Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part three, chapter 28

Italiano

English

In the room of Don Raimondo were gathered, silent and dismayed, the prince of Butera and the Marquis of Geraci; Violante, near the paternal bed, looked distressed, and Gabriella woman, almost on the side, beside the Marquis of Regalmici his brother, not grieved, but seemed amazed. Emanuele next to his grandfather, Marquis of Geraci, stood in his rich and elegant attire, with a hand leaning on the hilt of the sword, and occasionally looking at the rich lace of Sleeves. Sometimes he looked at Don Raimondo, and then he thought it was convenient to take on a complex aspect, as the circumstance wanted.

For five days he had been in the palace of his ancestor, whose magnificence had filled him with wonder, and had made him believe that he had entered paradise, but it had taken him two or three days to familiarize himself with the environment and to assume those semi-god poses, which seemed indispensable to him in his new state.

The Marquis of Geraci had gone the next day to the study of notary Di Bello, to read the statement Blasco had told him about. The notary, however, was sick of fever: the fear of that night, and more that of being arrested as an accomplice of the Beati Paoli, had altered his blood; and only the news that Don Raimondo, of whom he feared more, had been found gravely wounded and could be considered dead, had somehow, selfishly, comforted him.

The announcement that the Marquis of Geraci had come to ask him that act, for a short time he had not killed the poor notary, who had believed to see the captain's court on him; and it was necessary of the beautiful and the good to calm his terror, which could not be explicable to the Marquis. He, read the precious document, and made it issue a copy, as the grandfather of the young man of whom he would claim protection, ran to the house admired with earnest eagerness, to embrace the son of his poor Aloisia. Mrs. Francesca, who had already received the necessary instructions from her husband, told the Marquis how her husband had found and collected Aloisia woman with the child, and how she had died, without being able to say anything. When the news of the killing of Maddalena had spread throughout the city, and it had been known that unknown murderers had kidnapped the Duchess and her son, they had been silent for fear of being considered as authors or accomplices of the misdeeds; and they had remained silent even after, when they had strong suspicions that the life of the child, raised by them as a son, was threatened. Now instead the mystery was unveiled, the Duke Don Raimondo had recognized the nephew, and the good woman, though with pain, handed it over to relatives, beautiful, strong, healthy.

The Marquis of Geraci, moved by that story and by the sight of Emanuele, in whose face he believed to recognize some traits of his daughter, said to Mrs. Francesca:

"You, dear lady, will not separate yourselves from the young man whom you have raised as a son; in the palace of the Geraci there will be a neighborhood for you..."

But Mrs. Francesca refused. The Marquis offered her a fine sum, to reward her with the labors, but she refused more gallantly: "If we wanted to take advantage, we could have been rich and we would not have suffered; neither would Don Girolamo be again wanted and persecuted."

"You will at least accept my protection," said the Marquis.

He took Emanuele away in his carriage. The young man embraced Mrs. Francesca without emotion, annoyed indeed by her tears and the vehemence of her embraces and did not seem the time to enter that great golden carriage, whose stop in front of the modest house of rational had aroused the curiosity and chatter of the neighborhood. The news that Emanuele was a son, grandson or other relative of great lords had suddenly spread, and everyone flocked to see him leave, with the satisfaction that is felt for the good that rains to people whom one loves. But Emanuele looked so contemptuously at those poor people, who cooled every feeling of sympathy.

He did not even look up, to a balcony on the second floor, from where a maiden, with tearful eyes, saw him enter in the carriage and leave without a greeting, without a sign of sympathy.

The Marquis of Geraci had already announced to woman Gabriella that he had found his nephew "the true and legitimate Duke of Motta," and that for now he did not take any legal step for the recognition of his rights and to obtain the investiture of the feudal baronies, had regarding the health conditions of Don Raimondo. However, he would have led his grandson to visit his uncle as soon as he was able to receive him. Don Raimondo improved: So at least he assured Fr Francesco Pignocco, who cured him. The great doctor, who was also principal or prince of the medical academy, had held a consult to examine the conditions of the injured and the opinion of the doctors had been unanimous in judging that the duke would be healed of his wounds, none of which seemed to have damaged vital organs. Only the wound to the boss gave thought. Although it had not penetrated the cranial box, however it kept Don Raimondo in a state of astonishment. He looked stunned, without speaking, or stuttering with blossoms of lips incomprehensible words: Sometimes it seemed that a flash of intelligence shone in his eyes and that he recognized people, and then a sense of terror, a deep breath was painted on his face, but more often he fell into a state of apathy or amazement without consciousness of the outside world, without a sign of the inner world.

That day the Marquis of Geraci, seeming to him by now, took Emanuele to the palace where he was born, and of which he was the true and absolute lord. When he entered, Don Raimondo, with his shoulders leaning on a mountain of pillows that held him more supported, was in one of the moments of consciousness, and had stuttered some stronger and intelligible words. He seemed to recognize the Marquis of Geraci, whose sight troubled him. The Marquis approached him to the bed and, introducing his grandson to him, said to him:

"Don Raimondo, don't you know him? And Emanuele, our nephew Emanuele, the son of woman Aloisia..."

The duke shook his eyes with an air of fear; he looked at the young man; a live tremor crossed his face, spread through his limbs, his pale and subtle mouth had nervous contractions, his pupils dilated with an expression of terror that was transmitted even in the bystanders; then, suddenly, he launched a frightening scream, terrifying, that broke the silence, he struck himself in the hearts with an indefinable thrill. And having his eyes fixed on the young man, shortly after he sent another scream, more frightening than the first, and stretched out his trembling hands before him, in defensive action, with an effort in which all the terrors, all the horrors, seemed gathered together, cried out:

"No!... no!..."

Violent, frightened, he went ahead, asking:

"Mr. Father, Mr. Father, what's wrong with you?"

Donna Gabriella shuddered; only she knew what was going on in her husband's soul, and her heart began to beat them violently, fearing that in those spiritual conditions he might let a few words slip away. The Marquis of Geraci, who did not understand well, said:

"Don Raimondo... what is it?... Don't you know him?... He wants to kiss your hand."

But the duke with his pupils dilated perhaps looked at a vision that crossed his reawakened memory, and filled him with terror. A cold sweat shone on his forehead and his hands drowned in the void!... His mouth moved, he cried with a choked voice, which seemed like a hiccup:

"No!... stop... stop!... Mercy!...," "Mr. Father!..." begged Violante.

"Don't touch me!" cried Don Raimondo, whose tongue was loose; "don't touch me!..."

They all looked at each other with a sense of anguish. The prince of Butera said:

"What do you feel?... Don Raimondo, what are you feeling?..."

He no longer looked at anyone; he looked at the bottom of the room and his face expressed a terror mixed with rebuke.

"They come!..." he stuttered with his voice turned off. "They're coming!... there!..."

"Who?"

"The Beati Paoli!... They're there!... there!... The daggers! Ah!..."

Again that cry that was freezing everyone's blood hurt, tore away the souls. They all felt a sense of coldness and emptiness in their kidneys. That name of the Beati Paoli, that significant terror revealed the tragedy of which he was the victim. Violent, looking around, as if to beg for help, he tried to take a hand to reassure him, but as soon as he felt touching Don Raimondo he jumped and sent another wounded scream.

"Joseph!... Giuseppico!... don't let her escape!..."

That name was a mystery to everyone. Donna Gabriella, suspecting, observed:

"I fear that the sight of that young man touched the Duke too much..." "Yes, it must be," said the Marquis of Geraci.

He moved to get away from the bed; that movement in person may be confused in Don Raimondo's brain with other images and increased his terror. And he sat on the bed, and put his feet on the ground, as if to rise up, and stretched out his hands unto him, as if to grope, cried out,

"Take it!... Can't you see he's coming down from the balcony?... Kill her... Where is he? Where did she go?... No, no!... don't kill me!... The other one... yeah... Emanuele, where's Emanuele?"

"Here it is, Don Raimondo, but don't worry."

They believed that he was looking for his nephew, but the duke's eyes did not see the young man they had pushed before him, and his ears did not hear.

"Where's Emanuele?" he screamed with his mouth full of foam. Then, after a minute in silence, he screamed in a gloomy and tearful laughter: "Ah! ah! ah! you wanted to catch me?... Captain!... Captain!... Captain!... here you are!... Captain! Captain!..."

His voice began to tremble with terror and weeping: "Captain!..."

He called again with a desperate scream of anguish that annihilated all souls, emptied the veins of blood, arrested life. He had another moment of silence and, sent another scream, sharper, more heartbreaking, more terrifying, fell suddenly on the cheeks, whispering with his mouth full of drool, and his eyes wide open.

Violent, crying out for fear and pain, he threw himself on the bed calling his father; Gabriella and the others were immobile, disappointed, as overwhelmed by something horrible, monstrous, that escaped their perception.

At that moment, don Francesco Pignocco arrived, who, as soon as he had a look at the wounded, could not hold back a painful surprise bike.

"What is it? Why so messed up?"

He took the sick man's wrist, looking at him in his face with ever-increasing amazement; Violante sobbed. The prince of Geraci briefly explained what Don Raimondo had done, and the inconsistencies of his words, his terror, his access.

"The pulse is a real revolution," said the doctor.

He tried to lift up Don Raimondo, who had his face sunk on his cheeks and whispered like a wounded beast, but as soon as the duke lifted up his face, and looked at the doctor, a beastly fury brightened his eyes and grabbed him by his arms, trying to bite him furiously, he roared:

"Ah, you're there!... I got you!... Murderer! You shouldn't have written!..."

The poor doctor, frightened, got rid of it with difficulty, leaving a shred of his sleeves in the hands of Don Raimondo, who penetrated it, tearing it with victorious anger.

"That's what I do with it!...that's it!..."

Don Francesco, still frightened, looking at him with amazement, murmured:

"These are crazy accesses!... Yes, madness!..."

In that debate the bandages of his head, those of his shoulders had broken down; the filths fell, the wounds had reopened; a bloodshed ran down his ear, stained his chest; Don Raimondo automatically carried his hands on his neck and chest, and drew them bloody. He looked at them with horror; the traits of his face disappeared, from horror he went to fear, then to trouble, to prayer.

"Blood, blood!... My hands are dripping blood!... Take away this blood from me; take away these dead!...

Mercy!... Mercy!... They oppress me. They rip my heart open. I drown!...I drown!...I drown!...I drown!..."

His voice went out between the sobbings that were breaking his chest and nothing was more heartbreaking than seeing that gross man of blood, with his hands stretched out as to turn away something terrible, moaning among the sobbings that tore his chest, with the dry eyes, overwhelmed.

Don Francesco approached him again to redo his bandage, but Don Raimondo screamed and shouted again:

"Don't touch me!... don't touch me! Everything's bleeding! Blood is everywhere... A river!... And it needs more. They have daggers and they kill... They're killing! They're killing! Where's Blasco?... He's here too!... There he was killed!... Blood!... there is blood!... always blood!... always blood!..."

Don Francesco, the prince of Geraci, the prince of Butera, tried to comfort him with good words; they persuaded him that there was nothing, that he was in the midst of his own, that he was quiet.

"Don Raimondo, look at your daughter! Look at Violante, poor thing!..."

The duke remained silent for a minute, looking around a astonished look, and stared at him over Violante standing before him, weeping.

"Violante!..." sobbed; "Violante!... where is Violante?"

"And here; don't you see it?"

"Where is Violante?" he continued pressing and raging little by little; "I want Violante!... I want my daughter! Make me my daughter! Violant!..."

"Father, my father!" begged the maiden.

"Violante!" cried Fr. Raimondo desperately, raised in the middle of the bed, with the eyes lost in the void, without recognizing anyone, without hearing any word, fixed in a vision or in an inner thought.

She wept. Then the doctor said:

"I don't venture to redo the bands if there aren't strong people who still hold it."

Donna Gabriella played, and ordered four porters to come and, reassured by their presence, Fr Francesco Pignocco began his work. The wounded continued to weep, now, softly, and let the doctor do his work with docility, following, unconsciously with the slight bending of his head, or arm. They washed his wounds, put back the threads and bandaged him again, more solidly; then, pushing him gently, they forced him to lean on the cheeks.

"It would be better," said Fr Francesco to woman Gabriella, "to tie him with bands to the bed, to prevent him from moving: We lost almost everything he had earned..."

"Do what art recommends," answered the Duchess.

Violant, to whom that provision made a painful impression, ventured to stutter:

"But it's quiet now..."

"Now yes; but the accesses will return... they may also be furious."

He touched the wounded's wrist.

"He's got a fever!" he said displeased; "he's got a high fever."

Meanwhile, a servant brought long bands, which were hard past, interwoven with each other, around the body of Don Raimondo, and secured at the shores of the bed, so as to prevent any movement. Don Francesco prescribed calming potions, and he left.

"Let's go, son," said the prince of Geraci to Emanuel, who was silent, struck by all that he had seen, but not so much as to lose his haughty attitude, and not to occasionally look at all the furniture and decorations of the room, thinking that it was his stuff.

He kissed the hand of his young and beautiful aunt, dressed in such elegance, and followed his grandfather, asking him that they had not yet given him possession of that house, or at least that they had not allowed him to live there.

The prince of Butera said to Violante:

"You should go and rest, my daughter; you can't stay here day and night;... it's already five nights you won't close your eyes; you'll get sick..."

"Oh, your Excellency forgive me, but I will not abandon my father!"

"It is fine what you say;... and you will not abandon it, but rest is also necessary for you to assist it." "Wait!... sorry... say something..."

Don Raimondo, in fact, moved his lips, as if he tried to speak. He was supine, still, with his eyes barred. The beard, which in those days had grown, shaved and interrupted by gaps, placed on his cheeks and on his lip of black spots, which made his appearance more frightening and the bruised circle in which the eyes were sinking extended them immensely.

The Prince and Violant had bowed down to hear, believing that he was asking for something.

"What do you say?..."

But he did not answer, he continued to stutter; then gradually his words became more intelligible.

"All... kill them all! You have to kill them all... Blasco too! Yeah, Blasco, too. My nephew? It doesn't matter... A bastard! Even Emanuele!... It's all mine! It's all mine! No, don't touch me. Burning!... Burning!... a spasm... Hold my head, they're taking it away from me!... they're taking it away from me!..."

He trembled for the whole person, inside the bands, scorching the bed that gave a deaf metallic noise; a great anguish altered his face, and it seemed that all his energies had accumulated in that last cry of despair to stop the brain that escaped him.

"Keep my head!... don't let me take it away!... don't let me take it away!..."

All day and all night, at intervals, suddenly arousing from his sleep, he sent out cries and bellues, and inconsistent words, but which were the fragmentary expression of images that happened in his brain.

This martyrdom lasted two days; for two days Don Raimondo, burned with fever, with the wreak sores, fighting among the entrances of madness, tormented by his visions of blood, filled the house with dismay and horror. One idea, above all, dominated his upset spirit and often, wrinkled between the safety bands, cried out with desperate fear:

"The Beati Paoli! Save me!... The Beati Paoli!..."

On the third day, after a long sleep, in which it seemed that the vital forces were less slowly, he rose up, without giving a sign of agitation. Its appearance instead expressed an ineffable and silent pain, as of those who hear death apprehended. Perhaps if he wanted to make a gesture with his hand, he realized that he was prevented, and then felt that he was girded and bound. He looked around, saw Violante and asked with a faint voice:

"Why did you tie me up?... let me loose!... What an arsura!..."

There was such an intense prayer in those words and so much remissivity in the aspect, which, after tacit interrogation with the gaze, the servants dissolved the duke and Violant gave him to drink.

Around the bed was the daughter, Gabriella, and two servants; but at that time the prince of Geraci and Emanuel came. Don Raimondo saw them entering; he saw the young man and had the impression that that face was not new to him; but the richness of clothing and seeing him in the company of the prince of Geraci, at first prevented him from recognizing him, but when the prince approached him to ask him how he was doing and brought the young man closer by name, Don Raimondo, with a speed and lucidity of extraordinary mind, remembered, understood, connected what had happened with the events that followed, and became more dim, and a sense of terror increased his face. He whispered:

"Emanuele!... Emanuele! Oh, God, it's..."

"It is he," said the prince, "wants to kiss your hand..."

"No... no..." frowns with an expression of supreme rebuke; "no, have mercy on me... What a horror!... What a horror!..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again frightened, looked around, and with live terror, beating his teeth, cried out:

"A priest!... a priest!... Have mercy on me!... A priest, I die!..."

A servant rushed out. Don Raimondo was staring at his nephew with eyes, moaning:

"Why?... why did you lead him?... Get him out of my face! I don't want to see him... I can't. Ah, what a burning in here! What a burning!..."

His fingernails were pressed on his chest with a desperate gesture; under the blankets his body was seen giving convulsive streaks and his face had rapid and heartbreaking stretches.

"A priest stuttered with terror; "a priest!..."

Almost at the same time the servant returned, pushing ahead an Albanian papas, which seemed reluctant.

"I found this," he said; "I dragged him here; finally the Greek priests are priests like the others!..."

But the papas refused:

"No, no... I'm not a confession, I can't... Go get another one."

His voice gathered Gabriella and Violante, and opened his eyes to Don Raimondo; and all three looked at the pope, who was stood before the bed, struck by the miserable appearance of the duke, who, seeing him, began to tremble and to repeat:

"What a burning!... what a burning!... Give me help!... Father, help me!..."

The papas approached him, and a heartfelt pity was painted on his face. He leaned over Don Raimondo, looked at him, and whispered quietly to him, so that he would not be heard by others:

"May God forgive you all the wickedness that you have committed, as I forgive you those that you have done against me!..."

Don Raimondo looked at him with amazement and fear, and stuttered:

"Confession!...confession!..."

"I cannot confess to you; now a father will come..."

He got up and moved from the bed, while Don Raimondo with his nails convulsed on the blankets. Donna Gabriella and Violante watched the popes: Of course, they recognized those eyes, that nose, that voice but in the posture, in the gesture they did not see at all that I know nothing but hyeratic that impresses the exercise of the priesthood. The papas felt embarrassed by those detective looks and, perhaps to get away from it, made a slight bow, he set out to get out.

"Does he leave?" asked the prince of Geraci; "it does not seem to me as a Christian to abandon a man in those conditions; if she is not a confessor, she can give some comfort, but..."

The papas stopped, stood a moment in maybe, then with a gesture he took off the long and thick beard, which masked it.

"Don Blasco!" exclaimed the prince.

"Blasco!" said Stupid woman Gabriella.

Violante paled and turned his back; Emanuel looked at him with haughtiness, wondering who was that Blasco who disguised himself as a Greek priest and aroused so much wonder, but noting that perhaps he had seen that face elsewhere.

Blasco replied with sadness:

"I myself, yes... You will understand why I had to resort to this disguise: to inform me of the Duke's health."

Don Raimondo, to the name pronounced by the prince, had looked at the young man, and had felt himself invaded by a new stronger tremor.

"All," shrieked between the teeth: "Everyone rises!..."

And again he sent a desperate cry:

"Burn!... Send for a priest!... Why do you... make me die a goddamn thing?... Why?... Don't you see how many crimes!... I see everyone rising from the tomb... I see them coming against me... I feel myself grabbed, dragged... A priest!... A priest!..."

It was his last words. A convulsive rattle choked his voice. When the chaplain of Santo Ippolito came a few minutes later, he found him with his half-closed eyes, with his chest drenched by that rattle that, at every breath, had the tearing sound of a hiccup; he took it by one hand, and he sent a scream, without giving any other sign; he called him and didn't answer him; that sob and sobs filled the room.

So it lasted all day, all night. At first, as soon as he was touched, he shouted, then even these shouts were missing, but it was seen that he was agitated and tormented by terrible spasms. The rattle had become stronger, at times it seemed a pride, such as the roll of a heavy body; then it began to fade again and to become longer, and with greater intervals, and the convulsive movements ceased.

At dawn he died.