Chapter XLVIII: The Marquis

Master Barbagallo awaited them at the gate with a most anxious countenance. As soon as he saw Michel, he ran to meet him and kneeled to kiss his hand.

"Up, up, sirrah!" said the young prince, disgusted by such servility. "You have served my mother faithfully. Give me your hand, as befits a man!"

They crossed the park together; but Michel did not choose to receive as yet the homage of all the servants, who were not likely, however, to be so annoying as the majordomo; for he followed him everywhere, asking his forgiveness again and again for the scene at the ball, and striving to convince him that if the proprieties had permitted him to wear his spectacles on that occasion, his short-sightedness would not have prevented him from noticing that Michel resembled, feature for feature, that mighty captain, Giovanni Palmarosa, deceased in 1288, whose portrait he had delivered to the Marquis della Serra on the preceding day, in his, Michel's, presence.

"Ah! how I regret," he said, "that the princess has given the marquis all the Palmarosas! But your highness will surely recover that noble and priceless portion of your inheritance. I am certain that his excellency the marquis will restore to you all the ancestors of both families, by his will, or even sooner."

"I think that they do very well where they are," replied Michel, with a smile. "I am not fond of portraits which have the gift of speech."

He made his escape from the majordomo's obsession, and walked to the cliff in order to enter by way of the Casino. But as he stepped into his mother's boudoir, he found that Barbagallo was puffing at his heels, having followed him up the staircase.

"Forgive me, your highness," he said, gasping for breath, "her highness the princess is in the large gallery, among her kinsmen, friends and retainers, to whom she has just publicly announced her marriage to the most noble and illustrious prince your father. They are waiting now for the excellent Fra Angelo, to whom a messenger was sent two hours ago, to request him to bring from the convent the authentic proofs of the marriage, which will establish your right of succession to the inheritance of his eminence, the most high, most powerful and most excellent prince cardinal."

"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.

She had finished speaking a quarter of an hour before Michel entered. She had looked calmly into the faces of her audience. She knew what to think of the artless emotion of some, of the masked malevolence of others. She knew that she should have the courage to face all the exaggerations, all the sneers, all the malicious remarks to which her declaration would give rise in the outside world, and especially in aristocratic society. She was ready for everything, and felt strong and brave, supported by her son's arm--that woman who had steadfastly refused to accept the protection of a husband or the consolations of a lover. Some of those present, whether maliciously or from stupidity, had tried to induce her to add some details, some further particulars, to her declaration. She had replied gently but firmly:

"Not before so many witnesses, and on a day of mourning and solemnity, can I undertake to entertain or interest you by telling a love-story. Besides, it is all a long way off. I was very young then, and after twenty years have passed since those exciting days, I should find it hard to speak of them from a standpoint which would enable you to understand the choice I thought fit to make. I will allow you to consider it an extraordinary act, but I will not allow anyone to speak reproachfully of it in my presence; for that would be an insult to the man whose name I accepted, to hand it down to my son."

There was much eager whispering among the groups scattered through that vast apartment. Only the group at the extreme end, consisting of honest workmen and faithful servants, was grave and calm, and secretly touched. Magnani's father and mother came forward weeping, and kissed Agatha's hand. Mila, in the midst of her transports of amazement and joy, was a little depressed in the depths of her heart. She said to herself that Magnani should be there; but she could not see him, although she looked everywhere. However, she forgot him when Michel appeared, and she rose to rush to him through the groups, malevolent or thunderstruck, which opened to give passage to the artisan prince and his woolen blouse. But she stopped short, with crimson cheeks and in sore distress: Michel was no longer her brother; she must not kiss him any more.

Agatha, who had risen first, turned and beckoned to her, and, taking her by the hand, walked toward her son with the proud resolution of a queen and a mother. First she led him to receive publicly the blessing of his father and his uncle by adoption, then turned him over to the cordial hand-clasps of her friends and the salutations of her acquaintances. Michel took pleasure in adopting a cold and haughty bearing with those who seemed to him cold and haughty; but when he was in the midst of the more popular portion of the company, he appeared as he felt, overflowing with sincerity and cordiality. He had no difficulty in winning the hearts of those good people, and he was greeted as heartily as if they had been present at his birth, and he had grown to manhood before their eyes.

After the production of the certificates of marriage and birth, which, having been recorded under the former ecclesiastical administration, were perfectly regular and authentic, Agatha took leave of the family gathering, and withdrew to her private apartments with Michel, the Lavoratori family, and the Marquis della Serra. There they tasted the unalloyed happiness of being together, and recovered from the fatigue due to the constraint to which they had been subjected. They laughed over the incident of the grandfather's gala costume, Master Barbagallo's happy thought. They made merry in anticipation of all the monstrous and absurd tales concerning the state of affairs in the family, to which the imaginations of the good people of Catania, Messina, and Palermo would give birth while the excitement was at its height.

But the day had not passed before they felt that they would all require more genuine courage than they had yet been called upon to display. The news of the murder of Abbé Ninfo, together with a copy of the audacious inscription, reached the city during the evening, and was speedily circulated. Persons who were out walking had brought the copy, the _campieri_ brought the body. As the incident seemed to have a political color, it was discussed in undertones; but as it had some connection with the great events of the day, the death of the cardinal and Agatha's declaration, people talked about it all night, having no desire to sleep. The greatest and most beautiful city on earth, unless it be one of the great metropolises of civilization, is always, so far as its spirit and its ideas are concerned, a petty provincial town, especially in the south of Europe.

The police were aroused by the vengeance wreaked upon one of their agents. Persons in the good graces of the government assumed, in aristocratic salons, a menacing attitude toward the patriotic nobles. The Neapolitan faction asserted that the Prince of Castro-Reale had better look to himself if he wished his father's crimes to be forgotten; and, ere long, salutary warnings intended for the princess found their way into her very boudoir. A sincere, but cowardly friend informed her that the assertion of her innocence in the Piccinino's extraordinary document, and the appeal therein made to her son to avenge Castro-Reale, would compromise her very seriously unless she made haste to take some measures dictated by prudence: as, for instance, to present her son to the ruling powers, and to manifest her purpose, indirectly but clearly, to abandon her defunct brigand to the devil, and her bastard stepson's body to the headsman, to be a true and loyal Palmarosa, like her father and uncle before her, and to make herself responsible for the proper political education of the heir of a name so difficult to bear as that of Castro-Reale was likely to be.

To these warnings, Agatha replied calmly and judiciously that she never went into society; that she had been living for nearly twenty years in undisturbed seclusion, where no conspiracies had ever been formed; that to take any measures at that moment to obtain the favor of the ruling powers would be in effect to admit the justice of suspicions which she did not deserve; that her son was still a child, brought up in an obscure station and in ignorance of everything outside of the poetry of art; that she would bear boldly, with him, the name of Castro-Reale, because it would be cowardly to deny her marriage and his descent, and that they would not fail to make that name respected, even under the eyes of the police. As for the Piccinino, she very adroitly pretended that she had no idea what they meant, and that she did not believe in the existence of that intangible phantom, a sort of ogre, whose name was used to frighten the little children and old women of the suburbs. She was surprised and distressed by the murder of Abbé Ninfo; but as the will turned up opportunely in Doctor Recuperati's custody, no one could suspect that she owed the recovery of the document to a secret arrangement with the brigands of the mountain. The doctor did not even know that it had been taken from him; for, just as he was about to make a public declaration that Ninfo had stolen it, Agatha had interrupted him, saying:

"Be careful, doctor, you are very absent-minded, you know; don't accuse anyone hastily. You showed me the will two days ago; may you not have left it in my chamber, under a piece of mosaic?"

An official visit to the place indicated had resulted in finding the will there intact. The doctor, astounded at his carelessness, had believed in it with the others.

Agatha had suffered so much, the secrets she had had to keep had been so painful, that she had become very skilful in feigning, when it was necessary to take that trouble. Michel and the marquis admired the presence of mind which she displayed throughout the whole affair in extricating herself from an alarming position. But Fra Angelo became very sad, and Michel sought his couch much less light-hearted in his palace than he had been in his garret. The necessary precautions, the constant dissimulation to which he must resort, revealed the anxieties and perils of grandeur. The Capuchin feared that he would be corrupted in spite of himself. Michel was not afraid of being corrupted, but he felt that he must keep a close watch upon himself, and make himself small in order to preserve his peace of mind and domestic happiness, or else enter upon a struggle which would end only with his fortune or his life.

He resigned himself to his fate. He determined that he would be prudent for his mother's sake until the time should come to be reckless for the sake of his country. But the period of excitement and untroubled happiness had already passed; duty was beginning: novels which are not cut short in the midst of the catastrophe become depressing on the last pages, that is to say, if they have the slightest semblance of probability.

Certain persons of taste and vivid imagination insist that a novel should not have any end; that the reader should end it to suit himself. Certain others, persons of judgment and method, desire to see all the threads of the plot straightened out, and all the characters happily established for the rest of their lives, or else killed off, so that they need think no more about them. I agree with the former class, and I think that I might well have left the reader at the foot of the _Destatore's_ cross, reading the inscription which the _justicier d'aventure_ had written there. He could readily have imagined without my assistance the chapter which he has just read--and read with languid interest, I warrant--saying to himself: "I was sure of it; I expected it; that goes without saying."

But I was afraid that I might have to deal with a reader of delicate sensibilities, who would have been made ill by being left in the classico-romantic company of a corpse and a vulture.

Why are all _dénouements_ more or less lame and unsatisfactory? The reason is simple enough: it is because in real life there never is a _dénouement_; that the novel goes on forever, melancholy or placid, poetic or commonplace, and that the purely conventional can never wear the truthful aspect which arouses interest.

But since, against my inclination, I have determined to elucidate everything, I realize that I have left Magnani on the seashore, Mila anxious, the Piccinino in flight, and the Marquis della Serra at the princess's feet. As for the last-named, he had been in that position for nearly twelve years, and a day more or less was of little consequence to him; but as soon as he learned Agatha's secret, and saw her son in possession of all his rights and all his good fortune, he changed his attitude, and, drawing himself up to the full height of his loyal and chivalrous nature, he said in Michel's presence:

"Signora, I love you as I have always loved you. I esteem you the more because of the pride and loyalty you have hitherto displayed in refusing to contract, under the title of virgin, a marriage in which you would have had to bear in secret the titles of widow and mother. But if you think that, because you were subjected to outrage long ago, you are degraded in my eyes, you do not know my heart. If, because you bear a strange name, a name that arouses horror because of the memories connected with it, you believe that I would shrink from replacing it with mine, you put an affront upon my devotion to you. These, on the contrary, are reasons which make me desire more eagerly than ever to be your friend, your support, your protector and your husband. At the present moment your first marriage is a subject of ridicule. Give me your hand, and no one will dare to ridicule the second. People call you the brigand's wife; be the wife of the most reasonable and sedate of patricians, so that people may know that, if you can inflame the imagination of a wild and wayward man, you can rule the heart of a man of calm and peaceful life. Your son sorely needs a father, signora. He will soon be involved in more than one difficult and perilous crisis of the hazardous existence which a hostile race forces upon us. Be assured that I already love him as if he were my own son, and that my life and my fortune are his. But that is not enough; it is necessary that the sanction of a marriage between you and me should put an end to the equivocal position in which we stand toward each other. If I am supposed to be his mother's lover, can he love or esteem me? Would it not be absurd--aye cowardly--in him to seem to endure it without shame or impatience? So that I must avoid you now, if you refuse to be united to me. You will lose your best friend, and so will Michel! As for myself, I say nothing of the grief I should feel, for I know of no words to describe it; but my happiness is not the question, and it is not from selfishness that I implore you thus. No, I know that you do not know what love is, and that the thought of passion terrifies you. I know what a deep wound your heart has received, and how repugnant to you are the thoughts which kindle the imagination of those who know you. Very well! I will be your brother--nothing more. I promise upon my honor, if you demand it. Michel shall be your only child as well as your only love. But the law and public morality will permit me to be his best friend, his guide, and the defender of his mother's honor and fair fame."

The marquis delivered this long speech in a calm tone, the expression of his face corresponding to his manner. But a tear trembled on his eyelid, and he did wrong to try to hold it back, for it was more eloquent than his words.

The princess blushed; it was the first time that the marquis had ever seen her blush, and he was so agitated that he lost all the self-possession with which he had armed himself. That blush which made her a true woman for the first time, at thirty-two years of age, was like a sunbeam on the snow, and Michel's artistic sensibilities were so keen that he realized at once that she had kept another secret in the depths of her heart, or else that her heart, revived by joy and a sense of security, was ripe for love. And what man was more worthy of her than the Marquis della Serra?

The young prince knelt at her feet.

"O mother," he said, "you are only twenty years old! See, look at yourself," he added, offering her a hand mirror which her maid had left on the table. "You are so beautiful and so young, and you propose to renounce love! Is it for my sake? Shall I be the happier because your life is less complete and less happy? Shall I respect you less because I see that you are more profoundly respected and more effectively protected? Are you afraid that I am jealous, as Mila accused me of being? No, I shall not be jealous unless I find that he loves you better than I do, and I defy him to do that! Dear marquis, we will love her dearly, will we not, and make her forget the past; we will make her happy, who has never been happy, and who, alone of all human beings, deserves absolute happiness! Say yes, mother; I will not stand up until you have said yes!"

"I have already reflected," said Agatha, blushing afresh. "I think that I must do it for your sake, and for the dignity of us all."

"Do not say so," cried Michel, throwing his arms about her; "say that it is for your happiness, if you wish us two to be happy!"

Agatha held out her hand to the marquis and hid her son's face against her breast. She was ashamed to have him see her fiancé's joy. She had retained the modesty of a girl; and from that day, she was so fresh and so lovely that the evil tongues, who insist upon detecting falsehood and crime everywhere, declared that Michel was not her son, but a lover installed in her house under that profaned title. However, all calumny and ridicule vanished before the announcement of her marriage to Signor della Serra, which was to take place at the end of her mourning. There was an occasional sneer at the marquis's Quixotic love, but he was envied much more than he was pitied.