modesty and loyalty, the Piccinino had concluded that, if the princess
did not love him, he wished that she might, and that he had fallen in
love with her at first sight. He remembered Michel's abrupt and ironical
reply to himself during the ball, and he took a cruel delight in making
him feel that he could not hope to be loved by such a woman. It even
occurred to him to admit that he questioned him only to test the
refinement of his nature, and he ended by repeating word for word what
Agatha had said when she pointed to Michel at the window of the boudoir:
"Look at that young man and tell me if there can possibly be any
wrongful relations between two persons of our respective ages and
conditions." Then he added, pressing Michel's hand as they entered the
city: "My child, I am pleased with you; for any other man, at your age,
would have seized the opportunity to pose as the hero of a mysterious
adventure with that adorable woman. Now I see that you are already a
serious-minded man, and I can say to you in confidence that she has made
an ineffaceable impression on me, and that I shall be like a stone in
the crater of the volcano until I have seen her again."
The tone in which the Piccinino proclaimed, so to speak, this
confession, combined with the remembrance of his enraptured face and his
triumphant attitude when he returned to the boudoir with Agatha, alarmed
Michel beyond expression. He had not felt obliged in conscience to tell
him what illusions he had cherished, what he had thought that he could
read in certain glances, still less what had taken place--and he did not
believe that it was altogether a dream--in the grotto of the naiad.
Indeed, he would have considered it his bounden duty to deny it with all
his strength if his rival could have suspected it. But all his phantoms
of pride and happiness took flight before Agatha's cold words, repeated
in a dry, cutting tone by the Piccinino. But one point remained obscure
in his situation. That was the peculiarly warm affection of the princess
for his father and sister. But how could he attribute the honor of that
affection to himself? It was based upon an ancient political connection
or upon gratitude for some service rendered by Pier-Angelo.
Pier-Angelo's son was subjected to the dangers of that connection at the
same time that he shared its benefits. When that debt of the heart was
paid, it was impossible that Michel could arouse any further interest in
the generous patroness of his family. The mysteries that had fascinated
him fell back into the domain of reality, and instead of the pleasant
labor of combating charming illusions, he had the mortification of
feeling that he had combated them unsuccessfully and the pain of being
unable to revive them.
"Why should I be jealous of the insolent joy that shone in the eyes of
that bandit?" he said to himself in dire distress. "Have I any business
even to consider the question whether his strange manner caused the
princess pleasurable or painful emotion? What have she and I in common?
What am I to her? Pier-Angelo's son! And he, this bold-faced adventurer,
is her mainstay and her savior. He will soon have a claim upon her
gratitude--perhaps upon her esteem and affection; for it rests only with
him to acquire them. He loves her, and if he is not mad he will find
some way or other to make her love him. But how can I earn any title to
her distinction? Of what consequence are the embryotic products of my
art in comparison with the energetic assistance which she demands? It
seems to me that she looks upon me as a child, since, instead of calling
me to her aid, and entrusting to me some mission of importance to her
interests and her personal safety, she does not even consider me capable
of defending my own life. She considers me so weak or so timid that in
this hour of our common danger she has sought the intervention of a
stranger--an ally more dangerous than useful, it may be. O my God! how
far she is from looking upon me as a man! Why did she not simply say to
me: 'Your father and I are threatened by an enemy. Drop your brushes,
take a dagger; defend your father or avenge me!' Fra Angelo reproached
me for my indifference; but, instead of correcting it, they actually
treat me like a child whom they pity, and whose life they save without
troubling themselves about his heart!"
While he abandoned himself to these melancholy reflections, Michelangelo
felt as if his heart were breaking, and finding in front of him the
sprig of cyclamen, which was still living in its Venetian glass, he let
a scalding tear fall upon it.
XXX
THE FALSE MONK
Mila had been so astonished and alarmed by the appearance of the
Piccinino that she could not possibly sleep. The fact that alarmed her
most was that she no longer heard conversation in the adjoining room,
and that she could not make sure that her brother was there. She was
unwilling to go to bed, and, after a few moments, as her reflections
served only to increase her terror, she rose and opened another door of
her chamber which opened on an outer gallery, or rather a dilapidated
corridor sheltered by an awning, and ending in a staircase which served
as a means of communication between her room and those of the other
occupants of the house. Mila had never opened that door at night, but
this time she went out on the gallery, having fully determined to seek
refuge with her father and to sit in his chamber until daylight.
But she had barely taken three steps when a new cause of alarm brought
her to a standstill. A man was leaning against the wall of the gallery
as motionless as a robber on the watch.
She was about to fly, when a voice said in a whisper: "Is that you,
Mila?" And as the man walked toward her she recognized Magnani.
"Don't be afraid," he said. "I am watching here by order of a person who
is dear to you. Doubtless you know why, as you transmitted her message
to me?"
"I know that my brother has been in danger this evening," replied the
girl; "but it seems that you are not the only one whom our dear princess
has stationed beside him to defend him. There is another young man in
his room, whom I do not know."
"I know it, Mila; but that young man is the very one who is under
suspicion; and I must stand guard as near as possible to the place where
he is sleeping, until he has left the house."
"But you are a long way from him!" exclaimed Mila, in dismay, "and my
brother might be murdered and you not hear it from here."
"But what am I to do?" replied Magnani. "I could not get any nearer to
his room. He took pains to lock the door at the foot of the other
staircase. So I am here; and I have my eyes and ears open, I assure
you!"
"I will watch, too," said the girl, resolutely, "and you can sit up with
me, Magnani. Come into my room. Even though people should speak ill of
us, if we were seen, even if my father and brother should scold me
severely, it makes no difference to me! I am only afraid of the man who
is locked into Michel's room with him, or alone--for they put a mattress
against my door, and I cannot find out whether Michel is really there. I
am afraid for Michel; I am afraid for myself."
And she told how the bandit had entered her room when Michel was
apparently not there to oppose his entrance.
Magnani, being unable to explain such an extraordinary occurrence,
accepted Mila's suggestion without hesitation. He entered her room,
leaving the door of the gallery ajar, in order that he might retire
unseen if need were, but all ready to burst in Michel's door at the
slightest alarming noise.
When he had listened coolly and cautiously, with his eye and ear glued
to the partition, he said to Mila, beckoning her to the side of the room
farthest from the door, and speaking very low:
"Set your mind at rest; they are not so well barricaded that I could not
see Michel sitting at his table, apparently deep in meditation. I could
not make out the other one, but I promise you that they cannot make a
movement which I shall not hear, and that their bolt will not hold a
second against my fist. I am armed; so don't be afraid any more, my dear
Mila."
"No, no, I am not afraid," she said. "Since you have been here, I have
recovered the use of my mind. Before you came, I was like a madwoman; I
neither saw nor heard anything except through a veil. Have you had no
accident, run no risk yourself to-night, Magnani?"
"None at all; but what are you looking for, Mila? You will make a noise
fumbling in that drawer."
"No, no," she said. "I am getting a weapon too, for I feel as brave as a
lion with you."
And she held up an ebony spindle, carved and mounted in silver, the
stout, sharp point of which might at need serve the purpose of a
stiletto.
"When our dear princess gave me this to-day," she said, "she had no
suspicion that I might perhaps use it to defend my brother. But tell me,
Magnani, how did the princess receive you, and how did she explain these
mysteries which are happening all about us, and which I do not
understand at all? We can safely talk here in this doorway; no one will
hear us and it will help to make the time seem shorter and less dull."
She sat down on the step outside the door that opened on the gallery.
Magnani sat beside her, ready to fly if any inquisitive individual
should approach, ready to show himself if Michel's guest made any sign
of hostility. They talked in very low tones, and their whispered words
expired in the open air, nor did either of the two become so engrossed
as to fail to pause and listen intently at the slightest sound.
When Magnani had told Mila what little he knew, she lost herself in vain
conjectures as to the identity of that handsome young man, whose
expression was at once sweet and fear-inspiring, who styled himself,
when speaking with her, the friend of the family, and of whom the
princess had said to Magnani: "He is either our savior or our
enemy."--And, when Magnani urged her not to try to fathom a secret which
the princess and her family apparently deemed it necessary to conceal
from her, she replied: "Do not think that I am consumed by silly
childish curiosity! No, I have not that wretched failing. But I have
been afraid all day long, and yet I am not timid, either. Something
incomprehensible is going on about me, and I, too, believe that I am
threatened by enemies whom I do not know. I do not dare to mention the
subject to my father or to the princess; I am afraid that if they
undertake to look out for me, too, they will neglect a part of the
precautions demanded by their own safety. But I must think about
defending myself; to-morrow, when you go to your work and my father and
brother have gone out, I shall begin to tremble again for them, for you
and for my self."
"I shall not go to work to-morrow, Mila," said Magnani. "The princess
ordered me not to leave your brother, whether he remains at home or goes
out. She did not mention you, which fact makes me almost certain that
you are not included in the secret persecution at which she has taken
fright. But, whatever happens, I shall not stir from here, without
having made sure that no one can come and frighten you."
"Listen," she said, "I am going to tell you what happened to me to-day.
You know that we often have in our yard some of those begging brothers,
who annoy everybody, even the poor people, and whom you cannot get rid
of without giving them something. Well, one of them came just after
Michel and my father had left the house, and I never saw a monk so
persistent, and so bold, and so inquisitive. Just fancy that, when he
saw me working at my window, he took up his station just below it, and
there he stood, staring at me with a gaze that embarrassed me, although
I tried not to meet his eyes. I tossed him some bread in order to get
rid of him. He didn't condescend to pick it up. 'Young woman,' he said,
'that is not the way people give alms to a brother of my order. They
take the trouble to go downstairs to him and to commend themselves to
his prayers, instead of tossing him a crust as if he were a dog. You are
not a pious maid, and your parents have brought you up badly. I am sure
that you are not a native?'
"I made the mistake of answering him. He had put me in a bad humor with
his sermon, and he was so ugly, so dirty, so insolent, that I could not
help exhibiting my disgust. It seemed to me that I recognized him as a
man I had seen in the morning at the Palmarosa palace. My brother was
disturbed by his face at that time, and questioned my uncle Fra Angelo
about him. He sent us away in haste, promising to find out who he was,
for he did not recognize him as a Capuchin, and my father said that he
resembled a certain Abbé Ninfo, who bears us a grudge, apparently.
However, either it was not the same man, or else he had changed his
disguise; for he wore the costume of a bare-footed Carmelite when he
came here; and, instead of a thick, curly black beard, he had a red
beard, as short and stiff as a wild boar's hair. He was even more
horrible in that dress, and if it was not the same man, why, I can
safely say that I have seen to-day the two most repulsive monks in
Valdemona."
"And you were imprudent enough to talk with him?" said Magnani.
"Talk is not the word; I requested him to carry his preaching somewhere
else, saying that I had no time to go down to him or to listen to his
reprimands; that, if he did not consider my alms worthy of his
acceptance, he could give it to the first poor person he met, and that,
if he was born proud, he had made a great mistake in becoming a
mendicant."
"Doubtless he was irritated by your replies?"
"No, for if I had seen that he was mortified or angry, charity or
prudence would have kept me from saying so much. But, instead of
continuing to scold me, he began to smile; a ghastly sort of smile, to
be sure, but not resentful.
"'You are an amusing child,' he said, 'and I forgive your lack of
propriety because of your wit and your black eyes.'
"I ask you if it was not very wicked for a monk to pay any attention to
the color of my eyes? I told him that he might stay a year under my
window before I would look to see what color his were. He called me a
flirt; a strange word, isn't it, in the mouth of a man who ought not
even to know that there is such a word? I closed my window, but when I
opened it a quarter of an hour later, being unable to endure the
stifling heat in my room when the sun is high, he was still looking at
me. I refused to talk to him any more. He told me that he would stay
there until I gave him something better than bread; that he knew that I
wasn't a poor girl; that I had a beautiful pin of chased gold in my
hair, and that he would gladly accept that, unless I preferred to give
him a lock of hair in its place. And he followed that up with such
absurd and extravagant compliments that I believed and still believe he
was laughing at me, and that it was his spiteful and unseemly way of
venting his anger.
"As there were people in the house, particularly your father and one of
your brothers, whom I could see working in their rooms within reach of
my voice, I was not alarmed by that wretched monk's strange remarks and
impertinent glances; I answered only by making fun of him, and, to get
rid of him, I promised to give him something on condition that he would
go away at once. He declared that he had the right to accept or refuse
my offering, and that, if I would let him choose, he would be very
modest and would not ruin me.--'What do you want,' I said, 'a skein of
silk to mend your ragged frock?'--'No,' he replied, 'it's too badly
spun.'--'Do you want my scissors to cut your beard, which is growing all
awry?'--'No, for I might perhaps use it to cut off the rosy tip of that
impertinent little tongue.'--'A needle, then, to sew up your mouth,
which doesn't know what it says?'--'No, for I am afraid that your needle
has no sharper point than your epigrams.'
"We jested thus for some time; although he annoyed me, he made me laugh;
for it seemed to me that his manner had become more fatherly than
threatening, that he was really a monk, one of those persistent jokers
such as we all know, who obtain by teasing what they cannot extort by
prayer; and lastly, I discovered that he was very bright, and I did not
put a stop to that childish badinage so soon as I should have done. I
took from the wall a little mirror about the size of my hand, of no
value, which he had noticed hanging by my window, as to which he asked
me how many hours a day I passed consulting it. I lowered it to him by a
silk thread, saying that he would certainly enjoy looking at himself in
it much more than I had enjoyed having his face before my eyes so long.
"He seized it eagerly and kissed it, exclaiming in a tone which
frightened me: 'Has it retained a reflection of your beauty, O dangerous
maiden? Just a reflection! that is very little, but if I could fix it
there, I would never take my lips from it.'
"'Fie!' I said, drawing back from the window, 'those words dishonor the
frock you wear, and such jesting does not befit a monk.'
"I closed my window again and came to this door where we are now, and
opened it so that I could breathe while I worked. But I had not been
there five minutes when I saw the Capuchin before me. He had presumed to
enter the house, I don't know how; for I had locked the outer door, and
he must either have been prowling around in the adjoining house, or have
known all the ins and outs of this one.--'Go away,' I said to him; 'no
one has a right to enter a house in this way, and if you come near my
door, I will call my father and brother, who are in the next room.'
"'I know perfectly well that they are not there,' he replied, with a
hateful laugh, 'and as for the neighbors, it would do no good to call
them, for I should be far away before they could get here. What makes
you afraid of me, young woman? I only wanted to have a nearer view of
your soft eyes and your red lips; Raphael's Madonna is a mere
maid-servant compared with you. Come, don't be afraid of me'--and, as he
spoke, he held the door open, which I tried to shut in his face.--'I
would give my life for a kiss from you; but if you refuse me that, give
me at least the rose that perfumes your breast; I shall die of joy
dreaming that ----'
"I heard no more, for he had let the door go and tried to seize me in
his arms. In spite of my terror, I had more presence of mind than he
expected; for I stepped quickly to one side, slammed the door in his
face, and as he was a little bewildered by the blow, I took advantage of
it to run through Michel's room. I ran downstairs at the top of my
speed, and didn't stop until I was in the street, for there was no
neighbor near enough to depend upon. When I was among the people in the
street, I was no longer afraid of the monk, but I wouldn't have come
back to my room for anything on earth. I walked to Villa Palmarosa, and
didn't feel entirely at ease until the princess had taken me into her
room. I passed the rest of the day there, and did not come home until
father was ready. But I dared not say anything about what had happened,
for the reason I have given you--and if I must be entirely frank,
because I felt that I had been imprudent to joke with that wretched
begging monk, and that I deserved some blame for it. A rebuke from my
father would almost kill me; but from Princess Agatha--why, I would
rather be damned at once and forever!'"
"Dear child, as you are so afraid of reproaches, I will keep your
secret," said Magnani, "and I will not venture to make the slightest
comment."
"On the contrary, I beg you to comment as severely as you please,
Magnani. It will not humiliate me from you. I am not presumptuous enough
to think that you like me, and I know that my childish faults will not
cause you the slightest distress. It is because I know how dearly my
father and Princess Agatha love me that I dread so to grieve them. But
you can say whatever you please to me, for you will simply laugh at my
foolishness."
"So you think me very indifferent, do you?" said Magnani, upon whom this
story of the monk had had a singularly disquieting and disturbing
effect.
Then, surprised at the question that had escaped him, he rose and went
on tiptoe to listen at Michel's door. He thought that he could hear the
regular breathing of a sleeping person. The Piccinino had in fact
succeeded finally in allaying the tumult of his thoughts, and Michel,
overcome by weariness, was dozing in his chair, with his head resting on
his hands.
Magnani returned to Mila; but he dared not sit beside her again. "And I
too," he thought, ashamed, and as it were, afraid of himself, "I am a
monk consumed by my imagination and excited by enforced continence. This
child is too lovely, too pure, too trustful, to live thus the
untrammelled neglected life of girls of our station; no one can look at
her without emotion, whether he be a monk doomed to celibacy or a man
hopelessly in love with another woman. I would like to have my hands on
that vile monk and break his neck; and yet I too quiver at the thought
that this unsuspecting maiden is in this room, alone with me, in the
silence of night, ready to seek shelter in my arms at the slightest
alarm!"
XXXI
WITCHCRAFT
Magnani tried to divert his thoughts by talking of the princess with
Mila. The innocent girl lured him into it, and he accepted that subject
of conversation as a preservative. It will be seen that a strange
revolution had taken place in two days in the young man's mental
condition, since he had already reached the point of looking upon his
love for Agatha as a duty, or as what the doctors call a depurative.
If he had been certain that the princess loved Michel, of which fact he
was persuaded at times, with a feeling of utter stupefaction, he would
have been almost entirely cured of his own mad passion. For he had given
it so exalted a place in his thoughts that, as he had lost hope, so he
had almost reached the point where he desired nothing. His passion had
become a sort of pious habit, so ideal that it no longer touched the
earth, and that by returning it, Agatha might have destroyed it
instantly. Assume that she loved any man on earth, even the man who
cherished so exalted an adoration for her, and she became in his eyes
simply a woman, whose influence he could combat. That was the result of
five years' suffering without the slightest presumption, and without a
moment's intermission. In a heart of such strength and purity, the
utmost order had prevailed amid the effervescence of a passion which
resembled a beginning of madness; and it was precisely that circumstance
which might be Magnani's salvation. Efforts to deaden his pain would
have served only to excite him more, and after indulging in vulgar
pleasures, he would have returned to his chimera with more suffering and
more weakness; whereas by abandoning himself without resistance, without
desire for repose, and without terror, to a martyrdom which might be
everlasting, he had allowed the flame to become concentrated in one
spot, where it burned dully, not fanned from without, and deprived of
any fresh sustenance.
Thus Magnani had reached that critical moment when a man must be cured
or die, without any transition. He did not appreciate it, but it
certainly was a fact, for his senses were awaking from a long period of
numbness, and Agatha, far from contributing to the awakening, was the
only woman to whom he would have blushed to attribute in his thoughts
the perturbation that he felt.
Little by little, he leaned toward the girl in order not to lose a
single one of her words, and he ended by sitting down beside her, and
asking her why it had occurred to her to talk of him with Princess
Agatha.
"Why, it is very simple," replied Mila; "she led me to do it by asking
me which of the young mechanics of my acquaintance Michel had been most
intimate with since he had arrived in the island; and as I hesitated
between you and one or two of father's apprentices who assisted Michel,
and whom he seemed to like, the princess herself said: