Proud shade of the river——
Proud shade of the river——
After four or five "Missipipìs" Signora Pasottiwent home, fearing her husband might return. Veronica wished to put the child to bed, but the little one rebelled, and Uncle Piero interfered, saying: "Oh, leave her here a little while longer," and he took her out to the terrace to see if Papa and Mamma were coming.
No boat could be seen coming from Casarico. The little one ordered her uncle to sit down, and then she climbed upon his knee.
"Why did you come?" said she. "There isn't any dinner for you, you know."
"Then you must cook some for me. I came to stay with you."
"Always?"
"Always."
"But really always, always, always?"
"Really always."
Maria became silent and thoughtful, but presently she asked—
"What have you brought me?"
Uncle Piero drew a rubber doll from his pocket. Had Maria known, had she been able to understand how he had gone out to buy that doll for her in great anguish of mind, still smarting from a terrible blow, she would have wept with pity.
"This is an ugly present," said she, recalling others he had brought her. "And if you stay here will you never bring me any more presents?"
"No more presents."
"Go away, Uncle," said she.
He smiled.
And then Maria wanted her uncle to tell her if his uncle had brought him presents when he was a little boy. But, though the thing was inconceivable to Maria, this uncle of her uncle had never existed. Who had brought him presents, then? And had he always been a good little boy? Had he cried much? Her uncle began telling her many tales of his childhood, things that had happened sixty years before, when people wore wigs and pig-tails. He enjoyed talking to his little grand-niece of that far-away time, making her share for a moment the existence of his dead parents, and he spoke with sad gravity, as if the dear ones who had passed away had been present, and he were speaking more for them than for her. She fixed her wide-open eyes on his face, and gazed intently at him. Neither he nor she heeded the flight of time, neither he nor she thought of the boat that was coming.
And the boat came. Luisa and Franco drew near, suspecting nothing, and believing the child to be asleep. Franco was the first to perceive Uncle Piero seated under the drooping branches of the passion-flower vine with Maria on his knee. He uttered a loud exclamation of surprise, and, followed by Luisa, hastened towards them, fearing something had happened. "You here?" he called as he ran. Luisa, who was very pale, said nothing. Uncle Piero raised his head, and looked at them. They felt at once that he had brought bad news, for they had never seen him so grave.
"Addio!God bless you!" said he.
"What has happened?" Franco whispered. Uncle Piero motioned to them to withdraw from the terrace to the loggia, whither he followed them. Then the poor old man spread wide his arms as one crucified, and said in a sad but firm voice—
"I am dismissed."
Franco and Luisa stared at him for a moment, dazed. Then Franco burst out: "Oh, Uncle, Uncle!" and fell upon his neck. Seeing her father's action and the expression on her mother's face Maria fell to sobbing. Luisa tried to pacify her, but she herself, strong woman that she was, felt the tears rising in her throat.
Seated on the sofa in the hall Uncle Piero told them that the Imperial and Royal Delegate of Como had sent for him to tell him that the search which had been carried out in his house at Oria had given painful and unexpected results, but what these results were he had positively refused to state. The Delegate had added that the authorities had at first intended to take legal proceedings against him, but that in consideration of his long and faithful services to the government, it had been decided to remove him from office instead. Uncle Piero had insisted upon knowing the nature of the accusations brought against him, but the Delegate had dismissed him without an answer.
"And what is to be done now?" said Franco.
"What is to be done——" Uncle Piero was silent for a moment, and then pronounced that sacramental phrase of unknown origin which he and his fellowtarocchiplayers were in the habit of repeating when the game was hopelessly lost. "We are done brown, O Queen!"
A long silence ensued, which was finally broken by Luisa, who cast herself upon her uncle's neck, murmuring: "Oh, Uncle, Uncle! I am afraid it is our fault." She was thinking of the grandmother, but Uncle Piero thought she was accusing Franco and herself of some imprudence.
"Listen, my dear friends," said he good-naturedly, but in his tone there was a hidden spirit of reproof, "these discourses are useless. Now that the evil is done we must think of bread. You may count upon this house, upon some modest savings which bring me in about foursvanzichea day, and upon two more mouths to feed, mine and Cia's. Let us hope you will not have to feed mine long." Franco and Luisa protested. "Better so, better so!" Uncle Piero exclaimed, waving his arms as if in contempt of unreasonable sentimentality. "Live well, and die in good time. That is the best rule. I have performed the first part, now I must perform the second. Meanwhile send some water to my room, and open my bag. You will find ten meat croquettes, which Signora Carolina dell'Agria insistedupon giving me. You see we are not so badly off, after all!"
Whereupon Uncle Piero rose and went out at the drawing-room door with a firm step, and even when his back was turned, displaying a head and body held erect, and an unruffled serenity like that of an ancient philosopher.
Franco, with knitted brows and arms crossed upon his breast, was standing motionless on the edge of the terrace, and looking towards Cressogno. If at that moment he had had a bundle of Delegates, Commissaries, police-agents, and spies between his teeth, he would have ground them so hard that all these functionaries would have been reduced to pulp.
"The boat is ready," said Ismaele, coming in unceremoniously, his pipe in his left hand, a lantern in his right.
"What time is it?" Franco asked.
"Half-past eleven."
"And the weather?"
"It is snowing."
"That is good!" Uncle Piero exclaimed ironically, stretching his legs towards the flames of the juniper bush that was crackling in the little fireplace.
In the small parlour, arranged for winter, Luisa, on her knees, was tying a muffler round Maria's neck. Franco, holding his wife's cape, stood waiting while the old housekeeper, her bonnet on and her hands buried in her muff, was grumbling at her master. "What a man you are! What are you going to do all alone here at home?"
"I don't need any one when I am asleep," the engineer answered. "Other people may be mad, but I am not. Put my milk and the lamp here."
It was Christmas Eve and the mad idea these otherwise sane people had conceived, the determinationwhich seemed so incomprehensible to Uncle Piero, was to go to the solemn Midnight-Mass at S. Mamette.
"And that innocent victim also!" said he, glancing at the child.
Franco flushed hotly, and declared that he wished to prepare precious memories for her. He believed this excursion at night, in the boat, on the dark lake, the snow, the crowded and brightly lighted church, the organ, the singing, the holy associations of Christmas, would prove to be such. He spoke with heat, perhaps not so much for the uncle as for some one who was silent.
"Yes, yes, yes," said Uncle Piero, as if he had expected this rhetoric, this useless poetry.
"I am going to have some punch, too, you know!" said the child. The uncle smiled. "That is not bad! That will indeed form a precious memory!" Franco frowned at beholding his frail structure of poetical and religious memories thus demolished.
"And Gilardoni?" Luisa asked.
"Here they are now," Ismaele said, going out with his lantern.
Professor Gilardoni had invited the Maironis and Donna Ester Bianchi to come to his house for punch after Mass. He was now expected from Niscioree, whither he had gone to fetch the young lady, who had lived there alone with two maid-servants since her father's death, which had taken place in 1852. The worthy Professor had mournedsecretly for Signora Teresa for a reasonable length of time, but during the convalescence of his heart, which kept him weak and languid, and in permanent danger of a relapse, he had not been careful enough of the merry little face, the lively eyes, and sparkling gaiety of the little Princess of Niscioree, as the Maironis called Donna Ester.
At seven-and-twenty Donna Ester looked like a girl of twenty, save in her movements there was a certain languor, and in her eyes a certain delicious hidden knowledge. She had not intended to fish for this respectable lover, but now she knew he was caught, and she was pleased, believing him to be a man of great genius, and infinite wisdom. That he should ever dare speak to her of love, that she might marry all this sallow, wrinkled, dry knowledge, had never entered her head. Nevertheless she did not wish to quench this little fire, which was so discreet, which was an honour to her, and probably a source of happiness to him. If she sometimes laughed about him with Luisa she was never the first to laugh, and always hastened to repeat: "Poor Signor Gilardoni! Poor Professor!"
She came in hastily, her fair head enveloped in a great black hood, looking like Spring out on the spree disguised as December. December was close behind her, his neck shrouded in a great scarf, above which rose the red and shining professorial nose, irritated by the snow. As it was already late they immediately took leave ofUncle Piero, who was left alone with his milk and his lamp before the dying embers of the juniper-bush.
A slight shadow of disapproval still rested on his face. Franco was playing the poet too much. Nowadays life was hard at Casa Maironi. Breakfast consisted of a cup of milk and chicory-coffee, and they used a sort of reddish sugar that tasted of the chemist's shop. They indulged in meat only on Thursdays and Sundays. A bottle of Grimelli wine appeared on the table regularly every day for Uncle Piero, who rebelled against being the privileged one. Every day clouds gathered around this bottle and a little storm burst forth, which, however, always ended as Uncle Piero wished, in a short shower of the decoction into each of the five glasses. The servant had been dismissed, and only Veronica remained to do the heavy work, stir thepolenta, and sometimes look after Maria. But in spite of these and other economies Luisa could not make both ends meet, though Cia had refused to accept any wages, and gifts of curds, ofmascherpa, of goats'-cheeses, of chestnuts and walnuts were always pouring in upon them from the townspeople. She had obtained some copying from a notary at Porlezza, but it was hard work for miserable pay. Franco had also begun to copy diligently, but he accomplished less than his wife and, moreover, there was not work enough for two. He should have bestirred himself, have sought some privateemployment, but Uncle Piero saw no signs of this, and so——?
And so this thinking about poetic expeditions seemed to him more out of place than ever. After having pondered a long time upon their sad plight, and upon the slender probability that Franco would ever be able to extricate them from it, he reflected that, for him, the first thing to do was to drink his milk, and the second, to go to bed. But another thought came to him. He opened the hall-door, and seeing the room was quite dark, went into the kitchen, lighted a lantern, and carried it to the loggia, where he opened one of the windows. Although it was snowing there was no wind, so he placed the lantern on the window-sill, that its light might help those poetic people to steer their homeward course over the dark lake.
Then he went to bed.
Ismaele brought his freight safely to S. Mamette in the covered boat. The snow was still falling placidly in big flakes. The church was already quite full, and even the ladies were obliged to stand, behind the first row of benches. Ester volunteered to look after Maria, and lifted her to a seat on top of the bench in front of them, while the sacristan was busy lighting the candles on the high-altar. Cia was tormenting the Professor, whom she believed to be a pious man, with a thousand questions concerning the difference between the Roman and Ambrosian rites, andMaria was keeping Ester busy with still more puzzling questions.
"Who are they lighting those candles for?"
"For our Lord."
"Is our Lord going to bed now?"
"No, hush!"
"And has thebambino Gesu—the child Jesus—gone to bed already?"
"Yes, yes," Ester replied thoughtlessly, to put an end to these questions.
"With the mule?"
Once Uncle Piero had brought Maria an ugly, little wooden mule which she detested, and when she was obstinate and capricious her mother would put her to bed with the mule under her pillow, under her obstinate little head.
"Be quiet, chatterbox!" said Ester.
"I don't go to bed with the mule. I sayexcuse me!"
"Hush! Listen to the organ."
All the candles were now lighted, and the organist having mounted to his post, was teasing his old instrument as if to waken it, drawing from it what seemed to be angry grunts. When, on the ringing of a bell, the organ poured forth all its great voice, and the altar-boys and the priest appeared, Luisa stole her hand into her husband's, as if they had still been lovers.
Those two hands pressing each other furtively were speaking of a fast approaching event, of a serious resolve which must be kept a secret, andwhich was not yet formed irrevocably. The little nervous hand said: "Have courage!" The manly hand said: "I will!" They must indeed make up their minds to it. Franco must go away, leave his wife, his child, and the old man, perhaps for some months, perhaps for some years. He must leave Valsolda, the dear little house, his flowers, perhaps for ever. He must emigrate to Piedmont, seek for work and gain, in the hope of being able to call his family to him in case that other great national hope should not be realised. He was glad his wife had chosen this solemn place and hour in which to encourage him in his sacrifice, and he did not drop the gentle hand, but held it as a lover might, never looking at Luisa, his face and person immovable. He spoke with his hand only, with his soul in palm and fingers, he spoke the most varied, passionate language, consisting of soft caresses, of embraces, of tenderness and ardour. From time to time she would endeavour to gently withdraw her hand, and then he would clasp it violently. His gaze was fixed on the altar, and he held his head erect as if absorbed in the music of the organ, in the voice of the priest, in the singing of the congregation. As a matter of fact he was not following the prayers, but he felt the Divine Presence, was experiencing an ecstasy, a fervour of love, of pain, of hope in God. Luisa had taken his hand in the belief that he was praying, that all his fears, all his doubts were stirring in his soul. She hadindeed wished to inspire him with courage, convinced that this painful step was best for him. She only half understood the pressure that answered her; it seemed to her a passionate protest against this separation, and although this was most sweet to her, she could not approve of it, and so from time to time she strove to withdraw her hand. At the moment of the Elevation it was he who withdrew his, out of respect. Then he was obliged to take Maria in his arms, for she had fallen asleep, and slept on, her head on her father's shoulder, displaying half of a little, peaceful face. She, his darling, did not know that her father was going so far away, and his heart was filled with tender yearning towards that little, warm treasure, which breathed upon it, towards that tiny head, which had the perfume of a little wild bird. He imagined himself already gone, imagined that she was seeking for him, was crying, and then a desire to press her closer ran through his arms, a desire he quickly checked for fear of waking her.
It had stopped snowing when they left the church.
"Wind! Wind!" said Ismaele, coming towards them.
"I shall walk! I shall walk!" groaned Cia, who had a great horror of the lake. Meanwhile the crowd issuing from the church pushed and dispersed the group, and carried them down the steps. The six travellers and the boatmen met again in the square of S. Mamette and here DonnaEster declared that, as she was not feeling very well, she must forego the punch, and that she would walk home with Cia.
Franco, Luisa, and the Professor saw it would be useless to insist, and the two women started towards Oria escorted by Ismaele, who was to come back for the Maironis and the boat.
Amoderateurlamp illumined Gilardoni's salon, a good fire was burning on the hearth, and Pinella had prepared everything for the punch over which Luisa presided, the host himself being much depressed in spirit by Donna Ester's desertion.
"Look at Maria," said Franco softly.
The little one had gone to sleep in the Professor's armchair near the window. Franco took the lamp and held it aloft in order to see her better. She seemed like some little creature descended from heaven, fallen there with the star-light, unconscious, her face suffused with a sweetness which was not of this world, with a solemnity full of mystery. "Darling!" said he, and drew his wife towards him with an encircling arm, his eyes still fixed on Maria. Gilardoni came up behind them, and murmured: "How lovely!" Then he went back to the fireplace sighing: "Happy people!"
Franco, who was deeply moved, whispered in his wife's ear: "Shall we tell him?" She did not understand, and looked questioningly into his eyes. "That I am going away," said he, stillin an undertone. Luisa started and answered, "Yes, yes!" She was greatly affected, for she had not expected this. In the church she had believed he was still undecided. Her astonishment did not escape Franco. He was troubled by it and felt his resolution shaken, but she at once perceived this, and repeated earnestly: "Yes, yes!" and gently pushed him towards Gilardoni.
"Dear friend," said he, "I have something to tell you."
The Professor, absorbed in contemplation of the fire, did not answer. Franco placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ah!" he exclaimed, rousing himself, "I beg your pardon! What it is?"
"I wish to commend some one to your care."
"To my care? Who is it?"
"An old man, a woman, and a little child."
The two men looked at each other in silence, one deeply moved, the other amazed.
"Don't you understand?" Luisa whispered.
No, he neither understood nor answered.
"I commend my wife, my daughter, and the old uncle to your care," Franco replied.
"Oh!" the Professor exclaimed, looking in astonishment from one to the other.
"I am going away," said Franco, with a smile that went to Gilardoni's heart. "We have not told Uncle Piero yet, but I must go. In our position I cannot stay here doing nothing. I shall say I am going to Milan, and those who will may believe it, but I shall really be in Piedmont."
Gilardoni clasped his hands in silent amazement. Luisa embraced Franco and kissed him, holding his head upon her breast, her eyes closed.
The Professor imagined it was painful to her to bow to her husband's will in this matter.
"Now listen to me," said he, addressing Franco. "If war had broken out I could understand your going, but as it is, I think you do wrong to cause your wife so much suffering for a question of money."
Luisa who was still clinging with one arm to her husband's neck, motioned to Professor Gilardoni with the other hand, entreating him to be silent.
"No, no, no!" she murmured, once more clasping her arms about Franco. "You are doing right! You are doing right!" As Gilardoni continued to insist, she drew away from her husband, and cried, her hands extended protestingly towards their host: "But, Professor, it is I who tell him he is doing right! I, his wife, tell him so! Dear Professor, don't you understand?"
"After all, dear lady," Gilardoni burst out, "it is time you were informed——"
Franco flung his arms towards him, crying impetuously: "Professor!"
"You are doing wrong," the other replied. "You are doing wrong, very wrong!"
"What is it, Franco?" Luisa demanded in astonishment. "Is there something I do not know?"
"Only that I must go away, that I shall go away. That is all!"
Franco's exclamation, "Professor!" had awakened Maria with a start. Seeing her mother's agitation she prepared to cry; presently she burst into violent sobbing, and wailed: "No Papa! Papa not go away! Not go away!"
Franco took her in his arms, kissing and caressing her, while she kept repeating: "My Papa! My Papa!" in a pitiful, grieved voice that made their hearts ache. Her father yearned over her, and protested that he would always stay with her; but he wept at his own deceit, wept with the emotion this new tenderness, springing up at such a moment, caused him.
Luisa was thinking of her husband's cry. Gilardoni saw she suspected a secret, and, hoping to distract her thoughts, asked her if Franco intended to start at once. Franco himself replied. Everything depended upon a letter from Turin. Perhaps it would be a week, at the latest a fortnight, before he started. Luisa was silent, and the subject was dropped. Then Franco talked of politics, of the probability that war would break out in the Spring. But again conversation soon languished. Gilardoni and Luisa seemed to be thinking of something else, to be listening to the beat of the waves against the garden wall. Finally Ismaele returned, drank his punch, and assured them that the lake was not very rough, and that they could start homewards.
As soon as the Maironis were seated in the boat, and Maria had gone to sleep, Luisa asked her husband if there was something she did not know, and which Gilardoni must not tell.
Franco did not answer.
"Enough!" said she. Then her husband threw his arm around her neck and pressed her to him, protesting against words she had not uttered. "Oh, Luisa, Luisa!"
Luisa suffered his embrace, but did not return it, and at last, in despair, her husband promised to tell her every thing, at once. "Do you think I am curious?" she whispered, in his arms. No, no. He would tell her at once, tell her everything; he would explain why he had not spoken before. She did not wish this; she preferred that he should speak at some other time, and of his own free will.
The wind was in their favour and the light shining in the window of the loggia served Ismaele well as a guide. Franco's arm still encircled his wife's shoulders, and his gaze was fixed upon that shining point. Neither he nor she thought of the loving and prudent hand that had lighted it. But Ismaele thought of it, and reflected that neither Veronica nor Cia were capable of such an act of genius, and blessed the engineer's kind heart.
On leaving the boat Maria woke up, and her parents seemed to have no thought save for her. When they were in bed Franco put out the light.
"It concerns my grandmother," said he in a broken and agitated voice. "Poor boy!" Luisa murmured and took his hand affectionately. "I have never told you in order to avoid accusing my grandmother, and also because——" He paused, and then it was he who mingled with his words the most tender caresses, to which Luisa now no longer responded. "I feared your impressions, your sentiments, the ideas you might conceive——!" As his words began to express his doubts his voice grew more tender.
Luisa felt the approach, not of a dispute, but of a far more lasting disagreement. Now, she no longer wished her husband to speak, and he, noticing her increasing coldness, did not continue. She rested her forehead against his shoulder, and said, almost in spite of herself: "Tell me!"
Then Franco, his lips against her hair, related the story the Professor had told him on the night of their marriage. In repeating from memory the contents of his grandfather's letter and will, he greatly softened the injurious expressions used against his father and grandmother. In the middle of his recital Luisa, who had not expected such a revelation, raised her head from her husband's shoulder. He stopped. "Go on," said she.
When he had finished she asked if there was any proof that his grandfather's will had been suppressed. Franco promptly answered that there was not. "Then," said she, "why did you speakof the ideas I might conceive?" Her thoughts had immediately flown to the probability of his grandmother's crime, to the possibility of a prosecution. But if prosecution were not possible?
Franco did not answer, and she exclaimed, after a moment's reflection, "Ah! the copy of the will! Could that be used? Would that be valid?"
"Yes."
"And you would not use it?"
"No."
"Why not, Franco?"
"There!" Franco exclaimed. "You see? I knew you would say so! No, I will not make use of it! No, no, never!"
"But what reasons have you for not doing so?"
"Good Lord! My reasons! My reasons can be felt. You should feel them without my having to explain them."
"I do not feel them. Don't imagine I am thinking of the money. We will not touch the money. Give it to whomever you like; I feel the claims of justice. There are your grandfather's wishes to be respected; there is the crime your grandmother has committed. You who are so religious should perceive that Divine Justice has brought this document to light. Would you place yourself between this woman and Divine Justice?"
"Let Divine Justice alone," Franco retorted, hotly. "What do we know of the ways of DivineJustice? There is also Divine Mercy. She is my father's mother, think of that! And have I not always despised this accursed money? What did I do when my grandmother threatened not to leave me a penny if I married you?"
Unable to speak, he drew Luisa's head to his breast.
"I despised the money for your sake," he went on in a stifled voice. "Would you have me try to regain it now by going to law?"
"No indeed!" Luisa broke in, raising her head. "You may give the money to whomever you wish. I am talking of justice. Don't you also feel the demand of justice?"
"Dio mio!" said he, with a deep sigh. "It would have been better if I had not spoken to-night."
"Yes, perhaps. If you were bound never to alter your decision, it would perhaps have been wiser."
Luisa's voice expressed sadness, not anger, as she uttered these words.
"In any way, that document no longer exists," Franco remarked.
Luisa started. "It no longer exists?" said she anxiously, in an undertone.
"No. The Professor was to destroy it, by my orders."
A long silence followed. Very slowly Luisa withdrew her head and rested it on her own pillow. Suddenly Franco exclaimed, aloud: "A law-suitindeed! With those documents! With those insults! To the mother of my father! And all for money!"
"Don't keep repeating that," his wife exclaimed indignantly. "Why do you keep repeating that? Don't you know very well it is not true?"
Both spoke excitedly. It was plain that during the preceding silence their thoughts had been hard at work on this point. The reproof irritated him, and he replied blindly—
"I know nothing about it!"
"Oh, Franco!" cried Luisa, much hurt. He already regretted the affront, and begged her to forgive him, accusing his hot temper, which made him say things he did not mean, and he entreated her to speak a kind word to him. "Yes, yes," Luisa answered with a sigh, but he was not satisfied, and wished her to embrace him and say, "I forgive you." The touch of the dear lips did not refresh him as usual. Some minutes passed, and then he strained his ear to hear if his wife had fallen asleep. He heard the wind, Maria's quiet breathing, the noise of the waves, the jarring of a window, but that was all. "Have you really forgiven me?" he whispered, and he heard her soft answer: "Yes, dear." Presently she, in her turn, listened, and besides the wind, the waves, the creaking of a shutter, the even, regular breathing of the child, she heard the even, regular breathing of her husband. Then she once moresighed deeply, sighed despairingly. Oh, God! How could Franco have acted thus? What wounded her heart most sorely was the fact that he did not seem to sense the injuries which her poor mother and Uncle Piero had suffered. But she would not allow herself to dwell on this thought, at least not until she had considered his other mistake, his mistaken idea of justice. And here she felt bitterly, but not without a certain satisfaction, that he was her inferior, that he was controlled by sentiments that were the outcome of his fancy, while her own sentiment was inspired by reason. Franco had in him so much of the child. He had, even now, been able to go to sleep, while she was sure of not closing her eyes all night long. She believed she was without imagination because she did not feel it move, because in her it was less easily inflamed. She would have laughed had she been told that imagination was more powerful in her than in her husband. But indeed such was the case. Only, in order to demonstrate this, both souls must be turned upside down, for Franco's imagination was visible on the surface of his soul, and all his reason was at the bottom, while in Luisa's soul imagination was at the bottom, and reason was plainly visible on the surface. In fact, she did not sleep, but all night long she thought, with that imagination that lay at the bottom of her soul, how religion favours weak sentimentality, how incapable it is, even while preaching the thirst for justice, of forming a correctsense of justice in those intellects which are devoted to it.
The Professor also, who was subject to serious infiltrations of imagination into the ratiocinative cells of his brain, as well as into the amorous cells of his heart, having put out the light, spent the greater part of the night in front of the fireplace, working with the tongs and with his imagination, taking up, examining and then dropping embers and projects, until only one glowing coal and one last idea remained. Then he took a match, and having held it in contact with the ember, lighted the lamp once more, seized the idea, which was also hot and luminous, and carried it off to bed with him.
This was the idea. He would start secretly for Brescia, present himself before the Marchesa with the terrible document, and obtain a capitulation.
Three days later, in Milan, at five o'clock in the morning, Professor Gilardoni, muffled up to the eyes, issued from the Albergo degli Angeli, passed in front of the cathedral, turned into the dark street called dei Rastrelli behind a line of horses led by postilions, and entered the booking office of the public coaches. The little courtyard where the post-office now stands, was already full of people, of horses, of lanterns. To the hermit of Valsolda all these voices of postilions and of guards, this stamping of horses and jingling of bells, seemed like a real pandemonium.
The horses were being harnessed to two coaches, four to each. The Professor was going to Lodi because he had learned that the Marchesa was visiting a friend there, and the Lodi coach would start at half-past five.
It was intensely cold, and the poor Professor wandered anxiously around the ungainly carriage, stamping his feet to warm them, until presently another traveller said jestingly to him: "Cool, is it not?" "Just a little fresh! Just a littlefresh!" The horses were harnessed at last, an employé called the passengers by name, and the worthy Beniamino disappeared within the bowels of the huge vehicle, together with two priests, an old woman servant, an elderly gentleman with an enormous wart on his face, and a fashionably dressed young man. The doors were closed, an order was given, the bells jingled, the huge vehicle shook itself, the priests, the old woman, and the gentleman with the wart crossed themselves, the horses' sixteen hoofs rattled under the portal, the massive wheels rumbled through it, and then all this noise grew fainter as the coach turned to the right, towards Porta Romana.
Now the wheels revolved almost noiselessly, and the travellers heard only the irregular beat of the sixteen hoofs on the stones. The Professor watched the passing of dark houses, the pale glow of infrequent street lamps, the flashing light from some small coffee-house, or a vanishing sentry-box.
It seemed to him that the presence of these soldiers lent something threatening, something so formidable to the silence of the great city, that the very walls of the houses were black with hatred. When the coach entered the Corso di Porta Romana, so filled with fog that he could hardly see out of the window, he closed his eyes, and gave himself up to the pleasure of thinking of and conversing with the things and persons that filled his heart.
It was no longer the passenger with the wart who sat opposite him, but Donna Ester, all enveloped in a great black cape, a broad-brimmed hat upon her head. She was looking at him fixedly, and her lovely eyes were saying: "Well done! You are acting nobly! Showing a great heart. I would not have believed it! I admire you! To me you are no longer old and ugly. Courage!" At this exhortation to have courage, he was seized with fear, for the image of the Marchesa rose before him, and the dull rumble of the wheels became the old lady's nasal voice, saying: "Won't you sit down? What can I do for you?"
At this point the coach stopped and the Professor opened his eyes. Porta Romana. An official opened the door and asked for the passports and having collected them, carried them away. Returning again in about five minutes, he restored their passports to all the passengers save the fashionably dressed young man. To him he said sharply: "Come with me." The young man turned pale, but got out in silence and did not return. In a moment or two the door was closed, and a rough voice cried: "Avanti!" The gentleman with the wart placed his travelling-bag on the seat that was now vacant, but none of the other passengers gave any sign of having noticed what had happened. Only when the four horses had once more begun to trot did Gilardoni ask the priest, his neighbour, if he knew the young man's name, but the priest's onlyanswer was a cross grunt, as he turned two terrified and suspicious eyes upon the Professor. Beniamino now looked towards the other priest, who immediately drew a rosary from his pocket and, having made the sign of the cross, began to pray. Once more the Professor closed his eyes, and the image of the unknown young man was lost for ever in the mist, like the few and phantom-like trees, the poplars and willows, slipping past on either side of the road.
"How shall I begin?" thought Gilardoni. Ever since Christmas Eve he had done nothing but imagine and debate within himself how he should present himself before the Marchesa, how introduce the subject, how explain it, and what terms he should offer. This was the only point on which he was clear. If the Marchesa would make her grandson a liberal allowance, he would destroy the documents. He had not brought them with him, but he had copies of them. Their effect would surely be tremendous, but how should he begin? Not one of the many preambles he had thought of satisfied him. Even now with closed eyes and fancy hard at work, he was considering the question, starting from the only known factor: "Take a seat. What can I do for you?" But invariably his answer would appear to him either too obsequious or too daring, too remote from the subject or too close to it, and he would once more go back to the beginning. "What can I do for you?"
The pale light of dawn, dreary, sad, and sleepy, invaded the coach. Now that the time for the interview was approaching, a thousand doubts, a thousand fresh uncertainties upset all the Professor's plans. The very base of his calculations suddenly collapsed. What if the Marchesa should not say either, "Take a seat," or "What can I do for you?" What if she should receive him in some other embarrassing manner? And what if she should not receive him at all! Merciful heavens! What then? The sudden ringing of the sixteen hoofs on a paved way set his heart to beating. However, it was not yet the streets of Lodi, but those of Melegnano.
He reached Lodi at about nine o'clock, and got out at the Albergo del Sole, where they gave him a room without fire or sun. Not daring to brave either the fog in the street or the fumes in the kitchen, he decided to go to bed, and putting on his night-cap, which was acquainted with all his woes, he waited, a camphor cigarette between his lips, for the coming of noon and a happy thought.
At one o'clock he ascended the steps of the Palazzo X. with the wise determination to carefully forget all the speeches he had prepared, and to trust to the inspiration of the moment. A footman in a white tie ushered him into a large, dark apartment, with a brick floor, walls hung with yellow silk, and a stuccoed ceiling, and having bowed respectfully, went away. A few antique,white and gilt armchairs covered with red damask stood in a semicircle before the fireplace, where three or four enormous logs were burning slowly, behind the brass fender. The air was laden with the mixed odours of ancient mould, ancient cakes, ancient stuffs, ancient leather, and decrepit ideas, the whole forming a subtle essence of old age enough to shrivel the very soul.
The servant reappeared and announced, to Gilardoni's utter confusion, the imminent arrival of the Signora Marchesa. He waited and waited, and at last a great door, ornamented with gilding, swung open, a little moving bell tinkled, Friend trotted in, sniffing the floor to right and left, and was followed by a great bell-shaped mass of black silk, under a small cupola of white lace, while, between two blue ribbons, appeared the black wig, the marble brow, the lifeless eyes of the Marchesa herself.
"What miracle! The Professor in Lodi!" said the drowsy voice, while the small dog sniffed at the Professor's boots. Gilardoni made a low bow, and the lady, who might have been the jar containing the essence of old age, seated herself on one of the chairs near the fire, and installed her lap-dog on another; after which she motioned to Gilardoni to be seated also. "I suppose," said she, "that you have some relative at the convent of the 'Dame Inglese'?"
"No," the Professor replied, "I have not."
Sometimes the Marchesa was facetious in herown way. "Then," said she, "you probably came for a supply ofmascherponi."[M]
"Not for that either, Signora Marchesa. I came on business."
"Indeed. You are unfortunate in the weather. I believe it is raining now."
At this unexpected digression the Professor came near losing his bearings. "Yes," said he, feeling that he was growing foolish, like the scholar whose examination is taking a bad turn. "It is drizzling."
His voice, his expression, could not fail to reveal his inward embarrassment, to show the Marchesa that he had come to tell her something important. However, she carefully avoided helping him to unburden himself, and continued to talk of the weather, the cold, the dampness, a catarrh from which Friend was suffering, while the dog punctuated his mistress's recital with frequent sneezes.
The drowsy voice had a calm, almost jocose inflection, a sort of bland benevolence, and the Professor was bathed in cold sweat at the bare thought of checking this mellifluous flow, and offering in exchange the bitter pill he had in his pocket. He might have taken advantage of a pause to pour forth his preamble, but he was not equal to it, and it was the Marchesa who seized the opportunity to close the interview.
"I thank you very much for your visit," said she, "and now I am going to dismiss you, for you have your business to attend to, and, to tell the truth, I also have an engagement."
Now or never he must take the leap.
"As a matter of fact," Gilardoni began, greatly agitated, "I came to Lodi to speak with you, Signora Marchesa."
"I should never have been able to guess that," said the lady frigidly.
The Professor was carried forward by the impetus of his daring.
"It is a most urgent matter," said he, "and I must beg——"
"If it is a matter of business, you must apply to my agent in Brescia."
"Pardon me, Signora Marchesa, it is really a most important affair. No one knows and no one must know that I have come to see you. I will tell you at once that it concerns your grandson."
The Marchesa rose, and the dog that had been crouching in the armchair also sprang up, barking in Gilardoni's direction.
"Do not speak to me of that person who no longer exists for me," the old lady said solemnly. "Come, Friend!"
"No, Signora Marchesa," the Professor protested. "You cannot possibly imagine what I have to tell you."
"I do not in the least care to know. I do not wish to hear anything. Good-day to you!"
Whereupon the inflexible old lady moved towards the door.
"Marchesa!" Beniamino called after her, while Friend, who had jumped from the chair, barked furiously around his legs. "It concerns your husband's will!"
This time the Marchesa could not but stop. She did not, however, turn round.
"This will cannot be pleasing to you," Gilardoni added rapidly. "But I have no intention of publishing it. I entreat you to listen to me, Marchesa."
She turned round. Her impenetrable face betrayed a certain emotion in the quivering of the nostrils. Nor were the shoulders entirely at rest.
"What tales have you to tell?" she retorted. "Do you think it fitting to thus inconsiderately mention my poor Franco to me? How dare you meddle with my family affairs?"
"Excuse me," the Professor repeated, searching in his pocket. "If I do not meddle some one else may do so even less considerately. Kindly examine these documents. These——"
"Keep your scribblings to yourself," the Marchesa interrupted, seeing him draw some papers from his pocket.
"These are copies I have made——"
"I tell you to keep them, to take them away!"
The Marchesa rang the bell, and once more started to leave the room.
Gilardoni, quivering with excitement, hearingthe approaching steps of a servant, and seeing her about to open the door, threw his documents upon one of the armchairs, saying hastily, in an undertone: "I will leave them here. Let no one see them. I am staying at the Sole, and will return to-morrow. Examine the papers, and think over them carefully!" And before the servant arrived he had rushed out at the same door by which he had entered, had seized his heavy cape, and fled downstairs.
The Marchesa dismissed the footman, and stood listening for a few moments. Then she retraced her steps, took up the papers, and went to her room, locking her door behind her. Having put on her spectacles she took her stand near the window, and began to read. Her brow was clouded and her hands trembled.
The Professor was preparing to go to bed in his icy room at the Sole when two police-agents came with a summons for him to appear at once at the police-station.
He felt some secret misgivings, but did not lose his head, and went quietly away with the two men. At the station a little impudent Commissary asked him why he had come to Lodi, and upon being informed that he had come on private business shrugged his shoulders in contemptuous incredulity. What private business did Signor Gilardoni pretend to have in Lodi? With whom? The Professor mentioned the Marchesa. "Thereare no Maironis at Lodi," the Commissary exclaimed, and when his victim protested he speedily interrupted him. "Basta!That will do! That will do!" The police knew for a certainty that Professor Gilardoni, although he was an Imperial and Royal pensioner, was not a loyal Austrian; that he had friends at Lugano, and that he had come to Lodi for political ends.
"You are better informed than I am," Gilardoni exclaimed, restraining his wrath with difficulty.
"Silence!" the Commissary commanded. "You must not think the Imperial and Royal government is afraid of you. You are free to go, but you must leave Lodi within two hours."
At this point Franco would have immediately perceived from whence the blow came, but the philosopher did not understand.
"I came to Lodi on most urgent business, which is not yet finished," said he. "On most important, private business. How can I leave in two hours?"
"By carriage. If you are still in Lodi at the end of two hours I shall have you arrested."
"My health does not permit me to travel at night in December," the victim urged.
"Very well, then I will have you arrested at once!"
The poor philosopher took up his hat in silence, and went out.
An hour later he started for Milan in a closedcalash, his feet embedded in straw, a rug over his legs, a great muffler round his neck, reflecting that this had been a most successful expedition, and swallowing momently to see if his throat were sore. He passed a horrible night, indeed, but the Marchesa herself did not rest on a bed of roses.