shudder ran through her every limb, and she threw herself back in her
chair as if a blood-stained spectre had passed before her eyes.
"Oh! hush, hush!" she cried; "you do not know the pain you cause me!"
The Piccinino could not understand the cause of this sudden and intense
emotion; he misunderstood it utterly. He had spoken with a vehemence of
voice and expression which would have persuaded any other woman than the
princess. He had fascinated her with his gleaming eyes; he had
intoxicated her with his breath, at all events he thought so. He had
been so often justified in thinking so, even when he had not felt a
tithe of the desire this woman inspired in him! He believed that she was
vanquished, and, putting his arms about her, seeking her lips, he felt
sure that her passions, taken by surprise, would do the rest. But Agatha
eluded his caresses with unexpected vigor, and as she rushed toward a
bell-cord, Michel darted between her and the Piccinino, with blazing
eyes and with a dagger in his hand.
XLIV
REVELATIONS
The Piccinino was so taken aback by this unexpected apparition that he
stood perfectly still, without a thought of attacking or of defending
himself. So that Michel, as he was about to strike him, held his hand,
bewildered by his own precipitation; but, with a movement so swift and
adroit that it was invisible, the Piccinino's hand was armed when Michel
withdrew his.
But the brigand, after a single furious gleam had shot from his eyes,
recovered his cold and disdainful attitude.
"Excellent," he said; "I understand everything now, and rather than
bring about so absurd a scene, Signora Palmarosa should have carried her
confidence so far as to say to me: 'Leave me, I cannot listen to you; I
have a lover hidden behind my bed.' I would have retired discreetly,
whereas now I must needs administer a lesson to Master Lavoratori, to
punish him for having seen me play an absurd rôle. So much the worse
for you, signora; the lesson will be a bloody one!"
[Illustration: _AGATHA PROTECTS MICHELANGELO._
_He leaped at Michel with the agility of a wild
animal. But, quick and nimble as his movement
was, the miraculous power of love made Agatha
even quicker than he._]
He leaped at Michel with the agility of a wild animal. But, quick and
nimble as his movement was, the miraculous power of love made Agatha
even quicker than he. She rushed to intercept the blow, and would have
received it in her breast had not the Piccinino thrust the dagger into
his sleeve so swiftly that it seemed as if his hand had always been
empty.
"What are you doing, signora?" he said. "I do not propose to murder your
lover but to fight with him. You do not wish it? Very good! You protect
him with your breast! I will not insult such a rampart, but I will find
him at another time--mark my words!"
"Stay!" cried Agatha, seizing his arm as he walked, toward the door.
"You will renounce this insane purpose of revenge and give your hand to
this alleged lover of mine. He will gladly do the same, for which of you
two desires to kill or curse his brother?"
"My brother?" said Michel, in utter bewilderment, dropping his dagger.
"He, my brother?" said the Piccinino, his weapon still within his grasp.
"This extemporized relationship is most improbable, signora. I have
always heard that Pier-Angelo's wife was very ugly, and I doubt if my
father ever played tricks upon husbands who had no reason to be jealous.
Your expedient is not at all ingenious! Farewell for the present,
Michelangelo Lavoratori!"
"I tell you that he is your brother!" repeated the princess, earnestly;
"your father's son and not Pier-Angelo's; the son of a woman whom you
cannot insult by your contempt, and who could not have listened to you
without committing a crime and an act of madness. Do you not understand
me?"
"No, signora," said the Piccinino, with a shrug; "I cannot understand
the fables that come to your mind at this moment to save your lover's
life. If this poor boy is my father's son, so much the worse for him;
for he has many other brothers beside myself, who do not amount to much,
and whom I do not hesitate to strike over the head with the butt of my
pistol when they fail in the obedience and respect they owe me. So, too,
this new member of my family--the youngest of all, I am inclined to
think--will be punished by my hand as he deserves; not in your presence,
for I am not fond of seeing women in convulsions. But this pretty
darling will not always be hidden in your bosom, signora, and I know
where I shall find him at need!"
"Have done with insulting me," rejoined Agatha, in a firm tone; "you
cannot wound me, and, unless you are a coward, you should not speak thus
to your father's wife."
"My father's wife!" exclaimed the bandit, beginning to listen and to
desire to hear. "My father was never married, signora! Do not make sport
of me."
"Your father was married to me, Carmelo, and, if you doubt it, you will
find the authentic evidence in the archives of the convent of Mal Passo.
Go and ask Fra Angelo. This young man's name is not Lavoratori; his name
is Castro-Reale. He is the son--the only legitimate son--of Prince
Cæsar de Castro-Reale."
"Then you are my mother?" cried Michel, falling on his knees and
embracing Agatha, with a sensation of terror, remorse and adoration all
in one.
"You know it," she said, pressing his face against her heaving breast.
"Now, Carmelo, come and kill him in my arms; we will die together! But,
after seeking to commit incest, you will commit fratricide!"
The Piccinino, torn by a thousand conflicting sensations, folded his
arms across his breast, and, leaning against the wall, gazed in silence
at his brother and stepmother, as if he were still inclined to doubt the
truth. Michel rose, walked toward him, and held out his hand.
"Your ignorance was the cause of your crime," he said, "and I must needs
forgive you, for I too loved her not knowing that I was fortunate enough
to be her son. Oh! do not cast a shadow on my joy by your resentment! Be
my brother, as I long to be yours! In the name of God, who orders us to
love each other, put your hand in mine and come to my mother's feet, so
that she may forgive and bless us both."
At these words, uttered with the effusive warmth of a noble and sincere
heart, the Piccinino came very near being moved. His bosom heaved as if
he were about to burst into tears; but pride was stronger than the voice
of nature, and he blushed at the emotion which had threatened to
overcome him.
"Away from me," he said to Michel. "I do not know you; I have no
sympathy with all this mawkish family sentimentality. I loved my mother,
too, but all my affection died with her. I never had any feeling for my
father,--whom I hardly knew and who cared very little for me,--unless it
may be that I was a little vain of being the only acknowledged son of a
prince and a hero. I thought that my mother was the only woman he ever
loved, but I learn now that he deceived my mother; that he was another
woman's husband; and I cannot be overjoyed by that discovery. You are a
legitimate son, and I am only a bastard. I have been accustomed to
believe that I was the only one who was really entitled, if I chose, to
adorn myself with the name which you will bear in the world, and which
no one will dispute your right to bear. And you expect me to love you,
who are of patrician blood on both sides, by your father and by your
mother? you who are rich, and will soon be powerful in the land where I
am a wanderer and an outlaw? You who, whether you are a true or false
Sicilian, will be flattered and handled gently by the Court of Naples,
and who, perhaps, will not consider that you can afford to refuse favors
and offices forever? You who will, perhaps, command hostile armies and
lay waste the homes of your countrymen? You who, as general, minister or
magistrate, may order my head cut off and a sentence of degradation
nailed to the scaffold on which that head is fastened, to serve as an
example and a menace to our other brothers of the mountain? You expect
me to love you? On the contrary, I hate you and curse you!
"And this woman," continued the Piccinino, with intense
bitterness,--"this false, cold-blooded woman, who fooled me to the end
with infernal cunning,--you expect me to prostrate myself before her,
and ask a blessing from her hand which, for aught I know, is stained
with my father's blood! for now I understand more than she intended, I
fancy. I will never believe that she married with a good grace the
ruined, outlawed, hounded brigand, depraved by misfortune, who had then
no other name than the _Destatore_! He must have abducted her and
outraged her.--Ah! yes, now I remember! There is a tale of that sort to
which Fra Angelo refers vaguely at times. A child, surprised by the
brigands when out walking with her governess, carried off with the
governess to the chief's lair, and dismissed two hours later, outraged
and half dead! Ah! father, you were a villain as well as a hero! I know
it; and I am a better man than you, for I detest such deeds of violence,
and Fra Angelo's tale has preserved me forever from seeking enjoyment by
such means. So it was you, Agatha, who were Castro-Reale's victim! I
understand now why you consented to marry him secretly at the convent of
Mal Passo; for that marriage is a secret--probably the only secret of
that sort that never transpired! You have been very adroit, but the rest
of your story is clear to me. I know now why your parents kept you
secluded for a year, so carefully that you were supposed to be dead or
to have turned nun. I know now why my father was murdered, and I would
not swear that you were innocent of his death!"
"Wretch!" cried the princess, indignantly; "to dare to suspect me of the
murder of the man I had accepted for my husband!"
"If it was not you, then it was your father or someone of your kindred!"
retorted the Piccinino, in French, with a bitter laugh. "My father did
not kill himself," he continued in the Sicilian language, and with a
wild expression. "He was capable of a crime, but not of a dastardly act,
and the pistol that was found in his hand at the _Destatore's_ cross
never belonged to him. He was not reduced, by the partial defection of
his followers, to the necessity of committing suicide in order to escape
from his enemies, and the piety which Fra Angelo tried to inspire in his
heart had not yet disturbed his mind to the point where he thought it
his duty to punish himself for his sins. He was murdered, and to have
been surprised so easily--so near the town--he must have been lured into
a trap. Abbé Ninfo had something to do with that bloody drama. I shall
find out, for I have him in my clutches; and, although I am not cruel, I
will torture him with my own hands until he confesses! For it is my
mission to avenge my father's death, as it is yours, Michel, to make
common cause with those who ordered it."
"Great God!" said Agatha, paying no attention to the Piccinino's
accusations against herself, "it seems that each day must bring with it
the discovery of some new deed of rage and vengeance in my family! O
blood of the Atrides, may the Furies never rouse you to life in my son's
veins! Ah! Michel, what duties your birth imposes on you! By what great
virtues must you redeem so many crimes committed both before and since
your birth! Carmelo, you think that your brother will turn against his
country and against you some day! If it could be so, I would ask you to
kill him to-day, while he is pure and honorable; for I know too well,
alas! what becomes of the men who renounce love of country and the
respect due to the vanquished!"
"Kill him at once?" said the Piccinino; "I am strongly tempted to take
that metaphor literally; it would take but a moment, for this Sicilian
of recent date knows no more about handling a knife than I about
handling a brush. But I didn't do it yesterday, when the thought came to
my mind by our father's grave, and I will wait until my present anger
has subsided; for one should kill only in cold blood and in accordance
with the dictates of logic and conscience.--Ah! Michel de Castro-Reale,
I did not know you yesterday, although Abbé Ninfo had already pointed
you out to my vengeance. I was jealous of you because I believed you to
be the lover of this woman who says to-day that she is your mother; but
I had a presentiment that she did not deserve the love which was
beginning to set my blood on fire for her, and when I saw how bravely
you faced me, I said to myself: 'Why kill a brave man for the sake of a
woman who may be a coward?'"
"Hush, Carmelo!" cried Michel, picking up his dagger; "whether I know
how to handle a knife or not, if you add another word to your insults to
my mother, I will have your life or you shall have mine."
"Hush, yourself, boy!" said the Piccinino, presenting his half-naked
breast to Michel with an air of contempt; "the virtue of legitimate
society makes men cowards, and you are a coward too, for you have been
reared on the ideas of that society; you would not dare to scratch my
lion's skin, because in my person you respect your brother. But I have
no such prejudices, and I will prove it to you some day when I am
calmer. To-day I am angry, I admit, and I will tell you why: it is
because I have been deceived, and I did not believe that any human being
was capable of playing on my credulity; it is because I put faith in
this woman's words when she said to me last night, in yonder
flower-garden where I can hear the fountains plashing at this moment,
under the eyes of the moon, which seemed less pure and tranquil than her
face: 'What can there be in common between that child and myself?' What
can there be in common? and you her son! and you knew it, and you
deceived me too!"
"No, I did not know it, and as for my mother----"
"You and your mother are two cold-blooded serpents, two venomous
Palmarosas! Ah! I hate that family which has persecuted me and my family
so cruelly, and some day I will make a bloody example, even of those
members of it who claim to be good patriots and nobles who sympathize
with the people. I hate all nobles for my part! and you whose mouths
blow hot and cold in turn may well tremble before my frank declaration!
I have hated the nobles for the last few moments, since I have found
that I am not noble, because I have a legitimate brother and am only a
bastard. I hate the name of Castro-Reale, since I can no longer bear it.
I am envious, revengeful, and ambitious as well! my intelligence and my
adroitness were a stronger justification of that claim on my part than
the art of painting on the part of the nursling of the Muses and of
Pier-Angelo! I should have made a greater name than he if our conditions
had remained unchanged. And the thing that makes my vanity more
endurable, Prince Michel, is that I proclaim it proudly, while you
conceal it shamefacedly, on the pretext of modesty. In short, I am the
child of uncivilized nature and of unshackled liberty, while you are the
slave of custom and of fear. I practise cunning after the manner of
wolves, and my cunning leads me to my goal. You play with falsehood,
after the manner of men, and you will always miss your goal, without
having had the merit of sincerity. Our lives are before us. If yours
annoys me overmuch, I shall rid myself of you as of any other obstacle,
do you understand? Woe to you if you irritate me! Farewell; do not try
to see me again; this is my brotherly greeting!
"And as for you, Princess of Castro-Reale," he said, bowing ironically
to Agatha, "who might well have refrained from making me crawl at your
feet, whose share in the catastrophe by the _Destatore's_ Cross is now
very clear in my mind, who did not deem me worthy to be informed of the
mischance of your youth, but preferred to pose before my eyes as a
spotless virgin, caring not whether you caused me to pine away in
frenzied anticipation of your priceless favors--I wish that you may be
happy and forget what has taken place between us; but I shall remember
it, and I warn you, signora, that you gave a ball over a volcano, in
reality as well as figuratively."
As he spoke, the Piccinino threw his cloak over his head and shoulders,
walked into the boudoir, and not deigning to wait for the door to be
opened, leaped through one of the large panes of glass into the
flower-garden. Then he returned to the door leading into the passage,
which he had not chosen to pass through, and, after the manner of the
authors of the Sicilian Vespers, cut with his dagger a cross over the
crest of the Palmarosas, which was carved on that door. A few moments
later he was on the mountain, flying like an arrow.
"O mother!" cried Michel, passionately embracing the horrified Agatha,
"you have made an implacable enemy in order to preserve me from enemies
who, if not imaginary, are powerless! Dear, adored mother, I will never
leave you again, by day or night. I will sleep across your door, and if
your son's love is helpless to preserve you, it will be because
Providence abandons mankind altogether!"
"My child," said Agatha, pressing him to her heart, "have no fear. I am
sorely distressed by all that that man has brought back to my mind, but
not alarmed by his unreasonable anger. The secret of your birth could
not safely have been revealed to him any sooner, for you see the effect
that revelation produced upon him. But the time has come when I have
nothing to fear, so far as you are concerned, save his personal
resentment, and that we will find a way to disarm. The vengeance of the
Palmarosas will die out with Cardinal Hieronimo's last breath, which it
may be that he is breathing at this very moment. If it was an error to
turn that vengeance aside by the help of Carmelo, that error is
chargeable to Fra Angelo, who thinks that he knows mankind because he
has always lived with men outside the pale of society, brigands and
monks. But I trust still to his marvellous instinct. This man, who has
just shown himself to us in such an evil light, and whom I cannot look
upon without the most intense suffering, because he reminds me of the
author of all my misfortunes, is not unworthy perhaps of the generous
impulse which led you to call him brother. He is a tiger in his wrath, a
fox in his reflections; but between his hours of rage and his hours of
treachery, there may be intervals of prostration when human feelings
resume their sway and extort from him tears of regret and longing; we
shall be able to reform him, I trust! Kindness and loyal dealing should
find the weak spot in his armor. At the moment that he cursed you, I saw
that he hesitated, forced back his tears. His father--your father,
Michel!--had a profound and intense susceptibility even amid his wild
and wicked habits; I saw him sob at my feet after he had almost
strangled me to stifle my shrieks. Later I saw him at the altar, ashamed
and penitent, when he married me; and despite the abhorrence and terror
with which he always inspired me, I was sorry myself, when he died, that
I had not forgiven him. I trembled at the thought of him, but I never
dared to curse his memory; and since I have had you with me once more, O
my beloved son! I have tried to rehabilitate him in my own eyes, so that
I might not have to condemn him before you. Do not blush, therefore, to
bear the name of a man, whose life was fatal to none but me, and who did
great things for his country. But retain for him who brought you up, and
whose son you have believed yourself to be until this day, the same
love, the same respect which you felt for him this morning,
noble-hearted boy, when you handed him Mila's marriage portion and told
him that you would remain a workman in his service all your life, rather
than abandon him!"
"O Pier-Angelo, father!" cried Michel, with a vehemence which caused his
heart to overflow in sobs, "nothing has changed between us, and on the
day when my entrails no longer quiver for you with filial affection, I
think that I shall have ceased to live!"
XLV
MEMORIES
Agatha was completely shattered by so much agitation and fatigue. Her
health was delicate although her spirit was strong, and when Michel saw
how pale she was, and that her voice had become almost inaudible, he was
terrified. He began to be conscious of the loving and poignant anxiety
born of a sentiment that was altogether new to him. He had hardly known
the love that a child feels for its mother. Pier-Angelo's wife had been
kind to him, to be sure, but he had lost her when he was very young, and
she had left on his memory the impression of a robust and domineering
virago, irreproachable in her conduct, but somewhat violent, and,
although devoted to her little ones, inclined to talk loud and strike
hard. What a contrast to that exquisite disposition, that soft beauty,
that poetic creature who was called Agatha, and whom Michel could admire
as the ideal of an artist while adoring her as a mother!
He begged her to lie down and to try to obtain an hour's rest.
"I will stay with you," he said; "I will sit by your pillow, I shall be
perfectly happy, just looking at you, and you will find me here when you
open your eyes."
"But this will be the third night that you will have passed almost
without sleep," she said. "Ah! how it pains me on your account to think
of the life we have been leading for several days past!"
"Do not worry about me, darling mother," replied the young man, covering
her hands with kisses. "I have slept a good deal in the morning these
three days; and now I am so happy, notwithstanding what we have just
gone through, that it seems to me that I shall never sleep again. I
tried to sleep in order to see you again in my dreams: now that the
dream has become reality, I should be afraid of losing it if I slept.
But you must rest, mother.--Ah! how sweet that name mother is!"
"I am no more inclined to sleep than you are," she said; "I would like
not to leave you for an instant. And as the thought of the Piccinino
still makes me tremble for your life, you shall remain with me until
daylight, whatever the consequences. I will lie down on the bed, as you
insist upon it; sit in this easy chair, with your hand in mine, and if I
haven't the strength to talk to you, I can at all events listen to you;
we have so many things to say to each other! I want to know about your
life from the first day that you can remember down to this moment."
They passed in this way two hours, which seemed to them like two
minutes; Michel told her the whole story of his life, and did not
conceal even his recent emotions. The passionate attachment which he had
felt for his mother before he knew her no longer raised in his mind any
question too delicate to be translated by words befitting the sanctity
of their new relations. The words he had used to himself had assumed a
new meaning, and whatever impropriety there might have been in them had
vanished like the incoherent words one utters in fever, which leave no
trace when health and reason have returned.