The Piccinino, Volume 2 (of 2); The last of Aldinis

by George Sand

Pier-Angelo took his leave with his daughter, to whom Magnani did not offer his arm. So much ceremonious courtesy was not in his line. He affected to be ignorant of the rules of politeness because he detested imitation, but in reality his manners were always gentle and amiable. After a few steps he found himself so near Mila that he naturally took her round elbow in his hand to guide her through the narrow lanes of the suburb, and walked with her, supporting her thus, to her door.

Michel had started off encased in his pride as in a cuirass, mentally accusing the princess of caprice and coquetry, and firmly resolved not to allow himself to be dazzled by her advances. And yet he confessed to himself that he was entirely unable to understand the irritation that he felt. He was forced to say to himself that she was immeasurably kind, and that if she was, in fact, indebted to old Pier-Angelo, she paid her debt with all the treasures of delicacy and refinement which a woman's heart can contain.

But Michel could not forget all the problems which he had been trying for two days to solve; and the way in which the princess pressed his arm at that moment, as they walked, like a woman passionately in love or a nervous person unaccustomed to walking, was a fresh problem which the idea of a service rendered the signora by his father did not sufficiently explain.

He strode forward at first in silence, saying to himself that he would not speak first, that he would not give way to emotion, that he would not forget that Magnani's arm had probably been pressed in the same way; in a word, that he would be on his guard: for either Princess Agatha was mad, or she concealed the most insane coquetry beneath a virtuous and downcast exterior.

But all his fine plans came to naught. The shady paths that they trod, with plots of land carefully tilled and planted on each side, led through a succession of small gardens belonging to well-to-do mechanics or middle-class citizens of the town. The paths were separated from the plots only by shrubs, rose-bushes, or beds of aromatic herbs. Here and there vine-clad arbors cast a dense shadow about them. The moon's rays were oblique and uncertain. Innumerable perfumes arose from the flower-strewn fields, and the sea, behind the hills in the distance, murmured in amorous tones. Nightingales sang among the jasmines. Some human voices sang in the distance, gayly challenging the echo; but there was no one on the path which Michel and Agatha were following. The little gardens were deserted. Michel felt oppressed; his pace slackened, his arm trembled convulsively. A faint breeze blew the princess's veil near his face, and he fancied that he heard mysterious voices whispering in his ear. He dared not turn to see whether it was a woman's breath or the breath of night that caressed him so near at hand.

"My dear Michel," said the princess, in a calm tone, which brought him abruptly from the sky to the earth, "I ask your pardon, but I really must stop to take breath. I am not much accustomed to walking, and I feel very tired. Here is a bench under this arbor which invites me to sit down for five minutes, and I fancy that the owners of this little garden, if they should see me, would not accuse me of committing a crime if I take advantage of it."

Michel led her to the bench to which she pointed, and, restored to reason once more, walked a few steps away to look at a little fountain whose soft gurgling failed to divert him from his reverie.

"Yes, yes, it was a dream, or else it was my little sister Mila who gave me that kiss. She is a mocking madcap! she would have explained the great mystery of the locket to me if I had questioned her frankly and earnestly. Doubtless there is some perfectly natural cause for all this which does not occur to me. Isn't it always so with natural causes? The only one that one does not divine is always the simplest. Ah! if Mila knew what danger she is playing with, and what pain she might spare me by telling me the truth! I will press her so to-morrow that she will tell me everything!"

While Michel reflected thus, the crystal water murmured in its narrow basin, wherein quivered the spectre of the moon. The fountain was a small terra-cotta affair, of classic simplicity; an aquatic cupid grasping a huge carp from whose mouth the stream of water fell about a foot into the reservoir. The artist who had executed the figure had attempted to give it a mischievous expression, but he had succeeded only in imparting to the carp's great eyes a glare of grotesque ferocity. Michel looked at the group without seeing it, and to no purpose was the night soft and fragrant; he, passionate lover of nature that he was, absorbed by his own thoughts, denied to nature his accustomed homage on that evening.

And yet the murmur of the water acted upon his imagination without his realizing it. He remembered a similar melodious sound, the timid and melancholy murmur with which the marble Naiad filled the grotto of the Palmarosa palace as she emptied her urn into the basin; the blissful sensations of his dream passed before his mind once more, and he would fain have fallen asleep where he stood, hoping for a repetition of his hallucination.