Chapter XXXVIII: A Coup De Main

"So you really feel a little sincere interest in me, do you, my child?" he said, fastening upon her that dangerous glance of which he well knew the power.

"Sincere? yes, upon my soul!" replied the girl, "and I surely owe you that much, after the interest you have displayed in my family."

"And do you think that your family has the same feeling that you have?"

"Why--how could it be otherwise? However, to tell the truth, no one has ever mentioned you to me, and I do not know your secrets; they have treated me like a tattling little girl; but you do me more justice, for you see that I am not inquisitive, and that I do not even ask you who you are."

"And have you no desire to know? Isn't this one way of asking me?"

"No, monsignor, I should not dare to ask you questions, and I prefer not to know what my father has thought best not to tell me. I feel very proud to work with you to ensure their safety, without trying to remove the bandage with which they have covered my eyes."

"That is very noble of you, Mila," said the Piccinino, beginning to feel somewhat piqued by the girl's perfect tranquillity; "it is too noble, perhaps!"

"Why and how is it noble?"

"Because you run great risks with unexampled imprudence."

"What risks, monsignor? did you not promise me before God that you would protect me from all danger?"

"So far as that vile monk is concerned, I promise you on my life. But have you no suspicion of other people?"

"Yes, I have," said Mila, after a moment's reflection. "You mentioned at the fountain a name that frightened me terribly. You spoke as if you had some relations with the Piccinino. But you said to me again after that: 'Come without fear,' and I came. Not without fear, I admit, so long as I was alone on the road. I fancy that I shall be afraid again when I go away from here; but, as long as I am with you, I am not afraid of anything; I feel very brave, and it seems to me that, if we were attacked, I could help in defending ourselves."

"Even against the Piccinino?"

"Ah! I don't know about that. But, great heaven! is he likely to come here?"

"If he should come, it would be to punish the monk and protect you. Why in heaven's name are you so terribly afraid of him?"

"Really, I don't know; but among us, when a girl goes out into the country alone, people make sport of her and say: 'Look out for the Piccinino!'"

"So you think that he murders young maids, do you?"

"Yes, monsignor; for they say that they never come back from the place he takes them to; or, if they do come back, that it would have been better for them to have stayed."

"And you hate him, I suppose?"

"No, I do not hate him, because they say that he inflicts much injury on the Neapolitans, and that if people only had the courage to help him he would do the country a great deal of good. But I am afraid of him, which is not the same thing by any means."

"You have been told that he was very ugly, I suppose?"

"Yes, because he has a long beard, and I think that he must resemble the monk I detest so. But isn't the monk coming? When he has come I can go away, can I not, monsignor?"

"Are you in a hurry to go, Mila? do you find it so very unpleasant here?"

"Oh! not at all; but I should be afraid to go home after dark."

"I will take you home."

"You are very good, monsignor; I ask nothing better, provided that nobody sees us. But about this Abbé Ninfo, are you going to do him any injury?"

"No injury. I presume that it would give you no pleasure to hear him shriek?"

"God in heaven! I do not want to see or be the cause of any cruel treatment of the man; but if the Piccinino comes here, I am terribly afraid there will be bloodshed. You smile, monsignor," said Mila, turning pale. "Oh! now I am afraid! Pray send me away as soon as the abbé has set foot in the house."

"Mila, I swear to you that the abbé shall suffer no cruelty at my hands. As soon as I have made sure of his person, the Piccinino will come and take him away, a prisoner."

"And is all this done by the Princess Agatha's orders?"

"You ought to know."

"In that case, my mind is at ease. She would not desire the death of the lowest of men."

"You are very compassionate, Mila; I thought that you were stronger and prouder. So you would not have the courage to kill that man if he should come here and insult you?"

"Excuse me, monsignor," rejoined Mila, taking from her bosom a dagger which the princess had given to Magnani the day before, and of which she had succeeded in gaining possession without his knowledge: "I could not see a man killed in cold blood without fainting, I think; but if I were insulted, I think that my anger would carry me a long way."

"So you prepared for war, did you, Mila? You had no confidence in me, I see."

"As in God, monsignor; but God is everywhere, and some unforeseen accident might have prevented you from being here."

"Do you know that it was very brave in you to come, Mila? and that if people knew it----"

"Well, my lord?"

"Instead of admiring your heroism, they would blame your rashness."

"There is one thing I know very well," said Mila, with a sort of playful excitement, "and that is that, if people knew of my being closeted here with you, I should be lost."

"Doubtless! Slander----"

"Slander and calumny! Half as much would be enough to cause a young girl to be cried down and degraded forever."

"And you felt sure that this expedition of yours would be enveloped forever in impenetrable mystery?"

"I relied upon your prudence, and I left the rest in God's hands. I know very well that there are many risks to run; but did you not tell me that it was a question of saving my father's life and the Princess Agatha's honor?"

"And you carried your devotion to the point of endangering your own honor, without regret?"

"Endangering it in public opinion? I prefer that to allowing those whom I love to be killed and dishonored. As between them and myself, isn't it better that I should be the victim? But what does all this mean, monsignor? You speak to me in a very strange way; one would think that you were rebuking me for believing in you and for doing what you advised me to do."

"No, Mila, I am questioning you. Forgive me for trying to understand you and know you, so that I may esteem you as much as you deserve."

"Very good; I will answer you frankly."

"Well, my child, tell me everything. Did it not occur to you that I might be setting a trap for you, and be luring you hither to insult you, or, at least, to try to seduce you?"

Mila looked the Piccinino in the face, trying to discover what could possibly induce him to put forward such a supposition. If it was a method of testing her, she considered it insulting; if it was a jest, she considered it in very bad taste on the part of one who seemed to be a man of superior intellect and of exalted rank. This was the decisive moment for her and for him. If she had felt the slightest fear--and she was not the woman to conceal it, like Princess Agatha--the Piccinino would have grown bolder; for he knew that fear is the beginning of weakness. But she looked him in the face with such frank fearlessness, and with so brave an air of displeasure, that he was convinced at last that he was dealing with a really strong and sincere character; and thereafter he had not the slightest desire to open hostilities. He felt that a battle of ruses with so straightforward a creature could have no other result for him than shame or remorse.

"Well, my child," he said, giving her hand a frank and friendly pressure, "I see that you had a confidence in me which does honor to us both. Will you permit me to ask you one more question? Have you a lover?"

"A lover? no, monsignor," replied Mila, blushing crimson; but she added, without hesitation: "I may tell you, however, that there is a man whom I love."

"Where is he now?"

"In Catania."

"Is he rich--well-born?"

"He has a noble heart and two stout arms."

"And he loves you as you deserve to be loved?"

"That does not concern you, monsignor; I will not answer that question."

"However, you came here at the risk of losing his love?"

"As you see, alas!" said Mila, with a sigh.

"O women! are you really so much nobler than we men?" exclaimed the Piccinino, rising. But he had no sooner glanced out of doors than he took Mila by the hand.

"Here's the abbé!" he said; "follow me. Why do you tremble so?"

"Not with fear," she replied, "but with disgust and displeasure; but I will follow you."

They went down to the garden.

"You will not leave me alone with him a single minute, will you?" said Mila, as they left the house: "if he should so much as kiss my hand, I should be forced to burn the place with a red-hot iron."

"And I should be forced to kill him," rejoined the Piccinino.

They walked under the arbor to an opening, where the Piccinino glided behind the trellis, and so followed Mila to the garden gate. Emboldened by his presence, she opened it and motioned to the abbé to enter.

"Are you alone?" he said, making haste to put aside his monk's frock and show how gallantly he was arrayed in black--a veritable musk-laden abbé.

She made no other reply than: "Come in quickly." No sooner had she secured the gate than the Piccinino made his appearance, and never was there a more disappointed face than Abbé Ninfo's. "Excuse me, monsignor," said the Piccinino, assuming an air of simplicity which surprised his companion; "I learned from my cousin Mila that you wished to see my poor garden, and I determined to admit you myself. Excuse me, it is only a peasant's garden, but the fruit trees are so old and so fine that people come from all directions to see them. Unluckily, I have an engagement, and I must go away in five minutes; but my cousin has promised to do the honors of the house, and I will retire, with your lordship's permission, as soon as I have offered you some wine and fruit."

"Do not put yourself out, my good man!" replied the abbé, reassured by this speech. "Go about your business, and do not stand on ceremony. Go, go at once, I say, I do not propose to incommode you."

"I will go as soon as I can see you at table. Lord God! you will die of the heat. Our roads are so rough! Come to the house; I will pour the first glass for you, and then I will go, as your lordship kindly permits me to do so."

"My cousin will not go away until you are in the house," said Mila, in obedience to a meaning glance from the Piccinino.

The abbé, seeing that he could not get rid of his obsequious host except by complying with his wish, passed through the arbor without an opportunity to address a word or a glance to Mila; for the Piccinino, still playing the part of a respectful peasant and zealous host, walked between them. The abbé was ushered into a cool, dark room, where a collation was served. But, as they entered, the Piccinino said in Mila's ear: "Let me fill your glass, but do not so much as smell it."

A topaz-hued muscatel glistened in a large decanter which stood in a terra-cotta vessel filled with cold water. The abbé, who was somewhat disturbed by the peasant's presence, emptied at a single draught, without hesitation, the glass that was offered him.

"Now," he said, "off with you at once, my boy! I should never forgive myself for having caused you to break your engagement."

"Come with me, Mila," said the Piccinino. "You must lock the gate after me, for, if it should be left open, even for a moment, the children would come in and steal my peaches."

Mila did not wait to be asked twice to hurry after the Piccinino; but he went no farther than the door of the room, and when he had closed it behind him, he put his finger on his lips, and, applying his eye to the keyhole, remained absolutely motionless. After two or three minutes he rose, saying aloud: "It is all over!" And he threw the door wide open.

Mila saw the abbé lying on the floor, with a purple face, and breathing heavily.

"Oh! my God!" she cried, "have you poisoned him, monsignor?"

"No, indeed," replied Carmelo; "for we need a few words from him later. He is only asleep, the dear man, but very sound asleep!"

"Oh! do not speak so loud, monsignor: he sees us and hears us! His eyes are open and staring at us."

"And yet he doesn't know who we are, he has no comprehension of anything. What good does it do him to see and hear, when nothing conveys any meaning to his poor brain? Do not come near, Mila, if the paralyzed viper still frightens you; for my part, I must study the effects of this narcotic a little. They vary in different individuals."

He walked calmly to the abbé's side, while Mila, completely bewildered, remained in the doorway and watched him with dismay. He touched his victim as the wolf sniffs before devouring. He made sure that the head and hands passed speedily from intense heat to icy cold, that the face lost its flush, that the respiration became regular and weak.

"This is a good result," he said, as if speaking to himself; "and such a weak dose! I am well satisfied with the experiment. This is very preferable to blows, a struggle, shrieks stifled by a gag, isn't it, Mila? A woman can look on at this sort of thing without an attack of hysterics. This is the sort of method I like, and if it were well known, nobody would use any other. But you must never mention it, Mila, do you hear? for it might easily be abused, and no one, you see, no one could protect himself against it. If I had chosen to put you to sleep like this, it was entirely in my power to do it. Would you take a glass of water from my hand now, if I should offer it to you?"

"Yes, monsignor, I would accept it," replied Mila, taking this challenge for a jest.--"He jests on all subjects," she said to herself. "He has a satirical bent like Michel."

"So you would be no more suspicious than this poor abbé?" continued the Piccinino, in a preoccupied tone; for he was busily searching his sleeper, with perfect self-possession.

"You forbade me even to smell that wine," replied Mila; "so you evidently had no purpose to play me a trick!"

"Ah! here it is!" muttered the bandit, taking a wallet from the abbé's pocket. "Don't be impatient, Mila; I must examine this."

Seating himself at the table, he opened the wallet and took therefrom divers papers, over which he cast his eye with tranquil celerity.

"A report against Marc-Antonio Ferrara!--an obscure man; doubtless some husband whose wife he wished to seduce! Here, Mila, here is my flint and steel. Will you light the lamp and burn this? This Marc-Antonio will never suspect that your fair hand saved him from imprisonment.

"And this? Ah! this is more important; an anonymous warning, addressed to the captain of the city, that the Marquis della Serra is planning a conspiracy against the government! The dear abbé proposed to get rid of the princess's cicisbeo, or to give him something to think about at all events! The idiot! he doesn't even know enough to disguise his handwriting! Burn it up, Mila; it shall not go to its address.

"Another warning!" continued the Piccinino, still examining the wallet. "The wretch! he proposed to have the gallant champion arrested who brought him into relation with the Piccinino! This is worth saving. Malacarne will see that he did well not to trust this hound's promises, and that he would have been well punished for not reporting to his chief.

"I am surprised to find nothing against your father, Mila. Ah! yes, here it is! The signor abbé's measures were all taken to strike his great blow. This evening Pier-Angelo Lavoratori and--Fra Angelo too!--Ah! you reckoned without your host, my friend! You did not know that the Piccinino will never allow a finger to be laid on that shaven head! How ill-informed you were! Why, Mila, this man, whom people look upon as a monster of iniquity, is nothing but an idiot, upon my word!"

"Of what did he accuse my father and my uncle?"

"Of conspiring--always the same refrain; it is so worn out! There is one thing that surprises me, and that is that the police continue to pay any attention to this venerable nonsense. The police are as stupid as the people who set them on."

"Give me that, give me that, and I will burn it with right good will!" cried Mila.

"Here's another! Who is--Antonio Magnani?"

Mila did not answer. She put out her hand so eagerly to seize and burn this last denunciation, that the Piccinino turned and saw that her cheeks were suffused with a sudden flush.

"I understand," he said, giving her the paper. "But he ought to have forwarded this denunciation before venturing to pay court to you. Always too late, always beside the mark, poor man!"

He opened and ran through several other papers which mentioned none but unknown names, and which Mila burned without looking at them. But suddenly he started and exclaimed:

"Can it be? This in his hands? Good! I did not believe you capable of making this capture. Excuse me, my dear abbé," he continued, putting in his pocket a paper much more bulky than the others, with an ironical bow to the miserable wretch lying at his feet, his mouth half-open and his eye glassy and lifeless. "I honor you with my esteem to a certain point. Really, I did not believe you capable of it!"

Ninfo's eyes seemed to rekindle. He tried to move, and there was a sort of rattle in his throat.

"Ah! have we reached that stage?" said the Piccinino, putting the mouth of the decanter of narcotized wine to his lips.

"Did that wake you up? You set more store by that than by the fair Mila, eh? In that case, you should have let love-making go, and should not have come here instead of attending to your business! Sleep, I pray you, your excellency, for if you understand what is going on, you will have to die!"

The abbé fell back upon the floor; his vitreous stare remained fastened like that of a dead man on the Piccinino's ironical face.

"He needs rest," said the latter to Mila, with a cruel smile; "let us not disturb him any more."

He secured the stout shutters at the windows with heavy padlocked iron bars, and left the room with Mila, locking the door and putting the key in his pocket.