Chapter XVIII: The Monks

How many minutes,--or was it seconds only?--passed while Michel was overpowered by that irresistible lassitude, he had no idea. The power of the imagination, when transported into the domain of dreams, travels so fast and surmounts so many obstacles at a single bound, that time is an inadequate measure of it, especially in the first sleep.

Michel had a strange dream. A woman softly entered the grotto, walked to where he sat, leaned over him and gazed at him for a long time; he felt her fragrant breath caress his brow, he fancied that he felt also the fire of her glance fastened passionately upon him. But he could not see her, for it was dark in the grotto, and, moreover, it was impossible for him to raise his heavy eyelids; but it was Agatha; Michel's heart, inflamed by that woman's presence, told him so plainly enough.

At last, as he tried to rouse himself in order to speak to her, she placed her cool, soft lips on his forehead and imprinted a kiss thereon, so long, but so light, that he could not summon the strength to reply to it, overcome as he was by joy, and at the same time by the fear that it was only a dream.

"But it is a dream, alas! it is nothing but a dream," he said to himself, still sleeping; and yet the fear of waking caused him to wake. So it is that, in sleep, the instinctive, frantic desire to prolong the illusion causes it to vanish more quickly.

But what a strange and persistent dream! Michel, with his eyes open, sitting half erect, supported by his trembling arm, saw and heard that woman fly. The curtain at the entrance of the grotto being lowered, he could distinguish only an indistinct figure; he felt the touch of a silk dress; the curtain opened and closed again so quickly that it seemed to him that the phantom passed through without touching it.

He started to follow her; but all his blood rushed back to his heart so violently that he could not stand erect, but was compelled to fall back on the divan, and it was a full minute before he was able to rush to the blue velvet portière that separated him from the ball-room.

He drew it aside with a convulsive gesture and found himself face to face with his father, who said, with a jocose and placid air:

"So it seems that we have been having a nap, eh, my boy? Now, everything is in order; let us go home and see if little Mila is awake."

"Mila?" cried Michel, "is Mila here, father?"

"It may well be that she isn't far away," replied the old man. "I'll bet that she hasn't closed her eyes all night; she was so anxious to come to see the ball! But I forbade her to leave the house before daylight."

"It is daylight now," said Michel, "and Mila is probably here! Tell me, father, did some woman, my sister, perhaps, just come into the grotto?"

"Did you dream it? I saw no one. To be sure, my eyes weren't looking in that direction all the time, and I saw some striped skirts prowling about outside, which meant that some curious creatures had stolen into the garden. Can Mila have come in while my back was turned?"

"Why, this very instant, father, just as you came to the opening, someone went out, a woman; I am certain of it!"

"You are talking at random now, for I saw nothing but my shadow on the curtain. Come, you need a good nap, let us go home. They are just closing the last door. If your sister is here we shall find her."

Michel was about to follow his father; but as he was turning away he saw something glistening in the grotto and was led to cast a last glance inside. Was it a spark that had fallen on the carpet, near the couch? He stooped: it was a piece of jewelry, which he picked up and examined by daylight. It was the gold locket, surrounded with diamonds and bearing the princess's crest, which she had given Mila. He opened it to make sure that it was the same. He recognized a lock of his own hair inside.

"I knew that Mila came into the grotto," he said to his father, as they walked toward the garden; "she gave me a kiss which woke me."

"She evidently must have gone in there," rejoined Pier-Angelo, indifferently; "but I didn't see her."

At that instant Mila emerged from a clump of magnolias, and came forward, laughing and capering, to meet her father, whom she kissed affectionately, as she did Michel.

"It is high time for you to come home and rest," she said; "I came to tell you that your breakfast is waiting. I was so impatient to see you! Are you terribly tired, father, dear?"

"Not at all," the good man replied, "I am used to these things, and a sleepless night is all pleasure when you sup till morning. Your breakfast will go begging, Mila; but your brother here is asleep on his legs. Come, children; let us be off; see, they are closing the garden gates now."

But, instead of continuing to close the gates, the servants suddenly threw them wide open again, and Michel saw a procession of monks file in, monks of divers orders, all carrying wallets and purses; they were the begging brothers of all the mendicant orders, which have numerous establishments in Catania and its neighborhood. They were making their usual round and had come to collect for their respective communities the broken meat left from the fête. Some two score of them passed slowly through the gate; most of them had asses to carry away the avails of their quest. There was something so surprising and comical in their obsequious manner and their solemn bearing when they entered the gardens, escorted by their asses,--strange guests at a ball--that Michel, diverted from his emotion, had much ado to keep from laughing.

But no sooner were they fairly inside the gates than they broke ranks, and, shaking off their consequential, discreet manner, began to run toward the ball-room, each striving to outstrip his neighbors, beating their asses to make them move faster, hurrying, jostling, and freely exhibiting their greed and their jealousy. They overran the ball-room, almost breaking down the fragile doors, and attempted to ascend the main staircase of the peristyle, or to force their way into the kitchens. But the butler and his _officers_, being prepared for the assault, and knowing their ways, had carefully barricaded all the issues; they brought forth the fragments destined for the monks, and distributed them as impartially as possible. There were dishes of meat, remnants of pastry, pitchers of wine, and even pieces of glass and porcelain which had been broken during the fête, and which the good monks put together with great care and mended most skilfully, for the adornment of their own sideboards, or to sell to collectors. They quarrelled over the booty with little decency, reviled the servants for not giving them all that they were entitled to, for treating one better than another, for failing in respect for the patron saints of their convents. They even threatened them with the infirmities which those saints were supposed to be especially skilful in curing when the afflicted person had acquired their good-will.

"Bah! what a miserable ham you have given me!" cried one. "You are already deaf in one ear; you can depend upon it that before long you will not be able to hear the thunder with the other."

"_Here's a bottle half empty!" cried another. "No prayers will be said for you under our roof, and you'll never be cured of the stone, if you take that terrible disease._"]

"Here's a bottle half empty!" cried another. "No prayers will be said for you under our roof, and you'll never be cured of the stone, if you take that terrible disease."

Others plied their trade gayly, with jests that made the distributors laugh, and they showed so much wit and good-nature that the servants secretly slipped the best pieces into their wallets.

At Rome Michel had seen dandified Capuchins, redolent with perfume under their frocks, and displaying their sandals, with poetic gravity, in close proximity to the Holy Father's consecrated slipper. The poverty-stricken Sicilian monks seemed to him very indecent, very laughable, and ever so little cynical, when they swooped down upon the crumbs of that feast like a flock of greedy crows and chattering magpies. He was attracted, however, by the high-spirited and intelligent faces of some of them. It was the Sicilian common people again, in the sack-cloth of the cloister--a noble race which bends beneath the yoke but cannot be broken.

The young artist had returned to the ball-room to look on at this curious spectacle, and he watched its various incidents with the attention of a painter who turns everything to his own profit. He noticed especially one of the monks, whose hood was pulled down to the end of his beard, and who did not beg. He kept apart from the others, and walked about the room as if he were more interested in the place where the fête had been given than in the possible benefit he might derive from it. Michel tried several times to see his features, and to judge therefrom whether the intelligent mind of an artist or the regrets of a man of the world were concealed beneath that monkish garb. He saw him stealthily put aside his hood but once, and then he was impressed by his repulsive ugliness. At the same instant the monk turned his eyes upon him with an expression of malevolent curiosity; and instantly looked away as if he feared to be surprised staring at other people.

"I have seen that ugly face somewhere," said Michel to his sister, who was standing by his side.

"Do you call that a face?" replied the girl. "I saw nothing but a goat's beard, the eyes of an owl, and a nose that looked like an old crushed fig. You won't paint his portrait, I hope?"

"You said just now, Mila, that you knew several of these monks from having seen them begging in our suburb; have you ever met that fellow?"

"I don't think so; but, if you are anxious to find out his name, it will be very easy, for here is a brother who will tell me."

And the girl ran to meet a monk who was the last to arrive, without a wallet, and without an ass, but with a little purse simply. He was a tall, handsome man, of uncertain age; his beard was still as black as ebony, although his crown of hair was beginning to turn gray. The keenness of his black eyes, the noble contour of his aquiline nose, and the smile that played about his red lips, indicated robust health, conjoined with an amiable and decided character. He had neither the unhealthy thinness nor the absurd obesity of most of his brethren. His chestnut-colored frock was neat and clean, and he wore it with a majestic air. He won Michel's confidence at the first glance; but it angered the young man to see Mila almost throw her arms about the Capuchin's neck, and take his beard in her two little hands, laughing and pretending that she proposed to kiss him whether he would or not.

"Come, come, little one, softly, softly," said the monk, pushing her away with fatherly gentleness. "No matter if I am your uncle, a monk musn't be kissed."

Thereupon, Michel bethought him of the Capuchin Paolo-Angelo, of whom his father had so often spoken to him, and whom he had never seen. _Fra Angelo_ was Pier-Angelo's brother in affection not less than by birth. He was the youngest of Michel's uncles. His intellect and the dignity of his character made him the pride of the family, and as soon as Pier-Angelo saw him, he ran to Michel to introduce him.

"Brother," said the old decorator, pressing the Capuchin's hand warmly, "give my son your blessing; I should have brought him to your convent to ask it before this if we had not been employed here a little beyond our strength."

"My child," said Fra Angelo to his nephew, "I give you the blessing of a kinsman and a friend; I am happy to see you, and your face pleases me."

"I can say the same," replied Michel, putting his hand in his uncle's.

But, to manifest his affection, the good monk, who had the muscles of an athlete, squeezed his fingers so hard that the young man thought for a moment that the bones were broken. He did not wish to let it appear that that caress was a little too rough; but the perspiration stood out on his forehead, and he said to himself with a smile, that a man of the build of his uncle, the Capuchin, was better adapted to demand alms than to beg.

But, as strength and gentleness almost always go hand in hand, Fra Angelo approached the distributor of alms with a self-restraint and reserve as marked as the eagerness and persistence of his fellows. He saluted him with a smile, opened his purse without deigning to put out his hand, and closed it without looking to see what had been put in it, muttering a very laconic sentence of thanks; after which he returned to his brother and nephew, refusing to burden himself with provisions of any sort.

"In that case," said a very pious footman, "you have not enough money!"

"Do you think so?" rejoined the monk. "I have no idea. However little it may be, the convent must needs be satisfied with it."

"Do you wish me to go and demand more for you, my brother? If you will promise to pray for me every day this week, I will make them give you more."

"Oh! don't take that trouble," replied the dignified Capuchin, with a smile; "I will pray for you _gratis_, and my prayers will be worth all the more. Your mistress, Princess Agatha, gives enough in charity, and I come to her house only in obedience to my orders."

"Uncle," said little Mila, in an undertone, "there is a brother of your order yonder, whose face puzzles my father and brother. They think that he looks like somebody else."

"Somebody else? Whom do you mean?"

"Look at him," said Pier-Angelo. "Michel is right, he has a bad face. You must know him. He is standing all alone, over there under the musicians' platform."

"So far as his figure and his carriage are concerned, I don't recognize him as any brother of our convent. And yet he wears the frock of a Capuchin. But why does he interest you?"

"Because it seems to us," said Pier, lowering his voice, "that he resembles Abbé Ninfo."

"In that case, off with you," said Fra Angelo, hastily. "I will go and speak to him, and I will soon find out who he is and what he is here for."

"Yes, yes, let us go," said Pier-Angelo. "Go first, children. I will follow you."

Michel put his sister's arm through his, and they were soon on the way to Catania.

"It seems that this Abbé Ninfo wishes us ill," said Mila to her brother, "and has the power to injure us. Do you know why, Michel?"

"Not very well; but I am suspicious of a man who disguises himself, apparently for the purpose of spying. Whether we are concerned or somebody else, mystery conceals evil projects."

"Psha!" said the heedless Mila, after a moment's silence, "perhaps he is only a monk, like the rest. He stood apart and lurked in corners, as some of them often do after the crowd has passed, on days of processions or feast-days, to see if they can't find some jewel that somebody has lost. Then they pick it up without a word and carry it to their convent, to be surrendered to its owner in consideration of a round sum for one or two masses, or to be used in unearthing some love secret; for these good fathers are very inquisitive, as a general rule!"

"You don't love the monks, do you, Mila? You are only half a Sicilian?"

"That depends. I love my uncle and those who are like him."

"By the way," said Michel, reminded by the words _lost jewel_ of the adventure which the Capuchins had driven from his mind; "you had been in the ball-room, hadn't you, a moment before I met you in the garden?"

"No," she replied; "if you had not taken me in with you to watch the monks beg, I never should have dreamed of going in. Why do you ask me that? I saw the ball-room all finished before the fête. What do I care to see an empty room where no one is dancing? It was the ball, the dancing, the dresses, that I wanted to see! But you wouldn't take me even as far as the door last night!"

"Why not tell me the truth when the matter is of no importance? There is nothing out of the way, my dear little sister, in your having come to the naiad's grotto to wake me just now."

"Father says that you are asleep on your legs, Michel, and I see that he is quite right. I will take my oath that since yesterday morning, when I brought you the leaves you asked me to pick, I have not been inside the grotto."

"Ah! Mila, this is too much. You used not to tell falsehoods, and I am sorry to see that you have that wretched habit now."

"Hush, brother, you insult me," said Mila, proudly withdrawing her arm. "I have never lied, and I shall not begin to-day, just to please you."

"Little sister," rejoined Michel, walking after her and quickening his pace to keep up with her, for she was hurrying on ahead, hurt and grieved, "will you please show me the locket Princess Agatha gave you?"

"No, Master Michelangelo," retorted the girl, "you are not worthy to look at it. In the days when I cut a lock of your hair to wear upon my heart, you were not unkind as you have become since."

"If I were in your place," said Michel, ironically, "I would take the locket from my bosom and throw it in the face of the unkind brother who teases me so!"

"Here! take it!" said Mila, pulling the locket from her bosom, and handing it to Michel with an angry gesture; "you can take back your hair, I don't care for it any longer. But return me the locket; I care for that because it was given me by somebody kinder than you."

"Two lockets just alike!" said Michel to himself, placing them side by side in his hand; "is this the sequel of my vision?"