Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part three, chapter 21

Italiano

English

The nuns of the magnificent and noble monastery of St. Catherine came out of the choir, where they had recited the office of the evening, when Fr. Raimondo's carriage arrived, not without wonder of the nun of the wheel and the farm, or "Mom." Although he had two older sisters in the monastery, the Duke of Motta did not have the custom of visiting them often; except for the great religious solemnities or for some monacation, he was never seen in the parlour of the monastery. His coming, and more the unusual hour, were naturally to arouse the astonishment of the nuns.

He prayed to the nun, rushed behind the grates to the sound of the bell, to pray to the abbess mother so that together with Sister Clementina and Sister Maria Rosaria - her sisters - he favored the parlour.

"What will it be?" exclaimed the three frightened nuns, rushing.

Don Raimondo was not lost in many words: After praising the monastery and the wisdom of the mother who ruled it and remembering the danger of the daughter, freed by a true miracle of the Virgin, he prayed to the nuns to keep her in the monastery from that evening.

"She came back a few hours ago, but I don't want to keep her at home, nor bring her back to Montevergini's educatorate: I want him to consecrate himself to God and take vows, and I find no better monastery than this."

Violent did not open his mouth; pale, with a low face, let the tears flow silently; the father's last words had given her a painful grip on her heart, but she could do nothing but tear and silence. An act of rebellion against these coercions, these violence against the will and individual freedom, in those times did not even dream and the girls knew from their tender age that they were destined for the monastery.

She entered that night into the cloister, as perhaps the guilty old vestals entered the tomb. His father did not kiss her, he did not say a loving word to her; hard, cold, impassive he accompanied her to the door of the cloister, pushed her into the open compartment and returned to the carriage without giving any sign of emotion.

Other ideas, far more serious for him, worried his soul. The allusions and the rebellion of woman Gabriella revealed to him a new enemy, fearful not only because he himself, although denying the truth, had confessed what faults his occult enemies accused him of, but also because he understood from what feeling she had been moved: the feeling that more than any other takes away from a woman the perception of reality and the domination of consciousness: Jealousy. What were the interests of the family, the decorum of the name, to her before the barn that broke her heart? And going back to the origin, he felt hatred grow against Blasco.

Obligation to him for bringing his daughter back free? He didn't hear any of them. Their freedom was but the price of a convention his women had bought them in exchange for his enemies. But then, he thought, at that time Blasco had to be in a safe place; he was surprised that Matteo Lo Vecchio or Captain Mangialocchi had not shown up. They may have stayed in Misilmeri or, who knows why, were lingering to come during the night. That Blasco had not escaped the ambush, He didn't doubt it. Already, as soon as she arrived, Gabriella had told him about the meeting she had made, and indeed she was very disappointed that that villain of the captain of arms had not surrendered to his injunctions, as she assumed that Don Raimondo would never tolerate an insult to person sent by him. Violant, then, had added that he had had a great fear, because they were pulling shots. So Blasco had fallen into the power of the comrades of arms and, either alive or dead, would have brought him to Palermo. Perhaps dead or badly wounded, he thought; but at that time Matteo Lo Vecchio should have come.

Blasco dead or taken, the famous cards in his power, and the sect surprised, caught in his lair, as he had already concerted... what could he fear? He had placed everything to play that last and bigger game and felt in his chest the blind confidence to win, because nothing remained hidden from that secret society, its ends, the causes of the merciless, relentless war against him.

Meanwhile Antonino Bucolaro wanted to speak to him, at midnight, in front of the dining room of Alessio's uncle, under St. Cristina the Old. Why? Was there any news? Hadn't all the agreements been made?

He returned to the palace; his trusted waiter told him that the Duchess had left for a quarter of an hour in her sedan and had her led to the palace of La Grua, ordering the waiters to bring her, at the latest the next morning, her wardrobe and all that belonged to her.

"He's okay!" he replied in a nutshell. He was expected to be told that someone had come looking for him, but in vain.

"What the hell is Matteo Lo Vecchio doing?" he said to himself, worried; and to that inexplicable delay he associated the idea of the mouthing asked of him by Antonino Bucolaro. Was there a relationship? Had that bastard escaped the ambush and sent everything to the ground?

Doubt caused him to shudder. He looked forward to midnight, counting the hours at the Monte di Pietà clock.

When the time seemed to him, he went out, on foot, armed, being accompanied by two trusted servants, armed also. They had to follow only the last stretch of the road of St. Augustine and bend for the descent of the Guardian Angel, down to the Papiret.

Except for the houses that even now face the Via del Papireto, there were not then between the descent of the Guardian Angel and the Duomo other houses, and the desert place however kept traces of the ancient swamp dried up. The hill, now reduced to a dungeon on which stands the priest's hospital, stood wild on the ancient basin, scattered with small scattered reeds. Some roads sprung from inside the city, almost perpendicular to the floor. At the bottom of one of them, behind the historic chapel of the Coronation, was the little church of St. Cristina la Vecchia, a small Norman building that still holds the arches and the ogives of the original architecture. A small garden was then lying next to the church, limited by an alleyway, which was already going down towards a road, and at whose corner the tavern of Alessio's uncle opened: A tavern so famous that it had given its name to the street.

The night was horribly dark: Not a star, but a dense time of black and impenetrable clouds. There were no lights and the streets were black and you couldn't see one step away.

Don Raimondo went down the steep road of the Guardian Angel, cobbled evil, lustric for the night humidity and for the mud that the rains and dirt of the citizens spread there. One of the servants went before with the lantern to indicate the way and not to make the master stumble among the garbage, that on the making of the night from the houses, without almost all at the time of rest, the housewives would overthrow from the balconies and the windows.

The breadth of the uncultivated and squalid plain, of which night seemed to erase the borders, made the darkness even more frightening.

When Fr Raimondo arrived at the entrance of the Aunt Alessio's road, he ordered the servants to stop.

"Wait here and close the lantern."

He only entered the street and walked it with a hasty step to the aunt Alessio's tavern. He turned to see if the servants could see him, but the shadow was so thick that he did not even see the entrance of the road.

The door of the tavern was closed; he approached and beat gently; no one answered; he beat a little harder but, at the moment he stretched his ear to listen, he felt overwhelmed as if by a whirlwind, a fury, something indescribable, inconceivable, that covered his eyes and mouth, wrapped his arms and legs, lifted him up from the ground, jumped him into the void. He did not have time to be surprised, to move, to shout. He could not even understand by what unknown and mysterious force he was overwhelmed.

He struggled as if to free himself, and then only recognized that he was wrapped up in a kind of thick net, as gripped by a thousand straps; he felt no contact of hands; he was not straight on his feet, not stretched out; he did not even understand how he was curled up. Of course he felt carried away. Where? How? By who? He wanted to shout and could not; his mouth was as tight. Who gagged him? But had he fallen into an ambush? That blind man who came to invite him from Antonino Bucolaro was an emissary, perhaps one of the aggressors; perhaps Antonino Bucolaro himself had lured him into that trap... He saw himself lost.

He heard no sound of footsteps around him. Those who carried it may have taken off their shoes, so as not to be heard. He warned, however, that they traveled a little on the slopes and turned two or three times. From the tavern of Alessio's uncle to the square of St. Cosmo the road was not long; he who from the beginning had understood which hands he had fallen into, calculated the time they would have to take to reach the cave of the Beati Paoli. He wanted to be here early to get out of that position.

And then he had a thought for his mind: He counted the steps and the hours; in an hour and a half, perhaps, everything would be defined. You had to have the art and the cunning to get to that point.

After a quarter of an hour, from the difficulty and irregularity of the steps, he felt that they entered an andito. They were here. He waited for him to be freed from that net and shortly afterwards, in fact, he felt that he was taking away the wraps in which he felt imprisoned, the bandage and the gag.

His eyes had to close again, struck by the bright light of some lanterns that brightened that place, already known to him. It was the underground roundabout where it had been led one night, with its stone counter, the side corridors, the dome, the niches. They were standing there, armed, dressed in a black sack, with the face hidden by the mask, about twenty men. Two others sat at the counter. In the middle of the room, at a table, a small table equipped with writing supplies. Don Raimondo had no amazement at that apparatus, already known to him, and which he already expected; but he could not dominate the sense of fear that he crossed the blood before those unknown men, immobile and menacing in their silent attitude.

After the necessary moment for each one to take his place and prepare himself, the chief made a gesture, from the bench where he was, and began not without a slight tone of irony:

"Duca della Motta, the means chosen to make you come to us tonight is certainly not the most suitable and convenient for your person and your merits: Forgive him, but we were sure that if we had invited you with courteous means, you might not have thought you would surrender. Necessitas non habet legem; and for us it is an inevitable necessity to have you here tonight."

Don Raimondo didn't answer. He immediately resumed his cold and impenetrable mask and tightened his thin lips, to prevent any nervous contraction that could betray him.

"Duca della Motta," he resumed his head leaving out ironic kindness, and taking on a harsh and imperious tone "Duke of Motta, you have had clear proof that we can do everything, and that we keep our promises. The work begun must now be done."

He took some cards from the counter, whose edges were here and there scorched, and continued:

"These papers, Don Raimondo Albamonte, contain the trial that our court has instructed against you..."

Don Raimondo could not dominate a sense of cold in the blood. How? So those documents that he was already hoping for in the power of Matteo Lo Vecchio were in the hands of the terrible court? Was he deceived?...

"You know the contents of these documents, at least as a whole, because someone has let you know and it is not appropriate to tell you, a man of law, what consequences they would have for you if they were presented to the king's justice... Your head, sir, is no longer secure on your shoulders."

The duke felt the cold thrill of the mannaja on his neck.

"But we are generous. We will not hand these papers over to His Majesty, except when you force us to do so. Tomorrow a vessel will leave for Genoa. You will agree with us, that it will be easy for us to start with it a knight or a man of law or a prosecutor, to go to Turin and present to the king, Emanuele Albamonte and these documents... This man could also accuse you of having had Giuseppico killed by Matteo Lo Vecchio; of having poisoned Peppa la Sarda in prison; of having strangled in prison, without regular trial, two presumed rei; of having tried to poison in the prison of Messina by Matteo Lo Vecchio Mr. Blasco from Castiglione; of having tried to assassinate him this morning on the road of Misilmeri, by the army company of Captain Mangialocchi..."

"That's not true!... stuttered Don Raimondo.

"Don't deny it!" severely rebuked the boss "do not deny what we possess the evidence... Lying aggravates your condition... Don Raimondo Albamonte, are you willing to acknowledge before us your sins?"

The duke tried a blow of boldness:

"I do not recognize you the right to judge," he said with an effort.

The boss looked at a watch he had on the counter.

"I give you five minutes to reflect on your condition. Take care of yourself. You're in our hands and you won't get out of here anymore, except when it's time to bring yourself to justice. Think."

A great silence happened, in which only the ticking of the clocks was felt; no one moved, but Don Raimondo felt all the eyes flashing from the holes of the masks on him. He did not reflect; he seemed to count the minutes, stretching his ear, almost waiting for a sign, a noise. But time spent silently without any clue.

"Well," said the boss, "the five minutes have passed. Don Raimondo Albamonte, your answer?"

The duke gathered, he had a new thrill, he felt some hope wavering. He grabbed the device he devised: You're wasting your time.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Nothing more or less than your duty: recognize Emanuele Albamonte, your grandson, Duke of Motta."

"Me? Recognize a guy I don't know who he is? Who proves that he is my nephew?"

"Don Raimondo, don't try to escape us with quirks: Here are twenty people who will prove it, but remember one more fact, that when sixteen years ago, you, pretending to fall for the disappearance of your grandson, promised with public bans big prizes to those who had found it, provided, on the statements of the Sister Mary the Mother, some sure clue: The child had a small brown heart-shaped mark on the left scapula. The bans of that time still exist: Here's one, printout, with your weapons. And the revealing sign is... What proof do you ask for greater than this?"

Don Raimondo felt lost. The act that the chief asked him with such simplicity meant the confession of his crimes and equivalent to a voluntary offering of his head to the executioner or suicide. He saw in a quick vision all the horrors of misery, dishonor and gallows. The instinct of life screamed from his mouth:

"No!... no!... They're all impostures!"

"Don Raimondo Albamonte, look after you. We're not here to waste time unnecessarily, we're here to do justice. Do you want by a regular act signed by you and by witnesses to recognize Emanuele your nephew and reinstate him into his state and his rank?"

"No!..."

"Well, tomorrow Don Girolamo Admirata will bring to the Viceroy your ban and the birth faith of Emanuele, and present to him your nephew, while someone will leave for Turin. You will wait here..."

And he turned to two of those silent and still men, and said,

"Open the pit."

They bowed down on the ground and, hooked with a rope a large iron ring, lifted up a slab. A black and rotten square compartment appeared in the eyes of Don Raimondo, who turned back with a motion of fear.

"Drop him!" ordered the boss.

The two Beati Paoli lifted him with weight, even though he pointed his feet to the ground and tried to resist.

"Wait a minute!... a moment!..." he screamed desperately.

"Drop him!"

The performers dragged his feet into the void; he almost lost his reason: That emptiness under his feet gave him the impression of the infinity that he was opening up underneath to swallow him; it seemed to him that death had caught him by his hair to throw him into that black, bottomless abyss. The terror, the anxiety of life, the despair, stifled in him any other voice, that was not to live.

"I agree!" shouted in a strangled voice, "I agree!..."

The chief made a gesture, and the two performers portrayed Don Raimondo and put him back on his feet. During this quick scene one of the masked men had shown barely repressed impatience and indignation, but visible to the thrill of his hands.

"If... if I consent," asked Don Raimondo, "will you then give me those documents?"

"You'll see. It is not time to impose conditions. Moreover, do not be afraid, the statement that you will write and sign and that will be ratified by a notary and by witnesses will not compromise you at all; rather it will give you praise of magnanimity, and your mask will add more hypocrisy to the others that make it up. Bring in Mr. Duke's notary."

A Beato Paolo went out and came back almost immediately by the hand of a pale and trembling man, in whom Don Raimondo recognized with amazement and anger the notary of his house.

"Don Raimondo," ordered the chief "write."

The duke sat down at the table, took the pen and wrote under the dictation of the head:

"In the name of God blessed and of the Blessed Virgin, I hereby undersigned Fr. Raimondo Albamonte, in action Duke of Motta, with a happy heart I declare to recognize, for trials not doubtful and well known signs, in the young man Emanuele, orphan gathered and bred by Don Girolamo Ammirata, my beloved and sought after nephew Emanuele Albamonte, legitimate son of the was Duke Emanuele, my brother, and of the was woman Aloisia Ventimiglia; and I declare and acknowledge that to him only, as a legitimate heir, by virtue of the prammatic kingdoms and our constitutions, belongs the title and investment of the duchea of Motta and of the other lands and feuds pertinent to the house Albamonte; and formally forsake possession of these feuds and lands with attached titles, which I now unduly held, in favor of it my nephew Emanuele, I recognize him by head and lord of the house. And I thank the Divine Providence for having granted me the singular grace to have found this tearful nephew of mine, and to be able to give him back the heritage. By that, besides providing for the health of my soul I also intend to refresh the blessed souls of my brother Don Emanuele and of the woman Aloisia. This statement, written and signed by my fist, today, the day of the glorious virgin Saint Lucia, who liked to enlighten me, I entrust to the notary master Don Antonino Di Bello, so that he preserves it in his acts, and treats its execution for all the legal acts that result from it."

"In Palermo, on 13 December 1714.

Don Raimondo Albamonte

of the Dukes of Motta."

"To you, Master Notar," ordered the chief.

In turn, the notary sat at the table and at the bottom of Don Raimondo's statement apposes the necessary legal formulas. Four of the masked men signed that document, to which the notary affixed his seal and signature.

"Bring me that deed," the chief ordered, and he read it, and made a sign of approval, and put it on his bench, saying, "He's fine. Now let's move on to something else, Don Raimondo."

The duke raised his head with fear. He was truly unrecognizable and terrifying: Medusa's head didn't have to have a different effect.

"What's still going on?" he whispers with an almost extinguished voice.

"A very simple thing;" said the head with a smile in the tone of the voice, "you have obligations to one of your associates: Blasco from Castiglione. If we limit ourselves to asking you for a statement, instead of handing you over to the executioner, it is only for one regard to this loyal and generous young man, whom you have not been able to appreciate and have not even recognized. Don Raimondo Albamonte, I ask you for your daughter's hand for Blasco da Castiglione."

Then the man trembling and terrified had an impetuous tremor for the whole person, he rose up with his eyes shining and exclaimed:

"No!... not this. My daughter is mine! mine!..."

From the circle of black men and masked one advanced, and stretching out his hand with a solemn gesture, he said:

"Blasco da Castiglione renounces."

All eyes turned to that man with a movement of astonishment; the same Don Raimondo could not master a certain emotion. He continued:

"Blasco of Castiglione renounces, and says to you of the court: May justice be done! and may the pupil have his name and fortune, but do not strip one innocent to dress another!... He says to you, righteous, to you, Don Raimondo Albamonte: Give your daughter to Emanuele, that the ducal crown may remain on her innocent head!..."

A murmur of approval traveled his lips under the masks: Don Raimondo seemed to be illuminated by a ray of light; he saw in a flash all the advantage he could derive from a proposal, in which generosity and self-denial overwhelmed the bitter cold and obscured the perception of the future. His hands came with a gesture of absentness and gratitude, but at that point a gunshot rumbled outside and a voice cried out:

"Abbarra! Abbarra!"