PAGE 5
Asabri
by
The three brigands stepped into the Appian Way from behind a mass of fallen masonry. They had found the means to shave cleanly, and perhaps to wash. They were adorned with what were evidently their very best clothes. The youngest, whose ambition was the girl he loved, even wore a necktie.
Asabri brought the motor to a swift, oily, and polished halt.
“Well met,” he said, “since all is well. If you,” he smiled into the face of the sullen brigand, “will be so good as to sit beside me!… The others shall sit in behind…. We shall go first,” he continued, when all were comfortably seated, “to have a look at that little piece of land on which grow figs, olives, and grapes. We shall buy it, and break our fast in the shade of the oldest fig tree. It is going to be a hot day.”
“It is below Rome, and far,” said the sullen brigand; “but since the barge upon which my friend has set his heart belongs to a near neighbor, we shall be killing two birds with one stone. But with all deference, excellency, have you really retrieved your fortunes?”
“And yours,” said Asabri. “Indeed, I am to-day as rich as ever I was, with the exception”–his eyes twinkled behind his goggles–“of about a hundred and fifty thousand lire.”
The sullen brigand whistled; and although the roads were rough, they proceeded, thanks to the shock-absorbers on Asabri’s car, in complete comfort, at a great pace.
In the village nearest to the property upon which the sullen brigand had cast his eye, they picked up a notary through whom to effect the purchase.
The little farm was rather stony, but sweet to the eye as a bouquet of flowers, with the deep greens of the figs and grapes and the silvery greens of the olives. Furthermore, there were roses in the door-yard, and the young and childless widow to whom the homestead belonged stood among the roses. She was brown and scarlet, and her eyes were black and merry.
Yes, yes, she agreed, she would sell! There was a mortgage on the place. She intended to pay that off and have a little over. True, the place paid. But, Good Lord, she lived all alone, and she didn’t enjoy that!
They invited the pretty widow to luncheon, and she helped them spread the cloth under a fig tree that had thrown shade for five hundred years. Asabri passed the champagne, and they all became very merry together. Indeed, the sullen brigand became so merry and happy that he no longer addressed Asabri respectfully as “excellency,” but gratefully and affectionately as “my father.”
This one became more and more delighted with the term, until finally he said:
“It is true, that in a sense I am this young man’s father, since I believe that if I were to advise him to do a certain thing he would do it.”
“That is God’s truth,” cried the sullen brigand; “if he advised me to advance single-handed against the hosts of hell, I should do so.”
“My son,” said Asabri, “our fair guest affirms that upon this beautiful little farm she has had everything that she could wish except companionship. Are you not afraid that you, in your turn, will here suffer from loneliness?” He turned to the pretty widow. “I wish,” said he, “to address myself to you in behalf of this young man.”
The others became very silent. The notary lifted his glass to his lips. The widow blushed. Said she:
“I like his looks well enough; but I know nothing about him.”
“I can tell you this,” said Asabri, “that he has been a man of exemplary honesty since–yesterday, and that under the seat of my automobile he has, in a leather bag, a fortune of fifty thousand lire.”
The three brigands gasped.
“He is determined, in any case,” the banker continued, “to purchase your little farm; but it seems to me that it would be a beautiful end to a story that has not been without a certain aroma of romance if you, my fair guest, were, so to speak, to throw yourself into the bargain. Think it over. The mortgage lifted, a handsome husband, and plenty of money in the bank…. Think it over. And in any case–the pleasure of a glass of wine with you!”