"Are you of the household?"
"No, your excellency," replied Michel, with apparent tranquillity,
although he was tempted to strike his questioner. "I am passing by."
The abbé glanced into the chair, and apparently he was given to
understand that it was useless to intimidate wayfarers, for he suddenly
changed his tone and manner as he turned again to Michel.
"My friend," he said benignantly, "you seem unfortunate; are you a
mechanic?"
"Yes, your excellency," said Michel, resolved to speak as little as
possible.
"And you are fatigued? you have come a long distance?"
"Yes, your excellency."
"But you are strong for your years. How old are you?"
"Twenty-one."
Michel could safely risk that falsehood; for, although he had as yet no
beard on his chin, he had attained his full growth, and his active and
restless brain had already caused him to lose the first bloom of youth.
In this last reply he complied with a special injunction which his
father had laid upon him when they parted, and which came to his mind
most opportunely: "If you come to Sicily to join me one day or another,"
said old Pier-Angelo, "remember that, until you have actually joined me,
you must not say a word of truth in reply to people who seem to you
curious and inquisitive. Tell them neither your name, nor your age, nor
your profession, nor mine, nor whence you come, nor whither you are
going. The police are more meddlesome than shrewd. Lie boldly and have
no fear."
"If my father should hear me," thought Michel, after he had thus
distinguished himself, "he would be satisfied with me."
"It is well," said the abbé, and he stepped away from the prelate's
door, so that the latter could see the poor devil who had thus attracted
his attention. Michel's eyes met the moribund's terrible glance, and he
thereupon felt more distrust and aversion than respect for that narrow
and despotic brow. Warned by an inward presentiment that he was in a
dangerous position, he changed the customary expression of his face, and
substituting sheepishness for pride therein, he bent his knee, hung his
head in order to escape the prelate's scrutiny, and pretended to await
his benediction.
"His eminence blesses you mentally," said the abbé, after consulting
the cardinal's eyes, and he motioned to the bearers to go forward.
The chair passed through the gateway and proceeded slowly along the
avenue.
"I would like well to know," thought Michel, as he looked after the
procession, "whether my instinct deceived me, or whether that man is the
enemy of my family."
He was about to continue his journey, when he observed that Abbé Ninfo
had not followed the cardinal, but was waiting until the last mule had
passed, in order to lock the gate and restore the key to his pocket.
This strange caretaking on the part of a man so close to the cardinal
was well calculated to make an impression on him, and the keen, sidelong
glance which that unattractive personage stealthily bestowed upon him
impressed him even more.
"It is evident that I am already watched in this unhappy country," he
thought; "and that my father did not dream of the enmities against which
he warned me to be on my guard."
The abbé motioned to him to come to the gate just as he withdrew the
key. Michel, persuaded that he must play his part more carefully than
ever, approached with an air of humility.
"Here, my boy," said the abbé, offering him a small coin, "here is
something with which to refresh yourself at the first tavern, for you
seem to be very much fatigued."
Michel repressed a thrill of indignation. He accepted the insult, put
out his hand and thanked the abbé humbly; then he ventured to say:
"I am grieved that his eminence did not deign to give me his blessing."
This well-acted bathos dispelled the abbe's suspicions.
"Console yourself, my child," he said, in a nonchalant tone; "Divine
Providence has been pleased to deprive our holy cardinal of the use of
his limbs. Paralysis permits him to bless the faithful only with his
mind and heart."
"May God cure and preserve him!" rejoined Michel; and he went his way,
very certain now that he was not mistaken, and that he had had a lucky
escape from a perilous meeting.
He had not taken ten steps down the hill-side when, as he turned a
corner, he found himself face to face with a man who was close upon him
before either of them recognized the other, so little did they expect to
meet at that moment. Suddenly they both cried out at once and clung
together in a passionate embrace. Michel was in his father's arms.
"O my child! my dear child! you, in this place!" cried Pier-Angelo.
"What joy and what anxiety for me! But joy carries the day and makes me
braver in spirit than I was a moment since. I was thinking of you and
saying to myself: 'It is lucky that Michel is not here, for our affairs
might well become serious.'--But here you are, and I cannot help being
the happiest of men."
"Never fear, father," Michel replied; "I became prudent as soon as I set
my foot on my native soil. I have just met our enemy face to face; he
questioned me, and I lied in a way to do your heart good."
Pier-Angelo turned pale.--"Who? who?" he exclaimed; "the cardinal?"
"Yes, the cardinal in person, the paralytic in his great gilt box. It
must be the famous Prince Hieronymo, who was the terror of my childhood,
and who seemed to me all the more terrible because I did not know the
cause of my fear. Well, dear father, I assure you that even if he still
has the will to do harm, he has not the power, for all varieties of
infirmity seem to have conspired together to crush him. I will tell you
of our interview; but tell me first of my sister, and let us go at once
and surprise her."
"No, Michel, no, the most important thing is for you to tell me how you
happened to see the cardinal so close. Let us go into this clump of
trees; I am not at all easy in my mind. Tell me, tell me quickly! He
spoke to you, you say? Is it certain that he spoke?"
"Let me reassure you, father, he cannot speak."
"Are you sure of it? You told me that he questioned you."
"I was questioned in his behalf, I suppose; but, as I observed
everything with perfect coolness, and as that caricature of an abbé who
acts as his interpreter is too thin to conceal the whole interior of the
chair, I saw plainly that his eminence spoke with his eyes only.
Moreover, his eminence is stone deaf, for when I told my age, which the
abbé asked me for some unknown reason, I saw the abbé lean toward
monsignore and hold up his ten fingers twice over, and then the thumb of
his right hand."
"Dumb, helpless, and deaf to boot! I breathe again. But how old did you
say you were? Twenty-one?"
"You told me to lie as soon as I set foot in Sicily."
"It is well, my child; Heaven aided and inspired you in that encounter."
"I think so, but I should be much more certain of it if you would tell
me how the cardinal can be interested to know whether I am eighteen or
twenty-one."
"That question cannot interest him in any way," said Pier-Angelo, with a
smile. "But I am overjoyed to find that you remembered my advice and
that you have suddenly acquired this prudence, of which I didn't believe
you to be capable. But tell me again, what did Abbé Ninfo--for it must
have been he, I am sure; was he very ugly?"
"Frightful; he squints and has a flat nose."
"That's the man! What else did he ask you? your name, or your province?"
"No, no other direct question, except as to my age, and my brilliant
reply to that seemed to satisfy him so entirely that he turned his back,
promising me his eminence's blessing."
"And his eminence didn't give it to you? he didn't raise his hand?"
"The abbé himself told me a little later that his eminence was entirely
deprived of the use of his limbs."
"What! that man spoke to you again? that fiend of hell came back to
you?"
As he spoke, Pier-Angelo scratched the back of his neck, the only spot
on his head where his restless hand could find any hair. It was a sign
with him of great perturbation of spirit.
IV
MYSTERIES
When Michel had told the story of his adventure to the most trivial
detail, and Pier-Angelo had admired and applauded his hypocrisy, the
young man said:
"Now, father, pray tell me how it happens that you live here, without a
mask and under your own name, without being molested, whereas I,
immediately upon my arrival, must resort to stratagem and stand on my
guard?"
Pier-Angelo seemed to hesitate a moment, then replied:
"Why, it is a very simple matter, my child! I was charged with being a
conspirator long ago; I was put in prison, and probably escaped the
gallows by flight. The formal prosecution had already been begun. That
is all forgotten, and although the cardinal must have known my name and
my face at the time, it would seem that I have changed greatly, or else
his memory is much impaired, for he has seen me here, and must have
heard my name mentioned, without recognizing me and without the faintest
indication that he recalled the old affair; that was a test which I was
resolved to make. I was summoned by Abbé Ninfo to work in the
cardinal's palace; I went there boldly, after taking measures to ensure
Mila's safety in case I should be cast into prison without process. The
cardinal saw me and did not recognize me. Abbé Ninfo knows nothing
about me; so that I am, or at all events I was, free from anxiety on my
own account, and was just about to write you to come and see me, when it
began to be rumored in the city, a few days ago, that his eminence was
visibly improved, so much so that he was going to pass some time at his
country house at Ficarazzi yonder; you can see the palace from here, on
the hillside."
"Then the villa a few steps away, where I just saw the cardinal enter,
is not his own residence?"
"No; it belongs to his niece, Princess Agatha. Doubtless he thought that
he would make a détour and call upon her as he passed; but this same
visit worries me. I know that she was not expecting it--that she had
made no preparations to receive her uncle. He must have wanted to give
her an unpleasant surprise, for he surely knows that there is no reason
whatever why she should be fond of him. I greatly fear that this is a
cloak for some wicked design. In any event, this sudden activity on the
part of a man who, for a whole year, has only moved about in a wheeled
chair up and down a gallery in his city palace, gives me food for
thought, and I say that we must pay close attention to everything now."
"But after all, father, all this does not tell me what danger there can
be for me personally! I was barely six months old, I believe, when I
left Sicily; I fancy that I was not implicated in the conspiracy in
which you were involved?"
"No, of course not; but new-comers are watched. Every man of the people,
young, intelligent and from across the strait, is assumed to be
dangerous, permeated with the new ideas. A single word from your lips,
spoken in presence of a spy, or extorted from you by an informer, would
be enough to put you in prison; and when I went to claim you as my son,
it would be vastly worse if that wicked cardinal should by any chance be
restored to health and to the exercise of power. Then he might remember
that I was accused long ago, and he would apply to us, by way of
sentence, the proverb: 'Like father, like son.' Now do you understand?"
"Yes, father, I will be prudent. Rely on me."
"That is not enough. I must be perfectly sure of the cardinal's state of
health. I do not propose to let you enter Catania until I know what to
expect."
"But what will you do to find out, father?"
"I will remain in hiding here with you until we have seen the cardinal
and his procession start for Ficarazzi. It won't be long. If it is true
that he is deaf and dumb, he will not have a long interview with his
niece. As soon as we no longer run the risk of meeting him there, we
will go to the Palmarosa palace, where I am at work now. I will conceal
you in some corner; then I will go and consult the princess."
"Is the princess in your interest, then?"
"She is my most powerful and most generous patron. She employs me a
great deal, and I hope that, thanks to her, we shall not be persecuted."
"Oh! father, was it she who gave you the money which enabled me to pay
my debts?"
"Lent it my boy, lent it. I knew well enough that you would not accept
alms, but she gives me so much work that I can pay her gradually."
"You may say: 'Soon,' father, for I am here! I have come to pay my debt
to you; my journey has no other purpose."
"What, my dear child! have you sold a picture? have you earned some
money?"
"Alas! no. I am not yet skilful enough or well enough known to earn
money. But I have arms, and I know enough to paint frescoes for
decoration. We will work together, my dear father, and I shall never
again have to blush to think that I am leading the life of an artist,
while you are wearing out your strength to gratify my misplaced tastes."
"Are you in earnest, Michel?" cried the old man. "You really mean to be
a workman?"
"I am fully determined upon it. I have sold my canvases, my engravings,
my books. I have given up my lodgings, thanked my teacher, bade farewell
to friends, to Rome, to glory. It was a little hard," added Michel,
feeling that his eyes were filling with tears; "but embrace me, father;
tell me that you are content with your son, and I shall be proud of what
I have done!"
"Embrace me, my dear boy!" replied the old decorator, pressing his son
to his heart, and blending his own tears with his. "It is a fine thing,
a noble thing that you have done, and God will reward you abundantly for
it, I promise you. I accept your sacrifice, but let us understand each
other: it is for a time only, for a time which we will make as short as
possible by working rapidly to pay our debt. The experience will be
useful to you, and your genius will grow instead of being extinguished.
Between us, thanks to the excellent princess, who will pay us well, we
shall soon have earned money enough for you to return to your real
painting, without remorse and without imposing any privation on me. That
is agreed. Now let us speak of your sister. She is a perfect prodigy of
wit, that little girl. And how she has grown and how beautiful she is!
so beautiful that it's enough to frighten a poor devil of a father like
me."
"I propose to remain a workman," said Michel, "for with a modest but
sure livelihood I can succeed in establishing my sister in life
according to her rank. Poor dear angel! Think of her sending me her
little earnings! And I, poor wretch, intended to bring them back to her
and was forced to sacrifice them! Ah! it is horrible, yes, detestable,
to try to become an artist when one has poor relations!"
"We will speak of this again, and I will find a way to revive your taste
for your destiny, my child. But, hark! I hear the gate creaking--the
cardinal is leaving the villa; let us not show ourselves; we shall soon
see them going down on our right. You say that Ninfo opened the gate
himself with a key that he had? It is very strange, and very disturbing
too, to find that the good princess is not safe in her own house, that
these people have false keys to violate her privacy unexpectedly, and
that they evidently suspect her, since they spy upon her in this way!"
"But of what can they possibly suspect her?"
"Why, suppose it were only of protecting people whom they persecute! You
assure me that you have become prudent, and in any event you will
understand the importance of what I am going to tell you. You know
already that the Palmarosas were entirely devoted to the court of
Naples; that Prince Donigi, the oldest of the family, Princess Agatha's
father, and brother of the cardinal, was the wickedest Sicilian that was
ever known, the enemy of his fatherland and the persecutor of his
compatriots; and that, too, not from cowardice, like those who go over
to the side of the conqueror, nor from greed, like those who sell
themselves; he was rich and fearless; but he did it from ambition, from
his passion for domineering, in short, from an inborn wickedness that
was in his blood and caused him to take the keenest delight in
terrifying, tormenting, and humbling his neighbor. He was omnipotent in
the time of Queen Caroline, and, until it pleased God to rid us of him,
he inflicted all the harm he possibly could upon the patriotic nobles
and the poor devils who loved their country. His brother continued that
wrong-doing; but now he is going, too; and if the dying lamp still casts
a faint gleam, it is simply a proof that it is dying. Then all the
clientage of the Palmarosas, among the people of Catania, and especially
in the suburb where we live, will be able to breathe freely. There are
no more males in the family, and all the vast property, of which the
cardinal still has the income of a large part, will fall into the hands
of a single heiress, Princess Agatha. She is as good as her relations
have been bad, and her heart is in the right place. She is Sicilian to
the marrow and detests the Neapolitans! She will have great influence
when she is entirely in control of her property and her acts. If God
would permit her to marry and take into her house some worthy nobleman
as right-minded as she, that would change the tone of the administration
somewhat, and better our lot!"
"Is the princess a young woman?"
"Yes, still young, and might marry as well as not; but she has always
refused to do it thus far, in the fear, so far as I can understand, that
she would not be free to choose for herself.--But here we are close to
the park," added Pier-Angelo; "we may meet somebody, so let us talk of
indifferent matters only. I urge you, my child, to use here nothing but
the Sicilian dialect, which we very wisely used at Rome so long. You
have not forgotten your native language, I trust, since we parted?"
"No, indeed," replied Michel.
And he began to talk Sicilian with great volubility, to convince his
father that there was nothing about him to indicate the foreigner.
"That is very good," said Pier-Angelo; "you have not the slightest
accent."
They had made a détour and entered the park by a gate at a considerable
distance from that at which Michel had encountered Monsignore Hieronymo;
the gate was open and the numerous marks on the gravel indicated that
many men, horses, and wagons habitually passed in and out.
"You will see here a great hurly-burly, most contrary to the ordinary
habits of the household," said the old painter to his son. "I will
explain it to you. But let us say nothing yet, that is the safest way.
Do not look about you too much, nor have the surprised air of a
new-comer. And, first of all, hide that travelling-bag among the rocks
near the waterfall; I shall remember the place. Rub your shoes in the
grass, so that you won't look like a traveller. Why, I believe you are
limping, are you hurt?"
"Nothing, nothing, a little fatigue."
"I am going to take you to a place where you can rest without being
disturbed by anyone."
Pier-Angelo made several détours in the park, leading his son through
shady paths, and thus they reached the palace without meeting anyone,
although they heard a great deal of noise, which increased as they drew
near. They entered a corridor on the lower floor and walked rapidly by
an enormous room, filled with workmen and materials of all sorts,
assembled there for some incomprehensible purpose. The men were so busy
and making so great an uproar that they did not notice Michel and his
father. Michel had no time to understand what he saw. His father had
instructed him to follow him step by step, and he walked so fast that
the young traveller, utterly exhausted as he was, found it difficult to
keep pace with him in the narrow halls and steep stairways.
Their journey through that labyrinth of secret passages seemed very long
to Michel. At last Pier-Angelo took a key from his pocket and opened a
small door on a dark corridor. Thereupon they found themselves in a long
gallery, adorned with statues and pictures. But the blinds were drawn
everywhere, and it was so dark that Michel could distinguish nothing.
"You can take a nap here," said his father, after he had carefully
locked the little door and removed the key; "I am going to leave you
here; I will return as soon as possible, and then I will tell you what
we are to do."
He walked the whole length of the gallery, and, raising a portière
embroidered with armorial bearings, pulled a bell-cord. In a few seconds
a voice answered inside, and a dialogue followed, in so low a tone, that
Michel could not hear a word. At last, a mysterious door was partly
opened, and Pier-Angelo disappeared, leaving his son in the darkness,
chill, and silence of that great empty room.
At times, however, the echoing voices of the men at work below, the
sound of the saw and the hammer, snatches of song, laughter, and oaths
reached his ears. But the noises gradually died away as darkness
approached, and, after two hours, the most absolute silence reigned in
that unfamiliar abode in which Michel found himself imprisoned, dying of
hunger and weariness.
Those two hours of suspense would have seemed very long to him if sleep
had not come to his aid. Although his eyes had become accustomed to the
darkness of the gallery, he made no attempt to inspect the objects of
art which it contained. He had dropped upon a rug, and fell into a sort
of lethargy, interrupted sometimes by the tumult below, and the
uneasiness which one feels when sleeping in a strange place. At last,
when nightfall was followed by the cessation of the work, he slept
soundly.
But a strange cry, which seemed to come from one of the rose-shaped
openings which supplied the gallery with ventilation, woke him abruptly.
He instinctively raised his head and fancied that he saw a faint light
on the ceiling. The figures painted thereon seemed to move for an
instant. Another cry, fainter than the first, but so peculiar that
Michel was perturbed by it and moved to the lowest depths of his being,
sounded over his head. Then the light vanished. The silence and darkness
became so intense that he wondered if he had not dreamed.
Another quarter of an hour passed, during which Michel, excited by what
had just happened, did not think of going to sleep again. He feared that
his father was in some danger which he could not define. He was
horrified at the thought that he himself was a captive and unable to
assist him. He examined all the doors and found them all securely
locked. He dared not make any noise, for, after all, it was a woman's
voice that he had heard, and he could not understand what connection
there could be between that cry and his own situation or Pier-Angelo's.
At last the mysterious door opened, and Pier-Angelo appeared, carrying a
candle whose flickering light imparted a fantastic appearance to the
statues upon which it fell one after another. When he stood beside
Michel, he said in a low voice: "We are saved; the cardinal is in his
dotage, and Abbé Ninfo knows nothing of our affairs. The princess, for
whom I was compelled to wait a long while, because she had people about
her, is of the opinion that we should make no sort of mystery about you.
She thinks that that would be worse than simply to announce your return
without any affectation. So we will go back to your sister, who is
undoubtedly anxious because I am so late. But we have quite a little
walk, and I suppose you are dying of hunger and thirst. The steward of
the household, who is very kind to me, told me to take you to a little
buttery, where we shall find something to eat."
Michel followed his father to a room which had on one side a glass door
with a curtain covering the glass outside. This room, which was in no
wise remarkable, was lighted by several candles, a fact which astonished
Michel somewhat. Pier-Angelo, observing his surprise, said that it was a
room where the princess's first lady's-maid came every night to
superintend the preparation of her mistress's supper. With that he
unceremoniously began to open cupboards and take out cold meats,
preserves, wine, fruit, and innumerable delicacies which he placed
helter-skelter on the table, laughing at each new discovery he made in
those inexhaustible cupboards--all to the unbounded amazement of Michel,
who failed to recognize his father's customary discretion and pride.
V
THE CASINO