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.