Chapter XL: Deception

Thus did that man, so ill-placed in life if we compare his intellectual powers with his social position, torture himself with vain reflections. Mental culture, which was his greatest enjoyment, was also his torment. Having read everything that fell into his hands, without method and without selection, and allowing himself to be impressed by everything in turn, he was as learned in evil as in good, and he was insensibly drawing near that scepticism which no longer believes absolutely in either good or evil.

He returned to his house to take certain precautions with respect to Abbé Ninfo, so that, if the unexpected should happen, and his domicile be invaded, there should be no traces of violence. He put the narcotized wine out of sight, and filled the decanter with unadulterated wine, in order that he might safely pretend to experiment upon himself at need. He placed the abbé on a couch, extinguished the lamp, and swept up the ashes of the papers Mila had destroyed. No one ever entered his house in his absence. He had no regular servants, and the spotless neatness which he himself maintained did not cost him much trouble, for he occupied only a few rooms, and even those few he did not enter every day. He worked in his garden, in his leisure moments, to keep himself in condition, and to be consistent with his assumed rôle of peasant. He had himself applied to all the issues of his abode a simple but substantial system of fastening, calculated to resist for a long time any attempt to force an entrance. Finally, he released two enormous and savage mountain dogs, fierce beasts who knew nobody but him, and who would infallibly have strangled the prisoner if he had tried to escape.

Having taken these precautions, the Piccinino washed and perfumed himself, and, before going down to the city, showed himself in the village of Nicolosi, where he was highly esteemed by all the people. He conversed in Latin with the priest, under the vine-clad arbor of the vicarage. He exchanged sly jests with the pretty girls of the village, who ogled him from their doorsteps. He held several consultations on agriculture and general affairs with men of sense who appreciated his intelligence and his extensive knowledge. As he left the village he fell in with an officer of _campieri_, with whom he walked for some distance, and who informed him that the Piccinino still succeeded in eluding the pursuit of the police and the municipal brigade.

Mila, eager to tell all her secrets to the princess, and to avail herself of the mysterious prince's permission to ascertain their meaning, travelled as quickly as Bianca was able to descend those steep and dangerous slopes. It did not occur to her to hold the mule back; she was too deeply absorbed in her meditations. Persons of pure heart and tranquil mind must have noticed that, when they communicate their mental disposition to perturbed and agitated minds, their own serenity is diminished in proportion. They give only at the price of running in debt themselves to some extent; for confidence is a matter of exchange, and there is no heart so richly endowed and so powerful that it does not risk something in gratifying its beneficent impulses.

Gradually, however, pretty Mila's terror changed to joy. The Piccinino's conversation had left an echo as of sweet music in her ears, and the odor of his bouquet kept alive the illusion that she was still in that rustic garden, under the shade of the black fig-trees and pistacias, walking upon carpets of moss strewn with mallow, orchids and fraxinella, sometimes catching her veil on the aloes and the twigs of the thorny smilax, from which her host quickly detached it with respectful courtesy. Mila had the simple tastes of her class, added to the tendency to romance and poesy born of her intelligence. If the marble fountains and statues of Villa Palmarosa appealed to her imagination, the vine-clad arbors and wild apple-trees of Carmelo's garden spoke more loudly to her heart. She had already forgotten the bandit's oriental boudoir; she had not felt at her ease there as she had under the arbor. He had been cold and satirical almost all the time in the boudoir, whereas, among the flowering shrubs and beside the silvery spring, he had displayed an artless mind and a tender heart.

How did it happen that this girl, who had just seen such strange and distressing things, a queen's boudoir in the house of a peasant, and the ghastly scene of Abbé Ninfo's lethargy, no longer remembered what must have impressed her imagination so profoundly? Her surprise and her fright had vanished like a dream, and her mind was engrossed by the final tableau, fresh and unsullied, where she saw naught but flowers, greenswards, birds chattering among the leaves, and a handsome young man who guided her through that enchanted labyrinth, conversing with her in chaste and charming language.

When Mila had passed the _Destatore's_ cross, she dismounted, as Carmelo had advised her to do, as a measure of prudence. She fastened the reins to the saddle-bow and waved a switch about Bianca's ears. The intelligent beast started back at a gallop toward Nicolosi, needing no guidance to return to her stable. Mila continued her journey on foot, avoiding the neighborhood of Bel-Passo; but, by a veritable fatality, Fra Angelo happened to be returning just then from the Della Serra palace to his convent by a by-path, so that Mila suddenly found herself face to face with him.

The poor girl drew her _mantellina_ about her and began to walk very fast, as if she had not seen her uncle.

"Where have you been, Mila?" was the greeting which brought her to a standstill, uttered as it was in a tone which admitted of no hesitation.

"Why! uncle," she replied, putting aside her veil, "I didn't see you; the sun was in my eyes."

"Where have you been?" repeated the monk, not deigning to discuss the probable truth of that reply.

"Well, uncle," said Mila, resolutely, "I will not tell you a lie; I saw you plainly."

"I know it; but will you tell me where you have been?"

"I have been to the convent, uncle. I was looking for you, and, not finding you, I was going back to the city."

"What was it that you were in such a hurry to say to me, my dear girl? It must be very important, for you to dare to come out into the country alone, contrary to your habit. Come, answer me! You say nothing! You cannot lie, Mila!"

"Yes, uncle, yes! I came----" And she stopped short, completely at a loss, for she had made no preparations for this meeting, and her wits abandoned her.

"You are losing your head, Mila," rejoined the monk, "for I tell you that you do not know how to lie, and you answer '_Yes!_' Thank heaven, you don't know what you are saying! Do not try to lie, my child, but tell me frankly where you have been."

"Well, uncle, I cannot tell you."

"Indeed!" cried Fra Angelo, with a frown. "I order you to tell me!"

"It is impossible, dear uncle, impossible," said Mila, hanging her head, crimson with shame, and with her eyes filled with tears; for it was very painful to her to see her excellent uncle angry with her for the first time in her life.

"Then you wish me to believe that you have been doing either an insane or a wicked thing!"

"Neither!" cried Mila, raising her head. "I call God to witness!"

"God!" repeated the monk, in a despairing tone. "How you pain me by speaking so, Mila! Can you be capable of swearing a false oath?"

"No, uncle, no, never!"

"Lie to your uncle, if it seems best to you, but do not lie to God!"

"Am I in the habit of lying, I ask you, then?" exclaimed the girl, proudly; "and ought I to be suspected by my uncle, the man who knows me so well, and for whose esteem I care more than for my life?"

"In that case, speak!" rejoined Fra Angelo, grasping her wrist in a way which he considered encouraging and paternal, but which bruised the child's arm and extorted a cry of terror from her.--"Why this fright, pray?" demanded the monk, in amazement. "Ah! you are guilty, girl. You have just done--not anything sinful, I cannot believe that--but some foolish thing or other, which is the first step on the pathway of evil. If it were not so, you would not recoil from me in terror; you would not have tried to hide your face when we met; above all things, you would not have tried to lie! And now, as it is impossible for you to have any innocent secret from me, you should not refuse to explain your actions."

"But I tell you, uncle, that it is an entirely innocent secret, and still it is impossible for me to tell you what it is. Do not ask me any more questions. I would die before I would speak."

"At all events, Mila, promise me that you will tell your father this secret which I may not know!"

"I cannot promise you that; but I swear that I will tell it to Princess Agatha."

"I have the greatest esteem and veneration for Princess Agatha," replied the monk, "but I know that women are excessively indulgent to one another in the matter of certain errors of conduct, and that virtuous women are the more tolerant because of their ignorance of evil. I do not, therefore, like the idea of your seeking shelter against shame on your friend's bosom, instead of explaining your conduct to your family, with head erect. Go, Mila; I insist no farther, since you have withdrawn your confidence from me; but I pity you because your heart is not pure and calm this evening as it was this morning. I pity my brother, whose pride and joy you were; I pity your brother, who will soon have to answer for your conduct before the world, I doubt not, and who will have plenty of trouble on his hands unless he chooses to allow you to be insulted on his arm. Woe, woe to the men of a family, when the women, who should watch over its honor as the Vestals watched over the sacred fire, break the laws of prudence, modesty and truth!"

Fra Angelo passed on, leaving poor Mila, crushed by this malediction, kneeling on the stones in the road, with bloodless cheeks and her bosom heaving with sobs.

"Alas!" she said to herself, "until this moment it seemed to me that my conduct was not only innocent, but brave and praiseworthy. Oh! how harsh the laws of modest reserve and the necessity of an unsullied reputation are for women, since, even when it is a question of saving the lives of one's family, one must expect to be blamed by those whom one loves best! Was it wrong for me to trust to the _prince's_ promises? He may have deceived me, it is true! But when his conduct has proved his honor and his virtue, ought I to blame myself for believing in him? Was it not a presentiment of the truth that led me toward him, and not mere foolish and imprudent curiosity?"

She kept on down the mountain, but, as she walked, she questioned her conscience severely, and some scruples awoke within her. Had she not been impelled by pride to accomplish a difficult and perilous enterprise of which no one would have believed her to be capable? Had she not allowed herself to be influenced by the stranger's comeliness and charm of manner, and would she have had equal confidence in an older and less eloquent man?

"But what does it matter after all?" she said to herself. "What have I done that is wrong, and what reproach could be brought against me if I had been watched? I have run the risk of being misrepresented and slandered, and that is certainly a fault when one does it from egotism or a spirit of coquetry; but when one exposes oneself to danger to save one's father and brother!--Princess Agatha will be my judge; she will tell me whether I have done right or wrong, and whether she would have acted as I did."

But imagine poor Mila's dismay, when, as soon as she began her story, the princess interrupted her, saying: "O my child! it was the Piccinino!"

Mila tried to struggle against the truth. She insisted that everybody said that the Piccinino was short, thickset, awkwardly built, afflicted with hideous ugliness, and that his face was darkened by bushy hair and a beard; whereas the stranger's slight figure was so graceful and refined, his manners so gracious and noble!

"My child," said the princess, "there is a false Piccinino who plays the part of his chief with people of whom his chief is suspicious, and who would play it, at need, before the police and magistrates, if he should fall into their hands. He is a repulsive, savage creature, who enhances, by the horror of his appearance, the terror inspired by the expeditions of the band. But the real Piccinino, the one who styles himself the _justicier d'aventure_, and who directs all the operations of the brigands of the mountain; the man whom nobody knows and as to whom, if he should be captured, it would be impossible to prove that he had ever been the leader or a member of the band, is a handsome, well-educated, eloquent, dissipated and cunning young man; the same Carmelo Tomabene with whom you talked at the fountain."

Mila was so thunderstruck that she almost determined not to go on with her story. How could she confess that she had been the dupe of a hypocrite and had placed herself at the mercy of a libertine? She did confess everything, however, with absolute sincerity, and, when she had finished, began to weep afresh, thinking of the risks she had run, and of the conjectures of which she would be the object if the Piccinino should chance to boast of her visit.

But Agatha, who had trembled with apprehension more than once as she listened, and who had resolved to reprove her for her imprudence, by pointing out to her that the Piccinino was too adroit to have really needed her assistance, was disarmed by her ingenuous grief, and embraced her warmly to comfort her. What impressed her quite as deeply as the rashness of the girl, was the physical and moral courage which had inspired her, her determination to take her own life at the slightest suggestion of outrage, and her unbounded devotion and her generous confidence. She thanked her affectionately therefore, because she had been guided in part by the desire to deliver her from an enemy; and finally, when she was fully assured that Abbé Ninfo was really in the _justicier's_ power, she was so overcome by joy that she kissed little Mila's hands, calling her her good fairy and her angel of salvation.

Mila being thus comforted and reconciled with herself, the princess, in an outburst of childlike merriment, proposed to her that she should change her dress to assist her to recover from the fatigue of her expedition, and that then they should go and surprise her father and brother at the marquis's villa.

"We will go on foot," she said, "for it is close by if we go by way of the garden; and we will dine together first. Then we shall have the darkness and cool breeze of early evening, and in addition a travelling companion whom you do not expect perhaps, but whom you will not be sorry to see, for he is a friend of yours."

"I wonder who it can be," said Mila, with a smile; she guessed shrewdly enough, but with respect to her heart's secret, and to that alone, she recovered all the prudence of the feminine mind.

The dinner and the preparations of the two friends occupied about an hour; after which the maid came and whispered to the princess: "The young man of last evening, at the end of the garden, by the eastern gate."

"That is right," said the princess, leading Mila away; "that is our road." And they hurried across the park, joyous and light of heart; for both were born again to the hope of happiness.

Magnani was walking back and forth, melancholy and distraught, waiting to be sent for to go to the palace, when two veiled women, issuing from the clumps of myrtle and orange, ran to him, and grasping each an arm, hurried him along with them without speaking. He recognized them perfectly, the princess better than Mila, who seemed to him to be dressed more elaborately than usual under her light cape; but he was too deeply moved to speak, and he pretended to accept this gracious jest gayly. A smile played about his lips, but his heart was troubled; and, while he sought relief from the perturbation caused by Agatha's presence, he derived but little assistance from feeling Mila's arm in his.

As they passed into the marquis's park, the princess put aside her veil and said to him:

"My dear friend, I intended to talk with you at my house; but my impatience to announce some good news to our friends, who are visiting the marquis, led me to bring you here with us. The whole evening belongs to us, and I can talk with you here as well as elsewhere. But let us go forward noiselessly; we are not expected and I want to surprise them."

The marquis and his guests, after conversing a long time, were still on the terrace looking out upon the sea, where the horizon was ablaze with the last rays of the sun, while the stars appeared one by one in the zenith. Michel was listening with deep interest to the marquis, whose conversation was instructive, albeit always affable and unaffected. What was his surprise when, on raising his head, he saw three persons seated about the table, laden with refreshments, which he had just left to walk to the balustrade, and when, in those three persons, he recognized Agatha, Mila, and Magnani!

At first he had no eyes except for Agatha, and hardly recognized his sister and his friend. The princess was dressed, however, with the utmost simplicity, in a dress of pearl-gray silk, with a _guardaspalle_ of black lace thrown over her head and shoulders. She seemed to him a little less fresh and youthful than she had appeared under the bright lights. But, in a moment, the charm of her manner, her frank smile, her pure and sincere glance, made her seem even younger and more attractive than on the first day.

"Are you surprised to see your dear daughter here?" she asked Pier-Angelo. "But she told you, did she not, that she should not dine alone? And you see! you left her at home, and like Cinderella, she appears in the midst of the fête, resplendent in costume and beauty. As for Master Magnani, he is the enchanter who attends her; but as we are not dealing with Don Magnifico on this occasion, the enchanter will not dazzle the father's eyes so that he will not recognize his cherished daughter. Cinderella therefore can challenge the glances of all present."

As she spoke Agatha raised Mila's veil, and disclosed her _radiant as a sun_; such is the expression of the legend.

Michel looked at his sister. She was fairly beaming with confidence and joy. The princess had arrayed her in a gown of bright pink silk, with several strings of beautiful great pearls about her neck and arms. A wreath of natural flowers, wonderfully beautiful and arranged with consummate art, crowned her dark face without concealing the abundant treasures of her hair. Her little feet were daintily shod, and her pretty fingers opened and closed Agatha's splendid fan with as much grace and dignity as any _marchesina_. She was a muse of the Renaissance, a patrician maiden, and a lovely damsel of the South, radiant with health, nobility, and poetic charm.

Agatha looked at her with an air of motherly pride, and smiled lovingly as she talked of her in Pier-Angelo's ear.

Michel then turned his eyes upon Magnani. He was gazing alternately at the modest princess and the lovely silk-spinner of the Catanian suburb with extraordinary emotion. He was no better able than Michel to understand the strange and bewildering dream in which he seemed to be moving. But it is certain that he saw Mila only through a cloud of gold and fire, which emanated from Agatha and was projected upon her young friend as if by magic.