"And this woman," continued the Piccinino, with intense bitterness,—"this false, cold-blooded woman, who fooled me to the end with infernal cunning,—you expect me to prostrate myself before her, and ask a blessing from her hand which, for aught I know, is stained with my father's blood! for now I understand more than she intended, I fancy. I will never believe that she married with a good grace the ruined, outlawed, hounded brigand, depraved by misfortune, who had then no other name than the Destatore! He must have abducted her and outraged her.—Ah! yes, now I remember! There is a tale of that sort to which Fra Angelo refers vaguely at times. A child, surprised by the brigands when out walking with her governess, carried off with the governess to the chief's lair, and dismissed two hours later, outraged and half dead! Ah! father, you were a villain as well as a hero! I know it; and I am a better man than you, for I detest such deeds of violence, and Fra Angelo's tale has preserved me forever from seeking enjoyment by such means. So it was you, Agatha, who were Castro-Reale's victim! I understand now why you consented to marry him secretly at the convent of Mal Passo; for that marriage is a secret—probably the only secret of that sort that never transpired! You have been very adroit, but the rest of your story is clear to me. I know now why your parents kept you secluded for a year, so carefully that you were supposed to be dead or to have turned nun. I know now why my father was murdered, and I would not swear that you were innocent of his death!"
"Wretch!" cried the princess, indignantly; "to dare to suspect me of the murder of the man I had accepted for my husband!"
"If it was not you, then it was your father or someone of your kindred!" retorted the Piccinino, in French, with a bitter laugh. "My father did not kill himself," he continued in the Sicilian language, and with a wild expression. "He was capable of a crime, but not of a dastardly act, and the pistol that was found in his hand at the Destatore's cross never belonged to him. He was not reduced, by the partial defection of his followers, to the necessity of committing suicide in order to escape from his enemies, and the piety which Fra Angelo tried to inspire in his heart had not yet disturbed his mind to the point where he thought it his duty to punish himself for his sins. He was murdered, and to have been surprised so easily—so near the town—he must have been lured into a trap. Abbé Ninfo had something to do with that bloody drama. I shall find out, for I have him in my clutches; and, although I am not cruel, I will torture him with my own hands until he confesses! For it is my mission to avenge my father's death, as it is yours, Michel, to make common cause with those who ordered it."
"Great God!" said Agatha, paying no attention to the Piccinino's accusations against herself, "it seems that each day must bring with it the discovery of some new deed of rage and vengeance in my family! O blood of the Atrides, may the Furies never rouse you to life in my son's veins! Ah! Michel, what duties your birth imposes on you! By what great virtues must you redeem so many crimes committed both before and since your birth! Carmelo, you think that your brother will turn against his country and against you some day! If it could be so, I would ask you to kill him to-day, while he is pure and honorable; for I know too well, alas! what becomes of the men who renounce love of country and the respect due to the vanquished!"
"Kill him at once?" said the Piccinino; "I am strongly tempted to take that metaphor literally; it would take but a moment, for this Sicilian of recent date knows no more about handling a knife than I about handling a brush. But I didn't do it yesterday, when the thought came to my mind by our father's grave, and I will wait until my present anger has subsided; for one should kill only in cold blood and in accordance with the dictates of logic and conscience.—Ah! Michel de Castro-Reale, I did not know you yesterday, although Abbé Ninfo had already pointed you out to my vengeance. I was jealous of you because I believed you to be the lover of this woman who says to-day that she is your mother; but I had a presentiment that she did not deserve the love which was beginning to set my blood on fire for her, and when I saw how bravely you faced me, I said to myself: 'Why kill a brave man for the sake of a woman who may be a coward?'"
"Hush, Carmelo!" cried Michel, picking up his dagger; "whether I know how to handle a knife or not, if you add another word to your insults to my mother, I will have your life or you shall have mine."
"Hush, yourself, boy!" said the Piccinino, presenting his half-naked breast to Michel with an air of contempt; "the virtue of legitimate society makes men cowards, and you are a coward too, for you have been reared on the ideas of that society; you would not dare to scratch my lion's skin, because in my person you respect your brother. But I have no such prejudices, and I will prove it to you some day when I am calmer. To-day I am angry, I admit, and I will tell you why: it is because I have been deceived, and I did not believe that any human being was capable of playing on my credulity; it is because I put faith in this woman's words when she said to me last night, in yonder flower-garden where I can hear the fountains plashing at this moment, under the eyes of the moon, which seemed less pure and tranquil than her face: 'What can there be in common between that child and myself?' What can there be in common? and you her son! and you knew it, and you deceived me too!"
"No, I did not know it, and as for my mother——"
"You and your mother are two cold-blooded serpents, two venomous Palmarosas! Ah! I hate that family which has persecuted me and my family so cruelly, and some day I will make a bloody example, even of those members of it who claim to be good patriots and nobles who sympathize with the people. I hate all nobles for my part! and you whose mouths blow hot and cold in turn may well tremble before my frank declaration! I have hated the nobles for the last few moments, since I have found that I am not noble, because I have a legitimate brother and am only a bastard. I hate the name of Castro-Reale, since I can no longer bear it. I am envious, revengeful, and ambitious as well! my intelligence and my adroitness were a stronger justification of that claim on my part than the art of painting on the part of the nursling of the Muses and of Pier-Angelo! I should have made a greater name than he if our conditions had remained unchanged. And the thing that makes my vanity more endurable, Prince Michel, is that I proclaim it proudly, while you conceal it shamefacedly, on the pretext of modesty. In short, I am the child of uncivilized nature and of unshackled liberty, while you are the slave of custom and of fear. I practise cunning after the manner of wolves, and my cunning leads me to my goal. You play with falsehood, after the manner of men, and you will always miss your goal, without having had the merit of sincerity. Our lives are before us. If yours annoys me overmuch, I shall rid myself of you as of any other obstacle, do you understand? Woe to you if you irritate me! Farewell; do not try to see me again; this is my brotherly greeting!
"And as for you, Princess of Castro-Reale," he said, bowing ironically to Agatha, "who might well have refrained from making me crawl at your feet, whose share in the catastrophe by the Destatore's Cross is now very clear in my mind, who did not deem me worthy to be informed of the mischance of your youth, but preferred to pose before my eyes as a spotless virgin, caring not whether you caused me to pine away in frenzied anticipation of your priceless favors—I wish that you may be happy and forget what has taken place between us; but I shall remember it, and I warn you, signora, that you gave a ball over a volcano, in reality as well as figuratively."