for his mother's sake until the time should come to be reckless for the
sake of his country. But the period of excitement and untroubled
happiness had already passed; duty was beginning: novels which are not
cut short in the midst of the catastrophe become depressing on the last
pages, that is to say, if they have the slightest semblance of
probability.
Certain persons of taste and vivid imagination insist that a novel
should not have any end; that the reader should end it to suit himself.
Certain others, persons of judgment and method, desire to see all the
threads of the plot straightened out, and all the characters happily
established for the rest of their lives, or else killed off, so that
they need think no more about them. I agree with the former class, and I
think that I might well have left the reader at the foot of the
_Destatore's_ cross, reading the inscription which the _justicier
d'aventure_ had written there. He could readily have imagined without my
assistance the chapter which he has just read--and read with languid
interest, I warrant--saying to himself: "I was sure of it; I expected
it; that goes without saying."
But I was afraid that I might have to deal with a reader of delicate
sensibilities, who would have been made ill by being left in the
classico-romantic company of a corpse and a vulture.
Why are all _dénouements_ more or less lame and unsatisfactory? The
reason is simple enough: it is because in real life there never is a
_dénouement_; that the novel goes on forever, melancholy or placid,
poetic or commonplace, and that the purely conventional can never wear
the truthful aspect which arouses interest.
But since, against my inclination, I have determined to elucidate
everything, I realize that I have left Magnani on the seashore, Mila
anxious, the Piccinino in flight, and the Marquis della Serra at the
princess's feet. As for the last-named, he had been in that position for
nearly twelve years, and a day more or less was of little consequence to
him; but as soon as he learned Agatha's secret, and saw her son in
possession of all his rights and all his good fortune, he changed his
attitude, and, drawing himself up to the full height of his loyal and
chivalrous nature, he said in Michel's presence:
"Signora, I love you as I have always loved you. I esteem you the more
because of the pride and loyalty you have hitherto displayed in refusing
to contract, under the title of virgin, a marriage in which you would
have had to bear in secret the titles of widow and mother. But if you
think that, because you were subjected to outrage long ago, you are
degraded in my eyes, you do not know my heart. If, because you bear a
strange name, a name that arouses horror because of the memories
connected with it, you believe that I would shrink from replacing it
with mine, you put an affront upon my devotion to you. These, on the
contrary, are reasons which make me desire more eagerly than ever to be
your friend, your support, your protector and your husband. At the
present moment your first marriage is a subject of ridicule. Give me
your hand, and no one will dare to ridicule the second. People call you
the brigand's wife; be the wife of the most reasonable and sedate of
patricians, so that people may know that, if you can inflame the
imagination of a wild and wayward man, you can rule the heart of a man
of calm and peaceful life. Your son sorely needs a father, signora. He
will soon be involved in more than one difficult and perilous crisis of
the hazardous existence which a hostile race forces upon us. Be assured
that I already love him as if he were my own son, and that my life and
my fortune are his. But that is not enough; it is necessary that the
sanction of a marriage between you and me should put an end to the
equivocal position in which we stand toward each other. If I am supposed
to be his mother's lover, can he love or esteem me? Would it not be
absurd--aye cowardly--in him to seem to endure it without shame or
impatience? So that I must avoid you now, if you refuse to be united to
me. You will lose your best friend, and so will Michel! As for myself,
I say nothing of the grief I should feel, for I know of no words to
describe it; but my happiness is not the question, and it is not from
selfishness that I implore you thus. No, I know that you do not know
what love is, and that the thought of passion terrifies you. I know what
a deep wound your heart has received, and how repugnant to you are the
thoughts which kindle the imagination of those who know you. Very well!
I will be your brother--nothing more. I promise upon my honor, if you
demand it. Michel shall be your only child as well as your only love.
But the law and public morality will permit me to be his best friend,
his guide, and the defender of his mother's honor and fair fame."
The marquis delivered this long speech in a calm tone, the expression of
his face corresponding to his manner. But a tear trembled on his eyelid,
and he did wrong to try to hold it back, for it was more eloquent than
his words.
The princess blushed; it was the first time that the marquis had ever
seen her blush, and he was so agitated that he lost all the
self-possession with which he had armed himself. That blush which made
her a true woman for the first time, at thirty-two years of age, was
like a sunbeam on the snow, and Michel's artistic sensibilities were so
keen that he realized at once that she had kept another secret in the
depths of her heart, or else that her heart, revived by joy and a sense
of security, was ripe for love. And what man was more worthy of her than
the Marquis della Serra?
The young prince knelt at her feet.
"O mother," he said, "you are only twenty years old! See, look at
yourself," he added, offering her a hand mirror which her maid had left
on the table. "You are so beautiful and so young, and you propose to
renounce love! Is it for my sake? Shall I be the happier because your
life is less complete and less happy? Shall I respect you less because I
see that you are more profoundly respected and more effectively
protected? Are you afraid that I am jealous, as Mila accused me of
being? No, I shall not be jealous unless I find that he loves you better
than I do, and I defy him to do that! Dear marquis, we will love her
dearly, will we not, and make her forget the past; we will make her
happy, who has never been happy, and who, alone of all human beings,
deserves absolute happiness! Say yes, mother; I will not stand up until
you have said yes!"
"I have already reflected," said Agatha, blushing afresh. "I think that
I must do it for your sake, and for the dignity of us all."
"Do not say so," cried Michel, throwing his arms about her; "say that it
is for your happiness, if you wish us two to be happy!"
Agatha held out her hand to the marquis and hid her son's face against
her breast. She was ashamed to have him see her fiancé's joy. She had
retained the modesty of a girl; and from that day, she was so fresh and
so lovely that the evil tongues, who insist upon detecting falsehood and
crime everywhere, declared that Michel was not her son, but a lover
installed in her house under that profaned title. However, all calumny
and ridicule vanished before the announcement of her marriage to Signor
della Serra, which was to take place at the end of her mourning. There
was an occasional sneer at the marquis's Quixotic love, but he was
envied much more than he was pitied.
XLIX
DANGER
This announcement made a profound impression on Magnani. It put the
finishing touch to his cure and his depression of spirit. His
impressionable heart could not do without an all-absorbing, exclusive
love; but he had apparently been deceived when he persuaded himself that
he had never really hoped; for when hope had become impossible, he was
no longer beset by the phantom of Agatha. It was Mila's phantom which
engrossed his meditations and his sleepless nights. But this last
passion began in the midst of a torture more intense than all the
previous ones. Agatha had appeared to him as an ideal creature whom he
could never reach. Mila appeared to him under the same aspect, but with
the additional certainty that she had a lover.
Thereupon, in that little circle of relations and friends, there ensued
a succession of petty anxieties, exceedingly delicate in their nature,
which eventually became very painful to Mila and Magnani. Pier-Angelo,
seeing that his daughter was depressed, and being unable to understand
it, was inclined to have a friendly explanation with Magnani, and lead
him on to ask openly for Mila's hand. Fra Angelo did not agree with him
and restrained him. This question being taken before the princess's
kindly tribunal for decision led to explanations concerning the
excursion to Nicolosi which were perfectly satisfactory to the father
and the uncle, but which might well leave some suspicion in the lover's
proud and uncompromising heart. Fra Angelo, who was responsible for the
trouble, undertook to repair it. He went to the young man, and without
disclosing Mila's sublime imprudence, told him that she was absolutely
justified in his mind, and that he had discovered that the purpose of
that mysterious excursion was to do a noble and courageous act.
Magnani asked no question. Had he done so, the monk, who was incapable
of paltering with the truth, would have told him everything; but
Magnani's loyal heart closed itself to suspicion as soon as Fra Angelo
had given his word. He believed at last in the possibility of happiness
and went to Pier-Angelo to seek confirmation of his belief.
But it was written that Magnani should not be happy. On the day when he
appeared to make his declaration and urge his suit, Mila, instead of
remaining during their interview, left her father's workshop angrily and
shut herself up in her own room. She was offended in the sanctuary of
her pride by Magnani's four or five days of depression and irresolution.
She had expected an easier and speedier triumph. She blushed at the
thought that she had pursued him so long.
Moreover, she was aware of all that had happened during those days of
misery. She knew that Michel was not in favor of their giving Magnani so
much encouragement to declare himself. Michel alone had known his
friend's secret, and he was alarmed for his adopted sister's sake by
such a sudden reaction in her favor, which might well be an act of
desperation. Mila concluded that Michel was aware that Magnani persisted
in loving another woman, although the young artisan had refused to take
back the princess's ring, and had begged Mila to keep it as a pledge of
his esteem and respect. On that same evening, the evening that he had
escorted her home from the Della Serra palace while Michel remained
behind with his mother, Magnani, intoxicated by her beauty, her wit and
her social success, had spoken to her so warmly that what he said was
almost a declaration of love. Mila had had the strength of will to
refrain from encouraging him openly. But she had believed that she had
triumphed, and on the next day, the day of Agatha's declaration, she had
expected to see him at her feet and to tell him at last that she loved
him.
But he had not appeared at all on that day, and on the days immediately
following he had not addressed a single word to her; he had confined
himself to bowing to her with frigid respect when he had not been able
to avoid her eye. Mila, mortally wounded and distressed, had refused to
tell her father the truth, when that worthy man, disturbed by her
pallor, asked her almost on his knees. She had persisted in denying that
she loved their young neighbor. Pier-Angelo, simple and straightforward
creature that he was, could find nothing better to say to her than:
"Cheer up, my child, we know very well that you love each other; but he
has been uneasy and jealous on account of the Nicolosi affair; when you
condescend to justify yourself in his eyes, he will fall at your feet.
You will see him there to-morrow, I am sure of it."
"Oho! Master Magnani presumes to be jealous and to suspect me!" rejoined
Mila, hotly. "He has loved me only a day or two, he doesn't know whether
I love him, and when a suspicion comes into his head, instead of humbly
telling me of it and doing his best to supplant the rival who worries
him, he assumes the air of a betrayed husband, gives up all idea of
making himself agreeable to me and persuading me, and, I suppose, will
consider that he confers great honor and great pleasure on me when he
comes and tells me that he deigns to forgive me! Well, for my part, I do
not forgive him. That's what you may say to him from me, father."
The child persisted so in her irritation that Pier-Angelo was forced to
take Magnani to her chamber door, where she let him knock a long while,
and which she opened at last, saying pettishly that he seemed determined
to interrupt her siesta.
"You may be perfectly sure," said Pier-Angelo to Magnani, "that the sly
minx was not asleep, for she only left my workshop just as you came in.
Come, children, put aside all these pretty quarrels. Shake hands, since
you love each other; and I give you permission to kiss. No! Mila is
proud like her poor mother. Ah! friend Antonio, you will be led by the
nose as I was, and you will be none the less happy for it, I tell you!
Come, kneel and ask her pardon. Signora Mila, must your father kneel
too?"
"Father," replied Mila, flushing with pleasure, pride and vexation, all
at once, "listen to me, instead of laughing at me, for I must keep my
dignity intact! A woman has nothing more precious than her dignity, and
no man, not even a father, ever understands what justification we have
for being sensitive. I do not choose to be loved by halves, I do not
choose to serve as a makeshift and a balm for a partly healed passion. I
know that Master Magnani has long been in love with a beautiful unknown,
and I am afraid that he is still, a little. Very good! I want him to
take time enough to forget her and to give me time to find out whether I
love him. This is all too new and strange to be accepted so hurriedly. I
know that, when I have given my word, I shall not retract it, even if I
regret having done it. I will judge of Magnani's affection," she said,
with a reproachful glance at him, "by his evenness of temper with me and
the zealousness of his attentions. He has something to set right, and I
something to forgive."
"I accept the test," said Magnani, "but not as a punishment; I do not
consider that I have been blameworthy in giving way to sorrow and
depression. I did not believe that you loved me, and I knew well that I
had no right to expect it. I still think that you do not, and if I
venture to hope a little, it is in fear and trembling."
"Ah! what fine words, just to say nothing!" cried Pier-Angelo. "In my
day we were less eloquent and more sincere. We said: 'Do you love
me?'--'Yes, and you?'--'Like a madman.'--'So do I, until death.'--That
was better than these long dialogues of yours, which seem like a game,
and a game in which you try to annoy and worry each other. But perhaps I
am in the way. I will go; when you are alone, you will understand each
other better."
"No, father," said Mila, afraid that she should allow herself to be
moved and persuaded too quickly, "even if he had enough love and spirit
to-day to make me listen to him, I know that I should be sorry to-morrow
that I had been so trustful. Besides, I know that you haven't told him
everything. I know that he has taken it upon himself to be jealous,
because I took a certain erratic walk on the mountain; but I know also
that my uncle, when he assured him that I had committed no sin, which he
was kind enough to believe, thought it best to say nothing as to the
purpose of that walk. But for my own part, I am ashamed, and blush for
that circumspection, which apparently was supposed to be necessary to
his peace of mind, and I propose to tell him the whole truth."
"As you please, my child," replied Pier-Angelo. "I am inclined to agree
with you that you should keep back no part of what you think you ought
to tell. So speak as you think best. But you must remember that it is
somebody else's secret whom you promised never to name."
"I can safely name him, as his name is in every mouth, especially in
these last few days, and, if there is any danger in saying that one
knows him, it is only for those who make that boast; however, it is not
my purpose to reveal what I know about him; I may therefore tell Master
Magnani that I voluntarily passed two hours tête-à-tête with the
Piccinino, without telling him where or for what purpose."
"I believe that the fever for making declarations is attacking all
women," laughed Pier-Angelo; "since Princess Agatha made the one which
has caused so much talk, they all seem determined to confess in public."
Pier-Angelo spoke more truly than he supposed. The example of courage is
contagious among women, and the romantically inclined Mila admired
Princess Agatha so passionately that she regretted that she had not a
secret marriage with the Piccinino to proclaim at that moment, provided
always that she had become a widow and could marry Magnani.
But her rash avowal produced an entirely different effect from that
which she expected. There was no trace of anxiety on Magnani's face, and
she could not rejoice inwardly at having aroused and awakened his love
by a flash of jealousy. He became even more melancholy and gentle than
usual, kissed Mila's hand, and said to her:
"Your frankness denotes a noble heart, Mila, but there is a little pride
mixed with it. Doubtless you intended to put me to a harsh test by
telling me something that would alarm any other man than myself to the
last degree. But I know your father and your uncle too well to fear that
they deceived me when they said that you went into the mountain to do a
good deed. So do not try to puzzle me; that would be cruel on your part,
because you could have no other object than to make me unhappy. Tell me
everything or tell me nothing. I have no right to demand disclosures
which would compromise anyone, but I have the right to ask you not to
play with me by trying to shake my confidence in you."
Pier-Angelo declared that on this occasion Magnani talked _like a book_,
and that no one could possibly make a more straightforward, generous and
sensible reply on such a delicate subject.
But what had taken place in little Mila's heart within a few days? It
may be that one should never play with fire, however worthy the motive
of one's action, and that she really did wrong to go to Nicolosi.
However that may be, Magnani's reply did not please her as much as it
did her father, and she felt chilled and piqued by the sort of paternal
lecture which her lover had given her.
"Sermons already!" she said, rising, as a hint to Magnani that she
proposed to go no farther with him that day; "and sermons to me, whom
you pretend to love with so little hope and courage? It seems to me,
neighbor, on the other hand, that you expect to find me very tractable
and submissive. Well, I am afraid that you are mistaken. I am a child,
and I ought to know it, for I am told so from morning till night; but I
know very well that when one is really in love, he sees no
fault--nothing wrong--in the conduct of the loved one. Everything she
does is charming, or at all events sincere. He doesn't call her loyalty
haughtiness, and her pride childish teasing. You see, Magnani, that it
is a pity to see too clearly in love. There is a song that says that
_Cupid is a blind bambino_. Father knows it; he will sing it to you.
Meanwhile, understand that clairvoyance is contagious, and that he who
removes the bandage from his eyes discloses his own faults to others at
the same time. You have discovered that I am a little overbearing, and
you think doubtless that I am a flirt. For my part, that shows me that
you are very proud, and I am afraid that you are a bit of a pedant."
The Angelos hoped that the cloud would pass over, and that, after giving
vent to her vexation, Mila would be all the more loving and Magnani all
the happier. Indeed, they had interviews and battles of words and
sentiments, in which they were so near coming to terms, that their
sudden falling-out again a moment later, Magnani's depression and Mila's
excitement, seemed inexplicable. Magnani was terrified sometimes to find
so much spirit and will-power in a woman. Mila was afraid of so much
gravity and unwavering common sense in a man. It seemed to her that
Magnani was incapable of feeling a great passion, and she wished to
inspire one, because she felt in a mood to plunge into it violently on
her own account. He always spoke and thought like virtue personified,
and it was with an imperceptible touch of irony that Mila called him the
_just man par excellence_.
She was very coquettish with him, and Magnani, instead of taking
pleasure in her ingenious and strenuous efforts to please him, was
afraid that she was a little coquettish with all men. Ah! if he had seen
her in the Piccinino's boudoir, holding in check and subduing by her
exquisite chastity, by her virile simplicity, so to speak, the young
brigand's crafty inclinations and evil thoughts, Magnani would have
realized that Mila was no coquette, since she was coquettish with him
alone.
But the unfortunate man was not familiar with women; and, because he had
loved so long in silence and sorrow, he had no conception of the
delicate and mysterious problems of requited love. He was over-modest.
He took Mila's cruel pleasantness too seriously, and scolded her for
being so unkind to him when he ought to have thanked her on his knees.
Moreover, to tell the whole truth, that Nicolosi affair was stamped with
the seal of fatality, like everything else that was connected, though it
were by the tiniest thread, with the Piccinino's mysterious existence.
Without touching upon the details which demanded secrecy, they had told
Magnani everything that could set his mind at rest concerning that
adventure of Mila's. Fra Angelo, always loyal to his secret predilection
for the bandit, had vouched for his chivalrous and honorable conduct
under such circumstances. The princess, loving Mila with a maternal
love, had spoken with heartfelt eloquence of the girl's devotion and
courage. Pier-Angelo had arranged everything for the best, in his happy
and unsuspecting brain. Michel alone had shuddered upon learning of the
episode, and he thanked Providence for performing a miracle in behalf of
his charming and noble-hearted sister.
But despite his grandeur of soul, Magnani had been unable to look upon
Mila's performance as the result of a worthy impulse; and, although he
never mentioned the subject, he suffered intensely, as may be imagined.
As for Mila, the consequences of her adventure were more serious,
although she did not suspect it as yet. That romantic chapter in her
life had left an ineffaceable impression on her brain. After trembling
and weeping bitterly when she learned that she had recklessly
surrendered herself as a hostage to the redoubtable Piccinino, she had
made the best of her mistake, and had secretly become reconciled to the
thought of that alarming personage, who had bequeathed to her, instead
of shame, remorse and despair, naught but poetic memories, increased
esteem for herself, and a bouquet of spotless flowers, which an
undefinable instinct had led her to preserve carefully among her
sentimental relics, after drying them with the greatest care.
Mila was no coquette; we have proved it by telling how coquettish she
was with the man whom she looked upon as her fiancé. Nor was she
fickle; she would have been faithful to him until death, with a fidelity
proof against every trial. But there are mysteries in a woman's heart,
deeper and more incomprehensible in proportion to the woman's mental
endowment and the exquisite charm of her nature. Moreover, there is
something sweet and glorious to a young girl in the thought that she has
succeeded in taming a terrible lion and has come forth safe and sound
from a perilous adventure, solely by the power of her charm, her
innocence and her courage. Mila realized now how brave and adroit she
had been, quite unconsciously, in that great danger, and the man who had
submitted so completely to the influence of her merit could not seem to
her a contemptible or ordinary man.