Chapter XXIX: Apparitions

Pier-Angelo had been notified by the princess and by a message from the monk of Mal Passo, that he must not be alarmed by his son's absence, and that, in case of danger, the young man would pass the night either at the convent with his uncle, or in the Marquis della Serra's palace. The princess would have preferred the latter course; but the necessity of showing absolute confidence in the brigand, concerning whose sensitiveness Fra Angelo had fully informed her, had triumphed over her anxiety. With great foresight she had sent for Magnani, and we have seen that she was justified in her reliance upon that excellent young man.

Pier-Angelo, naturally optimistic, and reassured by the message he had received, had gone to bed and was making up for the fatigue of the ball like a man who knows how to use time to advantage. Mila had also gone to her room; but she was not asleep. She had passed the afternoon with the princess, and, upon being questioned by her concerning her friends, had spoken of Antonio Magnani among others with a warmth which would have betrayed the secret of her heart, even if Agatha had not been watchful and penetrating. It was the favorable account the girl had given of her young neighbor which had finally led the princess to call upon him for aid in the embarrassment of her situation. She had said to herself that Magnani might well become Mila's husband some day, and that nothing could be more natural, therefore, than that he should have a share in shaping Michelangelo's destiny. She had entrusted Mila with the message to Magnani to come to her that night, and poor Magnani, on receiving the message, had nearly fainted. Should we not rather say _poor Mila_? But Mila had attributed the young man's confusion to his timidity alone. Agatha was the last person whom she would have suspected of being her rival, not that she was not in her eyes the loveliest of women, but because, in a pure heart, there is no room for jealousy of the persons whom one loves. On the contrary, the true-hearted child was happy in the mark of esteem and confidence with which her dear Agatha had honored Magnani. She was proud of it for his sake, and would have liked to be able to carry him such messages every day.

But the princess had thought that she ought not to conceal from Mila the fact that Michel was necessarily involved in an adventure in which he might incur some danger, and that Magnani would assist him to defend himself.

So Mila was anxious; she had said nothing to her father of her fears; but she had been out more than ten times on the road to the villa, listening to noises in the distance, watching all the passers-by, and returning to the house each time more distressed and alarmed than before. At last, when eleven o'clock struck, she dared not go out again, but remained in her room, sometimes at the window, where she tired her eyes staring to no purpose, sometimes beside her bed, where she fell on her knees, depressed beyond measure, with her face buried in the pillow. At times her pulses throbbed so violently that she mistook the throbbing for a noise by her side. Then she would start and raise her head, and, hearing nothing, try to pray.

At last, about midnight, she thought that she heard distinctly a faint sound of irregular footsteps in the yard. She looked and fancied that she saw a shadow glide along the wall and disappear in the darkness. It was Magnani; but she could not distinguish any well-defined form, and was not sure that she had not been deceived by her own imagination.

A few moments later two men stole noiselessly up the outside staircase of the house. Mila had begun to pray again, and did not hear them until they were under her window. She ran to the window, and seeing only the tops of their heads, as she was directly above them, she had no doubt that they were her brother and Magnani returning together. She hastily rearranged her lovely hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, and hurried to meet them. But as she passed into Michel's chamber, the outer door of that chamber opened, and she found herself face to face with Michel and a man who was fully a head shorter than Antonio Magnani.

The Piccinino, whose features were hidden by the hood of his cloak, hastily drew back and closed the door, saying: "You probably did not expect your mistress to-night, Michel. Under any other circumstances it would give me great pleasure to see her, for she seemed to be as beautiful as the Madonna; but at this moment you will oblige me greatly if you can send her away without letting her see me."

"Have no fear," replied the young artist. "This woman is my sister, and I will send her back to her own room. Stay here a moment, behind the door."

"Mila," he said, entering the room again and holding the door between his companion and himself, "you seem to have taken a mania for sitting up late like a night-bird. Go back to your own room, my dear love, I am not alone. One of father's apprentices has asked me to take him in, and I am going to share my bed with him. You must see that you shouldn't stay here another moment, unless you want to be seen with your hair and dress in disorder."

"I will go," said Mila; "but tell me first, Michel, whether Magnani came home with you?"

"What does it matter to you?" rejoined Michel, testily. Mila heaved a profound sigh, and returned to her room, where she threw herself on her bed, quite disheartened, but determined to pretend to be asleep, and to listen to everything that was said in the adjoining room. Perhaps something had happened to Magnani; her brother's abrupt manner seemed to her of evil augury.

As soon as the Piccinino found himself alone with Michel, he asked him to throw the bolts and to place a mattress from the bed against the thin warped door of the adjoining room, through which the light could be seen and their voices heard. When that was done, he asked him to make sure that his father was asleep, or, if he were still awake, to wish him good-night, so that the old man might not take it into his head to come upstairs. As he spoke, the bandit unceremoniously threw himself on Michel's bed, having first removed his rich doublet, and, covering his head with his cloak, seemed determined not to lose an instant in going to sleep.

Michel went downstairs as he was requested; but he was no sooner on the staircase than the young outlaw sprang to his feet as swiftly and lightly as a bird, threw the mattress aside, drew the bolt, and approached Mila's bed, beside which her little lamp was still burning.

Mila heard him come in; but she supposed that Michel had come to make sure that she was in bed. It did not occur to her that another could have the audacity to enter her room thus, and, like a child who is afraid of being scolded, she closed her eyes and lay perfectly still.

The Piccinino had never seen a beautiful woman without being disturbed and restless until he had examined her carefully, in order that he might cease to think of her if her beauty was imperfect, or cast his net over her if her style of beauty succeeded in inflaming his disdainful heart, a strange compound of love and indolence, energy and torpor. Few men of twenty-five have lived so chaste and self-restrained a life as the bandit of Ætna; but few imaginations are so fertile as his was in dreams of pleasure and in boundless appetites. It seemed that he was always seeking to kindle his passions in order to test their intensity, but that he abstained from gratifying them most of the time, fearing lest his enjoyment might fall short of the idea he had conceived of it. Certain it is that on the few occasions on which he had given way, he had been profoundly depressed afterwards, and had reproached himself for having expended so much exertion for a pleasure so soon exhausted.

Perhaps he had other reasons for wishing to see Michel's sister's features without Michel's knowledge. However that may be, he gazed at her attentively for a moment, and, enraptured by her beauty, her youthful grace, and her air of innocence, he asked himself whether he would not do better to love that fascinating child rather than a woman older than himself and doubtless more difficult to persuade.

At that moment Mila, weary of feigning sleep, and more eager for news of Magnani than afraid of her brother's reproaches, opened her eyes and saw the stranger leaning over her. She saw his eyes gleaming under his hood, and, terror-stricken, she was on the point of crying out, when he put his hand over her mouth.

"Child," he said in a low voice, "if you say a word, you are lost. Hush, and I will go away. Come, come, my lovely angel," he added, in a caressing tone, "don't be afraid of the friend of your family; before long perhaps you will thank him for having disturbed your sleep."

And, being unable to resist an insane impulse of coquetry, of a sort that often caused him suddenly to forget his resolutions and his cautious instincts, he threw back his hood and disclosed his beautiful features, made still more beautiful by a sweet and winning smile. The innocent Mila thought that she had had a vision. The diamonds that sparkled on the young man's breast so heightened the general effect that she did not know whether it was an angel or a prince in disguise who stood before her. Bewildered, hesitating, she smiled back at him, half fascinated, half terrified. Thereupon he lifted a heavy tress of her black hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, and put it to his lips. Fear gained the upper hand. Again Mila attempted to cry out. The stranger flashed such a terrible glance at her that her voice failed her. He put out the lamp, returned to Michel's room, bolted the door, and replaced the mattress; then, throwing himself on the bed and concealing his face, he seemed to be sleeping soundly when Michel returned. All this had happened in less time than it has required to tell it.

But, for the first time in his life, perhaps, the Piccinino could not compel sleep to deaden the activity of his thoughts. His imagination was an unbroken steed, with whom he had fought so many battles that he believed that he had placed a curb in his mouth forever. But the curb was broken, and that powerful will, exhausted in trivial combats, no longer sufficed to control fierce instincts too long held in check. He was between two violent temptations, which appeared to him in the shape of two women almost equally desirable, and whom the detestable Ninfo had practically offered to share with him. Michel was the hostage whom he had in his hands, and for whose ransom he could demand and perhaps obtain everything.

To be sure, he no longer believed in Agatha's passion for the young artist; but he had seen her utter indifference as to the matter of money, when it was a question of saving her friends from perils that threatened them. Was she so disinterested as to think that she ought to sacrifice something more than her fortune to ransom her protégé? Probably not; so that the bandit must rely upon his individual powers of seduction, and he saw in Michel only a means of gaining access to her so that he might exert those powers.

As for the young sister, it seemed to him an easier matter to overcome so innocent a child, not only because of the more direct affection which she undoubtedly entertained for her brother, but also because of her inexperience and the purity of her imagination, which he had tested with a glance.

In respect to youthful charm and mere physical beauty, Mila far surpassed Agatha; but Agatha was a princess, and the instinct of vanity was strong in the bastard of Castro-Reale. She was supposed never to have had a lover, she seemed prudent and strong. She had had twenty years or more to practise self-defence and to repel the assaults of the passions she had inspired; for she was at least thirty years old, and in the fiery climate of Sicily, where plants mature in less time than they require in France to put forth buds, a girl of ten is almost a woman.

It was, therefore, a most glorious conquest to dream about, and for that reason most intoxicating. But there was also the fear of failure, and Carmelo thought that in that case he should die of shame and rage. He had never known pain; it was a word almost devoid of meaning to him until that moment. He was beginning to discover that one can suffer for other causes than anger and ennui. As he lay awake, he watched Michel without his knowledge. He saw him sit down at his table and take his head in his hands, in an attitude of the most complete discouragement.

Michel was profoundly depressed. All his dreams had vanished like smoke. His situation seemed to him sufficiently elucidated by the conversation he had had with the bandit as they returned from the villa. To test him, the Piccinino had repeated Abbé Ninfo's calumnies, pretending to believe them and generously to take Michel's part. The young painter's noble and upright heart had rebelled against a suspicion which assailed the princess's dignity; his denials and his manner of describing his first interview with her in the ball-room had corresponded so closely with the way in which the princess herself had represented the facts to the bandit, that the latter, after a more searching and subtle examination than that of an inquisitor, had ended by becoming convinced that there was nothing criminal in the princess's relations with the artist.

Thereupon, seeing that there was a background of unhappiness to Michel's modesty and loyalty, the Piccinino had concluded that, if the princess did not love him, he wished that she might, and that he had fallen in love with her at first sight. He remembered Michel's abrupt and ironical reply to himself during the ball, and he took a cruel delight in making him feel that he could not hope to be loved by such a woman. It even occurred to him to admit that he questioned him only to test the refinement of his nature, and he ended by repeating word for word what Agatha had said when she pointed to Michel at the window of the boudoir: "Look at that young man and tell me if there can possibly be any wrongful relations between two persons of our respective ages and conditions." Then he added, pressing Michel's hand as they entered the city: "My child, I am pleased with you; for any other man, at your age, would have seized the opportunity to pose as the hero of a mysterious adventure with that adorable woman. Now I see that you are already a serious-minded man, and I can say to you in confidence that she has made an ineffaceable impression on me, and that I shall be like a stone in the crater of the volcano until I have seen her again."

The tone in which the Piccinino proclaimed, so to speak, this confession, combined with the remembrance of his enraptured face and his triumphant attitude when he returned to the boudoir with Agatha, alarmed Michel beyond expression. He had not felt obliged in conscience to tell him what illusions he had cherished, what he had thought that he could read in certain glances, still less what had taken place--and he did not believe that it was altogether a dream--in the grotto of the naiad. Indeed, he would have considered it his bounden duty to deny it with all his strength if his rival could have suspected it. But all his phantoms of pride and happiness took flight before Agatha's cold words, repeated in a dry, cutting tone by the Piccinino. But one point remained obscure in his situation. That was the peculiarly warm affection of the princess for his father and sister. But how could he attribute the honor of that affection to himself? It was based upon an ancient political connection or upon gratitude for some service rendered by Pier-Angelo. Pier-Angelo's son was subjected to the dangers of that connection at the same time that he shared its benefits. When that debt of the heart was paid, it was impossible that Michel could arouse any further interest in the generous patroness of his family. The mysteries that had fascinated him fell back into the domain of reality, and instead of the pleasant labor of combating charming illusions, he had the mortification of feeling that he had combated them unsuccessfully and the pain of being unable to revive them.

"Why should I be jealous of the insolent joy that shone in the eyes of that bandit?" he said to himself in dire distress. "Have I any business even to consider the question whether his strange manner caused the princess pleasurable or painful emotion? What have she and I in common? What am I to her? Pier-Angelo's son! And he, this bold-faced adventurer, is her mainstay and her savior. He will soon have a claim upon her gratitude--perhaps upon her esteem and affection; for it rests only with him to acquire them. He loves her, and if he is not mad he will find some way or other to make her love him. But how can I earn any title to her distinction? Of what consequence are the embryotic products of my art in comparison with the energetic assistance which she demands? It seems to me that she looks upon me as a child, since, instead of calling me to her aid, and entrusting to me some mission of importance to her interests and her personal safety, she does not even consider me capable of defending my own life. She considers me so weak or so timid that in this hour of our common danger she has sought the intervention of a stranger--an ally more dangerous than useful, it may be. O my God! how far she is from looking upon me as a man! Why did she not simply say to me: 'Your father and I are threatened by an enemy. Drop your brushes, take a dagger; defend your father or avenge me!' Fra Angelo reproached me for my indifference; but, instead of correcting it, they actually treat me like a child whom they pity, and whose life they save without troubling themselves about his heart!"

While he abandoned himself to these melancholy reflections, Michelangelo felt as if his heart were breaking, and finding in front of him the sprig of cyclamen, which was still living in its Venetian glass, he let a scalding tear fall upon it.