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 >atriot 
 
 3 1924 027 679 582 
 
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The 
 Trilogy of Rome 
 
 By 
 
 Antonio Fogazzaro 
 
 " Tbe Greatest ot Italian Novelists " 
 (Authorized American Editions) 
 
 1. The Patriot 
 
 (Piccolo Mondq Antico) 
 
 2. The Sinner 
 
 (Piccolo Mondo Moderno) 
 
 3. The Saint 
 
 (II Santo) 
 
 npHE first of these romances is an impassioned 
 -■■ story of lovers struggling to break the barriers 
 of aristocratic prejudice that oppose their marriage. 
 It is also a story of patriotism — of the freeing of 
 Italy from the Austrian yoke. 
 
 In The Sinner, the second book of this Trilogy, 
 we read the dramatic story of Piero Maironi, the 
 son of the hero of TAe Patriot, and of his love for 
 the beautiful Jeanne Dessalle, — a story that pre- 
 sents a vivid picture of the Italian world of rank 
 and fashion, and involves, too, a study of political 
 and ecclesiastical life. 
 
 In The Saint, the concluding novel in the series, 
 the hero of The Sinner and the lover of Jeanne 
 Dessalle appears as a penitent full of religious 
 zeal that finds a double outlet — in asceticism 
 and works of mercy and in an attempt to reform 
 the Church of Rome from within. 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 New York London 
 
THE PATRIOT 
 
 (PICCOLO MONDO ANTICO) 
 
 By 
 ANTONIO FOGAZZARO 
 
 Author of '" The Saint " 
 
 Translated from the Italian by 
 
 M. PRICHARD-AGNETTI 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 ®|)e Knic6er6Dc6et ©teas 
 
 E.V- 
 
Copyright, 1906 
 
 BY 
 iS. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 T^E PATRIOT {Piccolo Hondo Antico) was 
 published in Milan in 1896, and has reached 
 its forty-fourth edition, which is in itself sufficient 
 proof of its popularity; for Italians do not pur- 
 chase books largely, and one volume will often 
 make the tour of a town, coming out of the cam- 
 paign in rags and a newspaper cover. 
 
 Although The Patriot is not an historical novel 
 in the true sense of the term, it certainly throws a 
 wonderftil side-light on those ten years of "deadly 
 cold and awful silence," a silence broken only from 
 time to time by the cries of the martyrs of Mantua, 
 by the noise of inward strife in the Papal States, 
 and by the weeping of mothers who saw their sons 
 disappear behind the clanging doors of Austrian 
 fortresses. These ten years stretched drearily 
 from the disastrous field of Novara to the glorious 
 days of Magenta, Solferino and San Martino 
 (1849-59). 
 
 Antonio Fogazzaro, born in Vicenza m 1842, 
 was a child when the battle of Novara was fought 
 and lost; but when the French drove the Aus- 
 trians from the bloody field of Magenta, he, a 
 youth of seventeen, was ready to be fired \dth 
 patriotic enthusiasm. 
 
iv Introduction 
 
 Dtiring those years, there was little the patriots 
 could do save to feed the fire of hatred against 
 the foreign oppressors, and prepare, as best they 
 could, in secret and in constant danger of death, 
 for the moment when Piedmont should once more 
 give the signal of revolt. 
 
 In the night that succeeded the battle of Novara, 
 King Carlo Alberto, who had risked all for the 
 freedom of the rest of Italy — for it must be re- 
 membered that his own kingdom of Sardinia was 
 independent of Austria — discouraged, mortified, 
 and impoverished, abdicated in favour of his son, 
 Victor Emmanuel. It was no longer possible to 
 continue hostilities, and Carlo Alberto hoped that 
 his son, whose wife, Maria Adelaide, was the 
 daughter of an Austrian grand-duke, might ob- 
 tain more favotirable conditions from Austria for 
 his unhappy country. On the following day the 
 yoimg King and Field-Marshal Radetzky met, and 
 a peace was signed, the conditions of which Victor 
 Emmanuel found great difficulty in persuading his 
 parHament to ratify. But in the end Piedmont 
 paid Austria an indemnity of seventy-five million 
 francs. 
 
 Victor Emmanuel had not, however, abandoned 
 the idea of United Italy, and could say with 
 Massimo D'Azeglio: We will begin over again, 
 and do better! Count Camillo Benso di Cavour, 
 one of the greatest statesmen of modem times, 
 stood by the King from the first. They imme- 
 diately turned their attention towards bettering 
 
Introduction v 
 
 the condition of their impoverished country, and 
 soon succeeded in rendering the Httle capital, 
 Turin, one of the brightest and most prosperous 
 cities of the Continent. The patriots, the best 
 men in Italy, flocked to Ttirin from all those 
 states where Austria or her tools held sway. 
 The Piedmontese government granted subsidies to 
 some of these refugees, and found employment for 
 others, receiving all with open arms. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mazzini and Garibaldi were working, 
 sometimes at home, sometimes in exile, while in 
 Mantua brave patriots, among them several 
 saintly priests, were siiffering torture and death at 
 the hands of the Austrians. The records of their 
 trials revealed such palpable and flagrant violation 
 of all justice, all law, that when the Austrians 
 were at last expelled from Mantua, they were care- 
 ful to remove these to Vienna, where they are still 
 preserved. The aged mother of one of the priests 
 who suffered execution appealed to the young Em- 
 press Elisabeth, begging that her son's body might 
 be restored to her, and receive burial in consecrated 
 ground. But Elisabeth was deaf to the unhappy 
 woman's prayers. During the long and desolate 
 years of her own afiHiction, how often must the 
 unfortunate Empress have thought of the tears of 
 blood the mothers of Italy had shed! It was 
 Field-Marshal Haynau of inglorious memory, he 
 who for his cruelties in that city had been dubbed 
 the "hyena of Brescia," who tortured these martyrs 
 of Mantua and signed their death-warrants. 
 
vi Introduction 
 
 All these things were happening during those 
 ten years of heavy silence when Fogazzaro was a 
 child. We can fancy how eagerly he listened to 
 the accounts of these horrors, and to the long and 
 animated discussions his father (Franco Maironi 
 of The Patriot) and his uncle (Uncle Piero) held 
 with the brilliant company that assembled at 
 Casa Fogazzaro. His father took an active part 
 in the defence of Vicenza in 1848, while his mother, 
 whom he has portrayed for us in the lovely 
 character of Signora Luisa Rigey, busied herself 
 with scraping lint and making cockades for the 
 soldiers. These events and scenes, which so 
 deeply impressed the child, were ever present to 
 the mind of the man, and the long cherished pro- 
 ject of immortalising those personages and places 
 which were both familiar and dear to him, was at 
 last realised in the pages of The Patriot, in 
 which, evoking personal memories of the past, 
 he gives us a stirring accoiuit of the petty per- 
 secutions and base meanness to which the mighty 
 Austria stooped during that period of suspense 
 and anxiety. The intrigues of the rogue Pasotti, 
 the skirmishes of the wicked old Marchesa with 
 the adjutant of the great Radetzky himself, fill 
 us with indignation and contempt, while we thrill 
 with patriotic emotion when Liiisa raises her glass 
 and whispers: "Htirrah for Cavotir!" — whispers 
 the words, because in those days the very walls 
 had ears, and in her toast there breathed sedition! 
 
 As the years passed and peace and prosperity 
 
Introduction vii 
 
 settled over United Italy, another question, 
 that of the religious life, began to occupy the 
 master-mind of Antonio Fogazzaro. Intensely 
 but broadly religious himself, he could not fail to 
 introduce into his work the burning question of 
 belief or imbelief which, from long contempla- 
 tion and study, had become, as it were, a part 
 of himself. The artistic motive of the book, 
 the struggle between an unbelieving wife and an 
 intensely religious husband, came to the Italian 
 reader as a new revelation. Had Fogazzaro 
 been influenced by certain works which had al- 
 ready excited much comment and discussion in 
 England and America? Perhaps so; but at all 
 events he has treated the subject differently, and 
 in his own masterly fashion ; he has spared us the 
 long arid tedious tirades of personages who are, 
 after all, simply mouthpieces, and has given us 
 instead two warm and palpitating human beings, 
 who live and act in accordance with their opinions, 
 and whose innermost souls are laid bare to us by 
 their own deeds, their own actions. Franco and 
 Luisa do not discuss and argue, they simply feel, 
 feel intensely, and by a few burning words here, 
 a few delicate touches there, our author leads us 
 to feel with them, to understand and sympathise 
 with their impulses, their passions, and their 
 weaknesses. 
 
 We may not agree with Fogazzaro's conclusions, 
 but we cannot but admire the masterly delineation 
 of character, the unstudied and thoroughly artistic 
 
viii Introduction 
 
 arrangement of the work, and the skilful handling 
 of so many different elements. 
 
 The very simplicity and directness of his 
 language give to his style a grandeur all its own, 
 and lend a peculiar charm to his descriptions 
 of nature, which form some of the most fas- 
 cinating pages of The Patriot. With a few broad 
 strokes, he spreads before us a landscape of 
 ineffable beauty, or shows us the ftiry of the 
 maddened elements. How marvellous in its 
 solemn grandeur is the pictttre of the struggle 
 between the sua and the fog, which Uncle Piero 
 witnesses from the terrace at Oria! How won- 
 derful in its awe-inspiring realism is the story of 
 Franco's journey across the mountains, in the 
 darkness of a moonless night! And that glorious 
 picttire of the stmrise, when Franco's crushed and 
 tortured soul soars upwards again with the grow- 
 ing light, and, inspired and comforted, he once 
 more squares his shoulders, and takes up his 
 heavy burden of care! 
 
 Infinite sweetness breathes from the pages which 
 deal with the short and sunny life of dear little 
 Maria, and there are passages full of humour 
 and whimsical reflections that must remind the 
 English reader of Dickens. 
 
 Perhaps when Fogazzaro wrote The Patriot, he 
 had already planned the trilogy of which it 
 forms the first volume, but certainly the trilogy 
 was rather evolved than planned, evolved from 
 the tmion of two such characters as Franco and 
 
Introduction ix 
 
 Luisa; and probably, while writing the first, the 
 author was, to a certain extent, ignorant of what 
 the second and third volumes would contain; 
 for Luisa and Franco, Jeanne and Piero are not 
 puppets which have been fitted into a story, but 
 the story is in every particular the outcome of 
 their personalities. 
 
 Certain it is that when we read the promise con- 
 tained in the closing lines of The Patriot, we look 
 forward eagerly to the succeeding volumes of the 
 trilogy ; and when, after that marvellous scene in 
 the gardener's house, we reluctantly bid farewell 
 to the Saint, our first thought is a hope that the 
 master may soon resume his magic pen and con- 
 tinue the struggle for the purification and re- 
 generation of the Faith, and, through the Faith, 
 of Mankind. 
 
 MARY PRICHARD-AGNETTI. 
 
 Berceto, Italy, 
 October, 1906. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART FIRST 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 Risotto and Truffles 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 On the Threshold of a New Life . , . 29 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 The Great Step . . . . , 46 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 Garlin's Letter ...... 81 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 The Rogue at Work . . . . o ioi 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 The Old Lady of Marble . . . ,129 
 
xii Contents 
 
 PART SECOND 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 Fishermen ....... i39 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata . . . 158 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 The Gloved Hand ...... 201 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 The Hand Within the Glove .... 214 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 The Secret op the Wind and the Walnut Trees 239 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 The Trump Card Appears .... 255 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 The Professor Plays His Trump Card . . 274 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 Hours of Bitterness • . . , . 286 
 
Contents xiii 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 For Bread, for Italy, for God 
 
 339 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 SiGNORA LuisA, Come Home! .... 363 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 Shadows and Dawn ...... 393 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 Phantoms =».....• 418 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 Flight .0 434 
 
 PART THIRD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 The Sage Speaks ...... 465 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 The Summons to Arms ... 489 
 
Part First 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 RISOTTO AND TRUFFLES 
 
 /^N the lake a cold breva* was blowing, striving 
 ^^ to drive away the grey clouds which clung 
 heavily about the dark mountain-tops. Indeed, 
 when the Pasottis reached Casarico on their way 
 down from Albogasio Superiore, it had not yet 
 begun to rain. The waves beat and thundered 
 on the shore, jostling the boats at their moorings, 
 while flashing tongues of white foam showed, here 
 and there, as far as the frowning banks of the 
 Doi over yonder. But down in the west, at the 
 end of the lake, a line of light could be seen, a 
 sign of approaching calm, of the diminishing 
 breva, and behind the gloomy Caprino hill ap- 
 peared the first misty rain. Pasotti, in his full 
 dress black overcoat, a tall hat on his head, his 
 hand grasping a thick bamboo walking-stick, 
 was pacing nervously along the shore, peering 
 now in this direction, now in that, or stopping 
 
 * Breva: local name for a sudden, violent wind blowing 
 from the north, and sweeping over the Italian lakes. 
 [Translator's note.] 
 
2 The Patriot 
 
 to beat his stick upon the ground, and to shout 
 for that ass of a boatman, who had not yet 
 appeared. 
 
 The Uttle black boat, with its red cushions, 
 its red and white awning, its movable seat, used 
 only on special occasions, fixed crosswise in its 
 place, the oars lying ready amidship, was strug- 
 gling, buffeted by the waves, between two coal 
 barges, which hardly moved. 
 
 "Pin!" shouted Pasotti, growing more and 
 more angry. "Pin!" 
 
 The only answer was the regular, constant 
 thundering of the waves on the shore, and the 
 bumping of one boat against another. At that 
 moment one would have said there was not so 
 much as a live dog in the whole of Casarico. 
 Only a plaintive, old voice, like the husky falsetto 
 of a ventriloquist, groaned from beneath the 
 portico — 
 
 "Hadn't we better walk?" 
 
 At last Pin appeared in the direction of San 
 Mamette. 
 
 "Hurry up, there!" shrieked Pasotti, raising 
 his arms. The man began to rvm. 
 
 "Beast!" Pasotti roared. " It was with good 
 reason they gave you the name of a dog!" 
 
 "Hadn't we better walk, Pasotti?" groaned 
 the plaintive voice. "Let us walk!" 
 
 Pasotti continued to abuse the boatman, who 
 was hastily unfastening the chain of his boat 
 from a ring, fixed in the bank. Presently he 
 
Risotto and Truffles 3 
 
 turned towards the portico, with an authoritative 
 air, and jerking his chin, motioned to some one 
 to come forward. 
 
 "Let us walk, Pasotti!" the voice groaned 
 one more. 
 
 He shrugged his shoiolders, made a rough ges- 
 ture of command with his hand, and started 
 down towards the boat. 
 
 Then an old lady appeared under one of the 
 arches of the portico, her lean person enveloped 
 in an Indian shawl, below which a black silk 
 skirt showed. Her head was surmounted by a 
 fashionable bonnet, spindling, and lofty, trimmed 
 with tiny yellow roses, and black lace. Two 
 black curls framed the wrinkled face; the eyes 
 were large and gentle, and the wide mouth was 
 shaded by a faint mustache. 
 
 "Oh Pin!" she exclaimed, clasping her canary- 
 coloured gloves, and pausing on the bank to gaze 
 helplessly at the boatman. "Can we really ven- 
 ture out with the lake in this state?" 
 
 Her husband made a still more imperious 
 gesture, and his face assumed a still sourer expres- 
 sion. The poor woman slipped down to the boat 
 Jn silence, and was helped in, trembling violently. 
 
 "I commend myself to Our Lady of Caravino, 
 my good Pin!" she said. "What a dreadful 
 lake!" 
 
 The boatman shook his head, smiling. 
 
 "By the way!" Pasotti exclaimed, "have 
 you brought the sail along?" 
 
4 The Patriot 
 
 " It is up at the house," Pin answered. " Shall 
 I go for it? But perhaps the Signora here, might 
 be frightened. Besides, here comes the rain!" 
 
 "Go and fetch it," said Pasotti. 
 
 The Signora, who was as deaf as a post, had not 
 heard a word of this conversation, and, greatly 
 amazed at seeing Pin run off, asked her hus- 
 band where he was going. 
 
 "The sail!" Pasotti shouted into her face. She 
 sat, bending forward, her mouth wide open, 
 striving in vain, to catch, at least, the sound of 
 his voice. 
 
 "The sail!" he repeated, still louder, his hands 
 framing his mouth. 
 
 She began to think that she understood. 
 Trembling with fright she drew a questioning 
 hieroglyphic in the air with her finger. Pasotti 
 answered by drawing an imaginary curve in the 
 air, and blowing into it; then he silently nodded 
 his head. His wife, convulsed with terror, started 
 to leave the boat. 
 
 " I am going to get out! " said she in an agonised 
 voice. "I am going to get out! I want to 
 walk!" 
 
 Her husband seized her by the arm, and pulled 
 her down into her seat, fixing two flaming eyes 
 upon her. 
 
 Meanwhile the boatman had returned with the 
 sail. The poor woman writhed and sighed; tears 
 stood in her eyes, and she cast despairing glances 
 at the shore, but she was silent. The mast was 
 
Risotto and Truffles 5 
 
 raised, the two lower ends of the sail were made 
 fast, and the boat was about to put out, when a 
 voice bellowed from the portico — 
 
 "Hallo! Hallo! The Signor ControUore ! " and 
 out popped a big, rubicund priest, with a glorious 
 belly, a large, black straw hat, a cigar in his mouth, 
 and an umbrella under his arm. 
 
 "Oh! Curatone!" Pasotti exclaimed. "Well 
 done! Are you invited to the dinner also? Are 
 you coming to Cressogno with us?" 
 
 " If you will take me," the curate of Puria 
 answered, going down towards the boat. " Well, 
 I never! The Signora Barborin is here also." 
 
 The expression of his big face became supremely 
 amiable, his great voice became supremely 
 sweet. 
 
 "She is devilish frightened, poor creature!" 
 Pasotti grinned, while the curate was making a 
 •series of little bows, and smiling sweetly upon the 
 lady, who was more terrified than ever at the pros- 
 pect of this added weight. She began to gesticu- 
 late silently, as if the others had been more deaf 
 than she herself. She pointed to the lake, to the 
 sail, to the bulk of the enormous curate, raising her 
 eyes to heaven, hiding her face in her hands, or 
 pressing them to her heart. 
 
 "I don't weigh so very much," said the curate 
 laughing. "Hold your tongue, will you?" he 
 added, turning to Pin, who had murmured dis- 
 respectfully: "A good, big fish!" 
 
 " I'll teU you how we can cure her of her fright ! ' ' 
 
6 The Patriot 
 
 Pasotti exclaimed. " Pin, have you a little table, 
 and a pack of tarocchi* cards?" 
 
 "I have a pack," Pin replied. "But they are 
 rather greasy." 
 
 They had great difficulty in making Signora 
 Barbara — generally called Barborin — understand 
 the matter in hand. She wotild not tmderstand, 
 not even when her husband forced the pack of 
 filthy cards into her hands. 
 
 For the present, however, playing was out of 
 the question. The boat was being laboriously 
 rowed forward towards the mouth of the river 
 of San Mamette, where they would be able to 
 hoist the sail. The surf, fitong back from the shore, 
 clashed with the in-coming waves, and the little 
 boat was tossing about among the seething, 
 foaming crests. The lady was weeping and 
 Pasotti was swearing at Pin, who had not stood 
 out into the lake far enough. At last the fat 
 curate seized a couple of oars, and planting his 
 big person firmly in the middle of the boat, bent 
 to his work with such good will that a few strokes 
 sufficed to send them forward and out of difficulty. 
 Then the sail was hoisted, and the boat glided 
 quietly and smoothly onward, rocking slowly and 
 gently, while the water gurgled softly under its 
 keel. Then the smiling priest sat down beside 
 
 * Tarocchi: a game of cards once much in vogue in Italy. 
 The "Mondo," the "Motto," the "BagaAo," which will be 
 referred to later on, are all picture cards used in this game. 
 ITranslator's note.''. 
 
Risotto and Truffles 7 
 
 Signora Barborin, who had closed her eyes and 
 was muttering. But Pasotti drummed im- 
 patiently on the table with the cards, and play 
 they must. 
 
 Meanwhile the grey rain was creeping slowly 
 towards them, veiling the mountains, and stifling 
 the breva. 
 
 The lady's breath returned in proportion as the 
 wind's breath diminished, and she played resign- 
 edly, calmly oblivious to her own gross mistakes, 
 and her husband's consequent outbursts of rage. 
 When the rain began to rustle on the boat's awn- 
 ing, on the lifeless waves, which in the now almost 
 breathless atmosphere, were rolling in against the 
 rocks of the Tention ; when the boatman, judging 
 it best to lower the sail, took to the oars once 
 more, then, at last, Signora Barborin breathed 
 freely. " Pin, my good fellow! " she said tenderly, 
 and began playing tarocchi with a zeal, an energy 
 and an expression of beatitude, which neither 
 mistakes nor scoldings could trouble. 
 
 Many days of hreva and of rain, of sunshine and 
 of storm have dawned and faded away over the 
 Lake of Lugano, over the hills of Valsolda since 
 that game of cards was played by Signora Pasotti, 
 her husband, the retired controller of customs, 
 and the big curate of Puria, in the boat which 
 coasted slowly along the rocky shore between San 
 Mamette and Cressogno in the misty rain. 
 
 The times were grey and sleepy, in keeping with 
 the aspect of sky and lake, after the hreva had 
 
8 The Patriot 
 
 subsided, the breeze which had so terrified Signora 
 Pasotti. The great breva*oi 1848, after bringing 
 a few hours of sunshine, and striving awhile with 
 the heavy clouds, had slumbered for three years, 
 allowing one breathless, gloomy, silent day to 
 follow another in those places where the scene of 
 this humble tale of mine is laid. 
 
 The king and queens of tarocchi, the mondo, the 
 matto and the bagatto, were imported personages 
 at that time, and in those parts ; minor powers 
 tolerated benevolently by the great, silent Austrian 
 empire; and their antagonisms, their alliances, 
 their wars, were the only political questions which 
 might be freely discussed. Even Pin, as he rowed, 
 eagerly poked his hooked and inquisitive nose into 
 Signora Barborin's cards, withdrawing it reluc- 
 tantly again. Once he paused in his rowing, and 
 let his nose hover above the cards, to see how the 
 poor woman would extricate herself from a diffi- 
 cult position; what she would do with a certain 
 card it was dangerous to play, and equally danger- 
 ous to hold. Her husband thumped impatiently 
 on the little table, the big curate sorted his cards 
 with a blissftil smile, while she clasped hers to her 
 bosom, now laughing, now groaning, and rolling 
 her eyes from one to the other of her companions. 
 
 * The breva of 1848 means the revolution which swept over 
 Italy in that year, after which the country sunk into ap- 
 parent calm, but all the while the people, chafing under the 
 Austrian yoke, were preparing for the mighty effort which, 
 at last, set them free. [Translator's note.] 
 
Risotto and Truffles 9 
 
 "She holds the matto," the curate whispered. 
 
 " She always goes on like that when she has the 
 matto," said Pasotti, and called to her, thumping 
 the table one more — 
 
 "Out with the matto!" 
 
 " I will throw him into the lake! " said she. She 
 cast a glance towards the prow, and, as an excuse, 
 remarked that they were nearing Cressogno, and 
 that it was time to stop playing. 
 
 Her husband fumed awhile, but finally resigned 
 himself to putting on his gloves. 
 
 "Trout to-day, curate!" he observed, while 
 his meek wife buttoned them for him. "White 
 truffles, grouse, and wine from Ghemme." 
 
 "Then you know!" the curate exclaimed. "I 
 know it also. The cook told me yesterday at 
 Lugano." 
 
 "And besides, some ladies have been invited; 
 the Carabellis, mother and daughter. Those 
 CarabeUis from Loveno, you know." 
 
 "Indeed!" the curate exclaimed. "Is there 
 
 any scheme ? There is Don Franco, now, 
 
 in his boat. But what a strange flag the young 
 man is flying! I never saw him with it before." 
 
 Pasotti raised the awning and looked out. At 
 a little distance a boat flying a white and blue 
 flag rose and fell in unison with the weary mo- 
 tion of the waves. In the stem, under the flag, 
 sat Don Franco Maironi, the grandson of 
 the old Marchesa Orsola, who was giving the 
 dinner. 
 
lo The Patriot 
 
 Pasotti saw him rise, grasp the oars, and pull 
 away, rowing slowly towards the upper lake, to- 
 wards the wild gulf of the Doi, the white and blue 
 flag spread wide, and floating above the boat's 
 trail. 
 
 "Where is that eccentric young man going?" 
 said he. And he muttered between his teeth; in 
 the strained and husky voice of a Milanese rough — 
 "A surly feUow!" 
 
 "They say he has great talents," the priest 
 observed. 
 
 " An empty head, ' ' the other declared. " Much 
 arrogance, little learning, no manners!" 
 
 "And half rotten," he added. " If I were that 
 young woman " 
 
 "Which?" the curate questioned. 
 
 "Why, Signorina Carabelli." 
 
 "Mark my words, Signor ControUore! If the 
 grouse and white truffles are meant for that 
 Carabelli girl, they are thrown away!" 
 
 " Do you know something?" Pasotti inquired, 
 his eyes flaming with curiosity. 
 
 The priest did not answer because, at that point, 
 the bow grated on the gravel, and touched the 
 landing-stage. He got out first; Pasotti, with 
 rapid and imperious gestures, gave his wife some 
 orders of unknown purport. Then he himself 
 left the boat. Last to get out was the poor 
 woman, wrapped in her Indian shawl, bending 
 under the tall, black bonnet with the little, yellow 
 roses, staggering, and stretching out her big hands 
 
Risotto and Truffles ii 
 
 in the canary-coloured gloves. The two curls, 
 hanging on either side of her meek ugliness, gave 
 her a special air of resignation, under the umbrella 
 of her husband, proprietor, inspector and jealous 
 custodian of so much elegance. 
 
 The three went up to the portico, by means of 
 which the little Villa Maironi spans the road 
 leading from the landing-stage to the parish- 
 church of Cressogno. Between two happy sighs, 
 the curate and Pasotti sniffed an indistinct, warm 
 odour, which floated out from the open vestibule 
 of the villa. 
 
 "Ah! risotto! risotto!" the priest whispered, 
 with a greedy glow on his face. 
 
 Pasotti, who had a keen nose, shook his head, 
 knitting his brows in manifest contempt for that 
 other nose. 
 
 "It is not risotto" said he. 
 
 " What do you mean by saying it is not risotto? " 
 the priest exclaimed in vexation. " It is risotto; 
 risotto with truffles. Don't you smeU it?" 
 
 Both stopped half way across the vestibule, 
 sniffing the air noisily like a couple of hounds. 
 
 " Do me the favour, my dear curate, to confine 
 your remarks to posciandra," said Pasotti, after 
 a long pause, alluding to a certain coarse dish 
 the peasants prepare, with cabbage and sausages. 
 "Truffles there are, but risotto there is not!" 
 
 "Posciandra! posciandra!" the other grumbled, 
 somewhat offended. "As to that " 
 
 The poor, meek lady understood that they were 
 
12 The Patriot 
 
 quarrelling, and, much alarmed, began pointing 
 upward towards the ceiling, with her right fore- 
 finger, to warn them that they might be overheard 
 up above. Her husband seized her uplifted arm, 
 signed to her to sniff, and then blew into her wide 
 open mouth the word: "Risotto." 
 
 She hesitated, not having heard distinctly. 
 Pasotti shrugged his shoulders. "She don't 
 understand anything," said he. "The weather 
 is going to change, ' ' and he went up stairs, followed 
 by his wife. The stout curate wished to take 
 another look at Don Franco's boat. "The Cara- 
 bellis, indeed!" he mused, but he was immediately 
 recalled by Signora Barborin, who begged him 
 to sit beside her at the table; she was so timid, 
 poor creature! 
 
 The fumes of the pots and kettles filled the stairs 
 with warm fragrance. "It is not risotto," the 
 vanguard murmured. "It is risotto" the rear- 
 guard answered in the same tone. And thus they 
 continued, ever more softly: "It is not risotto; 
 it is risotto," imtil Pasotti pushed open the door 
 of the red room, where the mistress of the house 
 was usually to be found. 
 
 A hideous, lean, little dog trotted, barking, 
 towards Signora Barborin, who was endeavouring 
 to smile, while Pasotti was putting on his most 
 obsequious expression, and the curate, entering 
 last, his big face all sweetness, was really, in his 
 heart, consigning the cursed little beast to Kell. 
 
 "Friend, come here, Friend!" the old Marchesa 
 
Risotto and Truffles 13 
 
 said placidly. "Dear Signora, dear Controllore, 
 and the curate!" 
 
 Her gruff nasal voice was pitched in the same 
 calm tone to the guests and to the dog. She 
 had risen to receive Signora Barborin, but did not 
 move a step from the sofa, and stood there, a 
 squat figure, with dull, torpid eyes beneath her 
 marble forehead, and her black wig, which rounded 
 out over her temples in the shape of two big snails. 
 Her face must once have been handsome, and still 
 retained in its pallor, tinged with yellow like old 
 marble, a certain cold majesty, which — ^like her 
 glance and her voice — never varied with the vary- 
 ing emotions of her soul. The big curate, standing 
 at a distance, made her two or three jerky bows, 
 but Pasotti kissed her hand, while Signora Bar- 
 borin, who felt her blood turn to ice under the old 
 lady's lifeless glance, did not know how to move, 
 nor what to say. Another lady had risen from 
 the sofa when the Marchesa rose, and was staring 
 with an insolent air at Signora Pasotti, at that 
 poor little bundle, old within, and new without! 
 "Signora Pasotti and her husband," said the 
 Marchesa. "Donna Eugenia Carabelli." 
 
 Donna Eugenia hardly bowed her head. Her 
 daughter, Donna Carolina, was standing at the 
 window, talking with one of the Marchesa's 
 favourites, the niece of the agent. 
 
 The Marchesa did not consider it necessary to 
 disturb her in order to present the new arrivals, 
 and when she had invited them to be seated, she 
 
14 The Patriot 
 
 resumed her qmet conversation with Donna 
 Eugenia concerning mutual friends in Milan, 
 while Friend, sniffing and sneezing, circled slowly 
 round Signora Barborin's shawl, which smelt of 
 camphor, or rubbed himself against the curate's 
 calves, studying Pasotti the while, with those 
 pitiful, watery eyes of his, but never once touching 
 him, as if he understood that the master of that 
 Indian shawl, in spite of his amiable expression, 
 would have liked to ring his — Friend's — ^neck! 
 
 And the Marchesa Orsola talked on in her usual 
 guttural, sleepy voice, and Donna Carabelli, in 
 answering, strove to give her loud, imperious 
 voice an amiable ring. But to Pasotti 's pene- 
 trating glance, and cunning shrewdness it was 
 quite clear that the two old ladies were concealing 
 a certain dissatisfaction, which was greater in 
 the Marchesa Maironi than in Donna Eugenia. 
 Every time the door opened the dim eyes of the 
 one and the dark eyes of the other were ttuned 
 in that direction. Once it admitted the prefect 
 of the Santuario delta Caravina, with Uttle Si<mor 
 Paolo Sala, called el Paolin — ^little Paul — and 
 Signor Paolo Pozzi, called el Paolon — ^big Paul 
 — ^who were inseparable companions. Again there 
 entered the Marchese Bianchi, of Oria, a former 
 officer of the kingdom of Italy, with his daughter. 
 He was a noble tjrpe of the gallant, old soldier, as 
 he stood beside the attractive and vivacious 
 yoimg girl. 
 
 On both occasions a shadow of vexation passed 
 
 \ 
 
Risotto and Truffles 15 
 
 over Donna Carabelli's face. Her daughter also 
 turned her eyes swiftly towards the door when it 
 was thrown open, but presently she would begin 
 chatting and laughing again, more gaily than ever. 
 
 "And Don Franco, Marchesa? How is Don 
 Franco?" said the cunning Pasotti, in a melli- 
 fluous voice, as he offered his open snuff-box to 
 his hostess. 
 
 "Thank you," the Marchesa answered, bending 
 forward a little and dipping her fingers into the 
 snuff. "Franco? To tell the truth I am rather 
 anxious about him. This morning he was not 
 feeling very well, and he has not appeared yet. 
 I trust " 
 
 " Don Franco? " said the Marchese. "He is out 
 in his boat. We saw him a few minutes ago, 
 rowing like any boatman." 
 
 Donna Eugenia spread her fan open. 
 
 "Well done!" said she, fanning furiously. "A 
 most delightful pastime." Then she closed the 
 fan with a bang, and began biting at it with 
 her lips. 
 
 "Probably he needed the air," the Marchesa 
 observed, in her unruffled, nasal drawl. 
 
 "Probably he needed a wetting," the prefect 
 of the Caravina murmured, his eyes sparkling with 
 fun. "It is raining!" 
 
 " Don Franco is coming now, Signora Marchesa," 
 said the agent's niece, after a glance at the lake. 
 
 "That is good," the sleepy, nasal drawl repUed. 
 " I hope he is feeling better. If not, he will not 
 
1 6 The Patriot 
 
 speak two words. He is a perfectly healthy boy, 
 but very apprehensive about himself. By the 
 way, Signor ControUore, why does not Signor 
 Giacomo make his appearance?" 
 
 "El sior Zacomo," Pasotti began, in imitation 
 of Signor Giacomo Puttini, an old bachelor from 
 the Veneto, who had lived at Albogasio Superiore, 
 near Villa Pasotti, for the last thirty years. " El 
 sior Zacomo " 
 
 "Tut, tut!" said the old lady, interrupting 
 him. "I cannot allow you to make fun of the 
 Venetians, and besides, it is not true that they 
 say Zacomo in the Veneto." 
 
 She herself was a native of Padua, and although 
 she had lived in Brescia for half a century, still 
 her Lombard accent was not entirely free from 
 certain chronic suggestions of her Paduan origin. 
 While Pasotti was protesting, with ceremonial 
 horror, that he had only intended to imitate the 
 voice of his beloved friend and neighbour, the 
 door opened a third time. Donna Eugenia, well 
 aware who was coming, did not condescend to 
 look round, but the Marchesa allowed her dull 
 eyes to rest on Don Franco with the greatest 
 unconcern. 
 
 Don Franco, sole heir to the name of Maironi, 
 was the son of the Marchesa 's son who had died 
 when only eight-and-twenty. He had lost his 
 mother at his birth, ' and had always lived under 
 the rule of his grandmother Maironi. He was 
 tall and slender, and wore a tangle of rather 
 
Risotto and Truffles 17 
 
 long, dark hair, and this had procured for 
 him the nickname of el scovin d'i nivol, "the cloud 
 sweeper." He had eloquent, light blue eyes, a 
 keen, animated and pleasing face, quick to blush 
 or turn pale. Now that frowning face was saying 
 very plainly: "Here I am, but I am much put 
 out!" 
 
 "How do you feel. Franco?" his grandmother 
 inquired, and added quickly, without waiting for 
 an answer: "Donna Carolina is anxious to hear 
 that piece by Kalkbrenner. " 
 
 "Oh! not at all!" said the girl, turning to the 
 young man with an air of indifference. "I did 
 indeed say so, but then I am not fond of Kalk- 
 brenner, I had much rather chat with the young 
 ladies." 
 
 Franco seemed quite satisfied with the recep- 
 tion he had received and, without waiting for 
 further remarks, went over to talk with the big 
 curate about a fine old picture they were to inspect 
 together, in the church at Dasio. Donna Eu- 
 genia Carabelli was quivering with indignation. 
 She had come from Loveno, with her daughter, 
 after certain secret diplomatic transactions, in 
 which other powers had had a hand. Should 
 this visit be paid or not ; would the dignity of the 
 house of Carabelli permit it; did that probability 
 of success which Donna Eugenia exacted, really 
 exist? Such were the final questions, which 
 diplomacy had been called upon to answer, for, 
 notwithstanding the acquaintance of long standing 
 
1 8 The Patriot 
 
 which existed between Mamma Carabelli and 
 Grandmamma Maironi, the young people haxi 
 met only once or twice, and then but for a few 
 minutes. They were being drawn together by 
 their surroundings of wealth and nobiUty, of 
 relationships and friendships, as a drop of salt 
 water and a drop of fresh water are mutually 
 drawn together, though the microscopic creatures, 
 which have their being in the one and in the other 
 be condemned to perish if the two drops mingle. 
 The Marchesa had carried her point. It had been 
 decided — apparently out of respect for her age, 
 but really out of respect for her money — ^that 
 the interview should take place at Cressogno; 
 for, though Franco himself was possessed 
 only of his mother's modest fortune, amounting 
 to eighteen or twenty thousand Austrian lire, 
 his grandmother was enthroned in all her calm 
 dignity upon several millions. And now Donna 
 Eugenia, observing the young man's conduct, 
 was ftirious with the Marchesa, as well as 
 with those who had exposed her daughter 
 and herself to such humiliation. If, at a single 
 blow, she could have swept away the old 
 woman, her grandson, the gloomy house and 
 the tiresome company, she wotild have done so 
 with joy; but she must hide her feelings, feign 
 indifference, swallow the indignity and the dinner. 
 The Marchesa preserved her external, marble 
 placidity, though her heart was filled with anger 
 and rancour against her grandson. Two years be- 
 
Risotto and Truffles 19 
 
 fore he had dared to ask her consent to his marriage 
 with a young girl of Valsolda, of good family, but 
 neither rich nor of noble birth. His grand- 
 mother's decided refusal had rendered the union 
 impossible, and indeed the girl's mother had felt 
 obliged to forbid Don Franco the house ; but the 
 Marchesa was convinced that those people still 
 had their eyes on her millions. She had therefore 
 determined to find a wife for Franco, at once, in 
 order to avert all danger. She had sought for a 
 girl who should be rich, but not too rich ; of noble, 
 but not too noble birth; intelligent, but not too 
 intelUgent. Having discovered one of the right 
 sort, she suggested her to Franco who flew into a 
 rage, and declared he had no desire to marry. 
 The answer had a very suspicious ring, and she 
 redoubled her vigilance, watching every move- 
 ment of her grandson and of that " Madam Trap," 
 that being the pleasing title she had bestowed 
 upon Signorina Luisa Rigey. 
 
 The Rigey family, consisting of the two ladies 
 only, Hved at Castello, in Valsolda, so it was not 
 difficult to watch their movements. Nevertheless 
 the Marchesa could not discover anything. But 
 one evening Pasotti told her, with much hypo- 
 critical hesitation and many horrified comments, 
 that the prefect of the Caravina, while chatting 
 with Pasotti himself, with Signor Giacomo Puttini 
 and with Paolin and Paolon, in the chemist's 
 shop at San Mamette, had made the following 
 remark; "Don Franco is going to keep quiet 
 
20 The Patriot 
 
 until the old lady is really dead ! ' ' The Marchesa 
 having listened to this delicate piece of wit, 
 answered: "A thousand thanks!" through her 
 placid nose, and changed the subject. Later she 
 learned that Signora Rigey— always more or less 
 of an invalid— was suffering from hypertrophia 
 of the heart, and it appeared to her that Franco's 
 spirits were much affected by this illness. It was 
 then that Signorina Carabelli was suggested to her. 
 Carolina Carabelli was perhaps not entirely to her 
 taste, but with that other danger threatening she 
 could not hesitate. She spoke to Franco. This 
 time he did not fly into a rage, but listened in an 
 absent-minded way, and said he would think the 
 matter over. This was perhaps the one act of 
 hypocrisy of his whole life. Then the Marchesa 
 boldly played a high card, and sent for the 
 Carabellis. 
 
 She saw plainly enough now, that the game was 
 lost. Don Franco had not been present when the 
 ladies arrived, and later had appeared only once 
 for a few minutes. During those few minutes 
 his manner had been gracious, but not so his 
 expression. As usual his face had spoken so 
 plainly that — though the Marchesa immediately 
 invented an indisposition for him — ^no one could 
 have been deceived. But in spite of all this, the 
 old lady was not convinced that she had played 
 her cards unskilfully. Ever since she had reached 
 the age of discretion it had been a rule with her 
 never to recognise in herself a single defect ox 
 
Risotto and Truffles 21 
 
 mistake, never wittingly to woxind her own noble 
 and beloved self. Now she preferred to believe 
 that, after her sermon on matrimony, some 
 honeyed but poisonous and ensnaring word had 
 mysteriously reached her grandson. If her dis- 
 appointment was somewhat mitigated, this was 
 due to the conduct of Signorina Carabelli, whose 
 lively resentment was but ill concealed. This 
 was not pleasing to the Marchesa. The prefect 
 of the Caravina was not mistaken — ^though he 
 perhaps erred slightly in the form of his discourse, 
 when he said, softly, of her : " She is Austria itself. " 
 Like the old Austria of those days, the old Mar- 
 chesa did not wish for any bold spirits in her 
 empire. Her own iron will would not tolerate 
 others in its neighbourhood. Such an indocile 
 Lombardy-Venice as was Franco was already too 
 much, and the Carabelli girl, who appeared 
 to have a mind and a will of her own, would 
 probably prove a troublesome subject of the 
 house of Maironi, a species of turbulent Hun- 
 gary. 
 
 Dinner was announced. The footman's shaven 
 face, and ill-fitting, grey livery reflected the Mar- 
 chesa's aristocratic tastes, which, however, had 
 been tempered by habits of economy. 
 
 "And where is this Signor Giacomo, Control- 
 lore?" she said, without rising. 
 
 "I fear he is not coming, Marchesa," Pasotti 
 replied. "I saw him this morning, and said to 
 him: 'Then we shall meet at dinner, Signor 
 
22 The Patriot 
 
 Giacomo?' But he squirmed as if he had 
 swallowed a snake. He twisted and turned and 
 at last puffed out: 'Yes, probably. I don't 
 know! Perhaps. I can't say!— Uff! ufJ. Well 
 really now, my good ControUore, indeed I don't 
 know!— Uff, uff!'— and I could get nothing more 
 out of him." 
 
 The Marchesa summoned the footman to her 
 side, and gave him an order in a low tone. He 
 bowed and withdrew. In his longing for the 
 risotto, the curate of Puria was rocking his body 
 to and fro, and stroking his knees. But the Mar- 
 chesa on her sofa, seemed turned to stone, so he 
 also became petrified. The others gazed mutely 
 at one another. 
 
 Poor Signora Barborin, who had seen the foot- 
 man, and was surprised at this immobility and 
 these astonished faces, arched her eyebrows, 
 questioning with her eyes, first her husband, then 
 Puria, then the prefect, until a lightning glance 
 from Pasotti petrified her as well. "Perhaps 
 the dinner is burnt!" she reflected, assuming an 
 expression of indifference. "If they would only 
 send us home! What luck that wotild be! " But 
 in a minute or two the servant returned, and 
 bowed. 
 
 "Let us go," the Marchesa said, rising. 
 
 In the dining-room the company found a new 
 personage; a little, crooked, old man, with kind 
 eyes and a long nose, that drooped towards 
 his chin. 
 
Risotto and Truffles 23 
 
 "Indeed, Signora Marchesa," he began, humbly 
 and timidly, "I have already dined." 
 
 "Sit down, Signor Viscontini," the Marchesa 
 replied, who, like all those who are determined 
 to make their world bend to their own comfort 
 and tastes, was well versed in the insolent art 
 of feigning deafness. 
 
 The httle man did not dare to answer, neither 
 did he dare to sit down. 
 
 "Cotirage, Signor Viscontini!" said Paolin, 
 who stood near him. "What are you doing 
 here?" 
 
 "He is filling a gap!" muttered the prefect. 
 In fact, the excellent Signor Viscontini, by trade 
 a tuner of pianos, had that morning come from 
 Lugano to tune the Zelbis' piano at Gima, and 
 Don Franco's also, and at one o'clock he had dined 
 at Casa Zelbi. Then he had come to Villa Mai- 
 roni, and was now called upon to act as substitute 
 for Signor Gia,como, because, without him, the 
 company would have numbered thirteen. 
 
 A brown hquid was smoking in the silver soup- 
 tureen. 
 
 "It is not risotto!" Pasotti whispered to Puria, 
 passing behind him. But the big, mild face 
 gave no sign of having heard. 
 
 The Casa Maironi dinners were always lugu- 
 brious affairs, and this one promised to be more 
 than usually so. But as a compensation, it was 
 much finer than usual. While they were eating, 
 Pasotti and Puria often exchanged glances of 
 
24 The Patriot 
 
 admiration, as if congratulating one another on 
 the exquisite delight they were enjoying; and if 
 ever Puria failed to catch one of Pasotti's glances, 
 Signora Barborin, seated beside him, woidd apprise 
 him of it by a timid touch of her elbow. 
 
 The voices which predominated were those of 
 the Marchesa and Donna Eugenia. Bianchi's 
 large aristocratic nose, and his shrewd but gallant 
 and courteous smile were often turned towards 
 the lady's beauty, which though already fading, 
 had not, as yet, departed. Both belonged to 
 Milanese famiHes of the best blood, and were 
 united by a certain sense of superiority, not only 
 over the other middle-class guests, but over their 
 hosts as well, whose nobility was only provincial. 
 The Marchese was affability itself, and would have 
 conversed amiably with the humblest of his fellow- 
 guests, but Donna Eugenia, in the bitterness of 
 her soul, in her disgust for the place and the 
 persons, attached herself to him as to the only 
 one worthy of her attention, markedly singling 
 him out, in order, also, to offend the others. She 
 embarrassed him by remarking in a loud tone 
 that she did not see how he could ever have taken 
 a fancy to this odious Valsolda. The Marchese, 
 who for many years had led a life of quiet and 
 retirement in this region, where, moreover, the 
 birth of his only daughter. Donna Ester, had taken 
 place, was, first, greatly disconcerted, for this 
 remark was calculated to wound several of their 
 f eUow-guests ; but finally he burst into a brilliant 
 
Risotto and Truffles 25 
 
 defence of the place. The Marchesa showed no 
 feeling ; Paohn, Paolon, and the prefect, all natives 
 of Valsolda, were silent and abashed. 
 
 Then, in pompous language, Pasotti sang the 
 praises of Niscioree, the villa belonging to Bianchi, 
 near Oria. These praises did not seem to please 
 the Marchese, who, himself a most loyal man, had 
 not always found Pasotti. to his liking, in the past. 
 He invited Donna Carabelli to come to Niscioree. 
 "You must not go on foot, Eugenia," said the 
 Marchesa, well aware that her friend was tor- 
 mented by the fear of growing stout. "The road 
 from the Custom House to Niscioree is so narrow! 
 You could not possibly pass." Donna Eugenia 
 protested hotly. "It is not, indeed, the 
 Corso of Porta Renza," said the Marchese, "but 
 neither is it le chemin du Paradis — unfortu- 
 nately!" 
 
 "That it is not! Most certainly not! You may take 
 my word for it ! " exclaimed Viscontini, heated, as 
 ill luck would have it, by too many glasses 
 of Ghemme. All eyes were turned upon hitti, 
 and Paolin said something to him in a low tone. 
 "Crazy?" the little man retorted, his face aflame. 
 
 "Not by any means! I tell you " And 
 
 here he related how, coming from Lugano that 
 morning, he had felt cold in the boat, and had 
 gotten out at Niscioree, intending to pursue his 
 journey on foot; how there, between those two 
 walls, where the path was so narrow an ass could 
 not turn rotmd in it, he had met the customs- 
 
26 The Patriot 
 
 officers, who had first abused him for getting out 
 at Niscioree, and had then taken him back to the 
 beastly custom-house. He said that beast of a 
 Ricevitore — the receiver of customs — had con- 
 fiscated a roll of manuscript music he had with 
 him, taking the crotchets and quavers for a secret 
 political correspondence. 
 
 Profound silence followed this recital. Pres- 
 ently the Marchesa declared that Signor Vis- 
 contini was entirely in the wrong. He shotild not 
 have landed at Niscioree; it was forbidden. As 
 to the Ricevitore, he was a most worthy man. 
 Pasotti, with a solemn face, confirmed this 
 statement. 
 
 "Excellent official," said he. "Excellent ras- 
 cal!" muttered the prefect between his teeth. 
 Franco, who at first appeared to be thinking of 
 something else, roused himself, and cast a con- 
 temptuous glance -at Pasotti. 
 
 "After all," the Marchesa added, "it seems 
 to me that, in the disguise of manuscript music, 
 there might easily ' ' 
 
 "Certainly," said Paolin, who played the Aus- 
 trian from fear while the mistress of the house 
 was Austrian from conviction. 
 
 The Marchese, who in 1815 had broken his 
 sword in two that he might not be obliged to serve 
 the Austrians, smiled saying quietly: "La! C'est 
 un peu fort!" 
 
 " But every one knows that the Ricevitore is a 
 beast!" Franco exclaimed. 
 
Risotto and Truffles 27 
 
 "I beg to differ with you, Don Franco, ". said 
 Pasotti. 
 
 "Nonsense; beg to differ !" the other retorted. 
 "He is a perfect beast!" 
 
 "He is a conscientious man," said the Mar- 
 chesa, "an official who does his duty." 
 
 "Then his masters are the beasts!" Franco ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "My dear Franco!" drawled the emotionless 
 voice, " I will not tolerate such language in my 
 house! Thank God we are not in Piedmont!" 
 Pasotti grinned his approval. Then Franco, 
 lifting his plate with both hands shivered it upon 
 the table, with a furious blow. "Holy Mother!" 
 gasped Viscontini, and Paolon, interrupted in 
 the laborious operations of a toothless glutton, 
 uttered an exclamation of alarm. "Yes, yes!" 
 said Franco, rising, his face distorted, "I had 
 better go!" And he left the room. Donna Eu- 
 genia at once turned faint, and had to be led away. 
 All the ladies, except Signora Pasotti, followed 
 her out at one door, while the footman entered 
 at another, bearing a great risotto pie. Puria 
 cast a triumphant glance at Pasotti, but Pasotti 
 pretended not to notice. All had risen. Vis- 
 contini, the apparent culprit, kept repeating: "I 
 can't make it out! I can't make it out!" and 
 Paolin, much vexed at seeing the dinner thus 
 interrupted, grumbled at him : " What business 
 have you to try to make anything out?" The 
 Marchese was frowning fiercely, but kept silent. 
 
28 The Patriot 
 
 At last Pasotti, the real culprit, assuming an 
 air of affectionate sadness, said, as if speaking 
 to himself: "What a pity! Poor Don Franco! 
 A heart of gold, a good head, but such a dis- 
 position! It is indeed unfortunate." 
 
 "Alas!" exclaimed PaoHn, and Puria added 
 despairingly: "Truly a great misfortune!" 
 
 They waited and waited, but the ladies did not 
 return. Then some one moved. Paolin and 
 Puria, their hands clasped behind them, walked 
 slowly towards the sideboard, lost in contem- 
 plation of the risotto pie. Puria called sweetly 
 to Pasotti, but Pasotti did not move. "I only 
 wished to observe," the big curate said, hiding 
 his triumph so that it might or might not be 
 apparent, "I only wished to observe that there 
 are white truffles in it." 
 
 "I should say that black truflfles* are not 
 wanting here either," remarked the Marchess 
 pointedly, and slightly accentuating the words. 
 
 * Tartufo : often used to indicate those who are hypo- 
 critically pious. The word "black" refers to the priest's 
 black robe. [Translator's note.] 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD OF A NEW LIFE 
 
 OCOUNDRELS!" snorted Don Franco, cHmb- 
 '^ ing the stairs that led to his room. " Silly 
 ass of an Austrian!" He was venting his wrath 
 on Pasotti, as he could not hurl insults at his 
 grandmother, and the very letters of the word 
 Austrian served so well to grind between his teeth, 
 as he ground his rage, crushing it and enjoying 
 its flavour. When he reached his room his burn- 
 ing indignation died out. 
 
 He threw himself into a chair opposite the open 
 window, and gazed at the lake, lying still and 
 mournful in the cloudy afternoon, and at the lonely 
 motmtains beyond the sheet of water. He drew 
 a long breath. Ah! how well he felt here all alone ! 
 Ah! what peace! How different the atmosphere 
 was to that of the drawing-room! What a precious 
 atmosphere, full of his thoughts and of his loves! 
 He felt a great need of giving himself up to them, 
 and they at once took possession of him, driving 
 from his mind the Carabellis, Pasotti, his grand- 
 mother and that egregious beast, the receiver of 
 customs. They? No, one thought alone; a 
 thought composed of mingled love and reason, 
 
 29 
 
30 The Patriot 
 
 of anxiety and joy, of so many sweet memories, 
 and at the same time, of tremulous expectancy, 
 for something solemn was drawing near, and 
 would come to him in the shadows of the night. 
 Franco looked at his watch. It wanted a quarter 
 to foiir o'clock. Seven hours longer to wait. He 
 rose, and leaned with folded arms upon the window 
 sill. 
 
 In seven hours another life would begin for him. 
 Beyond the few persons who were to have a part 
 in the event, not even the air itself knew 
 that that same evening, towards eleven o'clock, 
 Don Franco Maironi would wed Signorina Luisa 
 Rigey. 
 
 For some time Signora Teresa Rigey, Luisa's 
 mother, had, in all sincerity, begged Franco to 
 bend to his grandmother's will, to abstain from 
 visiting their house, and to think no more of Luisa, 
 who, on her part, was content, for the dignity of 
 the family, and out of respect for her mother, that 
 all official relations with Don Franco should cease. 
 She did not, however, doubt that he would remain 
 faithful to her, and considered herself bound to 
 him for Ufe. His grandmother was not aware 
 that he was now privately reading law, in order 
 that by following a profession, he might be able 
 to maintain himself. But, as a result of so much 
 anxiety, Signora Rigey contracted a heart trouble, 
 which grew suddenly worse towards the end of 
 August, 1 85 1. Franco wrote to her, begging to 
 be allowed at least, to visit her, since it was not 
 
On the Threshold of a New Life 31 
 
 possible for him to nurse her " as would have been 
 his duty." The lady did not feel justified in 
 consenting to this, and the young man, in despair, 
 gave her to understand that he looked upon Luisa 
 as his affianced wife before God, and that he would 
 rather die than to give her up. Then the poor 
 mother, conscious that her life was ebbing day 
 by day, distressed by the uncertain position of 
 her beloved child, and convinced of the young 
 man's strength of purpose, conceived a great 
 longing that — as the marriage would surely take 
 place — ^it should be celebrated as soon as possible. 
 Everything was arranged in haste, with the aid 
 of the curate of Castello and of Signora Rigey's 
 brother, the civil engineer Ribera, of Oria, who 
 was in the service of the Imperial and Royal 
 Office of PubUc Works, at Como. The Tinder- 
 standing was as follows: The marriage should 
 be celebrated secretly ; Franco should remain with 
 his grandmother, and Luisa with her mother, 
 until such a time as they should deem it oppor- 
 tune to acknowledge their union to the Marchesa. 
 Franco relied greatly upon the support of Monsig- 
 nor Benaglia, Bishop of Lodi, and an old friend of 
 the family, but before he was asked to interfere, 
 the decisive step must be taken. If (as in all 
 probability would be the case) the Marchesa 
 hardened her heart against them, the young couple 
 and Signora Rigey would take up their abode in 
 a house in Oria, belonging to the engineer Ribera, 
 a bachelor who was supporting his sister's fam- 
 
32 The Patriot 
 
 ily, and would now accept Franco in place of a 
 son. 
 
 In seven hours then! 
 
 The window overlooked the landing-place and 
 the strip of garden in front of the villa, on the lake 
 side. When he first fell in love, Franco used to 
 stand there and watch for the coming of a certain 
 boat, from which would spring a slim little person, 
 as light as air, but who never, never looked to- 
 wards his window. At last, one day he had gone 
 down to meet her, and she had waited a moment 
 before jtmiping out, that she might accept his help- 
 ing hand — ^which, indeed, was most unnecessary. 
 Down there in the garden he had given her a 
 flower, for the first time, the sweet-smelling flower 
 of the Mandevilia suaveolens. Down there, on 
 another occasion, he had cut his finger rather 
 deeply with his penknife, while gathering a little 
 branch of roses for her, and she, by the anxiety 
 she displayed, had given him a sweet proof of 
 her love. How many excursions to the solitary 
 slopes of Monte Bisgnago, on the other side, he 
 had made with her and with other friends, 
 before his grandmother found out! How many 
 lunches and suppers at the little inn at Doi! 
 Franco would come home with the sweetness of 
 the many glances exchanged still lingering in his 
 heart, and shutting himself up in his room, would 
 recall them all, revelUng in them in memory. 
 
On the Threshold of a New Life 33 
 
 These first emotions of his love now rushed into 
 his mind, not one by one, but all together, from 
 the waters and from the gloomy shores, where his 
 fixed gaze seemed to lose itself in the shadowy 
 past rather than in the misty present. Thus, as 
 he neared the goal, he thought of the first steps 
 he had taken on this long road, of the unforeseen 
 incidents, of the aspect of this much-longed-for 
 union, so different in reality from what it had 
 appeared in his dreams. He looked back upon 
 the time of the mandevilia and the roses, of the 
 excursions on the lake and among the hills. 
 Certainly, at that time, he did not dream he would 
 attain his object thus, secretly, and surrounded 
 by so many difficulties, so much pain. Still, he 
 thought that if the wedding had taken place 
 openly, with the customary proem of official cere- 
 monies, of contracts, congratulations, visits, and 
 dinners, all this would have been even more 
 wearisome and repugnant to his love than the 
 opposition he had met with. 
 
 He was aroused by the voice of the prefect, 
 calling to him from the garden, to announce the 
 departure of the Carabellis. Franco reflected ' 
 that if he went down he would be obliged to offer 
 some apologies, and he preferred not to make his 
 appearance. "You should have smashed the 
 plate on his face '."the prefect called up to him, 
 his hands framing his mouth. " You should have 
 smashed it on his face!" 
 
 Then he turned away, and Franco saw the Cara- 
 
34 The Patriot 
 
 bellis' boatman go down to the shore to prepare 
 the boat. He left the window, and returning 
 to the thoughts which had occupied him first of 
 all, he opened his chest of drawers, and stood 
 absently contemplating an embroidered shirt 
 front, where certain small diamond studs his father 
 had worn at his own wedding, were already spark- 
 ling. He disliked the idea of going to the altar 
 without some outward sign of festivity, but of 
 course, this sign must not be too apparent. 
 
 In the iris-scented chest of drawers everything 
 was arranged with that order which denotes a 
 cultured spirit, and no one was allowed to touch its 
 contents save Franco himself. But the chairs, the 
 writing table, the piano, were heaped with such 
 disorder that it would seem as if a hurricane of 
 books and papers had swept in at the two windows. 
 Certain law books were slumbering under an inch 
 of dust, but not a single leaf of the little gardenia, 
 growing in a pot on the sill of the east window, 
 showed a speck of dust. These indications were 
 stifificient to suggest the whimsical rule of a poet. 
 A glance at the books and papers would have 
 given conclusive proof of this. 
 
 Franco was passionately fond of poetry, and 
 was a true poet in the exquisite delicacy of his in- 
 stincts. As a writer of verse he could be ranked only 
 as an indifferent amateur, wanting in originality. 
 His favourite models were Foscolo and Giusti. 
 He worshipped them fervently, and pillaged them 
 both, for his genius, which was both satirical and 
 
On the Threshold of a New Life 35 
 
 enthusiastic, was not capable of creating a style of 
 its own, and must content itself with imitating 
 others. It is only fair to remark that young men 
 in those days generally possessed a classical 
 culture such as has since become most exceptional, 
 and that through the classics themselves they 
 learned to respect the art of imitation, as a praise- 
 worthy and virtuous practice. 
 
 Franco liked to improvise on the piano with 
 some of these verses before his eyes. Even more 
 devoted to music than to poetry, he had himself 
 purchased this piano for one hundred and fifty 
 svanziche, from the organist at Loggio, because 
 the poor Viennese instrument, belonging to his 
 grandmother, which was always wrapped up and 
 must be handled carefully, like a gouty member 
 of the family, was not adapted to his require- 
 ments. The organist's instrument, which had 
 been thumped and banged upon by two gener- 
 ations of hands, hardened by contact with the 
 pickaxe, now sent forth only a ftmny little nasal 
 voice, which rose above a faint tinkling, as of 
 many tiny glasses standing too close together. 
 Franco was almost oblivious to this. As soon as 
 he had placed his hands upon the instrument his 
 imagination would take fire; the composer's 
 enthusiasm would enter into him, and, in the heat 
 of the creative passion, a thread of sound sufficed 
 to permeate him with the spirit of music, and 
 absolutely to intoxicate him. An Erard would 
 have embarrassed him, would have left less room 
 
36 The Patriot 
 
 for fancy, would, in a word, have been less dear 
 to him than his spinet. 
 
 Franco possessed too many talents, too many 
 different inclinations, too much impetuosity, too 
 little vanity and perhaps also, too little will- 
 power to undertake that tiresome, methodical, 
 manual labour, which is indispensable in order to 
 become a pianist. Nevertheless, Viscontini was 
 enthusiastic about the style of playing, and his 
 fiancee Luisa, though she did not entirely share 
 his classical tastes, honestly admired his touch. 
 When, being pressed to do so, he woidd make the 
 organ at Cressogno roar and groan in the approved 
 classic manner, the good people, overwhelmed 
 by the music and the honour, would stare at him 
 with open mouths and reverent eyes, as they 
 would have stared at some preacher, whose 
 sermon they did not understand. But notwith- 
 standing all this, Franco could not have held his 
 own in a city drawing-room, against the majority 
 of feeble amatetirs, incapable even of undei'- 
 standing and loving music. All, or almost all of 
 them would have shown themselves his superiors 
 in agility and in precision, and would have 
 gathered in more applause, even though no one of 
 them had succeeded in making the piano sing 
 as he made it sing, especially in the adagios of 
 BelUni and of Beethoven, playing with his soul 
 in his throat, in his eyes, in the muscles of his face, 
 in the tendons of his hands, which seemed one 
 with the chords of the piano. 
 
On the Threshold of a New Life 37 
 
 Another passion of his was for old pictures. 
 The walls of his room held several, most of which 
 were daubs. Never having travelled he had 
 little experience. His fancy was quick to take 
 fire, and, obliged as he was to fit his ample desires 
 to his scant means, he was credulous concerning 
 the alleged good fortune of other ignorant pur- 
 chasers, and often allowed himself to be influenced 
 by them, to be blinded and led into buying certain 
 dirty rags, which, if they cost little, were worth 
 still less. The only passably good things he 
 possessed were a head, in the style of Morone, 
 and a Madonna and Child, after the manner of 
 Carlo Dolci. Franco, however, baptised these 
 two little pictures with the names of Morone and 
 Carlo Dolci, without further qualification. 
 
 When he had re-read and enjoyed some lines 
 inspired by the hypocritical Pasotti, he once 
 more hunted in the chaos of his desk, and drew 
 forth a small sheet of notepaper, upon which he 
 intended to write to Monsignor Benaglia, the only 
 person who, in the future, might be able to in- 
 fluence his grandmother in his favour. He felt 
 it his duty to inform him of the step he was about 
 to take, of the reasons which had forced his 
 fiancee and himself to resort to this painful subter- 
 fuge, of the hope they cherished that he would 
 help them when the time came to confess all to 
 the Marchesa. He was still reflecting, pen in 
 hand, when the Carabellis' boat passed beneath 
 his window. Soon after he heard the Marchese's 
 
38 The Patriot 
 
 gondola glide by, followed presently by Pin's boat. 
 He expected that his grandmother would send for 
 him, now that she was alone, but she did not do 
 so. He waited some time, expecting to be sum- 
 moned, then he began to think of his letter again, 
 and reflected so long, re-wrote the introduction 
 so many times, and got on so slowly, that before 
 he had finished he was obliged to light the lamp. 
 
 The end was easier. He begged the old Bishop's 
 prayers for his Luisa and for himself, and ex- 
 pressed a faith in God so perfect and so pure, that 
 the most imbelieving heart must have been 
 touched by it. 
 
 Fiery and impetuous as he was, still Franco 
 possessed the calm and simple faith of a little 
 child. Entirely free from pride, a stranger to 
 philosophical meditations, he was ignorant of 
 that thirst for intellectual liberty which torments 
 young men, when their senses begin to find them- 
 selves hampered by that strong curb — ^positive 
 beHefs. He had never for an instant doubted 
 his religion, and performed all the duties it pre- 
 scribed without once asking himself if it be reason- 
 able to act and believe thus. Still he had nothing 
 of the mystic or of the ascetic. His intellect, 
 though ardent and poetic, was, at the same time, 
 clear and positive. Devoted as he was to nature 
 and to art, and attracted by all the pleasing 
 aspects of life, he would naturally shrink from 
 mysticism. He had not acquired his faith; he 
 had never concentrated all his thoughts upon it 
 
On the Threshold of a New Life 39 
 
 for any length of time, therefore it was not pos- 
 sible that it should have penetrated all his senti- 
 ments. Religion was to him what science is to 
 the student, whose first thought is school, where 
 he studies diligently, having no peace until he has 
 done his home tasks, and is prepared for the next 
 lesson, but who, once his duty is performed, thinks 
 no more either of teachers or of books, and does 
 not feel the need of regulating his actions accord- 
 ing to scientific conclusions or scholastic pro- 
 grammes. Therefore it would often seem that 
 Franco's life was influenced by nothing else than 
 his warm and generous heart, his passionate 
 inclinations, his lively impressions, and the im- 
 pulses of his honest nature, which was offended 
 by every kind of untruth and meanness, while 
 he chafed under contradiction, and was incapable 
 of deceit. 
 
 He had just sealed his letter when some one 
 knocked at the door. The Marchesa had sent to 
 summon Don Franco downstairs to recite the 
 Rosary. At Casa Maironi they recited the Rosary 
 every evening between seven and eight, and the 
 servants were obliged to be present. The Mar- 
 chesa herself intoned the prayers, enthroned on 
 her sofa, her sleepy eyes roving over the backs 
 and legs of the worshippers, kneeling, some in 
 one position, some in another, some in the light 
 best adapted to set off a devotional attitude, and 
 others in the shadow which would favour a com- 
 fortable, but forbidden nap. Franco entered the 
 
40 The Patriot 
 
 room as the nasal voice was repeating the sweet 
 words: "Ave Maria, gratia piena," with that 
 drawling unction which always inspired him with 
 a wild desire to become a Turk. The young man 
 flung himself down in a dark comer, and never 
 opened his lips. It was impossible for him to 
 answer that irritating voice with fitting devotion. 
 He fell to imagining what the coming interview 
 would be like, and preparing caustic answers. 
 
 When the Rosary was finished the Marchesa 
 waited a moment and then pronounced the words 
 consecrated by long usage — 
 
 "Carlotta, Friend." 
 
 It was the duty of Carlotta, the Marchesa 's 
 old maid, to take Friend in her arms, and carry 
 him off to bed, as soon as the Rosary was 
 finished. 
 
 "He is here, Signora Marchesa," said Carlotta. 
 
 But Friend, though indeed he had been there, 
 was somewhere else when she bent down with 
 outstretched hand. That evening old Friend 
 was in good spirits, and determined to play at not 
 being caught. He would tempt Carlotta, and 
 then slip through her fingers, taking refuge under 
 the piano, or under the table, from whence he 
 would peer out at the poor woman with ironical 
 waggings of his tail, while Carlotta's lips said, 
 "Come, come, dear!" and her heart said, "Ugly 
 beast!" 
 
 "Friend!" exclaimed the Marchesa. "That 
 will do. Friend ! Be good ! ' ' 
 
On the Threshold of a New Life 41 
 
 Franco was boiling. The nasty little monster, 
 imbued with his mistress' arrogance and egotism, 
 paused at his feet, and Franco rolled him roughly 
 towards Carlottaj who grabbed him, and punished 
 him with an angry squeeze, and then carried hirri 
 off, answering his whines with deceitful words 
 of pity. " What did they do to you, poor Friend? 
 What did they do to you? Tell us all about it! " 
 
 The Marchesa made no remarks, nor did her 
 marble coiintenance betray her feelings. She 
 ordered the footman to tell the prefect of the 
 Caravina, or any one else who might call, that his 
 mistress had retired. Franco started to leave 
 the room behind the servants, but checked him- 
 self at once, that he might not appear to be nmning 
 away. He took a number of the Imperial and 
 Royal Gazette of Milan from the mantel-shelf, and 
 seating himself near his grandmother, began 
 reading while he waited. 
 
 " I congrattilate you heartily on the good man- 
 ners and fine sentiments you displayed to us 
 to-day," the sleepy voice began, almost im- 
 mediately. 
 
 "I accept your congratulations," Franco re- 
 torted, without raising his eyes from his paper. 
 
 "Well done, my dear!" his immovable grand- 
 mother replied, and added : " I am glad that young 
 girl had the opportunity of seeing you as you are, 
 because, supposing she may have heard of a cer- 
 tain project, she will now be very glad it is no 
 longer thought of." 
 
42 The Patriot 
 
 "Then we are both satisfied!" said Franco. 
 
 "You cannot in the least tell if you are going 
 to be satisfied. Especially if you still hold the 
 views you once held." 
 
 Upon this, Franco put his paper down, and 
 looked his grandmother full in the face. 
 
 "What would happen," he said, "if I still held 
 the same views I once held.?" 
 
 This time he did not speak in a challenging tone, 
 but with quiet seriousness. 
 
 "Ah! That is right!" the Marchesa exclaimed. 
 "Let us speak plainly! I hope and believe that 
 a certain event will never take place, but shotdd it 
 take place, do not flatter yourself that there will 
 be anything for you at my death, for I have al- 
 ready arranged matters so that there will be 
 nothing." 
 
 "Oh! as to that " the young man began, 
 
 with indifference. 
 
 "That is the score you would have to settle 
 with me," the Marchesa continued. "Then there 
 would be a score to settle with God." 
 
 "How is that?" Franco questioned. "God 
 shall come first with me, and you afterwards!" 
 
 When the Marchesa was caught in a mistake 
 she always talked straight on as if nothing had 
 happened. 
 
 "And it will be a heavy score," said she. 
 
 "But it must be settled first!" Franco insisted. 
 
 "Because," the formidable old woman con- 
 tinued, "a good Christian is in duty botmd to 
 
On the Threshold of a New Life 43 
 
 obey his father and his mother, and I represent 
 both your father and your mother." 
 
 If the one was obstinate, the other was no 
 less so. 
 
 "But God comes first!" said he. 
 
 The Marchesa rang the bell and closed the 
 conversation thus — 
 
 "Now we understand each other perfectly." 
 
 When Carlotta entered she rose from the sofa, 
 and said, placidly — 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night," Franco answered, and resumed 
 the Milan Gazette. 
 
 As soon as his grandmother had left the room 
 he flung the paper aside, clenched his fists, and 
 giving vent to his anger in a sort of furious snort, 
 sprang to his feet, saying aloud — 
 
 "Ah! It is better so! Better, better so!" 
 It was better so, he continued to assure himself 
 mutely. Better never to bring Luisa to this 
 accursed house, better never to oblige her to bear 
 this rule, this arrogance, this voice, this face! 
 Better to live on bread and water, and look to 
 hard work for the rest, rather than to accept 
 anything from his grandmother's hand. Better 
 
 become a gardener, d it! a boatman, or a 
 
 charcoal burner! 
 
 He went up to his room determined to break 
 with all obligations. "A score to settle with 
 God!" he exclaimed, banging the door behind 
 him. "A score to settle with God if I marry 
 
44 The Patriot 
 
 Luisa! Ah! after all, what do I care? Let them 
 see me, spy upon me, bring her the news. Let 
 them tell her, let them sing it to her in every key. 
 I shall be delighted!" 
 
 He dressed himself in feverish haste, knocking 
 against the chairs, and closing the drawers with 
 a bang. In his recklessness he put on a black 
 suit, went noisily downstairs, called the old foot- 
 man, told him he should be out all night, and, not 
 heeding the half-astonished, half-terrified face 
 of the poor fellow, who was devoted to him, 
 rushed into the street, and was lost in the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 He had been gone two or three minutes when 
 the Marchesa, who was already in bed, sent Car- 
 lotta to see who had come running downstairs. 
 Carlotta reported that it was Don Franco, and 
 was at once dispatched again on a second errand. 
 "What did Don Franco want?" This time the 
 answer was, that Don Franco had gone out for 
 a few moments. The " few moments" was added 
 out of kindness by the old servant. The Mar- 
 chesa told Carlotta to go away, but not to put out 
 the light. "You will return when I ring," said 
 she. 
 
 It was past midnight when the bell sounded. 
 
 The maid hurried to her mistress. 
 
 "Is Don Franco still out?" 
 
 "Yes, Signora Marchesa." 
 
 "Put out the light. Take your knitting and 
 
On the Threshold of a New Life 45 
 
 wait in the anteroom. When he returns come 
 and tell me." 
 
 Having given these orders, the Marchesa rolled 
 over on her side, turning her face towards the wall, 
 and leaving the amazed and ill-pleased maid to 
 stare at that white, smooth, impenetrable enigma, 
 her nightcap. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 THE GREAT STEP 
 
 THAT same evening at exactly ten o'clock the 
 engineer Ribera knocked gently twice on 
 the door of Signor Giacomo Puttini's house at 
 Albogasio Superiore. Presently a window above 
 his head was opened, and a little, old, clean- 
 shaven face of "Sior Zacomo" himself appeared 
 in the moonlight. 
 
 "Most worshipful engineer, my respects!" said 
 he. " The servant is coming down to let you in." 
 
 "That is not necessary," the other answered. 
 " I am not coming up. It is time to start, so you 
 had better join me at once." 
 
 Signor Giacomo began to puff and wink hard. 
 
 "You must pardon me," he said, in his peculiar 
 dialect, which was a mixture of many elements. 
 "You must pardon me, most worshipful engineer, 
 but I really need " 
 
 "Need what?" said the engineer, somewhat 
 annoyed. The door opened, and the keen and 
 yellow face of the servant appeared. 
 
 "Oh! Scior Parento! Sir Relative!" said she 
 respectfully. She claimed I know not what 
 degree of relationship with the engineer's family. 
 
 46 
 
The Great Step 47 
 
 and always addressed him thus. "At this hour? 
 Have you perhaps been to see the Sciora Parentaf 
 The Lady Relative?" 
 
 The " Lady Relative" was the engineer's sister, 
 Signora Rigey. 
 
 Ribera answered shortly: "Oh! Marianna! 
 How are you?" and went upstairs followed by 
 Marianna, carrying the light. 
 
 "My respects," Signor Giacomo began, coming 
 towards him with another light. " I understand 
 and recognise the great inconvenience I am 
 causing, but really " 
 
 Signor Giacomo 's small, clean-shaven, pink 
 face, rose above an enormous white stock, and a 
 lean little body, buttoned up in a great, black over- 
 coat, and in the convulsive workings of his lips 
 and eyebrows as well as in his troubled eyes, the 
 most comical anxiety was expressed. 
 
 " What is the matter now? " asked the engineer, 
 somewhat sharply. He, the most upright and 
 straightforward man alive, had little sympathy 
 with the hesitation of poor, timid Signor Giac- 
 omo. 
 
 "Allow me," Puttini began, and, turning to 
 the servant, said harshly: 
 
 " Begone, you! Go into the kitchen. You will 
 come when I call for you. Go, I say I Why don't 
 you do what I tell you? Where is your respect 
 forme? I command here! I am the master!" 
 
 It was the servant's curiosity, her insolent 
 disregard for the orders of her superior, which 
 
48 The Patriot 
 
 had provoked this outburst of despotic fury in 
 "Sior Zacomo." 
 
 "Whew! What a violent man!" she said, 
 lifting the lamp on high. "There is no need to 
 shout in that way! What do you think of it, 
 Scior Parentof" 
 
 " Look here ! ' ' the engineer exclaimed. " Would 
 it not be better for you to take yourself off, 
 instead of standing there and jabbering?" 
 
 Marianna went away grumbling, and Signor 
 Giacomo began to communicate his most secret 
 thoughts to the worshipful engineer, interlarding 
 his sentences with many buts and ifs, that is and 
 reallys. He had promised to be present in tl^e 
 capacity of witness at Luisa's secret marriage, but 
 now, when it was time to start for Castello, he 
 was assailed by an overpowering fear of com- 
 promising himself. 
 
 He was "first political deputy," as the highest 
 communal authority was then called. If the 
 worshipful Imperial and Royal Commissary of 
 Porlezza should get wind of this affair, how would 
 he look upon it ? And the Marchesa ? "A terrible 
 woman, most worthy engineer! A vindictive 
 woman! " Besides he had so many other worries! 
 " There is that cursed btill! " This bull, a bone of 
 contention between the town and the alpador, 
 or tenant of the hill-pastures, had, for the last 
 two years, been a moral incubus to poor Signor 
 Giacomo, who, in speaking of his- troubles and 
 trials, always began with "that perfidious ser- 
 
The Great Step 49 
 
 vant," and ended with "that cursed bull!" In 
 speaking these words he would raise his small 
 face, his eyes full of pained execration, and 
 stretch out accusing hands towards the brow of 
 the hill which overhung his house, towards the 
 home of that fiendish beast. But the engineer, 
 whose fine, honest features betrayed marked 
 disapproval and a growing contempt for this 
 cowardly little man, who stood wriggling there 
 before him, exclaimed several times impatiently: 
 "Oh, dear me!" as if pitying himself for the poor 
 company he was in. Finally, his patience en- 
 tirely exhausted, he extended his arms with the 
 elbows turned outwards, and shaking them as if 
 he were holding the reins of a lazy old horse, 
 exclaimed: "What is all this? What is all this? 
 It is absurd! This is the language of a fool, my 
 good Signor Giacomo! I would never have 
 
 believed that a man like you, a man let us say ' ' 
 
 Here the engineer, being really at a loss for a 
 suitable phrase wherewith to describe his com- 
 panion, simply piifEed out his cheeks, emitting 
 a long-drawn-out nmible, a sort of rattling noise, 
 as if he had an epithet in his mouth which was so 
 big that he could not spit it out. Meanwhile 
 Signor Giacomo, who had turned very red, was 
 protesting eagerly: "Enough! Enough! Pray 
 excuse me! I am quite ready! I will come! Don't 
 get excited! I only expressed a doubt, most 
 worshipful engineer. You know the world. So 
 did I, at one time, but I know it no longer." 
 
50 The Patriot 
 
 He withdrew for a moment to reappear again 
 presently carrying an enormously high hat with 
 a broad brim, which had seen Ferdinand enter 
 Verona in 1838, the so-called "emperor's year." 
 
 "I feel this sign of respect and satisfaction is 
 fitting," said he. 
 
 When the engineer caught sight of the thing, 
 he once more ejaculated his "What is all this.?" 
 But the little man, who had a ceremonious spirit, 
 stuck to his point. "It is my duty, my duty!" 
 and he called to Marianna to light them down stairs 
 When the servant saw her master with that im- 
 mense "sign of satisfaction" on his head, she gave 
 voice to her astonishment. " Hold your tongue ! " 
 piaffed the unfortunate Signor GiaComo. "Be 
 quiet! " and as soon as he was out of the door his 
 wrath burst forth. " There is no doubt about it, 
 that cursed servant will be the death of me!" 
 
 "Why don't you send her away, then?" the 
 engineer enquired. 
 
 Signor Giacomo had already placed one foot 
 on the first step of the narrow lane that leads 
 upwards on one side of the Puttini house, when 
 he was brought to a stand-stiU by this pointed 
 question, which pierced his conscience like a 
 dagger. 
 
 "Alas!" he replied, sighing. 
 
 "I understand," said the engineer. 
 
 " Besides, what good would that do? " the other 
 went on, after a short pause. " This is the same 
 as that!" 
 
The Great Step 51 
 
 This old Venetian saying concerning the un- 
 fortunate identity of the two relative pronouns, 
 Signor Giacomo pronounced as an epilogue, and 
 then, pufiBng loudly, emitted a loud breath, and 
 once more started forward. 
 
 Puttini leading and the engineer following, 
 they climbed steadily for a few minutes, up the 
 steep and narrow path, dimly lighted by the moon 
 which was hidden among the clouds. No sound 
 was heard save their slow steps, the thumping 
 aj their sticks on the stones, and Signor Giacomo's 
 regular puffing: "Apff! Apff!" At the foot of the 
 narrow stairway leading to Pianca, the little man 
 stopped, removed his hat, wiped away the perspi- 
 ration with a big, white handkerchief, and glancing 
 up at the great walnut-tree, and the stables of 
 Pianca to which he must ascend, puffed harder 
 than ever. 
 
 "By the body of the rogue Bacchus!" he 
 ejaculated. 
 
 The engineer encouraged him. "Up with 
 you, Signor Giacomo. It is all for love of 
 Luisina."* 
 
 Signor Giacomo started on again without a 
 word, and when they reached the stables, beyond 
 which the path becomes less rough, he seemed 
 to forget the stairs, his scruples, the perfidious 
 servant, the Imperial and Royal Commissary, the 
 vindictive Marchesa and the cursed bull, and 
 
 *Lmsina: little Luisa, ina being a diminutive. [Trans- 
 lator's note.] 
 
52 The Patriot 
 
 began talking of Signora Rigey with great 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "There is no doubt about it, when I have the 
 honour of being in the company of your niece, 
 of Signorina Luisina, I assure you I really feel 
 as if I were back into the days of Signora Baratela 
 and the Filipuzze girls, of the three Sparesi sisters 
 from San Piero Incarian, and of many others, 
 whose graces used to charm me, in the old days. 
 From time to time I go to see the Marchesa, and 
 I sometimes meet the girls of to-day there. No — 
 no — ^no, they do not behave in a becoming manner. 
 They are either sullenly silent or over-talkative. 
 But just look at Signorina Luisina, how easy is 
 her manner with every one! She knows how to 
 behave with yotmg and old, rich and poor, the 
 servant and the priest. I really fail to comprehend 
 why the Marchesa " 
 
 The engineer interrupted him. 
 
 "The Marchesa is right," said he. "My niece 
 is neither of noble birth, nor has she a penny. 
 How can you expect the Marchesa to be satisfied? " 
 
 Signer Giacomo stopped short, rather discon- 
 certed, and stared at the engineer, bhnking his 
 sorrowful eyes. 
 
 "How is this? You don't really mean to say 
 she is right?" 
 
 "I never approve of acting contrary to the 
 wishes of parents, or of those who represent the 
 parents. But I, dear Signor Giacomo, am an 
 old-fashioned man like yourself, a man of the time 
 
The Great Step 53 
 
 of Carlo Umberto, as they say hereabouts. Now, 
 the world wags differently, and we must let it 
 wag. Therefore, having expressed my opinions 
 on this point, I said to my relatives: 'Now do 
 as you like. But when you have decided one way 
 or another, let me know what is to be done, and 
 I shall be ready!'" 
 
 "And what does Signora Teresina say?" 
 
 "My sister? My sister, poor creature, says; 
 'If I can see them settled in life, I shall no longer 
 dread death.' " 
 
 Signor Giacomo breathed hard, as was his 
 habit whenever he heard that last, unpleasant 
 word pronounced. 
 
 " But it is surely not so bad as that? " said he. 
 
 "Who can tell?" the engineer replied, very 
 seriously. "We must trust in the Almighty." 
 
 They had reached a sharp bend where the nar- 
 row path, passing the last of the small fields 
 belonging to the territory of Albogasio, turns 
 towards the first of those belonging to Castello, 
 and winds on, on the left, along the top of a jutting 
 crag, suddenly coming in sight of a deep cleft in 
 the mountain's bosom, of the lake far below, of 
 the villages of Casarico and San Mamette, crouch- 
 ing on the shore as if in the act of drinking. 
 Castello is perched a little higher up, and not far 
 distant, facing the bare and forbidding peak of 
 Cressogno, the whole of which is visible, from 
 the gorges of Loggio to the sky. It is a beautiful 
 spot even at night in the moonlight, but if Signor 
 
54 The Patriot 
 
 Giacomo paused there, striking a contemplative' 
 attitude and forgetting to puff, it was not be- 
 cause he considered the scene worthy of any one's 
 attention, to say nothing of that of a poHtical 
 deputy, but because, having a weighty argument 
 to expound, he felt the necessity of concentrating 
 all his strength in his brain, and of suspending 
 all other effort, even that of the legs. 
 
 " That is a fine maxim, " said he. " Let us trust 
 in the Almighty. Yes, my dear sir. But permit 
 me to observe that in our time we were always 
 hearing of prayers being answered, of conversions 
 and miracles. Am I not correct? But now the 
 world is not the same, and it appears to me the 
 Almighty is sick of it all. The world is in much 
 the same condition as our parish church at Albog-. 
 asio, which the Almighty used to visit once a 
 month. Now He comes only once a year." 
 
 "Listen, my good Signor Giacomo," said the 
 engineer, who was impatient to reach Castello. 
 " The Almighty is not to blame because the parish 
 has been transferred from one church to another. 
 However, we will push on, and let the Almighty 
 arrange things as He thinks best." 
 
 Whereupon he started forwarded so briskly 
 that presently Signor Giacomo was obliged to stop 
 again, puffing like a pair of bellows. 
 
 " Pardon me," said he, " if I yield, in a measure, 
 to that curiosity which is inborn in man. Might 
 one inquire your worshipful age?" 
 
 The engineer understood the hidden meaning 
 
The Great Step 55 
 
 of his question, and answered in a low tone, with 
 tritunphant and ironical meekness — 
 
 "I am older than you!" 
 
 And he started off again at the same cruel pace. 
 
 " I was bom in '88, you know," Puttini groaned. 
 
 " And I, in '85 ! " Ribera flung over his shoulder, 
 without stopping. "Now come along." 
 
 Fortunately for Puttini they had only a few 
 steps more to go. There was the great wall that 
 supported the consecrated ground about the 
 chtirch of CasteUo, and there was the narrow 
 stairway leading up to the entrance of the village. 
 Now they must turn into the dark passage below 
 the priest's house, feeling their way along like 
 blind men through this black hole, in which Signer 
 Giacomo's imagination pictured so many treacher- 
 ous and slippery stones, so many accursed, deceit- 
 ftd steps, that he stopped short, and, resting his 
 clasped hands on the knob of his stick, spoke 
 as follows — 
 
 "By the body of the rogue Bacchus! No, 
 most worshipful engineer, no, no, no! Really 
 I cannot. I shall remain here. They will surely 
 come to church. The church is near by. I shall 
 wait here. Body of the rogue Bacchus!" 
 
 This last "Body!" Signor Giacomo ground 
 privately between his teeth, like the close of an 
 inward soliloquy concerning the accessories sur- 
 rounding the exceeding discomfort he was under- 
 going. 
 
 "Wait a minute," said the engineer. 
 
56 The Patriot 
 
 A thread of light appeared under the church 
 door. The engineer entered and presently came 
 out again, accompanied by the sacristan, who had 
 been preparing the hassocks for the bride and 
 groom. He now brought to Puttini's rescue the 
 long pole with a lighted taper at the end, which 
 was used to light the candles on the altars. Thus, 
 standing in the church door, he moved the taper 
 along in front of Signer Giacomo's feet as far as 
 the pole would reach, v/hile that gentleman, but 
 iU-satisfied with this religious illiunination, groped 
 his way forward, grumbling at the darkness, the 
 miserable, sacred taper, and at him who held it, 
 until at last, abandoned by the sacristan, and 
 seized by the engineer, he was dragged along, much 
 like a pike at the end of a line, and, in spite of his 
 mute resistance, was finally landed on the thresh- 
 old of Casa Rigey. 
 
 At Castello the houses which stand in unbroken 
 line on the winding hill-top, enjoying the sun and 
 the view o the lake far below, all white and 
 smiling on the side towards the open, all dark on 
 the side towards that other row of less fortunate 
 houses, which rise sadly behind them, resemble 
 certain favoured individuals, who, brought into 
 too close contact with misery, assume a hostile 
 demeanour, and press close to one another that, 
 thus united, they may hold the others in check. 
 Among these fortunate ones Casa Rigey is one of 
 the darkest on the side facing the poverty of the 
 
The Great Step 57 
 
 common houses, one of the brightest on the side 
 facing the sun. 
 
 From the street door a long and narrow cor- 
 ridor leads to a small, open loggia, from which, 
 by means of a few steps, one may descend to the 
 little white terrace which, between the reception 
 room and a high, windowless wall, stretches out 
 to the edge of the hill, looking down into the 
 ravines from which issues the Soldo, looking down 
 upon the lake, as far as the green gulfs of the 
 Birosin and of the Doi, as far as the quiet sweeps 
 beyond Caprino and Gandria. 
 
 Signor Rigey, bom in Milan of a French father, 
 had been professor of the French language at 
 Madame Berra's boarding school, but he had lost 
 his position there, and most of his private pupils, 
 because it was rumoured of him that he was ir- 
 religious. In 1825 he had purchased this little 
 house, and retired to it from Milan, wishing to 
 live economically and peacefully. He had, soon 
 afterwards, married the sister of the civil- 
 engineer Ribera. Dying in 1844 he left his wife 
 with a daughter of fifteen, the house and a few 
 thousand svanziche* 
 
 Hardly had the engineer knocked somewhat 
 noisily at the door, when light, swift steps were 
 heard in the corridor. The door was thrown open 
 and a voice neither low nor silvery, but inde- 
 scribably harmonious, whispered : " What a noise, 
 
 * Svanziche: a coin varying from 90 to 95 centimes. 
 {Translator's note.] 
 
58 The Patriot 
 
 Uncle!" "Noise indeed!" her tincle replied with 
 mock dignity. "Am I then expected to knock 
 with my nose?" His niece placed one hand over 
 his mouth, and with the other drew him inside ; then 
 she saluted Signer Giacomo gracefully, and closed 
 the door. All this was accomplished in the twink- 
 ling of an eye, while Signor Giacomo himself was 
 puffing out: "Your most humble servant! I am 
 
 really delightful " " Thank you, thank you! " 
 
 said Luisa. "Pray go in, I have a word to say 
 to Uncle." 
 
 The little man went forward, hat in hand, and 
 the young girl tenderly embraced her old uncle, 
 kissing him, pressing her face to his breast, and 
 clasping her arms about his neck. 
 
 "Won't that do now?" said the engineer, al- 
 most as if to check these caresses, for in them he 
 felt a gratitude which he feared would presently 
 take the form of words. "There, there! That 
 is enough! How is Mamma?" Luisa's only 
 reply was a tightening of her embrace. This 
 imcle was more than a father to her, he was the 
 special Providence of the house, but, in his great 
 and simple boimty, he never dreamed that he had 
 the slightest claim to the gratitude of his sister 
 and niece. Whatever would these poor women 
 have done without him, possessing only that 
 meagre sum of twelve or fifteen thousand svan- 
 ziche which Rigey had left? As civil-engineer, 
 employed on public works, Ribera enjoyed a good 
 salary. He lived frugally at Como with an old 
 
The Great Step 59 
 
 housekeeper, passing his savings on to Casa 
 Rigey. At first he had openly and heartily dis- 
 approved of Luisa's attachment for Franco, for 
 it seemed to him that such a union would be 
 but ill-assorted; but the yoting people being 
 determined, and his sister having consented, 
 he made up his mind to help them in every pos- 
 sible way, keeping his opinions to himself. 
 
 "And Mamma?" he repeated. 
 
 " She was feeling very well this evening because 
 she was so happy, but now she is agitated, for 
 Franco came about half an hour ago, and told 
 her he has had something of a scene with his 
 grandmother—; — ' ' 
 
 " Oh dear me ! ' ' the engineer exclaimed. When- 
 ever he heard of a misfortune befalling any one 
 else he always uttered this expression of self- 
 commiseration. 
 
 "No, Uncle! Indeed Franco is right!" 
 
 Luisa pronounced these words with sudden 
 warmth. "Yes indeed!" she exclaimed, her 
 uncle having uttered a doubtful "Hm!" "He 
 is perfectly right. But," she added in a low tone, 
 " he says he left home in such a manner that his 
 grandmother will probably discover everything." 
 
 "It will be better so," said her uncle, starting 
 towards the terrace. 
 
 The moon had set and it was dark. Luisa 
 whispered: "Mamma is here." 
 
 Signora Teresa, who was suffering for want of 
 breath, had had herself drawn out into the terrace 
 
6o The Patriot 
 
 in her easy-chair, hoping to find relief in the 
 open air. 
 
 "What do you say to this, Piero?" said a voice 
 resembhng Luisa's in tone, but sweeter and with 
 a tired ring; a voice that seemed to come from a 
 gentle heart which the world has used harshly, 
 and which must yield. "What do you say to 
 this? After all, our precautions will be of no 
 avail." 
 
 " No, no. Mamma. We are not sure of that. 
 We cannot say so yet!" 
 
 While Luisa was speaking, Franco, who was in 
 the salon with the curate, came out to embrace 
 the engineer. 
 
 "Well," said Ribera, extending his hand, for 
 embraces were little to his taste. "What has 
 happened?" 
 
 Franco related what had taken place, softening 
 somewhat certain too offensive expressions of 
 his grandmother's concerning the Rigeys, con- 
 cealing her threat of not leaving him a penny, 
 and blaming his own over-susceptibility rather 
 than the old-woman's Hi-nature, and finally con- 
 fessing that he had purposely let it be known that 
 he intended to remain out all night. This could 
 have no other effect than that of leading his 
 grandmother to an immediate discovery, for she 
 would question him concerning this absence, and 
 his silence would be a confession, for he did not 
 intend to lie about this matter. 
 
 "Listen!" Uncle Piero exclaimed, with the 
 
The Great Step 6i 
 
 ringing voice and open countenance of the per- 
 fectly straightforward man who, being smothered 
 to the point of stiifocation with precautions and 
 dissimulations, finally strikes out from the shoulder 
 and, casting them off, breathes freely once more. 
 " I admit you were wrong to irritate your grand- 
 mother, for, after aU, old people must be respected 
 even when they err; I see that the consequences 
 may be serious, but nevertheless I am glad things 
 a;re as they are, and I should be more glad if you 
 had told your grandmother everything, clearly 
 and roundly. I have never had any patience with 
 all this secrecy, all this feigning and hiding. The 
 honest man openly confesses his actions. You 
 desire to marry against your grandmother's 
 wishes? WeU do so, but, at least, don't deceive 
 her." 
 
 "But Piero!" Signora Teresa exclaimed, who, 
 besides a delicate perception of what life should 
 be, possessed an accurate sense of what life really 
 is, and, being much more given to religious exer- 
 cises than her brother, and standing on a more 
 familiar footing with the Almighty, could most 
 easily persuade herself that He would make cer- 
 tain concessions in the matter of form, when some 
 substantial benefit was to be gained. 
 
 "But Piero! You don't think! If the Mar- 
 chesa finds out about the marriage this way, she 
 will, of course, refuse to receive Luisa into her 
 house, and then what are the children to do? 
 Where can they go? There is no room here, arid 
 
62 The Patriot 
 
 even if there were, nothing is ready. At your 
 house it is the same. You must consider all these 
 points. If we wished to keep the marriage a 
 secret for a month or two, it was not in order to 
 deceive, it was to gain time in which to win over 
 Franco's grandmother, and if she would not yield, 
 to prepare one or two rooms at Oria." 
 
 "Oh, dear me!" said the engineer, "Does it 
 take two months to do that ? It seems incredible ! " 
 
 At this point a prolonged puff in the shadow 
 reminded them of Signor Giacomo's presence; he 
 was leaning against the wall in one comer not 
 daring to move, because it was so dark. 
 
 Signora Teresa had not yet welcomed him. 
 
 "Oh, Signor Giacomo!" she now hastened to 
 say. " I beg your pardon. I am really so very, 
 very much obliged to you! Pray come this way. 
 Did you hear what we were saying? Do let us 
 have your opinion." 
 
 "Your very htmible servant," said Signor 
 Giacomo from his corner. "Really I dare not 
 move, for with my poor sight " 
 
 "Luisa!" Signora Teresa called. "Bring a 
 lamp. But did you hear, Signor Giacomo? What 
 do you think about it? Do tell us." 
 
 In his profound wisdom Signor Giacomo emitted 
 three or four little hasty puffs which meant: Ah, 
 this is indeed an embarrassing question! 
 
 "I cannot say," he began hesitatingly, "I 
 cannot say at present, being in the dark " 
 
 "Luisa!" Signora Teresa called once more. 
 
The Great Step 63 
 
 "No, no, Signora! I mean being in the dark 
 on so many points. I feel that in my ignorance 
 I may not pronounce an opinion. Still I will say 
 it seems to me that perhaps it might . . . well, 
 at any rate, I am here at your service and at the 
 service of this most respected family, though 
 indeed I should not be astonished if the Imperial 
 and Royal Commissary — a most excellent person, 
 but very punctilious. . . . But enough, we will 
 not talk of that, for here I am. But I do say, it 
 seems to me that we might wait a little while, 
 and otu" most noble friend Don Franco here might 
 be able to wheedle and persuade. . . . Well, well, 
 well. Do as you like. It is all the same to me." 
 
 A ftuious protest on Franco's part had caused 
 Signor Giuseppe to face about thus suddenly. 
 Luisa seconded this protest, and Signora Teresa, 
 who now would perhaps have been in favour of 
 a postponement, did not venture to oppose their 
 wishes. 
 
 "Luisa, Franco," said she, "take me back to 
 the salon." 
 
 The two young people pushed the easy-chair 
 into the salon, followed by Uncle Piero and Signor 
 Giacomo. 
 
 On the threshold Luisa, bending over her 
 mother, kissed her hair, and murmured: "You 
 will see. All will be for the best." 
 
 She had expected to find the curate in the salon, 
 but he had slipped away through the kitchen. 
 
 Hardly had Franco and Luisa pushed the 
 
64 The Patriot 
 
 invalid's chair up to the table upon which stood 
 the lamp, when the sacristan came to say that 
 everything was ready. Signora Teresa asked him 
 to inform the curate that the bride and groom 
 woiild go to church in half an hour. 
 
 "Lidsa!" said she, glancing meaningly at her 
 daughter. 
 
 "Yes, Mamma," the girl replied, and turning 
 to her lover, said in a low tone : " Franco, Mamma 
 wishes to speak with you." 
 
 Signer Giacomo understood, and went out to the 
 terrace. The engineer did not understand at all, 
 and his niece had to explain to him that her 
 mother was to be left alone with Franco. The 
 simple-minded man could see no reason for this, 
 but she took his arm and, smiling, led him away 
 to the terrace. 
 
 Signora Teresa silently held out her beautiful 
 hand, which was stiU youthful in its curves, and 
 Franco, kneeling, kissed it. 
 
 "Poor Franco," said she gently. 
 
 Then she made him rise from his knees and sit 
 close to her. She must speak to him, she said, 
 and her breath was so short. But he would 
 tinderstand much from a few words, would 
 he not? 
 
 In speaking these words her voice was infinitely 
 sweet. 
 
 "You must know," she began, "that I had not 
 intended to say this to you, but I thought of it 
 when you spoke about breaking the plate at the 
 
The Great Step 65 
 
 dinner-table. I beg you to be careful on account 
 of Uncle Piero's position. In his heart he feels 
 as you do. If you only could have seen the letters 
 he wrote me in 1848 ! But he is a servant of the 
 Government. It is true his conscience is perfectly 
 easy, for he knows that by engineering roads and 
 water-works he is serving his cotmtry and not the 
 Germans. But he must and will take certain 
 precautions, and you — ^for love of him — must 
 be cautious also." 
 
 "The Germans wiU soon be gone, Mamma!" 
 Franco replied. "But do not worry; you shall 
 see how prudent I will be." 
 
 "Oh, my dear! I have little more to see, I 
 have only to see you two ttnited and blessed 
 by the Lord. When the Germans go, you will 
 come to Looch to teU me of it." 
 
 Those small fields where the little cemetery 
 of Castello is situated go by the name of Looch. 
 
 " But I had intended to speak to you of another 
 matter," Signora Teresa went on, without giving 
 Franco time to protest. He took her hands and 
 pressed them, with difficulty restraining his 
 tears. 
 
 " I must speak to you of Luisa," she said. " You 
 must know yotir wife well." 
 
 "I do know her, Mamma! I know her as well 
 as you do, and perhaps even better." 
 
 As he prounoimced these words his whole being 
 glowed and quivered in his' passionate love for her 
 who was the life of his life, the soul of his soul. 
 
66 The Patriot 
 
 "Poor Franco!" said Signora Teresa, smiling 
 tenderly. "No, listen to me, for there is some- 
 thing you do not know, of which you should be 
 informed. Wait a moment." 
 
 She needed to rest. Her emotion made her 
 breathing more laboured, and she spoke with 
 greater difficulty than usual. She motioned to 
 Franco not to move, for she saw he was about to 
 rise, that he might do something to relieve her. 
 Only a little repose was necessary, and she took 
 it, resting her head against the chair-back. 
 
 Presently she roused herself. " You have prob- 
 ably heard many evil accounts of my poor hus- 
 band, at your own home. You will have heard 
 that he was an unprincipled man, and that I did 
 very wrong to marry him. It is true he was not 
 religious, and for that reason I hesitated some time 
 before deciding to accept him. I was advised 
 to do so because it was thought I might have a 
 good influence over this man, who had a most 
 noble soul. He died a Christian, and I have every 
 hope of meeting him in Heaven, if the Lord, in 
 His mercy, shall see fit to receive me there. But 
 up to the very last hour it seemed as if I were not 
 to accomplish anything. Now, I fear my Luisa 
 has her father's tendencies in her heart. She 
 hides them from me, but I feel they are there. I 
 commend her to you; study her, advise her; she 
 is 'gifted and has a great heart, and if I have not 
 known how to do well by her, you must do better. 
 You are a good Christian: see that, with all hei 
 
The Great Step 67 
 
 heart, she also becomes one. Promise me this, 
 Franco." 
 
 He promised, smiling, as if he considered her 
 fears groundless, and were making this super- 
 fluous promise simply to satisfy her. 
 
 The invaUd gazed sadly at him. " Believe me, " 
 she added, "these are not fancies. I cannot die 
 in peace if you do not take this matter seriously." 
 And when the yoting man had repeated his prom- 
 ise, this time without smiling, she said — 
 
 "One word more. When you leave here you 
 will go to Professor Gilardoni's, will you not?" 
 
 "That was my first plan. I was to have told 
 my grandmother that I was going to sleep at 
 Gilardoni's house, as we were to start on an exctir- 
 sion together in the morning. But now, you 
 know how I left home." 
 
 "Still you had better go there. I had rather 
 you went there, and besides, he expects you, 
 does he not? So you must go. Poor Gilardoni! 
 He has never been here since his fit of madness, 
 two years ago. You know about that, do you 
 not? Luisa has told you?" 
 
 "Yes, Mamma." 
 
 This Professor Gilardoni, who lived like a her- 
 mit at Casarico, had fallen most romantically 
 in love with Signora Teresa some years before, 
 and had timidly presented himself to her as a 
 suitor. She had received his proposal with such 
 utter amazement that he had lacked courage to 
 appear before her again. 
 
68 The Patriot 
 
 "Poor man!" Signora Rigey continued, "that 
 was a most stupid action, but he has a heart of 
 gold, and is a true friend. I wish you to cherish 
 him. The day before he had that mad fit, he 
 confided a secret to me. I may not repeat to you 
 what he said, and moreover, I beg you not to 
 mention the subject to him unless he speaks to 
 you about it ; but it is, in fact, something which, 
 under certain circumstances, might be of great 
 importance to you two, especially if you have 
 children. If Gilardoni should confide in you, 
 reflect seriously before telling Luisa. She might 
 look at the matter in a wrong light. Consider 
 the question careftilly, consult Uncle Piero, and 
 then speak or remain silent according to the line 
 of action you may have determined to adopt." 
 
 "Yes, Mamma." 
 
 There was a gentle tap at the door, and Luisa's 
 voice said: "Have you finished?" 
 
 Franco looked at the invalid. "Come in," 
 said she. "Is it time to go?" 
 
 Luisa did not answer, but threw one arm around 
 Franco's neck, and together they knelt before the 
 mother, their heads buried in her lap. Luisa 
 tried her best to restrain her tears, knowing well 
 that her mother should be spared all violent 
 emotion, but her heaving shoulders betrayed her. 
 
 "No, Luisa, no, dear, no!" said her mother, 
 caressing her bowed head. "I am grateful to 
 you, for you have always been a good daughter 
 dear; such a good daughter! Calm yourself; 1 
 
The Great Step 69 
 
 am so happy! You will see, I shall get better. 
 Now go. Kiss me, both of you, and then go. 
 You must not keep the curate waiting. May 
 God bless you, Luisa, and you also. Franco!" 
 
 She asked for her prayer-book, di;ew the lamp 
 towards her, had the windows and the door leading 
 to the terrace thrown open that she might breathe 
 more easily, and then dismissed the maid, who 
 was prepared to keep her company. When the 
 young couple had left the room, the engineer 
 came in to greet his sister before going to 
 church. 
 
 "Good-by, Teresa." 
 
 " Good-by, Piero. Another load is laid on your 
 shoulders, my poor Piero." 
 
 "Amen!" the engineer answered, calmly. 
 
 When she was alone Signora Rigey sat listening 
 to the receding footsteps. The heavy steps of her 
 brother and Signor Giacomo bringing up the 
 rear, prevented her hearing those others, which 
 she strained her ear to follow as far as possible. 
 
 Another moment and the sounds ceased. She 
 realised that Luisa and Franco were going away 
 together into the future, whither she might follow 
 them only for a few months, perhaps only for a 
 few days ; that she could neither divine nor foresee 
 what their fate wotdd be. "Poor children!" 
 she thought. " Who knows what they may have 
 passed through in five years, in ten years." She 
 listened again, but the silence was profound; the 
 open window admitted only the far-away thunder- 
 
70 Ihe Patriot 
 
 ing of the cascades of Rescia, over across the lake. 
 Then, thinking that they must already have en- 
 tered the church, she took her prayer-book, and 
 read attentively. 
 
 But she soon grew weary; her brain was con- 
 fused, and the words of the book blurred before 
 her eyes. 
 
 Her mind was becoming drowsy, her will-power 
 was lost. She foresaw the approach of a vision 
 of unreal things, but she knew she was not asleep, 
 she understood that this was not a dream, but 
 a condition produced by her malady. She saw 
 the door leading to the kitchen open, and there 
 entered old Gilardoni from Dasio, called "el 
 Carlin de Das," father of the Professor and agent 
 of the Maironi family, for the estates in Valsolda 
 — he had been dead five-and-twenty years. The 
 figure came forward, and said, in a natural voice : 
 "Oh, Signora Teresa! Are you quite well?" 
 She thought she answered — "Oh, Cariin! I am 
 quite well; and how are you?" But in reality 
 she did not speak. 
 
 "I've got the letter here," the figure continued, 
 waving a letter triumphantly. "I've brought it 
 here for you!" And he placed the letter on the 
 table. 
 
 Signora Teresa saw it quite plainly. A letter, 
 soiled and yellowed by time, without an envelope, 
 and still bearing traces of a little red wafer, lay 
 before her and she experienced a sense of lively 
 satisfaction. She thought she said : "Thank you, 
 Carlin. Are you going to Dasio, now?" 
 
The Great Step 71 
 
 " No, Signora," Carlin replied. " I am going to 
 Casarico to see my son." 
 
 The invalid could no longer distinguishCarlin.but 
 she saw the letter on the table, saw it distinctly. 
 Still she was not sure it was there ; in her sluggish 
 brain the vague memory of other past halluci- 
 nations still endured, the memory of the disease, 
 which was her enemy, her cruel master. Her eyes 
 were glassy, her breathing laboured and rapid. 
 
 The sound of hastening footsteps roused her, 
 and recalled her almost completely to herself. 
 When Luisa and Franco came swiftly into the 
 room from the terrace they did not notice that 
 their mother's face was distorted, for the lamp 
 was heavily shaded. Kneeling before her they 
 covered her with kisses, attributing that laboured 
 breathing to emotion. Suddenly the invalid 
 raised her head from the chair-back and stretched 
 out her hands, pointing to something at which 
 she was looking fixedly. 
 
 "The letter!" she said. 
 
 The young people turned, but saw nothing. 
 
 "What letter. Mamma?" Luisa asked. At 
 the same moment she noticed her mother's expres- 
 sion, and warned Franco by a glance. This was 
 not the first time that Signora Teresa had suffered 
 from hallucinations since her illness began. At 
 the question "What letter?" everything became 
 clear to her. "Oh!" she exclaimed, and with- 
 drawing her hands, buried her face in them, 
 weeping silently. 
 
72 The Patriot 
 
 Comforted by her children's caresses she soon 
 composed herself, kissed them, extended her hand 
 to her brother and Signor Giacomo, who did not 
 in the least imderstand what had happened, and 
 then motioned to Luisa to go and get something. 
 It was a question of a cake and a precious bottle 
 of wine from Niscioree, which, together with some 
 others, had been sent some time before by the 
 Marchese Bianchi, to whom Signora Teresa was an 
 object of special veneration. 
 
 Signor Giacomo, who was longing to be off, 
 began to fidget and puff, and glance towards the 
 engineer. 
 
 "Signora. Luisina," said he, seeing the bride 
 about to leave the room. " Pray excuse me, but 
 I was just going to take leave of " 
 
 "No, no!" Signora Rigey exclaimed, with only 
 a thread of voice. "Wait a little longer." 
 
 Luisa disappeared, and Franco slipped out of 
 the room behind his wife. Signora Teresa was 
 suddenly assailed by scruples, and signed to her 
 brother to call him back. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said the engineer. 
 
 "But Piero!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 The ancient and austere traditions of her house, 
 a delicate sense of dignity, perhaps also a religious 
 scruple, because the young couple had not yet 
 received the benediction of the nuptial Mass, 
 would neither allow Signora Teresa to approve 
 of their withdrawing together, nor to explain her 
 
The Great Step 73 
 
 views on the subject. Her reticence and Uncle 
 Piero's fatherly benevolence gave Franco time to 
 place himself beyond the possibility of recall. 
 Signora Teresa did not insist. 
 
 "Forever!" she murmured presently, as if 
 speaking to herself. "United forever!" 
 
 "You and I," said the engineer, addressing his 
 colleague in celibacy in the Venetian dialect, 
 " you and I, Signor Giacomo, never go, in for any 
 such nonsense!" 
 
 " You are always in good spirits, most worship^ 
 ful engineer!" Signor Giacomo answered, while his 
 conscience was telling him that in his time he 
 had gone in for far worse "nonsense." 
 
 The bride and groom did not return. 
 
 "Signor Giacomo," the engineer » continued, 
 "there will be no going to bed for us to-night." 
 
 The unfortimate man writhed, puffed and 
 winked hard but did not reply. 
 
 Stni the bride and groom were absent. 
 
 "Piero," said Signora Teresa, "Hng the bell." 
 
 "Signor Giacomo," the engineer began, com- 
 posedly, "shall we ring the bell?" 
 
 "That would seem to be the Signora's wish," 
 the little man replied, steering his course as best 
 he, could between the brother and sister. " How- 
 ever, I express no opinion." 
 
 "Piero!" his sister pleaded. 
 
 "Ck)me, let us have an answer," Uncle Piero 
 continued without moving. ' ' What would you do ? 
 Would you, or would you not ring this bell?" 
 
74 The Patriot 
 
 "For pity's sake!" Signer Giacomo groaned. 
 "You really must excuse me." 
 
 "I will excuse nothing!" 
 
 The young people were still absent, and the 
 mother growing more and more anxious, 
 repeated — 
 
 "Piero, I tell you to ring!" 
 
 Signer Giacomo, who was dying to get away, 
 and who could not leave without saluting the 
 bride and groom, encouraged by Signora Teresa's 
 insistence, made a great effort, turned very red 
 and finally pronounced an opinion: "I should 
 ring." 
 
 "My dear Signor Giacomo," the engineer ex- 
 claimed, "I am surprised, amazed and aston- 
 ished!" Who can say why, when he was in good 
 spirits, and had occasion to use one of these 
 synonyms, he would always string the three to- 
 gether ? ' ' However, ' ' he concluded, ' ' let us ring. ' ' 
 
 And he proceeded to ring very gently. 
 
 "Listen, Piero," said Signora Teresa. "Re- 
 member that when you leave. Franco is to go 
 with you. He will return at half-past five for 
 the Mass." 
 
 " Oh dear me! " Uncle Piero exclaimed. " How 
 many difficulties! But after all, are they or are 
 they not husband and wife? — ^Well, well," he 
 added, seeing that his sister was beginning to 
 grow excited, "do just as you like!" 
 
 Instead of the young couple the maid appeared, 
 bringing the cake and the bottle, and told the 
 
The Great Step 75 
 
 engineer that Signorina Luisina begged him to 
 come out to the terrace for a moment. 
 
 "Now that something good is coming at last, 
 you send me outside!" said the engineer. He 
 jested with his usual serenity of spirit, perhaps 
 beca;use he did not fully realize his sister's serious 
 condition, perhaps because of his naturally pacific 
 attitude towards all that was inevitable. 
 
 He went out to the terrace where Luisa and 
 Franco were waiting for him. 
 
 "Listen, Uncle," his niece began. "My hus- 
 band says that his grandmother will surely dis- 
 cover everything at once ; that he wiU not be able 
 to remain at Cressogno any longer ; that if Mam- 
 ma were stronger we might all go to your house at 
 Oria, but, unfortimately, that is not possible as 
 matters stand at present. So he thinks we might 
 arrange a room here — ^any way to get it ready 
 quickly. We had thought of poor Papa's study. 
 What do you say to this plan?" 
 
 "Hm!" ejaculated Uncle Piero, who was slow 
 to take up with new ideas. "It seems to me a 
 very hasty resolution. You will be incurring 
 expense and turning the house upside down, for 
 an arrangement which can only be temporary." 
 
 His one idea was to have the whole family at 
 Oria, and this expedient did not suit him. He 
 feared that if the young people once settled down 
 at Castello they would remain there. Luisa used 
 every argument to persuade him that there was 
 no other way, and that neither the outlay nor the 
 
76 The Patriot 
 
 trouble would be great. On leaving home her 
 husband would go directly to Lugano, and bring 
 back what few pieces of furniture were absolutely 
 indispensable. Uncle Piero asked if Franco could 
 not take up his quarters at Oria, remaining there 
 until such a time as she and her mother could join 
 him. "Oh, Uncle!" Luisa exclaimed. Had she 
 known about the bell she would have been still 
 more astonished by a similar proposal. But 
 sometimes this good man had artless ideas of this 
 sort, at which his sister smiled. Luisa had no 
 difficulty in finding argiunents against his plan 
 for banishing Franco, and she used them with 
 warmth. "Enough!" said Uncle Piero calmly, 
 though he was not convinced; and he arched his 
 wide-spread arms with the gesture of the Dominus 
 vobiscum, more charitably inclined, more ready 
 to enfold poor humanity in a tender embrace than 
 before. "Fiat! Oh, by the way," he added, 
 turning to Franco, "how about money?" 
 
 Franco shivered, much embarrassed. 
 
 "You know he is our father!" his wife said. 
 
 "Not by any means your father," Uncle Piero 
 observed placidly. " Not by any means, but what 
 is mine is yours; so I shall line your pockets as 
 well as my means will permit." 
 
 And he suffered, without returning it, the em- 
 brace which told of their gratitude, almost as if 
 vexed by this unnecessary demonstration, vexed 
 that they shotild not accept more simply an act 
 which to him seemed so simple and natural. " Yes, 
 
The Great Step 77 
 
 yes ! " said he, " now let us go in and drink ; it will 
 be far more profitable!" 
 
 The wine of Niscioree, clear and red as a ruby, 
 at once delicate and strong, flattered and soothed 
 the inner-man of the impatient Signer Giacomo, 
 who, in those years of oidium, seldom wet his lips 
 in imdiluted wine, but gloomily sipped the Gri- 
 melli wine, of watery memory. 
 
 "Est, est* is it not, Signor Giacomo?" said 
 Uncle Piero, seeing Puttini gaze with devoted 
 eyes into the glass he held. " But here at least, 
 there is no danger of expiring like a certain man : 
 et propter nimium est dominus mens mortuus est." 
 
 *Est, est: Canon Johannes Fugger of Augsburg travelling 
 in Italy in the twelfth century, directed his steward to pre- 
 cede him, and inscribe the word Est on the door of the inn 
 where the best wine was to be had. On reaching Montefias- 
 cone the worthy canon found the word Est written three 
 times on the tavern door, and indeed, the muscatel of this 
 district proved so much to his taste that he never left Mon- 
 tefiascone, but ended his days there in the year 1113 or there- 
 abouts, and was buried in the church of S. Flaviano, where 
 his tomb may still be seen. His steward caused the following 
 inscription to be carved upon the sarcophagus : 
 
 Est, Est, Est. Propter nimium est, 
 Johannes de Puc, D. meus, mortuus est. 
 
 It is said that the wine-loving prelate left orders that a bar- 
 rel of the very best muscatel should be spilled over his 
 tomb every year on the anniversary of his death, and this 
 ceremony was faithfully performed down to the end of the 
 
78 The Patriot 
 
 "I feel as if I were being resuscitated," Signer 
 Giacomo answered, speaking very slowly and al- 
 most under his breath, his gaze still fixed on the 
 glass. 
 
 "Then you must give us a toast," the other 
 said, rising. " But if you will not speak, why then 
 I must do so," and he recited merrily — 
 
 "Long live he and long live she. 
 
 And now we'll be off, and leave them free! " 
 
 Signor Giacomo emptied his glass, puffed 
 loudly and winked hard, in consequence of the 
 varied sentiments which were running riot in his 
 soul, while the last perfume, the last flavour of the 
 wine were fading in his mouth. He offered his 
 duty to the "most revered" Signora Teresa, his 
 devotion to the "most amiable" little bride, his 
 respects to the "most accomplished" young hus- 
 band. Then, gesticulating with head and arms, 
 he declared himself undeserving of the thanks 
 which were being lavished upon him, and taking 
 his great hat and his stick, he started — humble 
 and puffing, with mingled feelings of relief and 
 regret — to follow the placid bulk of the "most 
 worshipful" engineer. 
 
 "And you. Franco?" Signora Teresa enquired 
 immediately. 
 
 "I am going," he replied. 
 
 seventeenth century, when it was forbidden by a certain 
 Cardinal Barbarigi, of unconvivial memory. The best wine 
 of Montescone is still called Est, Est. [Translator's 
 note.] 
 
The Great Step 79 
 
 "Come here," said she. "I received you so 
 badly when you returned from church, my poor 
 children ! You see I had had one of my bad attacks ; 
 I think you understood. But now I feel so well, 
 so peaceful! Lord, I thank Thee! it seems to me 
 I have set my house in order, have put out the 
 fire and said my prayers ; and now I am going to 
 sleep, so well satisfied! But not so very soon, 
 dear, not at once. I leave you my Luisa, dear; 
 I leave you Uncle Piero. I know you will love 
 them very much, will you not? But you must 
 remember me also. Ah, dear Lord! how sorry I 
 am I shall not see your children! That is indeed 
 a grief to me 1 You must give them a Idss every 
 day for their poor grandmother . . . every day. 
 And now go, my son, but you will be back by 
 half -past five? Yes, dear . . . Good-by . . . 
 now go." 
 
 She spoke caressingly to him, as to a child who 
 does not yet imderstand, and he wept, silently, 
 with tender emotion, kissing her hands over and 
 over again, and glad Luisa was present to witness 
 this scene, for in his immense tenderness for the 
 mother, there was his immense joy at being one 
 with the daughter, and an intense desire to love 
 all that his wife loved, and in the same measure. 
 
 " Go," Mamma Teresa repeated, fearing her own 
 increasing emotion. "Go, go!" 
 
 At last he obeyed and went out with Luisa. 
 
 On this occasion also Luisa was absent a long 
 time, but even the holiest souls have their little 
 
8o The Patriot 
 
 weaknesses, and although the maid was constantly 
 coming and going between the kitchen and the 
 salon, Signora Teresa, touched by the affection 
 which Franco had displayed for her, never once 
 ordered her to ring the bell. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 CARLIN'S LETTER 
 
 T7RANC0 went down the hill very, very 
 slowly, absorbed in the world of things 
 within him, so crowded with thoughts and with 
 new sensations. Stopping every now and then 
 to contemplate the grey road and the small dark 
 fields, he wotild touch the leaves of a grape-vine 
 or the stones of a low wall, in order to feel the 
 reality of the external world, to convince himself 
 that he was not dreaming. Not until he had 
 reached the Contrada dei Mal'ari in Casarico, and 
 was standing before the little door of Gilardoni's 
 tiny house, did he recall Mamma Teresa's dark 
 words concerning the secret Gilardoni had im- 
 parted to her, and he wondered what this mystery 
 cotdd be, which must not be revealed to Luisa. 
 To tell the truth the mother's advice had not 
 satisfied him entirely. "How could I ever hide 
 anything from my wife ? " he thought as he knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 Professor Beniamino Gilardoni, son of "Carlin 
 de Dkas," had been educated at the expense of 
 old Don Franco Maironi, Marchesa Orsola's hus- 
 band, an eccentric man, capricious and violent. 
 
82 The Patriot 
 
 but at the same time, very generous. When 
 Carlin died it became apparent that Maironi's 
 generosity had not been necessary. Beniamino 
 inherited quite a Httle hoard, and this maddened 
 Don Franco, who held him responsible for the 
 paternal hypocrisy, turned his back upon him, 
 and would have nothing more to do with him for 
 the short time he survived his agent. The young 
 man chose the career of teacher, was professor 
 of Latin at the gymnasium of Cremona, and of 
 philosophy at the lyceum of Udine. Of a delicate 
 constitution, apprehensive of physical suffering, 
 and extremely misanthropical, he resigned his 
 professorship in 1842, and came to Valsolda to 
 enjoy the modest fortune his father had left him. 
 Dasio, his native village, perched just below the 
 dolomitic rocks of the Arabione, was too high up 
 and inconvenient for him. He sold his possessions 
 there, purchased the olive-grove of Sedorgg above 
 Casarico, and a small villa on the edge of the lake, 
 in Casarico itself. It was so small as to be almost 
 a toy villa, and from its shape he called it the 
 " Greek // or Pi" in imitation of the " Digamma" 
 of Ugo Foscolo. From the Contrada dei Mal'ari 
 a short passage led to the little court-yard flanked 
 by a tiny portico, open on the lake-side and sur- 
 rounded by tall oleanders. It overlooked six 
 miles of water, green, grey or blue, according to 
 the hour, as far as Monte S. Salvatore there in 
 the distance, stooping, under the burden of its 
 melancholy hump, towards the humble hills of 
 
Carlin's Letter 83 
 
 Carona beneath it. On the east of the Httle house 
 there was a kitchen-garden, fabulously large for 
 that part of the world, the dimensions of which 
 Engineer Ribera was wont to define by means of 
 the following surveyor's description: "Large 
 field called il Campone, measuring seven tavole." 
 Now seven tavole correspond to twenty or twenty- 
 two square metres! The Professor cultivated 
 it with the aid of his little servant Giuseppe, 
 called Pinella, and of a small collection of French 
 treatises. He sent to France for the seeds of the 
 most highly esteemed qualities of vegetables, 
 which sometimes came up in shameless disregard 
 of their certificates of baptism, and indeed of any 
 honestly baptised family. It would then happen 
 that philosopher and servant, stooping over the 
 beds, their hands on their knees, would raise their 
 eyes from these mocking sprouts, and gaze at each 
 other, the philosopher honestly disappointed, the 
 servant hypocritically so. In one comer of the 
 garden, in a little stable constructed according to 
 the most approved principles, dwelt a small Swiss 
 cow, which had been purchased after three months 
 of diligent study, and had turned out as delicate 
 and fleshless as the master himself, who — ^in spite 
 of the Swiss cow and four Paduan hens — often 
 found it impossible to make himself a cup of cus- 
 tard in his own house. In the wall supporting the 
 garden on the lake-side, against whose base the 
 breva drove the swelling waves, he had made some 
 openings in which, following Franco Maironi's 
 
84 The Patriot 
 
 advice, he had planted many American aloes, 
 many roses and some caper-bushes, thus binding 
 together the substantial contents of his kitchen- 
 garden, as he was wont to say, with poetic ele- 
 gance of fo m. And for the love of the poetic, 
 he had left a small comer of his kitchen-garden 
 uncultivated. The tallest of reeds had sprung 
 up there, and in front of these reeds the Professor 
 had erected a sort of belvedere, a lofty, wooden 
 platform, very rustic and primitive, where, in 
 pleasant weather, he passed many happy hours 
 with the mystic books he loved, enjoying the cool- 
 ness of the breva, and the murmuring of reeds and 
 waves. At a distance the colour of the platform 
 cotild not be distinguished from that of the reeds, 
 and the Professor looked as if he were seated on 
 air, book in hand, like any magician. In the 
 little salon he kept the small collection of works 
 on kitchen-gardening, the mystic books, the 
 treatises on necromancy, and gnosticism. The 
 writings on hallucinations and dreams he kept 
 in a tiny study adjoining his bedroom, a sort of 
 ship's cabin, into which lake and sky seemed 
 to pour through the window. 
 
 After the death of old Maironi the Professor 
 had once more taken to visiting the family, but 
 the Marchesa did not please him particularly, 
 and her son Don Alessandro, Franco's father, 
 pleased him still less. So he ended by going there 
 only once a year. "When the lad Franco entered 
 the lyceum his grandmother — his father had been 
 
Carlin's Letter 85 
 
 dead some time — ^begged Gilardoni to give him 
 some lessons dimng the Auttimn. Master and 
 pupil resembled each other in their easy enthu- 
 siasms, in their fits of violent but fleeting passion, 
 and both were ardent patriots. When the ne- 
 cessity for lessons no longer existed they continued 
 to meet as friends, though the Professor was some 
 twenty years older than Franco. Gilardoni ad- 
 mired his pupil's genius, but Franco, on the other 
 hand, held the half-Christian, half-rationalist 
 philosophy of his master, and his mystical ten- 
 dencies, in small esteem. He laughed at the 
 other's passion for books and theories on horti- 
 culture and landscape gardening, a passion which 
 was entirely devoid of all common sense. But never- 
 theless, he loved him sincerely for his goodness, 
 his candoirr, his ardent soul. Franco had been 
 the Professor's confidant at the time of his un- 
 fortunate passion for Signora Rigey, and later, 
 Franco, in his turn, confided in the Professor. 
 Gilardoni was much affected by the news, and 
 told Franco that, his heart being stiU full to over- 
 flowing of that unchanging devotion, he should 
 feel as if he were, in a way, becoming Franco's 
 father, even though Signora Teresa herself would 
 have none of him. Franco showed little appre- 
 ciation of this metaphysical paternity. This 
 passion for Signora Rigey seemed to him simply 
 an aberration, and he was more than ever con- 
 firmed in his opinion that the Professor's head was 
 not worth much, but that his heart was of gold. 
 
86 The Patriot 
 
 So he knocked at the door, and Beniamino 
 himself came to open it, bearing a little oil lamp. 
 "Well done," said he. " I was beginning to think 
 you were not coming, after all." 
 
 Gilardoni was in his dressing-gown and slippers, 
 with a sort of white turban on his head, and he 
 exhaled a strong odour of camphor. He looked 
 like a Turk, like Gilardoni Bey, but the thin, 
 sallow face which smiled beneath the txirban had 
 nothing Turkish about it. Encircled by a short, 
 reddish beard, pompously embellished in the 
 middle by a fine, big nose, red and pimply, the 
 face was lighted up by two beautifid blue eyes, 
 still very youthful, and full of simple kindness 
 and poetry. 
 
 As soon as Franco had closed the door behind 
 him his friend whispered: "Is it done?" "It is 
 done," Franco answered. The other embraced 
 him and kissed him in silence. Then he took 
 him up stairs to the little study. On the way he 
 explained that, secundum Raspail, he had applied 
 a compress of some sedative water to his head, 
 for he was threatened with a headache. He was 
 an apostle of Raspail, and had converted Franco — 
 who often suffered from inflammatory sore throats 
 — ^from leeches to camphor cigarettes. 
 
 In the little study there was another very close 
 and long embrace. "So much! So much! So 
 much!" Gilardoni exclaimed, meaning a world 
 of things. 
 
 Poor Gilardoni, his eyes were gHstening. He 
 
Carlin's Letter 87 
 
 himself had longed in vain for a happiness similar 
 to his friend's! Franco understood and, much 
 embarrassed, did not know what to say to him, 
 and a silence so significant followed that Gilardoni 
 could not stand it, and set about lighting a little 
 fire to heat some coffee he had prepared. Franco 
 offered to do this for him, and the Professor 
 accepted, pleading his headache, and began im- 
 rolling his turban before a basin of the sedative 
 water. "Well," said he, controlling his emotion 
 by an effort of his will, "tell me all about it." 
 Franco told him everything, from his grand- 
 mother's dinner-party, to the wedding ceremony 
 in the church at Castello, except of course, his 
 private talk with Signora Teresa. Professor 
 Beniamino, meanwhile, had replaced his turban, 
 and now summoned up all his courage. "And 
 
 " said he, substituting a sort of low groan for 
 
 the beloved name, "how is she?" Upon learning 
 of the hallucination he exclaimed: "A letter? 
 She thought she saw a letter? But what letter? " 
 This Franco did not know. A hissing on the fire 
 interrupted the conversation; the coffee was 
 boiling hard and bubbling over. 
 
 Gilardoni also resembled his young friend in 
 that his heart might be read from his face. The 
 young friend who was, however, a far cleverer 
 and quicker reader of faces than he, at once per- 
 ceived that he had thought of some special letter, 
 and inquired, while the coffee was settling, if he 
 could explain this hallucination. The Professor 
 
88 The Patriot 
 
 hastened to say "no," but no sooner had he 
 uttered that " no " than he weakened it by adding 
 several other negatives, mingled with inarticulate 
 grumblings: "Ah, no! — ^no indeed! — I cannot 
 say — certainly not!" Franco did not insist, 
 and another extremely significant silence ensued. 
 When he had taken his coffee, with many involun- 
 tary signs of uneasiness, the Professor promptly 
 proposed that they go to bed. Franco, who must 
 leave before daybreak, preferred not to go to bed, 
 but wished his friend to do so, and, after an infinite 
 number of protests and ceremonies, after hesi- 
 tating on the very threshold, his basin of sedative 
 water in his hand, the Professor suddenly faced 
 about, and throwing a "good-night" over his 
 shoulder, disappeared. 
 
 When he was alone Franco put out the lamp 
 and stretched himself in an easy-chair with the 
 good intention of going to sleep, seeking sleep in 
 some indifferent thought if he could possibly fix 
 his mind on such a thought. Not five minutes 
 had passed when there was a knock at the door 
 and immediately the Professor rushed in, without 
 a iight, and exclaiming : ' ' Well, here I am again ! ' ' 
 "What is the matter?" Franco inquired. "I am 
 sorry I put out the light." At the same moment 
 he felt the arms of the worthy Beniamino about 
 his neck, his beard brushed Franco's face, and 
 he smelt the camphor and heard the voice. " Dear, 
 dear, Don Franco! I have an enormous load on 
 my heart! I did not intend to speak now; I 
 
Carlin's Letter 89 
 
 wanted to leave you in peace, but I cannot, I 
 cannot!" 
 
 "But speak! Calm yotirself, calm yourself!" 
 said Franco, gently freeing himself from that 
 embrace. 
 
 Gilardoni let him go, and pressed his hands to 
 his forehead, groaning: "Oh, what a stupid fool, 
 what a stupid fool, what a stupid fool I am! I 
 might have left him alone; I might have waited 
 until to-morrow or the next day. But now it 
 is done! It is done!" 
 
 He seized Franco's hand. "I tell you I had 
 begun to undress when a sort of giddiness came 
 over me, and then it was all up with me. I must 
 needs put on the dressing-gown again, and rush 
 in here without a light, like a lunatic. In my 
 haste I even tipped over the basin of sedative 
 water." 
 
 "Shall we light the lamp?" Franco asked. 
 
 "No, no, no, we had better talk in the dark, 
 better talk in the dark ! See, I am going way over 
 there!" And he sat down at his writing-desk, 
 to escape the faint glimmer of light which fell 
 through the window. Then he began. He always 
 spoke in a nervous and disorderly fashion, and 
 it may easily be imagined how he spoke now, in 
 his present state of agitation. 
 
 "Shall I begin? Goodness knows what you 
 will say, dear Don Franco! These are all useless 
 words, but what would you have — alas ! patience — ! 
 Well, I will begin — ^but where shall I begin? Oh, 
 
go The Patriot 
 
 Lord! just see what a fool I am, not even knowing 
 where to begin! Ah, that hallucination! Yes, 
 I told you a lie just now; I can easily guess the 
 origin of that hallucination. It has to do with a 
 letter ; a letter I showed Signora Teresa two years 
 ago, a letter from Don Franco, your grandfather. 
 Well, now let us begin at the beginning. 
 
 " During his last days my poor father spoke to 
 me of a letter from Don Franco which I shotild 
 find in the strong-box, where all the important 
 papers were kept. He told me to read it, to 
 preserve it carefully, and, when the time came, to 
 act in accordance with the dictates of conscience. 
 'But' said he, 'it is almost certain there will be 
 nothing to be done. ' My poor father passed away. 
 I searched the strong-box for the letter, but did 
 not find it. I hunted the whole house over, but 
 in vain. What could I do? I contented myself 
 with reflecting that there was nothing to be done, 
 and thought no more about the matter. A fool, was 
 I not? A real idiot! Say sO' freely, I deserve it. 
 I have said so to myself so many times ! But let 
 us continue. Do you know how your grand- 
 father's estate was settled? Do you know how 
 the affairs of your house were arranged? You 
 will forgive me for speaking to you of these 
 matters, will you not?" 
 
 "I know my grandfather died without a will, 
 and that I have nothing," Franco replied. "But 
 let us pass that over, and proceed." 
 
 To Franco it was truly a painful subject. At 
 
Carlin's Letter 91 
 
 old Maironi's death no will had been found. In 
 perfect love and harmony, the widow and the son, 
 Don Alessandro, had divided the estate equally 
 between them. In order to secvire this arrange- 
 ment the son had made a very large grant to his 
 mother, declaring that he was only carrying out 
 the paternal wishes, which had not found a means 
 of expression. This depraved young man, a 
 spendthrift and a gambler, was already caught in 
 the toils of usurers at the time of his father's 
 death. In the seven years he survived him he 
 managed to spend everything, not leaving a penny 
 to his only son, Franco, who found himself re- 
 duced to some twenty thousand svanziche, the 
 fortune of his mother who had died in giving 
 him birth. 
 
 "Yes, yes, let us get on," Gilardoni continued. 
 "Three years ago, three years ago, I say, I received 
 a letter from you. I remember it was the second 
 of November, all Souls' Day. Ciirious circum- 
 stance, mysterious circumstance ! Very well. That 
 night I went to bed, and dreamed a dream. I 
 dreamt of your grandfather's letter. Note that 
 I had never thought of it again. I dreamt I was 
 htinting for it, and that I found it in an old box 
 I keep in the attic. I read it, still dreaming. It 
 said there was a great treasxire in the cellar of Casa 
 Maironi at Cressogno and that that treasure was 
 to come to you. I awoke in intense excitement, 
 convinced that this had been a prophetic dream. 
 I got up, and went to look in the box. I found 
 
92 The Patriot 
 
 nothing; but two days later, being about to sell 
 certain lands which I owned at Dasio, I got out 
 an old deed of purchase, which my father kept in 
 the strong-box, and, in turning over the leaves, 
 a letter fell out. I glanced at the signature and 
 saw: Nobile Franco Maironi. I read the letter. 
 It was the one in question! Thus you see, the 
 dream. ..." 
 
 "Well," said Franco, interrupting him, "and 
 what did this letter say?" 
 
 The Professor rose, took a match half a cubit 
 long, ran it in among the live coals in the little 
 fire-place, and lit the lamp. 
 
 " I have it here," he said with a great, despairing 
 sigh. "Read it." 
 
 He took from his pocket and handed to Franco 
 a small yellowish letter, without an envelope, and 
 still showing traces of the little red wafer. The 
 yellow-black lines of writing inside showed 
 through here and there, almost in relief. 
 
 Franco took it, held it near the lamp, and read 
 aloud as follows: 
 
 "Dear Carlin, — 
 "You will find my last will enclosed in this 
 letter. I have written it in duplicate. One copy 
 I am keeping. This is the other, and I charge you 
 to publish it if the first be not forthcoming. Do 
 you understand? Very well then; and when we 
 meet I forbid you absolutely to worry me with 
 your advice, as is your d d custom. You 
 
CarJin's Letter 93 
 
 are the only person in whom I have confidence, 
 but, after all, it is my right to cx)mmand, and 
 your duty to obey. Therefore all advice is useless 
 and will not be tolerated. Good-bye. 
 
 "Your affectionate master, 
 
 "Franco Maironi. 
 "Cressogno, 22 Sept., 1828." 
 
 " Now here is the will," said Gilardoni doleftilly, 
 handing Franco another yellow document, "but 
 don't read that aloud." 
 
 The document read as follows: 
 
 "I, the undersigned, Nobile Franco Maironi, 
 desire that my estate be divided in accordance 
 with this, my last will and testament. 
 
 " Donna Orsola Maironi, born Marchesa Scremin, 
 having deigned to accept my homage as well as 
 that of many others, I bequeath to her, in proof 
 of my gratitude, the sum of ten thousand Milanese 
 Lire, to be paid once and for all, and what, to her, 
 is the most precious jewel of my household, namely 
 Don Alessandro Maironi, duly inscribed in the 
 parish-registers of the Cathedral of Brescia as 
 my son. 
 
 " I bequeath to my said son that part of my prop- 
 erty which is lawfully due to him, and three 
 parpagUole* a. day more, in token of the special 
 esteem in which I hold him. 
 
 *Parpagliota : a small coin then in circulation, and worth 
 about twenty centimes (?). [Translator's note.] 
 
94 The Patriot 
 
 " I leave to my agent in Brescia, Signer Grigi, 
 should he be still in my employ at the time of my 
 death, all that he has stolen from me. 
 
 " I leave to my agent inValsolda, Carlino Gilar- 
 doni, upon the same condition as above, four 
 Milanese Lire a day, during his natural life. 
 
 " I desire that, during the life of Donna Orsola 
 Maironi Scremin, a Mass be celebrated daily in 
 the Cathedral of Brescia, for the good of her soul. 
 
 " I name and appoint my grandson, Don Franco 
 Maironi, son of Don Alessandro, residuary legatee 
 of all the rest of my property. 
 
 ' ' As witness my hand, this fifteenth day of April, 
 1828. 
 
 "Franco Maironi." 
 
 Franco read — and, half dazed and without a 
 word, passed the sheet of paper back to the 
 Professor. He was shaken, but felt vaguely that 
 he must control himself, that he must restrain his 
 own agitation, collect his thoughts, and strive to 
 get a clear view of this matter and of himself. 
 
 "What do you say to that?" the Professor 
 exclaimed. 
 
 At this point Gilardoni's intense excitement 
 reached a climax. 
 
 "Why did I not speak before, eh?" he con- 
 tinued. "The thing is that I can't possibly give 
 a clear, precise and positive reason for not having 
 done so. Those papers were a horror to me! 
 If I myself and my own father and mother had 
 
Carlin's Letter 95 
 
 been involved in such a question, I would rather 
 have let a million slip than ask for it with those 
 documents in my hand. There! I have been a 
 fool again, to have said that! Just forget those 
 last words, for in your place ... it is a different 
 thing. I was speaking for myself. Good Lord, 
 of course I was speaking for myself! Well, I 
 thought — see what an ass I was — I thought your 
 grandmother just doted on you, and that your 
 grandfather's property would go to you anyway. 
 And with that idea . . . ! After a while I 
 consulted Signora Teresa, and showed her the 
 letter and the will. She said I should have in- 
 formed you at once, as soon as I had made the 
 discovery, but that she could not give me any 
 advice because now her daughter was, in a way, 
 an interested party. Besides, she said. . . . But 
 that is of no consequence. In short I saw the 
 will was a horror to her also. Anyway, I was 
 convinced your grandmother would end by ac- 
 cepting this marriage, and I did not speak. To- 
 night you come and tell me the Marchesa has used 
 threats. Fancy that! Now you understand that 
 I could not wait, that I cotild not keep these 
 documents a moment longer. There — ^they are 
 yours — ^take them!" 
 
 Franco, absorbed in his own thoughts, heard 
 only these last words. " No," said he, " I will not 
 take them. I know myself too well. With them 
 in my possession I might be led into doing some- 
 thing rash, or into acting prematurely. You keep 
 
q6 The Patriot 
 
 them for the present." Gilardoni wotild not hear 
 of keeping them, and drove Franco into one of 
 his fits of impatience. There was indeed nothing 
 so irritating to his nerves as the inconclusive out- 
 pourings of kind-hearted but brainless persons. 
 Gilardoni's opposition angered him, and he gave 
 him to tmderstand that this wish to rid himself 
 of the documents at all costs, was selfishness pure 
 and simple, and that those who have blundered 
 must bear the consequences. The words he 
 uttered amounted to this, but the angry and harsh 
 expression of his face said much more. Gilar- 
 doni, whose face was crimson, shuddered at the 
 accusation of selfishness, but controlled himself 
 and putting on a grim frown in his turn, hastily- 
 pocketed the documents, repeated a string of 
 "well, well, well, wells," and abruptly left the 
 room. To appease his own conscience Franco at 
 once set to work trying to convince himself that 
 Signor Beniamino was entirely in the wrong. He 
 had done wrong in not having given him the docu- 
 ments much sooner, and now he was doing wrong 
 in taking offence. As he was quite sure he should 
 make his peace with the inconclusive philosopher, 
 he thought no more about him, put out the lamp, 
 and, returning to his easy-chair, became once more 
 engrossed in his previous meditations. 
 
 Now he was beginning to see clearly. He could 
 not with dignity make use of that will, which, 
 both in form and in substance was dishonouring 
 to his grandmother, arousing as it did, when the 
 
Carlin's Letter 97 
 
 letter was considered, a suspicion of criminal 
 suppression. The will also reflected little honour 
 upon his father. No, never. He must tell the 
 professor to bum both documents. 
 
 "Thus, Madam Grandmother, shall I triumph 
 over you!" thought Franco, "Making you a free 
 gift of the property, and of your honour as well, 
 without even taking the trouble to tell you of it! " 
 Revelling in this thought Franco felt almost as 
 if he were lifted above the earth, and he drew 
 a long breath, vastly pleased with himself, his 
 soul illumined and soothed by a sentiment of 
 mingled generosity and pride. With all his faith 
 and his acts of Christian piety, he was very far 
 from suspecting that such a sentiment was not 
 entirely good, and that a less self-conscious mag- 
 nanimity wotdd have been more noble. 
 
 He let himself sink back in his easy-chair, 
 more disposed to rest than he had been before, 
 thinking quietly of what he had read, of what he 
 had heard, as one who has been on the verge of 
 embarking upon some perilous speculation, and 
 looks back upon the anxiety and the calamities 
 from which he has escaped forever. OI4 memories 
 were also beginning to stir in the depths of his 
 soul. He recalled a certain tale an old servant 
 had told concerning the riches of the house of 
 Maironi, which, she said, had been stolen from 
 the poor. He was a child then, and the woman 
 had not hesitated to speak in his presence. But 
 the child had received a deep impression, and this 
 
98 The Patriot 
 
 impression had been re-awakened in his early 
 boyhood, by the words of a priest, who had con- 
 fided to him, with an air of great secrecy and 
 solemnity, and perhaps not without intention, that 
 the Maironi fortune was the fruit of a law-suit 
 which had been unjustly won against the Ospedale 
 Maggiore of Milan. 
 
 "So, through me," thought Franco, "every- 
 thing has gone back to the devil." 
 
 It struck him that perhaps it was late, so he 
 lighted the lamp once more, and consulted his 
 watch. It was half-past three. Now, it would 
 be impossible for him to rest. The moment which 
 would re-unite him to Luisa was too near at hand, 
 his fancy was too greatly excited. One hour and 
 a half more! He looked at his watch every two 
 minutes; it seemed as if the tedious time would 
 never pass. He took a book, but cotdd not read. 
 He opened the window; the air was soft, the 
 silence profound, the lake was bright over towards 
 S. Salvatore, and the heavens were studded with 
 stars. At Oria he could see a light. Perhaps 
 it wotild be his fate to live there in Uncle Piero's 
 house. Gazing absently at that luminous spot, 
 he began to imagine what the futture would be, 
 and ever-changing phantoms rose before him. 
 At about half -past four he heard a bell ring on the 
 lower floor, and presently Pinella came with a mes- 
 sage from his master to the effect that if he wished 
 to make the ascent of the BogUa it was time to start. 
 The master had a severe headache, and could 
 
Carlin's Letter 99 
 
 neither rise nor receive him. Franco searched 
 on the writing-table for a sheet of paper, and 
 wrote : 
 
 " Parce tnihi, domine, quia hrixiensis sum." 
 He went out, Pinella accompanying him with 
 the Hght as far as the dark arcade, where the road 
 to Castello begins. Then he disappeared. 
 
 The Marchesa Orsola rang her bell at half -past 
 six, and ordered the maid to bring her chocolate 
 as usual. She swallowed more than half of it 
 before asking with the utmost composure, at what 
 hour Don Franco had returned. 
 
 "He has not yet returned, Signora Marchesa." 
 
 The old woman must have received an inward 
 shock, but not a muscle of her face twitched. 
 She placed her lips on the edge of her cup of choco- 
 late, looked at the maid, and said calmly: 
 
 "Bring me one of those little bisctiits we had 
 yesterday." 
 
 Towards eight o'clock the maid came back to 
 say that Don Franco had returned, but only to go 
 directly to his room for his passport, coming down 
 again immediately, and he had then ordered the 
 footman to find a boatman who would take him 
 to Lugano. The Marchesa said never a word, but 
 later in the day she sent word to her confidant 
 Pasotti that she was expecting him. Pasotti 
 took in the situation at a glance, and remained 
 with her more than half an hour. The lady was 
 determined to find out where and how her grand- 
 
loo The Patriot 
 
 son had spent the night. Pasotti had already 
 heard some mmotirs, which he now repeated, 
 concerning a nocturnal visit of Don Franco's to 
 Casa Rigey; but more reliable and precise infor- 
 mation was desired. The cunning Tartufo, by 
 nature as curious as a hound, that goes about 
 following every scent, poking his nose into every 
 hole, and rubbing it against every pair of trowsers, 
 promised to furnish the Marchesa with such infor- 
 mation in the covirse of a day or two, and then 
 took himself off, his eyes sparkling, rubbing his 
 hands in anticipation of a pleasant chase. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 THE ROGUE AT WORK 
 
 ' I ^HE next morning, Pasotti having imbibed 
 -*- his coffee and milk, lay pondering the plan 
 of the chase until half -past ten, when he stimmoned 
 Signora Barborin, who slept in another room 
 because her snoring disturbed the "Controller," 
 as she respectfully called her husband. "He is 
 quite right," the poor deaf woman would say, "it 
 is a terribly bad habit, this snoring of mine! " She 
 was older than Pasotti, whom she had accepted 
 as her second husband because her heart was 
 very susceptible, and to whom she had brought 
 certain moneys which he had long coveted, and 
 was now enjoying. The Controller was fond of 
 her in his own way ; he obliged her to make calls, 
 to go on boating excursions, to take long walks 
 in the hills, all of which things were torments to 
 her. He made fun of her deafness, sent her out 
 covered with silks and feathers, and at home made 
 her work like any drudge. In spite of all this she 
 respected and served him Hke a slave, in fear and 
 trembling it is true, but not without affection. 
 When she did not call him "the Controller" she 
 called him "Pasotti," but she never allowed her- 
 self to use a more familiar appellation. 
 
I02 The Patriot 
 
 Pasotti, with a face as stern as any satrap, 
 ordered her by gestures to go to the drawer for 
 a white shirt, to the wardrobe for his second-best 
 suit, to a cupboard for a pair of boots. When his 
 wife had prepared everything, h\inting anxiously 
 here and there, continually facing about to 
 follow the eyes and gesttires of the master who 
 several times called her a fool, when she would 
 stare open-mouthed at him, striving to catch the 
 word she had only seen, Pasotti stuck his legs 
 out of bed, and said: 
 
 "Here you are!" 
 
 Signora Barborin knelt before him, and began 
 pulling on his stockings, while the Controller, 
 stretching out his arm to the pedestal, took his 
 snuff-box, and, having opened it, continued his 
 previous meditations, his fingers buried in the 
 snufif. He intended to make several visits of dis- 
 covery, but in what order should he arrange them ? 
 From what his farmer had told him, he judged that 
 Signer Giacomo Puttini's Marianna, and perhaps 
 even Signor Giacomo himself must know some- 
 thing about Don Franco, and certainly something 
 must be known in Castello. While Signora Bar- 
 borin was tying the second shoe-lace, Pasotti 
 remembered that it was Tuesday. Every Tues- 
 day Signor Giacomo, with a few friends, was in the 
 habit of going to the market at Lugano, or rather 
 to the tavern called "del Lordo," in order to vary 
 the daily wine of Grimelli by a weekly glass of an 
 :indiluted vintage, and he often came home in an 
 
The Rogue at Work 103 
 
 aflfectionate and communicative frame of mind. 
 It would therefore be better to call upon him late 
 in the day, say between four and five. In fancy 
 Pasotti was already holding him in his hand, and 
 managing him as he liked. With a malicious 
 smile he raised his fingers from the snuff-box, 
 shook the pinch to the proper dimensions by means 
 of a few gentle, even raps, enjoyed it at his leisure, 
 and then his wife having given him his hand- 
 kerchief, he rewarded her by mumbling with a 
 benign expression of countenance, as he rolled the 
 handkerchief into a ball: "Poor woman! poor 
 creature!" 
 
 When, after half an hoiir's labour he had put on 
 and buttoned up his coat, he exclaimed, seriously : 
 
 " What d hard work! " and went to the glass. 
 
 Then his wife venttired to edge cautiously to- 
 wards the door, saying very timidly — 
 
 "Can I go now?" 
 
 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 fore- 
 finger, which signified: "you, you, you!" Then, 
 making the motions of cutting something with 
 
104 The Patriot 
 
 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 gener- 
 ally 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 inno- 
 cent, trotted on behind him with short, quick 
 
The Rogue at Work 105 
 
 steps, and followed him down the flight of one 
 hundred and twenty-nine steps called the "Cal- 
 cinera," 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 \mder 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 cere- 
 monious 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 botmd to remain where he was. Don 
 Giuseppe began bawling for "Maria! Maria!" 
 
io6 The Patriot 
 
 Presently Maria's big face appeared at a window 
 in the upper story. 
 
 Don Giiiseppe 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 Bar- 
 borin? She here? Oh, Lord! Come up-stairs ! " 
 and he started forward impelled by obseqtiious- 
 ness, 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 Giu- 
 seppe'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 
 Tartuflfe, 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 iU. More panegyrics 
 concerning Signora Teresa and Luisa. What a 
 splendid creature! What circumspection, what 
 high principles, what sentiment! And the Mai- 
 
The Rogue at Work 107 
 
 roni 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 circumstances, 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 para- 
 pet, 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 prick!" said Don Giuseppe, sighing and 
 straightening himself up. He also had felt the 
 prick of the hook, and was trying to "make off" 
 as the fish had done. 
 
io8 The Patriot 
 
 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 ex- 
 change of greetings, which had been a great suc- 
 cess. 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 tinderstand, 
 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 
 
The Rogue at Work 109 
 
 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 fooUsh 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 everjrthing. " 
 
 "Well done!" thought Pasotti, adding these 
 remarks to what the farmer had said, and con- 
 cluding 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 
 
no The Patriot 
 
 appeared presently with a square, glass jar, full 
 of brandy-cherries, a renowned specialty of Don 
 Giuseppe's, who was in the habit of ofifering them 
 solemnly to his guests, in his own pecuHar Italian : 
 
 "Allow me to offer you something! Will you 
 try a few of my cherries ? M agar a con un tochello 
 di panel Perhaps with a slice of bread?" And 
 then, lapsing into dialect once more: "Maria, 
 tqjee 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, remem- 
 bering the hook; and by the application of the 
 dialect title 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 
 
The Rogue at Work iii 
 
 he had exchanged only on6 or two calls, and who 
 had the reputation of being a tedescone, a rank 
 German. Nevertheless, being incHned 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 
 compUments 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 Mass as often as he himself did, he 
 lived like a Puritan, loving neither the table nol 
 the bottle, neither tobacco nor certain loose dis- 
 courses. 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 Pro- 
 fessor 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 contemp- 
 
112 The Patriot 
 
 tuous snarl, after which the Controller spat 
 protestin^ly. 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 
 title. 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 hke 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 
 
The Rogue at Work 113 
 
 fact, notwithstanding his assumption 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 
 glass 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 snatched 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 snttff in the box he held open 
 in his hand, and smiling a smile half of beatitude, 
 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 title: Italian Poems, 
 from manuscripts. 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 heteroclite, 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 con- 
 fessed that his visit was not entirely of a disinter- 
 ested nature. He declared that he was in love 
 
114 The Patriot 
 
 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 com- 
 passionate rogue as he scrutinised and fingered 
 the sntiff. "Poor young man! He sometimes 
 flies into a passion, 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 yotmg 
 man! His hopes and hers also, of cotu-se. 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 some- 
 what 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. 
 
 "I don't know," the Professor replied, feeling 
 
The Rogue at Work 115 
 
 the colour moiinting to his face, and indeed he 
 turned scarlet. In his mental note-book Pasotti 
 immediately made a note of the embarrassed 
 manner, and of the heightened colour. "He 
 would be unwise to throw up the game. It is 
 only natural that the Marchesa should create 
 difificulties for them, but after all, she is a good 
 creattu"e, and devoted to him. Poor woman, 
 what a fright she had the other night!" 
 
 He glanced at the Professor who was frowning 
 in uneasy silence, and reflected: You will not 
 speak? Then you know. "Just think of it! 
 Not to say where he was going! What do you 
 think of that?" 
 
 " But I know nothing about it, I don't under- 
 stand." Gilardoni exclaimed, frowning more 
 darkly still and growing ever more uneasy. 
 
 And now Pasotti, who was aware that the Pro- 
 fessor had long since ceased to visit the Rigeys, 
 but was ignorant of the reason why, made a move 
 which was worthy only of a novice in roguery. 
 
 "You might enquire about it at Castello." 
 said he, with a malicious simper. 
 
 At this point Gilardoni, who was already boiling 
 with rage, overflowed. 
 
 "Pray oblige me by dropping this subject," 
 said he, angrily, "obUge me by dropping it." 
 
 Pasotti grew sullen. Ceremonious, insinuating, 
 and given to adulation though he was, his pride 
 would not allow him to suffer an unpleasant word 
 calmly, and he took offence at every shadow. He 
 
ii6 The Patriot 
 
 said no more, and in a few minutes took his leave 
 with dignified coolness, and retired through the 
 beets and the turnips, nursing his wrath. On 
 reaching the top of the Contrada dei Mal'ari, the 
 bargnif paused a moment to think, resting his chin 
 on his hand, then he started towards the shore of 
 Casarico, moving slowly, his head bent low, but 
 with glistening eyes, like the poodle that smells 
 the hidden trufHe in the air. Don Giuseppe's 
 frightened denials, Maria's obstinate denials, and 
 the Professor's embarrassment and outburst of 
 temper, told him that a truffle really existed, and 
 that it must be a big one. He had thought of 
 going to Loggi where dwelt Paolin and Paolon, 
 both of whom were well informed, but then he 
 had remembered that it was Tuesday, and that 
 probably he would not find them. No, it would 
 be better to go directly up to Castello from Casa- 
 rico, and sniff and hunt about in the house of a 
 certain Signora Cecca, an admirable woman, all 
 heart, and famous for the assiduous watch she 
 kept from her window over the entire Valsolda 
 by means of a powerful spy-glass. She could tell 
 you any day who had gone to Lugano with the 
 boatman Pin, or with Panighet; noted the con- 
 versations the unhappy Pinella held with a cer- 
 tain Moch6t in front of the church at Albogasio, 
 half a mile distant ; she knew how many days it 
 had taken Engineer Ribera to drink the little cask 
 of wine which his boat carried back empty from 
 the house at Oria to the cellar at S. Margherita. 
 
The Rogue at Work 117 
 
 If Franco had been to Casa Rigey Signora Cecca 
 must stirely know it. 
 
 In the passage that leads from Casarico to the 
 narrow street of Castello, Pasotti heard hurried 
 steps behind him, and then some one brushed past 
 him in the darkness and he believed he had 
 recognised a man nicknamed "legora fugada" or 
 the "hunted hare," because of the furious pace 
 at which he always walked. This honest man, 
 who was even more inquisitive than Pasotti, was 
 a most worthy person who loved to know things 
 just for the sake of knowing them, and for no 
 other reason. He always went about alone, was 
 everywhere, appearing and disappearing like a 
 flash, sometimes in one place, sometimes in an- 
 other, like certain large, winged insects, which 
 pass with a glance, a whirr, a touch, and then, 
 hush! they are neither heard nor seen again until 
 there comes another glance, another whirr, an- 
 other touch. He had seen the Pasottis enter the 
 "Palace," and the unusual hour had caused him 
 to suspect something. Lying flat in a small 
 field he had seen Signora Barborin turn home- 
 wards, and the Controller start towards Casarico. 
 Then, having followed at a distance, this indivi- 
 dual had posted himself behind one of the pilasters 
 of the portico of Casarico while Pasotti was calling 
 on Gilardoni, and now he had slipped past him, 
 taking advantage of the dark passage, and hasten- 
 ing to reach Castello before him, that he might 
 watch his movements from some point of vantage. 
 
ii8 The Patriot 
 
 In fact he saw him enter Signora Cecca's house. 
 
 The old lady, who had the goitre, was in her 
 little parlour, holding a small urchin on her left 
 arm, while with her free hand she supported a 
 very long and slender pasteboard tube, which was 
 struck slanting across the window like a wall-gun 
 and pointed down at the sparkling lake, at a 
 white sail, filled with the breva. On the entrance 
 of Pasotti, who came forward with stooping 
 shoulders, his face suffused with a most gentle 
 gaiety, the kindly and hospitable old dame 
 hastened to put down the monstrous pasteboard 
 nose, which she was so fond of poking into the 
 most distant affairs of others, where her own 
 parchment nose, though it was long beyond 
 measure, could not reach. She received the 
 Controller as she might have received a saintly 
 miracle-worker, who had come to remove her 
 goitre. 
 
 "Oh, how kind of you! Dear Sior Controlor! 
 Oh, how kind! What a pleasure! What a 
 pleasure!" 
 
 And she made him sit down and nearly suffo- 
 cated him with her offers of hospitaHty. 
 
 "A piece of cake! A bit of nut-candy! Dear 
 Sior Controlor! A little wine! A taste of 
 rosoho!— You must excuse me," she added, for 
 the youngster had begim to whine. "He is my 
 Httle grandson, you know. My Httle pet." 
 
 Pasotti took a great deal of urging, having not 
 only Don Giovanni's cherries, but also Gilardoni's 
 
The Rogue at Work 119 
 
 beer in his stomach, but finally he was obliged to 
 yield, and resign himself to gnawing a piece of 
 that accursed almond cake, while the urchin clung 
 to his grandmother's goitre. 
 
 At this the sarcastic rogue said pathetically, 
 laughing in his sleeve the while: "Poor Signora 
 Cecca! Twice a mother!" When he had en- 
 quired for her husband and for all her descendants 
 even unto the third generation, he brought for- 
 ward Signora Teresa Rigey. How was that 
 poor lady? Bad! Really very bad? But since 
 when had she been worse? Had there been any 
 cause ? Some trouble, perhaps ? The old troubles 
 were well known, but had there been some fresh 
 ones? Perhaps on Luisina's account? About 
 the marriage? And did Don Franco come to 
 Castello? Ah, not in the daytime, but perhaps 
 ? 
 
 As the patient who is being questioned and 
 examined by the surgeon searching for the painful, 
 hidden spot, answers ever more briefly, ever more 
 fearfully as the hand draws nearer and nearer to 
 the point, and starts and draws back as soon as 
 the spot is touched, so Signora Cecca answered 
 Pasotti ever more briefly, ever more cautiously, 
 until, at that "but" which touched the painful 
 spot so delicately, she started, exclaiming — 
 
 "A little more cake, Sior Controlor! It is a 
 cake light enough for yoting girls." 
 
 Pasotti in his heart cursed the "young girls" 
 and their cake, a concoction of honey, chalk and 
 
120 The Patriot 
 
 almond oil, but deemed it prudent to swallow 
 another mouthful before once more touching, or 
 rather pressing the tender spot he had discovered. 
 
 "I know nothing! I know nothing! Ab- 
 solutely nothing!" Signora Cecca exclaimed. 
 "Try sounding Puttini. Try Signor Giacomo. 
 And pray don't ask me anything more." Again! 
 Pasotti's face shone at the prospect of gitting the 
 unlucky Signor Giacomo into his clutches. Thus 
 the eyes of a falcon might shine at the joyous 
 prospect of snatching a frog, and of holding him 
 in his claws, to toy with at pleasure. Presently 
 he took his departure well satisfied with every- 
 thing save with the chaUcy cake, which la.y Hke 
 lead in his stomach. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Casa Puttini, which, within its minute, genteel 
 appearance, resembled the little old gentlemain 
 who ruled it, in a black coat and white stock, 
 stood just below that stately pile, Casa Pasotti, 
 on the road to Albogasio Inferiore. The falcon 
 went there in the afternoon, towards five o'clock, 
 with a cunning expression on his face. He 
 knocked at the door and then listened. He was 
 there! The tmlucky frog was there! And he 
 was quarrelHng as usual with the perfidious ser- 
 vant. Pasotti knocked louder. "Go down!" 
 said Signor Giacomo, but Marianna would not 
 hear of going down to open the door. " Go down ! 
 I am the master!" It was all in vain. Pasotti 
 knocked again, knocked Uke a battering-ram. 
 
The Rogue at Work 121 
 
 "Who the devil can it be!" scolded Puttini, and 
 he came down puffing : ' ' ApfE ! apff ! " to open the 
 door. "Oh, most gracious Controller!" said he 
 winking hard, and raising his eyebrows pathet- 
 ically. " Pray excuse me ! That awful servant! 
 I am quite worn out! You would not believe the 
 things that go on in this house!" 
 
 "That is a lie!" Marianna cried from above. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, you!" And then Signor 
 Giacomo began telling his woes, stopping from 
 time to time to silence the protests of the invisible 
 servant. 
 
 "Just fancy! This morning I went to Lugano. 
 I got home about three o'clock. On the door- 
 step — ^look there — I saw some splashes. Hold 
 your tongue, you! I did not heed them,, and 
 went straight in. At the head of the kitchen- 
 stairs there were more splashes. Be quiet, will 
 you? — ^What can have been spilled? said I to my- 
 self, and I stooped and touched the spots with my 
 finger. It was something greasy ; I smelt it, it 
 was oil. Then I followed the splashes, touching 
 and sniffing, sniffing and touching. All oil, most 
 gracious Controller! So I said to myself again: 
 Either it came in, or it went out. If it came in, 
 the farmer brought it, and in that case there will 
 be splashes outside the door, and they will ex- 
 tend upwards, if it went out, that means that this 
 accursed. . . . Hold your tongue, I say! . . . 
 took it to S. Mamette and sold it, and then the 
 splashes outside wiU extend downwards. So 
 
122 The Patriot 
 
 back I went, always following the splashes and 
 presently I found myself here at the door. Most 
 gracious Controller, those splashes all extended 
 downwards! That d " 
 
 At this point the servant's voice rang out like 
 the bell on an alarm-clock, and no "hold your 
 tongue" was strong enough to stem that shrill 
 flow of angry words. Pasotti tried, and not 
 succeeding, flew into a passion himself, and 
 shouted: "Oh, you cheat!" following up that 
 title with a string of insults, at each of which 
 Signor Giacomo gave a low grunt of satisfaction. 
 "Yes, yes, give it to her! that's right! I am 
 much obliged to you. Yes, shout, — ^that's right. 
 You torment, you! — I am really greatly obHged 
 to you, most gracious Controller! Really greatly 
 obliged!" 
 
 When Marianna had been overpowered and 
 reduced to silence, Pasotti told Signor Giacomo 
 that he must speak a few words with him. "I 
 am really not up to it," the little man complained. 
 " You must excuse me, for I feel quite ill." 
 
 "Not up to it, not up to it, indeed!" shouted 
 Marianna who had revived. "You had better 
 tell us how you wear yourself out going up to 
 Castello at night to see the girls!" 
 
 "Hold your tongue," Puttini shrieked, while 
 Pasotti exclaimed, with a fiendish grin: "What, 
 what, what!" Seeing that Puttini was be- 
 coming furious, he took him by the arm, and 
 calming him with peaceful and affectionate Ian- 
 
The Rogue at Work 123 
 
 guage, dragged him away to his own house where 
 he at once summoned his wife, and started a 
 game of three-handed tarocchi, with the ptirpose 
 of soothing the poor frog, and getting a firmer grip 
 of him. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 If Signora Barborin played badly, Signor 
 Giacomo, meditating, pondering and puffing, 
 played worse. He was an extremely timid player, 
 and never set himself up alone against the other 
 two, but to-day at the very first deal, he dis- 
 covered that he held such extraordinary cards 
 that he was seized with a fit of courage, and, to 
 use the language of the game, he entered. " Good- 
 ness knows what sort of a hand he has! " Pasotti 
 growled. 
 
 "I don't say. ... I don't say. . . . 
 There certainly are several friars who walk in 
 slippers." 
 
 Signor Giacomo's "I don't say" meant that he 
 held marvellous cards, and the friars in slippers, 
 in his lingo, were the four kings of the game. 
 While he was getting ready to play, feasting his 
 eyes upon his cards, and feeling each one in turn, 
 Pasotti took the opportunity of opening fire, 
 hoping to make him lose the game, into the bar- 
 gain. "Come now," said he, "tell us about it! 
 When was it you went to Castello at night?" 
 
 "Oh Lord! Oh Lord! Don't talk about it," 
 Signor Giacomo replied, growing very red and 
 sorting his cards faster than ever. 
 
124 The Patriot 
 
 "Well, well, play away then. We can -talk 
 later. I know the whole story any way!" 
 
 Poor Signor Giacomo, how cotild he play with 
 that bone in his throat? He sorted and puffed, 
 led when he should not have done so, blundered 
 in adding up the points, lost two of the friars and 
 their slippers as well, and in spite of his splendid 
 hand, left several markers in the clutches of Pasotti 
 who was grinning with delight, and several more 
 on the little plate beside Signora Barborin, who 
 kept repeating with clasped hands : " What have 
 you done, Signor Giacomo? what have you 
 done?" 
 
 Pasotti gathered up the cards and began shuf- 
 fling them, casting sardonic glances at Signor 
 Giacomo, who did not know where to look. 
 
 "Certainly," said he, "I know everjrthing. 
 Signora Cecca told me the whole story. I assure 
 you, my dear Political Deputy, you will be called 
 upon to answer for this before the Imperial and 
 Royal Commissary of Porlezza." 
 
 With these words Pasotti passed the cards to 
 Puttini, that he might cut. But Puttini, hearing 
 that dreaded name, began to groan: 
 
 "Oh Lord! Oh Lord! What is that you say? 
 . . . I know nothing. ... Oh Lord I 
 The Imperial and Royal Commissary? ... I 
 assure you I can't see what for! . . . apfif!" 
 
 "Certainly," Pasotti repeated. He was wait- 
 ing for a word that should enlighten him, and by 
 pointing first to the door and then to his own 
 
The Rogue at Work 125 
 
 mouth, he made his wife understand that she was 
 to fetch something to drink. 
 
 "And that dreadful engineer as well!" Signor 
 Giacomo exclaimed, as if speaking to himself. 
 
 As the fisherman who, pulling hard on the long, 
 heavy line quivering, he fancies, with the weight 
 of the one big fish he has been angling for so long, 
 finally redoubles his caution and skill, as, with 
 a thrill, he sees two great shadowy fishes instead 
 of one rising from the depths, so Pasotti, upon hear- 
 ing this allusion to the engineer, was thrilled and 
 amazed, and began preparing, with the most 
 exquisitely delicate touch, to draw out this secret 
 concerning Signof Giacomo and Ribera. 
 
 "Certainly," said he, "you did wrong." 
 
 Silence on Signor Giacomo's part. 
 
 Pasotti insisted. 
 
 "You did very wrong." 
 
 But just then Signora Barborin entered, smiling 
 genially, and bearing a tray with the bottle and 
 glasses. The wine was of a dark red, shot through 
 with ruby lights, and Signor Giacomo contem- 
 plated it if not yet tenderly, at least benevolently. 
 This wine had an aroma of austere virtue, and 
 Signor Giacomo smelt of it affectionately, gazed 
 at it with emotion, and then smelt of it again. 
 This wine had that mellow richness which fills 
 both palate and soul with its flavour, and indeed it 
 possessed exactly that honest and pure tartness 
 that its aroma pre-announced, and Signor Gia- 
 como sipped it and wished it were not liquid and 
 
126 The Patriot 
 
 evanescent, tasted it, smacked his lips over it, and 
 rolled it under his tongue. When, from time to 
 time, he rested his glass on the little table, neither 
 his hand nor his languid gaze were withdrawn 
 from it 
 
 "Poor Engineer! Poor Ribera!" Pasotti ex- 
 claimed. " He is a most upright man, but . . . " 
 
 And as he ptilled and pulled the unlucky Signor 
 Giacomo began to rise to the hook and the line. 
 
 "I myself did not wish it," he said. " 'Twas 
 he made me go — 'Come along,' said he. 'Why 
 do you not wish to- go ? There will be no harm 
 done. The thing is honest. ' Yes ! ' I answered, 
 'so it seems to me also, but all this secrecy? ' 'On 
 account of the grandmother,' he replied. 'But 
 then,' I asked, 'what sort of a figure shall you and 
 I cut?' 'We are just a couple of simpletons!' 
 he answered, with that way of his — honest, old- 
 fashioned soul that he is, — that always gets round 
 me. 'I will go,' said I." 
 
 Here he paused. Pasotti waited a while, and 
 then gave the line a cautious jerk. " The trouble 
 is," said he, " that the story leaked out at Castello." 
 
 " Yes, Sir, and I was sure it would. The family 
 and the engineer might keep the secret, and of 
 course I should never speak, but the priest and 
 the sacristan would surely talk." 
 
 The priest? The sacristan? Ah! at last Pa- 
 sotti understood. He staggered! He had not 
 expected such a tremendous disclosure. He 
 filled the unhappy Signor Giacomo's glass, and 
 
The Rogue at Work 127 
 
 had little difficulty in getting all the particulars 
 of the wedding out of him. Then he tried to find 
 out what plans for the future the young people 
 had formed, but in this, he did not succeed. He 
 began shuffling the cards with the intention of 
 continuing the game, but Signor Giacomo looked 
 at his watch, and found that it wanted only nine 
 minutes to seven, at which hour he was in the 
 habit of winding his clock. Three minutes in the 
 street, two minutes on the stairs, and there re- 
 mained only four minutes for leave-taking. 
 "Reckon it out for yourself, most gracious Con- 
 troller. It is as I say : there is no doubt about it. " 
 Signora Bardorin, noticing this consultation, 
 questioned her husband about it. Pasotti raised 
 his hands to his mouth, and shouted into her 
 face: "He wants to go and see his sweetheart!" 
 "What nonsense! What nonsense!" poor Signor 
 Giacomo exclaimed, turning all colours; and 
 Signora Pasotti, having understood by a miracle, 
 opened her mouth enormously wide, not knowing 
 whether or no to believe her husband. "His 
 sweetheart? Oh, what nonsense. It is foolish 
 talk, is it not, Signor Giacomo? Of course you 
 might have a sweetheart, I don't deny that. 
 You're not old, but . . . !" Seeing that he 
 really intended to be off, she tried to detain him, 
 telling him she had some chestnuts from Venegono 
 on the fire, which were nearly done, and begging 
 him to accept some of them. But neither the 
 chestnuts nor Pasotti's reproaches could persuade 
 
128 The Patriot 
 
 Signer Giacomo, and he departed with the spectre 
 of the Imperial and Royal Commissary in his 
 heart, harassed by unpleasant twinges of con- 
 science, and a vague sense of dissatisfaction with 
 himself, which he could not explain, and feeling 
 instinctively that the perfidious servant's inso- 
 lence was, after all, preferable to Pasotti's ca- 
 joleries. 
 
 As to the latter, his eyes shone even brighter 
 than usual. He intended going to Cressogno at 
 once. Being an indefatigable walker he ex- 
 pected to get there by eight o'clock. He was 
 hugely pleased at the prospect of going to the 
 Marchesa with his great discovery in pectore, of 
 acting mysteriously, of dropping the most artful 
 hints, one by one, and of obliging her to wrest the 
 particulars from him. For his own gratification 
 he was already preparing a gentle and soothing 
 little speech to lay upon the woimd of the im- 
 perturbable old dame, so that she might not be 
 able to hide it, and that no one might complain 
 of him, not even Franco. He went to the kitchen 
 where he got them to light a lantern for him, for 
 the night was very dark, and then he set out. 
 
 At the door he met his steward who was just 
 coming in. The steward greeted him, and carried 
 a large basket of fruit into the kitchen, and, hav- 
 ing helped the maid put it away, he seated him- 
 self by the fire, and said' placidly : 
 
 "Signora Teresa of Castello has just passed 
 away." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 THE OLD LADY OF MARBLE 
 
 ' I ^HE door was opened a little way, very, very 
 -■- softly; the maid looked in, and called to 
 Franco, who was absorbed in prayer, kneeling by 
 a chair near the couch upon which the dead woman 
 lay. Franco did not hear, and it was Luisa who 
 rose. She went to listen to the woman's whis- 
 pered request, said something in reply, and when 
 the maid had withdrawn, stood waiting for some 
 one. As no one appeared she pushed the door 
 open and said aloud: "Come in, come in." A 
 great sob answered her. Luisa stretched out both 
 hands and Professor Gilardoni seized them. They 
 stood some time thus, motionless, fighting their 
 sorrow with tightly pressed Hps, he more shaken 
 than she. Luisa was the first to move. She 
 gently withdrew one hand, and, with the other, 
 led the Professor into the chamber of death. 
 
 Signora Teresa had passed away in the drawing- 
 room in the armchair from which she had never 
 been able to rise after the night of the wedding. 
 They had made the sofa into a fimeral couch, and 
 laid her out upon it. The sweet face rested there 
 on the pillow, showing waxen in the light of the 
 four candles, the lips were slightly parted, and it 
 
 129 
 
130 The Patriot 
 
 was as if a smile shone through the closed eyelids. 
 The couch and the clothes were strewn with 
 autumn flowers; cyclamen, dahlias and chrysan- 
 themums. "See how beautiful she is," said 
 Luisa, in a tender, quiet tone that went to the 
 heart. The Professor stood leaning upon a chair 
 at some distance from the bed. 
 
 "Do you realise it, Mamma," Luisa said softly, 
 "how much you are beloved?" 
 
 She knelt down, and taking one of the dead 
 hands, began kissing it, caressing it, and mur- 
 muring sweet words over it in a low voice; then 
 she was silent, and, replacing the hand, she rose, 
 kissed the brow and contemplated the face with 
 clasped hands. She recalled her mother's re- 
 proofs in past years, remembering every one 
 since her childhood, for she had always felt them 
 deeply. Once more she fell upon her knees, and 
 pressed her lips to the icy hand with an impulse 
 of affection more ardent than if she had been 
 dwelling upon past caresses. Then taking a 
 cyclamen from her mother's shoulder, she rose 
 and offered it to the Professor. He took it, weep- 
 ing, and going to Franco, whom he now met for 
 the first time since that night, he embraced him 
 with silent emotion, and felt his embrace returned. 
 Then, stepping very softly, he left the room. 
 
 It was striking eight o'clock. Signora Teresa 
 had died the night before at six; in twenty-six 
 hours Luisa had never rested for a moment, and 
 had left the room only four or five times for a few 
 
The Old Lady of Marble 131 
 
 minutes. Franco it was who often went out, and 
 remained away a long time. 
 
 Summoned in secret he had reached Castello 
 just in time to see the poor mother alive, and it 
 had fallen to his lot to perform all the sad offices 
 which death imposes, for Uncle Piero, in spite of 
 his years, had not. the sUghtest knowledge of these 
 matters, and was greatly bewildered by them. 
 
 Now, hearing it strike eight, he went to his 
 wife and gently urged her to take a little rest, but 
 Luisa answered him at once in a way that put an 
 end to his insistence. The funeral was to take 
 place the next morning at nine o'clock. She had 
 wished it to be postponed for as long as possible, 
 and intended to remain with her mother to the 
 last. In her slim person there was an indomitable 
 vigour capable of withstanding still greater trials. 
 For her, her mother was there still, on that narrow 
 couch, among the flowers. She did not think that 
 a part of her was elsewhere, did not look out of the 
 west window, seeking her among the tiny stars 
 that trembled above the hills of Carona. Her 
 one thought was that in a few hotirs, the darling 
 mother, who had lived so many years for her 
 alone, caring for naught else on earth save her 
 happiness, would be laid away to sleep for ever 
 under the great walnut-trees of Looch, in the 
 shadowy solitude where the little cemetery of 
 Castello rests in silence, while she herself would 
 continue to enjoy life, the sun, and love. She 
 had answered Franco almost sharply as if, in 
 
132 The Patriot 
 
 some way, aflfection for the living were an offence 
 to the affection for the dead. Then, fearing she 
 had hurt him, she repented, kissed him and en- 
 deavotired to pray, knowing that in this she wotdd 
 be pleasing him, and that certainly her mother 
 wotdd have expected this of her. She began 
 reciting the Pater, the Ave and the Requiem over 
 and over again, but without deriving the slightest 
 comfort from them, experiencing, rather, a secret 
 irritation, an unwelcome drying up of her grief. 
 She had always practised religion, but, after the 
 ardour of her first Communion had died out, her 
 soul had ceased to be associated in reUgious ob- 
 servance. Her mother had lived rather for the 
 next world than for this; she had regulated her 
 every action, her every word, her every thought 
 with that end in view. In her precocious in- 
 tellectual development, Ltiisa's ideas and senti- 
 ments had taken another direction, with that 
 determined vigour which was one of her char- 
 acteristics. She covered these views, however, 
 with certain half-conscious, half-unconscious dis- 
 simtilations, partly for love of her mother, partly 
 because some germ of religion, sown by maternal 
 precepts, fostered by example, and strengthened 
 by habit, had not died out. Since her fourteenth 
 year she had been growing ever more inclined to 
 look beyond this present life, and at the same 
 time not to consider herself; to live for others, for 
 the earthly good of others, but always, however, 
 according to a strong and fierce sense of justice. 
 
The Old Lady of Marble 133 
 
 She went to chttrch, performed the external duties 
 of her religion, without incredulity, but also with- 
 out the conviction that they were pleasing to 
 God. She had a confused conception of a God so 
 great, so lofty, that no immediate contact was 
 possible between Him and mankind. Sometimes, 
 indeed, she feared she might be mistaken, but her 
 possible error seemed to her of a nature such as no 
 God of infinite goodness might punish. She 
 herself did not know how she had come to think 
 thus. 
 
 The door opened very softly once more, and a 
 low voice called, "Signor Don Franco." When 
 Luisa was alone she ceased to pray, and restmg 
 her head upon her mother's pillow, she pressed 
 her lips to the dear shoulder, closed her eyes and 
 let the flood of memories flow over her that sprung 
 from that touch, from that famiUar odour of 
 lavender. Her mother's dress was of silk, her 
 best, and had been a present from Uncle Piero. 
 She had worn it only once, some years before, on 
 the occasion of a visit to the Marchesa Marioni. 
 The odour of the lavender brought back this 
 memory also, and with it came scalding tears, 
 acrid with tenderness and with another sentiment 
 that was not actually hatred, that was not actually 
 anger, but that held the bitterness of both. 
 * * ^ * 
 
 Franco could not at once accoimt for the shud- 
 der that shook him when he heard his name called. 
 Early that morning Uncle Piero had written to the 
 
134 The Patriot 
 
 Marchesa, announcing his sister's death in simple 
 but most respectful language, and had enclosed 
 a note from Franco himself, which ran as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 "Dear Grandmother, — I have not time to 
 write to you because I am here, but I wiU tell you 
 all by word of mouth to-morrow evening. I hope 
 you will listen to me as my father and mother 
 would have Ustened." 
 
 No answer had as yet come from Cressogno, but 
 now a man from Cressogno had brought a letter. 
 Where was this man? — Gone; he would not stop 
 a minute. Franco took the letter and read the 
 address: " Al. preg. Signor Ingegnere Pietro Ri- 
 bera." At the same time he recognised in the 
 writing, the hand of the agent's daughter. He 
 went up to Uncle Piero's room at once. The 
 engineer, who was worn out, had gone to bed. 
 
 When Franco brought him the letter he showed 
 neither surprise nor curiosity, but said, calmly: 
 
 "Open it." 
 
 Franco placed the light on the chest of drawers, 
 and opened the letter, keeping his back to the bed. 
 As he stood, he seemed turned to stone ; he neither 
 breathed nor moved-. 
 
 "Well?" said the uncle. 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "I understand," the old man added. Then 
 Franco let the letter fall, and stretching his hands 
 
The Old Lady of Marble 135 
 
 above his head, he uttered a long "Ah! " deep and 
 hoarse, and laden with amazement and horror. 
 
 "Come, come!" Uncle Piero repeated, "what 
 about this letter?" 
 
 Franco roused himself, and hastened to em- 
 brace him, hardly able to restrain his sobs. 
 
 The placid man bore this storm calmly and 
 patiently for a time, but presently he began to 
 defend himself, and demanded the letter. "Let 
 me see it, let me see it," said he, and he muttered, 
 "What can that blessed woman have written?" 
 
 Franco brought the Hght and the letter, which 
 he handed to Uncle Piero. His grandmother had 
 written never a word, never a syllable; she had 
 simply returned the engineer's letter and Franco's 
 note. It was some time before the uncle could 
 grasp this. He was never quick to understand 
 things, and this thing was utterly incompre- 
 hensible to him! When at last he did make it 
 out, he could not help saying: "Certainly this 
 is very hard!" Then, seeing how beside himself 
 Franco was, he added, with the big solemn voice 
 he used when judging human actions toto corde, 
 
 "Listen. It is, I shotdd say " (and he 
 
 searched for the right word, in his own peculiar 
 fashion puffing out his cheeks, and emitting a sort 
 
 of rattUng sotmd) " an injustice! But I am 
 
 by no means so extremely astonished as you are. 
 Not all the wrong is on her side, my dear fellow, 
 
 and so However, I am sorry for you two, who 
 
 will have to eat plain food and live in this miser- 
 
136 The Patriot 
 
 able little town; but how about me? For my 
 
 part, I gain by all this, and I may even say, I 
 
 feel inclined to thank your grandmother. You 
 
 see I have never founded a family of my own ; I 
 
 have always counted upon this family. Now my 
 
 poor sister is dead, and if your grandmother had 
 
 opened her arms to you, I should have been of no 
 
 more use than an old cabbage stock. So you 
 
 see " 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Franco was careftil not to let his wife know 
 about this matter, and although she was aware 
 that the letters had been sent to Cressogno, she 
 did not ask if his grandmother had answered, tmtil 
 after the funeral, until some hovirs after the fimer- 
 al. The little drawing-room, the little terrace, 
 the little kitchen, had been fvill of people all day 
 long, from nine o'clock in the morning until nine 
 in the evening. At ten Luisa and Franco left 
 the house without a lantern, turned to the right, 
 went very slowly and silently through the dark- 
 ness of the village, and, passing the bright and 
 windy turning to which rises the deep roar of the 
 river of S. Mametti, stood among the shadows 
 and the ptmgent odours of the walnut-trees of 
 Looch. Shortly before they reached the ceme- 
 tery, Luisa said softly to her husband: "Have 
 you heard nothing from Cressogno?" He would 
 have Hked to hide at least part of the truth from 
 her, but he could not. He said his note had been 
 returned to him; and then Luisa wanted to know 
 
The Old Lady of Marble 137 
 
 if his grandmother had sent a word of condolence 
 to Uncle Piero. Franco's " no" was almost timid, 
 and so uncertain that, after they had gone on a 
 few steps a suspicion flashed across Luisa's 
 mind, and she suddenly stopped, and seized her 
 husband's arm. Before she had uttered a word 
 Franco understood and embraced her as he had 
 embraced Uncle Piero, only still more impet- 
 uously, telling her to take his heart, his soul, his 
 life, to seek for nothing else in this world. He 
 felt she was trembling violently in his arms, but 
 neither then nor afterwards did a word on this 
 subject pass between them. At the gate of the 
 cemetery they knelt together. Franco prayed 
 with the fervour of faith. Luisa,with eager eyes, 
 pierced the earth where it had been disturbed 
 near the entrance; pierced the coffin, and, in 
 thought, fixed her gaze on her mother's mild and 
 serious face; once more, in thought, but with an 
 impulse so violent that the bars of the gate shook, 
 she bent forward, lower and lower, pressed her 
 lips to the lips of the dead woman, imprinting 
 upon them a violence of affection, stronger than 
 all the insults, than all the baseness of this world.' 
 Towards eleven o'clock she tore herself re- 
 luctantly away from the spot. Going slowly 
 down the slippery and stony path beside her 
 husband there suddenly arose before her mind's 
 eye a vision of a future meeting with the Mar- 
 chesa. She stopped, drawing herself up and 
 clenching her fists, and from her handsome, in- 
 
138 The Patriot 
 
 telligent face there shone forth such fierceness 
 that, could the old lady of marble have seen her 
 thus, have met her at that moment, she might 
 not have surrendered, perhaps, but she wovdd 
 certainly have hastened to put herself on the 
 defensive. 
 
Part Second 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FISHERMEN 
 
 T^R. FRANCESCO ZERBOLI, Imperial and 
 ^-^ Royal Commissary of Poriezza, landed at 
 the Imperial and Royal Ricemtoria — the custom- 
 house — at Oria, on the tenth day of September, 
 1854, just as a truly imperial and royal sim was 
 rising above the ponderous bastions of Galbiga, 
 glorifying the little pink custom-house and the 
 oleanders and beans of Signora Peppina Bianconi, 
 and summoning to his oflfice, in accordance with 
 the regulations, Signor Carlo Bianconi, her hus- 
 band, that same Receiver of Customs who had 
 scented conspiracy in manuscript music. Bian- 
 coni, whom his wife called el me Carlascia, — 
 "my big Charley" — and the people, el Biancon, 
 a tall man, fat and solid, with a clean-shaven 
 chin, a grey moustache, and the large dull eyes 
 of a faithful mastiff, went down to meet that other 
 clean-shaven Imperial and Royal one, of higher 
 rank. There was no resemblance between the 
 two, save in the Austrian nudity of their chins. 
 Z^rboli, dressed in black and carefully gloved, 
 
 •39 
 
140 The Patriot 
 
 was short and stout, and wore a pair of fair 
 moustaches flattened against his sallow face, out 
 of which peered two small, sarcastic, and scornful 
 sparks of eyes. His hair grew so low on his fore- 
 head that he was in the habit of shaving off a 
 strip, and at times a shade showed there, that gave 
 him the appearance of some strange beast. Quick 
 in his movements, in his glance, in his speech, he 
 spoke, with easy courtesy, a nasal Italian, having 
 the modulations of the province of Trento. He 
 now informed the Receiver that he had come to 
 hold a convocato — the communal council of those 
 days — at Castello, and that he had preferred to 
 come early and climb the hill while it was cool, 
 from Oria rather than from Casarico or Albogasio, 
 that he might have the pleasure of greeting the 
 Receiver. 
 
 The big, faithful mastiff did not at once under- 
 stand that the Commissary had a second end in 
 view, and poured forth his thanks in a medley of 
 obsequious phrases, and short, silly laughs, 
 rubbing his hands and offering coffee, milk, eggs, 
 and the open air of the little garden. The other 
 accepted the coffee, but declined the open air 
 with a motion of his head and a wink so eloquent, 
 that Carlascia, after shouting upstairs, " Peppina ! " 
 ushered him into the office where, feeling himself 
 transformed (such was his double nature) from 
 a receiver of customs into a police-officer, he com- 
 posed himself, and put on an expression of aus- 
 terity, as if about to enter into a sacramental 
 
Fishermen 141 
 
 union with the monarch himself. This office was 
 a miserable hole on the ground floor, with iron 
 gratings at the two small windows ; an infectious 
 and primitive cell, that already stimk of the great 
 empire. The Commissary seated himself in the 
 middle of the room, looking at the closed door 
 that led from the landing-stage to the ante-room, 
 the one leading from the ante-room to the office 
 having been left open by his orders. 
 
 "Tell me something of Signor Maironi," said he. 
 
 "He is still watched," Bianconi answered, and 
 continued in the Italian of Porta Tosa. " By the 
 way — ^wait a moment — I have a report here that is 
 nearly finished." And he began hunting and 
 fumbling among his papers, in search of the report 
 and of his glasses. 
 
 "You will send it in, you will send it in!" ex- 
 claimed the Commissary, who had a dread of the 
 big mastiff's -prose. 
 
 "Meanwhile speak. Tell me everything." 
 
 "He is as ill-intentioned as ever. We knew 
 before he was ill-intentioned, but now it is very 
 evident," the eloquent Receiver continued. "He 
 has begim to wear that beard — you know — ^that 
 midget — ^that moschetta — that pointed tiift, that 
 filthy "* 
 
 "Pardon me," said the Commissary, "you see 
 I am new to the place. I have my instructions 
 and I have received some information, but as yet 
 
 * A short, pc'nted beard, called la mosca, and worn by- 
 patriots in those days. [Translator's note.] 
 
142 The Patriot 
 
 I have no exact knowledge of the man and his 
 family. You must describe them to me as 
 minutely as you can. Let us begin with him." 
 
 "He is a proud man, violent and overbearing. 
 He has quarrelled here at least fifty times over 
 questions of duty. He will never give in, and he 
 wants to teach me and the guard also. His eyes 
 flash as if he were going to eat the custom-house. 
 But it is no use being overbearing with me, even 
 
 if he For indeed he knows almost everything, 
 
 and that is a fact! He knows law, finance, music, 
 flowers, fish, and the devil knows what all else." 
 
 "And she?" 
 
 "She? Oh, she is a sly puss, but when she 
 shows her claws they are worse than his; much 
 worse ! When he is angry he turns red and makes 
 a great row, she turns pale and is devilish insolent. 
 Of course I never tolerate her insolence, but — 
 weU, you tmderstand. She is a talented woman, 
 I can tell you. My Peppina is devoted to her. 
 She is a woman who makes friends everywhere. 
 Here in Oria they often send for her instead of 
 sending for the doctor. If there is a quarrel in a 
 family, they send for her. If an animal has the 
 stomach-ache, she must come. All the children 
 run after her, and she even makes little dolls for 
 them at Carnival time. You know, those little 
 puppets. Moreover this woman can play on the 
 spinet, and knows French and German. I am 
 so unfortunate as not to speak German, so I 
 have been to her several times to get German 
 
Fishermen 143 
 
 documents explained, when such come to the 
 office." 
 
 "Ah! So you go to the Maironis' house?" 
 
 "Yes, sometimes, for that purpose." 
 
 In truth the big mastiff also went there to get 
 
 Franco to explain certain enigmatical passages in 
 
 the customs-tariff to him, but he did not say so. 
 
 The Commissary continued his examination. 
 
 "And how is the house furnished?" 
 
 "Well, very well. Fine Venetian floorings, 
 
 painted ceilings, sofas heavily draped, a spinet, a 
 
 splendid dining-room all hung with portraits." 
 
 "And the Engineer-in-Chief?" 
 
 "The engineer is a jolly, old-fashioned, kind 
 
 man; he resembles me, though he is older. But 
 
 he is not here much. He comes for two weeks 
 
 about this time of the year, and two weeks more 
 
 in the Spring, and he pays a few short visits in 
 
 between. Just leave him alone, and let him have 
 
 his milk in the morning, his milk at night, his 
 
 flask of Modena for dinner, his game of tarocchi, 
 
 and his Milan Gazette, and Engineer Ribera is 
 
 perfectly happy. But to return to Signor Mai- 
 
 roni's beard. There is something even worse! 
 
 I discovered yesterday that the gentleman has 
 
 planted a jasmine in a wooden box painted red ! "* 
 
 The Commissary, a man of parts, and probably 
 
 in his secret heart, indifferent to all colours save 
 
 * Box, red; leaves, green; flower, white. The Italian 
 colours, so the worthy Receiver scents sedition. \Transla- 
 tor's note.] 
 
144 The Patriot 
 
 that of his own complexion and his own tongue, 
 could not refrain from slightly shrugging his 
 shoulders. Nevertheless, he presently asked — 
 
 " Is the plant in blossom? " 
 
 " I don't know. I will ask the woman," 
 
 "Ask whom? Your wife? So your wife goes 
 to Casa Maironi also?" 
 
 "Yes, from time to time." 
 
 Z^rboli fixed his two little scornful eyes on 
 Bianconi's face, and put the following question, 
 enunciating every syllable very distinctly. 
 
 " Does she, or does she not, go there from good 
 motives?" 
 
 "Well, as to that, it depends! She imagines 
 she goes as a friend of Luisina's, to talk about the 
 flowers, their sewing, and for little bits of gossip, 
 and they chatter and chirp away as women will ; 
 you know the way. But I get out of her " 
 
 "Th chi, tb chi! Behold, behold!" Signora 
 Peppina Bianconi exclaimed in her Porta Ticinese 
 dialect, as she came forward with the coffee, 
 smiling pleasantly. "The Commissary! What a 
 pleasure it is to see you! I am afraid the coffee 
 isn't very good, but any way it is fresh made. It 
 is a great nuisance not being able to have it from 
 Lugano!" 
 
 "Tut, tul;, tut!" grumbled her husband crossly. 
 
 "Well, what harm is that? I only said so in 
 fun. You understood, didn't you. Stir Com- 
 missari? That blessed man there never under- 
 stands anything. I never get any coffee for my- 
 
Fishermen 145 
 
 self, anyway. I am taking mallow-water now 
 for a dizzy head." 
 
 " Don't talk so much, don't talk so much! " her 
 husband interpolated, and the Commissary, set- 
 ting down the empty cup, told the good woman 
 that he was coming to see her flowers presently, 
 and this gallantry was like the act of one who, at 
 a caf6, throws the money upon the tray, that the 
 waiter may take it and be gone. 
 
 Signora Peppina understood, and awed by the 
 ferocious eyes of her Carlascia, withdrew in haste. 
 
 "Listen, listen, listen," the Commissary ex- 
 claimed, covering his brow with his left hand, and 
 pressing his temples. "Oh!" he ejaculated, sud- 
 denly remembering, "I have it! I wanted to 
 inqtiire if Engineer Ribera is in Oria at present." 
 
 " He is not here now, but I believe he is coming 
 very shortly." 
 
 " Does Engineer Ribera spend much money on 
 this Maironi family?" 
 
 "He certainly must spend a great deal. I 
 don't believe Don Franco has more than three 
 
 svanziche a day of his own, and she " The 
 
 Receiver blew across the palm of his hand. " So 
 
 you see ! They keep a servant. They have 
 
 a little girl about two years old, and so they miist 
 needs keep a maid to look after the child. They 
 send away for flowers, books, music, and all sorts 
 of things. Of an evening they play cards, and 
 there is always a bottle of wine. It takes a good 
 many svanziche to live in this way, you know." 
 
146 The Patriot 
 
 The Commissary reflected a moment with a 
 clouded brow, and eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and 
 then, in short, disjointed sentences that sounded 
 like fragments of an oracle, he let it be under- 
 stood that Engineer Ribera, an Imperial and Royal 
 official, recently favoured by the Imperial and 
 Royal government with a promotion in loco, should 
 exert a better influence over his nephew's family. 
 Then with further questionings and further ob- 
 servations touching the engineer's present weak- 
 nesses, he intimated to Bianconi that his paternal 
 attention should be directed with special secrecy 
 and delicacy towards their Imperial and Royal 
 colleague, in order that — ^shoiild this become ne- 
 cessary — they might be able to enlighten their 
 Superiors concerning certain acts of tolerance 
 which would be scandalous. He ended by in- 
 qtiiring if Bianconi was aware that the lawyer 
 V. from Varenna and another individual from 
 Loveno were in the habit of visiting the Maironis 
 qiiite often. The Receiver knew this, and had 
 learned from his Peppina that they came to make 
 music. "I don't believe it," the Commissary 
 announced, with sudden and unusual asperity. 
 "Your wife does not understand at all. If you 
 go on like this, my dear Bianconi, they will lead 
 you by the nose. Those two are a couple of 
 rascals, who would be better off at Kufstein.* 
 You must seek for more information, and when 
 
 ♦Kufstein was one of the Austrian fortresses where "poli- 
 ticals" were imprisoned. [Translator's note.] 
 
Fishermen 147 
 
 you have obtained it, you will pass it on to me. 
 And now let us go into the garden. By the way, 
 when anything conies from Lugano for the Mar- 
 
 chesa Maironi " Z6rboli finished the sentence 
 
 with a gesture of amiable munificence, and started 
 forward, followed by the deeply mortified mastiff. 
 
 Signora Peppina allowed them to find her in 
 the garden watering the flowers aided by a small 
 boy. The Commissary looked, admired, and 
 fotmd a means of giving the subaltern police- 
 officer a little lesson. By praising her flowers he 
 easily led Signora Bianconi to mention Franco, 
 but, as if quite indifferent to that gentleman, he 
 did not dwell a moment upon him, but stuck 
 to the flowers, declaring that Maironi could not 
 possibly have finer ones. Little cries, groans, and 
 ejaculations broke from the humble Signora 
 Peppina, who was really embarrassed by such a 
 comparison. But the Commissary insisted. How? 
 Even the Casa Maironi fuchsias were finer? The 
 heliotrope and the pelargonia also? How about 
 the jasmine? 
 
 "The jasmine!" Signora Peppina exclaimed. 
 "Why, Signor Maironi has the finest jasmine in 
 the whole Valsolda, my dear sirV 
 
 Thus, in the most natural way possible, did the 
 Commissary presently discover that the famous 
 jasmine had not yet blossomed. " I should like to 
 see Don Franco's dahlias," said he. The in- 
 genuous creattire offered to accompany him to 
 Casa Ribera that very day. "They will be so 
 
148 The Patriot 
 
 delighted!" But the Commissary expressed his 
 desire to wait the coming of the Imperial and 
 Royal Engineer-in-Chief, that he might have an 
 opportunity of greeting him, whereupon Signora 
 Peppina said approvingly : ' ' That is right . ' ' Mean- 
 while the mastiff, humiliated by that superior 
 skill, and -wishing to show in some way that, at 
 least, he was zealous, seized the boy with the 
 watering-pot by the arm, and presented him: 
 
 " My nephew. Son of a sister of mine, married 
 to an Imperial and Royal doorkeeper, at the 
 police station in Bergamo. He has the honour 
 to bear the names, Francesco Giuseppe — Francis 
 Joseph — ^bestowed upon him by my express desire. 
 Of course, you see, it would not be respectful to 
 use these names ordinarily " 
 
 " His mother calls him Rati, and his father calls 
 him Ratii, fancy that!" Aunt Peppina put in. 
 
 "Be quiet!" said his uncle. "I call him Fran- 
 cesco. He is a well-behaved boy, I must say; a 
 very well-behaved boy. Now tell us, Francesco, 
 what are you going to do when you are a 
 man?" 
 
 Rati rattled off his answer as if he were reciting 
 his catechism. 
 
 "When I am a man I shall always comport 
 myself as behooves a faithful and devoted subject 
 of His Majesty our Emperor, and a good Christian ; 
 and I hope, with the help of the Lord, to become 
 some day, an Imperial and Royal Receiver of 
 Customs like my uncle, that I may, at last, enter 
 
Fishermen 149 
 
 Paradise, and be duly rewarded for my virtuous 
 actions." 
 
 " Well done, well done, well done! " said Z^rboli, 
 caressing Rati. "Always walk in the path of 
 virtue." 
 
 "You be qmet, Siir Commissari," Peppina once 
 more burst out. " This morning the little villain 
 ate half the sugar out of the sugar-basin!" 
 
 "What, what, what?" Carlascia exclaimed, 
 forgetting his part in his astonishment. He re- 
 membered himself at once however, and declared : 
 "It was your own fault. Things should be put 
 away. Is not that true, Francesco?" 
 
 "Perfectly," Rati answered; and the Commis- 
 sary vexed at this wrangle, and at the twist his 
 paternal admonition had received, took himself 
 off withoiit ceremony. 
 
 Hardly had he disappeared when Carlascia 
 scolded angrily : " You take the sugar again if you 
 dare, you!" and hit Francis Joseph a formidable 
 kilock on the side of the head. This worthy had 
 expected quite different treatment, and ran off 
 to hide among the beans. Then Bianconi had it 
 out with his wife, scolding her roundly, and 
 swearing that in the future he would look after 
 the sugar himself; and upon her daring retort: 
 "What business is it of yours, after all?" he fiung 
 out: "Everything is my business, everything is 
 my business!" and turning his back upon her, 
 strode off, puffing and tingling, to the spot where 
 his attentive wife had prepared the fishing-rod 
 
I50 The Patriot 
 
 and the polenta, and began to bait the two great 
 hooks he used in catching tench. In the olden 
 days that little world was even more completely 
 isolated from the great world than at present, and 
 was, even more than at present, a world of silence 
 and of peace, in which the functionaries of both 
 State and Church, and, following their venerable 
 example, many faithful subjects as well, dedicated 
 several hours a day to edifying contemplation. 
 Seated first on the West, the Receiver cast two 
 hooks attached to a single line, two tempting 
 mouthfuls of polenta, as far out from the shore as 
 possible ; when the line was stretched tight, when 
 the float seemed firmly anchored in quiet expec- 
 tation, the Imperial and Royal personage placed 
 the short rod delicately upon the low wall, and 
 sat down to contemplate. To the east of him 
 the sedentario, as the customs-guard was then 
 called, ciouching on the humble landing-stage in 
 front of another float, smoked his pipe and con- 
 templated. A few steps beyond old, half -starved 
 Custant, a retired white-washer, sacristan and 
 churchwarden, one of the patricians of the village 
 of Oria, sat in contemplation, on the prow of his 
 boat, a lofty, prehistoric, tall hat on his head, the 
 magic wand in his hand, his legs dangling above the 
 water, and his soul concentrated on his own 
 particular float. Seated on the edge of a small 
 field, in the shade of a mtdberry-tree and a large; 
 black, straw hat, the puny, thin, be-spectacled 
 Don Brazzova, parish-priest of Albogasio, was 
 
Fishermen 151 
 
 lost in contemplation, his image reflected in the 
 clear water. In a kitchen-garden of Albogasio 
 Inferiore, between the banks of the Ceron and that 
 of Mandrceugn, another patrician in a jacket and 
 high boots, the churchwarden Bignetta, called 
 el Signoron, the fine gentleman, sitting stiff and 
 solemn, upon an eighteenth century chair, with 
 the famous rod in his hand, watched and con- 
 templated. Under the fig-tree at Cadate, Don 
 Giuseppe Costabarbieri sat in contemplation. At 
 S. Mamette the doctor, the grocer, and the shoe- 
 maker were hanging over the water and contempla-* 
 ting most diligently. At Cressogno the Marchesa's 
 florid cook was contemplating. Opposite Oria, 
 on the shady deserted shore of Bisgnago, a 
 dignified arch-priest from lower Lombardy was 
 in the habit of leading a life of contemplation for 
 forty days every year. All alone he sat, with 
 three rods resting at his feet, while with the air 
 of a bishop, he contemplated the three floats 
 belonging to these rods — ^two with his eyes, one 
 with his nose. If some one, passing far out on 
 the lake could have seen all these brooding figures 
 without perceiving the rods, the lines, and the 
 floats, he would have thought himself in a country 
 inhabited by hermits and ascetics, who, weary of 
 the earth, were contemplating the sky in this 
 liqtiid mirror, simply for the sake of greater 
 convenience. 
 
 As a matter of fact, all these ascetics were fishing 
 for tench, and no mysteiy the future of humanity 
 
152 The Patriot 
 
 might contain could be of more importance to 
 them than those mysteries at which the little 
 float secretly hinted, when, as if possessed by a 
 spirit, it showed signs of growing unrest, and, at 
 last, even of mental derangement; for, after 
 dipping and jerking, now forward, now backward, 
 it would at last, in the utter confusion of its ideas, 
 choose the desperate course of plunging head fore- 
 most into the depths. These phenomena, how- 
 ever, occurred only at rare intervals, and some 
 of the contemplators would pass whole half -days 
 without noticing the slightest movement in their 
 floats. Then each one, removing his eyes from 
 the bit of cork, would follow a line of thought 
 running parallel with the line attached to the rod. 
 Thus it sometimes happened that the arch-priest 
 would land an episcopal see, the "fine gentleman," 
 a wood that had once belonged to his ancestors, 
 the cook, a tench from the hills, rosy and fair, and 
 Custant, an order from government to whitewash 
 the peak of Cressogno. As to Carla&cia, his second 
 line was usually of a political nature, and the 
 reason of this will be more readily grasped if we 
 reflect that the main line, the one attached to the 
 rod, often awoke in his big, dull head certain 
 political considerations which the Commissary 
 Zirboli had suggested to him. "You see, my 
 dear Receiver," Z^rboli had once said, when 
 discoursing weakly about the events which had 
 taken place on the sixth of February in Milan, 
 " you who fish for tench, can easily understand 
 
Fishermen 153 
 
 this matter. Otir great monarchy is fishing with 
 a line. The twin baits are Lombardy and the 
 Venetian provinces; two round and tempting 
 morsels, with iron inside. Our monarchy has 
 cast them there at its feet, opposite the Itirking- 
 place of that foolish little fish, Piedmont. In 
 1848 it grabbed at the bait Lombardy, but even- 
 tually succeeded in spitting it out and making 
 off. Milan is our float. When Milan moves, it 
 means that the little fish is just beneath. Last 
 year the float moved a wee bit, but the dear little 
 fish had only sniffed at the bait. But wait, some 
 day there will be a violent movement, and we 
 shall give a jerk; there will be some struggling, 
 some floundering, but we shall land our little 
 fish, and never let it escape again, the little white, 
 red, and green pig!" 
 
 Bianconi had laughed heartily at this, and 
 often when he sat down to fish, he would amuse 
 himself by ruminating on this graceful simile, 
 from which would generally arise other subtle and 
 profound political musings. That morning the 
 lake was quiet and most favourable to contem- 
 plation. The tallest grass of the precipitous bot- 
 tom could be seen standing erect, a sign that 
 there was no under-current. The baited hook 
 cast far out, sunk straight and slowly, the line 
 stretched evenly and smoothly below the float 
 which sailed behind it a Kttle way, surrotinded by 
 a series of tiny rings, that told of the ticklings of 
 small carp, and then sunk into repose, a sign that 
 
154 The Patriot 
 
 the bait was resting on the bottom, and that the 
 carp no longer worried it. The fisherman placed 
 the short rod on the low wall, and fell to thinking 
 of Engineer Ribera. 
 
 Though he was not aware of it Bianconi had a 
 large dose of meekness in one corner of his heart 
 which God, without informing him of it, had 
 made with a false bottom. The world had proof 
 of this in 1859, when the dear little fish, having 
 swallowed the bait Lombardy, with the hook, 
 the line, the rod, the Commissary, and everything 
 else, Bianconi took to planting national and con- 
 stitutional cabbages at Precotto. In spite of 
 this hidden meekness, as he now laid down his rod 
 and reflected that poor, old Engineer Ribera was 
 to be fished for, he experienced a singtdar satis- 
 faction, neither in his heart, nor his head, nor in 
 any of the usual senses, but in a particular sense 
 of his own, purely Imperial and Royal! Indeed 
 he had no consciousness of himself as distinct 
 from the Austrian governing organism. Re- 
 ceiver at a small frontier customs-house, he con- 
 sidered himself the point of the nail on a finger of 
 the state; then, as a police-agent, he considered 
 himself a microscopic eye under that nail. His 
 life was that of the monarchy. If the Russians 
 tickled the skin of Galicia, he felt the itching at 
 Oria. The greatness, the power, the glory of 
 Austria inflated him with -unbounded pride. He 
 would not admit that Brazil was vaster than the 
 Austrian Empire, or that China was more thickly 
 
Fishermen 155 
 
 populated, or that the Archangel Michael could 
 take Peschiera, or the Almighty Himself take 
 Verona. His real Almighty was the Emperor; 
 he respected the One in Heaven as an ally of the 
 one at Vienna. 
 
 So, although he had never suspected that 
 Engineer Ribera was an unfaithful subject, the 
 Commissary's words — ^gospel truth to him — ^had 
 carried conviction with them, and the idea of 
 getting hold of this untrustworthy servant fired 
 the zeal of the royal eye and the imperial finger 
 nail. He called himself an ass for not having 
 seen through this man before. Oh, but there 
 was still time to catch him and hold him fast, 
 fast, fast! "You just leave it to me! Just 
 leave it to. me, Signor Comm " 
 
 He broke off suddenly and seized the rod. 
 Gently, almost without moving, the float had 
 printed a ring on the water, the sign of a tench. 
 Bianconi clutched the rod tight, holding his 
 breath. Another dip of the float, another and 
 larger ring; the float moved slowly, slowly upon 
 the water, and then stopped. Bianconi's heart 
 was beating violently; the float moved still a 
 little further on the siirface, and then went under ; 
 zag! Bianconi gave a jerk, and the rod bowed 
 with the tugging on the line of a hidden fish. 
 "Peppina, I've got him!" shouted Carlascia, 
 losing his head. "The guadHl, the guadHl/ " The 
 customs-guard turned round enviously: "Have 
 you got him, Scior Recitdr?" Ctistant, consumed 
 
156 The Patriot 
 
 with envy, gave no sign, not even turning his tall 
 hat. Rati and Signora Peppina came rushing up, 
 the latter bringing the guadHl, a long pole with a 
 large net at the end of it, used for bagging the 
 tench in the water, for it would be a desperate 
 risk to lift it up by the line. Bianconi took the 
 line and began drawing it in very slowly. The 
 tench was not yet visible, but must surely be 
 enormous. The line came in smoothly for a few 
 feet, and then was jerked violently back; then it 
 began to come in again, nearer, ever nearer, until, 
 far down below the surface, tmderneath the very 
 noses of the three personages, something yellow 
 flashed, a monstrous shadow! " Oh, the beauty! " 
 said Signora Peppina under her breath. Rati 
 exclaimed: " Madone, Madone!" But Bianconi 
 spoke never a word, and only pulled and pulled 
 cautiously. It was a fine, big fellow, short and 
 fat, with a dark back and a yellow belly, this fish 
 that was coming up from the depths, nearly ex- 
 hausted and moving crosswise with evident re- 
 luctance. 
 
 The three faces did not please the fish, for it 
 suddenly turned tail upon them, and once more 
 dived furiously towards the depths. At last, 
 hQwever, completely exhausted, it followed the 
 line, and appeared at the foot of the wall, its gilded 
 belly uppermost. Signora Peppina, almost up- 
 side down on the parapet, plunged her rod as far 
 as it would go, seeking in vain to bag the unhappy 
 fish. "By the head!" shouted her husband. 
 
Fishermen 157 
 
 "By the tail!" piped Rati. At the noise, at 
 sight of that terrible net, the fish struggled and 
 dived. Peppina worked harder than ever, but 
 could find neither head nor tail. Bianconi pulled 
 and the tench rose to the surface once more, coiled 
 itself up, and with a mighty jerk, snapped the line, 
 and shot off amid the foam. " Madone!" ex- 
 claimed Rati, while Peppina continued to hunt 
 about in the water with her rod. "Where is 
 that fish? Where is that fish.?" Bianconi, who 
 had sat as one petrified, still grasping the line, 
 now faced about in a rage ; he kicked Rati, caught 
 his wife by the shouldei;, and shook her like a bag 
 of nuts, loading her with reproaches. "Has it 
 made off, Scior Recitdr?" asked the customs- 
 guard mellifluously. Ciistant turned his tall hat 
 just a little, glanced towards the scene of the 
 disaster, and then, returning to the contemplation 
 of his own placid float, mumbled in an indulgent 
 tone: " Minga pratich! Not skillful!" 
 
 Meanwhile the tench had returned to its native 
 grass-grown depths, melancholy but free, like 
 Piedmont after Novara. It is, however, doubtful 
 if the poor Engineer-in-Chief will be equally 
 fortunate. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 THE MOONSHINE AND CLOUD SONATA 
 
 THE sun was sinking behind the brow of 
 Monte Brh and darkness was rapidly cover- 
 ing the precipitous shores and the houses of Oria, 
 stamping the purple and gloomy profile of the hill 
 on the luminous green of the waves, which were 
 rimning obliquely towards the west, still high, 
 but foamless in the tired breva. The lights in 
 Casa Ribera had been the last to go out. Stand- 
 ing against the steep vineyards of the mountain- 
 side dotted with olives, it spanned the narrow 
 road that follows the coast-line, its modest facade 
 rising from the clear water, and flanked on the 
 west, towards the village, by a little hanging- 
 garden, divided into two tiers, on the east, towards 
 the church, by a small terrace raised on pillars, 
 which framed a square of church grotmd. In 
 this fagade there was a small boat-house where 
 at that time the boat belonging to Franco and 
 Luisa lay rocking on the jostling waves. Above 
 the boat-house a slender gallery tmited the hanging- 
 garden on the west and the terrace on the east, and 
 looked out upon the lake by means of three win- 
 dows. They called it a loggia, perhaps because 
 
 IS8 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 159 
 
 it really had been one in olden times. The old 
 house bore incrusted here and there several of 
 these venerable, fossil names, which had survived 
 through tradition, and represented, in their ap- 
 parent absurdity, the mysteries of the religion of 
 domestic walls. Behind the loggia was a spacious 
 hall, and there were two rooms more behind that. 
 On the west was the small dining-room, its walls 
 covered with little, illustrious, paper men, each 
 under his own glass and in his own frame, each 
 in a dignified attitude, like the illustrious in flesh 
 and blood, looking as if his colleagues did not 
 exist at all, and the world was gazing at him 
 alone. On the east was the alcove-room, where 
 next to her parents, in her own little bed, slept 
 Signorina Maria Maironi, born in August, 1852. 
 
 From the great rococo chests to the bed-rooms, 
 the kitchen cupboard, the black clock in the little 
 dining-room, the sofa in the loggia, with its brown 
 cover, sprinkled with red and yellow Turks ; from 
 the straw-bottomed chairs to the armchairs with 
 disproportionately high arms, the furniture of the 
 house all belonged to the epoch of the illustrious 
 men, most of whom wore the wig and pigtail. 
 Even though it did appear to have just descended 
 from the garret, it seemed, nevertheless, to have 
 regained in the light and air of its new surroundings 
 certain lost habits of cleanliness, a decided interest 
 in life, and the dignity of old age. Thus a col- 
 lection of disused words might to-day be com- 
 posed by the breath of some aged and conservative 
 
i6o The Patriot 
 
 poet, and reflect his serene and graceful senility. 
 Under the mathematical and biireaucratic rule of 
 Uncle Piero, chairs and armchairs, tables large and 
 small, had lived in perfect symmetry, and the 
 privilege of immobjlity had been extended to the 
 very mats themselves. The only piece of furni- 
 ture which might have been called movable, was 
 a grey and blue cushion, an abortive mattress, 
 which the engineer, during his short visits at 
 Oria, carried with him when he moved from one 
 easy-chair to another. When he was absent the 
 caretaker respected all relics of him to such an 
 extent as never to dare touch them familiarly, or 
 dust the less visible parts. This caused the 
 housekeeper to fly into a rage, regularly, every 
 time they returned to Valsolda. The master, 
 vexed that a little dust should cause so much 
 scolding of a poor peasant, would reprimand her, 
 and suggest that she do the dusting herself ; and 
 when the woman — ^by way of a scornful retort — 
 would demand, wrathfuUy, if she was to kill her- 
 self with dusting the house every time they came, 
 he would answer good-naturedly: "If you kill 
 yourself once, that will be sufficient." 
 
 The cultivation of the little garden as well as of 
 a kitchen-garden he owned to the east of the 
 church grounds, he left entirely to the caprice of 
 the caretaker. Only once, two years before 
 Luisa's marriage, arriving at Oria at the beginning 
 of September, and finding six stalks of maize 
 growing on the second terrace of the little garden, 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata i6r 
 
 did he allow himself to say to the man: "Look 
 here, my friend. Couldn't you really get along 
 without those six stalks of Indian corn?" 
 
 Those liberal poets, Franco and Luisa, had 
 breathed upon things and changed their aspect. 
 Franco's poetry was more ardent, fervid and 
 passionate ; Ltiisa's more prudent. Thus Franco's 
 sentiments always flamed out in his eyes, his face, 
 his words, while Luisa's seldom burst into flames, 
 and only tinged the depths of her penetrating 
 glance, and her soft voice. Franco was conserva- 
 tive only in matters of rehgion and art; he was 
 an ardent radical as far as the domestic walls 
 were concerned, always planning transformations 
 of ceilings, walls, floors, and drapery. Luisa began 
 by admiring his genius, but as nearly all the funds 
 came from her uncle, and there was little margin 
 for extraordinary undertakings, she persuaded 
 him, very gently and little by little, to leave the 
 walls, the ceilings, and the floors as they were, and 
 to study how best to arrange the furniture without 
 seeking to transform it. And she would make 
 suggestions without appearing to do so, letting 
 him believe the ideas were his own, for Franco 
 was jealous of the paternity of ideas, while 
 Luisa was quite indifferent to this sort of mater- 
 nity. Thus, together, they arranged the hall as a 
 music-room, drawing-room, and reading-room ; the 
 loggia as a card-room, while the terrace was 
 sacred to coffee and contemplation. This small 
 terrace became in Franco's hands the lyric poem 
 
l62 The Patriot 
 
 of the house. It was very tiny and Luisa felt that 
 here a concession might be made, and an outlet 
 provided for her husband's enthusiasms. It was 
 then that the king of Valsoldian mulberry-trees 
 fell from his throne, the famous and ancient mul- 
 berry of the churchyard, a tyrant that deprived 
 the terrace of the finest view. Franco freed him- 
 self from this tyrant by pecuniary means; then 
 he designed and raised above the terrace an airy 
 context of slim rods and bars of iron which 
 formed three arches surmounted by a tiny cupola, 
 and over this he trained two graceful passion- 
 flower vines, that opened their great blue eyes 
 here and there, and fell on all sides in festoons and 
 garlands. A small round table and some iron 
 chairs served for coffee and contemplation. As 
 to the little hanging-garden, Lmsa would have 
 been willing to put up even with maize, with that 
 tolerance of the superior mind which loves to 
 humour the ideas, the habits, the affections of 
 inferior minds. She felt a sort of respectful pity 
 for the horticiiltural ideals of the poor caretaker, 
 for that mixture of roughness and gentleness he 
 had in his heart, a great heart, capable of holding 
 at once, reseda and pumpkins, balsam and carrots. 
 But Franco, generous and religious though he 
 was, would not have tolerated a carrot or a 
 pumpkin in his garden for love of any neighbour. 
 All stupid vulgarity irritated him. When the 
 luifortunate kitchen-gardener heard Don Franco 
 declare that the little garden was a filthy hole. 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 163 
 
 that, everything must be torn up, everything 
 thrown away, he was so dazed and humiliated, as 
 to excite pity ; but when, working under his mas- 
 ter's orders, tracing out paths, bordering them 
 with tufa-stones, planting flowers and shrubs, he 
 saw how skilful Franco himself was with his hands, 
 and how many terrible Latin names he knew, and 
 what a surprising talent he possessed for imagining 
 new and beautiful arrangements, he conceived, 
 little by little, an almost fearful admiration for 
 him, which soon — ^in spite of many scoldings — 
 developed into devoted affection. 
 
 The little hanging garden was transformed in 
 Franco's own image and likeness. An olea fra- 
 grans in one corner spoke of the power of gentle 
 things over the hot, impetuous spirit of the poet ; 
 a tiny cypress, not over-acceptable to Ltiisa, 
 spoke in another comer of his religiosity; a low, 
 brick parapet, in open-work pattern, ran between 
 the cypress and the olea, supporting two parallel 
 rows of tufa-stones, between which blossomed a 
 smiling colony of verbenas, petunias, and wall- 
 flowers, and spoke of the singular ingenuity of 
 its author ; the many rose-bushes scattered every- 
 where spoke of his love of classic beauty; the 
 ficus repens which decked the walls towards the 
 lake, the twin orange-trees between the two tiers, 
 and a vigorous carob-tree, revealed a chilly tem- 
 perament, a fancy turning always towards the 
 south, insensible to the fascination of the north. 
 
 Luisa had worked far harder than her husband, 
 
i64 The Patriot 
 
 and still continued tq do so, but whereas he was 
 proud of his labours and glad to speak of them, 
 Luisa, on the contrary, never mentioned hers, nor 
 was she in the least proud of them. She laboured 
 with the needle, the crochet, the iron, the scissors, 
 with a wonderful, calm rapidity; working for 
 her husband, her child, the poor, herself, and for 
 the adornment of her house. Each roona - con- 
 tained some creation of hers ; dainty ciirtains, rugs, 
 cushions, or lamp-shades. It was also her duty 
 to arrange the flowers in the hall and the loggia; 
 no flowers in pots, for Franco did not have many, 
 and did not wish them shut up in rooms; no 
 flowers from the little garden, for to gather one 
 of those was like tearing it out of Franco's heart. 
 But the dahlias, the gladioles, the roses, and the 
 asters of the kitchen-garden were at Luisa's dis- 
 posal. These, however, were not sufficient, and 
 as the village loved "Sciora Liusa" best after the 
 Almighty, St. Margherita, and St. Sebastian, at 
 a sign from her, its children would bring her wild- 
 flowers and ferns, and ivy to festoon between the 
 great btmches, stuck in metal rings on the walls. 
 Even the arms of the harp that hung from the 
 ceiling of the hall, were always entwined with 
 long serpents bf ivy and passion-flower. 
 
 If they wrote to Uncle Piero of these innovations 
 he would answer little or nothing. At most he 
 would caution them not to keep the kitchen - 
 gardener too busy, but to leave him time for his 
 own work. The first time he came to Oria after 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 165 
 
 the transformation of the little garden he paused 
 and contemplated it as he had contemplated the 
 six stocks of maize, and murmured under his 
 breath: "Oh dear me!" He went out to the 
 terrace, looked at the little cupola, touched the 
 iron bars, and pronounced an "Enough!" that 
 was resigned, but full of disapproval of so much 
 elegance, which he considered above the position 
 of his family and himself. But when he had ex- 
 amined in silence all the nosegays and bunches of 
 flowers, the pots and the festoons of the hall and 
 the loggia, he said, with his good-natured smile: 
 " Look here, Luisa! Don't you think it would be 
 better to keep a couple of sheep with all this 
 fodder?" 
 
 But the housekeeper was delighted that she no 
 longer need kill herself for dust and cobwebs, and 
 tfie kitchen-gardener was for ever praising the 
 wonderful works of "Signor Don Franco," so 
 that Uncle Piero himself soon began to grow 
 accustomed to the new aspect his house had as- 
 sumed, and to look without disapproval upon the 
 Httle cupola, which, indeed, afforded a most 
 grateftil shade. At the end of two or three days 
 he asked who had made it, and he would some- 
 times pause to examine the flowers in the garden, 
 to inqmre the name of one or another. At the 
 end of eight or ten days, standing with little 
 Maria at the door leading from the hall to the gar- 
 den, he would ask her: "Who planted all those 
 beautiful flowers?" and teach her to answer: 
 
i66 The Patriot 
 
 "Papa!" He exhibited his nephew's creations 
 to an employ^ of his who one day came to visit 
 him, and listened to his expressions of approval 
 with a fine assumption of indifference, but with 
 the greatest satisfaction. "Yes, yes, he is clever 
 enough." Indeed he ended by becoming, one of 
 Franco's admirers, and would even listen, in the 
 course of conversation, to other projects of his. 
 And in Franco, admiration and gratitude were 
 growing for that great and generous bounty that 
 had vanquished conservative nature, and the old 
 aversion for elegance of every description; for 
 that same bounty that at all such opposition rose 
 silently and even higher behind the uncle's re- 
 sistance, tmtil it surmounted all, covered all in a 
 broad wave of acquiescence, or at least with the 
 sacramental phrase: "However, fate vohis; do 
 as you like." One innovation only Uncle Piero 
 had not been willing to accept — ^the disappear- 
 ance of his old cushion. "Luisa," said he, 
 gingerly lifting the new, embroidered cushion from 
 the easy-chair, "Luisa, take this away." And 
 he would not be persuaded. "Will you take it 
 away?" When Ltiisa, smiling, brought him the 
 little abortive mattress he sat down upon it with 
 a satisfied, " That's it ! " as if he were solemnly tak- 
 ing possession of a lost throne. 
 
 At the present moment, while the violet dusk 
 was invading the green of the waves and running 
 along the coast from village to village, eclipsing, 
 one after another, the shining white houses, the 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 167 
 
 engineer was seated upon his throne holding 
 little Maria on his knees, while out on the terrace 
 Franco was watering the pots of pelargonia, his 
 heart and his face as full of affectionate satisfac- 
 tion as if he had been slaking the thirst of Ishmael 
 in the desert. Luisa was patiently untangling a 
 fishing-line belonging to her husband, a frightful 
 snarl of string, lead, silk, and hooks. She was 
 talking, meanwhile, with Professor Gilardoni, who 
 always had some philosophical snarl to untangle, 
 but who greatly preferred a discussion with 
 Franco, who always contradicted him, right or 
 wrong, believing him to possess an excellent heart, 
 but a confused head. Uncle Piero, his right knee 
 resting on his left, held the child on this elevation, 
 and for the hundredth time at least, was re- 
 peating a little scrap of verse to her, with affected 
 slowness, and a slight distortion of the foreign 
 name — 
 
 Proud shade of the river, 
 Of Missipipi 
 
 As far as the seventh word the child would 
 
 Hsten, motionless and serious, with earnest eyes; 
 
 but when he reached "Missipipi, "she would 
 
 burst out laughing, pound hard with her little legs, 
 
 and clap her tiny hands over the uncle's mouth, 
 
 who would also laugh merrily, and after a short 
 
 pause he would begin again, speaking slowly, 
 
 slowly, in the same approved tone: 
 
 Proud shade of the river 
 
 The child did not resemble either father or 
 
i68 The Patriot 
 
 mother ; she had the eyes, the delicate features of 
 Grandmother Teresa. She exhibited a strange 
 impetuous tenderness for the old tmcle, whom 
 she so seldom saw. . Uncle Piero did not use sweet 
 words to her; indeed, when necessary, he would 
 even chide her gently, but he always brought her 
 toys, often took her out to walk, danced her upon 
 his knee, laughed with her, and repeated comic 
 verses to her — the one beginning with the "Mis- 
 sipipi," and that other, ending with the words: 
 Answered so promptly young Barucabi! 
 
 Who may this Barucabk have been, and what 
 had they been asking him? " Toa Ba! Toa Ba! 
 Barucabk again! Barucabk again!" and once 
 more the uncle would recite the poetic tale to the 
 child, but there is no one now to repeat it to me. 
 
 This is what Professor Gilardoni was discussing 
 in his timid, gentle voice with Luisa; the Pro- 
 fessor, grown just a Uttle older, just a little more 
 bald, just a little more sallow. "Who knows," 
 Luisa had said, "if Maria will resemble her grand- 
 mother in sotil as she does in face." The Pro- 
 fessor replied that it wovild indeed be a miracle 
 to find two such souls in the same family, and 
 separated by so short an interval of time. Then 
 wishing to explain to how rare a species he con- 
 ceived the grandmother's soul to have belonged, 
 he gave voice to the following tangle: "There 
 are souls," said he, "that openly deny a futtire 
 life, and live according to their opinions, solely 
 for the present life. Such are few in number. 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 169 
 
 Then there are souls that pretend to believe in 
 a future life, and live entirely for the present. 
 These are far more numerous. There are souls 
 that do not think about the future life, but live 
 so that they may not run too great a risk of losing 
 it if, after aU, it shotild be found to exist. These 
 are more numerous still. Then there are souls 
 that really do believe in the future life, and divide 
 their thoughts and actions into two categories, 
 which are generally at war with each other; one 
 is for heaven, the'other for earth. There are very 
 many such. And then there are souls that live 
 entirely for the future life, in which they believe. 
 These are very few, and Signora Teresa was one 
 of them." 
 
 Franco, who hated psychological disquisitions, 
 passed frowning, with his empty watering-pot, 
 on his way to the Httle garden, and thought: 
 "Then there are those souls that are bores!" 
 Uncle Piero who, by the way, was slightly deaf, 
 was laughing with Maria. When her husband had 
 passed, Luisa said softly: "Then there are souls 
 that live as if there were only the future life, in 
 which they do not believe. And of such there 
 is one." The Professor started, and looked at her 
 in silence. She was hunting in the tangle of the 
 line for a double thread with a ring that must be 
 drawn through, and though she did not see his 
 glance, still she felt it, and quickly nodded towards 
 her uncle. Had she really been thinking of him 
 when speaking those words? Or had there been 
 
I70 The Patriot 
 
 in her some occult complication? Had she al- 
 luded to her uncle without conviction, simply 
 because she dare not name, even in thought, an- 
 other person to whom her words might more 
 justly apply? The Professor's silence, his search- 
 ing glance which she had felt without meeting, 
 revealed to her that he suspected her. It was for 
 that reason she had hastily nodded towards 
 Uncle Piero. 
 
 "Does he not believe in a future Hfe?" the 
 Professor asked. 
 
 " I should say not," Luisa answered, and then at 
 once her heart was filled with remorse, for she 
 felt that her reasons for afifirming this were not 
 sufficient, that she had no right to answer thus. 
 In fact her uncle had never taken the trouble to 
 meditate on religion. In his conception of honesty 
 were included the continuation of the ancient, 
 family practices and the profession of the in- 
 herited faith, accepted carelessly, as it stood. 
 His was a good-natured God like himself, who, 
 again like himself, cared little for genuflections 
 and rosaries ; a God well pleased to have honest, 
 hearty men for His ministers, as Uncle Piero was 
 well pleased to have such for his friends, even 
 though they might be merry eaters and drinkers, 
 life-long de-^'-otees of tarocchi, open tellers of spicy 
 but not filthy stories, as a lawful outlet for that 
 pnirient hilarity which is in all of us. Certain 
 joking remarks of his, certain aphorisms uttered 
 thoughtlessly upon the relative importance of 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 171 
 
 religious practices and the absolute importance 
 of honest living, had struck her, even as a child, 
 especially as they greatly vexed Signora Teresa, 
 who would entreat her brother not to "talk 
 nonsense." She suspected that he went to church 
 simply because it was fitting to do so. Perhaps 
 this was not true; one must overlook the aphor- 
 isms of a man who had grown old in self-sacrifice 
 and self-abnegation, and who was wont to say: 
 Charitas incipit a me. Besides, even if her 
 uncle did hold religious practices in slight esteem, 
 there was a vast difference between that and 
 denying a futvire life. Indeed, as soon as Liiisa 
 had uttered her opinion and had heard how it 
 sovinded, she felt it was false, saw more clearly 
 within herself and realised that she had been 
 seeking in her uncle's example, a prop and a 
 comfort for herself. 
 
 The Professor was greatly moved by this 
 unexpected revelation. 
 
 "This one soul," said he, "that lives as if think- 
 ing only of a future life in which it does not 
 beUeve, is indeed in error, but nevertheless, we are 
 bound to admire it as the most noble, the greatest 
 of all. It is something sublime ! " 
 
 "But are you then sure that this sotil is in 
 error?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes!" 
 
 "And you yourself, to which category do you 
 belong?" 
 
 The Professor really believed he was of the few 
 
172 The Patriot 
 
 who rule their actions entirely according to an 
 aspiration towards a future life, but he would 
 have been embarrassed had he been called upon 
 to demonstrate that his earnest study of Raspail, 
 his zeal in the preparation of sedative water and 
 camphor cigarettes, his horror of dampness and of 
 draughts, were proofs of slight attachment to the 
 present life. However, he would not answer, but 
 said that though he did not belong to any church, 
 he nevertheless, believed firmly in God and the 
 future life, and that he could not judge of his own 
 conduct. 
 
 Meanwhile, Franco, watering the little garden, 
 had discovered that a new verbena had blos- 
 somed, and setting down his watering-pot, had 
 come to the door of the loggia and was calling to 
 Maria, to whom he wished to point it out. Maria 
 let him call, and demanded "Missipipi" again, 
 whereupon the uncle put her down, and himself 
 led her to her father. 
 
 "But, Professor," Luisa said, emerging by 
 means of the living word from a course of occult 
 ponderings, "do you not think one may beHeve 
 in God and still be in doubt concerning the futiare 
 life?" 
 
 Speaking thus she had dropped the tangled maze 
 of net, and was looking the Professor straight in 
 the face, with an expression of lively interest, and 
 a manifest desire that he might answer yes. As 
 Gilardoni did not speak she added — 
 
 "It seems to me some one might say: What 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 173 
 
 obligation is God under to give us immortality? 
 The immortality of the soul is an invention of 
 human selfishness, which, after all, simply wishes 
 to make God serve its own convenience. We 
 want a reward for the good we do to others, and a 
 punishment for the evil others do to us. Let us 
 rather resign ourselves to complete death, which 
 comes to every living thing, being just with our- 
 selves and with others as long as we live, without 
 looking for future reward, but simply because God 
 wishes it, as he wishes every star to give light, and 
 every tree to give shade. What do you think 
 about it?" 
 
 "What can I say?" Gilardoni answered. "It 
 seems to me a thought of great beauty! I can- 
 not say: a great truth. Indeed I do not know. 
 I have never thought about it, but it is very 
 beautiful! I will say that Christianity has never 
 had, has never even imagined a Saint so sublime 
 as this some one! It is very beautiful, very 
 beautiful!" 
 
 "And besides," Luisa continued after a short 
 silence, "it might also be maintained that this 
 future would not mean perfect happiness. Can 
 there be happiness if we do not know the reasons 
 of all things? If we may not explain all mys- 
 teries? And will this longing to know all things 
 be satisfied in the futiire life? Will there not 
 always remain one impenetrable mystery? Do 
 they not teach us that we shall never understand 
 God perfectly? Therefore, in our longing to 
 
174 The Patriot 
 
 know, shall we not end by stiffering as at present, 
 perhaps even more, because in a higher life that 
 longing must become stronger? I can only see 
 one way of arriving at a knowledge of everything, 
 and that wotild be to become God " 
 
 "Ah! You are a pantheist! " the Professor ex- 
 claimed, interrupting her. 
 
 "Hush!" said Luisa. "No, no, no, I am a 
 Catholic Christian. I am only repeating what 
 others might say." 
 
 "Pardon me, but there is a pantheism " 
 
 " Philosophy still ? " exclaimed Franco, coming 
 in with the little one in his arms. 
 
 "Oh, misery!" grumbled Uncle Piero behind 
 him. 
 
 Maria held a beautiful white rose in her hand. 
 " Look at this rose, Luisa," said Franco. " Maria, 
 give Mamma the flower. Look at the shape of 
 this rose, its pose, its shading, the veins in its 
 petals; look at that red stripe, and inhale its 
 perfimie. Now drop philosophy." 
 
 "You are an enemy of philosophy?" the Pro- 
 fessor said, smiling. 
 
 " I am a friend of that simple and sure philo- 
 sophy which even roses can teach me," Franco 
 answered. 
 
 "Philosophy, my dear Professor," Uncle Piero 
 put in solemnly, "is all contained in Aristotle. 
 You can get all you want from that source." 
 
 "You are jesting," the Professor said, "but you 
 yoiirself are a philosopher." 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 175 
 
 The engineer placed a hand on his shotilder. 
 
 " Listen, dear friend ! My philosophy could all 
 be put into eight or ten glasses." 
 
 "Mercy on us! Eight or ten glasses ! " grumbled 
 the housekeeper, who had caught her most tem- 
 perate master's words of boastfvil intemperance, 
 as she came in. " Eight or ten fiddlesticks!" 
 
 She had come to annotmce Don Giuseppe Costa- 
 barbieri, whose hollow but jolly voice was just 
 then heard in the hall, saying heartily, "Deo 
 gratias." Then the red and wrinkled face, the 
 lively eyes, and the grey hair of the gentle priest 
 appeared. 
 
 "We are discussing philosophy, Don Giuseppe," 
 said Luisa when greetings had been exchanged. 
 " Come here and let us have your valuable opinion. " 
 
 Don Guiseppe scratched his head, and then 
 turning it sUghtly towards the engineer, with the 
 expression of one who desires something for which 
 he hardly dares to ask, gave utterance to this 
 flower of his philosophical opinions. 
 
 "Wouldn't a little game of primero be better?" 
 
 Franco and Uncle Piero, who were only too glad 
 to escape from Gilardoni's philosophy, sat 
 merrily down to the little table with the priest. 
 
 As soon as he and Luisa were alone, the Pro- 
 fessor said softly — 
 
 "The Marchesa left yesterday." 
 
 Luisa, who had taken Maria upon her lap, 
 pressed her lips to the child's neck passionately. 
 
 " Perhaps," continued Gilardoni, who had never 
 
176 The Patriot 
 
 known how to read in the human heart, or to touch 
 its chords correctly, "perhaps sometime — it is 
 only three years, yet — perhaps the day may come 
 when she will yield." 
 
 Luisa raised her face from Maria's neck. " Per- 
 haps she may yield!" said she. The Professor 
 did not understand, and giving way to the evil 
 genius that invariably suggested to him the worst 
 word at the worst moment, he persisted instead 
 of breaking off. " Perhaps, if she could see Maria !" 
 Luisa pressed the little girl to her breast, and 
 looked at bim so fiercely that he was confused, and 
 stammered, "I beg your pardon!" Maria, in 
 this close embrace, raised her eyes to her mother's 
 strange face, grew very red, pressed her lips tight 
 together, cried two great tears, and began to sob. 
 
 "No, no, dear!" Luisa murmtired' tenderly to 
 her, " be quiet, be quiet! You shall never see her, 
 never!" 
 
 As soon as the child was comforted the Pro- 
 fessor, distressed at the mistake he had made, at 
 having offended this Luisa, who seemed to him a 
 superhtiman being, wished to explain, to justify 
 himself, but Luisa would not allow him to speak. 
 "Pardon me, but that will do," said she, rising. 
 " Let us go and watch the game." 
 
 But, as a matter of fact, she did not go near the 
 players. She sent Maria to amuse herself in the 
 church-grounds with her little nurse, Veronica, 
 and herself went to carry a piece of pudding to an 
 old villager who had a voracious appetite and a 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 177 
 
 small voice, with which he would every day 
 promise his benefactress the same precious re- 
 compense, "Before I die, I will give you a kiss." 
 
 Meanwhile the Professor was filled with scruples 
 and remorse for the unfortunate step he had 
 taken. Not knowing whether to go or to remain, 
 whether the lady would or would not return, 
 whether it would or would not be indiscreet to go 
 in search of her, after having looked out towards 
 the lake as if seeking advice from the fishes, towards 
 the hiUs to see if she or some one of whom he 
 could inquire about her happened to be at one of 
 the windows, he finally went to watch the game. 
 
 Each one of the players kept his eyes fixed on 
 the four cards he held in his left hand, placed one 
 upon the other in such a way that the second and 
 third projected above the others just enough to be 
 recognisable, while the fourth remained carefvdly 
 hidden. 
 
 The Professor reflected that he also held a 
 secret card, a trump, and he was undecided 
 whether to play it or not. He held old Maironi's 
 will. A few days after Signora Teresa's death. 
 Franco had told him to destroy it, and never 
 breathe a word about it to Lmsa. He had obeyed 
 only so far as keeping silence was concerned. 
 The document still existed, though of this Franco 
 was ignorant, because its custodian had deter- 
 mined to await the development of events, to see 
 if Cressogno and Oria would come to terms, or if, 
 in consequence of prolonged hostilities. Franco 
 
178 The Patriot 
 
 and his family wotdd be reduced to want, in which 
 case he himself intended to do something. 
 What he shotild do, he did not really know. He 
 was nurturing the germs of several foolish plans 
 in his head, and trusted that one or other of them 
 would have ripened before the time for action 
 arrived. Now, as he watched Franco play, he 
 wondered how that man, so engrossed in his desire 
 to win a pasteboard king, could ever have re- 
 fused that other precious card, not even wishing 
 to inform his wife of its existence. He attributed 
 this silence to modesty, to a desire to hide a 
 generous action, and although he had suffered 
 more than one sharp rebuff from him, and felt that 
 Franco esteemed him lightly, still he looked upon 
 him with a respect full of humble devotion. 
 
 " Give me the cards ! Give me the cards ! " the 
 priest exclaimed, and he shuffled them eagerly. 
 Then the game, symbol of the universal struggle' 
 between the blacks and the reds, began once more. 
 
 The lake now lay sleeping, covered and en- 
 circled by shadows. Only on the east the great, 
 distant mountains of the Lario were still in a 
 glory of purple and rich, yellow gold. The first 
 breath of the evening breeze out of the north, 
 moved the tender branches of the passion-flowers, 
 ruffled, in spots, the surface of the grey waters 
 towards the upper lake, and wafted a perfume 
 of cool woods. 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 179 
 
 When Luisa returned the Professor had been 
 gone some time. 
 
 "Ah, here is Sciora Ltiisa! " said Don Giuseppe, 
 who was feeling quite satisfied, having had his fill 
 of primero, and he gently stroked the modest 
 rotundity of his ribs and belly. Then this Httle 
 personage of the world of long ago remembered 
 the second object of his visit. He had wished to 
 speak a little word to Signora Luisa. The en- 
 gineer had gone out to take his usual short walk 
 as far as the Tavorell hill, which he jokingly called 
 the St. Bernard, and Franco, after a glance at 
 the moon which was just then sparkling above 
 the black brow of the Bisgnago, and below, in the 
 imdulations of the water, began improvising on the 
 piano outpourings of ideal sorrow, that floated out 
 of the open windows upon the deep sonorousness of 
 the lake. His musical improvisations were more 
 successful than his elaborate poems because in music 
 his impulsive feelings found a mode of expression 
 more facile, more complete, and the scruples, the 
 imcertainties, the doubts which rendered the labour 
 of language most wearisome and slow, did not tor- 
 ment his fancy at the piano. There he would 
 give himself up, body and soul, to the poetic 
 rage, and quivering to the roots of his hair, his 
 clear, speaking eyes reflecting every little shade 
 in the musical expression, while his face worked 
 with the continuous movement of inarticulate 
 words, his hands, though neither very agile nor 
 very supple, would make the piano sing ineffably. 
 
i8o The Patriot 
 
 At the present moment he was passing from 
 one tone to another, breathing hard, and putting 
 all the strength of his intellect into those passages, 
 eviscerating the instrument, as it were, with his 
 ten fingers, and almost with his glowing eyes as 
 well. He had begun to play under the spell of 
 the moonshine, but as he played, sad clouds had 
 arisen from the depths of his heart. Conscious 
 that as a youth he had dreamed of glory and that 
 later he had humbly laid aside all hope of attaining 
 it, he said, almost to himself, with his sad and 
 passionate music, that in him there was indeed 
 some glow of genius, some of the fire of creation 
 seen only by God, for not even Luisa exhibited 
 that esteem for his intellect which he himself 
 lacked, but which he could have wished to find in 
 her; not even Luisa, the heart of his heart. She 
 praised his music and his poetry in measured 
 terms, but she had never said: "Follow this path, 
 dare, write, publish." He was thinking of this as 
 he played on in the dark hall putting into a tender 
 melody the lament of his love, the timid, secret 
 lament he would never have dared to put into 
 words. 
 
 Out on the terrace in the quivering light-and- 
 shade formed by the breath of the north wind and 
 the passion-flower vines, by the moon and its 
 reflection in the lake, Don Giuseppe was telling 
 Luisa that Signor Giacomo Puttini was angry 
 with him on account of Signora Pasotti, who had 
 repeated to him the false report that he, Don 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata i8i 
 
 Giuseppe, was going about preaching the necessity 
 of a marriage between Puttini and Marianna. 
 " May I be struck dead," the poor priest protested, 
 "if I ever breathed a single word! Not a single 
 word! It is all a lie!" Luisa would not believe 
 poor Barborin guilty, but Don Giuseppe declared 
 he had it straight from the Controller himself. 
 Then she understood at once that the cunning 
 Pasotti was indulging in a joke at the expense of 
 his wife, Signor Giacomo, and the priest, and 
 declining to interfere in the matter as Don 
 Giuseppe wished her to do, she advised him to 
 speak to Signora Pasotti herself. "She is so 
 terribly deaf!" said the priest, scratching his 
 head; and he finally departed, dissatisfied, and 
 without saluting Franco, whom he did not wish to 
 interrupt. Luisa went towards the piano on tip- 
 toe, and stopped to listen to her husband, to hear 
 the beauty, the richness, the fire of that soul which 
 was hers, and to which she belonged for ever. 
 If she had never said to Franco, "Follow this 
 path, write, publish!" it was perhaps because in 
 her well-balanced affection she believed, and with 
 reason, that he would never be able to produce 
 anything superior to mediocrity, but it was above 
 all, because, although she had a fine feeling for 
 music and poetry, she did not really esteem either 
 of much account. She did not approve of a man's 
 dedicating himself wholly to either, and she had 
 an ardent longing that her husband's intellectual 
 and material activity shoidd flow in a more manly 
 
1 82 The Patriot 
 
 channel. Nevertheless, she admired Franco in 
 his music more than if he had been a great master ; 
 she found in this almost secret expression of his 
 soul something virginal, something sincere, the 
 light of a loving spirit, most worthy to be loved. 
 
 He did not perceive her presence until two arms 
 brushed his shoulders and he saw two little hands 
 hanging on his breast. "No! no! Play, play!" 
 Luisa murmured, for Franco had grasped the 
 hands; but, without answering, his head thrown 
 back, he sought her, sought her lips and her eyes, 
 and she kissed him and then raised her face, 
 repeating, ' ' Play. ' ' He drew the imprisoned wrists 
 still farther down, silently praying for the sweet, 
 sweet mouth: then she siirrendered, and pressed 
 her lips upon his in a long kiss, full of understand- 
 ing, and infinitely more exquisite, more exhilarat- 
 ing than the first. Then she once more whispered, 
 "Play." 
 
 And in his happiness he played the music of 
 triumph, full of joy and of cries. For at that 
 moment it seemed to him he possessed the soul of 
 this woman in its entirety, whereas sometimes, 
 even though convinced that she loved him, he 
 seemed to feel in her that lofty reason, towering 
 serene and cold, above love itself, and far beyond 
 the reach of his enthusiasms. She would often 
 place her hands upon his head, and from time to 
 time kiss his hair softly. She was aware 
 of her husband's doubts, and always protested 
 that she was all his, but in her heart she knew he 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 183 
 
 was right. There was in her a tenacious, fierce 
 sense of intellectual independence which with- 
 stood love. She co\ild judge her husband calmly, 
 recognising his imperfections, but she felt he was 
 not capable of doing the same, felt how humble 
 he was in his love, in his boundless devotion. 
 She did not think she was unjust to him, she felt 
 no remorse, but she was touched with loving pity 
 when she pondered these things. Now she guessed 
 the meaning of this joyous musical outpouring, 
 and, deeply moved, she embraced Franco and the 
 piano became suddenly silent. 
 
 Uncle Piero's slow, heavy step was heard on 
 the stairs ; he was returning from his St. Bernard. 
 
 It was eight o'clock, and the usual tarocchi- 
 players, Signors Giacomo and Pasotti, had not yet 
 arrived, for in September Pasotti himself became a 
 regular visitor at Casa Ribera, where he pretended 
 to be in love with the engineer, with Luisa, and even 
 with Franco. Franco and Luisa suspected some 
 duplicity, but Pasotti was an old friend of the 
 uncle's, and must be tolerated out of respect to 
 him. As the players failed to appear Franco pro- 
 posed to his wife that they should go out in the 
 boat to enjoy the moon. First, however, they 
 went to see Maria, who was asleep in her little 
 bed in the alcove, her head drooping towards her 
 right shoulder, one arm under her pillow, and the 
 other resting across her breast. They looked at 
 
1 84 The Patriot 
 
 her and kissed her smiHng, and then the silent 
 thoughts of both flew to Grandmamma Teresa, 
 who would have loved her so dearly. With serious 
 faces, they kissed her once more. "My poor 
 little one!" said Franco. "Poor, penniless, 
 Donna Maria Maironi!" 
 
 Ltiisa placed her hand upon his mouth. "Be 
 quiet!" said she. "We are fortimate, we who 
 are the penniless Maironis." 
 
 Franco understood, and did not answer at once, 
 but presently, when they were leaving the room 
 to go to the boat, he said to his wife, forgetting one 
 of his grandmother's threats, " It wiU not always 
 be thus." 
 
 This allusion to the old Marchesa's wealth dis- 
 pleased Luisa. "Do not speak of it to me," she 
 said. "I would not soil my fingers by touching 
 that money." 
 
 "I was thinking of Maria," Franco observed. 
 
 " Maria has us. We can work. ' ' 
 
 Franco was silent. Work! That was one of 
 the words that chilled his heart. He knew he 
 was leading a life of indolence, for were not music, 
 books, flowers, and a few verses now and then, 
 merely vanities and a waste of time? And he was 
 leading this life almost entirely at the expense of 
 others, for how could he possibly have managed 
 with only his one thousand Austrian lire a year? 
 How could he have maintained his family? He had 
 taken his collegiate degree, but without deriving 
 the slightest profit from it. He doubted his own 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 185 
 
 ability, felt himself too much of an artist, too 
 foreign to forensic wiles, and he was well aware 
 that the blood of earnest labourers did not flow in 
 his veins. His only hope was in a revolution, a 
 war, in the freedom of his country. Ah! When 
 Italy should be free, how well he would serve her, 
 with what great strength, what joy! This poetry 
 he had indeed in his heart, but he lacked the 
 energy, the constancy to prepare himself by 
 study for such a future. 
 
 While he was rowing away from the shore in 
 silence, Luisa was wondering how it was that her 
 husband could pity the child because she was poor. 
 Did not this sentiment stand in contradiction to 
 Franco's faith, to his Christian piety? She re- 
 called Professor Gilardoni's categories. Franco 
 believed firmly in a future life, but in practice he 
 cliing passionately to all that is beautiful and 
 good in this earthly life, clung to all its lawful 
 pleasures, including cards and dainty dinners. 
 One who obeyed the precepts of the Church so 
 scrupulously, who was so careful to abstain from 
 flesh on Fridays and Saturdays, to listen to a 
 sermon every Sunday, should conform his daily 
 life far more strictly to the evangelical ideal. He 
 should rather fear than desire riches. 
 
 "A pleasant sail to you!" Uncle Piero called 
 out from the terrace, catching sight of the boat 
 and Luisa seated in the prow in the moonlight. 
 Opposite black Bisgnago all Valsolda, from Nis- 
 cioree to Caravina lay spread out in the glory of 
 
1 86 The Patriot 
 
 the moon; all the windows of Oria and of Al- 
 bogasio, the arches of Villa Pasotti, the tiny- 
 white houses of the most distant villages, Castello, 
 Casarico, S. Mamette, Drano, seemed to be gazing 
 as if hypnotised, at the great, motionless eye of the 
 dead orb in the heavens. 
 
 Franco drew the oars into the boat. "Sing," 
 said he. 
 
 Luisa had never studied singing, but she pos- 
 sessed a sweet mezzo-soprano voice and a perfect 
 ear, and had learned many operatic airs from her 
 mother, who had heard Grisi, Pasta, and Malibran, 
 during the golden days of Italian opera. 
 
 She began the air from Anne Boleyn: 
 Al dolce guidami 
 Castel natio. 
 
 The song of the soul which at first descends, 
 little by little, and finally, in greater sweetness 
 gives itself up to its love, to rise again, locked in 
 his embrace, in an impulse of desire towards some 
 distant light which shall complete its happiness. 
 She sang, and Franco, carried away, fancied that 
 she longed to be united to him in that lofty region 
 of the soul from which she had, until now, ex- 
 cluded him; that in this perfect union, she longed 
 to be guided by him towards the goal of his ideals. 
 A sob rose in his throat, and the rippling lake, 
 the great tragic mountains, those eyes of things 
 fixed upon the moon, the very light of the moon 
 itself, everything, was filled with his indefinable 
 sentiment. And so, v^rhen beyond the broken 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 187 
 
 image of the orb, silver lights flashed for a moment 
 as far as Bisgnago, and even into the shadowy- 
 gulf of the Doi, he was moved, as if they had been 
 mysterious signals concerning him, which lake 
 and moon were exchanging, while Luisa finished 
 the verse: 
 
 Ai verdi platani, 
 
 Al cheto rio 
 Che i nostri mormora 
 Sospi ancor. 
 
 H: 4: H< 4: 4: 
 
 Pasotti's voice called from the terrace — 
 
 "Brava!" 
 
 And Uncle Piero shouted — 
 
 •'Taroccor' 
 
 At the same moment they heard the oars of a 
 boat coming from Porlezza, and a bassoon mi- 
 micked the air of Anne Boleyn. Franco, who 
 had seated himself in the stem of his boat, started 
 to his feet, crying delightedly — 
 
 "Who goes there?" A fine, big, bass voice 
 answered him — 
 
 Buona sera 
 Miei signori, 
 Buona sera, 
 Buona sera. 
 
 They were his friends from the Lake of Como, 
 the lawyer V. of Varenna and a certain Pedraglio 
 of Loveno, who were in the habit of coming to 
 make music openly, and discuss politics in secret ; 
 this was known only to Luisa. 
 
 They called from the terrace — 
 
1 88 The Patriot 
 
 "Well done, Don Basilio!— Bravo, bassoon!" 
 And in the interval the voice could be heard of 
 some one who was begging to be excused from 
 tarocco: " No, no, most gracious Controller, it is 
 late! The time is too short; really too short. 
 Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Indeed you must excuse 
 me. I cannot, I cannot. Most worshipful En- 
 gineer, I appeal to you!" 
 
 But they made the little man play, promising 
 that they would not go beyond two games. He 
 puffed very hard, and sat down to the little table 
 with the engineer, Pasotti, and Pedraglio. Franco 
 seated himself at the piano, and the lawyer 
 placed himself beside him with the bassoon. 
 
 Between Pasotti and Pedraglio, two terrible 
 quizzers, poor Signor Giacomo passed a short half- 
 hour which was full of tribulation. They did not 
 leave him alone a minute. "How goes it, Scior 
 Zacomo? — Badly, badly! Scior Zacomo, are there 
 no friars walking about in slippers? — Not one. 
 And the bull, how is the bull, Scior Zacomo? — 
 Stop, stop — ^A most accursed beast, eh? — Yes, 
 indeed. Sir. And the servant, Scior Zacomof" 
 "Hush!" exclaimed Pasotti at this impertinent 
 question of Pedraglio's. "Be prudent. On this 
 point Signor Giacomo is having a great deal of 
 trouble, through the indiscretion of certain in- 
 dividuals." " Let us not discuss it, most gracious 
 Controller, let us not discuss it!" Signor Gia- 
 como exclaimed, writhing all over, and the en- 
 gineer advised him to send his tormentors to the 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 189 
 
 devil. "But how is this, Scior Zacomo," Pasotti 
 went on, undaunted, "don't you call that little 
 priest indiscreet?" " I call him an ass ! " Signor 
 Giacomo answered angrily. Then Pasotti, smil- 
 ing and tritimphant, because this joke was really 
 of his own making, ordered Pedraglio to be quiet, 
 and started the game afresh, although Pedraglio 
 was bursting with curiosity to hear the story. 
 
 Franco and the lawyer were studying a 
 new composition for piano and bassoon, contin- 
 ually making mistakes and beginning over again. 
 Presently Signora Bianconi came in on tiptoe 
 that she might not interrupt the melody. No 
 one noticed her entrance save Luisa, who 
 made her sit down beside her on the little sofa 
 near the piano. 
 
 Signora Peppina with her cordial good-nature, 
 her long tongue, and her foolishness was irritating 
 to Franco, but not to Lmsa. Luisa liked her, 
 but she was carefiil on accoxmt of Carlascia. From 
 her garden Peppina had heard that " lovely song," 
 and then the bassoon and the greetings; she had 
 imagined there was going to be music, and she was 
 "so madly fond of music, you know!" There 
 was that lawyer who "blows into that shiny 
 thing," to say nothing of Don Franco with those 
 fingers of his "that seem bewitched." To hear 
 the piano played with such precision was as good 
 as hearing a barrel-organ, and she was "so awfully 
 fond" of barrel-organs! She added that she had 
 been afraid she should disturb them, but that 
 
igo The Patriot 
 
 her husband had encouraged her to come. And 
 she asked if that other gentleman from Loveno 
 did not play also ; if they were going to stay long ; 
 and observed that both must be passionately fond 
 of music. 
 
 "I'll be even with you, you rascal of a Receiver," 
 thought Luisa, and she proceeded to stuff his wife 
 with the most ridiculous tales of the melomania of 
 Pedraglio and the lawyer, inventing more and 
 more as she grew more and more angry with those 
 odious persons against whom one was obliged to 
 defend one's self by lying. Signora Peppina swal- 
 lowed all the stories scrupulously down to the 
 very last, accompanying them with gentle notes 
 of pleased wonder: "Oh, how strange! — Just 
 fancy! — ^Just think of that!" Then, instead of 
 listening to the diabolical dispute going on between 
 the piano and the bassoon, she began to talk of the 
 Commissary, saying he intended to come and see 
 Don Franco's flowers. 
 
 " He may come, " said Luisa, coldly. 
 
 Then Signora Peppina, taking advantage of the 
 storm Franco and his friend were raising, risked a 
 little private speech, which would have cost her 
 dear had her Carlascia overheard it, but for- 
 tunately that faithful mastiff was asleep in his 
 own bed, his night-cap drawn well down over his 
 ears. 
 
 "I am so devoted to these dear flowers!" she 
 began. It was her opinion the Maironis would 
 do well to pet the Commissary a little. He waj 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 191 
 
 one of the Marchesa's intimates, and it would be 
 awful if he should take it into his head to cause 
 them trouble. He was a terrible man, this Com- 
 missary ! " Now my Carlo barks a little, but he is 
 a good creature ; the other one doesn't bark, but — 
 you understand?" She herself knew nothing 
 about it, had not heard anything, but if, for 
 example, that lawyer and the other gentleman 
 had come for something else than music, and the 
 
 Commissary should find it out ! Then the 
 
 Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
 The moon was dragging its splendour across the 
 lake towards the western waters; the game had 
 come to an end, and Signor Giacomo was prepar- 
 ing to light his little lantern, in spite of Pasotti's 
 remonstrances. "A light, Scior Zacomo? You 
 are mad! A light with such a moon!" "At 
 your service," Puttini replied. "In the first 
 place there is that accursed Pomodoro to cross, 
 and then — cossa vorla — the moon nowadays! 
 Besides I must tell you it is the August moon, for 
 although we are in September, still the moon 
 belongs to August. Well, once upon a time, my 
 dear sirs, August moons were fine and big, as 
 large as the bottom of a cask at least; now they 
 are no better than moonlets, good-for-nothing 
 
 moons no, no, no." And his lantern lighted, 
 
 he departed with Pasotti, the impertinent Pe- 
 draglio accompanying them as far as the gate of 
 the little garden, with his usual fire of antiphones 
 about the bull and the servant. Then the little 
 
192 The Patriot 
 
 man turned towards the cavernous streets of Oria, 
 greatly comforted by Pasotti's exclamations: 
 " Ill-bred people, Scior Zacomo! Vulgar people ! " 
 exclamations uttered in a tone calculated to reach 
 the others, and add to their amusement. 
 
 4: * sH :j: * * * 
 
 A loud gape from the engineer put Signora 
 Peppina to flight. A few minutes later, having 
 drunk his cup of milk. Uncle Piero took leave of the 
 company in verse — 
 
 Tall laurel trees and myrtle sweet upon Parnassus grow. 
 May night upon you, worthy Sirs, great happiness bestow. 
 
 The two guests also asked for a little milk, but 
 Franco, who understood their Latin, went for an 
 old bottle of the wine from the small but ex- 
 cellent vineyard of Main^. 
 
 When he returned Uncle Piero was no longer 
 present. The dark, bearded lawyer, the picture 
 of strength and placidity, raised both hands 
 silently, summoning Luisa and Franco, one to 
 either side of him. Then he said softly, in his 
 voice like a violoncello, warm and deep — 
 
 "Great news!" 
 
 "Ah I" ejaculated Franco, opening his eager 
 eyes wide. Luisa turned pale, and clasped her 
 hands in silence. 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" said Pedraglio calmly and 
 seriously, " we have succeeded! " 
 
 "Speak out! Speak out!" Franco begged. 
 The lawyer answered him : 
 
 "We have Piedmont allied with France and 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 193 
 
 England! To-day war with Russia, to-morrow 
 with Austria ! Are you satisfied ? " 
 
 With a sob Franco sprang to embrace his friends. 
 
 The three stood clinging to one another in 
 silence, pressing close in the intoxication of the 
 magic word: War! Franco forgot that he still 
 held the bottle. Luisa took it from him. Then 
 he tore himself impetuously from the other two, 
 rushed between them, and seizing each round the 
 waist, dragged them into the hall like an ava- 
 lanche, repeating: "Tell all, tell all, tell all!" 
 
 There, when they had prudently closed the 
 glass door leading to the terrace, the lawyer and 
 PedragUo disclosed their precious secret. An 
 English lady, spending her holiday at Bellagio, 
 who was a devoted friend of Italy, had received 
 a letter (of which the lawyer possessed a trans- 
 lation) from another lady, a cousin of Sir James 
 Hudson, English Minister at Turin. The letter 
 stated that secret negotiations were being carried 
 on in Turin, Paris, and London, to obtain the 
 armed co-operation of Piedmont in the Orient; 
 that the matter was looked upon as settled by the 
 three cabinets, but that there still remained a few 
 formal difficulties to arrange, as Count Cavour 
 demanded the greatest consideration for the 
 dignity of his country. At Turin they were 
 confident the official and open invitation from the 
 Western powers to accede to the treaty of the 
 tenth of April, 1851, would come to hand not 
 later than December. It was even affirmed that 
 
194 The Patriot 
 
 the troops forming the contingent would be under 
 the command of the Duke of Genoa. 
 
 The lawyer read, and Franco held his wife's 
 hand tight. Then he wanted to read the letter 
 himself, and after him Luisa read. "But," said 
 she, "war with Austria? How is that?" 
 
 "Most certainly," said the lawyer. "Do you 
 suppose Cavour is going to send the Duke of 
 Genoa with fifteen or twenty thousand men to 
 fight the Turks unless he already holds the war 
 with Austria in his hand? You may believe me, 
 Madam, it will come about before a year is 
 passed." 
 
 Franco shook his fists in the air, his whole body 
 quivering. 
 
 "Hurrah for Cavour!" whispered Liiisa. 
 
 "Ah!" the lawyer exclaimed, "Demosthenes 
 himself could not have praised Cavour with 
 greater efficacy." 
 
 Franco's eyes were filling with tears. "I am 
 a fool! " he said. " I don't know what to say! " 
 
 Pedraglio asked Luisa where the deuce she had 
 hidden the bottle. Luisa smiled and went out, 
 ^et^u■ning again immediately with the wine and 
 glasses. 
 
 "Count Cavotu:!" said Pedraglio in a low tone. 
 All raised their glasses repeating: "Cotmt Ca- 
 vour ! " Then they drank, even Luisa, who never 
 took wine. 
 
 Pedraglio refilled the glasses and again rose to 
 his feet. 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 195 
 
 "War!" said he. 
 
 The three others sprang up, clutching their 
 glasses in silence, too deeply moved to speak. 
 
 "We must all go!" said Pedraglio. 
 
 "All!" Franco repeated. Luisa kissed him 
 impetuously on the shoulder. Her husband 
 seized her head in both hands, and imprinted a kiss 
 upon her hair. 
 
 One of the windows towards the lake was open. 
 In the silence that followed the kiss, they heard 
 the measured dip of oars. 
 
 "The customs-guards," whispered' Franco. 
 While the guards' long-boat was passing beneath 
 
 the window, Pedraglio said: "D hogs!" in 
 
 such a loud tone, that the others hushed him. 
 The long-boat floated past. Franco looked out 
 of the window. 
 
 It was cool ; the moon was sinking towards the 
 hills of Carona, streaking the lake with long, 
 gilded stripes. What a strange sensation it gave 
 him to contemplate that quiet solitude, with a 
 great war so near at hand! The dark, sad 
 mountains seemed to be thinking of the formid- 
 able future. Franco closed the window, and the 
 conversation began again in low tones round the 
 little table. Each one had his own suppositions 
 concerning future events, and all spoke of these 
 events as of a drama, of which the manuscript 
 was lying quite ready, down to the very last verse, 
 with all its stops and commas in place, in Count 
 Cavour's writing-desk. V., who was a Bona- 
 
196 The Patriot 
 
 partist, saw clearly that Napoleon intended to 
 avenge his uncle, overthrowing one after another, 
 the parties to the Holy Alliance; to-day Russia, 
 to-morrow Austria. But Franco, on the other 
 hand, who was mistrustful of the emperor, attrib- 
 uted the Sardinian alliance to the good-will of 
 England, but acknowledged that as soon as this 
 alliance would be proclaimed, Austria, sacrificing 
 her own interests to principles and hatred, would 
 cast in her lot with Russia, and therefore Napo- 
 leon wotdd be obliged to fight her. " Listen, " said 
 his wife, "I am afraid Austria will come over to the 
 side of Piedmont," "Impossible!" said the law- 
 yer. Franco felt alarmed, and admired the 
 acuteness of the observation, but Pedraglio 
 exclaimed : " Nonsense! Those blockheads are too 
 great asses to think out a trick like that!" This 
 argument appeared decisive, and no one save 
 Ltiisa gave the possibility another thought. They 
 began discussing plans for the campaign, plans for 
 insurrections, but here they could not agree. V. 
 knew the men and the mountains of the Lake of 
 Como from Colico to Como and Lecco, better per- 
 haps than any one else. And everywhere all 
 along the lake, in Val Menaggio, in Vail 'Intelvi, 
 in Valsassina, in the Tre Pievi, he knew those who 
 were devoted to the cause, and even ready to 
 strike the blow at a sign from the Scior Avocdt. 
 He and Franco considered any insurrectional 
 movement useful that might serve to distract part 
 of the Austrian forces even for a moment. But 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 197 
 
 Luisa and Pedraglio were of opinion that all the 
 able-bodied men should hasten to swell the Pied- 
 montese battalions. "We women will make the 
 revolution," said Luisa, with her mock gravity. 
 "I, for my part, will pitch Carlascia into the 
 lake!" 
 
 They still conversed in an undertone, with an 
 electric current in their veins that flashed from 
 their eyes, and made their nerves tingle ; enjoying 
 this hushed talk behind closed doors and windows, 
 the danger of being in possession of that letter, 
 the glowing life they felt in their blood, and those 
 intoxicating words they were always repeating; 
 Piedmont, War, Cavour, Duke of Genoa, Victor 
 Emmanuel, Cannon, Bersaglieri. 
 
 " Do you know what time it is? " said Pedraglio, 
 consulting his watch. "It is half -past twelve! 
 Let us go to bed." 
 
 Luisa went for the candles, and lighted them, 
 standing the while, but no one moved, so she also 
 sat down again. When he saw the candles lighted, 
 even Pedraglio himself lost his desire to go to 
 bed. 
 
 " A fine kingdom! " said he. 
 
 "Piedmont," said Franco, " Lombardy-Venice, 
 Parma, and Modena." 
 
 " And the Legations ! "* V. added. 
 
 More discussions followed. All wished for the 
 
 *The Legations were provinces of the Roman state, gov- 
 erned by a legate from Rome. The Marches, Romagna and 
 Umbria. \Translator's note.'] 
 
198 The Patriot 
 
 Legations, especially the lawyer and Luisa, but 
 Franco and Pedraglio were afraid to touch them, 
 fearing to stir up difficulties. They grew so warm 
 that Pedraglio entreated his companions to 
 "scream" in an undertone. "Scream softly, 
 children! " Then it was V 's turn to propose going 
 to bed. He took his candle in his hand but did 
 not rise. 
 
 "Body of Bacchus!" said he, not knowing 
 whether he meant it as a conclusion or an ex- 
 hortation. Indeed he had a terrible desire to 
 talk, and to hear others talk, but could find no- 
 thing new to say. " Body of Bacchus it is indeed !" 
 Franco exclaimed, who was in much the same state 
 of mind. A long silence ensued. At last Pe- 
 draglio said, "Well?" and rose. "Shall we go?" 
 said Luisa, leading the way. "And the name?" 
 the lawyer asked. They all stopped. "What 
 name?" "The name of the new Kingdom!" 
 Franco set down his candle at once. " Well done!" 
 said he, " the name! " as if it had been a point that 
 must be settled before going to bed. Fresh dis- 
 cussions followed. Piedmont? Cisalpino? Upper 
 Italy? Italy? 
 
 Luisa also was qtiick to put down her candle, 
 and as the others were not willing to accept his 
 " Italy," Pedraglio set his down also. But finding 
 the debate promised to be a long one, he resumed. 
 it, and ran away, repeating: "Italy, Italy, Italy, 
 Italy! " heedless of the " hushes " and admonitions 
 of the others, who were following on tiptoe. 
 
The Moonshine and Cloud Sonata 199 
 
 They all stopped once more at the foot of the 
 stairs that Pedraglio and the lawyer must ascend 
 to reach their room, and exchanged good-nights. 
 Luisa entered the neighbouring alcove-room; 
 Franco waited to watch his friends upstairs. 
 "Look here!" he suddenly exclaimed. He had 
 been going to speak to them from the foot of the 
 stairs, but finally decided it was better to go up to 
 them. "And what if we are defeated?" he 
 whispered. 
 
 The lawyer simply uttered a contemptuous 
 "Nonsense!" but Pedraglio turning like a hyena, 
 seized Franco by the throat. They struggled 
 gaily there on the landing, and then once more 
 said good-night. Pedraglio rushed upwards, while 
 Franco flimg himself downstairs. 
 
 His wife was waiting for him, standing in the 
 centre of the room, her eyes fixed on the door. 
 When she saw him enter she moved gravely to- 
 wards him, and folded him in a close embrace. 
 When, after a few moments had elapsed, he 
 moved as though to draw away, she silently 
 pressed him closer. Then Franco understood. 
 She was embracing him now as she had kissed him 
 before, when they had talked of all going to the 
 war. He pressed her temples between his hands, 
 kissed her again and again on the hair, saying 
 gently: "Dearest, think how great she will be 
 afterwards, this Italy!" "Yes, yes!" said she. 
 She raised her face to his, and offered him her 
 lips. She was not crying, but her eyes were 
 
200 The Patriot 
 
 moist. To feel himself gazed upon like this, to 
 be kissed thus, was indeed worth a few years of 
 life, for never, never before had her tenderness 
 towards him contained this humility. 
 
 "Then," said she, "we shall no longer live in 
 Valsolda. You will be obliged to assume the duties 
 of a citizen, will you not?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, certainly! " 
 
 They began to talk eagerly, both he and she, 
 about what they should do after the war, as if to 
 banish the thought of a terrible possibility. Luisa 
 let down her hair, and went to look at Maria in 
 her little bed. The child had probably been 
 roused some time before, and had put a tiny 
 finger in her mouth, which, little by little, as sleep 
 returned, had slipped out. Now she was sleeping 
 with her mouth open, and the little finger resting 
 on her chin. "Come here. Franco," said her 
 mother. Both bent over the bed. Maria's small 
 face held the sweetness of paradise. 
 
 Husband and wife lingered over her in silence, 
 and then rose, deeply moved. The interrupted 
 conversation was not resumed. 
 
 When they were in bed and the light put out, 
 Luisa murmured, on her husband's lips — 
 
 "If that day should come, you will go; but I 
 shall go also." 
 
 And she would not allow him to answer. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 THE GLOVED HAND 
 
 TO MAKE his joke more complete Pasotti 
 reproached his wife for having repeated to 
 Signor Giacomo Don Giuseppe's speech concern- 
 ing the necessity of a marriage. The poor deaf 
 woman was thunderstruck; she knew nothing 
 either of a speech or of a marriage, and protested 
 that this was a calumny, entreating her husband 
 not to believe it, and was nearly beside herself 
 because the Controller still appeared to harbour 
 a suspicion. This malicious man was preparing 
 a treat for himself; he was going to tell Signor 
 Griacomo and Don Giuseppe that his wife wished 
 to make amends for the harm she had done, and 
 bring about a truce ; in this way he would get all 
 three together at his house, and from behind a 
 door would enjoy the delicious scene that must 
 ensue between the wrathful Signor Giacomo, the 
 terrified Don Giuseppe, and the deaf and dis- 
 tracted Barborin. But his plan failed, for his 
 wife could not wait, and ran off to the "Palace" 
 to clear herself. 
 
 She found Don Giuseppe and Maria in a state 
 of the most extraordinary agitation. Something 
 
202 The Patriot 
 
 tremendous had happened to them, something that 
 Maria wished to tell, and Don Giuseppe did not. 
 However, the master yielded on condition that 
 she should not shout, but should convey her news 
 by signs. Meeting with opposition on this point 
 also, he, in his prudence, became fiuious, and the 
 servant did not insist. 
 
 A mmour had spread of a case of cholera at 
 Lugano, the victim being a man who had come 
 there from Milan, where the disease had broken 
 out; so Don Giuseppe had arranged to have all 
 provisions for the kitchen come from Porlezza 
 instead of Lugano, and had entrusted the com- 
 mission to Giacomo Panighet, the postman, who 
 brought the letters to Valsolda, not three times 
 a day, as at present, but twice a week, as was the 
 comfortable custom in the little world of long ago. 
 Now, not five minutes before Signora Pasotti's 
 arrival, Giacomo Panighet had brought the usual 
 basket, and in the bottom of that basket, beneath 
 the cabbages, they had discovered a note ad- 
 dressed to Don Giuseppe. It ran as follows : — 
 
 "You, who play at primero with Don Franco 
 Maironi, should warn him that the air of Lugano 
 is far better than the air of Oria. 
 
 "TlVANO." 
 
 Maria silently exhibited the basket, which was 
 still full, to Signora Pasotti, and by clever acting 
 illustrated the manner of discovery of the letter, 
 which she gave her to read. 
 
The Gloved Hand 203 
 
 As soon as the deaf woman had finished reading, 
 a strange, indescribable pantomime began be- 
 tween the three. Maria and Don Giuseppe, by- 
 dint of gesticulations and rollings of their eyes, 
 expressed their sxirprise and terror; Barborin, 
 half frightened, half dazed, stared open-mouthed, 
 from one to the other, the letter still in her hand, 
 as if she had tmderstood. As a matter of fact she 
 had made out only that the letter must be terrible. 
 Presently a thought struck her. She held the 
 letter out to Don Giuseppe with her left hand, 
 while with her right forefinger she pointed to the 
 word Franco; then she crossed her wrists with a 
 questioning gesture ; and as the others, recognis- 
 ing that the sign meant handcuffs, nodded their 
 heads violently in confirmation, she became half 
 frenzied, so great was her affection for Luisa, and 
 forgetting the matter that had brought her 
 there, she explained by signs, as if both the 
 others had been deaf also, that she wotild go 
 straight to Oria, see Don Franco, and give him 
 the letter. 
 
 She started to rush away, cramming the letter 
 into her pocket, and with hardly a word of leave- 
 taking to Don Giuseppe and Maria, who, greatly 
 distressed, were trying in vain to get hold of her, 
 to detain her and recommend all possible pre- 
 cautions. But she slipped through their fingers, 
 and her great, tall bonnet quivering, her old grey 
 skirt dragging, set off at a trot towards Oria, 
 where she. arrived quite out of breath, with her 
 
204 The Patriot 
 
 head fidl of gendarmes, inspections, scenes of 
 terror and of grief. 
 
 She went up the stairs of the little Ribera 
 garden, making straight for the haU, where she 
 saw there were visitors. She recognised the 
 Receiver and the Imperial and Royal Com- 
 missary of Porlezza, and was terrified, believing 
 they were come for the terrible blow, but then she 
 perceived Signora Bianconi and Signor Giacomo 
 Puttini, and once more breathed freely. 
 
 The Commissary, seated in the post of honour 
 on the large sofa, next to the Engineer-in-Chief , 
 talked a great deal, with much fluency and 
 brilHancy, looking oftenest at Franco, as if he 
 were the only person present upon whom it was 
 worth while to waste breath and wit. Franco, 
 lounging in an armchair, was mute and sullen, 
 like one who, in the house of another, perceives a 
 bad odotir which good manners forbade him either 
 to flee from or curse. They were discussing the 
 Crimean campaign, and the Commissary was 
 praising the plan of the allied powers to attack the 
 colossus in that vital point, his ambition. He 
 spoke of the Russian barbarities, and of the auto- 
 crat himself in such terms as to cause Franco to 
 tremble in his dread of an Anglo-Franco-Austrian 
 alliance, and Carlascia to open his eyes wide, for 
 he still held the views of 1848, and looked upon 
 the Czar as a good friend of the family, "And 
 
The Gloved Hand 205 
 
 you, Signer First-Political-Deputy, what do you 
 think of it?" said the Commissary, turning his 
 sarcastic smile upon Signor Giacomo. Puttini 
 winked his little eyes very hard, and having felt 
 his knees all over, replied: "Most respected 
 Signor Commissary, I know little about Russia, 
 France, or England, and I care still less. I let 
 them settle their own affairs. But, to speak the 
 truth, I am sorry for that poor dog 'Papuzza.' 
 He was as quiet as a young chicken until they 
 worried him, then when he called for help, fifty 
 rushed to his aid, and now they are all upon him, 
 devouring everything they can grab ; and whether 
 poor 'Papuzza' win or lose, he will have nothing 
 left but his shirt." 
 
 This nickname "Papuzza," — a Venetian dis- 
 tortion of Babbuccia slippers — Signor Giacomo 
 applied to the Turk. "Papuzza" personified 
 Turkey in the form of one ideal Turk, with a huge 
 turban, a long beard, a big belly, and slippers. 
 Puttini, the peaceful, half free-thinker, had a 
 weakness for the lazy, placid, easy-going "Pa- 
 puzza." 
 
 "Don't worry," the Commissary laughed. 
 "Your friend 'Papuzza' will come out all right. 
 We are his friends also, and will not allow him to 
 be mutilated or bled." 
 
 Franco, frowning sternly, could not refrain 
 from grumbling. 
 
 " Nevertheless, that would be a great injustice 
 towards Russia." 
 
2o6 The Patriot 
 
 The Commissary was silent, and Signora Pep- 
 pina, displaying unusual tact, proposed going out 
 to see the flowers. 
 
 "A good idea!" said the engineer, who was 
 very glad to have the discussion interrupted. 
 
 While passing from the hall to the Httle garden 
 the Commissary took Franco's arm familiarly, and 
 whispered in his ear: "You are right, you know, 
 about the injustice ; but there are certain things 
 we government officials may not say." Franco, 
 who was greatly astonished at this utterance, 
 felt as if the touch of the Imperial and Royal 
 hand were burning him. If this man had had 
 a more Italian face he would have believed him, 
 but with that Kalmuc countenance he did not 
 believe him, and allowed the subject to drop. 
 But his companion resumed it in a low tone, as 
 he leaned over the parapet above the lake, and 
 pretended to examine the -ficus repens that covered 
 the wall. 
 
 "You yourself should avoid certain expres- 
 sions," said he. "There are fools who might place 
 false interpretations upon them." And he gave 
 a slight nod in the direction of the Receiver. 
 "Be careful, be careful!" "Thank you," Franco 
 replied, dryly, " but I hardly think I shall need to 
 be careful." "We can never be stire, never be 
 sure, never be sure!" the Commissary murmured, 
 and, followed by Franco, he moved away towards 
 the spot where the Receiver and the engineer were 
 discussing the subject of tench, near the few steps 
 
The Gloved Hand 207 
 
 leading down to the second terrace of the little 
 garden. 
 
 Close at hand stood the famous red box with the 
 jasmine. 
 
 "That red does not look well, Signor Maironi," 
 said the mastiff, ex abrupto, and he threw up his 
 hand with a gesture that meant, " Away with it! " 
 Just then Luisa looked into the garden from the 
 hall, and called her husband. The Commissary 
 turned to his zealous acolyte, and said sharply, 
 "Drop that!" 
 
 Signora Pasotti was leaving, and wished to 
 salute Franco. He would have shown her out 
 through the garden, but she, anxious to avoid 
 going through so many ceremonies with those 
 other gentlemen, preferred to go down by the inside 
 stairs, and Franco escorted her as far as the street- 
 door, which stood open. To his great surprise 
 Signora Pasotti, instead of passing out, closed the 
 door, and began an excited and perfectly unin- 
 telligible pantomime, accompanying it with short 
 sighs and rollings of the eyes ; after this she took 
 a letter from her pocket and offered it to him. 
 
 Franco read, shrugged his shoulders, and put 
 the letter in his pocket. Then as Signora Pasotti 
 kept on recommending flight, flight — Lugano, 
 Lugano, in despairing pantomime, he smiled and 
 reassured her by a gesttire. She once more 
 seized his hands, and once more the lofty bonnet 
 (which had a tipsy inclination towards the right), 
 and the long black curls, trembled in earnest 
 
2o8 The Patriot 
 
 supplication. She strained her eyes wide, pushed 
 out her Ups as far as possible, and laid her forefinger 
 against her nose to indicate silence. "With 
 Pasotti also!" she said; and these were the only- 
 words she spoke during the whole interview. 
 Then she trotted away. 
 
 Franco went upstairs again, thinking about his 
 position. This might be a false alarm, just as it 
 might also be a serious matter. But why should 
 they arrest him? He tried to remember if he had 
 anything of a compromising nature in the house, 
 and could recall nothing. It flashed across his 
 mind that his grandmother might have been 
 guilty of some perfidy, but he at once banished the 
 thought, reproaching himself, and postponed a 
 decision until he should have spoken to his 
 wife. 
 
 He returned to the little garden, where the 
 Commissary, as soon as he caught sight of him, 
 asked him to point out the dahlias Signora Pep- 
 pina had been praising. Upon learning that they 
 were in the kitchen-garden he proposed going 
 there with Franco. They could go alone, for 
 indeed all the others were ignorant on the subject 
 of dahlias. Franco accepted. 
 
 The conduct of this Httle police-spy in gloves 
 puzzled him, and he sought to discover if it could 
 in any way be connected with the mysterious 
 warning. 
 
 "Listen, Signer Maironi," the Commissary be- 
 gan resolutely, when Franco had closed the gate 
 
The Gloved Hand 209 
 
 of the kitchen-garden behind him. "I wish to 
 say a word to you. ' ' 
 
 Franco who was descending the few steps lead- 
 ing from the threshold of the gate, stopped with a 
 clouded brow. "Come here," the Commissary 
 added imperiously. "What I am about to do is 
 perhaps not in accordance with my duty, but I 
 shall do it, notwithstanding. I am too good a 
 friend of the Marchesa, your grandmother, not to 
 do it. You are in great danger." 
 
 "I?" Franco inquired, coldly. "In danger of 
 what?" 
 
 Franco was endowed with a rapid and sure 
 intuition of the thoughts of others. The Com- 
 missary's words agreed perfectly with the mes- 
 sage Barborin had brought; still, at that moment 
 he felt that the little police-spy harboured treach- 
 ery in his heart. 
 
 "In danger of what? Of Mantua!" was Z^r- 
 boli's reply. 
 
 Franco did not flinch upon hearing the awful 
 word, synonym of incarceration and the gib- 
 bet. 
 
 "I need not fear Mantua," said he. "I have 
 done nothing to deserve Mantua." 
 
 " Nevertheless ! " 
 
 " Of what am I accused? " Franco repeated. 
 
 "You will soon find out if you remain here," 
 the Commissary replied, laying stress upon the 
 last words. "And now let us examine these 
 dahlias." 
 
2IO The Patriot 
 
 "I have done nothing!" Franco once more re- 
 peated. " I will not leave. " 
 
 "Let us see these dahlias, let us see these 
 dahlias," the Commissary insisted. 
 
 Franco felt that he should thank this man, but 
 he could not. He showed him his flowers with 
 just that amount of civiUty that was indispensable, 
 and with perfect composure. Then he conducted 
 him from the kitchen-garden to the house, talking 
 of some obscure Professor Maspero, and of his 
 secret method of combating oidium. 
 
 In the hall they were discussing another and far 
 worse form of oidium. Signora Peppina was 
 harassed by a terrible fear of cholera. She 
 recognised that cholera served as a warning to 
 every good Christian to make his peace with God, 
 and that when we are at peace with God, it is in- 
 deed a blessing to be called to the next world, 
 "but still, this body of ours, you know! This 
 precious body! And when you reflect that we 
 have only one ! " 
 
 "The cholera," said Luisa, "might do no end of 
 good, if it had any sense, but it has not. You 
 see," she whispered to Signora Peppina as Bian- 
 coni rose and went towards the Commissary, who 
 had returned with Franco, "the cholera is quite 
 capable of taking you, and leaving your husband." 
 At this extraordinary remark the terrified Peppina 
 started violently, exclaiming: " yesusmaria! " and 
 then, perceiving she had betrayed her true feelings, 
 that she had not exhibited that tenderness for 
 
The Gloved Hand 211 
 
 Caxlascia of which she was always prating, she 
 clutched her neighbotir's knee, and bending for- 
 ward, said in an undertone, her face as red as a 
 poppy: " Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet! " 
 
 But Ltiisa was no longer thinking of her. A 
 glance from Franco had warned her that some- 
 thing had happened. 
 
 When all the visitors had departed. Uncle Piero 
 sat down to read the Milan Gazette, and Ltiisa said 
 to her husband: "It is three o'clock. Let us go 
 and wake Maria." 
 
 When he and she were alone in the alcove-room, 
 instead of at once opening the shutters, she in- 
 quired what had happened. Franco told her 
 everything, from Signora Pasotti's letter to the 
 Commissary's strange communication. 
 
 Lttisa listened with a serious face, but without 
 exhibiting any sign of fear. Then she examined 
 the mysterious note. Both she and Franco were 
 aware that among the government agents at 
 Porlezza there was one honest man, who, in 1849 
 and 1850 had saved several patriots by a timely 
 warning. But they were also aware that this 
 honest man was ignorant of the rules of ortho- 
 graphy and grammar, and the note Barborin had 
 brought was perfectly correct. As to the Com- 
 missary, it was well known that he was one of the 
 most malicious and treacherous of the govern- 
 ment's tools. Luisa approved of the answer her 
 husband had made him. 
 
212 The Patriot 
 
 Franco himself was well aware of all tnis, out he 
 could find no plausible explanation for this per- 
 secution. Luisa, however, had one in mind which 
 contempt for the grandmother had suggested to 
 her. This Commissary was a good friend of the 
 grandmother's, he himself had said so, thereby- 
 displaying, so he thought, the refinement of cun- 
 ning. In the Commissary's glove there was the 
 talon of the Marchesa. She meant to strike not 
 Franco alone, but all the others as well, and they 
 were to be reached through him who maintained 
 the family with the fruit of his labours, out of the 
 kindness of his generous heart. She knew from 
 speeches which had been repeated to her by the 
 usual hateful gossips, that the grandmother hated 
 Uncle Piero because Uncle Piero had made it 
 possible for her grandson to rebel against her, and 
 to live comfortably enough in rebellion. Now 
 they were seeking for a pretext to strike him. 
 The flight of the nephew would be a confession, 
 and, for a government like the Austrian, a good 
 pretext to strike the uncle. Luisa did not say so 
 at once, but she let him see that she had an idea, 
 and little by little, her husband drew it from her. 
 "When she had told him, though in his heart he 
 believed she was right, he nevertheless protested 
 in words, defending his grandmother against an 
 accusation which seemed too monstrous, and 
 which rested on so slight a foimdation. At all 
 events husband and wife agreed perfectly in their 
 resolve not to flee, but to await further develop- 
 
The Gloved Hand 213 
 
 ments. They therefore wasted no time in making 
 or discussing suppositions. Luisa rose and went 
 to open the shutters, and standing in the full 
 light, she turned to look smilingly at her hus- 
 band, stretching out her hand to him. He pressed 
 it and shook it, his heart aflame, but his tongue 
 speechless. They felt like soldiers, who, conscious 
 of the distant roar of cannon, are being led along 
 a quiet road, towards what fate God only knows. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE HAND WITHIN THE GLOVE 
 
 "T^HE Engineer-in-Chief noticed nothing, and 
 -'- two days later, the term of his leave having 
 expired, he went away peacefully in his boat, 
 wrapped in his great, grey travelling cloak, and 
 accompanied by Cia, the housekeeper. Ten days 
 passed without fvtrther developments, and Franco 
 and Luisa concluded that a trap had been set for 
 them, and that, after all, the police would not 
 appear. On the evening of the first of October 
 they played tarocchi merrily with Puttini and 
 Pasotti, and then, their guests having left early, 
 they went to bed. When Luisa kissed the child, 
 who was sleeping, she noticed that her flesh was 
 hot. She felt of her hands and legs. " Maria is 
 feverish," she said. 
 
 Franco took up the candle and looked at her. 
 Maria was sleeping with her little head drooping 
 towards her left shoulder as usual. The lovely 
 little face which always wore a frown when she was 
 asleep, was slightly flushed, and the breathing 
 rather quick. Franco was alarmed, and at once 
 thought of scarlet fever, the measles, gastric, and 
 brain fever. Ltdsa, who was more calm, thought 
 
 "4 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 215 
 
 of worms, and prepared a dose of santonine, 
 which she placed ready on the pedestal. Then 
 both father and mother went noiselessly to bed, 
 put out the light and lay listening anxiously to 
 the little one's short, quick breathing. At last 
 they dozed, but towards midnight they were 
 aroused by Maria, who was crying. They lighted 
 the candle and Maria became quiet and took the 
 santonine. Then presently she began to cry 
 again, and wanted to be taken into the big bed, 
 between mamma and papa, and finally went to 
 sleep there; but her sleep was uneasy and often 
 interrupted by sobs. 
 
 Franco kept the candle burning that he might 
 watch her more closely. He and his wife were 
 bending over their darling when two knocks 
 sounded in quick succession on the street-door. 
 Franco started up in bed. "Did you hear?" 
 said he. "Hush!" said Luisa, grasping his arm, 
 and listening. Two more knocks sounded, louder 
 still, and Franco exclaimed: "The Police!" and 
 sprang to the floor. " Go, go! " Luisa begged in a 
 low tone. " Don't let them take you ! Go by the 
 little courtyard! Climb over the wall!" He did 
 not answer, but hastily threw on some clothes and 
 rushed from the room, heedless of danger, and 
 determined never of his own free will to leave his 
 Luisa and his sick child. 
 
 He dashed down the stairs. "Who is there?" 
 he inquired, without opening the door. "The 
 PoUce! " some one answered. " Open at once." 
 
2i6 The Patriot 
 
 "At this hour I open to no one I do not see." 
 
 A short dialogue ensued in the street. The 
 voice he had heard first said : " You speak to him," 
 and the voice that spoke next was very familiar 
 to Franco. 
 
 "Open, Signer Maironi." 
 
 It was the Receiver. Franco threw the door 
 open. A gentleman, dressed in black and wearing 
 spectacles, entered, and was followed by the mas- 
 tiff ; after the mastiff came a gendarme with a 
 lantern, then three other armed gendarmes, two 
 of whom were subalterns while the other was of 
 higher rank, and carried a large leathern bag. 
 Some one remained outside. 
 
 "Are you Signor Maironi?" said the man in 
 spectacles, a police-adjunct, or detective from 
 Milan. "Come upstairs with me." And the 
 whole party started upstairs, with the thud of 
 heavy steps and the rattling of military trap- 
 pings. 
 
 They had not yet reached the first floor when a 
 light fell on the stairs from above, and sobs and 
 groans were heard on the second floor. 
 
 "Is that your wife?" asked the detective. 
 
 "Do you fancy it is?" Franco retorted iron- 
 ically. The Receiver mtirmured: "It is prob- 
 ably the servant." The detective turned and 
 gave an order; two gendarmes started forward 
 and went rapidly up to the second floor. More 
 sharply than before the adjunct asked Franco: 
 "Is your wife in bed?" 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 217 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 " Where? She must get up." 
 
 The door of the alcove-room was thrown open, 
 and Luisa appeared in her dressing-gown, with 
 flowing hair, and bearing a candle in her hand. 
 At the same moment a gendarme leaned over the 
 banisters on the upper floor, and said that the 
 servant had nearly fainted away, and could not 
 come down. The detective ordered him to leave 
 his companion with the woman, and to descend. 
 Then he saluted the lady, who did not reply. In 
 the hope that Franco had fled, she had hastened 
 to leave the room in order to detain and, if pos- 
 sible, deceive the police. She now saw her hus- 
 band and shuddered, her heart beating wildly, 
 but she composed herself at once. 
 
 The detective stepped forward to enter the 
 room. "No!" Franco exclaimed. "Some one 
 is ill in there." Luisa clutched the handle of the 
 closed door, looking the man straight in the face. 
 
 "Who is ill?" asked the detective. 
 
 "A Kttle girl." 
 
 "Well, what harm do you suppose we shall do 
 her?" 
 
 "Pardon me," said Luisa almost defiantly, and 
 giving the handle a nervous shake, "must you all 
 go in?" 
 
 "All of us." 
 
 At the sound of voices and the rattling of the 
 door-handle little Maria had begun to cry in a 
 weary and forlorn voice that was heart-rending. 
 
2i8 The Patriot 
 
 "L-uisa," said Franco, "let these gentlemen do 
 their work." 
 
 The detective was a fashionably-dressed young 
 man, with a refined but cruel face. He threw 
 Franco a sinister glance. " Obey your husband, 
 Signora," said he, glad of an opportunity to 
 retaliate. "I think he is prudent." 
 
 " Less prudent than you are, who bring a whole 
 army as escort," Luisa retorted, opening the door. 
 He glanced at her, shrugged his shoulders, and 
 passed in, followed by the others. 
 
 "Open everything here," said he roughly, in a 
 loud voice, pointing to the writing-desk. Franco's 
 big, blue eyes flashed. "Speak softly!" said he. 
 "Do not frighten my child." 
 
 " Silence, you! " the detective thundered, bring- 
 ing his fist down upon the desk. "Open!" 
 
 At that noise the child began to sob violently. 
 Franco, who was furious, flung the key upon the 
 desk. 
 
 "Open it yourself," said he. 
 
 "You are under arrest!" cried the detective. 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 While Franco was answering thus, Luisa, who 
 had bent low over her baby, trying to pacify her, 
 raised her face impetuously. 
 
 "I also have a right to that honour," said she, 
 in her fine, ringing voice. 
 
 The detective did not deign to reply, but ordered 
 a gendarme to open all the drawers of 'the writing- 
 desk, and he himself searched them, removing all 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 219 
 
 the letters, examining them rapidly, throwing 
 some on the floor, and tossing others into the 
 great leathern bag. After the writing-desk it 
 was the turn of the chests of drawers, where every- 
 thing was turned upside down. Then Maria's 
 little bed was inspected. The detective ordered 
 Luisa to remove the child from the big bed, which 
 he also intended to examine. 
 
 "Then put the little bed in order for me," 
 Luisa replied, quivering with rage. Up to this 
 moment, the mastiff, Carlascia, had stood silent 
 and stiff behind his moustaches, as if this opera- 
 tion, which he had perhaps desired in the ab- 
 stract, were proving not entirely to his taste, now 
 that it was being put into practice. He came 
 forward and began arranging the mattresses and 
 sheets of the little bed with his great ugly paws. 
 Luisa placed the child in it, and then the large bed 
 was torn to pieces and examined, but without 
 any result. Maria had stopped crying, and was 
 staring at the scene of confusion with wide eyes. 
 
 "Now follow me, both of you," said the ad- 
 junct. Luisa, who believed she was to be led 
 away with her husband, demanded that the ser- 
 vant be summoned, that she might give the child 
 into her care. At the idea that Luisa was under 
 arrest, that the sick child was to be deprived of 
 her mother also. Franco, beside himself with rage 
 and grief, uttered a protesting cry — 
 
 "This is not possible! Say it is not so!" 
 
 The detective did not vouchsafe a reply, but 
 
220 The Patriot 
 
 ordered that the servant be brought in. The 
 maid, half dead with fright, entered between two 
 gendarmes, groaning and sobbing. 
 
 "Fool!" Franco muttered between his teeth. 
 
 "The woman will stay here with the child," 
 said the adjunct. "Both of you will come with 
 me. You must be present when the rest of the 
 house is searched." He sent for some lights, left 
 a gendarme in the alcove-room, and went into the 
 hall, followed by the other gendarmes, Bianconi, 
 Franco, and Luisa. 
 
 "Before continuing the search," said he, "I 
 will ask you a question I should have asked before 
 had your conduct been more correct. Tell me 
 whether you have any weapons, or seditious publi- 
 cations, or papers either printed or in manuscript, 
 which are hostile to the Imperial and Royal 
 Government." 
 
 Franco answered, in a loud tone — 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That is What we shall see," said the detective. 
 
 "Do as you like." 
 
 While the adjunct was causing ftirniture to be 
 moved away from the wall, and was searching and 
 peering everywhere, Luisa remembered that eight 
 or ten years before her uncle had shown her in the 
 chest of drawers of a room on the second floor, an 
 old sabre that had lain there ever since 1812. It 
 had belonged to another Pietro Ribera, a lieuten- 
 ant of cavalry, who had fallen at Malojaroslavetz. 
 No one ever slept in that room above the kitchen 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 221 
 
 and it was seldom entered ; it was as if it did not 
 exist. Ltiisa had completely forgotten the old 
 sabre of the Empire. Oh, God! now she recalled 
 it! What if her uncle had forgotten it also? 
 What if he had not given it up in 1848, after the 
 war, when orders had been issued to deliver up all 
 weapons, under pain of death? Had. her uncle 
 grasped the fact, in his patriarchal simplicity, 
 that this heir-loom that had lain for six-and- 
 thirty years at the bottom of a drawer, had now 
 become a dangerous and forbidden object? And 
 Franco, Franco who knew nothing! Luisa was 
 resting her hands on the back of a chair; .it 
 creaked sharply under her convulsive pressure. 
 She withdrew her hands, frightened, as if the 
 chair had spoken. 
 
 In fancy she saw the adjunct pass from room to 
 room with his gendarmes, and arrive at that door, 
 open the drawer, and discover the sabre. She 
 made every effort to recall the exact position in 
 which she had seen it, to find some way out of this 
 danger; and she was silent, mechanically fol- 
 lowing with her eyes the candle which a gendarme, 
 in obedience to his chief's gestures, held close, 
 now to an open drawer or cupboard, now to a 
 picture which the detective had lifted, that he 
 might look behind it. No, she could think of no 
 remedy. If her uncle had failed to remove the 
 sabre, she could only trust they would not visit 
 that room 
 
 Franco, leaning against the stove, was following 
 
222 The Patriot 
 
 every motion of the searchers with a clouded brow. 
 When they plunged their hands into the drawers, 
 his rage was visible in the silent working of his 
 jaws. Nothing was heard save, now and then, a 
 sharp order from the detective, and a low-toned 
 reply from the gendarmes. Nothing moved 
 around them, save their great shadows wavering 
 on the walls. The silence of the Receiver, of 
 Franco and Luisa, was like the silence of those 
 who have risked great sums in a secret gaming- 
 house, and stand about the players who, from 
 time to time, speak some brief word. The sinister 
 face and voice of the detective never changed, 
 although he had not discovered anything. To 
 Luisa he seemed a man sure of achieving his pur- 
 pose. And not to be able to do anything, not even 
 warn Franco! But perhaps it was better he did 
 not know; perhaps his ignorance would save 
 him. 
 
 Having searched the hall and the loggia the 
 detective entered the salon. He took the candle 
 from the gendarme's hands and swiftly examined 
 the Uttle, illustrious men. 
 
 Seeing the portraits of Gouvion Saint-C3rr, 
 Marmont, and other generals of Napoleon, he 
 said : " The Engineer-in-Chief Ribera wotild have 
 done far better to hang the portrait of His Ex- 
 cellency Field-Marshal Radetzky on his walls. 
 Is it here?" 
 
 "No," said Franco. 
 
 "A nice government official!" said the other 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 223 
 
 contemptuously, and with indescribable arro- 
 gance. 
 
 "Are government officials bound," Franco 
 burst forth, "to hang the portraits " 
 
 "I am not here to argue with you," the detec- 
 tive said, interrupting him. 
 
 Franco was about to answer. "Be quiet, you 
 with your tongue a yard long!" said the Re- 
 ceiver, brutally. 
 
 The detective passed from the drawing-room 
 into the corridor leading to the stairs. Would he 
 go up or not, Ltiisa wondered. He went up, and 
 she followed him, not trembling, but imagining 
 with a dizzy rapidity, the many different things 
 that might happen. All the possibilities of the 
 moment, both disastrous and favourable, were 
 whirling, as it were, in her head. If she lingered 
 upon the first, horror carried her with a bound to 
 the second; if she dwelt upon these, fancy re- 
 turned with perverse eagerness to the first. 
 
 Before they had set foot in the corridor of the 
 second floor they heard Maria crying. Franco 
 begged the adjunct to allow his wife to go down 
 to the child, but she protested that she wished to 
 remain. The idea of not being with him when 
 the weapon was discovered, terrified her. Mean- 
 while the detective had entered a small room 
 where there were some books, and finding a 
 volume printed at Capolago, and bearing the 
 title, Literary Writings of a Living Italian, he 
 said: "Who is this living Italian?" "Padre 
 
224 The Patriot 
 
 Cesari," Franco replied boldly. The other, de- 
 ceived by his prompt answer and the priestly 
 name, assumed the air of a man of culture, saying : 
 "Ah! I am acquainted with his works." Re- 
 placing the book, he inquired where the Engineer- 
 in-Chief slept. 
 
 Luisa was too completely dominated by the one 
 great dread to sense anything else, but Franco, 
 when he saw the police-agent and his band enter 
 the uncle's room, which was so clean, so neat, so 
 full of his dear, calm spirit, when he reflected what 
 a blow to the poor old man the news of all this 
 would be, was completely overcome, and could 
 have wept with rage. " It seems to me," he said, 
 " that this one room at least should be respected." 
 
 "Keep your observations to yotirself," the 
 adjunct retorted, and began by ordering the 
 blankets and mattresses stripped from the bed. 
 Then he demanded the key to the chest of drawers. 
 Franco had it, and went down to his room for it, 
 accompanied by a gendarme. The tmcle had en- 
 trusted it to him before leaving, telUng him that 
 in case of need he would find a small amount of 
 cum quihus in the top drawer. They opened it. 
 It contained a roll of svanziche, a few letters and 
 papers, some pocket-books, old note-books, com- 
 passes, pencils, and a small wooden bowl in which 
 were several coins. 
 
 The detective examined everything carefully, 
 discovering among the coins in the little bowl a 
 five-franc piece of the time of Carlo Alberto, and 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 225 
 
 a forty-franc piece of the Provisory Government 
 of Lombardy. "The Engineer-in-Chief has pre- 
 served these coins with extraordinary care," 
 said the detective; "henceforth we will preserve 
 them." He closed the drawer, and, without 
 opening the others, returned the key to Franco. 
 
 Then he went out into the corridor and paused, 
 undecided. The Receiver thought he intended to 
 go down, and as the corridor was nearly dark, and 
 the stairs were not visible, he, who was acquainted 
 with the house, started towards the right in the 
 direction of the stairs, saying: "This way." 
 The room where the sabre lay was on the left. 
 
 "Wait," said the adjunct. "Let us look in 
 here, also." And ttirning, he pushed open the 
 fatal door. Luisa, who had been the last in the 
 procession, pressed forward, now that the supreme 
 moment had arrived. Her heart, which had beat 
 furiously while the adjunct hesitated, now be- 
 came quiet as by a miracle, and she was cool, 
 daring, and ready. 
 
 "Who sleeps here?" the detective asked her. 
 
 "No one. My vincle's parents used to occupy 
 this room, but they have been dead these forty 
 years, and no one has slept here since." 
 
 The room contained two beds, a sofa, and a 
 chest of drawers. This the detective signed to 
 the gendarmes to open. They tried it, but it 
 was locked. '"I think I have the key," said 
 Lmsa with the utmost indifference. She went 
 down, accompanied by a gendarme, and re- 
 
226 The Patriot 
 
 tiirned immediately with a little basket of keys 
 which she offered to the detective. 
 
 "I do not know the key," she said. "It is 
 never used. It must be one of these." 
 
 He tried them all, but in vain. Then the Re- 
 ceiver tried, and then Franco. The right one was 
 not there. 
 
 "Send to S. Mamette for the lock-smith," said 
 Luisa, calmly. The Receiver looked at the detec- 
 tive as if to say: " It seems to me unnecessary," 
 but the detective turned his back upon him and 
 exclaimed to Luisa: "This key must be some- 
 where!" 
 
 The chest of drawers, a piece of rococo furni- 
 ture, had metal handles to each drawer. One 
 of the gendarmes, the strongest, tried to force the 
 drawers open. He did not succeed either with the 
 top one or with the second. Just at that 
 moment Luisa remembered that she had seen the 
 sabre in the third drawer, together with a roll of 
 drawings. The gendarme seized the handles of 
 the third. "This one is not locked," said he. In 
 fact it opened easily. The detective took the 
 light and bent over to examine it. 
 
 Franco had seated himself on the sofa, his eyes 
 fixed on the rafters of the ceiling. When his wife 
 saw the drawer pulled open she sank down beside 
 him, took his hand, and pressed it spasmodically. 
 
 She heard some papers rustle, and the Receiver 
 murmured, in a benign voice: "Drawings." 
 Then the detective exclaimed: "Ah!" and the 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 227 
 
 '■atellites all leaned forward to see. She had the 
 c:rength to rise and inquire; ''What is it?" 
 The detective was holding a long pasteboard case, 
 curved and slim, and bearing a label with an 
 inscription. He had already read the inscription 
 to himself ; he now read it aloud with an accent 
 of ineflfable sarcasm and satisfaction. "The 
 sabre of Lieutenant Pietro Ribera, killed at 
 Malojaroslavetz in 1812." Franco started to his 
 feet, astounded and incredulous, and at the same 
 moment the adjunct opened the case. From 
 where he stood Franco could not see it, and he 
 glanced at his wife, who could. Her lips were 
 white and he thought it was with fright, although 
 this did not seem possible. 
 
 But her lips were white with joy, for the case 
 contained only an empty scabbard. Ltiisa sud- 
 denly drew back into the shadow and sank upon 
 the sofa, struggling with a violent inward trem- 
 bling, vexed with herself and ashamed of her 
 weakness, which however, she soon conquered. 
 Meanwhile the detective, who had removed the 
 scabbard and examined it on all sides, asked 
 Franco where the sabre was. Franco was about 
 to answer that he did not know, which was per- 
 fectly true, but reflecting that this might seem 
 like self-justification, he said — 
 
 "In Russia." 
 
 The sabre was not in Russia, but fast in the mud, 
 at the bottom of the lake, where Uncle Piero had 
 secretly flung it rather than give it up. 
 
228 The Patriot 
 
 " But why did they write sabre? " inquired the 
 Receiver, wishing to show he also was zpalpus. 
 
 "The writer is dead," said Franco. 
 
 "Hand over that key at once!" the detective 
 scolded angrily. And this time Luisa found it, 
 and the two other drawers were opened. One 
 was empty, the other contained some blankets 
 and a little lavender. 
 
 The search ended here. The adjunct went 
 down to the drawing-room, and ordered Franco 
 to make ready to follow him in fifteen rninutes. 
 "You had better arrest all of us then!" Luisa 
 exclaimed. 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders, and repeated 
 to Franco: "In fifteen minutes. You may go 
 to yoiir room, now, if you wish to." Franco 
 dragged Ltiisa away entreating her to be silent, 
 to resign herself for love of Maria. He seemed 
 like another man, exhibiting neither grief nor 
 anger, and there was in his voice a ring of serious 
 sweetness, of manly cahn. 
 
 He put some linen into a bag, together with a 
 voltmie of Dante and an Almanack du Jardinier, 
 which were on the table, bent over Maria for a 
 moment but did not kiss her, for she had gone to 
 sleep, and he feared to wake her. He kissed 
 L^lisa, however, but as they were being observed 
 by the gendarmes stationed at either door of the 
 room, he quickly freed himself from her embrace, 
 saying, in French, that they must not provide a 
 spectacle for those gentlemen. Then he took up 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 229 
 
 his bag, and went to place himself at the detec- 
 tive's orders. 
 
 The police-adjunct had a boat waiting not fifty- 
 paces from Casa Ribera, towards Albogasio, at 
 the landing called del Canevaa. Upon issuing 
 frorn the portico spanned by his house, Franco 
 heard a shutter being thrown open above his head, 
 and saw the light from his bedroom flash against 
 the white fagade of the chtirch. He turned 
 towards the window, saying — 
 
 "Send for the doctor to-morrow morning. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 Lttisa did not answer. 
 
 When the gendarmes reached the Canevaa with 
 their prisoner, the adjunct ordered them to stop. 
 
 "Signor Maironi," said he, "you have had your 
 lesson. This time you may return to your home, 
 and I advise you to learn to respect the Author- 
 ities." 
 
 Amazement, joy, and indignation welled up in 
 Franco's heart. He controlled himself, however, 
 biting his lips, and started homewards at a leisurely 
 pace. He had not yet turned the corner of the 
 chiirch when Luisa recognised his step, and called, 
 "Franco!" 
 
 He sprang forward, and she saw him. Then 
 her shadow vanished from the window. He 
 rushed into the house, flung himself up the stairs, 
 crying, "Free! Free!" while his wife came 
 flying down, exclaiming wildly, "How! How! 
 Howl " They sought each other with eager arms, 
 
230 The Patriot 
 
 clung together, pressing close, without further 
 speech. 
 
 But afterwards, in the loggia, they talked 
 incessantly for two hours, of all they had heard, 
 seen, and experienced, always coming back to the 
 sabre, the papers, the coins, dwelling upon many 
 trifling details, on the detective's Venetian accent, 
 on the dark-haired gendarme, who seemed a good 
 fellow, and the fair-haired gendarme, who must be 
 a regular cur. From time to time they would 
 cease speaking, enjoying in silence their sense of 
 security, the sweetness of home, but presently they 
 would begin again. Before going to bed they 
 stepped out on the terrace. The night was dark 
 and warm, the lake motionless. The siiltriness, 
 the gloom, the vague and monstrous shapes of 
 the mountains, seemed to their imagination 
 heaAry with the mortal weight of Austria. The 
 very air itself seemed full of it. Neither Franco 
 nor Luisa was sleepy, but they must go to bed on 
 account of the servant who was watching with 
 Maria. They entered the room on tiptoe. The 
 child was sleeping, her breathing almost normal. 
 
 They also tried to sleep, but could not. They 
 could not refrain from talking, especially Franco. 
 He woxild ask softly: "Are you asleep?" and 
 upon her answering, "No," the coins, the papers, 
 the sabre, or the bully with his Venetian accent 
 would be discussed once more. By this time 
 there was nothing new to be said on these subjects, 
 and, as Maria began to be restless, and to show 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 231 
 
 signs of waking, towards dawn, Luisa answered, 
 "Yes," the next time Franco inquired softly, 
 "Are you asleep?" and after that he kept quiet, 
 as if he really believed it. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The day after the search at Casa Ribera, Oria, 
 Albogasio, and S. Mamette were fvill of whisperings. 
 "Have you heard? — Oh, dear Lord! — Have you 
 heard? — Oh, holy Madonna!" But the loudest 
 whisperings were of course those that communi- 
 cated the news to Barborin Pasotti. Her husband 
 shouted into her face: "Maironi! Police! Gen- 
 darmes! Arrest!" The poor woman concluded an 
 army had swept her friends away, and began to 
 puff— "oh! oh!" — ^like an engine. Then she 
 groaned and wept, and questioned Pasotti about 
 the child. Pasotti, who was determined not to 
 allow her to go down to Oria and exhibit her 
 affection for the Maironis under these circum- 
 stances, replied with a gesture like the sweep of a 
 broom. Gone! Gone! She also! — But the ser- 
 vant? The servant must surely be there still. 
 The crafty man made another sweeping gesture 
 in the air, and then Barborin grasped the fact 
 that His Imperial and Royal Austrian Majesty 
 had had the servant carried off as well. 
 
 But the most malicious whisperings were ut- 
 tered at a great distance from Valsolda, in a room 
 in the Maironi Palace, at Brescia. Ten days 
 after the search the Chevalier Greisberg di S. 
 Giustina, a cousin of the Maironis, who had been 
 
232 The Patriot 
 
 attached to the government of Field-Marshal 
 Radetzky in Verona iintil 1853, and had then 
 accompanied his master to Milan, alighted at the 
 door of Casa Maironi from the carriage of the 
 Imperial and Royal Delegate of Brescia, whose 
 guest he had been for some days. The Chevalier, 
 a handsome man of about forty, perfumed, and 
 smartly dressed, did not look particularly happy 
 as he stood very erect in the centre. of the recep- 
 tion room, examining the ancient stucco-work 
 of the ceiling, and waiting for the Marchesa, who 
 was of the same period. Nevertheless, when the 
 door opposite him, pushed open by a servant's 
 hand, admitted Madam's big person, marble 
 countenance, and black wig, the Chevalier was at 
 once transformed, and kissed the old lady's 
 wrinkled hand with fervour. A Lombard gentle- 
 woman devoted to Austria was a rare animal, and 
 extremely precious to the Imperial and Royal 
 government. Every loyal functionary owed her 
 the most obsequious gallantry. The Marchesa 
 received the homage of her cousin the Chevalier 
 with her usual unruflfled dignity, and having in- 
 vited him to be seated, enquired after his family 
 and thanked him for his call, all in the same 
 guttxu-al and sleepy tone. Finally, slightly out 
 of breath from the fatigue of uttering so many 
 words, she crossed her hands over her stomach, 
 and let it be seen that she was now waiting for 
 what her cousin might have to say. 
 
 She expected he would speak about Engineer 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 233 
 
 Ribera and the search. She had on previous 
 occasions expressed to him her displeasure that 
 Franco should be under the influence of his wife 
 and Ribera, and her surprise that the government 
 should retain in its service one who in 1848 had 
 openly played the Liberal, and whose family — 
 especially that artful young woman — ^professed 
 the most impudent Liberalism. The Chevalier 
 Greisberg had assured her that her wise observa- 
 tions shoiild be given due consideration. Then 
 the Marchesa had instigated the Commissary 
 Z6rboK against the poor Engineer-in-Chief , and it 
 had been through Z6rboli that she had heard of 
 the search. Therefore, when Greisberg appeared 
 she concluded he had come to speak of that. 
 Now, she was quite willing to make the govern- 
 ment serve her own private rancoiu", but, as a 
 matter of principle, she never recognised a debt 
 of gratitude toward any one. By thus subjecting 
 a doubtful functionary to examination, the Aus- 
 trian government had been working in its own 
 interests. She had not asked for anything; it 
 was not for her to ask, it was for the Chevalier to 
 speak first. But the Chevalier, cunning, sly, and 
 proud, did not understand his r61e in this way. 
 The old woman wanted a favour, and in order to 
 obtain it she must bow down and kiss the benef- 
 icent claws of government. 
 
 He remained silent for some time, to collect 
 his thoughts, and in the hope that the other would 
 yield. Seeing that she remained mute and un- 
 
234 The Patriot 
 
 bending, he himself became suddenly smiling and 
 gracious, told her that he had come from Verona, 
 and proposed that she guess what route he had 
 taken. He had passed through such a sweet town, 
 had seen such a charming villa, so splendid, a 
 real paradise! The Marchesa was not good at 
 guessing; she asked if he had been in Brianza. 
 No, he had not come from Verona to Brescia by 
 way of Brianza. He once more described the 
 villa, and this time so minutely that the Marchesa 
 could not help recognising her own estate of 
 Monzambano. Then the Chevalier proposed that 
 she guess why he had gone to see the villa. She 
 guessed at once, guessed the whole plot of the 
 comedy that was being acted for her benefit, but 
 her dtdl face said nothing of this. The Delegate 
 had once before sounded her to ascertain if she 
 would be willing to let the villa to His Excellency 
 the Marshal, but she — having been secretly 
 threatened with fire and death by the Liberals 
 of Brescia — had found some polite excuses. She 
 now perceived in Greisberg's words the tacit offer 
 of a bargain, and stood on her guard. She con- 
 fessed to her cousin that she was unable to guess 
 even this. Indeed she felt she was growing more 
 and more stupid every day. The effect of years 
 and grief ! "I have had a great grief very lately, " 
 she said. " I am told that the Police have searched 
 my grandson's house at Oria." 
 
 Greisberg, feeling that this elderly hypocrite 
 was slipping through his fingers, now ptdled ofiE 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 235 
 
 his glove, and seized her with his talons. " Mar- 
 chesa," said he, in a tone which admitted of no 
 rejoinder, " you must not speak of grief ! Through 
 the Commissary of Porlezza and myself, you have 
 furnished precious information to the government, 
 of which service it is not tmmindful. Not a hair 
 of your grandson's head was touched, nor will be, 
 if he is judicious. But, on the other hand, I 
 regret that we may perhaps not be able to adopt 
 severe meastires against another person who has 
 injtired you seriously in private matters. In 
 order to find a means of reaching this person the 
 Commissary has even exceeded his duty. You 
 must understand once for all, Marchesa, that this 
 is not a question of grief, and that you are especially 
 indebted to the government." The Marchesa 
 had never before been spoken to in such strong 
 language and with such formidable authority. 
 Perhaps the continuous, undulating movement 
 of neck and head visible above her stiffly-held 
 body, corresponded with the angry beating of 
 her heart, but it seemed the movement of some 
 animal struggling to swallow an enormous mouth- 
 ful. At any rate she did not tmbend sufficiently 
 to speak a word of acquiescence. Only, having 
 regained her obese calm, she observed that she 
 had never demanded that measures be adopted 
 against any one ; that she was glad the search had 
 revealed nothing incriminating against Engineer 
 Ribera ; that, nevertheless, all sorts of things had 
 been said in Casa Ribera, but that words were 
 
236 The Patriot 
 
 difficult to trace. The Chevalier replied more 
 gently, that he could not say whether anything 
 had been discovered, and that the last word 
 would be spoken by the Marshal himself, who 
 intended to give thic> matter his personal attention. 
 This remark enabled him to return to the subject 
 of the villa at Monzambano. He asked for it 
 formally for His Excellency, who wished to go 
 there within a week. The Marchesa thanked 
 him for the great honour, which she said, her villa 
 did not deserve ; it seemed to her too dilapidated, 
 it wanted repairing, and His Excellency must be 
 informed of this. She wished to defer her de- 
 cision, to await the payment of the miserable 
 price of her condescension, but the Chevalier 
 struck another blow with his talons, and de- 
 clared she must answer at once, answer clearly, 
 yes or no, and the old lady was forced to bow her 
 head. "To accommodate His Excellency," she 
 said. Greisberg at once became amiable again, 
 and jested about the measiires to be adopted 
 against that Signer Ingegnere. There was no 
 question of spilling blood, only a little ink need 
 be spilled. There was no question of depriving 
 any one of liberty, rather of conferring perfect 
 liberty on somebody. The Marchesa made no 
 sign. She sent for two lemonades, and drank hers 
 slowly in little sips, not without a faint expression 
 of satisfaction between the sips, as if this lemon- 
 ade had a new and exquisite flavour. But the 
 Chevalier wished for an expUcit word from her 
 
The Hand Within the Glove 237 
 
 concerning Ribera, a confession of her desire, 
 and placing the glass he had hastily drained upon 
 the tray, he said, "I will see to this myself, you 
 know, and we shall succeed. Are you satisfied?" 
 
 The Marchesa continued to sip the lemonade 
 slowly, slowly, gazing into the glass. 
 
 " Does that suit you? " her cousin asked, having 
 waited in vain for an answer. 
 
 "Yes, it is very good," the drowsy voice replied. 
 " I drink it slowly on account of my teeth." 
 ***** 
 
 The last whisperings "were not human. Luisa 
 and Franco were seated on the grass at Looch, 
 near the cemetery. They were speaking of the 
 mother's great and exquisite goodness, and com- 
 paring it to Uncle Piero's great and simple good- 
 ness, noting the similarity and the differences. 
 They did not say which sort of goodness, taken 
 as a whole, seemed to them superior, but from 
 the opinions each expressed, their different in- 
 clinations could be divined. Franco preterred 
 that goodness which is permeated with faith in 
 the supernatural, while Luisa preferred the other 
 form of goodness. He was grieved by this secret 
 contradiction, but hesitated to reveal it, fearing 
 to sound a too painful note. But it had brought 
 a cloud to his brow, and presently he said, almost 
 involuntarily: "How many misfortunes, how 
 much bitterness your mother suffered, with such 
 great resignation, such strength, such peace ! Do 
 you believe that natural goodness alone would be 
 
238 The Patriot 
 
 able to suffer thus?" "I do not know," Luisa 
 replied. " I think poor Mamma must have lived 
 in a better world before she was born into this, 
 for her heart was always there." She did not say 
 all she thought. She thought that if all the good 
 souls on earth resembled her mother in religious 
 meekness, this world would become the kingdom 
 of the rascal and the tyrant. And as to ills, which 
 do not come from man, but from the very con- 
 ditions of human life itself, she felt greater ad- 
 miration for such as strive against them with their 
 own strength, than for such as invoke and obtain 
 aid from that same Being by whom the blow was 
 dealt. She would not confess these sentiments 
 to her husband, but instead, expressed the hope 
 that her uncle might never suffer deep affliction. 
 Could it be possible that the Lord would wish 
 such a man to suffer? "No, no, no!" Franco 
 exclaimed; at another moment he would not 
 perhaps have dared to admonish God in this 
 manner. A breath of the BogUa swept down the 
 ravine of Mvizki, and rustled the top branches of 
 the walnut-trees. To Luisa that fluttering seemed 
 connected with Franco's last words; it seemed 
 to her that the wind and the great trees knew 
 something of the future, and were whispering 
 about it together. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE SECRET OF THE WIND AND 
 THE WALNUT-TREES 
 
 TV/T ARIA'S fever lasted only eight days ; never- 
 •*■ -^ theless, when she left her bed, her parents 
 f otind her more changed in face and in mind than 
 if the eight days had been eight months. Her 
 eyes had grown darker, and had asstimed a pecul- 
 iar expression of calm and precocious maturity. 
 She spoke more distinctly and rapidly, but to 
 those who were not to her Hking, she would not 
 speak at all, wotild not even greet them. This 
 was more displeasing to Franco than to Luisa. 
 Franco wished her to be amiable, but Luisa 
 feared to spoil her sincerity. " For her mother 
 Maria cherished an affection violent rather than 
 demonstrative, a jealous, almost fierce affection. 
 She was very fond of her father also, but it was 
 evident that she felt he was imlike herself. Franco 
 had passionate outbursts of affection for her, 
 when he would catch her up unexpectedly, press 
 her close, and cover her with kisses. At such 
 moments she wotild throw her head back, plant 
 one little hand upon her father's face, and look 
 frowningly at him, as if something in him were 
 
 23J 
 
240 The Patfi 
 
 mot! 
 
 strange and repugnant to her. - -o ^en Franco 
 would scold her angrily, and Maria would cry and 
 stare at him through her tears, motionless, and as 
 if fascinated, and always wearing the expression 
 of one who does not understand. He noticed 
 the child's predilection for her mother, and this 
 was pleasing to him, for it seemed a just prefer- 
 ence, and he never doubted that later Maria 
 would love him tenderly also. Liiisa, loving her 
 husband as she did, was much troubled that the 
 child should exhibit greater affection for herself; 
 however this sentiment of hers was less lively, 
 less pure, than Franco's generous pleasure. It 
 seemed to Liiisa that, after all, in spite of his 
 transports. Franco loved his daughter as a being 
 distinct from himself, while she, who had no trans- 
 ports of external tenderness, loved the child as a 
 vital part of herself. Moreover she cherished in 
 her heart a future Maria probably very different 
 from the one Franco cherished. For this reason 
 also she could not regret her moral ascendency over 
 her daughter. She foresaw the danger that Franco 
 might favour an exaggerated development of 
 the child's religious sentiment, and this, to her, 
 was a very serious danger, for in Maria, full of 
 curiosity, eager for stories, there were the germs 
 of a very lively imagination, which would be most 
 favourable to religious fancies, and a badly bal- 
 anced moral sense might be the result. It was 
 not a question of abolishing religious sentiment; 
 this Luisa, out of respect for Franco, if for no other 
 
The Secret of the Wind 241 
 
 reason, would never have sought to do, but it was 
 imperative that Maria, on reaching womanhood, 
 should be able to find the pivot of her own exis- 
 tence in her own sure and vigorous moral sense, a 
 moral sense not founded upon beliefs which, after 
 all, were simply hypotheses and opinions, and 
 which, sooner or later, might fail her. The 
 preservation of faith in Justice and in Truth, 
 setting aside all other faith, all hope, all fear, 
 seemed to her the most sublime condition of the 
 human conscience. She believed that because 
 she went to Mass, and twice a year to the sacra- 
 ments, she had renounced such perfection for her- 
 self, and she intended to renounce it for Maria 
 also, but as one who, finding himself hampered 
 by wife and children, must renounce Christian 
 perfection, but who does so unwillingly, and in as 
 slight a degree as possible. 
 
 Fate might bestow riches upon Maria. There- 
 fore they must careftilly provide against her accep- 
 tance of a life of frivoUty, compensated for by the 
 giving of alms, the Mass in the morning, and the 
 rosary at night. On several occasions Luisa had 
 attempted to sound Franco upon the question of 
 giving Maria's education a moral direction quite 
 apart from the religious direction, but such at- 
 tempts had never been accompanied by satis- 
 factory results. Franco could understand an 
 tinbelief in religion, but it was quite incompre- 
 hensible to him that there were those who fotmd 
 religion insufficient as a rule of life. He had never 
 
242 The Patriot 
 
 for a moment believed that all should aspire to 
 saintliness, or that those who love tarocchi, primero, 
 hunting, fishing, nice little dinners and a bottle of 
 fine wine, are not good Christians. And this 
 moral direction in education as divided from the 
 religious direction seemed to him a mere notion, 
 because, to his thinking, all honest men who did 
 not believe, were honest either by nature or from 
 habit, and not from any moral or philosophical 
 reasoning. So it was not possible for Luisa to 
 come to an understanding with her husband on 
 this deHcate point. She must act alone and very 
 cautiously, in order neither to offend nor to grieve 
 him. When Franco pointed out to the child the 
 stars and the moon, the flowers and the butterflies, 
 as admirable works of God, using poetically re- 
 ligious language fit for a child of twelve, Luisa 
 held her- peace ; but if, on the contrary, he chanced 
 to say to Maria: "Mind, God does not wish you 
 to do that!" Luisa would immediately add: 
 "That is wicked! You must never do what is 
 wicked!" In such cases some dissension must 
 inevitably arise between the parents, for the moral 
 judgment of one was not always in harmony with 
 the moral judgment of the other. Once they 
 were standing together at the window of the hall, 
 while Maria played with a little girl of about her 
 own age from Oria. A brother of the child 
 passed, a tyrant of eight, and ordered his little 
 sister to follow him. She refused and wept. 
 But Maria, looking very grave, faced the tyrant 
 
The Secret of the Wind 243 
 
 with clenched fists. Franco restrained her by a 
 sharp command ; the Httle one turned and looked 
 at him, and then burst into tears, while the tyrant 
 dragged his victim away. Luisa left the window, 
 saying in an undertone to her husband : " Excuse 
 me, but that was not just." "Why was it not 
 just?" said Franco, and he became heated and 
 raised his voice, demanding whether his wife 
 wished Maria to grow up pugilistic and violent. 
 She answered gently and firmly, overlooking 
 some sharp words of his, and maintaining that 
 Maria's impulse had been good; that our first 
 duty is to withstand tyranny and injustice ; and 
 that, though the child use his fists, the man would 
 use more civilised weapons; but if the natural 
 impulse of the soul be repressed in the child, there 
 was danger of destroying the nascent sense of 
 justice as well. 
 
 Franco would not be convinced. According 
 to him it was very doubtful whether Maria had 
 harboured any such heroic sentiments. She had 
 simply been angry because she was to be deprived 
 of her playmate, that was all. Besides, was it 
 not a woman's place to oppose gentle meekness to 
 injustice and tyranny, to appease and correct the 
 offender, rather than repulse the offence by force ? 
 Luisa flushed crimson, and replied that this r61e 
 might suit some women, perhaps the best of 
 women, but it would certainly not suit all, for not 
 all were so meek and humble. 
 
 "And you are of that niimber?" 
 
244 The Patriot 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "A fine thing to boast of!" 
 
 " Does it grieve you very much?" 
 
 "Very much indeed." 
 
 Luisa placed her hands on his shoulders. " Does 
 it grieve you very much," said she, "that I rebel 
 as you yourself do against the presence of these 
 masters in our house ; that I desire as you your- 
 self do, to help, even with my hands, in driving 
 them out? Or would you prefer to see me at- 
 tempt to correct Radetzky and appease the 
 Croatians?" 
 
 "That is a different thing." 
 
 "In what way? No, it is the same thing." 
 
 "It is a different thing!" Franco repeated, 
 but he was unable to demonstrate this. He felt 
 he was wrong according to superficial ratiocina- 
 tion, and right according to a profound truth which 
 he was unable to grasp. He said no more but 
 was thoughtful all day, and was evidently seeking 
 for an answer. He thought about it in the night 
 also, and finally, believing he had found an 
 answer, called to his wife, who was asleep. 
 
 "Luisa!" said he. "Luisa, that is a different 
 thing." 
 
 "What is the matter?" Luisa exclaimed, 
 waking with a start. 
 
 He had reflected that the offence of a foreign 
 dominion was not personal like a private offence, 
 and was always the result of a violation of a prin- 
 ciple of universal justice. But while he was ex- 
 
The Secret of the Wind 245 
 
 plaining this to his wife it struck him that in 
 private ofifences also there was always the viola- 
 tion of a principle of universal justice, and he 
 fancied he must have bltmdered. 
 
 "Nothing," said he. 
 
 His wife thought he was dreaming, and placing 
 her head upon his shoulder, she went to sleep 
 again. If any argument could convert Franco 
 to his wife's ideas it was this sweet contact, this 
 gentle breathing upon his breast, in which he had 
 so often and so deliciously felt the blending of 
 their two sotils. But now it was not so. Through 
 his brain the thought flashed suddenly like a 
 quick and cold blade, that this latent antagonism 
 between his wife's views and his own might one 
 day btirst forth in some painful form, and, terri- 
 fied, he pressed her in his arms, as if to defend 
 both himself and her against the phantoms of his 
 own brain. 
 
 :): 4: 4: 4: i|c 
 
 After breakfast, on the sixth of November 
 Franco took his great gardening-shears and pro- 
 ceeded as usual, to the extermination of aU dry 
 leaves and branches on the terrace and in the 
 little garden. The great beauty and deep peace 
 of the hour went to the heart. Not a leaf stirred ; 
 the air from the west was most pure and crystal- 
 line; on the east the hills between Osteno and 
 Porlezza were fading against a background of 
 light mist ; the house was glorious with the sun and 
 the tremulous reflections from the lake; but 
 
246 The Patriot 
 
 though the sun was still very hot, the chrysanthe- 
 mums in the little garden, the olives and laurels 
 along the coast — ^more plainly visible now among 
 the reddening, falling leaves — a certain secret 
 freshness in the air, scented with olea fragrans, the 
 absence of all wind, the vaporous mountains of 
 the Lake of Como, white with snow, all said, with 
 one melancholy accord, that the sweet season was 
 dying. When he had exterminated the withered 
 brushwood Franco proposed to his wife that they 
 should go to Casarico in their boat, and return the 
 two first voliunes of the Mysteres du Peuple which 
 they had eagerly devoured in a few days, to their 
 friend Gilardoni, and borrow the next volume 
 from him. They decided to start after Itmch, 
 when Maria should have gone to bed. But be- 
 fore Maria had been put to bed Barborin Pasotti 
 appeared, all out of breath, her bonnet and mantle 
 askew. She had come up from the garden-gate, 
 and now stopped on the threshold of the hall. It 
 was the first time she had been to see them since 
 the search. Upon catching sight of her friends 
 she clasped her hands, and kept repeating in a low 
 tone: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" 
 Then she fiimg herself upon Luisa and covered her 
 with kisses. 
 
 " My dear girl ! My dear girl ! " she exclaimed. 
 She would have liked to treat Franco in the same 
 way, but Franco was not favourable to this sort 
 of emotion, and his expression was not encouraging, 
 so the poor woman had to be satisfied with takinc^ 
 
The Secret of the Wind 247 
 
 both his hands and shaking them heartily. " My 
 dear Don Franco! My dear Don Franco!" 
 Finally she gathered Maria into her arms, but the 
 child planted her two little hands upon Bar- 
 borin's chest, her face wearing an expression 
 similar to her father's. "I am old, am I not? 
 And ugly? You don't like me? Well, never 
 mind, never mind!" And she fell to kissing the 
 child's arms and shoulders humbly, not daring to 
 brave the sour Httle face. Then she told her 
 friends she had brought them a piece of good news, 
 and her eyes sparkled at the pleasant mystery. 
 The Marchesa had written to Pasotti, and one 
 passage in the letter Barborin had committed to 
 memory. " It was with the deepest regret (deep- 
 est regret, those were the very words) that I 
 learned of the sad affair at Oria . . at Oria 
 . . . (wait a moment) the sad affair at Oria 
 . . . (ah!) and although my grandson is most 
 tmdeserving (wait! . . . have patience!) 
 I trust that it may have no unpleasant conse- 
 quences." The passage did not produce any 
 great effect. Luisa frowned and said nothing. 
 Franco glanced at his wife, and did not dare to 
 utter the favourable comment he had on his lips, 
 but not in his heart. Poor Barborin, who had 
 taken advantage of her husband's absence at 
 Lugano to run to her friends with this sugar-plum, 
 was deeply mortified, and after gazing ruefully 
 from Luisa to Franco, ended by puUing a real 
 sugar-pltim from her pocket, and offering it to 
 
248 The Patriot 
 
 Maria. Then, having made out that the Maironis 
 wanted to go away in the boat, and longing to be 
 allowed to stay with Maria a little while, she 
 begged and entreated so hard that they finally 
 started, leaving orders with Veronica to put the 
 child to bed a little later. 
 
 Maria did not seem any too well pleased with 
 the company of her elderly friend. She remained 
 silent, obstinately silent, and before long she 
 opened her mouth and burst into tears. Poor 
 Barborin did not know which Saint to appeal to, 
 so she appealed to Veronica, but Veronica was 
 discoursing with a customs-guard, and either did 
 not or would not hear. Barborin showed her 
 rings, her watch, even the big bonnet, d la vice- 
 reine Beauharnais, but nothing would do, and 
 Maria continued to weep. Then she bethought 
 her of going to the piano, where she strummed 
 eight or ten bars of an antediluvian jig over and 
 over again. Then little Princess Maria became 
 more amiable, and allowed her old court-pianist 
 to lift her as carefully as if her little arms had been 
 a butterfly's wings, and place her on her lap as 
 softly as if there had been danger of the old legs 
 crumbling to dust. 
 
 When the jig had been repeated five or six 
 times Maria began to look bored and tried to pull 
 the elderly pianist's hand from the key-board, 
 saying in an undertone: "Sing me a song." 
 Obtaining no answer, she turned, looked Barborin 
 
The Secret of the Wind 249 
 
 straight in the face, and shouted at the top of her 
 voice : " Sing me a song. " 
 
 "I don't understand," Barborin replied. "I 
 am deaf." 
 
 "Why are you deaf?" 
 
 "I am deaf," the unforttmate woman answered, 
 smiling. 
 
 " But why are you deaf ? " 
 
 Barborin could not imagine what the child- was 
 saying. 
 
 "I don't understand," said she. 
 
 "Then you are stupid," Maria annotmced with 
 a very serious face, and knitting her brows, she 
 repeated in a whining voice: "I want a song!" 
 
 A voice from the little garden said — 
 
 "Here is the person for songs." 
 
 Maria raised her head and her face became 
 radiant. " Missipipi ! " she cried, and slipping down 
 from Barborin's lap, ran to meet Uncle Piero who 
 was coming in. Signora Pasotti rose also, aston- 
 ished and smiling, and stretched out her arms 
 towards this old and unexpected friend. "Be- 
 hold, behold, behold!" she exclaimed, and hastened 
 to greet him. Maria was calling so loudly for 
 "Missipipi, Missipipi!" and clinging so tight to 
 Uncle Piero 's legs, that, although he did not seem 
 inclined to do so, he was obliged to sit down on 
 the sofa, take the child on his knees, and repeat 
 the old story to her. 
 
 Proud shade of the river 
 
 After four or five "Missipipis" Signora Pasotti 
 
250 The Patriot 
 
 went home, fearing her husband might return. 
 Veronica wished to put the child to bed, but the 
 little one rebelled, axid Uncle Piero interfered, 
 saying : " Oh, leave her here a little while longer," 
 and he took her out to the terrace to see if Papa 
 and Mamma were coming. 
 
 No boat could be seen coming from Casarico. 
 The little one ordered her imcle to sit down, and 
 then she climbed upon his knee. 
 
 "Why did you come?" said she. "There 
 isn't any dinner for you, you know." 
 
 "Then you must cook some for me. I came to 
 stay with you." 
 
 "Always?" 
 
 "Always." 
 
 "But really always, always, always?" 
 
 "Really always." 
 
 Maria became silent and thoughtful, but pre- 
 sently she asked — 
 
 "What have you brought me?" 
 
 Uncle Piero drew a rubber doll from his pocket. 
 Had Maria known, had she been able to vmder- 
 stand how he had gone out to buy that doll for her 
 in great anguish of mind, still smarting from a 
 terrible blow, she wotild have wept with pity. 
 
 "This is an ugly present," said she, recalling 
 others he had brought her. "And if you stay 
 here will you never bring me any more presents?" 
 
 "No more presents." 
 
 "Go away. Uncle," said she. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
The Secret of the Wind 251 
 
 And then Maria wanted her uncle to tell her if 
 his tincle had brought him presents when he was 
 a little boy. But, though the thing was incon- 
 ceivable to Maria, this uncle of her uncle had 
 never existed. Who had brought him presents, 
 then? And had he always been a good little boy? 
 Had he cried much? Her uncle began telling 
 her many tales of his childhood, things that had 
 happened sixty years before, when people wore 
 wigs and pig-tails. He enjoyed talking to his 
 little grand-niece of that far-away time, making 
 her share for a moment the existence of his dead 
 parents, and he spoke with sad gravity, as if the 
 dear ones who had passed away had been present, 
 and he were speaking more for them than for her. 
 She fixed her wide-open eyes on his face, and 
 gazed intently at him. Neither he nor she heeded 
 the flight of time, neither he nor she thought of 
 the boat that was coming. 
 
 And the boat came. Luisa and Franco drew 
 near, suspecting nothing, and believing the child 
 to be asleep. Franco was the first to perceive 
 Uncle Piero seated under the drooping branches 
 of the passion-flower vine with Maria on his knee. 
 He uttered a loud exclamation of siirprise, and, 
 followed by Luisa, hastened towards them, fearing 
 something had happened. " You here ? " he called 
 as he ran. Luisa, who was very pale, said nothing. 
 Uncle Piero raised his head, and looked at them. 
 They felt at once that he had brought bad news, 
 for they had never seen him so grave. 
 
252 The Patriot 
 
 "Addio! God bless you!" said he. 
 
 "What has happened?" Franco whispered. 
 
 Uncle Piero motioned to them to withdraw 
 from the terrace to the loggia, whither he followed 
 them. Then the poor old man spread wide his 
 arms as one crucified, and said in a sad but firm 
 voice — 
 
 "I am dismissed." 
 
 Franco and Luisa stared at him for a moment, 
 dazed. Then Franco burst out: "Oh, Uncle, 
 Uncle!" and fell upon his neck. Seeing her 
 father's action and the expression on her mother's 
 face Maria fell to sobbing. Luisa tried to pacify 
 her, but she herself, strong woman that she was, 
 felt the tears rising in her throat. 
 
 Seated on the sofa in the hall Uncle Piero told 
 them that the Imperial and Royal Delegate of 
 Como had sent for him to tell him that the search 
 which had been carried out in his house at Oria 
 had given painful and unexpected results, but 
 what these results were he had positively refused 
 to state. The Delegate had added that the 
 authorities had at first intended to take legal pro- 
 ceedings against him, but that in consideration of 
 his long and faithftil services to the government, 
 it had been decided to remove him from office 
 instead. Uncle Piero had insisted upon knowing 
 the nature of the accusations brought against him, 
 but the Delegate had dismissed him without an 
 answer. 
 
 "And what is to be done now?" said Franco. 
 
The Secret of the Wind 2^3 
 
 "What is to be done " Uncle Piero was 
 
 silent for a moment, and then pronounced that 
 sacramental phrase of unknown origin which he 
 and his fellow tarocchi players were in the habit of 
 repeating when the game was hopelessly lost. 
 "We are done brown, O Queen!" 
 
 A long silence ensued, which was finally broken 
 by Luisa, who cast herself upon her uncle's neck, 
 murmuring: "Oh, Uncle, Uncle! I am afraid 
 it is our fault." She was thinking of the 
 grandmother, but Uncle Piero thought she 
 was accusing Franco and herself of some impru- 
 dence. 
 
 "Listen, my dear friends," said he good- 
 naturedly, but in his tone there was a hidden 
 spirit of reproof, "these discourses are useless. 
 Now that the evil is done we must think of bread. 
 You may count upon this house, upon some 
 modest savings which bring me in about four 
 svanziche a day, and upon two more mouths to 
 feed, mine and Cia's. Let us hope you will not 
 have to feed mine long." Franco and Ltiisa pro- 
 tested. "Better so, better so!" Uncle Piero 
 exclaimed, waving his arms as if in contempt of 
 unreasonable sentimentality. "Live well, and 
 die in good time. That is the best rule. I have 
 performed the first part, now I must perform the 
 second. Meanwhile send some water to my room, 
 and open my bag. You will find ten meat cro- 
 quettes, which Signora Carolina dell' Agria insisted 
 
254 The Patriot 
 
 irpon giving me. You see we are not so badly off, 
 after all!" 
 
 Whereupon Uncle Piero rose and went out at 
 the drawing-room door with a firm step, and even 
 when his back was turned, displaying a head and 
 body held erect, and an unrufHed serenity like 
 that of an ancient philosopher. 
 
 Franco, with knitted brows and arms crossed 
 upon his breast, was standing motionless on the 
 edge of the terrace, and looking towards Cres- 
 sogno. If at that moment he had had a bundle 
 of Delegates, Commissaries, police-agents, and 
 spies between his teeth, he wotild have ground 
 them so hard that all these ftmctionaries would 
 have been reduced to pulp. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE TRUMP CARD APPEARS 
 
 ' I ^HE boat is ready," said Ismaele, coining in 
 -*- unceremoniously, his pipe in his left hand, 
 a lantern in his right. 
 
 "What time is it?" Franco asked. 
 
 "Half -past eleven." 
 
 "And the weather?" 
 
 "It is snowing." 
 
 "That is good!" Uncle Piero exclaimed iron- 
 ically, stretching his legs towards the flames of 
 the juniper bush that was crackling in the little 
 fireplace. 
 
 In the small parlour, arranged for winter, Luisa, 
 on her knees, was tying a muffler rotind Maria's 
 neck. Franco, holding his wife's cape, stood 
 waiting while the old housekeeper, her bonnet on 
 and her hands biiried in her muff, was grumbling 
 at her master. "What a man you are! What 
 are you going to do all alone here at home?" 
 
 "I don't need any one when I am asleep," the 
 engineer answered. " Other people may be mad, 
 but I am not. Put my milk and the lamp here." 
 
 It was Christmas Eve and the mad idea these 
 otherwise sane people had conceived, the deter- 
 
 »55 
 
256 The Patriot 
 
 mination which seemed so incomprehensible to 
 Uncle Piero, was to go to the solemn Midnight- 
 Mass at S. Mamette. 
 
 "And that innocent victim also!" said he, 
 glancing at the child. 
 
 Franco flushed hotly, and declared that he 
 wished to prepare precious memories for her. He 
 believed this excursion at night, in the boat, on 
 the dark lake, the snow, the crowded and brightly- 
 lighted church, the organ, the singing, the holy- 
 associations of Christmas, would prove to be such. 
 He spoke with heat, perhaps not so much for the 
 uncle as for some one who was silent. 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes," said Uncle Piero, as if he had 
 expected this rhetoric, this useless poetry. 
 
 "I am going to have some pimch, too, you 
 know!" said the child. The uncle smiled. 
 "That is not bad! That will indeed form a pre- 
 cious memory!" Franco fro-wned at beholding 
 his frail structiire of poetical and religious mem- 
 ories thus demolished. 
 
 " And Gilardoni ? " Lmsa asked. 
 
 "Here they are now," Ismaele said, going out 
 with his lantern. 
 
 Professor Gilardoni had invited the Maironis 
 and Donna Ester Bianchi to come to his house for 
 pimch after Mass. He was now expected from 
 Niscioree, whither he had gone to fetch the yo-ung 
 lady, who had lived there alone -with two maid- 
 servants since her father's death, which had taken 
 place in 1 8 5 2 . The worthy Professor had mourned 
 
The Trump Card Appears 257 
 
 secretly for Signora Teresa for a reasonable length 
 of time, but dxmng the convalescence of his heart, 
 which kept him weak and languid, and in per- 
 manent danger of a relapse, he had not been care- 
 ful enough of the merry little face, the lively eyes, 
 and sparkling gaiety of the little Princess of 
 Niscioree, as the Maironis called Donna Ester. 
 
 At seven-and-twenty Donna Ester looked like 
 a girl of twenty, save in her movements there was 
 a certain languor, and in her eyes a certain deli- 
 cious hidden knowledge. She had not intended 
 to fish for this respectable lover, but now she 
 knew he was caught, and she was pleased, be- 
 lieving him to be a man of great genius, and 
 infinite wisdom. That he should ever dare speak 
 to her of love, that she might marry all this sal- 
 low, wrinkled, dry knowledge, had never entered 
 her head. Nevertheless she did not wish to 
 quench this little fire, which was so discreet, which 
 was an honour to her, and probably a source of 
 happiness to him. If she sometimes laughed 
 about him with Luisa she was never the first to 
 laugh, and always hastened to repeat: "Poor 
 Signor Gilardoni! Poor Professor!" 
 
 She came in hastily, her fair head enveloped in 
 a great black hood, looking like Spring out on the 
 spree disguised as December. December was 
 close behind her, his neck shrouded in a great 
 scarf, above which rose the red and shining pro- 
 fessorial nose, irritated by the snow. As it was 
 already late they immediately took leave of 
 
258 The Patriot 
 
 Uncle Piero, who was left alone with his milk 
 and his lamp before the dying embers of the 
 jtiniper-bush. 
 
 A slight shadow of disapproval still rested on 
 his face. Franco was playing the poet too much. 
 Nowadays life was hard at Casa Maironi. Break- 
 fast consisted of a cup of milk and chicory-coflfee, 
 and they used a sort of reddish sugar that tasted 
 of the chemist's shop. They indtilged in meat 
 only on Thursdays and Sundays. A bottle of 
 Grimelli wine appeared on the table regularly 
 every day for Uncle Piero, who rebelled against 
 being the privileged one. Every day clouds 
 gathered around this bottle and a little storm 
 burst forth, which, however, always ended as 
 Uncle Piero wished, in a short shower of the decoc- 
 tion into each of the five glasses. The servant 
 had been dismissed, and only Veronica remained 
 to do the heavy work, stir the polenta, and some- 
 times look after Maria. But in spite of these 
 and other economies Luisa covld. not make both 
 ends meet, though Cia had refused to accept any 
 wages, and gifts of curds, of mascherpa, of goats*- 
 cheeses, of chestnuts and walnuts were always 
 pouring in upon them from the townspeople. 
 She had obtained some copying from a notary at 
 Porlezza, but it was hard work for miserable pay. 
 Franco had also begun to copy diligently, but he 
 accomplished less than his wife and, moreover, 
 there was not work enough for two. He should 
 have bestirred himself, have sought some private 
 
The Trump Card Appears 259 
 
 employment, but Uncle Piero saw no signs of this, 
 and so ? 
 
 And so this thinking about poetic expeditions 
 seemed to him more out of place than ever. After 
 having pondered a long time upon their sad plight, 
 and upon the slender probability that Franco 
 would ever be able to extricate them from it, he 
 reflected that, for him, the first thing to do was to 
 drink his milk, and the second, to go to bed. 
 But another thought came to him. He opened 
 the hall-door, and seeing the room was quite dark, 
 went into the kitchen, lighted a lantern, and 
 carried it to the loggia, where he opened one of the 
 windows. Although it was snowing there was no 
 wind, so he placed the lantern on the window-sill, 
 that its light might help those poetic people to 
 steer their homeward cotirse over the dark lake. 
 
 Then he went to bed. 
 
 Ismaele brought his freight safely to S. Mamette 
 in the covered boat. The snow was still falling 
 placidly in big flakes. The church was already 
 quite full, and even the ladies were obliged to 
 stand, behind the first row of benches. Ester 
 volunteered to look after Maria, and lifted her to 
 a seat on top of the bench in front of them, while 
 the sacristan was busy lighting the candles on the 
 high -altar. Cia was tormenting the Professor, 
 whom she believed to be a pious man, with a 
 thousand questions concerning the difference 
 between the Roman and Ambrosian rites, and 
 
zSo The Patriot 
 
 Maria was keeping Ester busy with still more 
 puzzling questions. 
 
 "Who are they lighting those candles for?" 
 
 "For our Lord." 
 
 "Is our Lord going to bed now?" 
 
 "No, hush!" 
 
 " And has the bambino Gesu — the child Jesus — • 
 gone to bed already?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, " Ester replie,d thoughtlessly, to put 
 an end to these questions. 
 
 "With the mule?" 
 
 Once Uncle Piero had brought Maria an ugly, 
 little wooden mvile which she detested, and when 
 she was obstinate and capricious her mother 
 would put her to bed with the mule under her 
 pillow, under her obstinate little head. 
 
 "Be quiet, chatterbox!"' said Ester. 
 
 " I don't go to bed with the mule. I say excuse 
 me!" 
 
 "Hush! Listen to the organ." 
 
 All the candles were now lighted, and the 
 organist having mounted to his post, was teasing 
 Tiis old instrument as if to waken it, drawing from 
 it what seemed to be angry grunts. When, on 
 the ringing of a beU, the organ poured forth aU its 
 great voice, and the altar-boys and the priest 
 appeared, Luisa stole her hand into her husband's, 
 as if they had still been lovers. 
 
 Those two hands pressing each other furtively 
 were speaking of a fast approaching event, of a 
 serious resolve which must be kept a secret, and 
 
The Trump Card Appears 261 
 
 which was not yet formed irrevocably. The 
 little nervous hand said : " Have courage ! " The 
 manly hand said: "I will!" They must indeed 
 make up their minds to it. Franco must go away, 
 leave his wife, his child, and the old man, perhaps 
 for some months, perhaps for some years. He 
 must leave Valsolda, the dear little house, his 
 flowers, perhaps for ever. He must emigrate to 
 Piedmont, seek for work and gain, in the hope of 
 being able to call his family to him in case that 
 other great national hope should not be realised. 
 He was glad his wife had chosen this solemn 
 place and hour in which to encourage him in his 
 sacrifice, and he did not drop the gentle hand, but 
 held it as a lover might, never looking at Luisa, 
 his face and person immovable. He spoke with 
 his hand only, with his soul in palm and fingers, he 
 spoke the most varied, passionate language, con- 
 sisting of soft caresses, of embraces, of tenderness 
 and ardour. From time to time she would en- 
 deavour to gently withdraw her hand, and then 
 he would clasp it violently. His gaze was fixed 
 on the altar, and he held his head erect as if 
 absorbed in the music of the organ, in the voice 
 of the priest, in the singing of the congregation. 
 As a matter of fact he was not following the 
 prayers, but he felt the Divine Presence, was 
 experiencing an ecstasy, a fervour of love, of pain, 
 of hope in God. Luisa had taken his hand in the 
 belief that he was praying, that all his fears, all 
 his doubts were stirring in his soul. She had 
 
262 The Patriot 
 
 indeed wished to inspire him with courage, con- 
 vinced that this painful step was best for him. 
 She only half understood the pressure that an- 
 swered her; it seemed to her a passionate pro- 
 test against this separation, and although this 
 was most sweet to her, she could not approve of it, 
 and so from time to time she strove to withdraw 
 her hand. At the moment of the Elevation it was 
 he who withdrew his, out of respect. Then he 
 was obliged to take Maria in his arms, for she had 
 fallen asleep, and slept on, her head on her father's 
 shoulder, displaying half of a little, peaceful face. 
 She, his darling, did not know that her father was 
 going so far away, and his heart was filled with 
 tender yearning towards that little, warm treasure, 
 which breathed upon it, towards that tiny head, 
 which had the perftime of a little wild bird. He 
 imagined himself already gone, imagined that 
 she was seeking for him, was crying, and then a 
 desire to press her closer ran through his arms, a 
 desire he quickly checked for fear of waking her. 
 
 It had stopped snowing when they left the 
 chttrch. 
 
 "Wind! Wind!" said Ismaele, coming to- 
 wards them. 
 
 "I shall walk! I shall walk!" groaned Cia, 
 who had a great horror of the lake. Meanwhile 
 the crowd issuing from the church pushed and 
 dispersed the group, and carried them down the 
 steps. The six travellers and the boatmen met 
 again in the square of S. Mamette and here Donna 
 
The Trump Card Appears 263 
 
 Ester declared that, as she was not feeling very 
 well, she must forego the punch, and that she 
 would walk home with Cia. 
 
 Franco, Luisa, and the Professor saw it would 
 be useless to insist, and the two women started 
 towards Oria escorted by Ismaele, who was to 
 come back for the Maironis and the boat. 
 ***** 
 
 A moderateur lamp illumined Gilardoni's salon, 
 a good fire was burning on the hearth, and Pinella 
 had prepared everything for the punch over which 
 Luisa presided, the host himself being much de- 
 pressed in spirit by Donna Ester's desertion. 
 
 "Look at Maria," said Franco softly. 
 
 The little one had gone to sleep in the Pro- 
 fessor's armchair near the window. Franco took 
 the lamp and held it aloft in order to see her 
 better. She seemed like some little creature 
 descended from heaven, fallen there with the star- 
 light, unconscious, her face suffused with a sweet- 
 ness which was not of this world, with a solemnity 
 full of mystery. "Darling!" said he, and drew 
 his wife towards him with an encircling arm, his 
 eyes still fixed on Maria. Gilardoni came up 
 behind them, and murmured: "How lovely!" 
 Then he went back to the fireplace sighing: 
 "Happy people!" 
 
 Franco, who was deeply moved, whispered in 
 his wife's ear: "Shall we tell him?" She did 
 not tmderstand, and looked questioningly into 
 his eyes. " That I am going away, " said he, still 
 
264 The Patriot 
 
 in an undertone. Luisa started and answered, 
 " Yes, yes ! " She was greatly affected, for she had 
 not expected this. In the church she had be- 
 lieved he was still undecided. Her astonishment 
 did not escape Franco. He was troubled by it 
 and felt his resolution shaken, but she at once 
 perceived this, and repeated earnestly: "Yes, 
 yes!" and gently pushed him towards Gilardoni. 
 
 "Dear friend," said he, "I have something to 
 tell you." 
 
 The Professor, absorbed in contemplation of the 
 fire, did not answer. Franco placed a hand on 
 his shoulder. "Ah!" he exclaimed, rousing him- 
 self, "I beg your pardon! What it is?" 
 
 "I wish to commend some one to your care." 
 
 " To my care ? Who is it ? " 
 
 "An old man, a woman, and a Kttle child." 
 
 The two men looked at each other in silence, one 
 deeply moved, the other amazed. 
 
 "Don't you understand?" Ltiisa whispered. 
 
 No, he neither tmderstood nor answered. 
 
 "I commend my wife, my daughter, and the 
 old tmcle to your care," Franco replied. 
 
 "Oh!" the Professor exclaimed, looking in 
 astonishment from one to the other. 
 
 "I am going away," said Franco, with a smile 
 that went to Gilardoni 's heart. "We have not 
 told Uncle Piero yet, but I must go. In otir posi- 
 tion I cannot stay here doing nothing. I shall 
 say I am going to Milan, and those who will may 
 believe it, but I shall really be in Piedmont." 
 
The Trump Card Appears 265 
 
 Gilardoni clasped his hands in silent amaze- 
 ment. Liiisa embraced Franco and kissed him, 
 holding his head upon her breast, her eyes 
 closed. 
 
 The Professor imagined it was painful to her to 
 bow to her husband's will in this matter. 
 
 " Now listen to me," said he, addressing Franco. 
 " If war had broken out I could understand your 
 going, but as it is, I think you do wrong to cause 
 your wife so much suffering for a question of 
 money." 
 
 Luisa who was still clinging with one arm to her 
 husband's neck, motioned to Professor Gilardoni 
 with the other hand, entreating him to be silent. 
 
 " No, no, no ! " she murmiu-ed, once more clasp- 
 ing her arms about Franco. "You are doing 
 right! You are doing right!" As Gilardoni 
 continued to insist, she drew away from her hus- 
 band, and cried, her hands extended protestingly 
 towards their host : " But, Professor, it is I who 
 tell him he is doing right! I, his wife, tell him 
 so! Dear Professor, don't you undertand?" 
 
 "After aU, dear lady," Gilardoni burst out, 
 "it is time you were informed " 
 
 Franco flung his arms towards him, crying 
 impetuously: "Professor!" 
 
 "You are doing wrong," the other replied. 
 "You are doing wrong, very wrong!" 
 
 "What is it. Franco?" Luisa demanded in 
 astonishment. "Is there something I do not 
 know?" 
 
266 The Patriot 
 
 "Only that I must go away, that I shall go 
 away. That is all!" 
 
 Franco's exclamation, "Professor!" had awak- 
 ened Maria with a start. Seeing her mother's 
 agitation she prepared to cry ; presently she burst 
 into violent sobbing, and wailed: "No Papa! 
 Papa not go away! Not go away!" 
 
 Franco took her in his arms, kissing and caress- 
 ing her, while she kept repeating: "My Papa! 
 My Papa!" in a pitiful, grieved voice that made 
 their hearts ache. Her father yearned over her, 
 and protested that he wotild always stay with her ; 
 but he wept at his own deceit, wept with the 
 emotion this new tenderness, springing up at 
 such a moment, caused him. 
 
 Liiisa was thinking of her husband's cry. 
 Gilardoni saw she suspected a secret, and, hoping 
 to distract her thoughts, asked her if Franco in- 
 tended to start at once. Franco himself replied. 
 Everything depended upon a letter from Turin. 
 Perhaps it would be a week, at the latest a fort- 
 night, before he started. Luisa was silent, and 
 the subject was dropped. Then Franco talked 
 of politics, of the probability that war would 
 break out in the Spring. But again conversation 
 soon langmshed. Gilardoni and Luisa seemed to 
 be thinking of something else, to be listening to 
 the beat of the waves against the garden wall. 
 Finally Ismaele returned, drank his ptmch, and 
 assured them that the lake was not very rough, 
 and that they cotild start homewards. 
 
The Trump Card Appears 267 
 
 As soon as the Maironis were seated in the 
 boat, and Maria had gone to sleep, Luisa asked 
 her husband if there was something she did not 
 know, and which Gilardoni must not tell. 
 
 Franco did not answer. 
 
 "Enough!" said she. Then her husband threw 
 his arm around her neck and pressed her to him, 
 protesting against words she had not uttered. 
 "Oh, Luisa, Luisa!" 
 
 Luisa suffered his embrace, but did not return 
 it, and at last, in despair, her husband promised 
 to tell her every thing, at once. " Do you think 
 I am ciuious?" she whispered, in his arms. No, 
 no. He would tell her at once, tell her eyerything ; 
 he would explain why he had not spoken before. 
 She did not wish this; she preferred that he 
 should speak at some other time, and of his own 
 free will. 
 
 The wind was in their favotir and the light 
 shining in the window of the loggia served Ismaele 
 well as a guide. Franco's arm still encircled his 
 wife's shoulders, and his gaze was fixed upon that 
 shining point. Neither he nor she thought of the 
 loving and prudent hand that had lighted it. 
 But Ismaele thought of it, and reflected that 
 neither Veronica nor Cia were capable of such an 
 act of genius, and blessed the engineer's kind 
 heart. 
 
 On leaving the boat Maria woke up, and her 
 parents seemed to have no thought save for her. 
 When they were in bed Franco put out the light. 
 
268 The Patriot 
 
 "It concerns my grandmother," said he in a 
 broken and agitated voice. "Poor boy!" Ltiisa 
 murmtired and took his hand affectionately. " I 
 have never told you in order to avoid accusing 
 
 my grandmother, and also because " He 
 
 paused, and then it was he who mingled with his 
 words the most tender caresses, to which Luisa 
 now no longer responded. "I feared your im- 
 pressions, your sentiments, the ideas you might 
 
 conceive !" As his words began to express 
 
 his doubts his voice grew more tender. 
 
 Luisa felt the approach, not of a dispute, but 
 of a far more lasting disagreement. Now, she no 
 longer wished her husband to speak, and he, 
 noticing her increasing coldness, did not continue. 
 She rested her forehead against his shoulder, and 
 said, almost in spite of herself: "Tell me!" 
 
 Then Franco, his lips against her hair, related 
 the story the Professor had told him on the night 
 of their marriage. In repeating from memory 
 the contents of his grandfather's letter and will, 
 he greatly softened the injurious expressions used 
 against his father and grandmother. In the 
 middle of his recital Luisa, who had not expected 
 such a revelation, raised her head from her hus- 
 band's shoulder. He stopped. "Go on," said 
 she. 
 
 When he had finished she asked if there was any 
 proof that his grandfather's will had been sup- 
 pressed. Franco promptly answered that there 
 was not. "Then," said she, "why did you speak 
 
The Trump Card Appears 269 
 
 of the ideas I might conceive?" Her thoughts 
 had immediately flown to the probability of his 
 grandmother's crime, to the possibility of a pro- 
 secution. But if prosecution were not pos- 
 sible? 
 
 Franco did not answer, and she exclaimed, after 
 a moment's reflection, "Ah! the copy of the will! 
 Cotild that be used? Wotild that be vaild?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you would not use it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why not, Franco?" 
 
 "There!" Franco exclaimed. "You see? I 
 knew you would say so ! No, I will not make use 
 if it! No, no, never!" 
 
 " But what reasons have you for not doing so ? " 
 
 " Good Lord ! My reasons ! My reasons can be 
 felt. You should feel them without my having 
 to explain them." 
 
 "I do not feel them. Don't imagine I am 
 thinking of the money. We will not touch the 
 money. Give it to whomever you like; I feel 
 the claims of justice. There are your grand- 
 father's wishes to be respected ; there is the crime 
 your grandmother has commmited. You who 
 are so religious should perceive that Divine 
 Justice has brought this document to light. Would 
 you place yourself between this woman and 
 Divine Justice?" 
 
 "Let Divine Justice alone," Franco retorted, 
 hotly. " What do we know of the ways of Divine 
 
270 The Patriot 
 
 Justice? There is also Divine Mercy. She is my 
 father's mother, think of that! And have I not 
 always despised this accursed money? What 
 did i do when my grandmother threatened not to 
 leave me a penny if I married you?" 
 
 Unable to speak, he drew Luisa's head to his 
 breast. 
 
 "I despised the money for your sake," he went 
 on in a stifled voice. " Would you have me try 
 to regain it now by going to law?" 
 
 "No indeed!" Luisa broke in, raising her 
 head. "You may give the money to whomever 
 you wish. I am talking of justice. Don't you 
 also feel the demand of justice?" 
 
 "Dio mio!" said he, with a deep sigh. "It 
 would have been better if I had not spoken to- 
 night." 
 
 "Yes, perhaps. If you were bound never to 
 alter your decision, it would perhaps have been 
 wiser." 
 
 Luisa's voice expressed sadness, not anger, as 
 she uttered these words. 
 
 "In any way, that document no longer exists," 
 Franco remarked. 
 
 Luisa started. " It no longer exists?" said she 
 anxiously, in an imdertone. 
 
 " No. The Professor was to destroy it, by my 
 orders." 
 
 A long silence followed. Very slowly Luisa 
 withdrew her head and rested it on her own pillow. 
 Suddenly Franco exclaimed, aloud: "A law- 
 
The Trump Card Appears 271 
 
 suit indeed! With those documents! With 
 those insults ! To the mother of my father ! And 
 all for money!" 
 
 "Don't keep repeating that," his wife ex- 
 claimed indignantly. "Why do you keep re- 
 peating that? Don't you know very well it is 
 not true?" 
 
 Both spoke excitedly. It was plain that dtiring 
 the preceding silence their thoughts had been hard 
 at work on this point. The reproof irritated him, 
 and he replied blindly — 
 
 "I know nothing about it!" 
 
 "Oh, Franco!" cried Ltiisa, much htirt. He 
 already regretted the affront, and begged her to 
 forgive him, accusing his hot temper, which made 
 him say things he did not mean, and he entreated 
 her to speak a kind word to him. "Yes, yes," 
 Luisa answered with a sigh, but he was not satis- 
 fied, and wished her to embrace him and say, 
 "I forgive you." The touch of the dear lips did 
 not refresh him as usual. Some minutes passed, 
 and then he strained his ear to hear if his wife had 
 fallen asleep. He heard the wind, Maria's quiet 
 breathing, the noise of the waves, the jarring of 
 a window, but that was all. " Have you really 
 forgiven me?" he whispered, and he heard her 
 soft answer: "Yes, dear." Presently she, in 
 her turn, listened, and besides the wind, the waves, 
 thie creaking of a shutter, the even, regular breath- 
 ing of the child, she heard the even, regular 
 breathing of her husband. Then she once more 
 
272 The Patriot 
 
 sighed deeply, sighed despairingly. Oh, God! 
 How could Franco have acted thus? What 
 wounded her heart most sorely was the fact that he 
 did not seem to sense the injuries which her poor 
 mother and Uncle Piero had sufffered. But she 
 would not allow herself to dwell on this thought, 
 at least not until she had considered his other 
 mistake, his mistaken idea of justice. And here 
 she felt bitterly, but not without a certain satis- 
 faction, that he was her inferior, that he was con- 
 trolled by sentiments that were the outcome of 
 his fancy, while her own sentiment was inspired by 
 reason. Franco had in him so much of the child. 
 He had, even now, been able to go to sleep, while 
 she was sure of not closing her eyes all night long. 
 She believed she was without imagination because 
 she did not feel it move, because in her it was less 
 easily inflamed. She would have laughed had 
 she been told that imagination was more powerful 
 in her than in her husband. But indeed such 
 was the case. Only, in order to demonstrate 
 this, both souls must be turned upside down, for 
 Franco's imagination was visible on the surface of 
 his soul, and all his reason was at the bottom, 
 while in Luisa's soul imagination was at the bot- 
 tom, and reason was plainly visible on the surface. 
 In fact, she did not sleep, but aU night long she 
 thought, with that imagination that lay at the 
 bottom of her soul, how religion favours weak 
 sentimentality, how incapable it is, even while 
 preaching the thirst for justice, of forming a cor- 
 
The Trump Card Appears 273 
 
 rect sense of justice in those intellects which are 
 devoted to it. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The Professor also, who was subject to serious 
 infiltrations of imagination into the ratiocinative 
 cells of his brain, as well as into the amorous cells 
 of his heart, having put out the light, spent the 
 greater part of the night in front of the fireplace, 
 working with the tongs and with his imagination, 
 taking up, examining and then dropping embers 
 and projects, until only one glowing coal and one 
 last idea remained. Then he took a match, and 
 having held it in contact with the ember, lighted 
 the lamp once more, seized the idea, which was 
 also hot and luminous, and carried it off to bed 
 with him. 
 
 This was the idea. He would start secretly 
 for Brescia, present himself before the Marchesa 
 with the terrible document, and obtain a capitula- 
 tion. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE PROFESSOR PLAYS HIS TRUMP 
 CARD 
 
 'T^HREE days later, in Milan, at five o'clock in 
 •^ the morning. Professor Gilardoni, muffled 
 up to the eyes, issued from the Albergo degli 
 Angeli, passed in front of the cathedral, turned 
 into the dark street called dei Rastrelli behind a 
 line of horses led by postilions, and entered the 
 booking office of the public coaches. The little 
 courtyard where the post-office now stands, was 
 already full of people, of horses, of lanterns. To 
 the hermit of Valsolda all these voices of postilions 
 and of guards, this stamping of horses and jingling 
 of bells, seemed like a real pandemonium. 
 
 The horses were being harnessed to two coaches, 
 fotir to each. The Professor was going to Lodi 
 because he had learned that the Marchesa was 
 visting a friend there, and the Lodi coach wotdd 
 start at half -past five. 
 
 It was intensely cold, and the poor Professor 
 wandered anxiously around the ungainly carriage, 
 stamping his feet to warm them, until presently 
 another traveller said jestingly to him: "Cool 
 is it not?" "Just a little fresh! Just a little 
 
 274 
 
Professor Plays His Trump Card 275 
 
 fresh!" The horses were harnessed at last, an 
 employ^ called the passengers by name, and the 
 worthy Beniamino disappeared within the bowels 
 of the huge vehicle, together with two priests, an 
 old woman servant, an elderly gentleman with an 
 enormous wart on his face, and a fashionably 
 dressed young man. The doors were closed, an 
 order was given, the bells jingled, the huge vehicle 
 shook itself, the priests, the old woman, and the 
 gentleman with the wart crossed themselves, the 
 horses' sixteen hoofs rattled under the portal, 
 the massive wheels rumbled through it, and then 
 aU this noise grew fainter as the coach turned to 
 the right, towards Porta Romana. 
 
 Now the wheels revolved almost noiselessly, 
 and the travellers heard only the irregular beat 
 of the sixteen hoofs on the stones. The Professor 
 watched the passing of dark houses, the pale 
 glow of infrequent street lamps, the flashing light 
 from some small coffee-house, or a vanishing 
 sentry-box. 
 
 It seemed to him that the presence of these 
 soldiers lent something threatening, something so 
 formidable to the silence of the great city, that the 
 very walls of the houses were black with hatred. 
 When the coach entered the Corso di Porta 
 Romana, so filled with fog that he could hardly 
 see out of the window, he closed his eyes, and gave 
 himself up to the pleasure of thinking of and con- 
 versing with the things and persons that filled 
 his heart. 
 
276 The Patriot 
 
 It was no longer the passenger with the wart 
 who sat opposite him, but Donna Ester, all envel- 
 oped in a great black cape, a broad-brimmed hat 
 upon her head. She was looking at him fixedly, 
 and her lovely eyes were saying: "Well done! 
 You are acting nobly! Showing a great heart. 
 I wovild not have believed it! I admire you! To 
 me you are no longer old and ugly. Courage!" 
 At this exhortation to have courage, he was 
 seized with fear, for the image of the Marchesa 
 rose before him, and the dull rumble of the wheels 
 became the old lady's nasal voice, saying: 
 "Won't you sit down? What can I do for you?" 
 
 At this point the coach stopped and the Pro- 
 fessor opened his eyes. Porta Romana. An 
 official opened the door and asked for the passports 
 and having collected them, carried them away. 
 Returning again in about five minutes, he re- 
 stored their passports to all the passengers save 
 the fashionably dressed young man. To him 
 he said sharply: "Come with me. The yotmg 
 man turned pale, but got out in silence and did 
 not return. In a moment or two the door was 
 closed, and a rough voice cried: "Avanti!" 
 The gentleman with the wart placed his traveUing- 
 bag on the seat that was now vacant, but none of 
 the other passengers gave any sign of having 
 noticed what had happened. Only when the 
 four horses had once more begun to trot did 
 Gilardoni ask the priest, his neighbour, if he knew 
 the young man's name, but the priest's only 
 
Professor Plays His Trump Card 277 
 
 answer was a cross grunt, as he turned two terrified 
 and suspicious eyes upon the Professor. Benia- 
 mino now looked towards the other priest, who 
 immediately drew a rosary from his pocket and, 
 having made the sign of the cross, began to pray. 
 Once more the Professor closed his eyes, and the 
 image of the unknown young man was lost for 
 ever in the mist, like the few and phantom-like 
 trees, the poplars and willows, slipping past on 
 either side of the road. 
 
 "How shall I begin?" thought Gilardoni. 
 Ever since Christmas Eve he had done nothing 
 but imagine and debate within himself how he 
 should present himself before the Marchesa, how 
 introduce the subject, how explain it, and what 
 terms he should offer. This was the only point on 
 which he was clear. If the Marchesa would make 
 her grandson a liberal allowance, he would 
 destroy the documents. He had not brought 
 them with him, but he had copies of them. Their 
 effect would surely be tremendous, but how 
 should he begin? Not one of the many preambles 
 he had thought of satisfied him. Even now with 
 closed eyes and fancy hard at work, he was con- 
 sidering the question, starting from the only 
 known factor: "Take a seat. What can I do 
 for you?" But invariably his answer would ap- 
 pear to him either too obsequious or too daring, 
 too remote from the subject or too close to it, and 
 he would once more go back to the beignning. 
 "What can I do for you?" 
 
278 The Patriot 
 
 The pale light of dawn, dreary, sad, and sleepy, 
 invaded the coach. Now that the time for the 
 interview was approaching, a thousands doubts, 
 a thousand fresh uncertainties upset all the Pro- 
 fessor's plans. The very base of his calculations 
 suddenly coUasped. What if the Marchesa should 
 not say either, "Take a seat," or "What can I do 
 for you?" What if she should receive him in 
 some other embarrassing manner? And what if 
 she should not receive him at all! Merciful 
 heavens! What then? The sudden ringing of 
 the sixteen hoofs on a paved way set his heart to 
 beating. However, it was not yet the streets of 
 Lodi, but those of Melegnano. 
 
 He reached Lodi at about nine o'clock, and got 
 out at the Albergo del Sole, where they gave him 
 a room without fire or svin. Not daring to brave 
 either the fog in the street or the ftimes in the 
 kitchen, he decided to go to bed, and putting on 
 his flight-cap, which was acquainted with all his 
 woes, he waited, a camphor cigarette between his 
 lips, for the coming of noon and a happy thought. 
 ***** 
 
 At one o'clock he ascended the steps of the 
 Palazzo X. with the wise determination to care- 
 fully forget all the speeches he had prepared, and 
 to trust to the inspiration of the moment. A 
 footman in a white tie ushered him into a large, 
 dark apartment, with a brick floor, walls hung with 
 yellow silk, and a stuccoed ceiling, and having 
 bowed respectfully, went away. A few antique, 
 
Professor Plays His Trump Card 279 
 
 white and gilt annchairs covered with red damask 
 stood in a semicircle before the fireplace, where 
 three or fotir enormous logs were burning slowly, 
 behind the brass fender. The air was laden with 
 the mixed odours of ancient mould, ancient cakes, 
 ancient stuffs, ancient leather, and decrepit ideas, 
 the whole forming a subtle essence of old age 
 enough to shrivel the very soul. 
 
 The servant reappeared and announced, to 
 Gilardoni's utter confusion, the imminent arrival 
 of the Signora Marchesa. He waited and waited, 
 and at last a great door, ornamented with gilding, 
 swung open, a little moving beU tinkled. Friend 
 trotted in, sniffing the floor to right and left, and 
 was followed by a great bell-shaped mass of black 
 silk, under a small cupola of white lace, while, 
 between two blue ribbons, appeared the black 
 wig, the marble brow, the lifeless eyes of the 
 Marchesa herself. 
 
 "What miracle! The Professor in Lodi!" 
 said the drowsy voice, while the small dog sniffed 
 at the Professor's boots. Gilardoni made a low 
 bow, and the lady, who might have been the jar 
 containing the essence of old age, seated herself 
 on one of the chairs near the fire, and installed 
 her lap-dog on another; after which she motioned 
 to Gilardoni to be seated also. "I suppose." 
 said she, "that you have some relative at the 
 convent of the 'Dame Inglese'?" 
 
 "No," the Professor replied, "I have not." 
 
 Sometimes the Marchesa was facetious in her 
 
28o The Patriot 
 
 own way. "Then," said she, "you probably 
 came for a supply of mascherponi." * 
 
 "Not for that either, Signora Marchesa. I 
 came on business." 
 
 " Indeed. You are unfortunate in the weather. 
 I believe it is raining now." 
 
 At this unexpected digression the Professor 
 came near losing his bearings. "Yes," said he, 
 feeling that he was growing foolish, like the 
 scholar whose examination is taking a bad turn. 
 "It is drizzling." 
 
 His voice, his expression, could not fail to 
 reveal his inward embarrassment, to show the 
 Marchesa that he had come to tell her something 
 important. However, she carefully avoided help- 
 ing him to tmburden himself, and continued to 
 talk of the weather, the cold, the dampness, a 
 catarrh from which Friend was stiffering, while 
 the dog punctuated his mistress's recital with 
 frequent sneezes. 
 
 The drowsy voice had a calm, almost jocose 
 inflection, a sort of bland benevolence, and the 
 Professor was bathed in cold sweat at the bare 
 thought of checking this meUifiuous flow, and 
 offering in exchange the bitter pill he had in his 
 pocket. He might have taken advantage of a 
 pause to pour forth his preamble, but he was not 
 equal to it, and it was the Marchesa who seized 
 the opporttmity to close the interview. 
 
 * Mascherponi: A sort of common cheese made in Lodi. 
 [Translator's note.] 
 
Professor Plays His Trump Card 281 
 
 "I thank you very much for yottr visit," said 
 she, " and now I am going to dismiss you, for you 
 have your business to attend to, and, to tell the 
 truth, I also have an engagement." 
 
 Now or never he must take the leap. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," Gilardoni began, greatly 
 agitated, "I came to Lodi to speak with you, 
 Signora Marchesa." 
 
 "I should never have been able to guess that," 
 said the lady frigidly. 
 
 The Professor was carried forward by the im- 
 petus of his daring. 
 
 "It is a most urgent matter," said he, "and I 
 must beg " 
 
 " If it is a matter of business, you must apply to 
 my agent in Brescia." 
 
 "Pardon me, Signora Marchesa, it is really a 
 most important affair. No one knows and no 
 one must know that I have come to see you. I will 
 tell you at once that it concerns your grandson. " 
 
 The Marchesa rose, and the dog that had been 
 crouching in the armchair also sprang up, barking 
 in Gilardoni's direction. 
 
 "Do not speak to me of that person who no 
 longer exists for me," the old lady said solemnly. 
 "Come, Friend!" 
 
 "No, Signora Marchesa," the Professor pro- 
 tested." You cannot possibly imagine what I 
 have to tell you." 
 
 " I do not in the least care to know. I do hot 
 wish to hear anything. Good-day to you!" 
 
282 The Patriot 
 
 Whereupon the inflexible old lady moved 
 towards the door. 
 
 "Marchesa!" Beniamino called after her, 
 while Friend, who had jumped from the chair, 
 barked furiously around his legs. "It concerns 
 your husband's will!" 
 
 This time the Marchesa could not but stop. 
 She did not, however, turn roimd. 
 
 "This will cannot be pleasing to you," Gilardoni 
 added rapidly. "But I have no intention of 
 publishing it. I entreat you to listen to me, 
 Marchesa." 
 
 She turned round. Her impenetrable face 
 betrayed a certain emotion in the quivering of the 
 nostrils. Nor were the shoulders entirely at rest. 
 
 "What tales have you to tell?" she retorted. 
 "Do you think it fitting to thus inconsiderately 
 mention my poor Franco to me? How dare you 
 meddle with my family affairs?" 
 
 "Excuse me," the Professor repeated, search- 
 ing in his pocket. " If I do not meddle some one 
 else may do so even less considerately. Kindly 
 examine these documents. These " 
 
 "Keep your scribblings to yourself," the 
 Marchesa interrupted, seeing him draw some papers 
 from his pocket. 
 
 "These are copies I have made " 
 
 "I tell you to keep them, to take them away!" 
 
 The Marchesa rang the beU, and once more 
 started to leave the room. 
 
 Gilardoni, quivering with excitement, hearing 
 
Professor Plays His Trump Card 283 
 
 the approaching steps of a servant, and seeing her 
 about to open the door, threw his dociiments 
 upon one of the armchairs, saying hastily, in an 
 imdertone : " I will leave them here. Let no one 
 see them. I am staying at the Sole, and will 
 return to-morrow. Examine the papers, and 
 think over them carefully!" And before the 
 servant arrived he had rushed out at the same 
 door by which he had entered, had seized his 
 heavy cape, and fled downstairs. 
 
 The Marchesa dismissed the footman, and stood 
 listening for a few moments. Then she retraced 
 her steps, took up the papers, and went to her 
 room, locking her door behind her. Having put 
 on her spectacles she took her stand near the 
 window, and began to read. Her brow was 
 clouded and her hands trembled. 
 
 The Professor was preparing to go to bed in his 
 icy room at the Sole when two police-agents came 
 with a stmimons for him to appear at once at the 
 poUce-station. 
 
 He felt some secret misgivings, but did not lose 
 his head, and went quietly away with the two 
 men. At the station a little impudent Commis- 
 sary asked him why he had come to Lodi, and 
 upon being informed that he had come on private 
 business shrugged his shoulders in contemptuous 
 incredulity. What private business did Signor 
 Gilardoni pretend to have in Lodi? With whom? 
 The Professor mentioned the Marchesa. "There 
 
284 The Patriot 
 
 are no Maironis at Lodi," the Commissary ex- 
 claimed, and when his victim protested he 
 speedily interrupted him. "Basta! That will 
 do! That will do!" The poHce knew for a cer- 
 t9.inty that Professor Gilardoni, although he was 
 an Imperial and Royal pensioner, was not a loyal 
 Austrian; that he had friends at Lugano, and 
 that he had come to Lodi for political ends. 
 
 "You are better informed than I am," Gilar- 
 doni exclaimed, restraining his wrath with diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 "Silence!" the Commissary commanded. 
 "You must not think the Imperial and Royal 
 government is afraid of you. You are free to go, 
 but you must leave Lodi within two hours." 
 
 At this point Franco would have immediately 
 perceived from whence the blow came, but the 
 philosopher did not understand. 
 
 "I came to Lodi on most urgent business, 
 which is not yet finished," said he. "On most 
 important, private business. How can I leave 
 in two hotors?" 
 
 " By carriage. If you are still in Lodi at the 
 end of two hours I shall have you arrested." 
 
 "My health does not permit me to travel at 
 night in December," the victim urged. 
 
 "Very well, then I will have vou arrested at 
 once!" 
 
 The poor philosopher took up his hat in silence, 
 and went out. 
 
 An hour later he started for Milan in a closed 
 
Professor Plays His Trump Card 285 
 
 calash, his feet embedded in straw, a rug over his 
 legs, a great muffler round his neck, reflecting that 
 this had been a most successful expedition, and 
 swallowing momently to see if his throat were sore. 
 He passed a horrible night, indeed, but the 
 Marchesa herself did not rest on a bed of roses. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 HOURS OF BITTERNESS 
 
 /^N the last day of the year, while Franco was 
 ^^ writing out the very minute directions 
 concerning the care of the flowers and the kitchen- 
 garden, which he intended to leave for his wife's 
 guidance, and the uncle sat reading for the tenth 
 time his favourite book, the History of the Diocese 
 of Como, Luisa went out for a walk with Maria. 
 The sun was shining brightly. There was no 
 snow save on Bisgnago and Galbiga. Maria 
 fovind a violet near the cemetery, and another 
 down in the Calcinera. There it was really warm, 
 and the air was pleasantly scented with laurel. 
 Luisa sat down to think, with her back to the hill, 
 and allowed Maria to amuse herself by climbing 
 up the bank behind her, and sliding down again 
 on the dry grass. 
 
 She had not seen the Professor since Christmas 
 Eve, and she longed to speak with him; not to 
 hear the story of the Maironi will over again, but 
 to get him to tell her about his interview with 
 Franco, when he had shown it to him: to ascer- 
 tain what Franco's first impression had been and 
 what the Professor's opinion was. As the will 
 had been destroyed, all this could only be of 
 - ziS 
 
Hours of Bitterness 287 
 
 psychological importance, but Luisa's cxuiosity 
 was not the cttriosity of the idle observer. Her 
 husband's conduct had deeply wounded her. 
 Thinking of it over and over again, as she had 
 done ever since Christmas Eve, she had arrived at 
 the conclusion that his silence towards her had 
 been an outrage against justice and affection. It 
 was a bitter sorrow to her to feel her esteem for 
 him diminishing, especially bitter now, on the eve 
 of his departtire, and at a time when he really 
 deserved praise. She would have liked, at least, 
 to know that when Gilardoni had shown him the 
 docviments there had been some inward struggle, 
 that a more just sentiment had been aroused in 
 his soul, if only for a moment. She rose, took 
 Maria by the hand, and started towards Casarif^o. 
 She found the Professor in the garden with 
 Pinella, and told Maria to rvm and play with the 
 boy, but Maria, always eager to listen to the con- 
 versation of her elders, would not hear of going. 
 Then Luisa broached the subject without mention- 
 ing any names. She wished to speak to the Pro- 
 fessor about certain papers, about those old 
 letters. The Professor, who was crimson, pro- 
 tested that he did not understand. Fortunately, 
 Pinella called Maria, enticing her with a picture- 
 book, and she ran to him, conquered by her curios- 
 ity concerning the book. Then Luisa relieved the 
 Professor of his scruples, by informing him that 
 Franco himself had told her everything, and she 
 confessed to him that she had disapproved of her 
 
28S The Patriot 
 
 husband's conduct, that 'it had been, and still was 
 a source of great sorrow to her 
 
 "Why, why, why?" said the worthy Pro- 
 fessor, interrupting her. Because Franco had 
 not been willing to do anything. " I have done 
 something! I have done something!" Gilar- 
 doni exclaimed, anxiously and excitedly. "But 
 for the love of Heaven, don't tell your htisband!" 
 Luisa was amazed. What had the Professor 
 done? And when, and how? And was not the 
 will already destroyed? 
 
 Then Gilardoni, as red as a glowing coal, his 
 eyes full of anxiety, his recital often interrupted 
 by such exclamations as, "For mercy's sake, 
 don't tell! — ^You will be silent, eh?" revealed all 
 his secrets to her, from the preserving of the will 
 to his journey to Lodi. Luisa listened to the very 
 end, and then, clasping her face tightly between 
 her hands, uttered a horrified "Ah!" 
 
 "Did I do wrong?" said the poor Professor, 
 much alarmed. "Did I do wrong, Signora 
 Luisina?" 
 
 "Very wrong! Terribly wrong! Forgive me, 
 but it looked as if you were proposing some trans- 
 action, some bargain, and the Marchesa is sure 
 to believe we are in league with you! Oh, it is 
 awful!" 
 
 She wrung her clenched hands as if striving to 
 press into shape, to remodel a more level pro- 
 fessorial head for him. In utter amazement the 
 poor Professor kept repeating: "Oh, Lord! Oh 
 
Hours of Bitterness 289 
 
 dear me! Oh, what an ass I am!" without really 
 comprehending the nattire of his bltmder. Luisa 
 flung herself upon the parapet overhanging the 
 lake, and stared into the water. Suddenly she 
 started up, beating the back of her right hand 
 upon the palm of her left, her face brightening. 
 "Take me to your study," said she. "Can I 
 leave Maria here''" The Professor nodded, and, 
 trembKng, accompanied her to the study. Luisa 
 took a sheet of paper and wrote rapidly : " Ltiisa 
 Maironi Rigey begs to inform the Marchesa 
 Maironi Scremin that Professor Beniamino Gil- 
 ardoni is a most faithful friend of both her husband 
 and herself, but that they nevertheless heartily 
 disapprove of his inopportune use of a document 
 which should have been disposed of in a different 
 manner. Therefore, no communication from the 
 Marchesa is either expected or desired." 
 
 When she had finished she silently held out the 
 letter to the Professor. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, 
 as soon as he had read it; " For the love of Heaven 
 don't send that letter! What if your husband 
 should find it out? Think what a misfortune for 
 me, for you yourself! And how can it possibly 
 be kept from your husband?" Luisa did not 
 answer, but gazed fixedly at him, not thinking of 
 him, but of Franco; thinking that the Marchesa 
 might look upon the letter as a snare, an attempt 
 to intimidate her, she took it back and tore it in 
 pieces, with a sigh. The Professor became radi- 
 ant, and wished to kiss her hand, but she pro- 
 
290 The Patriot 
 
 tested. She had not done it for his sake or for 
 Franco's but for other reasons. The sacrifice of 
 this outlet for her feehngs exasperated her still 
 more against Franco. "He is wrong! He is 
 wrong! " she repeated, with bitterness in her heart, 
 and neither she nor the Professor noticed that 
 Maria was in the room. On seeing her mother 
 leave the garden the Httle one no longer -wished 
 to remain with Pinella, so he had brought her to 
 the door of the study, opening it noiselessly for 
 her. The child, struck by her mother's expres- 
 sion, stopped and stared at her with a look of 
 terror. She saw her tear the letter and heard 
 her exclaim: "He is wrong!" and then she be- 
 gan to cry. Luisa hastened to her, folded her 
 in her arms, and consoled her, and then they 
 immediately took their departtire. The Pro- 
 fessor's parting words were: "For pity's sake, 
 be silent!" 
 
 "Why be silent?" Maria quickly demanded. 
 Her mother did not heed her ; her thoughts were 
 elsewhere. Three or four times Maria repeated: 
 "Why be silent?" until at last Luisa said: 
 "Hush! That will do." Then she was quiet for 
 a time, but presently she began again, simply to 
 tease her mother, and lifting her little, laughing 
 face repeated: "Why be silent?" This time 
 she was well scolded, and once more became 
 silent; but when they were passing below the 
 cemetery, only a few steps from home, she again 
 burst forth, with the same mischievous laugh. 
 
Hours of Bitterness 291 
 
 Then Luisa, who had been absorbed in the effort 
 to compose her face into an expression of indiffer- 
 ence, simply gave her a shake, but it sufficed to 
 silence her. 
 
 That day Maria was in very high spirits. At 
 dinner, while jesting with her mother, she sud- 
 denly recalled the reprimands she had received 
 when out walking, and looking covertly at Luisa, 
 once more repeated her "Why be silent?" with 
 the same timid and provoking little laugh. Her 
 mother pretended not to hear, so she persevered. 
 Then Lmsa checked her with an "Enough!" so 
 vinusually stem that Maria's little mouth opened 
 wider and wider, and the tears began to flow- 
 Uncle Piero exclaimed: "Oh dear me!" and 
 Franco frowned, showing that he disapproved of 
 his wife's action. As Maria kept on crying, he 
 vented his displeasure upon her, took her in his 
 arms, and carried her off, sceaming like an eagle. 
 "Better still!" said Uncle Piero. "Fine dis- 
 cipUnarians, both of you!" "You let them 
 alone," said Cia, for Ltiisa did not speak. "Par- 
 ents must be obeyed." "That's it! Let us 
 have your wisdom also!" Uncle Piero retorted, 
 and Cia relapsed into sullen silence. 
 
 Meanwhile Franco returned, having deposited 
 Maria in one corner of the alcove-room, grumbling 
 something about people who seemed boiind to 
 make children cry. And now Ltiisa also was 
 vexed, and went to fetch Maria, whom she pre- 
 sently brought back in a lachrymose but mute 
 
292 The Patriot 
 
 state. The short meal ended badly, for Maria 
 would not eat, and all the others were out of tem- 
 per for one reason or another; all save Uncle 
 Piero, who set about lecturing Maria, half seriously 
 half playfully, until he succeeded in bringing a 
 little sunshine bg,ck to her face. After dinner 
 Franco went to look after some fiower-pots, 
 which he kept in the cellar below the little hanging 
 garden, and took Maria with him. Seeing her 
 once more in good spirits, he gently questioned 
 her about what had happened. What did 
 she mean by that "Why be silent?" "I don't 
 know." "But why did mamma not wish you 
 to say it? " " I don't know. I kept saying that, 
 and mamma kept scolding me." " When? " " Out 
 walking." "Where did you go?" "To the 
 Signer Ladroni's." (It was Uncle Piero who had 
 thus simplified the Professor's name.) " And did 
 you begin saying that when you were at Signor 
 Ladroni's house?" "No. Signor Ladroni said 
 it to mamma." "What did he say?" "Why, 
 papa, you don't understand anything! He said: 
 'For pity's sake be silent!' " Franco said no more. 
 " Mamma tore a paper at Signor Ladroni's house," 
 Maria added, believing her father would be all 
 the better pleased the more she told him con- 
 cerning that visit, but he ordered her to be quiet. 
 On returning to the house Franco asked Luisa, 
 with an expression that was far from amiable, 
 why she had made the child cry. Luisa scru- 
 tinised him closely. It seemed to her he sus- 
 
Hours of Bitterness 293 
 
 pected something, and she asked indignantly if 
 he expected her to seek to justify herself for such 
 petty matters. "Oh no!" Franco answered 
 coldly, and went into the garden to see if the dry 
 leaves at the base of the orange-trees and the 
 straw around the trunks were in order, for the 
 night promised to be very cold. As he worked 
 over the plants he reflected that had they pos- 
 sessed intelligence and words they would have 
 shown themselves more affectionate, more grate- 
 ftd than usual, on accoimt of his imminent de- 
 parttu"e, while Luisa had the heart to be harsh 
 with him. He did not remember that he also had 
 been harsh. Luisa, on the other hand, at once 
 regretted her answer, but she could not hold him 
 back, throw her arms about his neck, and end it 
 all with a kiss or two ; that other matter weighed 
 too heavily on her heart. Franco finished swath- 
 ing his orange trees and came into the house for 
 his cape, intending to go to church at Albogasio. 
 Luisa, who was in -the kitchen peeling some 
 chestnuts, heard him pass through the corridor, 
 stood hesitating a moment, struggling with her- 
 self, and then rushed out, catching up with him 
 just as he was starting downstairs. 
 
 "Franco!" said she. Franco did not answer, 
 but seemed to repulse her. Then she seized his 
 arm and dragged him into the neighbouring 
 alcove room. 
 
 "What do you want?" said he, shaken, but 
 still determined to appear vexed. Luisa, in- 
 
294 The Patriot 
 
 stead of answering, threw her arms about his 
 neck, drew his tinwilling head upon her breast, 
 and said softly — 
 
 "We must not quarrel these last days." 
 
 He had expected words of excuse, and pushed 
 his wife's arm aside, answering dryly — 
 
 " I have not quarrelled. Perhaps you will tell 
 me," he added, "what Professor Gilardoni con- 
 fided to you that was such a great secret that he 
 felt obliged to entreat you to be silent." 
 
 Luisa looked at him, amazed and pained. " You 
 doubted me?" said she. "You questioned the 
 child? Did you indeed do that?" 
 
 "Well," he cried, "and whal. if I did? Any- 
 way, I am well aware you always think the worst 
 of me. Listen now. I don't want to know any- 
 thing." She interrupted him. "But I will tell 
 you! I will tell you!" His conscience was 
 pricking him a little on account of his questioning 
 of the child, and now seeing Luisa ready to speak, 
 he would not listen to her, and forbade her to ex- 
 plain. But his heart was iuil to overflowing with 
 bitterness, for which he must find an outlet. He 
 complained that since Christmas Eve she had not 
 been the same to him. Why protest? He had 
 seen it clearly. Indeed, something else had long 
 been clear to him. What? Oh, something very 
 natural! Perfectly natural! Was he, after all, 
 worthy of her love? Certainly not. ' He was only 
 a poor useless creature, and nothing more. Was 
 it not natural that upon knowing him better she 
 
Hours of Bitterness 295 
 
 should love him less? For surely she did love 
 him less than at one time! 
 
 Ltdsa trembled, fearful that this might be true. 
 
 "No, Franco, no!" she cried, but her very- 
 dread of not saying the words with proper con- 
 viction was siifficient to paralyze her voice. He 
 had expected a violent denial, and murmured 
 terrified: "My God!" Then it was her turn to 
 be terrified, and she pressed him despairingly in 
 her arms, sobbing: "No, no, no!" By means 
 of some magnetic ctirrent they understood each 
 other's every thought, and remained long united 
 in a close embrace, speaking in a mute, spas- 
 modic effort of their whole being, complaining 
 one of the other, reproaching, passionately striv- 
 ing to draw together again, revelling in the sharp 
 and bitter delight of being, for the moment, 
 united by sheer force of will and of love, in spite 
 of the secret disunion of their ideas, of their 
 natures; and all this without a word, without a 
 sound. 
 
 Franco once more started to go to church. He 
 would not invite Luisa to accompany him, hoping 
 she would do so of her own free will, but she did 
 not, fearing he might not wish it. 
 
 if! * * !¥ * 
 
 On the morning of the seventh of January, 
 shortly after ten o'clock. Uncle Piero sent for 
 Franco. 
 
 The uncle was still in bed. He was in the 
 habit of rising late, because his room could not be 
 
296 The Patriot 
 
 heated, and for the sake of economy he did not 
 wish the fire in the little salon lighted too early. 
 However, the cold did not prevent his sitting up 
 in bed and reading, half his chest and both arms 
 outside the covers. 
 
 "Ciao! Good-morning!" said he, as Franco 
 entered. 
 
 From the tone of his greeting, from the ex- 
 pression of the fine face, serious in its kindliness. 
 Franco understood that Uncle Piero was about 
 to say something unusual. 
 
 In fact, the uncle pointed to the chair beside 
 his bed, and uttered the most solemn of his ex- 
 ordiums — 
 
 "Sit you down!" 
 
 Franco sat down. 
 
 "So you are leaving to-morrow?" 
 
 "Yes, uncle." 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 It would seem that in uttering that "Good!" 
 the tmcle's heart came into his mouth, for the 
 word filled his cheeks, and came out full and 
 ringing. 
 
 "So far," the old man continued, "you have 
 never heard me — let us say — either approve or 
 disapprove of your plan. Perhaps I did not feel 
 quite sure you would carry it out. But now ' ' 
 
 Franco stretched out both hands to him. 
 " Now," Uncle Piero went on, pressing those hands 
 in his own, "seeing you are firm in your resolve, 
 I say to you: Yotir resolve is good. We are in 
 
Hours of Bitterness 297 
 
 need, go; work, work is a great thing! May- 
 God help you to begin well, and then help you to 
 persevere, which is a far more difficult thing 
 There!' 
 
 Franco would have kissed his hands, but he was 
 quick to withdraw them. " Let them alone ! Let 
 them alone! " And he once more began to speak. 
 
 "Now listen. It is quite possible we may 
 never meet again." Franco protested. "Yes, 
 yes, yes!" the old man exclaimed, withdrawing 
 his soul from his eyes and voice. "Those are all 
 fine things, things that must be said. But let 
 them go!" 
 
 The eyes once more resiimed their kindly and 
 serious light, and the voice its grave tone. 
 
 " It is quite possible we shall never meet again. 
 After all, I put it to you, what good am I now in 
 this world? It wotild be far better for you if I 
 took my departure. Perhaps your grandmother 
 resents my having taken you in; perhaps, if I 
 were gone, it wotild be easier for her to accept a 
 reconciliation. Therefore, supposing we never 
 meet again, I beg you to make some overtures 
 to her as soon as I am dead, if things have not 
 already been arranged." 
 
 Franco rose and embraced his uncle with tears 
 in his eyes. 
 
 "I have made no will," Uncle Piero continued, 
 "and I shall not make one. What little I have 
 belongs to Ltiisa; no will is necessary. I com- 
 mend Cia to your care. Do not let her want for 
 
298 The Patriot 
 
 a bed and a crust of bread. As to my funeral, 
 three priests will suffice to sing my requiem with 
 true feeling; our own priest, Intrioni, and the 
 Prefect of Caravina. There is no necessity of 
 having five, who will sing it for love of the candles 
 and the white wine. Leave the question of my 
 clothes to Luisa, she will know what to do with 
 them. You yourself wiU keep my repeater to 
 remind you of me. I should like to leave Maria 
 a keepsake, but what shall it be? I might give 
 her a piece of my gold chain. If you have a 
 little medallion or a crucifix you may attach it to 
 my chain and hang it round her neck. And now. 
 Amen!" 
 
 Franco was in tears. It was a great shock to 
 hear the uncle speak of his death thus calmly, as 
 if it had been some matter of business which must 
 be arranged judiciously and honestly-; the tincle 
 who, when conversing with his friends, seemed 
 so deeply attached to life that he would often 
 say: "If one could only avoid that inevitable 
 breakdown!!" 
 
 "Ah! Now tell me," said Uncle Piero, "what 
 sort of work do you expect to find?" 
 
 " T. writes that at first I am to go into a news- 
 paper office in Turin. Perhaps I shall find some- 
 thing better later on. If I don't earn enough to 
 live on in the office, and nothing else turns up, I 
 shall come back. Therefore all this must be 
 kept perfectly secret — at least, for a time." 
 
 Uncle Piero was incredulous concerning the 
 
Hours of Bitterness 299 
 
 possibility of secrecy. "And how about the 
 letters?" he inquired. 
 
 As to letters, it had been arranged that Franco 
 should address his to the postoflfice at Lugano, and 
 Ismaele would take those from the family to 
 Lugano, and bring back his. And what should 
 they tell their friends ? They had already said that 
 Franco was going to Milan, on the eighth, on 
 business, and would be absent perhaps a month, 
 perhaps longer. 
 
 " It is not the most agreeable thing in the world 
 to have to throw dust in people's eyes," the 
 tmcle said. " But however . . . ! I am going 
 to embrace you now. Franco, for I know you are 
 leaving early to-morrow morning, and we shall 
 hardly be alone together to-day. Good-bye, 
 then. Once more, remember all my injunctions, 
 and don't forget me. Oh, one thing more! You 
 are going to Turin. As a government official I 
 always did what I could to be of service to my 
 country. I never conspired, and I would not 
 conspire even now, but I have always loved my 
 country. And so, salute the tricolour for me. 
 Good-bye, my dear boy!" 
 
 Then Uncle Piero opened his arms. 
 
 "You shall come to Piedmont also, uncle," 
 Franco said, as he rose from that embrace, greatly 
 moved. "If I can only manage to earn money 
 enough I shall send for you all." 
 
 "Ah no, my dear boy! I am too old, I shall 
 not make another move." 
 
300 The Patriot 
 
 "Very well, then. I myself wiU come next 
 spring, with two hundred thousand of my friends." 
 
 " That's it ! Two hundred thousand pumpkins ! 
 A fine idea! Fine hopes! — Ohi here is Signorina 
 Missipipi." 
 
 Signorina Missipipi — thus the family called 
 Maria in happy moments — came in, dignified and 
 serious. "Good-morning, uncle. Will you say 
 'Missipipi' for me?" 
 
 Her father lifted her up and placed her on Uncle 
 Piero's bed. Smiling the old man drew her 
 towards him, and set her across his legs. 
 
 "Come here, miss. Did you sleep well ? And 
 did the doll sleep well, and the mule also? The 
 mule was not there ? So much the better. Yes, 
 yes! I am coming to 'Missipipi.' Am I not to 
 have a kiss first? Only one? Then I shall have 
 to say : 
 
 Proud shade of the river 
 Of Missipipi, 
 
 Don't play you are bashful, 
 But of kisses give three. 
 
 Maria listened as if hearing the lines for the 
 first time, then she burst out laughing, and began 
 to jtmip and clap her hands, while her tmcle laughed 
 with her. 
 
 "Papa," said she, suddenly becoming serious. 
 ' ' Why are you crying ? Have you been naughty ? ' ' 
 
 * * * * if 
 
 They expected many friends would call that 
 day, many who had promised to come and say 
 good-bye to Franco before his departure for Milan. 
 
Hours of Bitterness 301 
 
 Luisa perfonned the miracle of lighting the stove 
 in Siberia, as Uncle Piero called the hall, and at 
 one time Donna Ester, the two Paxils from Loggio, 
 Paolin and Paolon, and Professor Gilardoni were 
 all there together. Then presently Signora Pep- 
 pina arrived, most unexpectedly, for she had 
 never been to see them since the search. "Oh, 
 my dear Sura Luisa! Oh, my dear Don Franco! 
 Is it true you are really going away?" Paolin 
 began to shift tmeasily on his chair, for he feared 
 Signora Peppina had been sent by her husband to 
 see who had and who had not rallied round the 
 suspected man, in this house that was under the 
 ban. He longed to go away at once with his 
 Paolon, but Paolon was more dense. " How shall 
 I manage now, with this idiot, who doesn't under- 
 stand anything?" thought Paolin, and without 
 looking at Paolon he said to him, in an undertone : 
 " Let us go, Paol, let us go! " It did indeed take 
 Paolon some time to get it through his head, but 
 finally he arose and went out with Paolin, getting 
 his lesson on the stairs. 
 
 Franco had the same thought as Paolin, and 
 greeted Signora Peppina coldly. The poor woman 
 could have wept, for she dearly loved his wife, and 
 held Franco himself in great esteem, but she under- 
 stood his aversion, and in her heart excused it. 
 Franco was relieved when Veronica came to call 
 him. 
 
 He was wanted in the kitchen garden. He 
 went there and found Signor Giacomo Puttini and 
 
302 The Patriot 
 
 Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri, who had come to 
 say good-bye, but having been informed by 
 Paolin and Paolon of the presence of Signora 
 Peppina, they did not wish her to see them. 
 Even the soil of the kitchen-garden scorched 
 their feet. While the little lean hero was puffing 
 and parrying Franco's invitation to go up to the 
 house, the little fat hero was rolling his head and 
 his small eyes like a good-natured blackbird, 
 looking from the hills to the lake, almost from a 
 habit of suspicion. He caught sight of a boat 
 coming from Porlezza. Who knows? Might it 
 not be bringing the Imperial and Royal Com- 
 missary? Although the boat was still at some 
 distance, he immediately began to cast about for 
 an excuse for going away, and determined to take 
 Puttini to call upon the Receiver, as they would 
 be sure of not finding Signora Peppina at home. 
 
 Having lavished many hasty and muttered 
 compliments on Franco, the two old hares trotted 
 off, with bowed heads, leaving Franco in the 
 kitchen-garden. Meanwhile the boat Don Giu- 
 seppe had seen had come rapidly forward, and 
 was now passing in front of the garden, at some 
 distance from the shore. It contained a lady and 
 a gentlemen. The gentleman rose and saluted 
 Franco in a loud voice: "How are you, Don 
 Franco? Long life to you!" The lady waved 
 her handkerchief . ThePasottis! Franco saluted 
 with his hat. 
 
 The Pasottis in Valsolda in January! Why 
 
Hours of Bitterness 303 
 
 had they come? And that greeting! Pasotti 
 salute him thus? Pasotti, who had never been 
 near them since the search? What did all this 
 mean? Franco, greatly perplexed, went up to the 
 house and told the news. All were amazed, and 
 most of all Signora Peppina. "How? Do you 
 reaUy mean it? The Signor Controller of all 
 men! And Signora Barborin also, poor little 
 woman!" The event was excitedly discussed. 
 Some thought one thing, some another. In 
 about five minutes Pasotti came noisily in, drag- 
 ging Signora Barborin behind him. She was 
 laden with shawls and btmdles and half dead with 
 the cold. The poor creature could only keep 
 repeating: "Two hours in the boat! Two hours 
 in the boat!" 
 
 "Whatever brought you to Valsolda in this 
 weather. Sura Pasotti?" Peppina screan^ed at 
 her. "Oh, gracious! She don't understand any- 
 thing, poor little woman!" And though Luisa 
 and Ester shouted the same question in her ear, 
 and though she opened her mouth wide, the poor 
 deaf woman could not understand, and con- 
 tinued to answer at random: "Have I had my 
 dinner? If I will dine here?" At last Pasotti 
 came to the rescue, and told them that he and his 
 wife had been called away by urgent business in 
 October, and the last washing had been left un- 
 done. His wife had been worrying him for some 
 time about that blessed washing, and finally he 
 had made up his mind to satisfy her by coming. 
 
304 The Patriot 
 
 Then Donna Ester turned to Signora Pasotti, 
 going through the pantomime of washing. 
 
 Barborin glanced at her husband, who had his 
 eyes fixed upon her, and answered: "Yes, yes. 
 The washing! The washing!" That glance, the 
 order she read in the Controller's eyes, made Ltiisa 
 suspect a mystery underlying all this. This 
 mystery and the inexplicable effusiveness of 
 Pasotti suggested another suspicion to her. What 
 if they had come on her account and Franco's? 
 What if the Professor's trip to Lodi had some- 
 thing to do with bringing about this vmexpected 
 visit? She would have liked to consult the Pro- 
 fessor and beg him to remain until the Pasottis 
 had left, but then, how could she speak to him 
 without Franco's noticing it? Meanwhile Donna 
 Ester was saying good-bye, and Gilardoni was 
 graciously permitted to escort her home. 
 
 The Pasottis could not go up to Albogasio 
 Superiore imtil the farmer, who had been notified 
 at once, should have had time to prepare and heat 
 at least one room for their reception. The Con- 
 troller at once proposed a three-handed game of 
 tarocchi with the Engineer and Franco. Then 
 Signora Peppina went away, and Barborin asked 
 Luisa to allow her to withdraw for a few minutes, 
 and begged her hostess to accompany her. As 
 soon as ho \vas alone with her friend in the alcove 
 room, she glanced all about her with wide, fright- 
 ened eyes, and then whispered: "We are not 
 here on account of the washing, you know. Not 
 
Hours of Bitterness 305 
 
 on accoimt of the washing!" Luisa questioned, 
 her silently with face and gestures, for had she 
 spoken in a loud voice they would have heard her 
 in the hall. This time Signora Pasotti understood, 
 and replied that she did not know anything, that 
 her husband had not told her anything, that he 
 had ordered her to corroborate the story about 
 the washing, but that really she was not in the 
 least anxious about it. Then Luisa took a piece 
 of paper and wrote: "What do you suspect?" 
 Signora Pasotti read the words, and then began 
 a most complicated pantomime: shakings of 
 the head, rollings of the eyes, sighs, imploring 
 glances towards the ceiUng. It was as if a mighty 
 struggle were going on within her between hope 
 and fear. At last she uttered an "Ah?" seized 
 the pen, and wrote below Luisa's question: 
 
 "The Marchesa!" 
 
 Then she dropped the pen and stood looking 
 at her friend. "She is at Lodi," she said in an 
 undertone. "The Controller has been to Lodi. 
 So there you have it!" And she hastened back 
 to the hall, faring to arouse her husband's sus- 
 picions. 
 
 The game over, Pasotti went to one of the 
 windows, saying something in a loud voice about 
 the effect of the twilight, and called Franco to 
 him. " You must come and see me this evening, 
 he said softly. " I have something to say to you." 
 Franco sought to excuse himself. He was start- 
 ing the next morning for Milan, leaving his family 
 
3o6 The Patriot 
 
 for some time; he coxold hardly spend this last 
 evening away from home. Pasotti answered 
 that it was absolutely necessary. "It concerns 
 your journey to-morrow!'" said he. 
 
 ***** 
 
 "It concerns your journey to-morrow!" As 
 soon as the Pasottis had left for Albogasio Sup- 
 eriore, Franco repeated the conversation to his 
 wife. He had been much upset by it. So Pasotti 
 knew! He would not have been so mysterious 
 had he not been alluding to the journey to Ttirin, 
 and Franco was greatly vexed to think that 
 Pasotti was aware of this. But how had he fotmd 
 out? Perhaps the friend in Ttirin had been in- 
 discreet. And now what did Pasotti want of 
 him? Was another blow perhaps about to be 
 struck by the police? But Pasotti was not the 
 man to come and warn him. And all that hypo- 
 critical amiability? Perhaps they did not wish 
 him to go to Turin, did not wish him to find an 
 easier path, to free himself and his family from 
 poverty, from commissaries and gendarmes. He 
 thought and thought, and finally decided this must 
 be the reason. In her heart Luisa greatly doubted 
 it. She feared something else; but she also was 
 persuaded Pasotti knew about Tvirin, and this 
 upset all her suppositions. After all, the only 
 way was to go and find out. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Franco went at eight o'clock and Pasotti re- 
 ceived him with the most effusive cordiality, and 
 
Hours of Bitterness 307 
 
 apologised for his wife's absence, she having al- 
 ready gone to bed. Before opening the conversa- 
 tion he insisted that Franco should take a glass 
 of S. Colombano, and a piece of panettone. With 
 the wine and the cake Franco was obliged to 
 swallow, much against his will, many declara- 
 tions of friendship, and the most exalted eulogies 
 upon his wife, his uncle, and himself. The glass 
 and the plate being at last empty, the mellifluous 
 rogue showed himself disposed to come to business. 
 
 They were seated facing each other at a small 
 table. Pasotti, leaning back comfortably in his 
 chair, held a red and yellow silk handkerchief in 
 his hands, with which he played constantly. 
 
 "Well," said he, "as I told you, my dear 
 Franco, the matter concerns your journey to- 
 morrow. I heard it said to-day at your house 
 that you are going away on business. Now it 
 remains to be seen whether I am not bringing you 
 still more important business than that which calls 
 you to Milan." 
 
 Franco remained silent, surprised by this unex- 
 pected preamble. Pasotti continued, his eyes 
 fixed on the handkerchief which he never ceased 
 handling. 
 
 " Of course, my good friend Don Franco Maironi 
 knows that if I touch upon intimate and delicate 
 questions it is because I have a serious reason for 
 doing so ; because I feel it my duty, and because 
 I am authorised to do so." 
 
 The hands became still, the shining and cunning 
 
3o8 The Patriot 
 
 eyes were raised to Franco's distrustful and 
 troubled eyes. 
 
 " It concerns both your present and your future, 
 my dear Franco." 
 
 Having uttered these words, Pasotti resolutely 
 laid aside the handkerchief. Resting his arms 
 and his clasped hands on the little table, he went 
 to the heart of the matter, keeping his eyes fixed 
 upon Franco, who now, in his turn, leaning back 
 in his chair, returned the gaze, his face pale, his 
 attitude one of hostile defiance. 
 
 " You must know that the old friendship I bear 
 yotir family has long been urging me to do some- 
 thing to put an end to a most painftd quarrel. 
 Your good father, , Don Alessandro ! — What a 
 heart of gold ! — How fond he was of me ! ' ' (Franco 
 was aware that his father had once threatened 
 Pasotti with his cane, for meddling overmuch in 
 his family affairs.) "Nevermind! Having learned 
 that your grandmother was at Lodi, I said to 
 myself last Sunday : After all the trouble the Mai- 
 ronis have had, perhaps this is the right moment. 
 Let us go and make the attempt. And I went." 
 
 There was a pause. Franco was quivering. 
 What a mediator he had had! And who had 
 asked for mediation? 
 
 "I must tell you," Pasotti went on, "that I 
 feel satisfied. Your grandmother has her own 
 opinions, and she has reached an age when opinions 
 are not easily changed ; you know her character ; 
 she is very firm, but after all, she is not heartless. 
 
Hours of Bitterness 309 
 
 She loves you, you know, and she suffers. There 
 is a continuous struggle going on within her, 
 between her sentiments and her principles; or, 
 one might rather say, between her sentiments 
 and her resentment. Poor Marchesa, it is pain- 
 ful to see how she suffers! But anyhow she is 
 beginning to yield. Of course we must not ex- 
 pect too much. She is indeed yielding, but not 
 sufficiently to break what sustains her — ^her princi- 
 ples I mean, especially her political principles." 
 
 Franco's eyes, his twitching jaws, a quivering 
 of his whole person said to Pasotti: "Woe to 
 you if you touch upon .that point!" Pasotti 
 stopped. Perhaps he was thinking of the cane of 
 the late Don Alessandro. 
 
 "I vmderstand your feelings," he continued. 
 "Do you think I don't? I eat the government's 
 bread, and must keep, what I feel shut up in my 
 heart, but, nevertheless, I am with you. I sigh 
 for the moment when certain colours shall re- 
 place certain others. But your grandmother 
 holds different opinions, and there is nothing for 
 it but to take her as she is. If we want to arrive 
 at an understanding we must take her as she is. 
 You may seek to oppose her as I myself did, 
 but " 
 
 "All this talk appears to me perfectly useless," 
 Franco exclaimed, rising. 
 
 "Wait!" Pasotti added. "The affair may 
 not prove as disagreeable as you think! Sit down 
 and listen." 
 
3IO The Patriot 
 
 But Franco would not hear of restuning his seat. 
 
 "Out with it, then!" said he, his voice ringing 
 impatiently. 
 
 "First of all your grandmother is prepared to 
 recognise your marriage " 
 
 "How kind!" Franco put in. 
 
 "Wait! and to make you a suitable allow- 
 ance: from what I heard I should think of 
 from six to eight thousand svanziche a year. Not 
 bad, eh?" 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "Be patient! There is nothing humiliating in 
 all this. Had there been a single humiliating 
 condition I should not have mentioned the matter 
 to you. Your grandmother wishes you to have 
 an occupation, and also desires that you give a 
 certain guarantee not to take part in political 
 doings. Now there is a decorous way of com- 
 bining these two points, as you yourself will be 
 obliged to recognise, although I tell you plainly 
 that I had proposed a different cotirse to your 
 grandmother. My idea was that she should place 
 you at the head of her affairs. You would have 
 had enough to do to keep you from thinking of 
 anything else. However, yotir grandmother's 
 idea is good also. I know fine young fel- 
 lows like yourself, who think as you do, and who 
 are in the judicial service. It is a most inde- 
 pendent and respectable calling. A word from 
 you and you will find yourself an auditor of the 
 court." 
 
Hours of Bitterness 311 
 
 "I?" Franco burst out. "I? No, my dear 
 Pasotti! No! They don't send the police into 
 my house— be quiet!— they don't brutally dismiss 
 from service an honest man, whose only crime is 
 that he is my wife's uncle, — ^be quiet, I tell you! — 
 they don't seek every possible means of reducing 
 my family and rnyself to the verge of starvation 
 to-day, that they may offer us filthy bread to- 
 morrow! No, my man, no! Do your worst! 
 By God! I am not to be trapped by any one 
 through hunger! Tell my grandmother so, you 
 you ^you ' ' 
 
 Pasotti's nature certainly had much that was 
 feline; he was rapacious, curming, prudent, a 
 flatterer, quick to feign, but also subject to fits of 
 rage. He had continued to interrupt Maironi's 
 outpouring with protests which became ever more 
 violent, and at this last invective, forseeing the 
 approach of a deluge of accusations which were 
 all the more exasperating because he could guess 
 their character, he also started to his feet. 
 
 "Stop!" said he. " What do you mean by all 
 this?" 
 
 "Good-night!" cried Franco, who had seized 
 his hat. But Pasotti had no intention of letting 
 him go thus. "One moment!" said he, bringing 
 his fist down swiftly and repeatedly on the little 
 table. "You people are deluding yourselves! 
 You hope great things from that will; but it is 
 not a will at all, it is simply a bit of waste paper, 
 the ravings of a madman!" 
 
312 The Patriot 
 
 Franco, who had already reached the door, 
 stopped short, stunned by the blow. "What 
 will?" said he. 
 
 "Come now!" Pasotti retorted, half coldly, 
 half mockingly. "We understand each other 
 perfectly!" 
 
 A flash of rage once more set Franco's blood on 
 fire. "We do not!" he cried. "Out with it! 
 Speak! What do you know of any will?" 
 
 "Ah! Now we are getting on famously!" 
 Pasotti said with ironical sweetness. 
 
 Franco could have strangled him. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you I have been to Lodi? So of 
 course I know!" 
 
 Franco, quite beside himself, protested that he 
 was entirely in the dark. 
 
 "Of cotirse," Pasotti continued, with greater 
 irony than before. "It is for me to enlighten 
 the gentleman ! Then I will inform you that Pro- 
 fessor Gilardoni, who is by no means the friend 
 you believe him to be, went to Lodi at the end of 
 December, and presented himself before the 
 Marchesa with a legally worthless copy of a will 
 which he pretends was made by your late grand- 
 father. This will appoints you, Don Franco, 
 residuary legatee, in terms attrociously instilting 
 to both the wife and the son of the testator. 
 So now you know. Indeed, Signor Gilardoni did 
 not betray his trust, but stated that he had come 
 on his own responsibility, and without your 
 knowledge." 
 
Hours of Bitterness 313 
 
 Franco listened, as pale as death, feeling dark- 
 ness creeping over his sight and his soul, mustering 
 all his strength that he might not lose his head, 
 but be able to give a fitting answer. 
 
 "You are right," said he. "Grandmother is 
 right also. It is Professor Gilardoni who has 
 done wrong. He showed me that will three years 
 ago, on the night of my marriage. I told him to 
 bum it, and believed he had done so. If he did 
 not, he deceived me. If he really went to Lodi 
 on the charming errand you describe, he has com- 
 mitted an act of outrageous indelicacy and stupid- 
 ity. You were quite justified in thinking ill of us. 
 But mark this! I despise my grandmother's 
 money as heartily as I despise the money of the 
 government, and as this lady has the good for- 
 tune to be the mother of my father, I will never — 
 never, I say — ^although she resort to the most 
 base, the most perfidious means of ruining me — 
 never make use of a document that dishon- 
 ours her. I am too much her superior! Go and 
 tell her this in my name, and tell her also to 
 withdraw her offers, for I spurn them! Good- 
 night!!" 
 
 He left Pasotti in a state of utter amazement, 
 and went his way, trembling with over-excite- 
 ment and rage. He forgot his lantern, and went 
 down the hill in the dark, striding along, neither 
 knowing nor caring where he placed his feet, and 
 from time to time uttering an ejaculation, pour- 
 ing out that which was seething within him — 
 
314 The Patriot 
 
 rage against Gilardoni, and accusations against 
 
 Ltiisa! 
 
 ***** 
 
 Uncle Piero had gone to bed early, and Luisa 
 was waiting for Franco in the little salon with 
 Maria, whom she had kept up that her father 
 might see something of her this last night. Poor 
 little Signorina Missipipi had very soon grown 
 weary, and had begtm to open wide her little 
 mouth, and assume a tearful expression, asking 
 in a small and pitiful voice: "When is papa 
 coming?" But she possessed a mamma who was 
 unrivalled in consoling the afflicted. Now it was 
 some time since Signorina Missipipi had owned a 
 pair of whole little shoes : and little shoes, even in 
 Valsolda, cost money. Not much money, it is 
 true, but what is to be done when you have hardly 
 any? However, this tmique mamma was also 
 unrivalled in shoeing those who were shoeless. 
 The very day before, Luisa, in searching for a 
 piece of rope in the attic, had found a boot which 
 had belonged to her grandfather, buried beneath a 
 heap of rubbish, of empty boxes and broken chairs. 
 She had put it in water to soften, and had borrowed 
 a shoemaker's knife, an awl, and shears. She 
 now took the venerable boot, that frightened 
 Maria, and placed it on the table. " Now we will 
 recite its fimeral oration," said she, with that live- 
 liness she could assume at will, and of which even 
 mortal anguish could not rob her, if she deemed it 
 necessary to be lively. " But first you must ask 
 
Hours of Bitterness 315 
 
 your great-grandfather's permission to take his 
 boot." She made Maria clasp her hands, and 
 recite the following jingle, her eyes conaically 
 raised to the ceiling. 
 
 Great granddad of mine 
 Who to heav'n did climb, 
 This boot, to you useless 
 Pray give to this princess, 
 Who longs in vain 
 For slippers twain, 
 And throws you a kiss. 
 The pert little Miss, 
 Which she begs you to put 
 On the sole of your foot. 
 
 Then followed a somewhat irreverent fancy, one 
 of many such born in Lmsa's brain — a strange 
 story of the little angel who polishes the boots in 
 heaven, and who one day let great-grandfather's 
 boot fall to the earth while attempting to grab a 
 bit of golden bread he had been forbidden to touch. 
 Maria brightened visibly ; she laughed and inter- 
 rupted her mother with a hundred questions con- 
 cerning the other boot that was still in heaven. 
 What woiild her great-grandfather do with that? 
 Her mother replied that he would apply it from 
 behind to the Emperor of Austria, and push him 
 out of heaven with it, if he chanced to meet him 
 there. 
 
 Just at that moment Franco entered. 
 
 Lmsa at once saw signs of storm on his brow 
 and in his eyes. 
 
 "Well?" she questioned. Franco answered 
 shortly : " Put Maria to bed. " 
 
3i6 The Patriot 
 
 Luisa observed that she had kept the child up 
 waiting for him, that she might spend a little time 
 with him. " I tell you to put her to bed ! ' ' Franco 
 said, so harshly that Maria began to cry. Luisa 
 flushed, but was silent. Lighting a candle she 
 took the child in her arms and silently held her up 
 that her father might give her a kiss. He did so 
 coldly, and then Luisa carried her away. Franco 
 did not follow her. The sight of the boot irritated 
 him, and he threw it upon the floor. Then he sat 
 down, planted his elbows on the table, and rested 
 his head in his hands. 
 
 The bitter thought that Luisa was Gilardoni's 
 accomplice had immediately flashed into his mind 
 while Pasotti was talking, and with it there came 
 also the recollection of that "Why be silent?" of 
 that "Enough!" and of the child's story. He 
 felt as if he had a whirlwind within him, in which 
 this idea was being continually caught up and 
 whirled away, to reappear again, farther down, 
 ever nearer the heart. 
 
 "Well? " Luisa once more asked, as she entered 
 the room. Franco looked at her a moment in 
 silence, scrutinising her closely. Then he rose and 
 seized her hands. "Tell me if you know anything ?" 
 said he. She guessed his meaning, but that look 
 and manner offended her. ' ' What do you mean ? ' ' 
 she exclaimed, her face aflame. " Why do you ask 
 in that way?" "Ah! you do know!" cried Franco 
 flinging away her hands, and raising his arms with 
 a despairing gestttre. 
 
Hours of Bitterness 317 
 
 She foresaw what was coming — his suspicion of 
 her complicity with Gilardoni, her denial, and the 
 mortal irremediable offence Franco -would be 
 offering her if, in his wrath, he refused to trust her 
 word, and she clasped her hands in terror. " No, 
 Franco! No, Franco!" she murmured softly, and 
 threw her arms about his neck, striving to close his 
 lips with kisses. But he misunderstood her, be- 
 lieved she was seeking forgiveness, and pushed her 
 aside. "I know! Yes, I know!" she cried, once 
 more casting herself passionately upon his breast. 
 " But I found out afterwards, when it was already 
 done, and I was as indignant as you are, even more 
 indignant!" But Franco was too anxious to give 
 vent to his feelings, too anxious to offend. " How 
 can I know you are speaking the truth?" he ex- 
 claimed. She started back with a cry, and then 
 once more coming a step nearer, she held out her 
 arms to him. "No, no!" she entreated in agony, 
 " Tell me you believe me ! Tell me so now, for if 
 you do not say so, you don't know, you can't 
 realise what will happen!" 
 
 "What is it I can't realise?" 
 
 " You don't know me as I am, for though I may 
 love you still, I can never again be a wife to you, 
 and though I may suffer deeply, I shall never 
 change, never again. Do you realise what that 
 means, never again? ^' 
 
 He drew her slender, trembHng figure towards 
 him, pressed her hands as if to crush them, and 
 said, in a stifled voice : "I will beUeve you! Indeed 
 
3i8 TnFTatriot 
 
 I will believe you!" But Luisa, gazing at him 
 through her tears, was not satisfied. "I will 
 believe you ? " she said. ' ' I will believe you ? ' ' 
 " I do believe you, I do believe you! " 
 Indeed he did believe her; but where there is 
 anger there is always pride as well. He did not 
 wish to surrender entirely, and at once, and his 
 tone was rather condescending than convinced. 
 Both were silent, holding each other's hands, and 
 then with a slow, almost imperceptible movement 
 they began to draw apart. It was Liiisa who at 
 last gently drew away completely. She felt this 
 silence must be broken ; he could find no glowing 
 words, and cold words she would not speak, so she 
 began to tell him how she had heard of the un- 
 fortunate joiirney to Lodi from Gilardoni himself. 
 Seated at the table opposite her husband, she 
 spoke in a calm voice that was not precisely cold, 
 but rather grieved. While she was relating the 
 Professor's disclosures Franco again took fire, and 
 often interrupted her. "And did you not say 
 that to him? — ^And did you not say this to him? — 
 Did you tell him he was a fool? — Did you not call 
 him an ass?" At first Luisa ignored these ex- 
 clamations, but finally she protested. She had 
 already said that Gilardoni's blunder had filled her 
 with indignation, but now it would almost seem as 
 if her husband doubted this. Franco was reduced 
 to unwilling silence. 
 
 Her story finished, he once more stormed 
 against that blockhead of a philosopher, and Luisa 
 
Hours of Bitterness 319 
 
 was moved to take his part. After all he was 
 their friend ; he had indeed made a terrible mis- 
 take, but with the best of intentions. Where 
 were all Franco's maxims about charity, and for- 
 giving injuries, if he was not willing to forgive 
 one whose only wish had been to benefit him? 
 And here thoughts came to her which she did not 
 utter. She reflected that Franco was ready 
 enough to forgive great things when there was 
 glory and sometimes even folly in forgiving, while 
 he wotdd not now forgive a slight offence when 
 there were the best of reasons for doing so. When 
 she spoke of charity Franco became exasperated ; 
 he did not venture to say he felt he did not deserve 
 a similar attack, but returned the blow somewhat 
 roughly. "Ah! Indeed!" he exclaimed, with a 
 reticence that was full of insinuations. " So you 
 defend him! Oh, of course!" 
 
 Luisa's shotilders twitched nervously, but she 
 held her peace. 
 
 "And why did you not speak!" Franco con- 
 tinued. "Why did you not tell me everything at 
 
 once?" 
 
 "Because when I reproached Gilardoni he en- 
 treated me not to tell. Besides, I thought — and 
 I was perfectly correct — ^that the thing being done, 
 it was useless to cause you such great annoyance. 
 The last day of the year, when you were so angry, 
 I wished to tell you, to relate all Gilardoni had 
 confided to me. Do you remember? But you 
 absolutely refused to listen. I did not in- 
 
320 Ine ratriot 
 
 sist, especially as Gilardoni had told your 
 grandmother we knew nothing about the mat- 
 ter." 
 
 " She did not believe him. Naturally ! " 
 
 "And what good would it have done if I had 
 spoken? As it is, Pasotti must have seen plainly 
 that you knew nothing." 
 
 Franco did not answer. Then Luisa asked him 
 to repeat the conversation to her, and she listened 
 to his recital with breathless attention. She 
 guessed, her intuition sharpened by hatred, that 
 if Franco had accepted the proffered position, a 
 further condition would have been imposed: 
 separation from her uncle, from an official who had 
 been dismissed from service for political reasons. 
 "Certainly," she said, "she would have demanded 
 this also. Canaille!" Her husband started, as 
 if he also had been cut to the quick by that lash. 
 "Steady," said he. "Be careful of your ex- 
 pressions ! In the first place, that is only a suppo- 
 sition of yours, and then " 
 
 " Only a supposition ? And how about the rest ? 
 How about the cowardly action she proposed to 
 you?" 
 
 Franco, who had answered Pasotti with such 
 violence, now answered his wife weakly. 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes! But after all " 
 
 It was her turn to be violent now. The idea 
 that his grandmother should dare propose that 
 they forsake the uncle drove her nearly out of her 
 mind. "You will at least acknowledge this," 
 
Hours of Bitterness 321 
 
 she cried, " that she deserves no mercy? My God ! 
 And to think that will still exists ! " 
 
 "Oh!" Franco exclaimed. "Are we to begin 
 over again?" 
 
 " Let us begin over again! Have you any right 
 to demand that I shaU neither think nor feel save 
 in such a way as is pleasing to you? Did I obey 
 you I should be cowardly, I should deserve to be- 
 come a slave. And I will be neither cowardly nor 
 a slave!" 
 
 The rebel he had suspected, even felt at times 
 lurking behind the loving woman, the creature 
 possessed of an intellect intensely proud, and 
 stronger than love, whom he had never suc- 
 ceeded in conquering completely, now stood be- 
 fore him, quivering in the consciousnesss of her 
 rebellion. 
 
 " WeU, wpU ! " said Franco, as if speaking to him- 
 self, " so you would be cowardly, would be a slave? 
 Do you at least reflect that I am going away to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 "Do not go! Stay here! Carry out your grand- 
 father's wishes. Remember what you told me 
 concerning the origin of the Maironi wealth. 
 Give it all back to the Ospitale Maggiore. See 
 that justice is done!" 
 
 "No," Franco retorted. "These are idle 
 dreams. The end does not justify the means. 
 The real end with you is to strike my grandmother. 
 This talk of the Ospitale is simply a means of 
 justifying the blow. No, I will never make use of 
 
322 ihe Patriot 
 
 that will. I declared as much to Pasotti, in such 
 strong language that shotild I ever change, I 
 should deserve to be spit upon. I shall certainly 
 leave to-morrow." 
 
 A long silence followed, then the dialogue was 
 once more resumed, but the two voices were cold 
 and sad as if now some dead thing lay in the heart 
 of either. 
 
 " Do you realise, ' ' said Franco, " that I should be 
 dishonoiuing my own father?" 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 " In the first place by the outrageous nature of 
 the terms in which the document is couched, and 
 then by implying my father's complicity in the 
 suppression of the will. But then you don't 
 understand these matters. And, after all, what 
 do you care?" 
 
 " But there is no need to speak of suppression. 
 It is quite possible the will was never found." 
 
 Another silence. Even the tallow candle that 
 was burning on the table had a lugubrious look. 
 Luisa rose, picked up the great-grandfather's 
 boot, and prepared to begin her work. Franco 
 went to the window and pressed his forehead 
 against the glass. He remained there some time, 
 absorbed in contemplation of the shadows of night. 
 Presently he said softly, without turning his head : 
 
 " Never, never has your sotil been wholly mine." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 Then he faced about and asked his wife in a 
 tone entirely free from anger, and with that in- 
 
Hours of Bitterness 323 
 
 effable gentleness which was his in moments of 
 moral or physical depression, if, since the very be- 
 ginning of their union, he had ever failed her in 
 any way. An almost inaudible "No" was the 
 answer. . 
 
 "Then perhaps you did not love me as I be- 
 lieved?" 
 
 "No, no, no!" 
 
 Franco was not sure he had understood 
 correctly, and repeated: 
 
 "You did not love me?" 
 
 "Yes, yes! So dearly!" 
 
 His spirits began to revive, and a shade of 
 severity returned to his voice. 
 
 "Then," said he, "why did you not give me 
 your whole soul?" 
 
 She was silent. She had been trying in vain to 
 resume her work, but her hands trembled. 
 
 And now this terrible question! Should she 
 answer or not? By answering, by revealing for 
 the first time things that lay buried at the bottom 
 of her heart, she would only be widening the 
 painful gap between them; but cotdd she be 
 dishonest? She was silent so long that at last 
 Franco said: "You will not speak?" Then she 
 mustered all her strength and spoke. 
 
 "It is true, my soul has never been wholly 
 yours." She trembled as she spoke the words, 
 and Franco held his breath. 
 
 " I have always felt myself different from you, 
 separated from you," Luisa continued, "in that 
 
324 The Patriot 
 
 sentiment which should govern all others. You 
 hold the religious views my mother held. Re- 
 ligion was to my mother, as it is to you, a imion of 
 certain beliefs, ceremonies, and precepts, inspired 
 and governed by the love of God. I have always 
 shitmk from this conception of religion ; no matter 
 how hard I may have tried, I have never been 
 able to feel this love of an invisible and incom- 
 prehensible Being; I have never been able to 
 understand what good could come of forcing my 
 reason to accept things I do not xmderstand. 
 Nevertheless I felt an ardent longing to direct 
 my life towards what was good, according to a 
 disinterested ideal. Moreover, by her words and 
 example my mother had embued me with such a 
 strong sense of my duty towards God and the 
 Church, that my doubts caused me great pain, 
 and I struggled hard against them. My mother 
 was a saint. Every act of her life was in harmony 
 with her faith. This also influenced me strongly. 
 And then I knew that the greatest sorrow of her 
 life had been my father's unbelief. I met you, 
 loved you, married you, and I was strengthened 
 in my resolve to become as you are in matters of 
 religion, because I believed you were as my mother 
 was. Then, little by little, I discovered you are 
 not like my mother. Shall I go on ? " 
 
 "Yes, to the end!" 
 
 " I discovered you were kindness itself, that you 
 had the warmest, most generous heart in the 
 world, but that your faith and yotir religious 
 
Hours of Bitterness 325 
 
 practices rendered these treasures almost useless. 
 You did not strive! You were satisfied to love me, 
 the child, Italy, your flowers, your music, the 
 beauty of the lake and the mountains. In this 
 you followed your heart. As to a higher ideal, 
 it was sufficient for you to believe and to pray. 
 Without this faith and without these prayers you 
 would have given the fire that is in your soul to 
 that which is stirely true, which is surely just in 
 this world, you would have felt the same need to be 
 doing that I feel. You are well aware, are you 
 not, what I could have wished you to be in certain 
 things? For example, who feels patriotism more 
 keenly than you do? Surely no one. Well, I 
 could have wished to see you endeavour to serve 
 your country seriously, and according to your 
 strength. Now you are indeed going to Piedmont, 
 but your principal reason for doing so is that we 
 have hardly anything left to live upon." 
 
 Franco, frowning angrily, made an impatient 
 gesture of protest. "If you wish it I will stop," 
 Luisa said humbly. 
 
 "No, no. Go on! Let us have the whole of it! 
 It will be better!" 
 
 He spoke so excitedly, so angrily, that Luisa 
 was silent, and it was only after a second, "Go 
 on!" that she continued. 
 
 " Without going to Piedmont there would have 
 been enough to do here in Valsolda, in Val Por- 
 lezza, in Vail' Intelvi ; what V. does on the Lake 
 of Como, communicating with different people, 
 
326 The Patriot 
 
 keeping the right spirit alive, preparing all that 
 must be prepared against the coming of war, if, 
 indeed, it ever comes. I used to teU you so, but 
 you would not be convinced, you saw so many 
 difficulties in the way. This sluggishness fos- 
 tered my repugnance to your conception of re- 
 ligion, and my tendency towards another concep- 
 tion. For I also felt myself intensely religious. 
 The conception of religion which was gradually 
 shaping itself clearly in my mind was, in sub- 
 stance, as follows : God really exists, and is power- 
 ful and wise as you believe, but He is perfectly 
 indifferent to oiir adoration of Him, and prayers to 
 Him. What He demands of us is what we may 
 learn from the heart he has formed for each one 
 of us, from the conscience He has given us, from 
 the surroundings in which He has placed us. He 
 wishes us to love all that is good, to hate all that 
 is evil, to labour with all our strength, according 
 to this love and this hatred, and to occupy our- 
 selves exclusively with the things of this world, with 
 things we can comprehend, that can be felt! 
 Now you will understand what my idea really is of 
 my duty, of our duty, in the face of all injustice, 
 all tyranny!" 
 
 The further she went in this definition, this 
 exposure of her own views, the greater was the 
 relief she experienced in so doing, in being per. 
 fectly sincere at last, in frankly taking her stand 
 on her own firm ground, and gradually all in- 
 dignation against her husband died down within 
 
Hours of Bitterness 327 
 
 her, and in her heart there arose a tender pity for 
 him. 
 
 "Indeed," she added, "if it had been only this 
 trouble about your grandmother, do you think I 
 would not rather have sacrificed my own opinion 
 a thousand times, rather than grieve you? There 
 was something else underlying that. Now you 
 know all. Now I have laid my bare soul in your 
 hands." 
 
 She read dull pain and hostile coldness on her 
 husband's brow. She rose and moved towards 
 him very slowly, with clasped hands, gazing at 
 him, seeking his eyes, which avoided hers, and 
 then halted on the way, repulsed by some higher 
 power, for he had neither spoken nor made a 
 gesture. 
 
 "Franco!" she entreated, "can you no longer 
 love me?" 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 "Franco! Franco!" she cried, stretching out 
 her clasped hands. Then she started to move 
 forward. He drew back with a rapid movement. 
 Thus they stood in silence, face to face, for half a 
 minute that seemed an eternity. 
 
 Franco's lips were pressed tight together, and 
 she could hear his quick breathing. It was he 
 who broke the silence. 
 
 " What you have said is exactly what you feel ? " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 His hands were clutching the back of a chair. 
 He shook it violently, saying bitterly : " Enough I " 
 
328 The Patriot 
 
 Luisa looked at him with inexpressible sadness, 
 and murmured: "Enough?" He answered an>-^ 
 grily, "Enough, enough, enough!" After a mo- 
 ment's silence he went on harshly: " I may be in- 
 dolent, sluggish, selfish, anything you like, but I am 
 not a boy to be soothed by a couple of caresses after 
 all you have said to me. Enough, I tell you!" 
 
 " Oh, Franco ! I know I have hurt you, but it 
 has cost me so much, having to hurt you! Can't 
 you take me kindly? " 
 
 "Ah, take you kindly, indeed! You wish to be 
 free to inflict any wotmd, and then expect to be 
 taken kindly! You are superior to every one 
 else! You judge, you pass sentence, you alone 
 tmderstand what God wishes and what He does 
 not wish? But this at least I will not have! 
 Say whatever you like about me, but let those 
 things you do not understand alone. You had 
 better be working on your boot!" 
 
 He was determined to see only pride in his wife, 
 while his own anger was born almost wholly of 
 pride, of outraged self-esteem; it was an impure 
 anger which darkened his brain and his heart. 
 Both husband and wife would have acknowledged 
 the justice of any other accusation sooner than that 
 of pride. 
 
 She silently resumed her seat and tried to re- 
 sume her work as well, but she handled the tools 
 nervously ^yithout really knowing what she was 
 doing. Franco went into the hall, banging the 
 door behind him. 
 
Hours of Bitterness 329 
 
 It was very cold in the darkness of the hall which 
 had been unoccupied since five o'clock, but Franco 
 did not notice this. He threw himself upon the 
 sofa, giving himself up entirely to his grief, to his 
 anger, to an easy and violent mental defence of 
 himself against his wife. As Luisa had rebelled 
 against God and against himself — ^though indeed 
 she had made a distinction — he now found it con- 
 venient to make common cause in his heart with 
 that other mute and terrible One whom she had 
 offended. At first astonishment, bitterness, rage, 
 good reasons and bad, formed a whirling tempest 
 in his brain. Then he found relief for his feelings 
 in imagining Luisa's repentance, her prayers for 
 forgiveness, and his own magnanimous answers. 
 
 Suddenly he heard Maria screaming and crying. 
 He rose to go and see what had happened, but he 
 was without a light. He waited a moment think- 
 ing Luisa would go out, but he did not hear her 
 move, and the child was screaming louder than 
 ever. Very softly he went towards the parlour, 
 and looked in through the glass door. 
 
 Luisa had hidden her face in her arms, which 
 were crossed on the table, and the light of the 
 candle revealed only her beautiftil dark hair. 
 Franco felt his anger cooling, he opened the door, 
 and called softly, his tone still gently severe: 
 "Luisa, Maria is crying." Luisa raised her face, 
 which was very pale, took the candle and went out 
 without a word. Her husband followed her. 
 They found the child sitting up in bed bsthed in 
 
330 The Patriot 
 
 tears; a dream had frightened her. When she 
 saw her father she stretched out her arms to him. 
 " Not go away, papa, not go away ! " she entreated, 
 her voice big with tears. Franco pressed her in 
 his arms, covered her with kisses, soothed her, 
 and then put her back into her little bed. But 
 she cltmg tightly to one of her father's hands, and 
 could not be prevailed upon to let it go. 
 
 Luisa took another candle from the table and 
 tried to light it, but her hands shook so she did 
 not succeed. "Are you not coming to bed?" 
 Franco asked. "No," she said, trembling more 
 violently than ever. Franco thought he divined 
 a supposition, a fear in her, and was offended. 
 "Oh, you can come!" he said angrily. Luisa 
 lighted her candle and said, more calmly, that she 
 must work on the Httle shoes. She went out, and 
 only on the threshold did she murmur: "Good- 
 night." "Good-night," Franco answered coldly. 
 For a moment he thought he would undress, but 
 he presently relinquished his intention because 
 his wife was still up, and at work. He spread 
 back the coverlet and lay down in his clothes, on 
 the side of the bed next to the child, that he 
 might hold Maria's little hand — ^she had not yet 
 gone to sleep — ^and put out the light. 
 
 What sweetness in the touch of that dear, tiny 
 hand! Franco felt her the little child she was, 
 his daughter, the innocent, loving baby, and then 
 he imagined her a woman, her heart all his, 
 united to him in every thought, every sentiment, 
 
Hours of Bitterness 331 
 
 and he fancied the Httle hand that pressed his 
 was striving to compensate him for all that Lmsa 
 had made him stiff er, and was saying: "Papa, 
 you and I are united for ever!" Good God! he 
 shuddered at the thought that Luisa might wish to 
 bring her up in her own way of thinking, and that 
 he, being far away, would be powerless to prevent 
 this. He prayed to God, to the Virgin Mary, to 
 the saintly grandmother Teresa, to his own 
 mother, who, he was well aware, had been so pure 
 and so pious. "Watch over my Maria, watch 
 over her!" he mtumured. He offered to sacrifice 
 his whole being, his earthly happiness, his health, 
 even life itself, that Maria might be saved from 
 error. 
 
 "Papa," said the child, "a kiss." 
 
 He leaned out of bed, and, bending down, 
 sought the dear little face in the dark, and told her 
 to be quiet, to go to sleep. She was silent for a 
 moment, and then called — 
 
 "Papa!" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I haven't got the mule under my pillow, you 
 know, papa." 
 
 " No, no, dear, but now go to sleep." 
 
 "Yes, papa, I am going to sleep." 
 
 Once more she was silent for a moment and 
 then said — 
 
 " Is mamma in bed, papa?" 
 
 "No, dear." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
332 The Patriot 
 
 " Because she is making little shoes for you." 
 
 " Shall I wear shoes in heaven also, like great 
 grandfather?" 
 
 "Hush! Go to sleep." 
 
 "Tell me a story, papa." 
 
 He tried, but he had neither Ltdsa's imagination 
 nor her skill, and soon came to a stand-still. 
 "Oh, papa!" said Maria, in a compassionate tone, 
 "you don't know how to tell stories." 
 
 This was humiUating. "Listen, listen!" he 
 answered, and began reciting a ballad by Carrer, 
 always going back to the beginning after the first 
 four lines, which were all he knew of it, his ex- 
 pression becoming ever more mysterious, his voice 
 ever fainter, until it was only an inarticulate 
 murmur, and thus at last Signorina Missipipi, 
 Mled by the rhythm of the lines, passed with 
 them into the world of dreams. When he heard 
 her sleeping peacefully it seemed to him he was 
 so cruel to leave her, he felt himself such a traitor, 
 that he wavered in his resolve. He at once con- 
 trolled himself, however. 
 
 The sweet dialogue with the child had greatly 
 soothed him and raised his spirits. He began to 
 be conscious of an imperative duty towards his 
 wife which would henceforth be incumbent upon 
 him. He must show himself a man, both in wiU 
 and in deed, and this at the cost of any sacrifice. 
 He must defend his faith against her by his works, 
 by leaving home, by labour and suffering; and 
 then — and then — if Almighty God shoiild see fit 
 
Hours of Bitterness 333 
 
 to allow the cannon to roar for Italy, he must push 
 ever to the front; and let the Austrian ball come, 
 if it but teach her to weep and pray at last! 
 
 He remembered that he had not said his even- 
 ing prayers. Poor Franco, he had never been 
 able to say them in bed without dropping off to 
 sleep before they were half finished. Feeling 
 comparatively calm, and reflecting that it might 
 perhaps be some time before Luisa came to bed, 
 he feared he shoiild go to sleep, and what would 
 she say if she found him sleeping? He rose very 
 softly and said his prayers; then he lighted the 
 candle and sat down at the writing-desk, intend- 
 ing to read, but presently he fell asleep in his 
 chair. 
 
 He was aroused by the beat of Veronica's 
 wooden shoes on the stairs. Luisa was not yet 
 come. Soon, however, she entered the room, and 
 expressed no surprise at seeing Franco already 
 up. 
 
 " It is four o'clock," she said. "If you intend 
 to start, you have only half an hour's time." 
 He must leave home at half -past four, to be sure 
 of reaching Menaggio in time for the first boat 
 coming from Colico. Instead of going to Como 
 and thence to Milan as had been officially an- 
 nounced, Franco was to leave the steamer 
 at Argegno and go up to S. Fedele, coming down 
 into Switzerland by Val Mara or by Orimento and 
 Monte Generoso. 
 
334 The Patriot 
 
 Franco signed to his wife to be quiet, that she 
 might not disturb Maria. Then with another 
 silent gesture he called her to him. 
 
 "I am going," he said. "Last night I was 
 harsh with you. I beg you to forgive me. I 
 should have answered you differently, even though 
 I was in the right. You know my temperament. 
 Forgive me ! At least, do not let us part in anger." 
 
 "For my part I feel none," Luisa answered 
 gently, as one who finds it easy to condescend, 
 because he feels himself superior. 
 
 The final preparations were made in silence; 
 breakfast was eaten in silence. Franco went to 
 embrace the uncle to whom he had not said good- 
 bye the night before; then he returned to the 
 alcove-room alone, and kneeling beside the little 
 bed, touched with his lips a tiny hand that was 
 hanging over the edge. Upon returning to the 
 parlour he found Luisa in shawl and hat, and 
 asked if she were going to Porlezza also. Yes, 
 she was going. Everything was ready. Luisa 
 had the handbag, the valise was in the boat, and 
 Ismaele was waiting on the stairs of the boathouse, 
 one foot on the step, the other on the prow of the 
 boat. 
 
 Veronica accompanied the travellers with a 
 light, and wished her master a pleasant journey, 
 with a crestfallen expression, for she had an 
 inkling of the quarrel. 
 
 Two minutes later and the heavy boat, pushed 
 forward by Ismaele 's slow and steady " travelling 
 
Hours of Bitterness 335 
 
 strokes," was passing beneath the wall of the 
 kitchen-garden. Franco put his head out of the 
 little window. The rose-bushes, the caper-bushes, 
 and the aloes hanging from the wall, passed 
 slowly in the pale light of this starry but moonless 
 night ; then the orange-trees, the medlar, and the 
 pine slipped by. Good-bye! Good-bye! They 
 passed the cemetery, the Zocca di Mainb, the 
 narrow lane where he had so often walked with 
 Maria, the Tavorell. Franco no longer watched. 
 The light that usually burned in the little cabin 
 was not there to-night, and he could not see his 
 wife, who was silent. 
 
 " Are you going to Porlezza about those papers of 
 the notary's, or simply to accompany me ? " he said. 
 
 "This too!" Luisa murmtired sadly. "I tried 
 to be strictly honest with you, and you took 
 offence. You ask my forgiveness, and now you 
 say such things as this to me. I see that one 
 cannot be faithful to truth without great, great 
 suffering. But patience! I have chosen that 
 path now. You will know soon whether I really 
 came on yotir account or not. Do not humble 
 me by making me say so now." 
 
 "Do not humble me!" Franco exclaimed. "I 
 do not understand. We are indeed different in 
 so many ways. My God, how different we are! 
 You are always so completely mistress of your- 
 self, you can always express your thoughts so 
 exactly, they are always so clear, so cool." 
 
 Luisa murmtired: "Yes, we are different." 
 
336 The Patriot 
 
 Neither spoke again until they reached Cres- 
 sogno. When they were near the Marchesa's villa 
 Luisa began to talk, and tried to keep the conver- 
 sation alive until they should have left the villa 
 behind. She asked him to repeat to her the itin- 
 erary that had been arranged for his journey, and 
 suggested that he take only his handbag with him, 
 for the valise would be a burden from Argegno on. 
 She had already spoken to Ismaele about it, and he 
 had promised to carry it to Lugano and send it 
 on to Turin from that place. Meanwhile they had 
 passed his grandmother's viUa. 
 
 Now the sanctuary of Caravina came in sight. 
 Twice during their courtship Franco and Luisa 
 had met tmder those olive-trees, at the festa of 
 Caravina, on the eighth of September. And now 
 the dear little church in its grove of olives, be- 
 neath the awful rocks of the peak of Cressogno, 
 was left behind also. Farewell, little church. 
 Farewell to the past ! 
 
 "Remember," Franco said, almost harshly, 
 "that Maria is to say her prayers every morning 
 and evening. It is an order I give you. " 
 
 "I shotild have made her do so without this 
 order," Luisa answered. "I know Maria does 
 not belong to me alone." 
 
 Then they were silent all the way to Porlezza. 
 Coming forth from the tranquil bay of Valsolda, 
 seeing other valleys, other horizons, the lake just 
 rippled by the first breath of dawn, the two 
 travellers were drawn towards other thoughts, 
 
Hours of Bitterness 337 
 
 were led to think, without knowing why, of the 
 uncertain future, which must bring great events, 
 of which prophetic whisperings already circulated 
 mysteriously through the heavy Austrian silence. 
 Some one called out from the shore at Porlezza, 
 and Ismaele began to row rapidly. It was 
 the driver, Toni Pollin, who was shouting to 
 them to make haste if they wished to catch the 
 steamer at Menaggio. 
 
 The last moments had come. Franco let down 
 the window in the little door, and looked at the 
 man as if he were most anxious not to lose a word. 
 
 When they touched the shore he turned to his 
 wife. "Are you going to get out also?" "If 
 you wish it," she said. They alighted. A cab- 
 riolet stood ready on the shore. "By the way," 
 said Luisa, " you will find some lunch in your bag." 
 They embraced, exchanging a cold and rapid 
 kiss in the presence of three or four curious by- 
 standers. "Try and make Maria forgive me for 
 leaving her thus," said Franco, and they were 
 his last words, for Toni Pollin was hurrying them : 
 "Quick, quick!" The horse started off at a brisk 
 trot, and the cabriolet rattled noisily, with a 
 great snapping of the whip, through the dark and 
 narrow street of Porlezza. 
 
 S|S 5|* *!• 'r ^^ 
 
 Franco was on board the Falcon between Campo 
 and Argegno when he thought of his lunch. He 
 opened the bag, and his heart gave a bound as he 
 perceived a letter bearing as an address the words 
 
338 The Patriot 
 
 "For You" in his wife's hand. He tore it open 
 eagerly, and read as follows — 
 
 " If you only knew what I am experiencing in 
 my soul, how I am suffering, how sorely I am 
 tempted to lay aside the little shoes — ^in the 
 making of which I am far less skilful than you 
 think — and to go to you, taking back all I have 
 said, you would not be so harsh with me. I must 
 have sinned deeply against truth, that the first 
 steps I now take in following her are so difficult, 
 so bitter. 
 
 "You think me proud, and I beUeved myself 
 very sensitive, but now I feel that your humiliat- 
 ing words alone could not have kept me from 
 hastening to you. What holds me back is a Voice 
 within me, a Voice stronger than I am, which 
 commands me to sacrifice everything save my 
 consciousness of truth. 
 
 "Ah! I hope this sacrifice may bring its re- 
 ward ! I hope that one day there may be a perfect 
 union between our two souls. 
 
 " I am going into the garden to gather for you 
 that brave little rose we admired together the 
 other day, the little rose that has challenged and 
 conquered January. Do you remember how 
 many obstacles lay between us the first time I 
 received a flower from yoirr hand? I was not yet 
 in love with you, but you already dreamt of 
 winning me. Now it is I who hope to win you !" 
 
 Franco came near letting the steamer pass 
 Argegno without moving from his seat. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 FOR BREAD, FOR ITALY, FOR GOD 
 
 ■p^IGHT months later, in September, 1855, 
 -'— ' Franco was occupying a miserable attic in 
 Via Barbaroux, Turin. In February he had ob- 
 tained the post of translator for the Opinione, 
 with a monthly salary of eighty-five lire. Later 
 he began to write the parliamentary reports, and 
 his salary was raised to a hundred lire. Dina, 
 the manager of the paper, was fond of him, and 
 procured him extra work outside the office, thus 
 adding twenty-five or thirty lire to his earnings. 
 Franco lived on sixty lire a month. The rest 
 went to Lugano to be carried thence to Oria by 
 the faithful hands of Ismaele. To live a month 
 on sixty lire took more courage than Franco him- 
 self had believed he possessed. The hours at the 
 office, the translating — a laborious task for one 
 full of scruples and literary timidity — ^weighed 
 more heavily upon him than the privations ; more- 
 over he felt even sixty lire was too large a sum, 
 and reproached himself for not being able to do 
 with less. 
 
 He had attached himself to six other refugees, 
 some of whom were Lombards, others Venetians. 
 
 339 
 
340 'I'he Patriot 
 
 They ate together, walked together, conversed to- 
 gether. With the exception of Franco and a 
 young man from Udine, all the others were be- 
 tween thirty and forty years of age. All were 
 extremely poor, and not one of them had ever 
 consented to accept a penny from the Piedmon- 
 tese Government as a subsidy. The young nian 
 from Udine came of a rich family, of Austrian 
 tendencies, and received not a penny from home. 
 He was a good flutist, gave four or five lessons 
 a week, and played in the small orchestras of 
 second-rate theatres. A notary from Padua was 
 copyist in Boggio's office. A lawyer from Caprino, 
 Bergamasco, who had seen service at Rome in 
 1849, was book-keeper at a large establishment in 
 Via Nuovo, where tunbrellas and walking-sticks 
 were sold, and for this reason his friends had 
 dubbed him "the knave of clubs." A fourth, a 
 Milanese, had been through the campaign of 1848 
 as one of Carlo Alberto's scouts. His present 
 occupation was to quarrel continually with "the 
 knave of clubs," for reasons of provincial rivalry, 
 to teach fencing in a couple of boarding schools, 
 and in winter to play the piano behind a mys- 
 terious curtain in halls where polkas were danced 
 at a penny each. The others lived on insufficient 
 allowances from their families. All except Franco 
 were unmarried, and all were gay. They called 
 themselves, and were called by others, the " seven 
 wise men," and in their wisdom they dominated 
 Ttirin from the elevated positions of seven attics, 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 341 
 
 scattered all over the city from Borgo San Dal- 
 mazzo to Piazza Milano. 
 
 Franco's was the most wretched of these attics, 
 the rent being only seven lire a month. No 
 member of this band had any services whatso- 
 ever performed for them, save the notary from 
 Padua, for whom the doorkeeper's sister carried 
 water to his attic, and had he not been the calm 
 philosopher he was, the merciless teasings of his 
 friends would have made him regret Marga's 
 devotion. They all cleaned their own boots. 
 The most skilful with his hands was Franco, and 
 it was his lot to sew on his friends' buttons when 
 they did not wish to humble themselves by apply- 
 ing to the lawyer and his Marga, who, neverthe- 
 less, often had her hands full, " poor, overworked 
 woman that I am!" The young man from Udine 
 h&,d a sweetheart, a little tota* from the first booth 
 in Piazza Castello on the corner of Po, but he was 
 jealous, and would not allow her to sew on buttons 
 for any one. The friends took their revenge by 
 calling her "the puppet," because she sold pup- 
 pets and dolls. However, thanks to " the puppet," 
 he was the only member of the band whose clothes 
 were always in order, and whose cravat was always 
 tied in a graceful knot. They took their meals at 
 a restaurant in Vanchiglia, which they had christ- 
 ened "Stomach-ache Tavern," and where they 
 had lunch and dinner for thirty lire a month. 
 
 * Tota is Piedmontese for young girl, often used in the 
 sense of grisette. [Translator': note.] 
 
342 The Patriot 
 
 Their only extravagance was the bicierin, a mix- 
 ture of coffee, milk, and chocolate, costing only 
 fifteen centimes. They drank this in the morning, 
 the Venetians at the Caf^ Alfieri, the others at 
 Caf6 Florio. All except Franco, however. He 
 went without the bicierin and the torcHt, a cake 
 costing a penny that went with it, in order that 
 he might lay by enough for a little trip to Lugano, 
 and a trifling present for Maria. In the winter 
 they walked under the porticoes of Po, the " wise 
 ones " in the vicinity of the University, while the 
 more light-minded frequented the porticoes on 
 the San Francesco side. After their walk they 
 would go to a coffee-house, where the one whose 
 turn it was would sip a cup of coffee, while the 
 others read the newspapers and looted the sugar 
 basin. Once a week, to satisfy the "knave of 
 clubs," they would betake themselves to a den 
 in Via Bertola, where the purest and most ex- 
 qtdsite Giambava wine was to be had. 
 
 The flutist from Udine of coiirse went to the 
 theatres, and by his means some of the others went 
 gratis from time to time, but always to the play, 
 and usually either to the Rossini or Gerbino 
 theatres. For Franco to be obliged to pass the 
 posters at the Regio and the other opera houses 
 was a far greater trial than to be obliged to clean 
 his own boots and lunch off two square inches of 
 omelet that was so thin it would have served 
 admirably to observe the spots on the sun through. 
 He had had the good fortune to make the ao 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 343 
 
 quaintance of a certain C, a Venetian, who was 
 secretary at the department of PubUc Works, and 
 who presented him to the family of a most dis- 
 tinguished major .in the sanitary corps, also 
 Venetian, and who owned a piano and was in the 
 habit of receiving a few friends of an evening, on 
 which occasions he would regale them with a cup 
 of most excellent coffee of a quality almost unique 
 in the Tiirin of those days. When, for one reason 
 or another, the "seven wise men" did not spend 
 the evening together. Franco would go to this 
 gentleman's house in Piazza Milano, to make 
 music, to converse on art with the daughters, or to 
 discuss politics with his hostess, a fierce Venetian 
 patriot, a woman of great talents, and possessed 
 of a strenuous soul, who had not only borne hero- 
 ically all the hardships and the bitterness of exile, 
 but had sustained the courage of her husband, 
 whose first steps had been most painful and 
 difficult ; for those precious, honest old numskulls 
 of the inflexible Piedmontese administration had 
 actually obliged this already famous professor of 
 the University of Padua to submit to an ex- 
 amination, before they wotild admit him into 
 the army as surgeon.* 
 
 The correspondence between Turin and Oria did 
 not indeed reflect the true state of mind of Franco 
 
 *It must be remembered that Padua and its university 
 were at that time dominated by the Austrians, and that 
 patriotistn drove this "already famous professor" to give up 
 his position and migrate to free Piedmont. [Translator's 
 note.] 
 
344 The Patriot 
 
 and Ltdsa ; it ran on smoothly and affectionately 
 enough, but with great caution and reserve on 
 either side. Ltiisa had expected that Franco 
 would answer her note, and regmne the great dis- 
 cussion. As he never mentioned either the note 
 or what had passed between them that last night, 
 she risked an allusion. It was allowed to pass 
 unheeded. As a matter of fact Franco had several 
 times started to write with the intention of con- 
 futing his wife's opinions. Before beginning he 
 always felt himself strong, and was convinced 
 that with a little thought he could easily discover 
 crushing arguments, and, indeed, arguments he 
 believed to be such would rush to his pen, but 
 when they were set down in writing, he would at 
 once be forced to recognise their inadequacy. 
 Though stirprised and grieved he would make 
 another attempt, but always with the same 
 result. Nevertheless his wife was certainly in 
 error; this he never for a moment doubted, and 
 there must be a way of demonstrating it to her. 
 He must study. But what, and how? He con- 
 sulted a priest to whom he had been to confession 
 soon after his arrival in Turin. This priest, a 
 little misshapen old man, who was fiery and very 
 learned, invited him to his house in Piazza Paisana, 
 and began to help him enthusiastically, suggesting 
 a number of books, some for his own perusal, 
 and others to be sent to his wife. He was a 
 learned Orientalist, and an enthusiastic Thomist, 
 and had taken a great fancy to Franco, of whose 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 345 
 
 genius and ciolture he had formed an opinion which 
 was perhaps exaggeratedly favourable. At one 
 time he was on the point of proposing to him the 
 study of Hebrew, and indeed insisted upon his 
 reading St. Thomas. He went so far as to sketch 
 for Franco the outlines of a letter to his wife, with 
 a list of the arguments he must expound. Franco 
 had at once fallen in love with the enthusiastic 
 little old man, who, moreover, had the pure ex- 
 pression of a saint. He began to study St. 
 Thomas with great ardour, but did not persevere 
 long. He felt he was embarking upon a sea with- 
 out beginning and without end, across which he 
 was unable to steer a straight course. The 
 scholastic scheme of treatment, that sameness in 
 the form of argtmient for and against, that icy 
 Latin, dense with profound thought, and colourless 
 on the surface, had successfully routed all his good 
 intentions at the end of three days. Of the argu- 
 ments contained in the sketch for the letter he 
 tmderstood only a small part. He got the priest 
 to explain them to him, understood somewhat 
 better, and prepared to open a campaign with 
 them, but found himself as much encumbered by 
 them as was David by the armour of Saul. They 
 weighed upon him, he cotild not handle them, he 
 felt they were not his own and never would be. 
 No, he could not present himself before his wife 
 with Professor G.'s priestly hat and tunic, a theo- 
 logical lance in his hand, and entrenched behind 
 a shield of metaphysics. He recognised that he 
 
346 The Patriot 
 
 was not bom to philosophise in any way; he was 
 destitute of the very power of strictly logical 
 reasoning, for indeed his glowing heart, rich in 
 tenderness and indignation, would too often inter- 
 fere, speaking for or against, according to its own 
 passions. One evening at Casa C. he was playing 
 the andante of Beethoven's twenty-eighth sonata, 
 when, with quivering nerves and flashing eyes, 
 he said in a low tone: "Ah! This, this, this!" 
 He was reflecting that no theologian, no doctor, 
 could communicate the religious sentiment as 
 Beethoven does. As he played on he put his 
 whole soul into the music, and longed for Luisa's 
 presence that he might play this divine andante 
 to her, that he might -unite himself to her, praying 
 thus in an ineffable spasm of the spirit. But he 
 did not reflect that Luisa who, moreover, was far 
 less sensitive to music than he was, would prob- 
 ably have attributed another meaning to the an- 
 dante, that of the painful conflict between ova 
 affections and our convictions. 
 
 He went to G., returned the works of St. Thomas 
 and confessed his utter incapacity in such humble 
 and feeling language, that after a few moments of 
 frowning and uneasy silence, the old priest for- 
 gave him. "There, there, there!" said he, re- 
 signedly taking back the first volume of the 
 Somma. "Commend yourself to oiir Lord, and 
 let us hope He Himself will act." Thus ended 
 Franco's theological studies. 
 
 All this pondering of his wife's opinions and his 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 347 
 
 own, and above all the Professor's advice : " Com- 
 mend yourself to our Lord," were not fruitless. 
 He began to see that on some points Luisa was 
 not mistaken. When she had reproached him for 
 not leading a life in conformity with his faith, he 
 had been more offended by this than by anything 
 else. Now a generous impulse carried him to 
 the other extreme; he judged himself severely, 
 exaggerated his faults of idleness, of anger, even 
 of greed, and held himself responsible for Luisa's 
 intellectual aberrations. He felt a desire to tell 
 her this, to humble himself before her, to separate 
 his own cause from the cause of God. When he 
 obtained his position on the Opinione, and regu- 
 lated his own expenses in such a manner as to be 
 able to make an allowance to his family, his wife 
 wrote that this allowance was entirely too large 
 in proportion to his earnings, and that the thought 
 of him, living in Turin on sixty lire a month, 
 gave her own food a bitter taste. He answered — 
 and this was not strictly true — that in the first 
 place, he never went htmgry, but that he would, 
 indeed, be glad to fast, because he felt an intense 
 desire to change his way of life, to expiate his past 
 idleness, including the hotirs he had wasted on 
 his flowers and music, to expiate all past softness, 
 all past weaknesses, including the weakness for 
 dainty dishes and fine wines. He added that he 
 had asked God's forgiveness for this past life, and 
 that he felt he must ask her forgiveness also. In fact 
 the Paduan, with whom Franco had become very in- 
 
348 The Patriot 
 
 timate, and to whom he read this passage in his let- 
 ter as a sort of confirmation of previous confes- 
 sions, exclaimed : " That bit soimds for all the world 
 like the oration of Manasseh, king of Judaea!" 
 
 Luisa wrote most affectionately, but with less 
 effusion. Franco's silence on the painful subject 
 displeased her, and she felt it would be unwise on 
 her part to allude to it in the face of a silence so 
 obstinate. 
 
 His good intentions concerning laboiir and 
 self-sacrifice moved her deeply; when she read 
 that confession of great wickedness, followed by 
 the prayer for pardon to God and to herself, she 
 smiled and kissed the letter, feeling that this was 
 an act of submission, and a humble acceptance of 
 the censiire which had at first only irritated him. 
 Poor Franco! These were the impulses of his 
 noble, generous nature! But woiild they last? 
 She answered at once, and if her emotion was 
 apparent in her answer, so also was her smile, 
 which displeased Franco. At the end he found 
 these words: "When I read your many self- 
 accusations I thought, with remorse, of the 
 accusations I brought against you, one sad night, 
 and I felt that you also had been thinking of 
 them as you wrote, although neither in this letter 
 nor in any other are they alluded to. I deeply 
 regret those accusations, my own Franco, but 
 how I wish we could speak together as true friends, 
 concerning those other questions of which I 
 think so much here in my solitude ! " 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 349 
 
 Luisa's wish remained ungratified. In an- 
 swering Franco did not even touch on this point ; 
 indeed his next letter was somewhat cool, so 
 Luisa did not again revert to the subject. Only 
 once, when speaking of Maria, did she write: 
 " If you could only see how Maria recites her ' Our 
 Father' every night and morning, and how well 
 she behaves at Mass, on Simdays, you would be 
 satisfied." 
 
 He replied : " As to what you tell me concerning 
 Maria's religious exercises, I am satisfied, and I 
 thank you!" 
 
 Both Luisa and Franco wrote almost every day, 
 and sent their letters once a week. Ismaele went 
 to the post at Lugano every Tuesday, taking the 
 wife's letters and bringing back the husband's. 
 In June Maria had the measles, and in August 
 Uncle Piero lost the sight of his left eye, almost 
 without warning, and for some time was greatly 
 distressed. During these two periods the letters 
 from Oria were more frequent, but in September 
 the weekly correspondence was resumed. From 
 the bundle of letters I take the last that passed 
 between Franco and Luisa, on the eve of those 
 events which overwhelmed them at the end of 
 September. 
 
 Luisa to Franco. 
 
 "September 14, 1856. 
 "I do not think Pasotti will ever come to our 
 house again. I am sorry on poor Barborin's 
 
350 The Patriot 
 
 account, for I fear she will not be able to come 
 either, but I do not regret what I did. 
 
 "He has known perfectly well for some time that 
 you are in Turin. He even talked of it with the 
 Receiver, so Maria Pon told me. She was in the 
 Romit chapel, and heard them talking on their 
 way down from Albogasio Superiore. When he 
 came here he would always pretend not to know, 
 and would enquire for you with his usual assump- 
 tion of interest and friendship. To-day he 
 fotmd me alone in the little garden and asked how 
 much longer you would be absent and whether you 
 were in Milan at present. I answered frankly 
 that his question surprised me. He tiirned pale. 
 'Why?' said he. 'Because you have been 
 going about saying that Franco is in an entirely 
 different place.' He became confused and pro- 
 tested angrily. 'You may protest as much as 
 you like!' I said. 'It is quite useless. You 
 know that. At all events Franco is very well off 
 where he is. You may say as much to whomever 
 you please.' 'You wish to insult me!' he ex- 
 claimed. I did not stop to think long, but re- 
 torted : ' That is qmte possible ! ' Then he rushed 
 away without saluting me, and looking as bl9,ck 
 as the ace of spades — that simile suits my present 
 mood! I am sure he will go to Cressogno this 
 evening. 
 
 "Ciistant has sent us a present of a magnificent 
 tench which he caught this morning, much to the 
 chagrin of Bianconi, who fishes all day long, and- 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 351 
 
 never catches anything. He is furious with the im- 
 pudent tench because they snap their fingers— so to 
 speak— at His Imperial and Royal Majesty of Aus- 
 tria and his Carlascia. ' Poor fellow !' says Signora 
 Peppina. ' He is eating his heart out ! ' 
 
 " However, he will get over it, he will get over it. 
 
 "September 15. 
 
 " I related the Pasotti episode to Uncle Piero and 
 he was very much annoyed. 'Much good this 
 will do you!' he said. Poor Uncle! One might 
 almost suspect him of being a utilitarian, whereas 
 he is really a philosopher. After all the strongest 
 argtiment he ever opposes to all my burning in- 
 dignation against the many ugly things in this 
 world is : ' Worrying won't mend it ! ' 
 
 "To-day the parish Mass was said at Albogasio 
 Superiore. In coming out of church with Maria I 
 caught a despairing glance from poor Barborin, 
 who evidently had orders to avoid me. How- 
 ever, Ester walked down with us and coming into 
 the house told me privately something I have been 
 expecting to hear. She began by begging me not 
 to laugh, while aU the time she was laughing her- 
 self. I succeeded in gathering that the Professor, 
 by dint of great perseverance, has overcome her 
 resistance, although Ester still declares she does 
 not know her own mind. 
 
 " ' It is his nose ! ' she said this morning, laughing 
 and hiding her gay little face. Indeed that 
 scandalous nose seems to me to be prospering; 
 it is redder than ever, and grows ever larger ! 
 
352 The Patriot 
 
 "September i8. 
 
 "I have not written for three days, fearing I 
 shotild. not be mistress of my pen, nor be able to 
 confine my thoughts within words which must not 
 exceed certain bounds. Now I feel equal to the 
 task, and so I will set about it. But I must 
 warn you. Franco, that I am not sure of being able 
 to control my feelings all the way through. 
 
 "Well, then, your grandmother's agent came to 
 me on the evening of the fifteenth. As the half- 
 yearly payment of your income is due on the six- 
 teenth, I concluded he had come to bring the five 
 hundred svanziche, and so I told him at once that 
 I would go and prepare the receipt for him. Then 
 the most gracious Signor Bellini informed me that 
 my receipt would not be sufficient. 'How can 
 that be?' I said. ' It was sufficient on the sixteenth 
 of March.' 'I don't know,' he replied. 'I have 
 my orders.' 'But Franco is not here.' 'I know 
 that. ' ' Then what did you come here for ? ' ' I came 
 to tell you that if Don Franco wishes to draw his 
 money he must present himself at the Signora Mar- 
 chesa's agency in Brescia. ' ' And what if he cannot 
 go to Brescia? ' Here Signor Bellini made a 
 gesture that meant, 'That is your affair.' I 
 replied that it was all right, had coffee brought 
 for him, and told him I was anxious to purchase 
 the book-shelves in yotir old study at Cressogno 
 from the Signora Marchesa. Bellini turned yellow, 
 and sneaked away like our old dog Pato at Casa 
 Rigey when he had been stealing. 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 353 
 
 "Most certainly the worthy Pasotti has had 
 a finger in this dirty business. 
 
 The Prefect of Caravina was here yesterday and 
 told us that Pasotti went to Cressogno on the" 
 evening of the fourteenth. He was very late, and 
 reached your grandmother's house while they were 
 saying the rosary, so he had to mumble the prayers 
 with the others, which greatly amused the prefect, 
 for it is his opinion that Pasotti goes to Mass 
 simply because he is an Imperial and Royal 
 pensioner, but that his only prayer is 'the rats' 
 Pater,' whatever that may be. He added that 
 after the others had gone out Pasotti remained in 
 confabulation with your grandmother, and that 
 Bellini was also present. Bellini had arrived that 
 very day from Brescia. He probably brought 
 the money for you. 
 
 "We have enough left to live upon tmtil the. 
 money comes from you in October. That is all 
 I wish to say. 
 
 "Maria sends you the cyclamen you will find en- 
 closed. I must also teU you the following incident. 
 You can fancy she notices the state of mind I am 
 in. She often hears me discussing the subject 
 with Uncle Piero. The uncle is always the uncle! 
 In his whole life he has set down as rascals only 
 such contractors as offered him bribes, and 
 another uncle his exact opposite, who, after 
 making use of his nephew for many years, died 
 without leaving him so much as a dried fig. He 
 woidd never recognise any other rascals, nor wiU 
 
354 The Patriot 
 
 he do so even now. Well, when I ani talking with 
 him, Maria always wants to listen. I send her 
 away, but I sometimes fail to notice that she has 
 returned very softly. This morning she began 
 saying her prayers. Oh, Franco! your daughter 
 is indeed very religious in your own way! The 
 last prayer she repeats is a requiem for poor Grand- 
 mamma Teresa. 'Mamma,' said she when she 
 had finished, ' I want to recite a requiem for the 
 grandmother in Cressogno also. ' Never mind my 
 answer. My words were bitter; perhaps I did 
 wrong; I am even ready to confess I did wrong. 
 Maria looked at me, and said: 'Is the grand- 
 mother at Cressogno really wicked?' 'Yes.' 
 ' But why does Uncle Piero say she is not realty 
 wicked ? ' ' Because Uncle Piero is so very good. ' 
 ' Then you are not so very good ? ' My dear little 
 • innocent ! I devoured her with kisses, I cotild not 
 help it ! As soon as she was free to speak she be- 
 gan again: 'You will not go to Paradise, you 
 know, if you are not so very good.' Paradise is 
 her one idea. Poor Franco, not to have her with 
 you, you who would be so satisfied with her! 
 You are indeed making a great sacrifice! If it 
 will give you any pleasure I will tell you that the 
 only possibility for me to love God is through 
 this child, for in her God becomes visible and in- 
 telligible to me. 
 
 "Good-bye, Franco. I embrace you. 
 
 "LuiSA. 
 
 "P. S. I must tell you that I have dismissed 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 355 
 
 Veronica for the first of October. This I did in 
 the first place for reasons of economy, and second- 
 ly because I have discovered that she is flirting 
 ■with a customs-guard. Oh! I almost forgot some- 
 thing else! Half an hour ago Ester came to tell 
 me she has decided to say 'yes,' but she wishes 
 to wait a day longer before seeing the Professor. 
 She has evidently succeeded in swallowing the 
 nose, but has not yet digested it." 
 
 Franco to Luisa. 
 
 " Turin, September 14, 1855. 
 " The ' knave of clubs ' is threatened with dis- 
 missal by his employer on account of the truly 
 miserable state of his clothes. The 'knave' 
 is indeed given to extravagance, and has not yet 
 learned — duris in rebus — ^to handle a clothes brush, 
 but however that may be, the other ' wise men ' 
 have decided not to lunch for a week in order that 
 he may re-clothe himself. Now observe the 
 baseness of the himian heart! The 'knave,' 
 overflowing with expressions of gratitude, calmly 
 prepared to go to his own Itmch! This, however, 
 we wotdd not stand. So to-day, instead of re- 
 pairing to Stomach-ache Tavern, we spent half 
 an hotir on the banks of the Po, near the Valentino, 
 watching the water flow past. The wise man from 
 Udine had brought his flute with him, because 
 music should not be wanting at an ideal lunch, at 
 which the most Irimalchionian ideas of food and 
 beverages are handed rotmd. He also had with 
 
356 The Patriot 
 
 him a letter from his family, containing mag- 
 nificent proposals for his rettirn to the fold. They 
 even offer him a riding-horse. He says he has 
 written them that they will soon see him come 
 dashing up on one of King Victor Emmanuel's 
 horses. Then the Paduan, who is a wag, said to 
 him with a great assumption of seriousness, "Ah, 
 my hero ! So you are beginning to blow yotir own 
 tnanpet as well as play the flute!" The flutist 
 was wild, but presently he calmed down, and 
 played us a nice little tune. The strange part of 
 it all is that none of us felt hungry. However, 
 when the meeting was adjoxirned, we decided 
 that the 'knave's' clothing should be simplified, 
 and that he could get along without the justicoat, 
 known in modern parlance as the waistcoat. 
 
 "Ah! We would all gladly do without dinner as 
 well as lunch if we cotild only cross the Ticino with 
 the King in April, 1856! We talked of this on our 
 way back to the city after the ideal lunch. The 
 Paduan observed that the water is too cold in 
 April and that we had better wait until the end of 
 June. We began to talk about how great Italy 
 will be without the Germans. I assure you we 
 were all enthusiastic, in spite of the emptiness of 
 our stomachs. All except the Paduan of course, 
 but of him I must tell you that if he is reduced 
 ahnost to the verge of starvation, it is because he 
 will not tolerate the Austrians, and that although 
 he is knocking at the door of forty, he wiU fight 
 better than some of these young fellows who are 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 357 
 
 now devotiring an Austrian for lunch, and two for 
 dinner ! He says we shall once more become a cat 
 and dog kingdom. 'Mark this, for example,' 
 he added. 'When the Germans shall have de- 
 parted, each of us wiU return to his own home, 
 and woe to you if you come and worry me in 
 Padua!' I can almost fancy I am listening to 
 Uncle Piero, when, at Oria, we used to discuss the 
 greatness and the splendid future of Italy. ' Yes, 
 yes, yes!' he wotild say, 'Yes, yes, yes! The lake 
 will turn into milk and honey, and the Galbiga 
 will become a Parmesan cheese ! ' 
 " We shall see! We shall see! 
 
 "September 21. 
 
 "Your letter has awakened in me a tumult of 
 feelings which cannot be described in writing. 
 
 " Of course my grandmother's action and the 
 indirect malevolence of Pasotti grieve me deeply, 
 but your too violent indignation is far more pain- 
 ful to me. When some one holding my power-of- 
 attomey presents himself at Brescia, payment 
 cannot be refused. It is true that you, a woman, 
 are not expected to know these things. I can also 
 forgive your anger, for in the beginning I myself 
 was not unmoved. Then I asked myself: Why 
 are you indignant? Why are you surprised.? 
 Were you not already acquainted with that evil 
 spirit, and have you not already suffered greater 
 instilt from it? 
 
 "I am most deeply grieved that you did not 
 
3S8 The Patriot 
 
 succeed in hiding your feelings from Maria ; I am 
 deeply moved to learn that you repented of this ; 
 and deeply thankftil that you love the Lord in 
 the child, and that you have confessed as much 
 to me. Indeed I feel I should not be so overjoyed 
 at this, for the heavens and the earth are always 
 inviting us to love God ; He is visible in every ray 
 of Hght, and His voice may be heard in every 
 truth. But, at least, you are beginning to hear 
 this voice! I have never touched upon this sub- 
 ject in my letters because I feel I am not capable 
 of speaking worthily and efficaciously of it to you. 
 And now I shall let God Himself speak to you 
 through the child, and once more resume my 
 silence. But remember, I am waiting in sus- 
 pense ; I am hoping and praying. 
 
 "How can I express to you what I feel for Maria? 
 Who could describe this emotion, this immense 
 tenderness, this consuming desire to clasp her for 
 a moment, only for one moment, to my heart.'' 
 Do you believe I shall be able to wait until No- 
 vember? No, no, no! I will write, I will copy, I 
 will do the work of others, but I must come to 
 Lugano sooner! Cover her with kisses for me, and 
 meanwhile, tell her that Papa carries his Maria 
 in his heart always, and that he sends her his 
 blessing. Ask her what she wishes me to bring 
 her and let me know, without thinking too much 
 about my poverty. 
 
 "With my whole soul I embrace you, my Luisa. 
 
 "Franco." 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 359 
 
 LuisA TO Franco. 
 
 "September 24, 1855. 
 
 "At last! Ever since you left I have been longing 
 for you to touch upon this question. How did I 
 explain myself that night, in my painful emotion? 
 How did you understand me, in your equally 
 painful emotion? For months and months I have 
 felt the necessity of speaking of this to you, and 
 I have never done so because I lacked courage. 
 
 "You win remember you accused me of pride 
 that night. I implore you to believe that I 
 am not proud. I cannot even imderstand such 
 an accusation. 
 
 "Your letter gives me the idea that you think 
 I have returned to a belief in God. But did I 
 ever tell you that I do not believe in God? I cannot 
 have told you so, for the whole history of my opin- 
 ions is engraved upon my mind, and the fright, the 
 distressing thought that I might perhaps no longer 
 be able to bcHeve in God, came to me after you 
 left. I know the day, the very hovir. At S. 
 Mamette I had heard them talking of a great 
 dinner your grandmother had given at Brescia, 
 while I could not even procure the food and wine 
 necessary for the diet the doctor — ^fearing the 
 loss of the right eye — had prescribed for our be- 
 loved Uncle. I struggled against these awful 
 shadows, Franco, and I conquered. It is true the 
 victory is due, in a great measure, to Maria. I 
 mean that if aU these black clouds hide the ex- 
 istence of Supreme Justice from me, a. ray of light 
 
360 The Patriot 
 
 from it reaches me through Maria ; and this ray 
 of light makes me believe, makes me hope in the 
 Orb. For it would be too horrible if the universe 
 were not governed by justice! 
 
 " That night then, I can only have told you that 
 I understood religion in a different way from you ; 
 that prayers and acts of Christian faith did not 
 seem to me essential to the religious idea, but 
 rather love and actions for those who suffer, 
 rather indignation and actions against those who 
 cause suffering! 
 
 "And you wish to resume your silence? No, you 
 must not. You feel weak, you say. Do you feel 
 you yourself are weak, or your Credo? Let us 
 reason, let us discuss. Confess that one reason 
 why you who believe, love your beliefs, is because 
 they are comfortably restful to the intellect. You 
 stretch yourselves at yotir ease in them as in a 
 hammock, suspended in the air by innumerable 
 threads spun by men and fastened by men to 
 many hooks. You are comfortable, and if any 
 one examines or lays his hand upon one only of 
 these threads, you are troubled, and afraid it will 
 snap, because very probably its neighbour will 
 snap also, and after that one, another; and so, 
 to your great fright and pain, your fragile bed 
 will come tumbling down from the sky to the 
 earth. I know this fright and this pain, I know 
 that the satisfaction of walking on solid ground 
 must be purchased at this cost, and therefore I 
 am not deterred by a pity that would be false from 
 
For Bread, for Italy, for God 361 
 
 discussing with you. But I may be mistaken, 
 and perhaps it may be you who will lift me up, 
 up to yotir resting place of fragile threads and air. 
 Maria is not equal to this task. If Maria makes 
 me believe in God, it does not follow that she can 
 make me believe in the Church as well. And 
 you yoiirself believe in the Church above aU 
 things. Therefore try to convince me, and I 
 also will listen in suspense, and though I do not 
 pray, at least I can hope, because now my longing 
 for a perfect union with you is stronger than ever 
 before. Now, together with my old affection, I 
 feel a new admiration for you, a new gratitude 
 towards you. 
 
 "WiU. you take offence at this outpotiring of 
 mine? Remember that you must have found a 
 letter from me in your handbag, eight months 
 ago, and that I have waited eight months for an 
 answer! 
 
 "The Professor and Ester now meet at our house 
 as fiances. They, at least, are happy. She 
 goes to church and he does not, and neither of 
 them thinks any more about it than they do 
 about the difference in the colour of their hair. 
 And I believe nine hundred and ninety-nine 
 couples in a thousand do the same. 
 
 "I embrace you. Write me a long, long letter. 
 
 "LUISA." 
 
 This letter did not leave Lugano until Septem- 
 ber 26th, and Franco received it on the 27th. On 
 
362 The Patriot 
 
 the 29th, at eight o'clock in the morning, he 
 received the following telegram, also from Lugano : 
 
 "Child dangerously ill. Come at once. 
 
 "Uncle." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 SIGNORA LUISA, COME HOME! 
 
 TN the early afternoon of the twenty-seventh 
 -*- of September Luisa was rettirning from 
 Porlezza with some dociiments to copy for the 
 notary. In those days the rocks between S. 
 Michele and Porlezza were perfectly bare, and 
 destitute of the narrow pathway which now runs 
 across them. Luisa had had herself ferried that 
 short distance, and had then walked along the 
 lane that, like all those of my little world, both 
 ancient and modern, would admit of no other 
 method of travel ; that pretty deceitful lane, that 
 seeks in every way to avoid leading whither the 
 traveller wishes to go. At Cressogno it passes 
 above Villa Maironi, which, however, is not visible 
 from the path,. 
 
 "What if I should meet her?" Luisa thought, 
 her blood boiling. But she met no one. On the 
 slope between Cressogno and Campo, the sun 
 beat fiercely. When she reached the cool, high 
 valley known as Campo, she sat down in the 
 shade of the colossal chestnut-tree that is still 
 alive, the last of three or four venerable patriarchs, 
 and looked towards the houses of her native 
 
 363 
 
364 The Patriot 
 
 Castello, clustered in a circle round a lofty peak 
 among those shady crags. She thought of her 
 dead mother, and was glad she, at least, was at 
 rest. Presently she heard some one exclaim: 
 " Oh, blessed Madonna ! " It was Signora Peppina, 
 who was also on her way from Cressogno, and who 
 was in despair because neither at S. Mamette, 
 Loggio, nor Cressogno had she been able to find 
 any eggs. "Carlo will beat me this time! He'll 
 kill me outright, my dear!" She would have 
 liked to go on to Puria, but she was half dead 
 with fatigue. What roads! How many stones! 
 "When I think of my Milan, my dear!" She sat 
 down on the grass beside Luisa, saying many 
 affectionate things to her, and wanted her to guess 
 with whom she had been speaking about her, 
 only a few minutes before. "With the Signora 
 Marchesa! Certainly! Yes indeed! Oh, my dear 
 " It looked as if Signora Peppina 
 had great things to tell, but did not dare do so, 
 and as their presence in her throat was causing 
 her discomfort, she was bound to make Luisa 
 draw them out. "What a business!" she would 
 exclaim from time to time. "What a business! 
 What language! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" But Luisa 
 held her peace. At last the other yielded to the 
 terrible ticlding in her throat, and, poured forth 
 her story. She had gone to the Marchesa's cook 
 to borrow some eggs, and the Signora Marchesa, 
 hearing her voice, had insisted upon seeing her, 
 and had kept her there chattering. In her heart 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home ! 365 
 
 she had felt what she beUved to be a heavenly 
 inspiration, which prompted her to speak of that 
 tmhappy family. Perfiaps this was the right 
 moment! She must speak about Maria, "that 
 precious darling, that sweet Httle mouse, that dear 
 Httle creature!" But alas! The inspiration had 
 come from the devil and not from Heaven! She 
 had begun to speak, had been going to say how 
 lovely Maria was, how sweet, and how wonderfidly 
 precocious, when that ugly old woman inter- 
 rupted her, looking as black as a thunder-cloud. 
 "Say no more about her, let her alone, Signora 
 Bianconi. I am aware she is very badly behaved, 
 and indeed one cannot expect her to be otherwise !" 
 Then Peppina had tried sounding another note, 
 and had touched upon Uncle Piero's misfortune 
 in having lost his eye. "The Lord chastises the 
 dishonest, Signora Bianconi." Here Peppina 
 glanced at Luisa and regretted her chattering. 
 She began caressing her, reproaching herself for 
 having spoken, and entreated her to be calm. 
 Luisa assured her that she was perfectly calm, 
 that nothing coming from that source cotdd sur- 
 prise her. But Peppina insisted upon giving her 
 a kiss, and then went her way, murmuring a 
 string of "Oh, dear me's!" and hatmted by a 
 vague suspicion that she had made a mess of it! 
 
 Ltdsa rose and turned to look towards Cres- 
 sogno, clenching her fists. " If I only had a horse- 
 whip!" she thought "If I could only lash her!" 
 The idea of a meeting, the old idea that hdd made 
 
366 The Patriot 
 
 her quiver with passion iour years ago, on the 
 night of her mother's death, had flashed across 
 her mind shortly before, as she passed Cressogno, 
 and had once more taken violent possession of 
 her, and now made her start suddenly downwards. 
 She checked her steps at once, however, and 
 retttming slowly, went towards S. Mamette, 
 stopping every now and then to think, her brow 
 clouded, her lips tightly compressed, seeking to 
 untangle a knot in the thread of a scheme she was 
 weaving in her secret heart. 
 
 At Casarico she sought out the Professor to 
 offer him an opportiinity of meeting Ester at her 
 house the next day at two o'clock. As she was 
 leaving she asked him if the Maironi documents 
 were still in his possession. The Professor, 
 greatly astonished at this question, replied that 
 they were, expecting an explanation, but Luisa 
 went away without further words. She was 
 anxious to get home, for she could not rely either 
 upon Cia or Uncle Piero to look after Maria, and 
 she had little confidence in the girl to whom she 
 had given notice. She fotand Maria alone on the 
 church-place, and scolded Veronica. Then she 
 went to her room and began a letter to Franco. 
 
 She had been writing about five minutes when 
 she heard a gentle tap on the window of the ad- 
 joining room. That window looked out upon a 
 short flight of steps, leading from the square by 
 the church to some stables, and thence to a short 
 cut to Albogasio Superiore. Ltiisa went into the 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home ! 367 
 
 little room, and saw behind the iron grating the 
 red and distracted countenance of Barborin Pa- 
 sotti, who motioned to her to be qmet, and asked 
 if she had visitors. Upon being reasstired, Bar- 
 borin glanced swiftly up and down, and hastily- 
 descending the steps entered the house in great 
 trepidation. 
 
 Poor woman, she was on forbidden ground, and 
 before her loomed the spectre of the wrathful 
 Pasotti. Pasotti was in Lugano. "Oh, Lord, 
 yes! In Lugano." Having imparted this infor- 
 mation to Luisa the unhappy woman began to 
 roU her eyes and squirm. Pasotti had gone to 
 Lugano on account of the great dinner that was to 
 take place on the morrow — ^to purchase provisions. 
 How? Had Luisa not heard about the dinner? 
 Did she not know who was coming? Why! The 
 Signora Marchesa! The Signora Marchesa Maironi! 
 Luisa started. 
 
 Barborin, misxinderstanding the expression of 
 her eyes, thought she read a reproach there, and 
 began to cry, her face buried in her hands, shaking 
 those two poor black curls, and saying through 
 her fingers that she was so distressed about it, so 
 distressed! She would rather have lived on bread 
 and water for a year than invite the Marchesa to 
 dinner. This dinner was indeed a cross to her, 
 for it took a deal of thought, and then there was 
 the trouble of preparing everything, to say no- 
 thing of Pasotti 's awful scoldings, but the worst 
 part of it all was the idea of displeasing Luisa. 
 
368 The Patriot 
 
 If, at least, it had been a cross she could lay at 
 the feet of our Lord, but she cotild not do that, 
 for it contained too much wrath. She had come 
 on purpose to tell her Luisa how distressed she 
 was on accotint of this dinner. 
 
 "Forgive me, Luisa!" she said in her hoarse 
 voice, that seemed to come out of an ancient and 
 tightly closed spinet. " I really could not prevent 
 it, indeed I could not, indeed I could not! " 
 
 They were seated side by side on the sofa. 
 Barborin drew a great handkerchief from her 
 pocket and pressed it to her face with one hand, 
 while with the other she sought Ltiisa's hand, 
 without turning her head. But Luisa rose, and 
 going to the writing-desk, scrawled upon a piece 
 of paper: "When is the Marchesa coming? What 
 road will she take?" Barborin answered that the 
 dinner was to be at half -past three ; that at about 
 three the Marchesa would leave her gondola at 
 the landing-stage of the Calcinera, where Pasotti 
 was to meet her with four men and the famous 
 litter that had belonged to an archbishop of Milan 
 a century ago. 
 
 Luisa listened to every detail in silence and 
 with the greatest attention. Before leaving, 
 Signora Pasotti said she longed to kiss that love 
 of a Maria, but was afraid the child might not 
 know how to keep the secret. At this point the 
 good creature plunged her left arm into her pocket 
 up to the elbow, and drew out a small tin boat, 
 which ghe begged Ltiisa to give to her little 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home ! 369 
 
 daughter in the name of another battered old 
 craft, whose identity must not be made known. 
 Then she rushed down stairs and disappeared. 
 
 Luisa returned to her letter to Franco, but 
 having thought a long time, pen in hand, she 
 finally put the letter away again without having 
 added a word, and drawing the notary's docu- 
 ments towards her, began to copy. Her reso- 
 lution was formed. Fate itself was offering her 
 this meeting with the old wretch. She had 
 neither a doubt nor a scruple. The passion 
 which had spnmg up within her so long ago, which 
 she had caressed and fostered, had now gathered 
 that strength which, when it reaches its full, 
 transforms the thought into the deed at one blow, 
 and in such a manner that all responsibility seems 
 removed from the agent, while in reality, it is 
 simply carried back to the first inward movement 
 of yielding to temptation. 
 
 Yes, on the morrow, either at the landing-stage, 
 on the Calcinera path, or on the church-place of 
 the Annunciata, she would stand scornfully be- 
 fore the Marchesa, openly declaring war, and 
 advising her to have a care, for now all legitimate 
 weapons of defence were to be used against her. 
 Yes, she would tell her so, and then she would 
 act, act alone and unaided, since Franco would 
 take no steps. If Franco had made promises she 
 had not. A little later she wrote a note to the 
 lawyer V. begging him to come to her as soon as 
 possible. She wished to learn from him how to 
 
370 The Patriot 
 
 use the doctunents in Gilardoni's possession. 
 Then she resumed her copying for the notary at 
 Porlezza. 
 
 * * 4; H: 4: 
 
 The next day Professor Beniamino arrived at 
 Oria an hotir earlier than the time fixed by Liiisa. 
 After Ester's "yes," the man had become trans- 
 figured. He seemed much younger than before. 
 The sallowness of his skin, now irradiated by a 
 rosy inner Ught, had entirely disappeared, and 
 was only perceptible on his bald head, where 
 Luisa daily expected to see the hair begin to grow. 
 He neither walked nor breathed as before. But 
 to-day he arrived with a clouded brow. 
 
 It was reported at S. Mamette that the physi- 
 cian of Pellio had been arrested and taken to Como, 
 and that letters and memoranda had been found in 
 his possession which incriminated others, among 
 whom was Don Franco Maironi. 
 
 "I do not fear for Franco," said Luisa. "As 
 to the rest, my good Professor, we will set the 
 physician of Pellio, who is a big fellow and weighs 
 pounds and pounds, down in the score the 
 Emperor of Austria will have to pay. And 
 now, Professor, I want you to promise me some- 
 thing." 
 
 " What do you wish me to promise? " 
 
 "I need those famous documents." 
 
 "They are at your service." 
 
 " Pray note that it is I and not Franco who ask 
 for them." 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home ! 371 
 
 "Yes, yes. Whatever you do is well done. I 
 will bring you the documents to-morrow." 
 
 "That is right." 
 
 Luisa knitted as she talked, her needles clicking 
 continually, but her seeming calm and good 
 spirits did not entirely conceal her inward excite- 
 ment, which had begun on the previous day, had 
 become more intense during a sleepless night, and 
 was now steadily increasing as the moment for 
 setting out drew nearer. Even in the playful 
 tone of her voice an unusual chord seemed to be 
 vibrating. About her hair, which was always 
 most carefully dressed, there was a something of 
 disorder, like the touch of a light breath brushing 
 gently across her brow. 
 
 Ester arrived at a quarter to two, and explained 
 that she had come a little earlier because she had 
 heard it thunder. Thtmder? Luisa hastened to 
 the terrace to examine the sky. It certainly did 
 not look very threatening. Above the point of 
 Cressogno and over Galbiga the sky was perfectly 
 serene as far as the hills of the Lake of Como. 
 Towards Carona it was indeed rather dark, 
 but not so very dark, after all. What if the 
 Marchesa should not come on accotint of the 
 weather? She seized the little telescope that was 
 kept in the loggia. There was nothing to be 
 seen. Of course ; it was still too early. In order 
 to reach the Calcinera at three, the Marchesa, 
 with that heavy gondola of hers, must start at 
 about half -past two. Luisa went back to the 
 
372 The Patriot 
 
 hall, where she found Ester, the Professor, and 
 Maria. She would have preferred to have Maria 
 remain in the loggia with Uncle Piero, but Signor- 
 ina Missipipi always chmg fast to her mother 
 when there were visitors, becoming all eyes and 
 ears. Luisa decided that when she was ready to 
 start she would send Maria away, meanwhile she 
 would keep her with her. As to the happy couple, 
 they were seated apart, and were conversing 
 almost in ^ispers. 
 
 Ltiisa, who now found it difficult to keep quiet, 
 once more returned to the terrace, and looked 
 through the telescope. Her heart gave a bound! 
 The gondola was just coming in sight at the 
 Tenti6n. 
 
 It was a quarter-past two o'clock. 
 
 Some one coming from Albogasio had stopped 
 in the church-place to speak to some one coming 
 down the steps at the side of Casa Ribera. They 
 were saying: "Signor Pasotti has just gone down 
 with the litter. There was a troop of children 
 following." 
 
 Now the sky was overcast, even above the 
 point of Cressogno and the Galbiga. Only the 
 hills of the Lake of Como were still in the sunshine. 
 The terrible wind which accompanies a thunder- 
 storm, and which in Valsolda is called the Caron- 
 asco, was threatening seriously now. Above 
 Corona the colour of the clouds was gradually 
 becoming one with the colour of the hills. The 
 great cloud over Zocca d'i Ment had become dark 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home I 373 
 
 blue^ and the Boglia was also beginning to knit 
 its brows. The lake was calm and leaden. 
 
 Luisa had decided to start when the gondola 
 shovild have arrived opposite S. Mamette. She 
 now returned to the hall. 
 
 Maria had obeyed her mother's orders, and had 
 not moved from the chair where Luisa had left 
 her, but noticing that the Professor was speaking 
 with animation and at great length to Ester, she 
 had asked: 
 
 "Are you telling her a story? " 
 
 At this point Luisa entered. 
 
 "Yes, dear," said Ester, laughing. "He is 
 telling me a story." 
 
 "Oh, tell it to me also! To me also!" 
 
 A mufified peal of thunder resounded. "Go, 
 Maria dear," said Ester. "Go to your room and 
 pray the Lord not to send a terrible thtmderstorm 
 or hail." 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes! I will pray to the Lord!" 
 
 The little one went out, and entered the alcove- 
 room, serious and dignified, as if in that moment 
 the safety of the whole Valsolda depended upon 
 her prayer. Prayer to her was always a solemn 
 matter; it was a point of contact with mystery 
 which always made her assume a grave and at- 
 tentive air, as did also certain tales of enchantment 
 and magic. She mounted a chair and said the 
 few prayers she knew, and then assumed the 
 attitude she had seen the most pious women of 
 the town assume in church, and began moving her 
 
374 The Patriot 
 
 lips as they did, repeating a wordless prayer. 
 Seeing her thus one acquainted with the terrible 
 secret of the next hour would have felt that the 
 guardian angel of little children was standing be- 
 side her at that moment, and admonishing her to 
 pray for something besides the vineyards and olive- 
 groves of Valsolda, for something nearer to her, 
 something the angel did not name, and she 
 neither knew nor could put into words. The 
 onlooker would have felt also that in these, 
 her inarticulate whisperings, there was an ele- 
 ment of occult tenderness, and tragedy, the 
 docile surrender of a sweet soul to the admo- 
 nitions of its guardian angel, to the mysterious will 
 of God. 
 
 At half -past two- the great lowering clouds 
 above Carona belched forth another peal of 
 thunder, to which the other great clouds above 
 Boglia and the Zocca d'i Ment immediately re- 
 sponded. Ltiisa ran out to the terrace. The 
 gondola was opposite S. Mamette, and was making 
 straight for the Calcinera. She could see quite 
 plainly that the boatmen were ptilling hard. As 
 Luisa laid aside the telescope the first gust of wind 
 swept through the loggia, banging doors and 
 windows. Terrified by a feeling that she would 
 be too late, she hastily closed both doors and 
 windows, passed swiftly through the hall, seized 
 an imibrella and went out, without telling any one 
 she was going, and without closing the house- 
 door • behind her. She started towards Albo- 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home I 375 
 
 gasio Inferiore. Just beyond the cemetery, on 
 the spot they call Main^, she met Ismaele. 
 
 " Where are you going in such weather, Signora 
 Luisa?" 
 
 She answered that she was going to Albogasio, 
 and passed on. When she had gone about a 
 htindred paces she remembered that she had not 
 let Veronica know she was going out, that she had 
 not told her to close the windows in the bedrooms, 
 and look after Maria. She might send word by 
 Ismaele. But he had already disappeared round 
 the corner of the cemetery. In her heart she felt 
 an impulse to go back, but there was not time. 
 The rumbling of the thunder was continuous; 
 great, infrequent drops were striking here and 
 there on the maize; gusts of wind swept at in- 
 tervals through the mulberry-trees, forerunners 
 of the whirlwind of the Caronasco. Luisa opened 
 her umbrella and hastened forward. 
 
 A furious downpour overtook her in the dark 
 lanes of Albogasio. But she never thought of 
 taking refuge in a doorway, and pushed on un- 
 daunted. She met a troop of children who were 
 running away from the rain, after waiting in 
 vain on the church-place of the Annunciata for the 
 passing of the Marchesa in the litter. While she 
 was crossing the short space between the town-hall 
 of Albogasio and the church, the wind turned her 
 umbrella inside out. She began to run, and 
 reached the strip of ground behind the church 
 that overlooks the path leading down to the 
 
376 The Patriot 
 
 Calcinera. There, protected by the church from 
 the driving rain, she righted her umbrella as 
 best she could, and looked over the parapet. 
 
 The Annunciata rests upon the summit of a 
 cliff, sparsely covered with brambles and wild 
 fig-trees, which rises from the foot of the Boglia 
 and juts out over the lake, shutting in the narrow 
 path to Calcinera on the west. The strip of 
 ground where Luisa stood runs along that part of 
 the cHff's brow. From here she could have fol- 
 lowed the course of the boat from the waters of 
 Cressogno as far as the landing-stage, but now 
 that the rain was pouring down in sheets, a white 
 mist hid all things from view. However, unless 
 the Marchesa returned to Cressogno, she must 
 certainly pass that way, no matter where she 
 landed, for there, at the foot of the cliff, where it 
 juts out with the coast, the narrow stairway 
 starts upwards, leading from the Calcinera to the 
 church-place, and this is the only way of reaching 
 Albogasio Superiore either from the landing-stage 
 below, or from S. Mamette, Casarico, or Cadate. 
 
 Presently the violence of the downpour lessened, 
 the dark phantoms of the mountains began to 
 stand out against the white background. Luisa 
 gazed down at the lake. There was no gondola 
 on the lake, and no Htter on the path; nothing 
 was to be seen. This troubled her. Was it 
 possible that the gondola had returned to Cres- 
 sogno? The mist cleared rapidly, and Cadate 
 became discernible, while at the door of the boat- 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home I 377 
 
 house of the "Palazz" the prow of the gondola 
 appeared, shimmering white in the thin, grey- 
 mist. Ah, the Marchesa had taken refuge at the 
 "Palazz," and Pasotti with his bearers had done 
 the same. The thtmderstorm was now practically- 
 over and the litter would soon appear. 
 
 But instead, ten long minutes elapsed. Luisa 
 kept her eyes fixed on the point where the path 
 from Cadate ttirns into the Calcinera. No move- 
 ment of thought was going on within her. Her 
 whole sotil was watching and waiting, that was all. 
 People passed her on the left going up to Albo- 
 gasio or coming down, but each time she incHned 
 her ttmbrella so that she was hidden from view, 
 so that they might not recognise her, thus avoid- 
 ing greetings and conversations. 
 
 At last a group of people appeared at the bend 
 of the path. Ltiisa could distinguish the litter, 
 and behind the litter Pasotti and Don Giuseppe, 
 and the Marchesa 's boatmen bringing up the rear. 
 Still she did not move, but followed the Htter with 
 her eyes as it slowly advanced. Presently she 
 closed her umbrella, for the rain had almost 
 ceased. Five or six children from Albogasio 
 reappeared. She ordered them off sharply. They 
 hesitated to obey, but a sudden do-wnpour of rain, 
 unaccompanied by wind or thunder, put them to 
 flight. The litter had now reached the foot of 
 the steps. Luisa moved forward. 
 
 Her eyes glittered coldly, and she held herself 
 very erect. Absorbed in one thought, she heeded 
 
378 The Patriot 
 
 not at all the pelting rain, which beat upon her 
 head and shotilders, which surrotinded her with a 
 misty veil and loud noise. Perhaps she was glad 
 of this outburst of passion in the elements, which 
 was in keeping with the passion within her. She 
 went slowly down, clasping the handle of her 
 closed umbrella very tightly, as if it had been the 
 handle of a weapon. There is a somewhat sharp 
 bend in the stairway, and the bottom is not visible 
 until this bend is reached. Upon arriving there 
 she saw the litter had stopped. The two boat- 
 men were taking the places of two of the bearers. 
 
 Luisa went down as far as the spot where a 
 great walnut-tree spreads its branches above the 
 stairs. Here she stopped just as the Marchesa's 
 bearers began coming upwards. Everything was 
 as Luisa wished. Pasotti and Don Giuseppe, 
 bringing up the rear with open umbrellas, could 
 not see her. The bearers, on reaching the spot 
 where she stood, would be obliged to stop to let 
 her pass. 
 
 As they drew nearer she recognised the two who 
 carried the front of the litter; one was Ismaele's 
 brother, the other a cousin of Veronica's. When 
 they were within a yard or two of her she ordered 
 them, by an imperious gesture, to stop. They 
 obeyed at once, and set the litter down, the two 
 other bearers doing the same without knowing 
 why. Pasotti raised his umbrella, and seeing 
 Luisa, made a movement of astonishment, frown- 
 ing blackly. Seizing Don Giuseppe, he drew him 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home I 379 
 
 aside that she might pass, never dreaming that 
 the meeting was intentional. 
 
 But Luisa did not move. "You did not think 
 of meeting me, did you, Signor Pasotti?" she said 
 in a loud voice. The Marchesa stuck her head 
 out, caught sight of her, and withdrew it again, 
 saying, with new strength in her usually lifeless 
 voice: 
 
 "Goon!" 
 
 At that moment loud cries rang out from the 
 top of the church-place above them. "Sciora 
 Luisa! 5aora Luisa!" Ltiisa did not hear. Pasotti 
 had called angrily to the bearers: "Go on!" and 
 they had resumed the poles. 
 
 "Go on if you like," said she, resolved to walk 
 along beside the litter. " I have only a few words 
 to say." 
 
 If Pasotti and the old Marchesa had anticipated 
 tears and supplications this nerce glance and 
 ringing voice must now have led them to expect 
 something quite diiferent. 
 
 "Words at present?" said Pasotti, coming for- 
 ward almost threateningly. 
 
 "Sciora Luisa! Sciora Luisa!" a voice cried 
 close at hand in a tone of anguish, while with the 
 cries was mingled the noise of hastening steps. 
 But Luisa did not appear to hear anything. ' ' Yes , 
 at present!" she said, addressing Pasotti with 
 indescribable haughtiness. "I am generous 
 enough to wish to warn this lady that " 
 
 "Sciora Luisa!" 
 
38o The Patriot 
 
 This time she was forced to pause and look 
 round. Three or four women were upon her, 
 distraught, dishevelled, sobbing: "Come home 
 at once! Come home at once!" These faces, these 
 tears, these voices, detached her from her passion, 
 from her purpose, at one blow. 
 
 She rushed in among the women, exclaiming: 
 "What is the matter?" and they could only re- 
 peat, their eyes starting from their heads: "Come 
 home, come home at once ! " 
 
 "But what has happened, you stupid things?', 
 
 "The child, the child!" 
 
 "Maria? Maria? What is it, what is it?" she 
 shrieked Hke a mad woman . Amidst their sobbing 
 she caught the word lake, and uttering a great 
 cry, she dashed them out of her path like a wild 
 beast, and rushed up the stairs. The women 
 could not keep up with her, but on the church- 
 place there were others waiting in spite of the rain, 
 and they were also crying and sobbing. 
 
 Luisa felt herself growing faint, and fell to the 
 ground on reaching the last step. 
 
 The women ran to her, many hands seized her 
 and lifted her up. She shrieked: "Good God! 
 Is she dead?" Some one answered: "No, no!" 
 "The doctor?" she gasped. "The doctor?" 
 Many voices answered that he was already 
 there. 
 
 Once more she appeared to regain all her energy, 
 and sprang eagerly forward. Eight or ten people 
 hastened after her, but only two could keep up 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Homel 381 
 
 with her. She flew! At the cemetery she met 
 Ismaele and another man, and cried out as soon 
 as she caught sight of them: 
 
 "Is she still aUve? Is she alive?" Ismaele's 
 companion turned and ran back to tell them that 
 the mother was coming, but Ismaele was weeping, 
 and could only answer: "Good God! Sciora 
 Luisa!" as he tried to detain her. Lmsa pushed 
 him wildly aside and rushed on, followed by the 
 boatman who had now quite lost his head and 
 was calling out to her as she ran : " Perhaps it is 
 nothing! Perhaps it is nothing, after all!" But 
 the pelting, ceaseless, even downpour, seemed to 
 be contradicting his words with its wail. 
 
 Gasping for breath, she reached the square by 
 the chtirch of Oria, and had the strength to call 
 out: "Maria! My Maria!" The window of the 
 alcove-room was open. She heard Cia crying 
 and Ester chiding her. Several people, among 
 them Professor Gilardoni, came out to meet her. 
 The Professor, as pale as a ghost, was weeping 
 silently with clasped hands. The others whis- 
 pered: "Courage, there is still hope!" In her 
 exhaustion she came near falHng. The Professor 
 encircled her waist with one arm and drew her up 
 the stairs, which were crowded with people, as was 
 also the corridor of the first floor. 
 
 As Lviisa passed, the Professor almost carrying 
 her, voices laden with words of comfort mur- 
 mured: "Courage! Courage! Who can tell? 
 Who can tell?" At the door of the alcove-room 
 
382 The Patriot 
 
 she freed herself from the Professor's arm, and 
 went in alone. 
 
 They had been obliged to light a lamp, because 
 it was already dark in the alcove, owing to the 
 rain. Poor, sweet little Maria lay naked upon 
 the bed, her eyes half open, and her lips slightly 
 parted. Her face was still tinged with pink, but 
 her lips were discoloured and her body was deathly 
 pale. The doctor, with Ester's help, was trying 
 to induce artificial breathing, alternately raising 
 the tiny arms above the head and stretching them 
 along the sides, and compressing the abdomen. 
 
 "Doctor! Doctor!" Lmsa sobbed. 
 
 "We're doing all we can," the doctor answered 
 gravely. She fiimg herself face downwards upon 
 her baby's little icy feet, and covered them with 
 wild kisses. Ester began to tremble. " No, no! " 
 the doctor exclaimed. "Covirage! Coiirage!" 
 "Help!" shrieked Luisa. The doctor checked 
 her by a gesture, and motioned to Ester to pause 
 in her work. He bent over Maria's little face, 
 placed his mouth upon hers and having breathed 
 deeply several times, raised his head again. " But 
 she is still rosy, she is still rosy!" Luisa gasped 
 softly. The doctor sighed gently, struck a match 
 and held it close to Maria's Hps. 
 
 Three or four women who were praying on their 
 knees, rose and approached the bed, holding their 
 breath in suspense. The door leading into the 
 hall was open, and other faces appeared there, 
 all silent and intent, Luisa, kneeling beside the 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home ! 383 
 
 bed, kept her eyes fixed on the flame. A voice 
 murmured : 
 
 "It quivers!" 
 
 Ester, standing very erect behind Luisa, shook 
 her head. The doctor put out the match. " Hot 
 flannels," he ordered. Luisa rushed from the 
 room, and the doctor once more resumed the 
 movements of the arms. When Luisa returned 
 with the hot flannels they began to rub the child's 
 chest and bowels, he on one side, she on the other. 
 Presently, noting Luisa's pallor, and the dis- 
 tortion of her features, he motioned to a girl to 
 take her place. "You must give up," said he, 
 for Ltiisa had made a protesting gesture. " Even 
 I am tired. You cannot go on." Luisa shook 
 her head without speaking and continued her 
 work with convulsive energy. The doctor silently 
 shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, 
 and gave his place to the girl, ordering Ester to 
 bring more flannel -with which to cover the child's 
 legs. Ester went out and herself heated the 
 flannel, for Veronica, on hearing what had hap- 
 pened, had disappeared and was nowhere to be 
 found. In the corridor and on the stairs people 
 were discussing the how and where of the event, 
 and as Ester passed all inquired: "What news? 
 What news?" Ester made a despairing gesture 
 and went on without answering. Then the talk 
 once more flowed on in an undertone. 
 
 No one knew how long the child had been in the 
 water. While the thunderstorm had been raging 
 
384 The Patriot 
 
 a certain Toni Gall had happened to be in the 
 stables behind Casa Ribera. Reflecting that if 
 the engineer's boat was not tied fast enough it 
 would be dashed to pieces against the walls of the 
 boathouse, he bounded down the steps, and see- 
 ing the door open, went in. The boat was being 
 frightfully knocked about, and was drenched with 
 the splashing of the waves that broke against the 
 walls. It was tossing and writhing among its 
 chains, and had set itself crosswise, with the stem 
 knocking against the wall. Opposite the door 
 that opens from the road, there runs a gallery 
 from which two flights of steps lead down to the 
 water, the first on the side of the prow, the second 
 on the side of the stem. Toni GaU went down the 
 second flight to tighten the stem chain. There, 
 between the boat and the lowest step, where the 
 water is from sixty to seventy centimetres deep, he 
 saw Maria's little body. She was floating face 
 downwards, with her back above the water. As he 
 drew her out he saw a little tin boat Ijang on the 
 bottom. He carried the child to the house, cry- 
 ing out with his terrible voice, bringing the whole 
 town to the spot, and fortunately the doctor also, 
 who happened to be in Oria, and then he helped 
 Ester imdress the poor little creature, who gave 
 no sign of life. 
 
 With whom had she been before going down to 
 the lake? Not with Veronica, for before Luisa 
 went out Veronica had been seen going into the 
 storeroom where the flowerpots were kept, with 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home ! 385 
 
 her customs-guard. Nor had she been with Ester 
 and the Professor. Ester had sent her to pray- 
 in the alcove-room, and had not seen her again. 
 Cia had been sewing and Uncle Piero had been 
 writing when they heard Toni Gall's shouts. 
 Maria must have gone straight from the alcove- 
 room to the boathouse to sail her boat, and as ill- 
 luck would have it, she had found both the house 
 door and the door of the boathouse open. It 
 was Toni Gall's opinion that she had been in the 
 water several minutes, for she was floating at 
 some distance from the spot where the little tin 
 boat lay. Standing in the hall where Cia, the 
 engineer, the Professor, and others from the village 
 were assembled, he was describing his frightful 
 discovery for the hundredth time. All save 
 Uncle Piero were sobbing. Seated on the sofa 
 where Ester and the Professor had sat, he seemed 
 turned to stone. He shed no tears and spoke 
 never a word. Toni Gall's chattering was evi- 
 dently annoying to him, but he held his peace. 
 His noble countenance was rather solemn and 
 grave than distressed. It was as if the shade of 
 ancient Destiny had arisen before his eyes. He 
 did not even ask for news ; it was evident he was 
 without hope. And it was also evident that his 
 sorrow was very different from all this nervous, 
 noisy, fleeting sorrow that surrounded him. His 
 was the mute, calm grief of the wise and the 
 strong. 
 
 From the open door of the alcove-room came 
 
386 The Patriot 
 
 voices now commanding, now questioning, but 
 for an hour and a half no one could have asserted 
 that they had heard Ltiisa's voice. From time 
 to time half -frightened, almost happy exclamations 
 were heard. Some one in there had thought they 
 perceived a movement, a breath, the glow of life. 
 Then all who were outside would press forward. 
 Uncle Piero would turn his face towards the door, 
 and only at such moments would his expression 
 become sHghtly troubled. Alas! Each time he 
 saw the others ttim slowly away, in heartbroken 
 silence. It was past five o'clock now, and as it 
 continued to rain the light had begun to fade. 
 
 Finally, at half-past five, Luisa's voice was 
 heard. She gave a loud and terrible cry, which 
 froze the blood in the veins of all. The doctor's 
 voice answered in accents of eager protest. It 
 was whispered that he had made a gesture which 
 said plainly : " It is hopeless now, let us desist," but 
 at her cry he had once more renewed his efforts. 
 
 The monotonous lament that the fine rain 
 sent in through all the open windows made the 
 stillness of the house seem more sepulchral than 
 ever. The hall and the corridor were growing 
 dark, and the pale candle-light from the alcove- 
 room seemed briUiant by contrast. People began 
 to go away silently and on tiptoe, one shadow 
 after another, and presently steps and hushed 
 voices and the beat of heavy boots were heard 
 on the pavement of the street below. Cia went 
 softly towards her master, and asked him in a 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home I 387 
 
 whisper if he would not eat something. He 
 silenced her by an imperious gesture. 
 
 After seven o'clock, when all outsiders had 
 left save Toni Gall, Ismaele, the Professor, Ester, 
 and three or four women who were in the alcove- 
 room, long, low groans, which seemed hardly 
 human, broke the silence. The doctor came into 
 the hall. It was now quite dark, and he knocked 
 against a chair. ' ' Is the engineer here ? " he asked 
 aloud. "Yes, sir," Toni Gall repHed, and went 
 for a candle. The engineer neither spoke nor 
 moved. 
 
 Toni Gall soon returned with a candle and Dr. 
 Aliprandi — ^whom I am happy to recall here as a 
 frank and upright man, possessed of a fine intellect 
 and a noble heart — approached the sofa where 
 Uncle Piero sat. 
 
 "Engineer Ribera," said he with tears in his 
 eyes, "it is time for you to do something now." 
 
 "For me to do something?" said Uncle Piero, 
 raising his eyes. 
 
 "Yes. We must at least try to get her away. 
 You must come and speak a word. You are like 
 a father to her. At such moments as these it is 
 a father's place to speak." 
 
 "Let my master alone," Cia grumbled. "He 
 can't do these things. It would just be making 
 him miserable to no purpose." 
 
 Now pitying voices and kisses mingled with 
 the groans. 
 
 The engineer pressed his clenched fists upon the 
 
388 The Patriot 
 
 sofa, and remained motionless for a moment, 
 with bowed head. Then he rose, not without 
 difficiilty, and said to the doctor : 
 
 "Must I go alone?" 
 
 " Do you wish me to be present? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very well. Our efforts may be of no avail. 
 I shotild not wish to force her, but we must, at 
 least, make an attempt." 
 
 The doctor dismissed the women who were 
 still in the alcove-room; then, standing in the 
 doorway, he turned to the engineer and motioned 
 to him to come in. 
 
 "Donna Luisa," said he gently, "here is your 
 vincle, who is coming to beseech you " 
 
 The old man staggered as he came forward, 
 although his face was composed. He advanced 
 a few steps and then stopped. Luisa was seated 
 upon the bed with her dead baby in her arms, 
 holding her tight, kissing her face and neck, and 
 uttering long, heart-rending groans as she pressed 
 her lips to the little body. 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes," she was saying, with almost 
 a smile of tenderness in her voice. "It is your 
 uncle, dear, your uncle, who is coming to see his 
 little treasure, his little Maria, his little Missipipi, 
 who loves him so much! Yes, yes, yes!" 
 
 "Luisa," said Uncle Piero, " you must control 
 yotirself. Everything that could be done has 
 been done. Now come with me — don't remain 
 here any longer — come with me." 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home ! 389 
 
 "Uncle, Uncle!" cried Lmsa, in a voice full of 
 tenderness but without looking towards him, 
 while she pressed the little dead body to her 
 breast and rocked backwards and forwards. 
 "Come here! Come here to your Maria! Come! 
 Come to us, for you are our uncle, our dear uncle! 
 No, dear, no, dear! Our uncle will not forsake us." 
 
 Uncle Piero shuddered. His grief overwhelmed 
 him for a moment, and wrenched a sob from him. 
 
 " Let her rest! " he mtirmiired in a stifled voice. 
 She did not appear to hear him, and continued: 
 "We win go to our tmcle, dear, you and I. Do 
 you want to go to him, Maria? Yes, yes! Let us 
 go ! She slid from the bed to the floor and went to 
 Uncle Piero. Clutching her sweet, dead biirden 
 to her breast with one arm, she threw the other 
 about the old man's neck, and whispered: "A 
 kiss, a kiss, for your Uttle Missipipi. One kiss, 
 only one!" 
 
 Uncle Piero bent down and kissed the little 
 face, already sadly ravaged by death, wetting it 
 with two great tears. 
 
 "Look, look, Uncle!" she said. "Doctor, 
 bring the candle! Yes, yes! Don't be cruel, 
 doctor. Look, Uncle! See what a little treasure 
 she is, doctor!" 
 
 AHprandi hesitated, and tried to resist her 
 appeals, but in this mad grief there was something 
 sacred, something that must be respected. He 
 obeyed, and raising the candle, held it close to the 
 tiny corpse, that was intensely pitiful with its 
 
390 The Patriot 
 
 half-open eyes and dilated pupils, this little corpse 
 that had once been Maria, sweet little Missipipi, 
 the old man's deHght, the smile and the love of 
 the house. 
 
 "Look at this tiny breast, Uncle. See howwe 
 have abused it, poor treasure, how we have hurt 
 it with all our rubbing. It was your mamma, 
 Maria darling! Your horrid mamma, and that 
 wicked doctor there." 
 
 "Enough!" said the doctor resolutely, setting 
 the candle on the writing-desk. "Talk to your 
 child if you will, but not to this one. Talk to the 
 one in Heaven." 
 
 The effect of his words was terrible. All ten- 
 derness vanished from Luisa's face. She drew 
 back, frowning fiercely, and pressing her dead 
 child closer to her breast. " No ! " she cried aloud. 
 "No, not in Heaven! She is mine! She is mine! 
 God is wicked! I will not give her to Him! " 
 
 She drew ever farther back, back into the al- 
 cove, where, standing between the great bed and 
 the little one, she once more began uttering those 
 low groans which did not seem human. Ali- 
 prandi sent the trembUng old man out of the 
 room. "It wiU. pass! It will pass!" he said. "We 
 must have patience. I will stay with her now." 
 Ismaele came into the hall and drew the Professor 
 aside. 
 
 "Has Signor Don Franco been informed?" 
 he asked. 
 
 They consulted the uncle and it was decided thai 
 
Signora Luisa, Come Home ! 391 
 
 a telegram in Uncle Piero's name, and announcing 
 serious illness, should be sent from Lugano the 
 next morning, for it was now too late. There 
 was some one else in the haU. Poor Barborin 
 Pasotti, who had hastened thither while her hus- 
 band was absent escorting the Marchesa back to 
 Cressogno. She was sobbing, and in despair 
 because she had given Maria the little boat. 
 She wished to go to Luisa, but the doctor, hearing 
 loud crying, came out and begged her to be calm 
 and silent. Barborin went to cry in the loggia. 
 The Curate, Don Brazzova, and the Prefect of the 
 Caravina, who had been dining at Casa Pasotti, had 
 accompanied Barborin. Later the Curate of 
 Castello, Intrioni, arrived, weeping like a child. 
 He was determined to go to Luisa in spite of the 
 doctor's protests, and knelt in the centre of the 
 room, entreating her to give her baby to the Lord. 
 "Listen, Signora Luisa, listen. If you will not 
 give her to God, give her to her grandmother 
 Teresa, to your own dear mother who will be so 
 happy to have her with her in Heaven." 
 
 Luisa was touched, . not by his words, but by, 
 his grief, and answered gently: "Can you not 
 imderstand that I do not believe in your Heaven ? 
 My Heaven is here!" 
 
 Aliprandi made a gesture of entreaty to the 
 Curate, who went out, sobbing. 
 
 :|c 4: sH 4: >N 
 
 The doctor left Oria towards midnight with 
 the Professor. The whole house was qtiiet, nor 
 
392 The Patriot 
 
 was any voice to be heard in the alcove-room. 
 Aliprandi had spent the last two hours in the hall 
 with the Professor and Ester, and not a single 
 cry, not a groan, nor any movement had he 
 heard. He had gone twice to look in. Luisa 
 was sitting on the edge of her bed, her elbows on 
 her knees and her face in her hands, contemplat- 
 ing the little bed which Aliprandi could not see. 
 This state of immobility caused him more anxiety 
 than the state of intense excitement that had 
 preceded it. As Ester was going to remain all 
 night he advised her to try and rouse her friend, to 
 make her talk and weep. 
 
 Some women from the village were to watch 
 with Ester, and Ismaele would be there until five 
 o'clock, when he must start for Lugano. Uncle 
 Piero had gone to bed. 
 
 Aliprandi and the Professor stopped on the 
 square by the church to look at the lighted window 
 of the alcove-room, and to listen. Silence. 
 "Accursed lake!" the physician exclaimed, taking 
 his companion's arm and once more starting for- 
 ward. He was certainly thinking of the sweet 
 little creatiire the lake had killed when he uttered 
 the words, but in his heart there was also a great 
 fear that other troubles might be approaching, 
 that the treacherous waters had not yet done 
 their worst; and he was overwhelmed with pity 
 for the poor father, who, as yet, knew nothing. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 SHADOWS AND DAWN 
 
 /^N receiving the telegram Franco at once 
 Vy hastened to the office of the Opinione, in 
 Via della Rocca. Perceiving his agitation, Dina 
 said: "Ah! then you already know?" Franco's 
 blood ran cold, but on hearing about the telegram 
 Dina exhibited great surprise. No, no, of that he 
 knew nothing. Information had reached him 
 from the Prime Minister that the Austrian poUce 
 had been searching houses and making arrests in 
 Vail' Intelvi, and that among the papers of a 
 certain doctor there was one in which the name 
 of Don Franco Maironi was mentioned, with par- 
 ticulars of a compromising nature. Dina added 
 that at a moment of such great anguish for a 
 father, he wotdd refrain from going into an ex- 
 planation of Count Cavour's interest in him ; suffice 
 it to say that he himself had mentioned Franco to 
 the Count, who had expressed his regret that a 
 Lombard gentleman, bearing such a distinguished 
 name, should be obliged to live in such strait- 
 ened and obscure circumstances in Turin. Dina 
 believed it was his intention to offer him a position 
 in the Foreign Office. Now, of course, Franco 
 
 393 
 
-^94 The Patriot 
 
 must go. But the little girl wovld recover and 
 he must return as soon as possible. Mean- 
 while he would stop at Lugano, would he not? 
 He must, at least, await news there, and unless it 
 became absolutely necessary, he must not venture 
 into Lombardy. After this affair at Vail' Intelvi 
 it would be extremely imprudent. As Franco 
 remained silent, the director once more broached 
 the subject before bidding him good-bye. "Be 
 prudent! Don't let them take you!" But Franco 
 would not answer. 
 
 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, loncon- 
 scious of what he saw, of what he heard, going 
 mechanically wherever it was necessary for him 
 to go at this junctiire, wherever a certain servile 
 and lower factilty of the sovil might lead him, that 
 faculty composed of reason and of instinct, which 
 is capable of guiding us through a labjninth of 
 city streets, while the mind, concentrated upon 
 some problem, some passion, 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 Caf6 Alfieri and Cafe Florio to leave 
 word for his friends, and was at the statidn 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 en- 
 
Shadows and Dawn 395 
 
 deavoured to encourage him with all sorts of rosy- 
 suppositions and unconvincing arguments, but 
 he answered never a word and only longed intense- 
 ly for the moment of departvire, longed to be alone, 
 to be hastening towards Oria, for he was deter- 
 mined to go to Oria, no matter how great the 
 danger might be. He entered a third-class 
 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 Chivasso, feeling he could no longer bear their 
 chattering and laughter, he changed into an empty 
 second-class carriage, where he began to talk 
 aloud, his eyes fixed on the opposite seat. 
 
 Good God! 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 soiil, 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 
 God! oh God! It must be that! God Himself had 
 sent this thought to him. He was shaken by 
 
396 The Patriot 
 
 tearless sobbing. Maria, his treasiire, 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 
 hotirs 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 domi- 
 nated him, looming motionless and torpid within 
 his soul. From time to time the jolting of the 
 train would rouse him from his stupor, sug- 
 gesting 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 
 
Shadows and Dawn 397 
 
 Maria herself who gazed at him with glassy, 
 feverish eyes. 
 
 When he reached VercelK, 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 passport had not 
 been stamped on leaving Italy as the law de- 
 manded? 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 neighbour- 
 hood, 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 passed 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 some- 
 thing at the Fontana pharmacy, where the Val- 
 solda people were in the habit of congregating. 
 If God would only permit reassiuing 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 
 
398 The Patriot 
 
 the Almighty wotild allow this good news to 
 reach him. The sky was overcast; the moun- 
 tains had already asstmied their sad autumnal 
 tints ; a thin mist htmg over the lake ; the bells of 
 Meina were ringing; on the steamer there were 
 but few passengers, 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 
 Caf6 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 shore, hoping that some 
 one had come to meet him, and would presently 
 appear. He cotild not see Valsolda, hidden be- 
 hind Monte Br^, but that same water mirrored 
 Oiia, 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 
 hviman 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- 
 
Shadows and Dawn 399 
 
 bringing thoughts. Nineteen hours had passed 
 since the telegram was sent. All danger might 
 now be over. 
 
 As no one appeared he went to the Pontana 
 pharmacy, and rang the bell. For many years 
 he had known that most worthy, cordial, and 
 honest man, Signor Carlo Fontana, who has now 
 passed away with the world of long ago. Signor 
 Carlo came to the window, and was greatly sur- 
 prised 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 assistant 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 
 cHmb the Swiss slope of the Boglia from Pre- 
 gassona, strike the heights of BoUa; 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 cliif, 
 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 
 
400 The Patriot 
 
 Rooch farm, where it joins the paved way which 
 passes 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 Cassarago, where the roads to Pre- 
 gassona 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 woiold 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 jeo- 
 pardise 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 wotild 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 
 
Shadows and Dawn 401 
 
 in the impenetrable darkness, before braving the 
 dangers ol a difficiilt path, and of a meeting with 
 the Austrian guards, and then facing another 
 terrifying step, that of entering his house, of put- 
 ting the first question, of listening to the first 
 answer, he raised his heart to God, and concen- 
 trated all the powers of his mind upon a deter- 
 mination 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 cnmibling 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 him- 
 self 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 bimdle he carried was small, but nevertheless 
 it embarrassed 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 thimdering of the falls at Rescia, 
 the hooting of owls in the woods over yonder, 
 
402 The Patriot 
 
 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 passed the shore 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 grass. He descended 
 the western slope of Val Malghera and climbed up 
 the other side without encotintering 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 woxild be a country gentle- 
 man, but Ltiisa had been in favour of a civil 
 engineer. 
 
 Rooch is a little farmhouse perched above a 
 few small fields which lie terraced against the 
 
Shadows and Dawn 403 
 
 hill -side, 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 
 passes some two or three metres below. It is 
 only a few steps from the comb of the ravine of 
 Val Maghera, to Rooch. Having reached the comb, 
 Franco heard low voices in the farmhouse. 
 
 He paused and drawing aside, stretched himself, 
 face downwards, upon the grass, beyond the 
 path, and near a cluster of low chestnut trees. 
 The voices became silent, but he heard a man's 
 steps coming rapidly towards him; he lay qidte 
 stiU, 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 pass 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 
 towardis 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 
 
404 The Patriot 
 
 him. They certainly had no suspicions, for they 
 were talking unconcernedly. One was saying 
 that a person may remain ten minutes iinder 
 water without drowning ; but another maintained 
 that five minutes is long enough to cause death. 
 The fourth passed 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 him- 
 self upon his elbows, clutching convulsively at the 
 grass. The noise of the steps died away down 
 below in Val Malghera. 
 
 "My God! My God!" 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 God ! My God ! " 
 
 After this he was hardly conscious of his move- 
 ments. 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 
 
Shadows and Dawn 405 
 
 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 passed into 
 a heavy, close atmosphere, laden with the im- 
 familiar 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 odotu- 
 of incense he recognised the perfimie 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 ten- 
 derly, 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 them- 
 selves 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. 
 
4o6 The Patriot 
 
 "Come, dear. Come in," said she, and drew 
 him forward. In the centre of the room, between 
 fotir lighted candles, stood the little open cofifin, 
 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 blos- 
 somless 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 God! 
 My God!" 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 be- 
 longed to his beloved baby, who had gone to 
 dwell elsewhere. 
 
 "Maria! My darling Maria!" he whispered be- 
 tween his sobs. "What was the matter?" 
 
 He had not reaUsed the connection between the 
 guards' talk about drowning and the rest of their 
 conversation. 
 
Shadows and Dawn 407 
 
 "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 al- 
 most 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 Ltiisa. " 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 in- 
 different to the tragedy it was relating, a voice 
 that resembled poor, deaf Barborin's, seeming to 
 
4o8 The Patriot 
 
 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 Idll 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 
 inunediately 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 
 
Shadows and Dawn 409 
 
 papa, now you are all alone, you have only each 
 other, you are more closely united than ever ; give 
 me to God 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 heather 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 
 hotise, 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 
 
410 The Patriot 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 " I should hurt you too much," she murmured. 
 
 He began to realise the irreparable ruin of her 
 soul, and was silent. He did not withdraw his 
 hand, but felt his strength deserting him, felt 
 darkness and icy cold creeping over him, as if 
 Maria, whom he had evoked in vain, had died a 
 second time. Anguish, fatigue, the heavy at- 
 mosphere, the mingled odours of the room, 
 affected him so strongly that he was obliged to 
 go out, or he wotild have fainted. 
 
 He went to the loggia. The windows were 
 open and the sweet, fresh air restored him. Out 
 there in the dark he wept for his little daughter 
 unrestrainedly, without even that restraint which 
 light imposes. He knelt by one of the windows, 
 crossed his arms on his breast and wept, his face 
 raised towards heaven, tears and words flowing 
 together, disjointed words of anguish and of faith, 
 calling out to God for help, to God, to God who 
 had dealt him the blow. With streaming eyes 
 he cried out, begging that his tears might con- 
 tinue to flow, confessing that he knew full well 
 why the child had died. Had he not prayed again 
 and again that God would preserve her from the 
 danger of losing her faith through her mother's 
 influence? Ah! that last night! That last night 
 
Shadows and Dawn 411 
 
 when Maria had said to him: "Darling papa, a 
 kiss ! " and so many other tender things, and would 
 not let go his hand, how he had prayed! The 
 memory of it was a terror, a joy, a spasm to him. 
 "Lord, Lord!" said he, gazing heavenward. 
 "Thou wert silent, but my voice reached Thee. 
 Thou hast answered my prayer in Thine own 
 mysterious way. Thou hast taken my treasure to 
 Thyself, she is safe, she is happy, she awaits me. 
 Thou wilt reunite us." The fast-falling tears 
 that accompanied his last words had no bitter 
 taste, but presently, while thinking once more of 
 that last night, he was bitterly sorry he had left 
 Maria without telling her that he had deceived her. 
 "Maria, my own Maria !" he entreated, weeping, 
 "forgive me!" Good God! it seemed impossible 
 that all this cotild be true; it seemed impossible 
 that if he went into the alcove-room he should 
 not fmd her there asleep in her Uttle bed, her head 
 drooping towards her shoulder and her tiny hands 
 resting, palms upward, upon the sheet. Indeed 
 
 she was still there, but 1 Oh! how awful it 
 
 all was! Surely his tears would never end. 
 
 Leu came in bringing a Hght and a cup of coffee. 
 The Signora had sent her. He felt a thrill of 
 tender gratitude towards his wife. Good God! 
 Poor Luisa! How hopeless was her grief! And 
 what an awftil semblance of punishment for her 
 in the blow which had fallen upon her at that very 
 moment, that very moment! She herself had 
 realised that he must think this, and he did indeed 
 
412 The Patriot 
 
 think it, but had denied his thought in order to 
 spare her, and this she had also realised. And 
 was this awful semblance of punishment destined 
 not to bear any fruit whatsoever? She seemed 
 to shrink from God more than ever now, and who 
 could teU how far she might wander! Poor, poor 
 Luisa ! It was not Maria he should pray for, Maria 
 did not need his prayers. He must pray for Lviisa, 
 pray night and day, trusting also in the prayers of 
 the precious little soul now hidden in God. 
 
 He. talked with Leu, feeling more calm now, and 
 had her tell him all she had seen, all she had heard 
 of this terrible event. "The Lord wanted your 
 little child for Himself," said Leu at last. "If 
 you could only have seen her in church, with her 
 little folded hands and her serious little face ! She 
 looked just like an angel. Indeed she did." 
 Then she asked Franco if she should leave the 
 light. No, he preferred to be in the dark. At 
 what time was the funeral to take place? At 
 eight o'clock. Leu thought. When Leu once 
 began talking it was always hard for her to leave 
 off, and perhaps now she was afraid of stajdng in 
 the kitchen aU alone. "Her papa!" she added, 
 Ipefore going out. " Her dear papa! It isn't more 
 than a week ago that I came here with some chest- 
 nuts for the Signora, and that blessed little crea- 
 ture, who spoke so well, for all the world like a 
 lawyer, said to me : 'Do you know. Leu, my papa 
 is coming to Lugano very soon, and I am going to 
 see him.' Oh, dear! What a dreadfiil thing!" 
 
Shadows and Dawn 413 
 
 His tears flowed afresh. Ah, God had taken 
 the child to save her from the errors of the world. 
 God had ptinished Ltiisa for her errors, but was 
 not this awful punishment intended for him also? 
 Was he not guilty also? Ah, yes! Very, very 
 guilty! A clear vision of his past Hfe rose before 
 him, his life, barren of all useful labour, ftill of 
 vanities, corresponding ill with the beliefs he 
 professed, a hfe which rendered him responsible 
 for Luisa's unbelief. The world accounted him 
 virtuous for certain qualities he possessed through 
 no merit of his own, for they were inborn in him, 
 and he felt that for this very reason God's judg- 
 ment of him must be doubly severe ; for God had 
 endowed him richly, and he had gathered no fruit. 
 Once more he fell upon his knees and humbly 
 accepted his ptinishment, in the desolate con- 
 trition of his heart, in his btuning desire to expiate, 
 to purify himself, to become worthy of re-union 
 with Maria at last. 
 
 A long, long time he prayed and wept. At last 
 he went out to the terrace. Above Galbiga and 
 the hills of the Lake of Como the sky was growing 
 light; day was breaking. From neighbouring 
 Boglia a cold north wind was blowing. From far 
 and near, from the lake shore, from the lofty 
 bosom of the valley, bells rang out. The thought 
 that Maria and Grandmother Teresa were to- 
 gether and happy, rose suddenly, clear and sweet 
 in Franco's heart. It seemed to him the Lord 
 was saying to him : " I afflict thee, but I love thee. 
 
414 The Patriot 
 
 Wait, be steadfast, and thou shalt know." The 
 bells chimed far and near, from the lake shore 
 and from the lofty bosom of the valley. The 
 sky grew ever brighter above Galbiga and towards 
 the Lake of Como, along the steep, black profile 
 of the Picco di Cressogno ; and the sweep of smooth 
 water down there in the East, between the great 
 shadows of the mountains, was like a shining pearl. 
 The sprays of the passion-flower vine, touched by 
 the north wind, waved silently above Franco's 
 head, in quivering anticipation of the light, of 
 the immense glory that was rising out of the 
 east, colouring clouds and clear sky with itself, 
 and welcomed by the bells. 
 
 To live, to live, to work, suffer, adore, and 
 ascend! That was what the light demanded! 
 He must carry the living away in his arms, carry 
 the dead away in his heart, return to Turin, work 
 for Italy, die for her! The dawning day demanded 
 this. Italy! Italy! Beloved Mother! Franco 
 clasped his hands in a transport of desire. 
 
 Luisa heard the bells also. She wished that she 
 might not have heard them, wished that day 
 might never dawn, bringing with it the hour in 
 which Maria must be consigned to the grave. 
 On her knees beside her baby's little body she 
 promised her that every day of her life she would 
 come and talk to her, bring her flowers, and bear 
 her company; morning and evening she would 
 come. Then she sank down and gave herself up 
 to those dark thoughts which she had not wished 
 
Shadows and Dawn 415 
 
 to confess to her husband, and which had grown 
 and matured in her during the last twenty-four 
 hours, as a malignant infection of remote origin 
 which has lain dormant in the system, being caught 
 up at last in the current of the blood, suddenly 
 bursts forth with overwhelming violence. 
 
 All her .religious views, her faith in the existence 
 of God, her scepticism concerning the immortality 
 of the soul were tending towards subversion. 
 She was convinced that she was in no way respon- 
 sible for Maria's death. If indeed there did exist 
 an Intelligence, a Will, a Power which was master 
 of men and of things, then the monstrous guilt was 
 of this Intelligence, which had coldly pre-ordained 
 Barborin Passotti's visit and gift; had with- 
 drawn Maria from those who should have watched 
 over her in her mother's absence ; had lured her, 
 defenceless, towards destruction; had killed her. 
 That same Power had checked her, the mother, 
 when she had been about to perform an act of 
 justice. Fool that she was, ever to have believed 
 in Divine Justice! There was no such thing as 
 Divine Justice! Instead there was the altar allied 
 to the throne; the Austrian God, a party to all 
 injustice, aU l^^anny, author of suffering, and of 
 evil, slayer of the innocent and protector of the 
 wicked. Ah! if such a God did indeed exist, it 
 were better that Maria be there in that body, 
 better that no part of her should live on to fall 
 into the toils of this fiendish Omnipotence ! 
 
 But it was possible to doubt the existence of 
 
4i6 The Patriot 
 
 this horrible God. And if He did not exist we 
 might desire that a part of a human being shoiild 
 continue to live beyond the grave, live not mirac- 
 culously, but naturally. That was perhaps easier 
 to conceive than the existence of an invisible 
 tyrant, of a Creator who was cruel to the beings 
 of His own creation. The rule of nature without 
 God was certainly preferable; better a blind 
 master, who was not our enemy, not deliberately 
 cruel. But henceforth, at least, no thought must 
 be wasted in any way, either in this life or in the 
 next — if, indeed, the next exist — upon that vain ' 
 phantom, Justice! 
 
 The faint light of dawn mingled with her 
 thoughts as it had mingled with Franco's thoughts, 
 solemn and consoling to him, hateful to her. He, 
 the Christian, meditated an insurrection of wrath 
 and of arms against brothers in Christ, for love of 
 a dot upon the surface of one of Heaven's orbs; 
 she meditated an immense rebellion, the liberation 
 of the Universe. Her thought might be the 
 greater, her intellect might appear the stronger, 
 but he whom the human generations learn to know 
 even better as they advance in civilisation and 
 science ; He who allows each generation to honour 
 Him according to its strength, and who gradually 
 transforms and raises the ideals of the nations, 
 making use even of inferior and fleeting ideals, 
 when He deems it opportune, in His government 
 of the world; He who, being Peace and Life, has 
 allowed Himself to be called the God of armies, 
 
Shadows and Dawn 417 
 
 had impressed the sign of His judgment upon the 
 face of the woman and upon the face of the man. 
 While dawn burned into the glory of sunrise, 
 Franco's brow became ever more brightly il- 
 lumined by a light from within, and through his 
 tears his eyes shone with the vigour of life; but 
 Ltiisa's brow grew ever darker, and from the 
 
 depths, the shadows mounted to her dull eyes. 
 * * * * * 
 
 As the sun rose a boat came in sight off the point 
 
 of Caravina. It brought the lawyer, V., who had 
 
 come from Varenna in obedience to Luisa's call. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 /^N the evening of that same day a numerous 
 ^-^ company assembled, in the Marchesa's 
 red drawing-room. Pasotti had brought his 
 unlucky wife by main force, and he had brought 
 Signor Giacomo Puttini also, although that 
 gentleman had held out for some time against the 
 most gracious Controller's despotic caprices. The 
 curate of Puria and Paolin had also put in an ap- 
 pearance, both being anxious to observe the effects 
 of the tragedy on the old lady's marble counten- 
 ance. Paolin of course dragged the worthy 
 Paolon in his wake, he being still in a state of 
 limp and sheepish resistance. The curate of 
 Cima, who was devoted to the Marchesa, came 
 also, as did the prefect of Caravina, whose heart 
 really belonged to Franco and Luisa, but who, 
 as parish-priest of Cressogno, was bound to treat 
 their enemy with a certain amount of con- 
 sideration. 
 
 She received them all with her usual impassive 
 expression, with her usual calm greeting. Signora 
 Barborin, who had been cautioned by her master 
 against alluding to the event at Oria, was made 
 
 418 
 
Phantoms 419 
 
 to sit on the sofa beside her hostess, who graciously 
 accepted the homage of the others, put the usual 
 questions to Paolin and Paolon concerning their 
 respective consorts, and having satisfied herself 
 that both Paolina and Paolona were enjoying the 
 best of health, she folded her hands over her 
 stomach and relapsed into dignified silence, her 
 courtiers forming a semicircle around her. 
 Pasotti, noting the absence of Friend, inquired 
 for him with obsequious solicitude. " And Friend ? 
 Dear little Friend?" Although, had he had him 
 in his clutches — solus cum solo — ^the nasty, little 
 snarling beast which worried his trousers and 
 his wife's skirts, he would have joyfully wrung his 
 neck. Friend had been ill for two days. The 
 entire company was greatly affected by this news, 
 and loudly deplored the misfortune, secretly 
 hoping the while that the accursed little monster 
 might not recover. Barborin, not hearing a 
 word, but seeing so many mouths at work, so 
 many faces assuming a look of affliction, naturally 
 supposed they were speaking of Oria, and turning 
 to her neighbour Paolon, questioned him with 
 her eyes, opening her mouth and pointing towards 
 Oria. Paolon shook his head. " They are talking 
 about the little dog," said he. The deaf woman 
 did not understand, but she said: "Ah!" on 
 general principles, and assumed an expression of 
 affliction like the rest. 
 
 Friend ate too much, and his food was too rich, 
 and he was now suffering from a disgusting skin 
 
420 The Patriot 
 
 disease. Paolin and the curate of Puria gave 
 much careful advice. The prefect of Caravina 
 had elsewhere expressed the charitable opinion 
 that the creature ought to be pitched into the lake 
 with his mistress tied to his neck. While the 
 others were discussing the favourite with such 
 lively interest, the prefect was thinking of Luisa 
 as he had seen her that morning, her features 
 distorted, opposing mad resistance first to the 
 closing of the coffin, and then to its removal. 
 He was thinking how, in the cemetery, she with 
 her own hands had cast the earth upon her child, 
 telling her to be patient, that she herself would 
 soon come and lie down beside her, and that that 
 would be their Paradise. 
 
 In spite of the animated and eager conversation 
 concerning the mangy Friend, the phantoms of 
 the dead child and the distracted mother wer6 
 hovering in the room. Presently there came a 
 moment of silence when no one could think of 
 anything more to say about the dog, and then the 
 two unhappy phantoms were heard by all, de- 
 manding that they speak of them, and all could 
 see them distinctly in the eyes of one who loved 
 them, in the eyes of poor, deaf Barborin. Her 
 husband at once sought a diversion, and pro- 
 pounded a problem in tarocchi to Signor Giacomo. 
 The other tarocchi enthusiasts immediately took up 
 the question, the voices of the phantoms could no 
 longer be heard, and every one breathed more freely. 
 
 It was nine o'clock. Usually at that hour the 
 
Phantoms 4^1 
 
 footman would come in with two lighted candles, 
 and prepare the little tarocchi table in one comer 
 of the room, between the great fire-place and the 
 balcony on the West. Then the Marchesa wotdd 
 rise and say, with her habitual, drowsy calm : 
 
 "If you are ready " 
 
 The two or three guests would invariably an- 
 swer: "Quite ready," and then the three-handed 
 or four-handed game wotdd begin. 
 
 The old footman — ^who was devotedly attached 
 to Don Franco — hesitated that night about bring- 
 ing the candles. He did not believe it possible 
 that- his mistress and her guests wottld have the 
 courage to play. At five minutes past nine, as 
 the footman had not yet appeared, each one 
 began privately commenting upon the delay. 
 Before entering the house Paolin had maintained 
 that there wotdd be no playing, while the prefect 
 had maintained the contrary. He now cast a 
 triumphant glance at his adversary, as did also 
 Paolon, who, from a spirit of solidarity with the 
 other Paul, was pleased that he should be in the 
 right. Pasotti, who had felt sure of his game, 
 began to show signs of uneasiness. At seven 
 minutes past nine the Marchesa requested the 
 prefect to ring the bell. It was now the prefect's 
 turn to bestov/ a triumphant glance on Paolin, 
 and he put into it all the silent contempt for the 
 old woman that it would hold. 
 
 "Prepare the table," said the Marchesa to the 
 footman. 
 
422 The Patriot 
 
 He soon returned with the two candles. From 
 the depths of his sorrowfial eyes also, the phantom 
 of the dead child looked forth. While he was 
 busy arranging the candles, the cards, and the 
 ivory counters on the table, the room was 
 enveloped in that silence which always preceded 
 the rising of the Marchesa. But the Marchesa 
 showed no intention of rising. She turned to 
 Pasotti, saying: 
 
 "Controller, if you and the others wish to 
 play " 
 
 "Marchesa," Pasotti promptly replied, "my 
 wife's presence must not deter you from enjoying 
 your game. Barborin is not a good player, but 
 she delights in looking on." 
 
 "I shall not play this evening," the Marchesa 
 answered, and although the tone was mild, the 
 refusal was decisive. 
 
 The worthy Paolon, who was always silent and 
 could not play tarocchi, believed he had at last 
 discovered a word which was both wise and ob- 
 sequious, and which he might safely utter : 
 
 "Exactly!" said he. 
 
 Pasotti gave him a surly glance, thinking: 
 "What business is it of his ? " but he did not ven- 
 ture to speak. The Marchesa appeared not to 
 have noticed Paolon's utterance, and added: 
 
 "The others can play if they like." 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed the prefect. "We should 
 not think of such a thing!" 
 
 Pasotti drew his snuff-box from his pocket. 
 
Phantoms 423 
 
 "The Signor Prefetto," said he, speaking very 
 distinctly, and slightly raising his open hand, 
 a pinch of snuflf between the thumb and fore- 
 finger, "The Signor Prefetto must speak for him- 
 self. For my part, as the Signora Marchesa 
 wishes us to play, I am quite wiUing to oblige her." 
 The Marchesa was silent, and the fiery prefect, 
 encouraged by her silence, grumbled in an under- 
 tone : 
 
 " After all, we are in a house of mourning." 
 Never since Franco had left the house had his 
 name been mentioned at these evening assemblies 
 in the red drawing-room, nor had the Marchesa 
 even alluded either to him or to his wife. She 
 now broke the silence that had lasted four years. 
 
 "I am sorry for the baby," said she, "but as 
 for her father and mother, the Ahnighty has seen 
 fit to punish them." 
 
 No one spoke. After some minutes Pasotti 
 said in a low and solemn tone : 
 "A fearftil pimishment! " 
 
 And the curate of Cima added in a louder voice : 
 "A manifest punishment!" 
 Paolin dared not remain silent, neither did he 
 dare speak, so he ejaculated: "Dear, dear!" 
 and this encouraged Paolon to repeat his "Ex- 
 actly!" Signor Giacomo simply puffed. 
 
 "A chastisement from the Almighty!" the 
 curate of Cima repeated with emphasis. "And 
 also, considering the circumstances, a mark of His 
 especial regard for some one else." 
 
424 The Patriot 
 
 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 comer at the little 
 card table, at once gave themselves up to the 
 luxury of unrestrained conversation, and to the 
 enjoyment of certain stale, Ambrosian* witticisms, 
 which cling to the tarocchi cards like grease. 
 
 "I shall get there first!" Pasotti exclaimed 
 after the first rotmd, 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 sviffered mortal 
 anguish, dreading a gesture from her husband 
 which shotild 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. 
 
 ♦Ambrosian : From St. Ambrose, patron of Milan. There- 
 fore, Milanese. [Translator's note.] 
 
Phantoms 425 
 
 What an insult that game was to her Ltiisa! 
 What contempt it showed for poor, dear Httle 
 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 approach- 
 ing the moment when she must appear before her 
 God. 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 dis- 
 covered 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 glass 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 tmderstand each other," and 
 left the room. 
 
 The ciirate 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 
 
426 The Patriot 
 
 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 imusual. She forgot to ask 
 Pasotti if the wine was good; this also was \m- 
 usual. Her face with its waxen mask, twitched 
 violently from time to time ; this was extremely 
 untisual. "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 no- 
 thing 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 ejaculations 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 sub- 
 ject of their conversation. The Lord protected 
 her profound and simple meekness, by never 
 allowing the praises of the world to enter into 
 
Phantoms 427 
 
 her ears, but only the scoldings of her worthy- 
 consort. 
 
 Her great, sorrowful black eyes brightened 
 when Signor Giacomo uttered a loud and final 
 ■puS., 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 beU 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 trans- 
 gressions 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 uneasi- 
 ness she was continually trying to stifle by means 
 of rosaries, but which was forever bursting out 
 
428 The Patriot 
 
 afresh. While she was praying to the Gl'eat 
 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 con- 
 cerning 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 Profun- 
 dus, 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 ask- 
 ing for sleep, and rest for the nerves and con- 
 science. 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 
 
Phantoms 429 
 
 continually before her eyes the image of Maria as 
 she had once seen her when passing in her gondola 
 below the little Gilardoni villa ; a slight figure in 
 a white apron, 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 eye- 
 lids, 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, 
 
430 The Patriot 
 
 in seeing in her mind's eye the Httle card-table, 
 the players, the candles, the cards ; but when she 
 relaxed the tension of effort, in order to give her- 
 self up to a passive contemplation of these soporific 
 phantoms, something totally different appeared 
 beneath her eyelids — a head which was con- 
 tinually changing its features, its expression, its 
 position, and which, at last, slowly drooped for- 
 ward, 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 
 
Phantoms 431 
 
 in a low voice. The maid was in the habit of 
 adn-anistering these narcotics. She began to read, 
 but at the end of the second page, hearing her 
 mistress's breathing grow deeper, she very grad- 
 ually 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 en- 
 tered 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 
 
432 The Patriot 
 
 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 ap- 
 parition. 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, Grand- 
 mother, you! I should have been bom, should 
 have lived under your roof. You would not 
 have it. Your punishment shall be death ever- 
 lasting!" 
 
 The eyes alone, the staring, sad, pitiftd eyes 
 said aU 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 be- 
 coming veiled was absorbed, as it were, into a 
 deep and distant Self, nothing remaining of the 
 
Phantoms 433 
 
 apparition save a slight phosphorescence 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 an- 
 swer, 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 shore. 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!" 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 FLIGHT 
 
 A T 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 ter- 
 race 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 ass, 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 CarHno Pedraglio 
 not go to Oria at once, to see Signer Maironi and 
 
 434 
 
Flight 435 
 
 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 tmgrammatical warning which had 
 reached a patriot. The note spoke plainly; he 
 must pass 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 Passo 
 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 con- 
 fessional. Ismaele was to gtiide them across the 
 frontier. The passes pf Boglia were very care- 
 fully guarded, and Ismaele proposed passing be- 
 tween Monte della Neve and Castello; then they 
 would drop down into the valley, making straight 
 for the Alpe di Castello below the Sasso Grande, 
 and from there descend to Cadro, an hour above 
 Lugano. 
 
 But Ismaele was to have been there at two 
 
436 The Patriot 
 
 o'clock, and at half -past two he had not yet 
 appeared. 
 
 Ltiisa 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 Pedrag- 
 lio. After her intense excitement at the funeral 
 her grief had once more assumed 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, reljdng 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, 
 
Flight 
 
 437 
 
 coming from the direction of Albogasio. Franco 
 waited tintil 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 Is- 
 maele's. "It is the prefect. I am coming up- 
 stairs." 
 
 The prefect at that hour? What could have 
 happened? Franco went to the kitchen, Hghted 
 a candle, and then hastened downstairs. 
 
 Five minutes passed 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 stimmon Franco, and 
 found him on the stairs, coming up with the pre- 
 fect. "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 
 repUed 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 PedragHo, who was in the habit 
 of spending more money than his father approved 
 
438 The Patriot 
 
 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." "Grand- 
 mother sent for him an hour or two ago," Franco 
 continued. "She told him she had seen our 
 Maria, shining like an angel." 
 
 "Oh, what a lie!" Luisa exclaimed, in a tone 
 full of contempt, but not angrily. "As if it were 
 possible she woidd go to her and not come to me ! " 
 
 "Maria has touched her heart," Franco went 
 on. " She begs us to pardon her. She fears she 
 is dying, and entreats me to come to her, to bring 
 her a word of peace from you also." 
 
 Franco himself did not believe in the apparition, 
 being profoundly sceptical of everything that was 
 supernatural outside of religion, but he did be- 
 lieve that Maria, in her higher state, had already 
 been able to work a miracle, and touch his grand- 
 mother's heart, and the thought caused him 
 indescribable emotion. Ltiisa remained like ice. 
 
Flight 
 
 439 
 
 She was not even irritated, as Franco had feared 
 she would be, by the proposal to send a friendly 
 message. "Yoiir grandmother fears hell," she 
 observed with her mortal coldness. "Hell does 
 not exist, and so all this amounts to nothing more 
 than a fright. The suffering is not great. Let 
 her bear it, and then die as we all must, and so, 
 'Amen.'" Franco saw it would be useless to 
 insist. " Then I will go, " said he. She was silent. 
 
 " I don't think I shall be able to come back this 
 way," Franco added. "I shall have to take to 
 the hills." 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 "Luisa!" the young man said softly. Re- 
 proach, grief, passion, all these were in his appeal. 
 Luisa 's hands, that had never once paused in their 
 work, now became still. She murmured: 
 
 " I no longer feel anything. I am like a stone." 
 
 Franco turned faint. He kissed his wife on her 
 hair, said good-bye, and then entered the alcove, 
 where, kneeling beside the Httle bed, he threw 
 his arms across it, recalling his treasure's little 
 voice: "One kiss more, papa!" A paroxysm 
 of weeping assailed him, but he controlled him- 
 self, and hurriedly left the room. 
 
 In the hall his friends were impatiently awaiting 
 his return. How could they start? They did 
 not know the way. The lawyer was, indeed, 
 acquainted with the BogHa road, but was that the 
 best way to go if they wished to avoid the guards ? 
 On hearing that Franco was going to Cressogrio 
 
440 The Patriot 
 
 they were filled with amazement, and Pedraglio 
 gave vent to his indignation, saying it was shame- 
 ful to forsake his friends in this fashion, when they 
 were in trouble. When the prefect realised how 
 matters stood he took Pedraglio 's part, and 
 offered to explain Franco's absence to his grand- 
 mother, and proposed that Franco should write a 
 line or two, which he himself would carry to Cres- 
 sogno. But Franco was convinced that his 
 Maria wished him to take this step, and he would 
 not yield. He suddenly remembered that the 
 prefect was as familiar as a hare with all the 
 mountain paths. "You go!" said he, addressing 
 the priest. "You accompany them!" The pre- 
 fect was about to reply that perhaps the Signora 
 Marchesa might need him, when the lawyer ex- 
 claimed: "Hush! Look there!" 
 
 Directly in front of the house, where the shadow 
 of Monte Bisgnago lay obliquely upon the rippling 
 water, a boat had stopped. Franco recognised 
 the customs-guards' launch. 
 
 " I am willing to wager those hogs are watching 
 for us," Pedraglio murmured. "They are afraid 
 we shall escape by boat. Anyway, they are on 
 the lookout." 
 
 "Hush!" the lawyer repeated, approaching 
 the window that overlooked the church-place. 
 
 All held their breath in silence. 
 
 "Children," said V., turning quickly from the 
 window, "we are done for!" Franco went 
 to the window, and saw a solitary figure 
 
Flight 441 
 
 running towards the house. He concluded the 
 lawyer had given a false alarm, but the man — ^it 
 was he who went by the nickname of " the hunted 
 hare," and who knew and saw everything — ^flung 
 two words upwards as he passed beneath the 
 window: "The police!" At the same moment they 
 heard the noise of many feet. "Come with me! 
 You also, Prefect!" cried Franco, and the others 
 following, he made for the little courtyard be- 
 tween the house and the hillside, and, passing 
 through a woodshed, reached the short cut that 
 leads to Albogasio Superiore. It was so dark that 
 no once noticed a customs-guard, standing, 
 carbine in hand, not two steps from the door of 
 the wood-shed. Fortunately this guard, a certain 
 Filippini, from Busto, was an honest fellow, who 
 ate the bread of Austria unwillingly, and simply 
 because he cotdd find no other. "Be quick!" 
 said he in an undertone. " Cut across the fields, 
 and then take the Boglia road! The path below 
 the Madonnina on the left." Franco thanked 
 the man, and, with his companions, started up 
 the steep path that comes out on the narrow 
 communal road of Albogasio Superiore. Half- 
 way up they all jtimped into a field of maize on 
 the right, and stopped to Hsten. They heard 
 steps on the stairs leading upwards from the 
 ehurch-place, and then on the path where the 
 guard was posted. Evidently the police wished 
 to make sure that all the exits were well guarded. 
 The four crawled swiftly away through the maize, 
 
442 The Patriot 
 
 and on reaching the spot below a great boulder 
 called "Lori's Rock," they stopped to hold a 
 constdtation. They might take the path that 
 comes out on the Albogasio road at the very door 
 of Pasotti's garden, and then climb up from field 
 to field, as far as the Boglia road. But the path 
 would be hard to find at this hour, and fearing to 
 lose too much time, they determined to make for 
 the stairway that leads up from Albogasio In- 
 feriore to Puttini's house, then, leaving Casa 
 Puttini on the right, they could reach the Boglia 
 road in no time. It was already less dark. In 
 one way this was a disadvantage, but at least 
 it would enable them to find their way through 
 that labyrinth of small fields and low walls. All 
 were silent. Only Pedraglio would utter an oath 
 in Milanese from time to time, as he st\imbled 
 over a stone or scratched his hands on a hedge. 
 Then the others would hush him. They reached 
 the narrow stairway preceded by the prefect, who 
 jumped walls and hedges like a squirrel. When 
 they were all together on the stairs Franco with- 
 drew from the group. On the Boglia road they 
 would not need him ; he was going to Cressogno. 
 In vain Pedraglio seized him by the arm, in vain 
 the prefect implored him not to expose himself 
 to certain arrest, and probable imprisonment. 
 He believed he was obeying Maria's voice, and 
 felt that he was acting according to the dictates 
 of conscience. He tore himself from Pedraglio, 
 and disappeared up the stairs, for he did not wish 
 
Flight 443 
 
 to go to Cressogno by way of S. Mamette— that 
 would be too dangerous. 
 
 "Follow me!" said the prefect. "The man is 
 mad, and we have ourselves to think of." 
 
 As they were about to turn the comer of Put- 
 tini's house, they heard people approaching who 
 were probably going down the stairs. The door 
 of Puttini's house was open. The friends slipped 
 inside. The people passed, talking. They were 
 peasants, and one was saying : " Where the deuce 
 can he be going at this hour? " Alas, they had met 
 and recognised Franco ! If the gendarmes and the 
 guards shoiild start out to htmt for the fugitives 
 and come across these people, they would dis- 
 cover a trace at once. Towards dawn one is 
 always sure of meeting people. This time they 
 had been able to avoid being seen, but a second 
 time they might be less fortunate, and a meeting 
 might prove as fatal to Pedraglio and the lawyer 
 as this one would probably prove to Franco. " If 
 you could only disguise yourselves as peasants!" 
 said the priest. A happy thought struck the 
 lawyer, who had something both of the poet and 
 the artist, and who was well acquainted with 
 Puttini. He would take Scior Zacomo's clothes 
 for Pedraglio, who was also short, and the big, 
 fat servant's clothes for himself; stuff their own 
 things into a gerla* fasten it upon his back, and 
 
 * Gerla : a basket the peasants both in Switzerland and in 
 North Italy carry fastened upon their backs. [Translator's 
 note.] 
 
444 The Patriot 
 
 start for Boglia. The "first political deputy" of 
 Albogasio might have a hundred reasons for visit- 
 ing the forest belonging to the commime. No 
 sooner said than done! They proceeded upstairs, 
 and the prefect, who was famiUar with the house, 
 went straight to call Marianna. She did not 
 answer, and her room was empty. The prefect 
 guessed at once that the vmfaithftd servant had 
 gone to S. Mamette for some secret business trans- 
 action, like that of the oil. That was why they 
 had found the door open. They went to the 
 kitchen and lighted two candles. The lawyer took 
 one and the prefect pointed out Scior Zacomo's 
 room to him. Meanwhile Pedraglio explored the 
 the kitchen by the light of the other candle, in 
 search of "something wet, something to brace 
 him up." 
 
 Scior Zacomo slept in a comer room beyond the 
 hall which the lawyer crossed on tiptoe, picking 
 his way between piles of chestnuts, walnuts, 
 filberts, and pears. He approached the door — 
 it was closed. He listened — silence. Very slowly 
 he turned the handle and pushed. The beastly 
 door squeaked — ^he heard a formidable snort, 
 and Scior Zacomo cried out angrily: "Go away! 
 Let me alone! Go away!" The lawyer entered 
 without further parley. "Away with you, you 
 acciirsed woman! Go away, I tell you! " cried Scior 
 Zacomo, the point of his white night-cap rising out 
 of the pillows. On catching sight of the lawyer 
 he began to groan: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, 
 
Flight 445 
 
 dear me! For pity's sake, forgive me! I thought 
 it was my servant. Most distingtiished Advocate, 
 for the love of Heaven, tell me what has hap- 
 pened." 
 
 "Nothing, nothing, Scior Zacomo!" said 
 the lawyer. "Only the Commissary of Porlezza 
 is here " 
 
 "Oh, good Lord!" and 5cior Zocowo started to 
 stick his legs out of bed. 
 
 "It is nothing, nothing! Be calm, be calm! 
 Cover yourself up; cover yoiirself up again! We 
 are going up to Boglia on accotint of that accursed 
 bull, you know." 
 
 "Oh, Lord! What are you talking about? 
 There is no bull at Boglia at this time of the year. 
 Oh! I am all bathed in sweat! " 
 
 " Never mind. I tell you we are going to see 
 the place, to see where he used to be. But the 
 Commissary has very good reasons for strictly 
 forbidding you to accompany us ; he forbids you, 
 moreover, to go out until we return, and 
 he has even ordered me to remove your clothes." 
 
 Then be began rapidly collecting Puttini's 
 garments, commanding him in the name of the 
 Commissary to be silent. He took possession of 
 the tall hat, seized the bamboo walking-stick, 
 ordered the wretched man to bolt the door as soon 
 as he should have left the room, and to open it 
 to no one, to speak to no one, until the Commis- 
 sary's return ; all this in the name of that dreaded 
 functionary. Then, leaving the poor man more 
 
446 The Patriot 
 
 dead than alive, he once more joined his com- 
 panions, who, by dint of much searching, had 
 found a filthy dress of Marianna's, a big, red 
 kerchief for the head, a gerla, and a bottle of 
 Anesom triduo* " The deuce ! " swore the lawyer, 
 on examining the loathsome garments he must 
 don. His disgtiise was indeed most unsatisfactory. 
 The skirt was too short, and the kerchief did not 
 hide his face sufficiently. However there was no 
 time to look for anything better. But Pedraglio, 
 in the tall hat, with the bamboo walking-stick 
 in his hand, was a perfect Scior Zacomo. The 
 lawyer thrust an old manuscript pamphlet he 
 found in the Idtchen under his friend's arm, and 
 showed him how to walk and puff. Finally he 
 took the keys to the wine-cellar, two enormous 
 keys, gave one to PedragHo and put the other in 
 his own pocket. These would prove valuable 
 weapons in case of need ; one, he said, would strike 
 in the treble key, the other in the bass. And so 
 they went out, the prefect first, followed by the 
 false Scior Zacomo puffing like a steam-engine, and 
 then the false Marianna and her gerla bringing up 
 the rear. Hardly had they reached the street 
 when the real Marianna appeared, returning from 
 S. Mamette with an empty flask. Catching sight 
 of her master's tall hat looming in the uncertain 
 light, she faced about and made off as fast as her 
 legs would carry her. 
 
 * Anesone triduo: a sort of very coarse and very strong 
 anisette. [Translator's note!] 
 
Flight 447 
 
 " Miserable thief ! " the prefect exclaimed. " Ex- 
 cellent! Your disguise is splendid!" In five min- 
 utes they had reached the Boglia road. Theft 
 the prefect turned homewards, and prese^tly, 
 hearing people coming up from Albogasio Super- 
 iore talking of gendarmes and guards, he went to 
 meet them and inqtiired what had happened. 
 Oh, nothing very important ; only the gendarmes 
 and soldiers had been to Casa Ribera to arrest 
 Don Franco Maironi, and, it would appear, lawyer 
 V. also, for they were sure he must have been 
 there, and they had been asking every one about 
 him. However, they had fotind neither one nor 
 the other of the friends, although the customs- 
 guards had been watching the house since midnight. 
 Now the police were searching all the houses in 
 Oria, in the belief that the two men must have 
 escaped by the roof. While the prefect was lis- 
 tening to this news a boy came running towards 
 them from the direction of Albogasio Superiore. 
 They stopped him. "The guards!" he gasped; 
 "the gendarmes!" He was as white as a sheet; 
 why he was running away he himself could not 
 tell, and they found it impossible to gather from 
 him where the gendarmes were. A woman ap- 
 peared on the scene who was able to give them 
 more information. Foiir customs-guards and 
 four gendarmes had just now crossed the square 
 in Albogasio Superiore. It was rumoured that 
 Don Franco had been seen on the road to Castello, 
 and two gendarmes with two guards had started 
 
448 The Patriot 
 
 towards the Boglia. The priest shuddered. " Of 
 course," some one said, "they will cut him off on 
 the Boglia road." The prefect took some com- 
 fort in the thought that both gendarmes and 
 guards were now searching for Franco only. He 
 was so tall, so slender, that neither the false Puttini 
 nor the false Marianna could possibly be suspected 
 of being him. Their fate was now beyond his 
 control, but for Franco he could still do much. 
 He started for Cressogno, confident that^ Franco 
 wotild reach that place in safety, if the gendarmes 
 did not discover any fresh traces, for they would 
 search for him on all the paths leading from 
 CasteUo to the frontier, but not on the road to 
 Cressogno. 
 
 Pedraglio and the lawyer accomplished the 
 first part of the journey from Albogasio to the 
 stables of Bus, creeping up the precipitous slope 
 like cats, with long and cautious steps. The law- 
 yer advanced in silence, but the other was con- 
 tinually cursing his garments in an undertone. 
 That "beastly hat," that made his forehead 
 slippery with grease, that "infernal tail-coat," 
 that smelt strong of the sweat of ages. They 
 reached Pus without having met a living being. 
 At Pus an old woman came out from between the 
 stables just after they had passed, and exclaimed 
 in amazement: "You up here, Scior Giacomo? 
 At this hour?" "PtifE!" murmured the lawyer, 
 and Pedraglio began to blow, "Apff! Apff!" 
 like a pair of bellows. " Such paths as these take 
 
Flight 
 
 449 
 
 the breath away, my good sir," said the old 
 woman. They met no one else until they reached 
 Sostra. 
 
 Sostra, a stable about half-way up the mountain, 
 with a bam, a shed, and a cistern, lies some dis- 
 tance back from the path. That path is the very 
 worst in the whole of Valsolda. It would make 
 even a wild goat hang its tongue out. Pedraglio 
 and the lawyer, panting and wet through with 
 perspiration, turned into the Sostra for a mo- 
 ment's rest. There all was silence and solitude. 
 At that height they already breathed a different 
 air. And how much lower the mountain-tops 
 had become! And the lake down there in the 
 depths looked like a river! The lawyer cast 
 anxious glances upwards towards the first crest 
 of the Boglia, where the great beech forest begins. 
 Only half an hour more of climbing! "Come 
 along!" said he. But Pedraglio, in whose legs 
 there stiU lingered the memory of that other long 
 walk from Loveno to Oria by way of the Passo 
 Stretto, wanted to rest a little longer, and began 
 calmly ttxming over the leaves of Puttini's old 
 manuscript. It was a monkish poem by some 
 unknown Cremonese of the seventeenth century. 
 "Come along," his companion repeated after a 
 minute or two, and was already preparing to 
 rise when he heard some one approaching. He 
 had barely time to whisper, "Look out!" and 
 turn his back that his face might not be seen. 
 Pedraglio, though he kept his manuscript close to 
 
45 o The Patriot 
 
 his nose, saw first two customs-guards and then 
 two gendarmes appear upon the path. He 
 warned his friend of this in a low tone, and with- 
 out turning his head. The two guards halted. 
 One of them saluted: "My respects, Signer Put- 
 tini." Txirning to the gendarmes, he said: "This 
 gentleman is the first political deputy of 
 Albogasio." The gendarmes saluted also, and 
 Pedraglio raised his hat, and held the manu- 
 script a little higher. The guards wished to rest 
 awhile, but one of the gendarmes ordered them to 
 move on, and when the rest of the company had 
 started forward, he himself approached the Sostra. 
 He was from Ampezzo, and spoke Italian very 
 fluently. "You dog! I hope you don't know 
 me!" thought Pedraglio, vaguely conscious of 
 his dual personality. " We are in for it, anyway!" 
 
 " Signor Deputato Politico," said the man, "did 
 you happen to see Signor Maironi at Oria this 
 morning?" 
 
 "I? No, indeed. Signor Maironi is in bed and 
 asleep at this hour." 
 
 "And you yourself where are you 
 
 going?" 
 
 " I am going up that mountain, up that accursed 
 Boglia, to see about the communal bull." 
 
 "Idiot!" groaned the lawyer inwardly. "He 
 is making it communal now!" But the "com- 
 munal" was allowed to pass unchallenged. The 
 gendarme, who had a face like a bull-dog, stared 
 hard at his interlocutor. "You are a political 
 
Flight 451 
 
 deputy," said he insolently, "and you wear that 
 thing on your chin?" Instinctively Pedraglio's 
 hand went to his thin, black, pointed beard, the 
 abhorred beard of the liberals. "I will cut it 
 off," said he, with mock seriousness. "Most 
 certainly, my dear sir! Are you also going up the 
 Boglia!" Very stiffly the gendarme moved away, 
 without answering, and all unconscious of the 
 shameful gibbet to which the political deputy. 
 was consigning him. 
 
 The two friends congratulated themselves on 
 their narrow escape, but they recognised that 
 the game had become very serious. Now they 
 had the guards to reckon with, who knew Puttini 
 well, and they must find a means of avoiding them. 
 And what if that bull-dog of a gendarme shotdd 
 blab about the beard? "Come on! Come on!" 
 said the lawyer. " Let us follow them, and if we 
 see or hear them turn back we must take to our 
 heels and make off to the left, towards the 
 frontier." This would have been a desperate 
 move, for they were unacquainted with the ground, 
 with which the guards were undoubtedly familiar. 
 
 But in order to catch up with his companions 
 ihe buU-dog had to sweat and pant so hard that 
 ■ when he reached them he had no desire left to 
 speak of beards. Pedraglio and the lawyer 
 climbed slowly upwards, and saw the enemy 
 reach the crest of the hill at the Madonnina beech- 
 tree. There they halted for some time and then 
 disappeared. 
 
452 The Patriot 
 
 The venerable beech-tree, which had the honour 
 of bearing upon its trunk an image of the Madonna, 
 which, on its death, it bequeathed to a small 
 chapel, stood like a sentinel before the great forest 
 of Boglia, like a soldier posted in this dip of the 
 crest, to keep watch over the precipitous hillside, 
 the lake, and the sloping ground of Valsolda. The 
 venerable army of colossal beeches stood mar- 
 shalled in another silent hollow between the slope 
 of Cohnaregia, the easily climbed Dorsi della 
 Nave, the rocky base of the Denti di Vecchia or 
 Canne d'Organo, and that other saddle of the 
 Pian Biscagno, between Colmaregia and the 
 Sasso Grande, and faced the depths of Val CoUa 
 from Lugano to Cadro. An open, grass-grown 
 strip of ground stretched along the edge of the 
 crest, between the Madonnina beech-tree and the 
 forest. The two fugitives stopped to consider 
 their position. Which way should they go? 
 Should they look for the little path below the 
 beech-tree, of which the guard who had saved them 
 had spoken, or should they enter the forest? No, 
 it would be tmwise to take to the woods, in the 
 wake of the game they had just seen enter them. 
 In the forest they were sure to find the, dead 
 leaves lying ankle-deep, and it would be impossible 
 to pass through without attracting the attention 
 of the blood-hounds that were roaming there, 
 and their disguise would not bear close inspection. 
 The path? There were more paths than one be- 
 neath the beech-tree. Which was the right one? 
 
Flight 
 
 453 
 
 Pedraglio swore at the absent Franco for not hav- 
 ing accompanied them, but the lawyer was study- 
 ing the Colmaregia, which could be climbed with- 
 out entering the forest. He had twice made the 
 ascent of the Colmaregia, that superb, slender, 
 grass-grown peak of the Bogha, which the line 
 of the frontier cuts in halves. He knew that 
 from there they would be able to descend to the 
 Swiss village of Brh, and he resolved to try that 
 route. No one was visible on the crest that rises 
 from the Madonnina beech towards the Col- 
 maregia, and the svunmit was enveloped in clouds. 
 
 Just below the beech-tree they were overtaken 
 by a wave of mist which had rolled up one side of 
 the motintain and was rapidly pouring down 
 the other; a cold, thick mist, a mist "as bad as 
 they make them," so V. said. They could not 
 see five steps ahead, and thus it happened that 
 near the beech-tree Pedraglio ran almost into the 
 arms of a customs-guard. 
 
 He was one of the four, and had been told off 
 to guard the open space between the brow of the 
 hill and the forest. Catching sight of the little 
 man in the top-hat, he exclaimed: "On the 
 
 Boglia, Sig ' ' The lawyer quickly cast aside his 
 
 gerla, and the guard did not finish his sentence, 
 but stared a moment, open-mouthed, and then 
 exclaimed : ' ' How is this ? ' ' 
 
 The lawyer did not wait for further 
 explanations. 
 
 "This is how it is," said he calmly, and draw- 
 
454 The Patriot 
 
 ing his fists into position on his breast, he hit out 
 suddenly, and dealt the guard a tremendous blow 
 in the stoinach that sent him rolling on the grass, 
 his heels in the air. In a flash Pedraglio was 
 upon him, and snatched his carbine from him. 
 
 " If you yell, you dog, I shall do for you!" said 
 he. But how could he possibly yell? With a 
 blow like that in the stomach, it was all he could 
 do to breathe for at least fifteen minutes. In fact 
 the man lay like one dead, and it was some time 
 before they could even make him groan faintly: 
 "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" 
 
 "It's nothing, nothing at all," V. told him 
 with his usual, mocking calm. " Shocks like that 
 are good for the health. You will see. Now, my 
 friend, you are just going to pick yourself up and 
 stand nice and firm on your legs, and accompany 
 us to Colmaregia. You will see how well you will 
 be able to walk. I was careful not to use this." 
 And he showed him the key. 
 
 " Oh, what a blow! " groaned the guard. " Oh, 
 what a terrible blow!" 
 
 "It is indeed a rather stiff climb," the lawyer 
 went on, taking the carbine from Pedraglio, "but 
 with your permission we will help you up from 
 behind with the point of this instrument. Thus 
 climbing will become a delight. Then you must 
 bear us company down to Brh. We will carry 
 your carbine for you, but you, in return, must 
 carry this little gerla. Is my meaning quite clear 
 to you? Now, march!" 
 
Flight 455 
 
 But the wretched man co\ild not get to his feet 
 and they certainly could not leave him there and 
 run the risk of his calling out for help. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said Pedraglio. "You hit him 
 too hard." 
 
 V. replied that he had touched him with the 
 gentleness of a woman, and passing the carbine 
 to Pedraglio, he seized the guard by the collar of 
 his uniform, pulled him to his feet, and made him 
 rtm his arms through the straps of the gerla. 
 
 "Go ahead, you fraud!" said he. "March, 
 lazy-bones!" 
 
 Up, up, ever upwards they climbed through the 
 thick mist. The hillside was extremely steep, 
 and it was all they could do to find foothold be- 
 tween the clumps of soft grass. They slipped, 
 they laboured with hands and feet, but they 
 heeded naught, struggUng ever upwards for 
 freedom's sake. Up, up, ever upwards, through 
 the thick mist, invisible as spirits, first the false 
 Marianna, then the guard puffing and groaning 
 underthe heavy gerla, then the false Scior Zacomo 
 promising him a fine view from the top, and from 
 time to time encouraging him with the point of 
 the carbine. The carbine worked miracles. In 
 half an hour the three had reached the crest, from 
 whence the hill slopes down towards Bre, lying 
 only a short distance below the summit. Then, 
 sitting upon the grass, they let themselves sHde 
 rapidly downwards. Presently it began to rain, 
 and the mist grew thinner, and below them, at 
 
4S6 The Patriot 
 
 their feet, they could see the red of the woodlands. 
 Scior Zacomo's venerable top-hat was the first to 
 reach the spot, hurled from above by Pedraglio 
 with a joyful "Hurrah for Italy!" as he himself 
 slid onwards, arm in arm with the guard. At 
 Br^ Pedraglio called the whole town together by 
 firing off the carbine in sign of extiltation, and 
 then he distributed anesone triduo among the men, 
 and administered it in smaller doses to the girls. 
 He begged the curate to allow him to hang the 
 tail-coat in the church as a votive offering, sat 
 down to eat with the guard, got the priest to preach 
 him a sermon on the duty of pardoning blows in 
 the stomach, and read a verse of the monkish 
 poem to him, which ended thus : 
 
 At this point the good priest did exclaim: 
 My views are no longer the same. 
 
 After this he had no difficulty in demonstrating 
 to him that if this Padre Lantemone had suddenly 
 changed his opinions, he, the guard, would be 
 fully justified in changing his, and he finally 
 persuaded him to desert. The guard ended by 
 casting aside his tmiform and donning the tail- 
 coat, amidst the laughter and applause of all 
 present. The only one who did not join in the 
 laughter was the lawyer. "What may not have 
 happened to poor Maironi? " said he. 
 
 * * * * iii 
 
 Franco did not cross Castello. Upon reaching 
 the little Rovajk chapel he hastened downwards 
 by the path that leads to the fountain at Caslano, 
 
Flight 457 
 
 reached the narrow lane that goes to Casarico and 
 followed it upwards as far as the last turning just 
 below Castello, where the church of Puria be- 
 comes visible beneath its amphitheatre of crags; 
 then he turned into the valley on the right, hasten- 
 ing along a path fit for goats only, climbed up- 
 wards once more below the church of Loggio, and 
 reached Villa Maironi without having met any 
 one. 
 
 Carlo, the old servant who opened the door for 
 him, nearly fainted with emotion as he kissed 
 Franco's hands. At that moment the doctor was 
 in the sick room. Franco decided to wait until he 
 should come out, and meanwhile took the faithful 
 old man into his confidence, telHng that the gen- 
 darmes were at his heels. Dr. Aliprandi soon came 
 out, and Franco, who knew him to be a patriot, 
 confided in him also, for he must show himself, 
 and make inquiries about his grandmother. Ali- 
 prandi had been called in the night, after the 
 prefect had left for Oria. He had found the 
 Marchesa in a state of nervous excitement, tor- 
 mented by a terrible fear of death, but exhibiting 
 no symptoms of illness. At present she seemed 
 quite calm. Franco had her informed of his 
 arrival, and was ushered into the room by the 
 maid, who looked at him with obsequious curi- 
 osity, and then withdrew. 
 
 The half -open shutters of the room where the 
 Marchesa lay, admitted only two slanting streaks 
 of grey light, which did not reach the face, thrown 
 
458 The Patriot 
 
 back upon the pillow. On entering Franco 
 could not see that face, but he heard the familiar, 
 sleepy voice saying: 
 
 "Is that you, Franco?" 
 
 "Yes, grandmother. Good-morning," and he 
 stooped to kiss her. The waxen mask was un- 
 ruffled, but there was a vague and gloomy ex- 
 pression about the eyes that seemed at once desire 
 and terror. "I am dying, you know, Franco," 
 said the Marchesa. Franco protested, and re- 
 peated what the doctor had said to him. His 
 grandmother listened, gazing eagerly at him, try- 
 ing to read in his eyes if the doctor had really 
 spoken thus. Then she answered: 
 
 "It makes no difference. I am quite ready." 
 
 From the changed expression on her face and 
 in her voice Franco understood perfectly that she 
 was quite ready to live twenty years longer. " I 
 am sorry for your bereavement," said she, "and I 
 forgive you." 
 
 Franco had not expected words of pardon from 
 her. He had believed it was for him to bring 
 forgiveness, not to receive it. Comforted and 
 reassured, the Marchesa of every day was gradu- 
 ally reappearing beneath the Marchesa of an 
 hour. She was willing to purchase peace of mind, 
 but she was like the sordid miser who, having 
 yielded to the temptation of gratifying some 
 desire, allowed the price of his enjojmient to 
 escape painfully from between his tightly-clasped 
 fingers, trjang the while to keep back as much 
 
Flight 459 
 
 as jJossible behind his nails. At another time 
 Franco's wrath would have burst forth, he would 
 have rejected that forgiveness angrily, but now, 
 with his sweet Maria in his heart, he could not feel 
 thus. He had however noticed that his grand- 
 mother had proffered her forgiveness to him alone. 
 This was too much ; he could not pass this over. 
 
 "My wife, my wife's tmcle, and I myself have 
 suffered much beside this last bereavement," 
 said he, " and now we have lost our only comfort. 
 Uncle Ribera I leave out of the question; you, I 
 myself, all must bow before him, but if my wife 
 and I have sinned against you, let us make for- 
 giveness mutual." 
 
 This was a bitter pill, but the Marchesa swal- 
 lowed it in silence. Although she no longer saw 
 death at her bedside, her heart still trembled with 
 the terror inspired by the apparition, and by 
 certain words the prefect had spoken on hearing 
 her confession. "I shall make a will," she said, 
 " and I wish you to know that the whole Maironi 
 property will go to you." 
 
 Ah, Marchesa, Marchesa! Poor, icy creature! 
 Did she believe she could purchase peace at this 
 price? In this the prefect also had blundered, for 
 it was he who had advised her to make this de- 
 claration to her grandson, kind, honest man that 
 he was, but entirely without tact, and incapable 
 of understanding Franco's lofty soul. The idea 
 that she might think he had been prompted by 
 sordid motives to come to her, was intolerable to 
 
460 The Patriot 
 
 Franco. "No, no!" he exclaimed, qtiivering, 
 and fearing his hot temper would get the better 
 of him after all. "No, no! Don't leave me any- 
 thing. It wiU. be qtiite enough if you will allow 
 the interest on my own money to be paid at Oria. 
 Grandmother, you must leave the Maironi prop- 
 erty to the Ospitale Maggiore. I fear my an- 
 cestors did very wrong to Tceep it." 
 
 His grandmother had not time to answer, for 
 there came a knock at the door. The prefect 
 entered, and offering as an excuse that he wotild 
 tire the invalid, persuaded Franco to say good- 
 bye. " You mxist make haste, ' ' said he, when they 
 were outside. "You have done more than your 
 duty here. Too many people are now aware of 
 your presence, and the gendarmes may appear 
 at any moment. I have arranged everything 
 with Aliprandi. He considers a consultation 
 necessary for the Marchesa, and will take the 
 Villa Maironi gondola and go to Lugano for a 
 doctor. The two boatmen will be Carlo and your- 
 self. There are those oil-cloth cloaks with hoods. 
 Put on one of those and remain in the stem. Now 
 we must shave off that pointed beard of yours, 
 and then with the hood drawn over your head, 
 no one will possibly be able to recognise you. 
 You will be perfectly safe. Perhaps you may 
 not even be obliged to put in at the customs- 
 house. At any rate, they will not recognise you. 
 If there is any talking to be done. Carlo can do it." 
 
 The idea was good. The Marchesa's gondola 
 
Flight 461 
 
 was always looked upon by the agents of Austria 
 with the greatest respect; as if it were carrying 
 an egg of the double-headed eagle. Even when 
 returning from Lugano it was made to stop at the 
 customs-house simply pro forma. 
 
 It was past eight o'clock when the gondola 
 left the boathouse. From the lofty summits the 
 mist had descended upon the lake, and it was 
 raining. Sad, sad day! Sad, sad journey! 
 Neither Franco, the servant, nor Aliprandi spoke 
 a word. They passed S. Mamette and Casarico, 
 and then, amidst the mist beyond the olives of 
 Maine, the white walls of Maria's resting-place 
 appeared. Franco's eyes filled with tears. " No, 
 dear," he thought; "no, love; no, my life, you 
 are not there ; and I thank my God, who tells me 
 not to believe this horrid thing!" A few strokes 
 more and there was the little house of happy days, 
 of bitter hotirs, of misfortune ; there was the win- 
 dow of the room where Luisa was giving herself 
 up to black grief, the loggia where, henceforth, 
 poor old Uncle Piero would spend his days alone, 
 that just man who was going down to the grave 
 in silence, in tribulation, in weariness. Franco 
 longed to know what had happened after his de- 
 parture; if the police had worried Uncle Piero 
 and Luisa. In vain he strained his eyes: no 
 living being was to be seen either on the terrace, 
 in the little garden, or at the windows of the 
 loggia. All was silent, all was calm. He stopped 
 rowingr searching for some sign of life. Dr. 
 
462 The Patriot 
 
 Aliprandi opened the door of the felze * and 
 begged him to resiime his rowing, begged him not 
 betray himself. At that moment Leu came to 
 the parapet of the little garden, with a jug in her 
 hand; she glanced at the gondola and then en- 
 tered the loggia. Uncle Piero must be in the 
 loggia, and they were taking him the customary 
 glass of milk, so probably nothing had happened. 
 Franco once more began to row, and Dr. Aliprandi 
 closed the door. They glided past the little gar- 
 den, past the other houses of Oria, and the gon- 
 dola turned towards the landing-stage of the 
 customs-house. 
 
 Bianconi, sitting under an -umbrella and fishing 
 for tench, spied the gondola, and, dropping his 
 pole, came forward to pay his respects to the 
 Marchesa. But he found Dr. Aliprandi instead, 
 who so upset him by his alarming account of the 
 lady that he felt called upon to summon his 
 Peppina and impart the news to her; and Pep- 
 pina, poor woman, was obliged to act a little 
 comedy of affliction uuder her Carlascia's um- 
 brella. Both husband and wife exhorted Ali- 
 prandi to make haste, to return quickly. The 
 big mastiff gave him permission to cross directly 
 from Gandria to Cressogno on the way back. 
 Then the doctor turned to Franco, and gave the 
 order to proceed. Franco had listened to the 
 
 * Felze: the cover which is placed upon gondolas in win- 
 ter or in bad weather. It forms a tiny cabin. [Transla- 
 tor's note.] 
 
Flight 463 
 
 conversation standing motionless, his hands clasp- 
 ing his oar, and hoping to hear something about 
 his friends or his family. But no word was 
 breathed concerning either police, arrests, or 
 flights, and Casa Ribera might have been in 
 China. The gondola backed slowly away from the 
 landing-stage, turned its prow towards Gandria, 
 gliding ever further and further away until it had 
 slipped across the frontier, and vanished in the 
 mist. 
 
 On reaching the Lugano shore. Dr. Aliprandi 
 opened the door, and called Franco into the little 
 cabin. Their acquaintance was only slight, but 
 they embraced like brothers. "When the can- 
 nonading begins I shall be there also," Aliprandi 
 said. 
 
 They must say good-bye here, and Franco must 
 go ashore first and alone, for Lugano was full 
 of spies and the doctor must also be cautious. 
 Besides, Aliprandi was in no hurry. He was 
 more anxious to find a boatman than a physician. 
 Franco drew his hood over his eyes, stepped ashore 
 and went directly to the Albergo della Corona. 
 
 Some hours later, when the gondola had started 
 homewards, he went out in search of some one 
 from Valsolda who might give him news, and 
 directed his steps towards the Fontana pharmacy. 
 Under the arcades he met his two friends, who 
 had just left the pharmacy. They fell upon his 
 
464 The Patriot 
 
 neck, and wept with emotion. They also had 
 been in search of news, and at the pharmacy they 
 had heard that Franco had been arrested. What 
 joy to find him here, and to feel they were stand- 
 ing on free soil! 
 
Part III 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE SAGE SPEAKS 
 
 "^"O less than three springs had come and gone 
 since the autumn of 1855 without bringing 
 to the banks of the Ticino that mustering of armies 
 and of banners that the Italians had expected. In 
 February, 1859, all were convinced that a fourth 
 spring could not pass thus. Great events, duly 
 pre-announced by a splendid comet, were ap- 
 proaching. The old world was quivering and 
 creaking inwardly, as does a frozen river on the 
 eve of a thaw. That deadly cold and awftil silence 
 which had lasted ten years, was about to dis- 
 appear, to be swept away amidst the clamour of 
 strife and destruction, by new currents, warm 
 and brilliant. Carlascia was playing the braggart, 
 and would talk to his guards (who made no com- 
 ments) of an impending military expedition to 
 Turin. Signor Puttini had never entirely re- 
 covered from the shock he had received on that 
 memorable morning; and the lawyer's treachery, 
 the tragic end of the top-hat, the comic end of the 
 tail-coat, had deeply affected him, and he had lost 
 
 465 
 
466 The Patriot 
 
 all respect for patriots. Dr. Aliprandi was al- 
 ready in Piedmont. A veteran subaltern of the 
 army of Napoleon, who lived in Puria, was secretly 
 furbishing up his old uniform, with the intention 
 of presenting himself before the French Emperor 
 when he should enter Italy. Whenever Intrioni, 
 the curate of Castello, met Don Giuseppe Costa- 
 barbieri, he would remind him of a certain rhyme 
 of 1796 which he, Don Giuseppe, had gone about 
 repeating in 1848, but which he had soon hidden 
 away again. 
 
 The mighty Ulans 
 Came here from Hungary, 
 But the Frenchman's arms 
 Made them all promptly flee! 
 
 Don Giuseppe, greatly alarmed, would cry: 
 "Hush! Hush!" 
 
 Meanwhile the violets continued to grow as 
 peacefully on the slopes of Valsolda as if nothing 
 were happening. On the evening of the twentieth 
 of February, Luisa carried a bunch to the cemetery. 
 She was still in mourning. Pallid and emaciated, 
 her eyes had become larger, and there were many 
 silver threads in her hair. She seemed to have 
 grown twenty years older since her bereavement. 
 Upon leaving the cemetery she turned towards 
 Albogasio, and joined some women from Oria, 
 who were going to recite the Rosary in the parish 
 church. She no longer seemed the same dark 
 phantom that had laid- the violets on Maria's 
 grave. She talked calmly, almost gaily, first 
 
The Sage Speaks 467 
 
 with one, then with another of the women ; in- 
 quired after a sick animal, praised and caressed a 
 Kttle girl who was going to the Rosary with her 
 grandmother, and told her to sit very still in 
 chtirch, as her Maria had always done. She 
 said this and mentioned Maria very quietly, but 
 the women shuddered and were filled with aston- 
 ishment, for Ltiisa herself never went to church 
 now. She asked one of the girls if the young men 
 were going to act a play as usual, and if her brother 
 was to take part. Upon receiving an answer in 
 the affirmative she offered to help with the cos- 
 tumes. She left the others on the church-place 
 of the Annunciata, and as she went down the 
 Calcinera alone her face once more resumed its 
 spectral appearance. 
 
 She was on her way to Casarico to see the Gi- 
 lardonis, who had been married three years. The 
 professor's happiness and his adoration of Ester 
 would deserve to be told in verse! Uncle Piero 
 said of him that he had grown feeble-minded. 
 Ester feared he might become ridiculous, and 
 would not allow him to assume certain ecstatic 
 poses before her when there was any one present. 
 The only person in whose presence she did not 
 insist upon the observance of this rule was Ltiisa. 
 But Gilardoni always showed the greatest de- 
 ference for Luisa; to him she was still a super- 
 human being; to his respect for the woman herself 
 had been added his respect for her grief, and in her 
 presence his behaviour was always most circum- 
 
468 The Patriot 
 
 spect. Luisa had been going to Casa Gilardoni 
 almost every evening for about two years now, 
 and if anything could have troubled the couple's 
 happiness it would have been these visits. 
 
 Indeed, their motive was a strange one, and one 
 repugnant to Ester, but Ester's affection for her 
 friend, and her pity for her bereavement, were so 
 great, while her heart was so full of remorse for 
 not having looked after Maria more carefully on 
 that terrible day, that she did not dare to reso- 
 lutely oppose her wishes, or dissuade her husband 
 from gratifying them. She expressed her dis- 
 approval to Luisa, and begged her at least to 
 maintain secrecy concerning the nightly doings in 
 the professor's study, but she went no ftorther. 
 The professor, on the contrary, would have en- 
 joyed these stances had it not been for his wife's 
 disapproval. It was already dark when Luisa 
 rang the bell at the little door of Casa Gilardoni. 
 Ester herself opened it. Luisa did not return her 
 greeting, which she felt was full of embarrass- 
 ment. She simply looked at her, but when they 
 reached the little parlour on the grotind-fioor 
 where Ester was in the habit of spending her 
 evenings, she embraced her so passionately that 
 Ester burst into tears . ' ' Have patience with me ! ' 
 Luisa said. "It is all that is left me!" Ester 
 tried to comfort her, telling her that happier times 
 were coming for her ; that she and Franco would 
 soon be reunited. In a few months Lombardy 
 would be free, and Franco wovild come home. 
 
The Sage Speaks 469 
 
 And then— and then— so many things might hap- 
 pen ! Perhaps Maria might return ! Luisa started 
 violently and caught her friend's hands. "No!" 
 she cried. "Do not say such things! Never! 
 Never ! I am all hers ! I belong to Maria alone ! ' ' 
 Ester could not answer, for at that point the 
 smiling professor came bustling into the room. 
 He saw that his wife's eyes were wet with tears 
 and that Luisa was greatly excited. He greeted 
 her very quietly and sat down in silence beside 
 Ester, in the belief that they had been discussing 
 the usual subject, which was so painful to his wife. 
 She wotild have liked to send him away and re- 
 sume her conversation with Luisa, but did not 
 venture to do so. Luisa was shuddering at that 
 -spectre of future danger which wotild sometimes 
 stand vaguely outlined before her mind's eye, 
 but which she had always banished with horror, 
 never pausing to examine it, and which now, 
 evoked by her friend's words, rose before her, 
 naked and distinct. After a long and painful 
 silence Ester sighed, and said in a low voice: 
 "You may go if you like. Go, both of you." 
 Luisa, moved by an impulse of gratitude, fell 
 on her knees before her friend and biiried her face 
 in her lap. "You know," she said, "I no longer 
 Relieve in God. At first I thought there must be 
 a cruel God, but now I do not believe in the ex- 
 istence of any God. But if a loving God, such as 
 He in whom you beheve, did really, surely exist, 
 He wotild not condemn a poor mother who has 
 
470 The Patriot 
 
 lost her only child, and who is struggling to per- 
 suade herself that a part of that child still lives! " 
 Ester made no reply. Almost every night for 
 two years Luisa and her husband had evoked the 
 spirit of the dead child. Professor Gilardoni, in 
 whom there was a strange mingling of the free- 
 thinker and the mystic, had read with great inter- 
 est the marvellous tales that were told concerning 
 the Fox sisters — ^Americans — ^and the experiments 
 of Eliphas Levi, and had closely followed the 
 spiritualistic movement which had spread rapidly 
 in Europe, in the form of a mania that upset both 
 heads and tables. He had spoken to Luisa about 
 this movement, and Luisa, possessed and blinded 
 by the idea that she might ascertain if her child 
 did still exist, in which case she might in some 
 way be able to commtinicate with her, seeing 
 nothing else in all the marvellous facts and strange 
 theories save this one luminous point, had be- 
 sought him to make some experiments with Ester 
 and herself. Ester believed in nothing super- 
 natural outside the doctrines of Christianity, and 
 did not, therefore, take the matter seriously. She 
 willingly consented to place her hands on a small 
 table, in the company of her friend and her hus- 
 band, who, on the contrary, exhibited great zeal, 
 and had faith in their chances of success. The 
 first experiments were disappointing. Ester, who 
 found them tedious, would have liked to dis- 
 continue the attempts, but one evening, after 
 twenty minutes of waiting, tlie little table tipped 
 
The Sage Speaks 471 
 
 to one side, Ufted a leg in the air, righted itself, 
 and then tipped again, to Ester's great chagrin, 
 but to the great joy of Luisa and the professor! 
 The next night five minutes sufficed to make the 
 table move. The professor taught them the alpha- 
 bet, and then tried to summon a spirit. The table 
 responded, knocking with its leg upon the floor 
 according to the alphabet that had been ar- 
 ranged. The spirit evoked gave its name: Van 
 Helmont. Ester was frightened and trembled 
 like a leaf ; the professor was trembling also, but 
 with excitement. He wished to tell Van Helmont 
 that he had his works in his library, but Luisa 
 besought him to inquire where Maria was. Van 
 Helmont answered: "Near!" Then Ester rose, 
 as pale as a ghost, protesting that she wotild not 
 continue, and neither Luisa 's tears nor entreaties 
 could move her. It was sinful, sinful! Ester's 
 religious sense was not deep, but she had a whole- 
 some fear of hell and the devil. For some time 
 it had been impossible to resume the s^nces — 
 she had a horror of them, and her husband did 
 not venture to oppose her wishes. It was Luisa 
 who, by dint of prayers and entreaties, at last 
 obtained a compromise. The stances were re- 
 stmied, but Ester took no part in them. 
 
 She did not even wish to know what took place. 
 Only, whenever her husband seemed worried or 
 preoccupied, she would throw out an uneasy 
 allusion to the secret dealings in the study. Then 
 he would be troubled, and ofifer to desist, but 
 
472 The Patriot 
 
 Ester had not the courage to face Luisa. For 
 she had discovered indirectly that Liiisa really 
 believed she held communication with the child's 
 spirit. Once she had said: "I shall not come 
 to-morrow night because Maria does not wish it." 
 At another time she had said: "I am going up 
 to Looch because Maria wants a flower from her 
 grandmother's grave. ' ' To Ester it seemed incred- 
 ible that a head so clear and strong could be thus 
 deluded. At the same time she realised the ex- 
 treme difficulty of convincing her by gentle means, 
 and all the cruelty of using harsh measures with 
 her. 
 
 The professor lit a candle and went upstairs to 
 the study, followed by Luisa. We are acquainted 
 with this study that was like a ship's cabin, its 
 shelves filled with books, its little fireplace, its 
 windows overlooking the lake and the armchair 
 in which Maria had gone to sleep one Christmas 
 Eve. The room now contained something else. 
 Between the fireplace and the window stood a 
 small round table, with one central leg only, that 
 branched out into three feet, about a hand's 
 breadth from the fioor. 
 
 "I am very sorry to cause Ester so much pain, ' ' 
 said the professor as they entered the room. He 
 placed the light on the writing-desk, but instead 
 of preparing the little table and the chairs as usual 
 he went to look out of the window at the pale 
 light on the water and in the sky, amidst the 
 surrounding shadows of night. Luisa stood mo- 
 
The Sage Speaks 473 
 
 tionless, and suddenly he faced about as if some 
 magnetism had revealed her anguish to him. 
 He saw appalling anguish on her face, and tmder- 
 stood that she believed he had made up his mind 
 to stop the s6ances, whereas he had only been 
 tempted to do so, and, greatly moved, he seized 
 her hands, telUng her that Ester was good, that 
 she loved her so much, that neither he nor she 
 would ever willingly cause her suffering. Luisa 
 did not answer, but the professor had all he could 
 do to prevent her kissing his hand. While he was 
 arranging the Uttle table and the two chairs in the 
 centre of the floor, she sank into the armchair, 
 in a state of great depression. 
 
 "There!" said the professor. 
 
 Drawing a letter from her pocket Luisa handed 
 it to him. 
 
 "I need Maria and you so much to-night," 
 said she. " Read that. It is from Franco. You 
 can begin with the fourth page." The prof essor 
 did not hear these last words, but going to the 
 light, began to read aloud: 
 
 "Tvuin, February 18, 1859. 
 " My OWN Luisa, — 
 
 " Do you know you have not written to me for 
 a fortnight!" 
 
 "You can skip that," said Luisa, but at once 
 corrected herself. " No, perhaps you had better 
 read it." The professor continued. 
 
 "This is my third letter to you since yours of 
 
474 The Patriot 
 
 the sixth. Perhaps I was too violent in my firist 
 letter, and wounded you. What a temper is this 
 of mine, that makes me speak, and sometimes 
 even write such harsh words when my blood is up! 
 And what blood is this of mine that at two-and- 
 thirty is as quick to boil as at two-and-twenty! 
 Forgive me, Luisa, and permit me to return to the 
 subject, and take back those words that may 
 have offended you. 
 
 "At present there is no more talk here either 
 of tables or of spirits, but only of diplomacy and 
 war; in former years, however, spiritualism was 
 very widely discussed, and several persons I both 
 respect and esteem believed in it. I knew pos- 
 tively that many among them were simply deluded 
 but I never doubted their good faith when they 
 told me of conversations they had had with spirits. 
 It would indeed seem that our imagination, when 
 inflamed, can make us see and hear things that 
 do not really exist. But I am willing to admit 
 that in your case you are not deceived by your 
 imagination ; that your little table does really move 
 and express itself exactly as you say. I was 
 wrong to doubt this — I confess it — ^in the first place 
 because you are so sure of not being mistaken, and 
 secondly, because I am well aware of Professor 
 Gilardoni's honesty. But to me this is a question 
 of sentiment. I know that my sweet Maria lives 
 with God, and I cherish the hope that some time 
 I, with other souls dear to me, may go where she 
 is. If she should appear before me unbidden, if. 
 
The Sage Speaks 475 
 
 without having summoned her, I should hear the 
 sound of her voice, clear and distinct, perhaps 
 I should not be able to bear such joy. But I 
 could never summon her, never force her to come 
 to me. The thought is repugnant to me; it is 
 contrary to that sense of veneration I feel for a 
 Being who is so much nearer God than I am. 
 Dear Luisa, I also speak to our treasure every day, 
 speak to her of myself and of you as well ; I am 
 convinced that she sees us, that she loves us, that 
 she can still do much for us even in this life. How 
 I wish that your intercourse with her might be of 
 the same nature! If, in answering your letter 
 in which you allude to a communication from her 
 I expressed myself too harshly, forgive me, not 
 only in consideration of my hasty temper, but still 
 more in consideration of my sentiments, which are 
 indeed a part of my nature. 
 
 "Forgive me also in consideration of the atmos- 
 phere of intense excitement in which I am living 
 here. My throat is perfectly well. Since war 
 has been talked of, I have cast aside both camphor 
 and sedative waters, but my nerves are in a state 
 of such extraordinary tension that it seems as if, 
 were they touched, sparks must fiy from them. 
 All this is partly due to the amount of work to be 
 accomplished at the Home Office, where it is no 
 longer a question of regular hours, but where 
 even the humblest secretary, if he be conscien- 
 tious, must strain every muscle. When I first 
 obtained this position through the kindness o; 
 
476 The Patriot 
 
 Coimt Cavour, I felt I was not really earning the 
 bread the government gave me. This is no longer 
 the case, but I am about to withdraw from this 
 field of strenuous labour; and this brings me to 
 another topic, to something I have long had in my 
 heart, and which I now impart to you with feelings 
 of indescribable emotion. 
 
 " In a week my friends and I are going to enlist 
 in the army as voltinteers, for the duration of the 
 coming campaign. We are entering the ninth 
 infantry regiment, stationed in Turin. Here at 
 the Home Office they would like to keep me some 
 time longer, but I intend to become familiar with 
 my duties in the regiment before the campaign 
 opens, and I have therefore simply promised not 
 to leave the Office until the day before we enlist. 
 
 "Luisa, we have not seen each other for three 
 years and almost five months ! It is true you are 
 under police surveillance, and that you may not 
 go to Lugano, but I have several times proposed 
 means to you of meeting me, at least at the fron- 
 tier, or on the mountains, and you have never 
 even answered. I believed I knew why. It 
 was because you could not tear yotir^elf away 
 even for a short time, from a certain sacred spot. 
 This seemed too much, and I confess I had many 
 bitter feelings. Then I reproached myself, I felt 
 I was selfish, and I forgave you. Now, Luisa, 
 circtunstances have changed. I have no fore- 
 bodings of evil; indeed, it seems impossible that 
 I should be destined to end my days on a battle- 
 
The Sage Speaks 477 
 
 field, nevertheless this is not impossible. I am 
 going to take part in a war that promises to be 6ne 
 of the greatest, one of the longest and most desper- 
 ate, for if Austria is risking her Italian provinces, 
 we, and perhaps Emperor Napoleon as well, ate 
 risking everything. It is said we shall spend 
 next winter beneath the walls of Verona. Luisa, 
 I cannot run the risk of dying without seeing you 
 once more. I shall have only twenty-four hours, 
 I cannot come to the frontier or to Lugano, and 
 I should not be satisfied to spend ten minutes with 
 you. Ask Ismaele to get you to Lugano in some 
 way on the morning of the twenty-fifth of this 
 month. Leave Lugano in time to reach Magadino 
 at one o'clock, for you cannot go by way of Luino. 
 At Magadino you must take the boat that leaves 
 at about half-past one. At four or thereabouts 
 you will reach Isola Bella, where I shall arrive at 
 about the same hour from Arona. At this time 
 of year Isola Bella is a desert. We can spend the 
 evening together, and in the morning you will 
 leave for Oria, I for Turin. 
 
 " I am writing to Uncle Piero to ask his forgiveness 
 for depriving him of your company for one day. 
 
 "I do not apprehend any danger. The Aus- 
 trians are thinking only of their arms, and their 
 police are letting thousands of young men escape 
 them, young men who come here to take up 
 arms. The Austrians would be terrible the day 
 after a victory, but, God willing! that day shall 
 never dawn for them. 
 
478 The Patriot 
 
 " Luisa, can it be possible I shall not find you at 
 Isola Bella, that you may think you are pleasing 
 Maria by not coming? But don't you know that 
 if some one had said to my Maria, to my poor little 
 darling — ^run and say good-bye to your papa, who 
 is perhaps going away to die — how fast " 
 
 The reader's voice trembled, broke, and was 
 lost in a sob. Ltiisa hid her face in her hands. He 
 placed the letter on her knees, saying with diffi- 
 culty: "Donna Luisa, can you hesitate?" 
 
 "I am wicked," Luisa murmured. "I am 
 mad!" 
 
 "But do you not love him?" 
 
 "Sometimes I think I love him very much, at 
 other times not at all." 
 
 "My God!" the professor exclaimed. "But 
 now? Are you not moved by the thought that 
 you may never see him again?" 
 
 Luisa was silent, she seemed to be crying. 
 Suddenly she started to her feet, pressing her 
 hands to her temples, and fixed her eyes on the 
 professor's face, eyes in which there were no tears, 
 but in which there shone a sinister and angry 
 light. "You don't know," she cried, "what 
 there is here in my head! What a mass of con- 
 tradictions, how many opposite thoughts that 
 are struggling together, and always changing 
 places with each other! When I received the let- 
 ter I cried bitterly, and said to myself. 'Yes, my 
 poor Franco, this time I will go!' — ^And then there 
 came a voice that spoke here in my forehead, and 
 
The Sage Speaks 479 
 
 said: 'No, you must not go because — ^because — 
 because '" 
 
 She ceased speaking, and the professor, terrified 
 by .the flashes of madness he saw in those eyes 
 that were fixed on his, did not dare to ask for an 
 explanation. The eyes, which still stared into 
 his, gradually softened and became veiled with 
 tears. Luisa took his hands, and said gently, 
 timidly: "Let us ask Maria." 
 
 They sat down at the table and placed their 
 hands upon it. The professor sat with his back 
 to the light, which fell ftdl upon Luisa's face. The 
 little table was in the shadow. After eleven minutes 
 of profound silence, the professor murmured: 
 
 " It is beginning to move." 
 
 In fact the table was gradually leaning over to 
 one side. Presently it righted itself, and knocked 
 once, lightly. Luisa's face brightened. 
 
 " Who are you? " said the professor. " Answer 
 with the usual alphabet." 
 
 There came seventeen, then fourteen, then 
 eighteen knocks, and then one alone. "Rosa," 
 said the professor softly. Rosa was a little sister 
 of his wife's who had died in infancy, and the 
 table had knocked out this name on several pre- 
 vious occasions. "Go away," said Gilardoni. 
 "Send Maria to us." 
 
 The table soon began to move again, and 
 knocked out the words: 
 
 "It is I, Maria!" 
 
 "Maria, Maria, my own Maria!" whispered 
 
48o The Patriot 
 
 Luisa, her face assuming an expression of intense 
 joy. 
 
 " Do you know the contents of the letter your 
 father has written to your mother?" Gilardoni 
 inquired. 
 
 The table answered : 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What is your mother to do? " 
 
 Luisa was trembling from head to foot in anx- 
 ious suspense. The table did not move. 
 
 "Answer," said the professor. 
 
 This time the table moved, but knocked out 
 only an incomprehensible confusion of letters. 
 
 "We do not understand. Repeat." 
 
 The little table did not move again. " Repeat, 
 [ tell you ! " said the professor, rather 
 sharply. 
 
 "No, no!" begged Luisa. "Don't insist. 
 Maria does not wish to answer." But the pro- 
 fessor was bound to insist. " It is not admissible 
 that a spirit should not answer. You know very 
 well we have often before been unable to under- 
 stand what they said." 
 
 Luisa rose, greatly agitated, saying that rather 
 than force Maria she should prefer to cut the 
 s6ance short. The professor remained seated, 
 lost in thought. " Hush! " said he at last. 
 
 The table moved and once more began to 
 knock. 
 
 "Yes!" exclaimed Gilardoni, his face radiant. 
 "I inquired mentally if you should go, and the 
 
The Sage Speaks 481 
 
 table has answered 'yes.' Now you yourself 
 must ask aloud." 
 
 Five or six minutes passed before the table 
 began to move. In answer to Luisa's question: 
 "Shall I go?" there came first thirteen, then 
 fourteen knocks. The answer was "no," 
 
 The professor turned pale, and Luisa questioned 
 him with her eyes. He was silent for some time, 
 and then said with a sigh: 
 
 "Perhaps it was not Maria. Perhaps it was 
 a lying spirit." 
 
 "And how can we find out?" Luisa inquired 
 anxiously. 
 
 " We cannot find out. It is impossible." 
 "Then how about the other communications? 
 Is there never any certainty?" 
 "Never." 
 
 She lapsed into terrified silence. Then pres- 
 ently she murmured: "It was bound to end 
 thus. This also was to be taken from me." 
 She rested her forehead upon the table. The 
 candle light fell upon her hair, upon her arms and 
 hands. She was motionless, nothing moved in 
 the room save the little flickering flame of the 
 candle. Another little flame, the last light of 
 hope and of comfort, was dying out in this poor 
 head which had gone down before the onslaught 
 of a bitter and invincible doubt. What could 
 Gilardoni do or say? He saw that Ester's wish 
 would soon be gratified, but not by his means. 
 Three or four minutes later they heard Ester's 
 
482 The Patriot 
 
 voice, and steps on the floor below. Luisa 
 rose slowly. 
 
 "Let us go," said she. 
 
 "Perhaps we shotdd pray," Gilardoni observed 
 without rising. "Perhaps we shotdd ask the 
 spirits if they confess Christ." 
 
 "No, no, no!" Luisa exclaimed in an under- 
 tone, at the same time protesting with a hostile 
 gesture. The professor silently took up the 
 candle. 
 
 On her way back to Oria Luisa went up to the 
 gate of the cemetery. Resting her forehead 
 against it she sent a stifled good-bye towards 
 Maria's grave, then she went down the hill again. 
 On reaching the church-place she crossed over to 
 the parapet and gazed down upon the lake sleep- 
 ing in the shadow. She stood there some time, 
 letting her thoughts roam at will. Placing her 
 elbows on the parapet, she leaned forward and 
 rested her face upon her hands, stiU gazing at the 
 water, the water that had taken Maria. Her 
 thoughts were beginning to take a definite shape, 
 not within her, but down there in the water. 
 She contemplated this shape. To die, to end it 
 all! She was familiar with the thought, she had 
 seen it once before when gazing into the water 
 thus, long aTO, before the experiments with the 
 professor began. After that it had disappeared- 
 But now it had returned again. It was a sweet 
 and merciful thought, full of rest, of self-surren- 
 
The Sage Speaks 483 
 
 der, and of peace. It was good to gaze upon it 
 now that her faith in the spirits was gone also. 
 To die, to end it all! On that former occasion the 
 image of her old uncle had been strong in helping 
 to dispel the fascination. Now it was not so 
 strong. Since Maria's death Uncle Piero had 
 lapsed into a state of almost complete silence 
 which Ltiisa believed to be the beginning of the 
 apathy of old age. She did not understand that 
 in the old man's soul profound disapproval was 
 mingled with grief, nor did she understand how 
 great was his aversion to these daily and repeated 
 visits to the cemetery, the flowers, the mysterious 
 journeys to Casarico, and above all, how he re- 
 gretted her complete abandonment of the church. 
 If she had not been so engrossed in her dead child 
 she might have understood her uncle better, at 
 least on this last point, the church, for now the 
 silent old man himself went to Mass oftener than 
 before, his heart returning to the religion of his 
 father and mother, which, heretofore, he had 
 practised coldly, from habit, and out of respect 
 for family traditions. It seemed to Luisa that he 
 had grown very dull, and that if only his personal 
 needs were attended to, he would be quite content. 
 Cia was there to attend to his comforts, and the 
 means that had sufficed for three would be more 
 than sufficient for two. Luisa thought she saw 
 the water rise a hand's breadth. And Franco? 
 Franco would be in despair, would mourn for. a 
 few years, and then he would be happier than ever. 
 
484 The Patriot 
 
 Franco knew the secret of speedy consolation. 
 The water seemed to rise another hand's breadth. 
 
 At the same moment in which she had ap- 
 proached the parapet, Franco, passing the church 
 of S. Francesco di Paolo in Via di Po, had seen 
 lights and heard the organ. He went in. Hardly- 
 had he said a short prayer when the one dominant 
 thought took possession of him once more; the 
 sound of the organ became the noise of trumpets 
 and drums, the clash of arms ; and while a hymn 
 of peace was rising from the altar, he, in imagina- 
 tion, was furiously charging the enemy. Sud- 
 denly he saw before his mind's eye the image of 
 Luisa, pale, and dressed in mourning. He began 
 to think of her, to pray for her with intense 
 fervour. 
 
 Then, standing there on the church-place of 
 Oria, she turned cold and was filled with dread, 
 while the tempting thought gradually vanished. 
 She tried to recall it, but could not. The water 
 subsided. An inward voice said to her : " What 
 if the professor be mistaken? What if it be not 
 true that the table answered first yes and then no? ' 
 what if it be not true about the lying spirits?" 
 She drew back from the parapet, and with slow 
 steps, went up to her house. 
 
 She found her uncle in the kitchen sitting in the 
 chimney-comer, the tongs in his hand, and his 
 glass of milk beside him. Cia and Leu were 
 sewing. 
 
 "Well," said Uncle Piero, "I have been to the 
 
The Sage Speaks 485 
 
 Custom-House. The Receiver is in bed with the 
 jaundice, but I spoke with the Sedentario." 
 
 "What about, uncle?" 
 
 "About Lugano. About your journey to Lu- 
 gano on the twenty-fifth. He has promised to 
 close an eye and let you pass." 
 
 Luisa was silent, and stood thoughtfully watch- 
 ing the fire. Presently she gave Leu some orders 
 for the next day, and then begged her uncle to 
 come into the parlour with her. 
 
 "What for?" said he, with his habitual sim- 
 plicity, " You can't have any great secrets to tell. 
 Let us stay here where the fire is." 
 
 Cia lit a candle. " We will go out," said she. 
 
 The uncle made his usual grimace, expressive of 
 compassion for the weaknesses of others, but 
 remained silent. Draining his glass of milk, he 
 passed it to Ltiisa. She took the glass, and said 
 softly : ". I have not decided yet." 
 
 "What?" the uncle exclaimed sharply. "What 
 is it you have not decided?" 
 
 "Whether I shall go to Isola Bella." 
 
 "Now what the deuce ?" 
 
 Uncle Piero was utterly incapable of grasping 
 such a thing as this. 
 
 "And why should you not go?" 
 
 She answered calmly, and as if stating a per- 
 fectly obvious fact : 
 
 " I am afraid I shall not be able to leave Maria." 
 
 "Oh, come now!" Uncle Piero exclaimed. 
 "Sit down over there," and he pointed to a bench 
 
486 The Patriot 
 
 in the chimney-corner opposite him. Then he 
 said, in that serious, honest voice of his, which 
 seemed to come from his heart : 
 
 "My dear Luisa, you have lost your bearings!" 
 
 And raising his arms, he uttered a long "Ah!" 
 and then let them fall upon his knees once more. 
 
 "Lost your bearings completely!" he repeated. 
 He sat silent for a time, his head bent, while 
 behind his pursed lips there was the rumbling of 
 words in course of formation, which presently 
 burst forth. 
 
 "I would never have believed it! It does not 
 seem possible! But when," and here he raised his 
 head and looked Ltiisa straight in the face, " but 
 when we once begin to lose our bearings it is all 
 up with us. And you, my dear, began to lose 
 yours a long time ago." 
 
 Luisa shuddered. 
 
 "Yes indeed!" Uncle Piero cried in a loud 
 voice. " You began losing yours a long time ago. 
 And now this is what I wish to say to you. Listen. 
 My mother lost children, yotir mother lost children, 
 I have seen many mothers lose children, but not 
 one of them acted as you act. What can you ex- 
 pect? We are all mortal, and must adapt ourselves 
 to our circumstances. Other mothers become 
 resigned, but you do not. And this running two, 
 three, and even four times a day to the cemetery \ 
 And the flowers, and I know not what all besides! 
 Oh, dear me ! And all that foolishness at Casarico 
 with that other poor imbecile, which you think 
 
The Sage Speaks 487 
 
 is such a secret, while every one is talking of it, 
 even Cia. Oh, dear me!" 
 
 "No, tincle," said Lmsa, sadly but calmly. 
 " Don't talk of these things. You cannot under- 
 stand them." 
 
 "Exactly!" the tmcle retorted with all the 
 irony of which he was capable. " I cannot under- 
 stand! But there is something else. You no 
 longer go to church. I have never mentioned 
 this to you because I have always made it a rule 
 to let people do as they like, but when I see you 
 losing your good sense, losing your common-sense 
 even, the least I can do is to remind you that this 
 is all you do by turning your back on the Almighty. 
 And now this idea of not going to see your hus- 
 band, under similar circtimstances ! It is past 
 belief. Well, well," he said after a short pause, 
 " I will go myself." 
 
 "You?" Luisa exclaimed. 
 
 "Why not? Yes, I. I had intended to accom- 
 pany you, but if you will not go I must take the 
 journey alone. I will go and tell your husband 
 that you have lost your head, and that I hope I 
 may soon be called to join poor Maria. ' ' 
 
 No one had ever heard such bitter words from 
 Uncle Piero's lips. Perhaps it was for that reason, 
 perhaps it was the authority of the man, perhaps 
 it was Maria's name pronounced in that way, but 
 at any rate Ltdsa was conquered. 
 
 "Iwillgo," shesaid, "but you must stay here." 
 
 " Most certainly not! " cried Uncle Piero, greatly 
 
488 The Patriot 
 
 pleased. " It is forty years since I saw the islands. 
 I must avail myself of this opportunity. And 
 who knows but what I may enlist in the cavalry? " 
 
 "Well?" said Cia, when the tmcle had gone to 
 bed. " Does my master really intend to go ? For 
 the love of Heaven, don't let him, my dear!" And 
 she told Luisa that two hours before he had rolled 
 his eyes in a strange manner, letting his head sink 
 upon his breast, and when she had called to him 
 he had not answered. Presently he had recovered, 
 and had been provoked at her anxious questions, 
 protesting that he had not been ill, that he had 
 simply felt rather sleepy. Luisa listened to her, 
 standing with her candle in her hand, her eyes 
 glassy, and her attention divided between the 
 words she was hearing and another very different 
 thought, a thought very far removed from Uncle 
 Piero, from the house, from Valsolda. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 THE SUMMONS TO ARMS 
 
 /^N the morning of the twenty-fifth of Feb- 
 ^^ niary, the' day fixed for their journey, 
 Uncle Piero rose at half-past seven, and went to 
 the window. A heavy, white fog hung over the 
 lake, hiding the moiintains so that they appeared 
 only as short black streaks, one on the right, the 
 other on the left, between the lake and the fog. 
 "Alas!" the uncle sighed. He had not finished 
 dressing when Luisa came in, and using the un- 
 pleasant weather as a pretext, once more begged 
 him to remain at home, and let her go alone. Cia 
 was greatly distressed, and had entreated her to 
 urge him not to go, for she knew he had had an 
 attack of giddiness on the twentieth, and that on 
 the twenty-second he had gone to confession with- 
 out mentioning it to any one. Seeing that he was 
 growing impatient, Luisa decided it would be 
 wiser to desist, and let him have his own way. 
 Poor Uncle Piero, he had always enjoyed the best 
 of health, and now he was extremely apprehensive, 
 and the slightest disturbance alarmed him. But 
 he did not feel that Luisa should be allowed to set 
 out alone in her present state of mind, and so he 
 
 489 
 
490 The Patriot 
 
 was going to sacrifice himself for her. He finished 
 dressing and returning to the window called out 
 triumphantly to Luisa, who was in the little 
 garden below. 
 
 " Look up ! " said he. " Look up at the Boglia !" 
 
 High up above Oria through the smoking fog, 
 the pale gold of the sun shining on the mountain 
 could be seen, and stiU higher up all was clear and 
 transparent. 
 
 "Fair weather!" 
 
 Ltiisa did not reply, and the old man came down 
 to the loggia in a cheerful trame of mind, and went 
 out to the terrace to enjoy the magnificent 
 struggle between fog and sun. 
 
 The stretch of water towards the east between 
 the Ca Rotta, the last house of S. Mamette on the 
 left, and the gulf of the Doi on the right, was one 
 immense white sea. The Ca Rotta could just be 
 distingtiished, coming out of the fog like some 
 spectre. At the gulf of the Doi, the narrow black 
 streak of the moimtains began, making a gap 
 between the leaden lake and the fog, which, little 
 by Uttle, was assuming a bluish hue. Vague 
 lights broke in the sky towards Osteno ; at the end 
 of the eastern sea a new brightness trembled, 
 streaks and spots, dark with the breeze, were form- 
 ing ; the eye of the sxm appeared and disappeared 
 among the whirling clouds above Osteno, until at 
 last, growing rapidly larger, it shone forth tri- 
 umphant. The fog fled in all directions in sheets 
 and pufEs, of which many sped past Oria, large 
 
The Summons to Arms 491 
 
 and swift, while others cast themselves upon the 
 shore; but the largest rolled away into the far 
 east, where, behind and above a heavy white 
 curtain, the mountains of the lake of Como rose, 
 glorious in the blue. 
 
 Uncle Piero called Luisa to witness the spectacle, 
 the last splendid scene of the drama, the triumph 
 of the sun, the flight of the mists, the glory of the 
 hills. He admired nature in a simple maimer, 
 without the refinement of the artistic sense, but 
 with youthful ardovir, and with the ring of sincerity 
 in his voice ; his admiration was that of an old man 
 who has lived a life of purity, who has not ex- 
 hausted the freshness of his spirit, who still re- 
 tains a certain simplicity of imagination. " Look, 
 Luisa!" he exclaimed, "we must indeed cry out, 
 'Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy 
 Ghost!'" Luisa did not answer, but went quickly 
 indoors, that she might not see that white en- 
 closure beyond the kitchen-garden that was 
 drawing her so strongly, with its tacit cry of 
 reproach and grief. She had gone there that 
 morning at six o'clock, and had remained an hour, 
 seated on the wet grass. 
 
 The uncle remained on the terrace lost in con- 
 templation until the moment of departure arrived. 
 Had he been a vain poet he might have imagined 
 that Valsolda was offering him this farewell spec- 
 tacle to speed him on his way; that she wished to 
 show herself more beautiful than he had, perhaps, 
 ever seen her before. However, these poetic 
 
492 The Patriot 
 
 fancies did not come to him, and, besides, his 
 journey was to be so short. But the image of 
 Maria came to him instead; he saw her running 
 round him, he took her upon his knee, and re- 
 peated the old rhyme to her : 
 
 Proud shade of the river 
 Of Missipipi 
 
 "Enough!" he sighed. "It was a terrible 
 thing!" and in answer to a siimmons from Cia he 
 went slowly towards the little garden where Luisa 
 was awaiting him, ready to go down to the boat. 
 " Here I am," said he. "And you, Cia, be careful 
 not to let the house tumble into the lake while we 
 are away!" 
 
 During the journey on Lake Maggiore on board 
 the San Bernardino, Luisa remained in the second- 
 class cabin most of the time. She went on deck 
 once to try and persuade Uncle Piero to go below 
 also, but, although the wind was cold. Uncle Piero, 
 wrapped in his heavy grey travelling cloak, would 
 not stir from the deck, where he sat calmly watch- 
 ing the hills and villages, and chatting with a priest 
 from Locarno, with a little old woman from Bel- 
 girate, and with other second-class passengers. 
 Luisa was obliged to leave him there, while she 
 herself went below again, preferring to be alone 
 with her own thoughts. As they approached Isola 
 Bella a sense of inward excitement and a vague 
 
The Summons to Arms 493 
 
 foreboding of many things took possession of her. 
 How would the meeting with Franco take place? 
 How woidd he treat her? Would he repeat Uncle 
 Piero's sermon to her? His letters were indeed 
 always compassionate and tender, but who does 
 not know that we write in one way and speak in 
 another? How and where would they spend the 
 evening? And then that other question, that 
 
 question it so terrified her to think about ? 
 
 AH these anxious thoughts were rising higher and 
 higher, threatening to become dominant, to place 
 themselves in bold opposition to that image of 
 the cemetery of Oria, which from time to time 
 would return with impetuous violence, las if to 
 snatch back its own. At the station of Cannero, 
 Luisa heard the noise of many steps and of loud 
 talking above her head, and went upstairs to look 
 after her uncle. A party of soldiers, recalled to 
 service, had come out to the steamer in two large 
 barges. Other small boats bore women, children, 
 and old men, who were crying and waving good- 
 bye. The soldiers, most of whom were BersagUeri, 
 fine jolly young fellows, answered the greeting 
 with shouts of "Hurrah for Italy!" and made 
 promises of presents from Milan. One old woman, 
 all dishevelled, but tearless, had three sons among 
 those soldiers, and was calling out to them to 
 remember our Lord and the Madonna. "Yes, 
 yes," grumbled an old sergeant who was escorting 
 them, "Remember our Lord, and the Madonna, 
 and the Bishop, and don't forget the prevosto, the 
 
494 The Patriot 
 
 parish priest!'* The soldiers, who were well ac- 
 quainted with the prevosto, or military prison, 
 laughed loudly at the joke, as the steamer started 
 forward. There were cries, and waving of hand- 
 kerchiefs, and then the men burst into song, a 
 song shouted by fifty strong voices. 
 
 Addio, mia bella, addio, 
 L'armata se ne va. 
 
 The soldiers were all clustered together at the 
 prow, among piles of bags and barrels, some sitting, 
 some lying down, others standing, and all singing 
 at the top of their voices to the dull accompani- 
 ment of the paddles as the steamer glided straight 
 towards that background of sky, against which 
 rose the pointed hills of Ispra, dividing the im- 
 mense expanse of water from the Ticino beyond. 
 The young men would soon be crossing the Ticino, 
 probably to the cry of "Savoy for ever!" and 
 amidst the fury of cannonading. Death was 
 awaiting many of them down there under that 
 clear sky, but all sang gaily, and only the dull noise 
 of the paddles seemed to be aware of their fate. 
 The free hills of Piedmont, past which the boat 
 was gliding, although they stood in the shadow, 
 seemed to shine with pride and satisfaction at 
 having given their sons to the captive hills of 
 Lombardy, which wore an air of tragedy, although 
 illumined by the sun. Luisa felt her blood begin 
 to tingle, felt her once ardent patriotism begin to 
 stir. And those mothers who had seen their sons 
 
The Summons to Arms 495 
 
 depart thus? She foresaw whither her thoughts 
 were tending, and hastened to assure herself that 
 she also would gladly have given a son to Italy, 
 that the grief of those niothers could not in any 
 way be compared to hers. But what a difference 
 there was between reading a letter in Valsolda, 
 teUing of the war, and feeling the very breath, 
 hearing the very noise of war all about her, feeling 
 it in the air itself! In the quiet of Valsolda, war 
 was a shadow without substance ; here the shadow 
 became incarnate. Here Luisa's personal grief, 
 that immense grief which filled the lifeless air 
 surrounding her in Oria, seemed to shrink before 
 the emotion of many, and her consciousness of 
 this gave her an indefinable sense of discomfort 
 and trouble. Was it the dread of losing a part of 
 her own grief, a part, as it were, of herself? Was 
 it the desire to escape from a comparison from 
 which she shrank? At the same time the idea that 
 Franco was going to this war, the idea that had 
 affected her so slightly in Valsolda, was now as- 
 suming a new aspect of reality in her mind, was 
 making her heart quiver, and it also was wrestling 
 with the image of the cemetery of Oria. For the 
 first time this image of the past was no longer the 
 one, aU-powerful master of her soul, and although 
 her soul was indignant and regretful, new images, 
 images of the present and of the future, were 
 assailing it. 
 
 Uncle Piero began to feel cold and came down to 
 the cabin. 
 
496 The Patriot 
 
 " In little more than an hour we shall be at Isola 
 Bella," said he. 
 
 "Are you tired?" 
 
 "Not in the least. I feel wonderfully well." 
 
 "But nevertheless, you will go to bed early 
 to-night?" 
 
 The uncle, whose thoughts were wandering, did 
 not answer, but presently he exclaimed: "Do 
 you know what I was thinking? I was thinking 
 that now there ought to be another Maria." 
 
 Luisa, who was sitting beside him; sprang up 
 shuddering, and went to the little window opposite, 
 standing with her back to Uncle Piero, who did 
 not understand in the least, and, concluding she 
 was embarrassed, went to sleep in his comer. 
 The steamer touched at Intra. Now there was 
 only Pallanza before Isola. They were skirting 
 the coast; through the little oval window Luisa 
 could see the banks, the houses, the trees slip- 
 ping by. How fast the boat was gliding, how 
 fast! 
 
 Pallanza. The steamer stopped five minutes. 
 
 Luisa went on deck and inquired when they 
 would reach Isola Bella. They would not stop 
 either at Suna or Baveno, so it was a question of 
 only a few minutes now. And when would the 
 steamer from Arona arrive? The steamer from 
 Arona appeared to be late. She went below once 
 more to awaken Uncle Piero, who presently came 
 on deck with her. The last part of the journey 
 was accomplished in silence. The uncle watched 
 
The Summons to Arms 497 
 
 Pallanza, which they were leaving behind, while 
 Luisa had fixed her gaze on Isola Bella, which 
 they were rapidly approaching, and she saw no- 
 thing else. 
 
 The boat reached the landing stage at Isola 
 Bella at forty minutes past three. There was no 
 sign of the steamer from Arona. A porter told 
 Luisa that it was always late now because the train 
 from Novara was never on time, owing to the 
 movement of troops. No one else went ashore at 
 Isola, no one was on the beach save the attendant 
 at the landing-stage. When the boat had left, he 
 himself conducted the two travellers to the Albergo 
 del Delfino. He said it was a mere chance their 
 finding the hotel open at this season. A large 
 family were spending the winter there. They were 
 English people. Indeed, it seemed the Island of 
 Silence. The lake lay about it, motionless and 
 silent, the shore was deserted, no living being 
 was to be seen in the porches of the poor little 
 houses clustered together about the bay, between 
 one of the rotmd bastions of the gardens and the 
 hotel. The English people had gone out in a boat ; 
 the hotel was as silent as the shore and the water. 
 The new arrivals were given two large rooms on 
 the second floor, both of which faced south, and 
 overlooked the melancholy strait between the 
 island and the wooded strip of coast that runs from 
 Stressa to Baveno. The first room was on the 
 western comer of the house, and its window looked 
 out on the little church of S. Vittore, which rises 
 
498 The Patriot 
 
 beside the hotel, and upon the small Isola del 
 Pescatori in the distance. Uncle Piero planted 
 himself at the window contemplating the little 
 island, the little pile of houses rising out of the 
 mirror of the lake and culminating in a campanile ; 
 the great motintains of Val di Toce and Val di 
 Gravellone, half hidden in a thin mist through 
 which the sun was shining. Luisa, seeing that the 
 room contained two beds, hastened to the other 
 room, where an alcove also held two beds. 
 "There," said Uncle Piero, coming in, a moment 
 later, "this will do nicely for you two." Luisa 
 asked the proprietor, in an tmdertone, if they 
 could not have three rooms instead of two. No, 
 it was impossible. " But this is all right," Uncle 
 Piero repeated. "This is a perfect arrangement. 
 You take this room, and I will have the other." 
 Luisa was silent, and the proprietor withdrew. 
 "Don't you see you have an alcove, just as at 
 home?" It never struck the simple old man that 
 the very sight of that alcove was a torment to 
 Luisa. She told him she preferred the other 
 room, which was lighter and more cheerful. 
 "Amen!" said the uncle. "Do as you like. I 
 am qtiite willing to be alcoved." 
 
 This comer of the hotel soon lapsed into silence 
 once more. Luisa posted herself at the window. 
 The boat from Arona must be very near now ; the 
 man who had accompanied them to the hotel was 
 walking slowly towards the landing-stage, and in 
 a few minutes she heard the noise of the paddles 
 
The Summons to Arms 499 
 
 in the distance. Uncle Piero told Luisa he was 
 tired, and remained in his room. 
 
 She went down towards the landing-stage and 
 stopped behind a small house that hid the boat 
 from view, but she could hear it distinctly. Sud- 
 denly the prow of the San Gottardo glided slowly 
 in front of her and stopped. Liiisa recognised her 
 husband in the midst of a noisy group. Franco 
 saw her, and springing ashore, ran towards her, 
 while she came forward a few steps to meet- him. 
 They embraced, he speechless and blind with 
 emotion, laughing and crying, full of gratitude, 
 but uncertain as to her state of mind, as to how he 
 should regulate his conduct ; she more composed, 
 extremely pale, and serious. "God bless you! 
 God bless you!" he kept repeating, as they turned 
 towards the hotel. Then Franco overwhelmed 
 her with questions, first about her journey and 
 the passing of the frontier, and then about Uncle 
 Piero. When he mentioned the uncle, Ltiisa 
 raised her head and said: "Look!" The old man 
 was at the window waving his handkerchief and 
 calling out his welcome in a ringing voice . " Oh ! " 
 cried Franco in amazement, and he ran forward. 
 
 Uncle Piero was waiting for him on the landing, 
 his face wearing an expression of satisfaction that 
 seemed to spread all over his peaceful breast. 
 "How are you, my boy?" said he, taking both 
 his hands and shaking them heartily, but, never- 
 theless, holding him at a distance. He did not 
 want kisses, feeUng that at such a moment they 
 
500 The Patriot 
 
 woiild mean thanks; but he could not hold out 
 against Franco's impetuosity. "Did you fancy 
 a lady of the house of Maironi could travel with- 
 out a courier?" said he, when he had extricated 
 himself from the young man's arms. " Moreover, 
 I came to enlist in the Bersaglieril" And the 
 man who had said he was tired started downstairs, 
 saying he was going to order dinner. 
 
 There was no sofa in their room. Franco drew 
 Luisa to a seat on the bed, and sat down beside 
 her, encircling her shoulders with his arm. He 
 could not talk to her, could only keep on repeating : 
 "I thank you! I thank you!" as he lavished 
 eager caresses, eager kisses, and tender names 
 upon her. Luisa did not respond in any way, 
 but trembled violently with bowed head. Pres- 
 ently he checked himself, and, taking her head 
 in his hands like some ^acred thing, fell to touch- 
 ing with his lips the white hairs he saw here and 
 there. She knew he was searching out the white 
 hairs, understood those timid kisses, and was 
 moved. She felt her heart of ice melting, and, 
 seized with terror, struggled to defend herself 
 more against her own emotions than against 
 Franco. "You don't know," she said, "how 
 cold my heart is. I did not even want to come, 
 did not want to leave Maria or give you the pain of 
 finding me in this state. But I came on Uncle 
 Piero's account. He was determined to set out 
 alone, and that I could not allow." 
 
 When she had pronounced these cruel words she 
 
The Summons to Arms 501 
 
 felt Franco's lips withdrawn from her hair, felt 
 his arm forsake her shoulders. Both were silent 
 for a time, then Franco murmured with great 
 gentleness : 
 
 "Only thirteen hours more. Then perhaps I 
 shall never trouble you again." At that moment 
 Uncle Piero entered and announced that dinner 
 was ready. Luisa took her husband's hand and 
 pressed it in silence ; it was not a lover-like pres- 
 sure, but it told him she shared his emotion. 
 
 At dinner neither Franco nor Luisa could eat. 
 But the uncle had a good appetite, and talked a 
 great deal. He did not approve of Franco's 
 enlisting. "What sort of a soldier do you ex- 
 pect to become?" said he. "What will you do 
 without your camphor, your sedative water, and 
 all the rest?" 
 
 Franco replied that he had cast aside all reme- 
 dies, that he felt as if he were of steel, and that he 
 should become the most robust soldier of the whole 
 ninth regiment. "Maybe," the uncle grumbled, 
 "maybe. And you, Luisa, what do you say 
 about it?" Luisa beUeved it would be as her 
 husband had said. "Then that is enough!" 
 the uncle cried. "And so, hurrah!" He had 
 a great opinion of the strength of Austria, and did 
 not view matters in the same rosy light as did 
 Franco. According to Franco there was not the 
 slightest doubt that the ItaKans would be vic- 
 torious. He had seen one of Niel's adjutants, 
 who had come to Turin on a secret mission, and 
 
502 The Patriot 
 
 had heard him say to some staff officers : " Nous 
 allons supprimer I'Autriche!" Of course they 
 fully expected to leave at least fifty thousand 
 Italians and Frenchmen between the Ticino and 
 the Isonzo. 
 
 " Excuse me, Signori," said the waiter who was 
 serving them, "but did the gentlemen speak of 
 enlisting in the ninth regiment?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The Queen's Brigade! A splendid brigade! 
 I served in the tenth. We covered ourselves with 
 glory in 1848, as you may remember. Goito, 
 Santo Lucia, Govemolo, and Volta. Now it will 
 be your turn." 
 
 "We will do our best." 
 
 Luisa shuddered slightly. The English people, 
 who were dining at a table near them, heard this 
 dialogue and looked at Franco. For some minutes 
 no one in the room spoke; there passed before 
 them the vision of a column of infantry charging 
 with fixed bayonets, amidst a shower of grape- 
 shot. 
 
 After dinner the tmcle remained at the hotel 
 for his usual nap, and Franco went out with Luisa. 
 They turned to the right towards the Palace. 
 It was rather dark and a few infrequent drops of 
 rain were falling. The steps leading from the 
 shore to the courtyard of the villa, were slippery, 
 and Franco offered his arm to his wife, who took it 
 in silence. They stopped between the deserted 
 courtyard and the stairs that lead to the landing- 
 
The Summons to Arms 503 
 
 stage, to count the hours which the clock on the 
 Palace was ringing out. Six o'clock. Two hours 
 had passed, and there now remained only eleven 
 before the separation, before the unknown! They 
 walked on slowly and silently, following the 
 straight path between the lake and the side of 
 the Palace, as far as the comer which commands 
 a view of the Isola dei Pescatori, where some 
 lights were already visible. Two women came 
 towards them, chattering, and walking arm in 
 arm. Franco allowed them to pass, and then 
 asked his wife if she remembered the Rancb. 
 
 Two years before their marriage they had made 
 an excursion with a party of friends to Drano 
 and the Ranc5, high pasture-lands of the Valsolda, 
 on the way to the Passo Stretto. They had had a 
 lively dispute, and had sulked and suffered for an 
 hour. "Yes," Luisa replied, "I remember." 
 At the same moment both reaHsed how different 
 was the present hour, and how painful it was to 
 have to admit the difference. They did not 
 speak again until they reached the comer. Bells 
 rang out on the Isola dei Pescatori. Franco 
 dropped his wife's arm, and leaned upon the para- 
 pet. The misty lake was silent; nothing was to 
 be seen save the lights on the other island. The 
 lake, the mist, those lights, those bells, which 
 might have belonged to a ship lost at sea, the 
 silence of all things, even the infrequent, tiny rain- 
 drops, ever3^hing was so sad! 
 
 "And do you remember afterwards?" Franco 
 
504 The Patriot 
 
 murmured, without turning his head. Luisa was 
 also leaning against the parapet. She was silent 
 for a moment, and then answered in an under- 
 tone: 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 And in her " dear, " there was a slight and hidden 
 beginning of warmth, of affectionate emotion. 
 Franco felt it, and thrilled with joy, but controlled 
 himself. 
 
 "I am thinking," he went on, "of the letter I 
 wrote you as soon as I got home, and of the three 
 words you said to me next day, at Muzzaglio, 
 when the others were dancing under the chestnut- 
 trees, and you passed close to me on your way to 
 get your shawl, which you had left on the grass. 
 Do you remember?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He took her hand and raised it to his lips. 
 
 "And do you also remember that I slipped 
 before we reached the bridge, and that you said: 
 ' My dear sir, it is your place to support me! ' " 
 
 Luisa did not answer, but pressed his hands. 
 
 "I have been good for nothing," he added 
 sadly. " I have not known how to support you/' 
 
 " You have done all you could." 
 
 Luisa's voice, as she spoke these words, was 
 indeed faint, but very different from when she 
 had said: "My heart is so cold." 
 
 Once more her husband drew her arm through 
 his, and they returned to the landing-stage. The 
 dear arm was less passive than before, and be- 
 
The Summons to Arms 505 
 
 trayed agitation and a struggle. Franco stopped, 
 and said softly: 
 
 " And if I am called to join Maria? What shall 
 I say to her from you?" 
 
 She began to tremble, and resting her head on 
 his shoulder, whispered: "No, stay here!" 
 Franco did not hear the words, and repeated: 
 "What?" There was no answer, and very 
 slowly he bent his head towards her, saw her lips 
 seeking his, and pressed his own upon them. His 
 heart was beating fast, faster than when he had 
 kissed Luisa for the first time as her lover. He 
 raised his head, but could not speak. At last he 
 succeeded in saying these words: "I will tell 
 her you have promised " "No," mur- 
 mured Ltiisa, in great distress. "I cannot do 
 that. You must not ask it of me! It is no 
 longer possible!" 
 
 " What is not possible? " 
 
 " Oh, you understand quite well! I also under- 
 stood what you meant!" 
 
 She started forward as if to flee from the sub- 
 ject, but still clinging to Franco's arm, and he 
 held her back. 
 
 "Luisa," said he gravely, almost severely, "will 
 you let me go away like this? Do you realise 
 what it means to me to go away hke this? " 
 
 Then she slowly withdrew her arm from his, 
 and turned towards the parapet on the right, 
 leaning upon it, and gazing mto the water as she 
 had done that night at Oria. Franco stood 
 
5o6 The Patriot 
 
 quietly beside her; waited a few moments, and 
 then begged her to answer his question. 
 
 " It wotild be better for me to end it all in the 
 lake," she said bitterly. Her husband passed 
 his arm round her waist, pulled her away from 
 the parapet, and then letting her go, threw up his 
 arm with a gesture of protest. "You!" said he 
 indignantly. "You talk thus? You who used 
 to prate of looking upon life as a battle? And 
 is this the way you fight? Once I believed you 
 were the stronger of us two. Now I know it is I 
 who am the stronger. Much the stronger! Can 
 you not even imagine what I have suffered during 
 
 all these years? Can you not " For a 
 
 moment his voice failed him, but he quickly con- 
 trolled himself and went on. " Can you not even 
 tmderstand what you are to me, and what I 
 would give to be able to spare you the slightest 
 pain? While you, it would seem, do not care how 
 cruelly you rend my soul!" She flung herself 
 into his arms. In the silence that ensued, 
 broken only by her spasmodic and suppressed 
 sobbing. Franco heard steps approaching, and 
 with difficulty freed himself from her embrace and 
 induced her to turn with him towards the hotel. 
 "You naughty girl!" he whispered. "And it is 
 you who don't want me to be glad to die, when 
 I can die so gloriously for my country!" Luisa 
 pressed his arm without speaking. They met 
 two young lovers, who looked curiously at them 
 in passing. The girl smiled. When they reached 
 
The Summons to Arms 507 
 
 the short flight of steps that leads down to the little 
 sqmre in front of S. Vittore, they heard voices 
 of women and girls. Luisa paused a moment on 
 the first step, and said softly the three words she 
 had spoken at Muzzaglio. 
 
 "I love you!" 
 
 Franco did not answer, but pressed her arm. 
 Very slowly they went down the stairs, and en- 
 tered the Albergo del Delfino. 
 
 Some young men who were drinking, smoking, 
 and laughing, rose as Franco and Luisa entered, 
 and came towards them. "Signora," said the 
 first to present himself to Luisa, "your husband 
 has probably announced to you the visit of the 
 Seven Wise Men." A great hubbub immediately 
 ensued, because Franco had forgotten to tell 
 Luisa that his friends had accompanied him from 
 Turin, but, not wishing to intrude, had gone on to 
 Pallanza promising to come and pay their respects 
 to the Signora in the evening. They had come 
 over from Pallanza in a row-boat, and had in- 
 tended returning immediately, but Franco ordered 
 a couple of bottles of wine and, soon, in spite of 
 Luisa 's presence, their hilarity became such that 
 the proprietor begged them, for love of his 
 English family, to make less noise. 
 
 After arranging with Franco to meet him in the 
 momin^ on board the first steamer, the Wise Men 
 
5o8 The Patriot 
 
 took themselves off. Franco accompanied them 
 to the boat and Luisa went to look after Uncle 
 Piero. He had left word for them with the pro- 
 prietor that, feeling very sleepy, he had gone to 
 bed. In fact Luisa could hear him snoring noisily. 
 She put the candle down, and waited for 
 Franco. 
 
 He came up almost immediately, and was sur- 
 prised to hear that the uncle was already asleep. 
 He had wished to say good-bye to him before 
 going to bed, as his boat was leaving so early in 
 the morning — ^at half-past five. The door be- 
 tween the two rooms was closed, but nevertheless 
 Luisa begged her husband to step and speak 
 softly. She told him what Cia had confided to 
 her. The vincle needed rest. She hoped he 
 would remain in bed until nine or ten o'clock, 
 and she intended to start at one, and spend the 
 night at Magadino, in order not to tire him too 
 much. She laid great stress upon her appre- 
 hensions concerning Uncle Piero's health, and 
 talked incessantly, nervously, anxious to avoid 
 other topics, seeking thus to escape too tender 
 caresses. At the same time she was continually 
 moving about the room, repeatedly taking up and 
 putting down the same objects, and this partly 
 from nervousness, partly with the intention that 
 her husband should go to bed before her. He, 
 for his part, was intent upon a side-bag, which 
 he was finding difficulty in opening. At last he 
 succeeded, and, calling his wife to him, gave her 
 
The Summons to Arms 509 
 
 a roll containing fifty twenty-franc pieces. "I 
 know," said he, "that I shall not be able to send 
 you anything for some months. This money is 
 not mine, I have borrowed it." Then he drew 
 a sealed letter from his pocket. "And this," 
 he added, " is my will. I have little to leave, but 
 of course I must dispose of that little. I have 
 made only one legacy. My father's scarf-pin, 
 which you have, is to go to Uncle Piero. I have 
 also set down the name of the person who loaned 
 me the thousand francs. Besides the ! will the 
 letter contains a few words for you alone. That 
 is aU." He spoke with grave sweetness, and 
 without agitation. Her hands trembled as she 
 took the letter. "Thank you," she said, and 
 began to unbraid her hair, but she immediately 
 twisted it up again, hardly conscious of what she 
 was doing, in her struggle with the phantom of 
 the dead child, and with another vision of war 
 and death. She said brokenly that, as she must 
 be up so early to accompany Franco to the boat, 
 she thought she would lie down with her clothes 
 on, and not loosen her hair. Franco made no 
 comment, but having said a short prayer, began 
 to undress. From his neck he unclasped a little 
 chain from which hung a small gold cross. This 
 had belonged to his mother. "I wish you to 
 keep this," said he, offering it to Luisa. " It will 
 be safer. It might, perhaps, fall into the hands 
 of the Croatians. ' ' She was horrified, she shuddered, 
 hesitated a moment, then threw her arms about 
 
510 The Patriot 
 
 his neck, and pressed him to her in a passionate 
 embrace. 
 
 * :i: dis * * 
 
 The waiter knocked at their door at about half- 
 past four. At five Franco took the candle and 
 went into Undo Piero's room. He was already- 
 awake. Franco said good-bye to him, and then 
 proposed to Luisa that they also take leave of each 
 other in the privacy of their own room. In her 
 face and voice there was an expression of grave 
 and painful stupor. She displayed no agitation, 
 and did not weep, but embraced and kissed her 
 husband as one in a dream, and, still in a dazed 
 state, followed him downstairs. Did a flash from 
 the thought that was filling her soul pass into his ? 
 If so, it happened in the little hotel parlour, while 
 he was taking his coffee, his wife seated opposite 
 him. He seemed suddenly to discover something 
 in that glance, in that expression, for he paused to 
 study her, cup in hand, while ineffable tenderness, 
 anxiety and emotion overspread his face. She 
 evidently had no wish to speak, but he longed to 
 do so. A hidden word quivered in all the muscles 
 of his face, and shone in his eyes, but his mouth 
 did not venture to utter it. 
 
 Hand in hand they went down to the landing- 
 stage, and leaned against the wall where Luisa 
 had leaned the day before. When they heard the 
 noise of the paddles, they embraced for the 
 last time and said good-bye without tears, 
 troubled rather by the hidden thought harboured 
 
The Summons to Arms 511 
 
 by Doth than afSicted by the separation. The 
 steamer came in noisily, the ropes were flung 
 ashore and made fast. A bell rang. One kiss 
 more! "God bless you!" said Franco, and hurried 
 on board. 
 
 She lingered as long as she could hear the noise 
 of the paddles, as the steamer glided towards 
 Stressa. Then she returned to the hotel, sank 
 upon the bed, and sat there as one turned to stone, 
 engrossed in the idea, in the instinctive certainty, 
 that maternity awaited her a second time. 
 
 Although this was precisely what she had so 
 greatly feared it cannot be said that now she was 
 grieved. All other sentiments were subdued by 
 the wonder of listening to a strong-, inward voice, 
 that was so clear and still so inexplicable. She 
 was dazed. Since Maria's death she had firmly 
 believed that the Book of Destiny could contain 
 nothing new for her, that certain secret fibres of 
 her heart were dead. And now a mysterious voice 
 was speaking within that heart, sa5dng: Know 
 that one page in the book of your destiny 
 is finished, and the leaf has been turned. For 
 you there is still a future of intense living. The 
 drama that you believed had come to an end at 
 the second act, is to continue, and if I Myself an- 
 notmce it to you, it must indeed prove wonderful! 
 
 For three hours, until Uncle Piero called her, 
 she sat there, absorbed in this voice. 
 
 The uncle rose at half -past nine ; he was feeling 
 very well. The weather was still damp, almost 
 
512 The Patriot 
 
 rainy, but he would not hear of remaining in the 
 house until it was time to start for Magadino, as 
 Luisa wished him to do. He knew, for he had 
 inqtiired of the proprietor, that the gardens could 
 be visited after nine o'clock, so at ten he drank his 
 milk and then started out to visit them with Luisa. 
 When they passed S. Vittore he wished to go in 
 and see the paintings. Mass was being sung, and 
 at that moment the officiating priest turned to- 
 wards them and said Benedicat vos omnipotens 
 Deus. Uncle Piero crossed himself devoutly, 
 and lingered to hear the last gospel. He did not 
 attempt to examine the paintings, for there was 
 little light in the church, but said with his accus- 
 tomed cheerfulness: "Now that I have received 
 that blessing I feel quite happy!" 
 
 It was not possible to hurry in his company. 
 He stopped at every step, examining everything 
 that seemed artistic, everything that was in a 
 position to be examined. He studied the front 
 of the church, the triple stairway of the landing- 
 stage of Villa Borromeo, all three sides of the court- 
 yard, and the great palm in the centre, which he 
 was much scandalised to learn Luisa had not 
 even noticed when she had passed it the night 
 before with Franco. When the custodian ushered 
 them into the palace, it took the uncle at least 
 ten minutes to climb and admire the great stair- 
 way. As they reached the top a ray of sun glinted 
 forth, and the custodian proposed that they 
 should take advantage of this and visit the gar- 
 
The Summons to Arms 513 
 
 dens. He turned to the left and led the visitors 
 through a suite of empty rooms to the iron gate, 
 where he rang the bell. A gardener appeared, 
 a civil lad, to whom Uncle Piero took a great fancy, 
 for he explained everything willingly, and the 
 uncle's questions were not few. The camphor- 
 tree near the entrance cost him five minutes. 
 Luisa was distressed, for she feared the uncle 
 would tire himself too much, and she herself was 
 weary of looking at so many trees, of hearing so 
 many names, both Latin and Italian, and of hav- 
 ing to watch the uncle, while her thoughts called 
 for silence and solitude. The gardener proposed 
 going up to the Castello di Nettuno. Uncle Piero 
 would have Hked to inspect more closely the 
 unicorn of the Borromei, which stood rampant 
 up there, but there were many stairs to climb, 
 the air was heavy, and he hesitated. Luisa took 
 advantage of that moment of hesitation to ask the 
 gardener where she might find a seat. "Just 
 below here," said he. "Oh the left, where the 
 Strobus are." Uncle Piero finally consented to go 
 down and visit the clump of Strobus. 
 
 He was tired, but he continued to look at every- 
 thing, to ask questions about everything. As 
 they walked towards the Strobus they heard in 
 the distance, over towards Isola Madre, the rolling 
 of the drums of the National Guard of Pallanza, 
 which was drilling on the shore. " Now it is all 
 play," said the young man. "Not exactly play, 
 but , • . Next month we shall go to work in 
 
514 The Patriot 
 
 earnest. We have a lesson to give to a huge 
 beast. There it is, over there, the monster!" 
 The monster was the Austrian war steamer Ra- 
 detzky, called by the inhabitants of the Piedmontese 
 shore, el Radescdn. " The ship is just entering the 
 bay of Laveno," said the young fellow, "coming 
 from Luino. Come this way if you wish to see 
 her plainly." 
 
 Uncle Piero knew his eyes were not strong 
 enough to see the steamer, so he sat down on the 
 first bench he found under the Sirobus, which 
 stood just in front of a group of bamboos, and was 
 flanked by two groups of large azaleas. Behind 
 the bamboos, between the great twisted trtmks 
 of the Strobus, he could see the mirror of white 
 water trembling as far as the black line of the hills 
 of Ispra. The sky, dark towards the north, was 
 clear in that quarter. Luisa and the gardener 
 went to the gate which bears the coat of arms, and 
 which faces the green Isola Madre, Pallanza, and 
 the upper lake. Luisa looked out over the im- 
 mense expanse of leaden water, crowned by misty 
 giants from the Sasso di Ferro group above Laveno 
 to the mountains of Maccagno, and to the distant 
 snows of the Spliigen. The smoke of the Radetzky 
 was more plainly visible than its body, and the 
 drums of Pallanza were still rolling. Uncle Piero 
 called the gardener and Luisa went to lean against 
 the parapet beside the gate, and near the yew- 
 tree that rises from the terrace below. The tree 
 shut out the view on the east. She was glad to 
 
The Summons to Arms 515 
 
 be alone at last, to rest her eyes and her thoughts 
 on the grey of the great mountains and of the 
 great waters. Presently the gardener came back 
 to point out to her the yellow acacias and the white 
 heather that were blossoming on the lower terrace. 
 "The bruybres blanches bring luck," said he. 
 Seeing that Luisa was lost in thought, and did not 
 heed him, he started towards the hot-house con- 
 taining the begonias. "An old Strobus," said he, 
 speaking in a loud voice that the visitors might 
 hear him, but without looking around, "An old 
 Strobus that has been struck by lightning. If you 
 wish to visit the private gardens " 
 
 Luisa tinned from the parapet and went to 
 fetch the uncle, and give him her arm if necessary. 
 The gardener, who was waiting at the entrance of 
 the little grove of laurels, saw her start towards 
 the old gentleman, who was still sitting on the 
 bench, saw her quicken her pace and then rush to 
 his side with a cry. 
 
 Like the innocent and aged tree Uncle Piero 
 also had been struck down. His body was resting 
 against the back of the bench, his head had fallen 
 forward, and his chin touched his breast. His 
 eyes were open, fixed and expressionless. It had 
 indeed been a farewell spectacle his beloved Val- 
 solda had offered him the day before. Uncle 
 Piero, the dear, venerable, old man, wise, upright, 
 and fatherly, the benefactor of his own people. 
 Uncle Piero was gone, gone forever. He had come 
 to enlist, but God had called him to a higher ser- 
 
5i6 The Patriot 
 
 vice ; the bugle had sounded, and he had answered 
 the call. The drums of Pallanza still rolled, rolled 
 for the end of the old world, and rolled for the 
 advent of the new. In Luisa's womb there lay 
 a vital germ which was preparing to fight the 
 battles of a new era, preparing to taste other joys, 
 other griefs than those which the man of the old 
 world was leaving thus peacefully, blessed un- 
 consciously, at the last moment, by that strange 
 priest of Isola Bella, who had, perhaps, never 
 uttered the holy words to one more worthy. 
 
" Signor Fogazzaro is at the present moment undoubtedly 
 the greatest of Italian novelists. His nobility of feeling, 
 his wide sympathy, his kindliness and breezy humor en- 
 title him to a high place among writers of fiction."— 
 
 From Villari's " Italian Life." 
 
 The Trilogy of Rome 
 
 BY 
 ANTONIO FOGAZZARO 
 
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