vice would relax their grasp upon their victims as readily as we desire.
The _Destatore_ was no longer himself; he had become too thoroughly the
man of the past. The remorse that I aroused in him disturbed his reason
without appeasing his savage instincts. Sometimes a raving madman,
sometimes timid and superstitious, he would pray one day in our humble
chapel, bathed in tears; and the next day would return to his vomit--as
the Scripture says. He tried to kill all his companions; he tried to
kill me. He committed many more excesses, and one morning--it is hard
for me to carry my story through to the end, Michel, it gives me so much
pain!--one morning he was found dead at the foot of a cross, not far
from our convent. He had blown out his brains with a pistol!"
"That was a horrible fate," said Michel, "and I do not know whether it
is the tone of your voice, uncle, or the ghastly memories of the place
where we are, but my emotions at this moment are most painful. It may be
that I heard my father tell the story in my childhood, and that the
memory of the terror it caused me then is revived by your words."
"I do not believe that your father ever mentioned it to you," said the
Capuchin, after an interval of dismal silence. "I only speak of it
because I must, my child; for the remembrance is more painful to me than
to anybody on earth, and the place where we now are is by no means
calculated to arouse cheerful thoughts in my mind. See, yonder is the
cross whose base was drenched with his blood, and there I found him
lying, sadly disfigured. It was I who dug his grave with my own hands
under yonder rock in the bottom of the ravine. It was I who said the
prayers which anybody else would have refused to say for him.
"Poor Castro-Reale, poor captain, poor fellow!" continued the Capuchin,
baring his head and extending his arm in the direction of a great black
rock which lay on the brink of the stream about fifty feet below the
road. "May God, who is inexhaustible mercy and infinite kindness,
forgive the errors of your life, as I forgive the sorrow you caused me!
I no longer remember aught save your years of valor; your noble deeds,
your lofty sentiments, and the ardent aspirations which we shared. God
will not be more severe than a poor fellow like me, will he, Michel?"
"I do not believe in the everlasting resentment of the supreme and
perfect Being who governs the world," replied the young man. "But let us
go on, uncle; I am cold here, and I prefer to confess the strange
weakness that I feel rather than remain an instant longer at the foot of
this cross. I am afraid!"
"I had rather see you tremble than laugh in this spot!" replied the
monk. "Come, give me your hand, and let us go on."
They walked for some time in silence; then Fra Angelo, as if he wished
to divert Michel's thoughts, continued thus: "After the death of the
_Destatore_, many people, women especially,--for he had seduced more
than one--hurried to his hiding-place, hoping to obtain possession of
what money he might have left there for the children whose father he
was, or was supposed to be; but on the very morning of his suicide he
had taken the booty remaining from his last expeditions and carried it
to that one of his mistresses whom he loved best, or, to speak more
accurately, whom he hated least; for, although he had many flames, he
inspired even more, and all those women, forming a sort of ambulatory
harem, annoyed and irritated him beyond measure. They all wanted him to
marry them, for they did not know that he was married. Melina, of
Nicolosi, alone never burdened him with her reproaches or her demands.
She had loved him sincerely; she had abandoned herself to him without
resistance and without ulterior motives; she had given him a son whom he
preferred to the twelve or fifteen bastards who were reared under his
name among the mountains. Most of those bastards are still living, and
boast, rightly or wrongly, that they belong to him. All are brigands to
a greater or less extent. But the one whom the _Destatore_ never denied,
who resembles him in every feature, although his is a much reduced and
blurred impression of the father's masculine and energetic beauty; the
one who has grown to manhood with the design of succeeding to his work,
with protection and resources to which the others can lay no claim, that
one is the son of Melina, the young man whom we shall see very soon; he
is the leader of the brigands to whom I have referred, some of whom are,
as a matter of fact, his brothers; finally, he is the man whom you are
to know under his true name, Carmelo Tomabene, who is also known as _The
Piccinino_."
"And the girl whom Castro-Reale abducted, whom you married to him--will
you not tell me her name, uncle?"
"Her name and her story are a secret which only three persons know
to-day, she, myself, and one other. Stop there, Michel; no more
questions on that subject. Let us return to the Piccinino, son of the
Prince of Castro-Reale and of the peasant girl of Nicolosi.
"This intrigue of the _Destatore_ was several years prior to his crime
and his marriage. The treasure he left was not very considerable; but,
as everything is relative, it was a fortune to Melina. She brought up
her son as if she intended that he should rise above his position; in
the bottom of her heart she longed to make a priest of him, and for
several years I was his tutor and his guide. But he was barely fifteen
years old when, having lost his mother, he left our convent and led a
wandering life until he attained his majority. He had always cherished
the idea of hunting up his father's former companions, and organizing a
new band with their aid; but, from respect for his mother's wishes, for
I ought to say that he really loved her, he had worked to acquire an
education as if he had, in fact, intended to devote himself to the
priestly profession. When he had recovered his liberty, he made use of
it without informing me of his purpose. He had always supposed that I
would blame him. Later, he was compelled to entrust his secret to me and
seek my advice.
"I was not sorry, I confess, to be rid of the guardianship of that young
wolf, for he was the most untamable creature that I ever met. As
fearless as his father, and even more intelligent, he is by instinct so
cautious and cunning, and elusive, that I was uncertain at times whether
I was dealing with the vilest of hypocrites or with the shrewdest
diplomatist who ever tangled up the affairs of empires. He is a strange
mixture of perfidy and honor, of magnanimity and vindictiveness. He has
a portion of his father's virtues and good qualities. His vices and
failings are of a different sort. Like his father, he is loyal in
friendship, and his oath is sacred; but while his father, even when
carried away by fierce passions, was always a true believer, and indeed
devout in the depths of his heart, the son, if I am not mistaken, and if
he has not changed, is the most placid and coolest atheist that ever
lived. If he has passions, he gratifies them so secretly that they
cannot be discovered. I know of but one, and that I have made no attempt
to overcome,--it is hatred of the foreigner and love of country. That
love is so intense that he carries it even to love of locality. Far from
being a spendthrift like his father, he is economical and orderly, and
owns a pretty little estate at Nicolosi, with a garden and some land,
where he lives almost always alone, to all appearance, when he is not on
some secret expedition in the mountains. But he arranges his absences
with so much caution, and receives his friends with so much mystery,
that no one ever knows whether he is away from the house, or in his
garden, smoking and reading. In order to preserve this skilfully managed
freedom of action, he makes a practice of not replying or showing
himself when anyone knocks at his door. So that, when he is ten leagues
away, no one can say that he is not kept within the walls of his
fortress by a fit of unsociability.
"He has retained the costume, and, so far as appears, the habits of a
wealthy peasant, and, although he is very well educated and very
eloquent on occasion, although he is fitted for any career, and capable
of distinguishing himself in many, he has such aversion for society and
the laws by which it is governed among us, that he prefers to remain a
bandit. To be simply a _villano_[4] in easy circumstances would not
satisfy him. He is energetic and ambitious, he has a genius for the
ruses of warfare, and a passion for adventures. Although it is a part of
his plan to conceal his shrewdness and his learning, those qualities
reveal themselves in spite of him, and he has great influence in his
village. He is looked upon there as an original character, but they
think highly of his advice, and consult him on every subject. He has
made it his duty to oblige everybody, because it is his policy to have
no enemies. He explains his frequent absences and the numerous visits he
receives as being connected with a small business in grain, which
requires journeys into the interior and somewhat extensive connections.
He carefully conceals his patriotism, but he investigates and knows all
about other people's, and at the first real uprising, he would have but
to wave his hand to raise the whole population of the mountain, and the
mountain would march with him."
"I can understand that this man is a hero in your eyes, uncle, while you
have difficulty in esteeming one whose qualities are so faintly outlined
as mine."
"I esteem the quality of words, not their number," replied the Capuchin.
"You have said two or three words which satisfy me, and as for my hero,
as you call him, he is so far from being lavish with them that I have
had to judge him by deeds rather than by speech. I, myself, rarely speak
of matters upon which I feel very strongly, and if you find me prolix
to-day, it is because I am obliged to tell you in two hours what I have
had no chance to tell you in the eighteen years that you have been in
this world, a stranger to me. However, reserve is not a defect in my
eyes. I loved Castro-Reale as I shall never love anybody else; and we
passed whole days together, by ourselves, without speaking a word. He
was suspicious, as every true Sicilian should be, and so long as he
distrusted himself and others, he had a noble heart and a noble spirit."
"The young man we are going to see must be very deeply attached to you,
uncle, since you are sure of finding him prepared to receive me?"
"If he loves anyone on earth, I am that one, although I scolded and
worried him well when he was my pupil. However, I am not perfectly
certain that he will grant what I have to ask him in your behalf. He
will have to overcome some repugnance; but I hope for the best."
"Doubtless he knows all that you will not allow me to know myself of my
affairs and my destiny?"
"He? he knows nothing whatsoever of them, and he shall know nothing
before you do. The little that you are both to know for the present, I
will tell you both. After that, it may be that the Piccinino will guess
more than he should. His penetration is very keen; but whatever he may
guess, he will never tell you; and he will never ask you what he wants
to find out; my mind is at rest so far as that is concerned. Now,
silence; we are coming out of the woods into a cultivated and settled
part of the mountain. We must be seen by as few people as possible on
our way to the place where our man awaits us."
They walked silently and cautiously along hedges and clumps of trees,
keeping in the shadow and avoiding trodden paths; and in the gathering
dusk they soon reached the Piccinino's abode.
[Footnote 2: The gendarmes or police of the island.]
[Footnote 3: People who attend to their business by night.]
[Footnote 4: That is to say, a _villain_ or serf.]
XXIV
IL PICCININO
On that side of the mountain which Fra Angelo and Michel had been
constantly ascending for two hours, the large, thickly populated village
of Nicolosi is the last civilized point at which the traveller who
wishes to visit the top of Ætna stops for breath before entering the
grand and imposing region of forests. This second belt is called
_Silvosa_ or _Nemorosa_, and the cold is intense there. The vegetation
then becomes depressingly wild and more sparse, until it finally
disappears altogether under lichens and heaps of gravel, beyond which
all is snow, sulphur, and smoke.
Nicolosi and the magnificent landscape surrounding it were already
enveloped in the evening mist when Michel tried to form some idea of the
place where he was. The imposing mass of Ætna was of the same uniform
shade, and he could barely distinguish, a mile above him, the frowning
peak of _Monte-Rosso_, that subaltern volcano, one of the twenty or
thirty sons of Ætna, extinct or recently opened furnaces, which rear
their heads like a battery of artillery at its foot. It was Monte-Rosso
that opened its black maw, less than two centuries ago, to vomit forth
that death-dealing lava with which the bottom of the bay of Catania is
still furrowed. To-day the peasants raise grapes and olives on débris
which seems to be burning still.
The Piccinino's house stood by itself on the mountain, about half a mile
from the village, from which it was separated by a steep ravine; it was
on the uppermost edge of a fertile tract, where the atmosphere was soft
and balmy. A few hundred feet higher it began to be cold, and the
terrors of the desert were foreshadowed by the absence of tilled land,
and by ridges of lava so numerous and so broad that the mountain seemed
inaccessible in that direction. Michel observed that the situation was
particularly favorable to the purposes of a man who was half citizen,
half outlaw. At home, he could enjoy all the comforts of life; on
leaving his home, he at once escaped from the presence of his fellow-men
and the requirements of the law.
The hill, the slope of which was very abrupt on one side, but gentle and
fertile on the other, was covered to its very summit with luxuriant
vegetation, whose mysterious exuberance was sedulously fostered by an
industrious and intelligent hand. Carmelo Tomabene's garden was renowned
for its beauty and the great abundance of its fruits and flowers. But
its entrance was jealously guarded, and it was enclosed on all sides by
high verdure-covered palisades. The house, which was of considerable
size and well built, although without apparent striving for effect,
stood upon the site of a small abandoned fort. Some fragments of thick
walls, and the base of a square tower, which had been utilized to
strengthen and enlarge the new building, which bore the marks of
extensive repairs, gave to the modest structure an air of solidity, and
of semi-rustic, semi-seignoral importance. However, it was simply the
dwelling of a well-to-do farmer, although one felt that a man of refined
habits and tastes might find life enjoyable therein.
Fra Angelo approached the gate, and pulled a bell-cord, which, starting
among the honeysuckles in which the gate was embowered, followed a long
vine-clad arbor and was connected with a bell inside the house; but the
sound of the bell was so deadened that it could not be heard outside.
The cord was not visible amid the foliage, and one needed to be
previously cognizant of its existence to make use of it. The monk pulled
the cord three times, at carefully measured intervals; then five times,
then twice, then three times again; after which he folded his arms for
five minutes, when he repeated the signals in the same order and with
the same care. One ring more or less and the mysterious proprietor might
have allowed them to wait all night without admitting them.
At last the garden gate was opened. A small man, wrapped in a cloak,
approached, took Fra Angelo by the hand, whispered to him for some
moments, then turned to Michel, bade him enter, and walked before them,
after closing the gate. They walked through the long arbor which formed
a cross extending the whole length and width of the garden, and entered
the house through a sort of rustic porch formed of large pillars covered
with vine and jasmine. Their host then ushered them into a large room,
neatly and simply furnished, where everything indicated regularity and
sobriety on the part of the owner. There he invited them to sit, and,
stretching himself out on an enormous couch covered with red silk,
coolly lighted his cigar; then, without any demonstration of
friendliness toward the monk, he waited for him to speak. He showed no
impatience, no curiosity. He gave his whole attention to removing his
brown cloak lined with pink, carefully folding it, and rearranging his
silk sash, as if he desired to be perfectly comfortable while listening
to what they had to say to him.
But what was Michel's surprise when he finally recognized in the young
_villano_ of Nicolosi the stranger who had caused a momentary sensation
at the princess's ball, and with whom he had exchanged a few far from
friendly words on the stoop of the palace!
He was disturbed by the thought that that incident was unlikely to
dispose in his favor the man at whose hands he was about to ask a
service. But the Piccinino did not seem to recognize him, and Michel
concluded that it would be as well not to remind him of that unpleasant
incident.
He had plenty of leisure to examine his features and to seek therein
some indication of his character. But it was impossible for him to
detect any trace of emotion, of determination, of any human feeling, on
that impassive and expressionless face. It was not even impertinent,
although his attitude and his silence might seem to denote a purpose to
display contempt.
The Piccinino was a young man of about twenty-five years. His short
stature and slender figure justified the sobriquet which had been given
him, and to which he submitted with more coquetry than vexation.[5] It
is impossible to imagine a more slender and delicate, and, at the same
time, more perfect figure, than that young man's. Admirably
proportioned, and modelled like an antique bronze, he made up for his
lack of muscular strength by extreme suppleness. He was reputed to be
without a compeer in all bodily exercises, although he was dependent
solely upon his address, his coolness, his agility, and the unerring
accuracy of his glance. No one could tire him at walking, or overtake
him at running. He climbed precipices with the self-possession of a
chamois; he was as good a shot with the rifle as with the pistol or the
sling; and in all sports of that sort he was so sure of winning all the
prizes that he had ceased to take the trouble to compete. He was an
excellent horseman and a fearless swimmer; in fact, there was no method
of locomotion or of fighting in which he was not certain to display a
marked superiority to anyone who ventured to try conclusions with him.
Being fully alive to the advantages of physical strength in a
mountainous country, and with the life of an adventurer before him, he
had striven in early years to acquire what nature seemed to have denied
him in that regard. He had exercised and developed his muscles with
incredible energy and persistence, and had succeeded in making his
fragile frame the trusty slave and obedient instrument of his will.
And yet, seeing him reclining thus upon his couch, one might have taken
him for a sickly or indolent woman. Michel did not know that, after
travelling twenty leagues on foot during the day, he systematically
rested for a certain number of hours, and that he had watched and
studied himself so closely in every respect that he knew exactly how
many moments he must pass in a horizontal position in order to escape
the annoyance of a lame back and legs.
His face was of a peculiar type of beauty: it was the Siculo-Arabian[6]
type in all its purity. Extraordinary sharpness of outline, a somewhat
exaggerated oriental profile, long, languishing, velvety black eyes, a
shrewd and lazy smile, a wholly feminine grace, and an indefinable
gentleness and coldness which it was impossible to explain at the first
glance.
The Piccinino was dressed with extreme care and scrupulous neatness. He
wore the picturesque costume of the peasants of the mountain, but it was
made of fine, light materials. His breeches, short and tight-fitting,
were of a soft woollen fabric, with silk stripes, yellow and brown. His
bare leg, white as alabaster, was visible above his scarlet
_spadrilles_. His shirt was of embroidered linen, trimmed with lace, and
afforded a glimpse of a heavy gold chain, intertwined with hair, upon
his breast. His sash was of green silk stitched with silver. He was
arrayed from head to foot in smuggled garments, or something worse; for
if you had examined the marks on his linen, you might have convinced
yourself that it came from the last valise he had robbed.
While Michel was contemplating with admiration, mingled with some inward
irony, the ease with which that well-favored youth rolled a cigarette of
Algerian tobacco in his fingers, slender and tapering as a Bedouin's,
Fra Angelo, who seemed neither surprised nor annoyed by his reception,
made a circuit of the room, bolted the door, and, having inquired if
they were quite alone in the house, to which query the Piccinino replied
in the affirmative with a nod, he began thus:
"I thank you, my son, for not compelling me to wait for this
appointment. I have come to ask a favor at your hands: are you able and
willing to devote a few days to it?"
"A few days?" repeated the Piccinino, in such a soft voice that Michel
was fain to glance anew at the muscles of steel in his legs in order to
be sure that it was not a woman who spoke; but the tone of the voice
signified too clearly to be misunderstood: "You are jesting!"
"I said a few days," rejoined the monk, calmly. "You will have to go
down the mountain, follow this young man, my nephew, to Catania, and
stay by him until you have succeeded in relieving him from an enemy who
is tormenting him."
The Piccinino turned slowly toward Michel, and stared at him as if he
had not previously seen him; then, taking from his belt a richly-mounted
stiletto, he presented it to him with an almost imperceptible smile of
irony and contempt, as if to say: "You are old enough and strong enough
to defend yourself."
Michel, annoyed at being placed in such a position, was about to make a
sharp retort, when Fra Angelo cut him short, placing his iron hand on
his shoulder.
"Be quiet, my boy," he said; "you do not know what I am talking about,
and there is no occasion for you to speak. My friend," he continued,
addressing the bandit, "if my nephew were not a man and a Sicilian, I
should not introduce him to you. I am going to tell you what we expect
of you, unless you tell me beforehand that you cannot or will not help
us."
"Padre Angelo," replied the bandit, taking the monk's hand, and putting
it to his lips with a caressing gesture and an affectionate glance that
changed the character of his face entirely, "whatever you may ask, I am
always willing to do for you. But no man can do all that he is willing
to do. So I must know what it is."
"A man annoys us."
"I understand."
"We do not wish to kill him."
"You are unwise."
"By killing him we ruin ourselves; by putting him out of the way we are
saved."
"He is to be kidnapped then?"
"Yes, but we do not know how to go about it."
"What! _you_ do not know, Padre Angelo?" said the Piccinino with a
smile.
"I should have known in the old days," replied the Capuchin. "I had
friends and places of shelter. Now, I am a monk."
"You are foolish," rejoined the bandit with undisturbed tranquillity.
"So, I am to kidnap a man, am I? Is he very stout, very heavy?"
"He is very light," replied the monk, who apparently understood that
metaphor, "and no one will give you a ducat for his skin."
"In that case, good-evening, father; I can't take him alone and put him
in my pocket like a handkerchief. I must have men, and they are not to
be had for nothing, as in your day."
"You don't understand me; you may fix the compensation of your men
yourself, and they shall be paid."
"Do you make yourself responsible for that, father?"
"I do."
"You alone?"
"I alone. And, so far as you are concerned, if the affair had not been a
magnificent one, I should not have selected you."
"Well, we will see about it next week," rejoined the bandit, in order to
obtain more ample information as to the profits of the affair.
"In that case, we will say nothing more about it," said the monk, hurt
by his distrust; "we must go forward at once or not at all."
"At once? What about a chance to collect my men, persuade them, and give
them their instructions?"
"You can do it to-morrow morning, and to-morrow night they can be at
their posts."
"I see that you are in no great hurry, or you would have told me to
start to-night. If you can wait until to-morrow, you can wait a
fortnight."