Chapter XLIV: Revelations

The Piccinino was so taken aback by this unexpected apparition that he stood perfectly still, without a thought of attacking or of defending himself. So that Michel, as he was about to strike him, held his hand, bewildered by his own precipitation; but, with a movement so swift and adroit that it was invisible, the Piccinino's hand was armed when Michel withdrew his.

But the brigand, after a single furious gleam had shot from his eyes, recovered his cold and disdainful attitude.

"Excellent," he said; "I understand everything now, and rather than bring about so absurd a scene, Signora Palmarosa should have carried her confidence so far as to say to me: 'Leave me, I cannot listen to you; I have a lover hidden behind my bed.' I would have retired discreetly, whereas now I must needs administer a lesson to Master Lavoratori, to punish him for having seen me play an absurd rôle. So much the worse for you, signora; the lesson will be a bloody one!"

_He leaped at Michel with the agility of a wild animal. But, quick and nimble as his movement was, the miraculous power of love made Agatha even quicker than he._]

He leaped at Michel with the agility of a wild animal. But, quick and nimble as his movement was, the miraculous power of love made Agatha even quicker than he. She rushed to intercept the blow, and would have received it in her breast had not the Piccinino thrust the dagger into his sleeve so swiftly that it seemed as if his hand had always been empty.

"What are you doing, signora?" he said. "I do not propose to murder your lover but to fight with him. You do not wish it? Very good! You protect him with your breast! I will not insult such a rampart, but I will find him at another time--mark my words!"

"Stay!" cried Agatha, seizing his arm as he walked, toward the door. "You will renounce this insane purpose of revenge and give your hand to this alleged lover of mine. He will gladly do the same, for which of you two desires to kill or curse his brother?"

"My brother?" said Michel, in utter bewilderment, dropping his dagger.

"He, my brother?" said the Piccinino, his weapon still within his grasp. "This extemporized relationship is most improbable, signora. I have always heard that Pier-Angelo's wife was very ugly, and I doubt if my father ever played tricks upon husbands who had no reason to be jealous. Your expedient is not at all ingenious! Farewell for the present, Michelangelo Lavoratori!"

"I tell you that he is your brother!" repeated the princess, earnestly; "your father's son and not Pier-Angelo's; the son of a woman whom you cannot insult by your contempt, and who could not have listened to you without committing a crime and an act of madness. Do you not understand me?"

"No, signora," said the Piccinino, with a shrug; "I cannot understand the fables that come to your mind at this moment to save your lover's life. If this poor boy is my father's son, so much the worse for him; for he has many other brothers beside myself, who do not amount to much, and whom I do not hesitate to strike over the head with the butt of my pistol when they fail in the obedience and respect they owe me. So, too, this new member of my family--the youngest of all, I am inclined to think--will be punished by my hand as he deserves; not in your presence, for I am not fond of seeing women in convulsions. But this pretty darling will not always be hidden in your bosom, signora, and I know where I shall find him at need!"

"Have done with insulting me," rejoined Agatha, in a firm tone; "you cannot wound me, and, unless you are a coward, you should not speak thus to your father's wife."

"My father's wife!" exclaimed the bandit, beginning to listen and to desire to hear. "My father was never married, signora! Do not make sport of me."

"Your father was married to me, Carmelo, and, if you doubt it, you will find the authentic evidence in the archives of the convent of Mal Passo. Go and ask Fra Angelo. This young man's name is not Lavoratori; his name is Castro-Reale. He is the son--the only legitimate son--of Prince Cæsar de Castro-Reale."

"Then you are my mother?" cried Michel, falling on his knees and embracing Agatha, with a sensation of terror, remorse and adoration all in one.

"You know it," she said, pressing his face against her heaving breast. "Now, Carmelo, come and kill him in my arms; we will die together! But, after seeking to commit incest, you will commit fratricide!"

The Piccinino, torn by a thousand conflicting sensations, folded his arms across his breast, and, leaning against the wall, gazed in silence at his brother and stepmother, as if he were still inclined to doubt the truth. Michel rose, walked toward him, and held out his hand.

"Your ignorance was the cause of your crime," he said, "and I must needs forgive you, for I too loved her not knowing that I was fortunate enough to be her son. Oh! do not cast a shadow on my joy by your resentment! Be my brother, as I long to be yours! In the name of God, who orders us to love each other, put your hand in mine and come to my mother's feet, so that she may forgive and bless us both."

At these words, uttered with the effusive warmth of a noble and sincere heart, the Piccinino came very near being moved. His bosom heaved as if he were about to burst into tears; but pride was stronger than the voice of nature, and he blushed at the emotion which had threatened to overcome him.

"Away from me," he said to Michel. "I do not know you; I have no sympathy with all this mawkish family sentimentality. I loved my mother, too, but all my affection died with her. I never had any feeling for my father,--whom I hardly knew and who cared very little for me,--unless it may be that I was a little vain of being the only acknowledged son of a prince and a hero. I thought that my mother was the only woman he ever loved, but I learn now that he deceived my mother; that he was another woman's husband; and I cannot be overjoyed by that discovery. You are a legitimate son, and I am only a bastard. I have been accustomed to believe that I was the only one who was really entitled, if I chose, to adorn myself with the name which you will bear in the world, and which no one will dispute your right to bear. And you expect me to love you, who are of patrician blood on both sides, by your father and by your mother? you who are rich, and will soon be powerful in the land where I am a wanderer and an outlaw? You who, whether you are a true or false Sicilian, will be flattered and handled gently by the Court of Naples, and who, perhaps, will not consider that you can afford to refuse favors and offices forever? You who will, perhaps, command hostile armies and lay waste the homes of your countrymen? You who, as general, minister or magistrate, may order my head cut off and a sentence of degradation nailed to the scaffold on which that head is fastened, to serve as an example and a menace to our other brothers of the mountain? You expect me to love you? On the contrary, I hate you and curse you!

"And this woman," continued the Piccinino, with intense bitterness,--"this false, cold-blooded woman, who fooled me to the end with infernal cunning,--you expect me to prostrate myself before her, and ask a blessing from her hand which, for aught I know, is stained with my father's blood! for now I understand more than she intended, I fancy. I will never believe that she married with a good grace the ruined, outlawed, hounded brigand, depraved by misfortune, who had then no other name than the _Destatore_! He must have abducted her and outraged her.--Ah! yes, now I remember! There is a tale of that sort to which Fra Angelo refers vaguely at times. A child, surprised by the brigands when out walking with her governess, carried off with the governess to the chief's lair, and dismissed two hours later, outraged and half dead! Ah! father, you were a villain as well as a hero! I know it; and I am a better man than you, for I detest such deeds of violence, and Fra Angelo's tale has preserved me forever from seeking enjoyment by such means. So it was you, Agatha, who were Castro-Reale's victim! I understand now why you consented to marry him secretly at the convent of Mal Passo; for that marriage is a secret--probably the only secret of that sort that never transpired! You have been very adroit, but the rest of your story is clear to me. I know now why your parents kept you secluded for a year, so carefully that you were supposed to be dead or to have turned nun. I know now why my father was murdered, and I would not swear that you were innocent of his death!"

"Wretch!" cried the princess, indignantly; "to dare to suspect me of the murder of the man I had accepted for my husband!"

"If it was not you, then it was your father or someone of your kindred!" retorted the Piccinino, in French, with a bitter laugh. "My father did not kill himself," he continued in the Sicilian language, and with a wild expression. "He was capable of a crime, but not of a dastardly act, and the pistol that was found in his hand at the _Destatore's_ cross never belonged to him. He was not reduced, by the partial defection of his followers, to the necessity of committing suicide in order to escape from his enemies, and the piety which Fra Angelo tried to inspire in his heart had not yet disturbed his mind to the point where he thought it his duty to punish himself for his sins. He was murdered, and to have been surprised so easily--so near the town--he must have been lured into a trap. Abbé Ninfo had something to do with that bloody drama. I shall find out, for I have him in my clutches; and, although I am not cruel, I will torture him with my own hands until he confesses! For it is my mission to avenge my father's death, as it is yours, Michel, to make common cause with those who ordered it."

"Great God!" said Agatha, paying no attention to the Piccinino's accusations against herself, "it seems that each day must bring with it the discovery of some new deed of rage and vengeance in my family! O blood of the Atrides, may the Furies never rouse you to life in my son's veins! Ah! Michel, what duties your birth imposes on you! By what great virtues must you redeem so many crimes committed both before and since your birth! Carmelo, you think that your brother will turn against his country and against you some day! If it could be so, I would ask you to kill him to-day, while he is pure and honorable; for I know too well, alas! what becomes of the men who renounce love of country and the respect due to the vanquished!"

"Kill him at once?" said the Piccinino; "I am strongly tempted to take that metaphor literally; it would take but a moment, for this Sicilian of recent date knows no more about handling a knife than I about handling a brush. But I didn't do it yesterday, when the thought came to my mind by our father's grave, and I will wait until my present anger has subsided; for one should kill only in cold blood and in accordance with the dictates of logic and conscience.--Ah! Michel de Castro-Reale, I did not know you yesterday, although Abbé Ninfo had already pointed you out to my vengeance. I was jealous of you because I believed you to be the lover of this woman who says to-day that she is your mother; but I had a presentiment that she did not deserve the love which was beginning to set my blood on fire for her, and when I saw how bravely you faced me, I said to myself: 'Why kill a brave man for the sake of a woman who may be a coward?'"

"Hush, Carmelo!" cried Michel, picking up his dagger; "whether I know how to handle a knife or not, if you add another word to your insults to my mother, I will have your life or you shall have mine."

"Hush, yourself, boy!" said the Piccinino, presenting his half-naked breast to Michel with an air of contempt; "the virtue of legitimate society makes men cowards, and you are a coward too, for you have been reared on the ideas of that society; you would not dare to scratch my lion's skin, because in my person you respect your brother. But I have no such prejudices, and I will prove it to you some day when I am calmer. To-day I am angry, I admit, and I will tell you why: it is because I have been deceived, and I did not believe that any human being was capable of playing on my credulity; it is because I put faith in this woman's words when she said to me last night, in yonder flower-garden where I can hear the fountains plashing at this moment, under the eyes of the moon, which seemed less pure and tranquil than her face: 'What can there be in common between that child and myself?' What can there be in common? and you her son! and you knew it, and you deceived me too!"

"No, I did not know it, and as for my mother----"

"You and your mother are two cold-blooded serpents, two venomous Palmarosas! Ah! I hate that family which has persecuted me and my family so cruelly, and some day I will make a bloody example, even of those members of it who claim to be good patriots and nobles who sympathize with the people. I hate all nobles for my part! and you whose mouths blow hot and cold in turn may well tremble before my frank declaration! I have hated the nobles for the last few moments, since I have found that I am not noble, because I have a legitimate brother and am only a bastard. I hate the name of Castro-Reale, since I can no longer bear it. I am envious, revengeful, and ambitious as well! my intelligence and my adroitness were a stronger justification of that claim on my part than the art of painting on the part of the nursling of the Muses and of Pier-Angelo! I should have made a greater name than he if our conditions had remained unchanged. And the thing that makes my vanity more endurable, Prince Michel, is that I proclaim it proudly, while you conceal it shamefacedly, on the pretext of modesty. In short, I am the child of uncivilized nature and of unshackled liberty, while you are the slave of custom and of fear. I practise cunning after the manner of wolves, and my cunning leads me to my goal. You play with falsehood, after the manner of men, and you will always miss your goal, without having had the merit of sincerity. Our lives are before us. If yours annoys me overmuch, I shall rid myself of you as of any other obstacle, do you understand? Woe to you if you irritate me! Farewell; do not try to see me again; this is my brotherly greeting!

"And as for you, Princess of Castro-Reale," he said, bowing ironically to Agatha, "who might well have refrained from making me crawl at your feet, whose share in the catastrophe by the _Destatore's_ Cross is now very clear in my mind, who did not deem me worthy to be informed of the mischance of your youth, but preferred to pose before my eyes as a spotless virgin, caring not whether you caused me to pine away in frenzied anticipation of your priceless favors--I wish that you may be happy and forget what has taken place between us; but I shall remember it, and I warn you, signora, that you gave a ball over a volcano, in reality as well as figuratively."

As he spoke, the Piccinino threw his cloak over his head and shoulders, walked into the boudoir, and not deigning to wait for the door to be opened, leaped through one of the large panes of glass into the flower-garden. Then he returned to the door leading into the passage, which he had not chosen to pass through, and, after the manner of the authors of the Sicilian Vespers, cut with his dagger a cross over the crest of the Palmarosas, which was carved on that door. A few moments later he was on the mountain, flying like an arrow.

"O mother!" cried Michel, passionately embracing the horrified Agatha, "you have made an implacable enemy in order to preserve me from enemies who, if not imaginary, are powerless! Dear, adored mother, I will never leave you again, by day or night. I will sleep across your door, and if your son's love is helpless to preserve you, it will be because Providence abandons mankind altogether!"

"My child," said Agatha, pressing him to her heart, "have no fear. I am sorely distressed by all that that man has brought back to my mind, but not alarmed by his unreasonable anger. The secret of your birth could not safely have been revealed to him any sooner, for you see the effect that revelation produced upon him. But the time has come when I have nothing to fear, so far as you are concerned, save his personal resentment, and that we will find a way to disarm. The vengeance of the Palmarosas will die out with Cardinal Hieronimo's last breath, which it may be that he is breathing at this very moment. If it was an error to turn that vengeance aside by the help of Carmelo, that error is chargeable to Fra Angelo, who thinks that he knows mankind because he has always lived with men outside the pale of society, brigands and monks. But I trust still to his marvellous instinct. This man, who has just shown himself to us in such an evil light, and whom I cannot look upon without the most intense suffering, because he reminds me of the author of all my misfortunes, is not unworthy perhaps of the generous impulse which led you to call him brother. He is a tiger in his wrath, a fox in his reflections; but between his hours of rage and his hours of treachery, there may be intervals of prostration when human feelings resume their sway and extort from him tears of regret and longing; we shall be able to reform him, I trust! Kindness and loyal dealing should find the weak spot in his armor. At the moment that he cursed you, I saw that he hesitated, forced back his tears. His father--your father, Michel!--had a profound and intense susceptibility even amid his wild and wicked habits; I saw him sob at my feet after he had almost strangled me to stifle my shrieks. Later I saw him at the altar, ashamed and penitent, when he married me; and despite the abhorrence and terror with which he always inspired me, I was sorry myself, when he died, that I had not forgiven him. I trembled at the thought of him, but I never dared to curse his memory; and since I have had you with me once more, O my beloved son! I have tried to rehabilitate him in my own eyes, so that I might not have to condemn him before you. Do not blush, therefore, to bear the name of a man, whose life was fatal to none but me, and who did great things for his country. But retain for him who brought you up, and whose son you have believed yourself to be until this day, the same love, the same respect which you felt for him this morning, noble-hearted boy, when you handed him Mila's marriage portion and told him that you would remain a workman in his service all your life, rather than abandon him!"

"O Pier-Angelo, father!" cried Michel, with a vehemence which caused his heart to overflow in sobs, "nothing has changed between us, and on the day when my entrails no longer quiver for you with filial affection, I think that I shall have ceased to live!"