The Patriot Part 39

"A manifest punishment!"

Paolin dared not remain silent, neither did he dare speak, so he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed: "Dear, dear!" and this encouraged Paolon to repeat his "Exactly!" Signor Giacomo simply puffed.

"A chastis.e.m.e.nt from the Almighty!" the curate of Cima repeated with emphasis. "And also, considering the circ.u.mstances, a mark of His especial regard for some one else."

All, save the prefect, who was chafing inwardly, looked at the Marchesa as if the protecting hand of the Omnipotent were suspended above her wig. But instead that Divine Hand was hovering above the lofty bonnet of Barborin Pasotti, and was keeping her ears tightly closed, that they might not hear those contaminating and iniquitous words. "Curate," said Pasotti, "as the Signora Marchesa has proposed it, shall we have a little game? You, Paolin, Signor Giacomo, and I?"

The four, seated in their corner at the little card table, at once gave themselves up to the luxury of unrestrained conversation, and to the enjoyment of certain stale, Ambrosian[P] witticisms, which cling to the _tarocchi_ cards like grease.

"I shall get there first!" Pasotti exclaimed after the first round, laughing loudly, with the intention of proclaiming both his victory and his good spirits.

The players had rid themselves of the phantoms; not so the others. The deaf woman, sitting stiff and motionless on the sofa, had suffered mortal anguish, dreading a gesture from her husband which should command her to play. Oh, dear Lord! was she to be made to suffer this also? By the grace of Heaven the sign was not given, and her first feeling upon seeing the four seat themselves at the little table had been one of relief. But at once bitter disgust seized her.

What an insult that game was to her Luisa! What contempt it showed for poor, dear little Maria, who was dead! No one spoke to her, no one noticed her, so she began to recite in her heart a string of _Paters_, _Aves_, and _Glorias_, for the soul of that wicked creature seated at the other end of the sofa, who was so old, so rapidly approaching the moment when she must appear before her G.o.d. She repeated, for her benefit, the prayer for the conversion of sinners which she had been in the habit of repeating night and morning for her husband's benefit, ever since she had discovered his over-familiarity with a certain menial attached to her household.

When the prefect heard Pasotti's outburst of mirth, he rose to take his leave. "Wait," said the Marchesa, "you must have a gla.s.s of wine." At half-past nine a precious bottle of old San Colombano was usually brought in. "I shall not drink to-night," said the prefect heroically, "I have been greatly upset ever since this morning. Puria knows why."

"Dear, dear!" said Puria softly. "Of course it was a terrible tragedy."

Silence. The prefect bowed to the Marchesa, saluted Signor Pasotti with an expression that said: "You and I understand each other," and left the room.

The curate of Puria, who was possessed of a big body and a level head, was studying the Marchesa without appearing to do so. Was she or was she not affected by the events at Oria? Her having refrained from playing seemed to him a doubtful symptom. She might have done so simply out of respect for her own flesh and blood. On closer observation the curate noticed that her hands trembled; this was unusual. She forgot to ask Pasotti if the wine was good; this also was unusual. Her face with its waxen mask, twitched violently from time to time; this was extremely unusual. "She is touched!" thought the curate. As she was perfectly silent, and as Signora Pasotti and Paolon were also silent, the whole group seemed turned to stone. Puria cast about for a means of breaking the ice, but could find nothing better than to induce those three heads to turn towards the card-table, while he commented upon Pasotti's exclamations, upon Paolin's and Signor Giacomo's e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns and puffings. The Marchesa roused herself somewhat, and expressed her satisfaction that the players were enjoying themselves. Barborin neither heard nor spoke a word, so the three others ended by talking about her.

The Marchesa complained that she was so deaf it was impossible to converse with her. The other two lavished upon her all the praise she so richly deserved, the praise all those who remember her still lavish upon her. There she sat, sad and speechless, never suspecting that she was the subject of their conversation. The Lord protected her profound and simple meekness, by never allowing the praises of the world to enter into her ears, but only the scoldings of her worthy consort.

Her great, sorrowful black eyes brightened when Signor Giacomo uttered a loud and final puff, and his companions, dropping their cards, threw themselves back in their respective chairs to rest a little and reflect upon the delights of the game. At last her master approached the sofa, and motioned to her to rise. For the first time in her life, perhaps, she was glad to get into the boat.

When her guests had left, the Marchesa rang the bell for the rosary, which they had not been able to repeat at the usual hour. The rosary was a living thing in Casa Maironi, having its roots in the Marchesa's past sins, and its growth was steady, for it was always putting forth fresh _Aves_ and _Glorias_, as the old lady became more advanced in years, and saw her own disgusting skull looming before her, ever more distinct, ever more apparent. Consequently her rosary was extremely long. The sweet peccadillos of her protracted youth did not trouble her conscience over-much, but there were certain other transgressions which could be computed in pounds, shillings, and pence, transgressions never properly confessed and therefore never properly forgiven, and these caused her great uneasiness; an uneasiness she was continually trying to stifle by means of rosaries, but which was forever bursting out afresh. While she was praying to the Great Creditor for the remission of her debts, she would feel perfect confidence in His power to remit them all, but later there would once more loom before her mind's eye the sorrowful faces of the lesser creditors, bringing with them doubts concerning the pardon received, and thus her avarice and her pride were ever struggling against the fear of a perpetual debtor's prison beyond the tomb.

When they had recited the prayers for the conversion of sinners, and those for the healing of the sick, and were about to begin the _De Profundis_, she announced three new _Ave Marias_, without, however, stating for what purpose. The scullery maid, a simple peasant from Cressogno, supposed these _Ave Marias_ were intended for the unhappy family at Oria, and recited them with extreme fervour. The scullery-maid's _Aves_ clashed with and routed those of her mistress, which were asking for sleep, and rest for the nerves and conscience. As to the _Ave Marias_ of all the others, they were repeated in the common hope that they might not remain definitely attached to the rosary, as too often happened. In short, no one succeeded in checking the onward march of the ghost.

Towards eleven o'clock the Marchesa retired. She drank some citron-water, and the maid having begun to talk of Oria and of Don Franco, who, it was whispered, had returned, she ordered her to be silent. She was certainly affected. She saw continually before her eyes the image of Maria as she had once seen her when pa.s.sing in her gondola below the little Gilardoni villa; a slight figure in a white ap.r.o.n, with long hair and bare arms, and strangely like a child of her own who had died when only three. Did she feel affection or pity? She herself could not tell what she felt. Perhaps it was only irritation and terror at not being able to rid herself of an annoying image; perhaps it was fear at the thought that if a certain great sin had not been committed long ago, if Marchese Franco's will had not been burnt, the child would not have died.

When she was in bed she had the maid read some prayers to her, then she ordered her to put out the light, and finally dismissed her. She closed her eyes, trying not to think of anything, and saw beneath her eyelids, a shapeless, light spot, which little by little transformed itself into a small pillow, then into a letter, then into a large white chrysanthemum, and at last into a pale, drooping, dead face, that gradually grew smaller and smaller. She fancied she was falling asleep, but as a result of this last transformation the thought of the child shot through her heart, and although she saw nothing more beneath her eyelids, her drowsiness vanished, and she opened her eyes, vexed and uneasy. She determined to think out a game of _tarocchi_ in order to drive away these troublesome fancies, and induce sleep. She thought of the game, and succeeded, by an effort, in seeing in her mind's eye the little card-table, the players, the candles, the cards; but when she relaxed the tension of effort, in order to give herself up to a pa.s.sive contemplation of these soporific phantoms, something totally different appeared beneath her eyelids--a head which was continually changing its features, its expression, its position, and which, at last, slowly drooped forward, as in sleep or death, so that she could only see the hair. This was another shock to her nerves. The Marchesa once more opened her eyes, and heard the clock on the stairs begin to strike. She counted the strokes; twelve o'clock. It was already midnight, and she could not get to sleep! She lay some time with wide open eyes, and now images began to appear in the dark as they had before appeared beneath her eyelids. At first there was only a formless nucleus, which soon began to undergo transformation. She saw the face of a clock which presently turned into the horrible eye of a fish, and then became an angry, human eye. Suddenly the Marchesa felt quite sure she would not be able to go to sleep at all, and once more the drowsiness that had already taken firm hold on her, was put to flight. Then she rang the bell.

The maid let her ring twice, and then came in, half dressed and sleepy.

She was ordered to place the candle upon a chair in such a position that the flame might not be visible from the bed, to get a volume of Barbieri's sermons, and to read in a low voice. The maid was in the habit of administering these narcotics. She began to read, but at the end of the second page, hearing her mistress's breathing grow deeper, she very gradually lowered her voice, until it became only an inarticulate murmur, and finally lapsed into silence. She waited a moment, listening to the deep and regular breathing, then rose and went to look at the dark face turned upwards on the pillows, with wrinkled brow and half-open mouth. Then she took up the candle and went out on tiptoe.

The Marchesa was asleep and dreaming. She was dreaming that she was stretched on a bed of straw in a great dark dungeon, chains upon her ankles, and accused of murder. The judge entered with a light, sat down beside her, and read her a sermon on the necessity of confession. She kept protesting that she was innocent, and repeating: "Don't you know she was drowned?" The judge made no answer, but went on reading in a mournful and solemn voice, while the Marchesa insisted: "No, no! I did not kill her!" In her dream she was no longer phlegmatic, but writhed like one in despair. "Remember that the child herself says so," the judge replied. He rose to his feet, repeating: "She says so." Then he struck the palm of one hand loudly upon the palm of the other, and called out: "Enter!" Thus far the Marchesa had been conscious in her dream that she was dreaming; at this point she thought she awoke, and saw with horror, that some one had indeed entered the room.

A human form, slightly luminous, was seated in the armchair heaped with clothes that stood beside her bed, but in such a position that she could not distinguish the lower part of the apparition. Its shoulders, arms, and clasped hands were of a whitish hue, and indistinct in outline, but its head, that rested against the chair-back, was distinctly visible, and surrounded by a pale light. The dark, living eyes were staring at the Marchesa. Oh, horror! It was indeed the dead child! Oh, horror! Oh, horror! The eyes of the apparition spoke, and accused her. The judge was right, the child was saying so--without words--with her eyes! "It was you who did it, Grandmother, you! I should have been born, should have lived under your roof. You would not have it. Your punishment shall be death everlasting!"

The eyes alone, the staring, sad, pitiful eyes said all these things at once. The Marchesa uttered a long groan, and stretched out her arms towards the apparition, trying to say something, and succeeding only in gasping out: "Ah--ah--ah--" while the hands, the arms, the shoulders of the phantom vanished in a mist, the outlines of its face became blurred, and only the gaze remained, staring intently, and then finally becoming veiled was absorbed, as it were, into a deep and distant Self, nothing remaining of the apparition save a slight phosph.o.r.escence which was presently lost in the darkness.

The Marchesa awoke with a start. In her agitation she forgot the bell, and tried to call out, but could not raise her voice. By an effort of her will, which was still strong in spite of her failing bodily strength, she thrust her legs out of bed, and stood upright. She staggered forward a step or two in the dark, stumbling against the easy-chair, and clutched at another chair, dragging it down with her as she fell heavily to the ground, where she lay moaning.

The noise of the fall roused the maid, who called out to her mistress, but receiving no answer, and hearing the moaning, she lighted her candle and hastened into the room, where, in the dim light between the armchair and the bed she saw something large and white that was writhing on the floor like some huge marine monster, that has been cast upon the sh.o.r.e.

She screamed and rushed to the bell, rousing the whole house at once, and then hastened to help the old woman, who was groaning: "The priest!

The priest! The prefect! The prefect!"

FOOTNOTE:

[P] Ambrosian: From St. Ambrose, patron of Milan. Therefore, Milanese.

[_Translator's note._]

CHAPTER XIII

FLIGHT

At half-past two that same night Franco, Lawyer V., and their friend Pedraglio were sitting in the loggia in the dark, and in silence.

Suddenly Pedraglio started up exclaiming: "What can that fool be about?"

Going out to the terrace he listened a moment and then returned to the room. "No sign of him," said he. "Oh, I say! Are we to sit here like idiots and wait for them to come and take us, and all on account of that silly a.s.s, who has probably fallen asleep? Maironi, you are fairly well acquainted with the road, and we all three have plenty of courage. If it should be necessary to pitch into anybody we should be quite equal to the occasion. Don't you think so, V.?"

The night before, between seven and eight o'clock, Pedraglio had happened to be on the road between Loveno and Menaggio. At the spot that goes by the name of "Bertin's Cove" a man had begged of him, had pressed a note into his hand, and had then walked rapidly away. The note ran as follows: "Why does Carlino Pedraglio not go to Oria at once, to see Signor Maironi and the lawyer from Varenna, and take a nice little walk with his dear friends over beyond the stake?"

Ever since the arrest of his friend the doctor at Pellio, Pedraglio had been expecting some sign from the police, and this note was not the first timely and ungrammatical warning which had reached a patriot. The note spoke plainly; he must pa.s.s the stake that marked the frontier without delay. Pedraglio knew nothing of Franco's misfortune and return, nor was he aware of the lawyer's presence in Oria. He did not stop to speculate, however, but hastened to Loveno, provided himself with money, and started off on foot. He would not risk going to Porlezza, but took the path that from a spot near Tavordo rises upwards through a lonely ravine to the Pa.s.so Stretto. As nimble as a chamois, he reached Oria in four hours, and found Franco and the lawyer preparing to start, another mysterious warning having reached them through the curate of Castello, who had been to Porlezza, and had there been charged with the message, in the confessional. Ismaele was to guide them across the frontier. The pa.s.ses of Boglia were very carefully guarded, and Ismaele proposed pa.s.sing between Monte della Neve and Castello; then they would drop down into the valley, making straight for the Alpe di Castello below the Sa.s.so Grande, and from there descend to Cadro, an hour above Lugano.

But Ismaele was to have been there at two o'clock, and at half-past two he had not yet appeared.

Luisa was also up. She was in the alcove-room mending a pair of Maria's stockings, which she intended to place on the little bed, where she had arranged all of the child's little garments with the same care as when the little one was alive. She had not wished to see either the lawyer or Pedraglio. After her intense excitement at the funeral her grief had once more a.s.sumed that gloomy aspect which caused Dr. Aliprandi still greater anxiety. She was no longer excited; she did not even speak, and she had never yet wept. Her manner towards Franco exhibited nothing but pity for this man who loved her, and whose affection and presence were, in spite of herself, perfectly indifferent to her. Franco, relying upon obtaining the position his director had talked so much about, had proposed taking the whole family back to Turin with him. Uncle Piero, poor old man, was quite ready to make this new sacrifice, but Luisa had stated explicitly that rather than leave her little daughter, she would end her days in the lake.

Upon hearing the proposal to start without Ismaele, Franco rose and said he would go and take leave of his wife. Just at that moment the lawyer heard a step in the street below. "Silence!" said he. "Here he is."

Franco went out to the terrace. Some one was, indeed, coming from the direction of Albogasio. Franco waited until the wayfarer had reached the church-place, and then called out in a low voice:

"Ismaele?"

"It is I," a voice answered that was not Ismaele's. "It is the prefect.

I am coming up-stairs."

The prefect at that hour? What could have happened? Franco went to the kitchen, lighted a candle, and then hastened downstairs.

Five minutes pa.s.sed and he had not returned to his friends. But meanwhile Ismaele's wife had appeared to say that her husband was feeling very ill, and could not stir. She stood in the square, and spoke to Pedraglio, who was on the terrace. He hastened to summon Franco, and found him on the stairs, coming up with the prefect. "The guide is ill,"

said he, knowing the priest to be an honest man. "Let us start at once, and not waste any more time." Franco replied that he could not start immediately, and that they must go on ahead. How was this? Why could he not start? No, he could not. He ushered the prefect into the hall, called the lawyer, and tried to persuade both Pedraglio and him to start at once. Something extraordinary had happened, about which he must consult his wife, and he could not say what he might decide to do. His friends protested that they would not forsake him. The jovial Pedraglio, who was in the habit of spending more money than his father approved of, observed that if the worst came to the worst, they would be able to live more economically and more virtuously at Josephstadt or Kufstein than in Turin, and that this would be a consolation to his "governor."

"No, no!" exclaimed Franco. "You must go! Prefect, you persuade them!"

And he went towards the alcove-room.

"Are you ready to start?" said Luisa, in that voice which seemed to come from a far-away world. "Good-bye."

He came to her side, and stooped to kiss the little stocking she held.

"Luisa," he whispered, "the Prefect of Caravina is here." She did not express the slightest astonishment. "Grandmother sent for him an hour or two ago," Franco continued. "She told him she had seen our Maria, shining like an angel."