Volume 2 — Introductory material (continued 3)

Agatha, as she spoke, was half reclining, and her voice, feeble at first, gradually became animated. She raised herself on her elbow, and, shaking her long black hair, and calling her son's attention with a gesture to the luxurious apartment in which they were, she continued:

"Michel, I pray that material enjoyments and the pride of birth and fortune may never dazzle you! I have paid dearly for those advantages; and, in the horrible solitude of this chamber, so bright and cheerful for us two to-day, I have passed many long sleepless hours, lying on a wretched pallet, consumed by fever, and asking God why He had not caused me to be born in a goatherd's cave or on a pirate's ship. I sighed for liberty, and the lowest of beggars seemed to me more blessed than I. If I had been poor and obscure, I should have received from my parents consolation and sympathy in my misfortune; whereas the illustrious Palmarosas heaped abuse upon their child and accused her of committing a crime because she would not be compelled to lie, and because she refused to bolster up the honor of her family by an imposture. I had no books in my prison; I had received only the most superficial education, and I utterly failed to understand the persecution of which I was the object. But, during that tedious and cruel inaction, I reflected, and I discovered for myself the emptiness of human pride. My moral being was transformed, so to speak, and everything that gratifies and enhances the vanity of men appeared to me, at my own expense, in its true light.

"But why should I say at my expense rather than to my advantage? What are two years of torture compared with the blessing of truth? When I returned to liberty and life, when I found that I readily recovered the vigor of youth, and that I had the necessary time and means to benefit by the ideas that had come to me, a great calmness overspread my heart, and I voluntarily adopted the habit, theretofore forced upon me, of self-denial and resolution.

"I renounced forever all idea of love and marriage. The thought of that bliss was marred and sullied in my imagination; and as for the cravings of the heart, there was no longer anything individual in mine. They had extended beyond the circle of selfish passions; I had conceived in my suffering one genuine passion, the object of which was not the enjoyment and triumph of one human being standing apart from the general misery by virtue of her own prosperity. That passion, which consumed me like a fever, and I may say with feverish intensity, was the longing to fight for the weak against their oppressors, and to be as lavish of benefactions and consolation as my family had been of persecution and dread. I had been brought up to respect and fear the court, to detest and distrust my unhappy countrymen. Had it not been for my own catastrophe I should probably have followed those precepts and examples of hideous cruelty. My heedless nature, wherein I resembled the women of my country, might never have conceived anything better than the principles of my family, which was not one of those that were subjected to persecution, and in which exile and suffering have inspired horror of the foreign yoke and love of country. My kinsmen, being ardently devoted to the ruling powers, had always been overwhelmed with favors, and the renewed prosperity which we shall soon owe to the cardinal's inheritance makes us a shameful exception among the many illustrious families whom I have seen ground into the dust by exorbitant taxes and by outlawry.

"I was no sooner mistress of my actions and my property than I devoted my life to the relief of the unfortunate. As a woman I was debarred from taking an interest in politics, the social sciences or philosophy. And indeed what man can possibly do it under the yoke that is crushing us? But what I could do was to assist the victims of tyranny, to whatever class they might belong. I soon found that their number was so great that my income would not suffice, even if I deprived myself of the necessaries of life. Thereupon my mind was soon made up. I had determined not to marry. I was ignorant of your existence, and I looked upon myself as alone in the world. I caused an exact statement of my fortune to be prepared—a precaution which the wealthy patricians of our province very rarely take; their indifference keeps them from visiting their estates when they are in the interior of the island, and many have never set foot upon them. I investigated my property and made myself familiar with it; first of all, I sold a part in small lots, intending to supply the poor people of these regions with a little land at a very low price, in a majority of cases for nothing. That was unsuccessful. A people that has fallen into the lowest stage of poverty and slavery cannot be saved with a stroke of the pen. I tried other methods which I will describe to you in detail at another time. They failed. Everything is bound to fail when the laws of a country have decreed its ruin. I had no sooner made a family happy, than the taxes, increasing with its prosperity, made a poverty-stricken family of it. How can order and stability be secured when the state seizes sixty per cent of the income of the humble workingman as well as of the idle rich man?

"Thus I learned, with profound sorrow, that in conquered and downtrodden countries there is no resource but almsgiving, and I devoted my life to that. It required much more activity and perseverance than gifts outright and sacrifices of capital. This life of small benefactions and constant sacrifices is a task without respite, without limits and without recompense; for almsgiving affords only a momentary remedy; it creates the necessity of being repeated and extended ad infinitum, and one never sees the result of the toil one imposes upon oneself. Oh! how cruel it is to live and love when one dresses every hour a wound that cannot be healed, when one unceasingly casts one's heart and strength into a pit which can no more be filled than the crater of Ætna!

"I accepted this task, and I devote all my time to it; I realize its inefficiency, and I am not discouraged. I no longer cry out against sloth, debauchery and all the vices that poverty engenders; or, if I do, my anger is no longer against those who acquire these vices but against those who impose them and perpetuate them. I do not quite understand what is meant by discernment in almsgiving. That is all very well for free countries, where a reprimand may serve some purpose, and where the precepts of practical morality are for the use of all men. Among us, alas! misery is so widespread that good and evil are to many persons of mature years words devoid of sense; and to preach orderliness, honesty and prudence, amid suffering and hunger, is almost ferocious pedantry.

"My income has not always been sufficient to meet so many calls, Michel, and you will find your mother's fortune secretly undermined by excavations of such depth that it may perhaps crumble on my grave. Were it not for the cardinal's inheritance, I should regret to-day that I had not saved for you sufficient means to serve your country as you will; but to-morrow you will be richer than I have ever been, and you will administer your fortune according to your principles and the dictates of your heart. I shall impose no task upon you. To-morrow you will enter into possession of this great power, and I shall not be at all disturbed as to the use you may make of it. I am sure of you. You have been brought up in a good school, my son—the school of poverty and toil! I know how you repair trivial faults; I know of what sacrifices your heart is capable when it is at odds with a consciousness of duty. Prepare, therefore, to bear the burden of your misfortune—to be a prince in fact as well as in name. Within three days you have embarked upon what seem to be strange adventures; you have received more than one valuable lesson. Fra Angelo, the Marquis della Serra, Magnani—even Mila, the sweet child—have spoken to you in a language which has made a profound impression on you, I know. I saw it in your conduct, in your determination to remain an artisan; and from that moment I promised myself that I would disclose to you the secret of your destiny, even though the cardinal should live on and compel us to take extraordinary precautions."

"O mother, how noble you are! and how little people know you when they think that you are a mere devotee, apathetic or eccentric? Your life is the life of a saint or martyr: nothing for yourself, everything for others!"

"Do not give me so much credit, my child," replied Agatha. "Innocent as I was, I had no claim to share in the general happiness. I was borne down by a fatality which all my efforts had succeeded only in making more burdensome. By denying myself love, I was simply fulfilling the plainest duty that honor imposes upon a woman. So, too, in becoming a sister of charity I obeyed the imperative outcry of my conscience. I had been unfortunate; I knew unhappiness by personal experience; I was no longer one of those who can refuse to credit the sufferings of others because they have never suffered themselves. I may, perhaps, have done good without judgment; at all events, I have done it without remission and with the utmost zeal. But, in my eyes, to do good does not amount to so much as is generally supposed. To do good in this way is simply not to do evil; not to be selfish means simply that one is not blind nor detestable. I have such unbounded pity for those who are vain of their good works, that I have hidden mine almost as sedulously as I kept the secret of my marriage and your birth. My character has never been understood. I did not wish that it should be. So that I have no right to complain of having been misjudged."

"Ah! but I know you," said Michel, "and my heart will repay you a hundredfold for all the happiness of which you have been deprived."

"I know it," she replied. "Your tears prove it, and I feel it; for, since you have been with me, I should have forgotten that I had ever been unhappy, if I had not had my story to tell you."

"Thank you, mother, but do not say that you leave me at liberty to do as I please. I am only a child, and I feel so insignificant beside you that I never desire to see anything except through your eyes, or to act except by your orders. I will help you to carry the burden of wealth and of almsgiving, but I will be your man of business—nothing more. I, a rich man and a prince! I, endowed with any sort of authority when you are here! when I am your son!"

"My child, you must be a man. I have not had the happiness of bringing you up; I could have done it no better than worthy Pier-Angelo. It is my business now to love you—nothing more—and that is enough. To justify my love, you will not need to have your ancestors' portraits say to you: 'I am not pleased with you.'—You will so conduct yourself that your mother will always say to you: 'I am pleased with you.' But listen, Michel! the bells are tolling; all the bells in the city are tolling the knell of a dying man, and it must be some great personage. It is your kinsman—your enemy—Cardinal Palmarosa, who is about to be called to account by God for his crimes. It is daylight, and we must part. Go and pray to God to be merciful to him. I go to receive his last breath!"

XLVI GLADNESS OF HEART

While the princess rang for her maid and ordered her horses, that she might go and pay her last respects to the moribund cardinal, Michel went down into the park from the flower garden by the staircase cut in the lava; but, when he was only halfway down, he spied Master Barbagallo, who was already on his feet and beginning his conscientious day's work, very far from believing, the excellent man, that that splendid palace and those beautiful gardens were no longer aught save the deceptive symbol and the vain simulacrum of a handsome fortune. In his eyes to expend one's income in almsgiving was a lordly and estimable custom. He seconded the princess zealously in her charitable work. But to encroach upon one's capital was a heinous sin, inconsistent with the hereditary dignity of a great name; and, if Agatha had enlightened him or consulted him in that respect, all his genealogical learning would have been none too much to prove to her that no Palmarosa had ever committed that crime of lèse-nobility, unless at the bidding of his king. What! deprive oneself of the real source of one's power for the benefit of miserable wretches! Fie! unless it were a question of founding a hospital or a monastery, monuments which endure, and which transmit the renown and virtue of the founder to posterity, and impart new glory to a name instead of dimming its lustre.

Michel, when he saw the majordomo innocently blocking his path—for Barbagallo was gazing fixedly at an East India shrub which he had planted with his own hands at the foot of the staircase—determined to lower his head and pass rapidly on without any explanation. A few hours later, he would have no motive for concealment, but, for propriety's sake, it would be much better to await the princess's public declaration.

But the majordomo seemed to be planted beside his shrub. He was surprised that the climate of Catania, which, according to him, was the most salubrious climate in the world, did not agree with that rare plant better than the climate of the tropics; which fact proves that he understood the cultivation of genealogical trees better than that of real trees. He was stooping—almost lying oh the ground—to see if some destructive worm had not attacked the roots of the languishing plant.

Michel, having reached the lowest stair, decided to leap over Master Barbagallo, who uttered a loud yell, thinking perhaps that it was the beginning of a volcanic eruption, and that a stone vomited forth by some near-by crater had fallen beside him.

His exclamation had such a comical, rancous sound that Michel laughed heartily.

"Cristo!" cried the majordomo, as he recognized the young artist, whom the princess had ordered him to treat with great consideration, but whom he was very far from believing to be Agatha's son or lover.

But, when his first fright had passed, he tried to collect his thoughts, while Michel walked swiftly across the park. He awoke to the fact that Pier-Angelo's son had come from the flower garden before sunrise; from the princess's flower garden! that private, fortified sanctuary, to which none but a favored lover could gain an entrance at night!

"Princess Agatha have a lover! and such a lover! when the Marquis della Serra, who is hardly worthy to aspire to the honor of winning her favor, never goes in or out except by the principal door of the palace!"

That was an impossible supposition. So Master Barbagallo, having no means of denying so palpable a fact, and not presuming to comment upon it, limited himself to a frequent repetition of the word Cristo! And, after standing like a statue for some moments, he concluded to attend to his duties as usual, and to forbid himself to think upon any subject whatsoever until further orders.

Michel was hardly less surprised by his own situation than the majordomo by what he had seen. Of all the dreams he had dreamed in the last three days, the most unexpected, the most prodigious, beyond any question, was this one that had crowned and elucidated the others. He walked straight ahead, and the instinct born of habit guided him toward his father's house in the suburb, although he had no idea where he was going. Every object upon which his eyes rested seemed new and strange to him. The magnificence of the palaces and the squalor of the houses of the common people presented a contrast which hitherto had saddened him only as a condition by which he himself had to suffer, and which he had accepted as an inevitable law of society. Now that he felt that he was a free and powerful member of that society, compassion and kindliness poured into his heart, broader and less selfish than before. He felt that he was a better man since he had been numbered among the fortunate few, and the consciousness of the duty resting upon him vibrated in his breast under the impulsion of his mother's generous breath. He felt that he had increased in size among his fellowmen since he had been charged with ameliorating their lot instead of being oppressed by them. In a word, he felt himself every inch a prince, and was no longer surprised that he had always been ambitious. But his ambition had assumed a nobler shape in his mind on the day that he had put it into words in answer to Magnani's criticisms; and now that it was gratified, far from debasing him, it exalted him and raised him above himself. There are men—and, unfortunately, they are in the majority—whom prosperity degrades and perverts; but a truly noble mind sees in the power of wealth only a means of doing good, and eighteen years is an age at which the ideals are pure and the mind open to grand and worthy aspirations.

As he entered the suburb, he saw a poor woman begging, with one child in her arms and three others clinging to her ragged skirts. Tears came to his eyes, and he put both hands in the pockets of his jacket, for on the day before he had assumed the livery of the common people, resolved to continue to wear it a long time—always if he must. But he found that his pockets were empty, and he remembered that as yet he possessed nothing.

"Forgive me, my poor woman," he said, "to-morrow I will give you something. Be here to-morrow, I will come again."

The poor creature thought that he was making sport of her, and said to him in a solemn tone, drawing herself up in her rags with the majesty of the southern peoples: "You must not make sport of the poor, my boy; it brings bad luck."

"Yes, yes!" said Michel, as he walked away; "I believe it, I am sure of it! that shall never happen to me."

A little farther on he met some laundresses who were coolly hanging their linen on a line stretched across the street, over the heads of the passers-by. Michel stooped, as he would not have done the day before; he would have thrust the obstacle aside with an impatient hand. The two pretty girls who held the line to keep it taut were grateful to him and smiled upon him; but when Michel had passed this first curtain of the biancheria, and as he stooped to pass under a second, he heard the old laundress say to her apprentices in the tone of an angry sibyl: "Lower your eyes, Ninetta; don't turn your head like that, Rosalina! that's little Michelangelo Lavoratori, who sets himself up for a great painter, but he will never be the man his father is! A fig for children who turn up their noses at their father's trade!"

"I absolutely must adopt the profession of prince," thought Michel with a smile, "for the profession of artist would have drawn too much blame upon me."

He entered his house, and for the first time it seemed to him picturesque and attractive in its wretched disorder. "It is a genuine artist's house of the Middle Ages," he said to himself; "I have lived here only a few days, but I shall always remember them as among the sweetest and purest days of my life." It seemed to him that he already regretted that humble family nest, and the vague longing he had felt the day before for a less prosaic, a more splendid abode seemed to him an unhealthy, insane longing, so true it is that one exaggerates the value of the good things of life when one has them not.

"I could have passed years here very comfortably," he thought, "as happy as I shall be in a palace, provided that my conscience was always as well satisfied with itself as it was when Pier-Angelo said to me: 'Well, you are a man of heart, that you are!' All the portraits of the Palmarosas and Castro-Reales may tell me that they are pleased with me; they will afford me no more joy than those words from my father the artisan."

He entered as a prince that house from which he had gone forth an artisan but a few hours earlier, and he crossed the threshold with a feeling of profound respect. Then he hurried to his father's bedside, thinking to find him asleep. But Pier-Angelo was with Mila, who had not slept at all she was so disturbed because her brother had not returned. The old man suspected that the princess had kept him; but he was unable to make Mila assent to the probability of that supposition. Michel threw himself into their arms and wept tears of joy. Pier-Angelo understood what had taken place, and why the young Prince of Castro-Reale called him father so effusively, and would not allow him to call him Michel, but made him say my son whenever he spoke.

Mila was greatly surprised when Michel, instead of embracing her with his usual familiarity, kissed her hand again and again, calling her his darling sister.

"What's the matter, Michel?" she said, "and why this act of respect with me? You say that nothing extraordinary has happened, that you have been in no danger during the night, and yet you bid us good-morning like a man who has just escaped death, or who brings us paradise in the hollow of his hand. Well, well! now that you are here, we are as happy as the saints in heaven, it is true! for I had many bad dreams while I was waiting for you. I woke poor Magnani two hours before daylight and sent him in search of you; and he is searching still. He must have gone to Bel Passo, to see if you were not with our uncle."

"Dear, good Magnani!" cried Michel; "I will go out and find him, in order to set your mind at rest and to see him the sooner. But first I want to breakfast with you two at our cosy little table; I want to eat some of the rice that you cook so deliciously, Mila, and the water-melon that nobody can select so well as you."

"See how sweet he is whenever he doesn't choose to be capricious!" said Mila, looking at her brother. "When he is in one of his fits of temper, nothing is good, the rice is cooked too much and the water-melons are over-ripe. To-day everything is delicious, even before he tastes it."

"I shall be like this every day henceforth, my darling sister," said Michel; "I shall have no more bad temper, I shall ask you no more impertinent questions, and I trust that you will have no better friend in the world than me."

As soon as he was alone with Pier-Angelo, Michel knelt before him. "Give me your blessing," he said, "and forgive me for not having been worthy of you always. I will be hereafter, and if I should hesitate a moment on the path of duty, promise that you will scold me and lecture me more severely than you have ever done."

"Prince," said Pier-Angelo, "I should have been more severe perhaps if I had been your father; but—"

"O father," cried Michel, "never call me by that name, and never say that I am not your son. Of course I am the happiest of men to be Princess Agatha's son, but it would be mingling gall with my happiness to try to accustom myself to the thought that I am not yours; and if you call me prince, I will never be one; I will insist on remaining a mechanic!"

"Very well, so be it!" said Pier-Angelo, embracing him; "let us continue to be father and son, as we were; I like that better, especially as I should cling to the old habits in spite of myself, even if you had been offended. Now, listen; I know beforehand what you will say to me in a moment. You will want to make me a rich man. I want to say to you beforehand that I beg you not to torment me on that subject. I prefer to remain as I am; I am very happy. Money brings anxiety; I have never been able to keep it. The princess will do what she thinks best for your sister; but I doubt whether the little one cares to rise above her condition, for if I am not mistaken, she is in love with our neighbor, Antonio Magnani, and has no idea of marrying anybody else. Magnani will not consent to accept anything from you, I know; he is a man like me, who loves his trade and would blush to be assisted when he earns all he needs. Don't be angry, my son; I accepted your sister's marriage-portion yesterday. That was not the gift of a prince, it was the wages of a workman, the sacrifice of a loving brother. I was proud of it, and your sister, when she knows about it, won't be ashamed; but I did not think it best to tell her yet. She would never have accepted it, she is so accustomed to look upon your artistic future as a sacred thing; and the child is obstinate, as you know.

"As for me, Michel, you know me too. If I were rich, I should be ashamed to work. People would think I did it from avarice, and to add a little to my savings. Nor could I work if I were not driven to it; I am a creature of habit, a routine workman; every day would be Sunday to me, and it would be as injurious for me to amuse myself all the week as it is advantageous for me to enjoy myself a little at table on the blessed day of rest. Ennui would lay hold of me, and melancholy after that. I should try to escape from it by intemperance perhaps, as most men do who don't know how to read and so can't keep up their spirits with beautiful written stories. But one must feed one's brain when the body is at rest, and they feed it with wine. That is worse than nothing, I know by experience. When I go to a wedding festival I enjoy myself the first day, I am bored the second, and sick the third. No, no! I must have my apron, my ladder, my glue-pot, and my ballads, or each hour seems as long as two. If you blush for me—But no, I won't finish, it is insulting to you; you will never blush for me. In that case, let me live as I please, and when I am too old and feeble to work, you shall take me in and take care of me; I agree to that, I give you my word on it. I can do nothing better for you, I am sure."

"Your wishes shall be sacred to me," Michel replied, "and I realize fully that it is impossible for me to pay my debt to you with money; it would be altogether too easy to be able to liquidate a debt running through one's whole lifetime in an instant and without the slightest trouble. Ah! if I could only double the duration of your life, and restore, at the expense of my blood, the strength you have expended in supporting and educating me!"

"Do not hope to pay me otherwise than by affection," replied the old decorator. "Youth cannot return, and I desire nothing that is contrary to the divine laws. If I have worked for you, I have done it with pleasure and without ever relying upon any other reward than that of seeing you make a wise use of your good fortune. The princess knows my way of thinking in that respect. If she should pay me for your education, she would deprive me of all my merit and pride; for I have a certain pride of my own, and I shall be proud to hear people say as they will before long: 'What a loyal Sicilian and good prince this Castro-Reale is! And yet it was that old fool of a Pier-Angelo who brought him up.' Come, give me your hand, and let us say no more about it. It would hurt me a little, I confess. It seems that the cardinal is dying. I want you to say a prayer with me for him, for he needs it sadly; he was a wicked man, and the woman who was taking you to the hospital, when my brother the monk and I snatched you from her arms, looked as if she would much rather throw you into the sea than into the orphan's crib. So let us pray with a good heart! Come, Michel, it won't be long."

And Pier-Angelo, uncovering, said in a loud voice and in a tone of the deepest sincerity: "O my God! forgive us our sins, and forgive Cardinal Hieronimo, as we ourselves forgive him. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.—Michel, you didn't say amen, did you?"

"Amen, with all my heart," replied Michel, filled with respect for the artless piety with which Pier-Angelo forgave his persecutor.

For Monsignor Hieronimo had been very cruel to the poor mechanic. He had had only suspicions against him, and yet he had prosecuted him, thrown him into prison, ruined him, and finally forced him to exile himself, which last was the greatest sorrow that could have been inflicted upon honest Pier-Angelo.

As Mila was beginning to be anxious concerning Magnani, who did not return, Michel started out in search of him. All the bells in the city were tolling for the dying cardinal; prayers were being said in all the churches, and the poor people who were oppressed, held to ransom and punished by him at the slightest symptom of rebellion, knelt devoutly on the steps of the churches to ask God to absolve him. Doubtless one and all rejoiced inwardly at the first stroke of the bell, and would rejoice still more at the last. But the terrors of hell acted so powerfully on those vivid imaginations that mortal resentment vanished in face of the threat which those clanging bells seemed to hold suspended over every head.

Michel, as he did not hear the final knell announcing that death had seized his prey, and, as he felt sure that his mother would not leave the deathbed until that decisive moment had arrived, bent his steps toward the hill of Mal Passo. He wished to embrace his friend and his uncle once more before they saluted him as Prince of Castro-Reale. He dreaded especially the moment when Magnani would put on the armor of pride, and perhaps of coldness, in his unjust fear of contemptuous treatment by Michel. He was determined to stipulate in advance for the continuance of their friendship, to demand his solemn promise to that effect, and to inform him first of all of his new position after he had cemented that sacred brotherhood in Fra Angelo's presence.

And then, too, Michel thought of the Piccinino. He said to himself that it was not so far from the convent to Nicolosi that he could not go and visit his brother before he had taken any measures against the princess and himself. He could not make up his mind to defy and await schemes of revenge which might attack his mother before himself; and, though he should find the bastard in a paroxysm of rage worse than that in which he had last seen him, he looked upon it as his duty as a man and a son to meet alone its first consequences.

On the way Michel remembered that he was a painter on seeing the rising sun illumine the landscape. A feeling of profound sadness suddenly took possession of him. His artistic future seemed to be at an end, and as he passed the gate of Villa Palmarosa—as he glanced at that niche with its madonna, from which he had saluted the steeples of Catania for the first time—his heart was heavy, as if twenty years, instead of half as many days, had elapsed between this dénouement of his life and his adventurous youth, overflowing with poetic aspirations, with fears and hopes. The absolute security of his new position frightened him, and he asked himself in dismay if a painter's genius would not be inadequately accommodated in the brain of a rich man and a prince. What would become of ambition, wrath, terror, the frenzy for work, obstacles to be overcome, triumphs to be defended—those powerful and necessary stimulants? Instead of enemies to spur him on, he would have only flatterers to corrupt his judgment and his taste; instead of poverty to force him to hard work and to sustain him in the fever of composition, he would be surfeited in advance with all the advantages which art pursues at least as eagerly as it pursues renown.

He heaved a deep sigh, but soon took courage, saying to himself that he would prove himself worthy to have friends who would tell him the truth, and that, while pursuing that nobler object—renown—he could renounce more completely the material profits of the profession and the vulgar judgment of the multitude.

Reflecting thus, he reached the monastery. The bells were ringing in response to those of the city, and that monotonous and depressing dialogue was carried on in the crisp morning air amid the songs of the birds and the murmuring of the breezes.

XLVII THE VULTURE

Magnani knew all, for Agatha had at least suspected his passion, if she had not actually divined it; and she had told him the story of her life. She had described her blighted, desolate past, and her present, devoted to serious pursuits and absorbed by maternal affections. By thus displaying her confidence in him and her regard for him, she had at all events healed the secret wound inflicted upon his plebeian pride. She had with delicate tact pointed out to him that the obstacle between them was not the difference in rank and in their ideas, but the difference between their ages and the decree of an inflexible destiny. In a word, she had raised him to her own level by treating him as a brother, and if she had not effected a complete cure at the first attempt, she had removed all the bitterness of his suffering. Then she had adroitly brought Mila's name into the conversation, and, when he realized that the princess desired their union, Magnani had deemed it to be his duty to comply with her desire.

That duty he determined to set about performing at once, and he fully appreciated the fact that Agatha, to punish him for his madness, had pointed out to him the easiest, not to say the most delightful of expiations. As he had not shared Mila's uneasiness with respect to Michel's absence, he had gone out simply to please her, with no idea that there was any need of going in search of him. He had called upon Fra Angelo, to consult him concerning the girl's sentiments, and to ask for his advice and support. When he reached the monastery, the monks were reciting prayers for the cardinal's soul, and he was obliged to wait in the garden, with its paths of earthenware and its borders of lava, until Fra Angelo could come to him. The doleful chanting depressed him, and he could not avoid a presentiment of evil to come as he thought that he was cherishing the hope of a happy betrothal in the midst of a funeral ceremony.

On the preceding evening, before he parted from Pier-Angelo on their return from the Della Serra palace, he had sounded the old artisan concerning his daughter's feelings. Pier-Angelo, delighted by that overture, had ingenuously replied that he believed that she loved him; but as Magnani distrusted his good fortune, and hardly dared hope, Pier-Angelo had advised him to consult his brother the Capuchin, whom, although younger than himself, he was accustomed to look upon as the head of the family.

Magnani was very uncertain and disturbed in mind. And yet a mysterious voice told him that Mila loved him. He recalled her furtive glances, her sudden blushes, her concealed tears, her deathly pallor, aye, and her words, which denoted an affectation of indifference prompted by pride. He hoped; he awaited impatiently the end of the prayers, and when Fra Angelo joined him he begged him to give him his attention, to advise him, and above all things to tell him the truth without concealment.

"This is a serious matter," the good monk replied; "I have always had the friendliest feeling for your family, my son, and a very high regard for you. But are you sure that you know me and love me well enough to believe me if the advice that I give you is contrary to your secret desires? For we monks are often consulted, and very little heed is paid to our counsel. Everyone comes and confides his thoughts and passions, even his business affairs to us, because it is commonly supposed that men with no direct interest in life have a keener insight than others. That is a mistake. In most cases our advice is either too complaisant to be worth following or so severe that it is impossible to follow it. For my part I dislike to give advice."

"Very well," said Magnani, "if you do not consider me capable of making the most of your counsel, will you promise to answer, without hesitation, and with perfect frankness, a question I am going to ask you?"

"Hesitation is not a failing of mine, my friend. But for lack of careful handling one may inflict much pain on those whom one loves, and do you want me to be cruel to you? You subject my affection to a painful test!"

"You frighten me beforehand, Padre Angelo. It seems to me that you have already guessed the question I am going to ask you."

"Ask it, so that I may see if I am not mistaken."

"And you will answer?"

"I will answer."

"Well," said Magnani, in a trembling voice, "should I do well to ask your brother to give me Mila's hand?"

"Precisely, that is what I expected. My brother has already spoken to me about it. He thinks that his daughter loves you; he thinks that he has detected it."

"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-omened Destatore's Cross 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 the Destatore and 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 the Justicier 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 the Destatore's son 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.

XLVIII THE MARQUIS

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 those clients with 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 the Destatore, 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, the campieri brought 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 the Destatore's cross, reading the inscription which the justicier d'aventure had 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 all dénouements more or less lame and unsatisfactory? The reason is simple enough: it is because in real life there never is a dénouement; 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.

XLIX DANGER

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 talked like 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 that Cupid 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 the just 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.