Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part four, chapter 14

Italiano

English

A marriage annulment trial was initiated by the prince of Butera, in agreement with Emanuele della Motta; while Violante went to live in the grandfather's house. Those events had shaken her health, that she had taken a disease, for which the doctors did not think it appropriate to return her to the monastery, as she wanted.

Emanuele wasn't looking any better. By now, master of himself, he could dispose of his will. The annulment of those weddings gave him his full and whole freedom and he used and abused it. He had again joined Matteo Lo Vecchio, of whom he knew the insight and the investigations and discoveries made, to know by thread and by sign which part he had had Blasco in the Beati Paoli, and how the death of Don Raimondo had happened.

The birro told him what he knew; he naturally added something of his own, and gave a color of certainty to what was an induction or a hypothesis.

"Your Excellency," concluded not without malice "must be grateful to the Beati Paoli and his Lord brother bastard, because without them who knows what would have happened!...

Of course, he'd just be the son of that admired Jerome..."

Instead of opening his heart to a benevolent feeling, those words pricked the soul of Emanuele, who harshly said:

"I'd be a duke anyway."

"Your Excellency, allow me to doubt it. The sect had rigged a serious trial against Don Raimondo and it was due to that trial, if he, fearing the mannaja, signed that act of recognition, which served as a basis for placing your Excellency in the possession of the inheritance and obtaining the investiture..."

"So did he contain terrible things in that process?"

"Simply the testimonies of several people who knew or had executed the crimes committed by Mr. Don Raimondo to usurp the Albamonte inheritance and the ducal crown..."

"How? How?"

"The pure truth..."

"So I?..."

"Your Excellency, as you know, was gathered on the pious, but perhaps he does not know that his mother lady, in order to escape two attempts of poisoning and save your Excellency, who was born a few days ago, fell off the balcony. Errò for the night, disappeared, was collected by Jerome Ammirata. As soon as he had been late, he would have fallen into the power of Mr. Raimondo who would have killed both of us..."

Emanuele shuddered, then said:

"And I, asshole, had to return or make the daughter enjoy, what her father had stolen from me!... But could it be worse? Why didn't you tell me all these things first?"

"Your Excellency has no longer done me the honour of commanding me..."

"And this trial?..."

"Mr. Don Blasco had it..."

"Him?..."

"Now I couldn't say if he still has it... But it's either him or someone from the group..."

"Matthew the Old Man, I'd pay an eye for it..."

"An eye is too much for your Excellency but it is nothing for me. You should know with certainty who is the owner of those cards and see to get them out of love, or steal them."

"How do you know?"

"We'll look for.. If there were Jerome admired, we might know..."

"Where is Don Girolamo?"

"In Naples: He doesn't dare come. Maybe we could use... For the affection that led to your Excellency, I believe he would do whatever he ordered. Your Excellency should ask for his grace: They would not deny it and would be justified by the ancient relationships..."

The birro did not have enough tact this time, or perhaps it did not suppose that Emanuele made efforts to forget the past, and that he felt no feeling of gratitude towards the rational of the civic hospital.

Emanuele, in fact, to those words was blushed and had felt a feeling of repugnance, but the interest was stronger, and he evasively answered with a Temptor, - and arrived the birro, after giving him a bag of money, and recommended to investigate on his behalf.

Matteo Lo Vecchio went home with his usual step, almanacchiando; no one lifted from his head that those famous Blasco cards had returned them to the sect, and most likely they had to be in power either by Don Girolamo or by Coriolano della Floresta, because he did not doubt that the knight was anything in the sect itself. He didn't have any reliable evidence, so he couldn't report it, but he was deeply persuaded. Friendship with Blasco provided him with the most beautiful subject of induction.

How to get to Coriolano and Blasco? He was too well known, he had too exposed himself in this matter to act directly, and if he had suggested the name of Don Girolamo, it was because he seemed the most direct and quick means. But by doing this, another physiognomy came to his mind: Andrea. How come he hadn't thought of that before? Andrea was still at the service of Emanuele, something extraordinary at all, because in those days a servant was sure to die in the same house where he had been serving since he was a boy, but he was not satisfied with it.

He hoped that for the services rendered, and for being the trusted servant of the duke, Emanuele would do it his butler, his housemaster, in short, providing him with the means of conquering a certain ease. But Emanuele, keeping him in his house had believed he was doing a great thing, and Andrew had been confused with others, without any distinction. This had made him discontented, a little deafening and lover of the armchairry.

He fattened and always found excuses to get out of the palace, and go ridiculing the streets, not even disdaining to stop in some tavern to drink with the porters of the square or with some artisan.

In the first days of his entry, strong of his past and of the dangers he had taken, he believed that he could weigh his authority over the other servants, but, convinced that he was not supported by the master and that he was surrounded by hatred and isolation, he set aside his desires and took that other determination more comfortable and with less trouble.

But all the ideal love, the sense of unlimited devotion and readiness to sacrifice, which he had sworn to his dying master and with which he had thrown himself into the enterprise, had vanished. from his soul.

He was reawakening sometimes when Emanuele touched some misadventure. Then he got angry:

"Why are you leaving me behind? Why don't you let me drive you?... I'm not the ones who run away!... I fought against the Turks."

His spite reached its height, when Emanuel left for Rome and did not choose him to be part of the following.

"Now it's over!" he said bitterly; "it's really over. If I could find another house, I'd go... But where do I go if I'm fond of this?..."

In one of the taverns where he used to hang out he had met and met Michele Barabino, always poor, but no longer begging. Now he began to make some clothes for the poor people, for he did not have much to put back on shop and to aspire to a better clientele. Once he saw Blasco passing, he began to talk about it enthusiastically to Andrea.

"What a man! What a man!..."

"I know him," said Andrea.

"Ah! do you know him? I'm glad. What a man! What a heart! If you knew what he did to me!..."

He began to tell him all the episodes of which he had been an object or actor at a time, and in his words he vibrated that lively and profound admiration that pervades the godly souls.

"Believe me, he deserves to be the Duke of Motta, not that clown of Don Emanuele!... Yeah, him! It's more beautiful, bigger, more generous, more valiant. What more do you want?"

From that day the good old man was so pleased that Andrea knew Don Blasco, that he found a way to talk about it always, telling the same things, with the same enthusiasm.

"Yeah, look. I sold the first dress to him!"

Andrea began to think also that Blasco would be more worthy to succeed in the inheritance and title, than not Emanuele; Blasco was all his father: the same value, the same generous and chivalrous nature, the same lordly disinterest, the same audacity. Emanuele was sad and he lacked something. And then...

He still thought that before, when he had thrown himself completely against Don Raimondo to reintegrate Emanuele into his inheritance, he had felt a jealous distrust and almost a sense of antipathy against Blasco: He would also have killed him and in the meantime both for the stories of the tailor, and for what he knew, he had ended up wondering if to do with Emanuele what he had become, it was worth killing Don Raimondo.

Matteo Lo Vecchio found Andrea in a tavern, at the Cape, drinking with Michele Barabino, but he did not approach him. He also went in and asked for a glass of wine, but without sitting down, standing before the bench and pretending that he had not seen Andrew.

Andrea pointed to him with a meaningful look at his partner.

"Here is the patriarch of birri!" he said in a voice.

"Libera nos donao!" said Michele Barabino, who was piccing himself to blossom his conversation with some Latin phrase.

Matteo Lo Vecchio drank three times, savoring the wine, and turning indifferently to look around the tavern. He pretended to notice Andrea right then and made a gesture with the boss, as if to say: "Alas! here's that beautiful subject!..."

He paid and went out.

A few days later he returned a second time, redoing the same significant mimic, which put Andrea in suspicion. "What the hell does that son of a dog want?" he said to himself.

And when the birro left, he went out in a blasphemy and in a threat.

"Blood of... I'm gonna get rid of his..."

And he said a buzzing word.

The third time he saw himself, in fact, Andrea looked at him with an air of resentment and challenge:

I mean, do you have anything to say to me?

Matteo Lo Vecchio raised his shoulders, with an expression that meant: "What an idiot!..."

And he said loudly:

"Me? Nothing. If I had wanted to tell you something, at this hour, my dear, you wouldn't be here drinking..."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, my friend; you have so much intelligence!... You were okay."

He went out, but Andrea got up and chased him, while Michele Barabino tried to hold him.

"Let go... You know who he is; you ruin yourselves."

But Andrea didn't listen to him. He stopped the birro, repeating the question:

"I want to know what you have to say to me..." Matteo Lo Vecchio made a sarcastic face:

If you must know, I could have the Captain of Justice tell you, or rather the tax hearing... You don't have to do those eyes and put your hands in your pockets, my friend, because you should understand that, If I wanted to, at this hour you wouldn't be here chatting with me... You'd have already met the old woman who's in line. Andrew paled and in a more resigned tone observed:

"I think you're wrong..."

"Oh, no, damn it!... It would be nice if I didn't know you, Andrea Lo Bianco. I have some accounts to fix with you, personal account, we look after, and save the right of the Great Criminal Court, but you should have noticed that I looked at you, smiling... Which is the most obvious proof, that I have no hostile idea against you... Far from it! And then... You should have seen me at the palace, since the illustrious Duke, your beloved master, has repeatedly honored me to call me."

Andrea had all the time to calm down and mentally reflect:

"He's right. If he wanted to denounce me, he would have done it, and if he had bad intentions now, he wouldn't have given me that speech."

Nevertheless, in order to support his part, he still objected to:

"I don't know what you want to talk about: I have no account with you, and I have not seen you at the palace."

"Ah, liar!" said Matteo Lo Vecchio laughing, tapping his hand on his shoulder. "But let go. Come drink with me; not here. There's that big talker from the tailor... I know him."

He dragged him to the piano of San Cosmo, in a tavern from which he saw the old house of Girolamo Admirata and the alley of Orphans and as if he pushed him to sit at a table, in front of the door, so as to see outside. Stiring to drink, the birro swarmed at the house, and said:

"You remember, huh?... Poor Don Girolamo! He's a widower, I think; isn't he?"

Andrea abstained with his head, shocked by that call and together by the people who seemed so far away from him.

"Truly," continued the birro, "I would never have assumed that Mr. Duke had not taken with him his savior or that, at least, he had not given him a fortune."

Andrea cheated. How did you know?

Matteo Lo Vecchio continued with apparent bonomy:

"Why finally not only owes him his state, but Fr. Girolamo risked to put his neck back... It was close. I can know that. And you too, Andrea. Don Raimondo knew everything... These are things you can talk about now. Water under the bridge. But then... Remember that alley? One night I didn't arrest you; the bastard saved you, Don Blasco... You must remember... I had you in my hands and Don Raimondo knew everything... even the trial, the trial that you did with all the testimonies. Peppa, Giuseppico..."

Without wanting to, Andrea felt embarrassed and no longer knew what to answer. Matteo Lo Vecchio continued:

"I was forced to seek you and persecute you, but, word of honor, I didn't know that Don Raimondo was the villain who he was. I thought it was a victim. But when I read the trial..."

Andrea jumped out of the chair, white as a trash.

"Did you read it? How did you read it?..."

"I had it in my hands..."

"Ah!... You? That's why he never found himself!... Do you have it, then?"

"Me? No... I didn't..."

"Don Raimondo had it, then?..."

"What the hell? He would have paid a million for it!... But I suppose Don Girolamo has it..."

"No, he hasn't, he hasn't had it anymore!" gemette Andrea.

He was afraid. From that process his sharing in the sect of the Beati Paoli was evident and although he had been secluded for four years, he also had reason to fear that justice could put his hands on him, for the killing of Don Raimondo and for other crimes that remained in the shadows. One thought flashed in his mind: that Matthew the Elder had rightfully bound him and lurked in ambush, to snatch from him the confession which he had involuntarily made to escape. He looked at the birro and read in his face amazement and a regret so sincere, that he was a little reassured.

"Who then has that trial?" asked the birro.

"I don't know anything about it, but we'll have to find it, no matter what," said Andrea.

Matteo Lo Vecchio was a little thoughtful, then he said:

"I have suspicions, but I can't go into them..."

"What's that?" asked Andrea.

"I'd bet Don Blasco did..."

"Him? How would he have it?"

"Because I know from a sure source that he had it in his hands. Now, either he gave it back to Don Girolamo, or he keeps it with him, unless he destroyed it... which would be desirable... If you press it, you should find out..."

"Me?..."

"Oh, I certainly don't. First of all, because I don't care, and secondly, because I'd be a suspect. But you, it's another matter... It will be said that it is for your master's interest. But you should be sure, very sure, that it was not returned to Don Girolamo... And Don Girolamo is in Naples..."

For this time the speech remained there. Andrea returned to the palace with a troubled soul, feeling at the mercy of the birro; nor was it worth reassuring him the friendly appearance assumed by Matteo Lo Vecchio and the fact that he was not molested until then. It was evident that that interview had been sought, and that the birro needed some news, which he may have had. Andrea was mentally rehearsing the dialogue, to see if he ever let some compromising word slip away.

From that day on, he had no peace. In spite of him, he was tracking Matteo Lo Vecchio, or rather he did so as to let himself be met, thus appearing to him to be able to keep an eye on him and to be able to watch him more easily. The birro did not stop that air of goodness and almost protection and never spoke of the past. He informed himself of the trial for the nullity of the marriage, which fascinated the city.

"They want money, my dear; you have to go to Rome with a bag like this, as the "king of bronze" of the plan of Bologna says. Monsignors have big hands and pockets like saddlebags."

But the silence of Matteo Lo Vecchio and his care to avoid any talk on the famous papers more and more insuspect Andrea and aroused this idea in his brain: "Birro's making some big buggers."

And he was obsessed with it and became bitter, angry, suspicious, overshadowing himself of every little opposition and believing himself spied and watched.

His suspicions grew when a month later he saw Don Girolamo Ammirata present himself to him.

"You?"

"I, indeed!... I arrived this morning..."

"Graceful?"

"Graceful!..."

"Oh, what a pleasure!... I mean, I don't know if it should console me, my dear, or if it would have been preferable to stay in Naples!..."

"Listen! Why do you say that?"

"Do you know who made you gracious?"

"But yes, I know, and I come to thank Eman... "Mr. Duke of his goodness for remembering me..."

"Are you sure it was the duke?"

"Who the hell do you want to get in this fight?"

"Who? Matteo Lo Vecchio..."

"Eh!"

"It's like I say. We're in your hands. The rascal knows that process that was done to Don Raimondo... And that's where our last names and nos are... He has brought us together here to bring us all to justice. Listen to me; you must be saved."

Don Girolamo was disconcerted by that news, but, reflecting on it, he did not seem to hold. That he belonged to the sect they knew, and had to flee for this very reason: And if they were to pardon him now, he meant that they would absolve him of the guilt for which he had departed. And he had the means to make sure and tried to approach Emanuele.

He was not at home and Don Girolamo sat in the servants' room waiting for him, talking to Andrea and informing himself of a thousand small nonsenses. Andrea told him about Emanuele's marriage, about the scandals, about the trial, but to each of these news don Girolamo said:

"I know."

"As you know," Andrea asked him.

"Bella! How do I know?... What world do you come from?..."

"So even from Naples?..."

"Of course!... I understand your amazement, because you are now "Turkish"; but..."

The sound of a carriage in the vestibule, the immediately busy of the servants and the respectful attitude with which they lined up along the hall warned that the duke was coming. Andrea ran to line up with the others, saying:

"Here's the boss."

Don Girolamo stood up and looked, not without a deep concussion. Though he had separated himself from Emanuel with a bitter heart and had never received a word, a greeting, he could not erase from the soul that for more than sixteen years had held him as a son, and that for all that time had been the pupil of the eyes of the poor lady Francesca; and all the memories of the past, sweet and sad at once, sprang from him from the depths of the soul. His heart beat and his eyes moistened.

He saw two valets before with torches in his hand, as if accompanying the Viaticus, and behind them, straight, haughty, with erect head, without lowering his gaze, the rigid step, Emanuele, in a very rich and elegant attire, followed by two other valets, one of whom religiously wore on his arms stretched out his cloak, and the other an umbrella of red silk. He crossed the hall between the servants divided into two rows, who bowed with gestures rather than of obedience, of worship; he passed before Don Girolamo dignified him just by a glance, and entered into the rooms whose doors closed behind his shoulders.

Don Girolamo felt his heart tightened: One look, and nothing else! So you didn't recognize him? Or had pride and vanity dried up every feeling in the heart of Emanuel? He waited until he was allowed to enter before Mr. Duke, but, after three quarters of an hour of waiting, a valet came to tell him that his Excellency, even appreciating the attention of Mr. Don Girolamo, could not at that moment receive him, because he had to change clothes to go to conversation.

Don Girolamo went down the stairs, embittered by an outraged pain and went to the Floresta palace.

He told all things to Coriolano and concluded with a sigh of deep regret:

"And here it is in behalf of whom we have exercised justice!"