Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part one, chapter 14

Don Raimondo had been warned at dinner of the case caused by his lackey and had disdained it as a very serious offense brought to his house, which had to be punished. If every non-bourgeois people dared to rebel against the servants in the livery, what would become of the authority and prestige of the nobility? But for that night, despite his investigations, he couldn't find out the deed.

Blasco tried to dissuade the noble lord from his purposes. He was so happy, that he could not understand, in his heart, at least at that hour, any feeling of hatred; and that boy seemed so beautiful to him in his bold attitude, that he felt rather drawn to admire him, that he was willing to allow punishment.

"This is a very slight matter. After all, the lackey got what he deserved, and got away with a few dents and a small wound to his forehead... Forgive him!"

Gabriella also inclined to indulgence. She had seen a beautiful girl holding back the young man, and that vision, recited now, in the new conditions of her spirit, had her for benevolence.

But Don Raimondo resisted himself, as if a secret animosity stinged him, or a desire to vent the inner wrath that those vague threats, those mysterious letters put in his soul. He was mad at Blasco in his heart. What the hell, then, was that good guy doing? Why didn't he take that boy by the neck and hand him over to the guards? Kid, what's next? Who could assure that there were no men behind that boy, and that that accident was not caused?

He sent for Matteo Lo Vecchio.

"Well," he said, "do you know what happened last night in my carriage?"

"Excellency, yes."

"Ah!... And do you know who dared to bring me reproach?"

"I know..." "Ah!... Who is this?"

"A boy, a grandson, at least as he says, of the rational of the Great Hospital, Don Girolamo Ammirata..."

"Ah!... Good. Go and arrest my uncle and nephew."

"Your Excellency knows it takes the Captain's order..."

Don Raimondo looked at the birro and, without reply, took a sheet of paper, wrote a few lines, closed it, sealed it, and gave it to the birro: "Here is a letter for the captain of justice."

The birro clogged it, but did not move, as if waiting for something.

"Do you have any news to give me?" asked the duke.

"Excellency, yes."

"Well..."

"Last night I followed, in the midst of the crowd, the carriage of your Excellency..."

"Ah! so you were there?"

"Excellency, yes..."

"And didn't you arrest that rascal?..."

The birro made a negative gesture, and said: "It was not prudent, nor was it convenient for me, because I had something more important on my hands."

"Would you say?... Hurry up!"

"Here we go. When that young man rejected the lackey, Don Girolamo Admirata looked around, and made an imperceptible gesture with his fingers, on his head, a gesture that he could exchange with a scratch, but that was not: and at that gesture two or three hands rose at the same time, in the same way; which, Your Excellency does not need me to explain it to him, evidently means a sign of recognition and understanding.

All the more so since Don Girolamo smiled slightly, and his face expressed this thought: "All right"."

"And you suppose?"

"That if that is a sign of recognition, they must belong to a group, which could be what we seek..."

"Don't you think you're running too fast?" asked the Duke of Motta not without opening his heart to a happy hope.

"There is no news that there are seven more in the city. But there's more."

"Ah!"

"I went after Don Girolamo, the grandson and the girl, who is the daughter of the painter Bongiovanni, and accompanied them to the door of the sacristy of the Duomo. No one could suppose that I followed them: but suddenly, while Don Jerome was about to beat, a man approached him and whispered a word in his ear; Don Jerome turned, looking in the crowd, his eyes met in mine. Someone then noticed me, and pointed out... I pretended not to understand, indeed, I approached the door of the sacristy with difficulty, and with the most indifferent air I asked himself: "Can you enter here?" He said to me, "No. I lingered a little while longer, as if I were hoping to enter, but the sacristy did not open, and then I went away, stirring among the crowds, but without losing sight of my man."

The duke listened thoughtfully. So that accountant, whom he knew by name, belonged to a secret sect, which in all probability was that of the Beati Paoli? If the mysterious letters that came to him emanated from that terrible society, he certainly had to know something about it. How do you figure it out? Would the birro be able to penetrate the secret? He looked at him, and man's fiery appearance seemed to give him some hope.

He said, "What do you propose to do now?"

Matteo Lo Vecchio smiled finely and replied: "I know I could knock a few balls, at night, behind my back; but it is clear that now I'm gonna have to try and find the means to penetrate the den of those wretches..."

"Bravo! and confide that you succeed?"

"Excellency, I will not miss it... I repeat, that if they don't kill me, I will know who they are and where they come together, and who writes those letters..."

"If you come to this, I'll make you rich..."

"Thank you, Your Excellency. I just have an observation to make... That if I arrest Don Girolamo and his nephew, I will remove the only thread I have for now in my hands..."

"You're right. Give me that letter..."

"Forgive me, Your Excellency. The letter, if not today, can be useful to me tomorrow, in eight, twenty days, and the usefulness can manifest so suddenly and urgently, that a delay to come from your Excellency to ask him another could succeed harmful..."

"That's right. Hold her. Do you need money?"

"Eh!... they never hurt; and perhaps and without perhaps, it will be necessary to anoint the wheels..."

"Take it."

The duke pulled a bag full of shields out of his pocket and gave it to the birro, who in a flash made it disappear in his large bag.

"And keep me informed," added Don Raimondo.

Words were equivalent to leave.

Matteo Lo Vecchio said to himself: "Accorto, Matthew; you have found a California; you must know how to take advantage of it with judgment: things a little bit at a time... And he gives you honor!... But those goddamn Beati Paoli are like spirits... They can be seen, heard and never caught..."

He set out to plan, as a modest employee who goes for his own business, but exercising the prudent investigator eye. He was too well known to pass unnoticed, and often came behind his shoulders a few hints not flattering; precisely for this reason he provided, walking, to take an indifferent and almost distracted air.

He was going home to desin.

Matteo Lo Vecchio lived in an alley of the Albergheria, which still bears his name, because the birro had the honour of a memory from his fellow citizens, which many, illustrious by virtue of city and ingenuity, did not have or had to wait for centuries, because some scholar, facing criticism, dared timidly advise him. That alley had lost its name, to be called by the name of the birro, ever since he was alive.

Little by little he had so immersed himself in his thoughts that while turning to peek at his hips, he noticed that a kind of servant from the lonely livery, kept behind him from the Mercedes square. He had looked at him so, indifferently, and since he had offered him nothing unique to draw his attention to, he had no longer looked after us. That servant, who seemed mortified by his poor livery, did not look after him. At the corner of the church of Santi Cosmo and Damiano had stopped to bargain with a carter, who stood there resting on the poles, whistling: they had exchanged a few words, after which the servant and the carter had jumped on the cart, and the mule had slowly started on the road of Guilla, turning through the little road of the college of the Jesuits following the same path of Matteo Lo Vecchio.

If the birro had turned back, he would of course have thought that that servant had gone looking for the wagon to carry stuff, nor would he have thought that the carter would study the mule step, not to reach it. He could not see, nor suspect the mysterious maneuvers of the servant over the mule, when they were all in the middle of the little road.

The servant, in fact, leaning on the back of the beast, threw something under the saddle that immediately annoyed the mule; the carter then stung it with the handle of the whip.

The mule shook, fought, as if to get rid of something, shot a couple of kicks and suddenly ran, caught by a madness that made it snake.

The road was, and is narrow; the distance between the chariot and Matteo Lo Vecchio short. The mule was suddenly: on Matteo Lo Vecchio, who was surprised by the noise of the chariot and the screams of the carter and the servant, turned around, and saw himself over that fury of animal, tried to escape him, but not so soon than one of the staves, hit him: next to him, he did not overthrow him, and did not overwhelm him under the wheels.

The chariot passed by, as a fury fell into the Cassaro; the angry mule had lost the light of its eyes; carried by its own impetus, it went to crush, between the fear and the shouts of the people, against the clasps of a shop in front, ruining everything and overturning on the ground, with the whole chariot.

Twenty hands, after the first dismay, were on her. The rider and the servant had thrown themselves lightly to the ground, in time, and while the former was struggling to reach the mule, despairing and sacramenting, the other, with a face all piety, lifted Matteo Lo Vecchio from the ground, geekly, pesto and Bloody.

"Oh poor man!... What a disgrace!..."

People, called back to the shouts, to the noise, flocked, wondering what had happened, feeling sorry for themselves.

Someone, recognizing him, raised his shoulders. "Ah, is that a piece of rascal? Good for him!..."

Some others, more fierce, added: "Let him die there, don't give yourself thought of him... Birro is!..."

But the servant went around, looking for a chair.

"We need to get this ungrateful guy to the hospital... Finally, it is Christian flesh like us... A little mercy the good Lord commands!..."

Mercy won some. They adapted Matteo Lo Vecchio, who was grieving, on a chair, and the little plan went to the hospital that was not far away, while the most hostiles repeated:

"Yes, yes! do him well; you will see how he will pay you. Oh, do you not know that the birro did not forgive St. Michael the Archangel, who, out of compassion, brought him into Paradise?"

Puffing, recalcitrating, pulverizing, the mule with the chariot returned, held for the bridle by the carter.

"You should punish her like a mule, pal. Since he had it under him, he had to finish it, lose it!"

Gradually the crowd wandered away, everyone resumed their occupations, and brought the news elsewhere that a cart had rolled up Matteo Lo Vecchio.

No one was moved; but now, when Don Raimondo learned that the birro was at the hospital with a broken leg, and that he had little to say about it for two months, he paled. Case? Of course; but that "case" was precisely his secret agent, at the very moment when he discovered the track, he came into line. Was there a mysterious destiny that opposed the way? It was a thrill of dismay. His opposition grew when Blasco reminded him of a promise at dinner.

"Your Excellency had promised to speak to the king, in my favour, and to get me a place in the militias. I've seen the guards; I'd like to enter that regiment, they're almost all gentlemen..."

Don Raimondo thought with anger: "Now he wants to leave this chair too!..."

But his mask did not betray the intimate thought, and he kindly replied: "We will see, we will see... I promised you and I will keep. But there is no thought, and your company is so nice to me that, sorry selfishness, I don't want to deprive myself of it so soon... After all, I think you have no reason to complain about us..."

"All the more, Mr. Duke; indeed I am most grateful to his goodness and that of the Duchess lady, but I feel that I no longer have to abuse her hospitality... That doesn't mean anything else, that I will always be a loyal servant of his house..."

"Well, well, we'll talk about it later..."

He did not notice the cloud of sadness that veiled the forehead of woman Gabriella and the almost silentness of Blasco; he was so immersed in his thoughts that he was, so to speak, isolated. He wondered if it would be appropriate for him to have Fr Girolamo and his nephew arrested, on a pretext, and to keep them in prison at least as long as Matteo Lo Vecchio was unable to return to work; but he could not solve the problem. Primitive violence suggested to him to act; the acquired prudence and the assumed mask imposed circumspection on him.

And dinner that night was quiet and serious.