Chapter XXIII: The Destatore

"May I venture to ask you where we are going, uncle?" queried Michel, when they had taken a dark and narrow path which led among the old olive-trees on the mountain.

"Certainly," replied Fra Angelo; "we are going to call upon the last real brigand in Sicily."

"There are some left then?"

"A few, although sadly deteriorated. They are still ready to fight for their country, and they keep alive the last spark of the sacred flame. However, I ought to tell you that they are a sort of cross between the gallant fellows of long ago, who scrupulously refrained from taking a hair from the head of a good patriot, and the cutthroats of the present day, who kill and rob everyone they meet. These men discriminate when they can; but, as their business has become very bad, and as the police are more to be feared than in my time, they cannot always choose; so that I do not hold them up as beyond reproach; but, such as they are, they still have certain virtues which we should seek in vain elsewhere: fidelity to their oaths, remembrance of past services, the revolutionary spirit, love of country; in a word, all that remains of the chivalrous spirit of our old bands still casts a faint gleam in the hearts of a few poor fellows, who live by themselves, a half-sedentary, half-wandering life. That is to say, they are settled in villages or in the open country; they have their families there, and in some cases are supposed to be peaceable husbandmen, submissive to the law, and having no quarrel with the _campiere_.[2] If any of them are suspected, or, perhaps, involved in some trouble, they are more wary, do not go to see their wives or children except at night, or else remove their homes to some almost inaccessible location. But the man whom we are going to see is still free from any direct persecution. He lives openly in a neighboring village, and can go where he pleases. You will not regret having made his acquaintance, and I give you leave to study his character, for he is a very interesting and remarkable person."

"Should I be too inquisitive if I asked you to tell me a little something about him beforehand?"

"Certainly you ought to be told about him, and I will tell you. But it is a momentous secret to place in your keeping, Michel, and it makes it necessary for me to tell you another story. Do you know that I am going to place in your hands the fate of a man whom the police are hunting with all the energy and skill of which they are capable, and whose features and true name they have never succeeded in finding out in the six or seven years that have passed since he took up the _Destatore's_ work? Tell me, my boy, have you never heard of the _Piccinino_ and his band since you have been in Sicily?"

"It seems to me that I have. Yes, yes, uncle, my sister Mila has some fantastic stories about this Piccinino, who is the principal subject of conversation among the young silk-weavers of Catania. He is a redoubtable brigand, they say, who kidnaps women and kills men at the very gates of the city. I have never believed these fables."

"There is some truth at the bottom of all the popular legends," rejoined the monk. "The Piccinino exists and plies his trade. There are two men in him--the man whom the _campieri_ pursue in vain, and the man whom no one dreams of suspecting. The man who leads hazardous expeditions and assembles, at a mysterious signal, all the _nottoloni_[3] of any consequence, scattered all over the island, to employ them in more or less worthy enterprises; and the man who lives not far from this place, in a pretty country house, free from all molestation, and with the reputation of an intelligent, peaceably disposed man, opposed to bloody strife and advanced opinions. Well, within an hour you will be in that man's presence, you will know his true name, you will know his features, and you will share with only two other persons outside of the band which he commands the responsibility of his secret. You see that I treat you as a man, my child, but one cannot realize the danger of another person until he has himself been exposed to it. Henceforth you will have to pay with your life for the slightest indiscretion, and, in addition, to commit something more than a dastardly act, a horrible crime, of which you will soon know the extent."

"All these warnings are unnecessary, uncle; it is enough for me to know that it would be an abuse of confidence."

"I believe it, and yet I am not so sure of your prudence that I do not feel that I must tell you everything which may increase it. Your father, Princess Agatha, perhaps your sister, and myself beyond any question--all of us--will have sacrificed life and honor for you, if you are false to the oath I require of you. Swear, therefore, upon all that you hold most sacred--upon the Holy Gospel--never to betray, even on the scaffold, the true name of the Piccinino."

"I swear it, uncle. Are you satisfied?"

"Yes."

"And will the Piccinino have the same confidence in my oath that you have?"

"Yes, although confidence is not a failing of his. But when I told him of your visit, I gave him guarantees which could not fail to satisfy him."

"Very good! Now tell me what the relations are to be between this man and myself?"

"Patience, boy! I promised you another story, and here it is:

"The _Destatore_ having become addicted to wine in his last years----"

"So the _Destatore_ is dead, is he, uncle? You did not tell me of his death."

"I will tell you about it, although it is a very painful subject to me! I told you of an abominable crime that he committed. He surprised and carried off a girl,--a mere child,--who was walking with a nurse in this neighborhood, and set her free again in two hours. But, alas! two hours too late! No one witnessed his infamous act, but that very evening he boasted of it to me and sneered at my indignation. I was beside myself with horror and wrath, so that I cursed him, consigned him to the furies, and abandoned him to enter this convent, where I soon took the vows. I loved that man. I had been for many years under his influence; and when I saw him ruining and degrading himself, I feared that I might be led to follow his example. I determined to place between him and myself an insurmountable barrier. I became a monk; that was one of the most potent reasons for my decision.

"My desertion affected him more deeply than I expected. He came secretly to Bel Passo and resorted to every expedient--prayers and threats--to induce me to return. He was eloquent, because he had an ardent and sincere heart, despite his vagaries. I was inexorable, however, and I did my utmost to convert him. I am not eloquent; I was even less so at that time; but I felt so intensely all that I said to him--and faith had taken so strong a hold upon my heart--that my arguments made a profound impression upon him. I induced him to repair his crime as far as possible by marrying the innocent victim of his violence. I went to her by night and obtained her consent to look once more upon the detested brigand's features. They were married that night, secretly but legally, in the chapel before the altar where you prayed just now with me. And when he saw that beautiful, pale-cheeked, terrified maiden, the Prince of Castro-Reale was seized with remorse, and began to love her who was destined always to abhor him! He entreated her to fly with him, and, irritated by her refusal, thought of abducting her. But I had given that child my word, and she displayed a strength of character and a pride far beyond her years. She told him that she would never see him again; and clinging to my gown and our prior's--a worthy man who carried all his secrets with him to the grave--she cried: 'You swore that you would not leave me alone with that man a minute, and would take me back to the door of my home as soon as the marriage ceremony was finished. Do not desert me, or I will beat out my brains on the steps of your church!'

"She would have done as she said, the noble-hearted girl! But I had sworn! I took her home in safety, and she never saw the _Destatore_ again.

"As for him, his suffering was beyond words. Resistance inflamed his passion, and, for the first time in his life, he who had seduced and abandoned so many women learned what love is. But he also learned what remorse is, and from that day his mind was diseased. I hoped that he would be truly converted. I had no thought of making a monk of him like myself, but I wanted him to take up his old work, to renounce useless crimes, debauchery and folly. I tried to convince him that, if he should become once more the avenger of his country and the soul of our hope of deliverance, his young wife would forgive him and consent to share his painful but glorious destiny. Doubtless I myself would have thrown my frock to the dogs and followed him.

"But, alas! it would be too easy for men to mend their ways if crime and vice would relax their grasp upon their victims as readily as we desire. The _Destatore_ was no longer himself; he had become too thoroughly the man of the past. The remorse that I aroused in him disturbed his reason without appeasing his savage instincts. Sometimes a raving madman, sometimes timid and superstitious, he would pray one day in our humble chapel, bathed in tears; and the next day would return to his vomit--as the Scripture says. He tried to kill all his companions; he tried to kill me. He committed many more excesses, and one morning--it is hard for me to carry my story through to the end, Michel, it gives me so much pain!--one morning he was found dead at the foot of a cross, not far from our convent. He had blown out his brains with a pistol!"

"That was a horrible fate," said Michel, "and I do not know whether it is the tone of your voice, uncle, or the ghastly memories of the place where we are, but my emotions at this moment are most painful. It may be that I heard my father tell the story in my childhood, and that the memory of the terror it caused me then is revived by your words."

"I do not believe that your father ever mentioned it to you," said the Capuchin, after an interval of dismal silence. "I only speak of it because I must, my child; for the remembrance is more painful to me than to anybody on earth, and the place where we now are is by no means calculated to arouse cheerful thoughts in my mind. See, yonder is the cross whose base was drenched with his blood, and there I found him lying, sadly disfigured. It was I who dug his grave with my own hands under yonder rock in the bottom of the ravine. It was I who said the prayers which anybody else would have refused to say for him.

"Poor Castro-Reale, poor captain, poor fellow!" continued the Capuchin, baring his head and extending his arm in the direction of a great black rock which lay on the brink of the stream about fifty feet below the road. "May God, who is inexhaustible mercy and infinite kindness, forgive the errors of your life, as I forgive the sorrow you caused me! I no longer remember aught save your years of valor; your noble deeds, your lofty sentiments, and the ardent aspirations which we shared. God will not be more severe than a poor fellow like me, will he, Michel?"

"I do not believe in the everlasting resentment of the supreme and perfect Being who governs the world," replied the young man. "But let us go on, uncle; I am cold here, and I prefer to confess the strange weakness that I feel rather than remain an instant longer at the foot of this cross. I am afraid!"

"I had rather see you tremble than laugh in this spot!" replied the monk. "Come, give me your hand, and let us go on."

They walked for some time in silence; then Fra Angelo, as if he wished to divert Michel's thoughts, continued thus: "After the death of the _Destatore_, many people, women especially,--for he had seduced more than one--hurried to his hiding-place, hoping to obtain possession of what money he might have left there for the children whose father he was, or was supposed to be; but on the very morning of his suicide he had taken the booty remaining from his last expeditions and carried it to that one of his mistresses whom he loved best, or, to speak more accurately, whom he hated least; for, although he had many flames, he inspired even more, and all those women, forming a sort of ambulatory harem, annoyed and irritated him beyond measure. They all wanted him to marry them, for they did not know that he was married. Melina, of Nicolosi, alone never burdened him with her reproaches or her demands. She had loved him sincerely; she had abandoned herself to him without resistance and without ulterior motives; she had given him a son whom he preferred to the twelve or fifteen bastards who were reared under his name among the mountains. Most of those bastards are still living, and boast, rightly or wrongly, that they belong to him. All are brigands to a greater or less extent. But the one whom the _Destatore_ never denied, who resembles him in every feature, although his is a much reduced and blurred impression of the father's masculine and energetic beauty; the one who has grown to manhood with the design of succeeding to his work, with protection and resources to which the others can lay no claim, that one is the son of Melina, the young man whom we shall see very soon; he is the leader of the brigands to whom I have referred, some of whom are, as a matter of fact, his brothers; finally, he is the man whom you are to know under his true name, Carmelo Tomabene, who is also known as _The Piccinino_."

"And the girl whom Castro-Reale abducted, whom you married to him--will you not tell me her name, uncle?"

"Her name and her story are a secret which only three persons know to-day, she, myself, and one other. Stop there, Michel; no more questions on that subject. Let us return to the Piccinino, son of the Prince of Castro-Reale and of the peasant girl of Nicolosi.

"This intrigue of the _Destatore_ was several years prior to his crime and his marriage. The treasure he left was not very considerable; but, as everything is relative, it was a fortune to Melina. She brought up her son as if she intended that he should rise above his position; in the bottom of her heart she longed to make a priest of him, and for several years I was his tutor and his guide. But he was barely fifteen years old when, having lost his mother, he left our convent and led a wandering life until he attained his majority. He had always cherished the idea of hunting up his father's former companions, and organizing a new band with their aid; but, from respect for his mother's wishes, for I ought to say that he really loved her, he had worked to acquire an education as if he had, in fact, intended to devote himself to the priestly profession. When he had recovered his liberty, he made use of it without informing me of his purpose. He had always supposed that I would blame him. Later, he was compelled to entrust his secret to me and seek my advice.

"I was not sorry, I confess, to be rid of the guardianship of that young wolf, for he was the most untamable creature that I ever met. As fearless as his father, and even more intelligent, he is by instinct so cautious and cunning, and elusive, that I was uncertain at times whether I was dealing with the vilest of hypocrites or with the shrewdest diplomatist who ever tangled up the affairs of empires. He is a strange mixture of perfidy and honor, of magnanimity and vindictiveness. He has a portion of his father's virtues and good qualities. His vices and failings are of a different sort. Like his father, he is loyal in friendship, and his oath is sacred; but while his father, even when carried away by fierce passions, was always a true believer, and indeed devout in the depths of his heart, the son, if I am not mistaken, and if he has not changed, is the most placid and coolest atheist that ever lived. If he has passions, he gratifies them so secretly that they cannot be discovered. I know of but one, and that I have made no attempt to overcome,--it is hatred of the foreigner and love of country. That love is so intense that he carries it even to love of locality. Far from being a spendthrift like his father, he is economical and orderly, and owns a pretty little estate at Nicolosi, with a garden and some land, where he lives almost always alone, to all appearance, when he is not on some secret expedition in the mountains. But he arranges his absences with so much caution, and receives his friends with so much mystery, that no one ever knows whether he is away from the house, or in his garden, smoking and reading. In order to preserve this skilfully managed freedom of action, he makes a practice of not replying or showing himself when anyone knocks at his door. So that, when he is ten leagues away, no one can say that he is not kept within the walls of his fortress by a fit of unsociability.

"He has retained the costume, and, so far as appears, the habits of a wealthy peasant, and, although he is very well educated and very eloquent on occasion, although he is fitted for any career, and capable of distinguishing himself in many, he has such aversion for society and the laws by which it is governed among us, that he prefers to remain a bandit. To be simply a _villano_[4] in easy circumstances would not satisfy him. He is energetic and ambitious, he has a genius for the ruses of warfare, and a passion for adventures. Although it is a part of his plan to conceal his shrewdness and his learning, those qualities reveal themselves in spite of him, and he has great influence in his village. He is looked upon there as an original character, but they think highly of his advice, and consult him on every subject. He has made it his duty to oblige everybody, because it is his policy to have no enemies. He explains his frequent absences and the numerous visits he receives as being connected with a small business in grain, which requires journeys into the interior and somewhat extensive connections. He carefully conceals his patriotism, but he investigates and knows all about other people's, and at the first real uprising, he would have but to wave his hand to raise the whole population of the mountain, and the mountain would march with him."

"I can understand that this man is a hero in your eyes, uncle, while you have difficulty in esteeming one whose qualities are so faintly outlined as mine."

"I esteem the quality of words, not their number," replied the Capuchin. "You have said two or three words which satisfy me, and as for my hero, as you call him, he is so far from being lavish with them that I have had to judge him by deeds rather than by speech. I, myself, rarely speak of matters upon which I feel very strongly, and if you find me prolix to-day, it is because I am obliged to tell you in two hours what I have had no chance to tell you in the eighteen years that you have been in this world, a stranger to me. However, reserve is not a defect in my eyes. I loved Castro-Reale as I shall never love anybody else; and we passed whole days together, by ourselves, without speaking a word. He was suspicious, as every true Sicilian should be, and so long as he distrusted himself and others, he had a noble heart and a noble spirit."

"The young man we are going to see must be very deeply attached to you, uncle, since you are sure of finding him prepared to receive me?"

"If he loves anyone on earth, I am that one, although I scolded and worried him well when he was my pupil. However, I am not perfectly certain that he will grant what I have to ask him in your behalf. He will have to overcome some repugnance; but I hope for the best."

"Doubtless he knows all that you will not allow me to know myself of my affairs and my destiny?"

"He? he knows nothing whatsoever of them, and he shall know nothing before you do. The little that you are both to know for the present, I will tell you both. After that, it may be that the Piccinino will guess more than he should. His penetration is very keen; but whatever he may guess, he will never tell you; and he will never ask you what he wants to find out; my mind is at rest so far as that is concerned. Now, silence; we are coming out of the woods into a cultivated and settled part of the mountain. We must be seen by as few people as possible on our way to the place where our man awaits us."

They walked silently and cautiously along hedges and clumps of trees, keeping in the shadow and avoiding trodden paths; and in the gathering dusk they soon reached the Piccinino's abode.

[Footnote 2: The gendarmes or police of the island.]

[Footnote 3: People who attend to their business by night.]

[Footnote 4: That is to say, a _villain_ or serf.]