Norvin Blake slept soundly, as befitted a healthy young man with less
than the usual number of cares upon his mind, and, notwithstanding the
fact that he had retired at a late hour, somewhat worn by his journey,
he awoke earlier than usual. Still lacking an adequate idea of his
surroundings, he arose and, flinging back the blinds of his window,
looked out upon a scene which set him to dressing eagerly.
The big front door of the hall below was barred when he came down, and
only yielded to his efforts with a clanging which would have awakened
any one except Martel, letting him out upon a well-kept terrace beneath
which the hills fell away in majestic sweeps and curves to the
coast-line far beneath.
It was a true Sicilian morning, filled with a dazzling glory of color,
and although it was not early, from a countryman's point of view, the
dewy freshness had not entirely faded, and rosy tints still lingered in
the valleys and against the Calabrian coast in the distance. An odor of
myrtle and jessamine came from a garden beneath the outer terrace wall,
and on either side of the manor rose wooded hills the lower slopes of
which were laid out in vineyards and groves of citrus fruits.
Having in full measure the normal man's unaffected appreciation of
nature, Blake found himself wondering how Martel could ever leave this
spot for the artificialities of Paris. The Count was amply able to live
where he chose, and it was no love for art which had kept him in France
these many years. On the contrary, they had both recognized the
mediocrity of his talent and had often joked about it. It was perhaps
no more than a youthful restlessness and craving for excitement, he
concluded.
Knowing that his luxurious host would not be stirring for another hour,
he set out to explore the place at his leisure, and in time came around
to the stables and outhouses. It is not the front of any residence
which shows its real character, any more than a woman's true nature is
displayed by her Sunday attire. Norvin made friends with a surly,
stiff-haired dog, then with a patriarchal old goat which he found
grazing atop a wall, and at last he encountered Francesca bearing a
bundle of fagots upon her head.
She was in a bad temper, it appeared, for in answer to his cheerful
greeting she began to revile the names of Ippolito and Michele.
"Lazy pigs!" she cried, fiercely. "Is it not sufficient that old
Francesca should bare her bones and become a shadow with the cares of
the household? Is it not sufficient that she performs the labor of
twenty in caring for the padrone? No! Is it not the devil's task to
prepare the many outlandish delicacies he learned to eat in his
travels? Yes! Ha! What of that! She must also perform the duties of an
ass and bear wood for the fires! And what, think you, those two young
giants are doing all the day? Sleeping, Si'or! Up all night, asleep all
day! A fine business. And Francesca with a broken back!"
"I'll carry your wood," he offered, at which the mountainous old woman
stared at him as if she did not in the least comprehend his words.
Although her burden was enough to tax a man's strength, she balanced it
easily upon her head and made no move to go.
"And the others! May they all be blinded--Attilio, Gaspare, Roberto!
The hangman will get them, surely. Briganti, indeed!" She snorted like
a horse. "May Belisario Cardi roast them over these very fagots."
Slowly she moved her head from side to side while the bundle swayed
precariously. "It is a bad business, Si'or. The padrone is mad to
resist. You may tell him he is quite mad. Mark me, Ricardo knows that
no good will come of it, but he is like a bull when he is angry. He
lowers his head and sees blood. Veramente, it is a bad business and we
shall all lose our ears." She moved off majestically, her eyes rolling
in her fat cheeks, her lips moving; leaving the American to speculate
as to what her evil prediction had to do with Ippolito and the firewood.
He was still smiling at her anger when Ippolito himself, astride a
horse, came clattering into the courtyard and dismounted stiffly,
giving him a good morning with a wide yawn.
"Corpo di Baccho!" exclaimed the rider. "I shall sleep for a century."
He stretched luxuriously and, unslinging a gun from his shoulder,
leaned it against the wall. Blake was surprised to find it a late model
of an American repeating rifle. "Francesca!" he called loudly. "Madonna
mia, I am famished!"
"Francesca was here a moment ago," Norvin volunteered. "In a frightful
temper, too."
"Just so! It was the wood, I presume." He scowled. "One cannot be in
ten places unless he is in ten pieces. I am glad to be here, and not
here and there."
"Well, she wants you roasted by some fellow named Cardi--"
"Eh? What?" Ippolito started, jerking the horse's head by the bridle
rein, through which he had thrust his arm. "What is this?"
"Belisario Cardi, I believe she said. I don't know him."
The Sicilian muttered an oath and disappeared into the stable; he was
still scowling when he emerged.
Prompted by a feeling that he was close to something mysterious, Blake
tried to sound the fellow.
"You are abroad early," he suggested.
But Ippolito seemed in no mood for conversation, and merely replied:
"Si, Signore, quite early."
He was a lean, swarthy youth, square-jawed and well put up. Although
his clothes were poor, he wore them with a certain grace and moved like
a man who is sure of himself.
"Did you see any robbers?"
"Robbers?" Ippolito's look was one of quick suspicion. "Who has ever
seen a robber?"
"Come, come! I heard the Count and Ricardo talking. You have been away,
among the orange-groves, all night. Am I right?"
"You are right."
"Tell me, is it common thieves or outlaws whom you watch? I have heard
about your brigands."
"Ippolito!" came the harsh voice of Ricardo, who at that moment
appeared around the corner of the stable. "In the kitchen you will find
food."
Ippolito bowed to the American and departed, his rifle beneath his arm.
Blake turned his attention to the overseer, for his mind, once filled
with an idea, was not easily satisfied. But Ricardo would give him no
information. He raised his bushy, gray eyebrows at the American's
question.
"Brigands? Ippolito is a great liar."
Seeing the angry sparkle in the old fellow's eyes, Norvin hastened to
say:
"He told me nothing, I assure you."
"Thieves, yes! We have ladri here, as elsewhere. Sometimes it is well
to take precautions."
"But Francesca was quite excited, and I heard you and Martel mention La
Mafia last night," Blake persisted. "I see you all go armed. I am
naturally curious. I thought you might be in trouble with the society."
"Children's tales!" said Ricardo, gruffly. "There is no society of La
Mafia."
"Oh, see here! We have it even in my own country. The New Orleans
papers have been full of stories about the Mala Vita, the Mafia, or
whatever you choose to call it. There is a big Italian population
there, you know, and they are causing our police a great deal of worry.
I live in Louisiana, so I ought to know. We understand it's an offshoot
of the Sicilian Mafia."
"In Naples I hear there is a Camorra. But this is Sicily. We have no
societies."
"Nevertheless, I heard you say something about 'Mafioso' last night,"
Blake insisted.
"Perhaps," grudgingly admitted the overseer. "But La Mafia is not a
man, not a society, as you say. It is--" He made a wide gesture. "It is
all Sicily. You do not understand."
"No, I do not."
"Very well. One does not speak of it. Would the Signore care to see the
horses?"
"Thank you, yes."
The two went into the stables together, and Blake for the time gave up
the hope of learning anything further about Sicilian brigandage. Nor
did Martel show any willingness to enlighten him when he tentatively
introduced the subject at breakfast, but laughingly turned the
conversation into another channel.
"To-day you shall see the star of my life," he declared. "Be prepared
to worship as all men do."
"Assuredly."
"And promise you will not fall in love."
"Is that why you discouraged my coming until a week before your
wedding? Really, if she is all you claim, we might have been such
delightful enemies."
"Enemies are never that," said the Count, gravely.
"I know men in my country who cherish their enemies like friends. They
seem to enjoy them tremendously, until one or the other has passed on
to glory. Even then they are highly spoken of."
"I am impatient for you to see her. She, of course, has many
preparations to make, for the wedding-day is almost here; but it is
arranged that we are to dine there to-night with her and her aunt, the
Donna Teresa. Ah, Norvin mine, seven days separate me from Paradise.
You can judge of my ecstasy. The hours creep, the moments are leaden.
Each night when I retire, I feel faithless in allowing sleep to rob my
thoughts of her. When I awake it is with the consolation that more of
those miserable hours have crept away. I am like a man insane."
"I am beginning to think you really are so."
"Diamine! Wait! You have not seen her. We are to be married by a
bishop."
"No doubt that will insure your happiness."
"A marriage like this does not occur every day. It will be an event, I
tell you."
"And you're sure I won't be in the way this evening?"
"No, no! It is arranged. She is waiting--expecting you. She knows you
already. This morning, however, you will amuse yourself--will you
not?--for I must ride down to San Sebastiano and meet the colonel of
carabinieri from Messina."
"Certainly. Don't mind me."
Martel hesitated an instant, then explained:
"It is a matter of business. One of my farm-hands is in prison."
"Indeed! What for?"
"Oh, it is nothing. He killed a fellow last week."
"Jove! What a peaceful, pastoral place you have here! I arrive to be
met by an armed guard, I hear talk of Mafiosi, men ride out at night
with rifles, and old women predict unspeakable evil. What is all the
mystery?"
"Nonsense! There is no mystery. Do you think I would drag you, my best
friend, into danger?" Savigno's lips were smiling, but he awaited an
answer with some restraint. "That would not be quite the--quite a nice
thing to do, would it?"
"So, that's it! Now I know you have something on your mind. And it must
be of considerable importance or you would have told me before this."
"You are right," the Count suddenly declared, "although I hoped you
would not discover it. I might have known. But I suppose it is better
to make a clean breast of it now. I have enemies, my friend, and I
assure you I do not cherish them."
"The Countess Margherita is a famous beauty, eh? Well! It is not
remarkable that you should have rivals."
"No, no. This has nothing to do with her, unless our approaching
marriage has roused them to make a demonstration. Have you ever heard
of--Belisario Cardi?"
"Not until this morning. Who is he?"
"I would give much to know. If you had asked me a month ago, I would
have said he is an imaginary character, used to frighten people--a
modern Fra Diavolo, a mere name with which to inspire terror--for
nobody has ever seen him. Now, however, he seems real enough, and I
learn that the carabinieri believe in his existence." Martel pushed
back the breakfast dishes and, leaning his elbows upon the table,
continued, after a pause: "To you Sicily is all beauty and peace and
fragrance; she is old and therefore civilized, so you think. Everything
you have seen so far is reasonably modern, eh?" He showed his white
teeth as Blake assured him:
"It's the most peaceful, restful spot I ever saw."
"You see nothing but the surface. Sicily is much what she was in my
grandfather's time. You have inquired about La Mafia. Well, there is
such a thing. It killed my father. It forced me to give up my home and
be an exile." At Norvin's exclamation of astonishment, he nodded.
"There's a long story behind it which you could not appreciate without
knowing my father and the character of our Sicilian people, for, after
all, Sicilian character constitutes La Mafia. It is no sect, no cult,
no secret body of assassins, highwaymen, and robbers, as you foreigners
imagine; it is a national hatred of authority, an individual expression
of superiority to the law."
"In our own New Orleans we are beginning to talk of the Mafia, but with
us it is a mysterious organization of Italian criminals. We treat it as
somewhat of a joke."
"Be not so sure. Some day it may dominate your American cities as it
does all Sicily."
"Still I don't understand. You say it is an organization and yet it is
not; it terrorizes a whole island and yet you say it is no more than
your national character. It must have a head, it must have arms."
"It has no head, or, rather, it has many heads. It is not a band. It is
the Sicilian intolerance of restraint, the individual's sense of
superiority to moral, social, and political law. It is the freemasonry
that results from this common resistance to authority. It is an idea,
not an institution; it is Sicily's curse and that which makes her
impossible of government. I do not mean to deny that we have outlawry
and brigandage; they are merely the most violent demonstrations of La
Mafia. It afflicts the cities; it is a tyranny in the country
districts. La Mafia taxes us with blackmail, it saddles us with a great
force of carabinieri, it gives food and drink and life to men like
Belisario Cardi. Every landholder, every man of property, contributes
to its support. You still do not understand, but you will as I go
along. As an instance of its workings, all fruit-growers hereabouts are
obliged to maintain watchmen, in addition to their regular employees.
Otherwise their groves will be robbed. These guards are Mafiosi. Let us
say that one of us opposes this monopoly. What happens? He loses his
crop in a night; his trees are cut down. Should he appeal to the law
for protection, he is regarded as a weakling, a man of no spirit. This
is but one small example of the workings of La Mafia; as a matter of
fact, it permeates the political, the business, and the social life of
the whole island. Knowing the impotence of the law to protect any one,
peaceable citizens shield the criminals. They perjure themselves to
acquit a Mafioso rather than testify against him and thus incur the
certainty of some fearful vengeance. Should the farmer persist in his
independence, something ends his life, as in my father's case. The
whole country is terrorized by a conspiracy of a few bold and masterful
men. It is unbearable. There are, of course, Capi-Mafia--leaders--whose
commands are enforced, but there is no single well-organized society.
It is a great interlocking system built upon patronage, friendship, and
the peculiar Sicilian character."
"Now I think I begin to understand."
"My father was not strong enough to throw off the yoke and it meant his
death. I was too young to take his place, but now that I am a man I
intend to play a man's part, and I have served notice. It means a
battle, but I shall win."
To Martel's hasty and very incomplete sketch of the hidden influences
of Sicilian life Blake listened with the greatest interest, noting the
grave determination that had settled upon his friend; yet he could
scarcely bring himself to accept an explanation that seemed so
far-fetched. The whole theory of the Mafia struck him as grotesque and
theatrical.
"And one man has already been killed, you say?" he asked.
"Yes, I discharged all the watchmen whom I knew to be Mafiosi. It
caused a commotion, I can tell you, and no little uneasiness among the
country people, who love me even if, to them, I have been a more or
less imaginary person since my father's death. Naturally they warned me
to desist in this mad policy of independence. A week ago one of my
campieri, Paolo--he who is now in prison--surprised a fellow hacking
down my orange-trees and shot him. The miscreant proved to be a certain
Galli, whom I had discharged. He left a family, I regret to say, but
his reputation was bad. Notwithstanding all this, Paolo is still in
prison despite my utmost efforts. The machinery of the Mafia is in
motion, they will perjure witnesses, they will spend money in any
quantity to convict my poor Paolo. Heaven knows what the result will
be."
"And where does this bogey-man enter--this Belisario Cardi?"
"I have had a letter from him."
"Really?"
"It is in the hands of the carabinieri, hence this journey of my
friend, Colonel Neri, from Messina."
"What did the letter say?"
"It demanded a great sum of money, with my life as the penalty for
refusal. It was signed by Cardi; there was no mistaking the name. If it
had been from Narcone, for instance, I would have paid no attention to
it, for he is no more than a cattle-thief. But Belisario Cardi! My boy,
you don't appreciate the significance of that name. I should not care
to fall into his hands, I assure you, and have my feet roasted over a
slow fire--"
"Good heavens!" Norvin cried, rising abruptly from his chair. "You
don't really mean he's that sort?"
"As a matter of fact," the Count reassured his guest, "I don't believe
in his existence at all. It is merely a name to be used upon occasion.
But as for the punishment, that is perhaps the least I might expect if
I were so unfortunate as to be captured."
"Why, this can't be! Do you realize that this is the year 1886? Such
things are not possible any longer. In your father's time--yes."
"All things are possible in Sicily," smiled Savigno. "We are a century
behind the times. But, caro mio, I did wrong to tell you--"
"No, no."
"I shall come to no harm, believe me. I am known to be young, rich, and
my marriage is but a few days off. What more natural, therefore, than
for some Mafioso to try to frighten me and profit by the dreaded name
of Cardi? I am a stranger here in my own birthplace. When I become
better known, there will be no more feeble attempts at blackmail. Other
landholders have maintained their independence, and I shall do the
same, for an enemy who fears to fight openly is a coward, and I am in
the right."
"I am glad I came. I shall be glad, too, when you are married and
safely off on your wedding journey."
"I feared to tell you all this lest you should think I had no right to
bring you here at such a time--"
"Don't be an utter idiot, Martel."
"You are an American; you have your own way of looking at things. Of
course, if anything should happen--if ill-fortune should overtake me
before the marriage--"
"See here! If there is the slightest danger, the faintest possibility,
you ought to go away, as you did before," Norvin declared, positively.
"I am no longer a child. I am to be married a week hence. Wild horses
could not drag me away."
"You could postpone it--explain it to the Countess--"
"There is no necessity; there is no cause for alarm, even. All the
same, I feel much easier with you here. Margherita has relatives, to be
sure, but they are--well, I have no confidence in them. In the remote
possibility that the worst should come, you could look out for her, and
I am sure you would. Am I right?"
"Of course you are."
"And now let us think of something pleasanter. We won't talk of it any
more, eh?"
"I'm perfectly willing to let it drop. You know I would do anything for
you or yours, so we needn't discuss that point any further."
"Good!" Martel rose and with his customary display of affection flung
an arm about his friend's shoulders. "And now Ricardo is waiting to go
to San Sebastiano, so you must amuse yourself for an hour or two. I
have had the billiard-table recovered, and the cushions are fairly
good. You will find books in the library, perhaps a portfolio of my
earlier drawings--"
"Billiards!" exclaimed the American, fervently, whereupon the Count
laughed.
"Till I return, then, a riverderci!" He seized his hat and strode out
of the room.