Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part two, chapter 13

Italiano

English

Donna Gabriella, yielding to the fickleness of her character had obtained to stay still in Palermo, but after the king's departure she regretted it. Vanity and ambition took over jealousy. After all, what did you care about Blasco? She no longer loved her, but hated her; and if she had taken that sudden resolution it was to hurt or better to spite Blasco, imagining, too fervently, that her stepdaughter was in love with the beautiful young man. But in more serene mind, now that repentance made her angry at herself, she recognized that she had allowed too much imagination to run and that she had seen giants in what was just a shadow of her imagination; and that her worries were silly. The stepdaughter was locked in a monastery; and if ever, she had a safer way to prevent any communication between her and Blasco. He could take her with him to Turin, where he could marry her to some courtlord. Why not? How come this idea wasn't flashed in your brain before? He adorned himself with it, searching for a way to repair the badness, although he recognized that it was not easy to resume a service, the escape to which meant a renunciation, on the one hand, and a fall into disgrace on the other. Disgrace?

The mirror that stood before her and in which she was seen in half seemed to say no. She smiled. Did he not possess the most powerful weapons to break the bans of the label as the rigors of austerity? to arrest the punishing arm as to open the hand to generosity? to give and take away? She did not know, perhaps, that even the most powerful kings stripped themselves of all kingship, of their divine splendor before their lips. Freuds of a beloved mouth?

There was no need for the pretext, the plausible reason for bringing it back to the Court or, at least, to justify its presence in Messina.

After the altercation with Don Raimondo, she had not reviewed her husband even at the table: Don Raimondo desined in his studio. This separation the first two days did not displease her, indeed it pleased her, because it left her more free and spared her the annoyance of possible explanations, but on the third day she began to inspect her. It seemed to her like some kind of contempt that hurt her own love.

But on the fourth day Don Raimondo, without even announcing it, sat down at the table, in his old place, as if nothing had interrupted his habits. He was very pale and did not eat, although his face remained motionless under the cold smile that iced the thin line of his lips.

Donna Gabriella was surprised, and in a certain way worried: Something must have happened that, probably, the husband wanted to confide in her and that did not show up for the presence of the bondage. With a gesture he fired the waiter who served them, and asked:

"What, then, do you have? You're as pale as a dead man..."

Don Raimondo looked at her with harshness, almost with grudges and answered:

"I reap the fruits of your betrayal."

"My betrayal?"

This word, which could lend itself to various interpretations, made her blush, and thought of many things.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that your renunciation to accompany the sovereigns, your desertion from the place that with so much study and among so many envy, we had conquered, left the field free to our enemies."

"Say your..."

"You must be deceived: I won't be the only one shot..."

"Be it; but I do not come to conceive that it could harm you a resolution of which, for your good name (and emphasized the word) you should indeed be glad."

The duke made an imperceptible ironic motorbike with his shoulders.

"There are things in the world that push even more... The State and Life."

A moment of silence was interposed; Fr. Raimondo filmed:

"I had come to put my hands on my enemies, I had discovered them, and I was almost certain that I would get to the bottom of their drawings, well, this morning an order from the king suspends all interrogation, until the arrival of other dispositions..."

"What does that mean?"

"You mean you take the trial out of my hands to give it to others..."

"And if they are indeed guilty, what do you fear?"

"What if..."

Mouth: His forehead became wet with sweat. Without responding to Gabriella's observation, he almost murmured to himself:

"It is absolutely necessary for that order to be revoked; it is necessary for no one to deal with this process outside of me; it is necessary that that woman does not speak or that she only says what I want... First of all, we need to know why this order and if I have fallen into disgrace... For if this has happened, and because of you, Gabriella woman, I swear to you that I will be able to destroy you also in my ruin. I have never asked you to account for your conduct; I have also turned a blind eye to your lightness... Oh, there's no point pretending with me. You don't think I'm a fool and that it's easy to fool me... If I didn't provoke a scandal, when it was time, it's because I thought it was more convenient to pretend... But now I had asked for your help; I needed a certain person who could have my own interest in keeping or increasing the prestige and power of the house; and no one better than you could have.

My rank had placed you in contact with the rulers; your grace gained its sympathy: You, the first lady of the court, I, the first magistrate of the kingdom. No one would dare attack us. I could have, with the means I would have arranged for, destroyed that scumbag cult that digs traps at every step of my life, and that... makes the most unfaithful accusations against me... My work had begun: Two of the sect had been hanged; now I had the wife of the admired, one of the princes, arrested, so that she might have it in her hands. But here's the sudden arrest of my arm. Why? Who stood up? Who provoked the king's order? If you had accompanied the queen, this would not have happened; you could have foiled the plot... Instead, by a bizarre, by an unqualified and inexplicable whim, you have lost your place, I am unarmed and given into the hands of my enemies..."

He got up from the table and walked slowly through the room. Donna Gabriella had remained thoughtful; the shadow enveloped her black eyes lost in the void. The words of Don Raimondo and more the terror that he did not confess but that shone from his pallor, from the effort to keep a certain calm, from the sweat that wet his forehead, raised her doubts, opened her soul to unknown fears, to questions that she addressed for the first time. She had never looked out to investigate her husband's past and conduct; she had known him austere, almost rigid and blameless, rich, respected; she had never thought that he had I could have something to hide or fear. The agitation present, the deep concern, the anguish terror of possible events now pushed her into that past. She wondered:

"Who are you afraid of? Why are you scared? What secret does his life hide?"

And looking at him he now felt a thrilling ice cream in his veins, appearing under a biech light in a jellyfish aspect. What did that man have? What was on those hands? What are you stigmatizing on his forehead? She also felt that sense of undefined terror. With an altered and low voice, he asked him:

"What, then, is so terrible that it makes you tremble so much?"

The words were these, so vague, so indeterminate, but their meaning was more precise and more penetrating and he understood it. He made an effort over himself and ruling himself replied:

"I have never told you anything, because it was not worth disturbing your soul, but it is time for you to know everything..."

His voice was almost gloomy and suffocated.

"Orbene... You will know that after the death of my brother, my sister-in-law sprinkled with her son, and that the waitress Magdalena was murdered..."

"Yes, yes... I was still a little girl, and I think I heard a big noise."

"Those who kidnapped her had to have an accomplice in bondage... On the balcony of the room was a rope made up of baby bands tied together. The robbers, and I do not hesitate to say murderers, fled from there.. I could never find out, nor have any trace of them. Not my sister-in-law... And yet I spent two years searching everywhere, or only in Palermo... All this accuses me... you mean well, I am accused of being the one who killed my sister-in-law and my nephew to take over my fortune..."

Donna Gabriella looked at her husband, and shook. It seemed to him that at that time he really had something belluin and frightening.

He continued:

"I swear on my daughter's head that I don't know how the Duchess of Motta disappeared and what happened." He did not lie this time; because in truth he could never enter the mystery of that disappearance.

"So?" asked Gabriella, a woman still overwhelmed by her impressions.

"Well, there is someone I don't know, an occult and relentless enemy who, I know for what purpose, has tried to accumulate testimonies against me, to prove that I am... a murderer and a usurper; mysterious letters have penetrated here, in this house, I don't know how, despite the doors and windows closed; letters full of threats, allusions, pitfalls... I am surrounded on every side by invisible enemies who proclaim themselves vindicators of what I would have usurped, and who instead come to me by right... To find witnesses among those people is not difficult; perhaps the witnesses will be the killers themselves... evident that someone has interest; someone aspires to the ducal crown of the Motta. Who? The key to the mystery is that admired... And now he escapes me. "They" have come to the king... When an army of witnesses, whom I do not know, accumulates the most unfaithful accusations, and with the deceptions that I know from experience, a serious trial, how will I exonerate myself? Where will I find the testimonies in my favor? It's easier to make a man look guilty than to persuade him of his innocence... Now I am at the mercy of my enemies!"

Donna Gabriella asked herself mentally:

"Is he really an evildoer? Is she a victim? If he's a scumbag, shall I be his accomplice? And if he is a victim of deception, will I be able to abandon him?"

"Even if I could show the intransigence of the accusations, doesn't the scandal that would arise justify my concern? And would it not give way and ease to the envious of our luck to multiply to our detriment all that evil can suggest?... And if (because you have to admit all the possibilities) the voice of innocence did not come to destroy the invereconde accusations, think of it as ruin!"

He trembled, pale, unbridled, almost convulsive, as if he had seen the mannaia flash before his eyes. He was terrifying and compassionate at the time. But at that moment none of these feelings vibrated in the soul of a woman Gabriella; she thought that indeed her state, her wealth, that dominion she exercised in aristocratic society, were compromised and that it was necessary to save her husband in order to preserve to herself all those conditions that formed the reason of her life.

"Tell me what to do," he said.

"Regain the royal favor. There's a brig in the port that will sail tomorrow to Messina: the king goes along the road of Catania, from where he will then go to Messina. If you only want to calculate the time strictly necessary, you will not be able to arrive before the end of the month; but you will arrive in two days and you will find yourself At the entrance..."

"It's okay, I'll leave..."

"Thank you, Gabriella woman; think that by foiling the plot it is not only me that you steal from the pitfalls of enemies, but also you." Gabriella remained the only woman to abandon herself to the tumult of thoughts: reflecting on what he had heard and more on what he had intuition and supposition, he felt for Don Raimondo a kind of rebuke and terror, and at the same time of contempt; he seemed cruel, and vile; innocent, he did not show strong confidence in his innocence.

Guilty, he did not have the courage and boldness that sometimes give an aesthetic taste to the fault itself. She trembled and recommended herself as a little girl. Vile! vile! Oh yes, she would have saved him for herself, for his decorum; but then... she no longer wanted anything in common with a man, of whom she now knew all the misery: She would have left, tried to regain the lost place, but for her sake.

Meanwhile, Don Raimondo, with his heart lifted up for what he had achieved, entered his study, addressing other purposes in his mind. After all, if he was forbidden by then to proceed in the judgment of a person, he did not take away those vast faculties of arrest and the office of vicar; and on the other hand, Mrs Francesca and Emanuele remained locked up in Castello, which in some way responded to his drawings.

He immediately sent for Matteo Lo Vecchio, the only one who had at least one sure trace to find the dark sect, and put his hands on those unknown leaders who filled him with terror.

"Recapitulate: - thought - Gabriella woman in Messina will discover from where and from whom this last blow came, and will paralyze its effects. If, as I think, he explains all his strength, I'm absolutely sure. Don Girolamo's wife and nephew, in prison, are precious hostages to pull into a trap Don Girolamo Admirata; Matteo Lo Vecchio, then, already has enough clues to catch everyone else in the net. Now is the time to tighten and act quickly with lightning. Sure on the king's side, I feel strong and bold... But the king must isolate him, he must be isolated!"

And he wondered if it was not appropriate to accompany his wife to Messina, and, with an act of boldness, ask the king the reasons for that order that had filled him with so much terror. As he reflected and studied, he rekindled; the first dismay went away, and his spirit, refreshing, penetrated into the field of the most daring designs.

Among these thoughts Matteo Lo Vecchio found him.

It took a long time for Matteo Lo Vecchio, who got back from the hanging that almost cost him his life, to be able to leave the house. Hate, spite, the bitter desire for unsatisfied vengeance had added a greater note to the sufferings that marked his face. Don Raimondo was amazed to see him, almost unrecognizable.

"Well," he said, "do you feel good?"

"Excellency, yes; I'm sick, aren't I?

But it doesn't matter, maybe this helps me..."

"Can you resume the campaign?..."

"I've already filmed it..."

"Ah! since when?"

"For two days..."

"Bravo."

"He will understand, Your Excellency, that in addition to serving the king and your Excellency, I now have a match to fix, even on my own..."

"I'm not wrong. And did you find any other leads?"

"Maybe. But caution is needed. Those damned devils have eyes open and ears stretched everywhere and we must be wary of ourselves; therefore, your Excellency forgive me, I will not tell you what I have discovered; I will tell you when we are no longer afraid that our secret will be discovered and our steps prevented."

"Do you suspect?"

"Not of your Excellency; but the walls... I know that without eyes and ears they see and hear."

Don Raimondo thought of the mysterious way in which those letters full of symbols and threats penetrated his home and looked around, caught by a sense of superstitious fear.

"You're right," he murmured, "and I ask you nothing..."

"Does Your Excellency have orders to give me?"

"Do you know that the king has appointed me vicar general to purify the kingdom from evildoers?"

"I know."

"I therefore have full powers..."

"I know; but meanwhile they prevented you from questioning Mrs. Francesca Ammirata..."

"Do you know?"

"Excellency, yes; and I also know where the blow comes from."

"Ah!... is that a secret too?"

"No, since it happened. The order of the king is the consequence of a complaint against your Excellency, presented to the king, in Bagheria, by the daughter of the painter Bongiovanni; the slut who seems sewn as the nephew of the admired..."

Don Raimondo was stunned. What did that girl have to do with it and what did that report contain? He whispered:

"What was that girl's interest?"

"She, personally, was nothing; she was nothing but the hand to present the complaint; the arm that pushed her forward was that of the Beati Paoli..."

"How do you know?" asked Don Raimondo with an altered voice.

"This Come into my secret, and I'll tell you later. Your Excellency, moreover, let us not think of anything: I know what I have to do... especially not to be dismayed."

The duke raised his head, blushing for the shame of showing weakness in the eyes of the birro.

"Oh, no!" he said, endeavoring to take a bold air.

"So he is well," Matthew approved.

He took good-bye and left. For two days, he had said, he had resumed his hunt and, not seen, had seen Mrs. Francesca arrested; but that arrest had in his acute eyes detected new things and indicated new leads. No one had put his mind to a begging torn and dirty man, who had sat on the ground before a tavern, begging the patrons for alms. But that poor man, who seemed to be reduced to the extremes of hunger, kept an eye on the house of the admired, almost in front of the tavern. So he had seen the birri and the litter coming and had seen the arrest carried out. As many people had gathered, whispering, he too, as curious as the others, had approached to see and meanwhile gathered popular judgments about the arrest, which moved the district.

Two words of furbesque slang attracted his attention. Pretending to return to his place, in front of the tavern, he turned to look, and saw two young men who looked like shopkeepers; one of whom, after exchanging a few other words, had left quickly on the road to Guilla; the other had entered the tavern.

"Well, this is the meeting point," he said. Let's be careful..."

He also entered the tavern and, sitting in a corner, took a piece of bread out of his pocket, brought a glass of wine. The boy had sat among a group of players, watching the game, exchanging a few words now with one another. So he spent about half an hour and saw the other boy enter the tavern, who exchanged a look of intelligence with the first.

Then they both went out on the door. Matthew paid and also went out, passing before them with indifference, and heard a name "don Antonino." Who was this guy? In order not to give suspicion he went away from the tavern, for a little while, stopping from time to time on the pretext of asking for charity, so as not to lose sight of the two young suspects. They separated again and the one who had gone away the first time took the road to Guilla.

"We must follow him," he said. He kept behind him until Albergheria, where the young man stopped in front of a door, and beat him.

"Look, look - murmured the birro not without wonder; - here is Don Antonino!... But fine!... Matthew, I told you, you're a man of genius. Now let's wait a bit 'what the sor don Antonino Bucolaro will do!..."

And in fact, shortly after, the young man went out with a man who seemed to look like one of those who in Palermo are called middle class, middle class between the artisans and the upper bourgeoisie, and who included the small traders, the senses, the small employees, the traffickers. They entered a shed next door and came out shortly after with one of those little carts to a seat, which were the forefathers of the wheelchairs, chars-à-tanes, or resumes, to which was attached a nice tug of Pantelleria tall as a mule.

"Hell!" thought Matthew; they go far. Where? How will I follow them?"

The cart passed before him quickly, and entered the road of Porta Sant'Agata. Matthew followed him with his eyes.

"The doors are coming out. I get it. They're going to bring the news to Don Girolamo. It's natural. So Don Antonino knows where he is, and he is also of the group..."

But suddenly the face of the birro glowed with a flash of joy. Beat his forehead, he exclaimed:

"Benone! Don Antonino has a small farm in Falsomele. So that's where Don Girolamo is properly hidden and probably also his partner Andrea!... Now we're waiting for them to come back. Here we must not abandon the mail."

He calculated that at least it would be an hour and a half good, and that he had time to go home and lay down his disguise. On the other hand, he lived within walking distance. It happened as he had predicted; in less than two hours Don Antonino Bucolaro returned with that young man, took the cart back to the shed and went out again. And Matthew in the back, from afar. They redone the road that led to the little square of San Cosmo, to the house of Don Girolamo Ammirata.

"Or they go to get something that is necessary for the "rational" - thought the birro, - or someone is waiting for you; that is..."

But the two climbed upstairs and went to the house of the Bongiovanni. Matteo Lo Vecchio pushed himself to the door, stretching his ear. After 20 minutes, he felt a door opened. They said of the voices:

Tomorrow morning at 12 hours.

"Tomorrow morning."

He recognized a fresh female voice among them.

"I understand," he thought, moving away quickly so as not to be found. And he waited for Antonino Bucolaro and the young man to come out and leave: Then he let go for a few minutes, and he also went knocking on the door.

It was already evening and the sky was dark. Matthew entered the painter's house, speaking with the provincial cadence.

"This is where the painter Don Vincenzo Bongiovanni lives, isn't it?"

"Here, just," Pellegra answered him that she had gone to open to him.

"I'm glad; and can you talk to him?"

The painter, who had come out at that point, said:

"Talk to me? Here I am... Sit down; no compliments. What commands?"

"I come from... Baucina... safe, from Baucina and there is to do the portrait of the pastor father, who is old, and can at any moment die, saving us and the grandchildren, you understand well..."

"Yes, yes, I understand..."

"They'll be in a hurry. When could you start?..."

"Uhm!... not tomorrow for sure... tomorrow I'm busy, I'm going to Bagheria."

Matthew smiled at his attention.

"I understand; he wants to enjoy the king's arrival..."

"Surely: the king's arrival. I'll go with my daughter and some friends."

Mentally Matthew completed: "With Antonino Bucolaro," and he said loudly:

"I regret to postpone: It will then be for the day after tomorrow; the day after tomorrow I will bring with me the priest's nephew and you will agree on everything. Is he okay?"

"All right, all right! Thank you, it's a lot to do with you."

Matthew already knew enough: All he needed to know was what they were going to do in Bagheria. Certainly not to see the king, who could see him passing from Porta di Vicari that trip connected with the other to Falsomele; there was a concert: Which one?

The next morning, Matteo, disguised as an abbot, riding a donkey, was found near the Bridge of the Admiral and waited for Antonino Bucolaro's cart. He thus saw the begging delivered and later saw the courier leaving with the royal order.

So he now possessed some other threads and had the certainty of the refuge of Don Girolamo. In order not to arouse suspicion and grasp the rational and Andrea in the net, it was necessary to move those new rows: Pellegra and Don Antonino Bucolaro. To earn the first he possessed the heaviest bait: the love personified in the likeness of Emanuele; in order to gain the second one it was necessary to be deeper in the secrets of the sect, of which he knew only some sign and some word, and of this knowledge could not trust, fearing that, as was probable, the followers turned against him.

For two days, therefore, he had been spying on and studying the life and habits of Don An tonino, investigating his relationships, and looking for among the many what best suited him. Now, leaving Motta's palace, he summarized all his investigations, seeming to him the time to give the decisive blow.

With that disguise as an abbot that made him unrecognizable, and equipped with the order that gave him wide powers, he went to the Castle and, having been recognized by the commander, got to see Mrs. Admirata. He found it in an almost dark cell, sitting on a small stone seat, walled on the humid and grumbling wall. The caretaker, let him in, closed the door and then Matteo Lo Vecchio, bowing down, quickly said in a low voice:

"I come from the bottom of Don Antonino..."

Mrs. Francesca cheated, but she pretended she didn't understand.

"What don Antonino?"

"Toh! what does this question mean? Don Antonino Bucolaro. Need to tell you who sent me? I talked to him... I'm a friend of the Castle chaplain, but I'm a good friend and brother of Don Antonino... You realize it's not easy to get in here, but it's not as hard as it is to me... I said that I am your confessor; so we agreed with Don Antonino... And so, I'm here. Your husband sends me to tell you to be good and don't worry about anything. He had the king, Bagheria, deliver a plea from that dear maiden, the daughter of the painter Bongiovanni... I was there! What a blow! The begging took effect... As you see, no judge has come to question you; all suspended... Eh! it took some work; between Don Girolamo, Andrea, Don Antonino Bucolaro and me, we succeeded!..."

Mrs. Francesca had first listened to him with suspicion, but gradually she had let herself be convinced: all those peculiarities and the news of a supplication given to the king, by Pellegra, and the suspension of judgment, all these things went away gaining his trust, and ended up believing fully that the abbot came from his husband. Then he asked him how he had left him, and if he had told him anything else.

"Oh, he's fine!" he replied; "as far as you can be well away from your home. He recommends the boy and wants to know if you have any news to send him..."

Mrs. Francesca was in doubt for a minute, and then she said,

"Here, tell him that, as I was unexpectedly arrested, I didn't have time to send those papers to Don Antonino... and I'm still at home. They should be withdrawn."

"It's okay. The papers are still in the house, and they should be withdrawn. Before tonight he will know. And now be cheerful, I will come and see you."

He went gloating. So there were some important papers in the house that that good lady hadn't done in time to steal. You had to see them and, if anything, make them disappear.

Getting into the house wasn't a difficult thing; you just had to take the lock print. Leaving the castle, therefore, first, he turned a little wax and, pretending to go to the painter Bongiovanni, firmly slipped the stairs. Soon afterward, he went to an old iron.

"Sorry. I lost my key to the house, and I can't go back. I took the print: Let's see if you have one that fits."

The old iron took a large bunch of rusted keys and found one almost the same: "With two shots of file, this one's gonna be okay."

And having said that, he squeezed her into a vise and worked around you. After half an hour the abbot returned with passage sent to the little square S. Cosmo and entered the house of rational. But when he closed and opened the door, a deep emotion made his heart beat violently.

He stopped in the middle of the room, looking around.

"Let's see. Mrs. Francesca wouldn't have had time to take away the keys to the drawers... There's a box there. I don't want to break him in."

He started digging everywhere; baskets, tapes... nothing. He threw his hands under the cheeks, nothing; then under the mattresses, nothing. And he brake the wool and the stubble of the mattress, and suddenly he cried out, He had touched a foreign body and heard a rustle of paper. He drew a knife, dug the mattress envelope, threw his hand inside it, searched it, pulled it out with a bundle of cards, wrapped in a sheet and tied with a tape.

"That must be it," he said.

He loosened the tape, completed the file, and removed the first sheet of paper he read: "Sedute of 21 November 1713, report of Andrea Lo Bianco, former servant of the was illustrious lord the Duke Emanuele Albamonte of Motta".

"Very good. Let's hear it."

As he read, wonder, marvel, joy alternated upon his face. He took off the second sheet; the title said:

"Sedation of 1 March 1714: deposed of the appointed Giuseppico already servant of Mr. Don Raimondo current Duke of Motta and Peppa La Sarda, maker, with the testimony of the infrascriptions."

He also read these papers, of which he already knew a part for the confession received by the sacristan in prisons, but finding other details that filled him again and higher amazement. Then he took another turn, but as soon as he opened it, he threw out a cry of wonder and fear. The first paper that came under his gaze was a small square sheet, with the coat of arms of the parish of St. Ippolito and on which a date "Die XVI januari, 1698" was written by hand among the printed Latin formulas: "Emanuel de Albimontis generis clius olim Emanuelis ducis Mottae et illustris dominae Aloysiae Vigintirrilliae".

"Emanuele?" cried the birro; "Emanuele? He's the duke's son? The missing boy?... Dream? This is the mark of the parish, there is no doubt!... But how? How?"

He trembled because of the emotion of that discovery that put in his hands the key of the mysterious persecution of the Beati Paoli and made him an arbitrator and master of everything. He took another card with the same fever. It was the act of burial of such a Rosa Matranga, buried under the high altar of the church of S. Cristoforo al Capo.

"Who is this?" asked the birro to himself, folding the paper; but when he folded it he saw on the reverse a staff of writing, he read and cried:

"Eh!... She..."

Note that under this name the Duchess of Motta is buried."

Matteo Lo Vecchio was a little'silent, contemplating those cards, unresolved and thoughtful: And he rewrote them again in the paper, and bound them with the ribbon, and put them in his pocket.

"The duke would give his life to own these cards, but I'd better save them... they'll be safer. In the meantime, let's replace them."

He looked for the other paper and made it a roll of the same size as the one taken and threw it into the mattress. He found a needle and thread in a basket, he sewed up the envelope, carefully cleaned up everything, and went quietly; but instead of going to his house, he stopped at the door of the house Bucolaro and knocked.