AT THE ALTAR OF SAN PATRIZIO
NEVER did wedding barouche so gorgeous roll over the asphalt of
Mulberry as the one in which Signor Di Bello and his bride rode to
church; and never had the people beheld such an illustrious couple
in nuptial parade. With an overdone mimicry of the princesses and
duchesses she had watched so often driving in the Chiaja of Naples,
Juno sat erect and grand of mien, deigning scarcely a glance to right
or left. Now and then she did smile with a feigned grace, or bow with
mock condescension in response to some wild salvo of “bravoes” shot as
they passed by a _caffè_ from the throats of Signor Di Bello’s boon
comrades. Nor did these salutes meet with a less dignified return from
the bridegroom. His old friends wondered, and avowed that the bubbling
merchant was not himself to-day. And, in truth, for the first time
in his life the signore had put on an air of loftiness and gravity.
No one could say that the radiant creature in purple by his side
surpassed him in grandeur. Perhaps it was the example of Juno, perhaps
the witchery of his looking-glass. An hour before, arrayed in evening
clothes spick and span from the tailor, who had worked overtime, Signor
Di Bello had viewed his mirrored self with much approval and delight.
It was his first dress suit, and the round brow, the bushy hair, and
the King Humbert mustache showed above the broad field of shirt front
in bolder relief and a light that was new to their owner. His facial
likeness to the monarch of Italy had ever been a spring of secret
pride, but not until to-day, when he beheld himself in royal raiment,
had the similitude played him any mental pranks. Fondly he gazed in
the mirror’s verge, and said to himself: “Ah! that is the head of the
king, and the head is on my shoulders.” And it was because the king had
got into that head so badly that Signor Di Bello rode to his wedding
with the stateliness of a royal chief.
At length the plumed steeds turned into the Sicilian quarter, and the
bridal pair could see the Gothic façade of San Patrizio a block away.
At this stage the march lost its triumphal flavour. They had entered
the enemy’s country. Here the dusky women at windows breathed no
auguries of good fortune, and the white-shirted men on the sidewalk,
idling in their Sunday best, had no “bravo” for the distinguished
bridegroom. For about half the distance the Genovese and his Neapolitan
were permitted to pass in respect if not in love. Doubtless this silent
show of bad blood would have continued unbroken till the church portals
were reached, but for the act of a certain earringed fellow who stood
on a low balcony. In the long ago his eyes had seen Humbert, and now
he was struck so hard with the resemblance borne him by the man in the
carriage that, in a voice ringing sharp to a hundred ears, he shouted:
“Long live the king!” (“_Evviva il re!_”)
All within earshot laughed as they saw the aptness of the gibe, and,
while the barouche moved along slowly, a dozen tongues by turns
re-echoed the cry with derisive resonance:
“Long live the king!”
It would have been difficult to tell from the faces of Juno and Signor
Di Bello whether they were pleased or offended.
Among the few who cried out was a young man in black velveteen coat and
flowing cravat. His pallid face was serious, had a puzzled look, and
_his_ “Long live the king!” did not smack of mockery. He fell in beside
the carriage, and kept up with it, though with one hand he lugged a
large valise. Twice he tripped and almost fell in his effort to follow
without taking his eyes off Juno. When the carriage stopped he stood
at the curbstone as though enchained, fascinated by the sight of her,
and stared half in bewilderment as Signor Di Bello with a grand,
knightly grace, helped her to alight. Then he ran ahead, set down his
valise, and stood at the church door. As they passed in, his gaze still
fixed upon her and his hands clasped ecstatically, he exclaimed in a
voice that all could hear;
“O beautiful signora! How happy I am! The marble does not lie!”
“Soul of an ostrich!” gasped Signor Di Bello, clutching the little
silver-tipped horn against the evil eye which he had added to his watch
chain that morning. “What the kangaroo does he mean?”
Juno gave no answer. In the vestibule a mincing sacristan, low of bow
and smiling, came forward to meet the rich merchant and his bride and
conduct them at once to the altar. Already a frail girl in pink and
a hulking fellow clad in new jeans and fumbling his hat were at the
rail receiving a wedlock yoke. In the rear pews sat other wedding
parties, awaiting their turns at the altar--solemn-faced brides and
listless grooms, bridesmaids in gayest feather, best men with red
neckties, aged fathers and mothers half asleep. A stream of opal light
from the clerestory windows fell upon these waiting groups, touching
their coarse faces with a ghastly hue, but adding a mellow beauty to
their cheap finery. It was an hour of silent prayer, yet none the
less a season when marrying and giving in marriage is in full tide
at San Patrizio. Save where the mating couples and their trains were
assembled, every pew contained a row of bowed heads that were covered
with shawls or gaudy kerchiefs--the heads of gaunt-cheeked age whose
lips never ceased moving in prayer, and who looked up at passers-by
with the eyes of a dying dog, side by side with the gleaming teeth and
flashing eyes of swarthy youth. The hush was broken when the priest
asked the names of the pairing men and women. Then his voice was
audible only in the foremost seats. Wedding parties kept arriving.
Always a sacristan met them at the holy-water font, and, with a
monitory finger on his lips, led them to a rear pew. These were the
commoners of Mulberry--the toilers with hod or sweat-shop needle--who
in funereal soberness had come to the church on foot. They could wait.
But for Signor Di Bello and Juno there was no delay. As they passed
up the aisle Juno’s purple satin brushed the rough-shod feet of women
at prayer, prostrate on the floor. A pew had been reserved for them
on the gospel side. When the priest caught sight of Signor Di Bello,
he bustled into the sacristy to put on a different robe. At the same
moment the man of the black velveteen moved up the aisle with quick,
smooth step, and dropped into a pew on the epistle side, well forward,
from which he could turn and watch Juno. Again he fastened upon her the
stare that never flinched. For the first time since she had entered
upon her bigamous adventure she felt a twinge of misgiving. Who was
this fellow with his big eyes always upon her? Some friend of Bertino
aware that she was already a wife? The priest beckoned them before him,
and as they approached the velveteen coat slipped into a seat nearer
the communion rail.
“What is your name?” asked the priest of the bridegroom.
“Giorgio Di Bello.”
“And yours?” of the bride.
“Juno Castagna.”
“A lie! She is the Presidentessa!” It was the staring man. His voice,
loud and high pitched, resounded through the church and brought up
every row of bowed heads. As he spoke the words he arose and left the
pew, and stood close to the three at the balustrade. “She can not be
that,” he went on, heedless of the priest’s upraised hands. “She must
be the Presidentessa.”
Signor Di Bello seemed ready to fall upon the intruder, and the
sacerdotal hand restrained him. Two sacristans hurried up the aisle,
but without danger to praying women, for these were all on their feet
now.
“The Presidentessa, I tell you--I that know so well.” He pointed his
finger at the bride. Juno had winced at first, but now she understood
it all, and knew she was safe for the present. “Did I not make every
line of that face out of the marble? Don’t believe it, father. She is
the Presidentessa. Juno! Oh, no, no! Child of the Mother, not that!
Where is the peacock, if she is Juno?”
By this time the assistants, each holding an arm, had led Armando to
the sacristy, and closing the door, smothered the last part of his
frantic outburst. The priest went on with the ceremony, but every bowed
head in the pews had been lifted and every eye and ear was now alert.
“Giorgio Di Bello, wilt thou take this woman to be thy wife----”
“Stop! In the name of the good God, stop!”
The words were shouted from the rear of the church by Signor Tomato,
who hurried up the aisle, while the three at the altar stood silent,
astounded.
“That woman is already a wife,” the banker continued, puffing as though
he had had a hard run for it. “I swear it by the Madonna of Mount
Carmel. Her husband is alive. Only yesterday I saw him, and you know
what the proverb says: Once a----”
“Silence!” commanded the priest. “This is no place for oaths
or--proverbs.”
“Bah!” Signor Di Bello broke out. “The dog is crazy.”
The priest eyed Juno a moment. “Well, what do you say, signorina?”
“Don’t believe him, padre,” she answered. Then, turning to the banker:
“Stupid one, you do not know what you are saying. It is some other
woman.”
The banker chuckled grimly and nodded his head in mock concurrence.
“Ah, yes; you are right. I do not know you. It was some other woman.
Oh that it had been! But alas! it was you--you, the last lady, and I,
poor wretch, thought you the First Lady--the Presidentessa!”
“The Presidentessa again?” said the priest, bewildered.
“Yes, padre. So it was she tricked us--me and her husband. Some other
woman! _Anima mia!_ Does a man forget the face that has robbed him?
In marble I first saw it, and never has it left me, day or night. Ah,
the trouble, grand trouble it has brought me! Seven hundred liras! All
gone.--But you, Signor Di Bello, are rich. You will pay it back. You
will be grateful; for have I not saved you from this woman? She has
deceived me, she has deceived her husband; but see, I do not let her
deceive you.”
“Go away and mind your own affairs,” said Signor Di Bello, pushing the
banker aside. At the same moment the assistants appeared and would have
thrown the second intruder into the sacristy with the first, but for
the priest. He made a sign for them to desist; then he ordered them
to drive back and out of the church the women, girls, and men who were
crowding before the altar. When at last the doors were closed and the
hubbub without had become a faint murmur, the priest said:
“You must wait for a week, Signor Di Bello. Then, if I find that all is
well, you may come back and I will marry you.”
“Bravo!” cried the banker.
“Silence! Come to me Tuesday with the man you say is this woman’s
husband.”
“_Si_, padre,” said the banker. “I shall be here.”
Juno took the happening more seriously than Signor Di Bello did. “What
matters it if two crazy donkeys do wag their tongues?” he said, on
the way down the aisle to the door. “You are mine, and nothing else
matters. In a week we shall laugh at these meddlers--the priest as
well.” But Juno knew that the disclosures which the signore did not
believe meant the collapse of her reckless scheme. Plainly the banker
and Bertino had met, and the history of the bust as well as the secret
of their marriage had come out. And they would meet again before
Bertino should receive her letter warning him to fly from the imaginary
danger. In a few hours her husband would know that his uncle not only
lived, but had sought to appropriate his wife. What firebrands of
_vendetta_! Now it was she who should have to fly, else feel the temper
of Bertino’s knife. What a blockhead she had been to put off so long
the writing of that letter! Had she sent it two or three days ago, he
would be far from New York now, perhaps out of America.
When the doors opened for them to pass into the street they found the
church steps thronged with the populace of Mulberry. Word of the doings
at the altar had gone abroad, and the appearance of the brideless
groom and the groomless bride was the signal for a shower of jeers and
derisive greetings. But the signore mustered a bold front and proved
himself worthy of his royal resemblance.
“We shall go to Casa Di Bello,” he said as they entered the carriage,
“and have the wedding feast just as though that noodle of a priest had
not refused to marry you. And why not? It will only be observing the
event a week in advance; for next Sunday the priest will see that these
meddlers have made a fool of him, and he will be glad to marry you to
Signor Di Bello. Now for the diversions of the feast of the marriage.”
He threw off the lid of a large pasteboard box that the driver handed
down and took out a handful of candy beans of many colors, the size
of limas. With them he pelted the people in front of the church, who
put up their hands for protection, and quickly returned wishes of good
luck, for this hail of sweets always comes after the church rites. The
people thought they had been married, after all, which was just the
effect that Signor Di Bello was willing his joke should have. As they
passed the churchyard the signore shouted to a man perched on the wall
to let the nuptial birds go. Next moment there arose three pigeons with
white streamers attached to their legs to insure their recapture; it is
an ill omen for one to gain its freedom. This was a Neapolitan rite in
reverence of the Madonna and the Padre Eterno which Juno had asked for.
They could have turned the corner and driven one block to Casa Di
Bello, whose dormer windows were visible over the monuments of the
graveyard; but the signore, determined that the observance should be
in every respect like that for a genuine wedding, ordered the coachman
to make a tour of Mulberry. Up and down they drove, he showering the
hard and heavy sweets and receiving noisy felicitations all along the
way. He had dropped his regal bearing and was all a-smile now. His old
comrades rejoiced to see that he was himself again.
“See what marriage does for one,” remarked Cavalliere Bruno, the wit of
Caffè Good Appetite. “Our comrade goes forth to the altar like a king,
and comes back like a gentleman.”
But the broad smiles vanished from the signore’s face when they drew
near to Casa Di Bello. Before the door stood a cab on whose top lay
a trunk of ancient pattern that he knew too well. On the sidewalk,
gesturing madly, were the leading families of the Torinesi, the
Milanesi, and the Genovesi, with a scant sprinkling of southern tribes.
They surrounded the barouche and shook their fists at the occupants.
A fine trick, indeed! A joke, perhaps, but not the joke of a signore.
Ask people to a wedding feast, and then have the door slammed in their
faces!
“Oh, misery is mine!” groaned Signor Di Bello, but for a reason more
terrible than the tumult of the barred-out guests. That trunk on the
cab had told him the withering truth. “She is here,” he whimpered, his
courage all gone, and cold despair leaving his arms limp at his side.
“What is amiss?” asked Juno, and the others stopped their hullabaloo.
“You must go to your lodging,” he said.--“Coachman, drive to the
Restaurant of Santa Lucia.--My friends, the wedding feast is postponed
until next Sunday.”
The carriage wheeled about and dashed away, leaving the first families
aching with mystification.