He entered his house, and for the first time it seemed to him picturesque and attractive in its wretched disorder. "It is a genuine artist's house of the Middle Ages," he said to himself; "I have lived here only a few days, but I shall always remember them as among the sweetest and purest days of my life." It seemed to him that he already regretted that humble family nest, and the vague longing he had felt the day before for a less prosaic, a more splendid abode seemed to him an unhealthy, insane longing, so true it is that one exaggerates the value of the good things of life when one has them not.
"I could have passed years here very comfortably," he thought, "as happy as I shall be in a palace, provided that my conscience was always as well satisfied with itself as it was when Pier-Angelo said to me: 'Well, you are a man of heart, that you are!' All the portraits of the Palmarosas and Castro-Reales may tell me that they are pleased with me; they will afford me no more joy than those words from my father the artisan."
He entered as a prince that house from which he had gone forth an artisan but a few hours earlier, and he crossed the threshold with a feeling of profound respect. Then he hurried to his father's bedside, thinking to find him asleep. But Pier-Angelo was with Mila, who had not slept at all she was so disturbed because her brother had not returned. The old man suspected that the princess had kept him; but he was unable to make Mila assent to the probability of that supposition. Michel threw himself into their arms and wept tears of joy. Pier-Angelo understood what had taken place, and why the young Prince of Castro-Reale called him father so effusively, and would not allow him to call him Michel, but made him say my son whenever he spoke.
Mila was greatly surprised when Michel, instead of embracing her with his usual familiarity, kissed her hand again and again, calling her his darling sister.
"What's the matter, Michel?" she said, "and why this act of respect with me? You say that nothing extraordinary has happened, that you have been in no danger during the night, and yet you bid us good-morning like a man who has just escaped death, or who brings us paradise in the hollow of his hand. Well, well! now that you are here, we are as happy as the saints in heaven, it is true! for I had many bad dreams while I was waiting for you. I woke poor Magnani two hours before daylight and sent him in search of you; and he is searching still. He must have gone to Bel Passo, to see if you were not with our uncle."
"Dear, good Magnani!" cried Michel; "I will go out and find him, in order to set your mind at rest and to see him the sooner. But first I want to breakfast with you two at our cosy little table; I want to eat some of the rice that you cook so deliciously, Mila, and the water-melon that nobody can select so well as you."
"See how sweet he is whenever he doesn't choose to be capricious!" said Mila, looking at her brother. "When he is in one of his fits of temper, nothing is good, the rice is cooked too much and the water-melons are over-ripe. To-day everything is delicious, even before he tastes it."
"I shall be like this every day henceforth, my darling sister," said Michel; "I shall have no more bad temper, I shall ask you no more impertinent questions, and I trust that you will have no better friend in the world than me."
As soon as he was alone with Pier-Angelo, Michel knelt before him. "Give me your blessing," he said, "and forgive me for not having been worthy of you always. I will be hereafter, and if I should hesitate a moment on the path of duty, promise that you will scold me and lecture me more severely than you have ever done."
"Prince," said Pier-Angelo, "I should have been more severe perhaps if I had been your father; but—"