Beati Paoli
by Luigi Natoli
part two, chapter 16
| Italiano | English |
When the square remained empty and silent, one of those people went to the house, already occupied by the soldiers, and of which they had left the door open. Shortly afterward he looked out at the balcony and whistled in a particular way. Then other shadows of men came out of the alleys and emerged from the gates, and from the bottom of the road the two that Blasco had saved from the clutches of justice appeared again.
They were Don Girolamo Admirata and Andrea. They quickly went up to the house, where the man who had preceded them had lit an oil lamp; Don Girolamo went into the bedroom, overwhelmed the mattresses, and, having pulled out a knife, dug the envelope of one of them, threw his hand inside with great satisfaction, but, as soon as he treated it out with a plethora, threw a cry of sorrow:
"The cards! The cards!..."
He broke the cord that tied the envelope, and carried it out: It contained nothing but paper.
"The cards!... the cards!..." he stuttered with a suffocated voice, letting himself fall over a chair.
Andrea approached him amazed.
"What is it? What is..."
"Rubate!" exclaimed Fr Girolamo "Rubate!... Stolen..."
A mortal silence came into the room; those two men looked at each other with an anguish shock, struck by the mystery of that disappearance, which suddenly revealed to them the presence of a spy, a traitor, someone, invisible and strong, who exploded all their plans, overturned the whole building with so much patience, with so much sacrifice, with so stubborn a struggle built. Who could have surprised that secret, who could have stolen the envelope, of which only Don Girolamo and his wife knew the closet? Where was the traitor? He had been warned by Antoninus Bucolaro, by the lady Francesca. By whom did Antonino Bucolaro receive that embassy? The traitor could only be among them. Doubt about Antonino Bucolaro? But he did not know what cards they were, nor where they were placed. Those who had taken them had to have the key of the house and had to know the topography of it. Any sign of a mess?
They began to investigate: It really seemed that in the drawers, in the closet someone had thrown out his hands, but it could have been Mrs. Francesca, who, suddenly caught by the order of arrest, had in haste and fury thrown out of the stuff here and there or, treats some linen for her use, had left the drawers a bit 'in disorder.
You had to ask yourself, and first of all ask Mrs. Francesca; but how to get to you?
A whistle from the street called them. It was time to leave, because it was close to dawning.
Don Girolamo and Andrea went out, locked the house, and, having exchanged a word with the man who made the watchman, they disappeared in the shadow of the square.
"Let's go to Antonino Bucolaro," said Fr Girolamo; "he must be able to tell us something: He must tell us; he will tell us, and if he..."
He stretched out his fist in the act of threat and his eyes shone leftly. Andrea kept silent; she kept her eyes low affected by that theft, which was like Emanuele's second suppression. His dream as a devoted servant and faithful to the memory of his lord, to avenge the Duchess and put Emanuel back into possession of her heritage, seemed to be gone forever. He thought: So it is not true that God protects the innocent and that crime, the slanders receive the deserved punishment! It is not true that the truth triumphs, nothing is true!... Don Raimondo, there he is, he triumphed! He had gradually dispersed, extinguished all the voices that could accuse him: dead on the dead, crimes; now it destroyed those documents, voices of beyond the grave that seemed to rise from the bottom of the tomb, to shout revenge and invoke justice!..
What was the fault of his lineage?
Perhaps even in the soul of Don Girolamo the same thoughts took place. All the past came to his memory, since that tragic night of January, on which he had gathered on the road, crazy of terror and dying of cold, woman Aloisia of Motta and had hospitalized her in her home. Sixteen years had passed since that night, and it had been sixteen years of sacrifice, secret work, investigation. He had a little girl and she was dead to him, and Emanuele had occupied the house for two: for himself and for his milk sister; husband and wife had focused all their affections on him. Don Girolamo had obtained that he was welcomed into the college of Turchini; he had also sent him by the Jesuit fathers, although with very little fruit, by the nature of the boy, suffering from discipline. And both, husband and wife, dreamed of seeing one day the child master and lord of his feuds; although the thought that that wealth would dig an abyss between Emanuel and his affectionous genes made them shudder. Oh, there was no rush for that. They certainly did not want to get rid of that beautiful child; they would wait for him to turn 21, to reveal everything to him, and to force Don Raimondo to give back to his grandson his usurped inheritance... He thought of those last years, so full of unexpected events; of the instruction - that could be said - of the trial against the duke, of the lucky diligence in gathering unexpected testimonies. He thought of all the weapons collected to ensure the triumph of justice, and justice fell under the victorious and inexorable blows of the crime!
They came to the house of Antonino Bucolaro, who was not yet the dawn; the streets were still deserted and silent and the hammerstroke beaten by Don Girolamo rembombed all the way. At that stroke he had a special whistle followed. A moment later a window opened and a voice asked:
"Who is it?"
"Connect."
"Watch them?"
"Yes, hurry!..."
"Now."
The door opened.
"Are you alone?" asked Fr Girolamo.
"With my wife, I can tell."
"We have to be alone."
"Let's get in here."
It was an earthly room, where there were stone baths to wash. A window opened a black hole in a corner.
"Where do you give that hole?" asked the admirer.
"In a well of light."
"Take care to close it."
Antonino Bucolaro sought, found one of those quadrangular stones of tuff, which are used to manufacture, and which someone had adapted as a step before one of the bathtubs; he placed it in the window and threw the spaces with ashes.
"Well?" he then asked.
"Who came to tell you about the tables my wife left at the cuba?"
"The big stomach of the salty inn."
"Who is he, do you know him?"
"I'd never seen him before that day..."
"What did he say to you?"
"Here are his words: "I come from the Castle, I am the confessor of Mrs. Francesca, the which instructs me to tell you that you warn Don Girolamo to take those cards that he knows, because he did not have time to hand them over to anyone." No more, no less. Why do you ask me this question?"
"The boards flew."
"How?"
"They wanted to tell you! And they were of great importance, they were a treasure; perhaps they were worth two hundred thousand onzes, you know? Someone took them away!"
"Possible?"
"I'm from the cube. They were caught in the belly of angel hair... And I found you this pile of paper instead!... But let's go to my wife's confessor..."
"Where is he?"
"He is Father Nigri, a beneficiary of the Duomo; he is here with the Benfratelli..."
"You wait, Nino."
In a jump, Don Girolamo and Andrea went to his father Nigri and woke him up:
"What is it?" cried the priest; fearful, looking out.
"A dying man..."
"Who is my penitent?..."
"It's me, he recognizes me..." said Don Girolamo.
"Wait."
The priest illuminated his face with a lamp and seemed to be amazed:
"You!..."
"Yes, yes; open up! What the hell!"
The priest, reassured, went down in his underwear and slippers, as he was, to open the door and asked:
"What is it?..."
"Two words, Father; and forgive me... Do you know that my wife was arrested?"
"Did they arrest Francesca? Why?..."
"Didn't you know?"
"No..."
"So she didn't go to the castle?"
"How, if I didn't know anything about it? Why do you ask?"
"Nothing!... it's a terrible thing!" said Don Girolamo sweating cold.
The priest with the lamp in his hand looked amazed, not knowing how to explain the urgency of that question at that time, and the fear of Don Girolamo.
"Do you want me to visit Francesca? As his confessor I will be allowed..."
Don Girolamo thought for a second, and said:
"Yes, I will be grateful, and ask her who was the priest with whom she sent me that embassy that she knows..."
"All right; at fourteen hours I'll go. Count on it. But do not commit imprudence; go away, do not let yourselves be seen."
"He's right. Your Ladyship bless me, and forgive me for the trouble... it's a very serious thing!... very serious!... Nino Bucolaro will come to take the answer..."
They returned from the Bucolaro, while the priest went up to the house still amazed and murmuring:
"Poor Mrs. Francesca!... But really there was no reason to wake up at this hour!... Let us commend ourselves to God!"
Antonino Bucolaro was waiting for Don Girolamo to return with a lively agitation.
"Nino," said Fr Girolamo, taking him by the arm, "it wasn't Father Nigri! He didn't even know that Francesca had been arrested!..."
"No!" exclaimed Antoninus bypassing the monosyllabus for wonder.
"No! He didn't know. Nino," and the appearance of Don Girolamo became twisted, and the voice roared between the serrated teeth "swear that he came to you big stomach...."
"Ne! doubt?"
"She swears!... watch your oath... I will accuse you..."
"Don Girolamo, do you think I am a traitor?"
"Or you invited big stomach..."
"And did I know about the cards?..."
"And then either you or big stomach have scratched the boards!..."
Antonino Bucolaro jumped up with his face on fire:
"I? Don Girolamo!..."
"You or big stomach." said the Admired in the same tone. "You two, besides me, my wife, Andrea, and no one else, knew that those tables were in my house."
"And you doubt me? I gave evidence of being a traitor, I?..."
"No; but here's the thing: It's your turn to unravel it... I need to find those boards, you know? I need to know who scratched them and where they are!..."
"Let's look for the big stomach."
"It's your business. At midday, I'll be waiting for you at the Earnings."
Antonino Bucolaro, who was left alone, threw his hands into his hair, as if to concentrate on a thought. The dawn had already dawned; he went up into his chambers, clothed himself, armed himself, and went out of the house. For his job as a sensal he often needed to go out at the tip of the day, to go to Porta Termini, where they would dump the wheat. But instead of taking the road that led you, he went towards the Castle, to look for you the confessor, the chaplain, that priest in short, who had introduced himself to him by Mrs. Francesca. At that time the priest probably went there, for it was known that the mass for the prisoners was said early in the morning.
He asked the caretaker if the priest had come and if he could be spoken to, being a matter of great importance.
"He hasn't come yet, but it won't take long. As for talking to him, there is no difficulty; you can wait for him here, at the gate... sit down."
Antoninus sat on a wooden bench, in the way from the gate of the castle he put in an inner courtyard and waited to chat with the keeper of the things of the day; until he said to him:
"Here's the father."
Antonino Bucolaro looked out; a small, fat priest crossed the drawbridge at that time.
"But he's not the one I'm looking for."
"Don't you want the chaplain father?"
"If he's a chaplain, I don't know, I'm looking for the Confessor..."
"It is one; confessor and chaplain are the same person..."
"But I'm looking for another..."
"And then it will be that of Vicaria."
"No, he came to me and said clearly that he came from the castle... And then, I'm sorry, is Mrs. Francesca Admired here?"
"Here..."
"And so it is the confessor of the Castle..."
"And this is it."
The priest passed before Antonino Bucolaro, who stared at him, shaking his head.
"It's not him, it's not him!... But, excuse me, aren't there any other priests in the castle?"
"Nobody..."
"And who came to me then?..."
"Do you want me to tell you? Ask the father. He may know something about it."
Antonino went to the chaplain, who was dressing up for the Mass, but he knew nothing; he had never seen and confessed to Mrs. Francesca and even less had received assignments; he also said that of priests in the Castle there was only him. Antonino Bucolaro didn't know what to think.
Who then went to him? To whom did Mrs. Francesca entrust her assignment? Who made you and him into a trap?
At midday, when he went to Guadagna, in a small tavern between the reeds at the end of the small stone bridge over Oreto, Fr Girolamo was no less terrified by that news. He was certain that a spy had surprised Mrs. Francesca's good faith and that, after stealing those cards, he had tried to lure Don Girolamo into a trap to arrest him; but who was it? who could it be?
"He is an abbot," said Antonino Bucolaro. "I will visit them one by one, until I find him, for Our Lady..."
"An abbot?" Andrew observed; "what if it was the same abbot who tried to arrest me at Milicia?"
All three looked at each other, struck by that call that put them on the road, suddenly.
"Him!... Matteo Lo Vecchio!" cried Fr Girolamo.
"He is capable of this and the other," added Antonino Bucolaro.
"Ah, the piece of jail!... You have to steal them!..."
And another thought crossed the mind of Don Girolamo.
"What if he destroyed them?..."
"But for God's sake!... why don't we condemn him? I think it's time..."
"What if he handed them over to the duke?"
This idea seemed more terrible than the others; certainly the duke who had suppressed people would not have kept the accusing papers. Silence came upon their mouths.
After a moment, Don Girolamo told Antonino:
"We need to pinch the old lady at the refectory."
"All right. I'll bend the bell."
