women as chattels, and I, alas! would fain be able to love them as human
beings! They are intoxicated with delight by acts of violence which make
me sick at heart, and by which I should be humiliated, knowing that I
have the power to please, and having never been compelled to force
myself upon anyone. No, no! they are no brothers of mine; if they are
the _Destatore's_ sons, they are the offspring of wild dissipation and
of his years of moral decadence. I am the son of Castro-Reale; I was
conceived on a day when his mind was lucid. My mother was not violated
like the rest. She abandoned herself to him willingly, and I am the
fruit of the intercourse of two free hearts, who did not give me life
against their wills.
"But, in that world which is called society, and which I call the legal
community, are there not many persons of both sexes with whom I could
enter into relations, and so escape this ghastly solitude of my
thoughts? Are there not men of intelligence, endowed with keen
perception, whose friend I might be? Are there not many women, proud and
adroit, whose lover I might be, without being compelled to laugh at the
pains I had taken to overcome them? In a word, am I doomed never to find
emotion of any sort in this life which I embraced as being most fruitful
in violent emotions? Shall I always be obliged to expend endless stores
of imaginative power and of tact, in order to succeed in pillaging a
vessel on the coast or a party of travellers in the gorges of the
mountain? And all to obtain a multitude of petty trinkets, a little
money, and the hearts of a few Englishwomen, ugly or half-mad, who adore
adventures with brigands as a remedy for the spleen!
"But I have closed to myself forever that world where I might find my
equals and my fellows. I can enter only through the secret doors of
intrigue, and, if I wish to appear there in broad daylight, I can do it
only on condition of being followed by the mystery of my past, that is
to say, by a sentence of death always hanging over my head. Shall I
leave the country? It is the only country where the trade of bandit is
more perilous than dishonorable. Anywhere else I shall be asked for
proof that I have always lived in legitimate society; and if I cannot
furnish it I shall be classed with the most degraded creatures who
wallow in the sloughs of their pretended civilization!
"O Mila! how completely you have filled with grief and dismay this heart
upon which you have shed a ray of your sunlight!"
XL
DECEPTION
Thus did that man, so ill-placed in life if we compare his intellectual
powers with his social position, torture himself with vain reflections.
Mental culture, which was his greatest enjoyment, was also his torment.
Having read everything that fell into his hands, without method and
without selection, and allowing himself to be impressed by everything in
turn, he was as learned in evil as in good, and he was insensibly
drawing near that scepticism which no longer believes absolutely in
either good or evil.
He returned to his house to take certain precautions with respect to
Abbé Ninfo, so that, if the unexpected should happen, and his domicile
be invaded, there should be no traces of violence. He put the narcotized
wine out of sight, and filled the decanter with unadulterated wine, in
order that he might safely pretend to experiment upon himself at need.
He placed the abbé on a couch, extinguished the lamp, and swept up the
ashes of the papers Mila had destroyed. No one ever entered his house in
his absence. He had no regular servants, and the spotless neatness which
he himself maintained did not cost him much trouble, for he occupied
only a few rooms, and even those few he did not enter every day. He
worked in his garden, in his leisure moments, to keep himself in
condition, and to be consistent with his assumed rôle of peasant. He
had himself applied to all the issues of his abode a simple but
substantial system of fastening, calculated to resist for a long time
any attempt to force an entrance. Finally, he released two enormous and
savage mountain dogs, fierce beasts who knew nobody but him, and who
would infallibly have strangled the prisoner if he had tried to escape.
Having taken these precautions, the Piccinino washed and perfumed
himself, and, before going down to the city, showed himself in the
village of Nicolosi, where he was highly esteemed by all the people. He
conversed in Latin with the priest, under the vine-clad arbor of the
vicarage. He exchanged sly jests with the pretty girls of the village,
who ogled him from their doorsteps. He held several consultations on
agriculture and general affairs with men of sense who appreciated his
intelligence and his extensive knowledge. As he left the village he fell
in with an officer of _campieri_, with whom he walked for some distance,
and who informed him that the Piccinino still succeeded in eluding the
pursuit of the police and the municipal brigade.
Mila, eager to tell all her secrets to the princess, and to avail
herself of the mysterious prince's permission to ascertain their
meaning, travelled as quickly as Bianca was able to descend those steep
and dangerous slopes. It did not occur to her to hold the mule back; she
was too deeply absorbed in her meditations. Persons of pure heart and
tranquil mind must have noticed that, when they communicate their mental
disposition to perturbed and agitated minds, their own serenity is
diminished in proportion. They give only at the price of running in debt
themselves to some extent; for confidence is a matter of exchange, and
there is no heart so richly endowed and so powerful that it does not
risk something in gratifying its beneficent impulses.
Gradually, however, pretty Mila's terror changed to joy. The Piccinino's
conversation had left an echo as of sweet music in her ears, and the
odor of his bouquet kept alive the illusion that she was still in that
rustic garden, under the shade of the black fig-trees and pistacias,
walking upon carpets of moss strewn with mallow, orchids and fraxinella,
sometimes catching her veil on the aloes and the twigs of the thorny
smilax, from which her host quickly detached it with respectful
courtesy. Mila had the simple tastes of her class, added to the tendency
to romance and poesy born of her intelligence. If the marble fountains
and statues of Villa Palmarosa appealed to her imagination, the
vine-clad arbors and wild apple-trees of Carmelo's garden spoke more
loudly to her heart. She had already forgotten the bandit's oriental
boudoir; she had not felt at her ease there as she had under the arbor.
He had been cold and satirical almost all the time in the boudoir,
whereas, among the flowering shrubs and beside the silvery spring, he
had displayed an artless mind and a tender heart.
How did it happen that this girl, who had just seen such strange and
distressing things, a queen's boudoir in the house of a peasant, and the
ghastly scene of Abbé Ninfo's lethargy, no longer remembered what must
have impressed her imagination so profoundly? Her surprise and her
fright had vanished like a dream, and her mind was engrossed by the
final tableau, fresh and unsullied, where she saw naught but flowers,
greenswards, birds chattering among the leaves, and a handsome young man
who guided her through that enchanted labyrinth, conversing with her in
chaste and charming language.
When Mila had passed the _Destatore's_ cross, she dismounted, as Carmelo
had advised her to do, as a measure of prudence. She fastened the reins
to the saddle-bow and waved a switch about Bianca's ears. The
intelligent beast started back at a gallop toward Nicolosi, needing no
guidance to return to her stable. Mila continued her journey on foot,
avoiding the neighborhood of Bel-Passo; but, by a veritable fatality,
Fra Angelo happened to be returning just then from the Della Serra
palace to his convent by a by-path, so that Mila suddenly found herself
face to face with him.
The poor girl drew her _mantellina_ about her and began to walk very
fast, as if she had not seen her uncle.
"Where have you been, Mila?" was the greeting which brought her to a
standstill, uttered as it was in a tone which admitted of no hesitation.
"Why! uncle," she replied, putting aside her veil, "I didn't see you;
the sun was in my eyes."
"Where have you been?" repeated the monk, not deigning to discuss the
probable truth of that reply.
"Well, uncle," said Mila, resolutely, "I will not tell you a lie; I saw
you plainly."
"I know it; but will you tell me where you have been?"
"I have been to the convent, uncle. I was looking for you, and, not
finding you, I was going back to the city."
"What was it that you were in such a hurry to say to me, my dear girl?
It must be very important, for you to dare to come out into the country
alone, contrary to your habit. Come, answer me! You say nothing! You
cannot lie, Mila!"
"Yes, uncle, yes! I came----" And she stopped short, completely at a
loss, for she had made no preparations for this meeting, and her wits
abandoned her.
"You are losing your head, Mila," rejoined the monk, "for I tell you
that you do not know how to lie, and you answer '_Yes!_' Thank heaven,
you don't know what you are saying! Do not try to lie, my child, but
tell me frankly where you have been."
"Well, uncle, I cannot tell you."
"Indeed!" cried Fra Angelo, with a frown. "I order you to tell me!"
"It is impossible, dear uncle, impossible," said Mila, hanging her head,
crimson with shame, and with her eyes filled with tears; for it was very
painful to her to see her excellent uncle angry with her for the first
time in her life.
"Then you wish me to believe that you have been doing either an insane
or a wicked thing!"
"Neither!" cried Mila, raising her head. "I call God to witness!"
"God!" repeated the monk, in a despairing tone. "How you pain me by
speaking so, Mila! Can you be capable of swearing a false oath?"
"No, uncle, no, never!"
"Lie to your uncle, if it seems best to you, but do not lie to God!"
"Am I in the habit of lying, I ask you, then?" exclaimed the girl,
proudly; "and ought I to be suspected by my uncle, the man who knows me
so well, and for whose esteem I care more than for my life?"
"In that case, speak!" rejoined Fra Angelo, grasping her wrist in a way
which he considered encouraging and paternal, but which bruised the
child's arm and extorted a cry of terror from her.--"Why this fright,
pray?" demanded the monk, in amazement. "Ah! you are guilty, girl. You
have just done--not anything sinful, I cannot believe that--but some
foolish thing or other, which is the first step on the pathway of evil.
If it were not so, you would not recoil from me in terror; you would not
have tried to hide your face when we met; above all things, you would
not have tried to lie! And now, as it is impossible for you to have any
innocent secret from me, you should not refuse to explain your actions."
"But I tell you, uncle, that it is an entirely innocent secret, and
still it is impossible for me to tell you what it is. Do not ask me any
more questions. I would die before I would speak."
"At all events, Mila, promise me that you will tell your father this
secret which I may not know!"
"I cannot promise you that; but I swear that I will tell it to Princess
Agatha."
"I have the greatest esteem and veneration for Princess Agatha," replied
the monk, "but I know that women are excessively indulgent to one
another in the matter of certain errors of conduct, and that virtuous
women are the more tolerant because of their ignorance of evil. I do
not, therefore, like the idea of your seeking shelter against shame on
your friend's bosom, instead of explaining your conduct to your family,
with head erect. Go, Mila; I insist no farther, since you have withdrawn
your confidence from me; but I pity you because your heart is not pure
and calm this evening as it was this morning. I pity my brother, whose
pride and joy you were; I pity your brother, who will soon have to
answer for your conduct before the world, I doubt not, and who will have
plenty of trouble on his hands unless he chooses to allow you to be
insulted on his arm. Woe, woe to the men of a family, when the women,
who should watch over its honor as the Vestals watched over the sacred
fire, break the laws of prudence, modesty and truth!"
Fra Angelo passed on, leaving poor Mila, crushed by this malediction,
kneeling on the stones in the road, with bloodless cheeks and her bosom
heaving with sobs.
"Alas!" she said to herself, "until this moment it seemed to me that my
conduct was not only innocent, but brave and praiseworthy. Oh! how harsh
the laws of modest reserve and the necessity of an unsullied reputation
are for women, since, even when it is a question of saving the lives of
one's family, one must expect to be blamed by those whom one loves best!
Was it wrong for me to trust to the _prince's_ promises? He may have
deceived me, it is true! But when his conduct has proved his honor and
his virtue, ought I to blame myself for believing in him? Was it not a
presentiment of the truth that led me toward him, and not mere foolish
and imprudent curiosity?"
She kept on down the mountain, but, as she walked, she questioned her
conscience severely, and some scruples awoke within her. Had she not
been impelled by pride to accomplish a difficult and perilous enterprise
of which no one would have believed her to be capable? Had she not
allowed herself to be influenced by the stranger's comeliness and charm
of manner, and would she have had equal confidence in an older and less
eloquent man?
"But what does it matter after all?" she said to herself. "What have I
done that is wrong, and what reproach could be brought against me if I
had been watched? I have run the risk of being misrepresented and
slandered, and that is certainly a fault when one does it from egotism
or a spirit of coquetry; but when one exposes oneself to danger to save
one's father and brother!--Princess Agatha will be my judge; she will
tell me whether I have done right or wrong, and whether she would have
acted as I did."
But imagine poor Mila's dismay, when, as soon as she began her story,
the princess interrupted her, saying: "O my child! it was the
Piccinino!"
Mila tried to struggle against the truth. She insisted that everybody
said that the Piccinino was short, thickset, awkwardly built, afflicted
with hideous ugliness, and that his face was darkened by bushy hair and
a beard; whereas the stranger's slight figure was so graceful and
refined, his manners so gracious and noble!
"My child," said the princess, "there is a false Piccinino who plays the
part of his chief with people of whom his chief is suspicious, and who
would play it, at need, before the police and magistrates, if he should
fall into their hands. He is a repulsive, savage creature, who enhances,
by the horror of his appearance, the terror inspired by the expeditions
of the band. But the real Piccinino, the one who styles himself the
_justicier d'aventure_, and who directs all the operations of the
brigands of the mountain; the man whom nobody knows and as to whom, if
he should be captured, it would be impossible to prove that he had ever
been the leader or a member of the band, is a handsome, well-educated,
eloquent, dissipated and cunning young man; the same Carmelo Tomabene
with whom you talked at the fountain."
Mila was so thunderstruck that she almost determined not to go on with
her story. How could she confess that she had been the dupe of a
hypocrite and had placed herself at the mercy of a libertine? She did
confess everything, however, with absolute sincerity, and, when she had
finished, began to weep afresh, thinking of the risks she had run, and
of the conjectures of which she would be the object if the Piccinino
should chance to boast of her visit.
But Agatha, who had trembled with apprehension more than once as she
listened, and who had resolved to reprove her for her imprudence, by
pointing out to her that the Piccinino was too adroit to have really
needed her assistance, was disarmed by her ingenuous grief, and embraced
her warmly to comfort her. What impressed her quite as deeply as the
rashness of the girl, was the physical and moral courage which had
inspired her, her determination to take her own life at the slightest
suggestion of outrage, and her unbounded devotion and her generous
confidence. She thanked her affectionately therefore, because she had
been guided in part by the desire to deliver her from an enemy; and
finally, when she was fully assured that Abbé Ninfo was really in the
_justicier's_ power, she was so overcome by joy that she kissed little
Mila's hands, calling her her good fairy and her angel of salvation.
Mila being thus comforted and reconciled with herself, the princess, in
an outburst of childlike merriment, proposed to her that she should
change her dress to assist her to recover from the fatigue of her
expedition, and that then they should go and surprise her father and
brother at the marquis's villa.
"We will go on foot," she said, "for it is close by if we go by way of
the garden; and we will dine together first. Then we shall have the
darkness and cool breeze of early evening, and in addition a travelling
companion whom you do not expect perhaps, but whom you will not be sorry
to see, for he is a friend of yours."
"I wonder who it can be," said Mila, with a smile; she guessed shrewdly
enough, but with respect to her heart's secret, and to that alone, she
recovered all the prudence of the feminine mind.
The dinner and the preparations of the two friends occupied about an
hour; after which the maid came and whispered to the princess: "The
young man of last evening, at the end of the garden, by the eastern
gate."
"That is right," said the princess, leading Mila away; "that is our
road." And they hurried across the park, joyous and light of heart; for
both were born again to the hope of happiness.
Magnani was walking back and forth, melancholy and distraught, waiting
to be sent for to go to the palace, when two veiled women, issuing from
the clumps of myrtle and orange, ran to him, and grasping each an arm,
hurried him along with them without speaking. He recognized them
perfectly, the princess better than Mila, who seemed to him to be
dressed more elaborately than usual under her light cape; but he was too
deeply moved to speak, and he pretended to accept this gracious jest
gayly. A smile played about his lips, but his heart was troubled; and,
while he sought relief from the perturbation caused by Agatha's
presence, he derived but little assistance from feeling Mila's arm in
his.
As they passed into the marquis's park, the princess put aside her veil
and said to him:
"My dear friend, I intended to talk with you at my house; but my
impatience to announce some good news to our friends, who are visiting
the marquis, led me to bring you here with us. The whole evening belongs
to us, and I can talk with you here as well as elsewhere. But let us go
forward noiselessly; we are not expected and I want to surprise them."
The marquis and his guests, after conversing a long time, were still on
the terrace looking out upon the sea, where the horizon was ablaze with
the last rays of the sun, while the stars appeared one by one in the
zenith. Michel was listening with deep interest to the marquis, whose
conversation was instructive, albeit always affable and unaffected. What
was his surprise when, on raising his head, he saw three persons seated
about the table, laden with refreshments, which he had just left to walk
to the balustrade, and when, in those three persons, he recognized
Agatha, Mila, and Magnani!
At first he had no eyes except for Agatha, and hardly recognized his
sister and his friend. The princess was dressed, however, with the
utmost simplicity, in a dress of pearl-gray silk, with a _guardaspalle_
of black lace thrown over her head and shoulders. She seemed to him a
little less fresh and youthful than she had appeared under the bright
lights. But, in a moment, the charm of her manner, her frank smile, her
pure and sincere glance, made her seem even younger and more attractive
than on the first day.
"Are you surprised to see your dear daughter here?" she asked
Pier-Angelo. "But she told you, did she not, that she should not dine
alone? And you see! you left her at home, and like Cinderella, she
appears in the midst of the fête, resplendent in costume and beauty. As
for Master Magnani, he is the enchanter who attends her; but as we are
not dealing with Don Magnifico on this occasion, the enchanter will not
dazzle the father's eyes so that he will not recognize his cherished
daughter. Cinderella therefore can challenge the glances of all
present."
As she spoke Agatha raised Mila's veil, and disclosed her _radiant as a
sun_; such is the expression of the legend.
Michel looked at his sister. She was fairly beaming with confidence and
joy. The princess had arrayed her in a gown of bright pink silk, with
several strings of beautiful great pearls about her neck and arms. A
wreath of natural flowers, wonderfully beautiful and arranged with
consummate art, crowned her dark face without concealing the abundant
treasures of her hair. Her little feet were daintily shod, and her
pretty fingers opened and closed Agatha's splendid fan with as much
grace and dignity as any _marchesina_. She was a muse of the
Renaissance, a patrician maiden, and a lovely damsel of the South,
radiant with health, nobility, and poetic charm.
Agatha looked at her with an air of motherly pride, and smiled lovingly
as she talked of her in Pier-Angelo's ear.
Michel then turned his eyes upon Magnani. He was gazing alternately at
the modest princess and the lovely silk-spinner of the Catanian suburb
with extraordinary emotion. He was no better able than Michel to
understand the strange and bewildering dream in which he seemed to be
moving. But it is certain that he saw Mila only through a cloud of gold
and fire, which emanated from Agatha and was projected upon her young
friend as if by magic.
XLI
JEALOUSY AND GRATITUDE
The princess led the marquis and Pier-Angelo aside to tell them that
Ninfo was in the Piccinino's hands, and that she had been so informed by
an eye-witness of his capture whom she was not at liberty to name.
More ices were brought, and the conversation was renewed. Despite
Magnani's perturbation and timidity, despite Michel's excitement and
preoccupation, the princess and the marquis speedily tranquillized the
two young men, thanks to the judicious courtesy and the great art of
being simple, which well-bred people possess when the foundation of
their character corresponds with the external charm due to exquisite
tact. Thus Agatha questioned Michel concerning subjects with which he
was familiar, and on which he felt deeply. The young artist was
overjoyed by her perfect comprehension of art, and he stored away in his
memory several far-reaching definitions which she let fall, her mode of
expressing herself was so simple and natural. When she spoke to him she
seemed to be consulting rather than instructing him, and her glance,
alight with penetrating sympathy, seemed to seek in Michel's eyes
confirmation of her own opinions and ideas.
Magnani understood all that was said, and, although he seldom ventured
to speak, it was easy to read on his intelligent face that none of the
ideas advanced were beyond the reach of his intellect. That young man
had unusual faculties which would never have been cultivated, perhaps,
but for his romantic passion. From the day that he first became enamored
of the princess he had constantly devoted a portion of his leisure to
reading and to the study of such works of art as he had been privileged
to see. He had employed his vacations--what mechanics call the _dead
season_--in travelling about Sicily on foot, viewing the treasures of
antiquity with which that island, so beautiful in itself, is thickly
strewn. While saying to himself that he was determined to remain humble
and obscure, and persuading himself that he had no desire to depart from
the rough simplicity of his class, he had been impelled by an
irresistible instinct to improve his mind.