villa where you will talk with one of the persons interested in the
success of the affair, and give you until to-morrow night to inspect the
locality, become acquainted with all necessary details, set up your
batteries, notify your men, station them, arrange for allies in the
citadel. Bah! it is more time than you need! At your age I wouldn't have
asked your father for half of it."
Michel saw that the Capuchin had touched the right chord at last; for
when he was appealed to as the son of the Prince of Castro-Reale, a
title which nobody dared or chose to give him openly, the Piccinino
started, sat up and sprang to his feet as if he were ready to start at
once. But suddenly he put his hand to his leg and fell back on the
couch.
"It is impossible," he said, "I am in too much pain."
"What is the matter?" asked Fra Angelo. "Are you wounded? Is that spent
ball of last year still troubling you? In the old days we used to march
with bullets in our bodies. Your father did thirty leagues without
thinking of having the one extracted that he received in the thigh at
Leon-Forte; but the young men of to-day need a year to be cured of a
bruise."
Michel thought that his uncle had gone a little too far, for the
Piccinino resumed his recumbent attitude with a gesture of profound
indignation, stretched himself on his back, puffed away at his
cigarette, and maliciously left to the good priest the embarrassing
necessity of continuing the conversation.
But Fra Angelo was perfectly sure that the idea of a supply of ducats
had appealed to the young bandit's unsentimental mind, and he continued
without the slightest hesitation:
"I give you half an hour, my son, if you absolutely need it; half an
hour is a long while for the blood that flows in your veins! then we
will all three start."
"Who is this youngster, pray?" said the Piccinino, indicating Michel
with the end of his finger, but without removing his eyes from the wall.
"He is my nephew, as I have told you; and Fra Angelo's nephew is to be
relied on. But he doesn't know the country, and has not the necessary
connections for an affair of this sort."
"Is the _signorino_ afraid of compromising himself?"
"No, signor!" cried Michel, irritated beyond endurance, and unable to
bear longer the bandit's insolence and the restraint which his uncle
imposed upon him. The bandit turned, looked him in the face with his
long eyes, which seemed to turn up a little toward the temples, and
whose mocking expression was sometimes intolerable. But when he saw
Michel's animated face and pale lips, he assumed a more amiable
expression, albeit a little suspicious still, and said, offering him his
hand:
"Let us be friends, at all events, until we have no other enemies on our
hands; that is our wisest course."
As Michel was seated at some distance, he would have had to rise to take
that hand, extended with a kingly gesture. He smiled and did not move,
at the risk of displeasing his uncle and losing the fruit of their
expedition.
But the monk was not sorry to see Michel adopt that attitude with
respect to the bandit. The latter understood that he had no
weak-spirited creature to deal with, and, rising with an effort, he went
to him and took his hand.
"You are cruel, my young master," he said, "to refuse to take two steps
toward a man who is completely tired out. You haven't travelled twenty
leagues to-day, and you insist upon my starting off again when I have
had barely two hours' rest!"
"At your age," said the unrelenting monk, "I used to walk twenty leagues
a day, and not take time to sup before starting again. Well, have you
decided? Shall we start?"
"You care a good deal about it, don't you? Are you personally interested
in the affair?"
"I care about it as I do about my everlasting salvation, and the affair
is of the deepest interest to the persons who are dearer to me than
anybody else on earth since your father died. My brother is in danger,
as well as this excellent young man, for whom I demand your sincere and
loyal friendship."
"Have I not shaken his hand?"
"Therefore I count upon you. When I see that you are ready, I will tell
you something that will be a more enticing bait to you than gold or
glory."
"I am ready. Is it an enemy of the country who is to be killed?"
"I told you that there is nobody to be killed; you forget that I serve
the God of peace and mercy. But there is some one to be thwarted, some
one whose treacherous plans must be utterly foiled; and that man is a
spy and a traitor."
"His name?"
"Will you come?"
"Am I not on my feet?"
"Abbé Ninfo."
The Piccinino began to laugh, a silent laugh in which there was
something ghastly.
"May I be permitted to thwart him?" he asked.
"Morally, yes. But not a drop of blood must be shed!"
"Morally! good, I will exert my wits. Courage is not current coin with
that fellow; but as we have made our bargain, or nearly so, it is time
to explain to me the motive of this abduction."
"I will explain it to you, and you can reflect upon it as we walk."
"Impossible. I cannot do two things at once. I reflect only when my body
is at rest."
And he coolly lay down again after relighting his cigarette.
Fra Angelo saw clearly enough that he would not allow himself to be led
into action with his eyes closed.
"You know," he said, with no indication of impatience, "that Ninfo is
the tool, the spy, the inseparable companion of a certain cardinal?"
"Hieronymo de Palmarosa?"
"You know also that my older brother, Pier-Angelo, was forced to leave
Sicily eighteen years ago?"
"I know it. It was his own fault! My father was still alive. He might
have joined him instead of abandoning his country."
"You are mistaken; your father was dead. You were an infant, I was a
monk! There was nothing to be done here."
"Go on."
"My brother returned, as you know, a year ago; and his son, Michelangelo
here, returned a week ago."
"What for?"
"To assist his father in his trade and his country on occasion. But
there is already a denunciation hanging over him as well as over his
father. The cardinal still has his memory, and does not forgive. Ninfo
is prepared to act in his name."
"What are they waiting for?"
"I don't know why the cardinal is waiting so long before dying, but I
can say that Ninfo is waiting for the cardinal's death."
"Why?"
"In order to seize his papers before there is time to put seals on them
and notify his heiress."
"Who is the heiress?"
"Princess Agatha de Palmarosa."
"Ah! yes," said the bandit, changing his position, "a beautiful woman,
so they say."
"That has nothing to do with the affair. But do you understand now why
it is necessary that Abbé Ninfo should disappear during the cardinal's
last moments?"
"So that he cannot seize the papers, you said. He may cheat Princess
Agatha out of important documents, abstract a will. It is a serious
matter for her. She is very rich, is she not? Thanks to her father's and
uncle's _loyal opinions_, the government has left her all her property,
and does not crush her life out with forced contributions."
"She is very rich, so that it is a great opportunity for you, for she is
no less generous than rich."
"I understand. And then, she is a very beautiful woman!"
His insistence upon that consideration sent a shudder of anger through
Michel's veins; the bandit's impertinence seemed intolerable to him; but
Fra Angelo was not disturbed by it. He believed that it was simply a
trick of the Piccinino's, to conceal his rapacity beneath an air of
gallantry.
"So I am to act for your brother and nephew incidentally," continued the
bandit, "while in reality I am to rescue the Princess of Palmarosa's
future fortune by laying hands upon the suspicious person of Abbé
Ninfo? Is that it?"
"That is it," the monk replied. "The signora has to look out for her
interests, and I for my family. That is why I have advised her to seek
your assistance, and why I consented to convey her request."
The Piccinino seemed to reflect a moment; then, suddenly throwing
himself back on his cushions, he exclaimed, in a voice broken by peals
of hearty laughter:
"A most excellent story! This is one of the most attractive adventures
in which I have ever taken part!"
[Footnote 5: The Piccinino is a friendly diminutive which the
mountaineers might well have given him because of his small size. But
the phrase _piccin-piccino_ signifies the act of hiding in order to
prove an _alibi_.]
[Footnote 6: That is to say, modified Arabian, as found in Sicily.]
XXV
THE DESTATORE'S CROSS
This outburst of merriment, which seemed exceedingly insolent to Michel,
alarmed the monk at last; but, giving him no time to question him, the
Piccinino resumed his seriousness as abruptly as he had laid it aside.
"The affair becomes clearer," he said. "One point is still obscure; why
does Ninfo wait for the cardinal to die before denouncing your kinsmen?"
"Because he knows that the princess is their protector," the Capuchin
replied; "that she has affection and esteem for the honest old artisan
who has been working in her palace for a year past, and that, to save
them from persecution, she would allow herself to be bled by that
infamous priest. So he says to himself that when the cardinal is dead he
will have that noble lady's fate in his hands absolutely, and that he
will be at liberty to ruin her to his own profit. Doesn't it seem better
to you that the Princess Agatha, who is a good Sicilian, should inherit
the cardinal's property peaceably, and recompense handsomely the
services of a gallant fellow like yourself, than that she should spend
her money to buy the silence of a venomous reptile like Ninfo?"
"That is my opinion. But how can you be sure that the will has not been
already abstracted?
"We know on good authority that it cannot have been yet."
"I must be certain of it! for I don't choose to exert myself, and then
obtain nothing that is of any value."
"What does it matter if your pay is the same?"
"Ah! Brother Angelo," said the Piccinino, rising on his elbow and
assuming an air of pride which made his listless eyes gleam for an
instant, "for what do you take me? It seems to me that you have
forgotten me in some measure. Am I a _bravo_, to be paid by the job or
by the day? I have always flattered myself upon being a loyal friend, a
man of honor, a devoted partisan; and lo and behold! apparently ashamed
of the pupil you trained, you treat me like a mercenary, ready to do
anything for a little gold! Disabuse yourself of that idea, in God's
name. I do justice fortuitously, as my father did; and if I sometimes
work on different lines from those he followed--if, conforming to the
spirit of the age we live in, I use my shrewdness more often than my
courage--I am none the less high-spirited and independent. Being more
useful and more in request than a notary, lawyer or doctor, if I put a
high price on my services, or give them _gratis_, according to the means
of those who seek them, I have no love for my art and no respect for my
own intelligence. I shall never waste my time and trouble in earning
money without guarding the interests of my clients; and, just as the
famous advocate refuses to undertake a cause which he is sure of losing,
just as a captain refuses to risk his men in an unnecessary action, just
as an honest doctor ceases his visits when it is no longer in his power
to relieve his patient, so do I, my father, refuse your offers, for they
do not satisfy my conscience."
"There was no need of your saying all that to me," said Fra Angelo,
still as calm as ever. "I know what sort of man you are, and I should
consider that I degraded myself by seeking the aid of a man whom I did
not esteem."
"In that case," replied the Piccinino, with increasing excitement, "why
do you lack confidence in me? Why do you tell me only a part of the
truth?"
"You want me to tell you where the cardinal's will is concealed? That I
do not know, nor have I ever thought of asking."
"That is impossible."
"I swear to you before God, boy, that I have no idea. I know that it is
out of Ninfo's reach for the present, and that he cannot obtain
possession of it while the cardinal lives except with his assent."
"And how do you know that he has not already given his assent?"
"The Princess Agatha is certain of it. She told me so, and that was
enough for me."
"But suppose it isn't enough for me? Suppose I have no confidence in
that woman's shrewdness and foresight? Don't you know that women have no
talent whatever for that sort of thing? Have they any other talent in
the way of divining or pretending than the talent they place at the
service of love?"
"You have become very learned on this subject, and I have continued to
be quite ignorant; however, my friend, if you desire to know further
details, ask the princess herself for them, and you will probably be
satisfied. I intended to put you in communication with her to-night."
"To-night? in direct communication? Shall I be able to talk with her
alone?"
"Surely, if you consider it necessary to the success of our
undertaking."
The Piccinino turned abruptly to Michel, and looked at him without
saying a word.
The young artist was unable to sustain that gaze without distress. The
adventurer's manner of speaking of Agatha had already irritated him
exceedingly, and to keep himself in countenance he was forced to take a
cigarette which the bandit suddenly offered him with an ironical and
quasi-patronizing air.
The Piccinino had risen, and seemed to have fully made up his mind to
go. He began to unbuckle his sash, shaking and stretching his legs like
a hunting-dog preparing for the chase.
He passed into another room, and soon returned, dressed with more care
and more simply. He had covered his bare legs with long gaiters of white
wool like those worn by the Italian mountaineers. But all the buttons,
from ankle to knee, were of fine gold. He had put on the twofold
doublet, the outer one of green velvet embroidered with gold; the inner
one shorter, and less full, and of fashionable cut, was of lilac watered
silk, embroidered with silver. A white leather belt encircled his supple
waist; but, instead of the copper buckle, he wore a superb clasp of
antique coraline, richly mounted. No weapons were visible, but there
could be no question that he was provided with most adequate means of
defence. Finally, he had exchanged his showy cloak for the classic cloak
of black woollen cloth, lined with white, and covered his head with the
pointed hood that gives the aspect of monks or ghosts to all the
mysterious figures that one meets on mountain paths.
[Illustration: _THE CONFERENCE WITH THE
PICCININO._
_"Come" he said, looking himself over in a large
mirror that hung against the wall; "I can appear
before a woman now without frightening her. What
do you think about it, Michelangelo Lavoratori?_"]
"Come," he said, looking himself over in a large mirror that hung
against the wall; "I can appear before a woman now without frightening
her. What do you think about it, Michelangelo Lavoratori?"
And, heedless of the impression that that conceited tone might produce
on the young artist, he set about closing his house with the utmost
care. After which, he gayly passed his arm through Michel's, and started
off so swiftly that the others had difficulty in keeping pace with him.
When they had passed Nicolosi, Fra Angelo, stopping at a place where two
paths converged, took leave of his young friends, to return to his
monastery, advising them not to lose time escorting him thither.
"The leave granted me expires in half an hour," he said. "It may be that
I shall have many other favors to ask within a short time, and I must
not abuse this one. Yonder is the direct road to the Villa Palmarosa
without passing Bel Passo. You do not need me to be introduced to the
princess's presence. She has been notified and she expects you. Here is
a key to the park, Michel, and one to the little garden outside the
Casino. You know the staircase cut in the rock. You must ring twice,
thrice and once at the small gilt gate at the top. Until then avoid
being seen, and make sure that nobody is following you. When the maid
comes to open the gate leading into the private garden, your countersign
will be _Blessed Madonna of Bel Passo_. Do not lose these keys, Michel.
Within a few days all the locks have been changed secretly, and the new
ones are so complicated, that unless he applies to the locksmith who
furnished them, and who is incorruptible, it will be impossible
henceforth for Ninfo to get into the villa by means of false keys. One
word more, my children. If any unforeseen occurrence should make my
presence urgently necessary during the night, the Piccinino knows my
cell and how to get into the convent."
"I should say as much!" said the bandit, when they had left the
Capuchin; "I have indulged in enough escapades at night and returned
just before dawn often enough, to know how to climb the walls of the
convent of Mal Passo. Well, my friend, we no longer have to be careful
of good Brother Angelo's legs; we will run a bit on this slope, and you
will be kind enough not to lag behind, for I am not inclined to follow
beaten paths. It is not my custom, and the way the crow flies is much
safer and more expeditious."
As he spoke he darted in among the rocks which descended abruptly to the
bed of the stream, as if he proposed to jump over. It was a very bright
night, as almost all nights are in that beautiful climate. But the moon,
which was just rising and casting huge shadows across the ravines, made
everything uncertain and deceptive to the eye. If Michel had not kept
close to his guide, he would have been completely at a loss what course
to take among masses of lava and steep cliffs which it seemed impossible
to climb. Although the Piccinino was perfectly familiar with the
practicable spots, there were some so dangerous and difficult that
Michel would have refused to take the risk, except for the fear of being
considered cowardly and awkward. But the rivalry of self-love is a spur
which increases a man's faculties tenfold, and, at the risk of killing
himself twenty times over, the young artist followed the bandit without
stumbling and without uttering a word which betrayed his discomfort and
his distrust.
We say distrust, because he soon felt sure that all this trouble and
contempt of danger did not shorten their road. It might be a malicious
device on the part of the adventurer to test his strength, his agility,
and his courage, or an attempt to elude him. He was almost convinced of
it, when, after half an hour of this wild chase, and after thrice
crossing the same winding stream, they found themselves in the bottom of
a ravine which Michel thought that he recognized as one that he and the
Capuchin had skirted on the higher land on their way to Nicolosi. He did
not choose to make that suggestion; but he involuntarily paused a moment
to look at the stone cross at the foot of which the _Destatore_ had
blown out his brains, and which stood out against the sky on the edge of
the ravine. Then, looking about, he recognized the block of black lava
which Fra Angelo had pointed out to him from a distance, and which
served as a monument to the bandit chief. It was only a few steps away,
and the Piccinino had walked thither and was standing beside the rock,
with folded arms, in the attitude of a man stopping to take breath.
What could have been the Piccinino's idea in making that dangerous and
useless détour in order to pass his father's grave? Could he be
ignorant of the fact that he was buried there? or was he less reluctant
to walk over his remains than to pass the cross which had witnessed his
suicide? Michel dared not question him upon so painful and delicate a
subject; he too, stopped, said nothing, and wondered why he had felt
such a painful thrill when Fra Angelo had told him of the _Destatore's_
tragic end. He knew himself well enough to be sure that he was neither
cowardly nor superstitious, and at that moment he felt perfectly calm
and superior to all vain terrors. He had no other sensation than a sort
of disgust and indignation at the appearance of the young bandit, who
was leaning against the fatal rock and tranquilly striking his flint to
light a fresh cigarette.
"Do you know what this stone is?" demanded the extraordinary young man,
abruptly; "and do you know what happened at the foot of yonder cross
that cuts the moon in two from where we stand?"
"I do know," replied Michel, coldly; "but I hoped for your sake that you
did not know."
"Ah! you are like Padre Angelo, are you?" rejoined the bandit,
carelessly; "you are surprised that, when I pass this spot I don't drop
on my knees and recite an _oremus_ for my father's soul? In order to go
through with that classic ceremony three beliefs are requisite, none of
which I have: first, that there is a God; second, that man has an
immortal soul; third, that my prayers can serve the slightest purpose in
case my father's soul is undergoing merited punishment. You consider me
impious, I presume? I will bet that you are as much so as I am, and that
if it weren't for the respect of other men and a sort of hypocritical
sense of propriety to which everybody, even the man of intellect, feels
bound to submit, you would say that I am perfectly right!"
"I shall never submit to any hypocritical sense of propriety," replied
Michel. "I believe firmly and sincerely in the three things in which you
boast that you do not believe."
"Ah! then you are horrified by my atheism?"
"No, for I choose to believe that it is involuntary, and I have no right
to be scandalized by an error, when my own mind certainly is not open to
the absolute truth in many other respects. I am not a devotee, that I
should blame and condemn those who don't think as I do. But I will tell
you frankly that there is one sort of atheism which appals and disgusts
me: that is atheism of the heart, and I am very much afraid that yours
does not flow from the inclination of your mind alone."
"Good! good! go on!" said the Piccinino, surrounding himself with clouds
of tobacco smoke, with a careless vivacity, perhaps a little forced.
"You think that I have a heart of stone, because I do not shed torrents
of tears to my father's memory over this rock, which I am forced to pass
every day, and on which I have sat a hundred times?"
"I know that you lost him when you were so young that you could not
regret his companionship. I know that you must be accustomed, almost
indifferent, to the gloomy memories connected with this spot. I say
everything to myself to excuse your lack of feeling, but it does not
justify in my eyes the species of bravado with which you place before
me, designedly, I believe, the strange spectacle. I never knew your
father, and had no tie of kinship with him, and yet the fact that my
uncle loved him dearly and that a portion of his life was made
illustrious by patriotic and valorous deeds is enough to inspire me with
profound respect beside his grave, and to make me feel distressed and
offended by your attitude at this moment."
"Master Michel," said the Piccinino, abruptly throwing away his
cigarette and turning upon him with a threatening gesture, "it seems to
me that you are a very strange young man to dare to rebuke me in this
way, considering our position with respect to each other. You forget, I
fancy, that I know your secrets, that I am at liberty to be your friend
or your enemy; in short, that, at this moment, in this solitude, in this
infernal spot where I may not be so entirely cold-blooded as you think,
your life is in my hands!"
"The only thing that I have any reason to fear," rejoined Michel,
calmly, "is that I may play the pedagogue inopportunely. That part is
not suited to my years or my tastes. I will remind you, therefore, that
if you had not incited my comments by a sort of persistence in
questioning me, I should have spared you the infliction. As for your
threats, I will not say that I consider myself able to defend myself as
powerfully and calmly as you would be likely to attack me. I know that,
at a whistle from you, an armed man would start up from behind every
rock in the neighborhood. I trusted to your word, and I did not arm
myself to walk with a man who offered me his hand, saying: 'Let us be
friends.' But if my uncle is mistaken with respect to your loyalty, and
if you have led me into a trap, or--as I should prefer to believe for
your own sake--if the effect of this spot is to disturb your mind and
make you irresponsible, I will none the less tell you what I think, and
I will not stoop to flatter the shortcomings upon which you seem to
plume yourself for my benefit."