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ALPHA GEEK: LEVI

ALPHA GEEK
BOOK NINETEEN

MILLY TAIDEN

CONTE NTS

About the Book

Alpha Geek: Levi

Prologue

1. Hannah

2. Levi

3. Hannah

4. Levi

5. Hannah

6. Levi

7. Hannah

8. Levi
9. Levi

10. Levi

11. Hannah

12. Levi

13. Hannah

14. Hannah

15. Hannah

16. Levi

17. Hannah

18. Levi

19. Hannah

20. Hannah

21. Levi

22. Hannah

23. Hannah

24. Levi

25. Hannah

26. Hannah

27. Hannah

About the Author

Also by Milly Taiden

ABOUT THE BOOK

This lone wolf needs to protect a geek… but does her heart
need that protection more?

Hannah Tyson doesn’t mind her reputation as a “lone wolf” in the

shifter protection agency. She finds

solitude more predictable than human interactions. The only thing

that can take her away from her

wooded sanctuary is a really great case, and Nick has just shown up
and offered her one. Levi is

different from what she expected and he’s making wonder

if love could really be for her.

Levi Sandoval has spent his life trying to create a legacy outside of
his father’s shadow. But he never

knew that creating tech to be used in drones would end up making

him a target for vigilantes. Now, he

needs a bodyguard who will keep him safe while he completes his
next project. Levi wasn’t

prepared for his bodyguard to be a gorgeous badass who

provides him ample distraction from his

work.

Hannah is used to being let down and abandoned, so she’s not sure
she should trust her fated mates

instinct, especially when her mate is a fragile human geek. But with
the help of the agency’s serum,
Levi turns into one big, bad alpha tiger, and he wakes up ready for
action. Not only does he want to

claim his mate, but he wants to take the bad guys head on.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and

incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to
be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living
or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely
coincidental.

Published By

Latin Goddess Press

Winter Springs, FL 32708

http://millytaiden.com

Alpha Geek: Levi

Copyright © 2022 by Milly Taiden

Cover: Willsin Rowe

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or

reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission,
except

in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and

reviews.

Property of Milly Taiden

October 2022

Created with Vellum

ALPHA GE E K: LE VI

AN ALPHA GEEK STORY

NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

MILLY TAIDEN

—For my lovely readers. Love can come at any time.

XOXO

PROLOGUE
LEVI

L evi Sandoval took his entire team out to celebrate. It wasn’t every
day that he attained a contract

with someone like George Lincoln, a tech billionaire whose goal was
for humans to eventually

make it to Mars. It was his company’s biggest achievement yet, but

his sleek tech start-up was

the darling of the industry thanks to Levi’s dedication and hard

work.

It had been some time since Levi let loose. Standing in front of the
mirror, he combed his hair

back before heading out to the local bar, which was the closest to
most of his employees’ homes. He

adjusted his black frames and looked closely at his emerald eyes.

He was handsome enough, and women always seemed to like the

money he was able to spend on

a whim. That was usually how he landed hook-ups, though he

wasn’t exactly in the market for it

anymore. He had the Einstein project to work on ... lame and

egotistic as the name was ... his

reputation was going to be on the line.

But for the time being, he would go out with his employees and
have a few good drinks and

laughs.
When he showed up at the bar, everyone was already there waiting
for him. He had hired four of

the smartest engineers he had ever met and promised them all that
the project was going to make their

careers. They ordered pitchers of beer while Levi ordered expensive

shots, which was his

preference, and it seemed to draw the attention of the waitresses,

who were overly giggly for his

taste.

He didn’t get to where he needed to be by playing games. The idea

of a relationship made his

mouth go sour. Women didn’t tend to understand his dedication to

his work, and they often became

jealous and needy. He figured they would tire of his antics at some
point and give up altogether.

It was better to stay focused on his work, which he knew the results
of well.

After drinking and chatting for almost two hours, Levi’s PR agent
Mary came bursting into the

establishment. Levi was properly soused, so he hadn’t completely

heard what she was saying to him

the first time she spoke.

“Are you listening, Levi?”

Mary was an older woman with icy blue eyes and blonde hair that
was always pulled back into a
ponytail. She acted as his voice of reason, as well as the heart
many people had believed he’d had

removed at birth.

The media once called him the Tin Man for his apathetic attitude
toward the drones that his

company created and sold to other organizations. He had a feeling

that what Mary was concerned

about would fall under that category.

“I hear you,” Levi said, slurring his words slightly. “Let’s get a booth
over there.”

Levi left the group, following after Mary. She was too used to
babysitting him in these situations,

and he honestly didn’t know where he’d be without her.

She helped him into his seat before taking her place in the booth
opposite him. Levi held onto his

beer, letting the glass crash loudly against the table.

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

Levi snorted. “We just landed Einstein,” Levi said, still chuckling.
“This is the highest-profile

client we’ve ever signed a contract with, Mary. So, yes, I’m a bit
tipsy.”

Mary grimaced and brought her phone out onto the table. “You
might not be so glad about that

high-profile client now,” she said.

Levi placed his hand over her phone before she had the chance to
turn it on. “Is this about the

guidance chip again?” he asked.

Mary didn’t have to say anything for him to know the answer. He
might be a bit drunk, but he

could read his PR agent like a book.

“Listen,” he said, leaning forward and clutching his beer. “Those

people complaining, they aren’t

our client base!”

Levi’s voice had elevated a bit over the twangy music from the
jukebox, and his team looked over

briefly as he went on.

“There is war happening all over the place,” he continued. “There is

no way we are going to be

able to control what the hell people use the chip for.”

Mary had the same look of disappointment on her face she always
had when the issue of the

guidance chip had come up. This time, with the media scrutiny that
came with landing a high-profile

client like George Lincoln, the kerfuffle was unlikely to fade away
like it usually did.

“This could go out with a bang, not a whisper,” Mary said.

Levi shook his head and took a long gulp of his beer. Mary reached
for her phone again, and Levi
once more put his hand over it.

“Stop touching my phone.”

“Listen to me, Mary ...”

“You get like this when you’re drunk, you know,” Mary said, pulling
her phone to her side. “You

aren’t listening to me. Let me talk for a second.”

Levi felt a pang of guilt, so he held out his hands and zipped his
mouth shut.

“There are videos …” Mary said, swallowing audibly. “Ones that are
far more graphic than what

we’ve seen before. A lot of the main media outlets already have
their paws on them.”

Levi pursed his lips and leaned on his hand. “Those videos aren’t
real,” he said. “They are made

to pull at people’s heartstrings, to get everyone into a pointless

uproar. Trying to upset people like

you.”

“People like me?”

“Yes, people who give a shit.”

The bar went suddenly quiet as Mary looked on, seemingly not
stunned by Levi’s acute

indifference.
“You truly don’t care that people could potentially be affected by
what you are creating?” Mary

asked.

Levi took another gulp of his beer, polishing off his glass and raising
his hand in the air for

another.

“That came out wrong,” he said. “I do give a shit. What I don’t feel,
though, is guilt, which I think

you think I should feel.”

Mary tapped her fingers against the table, then raised a hand to
summon a server of her own.

“I think I would feel guilt,” Mary said.

“Exactly,” Levi asserted. “If it wasn’t our company making that kind
of chip and having different

militaries exploit its features, it would be someone else. So why

worry about that, right?”

A redhead started their way, eyes locked on Levi as she swayed her
hips back and forth. He

internally groaned, not having time for this.

“What can I get you babes tonight?” She leaned into him, her body
nearly brushing him, and batted

her eyes. He was nearly buried in her cleavage, and he had to force
his head back to look up at her.
Mary’s icy blues shot over to Levi, a smirk growing on her lips. “I’ll
have whatever he’s having,”

she said.

He didn’t have time for Mary’s teasing or this girl’s advances. There
were more important matters

to deal with right now, and frankly, taking the waitress home wasn’t
his thing. Besides, he needed to

focus.

He looked up, offering her a soft smile that he hoped was polite as
he pointedly avoided looking

at her breasts. He didn’t want to come across as rude, but he hoped

she knew he wasn’t interested.

Though it seemed to be lost on her as she started to trail a hand

down his chest, leaning in so

close, he thought she might straddle him there. “And for you?”

“Same as last time,” Levi said, turning his gaze back to Mary.

The waitress bit her lip, nodded, and then left the table. Though he
didn’t turn to look at her, he

could see the way she kept twisting around to peek at him. Poor
girl. There was no chance with him

tonight.

“Wow,” Mary said.

Levi moved his eyes back to Mary, grinning widely.

“What?”

“You could have had that, you know,” Mary said nonchalantly. “I will
never understand certain

parts of you.”

Levi shrugged. “And that is fine with me. I can maintain some level
of mystery.”

The waitress brought their drinks over hastily, attempting to make

more conversation with Levi

but failing. When she departed from the table, he raised the glass in
the air. Mary reluctantly raised

hers too.

“Here’s to Einstein,” he said. “To do what we do best and pushing

the boundaries of science.”

Mary sighed, then clinked their glasses together. She held the glass
in front of her lips. “Science,

eh?” she said.

“Mary, come on!” Levi exclaimed. “Tonight is the night for

celebration! Have a few drinks with

everyone.”

Mary took a sip of her drink and then looked back at the bar. The
redheaded woman was still

there, cleaning glasses with a disappointed look on her face.

“I think I’m going to take a swing where you didn’t,” Mary said,
rising from the booth. “Let’s see
if she plays for both teams.”

“That’s my girl,” Levi said, slamming his fist onto the table.

While Mary went over to talk to the redheaded woman, Levi

returned to his team. They went back

to talking about Lincoln and his various exploits, along with the
positive results the attention was

going to get for their organization.

Levi was satisfied to see Mary and the redhead hitting it off. Mary
was a good woman who also

deserved a good lay. Maybe it would help her relax a little.

Overall, the night was fun and relaxing. They stayed out late,
getting more and more drunk as the

bar began to empty for closing time. He even looked around for
Mary, who he hoped had gone home

with the sexy redheaded woman.

Just before they were set to get a cab, Levi ran to the restroom for
a final release. He stood at the

urinal, pleasantly intoxicated, when he heard the footsteps of

someone behind him.

“Take a picture, man,” Levi said. “It’ll last longer!”

Levi began laughing as he emptied his bladder, but when he

finished, he felt something thin and

sharp pierce his neck. He had barely zipped up his pants when he
felt it shoot through from his left
side, penetrating the skin and into his main artery.

A few seconds later, everything became blurry. Not blurry in the

sense of his drunkenness, but

blurry like he had been drugged. He was keenly aware of what was
happening as he haphazardly tried

to spin around and fight the perpetrator but found himself crashing
onto the dirty linoleum floors.

Whoever had drugged him grabbed him by his shirt collar and
wrapped his head in a dark hood.

Levi instantly fell into darkness, screaming somewhere in the ether

of his mind.

HANNAH

H annah kept telling herself to run faster, run harder. She would
keep going until she reached the
edge of her land and the neighbor’s. Only then would she stop. She
knew she couldn’t outrun

her problems, but she was going to try. She forced herself forward,
feeling the dirt against her

paws and the wind rushing through her fur.

She took deep breaths in, looking at the river that ran across her
property. She looked down at

herself in wolf form in the reflecting water.

With light brown fur and deep brown eyes, she could be mistaken
for any ordinary wolf, and she

liked that. It gave her a way to ignore her life’s problems, although
today seemed to be exponentially

hard.

She knew better than to even glance at the calendar when she
woke up this morning. She knew

what day it was, and she didn’t need the visual aid to add to her
problems. In her heart, she knew it

was her mother’s birthday.

A normal person would be overjoyed about the occasion but not

Hannah. Instead, it haunted her,

forcing her to remember her past that she would rather leave
behind. So, she ran.

Her heart was pounding, and her legs burned. The woods were
silent, and she hated it. She went
out to run to get her mind off the situation, but it did the opposite.
She kept thinking back to leaving the

pack and losing everything.

She turned around and ran all the way back home. She tried hard to
put the day behind her. After

all, it’d been years since she’d had any contact with that life. She
changed hers, and it was for the

best. But she had a challenging time telling her heart to harden up.

Hannah got back to her house, taking in her little slice of heaven
away from people. Her cabin sat

in the middle of nowhere with about ten acres of land surrounding

her home that she used every day.

She liked the solitude, and honestly, she preferred it. But today, it
seemed like it just wanted to remind

her she wouldn’t ever have what she had before.

She froze when her eyes landed on a truck next to her car. She
knew that make and model and

internally groaned. Her boss, Nick, was paying her a visit. Hannah
stood there for a moment. If she

waited long enough, would he leave?

No, she knew he wouldn’t. He would just continue to loiter in her

house. She reminded herself to

move the spare key from the gnome by her door.

Hannah shifted back into her human form and grabbed the clothes
she had thrown into her car. She

stood behind the door, giving herself a little privacy. Not that it
mattered. Nick had seen her naked

several times.

She heard the front door open, and Nick walked out. He was a
muscular man for his age, with

gray hair blending in with his mahogany brown. He had to be

around forty years old and a pain in

Hannah’s ass. She noticed the mug in his hand.

“Are you kidding me?” she snapped. “That’s my favorite mug.”

Nick gave her a smirk, taking a sip out of it. “I know.”

She scowled. “You’re an ass.”

He chuckled. “Well, if you had been back earlier, you would be using
it.”

Hannah rolled her eyes, pulling her bra on. “Why did you break into
my house, Nick?”

“You have a spare key.”

She pulled her shirt on, throwing him a glare. “For guests. That I
invite in.”

He shrugged, taking another sip of coffee. Hannah pulled her

underwear on and then her jeans.

She walked around the car, slamming the door shut. “Which you are
not.”
“Don’t be so mean,” he said. “I made you coffee.”

Hannah grumbled, walking past him into her cabin. She could smell
the coffee and continued

straight to the kitchen. Another mug sat on the counter, filled with
java exactly as she liked it. At least

Nick could make good coffee. She had to give him that.

“I’ve noticed you’re spending a lot of time in your wolf form lately.”

She turned, opening her fridge. “And that’s a problem ... why?”

Nick ignored her question, seating himself across the counter.

“When’s the last time you went out

with friends? Like, human friends in human form.”

Hannah grabbed her eggs, kicking the door shut. “Why do you ask?
You sound more like a

counselor than you do my boss. When exactly did that start?

Because I didn’t sign up for someone to

rag on me.”

Nick glared at her, warning her not to push his buttons. Hannah
took a breath, setting her eggs

down. She knew Nick was only doing what bosses do ... besides the
breaking into her house part ...

but Nick wasn’t an ordinary boss, and she wasn’t an ordinary

employee.

She grabbed a pan and a bowl, giving him a look. “Besides, I

thought you’d be happy I’m staying
in shape.”

Nick crossed his arms. “Hannah, I’m your boss. It’s my job to make
sure that you’re physically

and mentally stable. I know you’re physically there. You’ve been

nothing but a hard worker since we

hired you. But your mental stability … It’s sometimes lacking.”

“Are you saying I’m not stable enough to do my job?” She hated
how he was terming it.

Nick shook his head, “No. Hannah. I’m asking if you’re still staying in
touch with your human side

as well as your wolf side.”

Hannah snorted and rolled her eyes. She cracked an egg, grabbing
a fork out of her drawer. “I’m

fine. You have nothing to worry about. I can do my job, and my

mental stability is great. I’ve never

been better.”

She could taste the lie and forced her attention on making her
breakfast. “I don’t need people

skills to be an agent, Nick. We’ve both agreed I do better without

them anyway.”

Nick stirred his mug, and they fell silent. Nick was really the only
person she was close to, but

even then, she kept him at a distance. She had to. After everything,
she wasn’t sure who to trust.
“You got a call at the headquarters today.”

She cooked her eggs, waiting for him to continue. She wasn’t
someone that jumped in joy at

hearing those words. She didn’t have anyone that needed to call
there.

“It was your mother.” He watched her for a reaction. Hannah didn’t
give him one. “She called

saying she’s been trying to reach you.”

Hannah stiffened. She frowned, glancing over her shoulder at Nick.

“You didn’t.” She scowled,

knowing where the conversation was leading.

“If you’re worried I gave her your phone number. I didn’t. I’m not
that stupid, Hannah. But she

told me she’s five years sober now. That’s a big accomplishment.

Something to be proud of.”

She rolled her eyes, sliding him a plate. “Maybe for you.”

“Hannah, she wants another chance.”

She shook her head. “I don’t care.”

“That’s not true,” he countered.

“No.” She nodded. “It is. I don’t. I’ve set up boundaries for a reason,
Nick. I can’t have people

like her in my life. She’s a toxic person.”

“Hannah, healthy boundaries are for people that aren’t willing to
change and continue to do toxic

things. But your mother is not one of those people. We are talking
about five years of her turning her

life around. That’s not a small task.” He sighed. “I thought you’d

want to talk to her.”

Hannah ignored his question. “Was that all that happened at

headquarters? Did you drive all that

way to tell me that, or do you have an assignment for me?”

Nick sighed, seeing that the conversion about her mother was over.
He grabbed a file next to him

and slid it toward her. “Yes, I actually do.”

Hannah perked up, eager. Nick pulled open the file and cleared his
throat. “The Einstein

corporation has a worker that has been abducted and needs us to

find him and bring him back safely.

They have no idea where he is, just that he disappeared at a bar

where they were celebrating their

new contract. It’s a tough one since they have no idea where he is
or who took him.”

Hannah smiled, loving a challenge. It kept her busy and her mind
unable to think about her

personal issues. How could she when a life was at stake?

Nick slid her a photo. “His name is Levi Sandoval.”

Hannah took in his picture. She had to admit he was kind of cute for
a shrimpy-looking guy. He

had dark red hair and bright green eyes. She was sure he had
freckles, but the picture wasn’t the best.

Nick took a bite of her eggs before he spat them back onto his
plate. She dropped her jaw as he

looked up at her. “You’re a shit cook, by the way. These taste like
shit.”

She rolled her eyes, flipping the file shut. “And you’re a shit guest,
so I think we’re even.”

Nick pushed himself up. “We can grab something to eat on the way.
I’ll wait for you outside in my

truck.”

Nick grabbed the file before turning and leaving the cabin. Hannah
looked at the plates she made,

knowing she needed to work on her cooking skills. But she didn’t
care to.

She threw everything away and tossed her plates into the sink
before she headed into her bedroom

and grabbed her always packed ready bag. It had everything she
needed for several nights away from

the house.

She grabbed her keys and headed outside. She locked the door,
taking the spare keys and shoving
them under her doormat, not that it wouldn’t be the second place
Nick looked since she moved them.

She would hide them in a better spot when she got back.

She was headed toward Nick’s truck when she glanced at her
mailbox. She noticed she had mail

and grabbed it. Standing at the box, she flipped through the
envelopes, freezing when her eyes caught

on a letter. It had her mother’s return address. Her stomach sank.

“Fuck.” She sighed. “Jesus Christ. Can today get any fucking worse?”

Nick honked the horn, and she flipped him off. She didn’t have time
for this today. She stuffed the

letter into her bag and turned to Nick’s truck. She would deal with it
later. Maybe.

She hopped into the cab, and he glanced at her. “What were you
scowling about?”

“Bills,” she lied, shutting her door. “And I have an asshole for a
boss.” She gave him a sarcastic

grin which made Nick roll his eyes.

Nick ignored her, pulling away from her cabin and her sanctuary.
2

LE VI

H is head pounded, and his body wouldn’t move the way he wanted
it to. It was almost like

something held him in place. Levi groaned, trying to pull his eyes
open. He was so tired, and

he didn’t know why.

Suddenly it hit him. He’d been at the party, and then something had
happened. He forced his eyes

open, taking in his surroundings. He was in a dark room with

cement walls all around him and

concrete floors. There were no windows, just a single door that had
a little see-through at the top of

it. It was the only light in the room.

He was a little bit grateful for that because his head was aching. He
winced as he tried to move
his arms and realized they were tied behind his back. He looked
down, seeing his legs were tied to a

chair, and his arms were pulled back, painfully bound together.

He shook his head, glancing once more around the room. He was
alone. Nothing but the door and

a burnt-out lightbulb. Maybe it was just turned off.

“Hello?” he called, trying to clear his scratchy throat. No one

responded.

He remembered being at the party and heading to the bathroom.

He also remembered someone

stabbing him with a needle, and everything went dark. He’d been
kidnapped. It was the only logical

explanation for his situation. He certainly didn’t pay for a kidnap-

themed strip tease.

“Hey!” he started to yell. “Let me out of here! Hey! Is anyone out

there?”

The door was thrown open, bouncing off the wall. A cluster of
people walked into the small

room. Levi suddenly felt sick.

“Who the hell are you people?” he asked, trying to free his arms. It
was no use. They were bound

tightly.

“No one of importance,” the guy in front said, making Levi confused.
They all looked like ordinary people. People you would meet on the
street, say hi to in passing.

He didn’t understand. In every movie he’d ever seen, people like

kidnappers were dangerous.

None of them looked like professional kidnappers, which gave him

an idea. They probably hadn’t

done this before, so they might have slipped up on something.

There was a chance he could get out of

this.

“How much?” Levi asked, watching as a few of them scowled. “I’ll

pay whatever your price is,

but I need to go. I have too much shit to deal with to be stuck here.
You guys probably understand

being busy. So, name your price, and I’ll pay it.”

The guy in front snorted. “You think this is about money?”

“We don’t need your money,” another snipped, and a few of them
broke off, walking around Levi.

He felt them getting closer around him, muttering under their

breath.

“Money can’t save you.”

“Filthy bastard.”

“I’m not surprised,” the guy in the front said. Where everyone else
was dressed in T-shirts and
jeans, he was the only one wearing a button-down. “Thinking you
can throw around your wealth like

it’s going to gain you any favor with us. It won’t. You can’t control
this situation with your dirty

money.”

Another laughed behind him. “Times come for the rich to get a taste
of their own medicine.

Thinking they walk on this earth and rule everything. You guys need
a reminder that you’re not above

everyone else.”

The guy in front bent down, getting nearer to Levi. He could see the
man was around forty years

old with wrinkles. Someone that worked hard, and instead of seeing
it in his mind, it showed on his

skin.

He narrowed his eyes on Levi. “It’s about time all the billionaires
learned a lesson. You’ve been

doing whatever you want for too long. But that’s all about to
change.”

Levi swallowed. These people didn’t look like kidnappers, but they
were certainly out for blood.

He took a steady breath in before he spoke up. “What do you want

with me? Why me?”

“Your technology. That piece of shit metal you sell at a high price
that promises people answers
and solutions that does nothing but cause more problems. You and
the others aren’t caring about what

you’re doing to people or the planet, and it’s about time that stops.
We’re going to use you and send a

message that we aren’t going to be pushed around anymore.”

Levi stiffened in his chair. They were out for revenge, and he knew
there was nothing he could say

to change this. They wanted him dead.

“Prepare to die,” someone said behind him, laughing once more.

Levi swallowed as the guy in front smirked. “You’ll be the first to

die. We will use you as an

example, and if the others don’t fall in line, then they will meet the
same fate as you did. But I’m sure

they will get the message.”

Levi suddenly felt his heart spike. He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t
ready to die. He had so much

he still wanted to do.

“You see those nozzles?” The guy pointed at the wall. “They are
going to release carbon

monoxide. We are at least giving you a painless death. I can’t

promise the others the same, so be

grateful.”

Levi suddenly felt the panic set in. “You can’t kill me. People will
look for me.”
“We are counting on that,” he said, leaning back. “And we count on
people learning about this.

The more, the better. The more that do, the quicker it will get to
the people we want to see it.”

“You’ll go to jail,” Levi snapped. “You’ll be labeled murders.”

“If we get caught,” he said, giving Levi a smirk. “But we are just
regular people. No one will

suspect us. Besides, people will rejoice over this. They won’t feel
bad about your death, so they

won’t really look hard for your killer.”

That was the point, to blend in. They did it well. Too well. Levi
frowned. “You’re killing an

innocent man.”

“You’re hardly innocent,” he said, and everyone turned to the door.

“You have blood on your

hands. You might not have held the gun to murder someone, but
you made it. That’s just as bad.”

Levi yelled, but no one listened. They slammed the door behind
them, and Levi started to panic.

He was done for. There was no way out, his hands were still bound,
and any second now, those

nozzles were going to release the gas that would kill him.

“Let me out!” he screamed, his voice echoing around him. “You

can’t do this! You’re committing
murder! If you kill me, that doesn’t make you saviors! You’re
murderers!”

Silence.

There was no way anyone would hear him if he kept screaming. No

one was going to save him.

He suddenly wondered if maybe being the Junior Hot Sauce King

would have been a perfectly

fine job. He knew that he wouldn’t be sitting in this chair if he had

been. He wouldn’t have gotten

himself kidnapped.

His father, the inventor and owner of a locally famous hot sauce
brand didn’t have enemies like

Levi clearly had. That idea made him frown, realizing his parents
were going to have a dead son.

Levi looked around for any answer to help him out of this situation.
But there was nothing to help

him, nothing to save him.

And that punched him hard in the stomach. He was going to die. He
was going to die alone, in an

empty, dark room. He wouldn’t know what love was or what having
a family was like. He wasn’t

going to be surrounded by people who loved him and wished him

well.

No, Levi would die with people waiting outside the door, wanting
him dead. People who would
cheer after he died. His heart sank further.

So Levi did something he had never done before. He prayed to God.

He wasn’t religious. To be

honest, it never crossed his mind. He was always told people

begged God to answer their problems

when they knew they were going to die. They were right.

Suddenly Levi wished he hadn’t spent his time the way he had. He
wished he had looked for a

woman, then at least someone would cry when he died. Someone

could have a broken heart and miss

him when he was gone.

He’d never wanted a wife or thought about having children. He

never thought it mattered. Work

mattered. But sitting here now, it sounded stupid.

“If I live, I swear I’ll actually try to start something with the next
woman I feel I have a chance

with. I won’t throw the idea aside.”

He laughed bitterly, knowing it was stupid. Praying wasn’t going to

answer his problems now. He

sat in a chair, seconds away from his death.

There was no one coming to save him, and it certainly wasn’t going
to be a woman. Someone

wasn’t going to come crashing through the door now. No one was
going to just land on his lap and
free him.

Suddenly, a loud crack sound filled the space, and a body came
tumbling down. A woman landed

right in Levi’s lap, and his eyes grew huge. He looked up. The air
duct door swung from the ceiling.

He stared at the woman, seeing nothing but black leather clothes

and black hair covering her face.

She pulled her face up, swishing a hand over her hair and pulling it
back. Levi’s eyes widened, taking

her in.

He was staring into the eyes of an angel. God had answered his
prayers.

She blinked, and he stared into her green eyes. He took in her
features and the look of shock

coloring her expression. She looked just as stunned as he was.

She leaned back slightly, placing a hand on his chest. “Levi?”

He blinked. “Yes?”

She smiled, her face brightening up. “I’m your savior.”

Yes, she fucking was. He stared at her, suddenly wanting to kiss her.
He wanted to pull her close

and thank her. She hadn’t done anything but drop into his lap, but
something told him she was going to

change everything.
3

HANNAH

H annah’s heart beat loudly in her ears. Her wolf wanted to howl,
and she felt sweat rolling

down her back. Shit, she was staring, but that wasn’t the worst
thing she was doing. She was

sitting on Levi’s lap, straddling the man.

“Sorry,” she said, pushing herself off Levi’s lap. She swallowed,
taking a step back, breaking eye

contact to look around the room.

“Who are you?” Levi asked, his voice forcing a shiver to run down
Hannah’s back. Fuck, he had a

sexy voice.

“Hannah,” she said, assessing the room. She turned back to him,
taking in the rope and wire that
wrapped around him. Whoever did this certainly overdid it. They
had no idea what they were doing.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I just did.” She didn’t want to go over how she figured this out.

She pulled out her knife, slicing at the rope. But Levi continued to
talk, breaking Hannah’s

concentration.

“Who sent you here?”

“Nick’s Shifter Protection Agency,” Hannah said, pulling the rope off
of him. She stared at the

two padlocks, rolling her eyes.

“Holy shit! That means you’re a shifter, right? Like you shift into
something. What do you shift

into?”

Hannah finally pulled herself up, scowling at him. She knew she was
supposed to remain calm

during an operation. It was one of the things Nick always told her to
do, but it was growing hard.

“I’m a wolf shifter. Now could you please shut up for five seconds?”

Levi didn’t, though, “I just ... God, wow, you’re a shifter.”

Hannah leaned forward, placing her face in front of his. “Yes, now
do you want to keep playing
twenty questions, possibly get us killed, or would you like me to
concentrate so I can get you out of

here? But, might I add, make that decision quickly because we don’t
have a lot of time on our hands

right now.”

Levi went quiet, and Hannah smiled, looking back at the padlocks.

She was normally great at getting someone out of a situation, and

she had a record of two minutes

and five seconds. But she was having a challenging time with this
one. Her mind was being internally

fucked over the fact that this dude, this man stuck in the chair, was
her mate.

When she first entered the perimeter of the warehouse, her wolf
wouldn’t calm down. It was like

she was walking on pins and needles. She hadn’t understood it. She
wasn’t nervous. She never got

nervous.

She was as calm as a person could get when a job needed to be

done. It was something she

always prided herself on.

Yet, despite her odd nerves, when she’d found the air duct, she
knew that was her way in. As she

crawled around, she had no idea how she knew which direction was
the right way, but somehow she
did. She knew exactly where to turn, and the further she traveled,
the more her body seemed to act up.

First, it was like a small irritation, but the longer it went, it grew.
Her heart raced faster, and

sweat clung to her clothes. She felt hot and bothered, and she knew
it wasn’t from the air.

When she got to the room and looked down at Levi, her heart
skipped a beat. She didn’t have long

before the damn lock broke, and she literally fucking fell into his
lap. It was not the way she wanted

to introduce herself.

The second her body landed on him, a spark ran up her spine all the
way to her brain. When she

looked up at him, she knew for sure. Levi was her mate.

She wanted to kill Nick. The fucker had a sixth sense for this stuff.
Almost all his agents were

laughing and calling him the unconscious matchmaker.

Hannah had never bothered to care. Sure, a few of his agents went
on missions, and their targets

ended up being their mates. She always thought, big whoop.

But staring at Levi now, she wanted to hurt Nick. It had to be true.
She was now in the situation

herself, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over it.
She tried to focus on picking the lock. Her mind was having a tough
time concentrating. She kept

looking at Levi, staring into his green eyes. She had been right
before. He did have freckles. They

weren’t prominent, but they were there.

Levi was a smaller guy, but he was still rather fit. He had a strong
jawline and fancy hair. Even in

a tough situation, the man was sexy.

She looked back at the lock, knowing her window of opportunity

was getting shorter. She couldn’t

get it, though, not when Levi was breathing against her throat. Her
wolf was growling in happiness.

Suddenly a hissing sound filled the room, and Levi spoke up, “Not
that I want to rush you or break

your concentration, but I’d like not to die today if that’s possible.
This room is a death trap. They are

using carbon monoxide.”

She frowned, already having known their poison of choice. She

heard some people chatting about

it near the air duct. Whoever those people were, they were out for
blood, but not to spill it. They

weren’t assassins or headhunters. No, they were ordinary people

trying to prove a point.

“Fuck.” She growled and pushed herself up. She wasn’t getting the
lock, and she couldn’t waste
any more time. She put her knife away, “This might hurt.”

“What?” Levi’s voice rose as she grabbed the chair and flipped it
backward. Levi tumbled with

it, but the chair broke. She stared at his legs, seeing they were still
locked together. He could at least

stand, and that’s what she wanted.

She gave him a hand, helping him up. The hissing grew louder, and
she turned toward the door.

“Breath in through your shirt. And stay behind me.” Her eyes went
to the shackles on his legs. “Can

you run in those?”

Levi nodded. “I’ll do what I have to.”

She nodded before she kicked the door down. The window
shattered, and the door blew off its

hinges. She wasted no time walking into the hallway.

Two guys turned to them, shocked, and Hannah pulled out her
pocketknife. She knew killing

wasn’t always the answer, but at the moment, she didn’t care. Levi
wasn’t just a human. Levi was her

mate, and no one was touching him.

The first man rushed her, and she moved swiftly. She pulled the
knife up, slashing it into his

jugular. She yanked it out, not bothering to watch him fall. She
moved to the second guy, who now
looked a little scared.

She could tell he knew he was no match for her. Hannah had years
of experience, and the man

hardly knew how to stand guard, let alone how to hurt someone.

He stepped toward her and pulled a gun out. Hannah stepped

forward, kicking the gun out of his

hands before she grabbed at his neck and twisted. There was a loud
crack, and the man fell. She

looked over her shoulder at Levi.

He stood holding his shirt over his face, looking at her with wide
eyes. She frowned, “Stay close

and take the gun. We might need it.”

She didn’t waste any time waiting for him to process what was
happening. Hannah couldn’t wait

for others to hear what was going on and come to help.

They headed down the hallway, careful to be quiet. Hannah wanted

to get them out without killing

a bunch of people. She liked to keep her mission as clean as she

could.

They stopped at the end and waited for a few people to pass. The
place was crowded with

people, but none of them seemed to know what they were doing.

“Are we close to being out?” Levi asked, sending a shiver down

Hannah’s spine.
She scowled at him. “No talking until you’re spoken to.”

“I’m not a child,” he barked back. “I would like to know what’s going
on just as much as you do.”

Hannah glared. “I am trying to save your life, and every time you
open your bloody mouth, I lose

my focus.” Hannah heard a man coming around the corner. She

grabbed him before he could yell and

twisted his neck. She looked back at Levi. “Not a fucking word,
understood?”

He frowned, clearly wanting to comment, but stayed quiet.

She took them down the hallway and stopped when she heard
voices. “I heard some commotion

down on the west side.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

Hannah felt Levi press against her arm and internally moaned. Fuck.

“Go check it out.”

She looked down the hallway when her eyes landed on a window.
She crawled over and pulled it

open. She looked down, seeing they had a ladder. This must be the
escape route in an emergency.

“All right.” She turned towards Levi. “You’re first.”

“Why me?”
“Because you’re the target,” she said, practically shoving him
outside the window. “And be

quiet.”

She watched him shimmy down before she crawled out herself. She
shut the window before she

climbed down the rungs. She surveyed the area, knowing her car
was parked just down the block. She

walked, grabbing Levi’s arm, wanting to keep him close.

“You never said how you found me.”

Hannah scowled. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

“You did, but I’m terrible at taking orders.”

Hannah rolled her eyes, walking them forward. “I have my ways.

Can we leave it at that?”

Hannah stopped them as a few guards walked the perimeter. She

frowned. “Damn it.”

Just then, she heard a yell, “The prisoner escaped! Find him!” The
two guards headed to the

building, giving them minutes to escape.

“Move,” she said, pushing Levi forward.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

They ran to her car at the end of the block. Levi jumped in, and
Hannah started it quickly. She felt
her heart racing, and her mind was on high alert. They had
moments before Levi’s captors would

realize they weren’t in the building anymore.

She handed him a knife. “Try to undo your shackles.”

She pulled the car into drive and flew forward.

LE VI

L evi had never been so struck by a woman in his entire life.

Initially, he thought the feeling came

from barely escaping death. Perhaps if any woman had fallen into
his lap, he would have felt the

same.

But gazing at Hannah as she leaned forward, big, bold eyes darting
around for any sign of trouble,

he knew that wasn’t the case.

Another random document with
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Title: Terres de soleil et de brouillard

Author: Brada

Release date: June 8, 2022 [eBook #68264]

Language: French

Original publication: France: Félix Juven, 1903

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TERRES DE

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 TERRES DE SOLEIL

ET DE BROUILLARD

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COMPROMISE 1—
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 BRADA

TERRES DE SOLEIL

ET DE

BROUILLARD

PARIS
Félix JUVEN, Editeur
122, RUE RÉAUMUR, 122

TABLE DES MATIÈRES

 TERRE DE SOLEIL

PAYSAGES ET MŒURS DE TOSCANE

L’acqua che tocchi dei fiumi è

l’ultima di quella che andò e la prima
di quella che viene. Così il tempo
présente.
LEONARDO DA VINCI.
(L’eau qu’on touche dans un fleuve
est la dernière de celle qui s’écoule et
la première de celle qui arrive. Ainsi
le temps présent.)

Il n’est pas la même heure en Italie qu’en France. Quand de tous les
campaniles sonne, à l’instant du coucher du soleil, l’Ave Maria du soir, le
jour qui s’achève atteint sa vingt-quatrième heure et un autre jour
commence, dont la première heure se lève avec la nuit! Il semble bien, en
effet, qu’il est ici à la fois et plus tôt et plus tard. Mais sûrement l’heure est
autre.
Massimo d’Azeglio, dans ses Mémoires, raconte qu’au temps de sa
jeunesse les Romains avaient pour habitude d’aller dans le monde toujours
trois heures après l’Ave Maria, sans s’occuper du changement apporté par
les saisons à l’heure réelle: au moment actuel, pour bien des choses, c’est
encore l’heure de l’Ave Maria qui fait la règle, et ce n’est point du tout
l’heure moderne.

Cette terre est vieille, mais de la vieillesse immortelle des dieux qu’elle
abrite; le sol est encore fumant, rien n’a rompu la tradition du passé: il
existe, présent et militant, même pour le menu du peuple; cette communion
continuelle avec le passé imprime à la vie moderne un caractère tout
particulier et comme une autre signification. Aussi, il est impossible
d’apprécier et de juger sainement l’Italie d’aujourd’hui si on ne connaît
l’Italie d’autrefois. Il ne faut pas oublier combien longue et ancienne est ici
la tradition humaine: le vieux chroniqueur Villani, qui, au XIVᵉ siècle,
écrivait l’histoire d’une façon si délicieuse et si personnelle, a soin de nous
apprendre que Fiesole fut le premier lieu d’Europe où s’établirent les petits-
fils de Japhet; et il abonde en détails sur le roi Attalante, qui, à la sortie de
la tour de Babel, s’en vint, sur les conseils de son astrologue Apollino,
fonder une ville sur cette colline, au-dessus de laquelle brillent les
constellations les plus propices aux mortels, de sorte que les habitants de cet
heureux site naissent avec plus d’allégresse et de force naturelle qu’en
aucun lieu du monde. Cette sorte de filiation directe avec Enée fait une race
plus claire, si l’on peut s’exprimer ainsi, n’ayant jamais connu les
obscurités des temps primitifs des races du Nord.
La terre toscane est donc de justice la première qu’il faut étudier en
Italie. L’homme ici paraît se rapprocher beaucoup plus du type réel et
naturel de l’humanité: voluptueux et plutôt cruel; la civilisation semble ne
l’avoir pas encore déformé, et on est frappé partout de la joie de vivre qui se
lit dans les yeux; le goût de la vie est encore incorrompu, et c’est peut-être
pour l’individu le don par excellence.
Il n’est pas question ici de chercher ce qui fait les États puissants et
prospères; j’ai idée que la nature, cette grande dévorante, ne s’en soucie
pas; elle veut seulement que ses enfants vivent et accomplissent avec joie
les actes qu’elle ordonne. Dans les pays du Nord, l’amour devient de plus
en plus une chose triste; à mesure que nous atteignons une espèce de
lucidité maladive, le fait de s’unir à une autre créature, celui de transmettre
la vie, cesse d’être l’impulsion suprême de l’homme, qui lui donne dans la
joie le plein sentiment de lui-même et de sa force.

Il ne paraît pas ici que la vie ait très sensiblement changé depuis cinq
cents ans; l’armature qui soutient l’édifice social est encore intacte; et tout
le courant de l’existence en reçoit l’empreinte.
Physiquement, chez l’homme du moins, la race est plutôt contemporaine
de celle des XVIᵉ et XVIIᵉ siècles. Si, en France, on compare les portraits de
cette époque aux hommes qui nous entourent, on constatera aussitôt
l’immense modification advenue dans l’apparence extérieure: la race,
lourde d’aspect, aux visages ronds, aux corps disposés à l’embonpoint, était
modifiée dès le siècle dernier, et ce siècle-ci a vu l’avènement d’un type
tout autre. Ici, au contraire, on retrouve continuellement dans les rues les
corps et les visages que reproduisent les anciennes fresques et les anciennes
statues: la tête ronde, les gros yeux, les barbes luisantes, les ovales courts,
les structures lourdes. Le long effort du passé pour maintenir en faisceaux
intacts les classes et les castes semble avoir réussi à conserver l’aspect
extérieur particulier à chacune d’elles.

Un massif chanoine, que je voyais l’autre matin sur les marches du

dôme, représente le type même de ce cardinal qu’on voit au Pitti,
magnifique et monstrueux dans son embonpoint énorme, avec un visage fin
et sensuel: et voici un moine, le visage glabre, la tête en poire, la bouche
large, les épaules hautes, le corps châtié, qui a son portrait sur les fresques
de Santa-Maria-Nuova, peintes il y a six cents ans. Quand, le vendredi, sur
la place de la Signoria, on circule au milieu des métayers venus de tous
côtés, il est curieux d’observer combien peu de visages ont la moindre
ressemblance avec les animaux: les traits, sans être beaux, sont nets et
creusés, les figures ont une certaine noblesse inconsciente; beaucoup de ces
hommes de la campagne, surtout parmi les vieux, se rapprochent du type
que nous appelons par convention le type sacerdotal, et qui est souvent celui
des races simples, par exemple de nos Bretons.
C’est qu’en vérité l’homme intérieur est resté très sensiblement le même,
et continue à vivre avec une certaine lenteur. L’ambiance, qui influe si fort
sur l’être humain, a retenu ici le caractère du passé, car l’Église a tout
imprégné, âmes et mœurs: l’Italien a été fait par elle, et, n’envisageât-on
l’Église que comme le système politique le plus achevé, ou comme l’école
de philosophie la plus élevée, étudier son influence n’est pas moins d’un
intérêt profond. Les églises abondent dans les villes italiennes: dômes
vastes et magnifiques, chapelles closes, ardentes d’or et de peintures, et
c’est là un fait non pas seulement matériel, mais d’une importance morale
capitale. Il n’y a qu’à entrer dans ces églises, y demeurer un peu, pour se
rendre compte qu’en Italie, sous quelque régime que ce soit, par le fait de
l’action catholique toujours militante, a existé et existe la plus admirable
des démocraties, en même temps que la plus puissante des aristocraties. Le
pauvre, l’humble, la femme ignorante ont dans l’église la véritable maison
commune, celle où ils peuvent venir penser en paix et se reprendre à vivre.
Le côté le plus cruel peut-être de notre existence moderne, telle que l’a
façonnée la lutte féroce pour la vie, est l’absence de trêve et de pause! Les
grands maîtres de la vie spirituelle, qui étaient des sociologues de premier
ordre, ont compris l’impérieuse nécessité pour la créature fatiguée de fuir
quelquefois ses proches, de se recueillir et de se taire, de s’appartenir dans
une solitude qui, en se remplissant de la pensée d’une présence occulte et
bienfaisante, devient consolante. Pour moi, j’avoue que je ne sais ce que
signifie le mot de «superstition», ni où elle commence, ni où elle finit; le
culte le plus dépouillé de formes extérieures me paraît tout aussi entaché de
superstition (en ce qu’elle est crainte et respect d’un être invisible) que la
plus matérielle et la plus humble des manifestations de piété d’une
paysanne italienne; et le culte en esprit et en vérité me semble précisément
celui que rendent ici les pauvres et les ignorants.
Ce qui frappe d’abord et avant tout dans les églises italiennes, c’est
l’extraordinaire liberté de chacun, non pas liberté dans le sens de licence,
mais dans celui qui réserve l’initiative personnelle entière. Chacun prie ou
se recueille à sa guise, sans se soucier du voisin; l’intention chez tous, très
certainement, est de s’unir par la présence au mystérieux sacrifice qui
s’offre à l’autel; mais l’église est aussi un lieu de repos, où, au milieu des
suggestions des choses d’art, du noble déploiement des offices, les humbles
et les simples viennent chercher une halte. Cet acte seul, ne durât-il qu’un
quart d’heure, ne fût-il accompagné d’aucune autre méditation intérieure,
distingue déjà sensiblement l’homme de la brute.
On ne peut, je crois, exagérer l’importance sociale qu’il existe un lieu
ouvert, et fréquenté par tous, où, sans effort d’un côté, ni condescendance
de l’autre (ce qui est l’humiliation suprême), les hommes entre eux se
trouvent réunis sur un pied d’une entière égalité: le pauvre se tient au
premier rang et son attitude ne marque ni gêne ni respect de son voisin quel
qu’il soit,—il est chez lui. Les églises italiennes ne connaissent
heureusement pas les arrangements de chaises et de prie-Dieu, ni de
barrières bien défendues; les grandes nefs vides sont à tous, et pour moi le
spectacle d’une messe dans une église italienne est d’un intérêt puissant. Il
y a là des personnes de tous les âges et de toutes les classes, beaucoup de
vieux, heureusement extasiés, s’appuyant aux balustres des autels, des
femmes à genoux se pressant autour du prêtre et le touchant presque; les
gens du peuple sont mêlés à la petite bourgeoisie prospère et bien vêtue.
Personne ne se croit appelé à se donner un air spécial, les figures conservent
leur expression naturelle, ou bien prennent tout simplement celle d’une
méditation tranquille; il y a des attitudes de prière d’une simplicité et d’une
sincérité indiscutables, des agenouillements d’une humilité réelle, mais tout
cela sans façon, pour ainsi dire; l’extrême bon sens de cette race lui a fait
comprendre que le meilleur hommage qu’on puisse rendre au Créateur
n’était peut-être pas celui d’une attitude de convention. Les gens se
reconnaissent et s’abordent avec un sourire. Il me semble qu’il y a là une
entente de la prière extrêmement supérieure à celle qui en fait un acte de
contrainte pour soi-même, en même temps que de presque hostilité vis-à-vis
du prochain. En présence de ces assemblées de fidèles, il est impossible de
se défendre d’une réflexion qui, au premier abord, peut paraître paradoxale:
c’est que la liberté de conscience a engendré le formalisme. Les sectes
dissidentes protestantes sont arrivées à l’extrême limite de l’intolérance et
des contraintes extérieures, tandis que la liberté est au contraire avec ceux
qui ont accepté un dogme formulé, l’ont adapté à leur personnalité comme
un vêtement toujours porté et auquel on ne pense plus.

Plus on voit ce peuple de près et intimement, plus on reste convaincu

qu’il est demeuré intangible dans son essence, tout plein des mêmes
passions qui agitaient ses ancêtres, et que les modifications apportées par le
temps sont surtout superficielles. On sait la prise et la force des factions
dans les anciennes républiques, l’ardeur furieuse avec laquelle le peuple s’y
jetait, le besoin de lutte sociale qui était sa vie même. Ces instincts se
réveillent à la moindre occasion. En voici un exemple. Il y a quelques
années on procédait à l’achèvement du dôme à Florence; deux ordres
d’ornementation: l’un dénommé Basilicate, l’autre Tricospidale, furent
proposés et soumis au choix des citoyens, et, aussitôt, la ville se divisa
violemment en partis rivaux, on s’abordait en se demandant auquel on
appartenait, c’était le sujet de tous les entretiens, et certes, il aurait fallu peu
de chose pour que Basilicati et Triscospidali en vinssent aux mains. Le
Florentin du XVᵉ siècle ne revit-il pas là tout entier dans ce simple épisode
d’une restauration architecturale?
Avec une race aussi impressionnable que celle-ci, le refuge et le calme
de l’Église sont d’une utilité pratique indiscutable; on se figure aisément de
quel prix devaient être ces asiles de paix, dans les temps agités où la guerre
civile sévissait souvent dans les rues; le jour, c’est le repos et le silence; le
soir, à l’heure de l’Ave Maria, tout est douceur et mystère, et de toutes ces
choses l’âme a un infini besoin.
On ne connaît vraiment une créature humaine que dans la souffrance et
la douleur: alors le véritable visage se découvre; de même, peut-être, pour
étudier une race vaut-il mieux commencer par essayer de comprendre ce
que sont ses pauvres et ses humbles d’esprit. Pour qui observe sans
préventions ce peuple toscan, une des choses qui étonne et qui va peut-être
plus à l’encontre des idées préconçues est la totale absence d’obséquiosité
qui le distingue. Il faut avoir vu l’Angleterre et le nord de l’Allemagne pour
savoir ce qu’est l’obséquiosité des inférieurs, et quelles formes multiples
elle peut prendre. Ici, dans ce milieu si singulièrement identique à lui-
même, elle n’existe pas; en cela et en tant d’autres choses encore vivantes,
l’héritage viril des vieilles communes guelfes a laissé sa marque. Cosme de
Médicis, «père de la patrie», dont le souvenir est encore si présent,
procédant au dénombrement des siens, compte tant de bocche di casa:
maîtres et serviteurs sont confondus; chacun, individuellement, faisait partie
d’un ensemble, et cet ensemble laissait une place à chacun. Selon la
définition de l’historien anglais Froude, tout homme devait occuper sa place
et n’était pas libre de faire autrement. Hier encore, toutes les anciennes
institutions sociales étaient debout, et, en les déblayant pour en substituer
d’autres, on n’en a pu effacer les traces: les résultats moraux qui en
découlaient sont demeurés, et les institutions nouvelles en ont été pénétrées
et modifiées.

Je ne suis pas tout à fait certain que les lois équitables et justes amènent
toujours le meilleur résultat au point de vue du gain et de la prospérité d’un
pays; d’autres lois secrètes régissent ces choses. Mais, au moment où la
question sociale prime toutes les autres, où la répartition plus équitable des
biens de la terre s’impose comme un problème brûlant, il n’est pas
indifférent d’étudier de près comment, il y a six cents ans, cette question
avait été résolue ici, et comment cette solution s’adapte aujourd’hui à notre
vie moderne.
La mezzeria (métayage) toscane est demeurée ce qu’elle était au XIVᵉ
siècle, et paraît, dans son ensemble, se rapprocher, autant que l’imperfection
humaine le permet, d’une égale justice.
 On peut bien penser qu’il n’est pas indifférent d’être né dans un de ces
palais magnifiques qui subsistent encore intacts dans les villes italiennes,
d’y avoir été élevé, de se sentir relié si directement à la vie des siècles
écoulés. Ce serait une grande erreur que de regarder la noblesse en tant que
caste comme une chose évanouie; elle existe encore très forte, mais une
sorte de sagesse, fruit d’une civilisation avancée, a corrigé dans sa forme les
excès qui pouvaient résulter de cette supériorité d’une partie de la nation sur
l’autre. Je regardais dernièrement, sur la voûte du vestibule d’une de ces
belles villas si nombreuses dans cette Toscane fertile, la représentation de
cette même habitation peinte il y a trois cents ans par un élève de Raphaël;
l’extérieur est à peine changé, et l’on peut tout autant ajouter que les
relations qui existent entre le propriétaire d’aujourd’hui et ses paysans sont
exactement les mêmes qu’elles étaient alors.
Dans cette terre féconde, où abondent le blé, l’huile et le vin, la propriété
rurale ne revêt jamais cet aspect presque stérile dans un certain sens, qui
provient de l’extension immodérée de parcs uniquement disposés pour
l’agrément.
La part faite à la culture de luxe est restreinte; le mot italien ameno, dont
les anciens écrivains caractérisent souvent les villas, convient
admirablement à en rendre l’aspect vraiment plaisant, doux et riant; et pour
moi, j’aime infiniment cette familiarité du champ proche de la maison du
maître. Car la première condition essentielle pour que la mezzeria donne
son maximum d’avantages moraux et matériels est la présence du
propriétaire sur sa terre, le lien qui l’unit à ses métayers est vraiment un lien
familial: protection d’un côté, respect de l’autre; les intérêts sont identiques,
tout en attribuant à chacun, selon sa force et sa capacité, sa part de
responsabilité et de risques.
Le baron Ricasoli, qui était un très noble esprit, disait «que lorsqu’il se
trouvait parmi ses métayers, il se sentait un homme libre au milieu d’autres
hommes libres». En effet, l’association qui unit le propriétaire et le métayer
est une société d’égaux: l’un donne la terre, l’autre le labeur, et tout se
partage. Jusqu’à ces derniers temps, il n’existait aucun contrat écrit. Tout
était verbal, tout était basé sur une bonne foi réciproque, et néanmoins, avec
ces contrats libres, il y a certains poderi[A] occupés par les mêmes familles
depuis le XIVᵉ siècle, et en général ils se transmettent comme un héritage.
 Toutes les charges matérielles incombent au maître; il entretient les
poderi, il paie les impôts, il achète les bestiaux, il fournit les instruments de
travail et les chariots, il pare à toutes les éventualités; mais sa responsabilité
s’étend encore au delà de ces charges déjà lourdes: le droit de vivre est
reconnu par une loi non écrite, mais toujours observée comme un droit
sacré; la famille du métayer doit, coûte que coûte, être pourvue du
nécessaire; si, par suite de mauvaises années, ce nécessaire manque, le
maître est tenu à des avances d’argent sans intérêts. Il est vrai que, pendant
les années prospères, le métayer laisse presque toujours entre les mains du
maître, une somme à lui et n’en reçoit pas non plus d’intérêts; par le fait, la
situation du métayer est plus avantageuse que celle du maître, lequel n’a
que la moitié de tous les profits et de beaucoup la part la plus hasardeuse et
la plus onéreuse à supporter. L’honnêteté et la confiance sont le fond même
des rapports entre le propriétaire et ses métayers, et il est de l’intérêt du
métayer de ne point trahir cette confiance, car il s’expose à perdre son
podere, le contrat qui le lui cède étant révocable chaque année; mais il est
également de l’intérêt du maître de bien choisir ses métayers et de les
garder; des liens s’établissent qui se continuent de génération en génération,
il se forme une sorte d’égalité entre le maître et le serviteur; et on a vu des
métayers tutoyant leur maître, représentant d’une des plus illustres maisons
toscanes.
Une fois en possession, les métayers ont une position qui ne cède en rien
en dignité et en importance à celle de n’importe quel fermier libre, et c’est
l’organisation particulière de la famille du métayer qui est le trait saillant de
l’institution en Toscane, et la distingue d’autres qui lui ressemblent.
Le métayer en chef s’appelle capoccia et son rôle a toute la grandeur de
la paternité antique. Il est le seul maître et commande d’une façon absolue;
il est de son avantage de pouvoir se passer de bras salariés qui seraient à sa
charge, et, par conséquent, une famille nombreuse est pour lui un profit et
un bienfait; mais ses fils, arrivés à l’âge d’homme, et même mariés, ne
reçoivent de lui que le logement, la nourriture et les vêtements: toute
somme d’argent, quelle qu’elle soit, doit être rapportée au capoccia, dont
l’autorité n’est jamais discutée. Le soin de la nourriture appartient à la
massaia, qui est pour les femmes ce que le capoccia est pour les hommes;
c’est elle qui reçoit le gain des femmes et donne à ses filles et à ses brus ce
qu’elle croit bon. Capoccia et massaia sont les pierres angulaires de la
mezzeria; néanmoins il n’est pas obligatoire que le père ou la mère de
famille soient invariablement capoccia ou massaia, ils sont choisis et
nommés par le maître seul, qui désigne ceux qu’il juge le plus aptes à en
remplir l’emploi. Il arrive, par exemple, que le père devenant vieux, un fils
est nommé capoccia, et souvent ce ne sera pas l’aîné; parfois une belle-fille
sera préférée pour massaia ayant plus d’ordre ou d’entente que la femme du
capoccia, et tout cela est accepté sans murmure ni difficulté; l’obéissance se
transfert à celui qui commande.
Mais avec les responsabilités se développent les meilleures qualités
protectrices et familiales; le paysan s’attache passionnément à la terre qu’il
cultive et fait tous les sacrifices, pour que le podere demeure dans la
famille. Obéissant au même esprit qui vouait autrefois les cadets au célibat
(chaque podere ne pouvant nourrir qu’un certain nombre de personnes), il
arrive que les frères, sauf un seul renoncent à se marier. Aujourd’hui les
propriétaires découragent cette coutume pour des raisons de moralité faciles
à apprécier, car le patronage du maître est non seulement matériel, mais
moral, et il est de toute importance qu’il l’exerce consciencieusement. Un
maître intelligent, en allant au-devant des besoins de ses métayers, en
veillant à leur bien-être, en les plaçant dans des conditions d’existence qui
leur permettent de donner leur maximum d’effort, voit s’accroître la valeur
de ses terres et augmenter ses revenus, sans jamais avoir à penser que sa
prospérité est faite de la souffrance de ceux qui fécondent sa terre; car, au
contraire, elle témoigne de la leur, et le labeur, garanti contre les risques
indépendants de la volonté du travailleur, apparaît ce qu’il est en effet,
purement rémunérateur.
Le métayer se rend compte que l’intervention du maître est toujours dans
l’intérêt mutuel, et aucun esprit d’hostilité systématique ne peut exister
entre eux; au lieu de regimber contre les conseils, le métayer les accueille
volontiers, d’autant qu’il n’a pas de risque à courir, et que de plus il est
dédommagé pour tout travail extraordinaire, les intérêts de la culture en
elle-même sont donc sauvegardés. Un même propriétaire possédera peut-
être vingt ou trente poderi formant un magnifique ensemble de propriété
rurale, et cependant, par son organisation spéciale, elle conciliera les
avantages de la grande propriété avec les bienfaits de la petite culture. Tous
ces poderi sont dispersés dans le périmètre de la bandita dont l’étendue est
indiquée par, de loin en loin, un poteau, portant le nom du possesseur, dont
l’écusson, peint en couleurs claires, s’étale aux façades des poderi.
 Voici, au flanc de la colline couverte d’oliviers et de châtaigniers, une
maison blanche à un étage; c’est un podere, choisi au hasard, et qui répond
simplement à une bonne moyenne. Le capoccia, un vieux, très vert, est
venu au-devant du maître: celui-ci, jeune encore, avec ce je ne sais quoi
d’assuré que donne l’habitude du commandement dès l’adolescence, point
familier, point hautain non plus; les hommes l’entourent, le saluent avec
respect, mais sans la moindre servilité, et se mettent à s’entretenir avec lui
librement, dignement:—nostro conte—il est leur, comme ils sont siens, car
aussi longtemps qu’ils veulent demeurer dans son podere, ils ne peuvent ni
se marier ni accomplir aucun acte important sans son consentement. La
massaia, une grande belle femme qui a dépassé la cinquantaine, le
mouchoir de couleur sur ses cheveux épais, qui commencent à grisonner,
invite à son tour la padrona à entrer et lui offre une chaise: les femmes se
tiennent debout pour causer avec elle. La pièce, où l’on pénètre de plain-
pied, est la cuisine; dans la vaste cheminée flambe un grand feu sur lequel
bout l’eau dans la crémaillère, car on coule une lessive; le sol est carrelé. Il
y a un buffet et beaucoup d’ustensiles de terre rangés en bon ordre, une
table dans un coin, mais seulement comme débarras, car ce n’est pas dans
cette pièce que l’on mange. Ce détail a une vraie portée, il me semble.
Ces paysans toscans sont des êtres civilisés; chez eux la cupidité du
paysan doit exister comme partout, mais se manifeste d’une manière
différente. Les hommes ont bonne mine, sans bassesse, et leurs mains n’ont
pas l’aspect rapace et féroce de celles du paysan ordinaire. Ils parlent bien,
une langue polie, souvent charmante, et, plus on s’éloigne des villes, plus
on trouve en eux des façons courtoises et avenantes. Ceux-ci font avec
plaisir les honneurs de leur podere. Je passe dans la salle où ils prennent
leurs repas; la table s’allonge entre deux bancs de bois; le fond de la pièce,
surélevé de la hauteur d’une marche, est occupé par les énormes outres de
terre remplies d’huile. Dans une huche fermée se conservent la farine, le
pain et la polenta. Comme le sens le plus exact des besoins réels préside à la
répartition des profits entre le métayer et le propriétaire, ils échangent en
nature ce que l’un a en trop et l’autre en moins; beaucoup de métayers
(celui chez qui nous nous trouvons par exemple) renoncent à une part de
leur huile, et reçoivent le pain. Ils nous offrent de goûter à la polenta (faite
avec la farine de maïs), et tout aussitôt, sans avoir recours à aucune réserve
spéciale, mais prenant ce qu’elle trouve sous la main, la bru, une belle
créature brune et forte, apporte une assiette d’excellente faïence, une
serviette de bonne toile, et place à côté une cuiller et une fourchette qui, à
mon sens, disent à eux seuls à quel genre de civilisation, à la fois primitive
et avancée, nous avons affaire: cette cuiller, qui est le modèle d’usage
courant, est de la plus jolie forme possible, point trop creuse, un peu
arrondie du bout; fabriquée d’un métal brillant qui figure le cuivre; la
fourchette est légère, le manche carré, les quatre dents écartées comme
celles d’une fourche. Ce sont là des objets dont la forme grossière ou triste
témoigne d’une certaine abjection morale; et il faut voir dans notre
Bourgogne ce que sont ces choses chez des paysans qui possèdent
cinquante ou soixante mille francs de terre!
Le métayer toscan se nourrit bien; il a sa récolte de châtaignes, ses
olives, sa vigne, sa polenta, ses fruits et ses légumes; il mange de la viande
une ou deux fois par semaine; ses lapins sont à lui sans partage. Presque
tous élèvent des cochons, et ils ne doivent au maître que l’offrande
volontaire d’un jambon; les jeunes ménages ont des pigeons, c’est là leur
part particulière.
Malgré la subordination familiale, ou peut-être à cause de cette
subordination, les rapports de famille sont bons en général, et on se dispute
rarement; la vieille mère surtout est considérée, on aime aussi les enfants,
c’est la femme qui est la plus durement traitée, et à qui incombent les
besognes les plus fatigantes.
Sur l’ordre de la massaia, la bru nous montre le chemin pour visiter les
chambres du podere. En haut du petit escalier, on débouche dans une pièce
claire, sorte de centre de l’habitation, où un grand métier à tisser est monté;
c’est là que se fait la toile des draps et des vêtements; il n’en manque point
apparemment, car il y en a une quantité de fraîchement lavés jetée sur la
rampe de l’escalier. Mais la véritable surprise est dans les chambres; la
première dans laquelle on me fait entrer est celle du capoccia et de la
massaia; les murs en sont blancs et nets, et c’est aux soins du maître qu’on
le doit. La fenêtre est ouverte; le lit, un lit de sangle très long et très large,
est fourni d’une épaisse paillasse, d’un beau matelas, le tout recouvert d’une
toile blanche. Ce lit, sans couvre-lit, laisse voir ses draps et ses oreillers, les
plus propres et les plus confortables du monde; bien garni, bien pourvu,
c’est là le lit d’êtres humains qui se respectent. Une commode avec de petits
accessoires la garnissant, quelques chaises et une toilette en fer avec sa
cuvette recouverte d’une longue serviette à franges; et, à terre, rempli d’eau,
un petit cruchon à panses arrondies, avec un goulot comme dans les vases
antiques, complètent l’ameublement. Au delà est la chambre du jeune
ménage, avec un lit tout aussi beau, et, à côté, le berceau qui a la façon d’un
énorme panier muni de son anse; tout comme les grands lits, il est bien
pourvu de couvertures propres et chaudes. Il y a encore trois chambres
occupées par les deux fils célibataires, une vieille femme et une jeune fille
qui font partie de la famille. Tous se trouvent logés dans les conditions les
plus favorables à leur santé, à leur moralité, et au développement de leur
propre dignité. J’insiste beaucoup sur cette netteté et cette propreté des
poderi, car ce n’est nullement une exception; j’en visite d’autres, peut-être
mieux tenus encore, avec des étables irréprochables, abritant de belles bêtes
propres, sur leur litière de feuilles mortes, sans une souillure sur leur robe
claire.

Il ne faut pas perdre de vue que la mezzeria donne à un propriétaire

intelligent la possibilité de discerner les capacités personnelles de ses
paysans, et d’en profiter. Ainsi tel métayer réussit mieux l’élevage des
bestiaux: le maître fournit les fonds pour en acheter au moment voulu, et
bénéficie de la plus-value que des soins éclairés leur fait atteindre; un autre
métayer s’entend spécialement à cultiver les fruits: on lui donne un podere
où cette culture prédomine.
Il est évident qu’il est impossible, même au propriétaire le plus pénétré
de ses responsabilités, de n’avoir que des rapports directs avec ses
métayers; l’intermédiaire est le fattore, c’est lui qui est l’équivalent du
régisseur, lui qui reçoit les comptes des métayers et les transmet au maître;
mais un maître vigilant est en rapports journaliers avec son fattore:
l’important pour le bien de tous est que celui-ci demeure un intermédiaire et
ne devienne pas autre chose.
D’anciens usages renouvellent et cimentent les liens qui existent entre
maître et serviteur. Chaque année, au mois d’octobre, toutes les massaie
viennent «reconnaître» la maîtresse, celle qui, de fait, est la massaia en
chef; chacune apporte en cadeau deux poules, et reçoit un mouchoir; elles
profitent de l’occasion pour causer, raconter leurs griefs, se plaindre de
leurs brus, enfin intéresser la signora padrona illustrissima à leurs affaires
familiales. Quand une nouvelle épouse arrive dans un podere, elle vient
également se présenter à la padrona, à qui elle offre aussi deux poules; en
retour, la maîtresse lui fait don d’un écu et de bonbons: mais toujours, il
faut le remarquer, c’est un échange et jamais une charité; c’est la hiérarchie,
mais non l’infériorité. Quand sur les routes riantes on rencontre ces belles
charrettes de forme si noble, peintes en rouge, traînées par des bœufs blancs
fiers et tristes, les hommes qui se tiennent debout dans les charrettes ont une
manière spéciale de saluer leur maître: restant droits, ils enlèvent leurs
chapeaux et étendent le bras dans un geste d’acclamation; et lui, il répond
toujours de la voix, leur rendant courtoisie pour courtoisie.
La noblesse toscane d’aujourd’hui est formée principalement de
«patriciens», c’est-à-dire descendants de la noblesse de ville, toute
différente de l’ancienne noblesse féodale, qui a été détruite en partie par la
force des lois hostiles. Ces familles de patriciens ont une origine quasi
démocratique: ainsi celle qui a donné des reines à la France; et quelques-
unes retiennent encore actuellement comme surnom la dénomination de
l’arte (corporation) auquel un membre principal a appartenu dans les siècles
passés.
Voici une villa dont les fondations portent la date de l’an 1000: à la voir,
grande, carrée, de proportions nobles, conservant encore, pâlies mais non
effacées, les traces de fresques délicates qui l’ornaient extérieurement, avec
son toit dont les tuiles sont devenues couleur de roseau, sa loggia ouverte
qui le surmonte et sert de colombier, sa couronne de chênes verts s’étendant
comme de vastes parasols, ses cyprès sombres et flexibles, ses charmilles de
lauriers, abritant des bustes antiques sur des colonnes de porphyre, ses
perrons de marbre rose, elle paraît uniquement une habitation de luxe et
d’agrément, tandis qu’au contraire elle est et a toujours été le centre d’une
vie rurale, prospère et forte.
Dans le passé tumultueux, la sûreté des habitants avait été assurée par un
souterrain qui, partant des caves, allait aboutir au loin, au delà de la route
frayée, à une bourgade voisine; plus tard, les maîtres riches et magnifiques
ont orné l’intérieur de la maison de peintures restées intactes; sur celle qui
occupe la voûte du salon principal, l’un des anciens possesseurs s’est fait
peindre assis au milieu des dieux de l’Olympe, festoyant autour d’une table
semée de fleurs. La tête grise et fine, le torse nu, il regarde de là ses
descendants, influençant encore sans doute, d’une façon occulte, leurs actes
et leurs pensées, puisqu’ils vivent au milieu du cadre qu’il a créé et que
leurs yeux s’arrêtent sur les mêmes objets qui s’offraient aux siens.