Part 9 (2/2)

CHAPTER VI.

Bosio shook his head, and a long silence followed. Once or twice he roused himself, stirred the cup of chocolate which the waiter had set before him, and sipped a teaspoonful of it absently. The corner where the two men sat together was quiet, but from the front of the cafe came the continual clatter of plates and gla.s.ses, the echo of feet, and the ring of voices; for it was just midday, and the place was full of its habitual frequenters.

”If we were in church,” said Bosio at last, ”and if you were in a confessional--”

He stopped, and glanced at his companion without completing the sentence.

”You would make a confession? There are churches near,” said Don Teodoro. ”I am ready. Will you come?”

Bosio hesitated.

”No,” he said at last. ”I could tell you nothing without betraying others.”

”Betraying! Is it a crime that you have on your conscience?” The priest's voice was low and troubled.

”Many crimes,” answered Bosio. ”The crimes that must come, and that I cannot prevent by living, nor hinder by dying.”

Again there was silence during several minutes.

”You may trust me as a friend, even if, as a priest, you could not confess all the circ.u.mstances to me,” said Don Teodoro, after the long pause. ”I do not wish you to make confidences to me, unless you are impelled to do so. But you are in that frame of mind, my dear Bosio, in which a man will sooner or later unburden himself to some one. You might do worse than choose me. I am your friend, I am old, and I know that I am discreet. I am extraordinarily discreet. It may seem strange that I should say so myself, but my own life has taught me that I am to be trusted with secrets.”

”Yes,” replied Bosio. ”You must have heard strange things sometimes under the seal of confession.”

”I have known of strange things.” Don Teodoro's face grew sad and thoughtful, and Bosio, seeing it, suddenly made up his mind.

He leaned far back against the painted wall for a moment, with half-closed eyes. Then he drew nearer to his friend, so that he spoke close to the latter's ear, though he looked down at the table before him. His nervous fingers played with the teaspoon in the saucer of his cup.

It was a strange confession, there in the corner of the crowded cafe at midday, and those who glanced idly at the two men from a distance would hardly have guessed that an act in a mysterious life was before their eyes--an act which was itself but a verbal recapitulation of many actions past, but which to the speaker had an enormous importance of its own, and an influence on the future of all concerned.

Not much had been needed to break through the barrier of Bosio's reticence. Walking through the streets that morning he had for a moment even thought of telling some of his story to Taquisara. It was far easier to tell it to the only true friend he had in the world, to one in whom he had confided as a boy and had trusted as a young man. He told almost all. He confessed that his love of many years had been his brother's wife, and though he spoke no word of her love for him, the old priest knew the evil truth from the man's tone and look. For the rest he spared neither Matilde nor any one else, but told Don Teodoro all the truth, and all his anxious fears for Veronica's safety, if he should not marry her, with all his horror of his own shame if he should yield to the pressure brought upon him.

Don Teodoro's expression changed more than once while he listened, but he never turned his head nor moved in his seat.

”You see what I am,” said Bosio, at last. ”You see what my people are.

Indeed, I need a confessor, if one could save my soul; but I need a friend even more, for through me that poor girl is in danger of her life. That is her choice--to die or to be my wife. Mine is, to see her murdered or to do an unutterably shameful thing--or to see the woman I love driven out of the world with infamy for the crimes she has not committed, and the fear of that disgrace is making her mad. It is for her, and for Veronica! What do I care about myself? What have I left to care for? What I have done, I have done. I am not good, I am not religious, I am perhaps a worse sinner than most men, and a poorer believer than many. But I will not be the instrument of these deeds--and yet, if I refuse--there is death, or shame, or both, to those I love! At least I have spoken, and you will not betray me. It has been a relief, a moment's respite from torture. I thank you for it, my friend, and I wish I could repay you. You cannot give me advice, for I have twisted and turned it all in fifty ways, and there is no escape. You cannot help me, for no one can. But you have done me some little momentary good, just by sitting there and hearing my story. Beyond that there is nothing to be done.”

The wretched man closed his eyes, and again leaned back against the bright red wall, which threw his white face and dark-ringed eyes into strong and painful relief. Don Teodoro was silent, bending his mind upon the hideous problem. Bosio misunderstood him and spoke again without moving.

”I know,” he said. ”You need not speak. I know by heart all the reproaches I deserve, and I know that no human being, much less a holy man like yourself, could possibly feel anything but horror at all this--”

”I am very far from being a holy man,” interrupted the priest. ”If I feel horror, it is for what has been, and may be, but not for you.

Bosio--” he hesitated a moment. ”Will you come with me to Muro, and leave all this?” he asked suddenly. ”Will you come out of the world for a while? No--I am not proposing to you to make a religious retreat. I wish I could. I know the world, and you, and your people, for I lived long among you, and I know that one cannot change one's soul, as one changes one's coat--nor enter upon a retreat as one springs into the sea for a bath in hot weather. What you have made yourself, you are. Heaven itself would need time to unmake you. I speak just as one man to another. Come with me to the mountains for a week, a month--as long as you will. It is dreary and cold, and you will have to eat what you can get; but you will have peace, for n.o.body will come up there to disturb you. Meanwhile, something may happen. You are overwrought by all you have seen and heard and felt. Whatever the countess may have said, Donna Veronica is quite safe. My dear Bosio, people in your rank of life do not murder one another for money nowadays. It is laughable, the mere idea of it--”

”Laughable!” Bosio turned and looked at him. ”If you had seen her eyes, you would find it hard to laugh, I think. Such things happen rarely, perhaps, but they happen sometimes.”

Don Teodoro was not persuaded. He thought that Bosio, in his excited state, very much overestimated the danger.

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