Chapter IV: Mysteries

When Michel had told the story of his adventure to the most trivial detail, and Pier-Angelo had admired and applauded his hypocrisy, the young man said:

"Now, father, pray tell me how it happens that you live here, without a mask and under your own name, without being molested, whereas I, immediately upon my arrival, must resort to stratagem and stand on my guard?"

Pier-Angelo seemed to hesitate a moment, then replied:

"Why, it is a very simple matter, my child! I was charged with being a conspirator long ago; I was put in prison, and probably escaped the gallows by flight. The formal prosecution had already been begun. That is all forgotten, and although the cardinal must have known my name and my face at the time, it would seem that I have changed greatly, or else his memory is much impaired, for he has seen me here, and must have heard my name mentioned, without recognizing me and without the faintest indication that he recalled the old affair; that was a test which I was resolved to make. I was summoned by Abbé Ninfo to work in the cardinal's palace; I went there boldly, after taking measures to ensure Mila's safety in case I should be cast into prison without process. The cardinal saw me and did not recognize me. Abbé Ninfo knows nothing about me; so that I am, or at all events I was, free from anxiety on my own account, and was just about to write you to come and see me, when it began to be rumored in the city, a few days ago, that his eminence was visibly improved, so much so that he was going to pass some time at his country house at Ficarazzi yonder; you can see the palace from here, on the hillside."

"Then the villa a few steps away, where I just saw the cardinal enter, is not his own residence?"

"No; it belongs to his niece, Princess Agatha. Doubtless he thought that he would make a détour and call upon her as he passed; but this same visit worries me. I know that she was not expecting it--that she had made no preparations to receive her uncle. He must have wanted to give her an unpleasant surprise, for he surely knows that there is no reason whatever why she should be fond of him. I greatly fear that this is a cloak for some wicked design. In any event, this sudden activity on the part of a man who, for a whole year, has only moved about in a wheeled chair up and down a gallery in his city palace, gives me food for thought, and I say that we must pay close attention to everything now."

"But after all, father, all this does not tell me what danger there can be for me personally! I was barely six months old, I believe, when I left Sicily; I fancy that I was not implicated in the conspiracy in which you were involved?"

"No, of course not; but new-comers are watched. Every man of the people, young, intelligent and from across the strait, is assumed to be dangerous, permeated with the new ideas. A single word from your lips, spoken in presence of a spy, or extorted from you by an informer, would be enough to put you in prison; and when I went to claim you as my son, it would be vastly worse if that wicked cardinal should by any chance be restored to health and to the exercise of power. Then he might remember that I was accused long ago, and he would apply to us, by way of sentence, the proverb: 'Like father, like son.' Now do you understand?"

"Yes, father, I will be prudent. Rely on me."

"That is not enough. I must be perfectly sure of the cardinal's state of health. I do not propose to let you enter Catania until I know what to expect."

"But what will you do to find out, father?"

"I will remain in hiding here with you until we have seen the cardinal and his procession start for Ficarazzi. It won't be long. If it is true that he is deaf and dumb, he will not have a long interview with his niece. As soon as we no longer run the risk of meeting him there, we will go to the Palmarosa palace, where I am at work now. I will conceal you in some corner; then I will go and consult the princess."

"Is the princess in your interest, then?"

"She is my most powerful and most generous patron. She employs me a great deal, and I hope that, thanks to her, we shall not be persecuted."

"Oh! father, was it she who gave you the money which enabled me to pay my debts?"

"Lent it my boy, lent it. I knew well enough that you would not accept alms, but she gives me so much work that I can pay her gradually."

"You may say: 'Soon,' father, for I am here! I have come to pay my debt to you; my journey has no other purpose."

"What, my dear child! have you sold a picture? have you earned some money?"

"Alas! no. I am not yet skilful enough or well enough known to earn money. But I have arms, and I know enough to paint frescoes for decoration. We will work together, my dear father, and I shall never again have to blush to think that I am leading the life of an artist, while you are wearing out your strength to gratify my misplaced tastes."

"Are you in earnest, Michel?" cried the old man. "You really mean to be a workman?"

"I am fully determined upon it. I have sold my canvases, my engravings, my books. I have given up my lodgings, thanked my teacher, bade farewell to friends, to Rome, to glory. It was a little hard," added Michel, feeling that his eyes were filling with tears; "but embrace me, father; tell me that you are content with your son, and I shall be proud of what I have done!"

"Embrace me, my dear boy!" replied the old decorator, pressing his son to his heart, and blending his own tears with his. "It is a fine thing, a noble thing that you have done, and God will reward you abundantly for it, I promise you. I accept your sacrifice, but let us understand each other: it is for a time only, for a time which we will make as short as possible by working rapidly to pay our debt. The experience will be useful to you, and your genius will grow instead of being extinguished. Between us, thanks to the excellent princess, who will pay us well, we shall soon have earned money enough for you to return to your real painting, without remorse and without imposing any privation on me. That is agreed. Now let us speak of your sister. She is a perfect prodigy of wit, that little girl. And how she has grown and how beautiful she is! so beautiful that it's enough to frighten a poor devil of a father like me."

"I propose to remain a workman," said Michel, "for with a modest but sure livelihood I can succeed in establishing my sister in life according to her rank. Poor dear angel! Think of her sending me her little earnings! And I, poor wretch, intended to bring them back to her and was forced to sacrifice them! Ah! it is horrible, yes, detestable, to try to become an artist when one has poor relations!"

"We will speak of this again, and I will find a way to revive your taste for your destiny, my child. But, hark! I hear the gate creaking--the cardinal is leaving the villa; let us not show ourselves; we shall soon see them going down on our right. You say that Ninfo opened the gate himself with a key that he had? It is very strange, and very disturbing too, to find that the good princess is not safe in her own house, that these people have false keys to violate her privacy unexpectedly, and that they evidently suspect her, since they spy upon her in this way!"

"But of what can they possibly suspect her?"

"Why, suppose it were only of protecting people whom they persecute! You assure me that you have become prudent, and in any event you will understand the importance of what I am going to tell you. You know already that the Palmarosas were entirely devoted to the court of Naples; that Prince Donigi, the oldest of the family, Princess Agatha's father, and brother of the cardinal, was the wickedest Sicilian that was ever known, the enemy of his fatherland and the persecutor of his compatriots; and that, too, not from cowardice, like those who go over to the side of the conqueror, nor from greed, like those who sell themselves; he was rich and fearless; but he did it from ambition, from his passion for domineering, in short, from an inborn wickedness that was in his blood and caused him to take the keenest delight in terrifying, tormenting, and humbling his neighbor. He was omnipotent in the time of Queen Caroline, and, until it pleased God to rid us of him, he inflicted all the harm he possibly could upon the patriotic nobles and the poor devils who loved their country. His brother continued that wrong-doing; but now he is going, too; and if the dying lamp still casts a faint gleam, it is simply a proof that it is dying. Then all the clientage of the Palmarosas, among the people of Catania, and especially in the suburb where we live, will be able to breathe freely. There are no more males in the family, and all the vast property, of which the cardinal still has the income of a large part, will fall into the hands of a single heiress, Princess Agatha. She is as good as her relations have been bad, and her heart is in the right place. She is Sicilian to the marrow and detests the Neapolitans! She will have great influence when she is entirely in control of her property and her acts. If God would permit her to marry and take into her house some worthy nobleman as right-minded as she, that would change the tone of the administration somewhat, and better our lot!"

"Is the princess a young woman?"

"Yes, still young, and might marry as well as not; but she has always refused to do it thus far, in the fear, so far as I can understand, that she would not be free to choose for herself.--But here we are close to the park," added Pier-Angelo; "we may meet somebody, so let us talk of indifferent matters only. I urge you, my child, to use here nothing but the Sicilian dialect, which we very wisely used at Rome so long. You have not forgotten your native language, I trust, since we parted?"

"No, indeed," replied Michel.

And he began to talk Sicilian with great volubility, to convince his father that there was nothing about him to indicate the foreigner.

"That is very good," said Pier-Angelo; "you have not the slightest accent."

They had made a détour and entered the park by a gate at a considerable distance from that at which Michel had encountered Monsignore Hieronymo; the gate was open and the numerous marks on the gravel indicated that many men, horses, and wagons habitually passed in and out.

"You will see here a great hurly-burly, most contrary to the ordinary habits of the household," said the old painter to his son. "I will explain it to you. But let us say nothing yet, that is the safest way. Do not look about you too much, nor have the surprised air of a new-comer. And, first of all, hide that travelling-bag among the rocks near the waterfall; I shall remember the place. Rub your shoes in the grass, so that you won't look like a traveller. Why, I believe you are limping, are you hurt?"

"Nothing, nothing, a little fatigue."

"I am going to take you to a place where you can rest without being disturbed by anyone."

Pier-Angelo made several détours in the park, leading his son through shady paths, and thus they reached the palace without meeting anyone, although they heard a great deal of noise, which increased as they drew near. They entered a corridor on the lower floor and walked rapidly by an enormous room, filled with workmen and materials of all sorts, assembled there for some incomprehensible purpose. The men were so busy and making so great an uproar that they did not notice Michel and his father. Michel had no time to understand what he saw. His father had instructed him to follow him step by step, and he walked so fast that the young traveller, utterly exhausted as he was, found it difficult to keep pace with him in the narrow halls and steep stairways.

Their journey through that labyrinth of secret passages seemed very long to Michel. At last Pier-Angelo took a key from his pocket and opened a small door on a dark corridor. Thereupon they found themselves in a long gallery, adorned with statues and pictures. But the blinds were drawn everywhere, and it was so dark that Michel could distinguish nothing.

"You can take a nap here," said his father, after he had carefully locked the little door and removed the key; "I am going to leave you here; I will return as soon as possible, and then I will tell you what we are to do."

He walked the whole length of the gallery, and, raising a portière embroidered with armorial bearings, pulled a bell-cord. In a few seconds a voice answered inside, and a dialogue followed, in so low a tone, that Michel could not hear a word. At last, a mysterious door was partly opened, and Pier-Angelo disappeared, leaving his son in the darkness, chill, and silence of that great empty room.

At times, however, the echoing voices of the men at work below, the sound of the saw and the hammer, snatches of song, laughter, and oaths reached his ears. But the noises gradually died away as darkness approached, and, after two hours, the most absolute silence reigned in that unfamiliar abode in which Michel found himself imprisoned, dying of hunger and weariness.

Those two hours of suspense would have seemed very long to him if sleep had not come to his aid. Although his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the gallery, he made no attempt to inspect the objects of art which it contained. He had dropped upon a rug, and fell into a sort of lethargy, interrupted sometimes by the tumult below, and the uneasiness which one feels when sleeping in a strange place. At last, when nightfall was followed by the cessation of the work, he slept soundly.

But a strange cry, which seemed to come from one of the rose-shaped openings which supplied the gallery with ventilation, woke him abruptly. He instinctively raised his head and fancied that he saw a faint light on the ceiling. The figures painted thereon seemed to move for an instant. Another cry, fainter than the first, but so peculiar that Michel was perturbed by it and moved to the lowest depths of his being, sounded over his head. Then the light vanished. The silence and darkness became so intense that he wondered if he had not dreamed.

Another quarter of an hour passed, during which Michel, excited by what had just happened, did not think of going to sleep again. He feared that his father was in some danger which he could not define. He was horrified at the thought that he himself was a captive and unable to assist him. He examined all the doors and found them all securely locked. He dared not make any noise, for, after all, it was a woman's voice that he had heard, and he could not understand what connection there could be between that cry and his own situation or Pier-Angelo's.

At last the mysterious door opened, and Pier-Angelo appeared, carrying a candle whose flickering light imparted a fantastic appearance to the statues upon which it fell one after another. When he stood beside Michel, he said in a low voice: "We are saved; the cardinal is in his dotage, and Abbé Ninfo knows nothing of our affairs. The princess, for whom I was compelled to wait a long while, because she had people about her, is of the opinion that we should make no sort of mystery about you. She thinks that that would be worse than simply to announce your return without any affectation. So we will go back to your sister, who is undoubtedly anxious because I am so late. But we have quite a little walk, and I suppose you are dying of hunger and thirst. The steward of the household, who is very kind to me, told me to take you to a little buttery, where we shall find something to eat."

Michel followed his father to a room which had on one side a glass door with a curtain covering the glass outside. This room, which was in no wise remarkable, was lighted by several candles, a fact which astonished Michel somewhat. Pier-Angelo, observing his surprise, said that it was a room where the princess's first lady's-maid came every night to superintend the preparation of her mistress's supper. With that he unceremoniously began to open cupboards and take out cold meats, preserves, wine, fruit, and innumerable delicacies which he placed helter-skelter on the table, laughing at each new discovery he made in those inexhaustible cupboards--all to the unbounded amazement of Michel, who failed to recognize his father's customary discretion and pride.