All the next day the wind was in our favor, and we arrived at Palermo
an hour before sunset. We had scarcely run into harbor when a small
party of officers and gendarmes, heavily laden with pistols and
carbines, came on board and showed a document authorizing them to
search the brig for Carmelo Neri. I was somewhat anxious for the safety
of my good friend the captain—but he was in nowise dismayed; he smiled
and welcomed the armed emissaries of the government as though they were
his dearest friends.
“To give you my opinion frankly,” he said to them, as he opened a flask
of line Chianti for their behoof, “I believe the villain Carmelo is
somewhere about Gaeta. I would not tell you a lie—why should I? Is
there not a reward offered, and am not I poor? Look you, I would do my
best to assist you!”
One of the men looked at him dubiously.
“We received information,” he said, in precise, business-like tones,
“that Neri escaped from Gaeta two months since, and was aided and
abetted in his escape by one Andrea Luziani, owner of the coasting brig
‘Laura,’ journeying for purposes of trade between Naples and Palermo.
You are Andrea Luziani, and this is the brig ‘Laura,’—we are right in
this; is it not so?”
“As if you could ever be wrong, _caro_!” cried the captain with
undiminished gayety, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nay, if St. Peter
should have the bad taste to shut you out of heaven, you would be
cunning enough to find another and better entrance! Ah, _Dio_! I
believe it! Yes, you are right about my name and the name of my brig,
but in the other things,”—here he shook his fingers with an expressive
sign of denial—“you are wrong—wrong—all wrong!” He broke into a gay
laugh. “Yes, wrong—but we will not quarrel about it! Have some more
Chianti! Searching for brigands is thirsty work. Fill your glasses,
_amici_—spare not the flask—there are twenty more below stairs!”
The officers smiled in spite of themselves, as they drank the proffered
wine, and the youngest-looking of the party, a brisk, handsome fellow,
entered into the spirit of the captain with ardor, though he evidently
thought he should trap him into a confession unawares, by the apparent
carelessness and bonhomie of his manner.
“Bravo, Andrea!” he cried, merrily. “So! let us all be friends
together! Besides, what harm is there in taking a brigand for a
passenger—no doubt he would pay you better than most cargoes!”
But Andrea was not to be so caught. On the contrary; he raised his
hands and eyes with an admirably feigned expression of shocked alarm.
“Our Lady and the saints forgive you!” he exclaimed, piously, “for
thinking that I, an honest _marinaro_, would accept one _baiocco_ from
an accursed brigand! Ill-luck would follow me ever after! Nay,
nay—there has been a mistake; I know nothing of Carmelo Neri, and I
hope the saints will grant that I may never meet him!”
He spoke with so much apparent sincerity that the officers in command
were evidently puzzled, though the fact of their being so did not deter
them from searching the brig thoroughly. Disappointed in their
expectations, they questioned all on board, including myself, but were
of course unable to obtain any satisfactory replies. Fortunately they
accepted my costume as a sign of my trade, and though they glanced
curiously at my white hair, they seemed to think there was nothing
suspicious about me. After a few more effusive compliments and
civilities on the part of the captain, they took their departure,
completely baffled, and quite convinced that the information they had
received had been somehow incorrect. As soon as they were out of sight,
the merry Andrea capered on his deck like a child in a play-ground, and
snapped his fingers defiantly.
“_Per Bacco_!” he cried, ecstatically, “they should as soon make a
priest tell confessional secrets, as force me, honest Andrea Luziani,
to betray a man who has given me good cigars! Let them run back to
Gaeta and hunt in every hole and corner! Carmelo may rest comfortably
in the Montemaggiore without the shadow of a gendarme to disturb him!
Ah, _signor_!” for I had advanced to bid him farewell—“I am truly sorry
to part company with you! You do not blame me for helping away a poor
devil who trusts me?”
“Not I!” I answered him heartily. “On the contrary, I would there were
more like you. _Addio_! and with this,” here I gave him the
passage-money we had agreed upon, “accept my thanks. I shall not forget
your kindness; if you ever need a friend, send to me.”
“But,” he said, with a naive mingling of curiosity and timidity, “how
can I do that if the _signor_ does not tell me his name?”
I had thought of this during the past night. I knew it would be
necessary to take a different name, and I had resolved on adopting that
of a school-friend, a boy to whom I had been profoundly attached in my
earliest youth, and who had been drowned before my eyes while bathing
in the Venetian Lido. So I answered Andrea’s question at once and
without effort.
“Ask for the Count Cesare Oliva,” I said. “I shall return to Naples
shortly, and should you seek me, you will find me there.”
The Sicilian doffed his cap and saluted me profoundly.
“I guessed well,” he remarked, smilingly, “that the _Signor Conte’s_
hands were not those of a coral-fisher. Oh, yes! I know a gentleman
when I see him—though we Sicilians say we are all gentlemen. It is a
good boast, but alas! not always true! _A rivederci, signor_! Command
me when you will—I am your servant!”
Pressing his hand, I sprung lightly from the brig on to the quay.
“_A rivederci_!” I called to him. “Again, and yet again, a thousand
thanks!”
“_Oh! tropp’ onore, signor—tropp’ onore_!” and thus I left him,
standing still bareheaded on the deck of his little vessel, with a
kindly light on his brown face like the reflection of a fadeless
sunbeam. Good-hearted, merry rogue! His ideas of right and wrong were
oddly mixed—yet his lies were better than many truths told us by our
candid friends—and you may be certain the great Recording Angel knows
the difference between a lie that saves and a truth that kills, and
metes out Heaven’s reward or punishment accordingly.
My first care, when I found myself in the streets of Palermo, was to
purchase clothes of the best material and make adapted to a gentleman’s
wear. I explained to the tailor whose shop I entered for this purpose
that I had joined a party of coral-fishers for mere amusement, and had
for the time adopted their costume. He believed my story the more
readily as I ordered him to make several more suits for me immediately,
giving him the name of Count Cesare Oliva, and the address of the best
hotel in the city. He served me with obsequious humility, and allowed
me the use of his private back-room, where I discarded my fisher garb
for the dress of a gentleman—a ready-made suit that happened to fit me
passably well. Thus arrayed as became my station, I engaged rooms at
the chief hotel of Palermo for some weeks—weeks that were for me full
of careful preparation for the task of vengeful retribution that lay
before me. One of my principal objects was to place the money I had
with me in safe hands. I sought out the leading banker in Palermo, and
introducing myself under my adopted name, I stated that I had newly
returned to Sicily after some years’ absence. He received me well, and
though he appeared astonished at the large amount of wealth I had
brought, he was eager and willing enough to make satisfactory
arrangements with me for its safe keeping, including the bag of jewels,
some of which, from their unusual size and luster, excited his genuine
admiration. Seeing this, I pressed on his acceptance a fine emerald and
two large brilliants, all unset, and requested him to have a ring made
of them for his own wear. Surprised at my generosity, he at first
refused—but his natural wish to possess such rare gems finally
prevailed, and he took them, overpowering me with thanks—while I was
perfectly satisfied to see that I had secured his services so
thoroughly by my jeweled bribe, that he either forgot, or else saw no
necessity to ask me for personal references, which in my position would
have been exceeding difficult, if not impossible, to obtain. When this
business transaction was entirely completed, I devoted myself to my
next consideration—which was to disguise myself so utterly that no one
should possibly be able to recognize the smallest resemblance in me to
the late Fabio Romani, either by look, voice, or trick of manner. I had
always worn a mustache—it had turned white in company with my hair. I
now allowed my beard to grow—it came out white also. But in contrast
with these contemporary signs of age, my face began to fill up and look
young again; my eyes, always large and dark, resumed their old
flashing, half-defiant look—a look, which it seemed to me, would make
some familiar suggestion to those who had once known me as I was before
I died. Yes—they spoke of things that must be forgotten and unuttered;
what should I do with these tell-tale eyes of mine?
I thought, and soon decided. Nothing was easier than to feign weak
sight—sight that was dazzled by the heat and brilliancy of the southern
sunshine, I would wear smoke-colored glasses. I bought them as soon as
the idea occurred to me, and alone in my room before the mirror I tried
their effect. I was satisfied; they perfectly completed the disguise of
my face. With them and my white hair and beard, I looked like a
well-preserved man of fifty-five or so, whose only physical ailment was
a slight affection of the eyes.
The next thing to alter was my voice. I had, naturally, a peculiarly
soft voice and a rapid, yet clear, enunciation, and it was my habit, as
it is the habit of almost every Italian, to accompany my words with the
expressive pantomime of gesture. I took myself in training as an actor
studies for a particular part. I cultivated a harsh accent, and spoke
with deliberation and coldness—occasionally with a sort of sarcastic
brusquerie, carefully avoiding the least movement of hands or head
during converse. This was exceedingly difficult of attainment to me,
and took me an infinite deal of time and trouble; but I had for my
model a middle-aged Englishman who was staying in the same hotel as
myself, and whose starched stolidity never relaxed for a single
instant. He was a human iceberg—perfectly respectable, with that air of
decent gloom about him which is generally worn by all the sons of
Britain while sojourning in a foreign clime. I copied his manners as
closely as possible; I kept my mouth shut with the same precise air of
not-to-be-enlightened obstinacy—I walked with the same upright drill
demeanor—and I surveyed the scenery with the same superior contempt. I
knew I had succeeded at last, for I overheard a waiter speaking of me
to his companion as “the white bear!”
One other thing I did. I wrote a courteous note to the editor of the
principal newspaper published in Naples—a newspaper that I knew always
found its way to the Villa Romani—and inclosing fifty francs, I
requested him to insert a paragraph for me in his next issue. This
paragraph was worded somewhat as follows:
“The _Signor_ Conte Cesare Oliva, a nobleman who has been for many
years absent from his native country, has, we understand, just
returned, possessed of almost fabulous wealth, and is about to arrive
in Naples, where he purposes making his home for the future. The
leaders of society here will no doubt welcome with enthusiasm so
distinguished an addition to the brilliant circles commanded by their
influence.”
The editor obeyed my wishes, and inserted what I sent him, word for
word as it was written. He sent me the paper containing it “with a
million compliments,” but was discreetly silent concerning the fifty
francs, though I am certain he pocketed them with unaffected joy. Had I
sent him double the money, he might have been induced to announce me as
a king or emperor in disguise. Editors of newspapers lay claim to be
honorable men; they may be so in England, but in Italy most of them
would do anything for money. Poor devils! who can blame them,
considering how little they get by their limited dealings in pen and
ink! In fact, I am not at all certain but that a few English newspaper
editors might be found capable of accepting a bribe, if large enough,
and if offered with due delicacy. There are surely one or two
magazines, for instance, in London, that would not altogether refuse to
insert an indifferently, even badly written article, if paid a thousand
pounds down for doing it!
On the last day but one of my sojourn in Palermo I was reclining in an
easy-chair at the window of the hotel smoking-room, looking out on the
shimmering waters of the gulf. It was nearly eight o’clock, and though
the gorgeous colors of the sunset still lingered in the sky, the breeze
blew in from the sea somewhat coldly, giving warning of an approaching
chilly night. The character I had adopted, namely that of a somewhat
harsh and cynical man who had seen life and did not like it, had by
constant hourly practice become with me almost second nature—indeed, I
should have had some difficulty in returning to the easy and
thoughtless abandon of my former self. I had studied the art of being
churlish till I really _was_ churlish; I had to act the chief character
in a drama, and I knew my part thoroughly well. I sat quietly puffing
at my cigar and thinking of nothing in particular—for, as far as my
plans went, I had done with thought, and all my energies were strung up
to action—when I was startled by a loud and increasing clamor, as of
the shouting of a large crowd coming onward like an overflowing tide. I
leaned out of the window, but could see nothing, and I was wondering
what the noise could mean, when an excited waiter threw open the door
of the smoking-room and cried, breathlessly:
“Carmelo Neri, _signor_! Carmelo Neri! They have him, _poverino_! they
have him at last!”
Though almost as strongly interested in this news as the waiter
himself, I did not permit my interest to become manifest. I never
forgot for a second the character I had assumed, and drawing the cigar
slowly from my lips I merely said:
“Then they have caught a great rascal. I congratulate the Government!
Where is the fellow?”
“In the great square,” returned the garçon, eagerly. “If the _signor_
would walk round the corner he would see Carmelo, bound and fettered.
The saints have mercy upon him! The crowds there are thick as flies
round a honeycomb! I must go thither myself—I would not miss the sight
for a thousand francs!”
And he ran off, as full of the anticipated delight of looking at a
brigand as a child going to its first fair. I put on my hat and
strolled leisurely round to the scene of excitement. It was a
picturesque sight enough; the square was black with a sea of eager
heads, and restless, gesticulating figures, and the center of this
swaying, muttering crowd was occupied by a compact band of mounted
gendarmes with drawn swords flashing in the pale evening light—both
horses and men nearly as motionless as though cast in bronze. They were
stationed opposite the head-quarters of the Carabinieri, where the
chief officer of the party had dismounted to make his formal report
respecting the details of the capture before proceeding further.
Between these armed and watchful guards, with his legs strapped to a
sturdy mule, his arms tied fast behind him, and his hands heavily
manacled, was the notorious Neri, as dark and fierce as a mountain
thunder-storm. His head was uncovered—his thick hair, long and unkempt,
hung in matted locks upon his shoulders—his heavy mustachios and beard
were so black and bushy that they almost concealed his coarse and
forbidding features—though I could see the tiger-like glitter of his
sharp white teeth as he bit and gnawed his under lip in impotent fury
and despair—and his eyes, like leaping flames, blazed with a wrathful
ferocity from under his shaggy brows. He was a huge, heavy man, broad
and muscular; his two hands clinched, tied and manacled behind him,
looked like formidable hammers capable of striking a man down dead at
one blow; his whole aspect was repulsive and terrible—there was no
redeeming point about him—for even the apparent fortitude he assumed
was mere bravado—meretricious courage—which the first week of the
galleys would crush out of him as easily as one crushes the juice out
of a ripe grape. He wore a nondescript costume of vari-colored linen,
arranged in folds that would have been the admiration of an artist. It
was gathered about him by means of a brilliant scarlet sash negligently
tied. His brawny arms were bare to the shoulder—his vest was open, and
displayed his strong brown throat and chest heaving with the pent-up
anger and fear that raged within him. His dark grim figure was set off
by a curious effect of color in the sky—a long wide band of crimson
cloud, as though the sun-god had thrown down a goblet of ruby wine and
left it to trickle along the smooth blue fairness of his palace floor—a
deep after-glow, which burned redly on the olive-tinted eager faces of
the multitude that were everywhere upturned in wonder and ill-judged
admiration to the brutal black face of the notorious murderer and
thief, whose name had for years been the terror of Sicily. I pressed
through the crowd to obtain a nearer view, and as I did so a sudden
savage movement of Neri’s bound body caused the gendarmes to cross
their swords in front of his eyes with a warning clash. The brigand
laughed hoarsely.
“_Corpo di Cristo_!” he muttered—“think you a man tied hand and foot
can run like a deer? I am trapped—I know it! But tell _him_,” and he
indicated some person in the throng by a nod of his head “tell him to
come hither—I have a message for him.”
The gendarmes looked at one another, and then at the swaying crowd
about them in perplexity—they did not understand.
Carmelo, without wasting more words upon them, raised himself as
uprightly as he could in his strained and bound position, and called
aloud:
“Luigi Biscardi! _Capitano_! Oh he—you thought I could not see you!
_Dio_! I should know you in hell! Come near, I have a parting word for
you.”
At the sound of his strong harsh voice, a silence half of terror, half
of awe, fell upon the chattering multitude. There was a sudden stir as
the people made way for a young man to pass through their ranks—a
slight, tall, rather handsome fellow, with a pale face and cold,
sneering eyes. He was dressed with fastidious care and neatness in the
uniform of the Bersagliere—and he elbowed his way along with the easy
audacity of a privileged dandy. He came close up to the brigand and
spoke carelessly, with a slightly mocking smile playing round the
corners of his mouth.
“_Ebbene_!” he said, “you are caught at last, Carmelo! You called
me—here I am. What do you want with me, rascal?”
Neri uttered a ferocious curse between his teeth, and looked for an
instant like a wild beast ready to spring.
“You betrayed me,” he said in fierce yet smothered accents—“you
followed me—you hunted me down! Teresa told me all. Yes—she belongs to
you now—you have got your wish. Go and take her—she waits for you—make
her speak and tell you how she loves you—_if you can_!”
Something jeering and withal threatening in the ruffian’s look,
evidently startled the young officer, for he exclaimed hastily:
“What do you mean, wretch? You have not—my God! you have not _killed_
her?”
Carmelo broke into a loud savage laugh.
“She has killed herself!” he cried, exultingly. “Ha, ha, I thought you
would wince at that! She snatched my knife and stabbed herself with it!
Yes—rather than see your lying white face again—rather than feel your
accursed touch! Find her—she lies dead and smiling up there in the
mountains and her last kiss was for _me_—for _me_—you understand! Now
go! and may the devil curse you!”
Again the gendarmes clashed their swords suggestively—and the brigand
resumed his sullen attitude of suppressed wrath and feigned
indifference. But the man to whom he had spoken staggered and seemed
about to fall—his pale face grew paler—he moved away through the
curious open-eyed by-standers with the mechanical air of one who knows
not whether he be alive or dead. He had evidently received an
unexpected shock—a wound that pierced deeply and would be a long time
healing.
I approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into
his hand.
“May one speak?” I asked, carelessly. The man hesitated.
“For one instant, _signor_. But be brief.”
I addressed the brigand in a low clear-tone.
“Have you any message for one Andrea Luziani? I am a friend of his.”
He looked at me and a dark smile crossed his features.
“Andrea is a good soul. Tell him if you will that Teresa is dead. I am
worse than dead. He will know that I did not kill Teresa. I could not!
She had the knife in her breast before I could prevent her. It is
better so.”
“She did that rather than become the property of another man?” I
queried.
Carmelo Neri nodded in acquiescence. Either my sight deceived me, or
else this abandoned villain had tears glittering in the depth of his
wicked eyes.
The gendarme made me a sign, and I withdrew. Almost at the same moment
the officer in command of the little detachment appeared, his spurs
clinking with measured metallic music on the hard stones of the
pavement—he sprung into his saddle and gave the word—the crowd
dispersed to the right and left—the horses were put to a quick trot,
and in a few moments the whole party with the bulky frowning form of
the brigand in their midst had disappeared. The people broke up into
little groups talking excitedly of what had occurred, and scattered
here and there, returning to their homes and occupations—and more
swiftly than one could have imagined possible, the great square was
left almost empty. I paced up and down for awhile thinking deeply; I
had before my mind’s eye the picture of the slight fair Teresa as
described by the Sicilian captain, lying dead in the solitudes of the
Montemaggiore with that self-inflicted wound in her breast which had
set her free of all men’s love and persecution. There _were_ some women
then who preferred death to infidelity? Strange! very strange! common
women of course they must be—such as this brigand’s mistress; your
daintily fed, silk-robed duchess would find a dagger somewhat a vulgar
consoler—she would rather choose a lover, or better still a score of
lovers. It is only brute ignorance that selects a grave instead of
dishonor—modern education instructs us more wisely, and teaches us not
to be over-squeamish about such a trifle as breaking a given word or
promise. Blessed age of progress! Age of steady advancement when the
apple of vice is so cunningly disguised and so prettily painted that we
can actually set it on a porcelain dish and hand it about among our
friends as a valuable and choice fruit of virtue—and no one finds out
the fraud we are practicing, nay, we scarcely perceive it ourselves, it
is such an excellent counterfeit!
As I walked to and fro, I found myself continually passing the head
office of the Carabinieri, and, acting on a sudden impulse of
curiosity, I at last entered the building, determined to ask for a few
particulars concerning the brigand’s capture. I was received by a
handsome and intelligent-looking man, who glanced at the card with
which I presented myself, and saluted me with courteous affability.
“Oh, yes!” he said, in answer to my inquiries, “Neri has given us a
great deal of trouble. But we had our suspicions that he had left
Gaeta, where he was for a time in hiding. A few stray bits of
information gleaned here and there put us on the right track.”
“Was he caught easily, or did he show fight?”
“He gave himself up like a lamb, _signor_! It happened in this way. One
of our men followed the woman who lived with Neri, one Teresa, and
traced her up to a certain point, the corner of a narrow mountain
pass—where she disappeared. He reported this, and thereupon we sent out
an armed party. These crept at midnight two by two, till they were
formed in a close ring round the place where Neri was judged to be.
With the first beam of morning they rushed in upon him and took him
prisoner. It appears that he showed no surprise—he merely said, ‘I
expected you!’ He was found sitting by the dead body of his mistress;
she was stabbed and newly bleeding. No doubt he killed her, though he
swears the contrary—lies are as easy to him as breathing.”
“But where were his comrades? I thought he commanded a large band?”
“So he did, _signor_; and we caught three of the principals only a
fortnight ago, but of the others no trace can be found. I suppose
Carmelo himself dismissed them and sent them far and wide through the
country. At any rate, they are disbanded, and with these sort of
fellows, where there is no union there is no danger.”
“And Neri’s sentence?” I asked.
“Oh, the galleys for life of course; there is no possible alternative.”
I thanked my informant, and left the office. I was glad to have learned
these few particulars, for the treasure I had discovered in my own
family vault was now more mine than ever. There was not the remotest
chance of any one of the Neri band venturing so close to Naples in
search of it, and I thought with a grim smile that had the brigand
chief himself known the story of my wrongs, he would most probably have
rejoiced to think that his buried wealth was destined to aid me in
carrying out so elaborate a plan of vengeance. All difficulties
smoothed themselves before me—obstacles were taken out of my path—my
way was made perfectly clear—each trifling incident was a new
finger-post pointing out the direct road that led me to the one desired
end. God himself seemed on my side, as He is surely ever on the side of
justice! Let not the unfaithful think that because they say long
prayers or go regularly and devoutly to church with meek faces and
piously folded hands that the Eternal Wisdom is deceived thereby. My
wife could pray—she could kneel like a lovely saint in the dim
religious light of the sacred altars, her deep eyes upturned to the
blameless, infinitely reproachful Christ—and look you! each word she
uttered was a blasphemy, destined to come back upon herself as a curse.
Prayer is dangerous for liars—it is like falling willfully on an
upright naked sword. Used as an honorable weapon the sword
defends—snatched up as the last resource of a coward it kills.