The Patriot Part 24

"And Gilardoni?" Luisa asked.

"Here they are now," Ismaele said, going out with his lantern.

Professor Gilardoni had invited the Maironis and Donna Ester Bianchi to come to his house for punch after Ma.s.s. He was now expected from Niscioree, whither he had gone to fetch the young lady, who had lived there alone with two maid-servants since her father's death, which had taken place in 1852. The worthy Professor had mourned secretly for Signora Teresa for a reasonable length of time, but during the convalescence of his heart, which kept him weak and languid, and in permanent danger of a relapse, he had not been careful enough of the merry little face, the lively eyes, and sparkling gaiety of the little Princess of Niscioree, as the Maironis called Donna Ester.

At seven-and-twenty Donna Ester looked like a girl of twenty, save in her movements there was a certain languor, and in her eyes a certain delicious hidden knowledge. She had not intended to fish for this respectable lover, but now she knew he was caught, and she was pleased, believing him to be a man of great genius, and infinite wisdom. That he should ever dare speak to her of love, that she might marry all this sallow, wrinkled, dry knowledge, had never entered her head.

Nevertheless she did not wish to quench this little fire, which was so discreet, which was an honour to her, and probably a source of happiness to him. If she sometimes laughed about him with Luisa she was never the first to laugh, and always hastened to repeat: "Poor Signor Gilardoni!

Poor Professor!"

She came in hastily, her fair head enveloped in a great black hood, looking like Spring out on the spree disguised as December. December was close behind her, his neck shrouded in a great scarf, above which rose the red and s.h.i.+ning professorial nose, irritated by the snow. As it was already late they immediately took leave of Uncle Piero, who was left alone with his milk and his lamp before the dying embers of the juniper-bush.

A slight shadow of disapproval still rested on his face. Franco was playing the poet too much. Nowadays life was hard at Casa Maironi.

Breakfast consisted of a cup of milk and chicory-coffee, and they used a sort of reddish sugar that tasted of the chemist's shop. They indulged in meat only on Thursdays and Sundays. A bottle of Grimelli wine appeared on the table regularly every day for Uncle Piero, who rebelled against being the privileged one. Every day clouds gathered around this bottle and a little storm burst forth, which, however, always ended as Uncle Piero wished, in a short shower of the decoction into each of the five gla.s.ses. The servant had been dismissed, and only Veronica remained to do the heavy work, stir the _polenta_, and sometimes look after Maria. But in spite of these and other economies Luisa could not make both ends meet, though Cia had refused to accept any wages, and gifts of curds, of _mascherpa_, of goats'-cheeses, of chestnuts and walnuts were always pouring in upon them from the townspeople. She had obtained some copying from a notary at Porlezza, but it was hard work for miserable pay. Franco had also begun to copy diligently, but he accomplished less than his wife and, moreover, there was not work enough for two. He should have bestirred himself, have sought some private employment, but Uncle Piero saw no signs of this, and so----?

And so this thinking about poetic expeditions seemed to him more out of place than ever. After having pondered a long time upon their sad plight, and upon the slender probability that Franco would ever be able to extricate them from it, he reflected that, for him, the first thing to do was to drink his milk, and the second, to go to bed. But another thought came to him. He opened the hall-door, and seeing the room was quite dark, went into the kitchen, lighted a lantern, and carried it to the loggia, where he opened one of the windows. Although it was snowing there was no wind, so he placed the lantern on the window-sill, that its light might help those poetic people to steer their homeward course over the dark lake.

Then he went to bed.

Ismaele brought his freight safely to S. Mamette in the covered boat.

The snow was still falling placidly in big flakes. The church was already quite full, and even the ladies were obliged to stand, behind the first row of benches. Ester volunteered to look after Maria, and lifted her to a seat on top of the bench in front of them, while the sacristan was busy lighting the candles on the high-altar. Cia was tormenting the Professor, whom she believed to be a pious man, with a thousand questions concerning the difference between the Roman and Ambrosian rites, and Maria was keeping Ester busy with still more puzzling questions.

"Who are they lighting those candles for?"

"For our Lord."

"Is our Lord going to bed now?"

"No, hus.h.!.+"

"And has the _bambino Gesu_--the child Jesus--gone to bed already?"

"Yes, yes," Ester replied thoughtlessly, to put an end to these questions.

"With the mule?"

Once Uncle Piero had brought Maria an ugly, little wooden mule which she detested, and when she was obstinate and capricious her mother would put her to bed with the mule under her pillow, under her obstinate little head.

"Be quiet, chatterbox!" said Ester.

"I don't go to bed with the mule. I say _excuse me_!"

"Hus.h.!.+ Listen to the organ."

All the candles were now lighted, and the organist having mounted to his post, was teasing his old instrument as if to waken it, drawing from it what seemed to be angry grunts. When, on the ringing of a bell, the organ poured forth all its great voice, and the altar-boys and the priest appeared, Luisa stole her hand into her husband's, as if they had still been lovers.

Those two hands pressing each other furtively were speaking of a fast approaching event, of a serious resolve which must be kept a secret, and which was not yet formed irrevocably. The little nervous hand said: "Have courage!" The manly hand said: "I will!" They must indeed make up their minds to it. Franco must go away, leave his wife, his child, and the old man, perhaps for some months, perhaps for some years. He must leave Valsolda, the dear little house, his flowers, perhaps for ever. He must emigrate to Piedmont, seek for work and gain, in the hope of being able to call his family to him in case that other great national hope should not be realised. He was glad his wife had chosen this solemn place and hour in which to encourage him in his sacrifice, and he did not drop the gentle hand, but held it as a lover might, never looking at Luisa, his face and person immovable. He spoke with his hand only, with his soul in palm and fingers, he spoke the most varied, pa.s.sionate language, consisting of soft caresses, of embraces, of tenderness and ardour. From time to time she would endeavour to gently withdraw her hand, and then he would clasp it violently. His gaze was fixed on the altar, and he held his head erect as if absorbed in the music of the organ, in the voice of the priest, in the singing of the congregation.

As a matter of fact he was not following the prayers, but he felt the Divine Presence, was experiencing an ecstasy, a fervour of love, of pain, of hope in G.o.d. Luisa had taken his hand in the belief that he was praying, that all his fears, all his doubts were stirring in his soul.

She had indeed wished to inspire him with courage, convinced that this painful step was best for him. She only half understood the pressure that answered her; it seemed to her a pa.s.sionate protest against this separation, and although this was most sweet to her, she could not approve of it, and so from time to time she strove to withdraw her hand.

At the moment of the Elevation it was he who withdrew his, out of respect. Then he was obliged to take Maria in his arms, for she had fallen asleep, and slept on, her head on her father's shoulder, displaying half of a little, peaceful face. She, his darling, did not know that her father was going so far away, and his heart was filled with tender yearning towards that little, warm treasure, which breathed upon it, towards that tiny head, which had the perfume of a little wild bird. He imagined himself already gone, imagined that she was seeking for him, was crying, and then a desire to press her closer ran through his arms, a desire he quickly checked for fear of waking her.

It had stopped snowing when they left the church.

"Wind! Wind!" said Ismaele, coming towards them.

"I shall walk! I shall walk!" groaned Cia, who had a great horror of the lake. Meanwhile the crowd issuing from the church pushed and dispersed the group, and carried them down the steps. The six travellers and the boatmen met again in the square of S. Mamette and here Donna Ester declared that, as she was not feeling very well, she must forego the punch, and that she would walk home with Cia.

Franco, Luisa, and the Professor saw it would be useless to insist, and the two women started towards Oria escorted by Ismaele, who was to come back for the Maironis and the boat.

A _moderateur_ lamp illumined Gilardoni's salon, a good fire was burning on the hearth, and Pinella had prepared everything for the punch over which Luisa presided, the host himself being much depressed in spirit by Donna Ester's desertion.

"Look at Maria," said Franco softly.

The little one had gone to sleep in the Professor's armchair near the window. Franco took the lamp and held it aloft in order to see her better. She seemed like some little creature descended from heaven, fallen there with the star-light, unconscious, her face suffused with a sweetness which was not of this world, with a solemnity full of mystery.

"Darling!" said he, and drew his wife towards him with an encircling arm, his eyes still fixed on Maria. Gilardoni came up behind them, and murmured: "How lovely!" Then he went back to the fireplace sighing: "Happy people!"

Franco, who was deeply moved, whispered in his wife's ear: "Shall we tell him?" She did not understand, and looked questioningly into his eyes. "That I am going away," said he, still in an undertone. Luisa started and answered, "Yes, yes!" She was greatly affected, for she had not expected this. In the church she had believed he was still undecided. Her astonishment did not escape Franco. He was troubled by it and felt his resolution shaken, but she at once perceived this, and repeated earnestly: "Yes, yes!" and gently pushed him towards Gilardoni.

"Dear friend," said he, "I have something to tell you."

The Professor, absorbed in contemplation of the fire, did not answer.

Franco placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ah!" he exclaimed, rousing himself, "I beg your pardon! What it is?"

"I wish to commend some one to your care."

"To my care? Who is it?"

"An old man, a woman, and a little child."

The two men looked at each other in silence, one deeply moved, the other amazed.

"Don't you understand?" Luisa whispered.

No, he neither understood nor answered.

"I commend my wife, my daughter, and the old uncle to your care," Franco replied.

"Oh!" the Professor exclaimed, looking in astonishment from one to the other.

"I am going away," said Franco, with a smile that went to Gilardoni's heart. "We have not told Uncle Piero yet, but I must go. In our position I cannot stay here doing nothing. I shall say I am going to Milan, and those who will may believe it, but I shall really be in Piedmont."

Gilardoni clasped his hands in silent amazement. Luisa embraced Franco and kissed him, holding his head upon her breast, her eyes closed.

The Professor imagined it was painful to her to bow to her husband's will in this matter.

"Now listen to me," said he, addressing Franco. "If war had broken out I could understand your going, but as it is, I think you do wrong to cause your wife so much suffering for a question of money."