even merry, thanks to Pier-Angelo's sallies and Mila's artless remarks.
But her artlessness was so touching that, far from wounding Michel's
self-esteem in the princess's presence, it displayed his young sister's
fifteen years to him in a new light. It is certain that he had paid too
little heed to the very great change which a year had caused in the
ideas of a girl of her age, when, thinking that he still had to do with
a heedless and timid child, he had undertaken to blast all the hopes of
her heart with a word. In every word that Mila said she manifested
immense progress in respect to intelligence and decision of character,
and the contrast between that development of her mind, and the
inexperience, innocence and simplicity of her heart, presented a
spectacle at once charming and affecting. The princess, with the
delicate tact which women alone possess, caused Mila's charm to stand
out in bolder relief by her replies, and neither Michel, nor Magnani,
nor Pier-Angelo himself, had ever before imagined how much enjoyment
might be derived from talking with that maiden.
The moon rose, silvery white, in the cloudless sky. Agatha suggested a
walk in the garden. They started together; but the princess soon
strolled away from the others with Magnani, whose arm she took
familiarly; and for half an hour they remained so far away from their
friends that they were often out of sight.
We will not divulge at this point what the princess had to say in
confidence to the young mechanic during that tête-à-tête, which
seemed to Michel so long and so extraordinary; indeed, we shall not
divulge it at all. The reader will divine it at the proper time.
But Michel was unable to form the faintest idea of it, and he was on the
rack. He ceased to listen to the marquis; he was much more inclined to
tease and contradict Mila. He laughed at her costume and picked flaws in
it under his breath, and almost made her cry; so that she finally
whispered to him: "Michel, you always were jealous, and you are jealous
at this moment."
"Jealous of what, pray?" he retorted bitterly; "of your pink dress and
your pearl necklace?"
"No," she said, "but of the princess's friendship for your friend and
her confidence in him. Oh! I remember how you used to sulk when we were
children, if mamma kissed me more than you."
When the princess and Magnani joined them again, Agatha seemed calm and
Magnani deeply moved. But his noble face was even graver than usual, and
Michel noticed that his manner had undergone a remarkable change. He no
longer seemed to be at all confused by Agatha's presence. When she spoke
to him, the reply no longer trembled on his lips; he no longer turned
his eyes away in dismay, and, instead of the terrible suffering he had
previously displayed, he was calm, attentive and thoughtful. They talked
a few moments longer, then the princess turned to go. The marquis
offered his carriage. She declined it. "I prefer to walk back through
the gardens as I came," she said; "and, as I must have an escort,
although we no longer have any enemies to fear, I will take
Michelangelo's arm--unless he refuses!"--she added, with a quiet smile,
observing the young man's confusion.
Michel could find no words for a reply; he bowed and offered her his
arm. An hour earlier he would have been beside himself with joy. Now it
wounded his pride to receive in public a favor which Magnani had
received privately and as it were in secret.
Pier-Angelo took his leave with his daughter, to whom Magnani did not
offer his arm. So much ceremonious courtesy was not in his line. He
affected to be ignorant of the rules of politeness because he detested
imitation, but in reality his manners were always gentle and amiable.
After a few steps he found himself so near Mila that he naturally took
her round elbow in his hand to guide her through the narrow lanes of the
suburb, and walked with her, supporting her thus, to her door.
Michel had started off encased in his pride as in a cuirass, mentally
accusing the princess of caprice and coquetry, and firmly resolved not
to allow himself to be dazzled by her advances. And yet he confessed to
himself that he was entirely unable to understand the irritation that he
felt. He was forced to say to himself that she was immeasurably kind,
and that if she was, in fact, indebted to old Pier-Angelo, she paid her
debt with all the treasures of delicacy and refinement which a woman's
heart can contain.
But Michel could not forget all the problems which he had been trying
for two days to solve; and the way in which the princess pressed his arm
at that moment, as they walked, like a woman passionately in love or a
nervous person unaccustomed to walking, was a fresh problem which the
idea of a service rendered the signora by his father did not
sufficiently explain.
He strode forward at first in silence, saying to himself that he would
not speak first, that he would not give way to emotion, that he would
not forget that Magnani's arm had probably been pressed in the same way;
in a word, that he would be on his guard: for either Princess Agatha was
mad, or she concealed the most insane coquetry beneath a virtuous and
downcast exterior.
But all his fine plans came to naught. The shady paths that they trod,
with plots of land carefully tilled and planted on each side, led
through a succession of small gardens belonging to well-to-do mechanics
or middle-class citizens of the town. The paths were separated from the
plots only by shrubs, rose-bushes, or beds of aromatic herbs. Here and
there vine-clad arbors cast a dense shadow about them. The moon's rays
were oblique and uncertain. Innumerable perfumes arose from the
flower-strewn fields, and the sea, behind the hills in the distance,
murmured in amorous tones. Nightingales sang among the jasmines. Some
human voices sang in the distance, gayly challenging the echo; but there
was no one on the path which Michel and Agatha were following. The
little gardens were deserted. Michel felt oppressed; his pace slackened,
his arm trembled convulsively. A faint breeze blew the princess's veil
near his face, and he fancied that he heard mysterious voices whispering
in his ear. He dared not turn to see whether it was a woman's breath or
the breath of night that caressed him so near at hand.
"My dear Michel," said the princess, in a calm tone, which brought him
abruptly from the sky to the earth, "I ask your pardon, but I really
must stop to take breath. I am not much accustomed to walking, and I
feel very tired. Here is a bench under this arbor which invites me to
sit down for five minutes, and I fancy that the owners of this little
garden, if they should see me, would not accuse me of committing a crime
if I take advantage of it."
Michel led her to the bench to which she pointed, and, restored to
reason once more, walked a few steps away to look at a little fountain
whose soft gurgling failed to divert him from his reverie.
"Yes, yes, it was a dream, or else it was my little sister Mila who gave
me that kiss. She is a mocking madcap! she would have explained the
great mystery of the locket to me if I had questioned her frankly and
earnestly. Doubtless there is some perfectly natural cause for all this
which does not occur to me. Isn't it always so with natural causes? The
only one that one does not divine is always the simplest. Ah! if Mila
knew what danger she is playing with, and what pain she might spare me
by telling me the truth! I will press her so to-morrow that she will
tell me everything!"
While Michel reflected thus, the crystal water murmured in its narrow
basin, wherein quivered the spectre of the moon. The fountain was a
small terra-cotta affair, of classic simplicity; an aquatic cupid
grasping a huge carp from whose mouth the stream of water fell about a
foot into the reservoir. The artist who had executed the figure had
attempted to give it a mischievous expression, but he had succeeded only
in imparting to the carp's great eyes a glare of grotesque ferocity.
Michel looked at the group without seeing it, and to no purpose was the
night soft and fragrant; he, passionate lover of nature that he was,
absorbed by his own thoughts, denied to nature his accustomed homage on
that evening.
And yet the murmur of the water acted upon his imagination without his
realizing it. He remembered a similar melodious sound, the timid and
melancholy murmur with which the marble Naiad filled the grotto of the
Palmarosa palace as she emptied her urn into the basin; the blissful
sensations of his dream passed before his mind once more, and he would
fain have fallen asleep where he stood, hoping for a repetition of his
hallucination.
"But what am I thinking of!" he suddenly said to himself; "am I not a
most absurd novice? Did she not stop here in order to invite me to
prolong an ardent tête-à-tête? I took that sudden fatigue, that fancy
to sit in the first garden that we came to, for an honest explanation of
the confusion she felt--was it not intended as an encouragement to my
uncouth timidity?"
He eagerly approached the princess, feeling emboldened by the shadow of
the arbor. The bench was so small that, unless he asked her to make room
for him, he could not sit beside her. He sat down on the grass, not
precisely at her feet, but near enough to be nearer still ere long.
"Well, Michel," she said to him, with an indescribable sweetness in her
voice, "are you also tired, pray?"
"I am worn out," he replied, in a tone of deep emotion which made the
princess start.
"What do you mean? you are not ill, my child?" she said, putting out her
hand, which came in contact with the young man's silky hair in the
darkness.
With one bound he was at her knees, his head bent, as it were fascinated
beneath that hand which did not repel him, his lips pressed to the hem
of that floating silk dress which could not betray his transports;
uncertain, beside himself, lacking courage to declare his passion,
lacking strength to resist it.
"Michel," cried the princess, letting her hand fall again upon the young
madman's burning brow, "you are feverish, my child! your head is
burning! Yes, yes," she added, stroking his cheeks with affectionate
solicitude, "you have had too much fatigue these last few days; you have
been awake two nights in succession, and although you threw yourself on
your bed for a few hours this morning, I doubt if you slept much. And I
have led you on to talk too much to-night. You must go home. Let us walk
on; you can leave me at the gate of my park and go home at once. I
intended to say something to you to-night; but I am afraid that you are
going to be sick; when you are thoroughly rested, perhaps I will speak
to you."
She attempted to rise; but Michel was kneeling on the edge of her dress.
He held against his cheeks, he put to his lips that lovely hand which
did not seek to avoid his caresses.
"No, no," cried Michel, impetuously, "let me die here. I know very well
that you will drive me from your presence forever to-morrow; I know that
I shall never see you again, now that you see what is taking place
within me. But it is too late, and I am going mad! Oh! do not pretend to
believe that I am ill because I have worked by day and been awake all
night! Do not be afraid to discover the truth; it is your own fault,
signora, you would have it so! Could I resist so many temptations? Spurn
me, Agatha, curse me; but to-morrow, to-night, give me the kiss I
dreamed of in the Naiad's grotto!"
"Ah! Michel," cried the princess, in a tone impossible to describe, "did
you feel it? did you see me? do you know all? Did somebody tell you, or
did you divine it? It is God's will. And you fear that I will spurn you?
you fear that I will curse you? O my God! is it possible? Pray, does not
what is taking place in your heart reveal to you the love with which
mine is overflowing?"
As she spoke the lovely Agatha threw her arms around Michel's neck, and,
drawing his head to her breast, covered it with ineffable kisses.
Michel was eighteen years old, he had a fiery heart, a restless,
all-devouring temperament, vast pride, and an enterprising spirit. But
his heart was as pure as his age, and his happiness found him chaste and
prostrate in religious adoration. All his jealousy, all his insulting
suspicions vanished. It no longer occurred to him to wonder how a person
so austere in her morals, who was supposed never to have had a lover,
could suddenly fall in love at first sight with a child like him, and
tell him so with such absolute candor. He was conscious of nothing save
the joy of being loved, an enthusiastic and unbounded gratitude, a
fervent, blind adoration. From Agatha's arms he fell at her feet, and
covered them with passionate, almost pious kisses.
"No, no, not at my feet, on my heart!" cried the princess; and she held
him there a long while in a fervent embrace, weeping freely.
Her tears were so sincere--they had such a sacred eloquence of their
own--that Michel felt a great wave of sympathy. His heart swelled and he
burst into sobs; a divine joy banished all thought of earthly joy. He
found that that woman aroused in him no profane desire; that he was
happy and not excited in her arms; that to mingle his tears with hers,
and to feel that he was loved by her, was happiness greater than all the
transports of which his youth had dreamed; in a word, that he respected
her even to dread, as he held her pressed against his heart, and that
there never could be a thought between her and him which the angels
might not read with a smile on their lips.
He felt all this, confusedly without doubt, but so deeply, and with such
a thrill of triumph, that Agatha never suspected the evil impulse of
fatuous conceit which had brought him to her feet a few moments before.
Thereupon Agatha, raising her lovely glistening eyes to heaven, her face
pale in the moonlight, and as it were rapt in a divine ecstasy, cried,
in a transport of joy: "O my God! how I thank Thee! This is the first
moment of happiness that Thou hast given me; but I do not complain of
having had to wait so long, for it is so great, so pure, so complete,
that it effaces and redeems all the sorrows of my life!"
She was so lovely, she spoke with such sincere enthusiasm, that Michel
fancied that he had before him a saint of ancient days. "O my God! my
God!" he exclaimed in a voice stifled by emotion, "I, too, bless Thee!
What have I done to deserve such happiness? To be loved by her! Oh! it
is a dream; I dread to wake!"
"No, it is not a dream, Michel," rejoined the princess, turning her
inspired glance upon him once more; "it is the only reality of my life,
and it will be the one great reality of your whole life. Tell me, what
other being than you I could love on this earth? Hitherto I have done
nothing but suffer and languish; but now that you are here, it seems to
me that I was born for the greatest human felicity. My child, my
beloved, my sovereign consolation, my only love! Oh! I cannot speak any
more, I do not know what to say to you; joy overwhelms and crushes me!"
"No, no, let us not talk," cried Michel. "No words can describe what I
feel; and, thank heaven, I do not yet grasp the whole extent of my
happiness; for, if I did, it seems to me that I should die of it!"
XLII
AN EMBARRASSING CONJUNCTURE
The sound of footsteps not far away aroused them both from their
delirious excitement. The princess rose, somewhat alarmed by the
approach of strangers, and, seizing Michel's arm, hurried on toward her
villa with him. She walked more rapidly than before, carefully veiled,
but leaning upon him with a sacred joy. And he, with wildly-beating
heart, bewildered with happiness, but penetrated with the most profound
respect, hardly dared to raise to his lips from time to time the hand
that he held in his.
Not until he saw the gate of the princess's garden before him did he
recover the power of speech.
"What! leave you already?" he said anxiously; "part so soon? It is
impossible! I shall die of excitement and despair."
"We must part here," said the princess. "The time has not come when we
shall not part at all. But that happy day will come soon. Have no fear;
leave everything to me. Rely upon me and my boundless love to see to it
that we are united forever."
"Is it possible? Do these words that I hear really come from your mouth?
That day will come, you say? We shall be united? we shall never part?
Oh! do not trifle with my simplicity! I dare not believe in such
happiness; and yet, when it is you who say it, I cannot doubt!"
"Doubt the permanence of the stars that shine above us, doubt your own
existence rather than the power of my heart to overcome the obstacles
which seem to you so immense, but which now seem to me so trifling! Ah!
on the day when I shall no longer have aught except the world to fear, I
shall be very strong, I promise you!"
"The world?" said Michel. "Ah! yes, I remember; I had forgotten
everything except you and myself. The world will deny you, the world
will be offended with you, all because of me! O God, forgive the
impulses of my pride! I abhor them now. Oh! let my happiness be shrouded
in mystery, and let no one know of it! I insist that it shall be so; I
will never suffer you to ruin yourself for love of me."
"Noble-hearted child!" cried the princess, "let your mind be at rest; we
will triumph together; but I thank you for this generous impulse of your
heart. Ah! yes, all your impulses are generous, I know. I am not happy
simply, I am proud of you!"
And she took the young man's head in both hands and kissed him again.
But Michel thought that he heard footsteps a short distance away, and
the fear of compromising that courageous woman triumphed over his
happiness.
"We may be watched or surprised," he said to her; "I am sure that
someone is coming this way. Fly! I will stay hidden in the bushes here
until these people, whether spies or mere passers-by, are out of
hearing. But we shall meet to-morrow, shall we not?"
"Oh! surely," she replied. "Come here in the morning, as if to work, and
go up to my Casino."
She pressed him to her heart once more, then entered the park and
disappeared among the trees.
The noise he had heard had ceased, as if the persons who were
approaching had gone in another direction.
Michel stood for a long time, motionless as a statue, and as it were
bereft of reason. After so many fascinating illusions, after such mighty
efforts not to believe in them, he was falling back once more under the
empire of dreams--at least he feared so. He dared not believe that he
was awake; he was afraid to take a step--to move a muscle--lest he might
thereby dispel the illusion once more, as in the Naiad's grotto. He
could not decide to question reality. Even the probabilities frightened
him. How could Agatha love him? Why did she love him? He could find no
answers to those questions, whereupon he cast them aside as blasphemous.
"She loves me! she told me so!" he exclaimed mentally. "To doubt it
would be a crime. If I distrusted her word, I should be unworthy of her
love."
And he plunged into an ocean of blissful reveries. He lifted up his
thoughts toward heaven, which had caused him to be born to so happy a
fate. He felt capable of the greatest deeds, since he was deemed worthy
of the greatest joys. Never had he believed so fervently in the divine
mercy, never had he felt so proud and so humble, so devout and so brave.
"O my God!" he said in his heart, "forgive me; until this day I believed
myself to be a creature of some importance. I was proud, I abandoned
myself to self-love; and yet I was not loved. Not until to-day have I
really lived. I have received life, I have received a heart, I am a man!
But I shall never forget that of myself I am nothing, and that the
enthusiasm which possesses me, the strength which overflows within me,
the virtue of which I realize the full worth to-day, were born under
that woman's breath, and live in me only through her. O day of boundless
bliss! O sovereign tranquillity, ambition satisfied without selfishness
and without remorse! O blessed victory which leaves the heart modest and
overflowing with generous sentiments! Love is all this and more. How
kind Thou art, O God, not to have allowed me to divine it beforehand,
and how vastly this surprise enhances the ecstasy of a heart just coming
forth from its utter insignificance!"
He was about to walk slowly away when he saw a dark figure glide along
the wall and disappear among the branches. He drew back still farther
into the shadow to watch, and soon he recognized the Piccinino, as he
removed his cloak and tossed it over the wall, so that he might scale it
more readily.
All Michel's blood flowed back toward his heart. Was Carmelo expected?
Had the princess authorized him to come and confer with her, at any hour
of the night, and to introduce himself into her villa by any means he
might choose? It is true that there were important secrets between them,
and that, it being more natural, as he said, for him to travel as the
crow flies, scaling a wall by night was a natural method of procedure
for him. He had warned Agatha that he might ring the bell at the gate of
her flower-garden when she least expected him. But was it not unwise on
her part to give him permission? Who could be sure of the intentions of
such a man as the Piccinino? Agatha was alone; would she be imprudent
enough to admit him and listen to him? If she carried her confidence to
that point, Michel could not make up his mind to share it. Did she
realize that that man was in love with her, or that he pretended to be?
What had they said to each other in the flower-garden, while Michel and
the marquis looked on but could not hear?
Michel fell headlong from the sky to the earth. A violent paroxysm of
jealousy took possession of him, and, to delude himself, he tried to
make up his mind that he feared nothing but the danger of insult for the
lady of his thoughts. Was it not his duty to watch over her safety and
to protect her against the whole world?
He noiselessly opened the gate, the key of which he had retained as well
as that of the flower-garden, and glided into the park, resolved to
watch the enemy. But, after the Piccinino had agilely scaled the wall,
he could find no trace of him.
He walked toward the cliff, and, being perfectly certain that there was
nobody in front of him, he decided to ascend the staircase cut in the
lava, turning every moment to see if the Piccinino were following him.
His heart beat very fast, for a conflict with him upon that staircase
would have been decisive. On seeing him there, the brigand would have
realized that he had been deceived, that Michel was Agatha's lover--and
to what extremities would his rage not have impelled him? Michel did not
fear a bloody struggle on his own account; but how could he prevent
Carmelo from wreaking vengeance upon Agatha, if he should come forth
alive from that struggle?
Nevertheless, Michel kept on to the top, and, having made sure that he
was not followed, entered the flower-garden, locked the gate, and
approached Agatha's boudoir. The room was lighted, but empty. A moment
later a maid came and extinguished the candles, then went away. All was
silence and darkness.
Michel had never been more intensely disturbed. His heart beat as if it
would burst, as the silence and uncertainty continued. What was taking
place in Agatha's apartments? Her bedroom was behind the boudoir; it
could be entered from the flower-garden through a short passage where a
lamp was still burning. Michel could see it by looking through the
key-hole of the carved door. Perhaps that door was not locked on the
inside. Michel tried it, and, meeting with no resistance, entered the
Casino.
Where was he going and what did he intend to do? He had no very clear
idea himself. He said to himself that he was going to the assistance of
Agatha, whose security was threatened by the Piccinino. He did not
choose to admit that he was spurred on by the demon of jealousy.
He fancied that he could hear voices in Agatha's bedroom. They were two
women's voices: they might be Agatha's and her maid's, or the second one
might be Carmelo's soft and almost feminine voice.
Michel stood irresolute, trembling from head to foot. If he should go
back into the flower-garden, the door of the passage-way would doubtless
soon be locked by the maid; and in that case how was he to get in again
unless by breaking a pane of glass in the boudoir--an expedient suited
to the genius of the Piccinino, but naturally repugnant to Michel.
It seemed to him that centuries had passed since he saw the bandit climb
the wall; but it was less than a quarter of an hour. However, one can
live years in a minute, and he said to himself that the Piccinino had
evidently preceded him, as he was so slow about following him.