Chapter XLVI: Gladness of Heart

While the princess rang for her maid and ordered her horses, that she might go and pay her last respects to the moribund cardinal, Michel went down into the park from the flower garden by the staircase cut in the lava; but, when he was only halfway down, he spied Master Barbagallo, who was already on his feet and beginning his conscientious day's work, very far from believing, the excellent man, that that splendid palace and those beautiful gardens were no longer aught save the deceptive symbol and the vain simulacrum of a handsome fortune. In his eyes to expend one's income in almsgiving was a lordly and estimable custom. He seconded the princess zealously in her charitable work. But to encroach upon one's capital was a heinous sin, inconsistent with the hereditary dignity of a great name; and, if Agatha had enlightened him or consulted him in that respect, all his genealogical learning would have been none too much to prove to her that no Palmarosa had ever committed that crime of lèse-nobility, unless at the bidding of his king. What! deprive oneself of the real source of one's power for the benefit of miserable wretches! Fie! unless it were a question of founding a hospital or a monastery, monuments which endure, and which transmit the renown and virtue of the founder to posterity, and impart new glory to a name instead of dimming its lustre.

Michel, when he saw the majordomo innocently blocking his path--for Barbagallo was gazing fixedly at an East India shrub which he had planted with his own hands at the foot of the staircase--determined to lower his head and pass rapidly on without any explanation. A few hours later, he would have no motive for concealment, but, for propriety's sake, it would be much better to await the princess's public declaration.

But the majordomo seemed to be planted beside his shrub. He was surprised that the climate of Catania, which, according to him, was the most salubrious climate in the world, did not agree with that rare plant better than the climate of the tropics; which fact proves that he understood the cultivation of genealogical trees better than that of real trees. He was stooping--almost lying oh the ground--to see if some destructive worm had not attacked the roots of the languishing plant.

Michel, having reached the lowest stair, decided to leap over Master Barbagallo, who uttered a loud yell, thinking perhaps that it was the beginning of a volcanic eruption, and that a stone vomited forth by some near-by crater had fallen beside him.

His exclamation had such a comical, rancous sound that Michel laughed heartily.

"_Cristo_!" cried the majordomo, as he recognized the young artist, whom the princess had ordered him to treat with great consideration, but whom he was very far from believing to be Agatha's son or lover.

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."

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--"

"O father," cried Michel, "never call me by that name, and never say that I am not your son. Of course I am the happiest of men to be Princess Agatha's son, but it would be mingling gall with my happiness to try to accustom myself to the thought that I am not yours; and if you call me prince, I will never be one; I will insist on remaining a mechanic!"

"Very well, so be it!" said Pier-Angelo, embracing him; "let us continue to be father and son, as we were; I like that better, especially as I should cling to the old habits in spite of myself, even if you had been offended. Now, listen; I know beforehand what you will say to me in a moment. You will want to make me a rich man. I want to say to you beforehand that I beg you not to torment me on that subject. I prefer to remain as I am; I am very happy. Money brings anxiety; I have never been able to keep it. The princess will do what she thinks best for your sister; but I doubt whether the little one cares to rise above her condition, for if I am not mistaken, she is in love with our neighbor, Antonio Magnani, and has no idea of marrying anybody else. Magnani will not consent to accept anything from you, I know; he is a man like me, who loves his trade and would blush to be assisted when he earns all he needs. Don't be angry, my son; I accepted your sister's marriage-portion yesterday. That was not the gift of a prince, it was the wages of a workman, the sacrifice of a loving brother. I was proud of it, and your sister, when she knows about it, won't be ashamed; but I did not think it best to tell her yet. She would never have accepted it, she is so accustomed to look upon your artistic future as a sacred thing; and the child is obstinate, as you know.

"As for me, Michel, you know me too. If I were rich, I should be ashamed to work. People would think I did it from avarice, and to add a little to my savings. Nor could I work if I were not driven to it; I am a creature of habit, a routine workman; every day would be Sunday to me, and it would be as injurious for me to amuse myself all the week as it is advantageous for me to enjoy myself a little at table on the blessed day of rest. Ennui would lay hold of me, and melancholy after that. I should try to escape from it by intemperance perhaps, as most men do who don't know how to read and so can't keep up their spirits with beautiful written stories. But one must feed one's brain when the body is at rest, and they feed it with wine. That is worse than nothing, I know by experience. When I go to a wedding festival I enjoy myself the first day, I am bored the second, and sick the third. No, no! I must have my apron, my ladder, my glue-pot, and my ballads, or each hour seems as long as two. If you blush for me--But no, I won't finish, it is insulting to you; you will never blush for me. In that case, let me live as I please, and when I am too old and feeble to work, you shall take me in and take care of me; I agree to that, I give you my word on it. I can do nothing better for you, I am sure."

"Your wishes shall be sacred to me," Michel replied, "and I realize fully that it is impossible for me to pay my debt to you with money; it would be altogether too easy to be able to liquidate a debt running through one's whole lifetime in an instant and without the slightest trouble. Ah! if I could only double the duration of your life, and restore, at the expense of my blood, the strength you have expended in supporting and educating me!"

"Do not hope to pay me otherwise than by affection," replied the old decorator. "Youth cannot return, and I desire nothing that is contrary to the divine laws. If I have worked for you, I have done it with pleasure and without ever relying upon any other reward than that of seeing you make a wise use of your good fortune. The princess knows my way of thinking in that respect. If she should pay me for your education, she would deprive me of all my merit and pride; for I have a certain pride of my own, and I shall be proud to hear people say as they will before long: 'What a loyal Sicilian and good prince this Castro-Reale is! And yet it was that old fool of a Pier-Angelo who brought him up.' Come, give me your hand, and let us say no more about it. It would hurt me a little, I confess. It seems that the cardinal is dying. I want you to say a prayer with me for him, for he needs it sadly; he was a wicked man, and the woman who was taking you to the hospital, when my brother the monk and I snatched you from her arms, looked as if she would much rather throw you into the sea than into the orphan's crib. So let us pray with a good heart! Come, Michel, it won't be long."

And Pier-Angelo, uncovering, said in a loud voice and in a tone of the deepest sincerity: "O my God! forgive us our sins, and forgive Cardinal Hieronimo, as we ourselves forgive him. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.--Michel, you didn't say _amen_, did you?"

"Amen, with all my heart," replied Michel, filled with respect for the artless piety with which Pier-Angelo forgave his persecutor.

For Monsignor Hieronimo had been very cruel to the poor mechanic. He had had only suspicions against him, and yet he had prosecuted him, thrown him into prison, ruined him, and finally forced him to exile himself, which last was the greatest sorrow that could have been inflicted upon honest Pier-Angelo.

As Mila was beginning to be anxious concerning Magnani, who did not return, Michel started out in search of him. All the bells in the city were tolling for the dying cardinal; prayers were being said in all the churches, and the poor people who were oppressed, held to ransom and punished by him at the slightest symptom of rebellion, knelt devoutly on the steps of the churches to ask God to absolve him. Doubtless one and all rejoiced inwardly at the first stroke of the bell, and would rejoice still more at the last. But the terrors of hell acted so powerfully on those vivid imaginations that mortal resentment vanished in face of the threat which those clanging bells seemed to hold suspended over every head.

Michel, as he did not hear the final knell announcing that death had seized his prey, and, as he felt sure that his mother would not leave the deathbed until that decisive moment had arrived, bent his steps toward the hill of Mal Passo. He wished to embrace his friend and his uncle once more before they saluted him as Prince of Castro-Reale. He dreaded especially the moment when Magnani would put on the armor of pride, and perhaps of coldness, in his unjust fear of contemptuous treatment by Michel. He was determined to stipulate in advance for the continuance of their friendship, to demand his solemn promise to that effect, and to inform him first of all of his new position after he had cemented that sacred brotherhood in Fra Angelo's presence.

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.