Chapter VIII: The Intruder

Once more, when he saw his father doing the work of two, Michel was ashamed of his absent-mindedness, and hastened to assist him. There was still a temporary staircase to be erected at one side of the ball-room, to communicate with a gallery on the floor above, and afford the anticipated crowd an additional artery of circulation.

They could already hear numerous carriages rumbling in the distance over that magnificent street which is proudly called the _Ætnean Road_, and which passes through Catania in a straight line, from the water's edge to the foot of Ætna; as if, to quote a traveller, "the people who had erected their superb palaces along that road had intended to afford the angry volcano a way befitting its majesty."

At critical moments, when the time is too short, when the hours seem rather to gallop than to walk, when human forces are at odds with the impossible in some feverish toil, very few men are endowed with sufficient strength of will to retain the hope of triumphing at last. At such moments it is simply a matter of quadrupling one's own faculties and performing a miracle. Most of the workmen were utterly discouraged and proposed to abandon that temporary structure and to conceal the opening with flowers and pictures; in short, to inflict upon the organizers of the fête the unpleasant surprise of a departure from their plans. Pier-Angelo revived the courage of those who seemed well-disposed, and set to work. Michel performed prodigies in the way of assisting them; and in ten minutes, the task which it was said would take two hours was completed as if by magic.

"Michel," then said the old man, wiping his head, which was bald to the base of the skull, "I am satisfied with you, and I see that you are a good workman; which, in my eyes, is an indispensable qualification for any man who wishes to become a great artist. Everyone cannot work fast, and most of those who make haste do bad work. We must not despise them for that. In the ordinary course of affairs all work requires coolness, calculation, orderly management, foresight, in short, common sense--yes, even in loading a cart with stones, there are a thousand ways of going about it and only one right way. One man will take too many on his shovel, another not enough; one lifts his arm too high and throws the stones over the cart, another doesn't lift it high enough and throws them among the wheels. Have you never compared one thing with another and reflected, as you watched the simple work of the fields? Have you seen men digging? In that, as in everything else, there is one good workman to twenty bunglers. And who can say that the man who does as much work with the spade as four others, without tiring himself out and without losing a second, is not a superior man, who would do more difficult things admirably? Tell me, what do you think about it? For my part, I have always had that thought in my mind, and by watching the girls picking strawberries on the mountain, I can pick out the one who will best manage her house and bring up her children someday. Do you think I am talking nonsense? Answer me."

"I think that you are right, father," Michel replied, with a smile; "to work quickly and well, one must combine presence of mind with an ardent will; he must have fever in his blood and a clear head. He must be able to think and act simultaneously. No, that power certainly is not given to everyone; and it is a painful thing to see so many feeble and incompetent organizations in proportion to the small number of placid and powerful ones. Alas! I am alarmed for myself, notwithstanding the praise you have just given me, for I rarely feel in that powerful and productive humor, and if I was in that humor just now, I owe it to your example."

"No, no, Michel, no example is of any use to the impotent. Poor creatures! they do what they can, and that is an excellent reason why those who are stronger and more capable should make it their duty to relieve them. Do you not feel glad and proud to have done it?"

"You are right, father! you can find the noble and praiseworthy aspect of my instincts better than I can myself. Ah! Pier-Angelo, you do not know how to read, and you have had me taught a thousand things that you do not know. And yet you are the light of my mind, and, at every step I take, I feel that you are helping to open a blind man's eyes."

"That is well said!" cried honest Pier-Angelo, with artless joy. "I wish that could be written down. It reminded me of when the actors recite noble sentences on the stage. Let us see, how did you say it? repeat it for me. You called me by my name, as if I were not here, and you were thinking aloud of your old friend. Oh! I love fine words, that I do! _Pier-Angelo, you do not know how to write_--you began so. And then you compared yourself to a blind man whose light I was--I, a poor ignorant fellow, whose heart sees clear for you, Michel, none the less. I wish I could write poetry in pure Tuscan; but I only know how to improvise in my Sicilian dialect, in which, provided you rhyme in _i_ and _u_ you can always succeed in producing something that resembles poetry. If I could I would write a beautiful ballad about the love and modesty of a son who attributes to his old simpleton of a father all that he discovers about himself; a ballad! there is nothing in the world more perfect than a good ballad. I know a great many of them, but there are very few with which I am perfectly satisfied. I would like to be able to supply something that is lacking in them all. That reminds me that I shall have to sing to-night at supper. Hum! after swallowing such a lot of dust! but there will be plenty of good wine for the workmen to drink. Don't you mean to come? Evidently you don't like to drink with everybody. Perhaps you are right. They say that you are proud; but, on the other hand, you are sober and dignified. You must do what suits you. After all, it's of no use for you to talk, you will never be a simple mechanic like me, whatever you may do. You help me at my work now, and that is well done. But once our little debts are paid, you will return to Rome, for I propose that you shall continue the noble studies that attract you so."

"Ah! father, every word you say goes to my heart. Our little debts! it was I who contracted them, not only for useful studies, but for foolish diversions and insane, childish vanities. And when I think that each year I pass at Rome costs you the whole avails of your toil!"

"Even so! for whom should I earn money, if not for my son?"

"But you rob yourself!"

"Of nothing at all. I find friendship and confidence wherever I am employed; and except a little good wine, which is an old man's milk, and which is neither scarce nor dear in our blessed climate, thank God! I need nothing. What does a man of my age require? Must I think of the future? Your sister is industrious; she will find a good husband. Is not my present lot what my lot will be to my last hour? There is nothing new for me to learn which I can put to any use. Why should I hoard money? to hoard it for your maturer years would be absurd; it would simply be depriving your youth of the means of developing and making sure of the future."

"Alas! it is the thought of your future that terrifies me, father! An old man's future is loss of strength, infirmity, neglect, destitution! And suppose all your sacrifices were wasted! Suppose I should prove to be devoid of virtue, intelligence, courage, talent! Suppose I should not succeed in making my fortune, in finding a good husband for my sister, and in assuring your comfort and security in your old age!"

"Nonsense! nonsense! it is insulting Providence to doubt yourself when you are conscious of being disposed to do what is right. Besides, let us put everything in the worst light, and you will see that nothing is lost. I will assume that you are simply an ordinary artist; you will still earn your living, and as you do not lack wit, you will know how to be contented with such pleasures as are within your reach. You will do like me, who, although I have never been rich, have never considered myself poor, because my wants have never exceeded my resources. That is a philosophy with which you are not familiar as yet, because you are at the age of expansive desires and expansive hopes; but it will come to you if your plans fail. Mind you, I do not admit that they can fail. That is why I do not preach moderation to you now. Power is still better. The man who aims true at the ring with his lance is drunk with joy. He carries off the prize, and congratulates himself on having had the courage to compete. But he who has broken several lances with no result goes away saying: 'My luck is bad; I will not try again.' And he too is pleased that he has profited by experience and has had the courage to read himself a salutary lesson. But the evening breeze dries the perspiration on my old forehead a little too quickly; I am going to the pantry to eat and drink. As there is nothing more for you to do here, you may as well get our tools together and go home."

"And when will you come home, father?"

"Ah! Michel, I don't know when or how! it will depend on how much I enjoy the supper. You know that I am very sober, generally speaking, and drink only to quench my thirst; but if they lead me on to laugh and sing, and chatter, I get excited and have paroxysms of merriment and poetic enthusiasm which carry me off to the moon; and then it's of no use to talk to me about going to bed. Don't be anxious about me. I shall not fall down in a corner, I am not a beastly sot; my drunkenness is that of brilliant minds, on the contrary, and I never act more reasonably than when I am a little mad; that is to say, I shall be at work again here at daylight to-morrow, to assist in undoing all we have done this week, and I shall be less tired than if I had passed the night in my bed."

"You must despise me for being unable to find in wine the superhuman strength that it gives you!"

"You have never cared to try!" cried the old man; and he added instantly: "and you have done well! because at your age it is an unnecessary stimulant. Ah! when I was young the lightest glance from a woman would have given me more strength than the whole of the princess's cellar would give me at this moment! Well, good-night, my boy."

As he spoke, Pier-Angelo started up the wooden staircase he had helped to put in place, for he and his son had been talking in the garden, where he had thrown himself on the turf to recover his breath. Michel detained him, and, instead of leaving him, said with inexplicable emotion:

"Father, are you entitled to remain at the ball after the invited guests have arrived?"

"Why, surely," replied Pier-Angelo, surprised by the young man's manner. "Several of us were selected from each branch of trade, about a hundred men in all, to see that nothing goes wrong during the festivity. In the midst of so much commotion, a board may give way, or a piece of canvas get loose and take fire from the candles; a thousand accidents always have to be guarded against, and a certain number of tried arms always kept in readiness to repair them. We may have nothing to do; and in that case we shall pass the night merrily at table; but, whatever happens, we are at hand. Moreover, we have the right to go everywhere, in order to have an eye upon everything and to prevent fire, confusion, the bad smell from the candles that go out, the fall of a picture, a chandelier, a vase, heaven knows what! We are always wanted, and we make a circuit of the rooms, turn and turn about, if for nothing more than to prevent pickpockets from creeping in."

"And you are paid to do this servant's work?"

"We are paid if we choose. To those who do it purely from good-will the princess always makes some acceptable present, and for old friends like me she always has a pleasant word and some delicate little attention. And then, even if it brought me in nothing, isn't it my duty to place my foresight, my activity, and my loyalty at the service of a woman whom I esteem as much as I esteem her? I have no need of her assistance as yet; but I have seen how she helps those who get into difficulty, and I know that she would dress my wounds with her own hands if I were wounded."

"Yes, yes, I know all about that," rejoined Michel, gloomily; "benevolence, charity, pity, alms-giving!"

"Come, come! Master Pier-Angelo," said a valet, who passed them at that moment, "it is time to change your clothes. Take off your apron, the guests are arriving; go to the dressing-room, or to the buffet first, if you like."

"True," said Pier-Angelo, "we are a little untidy to rub elbows with such beautiful gowns. Farewell, Michel, I am going to beautify myself. Go home and rest."

Michel glanced at his own clothes, which were soiled and torn in a thousand places. His pride returned; he slowly descended the steps leading to the main ball-room and walked across it, amid the resplendent groups which were beginning to appear. A young man who entered as Michel was going out jostled him roughly. Michel was on the point of flying into a rage; but he restrained himself when he saw that the young man in question was as distraught as he.

He was a youth of some twenty-five years, of small stature and with a most attractive face. And yet, both in his face and bearing there was something peculiar which attracted Michel's attention, although he could not explain to his own satisfaction why he should take an interest in the stranger. It is certain, however, that there must have been something unusual about him, for the door-keeper to whom he had handed his card of admission glanced several times from him to the card and from the card to him, as if he wished to make sure that it was all right. He had not taken three steps into the room when other people turned their eyes upon him as if by virtue of a contagious impulse, and Michel, still standing by the door, heard a lady say to the gentleman who escorted her:

"Who is that man? I do not know him."

"Nor do I," was the reply; "but what do you expect? In a company so numerous as this is likely to be, do you fancy that you will not meet many strange faces?"

"Of course, I expect to," replied the lady, "and we shall see, in this ball for which anyone can buy a ticket, a mixture that will amuse us. To begin with, I am amused by this person who has just come in, and has stopped short under the first chandelier, as if he were looking for his road through this huge room. Just look at him! it is very curious; he's a handsome fellow!"

"Really, you are very much engrossed by that youth," said her escort, who, whether lover or husband, knew Sicilian womankind by heart. And so, instead of looking at the man to whom his attention was directed, he looked behind, to see whether, while his attention was attracted in one direction, someone on the other side did not hand her a note or exchange a meaning glance with her. But, whether because she was really virtuous, or by mere chance, she was sincere at that moment and looked at no one but the stranger.

Michel did not go away, and yet he had ceased to think of the reckless youth who had jostled him; he had espied, at the end of the ball-room, a white dress and a coronet of diamonds which twinkled like pale stars. He had seen the princess only an instant, and there were many other women at the ball in white dresses, many other diadems of precious stones. However, he was not mistaken as to her identity, and he could not take his eyes from her.

The lady and gentleman who had noticed the arrival of the unknown young man walked away, and Michel heard other voices at his side.

"I have seen that face somewhere, I don't know where," said a lady.

A pale, lovely young woman, who was walking with the last speaker, exclaimed, in a tone which aroused Michel from his reverie:

"Ah! great God! what a resemblance!"

"Why! what is the matter, my dear?"

"Nothing; a memory, a resemblance; but it is not the same----"

"What are you talking about, pray?"

"I will tell you later. First of all, look at that man."

"That short young man? I certainly don't know him."

"Nor do I; but he bears a most appalling resemblance to a man who----"

Michel heard no more; the beautiful young woman had lowered her voice as she walked on.

Who could that man be who had just come in, and who already produced such a marked sensation? Michel looked at him and saw that he was retracing his steps as if he intended to go out; but he halted in front of him and said in a voice as soft as a woman's: "My friend, will you be kind enough to tell me which of all the ladies who are already here is Princess Agatha de Palmarosa?"

"I have no idea," replied Michel, impelled by an instinctive feeling of distrust and jealousy.

"Then you do not know her?" queried the stranger.

"No, signor," replied Michel, dryly.

The stranger entered the ball-room and plunged into the crowd, which was rapidly increasing. Michel looked after him and observed something peculiar in his carriage. Although he was dressed in the height of fashion, and with an elaborateness which bordered on bad taste, he seemed ill at ease in his clothes, like a man who had never before worn a black coat and close-fitting breeches. And yet there was in his manner a something haughty and distinguished which did not denote the petty bourgeois in his Sunday garb.

As Michel turned to go away at last, he saw that the halberdier who was guarding the door was equally engrossed by the stranger's appearance.

"I don't know," he was saying to Barbagallo, the majordomo, who had just accosted him, apparently to question him; "I know a peasant who looks like him, but it isn't the man."

A third retainer came up and said:

"That must be the Greek prince who arrived yesterday, or one of his escort."

"Or else some follower of the Egyptian envoy," said the halberdier.

"Or else," added Barbagallo, "some Levantine merchant. When those people leave off their native costume and dress in the European style, you can't recognize them. Did he buy his ticket at the door? You mustn't allow anybody to do that."

"He had his ticket in his hand; I saw him present it all open, and the door-keeper said: 'Her Highness's signature.'"

Michel had not listened to this discussion; he was already well on his way to Catania.

He returned to his humble abode and sat down on his bed; but he forgot to lie down. As he threw back his hair, the weight of which made his forehead hot, he saw a small flower fall. It was a white cyclamen blossom. How had it broken off and clung to his hair? There was no reason for much surprise or uneasiness. The place where he had worked and hustled about, gone hither and thither a thousand times, was so thickly strewn with flowers of all sorts.

But Michel did not remember that. He simply remembered the enormous bouquet of cyclamen which the Princess of Palmarosa carried when he had stooped tremblingly and kissed her hand. He put the flower to his lips; it exhaled an intoxicating odor. He took his head in both hands. It seemed to him that he was going mad.