Part First
CHAPTER I
RISOTTO AND TRUFFLES
On the lake a cold breva [A] was blowing, striving to drive away the grey clouds which clung heavily about the dark mountain-tops. Indeed, when the Pasottis reached Casarico on their way down from Albogasio Superiore, it had not yet begun to rain. The waves beat and thundered on the shore, jostling the boats at their moorings, while flashing tongues of white foam showed, here and there, as far as the frowning banks of the Doi over yonder. But down in the west, at the end of the lake, a line of light could be seen, a sign of approaching calm, of the diminishing breva, and behind the gloomy Caprino hill appeared the first misty rain. Pasotti, in his full dress black overcoat, a tall hat on his head, his hand grasping a thick bamboo walking-stick, was pacing nervously along the shore, peering now in this direction, now in that, or stopping to beat his stick upon the ground, and to shout for that ass of a boatman, who had not yet appeared.
The little black boat, with its red cushions, its red and white awning, its movable seat, used only on special occasions, fixed crosswise in its place, the oars lying ready amidship, was struggling, buffeted by the waves, between two coal barges, which hardly moved.
"Pin!" shouted Pasotti, growing more and more angry. "Pin!"
The only answer was the regular, constant thundering of the waves on the shore, and the bumping of one boat against another. At that moment one would have said there was not so much as a live dog in the whole of Casarico. Only a plaintive, old voice, like the husky falsetto of a ventriloquist, groaned from beneath the portico—
"Hadn't we better walk?"
At last Pin appeared in the direction of San Mamette.
"Hurry up, there!" shrieked Pasotti, raising his arms. The man began to run.
"Beast!" Pasotti roared. "It was with good reason they gave you the name of a dog!"
"Hadn't we better walk, Pasotti?" groaned the plaintive voice. "Let us walk!"
Pasotti continued to abuse the boatman, who was hastily unfastening the chain of his boat from a ring, fixed in the bank. Presently he turned towards the portico, with an authoritative air, and jerking his chin, motioned to some one to come forward.
"Let us walk, Pasotti!" the voice groaned once more.
He shrugged his shoulders, made a rough gesture of command with his hand, and started down towards the boat.
Then an old lady appeared under one of the arches of the portico, her lean person enveloped in an Indian shawl, below which a black silk skirt showed. Her head was surmounted by a fashionable bonnet, spindling, and lofty, trimmed with tiny yellow roses, and black lace. Two black curls framed the wrinkled face; the eyes were large and gentle, and the wide mouth was shaded by a faint moustache.
"Oh Pin!" she exclaimed, clasping her canary-coloured gloves, and pausing on the bank to gaze helplessly at the boatman. "Can we really venture out with the lake in this state?"
Her husband made a still more imperious gesture, and his face assumed a still sourer expression. The poor woman slipped down to the boat in silence, and was helped in, trembling violently.
"I commend myself to Our Lady of Caravino, my good Pin!" she said. "What a dreadful lake!"
The boatman shook his head, smiling.
"By the way!" Pasotti exclaimed, "have you brought the sail along?"
"It is up at the house," Pin answered. "Shall I go for it? But perhaps the Signora here, might be frightened. Besides, here comes the rain!"
"Go and fetch it," said Pasotti.
The Signora, who was as deaf as a post, had not heard a word of this conversation, and, greatly amazed at seeing Pin run off, asked her husband where he was going.
"The sail!" Pasotti shouted into her face. She sat, bending forward, her mouth wide open, striving in vain, to catch, at least, the sound of his voice.
"The sail!" he repeated, still louder, his hands framing his mouth.
She began to think that she understood. Trembling with fright she drew a questioning hieroglyphic in the air with her finger. Pasotti answered by drawing an imaginary curve in the air, and blowing into it; then he silently nodded his head. His wife, convulsed with terror, started to leave the boat.
"I am going to get out!" said she in an agonised voice. "I am going to get out! I want to walk!"
Her husband seized her by the arm, and pulled her down into her seat, fixing two flaming eyes upon her.
Meanwhile the boatman had returned with the sail. The poor woman writhed and sighed; tears stood in her eyes, and she cast despairing glances at the shore, but she was silent. The mast was raised, the two lower ends of the sail were made fast, and the boat was about to put out, when a voice bellowed from the portico—
"Hallo! Hallo! The Signor Controllore!" and out popped a big, rubicund priest, with a glorious belly, a large, black straw hat, a cigar in his mouth, and an umbrella under his arm.
"Oh! Curatone!" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! Are you invited to the dinner also? Are you coming to Cressogno with us?"
"If you will take me," the curate of Puria answered, going down towards the boat. "Well, I never! The Signora Barborin is here also."
The expression of his big face became supremely amiable, his great voice became supremely sweet.
"She is devilish frightened, poor creature!" Pasotti grinned, while the curate was making a series of little bows, and smiling sweetly upon the lady, who was more terrified than ever at the prospect of this added weight. She began to gesticulate silently, as if the others had been more deaf than she herself. She pointed to the lake, to the sail, to the bulk of the enormous curate, raising her eyes to heaven, hiding her face in her hands, or pressing them to her heart.
"I don't weigh so very much," said the curate laughing. "Hold your tongue, will you?" he added, turning to Pin, who had murmured disrespectfully: "A good, big fish!"
"I'll tell you how we can cure her of her fright!" Pasotti exclaimed. "Pin, have you a little table, and a pack of tarocchi [B] cards?"
"I have a pack," Pin replied. "But they are rather greasy."
They had great difficulty in making Signora Barbara—generally called Barborin—understand the matter in hand. She would not understand, not even when her husband forced the pack of filthy cards into her hands.
For the present, however, playing was out of the question. The boat was being laboriously rowed forward towards the mouth of the river of San Mamette, where they would be able to hoist the sail. The surf, flung back from the shore, clashed with the in-coming waves, and the little boat was tossing about among the seething, foaming crests. The lady was weeping and Pasotti was swearing at Pin, who had not stood out into the lake far enough. At last the fat curate seized a couple of oars, and planting his big person firmly in the middle of the boat, bent to his work with such good will that a few strokes sufficed to send them forward and out of difficulty. Then the sail was hoisted, and the boat glided quietly and smoothly onward, rocking slowly and gently, while the water gurgled softly under its keel. Then the smiling priest sat down beside Signora Barborin, who had closed her eyes and was muttering. But Pasotti drummed impatiently on the table with the cards, and play they must.
Meanwhile the grey rain was creeping slowly towards them, veiling the mountains, and stifling the breva.
The lady's breath returned in proportion as the wind's breath diminished, and she played resignedly, calmly oblivious to her own gross mistakes, and her husband's consequent outbursts of rage. When the rain began to rustle on the boat's awning, on the lifeless waves, which in the now almost breathless atmosphere, were rolling in against the rocks of the Tentiòn; when the boatman, judging it best to lower the sail, took to the oars once more, then, at last, Signora Barborin breathed freely. "Pin, my good fellow!" she said tenderly, and began playing tarocchi with a zeal, an energy and an expression of beatitude, which neither mistakes nor scoldings could trouble.
Many days of breva and of rain, of sunshine and of storm have dawned and faded away over the Lake of Lugano, over the hills of Valsolda since that game of cards was played by Signora Pasotti, her husband, the retired controller of customs, and the big curate of Puria, in the boat which coasted slowly along the rocky shore between San Mamette and Cressogno in the misty rain.
The times were grey and sleepy, in keeping with the aspect of sky and lake, after the breva had subsided, the breeze which had so terrified Signora Pasotti. The great breva [C] of 1848, after bringing a few hours of sunshine, and striving awhile with the heavy clouds, had slumbered for three years, allowing one breathless, gloomy, silent day to follow another in those places where the scene of this humble tale of mine is laid.
The king and queens of tarocchi, the mondo, the matto and the bagatto, were imported personages at that time, and in those parts; minor powers tolerated benevolently by the great, silent Austrian empire; and their antagonisms, their alliances, their wars, were the only political questions which might be freely discussed. Even Pin, as he rowed, eagerly poked his hooked and inquisitive nose into Signora Barborin's cards, withdrawing it reluctantly again. Once he paused in his rowing, and let his nose hover above the cards, to see how the poor woman would extricate herself from a difficult position; what she would do with a certain card it was dangerous to play, and equally dangerous to hold. Her husband thumped impatiently on the little table, the big curate sorted his cards with a blissful smile, while she clasped hers to her bosom, now laughing, now groaning, and rolling her eyes from one to the other of her companions.
"She holds the matto," the curate whispered.
"She always goes on like that when she has the matto," said Pasotti, and called to her, thumping the table one more—
"Out with the matto!"
"I will throw him into the lake!" said she. She cast a glance towards the prow, and, as an excuse, remarked that they were nearing Cressogno, and that it was time to stop playing.
Her husband fumed awhile, but finally resigned himself to putting on his gloves.
"Trout to-day, curate!" he observed, while his meek wife buttoned them for him. "White truffles, grouse, and wine from Ghemme."
"Then you know!" the curate exclaimed. "I know it also. The cook told me yesterday at Lugano."
"And besides, some ladies have been invited; the Carabellis, mother and daughter. Those Carabellis from Loveno, you know."
"Indeed!" the curate exclaimed. "Is there any scheme——? There is Don Franco, now, in his boat. But what a strange flag the young man is flying! I never saw him with it before."
Pasotti raised the awning and looked out. At a little distance a boat flying a white and blue flag rose and fell in unison with the weary motion of the waves. In the stern, under the flag, sat Don Franco Maironi, the grandson of the old Marchesa Orsola, who was giving the dinner.
Pasotti saw him rise, grasp the oars, and pull away, rowing slowly towards the upper lake, towards the wild gulf of the Doi, the white and blue flag spread wide, and floating above the boat's trail.
"Where is that eccentric young man going?" said he. And he muttered between his teeth; in the strained and husky voice of a Milanese rough—"A surly fellow!"
"They say he has great talents," the priest observed.
"An empty head," the other declared. "Much arrogance, little learning, no manners!"
"And half rotten," he added. "If I were that young woman——"
"Which?" the curate questioned.
"Why, Signorina Carabelli."
"Mark my words, Signor Controllore! If the grouse and white truffles are meant for that Carabelli girl, they are thrown away!"
"Do you know something?" Pasotti inquired, his eyes flaming with curiosity.
The priest did not answer because, at that point, the bow grated on the gravel, and touched the landing-stage. He got out first; Pasotti, with rapid and imperious gestures, gave his wife some orders of unknown purport. Then he himself left the boat. Last to get out was the poor woman, wrapped in her Indian shawl, bending under the tall, black bonnet with the little, yellow roses, staggering, and stretching out her big hands in the canary-coloured gloves. The two curls, hanging on either side of her meek ugliness, gave her a special air of resignation, under the umbrella of her husband, proprietor, inspector and jealous custodian of so much elegance.
The three went up to the portico, by means of which the little Villa Maironi spans the road leading from the landing-stage to the parish-church of Cressogno. Between two happy sighs, the curate and Pasotti sniffed an indistinct, warm odour, which floated out from the open vestibule of the villa.
"Ah! risotto! risotto!" the priest whispered, with a greedy glow on his face.
Pasotti, who had a keen nose, shook his head, knitting his brows in manifest contempt for that other nose.
"It is not risotto," said he.
"What do you mean by saying it is not risotto?" the priest exclaimed in vexation. "It is risotto; risotto with truffles. Don't you smell it?"
Both stopped half way across the vestibule, sniffing the air noisily like a couple of hounds.
"Do me the favour, my dear curate, to confine your remarks to posciandra," said Pasotti, after a long pause, alluding to a certain coarse dish the peasants prepare, with cabbage and sausages. "Truffles there are, but risotto there is not!"
"Posciandra! posciandra!" the other grumbled, somewhat offended. "As to that——"
The poor, meek lady understood that they were quarrelling, and, much alarmed, began pointing upward towards the ceiling, with her right forefinger, to warn them that they might be overheard up above. Her husband seized her uplifted arm, signed to her to sniff, and then blew into her wide open mouth the word: "Risotto."
She hesitated, not having heard distinctly. Pasotti shrugged his shoulders. "She don't understand anything," said he. "The weather is going to change," and he went up stairs, followed by his wife. The stout curate wished to take another look at Don Franco's boat. "The Carabellis, indeed!" he mused, but he was immediately recalled by Signora Barborin, who begged him to sit beside her at the table; she was so timid, poor creature!
The fumes of the pots and kettles filled the stairs with warm fragrance. "It is not risotto," the vanguard murmured. "It is risotto," the rearguard answered in the same tone. And thus they continued, ever more softly: "It is not risotto; it is risotto," until Pasotti pushed open the door of the red room, where the mistress of the house was usually to be found.
A hideous, lean, little dog trotted, barking, towards Signora Barborin, who was endeavouring to smile, while Pasotti was putting on his most obsequious expression, and the curate, entering last, his big face all sweetness, was really, in his heart, consigning the cursed little beast to hell.
"Friend, come here, Friend!" the old Marchesa said placidly. "Dear Signora, dear Controllore, and the curate!"
Her gruff nasal voice was pitched in the same calm tone to the guests and to the dog. She had risen to receive Signora Barborin, but did not move a step from the sofa, and stood there, a squat figure, with dull, torpid eyes beneath her marble forehead, and her black wig, which rounded out over her temples in the shape of two big snails. Her face must once have been handsome, and still retained in its pallor, tinged with yellow like old marble, a certain cold majesty, which—like her glance and her voice—never varied with the varying emotions of her soul. The big curate, standing at a distance, made her two or three jerky bows, but Pasotti kissed her hand, while Signora Barborin, who felt her blood turn to ice under the old lady's lifeless glance, did not know how to move, nor what to say. Another lady had risen from the sofa when the Marchesa rose, and was staring with an insolent air at Signora Pasotti, at that poor little bundle, old within, and new without! "Signora Pasotti and her husband," said the Marchesa. "Donna Eugenia Carabelli."
Donna Eugenia hardly bowed her head. Her daughter, Donna Carolina, was standing at the window, talking with one of the Marchesa's favourites, the niece of the agent.
The Marchesa did not consider it necessary to disturb her in order to present the new arrivals, and when she had invited them to be seated, she resumed her quiet conversation with Donna Eugenia concerning mutual friends in Milan, while Friend, sniffing and sneezing, circled slowly round Signora Barborin's shawl, which smelt of camphor, or rubbed himself against the curate's calves, studying Pasotti the while, with those pitiful, watery eyes of his, but never once touching him, as if he understood that the master of that Indian shawl, in spite of his amiable expression, would have liked to ring his—Friend's—neck!
And the Marchesa Orsola talked on in her usual guttural, sleepy voice, and Donna Carabelli, in answering, strove to give her loud, imperious voice an amiable ring. But to Pasotti's penetrating glance, and cunning shrewdness it was quite clear that the two old ladies were concealing a certain dissatisfaction, which was greater in the Marchesa Maironi than in Donna Eugenia. Every time the door opened the dim eyes of the one and the dark eyes of the other were turned in that direction. Once it admitted the prefect of the Santuario della Caravina, with little Signor Paolo Sala, called el Paolin—little Paul—and Signor Paolo Pozzi, called el Paolon—big Paul—who were inseparable companions. Again there entered the Marchese Bianchi, of Oria, a former officer of the kingdom of Italy, with his daughter. He was a noble type of the gallant, old soldier, as he stood beside the attractive and vivacious young girl.
On both occasions a shadow of vexation passed over Donna Carabelli's face. Her daughter also turned her eyes swiftly towards the door when it was thrown open, but presently she would begin chatting and laughing again, more gaily than ever.
"And Don Franco, Marchesa? How is Don Franco?" said the cunning Pasotti, in a mellifluous voice, as he offered his open snuff-box to his hostess.
"Thank you," the Marchesa answered, bending forward a little and dipping her fingers into the snuff. "Franco? To tell the truth I am rather anxious about him. This morning he was not feeling very well, and he has not appeared yet. I trust——"
"Don Franco?" said the Marchese. "He is out in his boat. We saw him a few minutes ago, rowing like any boatman."
Donna Eugenia spread her fan open.
"Well done!" said she, fanning furiously. "A most delightful pastime." Then she closed the fan with a bang, and began biting at it with her lips.
"Probably he needed the air," the Marchesa observed, in her unruffled, nasal drawl.
"Probably he needed a wetting," the prefect of the Caravina murmured, his eyes sparkling with fun. "It is raining!"
"Don Franco is coming now, Signora Marchesa," said the agent's niece, after a glance at the lake.
"That is good," the sleepy, nasal drawl replied. "I hope he is feeling better. If not, he will not speak two words. He is a perfectly healthy boy, but very apprehensive about himself. By the way, Signor Controllore, why does not Signor Giacomo make his appearance?"
"El sior Zacomo," Pasotti began, in imitation of Signor Giacomo Puttini, an old bachelor from the Veneto, who had lived at Albogasio Superiore, near Villa Pasotti, for the last thirty years. "El sior Zacomo——"
"Tut, tut!" said the old lady, interrupting him. "I cannot allow you to make fun of the Venetians, and besides, it is not true that they say Zacomo in the Veneto."
She herself was a native of Padua, and although she had lived in Brescia for half a century, still her Lombard accent was not entirely free from certain chronic suggestions of her Paduan origin. While Pasotti was protesting, with ceremonial horror, that he had only intended to imitate the voice of his beloved friend and neighbour, the door opened a third time. Donna Eugenia, well aware who was coming, did not condescend to look round, but the Marchesa allowed her dull eyes to rest on Don Franco with the greatest unconcern.
Don Franco, sole heir to the name of Maironi, was the son of the Marchesa's son who had died when only eight-and-twenty. He had lost his mother at his birth, and had always lived under the rule of his grandmother Maironi. He was tall and slender, and wore a tangle of rather long, dark hair, and this had procured for him the nickname of el scovin d'i nivol, "the cloud sweeper." He had eloquent, light blue eyes, a keen, animated and pleasing face, quick to blush or turn pale. Now that frowning face was saying very plainly: "Here I am, but I am much put out!"
"How do you feel, Franco?" his grandmother inquired, and added quickly, without waiting for an answer: "Donna Carolina is anxious to hear that piece by Kalkbrenner."
"Oh! not at all!" said the girl, turning to the young man with an air of indifference. "I did indeed say so, but then I am not fond of Kalkbrenner, I had much rather chat with the young ladies."
Franco seemed quite satisfied with the reception he had received and, without waiting for further remarks, went over to talk with the big curate about a fine old picture they were to inspect together, in the church at Dasio. Donna Eugenia Carabelli was quivering with indignation. She had come from Loveno, with her daughter, after certain secret diplomatic transactions, in which other powers had had a hand. Should this visit be paid or not; would the dignity of the house of Carabelli permit it; did that probability of success which Donna Eugenia exacted, really exist? Such were the final questions, which diplomacy had been called upon to answer, for, notwithstanding the acquaintance of long standing which existed between Mamma Carabelli and Grandmamma Maironi, the young people had met only once or twice, and then but for a few minutes. They were being drawn together by their surroundings of wealth and nobility, of relationships and friendships, as a drop of salt water and a drop of fresh water are mutually drawn together, though the microscopic creatures, which have their being in the one and in the other be condemned to perish if the two drops mingle. The Marchesa had carried her point. It had been decided—apparently out of respect for her age, but really out of respect for her money—that the interview should take place at Cressogno; for, though Franco himself was possessed only of his mother's modest fortune, amounting to eighteen or twenty thousand Austrian lire, his grandmother was enthroned in all her calm dignity upon several millions. And now Donna Eugenia, observing the young man's conduct, was furious with the Marchesa, as well as with those who had exposed her daughter and herself to such humiliation. If, at a single blow, she could have swept away the old woman, her grandson, the gloomy house and the tiresome company, she would have done so with joy; but she must hide her feelings, feign indifference, swallow the indignity and the dinner.
The Marchesa preserved her external, marble placidity, though her heart was filled with anger and rancour against her grandson. Two years before he had dared to ask her consent to his marriage with a young girl of Valsolda, of good family, but neither rich nor of noble birth. His grandmother's decided refusal had rendered the union impossible, and indeed the girl's mother had felt obliged to forbid Don Franco the house; but the Marchesa was convinced that those people still had their eyes on her millions. She had therefore determined to find a wife for Franco, at once, in order to avert all danger. She had sought for a girl who should be rich, but not too rich; of noble, but not too noble birth; intelligent, but not too intelligent. Having discovered one of the right sort, she suggested her to Franco who flew into a rage, and declared he had no desire to marry. The answer had a very suspicious ring, and she redoubled her vigilance, watching every movement of her grandson and of that "Madam Trap," that being the pleasing title she had bestowed upon Signorina Luisa Rigey.
The Rigey family, consisting of the two ladies only, lived at Castello, in Valsolda, so it was not difficult to watch their movements. Nevertheless the Marchesa could not discover anything. But one evening Pasotti told her, with much hypocritical hesitation and many horrified comments, that the prefect of the Caravina, while chatting with Pasotti himself, with Signor Giacomo Puttini and with Paolin and Paolon, in the chemist's shop at San Mamette, had made the following remark: "Don Franco is going to keep quiet until the old lady is really dead!" The Marchesa having listened to this delicate piece of wit, answered: "A thousand thanks!" through her placid nose, and changed the subject. Later she learned that Signora Rigey—always more or less of an invalid—was suffering from hypertrophia of the heart, and it appeared to her that Franco's spirits were much affected by this illness. It was then that Signorina Carabelli was suggested to her. Carolina Carabelli was perhaps not entirely to her taste, but with that other danger threatening she could not hesitate. She spoke to Franco. This time he did not fly into a rage, but listened in an absent-minded way, and said he would think the matter over. This was perhaps the one act of hypocrisy of his whole life. Then the Marchesa boldly played a high card, and sent for the Carabellis.
She saw plainly enough now, that the game was lost. Don Franco had not been present when the ladies arrived, and later had appeared only once for a few minutes. During those few minutes his manner had been gracious, but not so his expression. As usual his face had spoken so plainly that—though the Marchesa immediately invented an indisposition for him—no one could have been deceived. But in spite of all this, the old lady was not convinced that she had played her cards unskilfully. Ever since she had reached the age of discretion it had been a rule with her never to recognise in herself a single defect or mistake, never wittingly to wound her own noble and beloved self. Now she preferred to believe that, after her sermon on matrimony, some honeyed but poisonous and ensnaring word had mysteriously reached her grandson. If her disappointment was somewhat mitigated, this was due to the conduct of Signorina Carabelli, whose lively resentment was but ill concealed. This was not pleasing to the Marchesa. The prefect of the Caravina was not mistaken—though he perhaps erred slightly in the form of his discourse, when he said, softly, of her: "She is Austria itself." Like the old Austria of those days, the old Marchesa did not wish for any bold spirits in her empire. Her own iron will would not tolerate others in its neighbourhood. Such an indocile Lombardy-Venice as was Franco was already too much, and the Carabelli girl, who appeared to have a mind and a will of her own, would probably prove a troublesome subject of the house of Maironi, a species of turbulent Hungary.
Dinner was announced. The footman's shaven face, and ill-fitting, grey livery reflected the Marchesa's aristocratic tastes, which, however, had been tempered by habits of economy.
"And where is this Signor Giacomo, Controllore?" she said, without rising.
"I fear he is not coming, Marchesa," Pasotti replied. "I saw him this morning, and said to him: 'Then we shall meet at dinner, Signor Giacomo?' But he squirmed as if he had swallowed a snake. He twisted and turned and at last puffed out: 'Yes, probably. I don't know! Perhaps. I can't say!—Uff! uff. Well really now, my good Controllore, indeed I don't know!—Uff, uff!'—and I could get nothing more out of him."
The Marchesa summoned the footman to her side, and gave him an order in a low tone. He bowed and withdrew. In his longing for the risotto, the curate of Puria was rocking his body to and fro, and stroking his knees. But the Marchesa on her sofa, seemed turned to stone, so he also became petrified. The others gazed mutely at one another.
Poor Signora Barborin, who had seen the footman, and was surprised at this immobility and these astonished faces, arched her eyebrows, questioning with her eyes, first her husband, then Puria, then the prefect, until a lightning glance from Pasotti petrified her as well. "Perhaps the dinner is burnt!" she reflected, assuming an expression of indifference. "If they would only send us home! What luck that would be!" But in a minute or two the servant returned, and bowed.
"Let us go," the Marchesa said, rising.
In the dining-room the company found a new personage; a little, crooked, old man, with kind eyes and a long nose, that drooped towards his chin.
"Indeed, Signora Marchesa," he began, humbly and timidly, "I have already dined."
"Sit down, Signor Viscontini," the Marchesa replied, who, like all those who are determined to make their world bend to their own comfort and tastes, was well versed in the insolent art of feigning deafness.
The little man did not dare to answer, neither did he dare to sit down.
"Courage, Signor Viscontini!" said Paolin, who stood near him. "What are you doing here?"
"He is filling a gap!" muttered the prefect. In fact, the excellent Signor Viscontini, by trade a tuner of pianos, had that morning come from Lugano to tune the Zelbis' piano at Cima, and Don Franco's also, and at one o'clock he had dined at Casa Zelbi. Then he had come to Villa Maironi, and was now called upon to act as substitute for Signor Giacomo, because, without him, the company would have numbered thirteen.
A brown liquid was smoking in the silver soup-tureen.
"It is not risotto!" Pasotti whispered to Puria, passing behind him. But the big, mild face gave no sign of having heard.
The Casa Maironi dinners were always lugubrious affairs, and this one promised to be more than usually so. But as a compensation, it was much finer than usual. While they were eating, Pasotti and Puria often exchanged glances of admiration, as if congratulating one another on the exquisite delight they were enjoying; and if ever Puria failed to catch one of Pasotti's glances, Signora Barborin, seated beside him, would apprise him of it by a timid touch of her elbow.
The voices which predominated were those of the Marchesa and Donna Eugenia. Bianchi's large aristocratic nose, and his shrewd but gallant and courteous smile were often turned towards the lady's beauty, which though already fading, had not, as yet, departed. Both belonged to Milanese families of the best blood, and were united by a certain sense of superiority, not only over the other middle-class guests, but over their hosts as well, whose nobility was only provincial. The Marchese was affability itself, and would have conversed amiably with the humblest of his fellow-guests, but Donna Eugenia, in the bitterness of her soul, in her disgust for the place and the persons, attached herself to him as to the only one worthy of her attention, markedly singling him out, in order, also, to offend the others. She embarrassed him by remarking in a loud tone that she did not see how he could ever have taken a fancy to this odious Valsolda. The Marchese, who for many years had led a life of quiet and retirement in this region, where, moreover, the birth of his only daughter, Donna Ester, had taken place, was, first, greatly disconcerted, for this remark was calculated to wound several of their fellow-guests; but finally he burst into a brilliant defence of the place. The Marchesa showed no feeling; Paolin, Paolon, and the prefect, all natives of Valsolda, were silent and abashed.
Then, in pompous language, Pasotti sang the praises of Niscioree, the villa belonging to Bianchi, near Oria. These praises did not seem to please the Marchese, who, himself a most loyal man, had not always found Pasotti to his liking, in the past. He invited Donna Carabelli to come to Niscioree. "You must not go on foot, Eugenia," said the Marchesa, well aware that her friend was tormented by the fear of growing stout. "The road from the Custom House to Niscioree is so narrow! You could not possibly pass." Donna Eugenia protested hotly. "It is not, indeed, the Corso of Porta Renza," said the Marchese, "but neither is it le chemin du Paradis—unfortunately!"
"That it is not! Most certainly not! You may take my word for it!" exclaimed Viscontini, heated, as ill luck would have it, by too many glasses of Ghemme. All eyes were turned upon him, and Paolin said something to him in a low tone. "Crazy?" the little man retorted, his face aflame. "Not by any means! I tell you——" And here he related how, coming from Lugano that morning, he had felt cold in the boat, and had gotten out at Niscioree, intending to pursue his journey on foot; how there, between those two walls, where the path was so narrow an ass could not turn round in it, he had met the customs-officers, who had first abused him for getting out at Niscioree, and had then taken him back to the beastly custom-house. He said that beast of a Ricevitore—the receiver of customs—had confiscated a roll of manuscript music he had with him, taking the crotchets and quavers for a secret political correspondence.
Profound silence followed this recital. Presently the Marchesa declared that Signor Viscontini was entirely in the wrong. He should not have landed at Niscioree; it was forbidden. As to the Ricevitore, he was a most worthy man. Pasotti, with a solemn face, confirmed this statement.
"Excellent official," said he. "Excellent rascal!" muttered the prefect between his teeth. Franco, who at first appeared to be thinking of something else, roused himself, and cast a contemptuous glance at Pasotti.
"After all," the Marchesa added, "it seems to me that, in the disguise of manuscript music, there might easily——"
"Certainly," said Paolin, who played the Austrian from fear while the mistress of the house was Austrian from conviction.
The Marchese, who in 1815 had broken his sword in two that he might not be obliged to serve the Austrians, smiled saying quietly: "La! C'est un peu fort!"
"But every one knows that the Ricevitore is a beast!" Franco exclaimed.
"I beg to differ with you, Don Franco," said Pasotti.
"Nonsense; beg to differ!" the other retorted. "He is a perfect beast!"
"He is a conscientious man," said the Marchesa, "an official who does his duty."
"Then his masters are the beasts!" Franco exclaimed.
"My dear Franco!" drawled the emotionless voice, "I will not tolerate such language in my house! Thank God we are not in Piedmont!" Pasotti grinned his approval. Then Franco, lifting his plate with both hands shivered it upon the table, with a furious blow. "Holy Mother!" gasped Viscontini, and Paolon, interrupted in the laborious operations of a toothless glutton, uttered an exclamation of alarm. "Yes, yes!" said Franco, rising, his face distorted, "I had better go!" And he left the room. Donna Eugenia at once turned faint, and had to be led away. All the ladies, except Signora Pasotti, followed her out at one door, while the footman entered at another, bearing a great risotto pie. Puria cast a triumphant glance at Pasotti, but Pasotti pretended not to notice. All had risen. Viscontini, the apparent culprit, kept repeating: "I can't make it out! I can't make it out!" and Paolin, much vexed at seeing the dinner thus interrupted, grumbled at him: "What business have you to try to make anything out?" The Marchese was frowning fiercely, but kept silent. At last Pasotti, the real culprit, assuming an air of affectionate sadness, said, as if speaking to himself: "What a pity! Poor Don Franco! A heart of gold, a good head, but such a disposition! It is indeed unfortunate."
"Alas!" exclaimed Paolin, and Puria added despairingly: "Truly a great misfortune!"
They waited and waited, but the ladies did not return. Then some one moved. Paolin and Puria, their hands clasped behind them, walked slowly towards the sideboard, lost in contemplation of the risotto pie. Puria called sweetly to Pasotti, but Pasotti did not move. "I only wished to observe," the big curate said, hiding his triumph so that it might or might not be apparent, "I only wished to observe that there are white truffles in it."
"I should say that black truffles[D] are not wanting here either," remarked the Marchese pointedly, and slightly accentuating the words.
Footnotes
[ [A] Breva: local name for a sudden, violent wind blowing from the north, and sweeping over the Italian lakes. [Translator's note.]
[ [B] Tarocchi: a game of cards once much in vogue in Italy. The "Mondo," the "Matto," the "Bagatto," which will be referred to later on, are all picture cards used in this game. [Translator's note.]
[ [C] The breva of 1848 means the revolution which swept over Italy in that year, after which the country sunk into apparent calm, but all the while the people, chafing under the Austrian yoke, were preparing for the mighty effort which, at last, set them free. [Translator's note.]
[ [D] Tartufo: often used to indicate those who are hypocritically pious. The word "black" refers to the priest's black robe. [Translator's note.]
CHAPTER II
ON THE THRESHOLD OF A NEW LIFE
"Scoundrels!" snorted Don Franco, climbing the stairs that led to his room. "Silly ass of an Austrian!" He was venting his wrath on Pasotti, as he could not hurl insults at his grandmother, and the very letters of the word Austrian served so well to grind between his teeth, as he ground his rage, crushing it and enjoying its flavour. When he reached his room his burning indignation died out.
He threw himself into a chair opposite the open window, and gazed at the lake, lying still and mournful in the cloudy afternoon, and at the lonely mountains beyond the sheet of water. He drew a long breath. Ah! how well he felt here all alone! Ah! what peace! How different the atmosphere was to that of the drawing-room! What a precious atmosphere, full of his thoughts and of his loves! He felt a great need of giving himself up to them, and they at once took possession of him, driving from his mind the Carabellis, Pasotti, his grandmother and that egregious beast, the receiver of customs. They? No, one thought alone; a thought composed of mingled love and reason, of anxiety and joy, of so many sweet memories, and at the same time, of tremulous expectancy, for something solemn was drawing near, and would come to him in the shadows of the night. Franco looked at his watch. It wanted a quarter to four o'clock. Seven hours longer to wait. He rose, and leaned with folded arms upon the window sill.
In seven hours another life would begin for him. Beyond the few persons who were to have a part in the event, not even the air itself knew that that same evening, towards eleven o'clock, Don Franco Maironi would wed Signorina Luisa Rigey.
For some time Signora Teresa Rigey, Luisa's mother, had, in all sincerity, begged Franco to bend to his grandmother's will, to abstain from visiting their house, and to think no more of Luisa, who, on her part, was content, for the dignity of the family, and out of respect for her mother, that all official relations with Don Franco should cease. She did not, however, doubt that he would remain faithful to her, and considered herself bound to him for life. His grandmother was not aware that he was now privately reading law, in order that by following a profession, he might be able to maintain himself. But, as a result of so much anxiety, Signora Rigey contracted a heart trouble, which grew suddenly worse towards the end of August, 1851. Franco wrote to her, begging to be allowed at least, to visit her, since it was not possible for him to nurse her "as would have been his duty." The lady did not feel justified in consenting to this, and the young man, in despair, gave her to understand that he looked upon Luisa as his affianced wife before God, and that he would rather die than to give her up. Then the poor mother, conscious that her life was ebbing day by day, distressed by the uncertain position of her beloved child, and convinced of the young man's strength of purpose, conceived a great longing that—as the marriage would surely take place—it should be celebrated as soon as possible. Everything was arranged in haste, with the aid of the curate of Castello and of Signora Rigey's brother, the civil engineer Ribera, of Oria, who was in the service of the Imperial and Royal Office of Public Works, at Como. The understanding was as follows: The marriage should be celebrated secretly; Franco should remain with his grandmother, and Luisa with her mother, until such a time as they should deem it opportune to acknowledge their union to the Marchesa. Franco relied greatly upon the support of Monsignor Benaglia, Bishop of Lodi, and an old friend of the family, but before he was asked to interfere, the decisive step must be taken. If (as in all probability would be the case) the Marchesa hardened her heart against them, the young couple and Signora Rigey would take up their abode in a house in Oria, belonging to the engineer Ribera, a bachelor who was supporting his sister's family, and would now accept Franco in place of a son.
In seven hours then!
The window overlooked the landing-place and the strip of garden in front of the villa, on the lake side. When he first fell in love, Franco used to stand there and watch for the coming of a certain boat, from which would spring a slim little person, as light as air, but who never, never looked towards his window. At last, one day he had gone down to meet her, and she had waited a moment before jumping out, that she might accept his helping hand—which, indeed, was most unnecessary. Down there in the garden he had given her a flower, for the first time, the sweet-smelling flower of the Mandevilia suaveolens. Down there, on another occasion, he had cut his finger rather deeply with his penknife, while gathering a little branch of roses for her, and she, by the anxiety she displayed, had given him a sweet proof of her love. How many excursions to the solitary slopes of Monte Bisgnago, on the other side, he had made with her and with other friends, before his grandmother found out! How many lunches and suppers at the little inn at Doi! Franco would come home with the sweetness of the many glances exchanged still lingering in his heart, and shutting himself up in his room, would recall them all, revelling in them in memory. These first emotions of his love now rushed into his mind, not one by one, but all together, from the waters and from the gloomy shores, where his fixed gaze seemed to lose itself in the shadowy past rather than in the misty present. Thus, as he neared the goal, he thought of the first steps he had taken on this long road, of the unforeseen incidents, of the aspect of this much-longed-for union, so different in reality from what it had appeared in his dreams. He looked back upon the time of the mandevilia and the roses, of the excursions on the lake and among the hills. Certainly, at that time, he did not dream he would attain his object thus, secretly, and surrounded by so many difficulties, so much pain. Still, he thought that if the wedding had taken place openly, with the customary proem of official ceremonies, of contracts, congratulations, visits, and dinners, all this would have been even more wearisome and repugnant to his love than the opposition he had met with.
He was aroused by the voice of the prefect, calling to him from the garden, to announce the departure of the Carabellis. Franco reflected that if he went down he would be obliged to offer some apologies, and he preferred not to make his appearance. "You should have smashed the plate on his face!" the prefect called up to him, his hands framing his mouth. "You should have smashed it on his face!"
Then he turned away, and Franco saw the Carabellis' boatman go down to the shore to prepare the boat. He left the window, and returning to the thoughts which had occupied him first of all, he opened his chest of drawers, and stood absently contemplating an embroidered shirt front, where certain small diamond studs his father had worn at his own wedding, were already sparkling. He disliked the idea of going to the altar without some outward sign of festivity, but of course, this sign must not be too apparent.
In the iris-scented chest of drawers everything was arranged with that order which denotes a cultured spirit, and no one was allowed to touch its contents save Franco himself. But the chairs, the writing table, the piano, were heaped with such disorder that it would seem as if a hurricane of books and papers had swept in at the two windows. Certain law books were slumbering under an inch of dust, but not a single leaf of the little gardenia, growing in a pot on the sill of the east window, showed a speck of dust. These indications were sufficient to suggest the whimsical rule of a poet. A glance at the books and papers would have given conclusive proof of this.
Franco was passionately fond of poetry, and was a true poet in the exquisite delicacy of his instincts. As a writer of verse he could be ranked only as an indifferent amateur, wanting in originality. His favourite models were Foscolo and Giusti. He worshipped them fervently, and pillaged them both, for his genius, which was both satirical and enthusiastic, was not capable of creating a style of its own, and must content itself with imitating others. It is only fair to remark that young men in those days generally possessed a classical culture such as has since become most exceptional, and that through the classics themselves they learned to respect the art of imitation, as a praiseworthy and virtuous practice.
Franco liked to improvise on the piano with some of these verses before his eyes. Even more devoted to music than to poetry, he had himself purchased this piano for one hundred and fifty svanziche, from the organist at Loggio, because the poor Viennese instrument, belonging to his grandmother, which was always wrapped up and must be handled carefully, like a gouty member of the family, was not adapted to his requirements. The organist's instrument, which had been thumped and banged upon by two generations of hands, hardened by contact with the pickaxe, now sent forth only a funny little nasal voice, which rose above a faint tinkling, as of many tiny glasses standing too close together. Franco was almost oblivious to this. As soon as he had placed his hands upon the instrument his imagination would take fire; the composer's enthusiasm would enter into him, and, in the heat of the creative passion, a thread of sound sufficed to permeate him with the spirit of music, and absolutely to intoxicate him. An Erard would have embarrassed him, would have left less room for fancy, would, in a word, have been less dear to him than his spinet.
Franco possessed too many talents, too many different inclinations, too much impetuosity, too little vanity and perhaps also, too little will-power to undertake that tiresome, methodical, manual labour, which is indispensable in order to become a pianist. Nevertheless, Viscontini was enthusiastic about the style of playing, and his fiancée Luisa, though she did not entirely share his classical tastes, honestly admired his touch. When, being pressed to do so, he would make the organ at Cressogno roar and groan in the approved classic manner, the good people, overwhelmed by the music and the honour, would stare at him with open mouths and reverent eyes, as they would have stared at some preacher, whose sermon they did not understand. But notwithstanding all this, Franco could not have held his own in a city drawing-room, against the majority of feeble amateurs, incapable even of understanding and loving music. All, or almost all of them would have shown themselves his superiors in agility and in precision, and would have gathered in more applause, even though no one of them had succeeded in making the piano sing as he made it sing, especially in the adagios of Bellini and of Beethoven, playing with his soul in his throat, in his eyes, in the muscles of his face, in the tendons of his hands, which seemed one with the chords of the piano.
Another passion of his was for old pictures. The walls of his room held several, most of which were daubs. Never having travelled he had little experience. His fancy was quick to take fire, and, obliged as he was to fit his ample desires to his scant means, he was credulous concerning the alleged good fortune of other ignorant purchasers, and often allowed himself to be influenced by them, to be blinded and led into buying certain dirty rags, which, if they cost little, were worth still less. The only passably good things he possessed were a head, in the style of Morone, and a Madonna and Child, after the manner of Carlo Dolci. Franco, however, baptised these two little pictures with the names of Morone and Carlo Dolci, without further qualification.
When he had re-read and enjoyed some lines inspired by the hypocritical Pasotti, he once more hunted in the chaos of his desk, and drew forth a small sheet of notepaper, upon which he intended to write to Monsignor Benaglia, the only person who, in the future, might be able to influence his grandmother in his favour. He felt it his duty to inform him of the step he was about to take, of the reasons which had forced his fiancée and himself to resort to this painful subterfuge, of the hope they cherished that he would help them when the time came to confess all to the Marchesa. He was still reflecting, pen in hand, when the Carabellis' boat passed beneath his window. Soon after he heard the Marchese's gondola glide by, followed presently by Pin's boat. He expected that his grandmother would send for him, now that she was alone, but she did not do so. He waited some time, expecting to be summoned, then he began to think of his letter again, and reflected so long, re-wrote the introduction so many times, and got on so slowly, that before he had finished he was obliged to light the lamp.
The end was easier. He begged the old Bishop's prayers for his Luisa and for himself, and expressed a faith in God so perfect and so pure, that the most unbelieving heart must have been touched by it.
Fiery and impetuous as he was, still Franco possessed the calm and simple faith of a little child. Entirely free from pride, a stranger to philosophical meditations, he was ignorant of that thirst for intellectual liberty which torments young men, when their senses begin to find themselves hampered by that strong curb—positive beliefs. He had never for an instant doubted his religion, and performed all the duties it prescribed without once asking himself if it be reasonable to act and believe thus. Still he had nothing of the mystic or of the ascetic. His intellect, though ardent and poetic, was, at the same time, clear and positive. Devoted as he was to nature and to art, and attracted by all the pleasing aspects of life, he would naturally shrink from mysticism. He had not acquired his faith; he had never concentrated all his thoughts upon it for any length of time, therefore it was not possible that it should have penetrated all his sentiments. Religion was to him what science is to the student, whose first thought is school, where he studies diligently, having no peace until he has done his home tasks, and is prepared for the next lesson, but who, once his duty is performed, thinks no more either of teachers or of books, and does not feel the need of regulating his actions according to scientific conclusions or scholastic programmes. Therefore it would often seem that Franco's life was influenced by nothing else than his warm and generous heart, his passionate inclinations, his lively impressions, and the impulses of his honest nature, which was offended by every kind of untruth and meanness, while he chafed under contradiction, and was incapable of deceit.
He had just sealed his letter when some one knocked at the door. The Marchesa had sent to summon Don Franco downstairs to recite the Rosary. At Casa Maironi they recited the Rosary every evening between seven and eight, and the servants were obliged to be present. The Marchesa herself intoned the prayers, enthroned on her sofa, her sleepy eyes roving over the backs and legs of the worshippers, kneeling, some in one position, some in another, some in the light best adapted to set off a devotional attitude, and others in the shadow which would favour a comfortable, but forbidden nap. Franco entered the room as the nasal voice was repeating the sweet words: "Ave Maria, gratia plena," with that drawling unction which always inspired him with a wild desire to become a Turk. The young man flung himself down in a dark corner, and never opened his lips. It was impossible for him to answer that irritating voice with fitting devotion. He fell to imagining what the coming interview would be like, and preparing caustic answers.
When the Rosary was finished the Marchesa waited a moment and then pronounced the words consecrated by long usage—
"Carlotta, Friend."
It was the duty of Carlotta, the Marchesa's old maid, to take Friend in her arms, and carry him off to bed, as soon as the Rosary was finished.
"He is here, Signora Marchesa," said Carlotta.
But Friend, though indeed he had been there, was somewhere else when she bent down with outstretched hand. That evening old Friend was in good spirits, and determined to play at not being caught. He would tempt Carlotta, and then slip through her fingers, taking refuge under the piano, or under the table, from whence he would peer out at the poor woman with ironical waggings of his tail, while Carlotta's lips said, "Come, come, dear!" and her heart said, "Ugly beast!"
"Friend!" exclaimed the Marchesa. "That will do, Friend! Be good!"
Franco was boiling. The nasty little monster, imbued with his mistress' arrogance and egotism, paused at his feet, and Franco rolled him roughly towards Carlotta, who grabbed him, and punished him with an angry squeeze, and then carried him off, answering his whines with deceitful words of pity. "What did they do to you, poor Friend? What did they do to you? Tell us all about it!"
The Marchesa made no remarks, nor did her marble countenance betray her feelings. She ordered the footman to tell the prefect of the Caravina, or any one else who might call, that his mistress had retired. Franco started to leave the room behind the servants, but checked himself at once, that he might not appear to be running away. He took a number of the Imperial and Royal Gazette of Milan from the mantel-shelf, and seating himself near his grandmother, began reading while he waited.
"I congratulate you heartily on the good manners and fine sentiments you displayed to us to-day," the sleepy voice began, almost immediately.
"I accept your congratulations," Franco retorted, without raising his eyes from his paper.
"Well done, my dear!" his immovable grandmother replied, and added: "I am glad that young girl had the opportunity of seeing you as you are, because, supposing she may have heard of a certain project, she will now be very glad it is no longer thought of."
"Then we are both satisfied!" said Franco.
"You cannot in the least tell if you are going to be satisfied. Especially if you still hold the views you once held."
Upon this, Franco put his paper down, and looked his grandmother full in the face.
"What would happen," he said, "if I still held the same views I once held?"
This time he did not speak in a challenging tone, but with quiet seriousness.
"Ah! That is right!" the Marchesa exclaimed. "Let us speak plainly! I hope and believe that a certain event will never take place, but should it take place, do not flatter yourself that there will be anything for you at my death, for I have already arranged matters so that there will be nothing."
"Oh! as to that——" the young man began, with indifference.
"That is the score you would have to settle with me," the Marchesa continued. "Then there would be a score to settle with God."
"How is that?" Franco questioned. "God shall come first with me, and you afterwards!"
When the Marchesa was caught in a mistake she always talked straight on as if nothing had happened.
"And it will be a heavy score," said she.
"But it must be settled first!" Franco insisted.
"Because," the formidable old woman continued, "a good Christian is in duty bound to obey his father and his mother, and I represent both your father and your mother."
If the one was obstinate, the other was no less so.
"But God comes first!" said he.
The Marchesa rang the bell and closed the conversation thus—
"Now we understand each other perfectly."
When Carlotta entered she rose from the sofa, and said, placidly—
"Good-night."
"Good-night," Franco answered, and resumed the Milan Gazette.
As soon as his grandmother had left the room he flung the paper aside, clenched his fists, and giving vent to his anger in a sort of furious snort, sprang to his feet, saying aloud—
"Ah! It is better so! Better, better so!" It was better so, he continued to assure himself mutely. Better never to bring Luisa to this accursed house, better never to oblige her to bear this rule, this arrogance, this voice, this face! Better to live on bread and water, and look to hard work for the rest, rather than to accept anything from his grandmother's hand. Better become a gardener, d—— it! a boatman, or a charcoal burner!
He went up to his room determined to break with all obligations. "A score to settle with God!" he exclaimed, banging the door behind him. "A score to settle with God if I marry Luisa! Ah! after all, what do I care? Let them see me, spy upon me, bring her the news. Let them tell her, let them sing it to her in every key. I shall be delighted!"
He dressed himself in feverish haste, knocking against the chairs, and closing the drawers with a bang. In his recklessness he put on a black suit, went noisily downstairs, called the old footman, told him he should be out all night, and, not heeding the half-astonished, half-terrified face of the poor fellow, who was devoted to him, rushed into the street, and was lost in the darkness.
He had been gone two or three minutes when the Marchesa, who was already in bed, sent Carlotta to see who had come running downstairs. Carlotta reported that it was Don Franco, and was at once dispatched again on a second errand. "What did Don Franco want?" This time the answer was, that Don Franco had gone out for a few moments. The "few moments" was added out of kindness by the old servant. The Marchesa told Carlotta to go away, but not to put out the light. "You will return when I ring," said she.
It was past midnight when the bell sounded.
The maid hurried to her mistress.
"Is Don Franco still out?"
"Yes, Signora Marchesa."
"Put out the light. Take your knitting and wait in the ante-room. When he returns come and tell me."
Having given these orders, the Marchesa rolled over on her side, turning her face towards the wall, and leaving the amazed and ill-pleased maid to stare at that white, smooth, impenetrable enigma, her night-cap.
CHAPTER III
THE GREAT STEP
That same evening at exactly ten o'clock the engineer Ribera knocked gently twice on the door of Signor Giacomo Puttini's house at Albogasio Superiore. Presently a window above his head was opened, and a little, old, clean-shaven face of "Sior Zacomo" himself appeared in the moonlight.
"Most worshipful engineer, my respects!" said he. "The servant is coming down to let you in."
"That is not necessary," the other answered. "I am not coming up. It is time to start, so you had better join me at once."
Signor Giacomo began to puff and wink hard.
"You must pardon me," he said, in his peculiar dialect, which was a mixture of many elements. "You must pardon me, most worshipful engineer, but I really need——"
"Need what?" said the engineer, somewhat annoyed. The door opened, and the keen and yellow face of the servant appeared.
"Oh! Scior Parento! Sir Relative!" said she respectfully. She claimed I know not what degree of relationship with the engineer's family, and always addressed him thus. "At this hour? Have you perhaps been to see the Sciora Parenta? The Lady Relative?"
The "Lady Relative" was the engineer's sister, Signora Rigey.
Ribera answered shortly: "Oh! Marianna! How are you?" and went upstairs followed by Marianna, carrying the light.
"My respects," Signor Giacomo began, coming towards him with another light. "I understand and recognise the great inconvenience I am causing, but really——"
Signor Giacomo's small, clean-shaven, pink face, rose above an enormous white stock, and a lean little body, buttoned up in a great, black overcoat, and in the convulsive workings of his lips and eyebrows as well as in his troubled eyes, the most comical anxiety was expressed.
"What is the matter now?" asked the engineer, somewhat sharply. He, the most upright and straightforward man alive, had little sympathy with the hesitation of poor, timid Signor Giacomo.
"Allow me," Puttini began, and, turning to the servant, said harshly:
"Begone, you! Go into the kitchen. You will come when I call for you. Go, I say! Why don't you do what I tell you? Where is your respect for me? I command here! I am the master!"
It was the servant's curiosity, her insolent disregard for the orders of her superior, which had provoked this outburst of despotic fury in "Sior Zacomo."
"Whew! What a violent man!" she said, lifting the lamp on high. "There is no need to shout in that way! What do you think of it, Scior Parento?"
"Look here!" the engineer exclaimed. "Would it not be better for you to take yourself off, instead of standing there and jabbering?"
Marianna went away grumbling, and Signor Giacomo began to communicate his most secret thoughts to the worshipful engineer, interlarding his sentences with many buts and ifs, that is and reallys. He had promised to be present in the capacity of witness at Luisa's secret marriage, but now, when it was time to start for Castello, he was assailed by an overpowering fear of compromising himself.
He was "first political deputy," as the highest communal authority was then called. If the worshipful Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza should get wind of this affair, how would he look upon it? And the Marchesa? "A terrible woman, most worthy engineer! A vindictive woman!" Besides he had so many other worries! "There is that cursed bull!" This bull, a bone of contention between the town and the alpador, or tenant of the hill-pastures, had, for the last two years, been a moral incubus to poor Signor Giacomo, who, in speaking of his troubles and trials, always began with "that perfidious servant," and ended with "that cursed bull!" In speaking these words he would raise his small face, his eyes full of pained execration, and stretch out accusing hands towards the brow of the hill which overhung his house, towards the home of that fiendish beast. But the engineer, whose fine, honest features betrayed marked disapproval and a growing contempt for this cowardly little man, who stood wriggling there before him, exclaimed several times impatiently: "Oh, dear me!" as if pitying himself for the poor company he was in. Finally, his patience entirely exhausted, he extended his arms with the elbows turned outwards, and shaking them as if he were holding the reins of a lazy old horse, exclaimed: "What is all this? What is all this? It is absurd! This is the language of a fool, my good Signor Giacomo! I would never have believed that a man like you, a man let us say——"
Here the engineer, being really at a loss for a suitable phrase wherewith to describe his companion, simply puffed out his cheeks, emitting a long-drawn-out rumble, a sort of rattling noise, as if he had an epithet in his mouth which was so big that he could not spit it out. Meanwhile Signor Giacomo, who had turned very red, was protesting eagerly: "Enough! Enough! Pray excuse me! I am quite ready! I will come! Don't get excited! I only expressed a doubt, most worshipful engineer. You know the world. So did I, at one time, but I know it no longer."
He withdrew for a moment to reappear again presently carrying an enormously high hat with a broad brim, which had seen Ferdinand enter Verona in 1838, the so-called "emperor's year."
"I feel this sign of respect and satisfaction is fitting," said he.
When the engineer caught sight of the thing, he once more ejaculated his "What is all this?" But the little man, who had a ceremonious spirit, stuck to his point. "It is my duty, my duty!" and he called to Marianna to light them down stairs. When the servant saw her master with that immense "sign of satisfaction" on his head, she gave voice to her astonishment. "Hold your tongue!" puffed the unfortunate Signor Giacomo. "Be quiet!" and as soon as he was out of the door his wrath burst forth. "There is no doubt about it, that cursed servant will be the death of me!"
"Why don't you send her away, then?" the engineer enquired.
Signor Giacomo had already placed one foot on the first step of the narrow lane that leads upwards on one side of the Puttini house, when he was brought to a stand-still by this pointed question, which pierced his conscience like a dagger.
"Alas!" he replied, sighing.
"I understand," said the engineer.
"Besides, what good would that do?" the other went on, after a short pause. "This is the same as that!"
This old Venetian saying concerning the unfortunate identity of the two relative pronouns, Signor Giacomo pronounced as an epilogue, and then, puffing loudly, emitted a loud breath, and once more started forward.
Puttini leading and the engineer following, they climbed steadily for a few minutes, up the steep and narrow path, dimly lighted by the moon which was hidden among the clouds. No sound was heard save their slow steps, the thumping of their sticks on the stones, and Signor Giacomo's regular puffing: "Apff! Apff!" At the foot of the narrow stairway leading to Pianca, the little man stopped, removed his hat, wiped away the perspiration with a big, white handkerchief, and glancing up at the great walnut-tree, and the stables of Pianca to which he must ascend, puffed harder than ever.
"By the body of the rogue Bacchus!" he ejaculated.
The engineer encouraged him. "Up with you, Signor Giacomo. It is all for love of Luisina." [E]
Signor Giacomo started on again without a word, and when they reached the stables, beyond which the path becomes less rough, he seemed to forget the stairs, his scruples, the perfidious servant, the Imperial and Royal Commissary, the vindictive Marchesa and the cursed bull, and began talking of Signora Rigey with great enthusiasm.
"There is no doubt about it, when I have the honour of being in the company of your niece, of Signorina Luisina, I assure you I really feel as if I were back into the days of Signora Baratela and the Filipuzze girls, of the three Sparesi sisters from San Piero Incarian, and of many others, whose graces used to charm me, in the old days. From time to time I go to see the Marchesa, and I sometimes meet the girls of to-day there. No—no—no, they do not behave in a becoming manner. They are either sullenly silent or over-talkative. But just look at Signorina Luisina, how easy is her manner with every one! She knows how to behave with young and old, rich and poor, the servant and the priest. I really fail to comprehend why the Marchesa——"
The engineer interrupted him.
"The Marchesa is right," said he. "My niece is neither of noble birth, nor has she a penny. How can you expect the Marchesa to be satisfied?"
Signor Giacomo stopped short, rather disconcerted, and stared at the engineer, blinking his sorrowful eyes.
"How is this? You don't really mean to say she is right?"
"I never approve of acting contrary to the wishes of parents, or of those who represent the parents. But I, dear Signor Giacomo, am an old-fashioned man like yourself, a man of the time of Carlo Umberto, as they say hereabouts. Now, the world wags differently, and we must let it wag. Therefore, having expressed my opinions on this point, I said to my relatives: 'Now do as you like. But when you have decided one way or another, let me know what is to be done, and I shall be ready!'"
"And what does Signora Teresina say?"
"My sister? My sister, poor creature, says: 'If I can see them settled in life, I shall no longer dread death.'"
Signor Giacomo breathed hard, as was his habit whenever he heard that last, unpleasant word pronounced.
"But it is surely not so bad as that?" said he.
"Who can tell?" the engineer replied, very seriously. "We must trust in the Almighty."
They had reached a sharp bend where the narrow path, passing the last of the small fields belonging to the territory of Albogasio, turns towards the first of those belonging to Castello, and winds on, on the left, along the top of a jutting crag, suddenly coming in sight of a deep cleft in the mountain's bosom, of the lake far below, of the villages of Casarico and San Mamette, crouching on the shore as if in the act of drinking. Castello is perched a little higher up, and not far distant, facing the bare and forbidding peak of Cressogno, the whole of which is visible, from the gorges of Loggio to the sky. It is a beautiful spot even at night in the moonlight, but if Signor Giacomo paused there, striking a contemplative attitude and forgetting to puff, it was not because he considered the scene worthy of any one's attention, to say nothing of that of a political deputy, but because, having a weighty argument to expound, he felt the necessity of concentrating all his strength in his brain, and of suspending all other effort, even that of the legs.
"That is a fine maxim," said he. "Let us trust in the Almighty. Yes, my dear sir. But permit me to observe that in our time we were always hearing of prayers being answered, of conversions and miracles. Am I not correct? But now the world is not the same, and it appears to me the Almighty is sick of it all. The world is in much the same condition as our parish church at Albogasio, which the Almighty used to visit once a month. Now He comes only once a year."
"Listen, my good Signor Giacomo," said the engineer, who was impatient to reach Castello. "The Almighty is not to blame because the parish has been transferred from one church to another. However, we will push on, and let the Almighty arrange things as He thinks best."
Whereupon he started forwarded so briskly that presently Signor Giacomo was obliged to stop again, puffing like a pair of bellows.
"Pardon me," said he, "if I yield, in a measure, to that curiosity which is inborn in man. Might one inquire your worshipful age?"
The engineer understood the hidden meaning of his question, and answered in a low tone, with triumphant and ironical meekness—
"I am older than you!"
And he started off again at the same cruel pace.
"I was born in '88, you know," Puttini groaned.
"And I, in '85!" Ribera flung over his shoulder, without stopping. "Now come along."
Fortunately for Puttini they had only a few steps more to go. There was the great wall that supported the consecrated ground about the church of Castello, and there was the narrow stairway leading up to the entrance of the village. Now they must turn into the dark passage below the priest's house, feeling their way along like blind men through this black hole, in which Signor Giacomo's imagination pictured so many treacherous and slippery stones, so many accursed, deceitful steps, that he stopped short, and, resting his clasped hands on the knob of his stick, spoke as follows—
"By the body of the rogue Bacchus! No, most worshipful engineer, no, no, no! Really I cannot. I shall remain here. They will surely come to church. The church is near by. I shall wait here. Body of the rogue Bacchus!"
This last "Body!" Signor Giacomo ground privately between his teeth, like the close of an inward soliloquy concerning the accessories surrounding the exceeding discomfort he was undergoing.
"Wait a minute," said the engineer.
A thread of light appeared under the church door. The engineer entered and presently came out again, accompanied by the sacristan, who had been preparing the hassocks for the bride and groom. He now brought to Puttini's rescue the long pole with a lighted taper at the end, which was used to light the candles on the altars. Thus, standing in the church door, he moved the taper along in front of Signor Giacomo's feet as far as the pole would reach, while that gentleman, but ill-satisfied with this religious illumination, groped his way forward, grumbling at the darkness, the miserable, sacred taper, and at him who held it, until at last, abandoned by the sacristan, and seized by the engineer, he was dragged along, much like a pike at the end of a line, and, in spite of his mute resistance, was finally landed on the threshold of Casa Rigey.
At Castello the houses which stand in unbroken line on the winding hill-top, enjoying the sun and the view of the lake far below, all white and smiling on the side towards the open, all dark on the side towards that other row of less fortunate houses, which rise sadly behind them, resemble certain favoured individuals, who, brought into too close contact with misery, assume a hostile demeanour, and press close to one another that, thus united, they may hold the others in check. Among these fortunate ones Casa Rigey is one of the darkest on the side facing the poverty of the common houses, one of the brightest on the side facing the sun.
From the street door a long and narrow corridor leads to a small, open loggia, from which, by means of a few steps, one may descend to the little white terrace which, between the reception room and a high, windowless wall, stretches out to the edge of the hill, looking down into the ravines from which issues the Soldo, looking down upon the lake, as far as the green gulfs of the Birosin and of the Doi, as far as the quiet sweeps beyond Caprino and Gandria.
Signor Rigey, born in Milan of a French father, had been professor of the French language at Madame Berra's boarding school, but he had lost his position there, and most of his private pupils, because it was rumoured of him that he was irreligious. In 1825 he had purchased this little house, and retired to it from Milan, wishing to live economically and peacefully. He had, soon afterwards, married the sister of the civil-engineer Ribera. Dying in 1844 he left his wife with a daughter of fifteen, the house and a few thousand svanziche. [F]
Hardly had the engineer knocked somewhat noisily at the door, when light, swift steps were heard in the corridor. The door was thrown open and a voice neither low nor silvery, but indescribably harmonious, whispered: "What a noise, Uncle!" "Noise indeed!" her uncle replied with mock dignity. "Am I then expected to knock with my nose?" His niece placed one hand over his mouth, and with the other drew him inside; then she saluted Signor Giacomo gracefully, and closed the door. All this was accomplished in the twinkling of an eye, while Signor Giacomo himself was puffing out: "Your most humble servant! I am really delightful——" "Thank you, thank you!" said Luisa. "Pray go in, I have a word to say to Uncle."
The little man went forward, hat in hand, and the young girl tenderly embraced her old uncle, kissing him, pressing her face to his breast, and clasping her arms about his neck.
"Won't that do now?" said the engineer, almost as if to check these caresses, for in them he felt a gratitude which he feared would presently take the form of words. "There, there! That is enough! How is Mamma?" Luisa's only reply was a tightening of her embrace. This uncle was more than a father to her, he was the special Providence of the house, but, in his great and simple bounty, he never dreamed that he had the slightest claim to the gratitude of his sister and niece. Whatever would these poor women have done without him, possessing only that meagre sum of twelve or fifteen thousand svanziche which Rigey had left? As civil-engineer, employed on public works, Ribera enjoyed a good salary. He lived frugally at Como with an old housekeeper, passing his savings on to Casa Rigey. At first he had openly and heartily disapproved of Luisa's attachment for Franco, for it seemed to him that such a union would be but ill-assorted; but the young people being determined, and his sister having consented, he made up his mind to help them in every possible way, keeping his opinions to himself.
"And Mamma?" he repeated.
"She was feeling very well this evening because she was so happy, but now she is agitated, for Franco came about half an hour ago, and told her he has had something of a scene with his grandmother——"
"Oh dear me!" the engineer exclaimed. Whenever he heard of a misfortune befalling any one else he always uttered this expression of self-commiseration.
"No, Uncle! Indeed Franco is right!"
Luisa pronounced these words with sudden warmth. "Yes indeed!" she exclaimed, her uncle having uttered a doubtful "Hm!" "He is perfectly right. But," she added in a low tone, "he says he left home in such a manner that his grandmother will probably discover everything."
"It will be better so," said her uncle, starting towards the terrace.
The moon had set and it was dark. Luisa whispered: "Mamma is here."
Signora Teresa, who was suffering for want of breath, had had herself drawn out into the terrace in her easy-chair, hoping to find relief in the open air.
"What do you say to this, Piero?" said a voice resembling Luisa's in tone, but sweeter and with a tired ring; a voice that seemed to come from a gentle heart which the world has used harshly, and which must yield. "What do you say to this? After all, our precautions will be of no avail."
"No, no, Mamma. We are not sure of that. We cannot say so yet!"
While Luisa was speaking, Franco, who was in the salon with the curate, came out to embrace the engineer.
"Well," said Ribera, extending his hand, for embraces were little to his taste. "What has happened?"
Franco related what had taken place, softening somewhat certain too offensive expressions of his grandmother's concerning the Rigeys, concealing her threat of not leaving him a penny, and blaming his own over-susceptibility rather than the old-woman's ill-nature, and finally confessing that he had purposely let it be known that he intended to remain out all night. This could have no other effect than that of leading his grandmother to an immediate discovery, for she would question him concerning this absence, and his silence would be a confession, for he did not intend to lie about this matter.
"Listen!" Uncle Piero exclaimed, with the ringing voice and open countenance of the perfectly straightforward man who, being smothered to the point of suffocation with precautions and dissimulations, finally strikes out from the shoulder and, casting them off, breathes freely once more. "I admit you were wrong to irritate your grandmother, for, after all, old people must be respected even when they err; I see that the consequences may be serious, but nevertheless I am glad things are as they are, and I should be more glad if you had told your grandmother everything, clearly and roundly. I have never had any patience with all this secrecy, all this feigning and hiding. The honest man openly confesses his actions. You desire to marry against your grandmother's wishes? Well do so, but, at least, don't deceive her."
"But Piero!" Signora Teresa exclaimed, who, besides a delicate perception of what life should be, possessed an accurate sense of what life really is, and, being much more given to religious exercises than her brother, and standing on a more familiar footing with the Almighty, could most easily persuade herself that He would make certain concessions in the matter of form, when some substantial benefit was to be gained.
"But Piero! You don't think! If the Marchesa finds out about the marriage this way, she will, of course, refuse to receive Luisa into her house, and then what are the children to do? Where can they go? There is no room here, and even if there were, nothing is ready. At your house it is the same. You must consider all these points. If we wished to keep the marriage a secret for a month or two, it was not in order to deceive, it was to gain time in which to win over Franco's grandmother, and if she would not yield, to prepare one or two rooms at Oria."
"Oh, dear me!" said the engineer, "Does it take two months to do that? It seems incredible!"
At this point a prolonged puff in the shadow reminded them of Signor Giacomo's presence; he was leaning against the wall in one corner not daring to move, because it was so dark.
Signora Teresa had not yet welcomed him.
"Oh, Signor Giacomo!" she now hastened to say. "I beg your pardon. I am really so very, very much obliged to you! Pray come this way. Did you hear what we were saying? Do let us have your opinion."
"Your very humble servant," said Signor Giacomo from his corner. "Really I dare not move, for with my poor sight——"
"Luisa!" Signora Teresa called. "Bring a lamp. But did you hear, Signor Giacomo? What do you think about it? Do tell us."
In his profound wisdom Signor Giacomo emitted three or four little hasty puffs which meant: Ah, this is indeed an embarrassing question!
"I cannot say," he began hesitatingly, "I cannot say at present, being in the dark——"
"Luisa!" Signora Teresa called once more.
"No, no, Signora! I mean being in the dark on so many points. I feel that in my ignorance I may not pronounce an opinion. Still I will say it seems to me that perhaps it might ... well, at any rate, I am here at your service and at the service of this most respected family, though indeed I should not be astonished if the Imperial and Royal Commissary—a most excellent person, but very punctilious.... But enough, we will not talk of that, for here I am. But I do say, it seems to me that we might wait a little while, and our most noble friend Don Franco here might be able to wheedle and persuade.... Well, well, well. Do as you like. It is all the same to me."
A furious protest on Franco's part had caused Signor Giuseppe to face about thus suddenly. Luisa seconded this protest, and Signora Teresa, who now would perhaps have been in favour of a postponement, did not venture to oppose their wishes.
"Luisa, Franco," said she, "take me back to the salon."
The two young people pushed the easy-chair into the salon, followed by Uncle Piero and Signor Giacomo.
On the threshold Luisa, bending over her mother, kissed her hair, and murmured: "You will see. All will be for the best."
She had expected to find the curate in the salon, but he had slipped away through the kitchen.
Hardly had Franco and Luisa pushed the invalid's chair up to the table upon which stood the lamp, when the sacristan came to say that everything was ready. Signora Teresa asked him to inform the curate that the bride and groom would go to church in half an hour.
"Luisa!" said she, glancing meaningly at her daughter.
"Yes, Mamma," the girl replied, and turning to her lover, said in a low tone: "Franco, Mamma wishes to speak with you."
Signor Giacomo understood, and went out to the terrace. The engineer did not understand at all, and his niece had to explain to him that her mother was to be left alone with Franco. The simple-minded man could see no reason for this, but she took his arm and, smiling, led him away to the terrace.
Signora Teresa silently held out her beautiful hand, which was still youthful in its curves, and Franco, kneeling, kissed it.
"Poor Franco," said she gently.
Then she made him rise from his knees and sit close to her. She must speak to him, she said, and her breath was so short. But he would understand much from a few words, would he not?
In speaking these words her voice was infinitely sweet.
"You must know," she began, "that I had not intended to say this to you, but I thought of it when you spoke about breaking the plate at the dinner-table. I beg you to be careful on account of Uncle Piero's position. In his heart he feels as you do. If you only could have seen the letters he wrote me in 1848! But he is a servant of the Government. It is true his conscience is perfectly easy, for he knows that by engineering roads and water-works he is serving his country and not the Germans. But he must and will take certain precautions, and you—for love of him—must be cautious also."
"The Germans will soon be gone, Mamma!" Franco replied. "But do not worry; you shall see how prudent I will be."
"Oh, my dear! I have little more to see, I have only to see you two united and blessed by the Lord. When the Germans go, you will come to Looch to tell me of it."
Those small fields where the little cemetery of Castello is situated go by the name of Looch.
"But I had intended to speak to you of another matter," Signora Teresa went on, without giving Franco time to protest. He took her hands and pressed them, with difficulty restraining his tears.
"I must speak to you of Luisa," she said. "You must know your wife well."
"I do know her, Mamma! I know her as well as you do, and perhaps even better."
As he pronounced these words his whole being glowed and quivered in his passionate love for her who was the life of his life, the soul of his soul.
"Poor Franco!" said Signora Teresa, smiling tenderly. "No, listen to me, for there is something you do not know, of which you should be informed. Wait a moment."
She needed to rest. Her emotion made her breathing more laboured, and she spoke with greater difficulty than usual. She motioned to Franco not to move, for she saw he was about to rise, that he might do something to relieve her. Only a little repose was necessary, and she took it, resting her head against the chair-back.
Presently she roused herself. "You have probably heard many evil accounts of my poor husband, at your own home. You will have heard that he was an unprincipled man, and that I did very wrong to marry him. It is true he was not religious, and for that reason I hesitated some time before deciding to accept him. I was advised to do so because it was thought I might have a good influence over this man, who had a most noble soul. He died a Christian, and I have every hope of meeting him in Heaven, if the Lord, in His mercy, shall see fit to receive me there. But up to the very last hour it seemed as if I were not to accomplish anything. Now, I fear my Luisa has her father's tendencies in her heart. She hides them from me, but I feel they are there. I commend her to you; study her, advise her; she is gifted and has a great heart, and if I have not known how to do well by her, you must do better. You are a good Christian: see that, with all her heart, she also becomes one. Promise me this, Franco."
He promised, smiling, as if he considered her fears groundless, and were making this superfluous promise simply to satisfy her.
The invalid gazed sadly at him. "Believe me," she added, "these are not fancies. I cannot die in peace if you do not take this matter seriously." And when the young man had repeated his promise, this time without smiling, she said—
"One word more. When you leave here you will go to Professor Gilardoni's, will you not?"
"That was my first plan. I was to have told my grandmother that I was going to sleep at Gilardoni's house, as we were to start on an excursion together in the morning. But now, you know how I left home."
"Still you had better go there. I had rather you went there, and besides, he expects you, does he not? So you must go. Poor Gilardoni! He has never been here since his fit of madness, two years ago. You know about that, do you not? Luisa has told you?"
"Yes, Mamma."
This Professor Gilardoni, who lived like a hermit at Casarico, had fallen most romantically in love with Signora Teresa some years before, and had timidly presented himself to her as a suitor. She had received his proposal with such utter amazement that he had lacked courage to appear before her again.
"Poor man!" Signora Rigey continued, "that was a most stupid action, but he has a heart of gold, and is a true friend. I wish you to cherish him. The day before he had that mad fit, he confided a secret to me. I may not repeat to you what he said, and moreover, I beg you not to mention the subject to him unless he speaks to you about it; but it is, in fact, something which, under certain circumstances, might be of great importance to you two, especially if you have children. If Gilardoni should confide in you, reflect seriously before telling Luisa. She might look at the matter in a wrong light. Consider the question carefully, consult Uncle Piero, and then speak or remain silent according to the line of action you may have determined to adopt."
"Yes, Mamma."
There was a gentle tap at the door, and Luisa's voice said: "Have you finished?"
Franco looked at the invalid. "Come in," said she. "Is it time to go?"
Luisa did not answer, but threw one arm around Franco's neck, and together they knelt before the mother, their heads buried in her lap. Luisa tried her best to restrain her tears, knowing well that her mother should be spared all violent emotion, but her heaving shoulders betrayed her.
"No, Luisa, no, dear, no!" said her mother, caressing her bowed head. "I am grateful to you, for you have always been a good daughter dear; such a good daughter! Calm yourself; I am so happy! You will see, I shall get better. Now go. Kiss me, both of you, and then go. You must not keep the curate waiting. May God bless you, Luisa, and you also, Franco!"
She asked for her prayer-book, drew the lamp towards her, had the windows and the door leading to the terrace thrown open that she might breathe more easily, and then dismissed the maid, who was prepared to keep her company. When the young couple had left the room, the engineer came in to greet his sister before going to church.
"Good-by, Teresa."
"Good-by, Piero. Another load is laid on your shoulders, my poor Piero."
"Amen!" the engineer answered, calmly.
When she was alone Signora Rigey sat listening to the receding footsteps. The heavy steps of her brother and Signor Giacomo bringing up the rear, prevented her hearing those others, which she strained her ear to follow as far as possible.
Another moment and the sounds ceased. She realised that Luisa and Franco were going away together into the future, whither she might follow them only for a few months, perhaps only for a few days; that she could neither divine nor foresee what their fate would be. "Poor children!" she thought. "Who knows what they may have passed through in five years, in ten years." She listened again, but the silence was profound; the open window admitted only the far-away thundering of the cascades of Rescia, over across the lake. Then, thinking that they must already have entered the church, she took her prayer-book, and read attentively.
But she soon grew weary; her brain was confused, and the words of the book blurred before her eyes.
Her mind was becoming drowsy, her will-power was lost. She foresaw the approach of a vision of unreal things, but she knew she was not asleep, she understood that this was not a dream, but a condition produced by her malady. She saw the door leading to the kitchen open, and there entered old Gilardoni from Dasio, called "el Carlin de Das," father of the Professor and agent of the Maironi family, for the estates in Valsolda—he had been dead five-and-twenty years. The figure came forward, and said, in a natural voice: "Oh, Signora Teresa! Are you quite well?" She thought she answered—"Oh, Carlin! I am quite well; and how are you?" But in reality she did not speak.
"I've got the letter here," the figure continued, waving a letter triumphantly. "I've brought it here for you!" And he placed the letter on the table.
Signora Teresa saw it quite plainly. A letter, soiled and yellowed by time, without an envelope, and still bearing traces of a little red wafer, lay before her and she experienced a sense of lively satisfaction. She thought she said: "Thank you, Carlin. Are you going to Dasio, now?"
"No, Signora," Carlin replied. "I am going to Casarico to see my son."
The invalid could no longer distinguish Carlin, but she saw the letter on the table, saw it distinctly. Still she was not sure it was there; in her sluggish brain the vague memory of other past hallucinations still endured, the memory of the disease, which was her enemy, her cruel master. Her eyes were glassy, her breathing laboured and rapid.
The sound of hastening footsteps roused her, and recalled her almost completely to herself. When Luisa and Franco came swiftly into the room from the terrace they did not notice that their mother's face was distorted, for the lamp was heavily shaded. Kneeling before her they covered her with kisses, attributing that laboured breathing to emotion. Suddenly the invalid raised her head from the chair-back and stretched out her hands, pointing to something at which she was looking fixedly.
"The letter!" she said.
The young people turned, but saw nothing.
"What letter, Mamma?" Luisa asked. At the same moment she noticed her mother's expression, and warned Franco by a glance. This was not the first time that Signora Teresa had suffered from hallucinations since her illness began. At the question, "What letter?" everything became clear to her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, and withdrawing her hands, buried her face in them, weeping silently.
Comforted by her children's caresses she soon composed herself, kissed them, extended her hand to her brother and Signor Giacomo, who did not in the least understand what had happened, and then motioned to Luisa to go and get something. It was a question of a cake and a precious bottle of wine from Niscioree, which, together with some others, had been sent some time before by the Marchese Bianchi, to whom Signora Teresa was an object of special veneration.
Signor Giacomo, who was longing to be off, began to fidget and puff, and glance towards the engineer.
"Signora Luisina," said he, seeing the bride about to leave the room. "Pray excuse me, but I was just going to take leave of——"
"No, no!" Signora Rigey exclaimed, with only a thread of voice. "Wait a little longer."
Luisa disappeared, and Franco slipped out of the room behind his wife. Signora Teresa was suddenly assailed by scruples, and signed to her brother to call him back.
"Nonsense!" said the engineer.
"But Piero!"
"Well?"
The ancient and austere traditions of her house, a delicate sense of dignity, perhaps also a religious scruple, because the young couple had not yet received the benediction of the nuptial Mass, would neither allow Signora Teresa to approve of their withdrawing together, nor to explain her views on the subject. Her reticence and Uncle Piero's fatherly benevolence gave Franco time to place himself beyond the possibility of recall. Signora Teresa did not insist.
"Forever!" she murmured presently, as if speaking to herself. "United forever!"
"You and I," said the engineer, addressing his colleague in celibacy in the Venetian dialect, "you and I, Signor Giacomo, never go in for any such nonsense!"
"You are always in good spirits, most worshipful engineer!" Signor Giacomo answered, while his conscience was telling him that in his time he had gone in for far worse "nonsense."
The bride and groom did not return.
"Signor Giacomo," the engineer continued, "there will be no going to bed for us to-night."
The unfortunate man writhed, puffed and winked hard but did not reply.
Still the bride and groom were absent.
"Piero," said Signora Teresa, "ring the bell."
"Signor Giacomo," the engineer began, composedly, "shall we ring the bell?"
"That would seem to be the Signora's wish," the little man replied, steering his course as best he could between the brother and sister. "However, I express no opinion."
"Piero!" his sister pleaded.
"Come, let us have an answer," Uncle Piero continued without moving. "What would you do? Would you, or would you not ring this bell?"
"For pity's sake!" Signor Giacomo groaned. "You really must excuse me."
"I will excuse nothing!"
The young people were still absent, and the mother growing more and more anxious, repeated—
"Piero, I tell you to ring!"
Signor Giacomo, who was dying to get away, and who could not leave without saluting the bride and groom, encouraged by Signora Teresa's insistence, made a great effort, turned very red and finally pronounced an opinion: "I should ring."
"My dear Signor Giacomo," the engineer exclaimed, "I am surprised, amazed and astonished!" Who can say why, when he was in good spirits, and had occasion to use one of these synonyms, he would always string the three together? "However," he concluded, "let us ring."
And he proceeded to ring very gently.
"Listen, Piero," said Signora Teresa. "Remember that when you leave, Franco is to go with you. He will return at half-past five for the Mass."
"Oh dear me!" Uncle Piero exclaimed. "How many difficulties! But after all, are they or are they not husband and wife?—Well, well," he added, seeing that his sister was beginning to grow excited, "do just as you like!"
Instead of the young couple the maid appeared, bringing the cake and the bottle, and told the engineer that Signorina Luisina begged him to come out to the terrace for a moment.
"Now that something good is coming at last, you send me outside!" said the engineer. He jested with his usual serenity of spirit, perhaps because he did not fully realize his sister's serious condition, perhaps because of his naturally pacific attitude towards all that was inevitable.
He went out to the terrace where Luisa and Franco were waiting for him.
"Listen, Uncle," his niece began. "My husband says that his grandmother will surely discover everything at once; that he will not be able to remain at Cressogno any longer; that if Mamma were stronger we might all go to your house at Oria, but, unfortunately, that is not possible as matters stand at present. So he thinks we might arrange a room here—any way to get it ready quickly. We had thought of poor Papa's study. What do you say to this plan?"
"Hm!" ejaculated Uncle Piero, who was slow to take up with new ideas. "It seems to me a very hasty resolution. You will be incurring expense and turning the house upside down, for an arrangement which can only be temporary."
His one idea was to have the whole family at Oria, and this expedient did not suit him. He feared that if the young people once settled down at Castello they would remain there. Luisa used every argument to persuade him that there was no other way, and that neither the outlay nor the trouble would be great. On leaving home her husband would go directly to Lugano, and bring back what few pieces of furniture were absolutely indispensable. Uncle Piero asked if Franco could not take up his quarters at Oria, remaining there until such a time as she and her mother could join him. "Oh, Uncle!" Luisa exclaimed. Had she known about the bell she would have been still more astonished by a similar proposal. But sometimes this good man had artless ideas of this sort, at which his sister smiled. Luisa had no difficulty in finding arguments against his plan for banishing Franco, and she used them with warmth. "Enough!" said Uncle Piero calmly, though he was not convinced; and he arched his wide-spread arms with the gesture of the Dominus vobiscum, more charitably inclined, more ready to enfold poor humanity in a tender embrace than before. "Fiat! Oh, by the way," he added, turning to Franco, "how about money?"
Franco shivered, much embarrassed.
"You know he is our father!" his wife said.
"Not by any means your father," Uncle Piero observed placidly. "Not by any means, but what is mine is yours; so I shall line your pockets as well as my means will permit."
And he suffered, without returning it, the embrace which told of their gratitude, almost as if vexed by this unnecessary demonstration, vexed that they should not accept more simply an act which to him seemed so simple and natural. "Yes, yes!" said he, "now let us go in and drink; it will be far more profitable!"
The wine of Niscioree, clear and red as a ruby, at once delicate and strong, flattered and soothed the inner-man of the impatient Signor Giacomo, who, in those years of oidium, seldom wet his lips in undiluted wine, but gloomily sipped the Grimelli wine, of watery memory.
"Est, est, [G] is it not, Signor Giacomo?" said Uncle Piero, seeing Puttini gaze with devoted eyes into the glass he held. "But here at least, there is no danger of expiring like a certain man: et propter nimium est dominus meus mortuus est."
"I feel as if I were being resuscitated," Signor Giacomo answered, speaking very slowly and almost under his breath, his gaze still fixed on the glass.
"Then you must give us a toast," the other said, rising. "But if you will not speak, why then I must do so," and he recited merrily—
"Long live he and long live she,
And now we'll be off, and leave them free!"
Signor Giacomo emptied his glass, puffed loudly and winked hard, in consequence of the varied sentiments which were running riot in his soul, while the last perfume, the last flavour of the wine were fading in his mouth. He offered his duty to the "most revered" Signora Teresa, his devotion to the "most amiable" little bride, his respects to the "most accomplished" young husband. Then, gesticulating with head and arms, he declared himself undeserving of the thanks which were being lavished upon him, and taking his great hat and his stick, he started—humble and puffing, with mingled feelings of relief and regret—to follow the placid bulk of the "most worshipful" engineer.
"And you, Franco?" Signora Teresa enquired immediately.
"I am going," he replied.
"Come here," said she. "I received you so badly when you returned from church, my poor children! You see I had had one of my bad attacks; I think you understood. But now I feel so well, so peaceful! Lord, I thank Thee! it seems to me I have set my house in order, have put out the fire and said my prayers; and now I am going to sleep, so well satisfied! But not so very soon, dear, not at once. I leave you my Luisa, dear; I leave you Uncle Piero. I know you will love them very much, will you not? But you must remember me also. Ah, dear Lord! how sorry I am I shall not see your children! That is indeed a grief to me! You must give them a kiss every day for their poor grandmother ... every day. And now go, my son, but you will be back by half-past five? Yes, dear.... Good-by ... now go."
She spoke caressingly to him, as to a child who does not yet understand, and he wept silently, with tender emotion, kissing her hands over and over again, and glad Luisa was present to witness this scene, for in his immense tenderness for the mother, there was his immense joy at being one with the daughter, and an intense desire to love all that his wife loved, and in the same measure.
"Go," Mamma Teresa repeated, fearing her own increasing emotion. "Go, go!"
At last he obeyed and went out with Luisa.
On this occasion also Luisa was absent a long time, but even the holiest souls have their little weaknesses, and although the maid was constantly coming and going between the kitchen and the salon, Signora Teresa, touched by the affection which Franco had displayed for her, never once ordered her to ring the bell.
Footnotes
[ [E] Luisina: little Luisa, ina being a diminutive. [Translator's note.]
[ [F] Svanziche: a coin varying from 90 to 95 centimes. [Translator's note.]
[ [G] Est, est: Canon Johannes Fugger of Augsburg travelling in Italy in the twelfth century, directed his steward to precede him, and inscribe the word Est on the door of the inn where the best wine was to be had. On reaching Montefiascone, the worthy canon found the word Est written three times on the tavern door, and indeed, the muscatel of this district proved so much to his taste that he never left Montefiascone, but ended his days there in the year 1113 or thereabouts, and was buried in the church of S. Flaviano, where his tomb may still be seen. His steward caused the following inscription to be carved upon the sarcophagus:
Est, Est, Est. Propter nimium est,
Johannes de Fuc., D. meus, mortuus est.
It is said that the wine-loving prelate left orders that a barrel of the very best muscatel should be spilled over his tomb every year on the anniversary of his death, and this ceremony was faithfully performed down to the end of the seventeenth century, when it was forbidden by a certain Cardinal Barbarigi, of unconvivial memory. The best wine of Montescone is still called Est, Est. [Translator's note.]
CHAPTER IV
CARLIN'S LETTER
Franco went down the hill very, very slowly, absorbed in the world of things within him, so crowded with thoughts and with new sensations. Stopping every now and then to contemplate the grey road and the small dark fields, he would touch the leaves of a grape-vine or the stones of a low wall, in order to feel the reality of the external world, to convince himself that he was not dreaming. Not until he had reached the Contrada dei Mal'ari in Casarico, and was standing before the little door of Gilardoni's tiny house, did he recall Mamma Teresa's dark words concerning the secret Gilardoni had imparted to her, and he wondered what this mystery could be, which must not be revealed to Luisa. To tell the truth the mother's advice had not satisfied him entirely. "How could I ever hide anything from my wife?" he thought as he knocked at the door.
Professor Beniamino Gilardoni, son of "Carlin de Dàas," had been educated at the expense of old Don Franco Maironi, Marchesa Orsola's husband, an eccentric man, capricious and violent, but at the same time, very generous. When Carlin died it became apparent that Maironi's generosity had not been necessary. Beniamino inherited quite a little hoard, and this maddened Don Franco, who held him responsible for the paternal hypocrisy, turned his back upon him, and would have nothing more to do with him for the short time he survived his agent. The young man chose the career of teacher, was professor of Latin at the gymnasium of Cremona, and of philosophy at the lyceum of Udine. Of a delicate constitution, apprehensive of physical suffering, and extremely misanthropical, he resigned his professorship in 1842, and came to Valsolda to enjoy the modest fortune his father had left him. Dasio, his native village, perched just below the dolomitic rocks of the Arabione, was too high up and inconvenient for him. He sold his possessions there, purchased the olive-grove of Sedorgg above Casarico, and a small villa on the edge of the lake, in Casarico itself. It was so small as to be almost a toy villa, and from its shape he called it the "Greek II or Pi" in imitation of the "Digamma" of Ugo Foscolo. From the Contrada dei Mal'ari a short passage led to the little courtyard flanked by a tiny portico, open on the lake-side and surrounded by tall oleanders. It overlooked six miles of water, green, grey or blue, according to the hour, as far as Monte S. Salvatore there in the distance, stooping, under the burden of its melancholy hump, towards the humble hills of Carona beneath it. On the east of the little house there was a kitchen-garden, fabulously large for that part of the world, the dimensions of which Engineer Ribera was wont to define by means of the following surveyor's description: "Large field called il Campone, measuring seven tavole." Now seven tavole correspond to twenty or twenty-two square metres! The Professor cultivated it with the aid of his little servant Giuseppe, called Pinella, and of a small collection of French treatises. He sent to France for the seeds of the most highly esteemed qualities of vegetables, which sometimes came up in shameless disregard of their certificates of baptism, and indeed of any honestly baptised family. It would then happen that philosopher and servant, stooping over the beds, their hands on their knees, would raise their eyes from these mocking sprouts, and gaze at each other, the philosopher honestly disappointed, the servant hypocritically so. In one corner of the garden, in a little stable constructed according to the most approved principles, dwelt a small Swiss cow, which had been purchased after three months of diligent study, and had turned out as delicate and fleshless as the master himself, who—in spite of the Swiss cow and four Paduan hens—often found it impossible to make himself a cup of custard in his own house. In the wall supporting the garden on the lake-side, against whose base the breva drove the swelling waves, he had made some openings in which, following Franco Maironi's advice, he had planted many American aloes, many roses and some caper-bushes, thus binding together the substantial contents of his kitchen-garden, as he was wont to say, with poetic elegance of form. And for the love of the poetic, he had left a small corner of his kitchen-garden uncultivated. The tallest of reeds had sprung up there, and in front of these reeds the Professor had erected a sort of belvedere, a lofty, wooden platform, very rustic and primitive, where, in pleasant weather, he passed many happy hours with the mystic books he loved, enjoying the coolness of the breva, and the murmuring of reeds and waves. At a distance the colour of the platform could not be distinguished from that of the reeds, and the Professor looked as if he were seated on air, book in hand, like any magician. In the little salon he kept the small collection of works on kitchen-gardening, the mystic books, the treatises on necromancy, and gnosticism. The writings on hallucinations and dreams he kept in a tiny study adjoining his bedroom, a sort of ship's cabin, into which lake and sky seemed to pour through the window.
After the death of old Maironi the Professor had once more taken to visiting the family, but the Marchesa did not please him particularly, and her son Don Alessandro, Franco's father, pleased him still less. So he ended by going there only once a year. When the lad Franco entered the lyceum his grandmother—his father had been dead some time—begged Gilardoni to give him some lessons during the Autumn. Master and pupil resembled each other in their easy enthusiasms, in their fits of violent but fleeting passion, and both were ardent patriots. When the necessity for lessons no longer existed they continued to meet as friends, though the Professor was some twenty years older than Franco. Gilardoni admired his pupil's genius, but Franco, on the other hand, held the half-Christian, half-rationalist philosophy of his master, and his mystical tendencies, in small esteem. He laughed at the other's passion for books and theories on horticulture and landscape gardening, a passion which was entirely devoid of all common sense. But nevertheless, he loved him sincerely for his goodness, his candour, his ardent soul. Franco had been the Professor's confidant at the time of his unfortunate passion for Signora Rigey, and later, Franco, in his turn, confided in the Professor. Gilardoni was much affected by the news, and told Franco that, his heart being still full to overflowing of that unchanging devotion, he should feel as if he were, in a way, becoming Franco's father, even though Signora Teresa herself would have none of him. Franco showed little appreciation of this metaphysical paternity. This passion for Signora Rigey seemed to him simply an aberration, and he was more than ever confirmed in his opinion that the Professor's head was not worth much, but that his heart was of gold.
So he knocked at the door, and Beniamino himself came to open it, bearing a little oil lamp. "Well done," said he. "I was beginning to think you were not coming, after all."
Gilardoni was in his dressing-gown and slippers, with a sort of white turban on his head, and he exhaled a strong odour of camphor. He looked like a Turk, like Gilardoni Bey, but the thin, sallow face which smiled beneath the turban had nothing Turkish about it. Encircled by a short, reddish beard, pompously embellished in the middle by a fine, big nose, red and pimply, the face was lighted up by two beautiful blue eyes, still very youthful, and full of simple kindness and poetry.
As soon as Franco had closed the door behind him his friend whispered: "Is it done?" "It is done," Franco answered. The other embraced him and kissed him in silence. Then he took him up stairs to the little study. On the way he explained that, secundum Raspail, he had applied a compress of some sedative water to his head, for he was threatened with a headache. He was an apostle of Raspail, and had converted Franco—who often suffered from inflammatory sore throats—from leeches to camphor cigarettes.
In the little study there was another very close and long embrace. "So much! So much! So much!" Gilardoni exclaimed, meaning a world of things.
Poor Gilardoni, his eyes were glistening. He himself had longed in vain for a happiness similar to his friend's! Franco understood and, much embarrassed, did not know what to say to him, and a silence so significant followed that Gilardoni could not stand it, and set about lighting a little fire to heat some coffee he had prepared. Franco offered to do this for him, and the Professor accepted, pleading his headache, and began unrolling his turban before a basin of the sedative water. "Well," said he, controlling his emotion by an effort of his will, "tell me all about it." Franco told him everything, from his grandmother's dinner-party, to the wedding ceremony in the church at Castello, except of course, his private talk with Signora Teresa. Professor Beniamino, meanwhile, had replaced his turban, and now summoned up all his courage. "And——" said he, substituting a sort of low groan for the beloved name, "how is she?" Upon learning of the hallucination he exclaimed: "A letter? She thought she saw a letter? But what letter?" This Franco did not know. A hissing on the fire interrupted the conversation; the coffee was boiling hard and bubbling over.
Gilardoni also resembled his young friend in that his heart might be read from his face. The young friend who was, however, a far cleverer and quicker reader of faces than he, at once perceived that he had thought of some special letter, and inquired, while the coffee was settling, if he could explain this hallucination. The Professor hastened to say "no," but no sooner had he uttered that "no" than he weakened it by adding several other negatives, mingled with inarticulate grumblings: "Ah, no!—no indeed!—I cannot say—certainly not!" Franco did not insist, and another extremely significant silence ensued. When he had taken his coffee, with many involuntary signs of uneasiness, the Professor promptly proposed that they go to bed. Franco, who must leave before daybreak, preferred not to go to bed, but wished his friend to do so, and, after an infinite number of protests and ceremonies, after hesitating on the very threshold, his basin of sedative water in his hand, the Professor suddenly faced about, and throwing a "good-night" over his shoulder, disappeared.
When he was alone Franco put out the lamp and stretched himself in an easy-chair with the good intention of going to sleep, seeking sleep in some indifferent thought if he could possibly fix his mind on such a thought. Not five minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door and immediately the Professor rushed in, without a light, and exclaiming: "Well, here I am again!" "What is the matter?" Franco inquired. "I am sorry I put out the light." At the same moment he felt the arms of the worthy Beniamino about his neck, his beard brushed Franco's face, and he smelt the camphor and heard the voice. "Dear, dear, Don Franco! I have an enormous load on my heart! I did not intend to speak now; I wanted to leave you in peace, but I cannot, I cannot!"
"But speak! Calm yourself, calm yourself!" said Franco, gently freeing himself from that embrace.
Gilardoni let him go, and pressed his hands to his forehead, groaning: "Oh, what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool I am! I might have left him alone; I might have waited until to-morrow or the next day. But now it is done! It is done!"
He seized Franco's hand. "I tell you I had begun to undress when a sort of giddiness came over me, and then it was all up with me. I must needs put on the dressing-gown again, and rush in here without a light, like a lunatic. In my haste I even tipped over the basin of sedative water."
"Shall we light the lamp?" Franco asked.
"No, no, no, we had better talk in the dark, better talk in the dark! See, I am going way over there!" And he sat down at his writing-desk, to escape the faint glimmer of light which fell through the window. Then he began. He always spoke in a nervous and disorderly fashion, and it may easily be imagined how he spoke now, in his present state of agitation.
"Shall I begin? Goodness knows what you will say, dear Don Franco! These are all useless words, but what would you have—alas! patience—! Well, I will begin—but where shall I begin? Oh, Lord! just see what a fool I am, not even knowing where to begin! Ah, that hallucination! Yes, I told you a lie just now; I can easily guess the origin of that hallucination. It has to do with a letter; a letter I showed Signora Teresa two years ago, a letter from Don Franco, your grandfather. Well, now let us begin at the beginning.
"During his last days my poor father spoke to me of a letter from Don Franco which I should find in the strong-box, where all the important papers were kept. He told me to read it, to preserve it carefully, and, when the time came, to act in accordance with the dictates of conscience. 'But' said he, 'it is almost certain there will be nothing to be done.' My poor father passed away. I searched the strong-box for the letter, but did not find it. I hunted the whole house over, but in vain. What could I do? I contented myself with reflecting that there was nothing to be done, and thought no more about the matter. A fool, was I not? A real idiot! Say so freely, I deserve it. I have said so to myself so many times! But let us continue. Do you know how your grandfather's estate was settled? Do you know how the affairs of your house were arranged? You will forgive me for speaking to you of these matters, will you not?"
"I know my grandfather died without a will, and that I have nothing," Franco replied. "But let us pass that over, and proceed."
To Franco it was truly a painful subject. At old Maironi's death no will had been found. In perfect love and harmony, the widow and the son, Don Alessandro, had divided the estate equally between them. In order to secure this arrangement the son had made a very large grant to his mother, declaring that he was only carrying out the paternal wishes, which had not found a means of expression. This depraved young man, a spendthrift and a gambler, was already caught in the toils of usurers at the time of his father's death. In the seven years he survived him he managed to spend everything, not leaving a penny to his only son, Franco, who found himself reduced to some twenty thousand svanziche, the fortune of his mother who had died in giving him birth.
"Yes, yes, let us get on," Gilardoni continued. "Three years ago, three years ago, I say, I received a letter from you. I remember it was the second of November, all Souls' Day. Curious circumstance, mysterious circumstance! Very well. That night I went to bed, and dreamed a dream. I dreamt of your grandfather's letter. Note that I had never thought of it again. I dreamt I was hunting for it, and that I found it in an old box I keep in the attic. I read it, still dreaming. It said there was a great treasure in the cellar of Casa Maironi at Cressogno and that that treasure was to come to you. I awoke in intense excitement, convinced that this had been a prophetic dream. I got up, and went to look in the box. I found nothing; but two days later, being about to sell certain lands which I owned at Dasio, I got out an old deed of purchase, which my father kept in the strong-box, and, in turning over the leaves, a letter fell out. I glanced at the signature and saw: Nobile Franco Maironi. I read the letter. It was the one in question! Thus you see, the dream...."
"Well," said Franco, interrupting him, "and what did this letter say?"
The Professor rose, took a match half a cubit long, ran it in among the live coals in the little fireplace, and lit the lamp.
"I have it here," he said with a great, despairing sigh. "Read it."
He took from his pocket and handed to Franco a small yellowish letter, without an envelope, and still showing traces of the little red wafer. The yellow-black lines of writing inside showed through here and there, almost in relief.
Franco took it, held it near the lamp, and read aloud as follows:
"Dear Carlin,—
"You will find my last will enclosed in this letter. I have written it in duplicate. One copy I am keeping. This is the other, and I charge you to publish it if the first be not forthcoming. Do you understand? Very well then; and when we meet I forbid you absolutely to worry me with your advice, as is your d——d custom. You are the only person in whom I have confidence, but, after all, it is my right to command, and your duty to obey. Therefore all advice is useless and will not be tolerated. Good-bye.
"Your affectionate master,
"Franco Maironi.
"Cressogno, 22 Sept., 1828."
"Now here is the will," said Gilardoni dolefully, handing Franco another yellow document, "but don't read that aloud."
The document read as follows:
"I, the undersigned, Nobile Franco Maironi, desire that my estate be divided in accordance with this, my last will and testament.
"Donna Orsola Maironi, born Marchesa Scremin, having deigned to accept my homage as well as that of many others, I bequeath to her, in proof of my gratitude, the sum of ten thousand Milanese Lire, to be paid once and for all, and what, to her, is the most precious jewel of my household, namely Don Alessandro Maironi, duly inscribed in the parish-registers of the Cathedral of Brescia as my son.
"I bequeath to my said son that part of my property which is lawfully due to him, and three parpagliole [H] a day more, in token of the special esteem in which I hold him.
"I leave to my agent in Brescia, Signor Grigi, should he be still in my employ at the time of my death, all that he has stolen from me.
"I leave to my agent in Valsolda, Carlino Gilardoni, upon the same condition as above, four Milanese Lire a day, during his natural life.
"I desire that, during the life of Donna Orsola Maironi Scremin, a Mass be celebrated daily in the Cathedral of Brescia, for the good of her soul.
"I name and appoint my grandson, Don Franco Maironi, son of Don Alessandro, residuary legatee of all the rest of my property.
"As witness my hand, this fifteenth day of April, 1828.
"Franco Maironi."
Franco read—and, half dazed and without a word, passed the sheet of paper back to the Professor. He was shaken, but felt vaguely that he must control himself, that he must restrain his own agitation, collect his thoughts, and strive to get a clear view of this matter and of himself.
"What do you say to that?" the Professor exclaimed.
At this point Gilardoni's intense excitement reached a climax.
"Why did I not speak before, eh?" he continued. "The thing is that I can't possibly give a clear, precise and positive reason for not having done so. Those papers were a horror to me! If I myself and my own father and mother had been involved in such a question, I would rather have let a million slip than ask for it with those documents in my hand. There! I have been a fool again, to have said that! Just forget those last words, for in your place ... it is a different thing. I was speaking for myself. Good Lord, of course I was speaking for myself! Well, I thought—see what an ass I was—I thought your grandmother just doted on you, and that your grandfather's property would go to you anyway. And with that idea...! After a while I consulted Signora Teresa, and showed her the letter and the will. She said I should have informed you at once, as soon as I had made the discovery, but that she could not give me any advice because now her daughter was, in a way, an interested party. Besides, she said.... But that is of no consequence. In short I saw the will was a horror to her also. Anyway, I was convinced your grandmother would end by accepting this marriage, and I did not speak. Tonight you come and tell me the Marchesa has used threats. Fancy that! Now you understand that I could not wait, that I could not keep these documents a moment longer. There—they are yours—take them!"
Franco, absorbed in his own thoughts, heard only these last words. "No," said he, "I will not take them. I know myself too well. With them in my possession I might be led into doing something rash, or into acting prematurely. You keep them for the present." Gilardoni would not hear of keeping them, and drove Franco into one of his fits of impatience. There was indeed nothing so irritating to his nerves as the inconclusive outpourings of kind-hearted but brainless persons. Gilardoni's opposition angered him, and he gave him to understand that this wish to rid himself of the documents at all costs, was selfishness pure and simple, and that those who have blundered must bear the consequences. The words he uttered amounted to this, but the angry and harsh expression of his face said much more. Gilardoni, whose face was crimson, shuddered at the accusation of selfishness, but controlled himself and putting on a grim frown in his turn, hastily pocketed the documents, repeated a string of "well, well, well, wells," and abruptly left the room. To appease his own conscience Franco at once set to work trying to convince himself that Signor Beniamino was entirely in the wrong. He had done wrong in not having given him the documents much sooner, and now he was doing wrong in taking offence. As he was quite sure he should make his peace with the inconclusive philosopher, he thought no more about him, put out the lamp, and, returning to his easy-chair, became once more engrossed in his previous meditations.
Now he was beginning to see clearly. He could not with dignity make use of that will, which, both in form and in substance was dishonouring to his grandmother, arousing as it did, when the letter was considered, a suspicion of criminal suppression. The will also reflected little honour upon his father. No, never. He must tell the professor to burn both documents.
"Thus, Madam Grandmother, shall I triumph over you!" thought Franco, "Making you a free gift of the property, and of your honour as well, without even taking the trouble to tell you of it!" Revelling in this thought Franco felt almost as if he were lifted above the earth, and he drew a long breath, vastly pleased with himself, his soul illumined and soothed by a sentiment of mingled generosity and pride. With all his faith and his acts of Christian piety, he was very far from suspecting that such a sentiment was not entirely good, and that a less self-conscious magnanimity would have been more noble.
He let himself sink back in his easy-chair, more disposed to rest than he had been before, thinking quietly of what he had read, of what he had heard, as one who has been on the verge of embarking upon some perilous speculation, and looks back upon the anxiety and the calamities from which he has escaped forever. Old memories were also beginning to stir in the depths of his soul. He recalled a certain tale an old servant had told concerning the riches of the house of Maironi, which, she said, had been stolen from the poor. He was a child then, and the woman had not hesitated to speak in his presence. But the child had received a deep impression, and this impression had been re-awakened in his early boyhood, by the words of a priest, who had confided to him, with an air of great secrecy and solemnity, and perhaps not without intention, that the Maironi fortune was the fruit of a law-suit which had been unjustly won against the Ospedale Maggiore of Milan.
"So, through me," thought Franco, "everything has gone back to the devil."
It struck him that perhaps it was late, so he lighted the lamp once more, and consulted his watch. It was half-past three. Now, it would be impossible for him to rest. The moment which would re-unite him to Luisa was too near at hand, his fancy was too greatly excited. One hour and a half more! He looked at his watch every two minutes; it seemed as if the tedious time would never pass. He took a book, but could not read. He opened the window; the air was soft, the silence profound, the lake was bright over towards S. Salvatore, and the heavens were studded with stars. At Oria he could see a light. Perhaps it would be his fate to live there in Uncle Piero's house. Gazing absently at that luminous spot, he began to imagine what the future would be, and ever-changing phantoms rose before him. At about half-past four he heard a bell ring on the lower floor, and presently Pinella came with a message from his master to the effect that if he wished to make the ascent of the Boglia it was time to start. The master had a severe headache, and could neither rise nor receive him. Franco searched on the writing-table for a sheet of paper, and wrote:
"Parce mihi, domine, quia brixiensis sum."
He went out, Pinella accompanying him with the light as far as the dark arcade, where the road to Castello begins. Then he disappeared.
The Marchesa Orsola rang her bell at half-past six, and ordered the maid to bring her chocolate as usual. She swallowed more than half of it before asking with the utmost composure, at what hour Don Franco had returned.
"He has not yet returned, Signora Marchesa."
The old woman must have received an inward shock, but not a muscle of her face twitched. She placed her lips on the edge of her cup of chocolate, looked at the maid, and said calmly:
"Bring me one of those little biscuits we had yesterday."
Towards eight o'clock the maid came back to say that Don Franco had returned, but only to go directly to his room for his passport, coming down again immediately, and he had then ordered the footman to find a boatman who would take him to Lugano. The Marchesa said never a word, but later in the day she sent word to her confidant Pasotti that she was expecting him. Pasotti took in the situation at a glance, and remained with her more than half an hour. The lady was determined to find out where and how her grandson had spent the night. Pasotti had already heard some rumours, which he now repeated, concerning a nocturnal visit of Don Franco's to Casa Rigey; but more reliable and precise information was desired. The cunning Tartufo, by nature as curious as a hound, that goes about following every scent, poking his nose into every hole, and rubbing it against every pair of trowsers, promised to furnish the Marchesa with such information in the course of a day or two, and then took himself off, his eyes sparkling, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a pleasant chase.
Footnotes
[ [H] Parpagliota: a small coin then in circulation, and worth about twenty centimes (?). [Translator's note.]
CHAPTER V
THE ROGUE AT WORK
The next morning, Pasotti having imbibed his coffee and milk, lay pondering the plan of the chase until half-past ten, when he summoned Signora Barborin, who slept in another room because her snoring disturbed the "Controller," as she respectfully called her husband. "He is quite right," the poor deaf woman would say, "it is a terribly bad habit, this snoring of mine!" She was older than Pasotti, whom she had accepted as her second husband because her heart was very susceptible, and to whom she had brought certain moneys which he had long coveted, and was now enjoying. The Controller was fond of her in his own way; he obliged her to make calls, to go on boating excursions, to take long walks in the hills, all of which things were torments to her. He made fun of her deafness, sent her out covered with silks and feathers, and at home made her work like any drudge. In spite of all this she respected and served him like a slave, in fear and trembling it is true, but not without affection. When she did not call him "the Controller" she called him "Pasotti," but she never allowed herself to use a more familiar appellation.
Pasotti, with a face as stern as any satrap, ordered her by gestures to go to the drawer for a white shirt, to the wardrobe for his second-best suit, to a cupboard for a pair of boots. When his wife had prepared everything, hunting anxiously here and there, continually facing about to follow the eyes and gestures of the master who several times called her a fool, when she would stare open-mouthed at him, striving to catch the word she had only seen, Pasotti stuck his legs out of bed, and said:
"Here you are!"
Signora Barborin knelt before him, and began pulling on his stockings, while the Controller, stretching out his arm to the pedestal, took his snuff-box, and, having opened it, continued his previous meditations, his fingers buried in the snuff. He intended to make several visits of discovery, but in what order should he arrange them? From what his farmer had told him, he judged that Signor Giacomo Puttini's Marianna, and perhaps even Signor Giacomo himself must know something about Don Franco, and certainly something must be known in Castello. While Signora Barborin was tying the second shoe-lace, Pasotti remembered that it was Tuesday. Every Tuesday Signor Giacomo, with a few friends, was in the habit of going to the market at Lugano, or rather to the tavern called "del Lordo," in order to vary the daily wine of Grimelli by a weekly glass of an undiluted vintage, and he often came home in an affectionate and communicative frame of mind. It would therefore be better to call upon him late in the day, say between four and five. In fancy Pasotti was already holding him in his hand, and managing him as he liked. With a malicious smile he raised his fingers from the snuff-box, shook the pinch to the proper dimensions by means of a few gentle, even raps, enjoyed it at his leisure, and then his wife having given him his handkerchief, he rewarded her by mumbling with a benign expression of countenance, as he rolled the handkerchief into a ball: "Poor woman! poor creature!"
When, after half an hour's labour he had put on and buttoned up his coat, he exclaimed, seriously: "What d—— hard work!" and went to the glass. Then his wife ventured to edge cautiously towards the door, saying very timidly—
"Can I go now?"
Pasotti turned round frowning and imperious, and beckoning to her to approach, he drew about her head and person certain lines in the air, which meant a hat and shawl. She did not understand, and stood staring at him, with her mouth open. Then she pointed her forefinger at his breast, questioning him with her eyes, and her lifted eyebrows, as if suspecting he wanted those articles for himself. Pasotti answered this questioning in the same manner, with three stabs of his forefinger, which signified: "you, you, you!" Then, making the motions of cutting something with his open hand, he gave her to understand that she was to go out with him. She started several times, astonished and protesting, opened her eyes extremely wide, and said in that voice of hers which seemed to come from the cellar:
"Where?"
The Controller's only answer was a fulminating glance and a gesture: "march!" He did not intend to give any further information.
Signora Barborin struggled a little longer.
"I have not breakfasted yet," she said.
Her husband took her by the shoulders, drew her towards him, and shouted into her face:
"You will breakfast later."
Only at Albogasio Inferiore, in front of the Annunziata, did he inform her, by pointing to the place with his stick, that they were going to Cadate, to that old manor-house planted in the lake between Casarico and Albogasio, and generally known as "the Palace," where there lived, all alone, in the small rooms of the upper story, the priest, Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri and his servant Maria, called "Maria of the Palace." Pasotti knowing well that both were eager listeners, but extremely cautious in talking, wished to examine them one at a time, without seeming to do so, and, if he found any soft spot, he intended to press it very gently. He had brought his wife with him that she might help him in this delicate matter of taking them one at a time, and she, poor innocent, trotted on behind him with short, quick steps, and followed him down the flight of one hundred and twenty-nine steps called the "Calcinera," never suspecting the perfidious part she was to act.
The lake was like oil, and Don Giuseppe, a fine, pursy priest, short and fat, with white hair, a ruddy complexion and small glistening eyes, was seated near the fig-tree in his garden, with a black straw hat on his head, and a white handkerchief round his neck, angling for carp, certain big, fat carp, grown old and wary, that might be seen moving about very slowly under the water, all for love of the figs, and that were as inquisitive and, at the same time, as cautious as the priest and his servant. This latter was not visible. Pasotti finding the street-door open, went in, calling out for Don Giuseppe and Maria. As no one answered he planted his wife in a chair and went down into the garden, making straight for the fig-tree, where Don Giuseppe was sitting, who, on catching sight of him, went into a fit of ceremonious convulsions. He threw down his fishing-rod and went towards Pasotti vociferating: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! In this state! My dear Controller! Come up-stairs! Come up-stairs! My dear Controller! In this state! I hope you will excuse me! I hope you will excuse me!" But Pasotti would not hear of "going up," he was bound to remain where he was. Don Giuseppe began bawling for "Maria! Maria!" Presently Maria's big face appeared at a window in the upper story.
Don Giuseppe called to her to bring down a chair. Then the Controller revealed the presence of his wife, whereupon the big face disappeared and Don Giuseppe had another fit.
"How is this? How is this? Signora Barborin? She here? Oh, Lord! Come up-stairs!" and he started forward impelled by obsequiousness, but Pasotti reduced him to obedience, at first catching him by the arm, and then declaring that he wished to see him take one or two of those monstrous carp; and notwithstanding Don Giuseppe's protests: "It is no use! I sha'n't catch anything! They're far too cunning, these fish. They see!" in the end he was obliged to throw his line.
At first Pasotti pretended to watch him, but finally he also threw his line.
He began by asking Don Giovanni how long it was since he had been to Castello. Upon being informed that he had been there the day before to see his friend, the curate Intrioni, the good Tartuffe, who could not abide Intrioni, burst into a perfect panegyric of him. What a jewel, this curate of Castello! What a heart of gold! And had Don Giuseppe been to Casa Rigey? No, Signora Teresa was too ill. More panegyrics concerning Signora Teresa and Luisa. What a splendid creature! What circumspection, what high principles, what sentiment! And the Maironi affair? It was still going on, was it not? Had it gone far?
"I know nothing, nothing, nothing!" Don Giuseppe said sharply.
At that hasty denial Pasotti's eyes sparkled. He took a step forward. Oh, come now. It was not possible that Don Giuseppe did not know anything! It was not possible that he had not discussed the matter with Intrioni! Was not Intrioni aware that Don Franco had spent the night at Casa Rigey?
"I know nothing about it, nothing at all!" Don Giuseppe repeated.
Then Pasotti declared that by this concealment of certain well known circumstances, many were led to suspect evil. What the deuce! Don Franco had of course gone to Casa Rigey with the most honourable intentions, therefore——
"A bite! A bite!" whispered Don Giuseppe hurriedly, and he leaned far out over the parapet, grasped the end of the pole firmly, and fixed his gaze on the water as if a fish were about to seize the hook. "A bite!"
Pasotti, much vexed, gazed into the water also, but declared he could see nothing.
"He has made off, the wretch! But his mouth almost touched the hook. He must have felt the prick!" said Don Giuseppe, sighing and straightening himself up. He also had felt the prick of the hook, and was trying to "make off" as the fish had done.
The other renewed his attack, but in vain. Don Giuseppe had seen nothing, heard nothing, talked of nothing, knew nothing. Pasotti was silent, and the priest in turn, threw out a bit of timid malice: "They don't bite well to-day,—there must be something in the air."
In the house, meanwhile, the dialogue between Maria and Signora Barborin had proceeded most unsatisfactorily, after the first affectionate exchange of greetings, which had been a great success. Maria proposed by gestures that they go into the garden, but Signora Pasotti begged with clasped hands, to be allowed to remain in her chair. Then the big Maria took another chair, and seating herself beside her guest tried to talk to her. But she found it impossible to make her understand, no matter how she shrieked, so gave up in despair, and taking her great cat upon her lap, talked to him instead.
Poor Signora Barborin, who was quite resigned, watched the cat with her great black eyes, dimmed by age and grief. Ah! here was Pasotti at last, with Don Giuseppe, who at once began to puff out his:
"Oh, good Lord! My dear Signora Barborin! Pray excuse me!" Maria having confessed to the Scior Controlor that his wife and she had not been able to understand each other, her master—as a mark of respect for Signora Pasotti—called the servant a "block head," and, as she attempted to justify herself, he prudently checked her by an imperious wave of the hand and a string of "there, there, there's." Then he signalled to her mysteriously with his head, and she left the room. Pasotti followed her, and told her that his wife really felt obliged to call on the Rigeys, but was in doubt as to how she should act, having heard certain rumours which were current, and that she had greatly hoped to gain some information from Maria, for "Maria always knew everything."
"What foolish talk!" said Maria, much flattered. "I never know anything; but I can tell you to whom your wife must apply. To Signor Giacomo Puttini. It is Signor Giacomo Puttini who always knows everything."
"Well done!" thought Pasotti, adding these remarks to what the farmer had said, and concluding he was on the track at last. At the same time he shrugged his shoulders incredulously. Signor Giacomo might perhaps be aware of what was going on in the moon, but that was all; he never knew anything else. Maria insisted, and the old fox began to press her with questions, beating cautiously about the bush; but he found her obdurate, and presently he saw that he should have his labour for his pains, and that he must be satisfied with that one bit of information. He became silent, and half satisfied, half preoccupied, returned to the room where Don Giuseppe was explaining to Signora Barborin, by means of appropriate gestures, that Maria was going to bring her something to eat. In fact the woman appeared presently with a square, glass jar, full of brandy-cherries, a renowned specialty of Don Giuseppe's, who was in the habit of offering them solemnly to his guests, in his own peculiar Italian:
"Allow me to offer you something! Will you try a few of my cherries? Magara con un tochello di pane? Perhaps with a slice of bread?" And then, lapsing into dialect once more: "Maria, tajee gio un poo de pan—cut off a bit of bread."
Signora Barborin feasted on bread alone, following the advice of her satanic husband, who himself took cherries without bread. Then they went away together, and she was permitted to return to Albogasio, while the Controller set off in the direction of Casa Gilardoni.
"That Pasotti is a rogue," said Maria when she had bolted the street-door.
"He is not only a rogue, but an extra big rogue! A bargnif!" Don Giuseppe exclaimed, remembering the hook; and by the application of the dialect title of "Bargnif," which means the arch-fiend, considered in the light of his great cunning, these two mild beings found relief for their feelings, and a compensation for so many things given unwillingly: courtesies, smiles and cherries.
Professor Gilardoni was reading perched on his belvedere in the kitchen-garden, when he caught sight of Pasotti coming towards him behind Pinella, between the rows of beets and turnips. He had little liking for the Controller, with whom he had exchanged only one or two calls, and who had the reputation of being a tedescone, a rank German. Nevertheless, being inclined to think the best of those with whom he was only slightly acquainted, he found no difficulty in extending to him the same cordial courtesy which it was his habit to show to every one. He went to meet his guest, velvet cap in hand, and after a skirmish of compliments which proved an easy victory for Pasotti, Gilardoni returned to the belvedere with him.
Pasotti, on the other hand, felt a lively dislike for the Professor, not so much because he knew him to be a Liberal, as because, though Gilardoni did not go to Mass as often as he himself did, he lived like a Puritan, loving neither the table nor the bottle, neither tobacco nor certain loose discourses. Moreover he did not play tarocchi. One evening, when talking in the kitchen-garden with Don Franco, of the tremendous bouts of eating and drinking which Pasotti and his friends often celebrated in the taverns of Bisnago, the Professor had said something which was overheard by the big curate, one of the gluttons, whose boat, in which he himself sat fishing, happened to be gliding along very softly, close to the walls. "Miserable knave!" the most worthy Controller had exclaimed when the words were repeated to him, his face wearing the expression of a bargnif bilioso, of Satan with a bilious attack. The exclamation had been followed by a contemptuous snarl, after which the Controller spat protestingly. This, however, did not prevent him from overflowing on the present occasion with excuses for having unduly postponed his visit, nor from immediately spying out the volume resting on the rustic table of the belvedere. Gilardoni saw him glance at it and, as the book in question was one of those forbidden by the government, he took it up almost instinctively as soon as he had started the conversation, and rested it on his knee in such a manner that Pasotti could not read the title. This precaution disturbed Pasotti, who was just then praising the little villa and the garden in all their particulars, and in the tone best adapted to each part; the beets, with amiable familiarity, the aloes, with serious and frowning admiration. An angry light flashed in his eyes, and then disappeared.
"Fortunate man," he sighed. "If my affairs would permit it, I myself should like to live in Valsolda."
"It is a peaceful spot," said the Professor.
"Yes, a peaceful spot; and, besides, nowadays those who have served the Government are not comfortable in the big towns. People make no distinction between a faithful official who attends strictly to his own duties, as I have done, and a police-spy. We are exposed to many suspicions, many humiliations——"
The Professor turned red, and was sorry he had removed the book from the little table. In fact, notwithstanding his assumption of humility, Pasotti was too proud to act the spy, and, owing to this pride, or perhaps to some good strain in him, he had never done so. Thus in his words there was a grain of sincerity, a grain of gold, which sufficed to give them the ring of true metal. Gilardoni, touched by this, offered his guest a glass of beer, and hastened away in search of Pinella, glad of an excuse for leaving the book on the little table.
Hardly had the Professor disappeared when Pasotti snatched up the volume, and gave it an inquisitive glance; then he laid it down on the same spot, and stationed himself at the top of the steps, toying with the snuff in the box he held open in his hand, and smiling a smile half of beatitude, half of admiration, at the lake, the hills and the sky. The book was a volume of Giusti, pretending to have been published in Brussels or rather Brusselle, and bearing the title: Italian Poems, from manuscripts. Written across one corner of the fly-leaf was the name: "Mariano Fornic." It needed less keenness than Pasotti possessed to perceive at once in that heteroclite, the anagram of Franco Maironi.
"How lovely! What a paradise!" said he softly, while the Professor was coming up the steps followed by Pinella with the beer.
Presently, between two sips of beer, he confessed that his visit was not entirely of a disinterested nature. He declared that he was in love with the blossoming wall that upheld the kitchen-garden on the lake-side, and that he wished to copy it at Albogasio Superiore, where, though the lake was wanting, there were plenty of bare walls. Where did the Professor get those aloes, those roses and caper-bushes?
"Why," the other answered frankly. "Maironi gave them to me."
"Don Franco?" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! I will appeal to Don Franco, who is always very kind to me."
And he took out his snuff-box. "Poor Don Franco," said he, with all the tenderness of a compassionate rogue as he scrutinised and fingered the snuff. "Poor young man! He sometimes flies into a passion, but, after all, he is a splendid fellow. A heart of the best! Poor young man! Do you see him often?"
"Yes, quite often."
"If only his hopes could be realised, poor young man! His hopes and hers also, of course. That affair is not off, is it?"
Pasotti put this question with the skill of a great actor, with affectionate but discreet interest, with no more curiosity than was fitting, and with the intention of lubricating and softening somewhat Gilardoni's closed heart, that it might open of itself, little by little. But Gilardoni's heart, instead of spreading itself open at that gentle touch, contracted and closed tighter than ever.
"I don't know," the Professor replied, feeling the colour mounting to his face, and indeed he turned scarlet. In his mental note-book Pasotti immediately made a note of the embarrassed manner, and of the heightened colour. "He would be unwise to throw up the game. It is only natural that the Marchesa should create difficulties for them, but after all, she is a good creature, and devoted to him. Poor woman, what a fright she had the other night!"
He glanced at the Professor who was frowning in uneasy silence, and reflected: You will not speak? Then you know. "Just think of it! Not to say where he was going! What do you think of that?"
"But I know nothing about it, I don't understand." Gilardoni exclaimed, frowning more darkly still and growing ever more uneasy.
And now Pasotti, who was aware that the Professor had long since ceased to visit the Rigeys, but was ignorant of the reason why, made a move which was worthy only of a novice in roguery.
"You might enquire about it at Castello." said he, with a malicious simper.
At this point Gilardoni, who was already boiling with rage, overflowed.
"Pray oblige me by dropping this subject," said he, angrily, "oblige me by dropping it."
Pasotti grew sullen. Ceremonious, insinuating, and given to adulation though he was, his pride would not allow him to suffer an unpleasant word calmly, and he took offence at every shadow. He said no more, and in a few minutes took his leave with dignified coolness, and retired through the beets and the turnips, nursing his wrath. On reaching the top of the Contrada dei Mal'ari, the bargnif paused a moment to think, resting his chin on his hand, then he started towards the shore of Casarico, moving slowly, his head bent low, but with glistening eyes, like the poodle that smells the hidden truffle in the air. Don Giuseppe's frightened denials, Maria's obstinate denials, and the Professor's embarrassment and outburst of temper, told him that a truffle really existed, and that it must be a big one. He had thought of going to Loggi where dwelt Paolin and Paolon, both of whom were well informed, but then he had remembered that it was Tuesday, and that probably he would not find them. No, it would be better to go directly up to Castello from Casarico, and sniff and hunt about in the house of a certain Signora Cecca, an admirable woman, all heart, and famous for the assiduous watch she kept from her window over the entire Valsolda by means of a powerful spy-glass. She could tell you any day who had gone to Lugano with the boatman Pin, or with Panighet; noted the conversations the unhappy Pinella held with a certain Mochét in front of the church at Albogasio, half a mile distant; she knew how many days it had taken Engineer Ribera to drink the little cask of wine which his boat carried back empty from the house at Oria to the cellar at S. Margherita. If Franco had been to Casa Rigey Signora Cecca must surely know it.
In the passage that leads from Casarico to the narrow street of Castello, Pasotti heard hurried steps behind him, and then some one brushed past him in the darkness and he believed he had recognised a man nicknamed "légora fugada" or the "hunted hare," because of the furious pace at which he always walked. This honest man, who was even more inquisitive than Pasotti, was a most worthy person who loved to know things just for the sake of knowing them, and for no other reason. He always went about alone, was everywhere, appearing and disappearing like a flash, sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, like certain large, winged insects, which pass with a glance, a whirr, a touch, and then, hush! they are neither heard nor seen again until there comes another glance, another whirr, another touch. He had seen the Pasottis enter the "Palace," and the unusual hour had caused him to suspect something. Lying flat in a small field he had seen Signora Barborin turn homewards, and the Controller start towards Casarico. Then, having followed at a distance, this individual had posted himself behind one of the pilasters of the portico of Casarico while Pasotti was calling on Gilardoni, and now he had slipped past him, taking advantage of the dark passage, and hastening to reach Castello before him, that he might watch his movements from some point of vantage.
In fact he saw him enter Signora Cecca's house.
The old lady, who had the goitre, was in her little parlour, holding a small urchin on her left arm, while with her free hand she supported a very long and slender pasteboard tube, which was struck slanting across the window like a wall-gun and pointed down at the sparkling lake, at a white sail, filled with the breva. On the entrance of Pasotti, who came forward with stooping shoulders, his face suffused with a most gentle gaiety, the kindly and hospitable old dame hastened to put down the monstrous pasteboard nose, which she was so fond of poking into the most distant affairs of others, where her own parchment nose, though it was long beyond measure, could not reach. She received the Controller as she might have received a saintly miracle-worker, who had come to remove her goitre.
"Oh, how kind of you! Dear Sior Controlor! Oh, how kind! What a pleasure! What a pleasure!"
And she made him sit down and nearly suffocated him with her offers of hospitality.
"A piece of cake! A bit of nut-candy! Dear Sior Controlor! A little wine! A taste of rosoho!—You must excuse me," she added, for the youngster had begun to whine. "He is my little grandson, you know. My little pet."
Pasotti took a great deal of urging, having not only Don Giovanni's cherries, but also Gilardoni's beer in his stomach, but finally he was obliged to yield, and resign himself to gnawing a piece of that accursed almond cake, while the urchin clung to his grandmother's goitre.
At this the sarcastic rogue said pathetically, laughing in his sleeve the while: "Poor Signora Cecca! Twice a mother!" When he had enquired for her husband and for all her descendants even unto the third generation, he brought forward Signora Teresa Rigey. How was that poor lady? Bad! Really very bad? But since when had she been worse? Had there been any cause? Some trouble, perhaps? The old troubles were well known, but had there been some fresh ones? Perhaps on Luisina's account? About the marriage? And did Don Franco come to Castello? Ah, not in the daytime, but perhaps——?
As the patient who is being questioned and examined by the surgeon searching for the painful, hidden spot, answers ever more briefly, ever more fearfully as the hand draws nearer and nearer to the point, and starts and draws back as soon as the spot is touched, so Signora Cecca answered Pasotti ever more briefly, ever more cautiously, until, at that "but" which touched the painful spot so delicately, she started, exclaiming—
"A little more cake, Sior Controlor! It is a cake light enough for young girls."
Pasotti in his heart cursed the "young girls" and their cake, a concoction of honey, chalk and almond oil, but deemed it prudent to swallow another mouthful before once more touching, or rather pressing the tender spot he had discovered.
"I know nothing! I know nothing! Absolutely nothing!" Signora Cecca exclaimed. "Try sounding Puttini. Try Signor Giacomo. And pray don't ask me anything more." Again! Pasotti's face shone at the prospect of getting the unlucky Signor Giacomo into his clutches. Thus the eyes of a falcon might shine at the joyous prospect of snatching a frog, and of holding him in his claws, to toy with at pleasure. Presently he took his departure well satisfied with everything save with the chalky cake, which lay like lead in his stomach.
Casa Puttini, which, within its minute, genteel appearance, resembled the little old gentleman who ruled it, in a black coat and white stock, stood just below that stately pile, Casa Pasotti, on the road to Albogasio Inferiore. The falcon went there in the afternoon, towards five o'clock, with a cunning expression on his face. He knocked at the door and then listened. He was there! The unlucky frog was there! And he was quarrelling as usual with the perfidious servant. Pasotti knocked louder. "Go down!" said Signor Giacomo, but Marianna would not hear of going down to open the door. "Go down! I am the master!" It was all in vain. Pasotti knocked again, knocked like a battering-ram. "Who the devil can it be!" scolded Puttini, and he came down puffing: "Apff! apff!" to open the door. "Oh, most gracious Controller!" said he winking hard, and raising his eyebrows pathetically. "Pray excuse me! That awful servant! I am quite worn out! You would not believe the things that go on in this house!"
"That is a lie!" Marianna cried from above.
"Hold your tongue, you!" And then Signor Giacomo began telling his woes, stopping from time to time to silence the protests of the invisible servant.
"Just fancy! This morning I went to Lugano. I got home about three o'clock. On the doorstep—look there—I saw some splashes. Hold your tongue, you! I did not heed them, and went straight in. At the head of the kitchen-stairs there were more splashes. Be quiet, will you?—What can have been spilled? said I to myself, and I stooped and touched the spots with my finger. It was something greasy; I smelt it, it was oil. Then I followed the splashes, touching and sniffing, sniffing and touching. All oil, most gracious Controller! So I said to myself again: Either it came in, or it went out. If it came in, the farmer brought it, and in that case there will be splashes outside the door, and they will extend upwards, if it went out, that means that this accursed.... Hold your tongue, I say!... took it to S. Mamette and sold it, and then the splashes outside will extend downwards. So back I went, always following the splashes and presently I found myself here at the door. Most gracious Controller, those splashes all extended downwards! That d——"
At this point the servant's voice rang out like the bell on an alarm-clock, and no "hold your tongue" was strong enough to stem that shrill flow of angry words. Pasotti tried, and not succeeding, flew into a passion himself, and shouted: "Oh, you cheat!" following up that title with a string of insults, at each of which Signor Giacomo gave a low grunt of satisfaction. "Yes, yes, give it to her! that's right! I am much obliged to you. Yes, shout,—that's right. You torment, you!—I am really greatly obliged to you, most gracious Controller! Really greatly obliged!"
When Marianna had been overpowered and reduced to silence, Pasotti told Signor Giacomo that he must speak a few words with him. "I am really not up to it," the little man complained. "You must excuse me, for I feel quite ill."
"Not up to it, not up to it, indeed!" shouted Marianna who had revived. "You had better tell us how you wear yourself out going up to Castello at night to see the girls!"
"Hold your tongue," Puttini shrieked, while Pasotti exclaimed, with a fiendish grin: "What, what, what!" Seeing that Puttini was becoming furious, he took him by the arm, and calming him with peaceful and affectionate language, dragged him away to his own house where he at once summoned his wife, and started a game of three-handed tarocchi, with the purpose of soothing the poor frog, and getting a firmer grip of him.
If Signora Barborin played badly, Signor Giacomo, meditating, pondering and puffing, played worse. He was an extremely timid player, and never set himself up alone against the other two, but to-day at the very first deal, he discovered that he held such extraordinary cards that he was seized with a fit of courage, and, to use the language of the game, he entered. "Goodness knows what sort of a hand he has!" Pasotti growled.
"I don't say.... I don't say.... There certainly are several friars who walk in slippers."
Signor Giacomo's "I don't say" meant that he held marvellous cards, and the friars in slippers, in his lingo, were the four kings of the game. While he was getting ready to play, feasting his eyes upon his cards, and feeling each one in turn, Pasotti took the opportunity of opening fire, hoping to make him lose the game, into the bargain. "Come now," said he, "tell us about it! When was it you went to Castello at night?"
"Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Don't talk about it," Signor Giacomo replied, growing very red and sorting his cards faster than ever.
"Well, well, play away then. We can talk later. I know the whole story any way!"
Poor Signor Giacomo, how could he play with that bone in his throat? He sorted and puffed, led when he should not have done so, blundered in adding up the points, lost two of the friars and their slippers as well, and in spite of his splendid hand, left several markers in the clutches of Pasotti who was grinning with delight, and several more on the little plate beside Signora Barborin, who kept repeating with clasped hands: "What have you done, Signor Giacomo? what have you done?"
Pasotti gathered up the cards and began shuffling them, casting sardonic glances at Signor Giacomo, who did not know where to look.
"Certainly," said he, "I know everything. Signora Cecca told me the whole story. I assure you, my dear Political Deputy, you will be called upon to answer for this before the Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza."
With these words Pasotti passed the cards to Puttini, that he might cut. But Puttini, hearing that dreaded name, began to groan:
"Oh Lord! Oh Lord! What is that you say?... I know nothing.... Oh Lord! The Imperial and Royal Commissary?... I assure you I can't see what for! ... apff!"
"Certainly," Pasotti repeated. He was waiting for a word that should enlighten him, and by pointing first to the door and then to his own mouth, he made his wife understand that she was to fetch something to drink.
"And that dreadful engineer as well!" Signor Giacomo exclaimed, as if speaking to himself.
As the fisherman who, pulling hard on the long, heavy line quivering, he fancies, with the weight of the one big fish he has been angling for so long, finally redoubles his caution and skill, as, with a thrill, he sees two great shadowy fishes instead of one rising from the depths, so Pasotti, upon hearing this allusion to the engineer, was thrilled and amazed, and began preparing, with the most exquisitely delicate touch, to draw out this secret concerning Signor Giacomo and Ribera.
"Certainly," said he, "you did wrong."
Silence on Signor Giacomo's part.
Pasotti insisted.
"You did very wrong."
But just then Signora Barborin entered, smiling genially, and bearing a tray with the bottle and glasses. The wine was of a dark red, shot through with ruby lights, and Signor Giacomo contemplated it if not yet tenderly, at least benevolently. This wine had an aroma of austere virtue, and Signor Giacomo smelt of it affectionately, gazed at it with emotion, and then smelt of it again. This wine had that mellow richness which fills both palate and soul with its flavour, and indeed it possessed exactly that honest and pure tartness that its aroma pre-announced, and Signor Giacomo sipped it and wished it were not liquid and evanescent, tasted it, smacked his lips over it, and rolled it under his tongue. When, from time to time, he rested his glass on the little table, neither his hand nor his languid gaze were withdrawn from it.
"Poor Engineer! Poor Ribera!" Pasotti exclaimed. "He is a most upright man, but ..."
And as he pulled and pulled the unlucky Signor Giacomo began to rise to the hook and the line.
"I myself did not wish it," he said. "'Twas he made me go—'Come along,' said he. 'Why do you not wish to go? There will be no harm done. The thing is honest.' 'Yes!' I answered, 'so it seems to me also, but all this secrecy?' 'On account of the grandmother,' he replied. 'But then,' I asked, 'what sort of a figure shall you and I cut?' 'We are just a couple of simpletons!' he answered, with that way of his—honest, old-fashioned soul that he is,—that always gets round me. 'I will go,' said I."
Here he paused. Pasotti waited a while, and then gave the line a cautious jerk. "The trouble is," said he, "that the story leaked out at Castello."
"Yes, Sir, and I was sure it would. The family and the engineer might keep the secret, and of course I should never speak, but the priest and the sacristan would surely talk."
The priest? The sacristan? Ah! at last Pasotti understood. He staggered! He had not expected such a tremendous disclosure. He filled the unhappy Signor Giacomo's glass, and had little difficulty in getting all the particulars of the wedding out of him. Then he tried to find out what plans for the future the young people had formed, but in this he did not succeed. He began shuffling the cards with the intention of continuing the game, but Signor Giacomo looked at his watch, and found that it wanted only nine minutes to seven, at which hour he was in the habit of winding his clock. Three minutes in the street, two minutes on the stairs, and there remained only four minutes for leave-taking. "Reckon it out for yourself, most gracious Controller. It is as I say: there is no doubt about it."
Signora Bardorin, noticing this consultation, questioned her husband about it. Pasotti raised his hands to his mouth, and shouted into her face: "He wants to go and see his sweetheart!" "What nonsense! What nonsense!" poor Signor Giacomo exclaimed, turning all colours; and Signora Pasotti, having understood by a miracle, opened her mouth enormously wide, not knowing whether or no to believe her husband. "His sweetheart? Oh, what nonsense. It is foolish talk, is it not, Signor Giacomo? Of course you might have a sweetheart, I don't deny that. You're not old, but...!" Seeing that he really intended to be off, she tried to detain him, telling him she had some chestnuts from Venegono on the fire, which were nearly done, and begging him to accept some of them. But neither the chestnuts nor Pasotti's reproaches could persuade Signor Giacomo, and he departed with the spectre of the Imperial and Royal Commissary in his heart, harassed by unpleasant twinges of conscience, and a vague sense of dissatisfaction with himself, which he could not explain, and feeling instinctively that the perfidious servant's insolence was, after all, preferable to Pasotti's cajoleries.
As to the latter, his eyes shone even brighter than usual. He intended going to Cressogno at once. Being an indefatigable walker he expected to get there by eight o'clock. He was hugely pleased at the prospect of going to the Marchesa with his great discovery in pectore, of acting mysteriously, of dropping the most artful hints, one by one, and of obliging her to wrest the particulars from him. For his own gratification he was already preparing a gentle and soothing little speech to lay upon the wound of the imperturbable old dame, so that she might not be able to hide it, and that no one might complain of him, not even Franco. He went to the kitchen where he got them to light a lantern for him, for the night was very dark, and then he set out.
At the door he met his steward who was just coming in. The steward greeted him, and carried a large basket of fruit into the kitchen, and, having helped the maid put it away, he seated himself by the fire, and said placidly:
"Signora Teresa of Castello has just passed away."
CHAPTER VI
THE OLD LADY OF MARBLE
The door was opened a little way, very, very softly; the maid looked in, and called to Franco, who was absorbed in prayer, kneeling by a chair near the couch upon which the dead woman lay. Franco did not hear, and it was Luisa who rose. She went to listen to the woman's whispered request, said something in reply, and when the maid had withdrawn, stood waiting for some one. As no one appeared she pushed the door open and said aloud: "Come in, come in." A great sob answered her. Luisa stretched out both hands and Professor Gilardoni seized them. They stood some time thus, motionless, fighting their sorrow with tightly pressed lips, he more shaken than she. Luisa was the first to move. She gently withdrew one hand, and, with the other, led the Professor into the chamber of death.
Signora Teresa had passed away in the drawing-room in the armchair from which she had never been able to rise after the night of the wedding. They had made the sofa into a funeral couch, and laid her out upon it. The sweet face rested there on the pillow, showing waxen in the light of the four candles, the lips were slightly parted, and it was as if a smile shone through the closed eyelids. The couch and the clothes were strewn with autumn flowers; cyclamen, dahlias and chrysanthemums. "See how beautiful she is," said Luisa, in a tender, quiet tone that went to the heart. The Professor stood leaning upon a chair at some distance from the bed.
"Do you realise it, Mamma," Luisa said softly, "how much you are beloved?"
She knelt down, and taking one of the dead hands, began kissing it, caressing it, and murmuring sweet words over it in a low voice; then she was silent, and, replacing the hand, she rose, kissed the brow and contemplated the face with clasped hands. She recalled her mother's reproofs in past years, remembering every one since her childhood, for she had always felt them deeply. Once more she fell upon her knees, and pressed her lips to the icy hand with an impulse of affection more ardent than if she had been dwelling upon past caresses. Then taking a cyclamen from her mother's shoulder, she rose and offered it to the Professor. He took it, weeping, and going to Franco, whom he now met for the first time since that night, he embraced him with silent emotion, and felt his embrace returned. Then, stepping very softly, he left the room.
It was striking eight o'clock. Signora Teresa had died the night before at six; in twenty-six hours Luisa had never rested for a moment, and had left the room only four or five times for a few minutes. Franco it was who often went out, and remained away a long time.
Summoned in secret he had reached Castello just in time to see the poor mother alive, and it had fallen to his lot to perform all the sad offices which death imposes, for Uncle Piero, in spite of his years, had not the slightest knowledge of these matters, and was greatly bewildered by them.
Now, hearing it strike eight, he went to his wife and gently urged her to take a little rest, but Luisa answered him at once in a way that put an end to his insistence. The funeral was to take place the next morning at nine o'clock. She had wished it to be postponed for as long as possible, and intended to remain with her mother to the last. In her slim person there was an indomitable vigour capable of withstanding still greater trials. For her, her mother was there still, on that narrow couch, among the flowers. She did not think that a part of her was elsewhere, did not look out of the west window, seeking her among the tiny stars that trembled above the hills of Carona. Her one thought was that in a few hours, the darling mother, who had lived so many years for her alone, caring for naught else on earth save her happiness, would be laid away to sleep for ever under the great walnut-trees of Looch, in the shadowy solitude where the little cemetery of Castello rests in silence, while she herself would continue to enjoy life, the sun, and love. She had answered Franco almost sharply as if, in some way, affection for the living were an offence to the affection for the dead. Then, fearing she had hurt him, she repented, kissed him and endeavoured to pray, knowing that in this she would be pleasing him, and that certainly her mother would have expected this of her. She began reciting the Pater, the Ave and the Requiem over and over again, but without deriving the slightest comfort from them, experiencing, rather, a secret irritation, an unwelcome drying up of her grief. She had always practised religion, but, after the ardour of her first Communion had died out, her soul had ceased to be associated in religious observance. Her mother had lived rather for the next world than for this; she had regulated her every action, her every word, her every thought with that end in view. In her precocious intellectual development, Luisa's ideas and sentiments had taken another direction, with that determined vigour which was one of her characteristics. She covered these views, however, with certain half-conscious, half-unconscious dissimulations, partly for love of her mother, partly because some germ of religion, sown by maternal precepts, fostered by example, and strengthened by habit, had not died out. Since her fourteenth year she had been growing ever more inclined to look beyond this present life, and at the same time not to consider herself; to live for others, for the earthly good of others, but always, however, according to a strong and fierce sense of justice. She went to church, performed the external duties of her religion, without incredulity, but also without the conviction that they were pleasing to God. She had a confused conception of a God so great, so lofty, that no immediate contact was possible between Him and mankind. Sometimes, indeed, she feared she might be mistaken, but her possible error seemed to her of a nature such as no God of infinite goodness might punish. She herself did not know how she had come to think thus.
The door opened very softly once more, and a low voice called, "Signor Don Franco." When Luisa was alone she ceased to pray, and resting her head upon her mother's pillow, she pressed her lips to the dear shoulder, closed her eyes and let the flood of memories flow over her that sprung from that touch, from that familiar odour of lavender. Her mother's dress was of silk, her best, and had been a present from Uncle Piero. She had worn it only once, some years before, on the occasion of a visit to the Marchesa Marioni. The odour of the lavender brought back this memory also, and with it came scalding tears, acrid with tenderness and with another sentiment that was not actually hatred, that was not actually anger, but that held the bitterness of both.
Franco could not at once account for the shudder that shook him when he heard his name called. Early that morning Uncle Piero had written to the Marchesa, announcing his sister's death in simple but most respectful language, and had enclosed a note from Franco himself, which ran as follows:
"Dear Grandmother,—I have not time to write to you because I am here, but I will tell you all by word of mouth to-morrow evening. I hope you will listen to me as my father and mother would have listened."
No answer had as yet come from Cressogno, but now a man from Cressogno had brought a letter. Where was this man?—Gone; he would not stop a minute. Franco took the letter and read the address: "Al. preg. Signor Ingegnere Pietro Ribera." At the same time he recognised in the writing, the hand of the agent's daughter. He went up to Uncle Piero's room at once. The engineer, who was worn out, had gone to bed.
When Franco brought him the letter he showed neither surprise nor curiosity, but said, calmly:
"Open it."
Franco placed the light on the chest of drawers, and opened the letter, keeping his back to the bed. As he stood, he seemed turned to stone; he neither breathed nor moved.
"Well?" said the uncle.
Silence.
"I understand," the old man added. Then Franco let the letter fall, and stretching his hands above his head, he uttered a long "Ah!" deep and hoarse, and laden with amazement and horror.
"Come, come!" Uncle Piero repeated, "what about this letter?"
Franco roused himself, and hastened to embrace him, hardly able to restrain his sobs.
The placid man bore this storm calmly and patiently for a time, but presently he began to defend himself, and demanded the letter. "Let me see it, let me see it," said he, and he muttered, "What can that blessed woman have written?"
Franco brought the light and the letter, which he handed to Uncle Piero. His grandmother had written never a word, never a syllable; she had simply returned the engineer's letter and Franco's note. It was some time before the uncle could grasp this. He was never quick to understand things, and this thing was utterly incomprehensible to him! When at last he did make it out, he could not help saying: "Certainly this is very hard!" Then, seeing how beside himself Franco was, he added, with the big solemn voice he used when judging human actions toto corde, "Listen. It is, I should say——" (and he searched for the right word, in his own peculiar fashion puffing out his cheeks, and emitting a sort of rattling sound)"——an injustice! But I am by no means so extremely astonished as you are. Not all the wrong is on her side, my dear fellow, and so——However, I am sorry for you two, who will have to eat plain food and live in this miserable little town; but how about me? For my part, I gain by all this, and I may even say, I feel inclined to thank your grandmother. You see I have never founded a family of my own; I have always counted upon this family. Now my poor sister is dead, and if your grandmother had opened her arms to you, I should have been of no more use than an old cabbage stock. So you see——"
Franco was careful not to let his wife know about this matter, and although she was aware that the letters had been sent to Cressogno, she did not ask if his grandmother had answered, until after the funeral, until some hours after the funeral. The little drawing-room, the little terrace, the little kitchen, had been full of people all day long, from nine o'clock in the morning until nine in the evening. At ten Luisa and Franco left the house without a lantern, turned to the right, went very slowly and silently through the darkness of the village, and, passing the bright and windy turning to which rises the deep roar of the river of S. Mametti, stood among the shadows and the pungent odours of the walnut-trees of Looch. Shortly before they reached the cemetery, Luisa said softly to her husband: "Have you heard nothing from Cressogno?" He would have liked to hide at least part of the truth from her, but he could not. He said his note had been returned to him; and then Luisa wanted to know if his grandmother had sent a word of condolence to Uncle Piero. Franco's "no" was almost timid, and so uncertain that, after they had gone on a few steps a suspicion flashed across Luisa's mind, and she suddenly stopped, and seized her husband's arm. Before she had uttered a word Franco understood and embraced her as he had embraced Uncle Piero, only still more impetuously, telling her to take his heart, his soul, his life, to seek for nothing else in this world. He felt she was trembling violently in his arms, but neither then nor afterwards did a word on this subject pass between them. At the gate of the cemetery they knelt together. Franco prayed with the fervour of faith. Luisa, with eager eyes, pierced the earth where it had been disturbed near the entrance; pierced the coffin, and, in thought, fixed her gaze on her mother's mild and serious face; once more, in thought, but with an impulse so violent that the bars of the gate shook, she bent forward, lower and lower, pressed her lips to the lips of the dead woman, imprinting upon them a violence of affection, stronger than all the insults, than all the baseness of this world.
Towards eleven o'clock she tore herself reluctantly away from the spot. Going slowly down the slippery and stony path beside her husband there suddenly arose before her mind's eye a vision of a future meeting with the Marchesa. She stopped, drawing herself up and clenching her fists, and from her handsome, intelligent face there shone forth such fierceness that, could the old lady of marble have seen her thus, have met her at that moment, she might not have surrendered, perhaps, but she would certainly have hastened to put herself on the defensive.