Produced by David Widger
THE SICILIAN BANDIT
From the Volume “Captain Paul”
By Alexandre Dumas, pere
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.--INTRODUCTION--PALERMO.
CHAPTER II.--BRUNO AND ALI.
CHAPTER III.--THE FATAL BRIDAL.
CHAPTER IV.--THE PRINCE AND THE BANDIT.
CHAPTER IV.--THE ROBBER’S CASTLE.
CHAPTER VI.--A BANDIT’S GRATITUDE.
CHAPTER VII.--A BRIGAND’S VENGEANCE.
CHAPTER VIII.---TREACHERY.
CHAPTER IX.--THE SIEGE.
CHAPTER X.--THE CHAPELLE ARDENTE.
CHAPTER XI.--DEATH OF THE BANDIT.
CHAPTER XII.--CONCLUSION.
CHAPTER I.--INTRODUCTION--PALERMO.
It is with cities as with men--chance presides over their foundation;
and the topographical situation of the first, and the social position of
the latter, exercise a beneficial or an evil influence over their entire
existence.
There are noble cities which, in their selfish pride of place, have
refused to permit the erection even of a few humble cottages on the
mountain on which their foundations rested: their domination must be
exclusive and supreme; consequently they have remained as poor as they
are proud.
There are villages so humble as to have taken refuge in the recesses
of the valley--have built their farmsteads, mills, and cottages on the
margin of a brook, and, protected by the hills that sheltered them from
heat and cold, have passed an almost unknown and tranquil life, like
that of men without ardour and without ambition--terrified by every
sound, dazzled by every blaze of light, and whose whole happiness
consists in shade and silence.
There are, again, others that have commenced their existence as paltry
hamlets on the sea-shore, and which, by degrees, have seen sailing
vessels succeed the simple boat, and noble ships the tiny barque--whose
modest huts have given place to lordly palaces, while the gold of Potosi
and the wealth of the Indies flow into their ample ports.
It is for these reasons that we give to cold, inanimate nature epithets
that truly belong to man’s nobility alone. Thus we say, Messina the
noble, Syracuse the faithful, Girgenti the magnificent, Trapani the
invincible, and Palermo the blessed.
If ever there was a city predestined to be blessed--that city is
Palermo. Situated beneath a cloudless sky, on a luxuriously fertile
plain, and sheltered by a belt of mountains, in the centre of a
picturesquely beautiful country, its ample ports open to receive the
gentle flow of the azure sea.
There is nothing more beautiful than the days at Palermo, except it
be the nights--those eastern nights, so clear and balmy, in which the
murmur of the sea, the rustling of the breeze, and the busy hum of the
town seem like a universal concert of love, during which all created
things, from the wave to the tree, from the tree to man himself, breathe
a mysterious sigh.
At times, however, the sea suddenly assumes a livid tint; the wind
drops, the noise of the city is hushed; a few bloodied clouds travel
rapidly from the south to the north; these clouds foretell the coming of
the dread sirocco, that scorching blast, borne in the sands of Libya and
carried to Europe by the southerly gales: immediately everything animate
droops and becomes oppressed and suffering, and the whole island feels
as when Etna threatens. Animals and men alike seek shelter, and when
they have found it, they crouch in fear, for the blast has taken away
all courage, paralysed the strength, and deadened every faculty; and
this lasts until a purer air from the Calabrian hills restores the
strength and appears to renew their existence, and on the morrow all
again is pleasure and mirth.
It was the evening of the month of September, 1803, when the sirocco had
lasted throughout the entire day; but at sunset the sky became clear,
the sea resumed its azure tint, and a few blasts of cool air blew over
the Liparian Archipelago. This atmospheric change had such an influence
on all animated beings, that they gradually revived from their state
of torpor, and you might have imagined you were present at a second
creation, the more so from the fact of Palermo being, as we have already
said, a perfect garden of Eden.
Among all the daughters of Eve who, in the paradise they inhabit, make
love their principal occupation, there was one who will play a very
important part in the course of this history. That we may direct the
attention of our readers to her, and to the place in which she dwelt,
let them leave Palermo by the San-Georgio gate along with us, leaving
the castle of St Mark on the right, and, reaching the Mole, they will
follow the course of the sea-shore for some distance, and stop before
the delightful villa of the Prince of Carini, the Viceroy of Sicily
under Ferdinand the Fourth, who had just returned from Naples to take up
his abode in it.
On the first floor of this elegant villa, in a chamber tapestried
with azure-blue silk, the ceiling of which was ornamented with fresco
painting, a female, simply attired in a snow-white morning dress, was
reclining on a sofa, her arms hung listlessly, her head was thrown back,
and her hair dishevelled; for an instant she might have been taken for
a marble statue, but a gentle tremor ran through her frame, colour
gradually came to her cheeks, her eyes began to open, the beautiful
statue became animated, sighed, stretched out its hand to a little
silver bell placed on a table of peliminta marble, rang it lazily, and,
as if fatigued with the effort she had made, fell back again on the
sofa.
The silvery sound, however, had been heard, the door opened, and a young
and pretty waiting-maid, whose disordered toilet declared that she,
as well as her mistress, had felt the influence of the African wind,
appeared on the threshold.
“Is it you, Teresa?” said her mistress, languidly, and turning her head.
“It is enough to kill one: is the sirocco still blowing?”
“No, signora, it has quite passed over, and we begin to breathe again.”
“Bring me some iced fruit, and let me have a little air.”
Teresa obeyed these orders with as much promptitude as the remains of
her languor would allow; she placed the refreshments on the table, and
opened the window that looked out on the sea.
“Look, madame la comtesse,” she said, “we shall have a magnificent day
to-morrow; and the air is so clear that you can plainly see the island
of Alicari, although the day is drawing to a close.”
“Yes, yes, the air is refreshing; give me your arm, Teresa; I will try
if I can drag myself as far as the window.”
The attendant approached her mistress, who replaced on the table the
refreshment her lips had scarcely touched, and, resting on Teresa’s
shoulder, walked languidly towards the balcony.
“How this delightful breeze revives one,” she observed, as she inhaled
the evening air; “bring me my chair, and open the other window that
looks into the garden,--that will do. Has the prince returned from
Montreal?”
“Not yet, my lady,” replied Teresa.
“So much the better; I would not have him see me in this wretched state,
so pale and weak: I must look dreadfully.”
“Madame la comtesse never looked more beautiful than at this moment, and
I am certain that in the whole city we see from this window, there is
not a woman who would not be jealous of your ladyship.”
“Do you include the Marchioness of Rudini and the Princess of Butera?”
“I except no one,” replied the attendant.
“Ah, I see the prince has been bribing you to flatter me, Teresa.”
“I assure you, madame, I only tell you what I think.”
“Oh, what a delightful place Palermo is!” said the countess, taking a
deep inspiration.
“Especially when one is two-and-twenty years of age, and rich and
beautiful,” continued Teresa, smiling.
“You have but completed my thoughts, and on that account I wish to see
every one about me cheerful and happy. When is your marriage to take
place, Teresa?” Teresa made no answer. “Is not Sunday the day fixed
upon?” continued the countess.
“Yes, signora,” answered her attendant with a sigh.
“Why do you sigh? Have you not made up your mind?”
“Oh, yes, certainly.”
“Have you any dislike to the marriage!”
“No; I believe Gaetano is a good lad, and that he will make me happy.
Besides, this marriage will enable me to remain with madame la comtesse,
and that is my most earnest wish.”
“Then why did you sigh?”
“Pray pardon me, my lady, but I was thinking of our native country.”
“Our native country!” echoed the countess.
“Yes; madame la comtesse may remember, while at Palermo, that she had
left a foster sister at the village of which her father was the signor;
and when she wrote for me to come to her, I was about to be married to a
young man belonging to Bauso.”
“Why did you not tell me of that? The prince, at my recommendation,
would have taken him into his service.”
“Oh, he would not become a servant,” said Teresa; “he was too proud for
that.”
“Indeed!” said the countess.
“Yes; he had before then refused the situation of shepherd to the Prince
of Goto.”
“He was a gentleman, then, this young man?”
“No, madame la comtesse; he was but a simple mountaineer,” said Teresa,
in a melancholy tone.
“What was his name?”
“Oh, I do not think that your ladyship would recollect it,” said Teresa,
eagerly.
“And do you then regret his loss?”
“I cannot tell; I only know that if I were to become his wife instead of
Gaetano’s, I should be obliged to work for my living; and that would be
a laborious task for me, after leading so easy and pleasant a life under
madame la comtesse.”
“And yet, Teresa, is it not true that people accuse me of pride and
violence?” asked the countess.
“Madame is very good to me, that is all I can say,” replied Teresa.
“The nobles of Palermo say so, because the Counts of Castel Nuovo were
ennobled by Charles the Fifth, while the Ventimillas and the Partanas
descend, as they pretend, from Tancred and Rogero: but that is not the
reason the women hate me; they conceal their hatred under the cloak of
disdain, and they neglect me because Rodolpho loves me, and they are
jealous of the viceroy’s love; they do all they can to seduce him
from me; but they will never succeed, for my beauty is greater than
theirs--Carini tells me so every day, and so do you, story-teller.”
“You have here a greater flatterer than either his excellency or
myself,” said Teresa, archly.
“Who is that?” asked the countess.
“The countess’s mirror.”
“Foolish girl!” said the countess, with a gratified smile. “There, go
and light the tapers of the Psyche.” The attendant obeyed her mistress’s
orders. “Now shut that window, and leave me; there will be sufficient
air from the garden.”
Teresa obeyed, and left the room. Scarcely did the countess perceive
that she was gone, than she seated herself before the Psyche, and smiled
as she looked at and admired herself in the glass.
A wonderful creature was the Countess Emma, or rather Gemma, for, from
her very infancy, her parents had added a G to her baptismal name;
and, on account of this addition, she called herself Diamond. She was
certainly wrong in confining her origin to the signature of Charles the
Fifth, for in her slight and pliant form, you might recognise an Ionian
origin; in her black and expressive eyes, a descendant of the Arabs; and
in her fair and vermilion skin, a daughter of Gaul. She could equally
boast of her descent from an Athenian archon, a Saracen emir, and
a Norman chieftain; she was one of those beauties that in the first
instance were found in Sicily alone, at a later time in one town alone
in the world--Arles. So that, instead, of calling the artifices of the
toilet to her assistance, as she intended in the first instance, Gemma
found herself more charming in her partial dishabille.
The glass, being placed before the window that was left open, reflected
the sky from its surface, and Gemma, without intention or thought, wrapt
herself up in a vague and delicious pleasure, counting in the glass the
images of the stars as they each appeared in their turn, and giving them
names as they successively appeared in the heavens.
Suddenly it appeared as if a rising shadow placed itself before the
stars, and that a face appeared behind her; she turned herself quickly
round and beheld a man standing at the window. Gemma rose and opened her
mouth with the intention of screaming for assistance, when the stranger,
springing into the chamber, clasped his hands, and said in supplicating
accents--
“In the name of heaven do not call out, madame! for on my honour, you
have nothing to fear: I will do you no harm.”
Gemma fell back into her chair, and the apparition and words of the
stranger were succeeded by a moment’s silence, during which she had time
to cast a rapid glance at the person who had introduced himself into her
room in this extraordinary manner.
He was a young man, some twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, and
appeared to belong to the ranks of the people; he wore a Calabrian hat,
round which a piece of velvet was tied, the ends of which fell loosely
on his shoulders, a velvet vest with silver buttons, breeches of the
same material, and ornamented in a similar manner; round his waist
he wore a red silk belt with green fringe; shoes and leather gaiters
completed his costume, which appeared to have been selected to set off
his fine figure to advantage. His features possessed a kind of savage
beauty, his look was bold and proud, his beard black, his teeth sharp
and white, and his nose aquiline.
For a certainty, Gemma was not a whit the more easy by her examination,
for the stranger, when he saw her stretch out her hand towards the
table, as if to take hold of the silver bell, said--
“Did you not hear me, madame?” giving his voice that gentle expression
so peculiar to the Sicilian dialect. “I wish you no harm--far from it.
If you will grant me the request I am about to make, I will adore you as
if you were a Madonna. You are already as beautiful; be as good as one.”
“But what is it you require?” said Gemma, her voice still trembling;
“and why did you come here in this manner, and at such an hour?”
“Had I requested the favour of an interview with one so noble, so rich,
and so much loved by a man who is almost a king, is it probable that you
would have granted it to me, so poor and unknown? Tell me, madame.
But even if you had been so condescending, you might have delayed your
answer, and I have no time to wait.”
“What, then, can I do for you?” said Gemma, recovering herself by
degrees.
“Everything, madame; for you hold in your hands my despair or my
happiness--my death or my life.”
“I do not understand you; explain yourself,” faltered out the countess.
“You have,” said the stranger, “a young woman from Bauso in your
service.”
“Teresa?” asked the countess.
“Yes, Teresa,” replied the young man in trembling accents. “Now, this
young woman is to be married to a valet de chambre of the Prince de
Carini, and she is betrothed to me.”
“Ah! it is you, then?” said the countess.
“Yes, it was I she was about to marry when she received your letter
desiring her to come to you. She promised to remain faithful to me--to
mention me to you, and if you refused her request, she pledged her word
to return to me. I continued to expect her; but three years passed by,
and yet I saw her not; and as she has not returned to me, I have come to
seek her. On my arrival I learnt all, and then I thought I would throw
myself on my knees before you, and ask Teresa of you.”
“Teresa is a girl I am partial to,” said the countess, “and I do not
wish her to leave me. Gaetano is the prince’s valet de chambre, and by
marrying him she will still remain near me.”
“If that is one of the conditions, I will enter the prince’s service,”
said the young man, evidently suppressing his feelings.
“But Teresa told me you would not enter into service.”
“That is true,” replied the stranger; “but if it is necessary, I will
make any sacrifice for her; only, if it were possible, I would be one of
the huntsmen rather than a domestic servant.”
“Well,” said the countess, “I will speak of it to the prince, and if he
consents--”
“The prince will do all that you wish, madame,” interrupted the young
man. “You do not ask, you order; I know that well.”
“But what guarantee have I for your good conduct?” asked the countess.
“My eternal gratitude, madame,” said the young man.
“Still I must know who you are,” said the countess.
“I am a man,” said the stranger, “whom you can make miserable or happy;
that is the sum of all.”
“The prince will ask me your name,” said the countess.
“What is my name to him?” asked the stranger. “Is he acquainted with it?
Has the name of a poor peasant of Bauso ever reached the prince’s ears?”
“But I belong to the same country as yourself,” said the countess;
“my father was Count of Castel Nuovo, and lived in a little fortress a
quarter of a league from the village.”
“I know it, madame,” said the young man, in a low hoarse voice.
“Well, I ought to know your name,” said the countess. “Tell me, then,
and I will see what I can do for you.”
“Believe me, madame la comtesse,” said the stranger, “it would be better
for you to remain ignorant of it. What does my name signify? I am an
honest man. I would make Teresa happy; and if it were necessary, I would
sacrifice my life for you or the prince.”
“Your obstinacy is very strange,” said the countess, “and I have a
greater desire to know your name than ever, for when I asked Teresa what
it was, she, like you, refused to tell me. In the meantime, I warn you
that I will not consent to your wishes except on that condition.”
“You wish to know it then, madame?”
“I insist upon it!” said the countess.
“For the last time,” said the stranger, “I beg, I implore you, not to
insist upon it.”
“Either name it,” said the countess, in an imperative tone, “or leave
me.”
“I am called Pascal Bruno,” said the young man, in so calm a voice that
you might have imagined every emotion had passed away if the paleness of
his features had not been evidence of the internal struggle.
“Pascal Bruno!” cried the countess, drawing back in her chair in terror.
“Pascal Bruno! You, the son of Antonio Bruno, whose head is placed in an
iron cage at the Château de Bauso?”
“I am his son,” coolly replied the young man.
“And do you not know,” asked the countess, “why your father’s head is
placed there? Speak!” Pascal remained silent. “Well,” continued the
countess, “it was because your father attempted to assassinate mine.”
“I know all that, madame,” replied Pascal, calmly; “and I know, besides,
that when you, then a child, was taken into the village, your attendants
showed you that head, and told you it was my father’s head; but they did
not tell you, madame, that your father dishonoured mine.”
“Thou liest!” passionately exclaimed the countess.
“May God punish me if I tell not the truth. Madame, my mother was
beautiful and virtuous; your father, the count, became enamoured of her:
but she resisted all his importunities, all his promises, and all his
threats; but one day, when my father had gone to Taormina, the count
caused her to be carried off by four men, taken to a small house that
belonged to him between Limero and Furnari (it is now a tavern), and
there--madame--he violated her!”
“The count was lord and master of the village of Bauso,” said Gemma,
proudly. “Both the property and the persons of its inhabitants belonged
to him, and he did your mother much honour by admiring her.”
“My father did not think so it appears,” said Pascal, knitting his brow.
“That, perhaps, was because he was born at Stilla, on the lands of the
Prince de Moncada Paterno; and on that account he struck the count.
The wound was not mortal; so much the better. For a long time I deeply
regretted it; but now, to my shame, I congratulate myself on it.”
“If my memory be correct,” said the countess, “not only was your father
put to death as murderer, but your uncles are still at the galleys.”
“Your memory is good,” said Pascal. “My uncles gave an asylum to the
assassin, and defended him when the officers came to arrest him: they
were, therefore, looked upon as accomplices, and sent, my uncle Placido,
to Favignana; my uncle Pietro, to Lipari; and my uncle Pépe, to Vulcano.
As for myself, I was too young; and, although I was arrested, they gave
me up again to my mother.”
“And what became of your mother?” asked Gemma.
“She died,” said Pascal, mournfully.
“Where?” asked Gemma.
“In the mountains between Pizzo di Goto and Nisi,” replied Pascal.
“Why did she leave Bauso?” inquired the countess.
“That every time we passed the castle,” said Pascal, “she might not see
the head of her husband, nor I that of my father! Yes, she died without
a physician, without a priest--she was buried in unholy ground, and
I dug her grave. There, madame--you will pardon me, I trust--over the
newly-turned earth I swore to avenge the wrongs of my family--of whom I,
alone, remain--upon you, the only survivor of the family of the count.
But I became enamoured of Teresa, and I left the mountains that I might
not see my mother’s grave, towards which I felt myself perjured. I came
down to the plain, and went to Bauso. I did more than that, for when I
knew that Teresa had left the village to enter your service, I thought
of entering that of the count. For a long time I felt repugnant at the
idea; but my love for Teresa overcame every other feeling. I made up
my mind to see you--I have seen you; here am I, without arms, and a
suppliant before you, madame--before whom I ought only to appear as an
enemy.”
“You must perceive,” said Gemma, “the prince cannot take into his
service the son of a man who was hanged, and whose uncles are at the
galleys.”
“Why not, madame?” asked Bruno, “if that man consents to forget that
those punishments were unjustly inflicted?”
“Are you mad?” said the countess.
“Madame la comtesse,” said Pascal, “you know what an oath is to a
mountaineer. Well, I have broken my oath. You also know the vengeance of
a Sicilian. Well, I will renounce my vengeance and forget my oath. I
ask only that all may be forgotten, and that you will not force me to
remember it?”
“But if you should,” said the countess, “how would you act?”
“I do not wish to think upon the subject.”
“Then we must take our measures accordingly,” said the countess.
“I beg of you, madame la comtesse,” said Pascal, “to have pity on me;
you see that I am doing all that I can to remain an honest man. Once
engaged by the prince--once Teresa’s husband, I can answer for myself:
otherwise I shall never return to Bauso.”
“It is impossible to do as you desire,” said the countess, decidedly.
“Countess,” said Pascal, earnestly, “you have loved?” Gemma smiled
disdainfully. “You must know what jealousy is--you must know its
sufferings, its maddening tortures. Well, I love Teresa--I am jealous of
her; and I feel I should lose my senses if this marriage take place; and
then--”
“Well, then--” said Gemma, in an agitated tone.
“Then, take heed’ I do not remember the galleys where my uncles are, the
cage in which my father’s head is placed, and the grave where my mother
sleeps!” At this instant a strange cry, which seemed to be a signal,
was heard outside the window, and almost at the same instant a bell was
rung.
“There is the prince,” said Gemma, regaining her confidence.
“Yes, yes--I know it,” mattered Pascal; “but before he passes through
yonder door, you have time to say ‘yes.’ I implore you, madame, to grant
me what I ask. Give me Teresa--place me in the prince’s service!”
“Let me pass,” said Gemma, imperiously, and advanced towards the door;
but instead of obeying this order, Bruno sprang to the door and bolted
it. “Would you dare to stop me?” cried Gemma, taking hold of the bell.
“Help! help!”
“Do not call out, madame,” said Bruno, still mastering his feelings,
“for I have told you I will do you no harm.”
A second cry, resembling the first, was heard outside the window.
“It is well--well, Ali; you watch faithfully, my boy,” said Bruno.
“Yes, I know the count has arrived; I hear him in the corridor. Madame,
madame! an instant longer remains for you; one second, and all the
misfortunes I foresee may be avoided.”
“Help, Rodolpho! Help!” screamed Gemma.
“You have, then neither heart, nor soul, nor pity, either for yourself
or others,” cried Bruno plunging his hands in his hair and looking at
the door, which was being violently shaken.
“I am fastened in!” cired the countess, who felt fresh courage from the
assistance which had arrived; “fastened in with a man who is threatening
my life. Help! help! Rodolpho, help!”
“I do not threaten you,” said Pascal, “I am entreating you--I entreat
you still; but since you will--” Bruno, uttering a yell like that of a
tiger, sprang upon Gemma, no doubt with the intention of strangling her,
for (as we have said) he had no arms. At the same instant a small door,
concealed at the extremity of the alcove, opened, the report of a pistol
was heard, the room was filled with smoke, and Gemma fainted: when she
recovered her senses she was in the prince’s arms.
“Where is he? where is he?” she cried, in a terrified accent, and
looking around her.
“I cannot tell; I suppose I must have missed him,” answered the prince;
“for, while I was stepping over the bed, he leaped out of the window;
and, as I saw you insensible, I did not trouble myself about him--I
thought only of you; I must have missed him, and yet it is strange I do
not see the mark of the ball in the hangings.”
“Let them run after him,” said Gemma: “show no mercy, no pity, to that
man, my lord, for he was a robber, who would have assassinated me.”
They searched the villa during the whole night, the gardens, and the
shore, but without avail--Pascal Bruno had disappeared.
The next day a track of blood was discovered, which began at the foot of
the window from which he had leaped and was lost on the sea-shore.
CHAPTER II.--BRUNO AND ALI.
At daybreak the following morning, the fishermen’s boats left the port
as usual and dispersed themselves over the sea. In the meantime, one
of their little fleet, having on board a man, and a boy of twelve or
fourteen years of age, stopped when it came within sight of Palermo, and
lowering its sail, brought to; but as this motionless state, at a spot
little favourable for fishing, might have attracted suspicion, the boy
occupied himself in mending his nets. As to the man, he was lying at the
bottom of the boat, his head resting on the side, and he appeared to
be plunged in a deep reverie, still, as if mechanically, he took up the
sea-water with his right hand, and poured it over his left shoulder,
which was bound up with a bandage stained with blood.
The man was Pascal Bruno, and the boy the same who, placed beneath the
countess’s window, had twice given him the signal for flight: at first
sight, you could see that he was a native of a more ardent clime than
that in which the events we record took place. He was born on the coast
of Africa, and it was in the following manner that Pascal Bruno became
acquainted with him:--
About a year before the occurrence of the events we have just narrated,
a party of Algerine pirates, having learned that the Prince of Moncana
Paterno, one of the richest noblemen in Sicily, was returning in a small
vessel from Pantelleria to Catana with an escort of a dozen men only,
lay in ambush behind the island of Porri, distant about two miles from
the coast. The prince’s vessel, as the pirates had foreseen, passed
between the island and the shore, but the instant it entered the narrow
strait, the pirates left the creek in which they had been concealed
with three vessels and rowed forward to attack their expected prize, the
prince. The latter, however, immediately perceiving the imminence of his
danger, ordered his crew to turn the boat’s head towards the shore,
and run her aground on the beach at Furella. They did not succeed in
reaching the point desired, but the place where the boat grounded had
only about three feet of water, and the pirates were close upon them.
The prince and his followers leaped into the sea, holding their arms
above their heads, trusting to be able to reach a village they saw at
some half a league distance without being obliged to employ them. But
they had scarcely disembarked, when another party of the pirates who,
having foreseen this manouvre, had rowed one of the boats as high as
Bufaidone, issued from the reeds through which the river flowed, and cut
off the retreat of the prince.
The attack immediately began, but while the followers of the prince were
engaged with the first party, the second came up, and all resistance
becoming evidently useless, the prince surrendered, asking for his life,
and promising to ransom himself and all his followers. Immediately after
the prisoners had laid down their arms, a party of countrymen were seen
approaching, armed with muskets and pitchforks, and the pirates, having
made themselves masters of the prince’s person, the only object they
had in view, did not think it worth while waiting for the arrival of
the countrymen, but took to their boats in such haste as to leave behind
them three of their men, whom they believed were either dead or mortally
wounded.
Among those who had hastened to the scene of conflict, was Pascal Bruno,
whose wandering life led him sometimes to one place and sometimes to
another, his disturbed mind leading him into every kind of adventurous
enterprise. When the countrymen reached the beach where the struggle had
taken place, they found one of the Prince of Paterno’s domestics dead,
another slightly wounded in the thigh, and three of the pirates bathed
in their blood, but still breathing. Two blows from the butt-end of
a musket soon made an end of two of the number, and a pistol-ball was
about to send the third to join his comrades, when Bruno perceiving it
was a boy, turned the arm that held the pistol on one side, and declared
that he would take the wounded lad under his own protection.
There were a few remonstrances against this ill-timed pity as it was
called, but when Bruno had said a thing, he maintained what he had said;
accordingly, he cocked his carbine, and declared that he would blow out
the brains of the first man who should approach his protégé, and as they
knew him to be a man who would not hesitate an instant in putting his
threat into execution, they allowed him to take the boy in his arms and
go off with him. Bruno proceeded to the shore, and entered the boat in
which he performed his adventurous excursions, whose qualities he
knew so well that it seemed to obey him like a well-tutored horse, and
spreading his sail, he steered towards Cape Aliga Grande.
As soon as he saw that the boat was in the right course, and that it no
longer needed a steersman, he attended to the wounded boy, who was still
insensible: he took off the white bournouse in which he was dressed,
loosened the belt to which his yataghan was still attached, and
perceived by the rays of the setting sun the situation of the wound.
Upon examination, he discovered that a musket-ball had entered between
the right hip and the false ribs, and gone out near the spine: the wound
was dangerous, but it was not mortal.
The evening breeze, and the cool sensation produced by the sea-water
with which Bruno washed the wound, recalled the boy to his senses, and
he uttered a few words in a foreign language, but without opening his
eyes. Bruno, however, knowing that a wound caused by fire-arms produced
a burning thirst, guessed that he was asking for drink, and he placed
a bottle of water to his lips. The boy drank greedily, uttered a few
inarticulate sounds, and fell back in a fainting fit.
Pascal laid him down as gently as he could at the bottom of the boat,
and, uncovering the wound, he continued, unceasingly, to apply to it his
handkerchief dipped in the sea--a remedy considered infallible in the
case of wounds by every seafaring man in the Mediterranean.
At length our navigators found themselves at the mouth of the Ragusa,
and the wind setting in from the African coast. Pascal with little
difficulty directed his bark into the stream; and leaving Modica to the
right, he passed the bridge that is thrown across the high-road from
Noto to Chiaramonti.
He went about half a league further, but there the river became no
longer navigable; he drew his boat up among the shrubs that grew by
the side of the stream, and taking the boy in his arms, he carried
him inland. He soon reached the entrance to a valley, into which
he descended, and presently came to a spot where the mountain was
perpendicular, the smoother side of which was pierced in various places;
for in this valley were to be seen the remains of the habitations of
the dwellers in caves, the first occupants of the country, and who were
afterwards civilised by the Greeks.
Bruno entered one of these caverns, which communicated by means of a
few steps with an upper story, to which the air was admitted through
a small, square hole that answered the purpose of a window. A bed of
rushes was heaped up in the corner, and on this he spread out the boy’s
bournouse; and then having lighted a branch of fir, he fixed it in the
wall, and seating himself on a stone near the bed, he waited until his
protégé recovered his senses.
This was not the first visit Bruno had paid to this retreat, for often
during his travels across the island without any object in view, but
merely for the sake of passing away his solitary time, he had entered
that valley, and rested in that chamber which had been excavated in the
rock three thousand years before. Here it was that he gave himself up
to vague and incoherent reveries, so habitual to imaginative but
uninstructed minds.
He knew that a race of men had disappeared from the earth which in
former times excavated these retreats; and, deeply tinged with the
popular superstition, he believed, like all the inhabitants of the
locality, that these men were enchanters and dealers in witchcraft; but
this belief, far from driving him from these wild and terror-inspiring
places, irresistibly attracted him to them; for in his youth he had
heard numbers of tales related of enchanted guns, invulnerable men,
and invisible travellers; and his fearless mind, delighting in the
marvellous and the terrible, had but one engrossing desire, that of
meeting with some mysterious being, some sorcerer, enchanter, or
demon who, by means of an infernal compact, would endow him with some
supernatural power, and make him superior to the rest of mankind. But he
had vainly invoked the shades of the ancient inhabitants of the valley
of Modica; no supernatural appearances had visited him, and Pascal Bruno
remained, to his great regret, a man like other men, with the exception
of a degree of strength and skill for which no other mountaineer could
be compared with him.
Bruno had been wholly absorbed in one of these visionary reveries for
nearly an hour beside the bed of the wounded lad, when the latter awoke
from a species of lethargy into which he had been plunged, opened his
eyes, looked round him with a wandering gaze, and at last fixed his eyes
upon the man who had saved him, but unconscious whether he saw in him
a friend or an enemy. During this examination, and by an indefinite
instinct of self-defence, he put his hand to his waist In search of his
faithful yataghan; but not finding it there, he heaved a deep sigh, and
again closed his eyes.
“Are you in pain?” said Bruno to him, making use of the Lingua Franca,
a language so well understood on the coast of the Mediterranean, from
Marseilles to Alexandria, from Constantinople to Algiers, and by means
of which you may travel over the whole of the old world.
“Who are you?” asked the boy.
“A friend,” replied Pascal.
“I am not a prisoner then?” said the boy.
“No,” answered Pascal.
“Then how came I here?” asked the boy.
Pascal told him all that had happened; to which the boy listened
attentively, and when he had finished his tale, he fixed his eyes
gratefully upon Pascal, and said, “Then, since you have saved my life,
you will be a father to me?”
“Yes,” said Bruno, “I will.”
“Father,” said the wounded boy, “thy son’s name is Ali; what is yours?”
“Pascal Bruno.”
“May Allah protect thee,” said the lad.
“Are you in want of anything?” asked Bruno.
“Yes, water,” said the boy; “I am thirsty.”
Pascal took up an earthen vessel concealed in a hole in the rock, and
went to a spring that flowed near the cave; on going up again he cast
his eyes on the boy’s yataghan, which he had made no attempt to draw
nearer to him. Ali greedily seized the cup, and drank off the water at a
draught.
“May Allah grant you as many happy years as there were drops of water in
this cup,” said the boy, as he gave it back to Pascal.
“You are a good creature,” murmured Bruno; “make haste and get well, and
you shall, if you wish go back to Africa.”
The boy recovered from his wound, but continued to remain in Sicily, for
he became so much attached to Bruno that he would not leave him. Since
that time, he had always remained with him, accompanying him in his
hunting excursions over the mountains; assisting him in the management
of his boat, and ready to sacrifice his life at a sign from the man he
called his father.
On the previous evening, he had accompanied Pascal to the villa of the
Prince de Carini, and waited for him beneath the windows during the
interview with Gemma; and he it was who had twice given the signal of
alarm; the first time, when the prince rang the bell at the gate, and
again, when he entered the château. He was just about to climb into
the window to render Bruno assistance when the latter sprang out; he
followed him in his flight, and when they reached the shore, they both
of them got into their boat which was awaiting them, and as they could
not have put to sea in the evening without creating suspicion, they were
content to remain among the fishing-boats that waited for the break of
day, in order that they might put to sea.
During the night Ali, in his turn, returned to Pascal the attentions he
had received under similar circumstances, for the Prince of Carini
had taken a good aim, and the ball he had vainly searched for in the
hangings had almost passed through Bruno’s shoulder, so that Ali had but
to make a slight incision with his yataghan to extract it from the side
opposite to that at which it entered. All this took place without the
interference of Bruno who appeared scarcely to pay any attention to the
circumstance, and the only care he bestowed on his wound was, as we have
already said, to moisten it, from time to time, with sea-water, while
the boy appeared to be busy mending his nets.
“Father,” said Ali, suddenly interrupting himself in his pretended
occupation, “look towards the shore.”
“Well, what is it?” said Pascal.
“A number of people?”. replied Ali.
“Where?” asked Pascal.
“Yonder, on the road leading to the church,” replied Ali.
In fact, a considerable crowd of people were passing along the winding
road that led to the church. Bruno saw that it was a marriage procession
on its way to the chapel of St. Rosalie.
“Direct the boat’s head to the shore, and row quickly,” he cried,
starting up and standing in the boat.
The boy obeyed, seized the oars, and the little vessel seemed to fly
over the surface of the sea; the nearer they approached the shore the
more terrible the features of Bruno became: at length, when they were
within half a mile of the land, he cried out, in an accent of deep
despair--
“It is Teresa! They have hurried on the ceremony; they would not wait
until Sunday for fear I should have carried her off. God knows, I have
done all in my power to bring this affair to a happy conclusion--but
they would not have it, so woe betide them!”
At these words, Bruno, assisted by Ali, hoisted the sail of his little
bark, which, doubling Mount Pellegrino, disappeared at the end of two
hours behind Cape Gollo.
CHAPTER III.--THE FATAL BRIDAL.
Pascal was not deceived in his conjectures: the countess, afraid of some
attempt on the part of Bruno, had hurried on the marriage three days
before the appointed time without informing Teresa of her interview
with her old lover; and the young people had selected the chapel of St.
Rosalie, the patroness of Palermo, for the celebration of the ceremony.
This was another of the characteristics of Palermo, that city of love;
it had placed itself under the protection of a young and pretty saint!
Thus, St. Rosalie was at Palermo what St. Januarius is at Naples, the
omnipotent distributor of the blessings of heaven; but superior to
St. Januarius, as she was of a royal French race, being descended from
Charlemagne; this was proved by her genealogical tree, painted above the
door on the exterior of the chapel; a tree whose trunk issues from
the breast of the conqueror of Vitikind, and after dividing into many
branches, it reunites at the summit to give birth to the Prince of
Sinebaldo, the father of St. Rosalie; but her noble birth, the riches of
her house and her own beauty had no effect on the young princess; at the
age of eighteen she quitted the court, and, bent upon living a life of
contemplation, she suddenly disappeared, and no one knew what had become
of her; it was only after her death that she was found, as beautiful and
perfect as if she still lived, in the grotto in which she had taken up
her abode, and in the attitude in which she had fallen asleep. In after
times, a chapel was erected over this grotto, and in this chapel Teresa
and Gaetano were married.
The ceremony having concluded, the marriage procession returned to
Palermo, where vehicles were in readiness to take the guests to the
village of Carini, the princely fief from which Rodolpho took his title;
there, by the care of the countess, a magnificent repast was prepared.
The country people in the neighbourhood had been invited, and they had
flocked to the feast from four or five leagues round. The tables were
arranged on an esplanade, shaded by the foliage of green oaks and
parasol-like firs, perfumed by orange and lemon trees, and surrounded by
hedges of pomegranate and Indian fig-trees--a double blessing bestowed
by Providence, who, providing for the hunger and thirst of the poor, has
planted these fruitful trees like so much manna over the whole surface
of Sicily.
This esplanade was reached by a road, the sides of which were planted
with aloes, whose giant blossoms, seen from a distance, resembled the
lances of Arab horsemen; while to the south, the view was bounded by the
palace. Above the terrace, from which the chain of mountains rises
that separate the island into three parts--the eastern, northern,
and western--at the extremity of these three valleys, the magnificent
Sicilian sea was seen in three places; and, by its varying tints, it
might have been taken for three distinct oceans; for, on account of
the varied light produced by the sun just beginning to disappear in
the horizon, on the side of Palermo it was an azure blue, round the
Isoladette Donne it rolled its silvery waves, while it fell in golden
streams against the rocks of St. Vito.
When the dessert was served, and while the guests were at the height of
their joy, the gates of the château opened, and Gemma, leaning on the
prince’s arm, preceded by two servants carrying torches, and followed
by a host of attendants, came down the marble staircase of the villa
and went up to the esplanade. The peasants were about to rise, but the
prince made a sign they should not disturb themselves; while Gemma
and himself, having made the tour of the tables, stopped before the
newly-married couple.
Then a domestic held out a golden cup, which Gaetano filled with
Syracuse wine. The domestic then offered the cup to Gemma, and she
uttered a prayer for the happiness of the bride and bridegroom, touched
the wine with her beauteous lips, and offered it to the prince, who
emptied it at a draught, and pouring into it a purseful of golden
ducats, desired it to be given to Teresa, for whom it was a wedding
gift. At the same instant, loud cries of “Long live the Prince of
Carini! Long live the Countess of Castel Nuovo!” were heard; and at this
moment the esplanade became illuminated as if by magic, and the
noble visitors retired, leaving behind them, like a celestial vision,
happiness and light.
They had scarcely re-entered the castle along with their suite before
the music struck up, and the younger guests, leaving the table,
proceeded to the place prepared for the dance. According to custom,
Gaetano was about to open the ball with his bride, and for that purpose
was advancing towards her, when a stranger, who had entered by the aloe
walk, appeared on the esplanade--it was Pascal Bruno, in the Calabrian
costume we have already described, excepting that he had a pair of
pistols and a dagger at his girdle, and that his jacket, which was
thrown over his right shoulder like that of a Hussar, exposed his shirt,
stained with blood.
Teresa was the first who noticed him; she screamed, and fixing her
terrified eyes upon him, remained pale and erect, as if she had seen a
spectre; every one turned towards the new comer, and all were silent,
anticipating some dreadful event.
Pascal Bruno went straight up to Teresa, and stopping before her, he
folded his arms, and looked fixedly at her.
“Is it you, Pascal?” stammered Teresa.
“Yes, it is I,” said Bruno, in a hoarse voice; “I heard at Bauso, where
I was waiting for you, that you were about to be married at Carini, and
I have come in time, I hope, to dance the first tarantella with you.”
“It is the right of the bridegroom,” observed Gaetano, going up to him
and interfering.
“It is the right of the lover,” replied Bruno. “Come, Teresa, I think it
is the least you can do for me.”
“Teresa is my wife,” exclaimed Gaetano, extending his arm towards her.
“She is my betrothed,” cried Pascal, taking her by the hand.
“Help! help!” exclaimed Teresa.
Gaetano seized Pascal by the collar, but at the same instant he uttered
a loud cry and fell. Pascal’s dagger was buried in his chest up to the
hilt. The men appeared by their actions to be about to seize upon the
murderer, who quietly drew a pistol from his waist and cocked it, then
with the hand that held it, he made a sign to the musicians to play
the tarantella; they obeyed mechanically, while all the guests remained
motionless.
“Come, Teresa,” said Bruno.
Teresa was no longer an accountable or conscious creature, but an
automaton, whose actions were guided by fear--she mechanically obeyed,
and the horrible dance, in the presence of the corpse of the murdered
man, was danced to the last step.
At length the musicians stopped, and Teresa, as if the music alone had
supported her, fell senseless on the body of Gaetano.
“Thanks, Teresa,” said her partner, coldly, “that is all I wanted of
thee,” and then turning to the spectators, “and now, if any one desires
to know my name, that he may find me elsewhere, I am called Pascal
Bruno.”
“Son of Antonio Bruno, whose head is placed in an iron cage at the
château of Bauso?” asked one of the guests.
“Exactly so,” answered Pascal; “but if you wish to see it, you must make
haste, for I swear to you it shall not remain there much longer?”
At these words Pascal left, and no one felt inclined to follow him;
besides, whether it arose from fear or interest, every one was engaged
about Gaetano and Teresa; one was dead--the other mad!
The prince was not made acquainted with this terrible tragedy till the
following morning, when every effort was made to capture the murderer,
but in vain; he had escaped, no one knew how or whither.
The countess, in consequence of this dreadful event, became more alarmed
than ever for her personal safety, particularly when she reflected that
by her duplicity, in concealing from Teresa her extraordinary interview
with Pascal, she herself had been the chief cause of the catastrophe.
The Sunday after this occurrence there was a fête at Bauso, and the
whole village was full of life; there was drinking in every cabaret,
and broaching of barrels at every corner; the streets were noisy and
decorated with flags, and the chateau was thronged with people who had
gathered together to see the young men fire at the target, an amusement
much encouraged by King Ferdinand the Fourth during his forced sojourn
in Sicily; and many of those who were, at the time we are speaking
of, about to devote themselves to this exercise, had very recently, as
followers of Cardinal Ruffo, had occasion to exhibit their skill against
the patriots of Naples and the French republicans; but on this occasion
it was merely a trial of skill, the prize being a silver cup.
The target was fixed immediately below the iron cage in which the head
of Antonio Bruno was placed. The latter could only be reached by a
flight of steps in the interior of the fortress, which led to a window,
on the outside of which the cage was fixed.
The conditions of the shooting-match were simple enough: to become
one of the candidates it was only necessary to subscribe to the common
purse, for the purpose of defraying the expense of the cup--the charge
was two carlins for each shot, for which the party received in exchange
a number, drawn by chance, which fixed the order in which each man was
to fire. The least skilful took as many as ten, twelve, or even fourteen
numbers; and those who reckoned on their superior skill not more than
five or six.
In the midst of the confusion of drawing the numbers, a hand was
stretched out among the rest which threw down two carlins, and a voice
was heard asking for a single number. Every one turned round, astonished
at this evidence either of poverty or confidence. The man who asked for
a single number was Pascal Bruno.
Although he had not been seen in the village for four years, every one
knew him, but still no one addressed him; but as he was known to be the
best hunter in the country, they were not astonished at his asking for
one number only--his number was eleven.
At length the firing commenced. Every shot was greeted by shouts of
laughter or applause; but after the first few shots the laughter was
less violent. As to Pascal, he was leaning sad and pensively on
his English rifle, and seemed to take no part in the enthusiasm and
merriment of his countrymen. At length it was his turn; they called his
name, he started and raised his head as if the call was unexpected; but
recovering himself at once, he took up his position behind a cord that
was stretched across as a kind of barrier. Every one anxiously followed
the direction of his eyes, for none of the marksmen had excited so much
interest or had been watched so silently.
Pascal himself seemed to feel the importance of the shot he was about to
take, for he fixed himself firmly, his left leg in advance, and resting
his body on his right. He placed his gun carefully to his shoulder, and,
beginning from below, he slowly raised the barrel; every one watched him
with anxiety, and they saw, with astonishment, that his aim was above
the target; but he still continued to raise his rifle, until it was in
the direction of the iron cage. Then the rifle and the marksman remained
for an instant motionless, as if they had been formed of stone; at
length he fired, and the head rolled out of the cage to the bottom of
the target. Every one shuddered, but no sound was heard at this proof of
address.
In the midst of this silence, Pascal Bruno walked coolly up to the
target, picked up his father’s head, and without uttering a word
or looking once behind him, he took the cross road that led to the
mountains.
The spectators saw Bruno depart without attempting to stop or follow
him; in fact, they commiserated the fate of Antonio Bruno, who was much
respected by his fellow-villagers, and appreciated this act of filial
affection in the son.
CHAPTER IV.--THE PRINCE AND THE BANDIT.
Scarcely a year had passed after the events we have just related before
all Sicily--from Messina to Palermo--from Cephalu to Cape Passaro--was
filled with reports of the exploits of the bandit Pascal Bruno.
Considering the previous history of his family, his adventurous
character, and the badly-organised state of society in his native
country, it is not astonishing that Pascal Bruno should so rapidly have
become the extraordinary character he desired to be. He had, as it were,
established himself as a judge over justice itself; so that throughout
all Sicily, and particularly at Bauso and its environs, no arbitrary act
could be performed without escaping the notice of his tribunal; and as
most of his judgments affected the powerful only, the weak were almost
always on his side.
In this manner, when some rich lord imposed a heavy rent on a poor
farmer--when a marriage was about to be broken off though the cupidity
of a family--when an iniquitous sentence was passed on an innocent
man--Bruno, after receiving notice, would shoulder his carbine, let
loose his four Corsican dogs (his only band), mount his Valda Noto
horse--half Arabian and half mountaineer, like himself--leave the little
fortress of Castel Nuovo, where he had taken up his abode, go to the
lord, the father, or the judge, and the rent was reduced, the marriage
took place, or the prisoner was set at liberty.
From this, it may be very well understood, that all those men to whom he
had thus been a benefactor would pay for the benefits they had received
by devotion to his interests, and that every attempt made to capture
him would be sure to fail, through the grateful watchfulness of the
peasants, who warned him by signals agreed on beforehand of the dangers
that threatened him.
Then, again, the most strange tales were told of him by everybody;
for the simpler men’s minds are, the fonder they are of believing the
marvellous. They said, that on a stormy night, when the whole island
trembled, Pascal Bruno entered into a compact with a sorceress, by which
he obtained from her, giving his soul in exchange, the gift of being
invisible, and the faculty of transporting himself in an instant
from one end of the island to the other; as well as being rendered
invulnerable, either by lead, iron, or fire. The bargain, they said,
was to stand good for three years, Bruno having only signed it for the
purpose of accomplishing an act of vengeance, for which purpose this
term, short as it was, would be sufficient.
As for Pascal, far from destroying this belief, he perceived it was
beneficial to him, and he endeavoured, on the contrary, to give it the
appearance of truth. These various tales had often afforded him the
means of establishing his invincible nature, by attributing to it a
knowledge of circumstances which it must be imagined would otherwise
have been perfectly unknown to him. The speed of his horse, by whose aid
he could find himself in the morning at incredible distances from the
place where he had been seen at night, convinced them of his locomotive
faculty. A circumstance, also, of which he had taken advantage, like
a skilful man, had left no doubt of his invulnerable nature; it was as
follows:--
The murder of Gaetano had produced a great sensation; the Prince of
Carini had given orders to all the commanders of companies to endeavour
to arrest the assassin, who, however, led those who followed him a long
chase through his audacity and cunning; they had, therefore, transmitted
these orders to their agents.
The chief justice of Spadafora was informed, one morning, that Pascal
Bruno had passed through the village during the night on his way to
Divieto; the two following nights, therefore, he placed men in ambuscade
on the road-side, thinking he would return by the same road he had taken
when going, and take advantage of the night to perform his journey.
Wearied out by their two nights’ watching, the morning of the third day,
which was Sunday, the soldiers had assembled at a drinking-shop
about twenty steps from the road-side: they were about to begin their
breakfast, when some one brought them word that Pascal Bruno was quietly
coming along the road from the direction of Divieto: as they had no time
to conceal themselves, they waited for him where they were, and when he
was within fifty yards of the inn, they sallied out and drew up before
the door, without, however, appearing to notice him. Bruno, on his side,
saw these preparations for the attack without any apparent uneasiness,
and, instead of retracing his steps, an easy task, he put his horse into
a gallop and continued his journey. As soon as the soldiers perceived
his intention, they got their muskets ready, and the moment he passed
before them, the whole company saluted him with a general discharge;
but neither horse nor rider was touched, and they emerged safe and sound
from the cloud of smoke in which they had been for an instant enveloped.
The soldiers looked at them and shook their heads, and proceeded to
recount what had happened to the judge of Spadafora.
The report of this adventure reached Bauso the same evening; and several
of the inhabitants, whose imagination was more lively than that of their
neighbours, began to think Pascal Bruno was enchanted, and that lead and
iron when they struck him became soft and flattened. The next day this
assertion was proved by incontestable evidence; for they found his
jacket at the justice’s door, pierced in thirteen places by bullets,
and the thirteen flattened balls were found in one of the pockets. Some
unbelievers, however, and among them was Caesar Alletto, a notary of
Calvaruso, from whose lips we had these particulars, maintained that the
bandit himself, having miraculously escaped from the volley of musketry,
and wishing to profit by the circumstance, had hung his jacket to a tree
and pierced it with bullets in thirteen places. But, notwithstanding
this opinion, the majority were convinced of his bearing a charmed life,
and the terror Pascal already inspired was considerably increased.
This dread of Bruno was so great and so well established that, spreading
from the lower orders, it had infected even the higher classes, and
to such an extent that, a few months before the time at which we have
arrived, being in want of two hundred ounces of gold for one of his
philanthropic projects (it was to rebuild an inn which had been burnt
down), he addressed himself to the Prince of Butera to obtain a loan of
the money, describing to him a place in the mountains where he would
go to receive it, and begging of him to bury it at the precise spot,
so that on the night he mentioned he might go and seek it. In case this
request, which, however, more resembled a command, was not attended to,
Bruno warned the prince there would be open war between the king of the
mountains and the king of the plains; but that if, on the contrary, the
prince would be kind enough to lend it to him, the two hundred ounces
of gold would be faithfully returned out of the first money he should be
able to carry off from the royal treasure.
The prince of Butera was one of those characters which have become
extremely rare in modern times: he was one of the ancient Sicilian
nobility, as adventurous and chivalrous as the Normans, by whom their
constitution and society were formed. His name was Hercules, and he
seemed formed after the model of that ancient hero. He could knock down
a restive horse with a blow of his fist; break a bar of iron, half
an inch thick, on his knee; and bend a piastre with his finger. An
occurrence, in which he had exhibited the greatest presence of mind,
had made him the idol of the people of Palermo. In 1770, there was a
scarcity of bread in the city; a riot was the consequence; the governor
had appealed to the ultima ratio, and the cannon were drawn out in the
Toledo street; the people were moving towards the guns; the gunner, with
match in hand, was in the act of firing on the people, when the Prince
of Butera seated himself over the mouth of a cannon, as coolly as if it
had been a chair, and in that situation made so eloquent and rational
a speech that the mob dispersed of its own accord, and the gunner threw
away the match, and the gun returned into the arsenal innocent of human
blood. But this was not the only cause of his popularity.
He was in the habit every morning of walking on his terrace, which
overlooked the Place de la Marine, and as the gates of his palace were
open to everybody, at daybreak he always found a number of poor people
assembled; on that account he constantly wore a huge buckskin waistcoat,
whose immense pockets were filled every morning by his servant with
carlins and half-carlins, all of which, to the very last piece,
disappeared during his walk, and that with words and actions that
belonged to himself alone, so that he always seemed as if he was about
to knock down those on whom he was bestowing charity.
“Your excellency,” said a poor woman, surrounded by her family, “have
pity on a poor mother with five children.”
“An excellent reason,” replied the prince, in an angry tone; “am I their
father?” and shaking his fist in her face, he dropped a handful of money
into her apron.
“My lord prince,” said another, “I am without food.”
“You fool,” replied the prince, giving him a cuff, and at the same time
enough to procure him food for a week; “do I make bread? Why do you not
go to the baker’s?”
On this account, whenever the prince passed along the street every head
was uncovered, and if he had said the word, he might have been made
King of Sicily; but that idea never entered his head, and so he remained
Prince of Butera.
This liberality of his, however, met with a reprover, and that within
the walls of the prince’s palace, and this reprover was his major-domo.
It is clear that a man with a character like that we have endeavoured to
trace must necessarily keep a splendid table; in fact, he kept in
every sense of the word open house, so that every day he had from
five-and-twenty to thirty guests at the least to dine with him; among
these, seven or eight were perfect strangers to him; while, on the other
hand, there were others who seated themselves as regularly as boarders
at a table d’hôte.
Among these last there was a certain Captain Altavilla, who had gained
his epaulettes by following Cardinal Ruffo from Palermo to Naples; and
who returned from Naples to Palermo with a pension of a thousand ducats.
Unfortunately, the captain was somewhat of a gambler, and this would
have caused his pension to be insufficient for his wants, if he had not
discovered two plans by means of which his quarterly pay had become the
least important part of his revenue; the first of these plans, and one,
as I have already said, that was open to all the world, was to dine
every day with the prince; and the second was, every day, with the most
scrupulous regularity, to put the silver cover of the plate off which he
had dined into his pocket.
The manouvre continued for some time before this daily abstraction was
noticed; but, well furnished as the plate-chests of the prince might
be, they began to exhibit certain vacant spaces. The suspicions of
the major-domo immediately fell on the follower of Cardinal Ruffo;
he, therefore, carefully watched him, and after two or three days his
suspicions were changed into certainty.
He immediately informed the prince of the discovery he had made, who
reflected for an instant, and then answered, that so long as the captain
merely took his own cover he should take no notice; but that if he put
his neighbour’s into his pocket, why then he would consider how he would
act. In consequence of this, Captain Altavilla continued to be one of
the most regular guests of his excellency Prince Hercules de Butera.
The prince was at Castrogiovanni, where he had a villa, when Bruno’s
letter was brought to him. He read it, and asked if the messenger was
waiting for an answer. He was told, “no” and immediately he put the
letter into his pocket, with as much sang froid as if it had merely been
on some trivial subject.
The night fixed upon by Bruno had arrived; the spot he had indicated
in his letter was on the southern ridge of mount Etna, near one of the
numerous extinct volcanoes that were indebted for their existence of a
day to its eternal fires--an existence, nevertheless, sufficient for the
destruction of cities. The volcano in question was called Montebaldo;
for each of these terrible hills received a name at the time it was
raised up from the earth. Ten minutes’ walk from its base a colossal
and isolated tree arose, called the chesnut of a hundred horses, because
around its trunk, the circumference of which is equal to 178 feet, and
beneath its foliage, which of itself forms a forest, a hundred horsemen
and their steeds can take shelter.
It was at the root of this tree Bruno was to seek the money he wished to
borrow of the prince; consequently, about eleven o’clock in the evening
he left Centorbi, and towards midnight he began to discern by the light
of the moon the gigantic tree, and the small house built between its
stems, in which its immense produce is harvested. As he drew near,
Pascal thought he could distinguish a shadow cast upon one of the
five trunks which arose from the same root. Soon afterwards the shade
appeared a reality; the bandit stopped, cocked his carbine, and cried,
“Who goes there?”
“A man, to be sure!” exclaimed a powerful voice. “Why, zounds! you did
not expect the money could come alone?”
“No, certainly not,” said Bruno; “but I did not think the man who
brought it would have been bold enough to wait for my coming.”
“Then you are not acquainted with Prince Hercules de Butera? that is
all.”
“How! yourself my lord?” said Bruno, throwing his carbine over his
shoulder and advancing hat in hand to the prince.
“Yes, it is I, you rogue,” replied the prince; “I, who thought a bandit
might be in want of money the same as any other man; and I did not wish
to refuse my purse even to a bandit, only I took the fancy of bringing
it myself for fear he should imagine I was afraid of him.”
“Your excellency is worthy of your high reputation,” said Bruno.
“And you, are you deserving of yours?” asked the prince.
“It depends upon how I have been spoken of to your excellency,” said
Bruno, “for I have more than one reputation.”
“Good,” continued the prince; “I see you are not deficient in ability
or resolution; I admire brave men, let me meet with them where I will.
Listen to me; will you change your Calabrian dress for the uniform of a
captain and fight against the French? I will raise a company for you on
my own estates, and purchase your epaulettes.”
“Thank you, my lord, thank you,” said Bruno, “your offer is like that
of a magnificent prince; but I have a certain act of vengeance to
accomplish that will keep me for some time longer in Sicily; after that
we shall see.”
“Well,” said the prince, “you are free; but, believe me, you had better
accept my offer.”
“I cannot, your excellency,” said Bruno.
“Well then,” said the prince, “here is the money you asked for; go to
the devil with it, and take care you don’t get yourself hanged on the
gibbet opposite my door on the Place de la Marine.”
Bruno balanced the purse in his hand.
“It seems to me that the purse is very heavy, my lord,” said he.
“That is because I did not wish a fellow like you should be able to brag
that he had fixed a limit to the liberality of the Prince of Butera;
so, instead of the two hundred ounces of gold you asked for, I have put
three hundred in the purse.”
“Whatever sum you have been pleased to bring, my lord, it shall be
faithfully returned to you,” said Bruno.
“I give; I never lend,” said the prince.
“And I borrow or I steal--I never beg,” replied Bruno; “take back your
purse, my lord, I shall address myself to Prince Ventimille, or to
Prince de la Cattolica.”
“Well, let it be so,” said the prince; “I never met with a more
capricious bandit: four rascals like you would drive me mad; so I shall
leave. Farewell!”
“Adieu, my lord!” said Bruno, “and may St Rosalie protect you.”
The prince departed, with his hands in the pockets of his buckskin
waistcoat, and whistling a favourite air; Bruno remained motionless
watching his departure, and it was not until he had lost sight of him
that he, on his side, retired, heaving a deep sigh.
The next day, the innkeeper whose house had been burned down received,
by the hands of Ali, the Prince of Butera’s three hundred ounces of
gold.
CHAPTER IV.--THE ROBBER’S CASTLE.
Some time after the event we have just related, Bruno learnt that a
convoy of money, escorted by four gens-d’armes and a brigadier was about
to leave Messina for Palermo; it was the ransom of the Prince Moncada
Paterno; which, in consequence of a financial operation, which did great
honour to the imagination of Ferdinand the Fourth, had just helped
to swell the Neapolitan budget instead of increasing the treasure of
Casuba, according to its first destination.
The following is the history of the transaction, as it was told me
in Sicily, and, as it is as curious as it is authentic, we think it
deserves the trouble of being told; besides, it will give some idea of
the simple manner in which taxes are imposed in Sicily.
We have already related the manner in which the Prince de Moncada
Paterno was made prisoner by the Barbary Corsairs near the little
village of Tugello, on his return from the island of Pantalleria. He was
carried, along with all his followers, to Algiers, and there the price
of his ransom and that of his attendants was modestly fixed at the sum
of five hundred thousand piastres (about one hundred thousand pounds
sterling), half to be paid before his departure, and the other half
after his return to Sicily.
The prince wrote to his steward to inform him of the situation in
which he found himself placed, and desired him to send, as quickly as
possible, the two hundred and fifty thousand piastres in exchange for
which he was to be liberated. As the Prince of Moncada Paterno was one
of the richest noblemen in Sicily, the sum was easily made up and sent
to Africa; and faithful to his promise, like a true follower of the
prophet, the Dey released the Prince of Paterno, taking his word of
honour that before a year had passed by he would remit the remaining two
hundred and fifty thousand piastres.
The prince returned to Sicily and endeavoured to collect the
sum necessary for the second instalment of his ransom in his own
principality, when an order came from Ferdinand IV., who, seeing that he
was at war with the regency, had no wish that his subjects should enrich
his enemies; he therefore opposed the proceedings of the prince, and
ordered the two hundred and fifty thousand piastres in question to be
paid into the treasury at Messina.
The Prince of Paterno, who was a man of honour a well as a faithful
subject, obeyed the order of his sovereign and the voice of his
conscience at the same time, so that his ransom cost him seven hundred
and fifty thousand piastres, two-thirds of which were sent to the
infidel Corsair, and the other third placed at Messina in the hands of
the Prince de Carini, the agent of the Christian pirate. This was the
sum the viceroy was sending to Palermo, the seat of government, under
the escort of four gens-d’armes and a brigadier; the last being likewise
charged with the duty of delivering a letter from the prince to his dear
Gemma, whom he requested to join him at Messina, where the business of
government would still detain him for several months.
On the evening when the convoy would have to pass near Bauso, Bruno
unfastened his four Corsican dogs, crossed the village, of which he had
become the lord, in their company, and placed himself in ambuscade on
the road between Divieto and Spadafora. He had remained there about an
hour, when he heard the wheels of a waggon and the tramp of horsemen. He
looked to the priming of his carbine, satisfied himself that his dagger
was not fixed in its sheath, whistled to his dogs, who laid themselves
down at his feet, and remained standing upright in the middle of the
road.
A few minutes afterwards, the convoy appeared at a turning in the road,
and advanced to within fifty paces of the man who was waiting for its
coming up. When the gens-d’armes perceived him, they hailed him with,
“Who goes there?”
“Pascal Bruno,” replied the bandit; and, at the sound of a peculiar
whistle, his powerful dogs, trained for the purpose, fiercely attacked
the little troop.
At the name of Pascal Bruno, the four gens-d’armes had taken to their
heels, and the dogs by natural instinct pursued the runaways. The
brigadier, who remained alone by the waggon, drew his sabre and rushed
at the bandit. Pascal raised his carbine to his shoulder as coolly and
slowly as if he were about to shoot at a mark, determining not to fire
until the horseman was within ten paces of him; but the instant he
placed his finger on the trigger, and before he had time to fire, both
horse and man rolled in the dust. Ali had stealthily followed without
saying a word to Bruno, and seeing the brigadier about to charge him, he
had crawled along the road like a serpent and cut the horse’s hamstrings
with his yataghan. As to the brigadier, his fall was so rapid and
unexpected that his head struck against the stones, and he was rendered
totally insensible.
Bruno went up to him, after satisfying himself that there was no feint
attempted to be practised upon him, and with the assistance of Ali he
placed him in the waggon he had so lately escorted; then placing the
reins in the hands of the young Arab, he desired him to take the waggon
and the brigadier to the fortress. Bruno himself then went up to the
wounded horse, took the brigadier’s carbine from the saddle, to which it
was attached, and searched in the holsters and took out a roll of paper
which he found there; he then whistled to his dogs, who returned with
their mouths covered with blood, and followed the capture he had just
made.
When he arrived in the court-yard of his little fortress, he closed the
gate behind him, took the brigadier (who was still insensible) on his
shoulder, carried him into a room, and placed him on a mattress on which
he was in the habit of throwing himself with all his clothes on; then,
whether through forgetfulness or imprudence, he placed the carbine he
had taken from the saddle in a corner, and left the room.
Five minutes afterwards the brigadier opened his eyes, looked round,
and found himself in a place that was completely unknown to him; and,
believing he was under the influence of a dream, he felt round him to
ascertain whether he was really awake. It was then that he felt a pain
in his forehead, and placing his hand on it, he withdrew it covered
with blood: he found that he was wounded. The wound brought back his
recollection, and he remembered he had been stopped on the road by a
single man, deserted in a most cowardly manner by the gens-d’armes who
accompanied him, and that at the instant he was about to attack that
man his horse suddenly fell; beyond that he could recall nothing to his
mind.
The brigadier was a brave man, but he felt that the responsibility of
this disastrous adventure rested on him, and his heart was filled with
shame and rage at the disgraceful conduct of his men. He looked round
the room to discover if possible where he was; but everything was
strange to him. He rose, went to the window, and saw that it overlooked
the country. It was then that a ray of hope entered his breast, for he
could easily leap out of the window, go in search of assistance, and
return and avenge himself upon his captor.
He had just opened the window for the purpose of executing his project
when, casting a parting glance into the chamber, he perceived his
carbine standing near the head of the bed; at this unexpected sight
his heart beat violently, for other thoughts besides those of flight
instantly took possession of his mind. He looked round to ascertain
whether he was really alone, and when he was satisfied that no one had
seen or could see him, he seized the weapon, in which he saw a more
hazardous means of safety, but a speedier vengeance. After having
ascertained that the priming was safe, and finding, by passing the
ramrod down the barrel, that it was loaded, he replaced it where he had
found it, and lay down as if he had not as yet recovered his senses;
but he had scarcely stretched himself out on the mattress before Bruno
entered the room.
He had a piece of lighted fir in his hand, which he threw into the
fire-place, where he set fire to the wood already placed there for the
purpose; then he went to a cupboard formed in the wall, and took out two
plates, two glasses, two flasks of wine, and a roast shoulder of mutton,
which he placed on the table, and appeared to be waiting until the
brigadier recovered his consciousness that he might do the honours of
the repast.
The room in which the scene we are narrating took place was longer than
it was wide, having a single window at one end, a single door at the
other, and the chimney between the two. The brigadier, now a captain of
the gens-d’armes at Messina, who has given us all these particulars, was
lying down, as we have said, parallel to the window; Bruno was standing
before the fire-place, with his eyes vaguely fixed on the door, and he
appeared to become every instant more and more thoughtful.
This was the moment for which the brigadier was waiting--the decisive
moment when he must stake everything for one object--life against life,
head against head. He rose, resting upon his left hand, and stretched
out his other slowly towards his carbine, but without taking his eye off
Bruno; he took hold of it between the lock and the butt-end, and then
remained an instant in that position without daring to make another
movement, alarmed even at the beating of his own heart, which was so
violent that the bandit might almost have heard it had he not been so
entirely lost in thought; then, seeing that he gave himself up to his
fate as it were, he resumed his confidence, rose on one knee, looked
once more at the window, his only means of retreat, placed the carbine
to his shoulder, took aim at Bruno like a man who knew that his life
depended on his self-possession, and fired.
Bruno quietly stooped down, picked up something that lay at his feet,
held the object to the light, and, turning towards the brigadier, who
remained mute with astonishment--
“Comrade,” he said, “when next you attempt to shoot me let your balls be
of silver, for unless they are they will be only flattened against me in
this manner. However, I am happy you have so far recovered yourself, for
I begin to feel hungry; we will, therefore, if it is agreeable, sit down
to our supper.”
The brigadier remained in the same attitude in which he had fired, his
hair bristling on his head, and the perspiration standing in thick drops
on his forehead. The next instant the door opened, and Ali, yataghan in
hand, rushed into the room.
“It is nothing, my boy, nothing,” said Bruno; “the brigadier discharged
his carbine, that is all; make yourself easy, and go to rest; have no
fear for me.”
Ali left the room without answering, and went and laid himself down
across the first door-way upon the panther’s skin that served him for a
bed.
“Well,” continued Bruno, turning towards the brigadier and filling the
two glasses with wine, “did you not hear me?”
“I did,” replied the brigadier, rising, “and since I have not been able
to kill you, were you the very devil himself, I would drink with you.”
Uttering these words, he walked boldly up to the table, took up the
glass, touched the brim of Bruno’s, and drank off the wine at a draught.
“What is your name?” asked Bruno.
“Paolo Tommassi, brigadier of gens-d’armerie, at your service,” was the
reply.
“Well, Paolo Tommassi,” continued Bruno, placing his hand on his
shoulder, “you are a brave fellow, and I have a great inclination to
make you a promise.”
“What is it?” asked the brigadier.
“To let no one but you,” said Bruno, “obtain the reward of three
thousand ducats that is set upon my head.”
“That is an excellent idea,” observed the brigadier.
“Truly so; but it must first come to maturity,” said Bruno; “in the
meantime, as I am not yet tired of my life, take a seat, and let us sup;
and we will talk the matter over by-and-by.”
“May I cross myself before I eat?” said Tommassi. “Certainly,” replied
Bruno.
“I thought it might, perhaps, be unpleasant to you,” said the brigadier;
“we are not always sure.”
“Anything you like,” said Bruno.
The brigadier made the sign of the cross, seated himself at the table,
and attacked the shoulder of mutton like a man whose conscience was
perfectly at ease, and who knew that he had done, under very difficult
and trying circumstances, all that a brave soldier could do. Bruno kept
him nobly in countenance; and, certainly, to see these two men seated at
the same table, drinking out of the same bottle, and helping themselves
from the same dish, no one would have imagined that each in his turn
had, within the last hour, done all he could to kill the other.
For an instant they were both silent, partly on account of the important
business in which they were engaged, and partly from the preoccupation
of their minds. Paolo Tommassi was the first to give utterance to the
double idea on which his mind was engaged.
“Comrade,” he said, “you live well here; it must be allowed you have
excellent wine, certainly, and you do the honours of the table like a
right-good fellow; but I acknowledge I should enjoy all this much better
if I knew when I was to leave here.”
“To-morrow morning, I presume,” replied Bruno. “You will not keep me
here as a prisoner, then?” asked the brigadier, eagerly.
“A prisoner! why what the devil should I do with you here?” asked Bruno.
“Hem!” said the brigadier, “so far it is not so bad; but--” he
continued, evidently embarrassed, “that is not all.”
“What else is there?” said Bruno, filling the brigadiers glass.
“Why--is--” said the brigadier, holding his glass up before the lamp;
“it is rather a delicate question, you see.”
“Go on,” said Bruno; “I am listening.”
“You will not be angry, I hope, at what I am about to say?”
“I think you ought to know my character better by this time,” said
Bruno.
“True, true, you are not irritable, I know that well,” said the
brigadier. “I am speaking about a certain waggon--there, now its out.”
“That is down in the court-yard,” observed Bruno, holding his glass up
to the light in his turn.
“I am rather doubtful,” replied the brigadier; “but you understand me, I
cannot go without my waggon.”
“Very well, then, you shall take it with you,” said Bruno.
“Untouched?”
“Hum!” said Bruno; “it will not be much short, considering the sum it
contains. I shall only take what I am absolutely in need of.”
“Are you in want of much?” asked the brigadier, with anxiety.
“I want three thousand ounces,” said Bruno.
“Well, that is reasonable enough,” said the brigadier; “a good many
people would not be so delicate as you are.”
“You may make yourself quite easy in the matter, for I will give you a
receipt for what I take,” said Bruno.
“Talking of receipts,” said the brigadier, rising, “that’s well thought
of, for it reminds me of some papers I had in my holsters.”
“Don’t make yourself uneasy about them,” observed Bruno; “here they
are.”
“You will do me the greatest service by returning them to me,” said the
brigadier.
“I know that,” said Bruno, “for I have satisfied myself of their
importance; the first is your brigadier’s commission; I have made a note
at the foot of that, declaring that you have conducted yourself so
well that you deserve to be made a quarter-master. The second is
my description, and I have taken the liberty to make a few small
corrections as to particular signs; for instance, I have added charmed:
the third paper is a letter from his excellency the viceroy to the
Countess Gemma, of Castel Nuovo; and I have too much gratitude for this
lady, who has lent me this castle of hers, to place any restraint on her
loving correspondence. Here are your papers, my brave fellow; one more
glass to your health, and sleep tranquilly. To-morrow, at five o’clock,
we will put you on your road; it is much more prudent, I can assure you,
to travel by day than by night, for perhaps you may not always have the
good fortune of falling into such good hands.”
“I think you are right,” said Tommassi, rolling up his papers, “and you
appear to me to be an honester fellow than many more apparently honest
folks of my acquaintance.”
“I am happy to leave you with such favourable impressions on your mind,”
said Bruno, “you will sleep the more pleasantly; by-the-by, I must give
you one caution, do not go down into the court-yard, or my dogs might by
chance make a meal of you.”
“Thank you for the caution,” said the brigadier. “Good-night,” exclaimed
Bruno, and he went out of the room, leaving the brigadier to continue
his supper, or go to sleep till the hour appointed for his departure.
Next morning at five o’clock, according to agreement, Bruno entered his
guest’s chamber, whom he found up and ready to start, he conducted him
down stairs, and led him to the gate; there was the waggon, together
with a magnificent horse, and all the harness that belonged to the
animal Ali’s yataghan had rendered unserviceable. Bruno begged of his
friend, Tommassi, to accept of this present as a keepsake. The brigadier
was too well pleased to allow the offer to be made twice; he therefore
mounted his new steed, started the team in the waggon, and left quite
delighted with his new acquaintance.
Bruno watched his departure, and when he was about twenty paces off,
he cried out, “Above all, do not forget to give the beautiful Countess
Gemma the Prince of Carini’s letter.”
Tommassi made a sign with his head and disappeared round the corner of
the road.
And now, if our readers wish to know how Pascal Bruno was not killed
by the discharge of Tommassi’s carbine, we will give them the answer we
received from Signor Caesar Aletto, the notary of Calvaruso: it is, that
it is probable that on the road to the fortress, the bandit took the
precaution of removing the bullet from the carbine. But Paolo Tommassi
always considered that it was a much simpler explanation to attribute it
to magic.
We give our readers both these opinions, and they are at perfect liberty
to adopt that which suits them best.