Humbert smiled, and regarded her somewhat as an indulgent father might regard a spoiled daughter; but he said nothing, and pa.s.sed on. A cl.u.s.ter of men and women standing at the open door of one of the poorest-looking houses in the street next attracted the monarch's attention. There was some noisy argument going on; two or three beccamorti were loudly discussing together and swearing profusely--some women were crying bitterly, and in the center of the excited group a coffin stood on end as though waiting for an occupant. One of the gentlemen in attendance on the king preceded him and announced his approach, whereupon the loud clamor of tongues ceased, the men bared their heads, and the women checked their sobs.

"What is wrong here, my friends?" the monarch asked with exceeding gentleness.

There was silence for a moment; the beccamorti looked sullen and ashamed. Then one of the women, with a fat good-natured face and eyes rimmed redly round with weeping, elbowed her way through the little throng to the front and spoke.

"May the Holy Virgin and saints bless your majesty!" she cried, in shrill accents. "And as for what is wrong, it would soon be right if those shameless pigs," pointing to the beccamorti, "would let us alone.

They would kill a man rather than wait an hour--one little hour! The girl is dead, your majesty--and Giovanni, poor lad! will not leave her; he has his two arms round her tight--Holy Virgin!--think of it! and she a cholera corpse--and do what we can, he will not be parted from her, and they seek her body for the burial. And if we force him away, poverino, he will lose his head for certain. One little hour, your majesty, just one, and the reverend father will come and persuade Giovanni better than we can."

The king raised his hand with a slight gesture of command--the little crowd parted before him--and he entered the miserable dwelling wherein lay the corpse that was the cause of all the argument. His attendants followed; I, too, availed myself of a corner in the doorway. The scene disclosed was so terribly pathetic that few could look upon it without emotion--Humbert of Italy himself uncovered his head and stood silent.

On a poor pallet bed lay the fair body of a girl in her first youth, her tender loveliness as yet untouched even by the disfiguring marks of the death that had overtaken her. One would have thought she slept, had it not been for the rigidity of her stiffened limbs, and the wax-like pallor of her face and hands. Right across her form, almost covering it from view, a man lay p.r.o.ne, as though he had fallen there lifeless--indeed he might have been dead also for any sign he showed to the contrary. His arms were closed firmly round the girl's corpse--his face was hidden from view on the cold breast that would no more respond to the warmth of his caresses. A straight beam of sunlight shot like a golden spear into the dark little room and lighted up the whole scene--the prostrate figures on the bed--the erect form of the compa.s.sionate king, and the grave and anxious faces of the little crowd of people who stood around him.

"See! that is the way he has been ever since last night when she died,"

whispered the woman who had before spoken; "and his hands are clinched round her like iron--one cannot move a finger!"

The king advanced. He touched the shoulder of the unhappy lover. His voice, modulated to an exquisite softness, struck on the ears of the listeners like a note of cheerful music.

"Figlio mio!"

There was no answer. The women, touched by the simple endearing words of the monarch, began to sob though gently, and even the men brushed a few drops from their eyes. Again the king spoke.

"Figlio mio! I am your king. Have you no greeting for me?"

The man raised his head from its pillow on the breast of the beloved corpse and stared vacantly at the royal speaker. His haggard face, tangled hair, and wild eyes gave him the appearance of one who had long wandered in a labyrinth of frightful visions from which there was no escape but self-murder.

"Your hand, my son!" resumed the king in a tone of soldier-like authority.

Very slowly--very reluctantly--as though he were forced to the action by some strange magnetic influence which he had no power to withstand, he loosened his right arm from the dead form it clasped so pertinaciously, and stretched forth the hand as commanded. Humbert caught it firmly within his own and held it fast--then looking the poor fellow full in the face, he said with grave steadiness and simplicity,

"There is no death in love, my friend!"

The young man's eyes met his--his set mouth softened--and wresting his hand pa.s.sionately from that of the king, he broke into a pa.s.sion of weeping. Humbert at once placed a protecting arm around him, and with the a.s.sistance of one of his attendants raised him from the bed, and led him unresistingly away, as pa.s.sively obedient as a child, though sobbing convulsively as he went. The rush of tears had saved his reason, and most probably his life. A murmur of enthusiastic applause greeted the good king as he pa.s.sed through the little throng of persons who had witnessed what had taken place. Acknowledging it with a quiet unaffected bow, he left the house, and signed to the beccamorti, who still waited outside, that they were now free to perform their melancholy office. He then went on his way attended by more heart-felt blessings and praises than ever fell to the lot of the proudest conqueror returning with the spoils of a hundred battles. I looked after his retreating figure till I could see it no more--I felt that I had grown stronger for the mere presence of a hero--a man who indeed was "every inch a king." I am a royalist--yes. Governed by such a sovereign, few men of calm reason would be otherwise. But royalist though I am, I would a.s.sist in bringing about the dethronement and death of a mean tyrant, were he crowned king a hundred times over! Few monarchs are like Humbert of Italy--even now my heart warms when I think of him--in all the distraction of my sufferings, his figure stands out like a supreme embodied Beneficent Force surrounded by the clear light of unselfish goodness--a light in which Italia suns her fair face and smiles again with the old sweet smile of her happiest days of high achievement--days in which he children were great, simply because they were EARNEST. The fault of all modern labor lies in the fact that there is no heart in anything we do--we seldom love our work for work's sake--we perform it solely for what we can get by it.

Therein lies the secret of failure. Friends will scarcely serve each other unless they can also serve their own interests--true, there are exceptions to this rule, but they are deemed fools for their pains.

As soon as the king disappeared I also left the scene of the foregoing incident. I had a fancy to visit the little restaurant where I had been taken ill, and after some trouble I found it. The door stood open. I saw the fat landlord, Pietro, polishing his gla.s.ses as though he had never left off; and there in the same corner was the very wooden bench on which I had lain--where I had--as was generally supposed--died. I stepped in. The landlord looked up and bade me good-day. I returned his salutation, and ordered some coffee and rolls of bread. Seating myself carelessly at one of the little tables I turned over the newspaper, while he bustled about in haste to serve me. As he dusted and rubbed up a cup and saucer for my use, he said, briskly,

"You have had a long voyage, amico? And successful fishing?"

For a moment I was confused and knew not what to answer, but gathering my wits together I smiled and answered readily in the affirmative.

"And you?" I said, gayly. "How goes the cholera?"

The landlord shook his head dolefully.

"Holy Joseph! do not speak of it. The people die like flies in a honey-pot. Only yesterday--body of Bacchus!--who would have thought it?"

And he sighed deeply as he poured out the steaming coffee, and shook his head more sorrowfully than before.

"Why, what happened yesterday?" I asked, though I knew perfectly well what he was going to say; "I am a stranger in Naples, and empty of news."

The perspiring Pietro laid a fat thumb on the marble top of the table, and with it traced a pattern meditatively.

"You never heard of the rich Count Romani?" he inquired.

I made a sign in the negative, and bent my face over my coffee-cup.

"Ah, well!" he went on with a half groan, "it does not matter--there is no Count Romani any more. It is all gone--finished! But he was rich--as rich as the king, they say--yet see how low the saints brought him! Fra Cipriano of the Benedictines carried him in here yesterday morning--he was struck by the plague--in five hours he was dead," here the landlord caught a mosquito and killed it--"ah! as dead as that zinzara! Yes, he lay dead on that very wooden bench opposite to you. They buried him before sunset. It is like a bad dream!"

I affected to be deeply engrossed with the cutting and Spreading of my roll and b.u.t.ter.

"I see nothing particular about it," I said, indifferently. "That he was rich is nothing--rich and poor must die alike."

"And that is true, very true," a.s.sented Pietro, with another groan, "for not all his property could save the blessed Cipriano."

I started, but quickly controlled myself.

"What do you mean?" I asked, as carelessly as I could. "Are you talking of some saint?"

"Well, if he were not canonized he deserves to be," replied the landlord; "I speak of the holy Benedictine father who brought hither the Count Romani in a dying condition. Ah I little he knew how soon the good G.o.d would call him himself!"

I felt a sickening sensation at my heart.

"Is he dead?" I exclaimed.

"Dead as the martyrs!" answered Pietro. "He caught the plague, I suppose, from the count, for he was bending over him to the last. Ay, and he sprinkled holy water over the corpse, and laid his own crucifix upon it in the coffin. Then up he went to the Villa Romani, taking with him the count's trinkets, his watch, ring, and cigar-case--and nothing would satisfy him but that he should deliver them himself to the young contessa, telling her how her husband died."

My poor Nina!--I thought. "Was she much grieved?" I inquired, with a vague curiosity.

"How do I know?" said the landlord, shrugging his bulky shoulders. "The reverend father said nothing, save that she swooned away. But what of that? Women swoon at everything--from a mouse to a corpse. As I said, the good Cipriano attended the count's burial--and he had scarce returned from it when he was seized with the illness. And this morning he died at the monastery--may his soul rest in peace! I heard the news only an hour ago. Ah! he was a holy man! He has promised me a warm corner in Paradise, and I know he will keep his word as truly as St.

Peter himself."

I pushed away the rest of my meal untasted. The food choked me. I could have shed tears for the n.o.ble, patient life thus self-sacrificed. One hero the less in this world of unheroic, uninspired persons! I sat silent, lost in sorrowful thought. The landlord looked at me curiously.

"The coffee does not please you?" he said at last. "You have no appet.i.te?" I forced a smile.

"Nay--your words would take the edge off the keenest appet.i.te ever born of the breath of the sea. Truly Naples affords but sorry entertainment to a stranger; is there naught to hear but stories of the dying and the dead?"

Pietro put on an air that was almost apologetic.

"Well, truly!" he answered, resignedly--"very little else. But what would you, amico? It is the plague and the will of G.o.d."

As he said the last words my gaze was caught and riveted by the figure of a man strolling leisurely past the door of the cafe. It was Guido Ferrari--my friend! I would have rushed out to speak to him--but something in his look and manner checked the impulse as it rose in me.

He was walking very slowly, smoking a cigar as he went; there was a smile on his face, and in his coat he wore a freshly-gathered rose La Gloire de France, similar to those that grew in such profusion on the upper terrace of my villa. I stared at him as he pa.s.sed--my feelings underwent a kind of shock. He looked perfectly happy and tranquil, happier indeed than ever I remembered to have seen him, and yet--and yet, according to HIS knowledge, I, his best friend, had died only yesterday! With this sorrow fresh upon him, he could smile like a man going to a festa, and wear a coral-pink rose, which surely was no sign of mourning! For one moment I felt hurt, the next, I laughed at my own sensitiveness. After all, what of the smile, what of the rose! A man could not always be answerable for the expression of his countenance, and as for the flower, he might have gathered it en pa.s.sent, without thinking, or what was still more likely, the child Stella might have given it to him, in which case he would have worn it to please her. He displayed no badge of mourning? True!--but then consider--I had only died yesterday! There had been no time to procure all those outward appurtenances of woe which social customs rendered necessary, but which were no infallible sign of the heart's sincerity. Satisfied with my own self-reasoning I made no attempt to follow Guido in his walk--I let him go on his way unconscious of my existence. I would wait, I thought, till the evening--then everything would be explained.

I turned to the landlord. "How much to pay?" I asked.

"What you will, amico" he replied--"I am never hard on the fisher folk--but times are bad, or you would be welcome to a breakfast for nothing. Many and many a day have I done as much for men of your craft, and the blessed Cipriano who is gone used to say that St. Peter would remember me for it. It is true the Madonna gives a special blessing if one looks after the fishers, because all the holy apostles were of the trade; and I would be loth to lose her protection--yet-"

I laughed and tossed him a franc. He pocketed it at once and his eyes twinkled.