Chapter XXXVII: Bianca

"Look you, Michel," said the marquis, taking Pier-Angelo's hand in his right hand and Fra Angelo's in his left; "all men are noble! And I would stake my head that the Lavoratori family is quite as good as the family of Castro-Reale. If we are to judge the dead by the living, surely here are two men who must have had men of worth, men of heart and brain for ancestors; whereas the _Destatore_, a mixture of great qualities and deplorable faults, prince and bandit, repentant devotee and desperate suicide by turns, as surely gave the lie many a time to the nobility of the haughty personages whose images surround us. If you are rich some day, Michel, you will begin a family gallery without realizing it, for you will paint these two noble faces, your father's and your uncle's, and you will never sell them!"

"And his sister's!" cried Pier-Angelo; "he will not forget hers either, for it will serve some day as a proof that our race was not unpleasant to look upon."

"Well," continued the marquis, still addressing Michel, "do you not consider that you have every reason to regret that you do not know the story of your father's and your uncle's father?"

"He was a worthy man!" cried Pier-Angelo; "he was once a soldier, then an honest mechanic, and I knew him as a most excellent father."

"And his brother was a monk like myself," said Fra Angelo. "He was pious and wise; my memory of him had great influence on me when I was hesitating about taking the frock."

"There you see the influence of family memories!" said the marquis. "But your grandfather and great-uncle, my friends, what were they?"

"As for my great-uncle," replied Pier-Angelo, "I don't know that I ever had one. But my grandfather was a peasant."

"What was his life?"

"I was told in my childhood probably, but I don't remember."

"And your great-grandfather?"

"I never heard of him."

"I have a vague remembrance that we had a great-great-grandfather who was a sailor, and one of the bravest of sailors. But his name has escaped me. For us the name of Lavoratori dates back but two generations. It is a sobriquet like most plebeian names. It marks the transition from one trade to another in our family, when our grandfather ceased to be a peasant in the mountains to become a mechanic in the town. Our grandfather's name was Montanari; that was a sobriquet too. His grandfather had a different name, doubtless. But at that point everlasting night begins for us, and our genealogy enters into oblivion so complete that it is equivalent to non-existence."

"Even so," rejoined the marquis; "you have summed up the whole history of the common people in the example of your family. Two or three generations are conscious of a connecting bond; but all those which preceded and all those which will follow are strangers to them forever. Do you consider that just and as it should be, my dear Michel? Is not this utter neglect of the past, this heedlessness of the future, this absence of interest in the intermediate generations, a sort of barbarism, an uncivilized condition of affairs, indicating a most revolting contempt for the human race?"

"You are right, and I understand you, signor marquis," Michel replied. "The history of each family is the history of the human race, and whoever knows one knows the other. Certainly the man who knows his own ancestors, and who derives from a scrutiny of their successive existences a series of examples to follow or to shun, has, so to speak, a more intense and more complete life in his heart than he who can refer only to two or three vague and intangible shadows of the past. Therefore nobility of birth is a great social privilege; if it imposes grave duties, it furnishes vast enlightenment and vast powers. The child who spells out the knowledge of good and evil in books written with the blood which flows in his own veins, and in the features of the painted faces which reflect his own image like mirrors in which he loves to recognize himself, should always become a great man, or at least, as you said, a man enamored of true grandeur, which is an acquired virtue supplying the place of inborn virtue. I realize now what there is that is true and estimable in this principle of heredity which binds the generations together. What there is in it that is unfortunate, I will not remind you; you know it better than I."

"What there is unfortunate I will tell you myself," replied the marquis. "There is the fact that nobility is an exclusive privilege which all families do not share; that established distinctions rest upon a false principle, and that the peasant hero does not win fame and have his name inscribed in history like the patrician hero; that the domestic virtues of the workingman are not recorded in a book that is always open to his posterity; that the poor and virtuous mother of a family, lovely and chaste to no purpose, does not leave her name and her image on the walls of her hovel; that that hovel of the poor man is not even assured to his descendants as a place of refuge; that all men are not wealthy and free, so that they may consecrate thought, monuments and works of art to the worship of their past; lastly, that there is no such thing as the history of the human race, but only of a few names rescued from oblivion, which are called illustrious names, heedless of the fact that at certain times whole nations become illustrious under the influence of the same deed and the same idea. Who can tell us the names of all the enthusiastic, noble hearts who have thrown aside the spade or the hoe to go to fight the infidel? You have ancestors among them, I doubt not, Pier-Angelo, and you know nothing of them! Or the names of all the sublime monks who have preached the law of God to savage peoples? Your ancestors are among them, Fra Angelo, and you know nothing of them! Ah! my friends, how many noble hearts are stilled forever, how many noble deeds buried in oblivion without advantage to those who live to-day! How melancholy and disastrous is this impenetrable darkness of the past to the common people, and how my heart aches to think that you are probably descended from the blood of brave men and martyrs, although you cannot find the faintest trace of their passage upon the paths you follow through life! Whereas I, who am not so good a man as you, can learn from Master Barbagallo what ancestor of mine was born or died this month five hundred years ago! Consider! On one side the unmitigated abuse of this worship of the patrician; on the other the horror of a vast grave which swallows up without distinction the consecrated bones and the impure bones of the common people! Oblivion is a punishment which should be visited upon the wicked only, and yet it is visited upon no one in our haughty families; whereas in yours it overtakes the most virtuous! History is confiscated to our profit, and you people seem to have no connection whatever with history, which, however, is your work more than ours!"

"Well," said Michel, deeply moved by the marquis's ideas and sentiments, "you have given me for the first time a true conception of nobility. I always attributed it to a few glorious personalities, who must be separated from their race. Now I can imagine lofty and generous thoughts, succeeding one another from generation to generation, connecting the generations with one another, and making as much account of humble virtues as of brilliant deeds. That is judging as God judges, signor marquis, and if I had the honor and the misery to be of noble birth--for it is a grievous burden to him who comprehends it--I should like to see and think as you do."

"I thank you," replied the marquis, taking his hand and leading him out on the terrace of his palace. Pier-Angelo and Fra Angelo looked at each other with deep emotion; both had understood the full scope of the marquis's ideas, and they felt strengthened and uplifted by this new aspect which he had given to life, collective and individual alike. As for Master Barbagallo, he had listened with religious respect, but had understood absolutely nothing; and he went away wondering how one could be noble without a palace, without parchments, without a coat of arms, and above all else, without family portraits. He concluded that the nobility could not do without wealth: a marvellous discovery which fatigued him much.

At that moment, as the beak of a great pelican of gilded wood, which did duty as hour hand on a monumental clock in the gallery of the Della Serra palace, marked four o'clock in the afternoon, the Piccinino was thinking that his five or six repeating watches must be slow, so impatiently did he await Mila's arrival. He went from the English watch to the Geneva watch, disdaining the Catanian watch which he might have purchased with his money--for the Catanians are watch-makers as well as the Genevans--and from the one surrounded with diamonds to the one adorned with rubies. Being a connoisseur in jewels, he laid claim to none but articles of the most exquisite quality from the booty taken by his men. Thus no one knew the time better than he, who was so keen to make the most of it, and to employ his moments most methodically, in order to lead side by side a life of study and of meditation, a life of adventures, intrigues, and _coups de main_, and a life of pleasure and of lust, which he neither could nor wished to enjoy otherwise than in secret.

Fierce to the point of despotism in his impatience, he was as intolerant of having to wait himself as he was fond of making others wait and of worrying them by skilfully devised delays. This time, however, he had yielded to the necessity of coming first to the rendezvous. He could not be sure that Mila would have the courage to wait for him, or to enter his house if he were not there himself to meet her. He went to the gate more than ten times, and angrily retraced his steps, afraid to leave the wooded road that bordered his garden, lest, if he should meet anyone, he should seem to be intent upon some design. The leading principle in his scheme of life was always to appear calm and indifferent in the eyes of placid people, always distraught and preoccupied in the eyes of busybodies.

_He strode toward Mila with an imperious air, seized the rein of her mule, and, taking the girl in his arms as soon as she was in front of his garden gate, lifted her to the ground, pressing her lovely body with something very like violence._]

When Mila at last appeared at the top of the green path which descended sharply to his orchard, he was really angry with her, for she was a quarter of an hour late, and, thanks to the Piccinino's discernment or fascinations, there was not one among the fair maidens of the mountain who would have allowed him to be first at the rendezvous in a love-affair. The brigand's unruly heart was inflamed therefore with ill-disguised rage; he forgot that he was not dealing with a mistress, and he strode toward Mila with an imperious air, seized the rein of her mule, and, taking the girl in his arms as soon as she was in front of his garden gate, lifted her to the ground, pressing her lovely body with something very like violence.

But Mila, partly opening the folds of her double mantle of muslin, gazed at him in surprise.

"Are we in danger already, my lord?" she said, "or do you think that I have brought anyone with me? No, no! See, I am alone, I have come with perfect confidence in you, and you have no reason to be displeased with me."

The Piccinino recovered his self-control as he looked at Mila. She had ingenuously arrayed herself in her Sunday garb to appear before her protector. Beneath her purple-velvet waist could be seen a second waist of a pale blue, embroidered and laced with excellent taste. A light net of gold thread confined her beautiful hair, in accordance with the fashion of the province, and to protect her face and her costume from the sun's scorching heat, she had enveloped herself in the _mantellina_, a thin veil of ample proportions, which covers the head and the whole body, when it is skilfully arranged and worn with grace. The Piccinino's sturdy mule, bearing a flat saddle of velvet trimmed with gilt nails, upon which a woman could easily ride sidewise, was panting and restive, as if proud to have borne and to have saved from all danger so lovely a rider. It was easy to see, from his foam-flecked sides, that little Mila had not spared him, or that she had bravely trusted to his zeal. It had been a dangerous ride, however: ridges of lava to cross, torrents to ford, precipices to skirt. The mule had taken the shortest path; he had climbed and leaped like a goat. Mila, seeing how strong and adroit he was, could not, despite her anxiety, avoid that intense and mysterious pleasure which women find in danger. She was proud of having felt physical courage spring to life within her with moral courage; and while the Piccinino admired the brilliancy of her eyes, and of her cheeks flushed by the exercise, she, thinking only of the merits of the white mule, turned and kissed him on the nose, saying: "You are worthy to carry the pope!"

The brigand could not help smiling, and he forgot his anger.

"Dear child," he said, "I am very glad that my good Bianca pleases you, and now I think that she would be worthy to eat from a golden manger, like the charger of a Roman emperor. But come quickly; I don't wish anyone to see you come in here."

Mila docilely quickened her pace, and when the brigand had led her across his garden, after securely locking the gate, she allowed him to escort her into his house, whose neatness and coolness delighted her.

"Is this your own house, pray, my lord?" she asked him.

"No," he replied, "we are in Carmelo Tomabene's house, as I told you; but he is my debtor and my friend, and I have a room under his roof to which I sometimes retire when I need rest and solitude."

He led her through the house, which was arranged and furnished in rustic fashion, but with an orderly, substantial, homelike appearance which the dwellings of rich peasants seldom display. At the end of the ventilating corridor, which ran from end to end of the upper floor, he opened a double door, the inner one being bound with iron, and ushered Mila into the truncated tower which he had incorporated into his house, so to speak, and where he had fitted up a dainty and mysterious boudoir.

No princess ever possessed one more sumptuous, more sweetly perfumed or adorned with rarer objects. But no artisan had ever put his hand to it. The Piccinino himself had concealed the walls beneath hangings of Oriental silk stitched with gold and silver. The divan of yellow satin was covered with the skin of a huge royal tiger, whose head startled the girl at first; but she soon grew bold enough to touch its scarlet-velvet tongue, its eyes of enamel, and to sit upon its black-striped side. Then she gazed about with dazzled eyes at the gleaming weapons, the Turkish sabres adorned with jewels, the pipes with gold tassels, the chafing-dishes, the China vases, the innumerable objects of an exquisite beauty, a magnificence or a singularity which appealed to her imagination like the descriptions of enchanted palaces with which it was filled.

"All this is even more incomprehensible and more beautiful than anything I have seen at the Palmarosa palace," she said to herself, "and surely this prince is richer and even more illustrious than the princess. He must be some claimant to the Sicilian crown, who is working secretly to bring about the downfall of the Neapolitan government."--What would this poor child have thought if she had known the source of that piratical splendor!

While she gazed at everything with the artless admiration of a child, the Piccinino, who had bolted the door and lowered the Chinese shades at the window, gazed at Mila with the utmost amazement. He had expected that he would have to tell her the most incredible fables, the most audacious lies, to induce her to follow him to his lair, and the facility of his triumph began already to disgust him with it. To be sure, Mila was the loveliest creature he had ever seen; but was her perfect tranquillity due to impudence, or stupidity? Could so seductive a creature possibly be ignorant of the effect her charms were certain to produce? Could so young a maid risk a tête-à-tête of this sort without a moment of fear or embarrassment?

The Piccinino, observing that she had a very beautiful ring on her finger, and thinking that he could follow the thread of her thoughts by following the direction of her glances, said to her, with a smile: "You love jewels, my dear Mila, and, like all girls, you think more of personal adornment than of anything else in this world. My mother left me a few trinkets of some value, which are in that lapis lazuli casket by your side. Would you like to look at them?"

"If I may without indiscretion, I would like to," Mila replied.

Carmelo took the casket, placed it on the girl's knees, and, kneeling beside her on the edge of the tiger's skin, he displayed before her eyes a mass of necklaces, rings, chains and buckles which were thrown pell-mell into the casket with a sort of superb contempt for such a multitude of priceless objects, some of which were masterpieces of old-fashioned carved work, others perfect treasures by reason of the beauty and great size of the diamonds.

"My lord," said the girl, running her inquisitive fingers over all this wealth, while the Piccinino fastened his dry, inflamed eyes upon her at close range, "you have too little respect for your mother's jewels. My mother left me only a few bits of ribbon and a pair of scissors with gold handles, which I preserve as relics, and which are very carefully stowed away in my closet. If we had time before that accursed abbé comes, I would put this casket in order."

"Do not take that trouble," said the Piccinino; "indeed we have not time. But you have time enough to take whatever you would like to keep."

"I?" said Mila, with a laugh, replacing the casket on the mosaic table. "What should I do with them? Not only should I, a poor silk-spinner, be ashamed to wear a princess's jewels, which, by the way, being your mother's, you should give only to your betrothed, but I should be very much embarrassed with all these inconvenient trinkets. I like to look at jewels, and, also, to touch them, as hens turn over with their claws anything shiny that they see on the ground. But I prefer to see them on somebody's else's neck and arms rather than my own. I should be so embarrassed by them that even if I owned them I should never use them."

"And you take no account whatever of the pleasure of owning them?" queried the bandit, amazed at the result of his experiment.

"To own things for which one has no use seems to me a very embarrassing thing," said she; "and I cannot understand one's burdening one's life with such gew-gaws, unless they are given to one as a sacred trust."

"And yet you wear a very beautiful ring!" said the Piccinino, kissing her hand.

"Oh! monsignor," said the girl, withdrawing her hand with an offended air, "are you worthy to kiss that ring? Forgive me for speaking to you so, but it is not mine, as you see, and I must return it to Princess Agatha to-night; she sent me to the jeweller's to get it."

"I will wager," said the Piccinino, scrutinizing Mila with distrust and suspicion, "that Princess Agatha overwhelms you with presents, and that that is the reason why you despise mine!"

"I despise nothing and nobody," replied Mila; "and when Princess Agatha drops an embroidery needle or a bit of silk, I pick them up and treasure them as relics. But if she should attempt to overwhelm me with handsome presents, I should beg her to keep them for those who need them. But I must tell the truth: she once gave me a beautiful locket in which I carry some of my brother's hair. But I keep it out of sight, for I do not care to wear any ornaments unsuited to my station in life."

"Tell me, Mila," rejoined the Piccinino, after a moment's silence, "you are no longer afraid, are you?"

"No, my lord," she replied, confidently; "when I saw you on the road, near this house, my fear left me. Before that I confess that I was trembling all over, that I fancied that I saw that horrid abbé's face behind every bush, and that I don't quite know how I ever got here. When I saw how far good Bianca was carrying me, when I finally spied this tower and these trees, I said to myself: 'Great God! suppose my protector was unable to come! suppose that wicked abbé, who is capable of anything, has had him arrested by the _campieri_, or murdered on the road, what will become of me?' Then I was terrified, not only on my own account, but because I look on you as our guardian angel, and because it seems to me that your life is much more valuable than mine."

The Piccinino, who had felt very cold, and, as it were, displeased with Mila ever since her arrival, felt a slight thrill of emotion, and took his seat beside her on the tiger's skin.