Chapter XLIX: Danger

This announcement made a profound impression on Magnani. It put the finishing touch to his cure and his depression of spirit. His impressionable heart could not do without an all-absorbing, exclusive love; but he had apparently been deceived when he persuaded himself that he had never really hoped; for when hope had become impossible, he was no longer beset by the phantom of Agatha. It was Mila's phantom which engrossed his meditations and his sleepless nights. But this last passion began in the midst of a torture more intense than all the previous ones. Agatha had appeared to him as an ideal creature whom he could never reach. Mila appeared to him under the same aspect, but with the additional certainty that she had a lover.

Thereupon, in that little circle of relations and friends, there ensued a succession of petty anxieties, exceedingly delicate in their nature, which eventually became very painful to Mila and Magnani. Pier-Angelo, seeing that his daughter was depressed, and being unable to understand it, was inclined to have a friendly explanation with Magnani, and lead him on to ask openly for Mila's hand. Fra Angelo did not agree with him and restrained him. This question being taken before the princess's kindly tribunal for decision led to explanations concerning the excursion to Nicolosi which were perfectly satisfactory to the father and the uncle, but which might well leave some suspicion in the lover's proud and uncompromising heart. Fra Angelo, who was responsible for the trouble, undertook to repair it. He went to the young man, and without disclosing Mila's sublime imprudence, told him that she was absolutely justified in his mind, and that he had discovered that the purpose of that mysterious excursion was to do a noble and courageous act.

Magnani asked no question. Had he done so, the monk, who was incapable of paltering with the truth, would have told him everything; but Magnani's loyal heart closed itself to suspicion as soon as Fra Angelo had given his word. He believed at last in the possibility of happiness and went to Pier-Angelo to seek confirmation of his belief.

But it was written that Magnani should not be happy. On the day when he appeared to make his declaration and urge his suit, Mila, instead of remaining during their interview, left her father's workshop angrily and shut herself up in her own room. She was offended in the sanctuary of her pride by Magnani's four or five days of depression and irresolution. She had expected an easier and speedier triumph. She blushed at the thought that she had pursued him so long.

Moreover, she was aware of all that had happened during those days of misery. She knew that Michel was not in favor of their giving Magnani so much encouragement to declare himself. Michel alone had known his friend's secret, and he was alarmed for his adopted sister's sake by such a sudden reaction in her favor, which might well be an act of desperation. Mila concluded that Michel was aware that Magnani persisted in loving another woman, although the young artisan had refused to take back the princess's ring, and had begged Mila to keep it as a pledge of his esteem and respect. On that same evening, the evening that he had escorted her home from the Della Serra palace while Michel remained behind with his mother, Magnani, intoxicated by her beauty, her wit and her social success, had spoken to her so warmly that what he said was almost a declaration of love. Mila had had the strength of will to refrain from encouraging him openly. But she had believed that she had triumphed, and on the next day, the day of Agatha's declaration, she had expected to see him at her feet and to tell him at last that she loved him.

But he had not appeared at all on that day, and on the days immediately following he had not addressed a single word to her; he had confined himself to bowing to her with frigid respect when he had not been able to avoid her eye. Mila, mortally wounded and distressed, had refused to tell her father the truth, when that worthy man, disturbed by her pallor, asked her almost on his knees. She had persisted in denying that she loved their young neighbor. Pier-Angelo, simple and straightforward creature that he was, could find nothing better to say to her than:

"Cheer up, my child, we know very well that you love each other; but he has been uneasy and jealous on account of the Nicolosi affair; when you condescend to justify yourself in his eyes, he will fall at your feet. You will see him there to-morrow, I am sure of it."

"Oho! Master Magnani presumes to be jealous and to suspect me!" rejoined Mila, hotly. "He has loved me only a day or two, he doesn't know whether I love him, and when a suspicion comes into his head, instead of humbly telling me of it and doing his best to supplant the rival who worries him, he assumes the air of a betrayed husband, gives up all idea of making himself agreeable to me and persuading me, and, I suppose, will consider that he confers great honor and great pleasure on me when he comes and tells me that he deigns to forgive me! Well, for my part, I do not forgive him. That's what you may say to him from me, father."

The child persisted so in her irritation that Pier-Angelo was forced to take Magnani to her chamber door, where she let him knock a long while, and which she opened at last, saying pettishly that he seemed determined to interrupt her siesta.

"You may be perfectly sure," said Pier-Angelo to Magnani, "that the sly minx was not asleep, for she only left my workshop just as you came in. Come, children, put aside all these pretty quarrels. Shake hands, since you love each other; and I give you permission to kiss. No! Mila is proud like her poor mother. Ah! friend Antonio, you will be led by the nose as I was, and you will be none the less happy for it, I tell you! Come, kneel and ask her pardon. Signora Mila, must your father kneel too?"

"Father," replied Mila, flushing with pleasure, pride and vexation, all at once, "listen to me, instead of laughing at me, for I must keep my dignity intact! A woman has nothing more precious than her dignity, and no man, not even a father, ever understands what justification we have for being sensitive. I do not choose to be loved by halves, I do not choose to serve as a makeshift and a balm for a partly healed passion. I know that Master Magnani has long been in love with a beautiful unknown, and I am afraid that he is still, a little. Very good! I want him to take time enough to forget her and to give me time to find out whether I love him. This is all too new and strange to be accepted so hurriedly. I know that, when I have given my word, I shall not retract it, even if I regret having done it. I will judge of Magnani's affection," she said, with a reproachful glance at him, "by his evenness of temper with me and the zealousness of his attentions. He has something to set right, and I something to forgive."

"I accept the test," said Magnani, "but not as a punishment; I do not consider that I have been blameworthy in giving way to sorrow and depression. I did not believe that you loved me, and I knew well that I had no right to expect it. I still think that you do not, and if I venture to hope a little, it is in fear and trembling."

"Ah! what fine words, just to say nothing!" cried Pier-Angelo. "In my day we were less eloquent and more sincere. We said: 'Do you love me?'--'Yes, and you?'--'Like a madman.'--'So do I, until death.'--That was better than these long dialogues of yours, which seem like a game, and a game in which you try to annoy and worry each other. But perhaps I am in the way. I will go; when you are alone, you will understand each other better."

"No, father," said Mila, afraid that she should allow herself to be moved and persuaded too quickly, "even if he had enough love and spirit to-day to make me listen to him, I know that I should be sorry to-morrow that I had been so trustful. Besides, I know that you haven't told him everything. I know that he has taken it upon himself to be jealous, because I took a certain erratic walk on the mountain; but I know also that my uncle, when he assured him that I had committed no sin, which he was kind enough to believe, thought it best to say nothing as to the purpose of that walk. But for my own part, I am ashamed, and blush for that circumspection, which apparently was supposed to be necessary to his peace of mind, and I propose to tell him the whole truth."

"As you please, my child," replied Pier-Angelo. "I am inclined to agree with you that you should keep back no part of what you think you ought to tell. So speak as you think best. But you must remember that it is somebody else's secret whom you promised never to name."

"I can safely name him, as his name is in every mouth, especially in these last few days, and, if there is any danger in saying that one knows him, it is only for those who make that boast; however, it is not my purpose to reveal what I know about him; I may therefore tell Master Magnani that I voluntarily passed two hours tête-à-tête with the Piccinino, without telling him where or for what purpose."

"I believe that the fever for making declarations is attacking all women," laughed Pier-Angelo; "since Princess Agatha made the one which has caused so much talk, they all seem determined to confess in public."

Pier-Angelo spoke more truly than he supposed. The example of courage is contagious among women, and the romantically inclined Mila admired Princess Agatha so passionately that she regretted that she had not a secret marriage with the Piccinino to proclaim at that moment, provided always that she had become a widow and could marry Magnani.

But her rash avowal produced an entirely different effect from that which she expected. There was no trace of anxiety on Magnani's face, and she could not rejoice inwardly at having aroused and awakened his love by a flash of jealousy. He became even more melancholy and gentle than usual, kissed Mila's hand, and said to her:

"Your frankness denotes a noble heart, Mila, but there is a little pride mixed with it. Doubtless you intended to put me to a harsh test by telling me something that would alarm any other man than myself to the last degree. But I know your father and your uncle too well to fear that they deceived me when they said that you went into the mountain to do a good deed. So do not try to puzzle me; that would be cruel on your part, because you could have no other object than to make me unhappy. Tell me everything or tell me nothing. I have no right to demand disclosures which would compromise anyone, but I have the right to ask you not to play with me by trying to shake my confidence in you."

Pier-Angelo declared that on this occasion Magnani talked _like a book_, and that no one could possibly make a more straightforward, generous and sensible reply on such a delicate subject.

But what had taken place in little Mila's heart within a few days? It may be that one should never play with fire, however worthy the motive of one's action, and that she really did wrong to go to Nicolosi. However that may be, Magnani's reply did not please her as much as it did her father, and she felt chilled and piqued by the sort of paternal lecture which her lover had given her.

"Sermons already!" she said, rising, as a hint to Magnani that she proposed to go no farther with him that day; "and sermons to me, whom you pretend to love with so little hope and courage? It seems to me, neighbor, on the other hand, that you expect to find me very tractable and submissive. Well, I am afraid that you are mistaken. I am a child, and I ought to know it, for I am told so from morning till night; but I know very well that when one is really in love, he sees no fault--nothing wrong--in the conduct of the loved one. Everything she does is charming, or at all events sincere. He doesn't call her loyalty haughtiness, and her pride childish teasing. You see, Magnani, that it is a pity to see too clearly in love. There is a song that says that _Cupid is a blind bambino_. Father knows it; he will sing it to you. Meanwhile, understand that clairvoyance is contagious, and that he who removes the bandage from his eyes discloses his own faults to others at the same time. You have discovered that I am a little overbearing, and you think doubtless that I am a flirt. For my part, that shows me that you are very proud, and I am afraid that you are a bit of a pedant."

The Angelos hoped that the cloud would pass over, and that, after giving vent to her vexation, Mila would be all the more loving and Magnani all the happier. Indeed, they had interviews and battles of words and sentiments, in which they were so near coming to terms, that their sudden falling-out again a moment later, Magnani's depression and Mila's excitement, seemed inexplicable. Magnani was terrified sometimes to find so much spirit and will-power in a woman. Mila was afraid of so much gravity and unwavering common sense in a man. It seemed to her that Magnani was incapable of feeling a great passion, and she wished to inspire one, because she felt in a mood to plunge into it violently on her own account. He always spoke and thought like virtue personified, and it was with an imperceptible touch of irony that Mila called him the _just man par excellence_.

She was very coquettish with him, and Magnani, instead of taking pleasure in her ingenious and strenuous efforts to please him, was afraid that she was a little coquettish with all men. Ah! if he had seen her in the Piccinino's boudoir, holding in check and subduing by her exquisite chastity, by her virile simplicity, so to speak, the young brigand's crafty inclinations and evil thoughts, Magnani would have realized that Mila was no coquette, since she was coquettish with him alone.

But the unfortunate man was not familiar with women; and, because he had loved so long in silence and sorrow, he had no conception of the delicate and mysterious problems of requited love. He was over-modest. He took Mila's cruel pleasantness too seriously, and scolded her for being so unkind to him when he ought to have thanked her on his knees.

Moreover, to tell the whole truth, that Nicolosi affair was stamped with the seal of fatality, like everything else that was connected, though it were by the tiniest thread, with the Piccinino's mysterious existence. Without touching upon the details which demanded secrecy, they had told Magnani everything that could set his mind at rest concerning that adventure of Mila's. Fra Angelo, always loyal to his secret predilection for the bandit, had vouched for his chivalrous and honorable conduct under such circumstances. The princess, loving Mila with a maternal love, had spoken with heartfelt eloquence of the girl's devotion and courage. Pier-Angelo had arranged everything for the best, in his happy and unsuspecting brain. Michel alone had shuddered upon learning of the episode, and he thanked Providence for performing a miracle in behalf of his charming and noble-hearted sister.

But despite his grandeur of soul, Magnani had been unable to look upon Mila's performance as the result of a worthy impulse; and, although he never mentioned the subject, he suffered intensely, as may be imagined.

As for Mila, the consequences of her adventure were more serious, although she did not suspect it as yet. That romantic chapter in her life had left an ineffaceable impression on her brain. After trembling and weeping bitterly when she learned that she had recklessly surrendered herself as a hostage to the redoubtable Piccinino, she had made the best of her mistake, and had secretly become reconciled to the thought of that alarming personage, who had bequeathed to her, instead of shame, remorse and despair, naught but poetic memories, increased esteem for herself, and a bouquet of spotless flowers, which an undefinable instinct had led her to preserve carefully among her sentimental relics, after drying them with the greatest care.

Mila was no coquette; we have proved it by telling how coquettish she was with the man whom she looked upon as her fiancé. Nor was she fickle; she would have been faithful to him until death, with a fidelity proof against every trial. But there are mysteries in a woman's heart, deeper and more incomprehensible in proportion to the woman's mental endowment and the exquisite charm of her nature. Moreover, there is something sweet and glorious to a young girl in the thought that she has succeeded in taming a terrible lion and has come forth safe and sound from a perilous adventure, solely by the power of her charm, her innocence and her courage. Mila realized now how brave and adroit she had been, quite unconsciously, in that great danger, and the man who had submitted so completely to the influence of her merit could not seem to her a contemptible or ordinary man.

Thus a feeling of romantic gratitude enchained her to the memory of Captain Piccinino, and, despite all the evil people might say of him, it would have been impossible to shake her confidence in him. She had taken him for a prince; was he not a prince's son and Michel's brother? She had taken him for a hero, for the future liberator of his country; might he not become so, had he not that ambition? His soft speech, his charming manners had fascinated her; and why not? Had she not an even more intense infatuation for Princess Agatha, and was the one less legitimate and less pure than the other?

All this did not prevent Mila from loving Magnani so fervently that she was always on the point of confessing her love in spite of herself; but a week had passed since their first quarrel, and the modest and timid Magnani had not as yet succeeded in extorting that confession.

He would have obtained that victory a little later doubtless, perhaps on the very next day; but an unforeseen event brought confusion into Mila's existence and gravely compromised the welfare of all the characters of this narrative.

One evening, as Michel was walking with his mother and the marquis in the garden of the villa, engaged all three in forming projects of mutual devotion and dreaming dreams of happiness, Fra Angelo joined them, and Michel concluded, from his strange expression and his excited manner, that he wished to speak to him in secret. They walked away from the others, as if by chance, and the Capuchin, taking from his breast a soiled and crumpled paper, handed it to Michel. It contained only these few words: "I am wounded and a prisoner; help, brother! Malacarne will tell you the rest. In twenty-four hours it will be too late."

Michel recognized the Piccinino's fine, nervous handwriting. The note was written in blood.

"I know all that has to be done," said the monk. "I received the letter six hours ago. Everything is ready. I came to say good-bye to you, for it may well be that I shall never return."

He paused, as if afraid to say something that was in his mind.

"I understand you, uncle; you relied upon my help," said Michel; "I am ready. Let me embrace my mother." "If you do that, she will see that you are going away and will detain you."

"No, but she will be anxious. I will not say good-bye to her: let us go. On the way we will think up some excuse for my absence, and send her a messenger."

"That would be very dangerous for her and for us. Leave it to me; it means five minutes delay, but it can't be helped."

He went back to the princess and said to her in the marquis's presence:

"Carmelo is in hiding in our convent; his sentiments toward your highness and Michel are all that can be desired. He desires to make his peace with him before starting on a long journey necessitated by the Ninfo affair and the suspicious and rigorous measures of the police since it happened. He also has certain favors to ask at his brother's hands. Permit us to go away together therefore, and if we are watched, which is quite possible, I will keep Michel at the convent until he can safely return. Rely upon the prudence of a man who is well used to affairs of this sort. It may be that Michel will pass the night at the convent, and even if he should stay longer do not be alarmed, and above all things do not send for him; do not send us any message which might be intercepted and lead to the discovery that we are giving shelter and protection to the outlaw. I beg your highness to forgive me for being unable to say anything further to reassure you. Time presses!"

Although greatly alarmed, Agatha concealed her emotion, kissed Michel, and walked with them to the gate of the park; there she paused.

"You have no money with you," she said; "Carmelo may need some for his journey. I will go and fetch some."

"Women think of everything," said Fra Angelo; "I had forgotten the most essential thing of all."

Agatha returned with some gold and a blank draft bearing her signature, which Michel could fill up as he chose for his brother's use. Magnani had just arrived. He divined from the princess's agitation and the leave-taking between her and Michel, accompanied by encouraging words from the latter, that there was some real danger which they were concealing from that loving mother.

"Should I be in your way if I accompanied you?" he asked the monk.

"On the contrary," was the reply, "you may be of the greatest service to us. Come!"

Agatha thanked Magnani with one of those glances laden with maternal love, which are more eloquent than any words.

The marquis would have joined them, but Michel objected.

"We are dreaming of imaginary dangers," he said with a laugh; "but if I were in any danger, my mother would be also. Your place is with her, my friend. I entrust to you what I hold dearest on earth! Is not this rather a solemn leave-taking for a walk to Bel Passo by moonlight?"