Footnotes[L]The Legations were provinces of the Roman state, governed by a legate from Rome. The Marches, Romagna and Umbria. [Translator's note.]
[L]The Legations were provinces of the Roman state, governed by a legate from Rome. The Marches, Romagna and Umbria. [Translator's note.]
To make his joke more complete Pasotti reproached his wife for having repeated to Signor Giacomo Don Giuseppe's speech concerning the necessity of a marriage. The poor deaf woman was thunderstruck; she knew nothing either of a speech or of a marriage, and protested that this was a calumny, entreating her husband not to believe it, and was nearly beside herself because the Controller still appeared to harbour a suspicion. This malicious man was preparing a treat for himself; he was going to tell Signor Giacomo and Don Giuseppe that his wife wished to make amends for the harm she had done, and bring about a truce; in this way he would get all three together at his house, and from behind a door would enjoy the delicious scene that must ensue between the wrathful Signor Giacomo, the terrified Don Giuseppe, and the deaf and distracted Barborin. But his plan failed, for his wife could not wait, and ran off to the "Palace" to clear herself.
She found Don Giuseppe and Maria in a state of the most extraordinary agitation. Somethingtremendous had happened to them, something that Maria wished to tell, and Don Giuseppe did not. However, the master yielded on condition that she should not shout, but should convey her news by signs. Meeting with opposition on this point also, he, in his prudence, became furious, and the servant did not insist.
A rumour had spread of a case of cholera at Lugano, the victim being a man who had come there from Milan, where the disease had broken out; so Don Giuseppe had arranged to have all provisions for the kitchen come from Porlezza instead of Lugano, and had entrusted the commission to Giacomo Panighet, the postman, who brought the letters to Valsolda, not three times a day, as at present, but twice a week, as was the comfortable custom in the little world of long ago. Now, not five minutes before Signora Pasotti's arrival, Giacomo Panighet had brought the usual basket, and in the bottom of that basket, beneath the cabbages, they had discovered a note addressed to Don Giuseppe. It ran as follows:—
"You, who play at primero with Don Franco Maironi, should warn him that the air of Lugano is far better than the air of Oria."Tivano."
"You, who play at primero with Don Franco Maironi, should warn him that the air of Lugano is far better than the air of Oria.
"Tivano."
Maria silently exhibited the basket, which was still full, to Signora Pasotti, and by clever acting illustrated the manner of discovery of the letter, which she gave her to read.
As soon as the deaf woman had finished reading, a strange, indescribable pantomime began between the three. Maria and Don Giuseppe, by dint of gesticulations and rollings of their eyes, expressed their surprise and terror; Barborin, half frightened, half dazed, stared open-mouthed, from one to the other, the letter still in her hand, as if she had understood. As a matter of fact she had made out only that the letter must be terrible. Presently a thought struck her. She held the letter out to Don Giuseppe with her left hand, while with her right forefinger she pointed to the wordFranco; then she crossed her wrists with a questioning gesture; and as the others, recognising that the sign meant handcuffs, nodded their heads violently in confirmation, she became half frenzied, so great was her affection for Luisa, and forgetting the matter that had brought her there, she explained by signs, as if both the others had been deaf also, that she would go straight to Oria, see Don Franco, and give him the letter.
She started to rush away, cramming the letter into her pocket, and with hardly a word of leave-taking to Don Giuseppe and Maria, who, greatly distressed, were trying in vain to get hold of her, to detain her and recommend all possible precautions. But she slipped through their fingers, and her great, tall bonnet quivering, her old grey skirt dragging, set off at a trot towards Oria, where she arrived quite out of breath, with herhead full of gendarmes, inspections, scenes of terror and of grief.
She went up the stairs of the little Ribera garden, making straight for the hall, where she saw there were visitors. She recognised the Receiver and the Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza, and was terrified, believing they were come for the terrible blow, but then she perceived Signora Bianconi and Signor Giacomo Puttini, and once more breathed freely.
The Commissary, seated in the post of honour on the large sofa, next to the Engineer-in-Chief, talked a great deal, with much fluency and brilliancy, looking oftenest at Franco, as if he were the only person present upon whom it was worth while to waste breath and wit. Franco, lounging in an armchair, was mute and sullen, like one who, in the house of another, perceives a bad odour which good manners forbade him either to flee from or curse. They were discussing the Crimean campaign, and the Commissary was praising the plan of the allied powers to attack the colossus in that vital point, his ambition. He spoke of the Russian barbarities, and of the autocrat himself in such terms as to cause Franco to tremble in his dread of an Anglo-Franco-Austrian alliance, and Carlascia to open his eyes wide, for he still held the views of 1848, and looked upon the Czar as a good friend of the family. "Andyou, Signor First-Political-Deputy, what do you think of it?" said the Commissary, turning his sarcastic smile upon Signor Giacomo. Puttini winked his little eyes very hard, and having felt his knees all over, replied: "Most respected Signor Commissary, I know little about Russia, France, or England, and I care still less. I let them settle their own affairs. But, to speak the truth, I am sorry for that poor dog 'Papuzza.' He was as quiet as a young chicken until they worried him, then when he called for help, fifty rushed to his aid, and now they are all upon him, devouring everything they can grab; and whether poor 'Papuzza' win or lose, he will have nothing left but his shirt."
This nickname "Papuzza,"—a Venetian distortion ofBabbucciaslippers—Signor Giacomo applied to the Turk. "Papuzza" personified Turkey in the form of one ideal Turk, with a huge turban, a long beard, a big belly, and slippers. Puttini, the peaceful, half free-thinker, had a weakness for the lazy, placid, easy-going "Papuzza."
"Don't worry," the Commissary laughed. "Your friend 'Papuzza' will come out all right. We are his friends also, and will not allow him to be mutilated or bled."
Franco, frowning sternly, could not refrain from grumbling.
"Nevertheless, that would be a great injustice towards Russia."
The Commissary was silent, and Signora Peppina, displaying unusual tact, proposed going out to see the flowers.
"A good idea!" said the engineer, who was very glad to have the discussion interrupted.
While passing from the hall to the little garden the Commissary took Franco's arm familiarly, and whispered in his ear: "You are right, you know, about the injustice; but there are certain things we government officials may not say." Franco, who was greatly astonished at this utterance, felt as if the touch of the Imperial and Royal hand were burning him. If this man had had a more Italian face he would have believed him, but with that Kalmuc countenance he did not believe him, and allowed the subject to drop. But his companion resumed it in a low tone, as he leaned over the parapet above the lake, and pretended to examine theficus repensthat covered the wall.
"You yourself should avoid certain expressions," said he. "There are fools who might place false interpretations upon them." And he gave a slight nod in the direction of the Receiver. "Be careful, be careful!" "Thank you," Franco replied, dryly, "but I hardly think I shall need to be careful." "We can never be sure, never be sure, never be sure!" the Commissary murmured, and, followed by Franco, he moved away towards the spot where the Receiver and the engineer were discussing the subject of tench, near the few stepsleading down to the second terrace of the little garden.
Close at hand stood the famous red box with the jasmine.
"That red does not look well, Signor Maironi," said the mastiff,ex abrupto, and he threw up his hand with a gesture that meant, "Away with it!" Just then Luisa looked into the garden from the hall, and called her husband. The Commissary turned to his zealous acolyte, and said sharply, "Drop that!"
Signora Pasotti was leaving, and wished to salute Franco. He would have shown her out through the garden, but she, anxious to avoid going through so many ceremonies with those other gentlemen, preferred to go down by the inside stairs, and Franco escorted her as far as the street-door, which stood open. To his great surprise Signora Pasotti, instead of passing out, closed the door, and began an excited and perfectly unintelligible pantomime, accompanying it with short sighs and rollings of the eyes; after this she took a letter from her pocket and offered it to him.
Franco read, shrugged his shoulders, and put the letter in his pocket. Then as Signora Pasotti kept on recommending flight, flight—Lugano, Lugano, in despairing pantomime, he smiled and reassured her by a gesture. She once more seized his hands, and once more the lofty bonnet (which had a tipsy inclination towards the right), and the long black curls, trembled in earnestsupplication. She strained her eyes wide, pushed out her lips as far as possible, and laid her forefinger against her nose to indicate silence. "With Pasotti also!" she said; and these were the only words she spoke during the whole interview. Then she trotted away.
Franco went upstairs again, thinking about his position. This might be a false alarm, just as it might also be a serious matter. But why should they arrest him? He tried to remember if he had anything of a compromising nature in the house, and could recall nothing. It flashed across his mind that his grandmother might have been guilty of some perfidy, but he at once banished the thought, reproaching himself, and postponed a decision until he should have spoken to his wife.
He returned to the little garden, where the Commissary, as soon as he caught sight of him, asked him to point out the dahlias Signora Peppina had been praising. Upon learning that they were in the kitchen-garden he proposed going there with Franco. They could go alone, for indeed all the others were ignorant on the subject of dahlias. Franco accepted.
The conduct of this little police-spy in gloves puzzled him, and he sought to discover if it could in any way be connected with the mysterious warning.
"Listen, Signor Maironi," the Commissary began resolutely, when Franco had closed the gateof the kitchen-garden behind him. "I wish to say a word to you."
Franco who was descending the few steps leading from the threshold of the gate, stopped with a clouded brow. "Come here," the Commissary added imperiously. "What I am about to do is perhaps not in accordance with my duty, but I shall do it, notwithstanding. I am too good a friend of the Marchesa, your grandmother, not to do it. You are in great danger."
"I?" Franco inquired, coldly. "In danger of what?"
Franco was endowed with a rapid and sure intuition of the thoughts of others. The Commissary's words agreed perfectly with the message Barborin had brought; still, at that moment he felt that the little police-spy harboured treachery in his heart.
"In danger of what? Of Mantua!" was Zérboli's reply.
Franco did not flinch upon hearing the awful word, synonym of incarceration and the gibbet.
"I need not fear Mantua," said he. "I have done nothing to deserve Mantua."
"Nevertheless——!"
"Of what am I accused?" Franco repeated.
"You will soon find out if you remain here," the Commissary replied, laying stress upon the last words. "And now let us examine these dahlias."
"I have done nothing!" Franco once more repeated. "I will not leave."
"Let us see these dahlias, let us see these dahlias," the Commissary insisted.
Franco felt that he should thank this man, but he could not. He showed him his flowers with just that amount of civility that was indispensable, and with perfect composure. Then he conducted him from the kitchen-garden to the house, talking of some obscure Professor Maspero, and of his secret method of combatingoidium.
In the hall they were discussing another and far worse form ofoidium. Signora Peppina was harassed by a terrible fear of cholera. She recognised that cholera served as a warning to every good Christian to make his peace with God, and that when we are at peace with God, it is indeed a blessing to be called to the next world, "but still, this body of ours, you know! This precious body! And when you reflect that we have only one!"
"The cholera," said Luisa, "might do no end of good, if it had any sense, but it has not. You see," she whispered to Signora Peppina as Bianconi rose and went towards the Commissary, who had returned with Franco, "the cholera is quite capable of taking you, and leaving your husband." At this extraordinary remark the terrified Peppina started violently, exclaiming: "Jesusmaria!" and then, perceiving she had betrayed her true feelings, that she had not exhibited that tenderness forCarlascia of which she was always prating, she clutched her neighbour's knee, and bending forward, said in an undertone, her face as red as a poppy: "Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!"
But Luisa was no longer thinking of her. A glance from Franco had warned her that something had happened.
When all the visitors had departed, Uncle Piero sat down to read theMilan Gazette, and Luisa said to her husband: "It is three o'clock. Let us go and wake Maria."
When he and she were alone in the alcove-room, instead of at once opening the shutters, she inquired what had happened. Franco told her everything, from Signora Pasotti's letter to the Commissary's strange communication.
Luisa listened with a serious face, but without exhibiting any sign of fear. Then she examined the mysterious note. Both she and Franco were aware that among the government agents at Porlezza there was one honest man, who, in 1849 and 1850 had saved several patriots by a timely warning. But they were also aware that this honest man was ignorant of the rules of orthography and grammar, and the note Barborin had brought was perfectly correct. As to the Commissary, it was well known that he was one of the most malicious and treacherous of the government's tools. Luisa approved of the answer her husband had made him.
Franco himself was well aware of all this, but he could find no plausible explanation for this persecution. Luisa, however, had one in mind which contempt for the grandmother had suggested to her. This Commissary was a good friend of the grandmother's, he himself had said so, thereby displaying, so he thought, the refinement of cunning. In the Commissary's glove there was the talon of the Marchesa. She meant to strike not Franco alone, but all the others as well, and they were to be reached through him who maintained the family with the fruit of his labours, out of the kindness of his generous heart. She knew from speeches which had been repeated to her by the usual hateful gossips, that the grandmother hated Uncle Piero because Uncle Piero had made it possible for her grandson to rebel against her, and to live comfortably enough in rebellion. Now they were seeking for a pretext to strike him. The flight of the nephew would be a confession, and, for a government like the Austrian, a good pretext to strike the uncle. Luisa did not say so at once, but she let him see that she had an idea, and little by little, her husband drew it from her. When she had told him, though in his heart he believed she was right, he nevertheless protested in words, defending his grandmother against an accusation which seemed too monstrous, and which rested on so slight a foundation. At all events husband and wife agreed perfectly in their resolve not to flee, but to await further developments.They therefore wasted no time in making or discussing suppositions. Luisa rose and went to open the shutters, and standing in the full light, she turned to look smilingly at her husband, stretching out her hand to him. He pressed it and shook it, his heart aflame, but his tongue speechless. They felt like soldiers, who, conscious of the distant roar of cannon, are being led along a quiet road, towards what fate God only knows.
The Engineer-in-Chief noticed nothing, and two days later, the term of his leave having expired, he went away peacefully in his boat, wrapped in his great, grey travelling cloak, and accompanied by Cia, the housekeeper. Ten days passed without further developments, and Franco and Luisa concluded that a trap had been set for them, and that, after all, the police would not appear. On the evening of the first of October they playedtarocchimerrily with Puttini and Pasotti, and then, their guests having left early, they went to bed. When Luisa kissed the child, who was sleeping, she noticed that her flesh was hot. She felt of her hands and legs. "Maria is feverish," she said.
Franco took up the candle and looked at her. Maria was sleeping with her little head drooping towards her left shoulder as usual. The lovely little face which always wore a frown when she was asleep, was slightly flushed, and the breathing rather quick. Franco was alarmed, and at once thought of scarlet fever, the measles, gastric, and brain fever. Luisa, who was more calm, thoughtof worms, and prepared a dose of santonine, which she placed ready on the pedestal. Then both father and mother went noiselessly to bed, put out the light and lay listening anxiously to the little one's short, quick breathing. At last they dozed, but towards midnight they were aroused by Maria, who was crying. They lighted the candle and Maria became quiet and took the santonine. Then presently she began to cry again, and wanted to be taken into the big bed, between mamma and papa, and finally went to sleep there; but her sleep was uneasy and often interrupted by sobs.
Franco kept the candle burning that he might watch her more closely. He and his wife were bending over their darling when two knocks sounded in quick succession on the street-door. Franco started up in bed. "Did you hear?" said he. "Hush!" said Luisa, grasping his arm, and listening. Two more knocks sounded, louder still, and Franco exclaimed: "The Police!" and sprang to the floor. "Go, go!" Luisa begged in a low tone. "Don't let them take you! Go by the little courtyard! Climb over the wall!" He did not answer, but hastily threw on some clothes and rushed from the room, heedless of danger, and determined never of his own free will to leave his Luisa and his sick child.
He dashed down the stairs. "Who is there?" he inquired, without opening the door. "The Police!" some one answered. "Open at once."
"At this hour I open to no one I do not see."
A short dialogue ensued in the street. The voice he had heard first said: "You speak to him," and the voice that spoke next was very familiar to Franco.
"Open, Signor Maironi."
It was the Receiver. Franco threw the door open. A gentleman, dressed in black and wearing spectacles, entered, and was followed by the mastiff; after the mastiff came a gendarme with a lantern, then three other armed gendarmes, two of whom were subalterns while the other was of higher rank, and carried a large leathern bag. Some one remained outside.
"Are you Signor Maironi?" said the man in spectacles, a police-adjunct, or detective from Milan. "Come upstairs with me." And the whole party started upstairs, with the thud of heavy steps and the rattling of military trappings.
They had not yet reached the first floor when a light fell on the stairs from above, and sobs and groans were heard on the second floor.
"Is that your wife?" asked the detective.
"Do you fancy it is?" Franco retorted ironically. The Receiver murmured: "It is probably the servant." The detective turned and gave an order; two gendarmes started forward and went rapidly up to the second floor. More sharply than before the adjunct asked Franco: "Is your wife in bed?"
"Of course."
"Where? She must get up."
The door of the alcove-room was thrown open, and Luisa appeared in her dressing-gown, with flowing hair, and bearing a candle in her hand. At the same moment a gendarme leaned over the banisters on the upper floor, and said that the servant had nearly fainted away, and could not come down. The detective ordered him to leave his companion with the woman, and to descend. Then he saluted the lady, who did not reply. In the hope that Franco had fled, she had hastened to leave the room in order to detain and, if possible, deceive the police. She now saw her husband and shuddered, her heart beating wildly, but she composed herself at once.
The detective stepped forward to enter the room. "No!" Franco exclaimed. "Some one is ill in there." Luisa clutched the handle of the closed door, looking the man straight in the face.
"Who is ill?" asked the detective.
"A little girl."
"Well, what harm do you suppose we shall do her?"
"Pardon me," said Luisa almost defiantly, and giving the handle a nervous shake, "must you all go in?"
"All of us."
At the sound of voices and the rattling of the door-handle little Maria had begun to cry in a weary and forlorn voice that was heart-rending.
"Luisa," said Franco, "let thesegentlemendo their work."
The detective was a fashionably-dressed young man, with a refined but cruel face. He threw Franco a sinister glance. "Obey your husband, Signora," said he, glad of an opportunity to retaliate. "I think he is prudent."
"Less prudent than you are, who bring a whole army as escort," Luisa retorted, opening the door. He glanced at her, shrugged his shoulders, and passed in, followed by the others.
"Open everything here," said he roughly, in a loud voice, pointing to the writing-desk. Franco's big, blue eyes flashed. "Speak softly!" said he. "Do not frighten my child."
"Silence, you!" the detective thundered, bringing his fist down upon the desk. "Open!"
At that noise the child began to sob violently. Franco, who was furious, flung the key upon the desk.
"Open it yourself," said he.
"You are under arrest!" cried the detective.
"Very well."
While Franco was answering thus, Luisa, who had bent low over her baby, trying to pacify her, raised her face impetuously.
"I also have a right to that honour," said she, in her fine, ringing voice.
The detective did not deign to reply, but ordered a gendarme to open all the drawers of the writing-desk, and he himself searched them, removing allthe letters, examining them rapidly, throwing some on the floor, and tossing others into the great leathern bag. After the writing-desk it was the turn of the chests of drawers, where everything was turned upside down. Then Maria's little bed was inspected. The detective ordered Luisa to remove the child from the big bed, which he also intended to examine.
"Then put the little bed in order for me," Luisa replied, quivering with rage. Up to this moment, the mastiff, Carlascia, had stood silent and stiff behind his moustaches, as if this operation, which he had perhaps desired in the abstract, were proving not entirely to his taste, now that it was being put into practice. He came forward and began arranging the mattresses and sheets of the little bed with his great ugly paws. Luisa placed the child in it, and then the large bed was torn to pieces and examined, but without any result. Maria had stopped crying, and was staring at the scene of confusion with wide eyes.
"Now follow me, both of you," said the adjunct. Luisa, who believed she was to be led away with her husband, demanded that the servant be summoned, that she might give the child into her care. At the idea that Luisa was under arrest, that the sick child was to be deprived of her mother also, Franco, beside himself with rage and grief, uttered a protesting cry—
"This is not possible! Say it is not so!"
The detective did not vouchsafe a reply, butordered that the servant be brought in. The maid, half dead with fright, entered between two gendarmes, groaning and sobbing.
"Fool!" Franco muttered between his teeth.
"The woman will stay here with the child," said the adjunct. "Both of you will come with me. You must be present when the rest of the house is searched." He sent for some lights, left a gendarme in the alcove-room, and went into the hall, followed by the other gendarmes, Bianconi, Franco, and Luisa.
"Before continuing the search," said he, "I will ask you a question I should have asked before had your conduct been more correct. Tell me whether you have any weapons, or seditious publications, or papers either printed or in manuscript, which are hostile to the Imperial and Royal Government."
Franco answered, in a loud tone—
"No."
"That is what we shall see," said the detective.
"Do as you like."
While the adjunct was causing furniture to be moved away from the wall, and was searching and peering everywhere, Luisa remembered that eight or ten years before her uncle had shown her in the chest of drawers of a room on the second floor, an old sabre that had lain there ever since 1812. It had belonged to another Pietro Ribera, a lieutenant of cavalry, who had fallen at Malojaroslavetz. No one ever slept in that room above the kitchenand it was seldom entered; it was as if it did not exist. Luisa had completely forgotten the old sabre of the Empire. Oh, God! now she recalled it! What if her uncle had forgotten it also? What if he had not given it up in 1848, after the war, when orders had been issued to deliver up all weapons, under pain of death? Had her uncle grasped the fact, in his patriarchal simplicity, that this heir-loom that had lain for six-and-thirty years at the bottom of a drawer, had now become a dangerous and forbidden object? And Franco, Franco who knew nothing! Luisa was resting her hands on the back of a chair; it creaked sharply under her convulsive pressure. She withdrew her hands, frightened, as if the chair had spoken.
In fancy she saw the adjunct pass from room to room with his gendarmes, and arrive at that door, open the drawer, and discover the sabre. She made every effort to recall the exact position in which she had seen it, to find some way out of this danger; and she was silent, mechanically following with her eyes the candle which a gendarme, in obedience to his chief's gestures, held close, now to an open drawer or cupboard, now to a picture which the detective had lifted, that he might look behind it. No, she could think of no remedy. If her uncle had failed to remove the sabre, she could only trust they would not visit that room.
Franco, leaning against the stove, was followingevery motion of the searchers with a clouded brow. When they plunged their hands into the drawers, his rage was visible in the silent working of his jaws. Nothing was heard save, now and then, a sharp order from the detective, and a low-toned reply from the gendarmes. Nothing moved around them, save their great shadows wavering on the walls. The silence of the Receiver, of Franco and Luisa, was like the silence of those who have risked great sums in a secret gaming-house, and stand about the players who, from time to time, speak some brief word. The sinister face and voice of the detective never changed, although he had not discovered anything. To Luisa he seemed a man sure of achieving his purpose. And not to be able to do anything, not even warn Franco! But perhaps it was better he did not know; perhaps his ignorance would save him.
Having searched the hall and the loggia the detective entered the salon. He took the candle from the gendarme's hands and swiftly examined the little, illustrious men.
Seeing the portraits of Gouvion Saint-Cyr, Marmont, and other generals of Napoleon, he said: "The Engineer-in-Chief Ribera would have done far better to hang the portrait of His Excellency Field-Marshal Radetzky on his walls. Is it here?"
"No," said Franco.
"A nice government official!" said the othercontemptuously, and with indescribable arrogance.
"Are government officials bound," Franco burst forth, "to hang the portraits——"
"I am not here to argue with you," the detective said, interrupting him.
Franco was about to answer. "Be quiet, you with your tongue a yard long!" said the Receiver, brutally.
The detective passed from the drawing-room into the corridor leading to the stairs. Would he go up or not, Luisa wondered. He went up, and she followed him, not trembling, but imagining with a dizzy rapidity, the many different things that might happen. All the possibilities of the moment, both disastrous and favourable, were whirling, as it were, in her head. If she lingered upon the first, horror carried her with a bound to the second; if she dwelt upon these, fancy returned with perverse eagerness to the first.
Before they had set foot in the corridor of the second floor they heard Maria crying. Franco begged the adjunct to allow his wife to go down to the child, but she protested that she wished to remain. The idea of not being with him when the weapon was discovered, terrified her. Meanwhile the detective had entered a small room where there were some books, and finding a volume printed at Capolago, and bearing the title, Literary Writings of a Living Italian, he said: "Who is this living Italian?" "PadreCesari," Franco replied boldly. The other, deceived by his prompt answer and the priestly name, assumed the air of a man of culture, saying: "Ah! I am acquainted with his works." Replacing the book, he inquired where the Engineer-in-Chief slept.
Luisa was too completely dominated by the one great dread to sense anything else, but Franco, when he saw the police-agent and his band enter the uncle's room, which was so clean, so neat, so full of his dear, calm spirit, when he reflected what a blow to the poor old man the news of all this would be, was completely overcome, and could have wept with rage. "It seems to me," he said, "that this one room at least should be respected."
"Keep your observations to yourself," the adjunct retorted, and began by ordering the blankets and mattresses stripped from the bed. Then he demanded the key to the chest of drawers. Franco had it, and went down to his room for it, accompanied by a gendarme. The uncle had entrusted it to him before leaving, telling him that in case of need he would find a small amount ofcum quibusin the top drawer. They opened it. It contained a roll ofsvanziche, a few letters and papers, some pocket-books, old note-books, compasses, pencils, and a small wooden bowl in which were several coins.
The detective examined everything carefully, discovering among the coins in the little bowl a five-franc piece of the time of Carlo Alberto, anda forty-franc piece of the Provisory Government of Lombardy. "The Engineer-in-Chief has preserved these coins with extraordinary care," said the detective; "henceforth we will preserve them." He closed the drawer, and, without opening the others, returned the key to Franco.
Then he went out into the corridor and paused, undecided. The Receiver thought he intended to go down, and as the corridor was nearly dark, and the stairs were not visible, he, who was acquainted with the house, started towards the right in the direction of the stairs, saying: "This way." The room where the sabre lay was on the left.
"Wait," said the adjunct. "Let us look in here, also." And turning, he pushed open the fatal door. Luisa, who had been the last in the procession, pressed forward, now that the supreme moment had arrived. Her heart, which had beat furiously while the adjunct hesitated, now became quiet as by a miracle, and she was cool, daring, and ready.
"Who sleeps here?" the detective asked her.
"No one. My uncle's parents used to occupy this room, but they have been dead these forty years, and no one has slept here since."
The room contained two beds, a sofa, and a chest of drawers. This the detective signed to the gendarmes to open. They tried it, but it was locked. "I think I have the key," said Luisa with the utmost indifference. She went down, accompanied by a gendarme, and returnedimmediately with a little basket of keys which she offered to the detective.
"I do not know the key," she said. "It is never used. It must be one of these."
He tried them all, but in vain. Then the Receiver tried, and then Franco. The right one was not there.
"Send to S. Mamette for the lock-smith," said Luisa, calmly. The Receiver looked at the detective as if to say: "It seems to me unnecessary," but the detective turned his back upon him and exclaimed to Luisa: "This key must be somewhere!"
The chest of drawers, a piece ofrococofurniture, had metal handles to each drawer. One of the gendarmes, the strongest, tried to force the drawers open. He did not succeed either with the top one or with the second. Just at that moment Luisa remembered that she had seen the sabre in the third drawer, together with a roll of drawings. The gendarme seized the handles of the third. "This one is not locked," said he. In fact it opened easily. The detective took the light and bent over to examine it.
Franco had seated himself on the sofa, his eyes fixed on the rafters of the ceiling. When his wife saw the drawer pulled open she sank down beside him, took his hand, and pressed it spasmodically.
She heard some papers rustle, and the Receiver murmured, in a benign voice: "Drawings." Then the detective exclaimed: "Ah!" and thesatellites all leaned forward to see. She had the strength to rise and inquire; "What is it?" The detective was holding a long pasteboard case, curved and slim, and bearing a label with an inscription. He had already read the inscription to himself; he now read it aloud with an accent of ineffable sarcasm and satisfaction. "The sabre of Lieutenant Pietro Ribera, killed at Malojaroslavetz in 1812." Franco started to his feet, astounded and incredulous, and at the same moment the adjunct opened the case. From where he stood Franco could not see it, and he glanced at his wife, who could. Her lips were white and he thought it was with fright, although this did not seem possible.
But her lips were white with joy, for the case contained only an empty scabbard. Luisa suddenly drew back into the shadow and sank upon the sofa, struggling with a violent inward trembling, vexed with herself and ashamed of her weakness, which however, she soon conquered. Meanwhile the detective, who had removed the scabbard and examined it on all sides, asked Franco where the sabre was. Franco was about to answer that he did not know, which was perfectly true, but reflecting that this might seem like self-justification, he said—
"In Russia."
The sabre was not in Russia, but fast in the mud, at the bottom of the lake, where Uncle Piero had secretly flung it rather than give it up.
"But why did they write sabre?" inquired the Receiver, wishing to show he also was zealous.
"The writer is dead," said Franco.
"Hand over that key at once!" the detective scolded angrily. And this time Luisa found it, and the two other drawers were opened. One was empty, the other contained some blankets and a little lavender.
The search ended here. The adjunct went down to the drawing-room, and ordered Franco to make ready to follow him in fifteen minutes. "You had better arrest all of us then!" Luisa exclaimed.
The man shrugged his shoulders, and repeated to Franco: "In fifteen minutes. You may go to your room, now, if you wish to." Franco dragged Luisa away entreating her to be silent, to resign herself for love of Maria. He seemed like another man, exhibiting neither grief nor anger, and there was in his voice a ring of serious sweetness, of manly calm.
He put some linen into a bag, together with a volume of Dante and anAlmanach du Jardinier, which were on the table, bent over Maria for a moment but did not kiss her, for she had gone to sleep, and he feared to wake her. He kissed Luisa, however, but as they were being observed by the gendarmes stationed at either door of the room, he quickly freed himself from her embrace, saying, in French, that they must not provide a spectacle for those gentlemen. Then he took uphis bag, and went to place himself at the detective's orders.
The police-adjunct had a boat waiting not fifty paces from Casa Ribera, towards Albogasio, at the landing calleddel Canevaa. Upon issuing from the portico spanned by his house, Franco heard a shutter being thrown open above his head, and saw the light from his bedroom flash against the white façade of the church. He turned towards the window, saying—
"Send for the doctor to-morrow morning. Good-bye."
Luisa did not answer.
When the gendarmes reached the Canevaa with their prisoner, the adjunct ordered them to stop.
"Signor Maironi," said he, "you have had your lesson. This time you may return to your home, and I advise you to learn to respect the Authorities."
Amazement, joy, and indignation welled up in Franco's heart. He controlled himself, however, biting his lips, and started homewards at a leisurely pace. He had not yet turned the corner of the church when Luisa recognised his step, and called, "Franco!"
He sprang forward, and she saw him. Then her shadow vanished from the window. He rushed into the house, flung himself up the stairs, crying, "Free! Free!" while his wife came flying down, exclaiming wildly, "How! How! How!" They sought each other with eager arms,clung together, pressing close, without further speech.
But afterwards, in the loggia, they talked incessantly for two hours, of all they had heard, seen, and experienced, always coming back to the sabre, the papers, the coins, dwelling upon many trifling details, on the detective's Venetian accent, on the dark-haired gendarme, who seemed a good fellow, and the fair-haired gendarme, who must be a regular cur. From time to time they would cease speaking, enjoying in silence their sense of security, the sweetness of home, but presently they would begin again. Before going to bed they stepped out on the terrace. The night was dark and warm, the lake motionless. The sultriness, the gloom, the vague and monstrous shapes of the mountains, seemed to their imagination heavy with the mortal weight of Austria. The very air itself seemed full of it. Neither Franco nor Luisa was sleepy, but they must go to bed on account of the servant who was watching with Maria. They entered the room on tiptoe. The child was sleeping, her breathing almost normal.
They also tried to sleep, but could not. They could not refrain from talking, especially Franco. He would ask softly: "Are you asleep?" and upon her answering, "No," the coins, the papers, the sabre, or the bully with his Venetian accent would be discussed once more. By this time there was nothing new to be said on these subjects, and, as Maria began to be restless, and to showsigns of waking, towards dawn, Luisa answered, "Yes," the next time Franco inquired softly, "Are you asleep?" and after that he kept quiet, as if he really believed it.
The day after the search at Casa Ribera, Oria, Albogasio, and S. Mamette were full of whisperings. "Have you heard?—Oh, dear Lord!—Have you heard?—Oh, holy Madonna!" But the loudest whisperings were of course those that communicated the news to Barborin Pasotti. Her husband shouted into her face: "Maironi! Police! Gendarmes! Arrest!" The poor woman concluded an army had swept her friends away, and began to puff—"oh! oh!"—like an engine. Then she groaned and wept, and questioned Pasotti about the child. Pasotti, who was determined not to allow her to go down to Oria and exhibit her affection for the Maironis under these circumstances, replied with a gesture like the sweep of a broom. Gone! Gone! She also!—But the servant? The servant must surely be there still. The crafty man made another sweeping gesture in the air, and then Barborin grasped the fact that His Imperial and Royal Austrian Majesty had had the servant carried off as well.
But the most malicious whisperings were uttered at a great distance from Valsolda, in a room in the Maironi Palace, at Brescia. Ten days after the search the Chevalier Greisberg di S. Giustina, a cousin of the Maironis, who had beenattached to the government of Field-Marshal Radetzky in Verona until 1853, and had then accompanied his master to Milan, alighted at the door of Casa Maironi from the carriage of the Imperial and Royal Delegate of Brescia, whose guest he had been for some days. The Chevalier, a handsome man of about forty, perfumed, and smartly dressed, did not look particularly happy as he stood very erect in the centre of the reception room, examining the ancient stucco-work of the ceiling, and waiting for the Marchesa, who was of the same period. Nevertheless, when the door opposite him, pushed open by a servant's hand, admitted Madam's big person, marble countenance, and black wig, the Chevalier was at once transformed, and kissed the old lady's wrinkled hand with fervour. A Lombard gentlewoman devoted to Austria was a rare animal, and extremely precious to the Imperial and Royal government. Every loyal functionary owed her the most obsequious gallantry. The Marchesa received the homage of her cousin the Chevalier with her usual unruffled dignity, and having invited him to be seated, enquired after his family and thanked him for his call, all in the same guttural and sleepy tone. Finally, slightly out of breath from the fatigue of uttering so many words, she crossed her hands over her stomach, and let it be seen that she was now waiting for what her cousin might have to say.
She expected he would speak about EngineerRibera and the search. She had on previous occasions expressed to him her displeasure that Franco should be under the influence of his wife and Ribera, and her surprise that the government should retain in its service one who in 1848 had openly played the Liberal, and whose family—especially that artful young woman—professed the most impudent Liberalism. The Chevalier Greisberg had assured her that her wise observations should be given due consideration. Then the Marchesa had instigated the Commissary Zérboli against the poor Engineer-in-Chief, and it had been through Zérboli that she had heard of the search. Therefore, when Greisberg appeared she concluded he had come to speak of that. Now, she was quite willing to make the government serve her own private rancour, but, as a matter of principle, she never recognised a debt of gratitude toward any one. By thus subjecting a doubtful functionary to examination, the Austrian government had been working in its own interests. She had not asked for anything; it was not for her to ask, it was for the Chevalier to speak first. But the Chevalier, cunning, sly, and proud, did not understand his rôle in this way. The old woman wanted a favour, and in order to obtain it she must bow down and kiss the beneficent claws of government.
He remained silent for some time, to collect his thoughts, and in the hope that the other would yield. Seeing that she remained mute and unbending,he himself became suddenly smiling and gracious, told her that he had come from Verona, and proposed that she guess what route he had taken. He had passed through such a sweet town, had seen such a charming villa, so splendid, a real paradise! The Marchesa was not good at guessing; she asked if he had been in Brianza. No, he had not come from Verona to Brescia by way of Brianza. He once more described the villa, and this time so minutely that the Marchesa could not help recognising her own estate of Monzambano. Then the Chevalier proposed that she guess why he had gone to see the villa. She guessed at once, guessed the whole plot of the comedy that was being acted for her benefit, but her dull face said nothing of this. The Delegate had once before sounded her to ascertain if she would be willing to let the villa to His Excellency the Marshal, but she—having been secretly threatened with fire and death by the Liberals of Brescia—had found some polite excuses. She now perceived in Greisberg's words the tacit offer of a bargain, and stood on her guard. She confessed to her cousin that she was unable to guess even this. Indeed she felt she was growing more and more stupid every day. The effect of years and grief! "I have had a great grief very lately," she said. "I am told that the Police have searched my grandson's house at Oria."
Greisberg, feeling that this elderly hypocrite was slipping through his fingers, now pulled offhis glove, and seized her with his talons. "Marchesa," said he, in a tone which admitted of no rejoinder, "you must not speak of grief! Through the Commissary of Porlezza and myself, you have furnished precious information to the government, of which service it is not unmindful. Not a hair of your grandson's head was touched, nor will be, if he is judicious. But, on the other hand, I regret that we may perhaps not be able to adopt severe measures against another person who has injured you seriously in private matters. In order to find a means of reaching this person the Commissary has even exceeded his duty. You must understand once for all, Marchesa, that this is not a question of grief, and that you are especially indebted to the government." The Marchesa had never before been spoken to in such strong language and with such formidable authority. Perhaps the continuous, undulating movement of neck and head visible above her stiffly-held body, corresponded with the angry beating of her heart, but it seemed the movement of some animal struggling to swallow an enormous mouthful. At any rate she did not unbend sufficiently to speak a word of acquiescence. Only, having regained her obese calm, she observed that she had never demanded that measures be adopted against any one; that she was glad the search had revealed nothing incriminating against Engineer Ribera; that, nevertheless, all sorts of things had been said in Casa Ribera, but that words weredifficult to trace. The Chevalier replied more gently, that he could not say whether anything had been discovered, and that the last word would be spoken by the Marshal himself, who intended to give this matter his personal attention. This remark enabled him to return to the subject of the villa at Monzambano. He asked for it formally for His Excellency, who wished to go there within a week. The Marchesa thanked him for the great honour, which she said, her villa did not deserve; it seemed to her too dilapidated, it wanted repairing, and His Excellency must be informed of this. She wished to defer her decision, to await the payment of the miserable price of her condescension, but the Chevalier struck another blow with his talons, and declared she must answer at once, answer clearly, yes or no, and the old lady was forced to bow her head. "To accommodate His Excellency," she said. Greisberg at once became amiable again, and jested about the measures to be adopted against thatSignor Ingegnere. There was no question of spilling blood, only a little ink need be spilled. There was no question of depriving any one of liberty, rather of conferring perfect liberty on somebody. The Marchesa made no sign. She sent for two lemonades, and drank hers slowly in little sips, not without a faint expression of satisfaction between the sips, as if this lemonade had a new and exquisite flavour. But the Chevalier wished for an explicit word from herconcerning Ribera, a confession of her desire, and placing the glass he had hastily drained upon the tray, he said, "I will see to this myself, you know, and we shall succeed. Are you satisfied?"
The Marchesa continued to sip the lemonade slowly, slowly, gazing into the glass.
"Does that suit you?" her cousin asked, having waited in vain for an answer.
"Yes, it is very good," the drowsy voice replied. "I drink it slowly on account of my teeth."
The last whisperings were not human. Luisa and Franco were seated on the grass at Looch, near the cemetery. They were speaking of the mother's great and exquisite goodness, and comparing it to Uncle Piero's great and simple goodness, noting the similarity and the differences. They did not say which sort of goodness, taken as a whole, seemed to them superior, but from the opinions each expressed, their different inclinations could be divined. Franco preferred that goodness which is permeated with faith in the supernatural, while Luisa preferred the other form of goodness. He was grieved by this secret contradiction, but hesitated to reveal it, fearing to sound a too painful note. But it had brought a cloud to his brow, and presently he said, almost involuntarily: "How many misfortunes, how much bitterness your mother suffered, with such great resignation, such strength, such peace! Do you believe that natural goodness alone would beable to suffer thus?" "I do not know," Luisa replied. "I think poor Mamma must have lived in a better world before she was born into this, for her heart was always there." She did not say all she thought. She thought that if all the good souls on earth resembled her mother in religious meekness, this world would become the kingdom of the rascal and the tyrant. And as to ills, which do not come from man, but from the very conditions of human life itself, she felt greater admiration for such as strive against them with their own strength, than for such as invoke and obtain aid from that same Being by whom the blow was dealt. She would not confess these sentiments to her husband, but instead, expressed the hope that her uncle might never suffer deep affliction. Could it be possible that the Lord would wish such a man to suffer? "No, no, no!" Franco exclaimed; at another moment he would not perhaps have dared to admonish God in this manner. A breath of theBogliaswept down the ravine of Muzài, and rustled the top branches of the walnut-trees. To Luisa that fluttering seemed connected with Franco's last words; it seemed to her that the wind and the great trees knew something of the future, and were whispering about it together.
Maria's fever lasted only eight days; nevertheless, when she left her bed, her parents found her more changed in face and in mind than if the eight days had been eight months. Her eyes had grown darker, and had assumed a peculiar expression of calm and precocious maturity. She spoke more distinctly and rapidly, but to those who were not to her liking, she would not speak at all, would not even greet them. This was more displeasing to Franco than to Luisa. Franco wished her to be amiable, but Luisa feared to spoil her sincerity. For her mother Maria cherished an affection violent rather than demonstrative, a jealous, almost fierce affection. She was very fond of her father also, but it was evident that she felt he was unlike herself. Franco had passionate outbursts of affection for her, when he would catch her up unexpectedly, press her close, and cover her with kisses. At such moments she would throw her head back, plant one little hand upon her father's face, and look frowningly at him, as if something in him werestrange and repugnant to her. Often Franco would scold her angrily, and Maria would cry and stare at him through her tears, motionless, and as if fascinated, and always wearing the expression of one who does not understand. He noticed the child's predilection for her mother, and this was pleasing to him, for it seemed a just preference, and he never doubted that later Maria would love him tenderly also. Luisa, loving her husband as she did, was much troubled that the child should exhibit greater affection for herself; however this sentiment of hers was less lively, less pure, than Franco's generous pleasure. It seemed to Luisa that, after all, in spite of his transports, Franco loved his daughter as a being distinct from himself, while she, who had no transports of external tenderness, loved the child as a vital part of herself. Moreover she cherished in her heart a future Maria probably very different from the one Franco cherished. For this reason also she could not regret her moral ascendency over her daughter. She foresaw the danger that Franco might favour an exaggerated development of the child's religious sentiment, and this, to her, was a very serious danger, for in Maria, full of curiosity, eager for stories, there were the germs of a very lively imagination, which would be most favourable to religious fancies, and a badly balanced moral sense might be the result. It was not a question of abolishing religious sentiment; this Luisa, out of respect for Franco, if for no otherreason, would never have sought to do, but it was imperative that Maria, on reaching womanhood, should be able to find the pivot of her own existence in her own sure and vigorous moral sense, a moral sense not founded upon beliefs which, after all, were simply hypotheses and opinions, and which, sooner or later, might fail her. The preservation of faith in Justice and in Truth, setting aside all other faith, all hope, all fear, seemed to her the most sublime condition of the human conscience. She believed that because she went to Mass, and twice a year to the sacraments, she had renounced such perfection for herself, and she intended to renounce it for Maria also, but as one who, finding himself hampered by wife and children, must renounce Christian perfection, but who does so unwillingly, and in as slight a degree as possible.
Fate might bestow riches upon Maria. Therefore they must carefully provide against her acceptance of a life of frivolity, compensated for by the giving of alms, the Mass in the morning, and the rosary at night. On several occasions Luisa had attempted to sound Franco upon the question of giving Maria's education a moral direction quite apart from the religious direction, but such attempts had never been accompanied by satisfactory results. Franco could understand an unbelief in religion, but it was quite incomprehensible to him that there were those who found religion insufficient as a rule of life. He had neverfor a moment believed that all should aspire to saintliness, or that those who lovetarocchi, primero, hunting, fishing, nice little dinners and a bottle of fine wine, are not good Christians. And this moral direction in education as divided from the religious direction seemed to him a mere notion, because, to his thinking, all honest men who did not believe, were honest either by nature or from habit, and not from any moral or philosophical reasoning. So it was not possible for Luisa to come to an understanding with her husband on this delicate point. She must act alone and very cautiously, in order neither to offend nor to grieve him. When Franco pointed out to the child the stars and the moon, the flowers and the butterflies, as admirable works of God, using poetically religious language fit for a child of twelve, Luisa held her peace; but if, on the contrary, he chanced to say to Maria: "Mind, God does not wish you to do that!" Luisa would immediately add: "That is wicked! You must never do what is wicked!" In such cases some dissension must inevitably arise between the parents, for the moral judgment of one was not always in harmony with the moral judgment of the other. Once they were standing together at the window of the hall, while Maria played with a little girl of about her own age from Oria. A brother of the child passed, a tyrant of eight, and ordered his little sister to follow him. She refused and wept. But Maria, looking very grave, faced the tyrantwith clenched fists. Franco restrained her by a sharp command; the little one turned and looked at him, and then burst into tears, while the tyrant dragged his victim away. Luisa left the window, saying in an undertone to her husband: "Excuse me, but that was not just." "Why was it not just?" said Franco, and he became heated and raised his voice, demanding whether his wife wished Maria to grow up pugilistic and violent. She answered gently and firmly, overlooking some sharp words of his, and maintaining that Maria's impulse had been good; that our first duty is to withstand tyranny and injustice; and that, though the child use his fists, the man would use more civilised weapons; but if the natural impulse of the soul be repressed in the child, there was danger of destroying the nascent sense of justice as well.
Franco would not be convinced. According to him it was very doubtful whether Maria had harboured any such heroic sentiments. She had simply been angry because she was to be deprived of her playmate, that was all. Besides, was it not a woman's place to oppose gentle meekness to injustice and tyranny, to appease and correct the offender, rather than repulse the offence by force? Luisa flushed crimson, and replied that this rôle might suit some women, perhaps the best of women, but it would certainly not suit all, for not all were so meek and humble.
"And you are of that number?"
"I believe so."
"A fine thing to boast of!"
"Does it grieve you very much?"
"Very much indeed."
Luisa placed her hands on his shoulders. "Does it grieve you very much," said she, "that I rebel as you yourself do against the presence of these masters in our house; that I desire as you yourself do, to help, even with my hands, in driving them out? Or would you prefer to see me attempt to correct Radetzky and appease the Croatians?"
"That is a different thing."
"In what way? No, it is the same thing."
"It is a different thing!" Franco repeated, but he was unable to demonstrate this. He felt he was wrong according to superficial ratiocination, and right according to a profound truth which he was unable to grasp. He said no more but was thoughtful all day, and was evidently seeking for an answer. He thought about it in the night also, and finally, believing he had found an answer, called to his wife, who was asleep.
"Luisa!" said he. "Luisa, that is a different thing."
"What is the matter?" Luisa exclaimed, waking with a start.
He had reflected that the offence of a foreign dominion was not personal like a private offence, and was always the result of a violation of a principle of universal justice. But while he was explainingthis to his wife it struck him that in private offences also there was always the violation of a principle of universal justice, and he fancied he must have blundered.
"Nothing," said he.
His wife thought he was dreaming, and placing her head upon his shoulder, she went to sleep again. If any argument could convert Franco to his wife's ideas it was this sweet contact, this gentle breathing upon his breast, in which he had so often and so deliciously felt the blending of their two souls. But now it was not so. Through his brain the thought flashed suddenly like a quick and cold blade, that this latent antagonism between his wife's views and his own might one day burst forth in some painful form, and, terrified, he pressed her in his arms, as if to defend both himself and her against the phantoms of his own brain.
After breakfast, on the sixth of November Franco took his great gardening-shears and proceeded as usual, to the extermination of all dry leaves and branches on the terrace and in the little garden. The great beauty and deep peace of the hour went to the heart. Not a leaf stirred; the air from the west was most pure and crystalline; on the east the hills between Osteno and Porlezza were fading against a background of light mist; the house was glorious with the sun and the tremulous reflections from the lake; butthough the sun was still very hot, the chrysanthemums in the little garden, the olives and laurels along the coast—more plainly visible now among the reddening, falling leaves—a certain secret freshness in the air, scented witholea fragrans, the absence of all wind, the vaporous mountains of the Lake of Como, white with snow, all said, with one melancholy accord, that the sweet season was dying. When he had exterminated the withered brushwood Franco proposed to his wife that they should go to Casarico in their boat, and return the two first volumes of theMystères du Peuplewhich they had eagerly devoured in a few days, to their friend Gilardoni, and borrow the next volume from him. They decided to start after lunch, when Maria should have gone to bed. But before Maria had been put to bed Barborin Pasotti appeared, all out of breath, her bonnet and mantle askew. She had come up from the garden-gate, and now stopped on the threshold of the hall. It was the first time she had been to see them since the search. Upon catching sight of her friends she clasped her hands, and kept repeating in a low tone: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" Then she flung herself upon Luisa and covered her with kisses.
"My dear girl! My dear girl!" she exclaimed. She would have liked to treat Franco in the same way, but Franco was not favourable to this sort of emotion, and his expression was not encouraging, so the poor woman had to be satisfied with takingboth his hands and shaking them heartily. "My dear Don Franco! My dear Don Franco!" Finally she gathered Maria into her arms, but the child planted her two little hands upon Barborin's chest, her face wearing an expression similar to her father's. "I am old, am I not? And ugly? You don't like me? Well, never mind, never mind!" And she fell to kissing the child's arms and shoulders humbly, not daring to brave the sour little face. Then she told her friends she had brought them a piece of good news, and her eyes sparkled at the pleasant mystery. The Marchesa had written to Pasotti, and one passage in the letter Barborin had committed to memory. "It was with the deepest regret (deepest regret, those were the very words) that I learned of the sad affair at Oria ... at Oria ... (wait a moment) the sad affair at Oria ... (ah!) and although my grandson is most undeserving (wait! ... have patience!) I trust that it may have no unpleasant consequences." The passage did not produce any great effect. Luisa frowned and said nothing. Franco glanced at his wife, and did not dare to utter the favourable comment he had on his lips, but not in his heart. Poor Barborin, who had taken advantage of her husband's absence at Lugano to run to her friends with this sugar-plum, was deeply mortified, and after gazing ruefully from Luisa to Franco, ended by pulling a real sugar-plum from her pocket, and offering it toMaria. Then, having made out that the Maironis wanted to go away in the boat, and longing to be allowed to stay with Maria a little while, she begged and entreated so hard that they finally started, leaving orders with Veronica to put the child to bed a little later.
Maria did not seem any too well pleased with the company of her elderly friend. She remained silent, obstinately silent, and before long she opened her mouth and burst into tears. Poor Barborin did not know which Saint to appeal to, so she appealed to Veronica, but Veronica was discoursing with a customs-guard, and either did not or would not hear. Barborin showed her rings, her watch, even the big bonnet,â la vice-reine Beauharnais, but nothing would do, and Maria continued to weep. Then she bethought her of going to the piano, where she strummed eight or ten bars of an antediluvian jig over and over again. Then little Princess Maria became more amiable, and allowed her old court-pianist to lift her as carefully as if her little arms had been a butterfly's wings, and place her on her lap as softly as if there had been danger of the old legs crumbling to dust.
When the jig had been repeated five or six times Maria began to look bored and tried to pull the elderly pianist's hand from the key-board, saying in an undertone: "Sing me a song." Obtaining no answer, she turned, looked Barborinstraight in the face, and shouted at the top of her voice: "Sing me a song."
"I don't understand," Barborin replied. "I am deaf."
"Why are you deaf?"
"I am deaf," the unfortunate woman answered, smiling.
"But why are you deaf?"
Barborin could not imagine what the child was saying.
"I don't understand," said she.
"Then you are stupid," Maria announced with a very serious face, and knitting her brows, she repeated in a whining voice: "I want a song!"
A voice from the little garden said—
"Here is the person for songs."
Maria raised her head and her face became radiant. "Missipipì!" she cried, and slipping down from Barborin's lap, ran to meet Uncle Piero who was coming in. Signora Pasotti rose also, astonished and smiling, and stretched out her arms towards this old and unexpected friend. "Behold, behold, behold!" she exclaimed, and hastened to greet him. Maria was calling so loudly for "Missipipì, Missipipì!" and clinging so tight to Uncle Piero's legs, that, although he did not seem inclined to do so, he was obliged to sit down on the sofa, take the child on his knees, and repeat the old story to her.