The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Piccinino Vol. 02 (of 2); The last of Aldinis by George Sand.

"Well," replied Michel, emboldened by his host's dignified arguments and sincere kindliness, "I will tell you my whole thought; and I trust that Master Barbagallo will permit me to speak before him, even though what I have to say may be offensive to his beliefs. If the study of heraldic science were a useful and moral study, Master Barbagallo, the favored nursling of that science, would regard all men as equal before God, and would recognize no distinction except between narrow-minded or wicked and intelligent or virtuous men. He would appreciate fully the vanity of titles and the very doubtful value of genealogical trees. He would have broader views concerning the history of the human race, as we were saying just now; and he would view that wonderful history with a glance no less firm than impartial. Whereas, if I am not mistaken, he views it with a certain narrowness of vision which I cannot accept. He esteems nobility an excellent thing because it is privileged; he despises the common people because they have no history and no memories. I will wager that he despises himself by dint of admiring the grandeur of others, unless he has discovered amid the dust of some library some document which affords him the honor of deeming himself related in the fourteenth degree to some illustrious family."

"I have not that honor," said the majordomo, somewhat disconcerted. "However, I have had the satisfaction of assuring myself that I am not descended from ignoble stock; some of my male ancestors were men of distinction in the clergy and in business."

"I congratulate you most sincerely," said Michel, ironically; "for my own part, it has never occurred to me to ask my father whether our ancestors were sign-painters, beadles or majordomos. Indeed, I admit that it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, and that I have never had but one thought in that direction—namely, to owe any celebrity I may attain to myself, and to create my own coat-of-arms with my palette and brushes."

"Good!" exclaimed the marquis, "a noble ambition. You aspire to be the founder of a race illustrious in the arts, and to earn your own nobility, instead of throwing it away, as so many poor creatures do who are unworthy to bear a great name. But would you consider it a disadvantage that your descendants should be proud to bear your name?"

"My friend," replied the marquis, very calmly, "I am aware that the nobility has degenerated in all countries, and I do not need to tell you that it is the less pardonable in proportion to the degree of distinction that it had to bear and of grandeur to maintain. But is it for us to call this or that social rank to book, or to attempt to decide concerning the merit or lack of merit of the individuals who compose it? The most interesting, and at the same time the most profitable course for us all, in a discussion of this sort, would be to examine the institution in itself. Will you not tell me your ideas, Michel, and whether you approve or disapprove the distinctions established between different classes of men?"

"I approve them," said Michel, unhesitatingly, "for I aspire to distinguish myself; but I disapprove any application of the principle of heredity in such distinctions."

"Of the principle of heredity?" repeated the marquis. "In so far as fortune and power are concerned, I agree. That is a French idea—a bold idea. I like such ideas! But in so far as regards disinterested renown, honor pure and simple—will you allow me to ask you a few questions, my boy?

"Let us assume that Michelangelo Lavoratori, here present, was born only two or three hundred years ago. Let us assume that he was the rival of Raphael or Titian, and that he left a name worthy to stand beside those glorious names. I will assume, also, that this palace in which we now are belonged to him, and that it has remained in his family. Lastly, let us assume that you are the last scion of that family, and that you do not cultivate the art of painting. Your inclinations have turned you toward some other profession, or perhaps you have no profession, for you are rich; the noble works of your illustrious ancestor produced a fortune which his descendants have faithfully transmitted to you. You are standing here under your own roof, in the portrait gallery in which your ancestors have their places one after another. Moreover, you know the history of all of them. It is contained in manuscripts which have been carefully preserved and handed down in your family.

"Let us suppose, further, that I, a child picked up on the steps of a hospital, wander into this palace. I am ignorant of my father's name, and even of that of the unfortunate creature who gave birth to me. I have no ties whatever that bind me to the past, and, born but yesterday, I gaze with surprise upon this succession of ancestors from whom you have descended through well-nigh three centuries. I question you in open-mouthed wonder, and I am even inclined to make sport of you for living thus with the dead and through the dead; and I doubt whether this brilliant lineage has not deteriorated a little in the lapse of time.

"You answer me by pointing with pride to the founder of your race, the illustrious Michelangelo Lavoratori, who, from nothing at all, had become a great man, and whose memory will never perish. Then you tell me a fact at which I marvel greatly: that the sons and daughters of this Michel, overflowing with veneration for their father's memory, chose to be artists too. One was a musician, another an engraver, a third a painter. If they did not receive from heaven the same talents as their father, they did at all events retain in their hearts and transmit to their children respect and love for art. Their children, in their turn, did likewise, and all these talents, all these mottoes, all these biographies, which you exhibit to me and explain to me, present the spectacle of several generations of artists, eager to maintain the standard of their hereditary profession. Unquestionably only a few among all these seekers after glory were truly worthy of the name they bore. Genius is an exception, and it takes you but a short time to point out to me the small number of noteworthy artists who have upheld by their own labors the glory of your family. But that small number has been sufficient to replenish your generous blood, and to maintain in the ideas of the intermediate generations a certain fire, a certain pride, a certain thirst for grandeur which may still produce distinguished men.

"But I, a foundling, isolated in the vast expanse of time—I continue my apologue,—a natural scorner of all hereditary celebrity, seek to lower your pride. I smile with an air of triumph when you admit that this or that ancestor, whose portrait impresses me by its air of innocence, was never anything more than a paltry genius, a narrow-minded creature; that a certain other, whose rakish dress and bristling moustache I do not like, was a black sheep, a fool or a fanatic; in short, I give you to understand that you are a degenerate artist, because you have not inherited the sacred fire, and that you have fallen asleep in a luxurious far niente, contemplating the fruitful life of your forefathers.

"Thereupon you reply to me; and you will allow me to place in your mouth a few words which seem to me not devoid of sense:

"'I am nothing at all in myself; but I should be even less had I not a venerable past to lean upon. I am overborne by the apathy natural to minds devoid of inspiration; but my father taught me one thing which passed from his blood into mine: that I come of a distinguished family, and that if I could do nothing to renew its splendor, I should, at all events, abstain from tastes and ideas which might tarnish it. In default of genius, I have respect for family tradition, and, having no ground for pride in myself, I repair the wrong which my nullity might inflict upon my ancestors by bestowing a sort of adoration upon them. I should be a hundred times more guilty if, caring naught for my ignorance, I should shatter their images and profane their memory by airs of contempt. To deny one's father because one cannot equal him is the act of a fool or a dastard. On the other hand, it is a pious duty to invoke his memory in order to obtain forgiveness for being less eminent than he; and the artists with whom I consort and to whom I have no works of my own to show, listen to me with interest, at all events, when I speak to them of the works of my ancestors.'

"That is the answer you would make to me, Michel, and do you think that it would have no effect upon me? It seems to me that if I were the poor, abandoned child that I have imagined, I should fall into profound melancholy, and should complain of fate for having dropped me upon the earth alone, and, so to speak, without sponsors.

"But I pass to a less ponderous apologue, and one better adapted to your artistic imagination, which, however, I beg you will interrupt immediately if you have already heard it. The anecdote has been attributed to several persons cut after the pattern of Don Juan, and as old stories are rejuvenated from generation to generation, it has been told recently of Cæsar de Castro-Reale, the Destatore, the famous brigand, who was no ordinary man either in good or evil.

"At Palermo, in the days when he sought to deaden his faculties in wild dissipation, uncertain whether he should succeed in making a perfect brute of himself, or should decide to raise the standard of rebellion, it is said that he went one evening to visit a venerable palace which he had just lost at play, and which he wished to see once more before leaving it never to return. It was the last remnant of his fortune, and perhaps the only thing which caused him the slightest regret; for it was there that he had passed his early years, there that his parents had died, there that the portraits of his ancestors were buried in the dust of long neglect.

"He went there to notify his steward to receive on the morrow, as the proprietor of the estate, the nobleman who had won it on a cast of the dice.—'What,' said the steward, who, like Master Barbagallo, had a profound respect for family traditions and portraits; 'you have staked everything, even your father's grave, even the portraits of your ancestors?'

"'Staked and lost everything,' replied Castro-Reale, heedlessly. 'However, there are a few articles which I am able to redeem, and my successful adversary will not haggle over them. Let us look at these family portraits! I have forgotten all about them. I used to admire them at a time when I knew nothing about such things. If there are some which have merit, I will set them aside and make some arrangement with their new owner. Take a light and follow me.'

"The steward, agitated and trembling, followed his master through the dark and deserted palace. Castro-Reale strode before, with arrogant assurance; but they say that he had drunk immoderately on arriving at his palace, in order to provide himself with a store of stoicism or recklessness that should last to the end. He himself opened the rusty door, and seeing that the hand trembled in which the old majordomo held the light, he took it in his own and held it on a level with the face of the first portrait in the gallery. It was a fierce warrior armed from top to toe, with a broad ruffle of Flemish lace over his iron cuirass. See! here he is, Michel, for the same pictures which play a part in my narrative are here before your eyes; they are the same which were sent from Palermo to me, as the last heir of the family."

Michel looked at the old warrior and was impressed by his masculine features, his bristling moustache, and his stern appearance.

"Well, your excellency," he said, "that decidedly unamiable and ungenial face gave the dissoluto food for reflection, I doubt not?"

"Especially," replied the marquis, "as the face became animated, the eyes rolled angrily in their dark orbits, and the lips uttered these words in a sepulchral voice: 'I am not pleased with you!' Castro-Reale shuddered and recoiled in terror; but, deeming himself the dupe of his own imagination, he passed to the next portrait and looked it in the face with an insolence bordering on madness. It was an ancient and venerable abbess of the Ursulines of Palermo, a great-great-aunt, who died in the odor of sanctity. You can see her, Michel, yonder on your right, with her veil, her gold cross, her yellow face wrinkled like parchment, her piercing and imperious eyes. I fancy that she says nothing to you; but when Castro-Reale raised the candle to her face, she blinked her eyes as if dazzled by the sudden light, and said to him in a strident voice: 'I am not pleased with you!'

"This time the prince was frightened; he turned to the steward, whose knees were knocking against each other. But, determined to struggle on against these warnings from the supernatural world, he suddenly confronted a third portrait, that of the old magistrate, whom you see beside the abbess. He put his hand on the frame, not daring to look too long at the ermine cloak which is hardly distinguishable from the long white beard; but he tried to shake him, saying: 'And you?'

"'Nor am I,' replied the magistrate, in the crushing tone of a judge pronouncing sentence of death.

"Castro-Reale dropped his candle, they say, and, unconscious of what he did, stumbling at every step, went on to the end of the gallery, while the poor majordomo, frozen with fear, stood dumb and motionless at the door by which they had entered, daring neither to follow him nor to abandon him. He heard his master stumbling along in the darkness, at an uneven, hurried gait, colliding with the furniture and muttering curses; and he also heard each portrait apostrophize him as he passed with the terrible, monotonous words: 'Nor am I!—Nor am I!—Nor am I!'—The voices grew fainter as they receded along the gallery; but all repeated the fatal sentence distinctly, and Castro-Reale was unable to escape that long series of maledictions, which not one of his ancestors spared him. It took him a long while, it seems, to reach the door at the other end. When he had passed through it and closed it violently behind him, as if he thought that he was pursued by spectres, silence reigned once more; and, so far as my knowledge goes, these portraits have never recovered the power of speech from that day to this."

"Tell the rest, tell the rest, your excellency!" cried Fra Angelo, who had listened to this narrative with gleaming eyes and parted lips; for despite his intelligence and the education he had received, the ex-brigand of Ætna was too much of a monk and too much of a Sicilian not to believe it to a certain extent; "tell him that after that moment neither the steward of the palace of Castro-Reale, nor any inhabitant of the province of Palermo ever saw the Prince of Castro-Reale again. There was, at the end of the gallery, a drawbridge which they heard him cross, and as his plumed hat was found floating on the water, they concluded that he was drowned, although they searched in vain for his body."

"But the lesson had a more salutary effect," added the marquis. "He fled into the mountains, organized a band of partisans, and fought there ten years, to rescue, or, at all events, to avenge his country. False or true, the story was current for a long while, and the new owner of Castro-Reale believed it in so far that he preferred not to keep these terrible family portraits, and sent them to me at once."

"I do not know whether the story is authentic," said Fra Angelo. "I never dared ask the prince; but it is perfectly certain that his determination to become a partisan came to him in the manor-house of his ancestors the last time that he visited it. It is certain, too, that he experienced some violent emotion there, and that he did not like to have anybody mention his ancestors to him. It is certain, too, that his mind was never sound after that night, and that I have often heard him say, in his days of depression: 'Ah! I ought to have blown out my brains when I crossed the drawbridge of my palace the last time!'"

"Surely that is all the truth there is in this fanciful tale," said Michel. "But no matter! Although there is not the slightest connection between these illustrious individuals and my humble self, and although I am not aware that I have any reason to reproach myself with respect to them, I should be a little disturbed, it seems to me, if I had to pass the night alone in this gallery."

"For my part," said Pier-Angelo, "I am not ashamed to say that I don't believe a word of this story; and yet, if the signor marquis would give me his fortune and his palace to boot, I wouldn't take them on the condition of having to remain here alone an hour, after sunset, with the lady abbess, the magistrate, and all these illustrious monks and soldiers. The servants have tried more than once to lock me in here for their own amusement; but I have never let them catch me, I would jump out of window first."

"And what are we to conclude from all this, with respect to the nobility?" said Michel to the marquis.

"We conclude, my child," replied the Marquis della Serra, "that privileged nobility is an injustice, but that family traditions and memories have much force, usefulness and beauty. In France they obeyed a noble impulse when they invited the nobles to burn their letters patent, and the nobles performed a duty imposed by tact and good taste by consummating the holocaust; but afterward they broke open tombs, exhumed dead bodies, and even insulted the image of Christ, as if the resting-place of the dead were not sacred, and as if the Son of Mary were the patron of the great nobles only and not of the poor and lowly. I forgive all the frenzies of that revolution, and I understand them better, perhaps, than those persons who have discoursed of them to you, my young friend; but I also know that the philosophy which guided it was not very complete or very deep, and that, with respect to the idea of nobility, as with respect to all other ideas, it was much more successful in destroying than in building up, in uprooting than in sowing. Let me say another word to you on this subject, and then we will go and have some ices out of doors, for I am afraid that all these dead men and women bore and depress you."

XXXVII

BIANCA

"Look you, Michel," said the marquis, taking Pier-Angelo's hand in his right hand and Fra Angelo's in his left; "all men are noble! And I would stake my head that the Lavoratori family is quite as good as the family of Castro-Reale. If we are to judge the dead by the living, surely here are two men who must have had men of worth, men of heart and brain for ancestors; whereas the Destatore, a mixture of great qualities and deplorable faults, prince and bandit, repentant devotee and desperate suicide by turns, as surely gave the lie many a time to the nobility of the haughty personages whose images surround us. If you are rich some day, Michel, you will begin a family gallery without realizing it, for you will paint these two noble faces, your father's and your uncle's, and you will never sell them!"

"And his sister's!" cried Pier-Angelo; "he will not forget hers either, for it will serve some day as a proof that our race was not unpleasant to look upon."

"Well," continued the marquis, still addressing Michel, "do you not consider that you have every reason to regret that you do not know the story of your father's and your uncle's father?"

"He was a worthy man!" cried Pier-Angelo; "he was once a soldier, then an honest mechanic, and I knew him as a most excellent father."

"And his brother was a monk like myself," said Fra Angelo. "He was pious and wise; my memory of him had great influence on me when I was hesitating about taking the frock."

"There you see the influence of family memories!" said the marquis. "But your grandfather and great-uncle, my friends, what were they?"

"As for my great-uncle," replied Pier-Angelo, "I don't know that I ever had one. But my grandfather was a peasant."

"I have a vague remembrance that we had a great-great-grandfather who was a sailor, and one of the bravest of sailors. But his name has escaped me. For us the name of Lavoratori dates back but two generations. It is a sobriquet like most plebeian names. It marks the transition from one trade to another in our family, when our grandfather ceased to be a peasant in the mountains to become a mechanic in the town. Our grandfather's name was Montanari; that was a sobriquet too. His grandfather had a different name, doubtless. But at that point everlasting night begins for us, and our genealogy enters into oblivion so complete that it is equivalent to non-existence."

"Even so," rejoined the marquis; "you have summed up the whole history of the common people in the example of your family. Two or three generations are conscious of a connecting bond; but all those which preceded and all those which will follow are strangers to them forever. Do you consider that just and as it should be, my dear Michel? Is not this utter neglect of the past, this heedlessness of the future, this absence of interest in the intermediate generations, a sort of barbarism, an uncivilized condition of affairs, indicating a most revolting contempt for the human race?"

"You are right, and I understand you, signor marquis," Michel replied. "The history of each family is the history of the human race, and whoever knows one knows the other. Certainly the man who knows his own ancestors, and who derives from a scrutiny of their successive existences a series of examples to follow or to shun, has, so to speak, a more intense and more complete life in his heart than he who can refer only to two or three vague and intangible shadows of the past. Therefore nobility of birth is a great social privilege; if it imposes grave duties, it furnishes vast enlightenment and vast powers. The child who spells out the knowledge of good and evil in books written with the blood which flows in his own veins, and in the features of the painted faces which reflect his own image like mirrors in which he loves to recognize himself, should always become a great man, or at least, as you said, a man enamored of true grandeur, which is an acquired virtue supplying the place of inborn virtue. I realize now what there is that is true and estimable in this principle of heredity which binds the generations together. What there is in it that is unfortunate, I will not remind you; you know it better than I."

"What there is unfortunate I will tell you myself," replied the marquis. "There is the fact that nobility is an exclusive privilege which all families do not share; that established distinctions rest upon a false principle, and that the peasant hero does not win fame and have his name inscribed in history like the patrician hero; that the domestic virtues of the workingman are not recorded in a book that is always open to his posterity; that the poor and virtuous mother of a family, lovely and chaste to no purpose, does not leave her name and her image on the walls of her hovel; that that hovel of the poor man is not even assured to his descendants as a place of refuge; that all men are not wealthy and free, so that they may consecrate thought, monuments and works of art to the worship of their past; lastly, that there is no such thing as the history of the human race, but only of a few names rescued from oblivion, which are called illustrious names, heedless of the fact that at certain times whole nations become illustrious under the influence of the same deed and the same idea. Who can tell us the names of all the enthusiastic, noble hearts who have thrown aside the spade or the hoe to go to fight the infidel? You have ancestors among them, I doubt not, Pier-Angelo, and you know nothing of them! Or the names of all the sublime monks who have preached the law of God to savage peoples? Your ancestors are among them, Fra Angelo, and you know nothing of them! Ah! my friends, how many noble hearts are stilled forever, how many noble deeds buried in oblivion without advantage to those who live to-day! How melancholy and disastrous is this impenetrable darkness of the past to the common people, and how my heart aches to think that you are probably descended from the blood of brave men and martyrs, although you cannot find the faintest trace of their passage upon the paths you follow through life! Whereas I, who am not so good a man as you, can learn from Master Barbagallo what ancestor of mine was born or died this month five hundred years ago! Consider! On one side the unmitigated abuse of this worship of the patrician; on the other the horror of a vast grave which swallows up without distinction the consecrated bones and the impure bones of the common people! Oblivion is a punishment which should be visited upon the wicked only, and yet it is visited upon no one in our haughty families; whereas in yours it overtakes the most virtuous! History is confiscated to our profit, and you people seem to have no connection whatever with history, which, however, is your work more than ours!"

"Well," said Michel, deeply moved by the marquis's ideas and sentiments, "you have given me for the first time a true conception of nobility. I always attributed it to a few glorious personalities, who must be separated from their race. Now I can imagine lofty and generous thoughts, succeeding one another from generation to generation, connecting the generations with one another, and making as much account of humble virtues as of brilliant deeds. That is judging as God judges, signor marquis, and if I had the honor and the misery to be of noble birth—for it is a grievous burden to him who comprehends it—I should like to see and think as you do."

"I thank you," replied the marquis, taking his hand and leading him out on the terrace of his palace. Pier-Angelo and Fra Angelo looked at each other with deep emotion; both had understood the full scope of the marquis's ideas, and they felt strengthened and uplifted by this new aspect which he had given to life, collective and individual alike. As for Master Barbagallo, he had listened with religious respect, but had understood absolutely nothing; and he went away wondering how one could be noble without a palace, without parchments, without a coat of arms, and above all else, without family portraits. He concluded that the nobility could not do without wealth: a marvellous discovery which fatigued him much.

At that moment, as the beak of a great pelican of gilded wood, which did duty as hour hand on a monumental clock in the gallery of the Della Serra palace, marked four o'clock in the afternoon, the Piccinino was thinking that his five or six repeating watches must be slow, so impatiently did he await Mila's arrival. He went from the English watch to the Geneva watch, disdaining the Catanian watch which he might have purchased with his money—for the Catanians are watch-makers as well as the Genevans—and from the one surrounded with diamonds to the one adorned with rubies. Being a connoisseur in jewels, he laid claim to none but articles of the most exquisite quality from the booty taken by his men. Thus no one knew the time better than he, who was so keen to make the most of it, and to employ his moments most methodically, in order to lead side by side a life of study and of meditation, a life of adventures, intrigues, and coups de main, and a life of pleasure and of lust, which he neither could nor wished to enjoy otherwise than in secret.

Fierce to the point of despotism in his impatience, he was as intolerant of having to wait himself as he was fond of making others wait and of worrying them by skilfully devised delays. This time, however, he had yielded to the necessity of coming first to the rendezvous. He could not be sure that Mila would have the courage to wait for him, or to enter his house if he were not there himself to meet her. He went to the gate more than ten times, and angrily retraced his steps, afraid to leave the wooded road that bordered his garden, lest, if he should meet anyone, he should seem to be intent upon some design. The leading principle in his scheme of life was always to appear calm and indifferent in the eyes of placid people, always distraught and preoccupied in the eyes of busybodies.

When Mila at last appeared at the top of the green path which descended sharply to his orchard, he was really angry with her, for she was a quarter of an hour late, and, thanks to the Piccinino's discernment or fascinations, there was not one among the fair maidens of the mountain who would have allowed him to be first at the rendezvous in a love-affair. The brigand's unruly heart was inflamed therefore with ill-disguised rage; he forgot that he was not dealing with a mistress, and he strode toward Mila with an imperious air, seized the rein of her mule, and, taking the girl in his arms as soon as she was in front of his garden gate, lifted her to the ground, pressing her lovely body with something very like violence.

But Mila, partly opening the folds of her double mantle of muslin, gazed at him in surprise.

"Are we in danger already, my lord?" she said, "or do you think that I have brought anyone with me? No, no! See, I am alone, I have come with perfect confidence in you, and you have no reason to be displeased with me."

The Piccinino recovered his self-control as he looked at Mila. She had ingenuously arrayed herself in her Sunday garb to appear before her protector. Beneath her purple-velvet waist could be seen a second waist of a pale blue, embroidered and laced with excellent taste. A light net of gold thread confined her beautiful hair, in accordance with the fashion of the province, and to protect her face and her costume from the sun's scorching heat, she had enveloped herself in the mantellina, a thin veil of ample proportions, which covers the head and the whole body, when it is skilfully arranged and worn with grace. The Piccinino's sturdy mule, bearing a flat saddle of velvet trimmed with gilt nails, upon which a woman could easily ride sidewise, was panting and restive, as if proud to have borne and to have saved from all danger so lovely a rider. It was easy to see, from his foam-flecked sides, that little Mila had not spared him, or that she had bravely trusted to his zeal. It had been a dangerous ride, however: ridges of lava to cross, torrents to ford, precipices to skirt. The mule had taken the shortest path; he had climbed and leaped like a goat. Mila, seeing how strong and adroit he was, could not, despite her anxiety, avoid that intense and mysterious pleasure which women find in danger. She was proud of having felt physical courage spring to life within her with moral courage; and while the Piccinino admired the brilliancy of her eyes, and of her cheeks flushed by the exercise, she, thinking only of the merits of the white mule, turned and kissed him on the nose, saying: "You are worthy to carry the pope!"

"Dear child," he said, "I am very glad that my good Bianca pleases you, and now I think that she would be worthy to eat from a golden manger, like the charger of a Roman emperor. But come quickly; I don't wish anyone to see you come in here."

Mila docilely quickened her pace, and when the brigand had led her across his garden, after securely locking the gate, she allowed him to escort her into his house, whose neatness and coolness delighted her.

"No," he replied, "we are in Carmelo Tomabene's house, as I told you; but he is my debtor and my friend, and I have a room under his roof to which I sometimes retire when I need rest and solitude."

He led her through the house, which was arranged and furnished in rustic fashion, but with an orderly, substantial, homelike appearance which the dwellings of rich peasants seldom display. At the end of the ventilating corridor, which ran from end to end of the upper floor, he opened a double door, the inner one being bound with iron, and ushered Mila into the truncated tower which he had incorporated into his house, so to speak, and where he had fitted up a dainty and mysterious boudoir.

No princess ever possessed one more sumptuous, more sweetly perfumed or adorned with rarer objects. But no artisan had ever put his hand to it. The Piccinino himself had concealed the walls beneath hangings of Oriental silk stitched with gold and silver. The divan of yellow satin was covered with the skin of a huge royal tiger, whose head startled the girl at first; but she soon grew bold enough to touch its scarlet-velvet tongue, its eyes of enamel, and to sit upon its black-striped side. Then she gazed about with dazzled eyes at the gleaming weapons, the Turkish sabres adorned with jewels, the pipes with gold tassels, the chafing-dishes, the China vases, the innumerable objects of an exquisite beauty, a magnificence or a singularity which appealed to her imagination like the descriptions of enchanted palaces with which it was filled.

"All this is even more incomprehensible and more beautiful than anything I have seen at the Palmarosa palace," she said to herself, "and surely this prince is richer and even more illustrious than the princess. He must be some claimant to the Sicilian crown, who is working secretly to bring about the downfall of the Neapolitan government."—What would this poor child have thought if she had known the source of that piratical splendor!

While she gazed at everything with the artless admiration of a child, the Piccinino, who had bolted the door and lowered the Chinese shades at the window, gazed at Mila with the utmost amazement. He had expected that he would have to tell her the most incredible fables, the most audacious lies, to induce her to follow him to his lair, and the facility of his triumph began already to disgust him with it. To be sure, Mila was the loveliest creature he had ever seen; but was her perfect tranquillity due to impudence, or stupidity? Could so seductive a creature possibly be ignorant of the effect her charms were certain to produce? Could so young a maid risk a tête-à-tête of this sort without a moment of fear or embarrassment?

The Piccinino, observing that she had a very beautiful ring on her finger, and thinking that he could follow the thread of her thoughts by following the direction of her glances, said to her, with a smile: "You love jewels, my dear Mila, and, like all girls, you think more of personal adornment than of anything else in this world. My mother left me a few trinkets of some value, which are in that lapis lazuli casket by your side. Would you like to look at them?"

Carmelo took the casket, placed it on the girl's knees, and, kneeling beside her on the edge of the tiger's skin, he displayed before her eyes a mass of necklaces, rings, chains and buckles which were thrown pell-mell into the casket with a sort of superb contempt for such a multitude of priceless objects, some of which were masterpieces of old-fashioned carved work, others perfect treasures by reason of the beauty and great size of the diamonds.

"My lord," said the girl, running her inquisitive fingers over all this wealth, while the Piccinino fastened his dry, inflamed eyes upon her at close range, "you have too little respect for your mother's jewels. My mother left me only a few bits of ribbon and a pair of scissors with gold handles, which I preserve as relics, and which are very carefully stowed away in my closet. If we had time before that accursed abbé comes, I would put this casket in order."

"Do not take that trouble," said the Piccinino; "indeed we have not time. But you have time enough to take whatever you would like to keep."

"I?" said Mila, with a laugh, replacing the casket on the mosaic table. "What should I do with them? Not only should I, a poor silk-spinner, be ashamed to wear a princess's jewels, which, by the way, being your mother's, you should give only to your betrothed, but I should be very much embarrassed with all these inconvenient trinkets. I like to look at jewels, and, also, to touch them, as hens turn over with their claws anything shiny that they see on the ground. But I prefer to see them on somebody's else's neck and arms rather than my own. I should be so embarrassed by them that even if I owned them I should never use them."

"And you take no account whatever of the pleasure of owning them?" queried the bandit, amazed at the result of his experiment.

"To own things for which one has no use seems to me a very embarrassing thing," said she; "and I cannot understand one's burdening one's life with such gew-gaws, unless they are given to one as a sacred trust."

"Oh! monsignor," said the girl, withdrawing her hand with an offended air, "are you worthy to kiss that ring? Forgive me for speaking to you so, but it is not mine, as you see, and I must return it to Princess Agatha to-night; she sent me to the jeweller's to get it."

"I will wager," said the Piccinino, scrutinizing Mila with distrust and suspicion, "that Princess Agatha overwhelms you with presents, and that that is the reason why you despise mine!"

"I despise nothing and nobody," replied Mila; "and when Princess Agatha drops an embroidery needle or a bit of silk, I pick them up and treasure them as relics. But if she should attempt to overwhelm me with handsome presents, I should beg her to keep them for those who need them. But I must tell the truth: she once gave me a beautiful locket in which I carry some of my brother's hair. But I keep it out of sight, for I do not care to wear any ornaments unsuited to my station in life."

"Tell me, Mila," rejoined the Piccinino, after a moment's silence, "you are no longer afraid, are you?"

"No, my lord," she replied, confidently; "when I saw you on the road, near this house, my fear left me. Before that I confess that I was trembling all over, that I fancied that I saw that horrid abbé's face behind every bush, and that I don't quite know how I ever got here. When I saw how far good Bianca was carrying me, when I finally spied this tower and these trees, I said to myself: 'Great God! suppose my protector was unable to come! suppose that wicked abbé, who is capable of anything, has had him arrested by the campieri, or murdered on the road, what will become of me?' Then I was terrified, not only on my own account, but because I look on you as our guardian angel, and because it seems to me that your life is much more valuable than mine."

The Piccinino, who had felt very cold, and, as it were, displeased with Mila ever since her arrival, felt a slight thrill of emotion, and took his seat beside her on the tiger's skin.

XXXVIII

A COUP DE MAIN

"So you really feel a little sincere interest in me, do you, my child?" he said, fastening upon her that dangerous glance of which he well knew the power.

"Sincere? yes, upon my soul!" replied the girl, "and I surely owe you that much, after the interest you have displayed in my family."

"Why—how could it be otherwise? However, to tell the truth, no one has ever mentioned you to me, and I do not know your secrets; they have treated me like a tattling little girl; but you do me more justice, for you see that I am not inquisitive, and that I do not even ask you who you are."

"No, monsignor, I should not dare to ask you questions, and I prefer not to know what my father has thought best not to tell me. I feel very proud to work with you to ensure their safety, without trying to remove the bandage with which they have covered my eyes."

"That is very noble of you, Mila," said the Piccinino, beginning to feel somewhat piqued by the girl's perfect tranquillity; "it is too noble, perhaps!"

"What risks, monsignor? did you not promise me before God that you would protect me from all danger?"

"So far as that vile monk is concerned, I promise you on my life. But have you no suspicion of other people?"

"Yes, I have," said Mila, after a moment's reflection. "You mentioned at the fountain a name that frightened me terribly. You spoke as if you had some relations with the Piccinino. But you said to me again after that: 'Come without fear,' and I came. Not without fear, I admit, so long as I was alone on the road. I fancy that I shall be afraid again when I go away from here; but, as long as I am with you, I am not afraid of anything; I feel very brave, and it seems to me that, if we were attacked, I could help in defending ourselves."

"If he should come, it would be to punish the monk and protect you. Why in heaven's name are you so terribly afraid of him?"

"Really, I don't know; but among us, when a girl goes out into the country alone, people make sport of her and say: 'Look out for the Piccinino!'"

"Yes, monsignor; for they say that they never come back from the place he takes them to; or, if they do come back, that it would have been better for them to have stayed."

"No, I do not hate him, because they say that he inflicts much injury on the Neapolitans, and that if people only had the courage to help him he would do the country a great deal of good. But I am afraid of him, which is not the same thing by any means."

"Yes, because he has a long beard, and I think that he must resemble the monk I detest so. But isn't the monk coming? When he has come I can go away, can I not, monsignor?"

"You are very good, monsignor; I ask nothing better, provided that nobody sees us. But about this Abbé Ninfo, are you going to do him any injury?"

"God in heaven! I do not want to see or be the cause of any cruel treatment of the man; but if the Piccinino comes here, I am terribly afraid there will be bloodshed. You smile, monsignor," said Mila, turning pale. "Oh! now I am afraid! Pray send me away as soon as the abbé has set foot in the house."

"Mila, I swear to you that the abbé shall suffer no cruelty at my hands. As soon as I have made sure of his person, the Piccinino will come and take him away, a prisoner."

"In that case, my mind is at ease. She would not desire the death of the lowest of men."

"You are very compassionate, Mila; I thought that you were stronger and prouder. So you would not have the courage to kill that man if he should come here and insult you?"

"Excuse me, monsignor," rejoined Mila, taking from her bosom a dagger which the princess had given to Magnani the day before, and of which she had succeeded in gaining possession without his knowledge: "I could not see a man killed in cold blood without fainting, I think; but if I were insulted, I think that my anger would carry me a long way."

"As in God, monsignor; but God is everywhere, and some unforeseen accident might have prevented you from being here."

"Do you know that it was very brave in you to come, Mila? and that if people knew it——"

"There is one thing I know very well," said Mila, with a sort of playful excitement, "and that is that, if people knew of my being closeted here with you, I should be lost."

"Slander and calumny! Half as much would be enough to cause a young girl to be cried down and degraded forever."

"And you felt sure that this expedition of yours would be enveloped forever in impenetrable mystery?"

"I relied upon your prudence, and I left the rest in God's hands. I know very well that there are many risks to run; but did you not tell me that it was a question of saving my father's life and the Princess Agatha's honor?"

"And you carried your devotion to the point of endangering your own honor, without regret?"

"Endangering it in public opinion? I prefer that to allowing those whom I love to be killed and dishonored. As between them and myself, isn't it better that I should be the victim? But what does all this mean, monsignor? You speak to me in a very strange way; one would think that you were rebuking me for believing in you and for doing what you advised me to do."

"No, Mila, I am questioning you. Forgive me for trying to understand you and know you, so that I may esteem you as much as you deserve."

"Well, my child, tell me everything. Did it not occur to you that I might be setting a trap for you, and be luring you hither to insult you, or, at least, to try to seduce you?"

Mila looked the Piccinino in the face, trying to discover what could possibly induce him to put forward such a supposition. If it was a method of testing her, she considered it insulting; if it was a jest, she considered it in very bad taste on the part of one who seemed to be a man of superior intellect and of exalted rank. This was the decisive moment for her and for him. If she had felt the slightest fear—and she was not the woman to conceal it, like Princess Agatha—the Piccinino would have grown bolder; for he knew that fear is the beginning of weakness. But she looked him in the face with such frank fearlessness, and with so brave an air of displeasure, that he was convinced at last that he was dealing with a really strong and sincere character; and thereafter he had not the slightest desire to open hostilities. He felt that a battle of ruses with so straightforward a creature could have no other result for him than shame or remorse.

"Well, my child," he said, giving her hand a frank and friendly pressure, "I see that you had a confidence in me which does honor to us both. Will you permit me to ask you one more question? Have you a lover?"

"A lover? no, monsignor," replied Mila, blushing crimson; but she added, without hesitation: "I may tell you, however, that there is a man whom I love."

"O women! are you really so much nobler than we men?" exclaimed the Piccinino, rising. But he had no sooner glanced out of doors than he took Mila by the hand.

"Not with fear," she replied, "but with disgust and displeasure; but I will follow you."

"You will not leave me alone with him a single minute, will you?" said Mila, as they left the house: "if he should so much as kiss my hand, I should be forced to burn the place with a red-hot iron."

They walked under the arbor to an opening, where the Piccinino glided behind the trellis, and so followed Mila to the garden gate. Emboldened by his presence, she opened it and motioned to the abbé to enter.

"Are you alone?" he said, making haste to put aside his monk's frock and show how gallantly he was arrayed in black—a veritable musk-laden abbé.

She made no other reply than: "Come in quickly." No sooner had she secured the gate than the Piccinino made his appearance, and never was there a more disappointed face than Abbé Ninfo's. "Excuse me, monsignor," said the Piccinino, assuming an air of simplicity which surprised his companion; "I learned from my cousin Mila that you wished to see my poor garden, and I determined to admit you myself. Excuse me, it is only a peasant's garden, but the fruit trees are so old and so fine that people come from all directions to see them. Unluckily, I have an engagement, and I must go away in five minutes; but my cousin has promised to do the honors of the house, and I will retire, with your lordship's permission, as soon as I have offered you some wine and fruit."

"Do not put yourself out, my good man!" replied the abbé, reassured by this speech. "Go about your business, and do not stand on ceremony. Go, go at once, I say, I do not propose to incommode you."

"I will go as soon as I can see you at table. Lord God! you will die of the heat. Our roads are so rough! Come to the house; I will pour the first glass for you, and then I will go, as your lordship kindly permits me to do so."

"My cousin will not go away until you are in the house," said Mila, in obedience to a meaning glance from the Piccinino.

The abbé, seeing that he could not get rid of his obsequious host except by complying with his wish, passed through the arbor without an opportunity to address a word or a glance to Mila; for the Piccinino, still playing the part of a respectful peasant and zealous host, walked between them. The abbé was ushered into a cool, dark room, where a collation was served. But, as they entered, the Piccinino said in Mila's ear: "Let me fill your glass, but do not so much as smell it."

A topaz-hued muscatel glistened in a large decanter which stood in a terra-cotta vessel filled with cold water. The abbé, who was somewhat disturbed by the peasant's presence, emptied at a single draught, without hesitation, the glass that was offered him.

"Now," he said, "off with you at once, my boy! I should never forgive myself for having caused you to break your engagement."

"Come with me, Mila," said the Piccinino. "You must lock the gate after me, for, if it should be left open, even for a moment, the children would come in and steal my peaches."

Mila did not wait to be asked twice to hurry after the Piccinino; but he went no farther than the door of the room, and when he had closed it behind him, he put his finger on his lips, and, applying his eye to the keyhole, remained absolutely motionless. After two or three minutes he rose, saying aloud: "It is all over!" And he threw the door wide open.

Mila saw the abbé lying on the floor, with a purple face, and breathing heavily.

"No, indeed," replied Carmelo; "for we need a few words from him later. He is only asleep, the dear man, but very sound asleep!"

"Oh! do not speak so loud, monsignor: he sees us and hears us! His eyes are open and staring at us."

"And yet he doesn't know who we are, he has no comprehension of anything. What good does it do him to see and hear, when nothing conveys any meaning to his poor brain? Do not come near, Mila, if the paralyzed viper still frightens you; for my part, I must study the effects of this narcotic a little. They vary in different individuals."

He walked calmly to the abbé's side, while Mila, completely bewildered, remained in the doorway and watched him with dismay. He touched his victim as the wolf sniffs before devouring. He made sure that the head and hands passed speedily from intense heat to icy cold, that the face lost its flush, that the respiration became regular and weak.

"This is a good result," he said, as if speaking to himself; "and such a weak dose! I am well satisfied with the experiment. This is very preferable to blows, a struggle, shrieks stifled by a gag, isn't it, Mila? A woman can look on at this sort of thing without an attack of hysterics. This is the sort of method I like, and if it were well known, nobody would use any other. But you must never mention it, Mila, do you hear? for it might easily be abused, and no one, you see, no one could protect himself against it. If I had chosen to put you to sleep like this, it was entirely in my power to do it. Would you take a glass of water from my hand now, if I should offer it to you?"

"Yes, monsignor, I would accept it," replied Mila, taking this challenge for a jest.—"He jests on all subjects," she said to herself. "He has a satirical bent like Michel."

"So you would be no more suspicious than this poor abbé?" continued the Piccinino, in a preoccupied tone; for he was busily searching his sleeper, with perfect self-possession.

"You forbade me even to smell that wine," replied Mila; "so you evidently had no purpose to play me a trick!"

"Ah! here it is!" muttered the bandit, taking a wallet from the abbé's pocket. "Don't be impatient, Mila; I must examine this."

Seating himself at the table, he opened the wallet and took therefrom divers papers, over which he cast his eye with tranquil celerity.

"A report against Marc-Antonio Ferrara!—an obscure man; doubtless some husband whose wife he wished to seduce! Here, Mila, here is my flint and steel. Will you light the lamp and burn this? This Marc-Antonio will never suspect that your fair hand saved him from imprisonment.

"And this? Ah! this is more important; an anonymous warning, addressed to the captain of the city, that the Marquis della Serra is planning a conspiracy against the government! The dear abbé proposed to get rid of the princess's cicisbeo, or to give him something to think about at all events! The idiot! he doesn't even know enough to disguise his handwriting! Burn it up, Mila; it shall not go to its address.

"Another warning!" continued the Piccinino, still examining the wallet. "The wretch! he proposed to have the gallant champion arrested who brought him into relation with the Piccinino! This is worth saving. Malacarne will see that he did well not to trust this hound's promises, and that he would have been well punished for not reporting to his chief.

"I am surprised to find nothing against your father, Mila. Ah! yes, here it is! The signor abbé's measures were all taken to strike his great blow. This evening Pier-Angelo Lavoratori and—Fra Angelo too!—Ah! you reckoned without your host, my friend! You did not know that the Piccinino will never allow a finger to be laid on that shaven head! How ill-informed you were! Why, Mila, this man, whom people look upon as a monster of iniquity, is nothing but an idiot, upon my word!"

"Of conspiring—always the same refrain; it is so worn out! There is one thing that surprises me, and that is that the police continue to pay any attention to this venerable nonsense. The police are as stupid as the people who set them on."

"Give me that, give me that, and I will burn it with right good will!" cried Mila.

Mila did not answer. She put out her hand so eagerly to seize and burn this last denunciation, that the Piccinino turned and saw that her cheeks were suffused with a sudden flush.

"I understand," he said, giving her the paper. "But he ought to have forwarded this denunciation before venturing to pay court to you. Always too late, always beside the mark, poor man!"

He opened and ran through several other papers which mentioned none but unknown names, and which Mila burned without looking at them. But suddenly he started and exclaimed:

"Can it be? This in his hands? Good! I did not believe you capable of making this capture. Excuse me, my dear abbé," he continued, putting in his pocket a paper much more bulky than the others, with an ironical bow to the miserable wretch lying at his feet, his mouth half-open and his eye glassy and lifeless. "I honor you with my esteem to a certain point. Really, I did not believe you capable of it!"

Ninfo's eyes seemed to rekindle. He tried to move, and there was a sort of rattle in his throat.

"Ah! have we reached that stage?" said the Piccinino, putting the mouth of the decanter of narcotized wine to his lips.

"Did that wake you up? You set more store by that than by the fair Mila, eh? In that case, you should have let love-making go, and should not have come here instead of attending to your business! Sleep, I pray you, your excellency, for if you understand what is going on, you will have to die!"

The abbé fell back upon the floor; his vitreous stare remained fastened like that of a dead man on the Piccinino's ironical face.

"He needs rest," said the latter to Mila, with a cruel smile; "let us not disturb him any more."

He secured the stout shutters at the windows with heavy padlocked iron bars, and left the room with Mila, locking the door and putting the key in his pocket.

XXXIX

AN IDYLL

The Piccinino returned with his young companion to the garden, and, having suddenly become pensive, sat down upon a bench and apparently forgot her presence. And yet he was thinking of her, and this is what he was saying to himself:

"Would it not be an idiotic performance to allow this lovely creature to go hence as calm and serene as she came? Yes, it would be an idiotic performance for a man who was resolved upon her ruin; but I simply wished to test the power of my glance and my voice to lure her into my cage, like a beautiful bird whom one likes to examine close at hand, and to whom one then restores its liberty, because one does not wish it to die. There is always a touch of hatred in the violent desires a woman arouses in us."—The Piccinino is still musing and meditating upon his impressions.—"For victory, in such cases, is a matter of pride, and it is impossible to fight, even in play, without a little temper.—But there is no more of hatred than of anger or desire in the feeling this child arouses in me. It does not even occur to her to be coquettish with me. She is not afraid of me; she looks me in the face without blushing; she is not agitated in my presence. If I abuse her isolation and her weakness, she will defend herself badly perhaps, but she will go away from here all in tears, and it may be will kill herself—for there are some who kill themselves.—At all events she will detest the thought of me and blush to have belonged to me. Now, a man like myself cannot afford to be despised. Women who do not know him must fear him; they who do know him must esteem him or love him; they who have known him must regret him. To be sure, there is, on the border-line between presumption and violence, an infinite enjoyment, a complete consciousness of victory; but that is so on the border-line only: a hair's-breadth beyond, and it is all bestiality and brutality. The moment that a woman can accuse you of having resorted to force, she resumes her sway, although conquered, and you risk becoming her slave because you have been her master against her will. I have heard that there was something of that sort in my father's life, although Fra Angelo would never tell me anything definite about it. But everybody knows that my father lacked patience and that he drank heavily. Those were the failings of his time. We are more civilized and more adroit to-day. More moral? no, but more refined, and, consequently, more irresistible. Would there be much skill or much merit involved in obtaining from this girl what she has not as yet accorded her lover? She is so trustful that the first half of the road would be easy enough. Indeed, I have already gone halfway. She was fascinated by my air of chivalrous virtue. She came here, she entered my house, she sat by my side. But the other half is not simply difficult; it is impossible. I could never make her desire to struggle with me; it would never occur to her to yield in order to obtain. If she were mine, I would dress her as a boy and take her with me hunting. At need she would hunt the Neapolitan as she has hunted the abbé to-day. She would soon be hardened. I should love her as a page; I should not look upon her as a woman at all."

"Well, monsignor," said Mila, a little annoyed by her host's long silence, "are you waiting for the Piccinino to come? Can I not go away now?"

"Do you want to go?" replied the Piccinino, looking at her with a distraught air.

"Why not? You managed the affair so quickly that it is still early, and I can return alone by daylight. I shall not be afraid now that I know where the abbé is, and that he is incapable of coming after me."

"Very well, go, Mila; you are free, since you are in such haste to leave me, and are so uncomfortable in my company."

"No, signor, do not say that," replied the girl, artlessly. "I am highly honored to be with you, and if it were not for the danger, which you realize, of being spied upon and falsely accused, I should enjoy staying with you; for it seems to me that you are sad, and I might at least divert your thoughts. Sometimes Princess Agatha is sad too, and when I would leave her alone, she says to me: 'Stay with me, little Mila; even if we don't speak, your presence does me good.'"

Thereupon the Piccinino asked many questions, which Mila answered with her usual ingenuousness, but neither would nor could tell him anything more than he had already heard; that is to say, that she lived a virtuous, retired life, that she was very charitable, that she read a great deal, that she loved the arts, and that she was gentle and placid, almost to the point of apathy, in her external relations. But the unsuspecting Mila added that she was sure that her dear princess was more ardent and self-sacrificing in her affections than people thought; that she had often known her to be moved to tears by the story of some misfortune, or even by some touchingly simple anecdote.

"Very well," said Mila; "one day I told her that there was a time when we were very poor in Rome. I was only five or six years old then, and as we had almost nothing to eat, I used sometimes to tell my brother Michel that I was not hungry, so that he would eat my share. But Michel, suspecting my motive, began to say that he was not hungry either; so that we often kept our bread over night, neither of us being willing to admit that we longed to eat it. And the result of that performance was that we made ourselves more unhappy than we really were. I told the princess this laughingly; suddenly she burst into tears and pressed me to her heart, saying: 'Poor children! poor dear children!'—Tell me, signor, if that shows the cold heart and dull mind that people say she has?"

The Piccinino took Mila's arm in his and walked about the garden with her, leading her on to talk of the princess. His imagination was engrossed by that woman who had made so deep an impression on him, and he entirely forgot that Mila had occupied his thoughts and disturbed his senses during a part of the day.

Honest Mila, still convinced that she was talking to a sincere friend, abandoned herself to the pleasure of praising the woman whom she loved with enthusiasm, and forgot that she was forgetting herself, as she expressed it, after walking about for an hour under the magnificent trees in the garden at Nicolosi.

The Piccinino had an impressionable brain and a fickle humor. His whole life was a constant alternation of meditation and curiosity. The simple and graceful conversation of Mila, her kindly thoughts, the generous outflow of her affections, and an indefinable touch of grandeur of soul, courage, and cheeriness of temperament, which she inherited from her father and uncle, gradually fascinated the brigand. New horizons opened before him, as if he were passing from the contemplation of a painful and fatiguing drama to that of a placid and lightsome idyll. He was too intelligent not to understand everything, even those things which were most opposed to his instincts and habits. He had devoured Byron's poems. In his dreams he had raised himself to the level of Don Juan and Lara; but he had read Petrarch too, and knew him by heart; indeed he had smiled instead of yawning, as he murmured to himself the concetti of Aminta and the Pastor Fido. He felt soothed by his frank converse with little Mila, even more than he ordinarily was when he resorted to that sentimental nonsense to allay the tempests of his passions.

But at last the sun began to sink. Mila thought of Magnani, and asked leave to go.

"Very well, addio, my sweet Mila," said the Piccinino; "but as we walk back to the garden gate I propose to do for you in all seriousness what I have never done for any woman, except from some selfish motive or in mockery."

"I propose to pluck a bouquet for you, a virginal bouquet, from the flowers in my garden," he answered, with a smile, in which, if there was a suspicion of mockery, it was directed at himself alone.

To Mila this attention seemed much less surprising than it seemed to the Piccinino. He plucked with care white roses, myrtle, and orange blossoms; he picked the thorns from the roses; he selected the finest flowers; and with more taste and skill than he would have given himself credit for, he made a superb bouquet for his amiable guest.

"Ah!" he said as he presented it to her, "we must not forget the cyclamen. There must be some among this grass. No, no, Mila, do not look; I want to pick them myself, so that the princess may enjoy inhaling the perfume of my bouquet. For you must tell her that it comes from me, and that it was the only attention which I ventured to offer you, after a tête-à-tête of two hours in my house."

"You must tell her, Mila. You must tell her everything. But her alone, do you understand? Swear it on your salvation, for you believe in that, do you not?"

"I believe that I have earned the right to go to Paradise to-day, if I should die at once; for my heart is as pure as a little child's since you have been with me."

"But, suppose the princess asks me who you are, monsignor, and whom I am talking about—how shall I describe you so that she may know?"

"You will tell her what I wish you also to know, Mila. But perhaps there will be times hereafter when my face and my name will no longer be in accord. Then you must hold your peace, and, at need, pretend that you never saw me, for with a word you could cause my death."

"God forbid!" cried Mila, effusively. "Ah! monsignor, rely on my prudence and my discretion as if my life were bound to yours!"

"Very well; say to the princess that it was Carmelo Tomabene who rescued you from Abbé Ninfo, and who kissed your hand as respectfully as he would kiss her own."

"It is for me to kiss your hand, monsignor," replied the guileless child, putting the brigand's hand to her lips, firmly persuaded that it was at least a king's son who treated her with such condescending courtesy; "for you are deceiving me," she continued. "Carmelo Tomabene is a villano, and this house is no more yours than his name is. You might live in a palace, if you chose, but you disguise yourself for political reasons which I ought not to know, and do not wish to. I have an idea that you will be King of Sicily some day. Ah! how I would like to be a man and fight for your cause! for you will bring about the happiness of your people, I am sure of it!"

Mila's jesting extravagance caused a momentary madness in the brigand's audacious brain. He had a touch of vertigo, and felt almost the same emotion as if she had guessed the truth instead of dreaming a dream. But instantly he laughed an almost bitter laugh, which did not dispel Mila's illusions. She thought that it was an attempt to banish her rash suspicions, and she frankly asked his forgiveness for the words that had escaped her.

"My child," he replied, kissing her on the brow and assisting her to mount the white mule, "Princess Agatha will tell you who I am. I authorize you to ask her; but, when you find out, remember that you are my accomplice, or that you must send me to the gallows."

"I would rather go myself!" said Mila, as she rode away, calling his attention to the respectful kiss she bestowed upon his bouquet.

"Well!" said the Piccinino to himself, "this has been the pleasantest and most romantic adventure of my whole life. I have played the part of a king in disguise, without showing it, without taking the trouble to prepare for it, without making any arrangements to afford myself that amusement. Unexpected pleasures are the only genuine ones, they say; I begin to believe it. Perhaps it is because I have premeditated my actions too much, and laid out my life beforehand too carefully, that I have so often found ennui and distaste at the end of my undertakings. Fascinating Mila! What a wealth of poesy, what freshness of the imagination in your young brain! Oh! if only you were a youth of my own sex! if I could keep you beside me without causing you to lose any of your pleasant illusions and your blessed purity! I should find the sweet companionship of a wife in a faithful comrade, without danger of arousing or feeling the passion which poisons and destroys all friendships! But such mortals do not exist. Woman cannot fail to be treacherous; man cannot cease to be brutal. Ah! I always have missed—I always shall miss—the being able to love some one. I should have had to fall in with a mind different from all other minds and even more different from my own—which is impossible!

"Am I then an exceptional character?" he asked himself, following with his eyes the prints of Mila's little feet on the gravelled paths of his garden. "It seems to me that I am, when I compare myself with the mountaineers with whom I am compelled to live, and with these bandits whose leader I am. I have more than one brother among them, so it is said. The fact that they have none of my qualities, makes it impossible for me to believe it. The passions which serve as a bond between us differ as much as our features and our bodily strength. They desire booty in order to convert into money everything that is not money; and I care for nothing which is not of value by reason of its beauty or its rarity. What they succeed in obtaining they hoard because they are miserly; I use it sparingly, so that I may be able to bear myself royally with them on occasion, and extend my power and influence over everyone about me.

"Thus gold is to me only a means, while to them it is the end. They love women as chattels, and I, alas! would fain be able to love them as human beings! They are intoxicated with delight by acts of violence which make me sick at heart, and by which I should be humiliated, knowing that I have the power to please, and having never been compelled to force myself upon anyone. No, no! they are no brothers of mine; if they are the Destatore's sons, they are the offspring of wild dissipation and of his years of moral decadence. I am the son of Castro-Reale; I was conceived on a day when his mind was lucid. My mother was not violated like the rest. She abandoned herself to him willingly, and I am the fruit of the intercourse of two free hearts, who did not give me life against their wills.

"But, in that world which is called society, and which I call the legal community, are there not many persons of both sexes with whom I could enter into relations, and so escape this ghastly solitude of my thoughts? Are there not men of intelligence, endowed with keen perception, whose friend I might be? Are there not many women, proud and adroit, whose lover I might be, without being compelled to laugh at the pains I had taken to overcome them? In a word, am I doomed never to find emotion of any sort in this life which I embraced as being most fruitful in violent emotions? Shall I always be obliged to expend endless stores of imaginative power and of tact, in order to succeed in pillaging a vessel on the coast or a party of travellers in the gorges of the mountain? And all to obtain a multitude of petty trinkets, a little money, and the hearts of a few Englishwomen, ugly or half-mad, who adore adventures with brigands as a remedy for the spleen!

"But I have closed to myself forever that world where I might find my equals and my fellows. I can enter only through the secret doors of intrigue, and, if I wish to appear there in broad daylight, I can do it only on condition of being followed by the mystery of my past, that is to say, by a sentence of death always hanging over my head. Shall I leave the country? It is the only country where the trade of bandit is more perilous than dishonorable. Anywhere else I shall be asked for proof that I have always lived in legitimate society; and if I cannot furnish it I shall be classed with the most degraded creatures who wallow in the sloughs of their pretended civilization!

"O Mila! how completely you have filled with grief and dismay this heart upon which you have shed a ray of your sunlight!"

XL

DECEPTION

Thus did that man, so ill-placed in life if we compare his intellectual powers with his social position, torture himself with vain reflections. Mental culture, which was his greatest enjoyment, was also his torment. Having read everything that fell into his hands, without method and without selection, and allowing himself to be impressed by everything in turn, he was as learned in evil as in good, and he was insensibly drawing near that scepticism which no longer believes absolutely in either good or evil.

He returned to his house to take certain precautions with respect to Abbé Ninfo, so that, if the unexpected should happen, and his domicile be invaded, there should be no traces of violence. He put the narcotized wine out of sight, and filled the decanter with unadulterated wine, in order that he might safely pretend to experiment upon himself at need. He placed the abbé on a couch, extinguished the lamp, and swept up the ashes of the papers Mila had destroyed. No one ever entered his house in his absence. He had no regular servants, and the spotless neatness which he himself maintained did not cost him much trouble, for he occupied only a few rooms, and even those few he did not enter every day. He worked in his garden, in his leisure moments, to keep himself in condition, and to be consistent with his assumed rôle of peasant. He had himself applied to all the issues of his abode a simple but substantial system of fastening, calculated to resist for a long time any attempt to force an entrance. Finally, he released two enormous and savage mountain dogs, fierce beasts who knew nobody but him, and who would infallibly have strangled the prisoner if he had tried to escape.

Having taken these precautions, the Piccinino washed and perfumed himself, and, before going down to the city, showed himself in the village of Nicolosi, where he was highly esteemed by all the people. He conversed in Latin with the priest, under the vine-clad arbor of the vicarage. He exchanged sly jests with the pretty girls of the village, who ogled him from their doorsteps. He held several consultations on agriculture and general affairs with men of sense who appreciated his intelligence and his extensive knowledge. As he left the village he fell in with an officer of campieri, with whom he walked for some distance, and who informed him that the Piccinino still succeeded in eluding the pursuit of the police and the municipal brigade.

Mila, eager to tell all her secrets to the princess, and to avail herself of the mysterious prince's permission to ascertain their meaning, travelled as quickly as Bianca was able to descend those steep and dangerous slopes. It did not occur to her to hold the mule back; she was too deeply absorbed in her meditations. Persons of pure heart and tranquil mind must have noticed that, when they communicate their mental disposition to perturbed and agitated minds, their own serenity is diminished in proportion. They give only at the price of running in debt themselves to some extent; for confidence is a matter of exchange, and there is no heart so richly endowed and so powerful that it does not risk something in gratifying its beneficent impulses.

Gradually, however, pretty Mila's terror changed to joy. The Piccinino's conversation had left an echo as of sweet music in her ears, and the odor of his bouquet kept alive the illusion that she was still in that rustic garden, under the shade of the black fig-trees and pistacias, walking upon carpets of moss strewn with mallow, orchids and fraxinella, sometimes catching her veil on the aloes and the twigs of the thorny smilax, from which her host quickly detached it with respectful courtesy. Mila had the simple tastes of her class, added to the tendency to romance and poesy born of her intelligence. If the marble fountains and statues of Villa Palmarosa appealed to her imagination, the vine-clad arbors and wild apple-trees of Carmelo's garden spoke more loudly to her heart. She had already forgotten the bandit's oriental boudoir; she had not felt at her ease there as she had under the arbor. He had been cold and satirical almost all the time in the boudoir, whereas, among the flowering shrubs and beside the silvery spring, he had displayed an artless mind and a tender heart.

How did it happen that this girl, who had just seen such strange and distressing things, a queen's boudoir in the house of a peasant, and the ghastly scene of Abbé Ninfo's lethargy, no longer remembered what must have impressed her imagination so profoundly? Her surprise and her fright had vanished like a dream, and her mind was engrossed by the final tableau, fresh and unsullied, where she saw naught but flowers, greenswards, birds chattering among the leaves, and a handsome young man who guided her through that enchanted labyrinth, conversing with her in chaste and charming language.

When Mila had passed the Destatore's cross, she dismounted, as Carmelo had advised her to do, as a measure of prudence. She fastened the reins to the saddle-bow and waved a switch about Bianca's ears. The intelligent beast started back at a gallop toward Nicolosi, needing no guidance to return to her stable. Mila continued her journey on foot, avoiding the neighborhood of Bel-Passo; but, by a veritable fatality, Fra Angelo happened to be returning just then from the Della Serra palace to his convent by a by-path, so that Mila suddenly found herself face to face with him.

The poor girl drew her mantellina about her and began to walk very fast, as if she had not seen her uncle.

"Where have you been, Mila?" was the greeting which brought her to a standstill, uttered as it was in a tone which admitted of no hesitation.

"Why! uncle," she replied, putting aside her veil, "I didn't see you; the sun was in my eyes."

"Where have you been?" repeated the monk, not deigning to discuss the probable truth of that reply.

"Well, uncle," said Mila, resolutely, "I will not tell you a lie; I saw you plainly."

"I have been to the convent, uncle. I was looking for you, and, not finding you, I was going back to the city."

"What was it that you were in such a hurry to say to me, my dear girl? It must be very important, for you to dare to come out into the country alone, contrary to your habit. Come, answer me! You say nothing! You cannot lie, Mila!"

"Yes, uncle, yes! I came——" And she stopped short, completely at a loss, for she had made no preparations for this meeting, and her wits abandoned her.

"You are losing your head, Mila," rejoined the monk, "for I tell you that you do not know how to lie, and you answer 'Yes!' Thank heaven, you don't know what you are saying! Do not try to lie, my child, but tell me frankly where you have been."

"It is impossible, dear uncle, impossible," said Mila, hanging her head, crimson with shame, and with her eyes filled with tears; for it was very painful to her to see her excellent uncle angry with her for the first time in her life.

"Then you wish me to believe that you have been doing either an insane or a wicked thing!"

"God!" repeated the monk, in a despairing tone. "How you pain me by speaking so, Mila! Can you be capable of swearing a false oath?"

"Am I in the habit of lying, I ask you, then?" exclaimed the girl, proudly; "and ought I to be suspected by my uncle, the man who knows me so well, and for whose esteem I care more than for my life?"

"In that case, speak!" rejoined Fra Angelo, grasping her wrist in a way which he considered encouraging and paternal, but which bruised the child's arm and extorted a cry of terror from her.—"Why this fright, pray?" demanded the monk, in amazement. "Ah! you are guilty, girl. You have just done—not anything sinful, I cannot believe that—but some foolish thing or other, which is the first step on the pathway of evil. If it were not so, you would not recoil from me in terror; you would not have tried to hide your face when we met; above all things, you would not have tried to lie! And now, as it is impossible for you to have any innocent secret from me, you should not refuse to explain your actions."

"But I tell you, uncle, that it is an entirely innocent secret, and still it is impossible for me to tell you what it is. Do not ask me any more questions. I would die before I would speak."

"At all events, Mila, promise me that you will tell your father this secret which I may not know!"

"I cannot promise you that; but I swear that I will tell it to Princess Agatha."

"I have the greatest esteem and veneration for Princess Agatha," replied the monk, "but I know that women are excessively indulgent to one another in the matter of certain errors of conduct, and that virtuous women are the more tolerant because of their ignorance of evil. I do not, therefore, like the idea of your seeking shelter against shame on your friend's bosom, instead of explaining your conduct to your family, with head erect. Go, Mila; I insist no farther, since you have withdrawn your confidence from me; but I pity you because your heart is not pure and calm this evening as it was this morning. I pity my brother, whose pride and joy you were; I pity your brother, who will soon have to answer for your conduct before the world, I doubt not, and who will have plenty of trouble on his hands unless he chooses to allow you to be insulted on his arm. Woe, woe to the men of a family, when the women, who should watch over its honor as the Vestals watched over the sacred fire, break the laws of prudence, modesty and truth!"

Fra Angelo passed on, leaving poor Mila, crushed by this malediction, kneeling on the stones in the road, with bloodless cheeks and her bosom heaving with sobs.

"Alas!" she said to herself, "until this moment it seemed to me that my conduct was not only innocent, but brave and praiseworthy. Oh! how harsh the laws of modest reserve and the necessity of an unsullied reputation are for women, since, even when it is a question of saving the lives of one's family, one must expect to be blamed by those whom one loves best! Was it wrong for me to trust to the prince's promises? He may have deceived me, it is true! But when his conduct has proved his honor and his virtue, ought I to blame myself for believing in him? Was it not a presentiment of the truth that led me toward him, and not mere foolish and imprudent curiosity?"

She kept on down the mountain, but, as she walked, she questioned her conscience severely, and some scruples awoke within her. Had she not been impelled by pride to accomplish a difficult and perilous enterprise of which no one would have believed her to be capable? Had she not allowed herself to be influenced by the stranger's comeliness and charm of manner, and would she have had equal confidence in an older and less eloquent man?

"But what does it matter after all?" she said to herself. "What have I done that is wrong, and what reproach could be brought against me if I had been watched? I have run the risk of being misrepresented and slandered, and that is certainly a fault when one does it from egotism or a spirit of coquetry; but when one exposes oneself to danger to save one's father and brother!—Princess Agatha will be my judge; she will tell me whether I have done right or wrong, and whether she would have acted as I did."

But imagine poor Mila's dismay, when, as soon as she began her story, the princess interrupted her, saying: "O my child! it was the Piccinino!"

Mila tried to struggle against the truth. She insisted that everybody said that the Piccinino was short, thickset, awkwardly built, afflicted with hideous ugliness, and that his face was darkened by bushy hair and a beard; whereas the stranger's slight figure was so graceful and refined, his manners so gracious and noble!

"My child," said the princess, "there is a false Piccinino who plays the part of his chief with people of whom his chief is suspicious, and who would play it, at need, before the police and magistrates, if he should fall into their hands. He is a repulsive, savage creature, who enhances, by the horror of his appearance, the terror inspired by the expeditions of the band. But the real Piccinino, the one who styles himself the justicier d'aventure, and who directs all the operations of the brigands of the mountain; the man whom nobody knows and as to whom, if he should be captured, it would be impossible to prove that he had ever been the leader or a member of the band, is a handsome, well-educated, eloquent, dissipated and cunning young man; the same Carmelo Tomabene with whom you talked at the fountain."

Mila was so thunderstruck that she almost determined not to go on with her story. How could she confess that she had been the dupe of a hypocrite and had placed herself at the mercy of a libertine? She did confess everything, however, with absolute sincerity, and, when she had finished, began to weep afresh, thinking of the risks she had run, and of the conjectures of which she would be the object if the Piccinino should chance to boast of her visit.

But Agatha, who had trembled with apprehension more than once as she listened, and who had resolved to reprove her for her imprudence, by pointing out to her that the Piccinino was too adroit to have really needed her assistance, was disarmed by her ingenuous grief, and embraced her warmly to comfort her. What impressed her quite as deeply as the rashness of the girl, was the physical and moral courage which had inspired her, her determination to take her own life at the slightest suggestion of outrage, and her unbounded devotion and her generous confidence. She thanked her affectionately therefore, because she had been guided in part by the desire to deliver her from an enemy; and finally, when she was fully assured that Abbé Ninfo was really in the justicier's power, she was so overcome by joy that she kissed little Mila's hands, calling her her good fairy and her angel of salvation.

Mila being thus comforted and reconciled with herself, the princess, in an outburst of childlike merriment, proposed to her that she should change her dress to assist her to recover from the fatigue of her expedition, and that then they should go and surprise her father and brother at the marquis's villa.

"We will go on foot," she said, "for it is close by if we go by way of the garden; and we will dine together first. Then we shall have the darkness and cool breeze of early evening, and in addition a travelling companion whom you do not expect perhaps, but whom you will not be sorry to see, for he is a friend of yours."

"I wonder who it can be," said Mila, with a smile; she guessed shrewdly enough, but with respect to her heart's secret, and to that alone, she recovered all the prudence of the feminine mind.

The dinner and the preparations of the two friends occupied about an hour; after which the maid came and whispered to the princess: "The young man of last evening, at the end of the garden, by the eastern gate."

"That is right," said the princess, leading Mila away; "that is our road." And they hurried across the park, joyous and light of heart; for both were born again to the hope of happiness.

Magnani was walking back and forth, melancholy and distraught, waiting to be sent for to go to the palace, when two veiled women, issuing from the clumps of myrtle and orange, ran to him, and grasping each an arm, hurried him along with them without speaking. He recognized them perfectly, the princess better than Mila, who seemed to him to be dressed more elaborately than usual under her light cape; but he was too deeply moved to speak, and he pretended to accept this gracious jest gayly. A smile played about his lips, but his heart was troubled; and, while he sought relief from the perturbation caused by Agatha's presence, he derived but little assistance from feeling Mila's arm in his.

As they passed into the marquis's park, the princess put aside her veil and said to him:

"My dear friend, I intended to talk with you at my house; but my impatience to announce some good news to our friends, who are visiting the marquis, led me to bring you here with us. The whole evening belongs to us, and I can talk with you here as well as elsewhere. But let us go forward noiselessly; we are not expected and I want to surprise them."

The marquis and his guests, after conversing a long time, were still on the terrace looking out upon the sea, where the horizon was ablaze with the last rays of the sun, while the stars appeared one by one in the zenith. Michel was listening with deep interest to the marquis, whose conversation was instructive, albeit always affable and unaffected. What was his surprise when, on raising his head, he saw three persons seated about the table, laden with refreshments, which he had just left to walk to the balustrade, and when, in those three persons, he recognized Agatha, Mila, and Magnani!

At first he had no eyes except for Agatha, and hardly recognized his sister and his friend. The princess was dressed, however, with the utmost simplicity, in a dress of pearl-gray silk, with a guardaspalle of black lace thrown over her head and shoulders. She seemed to him a little less fresh and youthful than she had appeared under the bright lights. But, in a moment, the charm of her manner, her frank smile, her pure and sincere glance, made her seem even younger and more attractive than on the first day.

"Are you surprised to see your dear daughter here?" she asked Pier-Angelo. "But she told you, did she not, that she should not dine alone? And you see! you left her at home, and like Cinderella, she appears in the midst of the fête, resplendent in costume and beauty. As for Master Magnani, he is the enchanter who attends her; but as we are not dealing with Don Magnifico on this occasion, the enchanter will not dazzle the father's eyes so that he will not recognize his cherished daughter. Cinderella therefore can challenge the glances of all present."

As she spoke Agatha raised Mila's veil, and disclosed her radiant as a sun; such is the expression of the legend.

Michel looked at his sister. She was fairly beaming with confidence and joy. The princess had arrayed her in a gown of bright pink silk, with several strings of beautiful great pearls about her neck and arms. A wreath of natural flowers, wonderfully beautiful and arranged with consummate art, crowned her dark face without concealing the abundant treasures of her hair. Her little feet were daintily shod, and her pretty fingers opened and closed Agatha's splendid fan with as much grace and dignity as any marchesina. She was a muse of the Renaissance, a patrician maiden, and a lovely damsel of the South, radiant with health, nobility, and poetic charm.

Agatha looked at her with an air of motherly pride, and smiled lovingly as she talked of her in Pier-Angelo's ear.

Michel then turned his eyes upon Magnani. He was gazing alternately at the modest princess and the lovely silk-spinner of the Catanian suburb with extraordinary emotion. He was no better able than Michel to understand the strange and bewildering dream in which he seemed to be moving. But it is certain that he saw Mila only through a cloud of gold and fire, which emanated from Agatha and was projected upon her young friend as if by magic.

XLI

JEALOUSY AND GRATITUDE

The princess led the marquis and Pier-Angelo aside to tell them that Ninfo was in the Piccinino's hands, and that she had been so informed by an eye-witness of his capture whom she was not at liberty to name.

More ices were brought, and the conversation was renewed. Despite Magnani's perturbation and timidity, despite Michel's excitement and preoccupation, the princess and the marquis speedily tranquillized the two young men, thanks to the judicious courtesy and the great art of being simple, which well-bred people possess when the foundation of their character corresponds with the external charm due to exquisite tact. Thus Agatha questioned Michel concerning subjects with which he was familiar, and on which he felt deeply. The young artist was overjoyed by her perfect comprehension of art, and he stored away in his memory several far-reaching definitions which she let fall, her mode of expressing herself was so simple and natural. When she spoke to him she seemed to be consulting rather than instructing him, and her glance, alight with penetrating sympathy, seemed to seek in Michel's eyes confirmation of her own opinions and ideas.

Magnani understood all that was said, and, although he seldom ventured to speak, it was easy to read on his intelligent face that none of the ideas advanced were beyond the reach of his intellect. That young man had unusual faculties which would never have been cultivated, perhaps, but for his romantic passion. From the day that he first became enamored of the princess he had constantly devoted a portion of his leisure to reading and to the study of such works of art as he had been privileged to see. He had employed his vacations—what mechanics call the dead season—in travelling about Sicily on foot, viewing the treasures of antiquity with which that island, so beautiful in itself, is thickly strewn. While saying to himself that he was determined to remain humble and obscure, and persuading himself that he had no desire to depart from the rough simplicity of his class, he had been impelled by an irresistible instinct to improve his mind.

The conversation having become general, was pleasant, unconstrained, and even merry, thanks to Pier-Angelo's sallies and Mila's artless remarks. But her artlessness was so touching that, far from wounding Michel's self-esteem in the princess's presence, it displayed his young sister's fifteen years to him in a new light. It is certain that he had paid too little heed to the very great change which a year had caused in the ideas of a girl of her age, when, thinking that he still had to do with a heedless and timid child, he had undertaken to blast all the hopes of her heart with a word. In every word that Mila said she manifested immense progress in respect to intelligence and decision of character, and the contrast between that development of her mind, and the inexperience, innocence and simplicity of her heart, presented a spectacle at once charming and affecting. The princess, with the delicate tact which women alone possess, caused Mila's charm to stand out in bolder relief by her replies, and neither Michel, nor Magnani, nor Pier-Angelo himself, had ever before imagined how much enjoyment might be derived from talking with that maiden.

The moon rose, silvery white, in the cloudless sky. Agatha suggested a walk in the garden. They started together; but the princess soon strolled away from the others with Magnani, whose arm she took familiarly; and for half an hour they remained so far away from their friends that they were often out of sight.

We will not divulge at this point what the princess had to say in confidence to the young mechanic during that tête-à-tête, which seemed to Michel so long and so extraordinary; indeed, we shall not divulge it at all. The reader will divine it at the proper time.

But Michel was unable to form the faintest idea of it, and he was on the rack. He ceased to listen to the marquis; he was much more inclined to tease and contradict Mila. He laughed at her costume and picked flaws in it under his breath, and almost made her cry; so that she finally whispered to him: "Michel, you always were jealous, and you are jealous at this moment."

"Jealous of what, pray?" he retorted bitterly; "of your pink dress and your pearl necklace?"

"No," she said, "but of the princess's friendship for your friend and her confidence in him. Oh! I remember how you used to sulk when we were children, if mamma kissed me more than you."

When the princess and Magnani joined them again, Agatha seemed calm and Magnani deeply moved. But his noble face was even graver than usual, and Michel noticed that his manner had undergone a remarkable change. He no longer seemed to be at all confused by Agatha's presence. When she spoke to him, the reply no longer trembled on his lips; he no longer turned his eyes away in dismay, and, instead of the terrible suffering he had previously displayed, he was calm, attentive and thoughtful. They talked a few moments longer, then the princess turned to go. The marquis offered his carriage. She declined it. "I prefer to walk back through the gardens as I came," she said; "and, as I must have an escort, although we no longer have any enemies to fear, I will take Michelangelo's arm—unless he refuses!"—she added, with a quiet smile, observing the young man's confusion.

Michel could find no words for a reply; he bowed and offered her his arm. An hour earlier he would have been beside himself with joy. Now it wounded his pride to receive in public a favor which Magnani had received privately and as it were in secret.

Pier-Angelo took his leave with his daughter, to whom Magnani did not offer his arm. So much ceremonious courtesy was not in his line. He affected to be ignorant of the rules of politeness because he detested imitation, but in reality his manners were always gentle and amiable. After a few steps he found himself so near Mila that he naturally took her round elbow in his hand to guide her through the narrow lanes of the suburb, and walked with her, supporting her thus, to her door.

Michel had started off encased in his pride as in a cuirass, mentally accusing the princess of caprice and coquetry, and firmly resolved not to allow himself to be dazzled by her advances. And yet he confessed to himself that he was entirely unable to understand the irritation that he felt. He was forced to say to himself that she was immeasurably kind, and that if she was, in fact, indebted to old Pier-Angelo, she paid her debt with all the treasures of delicacy and refinement which a woman's heart can contain.

But Michel could not forget all the problems which he had been trying for two days to solve; and the way in which the princess pressed his arm at that moment, as they walked, like a woman passionately in love or a nervous person unaccustomed to walking, was a fresh problem which the idea of a service rendered the signora by his father did not sufficiently explain.

He strode forward at first in silence, saying to himself that he would not speak first, that he would not give way to emotion, that he would not forget that Magnani's arm had probably been pressed in the same way; in a word, that he would be on his guard: for either Princess Agatha was mad, or she concealed the most insane coquetry beneath a virtuous and downcast exterior.

But all his fine plans came to naught. The shady paths that they trod, with plots of land carefully tilled and planted on each side, led through a succession of small gardens belonging to well-to-do mechanics or middle-class citizens of the town. The paths were separated from the plots only by shrubs, rose-bushes, or beds of aromatic herbs. Here and there vine-clad arbors cast a dense shadow about them. The moon's rays were oblique and uncertain. Innumerable perfumes arose from the flower-strewn fields, and the sea, behind the hills in the distance, murmured in amorous tones. Nightingales sang among the jasmines. Some human voices sang in the distance, gayly challenging the echo; but there was no one on the path which Michel and Agatha were following. The little gardens were deserted. Michel felt oppressed; his pace slackened, his arm trembled convulsively. A faint breeze blew the princess's veil near his face, and he fancied that he heard mysterious voices whispering in his ear. He dared not turn to see whether it was a woman's breath or the breath of night that caressed him so near at hand.

"My dear Michel," said the princess, in a calm tone, which brought him abruptly from the sky to the earth, "I ask your pardon, but I really must stop to take breath. I am not much accustomed to walking, and I feel very tired. Here is a bench under this arbor which invites me to sit down for five minutes, and I fancy that the owners of this little garden, if they should see me, would not accuse me of committing a crime if I take advantage of it."

Michel led her to the bench to which she pointed, and, restored to reason once more, walked a few steps away to look at a little fountain whose soft gurgling failed to divert him from his reverie.

"Yes, yes, it was a dream, or else it was my little sister Mila who gave me that kiss. She is a mocking madcap! she would have explained the great mystery of the locket to me if I had questioned her frankly and earnestly. Doubtless there is some perfectly natural cause for all this which does not occur to me. Isn't it always so with natural causes? The only one that one does not divine is always the simplest. Ah! if Mila knew what danger she is playing with, and what pain she might spare me by telling me the truth! I will press her so to-morrow that she will tell me everything!"

While Michel reflected thus, the crystal water murmured in its narrow basin, wherein quivered the spectre of the moon. The fountain was a small terra-cotta affair, of classic simplicity; an aquatic cupid grasping a huge carp from whose mouth the stream of water fell about a foot into the reservoir. The artist who had executed the figure had attempted to give it a mischievous expression, but he had succeeded only in imparting to the carp's great eyes a glare of grotesque ferocity. Michel looked at the group without seeing it, and to no purpose was the night soft and fragrant; he, passionate lover of nature that he was, absorbed by his own thoughts, denied to nature his accustomed homage on that evening.

And yet the murmur of the water acted upon his imagination without his realizing it. He remembered a similar melodious sound, the timid and melancholy murmur with which the marble Naiad filled the grotto of the Palmarosa palace as she emptied her urn into the basin; the blissful sensations of his dream passed before his mind once more, and he would fain have fallen asleep where he stood, hoping for a repetition of his hallucination.

"But what am I thinking of!" he suddenly said to himself; "am I not a most absurd novice? Did she not stop here in order to invite me to prolong an ardent tête-à-tête? I took that sudden fatigue, that fancy to sit in the first garden that we came to, for an honest explanation of the confusion she felt—was it not intended as an encouragement to my uncouth timidity?"

He eagerly approached the princess, feeling emboldened by the shadow of the arbor. The bench was so small that, unless he asked her to make room for him, he could not sit beside her. He sat down on the grass, not precisely at her feet, but near enough to be nearer still ere long.

"Well, Michel," she said to him, with an indescribable sweetness in her voice, "are you also tired, pray?"

"I am worn out," he replied, in a tone of deep emotion which made the princess start.

"What do you mean? you are not ill, my child?" she said, putting out her hand, which came in contact with the young man's silky hair in the darkness.

With one bound he was at her knees, his head bent, as it were fascinated beneath that hand which did not repel him, his lips pressed to the hem of that floating silk dress which could not betray his transports; uncertain, beside himself, lacking courage to declare his passion, lacking strength to resist it.

"Michel," cried the princess, letting her hand fall again upon the young madman's burning brow, "you are feverish, my child! your head is burning! Yes, yes," she added, stroking his cheeks with affectionate solicitude, "you have had too much fatigue these last few days; you have been awake two nights in succession, and although you threw yourself on your bed for a few hours this morning, I doubt if you slept much. And I have led you on to talk too much to-night. You must go home. Let us walk on; you can leave me at the gate of my park and go home at once. I intended to say something to you to-night; but I am afraid that you are going to be sick; when you are thoroughly rested, perhaps I will speak to you."

She attempted to rise; but Michel was kneeling on the edge of her dress. He held against his cheeks, he put to his lips that lovely hand which did not seek to avoid his caresses.

"No, no," cried Michel, impetuously, "let me die here. I know very well that you will drive me from your presence forever to-morrow; I know that I shall never see you again, now that you see what is taking place within me. But it is too late, and I am going mad! Oh! do not pretend to believe that I am ill because I have worked by day and been awake all night! Do not be afraid to discover the truth; it is your own fault, signora, you would have it so! Could I resist so many temptations? Spurn me, Agatha, curse me; but to-morrow, to-night, give me the kiss I dreamed of in the Naiad's grotto!"

"Ah! Michel," cried the princess, in a tone impossible to describe, "did you feel it? did you see me? do you know all? Did somebody tell you, or did you divine it? It is God's will. And you fear that I will spurn you? you fear that I will curse you? O my God! is it possible? Pray, does not what is taking place in your heart reveal to you the love with which mine is overflowing?"

As she spoke the lovely Agatha threw her arms around Michel's neck, and, drawing his head to her breast, covered it with ineffable kisses.

Michel was eighteen years old, he had a fiery heart, a restless, all-devouring temperament, vast pride, and an enterprising spirit. But his heart was as pure as his age, and his happiness found him chaste and prostrate in religious adoration. All his jealousy, all his insulting suspicions vanished. It no longer occurred to him to wonder how a person so austere in her morals, who was supposed never to have had a lover, could suddenly fall in love at first sight with a child like him, and tell him so with such absolute candor. He was conscious of nothing save the joy of being loved, an enthusiastic and unbounded gratitude, a fervent, blind adoration. From Agatha's arms he fell at her feet, and covered them with passionate, almost pious kisses.

"No, no, not at my feet, on my heart!" cried the princess; and she held him there a long while in a fervent embrace, weeping freely.

Her tears were so sincere—they had such a sacred eloquence of their own—that Michel felt a great wave of sympathy. His heart swelled and he burst into sobs; a divine joy banished all thought of earthly joy. He found that that woman aroused in him no profane desire; that he was happy and not excited in her arms; that to mingle his tears with hers, and to feel that he was loved by her, was happiness greater than all the transports of which his youth had dreamed; in a word, that he respected her even to dread, as he held her pressed against his heart, and that there never could be a thought between her and him which the angels might not read with a smile on their lips.

He felt all this, confusedly without doubt, but so deeply, and with such a thrill of triumph, that Agatha never suspected the evil impulse of fatuous conceit which had brought him to her feet a few moments before.

Thereupon Agatha, raising her lovely glistening eyes to heaven, her face pale in the moonlight, and as it were rapt in a divine ecstasy, cried, in a transport of joy: "O my God! how I thank Thee! This is the first moment of happiness that Thou hast given me; but I do not complain of having had to wait so long, for it is so great, so pure, so complete, that it effaces and redeems all the sorrows of my life!"

She was so lovely, she spoke with such sincere enthusiasm, that Michel fancied that he had before him a saint of ancient days. "O my God! my God!" he exclaimed in a voice stifled by emotion, "I, too, bless Thee! What have I done to deserve such happiness? To be loved by her! Oh! it is a dream; I dread to wake!"

"No, it is not a dream, Michel," rejoined the princess, turning her inspired glance upon him once more; "it is the only reality of my life, and it will be the one great reality of your whole life. Tell me, what other being than you I could love on this earth? Hitherto I have done nothing but suffer and languish; but now that you are here, it seems to me that I was born for the greatest human felicity. My child, my beloved, my sovereign consolation, my only love! Oh! I cannot speak any more, I do not know what to say to you; joy overwhelms and crushes me!"

"No, no, let us not talk," cried Michel. "No words can describe what I feel; and, thank heaven, I do not yet grasp the whole extent of my happiness; for, if I did, it seems to me that I should die of it!"

XLII

AN EMBARRASSING CONJUNCTURE

The sound of footsteps not far away aroused them both from their delirious excitement. The princess rose, somewhat alarmed by the approach of strangers, and, seizing Michel's arm, hurried on toward her villa with him. She walked more rapidly than before, carefully veiled, but leaning upon him with a sacred joy. And he, with wildly-beating heart, bewildered with happiness, but penetrated with the most profound respect, hardly dared to raise to his lips from time to time the hand that he held in his.

Not until he saw the gate of the princess's garden before him did he recover the power of speech.

"What! leave you already?" he said anxiously; "part so soon? It is impossible! I shall die of excitement and despair."

"We must part here," said the princess. "The time has not come when we shall not part at all. But that happy day will come soon. Have no fear; leave everything to me. Rely upon me and my boundless love to see to it that we are united forever."

"Is it possible? Do these words that I hear really come from your mouth? That day will come, you say? We shall be united? we shall never part? Oh! do not trifle with my simplicity! I dare not believe in such happiness; and yet, when it is you who say it, I cannot doubt!"

"Doubt the permanence of the stars that shine above us, doubt your own existence rather than the power of my heart to overcome the obstacles which seem to you so immense, but which now seem to me so trifling! Ah! on the day when I shall no longer have aught except the world to fear, I shall be very strong, I promise you!" "The world?" said Michel. "Ah! yes, I remember; I had forgotten everything except you and myself. The world will deny you, the world will be offended with you, all because of me! O God, forgive the impulses of my pride! I abhor them now. Oh! let my happiness be shrouded in mystery, and let no one know of it! I insist that it shall be so; I will never suffer you to ruin yourself for love of me."

"Noble-hearted child!" cried the princess, "let your mind be at rest; we will triumph together; but I thank you for this generous impulse of your heart. Ah! yes, all your impulses are generous, I know. I am not happy simply, I am proud of you!"

But Michel thought that he heard footsteps a short distance away, and the fear of compromising that courageous woman triumphed over his happiness.

"We may be watched or surprised," he said to her; "I am sure that someone is coming this way. Fly! I will stay hidden in the bushes here until these people, whether spies or mere passers-by, are out of hearing. But we shall meet to-morrow, shall we not?"

"Oh! surely," she replied. "Come here in the morning, as if to work, and go up to my Casino."

She pressed him to her heart once more, then entered the park and disappeared among the trees.

The noise he had heard had ceased, as if the persons who were approaching had gone in another direction.

Michel stood for a long time, motionless as a statue, and as it were bereft of reason. After so many fascinating illusions, after such mighty efforts not to believe in them, he was falling back once more under the empire of dreams—at least he feared so. He dared not believe that he was awake; he was afraid to take a step—to move a muscle—lest he might thereby dispel the illusion once more, as in the Naiad's grotto. He could not decide to question reality. Even the probabilities frightened him. How could Agatha love him? Why did she love him? He could find no answers to those questions, whereupon he cast them aside as blasphemous. "She loves me! she told me so!" he exclaimed mentally. "To doubt it would be a crime. If I distrusted her word, I should be unworthy of her love."

And he plunged into an ocean of blissful reveries. He lifted up his thoughts toward heaven, which had caused him to be born to so happy a fate. He felt capable of the greatest deeds, since he was deemed worthy of the greatest joys. Never had he believed so fervently in the divine mercy, never had he felt so proud and so humble, so devout and so brave.

"O my God!" he said in his heart, "forgive me; until this day I believed myself to be a creature of some importance. I was proud, I abandoned myself to self-love; and yet I was not loved. Not until to-day have I really lived. I have received life, I have received a heart, I am a man! But I shall never forget that of myself I am nothing, and that the enthusiasm which possesses me, the strength which overflows within me, the virtue of which I realize the full worth to-day, were born under that woman's breath, and live in me only through her. O day of boundless bliss! O sovereign tranquillity, ambition satisfied without selfishness and without remorse! O blessed victory which leaves the heart modest and overflowing with generous sentiments! Love is all this and more. How kind Thou art, O God, not to have allowed me to divine it beforehand, and how vastly this surprise enhances the ecstasy of a heart just coming forth from its utter insignificance!"

He was about to walk slowly away when he saw a dark figure glide along the wall and disappear among the branches. He drew back still farther into the shadow to watch, and soon he recognized the Piccinino, as he removed his cloak and tossed it over the wall, so that he might scale it more readily.

All Michel's blood flowed back toward his heart. Was Carmelo expected? Had the princess authorized him to come and confer with her, at any hour of the night, and to introduce himself into her villa by any means he might choose? It is true that there were important secrets between them, and that, it being more natural, as he said, for him to travel as the crow flies, scaling a wall by night was a natural method of procedure for him. He had warned Agatha that he might ring the bell at the gate of her flower-garden when she least expected him. But was it not unwise on her part to give him permission? Who could be sure of the intentions of such a man as the Piccinino? Agatha was alone; would she be imprudent enough to admit him and listen to him? If she carried her confidence to that point, Michel could not make up his mind to share it. Did she realize that that man was in love with her, or that he pretended to be? What had they said to each other in the flower-garden, while Michel and the marquis looked on but could not hear?

Michel fell headlong from the sky to the earth. A violent paroxysm of jealousy took possession of him, and, to delude himself, he tried to make up his mind that he feared nothing but the danger of insult for the lady of his thoughts. Was it not his duty to watch over her safety and to protect her against the whole world?

He noiselessly opened the gate, the key of which he had retained as well as that of the flower-garden, and glided into the park, resolved to watch the enemy. But, after the Piccinino had agilely scaled the wall, he could find no trace of him.

He walked toward the cliff, and, being perfectly certain that there was nobody in front of him, he decided to ascend the staircase cut in the lava, turning every moment to see if the Piccinino were following him. His heart beat very fast, for a conflict with him upon that staircase would have been decisive. On seeing him there, the brigand would have realized that he had been deceived, that Michel was Agatha's lover—and to what extremities would his rage not have impelled him? Michel did not fear a bloody struggle on his own account; but how could he prevent Carmelo from wreaking vengeance upon Agatha, if he should come forth alive from that struggle?

Nevertheless, Michel kept on to the top, and, having made sure that he was not followed, entered the flower-garden, locked the gate, and approached Agatha's boudoir. The room was lighted, but empty. A moment later a maid came and extinguished the candles, then went away. All was silence and darkness.

Michel had never been more intensely disturbed. His heart beat as if it would burst, as the silence and uncertainty continued. What was taking place in Agatha's apartments? Her bedroom was behind the boudoir; it could be entered from the flower-garden through a short passage where a lamp was still burning. Michel could see it by looking through the key-hole of the carved door. Perhaps that door was not locked on the inside. Michel tried it, and, meeting with no resistance, entered the Casino.

Where was he going and what did he intend to do? He had no very clear idea himself. He said to himself that he was going to the assistance of Agatha, whose security was threatened by the Piccinino. He did not choose to admit that he was spurred on by the demon of jealousy.

He fancied that he could hear voices in Agatha's bedroom. They were two women's voices: they might be Agatha's and her maid's, or the second one might be Carmelo's soft and almost feminine voice.

Michel stood irresolute, trembling from head to foot. If he should go back into the flower-garden, the door of the passage-way would doubtless soon be locked by the maid; and in that case how was he to get in again unless by breaking a pane of glass in the boudoir—an expedient suited to the genius of the Piccinino, but naturally repugnant to Michel.

It seemed to him that centuries had passed since he saw the bandit climb the wall; but it was less than a quarter of an hour. However, one can live years in a minute, and he said to himself that the Piccinino had evidently preceded him, as he was so slow about following him.

Suddenly the door of Agatha's bedroom opened, and Michel had barely time to step behind the pedestal of the statue which held the lamp. "Lock the garden door," said Agatha to her maid, who came out of the bedroom, "but leave this one open; it is horribly hot in my room."

The girl returned after obeying her mistress's orders. Michel was comforted, Agatha was alone with her maid. But he was locked in, and how could he get out? or how could he explain his presence if he were discovered hiding there at the princess's door?

"I will tell the truth," he thought, not admitting to himself that it was only half of the truth. "I will say that I saw the Piccinino climb the park wall, and that I came to defend her whom I adore against a man whom I do not trust."

But he determined to wait until the maid had been dismissed, for he did not know whether she possessed her mistress's entire confidence, and whether she would not attribute a criminal meaning to that mark of their intimacy.

A few moments later, Agatha did dismiss her. There was a sound of footsteps and of doors, as if the maid closed them all behind her as she withdrew. Determined not to delay showing himself, Michel resolutely entered Agatha's bedroom, but found himself alone there. The princess had gone into her oratory before retiring, and Michel saw her kneeling on a velvet cushion. She was dressed in a long, floating white robe. Her black hair fell to her feet in two great braids, the weight of which would have disturbed her sleep if she had kept them about her head at night. The faint light of a lamp under a bluish globe cast a melancholy, transparent reflection upon her, which made her resemble a ghost. Michel paused, overcome with respect and dread.

But, as he was hesitating whether he should interrupt her prayer, and wondering how he could attract her attention without frightening her, he heard the door of the little passageway open, and steps, so light that none but a jealous lover's ear could distinguish them, approach Agatha's bedroom. Michel had just time to jump behind the bedstead of carved ebony, decorated with small ivory figures. It did not stand against the wall, as our beds do, but some little distance away, as is customary in hot countries, with its foot near the centre of the room. Between the wall and the high headboard of that ancient piece of furniture there was sufficient room for Michel to hide. He did not stoop for fear of moving the white satin curtains. He had no time to take many precautions. Chance favored him, for, despite the swift and inquisitive glance which the Piccinino cast about the room, he saw no disorder, no movement to betray the presence of a man who had arrived before him.

Nevertheless, he was about to take the prudent course of making a thorough search, when the princess, hearing his light footsteps, half rose, saying:

Receiving no reply, she put aside the portière which half concealed the interior of her bedroom, and saw the Piccinino standing in front of her. She rose to her feet and stood motionless with surprise and terror.

But, realizing that she must not betray her painful emotion in the presence of a man of that character, she kept silent so that her altered voice might reveal nothing, and walked toward him as if expecting him to explain his audacious visit.

"Signora, I knew that you must be extremely anxious concerning this important document, and I did not wish to postpone its delivery until to-morrow. I came here during the evening, but you were absent, and I was obliged to wait until you had returned. Forgive me if my visit is somewhat opposed to the proprieties of the society in which you live, but your highness is aware that I am compelled to act on all occasions, and especially in this matter, with the greatest secrecy."

"Signor captain," replied Agatha, after opening and glancing at the parchment, "I knew that my uncle's will had been stolen from Doctor Recuperati this morning. The poor doctor came here this afternoon, quite beside himself, to tell me of his misadventure. He could not imagine how his wallet had been taken from his pocket, and he accused Abbé Ninfo. I was not alarmed, because I felt sure that Abbé Ninfo would have to account to you for his theft in the course of the day. So I comforted the doctor, bidding him not mention the incident, and promising him that the will would soon be recovered. You can well believe that I could give him no hint as to how it would be done and by whom. Now, captain, it is not proper for me to have in my hands a document which I should have the appearance of having seized because I was distrustful of my uncle's intentions or the doctor's good faith. I will ask you, therefore, when the moment to produce it shall have come, to restore it by some means, indirect but sure, to the depositary who previously had it in charge. You are too ingenious not to discover such a means without betraying yourself in any way."

"You wish me to take charge of this again? can you think of such a thing, signora?" said the Piccinino, who was still standing and waiting impatiently an invitation to sit; but Agatha stood as she spoke to him, as if she anticipated his speedy withdrawal, while he was determined to prolong the interview at any price. He suggested difficulties.

"It is impossible," he said; "the cardinal is in the habit of signifying with his eyes that he wants his will to be shown to him, and he thinks of it every day. To be sure," he added, to gain time, resting his hand on the back of a chair as if he were very tired, "to be sure, the cardinal, being deprived of his interpreter, Abbé Ninfo, it would be easy for the doctor to pretend that he did not understand his eminence's eloquent glances.—Especially," continued the brigand, moving his chair a little and resting his elbow on it, "especially as the doctor's usual stupidity would make his failure to understand very probable. But," he added, respectfully offering the chair to the princess so that she might set him the example of sitting down, "the cardinal's meaning may be understood by some other trusty servitor, who would force the excellent doctor to the wall by saying to him: 'You see, his eminence wants to look at his will!'"

And the Piccinino made a graceful gesture to indicate that it pained him to see her standing before him.

But Agatha did not choose to understand, nor was she willing to keep the will, in order to avoid having to thank the Piccinino at such a moment in terms which should offend him by too great reserve, or encourage him by too great warmth. She was determined to maintain her proud attitude, while overwhelming him with manifestations of a confidence without bounds so far as her material interests were concerned.

"No, captain," she said, still standing and in perfect control of herself, "the cardinal will not ask again to see the will, for his condition has grown much worse in twenty-four hours. It seems that that wretched Ninfo kept him in a state of excitement which prolonged his life; for, since he disappeared this morning, my uncle has been in a sort of lethargic state, bordering closely, I doubt not, on the repose of the grave. His eyes are dull; he no longer seems to pay any heed to what is going on about him. He does not notice the absence of his familiar, and the doctor is compelled to resort to all the expedients of his profession to combat a drowsiness from which he fears that there will be no awakening."

"Doctor Recuperati has always lacked common sense," rejoined the Piccinino, seating himself on the edge of a console, and letting his cloak fall at his feet as if by inadvertence. "I ask your highness," he added, folding his arms across his breast, "if the so-called laws of humanity are not absurd and false in such cases, like almost all the laws of human respect and hypocritical propriety? What benefit do we confer on a dying man when we try to recall him to life, with the certainty that we shall not succeed, and that we are simply prolonging his torture in the world? If I were in Doctor Recuperati's place, I would say to myself that his eminence has lived quite long enough. It is the opinion of all respectable people, and of your highness yourself, that that man has lived too long. It is high time to allow him to repose from the fatiguing journey of this life, since he seems to desire it, so far as he himself is concerned, and to arrange his head comfortably on his pillow for his last sleep. I ask your highness's pardon for leaning on this console; my legs are giving way under me, I have run about so much to-day in your interest; and if I do not rest for a moment, it will be impossible for me to return to Nicolosi to-night."

Agatha made a gesture which invited the brigand to occupy the chair that stood between them; but she remained standing herself, to signify that she did not propose that he should abuse the privilege.

XLIII

A CRISIS

"It seems to me," said the princess, as she placed the will on the console at the Piccinino's elbow, "that we are digressing a little from the real question. I will remind your lordship of the facts. My uncle has a few moments to live, and he will not think of his will again. Thus the day when the document must be produced is near at hand. Now, I am very desirous that when that day comes it shall be in the doctor's hands and not in mine."

"That is a very noble scruple on your part," rejoined the Piccinino, in a firm tone which concealed his irritation; "but I have the same scruple on my own account, and, as everything strange and mysterious that happens on this island is attributed to the fabulous Captain Piccinino, I do not wish to have any hand in this restitution. Your ladyship will be kind enough, therefore, to arrange it in whatever way you may deem best. It was not I who stole the will. I found it on the thief. I bring it back; and I consider that I have done enough not to deserve the charge of lukewarmness in your service. Doubtless Abbé Ninfo's disappearance will soon be noticed, and the name of the Piccinino will occur at once to the popular imagination as well as to the crafty brains of the police authorities. Result, fresh investigations on the heels of those of which my humble personality is already the object, and which I have escaped thus far only by a miracle. I have accepted the risks of this affair; I have the monster in my power. Your highness's mind is at rest concerning the safety of your friends and your own freedom of action. You are in possession of the document that entitles you to great wealth. Do you wish my life? I am ready to lay it down for you a hundred times; but bid me to do it, and do not drive me to my destruction by subterfuges, without giving me the consolation of knowing that I die for you."

The Piccinino uttered these last words in a tone that made it impossible for Agatha longer to avoid entering upon a delicate subject.

"Captain," she said, forcing herself to smile, "you judge me ill if you think that I wish to rid myself of my burden of gratitude to you. My disinclination to take this paper, which represents to me the title to great wealth, should prove my confidence in you and my purpose to allow you to dispose absolutely of everything that belongs to me."

"I do not understand, signora," replied the bandit, moving restlessly on his chair. "Did you think that I came to your assistance merely to do a profitable stroke of business, and for no other purpose?"

"Captain," replied Agatha, outwardly unmoved by the Piccinino's real or pretended indignation, "you style yourself, and justly, the justicier d'aventure. That is to say, you do justice according to your heart and your conscience, without regard to formal laws, which are very often contrary to those of natural and divine justice. You assist the weak, you rescue victims, you protect those whose feelings and opinions seem to you to deserve your esteem against those whom you regard as the enemies of your country and of mankind. You punish cowards and you prevent the execution of their base designs. All this is a mission which legally constituted society does not always understand, but of which I appreciate the real merit and heroism. Need I say more to convince you of my esteem for you, and do you think that I have failed to manifest it? But since society denies the propriety of your intervention, and since, in order to continue it, you are forced to provide yourself with abundant resources, it would be insane—it would be impertinent—to seek your protection without offering you the means of putting it forth and of extending its scope. I thought of that—I could not fail to think of it; and I determined not to deal with you as with an ordinary advocate, but to allow you to fix yourself the price of your loyal and generous services. I should have considered that I insulted you by putting a price upon them. In my eyes they are beyond price. That is why, while I invite you to draw at your discretion upon a princely fortune, I am still forced to rely upon your modesty and generosity to consider that I have paid my debt to you."

"These are very flattering words, and your highness's soft speech would fascinate me, if my ideas were such as you attribute to me. But if you will deign to be seated a moment and listen to me, I shall be able to explain my ideas without fear of abusing the patience with which you honor me."

"On my word!" thought Agatha, as she took a seat at some distance from the Piccinino, "this man's persistence is like destiny, inevitable."

"I shall soon have finished," continued the Piccinino, with a crafty smile, when he saw that she was seated at last. "I look after my own interests while looking after other people's, that is true; but every man understands the advantages of life as circumstances impel him to do. Some people want nothing but gold. Those are vulgar instances,—the market price, as they say, I believe. But with certain others, who are more wealthy in charms and in noble qualities than in ducats, the intelligent man aspires to a less vulgar recompense. The material wealth of a person like Princess Agatha is a mere trifle compared with the treasures of generosity and delicacy which her heart contains. And if the man of action, who has devoted himself to her service, has done so with a certain degree of promptitude and zeal, is he not at liberty to aspire to some nobler gratification than that of putting his hand in her purse? Ah! yes, there are moral joys far more exalted, and the offer of your fortune as a substitute for them is so far from satisfying me, that it wounds my heart and my mind like an insult."

Agatha began to be really terrified, for the Piccinino had risen and drawn nearer to her. She dared not change her position, she feared that she should tremble and turn pale; and yet, brave as she was, that young man's face and voice caused her a frightful shock. His dress, his features, his manners, his voice awoke a whole world of memories within her, and, strive as she would to raise him to a level where she could esteem him and be truly grateful to him, an unconquerable aversion closed her heart to such sentiments. She had so long refused Fra Angelo's suggestions that this man's assistance should be procured, that she would assuredly have persisted in not having recourse to him, had it not been certain that Abbé Ninfo had tried to hire him to procure the assassination or abduction of Michel, pointing to the will as a means of rewarding his services.

But it was too late. The noble-hearted and ingenuous Capuchin of Bel Passo had not foreseen that his former ward, whom he had accustomed himself to look upon as a child, might fall in love with a woman several years older than himself. And yet what was more natural? The persons for whom one has much respect have no age. To Fra Angelo the Princess of Palmarosa, Saint Agatha of Catania, and the Madonna, had no sex even. If anyone had interrupted his sleep to tell him that at that moment Agatha was in imminent danger from his ward, he would have exclaimed: "Ah! the wretched boy must have seen her diamonds!" And, as he started to go to the princess's assistance, he would have said to himself that she had but a word to say to keep the brigand at a distance; but Agatha felt an invincible repugnance to say that word, and she still hoped that she would not be forced to that expedient.

"I understand very well, signor captain," she said with increasing coldness, "that you ask for no other reward but my esteem; but I repeat that I have proved it to you on this very occasion, and I think that your pride should be satisfied."

"Yes, signora, my pride; but it is not a question of my pride alone. Nor are you sufficiently well acquainted with it to measure its extent and to know whether it is not superior to any pecuniary sacrifice that you could make in my favor. I do not want your will, I want no part of your fortune, now or ever, do you understand?"

Agatha rose, and yielding to an indignant, perhaps injudicious impulse, she took the will from the console.

"Since that is so," she said, trying to tear it, "it is as well that this fortune should be neither mine nor yours, for the recovery of this paper is the least important service you have rendered me, captain; and had it not been connected with another of much greater importance, I should never have asked you to do it. Let me destroy this will, and then you can ask me for a legitimate share of my affection, without my blushing to listen to you."

But the parchment resisted the efforts of her weak hands, and the Piccinino had time to take it from her and place it under a large piece of Roman mosaic, which lay on the console, and which she would have had even more difficulty in lifting.

"Let us put this aside," he said, with a smile, "and think no more about it. Let us suppose even that it never existed; we are well aware that it cannot be a bond between us, and that you owe me nothing in exchange for your fortune. I know that you are already rich enough to do without these millions; I know too that, if you were penniless, you would not give your friendship as the reward of a mere pecuniary service which you expected to pay for with money. I admire your pride, signora; I appreciate it, and I am proud to appreciate it. Ah! now that we have put that prosaic thought out of our hearts, I feel much happier, for I hope! I feel much bolder, too, for the friendship of such a woman as you seems to me so desirable that I would risk everything to obtain it."

"Do not speak of friendship," said Agatha, pushing him away, for he was beginning to handle her long tresses and to wind them about his arm as if to chain himself to her; "speak of the gratitude I owe you; it is very great, I shall never deny it, and I will prove it to you when occasion offers, against your will if I must. The service you have rendered me entitles you to services from me, and some day we shall be quits! But friendship implies mutual sympathy, and, in order to obtain mine, you must earn it and deserve it."

"What must I do?" cried the Piccinino, vehemently. "Speak! oh! I implore you, tell me what I must do to win your love!"

"Respect me in the depths of your heart," she replied, "and do not approach me with those bold eyes and that self-satisfied smile, which are an insult to me."

Seeing her cold and lofty bearing, the Piccinino was angry; but he knew that anger is an unwise counsellor. He desired to please her, and he controlled his temper.

"You do not understand me," he said, leading her back to her chair and sitting down beside her. "Oh! no, you fail utterly to understand a heart like mine! You are too much the woman of the world, too politic, and I am too ingenuous, too rough, too uncivilized! You are afraid of wild outbreaks on my part, because you see that I love you madly; but you are not afraid of causing me pain, because you have no conception of the pain your indifference may cause me. You think that a mountaineer of Ætna, a brigand and adventurer, can know only sensual transports; and when I ask you for your heart, you think that you have to defend your person. If I were a duke or marquis, you would listen to me without alarm, you would console me for my grief; and, pointing out to me that your love was out of the question, you would offer me your friendship. And I should be gentle, patient, prostrate at your feet in melancholy and affectionate gratitude. It is because I am of the common people, a peasant, that you deny me even your sympathy! Your pride takes fright because you think that I demand something as a right acquired by my services, and you continue to throw my services at my head as if I relied upon them as entitling me to a recompense from you, as if I remembered them when I am looking at you and talking with you! Alas! I do not know how to express myself; I simply say what I think, without torturing my mind to find a way to convince you of it without saying it. I know nothing of the art of your flatterers; I am no more a courtier of beauty than of power, and the curse that rests upon my life makes it impossible for me to play the attendant cavalier like the Marquis della Serra. I have but an hour at night to come, at the risk of my life, to tell you that I am your slave, and you answer that you do not choose to be my sovereign, but my debtor, my customer, who will pay me handsomely! Fie, fie, signora! you place an ice-cold hand upon a burning heart!"

"If you have in your mind nothing more than friendship," said Agatha, "if you really aspire to be one of my friends simply, I will promise you that that may come about——"

"Let me speak!" rejoined the Piccinino, with renewed animation, his face lighting up with the beauty which was his when he was really moved. "At first I dared not ask you for anything more than your friendship, and it was your childish fright that forced the word love from my lips. Very good! what more can a man say to a woman to restore her courage? I love you, therefore you should not tremble when I take your hand. I respect you, as you see, for we are alone, and I am in perfect control of my passions; but I cannot control my thoughts and the outbursts of my love. I have not my whole life in which to prove it to you. I have but this instant in which to tell you of it, so listen. If I could pass six hours of every day at your feet, like the marquis, I might perhaps be satisfied with the feeling that you have for him; but, as I have only this hour which is passing before me like a vision, I must have your love, or else a despair which I dare not imagine. So let me speak of love; listen to me and do not be afraid. If you say no, it shall be no, but if you would listen to me without thinking of protecting yourself, if you would deign to understand me once for all, if you would forget the world you live in, and the pride which is out of place here, and which has no existence in the sphere in which I live, you would be touched because you would be convinced. Oh! yes. If you were a simple soul, and if you did not put prejudices in the place of the pure inspirations of nature and of truth, you would feel that there is one heart more youthful and more ardent than all those you have spurned, the heart of a lion or tiger with men, but a man's heart with women, a child's heart with you! You would pity me at least. You would see my life as it is: constantly tormented and threatened, a never-ending nightmare! And solitude! Ah! it is solitude of the heart above all else which is killing me, because my heart is even harder to please than my senses. You know how I bore myself with Mila this morning, do you not? She is beautiful, surely, and neither in character nor in mind is she one of the common herd. If I had chosen to love her, and if I had felt for a single moment that I did love her, she would have loved me, she would have been mine all her life. But with her I thought only of you. You are the one whom I love, and you are the only woman I have ever loved, although I have been the lover of many women! Love me then, though it be but for a moment, just long enough to tell me so, or else, when I return to-night by a certain spot called the Destatore's Cross, I shall go mad! I shall dig into the earth with my nails, to insult and cast to the winds the ashes of the man who gave me life."

At these last words Agatha lost all her strength; she turned pale; a shudder ran through her every limb, and she threw herself back in her chair as if a blood-stained spectre had passed before her eyes.

The Piccinino could not understand the cause of this sudden and intense emotion; he misunderstood it utterly. He had spoken with a vehemence of voice and expression which would have persuaded any other woman than the princess. He had fascinated her with his gleaming eyes; he had intoxicated her with his breath, at all events he thought so. He had been so often justified in thinking so, even when he had not felt a tithe of the desire this woman inspired in him! He believed that she was vanquished, and, putting his arms about her, seeking her lips, he felt sure that her passions, taken by surprise, would do the rest. But Agatha eluded his caresses with unexpected vigor, and as she rushed toward a bell-cord, Michel darted between her and the Piccinino, with blazing eyes and with a dagger in his hand.

XLIV

REVELATIONS

The Piccinino was so taken aback by this unexpected apparition that he stood perfectly still, without a thought of attacking or of defending himself. So that Michel, as he was about to strike him, held his hand, bewildered by his own precipitation; but, with a movement so swift and adroit that it was invisible, the Piccinino's hand was armed when Michel withdrew his.

But the brigand, after a single furious gleam had shot from his eyes, recovered his cold and disdainful attitude.

"Excellent," he said; "I understand everything now, and rather than bring about so absurd a scene, Signora Palmarosa should have carried her confidence so far as to say to me: 'Leave me, I cannot listen to you; I have a lover hidden behind my bed.' I would have retired discreetly, whereas now I must needs administer a lesson to Master Lavoratori, to punish him for having seen me play an absurd rôle. So much the worse for you, signora; the lesson will be a bloody one!"

He leaped at Michel with the agility of a wild animal. But, quick and nimble as his movement was, the miraculous power of love made Agatha even quicker than he. She rushed to intercept the blow, and would have received it in her breast had not the Piccinino thrust the dagger into his sleeve so swiftly that it seemed as if his hand had always been empty.

"What are you doing, signora?" he said. "I do not propose to murder your lover but to fight with him. You do not wish it? Very good! You protect him with your breast! I will not insult such a rampart, but I will find him at another time—mark my words!"

"Stay!" cried Agatha, seizing his arm as he walked, toward the door. "You will renounce this insane purpose of revenge and give your hand to this alleged lover of mine. He will gladly do the same, for which of you two desires to kill or curse his brother?"

"He, my brother?" said the Piccinino, his weapon still within his grasp. "This extemporized relationship is most improbable, signora. I have always heard that Pier-Angelo's wife was very ugly, and I doubt if my father ever played tricks upon husbands who had no reason to be jealous. Your expedient is not at all ingenious! Farewell for the present, Michelangelo Lavoratori!"

"I tell you that he is your brother!" repeated the princess, earnestly; "your father's son and not Pier-Angelo's; the son of a woman whom you cannot insult by your contempt, and who could not have listened to you without committing a crime and an act of madness. Do you not understand me?"

"No, signora," said the Piccinino, with a shrug; "I cannot understand the fables that come to your mind at this moment to save your lover's life. If this poor boy is my father's son, so much the worse for him; for he has many other brothers beside myself, who do not amount to much, and whom I do not hesitate to strike over the head with the butt of my pistol when they fail in the obedience and respect they owe me. So, too, this new member of my family—the youngest of all, I am inclined to think—will be punished by my hand as he deserves; not in your presence, for I am not fond of seeing women in convulsions. But this pretty darling will not always be hidden in your bosom, signora, and I know where I shall find him at need!"

"Have done with insulting me," rejoined Agatha, in a firm tone; "you cannot wound me, and, unless you are a coward, you should not speak thus to your father's wife."

"My father's wife!" exclaimed the bandit, beginning to listen and to desire to hear. "My father was never married, signora! Do not make sport of me."

"Your father was married to me, Carmelo, and, if you doubt it, you will find the authentic evidence in the archives of the convent of Mal Passo. Go and ask Fra Angelo. This young man's name is not Lavoratori; his name is Castro-Reale. He is the son—the only legitimate son—of Prince Cæsar de Castro-Reale."

"Then you are my mother?" cried Michel, falling on his knees and embracing Agatha, with a sensation of terror, remorse and adoration all in one.

"You know it," she said, pressing his face against her heaving breast. "Now, Carmelo, come and kill him in my arms; we will die together! But, after seeking to commit incest, you will commit fratricide!"

The Piccinino, torn by a thousand conflicting sensations, folded his arms across his breast, and, leaning against the wall, gazed in silence at his brother and stepmother, as if he were still inclined to doubt the truth. Michel rose, walked toward him, and held out his hand.

"Your ignorance was the cause of your crime," he said, "and I must needs forgive you, for I too loved her not knowing that I was fortunate enough to be her son. Oh! do not cast a shadow on my joy by your resentment! Be my brother, as I long to be yours! In the name of God, who orders us to love each other, put your hand in mine and come to my mother's feet, so that she may forgive and bless us both."

At these words, uttered with the effusive warmth of a noble and sincere heart, the Piccinino came very near being moved. His bosom heaved as if he were about to burst into tears; but pride was stronger than the voice of nature, and he blushed at the emotion which had threatened to overcome him.

"Away from me," he said to Michel. "I do not know you; I have no sympathy with all this mawkish family sentimentality. I loved my mother, too, but all my affection died with her. I never had any feeling for my father,—whom I hardly knew and who cared very little for me,—unless it may be that I was a little vain of being the only acknowledged son of a prince and a hero. I thought that my mother was the only woman he ever loved, but I learn now that he deceived my mother; that he was another woman's husband; and I cannot be overjoyed by that discovery. You are a legitimate son, and I am only a bastard. I have been accustomed to believe that I was the only one who was really entitled, if I chose, to adorn myself with the name which you will bear in the world, and which no one will dispute your right to bear. And you expect me to love you, who are of patrician blood on both sides, by your father and by your mother? you who are rich, and will soon be powerful in the land where I am a wanderer and an outlaw? You who, whether you are a true or false Sicilian, will be flattered and handled gently by the Court of Naples, and who, perhaps, will not consider that you can afford to refuse favors and offices forever? You who will, perhaps, command hostile armies and lay waste the homes of your countrymen? You who, as general, minister or magistrate, may order my head cut off and a sentence of degradation nailed to the scaffold on which that head is fastened, to serve as an example and a menace to our other brothers of the mountain? You expect me to love you? On the contrary, I hate you and curse you!

"And this woman," continued the Piccinino, with intense bitterness,—"this false, cold-blooded woman, who fooled me to the end with infernal cunning,—you expect me to prostrate myself before her, and ask a blessing from her hand which, for aught I know, is stained with my father's blood! for now I understand more than she intended, I fancy. I will never believe that she married with a good grace the ruined, outlawed, hounded brigand, depraved by misfortune, who had then no other name than the Destatore! He must have abducted her and outraged her.—Ah! yes, now I remember! There is a tale of that sort to which Fra Angelo refers vaguely at times. A child, surprised by the brigands when out walking with her governess, carried off with the governess to the chief's lair, and dismissed two hours later, outraged and half dead! Ah! father, you were a villain as well as a hero! I know it; and I am a better man than you, for I detest such deeds of violence, and Fra Angelo's tale has preserved me forever from seeking enjoyment by such means. So it was you, Agatha, who were Castro-Reale's victim! I understand now why you consented to marry him secretly at the convent of Mal Passo; for that marriage is a secret—probably the only secret of that sort that never transpired! You have been very adroit, but the rest of your story is clear to me. I know now why your parents kept you secluded for a year, so carefully that you were supposed to be dead or to have turned nun. I know now why my father was murdered, and I would not swear that you were innocent of his death!"

"Wretch!" cried the princess, indignantly; "to dare to suspect me of the murder of the man I had accepted for my husband!"

"If it was not you, then it was your father or someone of your kindred!" retorted the Piccinino, in French, with a bitter laugh. "My father did not kill himself," he continued in the Sicilian language, and with a wild expression. "He was capable of a crime, but not of a dastardly act, and the pistol that was found in his hand at the Destatore's cross never belonged to him. He was not reduced, by the partial defection of his followers, to the necessity of committing suicide in order to escape from his enemies, and the piety which Fra Angelo tried to inspire in his heart had not yet disturbed his mind to the point where he thought it his duty to punish himself for his sins. He was murdered, and to have been surprised so easily—so near the town—he must have been lured into a trap. Abbé Ninfo had something to do with that bloody drama. I shall find out, for I have him in my clutches; and, although I am not cruel, I will torture him with my own hands until he confesses! For it is my mission to avenge my father's death, as it is yours, Michel, to make common cause with those who ordered it."

"Great God!" said Agatha, paying no attention to the Piccinino's accusations against herself, "it seems that each day must bring with it the discovery of some new deed of rage and vengeance in my family! O blood of the Atrides, may the Furies never rouse you to life in my son's veins! Ah! Michel, what duties your birth imposes on you! By what great virtues must you redeem so many crimes committed both before and since your birth! Carmelo, you think that your brother will turn against his country and against you some day! If it could be so, I would ask you to kill him to-day, while he is pure and honorable; for I know too well, alas! what becomes of the men who renounce love of country and the respect due to the vanquished!"

"Kill him at once?" said the Piccinino; "I am strongly tempted to take that metaphor literally; it would take but a moment, for this Sicilian of recent date knows no more about handling a knife than I about handling a brush. But I didn't do it yesterday, when the thought came to my mind by our father's grave, and I will wait until my present anger has subsided; for one should kill only in cold blood and in accordance with the dictates of logic and conscience.—Ah! Michel de Castro-Reale, I did not know you yesterday, although Abbé Ninfo had already pointed you out to my vengeance. I was jealous of you because I believed you to be the lover of this woman who says to-day that she is your mother; but I had a presentiment that she did not deserve the love which was beginning to set my blood on fire for her, and when I saw how bravely you faced me, I said to myself: 'Why kill a brave man for the sake of a woman who may be a coward?'"

"Hush, Carmelo!" cried Michel, picking up his dagger; "whether I know how to handle a knife or not, if you add another word to your insults to my mother, I will have your life or you shall have mine."

"Hush, yourself, boy!" said the Piccinino, presenting his half-naked breast to Michel with an air of contempt; "the virtue of legitimate society makes men cowards, and you are a coward too, for you have been reared on the ideas of that society; you would not dare to scratch my lion's skin, because in my person you respect your brother. But I have no such prejudices, and I will prove it to you some day when I am calmer. To-day I am angry, I admit, and I will tell you why: it is because I have been deceived, and I did not believe that any human being was capable of playing on my credulity; it is because I put faith in this woman's words when she said to me last night, in yonder flower-garden where I can hear the fountains plashing at this moment, under the eyes of the moon, which seemed less pure and tranquil than her face: 'What can there be in common between that child and myself?' What can there be in common? and you her son! and you knew it, and you deceived me too!"

"You and your mother are two cold-blooded serpents, two venomous Palmarosas! Ah! I hate that family which has persecuted me and my family so cruelly, and some day I will make a bloody example, even of those members of it who claim to be good patriots and nobles who sympathize with the people. I hate all nobles for my part! and you whose mouths blow hot and cold in turn may well tremble before my frank declaration! I have hated the nobles for the last few moments, since I have found that I am not noble, because I have a legitimate brother and am only a bastard. I hate the name of Castro-Reale, since I can no longer bear it. I am envious, revengeful, and ambitious as well! my intelligence and my adroitness were a stronger justification of that claim on my part than the art of painting on the part of the nursling of the Muses and of Pier-Angelo! I should have made a greater name than he if our conditions had remained unchanged. And the thing that makes my vanity more endurable, Prince Michel, is that I proclaim it proudly, while you conceal it shamefacedly, on the pretext of modesty. In short, I am the child of uncivilized nature and of unshackled liberty, while you are the slave of custom and of fear. I practise cunning after the manner of wolves, and my cunning leads me to my goal. You play with falsehood, after the manner of men, and you will always miss your goal, without having had the merit of sincerity. Our lives are before us. If yours annoys me overmuch, I shall rid myself of you as of any other obstacle, do you understand? Woe to you if you irritate me! Farewell; do not try to see me again; this is my brotherly greeting!

"And as for you, Princess of Castro-Reale," he said, bowing ironically to Agatha, "who might well have refrained from making me crawl at your feet, whose share in the catastrophe by the Destatore's Cross is now very clear in my mind, who did not deem me worthy to be informed of the mischance of your youth, but preferred to pose before my eyes as a spotless virgin, caring not whether you caused me to pine away in frenzied anticipation of your priceless favors—I wish that you may be happy and forget what has taken place between us; but I shall remember it, and I warn you, signora, that you gave a ball over a volcano, in reality as well as figuratively."

As he spoke, the Piccinino threw his cloak over his head and shoulders, walked into the boudoir, and not deigning to wait for the door to be opened, leaped through one of the large panes of glass into the flower-garden. Then he returned to the door leading into the passage, which he had not chosen to pass through, and, after the manner of the authors of the Sicilian Vespers, cut with his dagger a cross over the crest of the Palmarosas, which was carved on that door. A few moments later he was on the mountain, flying like an arrow.

"O mother!" cried Michel, passionately embracing the horrified Agatha, "you have made an implacable enemy in order to preserve me from enemies who, if not imaginary, are powerless! Dear, adored mother, I will never leave you again, by day or night. I will sleep across your door, and if your son's love is helpless to preserve you, it will be because Providence abandons mankind altogether!"

"My child," said Agatha, pressing him to her heart, "have no fear. I am sorely distressed by all that that man has brought back to my mind, but not alarmed by his unreasonable anger. The secret of your birth could not safely have been revealed to him any sooner, for you see the effect that revelation produced upon him. But the time has come when I have nothing to fear, so far as you are concerned, save his personal resentment, and that we will find a way to disarm. The vengeance of the Palmarosas will die out with Cardinal Hieronimo's last breath, which it may be that he is breathing at this very moment. If it was an error to turn that vengeance aside by the help of Carmelo, that error is chargeable to Fra Angelo, who thinks that he knows mankind because he has always lived with men outside the pale of society, brigands and monks. But I trust still to his marvellous instinct. This man, who has just shown himself to us in such an evil light, and whom I cannot look upon without the most intense suffering, because he reminds me of the author of all my misfortunes, is not unworthy perhaps of the generous impulse which led you to call him brother. He is a tiger in his wrath, a fox in his reflections; but between his hours of rage and his hours of treachery, there may be intervals of prostration when human feelings resume their sway and extort from him tears of regret and longing; we shall be able to reform him, I trust! Kindness and loyal dealing should find the weak spot in his armor. At the moment that he cursed you, I saw that he hesitated, forced back his tears. His father—your father, Michel!—had a profound and intense susceptibility even amid his wild and wicked habits; I saw him sob at my feet after he had almost strangled me to stifle my shrieks. Later I saw him at the altar, ashamed and penitent, when he married me; and despite the abhorrence and terror with which he always inspired me, I was sorry myself, when he died, that I had not forgiven him. I trembled at the thought of him, but I never dared to curse his memory; and since I have had you with me once more, O my beloved son! I have tried to rehabilitate him in my own eyes, so that I might not have to condemn him before you. Do not blush, therefore, to bear the name of a man, whose life was fatal to none but me, and who did great things for his country. But retain for him who brought you up, and whose son you have believed yourself to be until this day, the same love, the same respect which you felt for him this morning, noble-hearted boy, when you handed him Mila's marriage portion and told him that you would remain a workman in his service all your life, rather than abandon him!"

"O Pier-Angelo, father!" cried Michel, with a vehemence which caused his heart to overflow in sobs, "nothing has changed between us, and on the day when my entrails no longer quiver for you with filial affection, I think that I shall have ceased to live!"

XLV

MEMORIES

Agatha was completely shattered by so much agitation and fatigue. Her health was delicate although her spirit was strong, and when Michel saw how pale she was, and that her voice had become almost inaudible, he was terrified. He began to be conscious of the loving and poignant anxiety born of a sentiment that was altogether new to him. He had hardly known the love that a child feels for its mother. Pier-Angelo's wife had been kind to him, to be sure, but he had lost her when he was very young, and she had left on his memory the impression of a robust and domineering virago, irreproachable in her conduct, but somewhat violent, and, although devoted to her little ones, inclined to talk loud and strike hard. What a contrast to that exquisite disposition, that soft beauty, that poetic creature who was called Agatha, and whom Michel could admire as the ideal of an artist while adoring her as a mother!

"I will stay with you," he said; "I will sit by your pillow, I shall be perfectly happy, just looking at you, and you will find me here when you open your eyes."

"But this will be the third night that you will have passed almost without sleep," she said. "Ah! how it pains me on your account to think of the life we have been leading for several days past!"

"Do not worry about me, darling mother," replied the young man, covering her hands with kisses. "I have slept a good deal in the morning these three days; and now I am so happy, notwithstanding what we have just gone through, that it seems to me that I shall never sleep again. I tried to sleep in order to see you again in my dreams: now that the dream has become reality, I should be afraid of losing it if I slept. But you must rest, mother.—Ah! how sweet that name mother is!"

"I am no more inclined to sleep than you are," she said; "I would like not to leave you for an instant. And as the thought of the Piccinino still makes me tremble for your life, you shall remain with me until daylight, whatever the consequences. I will lie down on the bed, as you insist upon it; sit in this easy chair, with your hand in mine, and if I haven't the strength to talk to you, I can at all events listen to you; we have so many things to say to each other! I want to know about your life from the first day that you can remember down to this moment."

They passed in this way two hours, which seemed to them like two minutes; Michel told her the whole story of his life, and did not conceal even his recent emotions. The passionate attachment which he had felt for his mother before he knew her no longer raised in his mind any question too delicate to be translated by words befitting the sanctity of their new relations. The words he had used to himself had assumed a new meaning, and whatever impropriety there might have been in them had vanished like the incoherent words one utters in fever, which leave no trace when health and reason have returned.

Moreover, except for a few outbursts of vanity, Michel had had no thoughts for which he need blush now upon searching his conscience. He had believed that she loved him, and therein he was hardly in error! He had been assailed by an ardent passion, and he felt that he loved Agatha, now that she had become his mother, with no less warmth, gratitude, even jealousy, than an hour earlier. He could understand now why he had never seen her without feeling that his heart went out to her with irresistible force, without an all-powerful attraction, a secret thrill of pride which had its echo in himself. He remembered that, when he first saw her, it seemed to him that her face had always been familiar to him; and when he asked her to explain that miracle, she replied: "Look in the mirror, and you will see that my features placed your own image before you; this resemblance, which Pier-Angelo constantly observed with delight, and which filled my heart with pride, made me tremble for you. Luckily nobody has noticed it, unless possibly the cardinal, who ordered his bearers to stop so that he could look at you, on the day that you arrived in the neighborhood, and, as if guided by an invisible hand, paused at the gate of your ancestor's palace. My uncle was formerly the most suspicious and most keen-eyed of persecutors and despots. Certainly, if he had seen you before he was stricken with paralysis, he would have recognized you and have had you cast into prison, then exiled—perhaps assassinated!—without putting a single question to you. Enfeebled as he was ten days ago, he fastened upon you a glance which aroused the suspicions of Abbé Ninfo, and his memory revived so far as to lead him to inquire your age. Who knows what fatal light might have found its way into his brain, if Providence had not inspired you to answer that you were twenty-one years old instead of eighteen!"

"I am eighteen," said Michel, "and you, mother? You seem to me as young as I am."

"No! if I had been told that you were my sister, I should have believed it when I saw you. Oh! what good fortune that you are still so young and so lovely! You will live as long as I do, won't you? I shall not have the misfortune to lose you! Lose you!—Ah! now that my life is bound to yours, the thought of death frightens me, I would like to die neither before nor after you. But is this the first time that we have ever been together? I am searching the vague memories of my infancy in the hope of finding some trace of you."

"My poor child," said the princess, "I never saw you before the day when, as I looked at you through a window of the gallery where you were sleeping, I could not restrain a cry of love and of agonizing joy, which woke you. Three months ago I did not even know of your existence. I believed that you died on the day you were born. Otherwise, do you suppose that I would not have come to Rome, in some disguise or other, to take you in my arms and rescue you from the dangers of a solitary life? On the day that Pier-Angelo told me that he had rescued you from the hands of a villainous midwife, who was about to put you in a hospital, by order of my parents, that he had fled with you to a foreign country, and had brought you up as his son, I insisted upon starting for Rome. I would have done it too, but for the prudence of Fra Angelo, who pointed out to me that your life would be in danger as long as the cardinal lived, and that it was better to await his death than to expose us all to suspicions and investigations. Ah! my son, how horribly I suffered while I lived alone with the ghastly memories of my youth! Branded from my girlhood, maltreated, secluded and persecuted by my family, because I would not disclose the name of the man whom I had consented to marry as soon as the first symptoms of pregnancy appeared; parted from my child, and cursed for the tears which his alleged death caused me to shed; threatened with the horror of seeing him killed before my eyes, when I yielded to the hope that they had deceived me—the best years of my life passed amid tears of despair and shudders of horror.

"I gave birth to you in this room, Michel on this very spot. It was then a sort of garret, long unused, which had been transformed into a prison, in order to conceal the shame of my condition. Nobody knew what had happened to me! I could hardly have described it, I had hardly understood it, I was so young and my imagination was so pure. I foresaw that the truth would bring fresh disasters upon the child I was carrying within me, and on his father. My governess had died on the day after our catastrophe, without saying a word, whether because she could not or did not choose to. No one could extort my secret from me, even during the pains of childbirth; and when my father and my uncle, standing by my bed, as pitiless as inquisitors, threatened me with death if I did not confess what they called my sin, I replied simply that I was innocent before God, and that it was for Him alone to punish or save the culprit. Whether or not they ever discovered that I was the wife of Castro-Reale, I could never find out; his name was never mentioned to me, I was never questioned concerning him. Nor do I know whether they procured his assassination, or whether Abbé Ninfo assisted them to surprise him; but unfortunately I do not think them incapable of it. I know only this, that at the time of his death, when I had barely recovered from my confinement, they tried to compel me to marry. Hitherto they had held up before me as an everlasting punishment, the impossibility of finding a husband. They took me from my prison, where I had been secluded so carefully that everyone supposed that I was in the convent at Palermo, and nothing had transpired out-of-doors. I was rich, fair, and of noble birth. Twenty suitors came forward. I repelled with horror the idea of deceiving an honest man, or of confessing my misfortune to a man who was mean-spirited enough to accept me because of my wealth. My resistance irritated my father to frenzy. He pretended to take me back to Palermo. But he brought me back to this room at night, and kept me imprisoned here for another whole year.

"It was a ghastly prison, as stifling as the leads of Venice; for the sun beat down upon a thin covering of metal, this part of the palace having never been finished and being roofed over temporarily. I endured thirst, mosquitoes, neglect, solitude, and lack of the fresh air and exercise which are so essential to the young. But I did not die, I contracted no disease, the vital principle was so strong within me. My father, unwilling to entrust the duty of guarding me to any other person, fearing that the compassion of his servants would lessen my sufferings, brought me my food himself; and when his political schemes kept him away from home for days at a time, I underwent the tortures of hunger. But I had acquired a stoical firmness of will, and I did not stoop to complain. I also acquired a certain amount of courage and of faith during that trial, and I do not rebuke God for having inflicted it on me. Consciousness of duty and regard for justice are great blessings for which one cannot pay too high a price!"

Agatha, as she spoke, was half reclining, and her voice, feeble at first, gradually became animated. She raised herself on her elbow, and, shaking her long black hair, and calling her son's attention with a gesture to the luxurious apartment in which they were, she continued:

"Michel, I pray that material enjoyments and the pride of birth and fortune may never dazzle you! I have paid dearly for those advantages; and, in the horrible solitude of this chamber, so bright and cheerful for us two to-day, I have passed many long sleepless hours, lying on a wretched pallet, consumed by fever, and asking God why He had not caused me to be born in a goatherd's cave or on a pirate's ship. I sighed for liberty, and the lowest of beggars seemed to me more blessed than I. If I had been poor and obscure, I should have received from my parents consolation and sympathy in my misfortune; whereas the illustrious Palmarosas heaped abuse upon their child and accused her of committing a crime because she would not be compelled to lie, and because she refused to bolster up the honor of her family by an imposture. I had no books in my prison; I had received only the most superficial education, and I utterly failed to understand the persecution of which I was the object. But, during that tedious and cruel inaction, I reflected, and I discovered for myself the emptiness of human pride. My moral being was transformed, so to speak, and everything that gratifies and enhances the vanity of men appeared to me, at my own expense, in its true light.

"But why should I say at my expense rather than to my advantage? What are two years of torture compared with the blessing of truth? When I returned to liberty and life, when I found that I readily recovered the vigor of youth, and that I had the necessary time and means to benefit by the ideas that had come to me, a great calmness overspread my heart, and I voluntarily adopted the habit, theretofore forced upon me, of self-denial and resolution.

"I renounced forever all idea of love and marriage. The thought of that bliss was marred and sullied in my imagination; and as for the cravings of the heart, there was no longer anything individual in mine. They had extended beyond the circle of selfish passions; I had conceived in my suffering one genuine passion, the object of which was not the enjoyment and triumph of one human being standing apart from the general misery by virtue of her own prosperity. That passion, which consumed me like a fever, and I may say with feverish intensity, was the longing to fight for the weak against their oppressors, and to be as lavish of benefactions and consolation as my family had been of persecution and dread. I had been brought up to respect and fear the court, to detest and distrust my unhappy countrymen. Had it not been for my own catastrophe I should probably have followed those precepts and examples of hideous cruelty. My heedless nature, wherein I resembled the women of my country, might never have conceived anything better than the principles of my family, which was not one of those that were subjected to persecution, and in which exile and suffering have inspired horror of the foreign yoke and love of country. My kinsmen, being ardently devoted to the ruling powers, had always been overwhelmed with favors, and the renewed prosperity which we shall soon owe to the cardinal's inheritance makes us a shameful exception among the many illustrious families whom I have seen ground into the dust by exorbitant taxes and by outlawry.

"I was no sooner mistress of my actions and my property than I devoted my life to the relief of the unfortunate. As a woman I was debarred from taking an interest in politics, the social sciences or philosophy. And indeed what man can possibly do it under the yoke that is crushing us? But what I could do was to assist the victims of tyranny, to whatever class they might belong. I soon found that their number was so great that my income would not suffice, even if I deprived myself of the necessaries of life. Thereupon my mind was soon made up. I had determined not to marry. I was ignorant of your existence, and I looked upon myself as alone in the world. I caused an exact statement of my fortune to be prepared—a precaution which the wealthy patricians of our province very rarely take; their indifference keeps them from visiting their estates when they are in the interior of the island, and many have never set foot upon them. I investigated my property and made myself familiar with it; first of all, I sold a part in small lots, intending to supply the poor people of these regions with a little land at a very low price, in a majority of cases for nothing. That was unsuccessful. A people that has fallen into the lowest stage of poverty and slavery cannot be saved with a stroke of the pen. I tried other methods which I will describe to you in detail at another time. They failed. Everything is bound to fail when the laws of a country have decreed its ruin. I had no sooner made a family happy, than the taxes, increasing with its prosperity, made a poverty-stricken family of it. How can order and stability be secured when the state seizes sixty per cent of the income of the humble workingman as well as of the idle rich man?

"Thus I learned, with profound sorrow, that in conquered and downtrodden countries there is no resource but almsgiving, and I devoted my life to that. It required much more activity and perseverance than gifts outright and sacrifices of capital. This life of small benefactions and constant sacrifices is a task without respite, without limits and without recompense; for almsgiving affords only a momentary remedy; it creates the necessity of being repeated and extended ad infinitum, and one never sees the result of the toil one imposes upon oneself. Oh! how cruel it is to live and love when one dresses every hour a wound that cannot be healed, when one unceasingly casts one's heart and strength into a pit which can no more be filled than the crater of Ætna!

"I accepted this task, and I devote all my time to it; I realize its inefficiency, and I am not discouraged. I no longer cry out against sloth, debauchery and all the vices that poverty engenders; or, if I do, my anger is no longer against those who acquire these vices but against those who impose them and perpetuate them. I do not quite understand what is meant by discernment in almsgiving. That is all very well for free countries, where a reprimand may serve some purpose, and where the precepts of practical morality are for the use of all men. Among us, alas! misery is so widespread that good and evil are to many persons of mature years words devoid of sense; and to preach orderliness, honesty and prudence, amid suffering and hunger, is almost ferocious pedantry.

"My income has not always been sufficient to meet so many calls, Michel, and you will find your mother's fortune secretly undermined by excavations of such depth that it may perhaps crumble on my grave. Were it not for the cardinal's inheritance, I should regret to-day that I had not saved for you sufficient means to serve your country as you will; but to-morrow you will be richer than I have ever been, and you will administer your fortune according to your principles and the dictates of your heart. I shall impose no task upon you. To-morrow you will enter into possession of this great power, and I shall not be at all disturbed as to the use you may make of it. I am sure of you. You have been brought up in a good school, my son—the school of poverty and toil! I know how you repair trivial faults; I know of what sacrifices your heart is capable when it is at odds with a consciousness of duty. Prepare, therefore, to bear the burden of your misfortune—to be a prince in fact as well as in name. Within three days you have embarked upon what seem to be strange adventures; you have received more than one valuable lesson. Fra Angelo, the Marquis della Serra, Magnani—even Mila, the sweet child—have spoken to you in a language which has made a profound impression on you, I know. I saw it in your conduct, in your determination to remain an artisan; and from that moment I promised myself that I would disclose to you the secret of your destiny, even though the cardinal should live on and compel us to take extraordinary precautions."

"O mother, how noble you are! and how little people know you when they think that you are a mere devotee, apathetic or eccentric? Your life is the life of a saint or martyr: nothing for yourself, everything for others!"

"Do not give me so much credit, my child," replied Agatha. "Innocent as I was, I had no claim to share in the general happiness. I was borne down by a fatality which all my efforts had succeeded only in making more burdensome. By denying myself love, I was simply fulfilling the plainest duty that honor imposes upon a woman. So, too, in becoming a sister of charity I obeyed the imperative outcry of my conscience. I had been unfortunate; I knew unhappiness by personal experience; I was no longer one of those who can refuse to credit the sufferings of others because they have never suffered themselves. I may, perhaps, have done good without judgment; at all events, I have done it without remission and with the utmost zeal. But, in my eyes, to do good does not amount to so much as is generally supposed. To do good in this way is simply not to do evil; not to be selfish means simply that one is not blind nor detestable. I have such unbounded pity for those who are vain of their good works, that I have hidden mine almost as sedulously as I kept the secret of my marriage and your birth. My character has never been understood. I did not wish that it should be. So that I have no right to complain of having been misjudged."

"Ah! but I know you," said Michel, "and my heart will repay you a hundredfold for all the happiness of which you have been deprived."

"I know it," she replied. "Your tears prove it, and I feel it; for, since you have been with me, I should have forgotten that I had ever been unhappy, if I had not had my story to tell you."

"Thank you, mother, but do not say that you leave me at liberty to do as I please. I am only a child, and I feel so insignificant beside you that I never desire to see anything except through your eyes, or to act except by your orders. I will help you to carry the burden of wealth and of almsgiving, but I will be your man of business—nothing more. I, a rich man and a prince! I, endowed with any sort of authority when you are here! when I am your son!"

"My child, you must be a man. I have not had the happiness of bringing you up; I could have done it no better than worthy Pier-Angelo. It is my business now to love you—nothing more—and that is enough. To justify my love, you will not need to have your ancestors' portraits say to you: 'I am not pleased with you.'—You will so conduct yourself that your mother will always say to you: 'I am pleased with you.' But listen, Michel! the bells are tolling; all the bells in the city are tolling the knell of a dying man, and it must be some great personage. It is your kinsman—your enemy—Cardinal Palmarosa, who is about to be called to account by God for his crimes. It is daylight, and we must part. Go and pray to God to be merciful to him. I go to receive his last breath!"

XLVI

GLADNESS OF HEART

While the princess rang for her maid and ordered her horses, that she might go and pay her last respects to the moribund cardinal, Michel went down into the park from the flower garden by the staircase cut in the lava; but, when he was only halfway down, he spied Master Barbagallo, who was already on his feet and beginning his conscientious day's work, very far from believing, the excellent man, that that splendid palace and those beautiful gardens were no longer aught save the deceptive symbol and the vain simulacrum of a handsome fortune. In his eyes to expend one's income in almsgiving was a lordly and estimable custom. He seconded the princess zealously in her charitable work. But to encroach upon one's capital was a heinous sin, inconsistent with the hereditary dignity of a great name; and, if Agatha had enlightened him or consulted him in that respect, all his genealogical learning would have been none too much to prove to her that no Palmarosa had ever committed that crime of lèse-nobility, unless at the bidding of his king. What! deprive oneself of the real source of one's power for the benefit of miserable wretches! Fie! unless it were a question of founding a hospital or a monastery, monuments which endure, and which transmit the renown and virtue of the founder to posterity, and impart new glory to a name instead of dimming its lustre.

Michel, when he saw the majordomo innocently blocking his path—for Barbagallo was gazing fixedly at an East India shrub which he had planted with his own hands at the foot of the staircase—determined to lower his head and pass rapidly on without any explanation. A few hours later, he would have no motive for concealment, but, for propriety's sake, it would be much better to await the princess's public declaration.

But the majordomo seemed to be planted beside his shrub. He was surprised that the climate of Catania, which, according to him, was the most salubrious climate in the world, did not agree with that rare plant better than the climate of the tropics; which fact proves that he understood the cultivation of genealogical trees better than that of real trees. He was stooping—almost lying oh the ground—to see if some destructive worm had not attacked the roots of the languishing plant.

Michel, having reached the lowest stair, decided to leap over Master Barbagallo, who uttered a loud yell, thinking perhaps that it was the beginning of a volcanic eruption, and that a stone vomited forth by some near-by crater had fallen beside him.

"Cristo!" cried the majordomo, as he recognized the young artist, whom the princess had ordered him to treat with great consideration, but whom he was very far from believing to be Agatha's son or lover.

But, when his first fright had passed, he tried to collect his thoughts, while Michel walked swiftly across the park. He awoke to the fact that Pier-Angelo's son had come from the flower garden before sunrise; from the princess's flower garden! that private, fortified sanctuary, to which none but a favored lover could gain an entrance at night!

"Princess Agatha have a lover! and such a lover! when the Marquis della Serra, who is hardly worthy to aspire to the honor of winning her favor, never goes in or out except by the principal door of the palace!"

That was an impossible supposition. So Master Barbagallo, having no means of denying so palpable a fact, and not presuming to comment upon it, limited himself to a frequent repetition of the word Cristo! And, after standing like a statue for some moments, he concluded to attend to his duties as usual, and to forbid himself to think upon any subject whatsoever until further orders.

Michel was hardly less surprised by his own situation than the majordomo by what he had seen. Of all the dreams he had dreamed in the last three days, the most unexpected, the most prodigious, beyond any question, was this one that had crowned and elucidated the others. He walked straight ahead, and the instinct born of habit guided him toward his father's house in the suburb, although he had no idea where he was going. Every object upon which his eyes rested seemed new and strange to him. The magnificence of the palaces and the squalor of the houses of the common people presented a contrast which hitherto had saddened him only as a condition by which he himself had to suffer, and which he had accepted as an inevitable law of society. Now that he felt that he was a free and powerful member of that society, compassion and kindliness poured into his heart, broader and less selfish than before. He felt that he was a better man since he had been numbered among the fortunate few, and the consciousness of the duty resting upon him vibrated in his breast under the impulsion of his mother's generous breath. He felt that he had increased in size among his fellowmen since he had been charged with ameliorating their lot instead of being oppressed by them. In a word, he felt himself every inch a prince, and was no longer surprised that he had always been ambitious. But his ambition had assumed a nobler shape in his mind on the day that he had put it into words in answer to Magnani's criticisms; and now that it was gratified, far from debasing him, it exalted him and raised him above himself. There are men—and, unfortunately, they are in the majority—whom prosperity degrades and perverts; but a truly noble mind sees in the power of wealth only a means of doing good, and eighteen years is an age at which the ideals are pure and the mind open to grand and worthy aspirations.

As he entered the suburb, he saw a poor woman begging, with one child in her arms and three others clinging to her ragged skirts. Tears came to his eyes, and he put both hands in the pockets of his jacket, for on the day before he had assumed the livery of the common people, resolved to continue to wear it a long time—always if he must. But he found that his pockets were empty, and he remembered that as yet he possessed nothing.

"Forgive me, my poor woman," he said, "to-morrow I will give you something. Be here to-morrow, I will come again."

The poor creature thought that he was making sport of her, and said to him in a solemn tone, drawing herself up in her rags with the majesty of the southern peoples: "You must not make sport of the poor, my boy; it brings bad luck."

"Yes, yes!" said Michel, as he walked away; "I believe it, I am sure of it! that shall never happen to me."

A little farther on he met some laundresses who were coolly hanging their linen on a line stretched across the street, over the heads of the passers-by. Michel stooped, as he would not have done the day before; he would have thrust the obstacle aside with an impatient hand. The two pretty girls who held the line to keep it taut were grateful to him and smiled upon him; but when Michel had passed this first curtain of the biancheria, and as he stooped to pass under a second, he heard the old laundress say to her apprentices in the tone of an angry sibyl: "Lower your eyes, Ninetta; don't turn your head like that, Rosalina! that's little Michelangelo Lavoratori, who sets himself up for a great painter, but he will never be the man his father is! A fig for children who turn up their noses at their father's trade!"

"I absolutely must adopt the profession of prince," thought Michel with a smile, "for the profession of artist would have drawn too much blame upon me."

He entered his house, and for the first time it seemed to him picturesque and attractive in its wretched disorder. "It is a genuine artist's house of the Middle Ages," he said to himself; "I have lived here only a few days, but I shall always remember them as among the sweetest and purest days of my life." It seemed to him that he already regretted that humble family nest, and the vague longing he had felt the day before for a less prosaic, a more splendid abode seemed to him an unhealthy, insane longing, so true it is that one exaggerates the value of the good things of life when one has them not.

"I could have passed years here very comfortably," he thought, "as happy as I shall be in a palace, provided that my conscience was always as well satisfied with itself as it was when Pier-Angelo said to me: 'Well, you are a man of heart, that you are!' All the portraits of the Palmarosas and Castro-Reales may tell me that they are pleased with me; they will afford me no more joy than those words from my father the artisan."

He entered as a prince that house from which he had gone forth an artisan but a few hours earlier, and he crossed the threshold with a feeling of profound respect. Then he hurried to his father's bedside, thinking to find him asleep. But Pier-Angelo was with Mila, who had not slept at all she was so disturbed because her brother had not returned. The old man suspected that the princess had kept him; but he was unable to make Mila assent to the probability of that supposition. Michel threw himself into their arms and wept tears of joy. Pier-Angelo understood what had taken place, and why the young Prince of Castro-Reale called him father so effusively, and would not allow him to call him Michel, but made him say my son whenever he spoke.

Mila was greatly surprised when Michel, instead of embracing her with his usual familiarity, kissed her hand again and again, calling her his darling sister.

"What's the matter, Michel?" she said, "and why this act of respect with me? You say that nothing extraordinary has happened, that you have been in no danger during the night, and yet you bid us good-morning like a man who has just escaped death, or who brings us paradise in the hollow of his hand. Well, well! now that you are here, we are as happy as the saints in heaven, it is true! for I had many bad dreams while I was waiting for you. I woke poor Magnani two hours before daylight and sent him in search of you; and he is searching still. He must have gone to Bel Passo, to see if you were not with our uncle."

"Dear, good Magnani!" cried Michel; "I will go out and find him, in order to set your mind at rest and to see him the sooner. But first I want to breakfast with you two at our cosy little table; I want to eat some of the rice that you cook so deliciously, Mila, and the water-melon that nobody can select so well as you."

"See how sweet he is whenever he doesn't choose to be capricious!" said Mila, looking at her brother. "When he is in one of his fits of temper, nothing is good, the rice is cooked too much and the water-melons are over-ripe. To-day everything is delicious, even before he tastes it."

"I shall be like this every day henceforth, my darling sister," said Michel; "I shall have no more bad temper, I shall ask you no more impertinent questions, and I trust that you will have no better friend in the world than me."

As soon as he was alone with Pier-Angelo, Michel knelt before him. "Give me your blessing," he said, "and forgive me for not having been worthy of you always. I will be hereafter, and if I should hesitate a moment on the path of duty, promise that you will scold me and lecture me more severely than you have ever done."

"Prince," said Pier-Angelo, "I should have been more severe perhaps if I had been your father; but—"

"O father," cried Michel, "never call me by that name, and never say that I am not your son. Of course I am the happiest of men to be Princess Agatha's son, but it would be mingling gall with my happiness to try to accustom myself to the thought that I am not yours; and if you call me prince, I will never be one; I will insist on remaining a mechanic!"

"Very well, so be it!" said Pier-Angelo, embracing him; "let us continue to be father and son, as we were; I like that better, especially as I should cling to the old habits in spite of myself, even if you had been offended. Now, listen; I know beforehand what you will say to me in a moment. You will want to make me a rich man. I want to say to you beforehand that I beg you not to torment me on that subject. I prefer to remain as I am; I am very happy. Money brings anxiety; I have never been able to keep it. The princess will do what she thinks best for your sister; but I doubt whether the little one cares to rise above her condition, for if I am not mistaken, she is in love with our neighbor, Antonio Magnani, and has no idea of marrying anybody else. Magnani will not consent to accept anything from you, I know; he is a man like me, who loves his trade and would blush to be assisted when he earns all he needs. Don't be angry, my son; I accepted your sister's marriage-portion yesterday. That was not the gift of a prince, it was the wages of a workman, the sacrifice of a loving brother. I was proud of it, and your sister, when she knows about it, won't be ashamed; but I did not think it best to tell her yet. She would never have accepted it, she is so accustomed to look upon your artistic future as a sacred thing; and the child is obstinate, as you know.

"As for me, Michel, you know me too. If I were rich, I should be ashamed to work. People would think I did it from avarice, and to add a little to my savings. Nor could I work if I were not driven to it; I am a creature of habit, a routine workman; every day would be Sunday to me, and it would be as injurious for me to amuse myself all the week as it is advantageous for me to enjoy myself a little at table on the blessed day of rest. Ennui would lay hold of me, and melancholy after that. I should try to escape from it by intemperance perhaps, as most men do who don't know how to read and so can't keep up their spirits with beautiful written stories. But one must feed one's brain when the body is at rest, and they feed it with wine. That is worse than nothing, I know by experience. When I go to a wedding festival I enjoy myself the first day, I am bored the second, and sick the third. No, no! I must have my apron, my ladder, my glue-pot, and my ballads, or each hour seems as long as two. If you blush for me—But no, I won't finish, it is insulting to you; you will never blush for me. In that case, let me live as I please, and when I am too old and feeble to work, you shall take me in and take care of me; I agree to that, I give you my word on it. I can do nothing better for you, I am sure."

"Your wishes shall be sacred to me," Michel replied, "and I realize fully that it is impossible for me to pay my debt to you with money; it would be altogether too easy to be able to liquidate a debt running through one's whole lifetime in an instant and without the slightest trouble. Ah! if I could only double the duration of your life, and restore, at the expense of my blood, the strength you have expended in supporting and educating me!"

"Do not hope to pay me otherwise than by affection," replied the old decorator. "Youth cannot return, and I desire nothing that is contrary to the divine laws. If I have worked for you, I have done it with pleasure and without ever relying upon any other reward than that of seeing you make a wise use of your good fortune. The princess knows my way of thinking in that respect. If she should pay me for your education, she would deprive me of all my merit and pride; for I have a certain pride of my own, and I shall be proud to hear people say as they will before long: 'What a loyal Sicilian and good prince this Castro-Reale is! And yet it was that old fool of a Pier-Angelo who brought him up.' Come, give me your hand, and let us say no more about it. It would hurt me a little, I confess. It seems that the cardinal is dying. I want you to say a prayer with me for him, for he needs it sadly; he was a wicked man, and the woman who was taking you to the hospital, when my brother the monk and I snatched you from her arms, looked as if she would much rather throw you into the sea than into the orphan's crib. So let us pray with a good heart! Come, Michel, it won't be long."

And Pier-Angelo, uncovering, said in a loud voice and in a tone of the deepest sincerity: "O my God! forgive us our sins, and forgive Cardinal Hieronimo, as we ourselves forgive him. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.—Michel, you didn't say amen, did you?"

"Amen, with all my heart," replied Michel, filled with respect for the artless piety with which Pier-Angelo forgave his persecutor.

For Monsignor Hieronimo had been very cruel to the poor mechanic. He had had only suspicions against him, and yet he had prosecuted him, thrown him into prison, ruined him, and finally forced him to exile himself, which last was the greatest sorrow that could have been inflicted upon honest Pier-Angelo.

As Mila was beginning to be anxious concerning Magnani, who did not return, Michel started out in search of him. All the bells in the city were tolling for the dying cardinal; prayers were being said in all the churches, and the poor people who were oppressed, held to ransom and punished by him at the slightest symptom of rebellion, knelt devoutly on the steps of the churches to ask God to absolve him. Doubtless one and all rejoiced inwardly at the first stroke of the bell, and would rejoice still more at the last. But the terrors of hell acted so powerfully on those vivid imaginations that mortal resentment vanished in face of the threat which those clanging bells seemed to hold suspended over every head.

Michel, as he did not hear the final knell announcing that death had seized his prey, and, as he felt sure that his mother would not leave the deathbed until that decisive moment had arrived, bent his steps toward the hill of Mal Passo. He wished to embrace his friend and his uncle once more before they saluted him as Prince of Castro-Reale. He dreaded especially the moment when Magnani would put on the armor of pride, and perhaps of coldness, in his unjust fear of contemptuous treatment by Michel. He was determined to stipulate in advance for the continuance of their friendship, to demand his solemn promise to that effect, and to inform him first of all of his new position after he had cemented that sacred brotherhood in Fra Angelo's presence.

And then, too, Michel thought of the Piccinino. He said to himself that it was not so far from the convent to Nicolosi that he could not go and visit his brother before he had taken any measures against the princess and himself. He could not make up his mind to defy and await schemes of revenge which might attack his mother before himself; and, though he should find the bastard in a paroxysm of rage worse than that in which he had last seen him, he looked upon it as his duty as a man and a son to meet alone its first consequences.

On the way Michel remembered that he was a painter on seeing the rising sun illumine the landscape. A feeling of profound sadness suddenly took possession of him. His artistic future seemed to be at an end, and as he passed the gate of Villa Palmarosa—as he glanced at that niche with its madonna, from which he had saluted the steeples of Catania for the first time—his heart was heavy, as if twenty years, instead of half as many days, had elapsed between this dénouement of his life and his adventurous youth, overflowing with poetic aspirations, with fears and hopes. The absolute security of his new position frightened him, and he asked himself in dismay if a painter's genius would not be inadequately accommodated in the brain of a rich man and a prince. What would become of ambition, wrath, terror, the frenzy for work, obstacles to be overcome, triumphs to be defended—those powerful and necessary stimulants? Instead of enemies to spur him on, he would have only flatterers to corrupt his judgment and his taste; instead of poverty to force him to hard work and to sustain him in the fever of composition, he would be surfeited in advance with all the advantages which art pursues at least as eagerly as it pursues renown.

He heaved a deep sigh, but soon took courage, saying to himself that he would prove himself worthy to have friends who would tell him the truth, and that, while pursuing that nobler object—renown—he could renounce more completely the material profits of the profession and the vulgar judgment of the multitude.

Reflecting thus, he reached the monastery. The bells were ringing in response to those of the city, and that monotonous and depressing dialogue was carried on in the crisp morning air amid the songs of the birds and the murmuring of the breezes.

XLVII

THE VULTURE

Magnani knew all, for Agatha had at least suspected his passion, if she had not actually divined it; and she had told him the story of her life. She had described her blighted, desolate past, and her present, devoted to serious pursuits and absorbed by maternal affections. By thus displaying her confidence in him and her regard for him, she had at all events healed the secret wound inflicted upon his plebeian pride. She had with delicate tact pointed out to him that the obstacle between them was not the difference in rank and in their ideas, but the difference between their ages and the decree of an inflexible destiny. In a word, she had raised him to her own level by treating him as a brother, and if she had not effected a complete cure at the first attempt, she had removed all the bitterness of his suffering. Then she had adroitly brought Mila's name into the conversation, and, when he realized that the princess desired their union, Magnani had deemed it to be his duty to comply with her desire.

That duty he determined to set about performing at once, and he fully appreciated the fact that Agatha, to punish him for his madness, had pointed out to him the easiest, not to say the most delightful of expiations. As he had not shared Mila's uneasiness with respect to Michel's absence, he had gone out simply to please her, with no idea that there was any need of going in search of him. He had called upon Fra Angelo, to consult him concerning the girl's sentiments, and to ask for his advice and support. When he reached the monastery, the monks were reciting prayers for the cardinal's soul, and he was obliged to wait in the garden, with its paths of earthenware and its borders of lava, until Fra Angelo could come to him. The doleful chanting depressed him, and he could not avoid a presentiment of evil to come as he thought that he was cherishing the hope of a happy betrothal in the midst of a funeral ceremony.

On the preceding evening, before he parted from Pier-Angelo on their return from the Della Serra palace, he had sounded the old artisan concerning his daughter's feelings. Pier-Angelo, delighted by that overture, had ingenuously replied that he believed that she loved him; but as Magnani distrusted his good fortune, and hardly dared hope, Pier-Angelo had advised him to consult his brother the Capuchin, whom, although younger than himself, he was accustomed to look upon as the head of the family.

Magnani was very uncertain and disturbed in mind. And yet a mysterious voice told him that Mila loved him. He recalled her furtive glances, her sudden blushes, her concealed tears, her deathly pallor, aye, and her words, which denoted an affectation of indifference prompted by pride. He hoped; he awaited impatiently the end of the prayers, and when Fra Angelo joined him he begged him to give him his attention, to advise him, and above all things to tell him the truth without concealment.

"This is a serious matter," the good monk replied; "I have always had the friendliest feeling for your family, my son, and a very high regard for you. But are you sure that you know me and love me well enough to believe me if the advice that I give you is contrary to your secret desires? For we monks are often consulted, and very little heed is paid to our counsel. Everyone comes and confides his thoughts and passions, even his business affairs to us, because it is commonly supposed that men with no direct interest in life have a keener insight than others. That is a mistake. In most cases our advice is either too complaisant to be worth following or so severe that it is impossible to follow it. For my part I dislike to give advice."

"Very well," said Magnani, "if you do not consider me capable of making the most of your counsel, will you promise to answer, without hesitation, and with perfect frankness, a question I am going to ask you?"

"Hesitation is not a failing of mine, my friend. But for lack of careful handling one may inflict much pain on those whom one loves, and do you want me to be cruel to you? You subject my affection to a painful test!"

"You frighten me beforehand, Padre Angelo. It seems to me that you have already guessed the question I am going to ask you."

"Well," said Magnani, in a trembling voice, "should I do well to ask your brother to give me Mila's hand?"

"Precisely, that is what I expected. My brother has already spoken to me about it. He thinks that his daughter loves you; he thinks that he has detected it."

"You do not consider me worthy to be Mila's husband," continued the modest Magnani. "It is true that I am not, padre; but if you knew how firmly I have resolved to become worthy!"

"My friend," rejoined the monk, "the day on which you should become Mila's husband, if you love each other fervently and sincerely, would be the happiest day in Pier-Angelo's life and mine; for we monks know that a man must love with his whole soul the spouse to whom he gives his life, whether that spouse be the family or the church. I believe that you love Mila, since you seek her hand; but I do not know whether Mila loves you or whether my brother is mistaken."

"You do not know?" said Fra Angelo, drawing his eyebrows together; "she has never told you so?"

"But she has granted you some innocent favors, has she not? She has been alone with you?"

"Not yesterday? was she not walking with you, in this neighborhood, last night at sunset?"

"Last night, in this neighborhood?" repeated Magnani, turning pale; "no, padre."

"In that case, Magnani, you must not think about Mila. Mila loves someone, and you are not that some one. And the worst of it is that neither her father nor I can guess who it is. Would to God that a girl so devoted to her duties, so hard-working, and down to this very day so modest, might have taken a fancy to a man like you! You would have brought up a family nobly, and your union would have edified your neighbors. But Mila is a child, and a romantic child, I fear. Hereafter we must watch her more carefully; I will warn her father, and you, being a man of heart, will say nothing and forget her."

"What!" cried Magnani, "can it be that Mila, the personification of honesty, courage, and innocence, already has a misstep upon her conscience? Great God! have chastity and truth ceased to exist on earth?"

"I do not say that," the monk replied: "I trust that Mila is still pure; but she is on the road to her destruction if someone does not hold her back. Last night, at sunset, she passed here, all alone, and dressed in her best clothes; she tried to avoid me, she refused to account for herself, she tried to lie. Ah! I prayed earnestly for her last night, and I slept but little."

"I will keep Mila's secret, and I will think no more about her," said Magnani, utterly confounded.

But he continued to think of her. It was natural to his character, grave and strong, but incapable of boastful confidence, to go forward to meet obstacles, and to halt when he reached them, unable to surmount them or to make up his mind to turn his back upon them.

At that moment Michel arrived; he seemed to have undergone a magical transformation since the preceding day, although he still wore his artisan's jacket; his forehead and his eyes seemed larger, his nostrils inhaled the air more freely, his chest seemed to have developed in a different atmosphere. The pride, the conscious strength, the tranquillity of the free man shone in his face.

"Ah!" said Magnani, throwing himself into the arms the young prince held out to him, "your dream has come true already, Michel! It was a beautiful dream! the awakening is still more beautiful. I have been struggling with a nightmare which your good fortune has driven away, but which has left me bewildered and crushed by fatigue."

"I hail with joy your accession to greatness and power, when I see you embrace a man of the common people of your native country. Michel de Castro-Reale, Michelangelo Lavoratori, I shall always love you as my nephew, while loving you as my prince. Will you tell me now, your excellency, that it is an imposition for those of my class to love and serve yours?"

"Do not remind me of my heresies, my excellent uncle," replied Michel. "I no longer know to what class I belong; I feel that I am a man and a Sicilian, that is all."

Magnani was deeply moved and his manner was most affectionate. He rejoiced sincerely in Michel's good fortune; but, for his own part, he was sorely distressed by the obstacle that had arisen between Mila and him, and he trembled lest he should fall anew under the empire of his former passion. But the mother is something more than the woman, and the thought of Agatha in that new aspect made Magnani's adoration calmer and more solemn than it had been before. He felt that he should blush in Michel's presence if he retained the slightest trace of his madness. He determined to banish it altogether, and, happy in the thought that he could always say to himself that he had devoted his youth, by a solemn vow, to the loveliest saint in heaven, he retained her image and her memory in his heart like a divine perfume.

Magnani was cured; but what a sad cure, to renounce, at twenty-five, all the dreams of love! He was resigned to his fate; but from that moment life was to him nothing more than a stern and passionless duty.

The reveries and torments which had made that duty dear to him no longer existed. Never was there a man on earth more utterly alone, more disgusted with all earthly things, than Magnani on the day of his deliverance.

He left Fra Angelo and Michel, who proposed to go at once to Nicolosi, and passed the rest of the day walking alone by the seashore, opposite the basaltic isles of Acireale.

The young prince and the monk started immediately after making up their minds to visit the Piccinino. They were approaching the ill-omened Destatore's Cross when the bells of Catania, changing their rhythm, rang the knell that announces death. Fra Angelo crossed himself without stopping; Michel thought of his father, who had perhaps been assassinated by order of that wicked prelate, and quickened his pace in order to kneel upon the grave of Castro-Reale.

He did not as yet feel the courage to examine that fatal cross, where he had experienced such painful emotions, even before he knew of the tie of blood that bound him to the bandit of Ætna. But a huge vulture, starting up suddenly from the very foot of the cross, forced him involuntarily to turn his eyes in that direction. For a moment he thought that he was the victim of a ghastly hallucination. A dead body lay in a pool of blood at the spot from which the vulture had fled.

Frozen with horror, Michel and his uncle drew near and recognized the body of Abbé Ninfo, half disfigured by pistol shots fired at point-blank range. The murder had been premeditated or committed with extraordinary sang-froid, for the perpetrator had taken the time and trouble to write with chalk, in small letters, close together, on the black lava pedestal of the cross, this ferociously concise inscription:

"Here was found, eighteen years ago to-day, the body of a celebrated brigand, Il Destatore, Prince of Castro-Reale, the avenger of the woes of his country.

"Here will be found to-day the body of his assassin, Abbé Ninfo, who has confessed his participation in the crime. So cowardly a champion would not have dared to strike openly so gallant a man. He led him into a trap, into which he himself has fallen at last, after eighteen years of unpunished crimes.

"More fortunate than Castro-Reale, who was struck down by slaves, Ninfo has fallen by the hand of a free man.

"If you wish to know who condemned the Destatore and paid for his murder, ask Satan, who, within an hour, will receive before his tribunal the wicked soul of Cardinal Hieronimo de Palmarosa.

"Michel de Castro-Reale, there is still much blood to be shed before your father's death is avenged!

"He who writes these lines is the bastard of Castro-Reale, whom men call the Piccinino and the Justicier d'aventure. He it was who killed the knave Ninfo. He did it at sunrise, to the sound of the bells which announced the death agony of Cardinal Palmarosa. He did it so that it may not be thought that all villains can die in their beds.

"Let the first man who reads this inscription copy or remember it and carry it to the people of Catania!"

"Let us rub it out," said Michel, "or my brother's audacity will be fatal to him."

"No, let us not rub it out," said the monk. "Your brother is too prudent not to be far away from here before this, and we have no right to deprive the nobles and people of Catania of a terrible example and a bloody lesson. The proud Castro-Reale assassinated! assassinated by the cardinal! lured into a trap by this vile abbé! Ah! I ought to have guessed it! He had too much vigor and courage still to stoop to suicide. Do not accuse your brother of being over severe, Michel, and do not look upon this vengeance as a mere useless crime. You do not know what your father was in his good days, his great days. You do not know that he was on the point of mending his ways and becoming once more the dispenser of justice on the mountain. He was repentant. He believed in God, he still loved his country, and he adored your mother. If he could but have lived as he was living a year more, she would have loved him, and would have forgiven everything. She would have come and shared his perils, she would have been the brigand's wife instead of being the prisoner and victim of his murderers. She would have brought you up herself, she would never have been parted from you! You would have drunk the milk of a lioness and you would have grown to manhood in the tempest. Everything would be better so! Sicily would be nearer its deliverance than it will be ten years hence; and I should not have continued to be a monk. Instead of walking up the mountain, with folded arms, to see this body lying in a corner and the Piccinino flying among the precipices, we should all be together, rifle in hand, fighting desperately against the Swiss mercenaries of Naples, and perhaps marching on Catania with the yellow flag flaunting its golden folds in the morning breeze! Yes, everything would be better so, I tell you, Prince of Castro-Reale!—But God's will be done!" added Fra Angelo, remembering at last that he was a monk.

Being certain that the Piccinino must have left the valley long before the hour named in the inscription as that of the murder, Michel and the monk went no farther, but retraced their steps from that wild spot where the abbé's corpse would be at the mercy of the vulture for some hours to come, before anyone would interrupt his ghastly feast. As they turned away, they saw the ill-omened bird fly over their heads, returning with savage eagerness to his prey.

"That is the fate you deserved," said the monk, calmly; "to be eaten by dogs and vultures! that is the malediction which people in all ages have called down upon spies and traitors. You are very pale, my young prince, and perhaps you think me very harsh in my judgment of a priest, being myself a churchman. What can you expect? It may be that I have seen and done with my own hand, perhaps, more killing than is consistent with the salvation of my soul! but in conquered countries, you see, war sometimes has no other resource than murder. Do not think that the Piccinino is worse than other men. He was born calm and long-suffering; but there are virtues which would become vices in us Sicilians, if we should cling to them. Reason and a sense of justice taught him to be a scourge at need. But you see that his heart is sound at bottom. He is very angry with your mother, you told me, and you dreaded his vengeance. You see that he absolves her from the crime which certainly never occurred to that saint-like woman's mind; you see that he does homage to truth, even in the heat of his anger; you see, too, that instead of cursing you he exhorts you to make common cause with him when occasion requires. No, no, Carmelo is no dastard!"

Michel was of the monk's opinion, but he held his peace; it would require a mighty effort on his part to fraternize with the gloomy mind of that civilized savage whom men called the Piccinino. He readily detected the monk's secret predilection for the brigand. In Fra Angelo's eyes the bastard rather than the prince was the Destatore's son and the heir of his strong nature. But Michel was too heavily burdened by the emotions—by turns delicious and painful—which he had experienced within a few hours, to maintain a conversation on any subject, and, even if he considered that the Capuchin was too revengeful and inclined to be too pitiless in his opinions, he did not feel that he had the right to contradict or even to pass judgment upon a man to whom he was indebted for the legitimizing of his birth, the saving of his life, and the joy of knowing his mother.

"You too, Michel, will be obliged to wear mourning," said Fra Angelo. "Carmelo is more fortunate than you at this moment, in not belonging to society. If he were the Princess of Palmarosa's son, he would have to wear the false livery of grief—mourning for his father's murderer."

"For love of my mother, my dear uncle," replied the prince, "do not force upon my notice the unpleasant side of my position. At present I can think of nothing except that I am the son of the noblest and loveliest and best of women."

"That is well, my child, that is well. Forgive me," continued the monk. "My mind is always in the past; it is always busy with the memory of my poor murdered captain. Why did I leave him? Why had I turned monk? Ah! I was a coward too. If I had remained faithful to him in his ill-fortune, and patient with his vagaries, he never would have fallen into a wretched ambuscade, and perhaps he would be alive still! He would be proud and happy to have two sons, both brave and handsome! Ah! Destatore, Destatore! here am I weeping for you more bitterly than at first. To learn that you died by another hand than your own is like losing you again."

And the monk, but a moment before so pitiless and unfeeling as he trampled upon the blood of the traitor, began to weep like a child. The old soldier, faithful beyond the grave, reappeared in him, and he embraced Michel, saying: "Comfort me; let me hope that we shall avenge him!"

"Let us hope for Sicily!" replied Michel. "We have something better to do than perpetuate family quarrels; we have our country to serve! Ah! our country! That is a word that you had to explain to me yesterday, my brave soldier, but to-day I understand it perfectly."

XLVIII

THE MARQUIS

Master Barbagallo awaited them at the gate with a most anxious countenance. As soon as he saw Michel, he ran to meet him and kneeled to kiss his hand.

"Up, up, sirrah!" said the young prince, disgusted by such servility. "You have served my mother faithfully. Give me your hand, as befits a man!"

They crossed the park together; but Michel did not choose to receive as yet the homage of all the servants, who were not likely, however, to be so annoying as the majordomo; for he followed him everywhere, asking his forgiveness again and again for the scene at the ball, and striving to convince him that if the proprieties had permitted him to wear his spectacles on that occasion, his short-sightedness would not have prevented him from noticing that Michel resembled, feature for feature, that mighty captain, Giovanni Palmarosa, deceased in 1288, whose portrait he had delivered to the Marquis della Serra on the preceding day, in his, Michel's, presence.

"Ah! how I regret," he said, "that the princess has given the marquis all the Palmarosas! But your highness will surely recover that noble and priceless portion of your inheritance. I am certain that his excellency the marquis will restore to you all the ancestors of both families, by his will, or even sooner."

"I think that they do very well where they are," replied Michel, with a smile. "I am not fond of portraits which have the gift of speech."

He made his escape from the majordomo's obsession, and walked to the cliff in order to enter by way of the Casino. But as he stepped into his mother's boudoir, he found that Barbagallo was puffing at his heels, having followed him up the staircase.

"Forgive me, your highness," he said, gasping for breath, "her highness the princess is in the large gallery, among her kinsmen, friends and retainers, to whom she has just publicly announced her marriage to the most noble and illustrious prince your father. They are waiting now for the excellent Fra Angelo, to whom a messenger was sent two hours ago, to request him to bring from the convent the authentic proofs of the marriage, which will establish your right of succession to the inheritance of his eminence, the most high, most powerful and most excellent prince cardinal."

"I have the documents," said the monk; "have you said all that you have to say, most high, most powerful and most excellent Master Barbagallo?"

"I will also say to his highness," rejoined the steward, in nowise disconcerted, "that he too is awaited impatiently—but—"

"But what? Do not stand in my way any longer with your suppliant air, Master Barbagallo. If my mother is waiting for me, let me hurry to her; if you have any personal request to make, I will listen to you at some other time, and I promise you beforehand whatever you ask."

"O, my noble master, yes!" cried Barbagallo, standing in the doorway, with a heroic air, and handing Michel a gala coat cut in the antique style, while a servant, notified by a stroke of the bell, brought a pair of satin breeches stitched with gold, silk stockings with red clocks and a sword. "Yes, yes, I have a personal request which I venture to present to you. You cannot appear before the family council which awaits your presence in that fustian jacket and that coarse shirt. It is impossible for a Palmarosa, a Castro-Reale I mean, to meet his cousins-german for the first time in the costume of a mechanic. They know the nobly borne misfortunes of your youth, and with what great courage you have accepted an ignoble place in society. But that is no reason why they should see its livery on your highness's body. I will kneel at your feet to beg you to wear the costume of state which your grandfather, Prince Donigi de Palmarosa, wore on the occasion of his first presentation at the court of Naples."

The first part of this harangue triumphed over Michel's irritation. He and the monk could not refrain from laughing uproariously; but the last words put an end to their merriment and darkened their brows.

"I am quite sure," said Michel, shortly, "that my mother did not bid you offer me this absurd disguise, and that it would afford her no pleasure to see me arrayed in that livery! I much prefer the one which I now wear and which I shall wear the rest of the day, by your leave, Master majordomo."

"I beg your highness not to be angry with me," rejoined Barbagallo, in dire confusion, motioning to the servant to remove the costume at once. "Perhaps I acted unwisely, taking counsel of my own zeal; but if—"

"But nothing! leave me," said Michel, opening the door impatiently; and leaning on Fra Angelo's arm, he descended the inner staircase from the Casino and resolutely entered the great gallery in his artisan's costume.

The princess, dressed in black, was sitting on a sofa at the end of the gallery, surrounded by the Marquis della Serra, Doctor Recuperati, Pier-Angelo, several tried friends of both sexes, and several kinsmen; the faces of the latter wearing a more or less resentful or dismayed expression, despite their efforts to appear touched and fascinated by the romance of her life which she had just told them. Mila was sitting on a cushion at her feet, lovely as ever, with glistening eyes, and pale with surprise and emotion. Other groups were scattered about the gallery. They were the less intimate friends, the more distant relations, and the lawyers whom Agatha had summoned to declare the validity of her marriage and the legitimacy of her son. Still farther away the servants of the house, on active service or retired on pensions, some privileged workmen, the Magnani family among the rest, and lastly, the cream of those clients with whom Sicilian nobles have intimate relations unknown in France, which recall the ancient customs of the Roman patriciate.

It will readily be believed that Agatha had not felt called upon to state the cruel reasons which had led her to marry the too famous Prince of Castro-Reale, that gallant and redoubtable brigand, so depraved and yet at times so ingenuous, a sort of converted Don Juan concerning whom more tales were current, tales of crime and of love, fabulous and improbable, than could possibly be true of any one man. To the public avowal of an act of violence which was most offensive to her modesty and her pride, she preferred the implied confession of a passion, romantic beyond reason on her part, but unconstrained and legitimate. To the Marquis della Serra alone had she confided her real story; he alone knew of Agatha's unhappy youth, the cruelty of her parents, the probable murder of the Destatore, and the plots against the life of her son while he was in his cradle. The princess allowed the others to infer that her family had not approved of that clandestine marriage, and that her son had necessarily been brought up secretly, to avoid the risk of being disinherited by his mother's relations. Her narrative was brief, simple and concise, and she had borne herself in the telling with a self-assured and tranquil dignity which she owed to the force of her maternal affection. Before she was aware of her son's existence, she would have killed herself rather than allow the tenth part of her secret to be suspected; but, with the determination that her son should be recognized and welcomed, she would have revealed everything if a complete disclosure had been necessary.

She had finished speaking a quarter of an hour before Michel entered. She had looked calmly into the faces of her audience. She knew what to think of the artless emotion of some, of the masked malevolence of others. She knew that she should have the courage to face all the exaggerations, all the sneers, all the malicious remarks to which her declaration would give rise in the outside world, and especially in aristocratic society. She was ready for everything, and felt strong and brave, supported by her son's arm—that woman who had steadfastly refused to accept the protection of a husband or the consolations of a lover. Some of those present, whether maliciously or from stupidity, had tried to induce her to add some details, some further particulars, to her declaration. She had replied gently but firmly:

"Not before so many witnesses, and on a day of mourning and solemnity, can I undertake to entertain or interest you by telling a love-story. Besides, it is all a long way off. I was very young then, and after twenty years have passed since those exciting days, I should find it hard to speak of them from a standpoint which would enable you to understand the choice I thought fit to make. I will allow you to consider it an extraordinary act, but I will not allow anyone to speak reproachfully of it in my presence; for that would be an insult to the man whose name I accepted, to hand it down to my son."

There was much eager whispering among the groups scattered through that vast apartment. Only the group at the extreme end, consisting of honest workmen and faithful servants, was grave and calm, and secretly touched. Magnani's father and mother came forward weeping, and kissed Agatha's hand. Mila, in the midst of her transports of amazement and joy, was a little depressed in the depths of her heart. She said to herself that Magnani should be there; but she could not see him, although she looked everywhere. However, she forgot him when Michel appeared, and she rose to rush to him through the groups, malevolent or thunderstruck, which opened to give passage to the artisan prince and his woolen blouse. But she stopped short, with crimson cheeks and in sore distress: Michel was no longer her brother; she must not kiss him any more.

Agatha, who had risen first, turned and beckoned to her, and, taking her by the hand, walked toward her son with the proud resolution of a queen and a mother. First she led him to receive publicly the blessing of his father and his uncle by adoption, then turned him over to the cordial hand-clasps of her friends and the salutations of her acquaintances. Michel took pleasure in adopting a cold and haughty bearing with those who seemed to him cold and haughty; but when he was in the midst of the more popular portion of the company, he appeared as he felt, overflowing with sincerity and cordiality. He had no difficulty in winning the hearts of those good people, and he was greeted as heartily as if they had been present at his birth, and he had grown to manhood before their eyes.

After the production of the certificates of marriage and birth, which, having been recorded under the former ecclesiastical administration, were perfectly regular and authentic, Agatha took leave of the family gathering, and withdrew to her private apartments with Michel, the Lavoratori family, and the Marquis della Serra. There they tasted the unalloyed happiness of being together, and recovered from the fatigue due to the constraint to which they had been subjected. They laughed over the incident of the grandfather's gala costume, Master Barbagallo's happy thought. They made merry in anticipation of all the monstrous and absurd tales concerning the state of affairs in the family, to which the imaginations of the good people of Catania, Messina, and Palermo would give birth while the excitement was at its height.

But the day had not passed before they felt that they would all require more genuine courage than they had yet been called upon to display. The news of the murder of Abbé Ninfo, together with a copy of the audacious inscription, reached the city during the evening, and was speedily circulated. Persons who were out walking had brought the copy, the campieri brought the body. As the incident seemed to have a political color, it was discussed in undertones; but as it had some connection with the great events of the day, the death of the cardinal and Agatha's declaration, people talked about it all night, having no desire to sleep. The greatest and most beautiful city on earth, unless it be one of the great metropolises of civilization, is always, so far as its spirit and its ideas are concerned, a petty provincial town, especially in the south of Europe.

The police were aroused by the vengeance wreaked upon one of their agents. Persons in the good graces of the government assumed, in aristocratic salons, a menacing attitude toward the patriotic nobles. The Neapolitan faction asserted that the Prince of Castro-Reale had better look to himself if he wished his father's crimes to be forgotten; and, ere long, salutary warnings intended for the princess found their way into her very boudoir. A sincere, but cowardly friend informed her that the assertion of her innocence in the Piccinino's extraordinary document, and the appeal therein made to her son to avenge Castro-Reale, would compromise her very seriously unless she made haste to take some measures dictated by prudence: as, for instance, to present her son to the ruling powers, and to manifest her purpose, indirectly but clearly, to abandon her defunct brigand to the devil, and her bastard stepson's body to the headsman, to be a true and loyal Palmarosa, like her father and uncle before her, and to make herself responsible for the proper political education of the heir of a name so difficult to bear as that of Castro-Reale was likely to be.

To these warnings, Agatha replied calmly and judiciously that she never went into society; that she had been living for nearly twenty years in undisturbed seclusion, where no conspiracies had ever been formed; that to take any measures at that moment to obtain the favor of the ruling powers would be in effect to admit the justice of suspicions which she did not deserve; that her son was still a child, brought up in an obscure station and in ignorance of everything outside of the poetry of art; that she would bear boldly, with him, the name of Castro-Reale, because it would be cowardly to deny her marriage and his descent, and that they would not fail to make that name respected, even under the eyes of the police. As for the Piccinino, she very adroitly pretended that she had no idea what they meant, and that she did not believe in the existence of that intangible phantom, a sort of ogre, whose name was used to frighten the little children and old women of the suburbs. She was surprised and distressed by the murder of Abbé Ninfo; but as the will turned up opportunely in Doctor Recuperati's custody, no one could suspect that she owed the recovery of the document to a secret arrangement with the brigands of the mountain. The doctor did not even know that it had been taken from him; for, just as he was about to make a public declaration that Ninfo had stolen it, Agatha had interrupted him, saying:

"Be careful, doctor, you are very absent-minded, you know; don't accuse anyone hastily. You showed me the will two days ago; may you not have left it in my chamber, under a piece of mosaic?"

An official visit to the place indicated had resulted in finding the will there intact. The doctor, astounded at his carelessness, had believed in it with the others.

Agatha had suffered so much, the secrets she had had to keep had been so painful, that she had become very skilful in feigning, when it was necessary to take that trouble. Michel and the marquis admired the presence of mind which she displayed throughout the whole affair in extricating herself from an alarming position. But Fra Angelo became very sad, and Michel sought his couch much less light-hearted in his palace than he had been in his garret. The necessary precautions, the constant dissimulation to which he must resort, revealed the anxieties and perils of grandeur. The Capuchin feared that he would be corrupted in spite of himself. Michel was not afraid of being corrupted, but he felt that he must keep a close watch upon himself, and make himself small in order to preserve his peace of mind and domestic happiness, or else enter upon a struggle which would end only with his fortune or his life.

He resigned himself to his fate. He determined that he would be prudent for his mother's sake until the time should come to be reckless for the sake of his country. But the period of excitement and untroubled happiness had already passed; duty was beginning: novels which are not cut short in the midst of the catastrophe become depressing on the last pages, that is to say, if they have the slightest semblance of probability.

Certain persons of taste and vivid imagination insist that a novel should not have any end; that the reader should end it to suit himself. Certain others, persons of judgment and method, desire to see all the threads of the plot straightened out, and all the characters happily established for the rest of their lives, or else killed off, so that they need think no more about them. I agree with the former class, and I think that I might well have left the reader at the foot of the Destatore's cross, reading the inscription which the justicier d'aventure had written there. He could readily have imagined without my assistance the chapter which he has just read—and read with languid interest, I warrant—saying to himself: "I was sure of it; I expected it; that goes without saying."

But I was afraid that I might have to deal with a reader of delicate sensibilities, who would have been made ill by being left in the classico-romantic company of a corpse and a vulture.

Why are all dénouements more or less lame and unsatisfactory? The reason is simple enough: it is because in real life there never is a dénouement; that the novel goes on forever, melancholy or placid, poetic or commonplace, and that the purely conventional can never wear the truthful aspect which arouses interest.

But since, against my inclination, I have determined to elucidate everything, I realize that I have left Magnani on the seashore, Mila anxious, the Piccinino in flight, and the Marquis della Serra at the princess's feet. As for the last-named, he had been in that position for nearly twelve years, and a day more or less was of little consequence to him; but as soon as he learned Agatha's secret, and saw her son in possession of all his rights and all his good fortune, he changed his attitude, and, drawing himself up to the full height of his loyal and chivalrous nature, he said in Michel's presence:

"Signora, I love you as I have always loved you. I esteem you the more because of the pride and loyalty you have hitherto displayed in refusing to contract, under the title of virgin, a marriage in which you would have had to bear in secret the titles of widow and mother. But if you think that, because you were subjected to outrage long ago, you are degraded in my eyes, you do not know my heart. If, because you bear a strange name, a name that arouses horror because of the memories connected with it, you believe that I would shrink from replacing it with mine, you put an affront upon my devotion to you. These, on the contrary, are reasons which make me desire more eagerly than ever to be your friend, your support, your protector and your husband. At the present moment your first marriage is a subject of ridicule. Give me your hand, and no one will dare to ridicule the second. People call you the brigand's wife; be the wife of the most reasonable and sedate of patricians, so that people may know that, if you can inflame the imagination of a wild and wayward man, you can rule the heart of a man of calm and peaceful life. Your son sorely needs a father, signora. He will soon be involved in more than one difficult and perilous crisis of the hazardous existence which a hostile race forces upon us. Be assured that I already love him as if he were my own son, and that my life and my fortune are his. But that is not enough; it is necessary that the sanction of a marriage between you and me should put an end to the equivocal position in which we stand toward each other. If I am supposed to be his mother's lover, can he love or esteem me? Would it not be absurd—aye cowardly—in him to seem to endure it without shame or impatience? So that I must avoid you now, if you refuse to be united to me. You will lose your best friend, and so will Michel! As for myself, I say nothing of the grief I should feel, for I know of no words to describe it; but my happiness is not the question, and it is not from selfishness that I implore you thus. No, I know that you do not know what love is, and that the thought of passion terrifies you. I know what a deep wound your heart has received, and how repugnant to you are the thoughts which kindle the imagination of those who know you. Very well! I will be your brother—nothing more. I promise upon my honor, if you demand it. Michel shall be your only child as well as your only love. But the law and public morality will permit me to be his best friend, his guide, and the defender of his mother's honor and fair fame."

The marquis delivered this long speech in a calm tone, the expression of his face corresponding to his manner. But a tear trembled on his eyelid, and he did wrong to try to hold it back, for it was more eloquent than his words.

The princess blushed; it was the first time that the marquis had ever seen her blush, and he was so agitated that he lost all the self-possession with which he had armed himself. That blush which made her a true woman for the first time, at thirty-two years of age, was like a sunbeam on the snow, and Michel's artistic sensibilities were so keen that he realized at once that she had kept another secret in the depths of her heart, or else that her heart, revived by joy and a sense of security, was ripe for love. And what man was more worthy of her than the Marquis della Serra?

"O mother," he said, "you are only twenty years old! See, look at yourself," he added, offering her a hand mirror which her maid had left on the table. "You are so beautiful and so young, and you propose to renounce love! Is it for my sake? Shall I be the happier because your life is less complete and less happy? Shall I respect you less because I see that you are more profoundly respected and more effectively protected? Are you afraid that I am jealous, as Mila accused me of being? No, I shall not be jealous unless I find that he loves you better than I do, and I defy him to do that! Dear marquis, we will love her dearly, will we not, and make her forget the past; we will make her happy, who has never been happy, and who, alone of all human beings, deserves absolute happiness! Say yes, mother; I will not stand up until you have said yes!"

"I have already reflected," said Agatha, blushing afresh. "I think that I must do it for your sake, and for the dignity of us all."

"Do not say so," cried Michel, throwing his arms about her; "say that it is for your happiness, if you wish us two to be happy!"

Agatha held out her hand to the marquis and hid her son's face against her breast. She was ashamed to have him see her fiancé's joy. She had retained the modesty of a girl; and from that day, she was so fresh and so lovely that the evil tongues, who insist upon detecting falsehood and crime everywhere, declared that Michel was not her son, but a lover installed in her house under that profaned title. However, all calumny and ridicule vanished before the announcement of her marriage to Signor della Serra, which was to take place at the end of her mourning. There was an occasional sneer at the marquis's Quixotic love, but he was envied much more than he was pitied.

XLIX

DANGER

This announcement made a profound impression on Magnani. It put the finishing touch to his cure and his depression of spirit. His impressionable heart could not do without an all-absorbing, exclusive love; but he had apparently been deceived when he persuaded himself that he had never really hoped; for when hope had become impossible, he was no longer beset by the phantom of Agatha. It was Mila's phantom which engrossed his meditations and his sleepless nights. But this last passion began in the midst of a torture more intense than all the previous ones. Agatha had appeared to him as an ideal creature whom he could never reach. Mila appeared to him under the same aspect, but with the additional certainty that she had a lover.

Thereupon, in that little circle of relations and friends, there ensued a succession of petty anxieties, exceedingly delicate in their nature, which eventually became very painful to Mila and Magnani. Pier-Angelo, seeing that his daughter was depressed, and being unable to understand it, was inclined to have a friendly explanation with Magnani, and lead him on to ask openly for Mila's hand. Fra Angelo did not agree with him and restrained him. This question being taken before the princess's kindly tribunal for decision led to explanations concerning the excursion to Nicolosi which were perfectly satisfactory to the father and the uncle, but which might well leave some suspicion in the lover's proud and uncompromising heart. Fra Angelo, who was responsible for the trouble, undertook to repair it. He went to the young man, and without disclosing Mila's sublime imprudence, told him that she was absolutely justified in his mind, and that he had discovered that the purpose of that mysterious excursion was to do a noble and courageous act.

Magnani asked no question. Had he done so, the monk, who was incapable of paltering with the truth, would have told him everything; but Magnani's loyal heart closed itself to suspicion as soon as Fra Angelo had given his word. He believed at last in the possibility of happiness and went to Pier-Angelo to seek confirmation of his belief.

But it was written that Magnani should not be happy. On the day when he appeared to make his declaration and urge his suit, Mila, instead of remaining during their interview, left her father's workshop angrily and shut herself up in her own room. She was offended in the sanctuary of her pride by Magnani's four or five days of depression and irresolution. She had expected an easier and speedier triumph. She blushed at the thought that she had pursued him so long.

Moreover, she was aware of all that had happened during those days of misery. She knew that Michel was not in favor of their giving Magnani so much encouragement to declare himself. Michel alone had known his friend's secret, and he was alarmed for his adopted sister's sake by such a sudden reaction in her favor, which might well be an act of desperation. Mila concluded that Michel was aware that Magnani persisted in loving another woman, although the young artisan had refused to take back the princess's ring, and had begged Mila to keep it as a pledge of his esteem and respect. On that same evening, the evening that he had escorted her home from the Della Serra palace while Michel remained behind with his mother, Magnani, intoxicated by her beauty, her wit and her social success, had spoken to her so warmly that what he said was almost a declaration of love. Mila had had the strength of will to refrain from encouraging him openly. But she had believed that she had triumphed, and on the next day, the day of Agatha's declaration, she had expected to see him at her feet and to tell him at last that she loved him.

But he had not appeared at all on that day, and on the days immediately following he had not addressed a single word to her; he had confined himself to bowing to her with frigid respect when he had not been able to avoid her eye. Mila, mortally wounded and distressed, had refused to tell her father the truth, when that worthy man, disturbed by her pallor, asked her almost on his knees. She had persisted in denying that she loved their young neighbor. Pier-Angelo, simple and straightforward creature that he was, could find nothing better to say to her than:

"Cheer up, my child, we know very well that you love each other; but he has been uneasy and jealous on account of the Nicolosi affair; when you condescend to justify yourself in his eyes, he will fall at your feet. You will see him there to-morrow, I am sure of it."

"Oho! Master Magnani presumes to be jealous and to suspect me!" rejoined Mila, hotly. "He has loved me only a day or two, he doesn't know whether I love him, and when a suspicion comes into his head, instead of humbly telling me of it and doing his best to supplant the rival who worries him, he assumes the air of a betrayed husband, gives up all idea of making himself agreeable to me and persuading me, and, I suppose, will consider that he confers great honor and great pleasure on me when he comes and tells me that he deigns to forgive me! Well, for my part, I do not forgive him. That's what you may say to him from me, father."

The child persisted so in her irritation that Pier-Angelo was forced to take Magnani to her chamber door, where she let him knock a long while, and which she opened at last, saying pettishly that he seemed determined to interrupt her siesta.

"You may be perfectly sure," said Pier-Angelo to Magnani, "that the sly minx was not asleep, for she only left my workshop just as you came in. Come, children, put aside all these pretty quarrels. Shake hands, since you love each other; and I give you permission to kiss. No! Mila is proud like her poor mother. Ah! friend Antonio, you will be led by the nose as I was, and you will be none the less happy for it, I tell you! Come, kneel and ask her pardon. Signora Mila, must your father kneel too?"

"Father," replied Mila, flushing with pleasure, pride and vexation, all at once, "listen to me, instead of laughing at me, for I must keep my dignity intact! A woman has nothing more precious than her dignity, and no man, not even a father, ever understands what justification we have for being sensitive. I do not choose to be loved by halves, I do not choose to serve as a makeshift and a balm for a partly healed passion. I know that Master Magnani has long been in love with a beautiful unknown, and I am afraid that he is still, a little. Very good! I want him to take time enough to forget her and to give me time to find out whether I love him. This is all too new and strange to be accepted so hurriedly. I know that, when I have given my word, I shall not retract it, even if I regret having done it. I will judge of Magnani's affection," she said, with a reproachful glance at him, "by his evenness of temper with me and the zealousness of his attentions. He has something to set right, and I something to forgive."

"I accept the test," said Magnani, "but not as a punishment; I do not consider that I have been blameworthy in giving way to sorrow and depression. I did not believe that you loved me, and I knew well that I had no right to expect it. I still think that you do not, and if I venture to hope a little, it is in fear and trembling."

"Ah! what fine words, just to say nothing!" cried Pier-Angelo. "In my day we were less eloquent and more sincere. We said: 'Do you love me?'—'Yes, and you?'—'Like a madman.'—'So do I, until death.'—That was better than these long dialogues of yours, which seem like a game, and a game in which you try to annoy and worry each other. But perhaps I am in the way. I will go; when you are alone, you will understand each other better."

"No, father," said Mila, afraid that she should allow herself to be moved and persuaded too quickly, "even if he had enough love and spirit to-day to make me listen to him, I know that I should be sorry to-morrow that I had been so trustful. Besides, I know that you haven't told him everything. I know that he has taken it upon himself to be jealous, because I took a certain erratic walk on the mountain; but I know also that my uncle, when he assured him that I had committed no sin, which he was kind enough to believe, thought it best to say nothing as to the purpose of that walk. But for my own part, I am ashamed, and blush for that circumspection, which apparently was supposed to be necessary to his peace of mind, and I propose to tell him the whole truth."

"As you please, my child," replied Pier-Angelo. "I am inclined to agree with you that you should keep back no part of what you think you ought to tell. So speak as you think best. But you must remember that it is somebody else's secret whom you promised never to name."

"I can safely name him, as his name is in every mouth, especially in these last few days, and, if there is any danger in saying that one knows him, it is only for those who make that boast; however, it is not my purpose to reveal what I know about him; I may therefore tell Master Magnani that I voluntarily passed two hours tête-à-tête with the Piccinino, without telling him where or for what purpose."

"I believe that the fever for making declarations is attacking all women," laughed Pier-Angelo; "since Princess Agatha made the one which has caused so much talk, they all seem determined to confess in public."

Pier-Angelo spoke more truly than he supposed. The example of courage is contagious among women, and the romantically inclined Mila admired Princess Agatha so passionately that she regretted that she had not a secret marriage with the Piccinino to proclaim at that moment, provided always that she had become a widow and could marry Magnani.

But her rash avowal produced an entirely different effect from that which she expected. There was no trace of anxiety on Magnani's face, and she could not rejoice inwardly at having aroused and awakened his love by a flash of jealousy. He became even more melancholy and gentle than usual, kissed Mila's hand, and said to her:

"Your frankness denotes a noble heart, Mila, but there is a little pride mixed with it. Doubtless you intended to put me to a harsh test by telling me something that would alarm any other man than myself to the last degree. But I know your father and your uncle too well to fear that they deceived me when they said that you went into the mountain to do a good deed. So do not try to puzzle me; that would be cruel on your part, because you could have no other object than to make me unhappy. Tell me everything or tell me nothing. I have no right to demand disclosures which would compromise anyone, but I have the right to ask you not to play with me by trying to shake my confidence in you."

Pier-Angelo declared that on this occasion Magnani talked like a book, and that no one could possibly make a more straightforward, generous and sensible reply on such a delicate subject.

But what had taken place in little Mila's heart within a few days? It may be that one should never play with fire, however worthy the motive of one's action, and that she really did wrong to go to Nicolosi. However that may be, Magnani's reply did not please her as much as it did her father, and she felt chilled and piqued by the sort of paternal lecture which her lover had given her.

"Sermons already!" she said, rising, as a hint to Magnani that she proposed to go no farther with him that day; "and sermons to me, whom you pretend to love with so little hope and courage? It seems to me, neighbor, on the other hand, that you expect to find me very tractable and submissive. Well, I am afraid that you are mistaken. I am a child, and I ought to know it, for I am told so from morning till night; but I know very well that when one is really in love, he sees no fault—nothing wrong—in the conduct of the loved one. Everything she does is charming, or at all events sincere. He doesn't call her loyalty haughtiness, and her pride childish teasing. You see, Magnani, that it is a pity to see too clearly in love. There is a song that says that Cupid is a blind bambino. Father knows it; he will sing it to you. Meanwhile, understand that clairvoyance is contagious, and that he who removes the bandage from his eyes discloses his own faults to others at the same time. You have discovered that I am a little overbearing, and you think doubtless that I am a flirt. For my part, that shows me that you are very proud, and I am afraid that you are a bit of a pedant."

The Angelos hoped that the cloud would pass over, and that, after giving vent to her vexation, Mila would be all the more loving and Magnani all the happier. Indeed, they had interviews and battles of words and sentiments, in which they were so near coming to terms, that their sudden falling-out again a moment later, Magnani's depression and Mila's excitement, seemed inexplicable. Magnani was terrified sometimes to find so much spirit and will-power in a woman. Mila was afraid of so much gravity and unwavering common sense in a man. It seemed to her that Magnani was incapable of feeling a great passion, and she wished to inspire one, because she felt in a mood to plunge into it violently on her own account. He always spoke and thought like virtue personified, and it was with an imperceptible touch of irony that Mila called him the just man par excellence.

She was very coquettish with him, and Magnani, instead of taking pleasure in her ingenious and strenuous efforts to please him, was afraid that she was a little coquettish with all men. Ah! if he had seen her in the Piccinino's boudoir, holding in check and subduing by her exquisite chastity, by her virile simplicity, so to speak, the young brigand's crafty inclinations and evil thoughts, Magnani would have realized that Mila was no coquette, since she was coquettish with him alone.

But the unfortunate man was not familiar with women; and, because he had loved so long in silence and sorrow, he had no conception of the delicate and mysterious problems of requited love. He was over-modest. He took Mila's cruel pleasantness too seriously, and scolded her for being so unkind to him when he ought to have thanked her on his knees.

Moreover, to tell the whole truth, that Nicolosi affair was stamped with the seal of fatality, like everything else that was connected, though it were by the tiniest thread, with the Piccinino's mysterious existence. Without touching upon the details which demanded secrecy, they had told Magnani everything that could set his mind at rest concerning that adventure of Mila's. Fra Angelo, always loyal to his secret predilection for the bandit, had vouched for his chivalrous and honorable conduct under such circumstances. The princess, loving Mila with a maternal love, had spoken with heartfelt eloquence of the girl's devotion and courage. Pier-Angelo had arranged everything for the best, in his happy and unsuspecting brain. Michel alone had shuddered upon learning of the episode, and he thanked Providence for performing a miracle in behalf of his charming and noble-hearted sister.

But despite his grandeur of soul, Magnani had been unable to look upon Mila's performance as the result of a worthy impulse; and, although he never mentioned the subject, he suffered intensely, as may be imagined.

As for Mila, the consequences of her adventure were more serious, although she did not suspect it as yet. That romantic chapter in her life had left an ineffaceable impression on her brain. After trembling and weeping bitterly when she learned that she had recklessly surrendered herself as a hostage to the redoubtable Piccinino, she had made the best of her mistake, and had secretly become reconciled to the thought of that alarming personage, who had bequeathed to her, instead of shame, remorse and despair, naught but poetic memories, increased esteem for herself, and a bouquet of spotless flowers, which an undefinable instinct had led her to preserve carefully among her sentimental relics, after drying them with the greatest care.

Mila was no coquette; we have proved it by telling how coquettish she was with the man whom she looked upon as her fiancé. Nor was she fickle; she would have been faithful to him until death, with a fidelity proof against every trial. But there are mysteries in a woman's heart, deeper and more incomprehensible in proportion to the woman's mental endowment and the exquisite charm of her nature. Moreover, there is something sweet and glorious to a young girl in the thought that she has succeeded in taming a terrible lion and has come forth safe and sound from a perilous adventure, solely by the power of her charm, her innocence and her courage. Mila realized now how brave and adroit she had been, quite unconsciously, in that great danger, and the man who had submitted so completely to the influence of her merit could not seem to her a contemptible or ordinary man.

Thus a feeling of romantic gratitude enchained her to the memory of Captain Piccinino, and, despite all the evil people might say of him, it would have been impossible to shake her confidence in him. She had taken him for a prince; was he not a prince's son and Michel's brother? She had taken him for a hero, for the future liberator of his country; might he not become so, had he not that ambition? His soft speech, his charming manners had fascinated her; and why not? Had she not an even more intense infatuation for Princess Agatha, and was the one less legitimate and less pure than the other?

All this did not prevent Mila from loving Magnani so fervently that she was always on the point of confessing her love in spite of herself; but a week had passed since their first quarrel, and the modest and timid Magnani had not as yet succeeded in extorting that confession.

He would have obtained that victory a little later doubtless, perhaps on the very next day; but an unforeseen event brought confusion into Mila's existence and gravely compromised the welfare of all the characters of this narrative.

One evening, as Michel was walking with his mother and the marquis in the garden of the villa, engaged all three in forming projects of mutual devotion and dreaming dreams of happiness, Fra Angelo joined them, and Michel concluded, from his strange expression and his excited manner, that he wished to speak to him in secret. They walked away from the others, as if by chance, and the Capuchin, taking from his breast a soiled and crumpled paper, handed it to Michel. It contained only these few words: "I am wounded and a prisoner; help, brother! Malacarne will tell you the rest. In twenty-four hours it will be too late."

Michel recognized the Piccinino's fine, nervous handwriting. The note was written in blood.

"I know all that has to be done," said the monk. "I received the letter six hours ago. Everything is ready. I came to say good-bye to you, for it may well be that I shall never return."

"I understand you, uncle; you relied upon my help," said Michel; "I am ready. Let me embrace my mother." "If you do that, she will see that you are going away and will detain you."

"No, but she will be anxious. I will not say good-bye to her: let us go. On the way we will think up some excuse for my absence, and send her a messenger."

"That would be very dangerous for her and for us. Leave it to me; it means five minutes delay, but it can't be helped."

"Carmelo is in hiding in our convent; his sentiments toward your highness and Michel are all that can be desired. He desires to make his peace with him before starting on a long journey necessitated by the Ninfo affair and the suspicious and rigorous measures of the police since it happened. He also has certain favors to ask at his brother's hands. Permit us to go away together therefore, and if we are watched, which is quite possible, I will keep Michel at the convent until he can safely return. Rely upon the prudence of a man who is well used to affairs of this sort. It may be that Michel will pass the night at the convent, and even if he should stay longer do not be alarmed, and above all things do not send for him; do not send us any message which might be intercepted and lead to the discovery that we are giving shelter and protection to the outlaw. I beg your highness to forgive me for being unable to say anything further to reassure you. Time presses!"

Although greatly alarmed, Agatha concealed her emotion, kissed Michel, and walked with them to the gate of the park; there she paused.

"You have no money with you," she said; "Carmelo may need some for his journey. I will go and fetch some."

"Women think of everything," said Fra Angelo; "I had forgotten the most essential thing of all."

Agatha returned with some gold and a blank draft bearing her signature, which Michel could fill up as he chose for his brother's use. Magnani had just arrived. He divined from the princess's agitation and the leave-taking between her and Michel, accompanied by encouraging words from the latter, that there was some real danger which they were concealing from that loving mother.

"On the contrary," was the reply, "you may be of the greatest service to us. Come!"

Agatha thanked Magnani with one of those glances laden with maternal love, which are more eloquent than any words.

"We are dreaming of imaginary dangers," he said with a laugh; "but if I were in any danger, my mother would be also. Your place is with her, my friend. I entrust to you what I hold dearest on earth! Is not this rather a solemn leave-taking for a walk to Bel Passo by moonlight?"

L

A NOCTURNAL JOURNEY

When they were a hundred yards from the park, Michel, who was ready to risk his own life, but not that of Mila's betrothed, in an affair in which he had no concern and no duty to his conscience or his family to fulfil, begged the young artisan to return to Catania. Fra Angelo thought differently. Fanatical in his friendships as in his patriotism, he looked upon Magnani as a providential ally. He was one stout and fearless champion more, and their party was so small! Magnani alone was worth three men; Heaven had sent him to their assistance, and they must make the most of his zeal and his devotion to the good cause.

As they walked rapidly along they maintained a hot discussion. Michel rebuked the monk for his pitiless proselytism under such circumstances; the monk rebuked Michel for rejecting the means while seeking the end. Magnani put an end to the dispute by his invincible determination.

"I understood perfectly well at the outset," he said, "that Michel was engaging in some affair of more serious importance than he chose to admit to his mother. I made up my mind at once. Some time ago I made Princess Agatha a sacred promise: that I would never leave her son to face alone any peril which I could share with him. I am keeping my promise, and whether Michel is willing or not, I shall follow him wherever he goes. I know of no other way to prevent me than to blow out my brains here. Choose whether you will put up with my company or kill me, Michel."

"All right! all right!" said the monk; "but stop talking, my sons. This is a thickly settled spot, and we mustn't talk as we pass the houses. Besides, we can't walk so fast when we are quarrelling. Ah! Magnani, you are a man!"

Magnani marched to meet danger with cold and melancholy courage. He did not feel perfectly happy in love; a craving for violent emotions drove him forward at random toward some extreme goal which appeared to him vaguely as an entire transformation of his present existence and a definitive rupture with the hesitations and languor of his heart.

Michel was determined rather than calm. He knew that he was being led by a fanatic to the succor of a man who was probably no less dangerous than useful to the good cause. He knew that he himself was staking a happier and broader existence than that of his companions; but he did not hesitate to play a manly part under the circumstances. The Piccinino was his brother, and although the sympathy he felt for him was blended with suspicion and sadness, he understood his duty. Perhaps too he had become enough of a prince to be unable to endure the thought that his father's son might die at the end of a rope, with a sentence of degradation nailed to his gallows. Still, his heart was sore when he thought of his mother's grief if he should fall in such a reckless undertaking; but he resolutely closed his heart to all human weakness, and walked like the wind, as if he had hoped to wipe out, by forgetting it, the distance that he made haste to put between Agatha and himself.

The convent was not under suspicion or surveillance, as the Piccinino was not there, and the police of the Val were well aware that he had crossed the Garreta and gone into hiding in the interior of the island. Fra Angelo had invented danger near at hand to prevent the princess from suspecting the existence of distant but more real dangers. He led his young companions into his cell and assisted them to disguise themselves as monks. They divided the money, the sinews of war, as Fra Angelo said, in order that no one of them might be impeded by the weight of all the coin. They concealed beneath their frocks weapons, powder and ball. Their disguise and their outfitting consumed some time; and Fra Angelo, whose former experience of dangerous undertakings had taught him the evils of precipitation, examined everything with great care and perfect self-possession. In truth their freedom of action depended entirely upon their external aspect. The Capuchin trimmed Magnani's beard, colored Michel's eyebrows and hands, changed the tint of their cheeks and their lips by processes learned in his former profession, and with pigments so prepared as to withstand the action of rain, perspiration, and the compulsory baths to which the police resort in vain attempts to identify their prisoners.

So far as he himself was concerned, the Capuchin took no pains to deceive the eye as to his identity. It mattered little to him whether he was captured and hanged, provided that he had first saved his former captain's son. And since, in order to succeed in their undertaking, it was necessary to travel in the guise of peaceably disposed persons, nothing could be better suited to the rôle he had assigned to himself than his genuine features and costume.

When the two young men were all equipped, they gazed at each other in amazement. They were hardly recognizable, and they realized how the Piccinino, who was much more expert than Fra Angelo in the art of disguise, had been able thus far to conceal his real identity throughout his adventurous life.

And when they found themselves astride two tall mules, gaunt but willing, of wretched aspect, but of unlimited strength and endurance, they admired the monk's genius and complimented him upon it.

"I have not done all these things so rapidly without assistance," he replied, modestly; "I have been energetically and skilfully seconded, for we are not alone in our expedition. We shall meet pilgrims of divers sorts on the road we are about to take. Salute most courteously, my sons, all those persons who salute you; but be careful not to speak a word to anybody until you have looked at me. If any unforeseen accident should separate us, you will find other guides and other companions. The countersign is: Friends, isn't this the road to Tre-Castagne? I need not tell you that it is the road that leads in the opposite direction, and that nobody but one of your confederates would ask you such an absurd question. You will answer, however, as a matter of prudence, and in a jesting tone: All roads lead to Rome. And you will not place absolute confidence in your interlocutor until he has answered: By the grace of God the Father. Don't forget; don't fall asleep on your mules; and don't spare them. We have relays on the road; not a word except in whispers to one another."

As soon as they were fairly on the mountains, they urged their mules forward at a rapid pace, and rode several miles in a very short time. As Fra Angelo had said, they met various persons with whom they exchanged the sentences agreed upon. Then the Capuchin would ride up to them and talk with them in undertones, and they would resume their journey in company, sufficiently far apart not to seem to be travelling together, but always within sight and call.

The weather was exceedingly mild and the night superbly bright when they started up the mountain. The moon lighted up huge masses of rock and romantic precipices; but as they ascended through that wild country the cold made itself felt, and the mist veiled the splendor of the stars. Magnani was lost in his thoughts, but the young prince abandoned himself to a childlike delight in adventures, and, far from nourishing and fondling any presentiment of evil, as his friend was doing, he rode forward overflowing with confidence in his lucky star.

As for the monk, he abstained from thinking of anything whatsoever unconnected with the enterprise he was directing. With watchful, penetrating eye, his ear on the alert for the faintest sound, he also watched closely every movement, every change of position on the part of his companions. At the slightest sign of relaxation of their hold upon the reins, at the slightest suspicious swaying of their hooded heads, he would have rescued them from the danger of dozing and falling from their mules.

After riding fifteen miles, they changed mounts at a sort of hermitage which seemed to be deserted, but where they were received in the darkness by pretended muleteers, of whom they inquired as to the road leading to the famous village of Tre-Castagne, and who answered, as they grasped their hands and held their stirrups, that all roads led to Rome. Fra Angelo distributed money, powder and bullets, which he carried in his mendicant's wallet, to all those persons whom he met and who were provided with that eloquent countersign; and, when they approached the end of their journey, Michel had counted a score or more of men, muleteers and peddlers, monks and peasants, who belonged to their party. There were even three in woman's dress,—young fellows whose beards had not yet grown nor their voices changed. They were very well made up, and played their parts to perfection. They were ready to serve as messengers or scouts at need.

The Piccinino's situation and the circumstances of his capture were as follows. The murder of Abbé Ninfo had been executed and proclaimed with an insane audacity altogether contrary to the young chief's habitual prudence. To kill a man, and to boast of it by an inscription left upon the very spot where the crime was committed, instead of concealing his body and removing every trace of the deed—a very simple matter in a region like that of Ætna—was certainly a desperate performance, a sort of challenge hurled at destiny in a moment of frantic excitement. But Carmelo, wishing not to shut himself out forever from his cherished retreat at Nicolosi, had left it in perfect order, in case of an investigation which should result in domiciliary visits. He had hastily stripped his luxurious boudoir and hidden all his treasures in an excavation under the house, of which it was almost impossible to find the entrance or to suspect the existence. And about sunrise he had shown himself in the village of Nicolosi, perfectly placid and in excellent spirits, thus laying a foundation for an alibi, if the police, taking for true the declaration written on the base of the Destatore's cross, should conceive suspicions of him and make inquiries as to what he was doing at that time. The murder of Abbé Ninfo had been committed at least two hours earlier.

Having taken these precautions, Carmelo had ridden through the village, making some purchases for a journey of several days, and informing his acquaintances that he was going to look at some farming lands in the interior of the island.

He had started for the Nebrodes mountains in the northern part of Sicily, having determined to pass some days with certain brigands affiliated to his own band, until the investigations and searching about Catania had probably come to an end. He knew the methods of the police of the province; they were zealous and fierce at first, then timid and knavish, and, finally, tired and slothful.

But the affair at the Destatore's cross had made a deeper impression on the ruling powers than an ordinary murder. This had a political bearing, and seemed to be related to the great sensation of the moment, Agatha's declaration and her son's appearance on the world's stage. Severe orders were sent out rapidly in all directions. Carmelo was not safe in the mountains, especially as his acolyte, the false Piccinino, had joined him, and thus drew upon him all the danger of pursuit. Carmelo did not choose to abandon that savage, bloodthirsty man, who had given him abundant proofs of boundless devotion and blind submission, and who continued to play his part to the end with proud and unwearying courage.

He determined, therefore, to arrange for his escape before providing for his own safety. The false Piccinino, whose real name was Massari, and who was called Verbum Caro because he was a native of the village of that name, was endowed with a brute courage that nothing could daunt, but was as stupid as a buffalo in a frenzy. Carmelo went to the seashore with him, and tried to find a boat to take him to Sardinia. But, despite the precautions with which he surrounded that step, the owner of the boat betrayed them as smugglers to the revenue officers on the coast. Verbum Caro fought like a lion, and was half dead when he finally fell into the hands of his enemies. Carmelo was slightly wounded, and both were taken to the nearest fort, to be turned over to a squad of campieri, in which were two men who recognized the false Piccinino from having seen him during a skirmish at another part of the island. They so testified before the magistrate at Cefalù, and there was great rejoicing because the famous chief of the dreaded band was in custody. The real Piccinino was supposed to be one of his confederates, although Verbum Caro insisted that he had known him only three days, and that he was a young fisherman who proposed going to Sardinia with him as he had business there.

Carmelo replied to the questions that were asked him with a presence of mind and a talent for deception which would have secured his release at any other moment; but the country was intensely excited; so they decided to send him to Catania with his dangerous companion, for further proceedings, and they were placed in charge of the campieri, who decided to take them to Catania by the road leading through the mountains to the centre of the island, deeming it the safer way.

But they were attacked in the outskirts of Sperlinga by a few brigands who had already learned of the arrest of the two Piccininos; but, just as the prisoners were about to be set free, an unexpected reinforcement came to the aid of the campieri and put the brigands to flight. It was during this action that the Piccinino was adroit enough to throw among the assailants a paper wrapped around a stone, which he had in his hand ready for the first opportunity. Malacarne, whom he had recognized among his would-be rescuers, was an active, intelligent man, a former member of his father's band and a loyal friend to Fra Angelo. He had picked up the note and carried it to its address with valuable additional information.

In the fear, well-founded as we have seen, of an attack in the Nebrodes mountains and an attempted rescue of the Piccinino, the authorities at Cefalù had tried to conceal the importance of this capture, and the escort of the prisoners made no display when they set forth. But the same authorities had despatched an express to Catania to ask that a detachment of Swiss troops be sent to Sperlinga to meet the escort, and to say that they would halt there and wait for them. The brigands of the mountain, who were on the alert, had waylaid and killed the messenger; and, having ascertained beyond question, by reading his despatches, that the prisoner was their leader, they had tried, as we have seen, to rescue him from the hands of his escort.

The ill success of this attempt did not discourage them. Carmelo was the soul of their lives. His shrewd leadership, his activity, the spirit of justice, now savage, now chivalrous in its manifestations, which governed his decisions with respect to them, and the immense prestige attached to his name and his person, made him no less sacred than necessary to them. It was the unanimous opinion among them, and among a great number of mountaineers, who, while they did not know him and were not immediately under his orders, were very glad to exchange favors with him and his troop, that when the Piccinino was dead, the bandit's profession would become impossible, and that there would be no other resource for the heroes of the mountain than to become beggars.

So Malacarne assembled a few of his comrades near Sperlinga, and succeeded in sending word to the two Piccininos that they must represent themselves as being very ill, in order to remain there as long as possible. It was by no means difficult to act upon the suggestion, for Verbum Caro was dangerously wounded, and in the desperate efforts he had made to burst his bonds during the engagement on the mountain, he had reopened his wound and lost so much blood that they had had to carry him to Sperlinga. Moreover, the campieri knew that it was of the utmost importance to take him to Catania alive, so that they might try to extort from him some information concerning Ninfo's murder and the whereabouts of his band.

As soon as Malacarne had made his arrangements, he bade his comrades, who were as yet only eight in number, to be ready for action, mounted the murdered messenger's horse, after clipping him so as to make him unrecognizable, and rode across the country in a straight line to Bel Passo, notifying all those persons upon whom he could rely, to take arms and await his return. Seconded by Fra Angelo, he passed six hours on Ætna, collecting other brigands, and at last, on the second night after the arrival of the prisoners at Sperlinga, a score or more of determined men, trained to daring enterprises of this sort, encamped at the foot of the cliff on which it stands.

Fra Angelo, the young Prince of Castro-Reale, and the faithful Magnani also arrived, to direct the expedition, the first as leader, for he knew the country generally and the particular locality better than anyone, having once before carried the paltry stronghold by assault under the Destatore, in better days; the other two as lieutenants, young noblemen of the patriotic party, forced to conceal their identity, but rich and powerful. So said Fra Angelo, who knew well that both poetry and prose are essential to stimulate men who are fighting against the laws.

When Fra Angelo and his friends left their mules, to plunge in among the steep cliffs of Sperlinga, they were able to count their men, and found that there were about twenty peasants posted here and there at some little distance—prudent auxiliaries who would come to their assistance as soon as the chances of war seemed to favor them; revengeful and bloodthirsty men, who had suffered many and grievous wrongs which they longed to avenge upon their enemies, and who knew how to do justice speedily and pitilessly when there was not too great a risk to be run.

Nevertheless, a part of the band was beginning to show signs of demoralization when the monk arrived. The lieutenant of the campieri, who had charge of the prisoners, had sent to Castro-Giovanni during the day to request reinforcements, which were likely to arrive with the dawn. This officer was disturbed by the non-appearance of the Swiss, whom he was awaiting with great impatience. The spirit manifested by the surrounding population did not tend to allay his fears. Perhaps he had detected some signs of activity among the brigands in the mountain, and of their evident understanding with certain people in the village. However that may be, he was afraid—which fact the monk looked upon as a pledge of victory—and he issued orders for departure on the following day, preferring, he said to see a miserable wretch like the Piccinino die on the highroad, rather than expose brave troops to the risk of being murdered in a fortress without gates or walls.

Perhaps the officer knew enough Latin to read, over the gateway of the ancient Norman castle in which he was intrenched, the famous motto which French tourists go thither to contemplate with love and gratitude:

Quod Sicilis placuit, Sperlinga sola negavit.[1] We know that Sperlinga was the only place which refused to surrender the Angevins at the time of the Sicilian Vespers. It is well enough for our compatriots to take pride therein; but it is certain that Sperlinga performed no act of patriotism; and that, if the officer of campieri looked upon the then government as existing in compliance with the popular desire of Sicily, he must have seen, in the negavit of Sperlinga, a constant threat which might well arouse a superstitious terror in his mind.[2]

The reinforcements from Castro-Giovanni were expected at any moment. The assailants would find themselves between two fires. The imaginations of some pictured the arrival of the Swiss also, and the Swiss soldier is the terror of the Sicilians. Hardened and implacable, those children of Helvetia, whose mercenary service under despotic governments is the shame of their fatherland, strike without distinction at everything they meet, and the campiere who hesitates to display less courage and ferocity than they, is the first to fall under their bullets.

Thus there was fear on both sides; but Fra Angelo triumphed over the hesitation of the brigands by a few words of rough eloquence and unparalleled temerity. After vehemently rebuking those who talked of waiting, he declared that he and his two princes would go alone to meet their death under the walls of the fort, so that it might be said throughout all Sicily: "Two patricians and a monk alone tried to effect the rescue of the Piccinino. The children of the mountain looked on and did not stir. Tyranny triumphs, the people of Sicily have become dastards!"

Malacarne seconded him, declaring that he too would go and be shot down. "And then," he said, "you can hunt up a leader and do what you choose." There was no further hesitation, and such men know no middle course between discouragement and unbridled frenzy. Fra Angelo had no sooner seen them start forward than he exclaimed: "The Piccinino is saved!" Michel was amazed that he could place so much confidence in courage that was so weak-kneed a moment before; but he soon found out that the Capuchin knew them better than he did.

LI

CATASTROPHE

The fortress of Sperlinga, formerly considered impregnable, was at this time nothing more than a majestic ruin, incapable of being defended. The town, or more properly the hamlet, below it, was inhabited by a few wretched creatures wasted by fever and poverty. Fortress and village were perched upon a cliff of grayish sandstone, and the upper works of the fortress were hollowed out of the rock.

The besiegers climbed the cliff on the side farthest from the village. It seemed inaccessible; but the brigands were so well used to assaults of that sort that they were very soon under the walls of the fort. Half of them, under Malacarne, climbed still higher, and posted themselves in an abandoned bastion on the highest point of the mountain. This crenelated bastion afforded a safe position from which to fire down almost perpendicularly upon the castle. It was agreed that Fra Angelo and his men should station themselves at the entrance to the fortress, where there was only a huge, worm-eaten, disjointed gate, which it was not considered necessary to destroy, as that operation might take sufficient time to give the garrison an opportunity to organize an effective resistance. Malacarne's party was to fire on the castle from above, while Fra Angelo held himself in readiness to fall upon those who should come out. Then he would pretend to retreat, and, while they pursued him, Malacarne would come down, attack the enemy in the rear, and place him between two fires.

The little garrison temporarily quartered in the castle consisted of about thirty men, a larger number than the assailants anticipated, the reinforcements from Castro-Giovanni having arrived secretly at nightfall and climbed up the road, or rather the staircase, from the village, unseen by the bandits who were busily occupied in making their preparations and taking great pains to keep out of sight. That part of the escort which had kept watch throughout the preceding night was sleeping, wrapped in their cloaks, on the floors of the great dismantled halls. The late arrivals had lighted an enormous fire of fir branches in the courtyard, and were playing mora to keep awake.

The prisoners occupied the great square tower: Verbum Caro, exhausted and gasping for breath, stretched on a pile of rushes; the Piccinino, gloomy but calm, sitting on a stone bench, much wider awake than his keepers. He had heard a little bird whistling in the ravine, and had recognized that designedly inaccurate melody as a signal from Malacarne. He was patiently rubbing against a projecting stone the cord with which his hands were bound.

The officer in command of the campieri was seated on the only chair in an adjoining room, with his elbows resting on the only table in the castle, which he had obtained by requisitioning it in the village. He was an energetic, surly young man, accustomed to keep his temper at the boiling point by the constant use of wine and tobacco, having to fight against a lingering remnant of love for his country and hatred of the Swiss. He had not slept an hour since the Piccinino was placed in his custody, so that he was literally falling under the assaults of drowsiness. The lighted cigar which he held in his hand burned the ends of his fingers from time to time. Then he would rouse himself with a start, puff at his cigar, look out through a great crack in the wall in front of him to see if there were any signs of dawn, and, feeling acutely the sharpness of the air on that elevated spot, would wrap his cloak about him with a shudder, cursing the false Piccinino, who was breathing stertorously in the adjoining room, and in a moment would let his head fall forward on the table once more.

A sentinel was on guard at each end of the castle, but, whether because of fatigue or of the heedlessness that takes possession of the most disturbed mind when a dangerous situation is nearing its end, they had not detected the swift and silent approach of the brigands. A third sentinel was on duty at the isolated bastion which Malacarne was about to seize, and that circumstance came very near causing the failure of the whole plan of attack.

As he was climbing through a breach, Malacarne saw the man sitting under his feet, almost between his legs. He had not anticipated that obstacle, and he had neither his dagger nor his pistol in his hand. An opportune dagger thrust cuts a man's life short without giving him time to cry out. The pistol shot is less certain, nor did Malacarne wish to fire until all his men were posted so that they could pour a deadly volley into the fort. Meanwhile the sentinel would surely give the alarm, even if the bandit should retreat, for his footing was precarious, and the stones, uncemented, were beginning to crumble all about him. The campiere was not asleep. He was paralyzed with cold, and had pulled his cloak over his head as a protection against the piercing wind which stiffened his limbs.

But while this precaution deadened the sound of the wind and made it easier for him to hear sounds in the distance, it prevented him from hearing any noise at his side, and the hood which he had pulled over his eyes had made him blind for the last quarter of an hour. However, he was a brave soldier, incapable of sleeping at his post. But there is nothing more difficult than to keep a sharp lookout. An active and alert mind is necessary for that, and the campiere's mind was wholly devoid of thought. He fancied that he was watching because he was not moving. And yet the mere falling of a pebble at his feet would have caused him to fire his gun. He had his finger on the trigger.

Inspired by his desperate situation, Malacarne grasped the unfortunate sentinel's throat in his iron hands, rolled down into the bastion with him, and held him thus, unable to utter a sound, until one of his comrades stabbed him in his arms.

In another moment they were crouching behind the battlements, protected from the fire of the enemy. The fire blazing in the courtyard enabled them to see the campieri unsuspectingly intent on their game, and they took plenty of time to aim. The weapons were hurriedly reloaded while the besieged were seeking theirs; but before they had thought of using them—before they had discovered from what direction they were attacked—a second volley was poured in upon them, and several were severely wounded. Two did not rise again; a third fell head-foremost into the fire, and was burned to death for lack of help.

From the tower the officer had seen where the attack had come from. He rushed out, roaring with rage. He did not arrive in time to prevent his men from wasting a volley on the wall.

"Stupid dolts!" he cried, "you waste your ammunition firing at random! You have lost your wits! Leave the fort! Leave the fort! We must fight outside!"

But he discovered that he himself had lost his wits, for he had left his sword on the table on which he had fallen asleep. A flight of six steps separated him from the room. He ascended them at a single leap, for he knew that in a moment he would have to fight with cold steel.

But, during the fusillade, the Piccinino had succeeded in breaking his bonds, and had taken advantage of the tumult to break down the ill-secured door of his prison. He had pounced on the lieutenant's sword and extinguished the pitch-pine torch that was stuck in a crack of the table. When the officer returned, and was feeling about in the darkness for his weapon, he received a terrific cut across the face, and fell backward. Carmelo rushed upon him and finished him. Then he cut Verbum Caro's bonds and handed him the lieutenant's sword, saying: "Do what you can!"

The false Piccinino forgot in an instant his weakness and his suffering. He dragged himself on his knees to the door, and there he succeeded in rising and standing on his feet. But the real Piccinino, seeing that he could not walk except by clinging to the walls, threw the officer's cloak over him, put the military cap on his head, and told him to go out at his leisure. Thereupon he himself went down into the deserted courtyard, took the cloak from one of the campieri who had been killed, disguised himself as best he could, and, always faithful to his comrade, took him by the arm and led him toward the gateway of the fort.

Everybody had gone out except the two men who had been left behind to prevent the prisoners from escaping in the confusion, and who were returning to guard the tower. The fire in the courtyard was dying out, and gave only a feeble light.

"The lieutenant is wounded!" cried one of them, as he saw Verbum Caro leaning on Carmelo, who was himself disguised.

Verbum Caro did not reply, but motioned to them to go on and guard the tower. Then he went out as rapidly as he could, with his chief, whom he implored to fly without him, but who refused to abandon him under any consideration.

If this was generous conduct on the Piccinino's part, it was no less judicious; for, by giving his men such proofs of affection, he made sure of their loyalty forever. The false Piccinino might have been recaptured the next moment; but if he had been, no amount of torture could have made him admit that his companion was the real Piccinino.

They were already fighting on the narrow platform in front of the castle, and the brigands commanded by Fra Angelo pretended to give way. But the campieri, deprived of their leader, did not act together or in good order. When Malacarne's detachment, rushing down from the bastion like a thunderbolt, took possession of the gateway and showed them that retreat was impossible, they felt that they were lost, and halted as if dazed by terror. At that moment Fra Angelo, Michel, Magnani and their men turned upon them and pressed them so close that their plight seemed desperate indeed. Thereupon the campieri, knowing that the brigands gave no quarter, fought with the frenzy of despair. Crowded between two walls, they had the advantage of position over the brigands, who were obliged to avoid the precipice behind them. Moreover, Malacarne's band had been struck with dismay.

As the two Piccininos crossed the drawbridge, the brigands, deceived by their disguise, had fired on them. Verbum Caro was not touched, but Carmelo, struck by a bullet in the shoulder, had fallen. Malacarne had rushed at him to finish him, but, on recognizing his chief, had fairly roared with grief, and his men, crowding about him, no longer thought of fighting.

For a few moments Fra Angelo and Michel, who were fighting in the front rank, hand-to-hand with the campieri, were in grave danger. Magnani was even farther to the front; he tried to turn aside all the blows aimed at Michel, for they had no time to reload their weapons and were fighting with swords and knives, and the noble-hearted Magnani sought to make his body a rampart to protect Agatha's son.

Suddenly Michel, who was constantly pushing him aside and begging him to think of his own safety, missed him from his side. Michel thereupon attacked the enemy fiercely. The first horror of bloodshed having passed away, he was urged onward by a strange and terrifying nervous excitement. He was not wounded. Fra Angelo, who had a superstitious faith in the grandeur of the young prince's destiny, had prophesied that he would not be. But if he had been wounded twenty times over, he would not have been conscious of it, his vital forces were so concentrated in his brain. He was, as it were, intoxicated by danger, and excited to frenzy by the battle. It was a ghastly but intense pleasure; the blood of Castro-Reale awoke and began to boil fiercely in the veins of the lion's whelp. When the victory was won, and they were able to join forces with Malacarne, walking over dead bodies, it seemed to Michel that the contest had been too short and too easily decided. And yet it had been so desperate that almost every man among the victors was more or less severely wounded. The campieri had sold their lives dearly, and if Malacarne had not recovered his energy when he saw that the Piccinino was reviving and was able to fight, Fra Angelo's band would have been forced back into the yawning ravine behind them.

The dull gray dawn was beginning to whiten the misty peaks on the horizon when the assailants entered the conquered fortress. They had to pass through it in order to retire into the mountains unseen by the inhabitants of the village, who had left their horses and were timidly climbing their steep rocky street to ascertain the result of the engagement. Their anxious eyes could hardly distinguish the moving mass of the combatants, lighted only by the flashing of their fire-arms. While they were fighting hand-to-hand the pale-faced citizens of Sperlinga stood frozen with terror, listening to the shouts and imprecations of that incomprehensible struggle. They had no inclination to assist the garrison, and most of them longed for the success of the brigands. But the dread of reprisals restrained them from going to their aid. At daybreak they could be seen, almost naked, standing in groups here and there like trembling ghosts, manifesting an ill-defined purpose to go to the assistance of the victors.

Fra Angelo and the Piccinino had no idea of waiting for them. They rushed hurriedly into the fortress, each brigand dragging a body to give it the coup de grace. They collected their wounded, and disfigured those of their own number who were dead. But this ghastly scene, which acted upon Verbum Caro like a tonic, disgusted the Piccinino beyond measure. He instantly ordered his men to disperse, and to return to their homes or places of refuge as speedily as possible. Then he took Fra Angelo's arm, and entrusting Verbum Caro to the care of Malacarne and his party, tried to induce the monk to fly with him.

But Fra Angelo was in a terrible state of anxiety concerning Michel and Magnani, and went about from one to another, without mentioning any names, asking for the two young monks who had accompanied him. He was not willing to leave the place until he had found them, and his desperate persistence threatened to expose him to grave danger.

"There are your companions," he said to the monk, leading him in that direction. "They have gone ahead; and I can well imagine that they fled from the sickening spectacle of our victory. But their delicacy doesn't interfere with their being gallant fellows. Who are they, pray? I saw them fighting like lions. They wear the dress of your order; but I cannot understand how two such heroes can have been living in your convent and I not know them."

Fra Angelo did not reply; with his bloodshot eyes he was trying to make out the two monks. He recognized the frocks he had given Michel and Magnani, but he could not understand their inaction, and the indifference with which they held themselves aloof from the others. One of them seemed to be seated, the other kneeling by his side. Fra Angelo hurried down into the ravine so eagerly and recklessly that again and again he nearly fell over the precipice.

The Piccinino, who was severely wounded, but strong of will and stoical in his suffering, followed him, careless of his own safety, and they soon reached the foot of the precipice, a spot shut in on all sides, and terribly solitary, with a mountain torrent flowing at their feet. As they had been compelled to make a detour about several steep cliffs, they had lost sight of the two monks, and the darkness that still prevailed in the depths of the gorge made it difficult for them to find their way.

They dared not call; but at last they discovered the men they were seeking. One was sitting on the ground, supported by the arms of the other. Fra Angelo rushed forward and pushed back the hood that first met his hand. He saw Magnani's handsome face, darkened by the shadow of death; his blood was pouring out upon the ground; Michel was drenched with it and felt that his strength was giving way, although he had no other wound than that caused by his intense and intolerable sorrow at his inability to help his friend, and at the feeling that he was dying in his arms.

Fra Angelo tried to assist the noble-hearted artisan, but Magnani gently put away the hand with which he would have touched his wound.

"Let me die in peace, padre," he said, in a voice so faint that the monk was obliged to put his ear to the dying man's lips to hear what he said. "I am happy that I am able to bid you good-bye. You will tell Michel's mother and sister that I died defending him; but do not let Michel know it! He will take care of my family, and you will console them. We won the victory, did we not," he said to the Piccinino, glancing at him with a lifeless eye and not recognizing him.

"O Mila!" exclaimed the Piccinino involuntarily, "you would have been a brave man's wife!"

"Where are you, Michel? I cannot see you any more," said Magnani, feeling for his friend with trembling hands. "We are safe here, aren't we? at the gates of Catania, of course? You will soon embrace your mother! Ah! yes, I hear the murmur of the naiad; the sound revives me; the water flows into my wound—cold as ice, but very soothing."

"Live to see my mother and sister!" cried Michel. "Ah! you shall live, we will never part!"

"Alas! I know what that smile means," said the Piccinino in an undertone, examining Magnani's blue distorted lips; "do not let him talk any more."

"But I am perfectly well!" exclaimed Magnani in a loud voice, putting out his arms. "I do not feel ill at all. Let us go, my friends!"

He struggled to his feet with a convulsive movement, stood for an instant swaying to and fro, then fell dead on the moist sand on the edge of the stream.

Michel was utterly overwhelmed. Fra Angelo did not lose his presence of mind, although from his breast, heaving with violent sobs, there issued hoarse, heartrending groans. He lifted an enormous stone at the entrance to one of the innumerable caves hollowed out of the sandstone long before, to obtain material for building the fortress; he carefully covered Magnani's body with the ample folds of the frock he wore, and, having thus provided a temporary shroud, closed the cave once more with the stone and left the body there.

Then he took Michel's arm, and walked with him and the Piccinino to a more extensive excavation a hundred yards away, which was occupied as a dwelling by a wretchedly destitute family. In the man who joined them there a few moments later, Michel might have recognized one of the peasants who were on friendly terms with the brigands, but Michel knew nothing of what was going on, and recognized nobody.

The peasant assisted the monk to dress the Piccinino's wound, which was deep and beginning to cause him much pain, so much that it required all his strength of will to conceal it.

Fra Angelo was a better surgeon than most of his countrymen who held diplomas. He performed a painful but rapid operation on the Piccinino, and extracted the bullet. The patient did not utter a groan, and Michel did not recover consciousness of his surroundings until he saw him turn pale and grind his teeth.

"Would to God that I had died instead of your friend!" Carmelo replied, in an outburst of fierce anger with himself. "I should no longer suffer, and I should be mourned; whereas now I shall suffer all my life and nobody will mourn for me!"

"Is this your gratitude for your brother's self-sacrificing devotion, my friend?" said the monk, throwing the bullet on the ground.

"Brother," rejoined the Piccinino, putting Michel's hand to his lips, "you did not do it from affection for me, I know; you did it for your own honor. But you are revenged for my hatred; for you continue to hate me, and I am doomed to love you!"

Two tears rolled down the brigand's pale cheeks. Were they a manifestation of genuine emotion, or were they caused by the nervous reaction that follows the violent strain of physical suffering? Doubtless they were due in some measure to both causes.

The peasant suggested a strange remedy, which Fra Angelo accepted with great eagerness: the application of a bituminous ooze which was found at the bottom of a spring of brackish water heavily charged with sulphur. The country people collect it and keep it in earthen jars to use in making poultices; it is their panacea. Fra Angelo made a poultice of it and placed it on the brigand's wound; then, having washed him and covered him with some wretched clothes which they bought from the peasant; having also washed off the blood with which Michel and himself were covered, he gave his companions a few swallows of wine, placed Carmelo on their host's mule, gave the man a round sum in gold, to prove to him that there were advantages in serving the good cause, and left him, having first made him swear that he would go the following night and get Magnani's body, and bury it with as much respect as if it were his own son's.

"My own son!" said the peasant in a hollow voice: "do you mean the one the Swiss killed last year?"

This question gave Michel more confidence in the man than any promises or oaths could have done. He looked at him for the first time, and noticed an expression of extraordinary vigor and fanatical enthusiasm on that wasted, earth-colored face. He was more than a brigand, he was a wolf, a vulture, always ready to fall upon a bleeding quarry, to tear it to pieces and glut his rage in its entrails. One could see that his whole life would be too short to avenge his son's death. He did not suggest to his guests that he should guide them in their flight. He was in haste to have done with his duty to them, so that he could go up to the castle to see if any campiere were still breathing and to insult him in his death agony.

LII

CONCLUSION

The three fugitives occupied twice the time in returning to Catania that it had taken them to go to Sperlinga. The Piccinino could not travel long without falling forward on his mule's neck, prostrated by fever. Then they would halt in some cave or deserted ruin, and the monk was obliged to give him wine to drink to keep up his strength, although he realized that it increased the fever.

They had to follow steep and difficult roads, or rather to avoid every sort of road, in order not to expose themselves to the risk of inopportune encounters. Fra Angelo expected to find, halfway to Catania, a poor family upon whom he could rely as upon himself, to shelter his patient and nurse him; but he found only a deserted house, already half in ruins. Poverty had driven the poor creatures from their home. They could not pay the tax assessed on the house. Perhaps they were in prison.

It was a serious disappointment to the monk and his companion. They had purposely kept at a distance from the region overrun by the brigands, because the absence of danger made the police less active in the southern part of the island. But when they found the only place of refuge upon which they could rely in that part of the mountains entirely deserted, they were really alarmed. In vain did the Piccinino urge the monk and Michel to leave him to his fate, declaring that, as soon as he was alone, necessity would endow him with superhuman strength. They refused, as the reader will imagine, and, having discussed all possible expedients, they decided upon the safest and most certain of all, although it seemed the boldest; it was to take Carmelo to the Palmarosa palace and keep him in hiding there until he was in a condition to fly. The princess would simply have to treat certain persons with the faintest suggestion of deference to avert any possible suspicion of her conduct; and in such an emergency, when Michel might be suspected of having assisted in the rescue of the Piccinino, she would not hesitate to deceive the court party as to her political sentiments.

This idea of the monk's would have been most repellent to Michel a few days earlier; but each succeeding event made him more and more of a Sicilian, by impressing upon him more strongly the necessity of cunning. So he acquiesced, and they had nothing further to do except to smuggle the wounded man into the palace unseen. That was the only important point, for the seclusion in which Agatha lived, the small number and blind devotion of her servants, the fidelity and prudence of her maid Nunziata, who alone was allowed to enter certain rooms in the Casino, to say nothing of a thousand other details of the princess's mysterious existence, made that place of refuge as secure as could be desired. Moreover, there was the Serra palace a few steps away, to which the patient could be transported in case the Villa Palmarosa should become untenable. It was decided that Michel should go ahead and steal into the villa at nightfall; that he should warn his mother of the wounded man's arrival, and assist her to make the necessary arrangements to receive him and to admit him secretly a few hours later.

Agatha was in a state of anxiety impossible to describe when Nunziata told her that some one was waiting for her in her oratory. She hastened thither, and, catching sight of a monk's frock, nearly fainted, for she thought that one of the brethren of Bel Passo had come to bring some fatal news. But well disguised as Michel was, the mother's eye was not deceived for long, and she embraced him passionately, bursting into tears.

Michel said nothing of the dangers to which he had been exposed; she would divine them soon enough when the news of the Piccinino's rescue should spread through the country. He simply told her that he had been to a wild, out-of-the-way spot in the mountains, where his brother lay helpless and dying; that he had brought him to her to place him in her care; and that his new hiding-place must be made ready for him.

In the middle of the night the wounded man arrived unhindered; but he did not climb the stairs in the lava with the same haughty bearing as on the last occasion. His strength was failing more and more. Fra Angelo was obliged to carry him from the first stair to the last. He hardly recognized Agatha, and for several days he hovered between life and death.

Mila's anxiety was temporarily allayed when Michel told her that Magnani had gone to Palermo to do him a service. But many days passed, and, as Magnani did not return, his family was surprised and alarmed. Michel pretended that he had had news. He had gone to Rome, still in his service, and, later, he said that the important and secret business which the Palmarosa family had entrusted to the young artisan required him to go to Milan, Venice, Vienna—where you please. They kept him travelling for several years, and, to allay the anxiety and grief of his parents, read to them—for they did not know how to read—passages from pretended letters, and gave them large sums of money which he was supposed to send them.

The Magnani family grew rich, and marvelled at poor Antonio's good fortune. They lived in sadness and hope. His old mother died, sorely afflicted to have had no opportunity to embrace him, but bidding Michel send him her blessing.

As for Mila, it would have been more difficult to deceive her, had not the princess, in order to spare her a much greater sorrow, suggested a catastrophe to which she could more readily become reconciled. She hinted more and more definitely, and, finally, told her outright that Magnani, torn between his former passion and his new love for her, had feared that he could not make her happy, and so had gone away, resolved not to return until he was completely cured of the past.

Mila looked upon this as a noble and honorable proceeding; but she was piqued to find that she had not been able, unaided, to efface the memory of so persistent a passion. She strove to cure herself, for she was told that her lover's cure was not certain, and her unbounded pride came to her aid. Magnani's prolonged absence made her stronger and braver day by day. When he was supposed to have gone to Rome, she was told that he could not triumph over the old affection, and that he renounced the new. Mila did not weep; she prayed, without a shade of bitterness, for the happiness of an ingrate, and gradually recovered her former serenity.

Michel suffered terribly, of course, when, as occasionally happened, he heard her slighting references to the absent one, who deserved to be enshrined forever in her memory. But he sacrificed everything to the peace of mind of his adopted sister. He went secretly, with Fra Angelo, to see his friend's grave. The peasant who had buried him conducted them to the cemetery of a convent near by. Worthy monks, patriots like most of the monks in Sicily, had borne the body thither by night, and had inscribed these words in Latin on a stone which served as his monument, among the white roses and flowering broom:

The Piccinino's convalescence was longer than they had anticipated. The wound healed quickly enough; but a nervous fever of some gravity detained him three months in Agatha's boudoir, which was transformed into his bedroom, and which was guarded with religious care.

A moral revolution was taking place in that headstrong and distrustful young man. Michel's and the princess's solicitude, the extreme delicacy of their consoling words, the innumerable joys of kindly treatment, which he had lost with his mother and had never hoped to find again in other hearts, gradually made an impression upon the pride and indifference in which he had encased himself, as in a coat of mail. He had always felt an ardent craving to be loved, although he was not himself capable of being moved so powerfully and persistently by affection as by hatred. At first he was, as it were, wounded and humiliated by being compelled to be grateful. But it happened that Agatha's heart, which had wrought a miracle upon Michel, did the same for Carmelo. Agatha, although outwardly cold and fastidious in her feelings, had such a vast and generous heart that she always ended by loving those whom she pitied. There were many times still when the patient's cold-blooded ideas horrified her; but pity gained the upper hand when she realized how unhappy he was made by that determination to harden his heart against everything. In his moments of physical suffering and of nervous excitement, the Piccinino, after vaunting and demonstrating his unerring keenness of vision in the matter of human affections, deplored that unhappy faculty with a bitterness which made a profound impression upon Agatha.

One evening, when she was talking about him with Michel, and he confessed that he had no sympathetic feeling for his brother, she said to him:

"Duty impels you to care for him, to incur danger for him, to overwhelm him with favors and consideration. Very good; one must love one's duty, and this brother of yours is a terrible trial. Duty would be easier if you could love him. Try, Michel; perhaps, if you succeed, that warlike heart of his will soften too, for he has the keen faculties of a sibyl. It may be that he feels that you do not love him, and so he continues cold to you. The instant that you have a feeling of sincere affection for him, even though you do not manifest it, he will divine it and perhaps will love you in his turn. I will try to set you the example. I will strive to persuade myself that he is my son—a very different son from you, Michel—and that his faults do not prevent my loving him."

Agatha kept her word, and Michel tried to second her. The Piccinino was conscious of a genuine interest in his mental suffering amid all the tender care bestowed upon his physical ills; he softened little by little, and one day put Agatha's hand to his lips for the first time, saying to her:

"You are good, like my mother. Oh! why am I not your son? Then I would love Michel, because the same womb would have borne us both. Men are really brothers only through the mother. She alone can make us understand what is called the voice of blood, the cry of nature."

Another day he said to Michel: "I do not love you, because you are my father's son. A man who mingled his pure blood with that of so many women of diverse ranks and natures, must have had an unstable, complicated character, lacking unity; so that his sons are as different from one another as day is from night. If I should ever love you, whom I already esteem and admire, it will be because you have a mother whom I love, and who, I sometimes persuade myself, is my mother too."

When the Piccinino was in condition to resume his adventurous life, which he had regretted so bitterly during the languorous days of his illness, he was suddenly appalled at the idea of putting an end to an existence which had become so sweet to him. He tried to assume a careless air, and refused the offers of a happier lot which Agatha and Michel made him; but it was evident that he was consumed by dismay and regret.

"My dear boy," said the marquis, "you should accept the means of increasing the scope and effectiveness of the mission to which you have devoted yourself. It has never occurred to us to introduce you in a puerile and cowardly way into the society which you despise and for which you are not adapted. But, without submitting to any constraint, without changing in any way your independent principles, you can make a veritable alliance, over the heads of established laws, with veritable humanity. Hitherto you have gone astray because you have forced yourself to hate your fellowmen. It is their false and mischievous institutions against which you protest. In the bottom of your heart, you love your fellows, for you suffer by reason of their aversion and your own isolation. So change your notion of your functions as justicier d'aventure. Hitherto your aversion has usurped that title, for you have used it only for your personal vengeance and for the gratification of your instincts. What you have lacked for playing a nobler part and serving our country more effectively is a larger stage and resources proportioned to your ambition. Your brother offers you these resources; he is ready to share his income with you; and such a division will make you more powerful for your chosen work, without binding you to society in any way. You could not, to be sure, become a noble and a landed proprietor without entering into engagements to be sanctioned by law; but, by accepting secretly, from brotherly affection, the strength which you must have, you will remain a stranger to the world we live in, while you will become capable of working to correct its vices. You will be able to leave this unhappy island, where your efforts are too cramped to have their due effect. You can seek elsewhere companions and neophytes, enter into relations with the enemies of the public misery, work for the cause of slaves everywhere, study the means of putting an end to slavery, and return to us with knowledge and reinforcements which will accomplish more in one year than expeditions against wretched campieri would do in your whole life. Your faculties place you far above the trade of brigand. Your penetration, your prudence, your varied and extensive knowledge—everything even to the beauty of your face and the charm of your speech—stamps you as a typical man of action, prudent as well as daring, adroit as well as fearless. Yes, you are a born conspirator. The hazard of birth started you upon that path, and your character fits you to cut a most brilliant figure therein. But there are great conspiracies which, even when they prove abortive in one part of the world, forward the cause of universal liberty: and there are paltry ones which come to an end on a scaffold, with the unknown hero who organizes them. If you fall to-morrow in an ambuscade, your band is scattered, and national independence breathes its last in your breast. But conspire in the bright sunlight of humanity, instead of lurking in the shadow of our precipices, and some day you may be the liberator of our brothers instead of the terror of our old women."

These words were at once harsh and flattering to the Piccinino's sensitive self-love. The criticism of his past life cut him to the quick, but the favorable judgment concerning his capacity for usefulness in the future healed the wound. He blushed, turned pale, reflected and understood. He was too intelligent to contend against the truth. Agatha and Michel affectionately took his hands, and begged him on their knees to accept half of a fortune the whole of which they owed to him. Tears of pride, hope, joy, and perhaps of gratitude as well, started from his glistening eyes, and he accepted.

We must not forget to say that another miracle had taken place, unknown to all, in that strange man's heart. Love, true love, had vanquished him. Mila had been his nurse, and Mila had chained the tiger. She was proud of it, with good reason, and she was naturally very proud. The love of Captain Piccinino relieved her in her own eyes from the blemish upon her pride due to Magnani's desertion. She was brave too. She felt that she was born for a more difficult and more brilliant destiny than spinning silk. Her heroic and poetic instincts were exceedingly well adapted to a life full of danger and excitement. Carmelo, who had expressed his regret at their first interview that she was not a boy, whom, like Lara, he could take for his page, changed his mind, saying to himself that the beauty of a woman and the brave heart of a heroine added immensely to the charm of the young comrade of whom he had dreamed.

He did not obtain Mila at once, however. She voluntarily made herself the pledge and reward of his docility in following the advice of the princess and the marquis. I fancy that the day for the redemption of the pledge will soon come, if it has not come already.—But here ends the novel, which might last much longer, if I chose; for I persist in saying that no novel can end.

THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS

INTRODUCTION

Novels are always works of the fancy to some extent, and some of the fanciful conceits of the imagination are like clouds that pass over our heads. Whence come the clouds, and whither do they go?

Walking through the forest of Fontainebleau one day, with my son, I dreamed about something very different from this book, which I wrote that same evening in a tavern, and forgot the next morning, to think only of flowers and butterflies. I could describe minutely all our walks and all our amusements, but it is impossible for me to say why my mind flitted to Venice that evening. I might look about for a good reason, but it is more honest to confess that I remember nothing about it. It was some fifteen or sixteen years ago.

The sailors of the Adriatic do not launch a new vessel until it is embellished with the image of the Virgin. May your name, written upon this page, O my dear and lovely friend, be like the effigy of the divine patron saint, which protects a fragile bark abandoned to the capricious waves.

FIRST PART

At the time of this story, Signor Lelio was no longer in the first bloom of youth; whether because his lungs, by dint of performing their duty with generous zeal, had developed in such a way as to distend the muscles of his chest, or because of the great care with which singers look after the preservation of the organ of melody, his body, which he jocosely called the casket of his voice, had acquired a reasonable degree of embonpoint. His leg, however, had retained all the elegance of its shape, and the habitual grace of all his movements made him still what the ladies, under the empire, called a beau cavalier.

But if Lelio was still able to fill the post of leading man on the boards of La Fenice and La Scala, without offending good taste or the probabilities; if his still beautiful voice and his great talent maintained him in the first rank of Italian artists; if his abundant locks, of a beautiful pearl-gray, and his great black eye, still full of fire, continued to attract the glances of the gentler sex, in salons as well as upon the stage, it is none the less true that Lelio was a prudent man, most reserved and grave on occasion. A fact that will seem strange to us is that, with all the charms which heaven had bestowed upon him, with the brilliant triumphs of his honorable career, he was not and had never been a libertine. He had, it was said, inspired great passions; but whether because he had never shared them, or because he had buried his romantic experiences in the oblivion of a generous conscience, no one could say what the result had been of any of those mysterious episodes in his life. The fact was that he had never compromised any woman. The wealthiest and most illustrious houses of Italy and Germany welcomed him cordially; he had never introduced scandal or discord into any one of them. Everywhere he enjoyed the reputation of a loyal, good-hearted man, whose virtue was beyond reproach.

To us artists, too, his friends and companions, he was the best and most lovable of men. But that serene cheerfulness, that kindly charm which characterized him in his intercourse with society, did not altogether conceal from us a background of melancholy and the existence of a secret sorrow of long standing. One evening, after supper, as we were smoking under our fragrant arbor at Sainte-Marguerite, Abbé Panorio talked to us of himself, and described the poetic impulses and heroic combats of his own heart with a touching candor worthy of all respect. Lelio, led on by his example and infected by the generally effusive spirit of the party, pressed also in some degree by the abbé's questions and Beppa's glances, confessed to us at last that his art was not the only noble passion he had known.

"Ed io anchè!" he exclaimed, with a sigh; "I too have loved, and fought, and triumphed!"

"Had you taken a vow of chastity, pray, as he had?" queried Beppa, with a smile, touching the abbé's arm with the end of her black fan.

"I never took any vow," replied Lelio; "but I have always been irresistibly guided by a natural feeling of justice and truth. I have never understood how one could be truly happy for a single day while compromising another person's future. I will tell you, if you please, the story of two periods of my life in which love played the leading rôle, and you will understand that it cost me a little something to be, I do not say a hero, but a man."

"That is a very solemn beginning," said Beppa, "and I fear that your story will resemble a French sonata! You require a musical introduction, so wait a moment! Does this key suit you?"

As she spoke she struck a chord or two on her lute, and played the first measures of an andante maestoso by Dusseck.

"That is not the thing," said Lelio, stifling the notes of the lute with Beppa's fan. "Play me rather one of those German waltzes in which Joy and Sorrow, in a voluptuous embrace, seem to turn slowly round and round, and to display in turn a pale tear-stained face and a radiant brow crowned with flowers."

"Very good!" said Beppa. "Meanwhile Cupid plays the kit, and marks time falsely, exactly like a master of the ballet; Joy impatiently stamps her foot to incite the torpid musician who restrains her impetuosity; Sorrow, utterly exhausted, turns her moist eyes upon the pitiless fiddler to urge him to slacken that incessant whirling about, and the audience, uncertain whether to laugh or cry, concludes to go to sleep."

And Beppa began the ritornello of a sentimental waltz, playing the measures fast and slow alternately, making the expression of her charming face, now glistening with joy, now doleful beyond words, conform to that ironical mode of execution, and putting forth in that musical mockery all the energy of her artistic patriotism.

"You are a narrow-minded creature!" said Lelio, passing his fingers over the strings, whose vibration died away in a shrill, ear-piercing wail.

"No German organ!" cried the fair Venetian, laughing heartily and abandoning the instrument to him.

"The artist's fatherland," said Lelio, "is the whole world, the great Bohemia, as we say. Per Dio! make war if you please on Austrian despotism, but let us respect the German waltz! Weber's waltzes, O my friends! Beethoven's waltzes and Schubert's! Oh! listen, listen to this poem, this drama, this scene of despair, of passion and delirious joy!"

As he spoke, the artist touched the chords of the lute, and began to sing with all the force of his voice and soul Beethoven's sublime Desire; then, abruptly breaking off and throwing the still vibrating instrument on the grass, he said:

"No song ever stirred my heart like that one. We may as well confess that our Italian music appeals only to the senses or to the over-heated imagination; that music speaks to the heart, to the most profound and most exquisite sentiments. I was once like you, Beppa. I resisted the power of German genius; for a long time I closed my bodily ears and the ears of my intelligence to these Northern melodies, which I neither could nor would understand. But the time has come when divine inspiration is no longer called upon to halt on the frontiers of states by reason of the color of its uniform or the pattern of its standards. There are in the air I know not what angels or sylphs, invisible messengers of progress, who bring us melody and poetic thoughts from all points of the compass. Let us not bury ourselves under our own ruins; but let our genius spread its wings and open its arms to espouse all the contemporaneous geniuses beyond the Alps."

"Listen to him! how he raves!" cried Beppa, wiping her lute which was already wet with dew; "and I took him for a reasonable man!"

"For a cold, perhaps a selfish man, eh, Beppa?" rejoined the artist with a melancholy air, as he sat down. "Well, I myself have at times believed that I was such a man; for I have done some reasonable things, and I have made some sacrifices to the demands of society. But when in the evening the bands of the Austrian regiments wake the echoes of our great squares and our placid canals, with airs from Der Freischutz and fragments of Beethoven's symphonies, then I find that I have tears in abundance, and that my sacrifices have been worth but little. A new sense seems to awake within me: the sadness of regret and a longing for reverie, elements which seldom enter into our southern character, find their way into my system through every pore, and I see clearly enough that our music is incomplete, and that the art which I serve is insufficient to express the impulses of my heart; that is why I am, as you see, disgusted with the stage, surfeited with the excitement of triumph, and in nowise desirous to win fresh applause by the old methods; I would like to plunge into a life full of new emotions, and find in the lyric drama an image of the drama of my whole life; but in that case I should perhaps become as gloomy and despondent as a Hamburger, and you would laugh at me without pity, Beppa! That must not be. Let us drink, my good friends! viva merry Italy and Venice the fair!"

He put his glass to his lips, then absent-mindedly replaced it on the table without swallowing a drop of wine. The abbé answered him with a sigh, Beppa pressed his hand, and after a few moments of melancholy silence, Lelio, being urged to fulfil his promise, began his narrative in these words:

I am, as you know, the son of a fisherman of Chioggia. Almost all the people along that shore have a well developed thorax and a powerful voice. Their voices would be beautiful if they did not ruin them early in life on their boats by trying to drown the roar of the sea and the wind, and by drinking and smoking beyond all reason, to avoid drowsiness and fatigue. We Chioggiotes are a fine race. It is said that a great French painter, Leopoldo Roberto, is even now engaged in commemorating our type of beauty in a picture which he allows nobody to see.

Although I am of a reasonably robust organization, as you see, my father, on comparing me with my brothers, deemed me so frail and sickly that he would not teach me either to cast the net or to sail a boat. He simply showed me how to handle the oar with both hands, to row a small boat, and sent me to Venice to earn my living as an assistant gondolier for hire. It was a great sorrow and humiliation to me, thus to go into bondage, to leave my father's house, the seashore and the honorable and perilous trade of my ancestors. But I had a fine voice, I knew a goodly number of fragments of Ariosto and Tasso. I had in me the making of an excellent gondolier, and with time and patience, I might earn fifty francs a month in the service of artists and strangers.

You do not know, Zorzi—at this point Lelio broke off his narrative and turned to me—you have no idea how rapidly the taste and appreciation of music and poetry develop among us common people. We had then and we still have—although the custom threatens to die out—our troubadours and poets, whom we call cupids; itinerant rhapsodists they are, and they bring us from the central provinces inaccurate notions of the mother-tongue, modified, I might more properly say enriched, by all the genius of the dialects of the north and south. Men of the people, like ourselves, endowed at once with memory and imaginative power, do not hesitate at all to blend their curious improvisations with the creations of the poets. Forever picking up and dropping as they pass some novel turn of phrase, they embellish their speech and the text of their authors with a most extraordinary confusion of idioms. We might say that they preserve the instability of the language in the frontier provinces and along the coast. In our ignorance we accept as decisive the decisions of this itinerant academy; and you have often had occasion to admire, sometimes the energy, sometimes the grotesqueness of the Italian of our ports as rendered by the singers of the lagoons.

On a Sunday at noon, after high mass, in the public square of Chioggia, or in the evening, in the wine-shops on the shore, these rhapsodists, by their recitations interspersed with bits of singing and declamation, hold spellbound large and enthusiastic audiences. Ordinarily the cupid stands on a table, and from time to time plays a prelude or a finale of his own composition on some sort of an instrument; one on the Calabrian bagpipe, another on the Bergamo viol, others on the violin, flute or guitar. The Chioggians, outwardly phlegmatic and cold, listen at first with an impassive and almost contemptuous air, smoking vigorously; but at the mighty lance-thrusts of Ariosto's heroes, at the death of the paladins, at the adventures of damsels delivered and giants run through, the audience is roused, takes fire, shouts and works itself into such a frenzy that glasses and pipes are shivered, tables and chairs smashed, and often the cupid, on the point of falling a victim to the excitement aroused by himself, is forced to fly, while the enthusiasts scatter through the fields, in pursuit of an imaginary ravisher, shouting: "Amazza! amazza! kill the monster! kill the rascal! death to the brigand! bravo, Astolphe! courage, my good fellow! forward! forward! kill! kill!"—And so the Chioggians, drunk with tobacco smoke, wine and poetry, rush aboard their boats and declaim to the waves and the winds scattered fragments of those soul-stirring epics.

I was the least noisy and the most attentive of these enthusiasts. As I was very regular in my attendance at the performances, and as I always went away silent and thoughtful, my parents concluded that I was a docile, simple-minded youth, desirous but incapable of learning the noble arts. They considered my voice pleasant to hear; but, as my tendency was toward purer accentuation and less frenzied declamation than the cupids and their imitators, they decreed that, as a singer no less than as a boatman, I was good for the city—thus reversing your French saying with respect to things of small value: good for the country.

I promised to tell you of two episodes only, not the whole story of my life. So I will not detail all the sufferings through which I passed before attaining the age of fifteen years and a very moderate degree of skill as a gondolier, having subsisted meanwhile on rice and water and blows of the oar across my shoulders. The only pleasure I had was in listening to the serenaders; and, when I had a moment's leisure, I would run after the musicians and follow them all over the city. That pleasure was so intense that, even if it did not prevent my sighing for my father's house, it would have prevented me from returning to it. However, my passion for music had reached the point of sympathetic enjoyment only, not of a personal inclination; for my voice was just changing and seemed to me so unpleasant when I ventured timidly to try it, that I looked forward to no other future than that of beating the water of the lagoons all my life, at the service of the first comer.

My master and I often occupied the traghetto, or gondola stand, on the Grand Canal in front of the Aldini Palace, near the image of Saint Zandegola—a patois contraction of San Giovanni Decollato. While we were waiting for customers, my master always slept, and it was my duty to watch and offer to passers-by the service of our oars. Those hours, which were often most uncomfortable in the scorching days of summer, were delightful to me under the walls of the Aldini palace, because of a superb female voice, accompanied by a harp, which I could hear distinctly. The window through which those divine sounds came forth was directly over my head, and the protruding balcony served me as a protection against the heat of the sun. That little nook was my Eden, and I never pass the place without a thrill at my heart as I remember those modest joys of my boyhood. A silk curtain shaded the square balcony of white marble, darkened by centuries and covered with convolvulus and climbing plants, carefully tended by the fair hostess of that palatial abode. For she was fair; I had caught a glimpse of her sometimes on the balcony, and I had heard other gondoliers say that she was the most amiable and most courted woman in Venice. I was then hardly sensible of her beauty, although in Venice men of the lower classes have eyes for women of the highest rank, and vice versa, so I am told. For my own part, I was all ears; and when she appeared my heart beat fast with joy, because her presence led me to hope that I might soon hear her sing.

I had also heard the gondoliers on that stand say that the instrument with which she accompanied herself was a harp, but their descriptions were so confused that it was impossible for me to form a clear idea of that instrument. Its tones enchanted me, and I was consumed with the longing to see it rather than her. I drew a fanciful picture of it in my mind, for I had been told that it was of pure gold and larger than I was, and my master Masino had seen one decorated with the bust of a beautiful woman who seemed about to fly away, for she had wings. So I saw the harp in my dreams, sometimes in the shape of a siren, sometimes in that of a bird; sometimes I fancied that I saw a beautiful boat decked out with flags pass by, its silk cordage giving forth melodious sounds. Once I dreamed that I found a harp among the reeds and the seaweed; but, just as I put them aside to seize it, I woke with a start and could never remember its shape distinctly.

My curiosity on this subject took such complete possession of my young brain that one day I yielded to a temptation I had conquered many times. While my master was at the wineshop, I climbed on the awning of my gondola, and thence to the sill of a window on the lower floor; then I grasped the balcony rail, drew myself up, climbed over it and found myself behind the curtain.

I had before me the interior of a sumptuously furnished cabinet; but the only object that struck my eye was the harp, standing silent amid the rest of the furniture, above which it towered proudly. The ray of sunlight which shone into the cabinet when I drew the curtain partly aside fell upon the gilding of the instrument, and made the beautiful carved swan that surmounted it gleam brightly. I stood motionless with admiration, never wearying of examining its slightest details, the graceful frame, which reminded me of the prow of a gondola, the slender chords, which seemed to be of spun gold, the gleaming copper, and the satin-lined wooden case, whereon were painted birds, flowers, and butterflies, richly colored and of an exquisite workmanship.

However, amid all those superb objects, the shape and uses of which were quite unfamiliar to me, my mind was still beset by doubt. Was I not mistaken? Was it really the harp that I was looking at? I determined to make sure of it; I entered the cabinet and placed an awkward, trembling hand on the strings. O rapture! they answered to my touch. Impelled by indescribable excitement, I made all those resonant voices speak, at random and in a sort of frenzy, and I do not believe that the most skilful and most skilfully led orchestra has ever, since that day, afforded me so much pleasure as the horrible confusion of sounds with which I filled Signora Aldini's apartment.

But my joy was not of long duration. A servant who was at work in the adjoining rooms ran to investigate the noise, and was so enraged to find that a little clodhopper in rags had stolen in that way and was abandoning himself to the love of art with such shocking disregard of the proprieties, that he set about expelling me by beating me out with his broom. I did not care to be dismissed in that way, and prudently retired to the balcony, intending to go away as I had come. But before I could climb over the balustrade, the servant pounced upon me, and I found myself confronted by the alternative of being beaten or turning a ridiculous somersault. I adopted a violent course, namely, to avoid the blow by stooping quickly, grasping my adversary by the legs, and thus throwing him forward with his breast against the balcony rail. Then to lift him up and throw him into the canal was the affair of a moment. That is the game that the children practise on one another at Chioggia. But I had no time to reflect that the balcony was twenty feet above the water, and that the poor devil of a footman might not know how to swim.

Luckily for him and for me he came to the surface at once and clung to the boats at the traghetto. I was horribly frightened when I tossed him over; but, as soon as I saw that he was safe, I began to think about making my escape; for he was roaring with rage and would surely set all the pack of servants in the Aldini Palace upon me. I passed through the first door I saw, and, hurrying through the corridors, was about to go downstairs, when I heard indistinct voices apparently coming toward me. I ran upstairs again in hot haste, and took refuge under the eaves, where I hid in a garret among old worm-eaten pictures and discarded furniture.

I remained there two days and two nights, without a mouthful of food, afraid to venture forth into the midst of my enemies. There were so many people and so much going and coming in that house that one could not take a step without meeting some one. Through the little round windows in the garret I heard the remarks of the servants in the corridors of the floor below. They talked about me almost continuously, indulged in a thousand conjectures concerning my disappearance, and promised to give me a sound thrashing if they succeeded in catching me. I also heard my master on his gondola expressing surprise at my absence, and exulting at the thought of my return, with no less kindly designs. I was brave and strong; but I realized that I should be overborne by numbers. The prospect of being beaten by my master troubled me but little; that was one of the hazards of being an apprentice, which involved no disgrace. But the idea of being chastised by servants was so horrifying to me that I preferred to die of hunger. And my adventure came very near ending in that way. At fifteen years one does not readily endure starvation diet. An old lady's-maid, who came to the garret in search of a runaway pigeon, found instead of her fugitive the poor barcarolino, unconscious and almost dead, at the foot of an old canvas representing a Saint Cecilia. The point that impressed me most profoundly in my distress was that the saint had in her arms a harp of antique shape, which I had abundance of leisure to contemplate amid the torments of hunger, and the sight of which became so hateful to me that for a long time thereafter I could not endure the sight or sound of that fatal instrument.

The good creature brought me back to life, and interested Signora Aldini in my fate. I speedily recovered from the effects of my fasting, and my persecutor, appeased by that expiation, accepted my acknowledgment of my wrong-doing, and my somewhat abrupt, but sincere expression of regret. My father, on learning from my master that I had disappeared, had come to Venice. He frowned when Signora Aldini expressed a purpose to take me into her service. He was a rough-mannered man, but proud and independent. In his view it was bad enough that my delicate constitution condemned me to live in the city. I was of too good a family to be a footman, and although gondoliers enjoyed important privileges in private establishments, there was a well-marked distinction in rank between public gondoliers and gondolieri di casa. These last were better dressed, to be sure, and shared the comforts of patrician life, but they were ranked as servants, and there was no such blemish in my family. However, Signora Aldini was so gracious and kindly that my excellent father, twisting his red cap about in his hands in his embarrassment, and constantly pulling his pipe from his pocket, as a matter of habit, could find nothing to reply to her affable words and her generous promises. He determined to leave me free to choose, expecting that I would refuse. But I, although I was utterly disgusted with the harp, could think of nothing but music. Signora Aldini exerted a magnetic influence over me which I cannot describe; it was a genuine passion, but an artistic passion, absolutely platonic and philharmonic. In the small room on the lower floor to which I had been taken—for I had several attacks of fever as a result of my fasting—I could hear her singing, and on those occasions she accompanied herself on the harpsichord, for she played equally well on several instruments. Intoxicated by her voice, I could not even understand my fathers scruples, and I accepted without hesitation the post of second gondolier at the Aldini palace.

It was good form in those days to be well equipped with gondoliers; that is to say, that, as the gondola in Venice corresponds to the carriage elsewhere, so gondoliers are at the same time luxuries and necessaries, like horses. All the gondolas being practically alike, according to the sumptuary law of the Republic, which required that they should all be draped in black, persons of wealth could make themselves noticeable among the multitude only by the figures and costumes of their oarsmen. The fashionable patrician's gondola would be propelled, at the stern, by a muscular man, of a masculine type of beauty; at the bow by a negro dressed in some unusual style, or by a fair-haired native, a sort of page or jockey, clad with taste and elegance, and placed there as an ornament, like the figure-head of a ship.

I was perfectly adapted to that honorable post. I was a genuine child of the lagoons, of fair complexion, ruddy-cheeked, very strong, with a somewhat feminine figure, my head and feet and hands being remarkably small, my chest broad and muscular, my arms and neck white and round and sinewy. Add to this, amber-colored hair, fine and abundant, and naturally curly; imagine a charming costume, half Figaro and half Cherubino, legs generally bare, sky-blue trunk hose kept up by a scarlet silk sash, and the breast covered simply by a shirt of embroidered linen, whiter than snow; then you will have an idea of the poor actor in embryo who was called in those days Nello, by contraction of his true name, Daniele Gemello.

As it is the fate of small dogs to be petted by idiotic masters and beaten by jealous servants, the ordinary lot of those in my position was a mixture of unbounded tolerance on the part of the former, and of brutal hatred on the part of the latter. Luckily for me, Providence cast my lines in a blessed spot: Bianca Aldini was the incarnation of kindness, indulgence, and charity. Widowed at twenty, she passed her life helping the poor and comforting the afflicted. Where there were tears to be wiped away, or alms to be bestowed, you would soon see her hurrying thither in her gondola, with her little four-year-old daughter in her lap; a fascinating miniature, so tiny, so pretty, and always so daintily dressed that it seemed as if her mother's lovely hands alone, in all the world, were soft and gentle and tapering enough to touch her without crushing or bruising her. Signora Aldini herself was always dressed with a taste and elegance which all the other ladies in Venice tried in vain to equal; she was immensely rich, loved luxury, and spent half of her income in the gratification of her artistic tastes and her patrician habits. The other half went in almsgiving, in favors bestowed, in benefactions of every sort. Although that was a sufficiently generous widow's mite, as she called it, she artlessly accused herself of lacking energy, of not doing all that she ought; and, being moved to repentance rather than pride by her charity, she determined every day that she would leave society and devote herself to her own salvation. From this mixture of feminine weakness and Christian virtue you can see that she had not a strong mind, and that her intelligence was no more enlightened than the period and the social circle in which she lived demanded. For all that, I do not know that a better or more delightful woman ever lived. Other women, jealous of her beauty, her wealth and her virtue, avenged themselves by declaring that she was narrow-minded and ignorant. There was some truth in that charge, but Bianca was a most lovable woman, none the less. She had a reserve stock of common sense which prevented her from ever being ridiculous; and as for her lack of education, the ingenuous modesty which resulted from it was an additional charm. I have seen the most enlightened and most serious-minded men gathered about her, never weary of conversing with her.

Living thus at church and at the theatre, in the poor man's garret and at sumptuous palaces, she imposed gratitude or cheerfulness upon one and all. Her disposition was even and playful, and the character of her beauty was enough to shed serenity all about her. She was of medium height, as white as milk, and fresh as a flower; all was gentleness and youth and kindliness. Just as one would have looked in vain for a sharp angle in her own graceful person, so there was never the slightest asperity in her temper, the slightest break in her goodness. As active as the true spirit of devotion, and at the same time as inert as Venetian indolence, she never passed more than two hours during the day in the same place; but in her palace she was always lying on a sofa, and out-of-doors she was always stretched out in her gondola. She said that she was weak on her legs, and she never went up or down stairs without being supported by two persons; in her own apartments she always leaned on the arm of Salomé, a young Jewess, who waited upon her and acted as her companion. People said that Signora Aldini was lame as a result of the fall of a piece of furniture which her husband had pushed upon her in a fit of anger, and which had broken her leg. Although for more than two years she leaned on my arm as she went in and out of her palace, I never discovered the exact truth of the matter, she took so much pains and exerted so much skill to conceal her infirmity.

Despite her benevolence and sweetness of disposition, Bianca lacked neither discrimination nor prudence in the choice of her associates; I can safely say that I have never seen in any other place so many excellent people together. If you detect in me any kindness of heart, any praiseworthy pride, you must attribute it to my stay in that house. It was impossible not to contract the habit there of thinking, speaking and acting rightly; the servants were honest and hard-working, the friends faithful and devoted; even the lovers—for I cannot deny that there were lovers—were loyal and honorable. I had several masters while I was there; of them all the signora was the least imperious. However, they were all kind, or at all events just. Salomé, who was the executive officer of the household, maintained order with some little severity; she seldom smiled, and the great arch of her eyebrows was rarely divided into two quarter circles over her long black eyes. But she had much patience, a keen sense of equity, and a searching glance which never misinterpreted sincerity. Mandola, the chief gondolier and my immediate superior, was a Lombard giant, whose huge black whiskers and muscular frame might have led one to take him for Polyphemus. Nevertheless he was the mildest, calmest and most humane peasant who ever came down from his mountains to the civilization of great cities. Lastly, Count Lanfranchi, the handsomest man in the whole Republic, whom we had to row about every evening in a closed gondola with Signora Aldini, from ten o'clock to midnight, was the most gracious and amiable nobleman whom I have ever met.

I never knew anything of the late Signor Aldini except a full-length portrait, at the entrance to the gallery, in a superb frame, which stood out a little from the wall, and seemed to command a long file of ancestors, each darker and more venerable than the last, who receded, in chronological order, into the obscure depths of that vast room. Torquato Aldini was dressed in the latest fashion of his time, with a shirt-frill of Flanders lace and a morning coat of apple-green cloth with bright red frogs. He was beautifully frizzled and powdered. But, despite the elegance of that pastoral undress, I could not look at him without lowering my eyes; for there was upon his yellowish-brown face, in his blazing black eye, on his sneering and disdainful mouth, in his impassive attitude, and even in the dictatorial gesture of his long, thin, diamond-laden hand, such an expression of overbearing arrogance and inflexible harshness as I had never met with under the roof of that palace. It was a beautiful portrait, and the portrait of a handsome young man. He died at twenty-five, from wounds received in a duel with a Foscari, who dared to say that he was of a better family. He had left behind him a great reputation for courage and decision of character, but it was whispered that he had made his wife very unhappy, and the servants did not seem to regret him. He had kept them in such a state of dread that they never passed that picture after dark, startlingly true to life as it was, without uncovering as they would have done before their former master in person.

His hardness of heart must have caused the signora much suffering, and have disgusted her with the married state, for she refused to enter into a new contract, and rejected the best partis in the Republic. And yet she evidently had a yearning for love, for she tolerated Count Lanfranchi's assiduous attentions and seemed to deny him none of the joys of marriage except the indissoluble oath. After a year, the count, abandoning all hope of inspiring in her the necessary confidence for such an engagement as he desired, sought fortune elsewhere, and confessed to her that a certain wealthy heiress gave him more reason to hope. The signora generously gave him his liberty at once. She seemed depressed and ill for a few days, but at the end of a month the Prince of Montalegri took the place in the gondola left vacant by the ungrateful Lanfranchi, and for another year Mandola and I rowed that amiable and seemingly fortunate couple about the lagoons.

I was very deeply attached to the signora. I could imagine nothing on earth lovelier and better than she was. When she turned her sweet, almost motherly glance upon me, when she smilingly said a pleasant word to me—no others could come from her lovely lips—I was so proud and happy that, to afford her a moment's pleasure, I would have thrown myself under the Bucentaur's sharp keel. When she gave me an order, I flew; when she leaned on me, my heart beat fast for joy; when, to call the Prince of Montalegri's attention to my fine hair, she gently placed her snow-white hand on my head, I flushed with pride. And yet I was not jealous as I plied my oar with the prince seated beside her. I replied gayly to the kindly jests which the gentlemen of Venice love to exchange with the gondoliers, to test their wit and gift of repartee; and, despite the extraordinary liberty accorded to the challenged boatman under such circumstances, I had never felt the slightest inclination to make a bitter retort to the prince. He was an excellent young man; I was grateful to him for consoling the signora for Signor Lanfranchi's desertion. I had not that ridiculous humility which grovels before the privileges of high rank. We hardly recognize those privileges in this country, in the matter of love, and we recognized them even less in those days. There was not so much difference in age between the signora and myself that I might not fall in love with her. The fact is that I should be sorely embarrassed to-day to give a name to my feeling for her at that time. It was love, perhaps, but love as pure as my age; and tranquil love, because I was neither ambitious nor covetous.

In addition to my youth, my zeal in her service, and my mild and cheerful disposition, my love for music had pleased the signora particularly: it delighted her to see my emotion at the sound of her beautiful voice, and whenever she sang she sent for me. In her affable, unceremonious way, she would bid me come into her cabinet and permit me to sit beside Salomé. It seemed to me that she would have liked to see that inflexible task-mistress lay aside a little of her habitual austerity with me. But Salomé was to me a much more awe-inspiring person than the signora, and I was never tempted to be bold when she was present.

One day the signora asked me if I had any voice. I answered that I used to have, but that I had lost it. She wished me to try it before her. I objected, but she insisted upon it, and I had no choice but to yield. I was in dire distress, and convinced that it would be impossible for me to utter a sound, for it was fully a year since I had thought of such a thing. I was then seventeen years old. My voice had come back, but I had no suspicion of it. I put my head between my hands and tried to remember a passage from the Jerusalem. By a mere chance I hit upon the passage which describes Olinde's love for Sophronia, and ends with this line: Brama assai, poco spera, nulla chiede. Thereupon, summoning courage, and yelling with all my strength, as if I were in mid-ocean, I made the thunderstruck hangings resound with that plaintive, sonorous lament, to which we sing on the lagoons of the exploits of Roland and the loves of Herminie. I had no suspicion of the effect I should produce. Expecting to hear the hoarse squeak which my throat produced when I last made the experiment, I nearly fell over backward when the organ which I unknowingly concealed within me manifested its power. The pictures hanging on the wall trembled, the signora smiled, and the strings of the harp replied to that resounding voice with a long vibration.

"Santo Dio!" cried Salomé, dropping her work and putting her hands over her ears, "the lion of St. Mark's would roar no louder!"

The little Aldini, who was playing on the floor, was so terrified that she began to shriek and weep.

I cannot say what the signora did. I only know that she and the child and Salomé and the harp and the cabinet all disappeared, and that I ran at full speed through the streets, having no idea what demon urged me on, until I reached Quinta-Valle. There I jumped into a boat and rowed to the great plain which is now called the Field of Mars, and is still the most deserted spot in the city. As soon as I was alone and free, I began to sing with all the strength of my lungs. Miraculous! I had a voice of more power and range than any of the cupids I used to admire at Chioggia. Hitherto I had supposed that I had not power enough, and I really had too much. It overflowed—it overwhelmed me. I threw myself face downward in the long grass, and, yielding to a paroxysm of delirious joy, burst into tears. O the first tears of the artist! They only can be compared in sweetness, or in bitterness, with the first tears of the lover.

Then I began to sing again, and repeated a hundred times in succession the scattered fragments I had remembered. As I sang on, the ear-splitting harshness of my voice wore off, and I felt that it became more flexible and tractable every moment. I felt no fatigue, the more I practised, the easier my respiration seemed. Then I ventured to try some of the operatic arias and romanzas which I had heard the signora sing in the past two years. In those two years I had worked hard and learned a great deal without suspecting it. Method had found its way into my head, by virtue and by instinct, and musical feeling into my heart by intuition and sympathy. I have very great respect for study, but I must admit that no singer ever studied less than myself. I was blessed with a marvellous readiness and memory. If I had once heard a passage, I could repeat it instantly and accurately. I tried that experiment that very day, and succeeded in singing from beginning to end the most difficult pieces in Signora Aldini's repertory.

The approach of night warned me to allow my excitement to subside. Then for the first time I realized that I had absented myself from my duties for a whole day, and I returned to the palace, embarrassed and repenting bitterly of my fault. It was the first of that sort I had committed, and I dreaded nothing so much as a rebuke from the signora, however mild it might be. She was at supper, and I crept timidly behind her chair. I never waited on her at table, for I had retained the pride of a true Chioggian, and had surrendered none of the exemptions attached to my privileged post. But, seeking to repair my fault by an act of humility, I took from Salomé's hands the porcelain dish she was about to offer her, and put out my hand awkwardly enough. Signora Aldini pretended at first not to notice, and allowed me to serve her thus for several minutes; then, as she stealthily looked up and met my piteous glance, she suddenly burst out laughing, and threw herself back in her chair.

"Your ladyship is spoiling him," said the stern Salomé, repressing an imperceptible desire to share her mistress's merriment.

"Why should I scold him?" replied the signora. "He frightened himself this morning, and ran away to punish himself, poor boy! I will bet that he has eaten nothing to-day. Go to your supper, Nellino. I forgive you on condition that you will sing no more."

This kindly sarcasm seemed very bitter to me. It was the first one I had ever noticed; for, despite all the opportunities offered for the development of my vanity, that was a sentiment with which I was not as yet acquainted. But pride awoke in me with power, and by making sport of my voice, she seemed to deny my heart and to attack my very life.

From that day the lessons which the signora unconsciously gave me, by practising in my presence, became more and more profitable to me. Every evening, as soon as my duties were at an end, I went to the Field of Mars to practise, and I knew that I was making progress. Soon the signora's lessons were no longer sufficient for me. She sang for her own pleasure, displaying a superb indifference for study, and making no effort to perfect herself. I had a most immoderate longing to go to the theatre; but, during the whole time of the performance, it was my lot to watch the gondola, as Mandola enjoyed the privilege of taking a seat in the pit or listening in the corridors. At last, however, I induced him to let me take his place during a single act of the opera at La Fenice. The opera was the Secret Marriage. I will not attempt to describe my feelings: I nearly went mad, and, breaking the promise I had made my companion, I allowed him to cool his heels in the gondola, and never thought of going out until I found that the hall was empty and in darkness.

After that I felt an irresistible, imperious craving to go to the theatre every night. I dared not ask Signora Aldini's permission; I was afraid that she would again make fun of my unfortunate passion—as she called it—for music. However, I must go to La Fenice or die. I had the reprehensible thought of leaving the signora's service and earning my living as a facchino during the day, so that I might have both time and means to go to the theatre. I calculated that with the small sum I had saved at the Aldini Palace, and by reducing my expenditure for food and clothing to what was absolutely necessary, I might be able to gratify my passion. I also thought of entering the employ of the theatre as a scene-shifter, supernumerary, or lamp-lighter; the most humble post would have seemed delightful to me, provided that I could listen to music every day. At last I determined to open my heart to the good-humored Montalegri. He had heard of my musical misadventure. He began by laughing; then, as I boldly persisted, he demanded, as a condition of his assistance, that I should let him hear my voice. I hesitated a long while; I was afraid that he would discourage me by his jests, and although I had no definite plans for the future, I felt that to deprive me of the hope of being able to sing some day would be like tearing out my life. However, I submitted to the inevitable: I sang in a trembling voice a fragment of one of the airs which I had heard a single time at the theatre. My emotion won the prince's heart; I saw in his eyes that he took pleasure in listening to me; I took courage and sang better and better. He raised his hands two or three times to applaud, but checked himself for fear of interrupting me; then I sang really well, and when I had finished, the prince, who was a genuine dilettante, almost kissed me, and praised me in the warmest terms. He took me to the signora and presented my petition, which was granted on the spot. But she too wanted me to sing, and I would not consent. My proud persistence in refusing astonished Signora Aldini without irritating her. She thought that she would overcome it later, but she did not easily succeed. The more I attended the theatre, and the more I practised and improved, the more conscious I became of all that I still lacked, and the more I dreaded to allow others to hear me and judge me before I was sure of myself. At last one superb moonlight night, on the Lido, as the signora, by lengthening her usual row, had made me miss the theatre and my hour of solitary practice, I was suddenly seized with a longing to sing, and I yielded to the inspiration. The signora and her lover listened to me in silence; and, when I had finished, they did not address a word to me, either of praise or blame. Mandola alone, having the keen taste for music of a true Lombard, cried several times when he heard my youthful tenor: "Corpo del diavolo! che buon basso!"

I was a little hurt by my mistress's heedlessness or indifference. I knew that I had sung well enough to deserve a word of praise from her mouth. Nor did I understand the prince's coldness after the praise he had lavished on me two months earlier. I learned afterward that my mistress was amazed by my talent and my powers, but that she had determined to seem unmoved by my first attempt, to punish me for making her beg so long.

I took the lesson to heart, and a few days later, when she called on me to sing while she was in the gondola, I complied with a good grace. She was alone, lying on the cushions of the gondola, and seemed to be in a melancholy frame of mind, which was by no means usual with her. She did not speak a word to me during the row; but when we returned and I offered my arm to assist her up the steps of the palace, she said these words to me, which left me in a strangely excited state:

On the days following, I myself offered to sing. She seemed to accept my offer with gratitude. The heat was most intense and the theatres were closed; the signora said that she was ill; but what made the most impression on me was the fact that the prince, who was usually so assiduous in his attendance, had ceased to come with her oftener than once in two or three or even four evenings, I thought that he too was beginning to be unfaithful and I grieved for my poor mistress. I could not understand her obstinacy in refusing to marry; it seemed most unfair to me that Montalegri, who seemed to be so kind and gentle, should be sacrificed to the sins of the late Torquato Aldini. On the other hand, I could not understand why so sweet and lovely a woman should have for lovers only base speculators who were more covetous of her fortune than attached to her person, and sickened of the latter as soon as they despaired of obtaining the former.

These thoughts engrossed me so completely for several days that, notwithstanding my profound respect for my mistress, I could not refrain from communicating my ideas to Mandola.

"Don't make that mistake," he replied; "what has happened this time is just the opposite of what happened with Lanfranchi. The signora is sick of the prince and invents every day some new excuse to prevent his coming with her. What is the reason? That I cannot guess, for we see her all the time and know that she is alone, that she has no rendezvous with anyone. Perhaps she is turning religious altogether, and means to cut loose from society."

That same evening I started to sing to the signora a hymn to the Virgin; but she interrupted me instantly, saying that she had no desire to sleep, and asked for the loves of Armide and Renaud.

"He made a mistake," said Mandola, who had a certain shrewdness of his own, pretending to apologize for me. I changed my selection, and was listened to with attention.

I soon discovered that by singing in the open air and while the gondola was in motion, I tired myself a good deal, and that my voice was suffering. I consulted a teacher of music who came to the palace to give lessons to little Alezia Aldini, then six years old. He told me that, if I continued to sing out-of-doors, I should ruin my voice before the end of the year. That threat frightened me so that I resolved to sing no more under those conditions. But on the next day the signora asked me, with such a melancholy air, with such a sweet glance and such pale cheeks, to sing the barcarole from La Biondina, that I had not the heart to deny her the only pleasure that she had seemed capable of enjoying for some time past.

It was evident that she was growing thin and losing her bloom; she kept the prince more and more at a distance. She passed her life in the gondola, and even neglected the poor a little. She seemed to be giving way to a profound depression the cause of which we sought in vain.

There was one week when she apparently tried to divert her thoughts. She surrounded herself with company, and in the evening her gondola was attended by several others in which she placed her friends and the musicians hired to sing for them. Once she asked me to sing. I declined, alleging my unfitness to perform in the presence of professional musicians and numerous dilettanti. She insisted, gently at first, then with some irritation; I continued to refuse, and at last she ordered me, in a most imperative tone, to obey her. It was the first time in her life that she had lost her temper. And I, instead of reflecting that it was her illness which had changed her disposition thus, and humoring her, yielded to the suggestion of invincible pride, and declared that I was not her slave, that I had hired myself to her to row her gondola and not to entertain her guests; and, in a word, that I had nearly ruined my voice for her amusement, and that she rewarded me so ill for my self-sacrifice that I would sing no more for her or anyone else. She made no reply; the friends who accompanied her, amazed at my audacity, held their peace. A few minutes later, Salomé uttered a sharp exclamation and seized little Alezia, who, having fallen asleep in her mother's arms, nearly fell into the water. The signora had fainted some moments before, and no one had noticed it.

I dropped my oar; I talked at random; I went to the signora's side; I should have done some insane thing or other, if the prudent Salomé had not imperiously sent me back to my post. The signora came to herself and we made haste back to the palace. But the company was surprised and shocked, the music was all awry; and, for my own part, I was in such despair and terror, that my trembling hands could not hold the oar. I lost my wits, I ran into all the other gondolas. Mandola swore at me; but I, deaf to his warnings, turned every moment to look at Signora Aldini, whose pale face seemed, in the moonlight, to bear the stamp of death.

She passed a bad night; the next day she was feverish and kept her bed. Salomé refused to admit me. In spite of her refusal I stole into the bedroom and dropped on my knees beside the signora, weeping bitterly. She held out her hand, which I covered with kisses, and told me that I had done right to resist her.

"I have been exacting, capricious and cruel for some time past," she added with an angelic sweetness. "You must forgive me, Nello; I am ill, and I feel that I cannot control my temper as usual. I forget that you are not destined to remain a gondolier, and that a brilliant future is in store for you. Forgive me for this too; my friendship for you is so great that I had a selfish desire to keep you with me, and to bury your talent in this humble and obscure position which is ruining your prospects. You defended your independence and your dignity and you did well. Henceforth you shall be free, you shall study music; I will spare no pains to keep your voice unharmed and to develop your talent; you shall perform no other service for me than such as is dictated by affection and gratitude."

I swore that I would serve her all my life; that I would rather die than leave her; and, in truth, my attachment to her was so deep and so pure that I did not consider that I was taking a rash oath.

She was better after that, and insisted on my taking my first lessons in singing. She was present, and seemed to take the keenest interest. In the intervals between the lessons, she made me study and recite to her the elementary principles of music, of which I had not the slightest idea, although I had instinctively conformed to them when I sang naturally.

My progress was rapid. I ceased to do hard work of any kind. The signora pretended that the double movement caused by the two oars in alternation tired her, and Mandola's wages were doubled so that he might not complain of having to do all the work alone. As for myself, I was always in the gondola, but I sat in the bow, occupied solely in looking into my mistress's eyes to divine what I should do to please her. Her lovely eyes were very sad—very pensive. Her health improved at times, then became worse again. That was my only sorrow, but it was very keen.

She lost her strength more and more, and the assistance of our arms was no longer sufficient when she went upstairs. It became Mandola's duty to carry her like a child, as I carried little Alezia. That young lady grew more beautiful every day; but her style of beauty and her temperament made her the exact opposite of her mother. Alezia was as dark as her mother was fair. Her hair already fell to her knees in two heavy ebony braids; her little, soft, round arms stood forth like those of a young Moor against her silk clothing, always white as snow; for she was consecrated to the Virgin. As for her temperament, it was very strange for one of her years. I have never seen a child so grave and distrustful and silent. She seemed to have inherited the haughty nature of Signor Torquato. She was never on familiar terms with anyone; she never used the familiar words of address with any of us. A caress from Salomé she seemed to consider an insult, and the very utmost I could obtain, by dint of carrying her, waiting upon her and flattering her, was permission to kiss once a week the tips of her little pink fingers, of which she was already as careful as the most coquettish woman could have been. She was very cold to her mother, and passed long hours seated by her side in the gondola, with her eyes fixed on the water, silent, apparently insensible to everything, and as dreamy as a statue. But if the signora ventured to reprove her ever so mildly, or if she went to bed because of an attack of fever, the little one would fly into one of those paroxysms of frantic despair which aroused fears for her life or her reason.

One day she fainted in my arms because Mandola, who was carrying her mother, slipped on one of the steps and fell with her. The signora was slightly hurt, and from that day was unwilling to trust the skill of the Lombard giant. She asked me if I were strong enough to take his place. I was then at the height of my muscular development, and I told her that I could carry four women like herself and eight children like hers. After that I always carried her, for her strength did not return up to the time that I left her.

The time soon came when the signora seemed to be less light and the staircase harder to ascend. It was not because her weight was increasing, but because my strength failed me as soon as I took her in my arms. At first I did not understand it; then I reproached myself bitterly; but my emotion was insurmountable. That willowy and voluptuous figure which abandoned itself to me, that charming face almost touching mine, that alabaster arm around my bare and burning neck, that perfumed hair mingling with mine—it was too much for a lad of seventeen. It was impossible for her not to feel the hurried beating of my heart, and read in my eyes the disturbance that she caused in my senses. "I tire you," she would sometimes say with a languishing air. I could not reply to that sarcasm; my head would begin to whirl, and I was forced to run away as soon as I had placed her in her chair. One day it happened that Salomé was not, as usual, in her cabinet to receive her. I had some difficulty in arranging the cushions so that she could sit comfortably. My arms met around her waist. I found myself at her feet, my dizzy head resting on her knees. She ran her fingers through my hair. The sudden quivering of that hand revealed to me that of which I had had no conception. I was not the only one who was moved; I was not the only one on the point of giving way. We were no longer servant and mistress, gondolier and signora; we were a young man and a young woman who loved each other. A sudden light flashed through my mind and darted from my eyes. She hastily pushed me away, and exclaimed, in a stifled voice: "Go!" I obeyed, but as a conqueror. I was no longer the servant receiving an order, but the lover making a sacrifice.

Thereupon blind desire took possession of my whole being. I did not reflect; I felt neither fear nor scruple nor doubt. I had but one fixed idea, to be alone with Bianca. But that was more difficult than one might presume from her independent position. It seemed as if Salomé divined the danger, and had taken upon herself the task of protecting her mistress from it. She never left her, except sometimes at night when little Alezia wanted to go to bed at the hour when her mother went out in the gondola. At such times Mandola inevitably accompanied us on the lagoons. I saw plainly enough, by the signora's expression and her uneasiness, that she could not help desiring a tête-à-tête with me; but she was too weak either to seek it or to avoid it. I did not lack boldness or resolution, but not for anything under heaven would I have compromised her; and furthermore, so long as I had not actually won a victory in that delicate condition of affairs, my rôle might well be supremely ridiculous, even contemptible, in the eyes of the signora's other servants.

Luckily honest Mandola, who was not devoid of penetration, had for me an affection which never wavered. I should not be surprised, although he never gave me the right to assert it, if love had sometimes made a soft heart beat fast beneath that rough bark, when he carried the signora in his arms. It was extremely imprudent for a young woman to betray the secret of her love-affairs to two young men of our age, and almost flaunt them in our faces; and it was impossible for us to be witnesses of the good fortune of other men, for two years, without being unduly tempted. However that may be, I find it difficult to believe that Mandola would have detected so readily what was taking place in my heart, if something of the same sort had not taken place in his. One evening, as I sat at the bow of the gondola, lost in thought, my face hidden in my hands, waiting for the signora to send for us, he said to me: "Nello! Nello!!!"—nothing more, but in a tone which seemed to me to mean so much that I raised my head and looked at him with a sort of terror, as if my fate were in his hands.—He stifled something like a sigh, as he added the popular saying: "Sara quel che sara!"

"Nello! Nello!" he repeated, shaking his head. At that moment they came to tell me to go up and bring the signora to the gondola; but Mandola's meaning glance followed me up the steps and moved me strangely.

That same day Mandola applied to Signora Aldini for a week's leave of absence, to go and see his sick father. Bianca seemed surprised and dismayed by the request; but she granted it at once, adding: "But who will row my gondola?"—"Nello," Mandola replied, watching me closely. "But he cannot row alone," rejoined the signora. "No matter, take me home, to-morrow we will look for a temporary substitute. Go to see your father, and take good care of him; I will pray for him."

The next day the signora sent for me, and asked me if I had made inquiries for a gondolier. I replied only by an audacious smile. The signora turned pale and said to me in a trembling voice: "You will attend to it to-morrow; I shall not go out to-day."

I realized my mistake; but the signora had shown more fear than anger, and my hope augmented my insolence. Toward evening I went and asked her if I should bring the gondola to the steps. She replied coldly: "I told you this morning that I should not go out." I did not lose courage. "The weather has changed, signora," I said, "the wind is as warm as the sirocco. It is fine weather for you to-night." She bestowed a withering glance upon me, saying: "I didn't ask you what the weather is. How long has it been your place to advise me?" The battle was on, I did not retreat. "Since you have seemed disposed to allow yourself to die," I replied vehemently. She seemed to yield to some magnetic force; for she languidly dropped her head on her hand, and in a faint voice bade me bring the gondola.

I carried her down to it. Salomé attempted to accompany her. I took it upon myself to say to her in an imperative tone that her mistress ordered her to remain with Signora Alezia. I saw the blood come and go in the signora's cheeks as I took the oar and eagerly pushed against the marble steps which seemed to flee behind us.

When I was a few rods from the palace, it seemed to me that I had conquered the world, and that my victory was assured, all inconvenient witnesses being out of the way. I rowed furiously out into the middle of the lagoons, without turning my head, without speaking a word, without stopping for breath. I had the appearance of a lover carrying off his mistress much more than of a gondolier rowing his employer. When we were quite alone, I dropped my oar and let the boat drift; but at that point all my courage abandoned me; it was impossible for me to speak to the signora, I dared not even look at her. She gave me no encouragement, and I rowed her back to the palace, mortified enough to have resumed the trade of boatman without obtaining the reward I hoped for.

Salomé showed some temper with me, and humiliated me several times, accusing me of having a surly and preoccupied air. I could never say a word to the signora without a rebuke from the maid, who always declared that I did not express myself respectfully. The signora, who usually defended me, did not even seem to notice the mortifications to which I was subjected that evening. I was incensed beyond words. For the first time I was really ashamed of my position, and I should have thought seriously of quitting it, if the irresistible magnet of desire had not kept me in bondage.

For several days I suffered tortures. The signora pitilessly allowed me to exhaust my strength rowing her about at midday, in the dry, intensely hot, autumn weather, before the eyes of the whole city, who had seen me for a long time previously seated in her gondola, at her feet, almost at her side, and who saw me now, dripping with perspiration, fallen from the sublime profession of troubadour to the laborious trade of gondolier. My love changed to wrath. Two or three times I felt a shameful temptation to treat her disrespectfully in public; then I was ashamed of myself and my dejection became the more complete.

One morning, the fancy seized her to go ashore on the Lido. The shore was deserted, the sand sparkled in the sunlight; my head was burning hot, the perspiration was running down my breast in streams. As I stooped to lift Signora Aldini, she passed her silk handkerchief over my dripping forehead, and gazed at me with a sort of loving compassion.

"Poveretto!" she said, "you are not made for the trade to which I condemn you!"

"And sacrifice your beautiful voice," she rejoined, "and the great talent you may acquire, and the noble profession of musical artist to which you may attain?"

"You do not mean it!" she retorted, with a melancholy air. "Return to your place," she added, pointing to the bow. "I wish to rest a while here."

I returned to the bow, but I left the door of the camerino open. I could see her lying on the black cushions, fair and pale, wrapped in her black cape, buried and, as it were hidden in the black velvet of that mysterious bower, which seems made for stealthy pleasures and forbidden joys. She resembled a beautiful swan which swims into a dark grotto to avoid the hunter. I felt that my reason was abandoning me; I crept to her side and fell on my knees. To give her a kiss and then die in expiation of my crime was my whole thought. Her eyes were closed, she pretended to be asleep, but she felt the fire of my breath. Then she called to me aloud, as if she believed me to be at a distance, and pretended to wake gradually, to give me time to go away. She bade me go to the bottega on the Lido to fetch her some lemonade, then closed her eyes again. I put one foot on shore, and that was all. I stepped back into the gondola and stood still, gazing at her. She opened her eyes, and her glance seemed to draw me to her by a thousand chains of steel and diamond. I took one step toward her, she closed her eyes again; I took another step, and she opened them, assuming an expression of contemptuous surprise. I went ashore again, then returned to the gondola. This cruel game lasted several minutes. She attracted and spurned me as the hawk plays with the mortally wounded sparrow. Anger took possession of me; I slammed the door of the camerino so violently that the glass was shivered. She uttered a cry which I did not deign to notice, but rushed ashore, singing in a voice of thunder, which I thought reckless and devil-may-care:

I sat down upon one of the Jewish tombstones on the Lido, and remained there a long while; I purposely compelled her to wait for me. Then, of a sudden, thinking that she might be suffering with thirst, I ran, stricken with remorse, to fetch the drink for which she had asked me, and carried it to her with deep solicitude. And yet I hoped that she would reprimand me; I would have liked to be dismissed from my employment, for it had become intolerable to me. She received me with no trace of anger; indeed she thanked me sweetly as she took the glass I handed her. Thereupon I saw that her hand was bleeding, it had been cut by the broken glass. I could not restrain my tears. I saw that hers were flowing too; but she did not speak to me, and I dared not break that silence, fraught with loving reproaches and timid passion.

I determined to stamp out my insane love and to leave Venice. I tried to persuade myself that the signora had never returned it, and that I had flattered myself with an impertinent hope; but every moment her glance, her tone of voice, her gesture, even her sadness, which seemed to increase and decrease with mine, all combined to revive my insane confidence and to lead me to dangerous dreams.

Fate seemed determined to deprive us of what little strength we still retained. Mandola did not return. I was a very indifferent oarsman, despite my zeal and strength; I was not familiar with the lagoons, I had always been so absorbed by my own thoughts as I went in and out among them! One evening I went astray in the salt marshes that stretch from the St. George canal to the Marana canal. The rising tide covered those vast plains of sand and seaweed; but it began to fall again before I succeeded in rowing back into clear water; I could see the tops of the aquatic plants moving in the breeze amid the foam. I pulled hard, but in vain. The ebb tide laid bare a vast expanse of marsh, and the gondola stranded gently on a bed of seaweed and shells. Night had spread its veil over the sky and the waters, the sea-birds lighted all around us, by thousands, filling the air with their plaintive cries. I called for a long time, but my voice was lost in space; no fishing vessel chanced to be at anchor near the marsh, no craft of any sort approached us. We must needs resign ourselves to the necessity of awaiting some chance succor or the next morning's tide. This last alternative was exceedingly disquieting; I dreaded the cold night air for my mistress's sake, and above all, the unhealthy vapors that rise from the marshes at daybreak; I tried in vain to pull the gondola to a pool of water. Aside from the fact that we should simply have gained a very few feet, it would have taken more than six men to raise the boat from the bed she had made for herself. Thereupon I determined to wade through the swamp, up to my waist in mud, until I reached the channel, and to swim across in quest of help. It was an insane undertaking; for I did not know the lay of the land, and where the fishermen adroitly walk about to gather sea-fruit, I should have been lost in bogs and quick-sands after a very few steps. When the signora saw that I was inclined to resist her prohibition, and was about to take the risk, she sprang to her feet, and, mustering strength to remain in that position for an instant, she threw her arms about me and fell back, almost pressing me to her heart. Thereupon I forgot all my anxiety, and cried frantically: "Yes! yes! let us stay here; let us never leave this spot; let us die here of joy and love, and may the Adriatic not wake to-morrow to rescue us!"

In the first moment of emotion she was very near abandoning herself to my transports; but she soon recovered the strength with which she had armed herself.

"Well, yes," she said, kissing me on the forehead; "yes, I love you, and I have loved you for a long while. It was because I loved you that I refused to marry Lanfranchi, for I could not make up my mind to place an everlasting obstacle between you and me. It was because I loved you that I endured Montalegri's love, fearing that I might succumb to my passion for you, and being determined to combat it; it was because I loved you that I sent him away, being unable to endure longer that love which I did not share; it is because I love you that I am still determined not to give way to what I feel to-day; for I propose to give you proofs of a veritable love, and I owe to your pride, so long humbled, some other recompense than vain caresses, another title than that of lover."

I did not understand that language. What other title than that of lover could I desire, what greater happiness than that of possessing such a mistress? I had had some absurd moments of pride and frenzy, but at that time I was unhappy, I did not think that she loved me.

"So long as you do love me," I cried; "so long as you tell me so as you do now, in the mystery of darkness, and every evening, out of sight of the curious and envious, give me a kiss as you did just now; so long as you are mine in secret, in God's bosom, shall I not be prouder and happier than the Doge of Venice? What more do I need than to live beside you and to know that you belong to me? Ah! let all the world remain in ignorance of it; I do not need to make others jealous in order to be happy beyond words, and the opinion of other people is not necessary to the pride and joy of my heart."

"And yet," replied Bianca, "it will humiliate you to be my servant after this, will it not?"

"What!" she said, "would you not despise me if, after abandoning myself to your love, I should leave you in a state of degradation?"

"There can be no degradation in serving one who loves me," I replied. "If you were my wife, do you think that I would allow anybody but myself to carry you? Could I think of anything except taking care of you and amusing you? Salomé is not humiliated to be in your service, and yet you do not love her as much as you love me, signora mia?"

"O my noble-hearted boy!" cried Bianca, pressing my head against her breast with deep emotion; "O pure and unselfish soul! Who will dare now to say that there are no great hearts save those that are born in palaces! Who will dare deny the honor and saintliness of these plebeian natures, ranked so low by our hateful prejudices and our absurd disdain! You are the only man who ever loved me for myself alone, the only man whose aim was not my rank or my fortune!—Very well! you shall share them both, you shall make me forget the miseries of my first marriage, and replace with your rustic name the hateful name of Aldini, which I bear with regret! You shall command my vassals and be at once the lord of my estates and the master of my life. Nello, will you marry me?"

If the earth had opened under my feet, or if the skies had fallen on my head, I could not have experienced a more violent shock of amazement than that which struck me dumb in the face of such a question. When I had recovered somewhat from my stupefaction, I do not know what reply I made, for my head was going round, and it was impossible for me to think coherently. All that my natural good sense could do was to put aside honors too heavy for my age and my inexperience. Bianca insisted.

"Listen," she said; "I am not happy. My cheerfulness has long been a cloak for intense suffering, until now, as you see, I am ill and can no longer conceal my ennui. My position in society is false and very distasteful to me; my position in my own esteem is worse still, and God is dissatisfied with me. You know that I am not of patrician descent. Torquato Aldini married me on account of the great fortune my father had amassed in business. That haughty nobleman never saw in me anything more than the instrument of his fortune, he never deigned to treat me as his equal; some of his relatives encouraged him in maintaining the absurd and cruel attitude of lord and master which he assumed toward me at the outset; others blamed him severely for having contracted a misalliance in order to pay his debts, and treated him coldly after his marriage. After his death they all refused to see me, and I found myself without any family; for by entering the family of a noble I had forfeited the esteem and affection of my own people. I had married Torquato for love, and those of my relatives who did not consider me insane believed me to be guided by foolish vanity and vile ambition. That is why, despite my wealth and my youth and an obliging and inoffensive disposition, you see my salons almost empty and my social circle so restricted. I have some warm friends, and their company satisfies my heart. But I am entirely unfamiliar with the intoxication of society at large, and it has not treated me so well that I am called upon to sacrifice my happiness to it. I know that by marrying you I shall draw down upon myself not its indifference simply but its irrevocable malediction. Do not be alarmed; you see that it is a very trifling sacrifice on my part."

"But why marry me?" said I. "Why invite that malediction to no purpose? for I do not need your fortune to be happy, nor do you need a solemn contract on my part to be sure that I shall love you forever."

"Whether you are my husband or my lover," Bianca replied, "the world will find it out all the same, and I shall be cursed and despised none the less. Since your love must necessarily, in one way or the other, separate me altogether from society, I desire at least to be reconciled to God, and to find in this love of mine, sanctified by the Church, the strength to despise society as it despises me. I have lived in sin for a long while, I have sinned without adding to my happiness, I have risked my salvation and have not found gladness of heart. Now I have found it and I wish to enjoy it, stainless and cloudless; I wish to sleep, free from remorse, on the bosom of the man I love; I wish to be able to say to the world: 'It is you who destroy and corrupt hearts. Nello's love has saved and purified me, and I have a refuge against you; God permitted me to love Nello, and bids me love him until death.'"

Bianca talked to me a long while in this strain. There was weakness, childishness and pure goodness in these ingenuous plottings of her pride, her love and her piety. I was not very strong myself. It was not long since I had been accustomed to kneel, night and morning, on my father's boat, before the image of St. Anthony painted on the sail; and although the beautiful women of Venice diverted my thoughts sadly in the basilica, I never missed attending mass, and I still had on my neck the scapulary my mother hung there as she gave me her blessing on the day I left Chioggia. So I allowed Signora Aldini to triumph over my scruples and persuade me; and without further resistance or promises, I passed the night at her feet, as submissive as a child to her religious scruples, intoxicated with the pleasure of simply kissing her hand and inhaling the perfume of her fan. It was a lovely night. The twinkling stars trembled in the little pools which the tide had left on the marsh; the breeze murmured in the green grasses. From time to time we saw in the distance the light of a gondola gliding over the waves, but it did not occur to us to call for help. The voice of the Adriatic breaking on the farther shore of the Lido reached our ears, monotonous and majestic. We indulged in countless enchanting dreams; we formed countless deliciously trivial plans. The moon sank slowly and was shrouded in the dark waves on the horizon, like a chaste virgin in her winding-sheet. We were as chaste as she, and she seemed to glance at us with a friendly expression before plunging into the sea.

But soon the cold made itself felt, and a sheet of white mist spread over the marsh. I closed the camerino and wrapped Bianca in my red cape. I sat down beside her, put my arms about her to shelter her, and warmed her arms and hands with my breath. A delicious calm seemed to have descended upon her heart since she had almost extorted from me a promise to marry her. She rested her head lightly on my shoulder. The night was far advanced; for more than six hours we had poured forth the ardent love of our hearts in tender and impassioned words. A pleasant sensation of weariness stole over me as well, and we fell asleep in each other's arms, as pure as the dawn that was beginning to appear on the horizon. It was our wedding-night—our only night of love; a spotless night, which was never repeated, and its memory never marred.

Loud voices woke me. I ran to the bow of the gondola and saw several men approaching us. At the usual time of starting out to fish, a family of fishermen had discovered the stranded craft, and they assisted me to drag her to the Marana Canal, whence I rowed rapidly to the palace.

How happy I was as I placed my foot on the first step! I thought no more of the palace than of Bianca's fortune; but I had her in my arms who thenceforth was my property, my life, my mistress in the noble and blessed sense of the word! But my joy ended there. Salomé appeared in the doorway of that terror-stricken house, where no one had closed an eye during the night. Salomé was pale, and it was evident that she had been weeping; it was probably the only time in her life. She did not venture to question her mistress: perhaps she had already read upon my brow the reason why the night had seemed so short to me. It had been long enough to all the occupants of the palace. They all believed that some horrible accident had befallen their dear mistress. A number of them had wandered about all night, looking for us; others had passed the time in prayer, burning little tapers before the image of the Virgin. When their anxiety was allayed and their curiosity gratified, I noticed that their thoughts took another direction and their faces a different expression. They scrutinized my face—the women especially—with insulting eagerness. As for Salomé's expression, it was so withering that I could not endure it. Mandola arrived from the country in the midst of the commotion. He understood in an instant what was going on, and, putting his mouth to my ear, begged me to be prudent. I pretended not to know what he meant; I did my best to submit with an air of innocence to the investigations of the others. But in a few moments I was unable to endure my anxiety, and I went into Bianca's room.

I found her weeping bitterly beside her daughter's bed. The child had been awakened in the middle of the night by the noise of the constant going and coming of the frightened servants. She had listened to their comments on the signora's prolonged absence, and, believing that her mother was drowned, she had gone into convulsions. She had barely become calm when I entered, and Bianca was blaming herself for the child's suffering, as if she had wilfully caused it.

"O my Bianca," I said to her, "be comforted and rejoice because your child and all those about you love you so passionately. I will love you even more than they do, so that you may be the happiest of women."

"Do not say that the others love me," she replied with some bitterness. "It seems to me that under their breaths they are calling this love of mine, which they have already divined, a crime. Their glances are insulting to me, their words wound me, and I greatly fear that they have let slip some imprudent remark in my daughter's hearing. Salomé is openly impertinent to me this morning. It is high time for me to put an end to these insolent comments on my conduct. You see, Nello, they look upon my loving you as a crime, and they approved of my supposed love for the avaricious Lanfranchi. They are all low-minded or foolish creatures. I must inform them this very day that I passed the night, not with my lover, but with my husband. It is the only way to make them respect you and refrain from betraying me."

I dissuaded her from acting so hastily. I reminded her that she might perhaps repent; that she had not reflected sufficiently; that I myself needed time to consider her offer seriously; and that she had not sufficiently weighed the consequences of her decision, with respect to its possible future effect upon her daughter. I obtained her promise to be patient and to act prudently.

It was impossible for me to form an enlightened judgment regarding my situation. It was intoxicating, and I was a mere boy. Nevertheless, a sort of instinctive repugnance warned me to distrust the fascinations of love and fortune. I was excited, anxious, torn between desire and fear. In the brilliant destiny that was offered me, I saw but one thing—possession of the woman I loved. All the wealth by which she was surrounded was not even an accessory to my happiness, it was a disagreeable condition for me in my heedlessness to accept. I was like one who has never suffered and can conceive of no better or worse state than that in which he has always lived. In the Aldini Palace I was free and happy. Petted by all alike, permitted to gratify all my whims, I had no responsibility, nothing to fatigue my body or my mind. Singing, sleeping, and boating, that was substantially the whole of my life, and you Venetians who are listening to me know whether any life is sweeter or better adapted to our indolent and careless natures. I imagined the rôle of husband and master as something analogous to the superintendence exercised by Salomé over household affairs, and such a rôle was very far from flattering my ambition. That palace, of which I had the freedom, was my property in the pleasantest sense of the word: I enjoyed all its pleasures without any of its cares. Let my mistress add the joys of love, and I should be the King of Italy.

Another thing that disheartened me was Salomé's gloomy air and the embarrassed, mysterious and suspicious demeanor of the other servants. There were many of them, and they were all excellent people, who had treated me hitherto as a child of the family. In that silent reprobation which I felt hovering over me, there was a warning which I could not, which I did not wish to disdain; for, while it was due in some measure to a natural feeling of jealousy, it was dictated even more by the affectionate interest which the signora inspired.

What would I not have given in those moments of dire perplexity to have a judicious adviser? But I did not know whom to apply to, and I was the sole confidant of my mistress's secrets. She passed the day in bed with her daughter, and sent for me the next day, to repeat to me all that she had said on the marsh. All the time that she was speaking to me, it seemed to me that she was right, and that she had a triumphant answer to all my scruples; but when I was alone again, my distress and irresolution returned.

I went up into the gallery and threw myself upon a chair. My eyes wandered absent-mindedly from one to another of that long line of ancestors whose portraits formed the only heritage that Torquato Aldini had been able to bequeath to his daughter. Their smoke-begrimed faces, their beards, cut square, and pointed, and diamond-shaped, their black velvet robes and ermine-lined cloaks, gave them an imposing and depressing aspect. Almost all had been senators, procurators, or councillors; there was a multitude of uncles who had been inquisitors; those of least consequence were minor canons or capitani grandi. At the end of the gallery was the figure-head of the last galley fitted out against the Turks by Tiberio Aldini, Torquato's grandfather, in the days when the powerful nobles of the republic went to war at their own expense, and esteemed it glorious to place their property and persons voluntarily at the service of their country. It was a tall glass lantern, set in gilded copper, surmounted and supported by metal scroll-work of curious design, and with ornaments so placed that the bow of the vessel ended in a point. Above each portrait was a long oak bas-relief, reciting the glorious deeds of the illustrious personage beneath. It occurred to me that, if we should have war, and the opportunity should be offered me to fight for my country, I should be as patriotic and as brave as all those noble aristocrats. It seemed to me to be neither very extraordinary nor very meritorious to do great things when one was rich and powerful, and I said to myself that the trade of great nobleman could not be very difficult. But in those days, we were not at war, nor were we likely to be. The republic was merely a meaningless word, its might a mere shadow, and its enervated patricians had no elements of grandeur except their names. It was the more difficult to rise to their level in their opinion, because it was so easy to surpass them in reality. Therefore to enter into a contest with their prejudices and their contempt was unworthy of a true man, and the plebeians were fully justified in despising those among themselves who thought that they exalted themselves by seeking admission to fashionable society and aping the absurdities of the nobles.

These reflections passed through my mind confusedly at first; then they became more distinct, and I found that I could think, as I had found one fine morning that I could sing. I began to understand the repugnance I felt at the thought of leaving my proper station in life to make a spectacle of myself in society as a vain and ambitious fellow; and I determined to bury my love-affair with Bianca in the most profound mystery.

Absorbed by these reflections, I walked along the gallery, glancing proudly at that haughty race whose succession was disdained by a child of the people, a boatman from Chioggia. I felt very happy; I thought of my old father, and as I remembered the old house, long forgotten and neglected, my eyes filled with tears. I found myself at the end of the gallery, face to face with Messer Torquato, and for the first time I scrutinized him boldly from head to foot. He was the very incarnation of hereditary nobility. His glance seemed to drive one back like the point of a sword, and his hand looked as if it had never opened except to impose a command on his inferiors. I took pleasure in flouting him. "Well!" I said to him mentally, "whatever you might have done, I would never have been your servant. Your domineering air would not have frightened me, and I would have looked you in the face as I look at this canvas. You would never have obtained any hold on me, because my heart is prouder than yours ever was, because I despise this gold before which you bowed, because I am a greater man than you in the eyes of the woman you possessed. In spite of all your pride of birth, you bent the knee to her to obtain her wealth; and when you were rich through her, you crushed and humbled her. That is the conduct of a dastard, and mine is worthy of a genuine noble, for I want none of Bianca's wealth except her heart, of which you were not worthy. And I refuse what you implored, so that I may possess that which is precious above all things in my eyes, Bianca's esteem. And I shall obtain it, for she will understand the vast superiority of my heart to a debt-ridden patrician's. I have no patrimony to redeem, you see! There is no mortgage on my father's fishing-boat; and the clothes I wear are my own, because I earned them by my toil. Very good! I shall be the benefactor, not the debtor, because I shall restore happiness and life to that heart which you broke, because I, servant and lover, shall succeed in winning blessings and honor, while you, nobleman and husband, were cursed and despised."

A slight sound caused me to turn my head. I saw little Alezia behind me; she was crossing the gallery, dragging a doll larger than herself. I loved the child, despite her haughty nature, because of her love for her mother. I tried to kiss her; but, as if she felt in the atmosphere the disgrace which had been weighing upon me in that house for two days past, she drew back with an offended air, and crouched against her father's portrait, as if she had some reason to fear me. I was instantly struck by the resemblance which her pretty little dark face bore to Torquato's haughty features, and I stopped to examine her more closely, with a feeling of profound sadness. She seemed to me to be scrutinizing me attentively at the same time. Suddenly she broke the silence to say to me in a tone of great bitterness, and with an indignant expression beyond her years:

As she spoke, she pointed with her tiny finger at a beautiful diamond ring, mounted in the old style, which her mother had given me several days before, and which I had been childish enough to accept; then she turned and, standing on tiptoe, placed her finger on one of the fingers in the portrait which was adorned with the same ring accurately copied; and I discovered that the imprudent Bianca had presented her gondolier with one of her husband's most valuable family jewels.

The blood rose in my cheeks, as I received from that child a lesson which disgusted me more than ever with ill-gotten wealth. I smiled and handed her the ring:

"Your mamma dropped it off her finger," I said, "and I found it just now in the gondola."

"I will take it to her," said the child, snatching rather than taking it from my hand. She ran away, leaving her doll on the floor. I picked up the plaything to make sure of a little circumstance which I had often noticed before. Alezia was in the habit of running a long pin through the heart of every doll she owned, and sometimes she would sit for hours at a time, absorbed in the profound and silent pleasure of that strange amusement.

In the evening Mandola came to my room. He seemed awkward and embarrassed. He had much to say to me, but he could not find a word. His expression was so curious that I roared with laughter.

"You are doing wrong, Nello," he said with a pained look on his face; "I am your friend; you are doing wrong!"

He turned to go, but I ran after him and tried to make him explain himself; it was impossible. I saw that his heart was full of sage reflections and good advice; but he lacked words in which to express himself, and all his abortive sentences, in his patois in which all languages were mingled, ended with these words:

At last I succeeded in making out that the rumor of my approaching marriage to the signora was current in the house. A few impatient words which some one had heard her say to Salomé were sufficient to put that rumor in circulation. The signora had said just this, speaking of me: "The time is not far away when you will take orders from him instead of giving him orders."—I obstinately denied that these words had any such meaning, and pretended that I did not understand them at all.

"Very good," said Mandola; "that's the answer you ought to make, even to me, although I am your friend. But I have eyes of my own; I don't ask you any questions, I never have done it, Nello! but I came to warn you that you must be prudent. The Aldinis are just looking for an excuse for taking the guardianship of Signora Alezia away from the signora, and she will die of grief if they take her child away from her."

"What do you say?" I cried; "what? they will take her daughter away because of me?"

"If you were to marry her, certainly," replied the worthy gondolier; "otherwise—as there are some things that can't be proved,—"

"You speak as you should speak," replied Mandola; "continue to be on your guard; trust nobody, not even me, and if you have any influence over the signora, urge her to hide her feelings, especially from Salomé. Salomé will never betray her; but her voice is too loud, and when she quarrels with the signora, everybody in the house hears what they say. If any of the signora's friends should suspect what is happening, everything would go wrong; for friends aren't like servants; they don't know how to keep a secret, and yet people trust their friends more than they do us!"

Honest Mandola's advice was not to be despised, especially as it was in perfect accord with my instinct. The next evening we took the signora to the Zueca Canal, and Mandola, understanding that I had something to say to her, obligingly fell asleep at his post. I put out the light, stole into the cabin, and talked a long while with Bianca. She was surprised by my objections and said everything that she considered likely to overcome them. I spoke firmly, I told her that I would never allow it to be said of me that I had married a woman for her wealth; that I cared as much for the good name of my family as any patrician in Venice; that my kinsmen would never forgive me if I afforded any such cause for scandal, and that I did not propose either to fall out with my dear old father or to make trouble between the signora and her daughter; for she ought to and doubtless did care more for Alezia than for all the world beside. This last argument was more powerful than any other. She burst into tears and poured forth her admiration for me and gratitude to me with the enthusiasm of passion.

From that day peace reigned once more in the Aldini Palace. That little secondary society had passed through its revolutionary crisis. It had its own peacemaker, and I laughed to myself at my rôle of great citizen, with childlike heroism. Mandola, who was beginning to acquire some education, was amazed to see me engage in the hardest sort of work, and would call me under his breath, with a paternal air, his Cincinnatus or his Pompilius.

I had in fact resolved—and I kept steadfastly to my resolution—not to accept the slightest favor from a woman whose lover I wished to be. Inasmuch as the only means of possessing her in secret was to remain in her house on the footing of a servant, it seemed to me that I could re-establish equality between her and myself by making my services correspond to my wages. Hitherto my wages had been large and entirely out of proportion to my work, which, for some time past, had been absolutely nothing. I determined to make up for lost time. I set about keeping things in order, cleaning, doing errands, bringing wood and water, polishing and brushing the gondola—in a word, doing the work of ten men; and I did it cheerfully, humming my most beautiful operatic airs and my noblest epic strophes. The task that afforded me the most amusement was the taking care of the family pictures and brushing off the dust which obscured Torquato's majestic glance every morning. When I had completed his toilet, I would remove my cap with profound respect and ironically repeat to him some parody of my heroic verses.

The Venetian lower classes, especially the gondoliers, have, as you know, a liking for jewels. They spend a good part of what they earn in antique rings, shirt studs, scarf pins, chains and the like. I had previously accepted many trinkets of the sort. I carried them all back to Signora Aldini, and would not even wear silver buckles on my shoes. But my most meritorious sacrifice was my abandonment of music. I considered that my work, laborious as it was, was no compensation for the expense which my constant theatre-going and my singing lessons imposed on the signora. I persistently declared that I had a cold in my head, and instead of going to the performance at La Fenice with her, I adopted the practice of reading in the lobby of the theatre. I realized that I was ignorant; and, although my mistress was scarcely less so, I determined to extend my ideas a little, and not to make her blush for my blunders. I studied my mother tongue earnestly, and strove to break myself of the habit of murdering verses, as all gondoliers do. Moreover, something told me that that study would be useful to me later, and that what I lost in the way of progress in singing I should gain in the perfecting of my pronunciation and accent.

A few days of this judicious conduct served to restore my tranquillity. I had never been more manly, more cheerful, and, as Salomé said, more comely than in my neat and modest clothes, with my amiable expression and my sun-burned hands. Everybody had accorded me confidence and esteem once more, and I was again the recipient of the innumerable little attentions which I formerly enjoyed. Pretty Alezia, who had the greatest respect for the judgment of her Jewish governess, allowed me to kiss the ends of her black braids, embellished with scarlet ribbons and fine pearls.

A single person remained depressed and unhappy—the signora herself. I constantly surprised her lovely blue eyes, filled with tears, fastened upon me with an indescribable expression of affection and grief. She could not accustom herself to see me working so. If I had been her own son she could not have been more grieved to see me carrying burdens and standing in the rain. Indeed, her solicitude vexed me a little, and the efforts she made to conceal it made it even more painful to her. An entirely unforeseen revolution of sentiment had taken place in her. That love which had hitherto been, as she herself told me, her torment and her joy, seemed now to cause her naught but shame and consternation. She no longer avoided opportunities to be alone with me, as she used to do; on the contrary, she sought them; but, as soon as I knelt at her feet, she would burst into sobs and change the hours promised to the joys of love into hours of painful emotion. I strove in vain to understand what was taking place in her heart. I could obtain nothing but vague replies, always kind and affectionate, but incoherent, which caused me the utmost perplexity. I had no idea what to do to comfort her and strengthen that discouraged heart. I was consumed by desire, and it seemed to me that an hour of mutual effusion and passion would have been more eloquent than all that talk and all those tears; but I felt too much respect and devotion for her not to sacrifice my transports of passion to her. I felt that it would be very easy to take her by surprise, weak as she was in body and mind; but I dreaded the tears of the next day too much, and I wished to owe my happiness to her confidence and love alone. That day did not come, and I must say, to the discredit of feminine weakness, that, if I had shown less delicacy and unselfishness, my desires would have been fully gratified. I had hoped that Bianca would encourage me; I soon discovered that, on the contrary, she was afraid of me, and that she shuddered at my approach, as if crime and remorse approached with me. I succeeded in reassuring her only to see her plunge into still deeper dejection, and upbraid fate, as if it had not been in her power to put a better face upon her destiny. Then, too, a secret sense of shame helped to crush that shrinking heart. Religion took possession of her more and more completely; her confessor controlled her and terrified her. He forbade her to have lovers, and, although she resisted him when it was a question of Signor Lanfranchi and Signor Montalegri, she had not the same courage with respect to me. I succeeded little by little in extorting from her a confession of all her sufferings and internal struggles. She had confessed to the confessor all the details of our love, and he had declared that that low, criminal affection was a heinous crime. He had forbidden her to think of marriage with me, even more peremptorily than to give way to her passion; and he had frightened her so by threatening to cast her out from the bosom of the Church, that her gentle, timid mind, torn between the desire to make me happy and the fear of destroying her own soul, was suffering veritable agony.

Hitherto Signora Aldini's piety had been so pliant, so tolerant, so truly Italian, that I was not a little surprised to see it become serious just at the height of one of those paroxysms of passion which seem most inconsistent with such changes. I worked hard with my poor inexperienced brain to understand this phenomenon, and I succeeded. Bianca probably loved me more than she had loved the count and the prince; but she had not sufficient courage nor a sufficiently enlightened mind to rise above public opinion. She complained of the arrogance of other people; but she gave real value to that arrogance by her fear of it. In a word, she was more submissive than anybody else to the prejudice which she had attempted for an instant to defy. She had hoped to find in the church, through the sacrament, and by redoubling her pious fervor, the strength which she failed to find in herself, and which she had not needed with her former lovers, because they were patricians and society was on their side. But now the church threatened her, society would heap maledictions upon her; to fight against the church and society at the same time was a task beyond her strength.

Then too, it may be that her love subsided as soon as I became worthy of it; perhaps, instead of appreciating the grandeur of soul which had led me to descend of my own motion from the salon to the servant's quarters, she had fancied that she could detect in that courageous behavior a lack of dignity and an inborn liking for servitude. She believed too that the threats and sarcasms of her other servants had frightened me. She was astonished to find that I was not ambitious, and that very absence of ambition seemed to her an indication of an inert or timid spirit. She did not admit all this to me; but as soon as I was once on the track I divined it all. I was not angry. How could she understand my noble pride and my sensitive honor, she who had accepted and returned the love of an Aldini and a Lanfranchi?

Doubtless she ceased to consider me handsome when I refused to wear lace and ribbons. My hands, calloused in her service, no longer seemed to her worthy to press hers. She had loved me as a gondolier, in the thought and hope of transforming me into an attractive cicisbeo; but the instant that I insisted upon reverting to the system of a fair exchange of services between her and myself, all her illusions vanished, and she saw in me only the vulgar fisherman's son of Chioggia, a species of stupid and hard-working beast of burden.

As these discoveries cleared the mists away from my mind, the violence of my passions diminished. If I had had to deal with a great soul, or even with a forceful nature, it would have been in my eyes a glorious task to efface the distressing memories left behind in that heart by my predecessors. But to succeed such men simply to be misunderstood, and in all probability to be some day cast aside and forgotten like them, was a happiness which I no longer cared to purchase at the cost of an enormous expenditure of passion and will-power. Signora Aldini was a sweet and lovely woman; but could I not find in a cottage at Chioggia beauty and sweetness united, without causing tears to flow, without causing remorse, and above all without leaving shame behind me?

My mind was soon made up. I resolved not only to leave the signora, but to cease to be a servant. So long as I had been in love with her harp and her person, I had had no time to reflect seriously on my condition. But, as soon as I abandoned my foolish aspirations, I realized how difficult it is to retain one's dignity unimpaired under the protection of the great, and I recalled the salutary arguments which my father had urged upon me, and to which I had paid little heed.

When I gave her an inkling of my purpose, I saw, although she opposed it, that she was greatly relieved; happiness might return and dwell once more in that affectionate and beneficent heart. The charming frivolity which was the basis of her character would reappear on the surface with the first lover who should be able to push aside her confessor, her servants, and society. A great passion would have shattered her system; a succession of mild passions and a multitude of lukewarm attachments would keep her alive in her natural element.

I forced her to admit all that I had divined. She had never studied herself very much, and she was always most sincere. If there was no heroism in her character, neither was there any pretension to heroism, nor the overbearing despotism which is its consequence. She approved my determination, but she wept and was dismayed at the thought of the blank my departure would leave in her life; for she loved me still, I am sure, with all the strength of her nature.

She attempted to worry and fret about what was to become of me. I would not allow it. The abrupt and haughty tone in which I interrupted her when she spoke of offering her services closed her mouth once for all in that respect. I would not even take the clothes she had had made for me. On the day before I was to take my leave, I purchased the complete outfit of a sailor of Chioggia, new, but of the coarsest materials; and in that guise I appeared before her for the last time.

She had requested me to come to her at midnight, so that we could part without witnesses. I was grateful to her for the affectionate familiarity with which she embraced me. I do not believe there was another society woman in all Venice sufficiently sincere and sympathetic to be willing to repeat the assurance of her love to a man dressed as I was. Tears poured from her eyes when she passed her little white hands over the rough material of my scarlet-lined cape; then she smiled, and, pulling the hood over my head, gazed at me lovingly, and exclaimed that she had never seen me look so handsome, and that she had done very wrong ever to make me dress in any other way. The warmth and sincerity of my thanks, the oaths I took to be faithful to her until death, and never to think of her except to bless her and commend her to God's keeping, touched her deeply. She was not accustomed to being left in that way.

"You have a more chivalrous heart," she said to me, "than any of those who bear the title of chevalier."

Then she gave way to an outburst of enthusiasm: the independence of my nature, the indifference with which I laid aside luxury and indolence for the hardest of lives, the respect with which I had never failed to treat her when it would have been so easy for me to abuse her weakness for me; all this, she said, raised me far above other men. She threw herself into my arms, almost at my feet, and again begged me not to go away, but to marry her.

This outburst was sincere, and, although it did not change my resolution, it made the signora so lovely and so fascinating that I was very near casting my heroism to the winds and taking my reward in that last night for all the sacrifices I had made to my peace of mind. But I had the strength to resist, and to go forth chaste from a love affair which nevertheless had its origin in sensual desire. I took my leave, bathed in her tears, and carrying away, as my sole treasure and trophy, a lock of her lovely fair hair. As I withdrew I went to little Alezia's bed, and softly put aside the curtains to take a last look at her. She at once woke, and did not recognize me at first, for she was frightened; she did not cry out, but simply called her mother in a voice which she tried to keep from trembling.

"Signorina," I said, "I am the Orco,[3] and I have come to ask you why you pierce the hearts of your dolls with pins."

Blue blood, you know, is synonymous with noble in the popular language of Venice.

"Signora mia," I said in an undertone to her mother, as I drew the child's curtains, "you have done well not to splash ink on your azure crest. Here is a little patrician who would never have forgiven you."

"And my heart," she replied sadly, "is pierced, not with a pin, but with a thousand swords."

When I was in the street, I stopped to look at the corner of the palace which stood out in the moonlight from the eaves to the depths of the Grand Canal. A boat passed, and, causing a ripple in the water, cut and scattered the reflection of that pure line. It seemed to me that I had just had a beautiful dream and had awakened in darkness. I began to run at full speed, never looking behind, and did not stop until I reached the Paglia bridge, where the boats for Chioggia await passengers, while the boatmen, wrapped in their capes in winter and summer alike, lie sound asleep on the parapet, and even across the steps, under the feet of passers-by. I asked if anyone of my fellow-townsmen would take me to my father's house.

That word kinsman, which the Venetians ironically bestow on the Chioggians, and which the latter have had the good-sense to accept,[4] was so sweet to my ear that I embraced the first man who called me by it. They promised to start in an hour, and asked me several questions, but did not listen to my answers. The Chioggian hardly knows the use of a bed; but he sleeps while walking, talking, even rowing. They suggested my taking a nap on the common bed, that is to say on the flagstones of the quay. I lay on the ground, with my head on one of those worthy fellows, while another used me as a pillow, and so on. I slept as in the happiest days of my childhood, and I dreamed that my poor mother—who had been dead a year—appeared in the doorway of our cottage and congratulated me on my return. I was awakened by the repeated shouts of Chiosa! Chiosa![5] with which our boatmen wake the echoes of the ducal palace and the prisons, to attract passengers. It seemed to me a cry of triumph, like the Italia! Italia! of the Trojans in the Æneid. I jumped aboard a boat with a light heart, and, thinking of the night Bianca must have passed, reproached myself a little for sleeping soundly. But I was reconciled to myself by the thought that I had not poisoned her future peace of mind.

It was midwinter and the nights were long; we reached Chioggia an hour before dawn. I ran to our cabin. My father was already at sea; only my youngest brother was left behind to look after the house. It took a long while for him to wake up and recognize me. It was easy to see that he was accustomed to sleep amid the roar of the waves and the storm; for I nearly broke the door down trying to make him hear me. At last he came out, leaped on my neck, put on his cape and rowed me half a league out to sea, to the spot where my father's boat lay at anchor. The excellent man, awaiting the best time to set his nets, was asleep, according to the custom of old fishermen, stretched out on his back, his body and face sheltered by a coarse blanket, while the stinging north wind whistled through the rigging. The white-capped waves beat against the vessel and covered him with spray; no human voice could be heard in the vast solitude of the Adriatic. I softly put aside the blanket and looked at him. He was the image of strength in repose. His gray beard, as tangled as the seaweed when the tide is rising, his earth-colored jacket and his dull green woollen cap made him resemble an old Triton asleep in his shell. He displayed no more surprise when he woke than if he had been expecting me.

"Oho!" he said, "I was dreaming of the poor woman, and she said to me: 'Get up, old man, here's our son Daniel back again.'"

SECOND PART

I do not propose, my friends, to describe all the vicissitudes which marked my passage from the beach at Chioggia to the stage of the leading theatres in Italy, and from the trade of fisherman to the rôle of primo tenore; that was the work of several years, and my reputation increased rapidly as soon as I had taken the first step in my career. If circumstances were often unfavorable, my easy-going disposition was always able to make the best of them, and I can fairly say that my great successes did not cost me very dear.

Ten years after leaving Venice, I was at Naples, playing Romeo at the San Carlo theatre. King Murat and his brilliant staff, and all the vain and venal beauties of Italy, were there. I did not pride myself on being a particularly ardent patriot, but I did not share the infatuation of that period for foreign domination. I did not turn my face backward toward a still more degrading past; I fed upon the first elements of Carbonarism, which were then fermenting, without definite shape or name, from Prussia to Sicily.

My heroism was simple and intense, as all religions are at their birth. I carried into all that I did, and especially into my art, the feeling of mocking pride and democratic independence which inspired me every day in the clubs and in clandestine pamphlets. Friends of Truth, Friends of Light, Friends of Liberty—such were the names under which liberal sympathies gathered; and even in the ranks of the French army, at the very side of the victorious leaders, we had associates, children of your great revolution, who, in their secret hearts, were determined to wash away the stain of the 18th Brumaire.

I loved the rôle of Romeo, because I could give expression in it to warlike sentiments and feelings of chivalrous detestation. When my audience, always half French, applauded my dramatic outbursts, I felt as if I were revenged for our national degradation; for those conquerors were unconsciously applauding curses aimed at them, longings for their death and threats to attain it.

One evening, during one of my finest moments, when it seemed as if the roof would fall under the explosions of frantic applause, my eyes fell upon a face in a proscenium box almost on the stage, an impassive face, the sight of which made my blood suddenly run cold. You have no idea of the mysterious influences which govern the actor's inspiration, how the expression of certain faces absorbs him, and stimulates or deadens his audacity. Speaking for myself at least, I cannot avoid an instant sympathy with my audience, whether the effect is to spur me on if I find it inclined to resist, until I subjugate it by my passion, or to melt us into one as by the action of an electric current, so that its quick response imparts new vigor to my sensitive talent. But certain glances, or certain words spoken in whispers close beside me, have sometimes disturbed me so that it required the utmost effort of which my will was capable to combat their effect.

The face that impressed me at that moment was ideally beautiful; its owner was beyond dispute the most beautiful woman in the whole theatre. Meanwhile, the whole audience was roaring and stamping in admiration, and she alone, the queen of the evening, seemed to be studying me dispassionately, and to discover faults which the vulgar eye could not detect. She was the Muse of Tragedy, stern Melpomene in person, with her regular oval face, her black eyebrows, her high forehead, her raven hair, her great eyes gleaming with a dark flame in their vast orbits, and her stern lip, whose unbending curve was never softened by a smile; and, with all the rest, in the very bloom and flower of youth, with a graceful, lithe figure instinct with health.

"Who is that lovely dark girl with such a cold eye?" I asked Count Nasi, during the entr'acte; he had taken a great liking to me, and came on the stage every evening to chat with me.

"She is either the daughter or niece of Princess Grimani," was his reply. "I do not know her, for she has just come from some convent or other, and her mother, or aunt, is herself a stranger in this region. All I can tell you is that Prince Grimani loves her like his own child, that he will give her a handsome dowry, and that she is one of the richest matches in Italy; and yet I shall never take my place in the lists."

"Because they say she is insolent and vain, infatuated with her noble birth, and of an overbearing disposition. I care so little for women of that stamp that I don't even care to look at her when I meet her. They say that she will be queen of the balls next winter, and that her beauty is something marvellous. I don't know or want to know whether it is or is not. I can't endure Grimani either; he is a genuine stage hidalgo; and if it were not that he has a handsome fortune and a young wife who is said to be attractive, I don't know how anyone could be induced to endure the tedium of his conversation or the freezing stiffness of his hospitality."

During the following scene I glanced at the proscenium box from time to time. I was no longer disturbed by the thought that its occupants were disposed to judge me unfavorably, since I had learned that the Grimanis were accustomed to maintain a haughty demeanor even with people whom they considered to belong to their own class. I looked at the girl with the impartiality of a sculptor or a painter; she seemed to me even lovelier than at first sight. Old Grimani, who was sitting beside her at the front of the box, had a fine face, but stern and cold. That supercilious couple seemed to exchange a few monosyllables at long intervals, and at the end of the opera he rose slowly and went out, without waiting for the ballet.

The next day the old man and the young woman were in the same place, in the same unmoved attitude. I did not once see any trace of emotion, and Prince Grimani slept sweetly throughout the first acts. The young woman, on the contrary, seemed to be paying her whole attention to the performance. Her great eyes were fastened on me like those of a ghost, and that fixed, searching and profound gaze became so embarrassing to me that I carefully avoided it. But, as if an evil spell had been cast upon me, the more I tried to keep my eyes away, the more they persisted in meeting those of the young sorceress. There was something so extraordinarily powerful in that mysterious magnetism, that I was assailed by childish dread of it, and feared that I should not be able to finish the opera. I had never felt anything like it. There were times when I fancied that I recognized that marble face, and I seemed to be on the point of accosting her as an old friend. At other times I believed that she was my deadly enemy, my evil genius, and I was tempted to hurl violent reproaches at her.

"Look out, Lelio, you'll catch the fever. That woman in the box will give you the jettatura."[6]

I had been a firm believer in the jettatura during the greater part of my life. I no longer believed in it; but the love of the marvellous, which is not easily dislodged from an Italian head, especially that of a child of the people, had led me to indulge in most extravagant reflections on the subject of animal magnetism. It was the period when charming fancies of that sort were blooming luxuriantly all over the world; Hoffmann was writing his Tales, and magnetism was the mysterious pivot upon which all the hopes of the illuminati turned. Whether because that foible had taken such complete possession of me that it controlled my actions, or because it took me by surprise at a moment when I was not in the best of health, I began to shiver from head to foot, and I nearly fainted when I returned to the stage. That wretched weakness finally gave place to wrath, and as I walked toward the box in question with La Checchina—the seconda donna who had mentioned the evil eye—I said to her, indicating my fair enemy, but in a tone too low to be overheard by the audience, these words paraphrased from one of our finest tragedies:

The signora flushed to the roots of her hair with anger. She started to rouse Prince Grimani, who was sleeping with all his heart; but she suddenly stopped, as if she had changed her mind, and kept her eyes fixed upon me as before, but with a vindictive, threatening expression which seemed to say:

"Am I bewitched, in God's name," I cried, "and why is it that I cannot rid myself of that apparition?"

"You won't rid yourself of it for a long time either, poor boy," said Checchina, with a half-artless, half-mocking air; "that Grimani is the devil. Wait a moment," she added, taking my arm, "I know something about fever, and I will wager—Corpo della Madonna!"—she cried, turning pale, "you have a terrible attack of fever, my poor Lelio!"

"One always has the fever when one acts and sings in a way to give it to others," said the count; "come to supper with me, Lelio."

I declined; I was ill, in very truth. During the night I had a violent fever, and the next day I could not leave my bed. Checchina installed herself at my bedside and did not leave me all the time that I was ill.

Checchina was a young woman of twenty or thereabout, tall and large, and of a somewhat masculine type of beauty, although very white and fair. She was my sister and my kinswoman, that is to say, she came from Chioggia. Like me she was a fisherman's child and had long employed her strength beating the waters of the Adriatic with oars. A wild love of independence led her to use her fine voice as a means of assuring herself a free profession and a wandering life. She had run away from her father's house and begun to roam about the country on foot, singing in the public squares. I chanced to meet her at Milan, in a furnished lodging-house where she was singing for the guests at the table d'hôte. I recognized her as a Chioggian by her accent; I questioned her and remembered seeing her as a child; but I was careful to say nothing by which she could identify me as a kinsman, especially as that Daniele Gemello who had left the neighborhood rather suddenly, as the result of an unlucky duel. That duel cost a poor devil his life and his murderer many sleepless nights.

Allow me to pass rapidly over that incident, and to avoid awakening a bitter memory during our quiet evening. It will be enough for me to say to Zorzi that the practice of duelling with knives was still in full vigor at Chioggia in my youth, and the whole population acted as seconds. Duels were fought in broad daylight, on the public square, and insults were avenged by the wager of combat, as in the days of chivalry. My melancholy success exiled me from the province! for the podestat was far from lenient in such matters, and the law inflicted severe penalties upon the last remnants of those savage old customs. Perhaps this will explain why I always concealed the story of my early years, and why I travelled over the world under the name of Lelio, sending money secretly to my family, writing to them with the greatest caution, and disclosing to no one, not even to them, my means of subsistence, for fear that, by corresponding with me they might draw upon themselves the open hostility of those families in Chioggia whom the death of my assailant had angered more or less.

But, as my origin was betrayed by an ineradicable trace of the Venetian accent, I passed myself off as a native of Palestrina, and Checchina had adopted the habit of calling me her countryman, her cousin or her gossip, as it happened.

Thanks to my care and my assistance, Checchina rapidly acquired considerable talent, and at the time of my life of which I am now speaking, she had been engaged on honorable terms as a member of the troupe at San Carlo.

She was a strange but most excellent creature, was Checchina; she had improved wonderfully since I had picked her out of the gutter, so to speak; but she still retained, and retains to this day, a certain rusticity which does not altogether disappear on the stage, and which makes her the first actress in the world in such rôles as Zerlina. She had corrected in large measure the amplitude of her gestures and the abruptness of her speech, but she retained enough of both to come very near being comic in pathetic parts. However, as she had intelligence and feeling, she raised herself to a relatively high position, but the public did not give her all the credit she deserved. Opinions were divided concerning her, and a certain abbé said that she brushed so close to the sublime and the farcical that there was not enough room left between the two for her long arms.

Unluckily, Checchina had one failing, from which, by the way, the greatest artists are not exempt. She satisfied herself only in rôles which were entirely unsuited to her, and, scorning those in which she could best display her verve, her unconstant and her restless activity, she insisted upon producing great effects in tragedy. Like a true village maiden, she was intoxicated by superb costumes, and fancied that she was really a queen when she wore a diadem and a royal cloak. Her tall, lithe figure, her graceful, quasi-martial bearing, made of her a magnificent statue when she was not in motion. But her exaggerated gestures constantly betrayed the young oarswoman, and when I desired, on the stage, to warn her to be less vehement, I would whisper: "Per dio! non vogar! non siamo qui sull' Adriatico."[7]

Whether Checchina was my mistress is a question of little interest to you, I presume. I can only assure you that she was not at the time of which I am speaking, and that I was indebted for her affectionate care to nothing else than the kindness of her heart and her unfailing gratitude. She has always been a devoted sister and friend to me, and many a time she has risked a rupture with her most brilliant lovers, rather than desert me or neglect me when my health or my interests demanded her zealous care or her aid.

As I was saying, she took up her post at my bedside, and did not leave me until she had cured me. Her tireless devotion to me vexed Count Nasi somewhat, although he was my friend and placed full confidence in my word; but he himself confessed to me what he called his miserable weakness. When I urged Checchina to deal more gently with that excellent young man's involuntary sensitiveness, she would say:

"Nonsense! Don't you see that I must train him to respect my independence? Do you suppose that, when I am his wife, I will consent to abandon my stage friends and worry about what people in society think of me? Don't believe it, Lelio. I propose to remain free, and to obey the voice of my heart and nothing else."

She had persuaded herself, with none too good reason, that the count was fully determined to marry her; and I may say that she possessed, to a marvellous degree, the gift of deluding herself with respect to the violence of the passions she inspired; nothing could equal her confidence in a promise, unless it were her philosophical and heroic indifference when she was deceived.

I suffered considerably; my disease came very near assuming a serious character. The doctors found a very pronounced tendency to enlargement of the heart, and the very sharp pains which I felt about that organ and the excessive rush of blood thither necessitated numerous bleedings. So that I lost the rest of that season, and, as soon as I was convalescent, I went for rest and balmy air to a beautiful villa of Count Nasi's, a few leagues from Florence, near Cafaggiolo, at the foot of the Apennines. He promised to join me there with Checchina as soon as the performances for which she was engaged would allow her to leave Naples.

A few days of that delightful solitude benefited me so much that I was allowed to take excursions of some length, sometimes in the saddle, sometimes on foot, through the narrow gorges and picturesque ravines which form a first step to the towering masses of the Apennines. In my musing I called that region the proscenium of the great range, and I loved to seek out some amphitheatre of hills or some natural terrace where, all alone and far from every eye, I could indulge in outbursts of lyric declamation, which were answered by the resonant echoes or the mysterious murmur of the streams flowing under the rocks.

One day I unexpectedly found myself on the Florence road. Like a glistening white ribbon it ran through a verdant, gently undulating country, strewn with beautiful gardens, wooded parks and handsome villas. Seeking to learn my whereabouts, I stopped at the gate of one of those charming abodes. The gate was open, and I could see an avenue of old trees mysteriously intertwined. Beneath those dark, voluptuously enlaced branches a woman was walking slowly—a woman of slender form and a bearing so noble that I paused to gaze at her and follow her with my eyes as long as possible. As she showed no inclination to turn, I was seized with an irresistible longing to see her features, and I yielded to it, heedless of the fact that I was violating the proprieties, and might be subjected to a humiliating rebuff.

"Who can say," I said to myself, "women are so indulgent sometimes in this mild climate of ours!"

Moreover, I reasoned that my face was too well known for me ever to be taken for a robber; and, lastly, I relied to some extent on the curiosity which the great majority of people feel to obtain a near view of the features and manners of an artist of some celebrity.

So I ventured into the shady avenue, walking rapidly, and was just about to overtake the solitary promenader, when I saw coming toward her a young man dressed in the latest fashion, and with a pretty, insipid face, who caught sight of me before I had time to jump in among the trees. I was within three yards of the noble pair. The young man stopped beside the lady, offered her his arm, and said to her, glancing at me with the most surprised air of which a perfectly attired man is capable:

The lady turned, and the sight of her gave me such a shock that for a moment I was in danger of a relapse. My heart gave a sharp, nervous throb as I recognized the young woman who stared at me in such a curious way from her proscenium box at the time I was taken ill at Naples. Her face flushed slightly, then lost its color. But no gesture, no exclamation betrayed either surprise or anger. She eyed me from head to foot with calm disdain, and replied with incredible audacity:

That extraordinary statement aroused my curiosity. It seemed to me that I could detect in that girl such consummate dissimulation and such a strange sort of pride that I suddenly felt irresistibly impelled to take the risk of a mad adventure. We Bohemians do not allow ourselves to be awed overmuch by the customs of society and the laws of propriety; we have no great fear of being ejected from those private theatres where society takes its turn at posing before us, and where we feel so strongly the superiority of the artist; for there no one can arouse in us the intense emotions which we have the art of arousing. Salons bore us to death and chill our blood, in return for the warmth and life that we carry thither. So I approached my noble hosts with a dignified air, caring very little about the manner of their reception of me, and determined to take the first convenient pretext for obtaining admission to the house.

I bowed gravely and represented myself as a piano-tuner who had been sent for to Florence from a country-house, the name of which I pretended to remember imperfectly.

"This is not the place. You may quit this place," replied the signora, coldly. But, like a true fiancé, the cousin came to my assistance.

"My dear cousin," he said, "your piano is terribly out of tune; if this man could spare an hour, we might have some music this evening. I beg you to let him tune it, won't you?"

"Does she propose to amuse herself at my expense or his?" I thought. "Perhaps both."

I bowed slightly to signify my consent. Thereupon the cousin, with careless courtesy, pointed out to me a glass door at the end of the avenue, where the branches, drooping lower and lower until they formed a sort of arbor, concealed the front of the villa.

"At the end of the large salon, signor," he said, "you will find a study. The piano is there. I shall have the honor to see you again when you have finished. Shall we walk as far as the pond?" he added, turning to his cousin.

I saw her smile again, almost imperceptibly, but with the keenest delight at the mortification that I felt, while she let me go in one direction and continued her stroll in the other, leaning on the arm of her elegant and aristocratic cousin.

It is not a very difficult matter to put a piano almost in tune, and although I had never tried before, I succeeded very well; but I spent much more time about it than an experienced hand would have required, and I watched with some impatience the sun sinking behind the treetops; for I had no other pretext for another interview with my singular heroine than to hear her try the piano when it was in tune. So I worked away awkwardly enough, and was in the midst of a monotonous drumming with which I was almost deafening myself, when I raised my head and saw the signora before me, half turned toward the fireplace, but watching me in the mirror with malicious intentness. To meet her sidelong glance and turn my eyes away was a matter of a second. I continued my work with the utmost coolness, resolved to watch the enemy and see what she was driving at.

La Grimani—I continued to give her that name in my mind, knowing no other—made a pretence of arranging some flowers in the vases on the mantel with great care; then she moved a chair, moved it back to the place where it was before, dropped her fan, picked it up with a great rustling of her skirts, opened a window, and instantly closed it again, then, seeing that I was determined not to notice anything, she adopted the extreme course of dropping a stool on her pretty little foot and uttering a cry of pain. I was stupid enough to drop the key on the metallic strings, which emitted a piteous wail. The signora started, shrugged her shoulders, and, suddenly recovering all her self-possession, as if we were acting a scene in a burlesque, she looked me in the face and said:

"I thought that your ladyship spoke to me," I replied, with no less tranquillity, and resumed my work. She remained standing in the middle of the room as if petrified by amazement in the face of such audacity, or as if brought to a standstill by a sudden doubt as to my identity with the person whom she had thought that she recognized. At last she lost patience, and asked me, almost roughly, if I had nearly finished.

"Oh! bless my soul, no! signora," I replied; "here is a broken string, you see." As I spoke I gave the key a sharp twist on the pin I was turning, and broke the string.

"It seems to me," said she, "that this piano is giving you a great deal of trouble."

"A great deal," I rejoined, "the strings keep breaking." And I snapped a second one.

The cousin entered at that moment, and I snapped a third string by way of salute. It was one of the lower bass strings, and it made a terrible report. The cousin, who was not expecting it, stepped back, and the signora laughed aloud. That laugh had a strange sound to me. It was not in harmony with her face or her manner; it was harsh and spasmodic, and disconcerted the cousin so that I almost pitied him.

"I am very much afraid," she said, when that nervous paroxysm came to an end and she was able to speak, "I am very much afraid that we cannot have any music to-night. This poor old cembalo is bewitched, all the strings are breaking. It is really supernatural, I assure you, Hector; if you so much as look at them they twist and snap with a horrible noise."

With that she began to laugh again, peal upon peal, without the slightest trace of merriment on her face. The cousin laughed because she did, but was abruptly checked by these words from her:

"For heaven's sake, cousin, don't laugh; you haven't the slightest inclination to."

The cousin seemed to me to be well used to being laughed at and teased. But he was hurt, no doubt, to be treated so in my presence; for he said in an irritated tone:

"Because I say that you are not," she replied. "But tell me, Hector," she added, abruptly changing the subject, "were you at San Carlo last year?"

She said these last words with significant emphasis; but she had not the impudence to look me in the face immediately, and I had time to recover from the emotion caused me by that blow full in the face.

"I neither heard him nor saw him," said the guileless cousin, "but I heard a great dea! about him. He's a great artist, so I understand."

"Very great," replied La Grimani, "a full head taller than you. See! he is about this gentleman's height.—Do you know him, signor?" she added, turning to me.

"I know him very well, signora," I replied tartly; "he is a very handsome fellow, a very great actor, an admirable singer, a very clever talker, a bold and spirited adventurer, and, furthermore, a fearless duellist, which is not amiss."

The signora looked at her cousin, then glanced at me, with an indifferent air, as if to say: "It's of little consequence to me." Then she went off into another paroxysm of inextinguishable laughter, which was altogether unnatural, and in which neither her cousin nor myself joined. I returned to my pursuit of the dominant chord on the keyboard, and Signor Ettore moved about impatiently, making his new boots squeak on the floor, as if he were utterly disgusted with the conversation being carried on between a mere workman like myself and his noble fiancée.

"Look you, cousin, you mustn't believe what he says about Lelio," observed the signora, abruptly ceasing her convulsive laughter. "So far as the man's great beauty is concerned, I cannot contradict him for I didn't look at him; and, besides, an actor can always appear young and handsome with his paint and his false hair and moustaches. But as to his being an admirable singer and a good actor, that I deny. In the first place he sings false, in the second place he acts detestably. His declamation is too loud, his gestures commonplace, the expression of his features stiff and conventional. When he weeps, he makes wry faces; when he threatens, he roars; when he is majestic, he is tedious; and, in his best moments, when he holds himself back and doesn't speak, one might apply to him the refrain of the ballad:

I am sorry to disagree with this gentleman; but my opinion is the opinion of the public! It isn't my fault that Lelio didn't have the slightest success at San Carlo, and I don't advise you to take the journey to Naples to see him, cousin."

Having received this stinging lesson, for a moment I was on the verge of losing my head and picking a quarrel with the cousin to punish the signora; but the excellent youth did not give me time.

"That is just like a woman," he cried, "and above all things just like one of your inconceivable whims, cousin! Not more than three days ago, you told me that Lelio was the finest actor and the most incomparable singer in all Italy. I have no doubt that you will say to-morrow just the opposite of what you say to-day, with the privilege of taking it all back again the next day."

"To-morrow and the day after to-morrow and every day of my life, my dear cousin," the signora hurriedly interposed, "I will tell you that you are a fool and Lelio an idiot."

"Brava, signora," rejoined the cousin in an undertone, offering her his arm to leave the salon; "he who loves you is a fool, and he who displeases you an idiot."

"Before your lordship and ladyship retire," I said, without the slightest symptom of emotion, "I will call your attention to the fact that this piano is in such a bad condition that I cannot possibly repair it properly in one day. I am obliged to go now; but if such is your wish, I will return to-morrow."

"Certainly, signor," replied the cousin, with patronizing politeness, half turning toward me; "you will oblige me if you will return to-morrow."

La Grimani, stopping him with a sudden and energetic motion of her head, forced him to turn wholly around, and as she stood in the doorway, leaning on his arm and eyeing me with an air of defiance, she said, as she saw me close the piano and take my hat:

She continued to detain her cousin in the doorway, so that I was obliged to pass in front of them in order to go out; and, as I did so, I bowed again and looked my Bradamante in the eye with an assurance befitting the combat upon which we had entered. A gleam of undaunted courage flashed from her eyes. Therein I read distinctly that my boldness did not displease her, and that the lists were not closed to me.

So I was at my post before noon the next day, and found my heroine at hers, seated at the piano and touching the silent or jangling keys with admirable indifference, as if she desired to prove to me by those diabolical discords her detestation and contempt for music.

I entered calmly and saluted her with as much respectful indifference as if I were in reality a piano-tuner. I placed my hat carelessly on a chair, I laboriously drew off my gloves, imitating the awkwardness of a man unused to wearing them. I took from my pocket a wooden box filled with spools of wire, and began to unwind enough for one string—all with the utmost gravity and without affectation. The signora continued to pound the hapless piano in unmerciful fashion, although the sounds she produced were of a nature to put to flight the most hardened savages. I at once saw that she was amusing herself by destroying its tone and breaking it more and more, in order to provide work for me, and I detected more coquetry than cruelty in that devilment; for she seemed disposed to remain with me.

Thereupon I said to her with a perfectly serious face: "Does your ladyship think that the piano begins to be in tune?"

"The harmony is satisfactory to me," she said, biting her lips to keep from laughing, "and the sounds it gives forth are extremely pleasant to the ear."

"Is it not? How could one help playing well on an instrument in such perfect tune? You love music, signor?"

"In that case I will continue." And she proceeded, with a fiendish smile, to murder one of the bravura airs she had heard me sing with the greatest applause on the stage.

She rose and rang. A servant appeared instantly, as if he were a piece of machinery set in motion by the bell-rope.

"Bring the game-pie that I saw in the pantry this morning," said the signora; and two minutes later the servant reappeared with an enormous pie, which he majestically placed on the piano at a sign from his mistress. A large salver, covered with dishes and all the accessories necessary for the refreshment of civilized beings, appeared as if by magic on the other side of the instrument, and the signora, with a strong but light touch, broke through the rampart of appetizing crust and made a large breach in the fortress.

"This is a conquest in which our lords and masters the French shall have no share," she said, taking possession of a partridge which she placed on a Japanese plate; and she went with it to the other end of the room, where she squatted upon a velvet hassock with gold tassels, and proceeded to devour it.

I gazed at her in amazement, uncertain whether she was mad or was trying to mystify me.

The pie had such an alluring look and such a delicious odor that I listened to the philosophical arguments of common sense. I placed another partridge on another Japanese plate, which I rested on the keyboard of the piano, and began to eat with as much gusto as the signora.

"If this is not the castle of the Sleeping Beauty," I thought, "and if this cruel fairy is not the only living being in it, we shall soon see an uncle or a father or an aunt or a governess, or somebody who is supposed, in the eyes of honest folk, to serve as chaperon to this untamed creature. In case of any such apparition, I should like to know just how far this eccentric fashion of breakfasting on a piano, tête-à-tête with the young lady of the house, will be considered seemly. It matters little after all; I must find out just where these extravagant whims are likely to carry me, and if there is a woman's spite behind them, I will have my turn if I have to wait ten years."

As I reflected thus I watched my fair hostess over the piano. She was eating with superhuman appetite, and seemed to be in no wise possessed by the idiotic mania which young ladies have of eating only in secret, and pressing their lips together at table with a sentimental air, as if they were of a nature superior to ours. Lord Byron had not yet introduced the fashion of lack of appetite among the fair sex. So that my capricious signora abandoned herself with all her heart to the enjoyment of feasting, and in a few moments she returned to me and took a fillet of hare and a pheasant's wing from the dismantled pie. She looked at me without a smile, and said sententiously: "This east wind gives me an appetite."

"It seems that your ladyship is blessed with an excellent digestive apparatus," I observed.

"If one had not a good stomach at fifteen," she replied, "it would be as well to throw up the sponge."

"Fifteen years and two months," she replied, returning to her hassock with her freshly-filled plate; "my mother is not yet thirty-two, and she married again last year. Tell me, isn't it strange that a mother should marry before her daughter? To be sure, if my darling little mother had chosen to wait for me to be married, she would have had to wait a long while. Who would ever marry a girl who, although she is beautiful, is stupid beyond anything one can imagine?"

There was so much merriment and good-humor in the serious air with which she made fun of me; she was such a pretty loustig, that tall girl with the black eyes and the long curls falling over a neck as white as alabaster; her manner of sitting on her cushion was so graceful yet so chaste in its perfect naturalness, that all my suspicion and all my evil designs vanished. I had determined to empty the decanter of wine in order to put my scruples to sleep. I pushed the decanter away, and, having satisfied my appetite, rested my elbow on the piano and began to study her anew, and under a new aspect. That revelation as to her age had thrown all my ideas into confusion. When I have desired to form an opinion concerning a person, especially one of the fair sex, I have always considered it a matter of the utmost importance to ascertain that person's age as nearly as possible. Subtlety increases so rapidly in women that six months more or less often make the difference between the innocence which is deviltry and the deviltry which is innocence. Until then I had imagined that La Grimani was at least twenty years old. She was so tall and strong and dark, and there was so much self-assurance in her glance, in her bearing, in her every movement, that everybody made the same mistake at first sight. But on examining her more closely I realized my error. Her shoulders were broad and powerful, but her breast was still undeveloped. Although her whole attitude was womanly there were certain little ways and certain expressions of the face which revealed the child. Nothing more was needed than that hearty appetite, that total absence of coquetry, and the audacious impropriety of the tête-à-tête she had arranged to have with me, to make it clear to my eyes that I had to do, not as I had supposed at first, with a proud and crafty woman of the world, but with a mischievous boarding-school girl, and I thrust aside with horror the idea of abusing her imprudence.

I remained for a long while absorbed in this scrutiny, forgetting to reply to the significant challenge I had received. She looked at me earnestly, and I no longer thought of avoiding her glance, but of analyzing it. She had the loveliest eyes in the world, flush with her face, and very wide open; their glance was always sharp and direct, and grasped its object instantly. It was imperious but not overbearing, a very rare thing in a woman. It was the revelation and the expression of a fearless, proud, and sincere mind. It questioned all things with an air of authority, and seemed to say: "Conceal nothing from me: for I have nothing to conceal from anybody."

When she saw that I did not shrink from her gaze, she was startled but not frightened; and, rising abruptly, she invited the explanation which I desired to propose.

"Signor Lelio," she said, "if you have finished your breakfast, you will kindly tell me why you came here."

"I will obey you, signora," I replied, picking up her plate and glass, which she had left on the floor, and carrying them back to the piano; "but I beg your ladyship to tell me whether the piano-tuner shall answer you sitting at the instrument, or whether the actor Lelio shall stand before you, hat in hand, ready to retire after he has had the honor to talk with you."

"Signor Lelio will kindly sit in this chair," she said, pointing to one on the right hand of the fire-place, "and I in this," she added, taking her seat on the left side, facing me and about ten feet away.

"Signora," I said, as I sat down, "in order to obey you I must go back a little. About two months ago I was playing in Romeo and Juliet at San Carlo. There was in one of the proscenium boxes——"

"I can refresh your memory," interposed La Grimani. "There was in one of the proscenium boxes on the right of the stage a young woman whom you considered beautiful; but on looking at her more closely, it seemed to you that her face was so devoid of expression that you shouted to one of the ladies on the stage, loud enough to be overheard by the young woman in question——"

"In heaven's name! signora," I interrupted, "do not repeat the words that escaped from me in my delirium, and let me tell you that I am subject to attacks of nervous irritation which make me almost insane. When I am in that condition everything offends me, everything causes me intense suffering——"

"I do not ask why it was your pleasure to announce so concisely your judgment of the young woman in the box; I simply ask you for the rest of the story."

"In order to be perfectly truthful and coherent, I must insist upon the prologue. Under the influence of a first attack of fever, the beginning of a serious illness from which I have hardly recovered, I fancied that I could read profound contempt and frigid irony on the incomparably lovely face of the young lady in the proscenium box. I was annoyed at first, then seriously disturbed, and at last completely upset, so that I lost my head and yielded to a brutal impulse in order to put an end to the fatal spell which benumbed all my faculties and paralyzed me at the most powerful and most important part of my rôle. Your ladyship must forgive me for an act of madness; I believe in magnetism, especially on those days when I am ill and when my brain is as weak as my legs. I fancied that the young lady in the box had an injurious influence over me; and during the cruel disease which took full possession of me on the day following my offence, I will confess that she often appeared in my delirium; but always haughty, always threatening, and promising me that I should pay dearly for the blasphemy that fell from my lips. Such, signora, is the first part of my story."

I made ready my shield to ward off a volley of epigrams by way of comment on this strange tale, which, although true, was most improbable, I must confess. But the young Grimani, gazing at me with a gentleness which I had no idea could be found in conjunction with her type of beauty, said to me, leaning a little heavily on the arm of her chair:

"Your face does in truth show signs of great suffering, Signor Lelio; and if I must confess the whole truth, when I recognized you yesterday, I said to myself that I must have observed you very carelessly on the stage; for you seemed to me then ten years younger; but to-day you seem no older than you did on the stage; but still I think that you look ill, and I am very, very sorry that I caused you any irritation."

I involuntarily moved my chair nearer to hers; whereupon she at once resumed her mocking and capricious tone.

"Let us pass to the second part of your story, Signor Lelio," she said, playing with her fan, "and be kind enough to tell me why, instead of avoiding the person the sight of whom is so hateful and prejudicial to you, you have come as far as this in pursuit of her."

"At this point the author finds himself in an embarrassing position," I replied, pushing back my chair, which moved very easily at the slightest turn in the conversation. "Shall I tell you that chance alone led me here? If I do, will your ladyship believe it? and if I say that it was not chance, will your ladyship tolerate such impertinence?"

"It matters very little to me," she rejoined, "whether it is chance, or magnetic attraction, as you will say, perhaps, that brings you to this neighborhood; I simply desire to know by what chance you became a piano-tuner?"

"The chance of inspiration, signora; a pretext to obtain admission to this house was all that I wanted."

"I will answer frankly if your ladyship will deign first to tell me what chance induced you to admit me, although you recognized me at the first glance?"

"The chance of caprice, Signor Lelio. I was bored to death here, alone with my cousin, or with a pious old aunt whom I hardly know; and while one is hunting and the other at church, I thought that I might venture to enliven by a mad freak the ghastly solitude in which I am left to pine away."

Once more my chair of its own motion approached hers, but I hesitated to take her hand. At that moment she seemed to me decidedly forward. There are some girls who are born women, and who are corrupt before they have lost their innocence.

"She is a child, beyond doubt," I thought, "but a child who is tired of being one, and I should be a great fool not to reply to allurements resorted to so coolly and boldly. Faith! I am sorry for the cousin! Why does he care more for hunting than for his kinswoman?"

But the signora paid no heed to the agitation that had laid hold of me. "Now the farce is at an end," she continued; "we have eaten my cousin's game and I have talked with an actor. I have fooled my aunt and my future spouse. Last week my cousin was furious because I praised you with what he considered too great warmth. Now, when he mentions you to me, and when my aunt says that the actors are all excommunicated in France, I will look at the floor with a modest and beatific expression, and laugh in my sleeve to think that I know Signor Lelio, and that I breakfasted with him, in this very room, without anyone's suspecting it. But now, Signor Lelio, you must tell me why you chose to obtain admission to this house by playing a false rôle?"

"Forgive me, signora—you just now said something which touched me deeply. You said, did you not, that you praised me last week with great warmth?"

"Since you are so frank with me, signora," I rejoined, "I will be equally frank with your ladyship. I sought admission to this house with the intention of atoning for my crime and humbly imploring the forgiveness of the divine beauty I blasphemed."

As I spoke, I slipped from my chair, and knelt at La Grimani's feet, and was very near taking possession of her lovely hands. She did not seem greatly moved by my action; but I saw that, to conceal a slight embarrassment, she pretended to be examining the Chinese mandarins whose gowns of purple and gold gleamed resplendent on her fan.

"Really, signor," she said, without looking at me, "you are very good to think that you owe me an apology. In the first place, if I have a stupid look, you are not at all to blame for noticing it; in the second place, if I have not, it is a matter of absolute indifference to me whether or not you are persuaded that I have."

"I swear by all the gods, and particularly by Apollo, that I said what I did only because I was angry or mad, or it may be because of a very different sentiment, which was then but just born and was already sowing confusion in my mind. I saw that you considered me detestable, and that you were not inclined to be at all indulgent to me; could I tranquilly resign myself to lose the only approbation which it would have been sweet and glorious for me to obtain? In a word, signora, I am here; I discovered your abode, and though I barely knew your name, I sought you, pursued you, and reached you in spite of distance and obstacles. I am here at your feet. Do you think that I would have surmounted such difficulties if I had not been tortured by remorse, not because of you, who justly disdain to consider the effect of your charms on a poor player like myself; but because of God, whose fairest work I insulted and undervalued?"

While I was speaking, I ventured to take one of her hands; but she suddenly sprang to her feet, saying:

Indeed, I had barely time to run to the piano and open it before Signor Ettore Grimani, in hunting costume and gun in hand, entered the room and deposited his well-filled game-bag at his cousin's feet.

"Oh! don't come so near me," said the signora; "you are horribly dirty, and all those bleeding creatures make me sick. Oh! Hector, go away, I beg, and take all these nasty great dogs with you; they smell of mud and soil the floor."

The cousin was fain to be content with that outburst of gratitude, and to go to his room and perfume himself at his leisure. But he had no sooner gone out than a sort of duenna appeared and informed the signora that her aunt had returned and wished to see her.

"I will go," La Grimani replied; "and do you, signor," she said, turning to me, "take this key away with you, as it is broken, and glue it firmly. You must bring it back to-morrow, and finish replacing the missing strings. I can count on you, signor? You will be sure to come?"

"Yes, signora, you may rely upon it," I replied; and I took my leave, carrying away the wrong key, which was not broken.

I was on hand promptly on the following day. But do not think, my friends, that I was in love with that young person; the utmost that can be said is that she attracted me. She was extremely lovely; but I saw her beauty with the eyes of the body, I did not feel it through the eyes of the soul; if, from time to time, I was on the point of falling in love with that childish petulance, my doubts soon returned, and I said to myself that a girl who lied so coolly to her cousin and her governess might well have lied to me; that, perhaps, she was twenty years old or more, as I had thought at first; and that it was quite likely that she had indulged in some previous escapades for which she had been secluded in that dull villa, with no other society than a pious old woman whose duty it was to scold her, and an excellent young cousin predestined to take upon his back, in his guilelessness, all her errors, past, present and to come.

I found her in the salon with the dear cousin and three or four hunting dogs, who came very near devouring me. The signora, who was nothing if not capricious, honored those noble beasts with very different treatment from that of the day before, and although they were hardly less dirty and disagreeable, she obligingly allowed them to lie, one by one, or all in a heap, on a large sofa of red velvet with gold fringe. From time to time she sat down in the midst of them, petting some and playfully teasing others.

Before long, I concluded that this revulsion of feeling toward the dogs was a bit of affectionate coquetry addressed to her cousin; for the fair-haired Signor Ettore seemed greatly flattered by it, and I don't know which he loved best, his cousin or his dogs.

She was bewilderingly vivacious, and she seemed to be keyed up to such a high pitch, the glances that she bestowed upon me in the mirror were so keen-edged, that I longed for the cousin's departure. And he did leave the room before long. The signora gave him an errand to do. She had to ask him several times, but he finally obeyed an imperious glance, accompanied by a: "Don't you propose to go?" uttered in a tone which he seemed altogether incapable of defying.

He had no sooner disappeared than I turned away from the piano and rose, looking in the signora's eyes to see whether I should go to her or wait for her to come to me. She, too, was standing, and seemed to be trying to read in my face what I was likely to do. But she gave me little encouragement, and as I fancied that her lips were partly open to give me a harsh lesson if I should be unlucky enough to lose my wits in that perilous engagement, I began to feel somewhat disturbed inwardly. I do not know why it was that that exchange of glances, at once alluring and distrustful, that effervescence of our whole being which kept us both as motionless as statues, that alternation of audacity and fear which paralyzed me at what was perhaps the decisive moment of my adventure, and even La Grimani's black velvet gown, and the bright sunlight which shone into the room through the dark curtains and expired in a fantastic blending of light and shadow at our feet—the hour, the burning atmosphere, and the restrained beating of my heart—all combined to bring vividly to my mind an analogous scene of my youth: Signora Bianca Aldini, in the shadow of her gondola, enchaining with a magnetic glance one of my feet on the shore of the Lido, the other on the boat. I felt the same mental bewilderment, the same inward agitation, the same desire, ready to give place to the same wrath. "Can it be," I thought, "that it was self-esteem that made me desire Bianca then, or is it love that makes me desire La Grimani to-day?"

It was not possible for me to rush forth into the fields, singing recklessly, as I had on that former occasion leaped ashore on the Lido, to revenge myself for a bit of innocent coquetry. There was no other course for me to adopt than to resume my seat, no other way for me to revenge myself than to begin again on the major fifth: A-mi-la-E-si-mi.

I must admit that that method of venting my spite could not afford me a signal triumph. An imperceptible smile fluttered about the corners of the signora's mouth when I bent my legs to sit down, and it seemed to me that I could read these pleasant words on her face: "Lelio you are a child."—But, when I abruptly rose again, ready to hurl the piano across the room and fly to her feet, I plainly read these terrible words in her black eye: "Signor, you are a madman."

"Signora Aldini," I reflected, "was twenty-two years old, I was fifteen or sixteen; now I am more than twenty-two. That Bianca should govern me absolutely was natural enough, but it is not natural that I should be made a fool of by this girl. So I must be cool."

"Excuse me, signora, if I look at the clock. I cannot stay long, and this piano seems to be in sufficiently good condition for me to go about my business."

"In good condition!" she replied with unmistakable irritation. "You have put it in such good condition that I am afraid I can never play on it as long as I live. I am very angry about it. You undertook to tune it; you must do it, Signor Lelio, for your own reputation."

"Signora," I replied, "I care no more about tuning this piano than you do about playing on it. I obeyed your command to return, in order not to compromise you by putting an end to this pretence too suddenly. But your ladyship must understand that the jest cannot be prolonged forever; that by the third day it ceases to be amusing except to you, and that on the fourth it would be a little dangerous to me. I am neither so wealthy nor so renowned that I can afford to waste time. Will not your ladyship allow me to retire in a few moments; then a genuine tuner will come this afternoon and finish my work, saying that I am ill and have sent him in my place. I can find a substitute who will be grateful to me for providing him with a new customer, all without betraying our little secret, and without making myself known."

The signora did not say a word in reply; but she turned as pale as death, and again I felt that I was beaten. The cousin returned. I could not restrain a gesture of annoyance. The signora noticed it, and again she triumphed; and again, seeing that I did not propose to go, she amused herself by playing upon my inward agitation.

She became very rosy and animated once more. She plied her cousin with cajoleries which were so close to the line between affection and irony that soon neither he nor I knew what to think. Then she suddenly turned her back on him, and, coming to my side, requested me, in a low tone and with a mysterious air, to keep the piano a quarter of a tone below the pitch, because she had a contralto voice. Whom was she trying to impose upon—her cousin or myself—by telling me that great secret as if it were a matter of such importance? I was on the point of going up to Hector and shaking hands with him, for we seemed to me to cut an equally foolish and laughable figure. But I saw that the excellent youth attached more importance to the matter than I did, and he cast a sidelong glance at me with such a profound and crafty expression, that I had much difficulty in refraining from laughter. I answered La Grimani, under my breath and with a still more confidential air:

"I have anticipated your wishes, signora, and the piano is just in tune with the orchestra at San Carlo, where they lowered the pitch last season because of my cold."

Thereupon, the signora took her cousin's arm with a theatrical gesture, and hurriedly led him into the garden. As they walked back and forth in front of the house, and I could see their shadows on the curtain, I took my stand behind the curtain and listened to their conversation.

"That is exactly what I wanted to say to you, my dear cousin," the signora was saying. "This man has a strange, terrifying face; he has no idea what a piano is, and he will never finish tuning it. You will see! He is a mere adventurer, mark my words. We must keep our eyes on him, and do you hold your watch in your hand when he comes near you. I would take my oath that when I leaned over the piano, unsuspectingly, to tell him to lower the pitch, he put out his hand to steal my gold chain."

"Nonsense! you are joking, cousin! It is impossible that a thief should be so bold. That isn't what I want to say to you at all, and you pretend not to understand me."

"I pretend, Hector? You accuse me of pretending? I pretend! Come, tell me if you really think you are worth the trouble it would give me to make up a falsehood?"

"This severity is quite useless, cousin. It seems at all events that I am worth the trouble of seeking an opportunity to make humiliating speeches to me."

"But what are you talking about, I would ask, cousin? And why do you say that this man——"

"I say that this man is not a piano-tuner, that he is not tuning your piano, that he never tuned a piano in his life. I say that he never takes his eye off you, that he watches your every movement, that he breathes in every word you speak. I say that he must have seen you somewhere, at Naples or Florence, at the theatre or driving, and that he fell in love with you."

"And gained admittance here, in disguise, to see me, and perhaps to seduce me, the scoundrel, the villain!"

Having said thus much with great vehemence, the signora threw herself back on a bench, laughing uproariously. As I saw the cousin stalking toward the door of the salon, apparently in a furious passion, I returned to my post, and, arming myself with my tuning hammer, resolved to strike him down with it if he should attempt to insult me; for I had already set him down as one of the men who arrange matters so as to avoid fighting, and who call their servants when one challenges them within hearing of the antechamber.

"He will fall dead before he pulls that bell-rope," I thought, as I grasped the hammer and cast a rapid glance about me. But my adventure did not long retain this dramatic aspect. I saw the signora and her cousin, arm-in-arm once more, walking on the terrace, and pausing from time to time at the half-open glass door to look at me, she with a mocking, he with an embarrassed air. I no longer knew what they were saying to each other, and my wrath rose higher and higher in my throat.

Suddenly a pretty soubrette joined them on the terrace. The signora spoke to her with much animation, now laughing, now assuming an imperious tone. The soubrette seemed to hesitate; the cousin seemed to be urging the signora to do nothing extravagant. At last the maid came to me in some confusion, and said, blushing to the roots of her hair:

"Signor, the signora bids me say to you, in so many words, that you are an insolent person, and that you would do much better to tune the piano than to stare at her as you are doing. Pardon me, signor. I am very sure that it is a jest."

"And I take it as such," I replied; "but say to the signora that I present my profound respects to her, and that I beg her not to think me insolent enough to stare at her. I was not so much as thinking of her, and if I must tell you the truth, it was you, my lovely maid, whom I saw out in the field, and who engrossed me so that I forgot to go on with my work."

"I, signor," said the soubrette, blushing more hotly than ever, and hanging her head in her embarrassment. "How could I engross the signor?"

"Because you are a hundred times prettier than your mistress," I said, putting my arm about her and giving her a kiss before she had time to suspect my purpose.

She was a pretty village girl, the signora's foster sister. She too was dark and tall and slender, but timid in her manner, and as artless and gentle in her bearing as her young mistress was cunning and determined. She was thrown into such confusion by being embraced so unceremoniously before the signora, who had come to the door of the salon, followed by her idiotic cousin, that she fled, hiding her face in her blue apron with silver border. The signora, who was equally surprised to find that I took her impertinence so philosophically, stepped back, and the cousin, who had seen nothing, repeated several times the question: "What is it? What's the matter?"

The poor girl would not pause in her flight to reply, and the signora laughed a forced laugh which I pretended not to notice.

A few moments later she reappeared alone. Her face wore an expression which was meant to be severe, but was really confused and distressed.

"It is lucky for us both, signor," she said in a voice that trembled slightly, "that my cousin is simple-minded and gullible; for you must know that he is of a jealous and quarrelsome disposition."

"Do not laugh at me, signor," she retorted angrily. "One may be easily deceived when one loves; but the name of Grimani stands for personal courage."

"I beg you, therefore, signor," she continued, still speaking with involuntary vehemence, "not to come here again; for all this jesting might end badly."

"It is evident, however, signor, that you find it very amusing; for you do not seem disposed to put an end to it."

"If I amuse myself, signora, it is by way of being obedient, as we all amuse ourselves in Italy under the reign of Napoleon the Great. I wished to retire an hour ago, and it was you who forbade it."

"I intended to say, signora, that you did not think of it; for I expected that you would give me some sort of a plausible pretext for taking my leave in the midst of my task; and, for my own part, it was impossible for me to imagine such a pretext. It would be so entirely unnatural in the present condition of the piano, and I am so firmly resolved to do nothing that can possibly compromise you, that I will return to-morrow."

"I will return to gratify Signor Ettore's curiosity, for he is very much puzzled to know who I am; and I will return because you have yourself given me the right to face the man with whom you were pleased to make merry at my expense."

"Is that a threat, Signor Lelio?" she asked, concealing her fright beneath the cloak of pride.

"No, signora. A man who does not falter before another man is not of the threatening sort."

"But my cousin said nothing to you, signor; I did all this jesting against his will."

"But he is jealous and quarrelsome. Moreover, he is brave. Now, I am not jealous, signora, I have neither the right nor the desire to be. But I am quarrelsome, and it may be too that, although my name is not Grimani, I am a brave man; what do you know about it?"

"Oh! I have no doubt of it, Lelio!" she cried, in a tone that made me quiver from head to foot, it was so entirely different from what I had been hearing for two or three days.

I looked at her in amazement; she lowered her eyes with an air at once modest and proud. Once again I was disarmed.

"Signora," I said, "I will do whatever you choose, as you choose, and nothing that you do not choose."

"You cannot come again as a piano-tuner," said she; "if you do, you will compromise me, for my cousin will certainly tell my aunt that he suspects you of being a libertine in search of adventures; and, when my aunt hears it, she will tell my mother. And let me tell you Signor Lelio, that there is only one person in the world for whom I care in the least, and that is my mother; that there is only one thing in the world that I dread, and that is my mother's displeasure. And yet she brought me up very badly, as you see; she spoiled me shockingly; but she is so dear, so sweet, so loving, so sad—She loves me so dearly—if you only knew!"

A great tear glistened in the signora's black eye; she tried for some time to hold it back, but at last it fell on her hand. Deeply moved, assailed and overthrown by the formidable little god with whom one cannot afford to trifle, I put my lips to that lovely hand and greedily drank that sweet tear, a subtle poison which kindled a flame in my bosom. I heard the cousin returning, and, rising hurriedly, I said:

"Addio, signora, I will obey you blindly, I swear upon my honor; if your cousin insults me, I will swallow his insults; I will play a coward's part rather than cause you to shed a second tear."

With that I bowed to the ground and left the room. The cousin did not seem to me so bellicose as she had depicted him; for he saluted me first when I passed him. I walked slowly from the house, depressed beyond words; for I was in love, and I must not return. On becoming sincere, my love became generous.

I turned several times to catch a glimpse of the signora's velvet dress, but she had disappeared. As I was passing through the gate of the park, I saw her in a narrow path which followed the wall on the inside. She had run, in order to reach that point as soon as I did, and when I spied her she strove to assume a slow and pensive gait; but she was all out of breath and her lovely black hair was disarranged by the branches she had hurriedly thrust aside as she ran through the underbrush. I started to join her, but she made a sign to indicate that somebody was following her. I tried to pass through the gate, but I could not make up my mind to do it. Thereupon, she waved her hand to bid me farewell, accompanying the gesture with an unutterable glance and smile. At that moment she was more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

I placed one hand on my heart, the other on my forehead, and hurried away, mad with joy and love. I had seen the branches moving just behind the signora; but, there as elsewhere, the cousin arrived too late. I had disappeared.

I found in my room a letter from Checchina. "I had started to join you," she wrote, "and to rest a while from the fatigues of the stage in the pleasant shade of Cafaggiolo. I was upset at San Giovanni; I have nothing worse than a few bruises, but my carriage is broken. The bungling workmen in this village say they must have three days to repair it. Take your calèche and come and fetch me, unless you wish me to die of ennui in this muleteers' tavern."

"How does it happen that you are alone?" I asked, trying to escape from her long arms and her sisterly embraces, which had become unendurable to me since my illness, because of the perfumes with which she saturated herself beyond all reason, whether because she fancied that she was imitating the great ladies, or because she loved passionately anything that appeals to the senses.

"I have had a row with Nasi," she said; "I have left him, and I don't want to hear any more about him!"

"It can't be very serious," I replied, "as you are on your way to take up your quarters in his house."

"And apparently you intended to deprive him of the means of doing so, when you took his carriage to run away in, and broke it on the road."

"It's his own fault, for I had to keep urging the postilions. Why has he adopted the bad habit of following me? I would have liked to be killed by the accident, and have him arrive in time to see me die, and to learn what it is to thwart a woman like me."

"That is to say, a mad woman. But you will not have the pleasure of dying for revenge, in the first place, because you are not hurt, and secondly, because he has not run after you."

"Oh! he probably passed through here last night without suspecting that I was here, and you must have met him on your way. We will go and join him at Cafaggiolo."

"If I were perfectly sure of it, I would like to remain here in hiding a week, just to worry him and make him think that I have gone to France, as I threatened to do."

"As you please, my dear: I salute you and leave my carriage at your service. For my own part, I have little liking for this region and this inn."

"I suppose he refused to give you twenty thousand francs' worth of white gloves, and insisted on giving you diamonds worth fifty thousand instead; something like that, no doubt?"

"And the most horrible part of it is that he had an idea that he could induce me to consent to his marriage and still retain my good graces. After such an insult, would you believe that he had the audacity to offer me a million, on condition that I would allow him to marry, and that I would remain faithful to him!"

"A million! the devil! that is at least the fortieth million I have known of you refusing, my poor Checchina. The millions you have spurned would be enough to keep the whole royal family!"

"You are always joking, Lelio. The day will come when you will see that, if I had chosen, I might have been a queen like some other women. Are Napoleon's sisters any more beautiful than I am? Have they more talent, more wit, more spirit? Ah! how well I could manage a kingdom!"

"Almost as well as you could keep books by double entry in a business house. Upon my word! you have put on your wrapper wrong side before, and you are wiping tears from your lovely eyes with one of your silk stockings. Put aside these ambitious dreams for a moment, dress yourself, and let us be off."

As we returned to the villa at Cafaggiolo, by dint of allowing my travelling companion to give a free rein to her heroic declamations, her digressions and her boasting, I succeeded, not without difficulty, in finding out that honest Nasi had been fascinated at a ball by a lovely young person, and had asked her hand in marriage; that he had gone to Checchina to inform her of his determination; that, as she had adopted the expedient of fainting and going into convulsions, he had been so dismayed by the violence of her despair, that he had begged her to consent to a middle course and to remain his mistress in spite of his marriage. Thereupon Checchina, seeing that he was weakening, had haughtily refused to share her lover's heart and purse. She had ordered post-horses, and had signed, or pretended to sign, an engagement with the Opera at Paris. The easy-going Nasi had been unable to endure the thought of giving up a woman whom he was not sure that he had ceased to adore, for a woman whom he was not sure that he had begun to adore. He had begged the singer's forgiveness; he had retracted his offer of marriage, and had ceased his attentions to the illustrious beauty, whose name Checchina did not know. Checchina had allowed herself to be prevailed upon; but she had learned indirectly, on the day following this great sacrifice, that Nasi was entitled to no great credit therefor, inasmuch as, between the scene of frenzied despair and the reconciliation, his offer of marriage had been rejected, and he had been cast aside in favor of a happy rival. Checchina, wounded to the quick, had left Naples, leaving a withering letter for the count, in which she declared that she would never see him again; and, taking the road to France—for all roads lead to Paris as well as to Rome—she hastened to Cafaggiolo to wait until her lover should come in pursuit of her, and place his body across her path to prevent her from proceeding farther with a vengeance of which she was beginning to be a little weary.

All this was not mere vulgar and avaricious scheming on Checchina's part. She loved opulence, it is true, and could not do without it; but she had such implicit faith in her destiny, and was naturally so audacious, that she constantly risked the good fortune of one day for that of the morrow. She passed the Rubicon every morning, confident of finding on the other bank a more flourishing realm than the one she left behind. Thus there was nothing base and low-minded in this feminine trickery, because there was in it no element of fear. She did not play at grief; she made neither false promises nor hypocritical prayers. In her moments of vexation she had genuine paroxysms of nervous excitement. Why were her lovers so credulous as to mistake the vehemence of her anger for the result of profound grief resisted by pride? Is it not our own fault when we are duped by our own vanity?

Moreover, even if Checchina did play a bit at tragedy in her boudoir, in order to preserve her empire, she had an ample excuse in the absolute sincerity of her conduct. I have never known a woman more fearlessly frank, more faithful to lovers who were faithful to her, more reckless in her admissions when she revenged herself in kind, more incapable of recovering her power by means of a falsehood. To be sure her love was not strong enough for that, and no man seemed to her to be worth the trouble of putting constraint upon herself and of humiliating herself in her own eyes by prolonged dissembling. I have often thought that women are very foolish to demand so much frankness when we are so far from appreciating the merit of fidelity, I have often learned by my own experience that one must have more passion to carry out a falsehood, than courage to tell the truth. It is so easy to be sincere with persons one does not love! It is so pleasant to be sincere with those whom one has ceased to love!

This simple reflection will explain why it was impossible for me to love Checchina for long, and also why it was impossible for me not to esteem her always, despite her insolent outbreaks and her immeasurable ambition. I soon found out that she was a detestable mistress and an excellent friend; and then, too, there was a sort of poetic charm in that adventuress-like energy, in that disregard for wealth inspired by the very love of wealth, in that incredible conceit, always crowned by even more incredible success. She was forever comparing herself favorably to Napoleon's sisters, and making herself out the equal of Napoleon himself. That was amusing and not too ridiculous. In her own sphere she was as bold and as fortunate as the great conqueror. She never had for lovers any but young, handsome, rich and honorable men; and I do not believe that a single one of them ever complained of her after leaving or losing her; for in reality she had a great and noble heart. She could always atone for a thousand foolish and mischievous exploits by one decisive display of strength of character and kindness of heart. In a word, she was brave, both morally and physically, and people of that temperament are always good for something, wherever they may be and whatever they may do.

"My poor child," I said to her as we drove along, "you will be nicely caught if Nasi takes you at your word and lets you start for France."

"There's no danger of that," she said with a smile, forgetting that she had just told me that she would not for anything in the world allow herself to be softened by his submission.

"But suppose that does happen, what will you do? You have nothing in the world, and you are not in the habit of keeping the gifts of your lovers when you part. That is what makes me esteem you a little bit, despite all your faults. Come, tell me, what is going to become of you?"

"I shall be very sorry," she replied; "yes, really, Lelio, I shall regret it; for Nasi is an excellent fellow, he has a big heart. I will bet that I shall weep for—I don't know how long! But after all, one either has a destiny or one hasn't. If it is God's will that I go to France, it would seem to be because I am likely to have no more luck in Italy. If I am parted from that dear, affectionate lover of mine, I have no doubt that it is because a more devoted and more courageous man is waiting yonder for me, to marry me, and prove to the world that love is superior to all prejudices. Mark my words, Lelio, I shall be a princess, perhaps a queen. An old fortune-teller of Malamocco predicted it in my horoscope when I was only four years old, and I have always believed it: a proof that it must be so!"

"A conclusive proof," I rejoined, "an unanswerable argument! Queen of Barataria, I salute you!"

"Your star is waning, fortune is abandoning you," I said to the girl from Chioggia.

"There is always a mist on the lagoons before sunrise. In any event we must keep up our strength and so be prepared for the blows of destiny."

As she spoke, she took her seat at the table and ate almost the whole of a pope's eye stuffed with truffles; after which she slept twelve hours without a break, passed three hours at her toilet, and sparkled with wit and nonsense until evening. Nasi did not appear.

For my own part, amid the merriment and animation which that excellent girl had brought into my solitude, I was absorbed by the memory of my adventure at the Grimani villa, and tortured by the longing to see my fair patrician once more. But how was I to do it? I cudgelled my brain to no purpose to invent some means which would not compromise her. When I left her I had sworn to do nothing imprudent. As I reviewed in my mind my impressions of those last moments, when she had appeared in such an artless and touching aspect, I felt that I could not act inconsiderately with respect to her without forfeiting my own esteem. I dared not make inquiries concerning her friends, still less concerning her domestic arrangements. I had refrained from making acquaintances in the neighborhood, and now I almost regretted that I had done so; for I might have learned by accident what I dared not ask directly. The servant who waited upon me was a Neapolitan who had come with me, and, like myself, had never been in that region before. The gardener was stupid and deaf. An old care-taker, in charge of the villa since Nasi's childhood, might perhaps have enlightened me; but I was afraid to question her, for she was inquisitive and loquacious. She was much disturbed to know where I went; and, during the three days that I had failed to bring her any game or to give an account of my rambles, she was so wrought up that I trembled lest she should discover my romance. The bare mention of a name might put her on the track. So I was very careful not to pronounce it. I did not wish to go to Florence; I was too well known there; if I showed my face there, I was certain to be overwhelmed with visits. The unhealthy and misanthropical frame of mind which had caused me to seek the solitude of Cafaggiolo, had led me likewise to conceal my name and profession from the very servants in the house as well as from the neighbors. It was necessary now for me to guard my incognito more closely than ever; for I supposed that the count would soon arrive, and that his fancy for marriage would lead him to desire to bury in mystery Checchina's presence in his house.

Two days passed with no word from Nasi, who might have enlightened me; and I had not ventured to take a step out-of-doors. Checchina had a heavy cold and considerable pain, as a result of the mishaps of her journey. It may well be that, as she did not quite know what course to adopt with me, and as she preferred not to seem to be waiting for her faithless lover, after swearing that she would not wait for him, she was not sorry to have a valid excuse for remaining at Cafaggiolo.

One morning, finding that I could not stand it any longer, for that signorina of fifteen with her little white hands and great black eyes was always in my head, I took my game-bag, called my dog, and started out to hunt, forgetting nothing but my rifle. In vain did I prowl about the Grimani villa; I did not see a living being, I did not hear a human sound. All the gates of the park were locked, and I noticed that on the main avenue, at the end of which one could catch a glimpse of the house-front, some large trees had been felled and their dense foliage completely intercepted the view. Had that barricade been erected with premeditation? Was it an act of revenge on the cousin's part? Was it a precaution taken by the aunt? Was it a mischievous exploit of my heroine herself? "If I thought that!" I said to myself. But I did not think it. I much preferred to suppose that she was lamenting over my absence and her own captivity, and I formed innumerable plans to set her free, each more absurd than the last.

On returning to Cafaggiolo, I found in Checchina's bedroom a pretty village maiden whom I at once recognized as La Grimani's foster sister.

"Here's a lovely child who refuses to give her message to anybody but you, Lelio," said Checchina, who had seated her unceremoniously on the side of her bed. "I have taken her under my protection because old Catalina insisted on sending her away with an insolent answer. But I saw by her modest manner that she is a good girl, and I haven't asked her any injudicious questions. Isn't that true, my pretty brunette? Come, don't be shamefaced, but go into the salon with Signor Lelio. I am not inquisitive, I tell you; I have something else to do besides annoy my friends."

"Come, my dear child," I said to the soubrette, "and have no fear; you have only honorable people to deal with here."

The poor girl stood in the middle of the floor, bewildered, and in such distress that it made one's heart ache. Although she had had the courage to conceal the object of her visit up to that time, she took from her pocket, in her confusion, and half revealed a note which she instantly thrust out of sight again, distracted between her fears for her own honor and for her mistress's.

"Oh dear!" she said at last in a trembling voice, "suppose the signora should think that I came here with any evil intention!"

"My poor child, I think nothing at all," replied kind-hearted Checchina, opening a book and reading it with eye-glasses, although her sight was excellent; for she thought that it was good form to have weak eyes.

"The signora is so kind and received me with so much confidence," continued the girl.

"Your appearance must inspire confidence in everybody," replied the singer, "and if I am kind to you, it is because you deserve it. Come, come; I am not inquisitive, I tell you; say what you have to say to Signor Lelio, it will not vex me in the slightest degree. Come, take her away, Lelio! Poor child! she thinks she is ruined. Nonsense, my dear, actors are just as honorable as other people, be sure of that."

The girl made a low courtesy and followed me into the salon. Her heart was beating as if it would break the lacings of her green velvet waist, and her cheeks were as scarlet as her skirt. She hastily took the letter from her pocket and, after handing it to me, stepped back, she was so afraid that I would be as rude to her as I was before. I reassured her by the tranquillity of my demeanor, and asked her if she had anything more to say to me.

"I am to wait for the answer," she replied, with an air of the most profound distress.

"This excellent girl," I explained, "wishes to enter the services of a lady in Florence whom I know very well, and she has come to me for a letter of recommendation. Will you allow her to stay with you while I go and write it?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure!" replied Checchina, motioning her to sit down, and smiling at her with an amiable and patronizing air. This sweetness and simplicity of manner toward persons of her former station in life were among the Chioggian's excellent qualities. While she mimicked the affectations of the great lady, she retained the brusque and ingenuous kindliness of the fisherman's child. Her manners, though often ridiculous, were always affable; and if she did enjoy lying in state under a satin coverlet trimmed with lace, for the benefit of that poor village girl, she found none the less, in her heart and on her lips, affectionate words to encourage her in her humility.

"Three days without coming again! Either you have little wit, or you have little desire to see me again. Is it for me to find a way of continuing our friendly relations? If you have not tried to find one, you are a fool; if you have tried and failed, you are what you accuse me of being. To prove that I am neither haughty nor stupid, I write to make an appointment with you. To-morrow, Sunday, morning I shall be at eight o'clock mass, at Santa Maria del Sasso, Florence. My aunt is ill; only Lila, my foster sister, will accompany me. If the footman or coachman notice you or question you, give them money; they are rascals. Addio, until to-morrow."

To reply, to promise, to swear, to express my thanks, and to hand to Lila the most bombastic of love-letters, was an affair of a few moments only. But when I attempted to slip a gold piece into the messenger's hand, I was checked by a glance instinct with melancholy dignity. From pure devotion to her mistress she had yielded to her caprice; but it was evident that her conscience reproached her for that weakness, and that to offer to pay her for it would have been to punish and mortify her cruelly. At that moment I reproached myself bitterly for the kiss I had ventured to steal from her, in order to pique her mistress, and I tried to atone for my fault by escorting her to the end of the garden with as much respect and courtesy as I could have shown to any great lady.

"Come, Lelio," she said, toward the close of the supper which we ate together on a pretty little terrace shaded by grape-vines and jasmine; "I see that you are worried about something; why not open your heart to me? Did I ever betray a secret? Am I not worthy of your confidence? Have I deserved to have you withdraw it from me?"

"No, my dear Checchina," I replied, "I appreciate your discretion"—and it is certain that she would have kept Brutus's secrets as well as ever Portia did;—"but," I added, "even if all my secrets belong to you, there are others——"

"I know what you are going to say," she exclaimed. "That there are others which don't belong to you alone, and which you have no right to betray; but if I guess them in spite of you, ought you to carry your scruples so far as to deny, all to no purpose, what I know as well as you do? You know, my friend, I understand that pretty girl's call perfectly well; I saw her hand in her pocket, and before she had said good-morning to me, I knew that she had brought a letter. The timid and distressed air of that poor Iris"—Checchina had been very fond of mythological references ever since she had spelled out Tasso's Aminta and Guarini's Adone—"told me plainly enough that there was a genuine romance behind it, a great lady afraid of public opinion, or a young damsel risking her future union with some worthy citizen. One thing is certain, that you have made one of those conquests of which you men are so proud, because they are supposed to be difficult and require a lot of mystery. You see that I have guessed the secret, don't you?"

"I won't ask you any more questions," she continued; "I know that you are not likely to confide the person's name, nor her rank, nor her place of abode to me; indeed, those things don't interest me. But I may ask you whether you are in raptures or in despair, and you must tell me if I can be of any use to you."

"If I need you, I will tell you so," I replied; "and as for telling you whether I am in raptures or in despair, I can assure you that I am in neither as yet."

"Very good! very good! beware of one no less than of the other; for, in either case, there's no occasion for such great excitement."

"My dear Lelio," she replied in a sententious tone, "let us suppose that you are in raptures. What is one yielding woman more or less in the life of a man of the stage: of the stage, where the women are so beautiful and so sparkling with wit? Do you propose to lose your head over a conquest in aristocratic society? Vanity! mere vanity! Society women are as inferior to us in every respect as vanity is to glory."

"That is true modesty, and I congratulate you," I replied; "but might we not give the aphorism another turn, and say that it is vanity, not love, which brings society men to the feet of actresses?"

"Oh! but what a difference there is!" cried Checchina. "A great and beautiful actress is a creature privileged by nature and exalted by the prestige of art; exposed to the eyes of men in all the splendor of her beauty, her talent and her renown, is it not natural that she should arouse admiration and kindle desire? Why, then, should you actors, who triumph over the great majority of us before the great nobles do; you, who marry us when we are inclined to settle down, and who assert your rights over us when we have passionate hearts; you, who allow others to play the rôle of magnificent lovers and who are always the preferred lovers, or at all events the friends of our hearts—why should you turn your thoughts toward these patrician women who smile at you with their lips only, and applaud you with the tips of their fingers? Ah! Lelio, Lelio! I am afraid that in this instance your good sense has gone astray in some idiotic adventure. If I were in your place, rather than be flattered by the ogling of some middle-aged marchioness, I would turn my attention to some pretty chorus-girl, La Torquata, or La Gargani. Yes! yes!" she cried, becoming more earnest as she saw me smiling; "such girls as those are apparently more forward, but I maintain that they are in reality less corrupt than your salon Cidalisas. You would not be obliged to play a long sentimental comedy with them, or engage in a wretched contest of bright sayings. But that's just like you men! The crest on a carriage, the livery of a footman, those are enough to embellish in your eyes the first titled harridan who bestows a patronizing glance on you."

"My dear friend," I replied, "all that you say is most sensible; but your argument is weak in that it is not based upon a single fact. For my honor's sake, you might, I think, have assumed that old age and ugliness are not indispensable qualities in any patrician who falls in love with me. There have been some who were young and lovely who have had eyes in their heads, and since you compel me to say absurd things in absurd language, in order to close your mouth, let me tell you that the object of my flame is fifteen years old, and that she is as beautiful as the goddess Cypris whose exploits you learn by heart in bouts-rimés."

"Lelio!" cried Checchina, laughing heartily, "you are the most insufferable coxcomb that I ever met."

"If I am a coxcomb, fair princess," I cried, "you are somewhat to blame for it, so people say."

"Very well," said she, "if you are telling the truth, if your mistress, by reason of her beauty, deserves the follies you are about to commit for her, beware of one thing, and that is that you do not find yourself in the depths of despair within a week."

"What in the deuce is the matter to-day, Signora Checchina, that you say such disagreeable things to me?"

"Let us not joke any more," she said, putting her hand on mine with a friendly gesture. "I know you better than you know yourself. You are seriously in love, and you are going to suffer—"

"Nonsense, nonsense! in your old age, Checca, you can retire to Malamocco and tell fortunes for the boatmen on the lagoons; meanwhile, my fair sorceress, allow me to go to meet my fortune without cowardly presentiments."

"No! no! I will not be quiet until I have drawn your horoscope. If it were a question of a woman who is suited to you, I should not think of vexing you; but a woman of noble birth, a society woman, a marchioness or a woman of the middle class, I don't care which it may be—I hate them all! When I see that idiot Nasi throw me aside for a creature who doesn't come up to my knees, I will stake my head, why, I say to myself that all men are vain and foolish. And so I predict that you will not be loved, because a society woman cannot love an actor; and if by any chance you are loved, you will be all the more miserable; for you will be humiliated."

"By what do you recognize love, Lelio? by the pleasure you give or the pleasure you receive?"

"How much devotion do you expect to find in your mistress? a few nights of pleasure? You seem at a loss to reply."

"I am, in truth; I told you that she is fifteen years old, and I am an honorable man."

"I, marry a rich girl of a noble family? God forbid! In heaven's name, do you think that I am consumed with matrimoniomania, as you are?"

"Why, I suppose that you desire to marry her; do you think that she will consent? are you sure of it?"

"If that is because your suit would be ill received, your rôle is a very pitiful one, my dear Lelio!"

"That is my purpose, dear friend of my heart. Now, then, you do not think of marrying, because that would be impertinent presumption on your part, and you are a man of spirit. You do not think of seduction, because that would be a crime, and you are a man of heart. Tell me, is your romance likely to be very amusing?"

"Why, you dense, matter-of-fact creature, you know nothing whatever about sentiment. If I choose to indulge in a pastoral idyll, who will prevent me?"

"You are dreaming, Checchina; I am as placid and light-hearted as usual. Let us have no more of these empty words; I do not ask you to be silent about the little I have told you, for I have confidence in you. To reassure you concerning my frame of mind, let me tell you this one thing: I am more proud of my profession of actor than ever nobleman was of his marquisate. Nobody on earth has the power to make me blush. Whatever you may say, I shall never be conceited enough to aspire to extraordinary devotion, and if a spark of love warms my heart at this moment, the modest joy of inspiring a little love is sufficient for me. I do not deny the numerous superiorities of actresses over society women. There is more beauty, grace, wit and fire in the wings than elsewhere, I know. There is no more modesty, unselfishness, chastity and loyalty among great ladies than elsewhere; that, too, I know. But youth and beauty are idols which make us bend the knee everywhere; and as for the prejudices of rank, it is a good deal for a woman brought up under tyrannical laws to bestow in secret one poor glance, one poor heart-throb upon a man whom her prejudices forbid her to look upon as a being of her own species. That poor glance, that poor palpitation, would be a mere trifle to the unbounded desire born of a great passion; but as I have told you, cousin, I have not got to that point."

At seven o'clock the next morning I was wandering slowly about in the shadow of the pillars of Santa Maria. That assignation was the very greatest piece of imprudence that my young signora could commit, for my face was as well known to most of the people of Florence as the ground under their horses' feet. So I took the most minute precautions, entering the city by the uncertain light of dawn, keeping out of sight in the chapels, with my face buried in my cloak, gliding along noiselessly, taking care not to disturb by the slightest sound the faithful at prayer, among whom I tried to discover the lady of my thoughts. I did not wait long; pretty Lila appeared from behind a pillar, and indicated by her glance an empty confessional, whose mysterious recess would hold two people. In the girl's quick and intelligent glance there was a touch of sadness which went to my heart. I knelt in the confessional, a few moments later, a dark shadow glided in and knelt beside me. Lila bent over a chair, between us and the congregation, who, luckily, were engrossed at that moment by the beginning of the mass, and falling noiselessly on their knees to the tones of the bell of the introit.

The signora was enveloped in a long black veil, and she held it over her face with her hands for a few seconds. She did not speak to me, but bent her lovely head as if she had come to the church to pray; but, despite all her efforts to appear calm, I saw that her breast was heaving, and that, in the midst of her audacity, she was terror-stricken. I dared not encourage her with loving words, for I knew how quick she was at sarcastic repartee, and I could not be sure what tone she would take with me under those delicate circumstances. I realized simply this, that the more she exposed herself with me, the more respectful and submissive my attitude must be. With such a nature as hers, presumption would have been speedily repelled by scorn. At last I understood that I must break the silence, and I thanked her awkwardly enough for the favor of that meeting. My timidity seemed to restore her courage. She softly raised a corner of her veil, rested her arm with less constraint on the rail of the confessional, and said to me in a half-mocking, half-melting tone:

"For relying upon my obedience, signora," I replied; "for not doubting the eagerness with which I would come to receive your orders."

"I understand then," she retorted—and her tone was altogether jocular—"that your presence here is an act of pure obedience?"

"I should not dare to take the liberty to have any thoughts concerning the present situation, except that I am your slave, and that, having a sovereign command to lay upon me, you bade me come and kneel here."

"You are a man of the most perfect breeding," she replied, slowly unfolding her fan in front of her face, and pulling up her black mitt over her beautifully moulded arm with as much ease of manner as if she were speaking to her cousin.

She continued in that strain, and in a very few moments I was bewildered and almost saddened by her strange and captious chatter.

"What is the use," I said to myself, "of so much audacity for so little love? An assignation in a church, in plain sight of a whole congregation, the danger of being discovered, cursed and disowned by her whole family and her whole caste—all for the sake of exchanging jokes with me, as she might with a friend of her own sex in her box at the theatre! Does she delight in adventures from pure love of danger? If she takes such risks without loving me, what will she do for the man she does love? And then, how do I know how many times and for whom she has already exposed herself in the same way? If she has never done it, it is only because she has never had the opportunity. She is so young! But what an endless series of gallant adventures the perilous future has in store for her, and how many men will abuse their opportunities, and how many stains will mar this lovely flower, so intensely eager to bloom in the wind of passion!"

I was about to reply when a slight sound made us both turn our heads involuntarily. The wooden shutter which covers the grated window through which the priest receives confessions opened behind us, and a yellow, wrinkled face, with a stern and penetrating glance, appeared in the opening like a bad dream. I hastily turned away before that unwelcome intruder had time to examine my features. But I dared not go away, for fear of attracting the attention of those roundabout. Thereupon I heard these words addressed to my confederate:

"Signora, the person beside you did not come to the Lord's house to listen to the sacred service. I have seen by his entire attitude and by the distraction it has caused you, that the church is being profaned by an illicit conversation. Order this person to retire or I shall be compelled to inform the signora, your aunt, with how little fervor you listen to the blessed mass, and how willingly you open your ears to the empty words of young men who steal to a place by your side."

The shutter was instantly closed, and we remained for some seconds absolutely motionless, afraid of betraying ourselves by the slightest movement. Then Lila came nearer to us and whispered to her mistress:

"For heaven's sake, let us go, signora! Abbé Cignola, who has been prowling about the church for a quarter of an hour, just went into the confessional and came out again almost immediately, after looking at you through the window, I have no doubt. I am terribly afraid that he recognized you or heard what you said."

"I should think so, for he spoke to me," replied the signora, whose black eyebrows had contracted during the abbé's harangue, with an expression of bravado. "But it matters little to me."

"I must go, signora," I said, rising; "by remaining another moment, I shall consummate your ruin. Since you know where I live, you will let me know your wishes——"

"Stay," she said, detaining me by force. "If you go away, I lose my only means of exculpating myself. Don't be afraid, Lila. Don't say a word, I forbid you. Give me your arm, cousin," she added, raising her voice slightly, "and let us go."

"Can you think of such a thing, signora? All Florence knows me. You will never be able to pass me off as your cousin."

"But all Florence doesn't know me," she replied, putting her arm through mine and forcing me to walk with her. "Besides, I am hermetically veiled, and you have only to pull your hat over your eyes. Come! pretend you have a toothache! Put your handkerchief to your face. Quick! here are some people who know me and are looking at me. Be more self-possessed and quicken your pace."

Talking thus, and walking rapidly, she reached the church door, leaning on my arm. I was about to take leave of her and lose myself in the crowd that was coming out with us, for the mass was at an end, when Abbé Cignola appeared once more, standing on the porch and pretending to talk with one of the sacristans. His sidelong glance followed us closely.

"Isn't that so, Hector?" said the signora, as we passed him, putting her head between the abbé's face and mine. Lila was trembling in every limb; so was the signora, but her alarm redoubled her courage. A carriage with the crest and livery of the Grimanis drove up with a great clatter, and the multitude, who always gaze greedily at any display of magnificence, crowded under the wheels and the horses' feet. Moreover, the Grimani equipage always attracted a particularly large crowd of beggars; for the pious aunt was accustomed to dispense alms lavishly as she drove along. A tall footman at the carriage door was obliged to push them back in order to open it; and I walked on, still escorting the signora, still followed by Abbé Cignola's inquisitorial glance.

"Get in with me," said the signora, in a tone that admitted of no denial, and with a vigorous pressure of my arm, as she placed her foot on the step. I hesitated; it seemed to me that this last audacious stroke would inevitably be her ruin.

"Get in, I say," she repeated in a sort of passion; and as soon as I was seated by her side she herself raised the window, barely giving Lila time to take her seat opposite us, and the servant to close the door. In an instant we were driving at full speed through the streets of Florence.

"Don't be afraid, my dear Lila," said the signora, putting her arm around her foster sister's neck, and kissing her affectionately on the cheek; "everything will come out all right. Abbé Cignola has never seen my cousin, and it is impossible that he should have seen Signor Lelio distinctly enough ever to discover the fraud."

"Bah! what do I care for your Abbé Cignola? I tell you that I make my aunt believe whatever I choose."

"Oh! as for that, I promise you that he will say whatever I want him to; if necessary I will convince him that he actually was at mass while he fancied that he was hunting."

"But the servants, signora? The footman looked at Signor Lelio with a strange expression, then suddenly started back, as if he had recognized the piano-tuner."

"Very good! you must tell him that I met that man in the church and bade him good-morning; that he told me that he had an errand to do in our neighborhood, and that, as I am very obliging, I offered to save him the trouble of going there on foot. We will set him down in front of the first country house we come to. And you can say in addition that I am very heedless, that my aunt has very good reason to scold me, but that I am an excellent young person, although a little wild, and that it grieves you to see me so constantly reprimanded. As they are all fond of me, and as I will give each one of them a little present, they will say nothing at all. Enough of this! can't either of you think of something else to say to me than lamentations over a thing that is done? Signor Lelio, how do you like this gloomy city of Florence? Don't you think that all these black old palaces, iron-bound to the very eaves, look exactly like prisons?"

I tried to carry on the conversation in an unconcerned tone; but I was very far from satisfied. I felt no inclination for adventures in which all the risk was taken by the woman, and all the wrong was on my side. It seemed to me that she treated me very inconsiderately in exposing herself thus for my sake to perils and disasters which she would not permit me to meet or avert.

I was so distressed that I remained silent in spite of myself. The signora, having attempted in vain to maintain the conversation, also held her peace. Lila's face continued to wear a terrified expression. We had left the city. Twice I observed that we had reached what seemed a favorable place to stop the carriage and set me down; twice the signora refused in an imperious tone, saying that we were too near the city and that there was still danger of meeting some acquaintance.

For a quarter of an hour we had not spoken a word, and the situation was becoming intensely disagreeable. I was displeased with the signora, because she had involved me, without my consent, in an adventure in which I could no longer proceed at my own pleasure. I was even more displeased with myself for allowing myself to be led into a series of childish exploits of which all the shame must fall upon me; for, even in the eyes of the least scrupulous of men, to seduce or compromise a girl of fifteen must always be considered an evil and cowardly performance. I was on the point of ordering the coachman to stop myself, when, on turning toward my travelling companions, I saw that the signora was weeping silently. I uttered an exclamation of surprise, and, moved by an irresistible impulse, I took her hand; but she abruptly withdrew it, and throwing her arms about Lila's neck, who was weeping also, hid her face on her faithful soubrette's bosom and sobbed as if her heart would break.

"In heaven's name, why do you weep in such heartrending fashion, my dear signora?" I cried, almost falling at her feet. "If you do not wish to send me away in utter despair, tell me if this unlucky adventure is the cause of your tears, and if I can help to turn aside the consequences which you dread."

She raised her head from Lila's shoulder, and replied, glancing at me with something like indignation:

"I think nothing except what you tell me," I said. "But you turn away from me, and you weep; how can I tell what is taking place in your mind? Ah! if I have offended or displeased you, if I am the involuntary cause of your unhappiness, how can I ever forgive myself?"

"So you think that I am afraid, do you?" she rejoined, in a tone at once tender and bitter. "You see me weeping, and you say: 'She is like a little girl who is afraid of being scolded!'"

She wept more bitterly than ever, concealing her face in her handkerchief. I strove to comfort her, I implored her to answer me, to look at me, to explain herself; and, in that moment of confusion and emotion, my feeling toward her was so paternal and friendly that chance brought to my lips, amid the sweet names by which I called her, the name of a child who had once been dear to me. That name I had been accustomed for many years to apply, unconsciously as it were, to all the lovely children whom I chanced to caress. "My dear signora," I said, "dear Alezia——" I paused, afraid that I might have offended her by giving her accidentally a name that was not her own. But she did not seem offended; she looked at me with some surprise and allowed me to take her hand, which I covered with kisses.

Meanwhile the carriage was rolling on like the wind, and before I had had time to obtain the explanation which I sought so eagerly, Lila informed us that the Grimani villa was in sight and that we absolutely must part.

"What!" I cried; "am I to leave you thus? for how long a time must I eat my heart out in this horrible uncertainty?"

"Come to the park to-night," she said; "the wall is not very high. I will be in the narrow path that runs by the wall, near a statue which you will easily find by turning to your right from the gate. At one o'clock!"

"Do not thwart me, Lila," said the signora, vehemently; "you know what I told you this morning."

"Kill yourself, signora!" I cried. "You who are so lovely, so light-hearted, so happy, so dearly loved!"

"So dearly loved, Lelio!" she replied, in a despairing tone. "By whom am I loved, pray? only by my poor mother and by this dear Lila."

"And by the poor artist who dares not tell you so," I added, "but who would give his life to make you love yours."

I seized her arm in a convulsive grasp and gazed at her in stupefaction. At that moment the carriage suddenly stopped. Lila had pulled the cord. I jumped out, and tried, as I saluted my travelling companions, to resume the humble demeanor of the piano-tuner. But the red eyes of the two young women did not escape the footman's penetrating glance. He examined me with the greatest attention, and, when the carriage drove on, he turned several times to look after me. I had a vague idea that his features were familiar to me; but I had not dared to look him in the eye, and it did not occur to me to try to recall where I had seen that coarse, pale, heavily bearded face.

"Lelio! Lelio!" said Checchina, when we were at supper, "you are in high spirits to-day. Look out that you do not weep to-morrow, my boy."

At midnight, I had scaled the park wall; but I had taken only a step or two on the path when a hand grasped my cloak. To guard against accident, I had provided myself with what, in my village, we call a "night-knife," and I was about to produce it when I recognized the fair Lila.

"Just a word, Signor Lelio, in great haste," she said in a low voice; "do not say that you are married."

"It doesn't concern me," rejoined Lila; "but I beg you not to mention that lady who lives with you."

"Oh! no, signor, certainly not! I do all that I can to prevent the signora from doing all these imprudent things. But she won't listen to me, and if I should tell her of the circumstance that might and should part her from you forever,—I don't know what would happen!"

"Alas! you saw to-day what an excitable person she is. She has such a strange nature! When she is disappointed, she is capable of anything. A month ago, when she was taken away from her mother to be shut up here, she talked of taking poison. Whenever her aunt, who is really a great scold, irritates her, she has nervous paroxysms which amount almost to insanity; and last night, when I ventured to say to her that perhaps you loved someone else, she rushed to her chamber window, crying like a madwoman: 'Ah! if I thought so!' I threw myself upon her, I unlaced her, I closed her windows, I didn't leave her during the night, and she cried all night, or else fell asleep for a moment to wake with a start and run about her room like a lunatic. Ah! Signor Lelio, she makes me very unhappy; I love her so dearly! for, in spite of her outbreaks and her eccentricities, she is so kind, so affectionate, so generous! Do not drive her to frenzy, I implore you; you are an honorable man, I am sure, I know it; everybody said so at Naples, and the signora listened with passionate eagerness to all the stories of your kind deeds. So you won't deceive her, and since you love the beautiful lady whom I saw at your house——"

"Oh! Signor Lelio! you are deceiving me! for I asked that lady if you were her brother, and she said no. You will think that I am very inquisitive, and that it is none of my business. No, I am not inquisitive, Signor Lelio; but I entreat you to be a friend to my poor mistress, to be like a brother to his sister or a father to his daughter. Just think a moment! she is a child fresh from the convent and hasn't any idea of the evil things that may be said about her. She says that she doesn't care for them, but I know how she takes such things when they come. Talk to her very gently, make her understand that you cannot see her in secret; but promise that you will call on her at her mother's when we return to Naples; for her mother is so good and loves her daughter so dearly that I am sure she would invite you to her house to give her pleasure. And then, too, perhaps the signora's madness will subside little by little. One can often change the current of her thoughts with amusements and distractions. I told her about the beautiful Angora cat I saw in your salon, which rubbed against you so while you were reading her letter that you had to kick her to drive her away. My mistress doesn't care at all for dogs, but she loves cats. She was taken with such a longing for yours, that you ought to give it to her; I am sure that it would keep her busy and cheer her up for several days."

"If my cat is all that is necessary to console your mistress for my absence," I replied, "there is no great harm done, and the remedy is simple enough. Be very sure, Lila, that I will act toward your mistress as a father and a friend. Have confidence in me. But let me go to her, for perhaps she is waiting for me."

"One word more, Signor Lelio. If you want the signora to listen to you, don't tell her that the common people are as good as the people of quality. She is tainted with her nobility. Don't form a bad opinion of her on that account, for it's a family disease; all the Grimanis are like that. But that does not prevent my young mistress from being kind and charitable. It is simply an idea she has got in her head, which makes her fly into a great passion when any one thwarts her. Would you believe that she has already refused I don't know how many handsome young men, and very rich too, because they were not well-born enough for her. However, Signor Lelio, agree with her at first on every subject, and you will soon persuade her of whatever you choose. Oh! if you could only persuade her to marry a young count who proposed for her not long ago!"

"Oh, no! he is a fool, and he bores everybody to death; even his dogs begin to yawn as soon as they see him."

As I listened to Lila's prattle, my fatherly manner having put her completely at her ease, I led her toward the rendezvous. Not that I did not listen to her with profound interest; all these details, trivial as they were in appearance, were very important in my eyes; for they led me by induction to a better knowledge of the enigmatical personage with whom I had to deal. I must confess also, that they cooled my ardor to a considerable extent, and that I began to look upon it as a most absurd thing to be the hero of a romance in competition with the first plaything that might come to hand; with my cat, Soliman, or—who could say?—perhaps with Cousin Hector himself at the very outset. Thus Lila's advice was identical with the advice which I gave myself and which I was most desirous to follow.

We found the signora sitting at the foot of the statue, dressed all in white—a costume by no means adapted to a mysterious meeting in the open air, but for that very reason perfectly in harmony with her character. As I approached, she sat so absolutely still that she might easily have been taken for another statue sitting at the feet of the white marble nymph.

She made no reply to my first words. With her elbow resting on her knee and her chin on her hand, she was so pensive, so lovely, and her attitude so graceful and stately, draped in her white veil in the moonlight, that I should have believed her to be wrapt in sublime contemplation, had not her love of cats and armorial bearings recurred to my memory.

As she seemed determined to take no notice of me, I tried to take one of her hands; but she drew it away with superb disdain, saying in a tone more majestic than Louis XIV. ever had at his command:

I could not refrain from laughing at that solemn quotation; but my merriment served only to increase her gravity.

"Do not stand on ceremony!" she said. "Laugh on; the hour and the place are admirably suited to that!"

She uttered these words in a tone of bitter indignation, and I saw that she was really angry. Thereupon, suddenly assuming a serious expression, I asked her forgiveness for my unintentional offence, and told her that I would not for anything in the world cause her one moment's unhappiness. She looked at me with an uncertain expression, as if she dared not believe me. But I began to speak to her with such evident sincerity and warmth of my devotion and affection, that she soon allowed herself to be convinced.

"So much the better!" she exclaimed, "so much the better! for, if you did not love me, you would be very ungrateful, and I should be very unhappy."—And as I gazed at her, utterly confounded by her words, she continued: "O Lelio! Lelio! I have loved you ever since the evening that I first saw you at Naples, playing Romeo, when I looked at you with that cold and contemptuous expression which disturbed you so. Ah! you were very eloquent and very impassioned in your singing that evening! The moon shone upon you as it does now, but less lovely than it does now, and Juliet was dressed in white as I am. And yet you say nothing to me, Lelio!"

That extraordinary girl exerted a constant fascination over me which led me on, always and everywhere, at the pleasure of her caprice. When we were apart, my mind threw off her domination, and I could analyze freely her words and her acts; but when I was once with her, I speedily and unconsciously ceased to have any other will than hers. That outburst of affection reawoke my slumbering passion. All my fine resolutions to be prudent vanished in smoke, and I found naught but words of love on my lips. At every instant, it is true, I felt a sharp pang of remorse; but it made no difference—all my fatherly counsels ended in loving phrases. A strange fatality—or rather that cowardice of the human heart which makes us always yield to the allurement of present joys—impelled me to say just the opposite of what my conscience directed. I gave myself the most convincing reasons you can imagine to prove that I was not doing wrong: it would have been useless cruelty to talk to that child in language which would have torn her heart asunder; there was still time enough to tell her the truth—and a thousand other things of the same sort. One circumstance which seemed to lessen the danger actually contributed to increase it: I mean Lila's presence. If she had not been there, my natural uprightness would have led me to watch myself all the more carefully, for the reason that anything would be possible in a moment of excitement, and I probably should not have gone forward a single step for fear of going too far. But, being sure that I had nothing to fear from my senses, I was much less careful of my words. So that it was not long before I reached the pitch of the most intense, albeit the purest passion; and, spurred on by an irresistible impulse, I seized a lock of the girl's floating hair and kissed it twice.

I felt then that it was quite time for me to go, and I walked rapidly away, saying:

Throughout this scene I had forgotten the past, little by little, and had not once thought of the future. The voice of Lila, who went with me to the gate, roused me from my trance.

"O Signor Lelio!" she said to me, "you didn't keep your promise. You were not my mistress's father nor her friend to-night."

"It is true," I replied gloomily; "it is true, I have done wrong. But never mind, my child, to-morrow I will make up for it all."

The next day it was the same story, and so with the next and the next. But I felt that I was more deeply in love every day; and the sentiment which, on the first day, was simply an inclination to fall in love, had become a genuine passion on the third. Lila's heart-broken air would have told me so plainly enough, had I not discovered it first myself. All along the road I reflected upon the future of that love-affair, and I returned home pale and distressed. Checchina soon found out what was the matter.

And as I opened my mouth to remonstrate, she added: "If you have not wept yet, you soon will; and there is reason enough. Your position is a pitiful one, and, what is worse, absurd. You love a mere girl whom your pride forbids you to try to marry, and whom your delicate sense of honor deters you from seducing. You do not wish to ask for her hand, in the first place because you know that if she bestowed it on you she would make a tremendous sacrifice, and would expose herself for your sake to innumerable discomforts, and you are too generous to accept a happiness which would cost her so dear; secondly, because you dread being refused, and are too proud to run the risk of being treated with disdain. Nor do you want to take what you have determined not to ask for, and I am very sure that you would much prefer to go off and be a monk than to take advantage of the ignorance of a girl who trusts you. But you must decide on something, my poor fellow, if you don't want the end of the world to come and find you sighing for the stars and throwing kisses to the clouds. Let dogs bay at the moon; we artists must live at any price and every moment. So make up your mind."

The next night I went again to the rendezvous. I found the signora excited and in high spirits, as on the preceding night; but I was taciturn and gloomy for some time. She joked me at first on my carbonaro-like manner, and asked me laughingly if I was thinking of dethroning the pope or reconstructing the Roman empire. Then, as I did not reply, she gazed earnestly at me, and said, taking my hand:

Thereupon I opened my heart to her, and said that my passion for her was a misfortune to me.

"I will tell you, signora. You are the heiress of a noble and illustrious family. You have been brought up to respect your ancestors and to believe that antiquity and splendor of race are all that there is in life. I am a poor devil without a past, a nobody, who have made myself what I am. And yet I believe that one man is as good as another, and I do not consider myself any man's inferior. Now, it is clear that you would not marry me. Everything would forbid it, your principles, your habits, your position in life. You, who have refused patricians because their families were not noble enough, would be less able and less likely than any other woman to stoop to a paltry actor like myself. From princess to player is a long way, signora. So I cannot be your husband. What is left for me? The prospect of a mutual passion, wretchedly unhappy if it were never gratified, or the hope of being your lover for a time. I cannot accept either, signora. To live together, overflowing with a passion always intense and never allayed, to love each other in fear and trembling, and to distrust ourselves as well as each other, is to subject ourselves voluntarily to suffering that would be intolerable because it would be senseless, hopeless, and aimless. Nor would I, even if I could, possess you as a lover. My happiness would be assailed by anxiety from too many sources to be at all complete. On the one hand, I should always be afraid of compromising your good name; I could not sleep with the dread of being the cause of great misery to you, or of your utter ruin; during the day I should pass long hours looking out for accidents which might bring misery upon you and consequently upon me, and at night I should waste the time that we were together in trembling at the fall of a leaf or at the cry of a bird. Everything would be a source of alarm to me. And why should I thus toss my life to a multitude of empty phantoms, to be consumed? for a love-affair of which I could never foresee the duration and which would afford no compensation for the uncertainties of to-day in a sense of security for the morrow; for sooner or later, signora,—I must say it frankly—you would marry. And you would marry a man of noble birth and of great wealth like yourself. It would cost you a bitter pang, I know; I know that you have a generous and sincere heart; you would desire most earnestly to remain faithful to me, and your heart would rebel at the thought of uttering a word which would put an end to all my happiness surely, if not to my life. But the constant assaults of your family, the very necessity of preserving your reputation, would drive you to take that course in spite of yourself. You would struggle a long while, no doubt, and vigorously. Your love for me would still be gentle and tender, but less effusive; and I, witnessing your grief, as I am not the man to accept long and painful sacrifices without returning them in kind, should myself force you, by going away from you, to resign yourself to that necessary marriage, preferring to consecrate my whole future to sorrow rather than to change your destiny by a dastardly act. That is what I wanted to say to you, signora, and you must understand now why I am afraid that this love would prove to be a misfortune to me."

She had listened to me with perfect tranquillity and in absolute silence. When I ceased speaking, she did not change her attitude in any way. But, watching her closely, I fancied that I detected an expression of profound perplexity on her face. Thereupon I said to myself that I had made no mistake, that she was weak and vain like all the rest of her sex; that the only difference was that she was honest enough to recognize the fact as soon as it was pointed out to her, and that she would probably be honest enough to admit it. So I allowed her to retain my esteem, but I felt that my enthusiasm vanished in an instant. I was congratulating myself on my perspicacity and my firmness, when the signora rose abruptly and walked away without a word. I was not prepared for that stroke, and I was painfully surprised.

"What! without a single word?" I cried. "You leave me, perhaps forever, without a single word of regret or consolation?"

"Farewell!" she said, turning toward me. "Regret I cannot feel; and I am the one who need consolation. You have failed to understand me, you do not love me."

"But who will understand me," she added, stopping, "if you do not? Who will love me, if you do not?"

She shook her head sadly, then folded her arms across her breast and fixed her eyes on the ground. She was at once so lovely and so despairing that I had a frantic longing to throw myself at her feet, and only a vague fear of angering her prevented me from doing it on the instant. I stood still, saying not a word, with my eyes fastened upon her, waiting anxiously to see what she would say or do. After a few seconds she walked slowly toward me, and, leaning against the pedestal of the statue, said with a meditative air:

"So you thought me cowardly and vain; you thought me capable of giving my love to a man and accepting his, without giving him at the same time my whole life. You thought that I would stay with you so long as the wind held fair, and that I would go away as soon as it became adverse. How can you have thought so? For you are a steadfast, loyal man, and I am sure that you would not start upon any serious course of action until you had determined to go on with it to the end. Why, then, do you insist that I cannot do what you do, and why have you not the same good opinion of me that I have of you? Either you must have great contempt for women, or you have allowed yourself to be sadly misled by my levity. I am often foolish; I know that; but perhaps that may be to some extent the fault of my age, and it does not prevent my being steadfast and loyal. On the day that I realized that I loved you, Lelio, I determined to marry you. That surprises you. You remember not only the thoughts that I must have had in my position, but also my past words and acts. You think of all the patricians I have refused to marry because they were not noble enough. Alas! my dear friend, I am the slave of my public, just as you sometimes complain of being of yours, and I am obliged to play my rôle before it until I find an opportunity to escape from the stage. But I have kept my heart free under my mask, and, since I have been able to reason, I have determined that I would not marry except in accordance with the dictates of my heart. But I had to have some excuse for dismissing all those insipid and impertinent patricians to whom you refer. I found it in the prejudices common to my suitors and my family, and, wounding the pride of the former and flattering the pride of the latter at the same time, I took advantage of the antiquity of my blood to refuse the hand of men who, noble as they were, were still, I said, not noble enough for me. In this way I succeeded in getting rid of all my troublesome suitors without displeasing my family; for although they called my refusals childish whims, and offered my rejected followers apologies for my exaggerated pride of birth, they were none the less enchanted with it in the depths of their hearts. For some little time I enjoyed greater freedom by virtue of this conduct. But at last my stepfather, Prince Grimani, told me that it was time to make up my mind, and presented his nephew, Count Ettore, as the husband he had in mind for me. This new pretender was as unattractive to me as his predecessor—even more so perhaps; for his excessive imbecility soon led me to despise him altogether. The prince, seeing this, and thinking that my mother, who is a dear soul and loves me with all her heart, might aid and abet me in my resistance to his will, determined to part me from her in order to force me more easily to obey him. He sent me here to live with no one but his sister and nephew. He hopes that, being compelled to choose between ennui and my cousin Ettore, I shall end by choosing the latter; but he is sadly mistaken. Count Ettore is unworthy of me in every respect, and I should rather die than marry him. I have never said so as yet, because I loved nobody, and, taking one scourge with another, I had no more objection to that one than to others. But now I love you, Lelio; I will tell Ettore that I will not have him; we will go away together—to my mother; we will tell her that we love each other, and that we wish to be married. She will give her consent, and you will marry me. Do you agree?"

I had listened to the signora, from her very first word, with profound amazement, which did not cease when she had finished. Such nobleness of heart, such fearlessness of thought, such masculine audacity blended with such delicacy of feeling—all these united in so young a girl, brought up amid the most arrogant of the old aristocrats—aroused the warmest admiration in my own mind, and my surprise gave place to enthusiasm. I was on the point of giving way to my transports and of throwing myself at her feet to tell her that I was happy and proud to be loved by a woman like her, that I was burning with the most ardent passion for her, and that I was ready to do whatever she choose. But reflection checked me in time, and I thought of all the drawbacks, all the dangers of the step she proposed to risk. It was very probable that she would be refused and severely rebuked, and then what would be her plight, after running away from her aunt's house and openly taking a journey of eight leagues with me? And so, instead of yielding to the tumultuous impulses of my heart, I forced myself to be calm, and, after a few seconds of silence, I tranquilly inquired:

"There is but one person in the world whose authority over me I acknowledge, and whose anger I fear to incur: that is my mother; and, as I have told you, my mother is as kind as an angel, and loves me beyond everything. Her heart will consent."

"O dear child!" I cried, taking her hands and pressing them against my heart; "God knows that what you propose to do is the goal of all my desires! I am fighting against myself when I try to hold you back. Every objection that I urge means the loss of one more hope of happiness for myself, and my heart suffers cruelly from all the doubts suggested by my reason. But to my mind, you, my beloved angel, and your future, your reputation, your happiness, are to be considered first of all. I should much rather renounce all hope than have you suffer because of me. So do not be alarmed at all my scruples; do not see in them an indication of calmness or indifference, but the proof of an unbounded affection. You say that you know your mother will consent because you know that she is kind. But you are very young, my child; with all your strength of mind, you do not know what abnormal alliances are often found between the most contrary sentiments. I believe all that you tell me of your mother, but can you be sure that her pride will not resist her love for you? It may be that she will think that she is performing a sacred duty by preventing your union with an actor."

"You may be half right," she replied. "Not that I am afraid of my mother's pride. Although she has married two princes, she belongs to the middle class by birth, and has never forgotten her own origin so far that she would consider it a crime for me to love a plebeian. But Prince Grimani's influence, a certain weakness which makes her always coincide with the opinions of those about her, and perhaps, to represent things in the worst possible light, the longing to obtain forgiveness for her own humble birth in the social circle in which she now lives, would prevent her from giving a ready consent to our marriage. So that there is but one thing to do; that is to be married first and then tell her of it. When our union is sanctified by the Church, my mother will never have the heart to turn against me. It may be that she will suffer a little, less on account of my disobedience, although her new family will hold her entirely responsible for it, than on account of what she will consider a lack of confidence on my part; but she will very soon be appeased, you may be sure, and, from love for me, will open her arms to you as to a son."

"Thanks for your generous offers, my dear signora; but I have my honor to preserve, no less than the proudest patrician. If I should marry you without your parent's consent, after abducting you, people would not fail to accuse me of the basest and most dastardly projects. And your mother! suppose that after we were married she should refuse to forgive us, all her indignation would fall upon me."

"I understand then that, before marrying, you desire to have my mother's consent at least?"

She paused abruptly, in evident uncertainty, and dropped her head on her breast. When she raised it, she was slightly pale and tears were glistening in her eyes. I was about to ask her the cause of them, but she did not give me time.

The girl obeyed regretfully, and stopped far enough away to be out of hearing, but not so far that she could not see us. Her mistress waited until she had gone, before breaking the silence. Then she took my hand with a most serious air, and began:

"I am going to tell you something which I have never told before to a living soul, and which I had fully determined never to tell. It relates to my mother, the object of all my veneration and all my love. Judge what it must cost me to stir a memory which might tarnish her purity and her fair fame in the sight of other eyes than mine. But I know that you are kind-hearted, and that I can speak to you as I would speak to God, without any fear that you will imagine evil."

"I remember that I was very proud of my noble blood in my childhood. It was, I fancy, the obsequious fawning of our servants that planted that sentiment in my mind so early in life, and led me to despise everybody who was not noble like myself. Among my mother's servants there was one who did not resemble the others, and who had been able to retain, in his humble station, the dignity that befits a man. So that he seemed to me an insolent wretch, and my feeling for him was little short of hatred. Still I was afraid of him, especially after a certain day when I saw him watching me with a very grave expression, as I was running my loveliest dolls through the heart with a long black pin.

"One night, I was awakened in my mother's bedroom, where my little bed always stood, by the sound of a man's voice. That voice was speaking to my mother with a gravity that was almost harsh, and she replied in a grief-stricken, timid, almost imploring tone. In my astonishment I thought at first that it was mamma's confessor; and as he seemed to be scolding her according to his custom, I listened with all my ears, without making a sound or letting them suspect that I wasn't asleep. They had no suspicion of me. They talked without restraint. But such an extraordinary conversation! My mother said: 'If you loved me, you would marry me,' and the man refused to marry her! Then mamma wept and so did the man; and I heard—ah! Lelio, I must be very fond of you to tell you this—I heard the sound of kisses. It seemed to me as if I knew the man's voice; but I could not believe the testimony of my ears. I longed to look; but I didn't dare to move, because I felt that I was doing a shameful thing in listening, and as I had even then some elevated sentiments, I tried not to hear. But I heard in spite of my efforts. At last the man said to my mother: 'Addio, I leave you forever; do not refuse me a lock of your lovely hair.'—And my mother replied: 'Cut it yourself.'

"The care which my mother took of my curls had accustomed me to look upon a woman's hair as something very valuable; and when I heard her give him part of hers, I had a thrill of jealousy and grief, as if she had parted with property which she ought not to sacrifice to anybody but myself. I began to weep silently; but, as I had heard steps approaching my bed, I hastily wiped my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Then some one put aside my curtains, and I saw a man all dressed in red, whom I did not recognize at first because I had never seen him in that costume. I was afraid of him; but he spoke to me, and I recognized him at once; it was—Lelio, you will forget this story, won't you?"

"It was Nello, our gondolier—Why, Lelio, what's the matter with you? You are shivering, your hand trembles. O heaven! you blame my mother!"

"No, signora, no!" I replied in an inaudible voice; "I am listening attentively to you. This took place at Venice, did it?"

"Of course, for I told you it was in my mother's bedroom. But why this agitation, Lelio?"

"Well, what are you thinking about?" said she, testily. "One would say that you had just learned my name for the first time."

"Pardon me, signora, your family name—I always heard you called Grimani, at Naples."

"By people who were but slightly acquainted with us, doubtless. I am the last of the Aldinis, one of the most ancient families of the Republic, proud beyond words, and now ruined. But my mother is rich, and Prince Grimani, who considers my birth and fortune worthy his nephew, sometimes treats me sternly, sometimes wheedles me to prevail on me to marry him. When he has a kind day he calls me his dear daughter, and when strangers ask him if I am really his daughter, he answers, alluding to his favorite project: 'To be sure, for she will be Countess Grimani.' That is why I was always called by a name that is not mine at Naples, where I passed a month, and where I knew almost nobody, and why I am called by the same name in this region, where I have been living six weeks, and where I neither see nor know anybody."

"Signora," said I, making a mighty effort to break the painful silence into which I had relapsed, "will you please explain to me what relation this story can possibly bear to our love, and how, by the aid of the secret you possess, you can extort from your mother a consent which she would be otherwise disinclined to grant?"

"What do you say, Lelio? Do you believe me capable of such detestable scheming? If you would listen to me instead of passing your hands over your forehead with that bewildered air,—my friend, my dear Lelio, what new sorrow, what fresh scruple has assailed you in the last few seconds?"

"Very well! Understand that I have never forgotten that incident: that it has caused all the sorrows and all the joys of my life. I realized that I must never question my mother on the subject nor mention it to anyone. You are the first person to whom I have ever told it, not excepting my dear nurse Salomé, or my foster sister Lila, to whom I tell everything. My pride suffered from my mother's error, which seemed to rebound upon me. However, I adored her just the same. Perhaps, indeed, I loved her all the more, the more I felt that she was weak and exposed to the secret maledictions of my relatives on my father's side. But my hatred for the common people increased in the same proportion as my love for her.

"My sentiments remained unchanged until I was fourteen years old, and my mother had apparently ceased to pay any heed to them. In the bottom of her heart she was pained by my contempt for the lower classes, and one day she made up her mind to reproach me timidly on that subject. I made no reply, which must have surprised her, for I was in the habit of arguing obstinately with everybody and on every subject. But I felt that there was a mountain between my mother and myself, and that we could not argue impartially on either side. Seeing that I listened to her reproaches with extraordinary resignation, she took me on her knees, and, fondling me with unutterable affection, talked to me about my father in the most unexceptionable terms; but she told me many things that I did not know. I had always retained a sort of enthusiastic respect, entirely without foundation, for that father of mine, whom I had hardly known. When I learned that he had married my poor mother solely for her fortune, and that, after marrying her, he had looked down on her because of her obscure birth and inferior education, there was a great reaction in my heart, and I soon hated him as intensely as I had loved him. My mother said many other things which seemed very strange to me and impressed me deeply, concerning the misfortune of marrying purely for convenience; and I fancied that I could see that she was not much happier with her new husband than she had been with him of whom she was speaking to me.

"This conversation made a profound impression on me, and I began to reflect upon the necessity of making marriage a matter of business, and upon the humiliation of being courted because of a name or a dowry. I resolved not to marry, and some time afterward, as I was talking with my mother again, I made known my determination to her, thinking that she would approve of it. She smiled and said that the time was not far away when my heart would feel the need of a different love from hers. I assured her of the contrary; but by slow degrees I came to realize that I had spoken rashly; for I was assailed by the most intolerable ennui when we laid aside our pleasant and secluded life at Venice, to travel about and mingle in the brilliant society of other cities. Then, as I was very tall and very far advanced for my years, it seemed as if I had hardly ceased to be a child before they were already talking to me about choosing a husband and about an establishment; and every day I overheard discussions as to the merits and drawbacks of some new suitor. I had not as yet felt the repugnance and terror which men without heart or mind inspire in well-born women. I was hard to suit. Having lived always with such a dear mother and been idolized by her, what a paragon of a man I must have met in order not to regret most bitterly her gentle yoke and her loving protection! My pride, already so irritable in itself, became more and more sensitive every day at the appearance of the vain, stilted, empty-headed creatures who presumed to pay court to me. I clung to the virtues of noble birth, because I had imagined up to that time that illustrious families were superior to others in courage, merit, courtesy and liberality. I had not seen the nobility except in the portrait gallery of the Aldini Palace. There my ancestors appeared before me in all their glory, with all their great feats of arms or pious deeds recorded on oaken bas-reliefs. This one had ransomed three hundred slaves from barbarian pirates and bestowed true religion and freedom upon them; that one had sacrificed all his property in war for the salvation of his country; a third had shed all his blood for her on some glorious field. So that my admiration for them was justifiable, and I felt that the blood in my veins was no less warm and generous than theirs. But how shockingly the descendants of other patricians seemed to me to have degenerated! They retained none of the qualities of their race except insufferable incompetency and sickening presumption. I asked myself what had become of the nobility; I found it only on armorial bearings and on the doorways of palaces. I determined to become a nun, and I urged my mother so persistently to allow me to enter a convent, that she consented. She wept bitterly when she left me there. Prince Grimani approved of my whim; for since he had unearthed, in some corner of Lombardy, a sort of nephew who might become rich at my expense, and bear magnificently, thanks to my dowry, the imperishable name of Grimani, his only thought was to make me obedient to his wishes, and he flattered himself that religion would make my character more pliable. What fervent piety, what a thirst for martyrdom one must have in order to accept Hector! They took me away from the convent three months ago; the fact is that I was dying with ennui there, and the rigid discipline to which I had to submit was beyond my strength. And then I was so happy to return to my mother and she to have me with her! But six weeks of convent life had wrought a great change in my ideas. I had come to understand Jesus, to whom I had always prayed with my lips alone. In my hours of solitude, in church, in the earnest outpouring of my heart in prayer, I had learned that the son of Mary was the friend of the hard-working poor, and that he had justly scorned the grandeurs of this world. And how shall I tell you? at the same time that I opened my heart to new sympathies, the thing that in my childhood I used mentally to call my mother's shame presented itself to me under very different colors, and I thought of it only with deep emotion. What took place within me? I cannot say; but I said to myself: 'If I should do as mamma did, if I should fall in love with a man of a different station in life from my own, the whole world would throw stones at me, all except mamma.' She would take me in her arms, and hiding my blushes in her bosom she would say: 'Obey your heart, so that you may be happier than I was after breaking mine.'—You are touched, Lelio! O heaven! it was a tear that just fell on my hand. You are beaten, my dear! You see that I am neither mad, nor wicked; now you will say yes, and you will come and take me to-morrow. Swear it!"

I tried to speak, but I could not find a word; I was shuddering from head to foot. I felt as if I were about to faint. With her eyes fixed upon me she anxiously awaited my reply. For my own part, I was completely crushed. At the very first words of her story, I had been struck by its strange resemblance to my own; but when she came to those incidents which it was impossible for me not to recognize, I was completely bewildered and dazzled, as if the lightning had struck close beside me. A thousand conflicting and sinister thoughts took possession of my brain. I saw images of crime and despair fluttering about before me like ghosts. Deeply moved by the memory of what had been, appalled at the thought of what might be, I imagined myself the mother's lover and the daughter's husband at the same time. Alezia, that child whom I had seen in her cradle, stood before me, talking in the same breath of her love and her mother's.

A world of recollections crowded into my mind, and little Alezia appeared there as the object, even then, of a timid and unjoyful affection. I recalled her pride, her hatred of me, and the words she had said to me one day when she saw her father's ring on my finger. "Who can say," I thought, "that she has renounced her prejudices forever? It may be that if she should learn at this moment that I am Nello, her former servant, she would blush for loving me."

"Signora," I said to her, "you used, you say, to be fond of piercing the hearts of your dolls with a long pin. Why did you do that?"

"I will tell you why it was, to show you that it was not a mere barbarous whim," she replied. "I used to hear it said, when a man did a cowardly thing, 'that's what it is to have no blood in the heart;' and I took that metaphorical expression literally. So when I scolded my dolls, I would say to them: 'you are cowards, and I am going to look and see if you have any blood in your hearts.'"

"You despise cowards bitterly, don't you, signora?" I asked, wondering what her opinion of me would be some day if I should give way at that moment to her romantic passion. Once more I fell into a melancholy reverie.

Her voice recalled me to myself. I looked at her with streaming eyes. She was weeping too, but on account of my hesitation. I understood it at once, and I said, taking her hands with a paternal gesture:

"O my child! do not accuse me! Do not doubt my poor heart! If you only knew how I am suffering!"

And I walked rapidly away, as if by leaving her I could escape my unhappiness. On reaching home I became calmer. I went over in my mind the whole extraordinary succession of events; I worked out all their details, and thus banished from my own mind the flavor of mystery which had paralyzed me at first with superstitious terror. It was all strange, but natural, even to the Christian name, that name Alezia, which I had always longed to know and had never dared to ask.

I do not know whether another man in my place could have continued to love the young Signora Aldini. Strictly speaking, I might have done it without criminality; for you will remember that I had not ceased to be a chaste and obedient lover of her mother. But my conscience rebelled at the thought of that incest of the mind. I loved La Grimani with her unknown baptismal name, I loved her with all my heart and all my senses; but in truth I did not love in that way little Alezia, Signorina Aldini, Bianca's daughter, for it seemed to me that I was her father. The memory of Bianca's charms and fascinating qualities had remained pure and undimmed throughout my life; it had followed me everywhere like a providence. It had made me generous to women and brave against myself. Although I had since fallen in with many false and selfish beauties, I always had the certainty that there are those who are sincere and generous. Bianca had made no sacrifice to me, because I had refused to accept any; but if I had accepted it, if I had yielded to her enthusiasm, she would have sacrificed everything to me, friends, family, fortune, honor, religion, and perhaps her daughter too! What a sacred debt I owed to her! Had I paid it in full by my refusal, by my departure? No; for she was a woman, that is to say, weak and submissive, exposed to the implacable decrees and the bitter insults of irony. And she would have braved it all, she who was so timid, so gentle, so like a child in a thousand ways. She would have done a sublime thing; and I, had I accepted, should have done a dastardly thing. So that I had done nothing more than fulfil a duty to myself, whereas she had exposed herself to the risk of martyrdom for my sake. Poor Bianca, my first, perhaps my only love! how lovely she had always remained in my memory! "Why, in heaven's name," I said to myself, "am I afraid that she has grown old and withered? Ought I not to be indifferent to that? Should I still love her? no, probably not; but, whether ugly or lovely, could I see her to-day without danger?" And at that thought my heart beat so violently that I realized how impossible it was for me to be her daughter's husband or lover.

And then too, to take advantage of the past—if it were only by a silent assent to Alezia's wishes,—in order to obtain the hand of Bianca's daughter, would have been a dishonorable act. Weak as I knew Bianca to be, I knew that she would consider herself bound to give us her consent; but I knew also that her old husband, her family, and, above all, her confessor, would overwhelm her with their reproaches. She had been able to make up her mind to marry a second time, a marriage of convenience. Therefore, she was at heart a woman of the world, a slave of social prejudices, and her love for me was simply a sublime episode, the memory of which was to her a cause of shame and despair, whereas it was my glory and my joy. "No, poor Bianca!" I thought, "no, I have not paid my debt to you. You must have suffered terribly, perhaps trembled with apprehension, at the idea that a servant might be peddling the secret of your weakness from house to house. It is time that you should sleep in peace, that you should cease to blush for the only happy days of your youth, and that you should be able to say, poor woman, on learning of Nello's everlasting silence, everlasting devotion, everlasting love, that there was a time in your fettered, disappointed life, when you knew love and inspired it."

I paced my room excitedly; day was beginning to break. In the lives of men who sleep but little, that is the decisive hour which puts an end to the hesitations conceived and nourished in the darkness, and which changes plans into resolutions. I felt a thrill of enthusiastic joy and legitimate pride at the thought that Lelio the actor had not fallen below Nello the gondolier. Sometimes, in my romantic democratic ideas, I had flushed with shame because I had left the thatched roof where I might have perpetuated a hardy, laborious, and frugal race; I had reproached myself, as for a crime, for having disdained the humble trade of my fathers to seek the bitter joys of luxurious living, the vain incense of glory, the false advantages and trivial labors of art. But by performing, in the tinsel of the actor, the same acts of unselfishness and true pride that I had performed in the rough jacket of the gondolier, I ennobled my life twice over, and raised myself above all false social grandeurs. My conscience, my dignity, seemed to me the conscience and dignity of the common people; by debasing myself I should have debased the common people. "Carbonari! carbonari!" I exclaimed, "I will be worthy to be one of you." The cult of deliverance is a new cult; liberalism is a religion which should ennoble its followers, and, like Christianity in its early days, make the slave a free man, the free man a saint or a martyr.

I sealed this letter, wondering how I could forward it to its address with the greatest possible speed, and with no danger of its falling into strange hands. I dared not carry it myself, fearing that Alezia, in her irritation at learning of my departure, would do something foolish or desperate. Moreover, it was quite true that I wished to be able to open my heart completely to her mother when the time should come for me to confide everything to her; for I foresaw that Alezia would conceal from her no detail of our little romance, of which I had no right to tell the whole story except by her order. I feared, too, that the girl's enthusiasm would so prevail over her mother's weakness with the moving description of her passion, that the mother would eventually give a consent which I did not propose to accept. Both needed the help of my calm and immovable determination, and it might well be that when they were face to face I should stand in need of the strength they both would lack.

I had reached this point in my reflections when there came a knock at my door, and a man entered and approached me respectfully. As he had taken pains to take off his livery, I did not at first recognize him as the servant who had looked at me so closely on the day of the church episode; but as we now had plenty of time to scrutinize each other, we both involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Mandola, my old friend!" I cried, and I opened my arms. He hesitated an instant, then embraced me most heartily, weeping for joy.

"I recognized you, but I wanted to make sure; and so, at the first moment I have had at my disposal, here I am. How does it happen that you are called Signor Lelio hereabouts, unless you are the famous singer who is so much talked about at Naples, and whom I have never been to see? for I always go to sleep at the theatre, you know, and as for music, I have never been able to understand it. So the signora never makes me go up to her box till the end of the play."

"I was talking about Signora Alezia, for Signora Bianca never goes to the theatre now. She has taken a Piedmontese confessor, and she has been entirely wrapped up in religion since her second marriage. Poor, dear signora, I am afraid that this husband hardly makes up to her for the other. Ah! Nello, Nello, why didn't you——"

"Hush, Mandola; not a word about that. There are some memories which ought not to come to our lips any more than the dead should return to life. Only tell me where your mistress is at this moment, and how I can send her a letter secretly and without delay."

"In that case, give it to me; I will travel by post at full speed, and deliver it to her at Bologna, where she is now. Didn't you know it?"

"Yes, by Bacchus! Poor mistress! how surprised she will be to hear from you! for you see, Nello, you see, Signor"——

"Call me Nello when we are alone, and Lelio before other people, until the old Chioggia affair is forgotten altogether."

"I was saying that she will turn very red and then very pale when I hand her your letter and whisper: 'This is from Nello! The signora remembers Nello, who used to sing so well!'—Then she will say to me in a serious tone, for she is no longer bright and cheerful as she used to be, poor signora: 'Very well, Mandola, go to the pantry.' And then she will call me back and say in a sweet tone, for she is just as kind-hearted as ever: 'Poor Mandola, you must be very tired!—Give him some of the best wine, Salomé!'"

"Oh! she'll never marry. She is just the same, no older nor younger; never smiling, never shedding a tear, adoring the signora as always, and forever resisting her; very fond of the signora and always scolding her; kind-hearted at bottom, but not amiable. Has Signora Alezia recognized you?"

"I can believe it; I had much difficulty in recognizing you myself. People change so much! You used to be so small and so slender!"

"And I," continued Mandola with comical distress, "I was so active and graceful and quick and merry! Ah! how fast one grows old!"

I began to laugh when I saw how men delude themselves concerning their youthful graces as they advance in years. Mandola was very much the same Lombard giant that I remembered; he still walked sideways like a vessel beating to windward, and the constant balancing of the gondola as he rowed at the stern had caused him to contract the habit of standing on one leg at a time. You would have said that he was always suspicious of the level ground and was waiting for a wave to come to change his position. I had much difficulty in shortening our interview; he took great delight in it, and I derived a sort of sorrowful pleasure from hearing of that home where my heart had been thrown open to poesy, art, love and honor. I could not restrain a secret thrill of joy, overflowing with emotion and gratitude, when the honest Lombard told me of Bianca's long continued melancholy after my departure, her impaired health, her secret tears, her languor, her distaste for life. Then she had recovered her animation. A new love had touched her heart. A very charming man, of decidedly ill-repute, a sort of aristocratic adventurer, had sought her hand in marriage; she had been within an ace of believing in him. Being warned in time, she had shuddered at the dangers to which her peace of mind and dignity were exposed by her isolation; above all she had shuddered for her daughter, and she had fallen back upon religion.

"Well, there is such a thing as fatality, no one can escape it. Off with you, Mandola; here is some money, and here is the letter. Don't lose an instant, and don't return to the Grimani villa until you have spoken to me; for I have some important suggestions to make to you."

He left me. I threw myself on my bed and was just falling asleep when I heard the rapid footsteps of a horse in the garden upon which my window looked. I wondered whether it was Mandola returning because he had forgotten a part of his instructions. I overcame my fatigue and went to the window. But, instead of Mandola, I saw a woman in a riding habit, with her head covered with a thick black crêpe mantle which fell over her shoulders and concealed her whole figure as well as her face. She was riding a superb horse, steaming with sweat; and, leaping to the ground before her groom had found time to assist her, she talked in a very low tone to old Cattina, who had hurried to meet her, impelled by curiosity much more than by zeal. I trembled as I thought who it might be, who it must be; and, cursing the imprudence of such a proceeding, I hastily dressed. When I was ready, as Cattina did not come to notify me, I rushed out into the hall, fearing that the reckless visitor might remain on the stoop exposed to some inquisitive eye. But I found Cattina at the foot of the steps, returning to her work after showing the stranger into the house.

"What trick are you trying to play on me, you old fool? Didn't I see a lady dressed in black come in, and didn't she ask to speak to me?"

"No, as I believe in baptism, Signor Lelio. The lady asked for Signora Checchina, and didn't mention your name. She put this half-sequin in my hand and bade me keep her presence a secret from the other people in the house. That's just what she said."

"I saw her dress and her veil, and a great lock of black hair that had got loose and fell on a beautiful hand, and two great eyes that shone behind the lace like two lamps behind a curtain."

"In Signora Checchina's small salon, while the signora is dressing to receive her."

I was uncertain whether it was Alezia who had come to confide in Checchina. If so, it was my duty to prevent her, at any price, from remaining in that house, where every instant of her stay might contribute to the ruin of her reputation; but if it were not she, what right had I to go and question a person who, doubtless, had some very serious motive for concealing her actions in this way? I had been unable from my window to judge of the height of that veiled woman, because our respective positions were such that I could see only the top of her head. I had scrutinized the groom as he led the horses to a clump of trees which his mistress pointed out to him. I had never seen his face before; but that was no reason why he might not belong to the Grimani establishment, for I certainly had not seen all the servants. I disliked extremely to question him and try to bribe him. I determined to go to Checchina; I knew what a length of time she required to make the simplest toilet. She could not have joined her visitor as yet, and I could reach her bedroom without passing through the small salon. I knew the secret passage which connected Nasi's apartments with his mistress's, the villa of Cafaggiolo being a genuine petite maison, built according to the French style of the 18th century.

I found Checchina half-dressed, and making ready with queenly indifference for this early morning audience.

"Make haste," she said when we were alone, "for there is someone waiting for me."

"I know it, and that is what I came to speak to you about. Do you know this woman who has requested an interview with you?"

"How do I know? She refused to tell my maid her name, and at that I sent word to her that I was not in the habit of receiving people whom I did not know, at seven o'clock in the morning; but she wouldn't be refused, and she begged Teresa so earnestly—indeed it is probable that she gave her money in order to enlist her in her interest—that the girl came and bothered me to death, and I backed down; but not without the greatest reluctance to get up so early, for I read of the loves of Angélique and Médor far into the night."

"Oh! do you think so? In that case, go and join her. I understand why she asked for me, and why you came here by the secret passage. I will be close-mouthed, and delighted to go to sleep again, and you will be the happiest of men."

"No, my dear Francesca, you are mistaken. If I had arranged an assignation under your auspices, be very sure that I would have asked your permission. But I have not reached that stage, and my romance is drawing to a conclusion—to the least ardent and most moral of conclusions. But this young woman is ruined unless you come to her assistance. Do not listen to any of the romantic projects which she has come here to confide to you; send her away at once; make her return to her people instantly. If by any chance she asks to speak to me in your presence, say that I am absent and shall not return during the day."

"What, Lelio! you are no more ardent than this, and she makes a fool of herself for you! The deuce! That is what comes of being conceited—one always succeeds. But suppose you are mistaken, cugino? Suppose this beautiful adventuress turns out to be not your Dulcinea, but one of the poor girls with whom every country swarms, who want to go on the stage in order to escape from cruel parents? Look you, I have an inspiration. Let us go into the small salon together. If we push the screen before the door as we go in, you can creep in with me, keep out of sight, and see and hear everything. If this woman is your mistress, it is important that you should know at once just what is in the wind; and as I should have to repeat to you word for word what she says to me, it will be a much shorter way for you to hear it yourself."

"But suppose it is some other woman," I objected; "suppose she has some secret to tell you?"

"Have you and I any secrets from each other?" said Checchina; "and have you less regard for yourself than I have for you? Come, no absurd scruples; come!"

She called Teresa, said a few words in her ear, and, when the screen was arranged, dismissed her and led me into the salon. I had not been in hiding two minutes before I found a break in the screen through which I could see the mysterious lady. She had not raised her veil, but I recognized Alezia's graceful figure and beautiful hands.

The poor child was trembling in every limb. I pitied her and blamed her; for the apartment in which we were was not decorated in the most chaste style, and the antique bronzes and marble statuettes which embellished it, although selected with exquisite taste as works of art, were by no means suited to attract the glances of an enamored girl or a modest woman. And as I reflected that it was Alezia Aldini who had dared to find her way into that heathen temple, I was, in spite of myself, more hurt than grateful for her action, because I still loved her a little.

Checchina, although she had dressed hurriedly, had omitted nothing to accomplish the object so dear to women, of dazzling persons of their own sex by the splendor of their costume. She had thrown over her shoulders a cashmere robe de chambre, at that time a very rare object; she had surrounded her dishevelled hair with a net of gold and purple, for the antique was fashionable then; and over her bare legs, which were as strong and as beautifully moulded as those of a statue of Diana, she had drawn a sort of buskin of tiger's skin, which ingeniously supplied the place of the commonplace slipper. She had covered her fingers with diamonds and cameos, and held her brilliant fan like a stage sceptre, while the stranger, to keep herself in countenance, played awkwardly with her own, which was of simple black satin. She was visibly dismayed by Checca's beauty,—beauty of a somewhat masculine type, but incontestable. With her Turkish gown, her Median footwear, and her Greek head-dress, she must have resembled the wives of the old satraps who decked themselves out with the plunder of foreign nations.

She saluted her guest with a patronizing air bordering on impertinence; then, reclining carelessly on an ottoman, assumed the most Grecian attitude that she could invent. All this pantomime produced its due effect: the girl was utterly bewildered, and dared not break the silence.

"Well, signora or signorina," said Checca, slowly unfolding her fan, "for I haven't the slightest idea with whom I have the pleasure of speaking—I am at your service."

Thereupon the stranger, in a clear and somewhat metallic voice, with a very pronounced English accent, replied thus:

"Pray pardon me, signora, for disturbing you so early in the morning, and accept my thanks for your kindness in receiving me. My name is Barbara Tempest, and I am the daughter of an English nobleman who has been living in Florence for a short time. My parents are having me take music lessons, and I have already acquired some talent; but I had a most excellent teacher who has gone to Milan, and my parents want me now to take lessons of that stupid Tosani, who will disgust me with the art with his antiquated method and his absurd cadenzas. I have heard that Signor Lelio—whom I heard several times at Naples—was coming to this neighborhood, and that he had hired this house, the owner of which I know, for the season. I have an irresistible desire to take lessons of that famous singer, and I asked leave of my parents, who consented; but they have spoken about it to several people, and have been told that Signor Lelio is a man of a very proud and somewhat eccentric character, that, in addition, he is associated with what they call charbonnerie, I believe, that is to say he has taken an oath to exterminate all the rich and all the nobles, and that he detests them all. He doesn't miss an opportunity, so my father was told, to show his aversion to them, and if he ever, by any chance, consents to do them a service, to sing at their parties, or give lessons in their families, he doesn't do it until he has made them implore him in the most humble terms. If they prove to him, by very earnest appeals, how highly they esteem his talent and his person, he yields and becomes amiable; but if they treat him as an ordinary artist, he refuses sharply, and is not sparing of his mockery. This, signora, is what my parents have heard, and it is what they fear; for they are a little vain of their name and their social position. For my own part, I have no prejudices, and I have such profound admiration for talent, that there is no price that I would not pay to obtain from Signor Lelio the favor of being his pupil.

"I have very often said to myself that if I could only have an opportunity to speak to him, he certainly would grant my request. But not only am I not likely to have an opportunity to meet him, but it would not be proper for a young woman to accost a young man. I was thinking about it this morning as I was riding. In my country, you know, signora, young ladies go out alone, and ride out attended by their servants. So I ride early in the morning, to avoid the heat of the day, which seems very terrible to us northern people. As I was passing this pretty house, I asked a servant whom it belonged to. When I learned that it was Count Nasi's, who is a friend of my family, I asked if Signor Lelio had arrived, knowing that the count had let it to him. 'Not yet,' was the reply; 'but his wife came on ahead to prepare the house for him; she is a very kind and beautiful lady.' Thereupon, signora, it came into my head to call upon you and interest you in my desire, so that you might give me the benefit of your powerful influence with your husband, and induce him to grant the request of my parents when they present it. May I ask you also, signora, to be kind enough to keep my little secret and to ask Signor Lelio to do the same? for my family would blame me severely for taking this step, although it is, as you see, perfectly innocent."

She pronounced this harangue with such genuinely British volubility, jerking out her words, cutting short the long syllables, and drawling over the short ones, her Anglicisms were so natural and amusing, that I no longer believed that prudish yet reckless young lady to be Alezia. Checchina, for her part, thought of nothing but making merry over her eccentric performance. I would gladly have retired, as I was hardly in a mood to enjoy that amusement; but the slightest sound would have betrayed my presence and struck terror to Miss Barbara's guileless heart.

"Really, miss," Checchina replied, concealing a strong desire to laugh behind a phial of essence of rose, "your request is most embarrassing, and I don't know how to answer it. I will admit that I have not the influence over Signor Lelio which you are pleased to attribute to me."

"Can it be that you are not his wife?" inquired the young Englishwoman artlessly.

"Oh! miss, to think of a young lady having such ideas!" exclaimed Checchina assuming a prudish air that sat most awkwardly upon her. "Fie, fie! Does custom permit young ladies in England to make such suppositions?"

"I do not know whether my question was insulting," she rejoined in a trembling but resolute voice; "I certainly did not so intend it. You could not live with Signor Lelio without committing a crime unless you were his wife. You might, perhaps, be his sister—That is all I wanted to say, signora."

"And might I not be neither his wife, nor his sister, nor his mistress, but be living in my own house? May I not be Countess Nasi?"

"O signora," replied Barbara ingenuously, "I know that Signor Nasi is not married."

"It must be very recently then; for he asked for my hand not more than a fortnight ago."

"Ah! it was you, was it, signorina?" cried Checchina with a tragic gesture which caused her fan to fall. There was a moment's silence. Then the young stranger, being determined to break it at any price, seemed to make a great effort, left her chair and picked up the singer's fan. She handed it to her with charming grace, and said in a caressing tone which made her foreign accent even more appealing:

"You will have the kindness to mention me to your brother, will you not, signora?"

"You mean my husband?" rejoined Checchina, accepting her fan with a mocking air and eyeing the young Englishwoman with malevolent curiosity. The visitor fell back in her chair as if she had received her death blow; and Checchina, who detested society women and took a savage joy in crushing them when she was brought into rivalry with them, added as she surveyed herself absent-mindedly in the mirror over the ottoman:

"Look you, my dear Miss Barbara. I wish you well; for you seem to me a charming person. But you should have told me the truth: I fear that it is not love of art which brings you here, but a sort of a fancy for Lelio. He has unconsciously inspired many romantic passions during his life, and I know as many as ten boarding-school misses who are wild over him."

"Never fear, signora," retorted the English girl, with an Italian accent which gave me a shock, "I could never have the slightest feeling for a married man; and when I entered this house I knew that you were Signor Lelio's wife."

Checchina was a little disconcerted by the firm and contemptuous tone of this retort; but, being determined to force her to the last extremity, she soon recovered herself, and said with a studied smile, and with redoubled impertinence:

"Dear Barbara, you set my mind at rest, and I believe that you are too noble-minded to wish to rob me of Lelio's heart; but I cannot conceal from you that I have one wretched failing. I am of a frantically jealous disposition and everything arouses my suspicions. You are lovelier than I, perhaps, and I am much afraid that it is so, judging from the pretty foot which I see and the great eyes which I divine. You will be indifferent to Lelio, since he belongs to me, for you are high-spirited and generous: but Lelio may fall in love with you; you will not be the first one who has turned his head. He is a fickle creature; his blood kindles for every pretty woman he meets. So pray be kind enough, dear Signora Barbara, to raise your veil, so that I may see what I have to fear, and, to use the French phrase, whether I can safely expose Lelio to the fire of your batteries."

The English girl made a gesture of disgust, then seemed to hesitate; and at last, drawing herself up to her full height, she replied, beginning to detach her veil:

"Look at me, signora, and remember my features, so that you may describe them to Signor Lelio; and if, as he listens to your description, he seems moved, do not by any means send him to me; for, if he should be faithless to you, I declare that it would be a most unfortunate thing for him, and that he would obtain nothing but contempt from me."

As she was speaking, she uncovered her face. Her back was turned toward me, and I tried in vain to see her features in the mirror. But what need had I of the testimony of my eyes? was not that of my ears sufficient? She had entirely forgotten her English accent and spoke the purest Italian in that resonant, vibrating voice which had so often moved me to the very depths of my being.

"I beg your pardon, miss," said Checchina, in nowise discomposed, "you are so lovely that all my fears are revived. I cannot believe that Lelio has not seen you already, and that you and he are not acting in concert to deceive me."

"If he asks you my name," exclaimed Alezia, violently pulling out one of the long pins of burnished steel that held the folds of her veil in place, "give him this from me, and tell him that my crest bears a pin with this motto: 'For the heart in which there is no blood!'"

At that moment, unable to rest under the burden of such contempt, I suddenly emerged from my hiding-place and rushed toward Alezia with a self-assured air.

"No, signora," I said, "do not believe my friend Francesca's jests. This is all a comedy which she has enjoyed playing, taking you for what you chose to appear, and unaware of the importance of her falsehoods; it is a comedy which I have allowed her to play thus far because I hardly recognized you, you imitated so cleverly the accent and manners of an Englishwoman."

Alezia seemed neither surprised nor moved by my appearance. She maintained the calmness and dignity in which women of rank surpass all other women when they are in the right. One who had seen her impassive features, lighted up little by little by a charming smile of irony, might well have believed that her heart had never known passion, and was incapable of knowing it.

"So you think that I have played my part well, signor?" she retorted; "that will prove to you that I had some vocation for the profession which you ennoble by your talents and your virtues. I thank you with all my heart for having arranged an opportunity for me to act before you, and I thank the signora, who has been kind enough to give me my cue. But I am already disgusted with this sublime art. One must carry into it a fund of experience which it would cost me too much to acquire, and a strength of mind of which you alone in all the world are capable."

"No, signora, you are in error," I replied firmly. "I have no experience of evil, and I have no strength except to repel degrading suspicions. I am neither the husband nor the lover of Francesca. She is my friend, my adopted sister, the discreet and devoted confidante of all my feelings, and yet she does not know who you are, although she is as devoted to you as to myself."

"I declare, signora," said Francesca, seating herself in a more becoming attitude, "that I have very little idea what is going on here, and why Lelio has allowed you to form such suspicions, when it was so easy for him to destroy them. What he has just said to you is the truth, and you do not imagine, I trust, that I would lend myself to an attempt to deceive you, if I were anything more than a placid and entirely unselfish friend to him."

Alezia began to tremble in every limb, as if she had an attack of fever, and she resumed her seat, pale and thoughtful. She was still in doubt.

"You were very cruel to her, cousin," I whispered to Checchina. "You took delight in inflicting pain on a pure heart, in order to avenge your foolish self-esteem. Ought you not to thank your rival, since she refused Nasi?"

Kind-hearted Checca went to her, took her hands familiarly, and sat on a hassock at her feet.

"My sweet angel," she said, "do not be suspicious of us; you know nothing of the honorable and attractive freedom of Bohemian life. In your social circle we are slandered, and our best actions are called crimes. As you have allowed Lelio to love you, it must be that you do not share those unjust prejudices. Be sure, therefore, that, unless I am the very vilest of creatures, I cannot conspire with Lelio to deceive you. I can hardly understand what pleasure or profit I could derive from it. So let your mind be at rest, my pretty signora. Forgive me for extorting your secret from you by my foolish jesting. You must agree that if we had allowed the signora marchesina to make sport of us actors, it would not have been in the natural order of things. However, it is all very fortunate, and it was an excellent and brave idea of yours. You might have retained your suspicions and suffered a long time, while now you are completely reassured, are you not, marchesina mia? And you believe that my heart is too big to betray you in such fashion, don't you? Now, my dear love, you must go back to your parents, and Lelio will go and see you whenever you choose. Never fear, I will send him to you myself, and I will see that he doesn't give you any more cause for grief. Ah! poverina, men are in the world to drive women to despair, and the best of them is not equal to the worst of us. You are a poor child, who do not know as yet what suffering is. It will come only too soon if you abandon your heart to the torments of love, oimè!"

Francesca said many other things full of kindliness and good sense. While Alezia was somewhat offended by her artless familiarity, she was touched by her kindness of heart and won over by her perfect frankness. She did not respond to Checca's caresses, but great tears rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. At last her heart fairly overflowed, and she threw herself, sobbing bitterly, into her new friend's arms.

"O Lelio!" she said, "will you forgive me for insulting you by such a suspicion? Attribute it solely to my unhealthy state of mind and body for the last few days. It was Lila who, thinking that she could cure me in that way, and wishing to prevent me from doing what she calls a crazy thing, confided to me last night that you were living here with a very beautiful woman, who was not your sister, as she had believed at first, but your wife or your mistress. You can imagine that I couldn't close my eyes; I revolved in my brain the most tragic and most extravagant projects. At last I concluded that Lila might be mistaken, and I determined to learn the truth for myself. At daybreak, while the poor girl, overcome by fatigue, lay sleeping on the floor in my bedroom, I stole out on tiptoe. I called the most stupid and blindly submissive of my aunt's servants, and ordered him to saddle my cousin Hector's horse, which is very high-spirited, and has nearly thrown me a dozen times. But what did I care for my life? I said to myself: 'Alas! everyone is not killed who wants to be!' and I started for Cafaggiolo, without any idea what I was going to do here. On the way, I invented the story I ventured to tell the signora. Oh! I beg her to forgive me! I wanted to find out if she loved you, Lelio; if you loved her, if she had any rights over you, if you were deceiving me. Forgive me, both of you. You are so kind; you will forgive me and love me too, won't you, signora?"

"Dear Madonetta! I love you already with all my heart," replied Checchina, throwing her long bare arms about her neck, and hugging her until she nearly suffocated her.

I was anxious to put an end to this scene and to send Alezia back to her aunt. I begged her to expose herself to no further risk, and I rose to order her horse; but she detained me, saying vehemently:

"What are you thinking about, Lelio? Send the servant and horses back to my aunt. Order a post-chaise, and let us go at once. Your friend will be kind enough to go with us. We will go to my mother, and I will throw myself at her feet and say: 'I am compromised, I am ruined in the eyes of the world; I ran away from my aunt's in broad daylight, without concealment. It is too late to repair the injury I have inflicted upon myself voluntarily and deliberately. I love Lelio and he loves me; I have given him my life. I have nobody left on earth but him and you. Will you curse me?'"

This determination threw me into the most horrible perplexity. I argued with her to no purpose. She was annoyed by my scruples, accused me of not loving her, and appealed to Francesca's judgment. Francesca suggested going with Alezia to her mother, without me. I tried to induce Alezia to return to her aunt, to write to her mother from there, and to await her reply before deciding upon anything. I solemnly promised to have no more conscientious scruples if the mother consented; but I was not willing to compromise the daughter; that was a detestable deed which I implored Alezia to spare me. Her reply was that, if she wrote, her mother would show the letter to Prince Grimani, and he would have her shut up in a convent.

At the height of this discussion, Lila, whom Cattina strove in vain to detain on the stairs, rushed impetuously into our midst, purple in the face, breathless, almost fainting. It was several minutes before she could speak. At last she told us in broken phrases, that she had outstripped Signor Ettore Grimani, whose horse luckily enough was lame, and could not jump the quickset hedges between the fields; but that he was behind her, that he had inquired all the way along what road Alezia had taken, and that he would arrive very soon. Through his means, the whole Grimani establishment was informed of the signora's flight. The aunt had tried to make inquiries quietly and to impose silence on Hector's frantic outcries, but all to no purpose. He was making so much noise about it that the whole province would be aware before night of his humiliating position and of the signora's risky performance, unless she herself set things to rights by going to meet him, closing his mouth, and returning to Villa Grimani with him. I agreed with Lila. Alezia could make her cousin do whatever she chose. Nothing was irreparable as yet, if she would mount her horse and return to her aunt; she could take a different road from that by which Hector was coming, and we would send somebody to meet him and throw him off the scent and prevent him from coming to Cafaggiolo. But it was all useless. Alezia's resolution was immovable.

"Let him come," she said, "let him enter the house, and if he dares to come as far as this we will throw him out of the window."

Checchina laughed like a madwoman at that idea, and upon hearing Alezia's satirical description of her cousin, she undertook to get rid of him unaided. All this boasting and insane merriment at such a crisis grieved me beyond measure.

Suddenly a post-chaise appeared at the end of the long avenue lined with fig-trees leading from the main road to Nasi's villa.

"I will resist my aunt as stoutly as my cousin," replied Alezia; "for they are treating me shamefully. They mean to publish my shame, to overwhelm me with chagrin and humiliation, in order to conquer me. Hide me, Lelio, or protect me."

"Have no fear," I replied; "if that is the way they propose to act toward you, no one shall come into this house. I will go and receive the signora, your aunt, at the door, and as it is too late for you to go out, I swear that no one shall come in."

I ran hastily down stairs; I found Cattina listening at the door. I threatened to kill her, if she said a word; then, reflecting that no fear was sufficiently powerful to prevent her from yielding to the power of gold, I changed my mind, retraced my steps, and, taking her by the arm, pushed her into a sort of store-room which had only a small round window which she could not reach; I locked the door on her in spite of her anger, put the key in my pocket, and ran down to meet the post-chaise.

Of all the possibilities that we dreaded, the most embarrassing was realized. Nasi alighted from the carriage and threw himself on my neck. How could I prevent him from entering his own house, how conceal from him what was going on? It was a simple matter to prevent his betraying Alezia's incognito, by telling him that a woman had come to his house to see me, and that I requested him as a favor not to try to see her. But the day would not pass without his hearing of Alezia's flight and the confusion into which the Grimani household had been thrown. A week would suffice to make it known all over the country. I really did not know what to do. Nasi, being entirely at a loss to understand my perturbed air, began to be uneasy and to fear that Checchina, in wrath or in desperation, had indulged in some insane freak. He rushed upstairs; his hand was already on the knob of Checchina's door, when I held his arm, saying with the utmost gravity that I begged him not to go in.

"What does this mean, Lelio?" he said in a trembling voice, and turning pale; "Francesca is here and doesn't come to meet me; you receive me with an icy manner, and you try to prevent me from entering my mistress's apartment! And yet it was you who wrote me to return to her, and you seemed desirous to reconcile us; what is happening between you two?"

I was about to answer when the door opened and Alezia appeared, covered by her veil. When she saw Nasi she started, then stopped.

"I understand now, I understand," said Nasi, with a smile; "a thousand pardons, my dear Lelio! tell me to what room I shall go."

"This way, signor!" said Alezia, in a firm voice, taking his arm and leading him into the boudoir from which she had just came, and where Francesca and Lila still were. I followed her. Checchina, when she saw the count, assumed her most savage air, the same which she assumed in the rôle of Arsace, when she sang the soprano part in Bianchi's Semiramis. Lila stood at the door to forestall any more visits, and Alezia, putting aside her veil, said to the stupefied count:

"Signor count, you asked my hand in marriage a fortnight ago. The short time during which I had the pleasure of seeing you at Naples was sufficient to give me a more favorable idea of you than of any other of my suitors. My mother wrote, imploring, almost commanding me to accept your offer. Prince Grimani added, by way of postscript, that, if I really felt any aversion for my cousin Hector, he would allow me to return to my mother, on condition that I would instantly accept you for my husband. According to my reply, they were either to come and take me to Venice to meet you, or to leave me at my aunt's house with my cousin for an indefinite period. Very good! despite my aversion for my cousin, despite the constant teasing and pestering of my aunt, despite my ardent longing to see my darling mother and my dear Venice once more, and despite my very great esteem for you, signor count, I refused. You probably thought that I preferred my cousin.—Look!" she said, interrupting herself and glancing calmly toward the window, "there he is, actually riding his horse into your garden. Stay, Signor Lelio!" she added, grasping my arm as I rushed to the door to leave the room; "you will surely agree that at this moment there shall be no other will here than mine. Stand with Lila in front of that door until I have finished speaking."

"I refused, signor count, because I could not loyally accept your honorable proposal. I replied to the obliging letter which you enclosed with my mother's."

"Yes, signora," said the count, "you replied in a kindly tone by which I was deeply touched; but with a frankness which left me no hope; and I have come into your neighborhood not with the purpose of annoying you further, but of being your devoted friend and humble servant, if you ever deign to appeal to my sentiment of respect."

"I know it, and I rely upon you," said Alezia, offering him her hand with a nobly sympathetic air. "The time has come, sooner than you can have anticipated, to put your generous sentiments to the proof. My reason for refusing your hand was that I love Lelio; my reason for being here is that I am determined never to marry any man but him."

The count was so astounded by this avowal that for several minutes he was unable to reply. God forbid that I should speak slightingly of honest Nasi's friendship; but at that moment I saw plainly enough that among the nobles there is no personal friendship, no amount of devotion, or esteem, which can entirely eradicate the prejudices of the caste. My eyes were fixed upon him in the closest scrutiny, and I could read this thought clearly on his face: "I, Count Nasi, have actually loved and offered marriage to a woman who is in love with an actor and means to marry him!"

But it was all over in an instant. Dear old Nasi at once resumed his chivalrous manner.—"Whatever you have determined upon, signora," he said, "whatever commands you have for me in pursuance of your determination, I am ready."

"Very good," replied Alezia; "I am in your house, signor count, and my cousin is here, if not to demand my return, at all events to establish my presence here. He will be offended by my refusal to go with him, and will not fail to calumniate me, because he has no spirit, no courage, no education. My aunt will make a pretence of rebuking her son's loss of temper, and will tell the story of what she will delight to call my shame to all the pious old women of her acquaintance, who will repeat it to all Italy. I do not propose to try to stop the scandal either by useless precautions or by cowardly denials. I have called down the storm upon my head, let it burst in the sight of the whole world! I shall not suffer on that account, if, as I hope, my mother's heart remains true to me, and if, having a husband who is content with my sacrifices, I find also a friend who has the courage to avow openly the brotherly affection with which he honors me. As that friend, will you interfere to prevent any unseemly, impossible explanation between Lelio and my cousin? Will you go and receive Hector, and inform him that I will not leave this house except to go to my mother, and with the protection of your arm?"

The count looked at Alezia with a grave and sad expression, which seemed to say to her: "You are the only one here who can understand how strange and reprehensible and ridiculous the part you are making me play will appear to the world;" then he knelt gracefully on one knee and kissed Alezia's hand, which he still held in his, saying: "Signora, I am your true knight in life or in death." Then he came to me and embraced me heartily, without a word. He forgot to speak to Checchina, who stood leaning on the window-sill, with folded arms, viewing this scene with philosophical attention.

Nasi made ready to leave the room. I could not endure the thought that he was about to constitute himself, at his own risk, the champion of the woman whom I was supposed to have compromised. I insisted upon accompanying him at all events, and taking half of the responsibility on myself. To deter me he gave me divers excellent reasons taken from the code of fashionable society. I did not understand them in the least; indeed I was carried away at that moment by the wrath aroused in my heart by Hector's insolence and his dastardly purpose. Alezia tried to calm me by saying: "You have no rights as yet except such as I please to bestow on you." I obtained permission to accompany Nasi, and thus make my presence known to Hector Grimani, on condition that I should not say a word without the count's permission.

We found the cousin just dismounting, panting heavily and drenched with perspiration. He cursed at the poor beast in the most vulgar way, and struck him violently because, being unshod and having bruised his feet on the road, he had not galloped fast enough to satisfy his master's impatience. It seemed to me that this beginning and Hector's whole manner showed that he did not know how to extricate himself from the position in which he had recklessly placed himself. He must either show himself a hero by force of love and frantic jealousy, or cut an absurd figure by a display of cowardly insolence. His embarrassment was made complete by the fact that he had enlisted two young friends of his who were going out to hunt, and had insisted on accompanying him, not so much to assist him, probably, as to amuse themselves at his expense.

We walked up to him without saluting him, and Nasi looked him in the eye, with a cold stare, without a word. He seemed not to see me, or not to recognize me.

"Ah! is it you, Nasi?" he said, hesitating whether he should raise his hat or offer his hand; for he saw that Nasi was not disposed to offer him any sort of greeting.

"You have no cause for surprise, it seems to me, because you find me in my own house," replied Nasi.

"Pardon me, pardon me," replied Hector, pretending that his spur had caught on a superb rose-bush by which they were standing, and which he crushed with his whole might. "I did not at all expect to find you here; I thought you were at Naples."

"It makes little difference what you thought. You are here, and so am I. What is the difficulty?"

"Why, my dear fellow, I want you to help me find my cousin Alezia, who has the assurance to go out alone on horseback, without my mother's permission, and who is somewhere about here, so I am told."

"What do you mean by somewhere about here? If you think that the young lady you mention is in this neighborhood, stick to the street and look for her."

"But deuce take it, my dear fellow, she is here!" said Hector, compelled by Nasi's tone and by the presence of his witnesses to pronounce himself a little more clearly. "She is either in your house or in your garden, for she was seen to ride into your avenue—and, God's blood! there's her horse now!—my horse, I mean, for it was her good pleasure to take him for her expedition, and leave her hack for me." And he tried, by a loud, forced laugh, to enliven an interview which Nasi did not seem disposed to treat so lightly.

"Signor," he replied, "I have not the honor to be sufficiently well acquainted with you for you to call me my dear fellow. I must ask you, therefore, to address me as I address you. Furthermore, I will call your attention to the fact that my house is not a tavern nor my garden a public promenade, that passers-by should take the liberty to explore it."

"Faith, signor, I am very sorry if you are displeased," said Hector. "I thought that I knew you well enough to venture to enter your grounds, and I was not aware that your country house was a fortress."

"Such as it is, signor, palace or hovel, I am the master of it, and I beg you to consider yourself informed that no one is at liberty to enter it without my permission."

"By Bacchus! signor count, you are terribly afraid that I shall ask leave to enter your house, for you refuse me beforehand with a tartness which gives me much food for thought. If, as I believe, Alezia Aldini is in this house, I begin to hope, for her sake, that she came here on your account. Give me that assurance, and I will go away content."

"I do not recognize any man's right to question me on any subject," rejoined Nasi; "least of all do I recognize your right to question me concerning a woman to whom your conduct at this moment is a deadly insult."

"Damnation! I am her cousin! She is in my mother's charge. What answer is my mother to give my uncle, Prince Grimani, when he asks her for his stepdaughter? And how do you suppose that my mother, who is old and infirm, is to run about the country after a young madcap who rides like a dragoon?"

"I am certain, signor," retorted Nasi, "that your mother did not instruct you to search for her niece in such a noisy fashion as this, and to question everybody you meet in such an unseemly way; for if that were the case, her anxiety would be more insulting than protecting, and to place the object of such protection out of reach of your zeal would be a matter of duty with me."

"Very well," said Hector, "I see that you do not propose to give up our fugitive. You are a knight of the olden time, signor count! Remember that from this time forth my mother is relieved of all responsibility to Signora Aldini's mother. You may arrange this unpleasant business as you think best. For my own part, I wash my hands of it; I have done what I could and what it was my duty to do. I will simply request you to say to Alezia Aldini that she is at liberty to marry whomever she pleases, and that I will interpose no obstacle so far as I am concerned. I yield my right to you, my dear count. May you never have to seek your wife in another man's house, for you see by my example what an absurd figure one cuts under such circumstances."

"Many people think, signor count," replied Nasi, "that there is always some way to dignify the most uncomfortable position, and to compel respect, however ridiculous one may appear. One does not cut an absurd figure except as the result of an absurd action."

At this severe retort, a significant murmur from his two friends made it clear to Hector that he could not retreat.

"Signor count," he said, "you speak of an absurd action. What do you call an absurd action, I pray to know?"

"To-morrow morning at eight o'clock, on the plain of Maso, if that is agreeable to you. These gentlemen will be my seconds."

Hector glanced at me with a disdainful smile, and, leading Nasi aside, with his two companions, said to him:

"Come, come, my dear count, allow me to tell you that this is carrying the jest too far. Now that it has come to a question of fighting, we should be serious for a moment, it seems to me. My seconds are gentlemen of rank: the Marquis de Mazzorbo and Signor de Monteverbasco. I am sure that you would not associate with them, as your second, this person to whom I ordered my servant to give twenty francs the other day for tuning a piano at my mother's house. Really, I cannot stand such a thing. Yesterday, we discovered that this person has an intrigue with my cousin, and to-day you tell us that he is your intimate friend. Be good enough at least to tell us his name."

"You are utterly mistaken, signor count. This person, as you call him, does not tune pianos, and has never set foot in your mother's house. He is Signor Lelio, one of our greatest artists, and one of the best and most honorable men whom I know."

I had overheard indistinctly the beginning of this conversation, and, finding that I was the subject of discussion, had walked rapidly toward the group. When I heard Count Hector speak bluntly of an intrigue with Alezia, the dissatisfaction which I felt because the battle was being fought without me changed to indignation, and I determined to make some one of our adversaries pay for the falseness of my position. I could not vent my spleen on Count Hector, who had already been insulted by Nasi; so it was upon Signor de Monteverbasco that the storm fell. That worthy squire, on learning my name had said simply, with an air of amazement:

"Ah! you admit it at last. Very good, signor; if you do not consider me good enough for a second, I shall find a way to compel you to consider me good enough for an adversary."

"Call it whatever you please, signor. But let me tell you that I don't remember your name, and that I don't like your face."

"It is well, signor; if agreeable to you, we will meet at the same time and place as these gentlemen."

Whereupon, Nasi and I returned to the house, after enjoining silence on the servants.

Hector Grimani's conduct on that occasion introduced me to a type of the men one meets in fashionable society, which I had not before observed. If it had occurred to me to pass judgment on Hector the first time I had seen him at Villa Grimani, when he retreated into his cravat and his nullity in order not to be intolerable to his cousin, I should have said that he was a weak, harmless, cold, but good-natured youth. Was it possible that such an insignificant creature could cherish a feeling of hostility? Could those mechanically refined manners conceal an instinctive tendency to brutal domination and cowardly resentment? I would not have believed it; I did not expect to hear him demand satisfaction of Nasi for his harsh reception; for I thought that he was more polished and less courageous, and I was astonished to find that, after being foolish enough to invite such a castigation, he had sufficient determination to resent it. The fact is that Hector was not one of those insignificant men who never do good or evil. He was ill-tempered and presumptuous; but, being conscious of his intellectual mediocrity, he always allowed himself to be overborne in discussion; then, spurred on by hatred and vindictiveness, he would insist on fighting. He fought frequently and always on some insufficient ground, so that his tardy and obstinate courage did him more harm than good.

Before I would allow Nasi to return to Alezia, I took him aside and told him that everything that had happened had come about against my wish; that I had never intended to seduce or elope with or marry Signora Aldini, and that it was my firm determination to part from her instantly and forever, unless honor made it obligatory upon me to marry her, in order to repair the harm she had done herself on my account. I desired Nasi to decide that question.

"But before I tell you the whole story," I said, "we must consider the question that is most urgent at this moment, and take such measures that our young guest may be compromised as little as possible. I must tell you one thing that she doesn't know, that her mother will be here to-morrow evening. I propose to send a man to the first relay station, so that she may be told to come here directly and join her daughter, instead of looking for her at Villa Grimani. As soon as I have placed Signora Alezia in her mother's hands, I trust that everything will be straightened out; but, until then, what explanation am I to give her of the extreme reserve with which I propose to treat her?"

"The best way," said Nasi, "would be to persuade her to leave here and go back to her aunt, or, failing that, to go into a convent for twenty-four hours. I will try to make her understand that her position here is not tenable."

He joined Alezia. But all his excellent arguments were thrown away. Checca, faithful to her habit of boasting, had told the girl that she was Nasi's mistress, that the count had left her after a quarrel, and that it was then that he had proposed for Alezia's hand; but that, being fully cured by her refusal, and drawn back by an unconquerable passion to his mistress's feet, he was ready to marry her. So that Alezia considered that it was perfectly proper for her to be in Nasi's house, and she was overjoyed to learn that he, like herself, had made up his mind to yield to the craving of his heart, and to break with public opinion. She promised herself that she would find in that happy couple congenial companionship for her whole life and friendship proof against any trial. She was afraid of my scruples, if she left Nasi's house, and of the efforts of her family to reconcile her with society. So she obstinately persisted in ruining herself, and finally informed Nasi that she would not leave his house unless she was compelled by force to do so.

"In that case, signora," said the count, "you will permit me to take the course which honor enjoins upon me. I am your brother, as that is your wish. I accept that rôle with gratitude and resignation, and I have already acted the part by standing between you and Count Hector's insolent demands. I shall continue to act in accordance with the counsels of my respect and devotion; but if a brother's rights do not go to the extent of ordering his sister to do this thing or that, they certainly authorize him to put away from her anything that can injure her reputation. You will allow me therefore to exclude Lelio from this house until your mother is here, and I have just sent a messenger to her, so that you will be able to embrace her to-morrow evening."

"To-morrow evening?" cried Alezia; "that is too soon. No, I don't want her to come yet. Happy as I shall be to see my darling mother, I am determined to have time enough to be compromised in the eyes of society, and irrevocably ruined in its opinion. I insist upon starting off with Lelio to meet my mother. When it is known that I have actually travelled with him, no one will find excuse for me, no one will be able to forgive me, except my mother."

"Lelio will not comply with your desire, my dear sister," replied Nasi; "he will do just what I advise; for his heart is all delicacy and honor, and he has made me the final judge."

"Very well!" said Alezia, with a laugh; "go and order him, in my name, to come here."

"I will go to him," replied Nasi, "for I see that you are not disposed to listen to any prudent counsel. And I will go with him and take rooms for him and myself in the village inn, which you see at the end of the avenue. If you should be exposed to any fresh outrage on the part of Signor Ettore Grimani, you have only to signal from your window and ring the garden bell, and we shall be under arms instantly. But you need have no fear, he will not return. You can take possession of Lelio's room, which is much more suitable for you than this one. Your maid will remain here to wait upon you and bring me your orders, if it is your pleasure to give me any."

Nasi having joined me, and given me an account of this interview, I opened my heart to him and told him almost everything, but without mentioning Bianca. I explained to him how I had thoughtlessly become involved in an adventure, the heroine of which had at first seemed to me coquettish even to the point of impudence, and how, as I discovered from day to day the purity of her heart and the moral elevation of her character, I had been led on in spite of myself to play the part of a man ready to attempt anything.

"Then you do not love Signora Aldini?" said the count, in a tone of amazement in which I fancied that I could detect a slight touch of contempt for me. I was not hurt, for I knew that I did not deserve that contempt; and his esteem for me was restored when he learned how hard I had fought to remain virtuous, although consumed by love and desire. But when it became necessary to explain to the count how it happened that I was so positively determined not to marry Alezia, however indulgent her mother's heart might prove to be, I was embarrassed. I asked him this question: whether Alezia's reputation would be so seriously compromised by what she had done, that it would be my duty to marry her in order to make her honor whole. The count smiled and replied, taking my hand affectionately:

"My dear Lelio, you do not yet know how much rank idiocy there is in the social circle in which Alezia was born, nor how much corruption its stern censorship conceals. Let me tell you, so that you may laugh at such ideas and despise them as I do, that Alezia, after being seduced by you in her aunt's house and being your mistress for a year—provided there had been no noise or scandal about it,—could still make what is called a good match, and that no great family would close its doors to her. She would hear more or less whispering about her, and some rigidly virtuous women would forbid their newly married daughters to become intimate with her; but she would be all the more popular for that, and receive all the more attention from the men. But if you should marry Alezia, even though it should be proved that she had remained pure to the day of her marriage, she would never be forgiven for being the wife of an actor. You are one of those men upon whom calumny can gain no hold. Many sensible persons might think Alezia had made a noble choice, and done a praiseworthy thing in marrying you; very few would dare say so aloud, and even if she should become a widow, the doors that had been closed to her would never be reopened; for she would never find a man in society who would care to marry her after you; her family would look upon her as dead, and not even her mother would be allowed to mention her name. Such is the fate that awaits Alezia if you marry her. Reflect, and if you are not sure that you still love her, beware of an unhappy marriage; for it will be impossible for you to give her back to her family and friends after she has once borne your name. If, on the other hand, you feel confident that you will always love her, marry her; for her devotion to you is something sublime, and no man on earth is more deserving of it than you."

I was lost in thought, and the count feared that he had wounded me by his plain-speaking, despite the complimentary remarks with which he had tried to soften its bitterness. I reassured him.

"That is not what I am thinking about," I said; "I am thinking of Signora Bianca,—Princess Grimani, I mean,—and of the sorrow that would make her life a burden if I should marry her daughter."

"It would be very bitter, in truth," replied the count; "and if you know that amiable and charming young woman, you will think twice before exposing her to the wrath of those arrogant and implacable Grimanis."

"I doubt if that resolution comes from a heart that is very deeply in love," said the count; "but it comes from a noble and generous heart, and that is much better. Whatever you may do, I am your friend, and I will uphold your decision against the whole world."

I embraced him, and we passed the rest of the day together at the inn near by. He made me tell him the whole story again, and the interest with which he questioned me concerning the most trivial details, the secret anxiety with which he listened to the narration of the perilous episode when my virtue had been put to the test, showed me plainly enough that that noble heart was deeply smitten with Alezia Aldini. While it made him wince to hear what I had to tell, it was evident to me that each new proof of courage and devotion which Alezia had given me quickened his enthusiasm and rekindled his love in spite of him. He constantly interrupted me to say: "That was fine, Lelio! that was fine! that was noble of you! If I had been in your place, I should not have had so much courage! I would commit a thousand follies for that woman."—And yet, when I gave him my reasons—and I gave them all to him, without, however, mentioning the love I had once felt for Bianca—he approved my virtue and resolution; and when I became sad in spite of myself, he said to me: "Courage, courage! Eighteen or twenty hours more, and Alezia will be saved. I think that we will treat the Grimanis to-morrow in such fashion as to take away any desire on their part to talk about the affair. The princess will take her daughter away, and some day Alezia will bless you because you were wiser than she; for love lives but a day, and prejudices have ineradicable roots."

We passed several hours of the night putting our affairs in order. Nasi bequeathed his villa to Checchina in case of emergency. The excellent creature's behavior toward Alezia had filled the count's generous heart with esteem and gratitude.

When we had finished, we snatched a few hours' sleep, and I awoke at daybreak. Someone entered my room: it was Checca.

"I am not looking for him, but for you," she said. "Listen to me: you mustn't marry this marchesina."

"I will tell you. Obstacles and dangers kindle her love for you; but she hasn't so much strength of mind, nor is she so free from prejudices, as she pretends. She is a kind, charming, lovable creature. Seriously, I love her with all my heart; but she has told me unconsciously, while talking with me, more than a hundred things which prove that she thinks that she is making an enormous sacrifice for you, and that she will regret it some day unless you appreciate its extent as fully as she does. And, tell me, can we actors, who are full of perfectly just prejudices against society, and despise it as much as it despises us, can we, I say, appreciate such sacrifices? No, no; the day would come, Lelio, I tell you, when, even though she did not sigh for society, she would accuse you of ingratitude at the first grievance she had against you; and it is a pitiful thing for a man to be the bankrupt debtor of his wife."

In three words I told Checca what my plans were with respect to Alezia. When she saw that I fully agreed with her, she said:

"My dear Lelio, I have an idea. This is not the time to think for ourselves alone, or at all events our thoughts even for ourselves should be noble thoughts, and such as to assure us a clear conscience for the future. Nasi loves Alezia. She has not been your mistress; there is no reason why he should not marry her; he must marry her."

I was not altogether sure that Checca was not impelled by a feeling of jealous disquiet to talk to me in that way, in order to make me talk; but she continued, giving me no time to reply:

"Be sure that what I tell you is true, Lelio; Nasi is wild over her. He is as melancholy as death. He looks at her with eyes which seem to say: 'If only I were Lelio!' And when he gives me any token of affection, I can see that he does it from gratitude for what I am doing for her."

"Do you really think so, my dear Checca?" I said, marvelling at her penetration and the great good sense which she displayed on great occasions, ridiculous as she was in trifles.

"I tell you I am sure of it. So they must be married. Let us leave them together. Let us go away at once."

"Let us go to-night; I agree to that," said I; "until then it is impossible. I will tell you the reason in two or three hours. Go back to Alezia before she wakes."

"Oh! she is not asleep," replied Checca; "she has done nothing but pace the floor in great agitation all night long. Her maid Lila, who insisted on sleeping in her room, talks with her from time to time, and irritates her exceedingly by her remonstrances; for, I warn you, she doesn't approve of her mistress's love for you. But when she begins to sigh and say: 'Povera Signora Bianca! povera principessa madre!' the fair Alezia bursts into tears and throws herself sobbing on her bed. At that the soubrette implores her not to kill her mother with grief. I can hear all this from my room. Addio; I am going back. If you are fully decided to decline this marriage, think of my plan, and prepare to lend a hand to the poor count's love."

At eight o'clock in the morning we repaired to the battle-field. Count Hector handled his sword like Saint-Georges; and it was a good thing for him that he had had much practice in that detestable kind of argument, for it was the only kind that he had at his service. Nasi was slightly wounded; luckily, Hector behaved reasonably well; without apologizing for his conduct with respect to Nasi, he agreed that he had spoken ill of his cousin in the first outburst of his anger, and he requested Nasi to beg her pardon in his behalf. He concluded by asking his two friends to give him their word of honor to keep the whole affair a profound secret, and they gave it. As Nasi and I acted as seconds for each other, he refused to leave the field until I had fought. His servant dressed his wound on the spot, and the battle between Signor de Monteverbasco and myself began. I wounded him quite severely, but not mortally, and when his physician had taken him away in his carriage, Nasi and I returned to the villa. As he did not wish it to be known at the inn that he was wounded, he was taken to the summer-house in his garden. Checchina, being secretly informed of what had taken place, joined us there, and gave him such care as his condition demanded. When he was able to show himself, he asked Checchina to tell Alezia that he had had a fall from his horse; then he appeared and bade her good-morning. But old Cattina, who had been released, and who, despite the lesson she had received, could not refrain from prying into everything, in order to gossip with all the neighbors, knew that we had fought, and had already told Alezia, who threw herself into the count's arms as soon as he entered the salon. When she had thanked him with the most effusive warmth, she asked where I was. In vain did the count reply that I was under arrest in the summer-house by his order; she persisted in believing that I was dangerously wounded and that they were trying to conceal the fact from her. She threatened to go down to the garden to find out for herself. The count was exceedingly anxious that she should do nothing imprudent before the servants. He preferred to come after me and take me to her. Thereupon Alezia, undisturbed by the presence of Nasi and Checca, reproached me warmly for what she called my exaggerated scruples.

"You cannot love me very much," she said, "since you refuse to assist me when I am absolutely determined to compromise myself for you."

She said the wildest and most loving words to me, but did not once lose the exquisite instinct of modesty which belongs to all young girls not absolutely devoid of mind. Checchina, who listened to this dialogue from an artistic standpoint, was utterly amazed, so she told me afterward, della parte della marchesina. As for Nasi, a score of times I surprised his melancholy gaze fixed upon Alezia and myself with indescribable emotion.

Alezia's vehemence became decidedly embarrassing. She called me cold, constrained; she declared that there was no joy, that is to say, no frankness in my glance. She took alarm at my conduct, she waxed indignant at my lack of courage. She was intensely excited, she was as lovely as Domenichino's sibyl. I was very miserable at that moment, for my love reawoke, and I realized the full extent of the sacrifice I must make.

A carriage drove into the garden, and we did not hear it, we were talking so earnestly. Suddenly the door opened and Princess Grimani appeared.

Alezia uttered a piercing shriek and rushed into her mother's arms, who held her there a long time without speaking; then she fell gasping upon a chair. Her daughter and Lila knelt at her feet and covered her with caresses. I do not know what Nasi said to her, nor what she replied as she pressed his hand. I was rooted to the spot where I stood; I saw Bianca again after ten years. How changed she was! but how touchingly beautiful she still seemed to me, despite the loss of her early bloom!

Her great blue eyes, sunken in their orbits which tears had deepened, seemed even softer and sweeter than I remembered them. Her pallor moved me deeply, and her figure, more slender and slightly bent, seemed to me better suited to that loving, weary heart. She did not recognize me; and when Nasi called me by name she seemed surprised; for the name Lelio told her nothing. At last I decided to speak to her; but she had no sooner heard the first word than she sprang to her feet, recognizing me by my voice, and held out her arms to me, crying:

"Did you not know him?" said her mother; "haven't you recognized him until this moment?"

"Ah! I understand," said Alezia in a stifled voice, "I understand why he cannot love me!"

I passed the rest of the day in the salon with Nasi and Checca. Alezia was in bed, wildly hysterical and delirious. Her mother alone was with her. We were all very melancholy at supper. At last, about ten o'clock, Bianca came and told us that her daughter was calmer, and that she would soon return and talk with me. About midnight she returned, and we passed two hours together, while Nasi and Checca sat with Alezia, who was much better and had asked to see them. Bianca was as lovely as an angel with me. Under any other circumstances she might, perhaps, have been embarrassed by her title of princess and her new social position; but motherly affection stifled all other feelings. She thought of nothing but expressing her gratitude to me; she did so in the most flattering terms and with the most affectionate manner imaginable. She did not seem to have dreamed for a single instant that I could hesitate to give her daughter back to her and put aside all thought of marrying her. I was grateful to her for it. It was the only way in which she gave me to understand that the past was still living in her memory. I had the delicacy to refrain from alluding to it; however, I should have been very happy if she had not feared to talk of it with perfect freedom; it would have been a greater token of esteem than all the rest.

Doubtless Alezia had told her everything; doubtless she had made a general confession of all the thoughts of her whole life, from the night on which she had surprised her love-affair with the gondolier down to that on which she had confided that secret to Lelio, the actor. Doubtless the mutual suffering caused by such an outpouring of the heart had been purified by the flame of maternal and filial love. Bianca told me that her daughter was calm and resigned, and that she hoped to see me some day and express her unchangeable affection, her great esteem, her cordial gratitude —— In a word, the sacrifice was consummated.

I did not leave the princess until I had told her of my earnest hope that Alezia would some day accept Nasi's love, and I urged her to cultivate the present inclinations of that honorable and excellent young man.

I returned to my inn at four o'clock in the morning. I found Nasi there; he had, in accordance with my instructions, made all necessary preparations for my departure. When I appeared with Francesca, he thought that she had come to see me off and bid me good-bye. Imagine his surprise when she embraced him and said, in a truly imperial tone:

"Be free, Nasi! win Alezia's love; I give you back your promise and remain your friend."

"Do you not trust my honor?" I said. "Haven't I given you proofs enough of it since yesterday? And do you doubt Francesca's grandeur of soul?"

He threw himself into our arms, weeping. We entered our carriage just at sunrise. As we passed Villa Nasi, a blind was cautiously opened and a woman leaned out to look after us. She had one hand on her heart, the other she waved to me by way of farewell, and raised her eyes to heaven to express her thanks: it was Bianca.

Three months later, Checca and I arrived at Venice one lovely evening in autumn. We had an engagement at La Fenice, and we took rooms on the Grand Canal, at the best hotel in the city. We passed the first hours after our arrival unpacking our trunks and putting our stage wardrobe in order. Not until that was done did we dine. It was quite late. At dessert they brought me several packages of letters, one of which caught my eye at once. After looking through it, I opened the window on the balcony, called to Checca to go out with me, and told her to look across the canal. Among the numerous palaces which cast their shadows on the placid water, there was one, directly opposite our apartments, easily distinguishable by its size and its antiquity. It had been magnificently restored. Everything about it had a festive air. Through the windows we could see, by the light of countless candles, superb bouquets and gorgeous curtains, and we could hear the melodious strains of a large orchestra. Gondolas, brilliantly illuminated, glided silently along the Grand Canal and deposited at the palace door women bedecked with flowers and gleaming jewels, and their escorts in ceremonious costume.

"Do you know," I asked Checca, "what palace this is opposite us, and the occasion of this party?"

"It is the Aldini Palace, where the marriage of Alezia Aldini and Count Nasi is being celebrated."

I showed her the packet I had received. It was from Nasi. It contained two invitations and two letters, one from Nasi to her, one from Alezia to me, both charming.

"You see," I continued, when Checca had finished hers, "that we have no reason to complain of their treatment of us. These letters followed us to Florence and to Milan, and our constant journeyings are to blame for their not having reached us until now. And the letters are as kind and agreeable as it is possible for them to be. It is easy to see that they were dictated by noble hearts. Great nobles as they are, they are not afraid to speak to us, one of his friendship, the other of her gratitude."

"In the first place, they don't know that we are here; and in the second place, my dear sister, the rich people and the nobles do not invite singers to their parties, except to have them sing; and those who don't choose to sing to entertain their hosts are not invited at all. That is the justice of society; and kind-hearted and sensible as our young friends are, as they live in that society, they are obliged to submit to its laws."

"Faith! so much the worse for them, my dear Lelio! Let them do as they please. They leave us to amuse ourselves without them, let us leave them to be bored to death without us. Let us snap our fingers at the pride of the great, laugh at their follies, spend money merrily when we have it, and accept poverty cheerfully if it comes; above all things, let us cling to our liberty, let us enjoy life while we can, and long live Bohemia!"

Here Lelio's story came to an end. When he had ceased to speak, none of us broke the melancholy silence. Our friend seemed even more depressed than the rest of us. Suddenly he raised his head, which he had rested on his hand, and said:

"On the last evening that I referred to, there were many French people among the guests; and as they were infatuated with German music, they made the orchestra play Weber's and Beethoven's waltzes all the evening. That is why those waltzes are so dear to me; they always recall a period of my life which I shall never cease to regret, despite the suffering with which it was filled. You must admit, my friends, that destiny has been very cruel to me, in placing in my path two passions so ardent, so sincere, so self-sacrificing, and not permitting me to enjoy either of them. Alas! my time has passed now, and I shall never again know aught of those noble passions of which one must have drained at least one to the dregs in order to be able to say that he has known life."

"Do not complain," said Beppa, aroused by her companion's melancholy; "you have an irreproachable life behind you, fair renown and kind friends around you, and independence in the future and forever; and I tell you that love will not fail you when you seek it. So fill your glass once more with this generous wine, drink gayly with us, and lead us as we sing the sacred refrain in chorus."

Lelio hesitated a moment, filled his glass, and heaved a deep sigh; then a gleam of youth and merriment flashed from his fine black eyes, moist with tears, and he sang in a resounding voice, to which we answered in chorus:

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICCININO, VOLUME 2 (OF 2); THE LAST OF ALDINIS ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Piccinino, Volume 2 (of 2); The last of Aldinis

THE MASTERPIECES OF
GEORGE SAND

AMANDINE LUCILLE AURORE DUPIN,
BARONESS DUDEVANT

VOLUME VIII

The Masterpieces of George Sand
Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness
Dudevant, NOW FOR THE FIRST
TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED
INTO ENGLISH THE PICCININO,
AND THE LAST OF THE
ALDINIS BY G. BURNHAM IVES

WITH TWELVE PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY
ORESTE CORTAZZO.

VOLUME II

PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
GEORGE BARRIE & SON
PHILADELPHIA

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE PICCININO
THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS

VOLUME II

THE PICCININO
(Continued)

XXXVI

THE FAMILY PORTRAITS

XXXVII

BIANCA

XXXVIII

A COUP DE MAIN

XXXIX

AN IDYLL

XL

DECEPTION

XLI

JEALOUSY AND GRATITUDE

XLII

AN EMBARRASSING CONJUNCTURE

XLIII

A CRISIS

XLIV

REVELATIONS

XLV

MEMORIES

XLVI

GLADNESS OF HEART

XLVII

THE VULTURE

XLVIII

THE MARQUIS

XLIX

DANGER

L

A NOCTURNAL JOURNEY

LI

CATASTROPHE

LII

CONCLUSION

THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS

INTRODUCTION

FIRST PART

SECOND PART

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Piccinino, Volume 2 (of 2); The last of Aldinis

THE MASTERPIECES OF GEORGE SAND

AMANDINE LUCILLE AURORE DUPIN, BARONESS DUDEVANT

VOLUME VIII

The Masterpieces of George Sand Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness Dudevant, NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH THE PICCININO, AND THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS BY G. BURNHAM IVES

WITH TWELVE PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY ORESTE CORTAZZO.

VOLUME II

PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY GEORGE BARRIE & SON PHILADELPHIA

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS THE PICCININO THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS VOLUME II

THE PICCININO (Continued)

XXXVI THE FAMILY PORTRAITS

XXXVII BIANCA

XXXVIII A COUP DE MAIN

XXXIX AN IDYLL

XL DECEPTION

XLI JEALOUSY AND GRATITUDE

XLII AN EMBARRASSING CONJUNCTURE

XLIII A CRISIS

XLIV REVELATIONS

XLV MEMORIES

XLVI GLADNESS OF HEART

XLVII THE VULTURE

XLVIII THE MARQUIS

XLIX DANGER

L A NOCTURNAL JOURNEY

LI CATASTROPHE

LII CONCLUSION

THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS

INTRODUCTION

FIRST PART

SECOND PART

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

THE MASTERPIECES OF
GEORGE SAND

AMANDINE LUCILLE AURORE DUPIN,
BARONESS DUDEVANT

The Masterpieces of George Sand
Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness
Dudevant, NOW FOR THE FIRST
TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED
INTO ENGLISH THE PICCININO,
AND THE LAST OF THE
ALDINIS BY G. BURNHAM IVES

WITH TWELVE PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY
ORESTE CORTAZZO.

PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
GEORGE BARRIE & SON
PHILADELPHIA

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE PICCININO
THE LAST OF THE ALDINIS

VOLUME II

THE PICCININO
(Continued)

XXXVI

THE FAMILY PORTRAITS

XXXVII

BIANCA

XXXVIII

A COUP DE MAIN

XXXIX

AN IDYLL

XL

DECEPTION

XLI

JEALOUSY AND GRATITUDE

XLII

AN EMBARRASSING CONJUNCTURE

XLIII

A CRISIS

XLIV

REVELATIONS

XLV

MEMORIES

XLVI

GLADNESS OF HEART

XLVII

THE VULTURE

XLVIII

THE MARQUIS

XLIX

DANGER

L

A NOCTURNAL JOURNEY

LI

CATASTROPHE

LII

CONCLUSION