expression, the Piccinino turned again to the princess. She had
concealed her pallor behind her fan, and when the brigand met her eyes,
they were armed with a tranquil expression which dispelled the last
traces of his ironical humor. The secret pleasure which it always
afforded him to frighten those who ventured into his presence
disappeared before that womanly glance, which seemed to say to him: "You
shall not do it, I forbid you."
So that he at once assumed an expression of hearty good-will, and said
to Michel:
"You see, my young friend, that I had my reasons for insisting upon an
explanation of the affair, and for not being in too much of a hurry. Now
that I am convinced that honor and truth are on one side, infamy and
falsehood on the other, my choice is made, and you can sleep with both
eyes shut. I propose to go with you to Catania," he added, addressing
Michel in an undertone, "where I must arrange the worthy abbé's
departure for to-morrow. But I absolutely require two hours' rest. Can
you promise me a corner in your house where I can sleep soundly for two
hours without danger of being seen? For my features are hardly known in
the city, and I do not wish them to become known there until it is
necessary. Tell me, can I enter your house without fear of inquisitive
eyes, especially women's eyes?"
"I have a young sister who is moderately inquisitive," replied Michel
smiling; "but she will be in bed at this time of night. Trust me, as I
trusted you; I will give you my own bed, and sit up in the room if you
wish."
"I accept," said the bandit, who, while talking with Michel, was trying
to overhear the words, unimportant in themselves, which the princess was
exchanging with the marquis, in order not to embarrass the conversation
between the two young men. Michel observed that, notwithstanding the
Piccinino's assertion that he could not do two things at once, he did
not lose a gesture, a word, or a movement of Agatha's, while he was
talking with him.
When he was assured of the two hours' absolute rest which was, he said,
indispensable to put him in a condition to act intelligently, the
Piccinino rose and prepared to retire. But the coquettish moderation
with which he arranged his cloak about his flexible figure, the languid
grace of his preoccupied air during that momentous operation, and the
imperceptible quivering of his silky black moustache, showed plainly
enough that he went away with regret, and after the manner of a man who
is striving to dispel the mists of drunkenness in order to return to
work.
"You do not wish to be seen?" said Agatha; "then step into the marquis's
carriage with Michel. He will drive you to the outskirts of the city,
and you can slip through the narrow streets."
"Many thanks, signora!" replied the bandit. "I have no desire to take
your servants and the signor marquis's into my confidence. To-morrow
morning Abbé Ninfo, whose discernment exceeds their discretion, would
learn that a mountaineer came out of your apartments whom nobody had
seen go in; and the excellent abbé, thinking that that performance
savored somewhat of the _bravo_, would insult me by withdrawing the
confidence with which he honors me. I must be his fidus Achates and his
very good friend for twelve hours more. I will go out with Michel as I
came."
"And when shall I see you again?" said Agatha, courageously offering him
her hand, despite the lustful flame in his unshrinking eyes.
"You will not see me again," he replied, putting one knee to the floor
and kissing her hand with a sort of frenzy in marked contrast to the
humility of his attitude, "until your orders are carried out. I cannot
fix the day and hour, but I will answer for the safety of all your
friends--even the stout doctor--with my life! I know the way to your
Casino. When I ring _one_, _three_ and _seven_ at the gate of your
flower-garden, will your ladyship deign to admit me to your presence?"
"You can rely upon it, captain," she replied, giving no sign of the
alarm caused her by that request.
The Marquis della Serra did not fail to take his leave at the same time
that the two young men went from the boudoir into the garden. His
respect for the princess was so punctilious that he would not for the
world have assumed the attitude of a favored lover. But he descended the
staircase of the palace slowly, still disturbed in mind, and ready to go
up again at the slightest noise.
On leaving the garden, the Piccinino locked the gate himself and handed
the key to Michel, reproaching him for his carelessness.
"Except for me," he said, "this all-important key--this key that cannot
be replaced--would have been left in the lock."
A moment's self-possession, before entering the boudoir, had sufficed
for the bandit to take the impression of the key on a lump of wax which
he always carried with him for emergencies.
They had no sooner started down the staircase cut in the rock than
Agatha's maid, who was entirely devoted to her, came to her and said:
"The young man whom your highness sent for is waiting in the picture
gallery."
Agatha put her finger to her lips to warn the maid to speak lower on
such occasions, and went down to the floor below, where Magnani had been
waiting more than half an hour.
Poor Magnani had been more dead than alive since he received the
princess's mysterious message. Being very different from the Piccinino,
he was so far from entertaining the slightest hope that he imagined the
worst that could possibly happen. "I must have made a terrible mistake,"
he said to himself, "in confiding to Michel the secret of my folly. He
probably talked about it with his sister, and Mila has seen the
princess, who treats her like a spoiled child. The chatter of that girl,
who cannot understand the gravity of such a disclosure, terrified and
disgusted the princess. But why not banish me without any explanation?
What can she say to me that will not be horribly painful and uselessly
cruel?"
That hour of suspense seemed to him a century. He was cold; he felt as
if he should die, when the secret door of the gallery opened
noiselessly, and he saw Agatha approaching him, pale with the excitement
through which she had just passed, and diaphanous in her white lace
cape. The enormous gallery was lighted only by a single glass lamp. It
seemed to him that the princess did not walk, but that she glided toward
him, after the manner of a ghost.
She approached without hesitation, and offered him her hand as if he
were an intimate friend. And, as he hesitated to give her his, thinking
that he was dreaming, fearing that he might misunderstand the meaning of
that gesture, she said to him in a soft but firm voice:
"Give me your hand, my child, and tell me if you still feel for me the
friendship which you once expressed when you thought that you owed me
some gratitude for your mother's cure. Do you remember? I have never
forgotten that generous outburst of your heart!"
Magnani could not reply. He dared not put Agatha's hand to his lips. He
pressed it gently in his as he bent over it. She felt that he was
trembling.
"You are very timid," she said; "I hope that if you are afraid of me
there is no touch of distrust in your fear. I must speak to you quickly;
do you answer in the same way. Are you disposed to do me a very great
favor, at the risk of your life? I ask it in your mother's name!"
Magnani fell on his knees. Only with his eyes, which were streaming with
tears, could he testify his enthusiasm and his devotion. Agatha
understood him.
"You must return to Catania," she said; "run until you overtake two men
who have just left here and who will not have five minutes' start of
you. One is Michelangelo Lavoratori; you can readily recognize him in
the moonlight. The other is a mountaineer wrapped in his cloak. Follow
them without seeming to watch them, but do not lose sight of them. At
the least suspicious gesture on that man's part, you will hurl yourself
upon him and throw him down. You are strong," she added, touching the
young artisan's robust arm; "but he is active and cunning. Be on your
guard! See, here is a dagger; use it only in self-defence. That man is
either my enemy or my preserver, I do not know which. Spare his life, if
possible. Fly with Michel, if you can thereby avoid a bloody battle. You
live in the same house with Michel, do you not?"
"Almost, signora."
"Be where you can assist him at the first alarm. Do not go to bed; pass
the night as near his room as you can. The man I speak of will go away
before daylight; do not leave your house and do not let Michel go away
unless you go together, always together, do you understand? And be ready
until I give different orders. To-morrow I will explain everything to
you; I will see you. Rely upon me, from this day forth, as a second
mother. Come, my child, follow me; I will put you on the track of Michel
and his companion."
She took him by the arm and hastily led him up to the Casino, which they
passed through without a word. She opened the garden gate, and pointing
to the staircase in the rock, "Go," she said, "celerity, caution, and
your noble heart, the heart of a man of the people, for your friend's
buckler!"
Magnani descended the stairs as swiftly and noiselessly as an arrow. He
wasted no time in reflection, nor did he exhaust the force of his
determination by worrying. He did not even ask himself the question
whether Michel was his fortunate rival, and whether he should not be
tempted to run him through the heart. Impelled by the magic force which
Agatha's hand and breath had given him, he was all ready to lay down his
life for that favored child of fortune, and he felt no more regret than
hesitation at the thought of sacrificing himself thus. Nay, more, he was
happy and proud to obey the woman he loved, and her words rang in his
heart like a voice from Heaven.
He was soon in the fields and discovered two men walking along a path.
He recognized Michel; he recognized the mountaineer's cloak. He took
pains not to show himself; but he measured with a glance the distance
and the obstacles that he would have to pass over in case of an alarm.
The mountaineer stopped for a moment, talking earnestly. Magnani, with a
determined effort of strength and activity, which under other
circumstances would have been beyond the power of man, reached a point
sufficiently near to overhear him, and found that he was talking of love
and poetry.
He allowed them to gain on him again, and, gliding through a narrow path
among the blocks of lava that lay in great heaps at the entrance to the
city, he arrived before them in the yard of the adjoining houses
occupied by his family and Michel's. He watched his young friend and his
suspicious guest enter the house. Then Magnani made the circuit of the
houses, looking for a place where he could pass the night, unseen, but
within hearing of the slightest noise, the slightest commotion inside.
XXIX
APPARITIONS
Pier-Angelo had been notified by the princess and by a message from the
monk of Mal Passo, that he must not be alarmed by his son's absence, and
that, in case of danger, the young man would pass the night either at
the convent with his uncle, or in the Marquis della Serra's palace. The
princess would have preferred the latter course; but the necessity of
showing absolute confidence in the brigand, concerning whose
sensitiveness Fra Angelo had fully informed her, had triumphed over her
anxiety. With great foresight she had sent for Magnani, and we have seen
that she was justified in her reliance upon that excellent young man.
Pier-Angelo, naturally optimistic, and reassured by the message he had
received, had gone to bed and was making up for the fatigue of the ball
like a man who knows how to use time to advantage. Mila had also gone to
her room; but she was not asleep. She had passed the afternoon with the
princess, and, upon being questioned by her concerning her friends, had
spoken of Antonio Magnani among others with a warmth which would have
betrayed the secret of her heart, even if Agatha had not been watchful
and penetrating. It was the favorable account the girl had given of her
young neighbor which had finally led the princess to call upon him for
aid in the embarrassment of her situation. She had said to herself that
Magnani might well become Mila's husband some day, and that nothing
could be more natural, therefore, than that he should have a share in
shaping Michelangelo's destiny. She had entrusted Mila with the message
to Magnani to come to her that night, and poor Magnani, on receiving the
message, had nearly fainted. Should we not rather say _poor Mila_? But
Mila had attributed the young man's confusion to his timidity alone.
Agatha was the last person whom she would have suspected of being her
rival, not that she was not in her eyes the loveliest of women, but
because, in a pure heart, there is no room for jealousy of the persons
whom one loves. On the contrary, the true-hearted child was happy in the
mark of esteem and confidence with which her dear Agatha had honored
Magnani. She was proud of it for his sake, and would have liked to be
able to carry him such messages every day.
But the princess had thought that she ought not to conceal from Mila the
fact that Michel was necessarily involved in an adventure in which he
might incur some danger, and that Magnani would assist him to defend
himself.
So Mila was anxious; she had said nothing to her father of her fears;
but she had been out more than ten times on the road to the villa,
listening to noises in the distance, watching all the passers-by, and
returning to the house each time more distressed and alarmed than
before. At last, when eleven o'clock struck, she dared not go out again,
but remained in her room, sometimes at the window, where she tired her
eyes staring to no purpose, sometimes beside her bed, where she fell on
her knees, depressed beyond measure, with her face buried in the pillow.
At times her pulses throbbed so violently that she mistook the throbbing
for a noise by her side. Then she would start and raise her head, and,
hearing nothing, try to pray.
At last, about midnight, she thought that she heard distinctly a faint
sound of irregular footsteps in the yard. She looked and fancied that
she saw a shadow glide along the wall and disappear in the darkness. It
was Magnani; but she could not distinguish any well-defined form, and
was not sure that she had not been deceived by her own imagination.
A few moments later two men stole noiselessly up the outside staircase
of the house. Mila had begun to pray again, and did not hear them until
they were under her window. She ran to the window, and seeing only the
tops of their heads, as she was directly above them, she had no doubt
that they were her brother and Magnani returning together. She hastily
rearranged her lovely hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, and
hurried to meet them. But as she passed into Michel's chamber, the outer
door of that chamber opened, and she found herself face to face with
Michel and a man who was fully a head shorter than Antonio Magnani.
The Piccinino, whose features were hidden by the hood of his cloak,
hastily drew back and closed the door, saying: "You probably did not
expect your mistress to-night, Michel. Under any other circumstances it
would give me great pleasure to see her, for she seemed to be as
beautiful as the Madonna; but at this moment you will oblige me greatly
if you can send her away without letting her see me."
"Have no fear," replied the young artist. "This woman is my sister, and
I will send her back to her own room. Stay here a moment, behind the
door."
"Mila," he said, entering the room again and holding the door between
his companion and himself, "you seem to have taken a mania for sitting
up late like a night-bird. Go back to your own room, my dear love, I am
not alone. One of father's apprentices has asked me to take him in, and
I am going to share my bed with him. You must see that you shouldn't
stay here another moment, unless you want to be seen with your hair and
dress in disorder."
"I will go," said Mila; "but tell me first, Michel, whether Magnani came
home with you?"
"What does it matter to you?" rejoined Michel, testily. Mila heaved a
profound sigh, and returned to her room, where she threw herself on her
bed, quite disheartened, but determined to pretend to be asleep, and to
listen to everything that was said in the adjoining room. Perhaps
something had happened to Magnani; her brother's abrupt manner seemed to
her of evil augury.
As soon as the Piccinino found himself alone with Michel, he asked him
to throw the bolts and to place a mattress from the bed against the thin
warped door of the adjoining room, through which the light could be seen
and their voices heard. When that was done, he asked him to make sure
that his father was asleep, or, if he were still awake, to wish him
good-night, so that the old man might not take it into his head to come
upstairs. As he spoke, the bandit unceremoniously threw himself on
Michel's bed, having first removed his rich doublet, and, covering his
head with his cloak, seemed determined not to lose an instant in going
to sleep.
Michel went downstairs as he was requested; but he was no sooner on the
staircase than the young outlaw sprang to his feet as swiftly and
lightly as a bird, threw the mattress aside, drew the bolt, and
approached Mila's bed, beside which her little lamp was still burning.
Mila heard him come in; but she supposed that Michel had come to make
sure that she was in bed. It did not occur to her that another could
have the audacity to enter her room thus, and, like a child who is
afraid of being scolded, she closed her eyes and lay perfectly still.
The Piccinino had never seen a beautiful woman without being disturbed
and restless until he had examined her carefully, in order that he might
cease to think of her if her beauty was imperfect, or cast his net over
her if her style of beauty succeeded in inflaming his disdainful heart,
a strange compound of love and indolence, energy and torpor. Few men of
twenty-five have lived so chaste and self-restrained a life as the
bandit of Ætna; but few imaginations are so fertile as his was in
dreams of pleasure and in boundless appetites. It seemed that he was
always seeking to kindle his passions in order to test their intensity,
but that he abstained from gratifying them most of the time, fearing
lest his enjoyment might fall short of the idea he had conceived of it.
Certain it is that on the few occasions on which he had given way, he
had been profoundly depressed afterwards, and had reproached himself for
having expended so much exertion for a pleasure so soon exhausted.
Perhaps he had other reasons for wishing to see Michel's sister's
features without Michel's knowledge. However that may be, he gazed at
her attentively for a moment, and, enraptured by her beauty, her
youthful grace, and her air of innocence, he asked himself whether he
would not do better to love that fascinating child rather than a woman
older than himself and doubtless more difficult to persuade.
At that moment Mila, weary of feigning sleep, and more eager for news of
Magnani than afraid of her brother's reproaches, opened her eyes and saw
the stranger leaning over her. She saw his eyes gleaming under his hood,
and, terror-stricken, she was on the point of crying out, when he put
his hand over her mouth.
"Child," he said in a low voice, "if you say a word, you are lost. Hush,
and I will go away. Come, come, my lovely angel," he added, in a
caressing tone, "don't be afraid of the friend of your family; before
long perhaps you will thank him for having disturbed your sleep."
And, being unable to resist an insane impulse of coquetry, of a sort
that often caused him suddenly to forget his resolutions and his
cautious instincts, he threw back his hood and disclosed his beautiful
features, made still more beautiful by a sweet and winning smile. The
innocent Mila thought that she had had a vision. The diamonds that
sparkled on the young man's breast so heightened the general effect that
she did not know whether it was an angel or a prince in disguise who
stood before her. Bewildered, hesitating, she smiled back at him, half
fascinated, half terrified. Thereupon he lifted a heavy tress of her
black hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, and put it to his lips.
Fear gained the upper hand. Again Mila attempted to cry out. The
stranger flashed such a terrible glance at her that her voice failed
her. He put out the lamp, returned to Michel's room, bolted the door,
and replaced the mattress; then, throwing himself on the bed and
concealing his face, he seemed to be sleeping soundly when Michel
returned. All this had happened in less time than it has required to
tell it.
But, for the first time in his life, perhaps, the Piccinino could not
compel sleep to deaden the activity of his thoughts. His imagination was
an unbroken steed, with whom he had fought so many battles that he
believed that he had placed a curb in his mouth forever. But the curb
was broken, and that powerful will, exhausted in trivial combats, no
longer sufficed to control fierce instincts too long held in check. He
was between two violent temptations, which appeared to him in the shape
of two women almost equally desirable, and whom the detestable Ninfo had
practically offered to share with him. Michel was the hostage whom he
had in his hands, and for whose ransom he could demand and perhaps
obtain everything.
To be sure, he no longer believed in Agatha's passion for the young
artist; but he had seen her utter indifference as to the matter of
money, when it was a question of saving her friends from perils that
threatened them. Was she so disinterested as to think that she ought to
sacrifice something more than her fortune to ransom her protégé?
Probably not; so that the bandit must rely upon his individual powers of
seduction, and he saw in Michel only a means of gaining access to her so
that he might exert those powers.
As for the young sister, it seemed to him an easier matter to overcome
so innocent a child, not only because of the more direct affection which
she undoubtedly entertained for her brother, but also because of her
inexperience and the purity of her imagination, which he had tested with
a glance.
In respect to youthful charm and mere physical beauty, Mila far
surpassed Agatha; but Agatha was a princess, and the instinct of vanity
was strong in the bastard of Castro-Reale. She was supposed never to
have had a lover, she seemed prudent and strong. She had had twenty
years or more to practise self-defence and to repel the assaults of the
passions she had inspired; for she was at least thirty years old, and in
the fiery climate of Sicily, where plants mature in less time than they
require in France to put forth buds, a girl of ten is almost a woman.
It was, therefore, a most glorious conquest to dream about, and for that
reason most intoxicating. But there was also the fear of failure, and
Carmelo thought that in that case he should die of shame and rage. He
had never known pain; it was a word almost devoid of meaning to him
until that moment. He was beginning to discover that one can suffer for
other causes than anger and ennui. As he lay awake, he watched Michel
without his knowledge. He saw him sit down at his table and take his
head in his hands, in an attitude of the most complete discouragement.
Michel was profoundly depressed. All his dreams had vanished like smoke.
His situation seemed to him sufficiently elucidated by the conversation
he had had with the bandit as they returned from the villa. To test him,
the Piccinino had repeated Abbé Ninfo's calumnies, pretending to
believe them and generously to take Michel's part. The young painter's
noble and upright heart had rebelled against a suspicion which assailed
the princess's dignity; his denials and his manner of describing his
first interview with her in the ball-room had corresponded so closely
with the way in which the princess herself had represented the facts to
the bandit, that the latter, after a more searching and subtle
examination than that of an inquisitor, had ended by becoming convinced
that there was nothing criminal in the princess's relations with the
artist.