Chapter XXV: The Destatore's Cross

This outburst of merriment, which seemed exceedingly insolent to Michel, alarmed the monk at last; but, giving him no time to question him, the Piccinino resumed his seriousness as abruptly as he had laid it aside.

"The affair becomes clearer," he said. "One point is still obscure; why does Ninfo wait for the cardinal to die before denouncing your kinsmen?"

"Because he knows that the princess is their protector," the Capuchin replied; "that she has affection and esteem for the honest old artisan who has been working in her palace for a year past, and that, to save them from persecution, she would allow herself to be bled by that infamous priest. So he says to himself that when the cardinal is dead he will have that noble lady's fate in his hands absolutely, and that he will be at liberty to ruin her to his own profit. Doesn't it seem better to you that the Princess Agatha, who is a good Sicilian, should inherit the cardinal's property peaceably, and recompense handsomely the services of a gallant fellow like yourself, than that she should spend her money to buy the silence of a venomous reptile like Ninfo?"

"That is my opinion. But how can you be sure that the will has not been already abstracted?

"We know on good authority that it cannot have been yet."

"I must be certain of it! for I don't choose to exert myself, and then obtain nothing that is of any value."

"What does it matter if your pay is the same?"

"Ah! Brother Angelo," said the Piccinino, rising on his elbow and assuming an air of pride which made his listless eyes gleam for an instant, "for what do you take me? It seems to me that you have forgotten me in some measure. Am I a _bravo_, to be paid by the job or by the day? I have always flattered myself upon being a loyal friend, a man of honor, a devoted partisan; and lo and behold! apparently ashamed of the pupil you trained, you treat me like a mercenary, ready to do anything for a little gold! Disabuse yourself of that idea, in God's name. I do justice fortuitously, as my father did; and if I sometimes work on different lines from those he followed--if, conforming to the spirit of the age we live in, I use my shrewdness more often than my courage--I am none the less high-spirited and independent. Being more useful and more in request than a notary, lawyer or doctor, if I put a high price on my services, or give them _gratis_, according to the means of those who seek them, I have no love for my art and no respect for my own intelligence. I shall never waste my time and trouble in earning money without guarding the interests of my clients; and, just as the famous advocate refuses to undertake a cause which he is sure of losing, just as a captain refuses to risk his men in an unnecessary action, just as an honest doctor ceases his visits when it is no longer in his power to relieve his patient, so do I, my father, refuse your offers, for they do not satisfy my conscience."

"There was no need of your saying all that to me," said Fra Angelo, still as calm as ever. "I know what sort of man you are, and I should consider that I degraded myself by seeking the aid of a man whom I did not esteem."

"In that case," replied the Piccinino, with increasing excitement, "why do you lack confidence in me? Why do you tell me only a part of the truth?"

"You want me to tell you where the cardinal's will is concealed? That I do not know, nor have I ever thought of asking."

"That is impossible."

"I swear to you before God, boy, that I have no idea. I know that it is out of Ninfo's reach for the present, and that he cannot obtain possession of it while the cardinal lives except with his assent."

"And how do you know that he has not already given his assent?"

"The Princess Agatha is certain of it. She told me so, and that was enough for me."

"But suppose it isn't enough for me? Suppose I have no confidence in that woman's shrewdness and foresight? Don't you know that women have no talent whatever for that sort of thing? Have they any other talent in the way of divining or pretending than the talent they place at the service of love?"

"You have become very learned on this subject, and I have continued to be quite ignorant; however, my friend, if you desire to know further details, ask the princess herself for them, and you will probably be satisfied. I intended to put you in communication with her to-night."

"To-night? in direct communication? Shall I be able to talk with her alone?"

"Surely, if you consider it necessary to the success of our undertaking."

The Piccinino turned abruptly to Michel, and looked at him without saying a word.

The young artist was unable to sustain that gaze without distress. The adventurer's manner of speaking of Agatha had already irritated him exceedingly, and to keep himself in countenance he was forced to take a cigarette which the bandit suddenly offered him with an ironical and quasi-patronizing air.

The Piccinino had risen, and seemed to have fully made up his mind to go. He began to unbuckle his sash, shaking and stretching his legs like a hunting-dog preparing for the chase.

He passed into another room, and soon returned, dressed with more care and more simply. He had covered his bare legs with long gaiters of white wool like those worn by the Italian mountaineers. But all the buttons, from ankle to knee, were of fine gold. He had put on the twofold doublet, the outer one of green velvet embroidered with gold; the inner one shorter, and less full, and of fashionable cut, was of lilac watered silk, embroidered with silver. A white leather belt encircled his supple waist; but, instead of the copper buckle, he wore a superb clasp of antique coraline, richly mounted. No weapons were visible, but there could be no question that he was provided with most adequate means of defence. Finally, he had exchanged his showy cloak for the classic cloak of black woollen cloth, lined with white, and covered his head with the pointed hood that gives the aspect of monks or ghosts to all the mysterious figures that one meets on mountain paths.

_"Come" he said, looking himself over in a large mirror that hung against the wall; "I can appear before a woman now without frightening her. What do you think about it, Michelangelo Lavoratori?_"]

"Come," he said, looking himself over in a large mirror that hung against the wall; "I can appear before a woman now without frightening her. What do you think about it, Michelangelo Lavoratori?"

And, heedless of the impression that that conceited tone might produce on the young artist, he set about closing his house with the utmost care. After which, he gayly passed his arm through Michel's, and started off so swiftly that the others had difficulty in keeping pace with him.

When they had passed Nicolosi, Fra Angelo, stopping at a place where two paths converged, took leave of his young friends, to return to his monastery, advising them not to lose time escorting him thither.

"The leave granted me expires in half an hour," he said. "It may be that I shall have many other favors to ask within a short time, and I must not abuse this one. Yonder is the direct road to the Villa Palmarosa without passing Bel Passo. You do not need me to be introduced to the princess's presence. She has been notified and she expects you. Here is a key to the park, Michel, and one to the little garden outside the Casino. You know the staircase cut in the rock. You must ring twice, thrice and once at the small gilt gate at the top. Until then avoid being seen, and make sure that nobody is following you. When the maid comes to open the gate leading into the private garden, your countersign will be _Blessed Madonna of Bel Passo_. Do not lose these keys, Michel. Within a few days all the locks have been changed secretly, and the new ones are so complicated, that unless he applies to the locksmith who furnished them, and who is incorruptible, it will be impossible henceforth for Ninfo to get into the villa by means of false keys. One word more, my children. If any unforeseen occurrence should make my presence urgently necessary during the night, the Piccinino knows my cell and how to get into the convent."

"I should say as much!" said the bandit, when they had left the Capuchin; "I have indulged in enough escapades at night and returned just before dawn often enough, to know how to climb the walls of the convent of Mal Passo. Well, my friend, we no longer have to be careful of good Brother Angelo's legs; we will run a bit on this slope, and you will be kind enough not to lag behind, for I am not inclined to follow beaten paths. It is not my custom, and the way the crow flies is much safer and more expeditious."

As he spoke he darted in among the rocks which descended abruptly to the bed of the stream, as if he proposed to jump over. It was a very bright night, as almost all nights are in that beautiful climate. But the moon, which was just rising and casting huge shadows across the ravines, made everything uncertain and deceptive to the eye. If Michel had not kept close to his guide, he would have been completely at a loss what course to take among masses of lava and steep cliffs which it seemed impossible to climb. Although the Piccinino was perfectly familiar with the practicable spots, there were some so dangerous and difficult that Michel would have refused to take the risk, except for the fear of being considered cowardly and awkward. But the rivalry of self-love is a spur which increases a man's faculties tenfold, and, at the risk of killing himself twenty times over, the young artist followed the bandit without stumbling and without uttering a word which betrayed his discomfort and his distrust.

We say distrust, because he soon felt sure that all this trouble and contempt of danger did not shorten their road. It might be a malicious device on the part of the adventurer to test his strength, his agility, and his courage, or an attempt to elude him. He was almost convinced of it, when, after half an hour of this wild chase, and after thrice crossing the same winding stream, they found themselves in the bottom of a ravine which Michel thought that he recognized as one that he and the Capuchin had skirted on the higher land on their way to Nicolosi. He did not choose to make that suggestion; but he involuntarily paused a moment to look at the stone cross at the foot of which the _Destatore_ had blown out his brains, and which stood out against the sky on the edge of the ravine. Then, looking about, he recognized the block of black lava which Fra Angelo had pointed out to him from a distance, and which served as a monument to the bandit chief. It was only a few steps away, and the Piccinino had walked thither and was standing beside the rock, with folded arms, in the attitude of a man stopping to take breath.

What could have been the Piccinino's idea in making that dangerous and useless détour in order to pass his father's grave? Could he be ignorant of the fact that he was buried there? or was he less reluctant to walk over his remains than to pass the cross which had witnessed his suicide? Michel dared not question him upon so painful and delicate a subject; he too, stopped, said nothing, and wondered why he had felt such a painful thrill when Fra Angelo had told him of the _Destatore's_ tragic end. He knew himself well enough to be sure that he was neither cowardly nor superstitious, and at that moment he felt perfectly calm and superior to all vain terrors. He had no other sensation than a sort of disgust and indignation at the appearance of the young bandit, who was leaning against the fatal rock and tranquilly striking his flint to light a fresh cigarette.

"Do you know what this stone is?" demanded the extraordinary young man, abruptly; "and do you know what happened at the foot of yonder cross that cuts the moon in two from where we stand?"

"I do know," replied Michel, coldly; "but I hoped for your sake that you did not know."

"Ah! you are like Padre Angelo, are you?" rejoined the bandit, carelessly; "you are surprised that, when I pass this spot I don't drop on my knees and recite an _oremus_ for my father's soul? In order to go through with that classic ceremony three beliefs are requisite, none of which I have: first, that there is a God; second, that man has an immortal soul; third, that my prayers can serve the slightest purpose in case my father's soul is undergoing merited punishment. You consider me impious, I presume? I will bet that you are as much so as I am, and that if it weren't for the respect of other men and a sort of hypocritical sense of propriety to which everybody, even the man of intellect, feels bound to submit, you would say that I am perfectly right!"

"I shall never submit to any hypocritical sense of propriety," replied Michel. "I believe firmly and sincerely in the three things in which you boast that you do not believe."

"Ah! then you are horrified by my atheism?"

"No, for I choose to believe that it is involuntary, and I have no right to be scandalized by an error, when my own mind certainly is not open to the absolute truth in many other respects. I am not a devotee, that I should blame and condemn those who don't think as I do. But I will tell you frankly that there is one sort of atheism which appals and disgusts me: that is atheism of the heart, and I am very much afraid that yours does not flow from the inclination of your mind alone."

"Good! good! go on!" said the Piccinino, surrounding himself with clouds of tobacco smoke, with a careless vivacity, perhaps a little forced. "You think that I have a heart of stone, because I do not shed torrents of tears to my father's memory over this rock, which I am forced to pass every day, and on which I have sat a hundred times?"

"I know that you lost him when you were so young that you could not regret his companionship. I know that you must be accustomed, almost indifferent, to the gloomy memories connected with this spot. I say everything to myself to excuse your lack of feeling, but it does not justify in my eyes the species of bravado with which you place before me, designedly, I believe, the strange spectacle. I never knew your father, and had no tie of kinship with him, and yet the fact that my uncle loved him dearly and that a portion of his life was made illustrious by patriotic and valorous deeds is enough to inspire me with profound respect beside his grave, and to make me feel distressed and offended by your attitude at this moment."

"Master Michel," said the Piccinino, abruptly throwing away his cigarette and turning upon him with a threatening gesture, "it seems to me that you are a very strange young man to dare to rebuke me in this way, considering our position with respect to each other. You forget, I fancy, that I know your secrets, that I am at liberty to be your friend or your enemy; in short, that, at this moment, in this solitude, in this infernal spot where I may not be so entirely cold-blooded as you think, your life is in my hands!"

"The only thing that I have any reason to fear," rejoined Michel, calmly, "is that I may play the pedagogue inopportunely. That part is not suited to my years or my tastes. I will remind you, therefore, that if you had not incited my comments by a sort of persistence in questioning me, I should have spared you the infliction. As for your threats, I will not say that I consider myself able to defend myself as powerfully and calmly as you would be likely to attack me. I know that, at a whistle from you, an armed man would start up from behind every rock in the neighborhood. I trusted to your word, and I did not arm myself to walk with a man who offered me his hand, saying: 'Let us be friends.' But if my uncle is mistaken with respect to your loyalty, and if you have led me into a trap, or--as I should prefer to believe for your own sake--if the effect of this spot is to disturb your mind and make you irresponsible, I will none the less tell you what I think, and I will not stoop to flatter the shortcomings upon which you seem to plume yourself for my benefit."

As he concluded, Michel opened his cloak to show the bandit that he had not even a knife upon his person, then sat down, facing him, and looking him in the eye with the utmost coolness. It was the first time he had ever been in such a position, for which he had certainly had no time to prepare himself, and from which he was not at all sure of extricating himself unharmed; for as the moon, emerging from behind the _Destatore's Cross_, fell full upon the young bandit's face, Michel was no longer in doubt as to the ferocity and treachery of his expression. Nevertheless Pier-Angelo's son, the nephew of the intrepid Capuchin of Bel Passo, felt that his heart was untouched by fear, and that the first serious danger which threatened his young life found him proud and undaunted.

The Piccinino, seeing how near he was, and that his own face was so illuminated by the moon, tried for a moment the terrifying effect of his tiger-like eyes; but having failed to make Michel lower his, and detecting no sign of poltroonery in his face or attitude, he suddenly sat down beside him and took his hand.

"Upon my word," he said, "although I do my utmost to despise you and hate you, I cannot succeed; I fancy that you have sufficient penetration to guess that I would rather kill you than save you, as I have undertaken to do. You are an embarrassment to me in respect to certain illusions which you can readily imagine: you balk me in certain hopes which I cherished, and which I am by no means inclined to renounce. But I am not bound by my word simply, but by a certain sympathetic feeling for you which I cannot shake off. I should lie if I said that I love you, and that it is a pleasant occupation to me to defend your life. But I esteem you, and that is a good deal. I assure you, you did well to answer me as you did; for now I can confess to you that this place sometimes brings on fits of madness; and I have formed terrible resolutions here on many a momentous occasion. You were not safe with me a moment ago; and I should not care to hear you utter a certain name again. Let us not stay here any longer, and do you take this stiletto, which I offered you once before. A Sicilian ought always to be ready to use it, and to my mind it is utterly insane to go about unarmed in the position you are in."

"Let us go," said Michel, mechanically taking the proffered dagger. "My uncle says that time is important, and that they are waiting for us."

"Waiting for _us_?" cried the bandit, leaping to his feet. "Waiting for you, you mean! Damnation! I wish that yonder cross and this stone might both sink into the ground! Young man, you may believe that I am an atheist, and that my heart is hard; but if you think it is of ice----Here, put your hand to it, and learn that desire and will have their seat there as well as in the brain!"

He seized Michel's hand roughly, and held it to his breast. It was heaving with palpitations of such violence that one would have said that it was on the point of bursting.

But when they had quitted the ravine, and had left the _Destatore's Cross_ behind them, the Piccinino began to hum, in a voice as sweet and pure as the breath of the night, a ballad in the Sicilian dialect, of which the refrain was:

"Wine makes madness, love makes folly; my nectar is the blood of cowards, my mistress is my rifle."

After this outburst of bravado, addressed to himself as well as to the ears of any Neapolitan police who might happen to be within hearing, the Piccinino began to talk with Michel in a remarkably self-possessed and tranquil strain. He discussed fine arts, literature, external politics, and the news of the day, with as much freedom, courtesy, and refinement as if they were in a salon or on a public promenade, and as if neither of them had any momentous affair on hand, any exciting subject to engross his thoughts.

Michel soon realized that the Capuchin had in no wise exaggerated his pupil's varied knowledge and great talents. In the matter of the dead languages and classical subjects, Michel was quite unable to hold his own, for he had had neither the means nor the leisure to go to college before embracing an artistic career. The Piccinino, seeing that he was familiar only with translations of the texts which he quoted with an unfailing accuracy of memory, fell back upon history, modern literature, Italian poetry, novels, and the stage. Although Michel had read very extensively for one of his years, and although he had, as he himself put it, polished and sharpened his mind, hastily, by assimilating everything that came within his reach, he found that the peasant of Nicolosi, in the intervals between his hazardous expeditions, in the solitude of his shady garden, had made even better use of his time than he. It was wonderful to see a man who could not walk in boots, or breathe in a cravat, who had never been down to Catania ten times in his life, who lived in retirement on his mountain, and had never seen the world or come in contact with cultivated minds, but who had acquired by reading, reasoning, or the divination of a keen intellect, full knowledge of the modern world in its most trivial details, as he had acquired in the cloister knowledge of the ancient world. No subject was unfamiliar to him; he had learned all by himself several living languages, and he ostentatiously talked with Michel in pure Tuscan, to show him that no one at Rome could speak or pronounce it more correctly and melodiously.

Michel took so much pleasure in listening and replying to him, that he forgot for a moment the distrust which so complicated a mind and a character so difficult to define naturally inspired in him. He made the rest of the journey almost unconsciously, for they were then following a smooth and safe road; and when they arrived at the park of Palmarosa, he started with surprise at the thought of finding himself so soon in Princess Agatha's presence.

Thereupon all that had happened to him during and after the ball passed through his memory like a series of strange dreams. A delicious emotion stole over him, and he no longer felt very indignant or very much horrified at the pretensions of his companion, as he reflected upon those which he himself cherished.