never did wedding barouche so gorgeous roll over the asphalt of mulberry as the one in which signor di bello and his bride rode to church; and never had the people beheld such an illustrious couple in nuptial parade. with an overdone mimicry of the princesses and duchesses she had watched so often driving in the chiaja of naples, juno sat erect and grand of mien, deigning scarcely a glance to right or left. now and then she did smile with a feigned grace, or bow with mock condescension in response to some wild salvo of “bravoes” shot as they passed by a caffè from the throats of signor di bello’s boon comrades. nor did these salutes meet with a less dignified[pg 239] return from the bridegroom. his old friends wondered, and avowed that the bubbling merchant was not himself to-day. and, in truth, for the first time in his life the signore had put on an air of loftiness and gravity. no one could say that the radiant creature in purple by his side surpassed him in grandeur. perhaps it was the example of juno, perhaps the witchery of his looking-glass. an hour before, arrayed in evening clothes spick and span from the tailor, who had worked overtime, signor di bello had viewed his mirrored self with much approval and delight. it was his first dress suit, and the round brow, the bushy hair, and the king humbert mustache showed above the broad field of shirt front in bolder relief and a light that was new to their owner. his facial likeness to the monarch of italy had ever been a spring of secret pride, but not until to-day, when he beheld himself in royal raiment, had the similitude played him any mental pranks. fondly he gazed in the mirror’s verge, and [pg 240]said to himself: “ah! that is the head of the king, and the head is on my shoulders.” and it was because the king had got into that head so badly that signor di bello rode to his wedding with the stateliness of a royal chief.
at length the plumed steeds turned into the sicilian quarter, and the bridal pair could see the gothic façade of san patrizio a block away. at this stage the march lost its triumphal flavour. they had entered the enemy’s country. here the dusky women at windows breathed no auguries of good fortune, and the white-shirted men on the sidewalk, idling in their sunday best, had no “bravo” for the distinguished bridegroom. for about half the distance the genovese and his neapolitan were permitted to pass in respect if not in love. doubtless this silent show of bad blood would have continued unbroken till the church portals were reached, but for the act of a certain earringed fellow who stood on a low balcony. in the long ago his eyes had [pg 241]seen humbert, and now he was struck so hard with the resemblance borne him by the man in the carriage that, in a voice ringing sharp to a hundred ears, he shouted:
“long live the king!” (“evviva il re!”)
all within earshot laughed as they saw the aptness of the gibe, and, while the barouche moved along slowly, a dozen tongues by turns re-echoed the cry with derisive resonance:
“long live the king!”
it would have been difficult to tell from the faces of juno and signor di bello whether they were pleased or offended.
among the few who cried out was a young man in black velveteen coat and flowing cravat. his pallid face was serious, had a puzzled look, and his “long live the king!” did not smack of mockery. he fell in beside the carriage, and kept up with it, though with one hand he lugged a large valise. twice he tripped and almost fell in his effort to follow without taking his eyes [pg 242]off juno. when the carriage stopped he stood at the curbstone as though enchained, fascinated by the sight of her, and stared half in bewilderment as signor di bello with a grand, knightly grace, helped her to alight. then he ran ahead, set down his valise, and stood at the church door. as they passed in, his gaze still fixed upon her and his hands clasped ecstatically, he exclaimed in a voice that all could hear;
“o beautiful signora! how happy i am! the marble does not lie!”
“soul of an ostrich!” gasped signor di bello, clutching the little silver-tipped horn against the evil eye which he had added to his watch chain that morning. “what the kangaroo does he mean?”
juno gave no answer. in the vestibule a mincing sacristan, low of bow and smiling, came forward to meet the rich merchant and his bride and conduct them at once to the altar. already a frail girl in pink and a hulking fellow clad in new jeans and fumbling his hat were at the rail receiving[pg 243] a wedlock yoke. in the rear pews sat other wedding parties, awaiting their turns at the altar—solemn-faced brides and listless grooms, bridesmaids in gayest feather, best men with red neckties, aged fathers and mothers half asleep. a stream of opal light from the clerestory windows fell upon these waiting groups, touching their coarse faces with a ghastly hue, but adding a mellow beauty to their cheap finery. it was an hour of silent prayer, yet none the less a season when marrying and giving in marriage is in full tide at san patrizio. save where the mating couples and their trains were assembled, every pew contained a row of bowed heads that were covered with shawls or gaudy kerchiefs—the heads of gaunt-cheeked age whose lips never ceased moving in prayer, and who looked up at passers-by with the eyes of a dying dog, side by side with the gleaming teeth and flashing eyes of swarthy youth. the hush was broken when the priest asked the names of the pairing men and women. then his [pg 244]voice was audible only in the foremost seats. wedding parties kept arriving. always a sacristan met them at the holy-water font, and, with a monitory finger on his lips, led them to a rear pew. these were the commoners of mulberry—the toilers with hod or sweat-shop needle—who in funereal soberness had come to the church on foot. they could wait. but for signor di bello and juno there was no delay. as they passed up the aisle juno’s purple satin brushed the rough-shod feet of women at prayer, prostrate on the floor. a pew had been reserved for them on the gospel side. when the priest caught sight of signor di bello, he bustled into the sacristy to put on a different robe. at the same moment the man of the black velveteen moved up the aisle with quick, smooth step, and dropped into a pew on the epistle side, well forward, from which he could turn and watch juno. again he fastened upon her the stare that never flinched. for the first time since she had entered upon her bigamous adventure she felt a [pg 245]twinge of misgiving. who was this fellow with his big eyes always upon her? some friend of bertino aware that she was already a wife? the priest beckoned them before him, and as they approached the velveteen coat slipped into a seat nearer the communion rail.
“what is your name?” asked the priest of the bridegroom.
“giorgio di bello.”
“and yours?” of the bride.
“juno castagna.”
“a lie! she is the presidentessa!” it was the staring man. his voice, loud and high pitched, resounded through the church and brought up every row of bowed heads. as he spoke the words he arose and left the pew, and stood close to the three at the balustrade. “she can not be that,” he went on, heedless of the priest’s upraised hands. “she must be the presidentessa.”
signor di bello seemed ready to fall upon the intruder, and the sacerdotal hand restrained him. two sacristans hurried up [pg 246]the aisle, but without danger to praying women, for these were all on their feet now.
“the presidentessa, i tell you—i that know so well.” he pointed his finger at the bride. juno had winced at first, but now she understood it all, and knew she was safe for the present. “did i not make every line of that face out of the marble? don’t believe it, father. she is the presidentessa. juno! oh, no, no! child of the mother, not that! where is the peacock, if she is juno?”
by this time the assistants, each holding an arm, had led armando to the sacristy, and closing the door, smothered the last part of his frantic outburst. the priest went on with the ceremony, but every bowed head in the pews had been lifted and every eye and ear was now alert.
“giorgio di bello, wilt thou take this woman to be thy wife——”
“stop! in the name of the good god, stop!”
the words were shouted from the rear [pg 247]of the church by signor tomato, who hurried up the aisle, while the three at the altar stood silent, astounded.
“that woman is already a wife,” the banker continued, puffing as though he had had a hard run for it. “i swear it by the madonna of mount carmel. her husband is alive. only yesterday i saw him, and you know what the proverb says: once a——”
“silence!” commanded the priest. “this is no place for oaths or—proverbs.”
“bah!” signor di bello broke out. “the dog is crazy.”
the priest eyed juno a moment. “well, what do you say, signorina?”
“don’t believe him, padre,” she answered. then, turning to the banker: “stupid one, you do not know what you are saying. it is some other woman.”
the banker chuckled grimly and nodded his head in mock concurrence. “ah, yes; you are right. i do not know you. it was some other woman. oh that it had been! [pg 248]but alas! it was you—you, the last lady, and i, poor wretch, thought you the first lady—the presidentessa!”
“the presidentessa again?” said the priest, bewildered.
“yes, padre. so it was she tricked us—me and her husband. some other woman! anima mia! does a man forget the face that has robbed him? in marble i first saw it, and never has it left me, day or night. ah, the trouble, grand trouble it has brought me! seven hundred liras! all gone.—but you, signor di bello, are rich. you will pay it back. you will be grateful; for have i not saved you from this woman? she has deceived me, she has deceived her husband; but see, i do not let her deceive you.”
“go away and mind your own affairs,” said signor di bello, pushing the banker aside. at the same moment the assistants appeared and would have thrown the second intruder into the sacristy with the first, but for the priest. he made a sign for them to [pg 249]desist; then he ordered them to drive back and out of the church the women, girls, and men who were crowding before the altar. when at last the doors were closed and the hubbub without had become a faint murmur, the priest said:
“you must wait for a week, signor di bello. then, if i find that all is well, you may come back and i will marry you.”
“bravo!” cried the banker.
“silence! come to me tuesday with the man you say is this woman’s husband.”
“si, padre,” said the banker. “i shall be here.”
juno took the happening more seriously than signor di bello did. “what matters it if two crazy donkeys do wag their tongues?” he said, on the way down the aisle to the door. “you are mine, and nothing else matters. in a week we shall laugh at these meddlers—the priest as well.” but juno knew that the disclosures which the signore did not believe meant the collapse of her [pg 250]reckless scheme. plainly the banker and bertino had met, and the history of the bust as well as the secret of their marriage had come out. and they would meet again before bertino should receive her letter warning him to fly from the imaginary danger. in a few hours her husband would know that his uncle not only lived, but had sought to appropriate his wife. what firebrands of vendetta! now it was she who should have to fly, else feel the temper of bertino’s knife. what a blockhead she had been to put off so long the writing of that letter! had she sent it two or three days ago, he would be far from new york now, perhaps out of america.
when the doors opened for them to pass into the street they found the church steps thronged with the populace of mulberry. word of the doings at the altar had gone abroad, and the appearance of the brideless groom and the groomless bride was the signal for a shower of jeers and derisive greetings. but the signore mustered a bold [pg 251]front and proved himself worthy of his royal resemblance.
“we shall go to casa di bello,” he said as they entered the carriage, “and have the wedding feast just as though that noodle of a priest had not refused to marry you. and why not? it will only be observing the event a week in advance; for next sunday the priest will see that these meddlers have made a fool of him, and he will be glad to marry you to signor di bello. now for the diversions of the feast of the marriage.”
he threw off the lid of a large pasteboard box that the driver handed down and took out a handful of candy beans of many colors, the size of limas. with them he pelted the people in front of the church, who put up their hands for protection, and quickly returned wishes of good luck, for this hail of sweets always comes after the church rites. the people thought they had been married, after all, which was just the effect that signor di bello was willing his joke should have. as they passed the churchyard[pg 252] the signore shouted to a man perched on the wall to let the nuptial birds go. next moment there arose three pigeons with white streamers attached to their legs to insure their recapture; it is an ill omen for one to gain its freedom. this was a neapolitan rite in reverence of the madonna and the padre eterno which juno had asked for.
they could have turned the corner and driven one block to casa di bello, whose dormer windows were visible over the monuments of the graveyard; but the signore, determined that the observance should be in every respect like that for a genuine wedding, ordered the coachman to make a tour of mulberry. up and down they drove, he showering the hard and heavy sweets and receiving noisy felicitations all along the way. he had dropped his regal bearing and was all a-smile now. his old comrades rejoiced to see that he was himself again.
“see what marriage does for one,” remarked cavalliere bruno, the wit of caffè [pg 253]good appetite. “our comrade goes forth to the altar like a king, and comes back like a gentleman.”
but the broad smiles vanished from the signore’s face when they drew near to casa di bello. before the door stood a cab on whose top lay a trunk of ancient pattern that he knew too well. on the sidewalk, gesturing madly, were the leading families of the torinesi, the milanesi, and the genovesi, with a scant sprinkling of southern tribes. they surrounded the barouche and shook their fists at the occupants. a fine trick, indeed! a joke, perhaps, but not the joke of a signore. ask people to a wedding feast, and then have the door slammed in their faces!
“oh, misery is mine!” groaned signor di bello, but for a reason more terrible than the tumult of the barred-out guests. that trunk on the cab had told him the withering truth. “she is here,” he whimpered, his courage all gone, and cold despair leaving his arms limp at his side.
[pg 254]
“what is amiss?” asked juno, and the others stopped their hullabaloo.
“you must go to your lodging,” he said.—“coachman, drive to the restaurant of santa lucia.—my friends, the wedding feast is postponed until next sunday.”
the carriage wheeled about and dashed away, leaving the first families aching with mystification.
