"I have the documents," said the monk; "have you said all that you have to say, most high, most powerful and most excellent Master Barbagallo?"
"I will also say to his highness," rejoined the steward, in nowise disconcerted, "that he too is awaited impatiently—but—"
"But what? Do not stand in my way any longer with your suppliant air, Master Barbagallo. If my mother is waiting for me, let me hurry to her; if you have any personal request to make, I will listen to you at some other time, and I promise you beforehand whatever you ask."
"O, my noble master, yes!" cried Barbagallo, standing in the doorway, with a heroic air, and handing Michel a gala coat cut in the antique style, while a servant, notified by a stroke of the bell, brought a pair of satin breeches stitched with gold, silk stockings with red clocks and a sword. "Yes, yes, I have a personal request which I venture to present to you. You cannot appear before the family council which awaits your presence in that fustian jacket and that coarse shirt. It is impossible for a Palmarosa, a Castro-Reale I mean, to meet his cousins-german for the first time in the costume of a mechanic. They know the nobly borne misfortunes of your youth, and with what great courage you have accepted an ignoble place in society. But that is no reason why they should see its livery on your highness's body. I will kneel at your feet to beg you to wear the costume of state which your grandfather, Prince Donigi de Palmarosa, wore on the occasion of his first presentation at the court of Naples."
The first part of this harangue triumphed over Michel's irritation. He and the monk could not refrain from laughing uproariously; but the last words put an end to their merriment and darkened their brows.
"I am quite sure," said Michel, shortly, "that my mother did not bid you offer me this absurd disguise, and that it would afford her no pleasure to see me arrayed in that livery! I much prefer the one which I now wear and which I shall wear the rest of the day, by your leave, Master majordomo."
"I beg your highness not to be angry with me," rejoined Barbagallo, in dire confusion, motioning to the servant to remove the costume at once. "Perhaps I acted unwisely, taking counsel of my own zeal; but if—"
"But nothing! leave me," said Michel, opening the door impatiently; and leaning on Fra Angelo's arm, he descended the inner staircase from the Casino and resolutely entered the great gallery in his artisan's costume.
The princess, dressed in black, was sitting on a sofa at the end of the gallery, surrounded by the Marquis della Serra, Doctor Recuperati, Pier-Angelo, several tried friends of both sexes, and several kinsmen; the faces of the latter wearing a more or less resentful or dismayed expression, despite their efforts to appear touched and fascinated by the romance of her life which she had just told them. Mila was sitting on a cushion at her feet, lovely as ever, with glistening eyes, and pale with surprise and emotion. Other groups were scattered about the gallery. They were the less intimate friends, the more distant relations, and the lawyers whom Agatha had summoned to declare the validity of her marriage and the legitimacy of her son. Still farther away the servants of the house, on active service or retired on pensions, some privileged workmen, the Magnani family among the rest, and lastly, the cream of those clients with whom Sicilian nobles have intimate relations unknown in France, which recall the ancient customs of the Roman patriciate.
It will readily be believed that Agatha had not felt called upon to state the cruel reasons which had led her to marry the too famous Prince of Castro-Reale, that gallant and redoubtable brigand, so depraved and yet at times so ingenuous, a sort of converted Don Juan concerning whom more tales were current, tales of crime and of love, fabulous and improbable, than could possibly be true of any one man. To the public avowal of an act of violence which was most offensive to her modesty and her pride, she preferred the implied confession of a passion, romantic beyond reason on her part, but unconstrained and legitimate. To the Marquis della Serra alone had she confided her real story; he alone knew of Agatha's unhappy youth, the cruelty of her parents, the probable murder of the Destatore, and the plots against the life of her son while he was in his cradle. The princess allowed the others to infer that her family had not approved of that clandestine marriage, and that her son had necessarily been brought up secretly, to avoid the risk of being disinherited by his mother's relations. Her narrative was brief, simple and concise, and she had borne herself in the telling with a self-assured and tranquil dignity which she owed to the force of her maternal affection. Before she was aware of her son's existence, she would have killed herself rather than allow the tenth part of her secret to be suspected; but, with the determination that her son should be recognized and welcomed, she would have revealed everything if a complete disclosure had been necessary.