“If I call on you, will you be glad?” he asked. “Can we get to know one another better?”
“My parents would not allow it. You’re not Jewish.”
He turned to leave.
She reached out and touched his elbow. “But they’ll admit you if you come with Daniel.”
He looked back, eyes hopeful.
“Come with Daniel,” she whispered, her cheeks hot.
34
Mirelle led her aunt toward Dolce’s salon, both women carefully negotiating the cobbles. Light splashed into the narrow ghetto streets from every window in the Morpurgo villa. Linkboys, holding torches high to illuminate the dark streets, ushered sedan chairs, while curious children pointed at the arriving guests. Merriment resounded from the open doorway.
Prudenzia looked approvingly at the mansion as they entered. “Clearly a wealthy family, niece,” she said. “You’ve chosen your bosom friend well.”
Mirelle bit her lip. Did her aunt think she was friends with Dolce just because the Morpurgos were rich?
“Signora Prudenzia Fermi and Signorina Mirelle d’Ancona.” The footman’s voice announcing them carried over the chatter of the crowd.
Mirelle recognized only a few faces. At her father’s behest, Dolce had invited not only the town’s Gentile and Jewish freethinkers but also a more aristocratic crowd than usual. They must have come, Mirelle thought, to pander to David and Ezekiel, given their new roles on the municipal council. And, of course, to meet the great general, who—Mirelle looked about her—did not seem to be in attendance. In fact, no one from the French forces was there.
“D’Ancona?” came the question from a few steps away. A gentleman raised a quizzing glass and leveled it at Mirelle. “Surely not a member of your family, Marchesa Arianna?”
The bejeweled woman standing next to him languidly turned her head to look. Mirelle had worn her best dress, a low-waisted ivory gown embroidered with flowers around the hemline and sleeves. As fashionable as it was, it looked shabby compared to the marchesa’s exquisite raiment, a wide brocade black silk gown.
“A member of my family, Barone Confidati? Surely you jest. She’s a Jewess, yes?”
The baron shook his head. “Ever since the French removed their insignia, it’s impossible to tell. Well, nearly impossible.” He laughed, tapping his nose.
The marchesa rapped his knuckles with her fan. She pretended to whisper, but her deep voice carried. “I can always count on you to be droll—or naughty. What a dreadful affair this is!”
Her cheeks burning, Mirelle turned away and searched the room for Dolce. But her aunt touched her shoulder, whispering, “Is that the Marchesa Donna Arianna Alonzo di Ancona?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met the woman before. Nor do I care to.”
Prudenzia sniffed. “Nonsense, child. In Rome, I rub elbows with nobility all the time. You must learn to introduce yourself to them.”
To Mirelle’s horror, her aunt stepped forward and curtsied. Holding the pose, she said, “Marchesa, I bring you greetings from the Duchessa di Torlonia. I saw Teresa last week in Rome.”
The older woman raised her chin. “What a treat for you,” she finally said, slowly, as if every word were coated in honeyed poison.
Prudenzia rose gracefully, ignoring the snub. “I attended one of her receptions, raising funds for the wounded. Her husband, the Duca di Torlonia, honored us by speaking of the preparations for the local hospitals.”
“A charity event?” Barone Confidati glanced at the marchesa. “I understand now.”
Prudenzia seemed unperturbed, but Mirelle frowned. “What exactly do you understand, sir?” she asked.
The baron looked down his long nose at her, but she refused to quail. She put up her own chin, deliberately imitating the marchesa.
“Generally, the duchesa is the most discerning of women,” the baron explained. “But she does extend hospitality more widely when she issues invitations for charity.”
“Come, Aunt,” Mirelle said abruptly, drawing her away. “Our hostess is waving at us.”
Prudenzia lingered long enough to curtsy again, collecting the barest of nods from both marchioness and baron, before catching up with her niece, who was striding swiftly through the room.
“Slow down,” Prudenzia hissed in her ear. “You look like you’re running a race. And why were you so rude to the baron?”
“Rude to the baron? Don’t you understand? He was mocking you!”
Prudenzia shook her head, smiling. Mirelle stopped short and stared at her.
“You need to ignore the small affronts, child,” Prudenzia said. “They learn to tolerate you soon enough. When you are elevated in Jewish society . . .”
Mirelle flushed. Was her aunt hinting that Dolce’s father wanted to marry her? Mirelle was sorry now she hadn’t pressed her mother for the truth.
“My dearest Mirelle! I am so happy to welcome you and your aunt to my home!” David Morpurgo stood before them. His stocky body was bundled into a well-cut coat, his fingers thick with rings, his hair pomaded until it shone. “Signora Fermi, I feel we are already acquainted.” He bowed over Prudenzia’s extended fingertips.
“My dear, dear Signor Morpurgo!” Prudenzia practically burbled with delight. “Such a pleasure to be included in such a distinguished event, among such company. Why, Mirelle and I were just chatting with the Marchesa Donna Alonzo di Ancona!”
The next thing you know, Mirelle thought, she’ll tell everyone she and the marchesa are the best of friends.
“How delightful!” Morpurgo said. He threw Mirelle a quick wink and she raised her fan to cover a giggle. “Let me extend your circle even further. May I introduce you to my sister-in-law, Speranza Morpurgo? I feel certain you two have much in common.”
Frankly, Mirelle could think of no more unlikely pair, but she watched in relief as Dolce’s father led her aunt away.
She found Dolce in the center of a small group that was avidly discussing General Bonaparte’s ransacking of Italy.
“It is said,” Bertrando Bonaria was saying, “that he is in negotiations with the pope and the terms are no less than thirty-three million francs to leave the pope in office!”
“What is that in scudi?” someone asked. When the currency was translated, he whistled.
“I don’t mind the money,” Dolce said. Mirelle admired her poise. “The pope has plenty of that. But I do mind the art treasures he’s sending back to France, filling their coffers while emptying our own.”
“And the church artifacts,” said a man Dolce introduced as Conte Annibale Ranuzzi, cousin to Cardinal Ranuzzi. Mirelle was shocked to see the cardinal himself standing to one side. She knew of his importance in Ancona as the foremost clergyman at the Cathedral San Ciriaco. She assumed David Morpurgo had invited him because of his standing in the city, and that the clergyman felt it politically expedient to attend. There could be no love lost between them—not if the rumors of the cardinal’s role in the ghetto riots were true.
“At least he didn’t take the Madonna,” said another, more modestly arrayed churchman. “You said he grew white as he stared at her blessed countenance, did you not, Cardinal?”
“Indeed, Father Candelabri,” the cardinal said, joining the group. “He was certainly moved by her. Would that she had made him return the rest of our treasures!”
“You’ll never see those back,” the count said, shaking his head.
Just then, there was a commotion by the main door. Everyone turned, and all conversation abruptly ceased as Bonaparte strolled in, accompanied by his aides. Signor Morpurgo moved smoothly over to him just as the general said to someone, “In my youth I had illusions. I got rid of them fast.”
Bonaparte’s aides exploded in laughter. Mirelle watched as Dolce’s father bowed, then led the general over to their group. Dolce deftly handled the introductions. Bonaparte’s eyes lit up as he saw Mirelle in their midst.
“My dear Signorina d’Ancona! Tell me what everyone has been
talking about.” He moved next to her and put a hand on her arm.
Mirelle thought quickly. She certainly couldn’t tell him that they were complaining of his looting of Italy. But she was curious what he might have seen in the Mary painting. “We were wondering, Citizen General, if the painting of Mary smiled upon you. I hope she did!”
Bonaparte suddenly grew silent, his jaw tight. Mirelle realized she’d made a terrible mistake. She blushed fiery red.
After a long pause, the general softened. “No, not a smile, my dear young lady,” he said, forcing a laugh. “But you don’t believe in Mother Mary anyway, do you?”
Mirelle, still flustered, shook her head.
Cardinal Ranuzzi stepped in to interject, “Do you believe, General? We are told that much of France is godless now. Is that true?”
Bonaparte glared for a moment at the cardinal, then grew thoughtful. “I’m used to salons in France,” he said slowly, “where guests freely consider philosophy and politics. I assume the same latitude of expression prevails here. That being so, I will confide in you, Cardinal.” The general bowed stiffly. “These are unofficial thoughts, you understand. There was a time when the ideals of the Enlightenment forbade religion. Perhaps that was a mistake.” He paused to take a wineglass from a servant. “No society can survive without a code of morals, and there can be no proper code of morals without religion.” He took a sip of wine and glanced toward Dolce approvingly. “Excellent vintage, Signorina Morpurgo. Yes, I agree that people need religion.”
The Catholic clergy stared at him in shocked approval. Bonaparte smiled benignly upon them before concluding, “I still believe, however, that religion must be controlled by the government. Which is why our priests take oaths of loyalty to the Republic, rather than professing sole allegiance to the pope. And that means the current state of affairs here in Italy and elsewhere in Europe is far from satisfactory.”
The cardinal’s smiling face turned dark. “That is nothing less than blasphemy, General.”
“I know you think so, Cardinal. How could you not?” He paused, his hand tightening involuntarily around Mirelle’s arm. “In a recent letter, I bade General Rusca to explain to the magistrates, the heads of monasteries, and the parish priests that I offer ministers of religion—all religions—whose principles are exemplars of their faith nothing but the utmost respect.”
He loosened his grasp, allowing Mirelle to slip out of his hold. She moved to one side, hoping he would not take offense. He didn’t seem to notice. “But where clergy become instruments of civil war and discord,” he said, his voice deep with threat, “I will destroy their monasteries and personally punish every parish priest. Is that clear, Cardinal?”
Ranuzzi bowed. “Of course, General. We preach nothing but heavenly peace.”
“Then practice what you preach,” Bonaparte said, scowling. “And there will be peace on earth as well.”
“But, General,” said a civilian who had arrived with the French contingent. “You can’t mean you are in favor of returning Catholicism—or any other religion—to France, can you?”
Bonaparte laughed. “I’d forgotten you were here, Jullien. My friends, this man was Robespierre’s righthand man for several years and is no friend of any of the established religions—Christian, Jewish, or Moslem.”
“You haven’t answered me,” Jullien said, piercing gray eyes fixed on the general’s face.
A tense silence fell over the gathering. A couple of the general’s aides put their hands on their sword hilts. Lucien Bonaparte took a step toward Jullien, as if to shield his brother.
“I will tell you how I feel about religion,” Bonaparte said slowly. “Though I’m not certain I like your tone. Back when I was in school, aged eleven or twelve, I heard a Catholic sermon. The priest declared that Cato, Caesar, and other great figures of antiquity were damned. Can you imagine? The most virtuous men of antiquity would burn in perpetuity because they did not adhere to a religion that did not exist in their time!”
Dolce’s uncle Ezekiel let the general laughter subside before saying, “And yet, General, you are as a savior to my people—truly, as we named you, our Helek Tov.”
Bonaparte’s brother translated the term for the Gentiles in the audience. The general patted Ezekiel on the shoulder. “I cannot speak for the precepts of your faith,” he said. “For all I know, you too condemn the great Greek and Roman thinkers—but how could I do otherwise than feel for your condition?” He hesitated, as if uncertain he should continue. Then, swallowing, he said, “My family was expelled from our birthplace, the island of Corsica. We were like any other exiles—shivering, poor, not certain whom to trust or where we’d find our next meal.”
Bonaparte looked at his empty wineglass and Dolce motioned to one of the servants, who took it and handed him a full one. The general downed it and took another from the tray.
“Our flight was short-lived, and we found a home in mainland France,” he said. “Your people, on the other hand, Signor Morpurgo, have been exiles for generations. Having lived that life myself, however briefly, your people’s plight moves me.”
Another silence followed, which Ezekiel broke. “We are honored by your confidences.”
Bonaparte nodded. “Well! We have been solemn and philosophical long enough. I have an early-morning departure to prepare for. A pleasure, Signorina Morpurgo.”
“Mirelle and I will walk you out, General,” Dolce said.
Bonaparte extended an arm to each. As they walked through the salon, the general’s aides trailing behind them, Mirelle saw her aunt try to extricate herself from her conversation with Speranza so that she could be introduced. With some relief, Mirelle saw that Speranza had a firm grip on Prudenzia’s forearm and was not letting go.
Just as they neared the door, Dolce was called away by one of the guests. Excusing herself with a brief curtsy, she hurried off.
As soon as Mirelle was left alone with Bonaparte, he motioned to his aides to walk on and leaned toward her, whispering into her ear, “You asked what I saw in the portrait. I have not confessed the truth to anyone until now. You are an unbeliever, like me, yet you thought she might have smiled upon me.” His face darkened.
Mirelle’s breath suddenly constricted in her throat.
He shook his head as if to clear it. “If I confide in you, will you keep my secret? You realize that if you tell anyone, anyone at all, I’ll know.”
“I’ll keep your secret, General,” she murmured, shaken by the sudden menace clouding his expression. “I promise.”
He peered at her for a long moment. Then, seemingly satisfied, he spat, “She glared at me.”
“Glared?”
“It felt like my own mother had struck me. Like my entire body was plunged into icy water. A terrible shock.”
“I’m . . . ” Mirelle couldn’t think of what to say, but the general didn’t wait for her reply. He clicked his heels together and stalked off into the night, hands clasped behind his back.
When Mirelle didn’t return to the gathering right away, Dolce came looking for her. As they walked back to the salon together, Mirelle deliberately dismissed Bonaparte’s words from her mind and touched her friend’s arm.
“I’m amazed all this nobility decided to attend,” she whispered.
Dolce laughed. “They’ve no love for the French. Most are certain the Austrians will return, and everything go back to normal. But for now, they’re bowing to the new order.”
Mirelle related her conversation with the marchesa and baron. “Clearly they don’t like the new order much,” she concluded. “Oh, and my aunt is the biggest social climber you’ve ever met. She’ll want to befriend you instantly.”
Dolce nodded. “Papa told me. She won’t impose upon me.”
The girls stepped back into the salon and Signor Morpurgo, waiting by the door, took Mirelle’s arm. “Come with me,” he said. “I want to say something to you.”
Morpurgo led her to the front of the room, where he clapped his
hands. The room quieted.
“My dear friends—both old and new,” he said. “I am beside myself with happiness—happiness at the Jewish people’s liberation from ghetto shackles, the free air of enlightenment making its way through Italy in the train of the French, and by the new political appointments my brother and I have accepted.” A smattering of applause followed. Signor Morpurgo looked at one of the servants, who pushed open a side door with a gloved hand. Several footmen carrying trays with champagne glasses entered, exchanging full glasses for guests’ half-empty ones.
“I’d like you all to join me in a toast,” Signor Morpurgo said, raising his glass.
Everyone followed suit.
“To our beloved Ancona, a city looking forward to a spring of hope. Her future has never seemed so bright!”
“To Ancona!” chorused the crowd, drinking deeply. But not all. Mirelle, sipping from her glass, noticed that some of the nobility and clergy pointedly refrained from joining them.
“I have one more toast to make,” Signor Morpurgo said as the servants bustled around once more. “As you know, I have been a bachelor for many years, since my beloved wife Sarella died. I am not above feminine wiles”—at this, the room laughed—“but I never thought a woman could take my dear departed wife’s place. That is, until recently.” He raised his glass in Mirelle’s direction.
She stared at him, her heart beating so fast that it was difficult to hear past its pounding.
A sudden wave in her direction distracted her. Mirelle saw her cousin and his friend enter the room from the corner of one eye.
“My dear Mirelle,” Signor Morpurgo said, and her breath froze in her throat. “Of course, I mean you. Having already secured your parents’ permission, I would like to take this moment, surrounded by our friends and loved ones, to ask you to consider my proposal. No,” he said as she opened her lips, wildly trying to think of what to say, “don’t answer now. You must have time to consider. But I do want to propose a toast—to Mirelle d’Ancona, who someday soon, I hope, will be my wife!”
Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 20