The Patriot Part 11

Pasotti turned round frowning and imperious, and beckoning to her to approach, he drew about her head and person certain lines in the air, which meant a hat and shawl. She did not understand, and stood staring at him, with her mouth open. Then she pointed her forefinger at his breast, questioning him with her eyes, and her lifted eyebrows, as if suspecting he wanted those articles for himself. Pasotti answered this questioning in the same manner, with three stabs of his forefinger, which signified: "you, you, you!" Then, making the motions of cutting something with his open hand, he gave her to understand that she was to go out with him. She started several times, astonished and protesting, opened her eyes extremely wide, and said in that voice of hers which seemed to come from the cellar:

"Where?"

The Controller's only answer was a fulminating glance and a gesture: "march!" He did not intend to give any further information.

Signora Barborin struggled a little longer.

"I have not breakfasted yet," she said.

Her husband took her by the shoulders, drew her towards him, and shouted into her face:

"You will breakfast later."

Only at Albogasio Inferiore, in front of the Annunziata, did he inform her, by pointing to the place with his stick, that they were going to Cadate, to that old manor-house planted in the lake between Casarico and Albogasio, and generally known as "the Palace," where there lived, all alone, in the small rooms of the upper story, the priest, Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri and his servant Maria, called "Maria of the Palace."

Pasotti knowing well that both were eager listeners, but extremely cautious in talking, wished to examine them one at a time, without seeming to do so, and, if he found any soft spot, he intended to press it very gently. He had brought his wife with him that she might help him in this delicate matter of taking them one at a time, and she, poor innocent, trotted on behind him with short, quick steps, and followed him down the flight of one hundred and twenty-nine steps called the "Calcinera," never suspecting the perfidious part she was to act.

The lake was like oil, and Don Giuseppe, a fine, pursy priest, short and fat, with white hair, a ruddy complexion and small glistening eyes, was seated near the fig-tree in his garden, with a black straw hat on his head, and a white handkerchief round his neck, angling for carp, certain big, fat carp, grown old and wary, that might be seen moving about very slowly under the water, all for love of the figs, and that were as inquisitive and, at the same time, as cautious as the priest and his servant. This latter was not visible. Pasotti finding the street-door open, went in, calling out for Don Giuseppe and Maria. As no one answered he planted his wife in a chair and went down into the garden, making straight for the fig-tree, where Don Giuseppe was sitting, who, on catching sight of him, went into a fit of ceremonious convulsions. He threw down his fishing-rod and went towards Pasotti vociferating: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! In this state! My dear Controller! Come up-stairs! Come up-stairs! My dear Controller! In this state! I hope you will excuse me! I hope you will excuse me!" But Pasotti would not hear of "going up," he was bound to remain where he was. Don Giuseppe began bawling for "Maria! Maria!" Presently Maria's big face appeared at a window in the upper story.

Don Giuseppe called to her to bring down a chair. Then the Controller revealed the presence of his wife, whereupon the big face disappeared and Don Giuseppe had another fit.

"How is this? How is this? Signora Barborin? She here? Oh, Lord! Come up-stairs!" and he started forward impelled by obsequiousness, but Pasotti reduced him to obedience, at first catching him by the arm, and then declaring that he wished to see him take one or two of those monstrous carp; and notwithstanding Don Giuseppe's protests: "It is no use! I sha'n't catch anything! They're far too cunning, these fish.

_They see!_" in the end he was obliged to throw his line.

At first Pasotti pretended to watch him, but finally he also threw his line.

He began by asking Don Giovanni how long it was since he had been to Castello. Upon being informed that he had been there the day before to see his friend, the curate Intrioni, the good Tartuffe, who could not abide Intrioni, burst into a perfect panegyric of him. What a jewel, this curate of Castello! What a heart of gold! And had Don Giuseppe been to Casa Rigey? No, Signora Teresa was too ill. More panegyrics concerning Signora Teresa and Luisa. What a splendid creature! What circ.u.mspection, what high principles, what sentiment! And the Maironi affair? It was still going on, was it not? Had it gone far?

"I know nothing, nothing, nothing!" Don Giuseppe said sharply.

At that hasty denial Pasotti's eyes sparkled. He took a step forward.

Oh, come now. It was not possible that Don Giuseppe did not know anything! It was not possible that he had not discussed the matter with Intrioni! Was not Intrioni aware that Don Franco had spent the night at Casa Rigey?

"I know nothing about it, nothing at all!" Don Giuseppe repeated.

Then Pasotti declared that by this concealment of certain well known circ.u.mstances, many were led to suspect evil. What the deuce! Don Franco had of course gone to Casa Rigey with the most honourable intentions, therefore----

"A bite! A bite!" whispered Don Giuseppe hurriedly, and he leaned far out over the parapet, grasped the end of the pole firmly, and fixed his gaze on the water as if a fish were about to seize the hook. "A bite!"

Pasotti, much vexed, gazed into the water also, but declared he could see nothing.

"He has made off, the wretch! But his mouth almost touched the hook. He must have felt the p.r.i.c.k!" said Don Giuseppe, sighing and straightening himself up. He also had felt the p.r.i.c.k of the hook, and was trying to "make off" as the fish had done.

The other renewed his attack, but in vain. Don Giuseppe had seen nothing, heard nothing, talked of nothing, knew nothing. Pasotti was silent, and the priest in turn, threw out a bit of timid malice: "They don't bite well to-day,--there must be something in the air."

In the house, meanwhile, the dialogue between Maria and Signora Barborin had proceeded most unsatisfactorily, after the first affectionate exchange of greetings, which had been a great success. Maria proposed by gestures that they go into the garden, but Signora Pasotti begged with clasped hands, to be allowed to remain in her chair. Then the big Maria took another chair, and seating herself beside her guest tried to talk to her. But she found it impossible to make her understand, no matter how she shrieked, so gave up in despair, and taking her great cat upon her lap, talked to him instead.

Poor Signora Barborin, who was quite resigned, watched the cat with her great black eyes, dimmed by age and grief. Ah! here was Pasotti at last, with Don Giuseppe, who at once began to puff out his:

"Oh, good Lord! My dear Signora Barborin! Pray excuse me!" Maria having confessed to the _Scior Controlor_ that his wife and she had not been able to understand each other, her master--as a mark of respect for Signora Pasotti--called the servant a "block head," and, as she attempted to justify herself, he prudently checked her by an imperious wave of the hand and a string of "there, there, there's." Then he signalled to her mysteriously with his head, and she left the room.

Pasotti followed her, and told her that his wife really felt obliged to call on the Rigeys, but was in doubt as to how she should act, having heard certain rumours which were current, and that she had greatly hoped to gain some information from Maria, for "Maria always knew everything."

"What foolish talk!" said Maria, much flattered. "I never know anything; but I can tell you to whom your wife must apply. To Signor Giacomo Puttini. It is Signor Giacomo Puttini who always knows everything."

"Well done!" thought Pasotti, adding these remarks to what the farmer had said, and concluding he was on the track at last. At the same time he shrugged his shoulders incredulously. Signor Giacomo might perhaps be aware of what was going on in the moon, but that was all; he never knew anything else. Maria insisted, and the old fox began to press her with questions, beating cautiously about the bush; but he found her obdurate, and presently he saw that he should have his labour for his pains, and that he must be satisfied with that one bit of information. He became silent, and half satisfied, half preoccupied, returned to the room where Don Giuseppe was explaining to Signora Barborin, by means of appropriate gestures, that Maria was going to bring her something to eat. In fact the woman appeared presently with a square, gla.s.s jar, full of brandy-cherries, a renowned specialty of Don Giuseppe's, who was in the habit of offering them solemnly to his guests, in his own peculiar Italian:

"Allow me to offer you something! Will you try a few of my cherries?

_Magara con un toch.e.l.lo di pane?_ Perhaps with a slice of bread?" And then, lapsing into dialect once more: "_Maria, tajee gio un poo de pan_--cut off a bit of bread."

Signora Barborin feasted on bread alone, following the advice of her satanic husband, who himself took cherries without bread. Then they went away together, and she was permitted to return to Albogasio, while the Controller set off in the direction of Casa Gilardoni.

"That Pasotti is a rogue," said Maria when she had bolted the street-door.

"He is not only a rogue, but an extra big rogue! A _bargnif_!" Don Giuseppe exclaimed, remembering the hook; and by the application of the dialect t.i.tle of "Bargnif," which means the arch-fiend, considered in the light of his great cunning, these two mild beings found relief for their feelings, and a compensation for so many things given unwillingly: courtesies, smiles and cherries.

Professor Gilardoni was reading perched on his belvedere in the kitchen-garden, when he caught sight of Pasotti coming towards him behind Pinella, between the rows of beets and turnips. He had little liking for the Controller, with whom he had exchanged only one or two calls, and who had the reputation of being a _tedescone_, a rank German.

Nevertheless, being inclined to think the best of those with whom he was only slightly acquainted, he found no difficulty in extending to him the same cordial courtesy which it was his habit to show to every one. He went to meet his guest, velvet cap in hand, and after a skirmish of compliments which proved an easy victory for Pasotti, Gilardoni returned to the belvedere with him.

Pasotti, on the other hand, felt a lively dislike for the Professor, not so much because he knew him to be a Liberal, as because, though Gilardoni did not go to Ma.s.s as often as he himself did, he lived like a Puritan, loving neither the table nor the bottle, neither tobacco nor certain loose discourses. Moreover he did not play _tarocchi_. One evening, when talking in the kitchen-garden with Don Franco, of the tremendous bouts of eating and drinking which Pasotti and his friends often celebrated in the taverns of Bisnago, the Professor had said something which was overheard by the big curate, one of the gluttons, whose boat, in which he himself sat fishing, happened to be gliding along very softly, close to the walls. "Miserable knave!" the most worthy Controller had exclaimed when the words were repeated to him, his face wearing the expression of a _bargnif bilioso_, of Satan with a bilious attack. The exclamation had been followed by a contemptuous snarl, after which the Controller spat protestingly. This, however, did not prevent him from overflowing on the present occasion with excuses for having unduly postponed his visit, nor from immediately spying out the volume resting on the rustic table of the belvedere. Gilardoni saw him glance at it and, as the book in question was one of those forbidden by the government, he took it up almost instinctively as soon as he had started the conversation, and rested it on his knee in such a manner that Pasotti could not read the t.i.tle. This precaution disturbed Pasotti, who was just then praising the little villa and the garden in all their particulars, and in the tone best adapted to each part; the beets, with amiable familiarity, the aloes, with serious and frowning admiration. An angry light flashed in his eyes, and then disappeared.

"Fortunate man," he sighed. "If my affairs would permit it, I myself should like to live in Valsolda."

"It is a peaceful spot," said the Professor.

"Yes, a peaceful spot; and, besides, nowadays those who have served the Government are not comfortable in the big towns. People make no distinction between a faithful official who attends strictly to his own duties, as I have done, and a police-spy. We are exposed to many suspicions, many humiliations----"

The Professor turned red, and was sorry he had removed the book from the little table. In fact, notwithstanding his a.s.sumption of humility, Pasotti was too proud to act the spy, and, owing to this pride, or perhaps to some good strain in him, he had never done so. Thus in his words there was a grain of sincerity, a grain of gold, which sufficed to give them the ring of true metal. Gilardoni, touched by this, offered his guest a gla.s.s of beer, and hastened away in search of Pinella, glad of an excuse for leaving the book on the little table.

Hardly had the Professor disappeared when Pasotti s.n.a.t.c.hed up the volume, and gave it an inquisitive glance; then he laid it down on the same spot, and stationed himself at the top of the steps, toying with the snuff in the box he held open in his hand, and smiling a smile half of beat.i.tude, half of admiration, at the lake, the hills and the sky.

The book was a volume of Giusti, pretending to have been published in Brussels or rather _Brusselle_, and bearing the t.i.tle: _Italian Poems, from ma.n.u.scripts_. Written across one corner of the fly-leaf was the name: "Mariano Fornic." It needed less keenness than Pasotti possessed to perceive at once in that heteroc.l.i.te, the anagram of Franco Maironi.

"How lovely! What a paradise!" said he softly, while the Professor was coming up the steps followed by Pinella with the beer.

Presently, between two sips of beer, he confessed that his visit was not entirely of a disinterested nature. He declared that he was in love with the blossoming wall that upheld the kitchen-garden on the lake-side, and that he wished to copy it at Albogasio Superiore, where, though the lake was wanting, there were plenty of bare walls. Where did the Professor get those aloes, those roses and caper-bushes?

"Why," the other answered frankly. "Maironi gave them to me."

"Don Franco?" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well done! I will appeal to Don Franco, who is always very kind to me."

And he took out his snuff-box. "Poor Don Franco," said he, with all the tenderness of a compa.s.sionate rogue as he scrutinised and fingered the snuff. "Poor young man! He sometimes flies into a pa.s.sion, but, after all, he is a splendid fellow. A heart of the best! Poor young man! Do you see him often?"

"Yes, quite often."

"If only his hopes could be realised, poor young man! His hopes and hers also, of course. That affair is not off, is it?"

Pasotti put this question with the skill of a great actor, with affectionate but discreet interest, with no more curiosity than was fitting, and with the intention of lubricating and softening somewhat Gilardoni's closed heart, that it might open of itself, little by little. But Gilardoni's heart, instead of spreading itself open at that gentle touch, contracted and closed tighter than ever.