300THE CARDINAL'S ESCORT.The bells of a number of mules ascending the hill, and the appearance of a strange caravan coming directly toward him, forcibly changed the current of Michelangelo Lavoratori's reflections.
THE CARDINAL'S ESCORT.The bells of a number of mules ascending the hill, and the appearance of a strange caravan coming directly toward him, forcibly changed the current of Michelangelo Lavoratori's reflections.
THE CARDINAL'S ESCORT.
The bells of a number of mules ascending the hill, and the appearance of a strange caravan coming directly toward him, forcibly changed the current of Michelangelo Lavoratori's reflections.
The bells of a number of mules ascending the hill, and the appearance of a strange caravan coming directly toward him, forcibly changed the current of Michelangelo Lavoratori's reflections. The mules were superb creatures, richly caparisoned and decorated with plumes. On their long purple saddle-cloths gleamed the insignia of the cardinalate, the triple cross of gold, surmounted by the little hat and tassels. They were laden with baggage and led by servants dressed in black, with gloomy, suspicious faces; then came abbés and other ecclesiastics, with black short-clothes, red stockings and large silver buckles on their shoes; some on horseback, others in litters. A very stout individual, in a black coat, with his hair in a bag, a diamond on his finger, and a sword at his side, rode gravely upon a magnificent ass. From his air of importance, somewhat more candid than the crafty expressions of the churchmen who surrounded him, he could readily be identified as his eminence's physician. He escorted his eminence himself, who was carried in a chair, or rather in a great box, by two powerful men, beside whom walked four relay bearers. The whole procession consisted of about forty persons, and the uselessness of each one of them could be measured by the rapt meditation and humility depicted on his face.
Michel, deeply interested in the passage of this procession which surpassed all that Rome had to offer in that direction, that was most classic and superannuated, rose and stood near the gateway, in order to obtain a nearer view of the principal personage's face. He was the better able to gratify his curiosity, as the bearers halted in front of the enormous gilded gate, while a sort of abbé, with a repulsive countenance, dismounted and opened the gate himself with an air of authority and a peculiar smile.
The cardinal was a man far advanced in years, who had once been corpulent and florid, but was now pale and emaciated, as the result of gradual and cruel decay. The skin upon his face, once tightly stretched, now relaxed, hung in innumerable folds, and imparted to the face a strong resemblance to a field furrowed by the passage of a torrent. Despite these ghastly evidences of decomposition, there was a trace of imperious beauty upon those lifeless features, which could not or would not make the faintest movement, but amid which two great black eyes still glowed, the last sanctuary of a stubborn vitality.
The contrast between the stern, piercing glance and the corpse-like face impressed Michel so strongly that he could not avoid a feeling of respect, and he instinctively bared his head before that feeble remnant of a powerful will. Everything that indicated a forceful, imperious nature produced its effect upon that young man's imagination, because he was himself ambitious of power and authority, and, except for the gleam of those tyrannical eyes, it is doubtful if it would have occurred to him to remove his straw hat.
But, as his modest garb and his dusty shoes indicated a man of the people rather than a great painter in embryo, the cardinal's people and the cardinal himself naturally expected to see him kneel, which he did not do, and his neglect scandalized them terribly.
The cardinal was the first to notice it, and as his bearers were about to pass through the gate, he made a sign with his eyebrows which was instantly read by his physician, who rode always beside him, and was ordered to keep his eyes always fixed upon those of his eminence.
The doctor had just enough wit to understand from the cardinal's expression that he wished to manifest some desire or other; so he ordered a halt, and advised Abbé Ninfo, his eminence's secretary, the same who had opened the gate with his own hand, and with a key taken from his own pocket. The abbé hastened forward, as he had done before, and placed his body in front of the door of the chair in such way as to conceal it from the rest of the procession. Thereupon there took place between his eminence and him a mysterious dialogue, so mysterious that no one could say whether his eminence made himself understood by speech, or simply by the play of his features. Ordinarily the paralytic dignitary uttered nothing more than unintelligible grunts, which became a frightful roar when he was angry; but Abbé Ninfo understood those grunts so well, when assisted by his eminence's expressive glance and his intimate knowledge of his character and designs, that he interpreted his master's wishes and ordered them executed with an intelligence, a rapidity and a careful attention to details which bordered on the marvellous. Indeed it seemed altogether too supernatural to be accepted as genuine by the other subordinate priests, and they declared that his eminence had retained the power of speech, but that by virtue of the most profound diplomacy, he preferred not to use that power except with Abbé Ninfo. Doctor Recuperati asserted however that his eminence's tongue was paralyzed as completely as his arms and legs, and that the only living portions of his being were the organs of the brain and of the digestion. "With those," he said, "a man may live to be a hundred years old, aye, and shake the world, as Jupiter shook Olympus, simply by contracting his eyebrow."
The result of the strange dialogue between Abbé Ninfo's sharp eyes and the eloquent eyebrows of his eminence, was that the abbé turned suddenly to Michel and motioned to him to draw near. Michel was strongly tempted to do nothing of the sort, and to compel the abbé to walk to him; but the Sicilian spirit suddenly awoke in him, and he stood on his guard. He recalled all that his father had told him of the dangers to be dreaded from the wrath of a certain cardinal, and, although he could not tell whether the man before him was paralyzed or not, it suddenly occurred to him that he might very well be Cardinal Hieronymo, of Palmarosa. Thereupon he determined to dissemble, and he approached the gilded, decorated chair adorned with his eminence's crest.
"What are you doing at this gate?" the abbé demanded in a surly tone. "Are you of the household?"
"No, your excellency," replied Michel, with apparent tranquillity, although he was tempted to strike his questioner. "I am passing by."
The abbé glanced into the chair, and apparently he was given to understand that it was useless to intimidate wayfarers, for he suddenly changed his tone and manner as he turned again to Michel.
"My friend," he said benignantly, "you seem unfortunate; are you a mechanic?"
"Yes, your excellency," said Michel, resolved to speak as little as possible.
"And you are fatigued? you have come a long distance?"
"Yes, your excellency."
"But you are strong for your years. How old are you?"
"Twenty-one."
Michel could safely risk that falsehood; for, although he had as yet no beard on his chin, he had attained his full growth, and his active and restless brain had already caused him to lose the first bloom of youth. In this last reply he complied with a special injunction which his father had laid upon him when they parted, and which came to his mind most opportunely: "If you come to Sicily to join me one day or another," said old Pier-Angelo, "remember that, until you have actually joined me, you must not say a word of truth in reply to people who seem to you curious and inquisitive. Tell them neither your name, nor your age, nor your profession, nor mine, nor whence you come, nor whither you are going. The police are more meddlesome than shrewd. Lie boldly and have no fear."
"If my father should hear me," thought Michel, after he had thus distinguished himself, "he would be satisfied with me."
"It is well," said the abbé, and he stepped away from the prelate's door, so that the latter could see the poor devil who had thus attracted his attention. Michel's eyes met the moribund's terrible glance, and he thereupon felt more distrust and aversion than respect for that narrow and despotic brow. Warned by an inward presentiment that he was in a dangerous position, he changed the customary expression of his face, and substituting sheepishness for pride therein, he bent his knee, hung his head in order to escape the prelate's scrutiny, and pretended to await his benediction.
"His eminence blesses you mentally," said the abbé, after consulting the cardinal's eyes, and he motioned to the bearers to go forward.
The chair passed through the gateway and proceeded slowly along the avenue.
"I would like well to know," thought Michel, as he looked after the procession, "whether my instinct deceived me, or whether that man is the enemy of my family."
He was about to continue his journey, when he observed that Abbé Ninfo had not followed the cardinal, but was waiting until the last mule had passed, in order to lock the gate and restore the key to his pocket. This strange caretaking on the part of a man so close to the cardinal was well calculated to make an impression on him, and the keen, sidelong glance which that unattractive personage stealthily bestowed upon him impressed him even more.
"It is evident that I am already watched in this unhappy country," he thought; "and that my father did not dream of the enmities against which he warned me to be on my guard."
The abbé motioned to him to come to the gate just as he withdrew the key. Michel, persuaded that he must play his part more carefully than ever, approached with an air of humility.
"Here, my boy," said the abbé, offering him a small coin, "here is something with which to refresh yourself at the first tavern, for you seem to be very much fatigued."
Michel repressed a thrill of indignation. He accepted the insult, put out his hand and thanked the abbé humbly; then he ventured to say:
"I am grieved that his eminence did not deign to give me his blessing."
This well-acted bathos dispelled the abbe's suspicions.
"Console yourself, my child," he said, in a nonchalant tone; "Divine Providence has been pleased to deprive our holy cardinal of the use of his limbs. Paralysis permits him to bless the faithful only with his mind and heart."
"May God cure and preserve him!" rejoined Michel; and he went his way, very certain now that he was not mistaken, and that he had had a lucky escape from a perilous meeting.
He had not taken ten steps down the hill-side when, as he turned a corner, he found himself face to face with a man who was close upon him before either of them recognized the other, so little did they expect to meet at that moment. Suddenly they both cried out at once and clung together in a passionate embrace. Michel was in his father's arms.
"O my child! my dear child! you, in this place!" cried Pier-Angelo. "What joy and what anxiety for me! But joy carries the day and makes me braver in spirit than I was a moment since. I was thinking of you and saying to myself: 'It is lucky that Michel is not here, for our affairs might well become serious.'—But here you are, and I cannot help being the happiest of men."
"Never fear, father," Michel replied; "I became prudent as soon as I set my foot on my native soil. I have just met our enemy face to face; he questioned me, and I lied in a way to do your heart good."
Pier-Angelo turned pale.—"Who? who?" he exclaimed; "the cardinal?"
"Yes, the cardinal in person, the paralytic in his great gilt box. It must be the famous Prince Hieronymo, who was the terror of my childhood, and who seemed to me all the more terrible because I did not know the cause of my fear. Well, dear father, I assure you that even if he still has the will to do harm, he has not the power, for all varieties of infirmity seem to have conspired together to crush him. I will tell you of our interview; but tell me first of my sister, and let us go at once and surprise her."
"No, Michel, no, the most important thing is for you to tell me how you happened to see the cardinal so close. Let us go into this clump of trees; I am not at all easy in my mind. Tell me, tell me quickly! He spoke to you, you say? Is it certain that he spoke?"
"Let me reassure you, father, he cannot speak."
"Are you sure of it? You told me that he questioned you."
"I was questioned in his behalf, I suppose; but, as I observed everything with perfect coolness, and as that caricature of an abbé who acts as his interpreter is too thin to conceal the whole interior of the chair, I saw plainly that his eminence spoke with his eyes only. Moreover, his eminence is stone deaf, for when I told my age, which the abbé asked me for some unknown reason, I saw the abbé lean toward monsignore and hold up his ten fingers twice over, and then the thumb of his right hand."
"Dumb, helpless, and deaf to boot! I breathe again. But how old did you say you were? Twenty-one?"
"You told me to lie as soon as I set foot in Sicily."
"It is well, my child; Heaven aided and inspired you in that encounter."
"I think so, but I should be much more certain of it if you would tell me how the cardinal can be interested to know whether I am eighteen or twenty-one."
"That question cannot interest him in any way," said Pier-Angelo, with a smile. "But I am overjoyed to find that you remembered my advice and that you have suddenly acquired this prudence, of which I didn't believe you to be capable. But tell me again, what did Abbé Ninfo—for it must have been he, I am sure; was he very ugly?"
"Frightful; he squints and has a flat nose."
"That's the man! What else did he ask you? your name, or your province?"
"No, no other direct question, except as to my age, and my brilliant reply to that seemed to satisfy him so entirely that he turned his back, promising me his eminence's blessing."
"And his eminence didn't give it to you? he didn't raise his hand?"
"The abbé himself told me a little later that his eminence was entirely deprived of the use of his limbs."
"What! that man spoke to you again? that fiend of hell came back to you?"
As he spoke, Pier-Angelo scratched the back of his neck, the only spot on his head where his restless hand could find any hair. It was a sign with him of great perturbation of spirit.
When Michel had told the story of his adventure to the most trivial detail, and Pier-Angelo had admired and applauded his hypocrisy, the young man said:
"Now, father, pray tell me how it happens that you live here, without a mask and under your own name, without being molested, whereas I, immediately upon my arrival, must resort to stratagem and stand on my guard?"
Pier-Angelo seemed to hesitate a moment, then replied:
"Why, it is a very simple matter, my child! I was charged with being a conspirator long ago; I was put in prison, and probably escaped the gallows by flight. The formal prosecution had already been begun. That is all forgotten, and although the cardinal must have known my name and my face at the time, it would seem that I have changed greatly, or else his memory is much impaired, for he has seen me here, and must have heard my name mentioned, without recognizing me and without the faintest indication that he recalled the old affair; that was a test which I was resolved to make. I was summoned by Abbé Ninfo to work in the cardinal's palace; I went there boldly, after taking measures to ensure Mila's safety in case I should be cast into prison without process. The cardinal saw me and did not recognize me. Abbé Ninfo knows nothing about me; so that I am, or at all events I was, free from anxiety on my own account, and was just about to write you to come and see me, when it began to be rumored in the city, a few days ago, that his eminence was visibly improved, so much so that he was going to pass some time at his country house at Ficarazzi yonder; you can see the palace from here, on the hillside."
"Then the villa a few steps away, where I just saw the cardinal enter, is not his own residence?"
"No; it belongs to his niece, Princess Agatha. Doubtless he thought that he would make a détour and call upon her as he passed; but this same visit worries me. I know that she was not expecting it—that she had made no preparations to receive her uncle. He must have wanted to give her an unpleasant surprise, for he surely knows that there is no reason whatever why she should be fond of him. I greatly fear that this is a cloak for some wicked design. In any event, this sudden activity on the part of a man who, for a whole year, has only moved about in a wheeled chair up and down a gallery in his city palace, gives me food for thought, and I say that we must pay close attention to everything now."
"But after all, father, all this does not tell me what danger there can be for me personally! I was barely six months old, I believe, when I left Sicily; I fancy that I was not implicated in the conspiracy in which you were involved?"
"No, of course not; but new-comers are watched. Every man of the people, young, intelligent and from across the strait, is assumed to be dangerous, permeated with the new ideas. A single word from your lips, spoken in presence of a spy, or extorted from you by an informer, would be enough to put you in prison; and when I went to claim you as my son, it would be vastly worse if that wicked cardinal should by any chance be restored to health and to the exercise of power. Then he might remember that I was accused long ago, and he would apply to us, by way of sentence, the proverb: 'Like father, like son.' Now do you understand?"
"Yes, father, I will be prudent. Rely on me."
"That is not enough. I must be perfectly sure of the cardinal's state of health. I do not propose to let you enter Catania until I know what to expect."
"But what will you do to find out, father?"
"I will remain in hiding here with you until we have seen the cardinal and his procession start for Ficarazzi. It won't be long. If it is true that he is deaf and dumb, he will not have a long interview with his niece. As soon as we no longer run the risk of meeting him there, we will go to the Palmarosa palace, where I am at work now. I will conceal you in some corner; then I will go and consult the princess."
"Is the princess in your interest, then?"
"She is my most powerful and most generous patron. She employs me a great deal, and I hope that, thanks to her, we shall not be persecuted."
"Oh! father, was it she who gave you the money which enabled me to pay my debts?"
"Lent it my boy, lent it. I knew well enough that you would not accept alms, but she gives me so much work that I can pay her gradually."
"You may say: 'Soon,' father, for I am here! I have come to pay my debt to you; my journey has no other purpose."
"What, my dear child! have you sold a picture? have you earned some money?"
"Alas! no. I am not yet skilful enough or well enough known to earn money. But I have arms, and I know enough to paint frescoes for decoration. We will work together, my dear father, and I shall never again have to blush to think that I am leading the life of an artist, while you are wearing out your strength to gratify my misplaced tastes."
"Are you in earnest, Michel?" cried the old man. "You really mean to be a workman?"
"I am fully determined upon it. I have sold my canvases, my engravings, my books. I have given up my lodgings, thanked my teacher, bade farewell to friends, to Rome, to glory. It was a little hard," added Michel, feeling that his eyes were filling with tears; "but embrace me, father; tell me that you are content with your son, and I shall be proud of what I have done!"
"Embrace me, my dear boy!" replied the old decorator, pressing his son to his heart, and blending his own tears with his. "It is a fine thing, a noble thing that you have done, and God will reward you abundantly for it, I promise you. I accept your sacrifice, but let us understand each other: it is for a time only, for a time which we will make as short as possible by working rapidly to pay our debt. The experience will be useful to you, and your genius will grow instead of being extinguished. Between us, thanks to the excellent princess, who will pay us well, we shall soon have earned money enough for you to return to your real painting, without remorse and without imposing any privation on me. That is agreed. Now let us speak of your sister. She is a perfect prodigy of wit, that little girl. And how she has grown and how beautiful she is! so beautiful that it's enough to frighten a poor devil of a father like me."
"I propose to remain a workman," said Michel, "for with a modest but sure livelihood I can succeed in establishing my sister in life according to her rank. Poor dear angel! Think of her sending me her little earnings! And I, poor wretch, intended to bring them back to her and was forced to sacrifice them! Ah! it is horrible, yes, detestable, to try to become an artist when one has poor relations!"
"We will speak of this again, and I will find a way to revive your taste for your destiny, my child. But, hark! I hear the gate creaking—the cardinal is leaving the villa; let us not show ourselves; we shall soon see them going down on our right. You say that Ninfo opened the gate himself with a key that he had? It is very strange, and very disturbing too, to find that the good princess is not safe in her own house, that these people have false keys to violate her privacy unexpectedly, and that they evidently suspect her, since they spy upon her in this way!"
"But of what can they possibly suspect her?"
"Why, suppose it were only of protecting people whom they persecute! You assure me that you have become prudent, and in any event you will understand the importance of what I am going to tell you. You know already that the Palmarosas were entirely devoted to the court of Naples; that Prince Donigi, the oldest of the family, Princess Agatha's father, and brother of the cardinal, was the wickedest Sicilian that was ever known, the enemy of his fatherland and the persecutor of his compatriots; and that, too, not from cowardice, like those who go over to the side of the conqueror, nor from greed, like those who sell themselves; he was rich and fearless; but he did it from ambition, from his passion for domineering, in short, from an inborn wickedness that was in his blood and caused him to take the keenest delight in terrifying, tormenting, and humbling his neighbor. He was omnipotent in the time of Queen Caroline, and, until it pleased God to rid us of him, he inflicted all the harm he possibly could upon the patriotic nobles and the poor devils who loved their country. His brother continued that wrong-doing; but now he is going, too; and if the dying lamp still casts a faint gleam, it is simply a proof that it is dying. Then all the clientage of the Palmarosas, among the people of Catania, and especially in the suburb where we live, will be able to breathe freely. There are no more males in the family, and all the vast property, of which the cardinal still has the income of a large part, will fall into the hands of a single heiress, Princess Agatha. She is as good as her relations have been bad, and her heart is in the right place. She is Sicilian to the marrow and detests the Neapolitans! She will have great influence when she is entirely in control of her property and her acts. If God would permit her to marry and take into her house some worthy nobleman as right-minded as she, that would change the tone of the administration somewhat, and better our lot!"
"Is the princess a young woman?"
"Yes, still young, and might marry as well as not; but she has always refused to do it thus far, in the fear, so far as I can understand, that she would not be free to choose for herself.—But here we are close to the park," added Pier-Angelo; "we may meet somebody, so let us talk of indifferent matters only. I urge you, my child, to use here nothing but the Sicilian dialect, which we very wisely used at Rome so long. You have not forgotten your native language, I trust, since we parted?"
"No, indeed," replied Michel.
And he began to talk Sicilian with great volubility, to convince his father that there was nothing about him to indicate the foreigner.
"That is very good," said Pier-Angelo; "you have not the slightest accent."
They had made a détour and entered the park by a gate at a considerable distance from that at which Michel had encountered Monsignore Hieronymo; the gate was open and the numerous marks on the gravel indicated that many men, horses, and wagons habitually passed in and out.
"You will see here a great hurly-burly, most contrary to the ordinary habits of the household," said the old painter to his son. "I will explain it to you. But let us say nothing yet, that is the safest way. Do not look about you too much, nor have the surprised air of a new-comer. And, first of all, hide that travelling-bag among the rocks near the waterfall; I shall remember the place. Rub your shoes in the grass, so that you won't look like a traveller. Why, I believe you are limping, are you hurt?"
"Nothing, nothing, a little fatigue."
"I am going to take you to a place where you can rest without being disturbed by anyone."
Pier-Angelo made several détours in the park, leading his son through shady paths, and thus they reached the palace without meeting anyone, although they heard a great deal of noise, which increased as they drew near. They entered a corridor on the lower floor and walked rapidly by an enormous room, filled with workmen and materials of all sorts, assembled there for some incomprehensible purpose. The men were so busy and making so great an uproar that they did not notice Michel and his father. Michel had no time to understand what he saw. His father had instructed him to follow him step by step, and he walked so fast that the young traveller, utterly exhausted as he was, found it difficult to keep pace with him in the narrow halls and steep stairways.
Their journey through that labyrinth of secret passages seemed very long to Michel. At last Pier-Angelo took a key from his pocket and opened a small door on a dark corridor. Thereupon they found themselves in a long gallery, adorned with statues and pictures. But the blinds were drawn everywhere, and it was so dark that Michel could distinguish nothing.
"You can take a nap here," said his father, after he had carefully locked the little door and removed the key; "I am going to leave you here; I will return as soon as possible, and then I will tell you what we are to do."
He walked the whole length of the gallery, and, raising a portière embroidered with armorial bearings, pulled a bell-cord. In a few seconds a voice answered inside, and a dialogue followed, in so low a tone, that Michel could not hear a word. At last, a mysterious door was partly opened, and Pier-Angelo disappeared, leaving his son in the darkness, chill, and silence of that great empty room.
At times, however, the echoing voices of the men at work below, the sound of the saw and the hammer, snatches of song, laughter, and oaths reached his ears. But the noises gradually died away as darkness approached, and, after two hours, the most absolute silence reigned in that unfamiliar abode in which Michel found himself imprisoned, dying of hunger and weariness.
Those two hours of suspense would have seemed very long to him if sleep had not come to his aid. Although his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the gallery, he made no attempt to inspect the objects of art which it contained. He had dropped upon a rug, and fell into a sort of lethargy, interrupted sometimes by the tumult below, and the uneasiness which one feels when sleeping in a strange place. At last, when nightfall was followed by the cessation of the work, he slept soundly.
But a strange cry, which seemed to come from one of the rose-shaped openings which supplied the gallery with ventilation, woke him abruptly. He instinctively raised his head and fancied that he saw a faint light on the ceiling. The figures painted thereon seemed to move for an instant. Another cry, fainter than the first, but so peculiar that Michel was perturbed by it and moved to the lowest depths of his being, sounded over his head. Then the light vanished. The silence and darkness became so intense that he wondered if he had not dreamed.
Another quarter of an hour passed, during which Michel, excited by what had just happened, did not think of going to sleep again. He feared that his father was in some danger which he could not define. He was horrified at the thought that he himself was a captive and unable to assist him. He examined all the doors and found them all securely locked. He dared not make any noise, for, after all, it was a woman's voice that he had heard, and he could not understand what connection there could be between that cry and his own situation or Pier-Angelo's.
At last the mysterious door opened, and Pier-Angelo appeared, carrying a candle whose flickering light imparted a fantastic appearance to the statues upon which it fell one after another. When he stood beside Michel, he said in a low voice: "We are saved; the cardinal is in his dotage, and Abbé Ninfo knows nothing of our affairs. The princess, for whom I was compelled to wait a long while, because she had people about her, is of the opinion that we should make no sort of mystery about you. She thinks that that would be worse than simply to announce your return without any affectation. So we will go back to your sister, who is undoubtedly anxious because I am so late. But we have quite a little walk, and I suppose you are dying of hunger and thirst. The steward of the household, who is very kind to me, told me to take you to a little buttery, where we shall find something to eat."
Michel followed his father to a room which had on one side a glass door with a curtain covering the glass outside. This room, which was in no wise remarkable, was lighted by several candles, a fact which astonished Michel somewhat. Pier-Angelo, observing his surprise, said that it was a room where the princess's first lady's-maid came every night to superintend the preparation of her mistress's supper. With that he unceremoniously began to open cupboards and take out cold meats, preserves, wine, fruit, and innumerable delicacies which he placed helter-skelter on the table, laughing at each new discovery he made in those inexhaustible cupboards—all to the unbounded amazement of Michel, who failed to recognize his father's customary discretion and pride.
"Well," said Pier-Angelo, "don't you propose to help me? You sit there with your arms folded and allow your father to wait on you! Do at least take the trouble to eat and drink yourself!"
"Excuse me, dear father, you seem to me to do the honors of the house with a self-possession which I admire, but which I should not dare to imitate. You also seem to me to be very much at home here."
"I am more comfortable here than at home," rejoined Pier-Angelo, nibbling at the wing of a chicken, and offering the other wing to his son. "Don't expect me to give you such suppers often. But make the most of this one without false shame; I told you that the majordomo authorized me to do this."
"The majordomo is simply a higher servant who pilfers like all the others, and invites his friends to make themselves comfortable at his mistress's expense. Excuse me, father, but this supper is distasteful to me; my appetite has all disappeared at the thought that we are stealing the princess's supper; for these Japanese plates filled with delicious sweetmeats were not intended for our mouths, nor even for that of his highness the majordomo."
"Well, if I must tell you, that is true; but it was the princess herself who bade me eat her supper, because she is not hungry to-night, and she supposed that you would have some reluctance to sup with her servants."
"Your princess is extraordinarily kind," said Michel, "and shows a most exquisite delicacy of feeling with respect to me! I confess that I should not care to eat with her lackeys. But, father, if you do it, if it is the custom of the house, and a necessity of my new position, I will be no more fastidious than you, and will accustom myself to it. But how did it ever occur to the princess to spare me that petty annoyance to-night?"
"Because I spoke to her about you. As she is particularly interested in me, she asked me many questions about you, and, when she learned that you were an artist, she declared that she would treat you as an artist, and that she would find an artist's work for you in her house, in short, that she would show you all the consideration you could possibly desire."
"She is a very generous and very thoughtful lady," rejoined Michel, with a sigh, "but I will not abuse her good-nature. I should blush to be treated as an artist, side by side with my father the artisan. No, no, I am an artisan myself, neither more nor less. I prefer to be treated like my fellows, and if I eat here to-night, I propose to eat to-morrow where my father eats."
"It is well, Michel; those are noble sentiments. I drink your health! This Syracuse wine gives me courage, and makes the cardinal seem no more formidable than a mummy to me! But what are you looking at so intently?"
"It seems to me that that curtain behind the glass keeps moving. There is certainly some prying servant there who doesn't like to see us eating such a delicious supper in his place. Ah! it will be very disagreeable to have to deal with those people all the time! They must be carefully handled, of course, for they can do us an ill turn with their masters, and deprive an honest artisan, who happens to offend them, of a good customer."
"That is true, generally speaking, but there is nothing of the sort to be feared here. I have the princess's confidence; I deal with her directly and without any orders from the majordomo. And, then, her servants are excellent fellows. Come, eat in peace, and don't keep looking at that curtain, which the wind is blowing."
"I assure you, father, that it isn't the wind, unless Zephyr has a pretty little white hand with a diamond ring on the finger."
"In that case it must be the princess's first lady's-maid. She must have heard me tell her mistress that you were a well-favored youth, and she is curious to see you. Sit round this way, so that she can gratify her curiosity."
"I am much more anxious to go and see Mila, father, than to be seen by her ladyship the first lady's-maid. I have eaten my fill; let us go."
"I will not go until I have applied once more to this excellent wine for courage and strength. Drink with me again, Michel! I am so happy to be with you, that I would get drunk if I had the time!"
"And I am happy too, father; but I shall be still more so when we are at home with my sister. I do not feel so much at ease as you do in this mysterious palace: it seems to me that I am watched, or that some one here is afraid of me. There is a silence and solitude here which do not seem natural to me. People do not walk and show themselves as they do in other places. We are stealthy in our movements, and we are being stealthily watched. Anywhere else I would break a pane of glass to see what there is behind that curtain—and just now, in the gallery, I had a terrible shock. I was awakened by a cry, such a cry as I never heard before."
"A cry, really? How does it happen that I heard nothing of the sort, although I was very near you, in the same part of the palace? You must have dreamed it!"
"No! no! I heard it twice; a faint cry, it is true, but so vibrating, so peculiar that my heart beats fast when I think of it."
"Ah! that is just like your romantic mind! Now I recognize you, Michel; it delights my heart, for I was afraid that you had become too reasonable. However, I am sorry, for the sake of your adventure, to be obliged to tell you what I think about it, which is that her highness's first lady's-maid must have seen a spider or a mouse as she passed through one of the corridors that surround the great gallery of paintings. Whenever she sees one of those creatures, she utters frightful shrieks, and I take the liberty of laughing at her."
This prosaic explanation annoyed the young artist a little. He hurried his father, who was inclined to forget himself over the Syracuse wine, and half an hour later he was in his sister's arms.
The next day Michelangelo Lavoratori was installed with his father at the Palmarosa palace, to work industriously there the rest of the week. The work in progress was the decoration of the enormous ball-room constructed of wood and canvas for the occasion, adjoining the peristyle of that beautiful country-seat, and opening on the gardens on every side. The princess, who ordinarily lived in strict retirement, was about to give a magnificent fête, in which all the wealthy and noble inhabitants of Catania and of the neighboring villas were to take part. Her reason for this departure from her usual mode of life was as follows:
Every year the first society of that neighborhood co-operated to give a subscription ball for the benefit of the poor, and each proprietor of a spacious house, whether in the city or the country, was supposed to lend it in his turn, and to pay a portion of the expenses of the fête when the circumstances would permit.
Although the princess was exceedingly charitable, her taste for seclusion had led her to defer offering her palace; but her turn had come at last. She had most generously assumed the whole burden of the fête, agreeing to pay all the expenses of the ball, including the decorations of the ball-room, music, etc. By reason of her generosity, the sum realized for the poor promised to be quite handsome, and, as the Villa Palmarosa was the most superb residence in the province, and all the preparations were on a magnificent scale, the fête promised to be the most brilliant one ever seen.
The house was full of workmen, who had been at work a fortnight on the ball-room, under the direction of Barbagallo the majordomo, a man of wide experience in such matters, and under the preponderating influence of Pier-Angelo Lavoratori, whose taste and skill were already well known and highly esteemed throughout the province.
On the first day, Michel, true to his agreement and resigned to his lot, made garlands and arabesques with his father and the apprentices in his employ; but his probation was confined to that day, for on the following morning Pier-Angelo informed him that the princess wished him to undertake the painting of allegorical figures on the ceiling and canvas walls of the ball-room. The selection and size of the subjects was left to his discretion; he was requested simply to make haste and to have confidence in himself. That task did not require the care and finish of a durable work; but it opened a wide field to his imagination, and when he realized that he was in possession of that vast space, upon which he was at liberty to cast his fancies without restraint, he had a moment of genuine bliss, and he was more intoxicated than ever with his profession of artist.
His enthusiasm for the commission was greatly increased when the princess sent word to him, through his father, that, if his work was simply passable, it would be accepted as full payment of the sum lent to Pier-Angelo for him; but that, if it earned the praise of connoisseurs, he should be paid double.
Thus Michel was on the point of becoming free in any event, and perhaps rich for a year to come, if he displayed any talent at all.
A single apprehension, but a very weighty one, chilled his joy; the day for the ball was fixed, and it was not in the princess's power to postpone it. A week remained, only a week! For an experienced decorator that was enough, but for Michel, who had never done anything of the sort on a large scale, and who could not refrain from looking upon it as a matter in which his self-esteem was deeply involved, it was so little that he shuddered at the bare thought.
Luckily for him, having worked with his father in his boyhood, and having watched him work a thousand times since, the processes of water-color work were familiar to him, as well as the geometrical principles of decoration; but when he attempted to select his subjects, he was oppressed by the superabundance of his ideas, and the prodigality of his imagination put him on the rack. He passed two nights drawing his compositions, and all day on his scaffolding, adjusting them to the space at his command. He did not think of sleeping or eating, or even of improving his acquaintance with his young sister, until his work was definitely laid out. At last it was done, and he transferred his labors to the courtyard of an old ruined chapel in the centre of the park, where his canvas ceiling, forty feet long, was stretched on the ground. There, assisted by several zealous apprentices, who handed him his colors all ready for use, and walking barefooted over his mythological sky, he prayed to the muses to impart to his trembling hand the necessary skill and boldness; and at last, armed with a gigantic brush, which might fitly have been called a broom, he sketched his Olympus and worked with so much fire and hope that the canvas was ready to be put in place two days before the ball.
He had still to superintend its removal and installation, and to retouch such parts as were necessarily damaged in that process. And then he also had to assist his father, who, having been delayed by him, still had many borders of wainscots and cornices to finish.
That week passed like a dream to Michel, and the few moments of repose in which he indulged seemed to him delicious beyond words. The villa was wonderfully beautiful inside as well as outside. The gardens and the park gave one an idea of the earthly paradise. Nature is so teeming in that country, the flowers so beautiful and sweet, the vegetation so luxuriant, the streams so clear and swift, that art has little to do in order to create fairyland around the palaces there. Not that blocks of lava and vast fields of ashes do not, here and there, present the image of desolation beside the Elysian Fields. But those horrors add to the charm of the oases which the volcanic flames have spared.
Villa Palmarosa, situated on the slope of a hill whose rugged summit was exposed to the ravages of Ætna, had existed for centuries amid continual disasters which it had been privileged to contemplate undisturbed. The palace was very old, of a graceful type of architecture, borrowed from Saracen models. The ball-room, which now concealed the façade of the ground-floor, presented a striking contrast to the dark coloring and severe decorations of the upper floors. Within, the contrast was even more striking. While all was uproar and confusion on the ground floor, all was tranquillity, order and mystery on the floor above, where the princess lived. At meal times Michel entered that silent portion of the mansion, for the little room with the glass door, where he had supped with his father on the first evening, was reserved for him, as a special and mysterious favor. They were all alone there, and if the curtain moved again, the movement was so slight that Michel could not be certain that he had inspired a romantic passion in the first lady's-maid's breast.
The palace being built against the cliff, the princess's apartments were on a level with terraces embellished with flower-beds and fountains; and by descending a narrow flight of steps, boldly cut in the lava, one could reach by that means the park and the open country. Once Michel wandered into those Babylonian flower-gardens suspended over a terrifying abyss. He saw the windows of the princess's boudoir, which was two hundred feet above the main entrance of the palace, and yet she could go out of doors to walk without descending a single step. Such boldness of conception and such charm in the construction of a dwelling made him giddy both physically and mentally. But he never saw the queen of that enchanted abode. At the times when he went up to her apartments she was taking a siesta or receiving visits from her intimate friends in the salons on the second floor.
This Sicilian custom of living on the upper floors, to enjoy the fresher air and more perfect quiet, is found in several Italian cities. These private apartments, generally small and quiet, are sometimes called theCasino, and, with their private gardens, form, as it were, a distinct dwelling above the main palace. This of which we are speaking was set back from the front and side walls of the lower building by the width of a very broad terrace, so that it was concealed, and, as it were, isolated. At the back it formed a building of a single story, on the level of the flower-garden, since the lower edifice was built against the cliff. Viewing it from that side, one would have said that a stream of lava had flowed against the palace and hardened there, and had blotted out one whole side of it up to the level of the Casino. But the villa had been constructed in that way to avoid danger from fresh eruptions. Looking at it from the direction of Ætna, one would have taken it for a small summer-house perched on top of a rock. Not until you had made the circuit of that mass of volcanic débris did you discover a magnificent palace, consisting of three great structures, one upon another, and climbing the hill backward, so to speak.
Under any other circumstances Michel would have been curious to know if this lady, who was said to be lovely and gracious, was, poetically speaking, worthy to inhabit so noble an abode; but his imagination, engrossed by the hurried work which had been entrusted to him, paid little heed to other things.
He felt so fatigued when he laid aside his rough brush for an instant, that he was compelled to fight against drowsiness in order not to prolong his siesta beyond half an hour. Indeed, he was so afraid that the zeal of his companions might abate, that he took that brief interval of rest by stealth in the gallery of paintings, where his father would lock him in, and where it seemed that no one ever set foot. Two or three times he lacked courage to go and pass the night in the suburb of Catania, although his house was among the first on the road from the villa, and he consented to allow his father to procure a bed for him in the palace. When he did return to the wretched hovel where Mila bloomed like a rose under glass, he neither saw nor comprehended anything that took place about him. He confined himself to kissing his sister and telling her that he was glad to see her, but he had no time to scrutinize her or to talk with her.
The day before the fête was a Sunday. It only remained to give a last glance and a finishing touch to the work. He determined to dress with some care and to stroll about the city after escorting Mila to the evening service. He soon learned the location of the principal churches, squares, and buildings. Lastly, his father introduced him to several of his friends and relations, who welcomed him cordially, and with whom he strove to be amiable. But the contrast between that environment and the society he had frequented at Rome made him sad in spite of himself, and he retired early, longing for the morrow; for, in presence of his work, and under the spell of the noble edifice in which he labored, he forgot that he was of the common people, and remembered only that he was an artist.
At last that day of hope and dread arrived, the day on which Michel's work was to be applauded or ridiculed by the élite of Sicilian society.
"What! no farther advanced than this?" cried the majordomo, in despair, rushing in among the workmen. "Great God! what are you thinking of? The clock will strike seven in a moment; at eight the carriages will begin to arrive, and half of this room is not yet draped!"
As this apostrophe was addressed to no person in particular, no one replied, and the workmen continued to work with more or less speed, each according to the measure of his strength and his skill.
"Room, room for the flowers!" cried the controller of that notable branch of the establishment. "Put a hundred boxes of camellias in rows along the benches!"
"How do you expect to arrange your boxes of flowers before the carpets are down?" queried Master Barbagallo, with a profound sigh.
"And where do you expect me to put my boxes and flower-pots?" retorted the head gardener. "Why haven't your upholsterers finished their work?"
"Ah! there you are! why haven't they?" said the other, in a tone of intense indignation.
"Room! room for my ladders!" cried another voice; "the orders are that everything must be lighted at eight o'clock sharp, and that doesn't give me any too much time to light so many chandeliers. Room, room, I say!"
"Painters, take away your ladders," cried the upholsterers, in their turn; "we can do nothing as long as you are in the way."
"Such confusion, such an uproar, it's a second Tower of Babel," muttered the majordomo, wiping his brow. "I did all that I could to see that everything was done at the proper time; I warned everyone more than a hundred times; and here you are, all in a muddle, disputing the ground with one another, in one another's way, and making no progress at all. It is hopeless! it is disgusting!"
"Whose fault is it?" said the man with the flowers. "Can I put my wreaths on bare walls and my flowerpots on rough boards?"
"And can I climb up to the ceiling," said the man with the candles, "if my ladders are taken away to lay carpets? Do you take my men for bats, do you want me to make thirty honest fellows break their necks?"
"How do you expect my men to lay their carpets," said the chief upholsterer, in his turn, "if the painters don't take away their ladders?"
"And how do you expect our ladders to be taken away if we are still on them?" shouted one of the painters.
"The fault is all yours, you daubers!" cried the frantic majordomo; "or, rather, your master is the only culprit," he added, noticing that the young man whom he addressed glared fiercely at him at the epithet of dauber. "It's that old madman of a Pier-Angelo, who is not even here to direct you, I'll wager. Where can he be? At the nearest wineshop, I'll stake my head!"
A voice, still full and resonant, broke forth at the highest point of the ceiling with the refrain of an old ballad, and, on looking up, the wrathful majordomo saw the glistening bald head of the decorator-in-chief. Evidently the old man was laughing at the majordomo, and, being master of the field, proposed to put the finishing touches to his work at his leisure.
"Pier-Angelo, my friend," said the other, "you are making sport of us! That is too bad of you. You act like an old spoiled child, as you are; but we shall lose patience at last. This is no time to laugh and sing your drinking-songs."
Pier-Angelo did not deign to reply; he simply shrugged his shoulders as he talked with his son, who was even higher up than he, shading the dress of a dancing-girl of Herculaneum, who swam in a blue canvas sky.
"There are enough figures, enough folds and shading!" cried the majordomo, beside himself. "Who in the devil will ever look up there, to see if there's anything wrong with your divinities in the firmament? The general effect is there, and that's all that is necessary. Come, come down, you old fox, or I'll shake the ladder you are standing on."
"If you touch my father's ladder," exclaimed young Michel, in a voice of thunder, "I will crush you with this chandelier. No jests of that sort, Signor Barbagallo, or you will be sorry for them."
"Let him talk, and go on with your work," said old Pier-Angelo, calmly. "Disputing takes time; don't waste your breath in empty words."
"Go down, father, go down," said the young man. "I am afraid that in this confusion they may give you a fall; I shall finish in a moment. Go down, I entreat you, if you expect me to retain my presence of mind."
Pier-Angelo descended the ladder slowly; not that he had lost, at sixty years of age, the strength and agility of youth, but in order to make the time that his son required to complete his work seem less long.
"What folly, what trifling!" said the majordomo to the old man. "You work over these temporary canvases as if they were to be exhibited in a museum, whereas they will be rolled up and stored in a garret to-morrow, and will have to be covered with different figures for the next fête! Who will thank you for it? Who will pay the slightest attention to them?"
"Not you; everybody knows that," retorted the young painter, contemptuously, from the top of his ladder.
"Hush, Michel, and attend to your work," said his father. "Everyone takes pride in doing the best he can," he added, looking at the steward. "There are some who take pride in claiming the credit of all our labors! Come! the upholsterers may begin. Give me a hammer and some nails, you fellows! As I have delayed you, it's no more than fair that I should help you."
"Always a good comrade!" said one of the upholsterers, handing the old painter some tools. "Come, Master Pier-Angelo, let art and trade lend each other a hand! One must be mad to get into trouble with you."
"Oh! yes," grumbled Barbagallo, who, contrary to his customary reserved and courteous habit, was in a savage humor that evening; "that's the way everybody pays court to the obstinate old fool, and he doesn't care a fig how much trouble he makes for others."
"Instead of grumbling, you ought to help at the nailing, or by lighting the candles," said Pier-Angelo, with a mocking air. "But, psha I you are afraid you might spoil your satin breeches and tear your ruffles."
"Master Pier-Angelo, you are altogether too familiar, and I swear that I will never employ you after to-day."
"God grant it!" retorted the other with his accustomed phlegm, accompanying himself with sturdy, measured blows of the hammer upon the nails which he drove in quick succession; "but, on the very next occasion, you will come and implore me, and say that nothing can be done without me; and I, as usual, shall forgive your impertinence."
"Well!" said the majordomo to Michel, as he came slowly down his ladder, "is it done at last? That is very fortunate! Quick! quick! help the upholsterers, or the gardeners, or the lamplighters. Do something to make up for lost time."
Michel eyed the majordomo with a haughty air. He had so entirely forgotten even the idea of becoming a mere workman, that he could not imagine how that subordinate could venture to order him to take part in tasks unconnected with his special duties; but, just as he was about to make a sharp retort, he heard his father's voice calling him.
"Come, Michel, bring us some nails here, and help these good fellows, who won't finish in time without us."
"Nothing can be fairer," the young man replied. "I may not be very skilful at that work, but I have good strong arms for stretching. Come, what must I do? Tell me, you fellows!"
"Good!" exclaimed Magnani, a young journeyman upholsterer, outspoken and full of animation, who lived next door to the Lavoratori family in the suburb. "Be a good comrade like your father, whom everybody loves, and you will be loved as he is. We have been told that, because you had studied painting at Rome, you were inclined to be a little conceited, and you certainly do go about the city in a coat that is hardly fitted for an artisan. You have a very pleasing face, to be sure, but people blame you for being ambitious."
"Where would be the harm?" rejoined Michel, working industriously beside Magnani. "Who is not entitled to be ambitious?"
"I like the frankness of your reply, but every man who wishes to be admired should begin by winning affection."
"Am I hated, pray, in this country, where I have just arrived, and where I know no one as yet?"
"It is your own country; you were born here, your family is well known here, and your father highly esteemed; and the very reason that everybody has their eyes fixed on you is that you have just arrived. People think you a comely fellow, well dressed and well built. So far as I am able to judge, you have talent, the figures you have sketched and colored up yonder are not mere vulgar daubs. Your father is proud of you, but that is no reason why you should be proud of yourself. You are still a child, you are several years younger than I; you have almost no beard on your chin; you have never had an opportunity to furnish proofs of courage and virtue. When you have suffered a little because of the hardships of your condition in life, without complaining, then we will forgive you for carrying your head high and swaying from your hips up as you cross the street, with your cap over one ear. Otherwise we shall tell you that you are trying to impose on us, and that if you are not an artisan, but an artist, you had better ride in a carriage and not look the young men of your own rank in the face; for, you see, your father is a workman like us; he has talent in his line, and it may be more difficult to paint flowers, fruit, and birds on a cornice than to hang draperies at a window and arrange colors to harmonize in furnishing a room. But the difference isn't so great that we are not cousins-german in trade. I do not think that I am any better than the carpenter or mason; why do you think yourself above me?"
"I have no such thought," Michel replied; "God preserve me from it!"
"In that case, why didn't you come to our artisans' ball last night? I know that your cousin Vincenzo wanted to bring you, and you refused."
"Do not form a bad opinion of me for that, my friend; it may be that I am of a melancholy and unsociable temperament."
"I don't believe it. Your face says the contrary. Forgive me for speaking to you without ceremony; it is because I like you that I reproach you in this way. But our carpet is all nailed here; we must go somewhere else."
"Two or three of you to each chandelier!" cried the head lamplighter to his men; "you will never finish if you scatter so!"
"I say! I am all alone!" cried Visconti, one of the lighters, a stout fellow and fond of the bottle, who, having a little wine in his brain already, did not hold the lighted match within two inches of the candle. Michel, impressed by the lesson Magnani had given him, placed a stool under the chandelier and attempted to assist Visconti.
"Ah! that is right!" said the latter; "Master Michel's a good fellow, and he will have his reward. The princess pays well, and moreover she wants everybody to enjoy themselves in her house on fête days. There will be a supper for us after the dessert of the nobility's supper, and there'll be no lack of good wine. I have already had a little on account as I passed through the pantry."
"And so you are burning your fingers!" said Michel, with a smile.
"Perhaps your hand won't be as steady as it is now, two or three hours later," retorted Visconti; "for you will come to supper with us, won't you, young man? Your father will sing us his old ballads, which are always good for a laugh. There'll be more than a hundred of us at table at once! Ah! what a lark we will have!"
"Make room, make room!" cried a tall footman, with gold lace on all the seams of his livery; "the princess is coming to see if everything is ready. Make haste, stand aside! Don't shake the carpets so hard, you raise a dust. I say! you lighters up there, don't drop the wax so! take away your tools, make a passage!"
"Well," said the majordomo, "now you will hold your peace, I trust, you workmen! Come, make haste; if you are late, at least act as if you were hurrying. I won't be responsible for the rebuke you are going to receive. I am very sorry for you. But it's your own fault; I can't justify you. Ah! Master Pier-Angelo, this time you have no excuse for coming to beg for compliments."
These words reached young Michel's ears, and all his pride reawoke in his heart. The idea that his father couldbeg forcompliments and receive reproaches was intolerable to him. If he had not as yet been able to see the princess, he could fairly say that he had made no attempt to see her. He was not one of those who run eagerly at the heels of a wealthy and powerful person, to feast that person's eyes with the spectacle of puerile and servile admiration. But this time he stooped as he stood on the stool, seeking with his eyes that haughty personage who, according to Master Barbagallo, would in a moment humiliate an assemblage of intelligent and willing mechanics with a gesture or a word. He remained in that position, considerably above the level of the crowd, in order to see better, but all ready to jump down, rush to his old father's side, and answer for him if, in a spasm of too great affability, the heedless old man should allow himself to be insulted.
The vast apartment which they were hastening to complete was nothing more than an immense garden terrace, covered on the outside with such a wilderness of foliage, garlands and streamers, that one might have taken it for an enormous bower after the style of Watteau. Within, movable floors had been laid on the gravel. Three great marble fountains, decorated with mythological characters, were not at all in the way in that extemporized ball-room, but formed its most beautiful decoration. There was sufficient room to promenade and to dance between those graceful piles. They discharged their jets of limpid water into veritable thickets of flowers, beneath the resplendent glare of the great chandeliers, which spangled them with sparks of light. Benches, arranged as in an ancient amphitheatre, dotted with rose-bushes here and there, provided numerous seats for the guests and did not impede the circulation.
The ceiling was so high that the main stairway of the palace, an admirable piece of architecture, adorned with antique statues and jasper urns of the most beautiful patterns, was wholly within the ball-room. The white marble stairs were newly covered with a purple carpet, and the lackeys who preceded the princess having swept back the crowd of workmen, there was a solemn void about the foot of the staircase. Everybody instinctively held his peace in anticipation of a majestic spectacle.
The workmen, impelled by a feeling of curiosity, ingenuous and respectful in some, mocking and indifferent in others, all fixed their eyes on the great carved doors at the top of the staircase. Michel felt that his heart was beating fast, but it was with anger no less than with impatience. "Who in God's name are these nobles and wealthy mortals," he said to himself, "that they walk so proudly over the altars and platforms that our degraded hands construct for them? A goddess of Olympus would hardly be worthy to appear in such state, at the summit of such a temple, to the base mortals prostrate at her feet! Oh! insolence, falsehood and mockery! It may be that the woman who is about to come forth before my eyes is a woman of narrow mind, of ordinary parts; and yet all these bold, strong men, uncover at her approach!"
Michel had asked his father very few questions concerning Princess Agatha's tastes and character; and even those few questions Pier-Angelo had answered, especially of late, in an absent-minded way, as his custom was when anyone introduced a subject foreign to the train of thought induced by his work. But Michel was proud, and the thought that he was about to be brought face to face with some one prouder than himself aroused a feeling of anger and something like hatred in his heart.
When the Princess of Palmarosa appeared at the top of the stairs, Michel thought that he saw before him a girl of fifteen, she was so lithe and slender in figure and in attitude; but, at each stair that she descended, he discovered an additional year upon her brow; and when he saw her near at hand, he concluded that she was about thirty. That did not prevent her from being beautiful; not resplendent and superb, but pure and sweet, like the bunch of white cyclamen she carried in her hand. She had a reputation for grace and charm rather than for beauty; for she had never been a coquette, and did not seek to create a sensation. Many much less beautiful women had kindled passions because they had chosen so to do. Princess Agatha had never furnished food for gossip, and if there had ever been any profound emotion in her life, society had never had any positive knowledge of it.
She was very charitable, indeed, it might be said that her only occupation was the distribution of alms; but it was done without parade or ostentation, and she was not called the mother of the poor. In a majority of cases the people whom she assisted did not know the source of the assistance they received. She was not a very regular attendant at church, although she did not avoid religious services. She had artistic tastes, and surrounded herself most discerningly with the most beautiful objects and the noblest minds. But she did not shine in the centre of her social system, nor did she make a pedestal of her connections or her wealth. In everything it seemed that she preferred to do as all the world did, and that, whether from apathy, from good taste, or from inward timidity, she had made it an object in life never to attract notice. There never was a more inoffensive woman. People esteemed her, loved her without enthusiasm, appreciated her worth without jealousy. But was she appreciated at her true worth? That is something that it would have been difficult to say. She was not supposed to have a great intellect. The highest praise that her oldest friends bestowed upon her was to say that she was an absolutely reliable person and of a very even disposition.
All this could be readily seen in the first glance that one cast upon her, and young Michel, as he watched her descend the staircase with careless grace, felt his aversion vanish with his dread. It was impossible to retain a feeling of irritation in presence of so pure, and calm, and sweet a face. But, as he had prepared, in his anger, to defy the awe-inspiring glance of a domineering and splendid beauty, he felt as if his mind were relieved of a great weight when he saw an ordinary woman. He had an instinctive feeling that, even if she came to scold, she would have neither the energy, nor, perhaps, the spirit to be insulting. His heart became calmer, and he gazed at her with increasing tranquillity, as if the refreshing fluid emanating from a serene mind had found its way from her to him.
She was richly but simply dressed in a heavy silk gown of a dull milky white, without ornament. A small circle of diamonds embellished her glossy black hair, parted in bands over a smooth, pure forehead. Doubtless she could have worn richer jewels, but her coronet was a work of art of most excellent workmanship, and did not weary her small, admirably poised head with a dragging weight. Her shoulders, half bare, had lost the interesting thinness of early youth, and had not yet attained the luxuriant rotundity of the third or fourth youth. There were still some delicate lines in her figure, and in her every movement a careless suppleness, which seemed to be unaware of its own existence and to pose for no one.
With the end of her fan she slowly waved aside the footman and the majordomo, who were exerting themselves to make room for her, and passed before them, stepping easily and without awkward haste over the boards and rolls of carpet which still lay in her path; and with a sort of heedlessness, humble or lordly, as you please, allowing the long folds of her beautiful white silk dress to drag in the dust left by the feet of the mechanics. With no sign of repugnance, perhaps without observing them, she brushed against the perspiring workmen, who could not step aside quickly enough. She passed through a group of gardeners, who were moving huge boxes, and did not seem to notice or to be disturbed by the danger of being crushed or wounded. She returned the salutations of those who saluted her, without the slightest assumption of superiority or patronage, and when she was in the midst of the swarm of men, boards, ladders, and canvas, she halted very calmly, looked about to see what was finished and what was not, and said in a mild and encouraging voice:
"Well,gentlemen, do you hope to have everything finished in time? We have barely half an hour."
"I will answer for everything, my dear princess," replied Pier-Angelo, approaching her with a cheerful air; "don't you see that I am putting my hand to everything?"
"In that case, I have no fear," said she, "and I rely also upon everybody here. It would be a pity to leave such a beautiful piece of work unfinished. I am exceedingly pleased. It is all conceived with taste and executed with great care. I thank you very much for the pains you have taken to do the work well,gentlemen, and this fête will redound to your glory."
"My son Michel will have his share in it, I trust," rejoined the old decorator; "will your ladyship deign to permit me to present him to you? Come, Michel, come and kiss the princess's hand, my son; she is a kind princess, you see!"
Michel did not move a muscle to approach them. Although the way in which the princess hadscoldedhis father had touched him and won his heart, he was by no means inclined to humble himself before her. He was well aware that the Italian custom of kissing a lady's hand denotes either the respectful homage of a friend or the prostration of an inferior, and, having no right to claim the former title, he did not choose to descend to the other. He removed his velvet cap and stood erect, affecting to look the princess in the face with perfect self-possession.
Thereupon she fixed her eyes upon him, and, whether because her features wore an expression of kindness and cordiality in contrast to the careless good-nature of her manners, or because Michel was assailed by a strange hallucination, he was stirred to the lowest depths of his being by that unexpected glance. It seemed to him that a searching flame, intense and penetrating, entered his very soul from the great lady's soft eyes; that an ineffable affection, coming forth from that unknown heart, had taken possession of his whole being; in short, that the Princess Agatha said to him in language more eloquent than any human words: "Come to my arms, come to my heart!"
Michel, bewildered, fascinated, beside himself, shuddered, turned pale, approached with an involuntary, convulsive movement, tremblingly took the princess's hand, and, as he was about to put it to his lips, raised his eyes once more to hers, thinking that he had been mistaken, and that he could in that way put an end to a dream that was at once painful and delicious. But those pure and limpid eyes expressed a love so absolute and so trustful that he lost his head, felt that his senses were leaving him, and fell as if crushed at the signora's feet.
When he recovered his presence of mind, the princess was already several steps away. She walked on, followed by Pier-Angelo, and when they were alone at the farther end of the room, they seemed to be discussing some detail of the fête. Michel was ashamed; his emotion rapidly vanished in face of the thought that he had presented to all his companions a spectacle of incredible weakness and presumption; but, as the princess's kind words had electrified them all, and as they had all resumed their labor with a sort of joyful frenzy, they sang and hammered, and bustled about him, and his adventure was a mere incident, lost, or at least not understood, in the crowd. Some had noticed, with a smile, that he bowed lower than he needed to do, and that it was apparently an aristocratic and gallant habit which he had brought from abroad with his haughty air and his fine clothes. Others thought that he had stumbled over a board when he was about to bow, and that his awkwardness had caused his confusion.