The mode of torture employed at Loudun was a variety of the boot, and

one of the most painful of all. Each of the victim’s legs below the knee

was placed between two boards, the two pairs were then laid one above

the other and bound together firmly at the ends; wedges were then driven

in with a mallet between the two middle boards; four such wedges

constituted ordinary and eight extraordinary torture; and this latter

was seldom inflicted, except on those condemned to death, as almost no

one ever survived it, the sufferer’s legs being crushed to a pulp before

he left the torturer’s bands. In this case M. de Laubardemont on his own

initiative, for it had never been done before, added two wedges to those

of the extraordinary torture, so that instead of eight, ten were to be

driven in.

Nor was this all: the commissioner royal and the two Franciscans

undertook to inflict the torture themselves.

Laubardemont ordered Grandier to be bound in the usual manner, and

then saw his legs placed between the boards. He then dismissed the

executioner and his assistants, and directed the keeper of the

instruments to bring the wedges, which he complained of as being too

small. Unluckily, there were no larger ones in stock, and in spite of

threats the keeper persisted in saying he did not know where to procure

others. M. de Laubardemont then asked how long it would take to make

some, and was told two hours; finding that too long to wait, he was

obliged to put up with those he had.

Thereupon the torture began. Pere Lactance having exorcised the

instruments, drove in the first wedge, but could not draw a murmur from

Grandier, who was reciting a prayer in a low voice; a second was driven

home, and this time the victim, despite his resolution, could not avoid

interrupting his devotions by two groans, at each of which Pere Lactance

struck harder, crying, "Dicas! dicas!" (Confess, confess!), a word which

he repeated so often and so furiously, till all was over, that he was

ever after popularly called "Pere Dicas."

When the second wedge was in, de Laubardemont showed Grandier his

manuscript against the celibacy of the priests, and asked if he

acknowledged it to be in his own handwriting. Grandier answered in the

affirmative. Asked what motive he had in writing it, he said it was an

attempt to restore peace of mind to a poor girl whom he had loved, as

was proved by the two lines written at the end:

"Si ton gentil esprit prend bien cette science,

Tu mettras en repos ta bonne conscience."

[If thy sensitive mind imbibe this teaching,

It will give ease to thy tender conscience]

Upon this, M. de Laubardemont demanded the girl’s name; but Grandier

assured him it should never pass his lips, none knowing it but himself

and God. Thereupon M. de Laubardemont ordered Pere Lactance to insert

the third wedge. While it was being driven in by the monk’s lusty arm,

each blow being accompanied by the word "’Dicas’!" Grandier exclaimed—

"My God! they are killing me, and yet I am neither a sorcerer nor

sacrilegious!"

At the fourth wedge Grandier fainted, muttering—

"Oh, Pere Lactance, is this charity?"

Although his victim was unconscious, Pere Lactance continued to strike;

so that, having lost consciousness through pain, pain soon brought him

back to life.

De Laubardemont took advantage of this revival to take his turn at

demanding a confession of his crimes; but Grandier said—

"I have committed no crimes, sir, only errors. Being a man, I have often

gone astray; but I have confessed and done penance, and believe that my

prayers for pardon have been heard; but if not, I trust that God will

grant me pardon now, for the sake of my sufferings."

At the fifth wedge Grandier fainted once more, but they restored him to

consciousness by dashing cold water in his face, whereupon he moaned,

turning to M. de Laubardemont—

"In pity, sir, put me to death at once! I am only a man, and I cannot

answer for myself that if you continue to torture me so I shall not give

way to despair."

"Then sign this, and the torture shall cease," answered the commissioner

royal, offering him a paper.

"My father," said Urbain, turning towards the Franciscan, "can you

assure me on your conscience that it is permissible for a man, in order

to escape suffering, to confess a crime he has never committed?"

"No," replied the monk; "for if he die with a lie on his lips he dies in

mortal sin."

"Go on, then," said Grandier; "for having suffered so much in my body, I

desire to save my soul."

As Pere Lactance drove in the sixth wedge Grandier fainted anew.

When he had been revived, Laubardemont called upon him to confess that a

certain Elisabeth Blanchard had been his mistress, as well as the girl

for whom he had written the treatise against celibacy; but Grandier

replied that not only had no improper relations ever existed between

them, but that the day he had been confronted with her at his trial was

the first time he had ever seen her.

At the seventh wedge Grandier’s legs burst open, and the blood spurted

into Pere Lactance’s face; but he wiped it away with the sleeve of his

gown.

"O Lord my God, have mercy on me! I die!" cried Grandier, and fainted

for the fourth time. Pere Lactance seized the opportunity to take a

short rest, and sat down.

When Grandier had once more come to himself, he began slowly to utter a

prayer, so beautiful and so moving that the provost’s lieutenant wrote

it down; but de Laubardemont noticing this, forbade him ever to show it

to anyone.

At the eighth wedge the bones gave way, and the marrow oozed out of the

wounds, and it became useless to drive in any more wedges, the legs

being now as flat as the boards that compressed them, and moreover Pere

Lactance was quite worn out.

Grandier was unbound and laid upon the flagged floor, and while his eyes

shone with fever and agony he prayed again a second prayer—a veritable

martyr’s prayer, overflowing with faith and enthusiasm; but as he ended

his strength failed, and he again became unconscious. The provost’s

lieutenant forced a little wine between his lips, which brought him to;

then he made an act of contrition, renounced Satan and all his works

once again, and commended his soul to God.

Four men entered, his legs were freed from the boards, and the crushed

parts were found to be a mere inert mass, only attached to the knees by

the sinews. He was then carried to the council chamber, and laid on a

little straw before the fire.

In a corner of the fireplace an Augustinian monk was seated. Urbain

asked leave to confess to him, which de Laubardemont refused, holding

out the paper he desired to have signed once more, at which Grandier

said—

"If I would not sign to spare myself before, am I likely to give way now

that only death remains?"

"True," replied Laubardemont; "but the mode of your death is in our

hands: it rests with us to make it slow or quick, painless or agonising;

so take this paper and sign?"

Grandier pushed the paper gently away, shaking his head in sign of

refusal, whereupon de Laubardemont left the room in a fury, and ordered

Peres Tranquille and Claude to be admitted, they being the confessors he

had chosen for Urbain. When they came near to fulfil their office,

Urbain recognised in them two of his torturers, so he said that, as it

was only four days since he had confessed to Pere Grillau, and he did

not believe he had committed any mortal sin since then, he would not

trouble them, upon which they cried out at him as a heretic and infidel,

but without any effect.

At four o’clock the executioner’s assistants came to fetch him; he was

placed lying on a bier and carried out in that position. On the way he

met the criminal lieutenant of Orleans, who once more exhorted him to

confess his crimes openly; but Grandier replied—

"Alas, sir, I have avowed them all; I have kept nothing back."

"Do you desire me to have masses said for you?" continued the

lieutenant.

"I not only desire it, but I beg for it as a great favour," said Urbain.

A lighted torch was then placed in his hand: as the procession started

he pressed the torch to his lips; he looked on all whom he met with

modest confidence, and begged those whom he knew to intercede with God

for him. On the threshold of the door his sentence was read to him, and

he was then placed in a small cart and driven to the church of St.

Pierre in the market-place. There he was awaited by M. de Laubardemont,

who ordered him to alight. As he could not stand on his mangled limbs,

he was pushed out, and fell first on his knees and then on his face. In

this position he remained patiently waiting to be lifted. He was carried

to the top of the steps and laid down, while his sentence was read to

him once more, and just as it was finished, his confessor, who had not

been allowed to see him for four days, forced a way through the crowd

and threw himself into Grandier’s arms. At first tears choked Pere

Grillau’s voice, but at last he said, "Remember, sir, that our Saviour

Jesus Christ ascended to His Father through the agony of the Cross: you

are a wise man, do not give way now and lose everything. I bring you

your mother’s blessing; she and I never cease to pray that God may have

mercy on you and receive you into Paradise."

These words seemed to inspire Grandier with new strength; he lifted his

head, which pain had bowed, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured a

short prayer. Then turning towards the worthy, friar, he said—

"Be a son to my mother; pray to God for me constantly; ask all our good

friars to pray for my soul; my one consolation is that I die innocent. I

trust that God in His mercy may receive me into Paradise."

"Is there nothing else I can do for you?" asked Pere Grillau.

"Alas, my father!" replied Grandier, "I am condemned to die a most cruel

death; ask the executioner if there is no way of shortening what I must

undergo."

"I go at once," said the friar; and giving him absolution in ’articulo

mortis’, he went down the steps, and while Grandier was making his

confession aloud the good monk drew the executioner aside and asked if

there were no possibility of alleviating the death-agony by means of a

shirt dipped in brimstone. The executioner answered that as the sentence

expressly stated that Grandier was to be burnt alive, he could not

employ an expedient so sure to be discovered as that; but that if the

friar would give him thirty crowns he would undertake to strangle

Grandier while he was kindling the pile. Pere Grillau gave him the

money, and the executioner provided himself with a rope. The Franciscan

then placed himself where he could speak to his penitent as he passed,

and as he embraced him for the last time, whispered to him what he had

arranged with the executioner, whereupon Grandier turned towards the

latter and said in a tone of deep gratitude—

"Thanks, my brother."

At that moment, the archers having driven away Pere Grillau, by order of

M. de Laubardemont, by beating him with their halberts, the procession

resumed its march, to go through the same ceremony at the Ursuline

church, and from there to proceed to the square of Sainte-Croix. On the

way Urbain met and recognised Moussant, who was accompanied by his wife,

and turning towards him, said—

"I die your debtor, and if I have ever said a word that could offend you

I ask you to forgive me."

When the place of execution was reached, the provost’s lieutenant

approached Grandier and asked his forgiveness.

"You have not offended me," was the reply; "you have only done what your

duty obliged you to do."

The executioner then came forward and removed the back board of the

cart, and ordered his assistants to carry Grandier to where the pile was

prepared. As he was unable to stand, he was attached to the stake by an

iron hoop passed round his body. At that moment a flock of pigeons

seemed to fall from the sky, and, fearless of the crowd, which was so

great that the archers could not succeed even by blows of their weapons

in clearing a way for the magistrates, began to fly around Grandier,

while one, as white as the driven snow, alighted on the summit of the

stake, just above his head. Those who believed in possession exclaimed

that they were only a band of devils come to seek their master, but

there were many who muttered that devils were not wont to assume such a

form, and who persisted in believing that the doves had come in default

of men to bear witness to Grandier’s innocence.

In trying next day to combat this impression, a monk asserted that he

had seen a huge fly buzzing round Grandier’s head, and as Beelzebub

meant in Hebrew, as he said, the god of flies, it was quite evident that

it was that demon himself who, taking upon him the form of one of his

subjects, had come to carry off the magician’s soul.

When everything was prepared, the executioner passed the rope by which

he meant to strangle him round Grandier’s neck; then the priests

exorcised the earth, air, and wood, and again demanded of their victim

if he would not publicly confess his crimes. Urbain replied that he had

nothing to say, but that he hoped through the martyr’s death he was

about to die to be that day with Christ in Paradise.

The clerk then read his sentence to him for the fourth time, and asked

if he persisted in what he said under torture.

"Most certainly I do," said Urbain; "for it was the exact truth."

Upon this, the clerk withdrew, first informing Grandier that if he had

anything to say to the people he was at liberty to speak.

But this was just what the exorcists did not want: they knew Grandier’s

eloquence and courage, and a firm, unshaken denial at the moment of

death would be most prejudicial to their interests. As soon, therefore,

as Grandier opened his lips to speak, they dashed such a quantity of

holy water in his face that it took away his breath. It was but for a

moment, however, and he recovered himself, and again endeavoured to

speak, a monk stooped down and stifled the words by kissing him on the

lips. Grandier, guessing his intention, said loud enough for those next

the pile to hear, "That was the kiss of Judas!"

At these words the monks become so enraged that one of them struck

Grandier three times in the face with a crucifix, while he appeared to

be giving it him to kiss; but by the blood that flowed from his nose and

lips at the third blow those standing near perceived the truth: all

Grandier could do was to call out that he asked for a Salve Regina and

an Ave Maria, which many began at once to repeat, whilst he with clasped

hands and eyes raised to heaven commended himself to God and the Virgin.

The exorcists then made one more effort to get him to confess publicly,

but he exclaimed—

"My fathers, I have said all I had to say; I hope in God and in His

mercy."

At this refusal the anger of the exorcists surpassed all bounds, and

Pere Lactance, taking a twist of straw, dipped it in a bucket of pitch

which was standing beside the pile, and lighting it at a torch, thrust

it into his face, crying—

"Miserable wretch! will nothing force you to confess your crimes and

renounce the devil?"

"I do not belong to the devil," said Grandier, pushing away the straw

with his hands; "I have renounced the devil, I now renounce him and all

his works again, and I pray that God may have mercy on me."

At this, without waiting for the signal from the provost’s lieutenant,

Pere Lactance poured the bucket of pitch on one corner of the pile of

wood and set fire to it, upon which Grandier called the executioner to

his aid, who, hastening up, tried in vain to strangle him, while the

flames spread apace.

"Ah! my brother," said the sufferer, "is this the way you keep your

promise?"

"It’s not my fault," answered the executioner; "the monks have knotted

the cord, so that the noose cannot slip."

"Oh, Father Lactance! Father Lactance! have you no charity?" cried

Grandier.

The executioner by this time was forced by the increasing heat to jump

down from the pile, being indeed almost overcome; and seeing this,

Grandier stretched forth a hand into the flames, and said—

"Pere Lactance, God in heaven will judge between thee and me; I summon

thee to appear before Him in thirty days."

Grandier was then seen to make attempts to strangle himself, but either

because it was impossible, or because he felt it would be wrong to end

his life by his own hands, he desisted, and clasping his hands, prayed

aloud—

"Deus meus, ad te vigilo, miserere me."

A Capuchin fearing that he would have time to say more, approached the

pile from the side which had not yet caught fire, and dashed the

remainder of the holy water in his face. This caused such smoke that

Grandier was hidden for a moment from the eyes of the spectators; when

it cleared away, it was seen that his clothes were now alight; his voice

could still be heard from the midst of the flames raised in prayer; then

three times, each time in a weaker voice, he pronounced the name of

Jesus, and giving one cry, his head fell forward on his breast.

At that moment the pigeons which had till then never ceased to circle

round the stake, flew away, and were lost in the clouds.

Urbain Grandier had given up the ghost.

CHAPTER XII

This time it was not the man who was executed who was guilty, but the

executioners; consequently we feel sure that our readers will be anxious

to learn something of their fate.

Pere Lactance died in the most terrible agony on September 18th, 1634,

exactly a month from the date of Grandier’s death. His brother-monks

considered that this was due to the vengeance of Satan; but others were

not wanting who said, remembering the summons uttered by Grandier, that

it was rather due to the justice of God. Several attendant circumstances

seemed to favour the latter opinion. The author of the History of the

Devils of Loudzin gives an account of one of these circumstances, for

the authenticity of which he vouches, and from which we extract the

following:

"Some days after the execution of Grandier, Pere Lactance fell ill of

the disease of which he died. Feeling that it was of supernatural

origin, he determined to take a pilgrimage to Notre Dame des Andilliers

de Saumur, where many miracles were wrought, and which was held in high

estimation in the neighbourhood. A place in the carriage of the Sieur de

Canaye was offered him for the journey; for this gentleman, accompanied

by a large party on pleasure bent, was just then setting out for his

estate of Grand Fonds, which lay in the same direction. The reason for

the offer was that Canaye and his friends, having heard that the last

words of Grandier had affected Pere Lactance’s mind, expected to find a

great deal of amusement in exciting the terrors of their

travelling-companion. And in truth, for a day or two, the boon

companions sharpened their wits at the expense of the worthy monk, when

all at once, on a good road and without apparent cause, the carriage

overturned. Though no one was hurt, the accident appeared so strange to

the pleasure-seekers that it put an end to the jokes of even the boldest

among them. Pere Lactance himself appeared melancholy and preoccupied,

and that evening at supper refused to eat, repeating over and over

again—

"’It was wrong of me to deny Grandier the confessor he asked for; God is

punishing me, God is punishing me!’

"On the following morning the journey was resumed, but the evident

distress of mind under which Pere Lactance laboured had so damped the

spirits of the party that all their gaiety had disappeared. Suddenly,

just outside Fenet, where the road was in excellent condition and no

obstacle to their progress apparent, the carriage upset for the second

time. Although again no one was hurt, the travellers felt that there was

among them someone against whom God’s anger was turned, and their

suspicions pointing to Pere Lactance, they went on their way, leaving

him behind, and feeling very uncomfortable at the thought that they had

spent two or three days in his society.

"Pere Lactance at last reached Notre-Dame des Andilliers; but however

numerous were the miracles there performed, the remission of the doom

pronounced by the martyr on Pere Lactance was not added to their number;

and at a quarter-past six on September 18th, exactly a month to the very

minute after Grandier’s death, Pere Lactance expired in excruciating

agony."

Pere Tranquille’s turn came four years later. The malady which attacked

him was so extraordinary that the physicians were quite at a loss, and

forced to declare their ignorance of any remedy. His shrieks and

blasphemies were so distinctly heard in the streets, that his brother

Franciscans, fearing the effect they would have on his after-reputation,

especially in the minds of those who had seen Grandier die with words of

prayer on his lips, spread abroad the report that the devils whom he had

expelled from the bodies of the nuns had entered into the body of the

exorcist. He died shrieking—

"My God! how I suffer! Not all the devils and all the damned together

endure what I endure!" His panegyrist, in whose book we find all the

horrible details of his death employed to much purpose to illustrate the

advantages of belonging to the true faith, remarks—

"Truly big generous heart must have been a hot hell for those fiends who

entered his body to torment it."

The following epitaph which was placed over his grave was interpreted,

according to the prepossessions of those who read it, either as a

testimony to his sanctity or as a proof of his punishment:—

"Here lies Pere Tranquille, of Saint-Remi; a humble Capuchin preacher.

The demons no longer able to endure his fearlessly exercised power as an

exorcist, and encouraged by sorcerers, tortured him to death, on May

31st, 1638."

But a death about which there could be no doubt as to the cause was that

of the surgeon Mannouri, the same who had, as the reader may recollect,

been the first to torture Grandier. One evening about ten o’clock he was

returning from a visit to a patient who lived on the outskirts of the

town, accompanied by a colleague and preceded by his surgery attendant

carrying a lantern. When they reached the centre of the town in the rue

Grand-Pave, which passes between the walls of the castle grounds and the

gardens of the Franciscan monastery, Mannouri suddenly stopped, and,

staring fixedly at some object which was invisible to his companions,

exclaimed with a start—

"Oh! there is Grandier!

"Where? where?" cried the others.

He pointed in the direction towards which his eyes were turned, and

beginning to tremble violently, asked—

"What do you want with me, Grandier? What do you want?"

A moment later he added

"Yes-yes, I am coming."

Immediately it seemed as if the vision vanished from before his eyes,

but the effect remained. His brother-surgeon and the servant brought him

home, but neither candles nor the light of day could allay his fears;

his disordered brain showed him Grandier ever standing at the foot of

his bed. A whole week he continued, as was known all over the town, in

this condition of abject terror; then the spectre seemed to move from

its place and gradually to draw nearer, for he kept on repeating, "He is

coming! he is coming!" and at length, towards evening, at about the same

hour at which Grandier expired, Surgeon Mannouri drew his last breath.

We have still to tell of M. de Laubardemont. All we know is thus related

in the letters of M. de Patin:—

"On the 9th inst., at nine o’clock in the evening, a carriage was

attacked by robbers; on hearing the noise the townspeople ran to the

spot, drawn thither as much by curiosity as by humanity. A few shots

were exchanged and the robbers put to flight, with the exception of one

man belonging to their band who was taken prisoner, and another who lay

wounded on the paving-stones. This latter died next day without having

spoken, and left no clue behind as to who he was. His identity was,

however, at length made clear. He was the son of a high dignitary named

de Laubardemont, who in 1634, as royal commissioner, condemned Urbain

Grandier, a poor, priest of Loudun, to be burnt alive, under the

pretence that he had caused several nuns of Loudun to be possessed by

devils. These nuns he had so tutored as to their behaviour that many

people foolishly believed them to be demoniacs. May we not regard the

fate of his son as a chastisement inflicted by Heaven on this unjust

judge—an expiation exacted for the pitilessly cruel death inflicted on

his victim, whose blood still cries unto the Lord from the ground?"

Naturally the persecution of Urbain Grandier attracted the attention not

only of journalists but of poets. Among the many poems which were

inspired by it, the following is one of the best. Urbain speaks:

"From hell came the tidings that by horrible sanctions

I had made a pact with the devil to have power over women:

Though not one could be found to accuse me.

In the trial which delivered me to torture and the stake,

The demon who accused me invented and suggested the crime,

And his testimony was the only proof against me.

The English in their rage burnt the Maid alive;

Like her, I too fell a victim to revenge;

We were both accused falsely of the same crime;

In Paris she is adored, in London abhorred;

In Loudun some hold me guilty of witchcraft,

Some believe me innocent; some halt between two minds.

Like Hercules, I loved passionately;

Like him, I was consumed by fire;

But he by death became a god.

The injustice of my death was so well concealed

That no one can judge whether the flames saved or destroyed me;

Whether they blackened me for hell, or purified me for heaven.

In vain did I suffer torments with unshaken resolution;

They said that I felt no pain, being a sorcerer died unrepentant;

That the prayers I uttered were impious words;

That in kissing the image on the cross I spat in its face;

That casting my eyes to heaven I mocked the saints;

That when I seemed to call on God, I invoked the devil

Others, more charitable, say, in spite of their hatred of my crime,

That my death may be admired although my life was not blameless;

That my resignation showed that I died in hope and faith;

That to forgive, to suffer without complaint or murmur,

Is perfect love; and that the soul is purified

From the sins of life by a death like mine."

*NISIDA—1825*

If our readers, tempted by the Italian proverb about seeing Naples and

then dying, were to ask us what is the most favourable moment for

visiting the enchanted city, we should advise them to land at the mole,

or at Mergellina, on a fine summer day and at the hour when some solemn

procession is moving out of the cathedral. Nothing can give an idea of

the profound and simple-hearted emotion of this populace, which has

enough poetry in its soul to believe in its own happiness. The whole

town adorns herself and attires herself like a bride for her wedding;

the dark facades of marble and granite disappear beneath hangings of

silk and festoons of flowers; the wealthy display their dazzling luxury,

the poor drape themselves proudly in their rags. Everything is light,

harmony, and perfume; the sound is like the hum of an immense hive,

interrupted by a thousandfold outcry of joy impossible to describe. The

bells repeat their sonorous sequences in every key; the arcades echo

afar with the triumphal marches of military bands; the sellers of

sherbet and water-melons sing out their deafening flourish from throats

of copper. People form into groups; they meet, question, gesticulate;

there are gleaming looks, eloquent gestures, picturesque attitudes;

there is a general animation, an unknown charm, an indefinable

intoxication. Earth is very near to heaven, and it is easy to understand

that, if God were to banish death from this delightful spot, the

Neapolitans would desire no other paradise.

The story that we are about to tell opens with one of these magical

pictures. It was the Day of the Assumption in the year 1825; the sun had

been up some four or five hours, and the long Via da Forcella, lighted

from end to end by its slanting rays, cut the town in two, like a ribbon

of watered silk. The lava pavement, carefully cleaned, shone like any

mosaic, and the royal troops, with their proudly waving plumes, made a

double living hedge on each side of the street. The balconies, windows,

and terraces, the stands with their unsubstantial balustrades, and the

wooden galleries set up during the night, were loaded with spectators,

and looked not unlike the boxes of a theatre. An immense crowd, forming

a medley of the brightest colours, invaded the reserved space and broke

through the military barriers, here and there, like an overflowing

torrent. These intrepid sightseers, nailed to their places, would have

waited half their lives without giving the least sign of impatience.

At last, about noon, a cannon-shot was heard, and a cry of general

satisfaction followed it. It was the signal that the procession had

crossed the threshold of the church. In the same moment a charge of

carabineers swept off the people who were obstructing the middle of the

street, the regiments of the line opened floodgates for the overflowing

crowd, and soon nothing remained on the causeway but some scared dog,

shouted at by the people, hunted off by the soldiers, and fleeing at

full speed. The procession came out through the Via di Vescovato. First

came the guilds of merchants and craftsmen, the hatters, weavers,

bakers, butchers, cutlers, and goldsmiths. They wore the prescribed

dress: black coats, knee breeches, low shoes and silver buckles. As the

countenances of these gentlemen offered nothing very interesting to the

multitude, whisperings arose, little by little, among the spectators,

then some bold spirits ventured a jest or two upon the fattest or the

baldest of the townsmen, and at last the boldest of the lazzaroni

slipped between the soldiers’ legs to collect the wax that was running

down from the lighted tapers.

After the craftsmen, the religious orders marched past, from the

Dominicans to the Carthusians, from the Carmelites to the Capuchins.

They advanced slowly, their eyes cast down, their step austere, their

hands on their hearts; some faces were rubicund and shining, with large

cheek-hones and rounded chins, herculean heads upon bullnecks; some,

thin and livid, with cheeks hollowed by suffering and penitence, and

with the look of living ghosts; in short, here were the two sides of

monastic life.

At this moment, Nunziata and Gelsomina, two charming damsels, taking

advantage of an old corporal’s politeness, pushed forward their pretty

heads into the first rank. The break in the line was conspicuous; but

the sly warrior seemed just a little lax in the matter of discipline.

"Oh, there is Father Bruno!" said Gelsomina suddenly. "Good-day, Father

Bruno."

"Hush, cousin! People do not talk to the procession."

"How absurd! He is my confessor. May I not say good-morning to my

confessor?"

"Silence, chatterboxes!"

"Who was that spoke?"

"Oh, my dear, it was Brother Cucuzza, the begging friar."

"Where is he? Where is he?"

"There he is, along there, laughing into his beard. How bold he is!"

"Ah, God in heaven! If we were to dream of him—-"

While the two cousins were pouring out endless comments upon the

Capuchins and their beards, the capes of the canons and the surplices of

the seminarists, the ’feroci’ came running across from the other side to

re-establish order with the help of their gun-stocks.

"By the blood of my patron saint," cried a stentorian voice, "if I catch

you between my finger and thumb, I will straighten your back for the

rest of your days."

"Who are you falling out with, Gennaro?"

"With this accursed hunchback, who has been worrying my back for the

last hour, as though he could see through it."

"It is a shame," returned the hunchback in a tone of lamentation; "I

have been here since last night, I slept out of doors to keep my place,

and here is this abominable giant comes to stick himself in front of me

like an obelisk."

The hunchback was lying like a Jew, but the crowd rose unanimously

against the obelisk. He was, in one way, their superior, and majorities

are always made up of pigmies.

"Hi! Come down from your stand!"

"Hi! get off your pedestal!"

"Off with your hat!"

"Down with your head!"

"Sit down!"

"Lie down!"

This revival of curiosity expressing itself in invectives evidently

betokened the crisis of the show. And indeed the chapters of canons, the

clergy and bishops, the pages and chamberlains, the representatives of

the city, and the gentlemen of the king’s chamber now appeared, and

finally the king himself, who, bare-headed and carrying a taper,

followed the magnificent statue of the Virgin. The contrast was

striking: after the grey-headed monks and pale novices came brilliant

young captains, affronting heaven with the points of their moustaches,

riddling the latticed windows with killing glances, following the

procession in an absent-minded way, and interrupting the holy hymns with

scraps of most unorthodox conversation.

"Did you notice, my dear Doria, how like a monkey the old Marchesa

d’Acquasparta takes her raspberry ice?"

"Her nose takes the colour of the ice. What fine bird is showing off to

her?"

"It is the Cyrenian."

"I beg your pardon! I have not seen that name in the Golden Book."

"He helps the poor marquis to bear his cross."

The officer’s profane allusion was lost in the prolonged murmur of

admiration that suddenly rose from the crowd, and every gaze was turned

upon one of the young girls who was strewing flowers before the holy

Madonna. She was an exquisite creature. Her head glowing in the sun

shine, her feet hidden amid roses and broom-blossom, she rose, tall and

fair, from a pale cloud of incense, like some seraphic apparition. Her

hair, of velvet blackness, fell in curls half-way down her shoulders;

her brow, white as alabaster and polished as a mirror, reflected the

rays of the sun; her beautiful and finely arched black eye-brows melted

into the opal of her temples; her eyelids were fast down, and the curled

black fringe of lashes veiled a glowing and liquid glance of divine

emotion; the nose, straight, slender, and cut by two easy nostrils, gave

to her profile that character of antique beauty which is vanishing day

by day from the earth. A calm and serene smile, one of those smiles that

have already left the soul and not yet reached the lips, lifted the

corners of her mouth with a pure expression of infinite beatitude and

gentleness. Nothing could be more perfect than the chin that completed

the faultless oval of this radiant countenance; her neck of a dead

white, joined her bosom in a delicious curve, and supported her head

gracefully like the stalk of a flower moved by a gentle breeze. A bodice

of crimson velvet spotted with gold outlined her delicate and finely

curved figure, and held in by means of a handsome gold lace the

countless folds of a full and flowing skirt, that fell to her feet like

those severe robes in which the Byzantine painters preferred to drape

their angels. She was indeed a marvel, and so rare and modest of beauty

had not been seen within the memory of man.

Among those who had gazed most persistently at her was observed the

young Prince of Brancaleone, one of the foremost nobles of the kingdom.

Handsome, rich, and brave, he had, at five-and-twenty, outdone the lists

of all known Don Juans. Fashionable young women spoke very ill of him

and adored him in secret; the most virtuous made it their rule to fly

from him, so impossible did resistance appear. All the young madcaps had

chosen him for their model; for his triumphs robbed many a Miltiades of

sleep, and with better cause. In short, to get an idea of this lucky

individual, it will be enough to know that as a seducer he was the most

perfect thing that the devil had succeeded in inventing in this

progressive century. The prince was dressed out for the occasion in a

sufficiently grotesque costume, which he wore with ironic gravity and

cavalier ease. A black satin doublet, knee breeches, embroidered

stockings, and shoes with gold buckles, formed the main portions of his

dress, over which trailed a long brocaded open-sleeved robe lined with

ermine, and a magnificent diamond-hilted sword. On account of his rank

he enjoyed the rare distinction of carrying one of the six gilded staves

that supported the plumed and embroidered canopy.

As soon as the procession moved on again, Eligi of Brancaleone gave a

side glance to a little man as red as a lobster, who was walking almost

at his side, and carrying in his right hand, with all the solemnity that

he could muster, his excellency’s hat. He was a footman in gold-laced

livery, and we beg leave to give a brief sketch of his history. Trespolo

was the child of poor but thieving parents, and on that account was

early left an orphan. Being at leisure, he studied life from an

eminently social aspect. If we are to believe a certain ancient sage, we

are all in the world to solve a problem: as to Trespolo, he desired to

live without doing anything; that was his problem. He was, in turn, a

sacristan, a juggler, an apothecary’s assistant, and a cicerone, and he

got tired of all these callings. Begging was, to his mind, too hard

work, and it was more trouble to be a thief than to be an honest man.

Finally he decided in favour of contemplative philosophy. He had a

passionate preference for the horizontal position, and found the

greatest pleasure in the world in watching the shooting of stars.

Unfortunately, in the course of his meditations this deserving man came

near to dying of hunger; which would have been a great pity, for he was

beginning to accustom himself not to eat anything. But as he was

predestined by nature to play a small part in our story, God showed him

grace for that time, and sent to his assistance—not one of His angels,

the rogue was not worthy of that, but—one of Brancaleone’s hunting dogs.

The noble animal sniffed round the philosopher, and uttered a little

charitable growl that would have done credit to one of the brethren of

Mount St. Bernard. The prince, who was returning in triumph from

hunting, and who, by good luck, had that day killed a bear and ruined a

countess, had an odd inclination to do a good deed. He approached the

plebeian who was about to pass into the condition of a corpse, stirred

the thing with his foot, and seeing that there was still a little hope,

bade his people bring him along.

From that day onward, Trespolo saw the dream of his life nearly

realised. Something rather above a footman and rather below a house

steward, he became the confidant of his master, who found his talents

most useful; for this Trespolo was as sharp as a demon and almost as

artful as a woman. The prince, who, like an intelligent man as he was,

had divined that genius is naturally indolent, asked nothing of him but

advice; when tiresome people wanted thrashing, he saw to that matter

himself, and, indeed, he was the equal of any two at such work. As

nothing in this lower world, however, is complete, Trespolo had strange

moments amid this life of delights; from time to time his happiness was

disturbed by panics that greatly diverted his master; he would mutter

incoherent words, stifle violent sighs, and lose his appetite. The root

of the matter was that the poor fellow was afraid of going to hell. The

matter was very simple: he was afraid of everything; and, besides, it

had often been preached to him that the Devil never allowed a moment’s

rest to those who were ill-advised enough to fall into his clutches.

Trespolo was in one of his good moods of repentance, when the prince,

after gazing on the young girl with the fierce eagerness of a vulture

about to swoop upon its prey, turned to speak to his intimate adviser.

The poor servant understood his master’s abominable design, and not

wishing to share the guilt of a sacrilegious conversation, opened his

eyes very wide and turned them up to heaven in ecstatic contemplation.

The prince coughed, stamped his foot, moved his sword so as to hit

Trespolo’s legs, but could not get from him any sign of attention, so

absorbed did he appear in celestial thoughts. Brancaleone would have

liked to wring his neck, but both his hands were occupied by the staff

of the canopy; and besides, the king was present.

At last they were drawing nearer to the church of St. Clara, where the

Neapolitan kings were buried, and where several princesses of the blood,

exchanging the crown for the veil, have gone to bury themselves alive.

The nuns, novices, and abbess, hidden behind shutters, were throwing

flowers upon the procession. A bunch fell at the feet of the Prince of

Brancaleone.

"Trespolo, pick up that nosegay," said the prince, so audibly that his

servant had no further excuse. "It is from Sister Theresa," he added, in

a low voice; "constancy is only to be found, nowadays, in a convent."

Trespolo picked up the nosegay and came towards his master, looking like

a man who was being strangled.

"Who is that girl?" the latter asked him shortly.

"Which one?" stammered the servant.

"Forsooth! The one walking in front of us."

"I don’t know her, my lord."

"You must find out something about her before this evening."

"I shall have to go rather far afield."

"Then you do know her, you intolerable rascal! I have half a mind to

have you hanged like a dog."

"For pity’s sake, my lord, think of the salvation of your soul, of your

eternal life."

"I advise you to think of your temporal life. What is her name?"

"She is called Nisida, and is the prettiest girl in the island that she

is named after. She is innocence itself. Her father is only a poor

fisherman, but I can assure your excellency that in his island he is

respected like a king."

"Indeed!" replied the prince, with an ironical smile. "I must own, to my

great shame, that I have never visited the little island of Nisida. You

will have a boat ready for me to-morrow, and then we will see."

He interrupted himself suddenly, for the king was looking at him; and

calling up the most sonorous bass notes that he could find in the depths

of his throat, he continued with an inspired air, "Genitori genitoque

laus et jubilatio."

"Amen," replied the serving-man in a ringing voice.

Nisida, the beloved daughter of Solomon, the fisherman, was, as we have

said, the loveliest flower of the island from which she derived her

name. That island is the most charming spot, the most delicious nook

with which we are acquainted; it is a basket of greenery set delicately

amid the pure and transparent waters of the gulf, a hill wooded with

orange trees and oleanders, and crowned at the summit by a marble

castle. All around extends the fairy-like prospect of that immense

amphitheatre, one of the mightiest wonders of creation. There lies

Naples, the voluptuous syren, reclining carelessly on the seashore;

there, Portici, Castellamare, and Sorrento, the very names of which

awaken in the imagination a thousand thoughts of poetry and love; there

are Pausilippo, Baiae, Puozzoli, and those vast plains, where the

ancients fancied their Elysium, sacred solitudes which one might suppose

peopled by the men of former days, where the earth echoes under foot

like an empty grave, and the air has unknown sounds and strange

melodies.

Solomon’s hut stood in that part of the island which, turning its back

to the capital, beholds afar the blue crests of Capri. Nothing could be

simpler or brighter. The brick walls were hung with ivy greener than

emeralds, and enamelled with white bell-flowers; on the ground floor was

a fairly spacious apartment, in which the men slept and the family took

their meals; on the floor above was Nisida’s little maidenly room, full

of coolness, shadows, and mystery, and lighted by a single casement that

looked over the gulf; above this room was a terrace of the Italian kind,

the four pillars of which were wreathed with vine branches, while its

vine-clad arbour and wide parapet were overgrown with moss and wild

flowers. A little hedge of hawthorn, which had been respected for ages,

made a kind of rampart around the fisherman’s premises, and defended his

house better than deep moats and castellated walls could have done. The

boldest roisterers of the place would have preferred to fight before the

parsonage and in the precincts of the church rather than in front of

Solomon’s little enclosure. Otherwise, this was the meeting place of the

whole island. Every evening, precisely at the same hour, the good women

of the neighbourhood came to knit their woollen caps and tell the news.

Groups of little children, naked, brown, and as mischievous as little

imps, sported about, rolling on the grass and throwing handfuls of sand

into the other’s eyes, heedless of the risk of blinding, while their

mothers were engrossed in that grave gossip which marks the dwellers in

villages. These gatherings occurred daily before the fisherman’s house;

they formed a tacit and almost involuntary homage, consecrated by

custom, and of which no one had ever taken special account; the envy

that rules in small communities would soon have suppressed them. The

influence which old Solomon had over his equals had grown so simply and

naturally, that no one found any fault with it, and it had only

attracted notice when everyone was benefiting by it, like those fine

trees whose growth is only observed when we profit by their shade. If

any dispute arose in the island, the two opponents preferred to abide by

the judgment of the fisherman instead of going before the court; he was

fortunate enough or clever enough to send away both parties satisfied.

He knew what remedies to prescribe better than any physician, for it

seldom happened that he or his had not felt the same ailments, and his

knowledge, founded on personal experience, produced the most excellent

results. Moreover, he had no interest, as ordinary doctors have, in

prolonging illnesses. For many years past the only formality recognised

as a guarantee for the inviolability of a contract had been the

intervention of the fisherman. Each party shook hands with Solomon, and

the thing was done. They would rather have thrown themselves into

Vesuvius at the moment of its most violent eruption than have broken so

solemn an agreement. At the period when our story opens, it was

impossible to find any person in the island who had not felt the effects

of the fisherman’s generosity, and that without needing to confess to

him any necessities. As it was the custom for the little populace of

Nisida to spend its leisure hours before Solomon’s cottage, the old man,

while he walked slowly among the different groups, humming his favourite

song, discovered moral and physical weaknesses as he passed; and the

same evening he or his daughter would certainly be seen coming

mysteriously to bestow a benefit upon every sufferer, to lay a balm upon

every wound. In short, he united in his person all those occupations

whose business is to help mankind. Lawyers, doctors, and the notary, all

the vultures of civilisation, had beaten a retreat before the

patriarchal benevolence of the fisherman. Even the priest had

capitulated.

On the morrow of the Feast of the Assumption, Solomon was sitting, as

his habit was, on a stone bench in front of his house, his legs crossed

and his arms carelessly stretched out. At the first glance you would

have taken him for sixty at the outside, though he was really over

eighty. He had all his teeth, which were as white as pearls, and showed

them proudly. His brow, calm and restful beneath its crown of abundant

white hair, was as firm and polished as marble; not a wrinkle ruffled

the corner of his eye, and the gem-like lustre of his blue orbs revealed

a freshness of soul and an eternal youth such as fable grants to the

sea-gods. He displayed his bare arms and muscular neck with an old man’s

vanity. Never had a gloomy idea, an evil prepossession, or a keen

remorse, arisen to disturb his long and peaceful life. He had never seen

a tear flow near him without hurrying to wipe it; poor though he was, he

had succeeded in pouring out benefits that all the kings of the earth

could not have bought with their gold; ignorant though he was, he had

spoken to his fellows the only language that they could understand, the

language of the heart. One single drop of bitterness had mingled with

his inexhaustible stream of happiness; one grief only had clouded his

sunny life—the death of his wife—and moreover he had forgotten that.

All the affections of his soul were turned upon Nisida, whose birth had

caused her mother’s death; he loved her with that immoderate love that

old people have for the youngest of their children. At the present

moment he was gazing upon her with an air of profound rapture, and

watching her come and go, as she now joined the groups of children and

scolded them for games too dangerous or too noisy; now seated herself on

the grass beside their mothers and took part with grave and thoughtful

interest in their talk. Nisida was more beautiful thus than she had been

the day before; with the vaporous cloud of perfume that had folded her

round from head to foot had disappeared all that mystic poetry which put

a sort of constraint upon her admirers and obliged them to lower their

glances. She had become a daughter of Eve again without losing anything

of her charm. Simply dressed, as she usually was on work-days, she was

distinguishable among her companions only by her amazing beauty and by

the dazzling whiteness of her skin. Her beautiful black hair was twisted

in plaits around the little dagger of chased silver, that has lately

been imported into Paris by that right of conquest which the pretty

women of Paris have over the fashions of all countries, like the English

over the sea.

Nisida was adored by her young friends, all the mothers had adopted her

with pride; she was the glory of the island. The opinion of her

superiority was shared by everyone to such a degree, that if some bold

young man, forgetting the distance which divided him from the maiden,

dared speak a little too loudly of his pretensions, he became the

laughing-stock of his companions. Even the past masters of tarentella

dancing were out of countenance before the daughter of Solomon, and did

not dare to seek her as a partner. Only a few singers from Amalfi or

Sorrento, attracted by the rare beauty of this angelic creature,

ventured to sigh out their passion, carefully veiled beneath the most

delicate allusions. But they seldom reached the last verse of their

song; at every sound they stopped short, threw down their triangles and

their mandolines, and took flight like scared nightingales.

One only had courage enough or passion enough to brave the mockery; this

was Bastiano, the most formidable diver of that coast. He also sang, but

with a deep and hollow voice; his chant was mournful and his melodies

full of sadness. He never accompanied himself upon any instrument, and

never retired without concluding his song. That day he was gloomier than

usual; he was standing upright, as though by enchantment, upon a bare

and slippery rock, and he cast scornful glances upon the women who were

looking at him and laughing. The sun, which was plunging into the sea

like a globe of fire, shed its light full upon his stern features, and

the evening breeze, as it lightly rippled the billows, set the

fluttering reeds waving at his feet. Absorbed by dark thoughts, he sang,

in the musical language of his country, these sad words:—

"O window, that wert used to shine in the night like an open eye, how

dark thou art! Alas, alas! my poor sister is ill.

"Her mother, all in tears, stoops towards me and says, ’Thy poor sister

is dead and buried.’

"Jesus! Jesus! Have pity on me! You stab me to the heart.

"Tell me, good neighbours, how it happened; repeat to me her last words.

"She had a burning thirst, and refused to drink because thou wast not

there to give her water from thy hand.

"Oh, my sister! Oh, my sister!

"She refused her mother’s kiss, because thou wast not there to embrace

her.

"Oh, my sister! Oh, my sister!

"She wept until her last breath, because thou wast not there to dry her

tears.

"Oh, my sister! Oh, my sister!

"We placed on her brow her wreath of orangeflowers, we covered her with

a veil as white as snow; we laid her gently in her coffin.

"Thanks, good neighbours. I will go and be with her.

"Two angels came down from heaven and bore her away on their wings. Mary

Magdalene came to meet her at the gate of heaven.

"Thanks, good neighbours. I will go and be with her.

"There, she was seated in a place of glory, a chaplet of rubies was

given to her, and she is singing her rosary with the Virgin.

"Thanks, good neighbours. I will go and be with her."

As he finished the last words of his melancholy refrain, he flung

himself from the top of his rock into the sea, as though he really

desired to engulf himself. Nisida and the other women gave a cry of

terror, for during some minutes the diver failed to reappear upon the

surface.

"Are you out of your senses?" cried a young man who had suddenly

appeared, unobserved among the women. "Why, what are you afraid of? You

know very well that Bastiano is always doing things of this sort. But do

not be alarmed: all the fishes in the Mediterranean will be drowned

before any harm comes to him. Water is his natural element. Good-day,

sister; good-day, father."

The young fisherman kissed Nisida on the forehead, drew near to his

father, and, bowing his handsome head before him, took off his red cap

and respectfully kissed the old man’s hand. He came thus to ask his

blessing every evening before putting out to sea, where he often spent

the night fishing from his boat.

"May God bless thee, my Gabriel!" said the old man in a tone of emotion,

as he slowly passed his hand over his son’s black curls, and a tear came

into his eye. Then, rising solemnly and addressing the groups around

him, he added in a voice full of dignity and of gentleness. "Come, my

children, it is time to separate. The young to work, the old to rest.

There is the angelus ringing."

Everybody knelt, and after a short prayer each went on his way. Nisida,

after having given her father the last daily attentions, went up to her

room, replenished the oil in the lamp that burned day and night before

the Virgin, and, leaning her elbow on the window ledge, divided the

branches of jasmine which hung like perfumed curtains, began to gaze out

at the sea, and seemed lost in a deep, sweet reverie.

At this very time, a little boat, rowed silently by two oarsmen, touched

shore on the other side of the island. It had become quite dark. A

little man first landed cautiously, and respectfully offered his hand to

another individual, who, scorning that feeble support, leapt easily

ashore.

"Well, knave," he cried, "are my looks to your taste?"

"Your lordship is perfect."

"I flatter myself I am. It is true that, in order to make the

transformation complete, I chose the very oldest coat that displayed its

rags in a Jew’s shop."

"Your lordship looks like a heathen god engaged in a love affair.

Jupiter has sheathed his thunderbolts and Apollo has pocketed his rays."

"A truce to your mythology. And, to begin with, I forbid you to call me

’your lordship.’"

"Yes, your lordship."

"If my information that I have procured during the day is correct, the

house must be on the other side of the island, in a most remote and

lonely spot. Walk at a certain distance, and do not trouble yourself

about me, for I know my part by heart."

The young Prince of Brancaleone, whom, in spite of the darkness of the

night, our readers will already have recognised, advanced towards the

fisherman’s house, with as little noise as possible, walked up and down

several times upon the shore, and, after having briefly reconnoitred the

place that he wished to attack, waited quietly for the moon to rise and

light up the scene that he had prepared. He was not obliged to exercise

his patience very long, for the darkness gradually disappeared, and

Solomon’s little house was bathed in silvery light. Then he approached

with timid steps, lifted towards the casement a look of entreaty, and

began to sigh with all the power of his lungs. The young girl, called

suddenly from her meditations by the appearance of this strange person,

raised herself sharply and prepared to close the shutters.

"Stay, charming Nisida!" cried the prince, in the manner of a man

overcome by irresistible passion.

"What do you want with me, signor?" answered the maiden, amazed to hear

herself called by name.

"To adore you as a Madonna is adored, and to make you aware of my

sighs."

Nisida looked at him steadily, and, after a moment or two of reflection,

asked suddenly, as though in response to some secret thought, "Do you

belong to this country, or are you a foreigner?"

"I arrived in this island," replied the prince without hesitation, "at

the moment when the sun was writing his farewell to the earth and

dipping the rays that serves as his pen into the shadow that serves as

his inkstand."

"And who are you?" returned the young girl, not at all understanding

these strange words.

"Alas! I am but a poor student, but I may become a great poet like

Tasso, whose verses you often hear sung by a departing fisherman who

sends his thrilling music as a last farewell that returns to die on the

beach."

"I do not know whether I am doing wrong to speak to you, but at least I

will be frank with you," said Nisida, blushing; "I have the misfortune

to be the richest girl on the island."

"Your father will not be inexorable," returned the prince ardently; "one

word from you, light of my eyes, goddess of my heart, and I will work

night and day, never pausing nor slackening, and will render myself

worthy to possess the treasure that God has revealed to my dazzled eyes,

and, from being poor and obscure as you see me, I will become rich and

powerful."

"I have stayed too long listening to talk that a maiden should not hear;

permit me, signor, to withdraw."

"Have pity on me, my cruel enemy! What have I done to you that you

should thus leave me with death in my soul? You do not know that, for

months past, I have been following you everywhere like a shadow, that I

prowl round your home at night, stifling my sighs lest they should

disturb your peaceful slumber. You are afraid, perhaps, to let yourself

be touched, at a first meeting, by a poor wretch who adores you. Alas!

Juliet was young and beautiful like you, and she did not need many

entreaties to take pity on Romeo."

Nisida suffered a sad and thoughtful look to fall upon this handsome

young man who spoke to her in so gentle a voice, and withdrew without

further reply, that she might not humiliate his poverty.

The prince made great efforts to suppress a strong inclination towards

laughter, and, very well satisfied with this opening, turned his steps

towards the spot where he had left his servant. Trespolo, after having

emptied a bottle of lacryma with which he had provided himself for any

emergency, had looked long around him to choose a spot where the grass

was especially high and thick, and had laid himself down to a sound

sleep, murmuring as he did so, this sublime observation, "O laziness,

but for the sin of Adam you would be a virtue!"

The young girl could not close her eyes during the whole night after the

conversation that she had held with the stranger. His sudden appearance,

his strange dress and odd speech, had awakened in her an uncertain

feeling that had been lying asleep in the bottom of her heart. She was

at this time in all the vigour of her youth and of her resplendent

beauty. Nisida was not one of the weak and timid natures that are broken

by suffering or domineered over by tyranny. Far otherwise: everything

around her had contributed towards shaping for her a calm and serene

destiny; her simple, tender soul had unfolded in an atmosphere of peace

and happiness. If she had not hitherto loved, it was the fault, not of

her coldness but of the extreme timidity shown by the inhabitants of her

island. The blind depth of respect that surrounded the old fisherman had

drawn around his daughter a barrier of esteem and submission that no one

dared to cross. By means of thrift and labour Solomon had succeeded in

creating for himself a prosperity that put the poverty of the other

fishermen to the blush. No one had asked for Nisida because no one

thought he deserved her. The only admirer who had dared to show his

passion openly was Bastiano, the most devoted and dearest friend of

Gabriel; but Bastiano did not please her. So, trusting in her beauty,

upheld by the mysterious hope that never deserts youth, she had resigned

herself to wait, like some princess who knows that her betrothed will

come from a far country.

On the day of the Assumption she had left her island for the first time

in her life, chance having chosen her among the maidens of the kingdom

vowed by their mothers to the special protection of the Virgin. But,

overwhelmed by the weight of a position so new to her, blushing and

confused under the eyes of an immense crowd, she had scarcely dared to

raise her wondering looks, and the splendours of the town had passed

before her like a dream, leaving but a vague remembrance.

When she perceived the presence of this handsome young man, so slenderly

and elegantly built, whose noble and calm demeanour contrasted with the

timidity and awkwardness of her other admirers, she felt herself

inwardly disturbed, and no doubt she would have believed that her prince

had come, if she had been unpleasantly struck by the poverty of his

dress. She had, nevertheless, allowed herself to listen to him longer

than she ought to have done, and she drew back with her bosom heavy, her

cheek on fire, and her heart rent by an ache that was both dull and

sharp.

"If my father does not wish me to marry him," she said to herself,

tormented by the first remorseful feeling of her life. "I shall have

done wrong to speak to him. And yet he is so handsome!"

Then she knelt before the Virgin, who was her only confidante, the poor

child having never known her mother, and tried to tell her the torments

of her soul; but she could not achieve her prayer. The thoughts became

entangled within her brain, and she surprised herself uttering strange

words. But, assuredly, the Holy Virgin must have taken pity upon her

lovely devotee, for she rose with the impression of a consoling thought,

resolved to confide everything to her father.

"I cannot have a moment’s doubt," she said to herself, as she unlaced

her bodice, "of my father’s affection. Well, then, if he forbids me to

speak to him, it will be for my good. And indeed, I have seen him but

this once," she added, as she threw herself upon the bed, "and now I

think of it, I consider him very bold to dare to speak to me. I am

almost inclined to laugh at him. How confidently he brought out his

nonsense, how absurdly he rolled his eyes! They are really very fine,

those eyes of his, and so is his mouth, and his forehead and his hair.

He does not suspect that I noticed his hands, which are really very

white, when he raised them to heaven, like a madman, as he walked up and

down by the sea. Come, come, is he going to prevent my sleeping? I will

not see him again!" she cried, drawing the sheet over her head like an

angry child. Then she began to laugh to herself over her lover’s dress,

and meditated long upon what her companions would say to it. Suddenly

her brow contracted painfully, a frightful thought had stolen into her

mind, she shuddered from head to foot. "Suppose he were to think someone

else prettier than me? Men are so foolish! Certainly, it is too hot, and

I shall not sleep to-night."

Then she sat up in her bed, and continued her monologue—which we will

spare the reader—till the morning. Scarcely had the first rays of light

filtered through the interlacing branches of jasmine and wavered into

the room, when Nisida dressed herself hurriedly, and went as usual to

present her forehead to her father’s kiss. The old man at once observed

the depression and weariness left by a sleepless night upon his

daughter’s face, and parting with an eager and anxious hand the

beautiful black hair that fell over her cheeks, he asked her, "What is

the matter, my child? Thou hast not slept well?"

"I have not slept at all," answered Nisida, smiling, to reassure her

father; "I am perfectly well, but I have something to confess to you."

"Speak quickly, child; I am dying with impatience."

"Perhaps I have done wrong; but I want you to promise beforehand not to

scold me."

"You know very well that I spoil you," said the old man, with a caress;

"I shall not begin to be stern to-day."

"A young man who does not belong to this island, and whose name I do not

know, spoke to me yesterday evening when I was taking the air at my

window."

"And what was he so eager to say to you, my dear Nisida?"

"He begged me to speak to you in his favour."

"I am listening. What can I do for him?"

"Order me to marry him."

"And should you obey willingly?"

"I think so, father," the girl candidly replied. "As to other things,

you yourself must judge in your wisdom; for I wanted to speak to you

before coming to know him, so as not to go on with a conversation that

you might not approve. But there is a hindrance."

"You know that I do not recognise any when it is a question of making my

daughter happy."

"He is poor, father."

"Well, all the more reason for me to like him. There is work here for

everybody, and my table can spare a place for another son. He is young,

he has arms; no doubt he has some calling."

"He is a poet."

"No matter; tell him to come and speak to me, and if he is an honest

lad, I promise you, my child, that I will do anything in the world to

promote your happiness."

Nisida embraced her father effusively, and was beside herself with joy

all day, waiting impatiently for the evening in order to give the young

man such splendid news. Eligi Brancaleone was but moderately flattered,

as you will easily believe, by the fisherman’s magnanimous intentions

towards him; but like the finished seducer that he was, he appeared

enchanted at them. Recollecting his character as a fantastical student

and an out-at-elbows poet, he fell upon his knees and shouted a

thanksgiving to the planet Venus; then, addressing the young girl, he

added, in a calmer voice, that he was going to write immediately to his

own father, who in a week’s time would come to make his formal proposal;

until then, he begged, as a favour, that he might not present himself to

Solomon nor to any person at all in the island, and assigned as a

pretext a certain degree of shame which he felt on account of his old

clothes, assuring his beloved that his father would bring him a complete

outfit for the wedding-day.

While the ill-starred girl was thus walking in terrifying security at

the edge of the precipice, Trespolo, following his master’s wishes, had

established himself in the island as a pilgrim from Jerusalem. Playing

his part and sprinkling his conversation with biblical phrases, which

came to him readily, in his character of ex-sacristan, he distributed

abundance of charms, wood of the true Cross and milk of the Blessed

Virgin, and all those other inexhaustible treasures on which the eager

devotion of worthy people daily feeds. His relics were the more

evidently authentic in that he did not sell any of them, and, bearing

his poverty in a holy manner, thanked the faithful and declined their

alms. Only, out of regard for the established virtue of Solomon, he had

consented to break bread with the fisherman, and went to take meals with

him with the regularity of a cenobite. His abstinence aroused universal

surprise: a crust dipped in water, a few nuts or figs sufficed to keep

this holy man alive—to prevent him, that is to say, from dying.

Furthermore, he entertained Nisida by his tales of his travels and by

his mysterious predictions. Unfortunately, he only appeared towards

evening; for he spent the rest of the day in austerities and in

prayers—in other words, in drinking like a Turk and snoring like a

buffalo.

On the morning of the seventh day, after the promise given by the prince

to the fisherman’s daughter, Brancaleone came into his servant’s room,

and, shaking him roughly, cried in his ear, "Up, odious marmot!"

Trespolo, awakened suddenly, rubbed his eyes in alarm. The dead,

sleeping peacefully at the bottom of their coffins, will be less annoyed

at the last day when the trump of Judgment comes to drag them from their

slumbers. Fear having, however, immediately dispersed the dark clouds

that overspread his countenance, he sat up, and asked with an appearance

of bewilderment—

"What is the matter, your excellency?"

"The matter is that I will have you flayed alive a little if you do not

leave off that execrable habit of sleeping twenty hours in the day."

"I was not asleep, prince!" cried the servant boldly, as he sprang out

of bed; "I was reflecting—-"

"Listen to me," said the prince in a severe tone; "you were once

employed, I believe, in a chemist’s shop?"

"Yes, my lord, and I left because my employer had the scandalous

barbarity to make me pound drugs, which tired my arms horribly."

"Here is a phial containing a solution of opium."

"Mercy!" cried Trespolo, falling on his knees.

"Get up, idiot, and pay great attention to what I am going to say to

you. This little fool of a Nisida persists in wanting me to speak to her

father. I made her believe that I was going away this evening to fetch

my papers. There is no time to lose. They know you very well at the

fisherman’s. You will pour this liquid into their wine; your life will

answer for your not giving them a larger dose than enough to produce a

deep sleep. You will take care to prepare me a good ladder for to-night;

after which you will go and wait for me in my boat, where you will find

Numa and Bonaroux. They have my orders. I shall not want you in scaling

the fortress; I have my Campo Basso dagger."

"But, my lord—-" stammered Trespolo, astounded.

"No difficulties!" cried the prince, stamping his foot furiously, "or,

by my father’s death, I will cure you, once for all, of your scruples."

And he turned on his heel with the air of a man who is certain that

people will be very careful not to disobey his orders.

The unhappy Trespolo fulfilled his master’s injunctions punctually. With

him fear was the guiding principle. That evening the fisherman’s supper

table was hopelessly dull, and the sham pilgrim tried in vain to enliven

it by factitious cheerfulness. Nisida was preoccupied by her lover’s

departure, and Solomon, sharing unconsciously in his daughter’s grief,

swallowed but a drop or two of wine, to avoid resisting the repeated

urgency of his guest. Gabriel had set out in the morning for Sorrento

and was not to return for two or three days; his absence tended to

increase the old man’s melancholy. As soon as Trespolo had retired, the

fisherman yielded to his fatigue. Nisida, with her arms hanging by her

sides, her head heavy and her heart oppressed by a sad presentiment, had

scarcely strength to go up to her room, and after having mechanically

trimmed the lamp, sank on her bed as pale and stiff as a corpse.

The storm was breaking out with violence; one of those terrible storms

seen only in the South, when the congregated clouds, parting suddenly,

shed torrents of rain and of hail, and threaten another deluge. The roar

of the thunder drew nearer and was like the noise of a cannonade. The

gulf, lately so calm and smooth that the island was reflected as in a

mirror, had suddenly darkened; the furiously leaping waves flung

themselves together like wild horses; the island quaked, shaken by

terrible shocks. Even the boldest fishermen had drawn their boats

ashore, and, shut within their cabins, encouraged as best they could

their frightened wives and children.

Amid the deep darkness that overspread the sea Nisida’s lamp could be

seen gleaming clear and limpid, as it burned before the Madonna. Two

boats, without rudders, sails, or oars, tossed by the waves, beaten by

the winds, were whirling above the abyss; two men were in these two

boats, their muscles tense, their breasts bare, their hair flying. They

gazed haughtily on the sea, and braved the tempest.

"Once more, I beg you," cried one of these men, "fear not for me,

Gabriel; I promise you that with my two broken oars and a little

perseverance I shall get to Torre before daybreak."

"You are mad, Bastiano; we have not been able ever since the morning to

get near Vico, and have been obliged to keep tacking about; your skill

and strength have been able to do nothing against this frightful

hurricane which has driven us back to this point."

"It is the first time you have ever refused to go with me," remarked the

young man.

"Well, yes, my dear Bastiano, I do not know how it is, but to-night I

feel drawn to the island by an irresistible power. The winds have been

unchained to bring me back to it in spite of myself, and I will own to

you, even though it should make me seem like a madman in your eyes, that

this simple and ordinary event appears to me like an order from heaven.

Do you see that lamp shining over there?"

"I know it," answered Bastiano, suppressing a sigh.

"It was lighted before the Virgin on the day when my sister was born,

and for eighteen year it has never ceased to burn, night and day. It was

my mother’s vow. You do not know, my dear Bastiano, you cannot know how

many torturing thoughts that vow recalls to me. My poor mother called me

to her deathbed and told me a frightful tale, a horrible secret, which

weighs on my soul like a cloak of lead, and of which I can only relieve

myself by confiding it to a friend. When her painful story was ended she

asked to see and to embrace my sister, who was just born; then with her

trembling hand, already chilled by the approach of death, she desired to

light the lamp herself. ’Remember,’ these were her last words,

’remember, Gabriel, that your sister is vowed to the Madonna. As long as

this light shines before the blessed image of the Virgin, your sister

will be in no danger.’ You can understand now why, at night, when we are

crossing the gulf, my eyes are always fixed on that lamp. I have a

belief that nothing could shake, which is that on the day that light

goes out my sister’s soul will have taken flight to heaven."

"Well," cried Bastiano in an abrupt tone that betrayed the emotion of

his heart, "if you prefer to stay, I will go alone."

"Farewell," said Gabriel, without turning aside his eyes from the window

towards which he felt himself drawn by a fascination for which he could

not account. Bastiano disappeared, and Nisida’s brother, assisted by the

waves, was drawing nearer and nearer to the shore, when, at all once, he

uttered a terrible cry which sounded above the noise of the tempest.

The star had just been extinguished; the lamp had been blown out.

"My sister is dead!" cried Gabriel and, leaping into the sea, he cleft

the waves with the rapidity of lightning.

The storm had redoubled its intensity; long lines of lightning, rending

the sides of the clouds, bathed everything in their tawny and

intermittent light. The fisherman perceived a ladder leaning against the

front of his home, seized it with a convulsive hand, and in three bounds

flung himself into the room. The prince felt himself strangely moved on

making his way into this pure and silent retreat. The calm and gentle

gaze of the Virgin who seemed to be protecting the rest of the sleeping

girl, that perfume of innocence shed around the maidenly couch, that

lamp, open-eyed amid the shadows, like a soul in prayer, had inspired

the seducer with an unknown distress. Irritated by what he called an

absurd cowardice, he had extinguished the obtrusive light, and was

advancing towards the bed, and addressing unspoken reproaches to

himself, when Gabriel swooped upon him with a wounded tiger’s fierce

gnashing of the teeth.

Brancaleone, by a bold and rapid movement that showed no common degree

of skill and bravery, while struggling in the grasp of his powerful

adversary, drew forth in his right hand a long dagger with a fine barbed

blade. Gabriel smiled scornfully, snatched the weapon from him, and even

as he stooped to break it across his knee, gave the prince a furious

blow with his head that made him stagger and sent him rolling on the

floor, three paces away; then, leaning over his poor sister and gazing

on her with hungry eyes, by the passing gleam of a flash, "Dead!" he

repeated, wringing his arms in despair,—"dead!"

In the fearful paroxysm that compressed his throat he could find no

other words to assuage his rage or to pour forth his woe. His hair,

which the storm had flattened, rose on his head, the marrow of his bones

was chilled, and he felt his tears rush back upon his heart. It was a

terrible moment; he forgot that the murderer still lived.

The prince, however, whose admirable composure did not for a moment

desert him, had risen, bruised and bleeding. Pale and trembling with

rage, he sought everywhere for a weapon with which to avenge himself.

Gabriel returned towards him gloomier and more ominous than ever, and

grasping his neck with an iron hand, dragged him into the room where the

old man was sleeping.

"Father! father! father!" he cried in a piercing voice, "here is the

Bastard who Has just murdered Nisida!"

The old man, who had drunk but a few drops of the narcotic potion, was

awakened by this cry which echoed through his soul; he arose as though

moved by a spring, flung off his coverings, and with that promptitude of

action that God has bestowed upon mothers in moments of danger, even up

to his daughter’s room, found a light, knelt on the edge of the bed, and

began to test his child’s pulse and watch her breathing with mortal

anxiety.

All this had passed in less time than we have taken in telling it.

Brancaleone by an unheard-of effort had freed himself from the hands of

the young fisherman, and suddenly resuming his princely pride, said in a

loud voice, "You shall not kill me without listening to me."

Gabriel would have overwhelmed him with Bitter reproaches, but, unable

to utter a single word, he burst into tears.

"Your sister is not dead," said the prince, with cold dignity; "she is

merely asleep. You can assure yourself of it, and meanwhile I undertake,

upon my Honour, not to move a single step away."

These words were pronounced with such an accent of truth that the

fisherman was struck by them. An unexpected gleam of hope suddenly

dawned in his thoughts; he cast upon the stranger a glance of hate and

distrust, and muttered in a muffled voice, "Do not flatter yourself, in

any case, that you will be able to escape me."

Then he went up to his sister’s room, and approaching the old man, asked

tremblingly, "Well, father?"

Solomon thrust him gently aside with the solicitude of a mother removing

some buzzing insect from her child’s cradle, and, making a sign to

enjoin silence, added in a low voice, "She is neither dead nor poisoned.

Some philtre has been given to her for a bad purpose. Her breathing is

even, and she cannot fail to recover from her lethargy."

Gabriel, reassured about Nisida’s life, returned silently to the ground

floor where he had left the seducer. His manner was grave and gloomy; he

was coming now not to rend the murderer of his sister with his hands,

but to elucidate a treacherous and infamous mystery, and to avenge his

honour which had been basely attacked. He opened wide the double

entrance door that admitted daylight to the apartment in which, on the

few nights that he spent at home, he was accustomed to sleep with his

father. The rain had just stopped, a ray of moonlight pierced the

clouds, and all at once made its way into the room. The fisherman

adjusted his dripping garments, walked towards the stranger, who awaited

him without stirring, and after having gazed upon him haughtily, said,

"Now you are going to explain your presence in our house."

"I confess," said the prince, in an easy tone and with the most insolent

assurance, "that appearances are against me. It is the fate of lovers to

be treated as thieves. But although I have not the advantage of being

known to you, I am betrothed to the fair Nisida—with your father’s

approval, of course. Now, as I have the misfortune to possess very

hardhearted parents, they have had the cruelty to refuse me their

consent. Love led me astray, and I was about to be guilty of a fault for

which a young man like you ought to have some indulgence. Furthermore,

it was nothing but a mere attempt at an abduction, with the best

intentions in the world, I swear, and I am ready to atone for everything

if you will agree to give me your hand and call me your brother."

"I will agree to call you a coward and a betrayer!" replied Gabriel,

whose face had begun to glow, as he heard his sister spoken of with such

impudent levity. "If it is thus that insults are avenged in towns, we

fishers have a different plan. Ah! so you flattered yourself with the

thought of bringing desolation and disgrace into our home, and of paying

infamous assassins to come and share an old man’s bread so as to poison

his daughter, of stealing by night, like a brigand, armed with a dagger,

into my sister’s room, and of being let off by marrying the most

beautiful woman in the kingdom!"

The prince made a movement.

"Listen," continued Gabriel: "I could break you as I broke your dagger

just now; but I have pity on you. I see that you can do nothing with

your hands, neither defend yourself nor work. Go, I begin to understand;

you are a braggart, my fine sir; your poverty is usurped; you have

decked yourself in these poor clothes, but you are unworthy of them."

He suffered a glance of crushing contempt to fall upon the prince, then

going to a cupboard hidden in the wall, he drew out a rifle and an axe.

"Here," said he, "are all the weapons in the house; choose."

A flash of joy illuminated the countenance of the prince, who had

hitherto suppressed his rage. He seized the rifle eagerly, drew three

steps backward, and drawing himself up to his full height, said, "You

would have done better to lend me this weapon at the beginning; for then

I would have been spared from witnessing your silly vapourings and

frantic convulsions. Thanks, young-man; one of my servants will bring

you back your gun. Farewell."

And he threw him his purse, which fell heavily at the fisherman’s feet.

"I lent you that rifle to fight with me," cried Gabriel, whom surprise

had rooted to the spot.

"Move aside, my lad; you are out of your senses," said the prince,

taking a step towards the door.

"So you refuse to defend yourself?" asked Gabriel in a determined voice.

"I have told you already that I cannot fight with you."

"Why not?"

"Because such is the will of God; because you were born to crawl and I

to trample you under my feet; because all the blood that I could shed in

this island would not purchase one drop of my blood; because a thousand

lives of wretches like you are not equal to one hour of mine; because

you will kneel at my name that I, am now going to utter; because, in

short, you are but a poor fisherman and my name is Prince of

Brancaleone."

At this dreaded name, which the young nobleman flung, like a

thunderbolt, at his head, the fisherman bounded like a lion. He drew a

deep breath, as though he had lifted a weight that had long rested on

his heart.

"Ah!" he cried, "you have given yourself into my hands, my lord! Between

the poor fisherman and the all-powerful prince there is a debt of blood.

You shall pay for yourself and for your father. We are going to settle

our accounts, your excellency," he added, rising his axe over the head

of the prince, who was aiming at him. "Oh! you were in too great haste

to choose: the rifle is not loaded." The prince turned pale.

"Between our two families," Gabriel continued, "there exists a horrible

secret which my mother confided to me on the brink of the grave, of

which my father himself is unaware, and that no man in the world must

learn. You are different, you are going to die."

He dragged him into the space outside the house.

"Do you know why my sister, whom you wished to dishonour, was vowed to

the Madonna? Because your father, like you, wished to dishonour my

mother. In your accursed house there is a tradition of infamy. You do

not know what slow and terrible torments my poor mother endured-torments

that broke her strength and caused her to die in early youth, and that

her angelic soul dared confide to none but her son in that supreme hour

and in order to bid me watch over my sister."

The fisherman wiped away a burning tear. "One day, before we were born,

a fine lady, richly dressed, landed in our island from a splendid boat;

she asked to see my mother, who was as young and beautiful as my Nisida

is to-day. She could not cease from admiring her; she blamed the

blindness of fate which had buried this lovely jewel in the bosom of an

obscure island; she showered praises, caresses, and gifts upon my

mother, and after many indirect speeches, finally asked her parents for

her, that she might make her her lady-in-waiting. The poor people,

foreseeing in the protection of so great a lady a brilliant future for

their daughter, were weak enough to yield. That lady was your mother;

and do you know why she came thus to seek that poor innocent maiden?

Because your mother had a lover, and because she wished to make sure, in

this infamous manner, of the prince’s indulgence."

"Silence, wretch!"

"Oh, your excellency will hear me out. At the beginning, my poor mother

found herself surrounded by the tenderest care: the princess could not

be parted from her for a moment; the most flattering words, the finest

clothes, the richest ornaments were hers; the servants paid her as much

respect as though she were a daughter of the house. When her parents

went to see her and to inquire whether she did not at all regret having

left them, they found her so lovely and so happy, that they blessed the

princess as a good angel sent them from God. Then the prince conceived a

remarkable affection for my mother; little by little his manners became

more familiar and affectionate. At last the princess went away for a few

days, regretting that she could not take with her her dear child, as she

called her. Then the prince’s brutality knew no further barriers; he no

longer concealed his shameful plans of seduction; he spread before the

poor girl’s eyes pearl necklaces and caskets of diamonds; he passed from

the most glowing passion to the blackest fury, from the humblest prayers

to the most horrible threats. The poor child was shut up in a cellar

where there was hardly a gleam of daylight, and every morning a

frightful gaoler came and threw her a bit of black bread, repeating with

oaths that it only depended upon herself to alter all this by becoming

the prince’s mistress. This cruelty continued for two years. The

princess had gone on a long journey, and my mother’s poor parents

believed that their daughter was still happy with her protectress. On

her return, having; no doubt fresh sins for which she needed

forgiveness, she took my mother from her dungeon, assumed the liveliest

indignation at this horrible treatment, about which she appeared to have

known nothing, wiped her tears, and by an abominable refinement of

perfidy received the thanks of the victim whom she was about to

sacrifice.

"One evening—I have just finished, my lord—the princess chose to sup

alone with her lady-in-waiting: the rarest fruits, the most exquisite

dishes, and the most delicate wines were served to my poor mother, whose

prolonged privations had injured her health and weakened her reason; she

gave way to a morbid gaiety. Diabolical philtres were poured into her

cup; that is another tradition in your family. My mother felt uplifted,

her eyes shone with feverish brilliance, her cheeks were on fire. Then

the prince came in—oh! your excellency will see that God protects the

poor. My darling mother, like a frightened dove, sheltered herself in

the bosom of the princess, who pushed her away, laughing. The poor

distraught girl, trembling, weeping, knelt down in the midst of that

infamous room. It was St. Anne’s Day; all at once the house shook, the

walls cracked, cries of distress rang out in the streets. My mother was

saved. It was the earthquake that destroyed half Naples. You know all

about it, my lord, since your old palace is no longer habitable."

"What are you driving at?" cried Brancaleone in terrible agitation.

"Oh, I merely wish to persuade you that you must fight with me,"

answered the fisherman coldly, as he offered him a cartridge. "And now,"

he added, in an excited tone, "say your prayers, my lord; for I warn

you, you will die by my hand; justice must be done."

The prince carefully examined the powder and shot, made sure that his

rifle was in good condition; loaded it, and, eager to make an end, took

aim at the fisherman; but, either because he had been so much disturbed

by his opponent’s terrible tale, or, because the grass was wet from the

storm, at the moment when he put forward his left foot to steady his

shot, he slipped, lost his balance and fell on one knee. He fired into

the air.

"That does not count, my lord," cried Gabriel instantly, and handed him

a second charge.

At the noise of the report Solomon had appeared at the window, and,

understanding what was going on, had lifted his hands to heaven, in

order to address to God a dumb and fervent prayer. Eligi uttered a

frightful imprecation, and hastily reloaded his rifle; but, struck by

the calm confidence of the young man, who stood motionless before him,

and by the old man, who, impassive and undisturbed, seemed to be

conjuring God in the name of a father’s authority, disconcerted by his

fall, his knees shaking and his arm jarred, he felt the chills of death

running in his veins. Attempting, nevertheless, to master his emotion,

he took aim a second time; the bullet whistled by the fisherman’s ear

and buried itself in the stem of a poplar.

The prince, with the energy of despair, seized the barrel of his weapon

in both hands; but Gabriel was coming forward with his axe, a terrible

foe, and his first stroke carried away the butt of the rifle. He was

still hesitating, however, to kill a defenceless man, when two armed

servants appeared at the end of the pathway. Gabriel did not see them

coming; but at the moment when they would have seized him by the

shoulders, Solomon uttered a cry and rushed to his son’s assistance.

"Help, Numa! help, Bonaroux! Death to the ruffians! They want to murder

me."

"You lie, Prince of Brancaleone!" cried Gabriel, and with one blow of

the axe he cleft his skull.

The two bravoes who were coming to their master’s assistance, when they

saw him fall, took flight; Solomon and his son went up to Nisida’s room.

The young girl had just shaken off her heavy slumber; a slight

perspiration moistened her brow, and she opened her eyes slowly to the

dawning day.

"Why are you looking at me in that way, father?" she said, her mind

still wandering a little and she passed her hand over her forehead.

The old man embraced her tenderly.

"You have just passed through a great danger, my poor Nisida," said he;

"arise, and let us give thanks to the Madonna."

Then all three, kneeling before the sacred image of the Virgin, began to

recite litanies. But at that very instant a noise of arms sounded in the

enclosure, the house was surrounded by soldiers, and a lieutenant of

gendarmes, seizing Gabriel, said in a loud voice, "In the name of the

law, I arrest you for the murder that you have just committed upon the

person of his excellency and illustrious lordship, the Prince of

Brancaleone."

Nisida, struck by these words, remained pale and motionless like a

marble statue kneeling on a tomb; Gabriel was already preparing to make

an unreasoning resistance, when a gesture from his father stopped him.

"Signor tenente," said the old man, addressing himself to the officer,

"my son killed the prince in lawful defence, for the latter had scaled

our house and made his way in at night and with arms in his hand. The

proofs are before your eyes. Here is a ladder set up against the window;

and here," he proceeded, picking up the two pieces of the broken blade,

"is a dagger with the Brancaleone arms. However, we do not refuse to

follow you."

The last words of the fisherman were drowned by cries of "Down with the

sbirri! down with the gendarmes!" which were repeated in every

direction. The whole island was up in arms, and the fisher-folk would

have suffered themselves to be cut up to the last man before allowing a

single hair of Solomon or of his son to be touched; but the old man

appeared upon his threshold, and, stretching out his arm with a calm and

grave movement that quieted the anger of the crowd, he said, "Thanks, my

children; the law must be respected. I shall be able, alone, to defend

the innocence of my son before the judges."

Hardly three months have elapsed since the day upon which we first

beheld the old fisherman of Nisida sitting before the door of his

dwelling, irradiated by all the happiness that he had succeeded in

creating around him, reigning like a king, on his throne of rock, and

blessing his two children, the most beautiful creatures in the island.

Now the whole existence of this man, who was once so happy and so much

envied, is changed. The smiling cottage, that hung over the gulf like a

swan over a transparent lake, is sad and desolate; the little enclosure,

with its hedges of lilac and hawthorn, where joyous groups used to come

and sit at the close of day, is silent and deserted. No human sound

dares to trouble the mourning of this saddened solitude. Only towards

evening the waves of the sea, compassionating such great misfortunes,

come to murmur plaintive notes upon the beach.

Gabriel has been condemned. The news of the high-born Prince of

Brancaleone’s death, so young, so handsome, and so universally adored,

not only fluttered the aristocracy of Naples, but excited profound

indignation in all classes of people. He was mourned by everybody, and a

unanimous cry for vengeance was raised against the murderer.

The authorities opened the inquiry with alarming promptness. The

magistrates whom their office called to judge this deplorable affair

displayed, however, the most irreproachable integrity. No consideration

outside their duty, no deference due to so noble and powerful a family,

could shake the convictions of their conscience. History has kept a

record of this memorable trial; and has, no reproach to make to men

which does not apply equally to the imperfection of human laws. The

appearance of things, that fatal contradiction which the genius of evil

so often here on earth gives to truth, overwhelmed the poor fisherman

with the most evident proofs.

Trespolo, in whom fear had destroyed all scruples, being first examined,

as having been the young prince’s confidant, declared with cool

impudence that, his master having shown a wish to escape for a few days

from the importunities of a young married lady whose passion was

beginning to tire him, had followed him to the island with three or four

of his most faithful servants, and that he himself had adopted the

disguise of a pilgrim, not wishing to betray his excellency’s incognito

to the fisher-people, who would certainly have tormented so powerful a

person by all sorts of petitions. Two local watch men, who had happened

to be on the hillside at the moment of the crime, gave evidence that

confirmed the valet’s lengthy statement; hidden by some under wood, they

had seen Gabriel rush upon the prince, and had distinctly heard the last

words of the dying man; calling "Murder!" All the witnesses, even those

summoned at the request of the prisoner, made his case worse by their

statements, which they tried to make favourable. Thus the court, with

its usual perspicacity and its infallible certainty, succeeded in

establishing the fact that Prince Eligi of Brancaleone, having taken a

temporary dislike to town life, had retired to the little island of

Nisida, there to give himself up peaceably to the pleasure of fishing,

for which he had at all times had a particular predilection (a proof

appeared among the documents of the case that the prince had regularly

been present every other year at the tunny-fishing on his property at

Palermo); that when once he was thus hidden in the island, Gabriel might

have recognised him, having gone with his sister to the procession, a

few days before, and had, no doubt, planned to murder him. On the day

before the night of the crime, the absence of Gabriel and the

discomposure of his father and sister had been remarked. Towards evening

the prince had dismissed his servant, and gone out alone, as his custom

was, to walk by the seashore. Surprised by the storm and not knowing the

byways of the island, he had wandered round the fisherman’s house,

seeking a shelter; then Gabriel, encouraged by the darkness and by the

noise of the tempest, which seemed likely to cover the cries of his

victim, had, after prolonged hesitation, resolved to commit his crime,

and having fired two shots at the unfortunate young man without

succeeding in wounding him, had put an end to him by blows of the axe;

lastly, at the moment when, with Solomon’s assistance, he was about to

throw the body into the sea, the prince’s servants having appeared, they

had gone up to the girl’s room, and, inventing their absurd tale, had

cast themselves on their knees before the Virgin, in order to mislead

the authorities. All the circumstances that poor Solomon cited in his

son’s favour turned against him: the ladder at Nisida’s window belonged

to the fisherman; the dagger which young Brancaleone always carried upon

him to defend himself had evidently been taken from him after his death,

and Gabriel had hastened to break it, so as to destroy, to the best of

his power, the traces of his crime. Bastiano’s evidence did not receive

a minute’s consideration: he, to destroy the idea of premeditation,

declared that the young fisherman had left him only at the moment when

the storm broke over the island; but, in the first place, the young

diver was known to be Gabriel’s most devoted friend and his sister’s

warmest admirer, and, in the second, he had been seen to land at Torre

during the same hour in which he had affirmed that he was near to

Nisida. As for the prince’s passion for the poor peasant girl, the

magistrates simply shrugged their shoulders at the ridiculous assertion

of that, and especially at the young girl’s alleged resistance and the

extreme measures to which the prince was supposed to have resorted to

conquer the virtue of Nisida. Eligi of Brancaleone was so young, so

handsome, so seductive, and at the same time so cool amid his successes,

that he had never been suspected of violence, except in getting rid of

his mistresses. Finally, an overwhelming and unanswerable proof

overthrew all the arguments for the defence: under the fisherman’s bed

had been found a purse with the Brancaleone arms, full of gold, the

purse which, if our readers remember, the prince had flung as a last

insult at Gabriel’s feet.

The old man did not lose heart at this fabric of lies; after the

pleadings of the advocates whose ruinous eloquence he had bought with

heavy gold, he defended his son himself, and put so much truth, so much

passion, and so many tears into his speech, that the whole audience was

moved, and three of the judges voted for an acquittal; but the majority

was against it, and the fatal verdict was pronounced.

The news at once spread throughout the little island, and caused the

deepest dejection there. The fishers who, at the first irruption of

force, had risen as one man to defend their comrade’s cause, bowed their

heads without a murmur before the unquestioned authority of a legal

judgment. Solomon received unflinchingly the stab that pierced his

heart. No sigh escaped his breast; no tear came to his eyes; his wound

did not bleed. Since his son’s arrest he had sold all he possessed in

the world, even the little silver cross left by his wife at her death,

even the pearl necklace that flattered his fatherly pride by losing its

whiteness against his dear Nisida’s throat; the pieces of gold gained by

the sale of these things he had sewn into his coarse woollen cap, and

had established himself in the city. He ate nothing but the bread thrown

to him by the pity of passers-by, and slept on the steps of churches or

at the magistrates’ door.

To estimate at its full value the heroic courage of this unhappy father,

one must take a general view of the whole extent of his misfortune.

Overwhelmed by age and grief, he looked forward with solemn calmness to

the terrible moment which would bear his son, a few days before him, to

the grave. His sharpest agony was the thought of the shame that would

envelop his family. The first scaffold erected in that gently mannered

island would arise for Gabriel, and that ignominious punishment tarnish

the whole population and imprint upon it the first brand of disgrace. By

a sad transition, which yet comes so easily in the destiny of man, the

poor father grew to long for those moments of danger at which he had

formerly trembled, those moments in which his son might have died nobly.

And now all was lost: a long life of work, of abnegation, and of good

deeds, a pure and stainless reputation that had extended beyond the gulf

into distant countries, and the traditional admiration, rising almost to

worship, of several generations; all these things only served to deepen

the pit into which the fisherman had fallen, at one blow, from his

kingly height. Good fame, that divine halo without which nothing here on

earth is sacred, had disappeared. Men no longer dared to defend the poor

wretch, they pitied him. His name would soon carry horror with it, and

Nisida, poor orphan, would be nothing to anyone but the sister of a man

who had been condemned to death. Even Bastiano turned away his face and

wept. Thus, when every respite was over, when poor Solomon’s every

attempt had failed, people in the town who saw him smile strangely, as

though under the obsession of some fixed idea, said to one another that

the old man had lost his reason.

Gabriel saw his last day dawn, serenely and calmly. His sleep had been

deep; he awoke full of unknown joy; a cheerful ray of sunlight, falling

through the loophole, wavered over the fine golden straw in his cell; an

autumn breeze playing around him, brought an agreeable coolness to his

brow, and stirred in his long hair. The gaoler, who while he had had him

in his charge had always behaved humanely, struck by his happy looks,

hesitated to announce the priest’s visit, in fear of calling the poor

prisoner from his dream. Gabriel received the news with pleasure; he

conversed for two hours with the good priest, and shed sweet tears on

receiving the last absolution. The priest left the prison with tears in

his eyes, declaring aloud that he had never in his life met with a more

beautiful, pure, resigned, and courageous spirit.

The fisherman was still under the influence of this consoling emotion

when his sister entered. Since the day when she had been carried,

fainting, from the room where her brother had just been arrested, the

poor girl, sheltered under the roof of an aunt, and accusing herself of

all the evil that had befallen, had done nothing but weep at the feet of

her holy protectress. Bowed by grief like a young lily before the storm,

she would spend whole hours, pale, motionless, detached from earthly

things, her tears flowing silently upon her beautiful clasped hands.

When the moment came to go and embrace her brother for the last time,

Nisida arose with the courage of a saint. She wiped away the traces of

her tears, smoothed her beautiful black hair, and put on her best white

dress. Poor child, she tried to hide her grief by an angelic deception.

She had the strength to smile! At the sight of her alarming pallor

Gabriel felt his heart wrung, a cloud passed over his eyes; he would

have run to meet her, but, held back by the chain which fettered him to

a pillar of his prison, stepped back sharply and stumbled. Nisida flew

to her brother and upheld him in her arms. The young girl had understood

him; she assured him that she was well. Fearing to remind him of his

terrible position, she spoke volubly of all manner of things—her aunt,

the weather, the Madonna. Then she stopped suddenly, frightened at her

own words, frightened at her own silence; she fixed her burning gaze

upon her brother’s brow as though to fascinate him. Little by little

animation returned to her; a faint colour tinted her hollowed cheeks,

and Gabriel, deceived by the maiden’s super human efforts, thought her

still beautiful, and thanked God in his heart for having spared this

tender creature. Nisida, as though she had followed her brother’s secret

thoughts, came close to him, pressed his hand with an air of

understanding, and murmured low in his ear, "Fortunately our father has

been away for two days; he sent me word that he would be detained in

town. For us, it is different; we are young, we have courage!"

The poor young girl was trembling like a leaf.

"What will become of you, my poor Nisida?"

"Bah! I will pray to the Madonna. Does she not watch over us?" The girl

stopped, struck by the sound of her own words, which the circumstances

so cruelly contradicted. But looking at her brother, she went on in a

low tone: "Assuredly she does watch over us. She appeared to me last

night in a dream. She held her child Jesus on her arm, and looked at me

with a mother’s tenderness. She wishes to make saints of us, for she

loves us; and to be a saint, you see, Gabriel, one must suffer."

"Well, go and pray for me, my kind sister; go away from the view of this

sad place, which will eventually shake your firmness, and perhaps mine.

Go; we shall see each other again in heaven above, where our mother is

waiting for us—our mother whom you have not known, and to whom I shall

often speak of you. Farewell, my sister, until we meet again!"

And he kissed her on the forehead.

The young girl called up all her strength into her heart for this

supreme moment; she walked with a firm step; having reached the

threshold, she turned round and waved him a farewell, preventing herself

by a nervous contraction from bursting into tears, but as soon as she

was in the corridor, a sob broke from her bosom, and Gabriel, who heard

it echo from the vaulted roof, thought that his heart would break.

Then he threw himself on his knees, and, lifting his hands to heaven,

cried, "I have finished suffering; I have nothing more that holds me to

life. I thank Thee, my God! Thou hast kept my father away, and hast been

willing to spare the poor old man a grief that would have been beyond

his strength."

It was at the hour of noon, after having exhausted every possible means,

poured out his gold to the last piece, and embraced the knees of the

lowest serving man, that Solomon the fisherman took his way to his son’s

prison. His brow was so woebegone that the guards drew back, seized with

pity, and the gaoler wept as he closed the door of the cell upon him.

The old man remained some moments without advancing a step, absorbed in

contemplation of his son. By the tawny gleam of his eye might be divined

that the soul of the man was moved at that instant by some dark project.

He seemed nevertheless struck by the-beauty of Gabriel’s face. Three

months in prison had restored to his skin the whiteness that the sun had

turned brown; his fine dark hair fell in curls around his neck, his eyes

rested on his father with a liquid and brilliant gaze. Never had this

head been so beautiful as now, when it was to fall.

"Alas, my poor son!" said the old man, "there is no hope left; you must

die."

"I know it," answered Gabriel in a tone of tender reproach, "and it is

not that which most afflicts me at this moment. But you, too, why do you

wish to give me pain, at your age? Why did you not stay in the town?"

"In the town," the old man returned, "they have no pity; I cast myself

at the king’s feet, at everybody’s feet; there is no pardon, no mercy

for us."

"Well, in God’s name, what is death to me? I meet it daily on the sea.

My greatest, my only torment is the pain that they are causing you."

"And I, do you think, my Gabriel, that I only suffer in seeing you die?

Oh, it is but a parting for a few days; I shall soon go to join you. But

a darker sorrow weighs upon me. I am strong, I am a man". He stopped,

fearing that he had said too much; then drawing near to his son, he said

in a tearful voice, "Forgive me, my Gabriel; I am the cause of your

death. I ought to have killed the prince with my own hand. In our

country, children and old men are not condemned to death. I am over

eighty years old; I should have been pardoned; they told me that when,

with tears, I asked pardon for you; once more, forgive me, Gabriel; I

thought my daughter was dead; I thought of nothing else; and besides, I

did not know the law."

"Father, father!" cried Gabriel, touched, "what are you saying? I would

have given my life a thousand times over to purchase one day of yours.

Since you are strong enough to be present at my last hour, fear not; you

will not see me turn pale; your son will be worthy of you."

"And he is to die, to die!" cried Solomon, striking his forehead in

despair, and casting on the walls of the dungeon a look of fire that

would fain have pierced them.

"I am resigned, father," said Gabriel gently; did not Christ ascend the

cross?"

"Yes," murmured the old man in a muffled voice, "but He did not leave

behind a sister dishonoured by His death."

These words, which escaped the old fisherman in spite of himself, threw

a sudden and terrible light into the soul of Gabriel. For the first time

he perceived all the infamous manner of his death: the shameless

populace crowding round the scaffold, the hateful hand of the

executioner taking him by the Hair, and the drops of his blood

besprinkling the white raiment of his sister and covering her with

shame.

"Oh, if I could get a weapon!" cried Gabriel, his haggard eyes roaming

around.

"It is not the weapon that is lacking," answered Solomon, carrying his

hand to the hilt of a dagger that he had hidden in his breast.

"Then kill me, father," said Gabriel in a low tone, but with an

irresistible accent of persuasion and entreaty; "oh yes, I confess it

now, the executioner’s hand frightens me. My Nisida, my poor Nisida, I

have seen her; she was here just now, as beautiful and as pale as the

Madonna Dolorosa; she smiled to hide from me her sufferings. She was

happy, poor girl, because she believed you away. Oh, how sweet it will

be to me to die by your hand! You gave me life; take it back, father,

since God will have it so. And Nisida will be saved. Oh, do not

hesitate! It would be a cowardice on the part of both of us; she is my

sister, she is your daughter."

And seeing that his powerful will had subjugated the old man, he said,

"Help! help, father!" and offered his breast to the blow. The poor

father lifted his hand to strike; but a mortal convulsion ran through

all his limbs; he fell into his son’s arms, and both burst into tears.

"Poor father!" said Gabriel. "I ought to have foreseen that. Give me

that dagger and turn away; I am young and my arm will not tremble."

"Oh no!" returned Solomon solemnly, "no, my son, for then you would be a

suicide! Let your soul ascend to heaven pure! God will give me His

strength. Moreover, we have time yet."

And a last ray of hope shone in the eyes of the fisherman.

Then there passed in that dungeon one of those scenes that words can

never reproduce. The poor father sat down on the straw at his son’s side

and laid his head gently upon his knees. He smiled to him through his

tears, as one smiles to a sick child; he passed his hand slowly through

the silky curls of his hair, and asked him countless questions,

intermingled with caresses. In order to give him a distaste for this

world he kept on talking to him of the other. Then, with a sudden

change, he questioned him minutely about all sorts of past matters.

Sometimes he stopped in alarm, and counted the beatings of his heart,

which were hurriedly marking the passage of time.

"Tell me everything, my child; have you any desire, any wish that could

be satisfied before you die? Are you leaving any woman whom you loved

secretly? Everything we have left shall be hers."

"I regret nothing on earth but you and my sister. You are the only

persons whom I have loved since my mother’s death."

"Well, be comforted. Your sister will be saved."

"Oh, yes! I shall die happy."

"Do you forgive our enemies?"