Chapter XXX: The False Monk

Mila had been so astonished and alarmed by the appearance of the Piccinino that she could not possibly sleep. The fact that alarmed her most was that she no longer heard conversation in the adjoining room, and that she could not make sure that her brother was there. She was unwilling to go to bed, and, after a few moments, as her reflections served only to increase her terror, she rose and opened another door of her chamber which opened on an outer gallery, or rather a dilapidated corridor sheltered by an awning, and ending in a staircase which served as a means of communication between her room and those of the other occupants of the house. Mila had never opened that door at night, but this time she went out on the gallery, having fully determined to seek refuge with her father and to sit in his chamber until daylight.

But she had barely taken three steps when a new cause of alarm brought her to a standstill. A man was leaning against the wall of the gallery as motionless as a robber on the watch.

She was about to fly, when a voice said in a whisper: "Is that you, Mila?" And as the man walked toward her she recognized Magnani.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "I am watching here by order of a person who is dear to you. Doubtless you know why, as you transmitted her message to me?"

"I know that my brother has been in danger this evening," replied the girl; "but it seems that you are not the only one whom our dear princess has stationed beside him to defend him. There is another young man in his room, whom I do not know."

"I know it, Mila; but that young man is the very one who is under suspicion; and I must stand guard as near as possible to the place where he is sleeping, until he has left the house."

"But you are a long way from him!" exclaimed Mila, in dismay, "and my brother might be murdered and you not hear it from here."

"But what am I to do?" replied Magnani. "I could not get any nearer to his room. He took pains to lock the door at the foot of the other staircase. So I am here; and I have my eyes and ears open, I assure you!"

"I will watch, too," said the girl, resolutely, "and you can sit up with me, Magnani. Come into my room. Even though people should speak ill of us, if we were seen, even if my father and brother should scold me severely, it makes no difference to me! I am only afraid of the man who is locked into Michel's room with him, or alone--for they put a mattress against my door, and I cannot find out whether Michel is really there. I am afraid for Michel; I am afraid for myself."

And she told how the bandit had entered her room when Michel was apparently not there to oppose his entrance.

Magnani, being unable to explain such an extraordinary occurrence, accepted Mila's suggestion without hesitation. He entered her room, leaving the door of the gallery ajar, in order that he might retire unseen if need were, but all ready to burst in Michel's door at the slightest alarming noise.

When he had listened coolly and cautiously, with his eye and ear glued to the partition, he said to Mila, beckoning her to the side of the room farthest from the door, and speaking very low:

"Set your mind at rest; they are not so well barricaded that I could not see Michel sitting at his table, apparently deep in meditation. I could not make out the other one, but I promise you that they cannot make a movement which I shall not hear, and that their bolt will not hold a second against my fist. I am armed; so don't be afraid any more, my dear Mila."

"No, no, I am not afraid," she said. "Since you have been here, I have recovered the use of my mind. Before you came, I was like a madwoman; I neither saw nor heard anything except through a veil. Have you had no accident, run no risk yourself to-night, Magnani?"

"None at all; but what are you looking for, Mila? You will make a noise fumbling in that drawer."

"No, no," she said. "I am getting a weapon too, for I feel as brave as a lion with you."

And she held up an ebony spindle, carved and mounted in silver, the stout, sharp point of which might at need serve the purpose of a stiletto.

"When our dear princess gave me this to-day," she said, "she had no suspicion that I might perhaps use it to defend my brother. But tell me, Magnani, how did the princess receive you, and how did she explain these mysteries which are happening all about us, and which I do not understand at all? We can safely talk here in this doorway; no one will hear us and it will help to make the time seem shorter and less dull."

She sat down on the step outside the door that opened on the gallery. Magnani sat beside her, ready to fly if any inquisitive individual should approach, ready to show himself if Michel's guest made any sign of hostility. They talked in very low tones, and their whispered words expired in the open air, nor did either of the two become so engrossed as to fail to pause and listen intently at the slightest sound.

When Magnani had told Mila what little he knew, she lost herself in vain conjectures as to the identity of that handsome young man, whose expression was at once sweet and fear-inspiring, who styled himself, when speaking with her, the friend of the family, and of whom the princess had said to Magnani: "He is either our savior or our enemy."--And, when Magnani urged her not to try to fathom a secret which the princess and her family apparently deemed it necessary to conceal from her, she replied: "Do not think that I am consumed by silly childish curiosity! No, I have not that wretched failing. But I have been afraid all day long, and yet I am not timid, either. Something incomprehensible is going on about me, and I, too, believe that I am threatened by enemies whom I do not know. I do not dare to mention the subject to my father or to the princess; I am afraid that if they undertake to look out for me, too, they will neglect a part of the precautions demanded by their own safety. But I must think about defending myself; to-morrow, when you go to your work and my father and brother have gone out, I shall begin to tremble again for them, for you and for my self."

"I shall not go to work to-morrow, Mila," said Magnani. "The princess ordered me not to leave your brother, whether he remains at home or goes out. She did not mention you, which fact makes me almost certain that you are not included in the secret persecution at which she has taken fright. But, whatever happens, I shall not stir from here, without having made sure that no one can come and frighten you."

"Listen," she said, "I am going to tell you what happened to me to-day. You know that we often have in our yard some of those begging brothers, who annoy everybody, even the poor people, and whom you cannot get rid of without giving them something. Well, one of them came just after Michel and my father had left the house, and I never saw a monk so persistent, and so bold, and so inquisitive. Just fancy that, when he saw me working at my window, he took up his station just below it, and there he stood, staring at me with a gaze that embarrassed me, although I tried not to meet his eyes. I tossed him some bread in order to get rid of him. He didn't condescend to pick it up. 'Young woman,' he said, 'that is not the way people give alms to a brother of my order. They take the trouble to go downstairs to him and to commend themselves to his prayers, instead of tossing him a crust as if he were a dog. You are not a pious maid, and your parents have brought you up badly. I am sure that you are not a native?'

"I made the mistake of answering him. He had put me in a bad humor with his sermon, and he was so ugly, so dirty, so insolent, that I could not help exhibiting my disgust. It seemed to me that I recognized him as a man I had seen in the morning at the Palmarosa palace. My brother was disturbed by his face at that time, and questioned my uncle Fra Angelo about him. He sent us away in haste, promising to find out who he was, for he did not recognize him as a Capuchin, and my father said that he resembled a certain Abbé Ninfo, who bears us a grudge, apparently. However, either it was not the same man, or else he had changed his disguise; for he wore the costume of a bare-footed Carmelite when he came here; and, instead of a thick, curly black beard, he had a red beard, as short and stiff as a wild boar's hair. He was even more horrible in that dress, and if it was not the same man, why, I can safely say that I have seen to-day the two most repulsive monks in Valdemona."

"And you were imprudent enough to talk with him?" said Magnani.

"Talk is not the word; I requested him to carry his preaching somewhere else, saying that I had no time to go down to him or to listen to his reprimands; that, if he did not consider my alms worthy of his acceptance, he could give it to the first poor person he met, and that, if he was born proud, he had made a great mistake in becoming a mendicant."

"Doubtless he was irritated by your replies?"

"No, for if I had seen that he was mortified or angry, charity or prudence would have kept me from saying so much. But, instead of continuing to scold me, he began to smile; a ghastly sort of smile, to be sure, but not resentful.

"'You are an amusing child,' he said, 'and I forgive your lack of propriety because of your wit and your black eyes.'

"I ask you if it was not very wicked for a monk to pay any attention to the color of my eyes? I told him that he might stay a year under my window before I would look to see what color his were. He called me a flirt; a strange word, isn't it, in the mouth of a man who ought not even to know that there is such a word? I closed my window, but when I opened it a quarter of an hour later, being unable to endure the stifling heat in my room when the sun is high, he was still looking at me. I refused to talk to him any more. He told me that he would stay there until I gave him something better than bread; that he knew that I wasn't a poor girl; that I had a beautiful pin of chased gold in my hair, and that he would gladly accept that, unless I preferred to give him a lock of hair in its place. And he followed that up with such absurd and extravagant compliments that I believed and still believe he was laughing at me, and that it was his spiteful and unseemly way of venting his anger.

"As there were people in the house, particularly your father and one of your brothers, whom I could see working in their rooms within reach of my voice, I was not alarmed by that wretched monk's strange remarks and impertinent glances; I answered only by making fun of him, and, to get rid of him, I promised to give him something on condition that he would go away at once. He declared that he had the right to accept or refuse my offering, and that, if I would let him choose, he would be very modest and would not ruin me.--'What do you want,' I said, 'a skein of silk to mend your ragged frock?'--'No,' he replied, 'it's too badly spun.'--'Do you want my scissors to cut your beard, which is growing all awry?'--'No, for I might perhaps use it to cut off the rosy tip of that impertinent little tongue.'--'A needle, then, to sew up your mouth, which doesn't know what it says?'--'No, for I am afraid that your needle has no sharper point than your epigrams.'

"We jested thus for some time; although he annoyed me, he made me laugh; for it seemed to me that his manner had become more fatherly than threatening, that he was really a monk, one of those persistent jokers such as we all know, who obtain by teasing what they cannot extort by prayer; and lastly, I discovered that he was very bright, and I did not put a stop to that childish badinage so soon as I should have done. I took from the wall a little mirror about the size of my hand, of no value, which he had noticed hanging by my window, as to which he asked me how many hours a day I passed consulting it. I lowered it to him by a silk thread, saying that he would certainly enjoy looking at himself in it much more than I had enjoyed having his face before my eyes so long.

"He seized it eagerly and kissed it, exclaiming in a tone which frightened me: 'Has it retained a reflection of your beauty, O dangerous maiden? Just a reflection! that is very little, but if I could fix it there, I would never take my lips from it.'

"'Fie!' I said, drawing back from the window, 'those words dishonor the frock you wear, and such jesting does not befit a monk.'

"I closed my window again and came to this door where we are now, and opened it so that I could breathe while I worked. But I had not been there five minutes when I saw the Capuchin before me. He had presumed to enter the house, I don't know how; for I had locked the outer door, and he must either have been prowling around in the adjoining house, or have known all the ins and outs of this one.--'Go away,' I said to him; 'no one has a right to enter a house in this way, and if you come near my door, I will call my father and brother, who are in the next room.'

"'I know perfectly well that they are not there,' he replied, with a hateful laugh, 'and as for the neighbors, it would do no good to call them, for I should be far away before they could get here. What makes you afraid of me, young woman? I only wanted to have a nearer view of your soft eyes and your red lips; Raphael's Madonna is a mere maid-servant compared with you. Come, don't be afraid of me'--and, as he spoke, he held the door open, which I tried to shut in his face.--'I would give my life for a kiss from you; but if you refuse me that, give me at least the rose that perfumes your breast; I shall die of joy dreaming that ----'

"I heard no more, for he had let the door go and tried to seize me in his arms. In spite of my terror, I had more presence of mind than he expected; for I stepped quickly to one side, slammed the door in his face, and as he was a little bewildered by the blow, I took advantage of it to run through Michel's room. I ran downstairs at the top of my speed, and didn't stop until I was in the street, for there was no neighbor near enough to depend upon. When I was among the people in the street, I was no longer afraid of the monk, but I wouldn't have come back to my room for anything on earth. I walked to Villa Palmarosa, and didn't feel entirely at ease until the princess had taken me into her room. I passed the rest of the day there, and did not come home until father was ready. But I dared not say anything about what had happened, for the reason I have given you--and if I must be entirely frank, because I felt that I had been imprudent to joke with that wretched begging monk, and that I deserved some blame for it. A rebuke from my father would almost kill me; but from Princess Agatha--why, I would rather be damned at once and forever!'"

"Dear child, as you are so afraid of reproaches, I will keep your secret," said Magnani, "and I will not venture to make the slightest comment."

"On the contrary, I beg you to comment as severely as you please, Magnani. It will not humiliate me from you. I am not presumptuous enough to think that you like me, and I know that my childish faults will not cause you the slightest distress. It is because I know how dearly my father and Princess Agatha love me that I dread so to grieve them. But you can say whatever you please to me, for you will simply laugh at my foolishness."

"So you think me very indifferent, do you?" said Magnani, upon whom this story of the monk had had a singularly disquieting and disturbing effect.

Then, surprised at the question that had escaped him, he rose and went on tiptoe to listen at Michel's door. He thought that he could hear the regular breathing of a sleeping person. The Piccinino had in fact succeeded finally in allaying the tumult of his thoughts, and Michel, overcome by weariness, was dozing in his chair, with his head resting on his hands.

Magnani returned to Mila; but he dared not sit beside her again. "And I too," he thought, ashamed, and as it were, afraid of himself, "I am a monk consumed by my imagination and excited by enforced continence. This child is too lovely, too pure, too trustful, to live thus the untrammelled neglected life of girls of our station; no one can look at her without emotion, whether he be a monk doomed to celibacy or a man hopelessly in love with another woman. I would like to have my hands on that vile monk and break his neck; and yet I too quiver at the thought that this unsuspecting maiden is in this room, alone with me, in the silence of night, ready to seek shelter in my arms at the slightest alarm!"