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

by George Sand

But, when his first fright had passed, he tried to collect his thoughts, while Michel walked swiftly across the park. He awoke to the fact that Pier-Angelo's son had come from the flower garden before sunrise; from the princess's flower garden! that private, fortified sanctuary, to which none but a favored lover could gain an entrance at night!

"Princess Agatha have a lover! and such a lover! when the Marquis della Serra, who is hardly worthy to aspire to the honor of winning her favor, never goes in or out except by the principal door of the palace!"

That was an impossible supposition. So Master Barbagallo, having no means of denying so palpable a fact, and not presuming to comment upon it, limited himself to a frequent repetition of the word Cristo! And, after standing like a statue for some moments, he concluded to attend to his duties as usual, and to forbid himself to think upon any subject whatsoever until further orders.

Michel was hardly less surprised by his own situation than the majordomo by what he had seen. Of all the dreams he had dreamed in the last three days, the most unexpected, the most prodigious, beyond any question, was this one that had crowned and elucidated the others. He walked straight ahead, and the instinct born of habit guided him toward his father's house in the suburb, although he had no idea where he was going. Every object upon which his eyes rested seemed new and strange to him. The magnificence of the palaces and the squalor of the houses of the common people presented a contrast which hitherto had saddened him only as a condition by which he himself had to suffer, and which he had accepted as an inevitable law of society. Now that he felt that he was a free and powerful member of that society, compassion and kindliness poured into his heart, broader and less selfish than before. He felt that he was a better man since he had been numbered among the fortunate few, and the consciousness of the duty resting upon him vibrated in his breast under the impulsion of his mother's generous breath. He felt that he had increased in size among his fellowmen since he had been charged with ameliorating their lot instead of being oppressed by them. In a word, he felt himself every inch a prince, and was no longer surprised that he had always been ambitious. But his ambition had assumed a nobler shape in his mind on the day that he had put it into words in answer to Magnani's criticisms; and now that it was gratified, far from debasing him, it exalted him and raised him above himself. There are men—and, unfortunately, they are in the majority—whom prosperity degrades and perverts; but a truly noble mind sees in the power of wealth only a means of doing good, and eighteen years is an age at which the ideals are pure and the mind open to grand and worthy aspirations.

As he entered the suburb, he saw a poor woman begging, with one child in her arms and three others clinging to her ragged skirts. Tears came to his eyes, and he put both hands in the pockets of his jacket, for on the day before he had assumed the livery of the common people, resolved to continue to wear it a long time—always if he must. But he found that his pockets were empty, and he remembered that as yet he possessed nothing.

"Forgive me, my poor woman," he said, "to-morrow I will give you something. Be here to-morrow, I will come again."

The poor creature thought that he was making sport of her, and said to him in a solemn tone, drawing herself up in her rags with the majesty of the southern peoples: "You must not make sport of the poor, my boy; it brings bad luck."

"Yes, yes!" said Michel, as he walked away; "I believe it, I am sure of it! that shall never happen to me."

A little farther on he met some laundresses who were coolly hanging their linen on a line stretched across the street, over the heads of the passers-by. Michel stooped, as he would not have done the day before; he would have thrust the obstacle aside with an impatient hand. The two pretty girls who held the line to keep it taut were grateful to him and smiled upon him; but when Michel had passed this first curtain of the biancheria, and as he stooped to pass under a second, he heard the old laundress say to her apprentices in the tone of an angry sibyl: "Lower your eyes, Ninetta; don't turn your head like that, Rosalina! that's little Michelangelo Lavoratori, who sets himself up for a great painter, but he will never be the man his father is! A fig for children who turn up their noses at their father's trade!"

"I absolutely must adopt the profession of prince," thought Michel with a smile, "for the profession of artist would have drawn too much blame upon me."