Ah! yes,' she continued, with a
shudder, yielding once more to an impulse of distrust or alarm.--'I was
asleep; you came in; you frightened me. I do not like to be surprised in
that way. But did I say anything unkind to you, that you weep?'

"'No, your highness,' I replied; 'you fainted, and I would rather have
died than have caused you this discomfort.'

"'Am I alone here, pray?' she cried in a tone of distress that tore my
heart. 'Can anybody who pleases enter my apartments and insult me?'--She
rose and ran to her bell-rope. She seemed desperate--beside herself. Her
words and her excitement had affected me so painfully that it did not
occur to me to fly. And yet, if she had rung--if anyone had come--I
should have been treated like a criminal. But she stopped, and the
expression of her face told me the truth at once concerning her
disposition.

"It was a blending of unhealthy suspicion and sympathetic kindliness.
She had been so wretchedly unhappy in her early youth--so everyone said!
At all events, she could not have been ignorant of her father's
execrable character. She may have witnessed some murder in her
childhood. Who knows what scenes of violence and terror have been
enacted behind the thick walls of that dumb mansion? It was by no means
impossible that she might have acquired therefrom some mental malady of
which I had just witnessed an outbreak; and yet what angelic sweetness
her glance expressed when she dropped the bell-cord, apparently overcome
by my humble attitude and the grief by which I was overwhelmed!

"'You came in here by chance, did you not?' she said. 'You did not know
that it is a whim of mine not to like new faces; or, if you did know it,
you had the courage to disregard my orders, because you have had some
misfortune which I can lighten? I have seen you somewhere; I have a
vague remembrance of your features. Your name is----?'

"'Antonio Magnani, your highness. My father works here sometimes.'

"'I know him; he has some little means. Is he sick? Has he run in debt?'

"'No, signora,' I replied, 'I do not ask alms, although you are the only
person on earth from whom I could accept alms without blushing. I have
long wished to see you; not to beg from you, but to bless you. You saved
my mother; you encouraged me. You leaned over her pillow; you restored
my hope and her life. That is certain; of course you do not remember it,
but I shall never forget it. May God reward you for what you did for us!
That is all I wanted to say to your highness; and now I will go away,
begging you not to blame anyone, for the fault is entirely mine.'

"'I will not tell anyone that you came into my house in spite of my
orders,' she said. 'Your employer and your father would reprove you for
it. Nor do you say that you saw me in such a fright. People would say
that I am mad, as they say now, I believe, and I do not much like to
have people talk about me. As for your thanks, I do not deserve them.
You are mistaken; I never did anything for you, my child.'

"'Oh! I am not mistaken, your highness; I should have known you among a
thousand. The heart has instincts deeper and truer than the senses. You
do not wish your benefactions to be discovered, so I do not speak of
them. I do not intend to thank you for paying the doctor; no, you are
rich, and it is easy for you to give. But you are not obliged to love
and pity those whom you help. And yet you pitied me when you saw me
weeping at the door of the house where my mother lay dying, and you
loved my mother when you leaned over her bed of pain.'

"'But I tell you again, my child, that I do not know your mother.'

"'That is possible; but you knew that she was sick. You wished to see
her, and charity was in your very glance--how ardent at that
moment!--since your glance, your voice, your touch, your breath, cured
her as by a miracle. My mother was conscious of it; she remembers it;
she thinks that it was an angel who appeared to her; she addresses her
prayers to you because she thinks that you are in Heaven. But I was sure
that I should find you on earth, and should have an opportunity to thank
you.'

"Princess Agatha's cold and impassive face relaxed as if involuntarily.
It lighted up for an instant with a warm glow of sympathy, and I saw
that treasures of kindliness were contending in that suffering heart
against a painful misanthropical propensity.--'Well,' she said, with a
divine smile, 'I see, at all events, that you are a good son and adore
your mother. God grant that I may in truth have brought her good
fortune! but I believe that God alone deserves thanks. Thank Him and
worship Him, my child; He alone understands and can relieve certain
sorrows, for men cannot do much for one another. How old are you?'

"I was twenty at that time. She listened to my reply, and said, looking
at me as if she had not yet noticed my features: 'True, you are older
than I thought. You can come and work here when you choose. I am
accustomed to your face now, and it will not startle me again; but
another time do not wake me suddenly by hammering in my ears in that
way, for I am always depressed and nervous when I wake. That is my
disease!'

"While she was speaking, and while she looked after me as I walked
toward the door, her eyes expressed this thought: 'I do not offer you my
assistance in life, but I will keep my eye on you, as I do on so many
others, and I will find ways to serve you without your knowledge; and I
will take measures to avoid having to listen to your thanks again.'

"Yes, Michel, that is what was said by that face, at once angelic and
cold, maternal and unfeeling; a terrible enigma, which I have never been
able to solve, and which I am less able to solve to-day than ever."




XVII

THE CYCLAMEN


Magnani ceased to speak, and it did not occur to Michel to question him.
But at last the young painter, coming to himself, asked his friend for
the rest of his story.

"My story is at an end," replied Magnani. "Ever since that day I have
been admitted to the palace as a workman. I have often seen the
princess, but I have never spoken to her."

"How does it happen, then, that you love her? for you do not know her?
you do not know her real opinions?"

"I thought that I had guessed them. But, during this last week, when she
has seemed inclined to emerge suddenly from her tomb, throw open her
house, and take part in social life; especially to-day, when she has
been going about and conversing familiarly with people of our station,
with kindly words and cordial invitations--for I overheard the
conversation that you had with her and the Marquis della Serra on the
main staircase; I was close at hand,--I no longer know what to think of
her. Yes, even recently I thought that I had fathomed her character.
Twice a year, in spring and autumn, I have come here with other workmen,
I have seen her pass from time to time, walking slowly, with an
absent-minded, melancholy, yet perfectly tranquil air. If she sometimes
seemed downcast and distressed, the serenity of her glance was not
disturbed. She always bowed to us collectively with greater courtesy
than persons of her rank ordinarily show to us. Sometimes she would
exchange with the master upholsterer or my father a few pleasant words,
equally free from pride and from warmth. She seemed to feel an
instinctive respect for their years. I was the only young workman
admitted to her house, but she never seemed to pay the slightest
attention to me. She did not avoid my glances, but met them without
seeing them.

"At certain times, however, I noticed that she saw many more things than
she seemed to see; and that people who complained, even when she did not
seem to hear them, obtained justice or help at once, without knowing
whose was the mysterious hand put forth over them. You see, she conceals
her boundless charity as other people conceal their shameful
selfishness. And you ask me how it happens that I love her! Her virtue
arouses my admiration, and the dumb despair which seems to be crushing
her inspires in my heart profound and affectionate compassion. To admire
and to pity--is not that to adore? The pagans, who have left so many
magnificent ruins on our soil, sacrificed to their gods, all radiant
with strength and glory and beauty; but they did not love them; and we
Christians have felt the light of faith pass from our minds into our
hearts, because God was shown to us in the guise of a bleeding,
tear-bedewed Christ. Ah! yes, I do love that woman, who has paled, like
a flower of the woods, beneath the terrible shadow of paternal tyranny.
I do not know the story of her infancy, but I divine the misery of her
girlhood. They say that, when she was fourteen, her father, being unable
to force her to marry in accordance with the views dictated by his pride
and ambition, to which he proposed to sacrifice her, confined her for a
long time in a secluded room of yonder palace, and that she suffered
there from hunger, thirst, heat, neglect, and despair. Nothing definite
has ever been known about it. Another version of the story also gained
currency; it was said that she was in a convent; but the terror-stricken
air of her servants said plainly enough that her disappearance was a
part of some unjust and unnatural punishment.

"When Dionigi died, his heiress reappeared in the palace, with an old
aunt who was little better than he, but who allowed her to breathe a
little more freely. They say that at that time again she had several
brilliant offers of marriage, but that she obstinately refused, thereby
much angering the princess, her aunt. Her death put an end at last to
her niece's persecutions, and at the age of twenty she found herself
alone and free in the house of her fathers. But it was evidently too
late for her to rouse from the state of prostration to which so much
sorrow had brought her. She had lost the strength and the desire to be
happy. She was torpid, a little inclined to be morose, and seemingly
incapable of inviting the affection of others. She gained the affection,
however, of some persons of her own rank, and it is certain that the
Marquis della Serra, whom she refused to marry when he entered the lists
several years ago, has never ceased to love her ardently. Everybody says
so, and I know it; I will tell you how.

"Although I pride myself, without undue boasting, on being a good
workman, I confess that when I am in the palace, I am, in spite of
myself, the slowest of the slow. I am excited and perturbed. The ring of
the hammers irritates my nerves, as if I were a silly girl; I am
overcome by the heat at the slightest exertion with my arms. Every
moment of the time I either have a feeling that I am going to faint, or
am tempted to creep into dark corners, crouch there out of sight, and
allow myself to be left behind. I surprise myself listening, prowling,
spying. I no longer dare to go into the princess's oratory or her
bedroom alone. Oh! no; although I know the road perfectly well. My
respect is stronger now than my insane and restless passion! But if I
can breathe the perfume that escapes through the chinks of the door of
her boudoir; if I can hear, even at a distance, the sound of her light
footsteps, which I know so well--then I am content, I am drunk with joy.

"Thus I have heard, I dare not say involuntarily--for if chance placed
me within earshot, my will was not strong enough to prevent me from
listening,--more than one interview between the princess and the
marquis. How often have I been consumed by frantic jealousy? but I have
acquired certain knowledge that he is only her friend, a loyal,
respectful, submissive friend.

"One day, among others, they had a conversation, every word of which, I
believe, is engraved with fatal distinctness on my memory.

"The princess was saying when I entered the adjoining room:

"'Oh! why question me so persistently? You know, my friend, that I am
absurdly impressionable; that the thought of the past freezes my blood,
and that, if I could make up my mind to speak of it--I believe, yes, I
believe that I should go mad!'

"'Very well, very well,' he cried, 'let us not speak of it, let us be
content with our tranquil friendship. Look at that lovely sky and those
sweet cyclamens, which seem to smile in your hands.'

"'These flowers do not smile,' she replied, 'you do not understand their
language, and I can tell you why I love them. It is because they are in
my eyes the emblem of my life and the image of my heart. See how
curiously limp they are; they are pure and fresh and fragrant; but is
there not something unhealthy and decrepit in the inversion and
unnatural upturning of their petals?'

"'It is true,' said the marquis, 'they have a sort of dishevelled look;
they grow as a general rule on windswept peaks. One would say that they
were trying to fly away from their stalks as if there were nothing to
hold them, and that nature had provided them with wings like
butterflies.'

"'And yet they do not fly away,' continued the princess; 'they are
firmly attached to their stalks. Although apparently fragile, there are
no hardier plants, and the most violent winds never strip them of their
petals. While the rose succumbs to a hot day, and strews the burning
earth with its leaves, the cyclamen is obstinate, and lives many days
and nights in retirement, and, as it were, shrunken into itself: it is a
flower that has no youth. You probably have never seen it just as it is
opening. I have patiently watched that mysterious process; when the bud
opens, the petals are rolled tightly together and separate with an
effort. The first one that frees itself stretches out like a bird's
wing, then throws itself backward and resumes its twisted position.
Another follows, and the flower, almost before it is open, is already
tremulous and wrinkled, as if it were about to die of old age. That is
its way of living, and it lives a long while so. Ah! it is a melancholy
flower, and that is why I carry it everywhere.'

"'No, no, it does not resemble you,' said the marquis, 'for its
uncovered breast exhales its fragrance freely to all the winds of
heaven, whereas your heart is mysteriously closed, even to the most
discreet and least exacting affection!'

"They were interrupted; but I knew enough. Ever since that day, I too
have loved the cyclamen, and I always cultivate it in my little garden;
but I dare not pluck the flowers and smell them. Their odor makes me ill
and drives me mad!"

"It is the same with me," said Michel. "Yes, it is a dangerous odor! But
I no longer hear the carriages, Magnani. Doubtless the palace will soon
be closed. I must go and join my father, for he must be tired out,
whatever he may say, and he may need my help."

They walked in the direction of the ball-room. It was deserted; Visconti
and his fellow-servants were extinguishing the candles which were still
carrying on the struggle against the daylight.

"Why this fête after all?" said Magnani, as he glanced about that
immense hall, whose height seemed to be doubled by the darkness
overhead, while the bluish rays of dawn crept sadly into the lower
portions through the open doors. "The princess might have helped the
poor in other ways, and I cannot yet understand why she submitted to
make this public demonstration of charity when she had always done good
so mysteriously hitherto. What miraculous change has taken place in our
reserved benefactress's existence? Instead of rejoicing at it, I,
although I would give my life for her, am hurt by it, and cannot think
of it without bitterness. I loved her as she was; I cannot understand
her when she is cured, consoled, and effusive. Is everybody to know her
and to love her now? People will no longer say that she is mad, that she
once committed a crime, that she is concealing a horrible secret, that
she is ransoming her soul by pious works, although she detests mankind!
Madman that I am! I am afraid of being cured myself, and I am jealous of
the happiness that she may have recovered! Tell me, Michel, do you
suppose that she has made up her mind to love the Marquis della Serra,
and that she will invite the court, the city, and the country, to
celebrate her betrothal magnificently under her own roof? She gave a
royal fête to-day; perhaps she will give a popular fête to-morrow. She
is making her peace with everybody; great and small will make merry at
her wedding! Ah! there will be dancing there! what fun for us, eh? and
how kind the princess is!"

Michel remarked his companion's bitterness and irony; but although he
was conscious of a thrill of strange emotion at the idea of Agatha's
marriage to the marquis, he put all the more restraint upon himself. He,
too, had been struck to the heart, but the shock was too recent for him
to dare, or to deign, to give the name of love to his feeling. Magnani's
madness served as a warning to him. He pitied him, but there seemed to
him to be in that young man's abnormal position something humiliating to
which he did not choose to subject himself.

"Come to your senses, my friend," he said. "Such a beautiful fête, at
night, has a tendency to excite one, especially when one is only a
spectator. But here comes the sun above the horizon, and it should
dispel all phantoms and all visions. I feel as if I had just waked from
a fantastic dream. Listen! The birds are singing outside; there is
nothing here but dust and smoke. I am very sure that your madness is not
so absorbing every hour of your life as you fancy at this moment of
excitement and unreserve. I will wager that when you have slept two
hours you will return to your work feeling like a different man. For my
part, I already feel the salutary effect of real life, and I promise you
that the next time we see the spectre pass close to us, I will not try
to dispute her glance with you."

"Her glance!" cried Magnani, bitterly, "her glance! Ah! you remind me of
the glance she bestowed upon you, before the ball opened, the first time
she saw your face. My God! what an expression! If it had fallen upon me,
just once in my life, I would have killed myself instantly, in order not
to live any more upon certainty and cold reason, after such an illusion,
such delirious joy. And you, Michel, felt the consuming fire that she
communicated to you. You were scorched by it for an instant, and, but
for my mockery, you would still gloat over it with rapture. But what
does it matter to me now? I see clearly that she has lost her mind; that
she has deprived her solitary sorrow of its sanctity; that she loves
someone, you or the marquis--what matter which? Why this special display
of friendship for your father, whom she hardly knew a year ago? My
father has worked for her ever since she was born, and she barely knows
his name. Does she propose to cap the climax of her eccentric life by an
act of downright insanity? Does she propose to atone for her father's
tyranny and unpopularity by marrying a child of the people--a mere boy?"

"You are the one who is mad," said Michel, disturbed and almost angry.
"Go and get a breath of fresh air, Magnani, and don't involve me in the
vagaries that your excitement suggests to you. Signora Agatha is
sleeping peacefully at this moment, remembering neither your name nor
mine. If she honored me with a kindly glance, it was because she loves
painting and is pleased with my work.--Look, my friend," added the young
artist, pointing to the figures of his fresco, upon which a rosy beam of
the morning sun shone through the open windows. "There are the only
intoxicating realities of my life. Let the lovely princess marry the
Marquis della Serra. I shall be very glad; he is a courteous gentleman,
and I like his face. I, when I choose, will paint a more perfect and
less problematical divinity than the pale-cheeked Agatha."

"You, wretched boy? Never!" exclaimed Magnani, indignantly.

"I agree that she is beautiful," rejoined Michel, with a smile. "I have
scrutinized her, and I have profited by that scrutiny. I have obtained
from her all that I should never ask her for, the spectacle of her grace
and her charms, to reproduce them and idealize them at my pleasure."

"I have always been told that artists had hearts of ice," said Magnani,
staring at Michel in blank amazement. "You have seen the storm which
drives me wild, and you remain cold--you laugh at me! Ah! I blush to
think that I have betrayed my madness to you, and I am going away to
hide my head!"

Magnani disappeared, frantic with excitement, and Michel was left alone
in the almost deserted ball-room. Visconti was extinguishing the last
candles, and Pier-Angelo, before taking his leave, was assisting to
restore order temporarily in that structure which was to be entirely
removed before evening.

Michel also assisted, but languidly. His own reflections having cooled
his excitement, he felt utterly exhausted, mentally and physically.

Magnani's abrupt outbreak disturbed him. He reproached himself because,
after undergoing in silence the rebound of the young mechanic's
agitation, he had not succeeded better in sympathizing with his trouble,
but had allowed him to go away uncomforted. On the other hand, he could
not avoid a slight feeling of irritation. It seemed to him that Magnani
had carried his effusiveness too far in seeking to convince him that he,
Michel, was the object of a sudden passion on the part of the princess.
It was so absurd, so improbable, that Michel, who was more
self-possessed, more of a man of the world at eighteen than Magnani
could ever be, shrugged his shoulders pityingly.

And yet, self-esteem is such a persistent and impertinent adviser that
Michel now and again heard a voice within him saying: "Magnani has
guessed aright. Jealousy gives him a keenness of vision which you
yourself have not. Agatha loves you; she took fire at first sight. And
why should she not love you?"

Michel was intoxicated and abashed at once by these flushes of vanity
which rose to his cheeks. He was in haste to return home and recover his
tranquillity altogether with sleep. And yet he desired to wait for his
father, who was still at work, zealous and indefatigable, attending to a
thousand minute details, a thousand apparently unnecessary precautions.

"Patience!" said the excellent Pier-Angelo. "I shall have finished in a
minute; but I want our dear princess to be able to sleep in peace, and I
don't propose that anybody shall come here and make a racket before
to-night. Above all things, I don't propose to leave a single candle
lighted in any corner. Now is the time when there is most danger of
fire! Look! that idiot of a Visconti has left the lamp in the grotto
burning; I can see it from here. Go and put it out, Michel, and take
care not to spill oil on the couch."

Michel went into the grotto of the naiad; but, before extinguishing the
lamp, he could not resist the temptation to gaze for a moment at the
beautiful statue, the lovely foliage with which he had decorated it, and
the couch whereon he had seen Agatha as in a dream. "How young she
looked and how lovely she was!" he thought; "and how that man who loves
her gazed at her, with an adoration which betrayed itself in spite of
him, and which infected the most immaterial portion of my heart! I
noticed others during the ball who stared at her with an insolence born
of desire, which made my whole being quiver with indignation! All these
great nobles love her, each in his own way, and she loves no one of
them!"

And Agatha's glance passed through his memory like a lightning-flash,
its dazzling brilliancy putting to flight all reason, all fear of
ridicule, all self-distrust.

While musing thus, he had extinguished the lamp, and had sunk upon the
cushions of the divan, expecting that his father would call him and that
he might enjoy one last moment of comfort before leaving that
fascinating grotto.

But fatigue overpowered him. He could contend no longer against the
chimeras of his imagination. Half-reclining comfortably on the couch,
and alone for the first time in twenty-four hours, he rapidly lost
consciousness. For one moment he dreamed with his eyes open. The next
moment he was sleeping soundly.




XVIII

THE MONKS


How many minutes,--or was it seconds only?--passed while Michel was
overpowered by that irresistible lassitude, he had no idea. The power of
the imagination, when transported into the domain of dreams, travels so
fast and surmounts so many obstacles at a single bound, that time is an
inadequate measure of it, especially in the first sleep.

Michel had a strange dream. A woman softly entered the grotto, walked to
where he sat, leaned over him and gazed at him for a long time; he felt
her fragrant breath caress his brow, he fancied that he felt also the
fire of her glance fastened passionately upon him. But he could not see
her, for it was dark in the grotto, and, moreover, it was impossible for
him to raise his heavy eyelids; but it was Agatha; Michel's heart,
inflamed by that woman's presence, told him so plainly enough.

At last, as he tried to rouse himself in order to speak to her, she
placed her cool, soft lips on his forehead and imprinted a kiss thereon,
so long, but so light, that he could not summon the strength to reply to
it, overcome as he was by joy, and at the same time by the fear that it
was only a dream.

"But it is a dream, alas! it is nothing but a dream," he said to
himself, still sleeping; and yet the fear of waking caused him to wake.
So it is that, in sleep, the instinctive, frantic desire to prolong the
illusion causes it to vanish more quickly.

But what a strange and persistent dream! Michel, with his eyes open,
sitting half erect, supported by his trembling arm, saw and heard that
woman fly. The curtain at the entrance of the grotto being lowered, he
could distinguish only an indistinct figure; he felt the touch of a silk
dress; the curtain opened and closed again so quickly that it seemed to
him that the phantom passed through without touching it.

He started to follow her; but all his blood rushed back to his heart so
violently that he could not stand erect, but was compelled to fall back
on the divan, and it was a full minute before he was able to rush to the
blue velvet portière that separated him from the ball-room.

He drew it aside with a convulsive gesture and found himself face to
face with his father, who said, with a jocose and placid air:

"So it seems that we have been having a nap, eh, my boy? Now, everything
is in order; let us go home and see if little Mila is awake."

"Mila?" cried Michel, "is Mila here, father?"

"It may well be that she isn't far away," replied the old man. "I'll bet
that she hasn't closed her eyes all night; she was so anxious to come to
see the ball! But I forbade her to leave the house before daylight."

"It is daylight now," said Michel, "and Mila is probably here! Tell me,
father, did some woman, my sister, perhaps, just come into the grotto?"

"Did you dream it? I saw no one. To be sure, my eyes weren't looking in
that direction all the time, and I saw some striped skirts prowling
about outside, which meant that some curious creatures had stolen into
the garden. Can Mila have come in while my back was turned?"

"Why, this very instant, father, just as you came to the opening,
someone went out, a woman; I am certain of it!"

"You are talking at random now, for I saw nothing but my shadow on the
curtain. Come, you need a good nap, let us go home. They are just
closing the last door. If your sister is here we shall find her."

Michel was about to follow his father; but as he was turning away he saw
something glistening in the grotto and was led to cast a last glance
inside. Was it a spark that had fallen on the carpet, near the couch? He
stooped: it was a piece of jewelry, which he picked up and examined by
daylight. It was the gold locket, surrounded with diamonds and bearing
the princess's crest, which she had given Mila. He opened it to make
sure that it was the same. He recognized a lock of his own hair inside.

"I knew that Mila came into the grotto," he said to his father, as they
walked toward the garden; "she gave me a kiss which woke me."

"She evidently must have gone in there," rejoined Pier-Angelo,
indifferently; "but I didn't see her."

At that instant Mila emerged from a clump of magnolias, and came
forward, laughing and capering, to meet her father, whom she kissed
affectionately, as she did Michel.

"It is high time for you to come home and rest," she said; "I came to
tell you that your breakfast is waiting. I was so impatient to see you!
Are you terribly tired, father, dear?"

"Not at all," the good man replied, "I am used to these things, and a
sleepless night is all pleasure when you sup till morning. Your
breakfast will go begging, Mila; but your brother here is asleep on his
legs. Come, children; let us be off; see, they are closing the garden
gates now."

But, instead of continuing to close the gates, the servants suddenly
threw them wide open again, and Michel saw a procession of monks file
in, monks of divers orders, all carrying wallets and purses; they were
the begging brothers of all the mendicant orders, which have numerous
establishments in Catania and its neighborhood. They were making their
usual round and had come to collect for their respective communities the
broken meat left from the fête. Some two score of them passed slowly
through the gate; most of them had asses to carry away the avails of
their quest. There was something so surprising and comical in their
obsequious manner and their solemn bearing when they entered the
gardens, escorted by their asses,--strange guests at a ball--that
Michel, diverted from his emotion, had much ado to keep from laughing.

But no sooner were they fairly inside the gates than they broke ranks,
and, shaking off their consequential, discreet manner, began to run
toward the ball-room, each striving to outstrip his neighbors, beating
their asses to make them move faster, hurrying, jostling, and freely
exhibiting their greed and their jealousy. They overran the ball-room,
almost breaking down the fragile doors, and attempted to ascend the main
staircase of the peristyle, or to force their way into the kitchens. But
the butler and his _officers_, being prepared for the assault, and
knowing their ways, had carefully barricaded all the issues; they
brought forth the fragments destined for the monks, and distributed them
as impartially as possible. There were dishes of meat, remnants of
pastry, pitchers of wine, and even pieces of glass and porcelain which
had been broken during the fête, and which the good monks put together
with great care and mended most skilfully, for the adornment of their
own sideboards, or to sell to collectors. They quarrelled over the booty
with little decency, reviled the servants for not giving them all that
they were entitled to, for treating one better than another, for failing
in respect for the patron saints of their convents. They even threatened
them with the infirmities which those saints were supposed to be
especially skilful in curing when the afflicted person had acquired
their good-will.

"Bah! what a miserable ham you have given me!" cried one. "You are
already deaf in one ear; you can depend upon it that before long you
will not be able to hear the thunder with the other."


[Illustration: _AFTER THE FÊTE._

"_Here's a bottle half empty!" cried another.
"No prayers will be said for you under our roof,
and you'll never be cured of the stone, if you take
that terrible disease._"]


"Here's a bottle half empty!" cried another. "No prayers will be said
for you under our roof, and you'll never be cured of the stone, if you
take that terrible disease."

Others plied their trade gayly, with jests that made the distributors
laugh, and they showed so much wit and good-nature that the servants
secretly slipped the best pieces into their wallets.

At Rome Michel had seen dandified Capuchins, redolent with perfume under
their frocks, and displaying their sandals, with poetic gravity, in
close proximity to the Holy Father's consecrated slipper. The
poverty-stricken Sicilian monks seemed to him very indecent, very
laughable, and ever so little cynical, when they swooped down upon the
crumbs of that feast like a flock of greedy crows and chattering
magpies. He was attracted, however, by the high-spirited and intelligent
faces of some of them. It was the Sicilian common people again, in the
sack-cloth of the cloister--a noble race which bends beneath the yoke
but cannot be broken.

The young artist had returned to the ball-room to look on at this
curious spectacle, and he watched its various incidents with the
attention of a painter who turns everything to his own profit. He
noticed especially one of the monks, whose hood was pulled down to the
end of his beard, and who did not beg. He kept apart from the others,
and walked about the room as if he were more interested in the place
where the fête had been given than in the possible benefit he might
derive from it. Michel tried several times to see his features, and to
judge therefrom whether the intelligent mind of an artist or the regrets
of a man of the world were concealed beneath that monkish garb. He saw
him stealthily put aside his hood but once, and then he was impressed by
his repulsive ugliness. At the same instant the monk turned his eyes
upon him with an expression of malevolent curiosity; and instantly
looked away as if he feared to be surprised staring at other people.

"I have seen that ugly face somewhere," said Michel to his sister, who
was standing by his side.

"Do you call that a face?" replied the girl. "I saw nothing but a goat's
beard, the eyes of an owl, and a nose that looked like an old crushed
fig. You won't paint his portrait, I hope?"

"You said just now, Mila, that you knew several of these monks from
having seen them begging in our suburb; have you ever met that fellow?"

"I don't think so; but, if you are anxious to find out his name, it will
be very easy, for here is a brother who will tell me."

And the girl ran to meet a monk who was the last to arrive, without a
wallet, and without an ass, but with a little purse simply. He was a
tall, handsome man, of uncertain age; his beard was still as black as
ebony, although his crown of hair was beginning to turn gray. The
keenness of his black eyes, the noble contour of his aquiline nose, and
the smile that played about his red lips, indicated robust health,
conjoined with an amiable and decided character. He had neither the
unhealthy thinness nor the absurd obesity of most of his brethren. His
chestnut-colored frock was neat and clean, and he wore it with a
majestic air. He won Michel's confidence at the first glance; but it
angered the young man to see Mila almost throw her arms about the
Capuchin's neck, and take his beard in her two little hands, laughing
and pretending that she proposed to kiss him whether he would or not.

"Come, come, little one, softly, softly," said the monk, pushing her
away with fatherly gentleness. "No matter if I am your uncle, a monk
musn't be kissed."

Thereupon, Michel bethought him of the Capuchin Paolo-Angelo, of whom
his father had so often spoken to him, and whom he had never seen. _Fra
Angelo_ was Pier-Angelo's brother in affection not less than by birth.
He was the youngest of Michel's uncles. His intellect and the dignity of
his character made him the pride of the family, and as soon as
Pier-Angelo saw him, he ran to Michel to introduce him.

"Brother," said the old decorator, pressing the Capuchin's hand warmly,
"give my son your blessing; I should have brought him to your convent to
ask it before this if we had not been employed here a little beyond our
strength."

"My child," said Fra Angelo to his nephew, "I give you the blessing of a
kinsman and a friend; I am happy to see you, and your face pleases me."

"I can say the same," replied Michel, putting his hand in his uncle's.

But, to manifest his affection, the good monk, who had the muscles of an
athlete, squeezed his fingers so hard that the young man thought for a
moment that the bones were broken. He did not wish to let it appear that
that caress was a little too rough; but the perspiration stood out on
his forehead, and he said to himself with a smile, that a man of the
build of his uncle, the Capuchin, was better adapted to demand alms than
to beg.

But, as strength and gentleness almost always go hand in hand, Fra
Angelo approached the distributor of alms with a self-restraint and
reserve as marked as the eagerness and persistence of his fellows. He
saluted him with a smile, opened his purse without deigning to put out
his hand, and closed it without looking to see what had been put in it,
muttering a very laconic sentence of thanks; after which he returned to
his brother and nephew, refusing to burden himself with provisions of
any sort.

"In that case," said a very pious footman, "you have not enough money!"

"Do you think so?" rejoined the monk. "I have no idea. However little it
may be, the convent must needs be satisfied with it."

"Do you wish me to go and demand more for you, my brother? If you will
promise to pray for me every day this week, I will make them give you
more."

"Oh! don't take that trouble," replied the dignified Capuchin, with a
smile; "I will pray for you _gratis_, and my prayers will be worth all
the more. Your mistress, Princess Agatha, gives enough in charity, and I
come to her house only in obedience to my orders."

"Uncle," said little Mila, in an undertone, "there is a brother of your
order yonder, whose face puzzles my father and brother. They think that
he looks like somebody else."

"Somebody else? Whom do you mean?"

"Look at him," said Pier-Angelo. "Michel is right, he has a bad face.
You must know him. He is standing all alone, over there under the
musicians' platform."

"So far as his figure and his carriage are concerned, I don't recognize
him as any brother of our convent. And yet he wears the frock of a
Capuchin. But why does he interest you?"

"Because it seems to us," said Pier, lowering his voice, "that he
resembles Abbé Ninfo."

"In that case, off with you," said Fra Angelo, hastily. "I will go and
speak to him, and I will soon find out who he is and what he is here
for."

"Yes, yes, let us go," said Pier-Angelo. "Go first, children. I will
follow you."

Michel put his sister's arm through his, and they were soon on the way
to Catania.

"It seems that this Abbé Ninfo wishes us ill," said Mila to her
brother, "and has the power to injure us. Do you know why, Michel?"

"Not very well; but I am suspicious of a man who disguises himself,
apparently for the purpose of spying. Whether we are concerned or
somebody else, mystery conceals evil projects."

"Psha!" said the heedless Mila, after a moment's silence, "perhaps he is
only a monk, like the rest. He stood apart and lurked in corners, as
some of them often do after the crowd has passed, on days of processions
or feast-days, to see if they can't find some jewel that somebody has
lost. Then they pick it up without a word and carry it to their convent,
to be surrendered to its owner in consideration of a round sum for one
or two masses, or to be used in unearthing some love secret; for these
good fathers are very inquisitive, as a general rule!"

"You don't love the monks, do you, Mila? You are only half a Sicilian?"

"That depends. I love my uncle and those who are like him."

"By the way," said Michel, reminded by the words _lost jewel_ of the
adventure which the Capuchins had driven from his mind; "you had been in
the ball-room, hadn't you, a moment before I met you in the garden?"

"No," she replied; "if you had not taken me in with you to watch the
monks beg, I never should have dreamed of going in. Why do you ask me
that? I saw the ball-room all finished before the fête. What do I care
to see an empty room where no one is dancing? It was the ball, the
dancing, the dresses, that I wanted to see! But you wouldn't take me
even as far as the door last night!"

"Why not tell me the truth when the matter is of no importance? There is
nothing out of the way, my dear little sister, in your having come to
the naiad's grotto to wake me just now."

"Father says that you are asleep on your legs, Michel, and I see that he
is quite right. I will take my oath that since yesterday morning, when I
brought you the leaves you asked me to pick, I have not been inside the
grotto."

"Ah! Mila, this is too much. You used not to tell falsehoods, and I am
sorry to see that you have that wretched habit now."

"Hush, brother, you insult me," said Mila, proudly withdrawing her arm.
"I have never lied, and I shall not begin to-day, just to please you."

"Little sister," rejoined Michel, walking after her and quickening his
pace to keep up with her, for she was hurrying on ahead, hurt and
grieved, "will you please show me the locket Princess Agatha gave you?"

"No, Master Michelangelo," retorted the girl, "you are not worthy to
look at it. In the days when I cut a lock of your hair to wear upon my
heart, you were not unkind as you have become since."

"If I were in your place," said Michel, ironically, "I would take the
locket from my bosom and throw it in the face of the unkind brother who
teases me so!"

"Here! take it!" said Mila, pulling the locket from her bosom, and
handing it to Michel with an angry gesture; "you can take back your
hair, I don't care for it any longer. But return me the locket; I care
for that because it was given me by somebody kinder than you."

"Two lockets just alike!" said Michel to himself, placing them side by
side in his hand; "is this the sequel of my vision?"




XIX

YOUTHFUL LOVES


Michel dared not ask his sister for the explanation of such a prodigy.
He ran and shut himself up in his little room, and, seating himself upon
his bed, instead of going to sleep, he opened and compared those two
precisely similar trinkets and their contents. They were absolutely
indistinguishable, as were the two locks of hair; so that, after Michel
had examined and handled them a long while, he no longer knew which
belonged to his sister. Thereupon he recalled a remark of hers, which
had made little impression upon him, although it had seemed somewhat
strange to him for an instant. Mila declared that the lock of hair she
had entrusted to the princess had diminished by one half in the
jeweller's hands.

It was not possible to explain that curious fact. The princess did not
know Michel, she had never seen him; he had not returned to Catania when
she had taken Mila's scapulary and exchanged it for this beautiful
locket. It is difficult to believe that a woman can fall in love with a
man simply at sight of a lock of his hair. Michel cudgeled his brains to
no purpose. He could think of no explanation save this, which was far
from satisfactory to his intense curiosity: perhaps the princess had at
some time been attached to someone whose hair was of precisely the same
shade and texture as Michel's. She wore it in a locket. Observing Mila's
fervent adoration of that relic of her brother, she had ordered a locket
just like her own, and had given it to her.

But how impossible are the probabilities of life to a mind of eighteen
years! Michel thought it much more probable that he had been loved
unseen; and when he was overcome by sleep, the two lockets were still in
his half-open hand.

When he awoke about noon, he found only one of them; the other had
probably fallen among the bedclothes. He pulled his bed to pieces and
turned it upside down; passed an hour searching in all the cracks of his
floor, and all the folds of his clothes, which lay on a chair by his
pillow. One of the two talismans had disappeared.

"This is a trick of Signorina Mila," he thought. His door closed with a
latch only, and the girl was singing over her work in the room
adjoining.

"Ah! you are up at last!" she said with a pout, when he appeared in her
presence. "That is very lucky! Now will you kindly return my locket?"

"I should say, my dear, that you came and took it while I was asleep."

"Why, you have it in your hand!" she cried, seizing his hand
unexpectedly. "Come, open your fingers, or I will prick them with my
needle."

"I will do it," he said, "but this locket isn't yours. You have already
taken the one that belongs to you."

"Really!" said Mila, snatching the trinket from her brother's hand, for
he made little resistance, but watched her closely; "this is not mine?
Do you think I can be mistaken?"

"In that case you have the other, Mila."

"What other? Have you one also? I don't know anything about that; but
this is mine. Here is the princess's crest. It is my property; it is my
souvenir. Take back your hair. If we are at odds, I am willing you
should; but this locket shall never leave me again."

And she replaced it in her bosom, by no means resolved to take out the
hair, for which she cared more than she chose to admit in her childish
wrath.

Michel returned to his room. The other locket must be there. There was
so much candor and confidence in Mila's expression and her words! But he
found nothing, and so he determined to search his sister's room as soon
as she had gone out. Meanwhile, he tried to make peace with her. He
coaxed and cajoled her, and, vowing that all that had happened was only
a jest on his part, reproached her with being proud and sensitive.

Mila consented to make peace and to kiss her brother; but she continued
to be somewhat downcast, and her lovely cheeks were tinged with a less
delicate flush than usual.

"You chose a bad time to tease me," she said. "There are days when one
does not feel in the mood to endure raillery, and I thought that you
were teasing me on purpose to make sport of my disappointment."

"Your disappointment, Mila!" cried Michel, pressing her to his heart
with a smile. "Have you been disappointed? Because you didn't see the
ball last night, I suppose? Oh! you are a very unfortunate little girl,
and no mistake!"

"In the first place, Michel, I am not a little girl. I shall soon be
fifteen, and I am old enough to have disappointments. As for the ball, I
cared very little about it; and now that it's over, I don't think about
it at all."

"What is this great sorrow, then? Do you want a new dress?"

"No."

"Your nightingale isn't dead?"

"Don't you hear him singing?"

"Perhaps our neighbor Magnani's big tom-cat has eaten up your
turtle-dove?"

"I would like to see him try it! I tell you that I don't bother my head
about Signor Magnani or his cat."

The tone in which she uttered Magnani's name made Michel prick up his
ears, and, upon glancing at his little sister's face, he saw that she
had her eyes fixed, not upon her work--although her head was bent--but
upon a wooden gallery where Magnani usually worked, opposite Mila's
chamber. At that moment Magnani was walking along his gallery. He did
not look at Mila's window, and Mila did not look at her work.

"Mila, my darling child," said Michel, taking both her hands and kissing
them, "do you see that young man with the absent-minded air?"

"Well," Mila replied, as the blood came and went in her cheeks, "what
about him?"

"I want to tell you, my child, that if your heart is ever inclined to
love, you must not think of that young man."

"What nonsense!" said the girl, shaking her head and trying hard to
laugh. "He is the last man of whom I should ever think, I tell you
that!"

"Then you will be exceedingly wise," rejoined Michel, "for Magnani's
heart is not free; he has long been in love with another woman."

"That doesn't concern me, and is of no possible interest to me," said
Mila; and, bending over her work, she turned her wheel swiftly. But
Michel was pained to see two great tears fall upon her skein of silk.

Michel's heart was very tender. He understood the feeling of shame by
which his young sister was overwhelmed, and which added a fresh pang to
those from which he himself was suffering. He saw the superhuman efforts
that the poor child made to stifle her sobs and overcome her confusion.
He felt that that was not the moment to humiliate her more by insisting
upon an explanation.

So he pretended to see nothing; and, thinking that he would reason with
her when she was more self-possessed, he left the room where she was
working.

But he was so excited himself that he could not stay in his own room. He
made one last, fruitless search, and, abandoning the hope of finding the
vanished talisman,--hoping that it would appear when he was not thinking
about it, as often happens in the case of lost articles,--he determined
to go and see Magnani and make peace with him; for they had parted in
anger, and Michel, unable to avoid a secret feeling of pride in the
thought that the princess was madly in love with him, felt that his
generous solicitude for his unfortunate rival redoubled.

He crossed the yard and entered Magnani's father's workroom on the
ground floor. But he looked in vain for Antonio in his room. His old
mother told him that he had gone out a moment before; but could not tell
him in what direction he had gone. Michel thereupon strolled into the
country, half thinking of overtaking him, half absorbed by his own
musings.

Meanwhile Magnani, impelled by the same feelings of loyalty and regard,
had determined to go and see Michel. His modest dwelling had a second
exit, and the one that he took led less directly, through a dark and
narrow passage at the rear of the other two houses, to the poor,
old-fashioned house which Pier-Angelo occupied with his children.

Thus the two young men did not meet. Magnani went upstairs and looked
into a large, bare, dilapidated room, where he saw Pier-Angelo stretched
out on his cot-bed, in a deep sleep which the emotions of love and youth
no longer disturbed.

Thereupon Magnani climbed the staircase, or rather the ladder leading to
the attics, and entered Michel's chamber, which adjoined Mila's.

Michel's door was open; Magnani went in, and, finding no one there, was
about to go out again, when the cyclamen, which Michel had carefully
placed in an old Venetian glass of curious workmanship, caught his eye.
Unquestionably Magnani was the soul of probity, the incarnation of
scrupulous honor; and yet it is not certain that, if he had dreamed that
that flower had fallen from the princess's bouquet, he would not have
stolen it. But it did not occur to him; he concluded simply that Michel,
like himself, had a passion for the cyclamen.

Suddenly Magnani was roused from his contemplation by a sound which
startled him. Somebody was weeping in the adjoining room. He heard sobs,
stifled but heart-rending, behind the partition, not far from the door
between the two rooms. Magnani was well aware that Mila lived on that
floor. He had often nodded to her smilingly from his gallery, when he
saw her, blooming with youth and beauty, at her window. But, as she had
made no impression on his heart, and as he had never spoken to her
except as to a child, he did not consider at that moment the exact
location of her attic, nor indeed did he think of her at all. To be sure
there was nothing masculine in her manner of weeping, but in Michel's
voice there were some tones so youthful and so soft that it might well
be he who was mourning so. Magnani thought only of his young comrade,
and, full of solicitude for him, hastily opened the door and entered
Mila's room.

At sight of him the girl uttered a loud shriek and fled to the farthest
corner of her room, hiding her face.

"Mila, my dear little neighbor," cried honest Magnani, standing
respectfully near the door, "forgive me, do not be afraid of me; I made
a mistake, I heard someone weeping as if his heart would break, and I
thought it was your brother. I didn't stop to think, but rushed in here,
in my anxiety--but, great heaven, my dear child, why are you weeping
so?"

"I am not weeping," replied Mila, stealthily wiping her eyes, and
pretending to look for something in an old chest of drawers against the
wall; "you are entirely mistaken. I thank you, Signor Magnani; but leave
me, you ought not to come into my room like this."

"True, true, I know it, I am going away, Mila; and yet I don't dare to
leave you thus, you are too much overcome, I can see. I am afraid you
are sick. Let me go and wake your father, so that he can come and
comfort you."

"No, no! do not think of it! I don't want you to wake him!"

"But, my dear ----"

"No, I tell you, Magnani; you would make me much worse if you should
cause my father that trouble."

"But what is the matter, Mila? Your father has not been scolding you,
has he? You never deserve to be scolded! And he is so kind, so gentle,
he loves you so dearly!"

"Oh! no, indeed, he never said a word to me except words of love and
kindness. You see that you are dreaming, Magnani; I have no sorrow, I
was not weeping."

"Why, I can see from here that your face is swollen and your eyes red,
my dear girl. What heart-breaking grief can one have at your age,
lovely, and beloved by all, as you are?"

"Don't laugh at me, I beg you," said Mila, proudly. But she turned pale,
and trying to sit down calmly, fell sobbing upon her chair.

Magnani had so little suspicion that he could possibly be anything more
than a friend in her eyes, and his feeling for her was so placid that he
no longer thought of leaving her. He approached her without any other
emotion than affectionate interest, sat down at her feet on a cushion of
plaited straw, and, taking her hand in his, questioned her with an
assumption of something like paternal authority.

Poor Mila was so perturbed that she had not the strength to repel him.
It was the first time that he had ever spoken to her so near and with
such evident affection. Oh! how happy she would have been but for the
fatal words that Michel had said to her! But those words were still
ringing in her ears, and Mila was too proud to allow her secret to be
suspected. She made a mighty effort, and answered with a smile that her
trouble was a matter of little importance, and was due simply to a
little quarrel she had had with her brother.

"Michel quarrel with you, my poor angel?" said Magnani, watching her
carefully; "is it possible? Oh! no! you are mistaken. Michel loves you
more than all the world, and he is quite right. If you had quarreled, he
would be here, as I am, at your feet, and much more eloquent than I to
comfort you; for he is your brother, and I am only your friend. But,
however that may be, I am going to find him; I will scold him roundly,
if he is in the wrong. But it will be enough for him to see you cast
down and changed as you are, to make him much unhappier than you."

"Magnani," said Mila, detaining him as he rose, "I forbid you to go and
find Michel. That would be giving too much importance to a piece of
childish folly. Pay no more attention to it, and do not speak of it to
him or to my father. I assure you that I have already forgotten it, and
that my brother and I will be entirely reconciled to-night."

"If it is only a childish quarrel," said Magnani, sitting down beside
her, "why, your susceptibilities are altogether too keen, my dear Mila.
I have sisters too, and when I was not so sensible as I am now, when I
was Michel's age, I used to tease them a little. But they didn't cry;
they paid back my mischief with interest, and I always came out second
best."

"That was because they had spirit, and apparently I haven't enough to
defend myself," replied Mila, sadly.

"You have a great deal of spirit, Mila, I have noticed that; you are not
Pier-Angelo's daughter and Michel's sister for nothing, and you have a
better education than the other young women of your station. But you
have more heart than spirit, since you can defend yourself only with
your tears!"

Magnani's praise comforted and pained the girl at the same time. She was
flattered to find that, while not seeming to pay any heed to her, he had
observed her closely enough to be able to do her justice. But the
tranquil kindliness of his manner told her plainly enough that Michel
had not deceived her.




XX

BEL PASSO AND MAL PASSO


Suddenly Mila formed a firm resolution; for, as Magnani had truly said,
she was superior to most of the young girls of her class in education,
and Pier-Angelo had cultivated in her mind ideas as noble as his own.
She had, in addition, a tincture of youthful enthusiasm, blended with
the habit of courage and self-sacrifice, which her good taste and
ingenuousness led her to conceal beneath apparent heedlessness. It is
the acme of stoicism to be able to sacrifice oneself with a smile on
one's face, and with no outward indication of suffering.

"My dear Magnani," she said, rising with her accustomed serenity of
expression, "I thank you for your friendly interest in me; you have done
me good, and I feel perfectly calm. Let me work now, for I didn't do my
_day's work_ in the night, as you did; I must do my stint and earn my
wages. Go away, so that people may not say that I am lazy, and that I
waste my time chattering with the neighbors."

"Good-bye, Mila," replied the young man. "I pray God to restore your
peace of mind to-day, and to make you happy all the days of your life."

"Thanks, Magnani," said Mila, offering him her hand. "I rely upon your
friendship from this day."

The air of noble resolution with which that girl, so crushed by grief a
moment before, offered him her hand, and the tone in which she
pronounced the word friendship, like an heroic farewell to all her
illusions, were not understood by Magnani; and yet there was in that
gesture and that tone something that moved him deeply, although he could
not guess the cause. Mila was transformed before him in the twinkling of
an eye; she no longer seemed a charming child, she was serious and
beautiful as a woman.

He took that little hand in his hard and powerful one, which did not
hesitate to seal the friendly compact by a fraternal grasp, but which
trembled suddenly at the touch of a hand as soft and dainty as a
princess's; for Mila was very careful of her person, and knew how to be
at once industrious and refined in her occupations.

Magnani fancied that he held Agatha's hand, which, by a strange caprice
of fortune, he had touched once in his life. He felt a sudden wave of
emotion, and drew Pier-Angelo's daughter to his heart as if to give her
a brotherly kiss. He dared not do it; but she offered her forehead
innocently, saying to herself that it would be the first and the last,
and that she would cherish its memory as the symbol of an everlasting
farewell to all her hopes.

Magnani had been living for five years under a self-imposed law of
absolute chastity. It was as if he had taken an oath to imitate Agatha's
exceptionally austere mode of life, and, engrossed by a fixed idea, had
determined to waste away by slow degrees, knowing naught of love or
marriage. He had never kissed a woman, not even his sisters, since he
had carried in his heart that chimera of a hopeless passion. It may be
that he had made a vow to that effect in some moment of painful
agitation. But he forgot that grim vow when he felt young Mila's lovely
dark head resting trustfully against his breast. He gazed at her for an
instant, and those limpid black eyes, in which there was an expression
of grief and courage which he could not understand, cast him into a sort
of delirium of surprise and passion. His lips did not touch Mila's brow;
they turned away trembling from her bright red lips, and rested upon her
soft brown neck, perhaps a second or two longer than was absolutely
necessary to cement a bond of fraternity.

Mila turned pale, her eyes closed, and a sorrowful sigh escaped from her
broken heart. Magnani, shocked beyond measure, placed her upon a chair
and fled, overwhelmed with dismay, astonishment, and, perhaps, remorse.

Mila, being left alone, was very near fainting; she staggered to the
door and bolted it; then she knelt on the floor beside her bed, hid her
face in her hands, and remained there absorbed by her suffering. But she
had ceased to weep, and grief gave place to an excitement instinct with
strenuous and ardent aspirations. Pier-Angelo's optimism, that faith in
destiny which is a sort of superstition in stout hearts, awoke within
her. She rose, rearranged her hair, looked in her mirror, and said
aloud, as she resumed her work:

"I don't know why, nor when, nor how, but he shall love me; I have a
right to desire it, I do desire it, and God will assist me!"

When Michel returned, he found her tranquil and lovely, gazing intently
at a copy of the _Virgin of the Chair_, which he had made for her with
much care, and which she had hung, not in her alcove, but above her
mirror. He congratulated himself that he had allowed her to give way
freely to her first outburst of grief, and that she had recovered her
strength of will in her solitary meditation. He almost reached her side
before she heard him; but she saw his face in the glass as he leaned
over her to kiss her on the neck.

"Kiss me there," she said, offering him her cheek, "but never on my
neck!"

"Why that prohibition for your brother, little madcap?"

"It is a whim of mine," she said. "You are beginning to have a beard and
I don't want you to scratch my skin."

"Ah! you flatter me exceedingly," laughed Michel; "that fear does too
much honor to my budding moustache! I had no idea that it could frighten
anybody as yet! But do you care less for the smoothness of your cheek
than of your pretty neck, little Mila? Is that because you have just
been admiring this beautiful Madonna's neck?"

"Perhaps so!" she said. "It is very beautiful, really, and I would like
to resemble that face in every feature."

"I should judge that you were making the attempt before your mirror.
These are very profane ideas to indulge in before that holy image!"

"No, Michel," replied Mila, gravely. "There is nothing profane in my
conception of her beauty. I have never understood it as I have to-day,
and I fancied that no one had ever been able to create so beautiful a
face as Princess Agatha's. But I see now that Raphael went farther. He
gave his Madonna more strength of character, if not more tranquillity.
That divine face is intensely alive; it has a great deal of will; it is
sure of itself. She is the most virtuous, but, also, the most loving of
women. She seems to say: 'Love me because I love you.'"

"Well, well, Mila, where did you find that?" cried Michel, looking at
his sister in surprise. "I fancied I was dreaming as I listened to you!"

The conversation of the two children was interrupted by the arrival of
their father. He came to suggest to Michel that they should go and
demolish the ball-room. All the workmen who had taken part in building
it had agreed to meet at three o'clock in the afternoon, to rid the
palace of that temporary structure.

"I know," said Pier-Angelo, "that the princess is anxious to preserve
your frescoes on canvas, and I want you to help me roll them up and
carry them safely to one of the galleries of the palace."

Michel followed his father, but they were no sooner outside the city
than the old man stopped.

"My boy," he said, "I am going to the villa alone, for I must talk a
moment with the princess about that infernal abbé, who disguises
himself as a monk to spy upon something or somebody in her house. Do you
walk about two miles to the northwest, following the path that begins
here, and turning neither to right nor left. In an hour you will reach
the Capuchin convent of Bel Passo, where your uncle Fra Angelo told me
that he would wait for you till sunset. He has satisfied himself that
the suspicious monk whom we pointed out to him was no other than Ninfo,
and, without deigning to inform me what he supposes his designs to be,
he told me that he wished to have a serious talk with you. I suspect
that your uncle knows more than we do about the cardinal's condition and
the abbé's plans; but he is a man of sense and foresight. He has
probably made inquiries during the morning, and I shall be very glad to
have his opinion."

Michel followed the path, and, after an hour's walk through the most
beautiful country that the mind can conceive, he reached the gate of his
uncle's convent.

This convent was situated on a hill above a small village in the
cultivated district, gay with flowers and dotted with country houses,
which lies at the foot of Ætna. The building was sheltered by the great
trunks of venerable trees, and the garden, exposed to the African sun,
commanded a magnificent view bounded by the sea.

This romantic spot, strewn with formidable masses of lava, bore two
names which had been given it in turn, and which, in view of the
uncertainty as to which it was more likely to retain, were bestowed upon
it indifferently at the time of which we write. The location being
superb, the soil fertile, and the climate mild and agreeable, it had
been called on general principles _Bel Passo_. Then had come the
terrible eruptions of Ætna and Monte-Rosso, which had overwhelmed and
ruined it; whereupon it had been christened _Mal Passo_. Then, as time
passed on, the village and convent were rebuilt, the lava broken up,
cultivation resumed, and they gradually reverted to the original
complimentary name. But these two contrasting designations were still
confused in the memories and the customs of the people. The old men, who
had seen their country in its primitive splendor, said _Bel Passo_, as
did the children, who had seen it only after it had emerged from chaos,
and had been restored to life, as it were. But the men who had seen the
spectacle of the catastrophe and experienced its disastrous results in
their early years--who had had no other cradle than toil and terror, and
were just beginning to obtain some result from their labors--called it
_Mal Passo_ more frequently than _Bel Passo_.

For a very long time that gorge had changed its name thus, twice or
thrice in a century, according to circumstances; an example of the
heedless courage of the human race, which builds its nest beside the
broken branch, and continues to love and beautify and sing the praises
of the domain which it has with difficulty reconquered from the tempests
of yesterday.

However, this spot afforded equal justification for both of the names
which disputed possession of it. It was an epitome of all the horrors
and all the charms of nature. Where the river of fire had poured its
destructive waves, the ridges of lava, the gray wastes of slag, the
ruins of the former soil, upturned, flooded or baked, recalled the evil
days, when the population was reduced to begging, and wives and mothers
were in mourning; Niobe changed to stone at the sight of her murdered
children. But near at hand old fig-trees, reanimated by the passage of
the flame, had put forth new branches, and strewed with their succulent
fruit the new grass and the worn-out soil, newly steeped in the most
generous juices.

Everything that did not lie directly in the path of the molten
lava--everything that was saved by an inequality of the ground--had
benefited by the destruction that had passed so near. So it is with
mankind, and death everywhere makes room for life. Michel noticed that,
in some places, one of two twin trees had disappeared as if carried away
by a cannon-ball, and displayed its charred stump beside the proud trunk
which seemed to tower triumphantly over its ruins.

He found his uncle occupied in breaking away the rock to enlarge a bed
planted with flourishing vegetables. The garden had been dug out of
solid lava. The paths were covered with mosaics of enamelled porcelain,
and the beds of vegetables and flowers, cut from the very heart of the
rock, and made of earth brought from elsewhere, resembled gigantic boxes
buried to the edges. To make the resemblance more striking, between the
beds and the porcelain paths they had left the black lava, as it were a
border of box or thyme, and at each corner of the beds it had been
fashioned into a ball, the sacramental ornament of our orange-tree
boxes.

It will be seen, therefore, that nothing could be neater or more ugly,
more symmetrical or more depressing, in a word, more monastical than
that garden, an object of pride and affection to the good monks. But the
beauty of the flowers, the splendor of the bunches of grapes which
enveloped heavy pillars of lava, the soft murmur of the fountain, which
sent forth a thousand silvery threads to refresh each plant in its rocky
cell, and above all, the view from that terrace with its southern
exposure, afforded ample compensation for the melancholy effect of such
hard and patient toil.

Fra Angelo, armed with an iron sledge hammer, had removed his frock in
order to be more free in his movements. Clad only in a short brown
jacket, he displayed the mighty muscles of his hairy arms in the
sunlight, and at every blow that he dealt the rocky mass, shivering it
into fragments, he gave a sort of savage grunt. But, when he saw the
young artist, he drew himself up and showed a mild and serene
countenance.

"You come just in time, young man," he said. "I was thinking about you,
and I have many questions to ask you."

"I thought, uncle, that you had, on the contrary, many things to tell
me."

"Yes, doubtless I should have, if I knew what sort of man you are; but,
except for the tie of relationship that unites us, you are a stranger to
me; and, whatever your father may say, blinded perhaps by his affection,
I do not know whether you are really a man. What do you think of the
position in which you find yourself?"

"To avoid my having to answer your questions by asking others, you would
do well, perhaps, my dear uncle, to put them clearly in the first
instance. When I know what my position is, I shall be able to tell you
what I think of it."

"Then you know nothing of the secrets in which you are concerned?" said
the Capuchin, examining Michel with a stern and searching gaze; "you
have not even a suspicion of them? You have never guessed anything?
Nobody has ever told you anything?"

"I know that my father was involved in a political conspiracy long ago,
about the time of my birth, I think. But at that time I was quite unable
to decide whether he was in the right or in the wrong. Since then he has
never explained his position to me in that respect."

"He lacks confidence in you, then, or you take little interest in his
welfare?"

"I have questioned him at times; he has always answered evasively. I
have never drawn therefrom, as you do, uncle, the conclusion that he
distrusted me; that would have seemed impossible to me; but I have
always thought that, having really had a hand in the business, he was
bound by oaths, as is the case in all secret societies. So I should have
thought that I failed in the respect I owe him, if I had questioned him
farther."

"That is well said; but does it not conceal a profound indifference
touching the affairs of your native country, and a selfish disregard of
the sacred cause of its liberty?"

Michel was a little embarrassed by this question, so concisely put.

"Come," continued Fra Angelo, "answer without fear, I am only asking for
the truth."

"Very well, I will answer you, uncle," said Michel, meeting the monk's
cold glance, which distressed him in spite of himself, for he would have
liked to have the regard of that man, whose face, voice, and bearing
commanded his respect and sympathy. "I will tell you what I think, since
you wish to know it, and also what I am, at the risk of losing your
good-will. Convince me that the cause of liberty, so far as Italy and
Sicily are concerned, is really the cause of the men who are deprived of
liberty, and you will see that I will devote myself to it, I do not say
with enthusiasm, but with frantic zeal. But alas! hitherto I have always
seen men sacrifice themselves simply to change masters, while the noble
and wealthy classes used them for their own profit, in the name of this
or that idea. That is why, while I am not indifferent to the spectacle
of the misery and oppression of my fellow-countrymen, I have never
chosen to conspire under the auspices and for the benefit of the
patricians, who are so eager in inciting us to conspire."

"O mankind! O mankind! _everyone for himself_ will always be your
motto!" cried the Capuchin, springing to his feet as if beside himself
with indignation; then, resuming his seat with a strange and bitter
laugh, he added, looking at Michel with an ironical expression: "Signor
prince, _excellenza_, you are pleased to make sport of us, I judge!"




XXI

FRA ANGELO


The Capuchin's strange outbreak caused Michel the most profound
embarrassment; but, being determined to maintain his independence and
sincerity, he affected a tranquillity which he did not feel.

"Why do you call me _prince_ and _excellenza_, my dear uncle?" he said,
forcing himself to smile; "is it because I spoke like a patrician?"

"Precisely; every one for himself, I tell you!" replied Fra Angelo,
resuming his melancholy gravity. "If that is the spirit of the age which
you have been studying at Rome, if that is the new philosophy upon which
the young men in other lands are fed, we have not seen the end of our
misfortunes, and we can continue to tell our beads in silence. Alas!
alas! here is a fine state of affairs! the children of our people will
not stir for fear of saving their former masters with them, and the
patricians will not dare to lift a finger for fear of being devoured by
their former slaves! God save the mark! Meanwhile, the foreign tyranny
laughs and grows fat upon our spoils; our mothers and sisters ask alms
or prostitute themselves; our brothers and our friends die on dung-heaps
or on the gallows! It is a noble spectacle, and I am amazed,
Michelangelo, that you came from Rome, where you had before your eyes
naught but the splendors of the Holy See and the masterpieces of art, to
contemplate our poor Sicily, with her population of beggars, her ruined
nobles, her lazy or brutalized monks! Why did you not take a pleasure
trip to Naples? you would have seen wealthier nobles there and a more
opulent government, made so by the taxes which are causing us to die of
starvation; a more tranquil people, who worry but little over the fate
of their neighbors. 'What do we care for Sicily? it is a conquered
country and its people are not our brothers.'--That is what they say at
Naples. Go to Palermo, where they will tell you that Catania is not to
be pitied and can save itself unassisted, with its silk worms. Go to
Messina, where they will tell you that Messina is no part of Sicily, and
that they have no use for its bad counsels and its evil spirit. Go to
France; the newspapers there say every day that pious, cowardly peoples
like us deserve their fate. Go to Ireland; they will tell you that they
want no help from the heretics of France. Go everywhere, and everywhere
you will find yourself well abreast of the ideas of your time; for
people will say to you everywhere what you just said: 'Everyone for
himself!'"

Fra Angelo's words, his tone and his countenance made a deep impression
upon Michel, and he was honest enough to confess it to himself at once.
The artistic chord was struck, and what would have seemed to him in any
other man mere sophistry and declamation, seemed simple and mighty in
the mouth of that monk.

"My father," he said with ingenuous candor, "it may be that you are
right to scold me as you do. I have no idea at all; and yet I might
offer, in defence of my scepticism, many arguments which come and go in
my mind as I listen to you. It does not seem to me that I am as wicked
and as contemptible as you think. But with you I am much more eager to
improve myself than to defend myself. Please go on."

"Yes, yes, I understand," rejoined Fra Angelo, proudly. "You are a
painter, and you are studying me; that is all. This language seems
strange to you in the mouth of a monk, and you are thinking of nothing
but the picture you will paint of St. John preaching in the wilderness!"

"Do not laugh at me, I entreat you, uncle; you do not need to do it to
show me that you have more wit and learning than I. You chose to
question me; I told you my thought honestly. I hate oppression, whether
it appears in the shape of the past or the present. I should not like to
be the mere instrument of another man's passions and to sacrifice my
future as an artist to the reconstruction of the fortunes and honors of
a few great families who are naturally ungrateful and instinctively
despotic. I believe that a revolution in such a country as ours would
have no other result. I feel that I am man enough to take a gun to
defend my father's life and my sister's honor. But, when it comes to
joining some mysterious society, whose members act with their eyes
closed, and see neither the hand that guides them nor the goal toward
which they are proceeding--unless you can prove to me forcibly and
convincingly that it is my duty--I will not do it, though you were to
curse me, my dear uncle, or to make sport of me, which is much worse."

"What makes you think that I want you to join anything of that sort?"
said Fra Angelo, with a shrug. "I admire your distrustful nature. I like
to see that your first feeling with regard to your father's brother is
the fear of being tricked by him. I wanted to know you, young man, and I
am very much cast down by what I know of you."

"What do you know of me, pray?" cried Michel, testily. "Come, try me in
proper form, and let me know what my crimes are."

"Your whole crime consists in not being the man you should be," replied
Fra Angelo; "and that is very unfortunate for us."

"I understand no better."

"I know that you cannot understand what I am thinking at this moment!
otherwise you would not have spoken so before me."

"In heaven's name, explain yourself," said Michel, unable to endure
these attacks any longer. "It seems to me that we are fighting a duel in
the darkness. I cannot parry your blows, and I apparently strike you
when I am trying to defend myself. With what do you reproach me, or what
do you ask of me? If I am a man of my time and of my class, is it my
fault? I have just stepped foot for the first time on this island
devoted to the worship of the past. I am not an atheist, but I am not
pious. I do not believe in the superiority of certain classes, nor in
the necessary inferiority of my own. I do not feel that I am the born
servant of the old patricians, the old prejudices, and the old
institutions of my native land. I place myself on a level with the
haughtiest and most venerated heads, in order to pass judgment on them,
so that I may know whether I should bend my head before true merit, or
protect myself against unwarranted prestige. That is the whole of it,
uncle, I give you my word. Now you know me. I admire what is noble,
great and sincere before God. My heart is susceptible of affection and
my mind prostrates itself before virtue. I love art, and I am ambitious
of renown, I agree; but I love serious art and seek pure renown. I will
not sacrifice any one of my duties to them; but I will not accept false
duties, and I will spurn false principles. Am I a miserable wretch for
that? and must I, in order to have the honor of being a true Sicilian,
become a monk in your convent, or a brigand on the mountain?"

Michel's spirited outburst did not displease the Capuchin. He listened
to it with interest, and his face softened. But the young man's last
words produced the effect of an electric shock upon him. He leaped up
from his bench, and seizing Michel's arm with that herculean strength of
which he had given him a specimen in the morning, exclaimed: "What is
that metaphor? What are you talking about?"

But, observing Michel's air of stupefaction at this new outbreak, he
began to laugh: "Well, even if you do know it--even if your father has
told you--what does it matter? Other people know it, and I am none the
worse off. Well, my child, you have unconsciously used a very powerful
illustration; it was what one might call the marrow of the truth. All
men are not made to be fed upon it; there are milder and more digestible
truths which suffice for the majority. But to those who desire to be
absolutely logical in their opinions and their acts, what seems to you a
paradox is the merest commonplace. You look at me in amazement? I tell
you that you did, without knowing it, speak like an oracle when you said
that, in order to have the honor of being a true Sicilian, one must be a
monk in my convent, or a brigand on the mountain. I should prefer that
you would be one or the other, rather than a cosmopolitan artist as you
aspire to be. Listen to a story, and try to understand it:

"There was once in Sicily a poor devil, but blessed with a vivid
imagination and a certain amount of courage, who, being unable to endure
the disasters by which his country was overwhelmed, took his gun one
fine morning and went into the mountains, resolved to lose his own life,
or to destroy one by one as many of the enemy as possible, pending the
day when he could fall upon them in a body with the outlaws whom he
joined. They formed a large and select band. Their leader was a noble,
the last descendant of one of the greatest families of the
country--Prince Cæsar de Castro-Reale. Remember that name. You may
never have heard it, but a time will come when it will have more
interest for you.

"In the woods and mountains the prince had taken the name of
_Destatore_,[1] by which name he was known, loved, and feared for ten
years, nobody suspecting that he was the young and brilliant nobleman
who had run through his fortune at Palermo, and led a most dissipated
life with his friends and mistresses.

"Before speaking of the poor devil who turned brigand from patriotic
despair, I must say a few words of the noble patrician who had become a
leader of brigands for the same reason. It will assist you to a
knowledge of your country and your countrymen. _Il Destatore_ was a man
of thirty years, handsome, well-educated, lovable, brave and
generous,--he had all the characteristics of a hero; but he was
persecuted and crushed by the Neapolitan government, who detested him
particularly because of the influence he exerted over the common people.
He resolved to put an end to the life he was leading, to consume the
balance of his fortune, which was reduced every day by taxes to the
profit of the enemy; in short, to drown his sorrow in drunkenness, and
to kill himself or brutalize himself in debauchery.

"He succeeded only in ruining himself. His robust health withstood all
sorts of excess, his sorrow survived his dissipation, and when he found
that, instead of falling asleep, he became intensely excited in his
cups, that a frantic rage took possession of him, and that it would be
necessary for him to run a sword through his body, or, as he said, to
eat à la Neapolitan, he disappeared and became a bandit. He was
supposed to have been drowned, and his inheritance never caused his
nephews any great embarrassment or afforded much profit to the
authorities.

"Thereafter he was a tiger, a devouring lion, who spread terror through
the country districts and avenged his fatherland in the bloodiest way.
The poor devil whom I mentioned at the outset of my story became
passionately attached to him, and served him with fanatical loyalty. He
never stopped to think whether he was _worshipping the past_, or bending
the knee to a man who deemed himself superior to him, but who was only
his equal before God; whether he was fighting and risking his life for
the benefit of a _master_, who might prove to be _ungrateful and
despotic_; whether, after destroying the foreign tyranny, as they hoped
to do, they would fall again under the yoke of the _old prejudices_, the
_old abuses_, the nobles, and the monks. No, all those shades of
distrust were too subtle for such a straightforward and simple mind as
his. To beg would have seemed a degradation to him in those days; and as
for work! why he had never done anything in his life but work, and work
zealously, for he loved work, and was not afraid of it. But I do not
know whether you have noticed as yet that in Sicily every man does not
work who wants to. Although we have the richest and most fertile soil in
the world, taxation has destroyed commerce, agriculture, all the
industries and all the arts. The man of whom I speak had sought the
hardest, roughest, varieties of labor in the salt marshes, in the mines,
even in the very bowels of the earth, which, on the surface, was
devastated and neglected. Work was lacking everywhere, and all the
enterprises in which he had been employed being abandoned, one after
another, he was reduced to begging alms of his fellows who were as badly
off as he, or to stealing. He preferred to _take_ openly.

"But in the _Destatore's_ band they took with discernment and justice.
They maltreated and held to ransom none but enemies of the country or
traitors. They had a secret understanding with every well-meaning or
unfortunate man. They hoped to form a party large enough to attempt to
seize one of the three principal cities, Palermo, Catania, or Messina.

"But Palermo, before placing confidence in us, demanded that we should
be led by a noble; and as the _Destatore_ was supposed to be an
adventurer of low birth, he was rejected. If he had told his true name,
it would have been worse. He was execrated throughout the country for
his previous conduct, and that was a difficulty for which he could blame
no one but himself.

"At Messina our proposals were rejected, on the plea that the Neapolitan
government had done great things for the commerce of that city, and
that, all things considered, peace at any price, with flourishing trade
and the hope of growing rich, was preferable to a patriotic war with
confusion and anarchy. At Catania they told us that they could not do
anything without the concurrence of Messina, and would not do anything
without that of Palermo. In fact they definitely refused to assist us in
any way; and, after putting us off from year to year, they informed us
that the trade of brigand had gone out of fashion, and that it was very
bad taste to persist in it when we could sell out to the government and
make our fortunes in its service. They forgot to add, it is true, that,
in order to resume his place in society, it would have been necessary
for the Prince of Castro-Reale to become the enemy of his country and
accept some military or civil post, the duties of which consisted in
dispersing insurrections with cannon, and in pursuing, denouncing, and
hanging his old comrades.

"The _Destatore_, seeing that his mission was at an end, and that, in
order to live by his gun, he must thenceforth prey upon his
fellow-countrymen, fell into a state of profound depression. Wandering
among the wildest ravines on the island, and making bold forays,
sometimes to the very gates of the cities, he lived for a time upon
foreign travellers who were rash enough to visit the island. That trade
was not worthy of him, for those foreigners were, for the most part,
entirely free from blame for our ills, and so utterly incapable of
defending themselves, that it was a pity to rob them. The brave fellows
who followed him were disgusted with such wretched business, and every
day brought its quota of desertions. To be sure those scrupulous fellows
did worse when they left him; for some, being frowned upon everywhere,
relapsed into idleness and poverty; others were forced to join the
forces of the government, who considered them good soldiers, and made
gendarmes and spies of them.

"Thus there remained with the _Destatore_ only the more determined
malefactors, who robbed and murdered, without scrutiny, everyone who
came in their way. A single one was still honest, and refused to take
part in this highwayman's business. It was the poor devil whose story I
am telling you. Nor on the other hand would he leave his unfortunate
captain; he loved him, and his heart was broken at the idea of
abandoning him to traitors who would murder him some fine morning when
they had no one to rob, or would force him into useless crimes for their
own gratification.

"The _Destatore_ did full justice to his poor friend's devotion. He had
appointed him his lieutenant--an absurd title in a band which now
consisted of only a handful of knaves. He still allowed him to tell him
the truth sometimes, and to give him good advice; but as a general rule
he drove him away angrily, for the leader's temper became more and more
soured from day to day, and the savage virtues which he had acquired in
the days of enthusiasm and gallant exploits gave way to the vices of the
past, children of despair, ill-omened guests which resumed possession of
his storm-beaten soul.

"Drunkenness and lust took possession of him, as in the early days of
idleness and discouragement. He fell below himself, and one day--an
accursed day, which will never be blotted from my memory--he committed a
terrible crime, a dastardly, detestable crime! If I had witnessed it, I
would have killed him on the spot. But the _Destatore's_ last remaining
friend did not learn of it until the next day; and on that next day he
left him, after bitterly upbraiding him for his infamy.

"Thereupon that poor devil, having no one to love, and being unable to
do anything for his unhappy country, began to wonder what was going to
become of him. His heart, still ardent and youthful, turned toward
religion, and being of the opinion that an honest monk, thoroughly
imbued with the ideas of the Bible, might do a good work, preach virtue
to the powerful, give instruction and assistance to the poor and the
ignorant, he assumed the frock of a Capuchin, received the lesser
orders, and retired to this convent. He accepted the duty of mendicancy
imposed upon his order, as an expiation of his sins, and found it
preferable to pillage, in that he applied thereafter to the rich in
behalf of the poor, without violence and without cunning. It is inferior
in a certain sense; it is less sure and less expeditious. But, all
things considered, a man who wants to do the greatest possible amount of
good should be a brigand in his youth; and he who simply wants to do the
least possible harm should be a monk in his old age: you said so
yourself.

"There is my story; do you understand it?"

"Perfectly, uncle; it is very interesting indeed, and, in my eyes, the
principal hero of the romance is not the Prince of Castro-Reale, but the
monk who is speaking to me."


[Footnote 1: He who slumbers not.]




XXII

THE FIRST STEP ON THE MOUNTAIN


Fra Angelo and his nephew were silent for a few moments. The monk was
absorbed by the bitter yet glorious memories of his younger days. Michel
gazed at him with delight; and, no longer wondering at the martial air
and muscular strength concealed beneath the frock, mused with the
admiration of an artist upon the strange poesy of that life of devotion
to a single idea. If there was something abnormal and, to a certain
extent, entertaining in the history of the Capuchin, who still boasted
of his life as a bandit and seriously regretted it, there was something
truly noble in the way in which the ex-brigand preserved his individual
dignity, compromised as it had been in such extraordinary adventures.
Dagger or crucifix in hand, slaying traitors in the forest or begging
for the poor at the gates of palaces, he was always the same, proud,
ingenuous, unbending in his ideas, seeking to do good by the most
vigorous methods, detesting cowardly acts with such intensity that he
was still quite capable of punishing them with his own hand, utterly
unable to understand the selfish motives by which the world is governed,
or to believe that any man would not be ready at any moment to attempt
the impossible rather than palter with the expedients suggested by cold
circumspection.

"Why do you admire the secondary hero of my story?" he said to his
nephew when he emerged from his reverie. "Self-sacrifice and patriotism
must amount to something in your eyes, for that man had no other motive,
and, in the present state of society, would have been only a poor
fool--perhaps a lunatic."

"Yes, uncle, sincere devotion and the sacrifice of one's whole
individuality to an idea are noble things, and if I had known you in
those days--if I had been a man grown--I should probably have followed
you into the mountains. I might have been less devotedly attached than
you were to the Prince of Castro-Reale, but I trust I should have had
the same illusions and the same love for the cause of my country."

"Really, young man?" said Fra Angelo, fixing his penetrating eyes upon
Michel's face.

"Really, uncle," the young man replied, proudly raising his head, and
sustaining that searching glance with the assurance of conviction.

"And is it too late now to attempt anything, my poor boy?" said Fra
Angelo, with a sigh. "Has the time passed when we can believe in the
triumph of the truth, and is the new society, which I have had no better
chance to study in my cloister than in my bandit's cave, determined to
allow itself to be crushed forever?"

"I hope not, uncle. If I thought so, it seems to me that I should no
longer have any blood in my veins, inspiration in my brain, or love in
my bosom, and that I should no longer be capable of being an artist. But
still we must recognize the fact that society is not what it must have
been in this island at the beginning of your enterprise. Even if it has
taken some steps toward intellectual discoveries, it is certain that the
impulses of the heart have lost their energy."

"And you call that progress?" exclaimed the Capuchin, sorrowfully.

"No, far from it," Michel replied; "but how can those who are born
during this state of society breathe any other air than that in which
they were born, or entertain other ideas than those which have been
forced into them? Must we not yield to the evidence, and bend our necks
to the yoke of reality? Did not you yourself, my excellent uncle, when
you passed from the exciting life of a free adventurer to the inflexible
discipline of the cloister, did not you find that society was not what
you thought, and that it was no longer possible to effect anything by
violence?"

"Alas! that is true!" replied the monk. "During the ten years that I
passed in the mountains, I did not know what revolutions were taking
place in the manners of civilized mankind. When the _Destatore_ had sent
me into the cities with his agents, to try to make satisfactory terms
with the nobles whom he had known as loyal patriots, and with the rich
and well-educated middle class citizens whom he had known as ardent
liberals, I was forced to the conviction that those people were no
longer the same, that they had brought up their children with other
ideas, that they no longer cared to risk their fortunes and their lives
in those hazardous undertakings in which only faith and enthusiasm can
perform miracles. Yes, yes, the world had progressed--backward,
according to my idea. People no longer talked of anything but making
money, of fighting monopolies, of establishing competition, of founding
new industries. They all deemed themselves rich already, they were in
such haste to become so, and the government could purchase whomsoever it
pleased, by the promise of the most trifling privilege. Yes, they had
but to promise, to hold out hopes of fortune, and the most ardent
patriots pounced upon those hopes, saying: 'industry will give us back
our liberty!'

"The common people also believed it, and every employer could bring his
employés to the feet of the new masters, the poor creatures imagining
that their arms were about to bring them in millions. It was a sort of
fever, a universal mania. I sought men, I found only machines. I talked
of the fatherland and honor, they replied by discussing sulphur and silk
weaving. I went away disheartened, but uncertain, not daring to censure
too severely what I had seen, and saying to myself that it was not for
me, ignorant and uncivilized as I was, to pass judgment upon the new
resources which these mysterious discoveries were going to create for my
country.

"But since then, great heaven! I have seen the result of these fine
promises so far as the common people are concerned! I have seen some
shrewd fellows restore their own fortunes by ruining their friends and
paying court to the ruling powers. I have seen many families of petty
tradespeople attain great wealth; but I have seen honorable men
persecuted more and more; I have seen, especially, and I see now every
day, more beggars and more poor wretches without bread, without homes,
without education, without a future. And I ask myself what good you have
done with your new ideas, your progress, your theories of equality! You
despise the past, you spit upon the old abuses, and you have killed the
future by creating new abuses more monstrous than the old. The best
among you, the young men, are on the alert for the revolutionary
doctrines of nations more advanced than ours. You consider yourselves
highly enlightened, very strong, when you can say: 'No more nobles, no
more priests, no more convents, no more of anything connected with the
past!' And you do not see that you no longer have the poesy, the faith
and the pride which gave life to the past.

"Let us see!" added the Capuchin, folding his arms over his heaving
breast, and eyeing Michel with a half fatherly, half bullying, air: "you
are a very young man, a child! You consider yourself very clever,
because you know what people say and think in society at this moment.
You look at this stupid monk, who passes the day breaking rock in order
to set out an extra row of peppers or tomatoes on the lava next year,
and you say:

"'That's a strange way for a man to pass his life! And yet this man was
neither lazy nor dull. He might have been a lawyer or a tradesman, and
have earned money like other men. He might have married, had children,
and taught them to hold their own in society. He preferred to bury
himself alive in a convent and beg! It is because he is under the
influence of the past, and has always been the dupe of the old chimeras
and old superstitions of his country!'

"Very good! now, do you know what I think as I look at you? I say to
myself: 'Here is a young man who has come much in contact with the minds
of other men, who has very quickly thrown off the fetters of his class,
who does not choose to share the sufferings of his native country, the
labors of his kinsmen. He will succeed; he is a handsome youth, keener
and more logical in his ideas and his words at eighteen than I was at
thirty. He knows a multitude of things which had seemed useless to me
and which I did not even suspect, until the leisure of the cloister
enabled me to educate myself a little. He stands there, smiling at my
enthusiasm, and, mounted on his sound sense, his premature experience,
his knowledge of men, and his profound study of the science of personal
interest, looks upon me in his mind as a teacher looks upon his pupil.
He is the mature man; and I, an old brigand and old monk, am the
fearless youth, the blind and artless child! Strange transposition! He
represents the new generation, all for gold and glory; and I the dust of
ruins, the silence of the tomb!'

"Very good! but let the tocsin sound, let the volcano rumble, let the
people roar, let that black point which we see in the roadstead, and
which is the ship of State, bristle with guns to destroy the city at the
first breath of aspiration toward liberty; let the brigands come down
from the mountains, let the flames soar aloft to the clouds; and in that
last convulsion of the dying fatherland, the young artist will take his
brushes, he will go and take his seat upon a hill, out of all danger,
and he will paint a picture, saying to himself: 'What an unfortunate
people, and what a magnificent spectacle! I must hasten to put it on
canvas! in an instant this people will have ceased to exist, its last
hour is striking!'

"Whereas the old monk will take his gun, which is not yet rusty; he will
turn his sleeves back to the shoulder, and without stopping to ask
himself what will be the result of it all, he will rush into the
scrimmage and will fight for his countrymen until his crushed and
trampled body no longer resembles a human being. And I would rather die
so, boy, than survive, as you will do, the destruction of my race!"

"My father! my father! do not believe it," cried Michel, conquered and
carried off his feet by the Capuchin's exaltation. "I am not a coward!
and if my Sicilian blood flowed sluggishly on foreign soil, it is
quickened by the fiery breath which your breast exhales. Do not crush me
beneath that terrible malediction! Take me in your arms and set me on
fire with your flames. With you I feel really alive, and this new life
intoxicates and enraptures me!"

"Good! here is an honest impulse at last!" said the monk, embracing him.
"I like this better than the fine theories concerning art which you have
persuaded your father to respect blindly."

"Forgive me, uncle," rejoined Michel, with a smile, "I do not surrender
on that point. I will maintain with my last breath the dignity and
importance of art. You said just now that in the midst of civil war I
would coolly go and sit down in a corner, to paint episodes of the
conflict instead of fighting. I would fight, I beg you to believe, and I
would fight hard if the object were to drive out the enemy. I would
gladly lay down my life; glory would come to me more quickly so than I
shall attain it by studying painting, and I love glory: in that respect
I fear that I am incorrigible. But if I were in truth doomed to survive
the downfall of my people after fighting in vain for their triumph, it
is probable that I should collect my painful reminiscences and paint
many pictures, to reproduce and perpetuate the memory of those bloody
catastrophes. The more excited and desperate I was, the better and more
striking my work would be. It would speak to men's hearts; it would
arouse admiration for our heroism, pity for our misfortunes, and I
assure you that it might prove that I had served our cause better with
my brush than I had done with my gun."

"Very good! very good!" rejoined the monk, with an ingenuous outburst of
sympathy. "That is well said and well thought. We have a brother here
who is a sculptor, and I consider that his work is no less useful to the
cause of religion than mine is to the convent when I break up this lava.
But that brother has faith, and he can carve the features of the Blessed
Madonna without lowering the idea that we form of her. You will paint
fine pictures, Michel; but only on the condition that you have taken
part in the battle with heart and hand, and have been a zealous actor,
not an unmoved spectator of events."

"Now we are altogether in accord, my father; there is no genius in art
without conviction and without emotion: but as there is nothing more for
us to dispute about, if you are content with me at last, pray tell me
what is going on, and wherein you expect my assistance. Are we on the
eve of some important undertaking?"

Fra Angelo was so excited that he had lost all notion of his
surroundings. Suddenly his gleaming eyes filled with tears, his heaving
breast fell with a deep sigh, his hands, which quivered as if they were
feeling for pistols in his belt, fell back upon the cord around his
waist and touched his chaplet.

"Alas! no," he said, glancing about with startled eyes, like a man
suddenly aroused from sleep, "we are on the eve of nothing, and it may
be that I shall die in my cell without ever renewing the priming of my
gun. It was all a dream which you shared with me for an instant; but do
not regret it, young man, it was a noble dream, and that instant, which
did me inestimable good, may have made you a better man. The result of
it has been that I know you and esteem you. Now we are friends for life
and death. Let us not despair of anything. Look at Ætna! it is peaceful
and radiant; it is hardly smoking, and does not make a sound. To-morrow,
perhaps, it may belch forth its burning lava again and utterly destroy
the ground on which we stand. It is the emblem and the image of the
Sicilian people, and the hour for _Vespers_ may strike in the midst of
dancing or of slumber. But the sun is sinking, and I have no more time
to waste before telling you what I have to tell that concerns you. It is
a matter entirely personal to you, of which I desired to speak with you,
and it is a very serious matter. You cannot extricate yourself from it
without my assistance and that of certain other persons who, like
myself, are prepared to risk their liberty, their honor, and their
lives, to save you."

"Is it possible, uncle?" cried Michel; "can I not take the risk alone?
must you be involved in the mysterious perils which surround me without
my knowledge? Is it not my father alone who is in danger, and cannot I
save him?"

"Your father is in danger, too, but in less danger than you. Do not
question me, but believe me. As I have told you, I detest unnecessary
violence, but I shrink from nothing which is right and necessary. I must
assist you, and I will assist you. You and your father can do nothing
without the Capuchin of Ætna and the remnant of the _Destatore's_ band.
We are all ready. You will forgive me if, before assuming such grave
risks, I desired to ascertain how far you were deserving of the devotion
of which you are to reap the benefits. If you had proved to be an
egotist simply, I would have assisted you to escape; but, if you are
worthy of the name of Sicilian, we will assist you to triumph over
destiny."

"And you will not explain ----"

"I will explain nothing that it is not necessary for you to know. I am
not allowed to do otherwise; and you must remember one thing, namely,
that by seeking to find out more than I am able to tell you, you will
simply increase our risks and add to the complications of your own
situation. Come, do me the favor to rely upon your uncle, and to
overcome the vain and restless curiosity of childhood. Try to become a
man between now and this evening, for this evening it may be necessary
to act."

"I will ask but one thing of you, uncle, and that is to provide for my
father's safety and my sister's before thinking of me."

"That is all done, my boy; at the first signal your father will seek
refuge in the mountains, and your sister with the lady who gave a ball
last night. Ah! the bell is ringing for service. I am going to ask the
superior's permission to go out with my nephew on some family business.
Wait for me at the door of our chapel."

"And suppose he should refuse you?"

"He would compel me to disobey him, which would grieve me deeply, I
confess, not because of the penance to-morrow, but because I do not like
to fail in my duty. The old soldier looks upon his orders as the supreme
law."

Five minutes later, Fra Angelo joined Michel again at the door of the
church.

"Granted," he said, "but I am commanded, in order to pay my debt to God,
to perform an act of faith and say a short prayer before the altar of
the Virgin. As I am excused from attending the evening services, the
least I can do is to ask pardon from my greatest superior. Come and pray
with me, young man; it can do you no harm, and will give you strength."

Michel followed his uncle to the foot of the altar. The setting sun made
the stained-glass windows glow as with fire, and strewed with sapphires
and rubies the flagged floor on which the Capuchin knelt. Michel knelt
beside him, and watched him as he prayed with simple fervor. A
flame-colored pane, whose reflection fell upon his shaven head, made it
appear luminous and, as it were, aflame. The young painter was seized
with respect and enthusiastic admiration as he looked upon that noble,
strong and ingenuous face, which humbled itself in all sincerity in
prayer; and he, too, moved to the depths of his heart, prayed for his
country, his family and himself, with a simple faith and candor which he
had not known since his childhood.




XXIII

THE DESTATORE


"May I venture to ask you where we are going, uncle?" queried Michel,
when they had taken a dark and narrow path which led among the old
olive-trees on the mountain.

"Certainly," replied Fra Angelo; "we are going to call upon the last
real brigand in Sicily."

"There are some left then?"

"A few, although sadly deteriorated. They are still ready to fight for
their country, and they keep alive the last spark of the sacred flame.
However, I ought to tell you that they are a sort of cross between the
gallant fellows of long ago, who scrupulously refrained from taking a
hair from the head of a good patriot, and the cutthroats of the present
day, who kill and rob everyone they meet. These men discriminate when
they can; but, as their business has become very bad, and as the police
are more to be feared than in my time, they cannot always choose; so
that I do not hold them up as beyond reproach; but, such as they are,
they still have certain virtues which we should seek in vain elsewhere:
fidelity to their oaths, remembrance of past services, the revolutionary
spirit, love of country; in a word, all that remains of the chivalrous
spirit of our old bands still casts a faint gleam in the hearts of a few
poor fellows, who live by themselves, a half-sedentary, half-wandering
life. That is to say, they are settled in villages or in the open
country; they have their families there, and in some cases are supposed
to be peaceable husbandmen, submissive to the law, and having no quarrel
with the _campiere_.[2] If any of them are suspected, or, perhaps,
involved in some trouble, they are more wary, do not go to see their
wives or children except at night, or else remove their homes to some
almost inaccessible location. But the man whom we are going to see is
still free from any direct persecution. He lives openly in a neighboring
village, and can go where he pleases. You will not regret having made
his acquaintance, and I give you leave to study his character, for he is
a very interesting and remarkable person."

"Should I be too inquisitive if I asked you to tell me a little
something about him beforehand?"

"Certainly you ought to be told about him, and I will tell you. But it
is a momentous secret to place in your keeping, Michel, and it makes it
necessary for me to tell you another story. Do you know that I am going
to place in your hands the fate of a man whom the police are hunting
with all the energy and skill of which they are capable, and whose
features and true name they have never succeeded in finding out in the
six or seven years that have passed since he took up the _Destatore's_
work? Tell me, my boy, have you never heard of the _Piccinino_ and his
band since you have been in Sicily?"

"It seems to me that I have. Yes, yes, uncle, my sister Mila has some
fantastic stories about this Piccinino, who is the principal subject of
conversation among the young silk-weavers of Catania. He is a
redoubtable brigand, they say, who kidnaps women and kills men at the
very gates of the city. I have never believed these fables."

"There is some truth at the bottom of all the popular legends," rejoined
the monk. "The Piccinino exists and plies his trade. There are two men
in him--the man whom the _campieri_ pursue in vain, and the man whom no
one dreams of suspecting. The man who leads hazardous expeditions and
assembles, at a mysterious signal, all the _nottoloni_[3] of any
consequence, scattered all over the island, to employ them in more or
less worthy enterprises; and the man who lives not far from this place,
in a pretty country house, free from all molestation, and with the
reputation of an intelligent, peaceably disposed man, opposed to bloody
strife and advanced opinions. Well, within an hour you will be in that
man's presence, you will know his true name, you will know his features,
and you will share with only two other persons outside of the band which
he commands the responsibility of his secret. You see that I treat you
as a man, my child, but one cannot realize the danger of another person
until he has himself been exposed to it. Henceforth you will have to pay
with your life for the slightest indiscretion, and, in addition, to
commit something more than a dastardly act, a horrible crime, of which
you will soon know the extent."

"All these warnings are unnecessary, uncle; it is enough for me to know
that it would be an abuse of confidence."

"I believe it, and yet I am not so sure of your prudence that I do not
feel that I must tell you everything which may increase it. Your father,
Princess Agatha, perhaps your sister, and myself beyond any
question--all of us--will have sacrificed life and honor for you, if you
are false to the oath I require of you. Swear, therefore, upon all that
you hold most sacred--upon the Holy Gospel--never to betray, even on the
scaffold, the true name of the Piccinino."

"I swear it, uncle. Are you satisfied?"

"Yes."

"And will the Piccinino have the same confidence in my oath that you
have?"

"Yes, although confidence is not a failing of his. But when I told him
of your visit, I gave him guarantees which could not fail to satisfy
him."

"Very good! Now tell me what the relations are to be between this man
and myself?"

"Patience, boy! I promised you another story, and here it is:

"The _Destatore_ having become addicted to wine in his last years----"

"So the _Destatore_ is dead, is he, uncle? You did not tell me of his
death."

"I will tell you about it, although it is a very painful subject to me!
I told you of an abominable crime that he committed. He surprised and
carried off a girl,--a mere child,--who was walking with a nurse in this
neighborhood, and set her free again in two hours. But, alas! two hours
too late! No one witnessed his infamous act, but that very evening he
boasted of it to me and sneered at my indignation. I was beside myself
with horror and wrath, so that I cursed him, consigned him to the
furies, and abandoned him to enter this convent, where I soon took the
vows. I loved that man. I had been for many years under his influence;
and when I saw him ruining and degrading himself, I feared that I might
be led to follow his example. I determined to place between him and
myself an insurmountable barrier. I became a monk; that was one of the
most potent reasons for my decision.

"My desertion affected him more deeply than I expected. He came secretly
to Bel Passo and resorted to every expedient--prayers and threats--to
induce me to return. He was eloquent, because he had an ardent and
sincere heart, despite his vagaries. I was inexorable, however, and I
did my utmost to convert him. I am not eloquent; I was even less so at
that time; but I felt so intensely all that I said to him--and faith had
taken so strong a hold upon my heart--that my arguments made a profound
impression upon him. I induced him to repair his crime as far as
possible by marrying the innocent victim of his violence. I went to her
by night and obtained her consent to look once more upon the detested
brigand's features. They were married that night, secretly but legally,
in the chapel before the altar where you prayed just now with me. And
when he saw that beautiful, pale-cheeked, terrified maiden, the Prince
of Castro-Reale was seized with remorse, and began to love her who was
destined always to abhor him! He entreated her to fly with him, and,
irritated by her refusal, thought of abducting her. But I had given that
child my word, and she displayed a strength of character and a pride far
beyond her years. She told him that she would never see him again; and
clinging to my gown and our prior's--a worthy man who carried all his
secrets with him to the grave--she cried: 'You swore that you would not
leave me alone with that man a minute, and would take me back to the
door of my home as soon as the marriage ceremony was finished. Do not
desert me, or I will beat out my brains on the steps of your church!'

"She would have done as she said, the noble-hearted girl! But I had
sworn! I took her home in safety, and she never saw the _Destatore_
again.

"As for him, his suffering was beyond words. Resistance inflamed his
passion, and, for the first time in his life, he who had seduced and
abandoned so many women learned what love is. But he also learned what
remorse is, and from that day his mind was diseased. I hoped that he
would be truly converted. I had no thought of making a monk of him like
myself, but I wanted him to take up his old work, to renounce useless
crimes, debauchery and folly. I tried to convince him that, if he should
become once more the avenger of his country and the soul of our hope of
deliverance, his young wife would forgive him and consent to share his
painful but glorious destiny. Doubtless I myself would have thrown my
frock to the dogs and followed him.

"But, alas! it would be too easy for men to mend their ways if crime and
vice would relax their grasp upon their victims as readily as we desire.
The _Destatore_ was no longer himself; he had become too thoroughly the
man of the past. The remorse that I aroused in him disturbed his reason
without appeasing his savage instincts. Sometimes a raving madman,
sometimes timid and superstitious, he would pray one day in our humble
chapel, bathed in tears; and the next day would return to his vomit--as
the Scripture says. He tried to kill all his companions; he tried to
kill me. He committed many more excesses, and one morning--it is hard
for me to carry my story through to the end, Michel, it gives me so much
pain!--one morning he was found dead at the foot of a cross, not far
from our convent. He had blown out his brains with a pistol!"

"That was a horrible fate," said Michel, "and I do not know whether it
is the tone of your voice, uncle, or the ghastly memories of the place
where we are, but my emotions at this moment are most painful. It may be
that I heard my father tell the story in my childhood, and that the
memory of the terror it caused me then is revived by your words."

"I do not believe that your father ever mentioned it to you," said the
Capuchin, after an interval of dismal silence. "I only speak of it
because I must, my child; for the remembrance is more painful to me than
to anybody on earth, and the place where we now are is by no means
calculated to arouse cheerful thoughts in my mind. See, yonder is the
cross whose base was drenched with his blood, and there I found him
lying, sadly disfigured. It was I who dug his grave with my own hands
under yonder rock in the bottom of the ravine. It was I who said the
prayers which anybody else would have refused to say for him.

"Poor Castro-Reale, poor captain, poor fellow!" continued the Capuchin,
baring his head and extending his arm in the direction of a great black
rock which lay on the brink of the stream about fifty feet below the
road. "May God, who is inexhaustible mercy and infinite kindness,
forgive the errors of your life, as I forgive the sorrow you caused me!
I no longer remember aught save your years of valor; your noble deeds,
your lofty sentiments, and the ardent aspirations which we shared. God
will not be more severe than a poor fellow like me, will he, Michel?"

"I do not believe in the everlasting resentment of the supreme and
perfect Being who governs the world," replied the young man. "But let us
go on, uncle; I am cold here, and I prefer to confess the strange
weakness that I feel rather than remain an instant longer at the foot of
this cross. I am afraid!"

"I had rather see you tremble than laugh in this spot!" replied the
monk. "Come, give me your hand, and let us go on."

They walked for some time in silence; then Fra Angelo, as if he wished
to divert Michel's thoughts, continued thus: "After the death of the
_Destatore_, many people, women especially,--for he had seduced more
than one--hurried to his hiding-place, hoping to obtain possession of
what money he might have left there for the children whose father he
was, or was supposed to be; but on the very morning of his suicide he
had taken the booty remaining from his last expeditions and carried it
to that one of his mistresses whom he loved best, or, to speak more
accurately, whom he hated least; for, although he had many flames, he
inspired even more, and all those women, forming a sort of ambulatory
harem, annoyed and irritated him beyond measure. They all wanted him to
marry them, for they did not know that he was married. Melina, of
Nicolosi, alone never burdened him with her reproaches or her demands.
She had loved him sincerely; she had abandoned herself to him without
resistance and without ulterior motives; she had given him a son whom he
preferred to the twelve or fifteen bastards who were reared under his
name among the mountains. Most of those bastards are still living, and
boast, rightly or wrongly, that they belong to him. All are brigands to
a greater or less extent. But the one whom the _Destatore_ never denied,
who resembles him in every feature, although his is a much reduced and
blurred impression of the father's masculine and energetic beauty; the
one who has grown to manhood with the design of succeeding to his work,
with protection and resources to which the others can lay no claim, that
one is the son of Melina, the young man whom we shall see very soon; he
is the leader of the brigands to whom I have referred, some of whom are,
as a matter of fact, his brothers; finally, he is the man whom you are
to know under his true name, Carmelo Tomabene, who is also known as _The
Piccinino_."

"And the girl whom Castro-Reale abducted, whom you married to him--will
you not tell me her name, uncle?"

"Her name and her story are a secret which only three persons know
to-day, she, myself, and one other. Stop there, Michel; no more
questions on that subject. Let us return to the Piccinino, son of the
Prince of Castro-Reale and of the peasant girl of Nicolosi.

"This intrigue of the _Destatore_ was several years prior to his crime
and his marriage. The treasure he left was not very considerable; but,
as everything is relative, it was a fortune to Melina. She brought up
her son as if she intended that he should rise above his position; in
the bottom of her heart she longed to make a priest of him, and for
several years I was his tutor and his guide. But he was barely fifteen
years old when, having lost his mother, he left our convent and led a
wandering life until he attained his majority. He had always cherished
the idea of hunting up his father's former companions, and organizing a
new band with their aid; but, from respect for his mother's wishes, for
I ought to say that he really loved her, he had worked to acquire an
education as if he had, in fact, intended to devote himself to the
priestly profession. When he had recovered his liberty, he made use of
it without informing me of his purpose. He had always supposed that I
would blame him. Later, he was compelled to entrust his secret to me and
seek my advice.

"I was not sorry, I confess, to be rid of the guardianship of that young
wolf, for he was the most untamable creature that I ever met. As
fearless as his father, and even more intelligent, he is by instinct so
cautious and cunning, and elusive, that I was uncertain at times whether
I was dealing with the vilest of hypocrites or with the shrewdest
diplomatist who ever tangled up the affairs of empires. He is a strange
mixture of perfidy and honor, of magnanimity and vindictiveness. He has
a portion of his father's virtues and good qualities. His vices and
failings are of a different sort. Like his father, he is loyal in
friendship, and his oath is sacred; but while his father, even when
carried away by fierce passions, was always a true believer, and indeed
devout in the depths of his heart, the son, if I am not mistaken, and if
he has not changed, is the most placid and coolest atheist that ever
lived. If he has passions, he gratifies them so secretly that they
cannot be discovered. I know of but one, and that I have made no attempt
to overcome,--it is hatred of the foreigner and love of country. That
love is so intense that he carries it even to love of locality. Far from
being a spendthrift like his father, he is economical and orderly, and
owns a pretty little estate at Nicolosi, with a garden and some land,
where he lives almost always alone, to all appearance, when he is not on
some secret expedition in the mountains. But he arranges his absences
with so much caution, and receives his friends with so much mystery,
that no one ever knows whether he is away from the house, or in his
garden, smoking and reading. In order to preserve this skilfully managed
freedom of action, he makes a practice of not replying or showing
himself when anyone knocks at his door. So that, when he is ten leagues
away, no one can say that he is not kept within the walls of his
fortress by a fit of unsociability.

"He has retained the costume, and, so far as appears, the habits of a
wealthy peasant, and, although he is very well educated and very
eloquent on occasion, although he is fitted for any career, and capable
of distinguishing himself in many, he has such aversion for society and
the laws by which it is governed among us, that he prefers to remain a
bandit. To be simply a _villano_[4] in easy circumstances would not
satisfy him. He is energetic and ambitious, he has a genius for the
ruses of warfare, and a passion for adventures. Although it is a part of
his plan to conceal his shrewdness and his learning, those qualities
reveal themselves in spite of him, and he has great influence in his
village. He is looked upon there as an original character, but they
think highly of his advice, and consult him on every subject. He has
made it his duty to oblige everybody, because it is his policy to have
no enemies. He explains his frequent absences and the numerous visits he
receives as being connected with a small business in grain, which
requires journeys into the interior and somewhat extensive connections.
He carefully conceals his patriotism, but he investigates and knows all
about other people's, and at the first real uprising, he would have but
to wave his hand to raise the whole population of the mountain, and the
mountain would march with him."

"I can understand that this man is a hero in your eyes, uncle, while you
have difficulty in esteeming one whose qualities are so faintly outlined
as mine."

"I esteem the quality of words, not their number," replied the Capuchin.
"You have said two or three words which satisfy me, and as for my hero,
as you call him, he is so far from being lavish with them that I have
had to judge him by deeds rather than by speech. I, myself, rarely speak
of matters upon which I feel very strongly, and if you find me prolix
to-day, it is because I am obliged to tell you in two hours what I have
had no chance to tell you in the eighteen years that you have been in
this world, a stranger to me. However, reserve is not a defect in my
eyes. I loved Castro-Reale as I shall never love anybody else; and we
passed whole days together, by ourselves, without speaking a word. He
was suspicious, as every true Sicilian should be, and so long as he
distrusted himself and others, he had a noble heart and a noble spirit."

"The young man we are going to see must be very deeply attached to you,
uncle, since you are sure of finding him prepared to receive me?"

"If he loves anyone on earth, I am that one, although I scolded and
worried him well when he was my pupil. However, I am not perfectly
certain that he will grant what I have to ask him in your behalf. He
will have to overcome some repugnance; but I hope for the best."

"Doubtless he knows all that you will not allow me to know myself of my
affairs and my destiny?"

"He? he knows nothing whatsoever of them, and he shall know nothing
before you do. The little that you are both to know for the present, I
will tell you both. After that, it may be that the Piccinino will guess
more than he should. His penetration is very keen; but whatever he may
guess, he will never tell you; and he will never ask you what he wants
to find out; my mind is at rest so far as that is concerned. Now,
silence; we are coming out of the woods into a cultivated and settled
part of the mountain. We must be seen by as few people as possible on
our way to the place where our man awaits us."

They walked silently and cautiously along hedges and clumps of trees,
keeping in the shadow and avoiding trodden paths; and in the gathering
dusk they soon reached the Piccinino's abode.


[Footnote 2: The gendarmes or police of the island.]

[Footnote 3: People who attend to their business by night.]

[Footnote 4: That is to say, a _villain_ or serf.]




XXIV

IL PICCININO


On that side of the mountain which Fra Angelo and Michel had been
constantly ascending for two hours, the large, thickly populated village
of Nicolosi is the last civilized point at which the traveller who
wishes to visit the top of Ætna stops for breath before entering the
grand and imposing region of forests. This second belt is called
_Silvosa_ or _Nemorosa_, and the cold is intense there. The vegetation
then becomes depressingly wild and more sparse, until it finally
disappears altogether under lichens and heaps of gravel, beyond which
all is snow, sulphur, and smoke.

Nicolosi and the magnificent landscape surrounding it were already
enveloped in the evening mist when Michel tried to form some idea of the
place where he was. The imposing mass of Ætna was of the same uniform
shade, and he could barely distinguish, a mile above him, the frowning
peak of _Monte-Rosso_, that subaltern volcano, one of the twenty or
thirty sons of Ætna, extinct or recently opened furnaces, which rear
their heads like a battery of artillery at its foot. It was Monte-Rosso
that opened its black maw, less than two centuries ago, to vomit forth
that death-dealing lava with which the bottom of the bay of Catania is
still furrowed. To-day the peasants raise grapes and olives on débris
which seems to be burning still.

The Piccinino's house stood by itself on the mountain, about half a mile
from the village, from which it was separated by a steep ravine; it was
on the uppermost edge of a fertile tract, where the atmosphere was soft
and balmy. A few hundred feet higher it began to be cold, and the
terrors of the desert were foreshadowed by the absence of tilled land,
and by ridges of lava so numerous and so broad that the mountain seemed
inaccessible in that direction. Michel observed that the situation was
particularly favorable to the purposes of a man who was half citizen,
half outlaw. At home, he could enjoy all the comforts of life; on
leaving his home, he at once escaped from the presence of his fellow-men
and the requirements of the law.

The hill, the slope of which was very abrupt on one side, but gentle and
fertile on the other, was covered to its very summit with luxuriant
vegetation, whose mysterious exuberance was sedulously fostered by an
industrious and intelligent hand. Carmelo Tomabene's garden was renowned
for its beauty and the great abundance of its fruits and flowers. But
its entrance was jealously guarded, and it was enclosed on all sides by
high verdure-covered palisades. The house, which was of considerable
size and well built, although without apparent striving for effect,
stood upon the site of a small abandoned fort. Some fragments of thick
walls, and the base of a square tower, which had been utilized to
strengthen and enlarge the new building, which bore the marks of
extensive repairs, gave to the modest structure an air of solidity, and
of semi-rustic, semi-seignoral importance. However, it was simply the
dwelling of a well-to-do farmer, although one felt that a man of refined
habits and tastes might find life enjoyable therein.

Fra Angelo approached the gate, and pulled a bell-cord, which, starting
among the honeysuckles in which the gate was embowered, followed a long
vine-clad arbor and was connected with a bell inside the house; but the
sound of the bell was so deadened that it could not be heard outside.
The cord was not visible amid the foliage, and one needed to be
previously cognizant of its existence to make use of it. The monk pulled
the cord three times, at carefully measured intervals; then five times,
then twice, then three times again; after which he folded his arms for
five minutes, when he repeated the signals in the same order and with
the same care. One ring more or less and the mysterious proprietor might
have allowed them to wait all night without admitting them.

At last the garden gate was opened. A small man, wrapped in a cloak,
approached, took Fra Angelo by the hand, whispered to him for some
moments, then turned to Michel, bade him enter, and walked before them,
after closing the gate. They walked through the long arbor which formed
a cross extending the whole length and width of the garden, and entered
the house through a sort of rustic porch formed of large pillars covered
with vine and jasmine. Their host then ushered them into a large room,
neatly and simply furnished, where everything indicated regularity and
sobriety on the part of the owner. There he invited them to sit, and,
stretching himself out on an enormous couch covered with red silk,
coolly lighted his cigar; then, without any demonstration of
friendliness toward the monk, he waited for him to speak. He showed no
impatience, no curiosity. He gave his whole attention to removing his
brown cloak lined with pink, carefully folding it, and rearranging his
silk sash, as if he desired to be perfectly comfortable while listening
to what they had to say to him.

But what was Michel's surprise when he finally recognized in the young
_villano_ of Nicolosi the stranger who had caused a momentary sensation
at the princess's ball, and with whom he had exchanged a few far from
friendly words on the stoop of the palace!

He was disturbed by the thought that that incident was unlikely to
dispose in his favor the man at whose hands he was about to ask a
service. But the Piccinino did not seem to recognize him, and Michel
concluded that it would be as well not to remind him of that unpleasant
incident.

He had plenty of leisure to examine his features and to seek therein
some indication of his character. But it was impossible for him to
detect any trace of emotion, of determination, of any human feeling, on
that impassive and expressionless face. It was not even impertinent,
although his attitude and his silence might seem to denote a purpose to
display contempt.

The Piccinino was a young man of about twenty-five years. His short
stature and slender figure justified the sobriquet which had been given
him, and to which he submitted with more coquetry than vexation.[5] It
is impossible to imagine a more slender and delicate, and, at the same
time, more perfect figure, than that young man's. Admirably
proportioned, and modelled like an antique bronze, he made up for his
lack of muscular strength by extreme suppleness. He was reputed to be
without a compeer in all bodily exercises, although he was dependent
solely upon his address, his coolness, his agility, and the unerring
accuracy of his glance. No one could tire him at walking, or overtake
him at running. He climbed precipices with the self-possession of a
chamois; he was as good a shot with the rifle as with the pistol or the
sling; and in all sports of that sort he was so sure of winning all the
prizes that he had ceased to take the trouble to compete. He was an
excellent horseman and a fearless swimmer; in fact, there was no method
of locomotion or of fighting in which he was not certain to display a
marked superiority to anyone who ventured to try conclusions with him.
Being fully alive to the advantages of physical strength in a
mountainous country, and with the life of an adventurer before him, he
had striven in early years to acquire what nature seemed to have denied
him in that regard. He had exercised and developed his muscles with
incredible energy and persistence, and had succeeded in making his
fragile frame the trusty slave and obedient instrument of his will.

And yet, seeing him reclining thus upon his couch, one might have taken
him for a sickly or indolent woman. Michel did not know that, after
travelling twenty leagues on foot during the day, he systematically
rested for a certain number of hours, and that he had watched and
studied himself so closely in every respect that he knew exactly how
many moments he must pass in a horizontal position in order to escape
the annoyance of a lame back and legs.

His face was of a peculiar type of beauty: it was the Siculo-Arabian[6]
type in all its purity. Extraordinary sharpness of outline, a somewhat
exaggerated oriental profile, long, languishing, velvety black eyes, a
shrewd and lazy smile, a wholly feminine grace, and an indefinable
gentleness and coldness which it was impossible to explain at the first
glance.

The Piccinino was dressed with extreme care and scrupulous neatness. He
wore the picturesque costume of the peasants of the mountain, but it was
made of fine, light materials. His breeches, short and tight-fitting,
were of a soft woollen fabric, with silk stripes, yellow and brown. His
bare leg, white as alabaster, was visible above his scarlet
_spadrilles_. His shirt was of embroidered linen, trimmed with lace, and
afforded a glimpse of a heavy gold chain, intertwined with hair, upon
his breast. His sash was of green silk stitched with silver. He was
arrayed from head to foot in smuggled garments, or something worse; for
if you had examined the marks on his linen, you might have convinced
yourself that it came from the last valise he had robbed.

While Michel was contemplating with admiration, mingled with some inward
irony, the ease with which that well-favored youth rolled a cigarette of
Algerian tobacco in his fingers, slender and tapering as a Bedouin's,
Fra Angelo, who seemed neither surprised nor annoyed by his reception,
made a circuit of the room, bolted the door, and, having inquired if
they were quite alone in the house, to which query the Piccinino replied
in the affirmative with a nod, he began thus:

"I thank you, my son, for not compelling me to wait for this
appointment. I have come to ask a favor at your hands: are you able and
willing to devote a few days to it?"

"A few days?" repeated the Piccinino, in such a soft voice that Michel
was fain to glance anew at the muscles of steel in his legs in order to
be sure that it was not a woman who spoke; but the tone of the voice
signified too clearly to be misunderstood: "You are jesting!"

"I said a few days," rejoined the monk, calmly. "You will have to go
down the mountain, follow this young man, my nephew, to Catania, and
stay by him until you have succeeded in relieving him from an enemy who
is tormenting him."

The Piccinino turned slowly toward Michel, and stared at him as if he
had not previously seen him; then, taking from his belt a richly-mounted
stiletto, he presented it to him with an almost imperceptible smile of
irony and contempt, as if to say: "You are old enough and strong enough
to defend yourself."

Michel, annoyed at being placed in such a position, was about to make a
sharp retort, when Fra Angelo cut him short, placing his iron hand on
his shoulder.

"Be quiet, my boy," he said; "you do not know what I am talking about,
and there is no occasion for you to speak. My friend," he continued,
addressing the bandit, "if my nephew were not a man and a Sicilian, I
should not introduce him to you. I am going to tell you what we expect
of you, unless you tell me beforehand that you cannot or will not help
us."

"Padre Angelo," replied the bandit, taking the monk's hand, and putting
it to his lips with a caressing gesture and an affectionate glance that
changed the character of his face entirely, "whatever you may ask, I am
always willing to do for you. But no man can do all that he is willing
to do. So I must know what it is."

"A man annoys us."

"I understand."

"We do not wish to kill him."

"You are unwise."

"By killing him we ruin ourselves; by putting him out of the way we are
saved."

"He is to be kidnapped then?"

"Yes, but we do not know how to go about it."

"What! _you_ do not know, Padre Angelo?" said the Piccinino with a
smile.

"I should have known in the old days," replied the Capuchin. "I had
friends and places of shelter. Now, I am a monk."

"You are foolish," rejoined the bandit with undisturbed tranquillity.
"So, I am to kidnap a man, am I? Is he very stout, very heavy?"

"He is very light," replied the monk, who apparently understood that
metaphor, "and no one will give you a ducat for his skin."

"In that case, good-evening, father; I can't take him alone and put him
in my pocket like a handkerchief. I must have men, and they are not to
be had for nothing, as in your day."

"You don't understand me; you may fix the compensation of your men
yourself, and they shall be paid."

"Do you make yourself responsible for that, father?"

"I do."

"You alone?"

"I alone. And, so far as you are concerned, if the affair had not been a
magnificent one, I should not have selected you."

"Well, we will see about it next week," rejoined the bandit, in order to
obtain more ample information as to the profits of the affair.

"In that case, we will say nothing more about it," said the monk, hurt
by his distrust; "we must go forward at once or not at all."

"At once? What about a chance to collect my men, persuade them, and give
them their instructions?"

"You can do it to-morrow morning, and to-morrow night they can be at
their posts."

"I see that you are in no great hurry, or you would have told me to
start to-night. If you can wait until to-morrow, you can wait a
fortnight."

"No; for I intend to take you away with me now, send you to a certain
villa where you will talk with one of the persons interested in the
success of the affair, and give you until to-morrow night to inspect the
locality, become acquainted with all necessary details, set up your
batteries, notify your men, station them, arrange for allies in the
citadel. Bah! it is more time than you need! At your age I wouldn't have
asked your father for half of it."

Michel saw that the Capuchin had touched the right chord at last; for
when he was appealed to as the son of the Prince of Castro-Reale, a
title which nobody dared or chose to give him openly, the Piccinino
started, sat up and sprang to his feet as if he were ready to start at
once. But suddenly he put his hand to his leg and fell back on the
couch.

"It is impossible," he said, "I am in too much pain."

"What is the matter?" asked Fra Angelo. "Are you wounded? Is that spent
ball of last year still troubling you? In the old days we used to march
with bullets in our bodies. Your father did thirty leagues without
thinking of having the one extracted that he received in the thigh at
Leon-Forte; but the young men of to-day need a year to be cured of a
bruise."

Michel thought that his uncle had gone a little too far, for the
Piccinino resumed his recumbent attitude with a gesture of profound
indignation, stretched himself on his back, puffed away at his
cigarette, and maliciously left to the good priest the embarrassing
necessity of continuing the conversation.

But Fra Angelo was perfectly sure that the idea of a supply of ducats
had appealed to the young bandit's unsentimental mind, and he continued
without the slightest hesitation:

"I give you half an hour, my son, if you absolutely need it; half an
hour is a long while for the blood that flows in your veins! then we
will all three start."

"Who is this youngster, pray?" said the Piccinino, indicating Michel
with the end of his finger, but without removing his eyes from the wall.

"He is my nephew, as I have told you; and Fra Angelo's nephew is to be
relied on. But he doesn't know the country, and has not the necessary
connections for an affair of this sort."

"Is the _signorino_ afraid of compromising himself?"

"No, signor!" cried Michel, irritated beyond endurance, and unable to
bear longer the bandit's insolence and the restraint which his uncle
imposed upon him. The bandit turned, looked him in the face with his
long eyes, which seemed to turn up a little toward the temples, and
whose mocking expression was sometimes intolerable. But when he saw
Michel's animated face and pale lips, he assumed a more amiable
expression, albeit a little suspicious still, and said, offering him his
hand:

"Let us be friends, at all events, until we have no other enemies on our
hands; that is our wisest course."

As Michel was seated at some distance, he would have had to rise to take
that hand, extended with a kingly gesture. He smiled and did not move,
at the risk of displeasing his uncle and losing the fruit of their
expedition.

But the monk was not sorry to see Michel adopt that attitude with
respect to the bandit. The latter understood that he had no
weak-spirited creature to deal with, and, rising with an effort, he went
to him and took his hand.

"You are cruel, my young master," he said, "to refuse to take two steps
toward a man who is completely tired out. You haven't travelled twenty
leagues to-day, and you insist upon my starting off again when I have
had barely two hours' rest!"

"At your age," said the unrelenting monk, "I used to walk twenty leagues
a day, and not take time to sup before starting again. Well, have you
decided? Shall we start?"

"You care a good deal about it, don't you? Are you personally interested
in the affair?"

"I care about it as I do about my everlasting salvation, and the affair
is of the deepest interest to the persons who are dearer to me than
anybody else on earth since your father died. My brother is in danger,
as well as this excellent young man, for whom I demand your sincere and
loyal friendship."

"Have I not shaken his hand?"

"Therefore I count upon you. When I see that you are ready, I will tell
you something that will be a more enticing bait to you than gold or
glory."

"I am ready. Is it an enemy of the country who is to be killed?"

"I told you that there is nobody to be killed; you forget that I serve
the God of peace and mercy. But there is some one to be thwarted, some
one whose treacherous plans must be utterly foiled; and that man is a
spy and a traitor."

"His name?"

"Will you come?"

"Am I not on my feet?"

"Abbé Ninfo."

The Piccinino began to laugh, a silent laugh in which there was
something ghastly.

"May I be permitted to thwart him?" he asked.

"Morally, yes. But not a drop of blood must be shed!"

"Morally! good, I will exert my wits. Courage is not current coin with
that fellow; but as we have made our bargain, or nearly so, it is time
to explain to me the motive of this abduction."

"I will explain it to you, and you can reflect upon it as we walk."

"Impossible. I cannot do two things at once. I reflect only when my body
is at rest."

And he coolly lay down again after relighting his cigarette.

Fra Angelo saw clearly enough that he would not allow himself to be led
into action with his eyes closed.

"You know," he said, with no indication of impatience, "that Ninfo is
the tool, the spy, the inseparable companion of a certain cardinal?"

"Hieronymo de Palmarosa?"

"You know also that my older brother, Pier-Angelo, was forced to leave
Sicily eighteen years ago?"

"I know it. It was his own fault! My father was still alive. He might
have joined him instead of abandoning his country."

"You are mistaken; your father was dead. You were an infant, I was a
monk! There was nothing to be done here."

"Go on."

"My brother returned, as you know, a year ago; and his son, Michelangelo
here, returned a week ago."

"What for?"

"To assist his father in his trade and his country on occasion. But
there is already a denunciation hanging over him as well as over his
father. The cardinal still has his memory, and does not forgive. Ninfo
is prepared to act in his name."

"What are they waiting for?"

"I don't know why the cardinal is waiting so long before dying, but I
can say that Ninfo is waiting for the cardinal's death."

"Why?"

"In order to seize his papers before there is time to put seals on them
and notify his heiress."

"Who is the heiress?"

"Princess Agatha de Palmarosa."

"Ah! yes," said the bandit, changing his position, "a beautiful woman,
so they say."

"That has nothing to do with the affair. But do you understand now why
it is necessary that Abbé Ninfo should disappear during the cardinal's
last moments?"

"So that he cannot seize the papers, you said. He may cheat Princess
Agatha out of important documents, abstract a will. It is a serious
matter for her. She is very rich, is she not? Thanks to her father's and
uncle's _loyal opinions_, the government has left her all her property,
and does not crush her life out with forced contributions."

"She is very rich, so that it is a great opportunity for you, for she is
no less generous than rich."

"I understand. And then, she is a very beautiful woman!"

His insistence upon that consideration sent a shudder of anger through
Michel's veins; the bandit's impertinence seemed intolerable to him; but
Fra Angelo was not disturbed by it. He believed that it was simply a
trick of the Piccinino's, to conceal his rapacity beneath an air of
gallantry.

"So I am to act for your brother and nephew incidentally," continued the
bandit, "while in reality I am to rescue the Princess of Palmarosa's
future fortune by laying hands upon the suspicious person of Abbé
Ninfo? Is that it?"

"That is it," the monk replied. "The signora has to look out for her
interests, and I for my family. That is why I have advised her to seek
your assistance, and why I consented to convey her request."

The Piccinino seemed to reflect a moment; then, suddenly throwing
himself back on his cushions, he exclaimed, in a voice broken by peals
of hearty laughter:

"A most excellent story! This is one of the most attractive adventures
in which I have ever taken part!"


[Footnote 5: The Piccinino is a friendly diminutive which the
mountaineers might well have given him because of his small size. But
the phrase _piccin-piccino_ signifies the act of hiding in order to
prove an _alibi_.]

[Footnote 6: That is to say, modified Arabian, as found in Sicily.]




XXV

THE DESTATORE'S CROSS


This outburst of merriment, which seemed exceedingly insolent to Michel,
alarmed the monk at last; but, giving him no time to question him, the
Piccinino resumed his seriousness as abruptly as he had laid it aside.

"The affair becomes clearer," he said. "One point is still obscure; why
does Ninfo wait for the cardinal to die before denouncing your kinsmen?"

"Because he knows that the princess is their protector," the Capuchin
replied; "that she has affection and esteem for the honest old artisan
who has been working in her palace for a year past, and that, to save
them from persecution, she would allow herself to be bled by that
infamous priest. So he says to himself that when the cardinal is dead he
will have that noble lady's fate in his hands absolutely, and that he
will be at liberty to ruin her to his own profit. Doesn't it seem better
to you that the Princess Agatha, who is a good Sicilian, should inherit
the cardinal's property peaceably, and recompense handsomely the
services of a gallant fellow like yourself, than that she should spend
her money to buy the silence of a venomous reptile like Ninfo?"

"That is my opinion. But how can you be sure that the will has not been
already abstracted?

"We know on good authority that it cannot have been yet."

"I must be certain of it! for I don't choose to exert myself, and then
obtain nothing that is of any value."

"What does it matter if your pay is the same?"

"Ah! Brother Angelo," said the Piccinino, rising on his elbow and
assuming an air of pride which made his listless eyes gleam for an
instant, "for what do you take me? It seems to me that you have
forgotten me in some measure. Am I a _bravo_, to be paid by the job or
by the day? I have always flattered myself upon being a loyal friend, a
man of honor, a devoted partisan; and lo and behold! apparently ashamed
of the pupil you trained, you treat me like a mercenary, ready to do
anything for a little gold! Disabuse yourself of that idea, in God's
name. I do justice fortuitously, as my father did; and if I sometimes
work on different lines from those he followed--if, conforming to the
spirit of the age we live in, I use my shrewdness more often than my
courage--I am none the less high-spirited and independent. Being more
useful and more in request than a notary, lawyer or doctor, if I put a
high price on my services, or give them _gratis_, according to the means
of those who seek them, I have no love for my art and no respect for my
own intelligence. I shall never waste my time and trouble in earning
money without guarding the interests of my clients; and, just as the
famous advocate refuses to undertake a cause which he is sure of losing,
just as a captain refuses to risk his men in an unnecessary action, just
as an honest doctor ceases his visits when it is no longer in his power
to relieve his patient, so do I, my father, refuse your offers, for they
do not satisfy my conscience."

"There was no need of your saying all that to me," said Fra Angelo,
still as calm as ever. "I know what sort of man you are, and I should
consider that I degraded myself by seeking the aid of a man whom I did
not esteem."

"In that case," replied the Piccinino, with increasing excitement, "why
do you lack confidence in me? Why do you tell me only a part of the
truth?"

"You want me to tell you where the cardinal's will is concealed? That I
do not know, nor have I ever thought of asking."

"That is impossible."

"I swear to you before God, boy, that I have no idea. I know that it is
out of Ninfo's reach for the present, and that he cannot obtain
possession of it while the cardinal lives except with his assent."

"And how do you know that he has not already given his assent?"

"The Princess Agatha is certain of it. She told me so, and that was
enough for me."

"But suppose it isn't enough for me? Suppose I have no confidence in
that woman's shrewdness and foresight? Don't you know that women have no
talent whatever for that sort of thing? Have they any other talent in
the way of divining or pretending than the talent they place at the
service of love?"

"You have become very learned on this subject, and I have continued to
be quite ignorant; however, my friend, if you desire to know further
details, ask the princess herself for them, and you will probably be
satisfied. I intended to put you in communication with her to-night."

"To-night? in direct communication? Shall I be able to talk with her
alone?"

"Surely, if you consider it necessary to the success of our
undertaking."

The Piccinino turned abruptly to Michel, and looked at him without
saying a word.

The young artist was unable to sustain that gaze without distress. The
adventurer's manner of speaking of Agatha had already irritated him
exceedingly, and to keep himself in countenance he was forced to take a
cigarette which the bandit suddenly offered him with an ironical and
quasi-patronizing air.

The Piccinino had risen, and seemed to have fully made up his mind to
go. He began to unbuckle his sash, shaking and stretching his legs like
a hunting-dog preparing for the chase.

He passed into another room, and soon returned, dressed with more care
and more simply. He had covered his bare legs with long gaiters of white
wool like those worn by the Italian mountaineers. But all the buttons,
from ankle to knee, were of fine gold. He had put on the twofold
doublet, the outer one of green velvet embroidered with gold; the inner
one shorter, and less full, and of fashionable cut, was of lilac watered
silk, embroidered with silver. A white leather belt encircled his supple
waist; but, instead of the copper buckle, he wore a superb clasp of
antique coraline, richly mounted. No weapons were visible, but there
could be no question that he was provided with most adequate means of
defence. Finally, he had exchanged his showy cloak for the classic cloak
of black woollen cloth, lined with white, and covered his head with the
pointed hood that gives the aspect of monks or ghosts to all the
mysterious figures that one meets on mountain paths.


[Illustration: _THE CONFERENCE WITH THE
PICCININO._

_"Come" he said, looking himself over in a large
mirror that hung against the wall; "I can appear
before a woman now without frightening her. What
do you think about it, Michelangelo Lavoratori?_"]


"Come," he said, looking himself over in a large mirror that hung
against the wall; "I can appear before a woman now without frightening
her. What do you think about it, Michelangelo Lavoratori?"

And, heedless of the impression that that conceited tone might produce
on the young artist, he set about closing his house with the utmost
care. After which, he gayly passed his arm through Michel's, and started
off so swiftly that the others had difficulty in keeping pace with him.

When they had passed Nicolosi, Fra Angelo, stopping at a place where two
paths converged, took leave of his young friends, to return to his
monastery, advising them not to lose time escorting him thither.

"The leave granted me expires in half an hour," he said. "It may be that
I shall have many other favors to ask within a short time, and I must
not abuse this one. Yonder is the direct road to the Villa Palmarosa
without passing Bel Passo. You do not need me to be introduced to the
princess's presence. She has been notified and she expects you. Here is
a key to the park, Michel, and one to the little garden outside the
Casino. You know the staircase cut in the rock. You must ring twice,
thrice and once at the small gilt gate at the top. Until then avoid
being seen, and make sure that nobody is following you. When the maid
comes to open the gate leading into the private garden, your countersign
will be _Blessed Madonna of Bel Passo_. Do not lose these keys, Michel.
Within a few days all the locks have been changed secretly, and the new
ones are so complicated, that unless he applies to the locksmith who
furnished them, and who is incorruptible, it will be impossible
henceforth for Ninfo to get into the villa by means of false keys. One
word more, my children. If any unforeseen occurrence should make my
presence urgently necessary during the night, the Piccinino knows my
cell and how to get into the convent."

"I should say as much!" said the bandit, when they had left the
Capuchin; "I have indulged in enough escapades at night and returned
just before dawn often enough, to know how to climb the walls of the
convent of Mal Passo. Well, my friend, we no longer have to be careful
of good Brother Angelo's legs; we will run a bit on this slope, and you
will be kind enough not to lag behind, for I am not inclined to follow
beaten paths. It is not my custom, and the way the crow flies is much
safer and more expeditious."

As he spoke he darted in among the rocks which descended abruptly to the
bed of the stream, as if he proposed to jump over. It was a very bright
night, as almost all nights are in that beautiful climate. But the moon,
which was just rising and casting huge shadows across the ravines, made
everything uncertain and deceptive to the eye. If Michel had not kept
close to his guide, he would have been completely at a loss what course
to take among masses of lava and steep cliffs which it seemed impossible
to climb. Although the Piccinino was perfectly familiar with the
practicable spots, there were some so dangerous and difficult that
Michel would have refused to take the risk, except for the fear of being
considered cowardly and awkward. But the rivalry of self-love is a spur
which increases a man's faculties tenfold, and, at the risk of killing
himself twenty times over, the young artist followed the bandit without
stumbling and without uttering a word which betrayed his discomfort and
his distrust.

We say distrust, because he soon felt sure that all this trouble and
contempt of danger did not shorten their road. It might be a malicious
device on the part of the adventurer to test his strength, his agility,
and his courage, or an attempt to elude him. He was almost convinced of
it, when, after half an hour of this wild chase, and after thrice
crossing the same winding stream, they found themselves in the bottom of
a ravine which Michel thought that he recognized as one that he and the
Capuchin had skirted on the higher land on their way to Nicolosi. He did
not choose to make that suggestion; but he involuntarily paused a moment
to look at the stone cross at the foot of which the _Destatore_ had
blown out his brains, and which stood out against the sky on the edge of
the ravine. Then, looking about, he recognized the block of black lava
which Fra Angelo had pointed out to him from a distance, and which
served as a monument to the bandit chief. It was only a few steps away,
and the Piccinino had walked thither and was standing beside the rock,
with folded arms, in the attitude of a man stopping to take breath.

What could have been the Piccinino's idea in making that dangerous and
useless détour in order to pass his father's grave? Could he be
ignorant of the fact that he was buried there? or was he less reluctant
to walk over his remains than to pass the cross which had witnessed his
suicide? Michel dared not question him upon so painful and delicate a
subject; he too, stopped, said nothing, and wondered why he had felt
such a painful thrill when Fra Angelo had told him of the _Destatore's_
tragic end. He knew himself well enough to be sure that he was neither
cowardly nor superstitious, and at that moment he felt perfectly calm
and superior to all vain terrors. He had no other sensation than a sort
of disgust and indignation at the appearance of the young bandit, who
was leaning against the fatal rock and tranquilly striking his flint to
light a fresh cigarette.

"Do you know what this stone is?" demanded the extraordinary young man,
abruptly; "and do you know what happened at the foot of yonder cross
that cuts the moon in two from where we stand?"

"I do know," replied Michel, coldly; "but I hoped for your sake that you
did not know."

"Ah! you are like Padre Angelo, are you?" rejoined the bandit,
carelessly; "you are surprised that, when I pass this spot I don't drop
on my knees and recite an _oremus_ for my father's soul? In order to go
through with that classic ceremony three beliefs are requisite, none of
which I have: first, that there is a God; second, that man has an
immortal soul; third, that my prayers can serve the slightest purpose in
case my father's soul is undergoing merited punishment. You consider me
impious, I presume? I will bet that you are as much so as I am, and that
if it weren't for the respect of other men and a sort of hypocritical
sense of propriety to which everybody, even the man of intellect, feels
bound to submit, you would say that I am perfectly right!"

"I shall never submit to any hypocritical sense of propriety," replied
Michel. "I believe firmly and sincerely in the three things in which you
boast that you do not believe."

"Ah! then you are horrified by my atheism?"

"No, for I choose to believe that it is involuntary, and I have no right
to be scandalized by an error, when my own mind certainly is not open to
the absolute truth in many other respects. I am not a devotee, that I
should blame and condemn those who don't think as I do. But I will tell
you frankly that there is one sort of atheism which appals and disgusts
me: that is atheism of the heart, and I am very much afraid that yours
does not flow from the inclination of your mind alone."

"Good! good! go on!" said the Piccinino, surrounding himself with clouds
of tobacco smoke, with a careless vivacity, perhaps a little forced.
"You think that I have a heart of stone, because I do not shed torrents
of tears to my father's memory over this rock, which I am forced to pass
every day, and on which I have sat a hundred times?"

"I know that you lost him when you were so young that you could not
regret his companionship. I know that you must be accustomed, almost
indifferent, to the gloomy memories connected with this spot. I say
everything to myself to excuse your lack of feeling, but it does not
justify in my eyes the species of bravado with which you place before
me, designedly, I believe, the strange spectacle. I never knew your
father, and had no tie of kinship with him, and yet the fact that my
uncle loved him dearly and that a portion of his life was made
illustrious by patriotic and valorous deeds is enough to inspire me with
profound respect beside his grave, and to make me feel distressed and
offended by your attitude at this moment."

"Master Michel," said the Piccinino, abruptly throwing away his
cigarette and turning upon him with a threatening gesture, "it seems to
me that you are a very strange young man to dare to rebuke me in this
way, considering our position with respect to each other. You forget, I
fancy, that I know your secrets, that I am at liberty to be your friend
or your enemy; in short, that, at this moment, in this solitude, in this
infernal spot where I may not be so entirely cold-blooded as you think,
your life is in my hands!"

"The only thing that I have any reason to fear," rejoined Michel,
calmly, "is that I may play the pedagogue inopportunely. That part is
not suited to my years or my tastes. I will remind you, therefore, that
if you had not incited my comments by a sort of persistence in
questioning me, I should have spared you the infliction. As for your
threats, I will not say that I consider myself able to defend myself as
powerfully and calmly as you would be likely to attack me. I know that,
at a whistle from you, an armed man would start up from behind every
rock in the neighborhood. I trusted to your word, and I did not arm
myself to walk with a man who offered me his hand, saying: 'Let us be
friends.' But if my uncle is mistaken with respect to your loyalty, and
if you have led me into a trap, or--as I should prefer to believe for
your own sake--if the effect of this spot is to disturb your mind and
make you irresponsible, I will none the less tell you what I think, and
I will not stoop to flatter the shortcomings upon which you seem to
plume yourself for my benefit."

As he concluded, Michel opened his cloak to show the bandit that he had
not even a knife upon his person, then sat down, facing him, and looking
him in the eye with the utmost coolness. It was the first time he had
ever been in such a position, for which he had certainly had no time to
prepare himself, and from which he was not at all sure of extricating
himself unharmed; for as the moon, emerging from behind the _Destatore's
Cross_, fell full upon the young bandit's face, Michel was no longer in
doubt as to the ferocity and treachery of his expression. Nevertheless
Pier-Angelo's son, the nephew of the intrepid Capuchin of Bel Passo,
felt that his heart was untouched by fear, and that the first serious
danger which threatened his young life found him proud and undaunted.

The Piccinino, seeing how near he was, and that his own face was so
illuminated by the moon, tried for a moment the terrifying effect of his
tiger-like eyes; but having failed to make Michel lower his, and
detecting no sign of poltroonery in his face or attitude, he suddenly
sat down beside him and took his hand.

"Upon my word," he said, "although I do my utmost to despise you and
hate you, I cannot succeed; I fancy that you have sufficient penetration
to guess that I would rather kill you than save you, as I have
undertaken to do. You are an embarrassment to me in respect to certain
illusions which you can readily imagine: you balk me in certain hopes
which I cherished, and which I am by no means inclined to renounce. But
I am not bound by my word simply, but by a certain sympathetic feeling
for you which I cannot shake off. I should lie if I said that I love
you, and that it is a pleasant occupation to me to defend your life. But
I esteem you, and that is a good deal. I assure you, you did well to
answer me as you did; for now I can confess to you that this place
sometimes brings on fits of madness; and I have formed terrible
resolutions here on many a momentous occasion. You were not safe with me
a moment ago; and I should not care to hear you utter a certain name
again. Let us not stay here any longer, and do you take this stiletto,
which I offered you once before. A Sicilian ought always to be ready to
use it, and to my mind it is utterly insane to go about unarmed in the
position you are in."

"Let us go," said Michel, mechanically taking the proffered dagger. "My
uncle says that time is important, and that they are waiting for us."

"Waiting for _us_?" cried the bandit, leaping to his feet. "Waiting for
you, you mean! Damnation! I wish that yonder cross and this stone might
both sink into the ground! Young man, you may believe that I am an
atheist, and that my heart is hard; but if you think it is of
ice----Here, put your hand to it, and learn that desire and will have
their seat there as well as in the brain!"

He seized Michel's hand roughly, and held it to his breast. It was
heaving with palpitations of such violence that one would have said that
it was on the point of bursting.

But when they had quitted the ravine, and had left the _Destatore's
Cross_ behind them, the Piccinino began to hum, in a voice as sweet and
pure as the breath of the night, a ballad in the Sicilian dialect, of
which the refrain was:

"Wine makes madness, love makes folly; my nectar is the blood of
cowards, my mistress is my rifle."

After this outburst of bravado, addressed to himself as well as to the
ears of any Neapolitan police who might happen to be within hearing, the
Piccinino began to talk with Michel in a remarkably self-possessed and
tranquil strain. He discussed fine arts, literature, external politics,
and the news of the day, with as much freedom, courtesy, and refinement
as if they were in a salon or on a public promenade, and as if neither
of them had any momentous affair on hand, any exciting subject to
engross his thoughts.

Michel soon realized that the Capuchin had in no wise exaggerated his
pupil's varied knowledge and great talents. In the matter of the dead
languages and classical subjects, Michel was quite unable to hold his
own, for he had had neither the means nor the leisure to go to college
before embracing an artistic career. The Piccinino, seeing that he was
familiar only with translations of the texts which he quoted with an
unfailing accuracy of memory, fell back upon history, modern literature,
Italian poetry, novels, and the stage. Although Michel had read very
extensively for one of his years, and although he had, as he himself put
it, polished and sharpened his mind, hastily, by assimilating everything
that came within his reach, he found that the peasant of Nicolosi, in
the intervals between his hazardous expeditions, in the solitude of his
shady garden, had made even better use of his time than he. It was
wonderful to see a man who could not walk in boots, or breathe in a
cravat, who had never been down to Catania ten times in his life, who
lived in retirement on his mountain, and had never seen the world or
come in contact with cultivated minds, but who had acquired by reading,
reasoning, or the divination of a keen intellect, full knowledge of the
modern world in its most trivial details, as he had acquired in the
cloister knowledge of the ancient world. No subject was unfamiliar to
him; he had learned all by himself several living languages, and he
ostentatiously talked with Michel in pure Tuscan, to show him that no
one at Rome could speak or pronounce it more correctly and melodiously.

Michel took so much pleasure in listening and replying to him, that he
forgot for a moment the distrust which so complicated a mind and a
character so difficult to define naturally inspired in him. He made the
rest of the journey almost unconsciously, for they were then following
a smooth and safe road; and when they arrived at the park of Palmarosa,
he started with surprise at the thought of finding himself so soon in
Princess Agatha's presence.

Thereupon all that had happened to him during and after the ball passed
through his memory like a series of strange dreams. A delicious emotion
stole over him, and he no longer felt very indignant or very much
horrified at the pretensions of his companion, as he reflected upon
those which he himself cherished.




XXVI

AGATHA


Michel himself opened the little gate at which the path which they had
followed came to an end, and, having crossed the park diagonally, stood
at the foot of the staircase cut in the steep rock. The reader will not
have forgotten that the Palmarosa palace was built against a precipitous
slope, and formed three distinct buildings, which ascended the mountain
backward, so to speak; that the topmost floor, called the Casino, being
more isolated and cooler than the others, was occupied, according to the
invariable custom of the country, by the most distinguished person in
the family; that is to say, the mistress's apartments were on a level
with the summit of the cliff, which was transformed into a garden, of
small extent but most charming, at a great height, and on the opposite
side from the main façade of the lower floors. There the princess lived
in retirement, as in a luxurious hermitage, having no need to descend
the staircase of her palace, or to be seen by her servants, when she
chose to take a walk in the fresh air.

Michel had previously seen this sanctuary, but very hurriedly, as we
know; and when he was sitting there with Magnani during the ball, he was
so excited and talking so earnestly that he had not observed its
arrangement and its surroundings.

When he came out upon that terrace with the Piccinino, after scaling the
cliff, he obtained a better idea of its location, and observed that it
was so disposed that it was in fact a little fortress. The staircase cut
in the rock was much better adapted for a means of exit than of
entrance; it was so crowded between two walls of lava, and so steep,
that a woman's hand could easily have hurled back an insolent or
dangerous visitor. Moreover, there was on the last stair, with nothing
in the way of a landing between, a small gilt gate, unusually high and
narrow, hung between two slender marble columns as smooth as the masts
of a ship. On the outer side of both these columns was the sheer
precipice, with nothing to grasp except heavy iron scroll-work in the
style of the seventeenth century, fashioned to represent fantastic
dragons, bristling with spikes in every direction; a decoration that
served a double purpose, and was very difficult to surmount when one had
no purchase and a precipice under his feet.

This fortification, if we may so describe it, was not without its
utility in a region where brigands from the mountain carried on their
operations in the valleys and the plain, even to the very gates of the
cities. Michel observed the defences with the satisfaction of a jealous
lover, but the Piccinino glanced at them with an air of contempt, and
even went so far as to say, while they were ascending the staircase,
that it was a sugar-plum citadel, which would be very effective at a
dessert.

Michel rang the prescribed number of times, and the gate was immediately
opened. A veiled woman stood there, impatiently awaiting them. In the
darkness, she seized Michel's hand as he entered the garden, and the
young artist, recognizing the Princess Agatha by that gentle pressure,
trembled and lost his head, so that the Piccinino, who did not lose his,
quietly removed the key which Michel had placed in the lock as he rang
the bell. The bandit placed it in his belt after closing the gate, and
when Michel remembered his oversight, it was too late to repair it. They
had all three entered the princess's boudoir, and that was not the
moment to seek a quarrel with a man so entirely free from timidity as
the _Destatore's_ son.

Agatha had been warned and as fully advised as possible of the character
and habits of the man with whom it was necessary for her to enter into
relations; she was too much of a Sicilian to have any serious prejudices
against the profession of bandit, and she was determined to make the
greatest pecuniary sacrifices in order to make certain of the
Piccinino's services. Nevertheless, she felt, at sight of him, a painful
emotion which she had difficulty in concealing from him; and when he
kissed her hand, gazing at her with his bold and mocking eyes, she was
conscious of a painful feeling of discomfort, and her face changed
perceptibly, although she was able to maintain an affable and courteous
demeanor.

She knew that her first care must be to flatter the adventurer's secret
vanity, by showing him much consideration and calling him _captain_ to
his heart's content. So she did not fail to bestow that title upon him
as she invited him to sit at her right hand, while there was a more
familiar kindliness in her manner of waving Michel to a chair partly
behind her, near the back of her couch. Then, leaning toward him without
looking at him, and resting her elbow close to his shoulder, as if to be
prepared to call his attention by a movement apparently accidental, she
attempted to enter upon the business before them.

But the Piccinino, noticing this manœuvre, and apparently considering
that he was too far away from her, left his chair and unceremoniously
seated himself beside her, on the sofa.

At that moment the Marquis della Serra, who had probably been waiting in
an adjoining room for the conversation to begin, entered noiselessly,
saluted the bandit with silent courtesy, and sat down near Michel, after
shaking hands with him. Michel felt reassured by the presence of the man
whom he could not help looking upon as his rival. He had already begun
to wonder if he should not soon be tempted to throw the Piccinino out of
the window; and as such an exploit might well have some serious result,
he hoped that the bandit would be so far restrained by the marquis's
grave face and dignified bearing, that he would not dare to overstep the
limits of propriety.

The Piccinino knew that he ran no risk of being betrayed by the Marquis
della Serra; indeed it pleased him to see that great nobleman offer him
pledges of the alliance about to be made with him, to which the marquis
must necessarily become a party.

"So the Marquis della Serra, too, is my friend and my accomplice?" he
said to Agatha, in a reproachful tone.

"Signor Carmelo," replied the marquis, "you doubtless know that I was a
near kinsman of the Prince of Castro-Reale, and that, consequently, I am
your near kinsman. I was very young when the _Destatore's_ true name was
discovered by the police of Catania, and perhaps you are aware that I
rendered the outlaw some important services at that time."

"I am familiar with my father's story," replied the young bandit, "and
it is enough for me to know that the Marquis della Serra has transferred
to me the good-will with which he honored him."

Gratified in his vanity, resolved not to play a ridiculous rôle, and
equally resolved to make everybody's will bend beneath his own, the
Piccinino desired to carry out his purpose with spirit and good taste.
So he speedily assumed a graceful and dignified attitude on the sofa,
and imparted to his insolent and lustful glance an expression of
benignant and almost respectful interest.

The princess broke the ice, and set forth the business in hand
concisely, in almost the same words that Fra Angelo had used to induce
the young wolf to leave his den. The Piccinino listened to her
exposition, and his face did not betray the profound incredulity that
lay behind his apparent attention.

But when the princess had finished, he coolly renewed his question as to
the will, and declared that, in case it had already been abstracted, the
kidnapping of Abbé Ninfo would seem to him a very tardy precaution, and
his own intervention a source of useless trouble and _expense_.

Princess Agatha had not been horribly unhappy to no purpose. She had
learned to detect the wiles of concealed passions, and her skill in that
respect was not derived from her simple and straightforward mind, but
acquired at her own expense in her relations with natures directly
contrary to her own. So she very soon concluded that the _captain's_
scruples were feigned, and that he had some secret motive which it was
most essential to discover.

"Signor captain," she said, "if you have formed that opinion of my
position, we must stop here, for I have asked to see you much more for
the purpose of obtaining your advice than of telling you my ideas.
However, be good enough to listen to some details which it was not in
Fra Angelo's power to give you.

"My uncle the cardinal has made a will in which he constitutes me his
sole heir; and it was only about ten days ago that, on his way from
Catania to his villa of Ficarazzi, where he now is, he made a détour in
order to pay me a visit which I did not expect. I found my uncle in the
same physical condition as when I saw him a little while before, at
Catania; that is to say, helpless, deaf, and unable to speak distinctly
enough to make himself understood without the assistance of Abbé Ninfo,
who knows or guesses his desires with rare sagacity--unless he
interprets or translates them to suit himself with unmeasured insolence!
However, on that occasion, Abbé Ninfo seemed to me to follow my uncle's
wishes in every respect; for the object of that visit was to show me the
will, and to inform me that the cardinal's affairs were in perfect
order."

"Who showed you the will, signora?" said the Piccinino; "for his
eminence cannot move his arm or his hand at all, can he?"

"Patience, captain, I will not omit any detail. Doctor Recuperati, the
cardinal's physician, had charge of the will, and I understood clearly
enough, from my uncle's glances and his excitement, that he did not wish
that document to leave his hands. Two or three times Abbé Ninfo came
forward to take it, on the pretext of handing it to me, and my uncle
glared at him with his terrible eyes and roared like a dying lion. The
doctor replaced the will in his portfolio and said to me: 'I beg that
your ladyship will not share his eminence's anxiety. However great the
esteem and confidence inspired by Abbé Ninfo, this paper having been
entrusted to my keeping, no other person than myself--not even the Pope
or the king--shall touch a document of so much importance to you.'
Doctor Recuperati is an honorable, incorruptible man, and as firm as a
rock in emergencies."

"True, signora," said the bandit, "but he is stupid, and Abbé Ninfo is
not."

"I am well aware that Abbé Ninfo is audacious enough to invent some
sort of a fable and lead the excellent doctor into a commonplace trap.
That is why I have requested you, captain, to remove that hateful
schemer from the scene for a time."

"I will do it, if it is not too late; for I should not care to risk my
bones for nothing, and especially to endanger my reputation for talent,
for which I care more than for my life. Once more, signora, do you think
that it is not too late to resort to this expedient?"

"If it is too late, captain, it has been so not more than two hours,"
replied Agatha, observing him closely; "for, two hours ago, I paid a
visit to my uncle, and the doctor, at a sign from him, showed me the
paper once more, in Abbé Ninfo's presence."

"And it was the same?"

"Absolutely the same."

"There was no codicil in Ninfo's favor?"

"Not a word had been changed or added. The priest himself, who blandly
pretends to be interested in my behalf, and whose every sidelong glance
seems to say to me: 'You will have to pay me for my zeal,' insisted on
my re-reading the paper carefully."

"And you did it?"

"I did it."

The Piccinino, in view of the princess's self-possession and
tranquillity, began to form a more exalted idea of her merit; for
hitherto he had seen in her nothing more than a seductive and charming
woman.

"I am very well satisfied with these explanations," he said; "but,
before taking any steps, I must know something more. Are you quite sure,
signora, that within the last two hours Abbé Ninfo has not taken Doctor
Recuperati by the throat and extorted that paper from him?"

"How can I know, captain? You alone can tell me, when you have consented
to begin your secret investigation. However, the doctor is a strong and
brave man, and his simplicity would not go so far as to allow himself to
be robbed by a weak, chicken-hearted creature like Abbé Ninfo."

"But what would prevent Ninfo, who is a scoundrel of the first order,
and has relations with all the greatest villains in the country, from
hiring a _bravo_, who, for an _honorable_ reward, may have lain in wait
for the doctor and murdered him--or who is all ready to do it at this
moment?"

The tone in which the Piccinino presented this suggestion caused the
three persons who were listening to him a painful shock.

"Poor doctor!" cried the princess, turning pale; "can it be that such a
crime has been planned or executed? In heaven's name, explain yourself,
signor captain!"

"Never fear, signora, that crime has not been committed; but it might
have been, for it was determined upon."

"In that case, signor," said the princess, seizing both the bandit's
hands with a gesture of entreaty, "pray go at once. Save the life of an
honorable man, and make sure of the person of a vile knave, capable of
any crime."

"And suppose the will falls into my hands during the battle?" said the
bandit, rising but not releasing the princess's hands, which he had
seized in a firm grasp as soon as they touched his.

"The will, signor captain?" she replied, energetically. "Of what moment
is half of my fortune, when it is a question of saving victims from the
assassin's dagger? I care not what happens to the will. Seize the
monster who covets it. Ah! if I thought that I could satisfy his
resentment by giving it up to him, he might long ago have looked upon
himself as its undisturbed possessor!"

"But suppose that I become its possessor?" said the adventurer,
fastening his lynx eyes on Agatha's; "that would not suit Ninfo, who
knows very well that his eminence is in no condition to make or even to
dictate another. But would you, signora, who have been imprudent enough
to tell me what I did not know, who have informed me to what a
ridiculous custodian a document of so great importance has been
entrusted--would you be perfectly at ease?"

The princess had understood for a long time that the bandit would do
nothing unless he could see a possibility of obtaining possession of the
will to his own advantage. She had powerful reasons for being ready to
sacrifice it to him, and to hand over an enormous sum to him without
regret, when he should come to bargain with her for the restitution of
her proof of inheritance; for everybody knew, and the bandit, who seemed
to have studied the affair so carefully beforehand, probably was not
ignorant of the fact, that there was an earlier will in the hands of a
notary, which disinherited Agatha in favor of a distant relation. In a
paroxysm of hatred and resentment against his niece, the cardinal had
made that first will, and had made no secret of the fact. To be sure,
when he became so ill, and received from her marks of sincere respect
and affection, he had made different arrangements. But he had left the
previous will in existence, in case it should be his pleasure to destroy
the new one. When the wicked have a good impulse, they always leave a
door open for the return of their evil genius.

Agatha had already made up her mind with respect to the Piccinino's
ambitions; but by the way in which he allowed them to appear, she
understood that there was a large admixture of vanity in his avarice,
and she had the fortunate inspiration to gratify both of the bandit's
passions at the same time.

"Signor de Castro-Reale," she said, making an effort to pronounce a name
that she abhorred, and to confer it upon him as a title rightfully
belonging to the _Destatore's_ natural child, "the will would be so safe
in your hands, that I should be glad if I could place it there myself."

Agatha had conquered. The bandit's head was completely turned, and
another passion, which was contending with greed in his heart, gained
the upper hand in a twinkling. He put both of the signora's trembling
hands to his lips and bestowed upon them a kiss so long and so
passionate that Michel and the marquis himself shuddered. Another hope
than that of wealth took possession of the Piccinino's brain. A violent
passion had sprung to life within him on the night of the ball, when he
saw her admired and coveted by so many men whom she did not even deign
to notice, himself included; for she believed that she had never seen
him before this interview, although he hoped that she was simply
pretending not to recognize his face.

He had been incited especially by the apparent hopelessness of such a
conquest. Although somewhat disdainful and apparently chaste with the
women of his own station, the Piccinino had the appetites of a wild
beast; but vanity filled so large a place in all his instincts that he
rarely had an opportunity to satisfy them. This time the opportunity was
still uncertain, but the prospect was most intoxicating to his
enterprising, obstinate nature, fruitful in expedients, and enamored of
difficult exploits, reputed to be impossible.

"Well, signora," he cried at last, in a chivalrous tone, "your
confidence in me proceeds from a noble heart, and I will not fail to
justify it. Have no fear for Doctor Recuperati: he is in no danger
whatsoever. It is quite true that Abbé Ninfo made a bargain this very
day with a certain man, who promised to murder him; but, not only does
the abbé propose to wait until the cardinal is on his death-bed, which
is not the case as yet, but the dagger which is to strike your friend
will not leave its sheath without my permission. There is no reason for
such great haste, therefore, and I can safely return to my mountain for
a few days. Ninfo is to come in person to advise us of the favorable
moment to bury the knife in the good doctor's ample waistcoat, and, when
that moment comes, instead of performing that agreeable duty, we will
seize the abbé's person, begging him to enjoy the mountain air with us
until it shall please your ladyship to restore his liberty."

The princess, who had been perfectly self-possessed thus far, became
perturbed and replied in a quivering voice:

"I thought, captain, that you knew of another circumstance which makes
us all very impatient to know that Abbé Ninfo is on the mountain.
Doctor Recuperati is not the only one of my friends who is in danger,
and I instructed Fra Angelo to tell you our other reasons for desiring
to be rid of his presence forthwith."

The catlike Piccinino had not finished playing with the victim he
coveted. He pretended not to understand or not to remember that Michel
and his father were principally interested in the abbé's abduction.

"I think," he said, "that your highness exaggerates the dangers of
Ninfo's presence about the cardinal. You must be aware that his eminence
has the most profound contempt for that underling; that he can hardly
endure his presence, although he realizes the advantage of having so
zealous and quick-witted an interpreter; in short, that the cardinal,
while he may need his services, will never allow him to meddle with his
affairs. Your highness knows that there is a small legacy for the poor
abbé in the will, and I fancy that you will not stoop to contest the
payment of it."

"No, surely not!" replied the princess, surprised to find that the
bandit was so familiar with the contents of the will; "but it is not the
paltry fear that the abbé may obtain more or less money from the
cardinal that I have in my mind at this moment, I assure you. I have
already told you, captain, and Fra Angelo also must have told you, that
his brother and nephew are in great danger so long as Abbé Ninfo is in
a position to injure them with my uncle, the cardinal, and the
Neapolitan police."

"Ah!" said the crafty Piccinino, putting his hand to his forehead, "I
had forgotten that, and yet it is a matter of importance to you,
princess, I agree. Indeed I have several things to tell you in that
connection which you do not know. But it is a very delicate subject," he
said, feigning hesitation, "and it would be difficult for me to explain
myself in the presence of the two gentlemen who honor me with their
attention."

"You can say anything before the Marquis della Serra and Michelangelo
Lavoratori," said the princess, somewhat alarmed.

"No, signora, I know my duty too well to do so, and my respect for you
is too great to allow me to forget the proprieties to that point. If
your highness is disposed to listen to me without witnesses, I will
inform you of what has been planned and determined upon. If not," he
added, pretending to be preparing to go, "I will go and wait at Nicolosi
until you deign to advise me of the day and hour when it will be
agreeable to you to listen to me."

"At once, signor, at once," rejoined the princess hastily. "I am more
interested and more alarmed because the lives of my friends are
endangered for my sake than by any question of money. Come," she added,
rising, and resolutely placing her arm in the bandit's, "we will talk in
my flower-garden, and these gentlemen will await us here. Stay, stay, my
friends," she said to the marquis and Michel, who would have retired,
although the idea of that tête-à-tête caused them both an indefinable
dread; "I really need a breath of fresh air, and Signor de Castro-Reale
is kind enough to offer me his arm."

Michel and the marquis, as soon as they were alone, looked at each other
as if they had had the same thought, and, hastening each to a window,
stood where they would not lose sight of the princess for an instant,
although they could not overhear a conversation from which she herself
seemed content to exclude them.




XXVII

DIPLOMACY


"How did it happen, dear princess," said the bandit, in a careless tone,
as soon as he and Agatha were in the garden, arm-in-arm, "that you were
imprudent enough to try to make me speak of Michel in presence of a
cicisbeo so valuable to you as the Marquis della Serra? Your highness
forgets one thing: that if I know the secrets of Villa Ficarazzi, I
probably know those of Villa Palmarosa as well, since Abbé Ninfo
maintains an equally assiduous surveillance over both houses."

"So Abbé Ninfo has seen you first, eh, captain?" rejoined the princess,
trying to assume an equally unembarrassed tone; "and he took you into
his confidence in order to obtain your services in his interest?"

Agatha knew very well what to think in that respect. Certainly, if she
had not discovered that the abbé had already sought the Piccinino's
assistance in abducting, or perhaps murdering Michel, she would not have
thought it necessary to resort to him in order to procure the abduction
of the abbé. But she was careful not to allow her real motive to be
discovered. She desired that the bandit's self-love should be flattered
by what he might consider an instinctive impulse on her part.

"From whatever source I derive my information," he replied, with a
smile, "I leave it to you to judge of its accuracy. The last time that
the cardinal came to visit your highness, there was a young man at the
gate of your park whose distinguished features and bearing were in
striking contrast with his costume, which was covered with dust and worn
by a long journey. What caprice induced the cardinal to examine that
young man and to insist upon questioning him? that is something which
Ninfo himself does not know and has commissioned me to find out, if
possible. One thing is certain: that the mania, which has beset the
cardinal for a long time, of inquiring the name and age of all the young
men of the lower classes whose faces attract his attention, has survived
the loss of activity and memory. It is as if he still retained a sort of
vague distrust, a relic of his exalted police functions; and his
imperative glance commands Abbé Ninfo to ask questions and report to
him. It is true that when the abbé showed him the written result of his
investigation, he seemed to take no interest in it; in like manner,
whenever the abbé annoys him with his impertinent requests or
insinuating questions, his eminence, after reading the first words,
closes his eyes angrily, to show that he doesn't wish to be fatigued any
more. Perhaps your highness did not know these details, which Doctor
Recuperati knows nothing of; for, during the few hours' sleep which the
excellent doctor is permitted to enjoy, the watchfulness of the devoted
servants with whom Your Highness has surrounded the cardinal does not
avail to prevent Ninfo from entering his room, waking him without
ceremony, and placing before him certain written sentences from which he
hopes for favorable results. When the cardinal is awakened in this way,
his pain and his anger make his mind momentarily more lucid than usual;
he reads, seems to understand, and tries to utter words of which an
occasional syllable is intelligible to his persecutor; but almost
immediately he collapses again, and the feeble flame of his life is so
much nearer extinction."

"So that villain has ceased to be a mere flatterer and spy, to become my
unfortunate uncle's torturer and assassin?" cried the princess,
indignantly. "You must see, signor captain, that he must be delivered
from him at once, and that I need no other motive for desiring that he
be taken out of our way."

"Pardon me, signora," rejoined the bandit, obstinately. "If I had not
informed you of these things, you would still have personal motives of
even greater weight, which you do not choose to tell me, but which I
have learned from Ninfo. I never enter into an affair without making
myself thoroughly acquainted with it; and it sometimes falls to my lot,
as you see, to question both parties. Permit me to continue my
disclosures, therefore, and I trust that they will lead to disclosures
on your part.

"Abbé Ninfo did not examine very closely or ask many questions of the
individual at your highness's park gate. After a moment, seeing that the
cardinal continued somewhat agitated by the encounter, as if the young
man's face had aroused memories which he could not arrange and
place,--for his eminence often wears himself out, it seems, in such
painful mental toil,--the abbé retraced his steps and examined the
young man more carefully. The young man evidently had some reason for
being on his guard, for he deceived the abbé, who really took him for a
poor devil, and even gave him alms. But two days later, the abbé,
having, for the purpose of spying, disguised himself as a workman
employed in the preparations for your ball, soon discovered that his
poor devil was a brilliant artist, very much petted and favored by your
highness, and by no means in a position to accept alms at the gate of a
palace, since he is the son of a well-to-do artisan, Pier-Angelo
Lavoratori.

"On the night succeeding this discovery, the abbé did not fail to place
before Monsignor Hieronymo a sheet of paper containing this information
in large letters. But by dint of trying to tighten the last remaining
chords of the instrument, the abbé broke them. The cardinal did not
understand. The names of Pier-Angelo and Michelangelo Lavoratori
conveyed no meaning to him. He muttered a violent oath because Ninfo
disturbed his slumber. And so," added the Piccinino, with malicious
significance, "the fears which your highness entertains, or pretends to
entertain, with respect to Pier-Angelo are entirely without foundation.
Although the cardinal long ago prosecuted that excellent man as a
conspirator, he has so completely forgotten him that even Ninfo has no
hope of reviving the memory of an affair of which he himself knows
nothing, and your protégé is in no danger from any denunciation by
him, at present."

"I breathe again," said the princess, allowing the bandit to take her
hand in his, and even responding to his pressure, with generous
confidence. "Your words do me good, captain, and I bless you for having
confidence enough in me to reveal the truth to me. That was my whole
fear; but, since the cardinal remembers nothing and the abbé knows
nothing, I trust to your sagacity for the rest. Look you, captain, it
seems to me this is what we have to do. Do you find in your fertile
genius some method of obtaining possession of the will, and see that the
abbé is informed of it, so that there will be no further occasion for
him to persecute the worthy doctor; then keep the abbé's attention
diverted so that he will allow my unfortunate uncle to die in peace.
That will conclude by diplomatic methods an affair in which I have
feared that blood might be shed over paltry questions of money."

"Your excellency goes very fast!" rejoined the Piccinino. "The abbé
cannot be put to sleep so easily with regard to another subject, which
it is impossible for me, despite my respect, my awe and my
embarrassment, to pass over in silence."

"Speak, speak!" said Agatha, hastily.

"Very well, since your highness authorizes me to do so, and does not
choose to understand a hint, I will tell you that Abbé Ninfo, while in
quest of political intrigues which he has not succeeded in discovering,
has put his hand upon a love affair which he has turned to his
advantage."

"I do not understand," said the princess, with an air of sincerity that
startled the adventurer.

"Can Ninfo have been gulling me," he thought, "or is this woman strong
enough to hold her own against me? We will see."

"Signora," he said, in a honeyed tone, holding Agatha's hand against his
breast, "you will detest me, I suppose. However, I must serve you
against your will by telling you what I know. The abbé discovered that
Michelangelo was admitted every day at certain hours to the private
apartment in your Casino; that he did not eat with your servants or with
the other workmen, but with you, in secret; in a word, that, when he
took his siesta, he rested from his artistic labors in the arms of the
loveliest and most lovable of women."

"It is false!" cried the princess; "it is an abominable falsehood. I
treated that young man with the distinction which I considered that I
owed to his talent and his ideas. He ate with his father in a room next
to mine, and took his siesta in my picture gallery. Abbé Ninfo did not
watch very closely, or he might have told you that Michel, being utterly
tired out, passed two or three nights under my roof."

"He told me that, too," replied the Piccinino, who always chose to seem
to know beforehand what anyone told him.

"Very well, Signor de Castro-Reale," said Agatha, in a firm voice,
looking him full in the face, "there is no doubt about the fact; but I
can swear upon my mother's soul and your mother's that that young man
never saw me until the day of the ball, when his father first introduced
him to me, in presence of two hundred mechanics. I talked to him during
the ball, on the main staircase, and the Marquis della Serra, who was
escorting me, complimented him, as I did myself, upon his paintings.
From that moment down to this very evening Michel had never seen me; ask
himself! You are not a man whom one can deceive, captain; use your
perspicacity, and I will trust it."

The Piccinino quivered with pleasure at this concise declaration, made
with the assurance which truth alone can give, and he pressed Agatha's
hand against his breast with such force that she detected his sentiments
at last. She had a moment of terror, augmented by a ghastly
reminiscence. But she realized, in a flash, the full extent of the
dangers to which Michel had been exposed, and, postponing the matter of
her own safety to a more favorable season, she determined to deal
tenderly with Carmelo Tomabene's pride.

"What motive could Abbé Ninfo have had in telling us that extraordinary
story?" he exclaimed.

Agatha fancied that she could understand that the abbé had detected the
violent passion for herself by which she saw at last that the bandit was
possessed, and that he had endeavored to incite him to vengeance by his
tale of intrigue. "If that is so," she thought, "I will use the same
weapons, vile Ninfo, since you have been kind enough to furnish me with
them."

"Listen, captain," she said; "you who know men so well and read so
readily the innermost folds of the conscience, must have discovered
that, in addition to all his manifest vices, the abbé is an insatiable
libertine? Do you suppose that he has confined himself to coveting my
inheritance? did he not let you see that it was not for money alone that
he would try to sell me a part of it if he should succeed in obtaining
possession of it?"

"Yes!" cried the Piccinino, this time with the utmost sincerity; "I
thought that I could detect revolting desires and hopes on the part of
that monster of ugliness and lust. His affected incredulity concerning
the possibility of resistance by a woman, in such cases, is simply an
attempt to console himself when he thinks of his own physical and moral
ugliness. Yes, yes, I suspected it in spite of his hypocrisy. I will not
say that he loves you; that would be a profanation of the word love; but
he desires you, and he is jealous. Jealous, do I say! Ah! that word
again is too respectable! Jealousy is the passion of young hearts, and
his is decrepit. He suspects and detests everybody about you. In fact,
he has devised an infernal method of conquering you: judging rightly
that the desire to ransom your inheritance would not suffice, and
supposing that you loved this young artist, he has determined to use him
as a hostage and to compel you to purchase at his own price the life and
liberty of Michelangelo."

"I ought to have expected that," replied the princess, affecting an air
of contemptuous tranquillity, although her whole body was bathed in cold
perspiration. "And so he selected you, captain, as his associate in an
undertaking worthy of those men who devote themselves to the most
hideous of all trades, the mere name of which is so degrading that no
true woman could bear to speak it in any tongue! It seems to me that
that mark of confidence on the part of the excellent Abbé Ninfo merits
a somewhat severe punishment at your hands!"

Agatha had touched the right chord. The abbé's execrable projects,
which had previously moved the young bandit to nothing more than
satirical contempt, appeared to him now in the light of a personal
insult and kindled the thirst for vengeance in him. So true is it that
love, even in a wild, unbridled heart, arouses the sentiment of manly
dignity.

"Severe punishment!" he said, in a deep voice, with clenched teeth; "he
shall have it!--But," he added, "have no further anxiety about anything,
signora; deign to place your fate in my hands unreservedly."

"My fate is already in your hands, captain," replied Agatha; "my
fortune, my reputation, and the lives of my friends: think you that I
have an anxious air?"

And she looked him through and through with a profound gaze, wherein she
was so happily inspired by the superior sagacity of the courageous
woman, that the Piccinino felt its influence and found that respect and
awe were mingled with his passion.--"Ah! you romantic woman," he
thought, "you have not outgrown the belief that a bandit chief must be a
stage hero or a chevalier of the Middle Ages! And here am I compelled to
play that part for your pleasure! Very well, I will play it. Nothing is
difficult to him who has read much and reasoned much.--Indeed, why
should I not be a hero in good earnest?" he said to himself, as he
walked silently beside that trembling woman whom he believed to be so
trustful and confiding, pressing her arm to his side with his own
trembling arm. "If I have not deigned to be one hitherto, it is simply
because the opportunity has never offered, and my essays at grandeur
would have been absurd. With such a woman as this, the game is well
worth the candle, and I cannot believe that it is difficult to be
sublime when the reward is destined to be so sweet. It is an undertaking
founded upon a selfish motive more elevated, but no less substantial or
less logical than others."

Before assuming definitively the attitude of the princess's true knight,
he determined to do away with a lingering remnant of distrust, and he
was almost ingenuous in seeking to cure himself of it.

"The only weakness of which I am conscious," he said, "is the dread of
playing a ridiculous rôle. Ninfo wished me to play an infamous one, he
shall be punished for it; but if your highness really loves that young
man--why, that young man also will have reason to regret having deceived
me!"

"How am I to understand you?" rejoined Agatha, leading him into the ray
of light which the chandelier in her boudoir cast into the garden; "I do
really love Michelangelo, Pier-Angelo, and Fra Angelo, as devoted
friends and estimable men. To rescue them from the enmity of a villain I
would give all the money that anyone might ask. But look at me, captain,
and look at that young man musing yonder behind that window. Do you
consider that there can possibly exist a bond based upon impure passion
between two persons of our respective ages and conditions? You do not
know my character. Nobody has ever understood it. Will you be the first
one to do it justice? I wish it might be so, for I care very much for
your esteem, and I should think that I was wholly undeserving of it if I
entertained for that child sentiments which I feared to allow you to
detect."

As she spoke, Agatha, who had dropped the bandit's arm, took it again to
return to the boudoir; and he was so grateful to her for that mark of
trustful friendship, of which she desired Michel and the marquis to be
witnesses, that he felt intoxicated and, as it were, beside himself with
joy.




XXVIII

JEALOUSY


Neither the marquis nor Michel had heard a word of the conversation we
have reported. But the first was tranquil in his mind, the other was
not. The marquis, having assured himself that the princess was calm, had
no fear that she incurred any immediate danger with the brigand; whereas
Michel, not being familiar with her character, suffered keenly at the
bare thought that the Piccinino might, in his speech, have gone beyond
the bounds of respect. His suffering was intensified when he saw the
Piccinino's face as he returned to the boudoir.

That face, ordinarily so indifferent and composed, was, as it were,
illuminated by confidence and joy. The little man seemed to have grown a
cubit taller, and his black eyes flashed flames which one would not have
believed could be kindled in a head so cool and calculating.

No sooner had the princess, who was somewhat fatigued from having walked
a long while in a small space, seated herself on the couch, to which he
escorted her with the most dignified courtesy, than he fell, rather than
sat down upon a chair, on the other side of the small boudoir, but with
his face turned toward her as if he had stationed himself there to gaze
at her in the glare of the chandelier. In truth, the Piccinino, after
having enjoyed in the garden the sweetness of her voice, the flattering
significance of her words, and the softness of her hand, desired, in
order to put the finishing touch to the sensuous delight which he had
felt for the first time in his life, to gaze at her at his leisure,
without the labor of speech or of thought. He fell into a silent
meditation, more eloquent than Michel could have desired. He feasted his
bold eyes with the sight of that exquisite and fascinating woman, whom
it seemed to him that he already possessed, as with a treasure which he
had stolen, and which he took pleasure in gloating over, as it lay
gleaming before him.

The young painter's distress was intensified by the fact that, under the
mysterious influence of that all-pervading passion, which but just born
was already spreading with the rapidity of a conflagration, the bandit
acquired a strange power of fascination. His exquisite beauty shone
forth like a star emerging from the vapors on the horizon. All that was
unusual in the outlines of his features and disquieting in their veiled
expression gave way to a subtle charm, an overpowering effusiveness,
albeit silent, and, as it were, overwhelmed by its own ardor. He was
lying back in his chair, but no longer affected indifference or
absent-mindedness. His hanging arms, his bent back, his eyes, glistening
and fascinated, and fixed intently on the princess, indicated that he
was shattered, as it were, by the explosion of a force unknown to
himself, and drowned in the anticipated joys of his triumph. Michel was
afraid of him for the first time. He would still have defied him
fearlessly in the ill-omened solitude of the _Destatore's Cross_; but in
that room, radiant with a strange ecstasy, he seemed too overpowering
for any woman to escape the fascination of that basilisk glance.

However, Agatha did not seem to notice it, and whenever he turned his
eyes from the bandit to her, he found her apparently calm and
undisturbed, having no thought either of attacking or of defending
herself.

"My friends," she said, after pausing a moment to take breath, "we can
say good-night and separate with our minds at rest. I place my full
confidence in this new friend whom Providence, acting through the wisdom
of Fra Angelo, has sent to us. You will share my confidence when I tell
you that he knew beforehand, and knew far better than ourselves, what we
had to fear and to hope."

"It is a decidedly interesting affair, it is true," said the Piccinino,
making an effort to emerge from his dreaming; "and it is time that this
young man should know why I roared with laughter when he came to see me.
You will laugh too, I hope, Master Michelangelo, when you learn that you
came and entrusted your fate to a man who had been strenuously urged, an
hour earlier, to do you a bad turn; and if I were not calm and prudent
in such affairs, if I believed blindly the words of those who came to
consult me, while you were urging me in her highness's behalf to kidnap
Abbé Ninfo, I should have seized you and thrown you into my cellar,
securely bound and gagged, at the request of Abbé Ninfo. I see by your
manner that you would have resisted vigorously. Oh! I know that you are
brave, and I fancy that you are stronger than I. You have an uncle who
has kept his muscles in play so persistently for twenty years past,
breaking stone, that he cannot have lost any of the strength which
caused him to be called _Iron Arm_ when he plied another trade on the
mountain; but, when one is engaged in a matter of great political
moment, one takes precautions, and I had but to touch a little bell to
have my house surrounded by determined men, who would not have afforded
you even the pleasure of resistance."

Having spoken thus, his eyes fixed upon Michel with a playful
expression, the Piccinino turned again to the princess. She had
concealed her pallor behind her fan, and when the brigand met her eyes,
they were armed with a tranquil expression which dispelled the last
traces of his ironical humor. The secret pleasure which it always
afforded him to frighten those who ventured into his presence
disappeared before that womanly glance, which seemed to say to him: "You
shall not do it, I forbid you."

So that he at once assumed an expression of hearty good-will, and said
to Michel:

"You see, my young friend, that I had my reasons for insisting upon an
explanation of the affair, and for not being in too much of a hurry. Now
that I am convinced that honor and truth are on one side, infamy and
falsehood on the other, my choice is made, and you can sleep with both
eyes shut. I propose to go with you to Catania," he added, addressing
Michel in an undertone, "where I must arrange the worthy abbé's
departure for to-morrow. But I absolutely require two hours' rest. Can
you promise me a corner in your house where I can sleep soundly for two
hours without danger of being seen? For my features are hardly known in
the city, and I do not wish them to become known there until it is
necessary. Tell me, can I enter your house without fear of inquisitive
eyes, especially women's eyes?"

"I have a young sister who is moderately inquisitive," replied Michel
smiling; "but she will be in bed at this time of night. Trust me, as I
trusted you; I will give you my own bed, and sit up in the room if you
wish."

"I accept," said the bandit, who, while talking with Michel, was trying
to overhear the words, unimportant in themselves, which the princess was
exchanging with the marquis, in order not to embarrass the conversation
between the two young men. Michel observed that, notwithstanding the
Piccinino's assertion that he could not do two things at once, he did
not lose a gesture, a word, or a movement of Agatha's, while he was
talking with him.

When he was assured of the two hours' absolute rest which was, he said,
indispensable to put him in a condition to act intelligently, the
Piccinino rose and prepared to retire. But the coquettish moderation
with which he arranged his cloak about his flexible figure, the languid
grace of his preoccupied air during that momentous operation, and the
imperceptible quivering of his silky black moustache, showed plainly
enough that he went away with regret, and after the manner of a man who
is striving to dispel the mists of drunkenness in order to return to
work.

"You do not wish to be seen?" said Agatha; "then step into the marquis's
carriage with Michel. He will drive you to the outskirts of the city,
and you can slip through the narrow streets."

"Many thanks, signora!" replied the bandit. "I have no desire to take
your servants and the signor marquis's into my confidence. To-morrow
morning Abbé Ninfo, whose discernment exceeds their discretion, would
learn that a mountaineer came out of your apartments whom nobody had
seen go in; and the excellent abbé, thinking that that performance
savored somewhat of the _bravo_, would insult me by withdrawing the
confidence with which he honors me. I must be his fidus Achates and his
very good friend for twelve hours more. I will go out with Michel as I
came."

"And when shall I see you again?" said Agatha, courageously offering him
her hand, despite the lustful flame in his unshrinking eyes.

"You will not see me again," he replied, putting one knee to the floor
and kissing her hand with a sort of frenzy in marked contrast to the
humility of his attitude, "until your orders are carried out. I cannot
fix the day and hour, but I will answer for the safety of all your
friends--even the stout doctor--with my life! I know the way to your
Casino. When I ring _one_, _three_ and _seven_ at the gate of your
flower-garden, will your ladyship deign to admit me to your presence?"

"You can rely upon it, captain," she replied, giving no sign of the
alarm caused her by that request.

The Marquis della Serra did not fail to take his leave at the same time
that the two young men went from the boudoir into the garden. His
respect for the princess was so punctilious that he would not for the
world have assumed the attitude of a favored lover. But he descended the
staircase of the palace slowly, still disturbed in mind, and ready to go
up again at the slightest noise.

On leaving the garden, the Piccinino locked the gate himself and handed
the key to Michel, reproaching him for his carelessness.

"Except for me," he said, "this all-important key--this key that cannot
be replaced--would have been left in the lock."

A moment's self-possession, before entering the boudoir, had sufficed
for the bandit to take the impression of the key on a lump of wax which
he always carried with him for emergencies.

They had no sooner started down the staircase cut in the rock than
Agatha's maid, who was entirely devoted to her, came to her and said:

"The young man whom your highness sent for is waiting in the picture
gallery."

Agatha put her finger to her lips to warn the maid to speak lower on
such occasions, and went down to the floor below, where Magnani had been
waiting more than half an hour.

Poor Magnani had been more dead than alive since he received the
princess's mysterious message. Being very different from the Piccinino,
he was so far from entertaining the slightest hope that he imagined the
worst that could possibly happen. "I must have made a terrible mistake,"
he said to himself, "in confiding to Michel the secret of my folly. He
probably talked about it with his sister, and Mila has seen the
princess, who treats her like a spoiled child. The chatter of that girl,
who cannot understand the gravity of such a disclosure, terrified and
disgusted the princess. But why not banish me without any explanation?
What can she say to me that will not be horribly painful and uselessly
cruel?"

That hour of suspense seemed to him a century. He was cold; he felt as
if he should die, when the secret door of the gallery opened
noiselessly, and he saw Agatha approaching him, pale with the excitement
through which she had just passed, and diaphanous in her white lace
cape. The enormous gallery was lighted only by a single glass lamp. It
seemed to him that the princess did not walk, but that she glided toward
him, after the manner of a ghost.

She approached without hesitation, and offered him her hand as if he
were an intimate friend. And, as he hesitated to give her his, thinking
that he was dreaming, fearing that he might misunderstand the meaning of
that gesture, she said to him in a soft but firm voice:

"Give me your hand, my child, and tell me if you still feel for me the
friendship which you once expressed when you thought that you owed me
some gratitude for your mother's cure. Do you remember? I have never
forgotten that generous outburst of your heart!"

Magnani could not reply. He dared not put Agatha's hand to his lips. He
pressed it gently in his as he bent over it. She felt that he was
trembling.

"You are very timid," she said; "I hope that if you are afraid of me
there is no touch of distrust in your fear. I must speak to you quickly;
do you answer in the same way. Are you disposed to do me a very great
favor, at the risk of your life? I ask it in your mother's name!"

Magnani fell on his knees. Only with his eyes, which were streaming with
tears, could he testify his enthusiasm and his devotion. Agatha
understood him.

"You must return to Catania," she said; "run until you overtake two men
who have just left here and who will not have five minutes' start of
you. One is Michelangelo Lavoratori; you can readily recognize him in
the moonlight. The other is a mountaineer wrapped in his cloak. Follow
them without seeming to watch them, but do not lose sight of them. At
the least suspicious gesture on that man's part, you will hurl yourself
upon him and throw him down. You are strong," she added, touching the
young artisan's robust arm; "but he is active and cunning. Be on your
guard! See, here is a dagger; use it only in self-defence. That man is
either my enemy or my preserver, I do not know which. Spare his life, if
possible. Fly with Michel, if you can thereby avoid a bloody battle. You
live in the same house with Michel, do you not?"

"Almost, signora."

"Be where you can assist him at the first alarm. Do not go to bed; pass
the night as near his room as you can. The man I speak of will go away
before daylight; do not leave your house and do not let Michel go away
unless you go together, always together, do you understand? And be ready
until I give different orders. To-morrow I will explain everything to
you; I will see you. Rely upon me, from this day forth, as a second
mother. Come, my child, follow me; I will put you on the track of Michel
and his companion."

She took him by the arm and hastily led him up to the Casino, which they
passed through without a word. She opened the garden gate, and pointing
to the staircase in the rock, "Go," she said, "celerity, caution, and
your noble heart, the heart of a man of the people, for your friend's
buckler!"

Magnani descended the stairs as swiftly and noiselessly as an arrow. He
wasted no time in reflection, nor did he exhaust the force of his
determination by worrying. He did not even ask himself the question
whether Michel was his fortunate rival, and whether he should not be
tempted to run him through the heart. Impelled by the magic force which
Agatha's hand and breath had given him, he was all ready to lay down his
life for that favored child of fortune, and he felt no more regret than
hesitation at the thought of sacrificing himself thus. Nay, more, he was
happy and proud to obey the woman he loved, and her words rang in his
heart like a voice from Heaven.

He was soon in the fields and discovered two men walking along a path.
He recognized Michel; he recognized the mountaineer's cloak. He took
pains not to show himself; but he measured with a glance the distance
and the obstacles that he would have to pass over in case of an alarm.
The mountaineer stopped for a moment, talking earnestly. Magnani, with a
determined effort of strength and activity, which under other
circumstances would have been beyond the power of man, reached a point
sufficiently near to overhear him, and found that he was talking of love
and poetry.

He allowed them to gain on him again, and, gliding through a narrow path
among the blocks of lava that lay in great heaps at the entrance to the
city, he arrived before them in the yard of the adjoining houses
occupied by his family and Michel's. He watched his young friend and his
suspicious guest enter the house. Then Magnani made the circuit of the
houses, looking for a place where he could pass the night, unseen, but
within hearing of the slightest noise, the slightest commotion inside.




XXIX

APPARITIONS


Pier-Angelo had been notified by the princess and by a message from the
monk of Mal Passo, that he must not be alarmed by his son's absence, and
that, in case of danger, the young man would pass the night either at
the convent with his uncle, or in the Marquis della Serra's palace. The
princess would have preferred the latter course; but the necessity of
showing absolute confidence in the brigand, concerning whose
sensitiveness Fra Angelo had fully informed her, had triumphed over her
anxiety. With great foresight she had sent for Magnani, and we have seen
that she was justified in her reliance upon that excellent young man.

Pier-Angelo, naturally optimistic, and reassured by the message he had
received, had gone to bed and was making up for the fatigue of the ball
like a man who knows how to use time to advantage. Mila had also gone to
her room; but she was not asleep. She had passed the afternoon with the
princess, and, upon being questioned by her concerning her friends, had
spoken of Antonio Magnani among others with a warmth which would have
betrayed the secret of her heart, even if Agatha had not been watchful
and penetrating. It was the favorable account the girl had given of her
young neighbor which had finally led the princess to call upon him for
aid in the embarrassment of her situation. She had said to herself that
Magnani might well become Mila's husband some day, and that nothing
could be more natural, therefore, than that he should have a share in
shaping Michelangelo's destiny. She had entrusted Mila with the message
to Magnani to come to her that night, and poor Magnani, on receiving the
message, had nearly fainted. Should we not rather say _poor Mila_? But
Mila had attributed the young man's confusion to his timidity alone.
Agatha was the last person whom she would have suspected of being her
rival, not that she was not in her eyes the loveliest of women, but
because, in a pure heart, there is no room for jealousy of the persons
whom one loves. On the contrary, the true-hearted child was happy in the
mark of esteem and confidence with which her dear Agatha had honored
Magnani. She was proud of it for his sake, and would have liked to be
able to carry him such messages every day.

But the princess had thought that she ought not to conceal from Mila the
fact that Michel was necessarily involved in an adventure in which he
might incur some danger, and that Magnani would assist him to defend
himself.

So Mila was anxious; she had said nothing to her father of her fears;
but she had been out more than ten times on the road to the villa,
listening to noises in the distance, watching all the passers-by, and
returning to the house each time more distressed and alarmed than
before. At last, when eleven o'clock struck, she dared not go out again,
but remained in her room, sometimes at the window, where she tired her
eyes staring to no purpose, sometimes beside her bed, where she fell on
her knees, depressed beyond measure, with her face buried in the pillow.
At times her pulses throbbed so violently that she mistook the throbbing
for a noise by her side. Then she would start and raise her head, and,
hearing nothing, try to pray.

At last, about midnight, she thought that she heard distinctly a faint
sound of irregular footsteps in the yard. She looked and fancied that
she saw a shadow glide along the wall and disappear in the darkness. It
was Magnani; but she could not distinguish any well-defined form, and
was not sure that she had not been deceived by her own imagination.

A few moments later two men stole noiselessly up the outside staircase
of the house. Mila had begun to pray again, and did not hear them until
they were under her window. She ran to the window, and seeing only the
tops of their heads, as she was directly above them, she had no doubt
that they were her brother and Magnani returning together. She hastily
rearranged her lovely hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, and
hurried to meet them. But as she passed into Michel's chamber, the outer
door of that chamber opened, and she found herself face to face with
Michel and a man who was fully a head shorter than Antonio Magnani.

The Piccinino, whose features were hidden by the hood of his cloak,
hastily drew back and closed the door, saying: "You probably did not
expect your mistress to-night, Michel. Under any other circumstances it
would give me great pleasure to see her, for she seemed to be as
beautiful as the Madonna; but at this moment you will oblige me greatly
if you can send her away without letting her see me."

"Have no fear," replied the young artist. "This woman is my sister, and
I will send her back to her own room. Stay here a moment, behind the
door."

"Mila," he said, entering the room again and holding the door between
his companion and himself, "you seem to have taken a mania for sitting
up late like a night-bird. Go back to your own room, my dear love, I am
not alone. One of father's apprentices has asked me to take him in, and
I am going to share my bed with him. You must see that you shouldn't
stay here another moment, unless you want to be seen with your hair and
dress in disorder."

"I will go," said Mila; "but tell me first, Michel, whether Magnani came
home with you?"

"What does it matter to you?" rejoined Michel, testily. Mila heaved a
profound sigh, and returned to her room, where she threw herself on her
bed, quite disheartened, but determined to pretend to be asleep, and to
listen to everything that was said in the adjoining room. Perhaps
something had happened to Magnani; her brother's abrupt manner seemed to
her of evil augury.

As soon as the Piccinino found himself alone with Michel, he asked him
to throw the bolts and to place a mattress from the bed against the thin
warped door of the adjoining room, through which the light could be seen
and their voices heard. When that was done, he asked him to make sure
that his father was asleep, or, if he were still awake, to wish him
good-night, so that the old man might not take it into his head to come
upstairs. As he spoke, the bandit unceremoniously threw himself on
Michel's bed, having first removed his rich doublet, and, covering his
head with his cloak, seemed determined not to lose an instant in going
to sleep.

Michel went downstairs as he was requested; but he was no sooner on the
staircase than the young outlaw sprang to his feet as swiftly and
lightly as a bird, threw the mattress aside, drew the bolt, and
approached Mila's bed, beside which her little lamp was still burning.

Mila heard him come in; but she supposed that Michel had come to make
sure that she was in bed. It did not occur to her that another could
have the audacity to enter her room thus, and, like a child who is
afraid of being scolded, she closed her eyes and lay perfectly still.

The Piccinino had never seen a beautiful woman without being disturbed
and restless until he had examined her carefully, in order that he might
cease to think of her if her beauty was imperfect, or cast his net over
her if her style of beauty succeeded in inflaming his disdainful heart,
a strange compound of love and indolence, energy and torpor. Few men of
twenty-five have lived so chaste and self-restrained a life as the
bandit of Ætna; but few imaginations are so fertile as his was in
dreams of pleasure and in boundless appetites. It seemed that he was
always seeking to kindle his passions in order to test their intensity,
but that he abstained from gratifying them most of the time, fearing
lest his enjoyment might fall short of the idea he had conceived of it.
Certain it is that on the few occasions on which he had given way, he
had been profoundly depressed afterwards, and had reproached himself for
having expended so much exertion for a pleasure so soon exhausted.

Perhaps he had other reasons for wishing to see Michel's sister's
features without Michel's knowledge. However that may be, he gazed at
her attentively for a moment, and, enraptured by her beauty, her
youthful grace, and her air of innocence, he asked himself whether he
would not do better to love that fascinating child rather than a woman
older than himself and doubtless more difficult to persuade.

At that moment Mila, weary of feigning sleep, and more eager for news of
Magnani than afraid of her brother's reproaches, opened her eyes and saw
the stranger leaning over her. She saw his eyes gleaming under his hood,
and, terror-stricken, she was on the point of crying out, when he put
his hand over her mouth.

"Child," he said in a low voice, "if you say a word, you are lost. Hush,
and I will go away. Come, come, my lovely angel," he added, in a
caressing tone, "don't be afraid of the friend of your family; before
long perhaps you will thank him for having disturbed your sleep."

And, being unable to resist an insane impulse of coquetry, of a sort
that often caused him suddenly to forget his resolutions and his
cautious instincts, he threw back his hood and disclosed his beautiful
features, made still more beautiful by a sweet and winning smile. The
innocent Mila thought that she had had a vision. The diamonds that
sparkled on the young man's breast so heightened the general effect that
she did not know whether it was an angel or a prince in disguise who
stood before her. Bewildered, hesitating, she smiled back at him, half
fascinated, half terrified. Thereupon he lifted a heavy tress of her
black hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, and put it to his lips.
Fear gained the upper hand. Again Mila attempted to cry out. The
stranger flashed such a terrible glance at her that her voice failed
her. He put out the lamp, returned to Michel's room, bolted the door,
and replaced the mattress; then, throwing himself on the bed and
concealing his face, he seemed to be sleeping soundly when Michel
returned. All this had happened in less time than it has required to
tell it.

But, for the first time in his life, perhaps, the Piccinino could not
compel sleep to deaden the activity of his thoughts. His imagination was
an unbroken steed, with whom he had fought so many battles that he
believed that he had placed a curb in his mouth forever. But the curb
was broken, and that powerful will, exhausted in trivial combats, no
longer sufficed to control fierce instincts too long held in check. He
was between two violent temptations, which appeared to him in the shape
of two women almost equally desirable, and whom the detestable Ninfo had
practically offered to share with him. Michel was the hostage whom he
had in his hands, and for whose ransom he could demand and perhaps
obtain everything.

To be sure, he no longer believed in Agatha's passion for the young
artist; but he had seen her utter indifference as to the matter of
money, when it was a question of saving her friends from perils that
threatened them. Was she so disinterested as to think that she ought to
sacrifice something more than her fortune to ransom her protégé?
Probably not; so that the bandit must rely upon his individual powers of
seduction, and he saw in Michel only a means of gaining access to her so
that he might exert those powers.

As for the young sister, it seemed to him an easier matter to overcome
so innocent a child, not only because of the more direct affection which
she undoubtedly entertained for her brother, but also because of her
inexperience and the purity of her imagination, which he had tested with
a glance.

In respect to youthful charm and mere physical beauty, Mila far
surpassed Agatha; but Agatha was a princess, and the instinct of vanity
was strong in the bastard of Castro-Reale. She was supposed never to
have had a lover, she seemed prudent and strong. She had had twenty
years or more to practise self-defence and to repel the assaults of the
passions she had inspired; for she was at least thirty years old, and in
the fiery climate of Sicily, where plants mature in less time than they
require in France to put forth buds, a girl of ten is almost a woman.

It was, therefore, a most glorious conquest to dream about, and for that
reason most intoxicating. But there was also the fear of failure, and
Carmelo thought that in that case he should die of shame and rage. He
had never known pain; it was a word almost devoid of meaning to him
until that moment. He was beginning to discover that one can suffer for
other causes than anger and ennui. As he lay awake, he watched Michel
without his knowledge. He saw him sit down at his table and take his
head in his hands, in an attitude of the most complete discouragement.

Michel was profoundly depressed. All his dreams had vanished like smoke.
His situation seemed to him sufficiently elucidated by the conversation
he had had with the bandit as they returned from the villa. To test him,
the Piccinino had repeated Abbé Ninfo's calumnies, pretending to
believe them and generously to take Michel's part. The young painter's
noble and upright heart had rebelled against a suspicion which assailed
the princess's dignity; his denials and his manner of describing his
first interview with her in the ball-room had corresponded so closely
with the way in which the princess herself had represented the facts to
the bandit, that the latter, after a more searching and subtle
examination than that of an inquisitor, had ended by becoming convinced
that there was nothing criminal in the princess's relations with the
artist.

Thereupon, seeing that there was a background of unhappiness to Michel's
modesty and loyalty, the Piccinino had concluded that, if the princess
did not love him, he wished that she might, and that he had fallen in
love with her at first sight. He remembered Michel's abrupt and ironical
reply to himself during the ball, and he took a cruel delight in making
him feel that he could not hope to be loved by such a woman. It even
occurred to him to admit that he questioned him only to test the
refinement of his nature, and he ended by repeating word for word what
Agatha had said when she pointed to Michel at the window of the boudoir:
"Look at that young man and tell me if there can possibly be any
wrongful relations between two persons of our respective ages and
conditions." Then he added, pressing Michel's hand as they entered the
city: "My child, I am pleased with you; for any other man, at your age,
would have seized the opportunity to pose as the hero of a mysterious
adventure with that adorable woman. Now I see that you are already a
serious-minded man, and I can say to you in confidence that she has made
an ineffaceable impression on me, and that I shall be like a stone in
the crater of the volcano until I have seen her again."

The tone in which the Piccinino proclaimed, so to speak, this
confession, combined with the remembrance of his enraptured face and his
triumphant attitude when he returned to the boudoir with Agatha, alarmed
Michel beyond expression. He had not felt obliged in conscience to tell
him what illusions he had cherished, what he had thought that he could
read in certain glances, still less what had taken place--and he did not
believe that it was altogether a dream--in the grotto of the naiad.
Indeed, he would have considered it his bounden duty to deny it with all
his strength if his rival could have suspected it. But all his phantoms
of pride and happiness took flight before Agatha's cold words, repeated
in a dry, cutting tone by the Piccinino. But one point remained obscure
in his situation. That was the peculiarly warm affection of the princess
for his father and sister. But how could he attribute the honor of that
affection to himself? It was based upon an ancient political connection
or upon gratitude for some service rendered by Pier-Angelo.
Pier-Angelo's son was subjected to the dangers of that connection at the
same time that he shared its benefits. When that debt of the heart was
paid, it was impossible that Michel could arouse any further interest in
the generous patroness of his family. The mysteries that had fascinated
him fell back into the domain of reality, and instead of the pleasant
labor of combating charming illusions, he had the mortification of
feeling that he had combated them unsuccessfully and the pain of being
unable to revive them.

"Why should I be jealous of the insolent joy that shone in the eyes of
that bandit?" he said to himself in dire distress. "Have I any business
even to consider the question whether his strange manner caused the
princess pleasurable or painful emotion? What have she and I in common?
What am I to her? Pier-Angelo's son! And he, this bold-faced adventurer,
is her mainstay and her savior. He will soon have a claim upon her
gratitude--perhaps upon her esteem and affection; for it rests only with
him to acquire them. He loves her, and if he is not mad he will find
some way or other to make her love him. But how can I earn any title to
her distinction? Of what consequence are the embryotic products of my
art in comparison with the energetic assistance which she demands? It
seems to me that she looks upon me as a child, since, instead of calling
me to her aid, and entrusting to me some mission of importance to her
interests and her personal safety, she does not even consider me capable
of defending my own life. She considers me so weak or so timid that in
this hour of our common danger she has sought the intervention of a
stranger--an ally more dangerous than useful, it may be. O my God! how
far she is from looking upon me as a man! Why did she not simply say to
me: 'Your father and I are threatened by an enemy. Drop your brushes,
take a dagger; defend your father or avenge me!' Fra Angelo reproached
me for my indifference; but, instead of correcting it, they actually
treat me like a child whom they pity, and whose life they save without
troubling themselves about his heart!"

While he abandoned himself to these melancholy reflections, Michelangelo
felt as if his heart were breaking, and finding in front of him the
sprig of cyclamen, which was still living in its Venetian glass, he let
a scalding tear fall upon it.




XXX

THE FALSE MONK


Mila had been so astonished and alarmed by the appearance of the
Piccinino that she could not possibly sleep. The fact that alarmed her
most was that she no longer heard conversation in the adjoining room,
and that she could not make sure that her brother was there. She was
unwilling to go to bed, and, after a few moments, as her reflections
served only to increase her terror, she rose and opened another door of
her chamber which opened on an outer gallery, or rather a dilapidated
corridor sheltered by an awning, and ending in a staircase which served
as a means of communication between her room and those of the other
occupants of the house. Mila had never opened that door at night, but
this time she went out on the gallery, having fully determined to seek
refuge with her father and to sit in his chamber until daylight.

But she had barely taken three steps when a new cause of alarm brought
her to a standstill. A man was leaning against the wall of the gallery
as motionless as a robber on the watch.

She was about to fly, when a voice said in a whisper: "Is that you,
Mila?" And as the man walked toward her she recognized Magnani.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "I am watching here by order of a person who
is dear to you. Doubtless you know why, as you transmitted her message
to me?"

"I know that my brother has been in danger this evening," replied the
girl; "but it seems that you are not the only one whom our dear princess
has stationed beside him to defend him. There is another young man in
his room, whom I do not know."

"I know it, Mila; but that young man is the very one who is under
suspicion; and I must stand guard as near as possible to the place where
he is sleeping, until he has left the house."

"But you are a long way from him!" exclaimed Mila, in dismay, "and my
brother might be murdered and you not hear it from here."

"But what am I to do?" replied Magnani. "I could not get any nearer to
his room. He took pains to lock the door at the foot of the other
staircase. So I am here; and I have my eyes and ears open, I assure
you!"

"I will watch, too," said the girl, resolutely, "and you can sit up with
me, Magnani. Come into my room. Even though people should speak ill of
us, if we were seen, even if my father and brother should scold me
severely, it makes no difference to me! I am only afraid of the man who
is locked into Michel's room with him, or alone--for they put a mattress
against my door, and I cannot find out whether Michel is really there. I
am afraid for Michel; I am afraid for myself."

And she told how the bandit had entered her room when Michel was
apparently not there to oppose his entrance.

Magnani, being unable to explain such an extraordinary occurrence,
accepted Mila's suggestion without hesitation. He entered her room,
leaving the door of the gallery ajar, in order that he might retire
unseen if need were, but all ready to burst in Michel's door at the
slightest alarming noise.

When he had listened coolly and cautiously, with his eye and ear glued
to the partition, he said to Mila, beckoning her to the side of the room
farthest from the door, and speaking very low:

"Set your mind at rest; they are not so well barricaded that I could not
see Michel sitting at his table, apparently deep in meditation. I could
not make out the other one, but I promise you that they cannot make a
movement which I shall not hear, and that their bolt will not hold a
second against my fist. I am armed; so don't be afraid any more, my dear
Mila."

"No, no, I am not afraid," she said. "Since you have been here, I have
recovered the use of my mind. Before you came, I was like a madwoman; I
neither saw nor heard anything except through a veil. Have you had no
accident, run no risk yourself to-night, Magnani?"

"None at all; but what are you looking for, Mila? You will make a noise
fumbling in that drawer."

"No, no," she said. "I am getting a weapon too, for I feel as brave as a
lion with you."

And she held up an ebony spindle, carved and mounted in silver, the
stout, sharp point of which might at need serve the purpose of a
stiletto.

"When our dear princess gave me this to-day," she said, "she had no
suspicion that I might perhaps use it to defend my brother. But tell me,
Magnani, how did the princess receive you, and how did she explain these
mysteries which are happening all about us, and which I do not
understand at all? We can safely talk here in this doorway; no one will
hear us and it will help to make the time seem shorter and less dull."

She sat down on the step outside the door that opened on the gallery.
Magnani sat beside her, ready to fly if any inquisitive individual
should approach, ready to show himself if Michel's guest made any sign
of hostility. They talked in very low tones, and their whispered words
expired in the open air, nor did either of the two become so engrossed
as to fail to pause and listen intently at the slightest sound.

When Magnani had told Mila what little he knew, she lost herself in vain
conjectures as to the identity of that handsome young man, whose
expression was at once sweet and fear-inspiring, who styled himself,
when speaking with her, the friend of the family, and of whom the
princess had said to Magnani: "He is either our savior or our
enemy."--And, when Magnani urged her not to try to fathom a secret which
the princess and her family apparently deemed it necessary to conceal
from her, she replied: "Do not think that I am consumed by silly
childish curiosity! No, I have not that wretched failing. But I have
been afraid all day long, and yet I am not timid, either. Something
incomprehensible is going on about me, and I, too, believe that I am
threatened by enemies whom I do not know. I do not dare to mention the
subject to my father or to the princess; I am afraid that if they
undertake to look out for me, too, they will neglect a part of the
precautions demanded by their own safety. But I must think about
defending myself; to-morrow, when you go to your work and my father and
brother have gone out, I shall begin to tremble again for them, for you
and for my self."

"I shall not go to work to-morrow, Mila," said Magnani. "The princess
ordered me not to leave your brother, whether he remains at home or goes
out. She did not mention you, which fact makes me almost certain that
you are not included in the secret persecution at which she has taken
fright. But, whatever happens, I shall not stir from here, without
having made sure that no one can come and frighten you."

"Listen," she said, "I am going to tell you what happened to me to-day.
You know that we often have in our yard some of those begging brothers,
who annoy everybody, even the poor people, and whom you cannot get rid
of without giving them something. Well, one of them came just after
Michel and my father had left the house, and I never saw a monk so
persistent, and so bold, and so inquisitive. Just fancy that, when he
saw me working at my window, he took up his station just below it, and
there he stood, staring at me with a gaze that embarrassed me, although
I tried not to meet his eyes. I tossed him some bread in order to get
rid of him. He didn't condescend to pick it up. 'Young woman,' he said,
'that is not the way people give alms to a brother of my order. They
take the trouble to go downstairs to him and to commend themselves to
his prayers, instead of tossing him a crust as if he were a dog. You are
not a pious maid, and your parents have brought you up badly. I am sure
that you are not a native?'

"I made the mistake of answering him. He had put me in a bad humor with
his sermon, and he was so ugly, so dirty, so insolent, that I could not
help exhibiting my disgust. It seemed to me that I recognized him as a
man I had seen in the morning at the Palmarosa palace. My brother was
disturbed by his face at that time, and questioned my uncle Fra Angelo
about him. He sent us away in haste, promising to find out who he was,
for he did not recognize him as a Capuchin, and my father said that he
resembled a certain Abbé Ninfo, who bears us a grudge, apparently.
However, either it was not the same man, or else he had changed his
disguise; for he wore the costume of a bare-footed Carmelite when he
came here; and, instead of a thick, curly black beard, he had a red
beard, as short and stiff as a wild boar's hair. He was even more
horrible in that dress, and if it was not the same man, why, I can
safely say that I have seen to-day the two most repulsive monks in
Valdemona."

"And you were imprudent enough to talk with him?" said Magnani.

"Talk is not the word; I requested him to carry his preaching somewhere
else, saying that I had no time to go down to him or to listen to his
reprimands; that, if he did not consider my alms worthy of his
acceptance, he could give it to the first poor person he met, and that,
if he was born proud, he had made a great mistake in becoming a
mendicant."

"Doubtless he was irritated by your replies?"

"No, for if I had seen that he was mortified or angry, charity or
prudence would have kept me from saying so much. But, instead of
continuing to scold me, he began to smile; a ghastly sort of smile, to
be sure, but not resentful.

"'You are an amusing child,' he said, 'and I forgive your lack of
propriety because of your wit and your black eyes.'

"I ask you if it was not very wicked for a monk to pay any attention to
the color of my eyes? I told him that he might stay a year under my
window before I would look to see what color his were. He called me a
flirt; a strange word, isn't it, in the mouth of a man who ought not
even to know that there is such a word? I closed my window, but when I
opened it a quarter of an hour later, being unable to endure the
stifling heat in my room when the sun is high, he was still looking at
me. I refused to talk to him any more. He told me that he would stay
there until I gave him something better than bread; that he knew that I
wasn't a poor girl; that I had a beautiful pin of chased gold in my
hair, and that he would gladly accept that, unless I preferred to give
him a lock of hair in its place. And he followed that up with such
absurd and extravagant compliments that I believed and still believe he
was laughing at me, and that it was his spiteful and unseemly way of
venting his anger.

"As there were people in the house, particularly your father and one of
your brothers, whom I could see working in their rooms within reach of
my voice, I was not alarmed by that wretched monk's strange remarks and
impertinent glances; I answered only by making fun of him, and, to get
rid of him, I promised to give him something on condition that he would
go away at once. He declared that he had the right to accept or refuse
my offering, and that, if I would let him choose, he would be very
modest and would not ruin me.--'What do you want,' I said, 'a skein of
silk to mend your ragged frock?'--'No,' he replied, 'it's too badly
spun.'--'Do you want my scissors to cut your beard, which is growing all
awry?'--'No, for I might perhaps use it to cut off the rosy tip of that
impertinent little tongue.'--'A needle, then, to sew up your mouth,
which doesn't know what it says?'--'No, for I am afraid that your needle
has no sharper point than your epigrams.'

"We jested thus for some time; although he annoyed me, he made me laugh;
for it seemed to me that his manner had become more fatherly than
threatening, that he was really a monk, one of those persistent jokers
such as we all know, who obtain by teasing what they cannot extort by
prayer; and lastly, I discovered that he was very bright, and I did not
put a stop to that childish badinage so soon as I should have done. I
took from the wall a little mirror about the size of my hand, of no
value, which he had noticed hanging by my window, as to which he asked
me how many hours a day I passed consulting it. I lowered it to him by a
silk thread, saying that he would certainly enjoy looking at himself in
it much more than I had enjoyed having his face before my eyes so long.

"He seized it eagerly and kissed it, exclaiming in a tone which
frightened me: 'Has it retained a reflection of your beauty, O dangerous
maiden? Just a reflection! that is very little, but if I could fix it
there, I would never take my lips from it.'

"'Fie!' I said, drawing back from the window, 'those words dishonor the
frock you wear, and such jesting does not befit a monk.'

"I closed my window again and came to this door where we are now, and
opened it so that I could breathe while I worked. But I had not been
there five minutes when I saw the Capuchin before me. He had presumed to
enter the house, I don't know how; for I had locked the outer door, and
he must either have been prowling around in the adjoining house, or have
known all the ins and outs of this one.--'Go away,' I said to him; 'no
one has a right to enter a house in this way, and if you come near my
door, I will call my father and brother, who are in the next room.'

"'I know perfectly well that they are not there,' he replied, with a
hateful laugh, 'and as for the neighbors, it would do no good to call
them, for I should be far away before they could get here. What makes
you afraid of me, young woman? I only wanted to have a nearer view of
your soft eyes and your red lips; Raphael's Madonna is a mere
maid-servant compared with you. Come, don't be afraid of me'--and, as he
spoke, he held the door open, which I tried to shut in his face.--'I
would give my life for a kiss from you; but if you refuse me that, give
me at least the rose that perfumes your breast; I shall die of joy
dreaming that ----'

"I heard no more, for he had let the door go and tried to seize me in
his arms. In spite of my terror, I had more presence of mind than he
expected; for I stepped quickly to one side, slammed the door in his
face, and as he was a little bewildered by the blow, I took advantage of
it to run through Michel's room. I ran downstairs at the top of my
speed, and didn't stop until I was in the street, for there was no
neighbor near enough to depend upon. When I was among the people in the
street, I was no longer afraid of the monk, but I wouldn't have come
back to my room for anything on earth. I walked to Villa Palmarosa, and
didn't feel entirely at ease until the princess had taken me into her
room. I passed the rest of the day there, and did not come home until
father was ready. But I dared not say anything about what had happened,
for the reason I have given you--and if I must be entirely frank,
because I felt that I had been imprudent to joke with that wretched
begging monk, and that I deserved some blame for it. A rebuke from my
father would almost kill me; but from Princess Agatha--why, I would
rather be damned at once and forever!'"

"Dear child, as you are so afraid of reproaches, I will keep your
secret," said Magnani, "and I will not venture to make the slightest
comment."

"On the contrary, I beg you to comment as severely as you please,
Magnani. It will not humiliate me from you. I am not presumptuous enough
to think that you like me, and I know that my childish faults will not
cause you the slightest distress. It is because I know how dearly my
father and Princess Agatha love me that I dread so to grieve them. But
you can say whatever you please to me, for you will simply laugh at my
foolishness."

"So you think me very indifferent, do you?" said Magnani, upon whom this
story of the monk had had a singularly disquieting and disturbing
effect.

Then, surprised at the question that had escaped him, he rose and went
on tiptoe to listen at Michel's door. He thought that he could hear the
regular breathing of a sleeping person. The Piccinino had in fact
succeeded finally in allaying the tumult of his thoughts, and Michel,
overcome by weariness, was dozing in his chair, with his head resting on
his hands.

Magnani returned to Mila; but he dared not sit beside her again. "And I
too," he thought, ashamed, and as it were, afraid of himself, "I am a
monk consumed by my imagination and excited by enforced continence. This
child is too lovely, too pure, too trustful, to live thus the
untrammelled neglected life of girls of our station; no one can look at
her without emotion, whether he be a monk doomed to celibacy or a man
hopelessly in love with another woman. I would like to have my hands on
that vile monk and break his neck; and yet I too quiver at the thought
that this unsuspecting maiden is in this room, alone with me, in the
silence of night, ready to seek shelter in my arms at the slightest
alarm!"




XXXI

WITCHCRAFT


Magnani tried to divert his thoughts by talking of the princess with
Mila. The innocent girl lured him into it, and he accepted that subject
of conversation as a preservative. It will be seen that a strange
revolution had taken place in two days in the young man's mental
condition, since he had already reached the point of looking upon his
love for Agatha as a duty, or as what the doctors call a depurative.

If he had been certain that the princess loved Michel, of which fact he
was persuaded at times, with a feeling of utter stupefaction, he would
have been almost entirely cured of his own mad passion. For he had given
it so exalted a place in his thoughts that, as he had lost hope, so he
had almost reached the point where he desired nothing. His passion had
become a sort of pious habit, so ideal that it no longer touched the
earth, and that by returning it, Agatha might have destroyed it
instantly. Assume that she loved any man on earth, even the man who
cherished so exalted an adoration for her, and she became in his eyes
simply a woman, whose influence he could combat. That was the result of
five years' suffering without the slightest presumption, and without a
moment's intermission. In a heart of such strength and purity, the
utmost order had prevailed amid the effervescence of a passion which
resembled a beginning of madness; and it was precisely that circumstance
which might be Magnani's salvation. Efforts to deaden his pain would
have served only to excite him more, and after indulging in vulgar
pleasures, he would have returned to his chimera with more suffering and
more weakness; whereas by abandoning himself without resistance, without
desire for repose, and without terror, to a martyrdom which might be
everlasting, he had allowed the flame to become concentrated in one
spot, where it burned dully, not fanned from without, and deprived of
any fresh sustenance.

Thus Magnani had reached that critical moment when a man must be cured
or die, without any transition. He did not appreciate it, but it
certainly was a fact, for his senses were awaking from a long period of
numbness, and Agatha, far from contributing to the awakening, was the
only woman to whom he would have blushed to attribute in his thoughts
the perturbation that he felt.

Little by little, he leaned toward the girl in order not to lose a
single one of her words, and he ended by sitting down beside her, and
asking her why it had occurred to her to talk of him with Princess
Agatha.

"Why, it is very simple," replied Mila; "she led me to do it by asking
me which of the young mechanics of my acquaintance Michel had been most
intimate with since he had arrived in the island; and as I hesitated
between you and one or two of father's apprentices who assisted Michel,
and whom he seemed to like, the princess herself said:

"'Perhaps you are not sure, Mila, but I would be willing to wager that
it is a certain Magnani, who works for me, and of whom I think very
highly. During the ball they sat in my garden together, and I was very
near them--just behind the myrtle bush. I had gone there to rest, and
was almost in hiding, in order to escape for an instant the torture of
such a long performance. I overheard their conversation, which
interested and touched me to the last degree. Your brother has a noble
mind, Mila, but your neighbor Magnani has a great heart. They talked of
art and work, of ambition and duty, of happiness and virtue. I admired
the artist's ideas, but I fell in love with the artisan's sentiments.
For your young brother's sake, I hope that Magnani will always be his
best friend, the confidant of all his thoughts, and his adviser in the
delicate emergencies of his life. You can advise him to that effect from
me, if he happens to mention me to you; and if you tell either of them
that I listened to the sincere outpouring of their thoughts, you will
not fail to tell them also that I was a discreet listener, for there
came a time when Magnani seemed on the point of disclosing to
Michelangelo some personal matter which I did not choose to overhear. I
retired hastily at the first word,'--Is all that accurate, Magnani? Do
you remember the subject of your conversation with Michel in the garden
of the Casino?"

"Yes, yes," sighed Magnani, "it is all true; indeed, I noticed when the
princess retired, although it would never have occurred to me that it
was she who was listening to us."

"At all events, you ought to be proud of it, Magnani, and very glad of
it, since what you said made her feel so much friendship and esteem for
you. I even thought that I could see that she preferred your way of
thinking to my brother's, and that she looked upon you as the wiser and
better of the two, although she says that she has felt the same motherly
interest in the welfare of both of you from that moment. Couldn't you
repeat to me all the beautiful words which the princess so enjoyed
hearing? I should be very glad to have the benefit of them, for I am a
poor little girl, with whom Michel himself hardly deigns to talk
seriously."

"My dear Mila," said Magnani, taking her hand, "honor to the man whom
you consider worthy to form your heart and your mind! But, even if I
could remember all that Michel and I said to each other in that garden,
I should not presume to think that it would benefit you in any way.
Aren't you better than either of us? And as for wit, which of us can
have more than you?"

"Oh! now you are laughing at me! Princess Agatha has more than all three
of us together, nor do I think that even my father has any more than she
has. Ah! if you knew her as well as I do, Magnani! Such a head and
heart! such charm! such kindness! I could pass my whole life listening
to her; and, if my father and she would allow it, I would like to be her
servant, although obedience is not my leading characteristic."

Magnani was silent for a few moments. He could not succeed in
disentangling his thoughts in his excitement. Hitherto Agatha had seemed
to him so far above all praise that he was indignant and hurt when
anyone ventured to say that she was lovely, charitable and sweet. He
preferred to listen to those who said that she was ugly and mad, when
they did not know her and had never seen her. They at all events said
nothing about her in which there was the slightest sense, whereas the
others praised her too feebly, and annoyed Magnani beyond words by their
inability to comprehend her. But on Mila's lips Agatha lost nothing of
the idea he had formed of her. Only Mila seemed to him pure enough to
utter her name without profaning it, and because she shared his
adoration, she was almost equal to his idol in his eyes.

"Dear Mila," he said at last, still holding her hand, which he had
forgotten to give back to her, "to love and to understand as you do
indicates a great mind. But what did you say about me to the princess?
Ought I not to ask you?"

Mila blessed the darkness, which concealed her blushes, and she grew
bolder as a timid woman gradually becomes intoxicated by the assured
impunity of a masquerade.

"I am really afraid that it will be indiscreet in me to repeat it to
you," she said, "and I should not dare to do it!"

"So you said unkind things about me, did you, naughty Mila?"

"No; for Princess Agatha had said so much good of you that it would have
been impossible for me to think any evil of you. I cannot look at
anything except through her eyes. But I let out something which Michel
told me in confidence."

"Really? I don't know what you mean."

Mila noticed that Magnani's hand trembled. She ventured to strike a
decisive blow.

"Well," she said, in an artless, almost indifferent tone, "I told the
princess that you were really very kind, very pleasant and very learned;
but that one had either to know you very well, or else guess at you in
order to find it out!"

"Because ----?"

"Because you were in love, and that made you so melancholy that you
lived almost entirely alone, buried in meditation."

Magnani trembled.

"It was Michel who told you that!" he said, in a changed tone that made
Mila's heart bleed. "And doubtless he betrayed my confidence to the
end," he added; "he told you the name----"

"Oh! Michel is incapable of betraying anybody's confidence," she
replied, struggling to maintain her courage at the level of the crisis
she had provoked; "and I, Magnani, am incapable of leading my brother on
to such a base thing. Besides, why should I be at all interested, I
should like to know?"

"Of course, it must be a matter of entire indifference to you," replied
Magnani, completely crushed.

"Indifference is not the word," she said; "I have much esteem and
friendship for you, Magnani, and I pray for your happiness. But I am
interested in my own happiness, too, so that I have no time to be idle
and pry into other people's secrets."

"Your happiness! At your age, Mila, happiness is love; so you are in
love, too, are you?"

"In love? why not? Do you consider me too young to think about such
things?"

"Ah! my dear child, you are at the age when one should think about such
things, for at my age love is despair."

"Why, is your love not returned? I was not mistaken in thinking that you
are unhappy?"

"No, my love is not returned," he replied, dejectedly, "and never will
be; I have never even dreamed that it would."

A more romantic and more experienced woman than Mila might have looked
upon that admission as a definitive obstacle to all hope; but her ideas
of life were more simple and more logical: "If he has no hope, he will
recover," she thought.

"I pity you deeply," she said to Magnani, "for it is such great
happiness to feel that one is loved, and it must be so ghastly to love
all by oneself!"

"You will never know such a misfortune," Magnani replied; "and the man
you love should be the most grateful and the proudest of men!"

"I am satisfied with him," she said, gratified to feel that jealousy was
beginning to make itself felt in the young man's perturbed heart; "but
listen, Magnani! there is a noise in my brother's room."

Magnani ran to the other door; but, while he was making vain efforts to
distinguish the nature of the noises Mila had heard, she heard other
noises in the yard. She looked through the blind, and, beckoning to
Magnani, pointed out to him Michel's mysterious guest, who was gliding
toward the street so lightly and adroitly, that unless one had a
delicate ear and keen eye and was on the alert, expecting to see him, it
would have been impossible to detect his movements.

Even Michel had not been roused from the light doze into which he had
fallen.

Mila was still very ill at ease, although Magnani urged her to take some
rest, promising that he would remain in the yard or in the gallery, and
that Michel should not leave the house without him. As soon as Magnani
had left her, she fell upon a chair and drew her table noisily along the
floor, so that she might hear Michel wake and move about in his turn.

The young man soon entered her room, after noticing with amazement that
the Piccinino's light body had left little more impression on his bed
than if he had been a spectre. He found little Mila still up, and
reproved her for her wilful sleeplessness. But she explained her reasons
for anxiety; and, without mentioning Magnani, for the princess had
enjoined upon her not to let Michel know of his presence, she told him
of the Piccinino's strange and impudent visit to her room. She also told
him something of her experience with the monk, and made him promise that
he would not leave her during the morning, and that, if he were summoned
by the princess later in the day, he would not go out without letting
her know, because she was determined to seek shelter with some friend
and not remain alone in the house.

Michel readily agreed. He was utterly unable to understand the bandit's
conduct on that occasion. But we can imagine that such an audacious
performance, taken in connection with the impertinence of the pretended
monk, left him in a decidedly uncomfortable frame of mind.

When he returned to his chamber, after barricading the door of the
gallery with his own hands in order to protect his sister against any
fresh attack, he looked about for the cyclamen upon which he had gazed
so sorrowfully as he sat beside his table. But the cyclamen had
disappeared. The Piccinino had noticed that the princess, as on the
evening of the ball, had a bouquet of cyclamen in her hand or close at
hand, and that she seemed to have contracted the habit of playing with
that bouquet even more than with her fan, the inseparable companion of
all the women of the South. He had also noticed that Michel treasured
one of those flowers, and that he had drawn it toward his face several
times, then hastily pushed it away, during the first agitated moments of
his vigil. He had divined the mysterious charm attached to that plant,
and before leaving the room he had maliciously taken it from the glass
upon which Michel's inert hand still rested. He threw the little flower
into the sheath of his dagger, saying to himself: "If I stab anyone
to-day, perhaps this memento of the lady of my thoughts will remain in
the wound."

Michel tried to follow the Piccinino's example, that is to say, to
recover his lucidity of thought by enjoying an hour or two of real
sleep. He had insisted that Mila should go to bed, and, in order to make
surer that she was adequately guarded, he left the door open between
their rooms. He slept heavily, as young men of his age do, but his sleep
was disturbed by confused and distressing dreams, an inevitable
consequence of his present position. When he woke, shortly after
daylight, he tried to collect his thoughts, and first of all he looked
to see if he had not dreamed of the abstraction of the precious
cyclamen.

His surprise was unbounded when he saw that the glass, empty when he
fell asleep, was filled with freshly gathered cyclamens.

"Mila," he said, seeing that his sister was already up and dressed, "you
have cheerful and poetic ideas, I see, despite our anxieties and
dangers. These flowers are almost as lovely as you; but they can never
replace the one I have lost."

"You imagined," she said, "that I had taken it or tipped over the glass
after your extraordinary friend went away; you almost scolded me, and
you refused to remember that I had never so much as thought of putting
my foot inside your _mysterious_ chamber! Now, you accuse me of
replacing it with others, which is no less absurd; for where could I
have got them? Am I not barricaded on the gallery side? Haven't you my
key under your pillow? Unless, indeed, these pretty little flowers grow
on my pillow, which is possible--in a dream."

"Mila, you persist in jesting on all subjects and at all seasons. You
may have had this bouquet last night. Weren't you at Villa Palmarosa in
the afternoon?"

"For heaven's sake, don't these flowers grow anywhere but in Princess
Agatha's boudoir? I understand now why you are so fond of them. Where,
pray, did you pick the one that you looked for so long this morning,
instead of going straight to bed?"

"I picked it in my hair, little one, and I believe that my brains left
my head with it."

"Ah! very good; now I understand why you talk nonsense."

Michel could find out nothing more. Mila was as calm and smiling when
she woke as she had been disturbed and fearful when she fell asleep. He
obtained nothing from her but quips of the sort in which she was
proficient, always possessed of some metaphorical meaning, and instinct
with a sort of childish charm.

She asked him for the key of her room, and while he was dressing, lost
in thought, she attended to her household duties with her usual activity
and lightness of heart. She flew about the corridors and stairways,
singing like the morning lark. Michel, as melancholy as the winter sun
on the ice-fields at the pole, heard the floors creaking under her agile
feet, heard her merry laugh as she received her father's kiss on the
floor below, heard her ascend the stairs to her room, like a well-aimed
arrow, then go down again to the fountain to fill the graceful earthen
jugs, which are made at Siacca, after Moorish models, and are commonly
used by the people of those regions; heard her salute the neighbors with
kindly pleasantries, and play with the half naked children who were
already beginning to roll about on the flagstones in the yard.

Pier-Angelo was also dressing, more rapidly and in more cheerful mood
than Michel. Like Mila, he sang, but in a deeper and more martial voice,
as he shook his brown, red-lined jacket. He was interrupted at times by
a lingering remnant of drowsiness, and yawned over the words of his
ballads, then finished the refrain triumphantly. That was his way of
waking, and he never sang better, in his own ears, than when his voice
failed him.

"Happy heedlessness of truly popular natures!" said Michel to himself,
as he leaned on his window-sill, half-dressed. "One would say that
nothing unusual was taking place in my family, that we were not
surrounded by enemies and snares; that my sister slept as usual last
night, that she knows nothing of love without hope, of the danger of
being beautiful and poor in view of the schemes of vicious minds, and of
the other danger that she may be deprived at any moment of her natural
protectors. My father, who must know everything, acts as if he suspected
nothing. In this wretched climate everything is forgotten or takes on an
entirely different aspect in the twinkling of an eye. The volcano,
tyranny, persecution--nothing interrupts the songs and laughter. At
noon, overwhelmed by the heat, they all sleep and seem like corpses. The
cool evening air revives them like vigorous plants. Terror and rashness,
grief and joy, succeed one another with them like the waves on the
shore. Let one of the chords of the heart be relaxed, and twenty others
wake to new life, just as the taking of a flower from a glass of water
causes a whole bouquet to appear there! I alone, amid these
incomprehensible transformations, am always on the alert, but always
serious; my thoughts are always lucid, but always gloomy. Ah! would that
I had remained the child of my caste and the man of my native land!"




XXXII

THE ESCALADE


The group of houses of which Michel's formed a part was shabby and ugly
in reality, but exceedingly picturesque. Built upon blocks of lava, and
in part constructed of the same lava, those rough structures bore traces
of the last earthquakes which had overturned them. The lower floors,
which were bolted to the solid rock, retained an unmistakable flavor of
antiquity; and the upper portions, erected in haste after the disaster,
or already shaken by later shocks, even now had a decrepit look: huge
cracks, roofs with a threatening pitch, and dangerous staircases, the
rails of which were all awry. Wild vines inextricably tangled about the
ragged protuberances of cornices and awnings, prickly aloes, crushing by
their weight the old terra-cotta urns, and encroaching with their rough
branches upon the little terraces which hovered in the most insane way
upon the highest points of those tumble-down buildings; white linen, or
garments of gaudy hue hanging from all the windows, or flying about like
banners on lines stretched from house to house: all this formed a
strange, bold picture. One could see children playing and women working
almost among the clouds, on narrow platforms surrounded by pigeons and
swallows, and barely protected, away up there in space, by a few black,
worm-eaten rails, which it seemed that the first gust of wind would blow
away. The slightest change of level in that volcanic soil, the slightest
convulsion in that gorgeous but ill-omened landscape, and the torpid or
reckless occupants of those houses would be engulfed in a raging hell,
or swept away as the leaves are by the tempest.

But danger acts upon men's minds in proportion to its distance. In the
midst of actual security, the idea of a catastrophe presents itself
under terror-inspiring colors. When one is born, breathes and lives in
the midst of actual danger, under a never-ceasing threat, the
imagination becomes deadened, fear loses its keen edge, and there ensues
a strange repose of mind which resembles torpor rather than courage.

Although the picture we have described possessed a genuine poetic charm,
in its very shabbiness and its disorder, Michel had not yet detected it.
He had passed his childhood at Rome, in houses more solidly constructed
at all events and of a neater aspect, if not more sumptuous, and his
thoughts always aspired to the splendor of palaces. His father's abode,
that hovel in which Pier-Angelo had lived ever since his childhood, and
to which he had returned with so much love in his heart, seemed to young
Michel nothing more than a pestiferous den which he would have been glad
to see return to the lava from which it had come forth. In vain did
Mila, in marked contrast to her neighbors, keep their little quarters
almost fastidiously neat and clean. In vain was their staircase
embellished with the loveliest flowers. In vain did the bright morning
sun draw broad lines of gold athwart the shadows of the black lava and
upon the heavy arches of the recessed portions of the building. Michel
thought of nothing but the grotto of the naiad, the marble fountains of
the Palmarosa palace, and the porch where Agatha had appeared to him
like a goddess in the doorway of her temple.

At last, after bestowing one regretful thought upon his recent chimera,
he was ashamed of his dejection. "I came to this country, when my father
hadn't sent for me," he said to himself, "and my uncle the monk
convinced me that I must submit to the drawbacks of my position and
accept its duties. I subjected myself to a most severe test when I
turned my back upon Rome and the hope of glory to become an obscure
workingman in Sicily. The test would have been too mild and too short
if, at the outset, being loved or admired at first sight by a great and
noble lady, I had had only to stoop and pick up laurel crowns and
piastres. Instead of that, I must be a good son and a good brother, and,
moreover, a stout-hearted man, to defend at need the honor of my family.
I am well assured that the signora's esteem and my own, perhaps, can be
had only at that price. Very well, I will accept my destiny cheerfully,
and learn to endure without regret what my nearest and dearest endure so
courageously. I will be a man in advance of my years, and lay aside the
overpetted personality of my youth. If I have anything to blush for, it
is for having been a spoiled child so long, and for having failed to see
that it would soon be my duty to assist and protect those who devoted
themselves to me so unselfishly."

This determination restored peace to his heart. His father's songs and
little Mila's seemed to him the sweetest of melodies.

"Yes, yes," he said to himself, "sing on, happy birds of the South, pure
as the sky that looked down upon your birth! This merriment is the
indication of a perfectly clear conscience, and laughter well befits
you, who have never had an idea of evil! Ah! my old father's dear old
ballads, which have allayed the anxieties of his life and lessened the
fatigue of his labor--I should listen to them with respect instead of
smiling at their simplicity! And my young sister's merry laughter I
should welcome with affectionate delight as a proof of her courage and
her innocence! Away with my selfish dreams and my unfeeling curiosity! I
will go through the storm with you, and will enjoy as you do a burst of
sunlight between two clouds. My careworn brow is an insult to your
candor--black ingratitude for your kindness. I propose to be your staff
in distress, your comrade in toil, and your boon companion in joy!

"Sweet and melancholy flowers," he added, stooping fondly over the
bouquet of cyclamen, "whatever hand plucked you, whatever the sentiment
of which you are a pledge, my breath, aflame with evil desires, shall
sully you no more. If I sometimes lay bare my heart, as you do, I pray
that it may be as pure as your calices; and if it bleeds, as you seem to
bleed, I pray that virtue may exhale from its wounds, even as fragrance
exhales from your bosom."

Immediately after forming these excellent resolutions, made more
seductive by this vein of poetic imagery, young Michel completed his
toilet without further dallying, and made haste to join his father, who
was already at work mixing colors to _patch_ the paint at Villa
Palmarosa in many places where it had been marred by the chandeliers and
decorations of the ball.

"Here," said the goodman, handing him a large purse of Tunisian silk,
filled with gold pieces; "here is the pay for your beautiful ceiling."

"It is too much by half," said Michel, examining the beautifully
embroidered and shaded purse with much more interest than its contents.
"Our debt to the princess is not yet discharged, and I propose that it
shall be this very day."

"It is, my child."

"Then it must have been paid out of your wages, not out of mine. For if
I know how to estimate the contents of a purse, there is more here than
I propose to accept. Father, I do not propose that you shall work for
me. No, I swear by your gray hairs that you shall never work for your
son again, for it is his turn to work for you. Nor do I intend to accept
alms from Princess Agatha; I have had enough of such patronage and
generosity."

"You know me well enough," replied Pier-Angelo, with a smile, "to
believe that, far from interfering with your pride and your dutiful
sentiments, I shall always encourage them. Take my advice, therefore,
and accept this money. It is honestly yours; it costs me nothing, and
the person who gives it to you is at liberty to place what estimate she
pleases on the merits of your work. That is the difference that there
will always be between you and your father, Michel. An artist has no
fixed price. A single day of inspiration may make him rich. Whereas, a
deal of hard work is not enough to raise us mechanics out of the slough
of poverty. But God, in His mercy, has given us compensations. The
artist conceives and brings forth his works with much pain. The mechanic
performs his task with laughter and a song. I am so accustomed to that,
that I wouldn't exchange my trade for yours."

"Let me at least derive from mine such pleasure as it is capable of
affording me," said Michel. "Take this purse, father, and let nothing
ever be taken from it for my use. It is my sister's marriage portion; it
is the interest on the money she lent me when I was at Rome; and if I
never earn enough to make her richer, let her at least have the benefit
of my day of success. O father!" he cried, seeing that Pier-Angelo was
unwilling to accept his sacrifice, "do not refuse me; you will break my
heart! Your blind affection has almost corrupted my nature. Help me to
cease to be the selfish creature that you would have made me. Encourage
my good impulses, instead of robbing me of their fruit. It comes only
too late."

"True, my boy, I ought to do it," said Pier-Angelo, deeply touched; "but
consider that this is no mere commonplace sacrifice of money that you
propose to make. If it were simply a matter of depriving yourself of
some little pleasure, it would be of little consequence, and I should
not hesitate. But your artistic future, the cultivation of your
intellect, the very essence of your life, are contained in this little
silk net! It means a year of study in Rome! And who knows when you will
be able to earn as much more? Perhaps the princess won't give any more
balls. The other nobles are neither so rich nor so generous as she. Such
opportunities are not often met with, and are very likely not to happen
twice in a lifetime. I am growing old; I may fall from my ladder
to-morrow and cripple myself; then how would you resume the life of an
artist? Aren't you at all alarmed at the idea that, for the pleasure of
giving your sister a marriage portion, you run the risk of becoming a
mechanic again, and remaining a mechanic all your life?"

"So be it!" exclaimed Michel; "that no longer frightens me, father. I
have reflected. It seems to me that there is as much honor and pleasure
in being a mechanic as in being rich and proud. I love Sicily! Is it not
my native land? I do not propose to leave my sister again. She needs a
protector until she is married, and I propose that she shall be able to
make her choice deliberately. You are old, you say! you may be crippled
to-morrow! Well then! who would take care of you, pray,--who would
support you, who would comfort you,--if I were away? Would it be
possible for my sister to do it when she has a family of her own? A
son-in-law? but why should I leave it for another to fulfill my duties?
Why should he steal my honor and my glory? for this is wherein I choose
to establish them henceforth, and my chimeras have given place to
reality. Tell me, father, am not I, too, in a cheerful mood this
morning? Would you like me to sing a second to the old ballad you were
singing just now? Do I seem to you to have the despairing look of a man
who is sacrificing himself? Do you not love me, I pray to know, that you
refuse to be my employer?"

"Very well!" replied Pier-Angelo, gazing at him with glistening eyes,
and with a trembling of the hands that indicated extraordinary emotion.
"You are a man of heart! and I shall never regret what I have done for
you!"

As he spoke, Pier-Angelo removed his cap, uncovering his bald head, and
stood erect in the attitude, at once proud and respectful, of an old
soldier before his young officer. It was the first time in his life that
he had adopted the more formal mode of address with Michel,[7] and that
change, which might have seemed to denote coldness and dissatisfaction
in other fathers, assumed in his mouth a peculiarly affectionate and
majestic meaning. It seemed to the young painter that he had been hailed
as a man by his father at last, and that that form of address--that
uncovered head and those few calm and serious words--rewarded and
honored him more abundantly than the most eloquent academic eulogy.

While they worked together, Mila busied herself preparing their
breakfast. She went back and forth from one room to another, but passed
more frequently than was absolutely necessary along the gallery of which
we have spoken. She had a secret reason for this. Magnani's chamber,
which, to tell the truth, was only a wretched garret with a window in
which there was no glass--the warm climate making that luxury
unnecessary for people in good health--was at the corner of the house
nearest to the gallery, and by leaning over the rail one could talk with
a person who happened to be sitting at the window of that modest
apartment. Magnani was not in his room; he only passed the night there,
and at daylight went to his work elsewhere, or worked out-of-doors on
the gallery opposite the one on which Mila often sat at her work. From
there she could watch him without looking at him, for hours at a time,
and not lose a single one of his movements, although she did not seem to
lift her eyes from her work.

But on this morning she walked back and forth to no purpose. He was not
on the gallery, although he had promised her, as well as the princess,
not to go away from home. Had he allowed himself to be overcome by
sleep, after two sleepless nights? That was hardly consistent with what
she knew of his stoical determination and of his inexhaustible strength.
Doubtless he was breakfasting with his parents. But Mila, who had
stopped more than once to listen to the tumultuous voices of the Magnani
family, could not distinguish the grave, manly tones which she knew so
well.

She looked at the window of his garret. The room was dark and empty as
usual. Magnani had no luxurious habits as Michel had, and he had always
crushed within himself any craving for refinement in his surroundings.
Whereas Pier-Angelo and his daughter, in anticipation of the cardinal's
death and the young painter's arrival, had made ready for that beloved
child a neat, clean, airy attic chamber, furnished with the best that
they could spare from their own furniture, Magnani slept on a rug thrown
on the floor by his window, to make the most of the little air which
could find its way in through that loophole, recessed as it was between
two walls. The only embellishment which he had introduced consisted of a
box which he had placed on the outer edge of that yawning aperture, and
in which he had sown a few pretty convolvuli which formed a frame of
fresh flowers for the window.

He watered them every day; but during the last forty-eight hours he had
been so engrossed that he had forgotten them; the pretty white bells had
closed and drooped languidly upon their half-withered leaves.

Mila, carrying one of her earthen jugs perched lightly on her head, an
enormous braid of hair thrice twisted acting as a cushion, noticed that
her neighbor's convolvuli were dying of thirst; that would have afforded
a pretext for speaking to him if he had been anywhere about; but there
was nobody in that retired and sheltered corner. Mila tried, by
stretching her arm over the rail, to reach the poor plants and give them
a few drops of water. But her arm was too short, and the jug did not
reach the box. Children cannot bear the impossible, and when they have
undertaken a thing they go on with it at the peril of their lives. How
many times have we climbed upon a window to reach a swallow's nest, and
counted with the tips of our fingers the little warm eggs on their bed
of down!

Little Mila spied a stout branch of grapevine which hung along the wall
like a bell-rope and was twisted about the rail of the gallery. To climb
over the rail and cling to the vine did not seem to her very difficult.
In this way she reached the window. But, as she raised her lovely arm to
water the convolvuli, a strong hand seized her slender wrist, and a
brown face, wearing a smile that displayed two rows of large white
teeth, stooped toward hers.

Magnani, not wishing to sleep, nor, on the other hand, to seem to be
watching what was taking place in the house, as Agatha had ordered, had
lain down on his rug to rest his weary limbs. But his mind and his eyes
were wide open, and, at every risk, he had seized that stealthy arm
whose shadow passed across his face.

"Let me go, Magnani," said the girl, more deeply moved by the meeting
than by the risk she might be incurring; "you will throw me down! this
vine is giving way under me."

"Throw you down, my dear child!" replied the young man, passing a
powerful arm about her waist. "Unless this arm is cut off, and then the
other, you shall never fall!"

"Never? that is saying a good deal, for I love to climb, and you won't
always be with me."

"Happy the man who will be with you always and everywhere, sweet little
Mila! But what are you doing here with the birds?"

"I saw from my window that this lovely plant was thirsty. See how its
pretty head droops and how its leaves are falling. I thought that you
were not here, and I was going to give the poor roots something to
drink. Here is the jug. You can bring it back to me by and by. I am
going back to my work."

"Already, Mila?"

"Especially as I am very uncomfortable perched up here. I have had
enough of it. Let me go, so that I can return the way I came."

"No, no, it is too dangerous. The vine is bending, and my arms aren't
long enough to hold you till you reach the gallery. Let me lift you in
here, Mila, and then you can go out through my chamber."

"I can't do that, Magnani; the neighbors would say unkind things of me,
if they saw me go into your room either by the window or by the door."

"Very well, stay there, hold on tight; I will come out through the
window and help you to go back."

But it was too late: the vine suddenly gave way; Mila shrieked, and if
Magnani had not grasped her with both hands and seated her on the edge
of the window, crushing his dear convolvuli a little in the act, she
would have fallen.

"Now," he said, "my imprudent young lady, you cannot go out any other
way than through my room. Come in quickly, for I hear steps under the
gallery, and no one has seen you yet."

He drew her hastily into his poor room, and she walked to the door as
swiftly as she had come in through the window; but the door was ajar,
and as she looked out she saw that the door of the cobbler's room on the
same landing was wide open, and that the cobbler himself, the most
evil-tongued of all the neighbors, was sitting there, singing over his
work, so that it was impossible to go out without exposing herself to
his unpleasant witticisms.


[Footnote 7: That is to say, had called him _you_ instead of _thou_.]




XXXIII

THE RING


"There!" said the girl, closing the door with a touch of vexation, "the
evil spirit has a grudge against me! Just because I took it into my head
to water a poor flower, I am in danger of being torn to pieces by evil
tongues and scolded by my father--and above all by Michel, who is such a
tease with me!"

"Dear child," said Magnani, "people would not dare to speak of you as
they speak of others; you are so different from all the other girls in
our suburb! Everybody loves you and respects you as no one of them will
ever be loved and respected. Besides, as it is on my account--or rather
on account of my poor flowers--that you have run this risk, you need not
have the slightest fear. Woe to the man who dares to speak ill of you!"

"All the same, I shall never dare to pass that horrible cobbler."

"You are quite right. It is his breakfast time. His wife has called him
twice already. He will go directly. Wait here a few seconds, perhaps a
minute--especially as I should like to say a word to you, Mila."

"What have you to say to me, pray?" she replied, taking a chair which he
offered her, and which was the only one in the room. She was trembling
with violent inward excitement, but she affected a careless air which
her position seemed to impose upon her. It was not that she was afraid
of Magnani; she knew him too well to fear that he would take advantage
of the tête-à-tête; but she feared, more than ever before, that he
would guess the secret of her heart.

"I don't know just what I have to say to you," rejoined Magnani. "It
seemed to me that it would be for you to say something to me."

"I!" cried proud little Mila, rising. "I have nothing to say to you, I
give you my word, Signor Magnani!"

And she was about to leave the room, preferring the gossip of the
neighborhood to the danger of being found out by the man she loved, when
Magnani, surprised by her movement, and observing her sudden flush,
began to suspect the truth.

"Dear Mila," he said, placing himself in front of the door, "one
moment's patience, I beg you. Do not let people see you, and do not be
angry with me if I detain you a moment. The consequences of a pure
accident may be very serious to a man who is determined to kill or be
killed to defend the honor of a woman."

"In that case, do not speak so loud," said Mila, struck by Magnani's
expression; "for that miserable cobbler may overhear us. I know," she
continued, allowing him to lead her back to her chair, "that you are
brave and generous, and that you would do for me what you would do for
your own sister. But I am not anxious that that should happen, for you
are not my brother, and you cannot justify me by fighting my battles.
People would say all the more evil of me, or else we should be compelled
to marry, which would not suit either of us."

Magnani gazed into Mila's black eyes, and, seeing how proud they were,
he speedily renounced the presumptuous idea that had caused him both
fear and pleasure as it flashed through his mind.

"I understand perfectly well that you do not love me, my dear Mila," he
said with a sad smile. "I am not lovable, and it would be the most
melancholy thing on earth, after being compromised by me, to pass your
life with such an unsociable being."

"That is not what I meant to say," replied the crafty maiden. "I have
much esteem and friendship for you; I have no reason for concealing that
fact from you; but I have an inclination for another. That is why I am
so distressed and tremble so at being shut up in this room with you."

"If that is so, Mila," said Magnani, bolting his door and closing the
window-shutter so hastily that he nearly consummated the ruin of his
convolvulus, "let us take all necessary precautions to prevent anyone
knowing that you are here. I swear to you that you shall go out without
anybody suspecting it, though I have to put all the neighbors out of the
way by force--though I have to stand guard until night."

Magnani tried to be playful, and imagined that he was very much relieved
to find that he was not called upon to defend himself against Mila's
love; but it saddened him to hear the girl declare her affection for
another, and his candid face expressed, despite his efforts, a painful
disappointment. Had she not previously confessed it to him during their
long vigil, and had she not by that confidence invested him in a certain
sense with the duties of a brother? He was determined to execute
worthily that sacred mission; but how did it happen that a moment before
it had startled him to see her in anger, and why had his heart,
nourished so long upon an insane and bitter passion, felt suddenly
revivified and rejuvenated by the unexpected presence of this child who
had entered through his window like a sunbeam?

Mila was stealthily watching him. She saw that she had struck home. "O
untamed heart," she said to herself, with silent but intense joy, "I
have you now; you shall not escape me."

"My dear neighbor," said the artful minx, "pray do not be offended at
what I have just told you, and do not look upon it as an affront to your
merit. I know that any other than myself would be flattered to be
compromised by you, with the hope of becoming your wife; but I am
neither a liar nor a flirt. I am in love, and, as I have confidence in
you, I tell you of it. I know that it cannot cause you any pain, since
you have given up all thought of marriage, and since you detest all
women, except a single one who is not myself."

Magnani made no reply. The cobbler was still singing. "It is my fate,"
thought Magnani, "not to be loved by any woman and never to be cured of
my love."

Mila, inspired by that species of divination which love gives to women,
even to those who have had no experience and have read but little, said
to herself--and justly--that Magnani, being stimulated in his passion by
suffering and absence of hope, would be alarmed and repelled at the idea
of love being offered to him unasked--a too-ready, alluring love;
consequently she represented herself as invulnerable and protected
against him by another attachment. In that way she lured him by making
him suffer, and that was, in truth, the only way in which he could be
lured. By changing the form of his torture, she paved the way for his
cure.

"Mila," he said to her at last, pointing to a heavy ring of chased gold
which he wore on his finger, and which she had already noticed, "can you
tell me the source of this beautiful present?"

"That?" she said, looking at the ring with feigned astonishment. "It is
impossible for me to tell you anything about it. But I no longer hear
your neighbor; farewell. By the way, Magnani, you look very tired. You
were resting when I came in; you would do well to rest a little more.
None of us are in any danger at this moment. I am not, because my father
and brother are about the house. They are not, because it is broad
daylight and the house is full of people. Sleep, my dear neighbor. If it
is only for an hour, that will give you strength to go on with your
rôle of guardian of the family."

"No, no, Mila. I shall not sleep, and, indeed, I have no desire to; for,
say what you will, there are some strange, inexplicable things still
going on in this house. I confess that I lost myself a moment, just as
day was breaking. You were asleep; you were locked into your room; the
man in the cloak had gone. I had sat down under your gallery, saying to
myself that the first step that shook it would wake me instantly if I
should happen to fall asleep. And thereupon I did actually fall asleep.
For five minutes perhaps, not more, for it was not perceptibly lighter
when I woke again. Well! when I opened my eyes, I fancied that I saw a
corner of a dress or a black veil, which flitted by me and disappeared
like a flash. I made a vague, fruitless effort to seize that vision with
the hand that lay half open on the bench at my side. But in my hand, or
beside it--I don't know which--was an object which I dropped at my feet,
and instantly picked up again: it was this ring. Have you any idea to
whom it belongs?"

"Such a fine ring cannot belong to anyone in the house," Mila replied;
"but I think I know it."

"And I know it, too," said Magnani; "it belongs to Princess Agatha. For
five years I have seen it on her finger, and it was there the day she
came into my mother's room."

"It is a ring that came to her from her own mother, she told me so! But
how does it happen to be on your hand to-day?"

"I relied upon you to explain that prodigy to me, Mila; that is what I
wanted to ask you."

"Upon me? Why upon me?"

"You are the only one in this house in whom the princess is sufficiently
interested to have given her so handsome a present."

"And if she had given it to me," she said, in a superb and mocking tone,
"do you suppose that I would have deprived myself of it in your favor,
Signor Magnani?"

"No, surely not; you should not and would not have done it; but you
might have passed along the gallery and dropped it, for I was just under
the rail."

"No, I did not! Besides, didn't you see a black dress beside you? Am I
dressed in black?"

"I thought, however, that you might have gone down into the yard during
that moment that I was asleep, and that, to punish me or to make sport
of me, you played that joke on me. If that is the case, Mila, you must
agree that the punishment was too light, and you ought to have poured
water on my face instead of keeping it for my flowers. But take your
ring, I don't want to keep it any longer. It wouldn't be a suitable
thing for me to wear, and I should be afraid of losing it."

"I swear to you that that ring was never given to me, that I did not go
into the yard while you were asleep; and I will not take what belongs to
you."

"As it is impossible that Princess Agatha should have come here this
morning----"

"Oh! to be sure, that is impossible!" said Mila, with mischievous
gravity.

"And yet she did come here!" said Magnani, thinking that he could read
the truth in her gleaming eyes. "Yes, yes, Mila, she came here this
morning! You are impregnated with the perfume that her clothes exhale;
either you touched her cape, or she kissed you, not more than an hour
ago."

"Great heaven!" thought the girl, "how well he knows everything that has
any connection with Princess Agatha! how shrewdly he guesses, when she
is in question! Suppose it were she with whom he is in love? Well! God
grant that it may be, for she will help me to cure him; she loves me so
dearly!"

"You don't answer me, Mila," continued Magnani. "Since you are found
out, confess."

"I do not even know what you said," she replied; "I was thinking about
something else--about going away!"

"I will help you; but first I will beg you to put this ring on your
finger so that you may return it to Princess Agatha; for she surely lost
it when she passed me."

"And supposing that she did come here, which is absurd, my dear
neighbor, why should she not have made you this present?"

"Because she must know me well enough to be sure that I would not accept
it."

"You are proud!"

"Very proud, you have said it, my dear Mila! It is not in the power of
any person to put a material price on the devotion which my heart gives
joyfully. I can conceive that a great nobleman may present a gold chain
or a diamond to the artist who has delighted him for an hour by his
genius, but I could never understand why he should want to pay the man
of the people from whom he feels justified in asking a proof of
affection. Moreover, that would not be the case here. In notifying me
that your brother was in some danger, Princess Agatha simply pointed out
to me a duty, which I should have performed as zealously if anyone else
had given me the same warning. It seems to me that I am sufficiently her
friend and your father's, and I might also venture to say yours, to be
ready to stand guard, to fight, and to go to prison for one of you,
without being hired to do so by anyone. Don't you believe it, Mila?"

"I do believe it, my friend," she replied; "but I believe also that you
misinterpret this gift altogether, if it is a gift. Princess Agatha
knows better than you or I that friendship is not to be bought with
money and jewels. But she probably feels, as you and I do, that when
friendly hearts unite to aid one another, esteem and sympathy increase
in proportion to the zeal which each one displays. In many cases a ring
is a pledge of friendship, not payment for service rendered; for you
have rendered the princess a service by protecting us, that is certain;
although I do not know how it comes about, her cause is bound up with
ours, and our enemies are hers. If you reflect on what I have told you,
you will realize that this ring has a sentimental value in the
princess's eyes, not a material value, as you say; for it is a trinket
not especially valuable in itself."

"You told me that it came to her from her mother, did you not?" said
Magnani, deeply moved.

"And you yourself noticed that she always wore it! If I were in your
place, and were sure that that ring had been given to me, I would never
part with it. I would not wear it on my finger, where it would attract
too much attention from envious creatures, but on my heart, where it
would be like a blessed relic."

"In that case, my dear Mila," said Magnani, touched by the extreme
delicacy with which the girl tried to allay the bitterness of his heart,
and to make him accept her rival's gift with pleasure, "in that case,
take this ring back to her, and if she really meant to give it to me, if
she insists upon my keeping it, I will keep it."

"And you will wear it on your heart as I told you?" asked Mila, looking
him through and through with courageous but anxious eyes. "Remember,"
she added, vehemently, "that it is the pledge of a patron saint; that
the woman whom you love, whoever she may be, cannot deserve that you
should sacrifice it to her, and that it would be far better to throw it
into the sea than to profane it by an act of ingratitude!"

Magnani was dazzled by the flame that flashed from Mila's great black
eyes. Did she guess the truth? Perhaps! but if she simply relied upon
Magnani's gratitude for the woman who had saved his mother, she was no
less noble and generous in seeking to procure for him the pleasure of
believing in that good fairy's friendship. He began to feel infected by
the chaste and deep-rooted ardor which she carried concealed in her
heart, and that proud and passionate heart revealed itself against its
will, amid its efforts to subdue itself or to keep quiet.

An impulsive outburst of gratitude and tenderness brought Magnani to his
knees at the girl's feet.

"Mila," he said, "I know that Princess Agatha is a saint, and I do not
know whether my heart is worthy to receive a relic from her. But I do
know that there is but a single other heart in the world to which I
would be willing to entrust it; so never fear; no woman, except you,
will ever seem to me pure enough to wear this ring. Put it on your
finger now, in order to give it back to the princess or to keep it for
me."

Mila, when she had returned to her room, had a moment's dizziness, as if
she were going to faint. Her heart throbbed wildly with mingled feelings
of consternation and delirious joy. At last she heard her father, who
was impatient for his breakfast, crying:

"Well, little one, we are hungry, and thirsty above all! for it's hot
already and the paints make your throat dry."

Mila hastened to wait upon them; but when she placed her jug on the
table at which they were breakfasting, she noticed that it was empty.
Michel offered to go and refill it, after making fun of her
absent-mindedness. Sensitive to the reproof, and making it a point of
honor to be her old father's only servant, Mila snatched the jug from
him and ran lightly to the fountain.

This fountain was a beautifully clear spring which gushed from the very
heart of the lava, in a soft of cliff behind the house. It not
infrequently happens in those regions overrun by lava, that springs
become choked up by volcanic matter and disappear, to appear again after
the lapse of several years. The people dig in search of the former bed.
They find that the water has broken out a passage under the cold fires
of the volcano, and, as soon as it is given an opportunity, it rushes to
the surface, as pure and healthful as before. The one which bathed the
base of Pier-Angelo's house bubbled up at the bottom of a deep
excavation that had been made in the rock, to which a picturesque
staircase led. It formed a little basin for the laundresses, and a
quantity of white linen, hung upon all the walls of the grotto, kept it
constantly dark and cool there. Pretty Mila, as she tripped up and down
that steep staircase ten times a day, with her jug upon her head, was a
most perfect model for those classical figures which the painters of the
last century inevitably placed in all their Italian landscapes; and in
truth what more natural accessory, what more charming _local color_
could one give to those pictures than the faces and costumes, the
majestic yet sprightly attitudes of those graceful, brown nymphs?




XXXIV

AT THE FOUNTAIN


When Mila descended the staircase cut in the rock, she saw a man sitting
on the edge of the spring, but was not alarmed. Her heart was all full
of love and hope, and the recollection of the dangers that threatened
her was powerless to affect her. Even when she reached the brink of the
spring, this man, whose back was turned to her, and whose head and body
were enveloped in the long hooded cape which the common people wear,[8]
did not arouse her suspicions; but when he turned and asked her in a
soft voice if she would permit him to drink from her jug, she started;
for it seemed to her that she recognized the voice, and she noticed that
there was no one in sight, either above or below the fountain; that not
a child was playing on the staircase as usual, in fact, that she was
alone with this stranger, whose voice terrified her.

She pretended not to have heard him, hastily filled her jug, and
prepared to go up again. But the stranger, reclining on the stones,
either to bar her way or perhaps to rest more comfortably, said to her
in the same caressing tone:

"Rebecca, will you refuse a drop of water to Jacob, the friend and
servant of the family?"

"I do not know you," replied Mila, trying to assume a calm and
indifferent tone. "Can you not put your lips to the cascade? You can
drink from it much better than from a jug."

The stranger calmly passed his arms around Mila's legs, and compelled
her to lean on his shoulder to avoid falling.

"Let me go," she said, terrified and angry, "or I will call for help. I
have no time to jest with you, and I am not one of those who dally with
every strange man they see. Let me go, I tell you, or I will shriek."

"Mila," said the unknown, throwing back his hood, "I am no stranger to
you, although it is not long since we became acquainted. We have
relations together which it is not in your power to break off, and which
it is your duty not to refuse to recognize. The life, fortune, and honor
of those who are dearest to you on earth rest on my zeal and my loyalty.
I have something to say to you; give me your jug, so that if anyone is
watching it will not seem unnatural that you should have stopped here a
moment with me."

On recognizing the mysterious guest of the previous night, Mila was
subjugated as it were by a sort of dread not unmingled with respect. For
we must tell the whole truth: Mila was a woman, and the Piccinino's
beauty, his youth, his expression and his soft voice did not fail to
exert a secret influence upon her sensitive and slightly romantic
instincts.

"My lord," she said to him, for it was impossible not to take him for a
nobleman in disguise, "I will obey you; but do not detain me by force,
and speak more quickly, for this situation is not without danger to us
both."

She handed him her jug, from which he drank without haste; for,
meanwhile, he held the girl's lovely bare arm in his hand and gazed upon
its beautiful shape, pressing it at the same time to force her to tip
the jug gradually, as he quenched his real or pretended thirst.

"Now, Mila," he said, covering his face, which he had left uncovered for
her to admire, "listen to me! The monk who frightened you yesterday will
come here again as soon as your father and brother have gone out: they
are to dine to-day with the Marquis della Serra. Do not try to keep them
at home on any account; if they should stay at home, if they should see
the monk, if they should try to drive him away, it would be the signal
for some disaster which I could not prevent. If you are prudent and
devoted to your family, you will even spare the monk the danger of
showing himself in your house. You will come here as if to wash; I know
that, before going into the house, he will prowl about here and will try
to surprise you outside of your yard, for he is afraid of the neighbors.
Do not be afraid of him; he is a coward, and he will never attempt to
use violence with you in broad daylight, or when he is in any danger of
being discovered. He will talk to you again of his ignoble desires. Cut
the conversation short; but pretend that you have changed your mind.
Tell him to go away because you are watched; but make an appointment
with him for twenty o'clock[9] at a place which I will indicate, and
whither you must go alone, an hour earlier. I will be there. You will
run no risk therefore. I will take charge of the monk, and you will
never hear of him again. You will be delivered from a detestable
persecutor, Princess Agatha will no longer be in danger of being
dishonored by shocking calumnies; your father will no longer have the
threat of imprisonment hanging over him, and your brother Michel that of
the assassin's dagger."

"Great God! great God!" said Mila, panting with fear and surprise, "this
monk is so ill-disposed toward us and able to injure us so! Is he Abbé
Ninfo?"

"Speak lower, girl, and do not let that accursed name reach the ears
that surround you to-day. Be calm; seem to know nothing and to be doing
nothing. If you say a word of all this to anybody, no matter who it may
be, you will be prevented from saving those whom you love. You will be
told to distrust me, because your own prudence and strength of will are
distrusted. Who knows if I shall not be taken for your enemy? I am not
afraid of anyone, but I am afraid that my friends will destroy
themselves by their indecision. You alone can save them, Mila! Will you
do it?"

"Yes, I will," she said; "but what will become of me if you are
deceiving me? if you do not keep the appointment?"

"Why, don't you know who I am?"

"No, I do not know; no one was willing to tell me."

"Look at me, then; venture to examine me carefully, and you will know me
better from my face than all those people do who have spoken to you
about me."

He put aside his hood, and was able to give to his handsome face so
reassuring and affectionate and gentle an expression, that the
simple-hearted Mila yielded to its dangerous influence.

"It seems to me," she said, with a blush, "that you are kind and honest;
if the devil is in you, he has put on the mask of an angel."


[Illustration: _MILA SURPRISED AT THE FOUNTAIN._

_She handed him her jug, from which he drank
without haste; for, meanwhile, he held the girl's
lovely bare arm in his hand and gazed upon its
beautiful shape, pressing it at the same time to force
her to tip the jug gradually, as he quenched his real
or pretended thirst._]


The Piccinino closed his hood to conceal the sensuous gratification
afforded him by that artless confession from the loveliest lips in the
world.

"Very well," he replied, "follow your instinct. Obey only the promptings
of your heart; let me tell you, moreover, that your uncle at Bel Passo
brought me up as his son, that your dear Princess Agatha has placed her
fortune and her honor in my hands, and that, if she were not a woman,
that is to say a bit of a prude, she would have made this most essential
appointment with Abbé Ninfo."

"But I am a woman too," said Mila, "and I am afraid. Why is this
appointment so essential?"

"Don't you know that I am to kidnap Abbé Ninfo? How can I seize him in
the streets of Catania, or at the gates of Villa Ficarazzi? Must I not
lure him out of his den, and lead him into a trap? His evil fate
ordained that he should fall insanely in love with you."

"Oh! don't use the word love in connection with such a man; it makes me
shudder. And you want me to make a pretence of encouraging him! I shall
die of shame and disgust."

"Farewell, Mila," said the bandit, pretending to rise. "I see that you
are a woman like other women, after all, a weak, vain creature, who
thinks only of saving herself, utterly heedless of the calumnies and
blows that may fall upon the heads which should be most sacred to her!"

"No, no, I am not like that!" she replied proudly. "I will sacrifice my
life in this experiment; as for my honor, I shall find a way to die
before it is stained."

"Good, good, my brave girl! Now you are talking as Fra Angelo's niece
should talk. You see that I am perfectly undisturbed on your account,
however, because I know that you are in no danger."

"But are not you in danger, my lord? If you fall, who will protect me
against this monk?"

"A dagger thrust--not in your beautiful bosom, my poor angel, as you
threaten, but in the throat of a vile beast, who is not worthy to die by
a woman's hand, and who will never expose himself to that risk."

"Where must I agree to meet him?"

"At Nicolosi, at the house of Carmelo Tomabene, farmer, who, you will
tell him, is your friend and kinsman. You will add that he is absent,
that you have the keys of his house, and that there is a large sheltered
garden which he can enter, unseen by anyone, by going down through the
ravine of the _Destatore's Cross_. Can you remember all that?"

"Perfectly; and will he go?"

"He will go without any doubt, and without a suspicion that this Carmelo
Tomabene is on very intimate terms with a certain Piccinino, who is said
to be a leader of bandits, and to whom, only yesterday, he offered a
princely fortune on condition that he would kidnap your brother and at
need murder him."

"Blessed Madonna, protect me! The Piccinino! I have heard of him; he is
a terrible man. Will he be there with you? I should die of fright if I
saw him!"

"And yet," said the bandit, overjoyed to find that Mila knew so little
of what was going on, "I will wager that, like all the girls in the
neighborhood, you are dying with the longing to see him."

"I should rather like to see him, because they say he is so ugly! But I
should want to be sure that he did not see me!"

"Never fear; there will be nobody but myself at the farmer's house in
Nicolosi. Tell me, are you afraid of me too, child that you are? Have I
a very dreadful, very wicked look?"

"No, indeed you have not! But why must I keep the appointment? Won't it
be enough if I send the abbé--I mean the monk?"

"He is suspicious, like all criminals; he will never go into Carmelo
Tomabene's garden unless he sees you walking there all alone. By going
there an hour in advance of the time fixed, you run no risk of meeting
him on the road; at all events, go by the Bel Passo road, which you
probably know better than the other. Have you ever been to Nicolosi?"

"Never, my lord; is it a very long way?"

"Too far for your little feet, Mila; but you can cling to a mule's back,
can't you?"

"Oh! yes, I think so."

"You will find a perfectly safe, gentle beast behind Villa Palmarosa. A
child will bring it to you, with a white rose for countersign. Drop the
reins on the trusty creature's neck, and have no fear, but let him go as
fast as he will. In less than an hour he will bring you to my gate,
without once missing the way or taking a false step, however horrible
the road he selects may seem to you. You won't be afraid, Mila?"

"And suppose I should meet the abbé?"

"Lash your beast, and don't be afraid that anyone will overtake you."

"But if I am to go by way of Bel Passo, you will surely allow my uncle
to escort me?"

"No, your uncle has business elsewhere for the same good cause; but, if
you notify him, he will insist upon accompanying you. If he sees you, he
will follow you, and our whole undertaking will have come to naught. I
have no time to tell you more. I think that I hear some one calling you.
You hesitate; does that mean that you refuse?"

"I am not hesitating; I will go! My lord, do you believe in God?"

This abrupt and ingenuous question made the Piccinino turn pale and
smile at the same time.

"Why do you ask me that?" he said, pulling his hood over his face.

"Ah! you know why?" said she. "God hears and sees everything. He
punishes falsehood and assists innocence!"

Again they heard Pier-Angelo's voice, calling his daughter.

"Go," said the Piccinino, supporting her with his hands, to assist her
to mount the staircase quickly; "remember, if a single word escapes you,
we are lost."

"You too?"

"I too!"

"That would be a pity," thought Mila, turning at the top of the
staircase to cast a last glance at the comely stranger, of whom it was
impossible not to make a hero and a friend of the first order, and whom,
in her joyous imagination, she placed beside Agatha. He had such a soft
voice and such a sweet smile! His tone was so noble, his authoritative
air so convincing! "I will be brave and discreet," she said. "I am only
a little girl, and yet I am the one who is to save everybody's life!" In
all times, alas! the sparrow has yielded to the fascination of the
vulture.

In all this the Piccinino gave way to an inborn passion for increasing
the difficulties of an adventure to his profit, or simply for amusement.
To be sure, he had no better way of enticing Abbé Ninfo to his house
than by offering a bait to his lust. But he might well have chosen some
other woman than the innocent Mila to play, with the aid of some slight
resemblance or of a similar costume, the part of the person who was to
appear in his garden. The abbé was sometimes insultingly suspicious,
because he was a horrible coward; but, blinded by ridiculous
presumption, and impelled by lecherous impatience, he would have fallen
into the trap. A little violence, a man stationed behind the gate, would
have sufficed to place him in the bandit's hands. There were many other
ruses to which the Piccinino was accustomed to resort, and which might
have succeeded as well; for the abbé, with all his scheming, his
inquisitiveness, his incessant espionage, his impudent falsehoods and
his shameless persistence, was a villain of the lowest order, and the
stupidest and least adroit man on earth. People are too much afraid of
knaves as a general rule; they do not know that the majority of them are
fools. Abbé Ninfo would not have had to take half the trouble to do
twice the harm, if he had had ever so little intelligence and real
penetration.

For instance, we have seen that he was always beside the truth in his
discoveries. He had assumed innumerable disguises and invented a
thousand time-worn methods of watching what was taking place at Villa
Palmarosa; and he was thoroughly persuaded that Michel was the
princess's lover. He was a hundred leagues from suspecting the nature of
the tie between them. He might easily have deceived Doctor Recuperati,
whose unswerving uprightness lacked foresight and intelligence; and yet,
desiring to steal the will from him, he had delayed from day to day, and
had never succeeded in gaining his confidence in the slightest degree.
It was impossible for him to play for five minutes the rôle of a
well-meaning man, his face bore so unmistakably the stamp of unalloyed
and unbounded baseness.

His vices embarrassed him, as he himself admitted, even proclaimed, when
he was intoxicated. Dissolute, avaricious, and so intemperate that he
fuddled his brain when lucidity was most essential to him, he had
conducted a difficult intrigue to a successful end. The cardinal had for
a long time made use of him as a police agent for whom no task was too
vile, and he had never valued him except as a tool of the lowest order.
In his days of cynical wit, the prelate had branded him with an epithet
which we shall not attempt to translate, and from which he had never
been able to rise.

Thus he had had no share in the family affairs and secrets of State
which had filled the life of Monsignor Hieronymo. The contempt which he
inspired in his master had survived his loss of memory, and the aged
prelate, paralyzed and almost in his dotage, was not even afraid of him,
and recovered the power of speech with him only to call him by the
degrading sobriquet which he had previously bestowed on him.

Another proof of the abbé's idiocy was his cherished conviction that he
could seduce all the women who aroused his desires.

"With a little money and a lot of lies," he would say, "with threats,
compliments and promises, a man can obtain the proudest or the humblest
of them."

Consequently he flattered himself that he could obtain a share of
Agatha's fortune by effecting the removal of the man whom he presumed to
be her lover. He was capable of but one thing, of placing Michel at the
muzzle of a bandit's gun, and shouting _fire_! in a moment of
disappointed vanity and greed; he would not have dared to kill him
himself, just as he would not have dared to do violence to Mila, if she
had threatened him with nothing more than a pair of scissors.

But, abject wretch that he was, he had a certain power for evil; it did
not spring from him, the villainy of other men had invested him with it.
The Neapolitan police lent him its dastardly and odious assistance when
he requested it. He had caused many innocent victims to be exiled,
ruined, or cast into dungeons, and he might very well have seized Michel
without having recourse to the brigands of the mountain. But he wished
to be able to surrender him, at need, for a heavy ransom, and he wished
to have the terms of ransom discussed by avowed brigands, whose interest
it would be not to betray him. His whole rôle consisted in seeking out
the _bravi_ and saying to them: "I have discovered a love intrigue which
is worth something. Do the job, and we will divide the profits."

But herein again he had been gulled. A shrewd _bravo_, who _worked_ in
the city under the Piccinino's direction, and who would not have
presumed to do anything without consulting him, had deceived the abbé
by inviting him to a rendezvous at which he had not seen the real
Piccinino, who was present, however, behind a partition. The Piccinino
had thereupon threatened to break the head of the first of the two
accomplices who should say a word or take a step without orders from
him, and they knew that he was a man to keep his word. Indeed, the young
adventurer governed his band with such extraordinary skill, with a
mixture of gentleness and despotism so well blended, that his father had
not been so loved and dreaded as he was, although, to be sure, he had
acted upon a larger scale and his enterprises had been more extensive.
He could be perfectly at ease, therefore; his secrets would not have
been revealed under torture, and he was able to gratify the caprice
which he frequently had, of carrying out entirely alone, without a
confidant and without assistance, an undertaking in which he had no need
of using main force, but only of craft and strategy.

That is why the Piccinino, sure of the success of his plan, which was of
the simplest, chose to blend with it, on his own account, poetic,
strange, and romantic incidents, or real passions, according to his
whim. His vivid imagination and his cold nature involved him constantly
in contradictory enterprises, from which he was always able to extricate
himself, thanks to his great intelligence and his self-control. He had
always sailed his craft so skilfully that, outside of his accomplices
and the very small number of his intimate friends, no one could have
proved that the famous captain, Piccinino, natural son of the
_Destatore_, and the placid villager Carmelo Tomabene were one and the
same man. The latter also was supposed to be a son of Castro-Reale; but
there were so many others in the mountains who prided themselves upon
that perilous origin!


[Footnote 8: It is a double woolen _surtout_, of several different
colors inside and out. It is worn as a protection against the sun's heat
as well as against the cold.]

[Footnote 9: That is to say, four hours before nightfall.]




XXXV

THE COAT OF ARMS


Thus the one really formidable enemy of the Lavoratori family, had he
chosen to assume that character, was the Piccinino; but Mila had no
suspicion of it, and Fra Angelo relied upon that element of heroism
which formed, if we may so express it, half of his ward's character. The
worthy monk was not free from anxiety, none the less; he had hoped that
he would soon see him again, and have an opportunity to make sure of his
disposition in the matter: but he had waited and sought in vain. He was
beginning to wonder if he had not turned the wolf into the sheepfold,
and if it were not a great mistake to act in concert with men who were
capable of doing what one would not be willing to do oneself.

He went to Villa Palmarosa at the usual hour for the daily siesta, and
found Agatha preparing to enjoy the delights of that moment of repose so
essential to Southern peoples.

"Set your mind at rest, my dear padre," she said, "my anxiety vanished
with the daylight. At dawn I was so far from confident concerning your
ward's purposes, that I went myself to make sure that he had not
murdered Michel during the night. But the child was sleeping quietly and
the Piccinino had already gone."

"You went yourself to investigate, signora? What will the people in the
suburb say of such a proceeding?"

"They will never know anything about it, I trust. I was alone and on
foot, entirely covered by an old-fashioned _mazzaro_[10] and, if I met
any persons who know me, they certainly did not recognize me. However,
my good padre, I no longer have any serious fears. The abbé knows
nothing."

"You are sure of it?"

"I am perfectly sure, and the cardinal is as incapable of remembering
anything whatsoever, as the doctor represented him to be. Nevertheless,
the abbé has evil projects on hand. Would you believe that he supposes
Michel to be my lover?"

"And the Piccinino believed it?" said the monk, in dismay.

"He believes it no longer," replied Agatha. "I received a note from him
this morning in which he gives me his word that I can be perfectly at
ease; that the abbé will be in his power in the course of the day, and
that until then he will find a way to keep him so busy that we shall
hear nothing from him. So I breathe freely, and have only one subject of
anxiety; that is, to know how I am to escape the intimacy of Captain
Piccinino hereafter, for he threatens to become too attentive. But we
will talk of that later; sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof;
and if, after all, it should become necessary for me to tell him the
truth--You do not think him the man to abuse it, do you?"

"I know that he is the man to pretend that he proposes to take advantage
of and abuse every opportunity; but have the courage to treat him always
as a paragon of sincerity and generosity, and you will see that he will
try to live up to the character, and will do it, in spite of the devil."

The princess and the Capuchin talked together for a long while, and
mutually informed each other of all that they knew. After which, Fra
Angelo went down to Catania to cancel Magnani's orders, to make another
appointment with him to meet Agatha, and to take his place as escort to
Michel and his father to the Marquis della Serra's palace; for, in spite
of everything, Fra Angelo did not like the idea of their being alone in
the country, so long as he himself had not seen the _Destatore's_ son.

We will follow these three members of the Lavoratori family to the
marquis's villa, leaving Mila in anxious expectation of the monk's
visit, while Magnani, working on the gallery opposite her room, was far
from suspecting that, after asking his assistance, she was watching for
an opportunity to steal out of sight. She had promised her father to go
and dine with her friend Nenna, as soon as she had washed and ironed a
veil which she said that she must have to wear. Everything happened as
her unknown friend had predicted. She saw the monk at the fountain, and
had no need to feign a most intense fear of being taken by surprise, for
she asked herself in dire distress what Magnani would think of her if,
after what she had told him, he should see her voluntarily talking with
that miserable wretch.

To avoid the necessity of speaking to him and looking at his disgusting
face, she tossed him a written paper which he read with the utmost
delight; then he went away, throwing her kisses which made her quiver
with disgust and indignation.

At that moment her father, brother, and uncle, having no shadow of
suspicion of the perils to which the poor child was about to expose
herself for them, entered the Della Serra palace. That sumptuous
dwelling, more modern than that of Palmarosa, from which it was
separated only by their respective great parks and a narrow valley
covered with gardens and grass, was filled with artistic objects,
statues, urns, and magnificent paintings, which the marquis had
collected with the enthusiasm of an earnest and enlightened connoisseur.
He came forward in person to meet the Angelos, shook hands with them
cordially, and, pending the dinner-hour, took them all over his noble
residence, showing to them and explaining courteously, and with no less
wit than good sense, the masterpieces of art with which it was
embellished. Pier-Angelo, although a simple decorator, had excellent
taste, and a due appreciation of the beautiful in art. He was peculiarly
susceptible to the charm of all those marvellous things with which he
was already familiar, and his artless yet profound reflections enlivened
the most serious conversation instead of lowering its tone. Michel was a
little embarrassed at first in the marquis's presence; but as he soon
discovered that his father's natural and unconstrained manner seemed to
a man of sense like the marquis in unexceptionable taste and most
becoming, he felt more at ease; and finally, when he found himself
sitting at a table laden with silver plate, decorated as handsomely and
with as great an abundance of flowers as for the entertainment of the
most illustrious guests, he forgot his prejudices, and talked as freely
and interestingly as if he had been the marquis's own son or nephew.

A single thing disturbed him strangely during the dinner: the expression
and attitude which he attributed to the marquis's servants; I say which
he attributed, because he dared not look at them. He had dined many a
time at the tables of the rich when he was in Rome, especially after his
father returned to Catania, and he no longer had a family to keep him at
home and prevent his seeking the society of the fashionable youth of the
city. So that he did not fear any affront for himself; but, as it was
the first time that he and his father had been invited to dine abroad
with a patrician, he suffered torments at the idea that the lackeys
might shrug their shoulders and pass the dishes rudely to the excellent
old man.

In truth those lackeys might well have had a feeling of anger and
contempt, having seen Pier-Angelo on his ladder so many times in that
same palace, and treated him as their equal.

Nevertheless, whether because the marquis had prepared them by a word or
two of kindly and straightforward explanation calculated to flatter and
soothe the sensitive self-love of men of that class, or because
Pier-Angelo was so great a favorite with all who knew him that even
footmen laid aside their customary pride in his favor, they served him
with much deference. Michel observed it at last, when his father,
turning to an old servant who was filling his glass, said to him with a
smile:

"Many thanks, old fellow; you wait on me like a friend. I'll do as much
for you when I have the chance."

Michel flushed and glanced at the marquis, who smiled with a touched and
gratified air. The old servant also smiled at Pier-Angelo with a
friendly glance.

After the dessert was removed, the marquis was informed that Master
Barbagallo, the princess's majordomo, was waiting in one of the rooms of
the palace to show him a picture. They found him in conference with Fra
Angelo, whose sobriety and restless activity made him impatient of a
long sitting at table, and who had asked leave to walk about the grounds
immediately after the first course.

At first, the marquis went alone to Barbagallo, to ask if he had any
private message for him from the princess; and when they had exchanged
in an undertone a few words which seemed to be of no importance, to
judge by their faces, the marquis returned to Michel and said, putting
his arm through his:

"Perhaps it will afford you some pleasure to see my family portraits,
which are in a separate gallery, and which I had forgotten to show you.
Don't be alarmed at the multitude of ancestors assembled under my roof.
You can look them over at a glance, and I will call your attention
particularly only to those which are the work of some great master.
However, it is an interesting collection of costumes, which a historical
painter might consult with advantage. But, before going in, let us cast
a glance at this one which Master Barbagallo has brought to us, having
just disinterred it in the lofts of Villa Palmarosa.--My dear child," he
added, in a low voice, "pray bestow a greeting on the poor majordomo,
who is outdoing himself in reverences, being ashamed, doubtless, of his
behavior to you at the princess's ball."

Michel at last noticed the majordomo's advances, and replied to them
without resentment. Since he had become reconciled to his position and
to himself, he felt that he was cured of his over-sensitiveness, and
believed, with his father, that no impertinence can reach the man who
possesses his own esteem.

"This which I present to your excellency," said the majordomo to the
marquis, "is a very much dilapidated Palmarosa; but, although the
inscription had almost disappeared, I have succeeded in deciphering it,
and here it is on a bit of paper."

"What!" said the marquis, with a smile, "you succeeded in reading that
this swashbuckler was a captain in the reign of King Manfred, and that
he accompanied John of Procida to Constantinople? That is wonderful. For
myself, I read the original inscription with the eyes of faith!"

"You can be perfectly sure that I am not mistaken," replied Barbagallo.
"I knew this gallant captain well, and I have been trying for a long
time to find his portrait."

Pier-Angelo roared with laughter.

"Ah! so you lived in those days!" he said; "I knew that you were older
than I am, Master Barbagallo, but I didn't suppose that you saw our
Sicilian Vespers!"

"Would that I had not seen it!" exclaimed Fra Angelo, with a sigh.

"I must explain Master Barbagallo's learning, and the interest he takes
in my family gallery," said the marquis to Michel. "He has passed his
life in this labor of patience, and no one is so familiar as he with
Sicilian genealogies. My family was connected by marriage in the past
with the Princess of Palmarosa's, and even more closely with the family
of Castro-Reale, of which you have doubtless heard."

"I heard a great deal about it yesterday," replied Michel, with a smile.

"Very good; when I became the last heir of that family, after the death
of the famous prince known as the _Destatore_, all that came to me by
that succession--to which I gave very little thought, I promise you--was
a collection of ancestors which I did not even care to unpack, but which
Master Barbagallo, being enamored of curios of that sort, took pains to
clean and classify, and to hang in their proper order in the gallery you
are about to inspect. There were already in that gallery, in addition to
my own direct ancestors, a goodly number of ancestors of the Palmarosa
line, and Princess Agatha, who cares nothing for collections of the
sort, sent me hers, saying that it would be better to collect them in a
single place. That gave Master Barbagallo a very long and difficult
task, which he executed with honor to himself. Come, all of you, for I
have many characters to present to Michel, and it may be that he will
need his father's and uncle's assistance to hold his own against so many
dead men."

"I retire, in order not to impose my presence upon your lordships," said
Master Barbagallo, after accompanying them to the gallery to deposit his
Sicilian captain; "I will return some other time to put my picture in
place; unless the signor marquis desires that I should give Master
Michelangelo Lavoratori, whose very humble servant I am to-day and
always, the history of the originals of these portraits."

"What, signor majordomo," laughed Michel, "you know the story of all
these characters? There are more than three hundred of them!"

"There are five hundred and thirty, your lordship, and I not only know
their names and all the incidents of their lives, with their precise
dates, but I also know the name, age, and sex of all the children who
died before their features were reproduced, to be transmitted to
posterity. There have been three hundred and twenty-seven, including
those born dead. I have omitted none but those that never were
baptized."

"That is marvellous!" said Michel; "but if I had been in your place,
having such a memory, I should have preferred to learn the history of
the human race rather than that of a single family."

"The human race doesn't interest me," replied the majordomo, gravely.
"His excellency, Prince Dionigi de Palmarosa, father of the present
princess, did not entrust me with the duty of teaching his children
history. But, as I loved to be occupied, and as I had much time to
myself, in a house where no banquets or parties have been given for two
generations, he advised me, for amusement, to make a summary of the
history of his family, which was scattered through a multitude of
manuscript folio volumes, which you can see in the library at Palmarosa,
and all of which I examined and studied to the last letter."

"And did it really amuse you?"

"Much, Master Pier-Angelo," the majordomo solemnly replied to the old
painter's jocose question.

"I see," rejoined Michel, ironically, "that your lordship is no ordinary
steward, and that you are far more cultivated than your duties require."

"My duties, while not brilliant, have always been very pleasant,"
replied the majordomo, "even in Prince Dionigi's day, and he was
pleasant to nobody but me. He had much consideration, almost friendship
for me, because I was an open book which he could consult at any hour
concerning his ancestors. As for the princess, his daughter, as she is
kind to everybody, I cannot but be happy with her. I do almost exactly
as I choose, and there are only three things about her that grieve me,
and those are her giving up her family gallery, her never consulting her
genealogical tree, and her not deigning to investigate the science of
heraldry. And yet it is a delightful science, and one which ladies used
to cultivate with success."

"And now it is a part of the stock in trade of decorators and gilders of
wood," said Michel, laughing anew. "They are attractive ornaments of
which the bright colors and the flavor of the days of chivalry please
the eye and the imagination; that is all."

"That is all?" rejoined the scandalized steward; "pardon me, your
lordship, that is not all. Heraldry is history written in hieroglyphics
_ad hoc_. Alas! the time will soon come, perhaps, when we shall know how
to read this mysterious writing better than the sacramental characters
which cover the tombs and monuments of Egypt! And yet what profound and
ingeniously expressed meaning there is in that figurative language! To
place upon a seal, upon the bezel of a ring the whole history of one's
own race--is not that the result of a marvellous art? And what more
concise and more impressive signs have civilized people ever used?"

"What he says is not without a basis of reason and common sense," said
the marquis, in an undertone, addressing Michel. "But you listen to him
with a disdainful expression which impresses me, young man. Come! say
all that you think; I would like to hear it, in order to ascertain
whether you have good reason for laughing at the nobility with a touch
of bitterness, as you seem inclined to do. Do not be embarrassed; I will
listen to you as calmly and disinterestedly as yonder dead men, who look
down upon us with lifeless eyes, from their frames blackened by the
lapse of time."


[Footnote 10: A black silk cloak, which covers the whole body and the
head.]