The Patriot Part 37

Ever since the receipt of the telegram Franco had walked the streets of Turin like one in a dream, deaf to the noise of his own footsteps, unconscious of what he saw, of what he heard, going mechanically wherever it was necessary for him to go at this juncture, wherever a certain servile and lower faculty of the soul might lead him, that faculty composed of reason and of instinct, which is capable of guiding us through a labyrinth of city streets, while the mind, concentrated upon some problem, some pa.s.sion, takes no heed of our movements. He sold his watch and chain to a watchmaker of Doragrossa for one hundred and thirty-five lire, purchased a doll for Maria, stopped at Cafe Alfieri and Cafe Florio to leave word for his friends, and was at the station by eleven o'clock, although the train for Novara which he was to take did not start until half-past eleven. At a quarter-past the Paduan and the young man from Udine appeared. They endeavoured to encourage him with all sorts of rosy suppositions and unconvincing arguments, but he answered never a word and only longed intensely for the moment of departure, longed to be alone, to be hastening towards Oria, for he was determined to go to Oria, no matter how great the danger might be. He entered a third-cla.s.s carriage, and when the locomotive whistled and the train began to move, he heaved a great sigh of relief, and gave himself up entirely to thoughts of Maria. But there were too many people about him, they were too many, too rough, and too noisy. At Chiva.s.so, feeling he could no longer bear their chattering and laughter, he changed into an empty second-cla.s.s carriage, where he began to talk aloud, his eyes fixed on the opposite seat.

Good G.o.d! why had they not added another word to the telegram? Just one word more! At least the name of the illness.

A terrible name flashed across his brain: Croup! He gasped with horror, and threw out his arms against this phantom, his muscles suddenly stiffening, then, letting his arms sink once more, he heaved a sigh so deep that it seemed to expel the very soul, even life itself, from his breast. It must indeed be a sudden illness, or Luisa would have written.

Another name flashed across his mind. Brain-fever! He himself had been at the point of death with brain-fever when a child. Oh G.o.d! oh G.o.d! It must be that! G.o.d Himself had sent this thought to him. He was shaken by tearless sobbing. Maria, his treasure, his love, his joy! Yes, indeed it must be that. He could see her gasping, flushed, watched over by her mother and the doctor. In a moment he pictured to himself long hours spent by her bedside, long hours of anguish, then he pictured the birth of hope, heard the first whisper of that sweet voice:

"Papa! my papa!"

He started to his feet, clasping and wringing his hands in a mute impulse of prayer. Presently he sank back into his seat again, exhausted, and turned unseeing eyes upon the flying landscape, vaguely conscious of some connection between the misty Alps looming motionless there against the northern horizon and the thought that dominated him, looming motionless and torpid within his soul. From time to time the jolting of the train would rouse him from his stupor, suggesting the idea of a painful race, stimulating his heart to rush, to beat thus also. Sometimes he would close his eyes, the better to picture his arrival at home. Images would at once rise from his heart to his eyelids, but they were always changing, continually moving, and he could not hold them for more than a second. Now it was Luisa hastening towards him on the stairs; now the uncle holding out his arms to him from the door of the hall; now Dr. Aliprandi who was opening the door of the alcove-room to him, and saying: "She is better, she is better!" Now in the darkened room, filled with shadows, it was Maria herself who gazed at him with gla.s.sy, feverish eyes.

When he reached Vercelli, he felt as if he were a thousand miles from Turin, and once more awoke to a sense of reality. How should he get from Lugano to Oria? What route should he take? Should he go openly by the lake, showing himself at the Custom-House? And what if they would not allow him to proceed because his pa.s.sport had not been stamped on leaving Italy as the law demanded? Or, worse still, what if a warrant of arrest be out against him on account of those papers taken from the doctor at Pellio? He had better keep to the hills. They might arrest him later, but with his knowledge of the neighbourhood, acquired on his many hunting expeditions in 1848, he was almost sure of reaching home. This wearisome task of planning and arranging absorbed his attention for some time, and kept him occupied until he had pa.s.sed Arona, on the Lake Maggiore steamer. He had arranged to reach Lugano in the middle of the night. Would there be some one there to meet him? If there were no one there, perhaps he might hear something at the Fontana pharmacy, where the Valsolda people were in the habit of congregating. If G.o.d would only permit rea.s.suring news to reach him at Lugano he would postpone decision as to his journey to Oria until the morrow. He therefore determined to make no plans before reaching Lugano, and he prayed fervently that the Almighty would allow this good news to reach him. The sky was overcast; the mountains had already a.s.sumed their sad autumnal tints; a thin mist hung over the lake; the bells of Meina were ringing; on the steamer there were but few pa.s.sengers, and Franco's prayer died in his heart, stifled by a crushing sadness, while his eyes unconsciously followed a flock of white gulls, that were winging their flight towards the distant waters of Laveno, towards that hidden country where his soul was.

It was past seven when he reached Magadino. He climbed Monte Ceneri on foot, following the path that leads to the road-mender's house, took a carriage at Bironico and reached Lugano shortly after midnight. He alighted in the Piazza, near Cafe Terreni. The coffee-house was closed, the square was deserted and dark, and silence reigned; even the lake, which could be seen gently rising and falling in the gloom, was silent.

Franco paused a moment on the sh.o.r.e, hoping that some one had come to meet him, and would presently appear. He could not see Valsolda, hidden behind Monte Bre, but that same water mirrored Oria, and slept in the boathouse at home. A wave of peace eased his heart somewhat; he felt he was among things familiar to him. Every human voice was hushed, but the great, dark hills spoke to him, Monte Caprino and the Zocca d'i Ment more than all, for they overlooked Oria. They spoke gently to him, suggesting comfort-bringing thoughts. Nineteen hours had pa.s.sed since the telegram was sent. All danger might now be over.

As no one appeared he went to the Fontana pharmacy, and rang the bell.

For many years he had known that most worthy, cordial, and honest man, Signor Carlo Fontana, who has now pa.s.sed away with the world of long ago. Signor Carlo came to the window, and was greatly surprised to see Don Franco. He had no news from Oria. He had spent the last two days at Tesserete, and had returned only a few hours before, so could tell him nothing. His a.s.sistant had started for Bellinzona that evening. Franco thanked him and walked away in the direction of Villa Ciani, for he was now determined to go to Oria at once.

Two routes were open to him. He could either climb the Swiss slope of the Boglia from Prega.s.sona, strike the heights of Bolla; cross the Pian Biscagno and the great beech wood, coming out at the venerable beech-tree of the Madonnina on the brow of the hill which slopes down into Lombardy, and then drop down on to Albogasio Superiore and Oria; or he could take the easy Gandria road, leading towards the lake, and then follow that treacherous and dangerous path which starts from Gandria, the last Swiss village, cuts along the face of the almost perpendicular cliff, crosses the frontier some hundred metres above the lake, runs on to the Origa farm, drops into the ravine of Val Malghera, rising once more to the Rooch farm, where it joins the paved way which pa.s.ses above Niscicoree and finally leads down to Oria. The first route was much longer and far more difficult, but it afforded a better chance of eluding the vigilance of the guards at the frontier. On leaving the Fontana pharmacy Franco had been fully determined to go that way, but when, on reaching Ca.s.sarago, where the roads to Prega.s.sona and to Gandria meet, he saw how near the point of Castagnola was, and reflected that it would take him less than half an hour to go from Castagnola to Gandria, and that another hour and a half would take him from Gandria to Oria, the idea of climbing the Boglia, of walking seven or eight hours, became intolerable to him. Besides, if he went by the Boglia he would arrive in the daytime, and this, of course, would jeopardise his safety.

He turned his face resolutely towards Castagnola and Gandria. The sky was now completely overcast with heavy clouds. Beneath the great chestnut trees that line the road to Castagnola, he could not see where to set his feet, but how much worse it would have been in the great beech forest of the Boglia if Franco had chosen that route. It was just as dark in Castagnola, and worse in the labyrinth of narrow lanes at Gandria. After wandering backwards and forwards among these lanes for some time, always mistaking his way, Franco at last found himself on the path leading to the frontier, and stopped to rest. Before starting forward again in the impenetrable darkness, before braving the dangers of a difficult path, and of a meeting with the Austrian guards, and then facing another terrifying step, that of entering his house, of putting the first question, of listening to the first answer, he raised his heart to G.o.d, and concentrated all the powers of his mind upon a determination to be strong and calm.

Once more he started forward. Now he must give his whole attention to the path, in order not to fall or lose his way. The little fields of Gandria soon come to an end. Then wild tracts follow, that jut out over the lake, and are covered with a thick growth of low bushes; then come ravines with crumbling sides, that go tumbling straight downwards, and are half hidden by the bushes. In such places as these Franco was obliged to feel his way blindly, to cling first to one branch, then to another, plunging his face in among the leaves, that, at least, smelt of Valsolda, and dragging himself from bush to bush. He must explore the ground with his foot, trembling lest it give way beneath him, and seeking for traces of the path. The bundle he carried was small, but nevertheless it embarra.s.sed him. The rustling of the foliage as he brushed past, irritated him; it seemed as if it must be heard a long way off, on the hills and on the lake, in the solemn hush of the night. Then he would stop and listen. He could hear only the distant thundering of the falls at Rescia, the hooting of owls in the woods over yonder, across the lake, and from time to time, far below, a sharp stroke on the water, for which he could not account. It took him quite an hour to reach the frontier. There, between the Valle del Confine and the Val Malghera, the forest had been recently cut down, and the rocky slope was bare. This enhanced both the danger of falling, and that of discovery.

He crossed this tract very slowly, often pausing, sometimes crawling on hands and knees. Before reaching Oria he heard the faint dip of oars far below. He knew the customs-guards' boat sometimes pa.s.sed the sh.o.r.e of Val Malghera at night. Surely these were the guards. Beneath the chestnut trees of Origa he breathed freely once more. There he was hidden, and could walk noiselessly on the gra.s.s. He descended the western slope of Val Malghera and climbed up the other side without encountering any obstacles. On approaching Rooch his heart beat furiously. Rooch is a sort of outpost of Oria. There the little path ends that he had so often followed with Luisa on mild winter afternoons, gathering violets and laurel leaves, and talking of the future. He remembered that the last time, they had had a discussion concerning the most desirable husband for Maria, and the qualities he must possess.

Franco had hoped he would be a country gentleman, but Luisa had been in favour of a civil engineer.

Rooch is a little farmhouse perched above a few small fields which lie terraced against the hillside, and form a small, light clearing among the surrounding woods. The stable, a room above it, a small portico in front of the stable, a cistern under the portico--that is all. The little portico is just above the narrow paved way that pa.s.ses some two or three metres below. It is only a few steps from the comb of the ravine of Val Malghera, to Rooch. Having reached the comb, Franco heard low voices in the farmhouse.

He paused and drawing aside, stretched himself, face downwards, upon the gra.s.s, beyond the path, and near a cl.u.s.ter of low chestnut trees. The voices became silent, but he heard a man's steps coming rapidly towards him; he lay quite still, holding his breath. The man stopped almost at his side, waited a moment, and then slowly retraced his steps, saying in a loud voice, with a foreign accent: "There is no one here, it must have been a fox."

The guards! A long silence followed, during which Franco did not dare to move. The guards once more began to talk, and he decided to crawl noiselessly backwards, to drop down into Val Malghera and pa.s.s behind and above the house. Slowly, very slowly he pulled off his boots. He was about to move when he heard two or three guards leave the farmhouse, talking as they came towards him. He heard one of them say: "Is no one going to stay here?" and another answered: "It is not necessary."

Four guards brushed past him without noticing him. They certainly had no suspicions, for they were talking unconcernedly. One was saying that a person may remain ten minutes under water without drowning; but another maintained that five minutes is long enough to cause death. The fourth pa.s.sed him in silence, but hardly had he done so when he stopped.

Franco shuddered upon hearing him strike a match. He lit his pipe, puffed at it two or three times, and then called out to his companions in a loud voice, for they had already gone some way down the slope of Val Malghera.

"How old was she?"

One of the others answered, louder still:

"Three years and one month."

Then the fourth guard puffed twice more and started forward. Three years and one month! Maria's age! Franco, lying on his face, raised himself upon his elbows, clutching convulsively at the gra.s.s. The noise of the steps died away down below in Val Malghera.

"My G.o.d! My G.o.d!" he cried. Rising to his knees he repeated the terrible words in his heart, slowly, as if stupefied. "_She was!_" He wrung his hands, moaning once more: "My G.o.d! My G.o.d!"

After this he was hardly conscious of his movements. He went down to Oria with the vague sensation of having grown suddenly deaf, and his arm which clasped the doll trembled violently. Reaching the Madonna del Romit he crossed the town, and instead of going down by the Pomodoro stairway he followed the path that joins the short cut to Albogasio Superiore, and descended those same stairs that Barborin Pasotti had descended the day before the catastrophe. On the wall of the church he noticed a pale light which was reflected from the alcove-room. He neither paused beneath the window, nor called out, but stepped under the porch and tried the door.

It was open.

From the coolness of the night he pa.s.sed into a heavy, close atmosphere, laden with the unfamiliar odour of burnt vinegar and incense. With difficulty he dragged himself up the stairs. Before him, on the landing, half-way up, light fell from above. On reaching the spot he saw that the light came from the alcove-room. He went on and presently stood in the corridor. The door of the room was wide open; there must be many candles burning in there. Mingled with the odour of incense he recognised the perfume of flowers, and began to tremble so violently that he could not go on. No sound reached him from the room. Suddenly he heard Luisa's voice, speaking tenderly, quietly: "Do you want me to go where you are going to-morrow, Maria? Do you want your mamma under the ground with you?" "Luisa! Luisa!" sobbed Franco, and they found themselves in each others' arms, on the threshold of their nuptial chamber, where the memory of their love was still alive, but where its sweet fruit lay dead.

"Come, dear. Come in," said she, and drew him forward. In the centre of the room, between four lighted candles, stood the little open coffin, in which lay poor Maria, under a mound of flowers, broken and wilted like herself. There were roses, heliotrope, jasmine, begonia, geraniums, verbena, flowering sprays of _olea fragrans_, and other blossomless sprays, all dark and shiny, from the carob tree she had loved so well, because it had been dear to papa. Flowers and leaves lay across her face as well.

Franco fell upon his knees sobbing: "My G.o.d! My G.o.d!" while Luisa chose two tiny rosebuds, placed them in Maria's little hand, and kissed her brow.

"You can kiss her hair," said she, "but not her face. The doctor does not wish it."

"But you have just done so!"

"Oh, it is a different thing for me."

But instead he pressed his lips to her icy lips, that showed among the geraniums and the carob leaves, touching them gently, as in a tender, but not despairing farewell to the outward wrapping now cast aside and empty, which had once belonged to his beloved baby, who had gone to dwell elsewhere.

"Maria! My darling Maria!" he whispered between his sobs. "What was the matter?"

He had not realised the connection between the guards' talk about drowning and the rest of their conversation.

"You have not heard?" said his wife calmly, and without surprise. They had told her how the telegram had been worded, but she was also aware that Ismaele was to have met Franco in Lugano. She did not know, however, that as Franco had not arrived by the coach from Ceneri, Ismaele had gone to bed.

"Poor Franco!" said she, kissing his hair almost maternally. "There was no illness."

He started to his feet, terrified, and exclaiming: "What do you mean?

There was no illness?"

Leu, the person whom Franco had heard breathing heavily in her sleep, now came in with the intention of fumigating the room, but seeing Franco she stopped in amazement. "Come in," said Luisa. "You may place the brazier outside the door; sprinkle whatever is necessary upon it, and then return to the kitchen and sleep, my good Leu." The woman obeyed.

"There was no illness?" Franco repeated.

"Come," his wife answered. "I will tell you everything."

She made him sit down on the _dormeuse_ at the foot of their bed. He wished her to sit beside him, but she made a gesture of refusal, and of entreaty that he should not insist, that he should be quiet and wait; then, sinking down on the floor beside her baby, she began the painful story in a low, even voice, that sounded almost indifferent to the tragedy it was relating, a voice that resembled poor, deaf Barborin's, seeming to come from a far-away world. She began with her meeting with Peppina Bianconi at Campo, and--always in the same calm tone--told him all the thoughts, all the sentiments that had brought her to confront his grandmother, told him everything, down to the moment when she had realised that Maria was indeed dead. When she had finished she rose to her knees, and kissing her dead child, whispered to her: "Now your papa thinks that I killed you, but it is not true, dear, indeed, it is not true!"

He rose, quivering with nameless emotion, and bending over her, raised her--neither yielding nor resisting--from the floor. Touching her resolutely but tenderly, he placed her on the _dormeuse_ beside him. He encircled her shoulders with his arm, pressing her to him, speaking with his lips on her hair, wetting it with the hot tears, which from time to time choked his voice. "My poor Luisa! No, indeed you did not kill her!

How could you suspect me of thinking such a thing? I bless you instead for all that you have done for her ever since she came into the world; I, who have done nothing, bless you who have done so much. Never say such a thing again! Never, dear. Our Maria----"

A violent sob checked his words, but the man immediately exerted his strong will, controlled himself and continued:

"Don't you know what our Maria is saying now? She is saying: 'My darling mamma, my darling papa, now you are all alone, you have only each other, you are more closely united than ever; give me to G.o.d that He may give me back to you; that I may become your little guardian angel, and lead you to Him at last, that we may dwell together in all eternity,' Do you hear her saying these words, Luisa?"

She trembled in his arms, shaken by spasmodic quiverings; her face bent low, resisted Franco when he would have raised it. At last she took his hand and kissed it. Then he also kissed her on the hair, and murmured: "Answer me."

"You are good!" Luisa replied, in a faint and despairing voice. "You wish to spare me, but you do not believe what you say. You must feel that I caused her death, that if I had adopted your sentiments, your ideas, I should not have left the house, and if I had not left the house this would not have happened, and Maria would still be alive."

"Don't think of that, my dear, don't! You might have believed Maria was with Veronica; you might have remained in the room with the fiances, and the accident would have happened just the same. Don't think of this any more, Luisa. Rather listen to what Maria is saying."

"Poor Franco! Poor, poor fellow!" said Luisa, with such bitterness of terrible hidden meanings, that his blood ran cold. He shuddered and was silent, unable to grasp her meaning, and at the same time dreading an explanation. Slowly they withdrew from each other's arms, Luisa being the first to move. She again took her husband's hand and wished to carry it to her lips, but Franco drew her hand tenderly towards him and made a last attempt.

"Why will you not answer me?"