Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part three, chapter 14

Italiano

English

Don Raimondo Albamonte Duke of Motta had arrived for a few hours, after a long and stormy journey from Genoa to Palermo, over a prison of the republic. He had only given himself some rest, to recover, and had run to the Royal Palace to learn from the Viceroy some news about the two women.

From Turin to Genoa, from Genoa to Palermo, that closed heart to every feeling had been tortured by the most terrible thoughts and fears: Not so much because of the fate of Gabriella, whom he had never loved and of whom he had cared very little, but because of his daughter. In his cold and cruel bowels, in the face of the danger of losing that one daughter, in whom he perpetuated his lineage and possession of wealth, before the ghost of death above that innocent creature, the love of a father, which seemed unknown to you, had reawakened vehemently.

Every hiccup in the journey, the sudden bonacce, the sudden storms that, either slowed down the path, or diverted from its course the jail, pierced him with a thousand stings. We never got there, then? Was Sicily so far from Turin?

At each additional hour it seemed to him as if Violante descended another garden of the ladder of death: Every day, at sunset on that immensity of sea and sky, he wondered: "Will I get there in time? Will I find her alive?..."

And in her heart the pain was howling. He went to the captain, to the party, to the hoist, to the helmsman, anxiously asking:

"How many more days? Is there a storm? We're gonna have 20 for it? Why don't you let them row more quickly?... Ah, if I were the stinger! I would have broken their ribs by now! Make them row faster... put all the sails!..."

He almost wanted to rule jail. If he saw a sail on the horizon, he would seize the telescope and spy on it with suspicion and trepidation.

"Will it be any racing ships? Are we in danger? How many cannons do we have on board? Don't let him get caught, for God's sake!... We must reach Palermo at all costs, and as soon as possible. I will give you two hundred more shields!..."

From time to time, he reread the mysterious letter that had caused him to leave Turin precipitously. It was short, laconic, marked by the usual emblems. On the day he found her on his table he recognized her writing and form, and she paled. "Even here they haunt me?" he said.

The same pallor, the same terror attacked him every time he took the letter to read it again.

"Lord, you have cast a poor woman and a boy into prison: A man flees ungodly justice armed by you. Your wife and daughter will answer for those. They are in our power. Hurry up and come. It's up to you to have them back."

At first he did not want to live up to this letter. How could the Beati Paoli have taken possession of Gabriella and Violante? Wasn't Violante locked in the monastery?

He had run to the Palazzo della Consulta to find Don Nicolò Pensabene or Don Francesco Aguirre or some other Sicilian, whom the king had taken with him to Turin, to know if news had come from Palermo and the dismayed appearance of his countrymen had sufficed to give him confirmation. With the same courier, in fact, had come a report of the Viceroy who, according to the first voices, attributed the rat of women to the corsairs and asked for a flotilla for the safety of the kingdom, not enough the prisons of Sicily, few and bad.

"The corsairs? The corsairs? Do you think it's the corsairs?..." he shouted exasperated.

Now he was venting with the Viceroy, who in a long time, more than a month and a half, had done nothing. Had it been corsairs, and transeat; but the corsairs had nothing to do with it.

"This is the work of the Beati Paoli!... Here's their letter. Do you understand your Excellency? And for God's sake, the Beati Paoli certainly didn't eat them alive. Where, then, is justice? Where are they, who make the rural companies?... I almost killed this cult, I almost destroyed it!... In the meantime, if my daughter had died?..."

This idea filled his heart, his voice, the gesture of ineffable pain. An anxiety, a terror, a need to run, to do, to say...

Of course there was the hand of the admirer: Who in fact could have had an interest in committing that capture, as a means to free Mrs. Francesca and Emanuele? Release them? Oh, yeah! He would have done it to save, secure his daughter; then... Ah, then revenge would come!...

The Viceroy promised him that he would make available the rural companies, even those of the baronal lands: But he thought it took a lot more than company. He returned home down, undone, and jumped into a studio chair, as if to coordinate his ideas and study a plan, when a servant announced a visit to him.

"Excellency, Mr. Blasco from Castiglione..."

"I don't get it, I don't want to see anyone!" cried he.

"And your most illustrious lordship would be wrong," said Blasco coldly, overlooking the threshold, with his hat in his hand and a certain solemnity in his attitude.

Don Raimondo looked at him with amazement, then with a sense of terror. In the room of the door, with the door raised from one side, motionless, Blasco appeared the living reproduction of the portrait of Don Emanuele. It seemed to Don Raimondo that his brother had detached himself from the canvas, or had come out of the tomb to ask him to account for woman Aloisia and little Emanuele.

"What do you want?" he stammered.

With a gesture Blasco dismissed the servant, closed the door, and advancing up to the high chair of Don Raimondo simply replied:

"Talk to you, Mr. Duke... and Uncle!..."

Since he had turned to approach a chair, he did not notice the leap that Don Raimondo made at the last word.

Blasco laid down his hat, sat down and looked at it; he understood from the amazement painted on the face of the duke the effect of the abrupt announcement of his kinship, and said:

"Your Lordship is amazed, isn't it? But it is so; I have the honour to have descended directly from the illustrious kidneys of Don Emanuele Alba monte, and to be born in the castle of Motta. If I hadn't come to see her for serious and serious things, it would be a little funny about this kinship, but..."

"But I," stopped with harshness Don Raimondo "have no will to laugh, neither time to lose, sir; and as for your birth and your alleged origin..."

"Piano!" he gave him on the Blasco voice; "pretentious? I do not claim anything; who gives me a surname and a fatherhood is a small faith of the pastor, but if I were to tell her my thoughts, no matter how much the honor of being a bastard of his brother may flatter me, I do not flatter myself to the point of desiring the high honor... to aspire to be a relative of a man like yours... There's too much... difference. But that is not what I come to speak to you... Mr. Duke; I told you that these are serious and serious things..."

Don Raimondo thought that Blasco wanted money; to cut off his speech, he rose and said:

"Lord, in these moments I have more and more serious business to wait for..."

Blasco did not move; with a gesture he indicated the high chair to Don Raimondo.

"I suppose, Mr. Duke, there can be nothing more serious than the fate of a Violant woman and of a Duchess..."

Don Raimondo immediately changed his appearance and tone.

"What? My daughter? Do you know anything about my daughter?"

"Yes..."

"Is she alive?"

"Live..."

"Oh, God!"

His eyes expressed an anguish question that the spasm painted on his face commented. He whispered:

"Live... he's okay, but?"

"Pure as the day she was born, and honored, as a saint."

Then the man who had shed his death and had stifled every feeling of pity, of humanity, felt his knees bent, fell on the ground, reaching his hands and burst into sobbing and tears, repeated:

"God!... God!... thank you!..."

Then he took Blasco's hands in a rush of joy, gratitude, tenderness, stuttering:

"Thank you!... Thank you!..."

Blasco was touched. He waited for that nervous crisis to stop, to resume his speech.

"It is useless to tell you, and it would be too long, how I could know why, by whom the Duchess and Violent woman were kidnapped; nor will this matter to you; what now matters is to save, or rather to free the two women..."

"Oh, you know it! You are the most valiant man I have known. You want one, two soldiers companies, a cavalry squadron? I'll give you whatever you want..."

"You're wrong, sir. You're wrong. First of all, you should know where they are..."

"How? Don't you know?"

"No. Secondly, does your lordship not think that to the appearance of so much strength, and to the thought that they want to tear the two ladies away with violence, those who guard them will deliver them to us killed?... No, no! no force apparatus..."

"And what to do So?"

"Coming to terms with the kidnappers..."

"Who knows them?"

"Maybe I..."

"What about these pacts?"

"First of all we must free the wife of Girolamo Ammirata and the... grandson and have the ban that weighs on Ammirata..."

"And who can?"

"Your lordship..."

"But these are things that depend on justice..."

"In fact, it would seem so, but your lordship knows that justice has done it your own lordship..."

"I can't do anything above the Holy Office."

"And then, when it is so, I have nothing more to do. It means that she abandons her only daughter to her tragic destiny..."

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying. Let's see. I don't know what the accusations are about these people, nor what the trials have been able to ascertain."

"There are no trials; and the one made for Mrs. Francesca Ammirata is a lie... But we don't get lost in useless speeches. Every hour that passes is precious. Your lordship can do anything. You think it's about the life of a Violent woman."

Don Raimondo shook his head in his hands; fatherly love fought with hatred and fear. Blasco continued coldly and weighing the words:

"And beware, your lordship, that the vengeance of the Beati Paoli - because by now he knows well that it is they will not be arrested for the imprisonment of the ladies; he will fall ruthlessly upon her, dragging her before the justice of his Majesty as guilty of incredible evil..."

Don Raimondo thrilled, the muscles of his face contracted, he tried to show disdain and to take on an air of challenge.

"Minacce!... Ah! the usual infamies, the usual slanders."

"Truth!" interrupted Blasco.

"I challenge them!... Are you one of the Beati Paoli? Well I will begin with you I will have you arrested, I will have you tortured, I will cause you tormented more horrible, I will tear all secrets out of your mouth!..."

"Do it as well, and tomorrow you will receive in a bag the heads of Donna Gabriella and Donna Violante; and the Viceroy will receive a formal denunciation with the charge of having had a hit man named Maddalena, waitress of woman Aloisia of Motta, your sister-in-law, fresh in childbirth; of having tried to poison your sister-in-law twice, with powders supplied by the maker Peppa the Sarda; of having suppressed woman Aloisia and little Emanuele, unique and true heir to the title and feuds of the house Albamonte; of having killed Giuseppico your sicario; poisoned Peppa the Sarda; of having strangled in prisons without formal trial two poor devils; of having given to the birro Matteo Lo Vecchio to poison me; and finally of being fraudulent usurper of the heritage that would fall to the legitimate heir!... There is some left over, Mr. Duke, to have your head cut off, in Piazza Marina; ten times, if one could!"

Don Raimondo had listened to that requirement by becoming pale, then bruised and then plumbee; as Blasco spoke, the images of the victims rose around him and seemed to oppress and suffocate him; with a convulsive gesture he tried to stop the words of the young man; the fear prevented him from speaking. When Blasco finished, with that vision of the torture that he almost saw and felt, he gathered his forces to try a defense:

"That's not true!... That's not true!..."

"Take care, Mr. Duke, not to deny."

"Rehearsal... where's the evidence?"

"They have them. They have all a formal process; with the depositions of those themselves who were the instruments of crime, written depositions, signed by witnesses who are living, and who will come tomorrow to provide other precious details. I've read this trial..."

"You? Did you read it? Where? How? When..."

"For a case, a mere case, I was horrified... And now your lordship knows what to do..."

Don Raimondo was prostrated, conquered, dejected; his secret was in the hands of many, by now, and that trial represented his condemnation. He believed that he had forever shut the mouths that could denounce him and those mouths had already spoken before witnesses still alive, that he did not know, that he could not strike; he believed that he had almost destroyed the sect, hitting it in the heart, and instead it stood against him formidablely and more powerful and terrible than before; he believed that he could live quiet, honored, sought, ruler, and raised before his mind the vision of an amazing trial, the infamy, the stage and the mannaia of the executioner, the confiscation of the goods, the misery and the perpetual dishonor of the daughter, of his Violant. He was in power of that mysterious and relentless sect! An anguish fear took hold of his spirit; he no longer had the strength to challenge, defend, deny, thought that salvation was in the possession of those cards, destroying which, would destroy the source of the accusations and the basis of the testimonies and could in a trial triumph, or at least explain his forces and fight with probability to win or bend the judges in his behalf with intrigue and corruption.

"Blasco," he said with a raucous voice for emotion, calling the young man confidentially: "Blasco, you're my relative, I mean... you're my nephew... my brother's blood... you're an Albamonte... I'm ready to recognize you... I'll give you a landmark, a neighborhood in this building... I'll make your fortune. Do you want a degree of colonel in the armies of His Majesty? I'll get it for you... I will have the ban lifted against you and Ammirata, to release this man's relatives... I will do whatever you impose on me, but to a pact."

Blasco looked at him with a questioning eye. Don Raimondo added:

"I want those cards!..."

"Impossible, sir..."

"Why impossible? Why? What good are they when I've agreed to everything when I've freed the prisoners? You have to do this, Blasco... for you too... I'm begging you... Promise me."

"But I can't promise you what I'm not allowed to keep... Those cards are not mine, those cards belong to Emanuele Albamonte, Duke of Motta, whom you have tried to suppress and who is alive!..."

"What?... Emanuele?... Alive?.. But I am lost!... lost!..."

"He can save himself..."

"How do you know?... Did he, then, appoint you? Is he the one who moves the Beati Paoli?... How come he's alive? Ah!..."

Suddenly he shone light in his mind, his face took a terrible expression of amazement, hatred and joy.

"Ah! is he, him, the boy who passes through the admirer's nephew? Is this Emanuele?... But then I have it in my power!... Ah!... Well, sir, now to us; the head of Emanuel will answer for my daughter. Or in three days my daughter will be returned or Emanuele will die..."

Blasco could not dominate a gesture of amazement: the courage of desperation... and the duke cut himself to that expedient with all his might, seeking in a bold move his own salvation.

Blasco understood that his move was wrong, but he didn't dismay himself; he got up, took his hat and greeted the duke:

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Duke; I have nothing more to do... But watch what he said: Before me, she takes responsibility for the life and freedom of Emanuele Albamonte... coming out of here, I will go to her Excellency the Viceroy to put my brother under his protection and as for the life of woman Violante... she will know that her father does not respect her so much as to sacrifice her hates and crimes. Goodbye, sir."

He went towards the door; Don Raimondo leaped up and stopped him by his arm:

"Where are you going? Wait!" he said with a gloomy voice. "Forgive me; what do you want? The pain, the indignation, led me too far. You're right. Yeah, you're right. I'm a fool. We'll get along... Who do I have to agree with? With you?"

"No! I willingly wanted to get in the way to avoid a scandal that would overwhelm you and your daughter... And your daughter is innocent! That's all. I thought that you are a father and that the life of an angel, who believes you to be the best of the fathers... I thought that you can find a way, so that silence stretches over the past and Emanuele is recognized, and he has in you a father, not an enemy; you yourself, a man of law, would find the way... I have not sought my interest, Mr. Duke; I will be happy when I have assured the future of my brother and woman Violant and destroyed forever the reasons that move the sect against you... When everything is finally settled, I swear to you that you will have those cards, so that no trace of a dark and bloody past remains!...

Now in her, in her hands, lies the fulfillment of my desire, which aims at the tranquility and happiness of all. Do you want to? I'm here for you. Don't you want to? I will go to the Viceroy and let destiny be fulfilled."

"The Viceroy will have you arrested..."

"It doesn't matter. Do you think, then, that life is pressing me? I wouldn't risk it if I were to... My arrest will not save you, nor your daughter..."

Don Raimondo was quivering, beating his teeth, waving as if he had a fever; he felt that he could not escape from the iron hand that had taken him by the hair, and that it was not even appropriate to tergiverse, nor to seek excuses. Blasco spoke in such a firm tone that there was no doubt about his resolutions. Cedette.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I told you; you have to start with the liberation of Emanuele, Mrs. Francesca and Don Girolamo Ammirata..."

"I'll try to get it..."

"You don't have to say "I'll get it," but "I'll get it."

"I'll get it."

"On the same day that they will be returned to their homes, your lordship will embrace the Duchess and Violent Lady."

"Who's gonna vouch for that?"

"Me."

"Can you, then, do much about the Beati Paoli?" asked Don Raimondo with a flash in his eyes, dilating his nostrils, like a dog who smells the hidden prey.

"At this moment, yes... and only to save her... Oh, don't believe that I have respect for her, anything else; nor because I carry, by chance, a name that I will not use, but for your daughter, for that poor and innocent creature that I freed a first time, with the strength, that I want to free even now, that I want to save, indeed; because it is not only the life that must be assured, but the name, Mr. Duke, the name and wealth!... She must ignore that her father is an evildoer and that the wealth in which he lives is usurped; she must not see her father go up on a stage, among the Whites, and lay his head under the manna!.. He must not curse life and who gave it to him!..."

Don Raimondo shuddered.

"Shut up! Stop it!... It is superfluous to discuss this again; I run immediately to the Viceroy... as long as he agrees. Will you accompany me?"

"No; I trust her. It is, moreover, his interest."

A few minutes later Don Raimondo went down the stairs of his palace to enter the already ordered carriage, while Blasco was hunting himself inside a modest sedan like that of a doctor. Separated, Blasco said to him:

"You don't have to send me an answer. I will know myself if Emanuele and Mrs. Francesca have come out of prisons."

The hour of the hearings had passed, but for a high magistrate who came from Turin and for the serious matter that occupied the government, the mysterious seizure of two ladies, and the check of justice, there were no prohibitions of regulations. Don Raimondo entered the office of the Viceroy, Count Mattei, who earnestly asked him:

"Well? Is there any news?"

"Excellency, yes..."

"Do you know where the ladies are?..."

"You don't know: I have confirmation that they were taken by the Beati Paoli... Death is suspended above them, if one does not yield..."

"Hold on? Do we have to give in? About what?" said the Count, corrugating his eyebrows.

"Listen, Your Excellency, I could act and order on my own initiative, because I still have your Majesty's license, which gives me full powers against the sect and the evildoers, but out of respect for the authority of V. E. I do not use it without consent and in agreement with your Excellency."

Without going into detail, or making Blasco's name, he showed him the need to carry out the trial against Emanuele, a process that, not revealing anything to the young man, must necessarily end with the order of release, except that, in order to be more prominent and for it to be more honored to the magnanimity of his Excellency, he did not decide to pardon the young man and order his release.

Count Mattei marveled. If there was nothing against the young man, if he had been arrested, imprisoned, tortured for mere suspicion or, worse still, for retaliation, why had he been held in prison for so long? What justice was that? And what honor did your majesty derive from these arbitrary proceedings? It had to be fixed. He sent a secretary down to the Chambers of the Court to read the trial, but the trial contained nothing but the report - as we would say now - of the torture inflicted on the young man.

"But what trials are such!..." cried the Count disdained.

He strongly ordered that Emanuele be set free. Don Raimondo had the order given:

"If you'll excuse me, I'll go and give that boy this consolation myself."

Coming out of the Royal Palace Don Raimondo thought: "This has gone smoothly, but with the Holy Office it will be more difficult. After all, we'll settle for now, then we'll think about it. They will have to do it with me!..."

A treacherous smile stood on his thin lips. The general inquisitor who presided over the Sant'Offizio was Monsignor Don Giovanni Ferrer, a greedy Spanish, fanatic, borious, who is saddened that he has not yet been able to celebrate a complete self-da-fÈ, that is, with his beautiful burning to the glory of God. To rip off a victim was a difficult task; perhaps there was only one means: Tempting its avarice, on the pretext of making a donation of a sum to the holy court. And to this means he had to take care of Don Raimondo.

The bell of the dead rang in the night sky, when Mrs. Francesca, amazed and as dreamed, went in the carriage of the Duke of Motta to the Castle, to receive and embrace among tears the young Emanuele, no less amazed than that sudden release, and to see his second mother in that carriage. But when Fr. Raimondo noticed that he was in a corner, almost in the shadows, and recognized him, a sudden flame came up to his face and his eyes sparkled between wonder and hatred.

"Ah!... him! him!..."

The young lion gnawed his teeth, smelling revenge, but Don Raimondo's cold and calm mask opened up to a benevolent smile:

"Is it such a strange thing that after being, out of duty, your judge, be out of conscience and Christian charity your deliverer? Give me therefore your hand, and be sure of my protection..."

The duke laid his hand on him; Mrs. Francesca, whose heart was still vibrating with emotion, prayed with a glance to Emanuele: The young man slowly gave his hand, but the contact of the duke's cold and humid shuddered. Was it a dead man's hand or a reptile's body? At that moment his eyes met with those of Don Raimondo. Hate lit them up leftly.