The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Piccinino, Volume 02 (of 2); The
last of Aldinis, by George Sand

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Title: The Piccinino, Volume 02 (of 2); The last of Aldinis
       The masterpieces of George Sand, volume 8

Author: George Sand

Translator: G. Burnham Ives

Illustrator: Oreste Cortazzo

Release Date: January 19, 2023 [eBook #69840]

Language: English

Produced by: Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made
             available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICCININO, VOLUME 02 (OF
2); THE LAST OF ALDINIS ***


THE MASTERPIECES OF

GEORGE SAND




AMANDINE LUCILLE AURORE DUPIN,
BARONESS DUDEVANT




VOLUME VIII




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 TWELVE PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY
ORESTE CORTAZZO._




_VOLUME II_




_PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
GEORGE BARRIE & SON
PHILADELPHIA_




[Illustration: _SIGNORA ALDINI AND HER GONDOLIER._

_I saw the blood come and go in the signora's
cheeks as I took the oar and eagerly pushed against
the marble steps which seemed to flee behind us._]




CONTENTS
THE PICCININO
CHAPTER
XXXVI. THE FAMILY PORTRAITS
XXXVII. BIANCA
XXXVIII. A COUP DE MAIN
XXXIX. AN IDYLL
XL. DECEPTION
XLI. JEALOUSY AND GRATITUDE
XLII. AN EMBARRASSING CONJUNCTURE
XLIII. A CRISIS
XLIV. REVELATIONS
XLV. MEMORIES
XLVI. GLADNESS OF HEART
XLVII. THE VULTURE
XLVIII. THE MARQUIS
XLIX. DANGER
L. A NOCTURNAL JOURNEY
LI. CATASTROPHE
LII. CONCLUSION
THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS
INTRODUCTION
FIRST PART
SECOND PART



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE PICCININO
THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS

VOLUME II

SIGNORA ALDINI AND HER GONDOLIER

THE PICCININO RECEIVES MILA

AGATHA PROTECTS MICHELANGELO

NELLO ENTERS THE ALDINI PALACE

THE STRANGE LUNCHEON

ALEZIA VISITS CHECCHINA




THE PICCININO

(_Continued_)




XXXVI

THE FAMILY PORTRAITS


"Well," replied Michel, emboldened by his host's dignified arguments and
sincere kindliness, "I will tell you my whole thought; and I trust that
Master Barbagallo will permit me to speak before him, even though what I
have to say may be offensive to his beliefs. If the study of heraldic
science were a useful and moral study, Master Barbagallo, the favored
nursling of that science, would regard all men as equal before God, and
would recognize no distinction except between narrow-minded or wicked
and intelligent or virtuous men. He would appreciate fully the vanity of
titles and the very doubtful value of genealogical trees. He would have
broader views concerning the history of the human race, as we were
saying just now; and he would view that wonderful history with a glance
no less firm than impartial. Whereas, if I am not mistaken, he views it
with a certain narrowness of vision which I cannot accept. He esteems
nobility an excellent thing because it is privileged; he despises the
common people because they have no history and no memories. I will wager
that he despises himself by dint of admiring the grandeur of others,
unless he has discovered amid the dust of some library some document
which affords him the honor of deeming himself related in the fourteenth
degree to some illustrious family."

"I have not that honor," said the majordomo, somewhat disconcerted.
"However, I have had the satisfaction of assuring myself that I am not
descended from ignoble stock; some of my male ancestors were men of
distinction in the clergy and in business."

"I congratulate you most sincerely," said Michel, ironically; "for my
own part, it has never occurred to me to ask my father whether our
ancestors were sign-painters, beadles or majordomos. Indeed, I admit
that it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, and that I have never
had but one thought in that direction--namely, to owe any celebrity I
may attain to myself, and to create my own coat-of-arms with my palette
and brushes."

"Good!" exclaimed the marquis, "a noble ambition. You aspire to be the
founder of a race illustrious in the arts, and to earn your own
nobility, instead of throwing it away, as so many poor creatures do who
are unworthy to bear a great name. But would you consider it a
disadvantage that your descendants should be proud to bear your name?"

"Yes, signor marquis, I would, if my descendants were ignorant fools."

"My friend," replied the marquis, very calmly, "I am aware that the
nobility has degenerated in all countries, and I do not need to tell you
that it is the less pardonable in proportion to the degree of
distinction that it had to bear and of grandeur to maintain. But is it
for us to call this or that social rank to book, or to attempt to decide
concerning the merit or lack of merit of the individuals who compose it?
The most interesting, and at the same time the most profitable course
for us all, in a discussion of this sort, would be to examine the
institution in itself. Will you not tell me your ideas, Michel, and
whether you approve or disapprove the distinctions established between
different classes of men?"

"I approve them," said Michel, unhesitatingly, "for I aspire to
distinguish myself; but I disapprove any application of the principle of
heredity in such distinctions."

"Of the principle of heredity?" repeated the marquis. "In so far as
fortune and power are concerned, I agree. That is a French idea--a bold
idea. I like such ideas! But in so far as regards disinterested renown,
honor pure and simple--will you allow me to ask you a few questions, my
boy?

"Let us assume that Michelangelo Lavoratori, here present, was born only
two or three hundred years ago. Let us assume that he was the rival of
Raphael or Titian, and that he left a name worthy to stand beside those
glorious names. I will assume, also, that this palace in which we now
are belonged to him, and that it has remained in his family. Lastly, let
us assume that you are the last scion of that family, and that you do
not cultivate the art of painting. Your inclinations have turned you
toward some other profession, or perhaps you have no profession, for you
are rich; the noble works of your illustrious ancestor produced a
fortune which his descendants have faithfully transmitted to you. You
are standing here under your own roof, in the portrait gallery in which
your ancestors have their places one after another. Moreover, you know
the history of all of them. It is contained in manuscripts which have
been carefully preserved and handed down in your family.

"Let us suppose, further, that I, a child picked up on the steps of a
hospital, wander into this palace. I am ignorant of my father's name,
and even of that of the unfortunate creature who gave birth to me. I
have no ties whatever that bind me to the past, and, born but yesterday,
I gaze with surprise upon this succession of ancestors from whom you
have descended through well-nigh three centuries. I question you in
open-mouthed wonder, and I am even inclined to make sport of you for
living thus with the dead and through the dead; and I doubt whether this
brilliant lineage has not deteriorated a little in the lapse of time.

"You answer me by pointing with pride to the founder of your race, the
illustrious Michelangelo Lavoratori, who, from nothing at all, had
become a great man, and whose memory will never perish. Then you tell me
a fact at which I marvel greatly: that the sons and daughters of this
Michel, overflowing with veneration for their father's memory, chose to
be artists too. One was a musician, another an engraver, a third a
painter. If they did not receive from heaven the same talents as their
father, they did at all events retain in their hearts and transmit to
their children respect and love for art. Their children, in their turn,
did likewise, and all these talents, all these mottoes, all these
biographies, which you exhibit to me and explain to me, present the
spectacle of several generations of artists, eager to maintain the
standard of their hereditary profession. Unquestionably only a few among
all these seekers after glory were truly worthy of the name they bore.
Genius is an exception, and it takes you but a short time to point out
to me the small number of noteworthy artists who have upheld by their
own labors the glory of your family. But that small number has been
sufficient to replenish your generous blood, and to maintain in the
ideas of the intermediate generations a certain fire, a certain pride,
a certain thirst for grandeur which may still produce distinguished men.

"But I, a foundling, isolated in the vast expanse of time--I continue my
apologue,--a natural scorner of all hereditary celebrity, seek to lower
your pride. I smile with an air of triumph when you admit that this or
that ancestor, whose portrait impresses me by its air of innocence, was
never anything more than a paltry genius, a narrow-minded creature; that
a certain other, whose rakish dress and bristling moustache I do not
like, was a black sheep, a fool or a fanatic; in short, I give you to
understand that you are a degenerate artist, because you have not
inherited the sacred fire, and that you have fallen asleep in a
luxurious _far niente_, contemplating the fruitful life of your
forefathers.

"Thereupon you reply to me; and you will allow me to place in your mouth
a few words which seem to me not devoid of sense:

"'I am nothing at all in myself; but I should be even less had I not a
venerable past to lean upon. I am overborne by the apathy natural to
minds devoid of inspiration; but my father taught me one thing which
passed from his blood into mine: that I come of a distinguished family,
and that if I could do nothing to renew its splendor, I should, at all
events, abstain from tastes and ideas which might tarnish it. In default
of genius, I have respect for family tradition, and, having no ground
for pride in myself, I repair the wrong which my nullity might inflict
upon my ancestors by bestowing a sort of adoration upon them. I should
be a hundred times more guilty if, caring naught for my ignorance, I
should shatter their images and profane their memory by airs of
contempt. To deny one's father because one cannot equal him is the act
of a fool or a dastard. On the other hand, it is a pious duty to invoke
his memory in order to obtain forgiveness for being less eminent than
he; and the artists with whom I consort and to whom I have no works of
my own to show, listen to me with interest, at all events, when I speak
to them of the works of my ancestors.'

"That is the answer you would make to me, Michel, and do you think that
it would have no effect upon me? It seems to me that if I were the poor,
abandoned child that I have imagined, I should fall into profound
melancholy, and should complain of fate for having dropped me upon the
earth alone, and, so to speak, without sponsors.

"But I pass to a less ponderous apologue, and one better adapted to your
artistic imagination, which, however, I beg you will interrupt
immediately if you have already heard it. The anecdote has been
attributed to several persons cut after the pattern of Don Juan, and as
old stories are rejuvenated from generation to generation, it has been
told recently of Cæsar de Castro-Reale, the _Destatore_, the famous
brigand, who was no ordinary man either in good or evil.

"At Palermo, in the days when he sought to deaden his faculties in wild
dissipation, uncertain whether he should succeed in making a perfect
brute of himself, or should decide to raise the standard of rebellion,
it is said that he went one evening to visit a venerable palace which he
had just lost at play, and which he wished to see once more before
leaving it never to return. It was the last remnant of his fortune, and
perhaps the only thing which caused him the slightest regret; for it was
there that he had passed his early years, there that his parents had
died, there that the portraits of his ancestors were buried in the dust
of long neglect.

"He went there to notify his steward to receive on the morrow, as the
proprietor of the estate, the nobleman who had won it on a cast of the
dice.--'What,' said the steward, who, like Master Barbagallo, had a
profound respect for family traditions and portraits; 'you have staked
everything, even your father's grave, even the portraits of your
ancestors?'

"'Staked and lost everything,' replied Castro-Reale, heedlessly.
'However, there are a few articles which I am able to redeem, and my
successful adversary will not haggle over them. Let us look at these
family portraits! I have forgotten all about them. I used to admire them
at a time when I knew nothing about such things. If there are some which
have merit, I will set them aside and make some arrangement with their
new owner. Take a light and follow me.'

"The steward, agitated and trembling, followed his master through the
dark and deserted palace. Castro-Reale strode before, with arrogant
assurance; but they say that he had drunk immoderately on arriving at
his palace, in order to provide himself with a store of stoicism or
recklessness that should last to the end. He himself opened the rusty
door, and seeing that the hand trembled in which the old majordomo held
the light, he took it in his own and held it on a level with the face of
the first portrait in the gallery. It was a fierce warrior armed from
top to toe, with a broad ruffle of Flemish lace over his iron cuirass.
See! here he is, Michel, for the same pictures which play a part in my
narrative are here before your eyes; they are the same which were sent
from Palermo to me, as the last heir of the family."

Michel looked at the old warrior and was impressed by his masculine
features, his bristling moustache, and his stern appearance.

"Well, your excellency," he said, "that decidedly unamiable and ungenial
face gave the _dissoluto_ food for reflection, I doubt not?"

"Especially," replied the marquis, "as the face became animated, the
eyes rolled angrily in their dark orbits, and the lips uttered these
words in a sepulchral voice: '_I am not pleased with you!_' Castro-Reale
shuddered and recoiled in terror; but, deeming himself the dupe of his
own imagination, he passed to the next portrait and looked it in the
face with an insolence bordering on madness. It was an ancient and
venerable abbess of the Ursulines of Palermo, a great-great-aunt, who
died in the odor of sanctity. You can see her, Michel, yonder on your
right, with her veil, her gold cross, her yellow face wrinkled like
parchment, her piercing and imperious eyes. I fancy that she says
nothing to you; but when Castro-Reale raised the candle to her face, she
blinked her eyes as if dazzled by the sudden light, and said to him in a
strident voice: '_I am not pleased with you!_'

"This time the prince was frightened; he turned to the steward, whose
knees were knocking against each other. But, determined to struggle on
against these warnings from the supernatural world, he suddenly
confronted a third portrait, that of the old magistrate, whom you see
beside the abbess. He put his hand on the frame, not daring to look too
long at the ermine cloak which is hardly distinguishable from the long
white beard; but he tried to shake him, saying: '_And you?_'

"'_Nor am I_,' replied the magistrate, in the crushing tone of a judge
pronouncing sentence of death.

"Castro-Reale dropped his candle, they say, and, unconscious of what he
did, stumbling at every step, went on to the end of the gallery, while
the poor majordomo, frozen with fear, stood dumb and motionless at the
door by which they had entered, daring neither to follow him nor to
abandon him. He heard his master stumbling along in the darkness, at an
uneven, hurried gait, colliding with the furniture and muttering curses;
and he also heard each portrait apostrophize him as he passed with the
terrible, monotonous words: '_Nor am I!_--_Nor am I!_--_Nor am I!_'--The
voices grew fainter as they receded along the gallery; but all repeated
the fatal sentence distinctly, and Castro-Reale was unable to escape
that long series of maledictions, which not one of his ancestors spared
him. It took him a long while, it seems, to reach the door at the other
end. When he had passed through it and closed it violently behind him,
as if he thought that he was pursued by spectres, silence reigned once
more; and, so far as my knowledge goes, these portraits have never
recovered the power of speech from that day to this."

"Tell the rest, tell the rest, your excellency!" cried Fra Angelo, who
had listened to this narrative with gleaming eyes and parted lips; for
despite his intelligence and the education he had received, the
ex-brigand of Ætna was too much of a monk and too much of a Sicilian
not to believe it to a certain extent; "tell him that after that moment
neither the steward of the palace of Castro-Reale, nor any inhabitant of
the province of Palermo ever saw the Prince of Castro-Reale again. There
was, at the end of the gallery, a drawbridge which they heard him cross,
and as his plumed hat was found floating on the water, they concluded
that he was drowned, although they searched in vain for his body."

"But the lesson had a more salutary effect," added the marquis. "He fled
into the mountains, organized a band of partisans, and fought there ten
years, to rescue, or, at all events, to avenge his country. False or
true, the story was current for a long while, and the new owner of
Castro-Reale believed it in so far that he preferred not to keep these
terrible family portraits, and sent them to me at once."

"I do not know whether the story is authentic," said Fra Angelo. "I
never dared ask the prince; but it is perfectly certain that his
determination to become a partisan came to him in the manor-house of his
ancestors the last time that he visited it. It is certain, too, that he
experienced some violent emotion there, and that he did not like to have
anybody mention his ancestors to him. It is certain, too, that his mind
was never sound after that night, and that I have often heard him say,
in his days of depression: 'Ah! I ought to have blown out my brains when
I crossed the drawbridge of my palace the last time!'"

"Surely that is all the truth there is in this fanciful tale," said
Michel. "But no matter! Although there is not the slightest connection
between these illustrious individuals and my humble self, and although I
am not aware that I have any reason to reproach myself with respect to
them, I should be a little disturbed, it seems to me, if I had to pass
the night alone in this gallery."

"For my part," said Pier-Angelo, "I am not ashamed to say that I don't
believe a word of this story; and yet, if the signor marquis would give
me his fortune and his palace to boot, I wouldn't take them on the
condition of having to remain here alone an hour, after sunset, with the
lady abbess, the magistrate, and all these illustrious monks and
soldiers. The servants have tried more than once to lock me in here for
their own amusement; but I have never let them catch me, I would jump
out of window first."

"And what are we to conclude from all this, with respect to the
nobility?" said Michel to the marquis.

"We conclude, my child," replied the Marquis della Serra, "that
privileged nobility is an injustice, but that family traditions and
memories have much force, usefulness and beauty. In France they obeyed a
noble impulse when they invited the nobles to burn their letters patent,
and the nobles performed a duty imposed by tact and good taste by
consummating the holocaust; but afterward they broke open tombs, exhumed
dead bodies, and even insulted the image of Christ, as if the
resting-place of the dead were not sacred, and as if the Son of Mary
were the patron of the great nobles only and not of the poor and lowly.
I forgive all the frenzies of that revolution, and I understand them
better, perhaps, than those persons who have discoursed of them to you,
my young friend; but I also know that the philosophy which guided it was
not very complete or very deep, and that, with respect to the idea of
nobility, as with respect to all other ideas, it was much more
successful in destroying than in building up, in uprooting than in
sowing. Let me say another word to you on this subject, and then we will
go and have some ices out of doors, for I am afraid that all these dead
men and women bore and depress you."




XXXVII

BIANCA


"Look you, Michel," said the marquis, taking Pier-Angelo's hand in his
right hand and Fra Angelo's in his left; "all men are noble! And I would
stake my head that the Lavoratori family is quite as good as the family
of Castro-Reale. If we are to judge the dead by the living, surely here
are two men who must have had men of worth, men of heart and brain for
ancestors; whereas the _Destatore_, a mixture of great qualities and
deplorable faults, prince and bandit, repentant devotee and desperate
suicide by turns, as surely gave the lie many a time to the nobility of
the haughty personages whose images surround us. If you are rich some
day, Michel, you will begin a family gallery without realizing it, for
you will paint these two noble faces, your father's and your uncle's,
and you will never sell them!"

"And his sister's!" cried Pier-Angelo; "he will not forget hers either,
for it will serve some day as a proof that our race was not unpleasant
to look upon."

"Well," continued the marquis, still addressing Michel, "do you not
consider that you have every reason to regret that you do not know the
story of your father's and your uncle's father?"

"He was a worthy man!" cried Pier-Angelo; "he was once a soldier, then
an honest mechanic, and I knew him as a most excellent father."

"And his brother was a monk like myself," said Fra Angelo. "He was pious
and wise; my memory of him had great influence on me when I was
hesitating about taking the frock."

"There you see the influence of family memories!" said the marquis. "But
your grandfather and great-uncle, my friends, what were they?"

"As for my great-uncle," replied Pier-Angelo, "I don't know that I ever
had one. But my grandfather was a peasant."

"What was his life?"

"I was told in my childhood probably, but I don't remember."

"And your great-grandfather?"

"I never heard of him."

"I have a vague remembrance that we had a great-great-grandfather who
was a sailor, and one of the bravest of sailors. But his name has
escaped me. For us the name of Lavoratori dates back but two
generations. It is a sobriquet like most plebeian names. It marks the
transition from one trade to another in our family, when our grandfather
ceased to be a peasant in the mountains to become a mechanic in the
town. Our grandfather's name was Montanari; that was a sobriquet too.
His grandfather had a different name, doubtless. But at that point
everlasting night begins for us, and our genealogy enters into oblivion
so complete that it is equivalent to non-existence."

"Even so," rejoined the marquis; "you have summed up the whole history
of the common people in the example of your family. Two or three
generations are conscious of a connecting bond; but all those which
preceded and all those which will follow are strangers to them forever.
Do you consider that just and as it should be, my dear Michel? Is not
this utter neglect of the past, this heedlessness of the future, this
absence of interest in the intermediate generations, a sort of
barbarism, an uncivilized condition of affairs, indicating a most
revolting contempt for the human race?"

"You are right, and I understand you, signor marquis," Michel replied.
"The history of each family is the history of the human race, and
whoever knows one knows the other. Certainly the man who knows his own
ancestors, and who derives from a scrutiny of their successive
existences a series of examples to follow or to shun, has, so to speak,
a more intense and more complete life in his heart than he who can refer
only to two or three vague and intangible shadows of the past. Therefore
nobility of birth is a great social privilege; if it imposes grave
duties, it furnishes vast enlightenment and vast powers. The child who
spells out the knowledge of good and evil in books written with the
blood which flows in his own veins, and in the features of the painted
faces which reflect his own image like mirrors in which he loves to
recognize himself, should always become a great man, or at least, as you
said, a man enamored of true grandeur, which is an acquired virtue
supplying the place of inborn virtue. I realize now what there is that
is true and estimable in this principle of heredity which binds the
generations together. What there is in it that is unfortunate, I will
not remind you; you know it better than I."

"What there is unfortunate I will tell you myself," replied the marquis.
"There is the fact that nobility is an exclusive privilege which all
families do not share; that established distinctions rest upon a false
principle, and that the peasant hero does not win fame and have his name
inscribed in history like the patrician hero; that the domestic virtues
of the workingman are not recorded in a book that is always open to his
posterity; that the poor and virtuous mother of a family, lovely and
chaste to no purpose, does not leave her name and her image on the walls
of her hovel; that that hovel of the poor man is not even assured to his
descendants as a place of refuge; that all men are not wealthy and free,
so that they may consecrate thought, monuments and works of art to the
worship of their past; lastly, that there is no such thing as the
history of the human race, but only of a few names rescued from
oblivion, which are called illustrious names, heedless of the fact that
at certain times whole nations become illustrious under the influence of
the same deed and the same idea. Who can tell us the names of all the
enthusiastic, noble hearts who have thrown aside the spade or the hoe to
go to fight the infidel? You have ancestors among them, I doubt not,
Pier-Angelo, and you know nothing of them! Or the names of all the
sublime monks who have preached the law of God to savage peoples? Your
ancestors are among them, Fra Angelo, and you know nothing of them! Ah!
my friends, how many noble hearts are stilled forever, how many noble
deeds buried in oblivion without advantage to those who live to-day! How
melancholy and disastrous is this impenetrable darkness of the past to
the common people, and how my heart aches to think that you are probably
descended from the blood of brave men and martyrs, although you cannot
find the faintest trace of their passage upon the paths you follow
through life! Whereas I, who am not so good a man as you, can learn from
Master Barbagallo what ancestor of mine was born or died this month five
hundred years ago! Consider! On one side the unmitigated abuse of this
worship of the patrician; on the other the horror of a vast grave which
swallows up without distinction the consecrated bones and the impure
bones of the common people! Oblivion is a punishment which should be
visited upon the wicked only, and yet it is visited upon no one in our
haughty families; whereas in yours it overtakes the most virtuous!
History is confiscated to our profit, and you people seem to have no
connection whatever with history, which, however, is your work more than
ours!"

"Well," said Michel, deeply moved by the marquis's ideas and sentiments,
"you have given me for the first time a true conception of nobility. I
always attributed it to a few glorious personalities, who must be
separated from their race. Now I can imagine lofty and generous
thoughts, succeeding one another from generation to generation,
connecting the generations with one another, and making as much account
of humble virtues as of brilliant deeds. That is judging as God judges,
signor marquis, and if I had the honor and the misery to be of noble
birth--for it is a grievous burden to him who comprehends it--I should
like to see and think as you do."

"I thank you," replied the marquis, taking his hand and leading him out
on the terrace of his palace. Pier-Angelo and Fra Angelo looked at each
other with deep emotion; both had understood the full scope of the
marquis's ideas, and they felt strengthened and uplifted by this new
aspect which he had given to life, collective and individual alike. As
for Master Barbagallo, he had listened with religious respect, but had
understood absolutely nothing; and he went away wondering how one could
be noble without a palace, without parchments, without a coat of arms,
and above all else, without family portraits. He concluded that the
nobility could not do without wealth: a marvellous discovery which
fatigued him much.

At that moment, as the beak of a great pelican of gilded wood, which did
duty as hour hand on a monumental clock in the gallery of the Della
Serra palace, marked four o'clock in the afternoon, the Piccinino was
thinking that his five or six repeating watches must be slow, so
impatiently did he await Mila's arrival. He went from the English watch
to the Geneva watch, disdaining the Catanian watch which he might have
purchased with his money--for the Catanians are watch-makers as well as
the Genevans--and from the one surrounded with diamonds to the one
adorned with rubies. Being a connoisseur in jewels, he laid claim to
none but articles of the most exquisite quality from the booty taken by
his men. Thus no one knew the time better than he, who was so keen to
make the most of it, and to employ his moments most methodically, in
order to lead side by side a life of study and of meditation, a life of
adventures, intrigues, and _coups de main_, and a life of pleasure and
of lust, which he neither could nor wished to enjoy otherwise than in
secret.

Fierce to the point of despotism in his impatience, he was as intolerant
of having to wait himself as he was fond of making others wait and of
worrying them by skilfully devised delays. This time, however, he had
yielded to the necessity of coming first to the rendezvous. He could not
be sure that Mila would have the courage to wait for him, or to enter
his house if he were not there himself to meet her. He went to the gate
more than ten times, and angrily retraced his steps, afraid to leave the
wooded road that bordered his garden, lest, if he should meet anyone, he
should seem to be intent upon some design. The leading principle in his
scheme of life was always to appear calm and indifferent in the eyes of
placid people, always distraught and preoccupied in the eyes of
busybodies.


[Illustration: _THE PICCININO RECEIVES MILA._

_He strode toward Mila with an imperious air,
seized the rein of her mule, and, taking the girl in
his arms as soon as she was in front of his garden
gate, lifted her to the ground, pressing her lovely
body with something very like violence._]


When Mila at last appeared at the top of the green path which descended
sharply to his orchard, he was really angry with her, for she was a
quarter of an hour late, and, thanks to the Piccinino's discernment or
fascinations, there was not one among the fair maidens of the mountain
who would have allowed him to be first at the rendezvous in a
love-affair. The brigand's unruly heart was inflamed therefore with
ill-disguised rage; he forgot that he was not dealing with a mistress,
and he strode toward Mila with an imperious air, seized the rein of her
mule, and, taking the girl in his arms as soon as she was in front of
his garden gate, lifted her to the ground, pressing her lovely body with
something very like violence.

But Mila, partly opening the folds of her double mantle of muslin, gazed
at him in surprise.

"Are we in danger already, my lord?" she said, "or do you think that I
have brought anyone with me? No, no! See, I am alone, I have come with
perfect confidence in you, and you have no reason to be displeased with
me."

The Piccinino recovered his self-control as he looked at Mila. She had
ingenuously arrayed herself in her Sunday garb to appear before her
protector. Beneath her purple-velvet waist could be seen a second waist
of a pale blue, embroidered and laced with excellent taste. A light net
of gold thread confined her beautiful hair, in accordance with the
fashion of the province, and to protect her face and her costume from
the sun's scorching heat, she had enveloped herself in the _mantellina_,
a thin veil of ample proportions, which covers the head and the whole
body, when it is skilfully arranged and worn with grace. The Piccinino's
sturdy mule, bearing a flat saddle of velvet trimmed with gilt nails,
upon which a woman could easily ride sidewise, was panting and restive,
as if proud to have borne and to have saved from all danger so lovely a
rider. It was easy to see, from his foam-flecked sides, that little Mila
had not spared him, or that she had bravely trusted to his zeal. It had
been a dangerous ride, however: ridges of lava to cross, torrents to
ford, precipices to skirt. The mule had taken the shortest path; he had
climbed and leaped like a goat. Mila, seeing how strong and adroit he
was, could not, despite her anxiety, avoid that intense and mysterious
pleasure which women find in danger. She was proud of having felt
physical courage spring to life within her with moral courage; and while
the Piccinino admired the brilliancy of her eyes, and of her cheeks
flushed by the exercise, she, thinking only of the merits of the white
mule, turned and kissed him on the nose, saying: "You are worthy to
carry the pope!"

The brigand could not help smiling, and he forgot his anger.

"Dear child," he said, "I am very glad that my good Bianca pleases you,
and now I think that she would be worthy to eat from a golden manger,
like the charger of a Roman emperor. But come quickly; I don't wish
anyone to see you come in here."

Mila docilely quickened her pace, and when the brigand had led her
across his garden, after securely locking the gate, she allowed him to
escort her into his house, whose neatness and coolness delighted her.

"Is this your own house, pray, my lord?" she asked him.

"No," he replied, "we are in Carmelo Tomabene's house, as I told you;
but he is my debtor and my friend, and I have a room under his roof to
which I sometimes retire when I need rest and solitude."

He led her through the house, which was arranged and furnished in rustic
fashion, but with an orderly, substantial, homelike appearance which the
dwellings of rich peasants seldom display. At the end of the ventilating
corridor, which ran from end to end of the upper floor, he opened a
double door, the inner one being bound with iron, and ushered Mila into
the truncated tower which he had incorporated into his house, so to
speak, and where he had fitted up a dainty and mysterious boudoir.

No princess ever possessed one more sumptuous, more sweetly perfumed or
adorned with rarer objects. But no artisan had ever put his hand to it.
The Piccinino himself had concealed the walls beneath hangings of
Oriental silk stitched with gold and silver. The divan of yellow satin
was covered with the skin of a huge royal tiger, whose head startled the
girl at first; but she soon grew bold enough to touch its scarlet-velvet
tongue, its eyes of enamel, and to sit upon its black-striped side. Then
she gazed about with dazzled eyes at the gleaming weapons, the Turkish
sabres adorned with jewels, the pipes with gold tassels, the
chafing-dishes, the China vases, the innumerable objects of an exquisite
beauty, a magnificence or a singularity which appealed to her
imagination like the descriptions of enchanted palaces with which it was
filled.

"All this is even more incomprehensible and more beautiful than anything
I have seen at the Palmarosa palace," she said to herself, "and surely
this prince is richer and even more illustrious than the princess. He
must be some claimant to the Sicilian crown, who is working secretly to
bring about the downfall of the Neapolitan government."--What would this
poor child have thought if she had known the source of that piratical
splendor!

While she gazed at everything with the artless admiration of a child,
the Piccinino, who had bolted the door and lowered the Chinese shades at
the window, gazed at Mila with the utmost amazement. He had expected
that he would have to tell her the most incredible fables, the most
audacious lies, to induce her to follow him to his lair, and the
facility of his triumph began already to disgust him with it. To be
sure, Mila was the loveliest creature he had ever seen; but was her
perfect tranquillity due to impudence, or stupidity? Could so seductive
a creature possibly be ignorant of the effect her charms were certain to
produce? Could so young a maid risk a tête-à-tête of this sort
without a moment of fear or embarrassment?

The Piccinino, observing that she had a very beautiful ring on her
finger, and thinking that he could follow the thread of her thoughts by
following the direction of her glances, said to her, with a smile: "You
love jewels, my dear Mila, and, like all girls, you think more of
personal adornment than of anything else in this world. My mother left
me a few trinkets of some value, which are in that lapis lazuli casket
by your side. Would you like to look at them?"

"If I may without indiscretion, I would like to," Mila replied.

Carmelo took the casket, placed it on the girl's knees, and, kneeling
beside her on the edge of the tiger's skin, he displayed before her eyes
a mass of necklaces, rings, chains and buckles which were thrown
pell-mell into the casket with a sort of superb contempt for such a
multitude of priceless objects, some of which were masterpieces of
old-fashioned carved work, others perfect treasures by reason of the
beauty and great size of the diamonds.

"My lord," said the girl, running her inquisitive fingers over all this
wealth, while the Piccinino fastened his dry, inflamed eyes upon her at
close range, "you have too little respect for your mother's jewels. My
mother left me only a few bits of ribbon and a pair of scissors with
gold handles, which I preserve as relics, and which are very carefully
stowed away in my closet. If we had time before that accursed abbé
comes, I would put this casket in order."

"Do not take that trouble," said the Piccinino; "indeed we have not
time. But you have time enough to take whatever you would like to keep."

"I?" said Mila, with a laugh, replacing the casket on the mosaic table.
"What should I do with them? Not only should I, a poor silk-spinner, be
ashamed to wear a princess's jewels, which, by the way, being your
mother's, you should give only to your betrothed, but I should be very
much embarrassed with all these inconvenient trinkets. I like to look at
jewels, and, also, to touch them, as hens turn over with their claws
anything shiny that they see on the ground. But I prefer to see them on
somebody's else's neck and arms rather than my own. I should be so
embarrassed by them that even if I owned them I should never use them."

"And you take no account whatever of the pleasure of owning them?"
queried the bandit, amazed at the result of his experiment.

"To own things for which one has no use seems to me a very embarrassing
thing," said she; "and I cannot understand one's burdening one's life
with such gew-gaws, unless they are given to one as a sacred trust."

"And yet you wear a very beautiful ring!" said the Piccinino, kissing
her hand.

"Oh! monsignor," said the girl, withdrawing her hand with an offended
air, "are you worthy to kiss that ring? Forgive me for speaking to you
so, but it is not mine, as you see, and I must return it to Princess
Agatha to-night; she sent me to the jeweller's to get it."

"I will wager," said the Piccinino, scrutinizing Mila with distrust and
suspicion, "that Princess Agatha overwhelms you with presents, and that
that is the reason why you despise mine!"

"I despise nothing and nobody," replied Mila; "and when Princess Agatha
drops an embroidery needle or a bit of silk, I pick them up and treasure
them as relics. But if she should attempt to overwhelm me with handsome
presents, I should beg her to keep them for those who need them. But I
must tell the truth: she once gave me a beautiful locket in which I
carry some of my brother's hair. But I keep it out of sight, for I do
not care to wear any ornaments unsuited to my station in life."

"Tell me, Mila," rejoined the Piccinino, after a moment's silence, "you
are no longer afraid, are you?"

"No, my lord," she replied, confidently; "when I saw you on the road,
near this house, my fear left me. Before that I confess that I was
trembling all over, that I fancied that I saw that horrid abbé's face
behind every bush, and that I don't quite know how I ever got here. When
I saw how far good Bianca was carrying me, when I finally spied this
tower and these trees, I said to myself: 'Great God! suppose my
protector was unable to come! suppose that wicked abbé, who is capable
of anything, has had him arrested by the _campieri_, or murdered on the
road, what will become of me?' Then I was terrified, not only on my own
account, but because I look on you as our guardian angel, and because it
seems to me that your life is much more valuable than mine."

The Piccinino, who had felt very cold, and, as it were, displeased with
Mila ever since her arrival, felt a slight thrill of emotion, and took
his seat beside her on the tiger's skin.




XXXVIII

A COUP DE MAIN


"So you really feel a little sincere interest in me, do you, my child?"
he said, fastening upon her that dangerous glance of which he well knew
the power.

"Sincere? yes, upon my soul!" replied the girl, "and I surely owe you
that much, after the interest you have displayed in my family."

"And do you think that your family has the same feeling that you have?"

"Why--how could it be otherwise? However, to tell the truth, no one has
ever mentioned you to me, and I do not know your secrets; they have
treated me like a tattling little girl; but you do me more justice, for
you see that I am not inquisitive, and that I do not even ask you who
you are."

"And have you no desire to know? Isn't this one way of asking me?"

"No, monsignor, I should not dare to ask you questions, and I prefer not
to know what my father has thought best not to tell me. I feel very
proud to work with you to ensure their safety, without trying to remove
the bandage with which they have covered my eyes."

"That is very noble of you, Mila," said the Piccinino, beginning to feel
somewhat piqued by the girl's perfect tranquillity; "it is too noble,
perhaps!"

"Why and how is it noble?"

"Because you run great risks with unexampled imprudence."

"What risks, monsignor? did you not promise me before God that you would
protect me from all danger?"

"So far as that vile monk is concerned, I promise you on my life. But
have you no suspicion of other people?"

"Yes, I have," said Mila, after a moment's reflection. "You mentioned at
the fountain a name that frightened me terribly. You spoke as if you had
some relations with the Piccinino. But you said to me again after that:
'Come without fear,' and I came. Not without fear, I admit, so long as I
was alone on the road. I fancy that I shall be afraid again when I go
away from here; but, as long as I am with you, I am not afraid of
anything; I feel very brave, and it seems to me that, if we were
attacked, I could help in defending ourselves."

"Even against the Piccinino?"

"Ah! I don't know about that. But, great heaven! is he likely to come
here?"

"If he should come, it would be to punish the monk and protect you. Why
in heaven's name are you so terribly afraid of him?"

"Really, I don't know; but among us, when a girl goes out into the
country alone, people make sport of her and say: 'Look out for the
Piccinino!'"

"So you think that he murders young maids, do you?"

"Yes, monsignor; for they say that they never come back from the place
he takes them to; or, if they do come back, that it would have been
better for them to have stayed."

"And you hate him, I suppose?"

"No, I do not hate him, because they say that he inflicts much injury on
the Neapolitans, and that if people only had the courage to help him he
would do the country a great deal of good. But I am afraid of him, which
is not the same thing by any means."

"You have been told that he was very ugly, I suppose?"

"Yes, because he has a long beard, and I think that he must resemble the
monk I detest so. But isn't the monk coming? When he has come I can go
away, can I not, monsignor?"

"Are you in a hurry to go, Mila? do you find it so very unpleasant
here?"

"Oh! not at all; but I should be afraid to go home after dark."

"I will take you home."

"You are very good, monsignor; I ask nothing better, provided that
nobody sees us. But about this Abbé Ninfo, are you going to do him any
injury?"

"No injury. I presume that it would give you no pleasure to hear him
shriek?"

"God in heaven! I do not want to see or be the cause of any cruel
treatment of the man; but if the Piccinino comes here, I am terribly
afraid there will be bloodshed. You smile, monsignor," said Mila,
turning pale. "Oh! now I am afraid! Pray send me away as soon as the
abbé has set foot in the house."

"Mila, I swear to you that the abbé shall suffer no cruelty at my
hands. As soon as I have made sure of his person, the Piccinino will
come and take him away, a prisoner."

"And is all this done by the Princess Agatha's orders?"

"You ought to know."

"In that case, my mind is at ease. She would not desire the death of the
lowest of men."

"You are very compassionate, Mila; I thought that you were stronger and
prouder. So you would not have the courage to kill that man if he should
come here and insult you?"

"Excuse me, monsignor," rejoined Mila, taking from her bosom a dagger
which the princess had given to Magnani the day before, and of which she
had succeeded in gaining possession without his knowledge: "I could not
see a man killed in cold blood without fainting, I think; but if I were
insulted, I think that my anger would carry me a long way."

"So you prepared for war, did you, Mila? You had no confidence in me, I
see."

"As in God, monsignor; but God is everywhere, and some unforeseen
accident might have prevented you from being here."

"Do you know that it was very brave in you to come, Mila? and that if
people knew it----"

"Well, my lord?"

"Instead of admiring your heroism, they would blame your rashness."

"There is one thing I know very well," said Mila, with a sort of playful
excitement, "and that is that, if people knew of my being closeted here
with you, I should be lost."

"Doubtless! Slander----"

"Slander and calumny! Half as much would be enough to cause a young girl
to be cried down and degraded forever."

"And you felt sure that this expedition of yours would be enveloped
forever in impenetrable mystery?"

"I relied upon your prudence, and I left the rest in God's hands. I know
very well that there are many risks to run; but did you not tell me that
it was a question of saving my father's life and the Princess Agatha's
honor?"

"And you carried your devotion to the point of endangering your own
honor, without regret?"

"Endangering it in public opinion? I prefer that to allowing those whom
I love to be killed and dishonored. As between them and myself, isn't it
better that I should be the victim? But what does all this mean,
monsignor? You speak to me in a very strange way; one would think that
you were rebuking me for believing in you and for doing what you advised
me to do."

"No, Mila, I am questioning you. Forgive me for trying to understand you
and know you, so that I may esteem you as much as you deserve."

"Very good; I will answer you frankly."

"Well, my child, tell me everything. Did it not occur to you that I
might be setting a trap for you, and be luring you hither to insult you,
or, at least, to try to seduce you?"

Mila looked the Piccinino in the face, trying to discover what could
possibly induce him to put forward such a supposition. If it was a
method of testing her, she considered it insulting; if it was a jest,
she considered it in very bad taste on the part of one who seemed to be
a man of superior intellect and of exalted rank. This was the decisive
moment for her and for him. If she had felt the slightest fear--and she
was not the woman to conceal it, like Princess Agatha--the Piccinino
would have grown bolder; for he knew that fear is the beginning of
weakness. But she looked him in the face with such frank fearlessness,
and with so brave an air of displeasure, that he was convinced at last
that he was dealing with a really strong and sincere character; and
thereafter he had not the slightest desire to open hostilities. He felt
that a battle of ruses with so straightforward a creature could have no
other result for him than shame or remorse.

"Well, my child," he said, giving her hand a frank and friendly
pressure, "I see that you had a confidence in me which does honor to us
both. Will you permit me to ask you one more question? Have you a
lover?"

"A lover? no, monsignor," replied Mila, blushing crimson; but she added,
without hesitation: "I may tell you, however, that there is a man whom I
love."

"Where is he now?"

"In Catania."

"Is he rich--well-born?"

"He has a noble heart and two stout arms."

"And he loves you as you deserve to be loved?"

"That does not concern you, monsignor; I will not answer that question."

"However, you came here at the risk of losing his love?"

"As you see, alas!" said Mila, with a sigh.

"O women! are you really so much nobler than we men?" exclaimed the
Piccinino, rising. But he had no sooner glanced out of doors than he
took Mila by the hand.

"Here's the abbé!" he said; "follow me. Why do you tremble so?"

"Not with fear," she replied, "but with disgust and displeasure; but I
will follow you."

They went down to the garden.

"You will not leave me alone with him a single minute, will you?" said
Mila, as they left the house: "if he should so much as kiss my hand, I
should be forced to burn the place with a red-hot iron."

"And I should be forced to kill him," rejoined the Piccinino.

They walked under the arbor to an opening, where the Piccinino glided
behind the trellis, and so followed Mila to the garden gate. Emboldened
by his presence, she opened it and motioned to the abbé to enter.

"Are you alone?" he said, making haste to put aside his monk's frock and
show how gallantly he was arrayed in black--a veritable musk-laden
abbé.

She made no other reply than: "Come in quickly." No sooner had she
secured the gate than the Piccinino made his appearance, and never was
there a more disappointed face than Abbé Ninfo's. "Excuse me,
monsignor," said the Piccinino, assuming an air of simplicity which
surprised his companion; "I learned from my cousin Mila that you wished
to see my poor garden, and I determined to admit you myself. Excuse me,
it is only a peasant's garden, but the fruit trees are so old and so
fine that people come from all directions to see them. Unluckily, I have
an engagement, and I must go away in five minutes; but my cousin has
promised to do the honors of the house, and I will retire, with your
lordship's permission, as soon as I have offered you some wine and
fruit."

"Do not put yourself out, my good man!" replied the abbé, reassured by
this speech. "Go about your business, and do not stand on ceremony. Go,
go at once, I say, I do not propose to incommode you."

"I will go as soon as I can see you at table. Lord God! you will die of
the heat. Our roads are so rough! Come to the house; I will pour the
first glass for you, and then I will go, as your lordship kindly permits
me to do so."

"My cousin will not go away until you are in the house," said Mila, in
obedience to a meaning glance from the Piccinino.

The abbé, seeing that he could not get rid of his obsequious host
except by complying with his wish, passed through the arbor without an
opportunity to address a word or a glance to Mila; for the Piccinino,
still playing the part of a respectful peasant and zealous host, walked
between them. The abbé was ushered into a cool, dark room, where a
collation was served. But, as they entered, the Piccinino said in Mila's
ear: "Let me fill your glass, but do not so much as smell it."

A topaz-hued muscatel glistened in a large decanter which stood in a
terra-cotta vessel filled with cold water. The abbé, who was somewhat
disturbed by the peasant's presence, emptied at a single draught,
without hesitation, the glass that was offered him.

"Now," he said, "off with you at once, my boy! I should never forgive
myself for having caused you to break your engagement."

"Come with me, Mila," said the Piccinino. "You must lock the gate after
me, for, if it should be left open, even for a moment, the children
would come in and steal my peaches."

Mila did not wait to be asked twice to hurry after the Piccinino; but he
went no farther than the door of the room, and when he had closed it
behind him, he put his finger on his lips, and, applying his eye to the
keyhole, remained absolutely motionless. After two or three minutes he
rose, saying aloud: "It is all over!" And he threw the door wide open.

Mila saw the abbé lying on the floor, with a purple face, and breathing
heavily.

"Oh! my God!" she cried, "have you poisoned him, monsignor?"

"No, indeed," replied Carmelo; "for we need a few words from him later.
He is only asleep, the dear man, but very sound asleep!"

"Oh! do not speak so loud, monsignor: he sees us and hears us! His eyes
are open and staring at us."

"And yet he doesn't know who we are, he has no comprehension of
anything. What good does it do him to see and hear, when nothing conveys
any meaning to his poor brain? Do not come near, Mila, if the paralyzed
viper still frightens you; for my part, I must study the effects of this
narcotic a little. They vary in different individuals."

He walked calmly to the abbé's side, while Mila, completely bewildered,
remained in the doorway and watched him with dismay. He touched his
victim as the wolf sniffs before devouring. He made sure that the head
and hands passed speedily from intense heat to icy cold, that the face
lost its flush, that the respiration became regular and weak.

"This is a good result," he said, as if speaking to himself; "and such a
weak dose! I am well satisfied with the experiment. This is very
preferable to blows, a struggle, shrieks stifled by a gag, isn't it,
Mila? A woman can look on at this sort of thing without an attack of
hysterics. This is the sort of method I like, and if it were well known,
nobody would use any other. But you must never mention it, Mila, do you
hear? for it might easily be abused, and no one, you see, no one could
protect himself against it. If I had chosen to put you to sleep like
this, it was entirely in my power to do it. Would you take a glass of
water from my hand now, if I should offer it to you?"

"Yes, monsignor, I would accept it," replied Mila, taking this challenge
for a jest.--"He jests on all subjects," she said to herself. "He has a
satirical bent like Michel."

"So you would be no more suspicious than this poor abbé?" continued the
Piccinino, in a preoccupied tone; for he was busily searching his
sleeper, with perfect self-possession.

"You forbade me even to smell that wine," replied Mila; "so you
evidently had no purpose to play me a trick!"

"Ah! here it is!" muttered the bandit, taking a wallet from the abbé's
pocket. "Don't be impatient, Mila; I must examine this."

Seating himself at the table, he opened the wallet and took therefrom
divers papers, over which he cast his eye with tranquil celerity.

"A report against Marc-Antonio Ferrara!--an obscure man; doubtless some
husband whose wife he wished to seduce! Here, Mila, here is my flint and
steel. Will you light the lamp and burn this? This Marc-Antonio will
never suspect that your fair hand saved him from imprisonment.

"And this? Ah! this is more important; an anonymous warning, addressed
to the captain of the city, that the Marquis della Serra is planning a
conspiracy against the government! The dear abbé proposed to get rid of
the princess's cicisbeo, or to give him something to think about at all
events! The idiot! he doesn't even know enough to disguise his
handwriting! Burn it up, Mila; it shall not go to its address.

"Another warning!" continued the Piccinino, still examining the wallet.
"The wretch! he proposed to have the gallant champion arrested who
brought him into relation with the Piccinino! This is worth saving.
Malacarne will see that he did well not to trust this hound's promises,
and that he would have been well punished for not reporting to his
chief.

"I am surprised to find nothing against your father, Mila. Ah! yes, here
it is! The signor abbé's measures were all taken to strike his great
blow. This evening Pier-Angelo Lavoratori and--Fra Angelo too!--Ah! you
reckoned without your host, my friend! You did not know that the
Piccinino will never allow a finger to be laid on that shaven head! How
ill-informed you were! Why, Mila, this man, whom people look upon as a
monster of iniquity, is nothing but an idiot, upon my word!"

"Of what did he accuse my father and my uncle?"

"Of conspiring--always the same refrain; it is so worn out! There is one
thing that surprises me, and that is that the police continue to pay any
attention to this venerable nonsense. The police are as stupid as the
people who set them on."

"Give me that, give me that, and I will burn it with right good will!"
cried Mila.

"Here's another! Who is--Antonio Magnani?"

Mila did not answer. She put out her hand so eagerly to seize and burn
this last denunciation, that the Piccinino turned and saw that her
cheeks were suffused with a sudden flush.

"I understand," he said, giving her the paper. "But he ought to have
forwarded this denunciation before venturing to pay court to you. Always
too late, always beside the mark, poor man!"

He opened and ran through several other papers which mentioned none but
unknown names, and which Mila burned without looking at them. But
suddenly he started and exclaimed:

"Can it be? This in his hands? Good! I did not believe you capable of
making this capture. Excuse me, my dear abbé," he continued, putting in
his pocket a paper much more bulky than the others, with an ironical bow
to the miserable wretch lying at his feet, his mouth half-open and his
eye glassy and lifeless. "I honor you with my esteem to a certain point.
Really, I did not believe you capable of it!"

Ninfo's eyes seemed to rekindle. He tried to move, and there was a sort
of rattle in his throat.

"Ah! have we reached that stage?" said the Piccinino, putting the mouth
of the decanter of narcotized wine to his lips.

"Did that wake you up? You set more store by that than by the fair Mila,
eh? In that case, you should have let love-making go, and should not
have come here instead of attending to your business! Sleep, I pray you,
your excellency, for if you understand what is going on, you will have
to die!"

The abbé fell back upon the floor; his vitreous stare remained fastened
like that of a dead man on the Piccinino's ironical face.

"He needs rest," said the latter to Mila, with a cruel smile; "let us
not disturb him any more."

He secured the stout shutters at the windows with heavy padlocked iron
bars, and left the room with Mila, locking the door and putting the key
in his pocket.




XXXIX

AN IDYLL


The Piccinino returned with his young companion to the garden, and,
having suddenly become pensive, sat down upon a bench and apparently
forgot her presence. And yet he was thinking of her, and this is what he
was saying to himself:

"Would it not be an idiotic performance to allow this lovely creature to
go hence as calm and serene as she came? Yes, it would be an idiotic
performance for a man who was resolved upon her ruin; but I simply
wished to test the power of my glance and my voice to lure her into my
cage, like a beautiful bird whom one likes to examine close at hand, and
to whom one then restores its liberty, because one does not wish it to
die. There is always a touch of hatred in the violent desires a woman
arouses in us."--The Piccinino is still musing and meditating upon his
impressions.--"For victory, in such cases, is a matter of pride, and it
is impossible to fight, even in play, without a little temper.--But
there is no more of hatred than of anger or desire in the feeling this
child arouses in me. It does not even occur to her to be coquettish with
me. She is not afraid of me; she looks me in the face without blushing;
she is not agitated in my presence. If I abuse her isolation and her
weakness, she will defend herself badly perhaps, but she will go away
from here all in tears, and it may be will kill herself--for there are
some who kill themselves.--At all events she will detest the thought of
me and blush to have belonged to me. Now, a man like myself cannot
afford to be despised. Women who do not know him must fear him; they who
do know him must esteem him or love him; they who have known him must
regret him. To be sure, there is, on the border-line between presumption
and violence, an infinite enjoyment, a complete consciousness of
victory; but that is so on the border-line only: a hair's-breadth
beyond, and it is all bestiality and brutality. The moment that a woman
can accuse you of having resorted to force, she resumes her sway,
although conquered, and you risk becoming her slave because you have
been her master against her will. I have heard that there was something
of that sort in my father's life, although Fra Angelo would never tell
me anything definite about it. But everybody knows that my father lacked
patience and that he drank heavily. Those were the failings of his time.
We are more civilized and more adroit to-day. More moral? no, but more
refined, and, consequently, more irresistible. Would there be much skill
or much merit involved in obtaining from this girl what she has not as
yet accorded her lover? She is so trustful that the first half of the
road would be easy enough. Indeed, I have already gone halfway. She was
fascinated by my air of chivalrous virtue. She came here, she entered my
house, she sat by my side. But the other half is not simply difficult;
it is impossible. I could never make her desire to struggle with me; it
would never occur to her to yield in order to obtain. If she were mine,
I would dress her as a boy and take her with me hunting. At need she
would hunt the Neapolitan as she has hunted the abbé to-day. She would
soon be hardened. I should love her as a page; I should not look upon
her as a woman at all."

"Well, monsignor," said Mila, a little annoyed by her host's long
silence, "are you waiting for the Piccinino to come? Can I not go away
now?"

"Do you want to go?" replied the Piccinino, looking at her with a
distraught air.

"Why not? You managed the affair so quickly that it is still early, and
I can return alone by daylight. I shall not be afraid now that I know
where the abbé is, and that he is incapable of coming after me."

"Wouldn't you like me to escort you, at least as far as Bel-Passo?"

"It seems to me quite unnecessary for you to put yourself out."

"Very well, go, Mila; you are free, since you are in such haste to leave
me, and are so uncomfortable in my company."

"No, signor, do not say that," replied the girl, artlessly. "I am highly
honored to be with you, and if it were not for the danger, which you
realize, of being spied upon and falsely accused, I should enjoy staying
with you; for it seems to me that you are sad, and I might at least
divert your thoughts. Sometimes Princess Agatha is sad too, and when I
would leave her alone, she says to me: 'Stay with me, little Mila; even
if we don't speak, your presence does me good.'"

"Princess Agatha is sad sometimes? Do you know the reason?"

"No; but I have an idea that she is bored to death."

Thereupon the Piccinino asked many questions, which Mila answered with
her usual ingenuousness, but neither would nor could tell him anything
more than he had already heard; that is to say, that she lived a
virtuous, retired life, that she was very charitable, that she read a
great deal, that she loved the arts, and that she was gentle and placid,
almost to the point of apathy, in her external relations. But the
unsuspecting Mila added that she was sure that her dear princess was
more ardent and self-sacrificing in her affections than people thought;
that she had often known her to be moved to tears by the story of some
misfortune, or even by some touchingly simple anecdote.

"For instance?" said the Piccinino; "give me an example."

"Very well," said Mila; "one day I told her that there was a time when
we were very poor in Rome. I was only five or six years old then, and as
we had almost nothing to eat, I used sometimes to tell my brother Michel
that I was not hungry, so that he would eat my share. But Michel,
suspecting my motive, began to say that he was not hungry either; so
that we often kept our bread over night, neither of us being willing to
admit that we longed to eat it. And the result of that performance was
that we made ourselves more unhappy than we really were. I told the
princess this laughingly; suddenly she burst into tears and pressed me
to her heart, saying: 'Poor children! poor dear children!'--Tell me,
signor, if that shows the cold heart and dull mind that people say she
has?"

The Piccinino took Mila's arm in his and walked about the garden with
her, leading her on to talk of the princess. His imagination was
engrossed by that woman who had made so deep an impression on him, and
he entirely forgot that Mila had occupied his thoughts and disturbed his
senses during a part of the day.

Honest Mila, still convinced that she was talking to a sincere friend,
abandoned herself to the pleasure of praising the woman whom she loved
with enthusiasm, and _forgot that she was forgetting herself_, as she
expressed it, after walking about for an hour under the magnificent
trees in the garden at Nicolosi.

The Piccinino had an impressionable brain and a fickle humor. His whole
life was a constant alternation of meditation and curiosity. The simple
and graceful conversation of Mila, her kindly thoughts, the generous
outflow of her affections, and an indefinable touch of grandeur of soul,
courage, and cheeriness of temperament, which she inherited from her
father and uncle, gradually fascinated the brigand. New horizons opened
before him, as if he were passing from the contemplation of a painful
and fatiguing drama to that of a placid and lightsome idyll. He was too
intelligent not to understand everything, even those things which were
most opposed to his instincts and habits. He had devoured Byron's poems.
In his dreams he had raised himself to the level of Don Juan and Lara;
but he had read Petrarch too, and knew him by heart; indeed he had
smiled instead of yawning, as he murmured to himself the _concetti_ of
_Aminta_ and the _Pastor Fido_. He felt soothed by his frank converse
with little Mila, even more than he ordinarily was when he resorted to
that sentimental nonsense to allay the tempests of his passions.

But at last the sun began to sink. Mila thought of Magnani, and asked
leave to go.

"Very well, _addio_, my sweet Mila," said the Piccinino; "but as we walk
back to the garden gate I propose to do for you in all seriousness what
I have never done for any woman, except from some selfish motive or in
mockery."

"What is that, monsignor?" queried Mila, in amazement.

"I propose to pluck a bouquet for you, a virginal bouquet, from the
flowers in my garden," he answered, with a smile, in which, if there was
a suspicion of mockery, it was directed at himself alone.

To Mila this attention seemed much less surprising than it seemed to the
Piccinino. He plucked with care white roses, myrtle, and orange
blossoms; he picked the thorns from the roses; he selected the finest
flowers; and with more taste and skill than he would have given himself
credit for, he made a superb bouquet for his amiable guest.

"Ah!" he said as he presented it to her, "we must not forget the
cyclamen. There must be some among this grass. No, no, Mila, do not
look; I want to pick them myself, so that the princess may enjoy
inhaling the perfume of my bouquet. For you must tell her that it comes
from me, and that it was the only attention which I ventured to offer
you, after a tête-à-tête of two hours in my house."

"Then you do not forbid me to tell Princess Agatha that I have been
here?"

"You must tell her, Mila. You must tell her everything. But her alone,
do you understand? Swear it on your salvation, for you believe in that,
do you not?"

"Why, do not you believe in it, signor?"

"I believe that I have earned the right to go to Paradise to-day, if I
should die at once; for my heart is as pure as a little child's since
you have been with me."

"But, suppose the princess asks me who you are, monsignor, and whom I am
talking about--how shall I describe you so that she may know?"

"You will tell her what I wish you also to know, Mila. But perhaps there
will be times hereafter when my face and my name will no longer be in
accord. Then you must hold your peace, and, at need, pretend that you
never saw me, for with a word you could cause my death."

"God forbid!" cried Mila, effusively. "Ah! monsignor, rely on my
prudence and my discretion as if my life were bound to yours!"

"Very well; say to the princess that it was Carmelo Tomabene who rescued
you from Abbé Ninfo, and who kissed your hand as respectfully as he
would kiss her own."

"It is for me to kiss your hand, monsignor," replied the guileless
child, putting the brigand's hand to her lips, firmly persuaded that it
was at least a king's son who treated her with such condescending
courtesy; "for you are deceiving me," she continued. "Carmelo Tomabene
is a _villano_, and this house is no more yours than his name is. You
might live in a palace, if you chose, but you disguise yourself for
political reasons which I ought not to know, and do not wish to. I have
an idea that you will be King of Sicily some day. Ah! how I would like
to be a man and fight for your cause! for you will bring about the
happiness of your people, I am sure of it!"

Mila's jesting extravagance caused a momentary madness in the brigand's
audacious brain. He had a touch of vertigo, and felt almost the same
emotion as if she had guessed the truth instead of dreaming a dream. But
instantly he laughed an almost bitter laugh, which did not dispel Mila's
illusions. She thought that it was an attempt to banish her rash
suspicions, and she frankly asked his forgiveness for the words that had
escaped her.

"My child," he replied, kissing her on the brow and assisting her to
mount the white mule, "Princess Agatha will tell you who I am. I
authorize you to ask her; but, when you find out, remember that you are
my accomplice, or that you must send me to the gallows."

"I would rather go myself!" said Mila, as she rode away, calling his
attention to the respectful kiss she bestowed upon his bouquet.

"Well!" said the Piccinino to himself, "this has been the pleasantest
and most romantic adventure of my whole life. I have played the part of
a king in disguise, without showing it, without taking the trouble to
prepare for it, without making any arrangements to afford myself that
amusement. Unexpected pleasures are the only genuine ones, they say; I
begin to believe it. Perhaps it is because I have premeditated my
actions too much, and laid out my life beforehand too carefully, that I
have so often found ennui and distaste at the end of my undertakings.
Fascinating Mila! What a wealth of poesy, what freshness of the
imagination in your young brain! Oh! if only you were a youth of my own
sex! if I could keep you beside me without causing you to lose any of
your pleasant illusions and your blessed purity! I should find the sweet
companionship of a wife in a faithful comrade, without danger of
arousing or feeling the passion which poisons and destroys all
friendships! But such mortals do not exist. Woman cannot fail to be
treacherous; man cannot cease to be brutal. Ah! I always have missed--I
always shall miss--the being able to love some one. I should have had to
fall in with a mind different from all other minds and even more
different from my own--which is impossible!

"Am I then an exceptional character?" he asked himself, following with
his eyes the prints of Mila's little feet on the gravelled paths of his
garden. "It seems to me that I am, when I compare myself with the
mountaineers with whom I am compelled to live, and with these bandits
whose leader I am. I have more than one brother among them, so it is
said. The fact that they have none of my qualities, makes it impossible
for me to believe it. The passions which serve as a bond between us
differ as much as our features and our bodily strength. They desire
booty in order to convert into money everything that is not money; and I
care for nothing which is not of value by reason of its beauty or its
rarity. What they succeed in obtaining they hoard because they are
miserly; I use it sparingly, so that I may be able to bear myself
royally with them on occasion, and extend my power and influence over
everyone about me.

"Thus gold is to me only a means, while to them it is the end. They love
women as chattels, and I, alas! would fain be able to love them as human
beings! They are intoxicated with delight by acts of violence which make
me sick at heart, and by which I should be humiliated, knowing that I
have the power to please, and having never been compelled to force
myself upon anyone. No, no! they are no brothers of mine; if they are
the _Destatore's_ sons, they are the offspring of wild dissipation and
of his years of moral decadence. I am the son of Castro-Reale; I was
conceived on a day when his mind was lucid. My mother was not violated
like the rest. She abandoned herself to him willingly, and I am the
fruit of the intercourse of two free hearts, who did not give me life
against their wills.

"But, in that world which is called society, and which I call the legal
community, are there not many persons of both sexes with whom I could
enter into relations, and so escape this ghastly solitude of my
thoughts? Are there not men of intelligence, endowed with keen
perception, whose friend I might be? Are there not many women, proud and
adroit, whose lover I might be, without being compelled to laugh at the
pains I had taken to overcome them? In a word, am I doomed never to find
emotion of any sort in this life which I embraced as being most fruitful
in violent emotions? Shall I always be obliged to expend endless stores
of imaginative power and of tact, in order to succeed in pillaging a
vessel on the coast or a party of travellers in the gorges of the
mountain? And all to obtain a multitude of petty trinkets, a little
money, and the hearts of a few Englishwomen, ugly or half-mad, who adore
adventures with brigands as a remedy for the spleen!

"But I have closed to myself forever that world where I might find my
equals and my fellows. I can enter only through the secret doors of
intrigue, and, if I wish to appear there in broad daylight, I can do it
only on condition of being followed by the mystery of my past, that is
to say, by a sentence of death always hanging over my head. Shall I
leave the country? It is the only country where the trade of bandit is
more perilous than dishonorable. Anywhere else I shall be asked for
proof that I have always lived in legitimate society; and if I cannot
furnish it I shall be classed with the most degraded creatures who
wallow in the sloughs of their pretended civilization!

"O Mila! how completely you have filled with grief and dismay this heart
upon which you have shed a ray of your sunlight!"




XL

DECEPTION


Thus did that man, so ill-placed in life if we compare his intellectual
powers with his social position, torture himself with vain reflections.
Mental culture, which was his greatest enjoyment, was also his torment.
Having read everything that fell into his hands, without method and
without selection, and allowing himself to be impressed by everything in
turn, he was as learned in evil as in good, and he was insensibly
drawing near that scepticism which no longer believes absolutely in
either good or evil.

He returned to his house to take certain precautions with respect to
Abbé Ninfo, so that, if the unexpected should happen, and his domicile
be invaded, there should be no traces of violence. He put the narcotized
wine out of sight, and filled the decanter with unadulterated wine, in
order that he might safely pretend to experiment upon himself at need.
He placed the abbé on a couch, extinguished the lamp, and swept up the
ashes of the papers Mila had destroyed. No one ever entered his house in
his absence. He had no regular servants, and the spotless neatness which
he himself maintained did not cost him much trouble, for he occupied
only a few rooms, and even those few he did not enter every day. He
worked in his garden, in his leisure moments, to keep himself in
condition, and to be consistent with his assumed rôle of peasant. He
had himself applied to all the issues of his abode a simple but
substantial system of fastening, calculated to resist for a long time
any attempt to force an entrance. Finally, he released two enormous and
savage mountain dogs, fierce beasts who knew nobody but him, and who
would infallibly have strangled the prisoner if he had tried to escape.

Having taken these precautions, the Piccinino washed and perfumed
himself, and, before going down to the city, showed himself in the
village of Nicolosi, where he was highly esteemed by all the people. He
conversed in Latin with the priest, under the vine-clad arbor of the
vicarage. He exchanged sly jests with the pretty girls of the village,
who ogled him from their doorsteps. He held several consultations on
agriculture and general affairs with men of sense who appreciated his
intelligence and his extensive knowledge. As he left the village he fell
in with an officer of _campieri_, with whom he walked for some distance,
and who informed him that the Piccinino still succeeded in eluding the
pursuit of the police and the municipal brigade.

Mila, eager to tell all her secrets to the princess, and to avail
herself of the mysterious prince's permission to ascertain their
meaning, travelled as quickly as Bianca was able to descend those steep
and dangerous slopes. It did not occur to her to hold the mule back; she
was too deeply absorbed in her meditations. Persons of pure heart and
tranquil mind must have noticed that, when they communicate their mental
disposition to perturbed and agitated minds, their own serenity is
diminished in proportion. They give only at the price of running in debt
themselves to some extent; for confidence is a matter of exchange, and
there is no heart so richly endowed and so powerful that it does not
risk something in gratifying its beneficent impulses.

Gradually, however, pretty Mila's terror changed to joy. The Piccinino's
conversation had left an echo as of sweet music in her ears, and the
odor of his bouquet kept alive the illusion that she was still in that
rustic garden, under the shade of the black fig-trees and pistacias,
walking upon carpets of moss strewn with mallow, orchids and fraxinella,
sometimes catching her veil on the aloes and the twigs of the thorny
smilax, from which her host quickly detached it with respectful
courtesy. Mila had the simple tastes of her class, added to the tendency
to romance and poesy born of her intelligence. If the marble fountains
and statues of Villa Palmarosa appealed to her imagination, the
vine-clad arbors and wild apple-trees of Carmelo's garden spoke more
loudly to her heart. She had already forgotten the bandit's oriental
boudoir; she had not felt at her ease there as she had under the arbor.
He had been cold and satirical almost all the time in the boudoir,
whereas, among the flowering shrubs and beside the silvery spring, he
had displayed an artless mind and a tender heart.

How did it happen that this girl, who had just seen such strange and
distressing things, a queen's boudoir in the house of a peasant, and the
ghastly scene of Abbé Ninfo's lethargy, no longer remembered what must
have impressed her imagination so profoundly? Her surprise and her
fright had vanished like a dream, and her mind was engrossed by the
final tableau, fresh and unsullied, where she saw naught but flowers,
greenswards, birds chattering among the leaves, and a handsome young man
who guided her through that enchanted labyrinth, conversing with her in
chaste and charming language.

When Mila had passed the _Destatore's_ cross, she dismounted, as Carmelo
had advised her to do, as a measure of prudence. She fastened the reins
to the saddle-bow and waved a switch about Bianca's ears. The
intelligent beast started back at a gallop toward Nicolosi, needing no
guidance to return to her stable. Mila continued her journey on foot,
avoiding the neighborhood of Bel-Passo; but, by a veritable fatality,
Fra Angelo happened to be returning just then from the Della Serra
palace to his convent by a by-path, so that Mila suddenly found herself
face to face with him.

The poor girl drew her _mantellina_ about her and began to walk very
fast, as if she had not seen her uncle.

"Where have you been, Mila?" was the greeting which brought her to a
standstill, uttered as it was in a tone which admitted of no hesitation.

"Why! uncle," she replied, putting aside her veil, "I didn't see you;
the sun was in my eyes."

"Where have you been?" repeated the monk, not deigning to discuss the
probable truth of that reply.

"Well, uncle," said Mila, resolutely, "I will not tell you a lie; I saw
you plainly."

"I know it; but will you tell me where you have been?"

"I have been to the convent, uncle. I was looking for you, and, not
finding you, I was going back to the city."

"What was it that you were in such a hurry to say to me, my dear girl?
It must be very important, for you to dare to come out into the country
alone, contrary to your habit. Come, answer me! You say nothing! You
cannot lie, Mila!"

"Yes, uncle, yes! I came----" And she stopped short, completely at a
loss, for she had made no preparations for this meeting, and her wits
abandoned her.

"You are losing your head, Mila," rejoined the monk, "for I tell you
that you do not know how to lie, and you answer '_Yes!_' Thank heaven,
you don't know what you are saying! Do not try to lie, my child, but
tell me frankly where you have been."

"Well, uncle, I cannot tell you."

"Indeed!" cried Fra Angelo, with a frown. "I order you to tell me!"

"It is impossible, dear uncle, impossible," said Mila, hanging her head,
crimson with shame, and with her eyes filled with tears; for it was very
painful to her to see her excellent uncle angry with her for the first
time in her life.

"Then you wish me to believe that you have been doing either an insane
or a wicked thing!"

"Neither!" cried Mila, raising her head. "I call God to witness!"

"God!" repeated the monk, in a despairing tone. "How you pain me by
speaking so, Mila! Can you be capable of swearing a false oath?"

"No, uncle, no, never!"

"Lie to your uncle, if it seems best to you, but do not lie to God!"

"Am I in the habit of lying, I ask you, then?" exclaimed the girl,
proudly; "and ought I to be suspected by my uncle, the man who knows me
so well, and for whose esteem I care more than for my life?"

"In that case, speak!" rejoined Fra Angelo, grasping her wrist in a way
which he considered encouraging and paternal, but which bruised the
child's arm and extorted a cry of terror from her.--"Why this fright,
pray?" demanded the monk, in amazement. "Ah! you are guilty, girl. You
have just done--not anything sinful, I cannot believe that--but some
foolish thing or other, which is the first step on the pathway of evil.
If it were not so, you would not recoil from me in terror; you would not
have tried to hide your face when we met; above all things, you would
not have tried to lie! And now, as it is impossible for you to have any
innocent secret from me, you should not refuse to explain your actions."

"But I tell you, uncle, that it is an entirely innocent secret, and
still it is impossible for me to tell you what it is. Do not ask me any
more questions. I would die before I would speak."

"At all events, Mila, promise me that you will tell your father this
secret which I may not know!"

"I cannot promise you that; but I swear that I will tell it to Princess
Agatha."

"I have the greatest esteem and veneration for Princess Agatha," replied
the monk, "but I know that women are excessively indulgent to one
another in the matter of certain errors of conduct, and that virtuous
women are the more tolerant because of their ignorance of evil. I do
not, therefore, like the idea of your seeking shelter against shame on
your friend's bosom, instead of explaining your conduct to your family,
with head erect. Go, Mila; I insist no farther, since you have withdrawn
your confidence from me; but I pity you because your heart is not pure
and calm this evening as it was this morning. I pity my brother, whose
pride and joy you were; I pity your brother, who will soon have to
answer for your conduct before the world, I doubt not, and who will have
plenty of trouble on his hands unless he chooses to allow you to be
insulted on his arm. Woe, woe to the men of a family, when the women,
who should watch over its honor as the Vestals watched over the sacred
fire, break the laws of prudence, modesty and truth!"

Fra Angelo passed on, leaving poor Mila, crushed by this malediction,
kneeling on the stones in the road, with bloodless cheeks and her bosom
heaving with sobs.

"Alas!" she said to herself, "until this moment it seemed to me that my
conduct was not only innocent, but brave and praiseworthy. Oh! how harsh
the laws of modest reserve and the necessity of an unsullied reputation
are for women, since, even when it is a question of saving the lives of
one's family, one must expect to be blamed by those whom one loves best!
Was it wrong for me to trust to the _prince's_ promises? He may have
deceived me, it is true! But when his conduct has proved his honor and
his virtue, ought I to blame myself for believing in him? Was it not a
presentiment of the truth that led me toward him, and not mere foolish
and imprudent curiosity?"

She kept on down the mountain, but, as she walked, she questioned her
conscience severely, and some scruples awoke within her. Had she not
been impelled by pride to accomplish a difficult and perilous enterprise
of which no one would have believed her to be capable? Had she not
allowed herself to be influenced by the stranger's comeliness and charm
of manner, and would she have had equal confidence in an older and less
eloquent man?

"But what does it matter after all?" she said to herself. "What have I
done that is wrong, and what reproach could be brought against me if I
had been watched? I have run the risk of being misrepresented and
slandered, and that is certainly a fault when one does it from egotism
or a spirit of coquetry; but when one exposes oneself to danger to save
one's father and brother!--Princess Agatha will be my judge; she will
tell me whether I have done right or wrong, and whether she would have
acted as I did."

But imagine poor Mila's dismay, when, as soon as she began her story,
the princess interrupted her, saying: "O my child! it was the
Piccinino!"

Mila tried to struggle against the truth. She insisted that everybody
said that the Piccinino was short, thickset, awkwardly built, afflicted
with hideous ugliness, and that his face was darkened by bushy hair and
a beard; whereas the stranger's slight figure was so graceful and
refined, his manners so gracious and noble!

"My child," said the princess, "there is a false Piccinino who plays the
part of his chief with people of whom his chief is suspicious, and who
would play it, at need, before the police and magistrates, if he should
fall into their hands. He is a repulsive, savage creature, who enhances,
by the horror of his appearance, the terror inspired by the expeditions
of the band. But the real Piccinino, the one who styles himself the
_justicier d'aventure_, and who directs all the operations of the
brigands of the mountain; the man whom nobody knows and as to whom, if
he should be captured, it would be impossible to prove that he had ever
been the leader or a member of the band, is a handsome, well-educated,
eloquent, dissipated and cunning young man; the same Carmelo Tomabene
with whom you talked at the fountain."

Mila was so thunderstruck that she almost determined not to go on with
her story. How could she confess that she had been the dupe of a
hypocrite and had placed herself at the mercy of a libertine? She did
confess everything, however, with absolute sincerity, and, when she had
finished, began to weep afresh, thinking of the risks she had run, and
of the conjectures of which she would be the object if the Piccinino
should chance to boast of her visit.

But Agatha, who had trembled with apprehension more than once as she
listened, and who had resolved to reprove her for her imprudence, by
pointing out to her that the Piccinino was too adroit to have really
needed her assistance, was disarmed by her ingenuous grief, and embraced
her warmly to comfort her. What impressed her quite as deeply as the
rashness of the girl, was the physical and moral courage which had
inspired her, her determination to take her own life at the slightest
suggestion of outrage, and her unbounded devotion and her generous
confidence. She thanked her affectionately therefore, because she had
been guided in part by the desire to deliver her from an enemy; and
finally, when she was fully assured that Abbé Ninfo was really in the
_justicier's_ power, she was so overcome by joy that she kissed little
Mila's hands, calling her her good fairy and her angel of salvation.

Mila being thus comforted and reconciled with herself, the princess, in
an outburst of childlike merriment, proposed to her that she should
change her dress to assist her to recover from the fatigue of her
expedition, and that then they should go and surprise her father and
brother at the marquis's villa.

"We will go on foot," she said, "for it is close by if we go by way of
the garden; and we will dine together first. Then we shall have the
darkness and cool breeze of early evening, and in addition a travelling
companion whom you do not expect perhaps, but whom you will not be sorry
to see, for he is a friend of yours."

"I wonder who it can be," said Mila, with a smile; she guessed shrewdly
enough, but with respect to her heart's secret, and to that alone, she
recovered all the prudence of the feminine mind.

The dinner and the preparations of the two friends occupied about an
hour; after which the maid came and whispered to the princess: "The
young man of last evening, at the end of the garden, by the eastern
gate."

"That is right," said the princess, leading Mila away; "that is our
road." And they hurried across the park, joyous and light of heart; for
both were born again to the hope of happiness.

Magnani was walking back and forth, melancholy and distraught, waiting
to be sent for to go to the palace, when two veiled women, issuing from
the clumps of myrtle and orange, ran to him, and grasping each an arm,
hurried him along with them without speaking. He recognized them
perfectly, the princess better than Mila, who seemed to him to be
dressed more elaborately than usual under her light cape; but he was too
deeply moved to speak, and he pretended to accept this gracious jest
gayly. A smile played about his lips, but his heart was troubled; and,
while he sought relief from the perturbation caused by Agatha's
presence, he derived but little assistance from feeling Mila's arm in
his.

As they passed into the marquis's park, the princess put aside her veil
and said to him:

"My dear friend, I intended to talk with you at my house; but my
impatience to announce some good news to our friends, who are visiting
the marquis, led me to bring you here with us. The whole evening belongs
to us, and I can talk with you here as well as elsewhere. But let us go
forward noiselessly; we are not expected and I want to surprise them."

The marquis and his guests, after conversing a long time, were still on
the terrace looking out upon the sea, where the horizon was ablaze with
the last rays of the sun, while the stars appeared one by one in the
zenith. Michel was listening with deep interest to the marquis, whose
conversation was instructive, albeit always affable and unaffected. What
was his surprise when, on raising his head, he saw three persons seated
about the table, laden with refreshments, which he had just left to walk
to the balustrade, and when, in those three persons, he recognized
Agatha, Mila, and Magnani!

At first he had no eyes except for Agatha, and hardly recognized his
sister and his friend. The princess was dressed, however, with the
utmost simplicity, in a dress of pearl-gray silk, with a _guardaspalle_
of black lace thrown over her head and shoulders. She seemed to him a
little less fresh and youthful than she had appeared under the bright
lights. But, in a moment, the charm of her manner, her frank smile, her
pure and sincere glance, made her seem even younger and more attractive
than on the first day.

"Are you surprised to see your dear daughter here?" she asked
Pier-Angelo. "But she told you, did she not, that she should not dine
alone? And you see! you left her at home, and like Cinderella, she
appears in the midst of the fête, resplendent in costume and beauty. As
for Master Magnani, he is the enchanter who attends her; but as we are
not dealing with Don Magnifico on this occasion, the enchanter will not
dazzle the father's eyes so that he will not recognize his cherished
daughter. Cinderella therefore can challenge the glances of all
present."

As she spoke Agatha raised Mila's veil, and disclosed her _radiant as a
sun_; such is the expression of the legend.

Michel looked at his sister. She was fairly beaming with confidence and
joy. The princess had arrayed her in a gown of bright pink silk, with
several strings of beautiful great pearls about her neck and arms. A
wreath of natural flowers, wonderfully beautiful and arranged with
consummate art, crowned her dark face without concealing the abundant
treasures of her hair. Her little feet were daintily shod, and her
pretty fingers opened and closed Agatha's splendid fan with as much
grace and dignity as any _marchesina_. She was a muse of the
Renaissance, a patrician maiden, and a lovely damsel of the South,
radiant with health, nobility, and poetic charm.

Agatha looked at her with an air of motherly pride, and smiled lovingly
as she talked of her in Pier-Angelo's ear.

Michel then turned his eyes upon Magnani. He was gazing alternately at
the modest princess and the lovely silk-spinner of the Catanian suburb
with extraordinary emotion. He was no better able than Michel to
understand the strange and bewildering dream in which he seemed to be
moving. But it is certain that he saw Mila only through a cloud of gold
and fire, which emanated from Agatha and was projected upon her young
friend as if by magic.




XLI

JEALOUSY AND GRATITUDE


The princess led the marquis and Pier-Angelo aside to tell them that
Ninfo was in the Piccinino's hands, and that she had been so informed by
an eye-witness of his capture whom she was not at liberty to name.

More ices were brought, and the conversation was renewed. Despite
Magnani's perturbation and timidity, despite Michel's excitement and
preoccupation, the princess and the marquis speedily tranquillized the
two young men, thanks to the judicious courtesy and the great art of
being simple, which well-bred people possess when the foundation of
their character corresponds with the external charm due to exquisite
tact. Thus Agatha questioned Michel concerning subjects with which he
was familiar, and on which he felt deeply. The young artist was
overjoyed by her perfect comprehension of art, and he stored away in his
memory several far-reaching definitions which she let fall, her mode of
expressing herself was so simple and natural. When she spoke to him she
seemed to be consulting rather than instructing him, and her glance,
alight with penetrating sympathy, seemed to seek in Michel's eyes
confirmation of her own opinions and ideas.

Magnani understood all that was said, and, although he seldom ventured
to speak, it was easy to read on his intelligent face that none of the
ideas advanced were beyond the reach of his intellect. That young man
had unusual faculties which would never have been cultivated, perhaps,
but for his romantic passion. From the day that he first became enamored
of the princess he had constantly devoted a portion of his leisure to
reading and to the study of such works of art as he had been privileged
to see. He had employed his vacations--what mechanics call the _dead
season_--in travelling about Sicily on foot, viewing the treasures of
antiquity with which that island, so beautiful in itself, is thickly
strewn. While saying to himself that he was determined to remain humble
and obscure, and persuading himself that he had no desire to depart from
the rough simplicity of his class, he had been impelled by an
irresistible instinct to improve his mind.

The conversation having become general, was pleasant, unconstrained, and
even merry, thanks to Pier-Angelo's sallies and Mila's artless remarks.
But her artlessness was so touching that, far from wounding Michel's
self-esteem in the princess's presence, it displayed his young sister's
fifteen years to him in a new light. It is certain that he had paid too
little heed to the very great change which a year had caused in the
ideas of a girl of her age, when, thinking that he still had to do with
a heedless and timid child, he had undertaken to blast all the hopes of
her heart with a word. In every word that Mila said she manifested
immense progress in respect to intelligence and decision of character,
and the contrast between that development of her mind, and the
inexperience, innocence and simplicity of her heart, presented a
spectacle at once charming and affecting. The princess, with the
delicate tact which women alone possess, caused Mila's charm to stand
out in bolder relief by her replies, and neither Michel, nor Magnani,
nor Pier-Angelo himself, had ever before imagined how much enjoyment
might be derived from talking with that maiden.

The moon rose, silvery white, in the cloudless sky. Agatha suggested a
walk in the garden. They started together; but the princess soon
strolled away from the others with Magnani, whose arm she took
familiarly; and for half an hour they remained so far away from their
friends that they were often out of sight.

We will not divulge at this point what the princess had to say in
confidence to the young mechanic during that tête-à-tête, which
seemed to Michel so long and so extraordinary; indeed, we shall not
divulge it at all. The reader will divine it at the proper time.

But Michel was unable to form the faintest idea of it, and he was on the
rack. He ceased to listen to the marquis; he was much more inclined to
tease and contradict Mila. He laughed at her costume and picked flaws in
it under his breath, and almost made her cry; so that she finally
whispered to him: "Michel, you always were jealous, and you are jealous
at this moment."

"Jealous of what, pray?" he retorted bitterly; "of your pink dress and
your pearl necklace?"

"No," she said, "but of the princess's friendship for your friend and
her confidence in him. Oh! I remember how you used to sulk when we were
children, if mamma kissed me more than you."

When the princess and Magnani joined them again, Agatha seemed calm and
Magnani deeply moved. But his noble face was even graver than usual, and
Michel noticed that his manner had undergone a remarkable change. He no
longer seemed to be at all confused by Agatha's presence. When she spoke
to him, the reply no longer trembled on his lips; he no longer turned
his eyes away in dismay, and, instead of the terrible suffering he had
previously displayed, he was calm, attentive and thoughtful. They talked
a few moments longer, then the princess turned to go. The marquis
offered his carriage. She declined it. "I prefer to walk back through
the gardens as I came," she said; "and, as I must have an escort,
although we no longer have any enemies to fear, I will take
Michelangelo's arm--unless he refuses!"--she added, with a quiet smile,
observing the young man's confusion.

Michel could find no words for a reply; he bowed and offered her his
arm. An hour earlier he would have been beside himself with joy. Now it
wounded his pride to receive in public a favor which Magnani had
received privately and as it were in secret.

Pier-Angelo took his leave with his daughter, to whom Magnani did not
offer his arm. So much ceremonious courtesy was not in his line. He
affected to be ignorant of the rules of politeness because he detested
imitation, but in reality his manners were always gentle and amiable.
After a few steps he found himself so near Mila that he naturally took
her round elbow in his hand to guide her through the narrow lanes of the
suburb, and walked with her, supporting her thus, to her door.

Michel had started off encased in his pride as in a cuirass, mentally
accusing the princess of caprice and coquetry, and firmly resolved not
to allow himself to be dazzled by her advances. And yet he confessed to
himself that he was entirely unable to understand the irritation that he
felt. He was forced to say to himself that she was immeasurably kind,
and that if she was, in fact, indebted to old Pier-Angelo, she paid her
debt with all the treasures of delicacy and refinement which a woman's
heart can contain.

But Michel could not forget all the problems which he had been trying
for two days to solve; and the way in which the princess pressed his arm
at that moment, as they walked, like a woman passionately in love or a
nervous person unaccustomed to walking, was a fresh problem which the
idea of a service rendered the signora by his father did not
sufficiently explain.

He strode forward at first in silence, saying to himself that he would
not speak first, that he would not give way to emotion, that he would
not forget that Magnani's arm had probably been pressed in the same way;
in a word, that he would be on his guard: for either Princess Agatha was
mad, or she concealed the most insane coquetry beneath a virtuous and
downcast exterior.

But all his fine plans came to naught. The shady paths that they trod,
with plots of land carefully tilled and planted on each side, led
through a succession of small gardens belonging to well-to-do mechanics
or middle-class citizens of the town. The paths were separated from the
plots only by shrubs, rose-bushes, or beds of aromatic herbs. Here and
there vine-clad arbors cast a dense shadow about them. The moon's rays
were oblique and uncertain. Innumerable perfumes arose from the
flower-strewn fields, and the sea, behind the hills in the distance,
murmured in amorous tones. Nightingales sang among the jasmines. Some
human voices sang in the distance, gayly challenging the echo; but there
was no one on the path which Michel and Agatha were following. The
little gardens were deserted. Michel felt oppressed; his pace slackened,
his arm trembled convulsively. A faint breeze blew the princess's veil
near his face, and he fancied that he heard mysterious voices whispering
in his ear. He dared not turn to see whether it was a woman's breath or
the breath of night that caressed him so near at hand.

"My dear Michel," said the princess, in a calm tone, which brought him
abruptly from the sky to the earth, "I ask your pardon, but I really
must stop to take breath. I am not much accustomed to walking, and I
feel very tired. Here is a bench under this arbor which invites me to
sit down for five minutes, and I fancy that the owners of this little
garden, if they should see me, would not accuse me of committing a crime
if I take advantage of it."

Michel led her to the bench to which she pointed, and, restored to
reason once more, walked a few steps away to look at a little fountain
whose soft gurgling failed to divert him from his reverie.

"Yes, yes, it was a dream, or else it was my little sister Mila who gave
me that kiss. She is a mocking madcap! she would have explained the
great mystery of the locket to me if I had questioned her frankly and
earnestly. Doubtless there is some perfectly natural cause for all this
which does not occur to me. Isn't it always so with natural causes? The
only one that one does not divine is always the simplest. Ah! if Mila
knew what danger she is playing with, and what pain she might spare me
by telling me the truth! I will press her so to-morrow that she will
tell me everything!"

While Michel reflected thus, the crystal water murmured in its narrow
basin, wherein quivered the spectre of the moon. The fountain was a
small terra-cotta affair, of classic simplicity; an aquatic cupid
grasping a huge carp from whose mouth the stream of water fell about a
foot into the reservoir. The artist who had executed the figure had
attempted to give it a mischievous expression, but he had succeeded only
in imparting to the carp's great eyes a glare of grotesque ferocity.
Michel looked at the group without seeing it, and to no purpose was the
night soft and fragrant; he, passionate lover of nature that he was,
absorbed by his own thoughts, denied to nature his accustomed homage on
that evening.

And yet the murmur of the water acted upon his imagination without his
realizing it. He remembered a similar melodious sound, the timid and
melancholy murmur with which the marble Naiad filled the grotto of the
Palmarosa palace as she emptied her urn into the basin; the blissful
sensations of his dream passed before his mind once more, and he would
fain have fallen asleep where he stood, hoping for a repetition of his
hallucination.

"But what am I thinking of!" he suddenly said to himself; "am I not a
most absurd novice? Did she not stop here in order to invite me to
prolong an ardent tête-à-tête? I took that sudden fatigue, that fancy
to sit in the first garden that we came to, for an honest explanation of
the confusion she felt--was it not intended as an encouragement to my
uncouth timidity?"

He eagerly approached the princess, feeling emboldened by the shadow of
the arbor. The bench was so small that, unless he asked her to make room
for him, he could not sit beside her. He sat down on the grass, not
precisely at her feet, but near enough to be nearer still ere long.

"Well, Michel," she said to him, with an indescribable sweetness in her
voice, "are you also tired, pray?"

"I am worn out," he replied, in a tone of deep emotion which made the
princess start.

"What do you mean? you are not ill, my child?" she said, putting out her
hand, which came in contact with the young man's silky hair in the
darkness.

With one bound he was at her knees, his head bent, as it were fascinated
beneath that hand which did not repel him, his lips pressed to the hem
of that floating silk dress which could not betray his transports;
uncertain, beside himself, lacking courage to declare his passion,
lacking strength to resist it.

"Michel," cried the princess, letting her hand fall again upon the young
madman's burning brow, "you are feverish, my child! your head is
burning! Yes, yes," she added, stroking his cheeks with affectionate
solicitude, "you have had too much fatigue these last few days; you have
been awake two nights in succession, and although you threw yourself on
your bed for a few hours this morning, I doubt if you slept much. And I
have led you on to talk too much to-night. You must go home. Let us walk
on; you can leave me at the gate of my park and go home at once. I
intended to say something to you to-night; but I am afraid that you are
going to be sick; when you are thoroughly rested, perhaps I will speak
to you."

She attempted to rise; but Michel was kneeling on the edge of her dress.
He held against his cheeks, he put to his lips that lovely hand which
did not seek to avoid his caresses.

"No, no," cried Michel, impetuously, "let me die here. I know very well
that you will drive me from your presence forever to-morrow; I know that
I shall never see you again, now that you see what is taking place
within me. But it is too late, and I am going mad! Oh! do not pretend to
believe that I am ill because I have worked by day and been awake all
night! Do not be afraid to discover the truth; it is your own fault,
signora, you would have it so! Could I resist so many temptations? Spurn
me, Agatha, curse me; but to-morrow, to-night, give me the kiss I
dreamed of in the Naiad's grotto!"

"Ah! Michel," cried the princess, in a tone impossible to describe, "did
you feel it? did you see me? do you know all? Did somebody tell you, or
did you divine it? It is God's will. And you fear that I will spurn you?
you fear that I will curse you? O my God! is it possible? Pray, does not
what is taking place in your heart reveal to you the love with which
mine is overflowing?"

As she spoke the lovely Agatha threw her arms around Michel's neck, and,
drawing his head to her breast, covered it with ineffable kisses.

Michel was eighteen years old, he had a fiery heart, a restless,
all-devouring temperament, vast pride, and an enterprising spirit. But
his heart was as pure as his age, and his happiness found him chaste and
prostrate in religious adoration. All his jealousy, all his insulting
suspicions vanished. It no longer occurred to him to wonder how a person
so austere in her morals, who was supposed never to have had a lover,
could suddenly fall in love at first sight with a child like him, and
tell him so with such absolute candor. He was conscious of nothing save
the joy of being loved, an enthusiastic and unbounded gratitude, a
fervent, blind adoration. From Agatha's arms he fell at her feet, and
covered them with passionate, almost pious kisses.

"No, no, not at my feet, on my heart!" cried the princess; and she held
him there a long while in a fervent embrace, weeping freely.

Her tears were so sincere--they had such a sacred eloquence of their
own--that Michel felt a great wave of sympathy. His heart swelled and he
burst into sobs; a divine joy banished all thought of earthly joy. He
found that that woman aroused in him no profane desire; that he was
happy and not excited in her arms; that to mingle his tears with hers,
and to feel that he was loved by her, was happiness greater than all the
transports of which his youth had dreamed; in a word, that he respected
her even to dread, as he held her pressed against his heart, and that
there never could be a thought between her and him which the angels
might not read with a smile on their lips.

He felt all this, confusedly without doubt, but so deeply, and with such
a thrill of triumph, that Agatha never suspected the evil impulse of
fatuous conceit which had brought him to her feet a few moments before.

Thereupon Agatha, raising her lovely glistening eyes to heaven, her face
pale in the moonlight, and as it were rapt in a divine ecstasy, cried,
in a transport of joy: "O my God! how I thank Thee! This is the first
moment of happiness that Thou hast given me; but I do not complain of
having had to wait so long, for it is so great, so pure, so complete,
that it effaces and redeems all the sorrows of my life!"

She was so lovely, she spoke with such sincere enthusiasm, that Michel
fancied that he had before him a saint of ancient days. "O my God! my
God!" he exclaimed in a voice stifled by emotion, "I, too, bless Thee!
What have I done to deserve such happiness? To be loved by her! Oh! it
is a dream; I dread to wake!"

"No, it is not a dream, Michel," rejoined the princess, turning her
inspired glance upon him once more; "it is the only reality of my life,
and it will be the one great reality of your whole life. Tell me, what
other being than you I could love on this earth? Hitherto I have done
nothing but suffer and languish; but now that you are here, it seems to
me that I was born for the greatest human felicity. My child, my
beloved, my sovereign consolation, my only love! Oh! I cannot speak any
more, I do not know what to say to you; joy overwhelms and crushes me!"

"No, no, let us not talk," cried Michel. "No words can describe what I
feel; and, thank heaven, I do not yet grasp the whole extent of my
happiness; for, if I did, it seems to me that I should die of it!"




XLII

AN EMBARRASSING CONJUNCTURE


The sound of footsteps not far away aroused them both from their
delirious excitement. The princess rose, somewhat alarmed by the
approach of strangers, and, seizing Michel's arm, hurried on toward her
villa with him. She walked more rapidly than before, carefully veiled,
but leaning upon him with a sacred joy. And he, with wildly-beating
heart, bewildered with happiness, but penetrated with the most profound
respect, hardly dared to raise to his lips from time to time the hand
that he held in his.

Not until he saw the gate of the princess's garden before him did he
recover the power of speech.

"What! leave you already?" he said anxiously; "part so soon? It is
impossible! I shall die of excitement and despair."

"We must part here," said the princess. "The time has not come when we
shall not part at all. But that happy day will come soon. Have no fear;
leave everything to me. Rely upon me and my boundless love to see to it
that we are united forever."

"Is it possible? Do these words that I hear really come from your mouth?
That day will come, you say? We shall be united? we shall never part?
Oh! do not trifle with my simplicity! I dare not believe in such
happiness; and yet, when it is you who say it, I cannot doubt!"

"Doubt the permanence of the stars that shine above us, doubt your own
existence rather than the power of my heart to overcome the obstacles
which seem to you so immense, but which now seem to me so trifling! Ah!
on the day when I shall no longer have aught except the world to fear, I
shall be very strong, I promise you!"

"The world?" said Michel. "Ah! yes, I remember; I had forgotten
everything except you and myself. The world will deny you, the world
will be offended with you, all because of me! O God, forgive the
impulses of my pride! I abhor them now. Oh! let my happiness be shrouded
in mystery, and let no one know of it! I insist that it shall be so; I
will never suffer you to ruin yourself for love of me."

"Noble-hearted child!" cried the princess, "let your mind be at rest; we
will triumph together; but I thank you for this generous impulse of your
heart. Ah! yes, all your impulses are generous, I know. I am not happy
simply, I am proud of you!"

And she took the young man's head in both hands and kissed him again.

But Michel thought that he heard footsteps a short distance away, and
the fear of compromising that courageous woman triumphed over his
happiness.

"We may be watched or surprised," he said to her; "I am sure that
someone is coming this way. Fly! I will stay hidden in the bushes here
until these people, whether spies or mere passers-by, are out of
hearing. But we shall meet to-morrow, shall we not?"

"Oh! surely," she replied. "Come here in the morning, as if to work, and
go up to my Casino."

She pressed him to her heart once more, then entered the park and
disappeared among the trees.

The noise he had heard had ceased, as if the persons who were
approaching had gone in another direction.

Michel stood for a long time, motionless as a statue, and as it were
bereft of reason. After so many fascinating illusions, after such mighty
efforts not to believe in them, he was falling back once more under the
empire of dreams--at least he feared so. He dared not believe that he
was awake; he was afraid to take a step--to move a muscle--lest he might
thereby dispel the illusion once more, as in the Naiad's grotto. He
could not decide to question reality. Even the probabilities frightened
him. How could Agatha love him? Why did she love him? He could find no
answers to those questions, whereupon he cast them aside as blasphemous.
"She loves me! she told me so!" he exclaimed mentally. "To doubt it
would be a crime. If I distrusted her word, I should be unworthy of her
love."

And he plunged into an ocean of blissful reveries. He lifted up his
thoughts toward heaven, which had caused him to be born to so happy a
fate. He felt capable of the greatest deeds, since he was deemed worthy
of the greatest joys. Never had he believed so fervently in the divine
mercy, never had he felt so proud and so humble, so devout and so brave.

"O my God!" he said in his heart, "forgive me; until this day I believed
myself to be a creature of some importance. I was proud, I abandoned
myself to self-love; and yet I was not loved. Not until to-day have I
really lived. I have received life, I have received a heart, I am a man!
But I shall never forget that of myself I am nothing, and that the
enthusiasm which possesses me, the strength which overflows within me,
the virtue of which I realize the full worth to-day, were born under
that woman's breath, and live in me only through her. O day of boundless
bliss! O sovereign tranquillity, ambition satisfied without selfishness
and without remorse! O blessed victory which leaves the heart modest and
overflowing with generous sentiments! Love is all this and more. How
kind Thou art, O God, not to have allowed me to divine it beforehand,
and how vastly this surprise enhances the ecstasy of a heart just coming
forth from its utter insignificance!"

He was about to walk slowly away when he saw a dark figure glide along
the wall and disappear among the branches. He drew back still farther
into the shadow to watch, and soon he recognized the Piccinino, as he
removed his cloak and tossed it over the wall, so that he might scale it
more readily.

All Michel's blood flowed back toward his heart. Was Carmelo expected?
Had the princess authorized him to come and confer with her, at any hour
of the night, and to introduce himself into her villa by any means he
might choose? It is true that there were important secrets between them,
and that, it being more natural, as he said, for him to travel as the
crow flies, scaling a wall by night was a natural method of procedure
for him. He had warned Agatha that he might ring the bell at the gate of
her flower-garden when she least expected him. But was it not unwise on
her part to give him permission? Who could be sure of the intentions of
such a man as the Piccinino? Agatha was alone; would she be imprudent
enough to admit him and listen to him? If she carried her confidence to
that point, Michel could not make up his mind to share it. Did she
realize that that man was in love with her, or that he pretended to be?
What had they said to each other in the flower-garden, while Michel and
the marquis looked on but could not hear?

Michel fell headlong from the sky to the earth. A violent paroxysm of
jealousy took possession of him, and, to delude himself, he tried to
make up his mind that he feared nothing but the danger of insult for the
lady of his thoughts. Was it not his duty to watch over her safety and
to protect her against the whole world?

He noiselessly opened the gate, the key of which he had retained as well
as that of the flower-garden, and glided into the park, resolved to
watch the enemy. But, after the Piccinino had agilely scaled the wall,
he could find no trace of him.

He walked toward the cliff, and, being perfectly certain that there was
nobody in front of him, he decided to ascend the staircase cut in the
lava, turning every moment to see if the Piccinino were following him.
His heart beat very fast, for a conflict with him upon that staircase
would have been decisive. On seeing him there, the brigand would have
realized that he had been deceived, that Michel was Agatha's lover--and
to what extremities would his rage not have impelled him? Michel did not
fear a bloody struggle on his own account; but how could he prevent
Carmelo from wreaking vengeance upon Agatha, if he should come forth
alive from that struggle?

Nevertheless, Michel kept on to the top, and, having made sure that he
was not followed, entered the flower-garden, locked the gate, and
approached Agatha's boudoir. The room was lighted, but empty. A moment
later a maid came and extinguished the candles, then went away. All was
silence and darkness.

Michel had never been more intensely disturbed. His heart beat as if it
would burst, as the silence and uncertainty continued. What was taking
place in Agatha's apartments? Her bedroom was behind the boudoir; it
could be entered from the flower-garden through a short passage where a
lamp was still burning. Michel could see it by looking through the
key-hole of the carved door. Perhaps that door was not locked on the
inside. Michel tried it, and, meeting with no resistance, entered the
Casino.

Where was he going and what did he intend to do? He had no very clear
idea himself. He said to himself that he was going to the assistance of
Agatha, whose security was threatened by the Piccinino. He did not
choose to admit that he was spurred on by the demon of jealousy.

He fancied that he could hear voices in Agatha's bedroom. They were two
women's voices: they might be Agatha's and her maid's, or the second one
might be Carmelo's soft and almost feminine voice.

Michel stood irresolute, trembling from head to foot. If he should go
back into the flower-garden, the door of the passage-way would doubtless
soon be locked by the maid; and in that case how was he to get in again
unless by breaking a pane of glass in the boudoir--an expedient suited
to the genius of the Piccinino, but naturally repugnant to Michel.

It seemed to him that centuries had passed since he saw the bandit climb
the wall; but it was less than a quarter of an hour. However, one can
live years in a minute, and he said to himself that the Piccinino had
evidently preceded him, as he was so slow about following him.

Suddenly the door of Agatha's bedroom opened, and Michel had barely time
to step behind the pedestal of the statue which held the lamp. "Lock the
garden door," said Agatha to her maid, who came out of the bedroom, "but
leave this one open; it is horribly hot in my room."

The girl returned after obeying her mistress's orders. Michel was
comforted, Agatha was alone with her maid. But he was locked in, and how
could he get out? or how could he explain his presence if he were
discovered hiding there at the princess's door?

"I will tell the truth," he thought, not admitting to himself that it
was only half of the truth. "I will say that I saw the Piccinino climb
the park wall, and that I came to defend her whom I adore against a man
whom I do not trust."

But he determined to wait until the maid had been dismissed, for he did
not know whether she possessed her mistress's entire confidence, and
whether she would not attribute a criminal meaning to that mark of their
intimacy.

A few moments later, Agatha did dismiss her. There was a sound of
footsteps and of doors, as if the maid closed them all behind her as she
withdrew. Determined not to delay showing himself, Michel resolutely
entered Agatha's bedroom, but found himself alone there. The princess
had gone into her oratory before retiring, and Michel saw her kneeling
on a velvet cushion. She was dressed in a long, floating white robe. Her
black hair fell to her feet in two great braids, the weight of which
would have disturbed her sleep if she had kept them about her head at
night. The faint light of a lamp under a bluish globe cast a melancholy,
transparent reflection upon her, which made her resemble a ghost. Michel
paused, overcome with respect and dread.

But, as he was hesitating whether he should interrupt her prayer, and
wondering how he could attract her attention without frightening her, he
heard the door of the little passageway open, and steps, so light that
none but a jealous lover's ear could distinguish them, approach Agatha's
bedroom. Michel had just time to jump behind the bedstead of carved
ebony, decorated with small ivory figures. It did not stand against the
wall, as our beds do, but some little distance away, as is customary in
hot countries, with its foot near the centre of the room. Between the
wall and the high headboard of that ancient piece of furniture there was
sufficient room for Michel to hide. He did not stoop for fear of moving
the white satin curtains. He had no time to take many precautions.
Chance favored him, for, despite the swift and inquisitive glance which
the Piccinino cast about the room, he saw no disorder, no movement to
betray the presence of a man who had arrived before him.

Nevertheless, he was about to take the prudent course of making a
thorough search, when the princess, hearing his light footsteps, half
rose, saying:

"Is that you, Nunziata?"

Receiving no reply, she put aside the portière which half concealed the
interior of her bedroom, and saw the Piccinino standing in front of her.
She rose to her feet and stood motionless with surprise and terror.

But, realizing that she must not betray her painful emotion in the
presence of a man of that character, she kept silent so that her altered
voice might reveal nothing, and walked toward him as if expecting him to
explain his audacious visit.

The Piccinino knelt on one knee, and said, handing her a folded
parchment:

"Signora, I knew that you must be extremely anxious concerning this
important document, and I did not wish to postpone its delivery until
to-morrow. I came here during the evening, but you were absent, and I
was obliged to wait until you had returned. Forgive me if my visit is
somewhat opposed to the proprieties of the society in which you live,
but your highness is aware that I am compelled to act on all occasions,
and especially in this matter, with the greatest secrecy."

"Signor captain," replied Agatha, after opening and glancing at the
parchment, "I knew that my uncle's will had been stolen from Doctor
Recuperati this morning. The poor doctor came here this afternoon, quite
beside himself, to tell me of his misadventure. He could not imagine how
his wallet had been taken from his pocket, and he accused Abbé Ninfo. I
was not alarmed, because I felt sure that Abbé Ninfo would have to
account to you for his theft in the course of the day. So I comforted
the doctor, bidding him not mention the incident, and promising him that
the will would soon be recovered. You can well believe that I could give
him no hint as to how it would be done and by whom. Now, captain, it is
not proper for me to have in my hands a document which I should have the
appearance of having seized because I was distrustful of my uncle's
intentions or the doctor's good faith. I will ask you, therefore, when
the moment to produce it shall have come, to restore it by some means,
indirect but sure, to the depositary who previously had it in charge.
You are too ingenious not to discover such a means without betraying
yourself in any way."

"You wish me to take charge of this again? can you think of such a
thing, signora?" said the Piccinino, who was still standing and waiting
impatiently an invitation to sit; but Agatha stood as she spoke to him,
as if she anticipated his speedy withdrawal, while he was determined to
prolong the interview at any price. He suggested difficulties.

"It is impossible," he said; "the cardinal is in the habit of signifying
with his eyes that he wants his will to be shown to him, and he thinks
of it every day. To be sure," he added, to gain time, resting his hand
on the back of a chair as if he were very tired, "to be sure, the
cardinal, being deprived of his interpreter, Abbé Ninfo, it would be
easy for the doctor to pretend that he did not understand his eminence's
eloquent glances.--Especially," continued the brigand, moving his chair
a little and resting his elbow on it, "especially as the doctor's usual
stupidity would make his failure to understand very probable. But," he
added, respectfully offering the chair to the princess so that she might
set him the example of sitting down, "the cardinal's meaning may be
understood by some other trusty servitor, who would force the excellent
doctor to the wall by saying to him: 'You see, his eminence wants to
look at his will!'"

And the Piccinino made a graceful gesture to indicate that it pained him
to see her standing before him.

But Agatha did not choose to understand, nor was she willing to keep the
will, in order to avoid having to thank the Piccinino at such a moment
in terms which should offend him by too great reserve, or encourage him
by too great warmth. She was determined to maintain her proud attitude,
while overwhelming him with manifestations of a confidence without
bounds so far as her material interests were concerned.

"No, captain," she said, still standing and in perfect control of
herself, "the cardinal will not ask again to see the will, for his
condition has grown much worse in twenty-four hours. It seems that that
wretched Ninfo kept him in a state of excitement which prolonged his
life; for, since he disappeared this morning, my uncle has been in a
sort of lethargic state, bordering closely, I doubt not, on the repose
of the grave. His eyes are dull; he no longer seems to pay any heed to
what is going on about him. He does not notice the absence of his
familiar, and the doctor is compelled to resort to all the expedients of
his profession to combat a drowsiness from which he fears that there
will be no awakening."

"Doctor Recuperati has always lacked common sense," rejoined the
Piccinino, seating himself on the edge of a console, and letting his
cloak fall at his feet as if by inadvertence. "I ask your highness," he
added, folding his arms across his breast, "if the so-called laws of
humanity are not absurd and false in such cases, like almost all the
laws of human respect and hypocritical propriety? What benefit do we
confer on a dying man when we try to recall him to life, with the
certainty that we shall not succeed, and that we are simply prolonging
his torture in the world? If I were in Doctor Recuperati's place, I
would say to myself that his eminence has lived quite long enough. It is
the opinion of all respectable people, and of your highness yourself,
that that man has lived too long. It is high time to allow him to repose
from the fatiguing journey of this life, since he seems to desire it, so
far as he himself is concerned, and to arrange his head comfortably on
his pillow for his last sleep. I ask your highness's pardon for leaning
on this console; my legs are giving way under me, I have run about so
much to-day in your interest; and if I do not rest for a moment, it will
be impossible for me to return to Nicolosi to-night."

Agatha made a gesture which invited the brigand to occupy the chair that
stood between them; but she remained standing herself, to signify that
she did not propose that he should abuse the privilege.




XLIII

A CRISIS


"It seems to me," said the princess, as she placed the will on the
console at the Piccinino's elbow, "that we are digressing a little from
the real question. I will remind your lordship of the facts. My uncle
has a few moments to live, and he will not think of his will again. Thus
the day when the document must be produced is near at hand. Now, I am
very desirous that when that day comes it shall be in the doctor's hands
and not in mine."

"That is a very noble scruple on your part," rejoined the Piccinino, in
a firm tone which concealed his irritation; "but I have the same scruple
on my own account, and, as everything strange and mysterious that
happens on this island is attributed to the fabulous Captain Piccinino,
I do not wish to have any hand in this restitution. Your ladyship will
be kind enough, therefore, to arrange it in whatever way you may deem
best. It was not I who stole the will. I found it on the thief. I bring
it back; and I consider that I have done enough not to deserve the
charge of lukewarmness in your service. Doubtless Abbé Ninfo's
disappearance will soon be noticed, and the name of the Piccinino will
occur at once to the popular imagination as well as to the crafty brains
of the police authorities. Result, fresh investigations on the heels of
those of which my humble personality is already the object, and which I
have escaped thus far only by a miracle. I have accepted the risks of
this affair; I have the _monster_ in my power. Your highness's mind is
at rest concerning the safety of your friends and your own freedom of
action. You are in possession of the document that entitles you to great
wealth. Do you wish my life? I am ready to lay it down for you a hundred
times; but bid me to do it, and do not drive me to my destruction by
subterfuges, without giving me the consolation of knowing that I die for
you."

The Piccinino uttered these last words in a tone that made it impossible
for Agatha longer to avoid entering upon a delicate subject.

"Captain," she said, forcing herself to smile, "you judge me ill if you
think that I wish to rid myself of my burden of gratitude to you. My
disinclination to take this paper, which represents to me the title to
great wealth, should prove my confidence in you and my purpose to allow
you to dispose absolutely of everything that belongs to me."

"I do not understand, signora," replied the bandit, moving restlessly on
his chair. "Did you think that I came to your assistance merely to do a
profitable stroke of business, and for no other purpose?"

"Captain," replied Agatha, outwardly unmoved by the Piccinino's real or
pretended indignation, "you style yourself, and justly, the _justicier
d'aventure_. That is to say, you do justice according to your heart and
your conscience, without regard to formal laws, which are very often
contrary to those of natural and divine justice. You assist the weak,
you rescue victims, you protect those whose feelings and opinions seem
to you to deserve your esteem against those whom you regard as the
enemies of your country and of mankind. You punish cowards and you
prevent the execution of their base designs. All this is a mission which
legally constituted society does not always understand, but of which I
appreciate the real merit and heroism. Need I say more to convince you
of my esteem for you, and do you think that I have failed to manifest
it? But since society denies the propriety of your intervention, and
since, in order to continue it, you are forced to provide yourself with
abundant resources, it would be insane--it would be impertinent--to seek
your protection without offering you the means of putting it forth and
of extending its scope. I thought of that--I could not fail to think of
it; and I determined not to deal with you as with an ordinary advocate,
but to allow you to fix yourself the price of your loyal and generous
services. I should have considered that I insulted you by putting a
price upon them. In my eyes they are beyond price. That is why, while I
invite you to draw at your discretion upon a princely fortune, I am
still forced to rely upon your modesty and generosity to consider that I
have paid my debt to you."

"These are very flattering words, and your highness's soft speech would
fascinate me, if my ideas were such as you attribute to me. But if you
will deign to be seated a moment and listen to me, I shall be able to
explain my ideas without fear of abusing the patience with which you
honor me."

"On my word!" thought Agatha, as she took a seat at some distance from
the Piccinino, "this man's persistence is like destiny, inevitable."

"I shall soon have finished," continued the Piccinino, with a crafty
smile, when he saw that she was seated at last. "I look after my own
interests while looking after other people's, that is true; but every
man understands the advantages of life as circumstances impel him to do.
Some people want nothing but gold. Those are vulgar instances,--the
market price, as they say, I believe. But with certain others, who are
more wealthy in charms and in noble qualities than in ducats, the
intelligent man aspires to a less vulgar recompense. The material wealth
of a person like Princess Agatha is a mere trifle compared with the
treasures of generosity and delicacy which her heart contains. And if
the man of action, who has devoted himself to her service, has done so
with a certain degree of promptitude and zeal, is he not at liberty to
aspire to some nobler gratification than that of putting his hand in her
purse? Ah! yes, there are moral joys far more exalted, and the offer of
your fortune as a substitute for them is so far from satisfying me, that
it wounds my heart and my mind like an insult."

Agatha began to be really terrified, for the Piccinino had risen and
drawn nearer to her. She dared not change her position, she feared that
she should tremble and turn pale; and yet, brave as she was, that young
man's face and voice caused her a frightful shock. His dress, his
features, his manners, his voice awoke a whole world of memories within
her, and, strive as she would to raise him to a level where she could
esteem him and be truly grateful to him, an unconquerable aversion
closed her heart to such sentiments. She had so long refused Fra
Angelo's suggestions that this man's assistance should be procured, that
she would assuredly have persisted in not having recourse to him, had it
not been certain that Abbé Ninfo had tried to hire him to procure the
assassination or abduction of Michel, pointing to the will as a means of
rewarding his services.

But it was too late. The noble-hearted and ingenuous Capuchin of Bel
Passo had not foreseen that his former ward, whom he had accustomed
himself to look upon as a child, might fall in love with a woman several
years older than himself. And yet what was more natural? The persons for
whom one has much respect have no age. To Fra Angelo the Princess of
Palmarosa, Saint Agatha of Catania, and the Madonna, had no sex even. If
anyone had interrupted his sleep to tell him that at that moment Agatha
was in imminent danger from his ward, he would have exclaimed: "Ah! the
wretched boy must have seen her diamonds!" And, as he started to go to
the princess's assistance, he would have said to himself that she had
but a word to say to keep the brigand at a distance; but Agatha felt an
invincible repugnance to say that word, and she still hoped that she
would not be forced to that expedient.

"I understand very well, signor captain," she said with increasing
coldness, "that you ask for no other reward but my esteem; but I repeat
that I have proved it to you on this very occasion, and I think that
your pride should be satisfied."

"Yes, signora, my pride; but it is not a question of my pride alone. Nor
are you sufficiently well acquainted with it to measure its extent and
to know whether it is not superior to any pecuniary sacrifice that you
could make in my favor. I do not want your will, I want no part of your
fortune, now or ever, do you understand?"

And he knelt at her feet and took her hand with savage vehemence.

Agatha rose, and yielding to an indignant, perhaps injudicious impulse,
she took the will from the console.

"Since that is so," she said, trying to tear it, "it is as well that
this fortune should be neither mine nor yours, for the recovery of this
paper is the least important service you have rendered me, captain; and
had it not been connected with another of much greater importance, I
should never have asked you to do it. Let me destroy this will, and then
you can ask me for a legitimate share of my affection, without my
blushing to listen to you."

But the parchment resisted the efforts of her weak hands, and the
Piccinino had time to take it from her and place it under a large piece
of Roman mosaic, which lay on the console, and which she would have had
even more difficulty in lifting.

"Let us put this aside," he said, with a smile, "and think no more about
it. Let us suppose even that it never existed; we are well aware that it
cannot be a bond between us, and that you owe me nothing in exchange for
your fortune. I know that you are already rich enough to do without
these millions; I know too that, if you were penniless, you would not
give your friendship as the reward of a mere pecuniary service which you
expected to pay for with money. I admire your pride, signora; I
appreciate it, and I am proud to appreciate it. Ah! now that we have put
that prosaic thought out of our hearts, I feel much happier, for I hope!
I feel much bolder, too, for the friendship of such a woman as you seems
to me so desirable that I would risk everything to obtain it."

"Do not speak of friendship," said Agatha, pushing him away, for he was
beginning to handle her long tresses and to wind them about his arm as
if to chain himself to her; "speak of the gratitude I owe you; it is
very great, I shall never deny it, and I will prove it to you when
occasion offers, against your will if I must. The service you have
rendered me entitles you to services from me, and some day we shall be
quits! But friendship implies mutual sympathy, and, in order to obtain
mine, you must earn it and deserve it."

"What must I do?" cried the Piccinino, vehemently. "Speak! oh! I implore
you, tell me what I must do to win your love!"

"Respect me in the depths of your heart," she replied, "and do not
approach me with those bold eyes and that self-satisfied smile, which
are an insult to me."

Seeing her cold and lofty bearing, the Piccinino was angry; but he knew
that anger is an unwise counsellor. He desired to please her, and he
controlled his temper.

"You do not understand me," he said, leading her back to her chair and
sitting down beside her. "Oh! no, you fail utterly to understand a heart
like mine! You are too much the woman of the world, too politic, and I
am too ingenuous, too rough, too uncivilized! You are afraid of wild
outbreaks on my part, because you see that I love you madly; but you are
not afraid of causing me pain, because you have no conception of the
pain your indifference may cause me. You think that a mountaineer of
Ætna, a brigand and adventurer, can know only sensual transports; and
when I ask you for your heart, you think that you have to defend your
person. If I were a duke or marquis, you would listen to me without
alarm, you would console me for my grief; and, pointing out to me that
your love was out of the question, you would offer me your friendship.
And I should be gentle, patient, prostrate at your feet in melancholy
and affectionate gratitude. It is because I am of the common people, a
peasant, that you deny me even your sympathy! Your pride takes fright
because you think that I demand something as a right acquired by my
services, and you continue to throw my services at my head as if I
relied upon them as entitling me to a recompense from you, as if I
remembered them when I am looking at you and talking with you! Alas! I
do not know how to express myself; I simply say what I think, without
torturing my mind to find a way to convince you of it without saying it.
I know nothing of the art of your flatterers; I am no more a courtier of
beauty than of power, and the curse that rests upon my life makes it
impossible for me to play the attendant cavalier like the Marquis della
Serra. I have but an hour at night to come, at the risk of my life, to
tell you that I am your slave, and you answer that you do not choose to
be my sovereign, but my debtor, my customer, who will pay me handsomely!
Fie, fie, signora! you place an ice-cold hand upon a burning heart!"

"If you have in your mind nothing more than friendship," said Agatha,
"if you really aspire to be one of my friends simply, I will promise you
that that may come about----"

"Let me speak!" rejoined the Piccinino, with renewed animation, his face
lighting up with the beauty which was his when he was really moved. "At
first I dared not ask you for anything more than your friendship, and it
was your childish fright that forced the word love from my lips. Very
good! what more can a man say to a woman to restore her courage? I love
you, therefore you should not tremble when I take your hand. I respect
you, as you see, for we are alone, and I am in perfect control of my
passions; but I cannot control my thoughts and the outbursts of my love.
I have not my whole life in which to prove it to you. I have but this
instant in which to tell you of it, so listen. If I could pass six hours
of every day at your feet, like the marquis, I might perhaps be
satisfied with the feeling that you have for him; but, as I have only
this hour which is passing before me like a vision, I must have your
love, or else a despair which I dare not imagine. So let me speak of
love; listen to me and do not be afraid. If you say no, it shall be no,
but if you would listen to me without thinking of protecting yourself,
if you would deign to understand me once for all, if you would forget
the world you live in, and the pride which is out of place here, and
which has no existence in the sphere in which I live, you would be
touched because you would be convinced. Oh! yes. If you were a simple
soul, and if you did not put prejudices in the place of the pure
inspirations of nature and of truth, you would feel that there is one
heart more youthful and more ardent than all those you have spurned, the
heart of a lion or tiger with men, but a man's heart with women, a
child's heart with you! You would pity me at least. You would see my
life as it is: constantly tormented and threatened, a never-ending
nightmare! And solitude! Ah! it is solitude of the heart above all else
which is killing me, because my heart is even harder to please than my
senses. You know how I bore myself with Mila this morning, do you not?
She is beautiful, surely, and neither in character nor in mind is she
one of the common herd. If I had chosen to love her, and if I had felt
for a single moment that I did love her, she would have loved me, she
would have been mine all her life. But with her I thought only of you.
You are the one whom I love, and you are the only woman I have ever
loved, although I have been the lover of many women! Love me then,
though it be but for a moment, just long enough to tell me so, or else,
when I return to-night by a certain spot called the _Destatore's_ Cross,
I shall go mad! I shall dig into the earth with my nails, to insult and
cast to the winds the ashes of the man who gave me life."

At these last words Agatha lost all her strength; she turned pale; a
shudder ran through her every limb, and she threw herself back in her
chair as if a blood-stained spectre had passed before her eyes.

"Oh! hush, hush!" she cried; "you do not know the pain you cause me!"

The Piccinino could not understand the cause of this sudden and intense
emotion; he misunderstood it utterly. He had spoken with a vehemence of
voice and expression which would have persuaded any other woman than the
princess. He had fascinated her with his gleaming eyes; he had
intoxicated her with his breath, at all events he thought so. He had
been so often justified in thinking so, even when he had not felt a
tithe of the desire this woman inspired in him! He believed that she was
vanquished, and, putting his arms about her, seeking her lips, he felt
sure that her passions, taken by surprise, would do the rest. But Agatha
eluded his caresses with unexpected vigor, and as she rushed toward a
bell-cord, Michel darted between her and the Piccinino, with blazing
eyes and with a dagger in his hand.




XLIV

REVELATIONS


The Piccinino was so taken aback by this unexpected apparition that he
stood perfectly still, without a thought of attacking or of defending
himself. So that Michel, as he was about to strike him, held his hand,
bewildered by his own precipitation; but, with a movement so swift and
adroit that it was invisible, the Piccinino's hand was armed when Michel
withdrew his.

But the brigand, after a single furious gleam had shot from his eyes,
recovered his cold and disdainful attitude.

"Excellent," he said; "I understand everything now, and rather than
bring about so absurd a scene, Signora Palmarosa should have carried her
confidence so far as to say to me: 'Leave me, I cannot listen to you; I
have a lover hidden behind my bed.' I would have retired discreetly,
whereas now I must needs administer a lesson to Master Lavoratori, to
punish him for having seen me play an absurd rôle. So much the worse
for you, signora; the lesson will be a bloody one!"


[Illustration: _AGATHA PROTECTS MICHELANGELO._

_He leaped at Michel with the agility of a wild
animal. But, quick and nimble as his movement
was, the miraculous power of love made Agatha
even quicker than he._]


He leaped at Michel with the agility of a wild animal. But, quick and
nimble as his movement was, the miraculous power of love made Agatha
even quicker than he. She rushed to intercept the blow, and would have
received it in her breast had not the Piccinino thrust the dagger into
his sleeve so swiftly that it seemed as if his hand had always been
empty.

"What are you doing, signora?" he said. "I do not propose to murder your
lover but to fight with him. You do not wish it? Very good! You protect
him with your breast! I will not insult such a rampart, but I will find
him at another time--mark my words!"

"Stay!" cried Agatha, seizing his arm as he walked, toward the door.
"You will renounce this insane purpose of revenge and give your hand to
this alleged lover of mine. He will gladly do the same, for which of you
two desires to kill or curse his brother?"

"My brother?" said Michel, in utter bewilderment, dropping his dagger.

"He, my brother?" said the Piccinino, his weapon still within his grasp.
"This extemporized relationship is most improbable, signora. I have
always heard that Pier-Angelo's wife was very ugly, and I doubt if my
father ever played tricks upon husbands who had no reason to be jealous.
Your expedient is not at all ingenious! Farewell for the present,
Michelangelo Lavoratori!"

"I tell you that he is your brother!" repeated the princess, earnestly;
"your father's son and not Pier-Angelo's; the son of a woman whom you
cannot insult by your contempt, and who could not have listened to you
without committing a crime and an act of madness. Do you not understand
me?"

"No, signora," said the Piccinino, with a shrug; "I cannot understand
the fables that come to your mind at this moment to save your lover's
life. If this poor boy is my father's son, so much the worse for him;
for he has many other brothers beside myself, who do not amount to much,
and whom I do not hesitate to strike over the head with the butt of my
pistol when they fail in the obedience and respect they owe me. So, too,
this new member of my family--the youngest of all, I am inclined to
think--will be punished by my hand as he deserves; not in your presence,
for I am not fond of seeing women in convulsions. But this pretty
darling will not always be hidden in your bosom, signora, and I know
where I shall find him at need!"

"Have done with insulting me," rejoined Agatha, in a firm tone; "you
cannot wound me, and, unless you are a coward, you should not speak thus
to your father's wife."

"My father's wife!" exclaimed the bandit, beginning to listen and to
desire to hear. "My father was never married, signora! Do not make sport
of me."

"Your father was married to me, Carmelo, and, if you doubt it, you will
find the authentic evidence in the archives of the convent of Mal Passo.
Go and ask Fra Angelo. This young man's name is not Lavoratori; his name
is Castro-Reale. He is the son--the only legitimate son--of Prince
Cæsar de Castro-Reale."

"Then you are my mother?" cried Michel, falling on his knees and
embracing Agatha, with a sensation of terror, remorse and adoration all
in one.

"You know it," she said, pressing his face against her heaving breast.
"Now, Carmelo, come and kill him in my arms; we will die together! But,
after seeking to commit incest, you will commit fratricide!"

The Piccinino, torn by a thousand conflicting sensations, folded his
arms across his breast, and, leaning against the wall, gazed in silence
at his brother and stepmother, as if he were still inclined to doubt the
truth. Michel rose, walked toward him, and held out his hand.

"Your ignorance was the cause of your crime," he said, "and I must needs
forgive you, for I too loved her not knowing that I was fortunate enough
to be her son. Oh! do not cast a shadow on my joy by your resentment! Be
my brother, as I long to be yours! In the name of God, who orders us to
love each other, put your hand in mine and come to my mother's feet, so
that she may forgive and bless us both."

At these words, uttered with the effusive warmth of a noble and sincere
heart, the Piccinino came very near being moved. His bosom heaved as if
he were about to burst into tears; but pride was stronger than the voice
of nature, and he blushed at the emotion which had threatened to
overcome him.

"Away from me," he said to Michel. "I do not know you; I have no
sympathy with all this mawkish family sentimentality. I loved my mother,
too, but all my affection died with her. I never had any feeling for my
father,--whom I hardly knew and who cared very little for me,--unless it
may be that I was a little vain of being the only acknowledged son of a
prince and a hero. I thought that my mother was the only woman he ever
loved, but I learn now that he deceived my mother; that he was another
woman's husband; and I cannot be overjoyed by that discovery. You are a
legitimate son, and I am only a bastard. I have been accustomed to
believe that I was the only one who was really entitled, if I chose, to
adorn myself with the name which you will bear in the world, and which
no one will dispute your right to bear. And you expect me to love you,
who are of patrician blood on both sides, by your father and by your
mother? you who are rich, and will soon be powerful in the land where I
am a wanderer and an outlaw? You who, whether you are a true or false
Sicilian, will be flattered and handled gently by the Court of Naples,
and who, perhaps, will not consider that you can afford to refuse favors
and offices forever? You who will, perhaps, command hostile armies and
lay waste the homes of your countrymen? You who, as general, minister or
magistrate, may order my head cut off and a sentence of degradation
nailed to the scaffold on which that head is fastened, to serve as an
example and a menace to our other brothers of the mountain? You expect
me to love you? On the contrary, I hate you and curse you!

"And this woman," continued the Piccinino, with intense
bitterness,--"this false, cold-blooded woman, who fooled me to the end
with infernal cunning,--you expect me to prostrate myself before her,
and ask a blessing from her hand which, for aught I know, is stained
with my father's blood! for now I understand more than she intended, I
fancy. I will never believe that she married with a good grace the
ruined, outlawed, hounded brigand, depraved by misfortune, who had then
no other name than the _Destatore_! He must have abducted her and
outraged her.--Ah! yes, now I remember! There is a tale of that sort to
which Fra Angelo refers vaguely at times. A child, surprised by the
brigands when out walking with her governess, carried off with the
governess to the chief's lair, and dismissed two hours later, outraged
and half dead! Ah! father, you were a villain as well as a hero! I know
it; and I am a better man than you, for I detest such deeds of violence,
and Fra Angelo's tale has preserved me forever from seeking enjoyment by
such means. So it was you, Agatha, who were Castro-Reale's victim! I
understand now why you consented to marry him secretly at the convent of
Mal Passo; for that marriage is a secret--probably the only secret of
that sort that never transpired! You have been very adroit, but the rest
of your story is clear to me. I know now why your parents kept you
secluded for a year, so carefully that you were supposed to be dead or
to have turned nun. I know now why my father was murdered, and I would
not swear that you were innocent of his death!"

"Wretch!" cried the princess, indignantly; "to dare to suspect me of the
murder of the man I had accepted for my husband!"

"If it was not you, then it was your father or someone of your kindred!"
retorted the Piccinino, in French, with a bitter laugh. "My father did
not kill himself," he continued in the Sicilian language, and with a
wild expression. "He was capable of a crime, but not of a dastardly act,
and the pistol that was found in his hand at the _Destatore's_ cross
never belonged to him. He was not reduced, by the partial defection of
his followers, to the necessity of committing suicide in order to escape
from his enemies, and the piety which Fra Angelo tried to inspire in his
heart had not yet disturbed his mind to the point where he thought it
his duty to punish himself for his sins. He was murdered, and to have
been surprised so easily--so near the town--he must have been lured into
a trap. Abbé Ninfo had something to do with that bloody drama. I shall
find out, for I have him in my clutches; and, although I am not cruel, I
will torture him with my own hands until he confesses! For it is my
mission to avenge my father's death, as it is yours, Michel, to make
common cause with those who ordered it."

"Great God!" said Agatha, paying no attention to the Piccinino's
accusations against herself, "it seems that each day must bring with it
the discovery of some new deed of rage and vengeance in my family! O
blood of the Atrides, may the Furies never rouse you to life in my son's
veins! Ah! Michel, what duties your birth imposes on you! By what great
virtues must you redeem so many crimes committed both before and since
your birth! Carmelo, you think that your brother will turn against his
country and against you some day! If it could be so, I would ask you to
kill him to-day, while he is pure and honorable; for I know too well,
alas! what becomes of the men who renounce love of country and the
respect due to the vanquished!"

"Kill him at once?" said the Piccinino; "I am strongly tempted to take
that metaphor literally; it would take but a moment, for this Sicilian
of recent date knows no more about handling a knife than I about
handling a brush. But I didn't do it yesterday, when the thought came to
my mind by our father's grave, and I will wait until my present anger
has subsided; for one should kill only in cold blood and in accordance
with the dictates of logic and conscience.--Ah! Michel de Castro-Reale,
I did not know you yesterday, although Abbé Ninfo had already pointed
you out to my vengeance. I was jealous of you because I believed you to
be the lover of this woman who says to-day that she is your mother; but
I had a presentiment that she did not deserve the love which was
beginning to set my blood on fire for her, and when I saw how bravely
you faced me, I said to myself: 'Why kill a brave man for the sake of a
woman who may be a coward?'"

"Hush, Carmelo!" cried Michel, picking up his dagger; "whether I know
how to handle a knife or not, if you add another word to your insults to
my mother, I will have your life or you shall have mine."

"Hush, yourself, boy!" said the Piccinino, presenting his half-naked
breast to Michel with an air of contempt; "the virtue of legitimate
society makes men cowards, and you are a coward too, for you have been
reared on the ideas of that society; you would not dare to scratch my
lion's skin, because in my person you respect your brother. But I have
no such prejudices, and I will prove it to you some day when I am
calmer. To-day I am angry, I admit, and I will tell you why: it is
because I have been deceived, and I did not believe that any human being
was capable of playing on my credulity; it is because I put faith in
this woman's words when she said to me last night, in yonder
flower-garden where I can hear the fountains plashing at this moment,
under the eyes of the moon, which seemed less pure and tranquil than her
face: 'What can there be in common between that child and myself?' What
can there be in common? and you her son! and you knew it, and you
deceived me too!"

"No, I did not know it, and as for my mother----"

"You and your mother are two cold-blooded serpents, two venomous
Palmarosas! Ah! I hate that family which has persecuted me and my family
so cruelly, and some day I will make a bloody example, even of those
members of it who claim to be good patriots and nobles who sympathize
with the people. I hate all nobles for my part! and you whose mouths
blow hot and cold in turn may well tremble before my frank declaration!
I have hated the nobles for the last few moments, since I have found
that I am not noble, because I have a legitimate brother and am only a
bastard. I hate the name of Castro-Reale, since I can no longer bear it.
I am envious, revengeful, and ambitious as well! my intelligence and my
adroitness were a stronger justification of that claim on my part than
the art of painting on the part of the nursling of the Muses and of
Pier-Angelo! I should have made a greater name than he if our conditions
had remained unchanged. And the thing that makes my vanity more
endurable, Prince Michel, is that I proclaim it proudly, while you
conceal it shamefacedly, on the pretext of modesty. In short, I am the
child of uncivilized nature and of unshackled liberty, while you are the
slave of custom and of fear. I practise cunning after the manner of
wolves, and my cunning leads me to my goal. You play with falsehood,
after the manner of men, and you will always miss your goal, without
having had the merit of sincerity. Our lives are before us. If yours
annoys me overmuch, I shall rid myself of you as of any other obstacle,
do you understand? Woe to you if you irritate me! Farewell; do not try
to see me again; this is my brotherly greeting!

"And as for you, Princess of Castro-Reale," he said, bowing ironically
to Agatha, "who might well have refrained from making me crawl at your
feet, whose share in the catastrophe by the _Destatore's_ Cross is now
very clear in my mind, who did not deem me worthy to be informed of the
mischance of your youth, but preferred to pose before my eyes as a
spotless virgin, caring not whether you caused me to pine away in
frenzied anticipation of your priceless favors--I wish that you may be
happy and forget what has taken place between us; but I shall remember
it, and I warn you, signora, that you gave a ball over a volcano, in
reality as well as figuratively."

As he spoke, the Piccinino threw his cloak over his head and shoulders,
walked into the boudoir, and not deigning to wait for the door to be
opened, leaped through one of the large panes of glass into the
flower-garden. Then he returned to the door leading into the passage,
which he had not chosen to pass through, and, after the manner of the
authors of the Sicilian Vespers, cut with his dagger a cross over the
crest of the Palmarosas, which was carved on that door. A few moments
later he was on the mountain, flying like an arrow.

"O mother!" cried Michel, passionately embracing the horrified Agatha,
"you have made an implacable enemy in order to preserve me from enemies
who, if not imaginary, are powerless! Dear, adored mother, I will never
leave you again, by day or night. I will sleep across your door, and if
your son's love is helpless to preserve you, it will be because
Providence abandons mankind altogether!"

"My child," said Agatha, pressing him to her heart, "have no fear. I am
sorely distressed by all that that man has brought back to my mind, but
not alarmed by his unreasonable anger. The secret of your birth could
not safely have been revealed to him any sooner, for you see the effect
that revelation produced upon him. But the time has come when I have
nothing to fear, so far as you are concerned, save his personal
resentment, and that we will find a way to disarm. The vengeance of the
Palmarosas will die out with Cardinal Hieronimo's last breath, which it
may be that he is breathing at this very moment. If it was an error to
turn that vengeance aside by the help of Carmelo, that error is
chargeable to Fra Angelo, who thinks that he knows mankind because he
has always lived with men outside the pale of society, brigands and
monks. But I trust still to his marvellous instinct. This man, who has
just shown himself to us in such an evil light, and whom I cannot look
upon without the most intense suffering, because he reminds me of the
author of all my misfortunes, is not unworthy perhaps of the generous
impulse which led you to call him brother. He is a tiger in his wrath, a
fox in his reflections; but between his hours of rage and his hours of
treachery, there may be intervals of prostration when human feelings
resume their sway and extort from him tears of regret and longing; we
shall be able to reform him, I trust! Kindness and loyal dealing should
find the weak spot in his armor. At the moment that he cursed you, I saw
that he hesitated, forced back his tears. His father--your father,
Michel!--had a profound and intense susceptibility even amid his wild
and wicked habits; I saw him sob at my feet after he had almost
strangled me to stifle my shrieks. Later I saw him at the altar, ashamed
and penitent, when he married me; and despite the abhorrence and terror
with which he always inspired me, I was sorry myself, when he died, that
I had not forgiven him. I trembled at the thought of him, but I never
dared to curse his memory; and since I have had you with me once more, O
my beloved son! I have tried to rehabilitate him in my own eyes, so that
I might not have to condemn him before you. Do not blush, therefore, to
bear the name of a man, whose life was fatal to none but me, and who did
great things for his country. But retain for him who brought you up, and
whose son you have believed yourself to be until this day, the same
love, the same respect which you felt for him this morning,
noble-hearted boy, when you handed him Mila's marriage portion and told
him that you would remain a workman in his service all your life, rather
than abandon him!"

"O Pier-Angelo, father!" cried Michel, with a vehemence which caused his
heart to overflow in sobs, "nothing has changed between us, and on the
day when my entrails no longer quiver for you with filial affection, I
think that I shall have ceased to live!"




XLV

MEMORIES


Agatha was completely shattered by so much agitation and fatigue. Her
health was delicate although her spirit was strong, and when Michel saw
how pale she was, and that her voice had become almost inaudible, he was
terrified. He began to be conscious of the loving and poignant anxiety
born of a sentiment that was altogether new to him. He had hardly known
the love that a child feels for its mother. Pier-Angelo's wife had been
kind to him, to be sure, but he had lost her when he was very young, and
she had left on his memory the impression of a robust and domineering
virago, irreproachable in her conduct, but somewhat violent, and,
although devoted to her little ones, inclined to talk loud and strike
hard. What a contrast to that exquisite disposition, that soft beauty,
that poetic creature who was called Agatha, and whom Michel could admire
as the ideal of an artist while adoring her as a mother!

He begged her to lie down and to try to obtain an hour's rest.

"I will stay with you," he said; "I will sit by your pillow, I shall be
perfectly happy, just looking at you, and you will find me here when you
open your eyes."

"But this will be the third night that you will have passed almost
without sleep," she said. "Ah! how it pains me on your account to think
of the life we have been leading for several days past!"

"Do not worry about me, darling mother," replied the young man, covering
her hands with kisses. "I have slept a good deal in the morning these
three days; and now I am so happy, notwithstanding what we have just
gone through, that it seems to me that I shall never sleep again. I
tried to sleep in order to see you again in my dreams: now that the
dream has become reality, I should be afraid of losing it if I slept.
But you must rest, mother.--Ah! how sweet that name mother is!"

"I am no more inclined to sleep than you are," she said; "I would like
not to leave you for an instant. And as the thought of the Piccinino
still makes me tremble for your life, you shall remain with me until
daylight, whatever the consequences. I will lie down on the bed, as you
insist upon it; sit in this easy chair, with your hand in mine, and if I
haven't the strength to talk to you, I can at all events listen to you;
we have so many things to say to each other! I want to know about your
life from the first day that you can remember down to this moment."

They passed in this way two hours, which seemed to them like two
minutes; Michel told her the whole story of his life, and did not
conceal even his recent emotions. The passionate attachment which he had
felt for his mother before he knew her no longer raised in his mind any
question too delicate to be translated by words befitting the sanctity
of their new relations. The words he had used to himself had assumed a
new meaning, and whatever impropriety there might have been in them had
vanished like the incoherent words one utters in fever, which leave no
trace when health and reason have returned.

Moreover, except for a few outbursts of vanity, Michel had had no
thoughts for which he need blush now upon searching his conscience. He
had believed that she loved him, and therein he was hardly in error! He
had been assailed by an ardent passion, and he felt that he loved
Agatha, now that she had become his mother, with no less warmth,
gratitude, even jealousy, than an hour earlier. He could understand now
why he had never seen her without feeling that his heart went out to her
with irresistible force, without an all-powerful attraction, a secret
thrill of pride which had its echo in himself. He remembered that, when
he first saw her, it seemed to him that her face had always been
familiar to him; and when he asked her to explain that miracle, she
replied: "Look in the mirror, and you will see that my features placed
your own image before you; this resemblance, which Pier-Angelo
constantly observed with delight, and which filled my heart with pride,
made me tremble for you. Luckily nobody has noticed it, unless possibly
the cardinal, who ordered his bearers to stop so that he could look at
you, on the day that you arrived in the neighborhood, and, as if guided
by an invisible hand, paused at the gate of your ancestor's palace. My
uncle was formerly the most suspicious and most keen-eyed of persecutors
and despots. Certainly, if he had seen you before he was stricken with
paralysis, he would have recognized you and have had you cast into
prison, then exiled--perhaps assassinated!--without putting a single
question to you. Enfeebled as he was ten days ago, he fastened upon you
a glance which aroused the suspicions of Abbé Ninfo, and his memory
revived so far as to lead him to inquire your age. Who knows what fatal
light might have found its way into his brain, if Providence had not
inspired you to answer that you were twenty-one years old instead of
eighteen!"

"I am eighteen," said Michel, "and you, mother? You seem to me as young
as I am."

"I am thirty-two," replied Agatha; "didn't you know?"

"No! if I had been told that you were my sister, I should have believed
it when I saw you. Oh! what good fortune that you are still so young and
so lovely! You will live as long as I do, won't you? I shall not have
the misfortune to lose you! Lose you!--Ah! now that my life is bound to
yours, the thought of death frightens me, I would like to die neither
before nor after you. But is this the first time that we have ever been
together? I am searching the vague memories of my infancy in the hope of
finding some trace of you."

"My poor child," said the princess, "I never saw you before the day
when, as I looked at you through a window of the gallery where you were
sleeping, I could not restrain a cry of love and of agonizing joy, which
woke you. Three months ago I did not even know of your existence. I
believed that you died on the day you were born. Otherwise, do you
suppose that I would not have come to Rome, in some disguise or other,
to take you in my arms and rescue you from the dangers of a solitary
life? On the day that Pier-Angelo told me that he had rescued you from
the hands of a villainous midwife, who was about to put you in a
hospital, by order of my parents, that he had fled with you to a foreign
country, and had brought you up as his son, I insisted upon starting for
Rome. I would have done it too, but for the prudence of Fra Angelo, who
pointed out to me that your life would be in danger as long as the
cardinal lived, and that it was better to await his death than to expose
us all to suspicions and investigations. Ah! my son, how horribly I
suffered while I lived alone with the ghastly memories of my youth!
Branded from my girlhood, maltreated, secluded and persecuted by my
family, because I would not disclose the name of the man whom I had
consented to marry as soon as the first symptoms of pregnancy appeared;
parted from my child, and cursed for the tears which his alleged death
caused me to shed; threatened with the horror of seeing him killed
before my eyes, when I yielded to the hope that they had deceived
me--the best years of my life passed amid tears of despair and shudders
of horror.

"I gave birth to you in this room, Michel on this very spot. It was then
a sort of garret, long unused, which had been transformed into a prison,
in order to conceal the shame of my condition. Nobody knew what had
happened to me! I could hardly have described it, I had hardly
understood it, I was so young and my imagination was so pure. I foresaw
that the truth would bring fresh disasters upon the child I was carrying
within me, and on his father. My governess had died on the day after our
catastrophe, without saying a word, whether because she could not or did
not choose to. No one could extort my secret from me, even during the
pains of childbirth; and when my father and my uncle, standing by my
bed, as pitiless as inquisitors, threatened me with death if I did not
confess what they called my sin, I replied simply that I was innocent
before God, and that it was for Him alone to punish or save the culprit.
Whether or not they ever discovered that I was the wife of Castro-Reale,
I could never find out; his name was never mentioned to me, I was never
questioned concerning him. Nor do I know whether they procured his
assassination, or whether Abbé Ninfo assisted them to surprise him; but
unfortunately I do not think them incapable of it. I know only this,
that at the time of his death, when I had barely recovered from my
confinement, they tried to compel me to marry. Hitherto they had held up
before me as an everlasting punishment, the impossibility of finding a
husband. They took me from my prison, where I had been secluded so
carefully that everyone supposed that I was in the convent at Palermo,
and nothing had transpired out-of-doors. I was rich, fair, and of noble
birth. Twenty suitors came forward. I repelled with horror the idea of
deceiving an honest man, or of confessing my misfortune to a man who was
mean-spirited enough to accept me because of my wealth. My resistance
irritated my father to frenzy. He pretended to take me back to Palermo.
But he brought me back to this room at night, and kept me imprisoned
here for another whole year.

"It was a ghastly prison, as stifling as the leads of Venice; for the
sun beat down upon a thin covering of metal, this part of the palace
having never been finished and being roofed over temporarily. I endured
thirst, mosquitoes, neglect, solitude, and lack of the fresh air and
exercise which are so essential to the young. But I did not die, I
contracted no disease, the vital principle was so strong within me. My
father, unwilling to entrust the duty of guarding me to any other
person, fearing that the compassion of his servants would lessen my
sufferings, brought me my food himself; and when his political schemes
kept him away from home for days at a time, I underwent the tortures of
hunger. But I had acquired a stoical firmness of will, and I did not
stoop to complain. I also acquired a certain amount of courage and of
faith during that trial, and I do not rebuke God for having inflicted it
on me. Consciousness of duty and regard for justice are great blessings
for which one cannot pay too high a price!"

Agatha, as she spoke, was half reclining, and her voice, feeble at
first, gradually became animated. She raised herself on her elbow, and,
shaking her long black hair, and calling her son's attention with a
gesture to the luxurious apartment in which they were, she continued:

"Michel, I pray that material enjoyments and the pride of birth and
fortune may never dazzle you! I have paid dearly for those advantages;
and, in the horrible solitude of this chamber, so bright and cheerful
for us two to-day, I have passed many long sleepless hours, lying on a
wretched pallet, consumed by fever, and asking God why He had not caused
me to be born in a goatherd's cave or on a pirate's ship. I sighed for
liberty, and the lowest of beggars seemed to me more blessed than I. If
I had been poor and obscure, I should have received from my parents
consolation and sympathy in my misfortune; whereas the illustrious
Palmarosas heaped abuse upon their child and accused her of committing a
crime because she would not be compelled to lie, and because she refused
to bolster up the honor of her family by an imposture. I had no books in
my prison; I had received only the most superficial education, and I
utterly failed to understand the persecution of which I was the object.
But, during that tedious and cruel inaction, I reflected, and I
discovered for myself the emptiness of human pride. My moral being was
transformed, so to speak, and everything that gratifies and enhances the
vanity of men appeared to me, at my own expense, in its true light.

"But why should I say at my expense rather than to my advantage? What
are two years of torture compared with the blessing of truth? When I
returned to liberty and life, when I found that I readily recovered the
vigor of youth, and that I had the necessary time and means to benefit
by the ideas that had come to me, a great calmness overspread my heart,
and I voluntarily adopted the habit, theretofore forced upon me, of
self-denial and resolution.

"I renounced forever all idea of love and marriage. The thought of that
bliss was marred and sullied in my imagination; and as for the cravings
of the heart, there was no longer anything individual in mine. They had
extended beyond the circle of selfish passions; I had conceived in my
suffering one genuine passion, the object of which was not the enjoyment
and triumph of one human being standing apart from the general misery by
virtue of her own prosperity. That passion, which consumed me like a
fever, and I may say with feverish intensity, was the longing to fight
for the weak against their oppressors, and to be as lavish of
benefactions and consolation as my family had been of persecution and
dread. I had been brought up to respect and fear the court, to detest
and distrust my unhappy countrymen. Had it not been for my own
catastrophe I should probably have followed those precepts and examples
of hideous cruelty. My heedless nature, wherein I resembled the women of
my country, might never have conceived anything better than the
principles of my family, which was not one of those that were subjected
to persecution, and in which exile and suffering have inspired horror of
the foreign yoke and love of country. My kinsmen, being ardently devoted
to the ruling powers, had always been overwhelmed with favors, and the
renewed prosperity which we shall soon owe to the cardinal's inheritance
makes us a shameful exception among the many illustrious families whom I
have seen ground into the dust by exorbitant taxes and by outlawry.

"I was no sooner mistress of my actions and my property than I devoted
my life to the relief of the unfortunate. As a woman I was debarred from
taking an interest in politics, the social sciences or philosophy. And
indeed what man can possibly do it under the yoke that is crushing us?
But what I could do was to assist the victims of tyranny, to whatever
class they might belong. I soon found that their number was so great
that my income would not suffice, even if I deprived myself of the
necessaries of life. Thereupon my mind was soon made up. I had
determined not to marry. I was ignorant of your existence, and I looked
upon myself as alone in the world. I caused an exact statement of my
fortune to be prepared--a precaution which the wealthy patricians of our
province very rarely take; their indifference keeps them from visiting
their estates when they are in the interior of the island, and many have
never set foot upon them. I investigated my property and made myself
familiar with it; first of all, I sold a part in small lots, intending
to supply the poor people of these regions with a little land at a very
low price, in a majority of cases for nothing. That was unsuccessful. A
people that has fallen into the lowest stage of poverty and slavery
cannot be saved with a stroke of the pen. I tried other methods which I
will describe to you in detail at another time. They failed. Everything
is bound to fail when the laws of a country have decreed its ruin. I had
no sooner made a family happy, than the taxes, increasing with its
prosperity, made a poverty-stricken family of it. How can order and
stability be secured when the state seizes sixty per cent of the income
of the humble workingman as well as of the idle rich man?

"Thus I learned, with profound sorrow, that in conquered and downtrodden
countries there is no resource but almsgiving, and I devoted my life to
that. It required much more activity and perseverance than gifts
outright and sacrifices of capital. This life of small benefactions and
constant sacrifices is a task without respite, without limits and
without recompense; for almsgiving affords only a momentary remedy; it
creates the necessity of being repeated and extended ad infinitum, and
one never sees the result of the toil one imposes upon oneself. Oh! how
cruel it is to live and love when one dresses every hour a wound that
cannot be healed, when one unceasingly casts one's heart and strength
into a pit which can no more be filled than the crater of Ætna!

"I accepted this task, and I devote all my time to it; I realize its
inefficiency, and I am not discouraged. I no longer cry out against
sloth, debauchery and all the vices that poverty engenders; or, if I do,
my anger is no longer against those who acquire these vices but against
those who impose them and perpetuate them. I do not quite understand
what is meant by discernment in almsgiving. That is all very well for
free countries, where a reprimand may serve some purpose, and where the
precepts of practical morality are for the use of all men. Among us,
alas! misery is so widespread that good and evil are to many persons of
mature years words devoid of sense; and to preach orderliness, honesty
and prudence, amid suffering and hunger, is almost ferocious pedantry.

"My income has not always been sufficient to meet so many calls, Michel,
and you will find your mother's fortune secretly undermined by
excavations of such depth that it may perhaps crumble on my grave. Were
it not for the cardinal's inheritance, I should regret to-day that I had
not saved for you sufficient means to serve your country as you will;
but to-morrow you will be richer than I have ever been, and you will
administer your fortune according to your principles and the dictates of
your heart. I shall impose no task upon you. To-morrow you will enter
into possession of this great power, and I shall not be at all disturbed
as to the use you may make of it. I am sure of you. You have been
brought up in a good school, my son--the school of poverty and toil! I
know how you repair trivial faults; I know of what sacrifices your heart
is capable when it is at odds with a consciousness of duty. Prepare,
therefore, to bear the burden of your misfortune--to be a prince in fact
as well as in name. Within three days you have embarked upon what seem
to be strange adventures; you have received more than one valuable
lesson. Fra Angelo, the Marquis della Serra, Magnani--even Mila, the
sweet child--have spoken to you in a language which has made a profound
impression on you, I know. I saw it in your conduct, in your
determination to remain an artisan; and from that moment I promised
myself that I would disclose to you the secret of your destiny, even
though the cardinal should live on and compel us to take extraordinary
precautions."

"O mother, how noble you are! and how little people know you when they
think that you are a mere devotee, apathetic or eccentric? Your life is
the life of a saint or martyr: nothing for yourself, everything for
others!"

"Do not give me so much credit, my child," replied Agatha. "Innocent as
I was, I had no claim to share in the general happiness. I was borne
down by a fatality which all my efforts had succeeded only in making
more burdensome. By denying myself love, I was simply fulfilling the
plainest duty that honor imposes upon a woman. So, too, in becoming a
sister of charity I obeyed the imperative outcry of my conscience. I had
been unfortunate; I knew unhappiness by personal experience; I was no
longer one of those who can refuse to credit the sufferings of others
because they have never suffered themselves. I may, perhaps, have done
good without judgment; at all events, I have done it without remission
and with the utmost zeal. But, in my eyes, to do good does not amount to
so much as is generally supposed. To do good in this way is simply not
to do evil; not to be selfish means simply that one is not blind nor
detestable. I have such unbounded pity for those who are vain of their
good works, that I have hidden mine almost as sedulously as I kept the
secret of my marriage and your birth. My character has never been
understood. I did not wish that it should be. So that I have no right to
complain of having been misjudged."

"Ah! but I know you," said Michel, "and my heart will repay you a
hundredfold for all the happiness of which you have been deprived."

"I know it," she replied. "Your tears prove it, and I feel it; for,
since you have been with me, I should have forgotten that I had ever
been unhappy, if I had not had my story to tell you."

"Thank you, mother, but do not say that you leave me at liberty to do as
I please. I am only a child, and I feel so insignificant beside you that
I never desire to see anything except through your eyes, or to act
except by your orders. I will help you to carry the burden of wealth and
of almsgiving, but I will be your man of business--nothing more. I, a
rich man and a prince! I, endowed with any sort of authority when you
are here! when I am your son!"

"My child, you must be a man. I have not had the happiness of bringing
you up; I could have done it no better than worthy Pier-Angelo. It is my
business now to love you--nothing more--and that is enough. To justify
my love, you will not need to have your ancestors' portraits say to you:
'_I am not pleased with you_.'--You will so conduct yourself that your
mother will always say to you: '_I am pleased with you_.' But listen,
Michel! the bells are tolling; all the bells in the city are tolling the
knell of a dying man, and it must be some great personage. It is your
kinsman--your enemy--Cardinal Palmarosa, who is about to be called to
account by God for his crimes. It is daylight, and we must part. Go and
pray to God to be merciful to him. I go to receive his last breath!"




XLVI

GLADNESS OF HEART


While the princess rang for her maid and ordered her horses, that she
might go and pay her last respects to the moribund cardinal, Michel went
down into the park from the flower garden by the staircase cut in the
lava; but, when he was only halfway down, he spied Master Barbagallo,
who was already on his feet and beginning his conscientious day's work,
very far from believing, the excellent man, that that splendid palace
and those beautiful gardens were no longer aught save the deceptive
symbol and the vain simulacrum of a handsome fortune. In his eyes to
expend one's income in almsgiving was a lordly and estimable custom. He
seconded the princess zealously in her charitable work. But to encroach
upon one's capital was a heinous sin, inconsistent with the hereditary
dignity of a great name; and, if Agatha had enlightened him or consulted
him in that respect, all his genealogical learning would have been none
too much to prove to her that no Palmarosa had ever committed that crime
of lèse-nobility, unless at the bidding of his king. What! deprive
oneself of the real source of one's power for the benefit of miserable
wretches! Fie! unless it were a question of founding a hospital or a
monastery, monuments which endure, and which transmit the renown and
virtue of the founder to posterity, and impart new glory to a name
instead of dimming its lustre.

Michel, when he saw the majordomo innocently blocking his path--for
Barbagallo was gazing fixedly at an East India shrub which he had
planted with his own hands at the foot of the staircase--determined to
lower his head and pass rapidly on without any explanation. A few hours
later, he would have no motive for concealment, but, for propriety's
sake, it would be much better to await the princess's public
declaration.

But the majordomo seemed to be planted beside his shrub. He was
surprised that the climate of Catania, which, according to him, was the
most salubrious climate in the world, did not agree with that rare plant
better than the climate of the tropics; which fact proves that he
understood the cultivation of genealogical trees better than that of
real trees. He was stooping--almost lying oh the ground--to see if some
destructive worm had not attacked the roots of the languishing plant.

Michel, having reached the lowest stair, decided to leap over Master
Barbagallo, who uttered a loud yell, thinking perhaps that it was the
beginning of a volcanic eruption, and that a stone vomited forth by some
near-by crater had fallen beside him.

His exclamation had such a comical, rancous sound that Michel laughed
heartily.

"_Cristo_!" cried the majordomo, as he recognized the young artist, whom
the princess had ordered him to treat with great consideration, but whom
he was very far from believing to be Agatha's son or lover.

But, when his first fright had passed, he tried to collect his thoughts,
while Michel walked swiftly across the park. He awoke to the fact that
Pier-Angelo's son had come from the flower garden before sunrise; from
the princess's flower garden! that private, fortified sanctuary, to
which none but a favored lover could gain an entrance at night!

"Princess Agatha have a lover! and such a lover! when the Marquis della
Serra, who is hardly worthy to aspire to the honor of winning her favor,
never goes in or out except by the principal door of the palace!"

That was an impossible supposition. So Master Barbagallo, having no
means of denying so palpable a fact, and not presuming to comment upon
it, limited himself to a frequent repetition of the word _Cristo_! And,
after standing like a statue for some moments, he concluded to attend to
his duties as usual, and to forbid himself to think upon any subject
whatsoever until further orders.

Michel was hardly less surprised by his own situation than the majordomo
by what he had seen. Of all the dreams he had dreamed in the last three
days, the most unexpected, the most prodigious, beyond any question, was
this one that had crowned and elucidated the others. He walked straight
ahead, and the instinct born of habit guided him toward his father's
house in the suburb, although he had no idea where he was going. Every
object upon which his eyes rested seemed new and strange to him. The
magnificence of the palaces and the squalor of the houses of the common
people presented a contrast which hitherto had saddened him only as a
condition by which he himself had to suffer, and which he had accepted
as an inevitable law of society. Now that he felt that he was a free and
powerful member of that society, compassion and kindliness poured into
his heart, broader and less selfish than before. He felt that he was a
better man since he had been numbered among the fortunate few, and the
consciousness of the duty resting upon him vibrated in his breast under
the impulsion of his mother's generous breath. He felt that he had
increased in size among his fellowmen since he had been charged with
ameliorating their lot instead of being oppressed by them. In a word, he
felt himself every inch a prince, and was no longer surprised that he
had always been ambitious. But his ambition had assumed a nobler shape
in his mind on the day that he had put it into words in answer to
Magnani's criticisms; and now that it was gratified, far from debasing
him, it exalted him and raised him above himself. There are men--and,
unfortunately, they are in the majority--whom prosperity degrades and
perverts; but a truly noble mind sees in the power of wealth only a
means of doing good, and eighteen years is an age at which the ideals
are pure and the mind open to grand and worthy aspirations.

As he entered the suburb, he saw a poor woman begging, with one child in
her arms and three others clinging to her ragged skirts. Tears came to
his eyes, and he put both hands in the pockets of his jacket, for on the
day before he had assumed the livery of the common people, resolved to
continue to wear it a long time--always if he must. But he found that
his pockets were empty, and he remembered that as yet he possessed
nothing.

"Forgive me, my poor woman," he said, "to-morrow I will give you
something. Be here to-morrow, I will come again."

The poor creature thought that he was making sport of her, and said to
him in a solemn tone, drawing herself up in her rags with the majesty of
the southern peoples: "You must not make sport of the poor, my boy; it
brings bad luck."

"Yes, yes!" said Michel, as he walked away; "I believe it, I am sure of
it! that shall never happen to me."

A little farther on he met some laundresses who were coolly hanging
their linen on a line stretched across the street, over the heads of the
passers-by. Michel stooped, as he would not have done the day before; he
would have thrust the obstacle aside with an impatient hand. The two
pretty girls who held the line to keep it taut were grateful to him and
smiled upon him; but when Michel had passed this first curtain of the
_biancheria_, and as he stooped to pass under a second, he heard the old
laundress say to her apprentices in the tone of an angry sibyl: "Lower
your eyes, Ninetta; don't turn your head like that, Rosalina! that's
little Michelangelo Lavoratori, who sets himself up for a great painter,
but he will never be the man his father is! A fig for children who turn
up their noses at their father's trade!"

"I absolutely must adopt the profession of prince," thought Michel with
a smile, "for the profession of artist would have drawn too much blame
upon me."

He entered his house, and for the first time it seemed to him
picturesque and attractive in its wretched disorder. "It is a genuine
artist's house of the Middle Ages," he said to himself; "I have lived
here only a few days, but I shall always remember them as among the
sweetest and purest days of my life." It seemed to him that he already
regretted that humble family nest, and the vague longing he had felt the
day before for a less prosaic, a more splendid abode seemed to him an
unhealthy, insane longing, so true it is that one exaggerates the value
of the good things of life when one has them not.

"I could have passed years here very comfortably," he thought, "as happy
as I shall be in a palace, provided that my conscience was always as
well satisfied with itself as it was when Pier-Angelo said to me: 'Well,
you are a man of heart, that you are!' All the portraits of the
Palmarosas and Castro-Reales may tell me that they are pleased with me;
they will afford me no more joy than those words from my father the
artisan."

He entered as a prince that house from which he had gone forth an
artisan but a few hours earlier, and he crossed the threshold with a
feeling of profound respect. Then he hurried to his father's bedside,
thinking to find him asleep. But Pier-Angelo was with Mila, who had not
slept at all she was so disturbed because her brother had not returned.
The old man suspected that the princess had kept him; but he was unable
to make Mila assent to the probability of that supposition. Michel threw
himself into their arms and wept tears of joy. Pier-Angelo understood
what had taken place, and why the young Prince of Castro-Reale called
him _father_ so effusively, and would not allow him to call him Michel,
but made him say _my son_ whenever he spoke.

Mila was greatly surprised when Michel, instead of embracing her with
his usual familiarity, kissed her hand again and again, calling her his
darling sister.

"What's the matter, Michel?" she said, "and why this act of respect with
me? You say that nothing extraordinary has happened, that you have been
in no danger during the night, and yet you bid us good-morning like a
man who has just escaped death, or who brings us paradise in the hollow
of his hand. Well, well! now that you are here, we are as happy as the
saints in heaven, it is true! for I had many bad dreams while I was
waiting for you. I woke poor Magnani two hours before daylight and sent
him in search of you; and he is searching still. He must have gone to
Bel Passo, to see if you were not with our uncle."

"Dear, good Magnani!" cried Michel; "I will go out and find him, in
order to set your mind at rest and to see him the sooner. But first I
want to breakfast with you two at our cosy little table; I want to eat
some of the rice that you cook so deliciously, Mila, and the water-melon
that nobody can select so well as you."

"See how sweet he is whenever he doesn't choose to be capricious!" said
Mila, looking at her brother. "When he is in one of his fits of temper,
nothing is good, the rice is cooked too much and the water-melons are
over-ripe. To-day everything is delicious, even before he tastes it."

"I shall be like this every day henceforth, my darling sister," said
Michel; "I shall have no more bad temper, I shall ask you no more
impertinent questions, and I trust that you will have no better friend
in the world than me."

As soon as he was alone with Pier-Angelo, Michel knelt before him. "Give
me your blessing," he said, "and forgive me for not having been worthy
of you always. I will be hereafter, and if I should hesitate a moment on
the path of duty, promise that you will scold me and lecture me more
severely than you have ever done."

"Prince," said Pier-Angelo, "I should have been more severe perhaps if I
had been your father; but--"

"O father," cried Michel, "never call me by that name, and never say
that I am not your son. Of course I am the happiest of men to be
Princess Agatha's son, but it would be mingling gall with my happiness
to try to accustom myself to the thought that I am not yours; and if you
call me prince, I will never be one; I will insist on remaining a
mechanic!"

"Very well, so be it!" said Pier-Angelo, embracing him; "let us continue
to be father and son, as we were; I like that better, especially as I
should cling to the old habits in spite of myself, even if you had been
offended. Now, listen; I know beforehand what you will say to me in a
moment. You will want to make me a rich man. I want to say to you
beforehand that I beg you not to torment me on that subject. I prefer to
remain as I am; I am very happy. Money brings anxiety; I have never been
able to keep it. The princess will do what she thinks best for your
sister; but I doubt whether the little one cares to rise above her
condition, for if I am not mistaken, she is in love with our neighbor,
Antonio Magnani, and has no idea of marrying anybody else. Magnani will
not consent to accept anything from you, I know; he is a man like me,
who loves his trade and would blush to be assisted when he earns all he
needs. Don't be angry, my son; I accepted your sister's marriage-portion
yesterday. That was not the gift of a prince, it was the wages of a
workman, the sacrifice of a loving brother. I was proud of it, and your
sister, when she knows about it, won't be ashamed; but I did not think
it best to tell her yet. She would never have accepted it, she is so
accustomed to look upon your artistic future as a sacred thing; and the
child is obstinate, as you know.

"As for me, Michel, you know me too. If I were rich, I should be ashamed
to work. People would think I did it from avarice, and to add a little
to my savings. Nor could I work if I were not driven to it; I am a
creature of habit, a routine workman; every day would be Sunday to me,
and it would be as injurious for me to amuse myself all the week as it
is advantageous for me to enjoy myself a little at table on the blessed
day of rest. Ennui would lay hold of me, and melancholy after that. I
should try to escape from it by intemperance perhaps, as most men do who
don't know how to read and so can't keep up their spirits with beautiful
written stories. But one must feed one's brain when the body is at rest,
and they feed it with wine. That is worse than nothing, I know by
experience. When I go to a wedding festival I enjoy myself the first
day, I am bored the second, and sick the third. No, no! I must have my
apron, my ladder, my glue-pot, and my ballads, or each hour seems as
long as two. If you blush for me--But no, I won't finish, it is
insulting to you; you will never blush for me. In that case, let me live
as I please, and when I am too old and feeble to work, you shall take me
in and take care of me; I agree to that, I give you my word on it. I can
do nothing better for you, I am sure."

"Your wishes shall be sacred to me," Michel replied, "and I realize
fully that it is impossible for me to pay my debt to you with money; it
would be altogether too easy to be able to liquidate a debt running
through one's whole lifetime in an instant and without the slightest
trouble. Ah! if I could only double the duration of your life, and
restore, at the expense of my blood, the strength you have expended in
supporting and educating me!"

"Do not hope to pay me otherwise than by affection," replied the old
decorator. "Youth cannot return, and I desire nothing that is contrary
to the divine laws. If I have worked for you, I have done it with
pleasure and without ever relying upon any other reward than that of
seeing you make a wise use of your good fortune. The princess knows my
way of thinking in that respect. If she should pay me for your
education, she would deprive me of all my merit and pride; for I have a
certain pride of my own, and I shall be proud to hear people say as they
will before long: 'What a loyal Sicilian and good prince this
Castro-Reale is! And yet it was that old fool of a Pier-Angelo who
brought him up.' Come, give me your hand, and let us say no more about
it. It would hurt me a little, I confess. It seems that the cardinal is
dying. I want you to say a prayer with me for him, for he needs it
sadly; he was a wicked man, and the woman who was taking you to the
hospital, when my brother the monk and I snatched you from her arms,
looked as if she would much rather throw you into the sea than into the
orphan's crib. So let us pray with a good heart! Come, Michel, it won't
be long."

And Pier-Angelo, uncovering, said in a loud voice and in a tone of the
deepest sincerity: "O my God! forgive us our sins, and forgive Cardinal
Hieronimo, as we ourselves forgive him. In the name of the Father, the
Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.--Michel, you didn't say _amen_, did you?"

"Amen, with all my heart," replied Michel, filled with respect for the
artless piety with which Pier-Angelo forgave his persecutor.

For Monsignor Hieronimo had been very cruel to the poor mechanic. He had
had only suspicions against him, and yet he had prosecuted him, thrown
him into prison, ruined him, and finally forced him to exile himself,
which last was the greatest sorrow that could have been inflicted upon
honest Pier-Angelo.

As Mila was beginning to be anxious concerning Magnani, who did not
return, Michel started out in search of him. All the bells in the city
were tolling for the dying cardinal; prayers were being said in all the
churches, and the poor people who were oppressed, held to ransom and
punished by him at the slightest symptom of rebellion, knelt devoutly on
the steps of the churches to ask God to absolve him. Doubtless one and
all rejoiced inwardly at the first stroke of the bell, and would rejoice
still more at the last. But the terrors of hell acted so powerfully on
those vivid imaginations that mortal resentment vanished in face of the
threat which those clanging bells seemed to hold suspended over every
head.

Michel, as he did not hear the final knell announcing that death had
seized his prey, and, as he felt sure that his mother would not leave
the deathbed until that decisive moment had arrived, bent his steps
toward the hill of Mal Passo. He wished to embrace his friend and his
uncle once more before they saluted him as Prince of Castro-Reale. He
dreaded especially the moment when Magnani would put on the armor of
pride, and perhaps of coldness, in his unjust fear of contemptuous
treatment by Michel. He was determined to stipulate in advance for the
continuance of their friendship, to demand his solemn promise to that
effect, and to inform him first of all of his new position after he had
cemented that sacred brotherhood in Fra Angelo's presence.

And then, too, Michel thought of the Piccinino. He said to himself that
it was not so far from the convent to Nicolosi that he could not go and
visit his brother before he had taken any measures against the princess
and himself. He could not make up his mind to defy and await schemes of
revenge which might attack his mother before himself; and, though he
should find the bastard in a paroxysm of rage worse than that in which
he had last seen him, he looked upon it as his duty as a man and a son
to meet alone its first consequences.

On the way Michel remembered that he was a painter on seeing the rising
sun illumine the landscape. A feeling of profound sadness suddenly took
possession of him. His artistic future seemed to be at an end, and as he
passed the gate of Villa Palmarosa--as he glanced at that niche with its
madonna, from which he had saluted the steeples of Catania for the first
time--his heart was heavy, as if twenty years, instead of half as many
days, had elapsed between this dénouement of his life and his
adventurous youth, overflowing with poetic aspirations, with fears and
hopes. The absolute security of his new position frightened him, and he
asked himself in dismay if a painter's genius would not be inadequately
accommodated in the brain of a rich man and a prince. What would become
of ambition, wrath, terror, the frenzy for work, obstacles to be
overcome, triumphs to be defended--those powerful and necessary
stimulants? Instead of enemies to spur him on, he would have only
flatterers to corrupt his judgment and his taste; instead of poverty to
force him to hard work and to sustain him in the fever of composition,
he would be surfeited in advance with all the advantages which art
pursues at least as eagerly as it pursues renown.

He heaved a deep sigh, but soon took courage, saying to himself that he
would prove himself worthy to have friends who would tell him the truth,
and that, while pursuing that nobler object--renown--he could renounce
more completely the material profits of the profession and the vulgar
judgment of the multitude.

Reflecting thus, he reached the monastery. The bells were ringing in
response to those of the city, and that monotonous and depressing
dialogue was carried on in the crisp morning air amid the songs of the
birds and the murmuring of the breezes.




XLVII

THE VULTURE


Magnani knew all, for Agatha had at least suspected his passion, if she
had not actually divined it; and she had told him the story of her life.
She had described her blighted, desolate past, and her present, devoted
to serious pursuits and absorbed by maternal affections. By thus
displaying her confidence in him and her regard for him, she had at all
events healed the secret wound inflicted upon his plebeian pride. She
had with delicate tact pointed out to him that the obstacle between them
was not the difference in rank and in their ideas, but the difference
between their ages and the decree of an inflexible destiny. In a word,
she had raised him to her own level by treating him as a brother, and if
she had not effected a complete cure at the first attempt, she had
removed all the bitterness of his suffering. Then she had adroitly
brought Mila's name into the conversation, and, when he realized that
the princess desired their union, Magnani had deemed it to be his duty
to comply with her desire.

That duty he determined to set about performing at once, and he fully
appreciated the fact that Agatha, to punish him for his madness, had
pointed out to him the easiest, not to say the most delightful of
expiations. As he had not shared Mila's uneasiness with respect to
Michel's absence, he had gone out simply to please her, with no idea
that there was any need of going in search of him. He had called upon
Fra Angelo, to consult him concerning the girl's sentiments, and to ask
for his advice and support. When he reached the monastery, the monks
were reciting prayers for the cardinal's soul, and he was obliged to
wait in the garden, with its paths of earthenware and its borders of
lava, until Fra Angelo could come to him. The doleful chanting depressed
him, and he could not avoid a presentiment of evil to come as he thought
that he was cherishing the hope of a happy betrothal in the midst of a
funeral ceremony.

On the preceding evening, before he parted from Pier-Angelo on their
return from the Della Serra palace, he had sounded the old artisan
concerning his daughter's feelings. Pier-Angelo, delighted by that
overture, had ingenuously replied that he believed that she loved him;
but as Magnani distrusted his good fortune, and hardly dared hope,
Pier-Angelo had advised him to consult his brother the Capuchin, whom,
although younger than himself, he was accustomed to look upon as the
head of the family.

Magnani was very uncertain and disturbed in mind. And yet a mysterious
voice told him that Mila loved him. He recalled her furtive glances, her
sudden blushes, her concealed tears, her deathly pallor, aye, and her
words, which denoted an affectation of indifference prompted by pride.
He hoped; he awaited impatiently the end of the prayers, and when Fra
Angelo joined him he begged him to give him his attention, to advise
him, and above all things to tell him the truth without concealment.

"This is a serious matter," the good monk replied; "I have always had
the friendliest feeling for your family, my son, and a very high regard
for you. But are you sure that you know me and love me well enough to
believe me if the advice that I give you is contrary to your secret
desires? For we monks are often consulted, and very little heed is paid
to our counsel. Everyone comes and confides his thoughts and passions,
even his business affairs to us, because it is commonly supposed that
men with no direct interest in life have a keener insight than others.
That is a mistake. In most cases our advice is either too complaisant to
be worth following or so severe that it is impossible to follow it. For
my part I dislike to give advice."

"Very well," said Magnani, "if you do not consider me capable of making
the most of your counsel, will you promise to answer, without
hesitation, and with perfect frankness, a question I am going to ask
you?"

"Hesitation is not a failing of mine, my friend. But for lack of careful
handling one may inflict much pain on those whom one loves, and do you
want me to be cruel to you? You subject my affection to a painful test!"

"You frighten me beforehand, Padre Angelo. It seems to me that you have
already guessed the question I am going to ask you."

"Ask it, so that I may see if I am not mistaken."

"And you will answer?"

"I will answer."

"Well," said Magnani, in a trembling voice, "should I do well to ask
your brother to give me Mila's hand?"

"Precisely, that is what I expected. My brother has already spoken to me
about it. He thinks that his daughter loves you; he thinks that he has
detected it."

"Great God! if it were true!" said Magnani, clasping his hands.

But Fra Angelo's face maintained its cold, sad expression.

"You do not consider me worthy to be Mila's husband," continued the
modest Magnani. "It is true that I am not, padre; but if you knew how
firmly I have resolved to become worthy!"

"My friend," rejoined the monk, "the day on which you should become
Mila's husband, if you love each other fervently and sincerely, would be
the happiest day in Pier-Angelo's life and mine; for we monks know that
a man must love with his whole soul the spouse to whom he gives his
life, whether that spouse be the family or the church. I believe that
you love Mila, since you seek her hand; but I do not know whether Mila
loves you or whether my brother is mistaken."

"Alas!" replied Magnani, "nor do I know myself."

"You do not know?" said Fra Angelo, drawing his eyebrows together; "she
has never told you so?"

"Never!"

"But she has granted you some innocent favors, has she not? She has been
alone with you?"

"Only by chance or from necessity."

"She has never made an appointment with you?"

"Never!"

"Not yesterday? was she not walking with you, in this neighborhood, last
night at sunset?"

"Last night, in this neighborhood?" repeated Magnani, turning pale; "no,
padre."

"On your salvation?"

"On my salvation and my honor!"

"In that case, Magnani, you must not think about Mila. Mila loves
someone, and you are not that some one. And the worst of it is that
neither her father nor I can guess who it is. Would to God that a girl
so devoted to her duties, so hard-working, and down to this very day so
modest, might have taken a fancy to a man like you! You would have
brought up a family nobly, and your union would have edified your
neighbors. But Mila is a child, and a romantic child, I fear. Hereafter
we must watch her more carefully; I will warn her father, and you, being
a man of heart, will say nothing and forget her."

"What!" cried Magnani, "can it be that Mila, the personification of
honesty, courage, and innocence, already has a misstep upon her
conscience? Great God! have chastity and truth ceased to exist on
earth?"

"I do not say that," the monk replied: "I trust that Mila is still pure;
but she is on the road to her destruction if someone does not hold her
back. Last night, at sunset, she passed here, all alone, and dressed in
her best clothes; she tried to avoid me, she refused to account for
herself, she tried to lie. Ah! I prayed earnestly for her last night,
and I slept but little."

"I will keep Mila's secret, and I will think no more about her," said
Magnani, utterly confounded.

But he continued to think of her. It was natural to his character, grave
and strong, but incapable of boastful confidence, to go forward to meet
obstacles, and to halt when he reached them, unable to surmount them or
to make up his mind to turn his back upon them.

At that moment Michel arrived; he seemed to have undergone a magical
transformation since the preceding day, although he still wore his
artisan's jacket; his forehead and his eyes seemed larger, his nostrils
inhaled the air more freely, his chest seemed to have developed in a
different atmosphere. The pride, the conscious strength, the
tranquillity of the free man shone in his face.

"Ah!" said Magnani, throwing himself into the arms the young prince held
out to him, "your dream has come true already, Michel! It was a
beautiful dream! the awakening is still more beautiful. I have been
struggling with a nightmare which your good fortune has driven away, but
which has left me bewildered and crushed by fatigue."

Fra Angelo blessed them both, and said, addressing the prince:

"I hail with joy your accession to greatness and power, when I see you
embrace a man of the common people of your native country. Michel de
Castro-Reale, Michelangelo Lavoratori, I shall always love you as my
nephew, while loving you as my prince. Will you tell me now, _your
excellency_, that it is an imposition for those of my class to love and
serve yours?"

"Do not remind me of my heresies, my excellent uncle," replied Michel.
"I no longer know to what class I belong; I feel that I am a man and a
Sicilian, that is all."

"Long live Sicily!" cried the Capuchin, saluting Ætna.

"Long live Sicily!" echoed Michel, saluting Catania.

Magnani was deeply moved and his manner was most affectionate. He
rejoiced sincerely in Michel's good fortune; but, for his own part, he
was sorely distressed by the obstacle that had arisen between Mila and
him, and he trembled lest he should fall anew under the empire of his
former passion. But the mother is something more than the woman, and the
thought of Agatha in that new aspect made Magnani's adoration calmer and
more solemn than it had been before. He felt that he should blush in
Michel's presence if he retained the slightest trace of his madness. He
determined to banish it altogether, and, happy in the thought that he
could always say to himself that he had devoted his youth, by a solemn
vow, to the loveliest saint in heaven, he retained her image and her
memory in his heart like a divine perfume.

Magnani was cured; but what a sad cure, to renounce, at twenty-five, all
the dreams of love! He was resigned to his fate; but from that moment
life was to him nothing more than a stern and passionless duty.

The reveries and torments which had made that duty dear to him no longer
existed. Never was there a man on earth more utterly alone, more
disgusted with all earthly things, than Magnani on the day of his
deliverance.

He left Fra Angelo and Michel, who proposed to go at once to Nicolosi,
and passed the rest of the day walking alone by the seashore, opposite
the basaltic isles of Acireale.

The young prince and the monk started immediately after making up their
minds to visit the Piccinino. They were approaching the ill-omened
_Destatore's_ Cross when the bells of Catania, changing their rhythm,
rang the knell that announces death. Fra Angelo crossed himself without
stopping; Michel thought of his father, who had perhaps been
assassinated by order of that wicked prelate, and quickened his pace in
order to kneel upon the grave of Castro-Reale.

He did not as yet feel the courage to examine that fatal cross, where he
had experienced such painful emotions, even before he knew of the tie of
blood that bound him to the bandit of Ætna. But a huge vulture,
starting up suddenly from the very foot of the cross, forced him
involuntarily to turn his eyes in that direction. For a moment he
thought that he was the victim of a ghastly hallucination. A dead body
lay in a pool of blood at the spot from which the vulture had fled.

Frozen with horror, Michel and his uncle drew near and recognized the
body of Abbé Ninfo, half disfigured by pistol shots fired at
point-blank range. The murder had been premeditated or committed with
extraordinary sang-froid, for the perpetrator had taken the time and
trouble to write with chalk, in small letters, close together, on the
black lava pedestal of the cross, this ferociously concise inscription:

"Here was found, eighteen years ago to-day, the body of a celebrated
brigand, _Il Destatore_, Prince of Castro-Reale, the avenger of the woes
of his country.

"Here will be found to-day the body of his assassin, Abbé Ninfo, who
has confessed his participation in the crime. So cowardly a champion
would not have dared to strike openly so gallant a man. He led him into
a trap, into which he himself has fallen at last, after eighteen years
of unpunished crimes.

"More fortunate than Castro-Reale, who was struck down by slaves, Ninfo
has fallen by the hand of a free man.

"If you wish to know who condemned the _Destatore_ and paid for his
murder, ask Satan, who, within an hour, will receive before his tribunal
the wicked soul of Cardinal Hieronimo de Palmarosa.

"Do not accuse Castro-Reale's widow: she is innocent.

"Michel de Castro-Reale, there is still much blood to be shed before
your father's death is avenged!

"He who writes these lines is the bastard of Castro-Reale, whom men call
the Piccinino and the _Justicier d'aventure_. He it was who killed the
knave Ninfo. He did it at sunrise, to the sound of the bells which
announced the death agony of Cardinal Palmarosa. He did it so that it
may not be thought that all villains can die in their beds.

"Let the first man who reads this inscription copy or remember it and
carry it to the people of Catania!"

"Let us rub it out," said Michel, "or my brother's audacity will be
fatal to him."

"No, let us not rub it out," said the monk. "Your brother is too prudent
not to be far away from here before this, and we have no right to
deprive the nobles and people of Catania of a terrible example and a
bloody lesson. The proud Castro-Reale assassinated! assassinated by the
cardinal! lured into a trap by this vile abbé! Ah! I ought to have
guessed it! He had too much vigor and courage still to stoop to suicide.
Do not accuse your brother of being over severe, Michel, and do not look
upon this vengeance as a mere useless crime. You do not know what your
father was in his good days, his great days. You do not know that he was
on the point of mending his ways and becoming once more the dispenser of
justice on the mountain. He was repentant. He believed in God, he still
loved his country, and he adored your mother. If he could but have lived
as he was living a year more, she would have loved him, and would have
forgiven everything. She would have come and shared his perils, she
would have been the brigand's wife instead of being the prisoner and
victim of his murderers. She would have brought you up herself, she
would never have been parted from you! You would have drunk the milk of
a lioness and you would have grown to manhood in the tempest. Everything
would be better so! Sicily would be nearer its deliverance than it will
be ten years hence; and I should not have continued to be a monk.
Instead of walking up the mountain, with folded arms, to see this body
lying in a corner and the Piccinino flying among the precipices, we
should all be together, rifle in hand, fighting desperately against the
Swiss mercenaries of Naples, and perhaps marching on Catania with the
yellow flag flaunting its golden folds in the morning breeze! Yes,
everything would be better so, I tell you, Prince of Castro-Reale!--But
God's will be done!" added Fra Angelo, remembering at last that he was a
monk.

Being certain that the Piccinino must have left the valley long before
the hour named in the inscription as that of the murder, Michel and the
monk went no farther, but retraced their steps from that wild spot where
the abbé's corpse would be at the mercy of the vulture for some hours
to come, before anyone would interrupt his ghastly feast. As they turned
away, they saw the ill-omened bird fly over their heads, returning with
savage eagerness to his prey.

"That is the fate you deserved," said the monk, calmly; "to be eaten by
dogs and vultures! that is the malediction which people in all ages have
called down upon spies and traitors. You are very pale, my young prince,
and perhaps you think me very harsh in my judgment of a priest, being
myself a churchman. What can you expect? It may be that I have seen and
done with my own hand, perhaps, more killing than is consistent with the
salvation of my soul! but in conquered countries, you see, war sometimes
has no other resource than murder. Do not think that the Piccinino is
worse than other men. He was born calm and long-suffering; but there are
virtues which would become vices in us Sicilians, if we should cling to
them. Reason and a sense of justice taught him to be a scourge at need.
But you see that his heart is sound at bottom. He is very angry with
your mother, you told me, and you dreaded his vengeance. You see that he
absolves her from the crime which certainly never occurred to that
saint-like woman's mind; you see that he does homage to truth, even in
the heat of his anger; you see, too, that instead of cursing you he
exhorts you to make common cause with him when occasion requires. No,
no, Carmelo is no dastard!"

Michel was of the monk's opinion, but he held his peace; it would
require a mighty effort on his part to fraternize with the gloomy mind
of that civilized savage whom men called the Piccinino. He readily
detected the monk's secret predilection for the brigand. In Fra Angelo's
eyes the bastard rather than the prince was the _Destatore's_ son and
the heir of his strong nature. But Michel was too heavily burdened by
the emotions--by turns delicious and painful--which he had experienced
within a few hours, to maintain a conversation on any subject, and, even
if he considered that the Capuchin was too revengeful and inclined to be
too pitiless in his opinions, he did not feel that he had the right to
contradict or even to pass judgment upon a man to whom he was indebted
for the legitimizing of his birth, the saving of his life, and the joy
of knowing his mother.

They saw in the distance the cardinal's villa all draped in black.

"You too, Michel, will be obliged to wear mourning," said Fra Angelo.
"Carmelo is more fortunate than you at this moment, in not belonging to
society. If he were the Princess of Palmarosa's son, he would have to
wear the false livery of grief--mourning for his father's murderer."

"For love of my mother, my dear uncle," replied the prince, "do not
force upon my notice the unpleasant side of my position. At present I
can think of nothing except that I am the son of the noblest and
loveliest and best of women."

"That is well, my child, that is well. Forgive me," continued the monk.
"My mind is always in the past; it is always busy with the memory of my
poor murdered captain. Why did I leave him? Why had I turned monk? Ah! I
was a coward too. If I had remained faithful to him in his ill-fortune,
and patient with his vagaries, he never would have fallen into a
wretched ambuscade, and perhaps he would be alive still! He would be
proud and happy to have two sons, both brave and handsome! Ah!
_Destatore_, _Destatore_! here am I weeping for you more bitterly than
at first. To learn that you died by another hand than your own is like
losing you again."

And the monk, but a moment before so pitiless and unfeeling as he
trampled upon the blood of the traitor, began to weep like a child. The
old soldier, faithful beyond the grave, reappeared in him, and he
embraced Michel, saying: "Comfort me; let me hope that we shall avenge
him!"

"Let us hope for Sicily!" replied Michel. "We have something better to
do than perpetuate family quarrels; we have our country to serve! Ah!
our country! That is a word that you had to explain to me yesterday, my
brave soldier, but to-day I understand it perfectly."

They exchanged a warm grasp of the hand and entered Villa Palmarosa.




XLVIII

THE MARQUIS


Master Barbagallo awaited them at the gate with a most anxious
countenance. As soon as he saw Michel, he ran to meet him and kneeled to
kiss his hand.

"Up, up, sirrah!" said the young prince, disgusted by such servility.
"You have served my mother faithfully. Give me your hand, as befits a
man!"

They crossed the park together; but Michel did not choose to receive as
yet the homage of all the servants, who were not likely, however, to be
so annoying as the majordomo; for he followed him everywhere, asking his
forgiveness again and again for the scene at the ball, and striving to
convince him that if the proprieties had permitted him to wear his
spectacles on that occasion, his short-sightedness would not have
prevented him from noticing that Michel resembled, feature for feature,
that mighty captain, Giovanni Palmarosa, deceased in 1288, whose
portrait he had delivered to the Marquis della Serra on the preceding
day, in his, Michel's, presence.

"Ah! how I regret," he said, "that the princess has given the marquis
all the Palmarosas! But your highness will surely recover that noble and
priceless portion of your inheritance. I am certain that his excellency
the marquis will restore to you all the ancestors of both families, by
his will, or even sooner."

"I think that they do very well where they are," replied Michel, with a
smile. "I am not fond of portraits which have the gift of speech."

He made his escape from the majordomo's obsession, and walked to the
cliff in order to enter by way of the Casino. But as he stepped into his
mother's boudoir, he found that Barbagallo was puffing at his heels,
having followed him up the staircase.

"Forgive me, your highness," he said, gasping for breath, "her highness
the princess is in the large gallery, among her kinsmen, friends and
retainers, to whom she has just publicly announced her marriage to the
most noble and illustrious prince your father. They are waiting now for
the excellent Fra Angelo, to whom a messenger was sent two hours ago, to
request him to bring from the convent the authentic proofs of the
marriage, which will establish your right of succession to the
inheritance of his eminence, the most high, most powerful and most
excellent prince cardinal."

"I have the documents," said the monk; "have you said all that you have
to say, most high, most powerful and most excellent Master Barbagallo?"

"I will also say to his highness," rejoined the steward, in nowise
disconcerted, "that he too is awaited impatiently--but--"

"But what? Do not stand in my way any longer with your suppliant air,
Master Barbagallo. If my mother is waiting for me, let me hurry to her;
if you have any personal request to make, I will listen to you at some
other time, and I promise you beforehand whatever you ask."

"O, my noble master, yes!" cried Barbagallo, standing in the doorway,
with a heroic air, and handing Michel a gala coat cut in the antique
style, while a servant, notified by a stroke of the bell, brought a pair
of satin breeches stitched with gold, silk stockings with red clocks and
a sword. "Yes, yes, I have a personal request which I venture to present
to you. You cannot appear before the family council which awaits your
presence in that fustian jacket and that coarse shirt. It is impossible
for a Palmarosa, a Castro-Reale I mean, to meet his cousins-german for
the first time in the costume of a mechanic. They know the nobly borne
misfortunes of your youth, and with what great courage you have accepted
an ignoble place in society. But that is no reason why they should see
its livery on your highness's body. I will kneel at your feet to beg you
to wear the costume of state which your grandfather, Prince Donigi de
Palmarosa, wore on the occasion of his first presentation at the court
of Naples."

The first part of this harangue triumphed over Michel's irritation. He
and the monk could not refrain from laughing uproariously; but the last
words put an end to their merriment and darkened their brows.

"I am quite sure," said Michel, shortly, "that my mother did not bid you
offer me this absurd disguise, and that it would afford her no pleasure
to see me arrayed in that livery! I much prefer the one which I now wear
and which I shall wear the rest of the day, by your leave, Master
majordomo."

"I beg your highness not to be angry with me," rejoined Barbagallo, in
dire confusion, motioning to the servant to remove the costume at once.
"Perhaps I acted unwisely, taking counsel of my own zeal; but if--"

"But nothing! leave me," said Michel, opening the door impatiently; and
leaning on Fra Angelo's arm, he descended the inner staircase from the
Casino and resolutely entered the great gallery in his artisan's
costume.

The princess, dressed in black, was sitting on a sofa at the end of the
gallery, surrounded by the Marquis della Serra, Doctor Recuperati,
Pier-Angelo, several tried friends of both sexes, and several kinsmen;
the faces of the latter wearing a more or less resentful or dismayed
expression, despite their efforts to appear touched and fascinated by
the romance of her life which she had just told them. Mila was sitting
on a cushion at her feet, lovely as ever, with glistening eyes, and pale
with surprise and emotion. Other groups were scattered about the
gallery. They were the less intimate friends, the more distant
relations, and the lawyers whom Agatha had summoned to declare the
validity of her marriage and the legitimacy of her son. Still farther
away the servants of the house, on active service or retired on
pensions, some privileged workmen, the Magnani family among the rest,
and lastly, the cream of those _clients_ with whom Sicilian nobles have
intimate relations unknown in France, which recall the ancient customs
of the Roman patriciate.

It will readily be believed that Agatha had not felt called upon to
state the cruel reasons which had led her to marry the too famous Prince
of Castro-Reale, that gallant and redoubtable brigand, so depraved and
yet at times so ingenuous, a sort of converted Don Juan concerning whom
more tales were current, tales of crime and of love, fabulous and
improbable, than could possibly be true of any one man. To the public
avowal of an act of violence which was most offensive to her modesty and
her pride, she preferred the implied confession of a passion, romantic
beyond reason on her part, but unconstrained and legitimate. To the
Marquis della Serra alone had she confided her real story; he alone knew
of Agatha's unhappy youth, the cruelty of her parents, the probable
murder of the _Destatore_, and the plots against the life of her son
while he was in his cradle. The princess allowed the others to infer
that her family had not approved of that clandestine marriage, and that
her son had necessarily been brought up secretly, to avoid the risk of
being disinherited by his mother's relations. Her narrative was brief,
simple and concise, and she had borne herself in the telling with a
self-assured and tranquil dignity which she owed to the force of her
maternal affection. Before she was aware of her son's existence, she
would have killed herself rather than allow the tenth part of her secret
to be suspected; but, with the determination that her son should be
recognized and welcomed, she would have revealed everything if a
complete disclosure had been necessary.

She had finished speaking a quarter of an hour before Michel entered.
She had looked calmly into the faces of her audience. She knew what to
think of the artless emotion of some, of the masked malevolence of
others. She knew that she should have the courage to face all the
exaggerations, all the sneers, all the malicious remarks to which her
declaration would give rise in the outside world, and especially in
aristocratic society. She was ready for everything, and felt strong and
brave, supported by her son's arm--that woman who had steadfastly
refused to accept the protection of a husband or the consolations of a
lover. Some of those present, whether maliciously or from stupidity, had
tried to induce her to add some details, some further particulars, to
her declaration. She had replied gently but firmly:

"Not before so many witnesses, and on a day of mourning and solemnity,
can I undertake to entertain or interest you by telling a love-story.
Besides, it is all a long way off. I was very young then, and after
twenty years have passed since those exciting days, I should find it
hard to speak of them from a standpoint which would enable you to
understand the choice I thought fit to make. I will allow you to
consider it an extraordinary act, but I will not allow anyone to speak
reproachfully of it in my presence; for that would be an insult to the
man whose name I accepted, to hand it down to my son."

There was much eager whispering among the groups scattered through that
vast apartment. Only the group at the extreme end, consisting of honest
workmen and faithful servants, was grave and calm, and secretly touched.
Magnani's father and mother came forward weeping, and kissed Agatha's
hand. Mila, in the midst of her transports of amazement and joy, was a
little depressed in the depths of her heart. She said to herself that
Magnani should be there; but she could not see him, although she looked
everywhere. However, she forgot him when Michel appeared, and she rose
to rush to him through the groups, malevolent or thunderstruck, which
opened to give passage to the artisan prince and his woolen blouse. But
she stopped short, with crimson cheeks and in sore distress: Michel was
no longer her brother; she must not kiss him any more.

Agatha, who had risen first, turned and beckoned to her, and, taking her
by the hand, walked toward her son with the proud resolution of a queen
and a mother. First she led him to receive publicly the blessing of his
father and his uncle by adoption, then turned him over to the cordial
hand-clasps of her friends and the salutations of her acquaintances.
Michel took pleasure in adopting a cold and haughty bearing with those
who seemed to him cold and haughty; but when he was in the midst of the
more popular portion of the company, he appeared as he felt, overflowing
with sincerity and cordiality. He had no difficulty in winning the
hearts of those good people, and he was greeted as heartily as if they
had been present at his birth, and he had grown to manhood before their
eyes.

After the production of the certificates of marriage and birth, which,
having been recorded under the former ecclesiastical administration,
were perfectly regular and authentic, Agatha took leave of the family
gathering, and withdrew to her private apartments with Michel, the
Lavoratori family, and the Marquis della Serra. There they tasted the
unalloyed happiness of being together, and recovered from the fatigue
due to the constraint to which they had been subjected. They laughed
over the incident of the grandfather's gala costume, Master Barbagallo's
happy thought. They made merry in anticipation of all the monstrous and
absurd tales concerning the state of affairs in the family, to which the
imaginations of the good people of Catania, Messina, and Palermo would
give birth while the excitement was at its height.

But the day had not passed before they felt that they would all require
more genuine courage than they had yet been called upon to display. The
news of the murder of Abbé Ninfo, together with a copy of the audacious
inscription, reached the city during the evening, and was speedily
circulated. Persons who were out walking had brought the copy, the
_campieri_ brought the body. As the incident seemed to have a political
color, it was discussed in undertones; but as it had some connection
with the great events of the day, the death of the cardinal and Agatha's
declaration, people talked about it all night, having no desire to
sleep. The greatest and most beautiful city on earth, unless it be one
of the great metropolises of civilization, is always, so far as its
spirit and its ideas are concerned, a petty provincial town, especially
in the south of Europe.

The police were aroused by the vengeance wreaked upon one of their
agents. Persons in the good graces of the government assumed, in
aristocratic salons, a menacing attitude toward the patriotic nobles.
The Neapolitan faction asserted that the Prince of Castro-Reale had
better look to himself if he wished his father's crimes to be forgotten;
and, ere long, salutary warnings intended for the princess found their
way into her very boudoir. A sincere, but cowardly friend informed her
that the assertion of her innocence in the Piccinino's extraordinary
document, and the appeal therein made to her son to avenge Castro-Reale,
would compromise her very seriously unless she made haste to take some
measures dictated by prudence: as, for instance, to present her son to
the ruling powers, and to manifest her purpose, indirectly but clearly,
to abandon her defunct brigand to the devil, and her bastard stepson's
body to the headsman, to be a true and loyal Palmarosa, like her father
and uncle before her, and to make herself responsible for the proper
political education of the heir of a name so difficult to bear as that
of Castro-Reale was likely to be.

To these warnings, Agatha replied calmly and judiciously that she never
went into society; that she had been living for nearly twenty years in
undisturbed seclusion, where no conspiracies had ever been formed; that
to take any measures at that moment to obtain the favor of the ruling
powers would be in effect to admit the justice of suspicions which she
did not deserve; that her son was still a child, brought up in an
obscure station and in ignorance of everything outside of the poetry of
art; that she would bear boldly, with him, the name of Castro-Reale,
because it would be cowardly to deny her marriage and his descent, and
that they would not fail to make that name respected, even under the
eyes of the police. As for the Piccinino, she very adroitly pretended
that she had no idea what they meant, and that she did not believe in
the existence of that intangible phantom, a sort of ogre, whose name was
used to frighten the little children and old women of the suburbs. She
was surprised and distressed by the murder of Abbé Ninfo; but as the
will turned up opportunely in Doctor Recuperati's custody, no one could
suspect that she owed the recovery of the document to a secret
arrangement with the brigands of the mountain. The doctor did not even
know that it had been taken from him; for, just as he was about to make
a public declaration that Ninfo had stolen it, Agatha had interrupted
him, saying:

"Be careful, doctor, you are very absent-minded, you know; don't accuse
anyone hastily. You showed me the will two days ago; may you not have
left it in my chamber, under a piece of mosaic?"

An official visit to the place indicated had resulted in finding the
will there intact. The doctor, astounded at his carelessness, had
believed in it with the others.

Agatha had suffered so much, the secrets she had had to keep had been so
painful, that she had become very skilful in feigning, when it was
necessary to take that trouble. Michel and the marquis admired the
presence of mind which she displayed throughout the whole affair in
extricating herself from an alarming position. But Fra Angelo became
very sad, and Michel sought his couch much less light-hearted in his
palace than he had been in his garret. The necessary precautions, the
constant dissimulation to which he must resort, revealed the anxieties
and perils of grandeur. The Capuchin feared that he would be corrupted
in spite of himself. Michel was not afraid of being corrupted, but he
felt that he must keep a close watch upon himself, and make himself
small in order to preserve his peace of mind and domestic happiness, or
else enter upon a struggle which would end only with his fortune or his
life.

He resigned himself to his fate. He determined that he would be prudent
for his mother's sake until the time should come to be reckless for the
sake of his country. But the period of excitement and untroubled
happiness had already passed; duty was beginning: novels which are not
cut short in the midst of the catastrophe become depressing on the last
pages, that is to say, if they have the slightest semblance of
probability.

Certain persons of taste and vivid imagination insist that a novel
should not have any end; that the reader should end it to suit himself.
Certain others, persons of judgment and method, desire to see all the
threads of the plot straightened out, and all the characters happily
established for the rest of their lives, or else killed off, so that
they need think no more about them. I agree with the former class, and I
think that I might well have left the reader at the foot of the
_Destatore's_ cross, reading the inscription which the _justicier
d'aventure_ had written there. He could readily have imagined without my
assistance the chapter which he has just read--and read with languid
interest, I warrant--saying to himself: "I was sure of it; I expected
it; that goes without saying."

But I was afraid that I might have to deal with a reader of delicate
sensibilities, who would have been made ill by being left in the
classico-romantic company of a corpse and a vulture.

Why are all _dénouements_ more or less lame and unsatisfactory? The
reason is simple enough: it is because in real life there never is a
_dénouement_; that the novel goes on forever, melancholy or placid,
poetic or commonplace, and that the purely conventional can never wear
the truthful aspect which arouses interest.

But since, against my inclination, I have determined to elucidate
everything, I realize that I have left Magnani on the seashore, Mila
anxious, the Piccinino in flight, and the Marquis della Serra at the
princess's feet. As for the last-named, he had been in that position for
nearly twelve years, and a day more or less was of little consequence to
him; but as soon as he learned Agatha's secret, and saw her son in
possession of all his rights and all his good fortune, he changed his
attitude, and, drawing himself up to the full height of his loyal and
chivalrous nature, he said in Michel's presence:

"Signora, I love you as I have always loved you. I esteem you the more
because of the pride and loyalty you have hitherto displayed in refusing
to contract, under the title of virgin, a marriage in which you would
have had to bear in secret the titles of widow and mother. But if you
think that, because you were subjected to outrage long ago, you are
degraded in my eyes, you do not know my heart. If, because you bear a
strange name, a name that arouses horror because of the memories
connected with it, you believe that I would shrink from replacing it
with mine, you put an affront upon my devotion to you. These, on the
contrary, are reasons which make me desire more eagerly than ever to be
your friend, your support, your protector and your husband. At the
present moment your first marriage is a subject of ridicule. Give me
your hand, and no one will dare to ridicule the second. People call you
the brigand's wife; be the wife of the most reasonable and sedate of
patricians, so that people may know that, if you can inflame the
imagination of a wild and wayward man, you can rule the heart of a man
of calm and peaceful life. Your son sorely needs a father, signora. He
will soon be involved in more than one difficult and perilous crisis of
the hazardous existence which a hostile race forces upon us. Be assured
that I already love him as if he were my own son, and that my life and
my fortune are his. But that is not enough; it is necessary that the
sanction of a marriage between you and me should put an end to the
equivocal position in which we stand toward each other. If I am supposed
to be his mother's lover, can he love or esteem me? Would it not be
absurd--aye cowardly--in him to seem to endure it without shame or
impatience? So that I must avoid you now, if you refuse to be united to
me. You will lose your best friend, and so will Michel! As for myself,
I say nothing of the grief I should feel, for I know of no words to
describe it; but my happiness is not the question, and it is not from
selfishness that I implore you thus. No, I know that you do not know
what love is, and that the thought of passion terrifies you. I know what
a deep wound your heart has received, and how repugnant to you are the
thoughts which kindle the imagination of those who know you. Very well!
I will be your brother--nothing more. I promise upon my honor, if you
demand it. Michel shall be your only child as well as your only love.
But the law and public morality will permit me to be his best friend,
his guide, and the defender of his mother's honor and fair fame."

The marquis delivered this long speech in a calm tone, the expression of
his face corresponding to his manner. But a tear trembled on his eyelid,
and he did wrong to try to hold it back, for it was more eloquent than
his words.

The princess blushed; it was the first time that the marquis had ever
seen her blush, and he was so agitated that he lost all the
self-possession with which he had armed himself. That blush which made
her a true woman for the first time, at thirty-two years of age, was
like a sunbeam on the snow, and Michel's artistic sensibilities were so
keen that he realized at once that she had kept another secret in the
depths of her heart, or else that her heart, revived by joy and a sense
of security, was ripe for love. And what man was more worthy of her than
the Marquis della Serra?

The young prince knelt at her feet.

"O mother," he said, "you are only twenty years old! See, look at
yourself," he added, offering her a hand mirror which her maid had left
on the table. "You are so beautiful and so young, and you propose to
renounce love! Is it for my sake? Shall I be the happier because your
life is less complete and less happy? Shall I respect you less because I
see that you are more profoundly respected and more effectively
protected? Are you afraid that I am jealous, as Mila accused me of
being? No, I shall not be jealous unless I find that he loves you better
than I do, and I defy him to do that! Dear marquis, we will love her
dearly, will we not, and make her forget the past; we will make her
happy, who has never been happy, and who, alone of all human beings,
deserves absolute happiness! Say yes, mother; I will not stand up until
you have said yes!"

"I have already reflected," said Agatha, blushing afresh. "I think that
I must do it for your sake, and for the dignity of us all."

"Do not say so," cried Michel, throwing his arms about her; "say that it
is for your happiness, if you wish us two to be happy!"

Agatha held out her hand to the marquis and hid her son's face against
her breast. She was ashamed to have him see her fiancé's joy. She had
retained the modesty of a girl; and from that day, she was so fresh and
so lovely that the evil tongues, who insist upon detecting falsehood and
crime everywhere, declared that Michel was not her son, but a lover
installed in her house under that profaned title. However, all calumny
and ridicule vanished before the announcement of her marriage to Signor
della Serra, which was to take place at the end of her mourning. There
was an occasional sneer at the marquis's Quixotic love, but he was
envied much more than he was pitied.




XLIX

DANGER


This announcement made a profound impression on Magnani. It put the
finishing touch to his cure and his depression of spirit. His
impressionable heart could not do without an all-absorbing, exclusive
love; but he had apparently been deceived when he persuaded himself that
he had never really hoped; for when hope had become impossible, he was
no longer beset by the phantom of Agatha. It was Mila's phantom which
engrossed his meditations and his sleepless nights. But this last
passion began in the midst of a torture more intense than all the
previous ones. Agatha had appeared to him as an ideal creature whom he
could never reach. Mila appeared to him under the same aspect, but with
the additional certainty that she had a lover.

Thereupon, in that little circle of relations and friends, there ensued
a succession of petty anxieties, exceedingly delicate in their nature,
which eventually became very painful to Mila and Magnani. Pier-Angelo,
seeing that his daughter was depressed, and being unable to understand
it, was inclined to have a friendly explanation with Magnani, and lead
him on to ask openly for Mila's hand. Fra Angelo did not agree with him
and restrained him. This question being taken before the princess's
kindly tribunal for decision led to explanations concerning the
excursion to Nicolosi which were perfectly satisfactory to the father
and the uncle, but which might well leave some suspicion in the lover's
proud and uncompromising heart. Fra Angelo, who was responsible for the
trouble, undertook to repair it. He went to the young man, and without
disclosing Mila's sublime imprudence, told him that she was absolutely
justified in his mind, and that he had discovered that the purpose of
that mysterious excursion was to do a noble and courageous act.

Magnani asked no question. Had he done so, the monk, who was incapable
of paltering with the truth, would have told him everything; but
Magnani's loyal heart closed itself to suspicion as soon as Fra Angelo
had given his word. He believed at last in the possibility of happiness
and went to Pier-Angelo to seek confirmation of his belief.

But it was written that Magnani should not be happy. On the day when he
appeared to make his declaration and urge his suit, Mila, instead of
remaining during their interview, left her father's workshop angrily and
shut herself up in her own room. She was offended in the sanctuary of
her pride by Magnani's four or five days of depression and irresolution.
She had expected an easier and speedier triumph. She blushed at the
thought that she had pursued him so long.

Moreover, she was aware of all that had happened during those days of
misery. She knew that Michel was not in favor of their giving Magnani so
much encouragement to declare himself. Michel alone had known his
friend's secret, and he was alarmed for his adopted sister's sake by
such a sudden reaction in her favor, which might well be an act of
desperation. Mila concluded that Michel was aware that Magnani persisted
in loving another woman, although the young artisan had refused to take
back the princess's ring, and had begged Mila to keep it as a pledge of
his esteem and respect. On that same evening, the evening that he had
escorted her home from the Della Serra palace while Michel remained
behind with his mother, Magnani, intoxicated by her beauty, her wit and
her social success, had spoken to her so warmly that what he said was
almost a declaration of love. Mila had had the strength of will to
refrain from encouraging him openly. But she had believed that she had
triumphed, and on the next day, the day of Agatha's declaration, she had
expected to see him at her feet and to tell him at last that she loved
him.

But he had not appeared at all on that day, and on the days immediately
following he had not addressed a single word to her; he had confined
himself to bowing to her with frigid respect when he had not been able
to avoid her eye. Mila, mortally wounded and distressed, had refused to
tell her father the truth, when that worthy man, disturbed by her
pallor, asked her almost on his knees. She had persisted in denying that
she loved their young neighbor. Pier-Angelo, simple and straightforward
creature that he was, could find nothing better to say to her than:

"Cheer up, my child, we know very well that you love each other; but he
has been uneasy and jealous on account of the Nicolosi affair; when you
condescend to justify yourself in his eyes, he will fall at your feet.
You will see him there to-morrow, I am sure of it."

"Oho! Master Magnani presumes to be jealous and to suspect me!" rejoined
Mila, hotly. "He has loved me only a day or two, he doesn't know whether
I love him, and when a suspicion comes into his head, instead of humbly
telling me of it and doing his best to supplant the rival who worries
him, he assumes the air of a betrayed husband, gives up all idea of
making himself agreeable to me and persuading me, and, I suppose, will
consider that he confers great honor and great pleasure on me when he
comes and tells me that he deigns to forgive me! Well, for my part, I do
not forgive him. That's what you may say to him from me, father."

The child persisted so in her irritation that Pier-Angelo was forced to
take Magnani to her chamber door, where she let him knock a long while,
and which she opened at last, saying pettishly that he seemed determined
to interrupt her siesta.

"You may be perfectly sure," said Pier-Angelo to Magnani, "that the sly
minx was not asleep, for she only left my workshop just as you came in.
Come, children, put aside all these pretty quarrels. Shake hands, since
you love each other; and I give you permission to kiss. No! Mila is
proud like her poor mother. Ah! friend Antonio, you will be led by the
nose as I was, and you will be none the less happy for it, I tell you!
Come, kneel and ask her pardon. Signora Mila, must your father kneel
too?"

"Father," replied Mila, flushing with pleasure, pride and vexation, all
at once, "listen to me, instead of laughing at me, for I must keep my
dignity intact! A woman has nothing more precious than her dignity, and
no man, not even a father, ever understands what justification we have
for being sensitive. I do not choose to be loved by halves, I do not
choose to serve as a makeshift and a balm for a partly healed passion. I
know that Master Magnani has long been in love with a beautiful unknown,
and I am afraid that he is still, a little. Very good! I want him to
take time enough to forget her and to give me time to find out whether I
love him. This is all too new and strange to be accepted so hurriedly. I
know that, when I have given my word, I shall not retract it, even if I
regret having done it. I will judge of Magnani's affection," she said,
with a reproachful glance at him, "by his evenness of temper with me and
the zealousness of his attentions. He has something to set right, and I
something to forgive."

"I accept the test," said Magnani, "but not as a punishment; I do not
consider that I have been blameworthy in giving way to sorrow and
depression. I did not believe that you loved me, and I knew well that I
had no right to expect it. I still think that you do not, and if I
venture to hope a little, it is in fear and trembling."

"Ah! what fine words, just to say nothing!" cried Pier-Angelo. "In my
day we were less eloquent and more sincere. We said: 'Do you love
me?'--'Yes, and you?'--'Like a madman.'--'So do I, until death.'--That
was better than these long dialogues of yours, which seem like a game,
and a game in which you try to annoy and worry each other. But perhaps I
am in the way. I will go; when you are alone, you will understand each
other better."

"No, father," said Mila, afraid that she should allow herself to be
moved and persuaded too quickly, "even if he had enough love and spirit
to-day to make me listen to him, I know that I should be sorry to-morrow
that I had been so trustful. Besides, I know that you haven't told him
everything. I know that he has taken it upon himself to be jealous,
because I took a certain erratic walk on the mountain; but I know also
that my uncle, when he assured him that I had committed no sin, which he
was kind enough to believe, thought it best to say nothing as to the
purpose of that walk. But for my own part, I am ashamed, and blush for
that circumspection, which apparently was supposed to be necessary to
his peace of mind, and I propose to tell him the whole truth."

"As you please, my child," replied Pier-Angelo. "I am inclined to agree
with you that you should keep back no part of what you think you ought
to tell. So speak as you think best. But you must remember that it is
somebody else's secret whom you promised never to name."

"I can safely name him, as his name is in every mouth, especially in
these last few days, and, if there is any danger in saying that one
knows him, it is only for those who make that boast; however, it is not
my purpose to reveal what I know about him; I may therefore tell Master
Magnani that I voluntarily passed two hours tête-à-tête with the
Piccinino, without telling him where or for what purpose."

"I believe that the fever for making declarations is attacking all
women," laughed Pier-Angelo; "since Princess Agatha made the one which
has caused so much talk, they all seem determined to confess in public."

Pier-Angelo spoke more truly than he supposed. The example of courage is
contagious among women, and the romantically inclined Mila admired
Princess Agatha so passionately that she regretted that she had not a
secret marriage with the Piccinino to proclaim at that moment, provided
always that she had become a widow and could marry Magnani.

But her rash avowal produced an entirely different effect from that
which she expected. There was no trace of anxiety on Magnani's face, and
she could not rejoice inwardly at having aroused and awakened his love
by a flash of jealousy. He became even more melancholy and gentle than
usual, kissed Mila's hand, and said to her:

"Your frankness denotes a noble heart, Mila, but there is a little pride
mixed with it. Doubtless you intended to put me to a harsh test by
telling me something that would alarm any other man than myself to the
last degree. But I know your father and your uncle too well to fear that
they deceived me when they said that you went into the mountain to do a
good deed. So do not try to puzzle me; that would be cruel on your part,
because you could have no other object than to make me unhappy. Tell me
everything or tell me nothing. I have no right to demand disclosures
which would compromise anyone, but I have the right to ask you not to
play with me by trying to shake my confidence in you."

Pier-Angelo declared that on this occasion Magnani talked _like a book_,
and that no one could possibly make a more straightforward, generous and
sensible reply on such a delicate subject.

But what had taken place in little Mila's heart within a few days? It
may be that one should never play with fire, however worthy the motive
of one's action, and that she really did wrong to go to Nicolosi.
However that may be, Magnani's reply did not please her as much as it
did her father, and she felt chilled and piqued by the sort of paternal
lecture which her lover had given her.

"Sermons already!" she said, rising, as a hint to Magnani that she
proposed to go no farther with him that day; "and sermons to me, whom
you pretend to love with so little hope and courage? It seems to me,
neighbor, on the other hand, that you expect to find me very tractable
and submissive. Well, I am afraid that you are mistaken. I am a child,
and I ought to know it, for I am told so from morning till night; but I
know very well that when one is really in love, he sees no
fault--nothing wrong--in the conduct of the loved one. Everything she
does is charming, or at all events sincere. He doesn't call her loyalty
haughtiness, and her pride childish teasing. You see, Magnani, that it
is a pity to see too clearly in love. There is a song that says that
_Cupid is a blind bambino_. Father knows it; he will sing it to you.
Meanwhile, understand that clairvoyance is contagious, and that he who
removes the bandage from his eyes discloses his own faults to others at
the same time. You have discovered that I am a little overbearing, and
you think doubtless that I am a flirt. For my part, that shows me that
you are very proud, and I am afraid that you are a bit of a pedant."

The Angelos hoped that the cloud would pass over, and that, after giving
vent to her vexation, Mila would be all the more loving and Magnani all
the happier. Indeed, they had interviews and battles of words and
sentiments, in which they were so near coming to terms, that their
sudden falling-out again a moment later, Magnani's depression and Mila's
excitement, seemed inexplicable. Magnani was terrified sometimes to find
so much spirit and will-power in a woman. Mila was afraid of so much
gravity and unwavering common sense in a man. It seemed to her that
Magnani was incapable of feeling a great passion, and she wished to
inspire one, because she felt in a mood to plunge into it violently on
her own account. He always spoke and thought like virtue personified,
and it was with an imperceptible touch of irony that Mila called him the
_just man par excellence_.

She was very coquettish with him, and Magnani, instead of taking
pleasure in her ingenious and strenuous efforts to please him, was
afraid that she was a little coquettish with all men. Ah! if he had seen
her in the Piccinino's boudoir, holding in check and subduing by her
exquisite chastity, by her virile simplicity, so to speak, the young
brigand's crafty inclinations and evil thoughts, Magnani would have
realized that Mila was no coquette, since she was coquettish with him
alone.

But the unfortunate man was not familiar with women; and, because he had
loved so long in silence and sorrow, he had no conception of the
delicate and mysterious problems of requited love. He was over-modest.
He took Mila's cruel pleasantness too seriously, and scolded her for
being so unkind to him when he ought to have thanked her on his knees.

Moreover, to tell the whole truth, that Nicolosi affair was stamped with
the seal of fatality, like everything else that was connected, though it
were by the tiniest thread, with the Piccinino's mysterious existence.
Without touching upon the details which demanded secrecy, they had told
Magnani everything that could set his mind at rest concerning that
adventure of Mila's. Fra Angelo, always loyal to his secret predilection
for the bandit, had vouched for his chivalrous and honorable conduct
under such circumstances. The princess, loving Mila with a maternal
love, had spoken with heartfelt eloquence of the girl's devotion and
courage. Pier-Angelo had arranged everything for the best, in his happy
and unsuspecting brain. Michel alone had shuddered upon learning of the
episode, and he thanked Providence for performing a miracle in behalf of
his charming and noble-hearted sister.

But despite his grandeur of soul, Magnani had been unable to look upon
Mila's performance as the result of a worthy impulse; and, although he
never mentioned the subject, he suffered intensely, as may be imagined.

As for Mila, the consequences of her adventure were more serious,
although she did not suspect it as yet. That romantic chapter in her
life had left an ineffaceable impression on her brain. After trembling
and weeping bitterly when she learned that she had recklessly
surrendered herself as a hostage to the redoubtable Piccinino, she had
made the best of her mistake, and had secretly become reconciled to the
thought of that alarming personage, who had bequeathed to her, instead
of shame, remorse and despair, naught but poetic memories, increased
esteem for herself, and a bouquet of spotless flowers, which an
undefinable instinct had led her to preserve carefully among her
sentimental relics, after drying them with the greatest care.

Mila was no coquette; we have proved it by telling how coquettish she
was with the man whom she looked upon as her fiancé. Nor was she
fickle; she would have been faithful to him until death, with a fidelity
proof against every trial. But there are mysteries in a woman's heart,
deeper and more incomprehensible in proportion to the woman's mental
endowment and the exquisite charm of her nature. Moreover, there is
something sweet and glorious to a young girl in the thought that she has
succeeded in taming a terrible lion and has come forth safe and sound
from a perilous adventure, solely by the power of her charm, her
innocence and her courage. Mila realized now how brave and adroit she
had been, quite unconsciously, in that great danger, and the man who had
submitted so completely to the influence of her merit could not seem to
her a contemptible or ordinary man.

Thus a feeling of romantic gratitude enchained her to the memory of
Captain Piccinino, and, despite all the evil people might say of him, it
would have been impossible to shake her confidence in him. She had taken
him for a prince; was he not a prince's son and Michel's brother? She
had taken him for a hero, for the future liberator of his country; might
he not become so, had he not that ambition? His soft speech, his
charming manners had fascinated her; and why not? Had she not an even
more intense infatuation for Princess Agatha, and was the one less
legitimate and less pure than the other?

All this did not prevent Mila from loving Magnani so fervently that she
was always on the point of confessing her love in spite of herself; but
a week had passed since their first quarrel, and the modest and timid
Magnani had not as yet succeeded in extorting that confession.

He would have obtained that victory a little later doubtless, perhaps on
the very next day; but an unforeseen event brought confusion into Mila's
existence and gravely compromised the welfare of all the characters of
this narrative.

One evening, as Michel was walking with his mother and the marquis in
the garden of the villa, engaged all three in forming projects of mutual
devotion and dreaming dreams of happiness, Fra Angelo joined them, and
Michel concluded, from his strange expression and his excited manner,
that he wished to speak to him in secret. They walked away from the
others, as if by chance, and the Capuchin, taking from his breast a
soiled and crumpled paper, handed it to Michel. It contained only these
few words: "I am wounded and a prisoner; help, brother! Malacarne will
tell you the rest. In twenty-four hours it will be too late."

Michel recognized the Piccinino's fine, nervous handwriting. The note
was written in blood.

"I know all that has to be done," said the monk. "I received the letter
six hours ago. Everything is ready. I came to say good-bye to you, for
it may well be that I shall never return."

He paused, as if afraid to say something that was in his mind.

"I understand you, uncle; you relied upon my help," said Michel; "I am
ready. Let me embrace my mother." "If you do that, she will see that you
are going away and will detain you."

"No, but she will be anxious. I will not say good-bye to her: let us go.
On the way we will think up some excuse for my absence, and send her a
messenger."

"That would be very dangerous for her and for us. Leave it to me; it
means five minutes delay, but it can't be helped."

He went back to the princess and said to her in the marquis's presence:

"Carmelo is in hiding in our convent; his sentiments toward your
highness and Michel are all that can be desired. He desires to make his
peace with him before starting on a long journey necessitated by the
Ninfo affair and the suspicious and rigorous measures of the police
since it happened. He also has certain favors to ask at his brother's
hands. Permit us to go away together therefore, and if we are watched,
which is quite possible, I will keep Michel at the convent until he can
safely return. Rely upon the prudence of a man who is well used to
affairs of this sort. It may be that Michel will pass the night at the
convent, and even if he should stay longer do not be alarmed, and above
all things do not send for him; do not send us any message which might
be intercepted and lead to the discovery that we are giving shelter and
protection to the outlaw. I beg your highness to forgive me for being
unable to say anything further to reassure you. Time presses!"

Although greatly alarmed, Agatha concealed her emotion, kissed Michel,
and walked with them to the gate of the park; there she paused.

"You have no money with you," she said; "Carmelo may need some for his
journey. I will go and fetch some."

"Women think of everything," said Fra Angelo; "I had forgotten the most
essential thing of all."

Agatha returned with some gold and a blank draft bearing her signature,
which Michel could fill up as he chose for his brother's use. Magnani
had just arrived. He divined from the princess's agitation and the
leave-taking between her and Michel, accompanied by encouraging words
from the latter, that there was some real danger which they were
concealing from that loving mother.

"Should I be in your way if I accompanied you?" he asked the monk.

"On the contrary," was the reply, "you may be of the greatest service to
us. Come!"

Agatha thanked Magnani with one of those glances laden with maternal
love, which are more eloquent than any words.

The marquis would have joined them, but Michel objected.

"We are dreaming of imaginary dangers," he said with a laugh; "but if I
were in any danger, my mother would be also. Your place is with her, my
friend. I entrust to you what I hold dearest on earth! Is not this
rather a solemn leave-taking for a walk to Bel Passo by moonlight?"




L

A NOCTURNAL JOURNEY


When they were a hundred yards from the park, Michel, who was ready to
risk his own life, but not that of Mila's betrothed, in an affair in
which he had no concern and no duty to his conscience or his family to
fulfil, begged the young artisan to return to Catania. Fra Angelo
thought differently. Fanatical in his friendships as in his patriotism,
he looked upon Magnani as a providential ally. He was one stout and
fearless champion more, and their party was so small! Magnani alone was
worth three men; Heaven had sent him to their assistance, and they must
make the most of his zeal and his devotion to the good cause.

As they walked rapidly along they maintained a hot discussion. Michel
rebuked the monk for his pitiless proselytism under such circumstances;
the monk rebuked Michel for rejecting the means while seeking the end.
Magnani put an end to the dispute by his invincible determination.

"I understood perfectly well at the outset," he said, "that Michel was
engaging in some affair of more serious importance than he chose to
admit to his mother. I made up my mind at once. Some time ago I made
Princess Agatha a sacred promise: that I would never leave her son to
face alone any peril which I could share with him. I am keeping my
promise, and whether Michel is willing or not, I shall follow him
wherever he goes. I know of no other way to prevent me than to blow out
my brains here. Choose whether you will put up with my company or kill
me, Michel."

"All right! all right!" said the monk; "but stop talking, my sons. This
is a thickly settled spot, and we mustn't talk as we pass the houses.
Besides, we can't walk so fast when we are quarrelling. Ah! Magnani, you
are a man!"

Magnani marched to meet danger with cold and melancholy courage. He did
not feel perfectly happy in love; a craving for violent emotions drove
him forward at random toward some extreme goal which appeared to him
vaguely as an entire transformation of his present existence and a
definitive rupture with the hesitations and languor of his heart.

Michel was determined rather than calm. He knew that he was being led by
a fanatic to the succor of a man who was probably no less dangerous than
useful to the good cause. He knew that he himself was staking a happier
and broader existence than that of his companions; but he did not
hesitate to play a manly part under the circumstances. The Piccinino was
his brother, and although the sympathy he felt for him was blended with
suspicion and sadness, he understood his duty. Perhaps too he had become
enough of a _prince_ to be unable to endure the thought that his
father's son might die at the end of a rope, with a sentence of
degradation nailed to his gallows. Still, his heart was sore when he
thought of his mother's grief if he should fall in such a reckless
undertaking; but he resolutely closed his heart to all human weakness,
and walked like the wind, as if he had hoped to wipe out, by forgetting
it, the distance that he made haste to put between Agatha and himself.

The convent was not under suspicion or surveillance, as the Piccinino
was not there, and the police of the Val were well aware that he had
crossed the Garreta and gone into hiding in the interior of the island.
Fra Angelo had invented danger near at hand to prevent the princess from
suspecting the existence of distant but more real dangers. He led his
young companions into his cell and assisted them to disguise themselves
as monks. They divided the money, the sinews of war, as Fra Angelo said,
in order that no one of them might be impeded by the weight of all the
coin. They concealed beneath their frocks weapons, powder and ball.
Their disguise and their outfitting consumed some time; and Fra Angelo,
whose former experience of dangerous undertakings had taught him the
evils of precipitation, examined everything with great care and perfect
self-possession. In truth their freedom of action depended entirely upon
their external aspect. The Capuchin trimmed Magnani's beard, colored
Michel's eyebrows and hands, changed the tint of their cheeks and their
lips by processes learned in his former profession, and with pigments so
prepared as to withstand the action of rain, perspiration, and the
compulsory baths to which the police resort in vain attempts to identify
their prisoners.

So far as he himself was concerned, the Capuchin took no pains to
deceive the eye as to his identity. It mattered little to him whether he
was captured and hanged, provided that he had first saved his former
captain's son. And since, in order to succeed in their undertaking, it
was necessary to travel in the guise of peaceably disposed persons,
nothing could be better suited to the rôle he had assigned to himself
than his genuine features and costume.

When the two young men were all equipped, they gazed at each other in
amazement. They were hardly recognizable, and they realized how the
Piccinino, who was much more expert than Fra Angelo in the art of
disguise, had been able thus far to conceal his real identity throughout
his adventurous life.

And when they found themselves astride two tall mules, gaunt but
willing, of wretched aspect, but of unlimited strength and endurance,
they admired the monk's genius and complimented him upon it.

"I have not done all these things so rapidly without assistance," he
replied, modestly; "I have been energetically and skilfully seconded,
for we are not alone in our expedition. We shall meet pilgrims of divers
sorts on the road we are about to take. Salute most courteously, my
sons, all those persons who salute you; but be careful not to speak a
word to anybody until you have looked at me. If any unforeseen accident
should separate us, you will find other guides and other companions. The
countersign is: _Friends, isn't this the road to Tre-Castagne_? I need
not tell you that it is the road that leads in the opposite direction,
and that nobody but one of your confederates would ask you such an
absurd question. You will answer, however, as a matter of prudence, and
in a jesting tone: _All roads lead to Rome_. And you will not place
absolute confidence in your interlocutor until he has answered: _By the
grace of God the Father_. Don't forget; don't fall asleep on your mules;
and don't spare them. We have relays on the road; not a word except in
whispers to one another."

As soon as they were fairly on the mountains, they urged their mules
forward at a rapid pace, and rode several miles in a very short time. As
Fra Angelo had said, they met various persons with whom they exchanged
the sentences agreed upon. Then the Capuchin would ride up to them and
talk with them in undertones, and they would resume their journey in
company, sufficiently far apart not to seem to be travelling together,
but always within sight and call.

The weather was exceedingly mild and the night superbly bright when they
started up the mountain. The moon lighted up huge masses of rock and
romantic precipices; but as they ascended through that wild country the
cold made itself felt, and the mist veiled the splendor of the stars.
Magnani was lost in his thoughts, but the young prince abandoned himself
to a childlike delight in adventures, and, far from nourishing and
fondling any presentiment of evil, as his friend was doing, he rode
forward overflowing with confidence in his lucky star.

As for the monk, he abstained from thinking of anything whatsoever
unconnected with the enterprise he was directing. With watchful,
penetrating eye, his ear on the alert for the faintest sound, he also
watched closely every movement, every change of position on the part of
his companions. At the slightest sign of relaxation of their hold upon
the reins, at the slightest suspicious swaying of their hooded heads, he
would have rescued them from the danger of dozing and falling from their
mules.

After riding fifteen miles, they changed mounts at a sort of hermitage
which seemed to be deserted, but where they were received in the
darkness by pretended muleteers, of whom they inquired as to the road
leading to the famous village of _Tre-Castagne_, and who answered, as
they grasped their hands and held their stirrups, that _all roads led to
Rome_. Fra Angelo distributed money, powder and bullets, which he
carried in his mendicant's wallet, to all those persons whom he met and
who were provided with that eloquent countersign; and, when they
approached the end of their journey, Michel had counted a score or more
of men, muleteers and peddlers, monks and peasants, who belonged to
their party. There were even three in woman's dress,--young fellows
whose beards had not yet grown nor their voices changed. They were very
well made up, and played their parts to perfection. They were ready to
serve as messengers or scouts at need.

The Piccinino's situation and the circumstances of his capture were as
follows. The murder of Abbé Ninfo had been executed and proclaimed with
an insane audacity altogether contrary to the young chief's habitual
prudence. To kill a man, and to boast of it by an inscription left upon
the very spot where the crime was committed, instead of concealing his
body and removing every trace of the deed--a very simple matter in a
region like that of Ætna--was certainly a desperate performance, a sort
of challenge hurled at destiny in a moment of frantic excitement. But
Carmelo, wishing not to shut himself out forever from his cherished
retreat at Nicolosi, had left it in perfect order, in case of an
investigation which should result in domiciliary visits. He had hastily
stripped his luxurious boudoir and hidden all his treasures in an
excavation under the house, of which it was almost impossible to find
the entrance or to suspect the existence. And about sunrise he had shown
himself in the village of Nicolosi, perfectly placid and in excellent
spirits, thus laying a foundation for an _alibi_, if the police, taking
for true the declaration written on the base of the _Destatore's_ cross,
should conceive suspicions of him and make inquiries as to what he was
doing at that time. The murder of Abbé Ninfo had been committed at
least two hours earlier.

Having taken these precautions, Carmelo had ridden through the village,
making some purchases for a journey of several days, and informing his
acquaintances that he was going to look at some farming lands in the
interior of the island.

He had started for the Nebrodes mountains in the northern part of
Sicily, having determined to pass some days with certain brigands
affiliated to his own band, until the investigations and searching about
Catania had probably come to an end. He knew the methods of the police
of the province; they were zealous and fierce at first, then timid and
knavish, and, finally, tired and slothful.

But the affair at the _Destatore's_ cross had made a deeper impression
on the ruling powers than an ordinary murder. This had a political
bearing, and seemed to be related to the great sensation of the moment,
Agatha's declaration and her son's appearance on the world's stage.
Severe orders were sent out rapidly in all directions. Carmelo was not
safe in the mountains, especially as his acolyte, the false Piccinino,
had joined him, and thus drew upon him all the danger of pursuit.
Carmelo did not choose to abandon that savage, bloodthirsty man, who had
given him abundant proofs of boundless devotion and blind submission,
and who continued to play his part to the end with proud and unwearying
courage.

He determined, therefore, to arrange for his escape before providing for
his own safety. The false Piccinino, whose real name was Massari, and
who was called _Verbum Caro_ because he was a native of the village of
that name, was endowed with a brute courage that nothing could daunt,
but was as stupid as a buffalo in a frenzy. Carmelo went to the seashore
with him, and tried to find a boat to take him to Sardinia. But, despite
the precautions with which he surrounded that step, the owner of the
boat betrayed them as smugglers to the revenue officers on the coast.
Verbum Caro fought like a lion, and was half dead when he finally fell
into the hands of his enemies. Carmelo was slightly wounded, and both
were taken to the nearest fort, to be turned over to a squad of
_campieri_, in which were two men who recognized the false Piccinino
from having seen him during a skirmish at another part of the island.
They so testified before the magistrate at Cefalù, and there was great
rejoicing because the famous chief of the dreaded band was in custody.
The real Piccinino was supposed to be one of his confederates, although
Verbum Caro insisted that he had known him only three days, and that he
was a young fisherman who proposed going to Sardinia with him as he had
business there.

Carmelo replied to the questions that were asked him with a presence of
mind and a talent for deception which would have secured his release at
any other moment; but the country was intensely excited; so they decided
to send him to Catania with his dangerous companion, for further
proceedings, and they were placed in charge of the _campieri_, who
decided to take them to Catania by the road leading through the
mountains to the centre of the island, deeming it the safer way.

But they were attacked in the outskirts of Sperlinga by a few brigands
who had already learned of the arrest of the two Piccininos; but, just
as the prisoners were about to be set free, an unexpected reinforcement
came to the aid of the _campieri_ and put the brigands to flight. It was
during this action that the Piccinino was adroit enough to throw among
the assailants a paper wrapped around a stone, which he had in his hand
ready for the first opportunity. Malacarne, whom he had recognized among
his would-be rescuers, was an active, intelligent man, a former member
of his father's band and a loyal friend to Fra Angelo. He had picked up
the note and carried it to its address with valuable additional
information.

In the fear, well-founded as we have seen, of an attack in the Nebrodes
mountains and an attempted rescue of the Piccinino, the authorities at
Cefalù had tried to conceal the importance of this capture, and the
escort of the prisoners made no display when they set forth. But the
same authorities had despatched an express to Catania to ask that a
detachment of Swiss troops be sent to Sperlinga to meet the escort, and
to say that they would halt there and wait for them. The brigands of the
mountain, who were on the alert, had waylaid and killed the messenger;
and, having ascertained beyond question, by reading his despatches, that
the prisoner was their leader, they had tried, as we have seen, to
rescue him from the hands of his escort.

The ill success of this attempt did not discourage them. Carmelo was the
soul of their lives. His shrewd leadership, his activity, the spirit of
justice, now savage, now chivalrous in its manifestations, which
governed his decisions with respect to them, and the immense prestige
attached to his name and his person, made him no less sacred than
necessary to them. It was the unanimous opinion among them, and among a
great number of mountaineers, who, while they did not know him and were
not immediately under his orders, were very glad to exchange favors with
him and his troop, that when the Piccinino was dead, the bandit's
profession would become impossible, and that there would be no other
resource for the heroes of the mountain than to become beggars.

So Malacarne assembled a few of his comrades near Sperlinga, and
succeeded in sending word to the two Piccininos that they must represent
themselves as being very ill, in order to remain there as long as
possible. It was by no means difficult to act upon the suggestion, for
Verbum Caro was dangerously wounded, and in the desperate efforts he had
made to burst his bonds during the engagement on the mountain, he had
reopened his wound and lost so much blood that they had had to carry him
to Sperlinga. Moreover, the _campieri_ knew that it was of the utmost
importance to take him to Catania alive, so that they might try to
extort from him some information concerning Ninfo's murder and the
whereabouts of his band.

As soon as Malacarne had made his arrangements, he bade his comrades,
who were as yet only eight in number, to be ready for action, mounted
the murdered messenger's horse, after clipping him so as to make him
unrecognizable, and rode across the country in a straight line to Bel
Passo, notifying all those persons upon whom he could rely, to take arms
and await his return. Seconded by Fra Angelo, he passed six hours on
Ætna, collecting other brigands, and at last, on the second night after
the arrival of the prisoners at Sperlinga, a score or more of determined
men, trained to daring enterprises of this sort, encamped at the foot of
the cliff on which it stands.

Fra Angelo, the young Prince of Castro-Reale, and the faithful Magnani
also arrived, to direct the expedition, the first as leader, for he knew
the country generally and the particular locality better than anyone,
having once before carried the paltry stronghold by assault under the
_Destatore_, in better days; the other two as lieutenants, young
noblemen of the patriotic party, forced to conceal their identity, but
rich and powerful. So said Fra Angelo, who knew well that both poetry
and prose are essential to stimulate men who are fighting against the
laws.

When Fra Angelo and his friends left their mules, to plunge in among the
steep cliffs of Sperlinga, they were able to count their men, and found
that there were about twenty peasants posted here and there at some
little distance--prudent auxiliaries who would come to their assistance
as soon as the chances of war seemed to favor them; revengeful and
bloodthirsty men, who had suffered many and grievous wrongs which they
longed to avenge upon their enemies, and who knew how to do justice
speedily and pitilessly when there was not too great a risk to be run.

Nevertheless, a part of the band was beginning to show signs of
demoralization when the monk arrived. The lieutenant of the _campieri_,
who had charge of the prisoners, had sent to Castro-Giovanni during the
day to request reinforcements, which were likely to arrive with the
dawn. This officer was disturbed by the non-appearance of the Swiss,
whom he was awaiting with great impatience. The spirit manifested by the
surrounding population did not tend to allay his fears. Perhaps he had
detected some signs of activity among the brigands in the mountain, and
of their evident understanding with certain people in the village.
However that may be, he was afraid--which fact the monk looked upon as a
pledge of victory--and he issued orders for departure on the following
day, preferring, he said to see a miserable wretch like the Piccinino
die on the highroad, rather than expose brave troops to the risk of
being murdered in a fortress without gates or walls.

Perhaps the officer knew enough Latin to read, over the gateway of the
ancient Norman castle in which he was intrenched, the famous motto which
French tourists go thither to contemplate with love and gratitude:

_Quod Sicilis placuit, Sperlinga sola negavit_.[1] We know that
Sperlinga was the only place which refused to surrender the Angevins at
the time of the _Sicilian Vespers_. It is well enough for our
compatriots to take pride therein; but it is certain that Sperlinga
performed no act of patriotism; and that, if the officer of _campieri_
looked upon the then government as existing in compliance with the
popular desire of Sicily, he must have seen, in the _negavit_ of
Sperlinga, a constant threat which might well arouse a superstitious
terror in his mind.[2]

The reinforcements from Castro-Giovanni were expected at any moment. The
assailants would find themselves between two fires. The imaginations of
some pictured the arrival of the Swiss also, and the Swiss soldier is
the terror of the Sicilians. Hardened and implacable, those children of
Helvetia, whose mercenary service under despotic governments is the
shame of their fatherland, strike without distinction at everything they
meet, and the _campiere_ who hesitates to display less courage and
ferocity than they, is the first to fall under their bullets.

Thus there was fear on both sides; but Fra Angelo triumphed over the
hesitation of the brigands by a few words of rough eloquence and
unparalleled temerity. After vehemently rebuking those who talked of
waiting, he declared that he and his two _princes_ would go alone to
meet their death under the walls of the fort, so that it might be said
throughout all Sicily: "Two patricians and a monk alone tried to effect
the rescue of the Piccinino. The children of the mountain looked on and
did not stir. Tyranny triumphs, the people of Sicily have become
dastards!"

Malacarne seconded him, declaring that he too would go and be shot down.
"And then," he said, "you can hunt up a leader and do what you choose."
There was no further hesitation, and such men know no middle course
between discouragement and unbridled frenzy. Fra Angelo had no sooner
seen them start forward than he exclaimed: "The Piccinino is saved!"
Michel was amazed that he could place so much confidence in courage that
was so weak-kneed a moment before; but he soon found out that the
Capuchin knew them better than he did.


[Footnote 1: Sperlinga alone refused to do what the Sicilians wished.]

[Footnote 2: However ill-advised the hospitality accorded to the French
by the castle of Sperlinga may have been from the standpoint of the
welfare of the country, it was admirable in its persistence and
self-sacrificing spirit. Refugees and defenders died of hunger in the
fortress rather than surrender.]




LI

CATASTROPHE


The fortress of Sperlinga, formerly considered impregnable, was at this
time nothing more than a majestic ruin, incapable of being defended. The
town, or more properly the hamlet, below it, was inhabited by a few
wretched creatures wasted by fever and poverty. Fortress and village
were perched upon a cliff of grayish sandstone, and the upper works of
the fortress were hollowed out of the rock.

The besiegers climbed the cliff on the side farthest from the village.
It seemed inaccessible; but the brigands were so well used to assaults
of that sort that they were very soon under the walls of the fort. Half
of them, under Malacarne, climbed still higher, and posted themselves in
an abandoned bastion on the highest point of the mountain. This
crenelated bastion afforded a safe position from which to fire down
almost perpendicularly upon the castle. It was agreed that Fra Angelo
and his men should station themselves at the entrance to the fortress,
where there was only a huge, worm-eaten, disjointed gate, which it was
not considered necessary to destroy, as that operation might take
sufficient time to give the garrison an opportunity to organize an
effective resistance. Malacarne's party was to fire on the castle from
above, while Fra Angelo held himself in readiness to fall upon those who
should come out. Then he would pretend to retreat, and, while they
pursued him, Malacarne would come down, attack the enemy in the rear,
and place him between two fires.

The little garrison temporarily quartered in the castle consisted of
about thirty men, a larger number than the assailants anticipated, the
reinforcements from Castro-Giovanni having arrived secretly at nightfall
and climbed up the road, or rather the staircase, from the village,
unseen by the bandits who were busily occupied in making their
preparations and taking great pains to keep out of sight. That part of
the escort which had kept watch throughout the preceding night was
sleeping, wrapped in their cloaks, on the floors of the great dismantled
halls. The late arrivals had lighted an enormous fire of fir branches in
the courtyard, and were playing _mora_ to keep awake.

The prisoners occupied the great square tower: Verbum Caro, exhausted
and gasping for breath, stretched on a pile of rushes; the Piccinino,
gloomy but calm, sitting on a stone bench, much wider awake than his
keepers. He had heard a little bird whistling in the ravine, and had
recognized that designedly inaccurate melody as a signal from Malacarne.
He was patiently rubbing against a projecting stone the cord with which
his hands were bound.

The officer in command of the _campieri_ was seated on the only chair in
an adjoining room, with his elbows resting on the only table in the
castle, which he had obtained by requisitioning it in the village. He
was an energetic, surly young man, accustomed to keep his temper at the
boiling point by the constant use of wine and tobacco, having to fight
against a lingering remnant of love for his country and hatred of the
Swiss. He had not slept an hour since the Piccinino was placed in his
custody, so that he was literally falling under the assaults of
drowsiness. The lighted cigar which he held in his hand burned the ends
of his fingers from time to time. Then he would rouse himself with a
start, puff at his cigar, look out through a great crack in the wall in
front of him to see if there were any signs of dawn, and, feeling
acutely the sharpness of the air on that elevated spot, would wrap his
cloak about him with a shudder, cursing the false Piccinino, who was
breathing stertorously in the adjoining room, and in a moment would let
his head fall forward on the table once more.

A sentinel was on guard at each end of the castle, but, whether because
of fatigue or of the heedlessness that takes possession of the most
disturbed mind when a dangerous situation is nearing its end, they had
not detected the swift and silent approach of the brigands. A third
sentinel was on duty at the isolated bastion which Malacarne was about
to seize, and that circumstance came very near causing the failure of
the whole plan of attack.

As he was climbing through a breach, Malacarne saw the man sitting under
his feet, almost between his legs. He had not anticipated that obstacle,
and he had neither his dagger nor his pistol in his hand. An opportune
dagger thrust cuts a man's life short without giving him time to cry
out. The pistol shot is less certain, nor did Malacarne wish to fire
until all his men were posted so that they could pour a deadly volley
into the fort. Meanwhile the sentinel would surely give the alarm, even
if the bandit should retreat, for his footing was precarious, and the
stones, uncemented, were beginning to crumble all about him. _The
campiere_ was not asleep. He was paralyzed with cold, and had pulled his
cloak over his head as a protection against the piercing wind which
stiffened his limbs.

But while this precaution deadened the sound of the wind and made it
easier for him to hear sounds in the distance, it prevented him from
hearing any noise at his side, and the hood which he had pulled over his
eyes had made him blind for the last quarter of an hour. However, he was
a brave soldier, incapable of sleeping at his post. But there is nothing
more difficult than to keep a sharp lookout. An active and alert mind is
necessary for that, and the _campiere's_ mind was wholly devoid of
thought. He fancied that he was watching because he was not moving. And
yet the mere falling of a pebble at his feet would have caused him to
fire his gun. He had his finger on the trigger.

Inspired by his desperate situation, Malacarne grasped the unfortunate
sentinel's throat in his iron hands, rolled down into the bastion with
him, and held him thus, unable to utter a sound, until one of his
comrades stabbed him in his arms.

In another moment they were crouching behind the battlements, protected
from the fire of the enemy. The fire blazing in the courtyard enabled
them to see the _campieri_ unsuspectingly intent on their game, and they
took plenty of time to aim. The weapons were hurriedly reloaded while
the besieged were seeking theirs; but before they had thought of using
them--before they had discovered from what direction they were
attacked--a second volley was poured in upon them, and several were
severely wounded. Two did not rise again; a third fell head-foremost
into the fire, and was burned to death for lack of help.

From the tower the officer had seen where the attack had come from. He
rushed out, roaring with rage. He did not arrive in time to prevent his
men from wasting a volley on the wall.

"Stupid dolts!" he cried, "you waste your ammunition firing at random!
You have lost your wits! Leave the fort! Leave the fort! We must fight
outside!"

But he discovered that he himself had lost his wits, for he had left his
sword on the table on which he had fallen asleep. A flight of six steps
separated him from the room. He ascended them at a single leap, for he
knew that in a moment he would have to fight with cold steel.

But, during the fusillade, the Piccinino had succeeded in breaking his
bonds, and had taken advantage of the tumult to break down the
ill-secured door of his prison. He had pounced on the lieutenant's sword
and extinguished the pitch-pine torch that was stuck in a crack of the
table. When the officer returned, and was feeling about in the darkness
for his weapon, he received a terrific cut across the face, and fell
backward. Carmelo rushed upon him and finished him. Then he cut Verbum
Caro's bonds and handed him the lieutenant's sword, saying: "Do what you
can!"

The false Piccinino forgot in an instant his weakness and his suffering.
He dragged himself on his knees to the door, and there he succeeded in
rising and standing on his feet. But the real Piccinino, seeing that he
could not walk except by clinging to the walls, threw the officer's
cloak over him, put the military cap on his head, and told him to go out
at his leisure. Thereupon he himself went down into the deserted
courtyard, took the cloak from one of the _campieri_ who had been
killed, disguised himself as best he could, and, always faithful to his
comrade, took him by the arm and led him toward the gateway of the fort.

Everybody had gone out except the two men who had been left behind to
prevent the prisoners from escaping in the confusion, and who were
returning to guard the tower. The fire in the courtyard was dying out,
and gave only a feeble light.

"The lieutenant is wounded!" cried one of them, as he saw Verbum Caro
leaning on Carmelo, who was himself disguised.

Verbum Caro did not reply, but motioned to them to go on and guard the
tower. Then he went out as rapidly as he could, with his chief, whom he
implored to fly without him, but who refused to abandon him under any
consideration.

If this was generous conduct on the Piccinino's part, it was no less
judicious; for, by giving his men such proofs of affection, he made sure
of their loyalty forever. The false Piccinino might have been recaptured
the next moment; but if he had been, no amount of torture could have
made him admit that his companion was the real Piccinino.

They were already fighting on the narrow platform in front of the
castle, and the brigands commanded by Fra Angelo pretended to give way.
But the _campieri_, deprived of their leader, did not act together or in
good order. When Malacarne's detachment, rushing down from the bastion
like a thunderbolt, took possession of the gateway and showed them that
retreat was impossible, they felt that they were lost, and halted as if
dazed by terror. At that moment Fra Angelo, Michel, Magnani and their
men turned upon them and pressed them so close that their plight seemed
desperate indeed. Thereupon the _campieri_, knowing that the brigands
gave no quarter, fought with the frenzy of despair. Crowded between two
walls, they had the advantage of position over the brigands, who were
obliged to avoid the precipice behind them. Moreover, Malacarne's band
had been struck with dismay.

As the two Piccininos crossed the drawbridge, the brigands, deceived by
their disguise, had fired on them. Verbum Caro was not touched, but
Carmelo, struck by a bullet in the shoulder, had fallen. Malacarne had
rushed at him to finish him, but, on recognizing his chief, had fairly
roared with grief, and his men, crowding about him, no longer thought of
fighting.

For a few moments Fra Angelo and Michel, who were fighting in the front
rank, hand-to-hand with the _campieri_, were in grave danger. Magnani
was even farther to the front; he tried to turn aside all the blows
aimed at Michel, for they had no time to reload their weapons and were
fighting with swords and knives, and the noble-hearted Magnani sought to
make his body a rampart to protect Agatha's son.

Suddenly Michel, who was constantly pushing him aside and begging him to
think of his own safety, missed him from his side. Michel thereupon
attacked the enemy fiercely. The first horror of bloodshed having passed
away, he was urged onward by a strange and terrifying nervous
excitement. He was not wounded. Fra Angelo, who had a superstitious
faith in the grandeur of the young prince's destiny, had prophesied that
he would not be. But if he had been wounded twenty times over, he would
not have been conscious of it, his vital forces were so concentrated in
his brain. He was, as it were, intoxicated by danger, and excited to
frenzy by the battle. It was a ghastly but intense pleasure; the blood
of Castro-Reale awoke and began to boil fiercely in the veins of the
lion's whelp. When the victory was won, and they were able to join
forces with Malacarne, walking over dead bodies, it seemed to Michel
that the contest had been too short and too easily decided. And yet it
had been so desperate that almost every man among the victors was more
or less severely wounded. The _campieri_ had sold their lives dearly,
and if Malacarne had not recovered his energy when he saw that the
Piccinino was reviving and was able to fight, Fra Angelo's band would
have been forced back into the yawning ravine behind them.

The dull gray dawn was beginning to whiten the misty peaks on the
horizon when the assailants entered the conquered fortress. They had to
pass through it in order to retire into the mountains unseen by the
inhabitants of the village, who had left their horses and were timidly
climbing their steep rocky street to ascertain the result of the
engagement. Their anxious eyes could hardly distinguish the moving mass
of the combatants, lighted only by the flashing of their fire-arms.
While they were fighting hand-to-hand the pale-faced citizens of
Sperlinga stood frozen with terror, listening to the shouts and
imprecations of that incomprehensible struggle. They had no inclination
to assist the garrison, and most of them longed for the success of the
brigands. But the dread of reprisals restrained them from going to their
aid. At daybreak they could be seen, almost naked, standing in groups
here and there like trembling ghosts, manifesting an ill-defined purpose
to go to the assistance of the victors.

Fra Angelo and the Piccinino had no idea of waiting for them. They
rushed hurriedly into the fortress, each brigand dragging a body to give
it the _coup de grace_. They collected their wounded, and disfigured
those of their own number who were dead. But this ghastly scene, which
acted upon Verbum Caro like a tonic, disgusted the Piccinino beyond
measure. He instantly ordered his men to disperse, and to return to
their homes or places of refuge as speedily as possible. Then he took
Fra Angelo's arm, and entrusting Verbum Caro to the care of Malacarne
and his party, tried to induce the monk to fly with him.

But Fra Angelo was in a terrible state of anxiety concerning Michel and
Magnani, and went about from one to another, without mentioning any
names, asking for the two young monks who had accompanied him. He was
not willing to leave the place until he had found them, and his
desperate persistence threatened to expose him to grave danger.

At last the Piccinino spied two frocks at the bottom of the ravine.

"There are your companions," he said to the monk, leading him in that
direction. "They have gone ahead; and I can well imagine that they fled
from the sickening spectacle of our victory. But their delicacy doesn't
interfere with their being gallant fellows. Who are they, pray? I saw
them fighting like lions. They wear the dress of your order; but I
cannot understand how two such heroes can have been living in your
convent and I not know them."

Fra Angelo did not reply; with his bloodshot eyes he was trying to make
out the two monks. He recognized the frocks he had given Michel and
Magnani, but he could not understand their inaction, and the
indifference with which they held themselves aloof from the others. One
of them seemed to be seated, the other kneeling by his side. Fra Angelo
hurried down into the ravine so eagerly and recklessly that again and
again he nearly fell over the precipice.

The Piccinino, who was severely wounded, but strong of will and stoical
in his suffering, followed him, careless of his own safety, and they
soon reached the foot of the precipice, a spot shut in on all sides, and
terribly solitary, with a mountain torrent flowing at their feet. As
they had been compelled to make a detour about several steep cliffs,
they had lost sight of the two monks, and the darkness that still
prevailed in the depths of the gorge made it difficult for them to find
their way.

They dared not call; but at last they discovered the men they were
seeking. One was sitting on the ground, supported by the arms of the
other. Fra Angelo rushed forward and pushed back the hood that first met
his hand. He saw Magnani's handsome face, darkened by the shadow of
death; his blood was pouring out upon the ground; Michel was drenched
with it and felt that his strength was giving way, although he had no
other wound than that caused by his intense and intolerable sorrow at
his inability to help his friend, and at the feeling that he was dying
in his arms.

Fra Angelo tried to assist the noble-hearted artisan, but Magnani gently
put away the hand with which he would have touched his wound.

"Let me die in peace, padre," he said, in a voice so faint that the monk
was obliged to put his ear to the dying man's lips to hear what he said.
"I am happy that I am able to bid you good-bye. You will tell Michel's
mother and sister that I died defending him; but do not let Michel know
it! He will take care of my family, and you will console them. We won
the victory, did we not," he said to the Piccinino, glancing at him with
a lifeless eye and not recognizing him.

"O Mila!" exclaimed the Piccinino involuntarily, "you would have been a
brave man's wife!"

"Where are you, Michel? I cannot see you any more," said Magnani,
feeling for his friend with trembling hands. "We are safe here, aren't
we? at the gates of Catania, of course? You will soon embrace your
mother! Ah! yes, I hear the murmur of the naiad; the sound revives me;
the water flows into my wound--cold as ice, but very soothing."

"Live to see my mother and sister!" cried Michel. "Ah! you shall live,
we will never part!"

"Alas! I know what that smile means," said the Piccinino in an
undertone, examining Magnani's blue distorted lips; "do not let him talk
any more."

"But I am perfectly well!" exclaimed Magnani in a loud voice, putting
out his arms. "I do not feel ill at all. Let us go, my friends!"

He struggled to his feet with a convulsive movement, stood for an
instant swaying to and fro, then fell dead on the moist sand on the edge
of the stream.

Michel was utterly overwhelmed. Fra Angelo did not lose his presence of
mind, although from his breast, heaving with violent sobs, there issued
hoarse, heartrending groans. He lifted an enormous stone at the entrance
to one of the innumerable caves hollowed out of the sandstone long
before, to obtain material for building the fortress; he carefully
covered Magnani's body with the ample folds of the frock he wore, and,
having thus provided a temporary shroud, closed the cave once more with
the stone and left the body there.

Then he took Michel's arm, and walked with him and the Piccinino to a
more extensive excavation a hundred yards away, which was occupied as a
dwelling by a wretchedly destitute family. In the man who joined them
there a few moments later, Michel might have recognized one of the
peasants who were on friendly terms with the brigands, but Michel knew
nothing of what was going on, and recognized nobody.

The peasant assisted the monk to dress the Piccinino's wound, which was
deep and beginning to cause him much pain, so much that it required all
his strength of will to conceal it.

Fra Angelo was a better surgeon than most of his countrymen who held
diplomas. He performed a painful but rapid operation on the Piccinino,
and extracted the bullet. The patient did not utter a groan, and Michel
did not recover consciousness of his surroundings until he saw him turn
pale and grind his teeth.

"Are you going to die too, brother?" he said, taking his clenched hand.

"Would to God that I had died instead of your friend!" Carmelo replied,
in an outburst of fierce anger with himself. "I should no longer suffer,
and I should be mourned; whereas now I shall suffer all my life and
nobody will mourn for me!"

"Is this your gratitude for your brother's self-sacrificing devotion, my
friend?" said the monk, throwing the bullet on the ground.

"Brother," rejoined the Piccinino, putting Michel's hand to his lips,
"you did not do it from affection for me, I know; you did it for your
own honor. But you are revenged for my hatred; for you continue to hate
me, and I am doomed to love you!"

Two tears rolled down the brigand's pale cheeks. Were they a
manifestation of genuine emotion, or were they caused by the nervous
reaction that follows the violent strain of physical suffering?
Doubtless they were due in some measure to both causes.

The peasant suggested a strange remedy, which Fra Angelo accepted with
great eagerness: the application of a bituminous ooze which was found at
the bottom of a spring of brackish water heavily charged with sulphur.
The country people collect it and keep it in earthen jars to use in
making poultices; it is their panacea. Fra Angelo made a poultice of it
and placed it on the brigand's wound; then, having washed him and
covered him with some wretched clothes which they bought from the
peasant; having also washed off the blood with which Michel and himself
were covered, he gave his companions a few swallows of wine, placed
Carmelo on their host's mule, gave the man a round sum in gold, to prove
to him that there were advantages in serving the good cause, and left
him, having first made him swear that he would go the following night
and get Magnani's body, and bury it with as much respect as if it were
his own son's.

"My own son!" said the peasant in a hollow voice: "do you mean the one
the Swiss killed last year?"

This question gave Michel more confidence in the man than any promises
or oaths could have done. He looked at him for the first time, and
noticed an expression of extraordinary vigor and fanatical enthusiasm on
that wasted, earth-colored face. He was more than a brigand, he was a
wolf, a vulture, always ready to fall upon a bleeding quarry, to tear it
to pieces and glut his rage in its entrails. One could see that his
whole life would be too short to avenge his son's death. He did not
suggest to his guests that he should guide them in their flight. He was
in haste to have done with his duty to them, so that he could go up to
the castle to see if any _campiere_ were still breathing and to insult
him in his death agony.




LII

CONCLUSION


The three fugitives occupied twice the time in returning to Catania that
it had taken them to go to Sperlinga. The Piccinino could not travel
long without falling forward on his mule's neck, prostrated by fever.
Then they would halt in some cave or deserted ruin, and the monk was
obliged to give him wine to drink to keep up his strength, although he
realized that it increased the fever.

They had to follow steep and difficult roads, or rather to avoid every
sort of road, in order not to expose themselves to the risk of
inopportune encounters. Fra Angelo expected to find, halfway to Catania,
a poor family upon whom he could rely as upon himself, to shelter his
patient and nurse him; but he found only a deserted house, already half
in ruins. Poverty had driven the poor creatures from their home. They
could not pay the tax assessed on the house. Perhaps they were in
prison.

It was a serious disappointment to the monk and his companion. They had
purposely kept at a distance from the region overrun by the brigands,
because the absence of danger made the police less active in the
southern part of the island. But when they found the only place of
refuge upon which they could rely in that part of the mountains entirely
deserted, they were really alarmed. In vain did the Piccinino urge the
monk and Michel to leave him to his fate, declaring that, as soon as he
was alone, necessity would endow him with superhuman strength. They
refused, as the reader will imagine, and, having discussed all possible
expedients, they decided upon the safest and most certain of all,
although it seemed the boldest; it was to take Carmelo to the Palmarosa
palace and keep him in hiding there until he was in a condition to fly.
The princess would simply have to treat certain persons with the
faintest suggestion of deference to avert any possible suspicion of her
conduct; and in such an emergency, when Michel might be suspected of
having assisted in the rescue of the Piccinino, she would not hesitate
to deceive the court party as to her political sentiments.

This idea of the monk's would have been most repellent to Michel a few
days earlier; but each succeeding event made him more and more of a
Sicilian, by impressing upon him more strongly the necessity of cunning.
So he acquiesced, and they had nothing further to do except to smuggle
the wounded man into the palace unseen. That was the only important
point, for the seclusion in which Agatha lived, the small number and
blind devotion of her servants, the fidelity and prudence of her maid
Nunziata, who alone was allowed to enter certain rooms in the Casino, to
say nothing of a thousand other details of the princess's mysterious
existence, made that place of refuge as secure as could be desired.
Moreover, there was the Serra palace a few steps away, to which the
patient could be transported in case the Villa Palmarosa should become
untenable. It was decided that Michel should go ahead and steal into the
villa at nightfall; that he should warn his mother of the wounded man's
arrival, and assist her to make the necessary arrangements to receive
him and to admit him secretly a few hours later.

Agatha was in a state of anxiety impossible to describe when Nunziata
told her that some one was waiting for her in her oratory. She hastened
thither, and, catching sight of a monk's frock, nearly fainted, for she
thought that one of the brethren of Bel Passo had come to bring some
fatal news. But well disguised as Michel was, the mother's eye was not
deceived for long, and she embraced him passionately, bursting into
tears.

Michel said nothing of the dangers to which he had been exposed; she
would divine them soon enough when the news of the Piccinino's rescue
should spread through the country. He simply told her that he had been
to a wild, out-of-the-way spot in the mountains, where his brother lay
helpless and dying; that he had brought him to her to place him in her
care; and that his new hiding-place must be made ready for him.

In the middle of the night the wounded man arrived unhindered; but he
did not climb the stairs in the lava with the same haughty bearing as on
the last occasion. His strength was failing more and more. Fra Angelo
was obliged to carry him from the first stair to the last. He hardly
recognized Agatha, and for several days he hovered between life and
death.

Mila's anxiety was temporarily allayed when Michel told her that Magnani
had gone to Palermo to do him a service. But many days passed, and, as
Magnani did not return, his family was surprised and alarmed. Michel
pretended that he had had news. He had gone to Rome, still in his
service, and, later, he said that the important and secret business
which the Palmarosa family had entrusted to the young artisan required
him to go to Milan, Venice, Vienna--where you please. They kept him
travelling for several years, and, to allay the anxiety and grief of his
parents, read to them--for they did not know how to read--passages from
pretended letters, and gave them large sums of money which he was
supposed to send them.

The Magnani family grew rich, and marvelled at poor Antonio's good
fortune. They lived in sadness and hope. His old mother died, sorely
afflicted to have had no opportunity to embrace him, but bidding Michel
send him her blessing.

As for Mila, it would have been more difficult to deceive her, had not
the princess, in order to spare her a much greater sorrow, suggested a
catastrophe to which she could more readily become reconciled. She
hinted more and more definitely, and, finally, told her outright that
Magnani, torn between his former passion and his new love for her, had
feared that he could not make her happy, and so had gone away, resolved
not to return until he was completely cured of the past.

Mila looked upon this as a noble and honorable proceeding; but she was
piqued to find that she had not been able, unaided, to efface the memory
of so persistent a passion. She strove to cure herself, for she was told
that her lover's cure was not certain, and her unbounded pride came to
her aid. Magnani's prolonged absence made her stronger and braver day by
day. When he was supposed to have gone to Rome, she was told that he
could not triumph over the old affection, and that he renounced the new.
Mila did not weep; she prayed, without a shade of bitterness, for the
happiness of an ingrate, and gradually recovered her former serenity.

Michel suffered terribly, of course, when, as occasionally happened, he
heard her slighting references to the absent one, who deserved to be
enshrined forever in her memory. But he sacrificed everything to the
peace of mind of his adopted sister. He went secretly, with Fra Angelo,
to see his friend's grave. The peasant who had buried him conducted them
to the cemetery of a convent near by. Worthy monks, patriots like most
of the monks in Sicily, had borne the body thither by night, and had
inscribed these words in Latin on a stone which served as his monument,
among the white roses and flowering broom:

     _Here reposes an unknown martyr._

The Piccinino's convalescence was longer than they had anticipated. The
wound healed quickly enough; but a nervous fever of some gravity
detained him three months in Agatha's boudoir, which was transformed
into his bedroom, and which was guarded with religious care.

A moral revolution was taking place in that headstrong and distrustful
young man. Michel's and the princess's solicitude, the extreme delicacy
of their consoling words, the innumerable joys of kindly treatment,
which he had lost with his mother and had never hoped to find again in
other hearts, gradually made an impression upon the pride and
indifference in which he had encased himself, as in a coat of mail. He
had always felt an ardent craving to be loved, although he was not
himself capable of being moved so powerfully and persistently by
affection as by hatred. At first he was, as it were, wounded and
humiliated by being compelled to be grateful. But it happened that
Agatha's heart, which had wrought a miracle upon Michel, did the same
for Carmelo. Agatha, although outwardly cold and fastidious in her
feelings, had such a vast and generous heart that she always ended by
loving those whom she pitied. There were many times still when the
patient's cold-blooded ideas horrified her; but pity gained the upper
hand when she realized how unhappy he was made by that determination to
harden his heart against everything. In his moments of physical
suffering and of nervous excitement, the Piccinino, after vaunting and
demonstrating his unerring keenness of vision in the matter of human
affections, deplored that unhappy faculty with a bitterness which made a
profound impression upon Agatha.

One evening, when she was talking about him with Michel, and he
confessed that he had no sympathetic feeling for his brother, she said
to him:

"Duty impels you to care for him, to incur danger for him, to overwhelm
him with favors and consideration. Very good; one must love one's duty,
and this brother of yours is a terrible trial. Duty would be easier if
you could love him. Try, Michel; perhaps, if you succeed, that warlike
heart of his will soften too, for he has the keen faculties of a sibyl.
It may be that he feels that you do not love him, and so he continues
cold to you. The instant that you have a feeling of sincere affection
for him, even though you do not manifest it, he will divine it and
perhaps will love you in his turn. I will try to set you the example. I
will strive to persuade myself that he is my son--a very different son
from you, Michel--and that his faults do not prevent my loving him."

Agatha kept her word, and Michel tried to second her. The Piccinino was
conscious of a genuine interest in his mental suffering amid all the
tender care bestowed upon his physical ills; he softened little by
little, and one day put Agatha's hand to his lips for the first time,
saying to her:

"You are good, like my mother. Oh! why am I not your son? Then I would
love Michel, because the same womb would have borne us both. Men are
really brothers only through the mother. She alone can make us
understand what is called the voice of blood, the cry of nature."

Another day he said to Michel: "I do not love you, because you are my
father's son. A man who mingled his pure blood with that of so many
women of diverse ranks and natures, must have had an unstable,
complicated character, lacking unity; so that his sons are as different
from one another as day is from night. If I should ever love you, whom I
already esteem and admire, it will be because you have a mother whom I
love, and who, I sometimes persuade myself, is my mother too."

When the Piccinino was in condition to resume his adventurous life,
which he had regretted so bitterly during the languorous days of his
illness, he was suddenly appalled at the idea of putting an end to an
existence which had become so sweet to him. He tried to assume a
careless air, and refused the offers of a happier lot which Agatha and
Michel made him; but it was evident that he was consumed by dismay and
regret.

"My dear boy," said the marquis, "you should accept the means of
increasing the scope and effectiveness of the mission to which you have
devoted yourself. It has never occurred to us to introduce you in a
puerile and cowardly way into the society which you despise and for
which you are not adapted. But, without submitting to any constraint,
without changing in any way your independent principles, you can make a
veritable alliance, over the heads of established laws, with veritable
humanity. Hitherto you have gone astray because you have forced yourself
to hate your fellowmen. It is their false and mischievous institutions
against which you protest. In the bottom of your heart, you love your
fellows, for you suffer by reason of their aversion and your own
isolation. So change your notion of your functions as _justicier
d'aventure_. Hitherto your aversion has usurped that title, for you have
used it only for your personal vengeance and for the gratification of
your instincts. What you have lacked for playing a nobler part and
serving our country more effectively is a larger stage and resources
proportioned to your ambition. Your brother offers you these resources;
he is ready to share his income with you; and such a division will make
you more powerful for your chosen work, without binding you to society
in any way. You could not, to be sure, become a noble and a landed
proprietor without entering into engagements to be sanctioned by law;
but, by accepting secretly, from brotherly affection, the strength which
you must have, you will remain a stranger to the world we live in, while
you will become capable of working to correct its vices. You will be
able to leave this unhappy island, where your efforts are too cramped to
have their due effect. You can seek elsewhere companions and neophytes,
enter into relations with the enemies of the public misery, work for the
cause of slaves everywhere, study the means of putting an end to
slavery, and return to us with knowledge and reinforcements which will
accomplish more in one year than expeditions against wretched _campieri_
would do in your whole life. Your faculties place you far above the
trade of brigand. Your penetration, your prudence, your varied and
extensive knowledge--everything even to the beauty of your face and the
charm of your speech--stamps you as a typical man of action, prudent as
well as daring, adroit as well as fearless. Yes, you are a born
conspirator. The hazard of birth started you upon that path, and your
character fits you to cut a most brilliant figure therein. But there are
great conspiracies which, even when they prove abortive in one part of
the world, forward the cause of universal liberty: and there are paltry
ones which come to an end on a scaffold, with the unknown hero who
organizes them. If you fall to-morrow in an ambuscade, your band is
scattered, and national independence breathes its last in your breast.
But conspire in the bright sunlight of humanity, instead of lurking in
the shadow of our precipices, and some day you may be the liberator of
our brothers instead of the terror of our old women."

These words were at once harsh and flattering to the Piccinino's
sensitive self-love. The criticism of his past life cut him to the
quick, but the favorable judgment concerning his capacity for usefulness
in the future healed the wound. He blushed, turned pale, reflected and
understood. He was too intelligent to contend against the truth. Agatha
and Michel affectionately took his hands, and begged him on their knees
to accept half of a fortune the whole of which they owed to him. Tears
of pride, hope, joy, and perhaps of gratitude as well, started from his
glistening eyes, and he accepted.

We must not forget to say that another miracle had taken place, unknown
to all, in that strange man's heart. Love, true love, had vanquished
him. Mila had been his nurse, and Mila had chained the tiger. She was
proud of it, with good reason, and she was naturally very proud. The
love of Captain Piccinino relieved her in her own eyes from the blemish
upon her pride due to Magnani's desertion. She was brave too. She felt
that she was born for a more difficult and more brilliant destiny than
spinning silk. Her heroic and poetic instincts were exceedingly well
adapted to a life full of danger and excitement. Carmelo, who had
expressed his regret at their first interview that she was not a boy,
whom, like Lara, he could take for his page, changed his mind, saying to
himself that the beauty of a woman and the brave heart of a heroine
added immensely to the charm of the young comrade of whom he had
dreamed.

He did not obtain Mila at once, however. She voluntarily made herself
the pledge and reward of his docility in following the advice of the
princess and the marquis. I fancy that the day for the redemption of the
pledge will soon come, if it has not come already.--But here ends the
novel, which might last much longer, if I chose; for I persist in saying
that no novel can end.




THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS




INTRODUCTION


Novels are always works of the fancy to some extent, and some of the
fanciful conceits of the imagination are like clouds that pass over our
heads. Whence come the clouds, and whither do they go?

Walking through the forest of Fontainebleau one day, with my son, I
dreamed about something very different from this book, which I wrote
that same evening in a tavern, and forgot the next morning, to think
only of flowers and butterflies. I could describe minutely all our walks
and all our amusements, but it is impossible for me to say why my mind
flitted to Venice that evening. I might look about for a good reason,
but it is more honest to confess that I remember nothing about it. It
was some fifteen or sixteen years ago.

                             GEORGE SAND

Nohant, August 23, 1853




_To SIGNORA CARLOTTA MARLIANI_

CONSULESSA DI SPAGNA


The sailors of the Adriatic do not launch a new vessel until it is
embellished with the image of the Virgin. May your name, written upon
this page, O my dear and lovely friend, be like the effigy of the divine
patron saint, which protects a fragile bark abandoned to the capricious
waves.

                             GEORGE SAND




FIRST PART


At the time of this story, Signor Lelio was no longer in the first bloom
of youth; whether because his lungs, by dint of performing their duty
with generous zeal, had developed in such a way as to distend the
muscles of his chest, or because of the great care with which singers
look after the preservation of the organ of melody, his body, which he
jocosely called the _casket_ of his voice, had acquired a reasonable
degree of embonpoint. His leg, however, had retained all the elegance of
its shape, and the habitual grace of all his movements made him still
what the ladies, under the empire, called a _beau cavalier_.

But if Lelio was still able to fill the post of _leading man_ on the
boards of La Fenice and La Scala, without offending good taste or the
probabilities; if his still beautiful voice and his great talent
maintained him in the first rank of Italian artists; if his abundant
locks, of a beautiful pearl-gray, and his great black eye, still full of
fire, continued to attract the glances of the gentler sex, in salons as
well as upon the stage, it is none the less true that Lelio was a
prudent man, most reserved and grave on occasion. A fact that will seem
strange to us is that, with all the charms which heaven had bestowed
upon him, with the brilliant triumphs of his honorable career, he was
not and had never been a libertine. He had, it was said, inspired great
passions; but whether because he had never shared them, or because he
had buried his romantic experiences in the oblivion of a generous
conscience, no one could say what the result had been of any of those
mysterious episodes in his life. The fact was that he had never
compromised any woman. The wealthiest and most illustrious houses of
Italy and Germany welcomed him cordially; he had never introduced
scandal or discord into any one of them. Everywhere he enjoyed the
reputation of a loyal, good-hearted man, whose virtue was beyond
reproach.

To us artists, too, his friends and companions, he was the best and most
lovable of men. But that serene cheerfulness, that kindly charm which
characterized him in his intercourse with society, did not altogether
conceal from us a background of melancholy and the existence of a secret
sorrow of long standing. One evening, after supper, as we were smoking
under our fragrant arbor at Sainte-Marguerite, Abbé Panorio talked to
us of himself, and described the poetic impulses and heroic combats of
his own heart with a touching candor worthy of all respect. Lelio, led
on by his example and infected by the generally effusive spirit of the
party, pressed also in some degree by the abbé's questions and Beppa's
glances, confessed to us at last that his art was not the only noble
passion he had known.

"_Ed io anchè_!" he exclaimed, with a sigh; "I too have loved, and
fought, and triumphed!"

"Had you taken a vow of chastity, pray, as he had?" queried Beppa, with
a smile, touching the abbé's arm with the end of her black fan.

"I never took any vow," replied Lelio; "but I have always been
irresistibly guided by a natural feeling of justice and truth. I have
never understood how one could be truly happy for a single day while
compromising another person's future. I will tell you, if you please,
the story of two periods of my life in which love played the leading
rôle, and you will understand that it cost me a little something to be,
I do not say a hero, but a man."

"That is a very solemn beginning," said Beppa, "and I fear that your
story will resemble a French sonata! You require a musical introduction,
so wait a moment! Does this key suit you?"

As she spoke she struck a chord or two on her lute, and played the first
measures of an _andante maestoso_ by Dusseck.

"That is not the thing," said Lelio, stifling the notes of the lute with
Beppa's fan. "Play me rather one of those German waltzes in which Joy
and Sorrow, in a voluptuous embrace, seem to turn slowly round and
round, and to display in turn a pale tear-stained face and a radiant
brow crowned with flowers."

"Very good!" said Beppa. "Meanwhile Cupid plays the kit, and marks time
falsely, exactly like a master of the ballet; Joy impatiently stamps her
foot to incite the torpid musician who restrains her impetuosity;
Sorrow, utterly exhausted, turns her moist eyes upon the pitiless
fiddler to urge him to slacken that incessant whirling about, and the
audience, uncertain whether to laugh or cry, concludes to go to sleep."

And Beppa began the _ritornello_ of a sentimental waltz, playing the
measures fast and slow alternately, making the expression of her
charming face, now glistening with joy, now doleful beyond words,
conform to that ironical mode of execution, and putting forth in that
musical mockery all the energy of her artistic patriotism.

"You are a narrow-minded creature!" said Lelio, passing his fingers over
the strings, whose vibration died away in a shrill, ear-piercing wail.

"No German organ!" cried the fair Venetian, laughing heartily and
abandoning the instrument to him.

"The artist's fatherland," said Lelio, "is the whole world, the great
_Bohemia_, as we say. _Per Dio_! make war if you please on Austrian
despotism, but let us respect the German waltz! Weber's waltzes, O my
friends! Beethoven's waltzes and Schubert's! Oh! listen, listen to this
poem, this drama, this scene of despair, of passion and delirious joy!"

As he spoke, the artist touched the chords of the lute, and began to
sing with all the force of his voice and soul Beethoven's sublime
_Desire_; then, abruptly breaking off and throwing the still vibrating
instrument on the grass, he said:

"No song ever stirred my heart like that one. We may as well confess
that our Italian music appeals only to the senses or to the over-heated
imagination; that music speaks to the heart, to the most profound and
most exquisite sentiments. I was once like you, Beppa. I resisted the
power of German genius; for a long time I closed my bodily ears and the
ears of my intelligence to these Northern melodies, which I neither
could nor would understand. But the time has come when divine
inspiration is no longer called upon to halt on the frontiers of states
by reason of the color of its uniform or the pattern of its standards.
There are in the air I know not what angels or sylphs, invisible
messengers of progress, who bring us melody and poetic thoughts from all
points of the compass. Let us not bury ourselves under our own ruins;
but let our genius spread its wings and open its arms to espouse all the
contemporaneous geniuses beyond the Alps."

"Listen to him! how he raves!" cried Beppa, wiping her lute which was
already wet with dew; "and I took him for a reasonable man!"

"For a cold, perhaps a selfish man, eh, Beppa?" rejoined the artist with
a melancholy air, as he sat down. "Well, I myself have at times believed
that I was such a man; for I have done some reasonable things, and I
have made some sacrifices to the demands of society. But when in the
evening the bands of the Austrian regiments wake the echoes of our great
squares and our placid canals, with airs from _Der Freischutz_ and
fragments of Beethoven's symphonies, then I find that I have tears in
abundance, and that my sacrifices have been worth but little. A new
sense seems to awake within me: the sadness of regret and a longing for
reverie, elements which seldom enter into our southern character, find
their way into my system through every pore, and I see clearly enough
that our music is incomplete, and that the art which I serve is
insufficient to express the impulses of my heart; that is why I am, as
you see, disgusted with the stage, surfeited with the excitement of
triumph, and in nowise desirous to win fresh applause by the old
methods; I would like to plunge into a life full of new emotions, and
find in the lyric drama an image of the drama of my whole life; but in
that case I should perhaps become as gloomy and despondent as a
Hamburger, and you would laugh at me without pity, Beppa! That must not
be. Let us drink, my good friends! _viva_ merry Italy and Venice the
fair!"

He put his glass to his lips, then absent-mindedly replaced it on the
table without swallowing a drop of wine. The abbé answered him with a
sigh, Beppa pressed his hand, and after a few moments of melancholy
silence, Lelio, being urged to fulfil his promise, began his narrative
in these words:

I am, as you know, the son of a fisherman of Chioggia. Almost all the
people along that shore have a well developed thorax and a powerful
voice. Their voices would be beautiful if they did not ruin them early
in life on their boats by trying to drown the roar of the sea and the
wind, and by drinking and smoking beyond all reason, to avoid drowsiness
and fatigue. We Chioggiotes are a fine race. It is said that a great
French painter, _Leopoldo Roberto_, is even now engaged in commemorating
our type of beauty in a picture which he allows nobody to see.

Although I am of a reasonably robust organization, as you see, my
father, on comparing me with my brothers, deemed me so frail and sickly
that he would not teach me either to cast the net or to sail a boat. He
simply showed me how to handle the oar with both hands, to row a small
boat, and sent me to Venice to earn my living as an assistant gondolier
for hire. It was a great sorrow and humiliation to me, thus to go into
bondage, to leave my father's house, the seashore and the honorable and
perilous trade of my ancestors. But I had a fine voice, I knew a goodly
number of fragments of Ariosto and Tasso. I had in me the making of an
excellent gondolier, and with time and patience, I might earn fifty
francs a month in the service of artists and strangers.

You do not know, Zorzi--at this point Lelio broke off his narrative and
turned to me--you have no idea how rapidly the taste and appreciation of
music and poetry develop among us common people. We had then and we
still have--although the custom threatens to die out--our troubadours
and poets, whom we call _cupids_; itinerant rhapsodists they are, and
they bring us from the central provinces inaccurate notions of the
mother-tongue, modified, I might more properly say enriched, by all the
genius of the dialects of the north and south. Men of the people, like
ourselves, endowed at once with memory and imaginative power, do not
hesitate at all to blend their curious improvisations with the creations
of the poets. Forever picking up and dropping as they pass some novel
turn of phrase, they embellish their speech and the text of their
authors with a most extraordinary confusion of idioms. We might say that
they preserve the instability of the language in the frontier provinces
and along the coast. In our ignorance we accept as decisive the
decisions of this itinerant academy; and you have often had occasion to
admire, sometimes the energy, sometimes the grotesqueness of the Italian
of our ports as rendered by the singers of the lagoons.

On a Sunday at noon, after high mass, in the public square of Chioggia,
or in the evening, in the wine-shops on the shore, these rhapsodists, by
their recitations interspersed with bits of singing and declamation,
hold spellbound large and enthusiastic audiences. Ordinarily the _cupid_
stands on a table, and from time to time plays a prelude or a finale of
his own composition on some sort of an instrument; one on the Calabrian
bagpipe, another on the Bergamo viol, others on the violin, flute or
guitar. The Chioggians, outwardly phlegmatic and cold, listen at first
with an impassive and almost contemptuous air, smoking vigorously; but
at the mighty lance-thrusts of Ariosto's heroes, at the death of the
paladins, at the adventures of damsels delivered and giants run through,
the audience is roused, takes fire, shouts and works itself into such a
frenzy that glasses and pipes are shivered, tables and chairs smashed,
and often the _cupid_, on the point of falling a victim to the
excitement aroused by himself, is forced to fly, while the enthusiasts
scatter through the fields, in pursuit of an imaginary ravisher,
shouting: "_Amazza! amazza_! kill the monster! kill the rascal! death to
the brigand! bravo, Astolphe! courage, my good fellow! forward! forward!
kill! kill!"--And so the Chioggians, drunk with tobacco smoke, wine and
poetry, rush aboard their boats and declaim to the waves and the winds
scattered fragments of those soul-stirring epics.

I was the least noisy and the most attentive of these enthusiasts. As I
was very regular in my attendance at the performances, and as I always
went away silent and thoughtful, my parents concluded that I was a
docile, simple-minded youth, desirous but incapable of learning the
noble arts. They considered my voice pleasant to hear; but, as my
tendency was toward purer accentuation and less frenzied declamation
than the _cupids_ and their imitators, they decreed that, as a singer no
less than as a boatman, I was _good for the city_--thus reversing your
French saying with respect to things of small value: _good for the
country_.

I promised to tell you of two episodes only, not the whole story of my
life. So I will not detail all the sufferings through which I passed
before attaining the age of fifteen years and a very moderate degree of
skill as a gondolier, having subsisted meanwhile on rice and water and
blows of the oar across my shoulders. The only pleasure I had was in
listening to the serenaders; and, when I had a moment's leisure, I would
run after the musicians and follow them all over the city. That pleasure
was so intense that, even if it did not prevent my sighing for my
father's house, it would have prevented me from returning to it.
However, my passion for music had reached the point of sympathetic
enjoyment only, not of a personal inclination; for my voice was just
changing and seemed to me so unpleasant when I ventured timidly to try
it, that I looked forward to no other future than that of beating the
water of the lagoons all my life, at the service of the first comer.

My master and I often occupied the _traghetto_, or gondola stand, on the
Grand Canal in front of the Aldini Palace, near the image of _Saint
Zandegola_--a patois contraction of San Giovanni Decollato. While we
were waiting for customers, my master always slept, and it was my duty
to watch and offer to passers-by the service of our oars. Those hours,
which were often most uncomfortable in the scorching days of summer,
were delightful to me under the walls of the Aldini palace, because of a
superb female voice, accompanied by a harp, which I could hear
distinctly. The window through which those divine sounds came forth was
directly over my head, and the protruding balcony served me as a
protection against the heat of the sun. That little nook was my Eden,
and I never pass the place without a thrill at my heart as I remember
those modest joys of my boyhood. A silk curtain shaded the square
balcony of white marble, darkened by centuries and covered with
convolvulus and climbing plants, carefully tended by the fair hostess of
that palatial abode. For she was fair; I had caught a glimpse of her
sometimes on the balcony, and I had heard other gondoliers say that she
was the most amiable and most courted woman in Venice. I was then hardly
sensible of her beauty, although in Venice men of the lower classes have
eyes for women of the highest rank, and _vice versa_, so I am told. For
my own part, I was all ears; and when she appeared my heart beat fast
with joy, because her presence led me to hope that I might soon hear her
sing.

I had also heard the gondoliers on that stand say that the instrument
with which she accompanied herself was a harp, but their descriptions
were so confused that it was impossible for me to form a clear idea of
that instrument. Its tones enchanted me, and I was consumed with the
longing to see it rather than her. I drew a fanciful picture of it in my
mind, for I had been told that it was of pure gold and larger than I
was, and my master Masino had seen one decorated with the bust of a
beautiful woman who seemed about to fly away, for she had wings. So I
saw the harp in my dreams, sometimes in the shape of a siren, sometimes
in that of a bird; sometimes I fancied that I saw a beautiful boat
decked out with flags pass by, its silk cordage giving forth melodious
sounds. Once I dreamed that I found a harp among the reeds and the
seaweed; but, just as I put them aside to seize it, I woke with a start
and could never remember its shape distinctly.


[Illustration: _NELLO ENTERS THE ALDINI PALACE._

_While my master was at the wineshop, I climbed
on the awning of my gondola, and thence to the sill
of a window on the lower floor; then I grasped the
balcony rail, drew myself up, climbed over it and
found myself behind the curtain._]


My curiosity on this subject took such complete possession of my young
brain that one day I yielded to a temptation I had conquered many times.
While my master was at the wineshop, I climbed on the awning of my
gondola, and thence to the sill of a window on the lower floor; then I
grasped the balcony rail, drew myself up, climbed over it and found
myself behind the curtain.

I had before me the interior of a sumptuously furnished cabinet; but the
only object that struck my eye was the harp, standing silent amid the
rest of the furniture, above which it towered proudly. The ray of
sunlight which shone into the cabinet when I drew the curtain partly
aside fell upon the gilding of the instrument, and made the beautiful
carved swan that surmounted it gleam brightly. I stood motionless with
admiration, never wearying of examining its slightest details, the
graceful frame, which reminded me of the prow of a gondola, the slender
chords, which seemed to be of spun gold, the gleaming copper, and the
satin-lined wooden case, whereon were painted birds, flowers, and
butterflies, richly colored and of an exquisite workmanship.

However, amid all those superb objects, the shape and uses of which were
quite unfamiliar to me, my mind was still beset by doubt. Was I not
mistaken? Was it really the harp that I was looking at? I determined to
make sure of it; I entered the cabinet and placed an awkward, trembling
hand on the strings. O rapture! they answered to my touch. Impelled by
indescribable excitement, I made all those resonant voices speak, at
random and in a sort of frenzy, and I do not believe that the most
skilful and most skilfully led orchestra has ever, since that day,
afforded me so much pleasure as the horrible confusion of sounds with
which I filled Signora Aldini's apartment.

But my joy was not of long duration. A servant who was at work in the
adjoining rooms ran to investigate the noise, and was so enraged to find
that a little clodhopper in rags had stolen in that way and was
abandoning himself to the love of art with such shocking disregard of
the proprieties, that he set about expelling me by beating me out with
his broom. I did not care to be dismissed in that way, and prudently
retired to the balcony, intending to go away as I had come. But before I
could climb over the balustrade, the servant pounced upon me, and I
found myself confronted by the alternative of being beaten or turning a
ridiculous somersault. I adopted a violent course, namely, to avoid the
blow by stooping quickly, grasping my adversary by the legs, and thus
throwing him forward with his breast against the balcony rail. Then to
lift him up and throw him into the canal was the affair of a moment.
That is the game that the children practise on one another at Chioggia.
But I had no time to reflect that the balcony was twenty feet above the
water, and that the poor devil of a footman might not know how to swim.

Luckily for him and for me he came to the surface at once and clung to
the boats at the _traghetto_. I was horribly frightened when I tossed
him over; but, as soon as I saw that he was safe, I began to think about
making my escape; for he was roaring with rage and would surely set all
the pack of servants in the Aldini Palace upon me. I passed through the
first door I saw, and, hurrying through the corridors, was about to go
downstairs, when I heard indistinct voices apparently coming toward me.
I ran upstairs again in hot haste, and took refuge under the eaves,
where I hid in a garret among old worm-eaten pictures and discarded
furniture.

I remained there two days and two nights, without a mouthful of food,
afraid to venture forth into the midst of my enemies. There were so many
people and so much going and coming in that house that one could not
take a step without meeting some one. Through the little round windows
in the garret I heard the remarks of the servants in the corridors of
the floor below. They talked about me almost continuously, indulged in a
thousand conjectures concerning my disappearance, and promised to give
me a sound thrashing if they succeeded in catching me. I also heard my
master on his gondola expressing surprise at my absence, and exulting at
the thought of my return, with no less kindly designs. I was brave and
strong; but I realized that I should be overborne by numbers. The
prospect of being beaten by my master troubled me but little; that was
one of the hazards of being an apprentice, which involved no disgrace.
But the idea of being chastised by servants was so horrifying to me that
I preferred to die of hunger. And my adventure came very near ending in
that way. At fifteen years one does not readily endure starvation diet.
An old lady's-maid, who came to the garret in search of a runaway
pigeon, found instead of her fugitive the poor _barcarolino_,
unconscious and almost dead, at the foot of an old canvas representing a
Saint Cecilia. The point that impressed me most profoundly in my
distress was that the saint had in her arms a harp of antique shape,
which I had abundance of leisure to contemplate amid the torments of
hunger, and the sight of which became so hateful to me that for a long
time thereafter I could not endure the sight or sound of that fatal
instrument.

The good creature brought me back to life, and interested Signora Aldini
in my fate. I speedily recovered from the effects of my fasting, and my
persecutor, appeased by that expiation, accepted my acknowledgment of my
wrong-doing, and my somewhat abrupt, but sincere expression of regret.
My father, on learning from my master that I had disappeared, had come
to Venice. He frowned when Signora Aldini expressed a purpose to take me
into her service. He was a rough-mannered man, but proud and
independent. In his view it was bad enough that my delicate constitution
condemned me to live in the city. I was of too good a family to be a
footman, and although gondoliers enjoyed important privileges in private
establishments, there was a well-marked distinction in rank between
public gondoliers and _gondolieri di casa_. These last were better
dressed, to be sure, and shared the comforts of patrician life, but they
were ranked as servants, and there was no such blemish in my family.
However, Signora Aldini was so gracious and kindly that my excellent
father, twisting his red cap about in his hands in his embarrassment,
and constantly pulling his pipe from his pocket, as a matter of habit,
could find nothing to reply to her affable words and her generous
promises. He determined to leave me free to choose, expecting that I
would refuse. But I, although I was utterly disgusted with the harp,
could think of nothing but music. Signora Aldini exerted a magnetic
influence over me which I cannot describe; it was a genuine passion, but
an artistic passion, absolutely platonic and philharmonic. In the small
room on the lower floor to which I had been taken--for I had several
attacks of fever as a result of my fasting--I could hear her singing,
and on those occasions she accompanied herself on the harpsichord, for
she played equally well on several instruments. Intoxicated by her
voice, I could not even understand my fathers scruples, and I accepted
without hesitation the post of second gondolier at the Aldini palace.

It was good form in those days to be _well equipped_ with gondoliers;
that is to say, that, as the gondola in Venice corresponds to the
carriage elsewhere, so gondoliers are at the same time luxuries and
necessaries, like horses. All the gondolas being practically alike,
according to the sumptuary law of the Republic, which required that they
should all be draped in black, persons of wealth could make themselves
noticeable among the multitude only by the figures and costumes of their
oarsmen. The fashionable patrician's gondola would be propelled, at the
stern, by a muscular man, of a masculine type of beauty; at the bow by a
negro dressed in some unusual style, or by a fair-haired native, a sort
of page or jockey, clad with taste and elegance, and placed there as an
ornament, like the figure-head of a ship.

I was perfectly adapted to that honorable post. I was a genuine child of
the lagoons, of fair complexion, ruddy-cheeked, very strong, with a
somewhat feminine figure, my head and feet and hands being remarkably
small, my chest broad and muscular, my arms and neck white and round and
sinewy. Add to this, amber-colored hair, fine and abundant, and
naturally curly; imagine a charming costume, half Figaro and half
Cherubino, legs generally bare, sky-blue trunk hose kept up by a scarlet
silk sash, and the breast covered simply by a shirt of embroidered
linen, whiter than snow; then you will have an idea of the poor actor in
embryo who was called in those days Nello, by contraction of his true
name, Daniele Gemello.

As it is the fate of small dogs to be petted by idiotic masters and
beaten by jealous servants, the ordinary lot of those in my position was
a mixture of unbounded tolerance on the part of the former, and of
brutal hatred on the part of the latter. Luckily for me, Providence cast
my lines in a blessed spot: Bianca Aldini was the incarnation of
kindness, indulgence, and charity. Widowed at twenty, she passed her
life helping the poor and comforting the afflicted. Where there were
tears to be wiped away, or alms to be bestowed, you would soon see her
hurrying thither in her gondola, with her little four-year-old daughter
in her lap; a fascinating miniature, so tiny, so pretty, and always so
daintily dressed that it seemed as if her mother's lovely hands alone,
in all the world, were soft and gentle and tapering enough to touch her
without crushing or bruising her. Signora Aldini herself was always
dressed with a taste and elegance which all the other ladies in Venice
tried in vain to equal; she was immensely rich, loved luxury, and spent
half of her income in the gratification of her artistic tastes and her
patrician habits. The other half went in almsgiving, in favors bestowed,
in benefactions of every sort. Although that was a sufficiently generous
_widow's mite_, as she called it, she artlessly accused herself of
lacking energy, of not doing all that she ought; and, being moved to
repentance rather than pride by her charity, she determined every day
that she would leave society and devote herself to her own salvation.
From this mixture of feminine weakness and Christian virtue you can see
that she had not a strong mind, and that her intelligence was no more
enlightened than the period and the social circle in which she lived
demanded. For all that, I do not know that a better or more delightful
woman ever lived. Other women, jealous of her beauty, her wealth and her
virtue, avenged themselves by declaring that she was narrow-minded and
ignorant. There was some truth in that charge, but Bianca was a most
lovable woman, none the less. She had a reserve stock of common sense
which prevented her from ever being ridiculous; and as for her lack of
education, the ingenuous modesty which resulted from it was an
additional charm. I have seen the most enlightened and most
serious-minded men gathered about her, never weary of conversing with
her.

Living thus at church and at the theatre, in the poor man's garret and
at sumptuous palaces, she imposed gratitude or cheerfulness upon one and
all. Her disposition was even and playful, and the character of her
beauty was enough to shed serenity all about her. She was of medium
height, as white as milk, and fresh as a flower; all was gentleness and
youth and kindliness. Just as one would have looked in vain for a sharp
angle in her own graceful person, so there was never the slightest
asperity in her temper, the slightest break in her goodness. As active
as the true spirit of devotion, and at the same time as inert as
Venetian indolence, she never passed more than two hours during the day
in the same place; but in her palace she was always lying on a sofa, and
out-of-doors she was always stretched out in her gondola. She said that
she was weak on her legs, and she never went up or down stairs without
being supported by two persons; in her own apartments she always leaned
on the arm of Salomé, a young Jewess, who waited upon her and acted as
her companion. People said that Signora Aldini was lame as a result of
the fall of a piece of furniture which her husband had pushed upon her
in a fit of anger, and which had broken her leg. Although for more than
two years she leaned on my arm as she went in and out of her palace, I
never discovered the exact truth of the matter, she took so much pains
and exerted so much skill to conceal her infirmity.

Despite her benevolence and sweetness of disposition, Bianca lacked
neither discrimination nor prudence in the choice of her associates; I
can safely say that I have never seen in any other place so many
excellent people together. If you detect in me any kindness of heart,
any praiseworthy pride, you must attribute it to my stay in that house.
It was impossible not to contract the habit there of thinking, speaking
and acting rightly; the servants were honest and hard-working, the
friends faithful and devoted; even the lovers--for I cannot deny that
there were lovers--were loyal and honorable. I had several masters while
I was there; of them all the signora was the least imperious. However,
they were all kind, or at all events just. Salomé, who was the
executive officer of the household, maintained order with some little
severity; she seldom smiled, and the great arch of her eyebrows was
rarely divided into two quarter circles over her long black eyes. But
she had much patience, a keen sense of equity, and a searching glance
which never misinterpreted sincerity. Mandola, the chief gondolier and
my immediate superior, was a Lombard giant, whose huge black whiskers
and muscular frame might have led one to take him for Polyphemus.
Nevertheless he was the mildest, calmest and most humane peasant who
ever came down from his mountains to the civilization of great cities.
Lastly, Count Lanfranchi, the handsomest man in the whole Republic, whom
we had to row about every evening in a closed gondola with Signora
Aldini, from ten o'clock to midnight, was the most gracious and amiable
nobleman whom I have ever met.

I never knew anything of the late Signor Aldini except a full-length
portrait, at the entrance to the gallery, in a superb frame, which stood
out a little from the wall, and seemed to command a long file of
ancestors, each darker and more venerable than the last, who receded, in
chronological order, into the obscure depths of that vast room. Torquato
Aldini was dressed in the latest fashion of his time, with a shirt-frill
of Flanders lace and a morning coat of apple-green cloth with bright red
frogs. He was beautifully frizzled and powdered. But, despite the
elegance of that pastoral undress, I could not look at him without
lowering my eyes; for there was upon his yellowish-brown face, in his
blazing black eye, on his sneering and disdainful mouth, in his
impassive attitude, and even in the dictatorial gesture of his long,
thin, diamond-laden hand, such an expression of overbearing arrogance
and inflexible harshness as I had never met with under the roof of that
palace. It was a beautiful portrait, and the portrait of a handsome
young man. He died at twenty-five, from wounds received in a duel with
a Foscari, who dared to say that he was of a better family. He had left
behind him a great reputation for courage and decision of character, but
it was whispered that he had made his wife very unhappy, and the
servants did not seem to regret him. He had kept them in such a state of
dread that they never passed that picture after dark, startlingly true
to life as it was, without uncovering as they would have done before
their former master in person.

His hardness of heart must have caused the signora much suffering, and
have disgusted her with the married state, for she refused to enter into
a new contract, and rejected the best _partis_ in the Republic. And yet
she evidently had a yearning for love, for she tolerated Count
Lanfranchi's assiduous attentions and seemed to deny him none of the
joys of marriage except the indissoluble oath. After a year, the count,
abandoning all hope of inspiring in her the necessary confidence for
such an engagement as he desired, sought fortune elsewhere, and
confessed to her that a certain wealthy heiress gave him more reason to
hope. The signora generously gave him his liberty at once. She seemed
depressed and ill for a few days, but at the end of a month the Prince
of Montalegri took the place in the gondola left vacant by the
ungrateful Lanfranchi, and for another year Mandola and I rowed that
amiable and seemingly fortunate couple about the lagoons.

I was very deeply attached to the signora. I could imagine nothing on
earth lovelier and better than she was. When she turned her sweet,
almost motherly glance upon me, when she smilingly said a pleasant word
to me--no others could come from her lovely lips--I was so proud and
happy that, to afford her a moment's pleasure, I would have thrown
myself under the _Bucentaur's_ sharp keel. When she gave me an order, I
flew; when she leaned on me, my heart beat fast for joy; when, to call
the Prince of Montalegri's attention to my fine hair, she gently placed
her snow-white hand on my head, I flushed with pride. And yet I was not
jealous as I plied my oar with the prince seated beside her. I replied
gayly to the kindly jests which the gentlemen of Venice love to exchange
with the gondoliers, to test their wit and gift of repartee; and,
despite the extraordinary liberty accorded to the challenged boatman
under such circumstances, I had never felt the slightest inclination to
make a bitter retort to the prince. He was an excellent young man; I was
grateful to him for consoling the signora for Signor Lanfranchi's
desertion. I had not that ridiculous humility which grovels before the
privileges of high rank. We hardly recognize those privileges in this
country, in the matter of love, and we recognized them even less in
those days. There was not so much difference in age between the signora
and myself that I might not fall in love with her. The fact is that I
should be sorely embarrassed to-day to give a name to my feeling for her
at that time. It was love, perhaps, but love as pure as my age; and
tranquil love, because I was neither ambitious nor covetous.

In addition to my youth, my zeal in her service, and my mild and
cheerful disposition, my love for music had pleased the signora
particularly: it delighted her to see my emotion at the sound of her
beautiful voice, and whenever she sang she sent for me. In her affable,
unceremonious way, she would bid me come into her cabinet and permit me
to sit beside Salomé. It seemed to me that she would have liked to see
that inflexible task-mistress lay aside a little of her habitual
austerity with me. But Salomé was to me a much more awe-inspiring
person than the signora, and I was never tempted to be bold when she was
present.

One day the signora asked me if I had any voice. I answered that I used
to have, but that I had lost it. She wished me to try it before her. I
objected, but she insisted upon it, and I had no choice but to yield. I
was in dire distress, and convinced that it would be impossible for me
to utter a sound, for it was fully a year since I had thought of such a
thing. I was then seventeen years old. My voice had come back, but I had
no suspicion of it. I put my head between my hands and tried to remember
a passage from the _Jerusalem_. By a mere chance I hit upon the passage
which describes Olinde's love for Sophronia, and ends with this line:
_Brama assai, poco spera, nulla chiede_. Thereupon, summoning courage,
and yelling with all my strength, as if I were in mid-ocean, I made the
thunderstruck hangings resound with that plaintive, sonorous lament, to
which we sing on the lagoons of the exploits of Roland and the loves of
Herminie. I had no suspicion of the effect I should produce. Expecting
to hear the hoarse squeak which my throat produced when I last made the
experiment, I nearly fell over backward when the organ which I
unknowingly concealed within me manifested its power. The pictures
hanging on the wall trembled, the signora smiled, and the strings of the
harp replied to that resounding voice with a long vibration.

"_Santo Dio_!" cried Salomé, dropping her work and putting her hands
over her ears, "the lion of St. Mark's would roar no louder!"

The little Aldini, who was playing on the floor, was so terrified that
she began to shriek and weep.

I cannot say what the signora did. I only know that she and the child
and Salomé and the harp and the cabinet all disappeared, and that I ran
at full speed through the streets, having no idea what demon urged me
on, until I reached _Quinta-Valle_. There I jumped into a boat and rowed
to the great plain which is now called the Field of Mars, and is still
the most deserted spot in the city. As soon as I was alone and free, I
began to sing with all the strength of my lungs. Miraculous! I had a
voice of more power and range than any of the _cupids_ I used to admire
at Chioggia. Hitherto I had supposed that I had not power enough, and I
really had too much. It overflowed--it overwhelmed me. I threw myself
face downward in the long grass, and, yielding to a paroxysm of
delirious joy, burst into tears. O the first tears of the artist! They
only can be compared in sweetness, or in bitterness, with the first
tears of the lover.

Then I began to sing again, and repeated a hundred times in succession
the scattered fragments I had remembered. As I sang on, the
ear-splitting harshness of my voice wore off, and I felt that it became
more flexible and tractable every moment. I felt no fatigue, the more I
practised, the easier my respiration seemed. Then I ventured to try some
of the operatic arias and romanzas which I had heard the signora sing in
the past two years. In those two years I had worked hard and learned a
great deal without suspecting it. Method had found its way into my head,
by virtue and by instinct, and musical feeling into my heart by
intuition and sympathy. I have very great respect for study, but I must
admit that no singer ever studied less than myself. I was blessed with a
marvellous readiness and memory. If I had once heard a passage, I could
repeat it instantly and accurately. I tried that experiment that very
day, and succeeded in singing from beginning to end the most difficult
pieces in Signora Aldini's repertory.

The approach of night warned me to allow my excitement to subside. Then
for the first time I realized that I had absented myself from my duties
for a whole day, and I returned to the palace, embarrassed and repenting
bitterly of my fault. It was the first of that sort I had committed, and
I dreaded nothing so much as a rebuke from the signora, however mild it
might be. She was at supper, and I crept timidly behind her chair. I
never waited on her at table, for I had retained the pride of a true
Chioggian, and had surrendered none of the exemptions attached to my
privileged post. But, seeking to repair my fault by an act of humility,
I took from Salomé's hands the porcelain dish she was about to offer
her, and put out my hand awkwardly enough. Signora Aldini pretended at
first not to notice, and allowed me to serve her thus for several
minutes; then, as she stealthily looked up and met my piteous glance,
she suddenly burst out laughing, and threw herself back in her chair.

"Your ladyship is spoiling him," said the stern Salomé, repressing an
imperceptible desire to share her mistress's merriment.

"Why should I scold him?" replied the signora. "He frightened himself
this morning, and ran away to punish himself, poor boy! I will bet that
he has eaten nothing to-day. Go to your supper, Nellino. I forgive you
on condition that you will sing no more."

This kindly sarcasm seemed very bitter to me. It was the first one I had
ever noticed; for, despite all the opportunities offered for the
development of my vanity, that was a sentiment with which I was not as
yet acquainted. But pride awoke in me with power, and by making sport of
my voice, she seemed to deny my heart and to attack my very life.

From that day the lessons which the signora unconsciously gave me, by
practising in my presence, became more and more profitable to me. Every
evening, as soon as my duties were at an end, I went to the Field of
Mars to practise, and I knew that I was making progress. Soon the
signora's lessons were no longer sufficient for me. She sang for her own
pleasure, displaying a superb indifference for study, and making no
effort to perfect herself. I had a most immoderate longing to go to the
theatre; but, during the whole time of the performance, it was my lot to
watch the gondola, as Mandola enjoyed the privilege of taking a seat in
the pit or listening in the corridors. At last, however, I induced him
to let me take his place during a single act of the opera at La Fenice.
The opera was the _Secret Marriage_. I will not attempt to describe my
feelings: I nearly went mad, and, breaking the promise I had made my
companion, I allowed him to cool his heels in the gondola, and never
thought of going out until I found that the hall was empty and in
darkness.

After that I felt an irresistible, imperious craving to go to the
theatre every night. I dared not ask Signora Aldini's permission; I was
afraid that she would again make fun of my unfortunate passion--as she
called it--for music. However, I must go to La Fenice or die. I had the
reprehensible thought of leaving the signora's service and earning my
living as a _facchino_ during the day, so that I might have both time
and means to go to the theatre. I calculated that with the small sum I
had saved at the Aldini Palace, and by reducing my expenditure for food
and clothing to what was absolutely necessary, I might be able to
gratify my passion. I also thought of entering the employ of the theatre
as a scene-shifter, supernumerary, or lamp-lighter; the most humble post
would have seemed delightful to me, provided that I could listen to
music every day. At last I determined to open my heart to the
good-humored Montalegri. He had heard of my musical misadventure. He
began by laughing; then, as I boldly persisted, he demanded, as a
condition of his assistance, that I should let him hear my voice. I
hesitated a long while; I was afraid that he would discourage me by his
jests, and although I had no definite plans for the future, I felt that
to deprive me of the hope of being able to sing some day would be like
tearing out my life. However, I submitted to the inevitable: I sang in a
trembling voice a fragment of one of the airs which I had heard a single
time at the theatre. My emotion won the prince's heart; I saw in his
eyes that he took pleasure in listening to me; I took courage and sang
better and better. He raised his hands two or three times to applaud,
but checked himself for fear of interrupting me; then I sang really
well, and when I had finished, the prince, who was a genuine dilettante,
almost kissed me, and praised me in the warmest terms. He took me to the
signora and presented my petition, which was granted on the spot. But
she too wanted me to sing, and I would not consent. My proud persistence
in refusing astonished Signora Aldini without irritating her. She
thought that she would overcome it later, but she did not easily
succeed. The more I attended the theatre, and the more I practised and
improved, the more conscious I became of all that I still lacked, and
the more I dreaded to allow others to hear me and judge me before I was
sure of myself. At last one superb moonlight night, on the Lido, as the
signora, by lengthening her usual row, had made me miss the theatre and
my hour of solitary practice, I was suddenly seized with a longing to
sing, and I yielded to the inspiration. The signora and her lover
listened to me in silence; and, when I had finished, they did not
address a word to me, either of praise or blame. Mandola alone, having
the keen taste for music of a true Lombard, cried several times when he
heard my youthful tenor: "_Corpo del diavolo! che buon basso_!"

I was a little hurt by my mistress's heedlessness or indifference. I
knew that I had sung well enough to deserve a word of praise from her
mouth. Nor did I understand the prince's coldness after the praise he
had lavished on me two months earlier. I learned afterward that my
mistress was amazed by my talent and my powers, but that she had
determined to seem unmoved by my first attempt, to punish me for making
her beg so long.

I took the lesson to heart, and a few days later, when she called on me
to sing while she was in the gondola, I complied with a good grace. She
was alone, lying on the cushions of the gondola, and seemed to be in a
melancholy frame of mind, which was by no means usual with her. She did
not speak a word to me during the row; but when we returned and I
offered my arm to assist her up the steps of the palace, she said these
words to me, which left me in a strangely excited state:

"Nello, you have done me a vast deal of good. I thank you."

On the days following, I myself offered to sing. She seemed to accept my
offer with gratitude. The heat was most intense and the theatres were
closed; the signora said that she was ill; but what made the most
impression on me was the fact that the prince, who was usually so
assiduous in his attendance, had ceased to come with her oftener than
once in two or three or even four evenings, I thought that he too was
beginning to be unfaithful and I grieved for my poor mistress. I could
not understand her obstinacy in refusing to marry; it seemed most unfair
to me that Montalegri, who seemed to be so kind and gentle, should be
sacrificed to the sins of the late Torquato Aldini. On the other hand, I
could not understand why so sweet and lovely a woman should have for
lovers only base speculators who were more covetous of her fortune than
attached to her person, and sickened of the latter as soon as they
despaired of obtaining the former.

These thoughts engrossed me so completely for several days that,
notwithstanding my profound respect for my mistress, I could not refrain
from communicating my ideas to Mandola.

"Don't make that mistake," he replied; "what has happened this time is
just the opposite of what happened with Lanfranchi. The signora is sick
of the prince and invents every day some new excuse to prevent his
coming with her. What is the reason? That I cannot guess, for we see her
all the time and know that she is alone, that she has no rendezvous with
anyone. Perhaps she is turning religious altogether, and means to cut
loose from society."

That same evening I started to sing to the signora a hymn to the Virgin;
but she interrupted me instantly, saying that she had no desire to
sleep, and asked for the loves of Armide and Renaud.

"He made a mistake," said Mandola, who had a certain shrewdness of his
own, pretending to apologize for me. I changed my selection, and was
listened to with attention.

I soon discovered that by singing in the open air and while the gondola
was in motion, I tired myself a good deal, and that my voice was
suffering. I consulted a teacher of music who came to the palace to give
lessons to little Alezia Aldini, then six years old. He told me that, if
I continued to sing out-of-doors, I should ruin my voice before the end
of the year. That threat frightened me so that I resolved to sing no
more under those conditions. But on the next day the signora asked me,
with such a melancholy air, with such a sweet glance and such pale
cheeks, to sing the barcarole from _La Biondina_, that I had not the
heart to deny her the only pleasure that she had seemed capable of
enjoying for some time past.

It was evident that she was growing thin and losing her bloom; she kept
the prince more and more at a distance. She passed her life in the
gondola, and even neglected the poor a little. She seemed to be giving
way to a profound depression the cause of which we sought in vain.

There was one week when she apparently tried to divert her thoughts. She
surrounded herself with company, and in the evening her gondola was
attended by several others in which she placed her friends and the
musicians hired to sing for them. Once she asked me to sing. I declined,
alleging my unfitness to perform in the presence of professional
musicians and numerous _dilettanti_. She insisted, gently at first, then
with some irritation; I continued to refuse, and at last she ordered me,
in a most imperative tone, to obey her. It was the first time in her
life that she had lost her temper. And I, instead of reflecting that it
was her illness which had changed her disposition thus, and humoring
her, yielded to the suggestion of invincible pride, and declared that I
was not her slave, that I had hired myself to her to row her gondola and
not to entertain her guests; and, in a word, that I had nearly ruined my
voice for her amusement, and that she rewarded me so ill for my
self-sacrifice that I would sing no more for her or anyone else. She
made no reply; the friends who accompanied her, amazed at my audacity,
held their peace. A few minutes later, Salomé uttered a sharp
exclamation and seized little Alezia, who, having fallen asleep in her
mother's arms, nearly fell into the water. The signora had fainted some
moments before, and no one had noticed it.

I dropped my oar; I talked at random; I went to the signora's side; I
should have done some insane thing or other, if the prudent Salomé had
not imperiously sent me back to my post. The signora came to herself and
we made haste back to the palace. But the company was surprised and
shocked, the music was all awry; and, for my own part, I was in such
despair and terror, that my trembling hands could not hold the oar. I
lost my wits, I ran into all the other gondolas. Mandola swore at me;
but I, deaf to his warnings, turned every moment to look at Signora
Aldini, whose pale face seemed, in the moonlight, to bear the stamp of
death.

She passed a bad night; the next day she was feverish and kept her bed.
Salomé refused to admit me. In spite of her refusal I stole into the
bedroom and dropped on my knees beside the signora, weeping bitterly.
She held out her hand, which I covered with kisses, and told me that I
had done right to resist her.

"I have been exacting, capricious and cruel for some time past," she
added with an angelic sweetness. "You must forgive me, Nello; I am ill,
and I feel that I cannot control my temper as usual. I forget that you
are not destined to remain a gondolier, and that a brilliant future is
in store for you. Forgive me for this too; my friendship for you is so
great that I had a selfish desire to keep you with me, and to bury your
talent in this humble and obscure position which is ruining your
prospects. You defended your independence and your dignity and you did
well. Henceforth you shall be free, you shall study music; I will spare
no pains to keep your voice unharmed and to develop your talent; you
shall perform no other service for me than such as is dictated by
affection and gratitude."

I swore that I would serve her all my life; that I would rather die than
leave her; and, in truth, my attachment to her was so deep and so pure
that I did not consider that I was taking a rash oath.

She was better after that, and insisted on my taking my first lessons in
singing. She was present, and seemed to take the keenest interest. In
the intervals between the lessons, she made me study and recite to her
the elementary principles of music, of which I had not the slightest
idea, although I had instinctively conformed to them when I sang
naturally.

My progress was rapid. I ceased to do hard work of any kind. The signora
pretended that the double movement caused by the two oars in alternation
tired her, and Mandola's wages were doubled so that he might not
complain of having to do all the work alone. As for myself, I was always
in the gondola, but I sat in the bow, occupied solely in looking into my
mistress's eyes to divine what I should do to please her. Her lovely
eyes were very sad--very pensive. Her health improved at times, then
became worse again. That was my only sorrow, but it was very keen.

She lost her strength more and more, and the assistance of our arms was
no longer sufficient when she went upstairs. It became Mandola's duty to
carry her like a child, as I carried little Alezia. That young lady grew
more beautiful every day; but her style of beauty and her temperament
made her the exact opposite of her mother. Alezia was as dark as her
mother was fair. Her hair already fell to her knees in two heavy ebony
braids; her little, soft, round arms stood forth like those of a young
Moor against her silk clothing, always white as snow; for she was
consecrated to the Virgin. As for her temperament, it was very strange
for one of her years. I have never seen a child so grave and distrustful
and silent. She seemed to have inherited the haughty nature of Signor
Torquato. She was never on familiar terms with anyone; she never used
the familiar words of address with any of us. A caress from Salomé she
seemed to consider an insult, and the very utmost I could obtain, by
dint of carrying her, waiting upon her and flattering her, was
permission to kiss once a week the tips of her little pink fingers, of
which she was already as careful as the most coquettish woman could have
been. She was very cold to her mother, and passed long hours seated by
her side in the gondola, with her eyes fixed on the water, silent,
apparently insensible to everything, and as dreamy as a statue. But if
the signora ventured to reprove her ever so mildly, or if she went to
bed because of an attack of fever, the little one would fly into one of
those paroxysms of frantic despair which aroused fears for her life or
her reason.

One day she fainted in my arms because Mandola, who was carrying her
mother, slipped on one of the steps and fell with her. The signora was
slightly hurt, and from that day was unwilling to trust the skill of the
Lombard giant. She asked me if I were strong enough to take his place. I
was then at the height of my muscular development, and I told her that I
could carry four women like herself and eight children like hers. After
that I always carried her, for her strength did not return up to the
time that I left her.

The time soon came when the signora seemed to be less light and the
staircase harder to ascend. It was not because her weight was
increasing, but because my strength failed me as soon as I took her in
my arms. At first I did not understand it; then I reproached myself
bitterly; but my emotion was insurmountable. That willowy and voluptuous
figure which abandoned itself to me, that charming face almost touching
mine, that alabaster arm around my bare and burning neck, that perfumed
hair mingling with mine--it was too much for a lad of seventeen. It was
impossible for her not to feel the hurried beating of my heart, and read
in my eyes the disturbance that she caused in my senses. "I tire you,"
she would sometimes say with a languishing air. I could not reply to
that sarcasm; my head would begin to whirl, and I was forced to run away
as soon as I had placed her in her chair. One day it happened that
Salomé was not, as usual, in her cabinet to receive her. I had some
difficulty in arranging the cushions so that she could sit comfortably.
My arms met around her waist. I found myself at her feet, my dizzy head
resting on her knees. She ran her fingers through my hair. The sudden
quivering of that hand revealed to me that of which I had had no
conception. I was not the only one who was moved; I was not the only one
on the point of giving way. We were no longer servant and mistress,
gondolier and signora; we were a young man and a young woman who loved
each other. A sudden light flashed through my mind and darted from my
eyes. She hastily pushed me away, and exclaimed, in a stifled voice:
"_Go_!" I obeyed, but as a conqueror. I was no longer the servant
receiving an order, but the lover making a sacrifice.

Thereupon blind desire took possession of my whole being. I did not
reflect; I felt neither fear nor scruple nor doubt. I had but one fixed
idea, to be alone with Bianca. But that was more difficult than one
might presume from her independent position. It seemed as if Salomé
divined the danger, and had taken upon herself the task of protecting
her mistress from it. She never left her, except sometimes at night when
little Alezia wanted to go to bed at the hour when her mother went out
in the gondola. At such times Mandola inevitably accompanied us on the
lagoons. I saw plainly enough, by the signora's expression and her
uneasiness, that she could not help desiring a tête-à-tête with me;
but she was too weak either to seek it or to avoid it. I did not lack
boldness or resolution, but not for anything under heaven would I have
compromised her; and furthermore, so long as I had not actually won a
victory in that delicate condition of affairs, my rôle might well be
supremely ridiculous, even contemptible, in the eyes of the signora's
other servants.

Luckily honest Mandola, who was not devoid of penetration, had for me an
affection which never wavered. I should not be surprised, although he
never gave me the right to assert it, if love had sometimes made a soft
heart beat fast beneath that rough bark, when he carried the signora in
his arms. It was extremely imprudent for a young woman to betray the
secret of her love-affairs to two young men of our age, and almost
flaunt them in our faces; and it was impossible for us to be witnesses
of the good fortune of other men, for two years, without being unduly
tempted. However that may be, I find it difficult to believe that
Mandola would have detected so readily what was taking place in my
heart, if something of the same sort had not taken place in his. One
evening, as I sat at the bow of the gondola, lost in thought, my face
hidden in my hands, waiting for the signora to send for us, he said to
me: "_Nello! Nello_!!!"--nothing more, but in a tone which seemed to me
to mean so much that I raised my head and looked at him with a sort of
terror, as if my fate were in his hands.--He stifled something like a
sigh, as he added the popular saying: "_Sara quel che sara_!"

"What do you mean?" I cried, rising and grasping his arm.

"Nello! Nello!" he repeated, shaking his head. At that moment they came
to tell me to go up and bring the signora to the gondola; but Mandola's
meaning glance followed me up the steps and moved me strangely.

That same day Mandola applied to Signora Aldini for a week's leave of
absence, to go and see his sick father. Bianca seemed surprised and
dismayed by the request; but she granted it at once, adding: "But who
will row my gondola?"--"Nello," Mandola replied, watching me closely.
"But he cannot row alone," rejoined the signora. "No matter, take me
home, to-morrow we will look for a temporary substitute. Go to see your
father, and take good care of him; I will pray for him."

The next day the signora sent for me, and asked me if I had made
inquiries for a gondolier. I replied only by an audacious smile. The
signora turned pale and said to me in a trembling voice: "You will
attend to it to-morrow; I shall not go out to-day."

I realized my mistake; but the signora had shown more fear than anger,
and my hope augmented my insolence. Toward evening I went and asked her
if I should bring the gondola to the steps. She replied coldly: "I told
you this morning that I should not go out." I did not lose courage. "The
weather has changed, signora," I said, "the wind is as warm as the
sirocco. It is fine weather for you to-night." She bestowed a withering
glance upon me, saying: "I didn't ask you what the weather is. How long
has it been your place to advise me?" The battle was on, I did not
retreat. "Since you have seemed disposed to allow yourself to die," I
replied vehemently. She seemed to yield to some magnetic force; for she
languidly dropped her head on her hand, and in a faint voice bade me
bring the gondola.

I carried her down to it. Salomé attempted to accompany her. I took it
upon myself to say to her in an imperative tone that her mistress
ordered her to remain with Signora Alezia. I saw the blood come and go
in the signora's cheeks as I took the oar and eagerly pushed against the
marble steps which seemed to flee behind us.

When I was a few rods from the palace, it seemed to me that I had
conquered the world, and that my victory was assured, all inconvenient
witnesses being out of the way. I rowed furiously out into the middle of
the lagoons, without turning my head, without speaking a word, without
stopping for breath. I had the appearance of a lover carrying off his
mistress much more than of a gondolier rowing his employer. When we were
quite alone, I dropped my oar and let the boat drift; but at that point
all my courage abandoned me; it was impossible for me to speak to the
signora, I dared not even look at her. She gave me no encouragement, and
I rowed her back to the palace, mortified enough to have resumed the
trade of boatman without obtaining the reward I hoped for.

Salomé showed some temper with me, and humiliated me several times,
accusing me of having a surly and preoccupied air. I could never say a
word to the signora without a rebuke from the maid, who always declared
that I did not express myself respectfully. The signora, who usually
defended me, did not even seem to notice the mortifications to which I
was subjected that evening. I was incensed beyond words. For the first
time I was really ashamed of my position, and I should have thought
seriously of quitting it, if the irresistible magnet of desire had not
kept me in bondage.

For several days I suffered tortures. The signora pitilessly allowed me
to exhaust my strength rowing her about at midday, in the dry, intensely
hot, autumn weather, before the eyes of the whole city, who had seen me
for a long time previously seated in her gondola, at her feet, almost at
her side, and who saw me now, dripping with perspiration, fallen from
the sublime profession of troubadour to the laborious trade of
gondolier. My love changed to wrath. Two or three times I felt a
shameful temptation to treat her disrespectfully in public; then I was
ashamed of myself and my dejection became the more complete.

One morning, the fancy seized her to go ashore on the Lido. The shore
was deserted, the sand sparkled in the sunlight; my head was burning
hot, the perspiration was running down my breast in streams. As I
stooped to lift Signora Aldini, she passed her silk handkerchief over my
dripping forehead, and gazed at me with a sort of loving compassion.

"_Poveretto_!" she said, "you are not made for the trade to which I
condemn you!"

"I would go to the galleys for you," I replied hotly.

"And sacrifice your beautiful voice," she rejoined, "and the great
talent you may acquire, and the noble profession of musical artist to
which you may attain?"

"Everything!" I replied, dropping on my knees before her.

"You do not mean it!" she retorted, with a melancholy air. "Return to
your place," she added, pointing to the bow. "I wish to rest a while
here."

I returned to the bow, but I left the door of the _camerino_ open. I
could see her lying on the black cushions, fair and pale, wrapped in her
black cape, buried and, as it were hidden in the black velvet of that
mysterious bower, which seems made for stealthy pleasures and forbidden
joys. She resembled a beautiful swan which swims into a dark grotto to
avoid the hunter. I felt that my reason was abandoning me; I crept to
her side and fell on my knees. To give her a kiss and then die in
expiation of my crime was my whole thought. Her eyes were closed, she
pretended to be asleep, but she felt the fire of my breath. Then she
called to me aloud, as if she believed me to be at a distance, and
pretended to wake gradually, to give me time to go away. She bade me go
to the _bottega_ on the Lido to fetch her some lemonade, then closed her
eyes again. I put one foot on shore, and that was all. I stepped back
into the gondola and stood still, gazing at her. She opened her eyes,
and her glance seemed to draw me to her by a thousand chains of steel
and diamond. I took one step toward her, she closed her eyes again; I
took another step, and she opened them, assuming an expression of
contemptuous surprise. I went ashore again, then returned to the
gondola. This cruel game lasted several minutes. She attracted and
spurned me as the hawk plays with the mortally wounded sparrow. Anger
took possession of me; I slammed the door of the _camerino_ so violently
that the glass was shivered. She uttered a cry which I did not deign to
notice, but rushed ashore, singing in a voice of thunder, which I
thought reckless and devil-may-care:


    "La Biondina in gondoleta
     L'altra sera mi o mena;
     Dal piazer la povareta
     La x' a in boto adormenta.
     E la dormiva su sto bracio
     Me intanto la svegliava;
     E la barca che ninava
     La tornava a adormenzar."


I sat down upon one of the Jewish tombstones on the Lido, and remained
there a long while; I purposely compelled her to wait for me. Then, of a
sudden, thinking that she might be suffering with thirst, I ran,
stricken with remorse, to fetch the drink for which she had asked me,
and carried it to her with deep solicitude. And yet I hoped that she
would reprimand me; I would have liked to be dismissed from my
employment, for it had become intolerable to me. She received me with no
trace of anger; indeed she thanked me sweetly as she took the glass I
handed her. Thereupon I saw that her hand was bleeding, it had been cut
by the broken glass. I could not restrain my tears. I saw that hers were
flowing too; but she did not speak to me, and I dared not break that
silence, fraught with loving reproaches and timid passion.

I determined to stamp out my insane love and to leave Venice. I tried to
persuade myself that the signora had never returned it, and that I had
flattered myself with an impertinent hope; but every moment her glance,
her tone of voice, her gesture, even her sadness, which seemed to
increase and decrease with mine, all combined to revive my insane
confidence and to lead me to dangerous dreams.

Fate seemed determined to deprive us of what little strength we still
retained. Mandola did not return. I was a very indifferent oarsman,
despite my zeal and strength; I was not familiar with the lagoons, I had
always been so absorbed by my own thoughts as I went in and out among
them! One evening I went astray in the salt marshes that stretch from
the St. George canal to the Marana canal. The rising tide covered those
vast plains of sand and seaweed; but it began to fall again before I
succeeded in rowing back into clear water; I could see the tops of the
aquatic plants moving in the breeze amid the foam. I pulled hard, but in
vain. The ebb tide laid bare a vast expanse of marsh, and the gondola
stranded gently on a bed of seaweed and shells. Night had spread its
veil over the sky and the waters, the sea-birds lighted all around us,
by thousands, filling the air with their plaintive cries. I called for a
long time, but my voice was lost in space; no fishing vessel chanced to
be at anchor near the marsh, no craft of any sort approached us. We must
needs resign ourselves to the necessity of awaiting some chance succor
or the next morning's tide. This last alternative was exceedingly
disquieting; I dreaded the cold night air for my mistress's sake, and
above all, the unhealthy vapors that rise from the marshes at daybreak;
I tried in vain to pull the gondola to a pool of water. Aside from the
fact that we should simply have gained a very few feet, it would have
taken more than six men to raise the boat from the bed she had made for
herself. Thereupon I determined to wade through the swamp, up to my
waist in mud, until I reached the channel, and to swim across in quest
of help. It was an insane undertaking; for I did not know the lay of the
land, and where the fishermen adroitly walk about to gather _sea-fruit_,
I should have been lost in bogs and quick-sands after a very few steps.
When the signora saw that I was inclined to resist her prohibition, and
was about to take the risk, she sprang to her feet, and, mustering
strength to remain in that position for an instant, she threw her arms
about me and fell back, almost pressing me to her heart. Thereupon I
forgot all my anxiety, and cried frantically: "Yes! yes! let us stay
here; let us never leave this spot; let us die here of joy and love, and
may the Adriatic not wake to-morrow to rescue us!"

In the first moment of emotion she was very near abandoning herself to
my transports; but she soon recovered the strength with which she had
armed herself.

"Well, yes," she said, kissing me on the forehead; "yes, I love you, and
I have loved you for a long while. It was because I loved you that I
refused to marry Lanfranchi, for I could not make up my mind to place an
everlasting obstacle between you and me. It was because I loved you that
I endured Montalegri's love, fearing that I might succumb to my passion
for you, and being determined to combat it; it was because I loved you
that I sent him away, being unable to endure longer that love which I
did not share; it is because I love you that I am still determined not
to give way to what I feel to-day; for I propose to give you proofs of a
veritable love, and I owe to your pride, so long humbled, some other
recompense than vain caresses, another title than that of lover."

I did not understand that language. What other title than that of lover
could I desire, what greater happiness than that of possessing such a
mistress? I had had some absurd moments of pride and frenzy, but at that
time I was unhappy, I did not think that she loved me.

"So long as you do love me," I cried; "so long as you tell me so as you
do now, in the mystery of darkness, and every evening, out of sight of
the curious and envious, give me a kiss as you did just now; so long as
you are mine in secret, in God's bosom, shall I not be prouder and
happier than the Doge of Venice? What more do I need than to live beside
you and to know that you belong to me? Ah! let all the world remain in
ignorance of it; I do not need to make others jealous in order to be
happy beyond words, and the opinion of other people is not necessary to
the pride and joy of my heart."

"And yet," replied Bianca, "it will humiliate you to be my servant after
this, will it not?"

"I was humiliated this morning," I cried; "to-morrow I shall be proud of
it."

"What!" she said, "would you not despise me if, after abandoning myself
to your love, I should leave you in a state of degradation?"

"There can be no degradation in serving one who loves me," I replied.
"If you were my wife, do you think that I would allow anybody but myself
to carry you? Could I think of anything except taking care of you and
amusing you? Salomé is not humiliated to be in your service, and yet
you do not love her as much as you love me, _signora mia_?"

"O my noble-hearted boy!" cried Bianca, pressing my head against her
breast with deep emotion; "O pure and unselfish soul! Who will dare now
to say that there are no great hearts save those that are born in
palaces! Who will dare deny the honor and saintliness of these plebeian
natures, ranked so low by our hateful prejudices and our absurd disdain!
You are the only man who ever loved me for myself alone, the only man
whose aim was not my rank or my fortune!--Very well! you shall share
them both, you shall make me forget the miseries of my first marriage,
and replace with your rustic name the hateful name of Aldini, which I
bear with regret! You shall command my vassals and be at once the lord
of my estates and the master of my life. Nello, will you marry me?"

If the earth had opened under my feet, or if the skies had fallen on my
head, I could not have experienced a more violent shock of amazement
than that which struck me dumb in the face of such a question. When I
had recovered somewhat from my stupefaction, I do not know what reply I
made, for my head was going round, and it was impossible for me to think
coherently. All that my natural good sense could do was to put aside
honors too heavy for my age and my inexperience. Bianca insisted.

"Listen," she said; "I am not happy. My cheerfulness has long been a
cloak for intense suffering, until now, as you see, I am ill and can no
longer conceal my ennui. My position in society is false and very
distasteful to me; my position in my own esteem is worse still, and God
is dissatisfied with me. You know that I am not of patrician descent.
Torquato Aldini married me on account of the great fortune my father had
amassed in business. That haughty nobleman never saw in me anything more
than the instrument of his fortune, he never deigned to treat me as his
equal; some of his relatives encouraged him in maintaining the absurd
and cruel attitude of lord and master which he assumed toward me at the
outset; others blamed him severely for having contracted a misalliance
in order to pay his debts, and treated him coldly after his marriage.
After his death they all refused to see me, and I found myself without
any family; for by entering the family of a noble I had forfeited the
esteem and affection of my own people. I had married Torquato for love,
and those of my relatives who did not consider me insane believed me to
be guided by foolish vanity and vile ambition. That is why, despite my
wealth and my youth and an obliging and inoffensive disposition, you see
my salons almost empty and my social circle so restricted. I have some
warm friends, and their company satisfies my heart. But I am entirely
unfamiliar with the intoxication of society at large, and it has not
treated me so well that I am called upon to sacrifice my happiness to
it. I know that by marrying you I shall draw down upon myself not its
indifference simply but its irrevocable malediction. Do not be alarmed;
you see that it is a very trifling sacrifice on my part."

"But why marry me?" said I. "Why invite that malediction to no purpose?
for I do not need your fortune to be happy, nor do you need a solemn
contract on my part to be sure that I shall love you forever."

"Whether you are my husband or my lover," Bianca replied, "the world
will find it out all the same, and I shall be cursed and despised none
the less. Since your love must necessarily, in one way or the other,
separate me altogether from society, I desire at least to be reconciled
to God, and to find in this love of mine, sanctified by the Church, the
strength to despise society as it despises me. I have lived in sin for a
long while, I have sinned without adding to my happiness, I have risked
my salvation and have not found gladness of heart. Now I have found it
and I wish to enjoy it, stainless and cloudless; I wish to sleep, free
from remorse, on the bosom of the man I love; I wish to be able to say
to the world: 'It is you who destroy and corrupt hearts. Nello's love
has saved and purified me, and I have a refuge against you; God
permitted me to love Nello, and bids me love him until death.'"

Bianca talked to me a long while in this strain. There was weakness,
childishness and pure goodness in these ingenuous plottings of her
pride, her love and her piety. I was not very strong myself. It was not
long since I had been accustomed to kneel, night and morning, on my
father's boat, before the image of St. Anthony painted on the sail; and
although the beautiful women of Venice diverted my thoughts sadly in the
basilica, I never missed attending mass, and I still had on my neck the
scapulary my mother hung there as she gave me her blessing on the day I
left Chioggia. So I allowed Signora Aldini to triumph over my scruples
and persuade me; and without further resistance or promises, I passed
the night at her feet, as submissive as a child to her religious
scruples, intoxicated with the pleasure of simply kissing her hand and
inhaling the perfume of her fan. It was a lovely night. The twinkling
stars trembled in the little pools which the tide had left on the marsh;
the breeze murmured in the green grasses. From time to time we saw in
the distance the light of a gondola gliding over the waves, but it did
not occur to us to call for help. The voice of the Adriatic breaking on
the farther shore of the Lido reached our ears, monotonous and majestic.
We indulged in countless enchanting dreams; we formed countless
deliciously trivial plans. The moon sank slowly and was shrouded in the
dark waves on the horizon, like a chaste virgin in her winding-sheet. We
were as chaste as she, and she seemed to glance at us with a friendly
expression before plunging into the sea.

But soon the cold made itself felt, and a sheet of white mist spread
over the marsh. I closed the _camerino_ and wrapped Bianca in my red
cape. I sat down beside her, put my arms about her to shelter her, and
warmed her arms and hands with my breath. A delicious calm seemed to
have descended upon her heart since she had almost extorted from me a
promise to marry her. She rested her head lightly on my shoulder. The
night was far advanced; for more than six hours we had poured forth the
ardent love of our hearts in tender and impassioned words. A pleasant
sensation of weariness stole over me as well, and we fell asleep in each
other's arms, as pure as the dawn that was beginning to appear on the
horizon. It was our wedding-night--our only night of love; a spotless
night, which was never repeated, and its memory never marred.

Loud voices woke me. I ran to the bow of the gondola and saw several men
approaching us. At the usual time of starting out to fish, a family of
fishermen had discovered the stranded craft, and they assisted me to
drag her to the Marana Canal, whence I rowed rapidly to the palace.

How happy I was as I placed my foot on the first step! I thought no more
of the palace than of Bianca's fortune; but I had her in my arms who
thenceforth was my property, my life, my mistress in the noble and
blessed sense of the word! But my joy ended there. Salomé appeared in
the doorway of that terror-stricken house, where no one had closed an
eye during the night. Salomé was pale, and it was evident that she had
been weeping; it was probably the only time in her life. She did not
venture to question her mistress: perhaps she had already read upon my
brow the reason why the night had seemed so short to me. It had been
long enough to all the occupants of the palace. They all believed that
some horrible accident had befallen their dear mistress. A number of
them had wandered about all night, looking for us; others had passed the
time in prayer, burning little tapers before the image of the Virgin.
When their anxiety was allayed and their curiosity gratified, I noticed
that their thoughts took another direction and their faces a different
expression. They scrutinized my face--the women especially--with
insulting eagerness. As for Salomé's expression, it was so withering
that I could not endure it. Mandola arrived from the country in the
midst of the commotion. He understood in an instant what was going on,
and, putting his mouth to my ear, begged me to be prudent. I pretended
not to know what he meant; I did my best to submit with an air of
innocence to the investigations of the others. But in a few moments I
was unable to endure my anxiety, and I went into Bianca's room.

I found her weeping bitterly beside her daughter's bed. The child had
been awakened in the middle of the night by the noise of the constant
going and coming of the frightened servants. She had listened to their
comments on the signora's prolonged absence, and, believing that her
mother was drowned, she had gone into convulsions. She had barely become
calm when I entered, and Bianca was blaming herself for the child's
suffering, as if she had wilfully caused it.

"O my Bianca," I said to her, "be comforted and rejoice because your
child and all those about you love you so passionately. I will love you
even more than they do, so that you may be the happiest of women."

"Do not say that the others love me," she replied with some bitterness.
"It seems to me that under their breaths they are calling this love of
mine, which they have already divined, a crime. Their glances are
insulting to me, their words wound me, and I greatly fear that they have
let slip some imprudent remark in my daughter's hearing. Salomé is
openly impertinent to me this morning. It is high time for me to put an
end to these insolent comments on my conduct. You see, Nello, they look
upon my loving you as a crime, and they approved of my supposed love for
the avaricious Lanfranchi. They are all low-minded or foolish creatures.
I must inform them this very day that I passed the night, not with my
lover, but with my husband. It is the only way to make them respect you
and refrain from betraying me."

I dissuaded her from acting so hastily. I reminded her that she might
perhaps repent; that she had not reflected sufficiently; that I myself
needed time to consider her offer seriously; and that she had not
sufficiently weighed the consequences of her decision, with respect to
its possible future effect upon her daughter. I obtained her promise to
be patient and to act prudently.

It was impossible for me to form an enlightened judgment regarding my
situation. It was intoxicating, and I was a mere boy. Nevertheless, a
sort of instinctive repugnance warned me to distrust the fascinations of
love and fortune. I was excited, anxious, torn between desire and fear.
In the brilliant destiny that was offered me, I saw but one
thing--possession of the woman I loved. All the wealth by which she was
surrounded was not even an accessory to my happiness, it was a
disagreeable condition for me in my heedlessness to accept. I was like
one who has never suffered and can conceive of no better or worse state
than that in which he has always lived. In the Aldini Palace I was free
and happy. Petted by all alike, permitted to gratify all my whims, I had
no responsibility, nothing to fatigue my body or my mind. Singing,
sleeping, and boating, that was substantially the whole of my life, and
you Venetians who are listening to me know whether any life is sweeter
or better adapted to our indolent and careless natures. I imagined the
rôle of husband and master as something analogous to the
superintendence exercised by Salomé over household affairs, and such a
rôle was very far from flattering my ambition. That palace, of which I
had the freedom, was my property in the pleasantest sense of the word: I
enjoyed all its pleasures without any of its cares. Let my mistress add
the joys of love, and I should be the King of Italy.

Another thing that disheartened me was Salomé's gloomy air and the
embarrassed, mysterious and suspicious demeanor of the other servants.
There were many of them, and they were all excellent people, who had
treated me hitherto as a child of the family. In that silent reprobation
which I felt hovering over me, there was a warning which I could not,
which I did not wish to disdain; for, while it was due in some measure
to a natural feeling of jealousy, it was dictated even more by the
affectionate interest which the signora inspired.

What would I not have given in those moments of dire perplexity to have
a judicious adviser? But I did not know whom to apply to, and I was the
sole confidant of my mistress's secrets. She passed the day in bed with
her daughter, and sent for me the next day, to repeat to me all that she
had said on the marsh. All the time that she was speaking to me, it
seemed to me that she was right, and that she had a triumphant answer to
all my scruples; but when I was alone again, my distress and
irresolution returned.

I went up into the gallery and threw myself upon a chair. My eyes
wandered absent-mindedly from one to another of that long line of
ancestors whose portraits formed the only heritage that Torquato Aldini
had been able to bequeath to his daughter. Their smoke-begrimed faces,
their beards, cut square, and pointed, and diamond-shaped, their black
velvet robes and ermine-lined cloaks, gave them an imposing and
depressing aspect. Almost all had been senators, procurators, or
councillors; there was a multitude of uncles who had been inquisitors;
those of least consequence were minor canons or _capitani grandi_. At
the end of the gallery was the figure-head of the last galley fitted out
against the Turks by Tiberio Aldini, Torquato's grandfather, in the days
when the powerful nobles of the republic went to war at their own
expense, and esteemed it glorious to place their property and persons
voluntarily at the service of their country. It was a tall glass
lantern, set in gilded copper, surmounted and supported by metal
scroll-work of curious design, and with ornaments so placed that the bow
of the vessel ended in a point. Above each portrait was a long oak
bas-relief, reciting the glorious deeds of the illustrious personage
beneath. It occurred to me that, if we should have war, and the
opportunity should be offered me to fight for my country, I should be as
patriotic and as brave as all those noble aristocrats. It seemed to me
to be neither very extraordinary nor very meritorious to do great things
when one was rich and powerful, and I said to myself that the trade of
great nobleman could not be very difficult. But in those days, we were
not at war, nor were we likely to be. The republic was merely a
meaningless word, its might a mere shadow, and its enervated patricians
had no elements of grandeur except their names. It was the more
difficult to rise to their level in their opinion, because it was so
easy to surpass them in reality. Therefore to enter into a contest with
their prejudices and their contempt was unworthy of a true man, and the
plebeians were fully justified in despising those among themselves who
thought that they exalted themselves by seeking admission to fashionable
society and aping the absurdities of the nobles.

These reflections passed through my mind confusedly at first; then they
became more distinct, and I found that I could think, as I had found one
fine morning that I could sing. I began to understand the repugnance I
felt at the thought of leaving my proper station in life to make a
spectacle of myself in society as a vain and ambitious fellow; and I
determined to bury my love-affair with Bianca in the most profound
mystery.

Absorbed by these reflections, I walked along the gallery, glancing
proudly at that haughty race whose succession was disdained by a child
of the people, a boatman from Chioggia. I felt very happy; I thought of
my old father, and as I remembered the old house, long forgotten and
neglected, my eyes filled with tears. I found myself at the end of the
gallery, face to face with Messer Torquato, and for the first time I
scrutinized him boldly from head to foot. He was the very incarnation of
hereditary nobility. His glance seemed to drive one back like the point
of a sword, and his hand looked as if it had never opened except to
impose a command on his inferiors. I took pleasure in flouting him.
"Well!" I said to him mentally, "whatever you might have done, I would
never have been your servant. Your domineering air would not have
frightened me, and I would have looked you in the face as I look at this
canvas. You would never have obtained any hold on me, because my heart
is prouder than yours ever was, because I despise this gold before which
you bowed, because I am a greater man than you in the eyes of the woman
you possessed. In spite of all your pride of birth, you bent the knee to
her to obtain her wealth; and when you were rich through her, you
crushed and humbled her. That is the conduct of a dastard, and mine is
worthy of a genuine noble, for I want none of Bianca's wealth except her
heart, of which you were not worthy. And I refuse what you implored, so
that I may possess that which is precious above all things in my eyes,
Bianca's esteem. And I shall obtain it, for she will understand the vast
superiority of my heart to a debt-ridden patrician's. I have no
patrimony to redeem, you see! There is no mortgage on my father's
fishing-boat; and the clothes I wear are my own, because I earned them
by my toil. Very good! I shall be the benefactor, not the debtor,
because I shall restore happiness and life to that heart which you
broke, because I, servant and lover, shall succeed in winning blessings
and honor, while you, nobleman and husband, were cursed and despised."

A slight sound caused me to turn my head. I saw little Alezia behind me;
she was crossing the gallery, dragging a doll larger than herself. I
loved the child, despite her haughty nature, because of her love for her
mother. I tried to kiss her; but, as if she felt in the atmosphere the
disgrace which had been weighing upon me in that house for two days
past, she drew back with an offended air, and crouched against her
father's portrait, as if she had some reason to fear me. I was instantly
struck by the resemblance which her pretty little dark face bore to
Torquato's haughty features, and I stopped to examine her more closely,
with a feeling of profound sadness. She seemed to me to be scrutinizing
me attentively at the same time. Suddenly she broke the silence to say
to me in a tone of great bitterness, and with an indignant expression
beyond her years:

"Why have you stolen my papa's ring?"

As she spoke, she pointed with her tiny finger at a beautiful diamond
ring, mounted in the old style, which her mother had given me several
days before, and which I had been childish enough to accept; then she
turned and, standing on tiptoe, placed her finger on one of the fingers
in the portrait which was adorned with the same ring accurately copied;
and I discovered that the imprudent Bianca had presented her gondolier
with one of her husband's most valuable family jewels.

The blood rose in my cheeks, as I received from that child a lesson
which disgusted me more than ever with ill-gotten wealth. I smiled and
handed her the ring:

"Your mamma dropped it off her finger," I said, "and I found it just now
in the gondola."

"I will take it to her," said the child, snatching rather than taking it
from my hand. She ran away, leaving her doll on the floor. I picked up
the plaything to make sure of a little circumstance which I had often
noticed before. Alezia was in the habit of running a long pin through
the heart of every doll she owned, and sometimes she would sit for hours
at a time, absorbed in the profound and silent pleasure of that strange
amusement.

In the evening Mandola came to my room. He seemed awkward and
embarrassed. He had much to say to me, but he could not find a word. His
expression was so curious that I roared with laughter.

"You are doing wrong, Nello," he said with a pained look on his face; "I
am your friend; you are doing wrong!"

He turned to go, but I ran after him and tried to make him explain
himself; it was impossible. I saw that his heart was full of sage
reflections and good advice; but he lacked words in which to express
himself, and all his abortive sentences, in his patois in which all
languages were mingled, ended with these words:

"_E molto delica, delicatissimo._"

At last I succeeded in making out that the rumor of my approaching
marriage to the signora was current in the house. A few impatient words
which some one had heard her say to Salomé were sufficient to put that
rumor in circulation. The signora had said just this, speaking of me:
"The time is not far away when you will take orders from him instead of
giving him orders."--I obstinately denied that these words had any such
meaning, and pretended that I did not understand them at all.

"Very good," said Mandola; "that's the answer you ought to make, even to
me, although I am your friend. But I have eyes of my own; I don't ask
you any questions, I never have done it, Nello! but I came to warn you
that you must be prudent. The Aldinis are just looking for an excuse for
taking the guardianship of Signora Alezia away from the signora, and she
will die of grief if they take her child away from her."

"What do you say?" I cried; "what? they will take her daughter away
because of me?"

"If you were to marry her, certainly," replied the worthy gondolier;
"_otherwise_--as there are some things that can't be proved,--"

"Especially when they don't exist," I rejoined warmly.

"You speak as you should speak," replied Mandola; "continue to be on
your guard; trust nobody, not even me, and if you have any influence
over the signora, urge her to hide her feelings, especially from
Salomé. Salomé will never betray her; but her voice is too loud, and
when she quarrels with the signora, everybody in the house hears what
they say. If any of the signora's friends should suspect what is
happening, everything would go wrong; for friends aren't like servants;
they don't know how to keep a secret, and yet people trust their friends
more than they do us!"

Honest Mandola's advice was not to be despised, especially as it was in
perfect accord with my instinct. The next evening we took the signora to
the Zueca Canal, and Mandola, understanding that I had something to say
to her, obligingly fell asleep at his post. I put out the light, stole
into the cabin, and talked a long while with Bianca. She was surprised
by my objections and said everything that she considered likely to
overcome them. I spoke firmly, I told her that I would never allow it to
be said of me that I had married a woman for her wealth; that I cared as
much for the good name of my family as any patrician in Venice; that my
kinsmen would never forgive me if I afforded any such cause for scandal,
and that I did not propose either to fall out with my dear old father or
to make trouble between the signora and her daughter; for she ought to
and doubtless did care more for Alezia than for all the world beside.
This last argument was more powerful than any other. She burst into
tears and poured forth her admiration for me and gratitude to me with
the enthusiasm of passion.

From that day peace reigned once more in the Aldini Palace. That little
secondary society had passed through its revolutionary crisis. It had
its own peacemaker, and I laughed to myself at my rôle of great
citizen, with childlike heroism. Mandola, who was beginning to acquire
some education, was amazed to see me engage in the hardest sort of work,
and would call me under his breath, with a paternal air, his Cincinnatus
or his Pompilius.

I had in fact resolved--and I kept steadfastly to my resolution--not to
accept the slightest favor from a woman whose lover I wished to be.
Inasmuch as the only means of possessing her in secret was to remain in
her house on the footing of a servant, it seemed to me that I could
re-establish equality between her and myself by making my services
correspond to my wages. Hitherto my wages had been large and entirely
out of proportion to my work, which, for some time past, had been
absolutely nothing. I determined to make up for lost time. I set about
keeping things in order, cleaning, doing errands, bringing wood and
water, polishing and brushing the gondola--in a word, doing the work of
ten men; and I did it cheerfully, humming my most beautiful operatic
airs and my noblest epic strophes. The task that afforded me the most
amusement was the taking care of the family pictures and brushing off
the dust which obscured Torquato's majestic glance every morning. When I
had completed his toilet, I would remove my cap with profound respect
and ironically repeat to him some parody of my heroic verses.

The Venetian lower classes, especially the gondoliers, have, as you
know, a liking for jewels. They spend a good part of what they earn in
antique rings, shirt studs, scarf pins, chains and the like. I had
previously accepted many trinkets of the sort. I carried them all back
to Signora Aldini, and would not even wear silver buckles on my shoes.
But my most meritorious sacrifice was my abandonment of music. I
considered that my work, laborious as it was, was no compensation for
the expense which my constant theatre-going and my singing lessons
imposed on the signora. I persistently declared that I had a cold in my
head, and instead of going to the performance at La Fenice with her, I
adopted the practice of reading in the lobby of the theatre. I realized
that I was ignorant; and, although my mistress was scarcely less so, I
determined to extend my ideas a little, and not to make her blush for my
blunders. I studied my mother tongue earnestly, and strove to break
myself of the habit of murdering verses, as all gondoliers do. Moreover,
something told me that that study would be useful to me later, and that
what I lost in the way of progress in singing I should gain in the
perfecting of my pronunciation and accent.

A few days of this judicious conduct served to restore my tranquillity.
I had never been more manly, more cheerful, and, as Salomé said, more
comely than in my neat and modest clothes, with my amiable expression
and my sun-burned hands. Everybody had accorded me confidence and esteem
once more, and I was again the recipient of the innumerable little
attentions which I formerly enjoyed. Pretty Alezia, who had the greatest
respect for the judgment of her Jewish governess, allowed me to kiss the
ends of her black braids, embellished with scarlet ribbons and fine
pearls.

A single person remained depressed and unhappy--the signora herself. I
constantly surprised her lovely blue eyes, filled with tears, fastened
upon me with an indescribable expression of affection and grief. She
could not accustom herself to see me working so. If I had been her own
son she could not have been more grieved to see me carrying burdens and
standing in the rain. Indeed, her solicitude vexed me a little, and the
efforts she made to conceal it made it even more painful to her. An
entirely unforeseen revolution of sentiment had taken place in her. That
love which had hitherto been, as she herself told me, her torment and
her joy, seemed now to cause her naught but shame and consternation. She
no longer avoided opportunities to be alone with me, as she used to do;
on the contrary, she sought them; but, as soon as I knelt at her feet,
she would burst into sobs and change the hours promised to the joys of
love into hours of painful emotion. I strove in vain to understand what
was taking place in her heart. I could obtain nothing but vague replies,
always kind and affectionate, but incoherent, which caused me the utmost
perplexity. I had no idea what to do to comfort her and strengthen that
discouraged heart. I was consumed by desire, and it seemed to me that an
hour of mutual effusion and passion would have been more eloquent than
all that talk and all those tears; but I felt too much respect and
devotion for her not to sacrifice my transports of passion to her. I
felt that it would be very easy to take her by surprise, weak as she was
in body and mind; but I dreaded the tears of the next day too much, and
I wished to owe my happiness to her confidence and love alone. That day
did not come, and I must say, to the discredit of feminine weakness,
that, if I had shown less delicacy and unselfishness, my desires would
have been fully gratified. I had hoped that Bianca would encourage me;
I soon discovered that, on the contrary, she was afraid of me, and that
she shuddered at my approach, as if crime and remorse approached with
me. I succeeded in reassuring her only to see her plunge into still
deeper dejection, and upbraid fate, as if it had not been in her power
to put a better face upon her destiny. Then, too, a secret sense of
shame helped to crush that shrinking heart. Religion took possession of
her more and more completely; her confessor controlled her and terrified
her. He forbade her to have lovers, and, although she resisted him when
it was a question of Signor Lanfranchi and Signor Montalegri, she had
not the same courage with respect to me. I succeeded little by little in
extorting from her a confession of all her sufferings and internal
struggles. She had confessed to the confessor all the details of our
love, and he had declared that that low, criminal affection was a
heinous crime. He had forbidden her to think of marriage with me, even
more peremptorily than to give way to her passion; and he had frightened
her so by threatening to cast her out from the bosom of the Church, that
her gentle, timid mind, torn between the desire to make me happy and the
fear of destroying her own soul, was suffering veritable agony.

Hitherto Signora Aldini's piety had been so pliant, so tolerant, so
truly Italian, that I was not a little surprised to see it become
serious just at the height of one of those paroxysms of passion which
seem most inconsistent with such changes. I worked hard with my poor
inexperienced brain to understand this phenomenon, and I succeeded.
Bianca probably loved me more than she had loved the count and the
prince; but she had not sufficient courage nor a sufficiently
enlightened mind to rise above public opinion. She complained of the
arrogance of other people; but she gave real value to that arrogance by
her fear of it. In a word, she was more submissive than anybody else to
the prejudice which she had attempted for an instant to defy. She had
hoped to find in the church, through the sacrament, and by redoubling
her pious fervor, the strength which she failed to find in herself, and
which she had not needed with her former lovers, because they were
patricians and society was on their side. But now the church threatened
her, society would heap maledictions upon her; to fight against the
church and society at the same time was a task beyond her strength.

Then too, it may be that her love subsided as soon as I became worthy of
it; perhaps, instead of appreciating the grandeur of soul which had led
me to descend of my own motion from the salon to the servant's quarters,
she had fancied that she could detect in that courageous behavior a lack
of dignity and an inborn liking for servitude. She believed too that the
threats and sarcasms of her other servants had frightened me. She was
astonished to find that I was not ambitious, and that very absence of
ambition seemed to her an indication of an inert or timid spirit. She
did not admit all this to me; but as soon as I was once on the track I
divined it all. I was not angry. How could she understand my noble pride
and my sensitive honor, she who had accepted and returned the love of an
Aldini and a Lanfranchi?

Doubtless she ceased to consider me handsome when I refused to wear lace
and ribbons. My hands, calloused in her service, no longer seemed to her
worthy to press hers. She had loved me as a gondolier, in the thought
and hope of transforming me into an attractive cicisbeo; but the instant
that I insisted upon reverting to the system of a fair exchange of
services between her and myself, all her illusions vanished, and she saw
in me only the vulgar fisherman's son of Chioggia, a species of stupid
and hard-working beast of burden.

As these discoveries cleared the mists away from my mind, the violence
of my passions diminished. If I had had to deal with a great soul, or
even with a forceful nature, it would have been in my eyes a glorious
task to efface the distressing memories left behind in that heart by my
predecessors. But to succeed such men simply to be misunderstood, and in
all probability to be some day cast aside and forgotten like them, was a
happiness which I no longer cared to purchase at the cost of an enormous
expenditure of passion and will-power. Signora Aldini was a sweet and
lovely woman; but could I not find in a cottage at Chioggia beauty and
sweetness united, without causing tears to flow, without causing
remorse, and above all without leaving shame behind me?

My mind was soon made up. I resolved not only to leave the signora, but
to cease to be a servant. So long as I had been in love with her harp
and her person, I had had no time to reflect seriously on my condition.
But, as soon as I abandoned my foolish aspirations, I realized how
difficult it is to retain one's dignity unimpaired under the protection
of the great, and I recalled the salutary arguments which my father had
urged upon me, and to which I had paid little heed.

When I gave her an inkling of my purpose, I saw, although she opposed
it, that she was greatly relieved; happiness might return and dwell once
more in that affectionate and beneficent heart. The charming frivolity
which was the basis of her character would reappear on the surface with
the first lover who should be able to push aside her confessor, her
servants, and society. A great passion would have shattered her system;
a succession of mild passions and a multitude of lukewarm attachments
would keep her alive in her natural element.

I forced her to admit all that I had divined. She had never studied
herself very much, and she was always most sincere. If there was no
heroism in her character, neither was there any pretension to heroism,
nor the overbearing despotism which is its consequence. She approved my
determination, but she wept and was dismayed at the thought of the blank
my departure would leave in her life; for she loved me still, I am sure,
with all the strength of her nature.

She attempted to worry and fret about what was to become of me. I would
not allow it. The abrupt and haughty tone in which I interrupted her
when she spoke of offering her services closed her mouth once for all in
that respect. I would not even take the clothes she had had made for me.
On the day before I was to take my leave, I purchased the complete
outfit of a sailor of Chioggia, new, but of the coarsest materials; and
in that guise I appeared before her for the last time.

She had requested me to come to her at midnight, so that we could part
without witnesses. I was grateful to her for the affectionate
familiarity with which she embraced me. I do not believe there was
another society woman in all Venice sufficiently sincere and sympathetic
to be willing to repeat the assurance of her love to a man dressed as I
was. Tears poured from her eyes when she passed her little white hands
over the rough material of my scarlet-lined cape; then she smiled, and,
pulling the hood over my head, gazed at me lovingly, and exclaimed that
she had never seen me look so handsome, and that she had done very wrong
ever to make me dress in any other way. The warmth and sincerity of my
thanks, the oaths I took to be faithful to her until death, and never to
think of her except to bless her and commend her to God's keeping,
touched her deeply. She was not accustomed to being left in that way.

"You have a more chivalrous heart," she said to me, "than any of those
who bear the title of chevalier."

Then she gave way to an outburst of enthusiasm: the independence of my
nature, the indifference with which I laid aside luxury and indolence
for the hardest of lives, the respect with which I had never failed to
treat her when it would have been so easy for me to abuse her weakness
for me; all this, she said, raised me far above other men. She threw
herself into my arms, almost at my feet, and again begged me not to go
away, but to marry her.

This outburst was sincere, and, although it did not change my
resolution, it made the signora so lovely and so fascinating that I was
very near casting my heroism to the winds and taking my reward in that
last night for all the sacrifices I had made to my peace of mind. But I
had the strength to resist, and to go forth chaste from a love affair
which nevertheless had its origin in sensual desire. I took my leave,
bathed in her tears, and carrying away, as my sole treasure and trophy,
a lock of her lovely fair hair. As I withdrew I went to little Alezia's
bed, and softly put aside the curtains to take a last look at her. She
at once woke, and did not recognize me at first, for she was frightened;
she did not cry out, but simply called her mother in a voice which she
tried to keep from trembling.

"Signorina," I said, "I am the _Orco_,[3] and I have come to ask you why
you pierce the hearts of your dolls with pins."

She sat up in bed, and replied, glancing at me with a mischievous
expression:

"I do it to see if their blood is blue."

_Blue blood_, you know, is synonymous with noble in the popular language
of Venice.

"But they have no blood," I said; "they are not noble!"

"They are nobler than you," was her retort, "for their blood isn't
black."

Black, you know, is the color of the _nicoloti_, the association of
boatmen.

"_Signora mia_," I said in an undertone to her mother, as I drew the
child's curtains, "you have done well not to splash ink on your azure
crest. Here is a little patrician who would never have forgiven you."

"And my heart," she replied sadly, "is pierced, not with a pin, but with
a thousand swords."

When I was in the street, I stopped to look at the corner of the palace
which stood out in the moonlight from the eaves to the depths of the
Grand Canal. A boat passed, and, causing a ripple in the water, cut and
scattered the reflection of that pure line. It seemed to me that I had
just had a beautiful dream and had awakened in darkness. I began to run
at full speed, never looking behind, and did not stop until I reached
the Paglia bridge, where the boats for Chioggia await passengers, while
the boatmen, wrapped in their capes in winter and summer alike, lie
sound asleep on the parapet, and even across the steps, under the feet
of passers-by. I asked if anyone of my fellow-townsmen would take me to
my father's house.

"Is it you, _kinsman_?" they cried in surprise.

That word _kinsman_, which the Venetians ironically bestow on the
Chioggians, and which the latter have had the good-sense to accept,[4]
was so sweet to my ear that I embraced the first man who called me by
it. They promised to start in an hour, and asked me several questions,
but did not listen to my answers. The Chioggian hardly knows the use of
a bed; but he sleeps while walking, talking, even rowing. They suggested
my taking a nap on the common bed, that is to say on the flagstones of
the quay. I lay on the ground, with my head on one of those worthy
fellows, while another used me as a pillow, and so on. I slept as in the
happiest days of my childhood, and I dreamed that my poor mother--who
had been dead a year--appeared in the doorway of our cottage and
congratulated me on my return. I was awakened by the repeated shouts of
_Chiosa_! _Chiosa_![5] with which our boatmen wake the echoes of the
ducal palace and the prisons, to attract passengers. It seemed to me a
cry of triumph, like the _Italia_! _Italia_! of the Trojans in the
_Æneid_. I jumped aboard a boat with a light heart, and, thinking of
the night Bianca must have passed, reproached myself a little for
sleeping soundly. But I was reconciled to myself by the thought that I
had not poisoned her future peace of mind.

It was midwinter and the nights were long; we reached Chioggia an hour
before dawn. I ran to our cabin. My father was already at sea; only my
youngest brother was left behind to look after the house. It took a long
while for him to wake up and recognize me. It was easy to see that he
was accustomed to sleep amid the roar of the waves and the storm; for I
nearly broke the door down trying to make him hear me. At last he came
out, leaped on my neck, put on his cape and rowed me half a league out
to sea, to the spot where my father's boat lay at anchor. The excellent
man, awaiting the best time to set his nets, was asleep, according to
the custom of old fishermen, stretched out on his back, his body and
face sheltered by a coarse blanket, while the stinging north wind
whistled through the rigging. The white-capped waves beat against the
vessel and covered him with spray; no human voice could be heard in the
vast solitude of the Adriatic. I softly put aside the blanket and looked
at him. He was the image of strength in repose. His gray beard, as
tangled as the seaweed when the tide is rising, his earth-colored jacket
and his dull green woollen cap made him resemble an old Triton asleep in
his shell. He displayed no more surprise when he woke than if he had
been expecting me.

"Oho!" he said, "I was dreaming of the poor woman, and she said to me:
'Get up, old man, here's our son Daniel back again.'"


[Footnote 3: The red devil, or will'o-the-wisp of the lagoons.]

[Footnote 4: The peninsula of Chioggia was originally inhabited by five
or six families which never married except among themselves.]

[Footnote 5: Chioggia!]




SECOND PART


I do not propose, my friends, to describe all the vicissitudes which
marked my passage from the beach at Chioggia to the stage of the leading
theatres in Italy, and from the trade of fisherman to the rôle of
_primo tenore_; that was the work of several years, and my reputation
increased rapidly as soon as I had taken the first step in my career. If
circumstances were often unfavorable, my easy-going disposition was
always able to make the best of them, and I can fairly say that my great
successes did not cost me very dear.

Ten years after leaving Venice, I was at Naples, playing Romeo at the
San Carlo theatre. King Murat and his brilliant staff, and all the vain
and venal beauties of Italy, were there. I did not pride myself on being
a particularly ardent patriot, but I did not share the infatuation of
that period for foreign domination. I did not turn my face backward
toward a still more degrading past; I fed upon the first elements of
Carbonarism, which were then fermenting, without definite shape or name,
from Prussia to Sicily.

My heroism was simple and intense, as all religions are at their birth.
I carried into all that I did, and especially into my art, the feeling
of mocking pride and democratic independence which inspired me every day
in the clubs and in clandestine pamphlets. _Friends of Truth_, _Friends
of Light_, _Friends of Liberty_--such were the names under which liberal
sympathies gathered; and even in the ranks of the French army, at the
very side of the victorious leaders, we had associates, children of your
great revolution, who, in their secret hearts, were determined to wash
away the stain of the 18th Brumaire.

I loved the rôle of Romeo, because I could give expression in it to
warlike sentiments and feelings of chivalrous detestation. When my
audience, always half French, applauded my dramatic outbursts, I felt as
if I were revenged for our national degradation; for those conquerors
were unconsciously applauding curses aimed at them, longings for their
death and threats to attain it.

One evening, during one of my finest moments, when it seemed as if the
roof would fall under the explosions of frantic applause, my eyes fell
upon a face in a proscenium box almost on the stage, an impassive face,
the sight of which made my blood suddenly run cold. You have no idea of
the mysterious influences which govern the actor's inspiration, how the
expression of certain faces absorbs him, and stimulates or deadens his
audacity. Speaking for myself at least, I cannot avoid an instant
sympathy with my audience, whether the effect is to spur me on if I find
it inclined to resist, until I subjugate it by my passion, or to melt us
into one as by the action of an electric current, so that its quick
response imparts new vigor to my sensitive talent. But certain glances,
or certain words spoken in whispers close beside me, have sometimes
disturbed me so that it required the utmost effort of which my will was
capable to combat their effect.

The face that impressed me at that moment was ideally beautiful; its
owner was beyond dispute the most beautiful woman in the whole theatre.
Meanwhile, the whole audience was roaring and stamping in admiration,
and she alone, the queen of the evening, seemed to be studying me
dispassionately, and to discover faults which the vulgar eye could not
detect. She was the Muse of Tragedy, stern Melpomene in person, with her
regular oval face, her black eyebrows, her high forehead, her raven
hair, her great eyes gleaming with a dark flame in their vast orbits,
and her stern lip, whose unbending curve was never softened by a smile;
and, with all the rest, in the very bloom and flower of youth, with a
graceful, lithe figure instinct with health.

"Who is that lovely dark girl with such a cold eye?" I asked Count Nasi,
during the entr'acte; he had taken a great liking to me, and came on the
stage every evening to chat with me.

"She is either the daughter or niece of Princess Grimani," was his
reply. "I do not know her, for she has just come from some convent or
other, and her mother, or aunt, is herself a stranger in this region.
All I can tell you is that Prince Grimani loves her like his own child,
that he will give her a handsome dowry, and that she is one of the
richest matches in Italy; and yet I shall never take my place in the
lists."

"Why not, pray?"

"Because they say she is insolent and vain, infatuated with her noble
birth, and of an overbearing disposition. I care so little for women of
that stamp that I don't even care to look at her when I meet her. They
say that she will be queen of the balls next winter, and that her beauty
is something marvellous. I don't know or want to know whether it is or
is not. I can't endure Grimani either; he is a genuine stage _hidalgo_;
and if it were not that he has a handsome fortune and a young wife who
is said to be attractive, I don't know how anyone could be induced to
endure the tedium of his conversation or the freezing stiffness of his
hospitality."

During the following scene I glanced at the proscenium box from time to
time. I was no longer disturbed by the thought that its occupants were
disposed to judge me unfavorably, since I had learned that the Grimanis
were accustomed to maintain a haughty demeanor even with people whom
they considered to belong to their own class. I looked at the girl with
the impartiality of a sculptor or a painter; she seemed to me even
lovelier than at first sight. Old Grimani, who was sitting beside her at
the front of the box, had a fine face, but stern and cold. That
supercilious couple seemed to exchange a few monosyllables at long
intervals, and at the end of the opera he rose slowly and went out,
without waiting for the ballet.

The next day the old man and the young woman were in the same place, in
the same unmoved attitude. I did not once see any trace of emotion, and
Prince Grimani slept sweetly throughout the first acts. The young woman,
on the contrary, seemed to be paying her whole attention to the
performance. Her great eyes were fastened on me like those of a ghost,
and that fixed, searching and profound gaze became so embarrassing to me
that I carefully avoided it. But, as if an evil spell had been cast upon
me, the more I tried to keep my eyes away, the more they persisted in
meeting those of the young sorceress. There was something so
extraordinarily powerful in that mysterious magnetism, that I was
assailed by childish dread of it, and feared that I should not be able
to finish the opera. I had never felt anything like it. There were times
when I fancied that I recognized that marble face, and I seemed to be on
the point of accosting her as an old friend. At other times I believed
that she was my deadly enemy, my evil genius, and I was tempted to hurl
violent reproaches at her.

The _seconda donna_ added to my truly alarming discomfort by whispering
to me:

"Look out, Lelio, you'll catch the fever. That woman in the box will
give you the _jettatura_."[6]

I had been a firm believer in the _jettatura_ during the greater part of
my life. I no longer believed in it; but the love of the marvellous,
which is not easily dislodged from an Italian head, especially that of a
child of the people, had led me to indulge in most extravagant
reflections on the subject of animal magnetism. It was the period when
charming fancies of that sort were blooming luxuriantly all over the
world; Hoffmann was writing his _Tales_, and magnetism was the
mysterious pivot upon which all the hopes of the _illuminati_ turned.
Whether because that foible had taken such complete possession of me
that it controlled my actions, or because it took me by surprise at a
moment when I was not in the best of health, I began to shiver from head
to foot, and I nearly fainted when I returned to the stage. That
wretched weakness finally gave place to wrath, and as I walked toward
the box in question with La Checchina--the _seconda donna_ who had
mentioned the evil eye--I said to her, indicating my fair enemy, but in
a tone too low to be overheard by the audience, these words paraphrased
from one of our finest tragedies:


     "_Bella e stupida._"


The signora flushed to the roots of her hair with anger. She started to
rouse Prince Grimani, who was sleeping with all his heart; but she
suddenly stopped, as if she had changed her mind, and kept her eyes
fixed upon me as before, but with a vindictive, threatening expression
which seemed to say:

"You shall repent of that."

Count Nasi accosted me as I left the theatre after the performance.

"Lelio," said he, "you are in love with the Grimani."

"Am I bewitched, in God's name," I cried, "and why is it that I cannot
rid myself of that apparition?"

"You won't rid yourself of it for a long time either, poor boy," said
Checchina, with a half-artless, half-mocking air; "that Grimani is the
devil. Wait a moment," she added, taking my arm, "I know something about
fever, and I will wager--_Corpo della Madonna_!"--she cried, turning
pale, "you have a terrible attack of fever, my poor Lelio!"

"One always has the fever when one acts and sings in a way to give it to
others," said the count; "come to supper with me, Lelio."

I declined; I was ill, in very truth. During the night I had a violent
fever, and the next day I could not leave my bed. Checchina installed
herself at my bedside and did not leave me all the time that I was ill.

Checchina was a young woman of twenty or thereabout, tall and large, and
of a somewhat masculine type of beauty, although very white and fair.
She was my sister and my kinswoman, that is to say, she came from
Chioggia. Like me she was a fisherman's child and had long employed her
strength beating the waters of the Adriatic with oars. A wild love of
independence led her to use her fine voice as a means of assuring
herself a free profession and a wandering life. She had run away from
her father's house and begun to roam about the country on foot, singing
in the public squares. I chanced to meet her at Milan, in a furnished
lodging-house where she was singing for the guests at the table d'hôte.
I recognized her as a Chioggian by her accent; I questioned her and
remembered seeing her as a child; but I was careful to say nothing by
which she could identify me as a _kinsman_, especially as that Daniele
Gemello who had left the neighborhood rather suddenly, as the result of
an unlucky duel. That duel cost a poor devil his life and his murderer
many sleepless nights.

Allow me to pass rapidly over that incident, and to avoid awakening a
bitter memory during our quiet evening. It will be enough for me to say
to Zorzi that the practice of duelling with knives was still in full
vigor at Chioggia in my youth, and the whole population acted as
seconds. Duels were fought in broad daylight, on the public square, and
insults were avenged by the wager of combat, as in the days of chivalry.
My melancholy success exiled me from the province! for the _podestat_
was far from lenient in such matters, and the law inflicted severe
penalties upon the last remnants of those savage old customs. Perhaps
this will explain why I always concealed the story of my early years,
and why I travelled over the world under the name of Lelio, sending
money secretly to my family, writing to them with the greatest caution,
and disclosing to no one, not even to them, my means of subsistence, for
fear that, by corresponding with me they might draw upon themselves the
open hostility of those families in Chioggia whom the death of my
assailant had angered more or less.

But, as my origin was betrayed by an ineradicable trace of the Venetian
accent, I passed myself off as a native of Palestrina, and Checchina had
adopted the habit of calling me her _countryman_, her _cousin_ or her
_gossip_, as it happened.

Thanks to my care and my assistance, Checchina rapidly acquired
considerable talent, and at the time of my life of which I am now
speaking, she had been engaged on honorable terms as a member of the
troupe at San Carlo.

She was a strange but most excellent creature, was Checchina; she had
improved wonderfully since I had picked her out of the gutter, so to
speak; but she still retained, and retains to this day, a certain
rusticity which does not altogether disappear on the stage, and which
makes her the first actress in the world in such rôles as Zerlina. She
had corrected in large measure the amplitude of her gestures and the
abruptness of her speech, but she retained enough of both to come very
near being comic in pathetic parts. However, as she had intelligence and
feeling, she raised herself to a relatively high position, but the
public did not give her all the credit she deserved. Opinions were
divided concerning her, and a certain abbé said that she brushed so
close to the sublime and the farcical that there was not enough room
left between the two for her long arms.

Unluckily, Checchina had one failing, from which, by the way, the
greatest artists are not exempt. She satisfied herself only in rôles
which were entirely unsuited to her, and, scorning those in which she
could best display her _verve_, her unconstant and her restless
activity, she insisted upon producing great effects in tragedy. Like a
true village maiden, she was intoxicated by superb costumes, and fancied
that she was really a queen when she wore a diadem and a royal cloak.
Her tall, lithe figure, her graceful, quasi-martial bearing, made of her
a magnificent statue when she was not in motion. But her exaggerated
gestures constantly betrayed the young oarswoman, and when I desired, on
the stage, to warn her to be less vehement, I would whisper: "_Per dio_!
_non vogar_! _non siamo qui sull' Adriatico_."[7]

Whether Checchina was my mistress is a question of little interest to
you, I presume. I can only assure you that she was not at the time of
which I am speaking, and that I was indebted for her affectionate care
to nothing else than the kindness of her heart and her unfailing
gratitude. She has always been a devoted sister and friend to me, and
many a time she has risked a rupture with her most brilliant lovers,
rather than desert me or neglect me when my health or my interests
demanded her zealous care or her aid.

As I was saying, she took up her post at my bedside, and did not leave
me until she had cured me. Her tireless devotion to me vexed Count Nasi
somewhat, although he was my friend and placed full confidence in my
word; but he himself confessed to me what he called his miserable
weakness. When I urged Checchina to deal more gently with that excellent
young man's involuntary sensitiveness, she would say:

"Nonsense! Don't you see that I must train him to respect my
independence? Do you suppose that, when I am his wife, I will consent to
abandon my stage friends and worry about what people in society think of
me? Don't believe it, Lelio. I propose to remain free, and to obey the
voice of my heart and nothing else."

She had persuaded herself, with none too good reason, that the count was
fully determined to marry her; and I may say that she possessed, to a
marvellous degree, the gift of deluding herself with respect to the
violence of the passions she inspired; nothing could equal her
confidence in a promise, unless it were her philosophical and heroic
indifference when she was deceived.

I suffered considerably; my disease came very near assuming a serious
character. The doctors found a very pronounced tendency to enlargement
of the heart, and the very sharp pains which I felt about that organ and
the excessive rush of blood thither necessitated numerous bleedings. So
that I lost the rest of that season, and, as soon as I was convalescent,
I went for rest and balmy air to a beautiful villa of Count Nasi's, a
few leagues from Florence, near Cafaggiolo, at the foot of the
Apennines. He promised to join me there with Checchina as soon as the
performances for which she was engaged would allow her to leave Naples.

A few days of that delightful solitude benefited me so much that I was
allowed to take excursions of some length, sometimes in the saddle,
sometimes on foot, through the narrow gorges and picturesque ravines
which form a first step to the towering masses of the Apennines. In my
musing I called that region the _proscenium_ of the great range, and I
loved to seek out some amphitheatre of hills or some natural terrace
where, all alone and far from every eye, I could indulge in outbursts of
lyric declamation, which were answered by the resonant echoes or the
mysterious murmur of the streams flowing under the rocks.

One day I unexpectedly found myself on the Florence road. Like a
glistening white ribbon it ran through a verdant, gently undulating
country, strewn with beautiful gardens, wooded parks and handsome
villas. Seeking to learn my whereabouts, I stopped at the gate of one of
those charming abodes. The gate was open, and I could see an avenue of
old trees mysteriously intertwined. Beneath those dark, voluptuously
enlaced branches a woman was walking slowly--a woman of slender form and
a bearing so noble that I paused to gaze at her and follow her with my
eyes as long as possible. As she showed no inclination to turn, I was
seized with an irresistible longing to see her features, and I yielded
to it, heedless of the fact that I was violating the proprieties, and
might be subjected to a humiliating rebuff.

"Who can say," I said to myself, "women are so indulgent sometimes in
this mild climate of ours!"

Moreover, I reasoned that my face was too well known for me ever to be
taken for a robber; and, lastly, I relied to some extent on the
curiosity which the great majority of people feel to obtain a near view
of the features and manners of an artist of some celebrity.

So I ventured into the shady avenue, walking rapidly, and was just about
to overtake the solitary promenader, when I saw coming toward her a
young man dressed in the latest fashion, and with a pretty, insipid
face, who caught sight of me before I had time to jump in among the
trees. I was within three yards of the noble pair. The young man stopped
beside the lady, offered her his arm, and said to her, glancing at me
with the most surprised air of which a perfectly attired man is capable:

"My dear cousin, who is this man who is following you?"

The lady turned, and the sight of her gave me such a shock that for a
moment I was in danger of a relapse. My heart gave a sharp, nervous
throb as I recognized the young woman who stared at me in such a curious
way from her proscenium box at the time I was taken ill at Naples. Her
face flushed slightly, then lost its color. But no gesture, no
exclamation betrayed either surprise or anger. She eyed me from head to
foot with calm disdain, and replied with incredible audacity:

"I don't know him."

That extraordinary statement aroused my curiosity. It seemed to me that
I could detect in that girl such consummate dissimulation and such a
strange sort of pride that I suddenly felt irresistibly impelled to take
the risk of a mad adventure. We Bohemians do not allow ourselves to be
awed overmuch by the customs of society and the laws of propriety; we
have no great fear of being ejected from those private theatres where
society takes its turn at posing before us, and where we feel so
strongly the superiority of the artist; for there no one can arouse in
us the intense emotions which we have the art of arousing. Salons bore
us to death and chill our blood, in return for the warmth and life that
we carry thither. So I approached my noble hosts with a dignified air,
caring very little about the manner of their reception of me, and
determined to take the first convenient pretext for obtaining admission
to the house.

I bowed gravely and represented myself as a piano-tuner who had been
sent for to Florence from a country-house, the name of which I pretended
to remember imperfectly.

"This is not the place. You may quit this place," replied the signora,
coldly. But, like a true fiancé, the cousin came to my assistance.

"My dear cousin," he said, "your piano is terribly out of tune; if this
man could spare an hour, we might have some music this evening. I beg
you to let him tune it, won't you?"

The young Grimani had a wicked smile on her lips as she replied:

"As you please, cousin."

"Does she propose to amuse herself at my expense or his?" I thought.
"Perhaps both."

I bowed slightly to signify my consent. Thereupon the cousin, with
careless courtesy, pointed out to me a glass door at the end of the
avenue, where the branches, drooping lower and lower until they formed a
sort of arbor, concealed the front of the villa.

"At the end of the large salon, signor," he said, "you will find a
study. The piano is there. I shall have the honor to see you again when
you have finished. Shall we walk as far as the pond?" he added, turning
to his cousin.

I saw her smile again, almost imperceptibly, but with the keenest
delight at the mortification that I felt, while she let me go in one
direction and continued her stroll in the other, leaning on the arm of
her elegant and aristocratic cousin.

It is not a very difficult matter to put a piano _almost_ in tune, and
although I had never tried before, I succeeded very well; but I spent
much more time about it than an experienced hand would have required,
and I watched with some impatience the sun sinking behind the treetops;
for I had no other pretext for another interview with my singular
heroine than to hear her try the piano when it was in tune. So I worked
away awkwardly enough, and was in the midst of a monotonous drumming
with which I was almost deafening myself, when I raised my head and saw
the signora before me, half turned toward the fireplace, but watching me
in the mirror with malicious intentness. To meet her sidelong glance and
turn my eyes away was a matter of a second. I continued my work with the
utmost coolness, resolved to watch the enemy and see what she was
driving at.

La Grimani--I continued to give her that name in my mind, knowing no
other--made a pretence of arranging some flowers in the vases on the
mantel with great care; then she moved a chair, moved it back to the
place where it was before, dropped her fan, picked it up with a great
rustling of her skirts, opened a window, and instantly closed it again,
then, seeing that I was determined not to notice anything, she adopted
the extreme course of dropping a stool on her pretty little foot and
uttering a cry of pain. I was stupid enough to drop the key on the
metallic strings, which emitted a piteous wail. The signora started,
shrugged her shoulders, and, suddenly recovering all her
self-possession, as if we were acting a scene in a burlesque, she looked
me in the face and said:

"_Cosa, signore?_"

"I thought that your ladyship spoke to me," I replied, with no less
tranquillity, and resumed my work. She remained standing in the middle
of the room as if petrified by amazement in the face of such audacity,
or as if brought to a standstill by a sudden doubt as to my identity
with the person whom she had thought that she recognized. At last she
lost patience, and asked me, almost roughly, if I had nearly finished.

"Oh! bless my soul, no! signora," I replied; "here is a broken string,
you see." As I spoke I gave the key a sharp twist on the pin I was
turning, and broke the string.

"It seems to me," said she, "that this piano is giving you a great deal
of trouble."

"A great deal," I rejoined, "the strings keep breaking." And I snapped a
second one.

"That is very extraordinary," she exclaimed.

"Yes, it is indeed extraordinary," I replied.

The cousin entered at that moment, and I snapped a third string by way
of salute. It was one of the lower bass strings, and it made a terrible
report. The cousin, who was not expecting it, stepped back, and the
signora laughed aloud. That laugh had a strange sound to me. It was not
in harmony with her face or her manner; it was harsh and spasmodic, and
disconcerted the cousin so that I almost pitied him.

"I am very much afraid," she said, when that nervous paroxysm came to an
end and she was able to speak, "I am very much afraid that we cannot
have any music to-night. This poor old _cembalo_ is bewitched, all the
strings are breaking. It is really supernatural, I assure you, Hector;
if you so much as look at them they twist and snap with a horrible
noise."

With that she began to laugh again, peal upon peal, without the
slightest trace of merriment on her face. The cousin laughed because she
did, but was abruptly checked by these words from her:

"For heaven's sake, cousin, don't laugh; you haven't the slightest
inclination to."

The cousin seemed to me to be well used to being laughed at and teased.
But he was hurt, no doubt, to be treated so in my presence; for he said
in an irritated tone:

"Why shouldn't I be inclined to laugh as well as you, cousin?"

"Because I say that you are not," she replied. "But tell me, Hector,"
she added, abruptly changing the subject, "were you at San Carlo last
year?"

"No, cousin."

"In that case you did not hear the famous Lelio?"

She said these last words with significant emphasis; but she had not the
impudence to look me in the face immediately, and I had time to recover
from the emotion caused me by that blow full in the face.

"I neither heard him nor saw him," said the guileless cousin, "but I
heard a great dea! about him. He's a great artist, so I understand."

"Very great," replied La Grimani, "a full head taller than you. See! he
is about this gentleman's height.--Do you know him, signor?" she added,
turning to me.

"I know him very well, signora," I replied tartly; "he is a very
handsome fellow, a very great actor, an admirable singer, a very clever
talker, a bold and spirited adventurer, and, furthermore, a fearless
duellist, which is not amiss."

The signora looked at her cousin, then glanced at me, with an
indifferent air, as if to say: "It's of little consequence to me." Then
she went off into another paroxysm of inextinguishable laughter, which
was altogether unnatural, and in which neither her cousin nor myself
joined. I returned to my pursuit of the dominant chord on the keyboard,
and Signor Ettore moved about impatiently, making his new boots squeak
on the floor, as if he were utterly disgusted with the conversation
being carried on between a mere workman like myself and his noble
fiancée.

"Look you, cousin, you mustn't believe what he says about Lelio,"
observed the signora, abruptly ceasing her convulsive laughter. "So far
as the man's great beauty is concerned, I cannot contradict him for I
didn't look at him; and, besides, an actor can always appear young and
handsome with his paint and his false hair and moustaches. But as to his
being an admirable singer and a good actor, that I deny. In the first
place he sings false, in the second place he acts detestably. His
declamation is too loud, his gestures commonplace, the expression of his
features stiff and conventional. When he weeps, he makes wry faces; when
he threatens, he roars; when he is majestic, he is tedious; and, in his
best moments, when he holds himself back and doesn't speak, one might
apply to him the refrain of the ballad:


    "'_Brutto è quanto stupido._'


I am sorry to disagree with this gentleman; but my opinion is the
opinion of the public! It isn't my fault that Lelio didn't have the
slightest success at San Carlo, and I don't advise you to take the
journey to Naples to see him, cousin."

Having received this stinging lesson, for a moment I was on the verge of
losing my head and picking a quarrel with the cousin to punish the
signora; but the excellent youth did not give me time.

"That is just like a woman," he cried, "and above all things just like
one of your inconceivable whims, cousin! Not more than three days ago,
you told me that Lelio was the finest actor and the most incomparable
singer in all Italy. I have no doubt that you will say to-morrow just
the opposite of what you say to-day, with the privilege of taking it all
back again the next day."

"To-morrow and the day after to-morrow and every day of my life, my dear
cousin," the signora hurriedly interposed, "I will tell you that you are
a fool and Lelio an idiot."

"Brava, signora," rejoined the cousin in an undertone, offering her his
arm to leave the salon; "he who loves you is a fool, and he who
displeases you an idiot."

"Before your lordship and ladyship retire," I said, without the
slightest symptom of emotion, "I will call your attention to the fact
that this piano is in such a bad condition that I cannot possibly repair
it properly in one day. I am obliged to go now; but if such is your
wish, I will return to-morrow."

"Certainly, signor," replied the cousin, with patronizing politeness,
half turning toward me; "you will oblige me if you will return
to-morrow."

La Grimani, stopping him with a sudden and energetic motion of her head,
forced him to turn wholly around, and as she stood in the doorway,
leaning on his arm and eyeing me with an air of defiance, she said, as
she saw me close the piano and take my hat:

"Will the signor come again to-morrow?"

"Most certainly I shall not fail to do so," I replied, bowing to the
ground.

She continued to detain her cousin in the doorway, so that I was obliged
to pass in front of them in order to go out; and, as I did so, I bowed
again and looked my Bradamante in the eye with an assurance befitting
the combat upon which we had entered. A gleam of undaunted courage
flashed from her eyes. Therein I read distinctly that my boldness did
not displease her, and that the lists were not closed to me.

So I was at my post before noon the next day, and found my heroine at
hers, seated at the piano and touching the silent or jangling keys with
admirable indifference, as if she desired to prove to me by those
diabolical discords her detestation and contempt for music.

I entered calmly and saluted her with as much respectful indifference as
if I were in reality a piano-tuner. I placed my hat carelessly on a
chair, I laboriously drew off my gloves, imitating the awkwardness of a
man unused to wearing them. I took from my pocket a wooden box filled
with spools of wire, and began to unwind enough for one string--all with
the utmost gravity and without affectation. The signora continued to
pound the hapless piano in unmerciful fashion, although the sounds she
produced were of a nature to put to flight the most hardened savages. I
at once saw that she was amusing herself by destroying its tone and
breaking it more and more, in order to provide work for me, and I
detected more coquetry than cruelty in that devilment; for she seemed
disposed to remain with me.

Thereupon I said to her with a perfectly serious face: "Does your
ladyship think that the piano begins to be in tune?"

"The harmony is satisfactory to me," she said, biting her lips to keep
from laughing, "and the sounds it gives forth are extremely pleasant to
the ear."

"It is a fine instrument," said I.

"And in very good condition," she rejoined.

"Your ladyship is a very talented performer."

"As you see."

"That is a charming waltz, and exceedingly well executed."

"Is it not? How could one help playing well on an instrument in such
perfect tune? You love music, signor?"

"A little, signora; but your playing goes to my heart."

"In that case I will continue." And she proceeded, with a fiendish
smile, to murder one of the _bravura_ airs she had heard me sing with
the greatest applause on the stage.

"Is his lordship your cousin well?" I said, when she had finished.

"He is hunting."

"Is your ladyship fond of game?"

"I am immoderately fond of it. And you, signor?"

"I am sincerely and deeply partial to it."

"Which do you like best, game or music?"

"I like music at table, but at this moment I should like some game
better."

She rose and rang. A servant appeared instantly, as if he were a piece
of machinery set in motion by the bell-rope.

"Bring the game-pie that I saw in the pantry this morning," said the
signora; and two minutes later the servant reappeared with an enormous
pie, which he majestically placed on the piano at a sign from his
mistress. A large salver, covered with dishes and all the accessories
necessary for the refreshment of civilized beings, appeared as if by
magic on the other side of the instrument, and the signora, with a
strong but light touch, broke through the rampart of appetizing crust
and made a large breach in the fortress.


[Illustration: _THE STRANGE LUNCHEON._

"_This is a conquest in which our lords and masters
the French shall have no share," she said, taking
possession of a partridge which she placed on a
Japanese plate; and she went with it to the other
end of the room, where she squatted upon a velvet
hassock with gold tassels, and proceeded to devour it._]


"This is a conquest in which our lords and masters the French shall have
no share," she said, taking possession of a partridge which she placed
on a Japanese plate; and she went with it to the other end of the room,
where she squatted upon a velvet hassock with gold tassels, and
proceeded to devour it.

I gazed at her in amazement, uncertain whether she was mad or was trying
to mystify me.

"You are not eating?" she said, without moving.

"Your ladyship has not ordered me to do so," I replied.

"Oh! don't stand on ceremony," said she, continuing to eat with great
zest.

The pie had such an alluring look and such a delicious odor that I
listened to the philosophical arguments of common sense. I placed
another partridge on another Japanese plate, which I rested on the
keyboard of the piano, and began to eat with as much gusto as the
signora.

"If this is not the castle of the Sleeping Beauty," I thought, "and if
this cruel fairy is not the only living being in it, we shall soon see
an uncle or a father or an aunt or a governess, or somebody who is
supposed, in the eyes of honest folk, to serve as chaperon to this
untamed creature. In case of any such apparition, I should like to know
just how far this eccentric fashion of breakfasting on a piano,
tête-à-tête with the young lady of the house, will be considered
seemly. It matters little after all; I must find out just where these
extravagant whims are likely to carry me, and if there is a woman's
spite behind them, I will have my turn if I have to wait ten years."

As I reflected thus I watched my fair hostess over the piano. She was
eating with superhuman appetite, and seemed to be in no wise possessed
by the idiotic mania which young ladies have of eating only in secret,
and pressing their lips together at table with a sentimental air, as if
they were of a nature superior to ours. Lord Byron had not yet
introduced the fashion of lack of appetite among the fair sex. So that
my capricious signora abandoned herself with all her heart to the
enjoyment of feasting, and in a few moments she returned to me and took
a fillet of hare and a pheasant's wing from the dismantled pie. She
looked at me without a smile, and said sententiously: "This east wind
gives me an appetite."

"It seems that your ladyship is blessed with an excellent digestive
apparatus," I observed.

"If one had not a good stomach at fifteen," she replied, "it would be as
well to throw up the sponge."

"Fifteen!" I cried, looking at her closely and dropping my fork.

"Fifteen years and two months," she replied, returning to her hassock
with her freshly-filled plate; "my mother is not yet thirty-two, and she
married again last year. Tell me, isn't it strange that a mother should
marry before her daughter? To be sure, if my darling little mother had
chosen to wait for me to be married, she would have had to wait a long
while. Who would ever marry a girl who, although she is beautiful, is
_stupid_ beyond anything one can imagine?"

There was so much merriment and good-humor in the serious air with which
she made fun of me; she was such a pretty _loustig_, that tall girl with
the black eyes and the long curls falling over a neck as white as
alabaster; her manner of sitting on her cushion was so graceful yet so
chaste in its perfect naturalness, that all my suspicion and all my evil
designs vanished. I had determined to empty the decanter of wine in
order to put my scruples to sleep. I pushed the decanter away, and,
having satisfied my appetite, rested my elbow on the piano and began to
study her anew, and under a new aspect. That revelation as to her age
had thrown all my ideas into confusion. When I have desired to form an
opinion concerning a person, especially one of the fair sex, I have
always considered it a matter of the utmost importance to ascertain that
person's age as nearly as possible. Subtlety increases so rapidly in
women that six months more or less often make the difference between the
innocence which is deviltry and the deviltry which is innocence. Until
then I had imagined that La Grimani was at least twenty years old. She
was so tall and strong and dark, and there was so much self-assurance in
her glance, in her bearing, in her every movement, that everybody made
the same mistake at first sight. But on examining her more closely I
realized my error. Her shoulders were broad and powerful, but her breast
was still undeveloped. Although her whole attitude was womanly there
were certain little ways and certain expressions of the face which
revealed the child. Nothing more was needed than that hearty appetite,
that total absence of coquetry, and the audacious impropriety of the
tête-à-tête she had arranged to have with me, to make it clear to my
eyes that I had to do, not as I had supposed at first, with a proud and
crafty woman of the world, but with a mischievous boarding-school girl,
and I thrust aside with horror the idea of abusing her imprudence.

I remained for a long while absorbed in this scrutiny, forgetting to
reply to the significant challenge I had received. She looked at me
earnestly, and I no longer thought of avoiding her glance, but of
analyzing it. She had the loveliest eyes in the world, flush with her
face, and very wide open; their glance was always sharp and direct, and
grasped its object instantly. It was imperious but not overbearing, a
very rare thing in a woman. It was the revelation and the expression of
a fearless, proud, and sincere mind. It questioned all things with an
air of authority, and seemed to say: "Conceal nothing from me: for I
have nothing to conceal from anybody."

When she saw that I did not shrink from her gaze, she was startled but
not frightened; and, rising abruptly, she invited the explanation which
I desired to propose.

"Signor Lelio," she said, "if you have finished your breakfast, you will
kindly tell me why you came here."

"I will obey you, signora," I replied, picking up her plate and glass,
which she had left on the floor, and carrying them back to the piano;
"but I beg your ladyship to tell me whether the piano-tuner shall answer
you sitting at the instrument, or whether the actor Lelio shall stand
before you, hat in hand, ready to retire after he has had the honor to
talk with you."

"Signor Lelio will kindly sit in this chair," she said, pointing to one
on the right hand of the fire-place, "and I in this," she added, taking
her seat on the left side, facing me and about ten feet away.

"Signora," I said, as I sat down, "in order to obey you I must go back a
little. About two months ago I was playing in _Romeo and Juliet_ at San
Carlo. There was in one of the proscenium boxes----"

"I can refresh your memory," interposed La Grimani. "There was in one of
the proscenium boxes on the right of the stage a young woman whom you
considered beautiful; but on looking at her more closely, it seemed to
you that her face was so devoid of expression that you shouted to one of
the ladies on the stage, loud enough to be overheard by the young woman
in question----"

"In heaven's name! signora," I interrupted, "do not repeat the words
that escaped from me in my delirium, and let me tell you that I am
subject to attacks of nervous irritation which make me almost insane.
When I am in that condition everything offends me, everything causes me
intense suffering----"

"I do not ask why it was your pleasure to announce so concisely your
judgment of the young woman in the box; I simply ask you for the rest of
the story."

"In order to be perfectly truthful and coherent, I must insist upon the
prologue. Under the influence of a first attack of fever, the beginning
of a serious illness from which I have hardly recovered, I fancied that
I could read profound contempt and frigid irony on the incomparably
lovely face of the young lady in the proscenium box. I was annoyed at
first, then seriously disturbed, and at last completely upset, so that I
lost my head and yielded to a brutal impulse in order to put an end to
the fatal spell which benumbed all my faculties and paralyzed me at the
most powerful and most important part of my rôle. Your ladyship must
forgive me for an act of madness; I believe in magnetism, especially on
those days when I am ill and when my brain is as weak as my legs. I
fancied that the young lady in the box had an injurious influence over
me; and during the cruel disease which took full possession of me on the
day following my offence, I will confess that she often appeared in my
delirium; but always haughty, always threatening, and promising me that
I should pay dearly for the blasphemy that fell from my lips. Such,
signora, is the first part of my story."

I made ready my shield to ward off a volley of epigrams by way of
comment on this strange tale, which, although true, was most improbable,
I must confess. But the young Grimani, gazing at me with a gentleness
which I had no idea could be found in conjunction with her type of
beauty, said to me, leaning a little heavily on the arm of her chair:

"Your face does in truth show signs of great suffering, Signor Lelio;
and if I must confess the whole truth, when I recognized you yesterday,
I said to myself that I must have observed you very carelessly on the
stage; for you seemed to me then ten years younger; but to-day you seem
no older than you did on the stage; but still I think that you look ill,
and I am very, very sorry that I caused you any irritation."

I involuntarily moved my chair nearer to hers; whereupon she at once
resumed her mocking and capricious tone.

"Let us pass to the second part of your story, Signor Lelio," she said,
playing with her fan, "and be kind enough to tell me why, instead of
avoiding the person the sight of whom is so hateful and prejudicial to
you, you have come as far as this in pursuit of her."

"At this point the author finds himself in an embarrassing position," I
replied, pushing back my chair, which moved very easily at the slightest
turn in the conversation. "Shall I tell you that chance alone led me
here? If I do, will your ladyship believe it? and if I say that it was
not chance, will your ladyship tolerate such impertinence?"

"It matters very little to me," she rejoined, "whether it is chance, or
magnetic attraction, as you will say, perhaps, that brings you to this
neighborhood; I simply desire to know by what chance you became a
piano-tuner?"

"The chance of inspiration, signora; a pretext to obtain admission to
this house was all that I wanted."

"But why did you wish to be admitted to this house?"

"I will answer frankly if your ladyship will deign first to tell me what
chance induced you to admit me, although you recognized me at the first
glance?"

"The chance of caprice, Signor Lelio. I was bored to death here, alone
with my cousin, or with a pious old aunt whom I hardly know; and while
one is hunting and the other at church, I thought that I might venture
to enliven by a mad freak the ghastly solitude in which I am left to
pine away."

Once more my chair of its own motion approached hers, but I hesitated to
take her hand. At that moment she seemed to me decidedly forward. There
are some girls who are born women, and who are corrupt before they have
lost their innocence.

"She is a child, beyond doubt," I thought, "but a child who is tired of
being one, and I should be a great fool not to reply to allurements
resorted to so coolly and boldly. Faith! I am sorry for the cousin! Why
does he care more for hunting than for his kinswoman?"

But the signora paid no heed to the agitation that had laid hold of me.
"Now the farce is at an end," she continued; "we have eaten my cousin's
game and I have talked with an actor. I have fooled my aunt and my
future spouse. Last week my cousin was furious because I praised you
with what he considered too great warmth. Now, when he mentions you to
me, and when my aunt says that the actors are all excommunicated in
France, I will look at the floor with a modest and beatific expression,
and laugh in my sleeve to think that I know Signor Lelio, and that I
breakfasted with him, in this very room, without anyone's suspecting it.
But now, Signor Lelio, you must tell me why you chose to obtain
admission to this house by playing a false rôle?"

"Forgive me, signora--you just now said something which touched me
deeply. You said, did you not, that you praised me last week with _great
warmth_?"

"Oh! I only did it to make my cousin angry. I am not naturally
enthusiastic."

When she flaunted me, it revived my zest for the adventure, and
emboldened me.

"Since you are so frank with me, signora," I rejoined, "I will be
equally frank with your ladyship. I sought admission to this house with
the intention of atoning for my crime and humbly imploring the
forgiveness of the divine beauty I blasphemed."

As I spoke, I slipped from my chair, and knelt at La Grimani's feet, and
was very near taking possession of her lovely hands. She did not seem
greatly moved by my action; but I saw that, to conceal a slight
embarrassment, she pretended to be examining the Chinese mandarins whose
gowns of purple and gold gleamed resplendent on her fan.

"Really, signor," she said, without looking at me, "you are very good to
think that you owe me an apology. In the first place, if I have a stupid
look, you are not at all to blame for noticing it; in the second place,
if I have not, it is a matter of absolute indifference to me whether or
not you are persuaded that I have."

"I swear by all the gods, and particularly by Apollo, that I said what I
did only because I was angry or mad, or it may be because of a very
different sentiment, which was then but just born and was already sowing
confusion in my mind. I saw that you considered me detestable, and that
you were not inclined to be at all indulgent to me; could I tranquilly
resign myself to lose the only approbation which it would have been
sweet and glorious for me to obtain? In a word, signora, I am here; I
discovered your abode, and though I barely knew your name, I sought you,
pursued you, and reached you in spite of distance and obstacles. I am
here at your feet. Do you think that I would have surmounted such
difficulties if I had not been tortured by remorse, not because of you,
who justly disdain to consider the effect of your charms on a poor
player like myself; but because of God, whose fairest work I insulted
and undervalued?"

While I was speaking, I ventured to take one of her hands; but she
suddenly sprang to her feet, saying:

"Rise, signor, rise! here is my cousin coming back from hunting."

Indeed, I had barely time to run to the piano and open it before Signor
Ettore Grimani, in hunting costume and gun in hand, entered the room and
deposited his well-filled game-bag at his cousin's feet.

"Oh! don't come so near me," said the signora; "you are horribly dirty,
and all those bleeding creatures make me sick. Oh! Hector, go away, I
beg, and take all these nasty great dogs with you; they smell of mud and
soil the floor."

The cousin was fain to be content with that outburst of gratitude, and
to go to his room and perfume himself at his leisure. But he had no
sooner gone out than a sort of duenna appeared and informed the signora
that her aunt had returned and wished to see her.

"I will go," La Grimani replied; "and do you, signor," she said, turning
to me, "take this key away with you, as it is broken, and glue it
firmly. You must bring it back to-morrow, and finish replacing the
missing strings. I can count on you, signor? You will be sure to come?"

"Yes, signora, you may rely upon it," I replied; and I took my leave,
carrying away the wrong key, which was not broken.

I was on hand promptly on the following day. But do not think, my
friends, that I was in love with that young person; the utmost that can
be said is that she attracted me. She was extremely lovely; but I saw
her beauty with the eyes of the body, I did not feel it through the eyes
of the soul; if, from time to time, I was on the point of falling in
love with that childish petulance, my doubts soon returned, and I said
to myself that a girl who lied so coolly to her cousin and her governess
might well have lied to me; that, perhaps, she was twenty years old or
more, as I had thought at first; and that it was quite likely that she
had indulged in some previous escapades for which she had been secluded
in that dull villa, with no other society than a pious old woman whose
duty it was to scold her, and an excellent young cousin predestined to
take upon his back, in his guilelessness, all her errors, past, present
and to come.

I found her in the salon with the dear cousin and three or four hunting
dogs, who came very near devouring me. The signora, who was nothing if
not capricious, honored those noble beasts with very different treatment
from that of the day before, and although they were hardly less dirty
and disagreeable, she obligingly allowed them to lie, one by one, or all
in a heap, on a large sofa of red velvet with gold fringe. From time to
time she sat down in the midst of them, petting some and playfully
teasing others.

Before long, I concluded that this revulsion of feeling toward the dogs
was a bit of affectionate coquetry addressed to her cousin; for the
fair-haired Signor Ettore seemed greatly flattered by it, and I don't
know which he loved best, his cousin or his dogs.

She was bewilderingly vivacious, and she seemed to be keyed up to such a
high pitch, the glances that she bestowed upon me in the mirror were so
keen-edged, that I longed for the cousin's departure. And he did leave
the room before long. The signora gave him an errand to do. She had to
ask him several times, but he finally obeyed an imperious glance,
accompanied by a: "Don't you propose to go?" uttered in a tone which he
seemed altogether incapable of defying.

He had no sooner disappeared than I turned away from the piano and rose,
looking in the signora's eyes to see whether I should go to her or wait
for her to come to me. She, too, was standing, and seemed to be trying
to read in my face what I was likely to do. But she gave me little
encouragement, and as I fancied that her lips were partly open to give
me a harsh lesson if I should be unlucky enough to lose my wits in that
perilous engagement, I began to feel somewhat disturbed inwardly. I do
not know why it was that that exchange of glances, at once alluring and
distrustful, that effervescence of our whole being which kept us both as
motionless as statues, that alternation of audacity and fear which
paralyzed me at what was perhaps the decisive moment of my adventure,
and even La Grimani's black velvet gown, and the bright sunlight which
shone into the room through the dark curtains and expired in a fantastic
blending of light and shadow at our feet--the hour, the burning
atmosphere, and the restrained beating of my heart--all combined to
bring vividly to my mind an analogous scene of my youth: Signora Bianca
Aldini, in the shadow of her gondola, enchaining with a magnetic glance
one of my feet on the shore of the Lido, the other on the boat. I felt
the same mental bewilderment, the same inward agitation, the same
desire, ready to give place to the same wrath. "Can it be," I thought,
"that it was self-esteem that made me desire Bianca then, or is it love
that makes me desire La Grimani to-day?"

It was not possible for me to rush forth into the fields, singing
recklessly, as I had on that former occasion leaped ashore on the Lido,
to revenge myself for a bit of innocent coquetry. There was no other
course for me to adopt than to resume my seat, no other way for me to
revenge myself than to begin again on the major fifth:
_A-mi-la-E-si-mi_.

I must admit that that method of venting my spite could not afford me a
signal triumph. An imperceptible smile fluttered about the corners of
the signora's mouth when I bent my legs to sit down, and it seemed to me
that I could read these pleasant words on her face: "Lelio you are a
child."--But, when I abruptly rose again, ready to hurl the piano across
the room and fly to her feet, I plainly read these terrible words in her
black eye: "Signor, you are a madman."

"Signora Aldini," I reflected, "was twenty-two years old, I was fifteen
or sixteen; now I am more than twenty-two. That Bianca should govern me
absolutely was natural enough, but it is not natural that I should be
made a fool of by this girl. So I must be cool."

I calmly resumed my seat, saying:

"Excuse me, signora, if I look at the clock. I cannot stay long, and
this piano seems to be in sufficiently good condition for me to go about
my business."

"In good condition!" she replied with unmistakable irritation. "You have
put it in such good condition that I am afraid I can never play on it as
long as I live. I am very angry about it. You undertook to tune it; you
must do it, Signor Lelio, for your own reputation."

"Signora," I replied, "I care no more about tuning this piano than you
do about playing on it. I obeyed your command to return, in order not to
compromise you by putting an end to this pretence too suddenly. But your
ladyship must understand that the jest cannot be prolonged forever; that
by the third day it ceases to be amusing except to you, and that on the
fourth it would be a little dangerous to me. I am neither so wealthy nor
so renowned that I can afford to waste time. Will not your ladyship
allow me to retire in a few moments; then a genuine tuner will come this
afternoon and finish my work, saying that I am ill and have sent him in
my place. I can find a substitute who will be grateful to me for
providing him with a new customer, all without betraying our little
secret, and without making myself known."

The signora did not say a word in reply; but she turned as pale as
death, and again I felt that I was beaten. The cousin returned. I could
not restrain a gesture of annoyance. The signora noticed it, and again
she triumphed; and again, seeing that I did not propose to go, she
amused herself by playing upon my inward agitation.

She became very rosy and animated once more. She plied her cousin with
cajoleries which were so close to the line between affection and irony
that soon neither he nor I knew what to think. Then she suddenly turned
her back on him, and, coming to my side, requested me, in a low tone and
with a mysterious air, to keep the piano a quarter of a tone below the
pitch, because she had a contralto voice. Whom was she trying to impose
upon--her cousin or myself--by telling me that great secret as if it
were a matter of such importance? I was on the point of going up to
Hector and shaking hands with him, for we seemed to me to cut an equally
foolish and laughable figure. But I saw that the excellent youth
attached more importance to the matter than I did, and he cast a
sidelong glance at me with such a profound and crafty expression, that I
had much difficulty in refraining from laughter. I answered La Grimani,
under my breath and with a still more confidential air:

"I have anticipated your wishes, signora, and the piano is just in tune
with the orchestra at San Carlo, where they lowered the pitch last
season because of my cold."

Thereupon, the signora took her cousin's arm with a theatrical gesture,
and hurriedly led him into the garden. As they walked back and forth in
front of the house, and I could see their shadows on the curtain, I took
my stand behind the curtain and listened to their conversation.

"That is exactly what I wanted to say to you, my dear cousin," the
signora was saying. "This man has a strange, terrifying face; he has no
idea what a piano is, and he will never finish tuning it. You will see!
He is a mere adventurer, mark my words. We must keep our eyes on him,
and do you hold your watch in your hand when he comes near you. I would
take my oath that when I leaned over the piano, unsuspectingly, to tell
him to lower the pitch, he put out his hand to steal my gold chain."

"Nonsense! you are joking, cousin! It is impossible that a thief should
be so bold. That isn't what I want to say to you at all, and you pretend
not to understand me."

"I pretend, Hector? You accuse me of pretending? I pretend! Come, tell
me if you really think you are worth the trouble it would give me to
make up a falsehood?"

"This severity is quite useless, cousin. It seems at all events that I
am worth the trouble of seeking an opportunity to make humiliating
speeches to me."

"But what are you talking about, I would ask, cousin? And why do you say
that this man----"

"I say that this man is not a piano-tuner, that he is not tuning your
piano, that he never tuned a piano in his life. I say that he never
takes his eye off you, that he watches your every movement, that he
breathes in every word you speak. I say that he must have seen you
somewhere, at Naples or Florence, at the theatre or driving, and that he
fell in love with you."

"And gained admittance here, _in disguise_, to see me, and perhaps to
seduce me, the scoundrel, the villain!"

Having said thus much with great vehemence, the signora threw herself
back on a bench, laughing uproariously. As I saw the cousin stalking
toward the door of the salon, apparently in a furious passion, I
returned to my post, and, arming myself with my tuning hammer, resolved
to strike him down with it if he should attempt to insult me; for I had
already set him down as one of the men who arrange matters so as to
avoid fighting, and who call their servants when one challenges them
within hearing of the antechamber.

"He will fall dead before he pulls that bell-rope," I thought, as I
grasped the hammer and cast a rapid glance about me. But my adventure
did not long retain this dramatic aspect. I saw the signora and her
cousin, arm-in-arm once more, walking on the terrace, and pausing from
time to time at the half-open glass door to look at me, she with a
mocking, he with an embarrassed air. I no longer knew what they were
saying to each other, and my wrath rose higher and higher in my throat.

Suddenly a pretty soubrette joined them on the terrace. The signora
spoke to her with much animation, now laughing, now assuming an
imperious tone. The soubrette seemed to hesitate; the cousin seemed to
be urging the signora to do nothing extravagant. At last the maid came
to me in some confusion, and said, blushing to the roots of her hair:

"Signor, the signora bids me say to you, in so many words, that you are
an insolent person, and that you would do much better to tune the piano
than to stare at her as you are doing. Pardon me, signor. I am very sure
that it is a jest."

"And I take it as such," I replied; "but say to the signora that I
present my profound respects to her, and that I beg her not to think me
insolent enough to stare at her. I was not so much as thinking of her,
and if I must tell you the truth, it was you, my lovely maid, whom I saw
out in the field, and who engrossed me so that I forgot to go on with my
work."

"I, signor," said the soubrette, blushing more hotly than ever, and
hanging her head in her embarrassment. "How could I engross the signor?"

"Because you are a hundred times prettier than your mistress," I said,
putting my arm about her and giving her a kiss before she had time to
suspect my purpose.

She was a pretty village girl, the signora's foster sister. She too was
dark and tall and slender, but timid in her manner, and as artless and
gentle in her bearing as her young mistress was cunning and determined.
She was thrown into such confusion by being embraced so unceremoniously
before the signora, who had come to the door of the salon, followed by
her idiotic cousin, that she fled, hiding her face in her blue apron
with silver border. The signora, who was equally surprised to find that
I took her impertinence so philosophically, stepped back, and the
cousin, who had seen nothing, repeated several times the question: "What
is it? What's the matter?"

The poor girl would not pause in her flight to reply, and the signora
laughed a forced laugh which I pretended not to notice.

A few moments later she reappeared alone. Her face wore an expression
which was meant to be severe, but was really confused and distressed.

"It is lucky for us both, signor," she said in a voice that trembled
slightly, "that my cousin is simple-minded and gullible; for you must
know that he is of a jealous and quarrelsome disposition."

"Really, signora?" I replied, gravely.

"Do not laugh at me, signor," she retorted angrily. "One may be easily
deceived when one loves; but the name of Grimani stands for personal
courage."

"I do not doubt it, signora," I replied in the same tone.

"I beg you, therefore, signor," she continued, still speaking with
involuntary vehemence, "not to come here again; for all this jesting
might end badly."

"That is as you please, signora," I replied, as imperturbably as before.

"It is evident, however, signor, that you find it very amusing; for you
do not seem disposed to put an end to it."

"If I amuse myself, signora, it is by way of being obedient, as we all
amuse ourselves in Italy under the reign of Napoleon the Great. I wished
to retire an hour ago, and it was you who forbade it."

"I forbade it? Do you dare to say that I forbade it?"

"I intended to say, signora, that you did not think of it; for I
expected that you would give me some sort of a plausible pretext for
taking my leave in the midst of my task; and, for my own part, it was
impossible for me to imagine such a pretext. It would be so entirely
unnatural in the present condition of the piano, and I am so firmly
resolved to do nothing that can possibly compromise you, that I will
return to-morrow."

"You will do nothing of the kind."

"I beg your ladyship's pardon, I will return to-morrow."

"For what purpose, signor? And by what right?"

"I will return to gratify Signor Ettore's curiosity, for he is very much
puzzled to know who I am; and I will return because you have yourself
given me the right to face the man with whom you were pleased to make
merry at my expense."

"Is that a threat, Signor Lelio?" she asked, concealing her fright
beneath the cloak of pride.

"No, signora. A man who does not falter before another man is not of the
threatening sort."

"But my cousin said nothing to you, signor; I did all this jesting
against his will."

"But he is jealous and quarrelsome. Moreover, he is brave. Now, I am not
jealous, signora, I have neither the right nor the desire to be. But I
am quarrelsome, and it may be too that, although my name is not Grimani,
I am a brave man; what do you know about it?"

"Oh! I have no doubt of it, Lelio!" she cried, in a tone that made me
quiver from head to foot, it was so entirely different from what I had
been hearing for two or three days.

I looked at her in amazement; she lowered her eyes with an air at once
modest and proud. Once again I was disarmed.

"Signora," I said, "I will do whatever you choose, as you choose, and
nothing that you do not choose."

She hesitated a moment.

"You cannot come again as a piano-tuner," said she; "if you do, you will
compromise me, for my cousin will certainly tell my aunt that he
suspects you of being a libertine in search of adventures; and, when my
aunt hears it, she will tell my mother. And let me tell you Signor
Lelio, that there is only one person in the world for whom I care in the
least, and that is my mother; that there is only one thing in the world
that I dread, and that is my mother's displeasure. And yet she brought
me up very badly, as you see; she spoiled me shockingly; but she is so
dear, so sweet, so loving, so sad--She loves me so dearly--if you only
knew!"

A great tear glistened in the signora's black eye; she tried for some
time to hold it back, but at last it fell on her hand. Deeply moved,
assailed and overthrown by the formidable little god with whom one
cannot afford to trifle, I put my lips to that lovely hand and greedily
drank that sweet tear, a subtle poison which kindled a flame in my
bosom. I heard the cousin returning, and, rising hurriedly, I said:

"_Addio_, signora, I will obey you blindly, I swear upon my honor; if
your cousin insults me, I will swallow his insults; I will play a
coward's part rather than cause you to shed a second tear."

With that I bowed to the ground and left the room. The cousin did not
seem to me so bellicose as she had depicted him; for he saluted me first
when I passed him. I walked slowly from the house, depressed beyond
words; for I was in love, and I must not return. On becoming sincere, my
love became generous.

I turned several times to catch a glimpse of the signora's velvet dress,
but she had disappeared. As I was passing through the gate of the park,
I saw her in a narrow path which followed the wall on the inside. She
had run, in order to reach that point as soon as I did, and when I spied
her she strove to assume a slow and pensive gait; but she was all out of
breath and her lovely black hair was disarranged by the branches she had
hurriedly thrust aside as she ran through the underbrush. I started to
join her, but she made a sign to indicate that somebody was following
her. I tried to pass through the gate, but I could not make up my mind
to do it. Thereupon, she waved her hand to bid me farewell, accompanying
the gesture with an unutterable glance and smile. At that moment she was
more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

I placed one hand on my heart, the other on my forehead, and hurried
away, mad with joy and love. I had seen the branches moving just behind
the signora; but, there as elsewhere, the cousin arrived too late. I had
disappeared.

I found in my room a letter from Checchina. "I had started to join you,"
she wrote, "and to rest a while from the fatigues of the stage in the
pleasant shade of Cafaggiolo. I was upset at San Giovanni; I have
nothing worse than a few bruises, but my carriage is broken. The
bungling workmen in this village say they must have three days to repair
it. Take your calèche and come and fetch me, unless you wish me to die
of ennui in this muleteers' tavern."

I set out an hour later and reached San Giovanni at daybreak.

"How does it happen that you are alone?" I asked, trying to escape from
her long arms and her sisterly embraces, which had become unendurable to
me since my illness, because of the perfumes with which she saturated
herself beyond all reason, whether because she fancied that she was
imitating the great ladies, or because she loved passionately anything
that appeals to the senses.

"I have had a row with Nasi," she said; "I have left him, and I don't
want to hear any more about him!"

"It can't be very serious," I replied, "as you are on your way to take
up your quarters in his house."

"On the contrary, it is very serious; for I have forbidden him to follow
me."

"And apparently you intended to deprive him of the means of doing so,
when you took his carriage to run away in, and broke it on the road."

"It's his own fault, for I had to keep urging the postilions. Why has he
adopted the bad habit of following me? I would have liked to be killed
by the accident, and have him arrive in time to see me die, and to learn
what it is to thwart a woman like me."

"That is to say, a mad woman. But you will not have the pleasure of
dying for revenge, in the first place, because you are not hurt, and
secondly, because he has not run after you."

"Oh! he probably passed through here last night without suspecting that
I was here, and you must have met him on your way. We will go and join
him at Cafaggiolo."

"He is just crazy enough for that."

"If I were perfectly sure of it, I would like to remain here in hiding a
week, just to worry him and make him think that I have gone to France,
as I threatened to do."

"As you please, my dear: I salute you and leave my carriage at your
service. For my own part, I have little liking for this region and this
inn."

"If you were not a dolt, you would avenge me, Lelio!"

"Thanks! I have not been insulted; nor you either, I fancy."

"Oh! I have been mortally insulted, Lelio!"

"I suppose he refused to give you twenty thousand francs' worth of white
gloves, and insisted on giving you diamonds worth fifty thousand
instead; something like that, no doubt?"

"No, no, Lelio; he wants to marry!"

"Provided that he doesn't want to marry you, that is a most pardonable
desire."

"And the most horrible part of it is that he had an idea that he could
induce me to consent to his marriage and still retain my good graces.
After such an insult, would you believe that he had the audacity to
offer me a million, on condition that I would allow him to marry, and
that I would remain faithful to him!"

"A million! the devil! that is at least the fortieth million I have
known of you refusing, my poor Checchina. The millions you have spurned
would be enough to keep the whole royal family!"

"You are always joking, Lelio. The day will come when you will see that,
if I had chosen, I might have been a queen like some other women. Are
Napoleon's sisters any more beautiful than I am? Have they more talent,
more wit, more spirit? Ah! how well I could manage a kingdom!"

"Almost as well as you could keep books by double entry in a business
house. Upon my word! you have put on your wrapper wrong side before, and
you are wiping tears from your lovely eyes with one of your silk
stockings. Put aside these ambitious dreams for a moment, dress
yourself, and let us be off."

As we returned to the villa at Cafaggiolo, by dint of allowing my
travelling companion to give a free rein to her heroic declamations, her
digressions and her boasting, I succeeded, not without difficulty, in
finding out that honest Nasi had been fascinated at a ball by a lovely
young person, and had asked her hand in marriage; that he had gone to
Checchina to inform her of his determination; that, as she had adopted
the expedient of fainting and going into convulsions, he had been so
dismayed by the violence of her despair, that he had begged her to
consent to a middle course and to remain his mistress in spite of his
marriage. Thereupon Checchina, seeing that he was weakening, had
haughtily refused to share her lover's heart and purse. She had ordered
post-horses, and had signed, or pretended to sign, an engagement with
the Opera at Paris. The easy-going Nasi had been unable to endure the
thought of giving up a woman whom he was not sure that he had ceased to
adore, for a woman whom he was not sure that he had begun to adore. He
had begged the singer's forgiveness; he had retracted his offer of
marriage, and had ceased his attentions to the illustrious beauty, whose
name Checchina did not know. Checchina had allowed herself to be
prevailed upon; but she had learned indirectly, on the day following
this great sacrifice, that Nasi was entitled to no great credit
therefor, inasmuch as, between the scene of frenzied despair and the
reconciliation, his offer of marriage had been rejected, and he had been
cast aside in favor of a happy rival. Checchina, wounded to the quick,
had left Naples, leaving a withering letter for the count, in which she
declared that she would never see him again; and, taking the road to
France--for all roads lead to Paris as well as to Rome--she hastened to
Cafaggiolo to wait until her lover should come in pursuit of her, and
place his body across her path to prevent her from proceeding farther
with a vengeance of which she was beginning to be a little weary.

All this was not mere vulgar and avaricious scheming on Checchina's
part. She loved opulence, it is true, and could not do without it; but
she had such implicit faith in her destiny, and was naturally so
audacious, that she constantly risked the good fortune of one day for
that of the morrow. She passed the Rubicon every morning, confident of
finding on the other bank a more flourishing realm than the one she left
behind. Thus there was nothing base and low-minded in this feminine
trickery, because there was in it no element of fear. She did not play
at grief; she made neither false promises nor hypocritical prayers. In
her moments of vexation she had genuine paroxysms of nervous excitement.
Why were her lovers so credulous as to mistake the vehemence of her
anger for the result of profound grief resisted by pride? Is it not our
own fault when we are duped by our own vanity?

Moreover, even if Checchina did play a bit at tragedy in her boudoir, in
order to preserve her empire, she had an ample excuse in the absolute
sincerity of her conduct. I have never known a woman more fearlessly
frank, more faithful to lovers who were faithful to her, more reckless
in her admissions when she revenged herself in kind, more incapable of
recovering her power by means of a falsehood. To be sure her love was
not strong enough for that, and no man seemed to her to be worth the
trouble of putting constraint upon herself and of humiliating herself in
her own eyes by prolonged dissembling. I have often thought that women
are very foolish to demand so much frankness when we are so far from
appreciating the merit of fidelity, I have often learned by my own
experience that one must have more passion to carry out a falsehood,
than courage to tell the truth. It is so easy to be sincere with persons
one does not love! It is so pleasant to be sincere with those whom one
has ceased to love!

This simple reflection will explain why it was impossible for me to love
Checchina for long, and also why it was impossible for me not to esteem
her always, despite her insolent outbreaks and her immeasurable
ambition. I soon found out that she was a detestable mistress and an
excellent friend; and then, too, there was a sort of poetic charm in
that adventuress-like energy, in that disregard for wealth inspired by
the very love of wealth, in that incredible conceit, always crowned by
even more incredible success. She was forever comparing herself
favorably to Napoleon's sisters, and making herself out the equal of
Napoleon himself. That was amusing and not too ridiculous. In her own
sphere she was as bold and as fortunate as the great conqueror. She
never had for lovers any but young, handsome, rich and honorable men;
and I do not believe that a single one of them ever complained of her
after leaving or losing her; for in reality she had a great and noble
heart. She could always atone for a thousand foolish and mischievous
exploits by one decisive display of strength of character and kindness
of heart. In a word, she was brave, both morally and physically, and
people of that temperament are always good for something, wherever they
may be and whatever they may do.

"My poor child," I said to her as we drove along, "you will be nicely
caught if Nasi takes you at your word and lets you start for France."

"There's no danger of that," she said with a smile, forgetting that she
had just told me that she would not for anything in the world allow
herself to be softened by his submission.

"But suppose that does happen, what will you do? You have nothing in the
world, and you are not in the habit of keeping the gifts of your lovers
when you part. That is what makes me esteem you a little bit, despite
all your faults. Come, tell me, what is going to become of you?"

"I shall be very sorry," she replied; "yes, really, Lelio, I shall
regret it; for Nasi is an excellent fellow, he has a big heart. I will
bet that I shall weep for--I don't know how long! But after all, one
either has a destiny or one hasn't. If it is God's will that I go to
France, it would seem to be because I am likely to have no more luck in
Italy. If I am parted from that dear, affectionate lover of mine, I have
no doubt that it is because a more devoted and more courageous man is
waiting yonder for me, to marry me, and prove to the world that love is
superior to all prejudices. Mark my words, Lelio, I shall be a princess,
perhaps a queen. An old fortune-teller of Malamocco predicted it in my
horoscope when I was only four years old, and I have always believed it:
a proof that it must be so!"

"A conclusive proof," I rejoined, "an unanswerable argument! Queen of
Barataria, I salute you!"

"What is Barataria? Is it Cimarosa's new opera?"

"No, it is the name of the star that presides over your destiny."

We arrived at Cafaggiolo and did not find Nasi there.

"Your star is waning, fortune is abandoning you," I said to the girl
from Chioggia.

She bit her lips and replied at once, with a smile:

"There is always a mist on the lagoons before sunrise. In any event we
must keep up our strength and so be prepared for the blows of destiny."

As she spoke, she took her seat at the table and ate almost the whole of
a pope's eye stuffed with truffles; after which she slept twelve hours
without a break, passed three hours at her toilet, and sparkled with wit
and nonsense until evening. Nasi did not appear.

For my own part, amid the merriment and animation which that excellent
girl had brought into my solitude, I was absorbed by the memory of my
adventure at the Grimani villa, and tortured by the longing to see my
fair patrician once more. But how was I to do it? I cudgelled my brain
to no purpose to invent some means which would not compromise her. When
I left her I had sworn to do nothing imprudent. As I reviewed in my mind
my impressions of those last moments, when she had appeared in such an
artless and touching aspect, I felt that I could not act inconsiderately
with respect to her without forfeiting my own esteem. I dared not make
inquiries concerning her friends, still less concerning her domestic
arrangements. I had refrained from making acquaintances in the
neighborhood, and now I almost regretted that I had done so; for I might
have learned by accident what I dared not ask directly. The servant who
waited upon me was a Neapolitan who had come with me, and, like myself,
had never been in that region before. The gardener was stupid and deaf.
An old care-taker, in charge of the villa since Nasi's childhood, might
perhaps have enlightened me; but I was afraid to question her, for she
was inquisitive and loquacious. She was much disturbed to know where I
went; and, during the three days that I had failed to bring her any game
or to give an account of my rambles, she was so wrought up that I
trembled lest she should discover my romance. The bare mention of a name
might put her on the track. So I was very careful not to pronounce it. I
did not wish to go to Florence; I was too well known there; if I showed
my face there, I was certain to be overwhelmed with visits. The
unhealthy and misanthropical frame of mind which had caused me to seek
the solitude of Cafaggiolo, had led me likewise to conceal my name and
profession from the very servants in the house as well as from the
neighbors. It was necessary now for me to guard my _incognito_ more
closely than ever; for I supposed that the count would soon arrive, and
that his fancy for marriage would lead him to desire to bury in mystery
Checchina's presence in his house.

Two days passed with no word from Nasi, who might have enlightened me;
and I had not ventured to take a step out-of-doors. Checchina had a
heavy cold and considerable pain, as a result of the mishaps of her
journey. It may well be that, as she did not quite know what course to
adopt with me, and as she preferred not to seem to be waiting for her
faithless lover, after swearing that she would not wait for him, she was
not sorry to have a valid excuse for remaining at Cafaggiolo.

One morning, finding that I could not stand it any longer, for that
signorina of fifteen with her little white hands and great black eyes
was always in my head, I took my game-bag, called my dog, and started
out to hunt, forgetting nothing but my rifle. In vain did I prowl about
the Grimani villa; I did not see a living being, I did not hear a human
sound. All the gates of the park were locked, and I noticed that on the
main avenue, at the end of which one could catch a glimpse of the
house-front, some large trees had been felled and their dense foliage
completely intercepted the view. Had that barricade been erected with
premeditation? Was it an act of revenge on the cousin's part? Was it a
precaution taken by the aunt? Was it a mischievous exploit of my heroine
herself? "If I thought that!" I said to myself. But I did not think it.
I much preferred to suppose that she was lamenting over my absence and
her own captivity, and I formed innumerable plans to set her free, each
more absurd than the last.

On returning to Cafaggiolo, I found in Checchina's bedroom a pretty
village maiden whom I at once recognized as La Grimani's foster sister.

"Here's a lovely child who refuses to give her message to anybody but
you, Lelio," said Checchina, who had seated her unceremoniously on the
side of her bed. "I have taken her under my protection because old
Catalina insisted on sending her away with an insolent answer. But I saw
by her modest manner that she is a good girl, and I haven't asked her
any injudicious questions. Isn't that true, my pretty brunette? Come,
don't be shamefaced, but go into the salon with Signor Lelio. I am not
inquisitive, I tell you; I have something else to do besides annoy my
friends."

"Come, my dear child," I said to the soubrette, "and have no fear; you
have only honorable people to deal with here."

The poor girl stood in the middle of the floor, bewildered, and in such
distress that it made one's heart ache. Although she had had the courage
to conceal the object of her visit up to that time, she took from her
pocket, in her confusion, and half revealed a note which she instantly
thrust out of sight again, distracted between her fears for her own
honor and for her mistress's.

"Oh dear!" she said at last in a trembling voice, "suppose the signora
should think that I came here with any evil intention!"

"My poor child, I think nothing at all," replied kind-hearted Checchina,
opening a book and reading it with eye-glasses, although her sight was
excellent; for she thought that it was good form to have weak eyes.

"The signora is so kind and received me with so much confidence,"
continued the girl.

"Your appearance must inspire confidence in everybody," replied the
singer, "and if I am kind to you, it is because you deserve it. Come,
come; I am not inquisitive, I tell you; say what you have to say to
Signor Lelio, it will not vex me in the slightest degree. Come, take her
away, Lelio! Poor child! she thinks she is ruined. Nonsense, my dear,
actors are just as honorable as other people, be sure of that."

The girl made a low courtesy and followed me into the salon. Her heart
was beating as if it would break the lacings of her green velvet waist,
and her cheeks were as scarlet as her skirt. She hastily took the letter
from her pocket and, after handing it to me, stepped back, she was so
afraid that I would be as rude to her as I was before. I reassured her
by the tranquillity of my demeanor, and asked her if she had anything
more to say to me.

"I am to wait for the answer," she replied, with an air of the most
profound distress.

"Very well," said I, "go and wait in the signora's apartment."

And I escorted her back to Checchina.

"This excellent girl," I explained, "wishes to enter the services of a
lady in Florence whom I know very well, and she has come to me for a
letter of recommendation. Will you allow her to stay with you while I go
and write it?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure!" replied Checchina, motioning her to sit down,
and smiling at her with an amiable and patronizing air. This sweetness
and simplicity of manner toward persons of her former station in life
were among the Chioggian's excellent qualities. While she mimicked the
affectations of the great lady, she retained the brusque and ingenuous
kindliness of the fisherman's child. Her manners, though often
ridiculous, were always affable; and if she did enjoy lying in state
under a satin coverlet trimmed with lace, for the benefit of that poor
village girl, she found none the less, in her heart and on her lips,
affectionate words to encourage her in her humility.

The signora's letter was in these words:

"Three days without coming again! Either you have little wit, or you
have little desire to see me again. Is it for me to find a way of
continuing our friendly relations? If you have not tried to find one,
you are a fool; if you have tried and failed, you are what you accuse me
of being. To prove that I am neither _haughty_ nor _stupid_, I write to
make an appointment with you. To-morrow, Sunday, morning I shall be at
eight o'clock mass, at _Santa Maria del Sasso_, Florence. My aunt is
ill; only Lila, my foster sister, will accompany me. If the footman or
coachman notice you or question you, give them money; they are rascals.
_Addio_, until to-morrow."

To reply, to promise, to swear, to express my thanks, and to hand to
Lila the most bombastic of love-letters, was an affair of a few moments
only. But when I attempted to slip a gold piece into the messenger's
hand, I was checked by a glance instinct with melancholy dignity. From
pure devotion to her mistress she had yielded to her caprice; but it was
evident that her conscience reproached her for that weakness, and that
to offer to pay her for it would have been to punish and mortify her
cruelly. At that moment I reproached myself bitterly for the kiss I had
ventured to steal from her, in order to pique her mistress, and I tried
to atone for my fault by escorting her to the end of the garden with as
much respect and courtesy as I could have shown to any great lady.

I was very nervous all the rest of the day. Checchina noticed my
preoccupation.

"Come, Lelio," she said, toward the close of the supper which we ate
together on a pretty little terrace shaded by grape-vines and jasmine;
"I see that you are worried about something; why not open your heart to
me? Did I ever betray a secret? Am I not worthy of your confidence? Have
I deserved to have you withdraw it from me?"

"No, my dear Checchina," I replied, "I appreciate your discretion"--and
it is certain that she would have kept Brutus's secrets as well as ever
Portia did;--"but," I added, "even if all my secrets belong to you,
there are others----"

"I know what you are going to say," she exclaimed. "That there are
others which don't belong to you alone, and which you have no right to
betray; but if I guess them in spite of you, ought you to carry your
scruples so far as to deny, all to no purpose, what I know as well as
you do? You know, my friend, I understand that pretty girl's call
perfectly well; I saw her hand in her pocket, and before she had said
good-morning to me, I knew that she had brought a letter. The timid and
distressed air of that poor Iris"--Checchina had been very fond of
mythological references ever since she had spelled out Tasso's _Aminta_
and Guarini's _Adone_--"told me plainly enough that there was a genuine
romance behind it, a great lady afraid of public opinion, or a young
damsel risking her future union with some worthy citizen. One thing is
certain, that you have made one of those conquests of which you men are
so proud, because they are supposed to be difficult and require a lot of
mystery. You see that I have guessed the secret, don't you?"

I answered with a smile.

"I won't ask you any more questions," she continued; "I know that you
are not likely to confide the person's name, nor her rank, nor her place
of abode to me; indeed, those things don't interest me. But I may ask
you whether you are in raptures or in despair, and you must tell me if I
can be of any use to you."

"If I need you, I will tell you so," I replied; "and as for telling you
whether I am in raptures or in despair, I can assure you that I am in
neither as yet."

"Very good! very good! beware of one no less than of the other; for, in
either case, there's no occasion for such great excitement."

"What do you know about it?"

"My dear Lelio," she replied in a sententious tone, "let us suppose that
you are in raptures. What is one yielding woman more or less in the life
of a man of the stage: of the stage, where the women are so beautiful
and so sparkling with wit? Do you propose to lose your head over a
conquest in aristocratic society? Vanity! mere vanity! Society women are
as inferior to us in every respect as vanity is to glory."

"That is true modesty, and I congratulate you," I replied; "but might we
not give the aphorism another turn, and say that it is vanity, not love,
which brings society men to the feet of actresses?"

"Oh! but what a difference there is!" cried Checchina. "A great and
beautiful actress is a creature privileged by nature and exalted by the
prestige of art; exposed to the eyes of men in all the splendor of her
beauty, her talent and her renown, is it not natural that she should
arouse admiration and kindle desire? Why, then, should you actors, who
triumph over the great majority of us before the great nobles do; you,
who marry us when we are inclined to settle down, and who assert your
rights over us when we have passionate hearts; you, who allow others to
play the rôle of magnificent lovers and who are always the preferred
lovers, or at all events the friends of our hearts--why should you turn
your thoughts toward these patrician women who smile at you with their
lips only, and applaud you with the tips of their fingers? Ah! Lelio,
Lelio! I am afraid that in this instance your good sense has gone astray
in some idiotic adventure. If I were in your place, rather than be
flattered by the ogling of some middle-aged marchioness, I would turn my
attention to some pretty chorus-girl, La Torquata, or La Gargani. Yes!
yes!" she cried, becoming more earnest as she saw me smiling; "such
girls as those are apparently more forward, but I maintain that they are
in reality less corrupt than your salon Cidalisas. You would not be
obliged to play a long sentimental comedy with them, or engage in a
wretched contest of bright sayings. But that's just like you men! The
crest on a carriage, the livery of a footman, those are enough to
embellish in your eyes the first titled harridan who bestows a
patronizing glance on you."

"My dear friend," I replied, "all that you say is most sensible; but
your argument is weak in that it is not based upon a single fact. For my
honor's sake, you might, I think, have assumed that old age and ugliness
are not indispensable qualities in any patrician who falls in love with
me. There have been some who were young and lovely who have had eyes in
their heads, and since you compel me to say absurd things in absurd
language, in order to close your mouth, let me tell you that the object
of my _flame_ is fifteen years old, and that she is as beautiful as the
goddess _Cypris_ whose exploits you learn by heart in _bouts-rimés_."

"Lelio!" cried Checchina, laughing heartily, "you are the most
insufferable coxcomb that I ever met."

"If I am a coxcomb, fair princess," I cried, "you are somewhat to blame
for it, so people say."

"Very well," said she, "if you are telling the truth, if your mistress,
by reason of her beauty, deserves the follies you are about to commit
for her, beware of one thing, and that is that you do not find yourself
in the depths of despair within a week."

"What in the deuce is the matter to-day, Signora Checchina, that you say
such disagreeable things to me?"

"Let us not joke any more," she said, putting her hand on mine with a
friendly gesture. "I know you better than you know yourself. You are
seriously in love, and you are going to suffer--"

"Nonsense, nonsense! in your old age, Checca, you can retire to
Malamocco and tell fortunes for the boatmen on the lagoons; meanwhile,
my fair sorceress, allow me to go to meet my fortune without cowardly
presentiments."

"No! no! I will not be quiet until I have drawn your horoscope. If it
were a question of a woman who is suited to you, I should not think of
vexing you; but a woman of noble birth, a society woman, a marchioness
or a woman of the middle class, I don't care which it may be--I hate
them all! When I see that idiot Nasi throw me aside for a creature who
doesn't come up to my knees, I will stake my head, why, I say to myself
that all men are vain and foolish. And so I predict that you will not be
loved, because a society woman cannot love an actor; and if by any
chance you are loved, you will be all the more miserable; for you will
be humiliated."

"Humiliated! What do you mean by that, Checchina?"

"By what do you recognize love, Lelio? by the pleasure you give or the
pleasure you receive?"

"By both, of course! What are you driving at?"

"Is it not the same with devotion as with pleasure? Must it not be
mutual?"

"To be sure; what then?"

"How much devotion do you expect to find in your mistress? a few nights
of pleasure? You seem at a loss to reply."

"I am, in truth; I told you that she is fifteen years old, and I am an
honorable man."

"Do you hope to marry her?"

"I, marry a rich girl of a noble family? God forbid! In heaven's name,
do you think that I am consumed with matrimoniomania, as you are?"

"Why, I suppose that you desire to marry her; do you think that she will
consent? are you sure of it?"

"But I will tell you that I wouldn't marry anyone, on any
consideration."

"If that is because your suit would be ill received, your rôle is a
very pitiful one, my dear Lelio!"

"_Corpo di Bacco_! you bore me, Checchina!"

"That is my purpose, dear friend of my heart. Now, then, you do not
think of marrying, because that would be impertinent presumption on your
part, and you are a man of spirit. You do not think of seduction,
because that would be a crime, and you are a man of heart. Tell me, is
your romance likely to be very amusing?"

"Why, you dense, matter-of-fact creature, you know nothing whatever
about sentiment. If I choose to indulge in a pastoral idyll, who will
prevent me?"

"That is very pretty in music; in love it must be decidedly dull."

"But it is neither criminal nor humiliating."

"Then why are you so excited? Why are you so sad, Lelio?"

"You are dreaming, Checchina; I am as placid and light-hearted as usual.
Let us have no more of these empty words; I do not ask you to be silent
about the little I have told you, for I have confidence in you. To
reassure you concerning my frame of mind, let me tell you this one
thing: I am more proud of my profession of actor than ever nobleman was
of his marquisate. Nobody on earth has the power to make me blush.
Whatever you may say, I shall never be conceited enough to aspire to
extraordinary devotion, and if a spark of love warms my heart at this
moment, the modest joy of inspiring a little love is sufficient for me.
I do not deny the numerous superiorities of actresses over society
women. There is more beauty, grace, wit and fire in the wings than
elsewhere, I know. There is no more modesty, unselfishness, chastity and
loyalty among great ladies than elsewhere; that, too, I know. But youth
and beauty are idols which make us bend the knee everywhere; and as for
the prejudices of rank, it is a good deal for a woman brought up under
tyrannical laws to bestow in secret one poor glance, one poor
heart-throb upon a man whom her prejudices forbid her to look upon as a
being of her own species. That poor glance, that poor palpitation, would
be a mere trifle to the unbounded desire born of a great passion; but as
I have told you, cousin, I have not got to that point."

"But how do you know that you won't come to it?"

"When I do, it will be time enough to preach to me."

"It will be too late; you will suffer!"

"Ah! Cassandra, I prithee let me love on!"

At seven o'clock the next morning I was wandering slowly about in the
shadow of the pillars of Santa Maria. That assignation was the very
greatest piece of imprudence that my young signora could commit, for my
face was as well known to most of the people of Florence as the ground
under their horses' feet. So I took the most minute precautions,
entering the city by the uncertain light of dawn, keeping out of sight
in the chapels, with my face buried in my cloak, gliding along
noiselessly, taking care not to disturb by the slightest sound the
faithful at prayer, among whom I tried to discover the lady of my
thoughts. I did not wait long; pretty Lila appeared from behind a
pillar, and indicated by her glance an empty confessional, whose
mysterious recess would hold two people. In the girl's quick and
intelligent glance there was a touch of sadness which went to my heart.
I knelt in the confessional, a few moments later, a dark shadow glided
in and knelt beside me. Lila bent over a chair, between us and the
congregation, who, luckily, were engrossed at that moment by the
beginning of the mass, and falling noiselessly on their knees to the
tones of the bell of the _introit_.

The signora was enveloped in a long black veil, and she held it over her
face with her hands for a few seconds. She did not speak to me, but bent
her lovely head as if she had come to the church to pray; but, despite
all her efforts to appear calm, I saw that her breast was heaving, and
that, in the midst of her audacity, she was terror-stricken. I dared not
encourage her with loving words, for I knew how quick she was at
sarcastic repartee, and I could not be sure what tone she would take
with me under those delicate circumstances. I realized simply this, that
the more she exposed herself with me, the more respectful and submissive
my attitude must be. With such a nature as hers, presumption would have
been speedily repelled by scorn. At last I understood that I must break
the silence, and I thanked her awkwardly enough for the favor of that
meeting. My timidity seemed to restore her courage. She softly raised a
corner of her veil, rested her arm with less constraint on the rail of
the confessional, and said to me in a half-mocking, half-melting tone:

"For what do you thank me, please?"

"For relying upon my obedience, signora," I replied; "for not doubting
the eagerness with which I would come to receive your orders."

"I understand then," she retorted--and her tone was altogether
jocular--"that your presence here is an act of pure obedience?"

"I should not dare to take the liberty to have any thoughts concerning
the present situation, except that I am your slave, and that, having a
sovereign command to lay upon me, you bade me come and kneel here."

"You are a man of the most perfect breeding," she replied, slowly
unfolding her fan in front of her face, and pulling up her black mitt
over her beautifully moulded arm with as much ease of manner as if she
were speaking to her cousin.

She continued in that strain, and in a very few moments I was bewildered
and almost saddened by her strange and captious chatter.

"What is the use," I said to myself, "of so much audacity for so little
love? An assignation in a church, in plain sight of a whole
congregation, the danger of being discovered, cursed and disowned by her
whole family and her whole caste--all for the sake of exchanging jokes
with me, as she might with a friend of her own sex in her box at the
theatre! Does she delight in adventures from pure love of danger? If she
takes such risks without loving me, what will she do for the man she
does love? And then, how do I know how many times and for whom she has
already exposed herself in the same way? If she has never done it, it is
only because she has never had the opportunity. She is so young! But
what an endless series of gallant adventures the perilous future has in
store for her, and how many men will abuse their opportunities, and how
many stains will mar this lovely flower, so intensely eager to bloom in
the wind of passion!"

She noticed my preoccupation, and said to me, in a sharp tone:

"You look as if you were bored?"

I was about to reply when a slight sound made us both turn our heads
involuntarily. The wooden shutter which covers the grated window through
which the priest receives confessions opened behind us, and a yellow,
wrinkled face, with a stern and penetrating glance, appeared in the
opening like a bad dream. I hastily turned away before that unwelcome
intruder had time to examine my features. But I dared not go away, for
fear of attracting the attention of those roundabout. Thereupon I heard
these words addressed to my confederate:

"Signora, the person beside you did not come to the Lord's house to
listen to the sacred service. I have seen by his entire attitude and by
the distraction it has caused you, that the church is being profaned by
an illicit conversation. Order this person to retire or I shall be
compelled to inform the signora, your aunt, with how little fervor you
listen to the blessed mass, and how willingly you open your ears to the
empty words of young men who steal to a place by your side."

The shutter was instantly closed, and we remained for some seconds
absolutely motionless, afraid of betraying ourselves by the slightest
movement. Then Lila came nearer to us and whispered to her mistress:

"For heaven's sake, let us go, signora! Abbé Cignola, who has been
prowling about the church for a quarter of an hour, just went into the
confessional and came out again almost immediately, after looking at you
through the window, I have no doubt. I am terribly afraid that he
recognized you or heard what you said."

"I should think so, for he spoke to me," replied the signora, whose
black eyebrows had contracted during the abbé's harangue, with an
expression of bravado. "But it matters little to me."

"I must go, signora," I said, rising; "by remaining another moment, I
shall consummate your ruin. Since you know where I live, you will let me
know your wishes----"

"Stay," she said, detaining me by force. "If you go away, I lose my only
means of exculpating myself. Don't be afraid, Lila. Don't say a word, I
forbid you. Give me your arm, cousin," she added, raising her voice
slightly, "and let us go."

"Can you think of such a thing, signora? All Florence knows me. You will
never be able to pass me off as your cousin."

"But all Florence doesn't know me," she replied, putting her arm through
mine and forcing me to walk with her. "Besides, I am _hermetically_
veiled, and you have only to pull your hat over your eyes. Come! pretend
you have a toothache! Put your handkerchief to your face. Quick! here
are some people who know me and are looking at me. Be more
self-possessed and quicken your pace."

Talking thus, and walking rapidly, she reached the church door, leaning
on my arm. I was about to take leave of her and lose myself in the crowd
that was coming out with us, for the mass was at an end, when Abbé
Cignola appeared once more, standing on the porch and pretending to talk
with one of the sacristans. His sidelong glance followed us closely.

"Isn't that so, Hector?" said the signora, as we passed him, putting her
head between the abbé's face and mine. Lila was trembling in every
limb; so was the signora, but her alarm redoubled her courage. A
carriage with the crest and livery of the Grimanis drove up with a great
clatter, and the multitude, who always gaze greedily at any display of
magnificence, crowded under the wheels and the horses' feet. Moreover,
the Grimani equipage always attracted a particularly large crowd of
beggars; for the pious aunt was accustomed to dispense alms lavishly as
she drove along. A tall footman at the carriage door was obliged to push
them back in order to open it; and I walked on, still escorting the
signora, still followed by Abbé Cignola's inquisitorial glance.

"Get in with me," said the signora, in a tone that admitted of no
denial, and with a vigorous pressure of my arm, as she placed her foot
on the step. I hesitated; it seemed to me that this last audacious
stroke would inevitably be her ruin.

"Get in, I say," she repeated in a sort of passion; and as soon as I was
seated by her side she herself raised the window, barely giving Lila
time to take her seat opposite us, and the servant to close the door. In
an instant we were driving at full speed through the streets of
Florence.

"Don't be afraid, my dear Lila," said the signora, putting her arm
around her foster sister's neck, and kissing her affectionately on the
cheek; "everything will come out all right. Abbé Cignola has never seen
my cousin, and it is impossible that he should have seen Signor Lelio
distinctly enough ever to discover the fraud."

"Oh! signora, Abbé Cignola is the kind of man one can't deceive."

"Bah! what do I care for your Abbé Cignola? I tell you that I make my
aunt believe whatever I choose."

"And Signor Hector will say that he didn't go to mass with you," I
observed.

"Oh! as for that, I promise you that he will say whatever I want him to;
if necessary I will convince him that he actually was at mass while he
fancied that he was hunting."

"But the servants, signora? The footman looked at Signor Lelio with a
strange expression, then suddenly started back, as if he had recognized
the piano-tuner."

"Very good! you must tell him that I met _that man_ in the church and
bade him good-morning; that he told me that he had an errand to do in
our neighborhood, and that, as I am very obliging, I offered to save him
the trouble of going there on foot. We will set him down in front of the
first country house we come to. And you can say in addition that I am
very heedless, that my aunt has very good reason to scold me, but that I
am an excellent young person, although a little wild, and that it
grieves you to see me so constantly reprimanded. As they are all fond of
me, and as I will give each one of them a little present, they will say
nothing at all. Enough of this! can't either of you think of something
else to say to me than lamentations over a thing that is done? Signor
Lelio, how do you like this gloomy city of Florence? Don't you think
that all these black old palaces, iron-bound to the very eaves, look
exactly like prisons?"

I tried to carry on the conversation in an unconcerned tone; but I was
very far from satisfied. I felt no inclination for adventures in which
all the risk was taken by the woman, and all the wrong was on my side.
It seemed to me that she treated me very inconsiderately in exposing
herself thus for my sake to perils and disasters which she would not
permit me to meet or avert.

I was so distressed that I remained silent in spite of myself. The
signora, having attempted in vain to maintain the conversation, also
held her peace. Lila's face continued to wear a terrified expression. We
had left the city. Twice I observed that we had reached what seemed a
favorable place to stop the carriage and set me down; twice the signora
refused in an imperious tone, saying that we were too near the city and
that there was still danger of meeting some acquaintance.

For a quarter of an hour we had not spoken a word, and the situation was
becoming intensely disagreeable. I was displeased with the signora,
because she had involved me, without my consent, in an adventure in
which I could no longer proceed at my own pleasure. I was even more
displeased with myself for allowing myself to be led into a series of
childish exploits of which all the shame must fall upon me; for, even in
the eyes of the least scrupulous of men, to seduce or compromise a girl
of fifteen must always be considered an evil and cowardly performance.
I was on the point of ordering the coachman to stop myself, when, on
turning toward my travelling companions, I saw that the signora was
weeping silently. I uttered an exclamation of surprise, and, moved by an
irresistible impulse, I took her hand; but she abruptly withdrew it, and
throwing her arms about Lila's neck, who was weeping also, hid her face
on her faithful soubrette's bosom and sobbed as if her heart would
break.

"In heaven's name, why do you weep in such heartrending fashion, my dear
signora?" I cried, almost falling at her feet. "If you do not wish to
send me away in utter despair, tell me if this unlucky adventure is the
cause of your tears, and if I can help to turn aside the consequences
which you dread."

She raised her head from Lila's shoulder, and replied, glancing at me
with something like indignation:

"You must think me a great coward!"

"I think nothing except what you tell me," I said. "But you turn away
from me, and you weep; how can I tell what is taking place in your mind?
Ah! if I have offended or displeased you, if I am the involuntary cause
of your unhappiness, how can I ever forgive myself?"

"So you think that I am afraid, do you?" she rejoined, in a tone at once
tender and bitter. "You see me weeping, and you say: 'She is like a
little girl who is afraid of being scolded!'"

She wept more bitterly than ever, concealing her face in her
handkerchief. I strove to comfort her, I implored her to answer me, to
look at me, to explain herself; and, in that moment of confusion and
emotion, my feeling toward her was so paternal and friendly that chance
brought to my lips, amid the sweet names by which I called her, the name
of a child who had once been dear to me. That name I had been accustomed
for many years to apply, unconsciously as it were, to all the lovely
children whom I chanced to caress. "My dear signora," I said, "dear
Alezia----" I paused, afraid that I might have offended her by giving
her accidentally a name that was not her own. But she did not seem
offended; she looked at me with some surprise and allowed me to take her
hand, which I covered with kisses.

Meanwhile the carriage was rolling on like the wind, and before I had
had time to obtain the explanation which I sought so eagerly, Lila
informed us that the Grimani villa was in sight and that we absolutely
must part.

"What!" I cried; "am I to leave you thus? for how long a time must I eat
my heart out in this horrible uncertainty?"

"Come to the park to-night," she said; "the wall is not very high. I
will be in the narrow path that runs by the wall, near a statue which
you will easily find by turning to your right from the gate. At one
o'clock!"

Again I kissed the signora's hands.

"Oh! signora! signora!" exclaimed Lila, in a mild, sad tone of reproach.

"Do not thwart me, Lila," said the signora, vehemently; "you know what I
told you this morning."

Lila seemed utterly dismayed.

"What did the signora say?" I asked her.

"She wanted to kill herself," sobbed Lila.

"Kill yourself, signora!" I cried. "You who are so lovely, so
light-hearted, so happy, so dearly loved!"

"So dearly loved, Lelio!" she replied, in a despairing tone. "By whom am
I loved, pray? only by my poor mother and by this dear Lila."

"And by the poor artist who dares not tell you so," I added, "but who
would give his life to make you love yours."

"You lie!" she exclaimed passionately; "you do not love me!"

I seized her arm in a convulsive grasp and gazed at her in stupefaction.
At that moment the carriage suddenly stopped. Lila had pulled the cord.
I jumped out, and tried, as I saluted my travelling companions, to
resume the humble demeanor of the piano-tuner. But the red eyes of the
two young women did not escape the footman's penetrating glance. He
examined me with the greatest attention, and, when the carriage drove
on, he turned several times to look after me. I had a vague idea that
his features were familiar to me; but I had not dared to look him in the
eye, and it did not occur to me to try to recall where I had seen that
coarse, pale, heavily bearded face.

"Lelio! Lelio!" said Checchina, when we were at supper, "you are in high
spirits to-day. Look out that you do not weep to-morrow, my boy."

At midnight, I had scaled the park wall; but I had taken only a step or
two on the path when a hand grasped my cloak. To guard against accident,
I had provided myself with what, in my village, we call a "night-knife,"
and I was about to produce it when I recognized the fair Lila.

"Just a word, Signor Lelio, in great haste," she said in a low voice;
"do not say that you are married."

"What do you mean by that, my dear child? I am not."

"It doesn't concern me," rejoined Lila; "but I beg you not to mention
that lady who lives with you."

"You are on my side then, my dear Lila?"

"Oh! no, signor, certainly not! I do all that I can to prevent the
signora from doing all these imprudent things. But she won't listen to
me, and if I should tell her of the circumstance that might and should
part her from you forever,--I don't know what would happen!"

"What do you mean? Explain yourself."

"Alas! you saw to-day what an excitable person she is. She has such a
strange nature! When she is disappointed, she is capable of anything. A
month ago, when she was taken away from her mother to be shut up here,
she talked of taking poison. Whenever her aunt, who is really a great
scold, irritates her, she has nervous paroxysms which amount almost to
insanity; and last night, when I ventured to say to her that perhaps you
loved someone else, she rushed to her chamber window, crying like a
madwoman: 'Ah! if I thought so!' I threw myself upon her, I unlaced her,
I closed her windows, I didn't leave her during the night, and she cried
all night, or else fell asleep for a moment to wake with a start and run
about her room like a lunatic. Ah! Signor Lelio, she makes me very
unhappy; I love her so dearly! for, in spite of her outbreaks and her
eccentricities, she is so kind, so affectionate, so generous! Do not
drive her to frenzy, I implore you; you are an honorable man, I am sure,
I know it; everybody said so at Naples, and the signora listened with
passionate eagerness to all the stories of your kind deeds. So you won't
deceive her, and since you love the beautiful lady whom I saw at your
house----"

"Who told you that I love her, Lila? She is my sister."

"Oh! Signor Lelio! you are deceiving me! for I asked that lady if you
were her brother, and she said no. You will think that I am very
inquisitive, and that it is none of my business. No, I am not
inquisitive, Signor Lelio; but I entreat you to be a friend to my poor
mistress, to be like a brother to his sister or a father to his
daughter. Just think a moment! she is a child fresh from the convent and
hasn't any idea of the evil things that may be said about her. She says
that she doesn't care for them, but I know how she takes such things
when they come. Talk to her very gently, make her understand that you
cannot see her in secret; but promise that you will call on her at her
mother's when we return to Naples; for her mother is so good and loves
her daughter so dearly that I am sure she would invite you to her house
to give her pleasure. And then, too, perhaps the signora's madness will
subside little by little. One can often change the current of her
thoughts with amusements and distractions. I told her about the
beautiful Angora cat I saw in your salon, which rubbed against you so
while you were reading her letter that you had to kick her to drive her
away. My mistress doesn't care at all for dogs, but she loves cats. She
was taken with such a longing for yours, that you ought to give it to
her; I am sure that it would keep her busy and cheer her up for several
days."

"If my cat is all that is necessary to console your mistress for my
absence," I replied, "there is no great harm done, and the remedy is
simple enough. Be very sure, Lila, that I will act toward your mistress
as a father and a friend. Have confidence in me. But let me go to her,
for perhaps she is waiting for me."

"One word more, Signor Lelio. If you want the signora to listen to you,
don't tell her that the common people are as good as the people of
quality. She is tainted with her nobility. Don't form a bad opinion of
her on that account, for it's a family disease; all the Grimanis are
like that. But that does not prevent my young mistress from being kind
and charitable. It is simply an idea she has got in her head, which
makes her fly into a great passion when any one thwarts her. Would you
believe that she has already refused I don't know how many handsome
young men, and very rich too, because they were not well-born enough for
her. However, Signor Lelio, agree with her at first on every subject,
and you will soon persuade her of whatever you choose. Oh! if you could
only persuade her to marry a young count who proposed for her not long
ago!"

"Her cousin, Count Hector?"

"Oh, no! he is a fool, and he bores everybody to death; even his dogs
begin to yawn as soon as they see him."

As I listened to Lila's prattle, my fatherly manner having put her
completely at her ease, I led her toward the rendezvous. Not that I did
not listen to her with profound interest; all these details, trivial as
they were in appearance, were very important in my eyes; for they led me
by induction to a better knowledge of the enigmatical personage with
whom I had to deal. I must confess also, that they cooled my ardor to a
considerable extent, and that I began to look upon it as a most absurd
thing to be the hero of a romance in competition with the first
plaything that might come to hand; with my cat, Soliman, or--who could
say?--perhaps with Cousin Hector himself at the very outset. Thus Lila's
advice was identical with the advice which I gave myself and which I was
most desirous to follow.

We found the signora sitting at the foot of the statue, dressed all in
white--a costume by no means adapted to a mysterious meeting in the open
air, but for that very reason perfectly in harmony with her character.
As I approached, she sat so absolutely still that she might easily have
been taken for another statue sitting at the feet of the white marble
nymph.

She made no reply to my first words. With her elbow resting on her knee
and her chin on her hand, she was so pensive, so lovely, and her
attitude so graceful and stately, draped in her white veil in the
moonlight, that I should have believed her to be wrapt in sublime
contemplation, had not her love of cats and armorial bearings recurred
to my memory.

As she seemed determined to take no notice of me, I tried to take one of
her hands; but she drew it away with superb disdain, saying in a tone
more majestic than Louis XIV. ever had at his command:

"I have been obliged to wait!"

I could not refrain from laughing at that solemn quotation; but my
merriment served only to increase her gravity.

"Do not stand on ceremony!" she said. "Laugh on; the hour and the place
are admirably suited to that!"

She uttered these words in a tone of bitter indignation, and I saw that
she was really angry. Thereupon, suddenly assuming a serious expression,
I asked her forgiveness for my unintentional offence, and told her that
I would not for anything in the world cause her one moment's
unhappiness. She looked at me with an uncertain expression, as if she
dared not believe me. But I began to speak to her with such evident
sincerity and warmth of my devotion and affection, that she soon allowed
herself to be convinced.

"So much the better!" she exclaimed, "so much the better! for, if you
did not love me, you would be very ungrateful, and I should be very
unhappy."--And as I gazed at her, utterly confounded by her words, she
continued: "O Lelio! Lelio! I have loved you ever since the evening that
I first saw you at Naples, playing Romeo, when I looked at you with that
cold and contemptuous expression which disturbed you so. Ah! you were
very eloquent and very impassioned in your singing that evening! The
moon shone upon you as it does now, but less lovely than it does now,
and Juliet was dressed in white as I am. And yet you say nothing to me,
Lelio!"

That extraordinary girl exerted a constant fascination over me which led
me on, always and everywhere, at the pleasure of her caprice. When we
were apart, my mind threw off her domination, and I could analyze freely
her words and her acts; but when I was once with her, I speedily and
unconsciously ceased to have any other will than hers. That outburst of
affection reawoke my slumbering passion. All my fine resolutions to be
prudent vanished in smoke, and I found naught but words of love on my
lips. At every instant, it is true, I felt a sharp pang of remorse; but
it made no difference--all my fatherly counsels ended in loving phrases.
A strange fatality--or rather that cowardice of the human heart which
makes us always yield to the allurement of present joys--impelled me to
say just the opposite of what my conscience directed. I gave myself the
most convincing reasons you can imagine to prove that I was not doing
wrong: it would have been useless cruelty to talk to that child in
language which would have torn her heart asunder; there was still time
enough to tell her the truth--and a thousand other things of the same
sort. One circumstance which seemed to lessen the danger actually
contributed to increase it: I mean Lila's presence. If she had not been
there, my natural uprightness would have led me to watch myself all the
more carefully, for the reason that anything would be possible in a
moment of excitement, and I probably should not have gone forward a
single step for fear of going too far. But, being sure that I had
nothing to fear from my senses, I was much less careful of my words. So
that it was not long before I reached the pitch of the most intense,
albeit the purest passion; and, spurred on by an irresistible impulse,
I seized a lock of the girl's floating hair and kissed it twice.

I felt then that it was quite time for me to go, and I walked rapidly
away, saying:

"Until to-morrow."

Throughout this scene I had forgotten the past, little by little, and
had not once thought of the future. The voice of Lila, who went with me
to the gate, roused me from my trance.

"O Signor Lelio!" she said to me, "you didn't keep your promise. You
were not my mistress's father nor her friend to-night."

"It is true," I replied gloomily; "it is true, I have done wrong. But
never mind, my child, to-morrow I will make up for it all."

The next day it was the same story, and so with the next and the next.
But I felt that I was more deeply in love every day; and the sentiment
which, on the first day, was simply an inclination to fall in love, had
become a genuine passion on the third. Lila's heart-broken air would
have told me so plainly enough, had I not discovered it first myself.
All along the road I reflected upon the future of that love-affair, and
I returned home pale and distressed. Checchina soon found out what was
the matter.

"Poor boy!" she said, "I told you that you would weep before long."

And as I opened my mouth to remonstrate, she added: "If you have not
wept yet, you soon will; and there is reason enough. Your position is a
pitiful one, and, what is worse, absurd. You love a mere girl whom your
pride forbids you to try to marry, and whom your delicate sense of honor
deters you from seducing. You do not wish to ask for her hand, in the
first place because you know that if she bestowed it on you she would
make a tremendous sacrifice, and would expose herself for your sake to
innumerable discomforts, and you are too generous to accept a happiness
which would cost her so dear; secondly, because you dread being refused,
and are too proud to run the risk of being treated with disdain. Nor do
you want to take what you have determined not to ask for, and I am very
sure that you would much prefer to go off and be a monk than to take
advantage of the ignorance of a girl who trusts you. But you must decide
on something, my poor fellow, if you don't want the end of the world to
come and find you sighing for the stars and throwing kisses to the
clouds. Let dogs bay at the moon; we artists must live at any price and
every moment. So make up your mind."

"You are right," I replied gravely. And I went to bed.

The next night I went again to the rendezvous. I found the signora
excited and in high spirits, as on the preceding night; but I was
taciturn and gloomy for some time. She joked me at first on my
_carbonaro_-like manner, and asked me laughingly if I was thinking of
dethroning the pope or reconstructing the Roman empire. Then, as I did
not reply, she gazed earnestly at me, and said, taking my hand:

"You are sad, Lelio. What is the matter?"

Thereupon I opened my heart to her, and said that my passion for her was
a misfortune to me.

"A misfortune? how so?"

"I will tell you, signora. You are the heiress of a noble and
illustrious family. You have been brought up to respect your ancestors
and to believe that antiquity and splendor of race are all that there is
in life. I am a poor devil without a past, a nobody, who have made
myself what I am. And yet I believe that one man is as good as another,
and I do not consider myself any man's inferior. Now, it is clear that
you would not marry me. Everything would forbid it, your principles,
your habits, your position in life. You, who have refused patricians
because their families were not noble enough, would be less able and
less likely than any other woman to stoop to a paltry actor like myself.
From princess to player is a long way, signora. So I cannot be your
husband. What is left for me? The prospect of a mutual passion,
wretchedly unhappy if it were never gratified, or the hope of being your
lover for a time. I cannot accept either, signora. To live together,
overflowing with a passion always intense and never allayed, to love
each other in fear and trembling, and to distrust ourselves as well as
each other, is to subject ourselves voluntarily to suffering that would
be intolerable because it would be senseless, hopeless, and aimless. Nor
would I, even if I could, possess you as a lover. My happiness would be
assailed by anxiety from too many sources to be at all complete. On the
one hand, I should always be afraid of compromising your good name; I
could not sleep with the dread of being the cause of great misery to
you, or of your utter ruin; during the day I should pass long hours
looking out for accidents which might bring misery upon you and
consequently upon me, and at night I should waste the time that we were
together in trembling at the fall of a leaf or at the cry of a bird.
Everything would be a source of alarm to me. And why should I thus toss
my life to a multitude of empty phantoms, to be consumed? for a
love-affair of which I could never foresee the duration and which would
afford no compensation for the uncertainties of to-day in a sense of
security for the morrow; for sooner or later, signora,--I must say it
frankly--you would marry. And you would marry a man of noble birth and
of great wealth like yourself. It would cost you a bitter pang, I know;
I know that you have a generous and sincere heart; you would desire most
earnestly to remain faithful to me, and your heart would rebel at the
thought of uttering a word which would put an end to all my happiness
surely, if not to my life. But the constant assaults of your family, the
very necessity of preserving your reputation, would drive you to take
that course in spite of yourself. You would struggle a long while, no
doubt, and vigorously. Your love for me would still be gentle and
tender, but less effusive; and I, witnessing your grief, as I am not the
man to accept long and painful sacrifices without returning them in
kind, should myself force you, by going away from you, to resign
yourself to that necessary marriage, preferring to consecrate my whole
future to sorrow rather than to change your destiny by a dastardly act.
That is what I wanted to say to you, signora, and you must understand
now why I am afraid that this love would prove to be a misfortune to
me."

She had listened to me with perfect tranquillity and in absolute
silence. When I ceased speaking, she did not change her attitude in any
way. But, watching her closely, I fancied that I detected an expression
of profound perplexity on her face. Thereupon I said to myself that I
had made no mistake, that she was weak and vain like all the rest of her
sex; that the only difference was that she was honest enough to
recognize the fact as soon as it was pointed out to her, and that she
would probably be honest enough to admit it. So I allowed her to retain
my esteem, but I felt that my enthusiasm vanished in an instant. I was
congratulating myself on my perspicacity and my firmness, when the
signora rose abruptly and walked away without a word. I was not prepared
for that stroke, and I was painfully surprised.

"What! without a single word?" I cried. "You leave me, perhaps forever,
without a single word of regret or consolation?"

"Farewell!" she said, turning toward me. "Regret I cannot feel; and I am
the one who need consolation. You have failed to understand me, you do
not love me."

"I do not love you?"

"But who will understand me," she added, stopping, "if you do not? Who
will love me, if you do not?"

She shook her head sadly, then folded her arms across her breast and
fixed her eyes on the ground. She was at once so lovely and so
despairing that I had a frantic longing to throw myself at her feet, and
only a vague fear of angering her prevented me from doing it on the
instant. I stood still, saying not a word, with my eyes fastened upon
her, waiting anxiously to see what she would say or do. After a few
seconds she walked slowly toward me, and, leaning against the pedestal
of the statue, said with a meditative air:

"So you thought me cowardly and vain; you thought me capable of giving
my love to a man and accepting his, without giving him at the same time
my whole life. You thought that I would stay with you so long as the
wind held fair, and that I would go away as soon as it became adverse.
How can you have thought so? For you are a steadfast, loyal man, and I
am sure that you would not start upon any serious course of action until
you had determined to go on with it to the end. Why, then, do you insist
that I cannot do what you do, and why have you not the same good opinion
of me that I have of you? Either you must have great contempt for women,
or you have allowed yourself to be sadly misled by my levity. I am often
foolish; I know that; but perhaps that may be to some extent the fault
of my age, and it does not prevent my being steadfast and loyal. On the
day that I realized that I loved you, Lelio, I determined to marry you.
That surprises you. You remember not only the thoughts that I must have
had in my position, but also my past words and acts. You think of all
the patricians I have refused to marry because they were not noble
enough. Alas! my dear friend, I am the slave of my public, just as you
sometimes complain of being of yours, and I am obliged to play my rôle
before it until I find an opportunity to escape from the stage. But I
have kept my heart free under my mask, and, since I have been able to
reason, I have determined that I would not marry except in accordance
with the dictates of my heart. But I had to have some excuse for
dismissing all those insipid and impertinent patricians to whom you
refer. I found it in the prejudices common to my suitors and my family,
and, wounding the pride of the former and flattering the pride of the
latter at the same time, I took advantage of the antiquity of my blood
to refuse the hand of men who, noble as they were, were still, I said,
not noble enough for me. In this way I succeeded in getting rid of all
my troublesome suitors without displeasing my family; for although they
called my refusals childish whims, and offered my rejected followers
apologies for my exaggerated pride of birth, they were none the less
enchanted with it in the depths of their hearts. For some little time I
enjoyed greater freedom by virtue of this conduct. But at last my
stepfather, Prince Grimani, told me that it was time to make up my mind,
and presented his nephew, Count Ettore, as the husband he had in mind
for me. This new pretender was as unattractive to me as his
predecessor--even more so perhaps; for his excessive imbecility soon led
me to despise him altogether. The prince, seeing this, and thinking that
my mother, who is a dear soul and loves me with all her heart, might aid
and abet me in my resistance to his will, determined to part me from her
in order to force me more easily to obey him. He sent me here to live
with no one but his sister and nephew. He hopes that, being compelled to
choose between ennui and my cousin Ettore, I shall end by choosing the
latter; but he is sadly mistaken. Count Ettore is unworthy of me in
every respect, and I should rather die than marry him. I have never said
so as yet, because I loved nobody, and, taking one scourge with another,
I had no more objection to that one than to others. But now I love you,
Lelio; I will tell Ettore that I will not have him; we will go away
together--to my mother; we will tell her that we love each other, and
that we wish to be married. She will give her consent, and you will
marry me. Do you agree?"

I had listened to the signora, from her very first word, with profound
amazement, which did not cease when she had finished. Such nobleness of
heart, such fearlessness of thought, such masculine audacity blended
with such delicacy of feeling--all these united in so young a girl,
brought up amid the most arrogant of the old aristocrats--aroused the
warmest admiration in my own mind, and my surprise gave place to
enthusiasm. I was on the point of giving way to my transports and of
throwing myself at her feet to tell her that I was happy and proud to be
loved by a woman like her, that I was burning with the most ardent
passion for her, and that I was ready to do whatever she choose. But
reflection checked me in time, and I thought of all the drawbacks, all
the dangers of the step she proposed to risk. It was very probable that
she would be refused and severely rebuked, and then what would be her
plight, after running away from her aunt's house and openly taking a
journey of eight leagues with me? And so, instead of yielding to the
tumultuous impulses of my heart, I forced myself to be calm, and, after
a few seconds of silence, I tranquilly inquired:

"But your family?"

"There is but one person in the world whose authority over me I
acknowledge, and whose anger I fear to incur: that is my mother; and, as
I have told you, my mother is as kind as an angel, and loves me beyond
everything. Her heart will consent."

"O dear child!" I cried, taking her hands and pressing them against my
heart; "God knows that what you propose to do is the goal of all my
desires! I am fighting against myself when I try to hold you back. Every
objection that I urge means the loss of one more hope of happiness for
myself, and my heart suffers cruelly from all the doubts suggested by my
reason. But to my mind, you, my beloved angel, and your future, your
reputation, your happiness, are to be considered first of all. I should
much rather renounce all hope than have you suffer because of me. So do
not be alarmed at all my scruples; do not see in them an indication of
calmness or indifference, but the proof of an unbounded affection. You
say that you know your mother will consent because you know that she is
kind. But you are very young, my child; with all your strength of mind,
you do not know what abnormal alliances are often found between the most
contrary sentiments. I believe all that you tell me of your mother, but
can you be sure that her pride will not resist her love for you? It may
be that she will think that she is performing a sacred duty by
preventing your union with an actor."

"You may be half right," she replied. "Not that I am afraid of my
mother's pride. Although she has married two princes, she belongs to the
middle class by birth, and has never forgotten her own origin so far
that she would consider it a crime for me to love a plebeian. But Prince
Grimani's influence, a certain weakness which makes her always coincide
with the opinions of those about her, and perhaps, to represent things
in the worst possible light, the longing to obtain forgiveness for her
own humble birth in the social circle in which she now lives, would
prevent her from giving a ready consent to our marriage. So that there
is but one thing to do; that is to be married first and then tell her of
it. When our union is sanctified by the Church, my mother will never
have the heart to turn against me. It may be that she will suffer a
little, less on account of my disobedience, although her new family will
hold her entirely responsible for it, than on account of what she will
consider a lack of confidence on my part; but she will very soon be
appeased, you may be sure, and, from love for me, will open her arms to
you as to a son."

"Thanks for your generous offers, my dear signora; but I have my honor
to preserve, no less than the proudest patrician. If I should marry you
without your parent's consent, after abducting you, people would not
fail to accuse me of the basest and most dastardly projects. And your
mother! suppose that after we were married she should refuse to forgive
us, all her indignation would fall upon me."

"I understand then that, before marrying, you desire to have my mother's
consent at least?"

"Yes, signora."

"And if you were sure of obtaining it, you would hesitate no longer?"

"Alas! why tempt me? What answer can I make, being sure of the
contrary?"

"Then----"

She paused abruptly, in evident uncertainty, and dropped her head on her
breast. When she raised it, she was slightly pale and tears were
glistening in her eyes. I was about to ask her the cause of them, but
she did not give me time.

"Lila," she said in an imperative tone, "go!"

The girl obeyed regretfully, and stopped far enough away to be out of
hearing, but not so far that she could not see us. Her mistress waited
until she had gone, before breaking the silence. Then she took my hand
with a most serious air, and began:

"I am going to tell you something which I have never told before to a
living soul, and which I had fully determined never to tell. It relates
to my mother, the object of all my veneration and all my love. Judge
what it must cost me to stir a memory which might tarnish her purity and
her fair fame in the sight of other eyes than mine. But I know that you
are kind-hearted, and that I can speak to you as I would speak to God,
without any fear that you will imagine evil."

She paused a moment to collect her ideas, then continued:

"I remember that I was very proud of my noble blood in my childhood. It
was, I fancy, the obsequious fawning of our servants that planted that
sentiment in my mind so early in life, and led me to despise everybody
who was not noble like myself. Among my mother's servants there was one
who did not resemble the others, and who had been able to retain, in his
humble station, the dignity that befits a man. So that he seemed to me
an insolent wretch, and my feeling for him was little short of hatred.
Still I was afraid of him, especially after a certain day when I saw him
watching me with a very grave expression, as I was running my loveliest
dolls through the heart with a long black pin.

"One night, I was awakened in my mother's bedroom, where my little bed
always stood, by the sound of a man's voice. That voice was speaking to
my mother with a gravity that was almost harsh, and she replied in a
grief-stricken, timid, almost imploring tone. In my astonishment I
thought at first that it was mamma's confessor; and as he seemed to be
scolding her according to his custom, I listened with all my ears,
without making a sound or letting them suspect that I wasn't asleep.
They had no suspicion of me. They talked without restraint. But such an
extraordinary conversation! My mother said: 'If you loved me, you would
marry me,' and the man refused to marry her! Then mamma wept and so did
the man; and I heard--ah! Lelio, I must be very fond of you to tell you
this--I heard the sound of kisses. It seemed to me as if I knew the
man's voice; but I could not believe the testimony of my ears. I longed
to look; but I didn't dare to move, because I felt that I was doing a
shameful thing in listening, and as I had even then some elevated
sentiments, I tried not to hear. But I heard in spite of my efforts. At
last the man said to my mother: '_Addio_, I leave you forever; do not
refuse me a lock of your lovely hair.'--And my mother replied: 'Cut it
yourself.'

"The care which my mother took of my curls had accustomed me to look
upon a woman's hair as something very valuable; and when I heard her
give him part of hers, I had a thrill of jealousy and grief, as if she
had parted with property which she ought not to sacrifice to anybody but
myself. I began to weep silently; but, as I had heard steps approaching
my bed, I hastily wiped my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Then some
one put aside my curtains, and I saw a man all dressed in red, whom I
did not recognize at first because I had never seen him in that costume.
I was afraid of him; but he spoke to me, and I recognized him at once;
it was--Lelio, you will forget this story, won't you?"

"It was--signora?" I cried, convulsively pressing her hand.

"It was Nello, our gondolier--Why, Lelio, what's the matter with you?
You are shivering, your hand trembles. O heaven! you blame my mother!"

"No, signora, no!" I replied in an inaudible voice; "I am listening
attentively to you. This took place at Venice, did it?"

"Did I tell you so?"

"I think you did; and it was in the Aldini palace, of course?"

"Of course, for I told you it was in my mother's bedroom. But why this
agitation, Lelio?"

"O my God! my God! and your name is Alezia Aldini!"

"Well, what are you thinking about?" said she, testily. "One would say
that you had just learned my name for the first time."

"Pardon me, signora, your family name--I always heard you called
Grimani, at Naples."

"By people who were but slightly acquainted with us, doubtless. I am the
last of the Aldinis, one of the most ancient families of the Republic,
proud beyond words, and now ruined. But my mother is rich, and Prince
Grimani, who considers my birth and fortune worthy his nephew, sometimes
treats me sternly, sometimes wheedles me to prevail on me to marry him.
When he has a kind day he calls me his dear daughter, and when strangers
ask him if I am really his daughter, he answers, alluding to his
favorite project: 'To be sure, for she will be Countess Grimani.' That
is why I was always called by a name that is not mine at Naples, where I
passed a month, and where I knew almost nobody, and why I am called by
the same name in this region, where I have been living six weeks, and
where I neither see nor know anybody."

"Signora," said I, making a mighty effort to break the painful silence
into which I had relapsed, "will you please explain to me what relation
this story can possibly bear to our love, and how, by the aid of the
secret you possess, you can extort from your mother a consent which she
would be otherwise disinclined to grant?"

"What do you say, Lelio? Do you believe me capable of such detestable
scheming? If you would listen to me instead of passing your hands over
your forehead with that bewildered air,--my friend, my dear Lelio, what
new sorrow, what fresh scruple has assailed you in the last few
seconds?"

"Dear signora, I beg you to go on."

"Very well! Understand that I have never forgotten that incident: that
it has caused all the sorrows and all the joys of my life. I realized
that I must never question my mother on the subject nor mention it to
anyone. You are the first person to whom I have ever told it, not
excepting my dear nurse Salomé, or my foster sister Lila, to whom I
tell everything. My pride suffered from my mother's error, which seemed
to rebound upon me. However, I adored her just the same. Perhaps,
indeed, I loved her all the more, the more I felt that she was weak and
exposed to the secret maledictions of my relatives on my father's side.
But my hatred for the common people increased in the same proportion as
my love for her.

"My sentiments remained unchanged until I was fourteen years old, and my
mother had apparently ceased to pay any heed to them. In the bottom of
her heart she was pained by my contempt for the lower classes, and one
day she made up her mind to reproach me timidly on that subject. I made
no reply, which must have surprised her, for I was in the habit of
arguing obstinately with everybody and on every subject. But I felt that
there was a mountain between my mother and myself, and that we could not
argue impartially on either side. Seeing that I listened to her
reproaches with extraordinary resignation, she took me on her knees,
and, fondling me with unutterable affection, talked to me about my
father in the most unexceptionable terms; but she told me many things
that I did not know. I had always retained a sort of enthusiastic
respect, entirely without foundation, for that father of mine, whom I
had hardly known. When I learned that he had married my poor mother
solely for her fortune, and that, after marrying her, he had looked down
on her because of her obscure birth and inferior education, there was a
great reaction in my heart, and I soon hated him as intensely as I had
loved him. My mother said many other things which seemed very strange to
me and impressed me deeply, concerning the misfortune of marrying purely
for convenience; and I fancied that I could see that she was not much
happier with her new husband than she had been with him of whom she was
speaking to me.

"This conversation made a profound impression on me, and I began to
reflect upon the necessity of making marriage a matter of business, and
upon the humiliation of being courted because of a name or a dowry. I
resolved not to marry, and some time afterward, as I was talking with my
mother again, I made known my determination to her, thinking that she
would approve of it. She smiled and said that the time was not far away
when my heart would feel the need of a different love from hers. I
assured her of the contrary; but by slow degrees I came to realize that
I had spoken rashly; for I was assailed by the most intolerable ennui
when we laid aside our pleasant and secluded life at Venice, to travel
about and mingle in the brilliant society of other cities. Then, as I
was very tall and very far advanced for my years, it seemed as if I had
hardly ceased to be a child before they were already talking to me about
choosing a husband and about an establishment; and every day I overheard
discussions as to the merits and drawbacks of some new suitor. I had not
as yet felt the repugnance and terror which men without heart or mind
inspire in well-born women. I was hard to suit. Having lived always with
such a dear mother and been idolized by her, what a paragon of a man I
must have met in order not to regret most bitterly her gentle yoke and
her loving protection! My pride, already so irritable in itself, became
more and more sensitive every day at the appearance of the vain,
stilted, empty-headed creatures who presumed to pay court to me. I clung
to the virtues of noble birth, because I had imagined up to that time
that illustrious families were superior to others in courage, merit,
courtesy and liberality. I had not seen the nobility except in the
portrait gallery of the Aldini Palace. There my ancestors appeared
before me in all their glory, with all their great feats of arms or
pious deeds recorded on oaken bas-reliefs. This one had ransomed three
hundred slaves from barbarian pirates and bestowed true religion and
freedom upon them; that one had sacrificed all his property in war for
the salvation of his country; a third had shed all his blood for her on
some glorious field. So that my admiration for them was justifiable, and
I felt that the blood in my veins was no less warm and generous than
theirs. But how shockingly the descendants of other patricians seemed to
me to have degenerated! They retained none of the qualities of their
race except insufferable incompetency and sickening presumption. I asked
myself what had become of the nobility; I found it only on armorial
bearings and on the doorways of palaces. I determined to become a nun,
and I urged my mother so persistently to allow me to enter a convent,
that she consented. She wept bitterly when she left me there. Prince
Grimani approved of my whim; for since he had unearthed, in some corner
of Lombardy, a sort of nephew who might become rich at my expense, and
bear magnificently, thanks to my dowry, the imperishable name of
Grimani, his only thought was to make me obedient to his wishes, and he
flattered himself that religion would make my character more pliable.
What fervent piety, what a thirst for martyrdom one must have in order
to accept Hector! They took me away from the convent three months ago;
the fact is that I was dying with ennui there, and the rigid discipline
to which I had to submit was beyond my strength. And then I was so happy
to return to my mother and she to have me with her! But six weeks of
convent life had wrought a great change in my ideas. I had come to
understand Jesus, to whom I had always prayed with my lips alone. In my
hours of solitude, in church, in the earnest outpouring of my heart in
prayer, I had learned that the son of Mary was the friend of the
hard-working poor, and that he had justly scorned the grandeurs of this
world. And how shall I tell you? at the same time that I opened my heart
to new sympathies, the thing that in my childhood I used mentally to
call my mother's shame presented itself to me under very different
colors, and I thought of it only with deep emotion. What took place
within me? I cannot say; but I said to myself: 'If I should do as mamma
did, if I should fall in love with a man of a different station in life
from my own, the whole world would throw stones at me, all except
mamma.' She would take me in her arms, and hiding my blushes in her
bosom she would say: 'Obey your heart, so that you may be happier than I
was after breaking mine.'--You are touched, Lelio! O heaven! it was a
tear that just fell on my hand. You are beaten, my dear! You see that I
am neither mad, nor wicked; now you will say _yes_, and you will come
and take me to-morrow. Swear it!"

I tried to speak, but I could not find a word; I was shuddering from
head to foot. I felt as if I were about to faint. With her eyes fixed
upon me she anxiously awaited my reply. For my own part, I was
completely crushed. At the very first words of her story, I had been
struck by its strange resemblance to my own; but when she came to those
incidents which it was impossible for me not to recognize, I was
completely bewildered and dazzled, as if the lightning had struck close
beside me. A thousand conflicting and sinister thoughts took possession
of my brain. I saw images of crime and despair fluttering about before
me like ghosts. Deeply moved by the memory of what had been, appalled at
the thought of what might be, I imagined myself the mother's lover and
the daughter's husband at the same time. Alezia, that child whom I had
seen in her cradle, stood before me, talking in the same breath of her
love and her mother's.

A world of recollections crowded into my mind, and little Alezia
appeared there as the object, even then, of a timid and unjoyful
affection. I recalled her pride, her hatred of me, and the words she had
said to me one day when she saw her father's ring on my finger. "Who can
say," I thought, "that she has renounced her prejudices forever? It may
be that if she should learn at this moment that I am Nello, her former
servant, she would blush for loving me."

"Signora," I said to her, "you used, you say, to be fond of piercing the
hearts of your dolls with a long pin. Why did you do that?"

"What do you care? why does that detail impress you particularly?"

"Because my heart aches, and your pins naturally came to my mind."

"I will tell you why it was, to show you that it was not a mere
barbarous whim," she replied. "I used to hear it said, when a man did a
cowardly thing, 'that's what it is to have no blood in the heart;' and I
took that metaphorical expression literally. So when I scolded my dolls,
I would say to them: 'you are cowards, and I am going to look and see if
you have any blood in your hearts.'"

"You despise cowards bitterly, don't you, signora?" I asked, wondering
what her opinion of me would be some day if I should give way at that
moment to her romantic passion. Once more I fell into a melancholy
reverie.

"What is the matter, in heaven's name?" said Alezia.

Her voice recalled me to myself. I looked at her with streaming eyes.
She was weeping too, but on account of my hesitation. I understood it at
once, and I said, taking her hands with a paternal gesture:

"O my child! do not accuse me! Do not doubt my poor heart! If you only
knew how I am suffering!"

And I walked rapidly away, as if by leaving her I could escape my
unhappiness. On reaching home I became calmer. I went over in my mind
the whole extraordinary succession of events; I worked out all their
details, and thus banished from my own mind the flavor of mystery which
had paralyzed me at first with superstitious terror. It was all strange,
but natural, even to the Christian name, that name Alezia, which I had
always longed to know and had never dared to ask.

I do not know whether another man in my place could have continued to
love the young Signora Aldini. Strictly speaking, I might have done it
without criminality; for you will remember that I had not ceased to be a
chaste and obedient lover of her mother. But my conscience rebelled at
the thought of that incest of the mind. I loved La Grimani with her
unknown baptismal name, I loved her with all my heart and all my senses;
but in truth I did not love in that way little Alezia, Signorina Aldini,
Bianca's daughter, for it seemed to me that I was her father. The memory
of Bianca's charms and fascinating qualities had remained pure and
undimmed throughout my life; it had followed me everywhere like a
providence. It had made me generous to women and brave against myself.
Although I had since fallen in with many false and selfish beauties, I
always had the certainty that there are those who are sincere and
generous. Bianca had made no sacrifice to me, because I had refused to
accept any; but if I had accepted it, if I had yielded to her
enthusiasm, she would have sacrificed everything to me, friends, family,
fortune, honor, religion, and perhaps her daughter too! What a sacred
debt I owed to her! Had I paid it in full by my refusal, by my
departure? No; for she was a woman, that is to say, weak and submissive,
exposed to the implacable decrees and the bitter insults of irony. And
she would have braved it all, she who was so timid, so gentle, so like a
child in a thousand ways. She would have done a sublime thing; and I,
had I accepted, should have done a dastardly thing. So that I had done
nothing more than fulfil a duty to myself, whereas she had exposed
herself to the risk of martyrdom for my sake. Poor Bianca, my first,
perhaps my only love! how lovely she had always remained in my memory!
"Why, in heaven's name," I said to myself, "am I afraid that she has
grown old and withered? Ought I not to be indifferent to that? Should I
still love her? no, probably not; but, whether ugly or lovely, could I
see her to-day without danger?" And at that thought my heart beat so
violently that I realized how impossible it was for me to be her
daughter's husband or lover.

And then too, to take advantage of the past--if it were only by a silent
assent to Alezia's wishes,--in order to obtain the hand of Bianca's
daughter, would have been a dishonorable act. Weak as I knew Bianca to
be, I knew that she would consider herself bound to give us her consent;
but I knew also that her old husband, her family, and, above all, her
confessor, would overwhelm her with their reproaches. She had been able
to make up her mind to marry a second time, a marriage of convenience.
Therefore, she was at heart a woman of the world, a slave of social
prejudices, and her love for me was simply a sublime episode, the memory
of which was to her a cause of shame and despair, whereas it was my
glory and my joy. "No, poor Bianca!" I thought, "no, I have not paid my
debt to you. You must have suffered terribly, perhaps trembled with
apprehension, at the idea that a servant might be peddling the secret of
your weakness from house to house. It is time that you should sleep in
peace, that you should cease to blush for the only happy days of your
youth, and that you should be able to say, poor woman, on learning of
Nello's everlasting silence, everlasting devotion, everlasting love,
that there was a time in your fettered, disappointed life, when you knew
love and inspired it."

I paced my room excitedly; day was beginning to break. In the lives of
men who sleep but little, that is the decisive hour which puts an end to
the hesitations conceived and nourished in the darkness, and which
changes plans into resolutions. I felt a thrill of enthusiastic joy and
legitimate pride at the thought that Lelio the actor had not fallen
below Nello the gondolier. Sometimes, in my romantic democratic ideas, I
had flushed with shame because I had left the thatched roof where I
might have perpetuated a hardy, laborious, and frugal race; I had
reproached myself, as for a crime, for having disdained the humble trade
of my fathers to seek the bitter joys of luxurious living, the vain
incense of glory, the false advantages and trivial labors of art. But by
performing, in the tinsel of the actor, the same acts of unselfishness
and true pride that I had performed in the rough jacket of the
gondolier, I ennobled my life twice over, and raised myself above all
false social grandeurs. My conscience, my dignity, seemed to me the
conscience and dignity of the common people; by debasing myself I should
have debased the common people. "_Carbonari_! _carbonari_!" I exclaimed,
"I will be worthy to be one of you." The cult of deliverance is a new
cult; liberalism is a religion which should ennoble its followers, and,
like Christianity in its early days, make the slave a free man, the free
man a saint or a martyr.

I wrote the following letter to Princess Grimani:


"SIGNORA:

"The signorina has been exposed to great danger. Why did you, a loving
and fearless mother, consent to send her away from you? Is she not at an
age when any accident may decide a woman's future--a glance or a breath?
Is not this the time when you should watch over her every instant, night
and day alike, fathom her troubles, however slight, and count the
pulsations of her heart? For you, signora, who are so gentle and so
condescending in small things, but in great crises can always find in
your heart so much vigor and resolution, the moment has come when you
should display the courage of the lioness, who will not allow her little
ones to be taken from her. Come, signora, come; take your daughter back,
and do not let her quit you again. Why do you leave her in strange
hands, subjected to injudicious guidance, which irritates her and would
drive her into serious errors, if she were not your daughter--if it were
possible for the seeds of virtue and of dignity planted in her breast by
you to become the plaything of the first breeze that blows! Open your
eyes; see how your child's legitimate and sacred inclinations are being
thwarted, until you are in danger of seeing her resist wise counsels,
and contract a habit of independence which it will be impossible to
overcome. Do not permit a husband whom she detests to be forced upon
her, and look to it that her aversion for him does not spur her on to
make a rash and even more deplorable choice. Assure her liberty. Let her
only chains be her anxiety concerning your enlightened love, lest,
distrusting your energy in her behalf, she seek dangerous succor in her
imagination. In heaven's name, come!

"And if you wish to know, signora, by what right I address this appeal
to you, I will tell you that I have seen your daughter without knowing
her name; that I have been on the verge of falling in love with her;
that I have followed her, watched her, sought her acquaintance; and that
she is not so well guarded that I could not have spoken to her and
exerted--in vain, I doubt not--all the wiles by which an ordinary woman
is seduced. Thank God! your daughter has not even been exposed to my
rash advances. I learned in time that she was the daughter of the woman
whom I venerate and respect above all the world, and from that moment
her place of abode became a sacred spot to me. If I do not leave the
neighborhood instantly, it is that I may be ready to reply to your most
searching questions, if, distrusting my honor, you bid me appear before
you and render an account of my conduct.

"Accept, signora, the humble respects of your devoted slave,

                            "NELLO."


I sealed this letter, wondering how I could forward it to its address
with the greatest possible speed, and with no danger of its falling into
strange hands. I dared not carry it myself, fearing that Alezia, in her
irritation at learning of my departure, would do something foolish or
desperate. Moreover, it was quite true that I wished to be able to open
my heart completely to her mother when the time should come for me to
confide everything to her; for I foresaw that Alezia would conceal from
her no detail of our little romance, of which I had no right to tell the
whole story except by her order. I feared, too, that the girl's
enthusiasm would so prevail over her mother's weakness with the moving
description of her passion, that the mother would eventually give a
consent which I did not propose to accept. Both needed the help of my
calm and immovable determination, and it might well be that when they
were face to face I should stand in need of the strength they both would
lack.

I had reached this point in my reflections when there came a knock at my
door, and a man entered and approached me respectfully. As he had taken
pains to take off his livery, I did not at first recognize him as the
servant who had looked at me so closely on the day of the church
episode; but as we now had plenty of time to scrutinize each other, we
both involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"It is really you!" he said. "I was not mistaken; you are really Nello?"

"Mandola, my old friend!" I cried, and I opened my arms. He hesitated an
instant, then embraced me most heartily, weeping for joy.

"I recognized you, but I wanted to make sure; and so, at the first
moment I have had at my disposal, here I am. How does it happen that you
are called Signor Lelio hereabouts, unless you are the famous singer who
is so much talked about at Naples, and whom I have never been to see?
for I always go to sleep at the theatre, you know, and as for music, I
have never been able to understand it. So the signora never makes me go
up to her box till the end of the play."

"The signora! oh! tell me about the signora, my old comrade."

"I was talking about Signora Alezia, for Signora Bianca never goes to
the theatre now. She has taken a Piedmontese confessor, and she has been
entirely wrapped up in religion since her second marriage. Poor, dear
signora, I am afraid that this husband hardly makes up to her for the
other. Ah! Nello, Nello, why didn't you----"

"Hush, Mandola; not a word about that. There are some memories which
ought not to come to our lips any more than the dead should return to
life. Only tell me where your mistress is at this moment, and how I can
send her a letter secretly and without delay."

"Is it something of importance to you?"

"It is much more important to her."

"In that case, give it to me; I will travel by post at full speed, and
deliver it to her at Bologna, where she is now. Didn't you know it?"

"No, indeed. So much the better. You can be with her this evening, can't
you?"

"Yes, by Bacchus! Poor mistress! how surprised she will be to hear from
you! for you see, Nello, you see, Signor"----

"Call me Nello when we are alone, and Lelio before other people, until
the old Chioggia affair is forgotten altogether."

"Oh! I know. Poor Massatone! But that is beginning to die out."

"What were you saying about Signora Bianca? That is what I am anxious to
know."

"I was saying that she will turn very red and then very pale when I hand
her your letter and whisper: 'This is from Nello! The signora remembers
Nello, who used to sing so well!'--Then she will say to me in a serious
tone, for she is no longer bright and cheerful as she used to be, poor
signora: 'Very well, Mandola, go to the pantry.' And then she will call
me back and say in a sweet tone, for she is just as kind-hearted as
ever: 'Poor Mandola, you must be very tired!--Give him some of the best
wine, Salomé!'"

"Salomé!" I cried; "is she married too?"

"Oh! she'll never marry. She is just the same, no older nor younger;
never smiling, never shedding a tear, adoring the signora as always, and
forever resisting her; very fond of the signora and always scolding her;
kind-hearted at bottom, but not amiable. Has Signora Alezia recognized
you?"

"No, indeed."

"I can believe it; I had much difficulty in recognizing you myself.
People change so much! You used to be so small and so slender!"

"Oh! not too slender, if I remember aright."

"And I," continued Mandola with comical distress, "I was so active and
graceful and quick and merry! Ah! how fast one grows old!"

I began to laugh when I saw how men delude themselves concerning their
youthful graces as they advance in years. Mandola was very much the same
Lombard giant that I remembered; he still walked sideways like a vessel
beating to windward, and the constant balancing of the gondola as he
rowed at the stern had caused him to contract the habit of standing on
one leg at a time. You would have said that he was always suspicious of
the level ground and was waiting for a wave to come to change his
position. I had much difficulty in shortening our interview; he took
great delight in it, and I derived a sort of sorrowful pleasure from
hearing of that home where my heart had been thrown open to poesy, art,
love and honor. I could not restrain a secret thrill of joy, overflowing
with emotion and gratitude, when the honest Lombard told me of Bianca's
long continued melancholy after my departure, her impaired health, her
secret tears, her languor, her distaste for life. Then she had recovered
her animation. A new love had touched her heart. A very charming man, of
decidedly ill-repute, a sort of aristocratic adventurer, had sought her
hand in marriage; she had been within an ace of believing in him. Being
warned in time, she had shuddered at the dangers to which her peace of
mind and dignity were exposed by her isolation; above all she had
shuddered for her daughter, and she had fallen back upon religion.

"But her marriage to Prince Grimani?" I said inquiringly.

"Oh! that was the confessor's work."

"Well, there is such a thing as fatality, no one can escape it. Off with
you, Mandola; here is some money, and here is the letter. Don't lose an
instant, and don't return to the Grimani villa until you have spoken to
me; for I have some important suggestions to make to you."

He left me. I threw myself on my bed and was just falling asleep when I
heard the rapid footsteps of a horse in the garden upon which my window
looked. I wondered whether it was Mandola returning because he had
forgotten a part of his instructions. I overcame my fatigue and went to
the window. But, instead of Mandola, I saw a woman in a riding habit,
with her head covered with a thick black crêpe mantle which fell over
her shoulders and concealed her whole figure as well as her face. She
was riding a superb horse, steaming with sweat; and, leaping to the
ground before her groom had found time to assist her, she talked in a
very low tone to old Cattina, who had hurried to meet her, impelled by
curiosity much more than by zeal. I trembled as I thought who it might
be, who it must be; and, cursing the imprudence of such a proceeding, I
hastily dressed. When I was ready, as Cattina did not come to notify me,
I rushed out into the hall, fearing that the reckless visitor might
remain on the stoop exposed to some inquisitive eye. But I found Cattina
at the foot of the steps, returning to her work after showing the
stranger into the house.

"Where is that lady?" I inquired eagerly.

"That lady!" repeated the old woman, "what lady, my _blessed_ Signor
Lelio?"

"What trick are you trying to play on me, you old fool? Didn't I see a
lady dressed in black come in, and didn't she ask to speak to me?"

"No, as I believe in baptism, Signor Lelio. The lady asked for Signora
Checchina, and didn't mention your name. She put this half-sequin in my
hand and bade me keep her presence a secret _from the other people in
the house_. That's just what she said."

"Did you see the lady, Cattina?"

"I saw her dress and her veil, and a great lock of black hair that had
got loose and fell on a beautiful hand, and two great eyes that shone
behind the lace like two lamps behind a curtain."

"Where did you put her?"

"In Signora Checchina's small salon, while the signora is dressing to
receive her."

"Very well, Cattina; keep your mouth shut, since she bade you."

I was uncertain whether it was Alezia who had come to confide in
Checchina. If so, it was my duty to prevent her, at any price, from
remaining in that house, where every instant of her stay might
contribute to the ruin of her reputation; but if it were not she, what
right had I to go and question a person who, doubtless, had some very
serious motive for concealing her actions in this way? I had been unable
from my window to judge of the height of that veiled woman, because our
respective positions were such that I could see only the top of her
head. I had scrutinized the groom as he led the horses to a clump of
trees which his mistress pointed out to him. I had never seen his face
before; but that was no reason why he might not belong to the Grimani
establishment, for I certainly had not seen all the servants. I disliked
extremely to question him and try to bribe him. I determined to go to
Checchina; I knew what a length of time she required to make the
simplest toilet. She could not have joined her visitor as yet, and I
could reach her bedroom without passing through the small salon. I knew
the secret passage which connected Nasi's apartments with his
mistress's, the villa of Cafaggiolo being a genuine _petite maison_,
built according to the French style of the 18th century.

I found Checchina half-dressed, and making ready with queenly
indifference for this early morning audience.

"What does this mean?" she cried, as I entered by way of her alcove.

"Just a word, Checchina," I said in her ear. "Send away your maid."

"Make haste," she said when we were alone, "for there is someone waiting
for me."

"I know it, and that is what I came to speak to you about. Do you know
this woman who has requested an interview with you?"

"How do I know? She refused to tell my maid her name, and at that I sent
word to her that I was not in the habit of receiving people whom I did
not know, at seven o'clock in the morning; but she wouldn't be refused,
and she begged Teresa so earnestly--indeed it is probable that she gave
her money in order to enlist her in her interest--that the girl came and
bothered me to death, and I backed down; but not without the greatest
reluctance to get up so early, for I read of the loves of Angélique and
Médor far into the night."

"Listen, Checchina; I think that this woman is--the one you know about."

"Oh! do you think so? In that case, go and join her. I understand why
she asked for me, and why you came here by the secret passage. I will be
close-mouthed, and delighted to go to sleep again, and you will be the
happiest of men."

"No, my dear Francesca, you are mistaken. If I had arranged an
assignation under your auspices, be very sure that I would have asked
your permission. But I have not reached that stage, and my romance is
drawing to a conclusion--to the least ardent and most moral of
conclusions. But this young woman is ruined unless you come to her
assistance. Do not listen to any of the romantic projects which she has
come here to confide to you; send her away at once; make her return to
her people instantly. If by any chance she asks to speak to me in your
presence, say that I am absent and shall not return during the day."

"What, Lelio! you are no more ardent than this, and she makes a fool of
herself for you! The deuce! That is what comes of being conceited--one
always succeeds. But suppose you are mistaken, _cugino_? Suppose this
beautiful adventuress turns out to be not your Dulcinea, but one of the
poor girls with whom every country swarms, who want to go on the stage
in order to escape from cruel parents? Look you, I have an inspiration.
Let us go into the small salon together. If we push the screen before
the door as we go in, you can creep in with me, keep out of sight, and
see and hear everything. If this woman is your mistress, it is important
that you should know at once just what is in the wind; and as I should
have to repeat to you word for word what she says to me, it will be a
much shorter way for you to hear it yourself."

I hesitated, and yet I was sorely tempted to follow that bad advice.

"But suppose it is some other woman," I objected; "suppose she has some
secret to tell you?"

"Have you and I any secrets from each other?" said Checchina; "and have
you less regard for yourself than I have for you? Come, no absurd
scruples; come!"

She called Teresa, said a few words in her ear, and, when the screen was
arranged, dismissed her and led me into the salon. I had not been in
hiding two minutes before I found a break in the screen through which I
could see the mysterious lady. She had not raised her veil, but I
recognized Alezia's graceful figure and beautiful hands.

The poor child was trembling in every limb. I pitied her and blamed her;
for the apartment in which we were was not decorated in the most chaste
style, and the antique bronzes and marble statuettes which embellished
it, although selected with exquisite taste as works of art, were by no
means suited to attract the glances of an enamored girl or a modest
woman. And as I reflected that it was Alezia Aldini who had dared to
find her way into that heathen temple, I was, in spite of myself, more
hurt than grateful for her action, because I still loved her a little.

Checchina, although she had dressed hurriedly, had omitted nothing to
accomplish the object so dear to women, of dazzling persons of their own
sex by the splendor of their costume. She had thrown over her shoulders
a cashmere _robe de chambre_, at that time a very rare object; she had
surrounded her dishevelled hair with a net of gold and purple, for the
antique was fashionable then; and over her bare legs, which were as
strong and as beautifully moulded as those of a statue of Diana, she had
drawn a sort of buskin of tiger's skin, which ingeniously supplied the
place of the commonplace slipper. She had covered her fingers with
diamonds and cameos, and held her brilliant fan like a stage sceptre,
while the stranger, to keep herself in countenance, played awkwardly
with her own, which was of simple black satin. She was visibly dismayed
by Checca's beauty,--beauty of a somewhat masculine type, but
incontestable. With her Turkish gown, her Median footwear, and her Greek
head-dress, she must have resembled the wives of the old satraps who
decked themselves out with the plunder of foreign nations.

She saluted her guest with a patronizing air bordering on impertinence;
then, reclining carelessly on an ottoman, assumed the most Grecian
attitude that she could invent. All this pantomime produced its due
effect: the girl was utterly bewildered, and dared not break the
silence.


[Illustration: _ALEZIA VISITS CHECCHINA._

"_Well, signora or signorina," said Checca, slowly
unfolding her fan, "for I haven't the slightest idea
with whom I have the pleasure of speaking--I am
at your service._"]


"Well, signora or signorina," said Checca, slowly unfolding her fan,
"for I haven't the slightest idea with whom I have the pleasure of
speaking--I am at your service."

Thereupon the stranger, in a clear and somewhat metallic voice, with a
very pronounced English accent, replied thus:

"Pray pardon me, signora, for disturbing you so early in the morning,
and accept my thanks for your kindness in receiving me. My name is
_Barbara Tempest_, and I am the daughter of an English nobleman who has
been living in Florence for a short time. My parents are having me take
music lessons, and I have already acquired some talent; but I had a most
excellent teacher who has gone to Milan, and my parents want me now to
take lessons of that stupid Tosani, who will disgust me with the art
with his antiquated method and his absurd cadenzas. I have heard that
Signor Lelio--whom I heard several times at Naples--was coming to this
neighborhood, and that he had hired this house, the owner of which I
know, for the season. I have an irresistible desire to take lessons of
that famous singer, and I asked leave of my parents, who consented; but
they have spoken about it to several people, and have been told that
Signor Lelio is a man of a very proud and somewhat eccentric character,
that, in addition, he is associated with what they call _charbonnerie_,
I believe, that is to say he has taken an oath to exterminate all the
rich and all the nobles, and that he detests them all. He doesn't miss
an opportunity, so my father was told, to show his aversion to them, and
if he ever, by any chance, consents to do them a service, to sing at
their parties, or give lessons in their families, he doesn't do it until
he has made them implore him in the most humble terms. If they prove to
him, by very earnest appeals, how highly they esteem his talent and his
person, he yields and becomes amiable; but if they treat him as an
ordinary artist, he refuses sharply, and is not sparing of his mockery.
This, signora, is what my parents have heard, and it is what they fear;
for they are a little vain of their name and their social position. For
my own part, I have no prejudices, and I have such profound admiration
for talent, that there is no price that I would not pay to obtain from
Signor Lelio the favor of being his pupil.

"I have very often said to myself that if I could only have an
opportunity to speak to him, he certainly would grant my request. But
not only am I not likely to have an opportunity to meet him, but it
would not be proper for a young woman to accost a young man. I was
thinking about it this morning as I was riding. In my country, you know,
signora, young ladies go out alone, and ride out attended by their
servants. So I ride early in the morning, to avoid the heat of the day,
which seems very terrible to us northern people. As I was passing this
pretty house, I asked a servant whom it belonged to. When I learned that
it was Count Nasi's, who is a friend of my family, I asked if Signor
Lelio had arrived, knowing that the count had let it to him. 'Not yet,'
was the reply; 'but his wife came on ahead to prepare the house for him;
she is a very kind and beautiful lady.' Thereupon, signora, it came into
my head to call upon you and interest you in my desire, so that you
might give me the benefit of your powerful influence with your husband,
and induce him to grant the request of my parents when they present it.
May I ask you also, signora, to be kind enough to keep my little secret
and to ask Signor Lelio to do the same? for my family would blame me
severely for taking this step, although it is, as you see, perfectly
innocent."

She pronounced this harangue with such genuinely British volubility,
jerking out her words, cutting short the long syllables, and drawling
over the short ones, her Anglicisms were so natural and amusing, that I
no longer believed that prudish yet reckless young lady to be Alezia.
Checchina, for her part, thought of nothing but making merry over her
eccentric performance. I would gladly have retired, as I was hardly in a
mood to enjoy that amusement; but the slightest sound would have
betrayed my presence and struck terror to Miss Barbara's guileless
heart.

"Really, miss," Checchina replied, concealing a strong desire to laugh
behind a phial of essence of rose, "your request is most embarrassing,
and I don't know how to answer it. I will admit that I have not the
influence over Signor Lelio which you are pleased to attribute to me."

"Can it be that you are not his wife?" inquired the young Englishwoman
artlessly.

"Oh! miss, to think of a young lady having such ideas!" exclaimed
Checchina assuming a prudish air that sat most awkwardly upon her. "Fie,
fie! Does custom permit young ladies in England to make such
suppositions?"

Poor Barbara was altogether bewildered.

"I do not know whether my question was insulting," she rejoined in a
trembling but resolute voice; "I certainly did not so intend it. You
could not live with Signor Lelio without committing a crime unless you
were his wife. You might, perhaps, be his sister--That is all I wanted
to say, signora."

"And might I not be neither his wife, nor his sister, nor his mistress,
but be living in my own house? May I not be Countess Nasi?"

"O signora," replied Barbara ingenuously, "I know that Signor Nasi is
not married."

"He may be secretly, miss."

"It must be very recently then; for he asked for my hand not more than a
fortnight ago."

"Ah! it was you, was it, signorina?" cried Checchina with a tragic
gesture which caused her fan to fall. There was a moment's silence. Then
the young stranger, being determined to break it at any price, seemed to
make a great effort, left her chair and picked up the singer's fan. She
handed it to her with charming grace, and said in a caressing tone which
made her foreign accent even more appealing:

"You will have the kindness to mention me to your brother, will you not,
signora?"

"You mean my husband?" rejoined Checchina, accepting her fan with a
mocking air and eyeing the young Englishwoman with malevolent curiosity.
The visitor fell back in her chair as if she had received her death
blow; and Checchina, who detested society women and took a savage joy in
crushing them when she was brought into rivalry with them, added as she
surveyed herself absent-mindedly in the mirror over the ottoman:

"Look you, my dear Miss Barbara. I wish you well; for you seem to me a
charming person. But you should have told me the truth: I fear that it
is not love of art which brings you here, but a sort of a fancy for
Lelio. He has unconsciously inspired many romantic passions during his
life, and I know as many as ten boarding-school misses who are wild over
him."

"Never fear, signora," retorted the English girl, with an Italian accent
which gave me a shock, "I could never have the slightest feeling for a
married man; and when I entered this house I knew that you were Signor
Lelio's wife."

Checchina was a little disconcerted by the firm and contemptuous tone of
this retort; but, being determined to force her to the last extremity,
she soon recovered herself, and said with a studied smile, and with
redoubled impertinence:

"Dear Barbara, you set my mind at rest, and I believe that you are too
noble-minded to wish to rob me of Lelio's heart; but I cannot conceal
from you that I have one wretched failing. I am of a frantically jealous
disposition and everything arouses my suspicions. You are lovelier than
I, perhaps, and I am much afraid that it is so, judging from the pretty
foot which I see and the great eyes which I divine. You will be
indifferent to Lelio, since he belongs to me, for you are high-spirited
and generous: but Lelio may fall in love with you; you will not be the
first one who has turned his head. He is a fickle creature; his blood
kindles for every pretty woman he meets. So pray be kind enough, dear
Signora Barbara, to raise your veil, so that I may see what I have to
fear, and, to use the French phrase, whether I can safely expose Lelio
to the fire of your batteries."

The English girl made a gesture of disgust, then seemed to hesitate; and
at last, drawing herself up to her full height, she replied, beginning
to detach her veil:

"Look at me, signora, and remember my features, so that you may describe
them to Signor Lelio; and if, as he listens to your description, he
seems moved, do not by any means send him to me; for, if he should be
faithless to you, I declare that it would be a most unfortunate thing
for him, and that he would obtain nothing but contempt from me."

As she was speaking, she uncovered her face. Her back was turned toward
me, and I tried in vain to see her features in the mirror. But what need
had I of the testimony of my eyes? was not that of my ears sufficient?
She had entirely forgotten her English accent and spoke the purest
Italian in that resonant, vibrating voice which had so often moved me to
the very depths of my being.

"I beg your pardon, miss," said Checchina, in nowise discomposed, "you
are so lovely that all my fears are revived. I cannot believe that Lelio
has not seen you already, and that you and he are not acting in concert
to deceive me."

"If he asks you my name," exclaimed Alezia, violently pulling out one of
the long pins of burnished steel that held the folds of her veil in
place, "give him this from me, and tell him that my crest bears a pin
with this motto: 'For the heart in which there is no blood!'"

At that moment, unable to rest under the burden of such contempt, I
suddenly emerged from my hiding-place and rushed toward Alezia with a
self-assured air.

"No, signora," I said, "do not believe my friend Francesca's jests. This
is all a comedy which she has enjoyed playing, taking you for what you
chose to appear, and unaware of the importance of her falsehoods; it is
a comedy which I have allowed her to play thus far because I hardly
recognized you, you imitated so cleverly the accent and manners of an
Englishwoman."

Alezia seemed neither surprised nor moved by my appearance. She
maintained the calmness and dignity in which women of rank surpass all
other women when they are in the right. One who had seen her impassive
features, lighted up little by little by a charming smile of irony,
might well have believed that her heart had never known passion, and was
incapable of knowing it.

"So you think that I have played my part well, signor?" she retorted;
"that will prove to you that I had some vocation for the profession
which you ennoble by your talents and your virtues. I thank you with all
my heart for having arranged an opportunity for me to act before you,
and I thank the signora, who has been kind enough to give me my cue. But
I am already disgusted with this sublime art. One must carry into it a
fund of experience which it would cost me too much to acquire, and a
strength of mind of which you alone in all the world are capable."

"No, signora, you are in error," I replied firmly. "I have no experience
of evil, and I have no strength except to repel degrading suspicions. I
am neither the husband nor the lover of Francesca. She is my friend, my
adopted sister, the discreet and devoted confidante of all my feelings,
and yet she does not know who you are, although she is as devoted to you
as to myself."

"I declare, signora," said Francesca, seating herself in a more becoming
attitude, "that I have very little idea what is going on here, and why
Lelio has allowed you to form such suspicions, when it was so easy for
him to destroy them. What he has just said to you is the truth, and you
do not imagine, I trust, that I would lend myself to an attempt to
deceive you, if I were anything more than a placid and entirely
unselfish friend to him."

Alezia began to tremble in every limb, as if she had an attack of fever,
and she resumed her seat, pale and thoughtful. She was still in doubt.

"You were very cruel to her, cousin," I whispered to Checchina. "You
took delight in inflicting pain on a pure heart, in order to avenge your
foolish self-esteem. Ought you not to thank your rival, since she
refused Nasi?"

Kind-hearted Checca went to her, took her hands familiarly, and sat on a
hassock at her feet.

"My sweet angel," she said, "do not be suspicious of us; you know
nothing of the honorable and attractive freedom of Bohemian life. In
your social circle we are slandered, and our best actions are called
crimes. As you have allowed Lelio to love you, it must be that you do
not share those unjust prejudices. Be sure, therefore, that, unless I am
the very vilest of creatures, I cannot conspire with Lelio to deceive
you. I can hardly understand what pleasure or profit I could derive from
it. So let your mind be at rest, my pretty signora. Forgive me for
extorting your secret from you by my foolish jesting. You must agree
that if we had allowed the signora marchesina to make sport of us
actors, it would not have been in the natural order of things. However,
it is all very fortunate, and it was an excellent and brave idea of
yours. You might have retained your suspicions and suffered a long time,
while now you are completely reassured, are you not, _marchesina mia_?
And you believe that my heart is too big to betray you in such fashion,
don't you? Now, my dear love, you must go back to your parents, and
Lelio will go and see you whenever you choose. Never fear, I will send
him to you myself, and I will see that he doesn't give you any more
cause for grief. Ah! _poverina_, men are in the world to drive women to
despair, and the best of them is not equal to the worst of us. You are a
poor child, who do not know as yet what suffering is. It will come only
too soon if you abandon your heart to the torments of love, _oimè_!"

Francesca said many other things full of kindliness and good sense.
While Alezia was somewhat offended by her artless familiarity, she was
touched by her kindness of heart and won over by her perfect frankness.
She did not respond to Checca's caresses, but great tears rolled slowly
down her pale cheeks. At last her heart fairly overflowed, and she threw
herself, sobbing bitterly, into her new friend's arms.

"O Lelio!" she said, "will you forgive me for insulting you by such a
suspicion? Attribute it solely to my unhealthy state of mind and body
for the last few days. It was Lila who, thinking that she could cure me
in that way, and wishing to prevent me from doing what she calls a crazy
thing, confided to me last night that you were living here with a very
beautiful woman, who was not your sister, as she had believed at first,
but your wife or your mistress. You can imagine that I couldn't close my
eyes; I revolved in my brain the most tragic and most extravagant
projects. At last I concluded that Lila might be mistaken, and I
determined to learn the truth for myself. At daybreak, while the poor
girl, overcome by fatigue, lay sleeping on the floor in my bedroom, I
stole out on tiptoe. I called the most stupid and blindly submissive of
my aunt's servants, and ordered him to saddle my cousin Hector's horse,
which is very high-spirited, and has nearly thrown me a dozen times. But
what did I care for my life? I said to myself: 'Alas! everyone is not
killed who wants to be!' and I started for Cafaggiolo, without any idea
what I was going to do here. On the way, I invented the story I ventured
to tell the signora. Oh! I beg her to forgive me! I wanted to find out
if she loved you, Lelio; if you loved her, if she had any rights over
you, if you were deceiving me. Forgive me, both of you. You are so kind;
you will forgive me and love me too, won't you, signora?"

"Dear _Madonetta_! I love you already with all my heart," replied
Checchina, throwing her long bare arms about her neck, and hugging her
until she nearly suffocated her.

I was anxious to put an end to this scene and to send Alezia back to her
aunt. I begged her to expose herself to no further risk, and I rose to
order her horse; but she detained me, saying vehemently:

"What are you thinking about, Lelio? Send the servant and horses back to
my aunt. Order a post-chaise, and let us go at once. Your friend will be
kind enough to go with us. We will go to my mother, and I will throw
myself at her feet and say: 'I am compromised, I am ruined in the eyes
of the world; I ran away from my aunt's in broad daylight, without
concealment. It is too late to repair the injury I have inflicted upon
myself voluntarily and deliberately. I love Lelio and he loves me; I
have given him my life. I have nobody left on earth but him and you.
Will you curse me?'"

This determination threw me into the most horrible perplexity. I argued
with her to no purpose. She was annoyed by my scruples, accused me of
not loving her, and appealed to Francesca's judgment. Francesca
suggested going with Alezia to her mother, without me. I tried to induce
Alezia to return to her aunt, to write to her mother from there, and to
await her reply before deciding upon anything. I solemnly promised to
have no more conscientious scruples if the mother consented; but I was
not willing to compromise the daughter; that was a detestable deed which
I implored Alezia to spare me. Her reply was that, if she wrote, her
mother would show the letter to Prince Grimani, and he would have her
shut up in a convent.

At the height of this discussion, Lila, whom Cattina strove in vain to
detain on the stairs, rushed impetuously into our midst, purple in the
face, breathless, almost fainting. It was several minutes before she
could speak. At last she told us in broken phrases, that she had
outstripped Signor Ettore Grimani, whose horse luckily enough was lame,
and could not jump the quickset hedges between the fields; but that he
was behind her, that he had inquired all the way along what road Alezia
had taken, and that he would arrive very soon. Through his means, the
whole Grimani establishment was informed of the signora's flight. The
aunt had tried to make inquiries quietly and to impose silence on
Hector's frantic outcries, but all to no purpose. He was making so much
noise about it that the whole province would be aware before night of
his humiliating position and of the signora's risky performance, unless
she herself set things to rights by going to meet him, closing his
mouth, and returning to Villa Grimani with him. I agreed with Lila.
Alezia could make her cousin do whatever she chose. Nothing was
irreparable as yet, if she would mount her horse and return to her aunt;
she could take a different road from that by which Hector was coming,
and we would send somebody to meet him and throw him off the scent and
prevent him from coming to Cafaggiolo. But it was all useless. Alezia's
resolution was immovable.

"Let him come," she said, "let him enter the house, and if he dares to
come as far as this we will throw him out of the window."

Checchina laughed like a madwoman at that idea, and upon hearing
Alezia's satirical description of her cousin, she undertook to get rid
of him unaided. All this boasting and insane merriment at such a crisis
grieved me beyond measure.

Suddenly a post-chaise appeared at the end of the long avenue lined with
fig-trees leading from the main road to Nasi's villa.

"It's Nasi!" cried Checchina.

"Suppose it is Bianca!" I thought.

"Oh!" cried Lila, "here comes the signora, your aunt in person, to fetch
you."

"I will resist my aunt as stoutly as my cousin," replied Alezia; "for
they are treating me shamefully. They mean to publish my shame, to
overwhelm me with chagrin and humiliation, in order to conquer me. Hide
me, Lelio, or protect me."

"Have no fear," I replied; "if that is the way they propose to act
toward you, no one shall come into this house. I will go and receive the
signora, your aunt, at the door, and as it is too late for you to go
out, I swear that no one shall come in."

I ran hastily down stairs; I found Cattina listening at the door. I
threatened to kill her, if she said a word; then, reflecting that no
fear was sufficiently powerful to prevent her from yielding to the power
of gold, I changed my mind, retraced my steps, and, taking her by the
arm, pushed her into a sort of store-room which had only a small round
window which she could not reach; I locked the door on her in spite of
her anger, put the key in my pocket, and ran down to meet the
post-chaise.

Of all the possibilities that we dreaded, the most embarrassing was
realized. Nasi alighted from the carriage and threw himself on my neck.
How could I prevent him from entering his own house, how conceal from
him what was going on? It was a simple matter to prevent his betraying
Alezia's _incognito_, by telling him that a woman had come to his house
to see me, and that I requested him as a favor not to try to see her.
But the day would not pass without his hearing of Alezia's flight and
the confusion into which the Grimani household had been thrown. A week
would suffice to make it known all over the country. I really did not
know what to do. Nasi, being entirely at a loss to understand my
perturbed air, began to be uneasy and to fear that Checchina, in wrath
or in desperation, had indulged in some insane freak. He rushed
upstairs; his hand was already on the knob of Checchina's door, when I
held his arm, saying with the utmost gravity that I begged him not to go
in.

"What does this mean, Lelio?" he said in a trembling voice, and turning
pale; "Francesca is here and doesn't come to meet me; you receive me
with an icy manner, and you try to prevent me from entering my
mistress's apartment! And yet it was you who wrote me to return to her,
and you seemed desirous to reconcile us; what is happening between you
two?"

I was about to answer when the door opened and Alezia appeared, covered
by her veil. When she saw Nasi she started, then stopped.

"I understand now, I understand," said Nasi, with a smile; "a thousand
pardons, my dear Lelio! tell me to what room I shall go."

"This way, signor!" said Alezia, in a firm voice, taking his arm and
leading him into the boudoir from which she had just came, and where
Francesca and Lila still were. I followed her. Checchina, when she saw
the count, assumed her most savage air, the same which she assumed in
the rôle of Arsace, when she sang the soprano part in Bianchi's
_Semiramis_. Lila stood at the door to forestall any more visits, and
Alezia, putting aside her veil, said to the stupefied count:

"Signor count, you asked my hand in marriage a fortnight ago. The short
time during which I had the pleasure of seeing you at Naples was
sufficient to give me a more favorable idea of you than of any other of
my suitors. My mother wrote, imploring, almost commanding me to accept
your offer. Prince Grimani added, by way of postscript, that, if I
really felt any aversion for my cousin Hector, he would allow me to
return to my mother, on condition that I would instantly accept you for
my husband. According to my reply, they were either to come and take me
to Venice to meet you, or to leave me at my aunt's house with my cousin
for an indefinite period. Very good! despite my aversion for my cousin,
despite the constant teasing and pestering of my aunt, despite my ardent
longing to see my darling mother and my dear Venice once more, and
despite my very great esteem for you, signor count, I refused. You
probably thought that I preferred my cousin.--Look!" she said,
interrupting herself and glancing calmly toward the window, "there he
is, actually riding his horse into your garden. Stay, Signor Lelio!" she
added, grasping my arm as I rushed to the door to leave the room; "you
will surely agree that at this moment there shall be no other will here
than mine. Stand with Lila in front of that door until I have finished
speaking."

I put Lila aside and kept the door in her place. Alezia continued:

"I refused, signor count, because I could not loyally accept your
honorable proposal. I replied to the obliging letter which you enclosed
with my mother's."

"Yes, signora," said the count, "you replied in a kindly tone by which I
was deeply touched; but with a frankness which left me no hope; and I
have come into your neighborhood not with the purpose of annoying you
further, but of being your devoted friend and humble servant, if you
ever deign to appeal to my sentiment of respect."

"I know it, and I rely upon you," said Alezia, offering him her hand
with a nobly sympathetic air. "The time has come, sooner than you can
have anticipated, to put your generous sentiments to the proof. My
reason for refusing your hand was that I love Lelio; my reason for being
here is that I am determined never to marry any man but him."

The count was so astounded by this avowal that for several minutes he
was unable to reply. God forbid that I should speak slightingly of
honest Nasi's friendship; but at that moment I saw plainly enough that
among the nobles there is no personal friendship, no amount of devotion,
or esteem, which can entirely eradicate the prejudices of the caste. My
eyes were fixed upon him in the closest scrutiny, and I could read this
thought clearly on his face: "I, Count Nasi, have actually loved and
offered marriage to a woman who is in love with an actor and means to
marry him!"

But it was all over in an instant. Dear old Nasi at once resumed his
chivalrous manner.--"Whatever you have determined upon, signora," he
said, "whatever commands you have for me in pursuance of your
determination, I am ready."

"Very good," replied Alezia; "I am in your house, signor count, and my
cousin is here, if not to demand my return, at all events to establish
my presence here. He will be offended by my refusal to go with him, and
will not fail to calumniate me, because he has no spirit, no courage, no
education. My aunt will make a pretence of rebuking her son's loss of
temper, and will tell the story of what she will delight to call my
shame to all the pious old women of her acquaintance, who will repeat it
to all Italy. I do not propose to try to stop the scandal either by
useless precautions or by cowardly denials. I have called down the storm
upon my head, let it burst in the sight of the whole world! I shall not
suffer on that account, if, as I hope, my mother's heart remains true to
me, and if, having a husband who is content with my sacrifices, I find
also a friend who has the courage to avow openly the brotherly affection
with which he honors me. As that friend, will you interfere to prevent
any unseemly, _impossible_ explanation between Lelio and my cousin? Will
you go and receive Hector, and inform him that I will not leave this
house except to go to my mother, and with the protection of your arm?"

The count looked at Alezia with a grave and sad expression, which seemed
to say to her: "You are the only one here who can understand how strange
and reprehensible and ridiculous the part you are making me play will
appear to the world;" then he knelt gracefully on one knee and kissed
Alezia's hand, which he still held in his, saying: "Signora, I am your
true knight in life or in death." Then he came to me and embraced me
heartily, without a word. He forgot to speak to Checchina, who stood
leaning on the window-sill, with folded arms, viewing this scene with
philosophical attention.

Nasi made ready to leave the room. I could not endure the thought that
he was about to constitute himself, at his own risk, the champion of the
woman whom I was supposed to have compromised. I insisted upon
accompanying him at all events, and taking half of the responsibility on
myself. To deter me he gave me divers excellent reasons taken from the
code of fashionable society. I did not understand them in the least;
indeed I was carried away at that moment by the wrath aroused in my
heart by Hector's insolence and his dastardly purpose. Alezia tried to
calm me by saying: "You have no rights as yet except such as I please to
bestow on you." I obtained permission to accompany Nasi, and thus make
my presence known to Hector Grimani, on condition that I should not say
a word without the count's permission.

We found the cousin just dismounting, panting heavily and drenched with
perspiration. He cursed at the poor beast in the most vulgar way, and
struck him violently because, being unshod and having bruised his feet
on the road, he had not galloped fast enough to satisfy his master's
impatience. It seemed to me that this beginning and Hector's whole
manner showed that he did not know how to extricate himself from the
position in which he had recklessly placed himself. He must either show
himself a hero by force of love and frantic jealousy, or cut an absurd
figure by a display of cowardly insolence. His embarrassment was made
complete by the fact that he had enlisted two young friends of his who
were going out to hunt, and had insisted on accompanying him, not so
much to assist him, probably, as to amuse themselves at his expense.

We walked up to him without saluting him, and Nasi looked him in the
eye, with a cold stare, without a word. He seemed not to see me, or not
to recognize me.

"Ah! is it you, Nasi?" he said, hesitating whether he should raise his
hat or offer his hand; for he saw that Nasi was not disposed to offer
him any sort of greeting.

"You have no cause for surprise, it seems to me, because you find me in
my own house," replied Nasi.

"Pardon me, pardon me," replied Hector, pretending that his spur had
caught on a superb rose-bush by which they were standing, and which he
crushed with his whole might. "I did not at all expect to find you here;
I thought you were at Naples."

"It makes little difference what you thought. You are here, and so am I.
What is the difficulty?"

"Why, my dear fellow, I want you to help me find my cousin Alezia, who
has the assurance to go out alone on horseback, without my mother's
permission, and who is somewhere about here, so I am told."

"What do you mean by _somewhere about here_? If you think that the young
lady you mention is in this neighborhood, stick to the street and look
for her."

"But deuce take it, my dear fellow, she is here!" said Hector, compelled
by Nasi's tone and by the presence of his witnesses to pronounce himself
a little more clearly. "She is either in your house or in your garden,
for she was seen to ride into your avenue--and, God's blood! there's her
horse now!--my horse, I mean, for it was her good pleasure to take him
for her expedition, and leave her hack for me." And he tried, by a loud,
forced laugh, to enliven an interview which Nasi did not seem disposed
to treat so lightly.

"Signor," he replied, "I have not the honor to be sufficiently well
acquainted with you for you to call me _my dear fellow_. I must ask you,
therefore, to address me as I address you. Furthermore, I will call your
attention to the fact that my house is not a tavern nor my garden a
public promenade, that passers-by should take the liberty to explore
it."

"Faith, signor, I am very sorry if you are displeased," said Hector. "I
thought that I knew you well enough to venture to enter your grounds,
and I was not aware that your country house was a fortress."

"Such as it is, signor, palace or hovel, I am the master of it, and I
beg you to consider yourself informed that no one is at liberty to enter
it without my permission."

"By Bacchus! signor count, you are terribly afraid that I shall ask
leave to enter your house, for you refuse me beforehand with a tartness
which gives me much food for thought. If, as I believe, Alezia Aldini is
in this house, I begin to hope, for her sake, that she came here on your
account. Give me that assurance, and I will go away content."

"I do not recognize any man's right to question me on any subject,"
rejoined Nasi; "least of all do I recognize your right to question me
concerning a woman to whom your conduct at this moment is a deadly
insult."

"Damnation! I am her cousin! She is in my mother's charge. What answer
is my mother to give my uncle, Prince Grimani, when he asks her for his
stepdaughter? And how do you suppose that my mother, who is old and
infirm, is to run about the country after a young madcap who rides like
a dragoon?"

"I am certain, signor," retorted Nasi, "that your mother did not
instruct you to search for her niece in such a noisy fashion as this,
and to question everybody you meet in such an unseemly way; for if that
were the case, her anxiety would be more insulting than protecting, and
to place the object of such protection out of reach of your zeal would
be a matter of duty with me."

"Very well," said Hector, "I see that you do not propose to give up our
fugitive. You are a knight of the olden time, signor count! Remember
that from this time forth my mother is relieved of all responsibility to
Signora Aldini's mother. You may arrange this unpleasant business as you
think best. For my own part, I wash my hands of it; I have done what I
could and what it was my duty to do. I will simply request you to say to
Alezia Aldini that she is at liberty to marry whomever she pleases, and
that I will interpose no obstacle so far as I am concerned. I yield my
right to you, my dear count. May you never have to seek your wife in
another man's house, for you see by my example what an absurd figure one
cuts under such circumstances."

"Many people think, signor count," replied Nasi, "that there is always
some way to dignify the most uncomfortable position, and to compel
respect, however ridiculous one may appear. One does not cut an absurd
figure except as the result of an absurd action."

At this severe retort, a significant murmur from his two friends made it
clear to Hector that he could not retreat.

"Signor count," he said, "you speak of an absurd action. What do you
call an absurd action, I pray to know?"

"You can give my words whatever meaning you please, signor."

"You insult me, signor!"

"That is for you to say, signor. It is none of my affair."

"You will give me satisfaction, I presume?"

"Very good."

"Your hour?"

"Whenever you choose."

"To-morrow morning at eight o'clock, on the plain of Maso, if that is
agreeable to you. These gentlemen will be my seconds."

"Very good, signor; my friend here will be mine."

Hector glanced at me with a disdainful smile, and, leading Nasi aside,
with his two companions, said to him:

"Come, come, my dear count, allow me to tell you that this is carrying
the jest too far. Now that it has come to a question of fighting, we
should be serious for a moment, it seems to me. My seconds are gentlemen
of rank: the Marquis de Mazzorbo and Signor de Monteverbasco. I am sure
that you would not associate with them, as your second, this person to
whom I ordered my servant to give twenty francs the other day for tuning
a piano at my mother's house. Really, I cannot stand such a thing.
Yesterday, we discovered that this person has an intrigue with my
cousin, and to-day you tell us that he is your intimate friend. Be good
enough at least to tell us his name."

"You are utterly mistaken, signor count. This _person_, as you call him,
does not tune pianos, and has never set foot in your mother's house. He
is Signor Lelio, one of our greatest artists, and one of the best and
most honorable men whom I know."

I had overheard indistinctly the beginning of this conversation, and,
finding that I was the subject of discussion, had walked rapidly toward
the group. When I heard Count Hector speak bluntly of an _intrigue_ with
Alezia, the dissatisfaction which I felt because the battle was being
fought without me changed to indignation, and I determined to make some
one of our adversaries pay for the falseness of my position. I could not
vent my spleen on Count Hector, who had already been insulted by Nasi;
so it was upon Signor de Monteverbasco that the storm fell. That worthy
squire, on learning my name had said simply, with an air of amazement:

"The deuce!"

I walked up to him, and looked him in the eye with a threatening
expression.

"What do you mean by that, signor?"

"Why, I said nothing, signor."

"I beg your pardon, signor, you said: 'That is still worse.'"

"No, signor, I did not say so."

"Yes, signor, you did say so."

"If you absolutely insist upon it, signor, let us agree that I did say
it."

"Ah! you admit it at last. Very good, signor; if you do not consider me
good enough for a second, I shall find a way to compel you to consider
me good enough for an adversary."

"Is this a challenge, signor?"

"Call it whatever you please, signor. But let me tell you that I don't
remember your name, and that I don't like your face."

"It is well, signor; if agreeable to you, we will meet at the same time
and place as these gentlemen."

"Agreed. Gentlemen, I have the honor to salute you."

Whereupon, Nasi and I returned to the house, after enjoining silence on
the servants.

Hector Grimani's conduct on that occasion introduced me to a type of the
men one meets in fashionable society, which I had not before observed.
If it had occurred to me to pass judgment on Hector the first time I had
seen him at Villa Grimani, when he retreated into his cravat and his
nullity in order not to be intolerable to his cousin, I should have said
that he was a weak, harmless, cold, but good-natured youth. Was it
possible that such an insignificant creature could cherish a feeling of
hostility? Could those mechanically refined manners conceal an
instinctive tendency to brutal domination and cowardly resentment? I
would not have believed it; I did not expect to hear him demand
satisfaction of Nasi for his harsh reception; for I thought that he was
more polished and less courageous, and I was astonished to find that,
after being foolish enough to invite such a castigation, he had
sufficient determination to resent it. The fact is that Hector was not
one of those insignificant men who never do good or evil. He was
ill-tempered and presumptuous; but, being conscious of his intellectual
mediocrity, he always allowed himself to be overborne in discussion;
then, spurred on by hatred and vindictiveness, he would insist on
fighting. He fought frequently and always on some insufficient ground,
so that his tardy and obstinate courage did him more harm than good.

Before I would allow Nasi to return to Alezia, I took him aside and told
him that everything that had happened had come about against my wish;
that I had never intended to seduce or elope with or marry Signora
Aldini, and that it was my firm determination to part from her instantly
and forever, unless honor made it obligatory upon me to marry her, in
order to repair the harm she had done herself on my account. I desired
Nasi to decide that question.

"But before I tell you the whole story," I said, "we must consider the
question that is most urgent at this moment, and take such measures that
our young guest may be compromised as little as possible. I must tell
you one thing that she doesn't know, that her mother will be here
to-morrow evening. I propose to send a man to the first relay station,
so that she may be told to come here directly and join her daughter,
instead of looking for her at Villa Grimani. As soon as I have placed
Signora Alezia in her mother's hands, I trust that everything will be
straightened out; but, until then, what explanation am I to give her of
the extreme reserve with which I propose to treat her?"

"The best way," said Nasi, "would be to persuade her to leave here and
go back to her aunt, or, failing that, to go into a convent for
twenty-four hours. I will try to make her understand that her position
here is not tenable."

He joined Alezia. But all his excellent arguments were thrown away.
Checca, faithful to her habit of boasting, had told the girl that she
was Nasi's mistress, that the count had left her after a quarrel, and
that it was then that he had proposed for Alezia's hand; but that, being
fully cured by her refusal, and drawn back by an unconquerable passion
to his mistress's feet, he was ready to marry her. So that Alezia
considered that it was perfectly proper for her to be in Nasi's house,
and she was overjoyed to learn that he, like herself, had made up his
mind to yield to the craving of his heart, and to break with public
opinion. She promised herself that she would find in that happy couple
congenial companionship for her whole life and friendship proof against
any trial. She was afraid of my scruples, if she left Nasi's house, and
of the efforts of her family to reconcile her with society. So she
obstinately persisted in ruining herself, and finally informed Nasi that
she would not leave his house unless she was compelled by force to do
so.

"In that case, signora," said the count, "you will permit me to take the
course which honor enjoins upon me. I am your brother, as that is your
wish. I accept that rôle with gratitude and resignation, and I have
already acted the part by standing between you and Count Hector's
insolent demands. I shall continue to act in accordance with the
counsels of my respect and devotion; but if a brother's rights do not go
to the extent of ordering his sister to do this thing or that, they
certainly authorize him to put away from her anything that can injure
her reputation. You will allow me therefore to exclude Lelio from this
house until your mother is here, and I have just sent a messenger to
her, so that you will be able to embrace her to-morrow evening."

"To-morrow evening?" cried Alezia; "that is too soon. No, I don't want
her to come yet. Happy as I shall be to see my darling mother, I am
determined to have time enough to be compromised in the eyes of society,
and irrevocably ruined in its opinion. I insist upon starting off with
Lelio to meet my mother. When it is known that I have actually travelled
with him, no one will find excuse for me, no one will be able to forgive
me, except my mother."

"Lelio will not comply with your desire, my dear sister," replied Nasi;
"he will do just what I advise; for his heart is all delicacy and honor,
and he has made me the final judge."

"Very well!" said Alezia, with a laugh; "go and order him, in my name,
to come here."

"I will go to him," replied Nasi, "for I see that you are not disposed
to listen to any prudent counsel. And I will go with him and take rooms
for him and myself in the village inn, which you see at the end of the
avenue. If you should be exposed to any fresh outrage on the part of
Signor Ettore Grimani, you have only to signal from your window and ring
the garden bell, and we shall be under arms instantly. But you need have
no fear, he will not return. You can take possession of Lelio's room,
which is much more suitable for you than this one. Your maid will remain
here to wait upon you and bring me your orders, if it is your pleasure
to give me any."

Nasi having joined me, and given me an account of this interview, I
opened my heart to him and told him almost everything, but without
mentioning Bianca. I explained to him how I had thoughtlessly become
involved in an adventure, the heroine of which had at first seemed to me
coquettish even to the point of impudence, and how, as I discovered from
day to day the purity of her heart and the moral elevation of her
character, I had been led on in spite of myself to play the part of a
man ready to attempt anything.

"Then you do not love Signora Aldini?" said the count, in a tone of
amazement in which I fancied that I could detect a slight touch of
contempt for me. I was not hurt, for I knew that I did not deserve that
contempt; and his esteem for me was restored when he learned how hard I
had fought to remain virtuous, although consumed by love and desire. But
when it became necessary to explain to the count how it happened that I
was so positively determined not to marry Alezia, however indulgent her
mother's heart might prove to be, I was embarrassed. I asked him this
question: whether Alezia's reputation would be so seriously compromised
by what she had done, that it would be my duty to marry her in order to
make her honor whole. The count smiled and replied, taking my hand
affectionately:

"My dear Lelio, you do not yet know how much rank idiocy there is in the
social circle in which Alezia was born, nor how much corruption its
stern censorship conceals. Let me tell you, so that you may laugh at
such ideas and despise them as I do, that Alezia, after being seduced by
you in her aunt's house and being your mistress for a year--provided
there had been no noise or scandal about it,--could still make what is
called a good match, and that no great family would close its doors to
her. She would hear more or less whispering about her, and some rigidly
virtuous women would forbid their newly married daughters to become
intimate with her; but she would be all the more popular for that, and
receive all the more attention from the men. But if you should marry
Alezia, even though it should be proved that she had remained pure to
the day of her marriage, she would never be forgiven for being the wife
of an actor. You are one of those men upon whom calumny can gain no
hold. Many sensible persons might think Alezia had made a noble choice,
and done a praiseworthy thing in marrying you; very few would dare say
so aloud, and even if she should become a widow, the doors that had been
closed to her would never be reopened; for she would never find a man in
society who would care to marry her after you; her family would look
upon her as dead, and not even her mother would be allowed to mention
her name. Such is the fate that awaits Alezia if you marry her. Reflect,
and if you are not sure that you still love her, beware of an unhappy
marriage; for it will be impossible for you to give her back to her
family and friends after she has once borne your name. If, on the other
hand, you feel confident that you will always love her, marry her; for
her devotion to you is something sublime, and no man on earth is more
deserving of it than you."

I was lost in thought, and the count feared that he had wounded me by
his plain-speaking, despite the complimentary remarks with which he had
tried to soften its bitterness. I reassured him.

"That is not what I am thinking about," I said; "I am thinking of
Signora Bianca,--Princess Grimani, I mean,--and of the sorrow that would
make her life a burden if I should marry her daughter."

"It would be very bitter, in truth," replied the count; "and if you know
that amiable and charming young woman, you will think twice before
exposing her to the wrath of those arrogant and implacable Grimanis."

"I will not expose her to it," I exclaimed earnestly, as if speaking to
myself.

"I doubt if that resolution comes from a heart that is very deeply in
love," said the count; "but it comes from a noble and generous heart,
and that is much better. Whatever you may do, I am your friend, and I
will uphold your decision against the whole world."

I embraced him, and we passed the rest of the day together at the inn
near by. He made me tell him the whole story again, and the interest
with which he questioned me concerning the most trivial details, the
secret anxiety with which he listened to the narration of the perilous
episode when my virtue had been put to the test, showed me plainly
enough that that noble heart was deeply smitten with Alezia Aldini.
While it made him wince to hear what I had to tell, it was evident to me
that each new proof of courage and devotion which Alezia had given me
quickened his enthusiasm and rekindled his love in spite of him. He
constantly interrupted me to say: "That was fine, Lelio! that was fine!
that was noble of you! If I had been in your place, I should not have
had so much courage! I would commit a thousand follies for that
woman."--And yet, when I gave him my reasons--and I gave them all to
him, without, however, mentioning the love I had once felt for
Bianca--he approved my virtue and resolution; and when I became sad in
spite of myself, he said to me: "Courage, courage! Eighteen or twenty
hours more, and Alezia will be saved. I think that we will treat the
Grimanis to-morrow in such fashion as to take away any desire on their
part to talk about the affair. The princess will take her daughter away,
and some day Alezia will bless you because you were wiser than she; for
love lives but a day, and prejudices have ineradicable roots."

We passed several hours of the night putting our affairs in order. Nasi
bequeathed his villa to Checchina in case of emergency. The excellent
creature's behavior toward Alezia had filled the count's generous heart
with esteem and gratitude.

When we had finished, we snatched a few hours' sleep, and I awoke at
daybreak. Someone entered my room: it was Checca.

"You have made a mistake," I said; "the next room is Nasi's."

"I am not looking for him, but for you," she said. "Listen to me: you
mustn't marry this marchesina."

"Why not, my dear Francesca?"

"I will tell you. Obstacles and dangers kindle her love for you; but she
hasn't so much strength of mind, nor is she so free from prejudices, as
she pretends. She is a kind, charming, lovable creature. Seriously, I
love her with all my heart; but she has told me unconsciously, while
talking with me, more than a hundred things which prove that she thinks
that she is making an enormous sacrifice for you, and that she will
regret it some day unless you appreciate its extent as fully as she
does. And, tell me, can we actors, who are full of perfectly just
prejudices against society, and despise it as much as it despises us,
can we, I say, appreciate such sacrifices? No, no; the day would come,
Lelio, I tell you, when, even though she did not sigh for society, she
would accuse you of ingratitude at the first grievance she had against
you; and it is a pitiful thing for a man to be the bankrupt debtor of
his wife."

In three words I told Checca what my plans were with respect to Alezia.
When she saw that I fully agreed with her, she said:

"My dear Lelio, I have an idea. This is not the time to think for
ourselves alone, or at all events our thoughts even for ourselves should
be noble thoughts, and such as to assure us a clear conscience for the
future. Nasi loves Alezia. She has not been your mistress; there is no
reason why he should not marry her; he must marry her."

I was not altogether sure that Checca was not impelled by a feeling of
jealous disquiet to talk to me in that way, in order to make me talk;
but she continued, giving me no time to reply:

"Be sure that what I tell you is true, Lelio; Nasi is wild over her. He
is as melancholy as death. He looks at her with eyes which seem to say:
'If only I were Lelio!' And when he gives me any token of affection, I
can see that he does it from gratitude for what I am doing for her."

"Do you really think so, my dear Checca?" I said, marvelling at her
penetration and the great good sense which she displayed on great
occasions, ridiculous as she was in trifles.

"I tell you I am sure of it. So they must be married. Let us leave them
together. Let us go away at once."

"Let us go to-night; I agree to that," said I; "until then it is
impossible. I will tell you the reason in two or three hours. Go back to
Alezia before she wakes."

"Oh! she is not asleep," replied Checca; "she has done nothing but pace
the floor in great agitation all night long. Her maid Lila, who insisted
on sleeping in her room, talks with her from time to time, and irritates
her exceedingly by her remonstrances; for, I warn you, she doesn't
approve of her mistress's love for you. But when she begins to sigh and
say: '_Povera Signora Bianca_! _povera principessa madre_!' the fair
Alezia bursts into tears and throws herself sobbing on her bed. At that
the soubrette implores her not to kill her mother with grief. I can hear
all this from my room. _Addio_; I am going back. If you are fully
decided to decline this marriage, think of my plan, and prepare to lend
a hand to the poor count's love."

At eight o'clock in the morning we repaired to the battle-field. Count
Hector handled his sword like Saint-Georges; and it was a good thing for
him that he had had much practice in that detestable kind of argument,
for it was the only kind that he had at his service. Nasi was slightly
wounded; luckily, Hector behaved reasonably well; without apologizing
for his conduct with respect to Nasi, he agreed that he had spoken ill
of his cousin in the first outburst of his anger, and he requested Nasi
to beg her pardon in his behalf. He concluded by asking his two friends
to give him their word of honor to keep the whole affair a profound
secret, and they gave it. As Nasi and I acted as seconds for each other,
he refused to leave the field until I had fought. His servant dressed
his wound on the spot, and the battle between Signor de Monteverbasco
and myself began. I wounded him quite severely, but not mortally, and
when his physician had taken him away in his carriage, Nasi and I
returned to the villa. As he did not wish it to be known at the inn that
he was wounded, he was taken to the summer-house in his garden.
Checchina, being secretly informed of what had taken place, joined us
there, and gave him such care as his condition demanded. When he was
able to show himself, he asked Checchina to tell Alezia that he had had
a fall from his horse; then he appeared and bade her good-morning. But
old Cattina, who had been released, and who, despite the lesson she had
received, could not refrain from prying into everything, in order to
gossip with all the neighbors, knew that we had fought, and had already
told Alezia, who threw herself into the count's arms as soon as he
entered the salon. When she had thanked him with the most effusive
warmth, she asked where I was. In vain did the count reply that I was
under arrest in the summer-house by his order; she persisted in
believing that I was dangerously wounded and that they were trying to
conceal the fact from her. She threatened to go down to the garden to
find out for herself. The count was exceedingly anxious that she should
do nothing imprudent before the servants. He preferred to come after me
and take me to her. Thereupon Alezia, undisturbed by the presence of
Nasi and Checca, reproached me warmly for what she called my exaggerated
scruples.

"You cannot love me very much," she said, "since you refuse to assist me
when I am absolutely determined to compromise myself for you."

She said the wildest and most loving words to me, but did not once lose
the exquisite instinct of modesty which belongs to all young girls not
absolutely devoid of mind. Checchina, who listened to this dialogue from
an artistic standpoint, was utterly amazed, so she told me afterward,
_della parte della marchesina_. As for Nasi, a score of times I
surprised his melancholy gaze fixed upon Alezia and myself with
indescribable emotion.

Alezia's vehemence became decidedly embarrassing. She called me cold,
constrained; she declared that there was no joy, that is to say, no
frankness in my glance. She took alarm at my conduct, she waxed
indignant at my lack of courage. She was intensely excited, she was as
lovely as Domenichino's sibyl. I was very miserable at that moment, for
my love reawoke, and I realized the full extent of the sacrifice I must
make.

A carriage drove into the garden, and we did not hear it, we were
talking so earnestly. Suddenly the door opened and Princess Grimani
appeared.

Alezia uttered a piercing shriek and rushed into her mother's arms, who
held her there a long time without speaking; then she fell gasping upon
a chair. Her daughter and Lila knelt at her feet and covered her with
caresses. I do not know what Nasi said to her, nor what she replied as
she pressed his hand. I was rooted to the spot where I stood; I saw
Bianca again after ten years. How changed she was! but how touchingly
beautiful she still seemed to me, despite the loss of her early bloom!

Her great blue eyes, sunken in their orbits which tears had deepened,
seemed even softer and sweeter than I remembered them. Her pallor moved
me deeply, and her figure, more slender and slightly bent, seemed to me
better suited to that loving, weary heart. She did not recognize me; and
when Nasi called me by name she seemed surprised; for the name Lelio
told her nothing. At last I decided to speak to her; but she had no
sooner heard the first word than she sprang to her feet, recognizing me
by my voice, and held out her arms to me, crying:

"O my dear Nello!"

"Nello!" cried Alezia, rising hastily; "Nello the gondolier?"

"Did you not know him?" said her mother; "haven't you recognized him
until this moment?"

"Ah! I understand," said Alezia in a stifled voice, "I understand why he
cannot love me!"

And she fell at full length on the floor in a swoon.

I passed the rest of the day in the salon with Nasi and Checca. Alezia
was in bed, wildly hysterical and delirious. Her mother alone was with
her. We were all very melancholy at supper. At last, about ten o'clock,
Bianca came and told us that her daughter was calmer, and that she would
soon return and talk with me. About midnight she returned, and we passed
two hours together, while Nasi and Checca sat with Alezia, who was much
better and had asked to see them. Bianca was as lovely as an angel with
me. Under any other circumstances she might, perhaps, have been
embarrassed by her title of princess and her new social position; but
motherly affection stifled all other feelings. She thought of nothing
but expressing her gratitude to me; she did so in the most flattering
terms and with the most affectionate manner imaginable. She did not seem
to have dreamed for a single instant that I could hesitate to give her
daughter back to her and put aside all thought of marrying her. I was
grateful to her for it. It was the only way in which she gave me to
understand that the past was still living in her memory. I had the
delicacy to refrain from alluding to it; however, I should have been
very happy if she had not feared to talk of it with perfect freedom; it
would have been a greater token of esteem than all the rest.

Doubtless Alezia had told her everything; doubtless she had made a
general confession of all the thoughts of her whole life, from the night
on which she had surprised her love-affair with the gondolier down to
that on which she had confided that secret to Lelio, the actor.
Doubtless the mutual suffering caused by such an outpouring of the heart
had been purified by the flame of maternal and filial love. Bianca told
me that her daughter was calm and resigned, and that she hoped to see me
some day and express her unchangeable affection, her great esteem, her
cordial gratitude ---- In a word, the sacrifice was consummated.

I did not leave the princess until I had told her of my earnest hope
that Alezia would some day accept Nasi's love, and I urged her to
cultivate the present inclinations of that honorable and excellent young
man.

I returned to my inn at four o'clock in the morning. I found Nasi there;
he had, in accordance with my instructions, made all necessary
preparations for my departure. When I appeared with Francesca, he
thought that she had come to see me off and bid me good-bye. Imagine his
surprise when she embraced him and said, in a truly imperial tone:

"Be free, Nasi! win Alezia's love; I give you back your promise and
remain your friend."

"Lelio," he cried, "so you are robbing me of her too?"

"Do you not trust my honor?" I said. "Haven't I given you proofs enough
of it since yesterday? And do you doubt Francesca's grandeur of soul?"

He threw himself into our arms, weeping. We entered our carriage just at
sunrise. As we passed Villa Nasi, a blind was cautiously opened and a
woman leaned out to look after us. She had one hand on her heart, the
other she waved to me by way of farewell, and raised her eyes to heaven
to express her thanks: it was Bianca.

Three months later, Checca and I arrived at Venice one lovely evening in
autumn. We had an engagement at La Fenice, and we took rooms on the
Grand Canal, at the best hotel in the city. We passed the first hours
after our arrival unpacking our trunks and putting our stage wardrobe in
order. Not until that was done did we dine. It was quite late. At
dessert they brought me several packages of letters, one of which caught
my eye at once. After looking through it, I opened the window on the
balcony, called to Checca to go out with me, and told her to look across
the canal. Among the numerous palaces which cast their shadows on the
placid water, there was one, directly opposite our apartments, easily
distinguishable by its size and its antiquity. It had been magnificently
restored. Everything about it had a festive air. Through the windows we
could see, by the light of countless candles, superb bouquets and
gorgeous curtains, and we could hear the melodious strains of a large
orchestra. Gondolas, brilliantly illuminated, glided silently along the
Grand Canal and deposited at the palace door women bedecked with flowers
and gleaming jewels, and their escorts in ceremonious costume.

"Do you know," I asked Checca, "what palace this is opposite us, and the
occasion of this party?"

"No, and I am not at all curious."

"It is the Aldini Palace, where the marriage of Alezia Aldini and Count
Nasi is being celebrated."

"Bah!" she said, with a half-surprised, half-indifferent air.

I showed her the packet I had received. It was from Nasi. It contained
two invitations and two letters, one from Nasi to her, one from Alezia
to me, both charming.

"You see," I continued, when Checca had finished hers, "that we have no
reason to complain of their treatment of us. These letters followed us
to Florence and to Milan, and our constant journeyings are to blame for
their not having reached us until now. And the letters are as kind and
agreeable as it is possible for them to be. It is easy to see that they
were dictated by noble hearts. Great nobles as they are, they are not
afraid to speak to us, one of his friendship, the other of her
gratitude."

"Yes, but meanwhile they don't invite us to their wedding."

"In the first place, they don't know that we are here; and in the second
place, my dear sister, the rich people and the nobles do not invite
singers to their parties, except to have them sing; and those who don't
choose to sing to entertain their hosts are not invited at all. That is
the justice of society; and kind-hearted and sensible as our young
friends are, as they live in that society, they are obliged to submit to
its laws."

"Faith! so much the worse for them, my dear Lelio! Let them do as they
please. They leave us to amuse ourselves without them, let us leave them
to be bored to death without us. Let us snap our fingers at the pride of
the great, laugh at their follies, spend money merrily when we have it,
and accept poverty cheerfully if it comes; above all things, let us
cling to our liberty, let us enjoy life while we can, and long live
Bohemia!"

Here Lelio's story came to an end. When he had ceased to speak, none of
us broke the melancholy silence. Our friend seemed even more depressed
than the rest of us. Suddenly he raised his head, which he had rested on
his hand, and said:

"On the last evening that I referred to, there were many French people
among the guests; and as they were infatuated with German music, they
made the orchestra play Weber's and Beethoven's waltzes all the evening.
That is why those waltzes are so dear to me; they always recall a period
of my life which I shall never cease to regret, despite the suffering
with which it was filled. You must admit, my friends, that destiny has
been very cruel to me, in placing in my path two passions so ardent, so
sincere, so self-sacrificing, and not permitting me to enjoy either of
them. Alas! my time has passed now, and I shall never again know aught
of those noble passions of which one must have drained at least one to
the dregs in order to be able to say that he has known life."

"Do not complain," said Beppa, aroused by her companion's melancholy;
"you have an irreproachable life behind you, fair renown and kind
friends around you, and independence in the future and forever; and I
tell you that love will not fail you when you seek it. So fill your
glass once more with this generous wine, drink gayly with us, and lead
us as we sing the sacred refrain in chorus."

Lelio hesitated a moment, filled his glass, and heaved a deep sigh; then
a gleam of youth and merriment flashed from his fine black eyes, moist
with tears, and he sang in a resounding voice, to which we answered in
chorus:

"Long live Bohemia!"


[Footnote 6: The glance of the evil eye. This superstition is common all
over Italy. At Naples they wear coral talismans as a safeguard.]

[Footnote 7: In God's name, don't row! we are not on the Adriatic.]

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