Part 4

“No!” shouted the captain from a window. The fire became more deadly, more furious on both sides. Other soldiers fell. There were more than one window without defenders. The fatal moment was imminent. The captain’s voice died away in his throat as he exclaimed:

“They do not come! They do not come!”

And he ran furiously from side to side, brandishing his sabre convulsively, ready to die. Then a sergeant, rushing down from the garret, shouted with stentorian voice:

“They come!”

“Ah, they come!” joyfully shouted the captain.

On hearing that cry all--the well, the wounded, sergeants and officers--crowded to the windows and again the fierceness of the defense was redoubled. In a short while there was noticed among the enemy a species of vacillation and a beginning of disorder. Suddenly the captain gathered a few soldiers together on the lower floor to resist with fixed bayonets the impetuous attack on the outside. Then he went upstairs. Scarcely had he mounted when he heard the sound of hurried footsteps, accompanied by a formidable “Hurrah!” and the pointed hats of the Italian carbineers appeared through the smoke, a squadron at double-quick, a brilliant flash of swords whirled through the air above their heads, their shoulders, their backs; then out charged the little detachment, with fixed bayonets, led by the captain. The enemy wavered, rallied, and at last began to retreat. The field was evacuated, the house was saved, and shortly after two battalions of Italian infantry and two cannon occupied the height.

The captain and the surviving soldiers were incorporated with their regiment, fought again, and the captain was slightly wounded in the hand by a spent ball during the last bayonet charge. The victory on that day was won by the Italians.

But the following day the battle continued. The Italians were conquered, in spite of their heroic resistance, by superior numbers, and on the morning of the 26th they were in full retreat toward the Mincio.

The captain, though wounded, marched at the head of his company, weary and silent, arriving at sunset at Goito on the Mincio. He immediately sought his lieutenant, who, with his arm broken, had been picked up by the ambulance, and who must have arrived before he did. They pointed out to him a church in which the field hospital had been installed. He went there, the church was filled with the wounded lying in two rows of cots, and mattresses laid on the floor. Two physicians and several practitioners were busily coming and going, and nothing was heard but groans and stifled cries.

Scarcely had the captain entered when he stopped and glanced around in search of his subordinate.

At that moment he heard, near by, his name called faintly:

“Captain!”

He turned. It was the little drummer. He was stretched upon a wooden cot, covered up to the neck with a coarse old red and white check window curtain, his arms lying outside, pale and thin, but with his eyes burning like two coals of fire.

“What! is it thou?” asked the captain in a surprised, abrupt manner. “Bravo! thou hast fulfilled thy duty.”

“I did all that was possible,” replied the drummer.

“Art thou wounded?” asked the captain, glancing around at the beds, in search of his lieutenant.

“What could you expect?” replied the boy, who was eager to speak of the honor of being wounded for the first time, otherwise he would not have dared to open his lips before his captain.

“I ran as long as I could with my head down, but, though I crouched, the Austrians saw me immediately. I would have arrived twenty minutes earlier had they not wounded me. Fortunately I met a captain of the general’s staff, to whom I gave the note. But it was with great effort I got along after that. I was dying with thirst. I was afraid I could not arrive in time. I cried with rage, thinking that every minute’s delay sent one of ours to the other world. But at last I did all I could. I am content. But look, captain, and excuse me, you are bleeding!”

In fact, from the palm of the badly bandaged hand the blood was flowing.

“Do you wish me to tighten the bandage, captain? Let me have it for a moment.”

The captain gave him his left hand, and stretched out his right hand to help tie the knot; but scarcely had the little fellow risen from the pillow when he turned pale, and had to lie back again.

“Enough! enough!” said the captain, looking at him, and withdrawing his bandaged hand, which the drummer wished to retain. “Take care of yourself instead of thinking of others, for slight wounds, if neglected, may have grave consequences.”

The little drummer shook his head.

“But thou,” said the captain, looking attentively at him, “thou must have lost much blood to be so weak.”

“Lost much blood?” repeated the boy, smiling. “Something more than blood. Look!” and he threw down the coverlet The captain recoiled in horror.

The boy had but one leg; the left leg had been amputated above the knee. The stump was wrapped in bloody cloths.

Just then a small, fat army physician in shirt-sleeves passed.

“Ah, captain,” said he rapidly, pointing out the little drummer; “there is an unfortunate case. That leg could have been easily saved had he not forced it so much, caused inflammation; it was necessary to amputate it. But he is brave, I assure you. He shed not a tear, nor uttered a plaint. I was proud, while operating, to think he was an Italian boy, my word of honor. Faith, he comes of good stock.”

And he went on his way.

The captain wrinkled his bushy white eyebrows, and looked fixedly at the little drummer while covering him up with the coverlet. Then, slowly, almost unconsciously, yet still looking at him, his hand went to his képi, which he took off.

“Captain!” exclaimed the astonished boy. “What, captain, for me?”

Then that rough soldier, who had never spoken a gentle word to an inferior, replied in a soft and exceedingly affectionate voice:

“I am but a captain, thou art a hero.”

Then he threw his arms about the little drummer and kissed him with all his heart.

LULU’S TRIUMPH BY MATILDA SERAO

[Illustration]

_Matilda Serao was born in 1856 at Patras, Greece. She is Italy’s foremost woman writer, adopting a career very unusual with her countrywomen. Up to her thirtieth year she contributed sketches to periodicals._

_In her early work she distinctly shows the influence of French realists like Zola. Few writers know Balzac as she does. Later she developed a liking for the psychological problem novel, and later still, in “Christ’s Country,” she seems to have joined that neomystic school represented in Italy by Fogazzaro, especially in his “Saint.” Her style is slovenly, and, though not strong-minded, more like that of a man. But her stories are told with great spirit. The heroine of one of her very latest stories is an American, but she does not at all sympathise with the American reader’s “absurd wish for happy endings.” “Lulu’s Triumph” combines the singular merits of a “happy ending” according to the American idea, with a sad ending according to the author’s._

[Illustration]

LULU’S TRIUMPH BY MATILDA SERAO

Translated by Elise Lathrop. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

I

Sofia did not raise her eyes from her work, and her slim fingers fairly flew over the delicate lace. But Lulu wandered about the room, moving the ornaments on the shelves or opening a drawer to gaze absently into it. It was clear that she wished either to do or to say something, but was abashed by her elder sister’s grave manner. She hummed a few bars of a song, recited a verse, but Sofia appeared not to hear. Then Lulu, who was not blessed with too much patience, decided to put the question boldly, and, planting herself in front of her sister, she asked:

“Sofia, do you know what Mademoiselle Jeannette told me?”

“Assuredly nothing very interesting.”

“Now that is an answer dry and cold enough to give one a chill even in summer! Where do you get your ice, oh, my glacial sister?”

“Lulu, you are a veritable baby!”

“Now, that is just where you mistake, idol of my heart. I am not a baby, for I am going to be married.”

“What?”

“And that is just what Jeannette told me.”

“What nonsense! I do not understand a word of what you are saying.”

“Very good, I will now tell you all, as they say in plays. It will be a narrative--but will Your Seriousness lend me your whole attention?”

“Yes, yes, but be quick.”

“The day of the races at the Field of Mars is the time and place. You were not there; you preferred your everlasting books.”

“If you wander so from the subject I will not listen to you any longer.”

“You must listen to me; this secret is suffocating me, killing me.”

“Are you beginning again?”

“I will stop, I will stop. Well, then, at the races we sat in the front row on the grand stand. Paolo Lovato came and presented a handsome young man to us, Roberto Montefranco. After the usual greetings and vague compliments, they found places directly behind us; we exchanged a few words until the signal for the start of the horses was heard. You remember that I favored Gorgon, without foreseeing how ungrateful she was to be to me--one must resign one’s self to ingratitude even with beasts. A cloud of dust quite hid the horses. ‘Gorgon wins!’ I cried. ‘No,’ said Montefranco, smilingly, ‘Lord Lavello.’ I was vexed at his contradiction; but he continued smiling and contradicting me; we ended by making a wager. Finally, after half an hour of palpitation and anxiety, I learned that Gorgon had played me false, that I had lost and Montefranco had won; only fancy! I tell him that I will pay at once; he bows and replies that there is plenty of time. I meet him on the Chiaja, throw him an interrogative glance, and he contents himself with bowing and smiling in a mysterious manner. It is the same at the theatre, everywhere. I live in the greatest curiosity. Roberto is handsome, twenty-six years old, and this morning Montefranco _père_, my future father-in-law, had a two hours’ conference with mama.”

“Oh!”

“Signs of attention on the part of my audience? Well, I knew about his visit from Jeannette. So the marriage is arranged. One momentous detail remains to be settled; when shall I go to the mayor’s office, and shall I wear a gray or a tan colored gown? Shall I wear a hat with streamers or without?”

“How you run on!”

“Run? Why, of course; there are no obstacles. Roberto and I will love each other madly, our parents are content--”

“And you would marry a man that way?”

“What does ‘that way’ mean? It is such an elastic word.”

“Without knowing him, without loving him?”

“But I do know him, I have seen him at the races and when out walking. I adore him! Day before yesterday I refused to take luncheon because I had not seen him, and instead drank three cups of coffee, trying to commit suicide.”

“And he?”

“He wishes to marry me, therefore he loves me!” replied Lulu, triumphantly. But seeing Sofia’s face pale, she repented of this imprudent remark, and bending over her sister, asked affectionately:

“Have I said anything wrong?”

“No, dear, no; you are right. When one loves one marries. It is difficult to awaken love,” and she sighed softly.

“Awaken love, awaken love!” repeated Lulu, in an irritated manner. “It is very easy, Sofia; but when one has a serious brow, like you, sad eyes, and unsmiling lips; when one goes and sits in a corner thinking, while every one else is dancing and jesting; when one reads instead of laughing, and instead of living, dreams; and when one cultivates an old and lackadaisical manner, though still young, then it is difficult to be loved.”

Sofia lowered her head and made no reply. Her lips quivered slightly, as though she were suppressing a sob.

“Have I hurt you again?” asked Lulu. “It is because I should like to see you beloved, surrounded with affection, to see you a bride--. How nice it would be if we were to be married on the same day!”

“That is foolish; I shall be an old maid.”

“No, miss, I forbid it, you wicked creature. If Roberto is a nice fellow he absolutely must have a bachelor brother; I wish it!”

At this moment their mother entered the room in walking dress.

“Are you going out, mama?” asked Lulu.

“Yes, dear, I am going to the notary’s.”

“Oh! to the notary’s. That is a serious business.”

“You will soon learn, Miss Tease. Sofia, come with me for a moment.”

“And has Sofia, too, some dark dealings with the notary?”

“Lulu, when will you learn to be serious?”

“Very soon, mama; you will see.”

She opened the door for her mother and sister to pass out, made two low courtesies, murmuring: “Madame, Mademoiselle!” When they had left the room she called to them from the threshold, with a burst of laughter:

“Talk, talk away! I will pretend that I know nothing about it.”

II

As a general thing Roberto Montefranco was not a great thinker; he had not time to be. What with luncheons, horseback rides, calls, and dinners, his days flew by, and his evenings he passed pleasantly with his fiancée, Lulu. Then there were tiresome matters to be attended to, some appointments with his lawyer, contracts to be signed, some old debts to be settled, to say nothing of preparations for his house and for the wedding trip. He had barely time even for his half-hour’s reading and fifteen minutes’ loitering at the door of his café. So he was never seen absorbed in profound reflection, nor was he ever known to be engaged in solving some social problem, for Roberto had nothing of the tragic or heroic in his character. Rather, he was of a serene temperament, and many envied him for it.

But this afternoon he lay stretched out in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a book in his hand, with the fixed determination of reading. The book was interesting; yet, new and strange as it may seem, the reader had become very absent-minded. In fact, he was more than that; he was nervous and restless. He never turned a page, because after reading a couple of lines the letters seemed to leave their printed places, to dance about, become confused, disappear. Roberto had involuntarily taken a journey into the unknown regions of thought.

“Papa is satisfied, my aunts all have sent me their blessings, my girl cousins are angry, my friends at the café congratulate me ironically, my true friends clasp my hand; therefore I am doing well to marry. I can not deny that Lulu is very pretty; when she fixes her eyes so full of mischief upon me, when she laughs and shows her little white teeth, I want to take her charming little head between my hands and kiss her over and over again. And she has an excellent disposition, a character of gold, always merry, good-natured, ready for a jest, witty, full of pranks, never melancholy. We shall agree excellently. I can not endure serious looks, especially in people I love. It always seems to me that such looks conceal a secret grief, a grief with which I am unacquainted, and which I can not alleviate, or of which I am perhaps the involuntary cause. Sofia, my future sister-in-law, has the faculty of irritating me with her cold, impassive face. Whenever she appears my intelligence seems to shrivel up, the smile leaves my lips; and even should the most beautiful spring sun be shining, for me it turns into a gray November day. I no longer have the courage to joke even with Lulu; that Sofia drives all joy away. She may have noticed the unpleasant impression she makes upon me, for she speaks to me without looking at me, does not shake hands, answers in the fewest possible words. She has noticed my dislike for her. Perhaps she is offended by it.

“Lulu always laughs. She is very young. She never says a serious word to me, and even if she wishes to it always seems as though she were ridiculing. She loves me, but not madly. To be frank, mine is not a mad passion either; better so. For my part, I have two theories firmly established in my mind: an engaged couple should be of like dispositions, and, secondly, they should never begin with a violent passion. This is our case, and Lulu and I will be very happy. We shall take a trip through Italy, but without haste, taking short journeys, enjoying every comfort, stopping where we please, seeing even the most insignificant things. We will thus occupy three months; no, that will not be enough, let us say four months; I shall be glad to get Lulu away for a certain time from the doleful society of Sofia. But, I ask, is it natural that that girl should be so serious at her age? She must be twenty-three. She is not plain. In fact, she has beautiful eyes, and the carriage of a queen. If she were not so severe she would please. I wager that she will be an old maid; perhaps that is her secret torment, perhaps a love affair, some unfortunate love affair--I am curious to know the cause of her seriousness--I shall ask Lulu when we are alone--

“Lulu is fond of bonbons, she told me so that second evening I went to her house. How she nibbles them! How they disappear between her little red lips, and after a moment what a false air of compunction she assumes--because there are no more. She is dear, dear, dear! She confided to me in a low tone that when it thunders she is frightened, and goes and hides her head among the pillows; that she has always dreamed of having a gown of black velvet, with a very long train, and with white lace at the neck and sleeves. She assures me that she shall be jealous, jealous as a Spaniard, and that she shall buy a little dagger with a handle inlaid with gold, with which to take vengeance. She is adorable when she repeats these absurdities to me, with her childish air of conviction. Even Sofia is forced to smile sometimes, and how it brightens her face! That Sofia, that Sofia! who will ever learn to know her!”

The book fell from his knees to the floor, the young man started at the sound, looked about in surprise, as though unable to recognize himself. It was actually he, Roberto Montefranco, caught in _flagrante delicto_, meditating.

III

Twilight was descending like a rain of gray ashes. Sofia, standing at the window that opened out on to the balcony, was gazing down into the crowded, noisy street. It was the hour in which the Via Toledo becomes dangerous because of the great number of large and small carriages that pass up and down in a continuous stream. Sofia seemed looking for some one; suddenly a vivid flush passed over her face, she bent her head slightly, then suddenly paled, and turned back into the room. A minute later Lulu entered like a whirlwind, slamming doors, overturning chairs that she might hurry the more.

“What are you doing here, Donna Sofia Santangelo? Are you reading?”

“Yes, I was reading.”

“And you did not even care to stand on the balcony?”

“And if I had?”

“Pshaw! I had to stay upstairs, for Albina, the dressmaker, had brought my gown for this evening, and all the while I was trembling with impatience, for I wanted to be here. Yesterday evening I told Roberto to wear his gray overcoat, to have Selim harnessed to the cart, and to pass at half-past six. Who knows if he obeyed me!”

“Roberto passed here in the cart, and wearing his gray overcoat.”

“Good gracious! How do you know all this? I thought you were reading?”

“I was in the window.”

“And you recognized Roberto, although you never look at him? Wonderful! Did he bow to you?”

“Yes.”

“How did he take off his hat?”

“Why--as he always does.”

“And you bowed to him?”

“Do you think me lacking in manners?”

“At least you smiled at him?”

“No--that is, I do not know.”

“You are not nice, Sofia. And yesterday evening Roberto spoke to me about you.”

“Telling you that I was not nice?”

“No, but asking me the cause of your reserved character, so different from mine. Then I recited a fine panegyric to him; I told him that you were better, more amiable, more loving than I, that your only fault was in concealing all these good qualities. Only fancy, he listened to me with the greatest interest; finally, he asked me about your aversion to him--”

“Aversion!”

“That is what he said, and, do you know, he is not so entirely wrong; you treat him with so little cordiality. But even on this point I defended you; I told a fib, for I said that you liked him very much indeed, and that you esteemed him greatly--”

“Lulu!”

“I know that it is not true, but Roberto is so fond of you, is it not ungrateful of you to treat him like a stranger?”

Sofia threw her arms around her sister’s neck and kissed her; Lulu held her for an instant, and murmured in a caressing voice:

“Why do you not love Roberto a little?”

The other made a sudden abrupt movement and drew away, without saying a word.

“Oh, well!” said Lulu, shrugging her shoulders and changing the subject. “Are you really not coming with us this evening?”

“No, I have a headache; you can go with mama.”

“As usual. I shall go just the same, because I shall have a very good time.”

“Is--Roberto going with you?”

“No; he is going to his club, where there is a directors’ meeting. I am going to profit by it and go to the Dellinos’ ball, and shall dance until to-morrow morning.”

“And when he knows of it?”

“So much the better. He will learn from now on to leave me free; I do not wish him to acquire bad habits.”

“You love him very little, it seems to me.”

“Very much, in my own way. But I must hurry away to dress. It will take me at least two hours.”

Sofia stood listening to the noise of the departing carriage which bore away her mother and sister. She was left alone, quite alone, as she had always wished to be left. As a child, when some wrong or injustice had been done her, she had cried all alone, when she was in bed, in the dark, and the habit had remained with her. Now, alone in the great drawing-room, beneath the brightly lighted chandelier, her hands inert, her head resting against the back of her chair, her face wore an expression of great sorrow, the vivid reflection of a serious inward conflict. Certainly in these moments of complete solitude the consciousness of a great grief came over her; the sentiment of the reality, long repulsed, became clear, distinct, cruel.

The sound of footsteps startled her. It was Roberto. Seeing her alone, he paused, hesitating; but supposing the rest of the family to be in another room, he advanced. Sofia had risen at once, agitated.

“Good evening, Sofia.”

“Good evening--”

They were both embarrassed.

“Heavens, how unpleasant this Sofia is!” thought Roberto.