The Net: A Novel | Page 7

Francesca should bare her bones and become a shadow with the cares of the household? Is it not sufficient that she performs the labor of twenty in caring for the padrone? No! Is it not the devil's task to prepare the many outlandish delicacies he learned to eat in his travels? Yes! Ha! What of that! She must also perform the duties of an ass and bear wood for the fires! And what, think you, those two young giants are doing all the day? Sleeping, Si'or! Up all night, asleep all day! A fine business. And Francesca with a broken back!"
"I'll carry your wood," he offered, at which the mountainous old woman stared at him as if she did not in the least comprehend his words. Although her burden was enough to tax a man's strength, she balanced it easily upon her head and made no move to go.
"And the others! May they all be blinded--Attilio, Gaspare, Roberto! The hangman will get them, surely. Briganti, indeed!" She snorted like a horse. "May Belisario Cardi roast them over these very fagots." Slowly she moved her head from side to side while the bundle swayed precariously. "It is a bad business, Si'or. The padrone is mad to resist. You may tell him he is quite mad. Mark me, Ricardo knows that no good will come of it, but he is like a bull when he is angry. He lowers his head and sees blood. Veramente, it is a bad business and we shall all lose our ears." She moved off majestically, her eyes rolling in her fat cheeks, her lips moving; leaving the American to speculate as to what her evil prediction had to do with Ippolito and the firewood.
He was still smiling at her anger when Ippolito himself, astride a horse, came clattering into the courtyard and dismounted stiffly, giving him a good morning with a wide yawn.
"Corpo di Baccho!" exclaimed the rider. "I shall sleep for a century." He stretched luxuriously and, unslinging a gun from his shoulder, leaned it against the wall. Blake was surprised to find it a late model of an American repeating rifle. "Francesca!" he called loudly. "Madonna mia, I am famished!"
"Francesca was here a moment ago," Norvin volunteered. "In a frightful temper, too."
"Just so! It was the wood, I presume." He scowled. "One cannot be in ten places unless he is in ten pieces. I am glad to be here, and not here and there."
"Well, she wants you roasted by some fellow named Cardi--"
"Eh? What?" Ippolito started, jerking the horse's head by the bridle rein, through which he had thrust his arm. "What is this?"
"Belisario Cardi, I believe she said. I don't know him."
The Sicilian muttered an oath and disappeared into the stable; he was still scowling when he emerged.
Prompted by a feeling that he was close to something mysterious, Blake tried to sound the fellow.
"You are abroad early," he suggested.
But Ippolito seemed in no mood for conversation, and merely replied:
"Si, Signore, quite early."
He was a lean, swarthy youth, square-jawed and well put up. Although his clothes were poor, he wore them with a certain grace and moved like a man who is sure of himself.
"Did you see any robbers?"
"Robbers?" Ippolito's look was one of quick suspicion. "Who has ever seen a robber?"
"Come, come! I heard the Count and Ricardo talking. You have been away, among the orange-groves, all night. Am I right?"
"You are right."
"Tell me, is it common thieves or outlaws whom you watch? I have heard about your brigands."
"Ippolito!" came the harsh voice of Ricardo, who at that moment appeared around the corner of the stable. "In the kitchen you will find food."
Ippolito bowed to the American and departed, his rifle beneath his arm.
Blake turned his attention to the overseer, for his mind, once filled with an idea, was not easily satisfied. But Ricardo would give him no information. He raised his bushy, gray eyebrows at the American's question.
"Brigands? Ippolito is a great liar."
Seeing the angry sparkle in the old fellow's eyes, Norvin hastened to say:
"He told me nothing, I assure you."
"Thieves, yes! We have ladri here, as elsewhere. Sometimes it is well to take precautions."
"But Francesca was quite excited, and I heard you and Martel mention La Mafia last night," Blake persisted. "I see you all go armed. I am naturally curious. I thought you might be in trouble with the society."
"Children's tales!" said Ricardo, gruffly. "There is no society of La Mafia."
"Oh, see here! We have it even in my own country. The New Orleans papers have been full of stories about the Mala Vita, the Mafia, or whatever you choose to call it. There is a big Italian population there, you know, and they are causing our police a great deal of worry. I live in Louisiana, so I ought