The Piccinino took Mila's arm in his and walked about the garden with her, leading her on to talk of the princess. His imagination was engrossed by that woman who had made so deep an impression on him, and he entirely forgot that Mila had occupied his thoughts and disturbed his senses during a part of the day.
Honest Mila, still convinced that she was talking to a sincere friend, abandoned herself to the pleasure of praising the woman whom she loved with enthusiasm, andforgot that she was forgetting herself, as she expressed it, after walking about for an hour under the magnificent trees in the garden at Nicolosi.
The Piccinino had an impressionable brain and a fickle humor. His whole life was a constant alternation of meditation and curiosity. The simple and graceful conversation of Mila, her kindly thoughts, the generous outflow of her affections, and an indefinable touch of grandeur of soul, courage, and cheeriness of temperament, which she inherited from her father and uncle, gradually fascinated the brigand. New horizons opened before him, as if he were passing from the contemplation of a painful and fatiguing drama to that of a placid and lightsome idyll. He was too intelligent not to understand everything, even those things which were most opposed to his instincts and habits. He had devoured Byron's poems. In his dreams he had raised himself to the level of Don Juan and Lara; but he had read Petrarch too, and knew him by heart; indeed he had smiled instead of yawning, as he murmured to himself theconcettiofAmintaand thePastor Fido. He felt soothed by his frank converse with little Mila, even more than he ordinarily was when he resorted to that sentimental nonsense to allay the tempests of his passions.
But at last the sun began to sink. Mila thought of Magnani, and asked leave to go.
"Very well,addio, my sweet Mila," said the Piccinino; "but as we walk back to the garden gate I propose to do for you in all seriousness what I have never done for any woman, except from some selfish motive or in mockery."
"What is that, monsignor?" queried Mila, in amazement.
"I propose to pluck a bouquet for you, a virginal bouquet, from the flowers in my garden," he answered, with a smile, in which, if there was a suspicion of mockery, it was directed at himself alone.
To Mila this attention seemed much less surprising than it seemed to the Piccinino. He plucked with care white roses, myrtle, and orange blossoms; he picked the thorns from the roses; he selected the finest flowers; and with more taste and skill than he would have given himself credit for, he made a superb bouquet for his amiable guest.
"Ah!" he said as he presented it to her, "we must not forget the cyclamen. There must be some among this grass. No, no, Mila, do not look; I want to pick them myself, so that the princess may enjoy inhaling the perfume of my bouquet. For you must tell her that it comes from me, and that it was the only attention which I ventured to offer you, after a tête-à -tête of two hours in my house."
"Then you do not forbid me to tell Princess Agatha that I have been here?"
"You must tell her, Mila. You must tell her everything. But her alone, do you understand? Swear it on your salvation, for you believe in that, do you not?"
"Why, do not you believe in it, signor?"
"I believe that I have earned the right to go to Paradise to-day, if I should die at once; for my heart is as pure as a little child's since you have been with me."
"But, suppose the princess asks me who you are, monsignor, and whom I am talking about—how shall I describe you so that she may know?"
"You will tell her what I wish you also to know, Mila. But perhaps there will be times hereafter when my face and my name will no longer be in accord. Then you must hold your peace, and, at need, pretend that you never saw me, for with a word you could cause my death."
"God forbid!" cried Mila, effusively. "Ah! monsignor, rely on my prudence and my discretion as if my life were bound to yours!"
"Very well; say to the princess that it was Carmelo Tomabene who rescued you from Abbé Ninfo, and who kissed your hand as respectfully as he would kiss her own."
"It is for me to kiss your hand, monsignor," replied the guileless child, putting the brigand's hand to her lips, firmly persuaded that it was at least a king's son who treated her with such condescending courtesy; "for you are deceiving me," she continued. "Carmelo Tomabene is avillano, and this house is no more yours than his name is. You might live in a palace, if you chose, but you disguise yourself for political reasons which I ought not to know, and do not wish to. I have an idea that you will be King of Sicily some day. Ah! how I would like to be a man and fight for your cause! for you will bring about the happiness of your people, I am sure of it!"
Mila's jesting extravagance caused a momentary madness in the brigand's audacious brain. He had a touch of vertigo, and felt almost the same emotion as if she had guessed the truth instead of dreaming a dream. But instantly he laughed an almost bitter laugh, which did not dispel Mila's illusions. She thought that it was an attempt to banish her rash suspicions, and she frankly asked his forgiveness for the words that had escaped her.
"My child," he replied, kissing her on the brow and assisting her to mount the white mule, "Princess Agatha will tell you who I am. I authorize you to ask her; but, when you find out, remember that you are my accomplice, or that you must send me to the gallows."
"I would rather go myself!" said Mila, as she rode away, calling his attention to the respectful kiss she bestowed upon his bouquet.
"Well!" said the Piccinino to himself, "this has been the pleasantest and most romantic adventure of my whole life. I have played the part of a king in disguise, without showing it, without taking the trouble to prepare for it, without making any arrangements to afford myself that amusement. Unexpected pleasures are the only genuine ones, they say; I begin to believe it. Perhaps it is because I have premeditated my actions too much, and laid out my life beforehand too carefully, that I have so often found ennui and distaste at the end of my undertakings. Fascinating Mila! What a wealth of poesy, what freshness of the imagination in your young brain! Oh! if only you were a youth of my own sex! if I could keep you beside me without causing you to lose any of your pleasant illusions and your blessed purity! I should find the sweet companionship of a wife in a faithful comrade, without danger of arousing or feeling the passion which poisons and destroys all friendships! But such mortals do not exist. Woman cannot fail to be treacherous; man cannot cease to be brutal. Ah! I always have missed—I always shall miss—the being able to love some one. I should have had to fall in with a mind different from all other minds and even more different from my own—which is impossible!
"Am I then an exceptional character?" he asked himself, following with his eyes the prints of Mila's little feet on the gravelled paths of his garden. "It seems to me that I am, when I compare myself with the mountaineers with whom I am compelled to live, and with these bandits whose leader I am. I have more than one brother among them, so it is said. The fact that they have none of my qualities, makes it impossible for me to believe it. The passions which serve as a bond between us differ as much as our features and our bodily strength. They desire booty in order to convert into money everything that is not money; and I care for nothing which is not of value by reason of its beauty or its rarity. What they succeed in obtaining they hoard because they are miserly; I use it sparingly, so that I may be able to bear myself royally with them on occasion, and extend my power and influence over everyone about me.
"Thus gold is to me only a means, while to them it is the end. They love women as chattels, and I, alas! would fain be able to love them as human beings! They are intoxicated with delight by acts of violence which make me sick at heart, and by which I should be humiliated, knowing that I have the power to please, and having never been compelled to force myself upon anyone. No, no! they are no brothers of mine; if they are theDestatore'ssons, they are the offspring of wild dissipation and of his years of moral decadence. I am the son of Castro-Reale; I was conceived on a day when his mind was lucid. My mother was not violated like the rest. She abandoned herself to him willingly, and I am the fruit of the intercourse of two free hearts, who did not give me life against their wills.
"But, in that world which is called society, and which I call the legal community, are there not many persons of both sexes with whom I could enter into relations, and so escape this ghastly solitude of my thoughts? Are there not men of intelligence, endowed with keen perception, whose friend I might be? Are there not many women, proud and adroit, whose lover I might be, without being compelled to laugh at the pains I had taken to overcome them? In a word, am I doomed never to find emotion of any sort in this life which I embraced as being most fruitful in violent emotions? Shall I always be obliged to expend endless stores of imaginative power and of tact, in order to succeed in pillaging a vessel on the coast or a party of travellers in the gorges of the mountain? And all to obtain a multitude of petty trinkets, a little money, and the hearts of a few Englishwomen, ugly or half-mad, who adore adventures with brigands as a remedy for the spleen!
"But I have closed to myself forever that world where I might find my equals and my fellows. I can enter only through the secret doors of intrigue, and, if I wish to appear there in broad daylight, I can do it only on condition of being followed by the mystery of my past, that is to say, by a sentence of death always hanging over my head. Shall I leave the country? It is the only country where the trade of bandit is more perilous than dishonorable. Anywhere else I shall be asked for proof that I have always lived in legitimate society; and if I cannot furnish it I shall be classed with the most degraded creatures who wallow in the sloughs of their pretended civilization!
"O Mila! how completely you have filled with grief and dismay this heart upon which you have shed a ray of your sunlight!"
Thus did that man, so ill-placed in life if we compare his intellectual powers with his social position, torture himself with vain reflections. Mental culture, which was his greatest enjoyment, was also his torment. Having read everything that fell into his hands, without method and without selection, and allowing himself to be impressed by everything in turn, he was as learned in evil as in good, and he was insensibly drawing near that scepticism which no longer believes absolutely in either good or evil.
He returned to his house to take certain precautions with respect to Abbé Ninfo, so that, if the unexpected should happen, and his domicile be invaded, there should be no traces of violence. He put the narcotized wine out of sight, and filled the decanter with unadulterated wine, in order that he might safely pretend to experiment upon himself at need. He placed the abbé on a couch, extinguished the lamp, and swept up the ashes of the papers Mila had destroyed. No one ever entered his house in his absence. He had no regular servants, and the spotless neatness which he himself maintained did not cost him much trouble, for he occupied only a few rooms, and even those few he did not enter every day. He worked in his garden, in his leisure moments, to keep himself in condition, and to be consistent with his assumed rôle of peasant. He had himself applied to all the issues of his abode a simple but substantial system of fastening, calculated to resist for a long time any attempt to force an entrance. Finally, he released two enormous and savage mountain dogs, fierce beasts who knew nobody but him, and who would infallibly have strangled the prisoner if he had tried to escape.
Having taken these precautions, the Piccinino washed and perfumed himself, and, before going down to the city, showed himself in the village of Nicolosi, where he was highly esteemed by all the people. He conversed in Latin with the priest, under the vine-clad arbor of the vicarage. He exchanged sly jests with the pretty girls of the village, who ogled him from their doorsteps. He held several consultations on agriculture and general affairs with men of sense who appreciated his intelligence and his extensive knowledge. As he left the village he fell in with an officer ofcampieri, with whom he walked for some distance, and who informed him that the Piccinino still succeeded in eluding the pursuit of the police and the municipal brigade.
Mila, eager to tell all her secrets to the princess, and to avail herself of the mysterious prince's permission to ascertain their meaning, travelled as quickly as Bianca was able to descend those steep and dangerous slopes. It did not occur to her to hold the mule back; she was too deeply absorbed in her meditations. Persons of pure heart and tranquil mind must have noticed that, when they communicate their mental disposition to perturbed and agitated minds, their own serenity is diminished in proportion. They give only at the price of running in debt themselves to some extent; for confidence is a matter of exchange, and there is no heart so richly endowed and so powerful that it does not risk something in gratifying its beneficent impulses.
Gradually, however, pretty Mila's terror changed to joy. The Piccinino's conversation had left an echo as of sweet music in her ears, and the odor of his bouquet kept alive the illusion that she was still in that rustic garden, under the shade of the black fig-trees and pistacias, walking upon carpets of moss strewn with mallow, orchids and fraxinella, sometimes catching her veil on the aloes and the twigs of the thorny smilax, from which her host quickly detached it with respectful courtesy. Mila had the simple tastes of her class, added to the tendency to romance and poesy born of her intelligence. If the marble fountains and statues of Villa Palmarosa appealed to her imagination, the vine-clad arbors and wild apple-trees of Carmelo's garden spoke more loudly to her heart. She had already forgotten the bandit's oriental boudoir; she had not felt at her ease there as she had under the arbor. He had been cold and satirical almost all the time in the boudoir, whereas, among the flowering shrubs and beside the silvery spring, he had displayed an artless mind and a tender heart.
How did it happen that this girl, who had just seen such strange and distressing things, a queen's boudoir in the house of a peasant, and the ghastly scene of Abbé Ninfo's lethargy, no longer remembered what must have impressed her imagination so profoundly? Her surprise and her fright had vanished like a dream, and her mind was engrossed by the final tableau, fresh and unsullied, where she saw naught but flowers, greenswards, birds chattering among the leaves, and a handsome young man who guided her through that enchanted labyrinth, conversing with her in chaste and charming language.
When Mila had passed theDestatore'scross, she dismounted, as Carmelo had advised her to do, as a measure of prudence. She fastened the reins to the saddle-bow and waved a switch about Bianca's ears. The intelligent beast started back at a gallop toward Nicolosi, needing no guidance to return to her stable. Mila continued her journey on foot, avoiding the neighborhood of Bel-Passo; but, by a veritable fatality, Fra Angelo happened to be returning just then from the Della Serra palace to his convent by a by-path, so that Mila suddenly found herself face to face with him.
The poor girl drew hermantellinaabout her and began to walk very fast, as if she had not seen her uncle.
"Where have you been, Mila?" was the greeting which brought her to a standstill, uttered as it was in a tone which admitted of no hesitation.
"Why! uncle," she replied, putting aside her veil, "I didn't see you; the sun was in my eyes."
"Where have you been?" repeated the monk, not deigning to discuss the probable truth of that reply.
"Well, uncle," said Mila, resolutely, "I will not tell you a lie; I saw you plainly."
"I know it; but will you tell me where you have been?"
"I have been to the convent, uncle. I was looking for you, and, not finding you, I was going back to the city."
"What was it that you were in such a hurry to say to me, my dear girl? It must be very important, for you to dare to come out into the country alone, contrary to your habit. Come, answer me! You say nothing! You cannot lie, Mila!"
"Yes, uncle, yes! I came——" And she stopped short, completely at a loss, for she had made no preparations for this meeting, and her wits abandoned her.
"You are losing your head, Mila," rejoined the monk, "for I tell you that you do not know how to lie, and you answer 'Yes!' Thank heaven, you don't know what you are saying! Do not try to lie, my child, but tell me frankly where you have been."
"Well, uncle, I cannot tell you."
"Indeed!" cried Fra Angelo, with a frown. "I order you to tell me!"
"It is impossible, dear uncle, impossible," said Mila, hanging her head, crimson with shame, and with her eyes filled with tears; for it was very painful to her to see her excellent uncle angry with her for the first time in her life.
"Then you wish me to believe that you have been doing either an insane or a wicked thing!"
"Neither!" cried Mila, raising her head. "I call God to witness!"
"God!" repeated the monk, in a despairing tone. "How you pain me by speaking so, Mila! Can you be capable of swearing a false oath?"
"No, uncle, no, never!"
"Lie to your uncle, if it seems best to you, but do not lie to God!"
"Am I in the habit of lying, I ask you, then?" exclaimed the girl, proudly; "and ought I to be suspected by my uncle, the man who knows me so well, and for whose esteem I care more than for my life?"
"In that case, speak!" rejoined Fra Angelo, grasping her wrist in a way which he considered encouraging and paternal, but which bruised the child's arm and extorted a cry of terror from her.—"Why this fright, pray?" demanded the monk, in amazement. "Ah! you are guilty, girl. You have just done—not anything sinful, I cannot believe that—but some foolish thing or other, which is the first step on the pathway of evil. If it were not so, you would not recoil from me in terror; you would not have tried to hide your face when we met; above all things, you would not have tried to lie! And now, as it is impossible for you to have any innocent secret from me, you should not refuse to explain your actions."
"But I tell you, uncle, that it is an entirely innocent secret, and still it is impossible for me to tell you what it is. Do not ask me any more questions. I would die before I would speak."
"At all events, Mila, promise me that you will tell your father this secret which I may not know!"
"I cannot promise you that; but I swear that I will tell it to Princess Agatha."
"I have the greatest esteem and veneration for Princess Agatha," replied the monk, "but I know that women are excessively indulgent to one another in the matter of certain errors of conduct, and that virtuous women are the more tolerant because of their ignorance of evil. I do not, therefore, like the idea of your seeking shelter against shame on your friend's bosom, instead of explaining your conduct to your family, with head erect. Go, Mila; I insist no farther, since you have withdrawn your confidence from me; but I pity you because your heart is not pure and calm this evening as it was this morning. I pity my brother, whose pride and joy you were; I pity your brother, who will soon have to answer for your conduct before the world, I doubt not, and who will have plenty of trouble on his hands unless he chooses to allow you to be insulted on his arm. Woe, woe to the men of a family, when the women, who should watch over its honor as the Vestals watched over the sacred fire, break the laws of prudence, modesty and truth!"
Fra Angelo passed on, leaving poor Mila, crushed by this malediction, kneeling on the stones in the road, with bloodless cheeks and her bosom heaving with sobs.
"Alas!" she said to herself, "until this moment it seemed to me that my conduct was not only innocent, but brave and praiseworthy. Oh! how harsh the laws of modest reserve and the necessity of an unsullied reputation are for women, since, even when it is a question of saving the lives of one's family, one must expect to be blamed by those whom one loves best! Was it wrong for me to trust to theprince'spromises? He may have deceived me, it is true! But when his conduct has proved his honor and his virtue, ought I to blame myself for believing in him? Was it not a presentiment of the truth that led me toward him, and not mere foolish and imprudent curiosity?"
She kept on down the mountain, but, as she walked, she questioned her conscience severely, and some scruples awoke within her. Had she not been impelled by pride to accomplish a difficult and perilous enterprise of which no one would have believed her to be capable? Had she not allowed herself to be influenced by the stranger's comeliness and charm of manner, and would she have had equal confidence in an older and less eloquent man?
"But what does it matter after all?" she said to herself. "What have I done that is wrong, and what reproach could be brought against me if I had been watched? I have run the risk of being misrepresented and slandered, and that is certainly a fault when one does it from egotism or a spirit of coquetry; but when one exposes oneself to danger to save one's father and brother!—Princess Agatha will be my judge; she will tell me whether I have done right or wrong, and whether she would have acted as I did."
But imagine poor Mila's dismay, when, as soon as she began her story, the princess interrupted her, saying: "O my child! it was the Piccinino!"
Mila tried to struggle against the truth. She insisted that everybody said that the Piccinino was short, thickset, awkwardly built, afflicted with hideous ugliness, and that his face was darkened by bushy hair and a beard; whereas the stranger's slight figure was so graceful and refined, his manners so gracious and noble!
"My child," said the princess, "there is a false Piccinino who plays the part of his chief with people of whom his chief is suspicious, and who would play it, at need, before the police and magistrates, if he should fall into their hands. He is a repulsive, savage creature, who enhances, by the horror of his appearance, the terror inspired by the expeditions of the band. But the real Piccinino, the one who styles himself thejusticier d'aventure, and who directs all the operations of the brigands of the mountain; the man whom nobody knows and as to whom, if he should be captured, it would be impossible to prove that he had ever been the leader or a member of the band, is a handsome, well-educated, eloquent, dissipated and cunning young man; the same Carmelo Tomabene with whom you talked at the fountain."
Mila was so thunderstruck that she almost determined not to go on with her story. How could she confess that she had been the dupe of a hypocrite and had placed herself at the mercy of a libertine? She did confess everything, however, with absolute sincerity, and, when she had finished, began to weep afresh, thinking of the risks she had run, and of the conjectures of which she would be the object if the Piccinino should chance to boast of her visit.
But Agatha, who had trembled with apprehension more than once as she listened, and who had resolved to reprove her for her imprudence, by pointing out to her that the Piccinino was too adroit to have really needed her assistance, was disarmed by her ingenuous grief, and embraced her warmly to comfort her. What impressed her quite as deeply as the rashness of the girl, was the physical and moral courage which had inspired her, her determination to take her own life at the slightest suggestion of outrage, and her unbounded devotion and her generous confidence. She thanked her affectionately therefore, because she had been guided in part by the desire to deliver her from an enemy; and finally, when she was fully assured that Abbé Ninfo was really in thejusticier'spower, she was so overcome by joy that she kissed little Mila's hands, calling her her good fairy and her angel of salvation.
Mila being thus comforted and reconciled with herself, the princess, in an outburst of childlike merriment, proposed to her that she should change her dress to assist her to recover from the fatigue of her expedition, and that then they should go and surprise her father and brother at the marquis's villa.
"We will go on foot," she said, "for it is close by if we go by way of the garden; and we will dine together first. Then we shall have the darkness and cool breeze of early evening, and in addition a travelling companion whom you do not expect perhaps, but whom you will not be sorry to see, for he is a friend of yours."
"I wonder who it can be," said Mila, with a smile; she guessed shrewdly enough, but with respect to her heart's secret, and to that alone, she recovered all the prudence of the feminine mind.
The dinner and the preparations of the two friends occupied about an hour; after which the maid came and whispered to the princess: "The young man of last evening, at the end of the garden, by the eastern gate."
"That is right," said the princess, leading Mila away; "that is our road." And they hurried across the park, joyous and light of heart; for both were born again to the hope of happiness.
Magnani was walking back and forth, melancholy and distraught, waiting to be sent for to go to the palace, when two veiled women, issuing from the clumps of myrtle and orange, ran to him, and grasping each an arm, hurried him along with them without speaking. He recognized them perfectly, the princess better than Mila, who seemed to him to be dressed more elaborately than usual under her light cape; but he was too deeply moved to speak, and he pretended to accept this gracious jest gayly. A smile played about his lips, but his heart was troubled; and, while he sought relief from the perturbation caused by Agatha's presence, he derived but little assistance from feeling Mila's arm in his.
As they passed into the marquis's park, the princess put aside her veil and said to him:
"My dear friend, I intended to talk with you at my house; but my impatience to announce some good news to our friends, who are visiting the marquis, led me to bring you here with us. The whole evening belongs to us, and I can talk with you here as well as elsewhere. But let us go forward noiselessly; we are not expected and I want to surprise them."
The marquis and his guests, after conversing a long time, were still on the terrace looking out upon the sea, where the horizon was ablaze with the last rays of the sun, while the stars appeared one by one in the zenith. Michel was listening with deep interest to the marquis, whose conversation was instructive, albeit always affable and unaffected. What was his surprise when, on raising his head, he saw three persons seated about the table, laden with refreshments, which he had just left to walk to the balustrade, and when, in those three persons, he recognized Agatha, Mila, and Magnani!
At first he had no eyes except for Agatha, and hardly recognized his sister and his friend. The princess was dressed, however, with the utmost simplicity, in a dress of pearl-gray silk, with aguardaspalleof black lace thrown over her head and shoulders. She seemed to him a little less fresh and youthful than she had appeared under the bright lights. But, in a moment, the charm of her manner, her frank smile, her pure and sincere glance, made her seem even younger and more attractive than on the first day.
"Are you surprised to see your dear daughter here?" she asked Pier-Angelo. "But she told you, did she not, that she should not dine alone? And you see! you left her at home, and like Cinderella, she appears in the midst of the fête, resplendent in costume and beauty. As for Master Magnani, he is the enchanter who attends her; but as we are not dealing with Don Magnifico on this occasion, the enchanter will not dazzle the father's eyes so that he will not recognize his cherished daughter. Cinderella therefore can challenge the glances of all present."
As she spoke Agatha raised Mila's veil, and disclosed herradiant as a sun; such is the expression of the legend.
Michel looked at his sister. She was fairly beaming with confidence and joy. The princess had arrayed her in a gown of bright pink silk, with several strings of beautiful great pearls about her neck and arms. A wreath of natural flowers, wonderfully beautiful and arranged with consummate art, crowned her dark face without concealing the abundant treasures of her hair. Her little feet were daintily shod, and her pretty fingers opened and closed Agatha's splendid fan with as much grace and dignity as anymarchesina. She was a muse of the Renaissance, a patrician maiden, and a lovely damsel of the South, radiant with health, nobility, and poetic charm.
Agatha looked at her with an air of motherly pride, and smiled lovingly as she talked of her in Pier-Angelo's ear.
Michel then turned his eyes upon Magnani. He was gazing alternately at the modest princess and the lovely silk-spinner of the Catanian suburb with extraordinary emotion. He was no better able than Michel to understand the strange and bewildering dream in which he seemed to be moving. But it is certain that he saw Mila only through a cloud of gold and fire, which emanated from Agatha and was projected upon her young friend as if by magic.
The princess led the marquis and Pier-Angelo aside to tell them that Ninfo was in the Piccinino's hands, and that she had been so informed by an eye-witness of his capture whom she was not at liberty to name.
More ices were brought, and the conversation was renewed. Despite Magnani's perturbation and timidity, despite Michel's excitement and preoccupation, the princess and the marquis speedily tranquillized the two young men, thanks to the judicious courtesy and the great art of being simple, which well-bred people possess when the foundation of their character corresponds with the external charm due to exquisite tact. Thus Agatha questioned Michel concerning subjects with which he was familiar, and on which he felt deeply. The young artist was overjoyed by her perfect comprehension of art, and he stored away in his memory several far-reaching definitions which she let fall, her mode of expressing herself was so simple and natural. When she spoke to him she seemed to be consulting rather than instructing him, and her glance, alight with penetrating sympathy, seemed to seek in Michel's eyes confirmation of her own opinions and ideas.
Magnani understood all that was said, and, although he seldom ventured to speak, it was easy to read on his intelligent face that none of the ideas advanced were beyond the reach of his intellect. That young man had unusual faculties which would never have been cultivated, perhaps, but for his romantic passion. From the day that he first became enamored of the princess he had constantly devoted a portion of his leisure to reading and to the study of such works of art as he had been privileged to see. He had employed his vacations—what mechanics call thedead season—in travelling about Sicily on foot, viewing the treasures of antiquity with which that island, so beautiful in itself, is thickly strewn. While saying to himself that he was determined to remain humble and obscure, and persuading himself that he had no desire to depart from the rough simplicity of his class, he had been impelled by an irresistible instinct to improve his mind.
The conversation having become general, was pleasant, unconstrained, and even merry, thanks to Pier-Angelo's sallies and Mila's artless remarks. But her artlessness was so touching that, far from wounding Michel's self-esteem in the princess's presence, it displayed his young sister's fifteen years to him in a new light. It is certain that he had paid too little heed to the very great change which a year had caused in the ideas of a girl of her age, when, thinking that he still had to do with a heedless and timid child, he had undertaken to blast all the hopes of her heart with a word. In every word that Mila said she manifested immense progress in respect to intelligence and decision of character, and the contrast between that development of her mind, and the inexperience, innocence and simplicity of her heart, presented a spectacle at once charming and affecting. The princess, with the delicate tact which women alone possess, caused Mila's charm to stand out in bolder relief by her replies, and neither Michel, nor Magnani, nor Pier-Angelo himself, had ever before imagined how much enjoyment might be derived from talking with that maiden.
The moon rose, silvery white, in the cloudless sky. Agatha suggested a walk in the garden. They started together; but the princess soon strolled away from the others with Magnani, whose arm she took familiarly; and for half an hour they remained so far away from their friends that they were often out of sight.
We will not divulge at this point what the princess had to say in confidence to the young mechanic during that tête-à -tête, which seemed to Michel so long and so extraordinary; indeed, we shall not divulge it at all. The reader will divine it at the proper time.
But Michel was unable to form the faintest idea of it, and he was on the rack. He ceased to listen to the marquis; he was much more inclined to tease and contradict Mila. He laughed at her costume and picked flaws in it under his breath, and almost made her cry; so that she finally whispered to him: "Michel, you always were jealous, and you are jealous at this moment."
"Jealous of what, pray?" he retorted bitterly; "of your pink dress and your pearl necklace?"
"No," she said, "but of the princess's friendship for your friend and her confidence in him. Oh! I remember how you used to sulk when we were children, if mamma kissed me more than you."
When the princess and Magnani joined them again, Agatha seemed calm and Magnani deeply moved. But his noble face was even graver than usual, and Michel noticed that his manner had undergone a remarkable change. He no longer seemed to be at all confused by Agatha's presence. When she spoke to him, the reply no longer trembled on his lips; he no longer turned his eyes away in dismay, and, instead of the terrible suffering he had previously displayed, he was calm, attentive and thoughtful. They talked a few moments longer, then the princess turned to go. The marquis offered his carriage. She declined it. "I prefer to walk back through the gardens as I came," she said; "and, as I must have an escort, although we no longer have any enemies to fear, I will take Michelangelo's arm—unless he refuses!"—she added, with a quiet smile, observing the young man's confusion.
Michel could find no words for a reply; he bowed and offered her his arm. An hour earlier he would have been beside himself with joy. Now it wounded his pride to receive in public a favor which Magnani had received privately and as it were in secret.
Pier-Angelo took his leave with his daughter, to whom Magnani did not offer his arm. So much ceremonious courtesy was not in his line. He affected to be ignorant of the rules of politeness because he detested imitation, but in reality his manners were always gentle and amiable. After a few steps he found himself so near Mila that he naturally took her round elbow in his hand to guide her through the narrow lanes of the suburb, and walked with her, supporting her thus, to her door.
Michel had started off encased in his pride as in a cuirass, mentally accusing the princess of caprice and coquetry, and firmly resolved not to allow himself to be dazzled by her advances. And yet he confessed to himself that he was entirely unable to understand the irritation that he felt. He was forced to say to himself that she was immeasurably kind, and that if she was, in fact, indebted to old Pier-Angelo, she paid her debt with all the treasures of delicacy and refinement which a woman's heart can contain.
But Michel could not forget all the problems which he had been trying for two days to solve; and the way in which the princess pressed his arm at that moment, as they walked, like a woman passionately in love or a nervous person unaccustomed to walking, was a fresh problem which the idea of a service rendered the signora by his father did not sufficiently explain.
He strode forward at first in silence, saying to himself that he would not speak first, that he would not give way to emotion, that he would not forget that Magnani's arm had probably been pressed in the same way; in a word, that he would be on his guard: for either Princess Agatha was mad, or she concealed the most insane coquetry beneath a virtuous and downcast exterior.
But all his fine plans came to naught. The shady paths that they trod, with plots of land carefully tilled and planted on each side, led through a succession of small gardens belonging to well-to-do mechanics or middle-class citizens of the town. The paths were separated from the plots only by shrubs, rose-bushes, or beds of aromatic herbs. Here and there vine-clad arbors cast a dense shadow about them. The moon's rays were oblique and uncertain. Innumerable perfumes arose from the flower-strewn fields, and the sea, behind the hills in the distance, murmured in amorous tones. Nightingales sang among the jasmines. Some human voices sang in the distance, gayly challenging the echo; but there was no one on the path which Michel and Agatha were following. The little gardens were deserted. Michel felt oppressed; his pace slackened, his arm trembled convulsively. A faint breeze blew the princess's veil near his face, and he fancied that he heard mysterious voices whispering in his ear. He dared not turn to see whether it was a woman's breath or the breath of night that caressed him so near at hand.
"My dear Michel," said the princess, in a calm tone, which brought him abruptly from the sky to the earth, "I ask your pardon, but I really must stop to take breath. I am not much accustomed to walking, and I feel very tired. Here is a bench under this arbor which invites me to sit down for five minutes, and I fancy that the owners of this little garden, if they should see me, would not accuse me of committing a crime if I take advantage of it."
Michel led her to the bench to which she pointed, and, restored to reason once more, walked a few steps away to look at a little fountain whose soft gurgling failed to divert him from his reverie.
"Yes, yes, it was a dream, or else it was my little sister Mila who gave me that kiss. She is a mocking madcap! she would have explained the great mystery of the locket to me if I had questioned her frankly and earnestly. Doubtless there is some perfectly natural cause for all this which does not occur to me. Isn't it always so with natural causes? The only one that one does not divine is always the simplest. Ah! if Mila knew what danger she is playing with, and what pain she might spare me by telling me the truth! I will press her so to-morrow that she will tell me everything!"
While Michel reflected thus, the crystal water murmured in its narrow basin, wherein quivered the spectre of the moon. The fountain was a small terra-cotta affair, of classic simplicity; an aquatic cupid grasping a huge carp from whose mouth the stream of water fell about a foot into the reservoir. The artist who had executed the figure had attempted to give it a mischievous expression, but he had succeeded only in imparting to the carp's great eyes a glare of grotesque ferocity. Michel looked at the group without seeing it, and to no purpose was the night soft and fragrant; he, passionate lover of nature that he was, absorbed by his own thoughts, denied to nature his accustomed homage on that evening.
And yet the murmur of the water acted upon his imagination without his realizing it. He remembered a similar melodious sound, the timid and melancholy murmur with which the marble Naiad filled the grotto of the Palmarosa palace as she emptied her urn into the basin; the blissful sensations of his dream passed before his mind once more, and he would fain have fallen asleep where he stood, hoping for a repetition of his hallucination.
"But what am I thinking of!" he suddenly said to himself; "am I not a most absurd novice? Did she not stop here in order to invite me to prolong an ardent tête-à -tête? I took that sudden fatigue, that fancy to sit in the first garden that we came to, for an honest explanation of the confusion she felt—was it not intended as an encouragement to my uncouth timidity?"
He eagerly approached the princess, feeling emboldened by the shadow of the arbor. The bench was so small that, unless he asked her to make room for him, he could not sit beside her. He sat down on the grass, not precisely at her feet, but near enough to be nearer still ere long.
"Well, Michel," she said to him, with an indescribable sweetness in her voice, "are you also tired, pray?"
"I am worn out," he replied, in a tone of deep emotion which made the princess start.
"What do you mean? you are not ill, my child?" she said, putting out her hand, which came in contact with the young man's silky hair in the darkness.
With one bound he was at her knees, his head bent, as it were fascinated beneath that hand which did not repel him, his lips pressed to the hem of that floating silk dress which could not betray his transports; uncertain, beside himself, lacking courage to declare his passion, lacking strength to resist it.
"Michel," cried the princess, letting her hand fall again upon the young madman's burning brow, "you are feverish, my child! your head is burning! Yes, yes," she added, stroking his cheeks with affectionate solicitude, "you have had too much fatigue these last few days; you have been awake two nights in succession, and although you threw yourself on your bed for a few hours this morning, I doubt if you slept much. And I have led you on to talk too much to-night. You must go home. Let us walk on; you can leave me at the gate of my park and go home at once. I intended to say something to you to-night; but I am afraid that you are going to be sick; when you are thoroughly rested, perhaps I will speak to you."
She attempted to rise; but Michel was kneeling on the edge of her dress. He held against his cheeks, he put to his lips that lovely hand which did not seek to avoid his caresses.
"No, no," cried Michel, impetuously, "let me die here. I know very well that you will drive me from your presence forever to-morrow; I know that I shall never see you again, now that you see what is taking place within me. But it is too late, and I am going mad! Oh! do not pretend to believe that I am ill because I have worked by day and been awake all night! Do not be afraid to discover the truth; it is your own fault, signora, you would have it so! Could I resist so many temptations? Spurn me, Agatha, curse me; but to-morrow, to-night, give me the kiss I dreamed of in the Naiad's grotto!"
"Ah! Michel," cried the princess, in a tone impossible to describe, "did you feel it? did you see me? do you know all? Did somebody tell you, or did you divine it? It is God's will. And you fear that I will spurn you? you fear that I will curse you? O my God! is it possible? Pray, does not what is taking place in your heart reveal to you the love with which mine is overflowing?"
As she spoke the lovely Agatha threw her arms around Michel's neck, and, drawing his head to her breast, covered it with ineffable kisses.
Michel was eighteen years old, he had a fiery heart, a restless, all-devouring temperament, vast pride, and an enterprising spirit. But his heart was as pure as his age, and his happiness found him chaste and prostrate in religious adoration. All his jealousy, all his insulting suspicions vanished. It no longer occurred to him to wonder how a person so austere in her morals, who was supposed never to have had a lover, could suddenly fall in love at first sight with a child like him, and tell him so with such absolute candor. He was conscious of nothing save the joy of being loved, an enthusiastic and unbounded gratitude, a fervent, blind adoration. From Agatha's arms he fell at her feet, and covered them with passionate, almost pious kisses.
"No, no, not at my feet, on my heart!" cried the princess; and she held him there a long while in a fervent embrace, weeping freely.
Her tears were so sincere—they had such a sacred eloquence of their own—that Michel felt a great wave of sympathy. His heart swelled and he burst into sobs; a divine joy banished all thought of earthly joy. He found that that woman aroused in him no profane desire; that he was happy and not excited in her arms; that to mingle his tears with hers, and to feel that he was loved by her, was happiness greater than all the transports of which his youth had dreamed; in a word, that he respected her even to dread, as he held her pressed against his heart, and that there never could be a thought between her and him which the angels might not read with a smile on their lips.
He felt all this, confusedly without doubt, but so deeply, and with such a thrill of triumph, that Agatha never suspected the evil impulse of fatuous conceit which had brought him to her feet a few moments before.
Thereupon Agatha, raising her lovely glistening eyes to heaven, her face pale in the moonlight, and as it were rapt in a divine ecstasy, cried, in a transport of joy: "O my God! how I thank Thee! This is the first moment of happiness that Thou hast given me; but I do not complain of having had to wait so long, for it is so great, so pure, so complete, that it effaces and redeems all the sorrows of my life!"
She was so lovely, she spoke with such sincere enthusiasm, that Michel fancied that he had before him a saint of ancient days. "O my God! my God!" he exclaimed in a voice stifled by emotion, "I, too, bless Thee! What have I done to deserve such happiness? To be loved by her! Oh! it is a dream; I dread to wake!"
"No, it is not a dream, Michel," rejoined the princess, turning her inspired glance upon him once more; "it is the only reality of my life, and it will be the one great reality of your whole life. Tell me, what other being than you I could love on this earth? Hitherto I have done nothing but suffer and languish; but now that you are here, it seems to me that I was born for the greatest human felicity. My child, my beloved, my sovereign consolation, my only love! Oh! I cannot speak any more, I do not know what to say to you; joy overwhelms and crushes me!"
"No, no, let us not talk," cried Michel. "No words can describe what I feel; and, thank heaven, I do not yet grasp the whole extent of my happiness; for, if I did, it seems to me that I should die of it!"
The sound of footsteps not far away aroused them both from their delirious excitement. The princess rose, somewhat alarmed by the approach of strangers, and, seizing Michel's arm, hurried on toward her villa with him. She walked more rapidly than before, carefully veiled, but leaning upon him with a sacred joy. And he, with wildly-beating heart, bewildered with happiness, but penetrated with the most profound respect, hardly dared to raise to his lips from time to time the hand that he held in his.
Not until he saw the gate of the princess's garden before him did he recover the power of speech.
"What! leave you already?" he said anxiously; "part so soon? It is impossible! I shall die of excitement and despair."
"We must part here," said the princess. "The time has not come when we shall not part at all. But that happy day will come soon. Have no fear; leave everything to me. Rely upon me and my boundless love to see to it that we are united forever."
"Is it possible? Do these words that I hear really come from your mouth? That day will come, you say? We shall be united? we shall never part? Oh! do not trifle with my simplicity! I dare not believe in such happiness; and yet, when it is you who say it, I cannot doubt!"
"Doubt the permanence of the stars that shine above us, doubt your own existence rather than the power of my heart to overcome the obstacles which seem to you so immense, but which now seem to me so trifling! Ah! on the day when I shall no longer have aught except the world to fear, I shall be very strong, I promise you!" "The world?" said Michel. "Ah! yes, I remember; I had forgotten everything except you and myself. The world will deny you, the world will be offended with you, all because of me! O God, forgive the impulses of my pride! I abhor them now. Oh! let my happiness be shrouded in mystery, and let no one know of it! I insist that it shall be so; I will never suffer you to ruin yourself for love of me."
"Noble-hearted child!" cried the princess, "let your mind be at rest; we will triumph together; but I thank you for this generous impulse of your heart. Ah! yes, all your impulses are generous, I know. I am not happy simply, I am proud of you!"
And she took the young man's head in both hands and kissed him again.
But Michel thought that he heard footsteps a short distance away, and the fear of compromising that courageous woman triumphed over his happiness.
"We may be watched or surprised," he said to her; "I am sure that someone is coming this way. Fly! I will stay hidden in the bushes here until these people, whether spies or mere passers-by, are out of hearing. But we shall meet to-morrow, shall we not?"
"Oh! surely," she replied. "Come here in the morning, as if to work, and go up to my Casino."
She pressed him to her heart once more, then entered the park and disappeared among the trees.
The noise he had heard had ceased, as if the persons who were approaching had gone in another direction.
Michel stood for a long time, motionless as a statue, and as it were bereft of reason. After so many fascinating illusions, after such mighty efforts not to believe in them, he was falling back once more under the empire of dreams—at least he feared so. He dared not believe that he was awake; he was afraid to take a step—to move a muscle—lest he might thereby dispel the illusion once more, as in the Naiad's grotto. He could not decide to question reality. Even the probabilities frightened him. How could Agatha love him? Why did she love him? He could find no answers to those questions, whereupon he cast them aside as blasphemous. "She loves me! she told me so!" he exclaimed mentally. "To doubt it would be a crime. If I distrusted her word, I should be unworthy of her love."
And he plunged into an ocean of blissful reveries. He lifted up his thoughts toward heaven, which had caused him to be born to so happy a fate. He felt capable of the greatest deeds, since he was deemed worthy of the greatest joys. Never had he believed so fervently in the divine mercy, never had he felt so proud and so humble, so devout and so brave.
"O my God!" he said in his heart, "forgive me; until this day I believed myself to be a creature of some importance. I was proud, I abandoned myself to self-love; and yet I was not loved. Not until to-day have I really lived. I have received life, I have received a heart, I am a man! But I shall never forget that of myself I am nothing, and that the enthusiasm which possesses me, the strength which overflows within me, the virtue of which I realize the full worth to-day, were born under that woman's breath, and live in me only through her. O day of boundless bliss! O sovereign tranquillity, ambition satisfied without selfishness and without remorse! O blessed victory which leaves the heart modest and overflowing with generous sentiments! Love is all this and more. How kind Thou art, O God, not to have allowed me to divine it beforehand, and how vastly this surprise enhances the ecstasy of a heart just coming forth from its utter insignificance!"
He was about to walk slowly away when he saw a dark figure glide along the wall and disappear among the branches. He drew back still farther into the shadow to watch, and soon he recognized the Piccinino, as he removed his cloak and tossed it over the wall, so that he might scale it more readily.
All Michel's blood flowed back toward his heart. Was Carmelo expected? Had the princess authorized him to come and confer with her, at any hour of the night, and to introduce himself into her villa by any means he might choose? It is true that there were important secrets between them, and that, it being more natural, as he said, for him to travel as the crow flies, scaling a wall by night was a natural method of procedure for him. He had warned Agatha that he might ring the bell at the gate of her flower-garden when she least expected him. But was it not unwise on her part to give him permission? Who could be sure of the intentions of such a man as the Piccinino? Agatha was alone; would she be imprudent enough to admit him and listen to him? If she carried her confidence to that point, Michel could not make up his mind to share it. Did she realize that that man was in love with her, or that he pretended to be? What had they said to each other in the flower-garden, while Michel and the marquis looked on but could not hear?
Michel fell headlong from the sky to the earth. A violent paroxysm of jealousy took possession of him, and, to delude himself, he tried to make up his mind that he feared nothing but the danger of insult for the lady of his thoughts. Was it not his duty to watch over her safety and to protect her against the whole world?
He noiselessly opened the gate, the key of which he had retained as well as that of the flower-garden, and glided into the park, resolved to watch the enemy. But, after the Piccinino had agilely scaled the wall, he could find no trace of him.
He walked toward the cliff, and, being perfectly certain that there was nobody in front of him, he decided to ascend the staircase cut in the lava, turning every moment to see if the Piccinino were following him. His heart beat very fast, for a conflict with him upon that staircase would have been decisive. On seeing him there, the brigand would have realized that he had been deceived, that Michel was Agatha's lover—and to what extremities would his rage not have impelled him? Michel did not fear a bloody struggle on his own account; but how could he prevent Carmelo from wreaking vengeance upon Agatha, if he should come forth alive from that struggle?
Nevertheless, Michel kept on to the top, and, having made sure that he was not followed, entered the flower-garden, locked the gate, and approached Agatha's boudoir. The room was lighted, but empty. A moment later a maid came and extinguished the candles, then went away. All was silence and darkness.
Michel had never been more intensely disturbed. His heart beat as if it would burst, as the silence and uncertainty continued. What was taking place in Agatha's apartments? Her bedroom was behind the boudoir; it could be entered from the flower-garden through a short passage where a lamp was still burning. Michel could see it by looking through the key-hole of the carved door. Perhaps that door was not locked on the inside. Michel tried it, and, meeting with no resistance, entered the Casino.
Where was he going and what did he intend to do? He had no very clear idea himself. He said to himself that he was going to the assistance of Agatha, whose security was threatened by the Piccinino. He did not choose to admit that he was spurred on by the demon of jealousy.
He fancied that he could hear voices in Agatha's bedroom. They were two women's voices: they might be Agatha's and her maid's, or the second one might be Carmelo's soft and almost feminine voice.
Michel stood irresolute, trembling from head to foot. If he should go back into the flower-garden, the door of the passage-way would doubtless soon be locked by the maid; and in that case how was he to get in again unless by breaking a pane of glass in the boudoir—an expedient suited to the genius of the Piccinino, but naturally repugnant to Michel.
It seemed to him that centuries had passed since he saw the bandit climb the wall; but it was less than a quarter of an hour. However, one can live years in a minute, and he said to himself that the Piccinino had evidently preceded him, as he was so slow about following him.
Suddenly the door of Agatha's bedroom opened, and Michel had barely time to step behind the pedestal of the statue which held the lamp. "Lock the garden door," said Agatha to her maid, who came out of the bedroom, "but leave this one open; it is horribly hot in my room."
The girl returned after obeying her mistress's orders. Michel was comforted, Agatha was alone with her maid. But he was locked in, and how could he get out? or how could he explain his presence if he were discovered hiding there at the princess's door?
"I will tell the truth," he thought, not admitting to himself that it was only half of the truth. "I will say that I saw the Piccinino climb the park wall, and that I came to defend her whom I adore against a man whom I do not trust."
But he determined to wait until the maid had been dismissed, for he did not know whether she possessed her mistress's entire confidence, and whether she would not attribute a criminal meaning to that mark of their intimacy.
A few moments later, Agatha did dismiss her. There was a sound of footsteps and of doors, as if the maid closed them all behind her as she withdrew. Determined not to delay showing himself, Michel resolutely entered Agatha's bedroom, but found himself alone there. The princess had gone into her oratory before retiring, and Michel saw her kneeling on a velvet cushion. She was dressed in a long, floating white robe. Her black hair fell to her feet in two great braids, the weight of which would have disturbed her sleep if she had kept them about her head at night. The faint light of a lamp under a bluish globe cast a melancholy, transparent reflection upon her, which made her resemble a ghost. Michel paused, overcome with respect and dread.
But, as he was hesitating whether he should interrupt her prayer, and wondering how he could attract her attention without frightening her, he heard the door of the little passageway open, and steps, so light that none but a jealous lover's ear could distinguish them, approach Agatha's bedroom. Michel had just time to jump behind the bedstead of carved ebony, decorated with small ivory figures. It did not stand against the wall, as our beds do, but some little distance away, as is customary in hot countries, with its foot near the centre of the room. Between the wall and the high headboard of that ancient piece of furniture there was sufficient room for Michel to hide. He did not stoop for fear of moving the white satin curtains. He had no time to take many precautions. Chance favored him, for, despite the swift and inquisitive glance which the Piccinino cast about the room, he saw no disorder, no movement to betray the presence of a man who had arrived before him.
Nevertheless, he was about to take the prudent course of making a thorough search, when the princess, hearing his light footsteps, half rose, saying:
"Is that you, Nunziata?"
Receiving no reply, she put aside the portière which half concealed the interior of her bedroom, and saw the Piccinino standing in front of her. She rose to her feet and stood motionless with surprise and terror.
But, realizing that she must not betray her painful emotion in the presence of a man of that character, she kept silent so that her altered voice might reveal nothing, and walked toward him as if expecting him to explain his audacious visit.
The Piccinino knelt on one knee, and said, handing her a folded parchment:
"Signora, I knew that you must be extremely anxious concerning this important document, and I did not wish to postpone its delivery until to-morrow. I came here during the evening, but you were absent, and I was obliged to wait until you had returned. Forgive me if my visit is somewhat opposed to the proprieties of the society in which you live, but your highness is aware that I am compelled to act on all occasions, and especially in this matter, with the greatest secrecy."
"Signor captain," replied Agatha, after opening and glancing at the parchment, "I knew that my uncle's will had been stolen from Doctor Recuperati this morning. The poor doctor came here this afternoon, quite beside himself, to tell me of his misadventure. He could not imagine how his wallet had been taken from his pocket, and he accused Abbé Ninfo. I was not alarmed, because I felt sure that Abbé Ninfo would have to account to you for his theft in the course of the day. So I comforted the doctor, bidding him not mention the incident, and promising him that the will would soon be recovered. You can well believe that I could give him no hint as to how it would be done and by whom. Now, captain, it is not proper for me to have in my hands a document which I should have the appearance of having seized because I was distrustful of my uncle's intentions or the doctor's good faith. I will ask you, therefore, when the moment to produce it shall have come, to restore it by some means, indirect but sure, to the depositary who previously had it in charge. You are too ingenious not to discover such a means without betraying yourself in any way."
"You wish me to take charge of this again? can you think of such a thing, signora?" said the Piccinino, who was still standing and waiting impatiently an invitation to sit; but Agatha stood as she spoke to him, as if she anticipated his speedy withdrawal, while he was determined to prolong the interview at any price. He suggested difficulties.
"It is impossible," he said; "the cardinal is in the habit of signifying with his eyes that he wants his will to be shown to him, and he thinks of it every day. To be sure," he added, to gain time, resting his hand on the back of a chair as if he were very tired, "to be sure, the cardinal, being deprived of his interpreter, Abbé Ninfo, it would be easy for the doctor to pretend that he did not understand his eminence's eloquent glances.—Especially," continued the brigand, moving his chair a little and resting his elbow on it, "especially as the doctor's usual stupidity would make his failure to understand very probable. But," he added, respectfully offering the chair to the princess so that she might set him the example of sitting down, "the cardinal's meaning may be understood by some other trusty servitor, who would force the excellent doctor to the wall by saying to him: 'You see, his eminence wants to look at his will!'"
And the Piccinino made a graceful gesture to indicate that it pained him to see her standing before him.
But Agatha did not choose to understand, nor was she willing to keep the will, in order to avoid having to thank the Piccinino at such a moment in terms which should offend him by too great reserve, or encourage him by too great warmth. She was determined to maintain her proud attitude, while overwhelming him with manifestations of a confidence without bounds so far as her material interests were concerned.
"No, captain," she said, still standing and in perfect control of herself, "the cardinal will not ask again to see the will, for his condition has grown much worse in twenty-four hours. It seems that that wretched Ninfo kept him in a state of excitement which prolonged his life; for, since he disappeared this morning, my uncle has been in a sort of lethargic state, bordering closely, I doubt not, on the repose of the grave. His eyes are dull; he no longer seems to pay any heed to what is going on about him. He does not notice the absence of his familiar, and the doctor is compelled to resort to all the expedients of his profession to combat a drowsiness from which he fears that there will be no awakening."
"Doctor Recuperati has always lacked common sense," rejoined the Piccinino, seating himself on the edge of a console, and letting his cloak fall at his feet as if by inadvertence. "I ask your highness," he added, folding his arms across his breast, "if the so-called laws of humanity are not absurd and false in such cases, like almost all the laws of human respect and hypocritical propriety? What benefit do we confer on a dying man when we try to recall him to life, with the certainty that we shall not succeed, and that we are simply prolonging his torture in the world? If I were in Doctor Recuperati's place, I would say to myself that his eminence has lived quite long enough. It is the opinion of all respectable people, and of your highness yourself, that that man has lived too long. It is high time to allow him to repose from the fatiguing journey of this life, since he seems to desire it, so far as he himself is concerned, and to arrange his head comfortably on his pillow for his last sleep. I ask your highness's pardon for leaning on this console; my legs are giving way under me, I have run about so much to-day in your interest; and if I do not rest for a moment, it will be impossible for me to return to Nicolosi to-night."
Agatha made a gesture which invited the brigand to occupy the chair that stood between them; but she remained standing herself, to signify that she did not propose that he should abuse the privilege.
"It seems to me," said the princess, as she placed the will on the console at the Piccinino's elbow, "that we are digressing a little from the real question. I will remind your lordship of the facts. My uncle has a few moments to live, and he will not think of his will again. Thus the day when the document must be produced is near at hand. Now, I am very desirous that when that day comes it shall be in the doctor's hands and not in mine."
"That is a very noble scruple on your part," rejoined the Piccinino, in a firm tone which concealed his irritation; "but I have the same scruple on my own account, and, as everything strange and mysterious that happens on this island is attributed to the fabulous Captain Piccinino, I do not wish to have any hand in this restitution. Your ladyship will be kind enough, therefore, to arrange it in whatever way you may deem best. It was not I who stole the will. I found it on the thief. I bring it back; and I consider that I have done enough not to deserve the charge of lukewarmness in your service. Doubtless Abbé Ninfo's disappearance will soon be noticed, and the name of the Piccinino will occur at once to the popular imagination as well as to the crafty brains of the police authorities. Result, fresh investigations on the heels of those of which my humble personality is already the object, and which I have escaped thus far only by a miracle. I have accepted the risks of this affair; I have themonsterin my power. Your highness's mind is at rest concerning the safety of your friends and your own freedom of action. You are in possession of the document that entitles you to great wealth. Do you wish my life? I am ready to lay it down for you a hundred times; but bid me to do it, and do not drive me to my destruction by subterfuges, without giving me the consolation of knowing that I die for you."
The Piccinino uttered these last words in a tone that made it impossible for Agatha longer to avoid entering upon a delicate subject.
"Captain," she said, forcing herself to smile, "you judge me ill if you think that I wish to rid myself of my burden of gratitude to you. My disinclination to take this paper, which represents to me the title to great wealth, should prove my confidence in you and my purpose to allow you to dispose absolutely of everything that belongs to me."
"I do not understand, signora," replied the bandit, moving restlessly on his chair. "Did you think that I came to your assistance merely to do a profitable stroke of business, and for no other purpose?"
"Captain," replied Agatha, outwardly unmoved by the Piccinino's real or pretended indignation, "you style yourself, and justly, thejusticier d'aventure. That is to say, you do justice according to your heart and your conscience, without regard to formal laws, which are very often contrary to those of natural and divine justice. You assist the weak, you rescue victims, you protect those whose feelings and opinions seem to you to deserve your esteem against those whom you regard as the enemies of your country and of mankind. You punish cowards and you prevent the execution of their base designs. All this is a mission which legally constituted society does not always understand, but of which I appreciate the real merit and heroism. Need I say more to convince you of my esteem for you, and do you think that I have failed to manifest it? But since society denies the propriety of your intervention, and since, in order to continue it, you are forced to provide yourself with abundant resources, it would be insane—it would be impertinent—to seek your protection without offering you the means of putting it forth and of extending its scope. I thought of that—I could not fail to think of it; and I determined not to deal with you as with an ordinary advocate, but to allow you to fix yourself the price of your loyal and generous services. I should have considered that I insulted you by putting a price upon them. In my eyes they are beyond price. That is why, while I invite you to draw at your discretion upon a princely fortune, I am still forced to rely upon your modesty and generosity to consider that I have paid my debt to you."
"These are very flattering words, and your highness's soft speech would fascinate me, if my ideas were such as you attribute to me. But if you will deign to be seated a moment and listen to me, I shall be able to explain my ideas without fear of abusing the patience with which you honor me."
"On my word!" thought Agatha, as she took a seat at some distance from the Piccinino, "this man's persistence is like destiny, inevitable."
"I shall soon have finished," continued the Piccinino, with a crafty smile, when he saw that she was seated at last. "I look after my own interests while looking after other people's, that is true; but every man understands the advantages of life as circumstances impel him to do. Some people want nothing but gold. Those are vulgar instances,—the market price, as they say, I believe. But with certain others, who are more wealthy in charms and in noble qualities than in ducats, the intelligent man aspires to a less vulgar recompense. The material wealth of a person like Princess Agatha is a mere trifle compared with the treasures of generosity and delicacy which her heart contains. And if the man of action, who has devoted himself to her service, has done so with a certain degree of promptitude and zeal, is he not at liberty to aspire to some nobler gratification than that of putting his hand in her purse? Ah! yes, there are moral joys far more exalted, and the offer of your fortune as a substitute for them is so far from satisfying me, that it wounds my heart and my mind like an insult."
Agatha began to be really terrified, for the Piccinino had risen and drawn nearer to her. She dared not change her position, she feared that she should tremble and turn pale; and yet, brave as she was, that young man's face and voice caused her a frightful shock. His dress, his features, his manners, his voice awoke a whole world of memories within her, and, strive as she would to raise him to a level where she could esteem him and be truly grateful to him, an unconquerable aversion closed her heart to such sentiments. She had so long refused Fra Angelo's suggestions that this man's assistance should be procured, that she would assuredly have persisted in not having recourse to him, had it not been certain that Abbé Ninfo had tried to hire him to procure the assassination or abduction of Michel, pointing to the will as a means of rewarding his services.
But it was too late. The noble-hearted and ingenuous Capuchin of Bel Passo had not foreseen that his former ward, whom he had accustomed himself to look upon as a child, might fall in love with a woman several years older than himself. And yet what was more natural? The persons for whom one has much respect have no age. To Fra Angelo the Princess of Palmarosa, Saint Agatha of Catania, and the Madonna, had no sex even. If anyone had interrupted his sleep to tell him that at that moment Agatha was in imminent danger from his ward, he would have exclaimed: "Ah! the wretched boy must have seen her diamonds!" And, as he started to go to the princess's assistance, he would have said to himself that she had but a word to say to keep the brigand at a distance; but Agatha felt an invincible repugnance to say that word, and she still hoped that she would not be forced to that expedient.