"Great God! if it were true!" said Magnani, clasping his hands.
But Fra Angelo's face maintained its cold, sad expression.
"You do not consider me worthy to be Mila's husband," continued the modest Magnani. "It is true that I am not, padre; but if you knew how firmly I have resolved to become worthy!"
"My friend," rejoined the monk, "the day on which you should become Mila's husband, if you love each other fervently and sincerely, would be the happiest day in Pier-Angelo's life and mine; for we monks know that a man must love with his whole soul the spouse to whom he gives his life, whether that spouse be the family or the church. I believe that you love Mila, since you seek her hand; but I do not know whether Mila loves you or whether my brother is mistaken."
"Alas!" replied Magnani, "nor do I know myself."
"You do not know?" said Fra Angelo, drawing his eyebrows together; "she has never told you so?"
"Never!"
"But she has granted you some innocent favors, has she not? She has been alone with you?"
"Only by chance or from necessity."
"She has never made an appointment with you?"
"Never!"
"Not yesterday? was she not walking with you, in this neighborhood, last night at sunset?"
"Last night, in this neighborhood?" repeated Magnani, turning pale; "no, padre."
"On your salvation?"
"On my salvation and my honor!"
"In that case, Magnani, you must not think about Mila. Mila loves someone, and you are not that some one. And the worst of it is that neither her father nor I can guess who it is. Would to God that a girl so devoted to her duties, so hard-working, and down to this very day so modest, might have taken a fancy to a man like you! You would have brought up a family nobly, and your union would have edified your neighbors. But Mila is a child, and a romantic child, I fear. Hereafter we must watch her more carefully; I will warn her father, and you, being a man of heart, will say nothing and forget her."
"What!" cried Magnani, "can it be that Mila, the personification of honesty, courage, and innocence, already has a misstep upon her conscience? Great God! have chastity and truth ceased to exist on earth?"
"I do not say that," the monk replied: "I trust that Mila is still pure; but she is on the road to her destruction if someone does not hold her back. Last night, at sunset, she passed here, all alone, and dressed in her best clothes; she tried to avoid me, she refused to account for herself, she tried to lie. Ah! I prayed earnestly for her last night, and I slept but little."
"I will keep Mila's secret, and I will think no more about her," said Magnani, utterly confounded.
But he continued to think of her. It was natural to his character, grave and strong, but incapable of boastful confidence, to go forward to meet obstacles, and to halt when he reached them, unable to surmount them or to make up his mind to turn his back upon them.
At that moment Michel arrived; he seemed to have undergone a magical transformation since the preceding day, although he still wore his artisan's jacket; his forehead and his eyes seemed larger, his nostrils inhaled the air more freely, his chest seemed to have developed in a different atmosphere. The pride, the conscious strength, the tranquillity of the free man shone in his face.
"Ah!" said Magnani, throwing himself into the arms the young prince held out to him, "your dream has come true already, Michel! It was a beautiful dream! the awakening is still more beautiful. I have been struggling with a nightmare which your good fortune has driven away, but which has left me bewildered and crushed by fatigue."
Fra Angelo blessed them both, and said, addressing the prince:
"I hail with joy your accession to greatness and power, when I see you embrace a man of the common people of your native country. Michel de Castro-Reale, Michelangelo Lavoratori, I shall always love you as my nephew, while loving you as my prince. Will you tell me now,your excellency, that it is an imposition for those of my class to love and serve yours?"
"Do not remind me of my heresies, my excellent uncle," replied Michel. "I no longer know to what class I belong; I feel that I am a man and a Sicilian, that is all."
"Long live Sicily!" cried the Capuchin, saluting Ætna.
"Long live Sicily!" echoed Michel, saluting Catania.
Magnani was deeply moved and his manner was most affectionate. He rejoiced sincerely in Michel's good fortune; but, for his own part, he was sorely distressed by the obstacle that had arisen between Mila and him, and he trembled lest he should fall anew under the empire of his former passion. But the mother is something more than the woman, and the thought of Agatha in that new aspect made Magnani's adoration calmer and more solemn than it had been before. He felt that he should blush in Michel's presence if he retained the slightest trace of his madness. He determined to banish it altogether, and, happy in the thought that he could always say to himself that he had devoted his youth, by a solemn vow, to the loveliest saint in heaven, he retained her image and her memory in his heart like a divine perfume.
Magnani was cured; but what a sad cure, to renounce, at twenty-five, all the dreams of love! He was resigned to his fate; but from that moment life was to him nothing more than a stern and passionless duty.
The reveries and torments which had made that duty dear to him no longer existed. Never was there a man on earth more utterly alone, more disgusted with all earthly things, than Magnani on the day of his deliverance.
He left Fra Angelo and Michel, who proposed to go at once to Nicolosi, and passed the rest of the day walking alone by the seashore, opposite the basaltic isles of Acireale.
The young prince and the monk started immediately after making up their minds to visit the Piccinino. They were approaching the ill-omenedDestatore'sCross when the bells of Catania, changing their rhythm, rang the knell that announces death. Fra Angelo crossed himself without stopping; Michel thought of his father, who had perhaps been assassinated by order of that wicked prelate, and quickened his pace in order to kneel upon the grave of Castro-Reale.
He did not as yet feel the courage to examine that fatal cross, where he had experienced such painful emotions, even before he knew of the tie of blood that bound him to the bandit of Ætna. But a huge vulture, starting up suddenly from the very foot of the cross, forced him involuntarily to turn his eyes in that direction. For a moment he thought that he was the victim of a ghastly hallucination. A dead body lay in a pool of blood at the spot from which the vulture had fled.
Frozen with horror, Michel and his uncle drew near and recognized the body of Abbé Ninfo, half disfigured by pistol shots fired at point-blank range. The murder had been premeditated or committed with extraordinary sang-froid, for the perpetrator had taken the time and trouble to write with chalk, in small letters, close together, on the black lava pedestal of the cross, this ferociously concise inscription:
"Here was found, eighteen years ago to-day, the body of a celebrated brigand,Il Destatore, Prince of Castro-Reale, the avenger of the woes of his country.
"Here will be found to-day the body of his assassin, Abbé Ninfo, who has confessed his participation in the crime. So cowardly a champion would not have dared to strike openly so gallant a man. He led him into a trap, into which he himself has fallen at last, after eighteen years of unpunished crimes.
"More fortunate than Castro-Reale, who was struck down by slaves, Ninfo has fallen by the hand of a free man.
"If you wish to know who condemned theDestatoreand paid for his murder, ask Satan, who, within an hour, will receive before his tribunal the wicked soul of Cardinal Hieronimo de Palmarosa.
"Do not accuse Castro-Reale's widow: she is innocent.
"Michel de Castro-Reale, there is still much blood to be shed before your father's death is avenged!
"He who writes these lines is the bastard of Castro-Reale, whom men call the Piccinino and theJusticier d'aventure. He it was who killed the knave Ninfo. He did it at sunrise, to the sound of the bells which announced the death agony of Cardinal Palmarosa. He did it so that it may not be thought that all villains can die in their beds.
"Let the first man who reads this inscription copy or remember it and carry it to the people of Catania!"
"Let us rub it out," said Michel, "or my brother's audacity will be fatal to him."
"No, let us not rub it out," said the monk. "Your brother is too prudent not to be far away from here before this, and we have no right to deprive the nobles and people of Catania of a terrible example and a bloody lesson. The proud Castro-Reale assassinated! assassinated by the cardinal! lured into a trap by this vile abbé! Ah! I ought to have guessed it! He had too much vigor and courage still to stoop to suicide. Do not accuse your brother of being over severe, Michel, and do not look upon this vengeance as a mere useless crime. You do not know what your father was in his good days, his great days. You do not know that he was on the point of mending his ways and becoming once more the dispenser of justice on the mountain. He was repentant. He believed in God, he still loved his country, and he adored your mother. If he could but have lived as he was living a year more, she would have loved him, and would have forgiven everything. She would have come and shared his perils, she would have been the brigand's wife instead of being the prisoner and victim of his murderers. She would have brought you up herself, she would never have been parted from you! You would have drunk the milk of a lioness and you would have grown to manhood in the tempest. Everything would be better so! Sicily would be nearer its deliverance than it will be ten years hence; and I should not have continued to be a monk. Instead of walking up the mountain, with folded arms, to see this body lying in a corner and the Piccinino flying among the precipices, we should all be together, rifle in hand, fighting desperately against the Swiss mercenaries of Naples, and perhaps marching on Catania with the yellow flag flaunting its golden folds in the morning breeze! Yes, everything would be better so, I tell you, Prince of Castro-Reale!—But God's will be done!" added Fra Angelo, remembering at last that he was a monk.
Being certain that the Piccinino must have left the valley long before the hour named in the inscription as that of the murder, Michel and the monk went no farther, but retraced their steps from that wild spot where the abbé's corpse would be at the mercy of the vulture for some hours to come, before anyone would interrupt his ghastly feast. As they turned away, they saw the ill-omened bird fly over their heads, returning with savage eagerness to his prey.
"That is the fate you deserved," said the monk, calmly; "to be eaten by dogs and vultures! that is the malediction which people in all ages have called down upon spies and traitors. You are very pale, my young prince, and perhaps you think me very harsh in my judgment of a priest, being myself a churchman. What can you expect? It may be that I have seen and done with my own hand, perhaps, more killing than is consistent with the salvation of my soul! but in conquered countries, you see, war sometimes has no other resource than murder. Do not think that the Piccinino is worse than other men. He was born calm and long-suffering; but there are virtues which would become vices in us Sicilians, if we should cling to them. Reason and a sense of justice taught him to be a scourge at need. But you see that his heart is sound at bottom. He is very angry with your mother, you told me, and you dreaded his vengeance. You see that he absolves her from the crime which certainly never occurred to that saint-like woman's mind; you see that he does homage to truth, even in the heat of his anger; you see, too, that instead of cursing you he exhorts you to make common cause with him when occasion requires. No, no, Carmelo is no dastard!"
Michel was of the monk's opinion, but he held his peace; it would require a mighty effort on his part to fraternize with the gloomy mind of that civilized savage whom men called the Piccinino. He readily detected the monk's secret predilection for the brigand. In Fra Angelo's eyes the bastard rather than the prince was theDestatore'sson and the heir of his strong nature. But Michel was too heavily burdened by the emotions—by turns delicious and painful—which he had experienced within a few hours, to maintain a conversation on any subject, and, even if he considered that the Capuchin was too revengeful and inclined to be too pitiless in his opinions, he did not feel that he had the right to contradict or even to pass judgment upon a man to whom he was indebted for the legitimizing of his birth, the saving of his life, and the joy of knowing his mother.
They saw in the distance the cardinal's villa all draped in black.
"You too, Michel, will be obliged to wear mourning," said Fra Angelo. "Carmelo is more fortunate than you at this moment, in not belonging to society. If he were the Princess of Palmarosa's son, he would have to wear the false livery of grief—mourning for his father's murderer."
"For love of my mother, my dear uncle," replied the prince, "do not force upon my notice the unpleasant side of my position. At present I can think of nothing except that I am the son of the noblest and loveliest and best of women."
"That is well, my child, that is well. Forgive me," continued the monk. "My mind is always in the past; it is always busy with the memory of my poor murdered captain. Why did I leave him? Why had I turned monk? Ah! I was a coward too. If I had remained faithful to him in his ill-fortune, and patient with his vagaries, he never would have fallen into a wretched ambuscade, and perhaps he would be alive still! He would be proud and happy to have two sons, both brave and handsome! Ah!Destatore,Destatore! here am I weeping for you more bitterly than at first. To learn that you died by another hand than your own is like losing you again."
And the monk, but a moment before so pitiless and unfeeling as he trampled upon the blood of the traitor, began to weep like a child. The old soldier, faithful beyond the grave, reappeared in him, and he embraced Michel, saying: "Comfort me; let me hope that we shall avenge him!"
"Let us hope for Sicily!" replied Michel. "We have something better to do than perpetuate family quarrels; we have our country to serve! Ah! our country! That is a word that you had to explain to me yesterday, my brave soldier, but to-day I understand it perfectly."
They exchanged a warm grasp of the hand and entered Villa Palmarosa.
Master Barbagallo awaited them at the gate with a most anxious countenance. As soon as he saw Michel, he ran to meet him and kneeled to kiss his hand.
"Up, up, sirrah!" said the young prince, disgusted by such servility. "You have served my mother faithfully. Give me your hand, as befits a man!"
They crossed the park together; but Michel did not choose to receive as yet the homage of all the servants, who were not likely, however, to be so annoying as the majordomo; for he followed him everywhere, asking his forgiveness again and again for the scene at the ball, and striving to convince him that if the proprieties had permitted him to wear his spectacles on that occasion, his short-sightedness would not have prevented him from noticing that Michel resembled, feature for feature, that mighty captain, Giovanni Palmarosa, deceased in 1288, whose portrait he had delivered to the Marquis della Serra on the preceding day, in his, Michel's, presence.
"Ah! how I regret," he said, "that the princess has given the marquis all the Palmarosas! But your highness will surely recover that noble and priceless portion of your inheritance. I am certain that his excellency the marquis will restore to you all the ancestors of both families, by his will, or even sooner."
"I think that they do very well where they are," replied Michel, with a smile. "I am not fond of portraits which have the gift of speech."
He made his escape from the majordomo's obsession, and walked to the cliff in order to enter by way of the Casino. But as he stepped into his mother's boudoir, he found that Barbagallo was puffing at his heels, having followed him up the staircase.
"Forgive me, your highness," he said, gasping for breath, "her highness the princess is in the large gallery, among her kinsmen, friends and retainers, to whom she has just publicly announced her marriage to the most noble and illustrious prince your father. They are waiting now for the excellent Fra Angelo, to whom a messenger was sent two hours ago, to request him to bring from the convent the authentic proofs of the marriage, which will establish your right of succession to the inheritance of his eminence, the most high, most powerful and most excellent prince cardinal."
"I have the documents," said the monk; "have you said all that you have to say, most high, most powerful and most excellent Master Barbagallo?"
"I will also say to his highness," rejoined the steward, in nowise disconcerted, "that he too is awaited impatiently—but—"
"But what? Do not stand in my way any longer with your suppliant air, Master Barbagallo. If my mother is waiting for me, let me hurry to her; if you have any personal request to make, I will listen to you at some other time, and I promise you beforehand whatever you ask."
"O, my noble master, yes!" cried Barbagallo, standing in the doorway, with a heroic air, and handing Michel a gala coat cut in the antique style, while a servant, notified by a stroke of the bell, brought a pair of satin breeches stitched with gold, silk stockings with red clocks and a sword. "Yes, yes, I have a personal request which I venture to present to you. You cannot appear before the family council which awaits your presence in that fustian jacket and that coarse shirt. It is impossible for a Palmarosa, a Castro-Reale I mean, to meet his cousins-german for the first time in the costume of a mechanic. They know the nobly borne misfortunes of your youth, and with what great courage you have accepted an ignoble place in society. But that is no reason why they should see its livery on your highness's body. I will kneel at your feet to beg you to wear the costume of state which your grandfather, Prince Donigi de Palmarosa, wore on the occasion of his first presentation at the court of Naples."
The first part of this harangue triumphed over Michel's irritation. He and the monk could not refrain from laughing uproariously; but the last words put an end to their merriment and darkened their brows.
"I am quite sure," said Michel, shortly, "that my mother did not bid you offer me this absurd disguise, and that it would afford her no pleasure to see me arrayed in that livery! I much prefer the one which I now wear and which I shall wear the rest of the day, by your leave, Master majordomo."
"I beg your highness not to be angry with me," rejoined Barbagallo, in dire confusion, motioning to the servant to remove the costume at once. "Perhaps I acted unwisely, taking counsel of my own zeal; but if—"
"But nothing! leave me," said Michel, opening the door impatiently; and leaning on Fra Angelo's arm, he descended the inner staircase from the Casino and resolutely entered the great gallery in his artisan's costume.
The princess, dressed in black, was sitting on a sofa at the end of the gallery, surrounded by the Marquis della Serra, Doctor Recuperati, Pier-Angelo, several tried friends of both sexes, and several kinsmen; the faces of the latter wearing a more or less resentful or dismayed expression, despite their efforts to appear touched and fascinated by the romance of her life which she had just told them. Mila was sitting on a cushion at her feet, lovely as ever, with glistening eyes, and pale with surprise and emotion. Other groups were scattered about the gallery. They were the less intimate friends, the more distant relations, and the lawyers whom Agatha had summoned to declare the validity of her marriage and the legitimacy of her son. Still farther away the servants of the house, on active service or retired on pensions, some privileged workmen, the Magnani family among the rest, and lastly, the cream of thoseclientswith whom Sicilian nobles have intimate relations unknown in France, which recall the ancient customs of the Roman patriciate.
It will readily be believed that Agatha had not felt called upon to state the cruel reasons which had led her to marry the too famous Prince of Castro-Reale, that gallant and redoubtable brigand, so depraved and yet at times so ingenuous, a sort of converted Don Juan concerning whom more tales were current, tales of crime and of love, fabulous and improbable, than could possibly be true of any one man. To the public avowal of an act of violence which was most offensive to her modesty and her pride, she preferred the implied confession of a passion, romantic beyond reason on her part, but unconstrained and legitimate. To the Marquis della Serra alone had she confided her real story; he alone knew of Agatha's unhappy youth, the cruelty of her parents, the probable murder of theDestatore, and the plots against the life of her son while he was in his cradle. The princess allowed the others to infer that her family had not approved of that clandestine marriage, and that her son had necessarily been brought up secretly, to avoid the risk of being disinherited by his mother's relations. Her narrative was brief, simple and concise, and she had borne herself in the telling with a self-assured and tranquil dignity which she owed to the force of her maternal affection. Before she was aware of her son's existence, she would have killed herself rather than allow the tenth part of her secret to be suspected; but, with the determination that her son should be recognized and welcomed, she would have revealed everything if a complete disclosure had been necessary.
She had finished speaking a quarter of an hour before Michel entered. She had looked calmly into the faces of her audience. She knew what to think of the artless emotion of some, of the masked malevolence of others. She knew that she should have the courage to face all the exaggerations, all the sneers, all the malicious remarks to which her declaration would give rise in the outside world, and especially in aristocratic society. She was ready for everything, and felt strong and brave, supported by her son's arm—that woman who had steadfastly refused to accept the protection of a husband or the consolations of a lover. Some of those present, whether maliciously or from stupidity, had tried to induce her to add some details, some further particulars, to her declaration. She had replied gently but firmly:
"Not before so many witnesses, and on a day of mourning and solemnity, can I undertake to entertain or interest you by telling a love-story. Besides, it is all a long way off. I was very young then, and after twenty years have passed since those exciting days, I should find it hard to speak of them from a standpoint which would enable you to understand the choice I thought fit to make. I will allow you to consider it an extraordinary act, but I will not allow anyone to speak reproachfully of it in my presence; for that would be an insult to the man whose name I accepted, to hand it down to my son."
There was much eager whispering among the groups scattered through that vast apartment. Only the group at the extreme end, consisting of honest workmen and faithful servants, was grave and calm, and secretly touched. Magnani's father and mother came forward weeping, and kissed Agatha's hand. Mila, in the midst of her transports of amazement and joy, was a little depressed in the depths of her heart. She said to herself that Magnani should be there; but she could not see him, although she looked everywhere. However, she forgot him when Michel appeared, and she rose to rush to him through the groups, malevolent or thunderstruck, which opened to give passage to the artisan prince and his woolen blouse. But she stopped short, with crimson cheeks and in sore distress: Michel was no longer her brother; she must not kiss him any more.
Agatha, who had risen first, turned and beckoned to her, and, taking her by the hand, walked toward her son with the proud resolution of a queen and a mother. First she led him to receive publicly the blessing of his father and his uncle by adoption, then turned him over to the cordial hand-clasps of her friends and the salutations of her acquaintances. Michel took pleasure in adopting a cold and haughty bearing with those who seemed to him cold and haughty; but when he was in the midst of the more popular portion of the company, he appeared as he felt, overflowing with sincerity and cordiality. He had no difficulty in winning the hearts of those good people, and he was greeted as heartily as if they had been present at his birth, and he had grown to manhood before their eyes.
After the production of the certificates of marriage and birth, which, having been recorded under the former ecclesiastical administration, were perfectly regular and authentic, Agatha took leave of the family gathering, and withdrew to her private apartments with Michel, the Lavoratori family, and the Marquis della Serra. There they tasted the unalloyed happiness of being together, and recovered from the fatigue due to the constraint to which they had been subjected. They laughed over the incident of the grandfather's gala costume, Master Barbagallo's happy thought. They made merry in anticipation of all the monstrous and absurd tales concerning the state of affairs in the family, to which the imaginations of the good people of Catania, Messina, and Palermo would give birth while the excitement was at its height.
But the day had not passed before they felt that they would all require more genuine courage than they had yet been called upon to display. The news of the murder of Abbé Ninfo, together with a copy of the audacious inscription, reached the city during the evening, and was speedily circulated. Persons who were out walking had brought the copy, thecampieribrought the body. As the incident seemed to have a political color, it was discussed in undertones; but as it had some connection with the great events of the day, the death of the cardinal and Agatha's declaration, people talked about it all night, having no desire to sleep. The greatest and most beautiful city on earth, unless it be one of the great metropolises of civilization, is always, so far as its spirit and its ideas are concerned, a petty provincial town, especially in the south of Europe.
The police were aroused by the vengeance wreaked upon one of their agents. Persons in the good graces of the government assumed, in aristocratic salons, a menacing attitude toward the patriotic nobles. The Neapolitan faction asserted that the Prince of Castro-Reale had better look to himself if he wished his father's crimes to be forgotten; and, ere long, salutary warnings intended for the princess found their way into her very boudoir. A sincere, but cowardly friend informed her that the assertion of her innocence in the Piccinino's extraordinary document, and the appeal therein made to her son to avenge Castro-Reale, would compromise her very seriously unless she made haste to take some measures dictated by prudence: as, for instance, to present her son to the ruling powers, and to manifest her purpose, indirectly but clearly, to abandon her defunct brigand to the devil, and her bastard stepson's body to the headsman, to be a true and loyal Palmarosa, like her father and uncle before her, and to make herself responsible for the proper political education of the heir of a name so difficult to bear as that of Castro-Reale was likely to be.
To these warnings, Agatha replied calmly and judiciously that she never went into society; that she had been living for nearly twenty years in undisturbed seclusion, where no conspiracies had ever been formed; that to take any measures at that moment to obtain the favor of the ruling powers would be in effect to admit the justice of suspicions which she did not deserve; that her son was still a child, brought up in an obscure station and in ignorance of everything outside of the poetry of art; that she would bear boldly, with him, the name of Castro-Reale, because it would be cowardly to deny her marriage and his descent, and that they would not fail to make that name respected, even under the eyes of the police. As for the Piccinino, she very adroitly pretended that she had no idea what they meant, and that she did not believe in the existence of that intangible phantom, a sort of ogre, whose name was used to frighten the little children and old women of the suburbs. She was surprised and distressed by the murder of Abbé Ninfo; but as the will turned up opportunely in Doctor Recuperati's custody, no one could suspect that she owed the recovery of the document to a secret arrangement with the brigands of the mountain. The doctor did not even know that it had been taken from him; for, just as he was about to make a public declaration that Ninfo had stolen it, Agatha had interrupted him, saying:
"Be careful, doctor, you are very absent-minded, you know; don't accuse anyone hastily. You showed me the will two days ago; may you not have left it in my chamber, under a piece of mosaic?"
An official visit to the place indicated had resulted in finding the will there intact. The doctor, astounded at his carelessness, had believed in it with the others.
Agatha had suffered so much, the secrets she had had to keep had been so painful, that she had become very skilful in feigning, when it was necessary to take that trouble. Michel and the marquis admired the presence of mind which she displayed throughout the whole affair in extricating herself from an alarming position. But Fra Angelo became very sad, and Michel sought his couch much less light-hearted in his palace than he had been in his garret. The necessary precautions, the constant dissimulation to which he must resort, revealed the anxieties and perils of grandeur. The Capuchin feared that he would be corrupted in spite of himself. Michel was not afraid of being corrupted, but he felt that he must keep a close watch upon himself, and make himself small in order to preserve his peace of mind and domestic happiness, or else enter upon a struggle which would end only with his fortune or his life.
He resigned himself to his fate. He determined that he would be prudent for his mother's sake until the time should come to be reckless for the sake of his country. But the period of excitement and untroubled happiness had already passed; duty was beginning: novels which are not cut short in the midst of the catastrophe become depressing on the last pages, that is to say, if they have the slightest semblance of probability.
Certain persons of taste and vivid imagination insist that a novel should not have any end; that the reader should end it to suit himself. Certain others, persons of judgment and method, desire to see all the threads of the plot straightened out, and all the characters happily established for the rest of their lives, or else killed off, so that they need think no more about them. I agree with the former class, and I think that I might well have left the reader at the foot of theDestatore'scross, reading the inscription which thejusticier d'aventurehad written there. He could readily have imagined without my assistance the chapter which he has just read—and read with languid interest, I warrant—saying to himself: "I was sure of it; I expected it; that goes without saying."
But I was afraid that I might have to deal with a reader of delicate sensibilities, who would have been made ill by being left in the classico-romantic company of a corpse and a vulture.
Why are alldénouementsmore or less lame and unsatisfactory? The reason is simple enough: it is because in real life there never is adénouement; that the novel goes on forever, melancholy or placid, poetic or commonplace, and that the purely conventional can never wear the truthful aspect which arouses interest.
But since, against my inclination, I have determined to elucidate everything, I realize that I have left Magnani on the seashore, Mila anxious, the Piccinino in flight, and the Marquis della Serra at the princess's feet. As for the last-named, he had been in that position for nearly twelve years, and a day more or less was of little consequence to him; but as soon as he learned Agatha's secret, and saw her son in possession of all his rights and all his good fortune, he changed his attitude, and, drawing himself up to the full height of his loyal and chivalrous nature, he said in Michel's presence:
"Signora, I love you as I have always loved you. I esteem you the more because of the pride and loyalty you have hitherto displayed in refusing to contract, under the title of virgin, a marriage in which you would have had to bear in secret the titles of widow and mother. But if you think that, because you were subjected to outrage long ago, you are degraded in my eyes, you do not know my heart. If, because you bear a strange name, a name that arouses horror because of the memories connected with it, you believe that I would shrink from replacing it with mine, you put an affront upon my devotion to you. These, on the contrary, are reasons which make me desire more eagerly than ever to be your friend, your support, your protector and your husband. At the present moment your first marriage is a subject of ridicule. Give me your hand, and no one will dare to ridicule the second. People call you the brigand's wife; be the wife of the most reasonable and sedate of patricians, so that people may know that, if you can inflame the imagination of a wild and wayward man, you can rule the heart of a man of calm and peaceful life. Your son sorely needs a father, signora. He will soon be involved in more than one difficult and perilous crisis of the hazardous existence which a hostile race forces upon us. Be assured that I already love him as if he were my own son, and that my life and my fortune are his. But that is not enough; it is necessary that the sanction of a marriage between you and me should put an end to the equivocal position in which we stand toward each other. If I am supposed to be his mother's lover, can he love or esteem me? Would it not be absurd—aye cowardly—in him to seem to endure it without shame or impatience? So that I must avoid you now, if you refuse to be united to me. You will lose your best friend, and so will Michel! As for myself, I say nothing of the grief I should feel, for I know of no words to describe it; but my happiness is not the question, and it is not from selfishness that I implore you thus. No, I know that you do not know what love is, and that the thought of passion terrifies you. I know what a deep wound your heart has received, and how repugnant to you are the thoughts which kindle the imagination of those who know you. Very well! I will be your brother—nothing more. I promise upon my honor, if you demand it. Michel shall be your only child as well as your only love. But the law and public morality will permit me to be his best friend, his guide, and the defender of his mother's honor and fair fame."
The marquis delivered this long speech in a calm tone, the expression of his face corresponding to his manner. But a tear trembled on his eyelid, and he did wrong to try to hold it back, for it was more eloquent than his words.
The princess blushed; it was the first time that the marquis had ever seen her blush, and he was so agitated that he lost all the self-possession with which he had armed himself. That blush which made her a true woman for the first time, at thirty-two years of age, was like a sunbeam on the snow, and Michel's artistic sensibilities were so keen that he realized at once that she had kept another secret in the depths of her heart, or else that her heart, revived by joy and a sense of security, was ripe for love. And what man was more worthy of her than the Marquis della Serra?
The young prince knelt at her feet.
"O mother," he said, "you are only twenty years old! See, look at yourself," he added, offering her a hand mirror which her maid had left on the table. "You are so beautiful and so young, and you propose to renounce love! Is it for my sake? Shall I be the happier because your life is less complete and less happy? Shall I respect you less because I see that you are more profoundly respected and more effectively protected? Are you afraid that I am jealous, as Mila accused me of being? No, I shall not be jealous unless I find that he loves you better than I do, and I defy him to do that! Dear marquis, we will love her dearly, will we not, and make her forget the past; we will make her happy, who has never been happy, and who, alone of all human beings, deserves absolute happiness! Say yes, mother; I will not stand up until you have said yes!"
"I have already reflected," said Agatha, blushing afresh. "I think that I must do it for your sake, and for the dignity of us all."
"Do not say so," cried Michel, throwing his arms about her; "say that it is for your happiness, if you wish us two to be happy!"
Agatha held out her hand to the marquis and hid her son's face against her breast. She was ashamed to have him see her fiancé's joy. She had retained the modesty of a girl; and from that day, she was so fresh and so lovely that the evil tongues, who insist upon detecting falsehood and crime everywhere, declared that Michel was not her son, but a lover installed in her house under that profaned title. However, all calumny and ridicule vanished before the announcement of her marriage to Signor della Serra, which was to take place at the end of her mourning. There was an occasional sneer at the marquis's Quixotic love, but he was envied much more than he was pitied.
This announcement made a profound impression on Magnani. It put the finishing touch to his cure and his depression of spirit. His impressionable heart could not do without an all-absorbing, exclusive love; but he had apparently been deceived when he persuaded himself that he had never really hoped; for when hope had become impossible, he was no longer beset by the phantom of Agatha. It was Mila's phantom which engrossed his meditations and his sleepless nights. But this last passion began in the midst of a torture more intense than all the previous ones. Agatha had appeared to him as an ideal creature whom he could never reach. Mila appeared to him under the same aspect, but with the additional certainty that she had a lover.
Thereupon, in that little circle of relations and friends, there ensued a succession of petty anxieties, exceedingly delicate in their nature, which eventually became very painful to Mila and Magnani. Pier-Angelo, seeing that his daughter was depressed, and being unable to understand it, was inclined to have a friendly explanation with Magnani, and lead him on to ask openly for Mila's hand. Fra Angelo did not agree with him and restrained him. This question being taken before the princess's kindly tribunal for decision led to explanations concerning the excursion to Nicolosi which were perfectly satisfactory to the father and the uncle, but which might well leave some suspicion in the lover's proud and uncompromising heart. Fra Angelo, who was responsible for the trouble, undertook to repair it. He went to the young man, and without disclosing Mila's sublime imprudence, told him that she was absolutely justified in his mind, and that he had discovered that the purpose of that mysterious excursion was to do a noble and courageous act.
Magnani asked no question. Had he done so, the monk, who was incapable of paltering with the truth, would have told him everything; but Magnani's loyal heart closed itself to suspicion as soon as Fra Angelo had given his word. He believed at last in the possibility of happiness and went to Pier-Angelo to seek confirmation of his belief.
But it was written that Magnani should not be happy. On the day when he appeared to make his declaration and urge his suit, Mila, instead of remaining during their interview, left her father's workshop angrily and shut herself up in her own room. She was offended in the sanctuary of her pride by Magnani's four or five days of depression and irresolution. She had expected an easier and speedier triumph. She blushed at the thought that she had pursued him so long.
Moreover, she was aware of all that had happened during those days of misery. She knew that Michel was not in favor of their giving Magnani so much encouragement to declare himself. Michel alone had known his friend's secret, and he was alarmed for his adopted sister's sake by such a sudden reaction in her favor, which might well be an act of desperation. Mila concluded that Michel was aware that Magnani persisted in loving another woman, although the young artisan had refused to take back the princess's ring, and had begged Mila to keep it as a pledge of his esteem and respect. On that same evening, the evening that he had escorted her home from the Della Serra palace while Michel remained behind with his mother, Magnani, intoxicated by her beauty, her wit and her social success, had spoken to her so warmly that what he said was almost a declaration of love. Mila had had the strength of will to refrain from encouraging him openly. But she had believed that she had triumphed, and on the next day, the day of Agatha's declaration, she had expected to see him at her feet and to tell him at last that she loved him.
But he had not appeared at all on that day, and on the days immediately following he had not addressed a single word to her; he had confined himself to bowing to her with frigid respect when he had not been able to avoid her eye. Mila, mortally wounded and distressed, had refused to tell her father the truth, when that worthy man, disturbed by her pallor, asked her almost on his knees. She had persisted in denying that she loved their young neighbor. Pier-Angelo, simple and straightforward creature that he was, could find nothing better to say to her than:
"Cheer up, my child, we know very well that you love each other; but he has been uneasy and jealous on account of the Nicolosi affair; when you condescend to justify yourself in his eyes, he will fall at your feet. You will see him there to-morrow, I am sure of it."
"Oho! Master Magnani presumes to be jealous and to suspect me!" rejoined Mila, hotly. "He has loved me only a day or two, he doesn't know whether I love him, and when a suspicion comes into his head, instead of humbly telling me of it and doing his best to supplant the rival who worries him, he assumes the air of a betrayed husband, gives up all idea of making himself agreeable to me and persuading me, and, I suppose, will consider that he confers great honor and great pleasure on me when he comes and tells me that he deigns to forgive me! Well, for my part, I do not forgive him. That's what you may say to him from me, father."
The child persisted so in her irritation that Pier-Angelo was forced to take Magnani to her chamber door, where she let him knock a long while, and which she opened at last, saying pettishly that he seemed determined to interrupt her siesta.
"You may be perfectly sure," said Pier-Angelo to Magnani, "that the sly minx was not asleep, for she only left my workshop just as you came in. Come, children, put aside all these pretty quarrels. Shake hands, since you love each other; and I give you permission to kiss. No! Mila is proud like her poor mother. Ah! friend Antonio, you will be led by the nose as I was, and you will be none the less happy for it, I tell you! Come, kneel and ask her pardon. Signora Mila, must your father kneel too?"
"Father," replied Mila, flushing with pleasure, pride and vexation, all at once, "listen to me, instead of laughing at me, for I must keep my dignity intact! A woman has nothing more precious than her dignity, and no man, not even a father, ever understands what justification we have for being sensitive. I do not choose to be loved by halves, I do not choose to serve as a makeshift and a balm for a partly healed passion. I know that Master Magnani has long been in love with a beautiful unknown, and I am afraid that he is still, a little. Very good! I want him to take time enough to forget her and to give me time to find out whether I love him. This is all too new and strange to be accepted so hurriedly. I know that, when I have given my word, I shall not retract it, even if I regret having done it. I will judge of Magnani's affection," she said, with a reproachful glance at him, "by his evenness of temper with me and the zealousness of his attentions. He has something to set right, and I something to forgive."
"I accept the test," said Magnani, "but not as a punishment; I do not consider that I have been blameworthy in giving way to sorrow and depression. I did not believe that you loved me, and I knew well that I had no right to expect it. I still think that you do not, and if I venture to hope a little, it is in fear and trembling."
"Ah! what fine words, just to say nothing!" cried Pier-Angelo. "In my day we were less eloquent and more sincere. We said: 'Do you love me?'—'Yes, and you?'—'Like a madman.'—'So do I, until death.'—That was better than these long dialogues of yours, which seem like a game, and a game in which you try to annoy and worry each other. But perhaps I am in the way. I will go; when you are alone, you will understand each other better."
"No, father," said Mila, afraid that she should allow herself to be moved and persuaded too quickly, "even if he had enough love and spirit to-day to make me listen to him, I know that I should be sorry to-morrow that I had been so trustful. Besides, I know that you haven't told him everything. I know that he has taken it upon himself to be jealous, because I took a certain erratic walk on the mountain; but I know also that my uncle, when he assured him that I had committed no sin, which he was kind enough to believe, thought it best to say nothing as to the purpose of that walk. But for my own part, I am ashamed, and blush for that circumspection, which apparently was supposed to be necessary to his peace of mind, and I propose to tell him the whole truth."
"As you please, my child," replied Pier-Angelo. "I am inclined to agree with you that you should keep back no part of what you think you ought to tell. So speak as you think best. But you must remember that it is somebody else's secret whom you promised never to name."
"I can safely name him, as his name is in every mouth, especially in these last few days, and, if there is any danger in saying that one knows him, it is only for those who make that boast; however, it is not my purpose to reveal what I know about him; I may therefore tell Master Magnani that I voluntarily passed two hours tête-à-tête with the Piccinino, without telling him where or for what purpose."
"I believe that the fever for making declarations is attacking all women," laughed Pier-Angelo; "since Princess Agatha made the one which has caused so much talk, they all seem determined to confess in public."
Pier-Angelo spoke more truly than he supposed. The example of courage is contagious among women, and the romantically inclined Mila admired Princess Agatha so passionately that she regretted that she had not a secret marriage with the Piccinino to proclaim at that moment, provided always that she had become a widow and could marry Magnani.
But her rash avowal produced an entirely different effect from that which she expected. There was no trace of anxiety on Magnani's face, and she could not rejoice inwardly at having aroused and awakened his love by a flash of jealousy. He became even more melancholy and gentle than usual, kissed Mila's hand, and said to her:
"Your frankness denotes a noble heart, Mila, but there is a little pride mixed with it. Doubtless you intended to put me to a harsh test by telling me something that would alarm any other man than myself to the last degree. But I know your father and your uncle too well to fear that they deceived me when they said that you went into the mountain to do a good deed. So do not try to puzzle me; that would be cruel on your part, because you could have no other object than to make me unhappy. Tell me everything or tell me nothing. I have no right to demand disclosures which would compromise anyone, but I have the right to ask you not to play with me by trying to shake my confidence in you."
Pier-Angelo declared that on this occasion Magnani talkedlike a book, and that no one could possibly make a more straightforward, generous and sensible reply on such a delicate subject.
But what had taken place in little Mila's heart within a few days? It may be that one should never play with fire, however worthy the motive of one's action, and that she really did wrong to go to Nicolosi. However that may be, Magnani's reply did not please her as much as it did her father, and she felt chilled and piqued by the sort of paternal lecture which her lover had given her.
"Sermons already!" she said, rising, as a hint to Magnani that she proposed to go no farther with him that day; "and sermons to me, whom you pretend to love with so little hope and courage? It seems to me, neighbor, on the other hand, that you expect to find me very tractable and submissive. Well, I am afraid that you are mistaken. I am a child, and I ought to know it, for I am told so from morning till night; but I know very well that when one is really in love, he sees no fault—nothing wrong—in the conduct of the loved one. Everything she does is charming, or at all events sincere. He doesn't call her loyalty haughtiness, and her pride childish teasing. You see, Magnani, that it is a pity to see too clearly in love. There is a song that says thatCupid is a blind bambino. Father knows it; he will sing it to you. Meanwhile, understand that clairvoyance is contagious, and that he who removes the bandage from his eyes discloses his own faults to others at the same time. You have discovered that I am a little overbearing, and you think doubtless that I am a flirt. For my part, that shows me that you are very proud, and I am afraid that you are a bit of a pedant."
The Angelos hoped that the cloud would pass over, and that, after giving vent to her vexation, Mila would be all the more loving and Magnani all the happier. Indeed, they had interviews and battles of words and sentiments, in which they were so near coming to terms, that their sudden falling-out again a moment later, Magnani's depression and Mila's excitement, seemed inexplicable. Magnani was terrified sometimes to find so much spirit and will-power in a woman. Mila was afraid of so much gravity and unwavering common sense in a man. It seemed to her that Magnani was incapable of feeling a great passion, and she wished to inspire one, because she felt in a mood to plunge into it violently on her own account. He always spoke and thought like virtue personified, and it was with an imperceptible touch of irony that Mila called him thejust man par excellence.
She was very coquettish with him, and Magnani, instead of taking pleasure in her ingenious and strenuous efforts to please him, was afraid that she was a little coquettish with all men. Ah! if he had seen her in the Piccinino's boudoir, holding in check and subduing by her exquisite chastity, by her virile simplicity, so to speak, the young brigand's crafty inclinations and evil thoughts, Magnani would have realized that Mila was no coquette, since she was coquettish with him alone.
But the unfortunate man was not familiar with women; and, because he had loved so long in silence and sorrow, he had no conception of the delicate and mysterious problems of requited love. He was over-modest. He took Mila's cruel pleasantness too seriously, and scolded her for being so unkind to him when he ought to have thanked her on his knees.
Moreover, to tell the whole truth, that Nicolosi affair was stamped with the seal of fatality, like everything else that was connected, though it were by the tiniest thread, with the Piccinino's mysterious existence. Without touching upon the details which demanded secrecy, they had told Magnani everything that could set his mind at rest concerning that adventure of Mila's. Fra Angelo, always loyal to his secret predilection for the bandit, had vouched for his chivalrous and honorable conduct under such circumstances. The princess, loving Mila with a maternal love, had spoken with heartfelt eloquence of the girl's devotion and courage. Pier-Angelo had arranged everything for the best, in his happy and unsuspecting brain. Michel alone had shuddered upon learning of the episode, and he thanked Providence for performing a miracle in behalf of his charming and noble-hearted sister.
But despite his grandeur of soul, Magnani had been unable to look upon Mila's performance as the result of a worthy impulse; and, although he never mentioned the subject, he suffered intensely, as may be imagined.
As for Mila, the consequences of her adventure were more serious, although she did not suspect it as yet. That romantic chapter in her life had left an ineffaceable impression on her brain. After trembling and weeping bitterly when she learned that she had recklessly surrendered herself as a hostage to the redoubtable Piccinino, she had made the best of her mistake, and had secretly become reconciled to the thought of that alarming personage, who had bequeathed to her, instead of shame, remorse and despair, naught but poetic memories, increased esteem for herself, and a bouquet of spotless flowers, which an undefinable instinct had led her to preserve carefully among her sentimental relics, after drying them with the greatest care.
Mila was no coquette; we have proved it by telling how coquettish she was with the man whom she looked upon as her fiancé. Nor was she fickle; she would have been faithful to him until death, with a fidelity proof against every trial. But there are mysteries in a woman's heart, deeper and more incomprehensible in proportion to the woman's mental endowment and the exquisite charm of her nature. Moreover, there is something sweet and glorious to a young girl in the thought that she has succeeded in taming a terrible lion and has come forth safe and sound from a perilous adventure, solely by the power of her charm, her innocence and her courage. Mila realized now how brave and adroit she had been, quite unconsciously, in that great danger, and the man who had submitted so completely to the influence of her merit could not seem to her a contemptible or ordinary man.
Thus a feeling of romantic gratitude enchained her to the memory of Captain Piccinino, and, despite all the evil people might say of him, it would have been impossible to shake her confidence in him. She had taken him for a prince; was he not a prince's son and Michel's brother? She had taken him for a hero, for the future liberator of his country; might he not become so, had he not that ambition? His soft speech, his charming manners had fascinated her; and why not? Had she not an even more intense infatuation for Princess Agatha, and was the one less legitimate and less pure than the other?
All this did not prevent Mila from loving Magnani so fervently that she was always on the point of confessing her love in spite of herself; but a week had passed since their first quarrel, and the modest and timid Magnani had not as yet succeeded in extorting that confession.
He would have obtained that victory a little later doubtless, perhaps on the very next day; but an unforeseen event brought confusion into Mila's existence and gravely compromised the welfare of all the characters of this narrative.
One evening, as Michel was walking with his mother and the marquis in the garden of the villa, engaged all three in forming projects of mutual devotion and dreaming dreams of happiness, Fra Angelo joined them, and Michel concluded, from his strange expression and his excited manner, that he wished to speak to him in secret. They walked away from the others, as if by chance, and the Capuchin, taking from his breast a soiled and crumpled paper, handed it to Michel. It contained only these few words: "I am wounded and a prisoner; help, brother! Malacarne will tell you the rest. In twenty-four hours it will be too late."
Michel recognized the Piccinino's fine, nervous handwriting. The note was written in blood.
"I know all that has to be done," said the monk. "I received the letter six hours ago. Everything is ready. I came to say good-bye to you, for it may well be that I shall never return."
He paused, as if afraid to say something that was in his mind.
"I understand you, uncle; you relied upon my help," said Michel; "I am ready. Let me embrace my mother." "If you do that, she will see that you are going away and will detain you."
"No, but she will be anxious. I will not say good-bye to her: let us go. On the way we will think up some excuse for my absence, and send her a messenger."
"That would be very dangerous for her and for us. Leave it to me; it means five minutes delay, but it can't be helped."
He went back to the princess and said to her in the marquis's presence:
"Carmelo is in hiding in our convent; his sentiments toward your highness and Michel are all that can be desired. He desires to make his peace with him before starting on a long journey necessitated by the Ninfo affair and the suspicious and rigorous measures of the police since it happened. He also has certain favors to ask at his brother's hands. Permit us to go away together therefore, and if we are watched, which is quite possible, I will keep Michel at the convent until he can safely return. Rely upon the prudence of a man who is well used to affairs of this sort. It may be that Michel will pass the night at the convent, and even if he should stay longer do not be alarmed, and above all things do not send for him; do not send us any message which might be intercepted and lead to the discovery that we are giving shelter and protection to the outlaw. I beg your highness to forgive me for being unable to say anything further to reassure you. Time presses!"
Although greatly alarmed, Agatha concealed her emotion, kissed Michel, and walked with them to the gate of the park; there she paused.
"You have no money with you," she said; "Carmelo may need some for his journey. I will go and fetch some."
"Women think of everything," said Fra Angelo; "I had forgotten the most essential thing of all."
Agatha returned with some gold and a blank draft bearing her signature, which Michel could fill up as he chose for his brother's use. Magnani had just arrived. He divined from the princess's agitation and the leave-taking between her and Michel, accompanied by encouraging words from the latter, that there was some real danger which they were concealing from that loving mother.
"Should I be in your way if I accompanied you?" he asked the monk.
"On the contrary," was the reply, "you may be of the greatest service to us. Come!"
Agatha thanked Magnani with one of those glances laden with maternal love, which are more eloquent than any words.
The marquis would have joined them, but Michel objected.
"We are dreaming of imaginary dangers," he said with a laugh; "but if I were in any danger, my mother would be also. Your place is with her, my friend. I entrust to you what I hold dearest on earth! Is not this rather a solemn leave-taking for a walk to Bel Passo by moonlight?"
When they were a hundred yards from the park, Michel, who was ready to risk his own life, but not that of Mila's betrothed, in an affair in which he had no concern and no duty to his conscience or his family to fulfil, begged the young artisan to return to Catania. Fra Angelo thought differently. Fanatical in his friendships as in his patriotism, he looked upon Magnani as a providential ally. He was one stout and fearless champion more, and their party was so small! Magnani alone was worth three men; Heaven had sent him to their assistance, and they must make the most of his zeal and his devotion to the good cause.
As they walked rapidly along they maintained a hot discussion. Michel rebuked the monk for his pitiless proselytism under such circumstances; the monk rebuked Michel for rejecting the means while seeking the end. Magnani put an end to the dispute by his invincible determination.
"I understood perfectly well at the outset," he said, "that Michel was engaging in some affair of more serious importance than he chose to admit to his mother. I made up my mind at once. Some time ago I made Princess Agatha a sacred promise: that I would never leave her son to face alone any peril which I could share with him. I am keeping my promise, and whether Michel is willing or not, I shall follow him wherever he goes. I know of no other way to prevent me than to blow out my brains here. Choose whether you will put up with my company or kill me, Michel."
"All right! all right!" said the monk; "but stop talking, my sons. This is a thickly settled spot, and we mustn't talk as we pass the houses. Besides, we can't walk so fast when we are quarrelling. Ah! Magnani, you are a man!"
Magnani marched to meet danger with cold and melancholy courage. He did not feel perfectly happy in love; a craving for violent emotions drove him forward at random toward some extreme goal which appeared to him vaguely as an entire transformation of his present existence and a definitive rupture with the hesitations and languor of his heart.
Michel was determined rather than calm. He knew that he was being led by a fanatic to the succor of a man who was probably no less dangerous than useful to the good cause. He knew that he himself was staking a happier and broader existence than that of his companions; but he did not hesitate to play a manly part under the circumstances. The Piccinino was his brother, and although the sympathy he felt for him was blended with suspicion and sadness, he understood his duty. Perhaps too he had become enough of aprinceto be unable to endure the thought that his father's son might die at the end of a rope, with a sentence of degradation nailed to his gallows. Still, his heart was sore when he thought of his mother's grief if he should fall in such a reckless undertaking; but he resolutely closed his heart to all human weakness, and walked like the wind, as if he had hoped to wipe out, by forgetting it, the distance that he made haste to put between Agatha and himself.
The convent was not under suspicion or surveillance, as the Piccinino was not there, and the police of the Val were well aware that he had crossed the Garreta and gone into hiding in the interior of the island. Fra Angelo had invented danger near at hand to prevent the princess from suspecting the existence of distant but more real dangers. He led his young companions into his cell and assisted them to disguise themselves as monks. They divided the money, the sinews of war, as Fra Angelo said, in order that no one of them might be impeded by the weight of all the coin. They concealed beneath their frocks weapons, powder and ball. Their disguise and their outfitting consumed some time; and Fra Angelo, whose former experience of dangerous undertakings had taught him the evils of precipitation, examined everything with great care and perfect self-possession. In truth their freedom of action depended entirely upon their external aspect. The Capuchin trimmed Magnani's beard, colored Michel's eyebrows and hands, changed the tint of their cheeks and their lips by processes learned in his former profession, and with pigments so prepared as to withstand the action of rain, perspiration, and the compulsory baths to which the police resort in vain attempts to identify their prisoners.
So far as he himself was concerned, the Capuchin took no pains to deceive the eye as to his identity. It mattered little to him whether he was captured and hanged, provided that he had first saved his former captain's son. And since, in order to succeed in their undertaking, it was necessary to travel in the guise of peaceably disposed persons, nothing could be better suited to the rôle he had assigned to himself than his genuine features and costume.
When the two young men were all equipped, they gazed at each other in amazement. They were hardly recognizable, and they realized how the Piccinino, who was much more expert than Fra Angelo in the art of disguise, had been able thus far to conceal his real identity throughout his adventurous life.
And when they found themselves astride two tall mules, gaunt but willing, of wretched aspect, but of unlimited strength and endurance, they admired the monk's genius and complimented him upon it.
"I have not done all these things so rapidly without assistance," he replied, modestly; "I have been energetically and skilfully seconded, for we are not alone in our expedition. We shall meet pilgrims of divers sorts on the road we are about to take. Salute most courteously, my sons, all those persons who salute you; but be careful not to speak a word to anybody until you have looked at me. If any unforeseen accident should separate us, you will find other guides and other companions. The countersign is:Friends, isn't this the road to Tre-Castagne? I need not tell you that it is the road that leads in the opposite direction, and that nobody but one of your confederates would ask you such an absurd question. You will answer, however, as a matter of prudence, and in a jesting tone:All roads lead to Rome. And you will not place absolute confidence in your interlocutor until he has answered:By the grace of God the Father. Don't forget; don't fall asleep on your mules; and don't spare them. We have relays on the road; not a word except in whispers to one another."
As soon as they were fairly on the mountains, they urged their mules forward at a rapid pace, and rode several miles in a very short time. As Fra Angelo had said, they met various persons with whom they exchanged the sentences agreed upon. Then the Capuchin would ride up to them and talk with them in undertones, and they would resume their journey in company, sufficiently far apart not to seem to be travelling together, but always within sight and call.
The weather was exceedingly mild and the night superbly bright when they started up the mountain. The moon lighted up huge masses of rock and romantic precipices; but as they ascended through that wild country the cold made itself felt, and the mist veiled the splendor of the stars. Magnani was lost in his thoughts, but the young prince abandoned himself to a childlike delight in adventures, and, far from nourishing and fondling any presentiment of evil, as his friend was doing, he rode forward overflowing with confidence in his lucky star.
As for the monk, he abstained from thinking of anything whatsoever unconnected with the enterprise he was directing. With watchful, penetrating eye, his ear on the alert for the faintest sound, he also watched closely every movement, every change of position on the part of his companions. At the slightest sign of relaxation of their hold upon the reins, at the slightest suspicious swaying of their hooded heads, he would have rescued them from the danger of dozing and falling from their mules.
After riding fifteen miles, they changed mounts at a sort of hermitage which seemed to be deserted, but where they were received in the darkness by pretended muleteers, of whom they inquired as to the road leading to the famous village ofTre-Castagne, and who answered, as they grasped their hands and held their stirrups, thatall roads led to Rome. Fra Angelo distributed money, powder and bullets, which he carried in his mendicant's wallet, to all those persons whom he met and who were provided with that eloquent countersign; and, when they approached the end of their journey, Michel had counted a score or more of men, muleteers and peddlers, monks and peasants, who belonged to their party. There were even three in woman's dress,—young fellows whose beards had not yet grown nor their voices changed. They were very well made up, and played their parts to perfection. They were ready to serve as messengers or scouts at need.
The Piccinino's situation and the circumstances of his capture were as follows. The murder of Abbé Ninfo had been executed and proclaimed with an insane audacity altogether contrary to the young chief's habitual prudence. To kill a man, and to boast of it by an inscription left upon the very spot where the crime was committed, instead of concealing his body and removing every trace of the deed—a very simple matter in a region like that of Ætna—was certainly a desperate performance, a sort of challenge hurled at destiny in a moment of frantic excitement. But Carmelo, wishing not to shut himself out forever from his cherished retreat at Nicolosi, had left it in perfect order, in case of an investigation which should result in domiciliary visits. He had hastily stripped his luxurious boudoir and hidden all his treasures in an excavation under the house, of which it was almost impossible to find the entrance or to suspect the existence. And about sunrise he had shown himself in the village of Nicolosi, perfectly placid and in excellent spirits, thus laying a foundation for analibi, if the police, taking for true the declaration written on the base of theDestatore'scross, should conceive suspicions of him and make inquiries as to what he was doing at that time. The murder of Abbé Ninfo had been committed at least two hours earlier.
Having taken these precautions, Carmelo had ridden through the village, making some purchases for a journey of several days, and informing his acquaintances that he was going to look at some farming lands in the interior of the island.
He had started for the Nebrodes mountains in the northern part of Sicily, having determined to pass some days with certain brigands affiliated to his own band, until the investigations and searching about Catania had probably come to an end. He knew the methods of the police of the province; they were zealous and fierce at first, then timid and knavish, and, finally, tired and slothful.
But the affair at theDestatore'scross had made a deeper impression on the ruling powers than an ordinary murder. This had a political bearing, and seemed to be related to the great sensation of the moment, Agatha's declaration and her son's appearance on the world's stage. Severe orders were sent out rapidly in all directions. Carmelo was not safe in the mountains, especially as his acolyte, the false Piccinino, had joined him, and thus drew upon him all the danger of pursuit. Carmelo did not choose to abandon that savage, bloodthirsty man, who had given him abundant proofs of boundless devotion and blind submission, and who continued to play his part to the end with proud and unwearying courage.
He determined, therefore, to arrange for his escape before providing for his own safety. The false Piccinino, whose real name was Massari, and who was calledVerbum Carobecause he was a native of the village of that name, was endowed with a brute courage that nothing could daunt, but was as stupid as a buffalo in a frenzy. Carmelo went to the seashore with him, and tried to find a boat to take him to Sardinia. But, despite the precautions with which he surrounded that step, the owner of the boat betrayed them as smugglers to the revenue officers on the coast. Verbum Caro fought like a lion, and was half dead when he finally fell into the hands of his enemies. Carmelo was slightly wounded, and both were taken to the nearest fort, to be turned over to a squad ofcampieri, in which were two men who recognized the false Piccinino from having seen him during a skirmish at another part of the island. They so testified before the magistrate at Cefalù, and there was great rejoicing because the famous chief of the dreaded band was in custody. The real Piccinino was supposed to be one of his confederates, although Verbum Caro insisted that he had known him only three days, and that he was a young fisherman who proposed going to Sardinia with him as he had business there.
Carmelo replied to the questions that were asked him with a presence of mind and a talent for deception which would have secured his release at any other moment; but the country was intensely excited; so they decided to send him to Catania with his dangerous companion, for further proceedings, and they were placed in charge of thecampieri, who decided to take them to Catania by the road leading through the mountains to the centre of the island, deeming it the safer way.
But they were attacked in the outskirts of Sperlinga by a few brigands who had already learned of the arrest of the two Piccininos; but, just as the prisoners were about to be set free, an unexpected reinforcement came to the aid of thecampieriand put the brigands to flight. It was during this action that the Piccinino was adroit enough to throw among the assailants a paper wrapped around a stone, which he had in his hand ready for the first opportunity. Malacarne, whom he had recognized among his would-be rescuers, was an active, intelligent man, a former member of his father's band and a loyal friend to Fra Angelo. He had picked up the note and carried it to its address with valuable additional information.