Literature. Foreign Affairs. A Child of the Ghetto. BENNO RÜTTENAUER CHRONICLES. John Stuart Mill, 1869-1873. Literary Recollections.-III Le Tigre Lettres Inédites, publiées par E. La Maison de Mantegna à Mantoue J. H. ROSNY et les "Triomphes de César " CHARLES YRIARTE. Les Conférences d'Aix-la-Chapelle, 738 d'après la Correspondance R. DE CISTERNES L'Amérique Universitaire BARON PIERRE DE COu CHRONICLES. BERGER. EMILE FAGUET Literature. Foreign Affairs. 795 An International Review. No. XIII-JANUARY, 1897. MARIA PERRONE,* MURDERESS AND SAINT. It was the year after we of Italy had final quittance of the Austrians, and their accursed yellow and black. I had just been made a general-younger by twenty years than they make generals nowadays; but even then, though I say it myself, with a deal more experience in fighting. I was no diplomat in the early sixties, nor had I any thoughts of sitting in council as Minister of War. But, nevertheless, I was a young general, still unmarried, and clad in the cavalry light-blue and scarlet, with great silver spurs, which is the most becoming of all uniforms-and, in consequence of these things, I was well enough pleased with myself. There was in that year, little fighting, save of the dangerous, ungracious sort which consists in scouring the countryside after brigands of one's own race, and bringing them to the market-place of a convenient town to be tried and shot by squads. Pah! the work, though doubtless necessary enough, left an ill taste in my mouth after Mentana and Solferino, and, what was best of all, clearing Sicily with Garibaldi's red-shirts. After the Government had quieted Apulia, and generally polished up "the heel of the boot," for my sins they made me Inspector of Prisons-and a dreary job it was. It went like this: A bowing obsequious Syndic, a speech of welcome, a state repast-fowl drowned in rice and sheep's fat, but mere boot * Copyright 1897 by Mr. S. R. Crockett in the United States of America. NO. XIII. (VOL. V.) 1 laces when you got at the bird--bad olives, worse wine, and more speeches. Then came a fly-blown town hall, a malodorous prison, from which Sir Syndic tried all his arts to detain the Most Illustrious General Inspector as long as possible. There were the usual prisoners-petty larceners mostly, the great ones being engaged in filling Syndics' chairs a stray brigand or two, lambs thrown to the wolves to save their more clever comrades. But all of them, brigand, brawler, drunkard, gaoler, syndic, had each his own complaint to make, to which at first I used to listen patiently. They were innocent-all innocent. The Holy Virgin knew it, the blessed Saints too, and would one day make it plain. And then, ah then, the false witnesses against the guiltless would have conviction brought home to them-with a knife presumably. All, all was the same-dull repetition, hateful to one who loved the camp and the fierce light which gleams along the fighting line, when each man is going in to strike till he dies for his fatherland. But I forget; you happy islanders, for whom I write, have never been trodden down for centuries, never seen the tyrant's flag flaunt hatefully from your strongest fortresses and set up on festa days in your historic squares. And now, after the deliverance, I, who had fought Whitecoat and Croat without being shamed, was sent with the escort of a subaltern to inspect prisons. I heard afterwards that some one high in authority considered me a young cock whose comb would not be the worse for cutting. Anyway, it was cursedly dull work. Nothing new, nothing interesting, not so much as a pretty girl crossed my path within arm's length, as I worked my way southward along the seaboard of Adria. Syndics, speeches, garbage on greasy plates, innocents in prison--so the dreary procession passed by, till one day I came to Atrani. No, that is not the city's ancient and distinguished name, but it will serve. Then in the first ward of the prison of Atrani I saw a face and I heard a voice which, though a hundred years old, I shall not forget. The warder opened a door as he opened all the others, and with a sharp word called to attention woman who stood up straight, looking deep into my eyes. The light fell upon her face through the high-barred window. Her hands were clasped in front of her. Her tall, lithe figure showed rounded and graceful even through the sack-like prison habit. Darkly passionate, stormily moist, blue-black like a thunder-cloud striding the Gulf of Taranto up from the Mediterranean, so seemed to me the eyes of the woman who stood before me. "Maria Perrone, wife of Leo Perrone, brigand-for murder in the second degree, life sentence !" announced the warder, saluting with a face like a mask. “Whom did she murder?" I demanded of him quickly. "One Giovanni Lupo, a soldier of the country militia of her own province." I looked keenly at the woman, whose dark eyes had never swerved a moment from mine since the opening of the cell door revealed her to me. "Are you innocent of the crime?" I asked her, expecting the usual denial. "I killed the man!" she replied, impassively, standing the while like an angel carven in the niche of a duomo. I turned to the gaoler. "Were there any extenuating circumstances?" I asked of him; "the woman does not look like a murderess." "It is said that the soldier insulted her; that her husband entered and attempted to interfere, whereupon the soldier, being armed, had the best of it, and when he had overcome the man, the wife, this Maria Perrone, stabbed him to the heart." "That is partly a lie," said the woman, calmly, without any manifestation of heat; "no man who lives could overcome Leo Perrone, my husband!" The warder shrugged his shoulders. "Thus she answers ever," he said; "but, indeed, as I have heard, there was some word that it was Leo Perrone himself who—” As I watched I saw the veil of indifference drop instantaneously from the face of the woman. Her eyes blazed yellow fire. She clutched the palms of her hands, driving her long finger-nails into them. Every moment she seemed to be about to spring upon the warder. "Gently, gently, Maria Perrone," I said, putting forward my hand, while my armed escort came closer behind us to seize her instantly, if it should be necessary. "I will hear all, and see that neither you nor your husband suffer any wrong." The woman calmed herself with an obvious effort, and dropped back into her previous stony impassivity. "No man can accuse my husband of shedding blood," she repeated. "Have I, Maria Perrone, not confessed? Have I not been tried? Have I not been condemned? Am I not now enduring my punishment-aye, and shall endure it till the day I die?" She ended with a wave of her hand, like one that cheers a well-beloved flag when the victorious troops are marching in. The woman interested me vastly. She also spoke like one who had fought and triumphed. The warder went on. "Her husband goes free. She speaks truth. He is indeed suspected of being a Free Companion; but that is small crime among these barbarous hills, till a man is caught. I saw him in the market-place to-day--with a contadina, a country maiden-" "What? Say that again!" shrieked the woman, instantly springing forward. Her eyes grew deadly and defiant all at once. The man went on without taking any notice of her outbreak. "With a maiden of ten or eleven years-very beautiful; in truth, a Madonna child." "Ah, my sweetest Margherita !" cried the woman, laughing a little, but with the tears running down her cheeks; "why did I fear? It was my own little lass; but, ah, misericordia, they will not come and see me the prisoner, the murderess." She dashed her bare hands up to her cheeks, and with sallow, prison-blanched fingers she hastily brushed away the running tears. "But it is better so-a felon mother-ah, God, one forsaken of the saints. She will think me that, and she will not even remember me in her white prayers." I motioned the warder to shut the door. I could not abide |