The wine of Niscioree, clear and red as a ruby, at once delicate and strong, flattered and soothed the inner-man of the impatient Signor Giacomo, who, in those years ofoidium, seldom wet his lips in undiluted wine, but gloomily sipped the Grimelli wine, of watery memory.
"Est,est,[G]is it not, Signor Giacomo?" said Uncle Piero, seeing Puttini gaze with devoted eyes into the glass he held. "But here at least, there is no danger of expiring like a certain man:et propter nimium est dominus meus mortuus est."
"I feel as if I were being resuscitated," Signor Giacomo answered, speaking very slowly and almost under his breath, his gaze still fixed on the glass.
"Then you must give us a toast," the other said, rising. "But if you will not speak, why then I must do so," and he recited merrily—
"Long live he and long live she,And now we'll be off, and leave them free!"
"Long live he and long live she,And now we'll be off, and leave them free!"
Signor Giacomo emptied his glass, puffed loudly and winked hard, in consequence of the varied sentiments which were running riot in his soul, while the last perfume, the last flavour of the wine were fading in his mouth. He offered his duty to the "most revered" Signora Teresa, his devotion to the "most amiable" little bride, his respects to the "most accomplished" young husband. Then, gesticulating with head and arms, he declared himself undeserving of the thanks which were being lavished upon him, and taking his great hat and his stick, he started—humble and puffing, with mingled feelings of relief and regret—to follow the placid bulk of the "most worshipful" engineer.
"And you, Franco?" Signora Teresa enquired immediately.
"I am going," he replied.
"Come here," said she. "I received you so badly when you returned from church, my poor children! You see I had had one of my bad attacks; I think you understood. But now I feel so well, so peaceful! Lord, I thank Thee! it seems to me I have set my house in order, have put out the fire and said my prayers; and now I am going to sleep, so well satisfied! But not so very soon, dear, not at once. I leave you my Luisa, dear; I leave you Uncle Piero. I know you will love them very much, will you not? But you must remember me also. Ah, dear Lord! how sorry I am I shall not see your children! That is indeed a grief to me! You must give them a kiss every day for their poor grandmother ... every day. And now go, my son, but you will be back by half-past five? Yes, dear.... Good-by ... now go."
She spoke caressingly to him, as to a child who does not yet understand, and he wept silently, with tender emotion, kissing her hands over and over again, and glad Luisa was present to witness this scene, for in his immense tenderness for the mother, there was his immense joy at being one with the daughter, and an intense desire to love all that his wife loved, and in the same measure.
"Go," Mamma Teresa repeated, fearing her own increasing emotion. "Go, go!"
At last he obeyed and went out with Luisa.
On this occasion also Luisa was absent a long time, but even the holiest souls have their littleweaknesses, and although the maid was constantly coming and going between the kitchen and the salon, Signora Teresa, touched by the affection which Franco had displayed for her, never once ordered her to ring the bell.
Footnotes[E]Luisina: little Luisa,inabeing a diminutive. [Translator's note.][F]Svanziche: a coin varying from 90 to 95 centimes. [Translator's note.][G]Est,est: Canon Johannes Fugger of Augsburg travelling in Italy in the twelfth century, directed his steward to precede him, and inscribe the wordEston the door of the inn where the best wine was to be had. On reaching Montefiascone, the worthy canon found the wordEstwritten three times on the tavern door, and indeed, the muscatel of this district proved so much to his taste that he never left Montefiascone, but ended his days there in the year 1113 or thereabouts, and was buried in the church of S. Flaviano, where his tomb may still be seen. His steward caused the following inscription to be carved upon the sarcophagus:Est, Est, Est. Propter nimium est,Johannes de Fuc., D. meus, mortuus est.It is said that the wine-loving prelate left orders that a barrel of the very best muscatel should be spilled over his tomb every year on the anniversary of his death, and this ceremony was faithfully performed down to the end of the seventeenth century, when it was forbidden by a certain Cardinal Barbarigi, of unconvivial memory. The best wine of Montescone is still calledEst,Est. [Translator's note.]
[E]Luisina: little Luisa,inabeing a diminutive. [Translator's note.]
[F]Svanziche: a coin varying from 90 to 95 centimes. [Translator's note.]
[G]Est,est: Canon Johannes Fugger of Augsburg travelling in Italy in the twelfth century, directed his steward to precede him, and inscribe the wordEston the door of the inn where the best wine was to be had. On reaching Montefiascone, the worthy canon found the wordEstwritten three times on the tavern door, and indeed, the muscatel of this district proved so much to his taste that he never left Montefiascone, but ended his days there in the year 1113 or thereabouts, and was buried in the church of S. Flaviano, where his tomb may still be seen. His steward caused the following inscription to be carved upon the sarcophagus:
Est, Est, Est. Propter nimium est,Johannes de Fuc., D. meus, mortuus est.
Est, Est, Est. Propter nimium est,Johannes de Fuc., D. meus, mortuus est.
It is said that the wine-loving prelate left orders that a barrel of the very best muscatel should be spilled over his tomb every year on the anniversary of his death, and this ceremony was faithfully performed down to the end of the seventeenth century, when it was forbidden by a certain Cardinal Barbarigi, of unconvivial memory. The best wine of Montescone is still calledEst,Est. [Translator's note.]
Franco went down the hill very, very slowly, absorbed in the world of things within him, so crowded with thoughts and with new sensations. Stopping every now and then to contemplate the grey road and the small dark fields, he would touch the leaves of a grape-vine or the stones of a low wall, in order to feel the reality of the external world, to convince himself that he was not dreaming. Not until he had reached the Contrada dei Mal'ari in Casarico, and was standing before the little door of Gilardoni's tiny house, did he recall Mamma Teresa's dark words concerning the secret Gilardoni had imparted to her, and he wondered what this mystery could be, which must not be revealed to Luisa. To tell the truth the mother's advice had not satisfied him entirely. "How could I ever hide anything from my wife?" he thought as he knocked at the door.
Professor Beniamino Gilardoni, son of "Carlin de Dàas," had been educated at the expense of old Don Franco Maironi, Marchesa Orsola's husband, an eccentric man, capricious and violent,but at the same time, very generous. When Carlin died it became apparent that Maironi's generosity had not been necessary. Beniamino inherited quite a little hoard, and this maddened Don Franco, who held him responsible for the paternal hypocrisy, turned his back upon him, and would have nothing more to do with him for the short time he survived his agent. The young man chose the career of teacher, was professor of Latin at the gymnasium of Cremona, and of philosophy at the lyceum of Udine. Of a delicate constitution, apprehensive of physical suffering, and extremely misanthropical, he resigned his professorship in 1842, and came to Valsolda to enjoy the modest fortune his father had left him. Dasio, his native village, perched just below the dolomitic rocks of the Arabione, was too high up and inconvenient for him. He sold his possessions there, purchased the olive-grove of Sedorgg above Casarico, and a small villa on the edge of the lake, in Casarico itself. It was so small as to be almost a toy villa, and from its shape he called it the "GreekIIor Pi" in imitation of the "Digamma" of Ugo Foscolo. From the Contrada dei Mal'ari a short passage led to the little courtyard flanked by a tiny portico, open on the lake-side and surrounded by tall oleanders. It overlooked six miles of water, green, grey or blue, according to the hour, as far as Monte S. Salvatore there in the distance, stooping, under the burden of its melancholy hump, towards the humble hills ofCarona beneath it. On the east of the little house there was a kitchen-garden, fabulously large for that part of the world, the dimensions of which Engineer Ribera was wont to define by means of the following surveyor's description: "Large field calledil Campone, measuring seventavole." Now seventavolecorrespond to twenty or twenty-two square metres! The Professor cultivated it with the aid of his little servant Giuseppe, called Pinella, and of a small collection of French treatises. He sent to France for the seeds of the most highly esteemed qualities of vegetables, which sometimes came up in shameless disregard of their certificates of baptism, and indeed of any honestly baptised family. It would then happen that philosopher and servant, stooping over the beds, their hands on their knees, would raise their eyes from these mocking sprouts, and gaze at each other, the philosopher honestly disappointed, the servant hypocritically so. In one corner of the garden, in a little stable constructed according to the most approved principles, dwelt a small Swiss cow, which had been purchased after three months of diligent study, and had turned out as delicate and fleshless as the master himself, who—in spite of the Swiss cow and four Paduan hens—often found it impossible to make himself a cup of custard in his own house. In the wall supporting the garden on the lake-side, against whose base thebrevadrove the swelling waves, he had made some openings in which, following Franco Maironi'sadvice, he had planted many American aloes, many roses and some caper-bushes, thus binding together the substantial contents of his kitchen-garden, as he was wont to say, with poetic elegance of form. And for the love of the poetic, he had left a small corner of his kitchen-garden uncultivated. The tallest of reeds had sprung up there, and in front of these reeds the Professor had erected a sort of belvedere, a lofty, wooden platform, very rustic and primitive, where, in pleasant weather, he passed many happy hours with the mystic books he loved, enjoying the coolness of thebreva, and the murmuring of reeds and waves. At a distance the colour of the platform could not be distinguished from that of the reeds, and the Professor looked as if he were seated on air, book in hand, like any magician. In the little salon he kept the small collection of works on kitchen-gardening, the mystic books, the treatises on necromancy, and gnosticism. The writings on hallucinations and dreams he kept in a tiny study adjoining his bedroom, a sort of ship's cabin, into which lake and sky seemed to pour through the window.
After the death of old Maironi the Professor had once more taken to visiting the family, but the Marchesa did not please him particularly, and her son Don Alessandro, Franco's father, pleased him still less. So he ended by going there only once a year. When the lad Franco entered the lyceum his grandmother—his father had beendead some time—begged Gilardoni to give him some lessons during the Autumn. Master and pupil resembled each other in their easy enthusiasms, in their fits of violent but fleeting passion, and both were ardent patriots. When the necessity for lessons no longer existed they continued to meet as friends, though the Professor was some twenty years older than Franco. Gilardoni admired his pupil's genius, but Franco, on the other hand, held the half-Christian, half-rationalist philosophy of his master, and his mystical tendencies, in small esteem. He laughed at the other's passion for books and theories on horticulture and landscape gardening, a passion which was entirely devoid of all common sense. But nevertheless, he loved him sincerely for his goodness, his candour, his ardent soul. Franco had been the Professor's confidant at the time of his unfortunate passion for Signora Rigey, and later, Franco, in his turn, confided in the Professor. Gilardoni was much affected by the news, and told Franco that, his heart being still full to overflowing of that unchanging devotion, he should feel as if he were, in a way, becoming Franco's father, even though Signora Teresa herself would have none of him. Franco showed little appreciation of this metaphysical paternity. This passion for Signora Rigey seemed to him simply an aberration, and he was more than ever confirmed in his opinion that the Professor's head was not worth much, but that his heart was of gold.
So he knocked at the door, and Beniamino himself came to open it, bearing a little oil lamp. "Well done," said he. "I was beginning to think you were not coming, after all."
Gilardoni was in his dressing-gown and slippers, with a sort of white turban on his head, and he exhaled a strong odour of camphor. He looked like a Turk, like Gilardoni Bey, but the thin, sallow face which smiled beneath the turban had nothing Turkish about it. Encircled by a short, reddish beard, pompously embellished in the middle by a fine, big nose, red and pimply, the face was lighted up by two beautiful blue eyes, still very youthful, and full of simple kindness and poetry.
As soon as Franco had closed the door behind him his friend whispered: "Is it done?" "It is done," Franco answered. The other embraced him and kissed him in silence. Then he took him up stairs to the little study. On the way he explained that,secundumRaspail, he had applied a compress of some sedative water to his head, for he was threatened with a headache. He was an apostle of Raspail, and had converted Franco—who often suffered from inflammatory sore throats—from leeches to camphor cigarettes.
In the little study there was another very close and long embrace. "So much! So much! So much!" Gilardoni exclaimed, meaning a world of things.
Poor Gilardoni, his eyes were glistening. Hehimself had longed in vain for a happiness similar to his friend's! Franco understood and, much embarrassed, did not know what to say to him, and a silence so significant followed that Gilardoni could not stand it, and set about lighting a little fire to heat some coffee he had prepared. Franco offered to do this for him, and the Professor accepted, pleading his headache, and began unrolling his turban before a basin of the sedative water. "Well," said he, controlling his emotion by an effort of his will, "tell me all about it." Franco told him everything, from his grandmother's dinner-party, to the wedding ceremony in the church at Castello, except of course, his private talk with Signora Teresa. Professor Beniamino, meanwhile, had replaced his turban, and now summoned up all his courage. "And——" said he, substituting a sort of low groan for the beloved name, "how is she?" Upon learning of the hallucination he exclaimed: "A letter? She thought she saw a letter? But what letter?" This Franco did not know. A hissing on the fire interrupted the conversation; the coffee was boiling hard and bubbling over.
Gilardoni also resembled his young friend in that his heart might be read from his face. The young friend who was, however, a far cleverer and quicker reader of faces than he, at once perceived that he had thought of some special letter, and inquired, while the coffee was settling, if he could explain this hallucination. The Professorhastened to say "no," but no sooner had he uttered that "no" than he weakened it by adding several other negatives, mingled with inarticulate grumblings: "Ah, no!—no indeed!—I cannot say—certainly not!" Franco did not insist, and another extremely significant silence ensued. When he had taken his coffee, with many involuntary signs of uneasiness, the Professor promptly proposed that they go to bed. Franco, who must leave before daybreak, preferred not to go to bed, but wished his friend to do so, and, after an infinite number of protests and ceremonies, after hesitating on the very threshold, his basin of sedative water in his hand, the Professor suddenly faced about, and throwing a "good-night" over his shoulder, disappeared.
When he was alone Franco put out the lamp and stretched himself in an easy-chair with the good intention of going to sleep, seeking sleep in some indifferent thought if he could possibly fix his mind on such a thought. Not five minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door and immediately the Professor rushed in, without a light, and exclaiming: "Well, here I am again!" "What is the matter?" Franco inquired. "I am sorry I put out the light." At the same moment he felt the arms of the worthy Beniamino about his neck, his beard brushed Franco's face, and he smelt the camphor and heard the voice. "Dear, dear, Don Franco! I have an enormous load on my heart! I did not intend to speak now; Iwanted to leave you in peace, but I cannot, I cannot!"
"But speak! Calm yourself, calm yourself!" said Franco, gently freeing himself from that embrace.
Gilardoni let him go, and pressed his hands to his forehead, groaning: "Oh, what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool I am! I might have left him alone; I might have waited until to-morrow or the next day. But now it is done! It is done!"
He seized Franco's hand. "I tell you I had begun to undress when a sort of giddiness came over me, and then it was all up with me. I must needs put on the dressing-gown again, and rush in here without a light, like a lunatic. In my haste I even tipped over the basin of sedative water."
"Shall we light the lamp?" Franco asked.
"No, no, no, we had better talk in the dark, better talk in the dark! See, I am going way over there!" And he sat down at his writing-desk, to escape the faint glimmer of light which fell through the window. Then he began. He always spoke in a nervous and disorderly fashion, and it may easily be imagined how he spoke now, in his present state of agitation.
"Shall I begin? Goodness knows what you will say, dear Don Franco! These are all useless words, but what would you have—alas! patience—! Well, I will begin—but where shall I begin? Oh,Lord! just see what a fool I am, not even knowing where to begin! Ah, that hallucination! Yes, I told you a lie just now; I can easily guess the origin of that hallucination. It has to do with a letter; a letter I showed Signora Teresa two years ago, a letter from Don Franco, your grandfather. Well, now let us begin at the beginning.
"During his last days my poor father spoke to me of a letter from Don Franco which I should find in the strong-box, where all the important papers were kept. He told me to read it, to preserve it carefully, and, when the time came, to act in accordance with the dictates of conscience. 'But' said he, 'it is almost certain there will be nothing to be done.' My poor father passed away. I searched the strong-box for the letter, but did not find it. I hunted the whole house over, but in vain. What could I do? I contented myself with reflecting that there was nothing to be done, and thought no more about the matter. A fool, was I not? A real idiot! Say so freely, I deserve it. I have said so to myself so many times! But let us continue. Do you know how your grandfather's estate was settled? Do you know how the affairs of your house were arranged? You will forgive me for speaking to you of these matters, will you not?"
"I know my grandfather died without a will, and that I have nothing," Franco replied. "But let us pass that over, and proceed."
To Franco it was truly a painful subject. Atold Maironi's death no will had been found. In perfect love and harmony, the widow and the son, Don Alessandro, had divided the estate equally between them. In order to secure this arrangement the son had made a very large grant to his mother, declaring that he was only carrying out the paternal wishes, which had not found a means of expression. This depraved young man, a spendthrift and a gambler, was already caught in the toils of usurers at the time of his father's death. In the seven years he survived him he managed to spend everything, not leaving a penny to his only son, Franco, who found himself reduced to some twenty thousandsvanziche, the fortune of his mother who had died in giving him birth.
"Yes, yes, let us get on," Gilardoni continued. "Three years ago, three years ago, I say, I received a letter from you. I remember it was the second of November, all Souls' Day. Curious circumstance, mysterious circumstance! Very well. That night I went to bed, and dreamed a dream. I dreamt of your grandfather's letter. Note that I had never thought of it again. I dreamt I was hunting for it, and that I found it in an old box I keep in the attic. I read it, still dreaming. It said there was a great treasure in the cellar of Casa Maironi at Cressogno and that that treasure was to come to you. I awoke in intense excitement, convinced that this had been a prophetic dream. I got up, and went to look in the box. I foundnothing; but two days later, being about to sell certain lands which I owned at Dasio, I got out an old deed of purchase, which my father kept in the strong-box, and, in turning over the leaves, a letter fell out. I glanced at the signature and saw: Nobile Franco Maironi. I read the letter. It was the one in question! Thus you see, the dream...."
"Well," said Franco, interrupting him, "and what did this letter say?"
The Professor rose, took a match half a cubit long, ran it in among the live coals in the little fireplace, and lit the lamp.
"I have it here," he said with a great, despairing sigh. "Read it."
He took from his pocket and handed to Franco a small yellowish letter, without an envelope, and still showing traces of the little red wafer. The yellow-black lines of writing inside showed through here and there, almost in relief.
Franco took it, held it near the lamp, and read aloud as follows:
"Dear Carlin,—"You will find my last will enclosed in this letter. I have written it in duplicate. One copy I am keeping. This is the other, and I charge you to publish it if the first be not forthcoming. Do you understand? Very well then; and when we meet I forbid you absolutely to worry me with your advice, as is your d——d custom. Youare the only person in whom I have confidence, but, after all, it is my right to command, and your duty to obey. Therefore all advice is useless and will not be tolerated. Good-bye."Your affectionate master,"Franco Maironi."Cressogno,22 Sept., 1828."
"Dear Carlin,—
"You will find my last will enclosed in this letter. I have written it in duplicate. One copy I am keeping. This is the other, and I charge you to publish it if the first be not forthcoming. Do you understand? Very well then; and when we meet I forbid you absolutely to worry me with your advice, as is your d——d custom. Youare the only person in whom I have confidence, but, after all, it is my right to command, and your duty to obey. Therefore all advice is useless and will not be tolerated. Good-bye.
"Your affectionate master,"Franco Maironi.
"Cressogno,22 Sept., 1828."
"Now here is the will," said Gilardoni dolefully, handing Franco another yellow document, "but don't read that aloud."
The document read as follows:
"I, the undersigned, Nobile Franco Maironi, desire that my estate be divided in accordance with this, my last will and testament."Donna Orsola Maironi, born Marchesa Scremin, having deigned to accept my homage as well as that of many others, I bequeath to her, in proof of my gratitude, the sum of ten thousand Milanese Lire, to be paid once and for all, and what, to her, is the most precious jewel of my household, namely Don Alessandro Maironi, duly inscribed in the parish-registers of the Cathedral of Brescia as my son."I bequeath to my said son that part of my property which is lawfully due to him, and threeparpagliole[H]a day more, in token of the special esteem in which I hold him."I leave to my agent in Brescia, Signor Grigi, should he be still in my employ at the time of my death, all that he has stolen from me."I leave to my agent in Valsolda, Carlino Gilardoni, upon the same condition as above, four Milanese Lire a day, during his natural life."I desire that, during the life of Donna Orsola Maironi Scremin, a Mass be celebrated daily in the Cathedral of Brescia, for the good of her soul."I name and appoint my grandson, Don Franco Maironi, son of Don Alessandro, residuary legatee of all the rest of my property."As witness my hand, this fifteenth day of April, 1828."Franco Maironi."
"I, the undersigned, Nobile Franco Maironi, desire that my estate be divided in accordance with this, my last will and testament.
"Donna Orsola Maironi, born Marchesa Scremin, having deigned to accept my homage as well as that of many others, I bequeath to her, in proof of my gratitude, the sum of ten thousand Milanese Lire, to be paid once and for all, and what, to her, is the most precious jewel of my household, namely Don Alessandro Maironi, duly inscribed in the parish-registers of the Cathedral of Brescia as my son.
"I bequeath to my said son that part of my property which is lawfully due to him, and threeparpagliole[H]a day more, in token of the special esteem in which I hold him.
"I leave to my agent in Brescia, Signor Grigi, should he be still in my employ at the time of my death, all that he has stolen from me.
"I leave to my agent in Valsolda, Carlino Gilardoni, upon the same condition as above, four Milanese Lire a day, during his natural life.
"I desire that, during the life of Donna Orsola Maironi Scremin, a Mass be celebrated daily in the Cathedral of Brescia, for the good of her soul.
"I name and appoint my grandson, Don Franco Maironi, son of Don Alessandro, residuary legatee of all the rest of my property.
"As witness my hand, this fifteenth day of April, 1828.
"Franco Maironi."
Franco read—and, half dazed and without a word, passed the sheet of paper back to the Professor. He was shaken, but felt vaguely that he must control himself, that he must restrain his own agitation, collect his thoughts, and strive to get a clear view of this matter and of himself.
"What do you say to that?" the Professor exclaimed.
At this point Gilardoni's intense excitement reached a climax.
"Why did I not speak before, eh?" he continued. "The thing is that I can't possibly give a clear, precise and positive reason for not having done so. Those papers were a horror to me! If I myself and my own father and mother hadbeen involved in such a question, I would rather have let a million slip than ask for it with those documents in my hand. There! I have been a fool again, to have said that! Just forget those last words, for in your place ... it is a different thing. I was speaking for myself. Good Lord, of course I was speaking for myself! Well, I thought—see what an ass I was—I thought your grandmother just doted on you, and that your grandfather's property would go to you anyway. And with that idea...! After a while I consulted Signora Teresa, and showed her the letter and the will. She said I should have informed you at once, as soon as I had made the discovery, but that she could not give me any advice because now her daughter was, in a way, an interested party. Besides, she said.... But that is of no consequence. In short I saw the will was a horror to her also. Anyway, I was convinced your grandmother would end by accepting this marriage, and I did not speak. Tonight you come and tell me the Marchesa has used threats. Fancy that! Now you understand that I could not wait, that I could not keep these documents a moment longer. There—they are yours—take them!"
Franco, absorbed in his own thoughts, heard only these last words. "No," said he, "I will not take them. I know myself too well. With them in my possession I might be led into doing something rash, or into acting prematurely. You keepthem for the present." Gilardoni would not hear of keeping them, and drove Franco into one of his fits of impatience. There was indeed nothing so irritating to his nerves as the inconclusive outpourings of kind-hearted but brainless persons. Gilardoni's opposition angered him, and he gave him to understand that this wish to rid himself of the documents at all costs, was selfishness pure and simple, and that those who have blundered must bear the consequences. The words he uttered amounted to this, but the angry and harsh expression of his face said much more. Gilardoni, whose face was crimson, shuddered at the accusation of selfishness, but controlled himself and putting on a grim frown in his turn, hastily pocketed the documents, repeated a string of "well, well, well, wells," and abruptly left the room. To appease his own conscience Franco at once set to work trying to convince himself that Signor Beniamino was entirely in the wrong. He had done wrong in not having given him the documents much sooner, and now he was doing wrong in taking offence. As he was quite sure he should make his peace with the inconclusive philosopher, he thought no more about him, put out the lamp, and, returning to his easy-chair, became once more engrossed in his previous meditations.
Now he was beginning to see clearly. He could not with dignity make use of that will, which, both in form and in substance was dishonouring to his grandmother, arousing as it did, when theletter was considered, a suspicion of criminal suppression. The will also reflected little honour upon his father. No, never. He must tell the professor to burn both documents.
"Thus, Madam Grandmother, shall I triumph over you!" thought Franco, "Making you a free gift of the property, and of your honour as well, without even taking the trouble to tell you of it!" Revelling in this thought Franco felt almost as if he were lifted above the earth, and he drew a long breath, vastly pleased with himself, his soul illumined and soothed by a sentiment of mingled generosity and pride. With all his faith and his acts of Christian piety, he was very far from suspecting that such a sentiment was not entirely good, and that a less self-conscious magnanimity would have been more noble.
He let himself sink back in his easy-chair, more disposed to rest than he had been before, thinking quietly of what he had read, of what he had heard, as one who has been on the verge of embarking upon some perilous speculation, and looks back upon the anxiety and the calamities from which he has escaped forever. Old memories were also beginning to stir in the depths of his soul. He recalled a certain tale an old servant had told concerning the riches of the house of Maironi, which, she said, had been stolen from the poor. He was a child then, and the woman had not hesitated to speak in his presence. But the child had received a deep impression, and thisimpression had been re-awakened in his early boyhood, by the words of a priest, who had confided to him, with an air of great secrecy and solemnity, and perhaps not without intention, that the Maironi fortune was the fruit of a law-suit which had been unjustly won against the Ospedale Maggiore of Milan.
"So, through me," thought Franco, "everything has gone back to the devil."
It struck him that perhaps it was late, so he lighted the lamp once more, and consulted his watch. It was half-past three. Now, it would be impossible for him to rest. The moment which would re-unite him to Luisa was too near at hand, his fancy was too greatly excited. One hour and a half more! He looked at his watch every two minutes; it seemed as if the tedious time would never pass. He took a book, but could not read. He opened the window; the air was soft, the silence profound, the lake was bright over towards S. Salvatore, and the heavens were studded with stars. At Oria he could see a light. Perhaps it would be his fate to live there in Uncle Piero's house. Gazing absently at that luminous spot, he began to imagine what the future would be, and ever-changing phantoms rose before him. At about half-past four he heard a bell ring on the lower floor, and presently Pinella came with a message from his master to the effect that if he wished to make theascent of the Bogliait was time to start. The master had a severe headache, and couldneither rise nor receive him. Franco searched on the writing-table for a sheet of paper, and wrote:
"Parce mihi, domine, quia brixiensis sum."
He went out, Pinella accompanying him with the light as far as the dark arcade, where the road to Castello begins. Then he disappeared.
The Marchesa Orsola rang her bell at half-past six, and ordered the maid to bring her chocolate as usual. She swallowed more than half of it before asking with the utmost composure, at what hour Don Franco had returned.
"He has not yet returned, Signora Marchesa."
The old woman must have received an inward shock, but not a muscle of her face twitched. She placed her lips on the edge of her cup of chocolate, looked at the maid, and said calmly:
"Bring me one of those little biscuits we had yesterday."
Towards eight o'clock the maid came back to say that Don Franco had returned, but only to go directly to his room for his passport, coming down again immediately, and he had then ordered the footman to find a boatman who would take him to Lugano. The Marchesa said never a word, but later in the day she sent word to her confidant Pasotti that she was expecting him. Pasotti took in the situation at a glance, and remained with her more than half an hour. The lady was determined to find out where and how her grandsonhad spent the night. Pasotti had already heard some rumours, which he now repeated, concerning a nocturnal visit of Don Franco's to Casa Rigey; but more reliable and precise information was desired. The cunningTartufo, by nature as curious as a hound, that goes about following every scent, poking his nose into every hole, and rubbing it against every pair of trowsers, promised to furnish the Marchesa with such information in the course of a day or two, and then took himself off, his eyes sparkling, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a pleasant chase.
Footnotes[H]Parpagliota: a small coin then in circulation, and worth about twenty centimes (?). [Translator's note.]
[H]Parpagliota: a small coin then in circulation, and worth about twenty centimes (?). [Translator's note.]
The next morning, Pasotti having imbibed his coffee and milk, lay pondering the plan of the chase until half-past ten, when he summoned Signora Barborin, who slept in another room because her snoring disturbed the "Controller," as she respectfully called her husband. "He is quite right," the poor deaf woman would say, "it is a terribly bad habit, this snoring of mine!" She was older than Pasotti, whom she had accepted as her second husband because her heart was very susceptible, and to whom she had brought certain moneys which he had long coveted, and was now enjoying. The Controller was fond of her in his own way; he obliged her to make calls, to go on boating excursions, to take long walks in the hills, all of which things were torments to her. He made fun of her deafness, sent her out covered with silks and feathers, and at home made her work like any drudge. In spite of all this she respected and served him like a slave, in fear and trembling it is true, but not without affection. When she did not call him "the Controller" she called him "Pasotti," but she never allowed herself to use a more familiar appellation.
Pasotti, with a face as stern as any satrap, ordered her by gestures to go to the drawer for a white shirt, to the wardrobe for his second-best suit, to a cupboard for a pair of boots. When his wife had prepared everything, hunting anxiously here and there, continually facing about to follow the eyes and gestures of the master who several times called her a fool, when she would stare open-mouthed at him, striving to catch the word she had only seen, Pasotti stuck his legs out of bed, and said:
"Here you are!"
Signora Barborin knelt before him, and began pulling on his stockings, while the Controller, stretching out his arm to the pedestal, took his snuff-box, and, having opened it, continued his previous meditations, his fingers buried in the snuff. He intended to make several visits of discovery, but in what order should he arrange them? From what his farmer had told him, he judged that Signor Giacomo Puttini's Marianna, and perhaps even Signor Giacomo himself must know something about Don Franco, and certainly something must be known in Castello. While Signora Barborin was tying the second shoe-lace, Pasotti remembered that it was Tuesday. Every Tuesday Signor Giacomo, with a few friends, was in the habit of going to the market at Lugano, or rather to the tavern called "del Lordo," in order to vary the daily wine of Grimelli by a weekly glass of an undiluted vintage, and he often came home in anaffectionate and communicative frame of mind. It would therefore be better to call upon him late in the day, say between four and five. In fancy Pasotti was already holding him in his hand, and managing him as he liked. With a malicious smile he raised his fingers from the snuff-box, shook the pinch to the proper dimensions by means of a few gentle, even raps, enjoyed it at his leisure, and then his wife having given him his handkerchief, he rewarded her by mumbling with a benign expression of countenance, as he rolled the handkerchief into a ball: "Poor woman! poor creature!"
When, after half an hour's labour he had put on and buttoned up his coat, he exclaimed, seriously: "What d—— hard work!" and went to the glass. Then his wife ventured to edge cautiously towards the door, saying very timidly—
"Can I go now?"
Pasotti turned round frowning and imperious, and beckoning to her to approach, he drew about her head and person certain lines in the air, which meant a hat and shawl. She did not understand, and stood staring at him, with her mouth open. Then she pointed her forefinger at his breast, questioning him with her eyes, and her lifted eyebrows, as if suspecting he wanted those articles for himself. Pasotti answered this questioning in the same manner, with three stabs of his forefinger, which signified: "you, you, you!" Then, making the motions of cutting something withhis open hand, he gave her to understand that she was to go out with him. She started several times, astonished and protesting, opened her eyes extremely wide, and said in that voice of hers which seemed to come from the cellar:
"Where?"
The Controller's only answer was a fulminating glance and a gesture: "march!" He did not intend to give any further information.
Signora Barborin struggled a little longer.
"I have not breakfasted yet," she said.
Her husband took her by the shoulders, drew her towards him, and shouted into her face:
"You will breakfast later."
Only at Albogasio Inferiore, in front of the Annunziata, did he inform her, by pointing to the place with his stick, that they were going to Cadate, to that old manor-house planted in the lake between Casarico and Albogasio, and generally known as "the Palace," where there lived, all alone, in the small rooms of the upper story, the priest, Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri and his servant Maria, called "Maria of the Palace." Pasotti knowing well that both were eager listeners, but extremely cautious in talking, wished to examine them one at a time, without seeming to do so, and, if he found any soft spot, he intended to press it very gently. He had brought his wife with him that she might help him in this delicate matter of taking them one at a time, and she, poor innocent, trotted on behind him with short, quicksteps, and followed him down the flight of one hundred and twenty-nine steps called the "Calcinera," never suspecting the perfidious part she was to act.
The lake was like oil, and Don Giuseppe, a fine, pursy priest, short and fat, with white hair, a ruddy complexion and small glistening eyes, was seated near the fig-tree in his garden, with a black straw hat on his head, and a white handkerchief round his neck, angling for carp, certain big, fat carp, grown old and wary, that might be seen moving about very slowly under the water, all for love of the figs, and that were as inquisitive and, at the same time, as cautious as the priest and his servant. This latter was not visible. Pasotti finding the street-door open, went in, calling out for Don Giuseppe and Maria. As no one answered he planted his wife in a chair and went down into the garden, making straight for the fig-tree, where Don Giuseppe was sitting, who, on catching sight of him, went into a fit of ceremonious convulsions. He threw down his fishing-rod and went towards Pasotti vociferating: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! In this state! My dear Controller! Come up-stairs! Come up-stairs! My dear Controller! In this state! I hope you will excuse me! I hope you will excuse me!" But Pasotti would not hear of "going up," he was bound to remain where he was. Don Giuseppe began bawling for "Maria! Maria!"Presently Maria's big face appeared at a window in the upper story.
Don Giuseppe called to her to bring down a chair. Then the Controller revealed the presence of his wife, whereupon the big face disappeared and Don Giuseppe had another fit.
"How is this? How is this? Signora Barborin? She here? Oh, Lord! Come up-stairs!" and he started forward impelled by obsequiousness, but Pasotti reduced him to obedience, at first catching him by the arm, and then declaring that he wished to see him take one or two of those monstrous carp; and notwithstanding Don Giuseppe's protests: "It is no use! I sha'n't catch anything! They're far too cunning, these fish.They see!" in the end he was obliged to throw his line.
At first Pasotti pretended to watch him, but finally he also threw his line.
He began by asking Don Giovanni how long it was since he had been to Castello. Upon being informed that he had been there the day before to see his friend, the curate Intrioni, the good Tartuffe, who could not abide Intrioni, burst into a perfect panegyric of him. What a jewel, this curate of Castello! What a heart of gold! And had Don Giuseppe been to Casa Rigey? No, Signora Teresa was too ill. More panegyrics concerning Signora Teresa and Luisa. What a splendid creature! What circumspection, what high principles, what sentiment! And the Maironiaffair? It was still going on, was it not? Had it gone far?
"I know nothing, nothing, nothing!" Don Giuseppe said sharply.
At that hasty denial Pasotti's eyes sparkled. He took a step forward. Oh, come now. It was not possible that Don Giuseppe did not know anything! It was not possible that he had not discussed the matter with Intrioni! Was not Intrioni aware that Don Franco had spent the night at Casa Rigey?
"I know nothing about it, nothing at all!" Don Giuseppe repeated.
Then Pasotti declared that by this concealment of certain well known circumstances, many were led to suspect evil. What the deuce! Don Franco had of course gone to Casa Rigey with the most honourable intentions, therefore——
"A bite! A bite!" whispered Don Giuseppe hurriedly, and he leaned far out over the parapet, grasped the end of the pole firmly, and fixed his gaze on the water as if a fish were about to seize the hook. "A bite!"
Pasotti, much vexed, gazed into the water also, but declared he could see nothing.
"He has made off, the wretch! But his mouth almost touched the hook. He must have felt the prick!" said Don Giuseppe, sighing and straightening himself up. He also had felt the prick of the hook, and was trying to "make off" as the fish had done.
The other renewed his attack, but in vain. Don Giuseppe had seen nothing, heard nothing, talked of nothing, knew nothing. Pasotti was silent, and the priest in turn, threw out a bit of timid malice: "They don't bite well to-day,—there must be something in the air."
In the house, meanwhile, the dialogue between Maria and Signora Barborin had proceeded most unsatisfactorily, after the first affectionate exchange of greetings, which had been a great success. Maria proposed by gestures that they go into the garden, but Signora Pasotti begged with clasped hands, to be allowed to remain in her chair. Then the big Maria took another chair, and seating herself beside her guest tried to talk to her. But she found it impossible to make her understand, no matter how she shrieked, so gave up in despair, and taking her great cat upon her lap, talked to him instead.
Poor Signora Barborin, who was quite resigned, watched the cat with her great black eyes, dimmed by age and grief. Ah! here was Pasotti at last, with Don Giuseppe, who at once began to puff out his:
"Oh, good Lord! My dear Signora Barborin! Pray excuse me!" Maria having confessed to theScior Controlorthat his wife and she had not been able to understand each other, her master—as a mark of respect for Signora Pasotti—called the servant a "block head," and, as she attempted to justify herself, he prudently checked her byan imperious wave of the hand and a string of "there, there, there's." Then he signalled to her mysteriously with his head, and she left the room. Pasotti followed her, and told her that his wife really felt obliged to call on the Rigeys, but was in doubt as to how she should act, having heard certain rumours which were current, and that she had greatly hoped to gain some information from Maria, for "Maria always knew everything."
"What foolish talk!" said Maria, much flattered. "I never know anything; but I can tell you to whom your wife must apply. To Signor Giacomo Puttini. It is Signor Giacomo Puttini who always knows everything."
"Well done!" thought Pasotti, adding these remarks to what the farmer had said, and concluding he was on the track at last. At the same time he shrugged his shoulders incredulously. Signor Giacomo might perhaps be aware of what was going on in the moon, but that was all; he never knew anything else. Maria insisted, and the old fox began to press her with questions, beating cautiously about the bush; but he found her obdurate, and presently he saw that he should have his labour for his pains, and that he must be satisfied with that one bit of information. He became silent, and half satisfied, half preoccupied, returned to the room where Don Giuseppe was explaining to Signora Barborin, by means of appropriate gestures, that Maria was going to bring her something to eat. In fact the womanappeared presently with a square, glass jar, full of brandy-cherries, a renowned specialty of Don Giuseppe's, who was in the habit of offering them solemnly to his guests, in his own peculiar Italian:
"Allow me to offer you something! Will you try a few of my cherries?Magara con un tochello di pane?Perhaps with a slice of bread?" And then, lapsing into dialect once more: "Maria, tajee gio un poo de pan—cut off a bit of bread."
Signora Barborin feasted on bread alone, following the advice of her satanic husband, who himself took cherries without bread. Then they went away together, and she was permitted to return to Albogasio, while the Controller set off in the direction of Casa Gilardoni.
"That Pasotti is a rogue," said Maria when she had bolted the street-door.
"He is not only a rogue, but an extra big rogue! Abargnif!" Don Giuseppe exclaimed, remembering the hook; and by the application of the dialect title of "Bargnif," which means the arch-fiend, considered in the light of his great cunning, these two mild beings found relief for their feelings, and a compensation for so many things given unwillingly: courtesies, smiles and cherries.
Professor Gilardoni was reading perched on his belvedere in the kitchen-garden, when he caught sight of Pasotti coming towards him behind Pinella, between the rows of beets and turnips. He had little liking for the Controller, with whomhe had exchanged only one or two calls, and who had the reputation of being atedescone, a rank German. Nevertheless, being inclined to think the best of those with whom he was only slightly acquainted, he found no difficulty in extending to him the same cordial courtesy which it was his habit to show to every one. He went to meet his guest, velvet cap in hand, and after a skirmish of compliments which proved an easy victory for Pasotti, Gilardoni returned to the belvedere with him.
Pasotti, on the other hand, felt a lively dislike for the Professor, not so much because he knew him to be a Liberal, as because, though Gilardoni did not go to Mass as often as he himself did, he lived like a Puritan, loving neither the table nor the bottle, neither tobacco nor certain loose discourses. Moreover he did not playtarocchi. One evening, when talking in the kitchen-garden with Don Franco, of the tremendous bouts of eating and drinking which Pasotti and his friends often celebrated in the taverns of Bisnago, the Professor had said something which was overheard by the big curate, one of the gluttons, whose boat, in which he himself sat fishing, happened to be gliding along very softly, close to the walls. "Miserable knave!" the most worthy Controller had exclaimed when the words were repeated to him, his face wearing the expression of abargnif bilioso, of Satan with a bilious attack. The exclamation had been followed by a contemptuoussnarl, after which the Controller spat protestingly. This, however, did not prevent him from overflowing on the present occasion with excuses for having unduly postponed his visit, nor from immediately spying out the volume resting on the rustic table of the belvedere. Gilardoni saw him glance at it and, as the book in question was one of those forbidden by the government, he took it up almost instinctively as soon as he had started the conversation, and rested it on his knee in such a manner that Pasotti could not read the title. This precaution disturbed Pasotti, who was just then praising the little villa and the garden in all their particulars, and in the tone best adapted to each part; the beets, with amiable familiarity, the aloes, with serious and frowning admiration. An angry light flashed in his eyes, and then disappeared.
"Fortunate man," he sighed. "If my affairs would permit it, I myself should like to live in Valsolda."
"It is a peaceful spot," said the Professor.
"Yes, a peaceful spot; and, besides, nowadays those who have served the Government are not comfortable in the big towns. People make no distinction between a faithful official who attends strictly to his own duties, as I have done, and a police-spy. We are exposed to many suspicions, many humiliations——"
The Professor turned red, and was sorry he had removed the book from the little table. Infact, notwithstanding his assumption of humility, Pasotti was too proud to act the spy, and, owing to this pride, or perhaps to some good strain in him, he had never done so. Thus in his words there was a grain of sincerity, a grain of gold, which sufficed to give them the ring of true metal. Gilardoni, touched by this, offered his guest a glass of beer, and hastened away in search of Pinella, glad of an excuse for leaving the book on the little table.
Hardly had the Professor disappeared when Pasotti snatched up the volume, and gave it an inquisitive glance; then he laid it down on the same spot, and stationed himself at the top of the steps, toying with the snuff in the box he held open in his hand, and smiling a smile half of beatitude, half of admiration, at the lake, the hills and the sky. The book was a volume of Giusti, pretending to have been published in Brussels or ratherBrusselle, and bearing the title:Italian Poems, from manuscripts. Written across one corner of the fly-leaf was the name: "Mariano Fornic." It needed less keenness than Pasotti possessed to perceive at once in that heteroclite, the anagram of Franco Maironi.
"How lovely! What a paradise!" said he softly, while the Professor was coming up the steps followed by Pinella with the beer.
Presently, between two sips of beer, he confessed that his visit was not entirely of a disinterested nature. He declared that he was in lovewith the blossoming wall that upheld the kitchen-garden on the lake-side, and that he wished to copy it at Albogasio Superiore, where, though the lake was wanting, there were plenty of bare walls. Where did the Professor get those aloes, those roses and caper-bushes?
"Why," the other answered frankly. "Maironi gave them to me."
"Don Franco?" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! I will appeal to Don Franco, who is always very kind to me."
And he took out his snuff-box. "Poor Don Franco," said he, with all the tenderness of a compassionate rogue as he scrutinised and fingered the snuff. "Poor young man! He sometimes flies into a passion, but, after all, he is a splendid fellow. A heart of the best! Poor young man! Do you see him often?"
"Yes, quite often."
"If only his hopes could be realised, poor young man! His hopes and hers also, of course. That affair is not off, is it?"
Pasotti put this question with the skill of a great actor, with affectionate but discreet interest, with no more curiosity than was fitting, and with the intention of lubricating and softening somewhat Gilardoni's closed heart, that it might open of itself, little by little. But Gilardoni's heart, instead of spreading itself open at that gentle touch, contracted and closed tighter than ever.
"I don't know," the Professor replied, feelingthe colour mounting to his face, and indeed he turned scarlet. In his mental note-book Pasotti immediately made a note of the embarrassed manner, and of the heightened colour. "He would be unwise to throw up the game. It is only natural that the Marchesa should create difficulties for them, but after all, she is a good creature, and devoted to him. Poor woman, what a fright she had the other night!"
He glanced at the Professor who was frowning in uneasy silence, and reflected: You will not speak? Then you know. "Just think of it! Not to say where he was going! What do you think of that?"
"But I know nothing about it, I don't understand." Gilardoni exclaimed, frowning more darkly still and growing ever more uneasy.
And now Pasotti, who was aware that the Professor had long since ceased to visit the Rigeys, but was ignorant of the reason why, made a move which was worthy only of a novice in roguery.
"You might enquire about it at Castello." said he, with a malicious simper.
At this point Gilardoni, who was already boiling with rage, overflowed.
"Pray oblige me by dropping this subject," said he, angrily, "oblige me by dropping it."
Pasotti grew sullen. Ceremonious, insinuating, and given to adulation though he was, his pride would not allow him to suffer an unpleasant word calmly, and he took offence at every shadow. Hesaid no more, and in a few minutes took his leave with dignified coolness, and retired through the beets and the turnips, nursing his wrath. On reaching the top of the Contrada dei Mal'ari, thebargnifpaused a moment to think, resting his chin on his hand, then he started towards the shore of Casarico, moving slowly, his head bent low, but with glistening eyes, like the poodle that smells the hidden truffle in the air. Don Giuseppe's frightened denials, Maria's obstinate denials, and the Professor's embarrassment and outburst of temper, told him that a truffle really existed, and that it must be a big one. He had thought of going to Loggi where dwelt Paolin and Paolon, both of whom were well informed, but then he had remembered that it was Tuesday, and that probably he would not find them. No, it would be better to go directly up to Castello from Casarico, and sniff and hunt about in the house of a certain Signora Cecca, an admirable woman, all heart, and famous for the assiduous watch she kept from her window over the entire Valsolda by means of a powerful spy-glass. She could tell you any day who had gone to Lugano with the boatman Pin, or with Panighet; noted the conversations the unhappy Pinella held with a certain Mochét in front of the church at Albogasio, half a mile distant; she knew how many days it had taken Engineer Ribera to drink the little cask of wine which his boat carried back empty from the house at Oria to the cellar at S. Margherita.If Franco had been to Casa Rigey Signora Cecca must surely know it.
In the passage that leads from Casarico to the narrow street of Castello, Pasotti heard hurried steps behind him, and then some one brushed past him in the darkness and he believed he had recognised a man nicknamed "légora fugada" or the "hunted hare," because of the furious pace at which he always walked. This honest man, who was even more inquisitive than Pasotti, was a most worthy person who loved to know things just for the sake of knowing them, and for no other reason. He always went about alone, was everywhere, appearing and disappearing like a flash, sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, like certain large, winged insects, which pass with a glance, a whirr, a touch, and then, hush! they are neither heard nor seen again until there comes another glance, another whirr, another touch. He had seen the Pasottis enter the "Palace," and the unusual hour had caused him to suspect something. Lying flat in a small field he had seen Signora Barborin turn homewards, and the Controller start towards Casarico. Then, having followed at a distance, this individual had posted himself behind one of the pilasters of the portico of Casarico while Pasotti was calling on Gilardoni, and now he had slipped past him, taking advantage of the dark passage, and hastening to reach Castello before him, that he might watch his movements from some point of vantage.
In fact he saw him enter Signora Cecca's house.
The old lady, who had the goitre, was in her little parlour, holding a small urchin on her left arm, while with her free hand she supported a very long and slender pasteboard tube, which was struck slanting across the window like a wall-gun and pointed down at the sparkling lake, at a white sail, filled with thebreva. On the entrance of Pasotti, who came forward with stooping shoulders, his face suffused with a most gentle gaiety, the kindly and hospitable old dame hastened to put down the monstrous pasteboard nose, which she was so fond of poking into the most distant affairs of others, where her own parchment nose, though it was long beyond measure, could not reach. She received the Controller as she might have received a saintly miracle-worker, who had come to remove her goitre.
"Oh, how kind of you! DearSior Controlor! Oh, how kind! What a pleasure! What a pleasure!"
And she made him sit down and nearly suffocated him with her offers of hospitality.
"A piece of cake! A bit of nut-candy! DearSior Controlor! A little wine! A taste ofrosoho!—You must excuse me," she added, for the youngster had begun to whine. "He is my little grandson, you know. My little pet."
Pasotti took a great deal of urging, having not only Don Giovanni's cherries, but also Gilardoni'sbeer in his stomach, but finally he was obliged to yield, and resign himself to gnawing a piece of that accursed almond cake, while the urchin clung to his grandmother's goitre.
At this the sarcastic rogue said pathetically, laughing in his sleeve the while: "Poor Signora Cecca! Twice a mother!" When he had enquired for her husband and for all her descendants even unto the third generation, he brought forward Signora Teresa Rigey. How was that poor lady? Bad! Really very bad? But since when had she been worse? Had there been any cause? Some trouble, perhaps? The old troubles were well known, but had there been some fresh ones? Perhaps on Luisina's account? About the marriage? And did Don Franco come to Castello? Ah, not in the daytime, but perhaps——?
As the patient who is being questioned and examined by the surgeon searching for the painful, hidden spot, answers ever more briefly, ever more fearfully as the hand draws nearer and nearer to the point, and starts and draws back as soon as the spot is touched, so Signora Cecca answered Pasotti ever more briefly, ever more cautiously, until, at that "but" which touched the painful spot so delicately, she started, exclaiming—
"A little more cake,Sior Controlor! It is a cake light enough for young girls."
Pasotti in his heart cursed the "young girls" and their cake, a concoction of honey, chalk andalmond oil, but deemed it prudent to swallow another mouthful before once more touching, or rather pressing the tender spot he had discovered.
"I know nothing! I know nothing! Absolutely nothing!" Signora Cecca exclaimed. "Try sounding Puttini. Try Signor Giacomo. And pray don't ask me anything more." Again! Pasotti's face shone at the prospect of getting the unlucky Signor Giacomo into his clutches. Thus the eyes of a falcon might shine at the joyous prospect of snatching a frog, and of holding him in his claws, to toy with at pleasure. Presently he took his departure well satisfied with everything save with the chalky cake, which lay like lead in his stomach.
Casa Puttini, which, within its minute, genteel appearance, resembled the little old gentleman who ruled it, in a black coat and white stock, stood just below that stately pile, Casa Pasotti, on the road to Albogasio Inferiore. The falcon went there in the afternoon, towards five o'clock, with a cunning expression on his face. He knocked at the door and then listened. He was there! The unlucky frog was there! And he was quarrelling as usual with the perfidious servant. Pasotti knocked louder. "Go down!" said Signor Giacomo, but Marianna would not hear of going down to open the door. "Go down! I am the master!" It was all in vain. Pasotti knocked again, knocked like a battering-ram."Who the devil can it be!" scolded Puttini, and he came down puffing: "Apff! apff!" to open the door. "Oh, most gracious Controller!" said he winking hard, and raising his eyebrows pathetically. "Pray excuse me! That awful servant! I am quite worn out! You would not believe the things that go on in this house!"
"That is a lie!" Marianna cried from above.
"Hold your tongue, you!" And then Signor Giacomo began telling his woes, stopping from time to time to silence the protests of the invisible servant.
"Just fancy! This morning I went to Lugano. I got home about three o'clock. On the doorstep—look there—I saw some splashes. Hold your tongue, you! I did not heed them, and went straight in. At the head of the kitchen-stairs there were more splashes. Be quiet, will you?—What can have been spilled? said I to myself, and I stooped and touched the spots with my finger. It was something greasy; I smelt it, it was oil. Then I followed the splashes, touching and sniffing, sniffing and touching. All oil, most gracious Controller! So I said to myself again: Either it came in, or it went out. If it came in, the farmer brought it, and in that case there will be splashes outside the door, and they will extend upwards, if it went out, that means that this accursed.... Hold your tongue, I say!... took it to S. Mamette and sold it, and then the splashes outside will extend downwards. Soback I went, always following the splashes and presently I found myself here at the door. Most gracious Controller, those splashes all extended downwards! That d——"
At this point the servant's voice rang out like the bell on an alarm-clock, and no "hold your tongue" was strong enough to stem that shrill flow of angry words. Pasotti tried, and not succeeding, flew into a passion himself, and shouted: "Oh, you cheat!" following up that title with a string of insults, at each of which Signor Giacomo gave a low grunt of satisfaction. "Yes, yes, give it to her! that's right! I am much obliged to you. Yes, shout,—that's right. You torment, you!—I am really greatly obliged to you, most gracious Controller! Really greatly obliged!"
When Marianna had been overpowered and reduced to silence, Pasotti told Signor Giacomo that he must speak a few words with him. "I am really not up to it," the little man complained. "You must excuse me, for I feel quite ill."
"Not up to it, not up to it, indeed!" shouted Marianna who had revived. "You had better tell us how you wear yourself out going up to Castello at night to see the girls!"
"Hold your tongue," Puttini shrieked, while Pasotti exclaimed, with a fiendish grin: "What, what, what!" Seeing that Puttini was becoming furious, he took him by the arm, and calming him with peaceful and affectionate language,dragged him away to his own house where he at once summoned his wife, and started a game of three-handedtarocchi, with the purpose of soothing the poor frog, and getting a firmer grip of him.
If Signora Barborin played badly, Signor Giacomo, meditating, pondering and puffing, played worse. He was an extremely timid player, and never set himself up alone against the other two, but to-day at the very first deal, he discovered that he held such extraordinary cards that he was seized with a fit of courage, and, to use the language of the game, heentered. "Goodness knows what sort of a hand he has!" Pasotti growled.
"I don't say.... I don't say.... There certainly are several friars who walk in slippers."
Signor Giacomo's "I don't say" meant that he held marvellous cards, and the friars in slippers, in his lingo, were the four kings of the game. While he was getting ready to play, feasting his eyes upon his cards, and feeling each one in turn, Pasotti took the opportunity of opening fire, hoping to make him lose the game, into the bargain. "Come now," said he, "tell us about it! When was it you went to Castello at night?"
"Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Don't talk about it," Signor Giacomo replied, growing very red and sorting his cards faster than ever.
"Well, well, play away then. We can talk later. I know the whole story any way!"
Poor Signor Giacomo, how could he play with that bone in his throat? He sorted and puffed, led when he should not have done so, blundered in adding up the points, lost two of the friars and their slippers as well, and in spite of his splendid hand, left several markers in the clutches of Pasotti who was grinning with delight, and several more on the little plate beside Signora Barborin, who kept repeating with clasped hands: "What have you done, Signor Giacomo? what have you done?"
Pasotti gathered up the cards and began shuffling them, casting sardonic glances at Signor Giacomo, who did not know where to look.
"Certainly," said he, "I know everything. Signora Cecca told me the whole story. I assure you, my dear Political Deputy, you will be called upon to answer for this before the Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza."
With these words Pasotti passed the cards to Puttini, that he might cut. But Puttini, hearing that dreaded name, began to groan:
"Oh Lord! Oh Lord! What is that you say?... I know nothing.... Oh Lord! The Imperial and Royal Commissary?... I assure you I can't see what for! ... apff!"
"Certainly," Pasotti repeated. He was waiting for a word that should enlighten him, and by pointing first to the door and then to his ownmouth, he made his wife understand that she was to fetch something to drink.
"And that dreadful engineer as well!" Signor Giacomo exclaimed, as if speaking to himself.
As the fisherman who, pulling hard on the long, heavy line quivering, he fancies, with the weight of the one big fish he has been angling for so long, finally redoubles his caution and skill, as, with a thrill, he sees two great shadowy fishes instead of one rising from the depths, so Pasotti, upon hearing this allusion to the engineer, was thrilled and amazed, and began preparing, with the most exquisitely delicate touch, to draw out this secret concerning Signor Giacomo and Ribera.
"Certainly," said he, "you did wrong."
Silence on Signor Giacomo's part.
Pasotti insisted.
"You did very wrong."
But just then Signora Barborin entered, smiling genially, and bearing a tray with the bottle and glasses. The wine was of a dark red, shot through with ruby lights, and Signor Giacomo contemplated it if not yet tenderly, at least benevolently. This wine had an aroma of austere virtue, and Signor Giacomo smelt of it affectionately, gazed at it with emotion, and then smelt of it again. This wine had that mellow richness which fills both palate and soul with its flavour, and indeed it possessed exactly that honest and pure tartness that its aroma pre-announced, and Signor Giacomo sipped it and wished it were not liquid andevanescent, tasted it, smacked his lips over it, and rolled it under his tongue. When, from time to time, he rested his glass on the little table, neither his hand nor his languid gaze were withdrawn from it.
"Poor Engineer! Poor Ribera!" Pasotti exclaimed. "He is a most upright man, but ..."
And as he pulled and pulled the unlucky Signor Giacomo began to rise to the hook and the line.
"I myself did not wish it," he said. "'Twas he made me go—'Come along,' said he. 'Why do you not wish to go? There will be no harm done. The thing is honest.' 'Yes!' I answered, 'so it seems to me also, but all this secrecy?' 'On account of the grandmother,' he replied. 'But then,' I asked, 'what sort of a figure shall you and I cut?' 'We are just a couple of simpletons!' he answered, with that way of his—honest, old-fashioned soul that he is,—that always gets round me. 'I will go,' said I."