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

by George Sand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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