And then, too, Michel thought of the Piccinino. He said to himself that it was not so far from the convent to Nicolosi that he could not go and visit his brother before he had taken any measures against the princess and himself. He could not make up his mind to defy and await schemes of revenge which might attack his mother before himself; and, though he should find the bastard in a paroxysm of rage worse than that in which he had last seen him, he looked upon it as his duty as a man and a son to meet alone its first consequences.
On the way Michel remembered that he was a painter on seeing the rising sun illumine the landscape. A feeling of profound sadness suddenly took possession of him. His artistic future seemed to be at an end, and as he passed the gate of Villa Palmarosa—as he glanced at that niche with its madonna, from which he had saluted the steeples of Catania for the first time—his heart was heavy, as if twenty years, instead of half as many days, had elapsed between this dénouement of his life and his adventurous youth, overflowing with poetic aspirations, with fears and hopes. The absolute security of his new position frightened him, and he asked himself in dismay if a painter's genius would not be inadequately accommodated in the brain of a rich man and a prince. What would become of ambition, wrath, terror, the frenzy for work, obstacles to be overcome, triumphs to be defended—those powerful and necessary stimulants? Instead of enemies to spur him on, he would have only flatterers to corrupt his judgment and his taste; instead of poverty to force him to hard work and to sustain him in the fever of composition, he would be surfeited in advance with all the advantages which art pursues at least as eagerly as it pursues renown.
He heaved a deep sigh, but soon took courage, saying to himself that he would prove himself worthy to have friends who would tell him the truth, and that, while pursuing that nobler object—renown—he could renounce more completely the material profits of the profession and the vulgar judgment of the multitude.
Reflecting thus, he reached the monastery. The bells were ringing in response to those of the city, and that monotonous and depressing dialogue was carried on in the crisp morning air amid the songs of the birds and the murmuring of the breezes.
XLVII
THE VULTURE
Magnani knew all, for Agatha had at least suspected his passion, if she had not actually divined it; and she had told him the story of her life. She had described her blighted, desolate past, and her present, devoted to serious pursuits and absorbed by maternal affections. By thus displaying her confidence in him and her regard for him, she had at all events healed the secret wound inflicted upon his plebeian pride. She had with delicate tact pointed out to him that the obstacle between them was not the difference in rank and in their ideas, but the difference between their ages and the decree of an inflexible destiny. In a word, she had raised him to her own level by treating him as a brother, and if she had not effected a complete cure at the first attempt, she had removed all the bitterness of his suffering. Then she had adroitly brought Mila's name into the conversation, and, when he realized that the princess desired their union, Magnani had deemed it to be his duty to comply with her desire.
That duty he determined to set about performing at once, and he fully appreciated the fact that Agatha, to punish him for his madness, had pointed out to him the easiest, not to say the most delightful of expiations. As he had not shared Mila's uneasiness with respect to Michel's absence, he had gone out simply to please her, with no idea that there was any need of going in search of him. He had called upon Fra Angelo, to consult him concerning the girl's sentiments, and to ask for his advice and support. When he reached the monastery, the monks were reciting prayers for the cardinal's soul, and he was obliged to wait in the garden, with its paths of earthenware and its borders of lava, until Fra Angelo could come to him. The doleful chanting depressed him, and he could not avoid a presentiment of evil to come as he thought that he was cherishing the hope of a happy betrothal in the midst of a funeral ceremony.
On the preceding evening, before he parted from Pier-Angelo on their return from the Della Serra palace, he had sounded the old artisan concerning his daughter's feelings. Pier-Angelo, delighted by that overture, had ingenuously replied that he believed that she loved him; but as Magnani distrusted his good fortune, and hardly dared hope, Pier-Angelo had advised him to consult his brother the Capuchin, whom, although younger than himself, he was accustomed to look upon as the head of the family.
Magnani was very uncertain and disturbed in mind. And yet a mysterious voice told him that Mila loved him. He recalled her furtive glances, her sudden blushes, her concealed tears, her deathly pallor, aye, and her words, which denoted an affectation of indifference prompted by pride. He hoped; he awaited impatiently the end of the prayers, and when Fra Angelo joined him he begged him to give him his attention, to advise him, and above all things to tell him the truth without concealment.
"This is a serious matter," the good monk replied; "I have always had the friendliest feeling for your family, my son, and a very high regard for you. But are you sure that you know me and love me well enough to believe me if the advice that I give you is contrary to your secret desires? For we monks are often consulted, and very little heed is paid to our counsel. Everyone comes and confides his thoughts and passions, even his business affairs to us, because it is commonly supposed that men with no direct interest in life have a keener insight than others. That is a mistake. In most cases our advice is either too complaisant to be worth following or so severe that it is impossible to follow it. For my part I dislike to give advice."