Chapter III: Monsignore

Despite this heroic renunciation of all the dreams of his youth, poor Michel experienced at that moment a sort of grief-stricken dismay. The journey had diverted his thoughts from the consequences of his sacrifice. The sight of Ætna had exalted his imagination. The joy he felt at the thought of seeing his excellent father and his dear little sister had sustained his courage. But this unlucky accident of a trifling wound in the foot, and the necessity of halting for an instant, gave him leisure for reflection for the first time since he had left Rome.

Moreover, that was an exceedingly solemn moment to his youthful mind. He saw before him the domes of his native city, one of the loveliest cities in the world, even to him who comes from Rome, and the one of all others whose location is most imposing to the eye.

This city, so many times devastated by the volcano, is not very ancient, and the style of the seventeenth century, which prevails in its buildings, has not the grandeur or the pure taste of earlier periods. Nevertheless, Catania, built upon an extensive plan and of antique spaciousness, is of a Greek type, taken as a whole. The sombre color of the lava from which it has risen again and again after being swallowed up by it, as if it had found the seeds of renewed life in its own ashes, after the manner of the phœnix, the open plain which surrounds it, and the cruel reefs of lava which have taken root in its harbor, as if to darken with their stern shadow even the shimmer of the waves--everything about the city is majestic and melancholy.

But it was not the aspect of the place that engrossed the thoughts of our young traveller. His own plight made it seem to him more gloomy and terror-inspiring than it had been made by the passage of the flames that belched forth from the cave of the Cyclops. He saw before him a place of trials and of expiation, in face of which a cold perspiration burst from every pore. It was there that he was about to bid farewell to the world of art, to the society of enlightened men, to unchecked reveries, and to the studious leisure of the artist summoned to an exalted destiny. It was there that he must resume, after ten years of a highly-favored existence, the artisan's apron, the hateful sizing-pot, the conventional festoon, the decoration of reception rooms and corridors. And, worse than all the rest, it was there that he would have to work twelve hours a day and go to bed exhausted, lacking time and strength to read or muse in a picture gallery; there that he must resign himself to do without other society than that of the Sicilian common people, so poor and so unclean that the poetic charm of his features and his intellect could scarcely penetrate the rags and degradation of poverty. In a word, the gate of Catania was, to that poor exile, the gate of the accursed city described by Dante.

At the thought, a torrent of tears, long held in check or turned aside, rushed from his eyes, and whoever had seen him thus, young, comely, pale, seated outside the gate of a palace, with his hand lying carelessly upon his injured foot, would inevitably have thought of the gladiator of old, wounded in combat, but weeping for his defeat rather than for the pain.

_The bells of a number of mules ascending the hill, and the appearance of a strange caravan coming directly toward him, forcibly changed the current of Michelangelo Lavoratori's reflections._]

The bells of a number of mules ascending the hill, and the appearance of a strange caravan coming directly toward him, forcibly changed the current of Michelangelo Lavoratori's reflections. The mules were superb creatures, richly caparisoned and decorated with plumes. On their long purple saddle-cloths gleamed the insignia of the cardinalate, the triple cross of gold, surmounted by the little hat and tassels. They were laden with baggage and led by servants dressed in black, with gloomy, suspicious faces; then came abbés and other ecclesiastics, with black short-clothes, red stockings and large silver buckles on their shoes; some on horseback, others in litters. A very stout individual, in a black coat, with his hair in a bag, a diamond on his finger, and a sword at his side, rode gravely upon a magnificent ass. From his air of importance, somewhat more candid than the crafty expressions of the churchmen who surrounded him, he could readily be identified as his eminence's physician. He escorted his eminence himself, who was carried in a chair, or rather in a great box, by two powerful men, beside whom walked four relay bearers. The whole procession consisted of about forty persons, and the uselessness of each one of them could be measured by the rapt meditation and humility depicted on his face.

Michel, deeply interested in the passage of this procession which surpassed all that Rome had to offer in that direction, that was most classic and superannuated, rose and stood near the gateway, in order to obtain a nearer view of the principal personage's face. He was the better able to gratify his curiosity, as the bearers halted in front of the enormous gilded gate, while a sort of abbé, with a repulsive countenance, dismounted and opened the gate himself with an air of authority and a peculiar smile.

The cardinal was a man far advanced in years, who had once been corpulent and florid, but was now pale and emaciated, as the result of gradual and cruel decay. The skin upon his face, once tightly stretched, now relaxed, hung in innumerable folds, and imparted to the face a strong resemblance to a field furrowed by the passage of a torrent. Despite these ghastly evidences of decomposition, there was a trace of imperious beauty upon those lifeless features, which could not or would not make the faintest movement, but amid which two great black eyes still glowed, the last sanctuary of a stubborn vitality.

The contrast between the stern, piercing glance and the corpse-like face impressed Michel so strongly that he could not avoid a feeling of respect, and he instinctively bared his head before that feeble remnant of a powerful will. Everything that indicated a forceful, imperious nature produced its effect upon that young man's imagination, because he was himself ambitious of power and authority, and, except for the gleam of those tyrannical eyes, it is doubtful if it would have occurred to him to remove his straw hat.

But, as his modest garb and his dusty shoes indicated a man of the people rather than a great painter in embryo, the cardinal's people and the cardinal himself naturally expected to see him kneel, which he did not do, and his neglect scandalized them terribly.

The cardinal was the first to notice it, and as his bearers were about to pass through the gate, he made a sign with his eyebrows which was instantly read by his physician, who rode always beside him, and was ordered to keep his eyes always fixed upon those of his eminence.

The doctor had just enough wit to understand from the cardinal's expression that he wished to manifest some desire or other; so he ordered a halt, and advised Abbé Ninfo, his eminence's secretary, the same who had opened the gate with his own hand, and with a key taken from his own pocket. The abbé hastened forward, as he had done before, and placed his body in front of the door of the chair in such way as to conceal it from the rest of the procession. Thereupon there took place between his eminence and him a mysterious dialogue, so mysterious that no one could say whether his eminence made himself understood by speech, or simply by the play of his features. Ordinarily the paralytic dignitary uttered nothing more than unintelligible grunts, which became a frightful roar when he was angry; but Abbé Ninfo understood those grunts so well, when assisted by his eminence's expressive glance and his intimate knowledge of his character and designs, that he interpreted his master's wishes and ordered them executed with an intelligence, a rapidity and a careful attention to details which bordered on the marvellous. Indeed it seemed altogether too supernatural to be accepted as genuine by the other subordinate priests, and they declared that his eminence had retained the power of speech, but that by virtue of the most profound diplomacy, he preferred not to use that power except with Abbé Ninfo. Doctor Recuperati asserted however that his eminence's tongue was paralyzed as completely as his arms and legs, and that the only living portions of his being were the organs of the brain and of the digestion. "With those," he said, "a man may live to be a hundred years old, aye, and shake the world, as Jupiter shook Olympus, simply by contracting his eyebrow."

The result of the strange dialogue between Abbé Ninfo's sharp eyes and the eloquent eyebrows of his eminence, was that the abbé turned suddenly to Michel and motioned to him to draw near. Michel was strongly tempted to do nothing of the sort, and to compel the abbé to walk to him; but the Sicilian spirit suddenly awoke in him, and he stood on his guard. He recalled all that his father had told him of the dangers to be dreaded from the wrath of a certain cardinal, and, although he could not tell whether the man before him was paralyzed or not, it suddenly occurred to him that he might very well be Cardinal Hieronymo, of Palmarosa. Thereupon he determined to dissemble, and he approached the gilded, decorated chair adorned with his eminence's crest.

"What are you doing at this gate?" the abbé demanded in a surly tone. "Are you of the household?"

"No, your excellency," replied Michel, with apparent tranquillity, although he was tempted to strike his questioner. "I am passing by."

The abbé glanced into the chair, and apparently he was given to understand that it was useless to intimidate wayfarers, for he suddenly changed his tone and manner as he turned again to Michel.

"My friend," he said benignantly, "you seem unfortunate; are you a mechanic?"

"Yes, your excellency," said Michel, resolved to speak as little as possible.

"And you are fatigued? you have come a long distance?"

"Yes, your excellency."

"But you are strong for your years. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

Michel could safely risk that falsehood; for, although he had as yet no beard on his chin, he had attained his full growth, and his active and restless brain had already caused him to lose the first bloom of youth. In this last reply he complied with a special injunction which his father had laid upon him when they parted, and which came to his mind most opportunely: "If you come to Sicily to join me one day or another," said old Pier-Angelo, "remember that, until you have actually joined me, you must not say a word of truth in reply to people who seem to you curious and inquisitive. Tell them neither your name, nor your age, nor your profession, nor mine, nor whence you come, nor whither you are going. The police are more meddlesome than shrewd. Lie boldly and have no fear."

"If my father should hear me," thought Michel, after he had thus distinguished himself, "he would be satisfied with me."

"It is well," said the abbé, and he stepped away from the prelate's door, so that the latter could see the poor devil who had thus attracted his attention. Michel's eyes met the moribund's terrible glance, and he thereupon felt more distrust and aversion than respect for that narrow and despotic brow. Warned by an inward presentiment that he was in a dangerous position, he changed the customary expression of his face, and substituting sheepishness for pride therein, he bent his knee, hung his head in order to escape the prelate's scrutiny, and pretended to await his benediction.

"His eminence blesses you mentally," said the abbé, after consulting the cardinal's eyes, and he motioned to the bearers to go forward.

The chair passed through the gateway and proceeded slowly along the avenue.

"I would like well to know," thought Michel, as he looked after the procession, "whether my instinct deceived me, or whether that man is the enemy of my family."

He was about to continue his journey, when he observed that Abbé Ninfo had not followed the cardinal, but was waiting until the last mule had passed, in order to lock the gate and restore the key to his pocket. This strange caretaking on the part of a man so close to the cardinal was well calculated to make an impression on him, and the keen, sidelong glance which that unattractive personage stealthily bestowed upon him impressed him even more.

"It is evident that I am already watched in this unhappy country," he thought; "and that my father did not dream of the enmities against which he warned me to be on my guard."

The abbé motioned to him to come to the gate just as he withdrew the key. Michel, persuaded that he must play his part more carefully than ever, approached with an air of humility.

"Here, my boy," said the abbé, offering him a small coin, "here is something with which to refresh yourself at the first tavern, for you seem to be very much fatigued."

Michel repressed a thrill of indignation. He accepted the insult, put out his hand and thanked the abbé humbly; then he ventured to say:

"I am grieved that his eminence did not deign to give me his blessing."

This well-acted bathos dispelled the abbe's suspicions.

"Console yourself, my child," he said, in a nonchalant tone; "Divine Providence has been pleased to deprive our holy cardinal of the use of his limbs. Paralysis permits him to bless the faithful only with his mind and heart."

"May God cure and preserve him!" rejoined Michel; and he went his way, very certain now that he was not mistaken, and that he had had a lucky escape from a perilous meeting.

He had not taken ten steps down the hill-side when, as he turned a corner, he found himself face to face with a man who was close upon him before either of them recognized the other, so little did they expect to meet at that moment. Suddenly they both cried out at once and clung together in a passionate embrace. Michel was in his father's arms.

"O my child! my dear child! you, in this place!" cried Pier-Angelo. "What joy and what anxiety for me! But joy carries the day and makes me braver in spirit than I was a moment since. I was thinking of you and saying to myself: 'It is lucky that Michel is not here, for our affairs might well become serious.'--But here you are, and I cannot help being the happiest of men."

"Never fear, father," Michel replied; "I became prudent as soon as I set my foot on my native soil. I have just met our enemy face to face; he questioned me, and I lied in a way to do your heart good."

Pier-Angelo turned pale.--"Who? who?" he exclaimed; "the cardinal?"

"Yes, the cardinal in person, the paralytic in his great gilt box. It must be the famous Prince Hieronymo, who was the terror of my childhood, and who seemed to me all the more terrible because I did not know the cause of my fear. Well, dear father, I assure you that even if he still has the will to do harm, he has not the power, for all varieties of infirmity seem to have conspired together to crush him. I will tell you of our interview; but tell me first of my sister, and let us go at once and surprise her."

"No, Michel, no, the most important thing is for you to tell me how you happened to see the cardinal so close. Let us go into this clump of trees; I am not at all easy in my mind. Tell me, tell me quickly! He spoke to you, you say? Is it certain that he spoke?"

"Let me reassure you, father, he cannot speak."

"Are you sure of it? You told me that he questioned you."

"I was questioned in his behalf, I suppose; but, as I observed everything with perfect coolness, and as that caricature of an abbé who acts as his interpreter is too thin to conceal the whole interior of the chair, I saw plainly that his eminence spoke with his eyes only. Moreover, his eminence is stone deaf, for when I told my age, which the abbé asked me for some unknown reason, I saw the abbé lean toward monsignore and hold up his ten fingers twice over, and then the thumb of his right hand."

"Dumb, helpless, and deaf to boot! I breathe again. But how old did you say you were? Twenty-one?"

"You told me to lie as soon as I set foot in Sicily."

"It is well, my child; Heaven aided and inspired you in that encounter."

"I think so, but I should be much more certain of it if you would tell me how the cardinal can be interested to know whether I am eighteen or twenty-one."

"That question cannot interest him in any way," said Pier-Angelo, with a smile. "But I am overjoyed to find that you remembered my advice and that you have suddenly acquired this prudence, of which I didn't believe you to be capable. But tell me again, what did Abbé Ninfo--for it must have been he, I am sure; was he very ugly?"

"Frightful; he squints and has a flat nose."

"That's the man! What else did he ask you? your name, or your province?"

"No, no other direct question, except as to my age, and my brilliant reply to that seemed to satisfy him so entirely that he turned his back, promising me his eminence's blessing."

"And his eminence didn't give it to you? he didn't raise his hand?"

"The abbé himself told me a little later that his eminence was entirely deprived of the use of his limbs."

"What! that man spoke to you again? that fiend of hell came back to you?"

As he spoke, Pier-Angelo scratched the back of his neck, the only spot on his head where his restless hand could find any hair. It was a sign with him of great perturbation of spirit.