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

by George Sand

Agatha was in a state of anxiety impossible to describe when Nunziata told her that some one was waiting for her in her oratory. She hastened thither, and, catching sight of a monk's frock, nearly fainted, for she thought that one of the brethren of Bel Passo had come to bring some fatal news. But well disguised as Michel was, the mother's eye was not deceived for long, and she embraced him passionately, bursting into tears.

Michel said nothing of the dangers to which he had been exposed; she would divine them soon enough when the news of the Piccinino's rescue should spread through the country. He simply told her that he had been to a wild, out-of-the-way spot in the mountains, where his brother lay helpless and dying; that he had brought him to her to place him in her care; and that his new hiding-place must be made ready for him.

In the middle of the night the wounded man arrived unhindered; but he did not climb the stairs in the lava with the same haughty bearing as on the last occasion. His strength was failing more and more. Fra Angelo was obliged to carry him from the first stair to the last. He hardly recognized Agatha, and for several days he hovered between life and death.

Mila's anxiety was temporarily allayed when Michel told her that Magnani had gone to Palermo to do him a service. But many days passed, and, as Magnani did not return, his family was surprised and alarmed. Michel pretended that he had had news. He had gone to Rome, still in his service, and, later, he said that the important and secret business which the Palmarosa family had entrusted to the young artisan required him to go to Milan, Venice, Vienna—where you please. They kept him travelling for several years, and, to allay the anxiety and grief of his parents, read to them—for they did not know how to read—passages from pretended letters, and gave them large sums of money which he was supposed to send them.

The Magnani family grew rich, and marvelled at poor Antonio's good fortune. They lived in sadness and hope. His old mother died, sorely afflicted to have had no opportunity to embrace him, but bidding Michel send him her blessing.

As for Mila, it would have been more difficult to deceive her, had not the princess, in order to spare her a much greater sorrow, suggested a catastrophe to which she could more readily become reconciled. She hinted more and more definitely, and, finally, told her outright that Magnani, torn between his former passion and his new love for her, had feared that he could not make her happy, and so had gone away, resolved not to return until he was completely cured of the past.

Mila looked upon this as a noble and honorable proceeding; but she was piqued to find that she had not been able, unaided, to efface the memory of so persistent a passion. She strove to cure herself, for she was told that her lover's cure was not certain, and her unbounded pride came to her aid. Magnani's prolonged absence made her stronger and braver day by day. When he was supposed to have gone to Rome, she was told that he could not triumph over the old affection, and that he renounced the new. Mila did not weep; she prayed, without a shade of bitterness, for the happiness of an ingrate, and gradually recovered her former serenity.

Michel suffered terribly, of course, when, as occasionally happened, he heard her slighting references to the absent one, who deserved to be enshrined forever in her memory. But he sacrificed everything to the peace of mind of his adopted sister. He went secretly, with Fra Angelo, to see his friend's grave. The peasant who had buried him conducted them to the cemetery of a convent near by. Worthy monks, patriots like most of the monks in Sicily, had borne the body thither by night, and had inscribed these words in Latin on a stone which served as his monument, among the white roses and flowering broom:

Here reposes an unknown martyr.

The Piccinino's convalescence was longer than they had anticipated. The wound healed quickly enough; but a nervous fever of some gravity detained him three months in Agatha's boudoir, which was transformed into his bedroom, and which was guarded with religious care.