CHAPTER I
FISHERMEN
Dr. Francesco Zérboli, Imperial and Royal Commissary of Porlezza, landed at the Imperial and Royal Ricevitoria—the custom-house—at Oria, on the tenth day of September, 1854, just as a truly imperial and royal sun was rising above the ponderous bastions of Galbiga, glorifying the little pink custom-house and the oleanders and beans of Signora Peppina Bianconi, and summoning to his office, in accordance with the regulations, Signor Carlo Bianconi, her husband, that same Receiver of Customs who had scented conspiracy in manuscript music. Bianconi, whom his wife called el mè Carlascia,—"my big Charley"—and the people, el Biancon, a tall man, fat and solid, with a clean-shaven chin, a grey moustache, and the large dull eyes of a faithful mastiff, went down to meet that other clean-shaven Imperial and Royal one, of higher rank. There was no resemblance between the two, save in the Austrian nudity of their chins. Zérboli, dressed in black and carefully gloved, was short and stout, and wore a pair of fair moustaches flattened against his sallow face, out of which peered two small, sarcastic, and scornful sparks of eyes. His hair grew so low on his forehead that he was in the habit of shaving off a strip, and at times a shade showed there, that gave him the appearance of some strange beast. Quick in his movements, in his glance, in his speech, he spoke, with easy courtesy, a nasal Italian, having the modulations of the province of Trento. He now informed the Receiver that he had come to hold a convocato—the communal council of those days—at Castello, and that he had preferred to come early and climb the hill while it was cool, from Oria rather than from Casarico or Albogasio, that he might have the pleasure of greeting the Receiver.
The big, faithful mastiff did not at once understand that the Commissary had a second end in view, and poured forth his thanks in a medley of obsequious phrases, and short, silly laughs, rubbing his hands and offering coffee, milk, eggs, and the open air of the little garden. The other accepted the coffee, but declined the open air with a motion of his head and a wink so eloquent, that Carlascia, after shouting upstairs, "Peppina!" ushered him into the office where, feeling himself transformed (such was his double nature) from a receiver of customs into a police-officer, he composed himself, and put on an expression of austerity, as if about to enter into a sacramental union with the monarch himself. This office was a miserable hole on the ground floor, with iron gratings at the two small windows; an infectious and primitive cell, that already stunk of the great empire. The Commissary seated himself in the middle of the room, looking at the closed door that led from the landing-stage to the ante-room, the one leading from the ante-room to the office having been left open by his orders.
"Tell me something of Signor Maironi," said he.
"He is still watched," Bianconi answered, and continued in the Italian of Porta Tosa. "By the way—wait a moment—I have a report here that is nearly finished." And he began hunting and fumbling among his papers, in search of the report and of his glasses.
"You will send it in, you will send it in!" exclaimed the Commissary, who had a dread of the big mastiff's prose.
"Meanwhile speak. Tell me everything."
"He is as ill-intentioned as ever. We knew before he was ill-intentioned, but now it is very evident," the eloquent Receiver continued. "He has begun to wear that beard—you know—that midget—that moschetta—that pointed tuft, that filthy——" [I]
"Pardon me," said the Commissary, "you see I am new to the place. I have my instructions and I have received some information, but as yet I have no exact knowledge of the man and his family. You must describe them to me as minutely as you can. Let us begin with him."