Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 41
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
All the next day the wind was in our favor, and we arrived at Palermo an hour before sunset. We had scarcely run into harbor when a small party of officers and gendarmes, heavily laden with pistols and carbines, came on board and showed a document authorizing them to search the brig for Carmelo Neri. I was somewhat anxious for the safety of my good friend the captain — but he was in nowise dismayed; he smiled and welcomed the armed emissaries of the government as though they were his dearest friends.
“To give you my opinion frankly,” he said to them, as he opened a flask of line Chianti for their behoof, “I believe the villain Carmelo is somewhere about Gaeta. I would not tell you a lie — why should I? Is there not a reward offered, and am not I poor? Look you, I would do my best to assist you!”
One of the men looked at him dubiously.
“We received information,” he said, in precise, business-like tones, “that Neri escaped from Gaeta two months since, and was aided and abetted in his escape by one Andrea Luziani, owner of the coasting brig ‘Laura,’ journeying for purposes of trade between Naples and Palermo. You are Andrea Luziani, and this is the brig ‘Laura,’ — we are right in this; is it not so?”
“As if you could ever be wrong, caro!” cried the captain with undiminished gayety, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nay, if St. Peter should have the bad taste to shut you out of heaven, you would be cunning enough to find another and better entrance! Ah, Dio! I believe it! Yes, you are right about my name and the name of my brig, but in the other things,” — here he shook his fingers with an expressive sign of denial— “you are wrong — wrong — all wrong!” He broke into a gay laugh. “Yes, wrong — but we will not quarrel about it! Have some more Chianti! Searching for brigands is thirsty work. Fill your glasses, amici — spare not the flask — there are twenty more below stairs!”
The officers smiled in spite of themselves, as they drank the proffered wine, and the youngest-looking of the party, a brisk, handsome fellow, entered into the spirit of the captain with ardor, though he evidently thought he should trap him into a confession unawares, by the apparent carelessness and bonhomie of his manner.
“Bravo, Andrea!” he cried, merrily. “So! let us all be friends together! Besides, what harm is there in taking a brigand for a passenger — no doubt he would pay you better than most cargoes!”
But Andrea was not to be so caught. On the contrary; he raised his hands and eyes with an admirably feigned expression of shocked alarm.
“Our Lady and the saints forgive you!” he exclaimed, piously, “for thinking that I, an honest marinaro, would accept one baiocco from an accursed brigand! Ill-luck would follow me ever after! Nay, nay — there has been a mistake; I know nothing of Carmelo Neri, and I hope the saints will grant that I may never meet him!”
He spoke with so much apparent sincerity that the officers in command were evidently puzzled, though the fact of their being so did not deter them from searching the brig thoroughly. Disappointed in their expectations, they questioned all on board, including myself, but were of course unable to obtain any satisfactory replies. Fortunately they accepted my costume as a sign of my trade, and though they glanced curiously at my white hair, they seemed to think there was nothing suspicious about me. After a few more effusive compliments and civilities on the part of the captain, they took their departure, completely baffled, and quite convinced that the information they had received had been somehow incorrect. As soon as they were out of sight, the merry Andrea capered on his deck like a child in a play-ground, and snapped his fingers defiantly.
“Per Bacco!” he cried, ecstatically, “they should as soon make a priest tell confessional secrets, as force me, honest Andrea Luziani, to betray a man who has given me good cigars! Let them run back to Gaeta and hunt in every hole and corner! Carmelo may rest comfortably in the Montemaggiore without the shadow of a gendarme to disturb him! Ah, signor!” for I had advanced to bid him farewell— “I am truly sorry to part company with you! You do not blame me for helping away a poor devil who trusts me?”
“Not I!” I answered him heartily. “On the contrary, I would there were more like you. Addio! and with this,” here I gave him the passage-money we had agreed upon, “accept my thanks. I shall not forget your kindness; if you ever need a friend, send to me.”
“But,” he said, with a naive mingling of curiosity and timidity, “how can I do that if the signor does not tell me his name?”
I had thought of this during the past night. I knew it would be necessary to take a different name, and I had resolved on adopting that of a school-friend, a boy to whom I had been profoundly attached in my earliest youth, and who had been drowned before my eyes while bathing in the Venetian Lido. So I answered Andrea’s question at once and without effort.
“Ask for the Count Cesare Oliva,” I said. “I shall return to Naples shortly, and should you seek me, you will find me there.”
The Sicilian doffed his cap and saluted me profoundly.
“I guessed well,” he remarked, smilingly, “that the Signor Conte’s hands were not those of a coral-fisher. Oh, yes! I know a gentleman when I see him — though we Sicilians say we are all gentlemen. It is a good boast, but alas! not always true! A rivederci, signor! Command me when you will — I am your servant!”
Pressing his hand, I sprung lightly from the brig on to the quay.
“A rivederci!” I called to him. “Again, and yet again, a thousand thanks!”
“Oh! tropp’ onore, signor — tropp’ onore!” and thus I left him, standing still bareheaded on the deck of his little vessel, with a kindly light on his brown face like the reflection of a fadeless sunbeam. Good-hearted, merry rogue! His ideas of right and wrong were oddly mixed — yet his lies were better than many truths told us by our candid friends — and you may be certain the great Recording Angel knows the difference between a lie that saves and a truth that kills, and metes out Heaven’s reward or punishment accordingly.
My first care, when I found myself in the streets of Palermo, was to purchase clothes of the best material and make adapted to a gentleman’s wear. I explained to the tailor whose shop I entered for this purpose that I had joined a party of coral-fishers for mere amusement, and had for the time adopted their costume. He believed my story the more readily as I ordered him to make several more suits for me immediately, giving him the name of Count Cesare Oliva, and the address of the best hotel in the city. He served me with obsequious humility, and allowed me the use of his private back-room, where I discarded my fisher garb for the dress of a gentleman — a ready-made suit that happened to fit me passably well. Thus arrayed as became my station, I engaged rooms at the chief hotel of Palermo for some weeks — weeks that were for me full of careful preparation for the task of vengeful retribution that lay before me. One of my principal objects was to place the money I had with me in safe hands. I sought out the leading banker in Palermo, and introducing myself under my adopted name, I stated that I had newly returned to Sicily after some years’ absence. He received me well, and though he appeared astonished at the large amount of wealth I had brought, he was eager and willing enough to make satisfactory arrangements with me for its safe keeping, including the bag of jewels, some of which, from their unusual size and luster, excited his genuine admiration. Seeing this, I pressed on his acceptance a fine emerald and two large brilliants, all unset, and requested him to have a ring made of them for his own wear. Surprised at my generosity, he at first refused — but his natural wish to possess such rare gems finally prevailed, and he took them, overpowering me with thanks — while I was perfectly satisfied to see that I had secured his services so thoroughly by my jeweled bribe, that he either forgot, or else saw no necessity to ask me for personal references, which in my position would have been exceeding difficult, if not impossible, to obtain. When this business transaction was entirely completed, I devoted myself to my next consideration — which was to disguise myself so utterly that no one should possibly be able to recognize the smallest resemblance in me to the late Fabio Romani, either by look, voice, or trick of manner. I had always worn a mustache — it had turned white in company with my hair. I now allowed my beard to grow — it came out white also. But in contrast with these contemporary signs of age, my face began to fill up and look young again; my eyes, always large and dark, resumed their old flashing, half-defiant look — a look, which it seemed to me, would make some familiar suggestion to those who had once known me as I was before I died. Yes — they spoke of things that must be forgotten and unuttered; what should I do with these tell-tale eyes of mine?
I thought, and soon decided. Nothing was easier than to feign weak sight — sight that was dazzled by the heat and brilliancy of the southern sunshine, I would wear smoke-colored glasses. I bought them as soon as the idea occurred to me, and alone in my room before the mirror I tried their effect. I was satisfied; they perfectly completed the disguise of my face. With them and my white hair and beard, I looked like a well-preserved man of fifty-five or so, whose only physical ailment was a slight affection of the eyes.
The next thing to alter was my voice. I had, naturally, a peculiarly soft voice and a rapid, yet clear, enunciation, and it was my habit, as it is the habit of almost every Italian, to accompany my words with the expressive pantomime of gesture. I took myself in training as an actor studies for a particular part. I cultivated a harsh accent, and spoke with deliberation and coldness — occasionally with a sort of sarcastic brusquerie, carefully avoiding the least movement of hands or head during converse. This was exceedingly difficult of attainment to me, and took me an infinite deal of time and trouble; but I had for my model a middle-aged Englishman who was staying in the same hotel as myself, and whose starched stolidity never relaxed for a single instant. He was a human iceberg — perfectly respectable, with that air of decent gloom about him which is generally worn by all the sons of Britain while sojourning in a foreign clime. I copied his manners as closely as possible; I kept my mouth shut with the same precise air of not-to-be-enlightened obstinacy — I walked with the same upright drill demeanor — and I surveyed the scenery with the same superior contempt. I knew I had succeeded at last, for I overheard a waiter speaking of me to his companion as “the white bear!”
One other thing I did. I wrote a courteous note to the editor of the principal newspaper published in Naples — a newspaper that I knew always found its way to the Villa Romani — and inclosing fifty francs, I requested him to insert a paragraph for me in his next issue. This paragraph was worded somewhat as follows:
“The Signor Conte Cesare Oliva, a nobleman who has been for many years absent from his native country, has, we understand, just returned, possessed of almost fabulous wealth, and is about to arrive in Naples, where he purposes making his home for the future. The leaders of society here will no doubt welcome with enthusiasm so distinguished an addition to the brilliant circles commanded by their influence.”
The editor obeyed my wishes, and inserted what I sent him, word for word as it was written. He sent me the paper containing it “with a million compliments,” but was discreetly silent concerning the fifty francs, though I am certain he pocketed them with unaffected joy. Had I sent him double the money, he might have been induced to announce me as a king or emperor in disguise. Editors of newspapers lay claim to be honorable men; they may be so in England, but in Italy most of them would do anything for money. Poor devils! who can blame them, considering how little they get by their limited dealings in pen and ink! In fact, I am not at all certain but that a few English newspaper editors might be found capable of accepting a bribe, if large enough, and if offered with due delicacy. There are surely one or two magazines, for instance, in London, that would not altogether refuse to insert an indifferently, even badly written article, if paid a thousand pounds down for doing it!
On the last day but one of my sojourn in Palermo I was reclining in an easy-chair at the window of the hotel smoking-room, looking out on the shimmering waters of the gulf. It was nearly eight o’clock, and though the gorgeous colors of the sunset still lingered in the sky, the breeze blew in from the sea somewhat coldly, giving warning of an approaching chilly night. The character I had adopted, namely that of a somewhat harsh and cynical man who had seen life and did not like it, had by constant hourly practice become with me almost second nature — indeed, I should have had some difficulty in returning to the easy and thoughtless abandon of my former self. I had studied the art of being churlish till I really was churlish; I had to act the chief character in a drama, and I knew my part thoroughly well. I sat quietly puffing at my cigar and thinking of nothing in particular — for, as far as my plans went, I had done with thought, and all my energies were strung up to action — when I was startled by a loud and increasing clamor, as of the shouting of a large crowd coming onward like an overflowing tide. I leaned out of the window, but could see nothing, and I was wondering what the noise could mean, when an excited waiter threw open the door of the smoking-room and cried, breathlessly:
“Carmelo Neri, signor! Carmelo Neri! They have him, poverino! they have him at last!”
Though almost as strongly interested in this news as the waiter himself, I did not permit my interest to become manifest. I never forgot for a second the character I had assumed, and drawing the cigar slowly from my lips I merely said:
“Then they have caught a great rascal. I congratulate the Government! Where is the fellow?”
“In the great square,” returned the garçon, eagerly. “If the signor would walk round the corner he would see Carmelo, bound and fettered. The saints have mercy upon him! The crowds there are thick as flies round a honeycomb! I must go thither myself — I would not miss the sight for a thousand francs!”
And he ran off, as full of the anticipated delight of looking at a brigand as a child going to its first fair. I put on my hat and strolled leisurely round to the scene of excitement. It was a picturesque sight enough; the square was black with a sea of eager heads, and restless, gesticulating figures, and the center of this swaying, muttering crowd was occupied by a compact band of mounted gendarmes with drawn swords flashing in the pale evening light — both horses and men nearly as motionless as though cast in bronze. They were stationed opposite the head-quarters of the Carabinieri, where the chief officer of the party had dismounted to make his formal report respecting the details of the capture before proceeding further. Between these armed and watchful guards, with his legs strapped to a sturdy mule, his arms tied fast behind him, and his hands heavily manacled, was the notorious Neri, as dark and fierce as a mountain thunder-storm. His head was uncovered — his thick hair, long and unkempt, hung in matted locks upon his shoulders — his heavy mustachios and beard were so black and bushy that they almost concealed his coarse and forbidding features — though I could see the tiger-like glitter of his sharp white teeth as he bit and gnawed his under lip in impotent fury and despair — and his eyes, like leaping flames, blazed with a wrathful ferocity from under his shaggy brows. He was a huge, heavy man, broad and muscular; his two hands clinched, tied and manacled behind him, looked like formidable hammers capable of striking a man down dead at one blow; his whole aspect was repulsive and terrible — there was no redeeming point about him — for even the apparent fortitude he assumed was mere bravado — meretricious courage — which the first week of the galleys would crush out of him as easily as one crushes the juice out of a ripe grape. He wore a nondescript costume of vari-colored linen, arranged in folds that would have been the admiration of an artist. It was gathered about him by means of a brilliant scarlet sash negligently tied. His brawny arms were bare to the shoulder — his vest was open, and displayed his strong brown throat and chest heaving with the pent-up anger and fear that raged within him. His dark grim figure was set off by a curious effect of color in the sky — a long wide band of crimson cloud, as though the sun-god had thrown down a goblet of ruby wine and left it to trickle along the smooth blue fairness of his palace floor — a deep after-glow, which burned redly on the olive-tinted eager faces of the multitude that were everywhere upturned in wonder and ill-judged admiration to the brutal black face of the notorious murderer and thief, whose name had for years been the terror of Sicily. I pressed through the crowd to obtain a nearer view, and as I did so a sudden savage movement of Neri’s bound body caused the gendarmes to cross their swords in front of his eyes with a warning clash. The brigand laughed hoarsely.
“Corpo di Cristo!” he muttered— “think you a man tied hand and foot can run like a deer? I am trapped — I know it! But tell him,” and he indicated some person in the throng by a nod of his head “tell him to come hither — I have a message for him.”
The gendarmes looked at one another, and then at the swaying crowd about them in perplexity — they did not understand.
Carmelo, without wasting more words upon them, raised himself as uprightly as he could in his strained and bound position, and called aloud:
“Luigi Biscardi! Capitano! Oh he — you thought I could not see you! Dio! I should know you in hell! Come near, I have a parting word for you.”
At the sound of his strong harsh voice, a silence half of terror, half of awe, fell upon the chattering multitude. There was a sudden stir as the people made way for a young man to pass through their ranks — a slight, tall, rather handsome fellow, with a pale face and cold, sneering eyes. He was dressed with fastidious care and neatness in the uniform of the Bersagliere — and he elbowed his way along with the easy audacity of a privileged dandy. He came close up to the brigand and spoke carelessly, with a slightly mocking smile playing round the corners of his mouth.
“Ebbene!” he said, “you are caught at last, Carmelo! You called me — here I am. What do you want with me, rascal?”
Neri uttered a ferocious curse between his teeth, and looked for an instant like a wild beast ready to spring.
“You betrayed me,” he said in fierce yet smothered accents— “you followed me — you hunted me down! Teresa told me all. Yes — she belongs to you now — you have got your wish. Go and take her — she waits for you — make her speak and tell you how she loves you — if you can!”
