Chapter XXIV: IL Piccinino

On that side of the mountain which Fra Angelo and Michel had been constantly ascending for two hours, the large, thickly populated village of Nicolosi is the last civilized point at which the traveller who wishes to visit the top of Ætna stops for breath before entering the grand and imposing region of forests. This second belt is called _Silvosa_ or _Nemorosa_, and the cold is intense there. The vegetation then becomes depressingly wild and more sparse, until it finally disappears altogether under lichens and heaps of gravel, beyond which all is snow, sulphur, and smoke.

Nicolosi and the magnificent landscape surrounding it were already enveloped in the evening mist when Michel tried to form some idea of the place where he was. The imposing mass of Ætna was of the same uniform shade, and he could barely distinguish, a mile above him, the frowning peak of _Monte-Rosso_, that subaltern volcano, one of the twenty or thirty sons of Ætna, extinct or recently opened furnaces, which rear their heads like a battery of artillery at its foot. It was Monte-Rosso that opened its black maw, less than two centuries ago, to vomit forth that death-dealing lava with which the bottom of the bay of Catania is still furrowed. To-day the peasants raise grapes and olives on débris which seems to be burning still.

The Piccinino's house stood by itself on the mountain, about half a mile from the village, from which it was separated by a steep ravine; it was on the uppermost edge of a fertile tract, where the atmosphere was soft and balmy. A few hundred feet higher it began to be cold, and the terrors of the desert were foreshadowed by the absence of tilled land, and by ridges of lava so numerous and so broad that the mountain seemed inaccessible in that direction. Michel observed that the situation was particularly favorable to the purposes of a man who was half citizen, half outlaw. At home, he could enjoy all the comforts of life; on leaving his home, he at once escaped from the presence of his fellow-men and the requirements of the law.

The hill, the slope of which was very abrupt on one side, but gentle and fertile on the other, was covered to its very summit with luxuriant vegetation, whose mysterious exuberance was sedulously fostered by an industrious and intelligent hand. Carmelo Tomabene's garden was renowned for its beauty and the great abundance of its fruits and flowers. But its entrance was jealously guarded, and it was enclosed on all sides by high verdure-covered palisades. The house, which was of considerable size and well built, although without apparent striving for effect, stood upon the site of a small abandoned fort. Some fragments of thick walls, and the base of a square tower, which had been utilized to strengthen and enlarge the new building, which bore the marks of extensive repairs, gave to the modest structure an air of solidity, and of semi-rustic, semi-seignoral importance. However, it was simply the dwelling of a well-to-do farmer, although one felt that a man of refined habits and tastes might find life enjoyable therein.

Fra Angelo approached the gate, and pulled a bell-cord, which, starting among the honeysuckles in which the gate was embowered, followed a long vine-clad arbor and was connected with a bell inside the house; but the sound of the bell was so deadened that it could not be heard outside. The cord was not visible amid the foliage, and one needed to be previously cognizant of its existence to make use of it. The monk pulled the cord three times, at carefully measured intervals; then five times, then twice, then three times again; after which he folded his arms for five minutes, when he repeated the signals in the same order and with the same care. One ring more or less and the mysterious proprietor might have allowed them to wait all night without admitting them.

At last the garden gate was opened. A small man, wrapped in a cloak, approached, took Fra Angelo by the hand, whispered to him for some moments, then turned to Michel, bade him enter, and walked before them, after closing the gate. They walked through the long arbor which formed a cross extending the whole length and width of the garden, and entered the house through a sort of rustic porch formed of large pillars covered with vine and jasmine. Their host then ushered them into a large room, neatly and simply furnished, where everything indicated regularity and sobriety on the part of the owner. There he invited them to sit, and, stretching himself out on an enormous couch covered with red silk, coolly lighted his cigar; then, without any demonstration of friendliness toward the monk, he waited for him to speak. He showed no impatience, no curiosity. He gave his whole attention to removing his brown cloak lined with pink, carefully folding it, and rearranging his silk sash, as if he desired to be perfectly comfortable while listening to what they had to say to him.

But what was Michel's surprise when he finally recognized in the young _villano_ of Nicolosi the stranger who had caused a momentary sensation at the princess's ball, and with whom he had exchanged a few far from friendly words on the stoop of the palace!

He was disturbed by the thought that that incident was unlikely to dispose in his favor the man at whose hands he was about to ask a service. But the Piccinino did not seem to recognize him, and Michel concluded that it would be as well not to remind him of that unpleasant incident.

He had plenty of leisure to examine his features and to seek therein some indication of his character. But it was impossible for him to detect any trace of emotion, of determination, of any human feeling, on that impassive and expressionless face. It was not even impertinent, although his attitude and his silence might seem to denote a purpose to display contempt.

The Piccinino was a young man of about twenty-five years. His short stature and slender figure justified the sobriquet which had been given him, and to which he submitted with more coquetry than vexation.[5] It is impossible to imagine a more slender and delicate, and, at the same time, more perfect figure, than that young man's. Admirably proportioned, and modelled like an antique bronze, he made up for his lack of muscular strength by extreme suppleness. He was reputed to be without a compeer in all bodily exercises, although he was dependent solely upon his address, his coolness, his agility, and the unerring accuracy of his glance. No one could tire him at walking, or overtake him at running. He climbed precipices with the self-possession of a chamois; he was as good a shot with the rifle as with the pistol or the sling; and in all sports of that sort he was so sure of winning all the prizes that he had ceased to take the trouble to compete. He was an excellent horseman and a fearless swimmer; in fact, there was no method of locomotion or of fighting in which he was not certain to display a marked superiority to anyone who ventured to try conclusions with him. Being fully alive to the advantages of physical strength in a mountainous country, and with the life of an adventurer before him, he had striven in early years to acquire what nature seemed to have denied him in that regard. He had exercised and developed his muscles with incredible energy and persistence, and had succeeded in making his fragile frame the trusty slave and obedient instrument of his will.

And yet, seeing him reclining thus upon his couch, one might have taken him for a sickly or indolent woman. Michel did not know that, after travelling twenty leagues on foot during the day, he systematically rested for a certain number of hours, and that he had watched and studied himself so closely in every respect that he knew exactly how many moments he must pass in a horizontal position in order to escape the annoyance of a lame back and legs.

His face was of a peculiar type of beauty: it was the Siculo-Arabian[6] type in all its purity. Extraordinary sharpness of outline, a somewhat exaggerated oriental profile, long, languishing, velvety black eyes, a shrewd and lazy smile, a wholly feminine grace, and an indefinable gentleness and coldness which it was impossible to explain at the first glance.

The Piccinino was dressed with extreme care and scrupulous neatness. He wore the picturesque costume of the peasants of the mountain, but it was made of fine, light materials. His breeches, short and tight-fitting, were of a soft woollen fabric, with silk stripes, yellow and brown. His bare leg, white as alabaster, was visible above his scarlet _spadrilles_. His shirt was of embroidered linen, trimmed with lace, and afforded a glimpse of a heavy gold chain, intertwined with hair, upon his breast. His sash was of green silk stitched with silver. He was arrayed from head to foot in smuggled garments, or something worse; for if you had examined the marks on his linen, you might have convinced yourself that it came from the last valise he had robbed.

While Michel was contemplating with admiration, mingled with some inward irony, the ease with which that well-favored youth rolled a cigarette of Algerian tobacco in his fingers, slender and tapering as a Bedouin's, Fra Angelo, who seemed neither surprised nor annoyed by his reception, made a circuit of the room, bolted the door, and, having inquired if they were quite alone in the house, to which query the Piccinino replied in the affirmative with a nod, he began thus:

"I thank you, my son, for not compelling me to wait for this appointment. I have come to ask a favor at your hands: are you able and willing to devote a few days to it?"

"A few days?" repeated the Piccinino, in such a soft voice that Michel was fain to glance anew at the muscles of steel in his legs in order to be sure that it was not a woman who spoke; but the tone of the voice signified too clearly to be misunderstood: "You are jesting!"

"I said a few days," rejoined the monk, calmly. "You will have to go down the mountain, follow this young man, my nephew, to Catania, and stay by him until you have succeeded in relieving him from an enemy who is tormenting him."

The Piccinino turned slowly toward Michel, and stared at him as if he had not previously seen him; then, taking from his belt a richly-mounted stiletto, he presented it to him with an almost imperceptible smile of irony and contempt, as if to say: "You are old enough and strong enough to defend yourself."

Michel, annoyed at being placed in such a position, was about to make a sharp retort, when Fra Angelo cut him short, placing his iron hand on his shoulder.

"Be quiet, my boy," he said; "you do not know what I am talking about, and there is no occasion for you to speak. My friend," he continued, addressing the bandit, "if my nephew were not a man and a Sicilian, I should not introduce him to you. I am going to tell you what we expect of you, unless you tell me beforehand that you cannot or will not help us."

"Padre Angelo," replied the bandit, taking the monk's hand, and putting it to his lips with a caressing gesture and an affectionate glance that changed the character of his face entirely, "whatever you may ask, I am always willing to do for you. But no man can do all that he is willing to do. So I must know what it is."

"A man annoys us."

"I understand."

"We do not wish to kill him."

"You are unwise."

"By killing him we ruin ourselves; by putting him out of the way we are saved."

"He is to be kidnapped then?"

"Yes, but we do not know how to go about it."

"What! _you_ do not know, Padre Angelo?" said the Piccinino with a smile.

"I should have known in the old days," replied the Capuchin. "I had friends and places of shelter. Now, I am a monk."

"You are foolish," rejoined the bandit with undisturbed tranquillity. "So, I am to kidnap a man, am I? Is he very stout, very heavy?"

"He is very light," replied the monk, who apparently understood that metaphor, "and no one will give you a ducat for his skin."

"In that case, good-evening, father; I can't take him alone and put him in my pocket like a handkerchief. I must have men, and they are not to be had for nothing, as in your day."

"You don't understand me; you may fix the compensation of your men yourself, and they shall be paid."

"Do you make yourself responsible for that, father?"

"I do."

"You alone?"

"I alone. And, so far as you are concerned, if the affair had not been a magnificent one, I should not have selected you."

"Well, we will see about it next week," rejoined the bandit, in order to obtain more ample information as to the profits of the affair.

"In that case, we will say nothing more about it," said the monk, hurt by his distrust; "we must go forward at once or not at all."

"At once? What about a chance to collect my men, persuade them, and give them their instructions?"

"You can do it to-morrow morning, and to-morrow night they can be at their posts."

"I see that you are in no great hurry, or you would have told me to start to-night. If you can wait until to-morrow, you can wait a fortnight."

"No; for I intend to take you away with me now, send you to a certain villa where you will talk with one of the persons interested in the success of the affair, and give you until to-morrow night to inspect the locality, become acquainted with all necessary details, set up your batteries, notify your men, station them, arrange for allies in the citadel. Bah! it is more time than you need! At your age I wouldn't have asked your father for half of it."

Michel saw that the Capuchin had touched the right chord at last; for when he was appealed to as the son of the Prince of Castro-Reale, a title which nobody dared or chose to give him openly, the Piccinino started, sat up and sprang to his feet as if he were ready to start at once. But suddenly he put his hand to his leg and fell back on the couch.

"It is impossible," he said, "I am in too much pain."

"What is the matter?" asked Fra Angelo. "Are you wounded? Is that spent ball of last year still troubling you? In the old days we used to march with bullets in our bodies. Your father did thirty leagues without thinking of having the one extracted that he received in the thigh at Leon-Forte; but the young men of to-day need a year to be cured of a bruise."

Michel thought that his uncle had gone a little too far, for the Piccinino resumed his recumbent attitude with a gesture of profound indignation, stretched himself on his back, puffed away at his cigarette, and maliciously left to the good priest the embarrassing necessity of continuing the conversation.

But Fra Angelo was perfectly sure that the idea of a supply of ducats had appealed to the young bandit's unsentimental mind, and he continued without the slightest hesitation:

"I give you half an hour, my son, if you absolutely need it; half an hour is a long while for the blood that flows in your veins! then we will all three start."

"Who is this youngster, pray?" said the Piccinino, indicating Michel with the end of his finger, but without removing his eyes from the wall.

"He is my nephew, as I have told you; and Fra Angelo's nephew is to be relied on. But he doesn't know the country, and has not the necessary connections for an affair of this sort."

"Is the _signorino_ afraid of compromising himself?"

"No, signor!" cried Michel, irritated beyond endurance, and unable to bear longer the bandit's insolence and the restraint which his uncle imposed upon him. The bandit turned, looked him in the face with his long eyes, which seemed to turn up a little toward the temples, and whose mocking expression was sometimes intolerable. But when he saw Michel's animated face and pale lips, he assumed a more amiable expression, albeit a little suspicious still, and said, offering him his hand:

"Let us be friends, at all events, until we have no other enemies on our hands; that is our wisest course."

As Michel was seated at some distance, he would have had to rise to take that hand, extended with a kingly gesture. He smiled and did not move, at the risk of displeasing his uncle and losing the fruit of their expedition.

But the monk was not sorry to see Michel adopt that attitude with respect to the bandit. The latter understood that he had no weak-spirited creature to deal with, and, rising with an effort, he went to him and took his hand.

"You are cruel, my young master," he said, "to refuse to take two steps toward a man who is completely tired out. You haven't travelled twenty leagues to-day, and you insist upon my starting off again when I have had barely two hours' rest!"

"At your age," said the unrelenting monk, "I used to walk twenty leagues a day, and not take time to sup before starting again. Well, have you decided? Shall we start?"

"You care a good deal about it, don't you? Are you personally interested in the affair?"

"I care about it as I do about my everlasting salvation, and the affair is of the deepest interest to the persons who are dearer to me than anybody else on earth since your father died. My brother is in danger, as well as this excellent young man, for whom I demand your sincere and loyal friendship."

"Have I not shaken his hand?"

"Therefore I count upon you. When I see that you are ready, I will tell you something that will be a more enticing bait to you than gold or glory."

"I am ready. Is it an enemy of the country who is to be killed?"

"I told you that there is nobody to be killed; you forget that I serve the God of peace and mercy. But there is some one to be thwarted, some one whose treacherous plans must be utterly foiled; and that man is a spy and a traitor."

"His name?"

"Will you come?"

"Am I not on my feet?"

"Abbé Ninfo."

The Piccinino began to laugh, a silent laugh in which there was something ghastly.

"May I be permitted to thwart him?" he asked.

"Morally, yes. But not a drop of blood must be shed!"

"Morally! good, I will exert my wits. Courage is not current coin with that fellow; but as we have made our bargain, or nearly so, it is time to explain to me the motive of this abduction."

"I will explain it to you, and you can reflect upon it as we walk."

"Impossible. I cannot do two things at once. I reflect only when my body is at rest."

And he coolly lay down again after relighting his cigarette.

Fra Angelo saw clearly enough that he would not allow himself to be led into action with his eyes closed.

"You know," he said, with no indication of impatience, "that Ninfo is the tool, the spy, the inseparable companion of a certain cardinal?"

"Hieronymo de Palmarosa?"

"You know also that my older brother, Pier-Angelo, was forced to leave Sicily eighteen years ago?"

"I know it. It was his own fault! My father was still alive. He might have joined him instead of abandoning his country."

"You are mistaken; your father was dead. You were an infant, I was a monk! There was nothing to be done here."

"Go on."

"My brother returned, as you know, a year ago; and his son, Michelangelo here, returned a week ago."

"What for?"

"To assist his father in his trade and his country on occasion. But there is already a denunciation hanging over him as well as over his father. The cardinal still has his memory, and does not forgive. Ninfo is prepared to act in his name."

"What are they waiting for?"

"I don't know why the cardinal is waiting so long before dying, but I can say that Ninfo is waiting for the cardinal's death."

"Why?"

"In order to seize his papers before there is time to put seals on them and notify his heiress."

"Who is the heiress?"

"Princess Agatha de Palmarosa."

"Ah! yes," said the bandit, changing his position, "a beautiful woman, so they say."

"That has nothing to do with the affair. But do you understand now why it is necessary that Abbé Ninfo should disappear during the cardinal's last moments?"

"So that he cannot seize the papers, you said. He may cheat Princess Agatha out of important documents, abstract a will. It is a serious matter for her. She is very rich, is she not? Thanks to her father's and uncle's _loyal opinions_, the government has left her all her property, and does not crush her life out with forced contributions."

"She is very rich, so that it is a great opportunity for you, for she is no less generous than rich."

"I understand. And then, she is a very beautiful woman!"

His insistence upon that consideration sent a shudder of anger through Michel's veins; the bandit's impertinence seemed intolerable to him; but Fra Angelo was not disturbed by it. He believed that it was simply a trick of the Piccinino's, to conceal his rapacity beneath an air of gallantry.

"So I am to act for your brother and nephew incidentally," continued the bandit, "while in reality I am to rescue the Princess of Palmarosa's future fortune by laying hands upon the suspicious person of Abbé Ninfo? Is that it?"

"That is it," the monk replied. "The signora has to look out for her interests, and I for my family. That is why I have advised her to seek your assistance, and why I consented to convey her request."

The Piccinino seemed to reflect a moment; then, suddenly throwing himself back on his cushions, he exclaimed, in a voice broken by peals of hearty laughter:

"A most excellent story! This is one of the most attractive adventures in which I have ever taken part!"

[Footnote 5: The Piccinino is a friendly diminutive which the mountaineers might well have given him because of his small size. But the phrase _piccin-piccino_ signifies the act of hiding in order to prove an _alibi_.]

[Footnote 6: That is to say, modified Arabian, as found in Sicily.]