diff options
Diffstat (limited to '4360-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 4360-0.txt | 15493 |
1 files changed, 15493 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/4360-0.txt b/4360-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aebdda6 --- /dev/null +++ b/4360-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15493 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Vendetta, by Marie Corelli + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Vendetta + A Story of One Forgotten + +Author: Marie Corelli + +Release Date: January 15, 2002 [eBook #4360] +[Most recently updated: March 27, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENDETTA *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +Vendetta + +Or +A Story of One Forgotten + +by Marie Corelli + +Author of “ARDATH,” “THELMA,” “A ROMANCE OF +TWO WORLDS,” “WORMWOOD,” etc., etc. + + +Contents + + PREFACE + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + CHAPTER XXVIII. + CHAPTER XXIX. + CHAPTER XXX. + CHAPTER XXXI. + CHAPTER XXXII. + CHAPTER XXXIII. + CHAPTER XXXIV. + CHAPTER XXXV. + CHAPTER XXXVI. + CHAPTER XXXVII. + + + + +PREFACE + + +Lest those who read the following pages should deem this story at all +improbable, it is perhaps necessary to say that its chief incidents are +founded on an actual occurrence which took place in Naples during the +last scathing visitation of the cholera in 1884. We know well enough, +by the chronicle of daily journalism, that the infidelity of wives is, +most unhappily, becoming common—far too common for the peace and good +repute of society. Not so common is an outraged husband’s vengeance—not +often dare he take the law into his own hands—for in England, at least, +such boldness on his part would doubtless be deemed a worse crime than +that by which he personally is doomed to suffer. But in Italy things +are on a different footing—the verbosity and red-tape of the law, and +the hesitating verdict of special juries, are not there considered +sufficiently efficacious to soothe a man’s damaged honor and ruined +name. And thus—whether right or wrong—it often happens that strange and +awful deeds are perpetrated—deeds of which the world in general hears +nothing, and which, when brought to light at last, are received with +surprise and incredulity. Yet the romances planned by the brain of the +novelist or dramatist are poor in comparison with the romances of real +life—life wrongly termed commonplace, but which, in fact, teems with +tragedies as great and dark and soul-torturing as any devised by +Sophocles or Shakespeare. Nothing is more strange than truth—nothing, +at times, more terrible! + +_Marie Corelli_. +August, 1886. + + + + +VENDETTA! + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +I, who write this, am a dead man. Dead legally—dead by absolute +proofs—dead and buried! Ask for me in my native city and they will tell +you I was one of the victims of the cholera that ravaged Naples in +1884, and that my mortal remains lie moldering in the funeral vault of +my ancestors. Yet—I live! I feel the warm blood coursing through my +veins—the blood of thirty summers—the prime of early manhood +invigorates me, and makes these eyes of mine keen and bright—these +muscles strong as iron—this hand powerful of grip—this well-knit form +erect and proud of bearing. Yes!—I am alive, though declared to be +dead; alive in the fullness of manly force—and even sorrow has left few +distinguishing marks upon me, save one. My hair, once ebony-black, is +white as a wreath of Alpine snow, though its clustering curls are thick +as ever. + +“A constitutional inheritance?” asks one physician, observing my +frosted locks. + +“A sudden shock?” suggests another. + +“Exposure to intense heat?” hints a third. + +I answer none of them. I did so once. I told my story to a man I met by +chance—one renowned for medical skill and kindliness. He heard me to +the end in evident incredulity and alarm, and hinted at the possibility +of madness. Since then I have never spoken. + +But now I write. I am far from all persecution—I can set down the truth +fearlessly. I can dip the pen in my own blood if I choose, and none +shall gainsay me! For the green silence of a vast South American forest +encompasses me—the grand and stately silence of a virginal nature, +almost unbroken by the ruthless step of man’s civilization—a haven of +perfect calm, delicately disturbed by the fluttering wings and soft +voices of birds, and the gentle or stormy murmur of the freeborn winds +of heaven. Within this charmed circle of rest I dwell—here I lift up my +overburdened heart like a brimming chalice, and empty it on the ground, +to the last drop of gall contained therein. The world shall know my +history. + +Dead, and yet living! How can that be?—you ask. Ah, my friends! If you +seek to be rid of your dead relations for a certainty, you should have +their bodies cremated. Otherwise there is no knowing what may happen! +Cremation is the best way—the only way. It is clean, and _safe_. Why +should there be any prejudice against it? Surely it is better to give +the remains of what we loved (or pretended to love) to cleansing fire +and pure air than to lay them in a cold vault of stone, or down, down +in the wet and clinging earth. For loathly things are hidden deep in +the mold—things, foul and all unnameable—long worms—slimy creatures +with blind eyes and useless wings—abortions and deformities of the +insect tribe born of poisonous vapor—creatures the very sight of which +would drive you, oh, delicate woman, into a fit of hysteria, and would +provoke even you, oh, strong man, to a shudder of repulsion! But there +is a worse thing than these merely physical horrors which come of +so-called Christian burial—that is, the terrible _uncertainty_. What, +if after we have lowered the narrow strong box containing our dear +deceased relation into its vault or hollow in the ground—what, if after +we have worn a seemly garb of woe, and tortured our faces into the +fitting expression of gentle and patient melancholy—what, I say, if +after all the reasonable precautions taken to insure safety, they +should actually prove insufficient? What—if the prison to which we have +consigned the deeply regretted one should not have such close doors as +we fondly imagined? What, if the stout coffin should be wrenched apart +by fierce and frenzied fingers—what, if our late dear friend should +_not_ be dead, but should, like Lazarus of old, come forth to challenge +our affection anew? Should we not grieve sorely that we had failed to +avail ourselves of the secure and classical method of cremation? +Especially if we had benefited by worldly goods or money left to us by +the so deservedly lamented! For we are self-deceiving hypocrites—few of +us are really sorry for the dead—few of us remember them with any real +tenderness or affection. And yet God knows! they may need more pity +than we dream of! + +But let me to my task. I, Fabio Romani, lately deceased, am about to +chronicle the events of one short year—a year in which was compressed +the agony of a long and tortured life-time! One little year!—one sharp +thrust from the dagger of Time! It pierced my heart—the wound still +gapes and bleeds, and every drop of blood is tainted as it falls! + +One suffering, common to many, I have never known—that is—poverty. I +was born rich. When my father, Count Filippo Romani, died, leaving me, +then a lad of seventeen, sole heir to his enormous possessions—sole +head of his powerful house—there were many candid friends who, with +their usual kindness, prophesied the worst things of my future. Nay, +there were even some who looked forward to my physical and mental +destruction with a certain degree of malignant expectation—and they +were estimable persons too. They were respectably connected—their words +carried weight—and for a time I was an object of their maliciously +pious fears. I was destined, according to their calculations, to be a +gambler, a spendthrift, a drunkard, an incurable roue of the most +abandoned character. Yet, strange to say, I became none of these +things. Though a Neapolitan, with all the fiery passions and hot blood +of my race, I had an innate scorn for the contemptible vices and low +desires of the unthinking vulgar. Gambling seemed to me a delirious +folly—drink, a destroyer of health and reason—and licentious +extravagance an outrage on the poor. I chose my own way of life—a +middle course between simplicity and luxury—a judicious mingling of +home-like peace with the gayety of sympathetic social intercourse—an +even tenor of intelligent existence which neither exhausted the mind +nor injured the body. + +I dwelt in my father’s villa—a miniature palace of white marble, +situated on a wooded height overlooking the Bay of Naples. My +pleasure-grounds were fringed with fragrant groves of orange and +myrtle, where hundreds of full-voiced nightingales warbled their +love-melodies to the golden moon. Sparkling fountains rose and fell in +huge stone basins carved with many a quaint design, and their cool +murmurous splash refreshed the burning silence of the hottest summer +air. In this retreat I lived at peace for some happy years, surrounded +by books and pictures, and visited frequently by friends—young men +whose tastes were more or less like my own, and who were capable of +equally appreciating the merits of an antique volume, or the flavor of +a rare vintage. + +Of women I saw little or nothing. Truth to tell, I instinctively +avoided them. Parents with marriageable daughters invited me frequently +to their houses, but these invitations I generally refused. My best +books warned me against feminine society—and I believed and accepted +the warning. This tendency of mine exposed me to the ridicule of those +among my companions who were amorously inclined, but their gay jests at +what they termed my “weakness” never affected me. I trusted in +friendship rather than love, and I had a friend—one for whom at that +time I would gladly have laid down my life—one who inspired me with the +most profound attachment. He, Guido Ferrari, also joined occasionally +with others in the good-natured mockery I brought down upon myself by +my shrinking dislike of women. + +“Fie on thee, Fabio!” he would cry. “Thou wilt not taste life till thou +hast sipped the nectar from a pair of rose-red lips—thou shalt not +guess the riddle of the stars till thou hast gazed deep down into the +fathomless glory of a maiden’s eyes—thou canst not know delight till +thou hast clasped eager arms round a coy waist and heard the beating of +a passionate heart against thine own! A truce to thy musty volumes! +Believe it, those ancient and sorrowful philosophers had no manhood in +them—their blood was water—and their slanders against women were but +the pettish utterances of their own deserved disappointments. Those who +miss the chief prize of life would fain persuade others that it is not +worth having. What, man! Thou, with a ready wit, a glancing eye, a gay +smile, a supple form, thou wilt not enter the lists of love? What says +Voltaire of the blind god? + +“‘Qui que tu sois voilà ton maître, +Il fût—il est—ou il doit être!’” + + +When my friend spoke thus I smiled, but answered nothing. His arguments +failed to convince me. Yet I loved to hear him talk—his voice was +mellow as the note of a thrush, and his eyes had an eloquence greater +than all speech. I loved him—God knows! unselfishly, sincerely—with +that rare tenderness sometimes felt by schoolboys for one another, but +seldom experienced by grown men. I was happy in his society, as he, +indeed, appeared to be in mine. We passed most of our time together, +he, like myself, having been bereaved of his parents in early youth, +and therefore left to shape out his own course of life as suited his +particular fancy. He chose art as a profession, and, though a fairly +successful painter, was as poor as I was rich. I remedied this neglect +of fortune for him in various ways with due forethought and +delicacy—and gave him as many commissions as I possibly could without +rousing his suspicion or wounding his pride. For he possessed a strong +attraction for me—we had much the same tastes, we shared the same +sympathies, in short, I desired nothing better than his confidence and +companionship. + +In this world no one, however harmless, is allowed to continue happy. +Fate—or caprice—cannot endure to see us monotonously at rest. Something +perfectly trivial—a look, a word, a touch, and lo! a long chain of old +associations is broken asunder, and the peace we deemed so deep and +lasting is finally interrupted. This change came to me, as surely as it +comes to all. One day—how well I remember it!—one sultry evening toward +the end of May, 1881, I was in Naples. I had passed the afternoon in my +yacht, idly and slowly sailing over the bay, availing myself of what +little wind there was. Guido’s absence (he had gone to Rome on a visit +of some weeks’ duration) rendered me somewhat of a solitary, and as my +light craft ran into harbor, I found myself in a pensive, +half-uncertain mood, which brought with it its own depression. The few +sailors who manned my vessel dispersed right and left as soon as they +were landed—each to his own favorite haunts of pleasure or +dissipation—but I was in no humor to be easily amused. Though I had +plenty of acquaintance in the city, I cared little for such +entertainment as they could offer me. As I strolled along through one +of the principal streets, considering whether or not I should return on +foot to my own dwelling on the heights, I heard a sound of singing, and +perceived in the distance a glimmer of white robes. It was the Month of +Mary, and I at once concluded that this must be an approaching +Procession of the Virgin. Half in idleness, half in curiosity, I stood +still and waited. The singing voices came nearer and nearer—I saw the +priests, the acolytes, the swinging gold censers heavy with fragrance, +the flaring candles, the snowy veils of children and girls—and then all +suddenly the picturesque beauty of the scene danced before my eyes in a +whirling blur of brilliancy and color from which looked forth—one face! +One face beaming out like a star from a cloud of amber tresses—one face +of rose-tinted, childlike loveliness—a loveliness absolutely perfect, +lighted up by two luminous eyes, large and black as night—one face in +which the small, curved mouth smiled half provokingly, half sweetly! I +gazed and gazed again, dazzled and excited, beauty makes such fools of +us all! This was a woman—one of the sex I mistrusted and avoided—a +woman in the earliest spring of her youth, a girl of fifteen or sixteen +at the utmost. Her veil had been thrown back by accident or design, and +for one brief moment I drank in that soul-tempting glance, that +witch-like smile! The procession passed—the vision faded—but in that +breath of time one epoch of my life had closed forever, and another had +begun! + + +Of course I married her. We Neapolitans lose no time in such matters. +We are not prudent. Unlike the calm blood of Englishmen, ours rushes +swiftly through our veins—it is warm as wine and sunlight, and needs no +fictitious stimulant. We love, we desire, we possess; and then? We +tire, you say? These southern races are so fickle! All wrong—we are +less tired than you deem. And do not Englishmen tire? Have they no +secret ennui at times when sitting in the chimney nook of “home, sweet +home,” with their fat wives and ever-spreading families? Truly, yes! +But they are too cautious to say so. + +I need not relate the story of my courtship—it was brief and sweet as a +song sung perfectly. There were no obstacles. The girl I sought was the +only daughter of a ruined Florentine noble of dissolute character, who +gained a bare subsistence by frequenting the gaming-tables. His child +had been brought up in a convent renowned for strict discipline—she +knew nothing of the world. She was, he assured me, with maudlin tears +in his eyes, “as innocent as a flower on the altar of the Madonna.” I +believed him—for what could this lovely, youthful, low-voiced maiden +know of even the shadow of evil? I was eager to gather so fair a lily +for my own proud wearing—and her father gladly gave her to me, no doubt +inwardly congratulating himself on the wealthy match that had fallen to +the lot of his dowerless daughter. + +We were married at the end of June, and Guido Ferrari graced our bridal +with his handsome and gallant presence. + +“By the body of Bacchus!” he exclaimed to me when the nuptial ceremony +was over, “thou hast profited by my teaching, Fabio! A quiet rogue is +often most cunning! Thou hast rifled the casket of Venus, and stolen +her fairest jewel—thou hast secured the loveliest maiden in the two +Sicilies!” + +I pressed his hand, and a touch of remorse stole over me, for he was no +longer first in my affection. Almost I regretted it—yes, on my very +wedding-morn I looked back to the old days—old now though so recent—and +sighed to think they were ended. I glanced at Nina, my wife. It was +enough! Her beauty dazzled and overcame me. The melting languor of her +large limpid eyes stole into my veins—I forgot all but her. I was in +that high delirium of passion in which love, and love only, seems the +keynote of creation. I touched the topmost peak of the height of +joy—the days were feasts of fairy-land, the nights dreams of rapture! +No; I never tired! My wife’s beauty never palled upon me; she grew +fairer with each day of possession. I never saw her otherwise than +attractive, and within a few months she had probed all the depths of my +nature. She discovered how certain sweet looks of hers could draw me to +her side, a willing and devoted slave; she measured my weakness with +her own power; she knew—what did she not know? I torture myself with +these foolish memories. All men past the age of twenty have learned +somewhat of the tricks of women—the pretty playful nothings that weaken +the will and sap the force of the strongest hero. She loved me? Oh, +yes, I suppose so! Looking back on those days, I can frankly say I +believe she loved me—as nine hundred wives out of a thousand love their +husbands, namely—for what they can get. And I grudged her nothing. If I +chose to idolize her, and raise her to the stature of an angel when she +was but on the low level of mere womanhood, that was my folly, not her +fault. + +We kept open house. Our villa was a place of rendezvous for the leading +members of the best society in and around Naples. My wife was +universally admired; her lovely face and graceful manners were themes +of conversation throughout the whole neighborhood. Guido Ferrari, my +friend, was one of those who were loudest in her praise, and the +chivalrous homage he displayed toward her doubly endeared him to me. I +trusted him as a brother; he came and went as pleased him; he brought +Nina gifts of flowers and fanciful trifles adapted to her taste, and +treated her with fraternal and delicate kindness. I deemed my happiness +perfect—with love, wealth, and friendship, what more could a man +desire? + +Yet another drop of honey was added to my cup of sweetness. On the +first morning of May, 1882, our child was born—a girl-babe, fair as one +of the white anemones which at that season grew thickly in the woods +surrounding our home. They brought the little one to me in the shaded +veranda where I sat at breakfast with Guido—a tiny, almost shapeless +bundle, wrapped in soft cashmere and old lace. I took the fragile thing +in my arms with a tender reverence; it opened its eyes; they were large +and dark like Nina’s, and the light of a recent heaven seemed still to +linger in their pure depths. I kissed the little face; Guido did the +same; and those clear, quiet eyes regarded us both with a strange +half-inquiring solemnity. A bird perched on a bough of jasmine broke +into a low, sweet song, the soft wind blew and scattered the petals of +a white rose at our feet. I gave the infant back to the nurse, who +waited to receive it, and said, with a smile, “Tell my wife we have +welcomed her May-blossom.” + +Guido laid his hand on my shoulder as the servant retired; his face was +unusually pale. + +“Thou art a good fellow, Fabio!” he said, abruptly. + +“Indeed! How so?” I asked, half laughingly; “I am no better than other +men.” + +“You are less suspicious than the majority,” he returned, turning away +from me and playing idly with a spray of clematis that trailed on one +of the pillars of the veranda. + +I glanced at him in surprise. “What do you mean, _amico_? Have I reason +to suspect any one?” + +He laughed and resumed his seat at the breakfast-table. + +“Why, no!” he answered, with a frank look. “But in Naples the air is +pregnant with suspicion—jealousy’s dagger is ever ready to strike, +justly or unjustly—the very children are learned in the ways of vice. +Penitents confess to priests who are worse than penitents, and by +Heaven! in such a state of society, where conjugal fidelity is a +farce”—he paused a moment, and then went on—“is it not wonderful to +know a man like you, Fabio? A man happy in home affections, without a +cloud on the sky of his confidence?” + +“I have no cause for distrust,” I said. “Nina is as innocent as the +little child of whom she is to-day the mother.” + +“True!” exclaimed Ferrari. “Perfectly true!” and he looked me full in +the eyes, with a smile. “White as the virgin snow on the summit of Mont +Blanc—purer than the flawless diamond—and unapproachable as the +furthest star! Is it not so?” + +I assented with a certain gravity; something in his manner puzzled me. +Our conversation soon turned on different topics, and I thought no more +of the matter. But a time came—and that speedily—when I had stern +reason to remember every word he had uttered. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Every one knows what kind of summer we had in Naples in 1884. The +newspapers of all lands teemed with the story of its horrors. The +cholera walked abroad like a destroying demon; under its withering +touch scores of people, young and old, dropped down in the streets to +die. The fell disease, born of dirt and criminal neglect of sanitary +precautions, gained on the city with awful rapidity, and worse even +than the plague was the unreasoning but universal panic. The +never-to-be-forgotten heroism of King Humbert had its effect on the +more educated classes, but among the low Neapolitan populace, abject +fear, vulgar superstition, and utter selfishness reigned supreme. One +case may serve as an example of many others. A fisherman, well known in +the place, a handsome and popular young fellow, was seized, while +working in his boat, with the first symptoms of cholera. He was carried +to his mother’s house. The old woman, a villainous-looking hag, watched +the little procession as it approached her dwelling, and taking in the +situation at once, she shut and barricaded her door. + +“_Santissima Madonna_!” she yelled, shrilly, through a half-opened +window. “Leave him in the street, the abandoned, miserable one! The +ungrateful pig! He would bring the plague to his own hard-working, +honest mother! Holy Joseph! who would have children? Leave him in the +street, I tell you!” + +It was useless to expostulate with this feminine scarecrow; her son +was, happily for himself, unconscious, and after some more wrangling he +was laid down on her doorstep, where he shortly afterward expired, his +body being afterward carted away like so much rubbish by the +_beccamorti_. + +The heat in the city was intense. The sky was a burning dome of +brilliancy, the bay was still as a glittering sheet of glass. A thin +column of smoke issuing from the crater of Vesuvius increased the +impression of an all-pervading, though imperceptible ring of fire, that +seemed to surround the place. No birds sung save in the late evening, +when the nightingales in my gardens broke out in a bubbling torrent of +melody, half joyous, half melancholy. Up on that wooded height where I +dwelt it was comparatively cool. I took all precautions necessary to +prevent the contagion from attacking our household; In fact, I would +have left the neighborhood altogether, had I not known that hasty +flight from an infected district often carries with it the possibility +of closer contact with the disease. My wife, besides, was not nervous—I +think very beautiful women seldom are. Their superb vanity is an +excellent shield to repel pestilence; it does away with the principal +element of danger—fear. As for our Stella, a toddling mite of two years +old, she was a healthy child, for whom neither her mother nor myself +entertained the least anxiety. + +Guido Ferrari came and stayed with us, and while the cholera, like a +sharp scythe put into a field of ripe corn, mowed down the dirt-loving +Neapolitans by hundreds, we three, with a small retinue of servants, +none of whom were ever permitted to visit the city, lived on +farinaceous food and distilled water, bathed regularly, rose and +retired early, and enjoyed the most perfect health. + +Among her many other attractions my wife was gifted with a beautiful +and well-trained voice. She sung with exquisite expression, and many an +evening when Guido and myself sat smoking in the garden, after little +Stella had gone to bed, Nina would ravish our ears with the music of +her nightingale notes, singing song after song, quaint _stornelli_ and +_ritornelli_—songs of the people, full of wild and passionate beauty. +In these Guido would often join her, his full barytone chiming in with +her delicate and clear soprano as deliciously as the fall of a fountain +with the trill of a bird. I can hear those two voices now; their united +melody still rings mockingly in my ears; the heavy perfume of +orange-blossom, mingled with myrtle, floats toward me on the air; the +yellow moon burns round and full in the dense blue sky, like the King +of Thule’s goblet of gold flung into a deep sea, and again I behold +those two heads leaning together, the one fair, the other dark; my +wife, my friend—those two whose lives were a million times dearer to me +than my own. Ah! they were happy days—days of self-delusion always are. +We are never grateful enough to the candid persons who wake us from our +dream—yet such are in truth our best friends, could we but realize it. + +August was the most terrible of all the summer months in Naples. The +cholera increased with frightful steadiness, and the people seemed to +be literally mad with terror. Some of them, seized with a wild spirit +of defiance, plunged into orgies of vice and intemperance with a +reckless disregard of consequences. One of these frantic revels took +place at a well-known cafe. Eight young men, accompanied by eight girls +of remarkable beauty, arrived, and ordered a private room, where they +were served with a sumptuous repast. At its close one of the party +raised his glass and proposed, “Success to the cholera!” The toast was +received with riotous shouts of applause, and all drank it with +delirious laughter. That very night every one of the revelers died in +horrible agony; their bodies, as usual, were thrust into flimsy coffins +and buried one on top of another in a hole hastily dug for the purpose. +Dismal stories like these reached us every day, but we were not +morbidly impressed by them. Stella was a living charm against +pestilence; her innocent playfulness and prattle kept us amused and +employed, and surrounded us with an atmosphere that was physically and +mentally wholesome. + +One morning—one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching month—I +woke at an earlier hour than usual. A suggestion of possible coolness +in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden. My wife +slept soundly at my side. I dressed softly, without disturbing her. As +I was about to leave the room some instinct made me turn back to look +at her once more. How lovely she was! she smiled in her sleep! My heart +beat as I gazed—she had been mine for three years—mine only!—and my +passionate admiration and love of her had increased in proportion to +that length of time. I raised one of the scattered golden locks that +lay shining like a sunbeam on the pillow, and kissed it tenderly. +Then—all unconscious of my fate—I left her. + +A faint breeze greeted me as I sauntered slowly along the garden +walks—a breath of wind scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves, yet +it had a salt savor in it that was refreshing after the tropical heat +of the past night. I was at that time absorbed in the study of Plato, +and as I walked, my mind occupied itself with many high problems and +deep questions suggested by that great teacher. Lost in a train of +profound yet pleasant thought, I strayed on further than I intended, +and found myself at last in a by-path, long disused by our household—a +winding footway leading downward in the direction of the harbor. It was +shady and cool, and I followed the road almost unconsciously, till I +caught a glimpse of masts and white sails gleaming through the leafage +of the overarching trees. I was then about to retrace my steps, when I +was startled by a sudden sound. It was a low moan of intense pain—a +smothered cry that seemed to be wrung from some animal in torture. I +turned in the direction whence it came, and saw, lying face downward on +the grass, a boy—a little fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of +age. His basket of wares stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches, +grapes, pomegranates, and melons—lovely but dangerous eating in cholera +times. I touched the lad on the shoulder. + +“What ails you?” I asked. He twisted himself convulsively and turned +his face toward me—a beautiful face, though livid with anguish. + +“The plague, _signor_!” he moaned; “the plague! Keep away from me, for +the love of God! I am dying!” + +I hesitated. For myself I had no fear. But my wife—my child—for their +sakes it was necessary to be prudent. Yet I could not leave this poor +boy unassisted. I resolved to go to the harbor in search of medical +aid. With this idea in my mind I spoke cheerfully. + +“Courage, my boy,” I said; “do not lose heart! All illness is not the +plague. Rest here till I return; I am going to fetch a doctor.” + +The little fellow looked at me with wondering, pathetic eyes, and tried +to smile. He pointed to his throat, and made an effort to speak, but +vainly. Then he crouched down in the grass and writhed in torture like +a hunted animal wounded to the death. I left him and walked on rapidly; +reaching the harbor, where the heat was sulphurous and intense, I found +a few scared-looking men standing aimlessly about, to whom I explained +the boy’s case, and appealed for assistance. They all hung back—none of +them would accompany me, not even for the gold I offered. Cursing their +cowardice, I hurried on in search of a physician, and found one at +last, a sallow Frenchman, who listened with obvious reluctance to my +account of the condition in which I had left the little fruit-seller, +and at the end shook his head decisively, and refused to move. + +“He is as good as dead,” he observed, with cold brevity. “Better call +at the house of the _Miserecordia_; the brethren will fetch his body.” + +“What!” I cried; “you will not try if you can save him?” + +The Frenchman bowed with satirical suavity. + +“Monsieur must pardon me! My own health would be seriously endangered +by touching a cholera corpse. Allow me to wish monsieur the good-day!” + +And he disappeared, shutting his door in my face. I was thoroughly +exasperated, and though the heat and the fetid odor of the sun-baked +streets made me feel faint and sick, I forgot all danger for myself as +I stood in the plague-stricken city, wondering what I should do next to +obtain succor. A grave, kind voice saluted my ear. + +“You seek aid, my son?” + +I looked up. A tall monk, whose cowl partly concealed his pale, but +resolute features, stood at my side—one of those heroes who, for the +love of Christ, came forth at that terrible time and faced the +pestilence fearlessly, where the blatant boasters of no-religion +scurried away like frightened hares from the very scent of danger. I +greeted him with an obeisance, and explained my errand. + +“I will go at once,” he said, with an accent of pity in his voice. “But +I fear the worst. I have remedies with me; I may not be too late.” + +“I will accompany you,” I said, eagerly. “One would not let a dog die +unaided; much less this poor lad, who seems friendless.” + +The monk looked at me attentively as we walked on together. + +“You are not residing in Naples?” he asked. + +I gave him my name, which he knew by repute, and described the position +of my villa. + +“Up on that height we enjoy perfect health,” I added. “I cannot +understand the panic that prevails in the city. The plague is fostered +by such cowardice.” + +“Of course!” he answered, calmly. “But what will you? The people here +love pleasure. Their hearts are set solely on this life. When death, +common to all, enters their midst, they are like babes scared by a dark +shadow. Religion itself”—here he sighed deeply—“has no hold upon them.” + +“But you, my father,” I began, and stopped abruptly, conscious of a +sharp throbbing pain in my temples. + +“I,” he answered, gravely, “am the servant of Christ. As such, the +plague has no terrors for me. Unworthy as I am, for my Master’s sake I +am ready—nay, willing—to face all deaths.” + +He spoke firmly, yet without arrogance. I looked at him in a certain +admiration, and was about to speak, when a curious dizziness overcame +me, and I caught at his arm to save myself from falling. The street +rocked like a ship at sea, and the skies whirled round me in circles of +blue fire. The feeling slowly passed, and I heard the monk’s voice, as +though it were a long way off, asking me anxiously what was the matter. +I forced a smile. + +“It is the heat, I think,” I said, in feeble tones like those of a very +aged man. “I am faint—giddy. You had best leave me here—see to the boy. +Oh, my God!” + +This last exclamation was wrung out of me by sheer anguish. My limbs +refused to support me, and a pang, cold and bitter as though naked +steel had been thrust through my body, caused me to sink down upon the +pavement in a kind of convulsion. The tall and sinewy monk, without a +moment’s hesitation, dragged me up and half carried, half led me into a +kind of auberge, or restaurant for the poorer classes. Here he placed +me in a recumbent position on one of the wooden benches, and called up +the proprietor of the place, a man to whom he seemed to be well known. +Though suffering acutely I was conscious, and could hear and see +everything that passed. + +“Attend to him well, Pietro—it is the rich Count Fabio Romani. Thou +wilt not lose by thy pains. I will return within an hour.” + +“The Count Romani! _Santissima Madonna_! He has caught the plague!” + +“Thou fool!” exclaimed the monk, fiercely. “How canst thou tell? A +stroke of the sun is not the plague, thou coward! See to him, or by St. +Peter and the keys there shall be no place for thee in heaven!” + +The trembling innkeeper looked terrified at this menace, and +submissively approached me with pillows, which he placed under my head. +The monk, meanwhile, held a glass to my lips containing some medicinal +mixture, which I swallowed mechanically. + +“Rest here, my son,” he said, addressing me in soothing tones. “These +people are good-natured. I will but hasten to the boy for whom you +sought assistance—in less than an hour I will be with you again.” + +I laid a detaining hand on his arm. + +“Stay,” I murmured, feebly, “let me know the worst. Is this the +plague?” + +“I hope not!” he replied, compassionately. “But what if it be? You are +young and strong enough to fight against it without fear.” + +“I have no fear,” I said. “But, father, promise me one thing—send no +word of my illness to my wife—swear it! Even if I am +unconscious—dead—swear that I shall not be taken to the villa. Swear +it! I cannot rest till I have your word.” + +“I swear it most willingly, my son,” he answered, solemnly. “By all I +hold sacred, I will respect your wishes.” + +I was infinitely relieved—the safety of those I loved was assured—and I +thanked him by a mute gesture. I was too weak to say more. He +disappeared, and my brain wandered into a chaos of strange fancies. Let +me try to revolve these delusions. I plainly see the interior of the +common room where I lie. There is the timid innkeeper—he polishes his +glasses and bottles, casting ever and anon a scared glance in my +direction. Groups of men look in at the door, and, seeing me, hurry +away. I observe all this—I know where I am—yet I am also climbing the +steep passes of an Alpine gorge—the cold snow is at my feet—I hear the +rush and roar of a thousand torrents. A crimson cloud floats above the +summit of a white glacier—it parts asunder gradually, and in its bright +center a face smiles forth! “Nina! my love, my wife, my soul!” I cry +aloud. I stretch out my arms—I clasp her!—bah! it is this good rogue of +an innkeeper who holds me in his musty embrace! I struggle with him +fiercely—pantingly. + +“Fool!” I shriek in his ear. “Let me go to her—her lips pout for +kisses—let me go!” + +Another man advances and seizes me; he and the innkeeper force me back +on the pillows—they overcome me, and the utter incapacity of a terrible +exhaustion steals away my strength. I cease to struggle. Pietro and his +assistant look down upon me. + +“_E morto_!” they whisper one to the other. + +I hear them and smile. Dead? Not I! The scorching sunlight streams +through the open door of the inn—the thirsty flies buzz with persistent +loudness—some voices are singing “_La Fata di Amalfi_”—I can +distinguish the words— + +“Chiagnarò la mia sventura +Si non tuorne chiù, Rosella! +Tu d’ Amalfi la chiù bella, +Tu na Fata sì pe me! +Viene, vie, regina mie, +Viene curre a chisto core, +Ca non c’è non c’è sciore, +Non c’è stella comm’a te!”[1] + + + [1] A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect. + + +That is a true song, Nina _mia_! “_Non c’è Stella comm’ a te_!” What +did Guido say? “Purer than the flawless diamond—unapproachable as the +furthest star!” That foolish Pietro still polishes his wine-bottles. I +see him—his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but I cannot +understand how he comes to be here at all, for I am on the banks of a +tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy alligators lie +asleep in the sun. Their large jaws are open—their small eyes glitter +greenly. A light boat glides over the silent water—in it I behold the +erect lithe figure of an Indian. His features are strangely similar to +those of Guido. He draws a long thin shining blade of steel as he +approaches. Brave fellow!—he means to attack single-handed the cruel +creatures who lie in wait for him on the sultry shore. He springs to +land—I watch him with a weird fascination. He passes the alligators—he +seems not to be aware of their presence—he comes with swift, +unhesitating step to _me_—it is I whom he seeks—it is in _my_ heart +that he plunges the cold steel dagger, and draws it out again dripping +with blood! Once—twice—thrice!—and yet I cannot die! I writhe—I moan in +bitter anguish! Then something dark comes between me and the glaring +sun—something cool and shadowy, against which I fling myself +despairingly. Two dark eyes look steadily into mine, and a voice +speaks: + +“Be calm, my son, be calm. Commend thyself to Christ!” + +It is my friend the monk. I recognize him gladly. He has returned from +his errand of mercy. Though I can scarcely speak, I hear myself asking +for news of the boy. The holy man crosses himself devoutly. + +“May his young soul rest in peace! I found him dead.” + +I am dreamily astonished at this. Dead—so soon! I cannot understand it; +and I drift off again into a state of confused imaginings. As I look +back now to that time, I find I have no specially distinct recollection +of what afterward happened to me. I know I suffered intense, +intolerable pain—that I was literally tortured on a rack of +excruciating anguish—and that through all the delirium of my senses I +heard a muffled, melancholy sound like a chant or prayer. I have an +idea that I also heard the tinkle of the bell that accompanies the +Host, but my brain reeled more wildly with each moment, and I cannot be +certain of this. I remember shrieking out after what seemed an eternity +of pain, “Not to the villa! no, no, not there! You shall not take me—my +curse on him who disobeys me!” + +I remember then a fearful sensation, as of being dragged into a deep +whirlpool, from whence I stretched up appealing hands and eyes to the +monk who stood above me—I caught a drowning glimpse of a silver +crucifix glittering before my gaze, and at last, with one loud cry for +help, I sunk—down—down! into an abyss of black night and nothingness! + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +There followed a long drowsy time of stillness and shadow. I seemed to +have fallen in some deep well of delicious oblivion and obscurity. +Dream-like images still flitted before my fancy—these were at first +undefinable, but after awhile they took more certain shapes. Strange +fluttering creatures hovered about me—lonely eyes stared at me from a +visible deep gloom; long white bony fingers grasping at nothing made +signs to me of warning or menace. Then—very gradually, there dawned +upon my sense of vision a cloudy red mist like a stormy sunset, and +from the middle of the blood-like haze a huge black hand descended +toward me. It pounced upon my chest—it grasped my throat in its +monstrous clutch, and held me down with a weight of iron. I struggled +violently—I strove to cry out, but that terrific pressure took from me +all power of utterance. I twisted myself to right and left in an +endeavor to escape—but my tyrant of the sable hand had bound me in on +all sides. Yet I continued to wrestle with the cruel opposing force +that strove to overwhelm me—little by little—inch by inch—so! At last! +One more struggle—victory! I woke! Merciful God! Where was I? In what +horrible atmosphere—in what dense darkness? Slowly, as my senses +returned to me, I remembered my recent illness. The monk—the man +Pietro—where were they? What had they done to me? By degrees, I +realized that I was lying straight down upon my back—the couch was +surely very hard? Why had they taken the pillows from under my head? A +pricking sensation darted through my veins—I felt my own hands +curiously—they were warm, and my pulse beat strongly, though fitfully. +But what was this that hindered my breathing? Air—air! I must have air! +I put up my hands—horror! They struck against a hard opposing substance +above me. Quick as lightning then the truth flashed upon my mind! I had +been buried—buried alive; this wooden prison that inclosed me was a +coffin! A frenzy surpassing that of an infuriated tiger took swift +possession of me—with hands and nails I tore and scratched at the +accursed boards—with all the force of my shoulders and arms I toiled to +wrench open the closed lid! My efforts were fruitless! I grew more +ferociously mad with rage and terror. How easy were all deaths compared +to one like this! I was suffocating—I felt my eyes start from their +sockets—blood sprung from my mouth and nostrils—and icy drops of sweat +trickled from my forehead. I paused, gasping for breath. Then, suddenly +nerving myself for one more wild effort, I hurled my limbs with all the +force of agony and desperation against one side of my narrow prison. It +cracked—it split asunder!—and then—a new and horrid fear beset me, and +I crouched back, panting heavily. If—if I were buried in the ground—so +ran my ghastly thoughts—of what use to break open the coffin and let in +the mold—the damp wormy mold, rich with the bones of the dead—the +penetrating mold that would choke up my mouth and eyes, and seal me +into silence forever! My mind quailed at this idea—my brain tottered on +the verge of madness! I laughed—think of it!—and my laugh sounded in my +ears like the last rattle in the throat of a dying man. But I could +breathe more easily—even in the stupefaction of my fears—I was +conscious of air. Yes!—the blessed air had rushed in somehow. Revived +and encouraged as I recognized this fact, I felt with both hands till I +found the crevice I had made, and then with frantic haste and strength +I pulled and dragged at the wood, till suddenly the whole side of the +coffin gave way, and I was able to force up the lid. I stretched out my +arms—no weight of earth impeded their movements—I felt nothing but +air—empty air. Yielding to my first strong impulse, I leaped out of the +hateful box, and fell—fell some little distance, bruising my hands and +knees on what seemed to be a stone pavement. Something weighty fell +also, with a dull crashing thud close to me. The darkness was +impenetrable. But there was breathing room, and the atmosphere was cool +and refreshing. With some pain and difficulty I raised myself to a +sitting position where I had fallen. My limbs were stiff and cramped as +well as wounded, and I shivered as with strong ague. But my senses were +clear—the tangled chain of my disordered thoughts became even and +connected—my previous mad excitement gradually calmed, and I began to +consider my condition. I had certainly been buried alive—there was no +doubt of that. Intense pain had, I suppose, resolved itself into a long +trance of unconsciousness—the people of the inn where I had been taken +ill had at once believed me to be dead of cholera, and with the +panic-stricken, indecent haste common in all Italy, especially at a +time of plague, had thrust me into one of those flimsy coffins which +were then being manufactured by scores in Naples—mere shells of thin +deal, nailed together with clumsy hurry and fear. But how I blessed +their wretched construction! Had I been laid in a stronger casket, who +knows if even the most desperate frenzy of my strength might not have +proved unavailing! I shuddered at the thought. Yet the question +remained—Where was I? I reviewed my case from all points, and for some +time could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. Stay, though! I +remembered that I had told the monk my name; he knew that I was the +only descendant of the rich Romani family. What followed? Why, +naturally, the good father had only done what his duty called upon him +to do. He had seen me laid in the vault of my ancestors—the great +Romani vault that had never been opened since my father’s body was +carried to its last resting-place with all the solemn pomp and +magnificence of a wealthy nobleman’s funeral obsequies. The more I +thought of this the more probable it seemed. The Romani vault! Its +forbidding gloom had terrified me as a lad when I followed my father’s +coffin to the stone niche assigned to it, and I had turned my eyes away +in shuddering pain when I was told to look at the heavy oaken casket +hung with tattered velvet and ornamented with tarnished silver, which +contained all that was left of my mother, who died young. I had felt +sick and faint and cold, and had only recovered myself when I stood out +again in the free air with the blue dome of heaven high above me. And +now I was shut in the same vault—a prisoner—with what hope of escape? I +reflected. The entrance to the vault, I remembered, was barred by a +heavy door of closely twisted iron—from thence a flight of steep steps +led downward—downward to where in all probability I now was. Suppose I +could in the dense darkness feel my way to those steps and climb up to +that door—of what avail? It was locked—nay, barred—and as it was +situated in a remote part of the burial-ground, there was no likelihood +of even the keeper of the cemetery passing by it for days—perhaps not +for weeks. Then must I starve? Or die of thirst? Tortured by these +imaginings, I rose up from the pavement and stood erect. My feet were +bare, and the cold stone on which I stood chilled me to the marrow. It +was fortunate for me, I thought, that they had buried me as a cholera +corpse—they had left me half-clothed for fear of infection. That is, I +had my flannel shirt on and my usual walking trousers. Something there +was, too, round my neck; I felt it, and as I did so a flood of sweet +and sorrowful memories rushed over me. It was a slight gold chain, and +on it hung a locket containing the portraits of my wife and child. I +drew it out in the darkness; I covered it with passionate kisses and +tears—the first I had shed since my death—like trance-tears scalding +and bitter welled into my eyes. Life was worth living while Nina’s +smile lightened the world! I resolved to fight for existence, no matter +what dire horrors should be yet in store for me. Nina—my love—my +beautiful one! Her face gleamed out upon me in the pestilent gloom of +the charnel-house; her eyes beckoned me—her young faithful eyes that +were now, I felt sure, drowned in weeping for my supposed death. I +seemed to see my tender-hearted darling sobbing alone in the empty +silence of the room that had witnessed a thousand embraces between +herself and me; her lovely hair disheveled; her sweet face pale and +haggard with the bitterness of grief! Baby Stella, too, no doubt she +would wonder, poor innocent! why I did not come to swing her as usual +under the orange boughs. And Guido—brave and true friend! I thought of +him with tenderness. I felt I knew how deep and lasting would be his +honest regret for my loss. Oh, I would leave no means of escape +untried; I would find some way out of this grim vault! How overjoyed +they would all be to see me again—to know that I was not dead after +all! What a welcome I should receive! How Nina would nestle into my +arms; how my little child would cling to me; how Guido would clasp me +by the hand! I smiled as I pictured the scene of rejoicing at the dear +old villa—the happy home sanctified by perfect friendship and faithful +love! + +A deep hollow sound booming suddenly on my ears startled me—one! two! +three! I counted the strokes up to twelve. It was some church bell +tolling the hour. My pleasing fancies dispersed—I again faced the drear +reality of my position. Twelve o’clock! Midday or midnight? I could not +tell. I began to calculate. It was early morning when I had been taken +ill—not much past eight when I had met the monk and sought his +assistance for the poor little fruit-seller who had after all perished +alone in his sufferings. Now supposing my illness had lasted some +hours, I might have fallen into a trance—died—as those around me had +thought, somewhere about noon. In that case they would certainly have +buried me with as little delay as possible—before sunset at all events. +Thinking these points over one by one, I came to the conclusion that +the bell I had just heard must have struck midnight—the midnight of the +very day of my burial. I shivered; a kind of nervous dread stole over +me. I have always been physically courageous, but at the same time, in +spite of my education, I am somewhat superstitious—what Neapolitan is +not? it runs in the southern blood. And there was something unutterably +fearful in the sound of that midnight bell clanging harshly on the ears +of a man pent up alive in a funeral vault with the decaying bodies of +his ancestors close within reach of his hand! I tried to conquer my +feelings—to summon up my fortitude. I endeavored to reason out the best +method of escape. I resolved to feel my way, if possible, to the steps +of the vault, and with this idea in my mind I put out my hands and +began to move along slowly and with the utmost care. What was that? I +stopped; I listened; the blood curdled in my veins! A shrill cry, +piercing, prolonged, and melancholy, echoed through the hollow arches +of my tomb. A cold perspiration broke out all over my body—my heart +beat so loudly that I could hear it thumping against my ribs. +Again—again—that weird shriek, followed by a whir and flap of wings. I +breathed again. + +“It is an owl,” I said to myself, ashamed of my fears; “a poor innocent +bird—a companion and watcher of the dead, and therefore its voice is +full of sorrowful lamentation—but it is harmless,” and I crept on with +increased caution. Suddenly out of the dense darkness there stared two +large yellow eyes, glittering with fiendish hunger and cruelty. For a +moment I was startled, and stepped back; the creature flew at me with +the ferocity of a tiger-cat! I fought with the horrible thing in all +directions; it wheeled round my head, it pounced toward my face, it +beat me with its large wings—wings that I could feel but not see; the +yellow eyes alone shone in the thick gloom like the eyes of some +vindictive demon! I struck at it right and left—the revolting combat +lasted some moments—I grew sick and dizzy, yet I battled on recklessly. +At last, thank Heaven! the huge owl was vanquished; it fluttered +backward and downward, apparently exhausted, giving one wild screech of +baffled fury, as its lamp-like eyes disappeared in the darkness. +Breathless, but not subdued—every nerve in my body quivering with +excitement—I pursued my way, as I thought, toward the stone staircase +feeling the air with my outstretched hands as I groped along. In a +little while I met with an obstruction—it was hard and cold—a stone +wall, surely? I felt it up and down and found a hollow in it—was this +the first step of the stair? I wondered; it seemed very high. I touched +it cautiously—suddenly I came in contact with something soft and clammy +to the touch like moss or wet velvet. Fingering this with a kind of +repulsion, I soon traced out the oblong shape of a coffin. Curiously +enough, I was not affected much by the discovery. I found myself +monotonously counting the bits of raised metal which served, as I +judged, for its ornamentation. Eight bits lengthwise—and the soft wet +stuff between—four bits across; then a pang shot through me, and I drew +my hand away quickly, as I considered—_whose_ coffin was this? My +father’s? Or was I thus plucking, like a man in delirium, at the +fragments of velvet on that cumbrous oaken casket wherein lay the +sacred ashes of my mother’s perished beauty? I roused myself from the +apathy into which I had fallen. All the pains I had taken to find my +way through the vault were wasted; I was lost in the profound gloom, +and knew not where to turn. The horror of my situation presented itself +to me with redoubled force. I began to be tormented with thirst. I fell +on my knees and groaned aloud. + +“God of infinite mercy!” I cried. “Saviour of the world! By the souls +of the sacred dead whom Thou hast in Thy holy keeping, have pity upon +me! Oh, my mother! if indeed thine earthly remains are near me—think of +me, sweet angel in that heaven where thy spirit dwells at rest—plead +for me and save me, or let me die now and be tortured no more!” + +I uttered these words aloud, and the sound of my wailing voice ringing +through the somber arches of the vault was strange and full of +fantastic terror to my own ears. I knew that were my agony much further +prolonged I should go mad. And I dared not picture to myself the +frightful things which a maniac might be capable of, shut up in such a +place of death and darkness, with moldering corpses for companions! I +remained on my knees, my face buried in my hands. I forced myself into +comparative calmness, and strove to preserve the equilibrium of my +distracted mind. Hush! What exquisite far-off floating voice of cheer +was that? I raised my head and listened, entranced! + +“Jug, jug, Jug! lodola, lodola! trill-lil-lil! sweet, sweet, sweet!” + +It was a nightingale. Familiar, delicious, angel-throated bird! How I +blessed thee in that dark hour of despair! How I praised God for thine +innocent existence! How I sprung up and laughed and wept for joy, as, +all unconscious of me, thou didst shake out a shower of pearly +warblings on the breast of the soothed air! Heavenly messenger of +consolation!—even now I think of thee with tenderness—for thy sweet +sake all birds possess me as their worshiper; humanity has grown +hideous in my sight, but the singing-life of the woods and hills—how +pure, how fresh!—the nearest thing to happiness on this side heaven! + +A rush of strength and courage invigorated me. A new idea entered my +brain. I determined to follow the voice of the nightingale. It sung on +sweetly, encouragingly—and I began afresh my journeyings through the +darkness. I fancied that the bird was perched on one of the trees +outside the entrance of the vault, and that if I tried to get within +closer hearing of its voice, I should most likely be thus guided to the +very staircase I had been so painfully seeking. I stumbled along +slowly. I felt feeble, and my limbs shook under me. This time nothing +impeded my progress; the nightingale’s liquid notes floated nearer and +nearer, and hope, almost exhausted, sprung up again in my heart. I was +scarcely conscious of my own movements. I seemed to be drawn along like +one in a dream by the golden thread of the bird’s sweet singing. All at +once I caught my foot against a stone and fell forward with some force, +but I felt no pain—my limbs were too numb to be sensible of any fresh +suffering. I raised my heavy, aching eyes in the darkness; as I did so +I uttered an exclamation of thanksgiving. A slender stream of +moonlight, no thicker than the stem of an arrow, slanted downward +toward me, and showed me that I had at last reached the spot I +sought—in fact, I had fallen upon the lowest step of the stone +stairway. I could not distinguish the entrance door of the vault, but I +knew that it must be at the summit of the steep ascent. I was too weary +to move further just then. I lay still where I was, staring at the +solitary moon-ray, and listening to the nightingale, whose rapturous +melodies now rang out upon my ears with full distinctness. _One_! The +harsh-toned bell I had heard before clanged forth the hour. It would +soon be morning; I resolved to rest till then. Utterly worn out in body +and mind, I laid down my head upon the cold stones as readily as if +they had been the softest cushions, and in a few moments forgot all my +miseries in a profound sleep. + + +I must have slumbered for some time, when I was suddenly awakened by a +suffocating sensation of faintness and nausea, accompanied by a sharp +pain on my neck as though some creatures were stinging me. I put my +hand up to the place—God! shall I ever forget the feel of the _thing_ +my trembling fingers closed upon! It was fastened in my flesh—a winged, +clammy, breathing horror! It clung to me with a loathly persistency +that nearly drove me frantic, and wild with disgust and terror I +screamed aloud! I closed both hands convulsively upon its fat, soft +body—I literally tore it from my flesh and flung it as far back as I +could into the interior blackness of the vault. For a time I believe I +was indeed mad—the echoes rang with the piercing shrieks I could not +restrain! Silent at last through sheer exhaustion I glared about me. +The moonbeam had vanished, in its place lay a shaft of pale gray light, +by which I could easily distinguish the whole length of the staircase +and the closed gateway at its summit. I rushed up the ascent with the +feverish haste of a madman—I grasped the iron grating with both hands +and shook it fiercely. It was firm as a rock, locked fast. I called for +help. Utter silence answered me. I peered through the closely twisted +bars. I saw the grass, the drooping boughs of trees, and straight +before my line of vision a little piece of the blessed sky, opal tinted +and faintly blushing with the consciousness of the approaching sunrise. +I drank in the sweet fresh air, a long trailing branch of the wild +grape vine hung near me; its leaves were covered thickly with dew. I +squeezed one hand through the grating and gathered a few of these green +morsels of coolness—I ate them greedily. They seemed to me more +delicious than any thing I had ever tasted, they relieved the burning +fever of my parched throat and tongue. The glimpse of the trees and sky +soothed and calmed me. There was a gentle twittering of awaking birds, +my nightingale had ceased singing. + +I began to recover slowly from my nervous terrors, and leaning against +the gloomy arch of my charnel house I took courage to glance backward +down the steep stairway up which I had sprung with such furious +precipitation. Something white lay in a corner on the seventh step from +the top. Curious to see what it was, I descended cautiously and with +some reluctance; it was the half of a thick waxen taper, such as are +used in the Catholic ritual at the burial of the dead. No doubt it had +been thrown down there by some careless acolyte, to save himself the +trouble of carrying it after the service had ended. I looked at it +meditatively. If I only had a light! I plunged my hands half +abstractedly into the pockets of my trousers—something jingled! Truly +they had buried me in haste. My purse, a small bunch of keys, my +card-case—one by one I drew them out and examined them surprisedly—they +looked so familiar, and withal so strange! I searched again; and this +time found something of real value to one in my condition—a small box +of wax vestas. Now, had they left me my cigar-case? No, that was gone. +It was a valuable silver one—no doubt the monk, who attended my +supposed last moments, had taken it, together with my watch and chain, +to my wife. + +Well, I could not smoke, but I could strike a light. And there was the +funeral taper ready for use. The sun had not yet risen. I must +certainly wait till broad day before I could hope to attract by my +shouts any stray person who might pass through the cemetery. Meanwhile, +a fantastic idea suggested itself. I would go and look at my own +coffin! Why not? It would be a novel experience. The sense of fear had +entirely deserted me; the possession of that box of matches was +sufficient to endow me with absolute hardihood. I picked up the +church-candle and lighted it; it gave at first a feeble flicker, but +afterward burned with a clear and steady flame. Shading it with one +hand from the draught, I gave a parting glance at the fair daylight +that peeped smilingly in through my prison door, and then went +down—down again into the dismal place where I had passed the night in +such indescribable agony. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Numbers of lizards glided away from my feet as I descended the steps, +and when the flare of my torch penetrated the darkness I heard a +scurrying of wings mingled with various hissing sounds and wild cries. +I knew now—none better—what weird and abominable things had habitation +in this storehouse of the dead, but I felt I could defy them all, armed +with the light I carried. The way that had seemed so long in the dense +gloom was brief and easy, and I soon found myself at the scene of my +unexpected awakening from sleep. The actual body of the vault was +square-shaped, like a small room inclosed within high walls—walls which +were scooped out in various places so as to form niches in which the +narrow caskets containing the bones of all the departed members of the +Romani family were placed one above the other like so many bales of +goods arranged evenly on the shelves of an ordinary warehouse. I held +the candle high above my head and looked about me with a morbid +interest. I soon perceived what I sought—my own coffin. + +There it was in a niche some five feet from the ground, its splintered +portions bearing decided witness to the dreadful struggle I had made to +obtain my freedom. I advanced and examined it closely. It was a frail +shell enough—unlined, unornamented—a wretched sample of the +undertaker’s art, though God knows _I_ had no fault to find with its +workmanship, nor with the haste of him who fashioned it. Something +shone at the bottom of it—it was a crucifix of ebony and silver. That +good monk again! His conscience had not allowed him to see me buried +without this sacred symbol; he had perhaps laid it on my breast as the +last service he could render me; it had fallen from thence, no doubt, +when I had wrenched my way through the boards that inclosed me. I took +it and kissed it reverently—I resolved that if ever I met the holy +father again, I would tell him my story, and, as a proof of its truth, +restore to him this cross, which he would be sure to recognize. Had +they put my name on the coffin-lid? I wondered. Yes, there it +was—painted on the wood in coarse, black letters, “_Fabio Romani_”—then +followed the date of my birth; then a short Latin inscription, stating +that I had died of cholera on August 15, 1884. That was yesterday—only +yesterday! I seemed to have lived a century since then. + +I turned to look at my father’s resting-place. The velvet on his coffin +hung from its sides in moldering remnants—but it was not so utterly +damp-destroyed and worm-eaten as the soaked and indistinguishable +material that still clung to the massive oaken chest in the next niche, +where _she_ lay—she from whose tender arms I had received my first +embrace—she in whose loving eyes I had first beheld the world! I knew +by a sort of instinct that it must have been with the frayed fragments +on her coffin that my fingers had idly played in the darkness. I +counted as before the bits of metal—eight bits length-wise, and four +bits across—and on my father’s close casket there were ten silver +plates lengthwise and five across. My poor little mother! I thought of +her picture—it hung in my library at home; the picture of a young, +smiling, dark-haired beauty, whose delicate tint was as that of a peach +ripening in the summer sun. All that loveliness had decayed into—what? +I shuddered involuntarily—then I knelt humbly before those two sad +hollows in the cold stone, and implored the blessing of the dead and +gone beloved ones to whom, while they lived, my welfare had been dear. +While I occupied this kneeling position the flame of my torch fell +directly on some small object that glittered with remarkable luster. I +went to examine it; it was a jeweled pendant composed of one large +pear-shaped pearl, set round with fine rose brilliants! Surprised at +this discovery, I looked about to see where such a valuable gem could +possibly have come from. I then noticed an unusually large coffin lying +sideways on the ground; it appeared as if it had fallen suddenly and +with force, for a number of loose stones and mortar were sprinkled near +it. Holding the light close to the ground, I observed that a niche +exactly below the one in which _I_ had been laid was empty, and that a +considerable portion of the wall there was broken away. I then +remembered that when I had sprung so desperately out of my narrow box I +had heard something fall with a crash beside me. This was the thing, +then—this long coffin, big enough to contain a man seven feet high and +broad in proportion. What gigantic ancestor had I irreverently +dislodged?—and was it from a skeleton throat that the rare jewel which +I held in my hand had been accidentally shaken? + +My curiosity was excited, and I bent close to examine the lid of this +funeral chest. There was no name on it—no mark of any sort, save one—a +dagger roughly painted in red. Here was a mystery! I resolved to +penetrate it. I set up my candle in a little crevice of one of the +empty niches, and laid the pearl and diamond pendant beside it, thus +disembarrassing myself of all incumbrance. The huge coffin lay on its +side, as I have said; its uppermost corner was splintered; I applied +both hands to the work of breaking further asunder these already split +portions. As I did so a leathern pouch or bag rolled out and fell at my +feet. I picked it up and opened it—it was full of gold pieces! More +excited than ever, I seized a large pointed stone, and by the aid of +this extemporized instrument, together with the force of my own arms, +hands, and feet, I managed, after some ten minutes’ hard labor, to +break open the mysterious casket. + +When I had accomplished this deed I stared at the result like a man +stupefied. No moldering horror met my gaze—no blanched or decaying +bones; no grinning skull mocked me with its hollow eye-sockets. I +looked upon a treasure worthy of an emperor’s envy! The big coffin was +literally lined and packed with incalculable wealth. Fifty large +leathern bags tied with coarse cord lay uppermost; more than half of +these were crammed with gold coins, the rest were full of priceless +gems—necklaces, tiaras, bracelets, watches, chains, and other articles +of feminine adornment were mingled with loose precious stones—diamonds, +rubies, emeralds, and opals, some of unusual size and luster, some +uncut, and some all ready for the jeweler’s setting. Beneath these bags +were packed a number of pieces of silk, velvet, and cloth of gold, each +piece being wrapped by itself in a sort of oil-skin, strongly perfumed +with camphor and other spices. There were also three lengths of old +lace, fine as gossamer, of matchless artistic design, in perfect +condition. Among these materials lay two large trays of solid gold +workmanship, most exquisitely engraved and ornamented, also four gold +drinking-cups, of quaint and massive construction. Other valuables and +curious trifles there were, such as an ivory statuette of Psyche on a +silver pedestal, a waistband of coins linked together, a painted fan +with a handle set in amber and turquois, a fine steel dagger in a +jeweled sheath, and a mirror framed in old pearls. Last, but not least, +at the very bottom of the chest lay rolls upon rolls of paper money +amounting to some millions of francs—in all far surpassing what I had +myself formerly enjoyed from my own revenues. I plunged my hands deep +in the leathern bags; I fingered the rich materials; all this treasure +was mine! I had found it in my own burial vault! I had surely the right +to consider it as my property? I began to consider—how could it have +been placed there without my knowledge? The answer to this question +occurred to me at once. Brigands! Of course!—what a fool I was not to +have thought of them before; the dagger painted on the lid of the chest +should have guided me to the solution of the mystery. A red dagger was +the recognized sign-manual of a bold and dangerous brigand named +Carmelo Neri, who, with his reckless gang, haunted the vicinity of +Palermo. + +“So!” I thought, “this is one of your bright ideas, my cut-throat +Carmelo! Cunning rogue! you calculated well—you thought that none would +disturb the dead, much less break open a coffin in search of gold. +Admirably planned, my Carmelo! But this time you must play a losing +game! A supposed dead man coming to life again deserves something for +his trouble, and I should be a fool not to accept the goods the gods +and the robbers provide. An ill-gotten hoard of wealth, no doubt; but +better in my hands than in yours friend Carmelo!” + +And I meditated for some minutes on this strange affair. If, indeed—and +I saw no reason to doubt it—I had chanced to find some of the spoils of +the redoubtable Neri, this great chest must have been brought over by +sea from Palermo. Probably four stout rascals had carried the supposed +coffin in a mock solemn procession, under the pretense of its +containing the body of a comrade. These thieves have a high sense of +humor. Yet the question remained to be solved—How had they gained +access to _my_ ancestral vault, unless by means of a false key? All at +once I was left in darkness. My candle went out as though blown upon by +a gust of air. I had my matches, and of course could easily light it +again, but I was puzzled to imagine the cause of its sudden extinction. +I looked about me in the temporary gloom and saw, to my surprise, a ray +of light proceeding from a corner of the very niche where I had fixed +the candle between two stones. I approached and put my hand to the +place; a strong draught blew through a hole large enough to admit the +passage of three fingers. I quickly relighted my torch, and examining +this hole and the back of the niche attentively, found that four blocks +of granite in the wall had been removed and their places supplied by +thick square logs cut from the trunks of trees. These logs were quite +loosely fitted. I took them out easily one by one, and then came upon a +close pile of brushwood. As I gradually cleared this away a large +aperture disclosed itself wide enough for any man to pass through +without trouble. My heart beat with the rapture of expected liberty; I +clambered up—I looked—thank God! I saw the landscape—the sky! In two +minutes I stood outside the vault on the soft grass, with the high arch +of heaven above me, and the broad Bay of Naples glittering deliciously +before my eyes! I clapped my hands and shouted for pure joy! I was +free! Free to return to life, to love, to the arms of my beautiful +Nina—free to resume the pleasant course of existence on the gladsome +earth—free to forget, if I could, the gloomy horrors of my premature +burial. If Carmelo Neri had heard the blessings I heaped upon his +head—he would for once have deemed himself a saint rather than a +brigand. What did I not owe to the glorious ruffian! Fortune and +freedom! for it was evident that this secret passage into the Romani +vault had been cunningly contrived by himself or his followers for +their own private purposes. Seldom has any man been more grateful to +his best benefactor than I was to the famous thief upon whose grim +head, as I knew, a price had been set for many months. The poor wretch +was in hiding. Well! the authorities should get no aid from me, I +resolved; even if I were to discover his whereabouts. Why should I +betray him? He had unconsciously done more for me than my best friend. +Nay, what friends will you find at all in the world when you need +substantial good? Few, or none. Touch the purse—test the heart! + +What castles in the air I built as I stood rejoicing in the morning +light and my newly acquired liberty—what dreams of perfect happiness +flitted radiantly before my fancy! Nina and I would love each other +more fondly than before, I thought—our separation had been brief, but +terrible—and the idea of what it might have been would endear us to one +another with tenfold fervor. And little Stella! Why—this very evening I +would swing her again under the orange boughs and listen to her sweet +shrill laughter! This very evening I would clasp Guido’s hand in a +gladness too great for words! This very night my wife’s fair head would +lie pillowed on my breast in an ecstatic silence broken only by the +music of kisses. Ah! my brain grew dizzy with the joyful visions that +crowded thickly and dazzlingly upon me! The sun had risen—his long +straight beams, like golden spears, touched the tops of the green +trees, and roused little flashes as of red and blue fire on the shining +surface of the bay. I heard the rippling of water and the measured soft +dash of oars; and somewhere from a distant boat the mellifluous voice +of a sailor sung a verse of the popular _ritornello_— + +“Sciore d’amenta +Sta parolella mia tieul’ ammento + Zompa llarì llirà! +Sciore limone! +Le voglio fa mori de passione + Zompa llarì llirà!”[2] + + + [2] Neapolitan dialect + + +I smiled—“_Mori de passione_!” Nina and I would know the meaning of +those sweet words when the moon rose and the nightingales sung their +love-songs to the dreaming flowers! Full of these happy fancies, I +inhaled the pure morning air for some minutes, and then re-entered the +vault. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +The first thing I did was to repack all the treasures I had discovered. +This work was easily accomplished. For the present I contented myself +with taking two of the leathern bags for my own use, one full of gold +pieces, the other of jewels. The chest had been strongly made, and was +not much injured by being forced open. I closed its lid as tightly as +possible, and dragged it to a remote and dark corner of the vault, +where I placed three heavy stones upon it. I then took the two leathern +pouches I had selected, and stuffed one in each of the pockets of my +trousers. The action reminded me of the scantiness of attire in which I +stood arrayed. Could I be seen in the public roads in such a plight? I +examined my purse, which, as I before stated, had been left to me, +together with my keys and card-case, by the terrified persons who had +huddled me into my coffin with such scant ceremony. It contained two +twenty-franc pieces and some loose silver. Enough to buy a decent +costume of some sort. But where could I make the purchase, and how? +Must I wait till evening and slink out of this charnel-house like the +ghost of a wretched criminal? No! come what would, I made up my mind +not to linger a moment longer in the vault. The swarms of beggars that +infest Naples exhibit themselves in every condition of rags, dirt, and +misery; at the very worst I could only be taken for one of them. And +whatever difficulties I might encounter, no matter!—they would soon be +over. + +Satisfied that I had placed the brigand coffin in a safe position, I +secured the pearl and diamond pendant I had first found, to the chain +round my neck. I intended this ornament as a gift for my wife. Then, +once more climbing through the aperture, I closed it completely with +the logs and brushwood as it was before, and examining it narrowly from +the outside, I saw that it was utterly impossible to discern the +smallest hint of any entrance to a subterranean passage, so well and +cunningly had it been contrived. Now, nothing more remained for me to +do but to make the best of my way to the city, there to declare my +identity, obtain food and clothes, and then to hasten with all possible +speed to my own residence. + +Standing on a little hillock, I looked about me to see which direction +I should take. The cemetery was situated on the outskirts of +Naples—Naples itself lay on my left hand. I perceived a sloping road +winding in that direction, and judged that if I followed it it would +lead me to the city suburbs. Without further hesitation I commenced my +walk. It was now full day. My bare feet sunk deep in the dust that was +hot as desert sand—the blazing sun beat down fiercely on my uncovered +head, but I felt none of these discomforts; my heart was too full of +gladness. I could have sung aloud for delight as I stepped swiftly +along toward home—and Nina! I was aware of a great weakness in my +limbs—my eyes and head ached with the strong dazzling light; +occasionally, too, an icy shiver ran through me that made my teeth +chatter. But I recognized these symptoms as the after effects of my so +nearly fatal illness, and I paid no heed to them. A few weeks’ rest +under my wife’s loving care, and I knew I should be as well as ever. I +stepped on bravely. For some time I met no one, but at last I overtook +a small cart laden with freshly gathered grapes. The driver lay on his +seat asleep; his pony meanwhile cropped the green herbage by the +roadside, and every now and then shook the jingling bells on his +harness as though expressing the satisfaction he felt at being left to +his own devices. The piled-up grapes looked tempting, and I was both +hungry and thirsty. I laid a hand on the sleeping man’s shoulder; he +awoke with a start. Seeing me, his face assumed an expression of the +wildest terror; he jumped from his cart and sunk down on his knees in +the dust, imploring me by the Madonna, St. Joseph, and all the saints +to spare his life. I laughed; his fears seemed to me ludicrous. Surely +there was nothing alarming about me beyond my paucity of clothing. + +“Get up, man!” I said. “I want nothing of you but a few grapes, and for +them I will pay.” And I held out to him a couple of francs. He rose +from the dust, still trembling and eying me askance with evident +suspicion, took several bunches of the purple fruit, and gave them to +me without saying a word. Then, pocketing the money I proffered, he +sprung into his cart, and lashing his pony till the unfortunate animal +plunged and reared with pain and fury, rattled off down the road at +such a break-neck speed that I saw nothing but a whirling blot of +wheels disappearing in the distance. I was amused at the absurdity of +this man’s terror. What did he take me for, I wondered? A ghost or a +brigand? I ate my grapes leisurely as I walked along—they were +deliciously cool and refreshing—food and wine in one. I met several +other persons as I neared the city, market people and venders of +ices—but they took no note of me—in fact, I avoided them all as much as +possible. On reaching the suburbs I turned into the first street I saw +that seemed likely to contain a few shops. It was close and dark and +foul-smelling, but I had not gone far down it when I came upon the sort +of place I sought—a wretched tumble-down hovel, with a partly broken +window, through which a shabby array of second-hand garments were to be +dimly perceived, strung up for show on pieces of coarse twine. It was +one of those dirty dens where sailors, returning from long voyages, +frequently go to dispose of the various trifles they have picked up in +foreign countries, so that among the forlorn specimens of second-hand +wearing apparel many quaint and curious objects were to be seen, such +as shells, branches of rough coral, strings of beads, cups and dishes +carved out of cocoa-nut, dried gourds, horns of animals, fans, stuffed +parakeets, and old coins—while a grotesque wooden idol peered hideously +forth from between the stretched-out portions of a pair of old nankeen +trousers, as though surveying the miscellaneous collection in idiotic +amazement. An aged man sat smoking at the open door of this promising +habitation—a true specimen of a Neapolitan grown old. The skin of his +face was like a piece of brown parchment scored all over with deep +furrows and wrinkles, as though Time, disapproving of the history he +had himself penned upon it, had scratched over and blotted out all +records, so that no one should henceforth be able to read what had once +been clear writing. The only animation left in him seemed to have +concentrated itself in his eyes, which were black and bead-like, and +roved hither and thither with a glance of ever-restless and +ever-suspicious inquiry. He saw me coming toward him, but he pretended +to be absorbed in a profound study of the patch of blue sky that +gleamed between the closely leaning houses of the narrow street. I +accosted him—and he brought his gaze swiftly down to my level, and +stared at me with keen inquisitiveness. + +“I have had a long tramp,” I said, briefly, for he was not the kind of +man to whom I could explain my recent terrible adventure, “and I have +lost some of my clothes by an accident on the way. Can you sell me a +suit? Anything will do—I am not particular.” + +The old man took his pipe from his mouth. + +“Do you fear the plague?” he asked. + +“I have just recovered from an attack of it,” I replied, coolly. + +He looked at me attentively from head to foot, and then broke into a +low chuckling laugh. + +“Ha! ha!” he muttered, half to himself, half to me. “Good—good! Here is +one like myself—not afraid—not afraid! We are not cowards. We do not +find fault with the blessed saints—they send the plague. The beautiful +plague!—I love it! I buy all the clothes I can get that are taken from +the corpses—they are nearly always excellent clothes. I never clean +them—I sell them again at once—yes—yes! Why not? The people must +die—the sooner the better! I help the good God as much as I can.” And +the old blasphemer crossed himself devoutly. + +I looked down upon him from where I stood drawn up to my full height, +with a glance of disgust. He filled me with something of the same +repulsion I had felt when I touched the unnameable Thing that fastened +on my neck while I slept in the vault. + +“Come!” I said, somewhat roughly, “will you sell me a suit or no?” + +“Yes, yes!” and he rose stiffly from his seat; he was very short of +stature, and so bent with age and infirmity that he looked more like +the crooked bough of a tree than a man, as he hobbled before me into +his dark shop. “Come inside, come inside! Take your choice; there is +enough here to suit all tastes. See now, what would you? Behold here +the dress of a gentleman, ah! what beautiful cloth, what strong wool! +English make? Yes, yes! He was English that wore it; a big, strong +milord, that drank beer and brandy like water—and rich—just heaven!—how +rich! But the plague took him; he died cursing God, and calling bravely +for more brandy. Ha, ha! a fine death—a splendid death! His landlord +sold me his clothes for three francs—one, two, three—but you must give +me six; that is fair profit, is it not? And I am old and poor. I must +make something to live upon.” + +I threw aside the tweed suit he displayed for my inspection. “Nay,” I +said, “I care nothing for the plague, but find me something better than +the cast-off clothing of a brandy-soaked Englishman. I would rather +wear the motley garb of a fellow who played the fool in carnival.” + +The old dealer laughed with a crackling sound in his withered throat, +like the rattling of stones in a tin pot. + +“Good, good!” he croaked. “I like that, I like that! Thou art old, but +thou art merry. That pleases me; one should laugh always. Why not? +Death laughs; you never see a solemn skull; it laughs always!” + +And he plunged his long lean fingers into a deep drawer full of +miscellaneous garments, mumbling to himself all the while. I stood +beside him in silence, pondering on his words, “Thou art _old_, but +merry.” What did he mean by calling _me_ old? He must be blind, I +thought, or in his dotage. Suddenly he looked up. + +“Talking of the plague,” he said, “it is not always wise. It did a +foolish thing yesterday—a very foolish thing. It took one of the +richest men in the neighborhood, young too, strong and brave; looked as +if he would never die. The plague touched him in the morning—before +sunset he was nailed up and put down in his big family vault—a cold +lodging, and less handsomely furnished than his grand marble villa on +the heights yonder. When I heard the news I told the Madonna she was +wicked. Oh, yes! I rated her soundly; she is a woman, and capricious; a +good scolding brings her to reason. Look you! I am a friend to God and +the plague, but they both did a stupid thing when they took Count Fabio +Romani.” + +I started, but quickly controlled myself into an appearance of +indifference. + +“Indeed!” I said, carelessly. “And pray who was he that he should not +deserve to die as well as other people?” + +The old man raised himself from his stooping attitude, and stared at me +with his keen black eyes. + +“Who was he? who was he?” he cried, in a shrill tone. “Oh, he! One can +see you know nothing of Naples. You have not heard of the rich Romani? +See you, I wished him to live. He was clever and bold, but I did not +grudge him that—no, he was good to the poor; he gave away hundreds of +francs in charity. I have seen him often—I saw him married.” And here +his parchment face screwed itself into an expression of the most +malignant cruelty. “Pah! I hate his wife—a fair, soft thing, like a +white snake! I used to watch them both from the corners of the streets +as they drove along in their fine carriage, and I wondered how it would +all end, whether he or she would gain the victory first. I wanted _him_ +to win; I would have helped him to kill her, yes! But the saints have +made a mistake this time, for he is dead, and that she-devil has all. +Oh, yes! God and the plague have done a foolish thing for once.” + +I listened to the old wretch with deepening aversion, yet with some +curiosity too. Why should he hate my wife? I thought, unless, indeed, +he hated all youth and beauty, as was probably the case. And if he had +seen me as often as he averred he must know me by sight. How was it +then that he did not recognize me now? Following out this thought, I +said aloud: + +“What sort of looking man was this Count Romani? You say he was +handsome—was he tall or short—dark or fair?” + +Putting back his straggling gray locks from his forehead, the dealer +stretched out a yellow, claw-like hand, as though pointing to some +distant vision. + +“A beautiful man!” he exclaimed; “a man good for the eyes to see! As +straight as you are!—as tall as you are!—as broad as you are! But your +eyes are sunken and dim—his were full and large and sparkling. Your +face is drawn and pale—his was of a clear olive tint, round and flushed +with health; and his hair was glossy black—ah! as jet-black, my friend, +as yours is snow-white!” + +I recoiled from these last words in a sort of terror; they were like an +electric shock! Was I indeed so changed? Was it possible that the +horrors of a night in the vault had made such a dire impression upon +me? My hair white?—mine! I could hardly believe it. If so, perhaps Nina +would not recognize me—she might be terrified at my aspect—Guido +himself might have doubts of my identity. Though, for that matter, I +could easily prove myself to be indeed Fabio Romani—even if I had to +show the vault and my own sundered coffin. While I revolved all this in +my mind the old man, unconscious of my emotion, went on with his +mumbling chatter. + +“Ah, yes, yes! He was a fine fellow—a strong fellow. I used to rejoice +that he was so strong. He could have taken the little throat of his +wife between finger and thumb and nipped it—so! and she would have told +no more lies. I wanted him to do it—I waited for it. He would have done +it surely, had he lived. That is why I am sorry he died.” + +Mastering my feelings by a violent effort, I forced myself to speak +calmly to this malignant old brute. + +“Why do you hate the Countess Romani so much?” I asked him with +sternness. “Has she done you any harm?” + +He straightened himself as much as he was able and looked me full in +the eyes. + +“See you!” he answered, with a sort of leering laugh about the corners +of his wicked mouth. “I will tell you why I hate her—yes—I will tell +you, because you are a man and strong. I like strong men—they are +sometimes fooled by women, it is true—but then they can take revenge. I +was strong myself once. And you—you are old—but you love a jest—you +will understand. The Romani woman has done me no harm. She +laughed—once. That was when her horses knocked me down in the street. I +was hurt—but I saw her red lips widen and her white teeth glitter—she +has a baby smile—the people will tell you—so innocent! I was picked +up—her carriage drove on—her husband was not with her—he would have +acted differently. But it is no matter—I tell you she laughed—and then +I saw at once the likeness.” + +“The likeness!” I exclaimed impatiently, for his story annoyed me. +“What likeness?” + +“Between her and my wife,” the dealer replied, fixing his cruel eyes +upon me with increasing intensity of regard. “Oh, yes! I know what love +is. I know too that God had very little to do with the making of women. +It was a long time before even He could find the Madonna. Yes—yes, I +know! I tell you I married a thing as beautiful as a morning in +spring-time—with a little head that seemed to droop like a flower under +its weight of sunbeam hair—and eyes! ah—like those of a tiny child when +it looks up and asks you for kisses. I was absent once—I returned and +found her sleeping tranquilly—yes! on the breast of a black-browed +street-singer from Venice—a handsome lad enough and brave as a young +lion. He saw me and sprung at my throat—I held him down and knelt upon +his chest—she woke and gazed upon us, too terrified to speak or +scream—she only shivered and made a little moaning sound like that of a +spoiled baby. I looked down into her prostrate lover’s eyes and smiled. +‘I will not hurt you,’ I said. ‘Had she not consented, you could not +have gained the victory. All I ask of you is to remain here for a few +moments longer.’ He stared, but was mute. I bound him hand and foot so +that he could not stir. Then I took my knife and went to her. Her blue +eyes glared wide—imploringly she turned them upon me—and ever she wrung +her small hands and shivered and moaned. I plunged the keen bright +blade deep through her soft white flesh—her lover cried out in +agony—her heart’s blood welled up in a crimson tide, staining with a +bright hue the white garments she wore; she flung up her arms—she sank +back on her pillows—dead. I drew the knife from her body, and with it +cut the bonds of the Venetian boy. I then gave it to him. + +“‘Take it as a remembrance of her,’ I said. ‘In a month she would have +betrayed you as she betrayed me.’” + +“He raged like a madman. He rushed out and called the gendarmes. Of +course I was tried for murder—but it was not murder—it was justice. The +judge found extenuating circumstances. Naturally! He had a wife of his +own. He understood my case. Now you know why I hate that dainty jeweled +woman up at the Villa Romani. She is just like that other one—that +creature I slew—she has just the same slow smile and the same +child-like eyes. I tell you again, I am sorry her husband is dead—it +vexes me sorely to think of it. For he would have killed her in +time—yes!—of that I am quite sure!” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +I listened to his narrative with a pained feeling at my heart, and a +shuddering sensation as of icy cold ran through my veins. Why, I had +fancied that all who beheld Nina must, perforce, love and admire her. +True, when this old man was accidentally knocked down by her horses (a +circumstance she had never mentioned to me), it was careless of her not +to stop and make inquiry as to the extent of his injuries, but she was +young and thoughtless; she could not be intentionally heartless. I was +horrified to think that she should have made such an enemy as even this +aged and poverty-stricken wretch; but I said nothing. I had no wish to +betray myself. He waited for me to speak and grew impatient at my +silence. + +“Say now, my friend!” he queried, with a sort of childish eagerness, +“did I not take a good vengeance? God himself could not have done +better!” + +“I think your wife deserved her fate,” I said, curtly, “but I cannot +say I admire you for being her murderer.” + +He turned upon me rapidly, throwing both hands above his head with a +frantic gesticulation. His voice rose to a kind of muffled shriek. + +“Murderer you call me—ha! ha! that is good. No, no! She murdered me! I +tell you I died when I saw her asleep in her lover’s arms—she killed me +at one blow. A devil rose up in my body and took swift revenge; that +devil is in me now, a brave devil, a strong devil! That is why I do not +fear the plague; the devil in me frightens away death. Some day it will +leave me”—here his smothered yell sunk gradually to a feeble, weary +tone; “yes, it will leave me and I shall find a dark place where I can +sleep; I do not sleep much now.” He eyed me half wistfully. + +“You see,” he explained, almost gently, “my memory is very good, and +when one thinks of many things one cannot sleep. It is many years ago, +but every night I see _her_; she comes to me wringing her little white +hands, her blue eyes stare, I hear short moans of terror. Every night, +every night!” He paused, and passed his hands in a bewildered way +across his forehead. Then, like a man suddenly waking from sleep, he +stared as though he saw me now for the first time, and broke into a low +chuckling laugh. + +“What a thing, what a thing it is, the memory!” he muttered. +“Strange—strange! See, I remembered all that, and forgot you! But I +know what you want—a suit of clothes—yes, you need them badly, and I +also need the money for them. Ha, ha! And you will not have the fine +coat of _Milord Inglese_! No, no! I understand. I will find you +something—patience, patience!” + +And he began to grope among a number of things that were thrown in a +confused heap at the back of the shop. While in this attitude he looked +so gaunt and grim that he reminded me of an aged vulture stooping over +carrion, and yet there was something pitiable about him too. In a way I +was sorry for him; a poor half-witted wretch, whose life had been full +of such gall and wormwood. What a different fate was his to mine, I +thought. _I_ had endured but one short night of agony; how trifling it +seemed compared to _his_ hourly remorse and suffering! He hated Nina +for an act of thoughtlessness; well, no doubt she was not the only +woman whose existence annoyed him; it was most probably that he was at +enmity with all women. I watched him pityingly as he searched among the +worn-out garments which were his stock-in-trade, and wondered why +Death, so active in smiting down the strongest in the city, should have +thus cruelly passed by this forlorn wreck of human misery, for whom the +grave would have surely been a most welcome release and rest. He turned +round at last with an exulting gesture. + +“I have found it!” he exclaimed. “The very thing to suit you. You are +perhaps a coral-fisher? You will like a fisherman’s dress. Here is one, +red sash, cap and all, in beautiful condition! He that wore it was +about your height it will fit you as well as it fitted him, and, look +you! the plague is not in it, the sea has soaked through and through +it; it smells of the sand and weed.” + +He spread out the rough garb before me. I glanced at it carelessly. + +“Did the former wearer kill _his_ wife?” I asked, with a slight smile. + +The old rag-picker shook his head and made a sign with his outspread +fingers expressive of contempt. + +“Not he!—He was a fool—He killed himself.” + +“How was that? By accident or design?” + +“Chè! Chè! He knew very well what he was doing. It happened only two +months since. It was for the sake of a black-eyed jade, she lives and +laughs all day long up at Sorrento. He had been on a long voyage, he +brought her pearls for her throat and coral pins for her hair. She had +promised to marry him. He had just landed, he met her on the quay, he +offered her the pearl and coral trinkets. She threw them back and told +him she was tired of him. Just that—nothing more. He tried to soften +her; she raged at him like a tiger-cat. Yes, I was one of the little +crowd that stood round them on the quay, I saw it all. Her black eyes +flashed, she stamped and bit her lips at him, her full bosom heaved as +though it would burst her laced bodice. She was only a market-girl, but +she gave herself the airs of a queen. ‘I am tired of you!’ she said to +him. ‘Go! I wish to see you no more.’ He was tall and well-made, a +powerful fellow; but he staggered, his face grew pale, his lips +quivered. He bent his head a little—turned—and before any hand could +stop him he sprung from the edge of the quay into the waves, they +closed over his head, for he did not try to swim; he just sunk down, +down, like a stone. Next day his body came ashore, and I bought his +clothes for two francs; you shall have them for four.” + +“And what became of the girl?” I asked. + +“Oh, _she_! She laughs all day long, as I told you. She has a new lover +every week. What should _she_ care?” + +I drew out my purse. “I will take this suit,” I said. “You ask four +francs, here are six, but for the extra two you must show me some +private corner where I can dress.” + +“Yes, yes. But certainly!” and the old fellow trembled all over with +avaricious eagerness as I counted the silver pieces into his withered +palm. “Anything to oblige a generous stranger! There is the place I +sleep in; it is not much, but there is a mirror—_her_ mirror—the only +thing I keep of hers; come this way, come this way!” + +And stumbling hastily along, almost falling over the disordered bundles +of clothing that lay about in all directions, he opened a little door +that seemed to be cut in the wall, and led me into a kind of close +cupboard, smelling most vilely, and furnished with a miserable pallet +bed and one broken chair. A small square pane of glass admitted light +enough to see all that there was to be seen, and close to this +extemporized window hung the mirror alluded to, a beautiful thing set +in silver of antique workmanship, the costliness of which I at once +recognized, though into the glass itself I dared not for the moment +look. The old man showed me with some pride that the door to this +narrow den of his locked from within. + +“I made the lock and key, and fitted it all myself,” he said. “Look how +neat and strong! Yes; I was clever once at all that work—it was my +trade—till that morning when I found her with the singer from Venice; +then I forgot all I used to know—it went away somehow, I could never +understand why. Here is the fisherman’s suit; you can take your time to +put it on; fasten the door; the room is at your service.” + +And he nodded several times in a manner that was meant to be friendly, +and left me. I followed his advice at once and locked myself in. Then I +stepped steadily to the mirror hanging on the wall, and looked at my +own reflection. A bitter pang shot through me. The dealer’s sight was +good, he had said truly. I was old! If twenty years of suffering had +passed over my head, they could hardly have changed me more terribly. +My illness had thinned my face and marked it with deep lines of pain; +my eyes had retreated far back into my head, while a certain wildness +of expression in them bore witness to the terrors I had suffered in the +vault, and to crown all, my hair was indeed perfectly white. I +understood now the alarm of the man who had sold me grapes on the +highway that morning; my appearance was strange enough to startle any +one. Indeed, I scarcely recognized myself. Would my wife, would Guido +recognize me? Almost I doubted it. This thought was so painful to me +that the tears sprung to my eyes. I brushed them away in haste. + +“Fy on thee, Fabio! Be a man!” I said, addressing myself angrily. “Of +what matter after all whether hairs are black or white? What matter how +the face changes, so long as the heart is true? For a moment, perhaps, +thy love may grow pale at sight of thee; but when she knows of thy +sufferings, wilt thou not be dearer to her than ever? Will not one of +her soft embraces recompense thee for all thy past anguish, and suffice +to make thee young again?” + +And thus encouraging my sinking spirits, I quickly arrayed myself in +the Neapolitan coral-fisher’s garb. The trousers were very loose, and +were provided with two long deep pockets, convenient receptacles, which +easily contained the leathern bags of gold and jewels I had taken from +the brigand’s coffin. When my hasty toilet was completed I took another +glance at the mirror, this time with a half smile. True, I was greatly +altered; but after all I did not look so bad. The fisherman’s +picturesque costume became me well; the scarlet cap sat jauntily on the +snow-white curls that clustered so thickly over my forehead, and the +consciousness I had of approaching happiness sent a little of the old +fearless luster back into my sunken eyes. Besides, I knew I should not +always have this care-worn and wasted appearance; rest, and perhaps a +change of air, would infallibly restore the roundness to my face and +the freshness to my complexion; even my white locks might return to +their pristine color, such things had been; and supposing they remained +white? well!—there were many who would admire the peculiar contrast +between a young man’s face and an old man’s hair. + +Having finished dressing, I unlocked the door of the stuffy little +cabin and called the old rag-picker. He came shuffling along with his +head bent, but raising his eyes as he approached me, he threw up his +hands in astonishment, exclaiming, + +“_Santissima Madonna_! But you are a fine man—a fine man! Eh, eh! Holy +Joseph! What height and breadth! A pity—a pity you are old; you must +have been strong when you were young!” + +Half in joke, and half to humor him in his fancy for mere muscular +force, I rolled up the sleeve of my jacket to the shoulder, saying, +lightly, + +“Oh, as for being strong! There is plenty of strength in me still, you +see.” + +He stared; laid his yellow fingers on my bared arm with a kind of +ghoul-like interest and wonder, and felt the muscles of it with +childish, almost maudlin admiration. + +“Beautiful, beautiful!” he mumbled. “Like iron—just think of it! Yes, +yes. You could kill anything easily. Ah! I used to be like that once. I +was clever at sword-play. I could, with well-tempered steel, cut +asunder a seven-times-folded piece of silk at one blow without fraying +out a thread. Yes, as neatly as one cuts butter! You could do that too +if you liked. It all lies in the arm—the brave arm that kills at a +single stroke.” + +And he gazed at me intently with his small blear eyes as though anxious +to know more of my character and temperament. I turned abruptly from +him, and called his attention to my own discarded garments. + +“See,” I said, carelessly; “you can have these, though they are not of +much value. And, stay, here are another three francs for some socks and +shoes, which I dare say you can find to suit me.” + +He clasped his hands ecstatically, and poured out a torrent of thanks +and praises for this additional and unexpected sum, and protesting by +all the saints that he and the entire contents of his shop were at the +service of so generous a stranger, he at once produced the articles I +asked for. I put them on—and then stood up thoroughly equipped and +ready to make my way back to my own home when I chose. But I had +resolved on one thing. Seeing that I was so greatly changed, I +determined not to go to the Villa Romani by daylight, lest I should +startle my wife too suddenly. Women are delicate; my unexpected +appearance might give her a nervous shock which perhaps would have +serious results. I would wait till the sun had set, and then go up to +the house by a back way I knew of, and try to get speech with one of +the servants. I might even meet my friend Guido Ferrari, and he would +break the joyful news of my return from death to Nina by degrees, and +also prepare her for my altered looks. While these thoughts flitted +rapidly through my brain, the old ragpicker stood near me with his head +on one side like a meditative raven, and regarded me intently. + +“Are you going far?” he asked at last, with a kind of timidity. + +“Yes,” I answered him, abruptly; “very far.” + +He laid a detaining hand on my sleeve, and his eyes glittered—with a +malignant expression. + +“Tell me,” he muttered, eagerly, “tell me—I will keep the secret. Are +you going to a woman?” + +I looked down upon him, half in disdain, half in amusement. + +“Yes!” I said, quietly, “I am going to a woman.” + +He broke into silent laughter—hideous laughter that contorted his +visage and twisted his body in convulsive writhings. + +I glanced at him in disgust, and shaking off his hand from my arm, I +made my way to the door of the shop. He hobbled quickly after me, +wiping away the moisture that his inward merriment had brought into his +eyes. + +“Going to a woman!” he croaked. “Ha, ha! You are not the first, nor +will you be the last, that has gone so! Going to a woman! that is +well—that is good! Go to her, go! You are strong, you have a brave arm! +Go to her, find her out, and—_kill her_! Yes, yes—you will be able to +do it easily—quite easily! Go and kill her.” + +He stood at his low door mouthing and pointing, his stunted figure and +evil face reminding me of one of Heinrich Heine’s dwarf devils who are +depicted as piling fire on the heads of the saints. I bade him “Good +day” in an indifferent tone, but he made me no answer. I walked slowly +away. Looking back once I saw him still standing on the threshold of +his wretched dwelling, his wicked mouth working itself into all manner +of grimaces, while with his crooked fingers he made signs in the air as +if he caught an invisible something and throttled it. I went on down +the street and out of it into the broader thoroughfares, with his last +words ringing in my ears, “go and kill her!” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +That day seemed very long to me I wandered aimlessly about the city, +seeing few faces that I knew, for the wealthier inhabitants, afraid of +the cholera, had either left the place together or remained closely +shut within their own houses. Everywhere I went something bore witness +to the terrible ravages of the plague. At almost every corner I met a +funeral procession. Once I came upon a group of men who were standing +in an open door way packing a dead body into a coffin too small for it. +There was something truly revolting in the way they doubled up the arms +and legs and squeezed in the shoulders of the deceased man—one could +hear the bones crack. I watched the brutal proceedings for a minute or +so, and then I said aloud: + +“You had better make sure he is quite dead.” + +The _beccamorti_ looked at me in surprise; one laughed grimly and +swore. “By the body of God, if I thought he were not I would twist his +accursed neck for him! But the cholera never fails, he is dead for +certain—see!” And he knocked the head of the corpse to and fro against +the sides of the coffin with no more compunction than if it had been a +block of wood. Sickened at the sight, I turned away and said no more. +On reaching one of the more important thoroughfares I perceived several +knots of people collected, who glanced at one another with eager yet +shamed faces, and spoke in low voices. A whisper reached my ears, “The +king! the king!” All heads were turned in one direction; I paused and +looked also. Walking at a leisurely pace, accompanied by a few +gentlemen of earnest mien and grave deportment, I saw the fearless +monarch, Humbert of Italy—he whom his subjects delight to honor. He was +making a round of visits to all the vilest holes and corners of the +city, where the plague raged most terribly—he had not so much as a +cigarette in his mouth to ward off infection. He walked with the easy +and assured step of a hero; his face was somewhat sad, as though the +sufferings of his people had pressed heavily upon his sympathetic +heart. I bared my head reverently as he passed, his keen kind eyes +lighted on me with a smile. + +“A subject for a painting, yon white-haired fisherman!” I heard him say +to one of his attendants. Almost I betrayed myself. I was on the point +of springing forward and throwing myself at his feet to tell him my +story. It seemed to me both cruel and unnatural that he, my beloved +sovereign, should pass me without recognition—me, to whom he had spoken +so often and so cordially. For when I visited Rome, as I was accustomed +to do annually, there were few more welcome guests at the balls of the +Quirinal Palace than Count Fabio Romani. I began to wonder stupidly who +Fabio Romani was; the gay gallant known as such seemed no longer to +have any existence—a “white-haired fisherman” usurped his place. But +though I thought these things I refrained from addressing the king. +Some impulse, however, led me to follow him at a respectful distance, +as did also many others. His majesty strolled through the most +pestilential streets with as much unconcern as though he were taking +his pleasure in a garden of roses; he stepped quietly into the dirtiest +hovels where lay both dead and dying; he spoke words of kindly +encouragement to the grief-stricken and terrified mourners, who stared +through their tears at the monarch with astonishment and gratitude; +silver and gold were gently dropped into the hands of the suffering +poor, and the very pressing cases received the royal benefactor’s +personal attention and immediate relief. Mothers with infants in their +arms knelt to implore the king’s blessing—which to pacify them he gave +with a modest hesitation, as though he thought himself unworthy, and +yet with a parental tenderness that was infinitely touching. One +wild-eyed, black-haired girl flung herself down on the ground right in +the king’s path; she kissed his feet, and then sprung erect with a +gesture of triumph. + +“I am saved!” she cried; “the plague cannot walk in the same road with +the king!” + +Humbert smiled, and regarded her somewhat as an indulgent father might +regard a spoiled daughter; but he said nothing, and passed on. A +cluster of men and women standing at the open door of one of the +poorest-looking houses in the street next attracted the monarch’s +attention. There was some noisy argument going on; two or three +_beccamorti_ were loudly discussing together and swearing +profusely—some women were crying bitterly, and in the center of the +excited group a coffin stood on end as though waiting for an occupant. +One of the gentlemen in attendance on the king preceded him and +announced his approach, whereupon the loud clamor of tongues ceased, +the men bared their heads, and the women checked their sobs. + +“What is wrong here, my friends?” the monarch asked with exceeding +gentleness. + +There was silence for a moment; the _beccamorti_ looked sullen and +ashamed. Then one of the women, with a fat good-natured face and eyes +rimmed redly round with weeping, elbowed her way through the little +throng to the front and spoke. + +“May the Holy Virgin and saints bless your majesty!” she cried, in +shrill accents. “And as for what is wrong, it would soon be right if +those shameless pigs,” pointing to the _beccamorti_, “would let us +alone. They would kill a man rather than wait an hour—one little hour! +The girl is dead, your majesty—and Giovanni, poor lad! will not leave +her; he has his two arms round her tight—Holy Virgin!—think of it! and +she a cholera corpse—and do what we can, he will not be parted from +her, and they seek her body for the burial. And if we force him away, +_poverino_, he will lose his head for certain. One little hour, your +majesty, just one, and the reverend father will come and persuade +Giovanni better than we can.” + +The king raised his hand with a slight gesture of command—the little +crowd parted before him—and he entered the miserable dwelling wherein +lay the corpse that was the cause of all the argument. His attendants +followed; I, too, availed myself of a corner in the doorway. The scene +disclosed was so terribly pathetic that few could look upon it without +emotion—Humbert of Italy himself uncovered his head and stood silent. +On a poor pallet bed lay the fair body of a girl in her first youth, +her tender loveliness as yet untouched even by the disfiguring marks of +the death that had overtaken her. One would have thought she slept, had +it not been for the rigidity of her stiffened limbs, and the wax-like +pallor of her face and hands. Right across her form, almost covering it +from view, a man lay prone, as though he had fallen there +lifeless—indeed he might have been dead also for any sign he showed to +the contrary. His arms were closed firmly round the girl’s corpse—his +face was hidden from view on the cold breast that would no more respond +to the warmth of his caresses. A straight beam of sunlight shot like a +golden spear into the dark little room and lighted up the whole +scene—the prostrate figures on the bed—the erect form of the +compassionate king, and the grave and anxious faces of the little crowd +of people who stood around him. + +“See! that is the way he has been ever since last night when she died,” +whispered the woman who had before spoken; “and his hands are clinched +round her like iron—one cannot move a finger!” + +The king advanced. He touched the shoulder of the unhappy lover. His +voice, modulated to an exquisite softness, struck on the ears of the +listeners like a note of cheerful music. + +“_Figlio mio_!” + +There was no answer. The women, touched by the simple endearing words +of the monarch, began to sob though gently, and even the men brushed a +few drops from their eyes. Again the king spoke. + +“_Figlio mio_! I am your king. Have you no greeting for me?” + +The man raised his head from its pillow on the breast of the beloved +corpse and stared vacantly at the royal speaker. His haggard face, +tangled hair, and wild eyes gave him the appearance of one who had long +wandered in a labyrinth of frightful visions from which there was no +escape but self-murder. + +“Your hand, my son!” resumed the king in a tone of soldier-like +authority. + +Very slowly—very reluctantly—as though he were forced to the action by +some strange magnetic influence which he had no power to withstand, he +loosened his right arm from the dead form it clasped so pertinaciously, +and stretched forth the hand as commanded. Humbert caught it firmly +within his own and held it fast—then looking the poor fellow full in +the face, he said with grave steadiness and simplicity, + +“There is no death in love, my friend!” + +The young man’s eyes met his—his set mouth softened—and wresting his +hand passionately from that of the king, he broke into a passion of +weeping. Humbert at once placed a protecting arm around him, and with +the assistance of one of his attendants raised him from the bed, and +led him unresistingly away, as passively obedient as a child, though +sobbing convulsively as he went. The rush of tears had saved his +reason, and most probably his life. A murmur of enthusiastic applause +greeted the good king as he passed through the little throng of persons +who had witnessed what had taken place. Acknowledging it with a quiet +unaffected bow, he left the house, and signed to the _beccamorti_, who +still waited outside, that they were now free to perform their +melancholy office. He then went on his way attended by more heart-felt +blessings and praises than ever fell to the lot of the proudest +conqueror returning with the spoils of a hundred battles. I looked +after his retreating figure till I could see it no more—I felt that I +had grown stronger for the mere presence of a hero—a man who indeed was +“every inch a king.” I am a royalist—yes. Governed by such a sovereign, +few men of calm reason would be otherwise. But royalist though I am, I +would assist in bringing about the dethronement and death of a mean +tyrant, were he crowned king a hundred times over! Few monarchs are +like Humbert of Italy—even now my heart warms when I think of him—in +all the distraction of my sufferings, his figure stands out like a +supreme embodied Beneficent Force surrounded by the clear light of +unselfish goodness—a light in which Italia suns her fair face and +smiles again with the old sweet smile of her happiest days of high +achievement—days in which her children were great, simply because they +were _earnest_. The fault of all modern labor lies in the fact that +there is no heart in anything we do—we seldom love our work for work’s +sake—we perform it solely for what we can get by it. Therein lies the +secret of failure. Friends will scarcely serve each other unless they +can also serve their own interests—true, there are exceptions to this +rule, but they are deemed fools for their pains. + +As soon as the king disappeared I also left the scene of the foregoing +incident. I had a fancy to visit the little restaurant where I had been +taken ill, and after some trouble I found it. The door stood open. I +saw the fat landlord, Pietro, polishing his glasses as though he had +never left off; and there in the same corner was the very wooden bench +on which I had lain—where I had—as was generally supposed—died. I +stepped in. The landlord looked up and bade me good-day. I returned his +salutation, and ordered some coffee and rolls of bread. Seating myself +carelessly at one of the little tables I turned over the newspaper, +while he bustled about in haste to serve me. As he dusted and rubbed up +a cup and saucer for my use, he said, briskly, + +“You have had a long voyage, _amico_? And successful fishing?” + +For a moment I was confused and knew not what to answer, but gathering +my wits together I smiled and answered readily in the affirmative. + +“And you?” I said, gayly. “How goes the cholera?” + +The landlord shook his head dolefully. + +“Holy Joseph! do not speak of it. The people die like flies in a +honey-pot. Only yesterday—body of Bacchus!—who would have thought it?” + +And he sighed deeply as he poured out the steaming coffee, and shook +his head more sorrowfully than before. + +“Why, what happened yesterday?” I asked, though I knew perfectly well +what he was going to say; “I am a stranger in Naples, and empty of +news.” + +The perspiring Pietro laid a fat thumb on the marble top of the table, +and with it traced a pattern meditatively. + +“You never heard of the rich Count Romani?” he inquired. + +I made a sign in the negative, and bent my face over my coffee-cup. + +“Ah, well!” he went on with a half groan, “it does not matter—there is +no Count Romani any more. It is all gone—finished! But he was rich—as +rich as the king, they say—yet see how low the saints brought him! Fra +Cipriano of the Benedictines carried him in here yesterday morning—he +was struck by the plague—in five hours he was dead,” here the landlord +caught a mosquito and killed it—“ah! as dead as that _zinzara_! Yes, he +lay dead on that very wooden bench opposite to you. They buried him +before sunset. It is like a bad dream!” + +I affected to be deeply engrossed with the cutting and spreading of my +roll and butter. + +“I see nothing particular about it,” I said, indifferently. “That he +was rich is nothing—rich and poor must die alike.” + +“And that is true, very true,” assented Pietro, with another groan, +“for not all his property could save the blessed Cipriano.” + +I started, but quickly controlled myself. + +“What do you mean?” I asked, as carelessly as I could. “Are you talking +of some saint?” + +“Well, if he were not canonized he deserves to be,” replied the +landlord; “I speak of the holy Benedictine father who brought hither +the Count Romani in a dying condition. Ah I little he knew how soon the +good God would call him himself!” + +I felt a sickening sensation at my heart. + +“Is he dead?” I exclaimed. + +“Dead as the martyrs!” answered Pietro. “He caught the plague, I +suppose, from the count, for he was bending over him to the last. Ay, +and he sprinkled holy water over the corpse, and laid his own crucifix +upon it in the coffin. Then up he went to the Villa Romani, taking with +him the count’s trinkets, his watch, ring, and cigar-case—and nothing +would satisfy him but that he should deliver them himself to the young +_contessa_, telling her how her husband died.” + +My poor Nina!—I thought. “Was she much grieved?” I inquired, with a +vague curiosity. + +“How do I know?” said the landlord, shrugging his bulky shoulders. “The +reverend father said nothing, save that she swooned away. But what of +that? Women swoon at everything—from a mouse to a corpse. As I said, +the good Cipriano attended the count’s burial—and he had scarce +returned from it when he was seized with the illness. And this morning +he died at the monastery—may his soul rest in peace! I heard the news +only an hour ago. Ah! he was a holy man! He has promised me a warm +corner in Paradise, and I know he will keep his word as truly as St. +Peter himself.” + +I pushed away the rest of my meal untasted. The food choked me. I could +have shed tears for the noble, patient life thus self-sacrificed. One +hero the less in this world of unheroic, uninspired persons! I sat +silent, lost in sorrowful thought. The landlord looked at me curiously. + +“The coffee does not please you?” he said at last. “You have no +appetite?” I forced a smile. + +“Nay—your words would take the edge off the keenest appetite ever born +of the breath of the sea. Truly Naples affords but sorry entertainment +to a stranger; is there naught to hear but stories of the dying and the +dead?” + +Pietro put on an air that was almost apologetic. + +“Well, truly!” he answered, resignedly—“very little else. But what +would you, _amico_? It is the plague and the will of God.” + +As he said the last words my gaze was caught and riveted by the figure +of a man strolling leisurely past the door of the cafe. It was Guido +Ferrari—my friend! I would have rushed out to speak to him—but +something in his look and manner checked the impulse as it rose in me. +He was walking very slowly, smoking a cigar as he went; there was a +smile on his face, and in his coat he wore a freshly-gathered rose _La +Gloire de France_, similar to those that grew in such profusion on the +upper terrace of my villa. I stared at him as he passed—my feelings +underwent a kind of shock. He looked perfectly happy and tranquil, +happier indeed than ever I remembered to have seen him, and yet—and +yet, according to _his_ knowledge, I, his best friend, had died only +yesterday! With this sorrow fresh upon him, he could smile like a man +going to a _festa_, and wear a coral-pink rose, which surely was no +sign of mourning! For one moment I felt hurt, the next, I laughed at my +own sensitiveness. After all, what of the smile, what of the rose! A +man could not always be answerable for the expression of his +countenance, and as for the flower, he might have gathered it _en +passent_, without thinking, or what was still more likely, the child +Stella might have given it to him, in which case he would have worn it +to please her. He displayed no badge of mourning? True!—but then +consider—I had only died yesterday! There had been no time to procure +all those outward appurtenances of woe which social customs rendered +necessary, but which were no infallible sign of the heart’s sincerity. +Satisfied with my own self-reasoning I made no attempt to follow Guido +in his walk—I let him go on his way unconscious of my existence. I +would wait, I thought, till the evening—then everything would be +explained. + +I turned to the landlord. “How much to pay?” I asked. + +“What you will, _amico_” he replied—“I am never hard on the fisher +folk—but times are bad, or you would be welcome to a breakfast for +nothing. Many and many a day have I done as much for men of your craft, +and the blessed Cipriano who is gone used to say that St. Peter would +remember me for it. It is true the Madonna gives a special blessing if +one looks after the fishers, because all the holy apostles were of the +trade; and I would be loth to lose her protection—yet—” + +I laughed and tossed him a franc. He pocketed it at once and his eyes +twinkled. + +“Though you have not taken half a franc’s worth,” he admitted, with an +honesty very unusual in a Neapolitan—“but the saints will make it up to +you, never fear!” + +“I am sure of that!” I said, gayly. “_Addio_, my friend! Prosperity to +you and our Lady’s favor!” + +This salutation, which I knew to be a common one with Sicilian +mariners, the good Pietro responded to with amiable heartiness, wishing +me luck on my next voyage. He then betook himself anew to the polishing +of his glasses—and I passed the rest of the day in strolling about the +least frequented streets of the city, and longing impatiently for the +crimson glory of the sunset, which, like a wide flag of triumph, was to +be the signal of my safe return to love and happiness. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +It came at last, the blessed, the longed-for evening. A soft breeze +sprung up, cooling the burning air after the heat of the day, and +bringing with it the odors of a thousand flowers. A regal glory of +shifting colors blazed on the breast of heaven—the bay, motionless as a +mirror, reflected all the splendid tints with a sheeny luster that +redoubled their magnificence. Pricked in every vein by the stinging of +my own desires, I yet restrained myself; I waited till the sun sunk +below the glassy waters—till the pomp and glow attending its departure +had paled into those dim, ethereal hues which are like delicate +draperies fallen from the flying forms of angels—till the yellow rim of +the round full moon rose languidly on the edge of the horizon—and then +keeping back my eagerness no longer, I took the well-known road +ascending to the Villa Romani. My heart beat high—my limbs trembled +with excitement—my steps were impatient and precipitate—never had the +way seemed so long. At last I reached the great gate-way—it was locked +fast—its sculptured lions looked upon me frowningly. I heard the splash +and tinkle of the fountains within, the scents of the roses and myrtle +were wafted toward me with every breath I drew. Home at last! I +smiled—my whole frame quivered with expectancy and delight. It was not +my intention to seek admission by the principal entrance—I contented +myself with one long, loving look, and turned to the left, where there +was a small private gate leading into an avenue of ilex and pine, +interspersed with orange-trees. This was a favorite walk of mine, +partly on account of its pleasant shade even in the hottest noon—partly +because it was seldom frequented by any member of the household save +myself. Guido occasionally took a turn with me there, but I was more +often alone, and I was fond of pacing up and down in the shadow of the +trees, reading some favorite book, or giving myself up to the _dolce +far niente_ of my own imaginings. The avenue led round to the back of +the villa, and as I now entered it, I thought I would approach the +house cautiously by this means and get private speech with Assunta, the +nurse who had charge of little Stella, and who was moreover an old and +tried family servant, in whose arms my mother had breathed her last. + +The dark trees rustled solemnly as I stepped quickly yet softly along +the familiar moss-grown path. The place was very still—sometimes the +nightingales broke into a bubbling torrent of melody, and then were +suddenly silent, as though overawed by the shadows of the heavy +interlacing boughs, through which the moonlight flickered, casting +strange and fantastic patterns on the ground. A cloud of lucciole broke +from a thicket of laurel, and sparkled in the air like gems loosened +from a queen’s crown. Faint odors floated about me, shaken from orange +boughs and trailing branches of white jasmine. I hastened on, my +spirits rising higher the nearer I approached my destination. I was +full of sweet anticipation and passionate longing—I yearned to clasp my +beloved Nina in my arms—to see her lovely lustrous eyes looking fondly +into mine—I was eager to shake Guido by the hand—and as for Stella, I +knew the child would be in bed at that hour, but still, I thought, I +must have her wakened to see me. I felt that my happiness would not be +complete till I had kissed her little cherub face, and caressed those +clustering curls of hers that were like spun gold. Hush—hush! What was +that? I stopped in my rapid progress as though suddenly checked by an +invisible hand. I listened with strained ears. That sound—was it not a +rippling peal of gay sweet laughter? A shiver shook me from head to +foot. It was my wife’s laugh—I knew the silvery chime of it well! My +heart sunk coldly—I paused irresolute. She could laugh then like that, +while she thought me lying dead—dead and out of her reach forever! All +at once I perceived the glimmer of a white robe through the trees; +obeying my own impulse, I stepped softly aside—I hid behind a dense +screen of foliage through which I could see without being seen. The +clear laugh rang out once again on the stillness—its brightness pierced +my brain like a sharp sword! She was happy—she was even merry—she +wandered here in the moonlight joyous-hearted, while I—I had expected +to find her close shut within her room, or else kneeling before the +_Mater Dolorosa_ in the little chapel, praying for my soul’s rest, and +mingling her prayers with her tears! Yes—I had expected this—we men are +such fools when we love women! Suddenly a terrible thought struck me. +Had she gone mad? Had the shock and grief of my so unexpected death +turned her delicate brain? Was she roaming about, poor child, like +Ophelia, knowing not whither she went, and was her apparent gayety the +fantastic mirth of a disordered brain? I shuddered at the idea—and +bending slightly apart the boughs behind which I was secreted, I looked +out anxiously. Two figures were slowly approaching—my wife and my +friend, Guido Ferrari. Well—there was nothing in that—it was as it +should be—was not Guido as my brother? It was almost his duty to +console and cheer Nina as much as lay in his power. But stay! stay! did +I see aright—was she simply leaning on his arm for support—or—a fierce +oath, that was almost a cry of torture, broke from my lips! Oh, would +to God I had died! Would to God I had never broken open the coffin in +which I lay at peace! What was death—what were the horrors of the +vault—what was anything I had suffered to the anguish that racked me +now? The memory of it to this day burns in my brain like +inextinguishable fire, and my hand involuntarily clinches itself in an +effort to beat back the furious bitterness of that moment! I know not +how I restrained the murderous ferocity that awoke within me—how I +forced myself to remain motionless and silent in my hiding-place. But I +did. I watched the miserable comedy out to its end. I looked dumbly on +at my own betrayal! I saw my honor stabbed to the death by those whom I +most trusted, and yet I gave no sign! They—Guido Ferrari and my +wife—came so close to my hiding-place that I could note every gesture +and hear every word they uttered. They paused within three steps of +me—his arm encircled her waist—hers was thrown carelessly around his +neck—her head rested on his shoulder. Even so had she walked with me a +thousand times! She was dressed in pure white save for one spot of deep +color near her heart—a red rose, as red as blood. It was pinned there +with a diamond pin that flashed in the moonlight. I thought wildly, +that instead of that rose, there should be blood indeed—instead of a +diamond pin there should be the good steel of a straight dagger! But I +had no weapon—I stared at her, dry-eyed and mute. She looked +lovely—exquisitely lovely! No trace of grief marred the fairness of her +face—her eyes were as languidly limpid and tender as ever—her lips were +parted in the child-like smile that was so sweet—so innocently +trustful! She spoke—ah, Heaven! the old bewitching music of her low +voice made my heart leap and my brain reel. + +“You foolish Guido!” she said, in dreamily amused accents. “What would +have happened, I wonder, if Fabio had not died so opportunely.” + +I waited eagerly for the answer. Guido laughed lightly. + +“He would never have discovered anything. You were too clever for him, +_piccinina_! Besides, his conceit saved him—he had so good an opinion +of himself that he would not have deemed it possible for you to care +for any other man.” + +My wife—flawless diamond-pearl of pure womanhood!—sighed half +restlessly. + +“I am glad he is dead!” she murmured; “but, Guido _mio_, you are +imprudent. You cannot visit me now so often—the servants will talk! +Then I must go into mourning for at least six months—and there are many +other things to consider.” + +Guide’s hand played with the jeweled necklace she wore—he bent and +kissed the place where its central pendant rested. Again—again, good +sir, I pray you! Let no faint scruples interfere with your rightful +enjoyment! Cover the white flesh with caresses—it is public property! a +dozen kisses more or less will not signify! So I madly thought as I +crouched among the trees—the tigerish wrath within me making the blood +beat in my head like a hundred hammer-strokes. + +“Nay then, my love,” he replied to her, “it is almost a pity Fabio is +dead! While he lived he played an excellent part as a screen—he was an +unconscious, but veritable duenna of propriety for both of us, as no +one else could be!” + +The boughs that covered me creaked and rustled. My wife started, and +looked uneasily round her. + +“Hush!” she said, nervously. “He was buried only yesterday—and they say +there are ghosts sometimes. This avenue, too—I wish we had not come +here—it was his favorite walk. Besides,” she added, with a slight +accent of regret, “after all he was the father of my child—you must +think of that.” + +“By Heaven!” exclaimed Guido, fiercely, “do I not think of it? Ay—and I +curse him for every kiss he stole from your lips!” + +I listened half stupefied. Here was a new phase of the marriage law! +Husbands were thieves then—they “stole” kisses; only lovers were honest +in their embraces! Oh, my dear friend—my more than brother—how near you +were to death at that moment! Had you but seen my face peering pallidly +through the dusky leaves—could you have known the force of the fury +pent up within me—you would not have valued your life at one _baiocco_! + +“Why did you marry him?” he asked, after a little pause, during which +he toyed with the fair curls that floated against his breast. + +She looked up with a little mutinous pout, and shrugged her shoulders. + +“Why? Because I was tired of the convent, and all the stupid, solemn +ways of the nuns; also because he was rich, and I was horribly poor. I +cannot bear to be poor! Then he loved me”—here her eyes glimmered with +malicious triumph—“yes—he was mad for me—and—” + +“You loved him?” demanded Guido, almost fiercely. + +“_Ma che_!” she answered, with an expressive gesture. “I suppose I +did—for a week or two. As much as one ever loves a husband! What does +one marry for at all? For convenience—money—position—he gave me these +things, as you know.” + +“You will gain nothing by marrying me, then,” he said, jealously. + +She laughed, and laid her little white hand, glittering with rings, +lightly against his lips. + +“Of course not! Besides—have I said I will marry you? You are very +agreeable as a lover—but otherwise—I am not sure! And I am free now—I +can do as I like; I want to enjoy my liberty, and—” + +She was not allowed to complete her sentence, for Ferrari snatched her +close to his breast and held her there as in a vise. His face was +aflame with passion. + +“Look you, Nina,” he said, hoarsely, “you shall not fool me, by Heaven! +you shall not! I have endured enough at your hands, God knows! When I +saw you for the first time on the day of your marriage with that poor +fool, Fabio—I loved you, madly—ay, wickedly as I then thought, but not +for the sin of it did I repent. I knew you were woman, not angel, and I +waited my time. It came—I sought you—I told you my story of love ere +three months of wedded life had passed over your head. I found you +willing—ready—nay, eager to hear me! You led me on; you know you did! +You tempted me by touch, word and look; you gave me all I sought! Why +try to excuse it now? You are as much my wife as ever you were +Fabio’s—nay—you are more so, for you love me—at least you say so—and +though you lied to your husband, you dare not lie to me. I tell you, +you _dare not_! I never pitied Fabio, never—he was too easily duped, +and a married man has no right to be otherwise than suspicious and ever +on his guard; if he relaxes in his vigilance he has only himself to +blame when his honor is flung like a ball from hand to hand, as one +plays with a child’s toy. I repeat to you, Nina, you are mine, and I +swear you shall never escape me!” + +The impetuous words coursed rapidly from his lips, and his deep musical +voice had a defiant ring as it fell on the stillness of the evening +air. I smiled bitterly as I heard! She struggled in his arms half +angrily. + +“Let me go,” she said. “You are rough, you hurt me!” + +He released her instantly. The violence of his embrace had crushed the +rose she wore, and its crimson leaves fluttered slowly down one by one +on the ground at her feet. Her eyes flashed resentfully, and an +impatient frown contracted her fair level brows. She looked away from +him in silence, the silence of a cold disdain. Something in her +attitude pained him, for he sprung forward and caught her hand, +covering it with kisses. + +“Forgive me, _carina mia_” he cried, repentantly. “I did not mean to +reproach you. You cannot help being beautiful—it is the fault of God or +the devil that you are so, and that your beauty maddens me! You are the +heart of my heart, the soul of my soul! Oh, Nina _mia_, let us not +waste words in useless anger. Think of it, we are free—free! Free to +make life a long dream of delight—delight more perfect than angels can +know! The greatest blessing that could have befallen us is the death of +Fabio, and now that we are all in all to each other, do not harden +yourself against me! Nina, be gentle with me—of all things in the +world, surely love is best!” + +She smiled, with the pretty superior smile of a young empress pardoning +a recreant subject, and suffered him to draw her again, but with more +gentleness, into his embrace. She put up her lips to meet his—I looked +on like a man in a dream! I saw them cling together—each kiss they +exchanged was a fresh stab to my tortured soul. + +“You are so foolish, Guido _mio_” she pouted, passing her little +jeweled fingers through his clustering hair with a light caress—“so +impetuous—so jealous! I have told you over and over again that I love +you! Do you not remember that night when Fabio sat out on the balcony +reading his Plato, poor fellow!”—here she laughed musically—“and we +were trying over some songs in the drawing—room—did I not say then that +I loved you best of any one in the world? You know I did! You ought to +be satisfied!” + +Guido smiled, and stroked her shining golden curls. + +“I _am_ satisfied,” he said, without any trace of his former heated +impatience—“perfectly satisfied. But do not expect to find love without +jealousy. Fabio was never jealous—I know—he trusted you too +implicitly—he was nothing of a lover, believe me! He thought more of +himself than of you. A man who will go away for days at a time on +solitary yachting and rambling excursions, leaving his wife to her own +devices—a man who reads Plato in preference to looking after _her_, +decides his own fate, and deserves to be ranked with those so-called +wise but most ignorant philosophers to whom Woman has always remained +an unguessed riddle. As for me—I am jealous of the ground you tread +upon—of the air that touches you—I was jealous of Fabio while he +lived—and—by heaven!”—his eyes darkened with a somber wrath—“if any +other man dared now to dispute your love with me I would not rest till +his body had served my sword as a sheath!” + +Nina raised her head from his breast with an air of petulant weariness. + +“Again!” she murmured, reproachfully, “you are going to be angry +_again_!” + +He kissed her. + +“Not I, sweet one! I will be as gentle as you wish, so long as you love +me and only me. Come—this avenue is damp and chilly for you—shall we go +in?” + +My wife—nay, I should say _our_ wife, as we had both shared her +impartial favors—assented. With arms interlaced and walking slowly, +they began to retrace their steps toward the house. Once they paused. + +“Do you hear the nightingales?” asked Guido. + +Hear them! Who could not hear them? A shower of melody rained from the +trees on every side—the pure, sweet, passionate tones pierced the ear +like the repeated chime of little golden bells—the beautiful, the +tender, the God-inspired birds sung their love-stories simply and with +perfect rapture—love-stories untainted by hypocrisy—unsullied by +crime—different, ah! so very different from the love-stories of selfish +humanity! The exquisite poetic idyl of a bird’s life and love—is it not +a thing to put us inferior creatures to shame—for are we ever as true +to our vows as the lark to his mate?—are we as sincere in our +thanksgivings for the sunlight as the merry robin who sings as blithely +in the winter snow as in the flower-filled mornings of spring? Nay—not +we! Our existence is but one long impotent protest against God, +combined with an insatiate desire to get the better of one another in +the struggle for base coin! + +Nina listened—and shivered, drawing her light scarf more closely about +her shoulders. + +“I hate them,” she said, pettishly; “their noise is enough to pierce +one’s ears. And _he_ used to be so fond of them! he used to sing—what +was it? + +‘Ti salute, Rosignuolo, +Nel tuo duolo, il saluto! +Sei l’amante della rosa +Che morendo si fa sposa!’” + + +Her rich voice rippled out on the air, rivaling the songs of the +nightingales themselves. She broke off with a little laugh— + +“Poor Fabio! there was always a false note somewhere when he sung. +Come, Guido!” + +And they paced on quietly, as though their consciences were clean—as +though no just retribution dogged their steps—as though no shadow of a +terrible vengeance loomed in the heaven of their pilfered happiness! I +watched them steadily as they disappeared in the distance—I stretched +my head eagerly out from between the dark boughs and gazed after their +retreating figures till the last glimmer of my wife’s white robe had +vanished behind the thick foliage. They were gone—they would return no +more that night. + +I sprung out from my hiding-place. I stood on the spot where they had +stood. I tried to bring home to myself the actual truth of what I had +witnessed. My brain whirled—circles of light swam giddily before me in +the air—the moon looked blood-red. The solid earth seemed unsteady +beneath my feet—almost I doubted whether I was indeed alive, or whether +I was not rather the wretched ghost of my past self, doomed to return +from the grave to look helplessly upon the loss and ruin of all the +fair, once precious things of by-gone days. The splendid universe +around me seemed no more upheld by the hand of God—no more a majestic +marvel; it was to me but an inflated bubble of emptiness—a mere ball +for devils to kick and spurn through space! Of what avail these +twinkling stars—these stately leaf-laden trees—these cups of fragrance +we know as flowers—this round wonder of the eyes called Nature? of what +avail was God Himself, I widely mused, since even He could not keep one +woman true? She whom I loved—she as delicate of form, as angel-like in +face as the child-bride of Christ, St. Agnes—she, even she was—what? A +thing lower than the beasts, a thing as vile as the vilest wretch in +female form that sells herself for a gold piece—a thing—great +Heaven!—for all men to despise and make light of—for the finger of +Scorn to point out—for the foul hissing tongue of Scandal to mock at! +This creature was my wife—the mother of my child—she had cast mud on +her soul by her own free will and choice—she had selected evil as her +good—she had crowned herself with shame willingly, nay—joyfully; she +had preferred it to honor. What should be done? I tortured myself +occasionally with this question. I stared blankly on the ground—would +some demon spring from it and give me the answer I sought? What should +be done with _her_—with _him_, my treacherous friend, my smiling +betrayer? Suddenly my eyes lighted on the fallen rose-leaves—those that +had dropped when Guido’s embrace had crushed the flower she wore. There +they lay on the path, curled softly at the edges like little crimson +shells. I stooped and picked them up—I placed them all in the hollow of +my hand and looked at them. They had a sweet odor—almost I kissed +them—nay, nay, I could not—they had too recently lain on the breast of +an embodied Lie! Yes; she was that, a Lie, a living, lovely, but +accursed Lie! “Go and kill her.” Stay! where had I heard that? +Painfully I considered, and at last remembered—and then I thought +moodily that the starved and miserable rag-picker was more of a man +than I. He had taken his revenge at once; while I, like a fool, had let +occasion slip. Yes, but not forever! There were different ways of +vengeance; one must decide the best, the keenest way—and, above all, +the way that shall inflict the longest, the cruelest agony upon those +by whom honor is wronged. True—it would be sweet to slay sin in the act +of sinning, but then—must a Romani brand himself as a murderer in the +sight of men? Not so; there were other means—other roads, leading to +the same end if the tired brain could only plan them out. Slowly I +dragged my aching limbs to the fallen trunk of a tree and sat down, +still holding the dying rose-leaves in my clinched palm. There was a +surging noise in my ears—my mouth tasted of blood, my lips were parched +and burning as with fever. “A white-haired fisherman.” That was me! The +king had said so. Mechanically I looked down at the clothes I wore—the +former property of a suicide. “He was a fool,” the vender of them had +said, “he killed himself.” + +Yes, there was no doubt of it—he was a fool. I would not follow his +example, or at least not yet. I had something to do first—something +that must be done if I could only see my way clear to it. Yes—if I +could only see my way and follow it straightly, resolutely, +remorselessly! My thoughts were confused, like the thoughts of a +fever-stricken man in delirium—the scent of the rose-leaves I held +sickened me strangely—yet I would not throw them from me; no, I would +keep them to remind me of the embraces I had witnessed! I felt for my +purse! I found and opened it, and placed the withering red petals +carefully within it. As I slipped it again in my pocket I remembered +the two leathern pouches I carried—the one filled with gold, the other +with the jewels I had intended for—_her_. My adventures in the vault +recurred to me; I smiled as I recollected the dire struggle I had made +for life and liberty. Life and liberty!—of what use were they to me +now, save for one thing—revenge? I was not wanted; I was not expected +back to refill my former place on earth—the large fortune I had +possessed was now my wife’s by the decree of my own last will and +testament, which she would have no difficulty in proving. But still, +wealth was mine—the hidden stores of the brigands were sufficient to +make any man more than rich for the term of his natural life. As I +considered this, a sort of dull pleasure throbbed in my veins. Money! +Anything could be done for money—gold would purchase even vengeance. +But what sort of vengeance? Such a one as I sought must be +unique—refined, relentless, and complete. I pondered deeply. The +evening wind blew freshly up from the sea; the leaves of the swaying +trees whispered mysteriously together; the nightingales warbled on with +untired sweetness; and the moon, like the round shield of an angel +warrior, shone brightly against the dense blue background of the sky. +Heedless of the passing of hours, I sat still, lost in a bewildered +reverie. “There was always a false note somewhere when he sung!” So she +had said, laughing that little laugh of hers as cold and sharp as the +clash of steel. True, true; by all the majesty of Heaven, most true! +There was indeed a false note—jarring, not so much the voice as the +music of life itself. There is stuff in all of us that will weave, as +we desire it, into a web of stately or simple harmony; but let the +meteor-like brilliancy of a woman’s smile—a woman’s touch—a woman’s +LIE—intermingle itself with the strain, and lo! the false note is +struck, discord declares itself, and God Himself, the great Composer, +can do nothing in this life to restore the old calm tune of peaceful, +unspoiled days! So I have found; so all of you must find, long before +you and sorrow grow old together. + +“A white-haired fisherman!” + +The words of the king repeated themselves over and over again in my +tortured brain. Yes—I was greatly changed, I looked worn and old—no one +would recognize me for my former self. All at once, with this thought, +an idea occurred to me—a plan of vengeance, so bold, so new, and withal +so terrible, that I started from my seat as though stung by an adder. I +paced up and down restlessly, with this lurid light of fearful revenge +pouring in on every nook and cranny of my darkened mind. From whence +had come this daring scheme? What devil, or rather what angel of +retribution, had whispered it to my soul? Dimly I wondered—but amid all +my wonder I began practically to arrange the details of my plot. I +calculated every small circumstance that was likely to occur in the +process of carrying it out. My stupefied senses became aroused from the +lethargy of despair, and stood up like soldiers on the alert armed to +the teeth. Past love, pity, pardon, patience—pooh! what were all these +resources of the world’s weakness to _me_? What was it to me that the +bleeding Christ forgave His enemies in death? He never loved a woman! +Strength and resolution returned to me. Let common sailors and +rag-pickers resort to murder and suicide as fit outlets for their +unreasoning brute wrath when wronged; but as for me, why should I blot +my family scutcheon with a merely vulgar crime? Nay, the vengeance of a +Romani must be taken with assured calmness and easy deliberation—no +haste, no plebeian fury, no effeminate fuss, no excitement. I walked up +and down slowly, meditating on every point of the bitter drama in which +I had resolved to enact the chief part, from the rise to the fall of +the black curtain. The mists cleared from my brain—I breathed more +easily—my nerves steadied themselves by degrees—the prospect of what I +purposed doing satisfied me and calmed the fever in my blood. I became +perfectly cool and collected. I indulged in no more futile regrets for +the past—why should I mourn the loss of a love I never possessed? It +was not as if they had waited till my supposed sudden death—no! within +three months of my marriage they had fooled me; for three whole years +they had indulged in their criminal amour, while I, blind dreamer, had +suspected nothing. _Now_ I knew the extent of my injury; I was a man +bitterly wronged, vilely duped. Justice, reason, and self-respect +demanded that I should punish to the utmost the miserable tricksters +who had played me false. The passionate tenderness I had felt for my +wife was gone—I plucked it from my heart as I would have torn a thorn +from my flesh—I flung it from me with disgust as I had flung away the +unseen reptile that had fastened on my neck in the vault. The deep warm +friendship of years I had felt for Guido Ferrari froze to its very +foundations—and in its place there rose up, not hate, but pitiless, +immeasurable contempt. A stern disdain of myself also awoke in me, as I +remembered the unreasoning joy with which, I had hastened—as I +thought—home, full of eager anticipation and Romeo-like ardor. An idiot +leaping merrily to his death over a mountain chasm was not more fool +than I! But the dream was over—the delusion of my life was passed. I +was strong to avenge—I would be swift to accomplish. So, darkly musing +for an hour or more, I decided on the course I had to pursue, and to +make the decision final I drew from my breast the crucifix that the +dead monk Cipriano had laid with me in my coffin, and kissing it, I +raised it aloft, and swore by that sacred symbol never to relent, never +to relax, never to rest, till I had brought my vow of just vengeance to +its utmost fulfillment. The stars, calm witnesses of my oath, eyed me +earnestly from their judgment thrones in the quiet sky—there was a +brief pause in the singing of the nightingales, as though they too +listened—the wind sighed plaintively, and scattered a shower of jasmine +blossoms like snow at my feet. Even so, I thought, fall the last leaves +of my white days—days of pleasure, days of sweet illusion, days of dear +remembrance; even so let them wither and perish utterly forever! For +from henceforth my life must be something other than a mere garland of +flowers—it must be a chain of finely tempered steel, hard, cold, and +unbreakable—formed into links strong enough to wind round and round two +false lives and imprison them so closely as to leave no means of +escape. This was what must be done—and I resolved to do it. With a +firm, quiet step I turned to leave the avenue. I opened the little +private wicket, and passed into the dusty road. A clanging noise caused +me to look up as I went by the principal entrance of the Villa Romani. +A man servant—my own man-servant by the by—was barring the great gates +for the night. I listened as he slid the bolts into their places, and +turned the key. I remembered that those gates had been thoroughly +fastened before, when I came up the road from Naples—why then had they +been opened since? To let out a visitor? Of course! I smiled grimly at +my wife’s cunning! She evidently knew what she was about. Appearances +must be kept up—the _Signor_ Ferrari must be decorously shown out by a +servant at the chief entrance of the house. Naturally!—all very +unsuspicious-looking and quite in keeping with the proprieties! Guido +had just left her then? I walked steadily, without hurrying my pace, +down the hill toward the city, and on the way I overtook him. He was +strolling lazily along, smoking as usual, and he held a spray of +stephanotis in his hand—well I knew who had given it to him! I passed +him—he glanced up carelessly, his handsome face clearly visible in the +bright moonlight—but there was nothing about a common fisherman to +attract his attention—his look only rested upon me for a second and was +withdrawn immediately. An insane desire possessed me to turn upon +him—to spring at his throat—to wrestle with him and throw him in the +dust at my feet—to spit at him and trample upon him—but I repressed +those fierce and dangerous emotions. I had a better game to play—I had +an exquisite torture in store for him, compared to which a hand-to-hand +fight was mere vulgar fooling. Vengeance ought to ripen slowly in the +strong heat of intense wrath, till of itself it falls—hastily snatched +before its time it is like unmellowed fruit, sour and ungrateful to the +palate. So I let my dear friend—my wife’s consoler—saunter on his +heedless way without interference—I passed, leaving him to indulge in +amorous musings to his false heart’s content. I entered Naples, and +found a night’s lodging at one of the usual resorts for men of my +supposed craft, and, strange to say, I slept soundly and dreamlessly. +Recent illness, fatigue, fear, and sorrow, all aided to throw me like +an exhausted child upon the quiet bosom of slumber, but perhaps the +most powerfully soothing opiate to my brain was the consciousness I had +of a practical plan of retribution—more terrible perhaps than any human +creature had yet devised, so far as I knew. Unchristian you call me? I +tell you again, Christ never loved a woman! Had He done so, He would +have left us some special code of justice. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +I rose very early the next morning—I was more than ever strengthened in +my resolutions of the past night—my projects were entirely formed, and +nothing remained now but for me to carry them out. Unobserved of any +one I took my way again to the vault. I carried with me a small +lantern, a hammer, and some strong nails. Arrived at the cemetery I +looked carefully everywhere about me, lest some stray mourner or +curious stranger might possibly be in the neighborhood. Not a soul was +in sight. Making use of the secret passage, I soon found myself on the +scene of my recent terrors and sufferings, all of which seemed now so +slight in comparison with the mental torture of my present condition. I +went straight to the spot where I had left the coffined treasure—I +possessed myself of all the rolls of paper money, and disposed them in +various small packages about my person and in the lining of my clothes +till, as I stood, I was worth many thousand of francs. Then with the +help of the tools I had brought, I mended the huge chest in the split +places where I had forced it open, and nailed it up fast so that it +looked as if it had never been touched. I lost no time over my task, +for I was in haste. It was my intention to leave Naples for a fortnight +or more, and I purposed taking my departure that very day. Before +leaving the vault I glanced at the coffin I myself had occupied. Should +I mend that and nail it up as though my body were still inside? +No—better leave it as it was—roughly broken open—it would serve my +purpose better so. As soon as I had finished all I had to do, I +clambered through the private passage, closing it after me with extra +care and caution, and then I betook myself directly to the Molo. On +making inquiries among the sailors who were gathered there, I heard +that a small coasting brig was on the point of leaving for Palermo. +Palermo would suit me as well as any other place; I sought out the +captain of the vessel. He was a brown-faced, merry-eyed mariner—he +showed his glittering white teeth in the most amiable of smiles when I +expressed my desire to take passage with him, and consented to the +arrangement at once for a sum which I thought extremely moderate, but +which I afterward discovered to be about treble his rightful due. But +the handsome rogue cheated me with such grace and exquisite courtesy, +that I would scarcely have had him act otherwise than he did. I hear a +good deal of the “plain blunt honesty” of the English. I dare say there +is some truth in it, but for my own part I would rather be cheated by a +friendly fellow who gives you a cheery word and a bright look than +receive exact value for my money from the “plain blunt” boor who seldom +has the common politeness to wish you a good-day. + +We got under way at about nine o’clock—the morning was bright, and the +air, for Naples, was almost cool. The water rippling against the sides +of our little vessel had a gurgling, chatty murmur, as though it were +talking vivaciously of all the pleasant things it experienced between +the rising and the setting of the sun; of the corals and trailing +sea-weed that grew in its blue depths, of the lithe glittering fish +that darted hither and thither between its little waves, of the +delicate shells in which dwelt still more delicate inhabitants, +fantastic small creatures as fine as filmy lace, that peeped from the +white and pink doors of their transparent habitations, and looked as +enjoyingly on the shimmering blue-green of their ever-moving element as +we look on the vast dome of our sky, bespangled thickly with stars. Of +all these things, and many more as strange and sweet, the gossiping +water babbled unceasingly; it had even something to say to me +concerning woman and woman’s love. It told me gleefully how many fair +female bodies it had seen sunk in the cold embrace of the conquering +sea, bodies, dainty and soft as the sylphs of a poet’s dream, yet +which, despite their exquisite beauty, had been flung to and fro in +cruel sport by the raging billows, and tossed among pebbles for the +monsters of the deep to feed upon. + +As I sat idly on the vessel’s edge and looked down, down into the clear +Mediterranean, brilliantly blue as a lake of melted sapphires, I +fancied I could see her the Delilah of my life, lying prone on the +golden sand, her rich hair floating straightly around her like yellow +weed, her hands clinched in the death agony, her laughing lips blue +with the piercing chilliness of the washing tide—powerless to move or +smile again. She would look well so, I thought—better to my mind than +she looked in the arms of her lover last night. I fell into a train of +profound meditation—a touch on my shoulder startled me. I looked up, +the captain of the brig stood beside me. He smiled and held out a +cigarette. + +“The _signor_ will smoke?” he said courteously. + +I accepted the little roll of fragrant Havanna half mechanically. + +“Why do you call me _signor_?” I inquired brusquely. “I am a +coral-fisher.” + +The little man shrugged his shoulders and bowed deferentially, yet with +the smile still dancing gayly in his eyes and dimpling his olive +cheeks. + +“Oh, certainly! As the _signor_ pleases—ma—” And he ended with another +expressive shrug and bow. + +I looked at him fixedly. “What do you mean?” I asked with some +sternness. + +With that birdlike lightness and swiftness which were part of his +manner, the Sicilian skipper bent forward and laid a brown finger on my +wrist. + +“_Scusa, vi prego_! But the hands are not those of a fisher of coral.” + +I glanced down at them. True enough, their smoothness and pliant shape +betrayed my disguise—the gay little captain was sharp-witted enough to +note the contrast between them and the rough garb I wore, though no one +else with whom I had come in contact had been as keen of observation as +he. At first I was slightly embarrassed by his remark—but after a +moment’s pause I met his gaze frankly, and lighting my cigarette I +said, carelessly: + +“_Ebbene_! And what then, my friend?” + +He made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. + +“Nay, nay, nothing—but only this. The _signor_ must understand he is +perfectly safe with me. My tongue is discreet—I talk of things only +that concern myself. The _signor_ has good reasons for what he does—of +that I am sure. He has suffered; it is enough to look in his face to +see that. Ah, _Dio_ if there are so many sorrows in life; there is +love,” he enumerated rapidly on his fingers—“there is revenge—there are +quarrels—there is loss of money; any of these will drive a man from +place to place at all hours and in all weathers. Yes; it is so, +indeed—I know it! The _signor_ has trusted himself in my boat—I desire +to assure him of my best services.” + +And he raised his red cap with so charming a candor that in my lonely +and morose condition I was touched to the heart. Silently I extended my +hand—he caught it with an air in which respect, sympathy, and entire +friendliness were mingled. And yet he overcharged me for my passage, +you exclaim! Ay—but he would not have made me the object of impertinent +curiosity for twenty times the money! You cannot understand the +existence of such conflicting elements in the Italian character? No—I +dare say not. The tendency of the calculating northerner under the same +circumstances would have been to make as much out of me as possible by +means of various small and contemptible items, and then to go with +broadly honest countenance to the nearest police-station and describe +my suspicious appearance and manner, thus exposing me to fresh expense +besides personal annoyance. With the rare tact that distinguishes the +southern races the captain changed the conversation by a reference to +the tobacco we were both enjoying. + +“It is good, is it not?” he asked. + +“Excellent!” I answered, as indeed it was. + +His white teeth glittered in a smile of amusement. + +“It should be of the finest quality—for it is a present from one who +will smoke nothing but the choice brands. Ah, _Dio_! what a fine +gentleman spoiled is Carmelo Neri!” + +I could not repress a slight start of surprise. What caprice of Fate +associated me with this famous brigand? I was actually smoking his +tobacco, and I owed all my present wealth to his stolen treasures +secreted in my family vault! + +“You know the man, then?” I inquired with some curiosity. + +“Know him? As well as I know myself. Let me see, it is two +months—yes—two months to-day since he was with me on board this very +vessel. It happened in this way—I was at Gaeta—he came to me and told +me the gendarmes were after him. He offered me more gold than I ever +had in my life to take him to Termini, from whence he could get to one +of his hiding-places in the Montemaggiore. He brought Teresa with him; +he found me alone on the brig, my men had gone ashore. He said, ‘Take +us to Termini and I will give you so much; refuse and I will slit your +throat.’ Ha! ha! ha! That was good. I laughed at him. I put a chair for +Teresa on deck, and gave her some big peaches. I said, ‘See, my +Carmelo! what use is there in threats? You will not kill me, and I +shall not betray you. You are a thief, and a bad thief—by all the +saints you are—but I dare say you would not be much worse than the +hotel-keepers, if you could only keep your hand off your knife.’ (For +you know, _signor_, if you once enter a hotel you must pay almost a +ransom before you can get out again!) Yes—and I reasoned with Carmelo +in this manner: I told him, ‘I do not want a large fortune for carrying +you and Teresa across to Termini—pay me the just passage and we shall +part friends, if only for Teresa’s sake.’ Well, he was surprised. He +smiled that dark smile of his, which may mean gratitude or murder. He +looked at Teresa. She sprung up from her seat, and let her peaches fall +from her lap on the deck. She put her little hands on mine—the tears +were in her pretty blue eyes. ‘You are a good man,’ she said. ‘Some +woman must love you very much!’ Yes—she said that. And she was right. +Our Lady be praised for it!” + +And his dark eyes glanced upward with a devout gesture of thanksgiving. +I looked at him with a sort of jealous hunger gnawing at my heart. Here +was another self deluded fool—a fond wretch feasting on the +unsubstantial food of a pleasant dream—a poor dupe who believed in the +truth of woman! + +“You are a happy man,” I said with a forced smile; “you have a guiding +star for your life as well as for your boat—a woman that loves you and +is faithful? is it so?” + +He answered me directly and simply, raising his cap slightly as he did +so. + +“Yes, _signor_—my mother.” + +I was deeply touched by his naive and unexpected reply—more deeply than +I cared to show. A bitter regret stirred in my soul—why, oh, why had my +mother died so young! Why had I never known the sacred joy that seemed +to vibrate through the frame, and sparkle in the eyes of this common +sailor! Why must I be forever alone, with a curse of a woman’s lie on +my life, weighing me down to the dust and ashes of a desolate despair! +Something in my face must have spoken my thoughts, for the captain +said, gently: + +“The _signor_ has no mother?” + +“She died when I was but a child,” I answered, briefly. + +The Sicilian puffed lightly at his cigarette in silence—the silence of +an evident compassion. To relieve him of his friendly embarrassment, I +said: + +“You spoke of Teresa? Who is Teresa?” + +“Ah, you may well ask, _signor_! No one knows who she is; she loves +Carmelo Neri, and there all is said. Such a little thing she is—so +delicate! like a foam-bell on the waves; and Carmelo—You have seen +Carmelo, _signor_?” + +I shook my head in the negative. + +“_Ebbene_! Carmelo is big and rough and black like a wolf of the +forests, all hair and fangs; Teresa is, well! you have seen a little +cloud in the sky at night, wandering past the moon all flecked with +pale gold?—that is Teresa. She is, small and slight as a child; she has +rippling curls, and soft praying eyes, and tiny, weak, white hands, not +strong enough to snap a twig in two. Yet she can do anything with +Carmelo—she is the one soft spot in his life.” + +“I wonder if she is true to him,” I muttered, half to myself and half +aloud. + +The captain caught up my words with an accent of surprise. + +“True to him? Ah, _Dio_! but the _signor_ does not know her. There was +one of Carmelo’s own band, as bold and handsome a cut-throat as ever +lived—he was mad for Teresa—he followed her everywhere like a beaten +cur. One day he found her alone; he tried to embrace her—she snatched a +knife from his own girdle and stabbed him with it, like a little fury! +She did not kill him then, but Carmelo did afterward. To think of a +little woman like that with such a devil in her! It is her boast that +no man, save Carmelo, has ever touched so much as a ringlet of her +hair. Ay; she is true to him—more’s the pity.” + +“Why—you would not have her false?” I asked. + +“Nay, nay—for a false woman deserves death—but still it is a pity +Teresa should have fixed her love on Carmelo. Such a man! One day the +gendarmes will have him, then he will be in the galleys for life, and +she will die. Yes—you may be sure of that! If grief does not kill her +quickly enough, then she will kill herself, that is certain! She is +slight and frail to look at as a flower, but her soul is strong as +iron. She, will have her own way in death as well as in love—some women +are made so, and it is generally the weakest-looking among them who +have the most courage.” + +Our conversation was here interrupted by one of the sailors who came +for his master’s orders. The talkative skipper, with an apologetic +smile and bow, placed his box of cigarettes beside me where I sat, and +left me to my own reflections. + +I was not sorry to be alone. I needed a little breathing time—a rest in +which to think, though my thoughts, like a new solar system, revolved +round the red planet of one central idea, _vengeance_. “A false woman +deserves death.” Even this simple Sicilian mariner said so. “Go and +kill her, go and kill her!” These words reiterated themselves over and +over again in my ears, till I found myself almost uttering them aloud. +My soul sickened at the contemplation of the woman Teresa—the mistress +of a wretched brigand whose name was fraught with horror—whose looks +were terrific—she, even _she_ could keep herself sacred from the +profaning touch of other men’s caresses—she was proud of being faithful +to her wolf of the mountains, whose temper was uncertain and +treacherous—she could make lawful boast of her fidelity to her +blood-stained lover—while Nina—the wedded wife of a noble whose descent +was lofty and unsullied, could tear off the fair crown of honorable +marriage and cast it in the dust—could take the dignity of an ancient +family and trample upon it—could make herself so low and vile that even +this common Teresa, knowing all, might and most probably would, refuse +to touch her hand, considering it polluted. Just God! what had Carmelo +Neri done to deserve the priceless jewel of a true woman’s heart? what +had I done to merit such foul deception as that which I was now called +upon to avenge? Suddenly I thought of my child. Her memory came upon me +like a ray of light—I had almost forgotten her. Poor little +blossom!—the slow hot tears forced themselves between my eyelids, as I +called up before my fancy the picture of the soft baby face—the young +untroubled eyes—the little coaxing mouth always budding into innocent +kisses! What should I do with her? When the plan of punishment I had +matured in my brain was carried out to its utmost, should I take her +with me far, far away into some quiet corner of the world, and devote +my life to hers? Alas! alas! she, too, would be a woman and +beautiful—she was a flower born of a poisoned tree, who could say that +there might not be a canker-worm hidden even in her heart, which waited +but for the touch of maturity to commence its work of destruction! Oh, +men! you that have serpents coiled round your lives in the shape of +fair false women—if God has given you children by them, the curse +descends upon you doubly! Hide it as you will under the society masks +we are all forced to wear, you know there is nothing more keenly +torturing than to see innocent babes look trustingly in the deceitful +eyes of an unfaithful wife, and call her by the sacred name of +“Mother.” Eat ashes and drink wormwood, you shall find them sweet in +comparison to that nauseating bitterness! For the rest of the day I was +very much alone. The captain of the brig spoke cheerily to me now and +then, but we were met by light contrary winds that necessitated his +giving most of his attention to the management of his vessel, so that +he could not permit himself to yield to the love of gossip that was +inherent in him. The weather was perfect, and notwithstanding our +constant shifting and tacking about to catch the erratic breeze, the +gay little brig made merry and rapid way over the sparkling +Mediterranean, at a rate that promised our arrival at Palermo by the +sunset of the following day. As the evening came on the wind freshened, +and by the time the moon soared like a large blight bird into the sky, +we were scudding along sideways, the edge of our vessel leaning over to +kiss the waves that gleamed like silver and gold, flecked here and +there with phosphorescent flame. We skimmed almost under the bows of a +magnificent yacht—the English flag floated from her mast—her sails +glittered purely white in the moonbeams, and she sprung over the water +like a sea-gull. A man, whose tall athletic figure was shown off to +advantage by the yachting costume he wore, stood on deck, his arm +thrown round the waist of a girl beside him. We were but a minute or +two passing the stately vessel, yet I saw plainly this loving group of +two, and—I pitied the man! Why? He was English undoubtedly—the son of a +country where the very soil is supposed to be odorous of +virtue—therefore the woman beside him must be a perfect pearl of +purity; an Englishman never makes a mistake in these things! Never? Are +you sure? Ah, believe me, there is not much difference nowadays between +women of opposite nations. Once there was—I am willing to admit that +possibility. Once, from all accounts received, the English rose was the +fitting emblem of the English woman, but now, since the world has grown +so wise and made such progress in the art of running rapidly downhill, +is even the aristocratic British peer quite easy in his mind regarding +his fair peeress? Can he leave her to her own devices with safety? Are +there not men, boastful too of their “blue blood,” who are perhaps +ready to stoop to the thief’s trick of entering his house during his +absence by means of private keys, and stealing away his wife’s +affections?—and is not she, though a mother of three or four children, +ready to receive with favor the mean robber of her husband’s rights and +honor? Read the London newspapers any day and you will find that once +“moral” England is running a neck and neck race with other less +hypocritical nations in pursuit of social vice. The barriers that once +existed are broken down; “professional beauties” are received in +circles where their presence formerly would have been the signal for +all respectable women instantly to retire; ladies of title are +satisfied to caper on the boards of the theatrical stage, in costumes +that display their shape as undisguisedly as possible to the eyes of +the grinning public, or they sing in concert halls for the pleasure of +showing themselves off, and actually accept the vulgar applause of +unwashed crowds with a smile and a bow of gratitude! Ye gods! what has +become of the superb pride of the old regime—the pride which disdained +all ostentation and clung to honor more closely than life! What a +striking sign of the times too, is this: let a woman taint her virtue +BEFORE marriage, she is never forgiven—her sin is never forgotten; but +let her do what she will when she has a husband’s name to screen her, +and society winks its eyes at her crimes. Couple this fact with the +general spirit of mockery that prevails in fashionable circles—mockery +of religion, mockery of sentiment, mockery of all that is best and +noblest in the human heart—add to it the general spread of +“free-thought,” and _therefore_ of conflicting and unstable +opinions—let all these things together go on for a few years longer and +England will stare at her sister nations like a bold woman in a +domino—her features partly concealed from a pretense at shame, but her +eyes glittering coldly through the mask, betraying to all who look at +her how she secretly revels in her new code of lawlessness coupled with +greed. For she will always be avaricious—and the worst of it is, that +her nature being prosaic, there will be no redeeming grace to cast a +glamour about her. France is unvirtuous enough, God knows, yet there is +a sunshiny smile on her lips that cheers the heart. Italy is also +unvirtuous, yet her voice is full of bird-like melody, and her face is +a dream of perfect poetry! But England unvirtuous will be like a +cautiously calculating, somewhat shrewish matron, possessed of +unnatural and unbecoming friskiness, without either laugh, or song, or +smile—her one god, Gold, and her one commandment, the suggested +eleventh, “Thou shall not be found out!” + +I slept that night on deck. The captain offered me the use of his +little cabin, and was, in his kind-hearted manner, truly distressed at +my persistent refusal to occupy it. + +“It is bad to sleep in the moonlight, _signor_,” he said, anxiously. +“It makes men mad, they say.” + +I smiled. Had madness been my destiny, I should have gone mad last +night, I thought! + +“Have no fear!” I answered him, gently. “The moonlight is a joy to +me—it has no impression on my mind save that of peace. I shall rest +well here, my friend—do not trouble yourself about me.” + +He hesitated and then abruptly left me, to return in the space of two +or three minutes with a thick rug of sheepskin. He insisted so +earnestly on my accepting this covering as a protection from the night +air, that, to please him, I yielded to his entreaties and lay down, +wrapped in its warm folds. The good-natured fellow then wished me a +“_Buon riposo, signor_!” and descended to his own resting-place, +humming a gay tune as he went. From my recumbent posture on the deck I +stared upward at the myriad stars that twinkled softly in the warm +violet skies—stared long and fixedly till it seemed to me that our ship +had also become a star, and was sailing through space with its +glittering companions. What inhabitants peopled those fair planets, I +wondered? Mere men and women who lived and loved and lied to one +another as bravely as we do? or superior beings to whom the least +falsehood is unknown? Was there one world among them where no women +were born? Vague fancies—odd theories—flitted through my brain. I lived +over again the agony of my imprisonment in the vaults—again I forced +myself to contemplate the scene I had witnessed between my wife and her +lover—again I meditated on every small detail requisite to the +fulfillment of the terrible vengeance I had designed. I have often +wondered how, in countries where divorce is allowed, a wronged husband +can satisfy himself with so meager a compensation for his injuries as +the mere getting rid of the woman who has deceived him. It is no +punishment to her—it is what she wishes. There is not even any very +special disgrace in it according to the present standard of social +observances. Were public whipping the recognized penalty for the crime +of a married woman’s infidelity, there would be fewer of the like +scandals—the divorce might follow the scourging. A daintily brought-up +feminine creature would think twice, nay, fifty times, before she would +run the risk of allowing her delicate body to be lashed by whips +wielded by the merciless hands of a couple of her own sex—such a +prospect of degradation, pain, shame, and outraged vanity would be more +effectual to kill the brute in her than all the imposing ceremonials of +courts of law and special juries. Think of it, kings, lords, and +commons! Whipping at the cart’s tail was once a legal punishment—if you +would stop the growing immorality and reckless vice of women you had +best revive it again—only apply it to rich as well as to poor, for it +is most probable that the gay duchesses and countesses of your lands +will need its sharp services more frequently than the work-worn wives +of your laboring men. Luxury, idleness, and love of dress are hot-beds +for sin—look for it, therefore, not so much in the hovels of the +starving and naked as in the rose-tinted, musk-scented boudoirs of the +aristocracy—look for it, as your brave physicians would search out the +seeds of a pestilence that threatens to depopulate a great city, and +trample it out if you _can_ and _will_—if you desire to keep the name +of your countries glorious in the eyes of future history. Spare not the +rod because “my lady” forsooth! with her rich hair falling around her +in beauteous dishevelment and her eyes bathed in tears, implores your +mercy—for by very reason of her wealth and station she deserves less +pity than the painted outcast who knows not where to turn for bread. A +high post demands high duty! But I talk wildly. Whipping is done away +with, for women at least—we give a well-bred shudder of disgust at the +thought of it. When do we shudder with equal disgust at our own social +enormities? Seldom or never. Meanwhile, in cases of infidelity, +husbands and wives can separate and go on their different ways in +comparative peace. Yes—some can and some do; but I am not one of these. +No law in all the world can mend the torn flag of _my_ honor; therefore +I must be a law to myself—a counsel, a jury, a judge, all in one and +from my decision there can be no appeal! Then I must act as +executioner—and what torture was ever so perfectly unique as the one I +have devised? So I mused, lying broadly awake, with face upturned to +the heavens, watching the light of the moon pouring itself out on the +ocean like a shower of gold, while the water rushed gurgling softly +against the sides of the brig, and broke into the laughter of white +foam as we scudded along. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +All the next day the wind was in our favor, and we arrived at Palermo +an hour before sunset. We had scarcely run into harbor when a small +party of officers and gendarmes, heavily laden with pistols and +carbines, came on board and showed a document authorizing them to +search the brig for Carmelo Neri. I was somewhat anxious for the safety +of my good friend the captain—but he was in nowise dismayed; he smiled +and welcomed the armed emissaries of the government as though they were +his dearest friends. + +“To give you my opinion frankly,” he said to them, as he opened a flask +of line Chianti for their behoof, “I believe the villain Carmelo is +somewhere about Gaeta. I would not tell you a lie—why should I? Is +there not a reward offered, and am not I poor? Look you, I would do my +best to assist you!” + +One of the men looked at him dubiously. + +“We received information,” he said, in precise, business-like tones, +“that Neri escaped from Gaeta two months since, and was aided and +abetted in his escape by one Andrea Luziani, owner of the coasting brig +‘Laura,’ journeying for purposes of trade between Naples and Palermo. +You are Andrea Luziani, and this is the brig ‘Laura,’—we are right in +this; is it not so?” + +“As if you could ever be wrong, _caro_!” cried the captain with +undiminished gayety, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nay, if St. Peter +should have the bad taste to shut you out of heaven, you would be +cunning enough to find another and better entrance! Ah, _Dio_! I +believe it! Yes, you are right about my name and the name of my brig, +but in the other things,”—here he shook his fingers with an expressive +sign of denial—“you are wrong—wrong—all wrong!” He broke into a gay +laugh. “Yes, wrong—but we will not quarrel about it! Have some more +Chianti! Searching for brigands is thirsty work. Fill your glasses, +_amici_—spare not the flask—there are twenty more below stairs!” + +The officers smiled in spite of themselves, as they drank the proffered +wine, and the youngest-looking of the party, a brisk, handsome fellow, +entered into the spirit of the captain with ardor, though he evidently +thought he should trap him into a confession unawares, by the apparent +carelessness and bonhomie of his manner. + +“Bravo, Andrea!” he cried, merrily. “So! let us all be friends +together! Besides, what harm is there in taking a brigand for a +passenger—no doubt he would pay you better than most cargoes!” + +But Andrea was not to be so caught. On the contrary; he raised his +hands and eyes with an admirably feigned expression of shocked alarm. + +“Our Lady and the saints forgive you!” he exclaimed, piously, “for +thinking that I, an honest _marinaro_, would accept one _baiocco_ from +an accursed brigand! Ill-luck would follow me ever after! Nay, +nay—there has been a mistake; I know nothing of Carmelo Neri, and I +hope the saints will grant that I may never meet him!” + +He spoke with so much apparent sincerity that the officers in command +were evidently puzzled, though the fact of their being so did not deter +them from searching the brig thoroughly. Disappointed in their +expectations, they questioned all on board, including myself, but were +of course unable to obtain any satisfactory replies. Fortunately they +accepted my costume as a sign of my trade, and though they glanced +curiously at my white hair, they seemed to think there was nothing +suspicious about me. After a few more effusive compliments and +civilities on the part of the captain, they took their departure, +completely baffled, and quite convinced that the information they had +received had been somehow incorrect. As soon as they were out of sight, +the merry Andrea capered on his deck like a child in a play-ground, and +snapped his fingers defiantly. + +“_Per Bacco_!” he cried, ecstatically, “they should as soon make a +priest tell confessional secrets, as force me, honest Andrea Luziani, +to betray a man who has given me good cigars! Let them run back to +Gaeta and hunt in every hole and corner! Carmelo may rest comfortably +in the Montemaggiore without the shadow of a gendarme to disturb him! +Ah, _signor_!” for I had advanced to bid him farewell—“I am truly sorry +to part company with you! You do not blame me for helping away a poor +devil who trusts me?” + +“Not I!” I answered him heartily. “On the contrary, I would there were +more like you. _Addio_! and with this,” here I gave him the +passage-money we had agreed upon, “accept my thanks. I shall not forget +your kindness; if you ever need a friend, send to me.” + +“But,” he said, with a naive mingling of curiosity and timidity, “how +can I do that if the _signor_ does not tell me his name?” + +I had thought of this during the past night. I knew it would be +necessary to take a different name, and I had resolved on adopting that +of a school-friend, a boy to whom I had been profoundly attached in my +earliest youth, and who had been drowned before my eyes while bathing +in the Venetian Lido. So I answered Andrea’s question at once and +without effort. + +“Ask for the Count Cesare Oliva,” I said. “I shall return to Naples +shortly, and should you seek me, you will find me there.” + +The Sicilian doffed his cap and saluted me profoundly. + +“I guessed well,” he remarked, smilingly, “that the _Signor Conte’s_ +hands were not those of a coral-fisher. Oh, yes! I know a gentleman +when I see him—though we Sicilians say we are all gentlemen. It is a +good boast, but alas! not always true! _A rivederci, signor_! Command +me when you will—I am your servant!” + +Pressing his hand, I sprung lightly from the brig on to the quay. + +“_A rivederci_!” I called to him. “Again, and yet again, a thousand +thanks!” + +“_Oh! tropp’ onore, signor—tropp’ onore_!” and thus I left him, +standing still bareheaded on the deck of his little vessel, with a +kindly light on his brown face like the reflection of a fadeless +sunbeam. Good-hearted, merry rogue! His ideas of right and wrong were +oddly mixed—yet his lies were better than many truths told us by our +candid friends—and you may be certain the great Recording Angel knows +the difference between a lie that saves and a truth that kills, and +metes out Heaven’s reward or punishment accordingly. + +My first care, when I found myself in the streets of Palermo, was to +purchase clothes of the best material and make adapted to a gentleman’s +wear. I explained to the tailor whose shop I entered for this purpose +that I had joined a party of coral-fishers for mere amusement, and had +for the time adopted their costume. He believed my story the more +readily as I ordered him to make several more suits for me immediately, +giving him the name of Count Cesare Oliva, and the address of the best +hotel in the city. He served me with obsequious humility, and allowed +me the use of his private back-room, where I discarded my fisher garb +for the dress of a gentleman—a ready-made suit that happened to fit me +passably well. Thus arrayed as became my station, I engaged rooms at +the chief hotel of Palermo for some weeks—weeks that were for me full +of careful preparation for the task of vengeful retribution that lay +before me. One of my principal objects was to place the money I had +with me in safe hands. I sought out the leading banker in Palermo, and +introducing myself under my adopted name, I stated that I had newly +returned to Sicily after some years’ absence. He received me well, and +though he appeared astonished at the large amount of wealth I had +brought, he was eager and willing enough to make satisfactory +arrangements with me for its safe keeping, including the bag of jewels, +some of which, from their unusual size and luster, excited his genuine +admiration. Seeing this, I pressed on his acceptance a fine emerald and +two large brilliants, all unset, and requested him to have a ring made +of them for his own wear. Surprised at my generosity, he at first +refused—but his natural wish to possess such rare gems finally +prevailed, and he took them, overpowering me with thanks—while I was +perfectly satisfied to see that I had secured his services so +thoroughly by my jeweled bribe, that he either forgot, or else saw no +necessity to ask me for personal references, which in my position would +have been exceeding difficult, if not impossible, to obtain. When this +business transaction was entirely completed, I devoted myself to my +next consideration—which was to disguise myself so utterly that no one +should possibly be able to recognize the smallest resemblance in me to +the late Fabio Romani, either by look, voice, or trick of manner. I had +always worn a mustache—it had turned white in company with my hair. I +now allowed my beard to grow—it came out white also. But in contrast +with these contemporary signs of age, my face began to fill up and look +young again; my eyes, always large and dark, resumed their old +flashing, half-defiant look—a look, which it seemed to me, would make +some familiar suggestion to those who had once known me as I was before +I died. Yes—they spoke of things that must be forgotten and unuttered; +what should I do with these tell-tale eyes of mine? + +I thought, and soon decided. Nothing was easier than to feign weak +sight—sight that was dazzled by the heat and brilliancy of the southern +sunshine, I would wear smoke-colored glasses. I bought them as soon as +the idea occurred to me, and alone in my room before the mirror I tried +their effect. I was satisfied; they perfectly completed the disguise of +my face. With them and my white hair and beard, I looked like a +well-preserved man of fifty-five or so, whose only physical ailment was +a slight affection of the eyes. + +The next thing to alter was my voice. I had, naturally, a peculiarly +soft voice and a rapid, yet clear, enunciation, and it was my habit, as +it is the habit of almost every Italian, to accompany my words with the +expressive pantomime of gesture. I took myself in training as an actor +studies for a particular part. I cultivated a harsh accent, and spoke +with deliberation and coldness—occasionally with a sort of sarcastic +brusquerie, carefully avoiding the least movement of hands or head +during converse. This was exceedingly difficult of attainment to me, +and took me an infinite deal of time and trouble; but I had for my +model a middle-aged Englishman who was staying in the same hotel as +myself, and whose starched stolidity never relaxed for a single +instant. He was a human iceberg—perfectly respectable, with that air of +decent gloom about him which is generally worn by all the sons of +Britain while sojourning in a foreign clime. I copied his manners as +closely as possible; I kept my mouth shut with the same precise air of +not-to-be-enlightened obstinacy—I walked with the same upright drill +demeanor—and I surveyed the scenery with the same superior contempt. I +knew I had succeeded at last, for I overheard a waiter speaking of me +to his companion as “the white bear!” + +One other thing I did. I wrote a courteous note to the editor of the +principal newspaper published in Naples—a newspaper that I knew always +found its way to the Villa Romani—and inclosing fifty francs, I +requested him to insert a paragraph for me in his next issue. This +paragraph was worded somewhat as follows: + +“The _Signor_ Conte Cesare Oliva, a nobleman who has been for many +years absent from his native country, has, we understand, just +returned, possessed of almost fabulous wealth, and is about to arrive +in Naples, where he purposes making his home for the future. The +leaders of society here will no doubt welcome with enthusiasm so +distinguished an addition to the brilliant circles commanded by their +influence.” + +The editor obeyed my wishes, and inserted what I sent him, word for +word as it was written. He sent me the paper containing it “with a +million compliments,” but was discreetly silent concerning the fifty +francs, though I am certain he pocketed them with unaffected joy. Had I +sent him double the money, he might have been induced to announce me as +a king or emperor in disguise. Editors of newspapers lay claim to be +honorable men; they may be so in England, but in Italy most of them +would do anything for money. Poor devils! who can blame them, +considering how little they get by their limited dealings in pen and +ink! In fact, I am not at all certain but that a few English newspaper +editors might be found capable of accepting a bribe, if large enough, +and if offered with due delicacy. There are surely one or two +magazines, for instance, in London, that would not altogether refuse to +insert an indifferently, even badly written article, if paid a thousand +pounds down for doing it! + +On the last day but one of my sojourn in Palermo I was reclining in an +easy-chair at the window of the hotel smoking-room, looking out on the +shimmering waters of the gulf. It was nearly eight o’clock, and though +the gorgeous colors of the sunset still lingered in the sky, the breeze +blew in from the sea somewhat coldly, giving warning of an approaching +chilly night. The character I had adopted, namely that of a somewhat +harsh and cynical man who had seen life and did not like it, had by +constant hourly practice become with me almost second nature—indeed, I +should have had some difficulty in returning to the easy and +thoughtless abandon of my former self. I had studied the art of being +churlish till I really _was_ churlish; I had to act the chief character +in a drama, and I knew my part thoroughly well. I sat quietly puffing +at my cigar and thinking of nothing in particular—for, as far as my +plans went, I had done with thought, and all my energies were strung up +to action—when I was startled by a loud and increasing clamor, as of +the shouting of a large crowd coming onward like an overflowing tide. I +leaned out of the window, but could see nothing, and I was wondering +what the noise could mean, when an excited waiter threw open the door +of the smoking-room and cried, breathlessly: + +“Carmelo Neri, _signor_! Carmelo Neri! They have him, _poverino_! they +have him at last!” + +Though almost as strongly interested in this news as the waiter +himself, I did not permit my interest to become manifest. I never +forgot for a second the character I had assumed, and drawing the cigar +slowly from my lips I merely said: + +“Then they have caught a great rascal. I congratulate the Government! +Where is the fellow?” + +“In the great square,” returned the garçon, eagerly. “If the _signor_ +would walk round the corner he would see Carmelo, bound and fettered. +The saints have mercy upon him! The crowds there are thick as flies +round a honeycomb! I must go thither myself—I would not miss the sight +for a thousand francs!” + +And he ran off, as full of the anticipated delight of looking at a +brigand as a child going to its first fair. I put on my hat and +strolled leisurely round to the scene of excitement. It was a +picturesque sight enough; the square was black with a sea of eager +heads, and restless, gesticulating figures, and the center of this +swaying, muttering crowd was occupied by a compact band of mounted +gendarmes with drawn swords flashing in the pale evening light—both +horses and men nearly as motionless as though cast in bronze. They were +stationed opposite the head-quarters of the Carabinieri, where the +chief officer of the party had dismounted to make his formal report +respecting the details of the capture before proceeding further. +Between these armed and watchful guards, with his legs strapped to a +sturdy mule, his arms tied fast behind him, and his hands heavily +manacled, was the notorious Neri, as dark and fierce as a mountain +thunder-storm. His head was uncovered—his thick hair, long and unkempt, +hung in matted locks upon his shoulders—his heavy mustachios and beard +were so black and bushy that they almost concealed his coarse and +forbidding features—though I could see the tiger-like glitter of his +sharp white teeth as he bit and gnawed his under lip in impotent fury +and despair—and his eyes, like leaping flames, blazed with a wrathful +ferocity from under his shaggy brows. He was a huge, heavy man, broad +and muscular; his two hands clinched, tied and manacled behind him, +looked like formidable hammers capable of striking a man down dead at +one blow; his whole aspect was repulsive and terrible—there was no +redeeming point about him—for even the apparent fortitude he assumed +was mere bravado—meretricious courage—which the first week of the +galleys would crush out of him as easily as one crushes the juice out +of a ripe grape. He wore a nondescript costume of vari-colored linen, +arranged in folds that would have been the admiration of an artist. It +was gathered about him by means of a brilliant scarlet sash negligently +tied. His brawny arms were bare to the shoulder—his vest was open, and +displayed his strong brown throat and chest heaving with the pent-up +anger and fear that raged within him. His dark grim figure was set off +by a curious effect of color in the sky—a long wide band of crimson +cloud, as though the sun-god had thrown down a goblet of ruby wine and +left it to trickle along the smooth blue fairness of his palace floor—a +deep after-glow, which burned redly on the olive-tinted eager faces of +the multitude that were everywhere upturned in wonder and ill-judged +admiration to the brutal black face of the notorious murderer and +thief, whose name had for years been the terror of Sicily. I pressed +through the crowd to obtain a nearer view, and as I did so a sudden +savage movement of Neri’s bound body caused the gendarmes to cross +their swords in front of his eyes with a warning clash. The brigand +laughed hoarsely. + +“_Corpo di Cristo_!” he muttered—“think you a man tied hand and foot +can run like a deer? I am trapped—I know it! But tell _him_,” and he +indicated some person in the throng by a nod of his head “tell him to +come hither—I have a message for him.” + +The gendarmes looked at one another, and then at the swaying crowd +about them in perplexity—they did not understand. + +Carmelo, without wasting more words upon them, raised himself as +uprightly as he could in his strained and bound position, and called +aloud: + +“Luigi Biscardi! _Capitano_! Oh he—you thought I could not see you! +_Dio_! I should know you in hell! Come near, I have a parting word for +you.” + +At the sound of his strong harsh voice, a silence half of terror, half +of awe, fell upon the chattering multitude. There was a sudden stir as +the people made way for a young man to pass through their ranks—a +slight, tall, rather handsome fellow, with a pale face and cold, +sneering eyes. He was dressed with fastidious care and neatness in the +uniform of the Bersagliere—and he elbowed his way along with the easy +audacity of a privileged dandy. He came close up to the brigand and +spoke carelessly, with a slightly mocking smile playing round the +corners of his mouth. + +“_Ebbene_!” he said, “you are caught at last, Carmelo! You called +me—here I am. What do you want with me, rascal?” + +Neri uttered a ferocious curse between his teeth, and looked for an +instant like a wild beast ready to spring. + +“You betrayed me,” he said in fierce yet smothered accents—“you +followed me—you hunted me down! Teresa told me all. Yes—she belongs to +you now—you have got your wish. Go and take her—she waits for you—make +her speak and tell you how she loves you—_if you can_!” + +Something jeering and withal threatening in the ruffian’s look, +evidently startled the young officer, for he exclaimed hastily: + +“What do you mean, wretch? You have not—my God! you have not _killed_ +her?” + +Carmelo broke into a loud savage laugh. + +“She has killed herself!” he cried, exultingly. “Ha, ha, I thought you +would wince at that! She snatched my knife and stabbed herself with it! +Yes—rather than see your lying white face again—rather than feel your +accursed touch! Find her—she lies dead and smiling up there in the +mountains and her last kiss was for _me_—for _me_—you understand! Now +go! and may the devil curse you!” + +Again the gendarmes clashed their swords suggestively—and the brigand +resumed his sullen attitude of suppressed wrath and feigned +indifference. But the man to whom he had spoken staggered and seemed +about to fall—his pale face grew paler—he moved away through the +curious open-eyed by-standers with the mechanical air of one who knows +not whether he be alive or dead. He had evidently received an +unexpected shock—a wound that pierced deeply and would be a long time +healing. + +I approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into +his hand. + +“May one speak?” I asked, carelessly. The man hesitated. + +“For one instant, _signor_. But be brief.” + +I addressed the brigand in a low clear-tone. + +“Have you any message for one Andrea Luziani? I am a friend of his.” + +He looked at me and a dark smile crossed his features. + +“Andrea is a good soul. Tell him if you will that Teresa is dead. I am +worse than dead. He will know that I did not kill Teresa. I could not! +She had the knife in her breast before I could prevent her. It is +better so.” + +“She did that rather than become the property of another man?” I +queried. + +Carmelo Neri nodded in acquiescence. Either my sight deceived me, or +else this abandoned villain had tears glittering in the depth of his +wicked eyes. + +The gendarme made me a sign, and I withdrew. Almost at the same moment +the officer in command of the little detachment appeared, his spurs +clinking with measured metallic music on the hard stones of the +pavement—he sprung into his saddle and gave the word—the crowd +dispersed to the right and left—the horses were put to a quick trot, +and in a few moments the whole party with the bulky frowning form of +the brigand in their midst had disappeared. The people broke up into +little groups talking excitedly of what had occurred, and scattered +here and there, returning to their homes and occupations—and more +swiftly than one could have imagined possible, the great square was +left almost empty. I paced up and down for awhile thinking deeply; I +had before my mind’s eye the picture of the slight fair Teresa as +described by the Sicilian captain, lying dead in the solitudes of the +Montemaggiore with that self-inflicted wound in her breast which had +set her free of all men’s love and persecution. There _were_ some women +then who preferred death to infidelity? Strange! very strange! common +women of course they must be—such as this brigand’s mistress; your +daintily fed, silk-robed duchess would find a dagger somewhat a vulgar +consoler—she would rather choose a lover, or better still a score of +lovers. It is only brute ignorance that selects a grave instead of +dishonor—modern education instructs us more wisely, and teaches us not +to be over-squeamish about such a trifle as breaking a given word or +promise. Blessed age of progress! Age of steady advancement when the +apple of vice is so cunningly disguised and so prettily painted that we +can actually set it on a porcelain dish and hand it about among our +friends as a valuable and choice fruit of virtue—and no one finds out +the fraud we are practicing, nay, we scarcely perceive it ourselves, it +is such an excellent counterfeit! + +As I walked to and fro, I found myself continually passing the head +office of the Carabinieri, and, acting on a sudden impulse of +curiosity, I at last entered the building, determined to ask for a few +particulars concerning the brigand’s capture. I was received by a +handsome and intelligent-looking man, who glanced at the card with +which I presented myself, and saluted me with courteous affability. + +“Oh, yes!” he said, in answer to my inquiries, “Neri has given us a +great deal of trouble. But we had our suspicions that he had left +Gaeta, where he was for a time in hiding. A few stray bits of +information gleaned here and there put us on the right track.” + +“Was he caught easily, or did he show fight?” + +“He gave himself up like a lamb, _signor_! It happened in this way. One +of our men followed the woman who lived with Neri, one Teresa, and +traced her up to a certain point, the corner of a narrow mountain +pass—where she disappeared. He reported this, and thereupon we sent out +an armed party. These crept at midnight two by two, till they were +formed in a close ring round the place where Neri was judged to be. +With the first beam of morning they rushed in upon him and took him +prisoner. It appears that he showed no surprise—he merely said, ‘I +expected you!’ He was found sitting by the dead body of his mistress; +she was stabbed and newly bleeding. No doubt he killed her, though he +swears the contrary—lies are as easy to him as breathing.” + +“But where were his comrades? I thought he commanded a large band?” + +“So he did, _signor_; and we caught three of the principals only a +fortnight ago, but of the others no trace can be found. I suppose +Carmelo himself dismissed them and sent them far and wide through the +country. At any rate, they are disbanded, and with these sort of +fellows, where there is no union there is no danger.” + +“And Neri’s sentence?” I asked. + +“Oh, the galleys for life of course; there is no possible alternative.” + +I thanked my informant, and left the office. I was glad to have learned +these few particulars, for the treasure I had discovered in my own +family vault was now more mine than ever. There was not the remotest +chance of any one of the Neri band venturing so close to Naples in +search of it, and I thought with a grim smile that had the brigand +chief himself known the story of my wrongs, he would most probably have +rejoiced to think that his buried wealth was destined to aid me in +carrying out so elaborate a plan of vengeance. All difficulties +smoothed themselves before me—obstacles were taken out of my path—my +way was made perfectly clear—each trifling incident was a new +finger-post pointing out the direct road that led me to the one desired +end. God himself seemed on my side, as He is surely ever on the side of +justice! Let not the unfaithful think that because they say long +prayers or go regularly and devoutly to church with meek faces and +piously folded hands that the Eternal Wisdom is deceived thereby. My +wife could pray—she could kneel like a lovely saint in the dim +religious light of the sacred altars, her deep eyes upturned to the +blameless, infinitely reproachful Christ—and look you! each word she +uttered was a blasphemy, destined to come back upon herself as a curse. +Prayer is dangerous for liars—it is like falling willfully on an +upright naked sword. Used as an honorable weapon the sword +defends—snatched up as the last resource of a coward it kills. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +The third week of September was drawing to its close when I returned to +Naples. The weather had grown cooler, and favorable reports of the +gradual decrease of the cholera began to gain ground with the suffering +and terrified population. Business was resumed as usual, pleasure had +again her votaries, and society whirled round once more in its giddy +waltz as though it had never left off dancing. I arrived in the city +somewhat early in the day, and had time to make some preliminary +arrangements for my plan of action. I secured the most splendid suite +of apartments in the best hotel, impressing the whole establishment +with a vast idea of my wealth and importance. I casually mentioned to +the landlord that I desired to purchase a carriage and horses—that I +needed a first-class valet, and a few other trifles of the like sort, +and added that I relied on his good advice and recommendation as to the +places where I should best obtain all that I sought. Needless to say, +he became my slave—never was monarch better served than I—the very +waiters hustled each other in a race to attend upon me, and reports of +my princely fortune, generosity, and lavish expenditure, began to flit +from mouth to mouth—which was the result I desired to obtain. + +And now the evening of my first day in Naples came, and I, the supposed +Conte Cesare Oliva, the envied and flattered noble, took the first step +toward my vengeance. It was one of the loveliest evenings possible, +even in that lovely land—a soft breeze blew in from the sea—the sky was +pearl-like and pure as an opal, yet bright with delicate shifting +clouds of crimson and pale mauve—small, fleecy flecks of Radiance, that +looked like a shower of blossoms fallen from some far invisible +flower-land. The waters of the bay were slightly ruffled by the wind, +and curled into tender little dark-blue waves tipped with light forges +of foam. After my dinner I went out and took my way to a well-known and +popular cafe which used to be a favorite haunt of mine in the days when +I was known as Fabio Romani. Guido Ferrari was a constant habitue of +the place, and I felt that I should find him there. The brilliant +rose-white and gold saloons were crowded, and owing to the pleasant +coolness of the air there were hundreds of little tables pushed far out +into the street, at which groups of persons were seated, enjoying ices, +wine, or coffee, and congratulating each other on the agreeable news of +the steady decrease of the pestilence that had ravaged the city. I +glanced covertly yet quickly round. Yes! I was not mistaken—there was +my quondam friend, my traitorous foe, sitting at his ease, leaning +comfortably back in one chair, his feet put up on another. He was +smoking, and glancing now and then through the columns of the Paris +“Figaro.” He was dressed entirely in black—a hypocritical livery, the +somber hue of which suited his fine complexion and perfectly handsome +features to admiration. On the little finger of the shapely hand that +every now and then was raised to adjust his cigar, sparkled a diamond +that gave out a myriad scintillations as it flashed in the evening +light—it was of exceptional size and brilliancy, and even at a distance +I recognized it as my own property! + +So!—a love-gift, _signor_, or an _in memoriam_ of the dear and valued +friend you have lost? I wondered—watching him in dark scorn the +while—then recollecting myself, I sauntered slowly toward him, and +perceiving a disengaged table next to his, I drew a chair to it and sat +down He looked at me indifferently over the top of his newspaper—but +there was nothing specially attractive in the sight of a white-haired +man wearing smoke-colored spectacles, and he resumed his perusal of the +“Figaro” immediately. I rapped the end of my walking-cane on the table +and summoned a waiter from whom I ordered coffee. I then lighted a +cigar, and imitating Ferrari’s easy posture, smoked also. Something in +my attitude then appeared to strike him, for he laid down his paper and +again looked at me, this time with more interest and something of +uneasiness. “_Ça commence, mon ami_!” I thought, but I turned my head +slightly aside and feigned to be absorbed in the view. My coffee was +brought—I paid for it and tossed the waiter an unusually large +gratuity—he naturally found it incumbent upon him to polish my table +with extra zeal, and to secure all the newspapers, pictorial or +otherwise, that were lying about, for the purpose of obsequiously +depositing them in a heap at my right hand. I addressed this amiable +garçon in the harsh and deliberate accents of my carefully disguised +voice. + +“By the way, I suppose you know Naples well?” + +“Oh, _si, signor_!” + +“_Ebbene_, can you tell me the way to the house of one Count Fabio +Romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?” + +Ha! a good hit this time! Though apparently not looking at him I saw +Ferrari start as though he had been stung, and then compose himself in +his seat with an air of attention. The waiter meanwhile, in answer to +my question, raised his hands, eyes and shoulders all together with a +shrug expressive of resigned melancholy. + +“_Ah, gran Dio! e morto!_” + +“Dead!” I exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise. “So +young? Impossible!” + +“Eh! what will you, _signor_? It was _la pesta_; there was no remedy. +_La pesta_ cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich nor +poor.” + +For a moment I leaned my head on my hand, affecting to be overcome by +the suddenness of the news. Then looking up, I said, regretfully: + +“Alas! I am too late! I was a friend of his father’s. I have been away +for many years, and I had a great wish to meet the young Romani whom I +last saw as a child. Are there any relations of his living—was he +married?” + +The waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness in +accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up +immediately as he replied eagerly: + +“Oh, _si, signor_! The _Contessa_ Romani lives up at the villa, though +I believe she receives no one since her husband’s death. She is young +and beautiful as an angel. There is a little child too.” + +A hasty movement on the part of Ferrari caused me to turn my eyes, or +rather my spectacles, in his direction. He leaned forward, and raising +his hat with the old courteous grace I knew so well, said politely: + +“Pardon me, _signor_, for interrupting you! I knew the late young Count +Romani well—perhaps better than any man in Naples. I shall be delighted +to afford you any information you may seek concerning him.” + +Oh, the old mellow music of his voice—how it struck on my heart and +pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of our +youth. For an instant I could not speak—wrath and sorrow choked my +utterance. Fortunately this feeling was but momentary—slowly I raised +my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly: + +“I am your servant, _signor_. You will oblige me indeed if you can +place me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate young +nobleman. The elder Count Romani was dearer to me than a brother—men +have such attachments occasionally. Permit me to introduce myself,” and +I handed him my visiting-card with a slight and formal bow. He accepted +it, and as he read the name it bore he gave me a quick glance of +respect mingled with pleased surprise. + +“The Conte Cesare Oliva!” he exclaimed. “I esteem myself most fortunate +to have met you! Your arrival has already been notified to us by the +avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we are well +aware,” here laughing lightly, “of the distinctive right you have to a +hearty welcome in Naples. I am only sorry that any distressing news +should have darkened the occasion of your return here after so long an +absence. Permit me to express the hope that it may at least be the only +cloud for you on our southern sunshine!” + +And he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie which +are always a part of the Italian temperament, and were especially so of +his. A cold shudder ran through my veins. God! could I take his hand in +mine? I must—if I would act my part thoroughly—for should I refuse he +would think it strange—even rude—I should lose the game by one false +move. With a forced smile I hesitatingly held out my hand also—it was +gloved, yet as he clasped it heartily in his own the warm pressure +burned through the glove like fire. I could have cried out in agony, so +excruciating was the mental torture which I endured at that moment. But +it passed, the ordeal was over, and I knew that from henceforth I +should be able to shake hands with him as often and as indifferently as +with any other man. It was only this _first_ time that it galled me to +the quick. Ferrari noticed nothing of my emotion—he was in excellent +spirits, and turning to the waiter, who had lingered to watch us make +each other’s acquaintance, he exclaimed: + +“More coffee, garçon, and a couple of glorias.” Then looking toward me, +“You do not object to a gloria, _conte_? No? That is well. And here is +_my_ card,” taking one from his pocket and laying it on the table. +“Guido Ferrari, at your service, an artist and a very poor one. We +shall celebrate our meeting by drinking each other’s health!” + +I bowed. The waiter vanished to execute his orders and Ferrari drew his +chair closer to mine. + +“I see you smoke,” he said, gayly. “Can I offer you one of my cigars? +They are unusually choice. Permit me,” and he proffered me a richly +embossed and emblazoned silver cigar-case, with the Romani arms and +coronet and _my own initials_ engraved thereon. It was mine, of +course—I took it with a sensation of grim amusement—I had not seen it +since the day I died! + +“A fine antique,” I remarked, carelessly, turning it over and over in +my hand, “curious and valuable. A gift or an heirloom?” + +“It belonged to my late friend, Count Fabio,” he answered, puffing a +light cloud of smoke in the air as he drew his cigar from his lips to +speak. “It was found in his pocket by the priest who saw him die. That +and other trifles which he wore on his person were delivered to his +wife, and—” + +“She naturally gave _you_ the cigar-case as a memento of your friend,” +I said, interrupting him. + +“Just so. You have guessed it exactly. Thanks,” and he took the case +from me as I returned it to him with a frank smile. + +“Is the Countess Romani young?” I forced myself to inquire. + +“Young and beautiful as a midsummer morning!” replied Ferrari, with +enthusiasm. “I doubt if sunlight ever fell on a more enchanting woman! +If you were a young man, _conte_, I should be silent regarding her +charms—but your white hairs inspire one with confidence. I assure you +solemnly, though Fabio was my friend, and an excellent fellow in his +ways, he was never worthy of the woman he married!” + +“Indeed!” I said, coldly, as this dagger-thrust struck home to my +heart. “I only knew him when he was quite a boy. He seemed to me then +of a warm and loving temperament, generous to a fault, perhaps +over-credulous, yet he promised well. His father thought so, I confess +I thought so too. Reports have reached me from time to time of the care +with which he managed the immense fortune left to him. He gave large +sums away in charity, did he not? and was he not a lover of books and +simple pleasures?” + +“Oh, I grant you all that!” returned Ferrari, with some impatience. “He +was the most moral man in immoral Naples, if you care for that sort of +thing. Studious—philosophic—_parfait gentilhomme_—proud as the devil, +virtuous, unsuspecting, and—withal—a fool!” + +My temper rose dangerously—but I controlled it, and remembering my part +in the drama I had constructed, I broke into violent, harsh laughter. + +“Bravo!” I exclaimed. “One can easily see what a first-rate young +fellow _you_ are! You have no liking for moral men—ha, ha! excellent! I +agree with you. A virtuous man and a fool are synonyms nowadays. Yes—I +have lived long enough to know that! And here is our coffee—behold also +the glorias! I drink your health with pleasure, _Signor_ Ferrari—you +and I must be friends!” + +For one moment he seemed startled by my sudden outburst of mirth—the +next, he laughed heartily himself, and as the waiter appeared with the +coffee and cognac, inspired by the occasion, he made an equivocal, +slightly indelicate joke concerning the personal charms of a certain +Antoinetta whom the garçon was supposed to favor with an eye to +matrimony. The fellow grinned, in nowise offended—and pocketing fresh +gratuities from both Ferrari and myself, departed on new errands for +other customers, apparently in high good humor with himself, +Antoinetta, and the world in general. Resuming the interrupted +conversation I said: + +“And this poor weak-minded Romani—was his death sudden?” + +“Remarkably so,” answered Ferrari, leaning back in his chair, and +turning his handsome flushed face up to the sky where the stars were +beginning to twinkle out one by one, “it appears from all accounts that +he rose early and went out for a walk on one of those insufferably hot +August mornings, and at the furthest limit of the villa grounds he came +upon a fruit-seller dying of cholera. Of course, with his quixotic +ideas, he must needs stay and talk to the boy, and then run like a +madman through the heat into Naples, to find a doctor for him. Instead +of a physician he met a priest, and he was taking this priest to the +assistance of the fruit-seller (who by the bye died in the meantime and +was past all caring for) when he himself was struck down by the plague. +He was carried then and there to a common inn, where in about five +hours he died—all the time shrieking curses on any one who should dare +to take him alive or dead inside his own house. He showed good sense in +that at least—naturally he was anxious not to bring the contagion to +his wife and child.” + +“Is the child a boy or a girl?” I asked, carelessly. + +“A girl. A mere baby—an uninteresting old-fashioned little thing, very +like her father.” + +My poor little Stella. + +Every pulse of my being thrilled with indignation at the indifferently +chill way in which he, the man who had fondled her and pretended to +love her, now spoke of the child. She was, as far as he knew, +fatherless; he, no doubt, had good reason to suspect that her mother +cared little for her, and, I saw plainly that she was, or soon would +be, a slighted and friendless thing in the household. But I made no +remark—I sipped my cognac with an abstracted air for a few seconds—then +I asked: + +“How was the count buried? Your narrative interests me greatly.” + +“Oh, the priest who was with him saw to his burial, and I believe, was +able to administer the last sacraments. At any rate, he had him laid +with all proper respect in his family vault—I myself was present at the +funeral.” + +I started involuntarily, but quickly repressed myself. + +“_You_ were present—_you_—_you_—” and my voice almost failed me. + +Ferrari raised his eyebrows with a look of surprised inquiry. + +“Of course! You are astonished at that? But perhaps you do not +understand. I was the count’s very closest friend, closer than a +brother, I may say. It was natural, even necessary, that I should +attend his body to its last resting place.” + +By this time I had recovered myself. + +“I see—I see!” I muttered, hastily. “Pray excuse me—my age renders me +nervous of disease in any form, and I should have thought the fear of +contagion might have weighed with you.” + +“With _me_!” and he laughed lightly. “I was never ill in my life, and I +have no dread whatever of cholera. I suppose I ran some risk, though I +never thought about it at the time—but the priest—one of the +Benedictine order—died the very next day.” + +“Shocking!” I murmured over my coffee-cup. “Very shocking. And you +actually entertained no alarm for yourself?” + +“None in the least. To tell you the truth, I am armed against +contagious illnesses, by a conviction I have that I am not doomed to +die of any disease. A prophecy”—and here a cloud crossed his +features—“an odd prophecy was made about me when I was born, which, +whether it comes true or not, prevents me from panic in days of +plague.” + +“Indeed!” I said, with interest, for this was news to me. “And may one +ask what this prophecy is?” + +“Oh, certainly. It is to the effect that I shall die a violent death by +the hand of a once familiar friend. It was always an absurd +statement—an old nurse’s tale—but it is now more absurd than ever, +considering that the only friend of the kind I ever had or am likely to +have is dead and buried—namely, Fabio Romani.” + +And he sighed slightly. I raised my head and looked at him steadily. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +The sheltering darkness of the spectacles I wore prevented him from +noticing the searching scrutiny of my fixed gaze. His face was shadowed +by a faint tinge of melancholy; his eyes were thoughtful and almost +sad. + +“You loved him well then in spite of his foolishness?” I said. + +He roused himself from the pensive mood into which he had fallen, and +smiled. + +“Loved him? No! Certainly not—nothing so strong as that! I liked him +fairly—he bought several pictures of me—a poor artist has always some +sort of regard for the man who buys his work. Yes, I liked him well +enough—till he married.” + +“Ha! I suppose his wife came between you?” He flushed slightly, and +drank off the remainder of his cognac in haste. + +“Yes,” he replied, briefly, “she came between us. A man is never quite +the same after marriage. But we have been sitting a long time +here—shall we walk?” + +He was evidently anxious to change the subject. I rose slowly as though +my joints were stiff with age, and drew out my watch, a finely jeweled +one, to see the time. It was past nine o’clock. + +“Perhaps,” I said, addressing him, “you will accompany me as far as my +hotel. I am compelled to retire early as a rule—I suffer much from a +chronic complaint of the eyes as you perceive,” here touching my +spectacles, “and I cannot endure much artificial light. We can talk +further on our way. Will you give me a chance of seeing your pictures? +I shall esteem myself happy to be one of your patrons.” + +“A thousand thanks!” he answered, gayly. “I will show you my poor +attempts with pleasure. Should you find anything among them to gratify +your taste, I shall of course be honored. But, thank Heaven! I am not +as greedy of patronage as I used to be—in fact I intended resigning the +profession altogether in about six months or so.” + +“Indeed! Are you coming into a fortune?” I asked, carelessly. + +“Well—not exactly,” he answered, lightly. “I am going to marry one—that +is almost the same thing, is it not?” + +“Precisely! I congratulate you!” I said, in a studiously indifferent +and slightly bored tone, though my heart pulsed fiercely with the +torrent of wrath pent up within it. I understood his meaning well. In +six months he proposed marrying my wife. Six months was the shortest +possible interval that could be observed, according to social +etiquette, between the death of one husband and the wedding of another, +and even that was so short as to be barely decent. Six months—yet in +that space of time much might happen—things undreamed of and +undesired—slow tortures carefully measured out, punishment sudden and +heavy! Wrapped in these sombre musings I walked beside him in profound +silence. The moon shone brilliantly; groups of girls danced on the +shore with their lovers, to the sound of a flute and mandoline—far off +across the bay the sound of sweet and plaintive singing floated from +some boat in the distance, to our ears—the evening breathed of beauty, +peace and love. But I—my fingers quivered with restrained longing to be +at the throat of the graceful liar who sauntered so easily and +confidently beside me. Ah! Heaven, if he only knew! If he could have +realized the truth, would his face have worn quite so careless a +smile—would his manner have been quite so free and dauntless? +Stealthily I glanced at him; he was humming a tune softly under his +breath, but feeling instinctively, I suppose, that my eyes were upon +him, he interrupted the melody and turned to me with the question: + +“You have traveled far and seen much, _conte_!” + +“I have.” + +“And in what country have you found the most beautiful women!” + +“Pardon me, young sir,” I answered, coldly, “the business of life has +separated me almost entirely from feminine society. I have devoted +myself exclusively to the amassing of wealth, understanding thoroughly +that gold is the key to all things, even to woman’s love; if I desired +that latter commodity, which I do not. I fear that I scarcely know a +fair face from a plain one—I never was attracted by women, and now at +my age, with my settled habits, I am not likely to alter my opinion +concerning them—and I frankly confess those opinions are the reverse of +favorable.” + +Ferrari laughed. “You remind me of Fabio!” he said. “He used to talk in +that strain before he was married—though he was young and had none of +the experiences which may have made you cynical, _conte_! But he +altered his ideas very rapidly—and no wonder!” + +“Is his wife so very lovely then?” I asked. + +“Very! Delicately, daintily beautiful. But no doubt you will see her +for yourself—as a friend of her late husband’s father, you will call +upon her, will you not?” + +“Why should I?” I said, gruffly—“I have no wish to meet her! Besides, +an inconsolable widow seldom cares to receive visitors—I shall not +intrude upon her sorrows!” + +Never was there a better move than this show of utter indifference I +affected. The less I appeared to care about seeing the Countess Romani, +the more anxious Ferrari was to introduce me—(introduce me!—to my +wife!)—and he set to work preparing his own doom with assiduous ardor. + +“Oh, but you must see her!” he exclaimed, eagerly. “She will receive +you, I am sure, as a special guest. Your age and your former +acquaintance with her late husband’s family will win from her the +utmost courtesy, believe me! Besides, she is not really inconsolable—” +He paused suddenly. We had arrived at the entrance of my hotel. I +looked at him steadily. + +“Not really inconsolable?” I repeated, in a tone of inquiry. Ferrari +broke into a forced laugh, + +“Why no!” he said, “What would you? She is young and +light-hearted—perfectly lovely and in the fullness of youth and health. +One cannot expect her to weep long, especially for a man she did not +care for.” + +I ascended the hotel steps. “Pray come in!” I said, with an inviting +movement of my hand. “You must take a glass of wine before you leave. +And so—she did not care for him, you say?” + +Encouraged by my friendly invitation and manner, Ferrari became more at +his ease than ever, and hooking his arm through mine as we crossed the +broad passage of the hotel together, he replied in a confidential tone: + +“My dear _conte_, how _can_ a woman love a man who is forced upon her +by her father for the sake of the money he gives her? As I told you +before, my late friend was utterly insensible to the beauty of his +wife—he was cold as a stone, and preferred his books. Then naturally +she had no love for him!” + +By this time we had reached my apartments, and as I threw open the +door, I saw that Ferrari was taking in with a critical eye the costly +fittings and luxurious furniture. In answer to this last remark, I said +with a chilly smile: + +“And as _I_ told _you_ before, my dear _Signor_ Ferarri, I know nothing +whatever about women, and care less than nothing for their loves or +hatreds! I have always thought of them more or less as playful kittens, +who purr when they are stroked the right way, and scream and scratch +when their tails are trodden on. Try this Montepulciano!” + +He accepted the glass I proffered him, and tasted the wine with the air +of a connoisseur. + +“Exquisite!” he murmured, sipping it lazily. “You are lodged _en +prince_ here, _conte_! I envy you!” + +“You need not,” I answered. “You have youth and health, and—as you have +hinted to me—love; all these things are better than wealth, so people +say. At any rate, youth and health are good things—love I have no +belief in. As for me, I am a mere luxurious animal, loving comfort and +ease beyond anything. I have had many trials—I now take my rest in my +own fashion.” + +“A very excellent and sensible fashion!” smiled Ferrari, leaning his +head easily back on the satin cushions of the easy-chair into which he +had thrown himself. + +“Do you know, _conte_, now I look at you well, I think you must have +been very handsome when you were young! You have a superb figure.” + +I bowed stiffly. “You flatter me, _signor_! I believe I never was +specially hideous—but looks in a man always rank second to strength, +and of strength I have plenty yet remaining.” + +“I do not doubt it,” he returned, still regarding me attentively with +an expression in which there was the faintest shadow of uneasiness. + +“It is an odd coincidence, you will say, but I find a most +extraordinary resemblance in the height and carriage of your figure to +that of my late friend Romani.” + +I poured some wine out for myself with a steady hand, and drank it. + +“Really?” I answered. “I am glad that I remind you of him—if the +reminder is agreeable! But all tall men are much alike so far as figure +goes, providing they are well made.” + +Ferrari’s brow was contracted in a musing frown and he answered not. He +still looked at me, and I returned his look without embarrassment. +Finally he roused himself, smiled, and finished drinking his glass of +Montepulciano. Then he rose to go. + +“You will permit me to mention your name to the Countess Romani, I +hope?” he said, cordially. “I am certain she will receive you, should +you desire it.” + +I feigned a sort of vexation, and made an abrupt movement of +impatience. + +“The fact is,” I said, at last, “I very much dislike talking to women. +They are always illogical, and their frivolity wearies me. But you have +been so friendly that I will give you a message for the countess—if you +have no objection to deliver it. I should be sorry to trouble you +unnecessarily—and you perhaps will not have an opportunity of seeing +her for some days?” + +He colored slightly and moved uneasily. Then with a kind of effort, he +replied: + +“On the contrary, I am going to see her this very evening. I assure you +it will be a pleasure to me to convey to her any greeting you may +desire to send.” + +“Oh, it is no greeting,” I continued, calmly, noting the various signs +of embarrassment in his manner with a careful eye. “It is a mere +message, which, however, may enable you to understand why I was anxious +to see the young man who is dead. In my very early manhood the elder +Count Romani did me an inestimable service. I never forgot his +kindness—my memory is extraordinarily tenacious of both benefits and +injuries—and I have always desired to repay it in some suitable manner. +I have with me a few jewels of almost priceless value—I have myself +collected them, and I reserved them as a present to the son of my old +friend, simply as a trifling souvenir or expression of gratitude for +past favors received from his family. His sudden death has deprived me +of the pleasure of fulfilling this intention—but as the jewels are +quite useless to me, I am perfectly willing to hand them over to the +Countess Romani, should she care to have them. They would have been +hers had her husband lived—they should be hers now. If you, _signor_, +will report these facts to her and learn her wishes with respect to the +matter, I shall be much indebted to you.” + +“I shall be delighted to obey you,” replied Ferrari, courteously, +rising at the same time to take his leave. “I am proud to be the bearer +of so pleasing an errand. Beautiful women love jewels, and who shall +blame them? Bright eyes and diamonds go well together! _A rivederci_, +_Signor_ _Conte_! I trust we shall meet often.” + +“I have no doubt we shall,” I answered, quietly. + +He shook hands cordially—I responded to his farewell salutations with +the brief coldness which was now my habitual manner, and we parted. +From the window of my saloon I could see him sauntering easily down the +hotel steps and from thence along the street. How I cursed him as he +stepped jauntily on—how I hated his debonair grace and easy manner! I +watched the even poise of his handsome head and shoulders, I noted the +assured tread, the air of conscious vanity—the whole demeanor of the +man bespoke his perfect self-satisfaction and his absolute confidence +in the brightness of the future that awaited him when that stipulated +six months of pretended mourning for my untimely death should have +expired. Once, as he walked on his way, he turned and paused—looking +back—he raised his hat to enjoy the coolness of the breeze on his +forehead and hair. The light of the moon fell full on his features and +showed them in profile, like a finely-cut cameo against the dense +dark-blue background of the evening sky. I gazed at him with a sort of +grim fascination—the fascination of a hunter for the stag when it +stands at bay, just before he draws his knife across its throat. He was +in my power—he had deliberately thrown himself in the trap I had set +for him. He lay at the mercy of one in whom there was no mercy. He had +said and done nothing to deter me from my settled plans. Had he shown +the least tenderness of recollection for me as Fabio Romani, his friend +and benefactor—had he hallowed my memory by one generous word—had he +expressed one regret for my loss—I might have hesitated, I might have +somewhat changed my course of action so that punishment should have +fallen more lightly on him than on her. For I knew well enough that +she, my wife, was the worst sinner of the two. Had _she_ chosen to +respect herself, not all the forbidden love in the world could have +touched her honor. Therefore, the least sign of compunction or +affection from Ferrari for me, his supposed dead friend, would have +turned the scale in his favor, and in spite of his treachery, +remembering how _she_ must have encouraged him, I would at least have +spared him torture. But no sign had been given, no word had been +spoken, there was no need for hesitation or pity, and I was glad of it! +All this I thought as I watched him standing bareheaded in the +moonlight, on his way to—whom? To my wife, of course. I knew that well +enough. He was going to console her widow’s tears—to soothe her aching +heart—a good Samaritan in very earnest! He moved, he passed slowly out +of my sight. I waited till I had seen the last glimpse of his +retreating figure, and then I left the window satisfied with my day’s +work. Vengeance had begun. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +Quite early in the next day Ferrari called to see me. I was at +breakfast—he apologized for disturbing me at the meal. + +“But,” he explained, frankly, “the Countess Romani laid such urgent +commands upon me that I was compelled to obey. We men are the slaves of +women!” + +“Not always,” I said, dryly, as I motioned him to take a seat—“there +are exceptions—myself for instance. Will you have some coffee?” + +“Thanks, I have already breakfasted. Pray do not let me be in your way, +my errand is soon done. The countess wishes me to say—” + +“You saw her last night?” I interrupted him. + +He flushed slightly. “Yes—that is—for a few minutes only. I gave her +your message. She thanks you, and desires me to tell you that she +cannot think of receiving the jewels unless you will first honor her by +a visit. She is not at home to ordinary callers in consequence of her +recent bereavement—but to you, so old a friend of her husband’s family, +a hearty welcome will be accorded.” + +I bowed stiffly. “I am extremely flattered!” I said, in a somewhat +sarcastical tone, “it is seldom I receive so tempting an invitation! I +regret that I cannot accept it—at least, not at present. Make my +compliments to the lady, and tell her so in whatever sugared form of +words you may think best fitted to please her ears.” + +He looked surprised and puzzled. + +“Do you really mean,” he said, with a tinge of hauteur in his accents, +“that you will not visit her—that you refuse her request?” + +I smiled. “I really mean, my dear _Signor_ Ferrari, that, being always +accustomed to have my own way, I can make no exception in favor of +ladies, however fascinating they may be. I have business in Naples—it +claims my first and best attention. When it is transacted I may +possibly try a few frivolities for a change—at present I am unfit for +the society of the fair sex—an old battered traveler as you see, +brusque, and unaccustomed to polite lying. But I promise you I will +practice suave manners and a court bow for the countess when I can +spare time to call upon her. In the meanwhile I trust to you to make +her a suitable and graceful apology for my non-appearance.” + +Ferrari’s puzzled and vexed expression gave way to a smile—finally he +laughed aloud. “Upon my word!” he exclaimed, gayly, “you are really a +remarkable man, _conte_! You are extremely cynical! I am almost +inclined to believe that you positively hate women.” + +“Oh, by no means! Nothing so strong as hatred,” I said, coolly, as I +peeled and divided a fine peach as a finish to my morning’s meal. +“Hatred is a strong passion—to hate well one must first have loved. No, +no—I do not find women worth hating—I am simply indifferent to them. +They seem to me merely one of the burdens imposed on man’s +existence—graceful, neatly packed, light burdens in appearance, but in +truth, terribly heavy and soul-crushing.” + +“Yet many accept such burdens gayly!” interrupted Ferrari, with a +smile. I glanced at him keenly. + +“Men seldom attain the mastery over their own passions,” I replied; +“they are in haste to seize every apparent pleasure that comes in their +way. Led by a hot animal impulse which they call love, they snatch at a +woman’s beauty as a greedy school-boy snatches ripe fruit—and when +possessed, what is it worth? Here is its emblem”—and I held up the +stone of the peach I had just eaten—“the fruit is devoured—what +remains? A stone with a bitter kernel.” + +Ferrari shrugged his shoulders. + +“I cannot agree with you, count,” he said; “but I will not argue with +you. From your point of view you may be right—but when one is young, +and life stretches before you like a fair pleasure-ground, love and the +smile of woman are like sunlight falling on flowers! You too must have +felt this—in spite of what you say, there must have been a time in your +life when you also loved!” + +“Oh, I have had my fancies, of course!” I answered, with an indifferent +laugh. “The woman I fancied turned out to be a saint—I was not worthy +of her—at least, so I was told. At any rate, I was so convinced of her +virtue and my own unworthiness—that—I left her.” + +He looked surprised. “An odd reason, surely, for resigning her, was it +not?” + +“Very odd—very unusual—but a sufficient one for me. Pray let us talk of +something more interesting—your pictures, for instance. When may I see +them?” + +“When you please,” he answered, readily—“though I fear they are +scarcely worth a visit. I have not worked much lately. I really doubt +whether I have any that will merit your notice.” + +“You underrate your powers, _signor_,” I said with formal politeness. +“Allow me to call at your studio this afternoon. I have a few minutes +to spare between three and four o’clock, if that time will suit you.” + +“It will suit me admirably,” he said, with a look of gratification; +“but I fear you will be disappointed. I assure you I am no artist.” + +I smiled. I knew that well enough. But I made no reply to his remark—I +said, “Regarding the matter of the jewels for the Countess Romani—would +you care to see them?” + +“I should indeed,” he answered; “they are unique specimens, I think?” + +“I believe so,” I answered, and going to an escritoire in the corner of +the room, I unlocked it and took out a massive carved oaken jewel-chest +of square shape, which I had had made in Palermo. It contained a +necklace of large rubies and diamonds, with bracelets to match, and +pins of their hair—also a sapphire ring—a cross of fine +rose-brilliants, and the pearl pendant I had first found in the vault. +All the gems, with the exception of this pendant, had been reset by a +skillful jeweler in Palermo, who had acted under my superintendence—and +Ferrari uttered an exclamation of astonishment and admiration as he +lifted the glittering toys out one by one and noted the size and +brilliancy of the precious stones. + +“They are trifles,” I said, carelessly—“but they may please a woman’s +taste—and they amount to a certain fixed value. You would do me a great +service if you consented to take them to the _Contessa_ Romani for +me—tell her to accept them as heralds of my forthcoming visit. I am +sure you will know how to persuade her to take what would +unquestionably have been hers had her husband lived. They are really +her property—she must not refuse to receive what is her own.” + +Ferrari hesitated and looked at me earnestly. + +“You—_will_ visit her—she may rely on your coming for a certainty, I +hope?” + +I smiled. “You seem very anxious about it. May I ask why?” + +“I think,” he replied at once, “that it would embarrass the countess +very much if you gave her no opportunity to thank you for so munificent +and splendid a gift—and unless she knew she could do so, I am certain +she would not accept it.” + +“Make yourself quite easy,” I answered. “She shall thank me to her +heart’s content. I give you my word that within a few days I will call +upon the lady—in fact you said you would introduce me—I accept your +offer!” + +He seemed delighted, and seizing my hand, shook it cordially. + +“Then in that case I will gladly take the jewels to her,” he exclaimed. +“And I may say, count, that had you searched the whole world over, you +could not have found one whose beauty was more fitted to show them off +to advantage. I assure you her loveliness is of a most exquisite +character!” + +“No doubt!” I said, dryly. “I take your word for it. I am no judge of a +fair face or form. And now, my good friend, do not think me churlish if +I request you leave me in solitude for the present. Between three and +four o’clock I shall be at your studio.” + +He rose at once to take his leave. I placed the oaken box of jewels in +the leathern case which had been made to contain it, strapped and +locked it, and handed it to him together with its key. He was profuse +in his compliments and thanks—almost obsequious, in truth—and I +discovered another defect in his character—a defect which, as his +friend in former days, I had guessed nothing of. I saw that very little +encouragement would make him a toady—a fawning servitor on the +wealthy—and in our old time of friendship I had believed him to be far +above all such meanness, but rather of a manly, independent nature that +scorned hypocrisy. Thus we are deluded even by our nearest and +dearest—and is it well or ill for us, I wonder, when we are at last +undeceived? Is not the destruction of illusion worse than illusion +itself? I thought so, as my quondam friend clasped my hand in farewell +that morning. What would I not have given to believe in him as I once +did! I held open the door of my room as he passed out, carrying the box +of jewels for my wife, and as I bade him a brief adieu, the well-worn +story of Tristram and King Mark came to my mind. He, Guido, like +Tristram, would in a short space clasp the gemmed necklace round the +throat of one as fair and false as the fabled Iseulte, and I—should I +figure as the wronged king? How does the English laureate put it in his +idyl on the subject? + +“‘Mark’s way,’ said Mark, and clove him through the brain.” + + +Too sudden and sweet a death by far for such a traitor! The Cornish +king should have known how to torture his betrayer! _I_ knew—and I +meditated deeply on every point of my design, as I sat alone for an +hour after Ferrari had left me. I had many things to do—I had resolved +on making myself a personage of importance in Naples, and I wrote +several letters and sent out visiting-cards to certain well-established +families of distinction as necessary preliminaries to the result I had +in view. That day, too, I engaged a valet—a silent and discreet Tuscan +named Vincenzo Flamma. He was an admirably trained servant—he never +asked questions—was too dignified to gossip, and rendered me instant +and implicit obedience—in fact he was a gentleman in his way, with far +better manners than many who lay claim to that title. He entered upon +his duties at once, and never did I know him to neglect the most +trifling thing that could add to my satisfaction or comfort. In making +arrangements with him, and in attending to various little matters of +business, the hours slipped rapidly away, and in the afternoon, at the +time appointed, I made my way to Ferrari’s studio. I knew it of old—I +had no need to consult the card he had left with me on which the +address was written. It was a queer, quaintly built little place, +situated at the top of an ascending road—its windows commanded an +extensive view of the bay and the surrounding scenery. Many and many a +happy hour had I passed there before my marriage reading some favorite +book or watching Ferrari as he painted his crude landscapes and +figures, most of which I good-naturedly purchased as soon as completed. +The little porch over-grown with star-jasmine looked strangely and +sorrowfully familiar to my eyes, and my heart experienced a sickening +pang of regret for the past, as I pulled the bell and heard the little +tinkling sound to which I was so well accustomed. Ferrari himself +opened the door to me with eager rapidity—he looked excited and +radiant. + +“Come in, come in!” he cried with effusive cordiality. “You will find +everything in confusion, but pray excuse it. It is some time since I +had any visitors. Mind the steps, _conte_!—the place is rather dark +just here—every one stumbles at this particular corner.” + +So talking, and laughing as he talked, he escorted me up the short +narrow flight of stairs to the light airy room where he usually worked. +Glancing round it, I saw at once the evidences of neglect and +disorder—he had certainly not been there for many days, though he had +made an attempt to arrange it tastefully for my reception. On the table +stood a large vase of flowers grouped with artistic elegance—I felt +instinctively that my wife had put them there. I noticed that Ferrari +had begun nothing new—all the finished and unfinished studies I saw I +recognized directly. I seated myself in an easy-chair and looked at my +betrayer with a calmly critical eye. He was what the English would call +“got up for effect.” Though in black, he had donned a velvet coat +instead of the cloth one he had worn in the morning—he had a single +white japonica in his buttonhole—his face was pale and his eyes +unusually brilliant. He looked his best—I admitted it, and could +readily understand how an idle, pleasure-seeking feminine animal might +be easily attracted by the purely physical beauty of his form and +features. I spoke a part of my thoughts aloud. + +“You are not only an artist by profession, _Signor_ Ferrari—you are one +also in appearance.” + +He flushed slightly and smiled. + +“You are very amiable to say so,” he replied, his pleased vanity +displaying itself at once in the expression of his face. “But I am well +aware that you flatter me. By the way, before I forget it, I must tell +you that I fulfilled your commission.” + +“To the Countess Romani?” + +“Exactly. I cannot describe to you her astonishment and delight at the +splendor and brilliancy of those jewels you sent her. It was really +pretty to watch her innocent satisfaction.” + +I laughed. + +“Marguerite and the jewel song in ‘Faust,’ I suppose, with new scenery +and effects?” I asked, with a slight sneer. He bit his lip and looked +annoyed. But he answered, quietly: + +“I see you must have your joke, _conte_; but remember that if you place +the countess in the position of Marguerite, you, as the giver of the +jewels, naturally play the part of Mephistopheles.” + +“And you will be Faust, of course!” I said, gayly. “Why, we might mount +the opera with a few supernumeraries and astonish Naples by our +performance! What say you? But let us come to business. I like the +picture you have on the easel there—may I see it more closely?” + +He drew it nearer; it was a showy landscape with the light of the +sunset upon it. It was badly done, but I praised it warmly, and +purchased it for five hundred francs. Four other sketches of a similar +nature were then produced. I bought these also. By the time we got +through these matters, Ferrari was in the best of humors. He offered me +some excellent wine and partook of it himself; he talked incessantly, +and diverted me extremely, though my inward amusement was not caused by +the witty brilliancy of his conversation. No, I was only excited to a +sense of savage humor by the novelty of the position in which we two +men stood. Therefore I listened to him attentively, applauded his +anecdotes—all of which I had heard before—admired his jokes, and fooled +his egotistical soul till he had no shred of self-respect remaining. He +laid his nature bare before me—and I knew what it was at last—a mixture +of selfishness, avarice, sensuality, and heartlessness, tempered now +and then by a flash of good-nature and sympathetic attraction which +were the mere outcomes of youth and physical health—no more. This was +the man I had loved—this fellow who told coarse stories only worthy of +a common pot-house, and who reveled in a wit of a high and questionable +flavor; this conceited, empty-headed, muscular piece of humanity was +the same being for whom I had cherished so chivalrous and loyal a +tenderness! Our conversation was broken in upon at last by the sound of +approaching wheels. A carriage was heard ascending the road—it came +nearer—it stopped at the door. I set down the glass of wine I had just +raised to my lips, and looked at Ferrari steadily. + +“You expect other visitors?” I inquired. + +He seemed embarrassed, smiled, and hesitated. + +“Well—I am not sure—but—” The bell rang. With a word of apology Ferrari +hurried away to answer it. I sprung from my chair—I knew—I felt who was +coming. I steadied my nerves by a strong effort. I controlled the rapid +beating of my heart; and fixing my dark glasses more closely over my +eyes, I drew myself up erect and waited calmly. I heard Ferrari +ascending the stairs—a light step accompanied his heavier footfall—he +spoke to his companion in whispers. Another instant—and he flung the +door of the studio wide open with the haste and reverence due for the +entrance of a queen. There was a soft rustle of silk—a delicate breath +of perfume on the air—and then—I stood face to face with my wife! + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +How dazzlingly lovely she was! I gazed at her with the same bewildered +fascination that had stupefied my reason and judgment when I beheld her +for the first time. The black robes she wore, the long crape veil +thrown back from her clustering hair and _mignonne_ face, all the +somber shadows of her mourning garb only served to heighten and display +her beauty to greater advantage. A fair widow truly! I, her lately +deceased husband, freely admitted the magnetic power of her charms! She +paused for an instant on the threshold, a winning smile on her lips; +she looked at me, hesitated, and finally spoke in courteous accents: + +“I think I cannot be mistaken! Do I address the noble _Conte_ Cesare +Oliva?” + +I tried to speak, but could not. My mouth was dry and parched with +excitement, my throat swelled and ached with the pent-up wrath and +despair of my emotions. I answered her question silently by a formal +bow. She at once advanced, extending both her hands with the coaxing +grace of manner I had so often admired. + +“I am the Countess Romani,” she said, still smiling. “I heard from +_Signor_ Ferrari that you purposed visiting his studio this afternoon, +and I could not resist the temptation of coming to express my personal +acknowledgments for the almost regal gift you sent me. The jewels are +really magnificent. Permit me to offer you my sincere thanks!” + +I caught her outstretched hands and wrung them hard—so hard that the +rings she wore must have dug into her flesh and hurt her, though she +was too well-bred to utter any exclamation. I had fully recovered +myself, and was prepared to act out my part. + +“On the contrary, madame,” I said in a strong harsh voice, “the thanks +must come entirely from me for the honor you have conferred upon me by +accepting trifles so insignificant—especially at a time when the cold +brilliancy of mere diamonds must jar upon the sensitive feelings of +your recent widowhood. Believe me, I sympathize deeply with your +bereavement. Had your husband lived, the jewels would have been his +gift to you, and how much more acceptable they would then have appeared +in your eyes! I am proud to think you have condescended so far as to +receive them from so unworthy a hand as mine.” + +As I spoke her face paled—she seemed startled, and regarded me +earnestly. Sheltered behind my smoked spectacles, I met the gaze of her +large dark eyes without embarrassment. Slowly she withdrew her slight +fingers from my clasp. I placed an easy chair for her, she sunk softly +into it with her old air of indolent ease, the ease of a spoiled +empress or sultan’s favorite, while she still continued to look up at +me thoughtfully. Ferrari, meanwhile, busied himself in bringing out +more wine, he also produced a dish of fruit and some sweet cakes, and +while occupied in these duties as our host he began to laugh. + +“Ha, ha! you are caught!” he exclaimed to me gayly. “You must know we +planned this together, madame and I, just to take you by surprise. +There was no knowing when you would be persuaded to visit the +_contessa_, and she could not rest till she had thanked you, so we +arranged this meeting. Could anything be better? Come, _conte_, confess +that you are charmed!” + +“Of course I am!” I answered with a slight touch of satire in my tone. +“Who would not be charmed in the presence of such youth and beauty! And +I am also flattered—for I know what exceptional favor the _Contessa_ +Romani extends toward me in allowing me to make her acquaintance at a +time which must naturally be for her a secluded season of sorrow.” + +At these words my wife’s face suddenly assumed an expression of wistful +sadness and appealing gentleness. + +“Ah, poor unfortunate Fabio,” she sighed. “How terrible it seems that +he is not here to greet you! How gladly he would have welcomed any +friend of his father’s—he adored his father, poor fellow! I cannot +realize that he is dead. It was too sudden, too dreadful! I do not +think I shall ever recover the shock of his loss!” + +And her eyes actually filled with tears; though the fact did not +surprise me in the least, for many women can weep at will. Very little +practice is necessary—and we men are such fools, we never know how it +is done; we take all the pretty feigned piteousness for real grief, and +torture ourselves to find methods of consolation for the feminine +sorrows which have no root save in vanity and selfishness. I glanced +quickly from my wife to Ferrari: he coughed, and appeared +embarrassed—he was not so good an actor as she was an actress. Studying +them both, I know not which feeling gained the mastery in my +mind—contempt or disgust. + +“Console yourself, madame,” I said, coldly. “Time should be quick to +heal the wounds of one so young and beautiful as you are! Personally +speaking, I much regret your husband’s death, but I would entreat _you_ +not to give way to grief, which, however sincere, must unhappily be +useless. Your life lies before you—and may happy days and as fair a +future await you as you deserve!” + +She smiled, her tear-drops vanished like morning dew disappearing in +the heat. + +“I thank you for your good wishes, _conte_,” she said “but it rests +with you to commence my happy days by honoring me with a visit. You +will come, will you not? My house and all that it contains are at your +service!” + +I hesitated. Ferrari looked amused. + +“Madame is not aware of your dislike to the society of ladies, +_conte_,” he said, and there was a touch of mockery in his tone. I +glanced at him coldly, and addressed my answer to my wife. + +“_Signor_ Ferrari is perfectly right,” I said, bending over her, and +speaking in a low tone; “I am often ungallant enough to avoid the +society of mere women, but, alas! I have no armor of defense against +the smile of an angel.” + +And I bowed with a deep and courtly reverence. Her face brightened—she +adored her own loveliness, and the desire of conquest awoke in her +immediately. She took a glass of wine from my hand with a languid +grace, and fixed her glorious eyes full on me with a smile. + +“That is a very pretty speech,” she said, sweetly, “and it means, of +course, that you will come to-morrow. Angels exact obedience! Gui—, I +mean _Signor_ Ferrari, you will accompany the _conte_ and show him the +way to the villa?” + +Ferrari bent his head with some stiffness. He looked slightly sullen. + +“I am glad to see,” he observed, with some petulance, “that your +persuasions have carried more conviction to the _Conte_ Oliva than +mine. To me he was apparently inflexible.” + +She laughed gayly. “Of course! It is only a woman who can always win +her own way—am I not right, _conte_?” And she glanced up at me with an +arch expression of mingled mirth and malice. What a love of mischief +she had! She saw that Guido was piqued, and she took intense delight in +teasing him still further. + +“I cannot tell, madame,” I answered her. “I know so little of your +charming sex that I need to be instructed. But I instinctively feel +that _you_ must be right, whatever you say. Your eyes would convert an +infidel!” + +Again she looked at me with one of those wonderfully brilliant, +seductive, arrowy glances—then she rose to take her leave. + +“An angel’s visit truly,” I said, lightly, “sweet, but brief!” + +“We shall meet to-morrow,” she replied, smiling. “I consider I have +your promise; you must not fail me! Come as early as you like in the +afternoon, then you will see my little girl Stella. She is very like +poor Fabio. Till to-morrow, adieu!” + +She extended her hand. I raised it to my lips. She smiled as she +withdrew it, and looking at me, or rather at the glasses I wore, she +inquired: + +“You suffer with your eyes?” + +“Ah, madame, a terrible infirmity! I cannot endure the light. But I +should not complain—it is a weakness common to age.” + +“You do not seem to be old,” she said, thoughtfully. With a woman’s +quick eye she had noted, I suppose, the unwrinkled smoothness of my +skin, which no disguise could alter. But I exclaimed with affected +surprise: + +“Not old! With these white hairs!” + +“Many young men have them,” she said. “At any rate, they often +accompany middle age, or what is called the prime of life. And really, +in your case, they are very becoming!” + +And with a courteous gesture of farewell she moved to leave the room. +Both Ferrari and myself hastened to escort her downstairs to her +carriage, which stood in waiting at the door—the very carriage and pair +of chestnut ponies which I myself had given her as a birthday present. +Ferrari offered to assist her in mounting the step of the vehicle; she +put his arm aside with a light jesting word and accepted mine instead. +I helped her in, and arranged her embroidered wraps about her feet, and +she nodded gayly to us both as we stood bareheaded in the afternoon +sunlight watching her departure. The horses started at a brisk canter, +and in a couple of minutes the dainty equipage was out of sight. When +nothing more of it could be seen than the cloud of dust stirred up by +its rolling wheels, I turned to look at my companion. His face was +stern, and his brows were drawn together in a frown. Stung already! I +thought. Already the little asp of jealousy commenced its bitter work! +The trifling favor _his_ light-o’-love and _my_ wife had extended to me +in choosing _my_ arm instead of _his_ as a momentary support had +evidently been sufficient to pique his pride. God! what blind bats men +are! With all their high capabilities and immortal destinies, with all +the world before them to conquer, they can sink unnerved and beaten +down to impotent weakness before the slighting word or insolent gesture +of a frivolous feminine creature, whose best devotions are paid to the +mirror that reflects her in the most becoming light! How easy would be +my vengeance, I mused, as I watched Ferrari. I touched him on the +shoulder; he started from his uncomfortable reverie and forced a smile. +I held out a cigar-case. + +“What are you dreaming of?” I asked him, laughingly. “Hebe as she +waited on the gods, or Venus as she rose in bare beauty from the waves? +Either, neither, or both? I assure you a comfortable smoke is as +pleasant in its way as the smile of a woman.” + +He took a cigar and lighted it, but made no answer. + +“You are dull, my friend,” I continued, gayly, hooking my arm through +his and pacing him up and down on the turf in front of his studio. +“Wit, they say, should be sharpened by the glance of a bright eye; how +comes it that the edge of your converse seems blunted? Perhaps your +feelings are too deep for words? If so, I do not wonder at it, for the +lady is extremely lovely.” + +He glanced quickly at me. + +“Did I not say so?” he exclaimed. “Of all creatures under heaven she is +surely the most perfect! Even you, _conte_, with your cynical ideas +about women, even you were quite subdued and influenced by her; I could +see it!” + +I puffed slowly at my cigar and pretended to meditate. + +“Was I?” I said at last, with an air of well-acted surprise. “Really +subdued and influenced? I do not think so. But I admit I have never +seen a woman so entirely beautiful.” + +He stopped in his walk, loosened his arm from mine, and regarded me +fixedly. + +“I told you so,” he said, deliberately. “You must remember that I told +you so. And now perhaps I ought to warn you.” + +“Warn me!” I exclaimed, in feigned alarm. “Of what? against whom? +Surely not the _Contessa_ Romani, to whom you were so anxious to +introduce me? She has no illness, no infectious disorder? She is not +dangerous to life or limb, is she?” + +Ferrari laughed at the anxiety I displayed for my own bodily safety—an +anxiety which I managed to render almost comic—but he looked somewhat +relieved too. + +“Oh, no,” he said, “I meant nothing of that kind. I only think it fair +to tell you that she has very seductive manners, and she may pay you +little attentions which would flatter any man who was not aware that +they are only a part of her childlike, pretty ways; in short, they +might lead him erroneously to suppose himself the object of her +particular preference, and—” + +I broke into a violent fit of laughter, and clapped him roughly on the +shoulder. + +“Your warning is quite unnecessary, my good young friend,” I said. +“Come now, do I look a likely man to attract the attention of an adored +and capricious beauty? Besides, at my age the idea is monstrous! I +could figure as her father, as yours, if you like, but in the capacity +of a lover—impossible!” + +He eyed me attentively + +“She said you did not seem old,” he murmured, half to himself and half +to me. + +“Oh, I grant you she made me that little compliment, certainly,” I +answered, amused at the suspicions that evidently tortured his mind; +“and I accepted it as it was meant—in kindness. I am well aware what a +battered and unsightly wreck of a man I must appear in her eyes when +contrasted with _you_, Sir Antinous!” + +He flushed warmly. Then, with a half-apologetic air, he said: + +“Well, you must forgive me if I have seemed overscrupulous. The +_contessa_ is like a—a sister to me; in fact, my late friend Fabio +encouraged a fraternal affection between us, and now he is gone I feel +it more than ever my duty to protect her, as it were, from herself. She +is so young and light-hearted and thoughtless that—but you understand +me, do you not?” + +I bowed. I understood him perfectly. He wanted no more poachers on the +land he himself had pilfered. Quite right, from his point of view! But +I was the rightful owner of the land after all, and I naturally had a +different opinion of the matter. However, I made no remark, and feigned +to be rather bored by the turn the conversation was taking. Seeing +this, Ferrari exerted himself to be agreeable; he became a gay and +entertaining companion once more, and after he had fixed the hour for +our visit to the Villa Romani the next afternoon, our talk turned upon +various matters connected with Naples and its inhabitants and their +mode of life. I hazarded a few remarks on the general immorality and +loose principles that prevailed among the people, just to draw my +companion out and sound his character more thoroughly—though I thought +I knew his opinions well. + +“Pooh, my dear _conte_,” he exclaimed, with a light laugh, as he threw +away the end of his cigar, and watched it as it burned dully like a +little red lamp among the green grass where it had fallen, “what is +immorality after all? Merely a matter of opinion. Take the hackneyed +virtue of conjugal fidelity. When followed out to the better end what +is the good of it—where does it lead? Why should a man be tied to one +woman when he has love enough for twenty? The pretty slender girl whom +he chose as a partner in his impulsive youth may become a fat, coarse, +red-faced female horror by the time he has attained to the full vigor +of manhood—and yet, as long as she lives, the law insists that the full +tide of passion shall flow always in one direction—always to the same +dull, level, unprofitable shore! The law is absurd, but it exists; and +the natural consequence is that we break it. Society pretends to be +horrified when we do—yes, I know; but it is all pretense. And the thing +is no worse in Naples than it is in London, the capital of the moral +British race, only here we are perfectly frank, and make no effort to +hide our little sins, while there, they cover them up carefully and +make believe to be virtuous. It is the veriest humbug—the parable of +Pharisee and Publican over again.” + +“Not quite,” I observed, “for the Publican was repentant, and Naples is +not.” + +“Why should she be?” demanded Ferrari, gayly; “what, in the name of +Heaven, is the good of being penitent about anything? Will it mend +matters? Who is to be pacified or pleased by our contrition? God? My +dear _conte_, there are very few of us nowadays who believe in a Deity. +Creation is a mere caprice of the natural elements. The best thing we +can do is to enjoy ourselves while we live; we have a very short time +of it, and when we die there is an end of all things so far as we are +concerned.” + +“That is your creed?” I asked. + +“That is my creed, certainly. It was Solomon’s in his heart of hearts. +‘Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.’ It is the creed of +Naples, and of nearly all Italy. Of course the vulgar still cling to +exploded theories of superstitious belief, but the educated classes are +far beyond the old-world notions.” + +“I believe you,” I answered, composedly. I had no wish to argue with +him; I only sought to read his shallow soul through and through that I +might be convinced of his utter worthlessness. “According to modern +civilization there is really no special need to be virtuous unless it +suits us. The only thing necessary for pleasant living is to avoid +public scandal.” + +“Just so!” agreed Ferrari; “and that can always be easily managed. Take +a woman’s reputation—nothing is so easily lost, we all know, before she +is actually married; but marry her well, and she is free. She can have +a dozen lovers if she likes, and if she is a good manager her husband +need never be the wiser. He has _his_ amours, of course—why should she +not have hers also? Only some women are clumsy, they are over-sensitive +and betray themselves too easily; then the injured husband (carefully +concealing his little peccadilloes) finds everything out and there is a +devil of a row—a moral row, which is the worst kind of row. But a +really clever woman can always steer clear of slander if she likes.” + +Contemptible ruffian! I thought, glancing at his handsome face and +figure with scarcely veiled contempt. With all his advantages of +education and his well-bred air he was yet ruffian to the core—as low +in nature, if not lower, than the half-savage tramp for whom no social +law has ever existed or ever will exist. But I merely observed: + +“It is easy to see that you have a thorough knowledge of the world and +its ways. I admire your perception! From your remarks I judge that you +have no sympathy with marital wrongs?” + +“Not the least,” he replied, dryly; “they are too common and too +ludicrous. The ‘wronged husband,’ as he considers himself in such +cases, always cuts such an absurd figure.” + +“Always?” I inquired, with apparent curiosity. + +“Well, generally speaking, he does. How can he remedy the matter? He +can only challenge his wife’s lover. A duel is fought in which neither +of the opponents are killed, they wound each other slightly, embrace, +weep, have coffee together, and for the future consent to share the +lady’s affections amicably.” + +“_Veramente_!” I exclaimed, with a forced laugh, inwardly cursing his +detestable flippancy; “that is the fashionable mode of taking +vengeance?” + +“Absolutely the one respectable way of doing it,” he replied; “it is +only the _canaille_ who draw heart’s blood in earnest.” + +Only the _canaille_! I looked at him fixedly. His smiling eyes met mine +with a frank and fearless candor. Evidently he was not ashamed of his +opinions, he rather gloried in them. As he stood there with the warm +sunlight playing upon his features he seemed the very type of youthful +and splendid manhood; an Apollo in exterior—in mind a Silenus. My soul +sickened at the sight of him. I felt that the sooner this strong +treacherous life was crushed the better; there would be one traitor +less in the world at any rate. The thought of my dread but just purpose +passed over me like the breath of a bitter wind—a tremor shook my +nerves. My face must have betrayed some sign of my inward emotion, for +Ferrari exclaimed: + +“You are fatigued, _conte_? You are ill! Pray take my arm!” + +He extended it as he spoke. I put it gently but firmly aside. + +“It is nothing,” I said, coldly; “a mere faintness which often +overcomes me, the remains of a recent illness.” Here I glanced at my +watch; the afternoon was waning rapidly. + +“If you will excuse me,” I continued, “I will now take leave of you. +Regarding the pictures you have permitted me to select, my servant +shall call for them this evening to save you the trouble of sending +them.” + +“It is no trouble—” began Ferrari. + +“Pardon me,” I interrupted him; “you must allow me to arrange the +matter in my own way. I am somewhat self-willed, as you know.” + +He bowed and smiled—the smile of a courtier and sycophant—a smile I +hated. He eagerly proposed to accompany me back to my hotel, but I +declined this offer somewhat peremptorily, though at the same time +thanking him for his courtesy. The truth was I had had almost too much +of his society; the strain on my nerves began to tell; I craved to be +alone. I felt that if I were much longer with him I should be tempted +to spring at him and throttle the life out of him. As it was, I bade +him adieu with friendly though constrained politeness; he was profuse +in his acknowledgments of the favor I had done him by purchasing his +pictures. I waived all thanks aside, assuring him that my satisfaction +in the matter far exceeded his, and that I was proud to be the +possessor of such valuable proofs of his genius. He swallowed my +flattery as eagerly as a fish swallows bait, and we parted on excellent +terms. He watched me from his door as I walked down the hilly road with +the slow and careful step of an elderly man; once out of his sight, +however, I quickened my pace, for the tempest of conflicting sensations +within me made it difficult for me to maintain even the appearance of +composure. On entering my apartment at the hotel the first thing that +met my eyes was a large gilt osier basket, filled with fine fruit and +flowers, placed conspicuously on the center-table. + +I summoned my valet. “Who sent this?” I demanded. + +“Madame the _Contessa_ Romani,” replied Vincenzo with discreet gravity. +“There is a card attached, if the _eccellenza_ will be pleased to +look.” + +I did look. It was my wife’s visiting-card, and on it was written in +her own delicate penmanship— + +“To remind the _conte_ of his promised visit to-morrow.” + +A sudden anger possessed me. I crumpled up the dainty glossy bit of +pasteboard and flung it aside. The mingled odors of the fruit and +flowers offended my senses. + +“I care nothing for these trifles,” I said, addressing Vincenzo almost +impatiently. “Take them to the little daughter of the hotel-keeper; she +is a child, she will appreciate them. Take them away at once.” + +Obediently Vincenzo lifted the basket and bore it out of the room. I +was relieved when its fragrance and color had vanished. I, to receive +as a gift, the product of my own garden! Half vexed, half sore at +heart, I threw myself into an easychair—anon I laughed aloud! So! +Madame commences the game early, I thought. Already paying these marked +attentions to a man she knows nothing of beyond that he is reported to +be fabulously wealthy. Gold, gold forever! What will it not do! It will +bring the proud to their knees, it will force the obstinate to servile +compliance, it will conquer aversion and prejudice. The world is a +slave to its yellow glitter, and the love of woman, that perishable +article of commerce, is ever at its command. Would you obtain a kiss +from a pair of ripe-red lips that seem the very abode of honeyed +sweetness? Pay for it then with a lustrous diamond; the larger the gem +the longer the kiss! The more diamonds you give, the more caresses you +will get. The _jeunesse dorée_ who ruin themselves and their ancestral +homes for the sake of the newest and prettiest female puppet on the +stage know this well enough. I smiled bitterly as I thought of the +languid witching look my wife had given me when she said, “You do not +seem to be old!” I knew the meaning of her eyes; I had not studied +their liquid lights and shadows so long for nothing. My road to revenge +was a straight and perfectly smooth line—almost too smooth. I could +have wished for some difficulty, some obstruction; but there was +none—absolutely none. The traitors walked deliberately into the trap +set for them. Over and over again I asked myself quietly and in cold +blood—was there any reason why I should have pity on them? Had they +shown one redeeming point in their characters? Was there any nobleness, +any honesty, any real sterling good quality in either of them to +justify my consideration? And always the answer came, _no_! Hollow to +the heart’s core, hypocrites both, liars both—even the guilty passion +they cherished for one another had no real earnestness in it save the +pursuit of present pleasure; for she, Nina, in that fatal interview in +the avenue where I had been a tortured listener, had hinted at the +possibility of tiring of her lover, and _he_ had frankly declared to me +that very day that it was absurd to suppose a man could be true to one +woman all his life. In brief, they deserved their approaching fate. +Such men as Guido and such women as my wife, are, I know, common enough +in all classes of society, but they are not the less pernicious +animals, meriting extermination as much, if not more, than the less +harmful beasts of prey. The poor beasts at any rate tell no lies, and +after death their skins are of some value; but who shall measure the +mischief done by a false tongue—and of what use is the corpse of a liar +save to infect the air with pestilence? I used to wonder at the +superiority of men over the rest of the animal creation, but I see now +that it is chiefly gained by excess of selfish cunning. The bulky, +good-natured, ignorant lion who has only one honest way of defending +himself, namely with tooth and claw, is no match for the jumping +two-legged little rascal who hides himself behind a bush and fires a +gun aimed direct at the bigger brute’s heart. Yet the lion’s mode of +battle is the braver of the two, and the cannons, torpedoes and other +implements of modern warfare are proofs of man’s cowardice and cruelty +as much as they are of his diabolical ingenuity. Calmly comparing the +ordinary lives of men and beasts—judging them by their abstract virtues +merely—I am inclined to think the beasts the more respectable of the +two! + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +“Welcome to Villa Romani!” + +The words fell strangely on my ears. Was I dreaming, or was I actually +standing on the smooth green lawn of my own garden, mechanically +saluting my own wife, who, smiling sweetly, uttered this cordial +greeting? For a moment or two my brain became confused; the familiar +veranda with its clustering roses and jasmine swayed unsteadily before +my eyes; the stately house, the home of my childhood, the scene of my +past happiness, rocked in the air as though it were about to fall. A +choking sensation affected my throat. Even the sternest men shed tears +sometimes. Such tears too! wrung like drops of blood from the heart. +And I—I could have wept thus. Oh, the dear old home! and how fair and +yet how sad it seemed to my anguished gaze! It should have been in +ruins surely—broken and cast down in the dust like its master’s peace +and honor. Its master, did I say? Who was its master? Involuntarily I +glanced at Ferrari, who stood beside me. Not he—not he; by Heaven he +should never be master! But where was _my_ authority? I came to the +place as a stranger and an alien. The starving beggar who knows not +where to lay his head has no emptier or more desolate heart than I had +as I looked wistfully on the home which was mine before I died! I +noticed some slight changes here and there; for instance, my deep +easy-chair that had always occupied one particular corner of the +veranda was gone; a little tame bird that I had loved, whose cage used +to hang up among the white roses on the wall, was also gone. My old +butler, the servant who admitted Ferrari and myself within the gates, +had an expression of weariness and injury on his aged features which he +had not worn in my time, and which I was sorry to see. And my dog, the +noble black Scotch colly, what had become of him, I wondered? He had +been presented to me by a young Highlander who had passed one winter +with me in Rome, and who, on returning to his native mountains, had +sent me the dog, a perfect specimen of its kind, as a souvenir of our +friendly intercourse. Poor Wyvis! I thought. Had they made away with +him? Formerly he had always been visible about the house or garden; his +favorite place was on the lowest veranda step, where he loved to bask +in the heat of the sun. And now he was nowhere visible. I was mutely +indignant at his disappearance, but I kept strict watch over my +feelings, and remembered in time the part I had to play. + +“Welcome to Villa Romani!” so said my wife. Then, remarking my silence +as I looked about me, she added with a pretty coaxing air, + +“I am afraid after all you are sorry you have come to see me!” + +I smiled. It served my purpose now to be as gallant and agreeable as I +could; therefore I answered: + +“Sorry, madame! If I were, then should I be the most ungrateful of all +men! Was Dante sorry, think you, when he was permitted to behold +Paradise?” + +She blushed; her eyes drooped softly under their long curling lashes. +Ferrari frowned impatiently—but was silent. She led the way into the +house—into the lofty cool drawing-room, whose wide windows opened out +to the garden. Here all was the same as ever with the exception of one +thing—a marble bust of myself as a boy had been removed. The grand +piano was open, the mandoline lay on a side-table, looking as though it +had been recently used; there were fresh flowers and ferns in all the +tall Venetian glass vases. I seated myself and remarked on the beauty +of the house and its surroundings. + +“I remember it very well,” I added, quietly. + +“You remember it!” exclaimed Ferrari, quickly, as though surprised. + +“Certainly. I omitted to tell you, my friend, that I used to visit this +spot often when a boy. The elder _Conte_ Romani and myself played about +these grounds together. The scene is quite familiar to me.” + +Nina listened with an appearance of interest. + +“Did you ever see my late husband?” she asked. + +“Once,” I answered her, gravely. “He was a mere child at the time, and, +as far as I could discern, a very promising one. His father seemed +greatly attached to him. I knew his mother also.” + +“Indeed,” she exclaimed, settling herself on a low ottoman and fixing +her eyes upon me; “what was she like?” + +I paused a moment before replying. Could I speak of that unstained +sacred life of wifehood and motherhood to this polluted though lovely +creature? + +“She was a beautiful woman unconscious of her beauty,” I answered at +last. “There, all is said. Her sole aim seemed to be to forget herself +in making others happy, and to surround her home with an atmosphere of +goodness and virtue. She died young.” + +Ferrari glanced at me with an evil sneer in his eyes. + +“That was fortunate,” he said. “She had no time to tire of her husband, +else—who knows?” + +My blood rose rapidly to an astonishing heat, but I controlled myself. + +“I do not understand you,” I said, with marked frigidity. “The lady I +speak of lived and died under the old regime of noblesse oblige. I am +not so well versed in modern social forms of morality as yourself.” + +Nina hastily interposed. “Oh, my dear _conte_,” she said, laughingly, +“pay no attention to Signor Ferrari! He is rash sometimes, and says +very foolish things, but he really does not mean them. It is only his +way! My poor dear husband used to be quite vexed with him sometimes, +though he _was_ so fond of him. But, _conte_, as you know so much about +the family, I am sure you will like to see my little Stella. Shall I +send for her, or are you bored by children?” + +“On the contrary, madame, I am fond of them,” I answered, with forced +composure, though my heart throbbed with mingled delight and agony at +the thought of seeing my little one again. “And the child of my old +friend’s son must needs have a double interest for me.” + +My wife rang the bell, and gave orders to the maid who answered it to +send her little girl to her at once. Ferrari meanwhile engaged me in +conversation, and strove, I could see, by entire deference to my +opinions, to make up for any offense his previous remark might have +given. A few moments passed—and then the handle of the drawing-room +door was timidly turned by an evidently faltering and unpracticed hand. +Nina called out impatiently—“Come in, baby! Do not be afraid—come in!” +With that the door slowly opened and my little daughter entered. Though +I had been so short a time absent from her it was easy to see the child +had changed very much. Her face looked pinched and woe-begone, its +expression was one of fear and distrust. The laughter had faded out of +her young eyes, and was replaced by a serious look of pained +resignation that was pitiful to see in one of her tender years. Her +mouth drooped plaintively at the corners—her whole demeanor had an +appealing anxiety in it that spoke plainly to my soul and enlightened +me as to the way she had evidently been forgotten and neglected. She +approached us hesitatingly, but stopped half-way and looked doubtfully +at Ferrari. He met her alarmed gaze with a mocking smile. + +“Come along, Stella!” he said. “You need not be frightened! I will not +scold you unless you are naughty. Silly child! you look as if I were +the giant in the fairy tale, going to eat you up for dinner. Come and +speak to this gentleman—he knew your papa.” + +At this word her eyes brightened, her small steps grew more assured and +steady—she advanced and put her tiny hand in mine. The touch of the +soft, uncertain little fingers almost unmanned me. I drew her toward me +and lifted her on my knee. Under pretense of kissing her I hid my face +for a second or two in her clustering fair curls, while I forced back +the womanish tears that involuntarily filled my eyes. My poor little +darling! I wonder now how I maintained my set composure before the +innocent thoughtfulness of her gravely questioning gaze! I had fancied +she might possibly be scared by the black spectacles I wore—children +are frightened by such things sometimes—but she was not. No; she sat on +my knee with an air of perfect satisfaction, though she looked at me so +earnestly as almost to disturb my self-possession. Nina and Ferrari +watched her with some amusement, but she paid no heed to them—she +persisted in staring at me. Suddenly a slow sweet smile—the tranquil +smile of a contented baby, dawned all over her face; she extended her +little arms, and, of her own accord, put up her lips to kiss me! Half +startled at this manifestation of affection, I hurriedly caught her to +my heart and returned her caress, then I looked furtively at my wife +and Guido. Had they any suspicion? No! why should they have any? Had +not Ferrari himself seen me _buried_? Reassured by this thought I +addressed myself to Stella, making my voice as gratingly harsh as I +could, for I dreaded the child’s quick instinct. + +“You are a very charming little lady!” I said, playfully. “And so your +name is Stella? That is because you are a little star, I suppose?” + +She became meditative. “Papa said I was,” she answered, softly and +shyly. + +“Papa spoiled you!” interposed Nina, pressing a filmy black-bordered +handkerchief to her eyes. “Poor papa! You were not so naughty to him as +you are to me.” + +The child’s lip quivered, but she was silent. + +“Oh, fy!” I murmured, half chidingly. “Are you ever naughty? Surely +not! All little stars are good—they never cry—they are always bright +and calm.” + +Still she remained mute—a sigh, deep enough for an older sufferer, +heaved her tiny breast. She leaned her head against my arm and raised +her eyes appealingly. + +“Have you seen my papa?” she asked, timidly. “Will he come back soon?” + +For a moment I did not answer her. Ferrari took it upon himself to +reply roughly. “Don’t talk nonsense, baby! You know your papa has gone +away—you were too naughty for him, and he will never come back again. +He has gone to a place where there are no tiresome little girls to +tease him.” + +Thoughtless and cruel words! I at once understood the secret grief that +weighed on the child’s mind. Whenever she was fretful or petulant, they +evidently impressed it upon her that her father had left her because of +her naughtiness. She had taken this deeply to heart; no doubt she had +brooded upon it in her own vague childish fashion, and had puzzled her +little brain as to what she could possibly have done to displease her +father so greatly that he had actually gone away never to return. +Whatever her thoughts were, she did not on this occasion give vent to +them by tears or words. She only turned her eyes on Ferrari with a look +of intense pride and scorn, strange to see in so little a creature—a +true Romani look, such as I had often noticed in my father’s eyes, and +such as I knew must be frequently visible in my own. Ferrari saw it, +and burst out laughing loudly. + +“There!” he exclaimed. “Like that she exactly resembles her father! It +is positively ludicrous! Fabio, all over! She only wants one thing to +make the portrait perfect.” And approaching her, he snatched one of her +long curls and endeavored to twist it over her mouth in the form of a +mustache. The child struggled angrily, and hid her face against my +coat. The more she tried to defend herself the greater the malice with +which Ferrari tormented her. Her mother did not interfere—she only +laughed. I held the little thing closely sheltered in my embrace, and +steadying down the quiver of indignation in my voice, I said with quiet +firmness: + +“Fair play, _signor_! Fair play! Strength becomes mere bullying when it +is employed against absolute weakness.” + +Ferrari laughed again, but this time uneasily, and ceasing his +monkeyish pranks, walked to the window. Smoothing Stella’s tumbled +hair, I added with a sarcastic smile: + +“This little _donzella_, will have her revenge when she grows up. +Recollecting how one man teased her in childhood, she, in return, will +consider herself justified in teasing all men. Do you not agree with +me, madame?” I said, turning to my wife, who gave me a sweetly +coquettish look as she answered: + +“Well, really, _conte_, I do not know! For with the remembrance of one +man who teased her, must come also the thought of another who was kind +to her—yourself—she will find it difficult to decide the _juste +milieu_.” + +A subtle compliment was meant to be conveyed in these words. I +acknowledged it by a silent gesture of admiration, which she quickly +understood and accepted. Was ever a man in the position of being +delicately flattered by his own wife before? I think not! Generally +married persons are like candid friends—fond of telling each other very +unpleasant truths, and altogether avoiding the least soupcon of +flattery. Though I was not so much flattered as amused—considering the +position of affairs. Just then a servant threw open the door and +announced dinner. I set my child very gently down from my knee and +whisperingly told her that I would come and see her soon again. She +smiled trustfully, and then in obedience to her mother’s imperative +gesture, slipped quietly out of the room. As soon as she had gone I +praised her beauty warmly, for she was really a lovely little thing—but +I could see my admiration of her was not very acceptable to either my +wife or her lover. We all went in to dinner—I, as guest, having the +privilege of escorting my fair and spotless spouse! On our reaching the +dining-room Nina said— + +“You are such an old friend of the family, _conte_, that perhaps you +will not mind sitting at the head of the table?” + +“_Tropp’ onore, signora_!” I answered, bowing gallantly, as I at once +resumed my rightful place at my own table, Ferrari placing himself on +my right hand, Nina on my left. The butler, my father’s servant and +mine, stood as of old behind my chair, and I noticed that each time he +supplied me with wine he eyed me with a certain timid curiosity—but I +knew I had a singular and conspicuous appearance, which easily +accounted for his inquisitiveness. Opposite to where I sat, hung my +father’s portrait—the character I personated permitted me to look at it +fixedly and give full vent to the deep sigh which in very earnest broke +from my heart. The eyes of the picture seemed to gaze into mine with a +sorrowful compassion—almost I fancied the firm-set lips trembled and +moved to echo my sigh. + +“Is that a good likeness?” Ferrari asked, suddenly. + +I started, and recollecting myself, answered: “Excellent! So true a +resemblance that it arouses a long train of memories in my +mind—memories both bitter and sweet. Ah! what a proud fellow he was!” + +“Fabio was also very proud,” chimed in my wife’s sweet voice. “Very +cold and haughty.” + +Little liar! How dared she utter this libel on my memory! Haughty, I +might have been to others, but never to her—and coldness was no part of +my nature. Would that it were! Would that I had been a pillar of ice, +incapable of thawing in the sunlight of her witching smile! Had she +forgotten what a slave I was to her? what a poor, adoring, passionate +fool I became under the influence of her hypocritical caresses! I +thought this to myself, but I answered aloud: + +“Indeed! I am surprised to hear that. The Romani hauteur had ever to my +mind something genial and yielding about it—I know my friend was always +most gentle to his dependents.” + +The butler here coughed apologetically behind his hand—an old trick of +his, and one which signified his intense desire to speak. + +Ferrari laughed, as he held out his glass for more wine. + +“Here is old Giacomo,” he said, nodding to him lightly. “He remembers +both the Romanis—ask him _his_ opinion of Fabio—he worshiped his +master.” + +I turned to my servant, and with a benignant air addressed him: + +“Your face is not familiar to me, my friend,” I said. “Perhaps you were +not here when I visited the elder Count Romani?” + +“No, _eccellenza_,” replied Giacomo, rubbing his withered hands +nervously together, and speaking with a sort of suppressed eagerness, +“I came into my lord’s service only a year before the countess died—I +mean the mother of the young count.” + +“Ah! then I missed making your acquaintance,” I said, kindly, pitying +the poor old fellow, as I noticed how his lips trembled, and how +altogether broken he looked. “You knew the last count from childhood, +then?” + +“I did, _eccellenza_!” And his bleared eyes roved over me with a sort +of alarmed inquiry. + +“You loved him well?” I said, composedly, observing him with +embarrassment. + +“_Eccellenza_, I never wish to serve a better master. He was goodness +itself—a fine, handsome, generous lad—the saints have his soul in their +keeping! Though sometimes I cannot believe he is dead—my old heart +almost broke when I heard it. I have never been the same since—my lady +will tell you so—she is often displeased with me.” + +And he looked wistfully at her; there was a note of pleading in his +hesitating accents. My wife’s delicate brows drew together in a frown, +a frown that I had once thought came from mere petulance, but which I +was now inclined to accept as a sign of temper. “Yes, indeed, Giacomo,” +she said, in hard tones, altogether unlike her usual musical voice. +“You are growing so forgetful that it is positively annoying. You know +I have often to tell you the same thing several times. One command +ought to be sufficient for you.” + +Giacomo passed his hand over his forehead in a troubled way, sighed, +and was silent. Then, as if suddenly recollecting his duty, he refilled +my glass, and shrinking aside, resumed his former position behind my +chair. + +The conversation now turned on desultory and indifferent matters. I +knew my wife was an excellent talker, but on that particular evening I +think she surpassed herself. She had resolved to fascinate me, _that_ I +saw at once, and she spared no pains to succeed in her ambition. +Graceful sallies, witty _bon-mots_ tipped with the pungent sparkle of +satire, gay stories well and briskly told, all came easily from her +lips, so that though I knew her so well, she almost surprised me by her +variety and fluency. Yet this gift of good conversation in a woman is +apt to mislead the judgment of those who listen, for it is seldom the +result of thought, and still more seldom is it a proof of intellectual +capacity. A woman talks as a brook babbles; pleasantly, but without +depth. Her information is generally of the most surface kind—she skims +the cream off each item of news, and serves it up to you in her own +fashion, caring little whether it be correct or the reverse. And the +more vivaciously she talks, the more likely she is to be dangerously +insincere and cold-hearted, for the very sharpness of her wit is apt to +spoil the more delicate perceptions of her nature. Show me a brilliant +woman noted for turning an epigram or pointing a satire, and I will +show you a creature whose life is a masquerade, full of vanity, +sensuality and pride. The man who marries such a one must be content to +take the second place in his household, and play the character of the +henpecked husband with what meekness he best may. Answer me, ye long +suffering spouses of “society women” how much would you give to win +back your freedom and self-respect? to be able to hold your head up +unabashed before your own servants? to feel that you can actually give +an order without its being instantly countermanded? Ah, my poor +friends! millions will not purchase you such joy; as long as your +fascinating fair ones are like Caesar’s wife, “above suspicion” (and +they are generally prudent managers), so long must you dance in their +chains like the good-natured clumsy bears that you are, only giving +vent to a growl now and then; a growl which at best only excites +ridicule. My wife was of the true world worldly; never had I seen her +real character so plainly as now, when she exerted herself to entertain +and charm me. I had thought her _spirituelle_, ethereal, angelic! never +was there less of an angel than she! While she talked, I was quick to +observe the changes on Ferrari’s countenance. He became more silent and +sullen as her brightness and cordiality increased. I would not appear +aware of the growing stiffness in his demeanor; I continued to draw him +into the conversation, forcing him to give opinions on various subjects +connected with the art of which he was professedly a follower. He was +very reluctant to speak at all; and when compelled to do so, his +remarks were curt and almost snappish, so much so that my wife made a +laughing comment on his behavior. + +“You are positively ill-tempered, Guido!” she exclaimed, then +remembering she had addressed him by his Christian name, she turned to +me and added—“I always call him Guido, _en famille_; you know he is +just like a brother to me.” + +He looked at her and his eyes flashed dangerously, but he was mute. +Nina was evidently pleased to see him in such a vexed mood; she +delighted to pique his pride, and as he steadily gazed at her in a sort +of reproachful wonder, she laughed joyously. Then rising from the +table, she made us a coquettish courtesy. + +“I will leave you two gentlemen to finish your wine together,” she +said, “I know all men love to talk a little scandal, and they must be +alone to enjoy it. Afterward, will you join me in the veranda? You will +find coffee ready.” + +I hastened to open the door for her as she passed out smiling; then, +returning to the table, I poured out more wine for myself and Ferrari, +who sat gloomily eying his own reflection in the broad polished rim of +a silver fruit-dish that stood near him. Giacomo, the butler, had long +ago left the room; we were entirely alone. I thought over my plans for +a moment or two; the game was as interesting as a problem in chess. +With the deliberation of a prudent player I made my next move. + +“A lovely woman!” I murmured, meditatively, sipping my wine, “and +intelligent also. I admire your taste, _signor_!” + +He started violently. “What—what do you mean?” he demanded, half +fiercely. I stroked my mustache and smiled at him benevolently. + +“Ah, young blood! young blood!” I sighed, shaking my head, “it will +have its way! My good sir, why be ashamed of your feelings? I heartily +sympathize with you; if the lady does not appreciate the affection of +so ardent and gallant an admirer, then she is foolish indeed! It is not +every woman who has such a chance of happiness.” + +“You think—you imagine that—that—I—” + +“That you are in love with her?” I said, composedly. “_Ma—certamente_! +And why not? It is as it should be. Even the late _conte_ could wish no +fairer fate for his beautiful widow than that she should become the +wife of his chosen friend. Permit me to drink your health! Success to +your love!” And I drained my glass as I finished speaking. Unfortunate +fool! He was completely disarmed; his suspicions of me melted away like +mist before the morning light. His face cleared—he seized my hand and +pressed it warmly. + +“Forgive me, _conte_,” he said, with remorseful fervor; “I fear I have +been rude and unsociable. Your kind words have put me right again. You +will think me a jealous madman, but I really fancied that you were +beginning to feel an attraction for her yourself, and actually—(pardon +me, I entreat of you!) actually I was making up my mind to—to kill +you!” + +I laughed quietly. “_Veramente_! How very amiable of you! It was a good +intention, but you know what place is paved with similar designs?” + +“Ah, _conte_, it is like your generosity to take my confession so +lightly; but I assure you, for the last hour I have been absolutely +wretched!” + +“After the fashion of all lovers, I suppose,” I answered “torturing +yourself without necessity! Well, well, it is very amusing! My young +friend, when you come to my time of life, you will prefer the chink of +gold to the laughter and kisses of women. How often must I repeat to +you that I am a man absolutely indifferent to the tender passion? +Believe it or not, it is true.” + +He drank off his wine at one gulp and spoke with some excitement. + +“Then I will frankly confide in you. I _do_ love the _contessa_. Love! +it is too weak a word to describe what I feel. The touch of her hand +thrills me, her very voice seems to shake my soul, her eyes burn +through me! Ah! _You_ cannot know—_you_ could not understand the joy, +the pain—” + +“Calm yourself,” I said, in a cold tone, watching my victim as his +pent-up emotion betrayed itself, “The great thing is to keep the head +cool when the blood burns. You think she loves you?” + +“Think! _Gran Dio_! She has—” here he paused and his face flushed +deeply—“nay! I have no right to say anything on that score. I know she +never cared for her husband.” + +“I know that too!” I answered, steadily. “The most casual observer +cannot fail to notice it.” + +“Well, and no wonder!” he exclaimed, warmly. “He was such an +undemonstrative fool! What business had such a fellow as that to marry +so exquisite a creature!” + +My heart leaped with a sudden impulse of fury, but I controlled my +voice and answered calmly: + +“_Requiescat in pace_! He is dead—let him rest. Whatever his faults, +his wife of course was true to him while he lived; she considered him +worthy of fidelity—is it not so?” + +He lowered his eyes as he replied in an indistinct tone: + +“Oh, certainly!” + +“And you—you were a most loyal and faithful friend to him, in spite of +the tempting bright eyes of his lady?” + +Again he answered huskily, “Why, of course!” But the shapely hand that +rested on the table so near to mine trembled. + +“Well, then,” I continued, quietly, “the love you bear now to his fair +widow is, I imagine, precisely what he would approve. Being, as you +say, perfectly pure and blameless, what can I wish otherwise than +this—may it meet with the reward it deserves!” + +While I spoke he moved uneasily in his chair, and his eyes roved to my +father’s picture with restless annoyance. I suppose he saw in it the +likeness to his dead friend. After a moment or two of silence he turned +to me with a forced smile— + +“And so you really entertain no admiration for the _contessa_?” + +“Oh, pardon me, I _do_ entertain a very strong admiration for her, but +not of the kind you seem to suspect. If it will please you, I can +guarantee that I shall never make love to the lady unless—” + +“Unless what?” he asked, eagerly. + +“Unless she happens to make love to me. In which case it would be +ungallant not to reciprocate!” + +And I laughed harshly. He stared at me in blank surprise. “_She_ make +love to _you_!” he exclaimed, “You jest. She would never do such a +thing.” + +“Of course not!” I answered, rising and clapping him heavily on the +shoulder. “Women never court men, it is quite unheard of; a reverse of +the order of nature! You are perfectly safe, my friend; you will +certainly win the recompense you so richly merit. Come, let us go and +drink coffee with the fair one.” + +And arm-in-arm we sauntered out to the veranda in the most friendly way +possible. Ferrari was completely restored to good humor, and Nina, I +thought, was rather relieved to see it. She was evidently afraid of +Ferrari—a good point for me to remember. She smiled a welcome to us as +we approached, and began to pour out the fragrant coffee. It was a +glorious evening; the moon was already high in the heavens, and the +nightingales’ voices echoed softly from the distant woods. As I seated +myself in a low chair that was placed invitingly near that of my +hostess, my ears were startled by a long melancholy howl, which changed +every now and then to an impatient whine. + +“What is that?” I asked, though the question was needless, for I knew +the sound. + +“Oh, it is that tiresome dog Wyvis,” answered Nina, in a vexed tone. +“He belonged to Fabio. He makes the evening quite miserable with his +moaning.” + +“Where is he?” + +“Well, after my husband’s death he became so troublesome, roaming all +over the house and wailing; and then he would insist on sleeping in +Stella’s room close to her bedside. He really worried me both day and +night, so I was compelled to chain him up.” + +Poor Wyvis! He was sorely punished for his fidelity. + +“I am very fond of dogs,” I said, slowly, “and they generally take to +me with extraordinary devotion. May I see this one of yours?” + +“Oh, certainly! Guido, will you go and unfasten him?” + +Guido did not move; he leaned easily back in his chair sipping his +coffee. + +“Many thanks,” he answered, with a half laugh; “perhaps you forget that +last time I did so he nearly tore me to pieces. If you do not object, I +would rather Giacomo undertook the task.” + +“After such an account of the animal’s conduct, perhaps the _conte_ +will not care to see him. It is true enough,” turning to me as she +spoke, “Wyvis has taken a great dislike to _Signor_ Ferrari—and yet he +is a good-natured dog, and plays with my little girl all day if she +goes to him. Do you feel inclined to see him? Yes?” And, as I bowed in +the affirmative, she rang a little bell twice, and the butler appeared. + +“Giacomo,” she continued, “unloose Wyvis and send him here.” + +Giacomo gave me another of those timid questioning glances, and +departed to execute his order. In another five minutes, the howling had +suddenly ceased, a long, lithe, black, shadowy creature came leaping +wildly across the moonlighted lawn—Wyvis was racing at full speed. He +paid no heed to his mistress or Ferrari; he rushed straight to me with +a yelp of joy. His huge tail wagged incessantly, he panted thirstily +with excitement, he frisked round and round my chair, he abased himself +and kissed my feet and hands, he rubbed his stately head fondly against +my knee. His frantic demonstrations of delight were watched by my wife +and Ferrari with utter astonishment. I observed their surprise, and +said lightly: + +“I told you how it would be! It is nothing remarkable, I assure you. +All dogs treat me in the same way.” + +And I laid my hand on the animal’s neck with a commanding pressure; he +lay down at once, only now and then raising his large wistful brown +eyes to my face as though he wondered what had changed it so greatly. +But no disguise could deceive his intelligence—the faithful creature +knew his master. Meantime I thought Nina looked pale; certainly the +little jeweled white hand nearest to me shook slightly. + +“Are you afraid of this noble animal, madame?” I asked, watching her +closely. She laughed, a little forcedly. + +“Oh, no! But Wyvis is usually so shy with strangers, and I never saw +him greet any one so rapturously except my late husband. It is really +very odd!” + +Ferrari, by his looks, agreed with her, and appeared to be uneasily +considering the circumstance. + +“Strange to say,” he remarked, “Wyvis has for once forgotten me. He +never fails to give me a passing snarl.” + +Hearing his voice, the dog did indeed commence growling discontentedly; +but a touch from me silenced him. The animal’s declared enmity toward +Ferrari surprised me—it was quite a new thing, as before my burial his +behavior to him had been perfectly friendly. + +“I have had a great deal to do with dogs in my time,” I said, speaking +in a deliberately composed voice. “I have found their instinct +marvelous; they generally seem to recognize at once the persons who are +fond of their society. This Wyvis of yours, _contessa_, has no doubt +discovered that I have had many friends among his brethren, so that +there is nothing strange in his making so much of me.” + +The air of studied indifference with which I spoke, and the fact of my +taking the exuberant delight of Wyvis as a matter of course, gradually +reassured the plainly disturbed feelings of my two betrayers, for after +a little pause the incident was passed over, and our conversation went +on with pleasant and satisfactory smoothness. Before my departure that +evening, however, I offered to chain up the dog—“as, if I do this,” I +added, “I guarantee he will not disturb your night’s rest by his +howling.” + +This suggestion met with approval, and Ferrari walked with me to show +me where the kennel stood. I chained Wyvis, and stroked him tenderly; +he appeared to understand, and he accepted his fate with perfect +resignation, lying down upon his bed of straw without a sign of +opposition, save for one imploring look out of his intelligent eyes as +I turned away and left him. + +On making my adieus to Nina, I firmly refused Ferrari’s offered +companionship in the walk back to my hotel. + +“I am fond of a solitary moonlight stroll,” I said. “Permit me to have +my own way in the matter.” + +After some friendly argument they yielded to my wishes. I bade them +both a civil “good-night,” bending low over my wife’s hand and kissing +it, coldly enough, God knows, and yet the action was sufficient to make +her flush and sparkle with pleasure. Then I left them, Ferrari himself +escorting me to the villa gates, and watching me pass out on the open +road. As long as he stood there, I walked with a slow and meditative +pace toward the city, but the instant I heard the gate clang heavily as +it closed, I hurried back with a cautious and noiseless step. Avoiding +the great entrance, I slipped round to the western side of the grounds, +where there was a close thicket of laurel that extended almost up to +the veranda I had just left. Entering this and bending the boughs +softly aside as I pushed my way through, I gradually reached a position +from whence I could see the veranda plainly, and also hear anything +that passed. Guido was sitting on the low chair I had just vacated, +leaning his head back against my wife’s breast; he had reached up one +arm so that it encircled her neck, and drew her head down toward his. +In this half embrace they rested absolutely silent for some moments. +Suddenly Ferrari spoke: + +“You are very cruel, Nina! You actually made me think you admired that +rich old _conte_.” + +She laughed. “So I do! He would be really handsome if he did not wear +those ugly spectacles. And his jewels are lovely. I wish he would give +me some more!” + +“And supposing he were to do so, would you care for him, Nina?” he +demanded, jealously. “Surely not. Besides, you have no idea how +conceited he is. He says he will never make love to a woman unless she +first makes love to him; what do you think of that?” + +She laughed again, more merrily than before. + +“Think! Why, that he is very original—charmingly so! Are you coming in, +Guido?” + +He rose, and standing erect, almost lifted her from her chair and +folded her in his arms. + +“Yes, I _am_ coming in,” he answered; “and I will have a hundred kisses +for every look and smile you bestowed on the _conte_! You little +coquette! You would flirt with your grandfather!” + +She rested against him with apparent tenderness, one hand playing with +the flower in his buttonhole, and then she said, with a slight accent +of fear in her voice— + +“Tell me, Guido, do you not think he is a little like—like Fabio? Is +there not a something in his manner that seems familiar?” + +“I confess I have fancied so once or twice,” he returned, musingly; +“there is rather a disagreeable resemblance. But what of that? many men +are almost counterparts of each other. But I tell you what I think. I +am almost positive he is some long-lost relation of the family—Fabio’s +uncle for all we know, who does not wish to declare his actual +relationship. He is a good old fellow enough, I believe, and is +certainly rich as Croesus; he will be a valuable friend to us both. +Come, _sposina mia_, it is time to go to rest.” + +And they disappeared within the house, and shut the windows after them. +I immediately left my hiding-place, and resumed my way toward Naples. I +was satisfied they had no suspicion of the truth. After all, it was +absurd of me to fancy they might have, for people in general do not +imagine it possible for a buried man to come back to life again. The +game was in my own hands, and I now resolved to play it out with as +little delay as possible. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +Time flew swiftly on—a month, six weeks, passed, and during that short +space I had established myself in Naples as a great personage—great, +because of my wealth and the style in which I lived. No one in all the +numerous families of distinction that eagerly sought my acquaintance +cared whether I had intellect or intrinsic personal worth; it sufficed +to them that I kept a carriage and pair, an elegant and costly +equipage, softly lined with satin and drawn by two Arabian mares as +black as polished ebony. The value of my friendship was measured by the +luxuriousness of my box at the opera, and by the dainty fittings of my +yacht, a swift trim vessel furnished with every luxury, and having on +board a band of stringed instruments which discoursed sweet music when +the moon emptied her horn of silver radiance on the rippling water. In +a little while I knew everybody who was worth knowing in Naples; +everywhere my name was talked of, my doings were chronicled in the +fashionable newspapers; stories of my lavish generosity were repeated +from mouth to mouth, and the most highly colored reports of my immense +revenues were whispered with a kind of breathless awe at every cafe and +street corner. Tradesmen waylaid my reticent valet, Vincenzo, and gave +him _douceurs_ in the hope he would obtain my custom for them—“tips” +which he pocketed in his usual reserved and discreet manner, but which +he was always honest enough to tell me of afterward. He would most +faithfully give me the name and address of this or that particular +tempter of his fidelity, always adding—“As to whether the rascal sells +good things or bad our Lady only knows, but truly he gave me thirty +francs to secure your excellency’s good-will. Though for all that I +would not recommend him if your excellency knows of an honester man!” + +Among other distinctions which my wealth forced upon me, were the +lavish attentions of match-making mothers. The black spectacles which I +always wore, were not repulsive to these diplomatic dames—on the +contrary, some of them assured me they were most becoming, so anxious +were they to secure me as a son-in-law. Fair girls in their teens, +blushing and ingenuous, were artfully introduced to me—or, I _should_ +say, thrust forward like slaves in a market for my inspection—though, +to do them justice, they were remarkably shrewd and sharp-witted for +their tender years. Young as they were, they were keenly alive to the +importance of making a good match—and no doubt the pretty innocents +laid many dainty schemes in their own minds for liberty and enjoyment +when one or the other of them should become the Countess Oliva and fool +the old black-spectacled husband to her heart’s content. Needless to +say their plans were not destined to be fulfilled, though I rather +enjoyed studying the many devices they employed to fascinate me. What +pretty ogling glances I received!—what whispered admiration of my +“beautiful white hair! so _distingué_”—what tricks of manner, +alternating from grave to gay, from rippling mirth to witching languor! +Many an evening I sat at ease on board my yacht, watching with a +satirical inward amusement, one, perhaps two or three of these fair +schemers ransacking their youthful brains for new methods to entrap the +old millionaire, as they thought me, into the matrimonial net. I used +to see their eyes—sparkling with light in the sunshine—grow liquid and +dreamy in the mellow radiance of the October moon, and turn upon me +with a vague wistfulness most lovely to behold, and—most admirably +feigned! I could lay my hand on a bare round white arm and not be +repulsed—I could hold little clinging fingers in my own as long as I +liked without giving offense such are some of the privileges of wealth! + +In all the parties of pleasure I formed, and these were many—my wife +and Ferrari were included as a matter of course. At first Nina +demurred, with some plaintive excuse concerning her “recent terrible +bereavement,” but I easily persuaded her out of this. I even told some +ladies I knew to visit her and add their entreaties to mine, as I said, +with the benignant air of an elderly man, that it was not good for one +so young to waste her time and injure her health by useless grieving. +She saw the force of this, I must admit, with admirable readiness, and +speedily yielded to the united invitations she received, though always +with a well-acted reluctance, and saying that she did so merely +“because the Count Oliva was such an old friend of the family and knew +my poor dear husband as a child.” + +On Ferrari I heaped all manner of benefits. Certain debts of his +contracted at play I paid privately to surprise him—his gratitude was +extreme. I humored him in many of his small extravagances—I played with +his follies as an angler plays the fish at the end of his line, and I +succeeded in winning his confidence. Not that I ever could surprise him +into a confession of his guilty amour—but he kept me well informed as +to what he was pleased to call “the progress of his attachment,” and +supplied me with many small details which, while they fired my blood +and brain to wrath, steadied me more surely in my plan of vengeance. +Little did he dream in whom he was trusting!—little did he know into +whose hands he was playing! Sometimes a kind of awful astonishment +would come over me as I listened to his trivial talk, and heard him +make plans for a future that was never to be. He seemed so certain of +his happiness—so absolutely sure that nothing could or would intervene +to mar it. Traitor as he was he was unable to foresee +punishment—materialist to the heart’s core, he had no knowledge of the +divine law of compensation. Now and then a dangerous impulse stirred +me—a desire to say to him point-blank: + +“You are a condemned criminal—a doomed man on the brink of the grave. +Leave this light converse and frivolous jesting—and, while there is +time, prepare for death!” + +But I bit my lips and kept stern silence. Often, too, I felt disposed +to seize him by the throat, and, declaring my identity, accuse him of +his treachery to his face, but I always remembered and controlled +myself. One point in his character I knew well—I had known it of +old—this was his excessive love of good wine. I aided and abetted him +in this weakness, and whenever he visited me I took care that he should +have his choice of the finest vintages. Often after a convivial evening +spent in my apartments with a few other young men of his class and +caliber, he reeled out of my presence, his deeply flushed face and +thick voice bearing plain testimony as to his condition. On these +occasions I used to consider with a sort of fierce humor how Nina would +receive him—for though she saw no offense in the one kind of vice she +herself practiced, she had a particular horror of vulgarity in any +form, and drunkenness was one of those low failings she specially +abhorred. + +“Go to your lady-love, _mon beau_ Silenus!” I would think, as I watched +him leaving my hotel with a couple of his boon companions, staggering +and laughing loudly as he went, or singing the last questionable +street-song of the Neapolitan _bas-peuple_. “You are in a would-be +riotous and savage mood—her finer animal instincts will revolt from +you, as a lithe gazelle would fly from the hideous gambols of a +rhinoceros. She is already afraid of you—in a little while she will +look upon you with loathing and disgust—_tant pis pour vous, tant mieux +pour moi_!” + +I had of course attained the position of _ami intime_ at the Villa +Romani. I was welcome there at any hour—I could examine and read my own +books in my own library at leisure (what a privilege was mine); I could +saunter freely through the beautiful gardens accompanied by Wyvis, who +attended me as a matter of course; in short, the house was almost at my +disposal, though I never passed a night under its roof. I carefully +kept up my character as a prematurely elderly man, slightly invalided +by a long and ardous career in far-off foreign lands, and I was +particularly prudent in my behavior toward my wife before Ferrari. +Never did I permit the least word or action on my part that could +arouse his jealousy or suspicion. I treated her with a sort of parental +kindness and reserve, but she—trust a woman for intrigue!—she was quick +to perceive my reasons for so doing. Directly Ferrari’s back was turned +she would look at me with a glance of coquettish intelligence, and +smile—a little mocking, half-petulant smile—or she would utter some +disparaging remark about him, combining with it a covert compliment to +me. It was not for me to betray her secrets—I saw no occasion to tell +Ferrari that nearly every morning she sent her maid to my hotel with +fruit and flowers and inquiries after my health—nor was my valet +Vincenzo the man to say that he carried gifts and similar messages from +me to her. But at the commencement of November things were so far +advanced that I was in the unusual position of being secretly courted +by my own wife!—I reciprocating her attentions with equal secrecy! The +fact of my being often in the company of other ladies piqued her +vanity—she knew that I was considered a desirable _parti_—and—she +resolved to win me. In this case I also resolved—to be won! A grim +courtship truly—between a dead man and his own widow! Ferrari never +suspected what was going on; he had spoken of me as “that poor fool +Fabio, he was too easily duped;” yet never was there one more “easily +duped” than himself, or to whom the epithet “poor fool” more thoroughly +applied. As I said before, he was _sure_—too sure of his own good +fortune. I wished to excite his distrust and enmity sometimes, but this +I found I could not do. He trusted me—yes! as much as in the old days I +had trusted _him_. Therefore, the catastrophe for him must be sudden as +well as fatal—perhaps, after all, it was better so. + +During my frequent visits to the villa I saw much of my child Stella. +She became passionately attached to me—poor little thing!—her love was +a mere natural instinct, had she but known it. Often, too, her nurse, +Assunta, would bring her to my hotel to pass an hour or so with me. +This was a great treat to her, and her delight reached its climax when +I took her on my knee and told her a fairy story—her favorite one being +that of a good little girl whose papa suddenly went away, and how the +little girl grieved for him till at last some kind fairies helped her +to find him again. I was at first somewhat afraid of old Assunta—she +had been _my_ nurse—was it possible that she would not recognize me? +The first time I met her in my new character I almost held my breath in +a sort of suspense—but the good old woman was nearly blind, and I think +she could scarce make out my lineaments. She was of an entirely +different nature to Giacomo the butler—she thoroughly believed her +master to be dead, as indeed she had every reason to do, but strange to +say, Giacomo did not. The old man had a fanatical notion that his +“young lord” could not have died so suddenly, and he grew so obstinate +on the point that my wife declared he must be going crazy. Assunta, on +the other hand, would talk volubly of my death and tell me with assured +earnestness: + +“It was to be expected, _eccellenza_—he was too good for us, and the +saints took him. Of course our Lady wanted him—she always picks out the +best among us. The poor Giacomo will not listen to me, he grows weak +and childish, and he loved the master too well—better,” and here her +voice would deepen into reproachful solemnity, “yes, better actually +than St. Joseph himself! And of course one is punished for such a +thing. I always knew my master would die young—he was too gentle as a +baby, and too kind-hearted as a man to stay here long.” + +And she would shake her gray head and feel for the beads of her rosary, +and mutter many an Ave for the repose of my soul. Much as I wished it, +I could never get her to talk about her mistress—it was the one subject +on which she was invariably silent. On one occasion when I spoke with +apparent enthusiasm of the beauty and accomplishments of the young +countess, she glanced at me with sudden and earnest scrutiny—sighed—but +said nothing. I was glad to see how thoroughly devoted she was to +Stella, and the child returned her affection with interest—though as +the November days came on apace my little one looked far from strong. +She paled and grew thin, her eyes looked preternaturally large and +solemn, and she was very easily wearied. I called Assunta’s attention +to these signs of ill-health; she replied that she had spoken to the +countess, but that “madam” had taken no notice of the child’s weakly +condition. Afterward I mentioned the matter myself to Nina, who merely +smiled gratefully up in my face and answered: + +“Really, my dear _conte_, you are too good! There is nothing the matter +with Stella, her health is excellent; she eats too many bonbons, +perhaps, and is growing rather fast, that is all. How kind you are to +think of her! But, I assure you, she is quite well.” + +I did not feel so sure of this, yet I was obliged to conceal my +anxiety, as overmuch concern about the child would not have been in +keeping with my assumed character. + +It was a little past the middle of November, when a circumstance +occurred that gave impetus to my plans, and hurried them to full +fruition. The days were growing chilly and sad even in Naples—yachting +excursions were over, and I was beginning to organize a few dinners and +balls for the approaching winter season, when one afternoon Ferrari +entered my room unannounced and threw himself into the nearest chair +with an impatient exclamation, and a vexed expression of countenance. + +“What is the matter?” I asked, carelessly, as I caught a furtive glance +of his eyes. “Anything financial? Pray draw upon me! I will be a most +accommodating banker!” + +He smiled uneasily though gratefully. + +“Thanks, _conte_—but it is nothing of that sort—it is—_gran Dio_! what +an unlucky wretch I am!” + +“I hope,” and here I put on an expression of the deepest anxiety, “I +hope the pretty _contessa_ has not played you false? she has refused to +marry you?” + +He laughed with a disdainful triumph in his laughter. + +“Oh, as far as that goes there is no danger! She dares not play me +false.” + +“_Dares_ not! That is rather a strong expression, my friend!” And I +stroked my beard and looked at him steadily. He himself seemed to think +he had spoken too openly and hastily—for he reddened as he said with a +little embarrassment: + +“Well, I did not mean that exactly—of course she is perfectly free to +do as she likes—but she cannot, I think, refuse me after showing me so +much encouragement.” + +I waved my hand with an airy gesture of amicable agreement. + +“Certainly not,” I said, “unless she be an arrant coquette and +therefore a worthless woman, and you, who know so well her intrinsic +goodness and purity, have no reason to fear. But, if not love or money, +what is it that troubles you? It must be serious, to judge from your +face.” + +He played absently with a ring I had given him, turning it round and +round upon his finger many times before replying. + +“Well, the fact is,” he said at last, “I am compelled to go away—to +leave Naples for a time.” + +My heart gave an expectant throb of satisfaction. Going away!—leaving +Naples!—turning away from the field of battle and allowing me to gain +the victory! Fortune surely favored me. But I answered with feigned +concern: + +“Going away! Surely you cannot mean it. Why?—what for? and where?” + +“An uncle of mine is dying in Rome,” he answered, crossly. “He has made +me his heir, and I am bound for the sake of decency to attend his last +moments. Rather protracted last moments they threaten to be too, but +the lawyers say I had better be present, as the old man may take it +into his head to disinherit me at the final gasp. I suppose I shall not +be absent long—a fortnight at most—and in the meanwhile—” + +Here he hesitated and looked at me anxiously. + +“Continue, _caro mio_, continue!” I said with some impatience. “If I +can do anything in your absence, you have only to command me.” + +He rose from his chair, and approaching the window where I sat in a +half-reclining position, he drew a small chair opposite mine, and +sitting down, laid one hand confidingly on my wrist. + +“You can do much!” he replied, earnestly, “and I feel that I can +thoroughly depend upon you. Watch over _her_! She will have no other +protector, and she is so beautiful and careless! You can guard her—your +age, your rank and position, the fact of your being an old friend of +the family—all these things warrant your censorship and vigilance over +her, and you can prevent any other man from intruding himself upon her +notice—” + +“If he does,” I exclaimed, starting up from my seat with a mock tragic +air, “I will not rest till his body serves my sword as a sheath!” + +And I laughed loudly, clapping him on the shoulder as I spoke. The +words were the very same he had himself uttered when I had witnessed +his interview with my wife in the avenue. He seemed to find something +familiar in the phrase, for he looked confused and puzzled. Seeing +this, I hastened to turn the current of his reflections. Stopping +abruptly in my mirth, I assumed a serious gravity of demeanor, and +said: + +“Nay, nay! I see the subject is too sacred to be jested with—pardon my +levity! I assure you, my good Ferrari, I will watch over the lady with +the jealous scrutiny of a _brother_—an elderly brother too, and +therefore one more likely to be a model of propriety. Though I frankly +admit it is a task I am not specially fitted for, and one that is +rather distasteful to me, still, I would do much to please you, and +enable you to leave Naples with an easy mind. I promise you”—here I +took his hand and shook it warmly—“that I will be worthy of your trust +and true to it, with exactly the same fine loyalty and fidelity you +yourself so nobly showed to your dead friend Fabio! History cannot +furnish me with a better example!” + +He started as if he had been stung, and every drop of blood receded +from his face, leaving it almost livid. He turned his eyes in a kind of +wondering doubt upon me, but I counterfeited an air of such good faith +and frankness, that he checked some hasty utterance that rose to his +lips, and mastering himself by a strong effort, said, briefly: + +“I thank you! I know I can rely upon your honor.” + +“You can!” I answered, decisively—“as positively as you rely upon your +own!” Again he winced, as though whipped smartly by an invisible lash. +Releasing his hand, I asked, in a tone of affected regret, + +“And when must you leave us, _carino_?” + +“Most unhappily, at once,” he answered “I start by the early train +to-morrow morning.” + +“Well, I am glad I knew of this in time,” I said, glancing at my +writing-table, which was strewn with unsent invitation cards, and +estimates from decorators and ball furnishers. “I shall not think of +starting any more gayeties till you return.” + +He looked gratefully at me “Really? It is very kind of you, but I +should be sorry to interfere with any of your plans—” + +“Say no more about it, _amico_,” I interrupted him lightly. “Everything +can wait till you come back. Besides, I am sure you will prefer to +think of _madama_ as living in some sort of seclusion during your +enforced absence—” + +“I should not like her to be dull!” he eagerly exclaimed. + +“Oh, no!” I said, with a slight smile at his folly, as if +she—Nina—would permit herself to be dull! “I will take care of that. +Little distractions, such as a drive now and then, or a very quiet, +select musical evening! I understand—leave it all to me! But the +dances, dinners, and other diversions shall wait till your return.” + +A delighted look flashed into his eyes. He was greatly flattered and +pleased. + +“You are uncommonly good to me, _conte_!” he said, earnestly. “I can +never thank you sufficiently.” + +“I shall demand a proof of your gratitude some day,” I answered. “And +now, had you not better be packing your portmanteau? To-morrow will +soon be here. I will come and see you off in the morning.” + +Receiving this assurance as another testimony of my friendship, he left +me. I saw him no more that day; it was easy to guess where he was! With +my wife, of course!—no doubt binding her, by all the most sacred vows +he could think of or invent, to be true to him—as true as she had been +false to me. In fancy I could see him clasping her in his arms, and +kissing her many times in his passionate fervor, imploring her to think +of him faithfully, night and day, till he should again return to the +joy of her caresses! I smiled coldly, as this glowing picture came +before my imagination. Ay, Guido! kiss her and fondle her now to your +heart’s content—it is for the last time! Never again will that witching +glance be turned to you in either fear or favor—never again will that +fair body nestle in your jealous embrace—never again will your kisses +burn on that curved sweet mouth; never, never again! Your day is +done—the last brief moments of your sin’s enjoyment have come—make the +most of them!—no one shall interfere! Drink the last drop of sweet +wine—_my_ hand shall not dash the cup from your lips on this, the final +night of your amour! Traitor, liar, and hypocrite! make haste to be +happy for the short time that yet remains to you—shut the door close, +lest the pure pale stars behold your love ecstasies! but let the +perfumed lamps shed their softest artificial luster on all that radiant +beauty which tempted your sensual soul to ruin, and of which you are +now permitted to take your last look! Let there be music too—the music +of her voice, which murmurs in your ear such entrancing falsehoods! +“She will be true,” she says. You must believe her, Guido, as I +did—and, believing her thus, part from her as lingeringly and tenderly +as you will—part from her—_forever_! + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +Next morning I kept my appointment and met Ferrari at the railway +station. He looked pale and haggard, though he brightened a little on +seeing me. He was curiously irritable and fussy with the porters +concerning his luggage, and argued with them about some petty trifles +as obstinately and pertinaciously as a deaf old woman. His nerves were +evidently jarred and unstrung, and it was a relief when he at last got +into his coupe. He carried a yellow paper-covered volume in his hand. I +asked him if it contained any amusing reading. + +“I really do not know,” he answered, indifferently, “I have only just +bought it. It is by Victor Hugo.” + +And he held up the title-page for me to see. + +“_Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamne_,” I read aloud with careful slowness. +“Ah, indeed! You do well to read that. It is a very fine study!” + +The train was on the point of starting, when he leaned out of the +carriage window and beckoned me to approach more closely. + +“Remember!” he whispered, “I trust you to take care of her!” + +“Never fear!” I answered, “I will do my best to replace _you_!” + +He smiled a pale uneasy smile, and pressed my hand. These were our last +words, for with a warning shriek the train moved off, and in another +minute had rushed out of sight. I was alone—alone with perfect freedom +of action—I could do as I pleased with my wife now! I could even kill +her if I chose—no one would interfere. I could visit her that evening +and declare myself to her—could accuse her of her infidelity and stab +her to the heart! Any Italian jury would find “extenuating +circumstances” for me. But why? Why should I lay myself open to a +charge of murder, even for a just cause? No! my original design was +perfect, and I must keep to it and work it out with patience, though +patience was difficult. While I thus meditated, walking from the +station homeward, I was startled by the unexpected appearance of my +valet, who came upon me quite suddenly. He was out of breath with +running, and he carried a note for me marked “Immediate.” It was from +my wife, and ran briefly thus: + +“Please come at once. Stella is very ill, and asks for you.” + + +“Who brought this?” I demanded, quickening my pace, and signing to +Vincenzo to keep beside me. + +“The old man, _eccellenza_—Giacomo. He was weeping and in great +trouble—he said the little _donzella_ had the fever in her throat—it is +the diphtheria he means, I think. She was taken ill in the middle of +the night, but the nurse thought it was nothing serious. This morning +she has been getting worse, and is in danger.” + +“A doctor has been sent for, of course?” + +“Yes, _eccellenza_. So Giacomo said. But—” + +“But _what_?” I asked, quickly. + +“Nothing, _eccellenza_! Only the old man said the doctor had come too +late.” + +My heart sunk heavily, and a sob rose in my throat. I stopped in my +rapid walk and bade Vincenzo call a carriage, one of the ordinary +vehicles that are everywhere standing about for hire in the principal +thoroughfares of Naples. I sprung into this and told the driver to take +me as quickly as possible to the Villa Romani, and adding to Vincenzo +that I should not return to the hotel all day, I was soon rattling +along the uphill road. On my arrival at the villa I found the gates +open, as though in expectation of my visit, and as I approached the +entrance door of the house, Giacomo himself met me. + +“How is the child?” I asked him eagerly. + +He made no reply, but shook his head gravely, and pointed to a kindly +looking man who was at that moment descending the stairs—a man whom I +instantly recognized as a celebrated English doctor resident in the +neighborhood. To him I repeated my inquiry—he beckoned me into a side +room and closed the door. + +“The fact is,” he said, simply, “it is a case of gross neglect. The +child has evidently been in a weakly condition for some time past, and +therefore is an easy prey to any disease that may be lurking about. She +was naturally strong—I can see that—and had I been called in when the +symptoms first developed themselves, I could have cured her. The nurse +tells me she dared not enter the mother’s room to disturb her after +midnight, otherwise she would have called her to see the child—it is +unfortunate, for now I can do nothing.” + +I listened like one in a dream. Not even old Assunta dared to enter her +mistress’s room after midnight—no! not though the child might be +seriously ill and suffering. I knew the reason well—too well! And so +while Ferrari had taken his fill of rapturous embraces and lingering +farewells, my little one had been allowed to struggle in pain and fever +without her mother’s care or comfort. Not that such consolation would +have been much at its best, but I was fool enough to wish there had +been this one faint spark of womanhood left in her upon whom I had +wasted all the first and only love of my life. The doctor watched me as +I remained silent, and after a pause he spoke again. + +“The child has earnestly asked to see you,” he said, “and I persuaded +the countess to send for you, though she was very reluctant to do so, +as she said you might catch the disease. Of course there is always a +risk—” + +“I am no coward, monsieur,” I interrupted him, “though many of us +Italians prove but miserable panic-stricken wretches in time of +plague—the more especially when compared with the intrepidity and pluck +of Englishmen. Still there are exceptions—” + +The doctor smiled courteously and bowed. “Then I have no more to say, +except that it would be well for you to see my little patient at once. +I am compelled to be absent for half an hour, but at the expiration of +that time I will return.” + +“Stay!” I said, laying a detaining hand on his arm. “Is there any +hope?” + +He eyed me gravely. “I fear not.” + +“Can nothing be done?” + +“Nothing—except to keep her as quiet and warm as possible. I have left +some medicine with the nurse which will alleviate the pain. I shall be +able to judge of her better when I return; the illness will have then +reached its crisis.” In a couple of minutes more he had left the house, +and a young maid-servant showed me to the nursery. + +“Where is the _contessa_?” I asked in a whisper, as I trod softly up +the stairs. + +“The _contessa_?” said the girl, opening her eyes in astonishment. “In +her own bedroom, _eccellenza_—_madama_ would not think of leaving it; +because of the danger of infection.” I smothered a rough oath that rose +involuntarily to my lips. Another proof of the woman’s utter +heartlessness, I thought! + +“Has she not seen her child?” + +“Since the illness? Oh, no, _eccellenza_!” + +Very gently and on tiptoe I entered the nursery. The blinds were +partially drawn as the strong light worried the child, and by the +little white bed sat Assunta, her brown face pale and almost rigid with +anxiety. At my approach she raised her eyes to mine, muttering softly: + +“It is always so. Our Lady will have the best of all, first the father, +then the child; it is right and just—only the bad are left.” + +“Papa!” moaned a little voice feebly, and Stella sat up among her +tumbled pillows, with wide-opened wild eyes, feverish cheeks, and +parted lips through which the breath came in quick, uneasy gasps. +Shocked at the marks of intense suffering in her face, I put my arms +tenderly round her—she smiled faintly and tried to kiss me. I pressed +the poor parched little mouth and murmured, soothingly: + +“Stella must be patient and quiet—Stella must lie down, the pain will +be better so; there! that is right!” as the child sunk back on her bed +obediently, still keeping her gaze fixed upon me. I knelt at the +bedside, and watched her yearningly—while Assunta moistened her lips, +and did all she could to ease the pain endured so meekly by the poor +little thing whose breathing grew quicker and fainter with every tick +of the clock. “You are my papa, are you not?” she asked, a deeper flush +crossing her forehead and cheeks. I made no answer—I only kissed the +small hot hand I held. Assunta shook her head. + +“Ah, _poverinetta_! The time is near—she sees her father. And why not? +He loved her well—he would come to fetch her for certain if the saints +would let him.” + +And she fell on her knees and began to tell over her rosary with great +devotion. Meanwhile Stella threw one little arm round my neck—her eyes +were half shut—she spoke and breathed with increasing difficulty. + +“My throat aches so, papa!” she said, pitifully. “Can you not make it +better?” + +“I wish I could, my darling!” I murmured. “I would bear all the pain +for you if it were possible!” + +She was silent a minute. Then she said: + +“What a long time you have been away! And now I am too ill to play with +you!” Then a faint smile crossed her features. “See poor To-to!” she +exclaimed, feebly, as her eyes fell on a battered old doll in the +spangled dress of a carnival clown that lay at the foot of her bed. +“Poor dear old To-to! He will think I do not love him any more, because +my throat hurts me. Give him to me, papa!” + +And as I obeyed her request she encircled the doll with one arm, while +she still clung to me with the other, and added: + +“To-to remembers you, papa; you know you brought him from Rome, and he +is fond of you, too—but not as fond as I am!” And her dark eyes +glittered feverishly. Suddenly her glance fell on Assunta, whose gray +head was buried in her hands as she knelt. + +“Assunta!” + +The old woman looked up. + +“_Bambinetta_!” she answered, and her aged voice trembled. + +“Why are you crying?” inquired Stella with an air of plaintive +surprise. “Are you not glad to see papa?” + +Her words were interrupted by a sharp spasm of pain which convulsed her +whole body—she gasped for breath—she was nearly suffocated. Assunta and +I raised her up gently and supported her against her pillows; the agony +passed slowly, but left her little face white and rigid, while large +drops of sweat gathered on her brow. I endeavored to soothe her. + +“Darling, you must not talk,” I whispered, imploringly; “try to be very +still—then the poor throat will not ache so much.” + +She looked at me wistfully. After a minute or two she said, gently: + +“Kiss me, then, and I will be quite good.” + +I kissed her fondly, and she closed her eyes. Ten, twenty, thirty +minutes passed and she did not stir. At the end of that time the doctor +entered. He glanced at her, gave me a warning look, and remained +standing quietly at the foot of the bed. Suddenly the child woke, and +smiled divinely on all three of us. + +“Are you in pain, my dear?” I softly asked. + +“No!” she answered in a tiny voice, so faint and far away that we held +our breath to listen to it; “I am quite well now. Assunta must dress me +in my white frock again now papa is here. I knew he would come back!” + +And she turned her eyes upon me with a look of bright intelligence. + +“Her brain wanders,” said the doctor, in a low, pitying voice; “it will +soon be over.” + +Stella did not hear him; she turned and nestled in my arms, asking in a +sort of babbling whisper: + +“You did not go away because I was naughty, did you, papa?” + +“No darling!” I answered, hiding my face in her curls. + +“Why do you have those ugly black things on?” she asked, in the +feeblest and most plaintive tone imaginable, so weak that I myself +could scarcely hear it; “has somebody hurt your eyes? Let me see your +eyes!” I hesitated. Dare I humor her in her fancy? I glanced up. The +doctor’s head again was turned away, Assunta was on her knees, her face +buried in the bed-clothes, praying to her saints; quick as thought I +slipped my spectacles slightly down, and looked over them full at my +little one. She uttered a soft cry of delight—“Papa! papa!” and +stretched out her arms, then a strong and terrible shudder shook her +little frame. The doctor came closer—I replaced my glasses without my +action being noticed, and we both bent anxiously over the suffering +child. Her face paled and grew livid—she made another effort to +speak—her beautiful eyes rolled upward and became fixed—she sighed—and +sunk back on my shoulder—dying—dead! My poor little one! A hard sob +stifled itself in my throat—I clasped the small lifeless body close in +my embrace, and my tears fell hot and fast. There was a long silence in +the room—a deep, an awe-struck, reverent silence, while the Angel of +Death, noiselessly entering and departing, gathered my little white +rose for his Immortal garden of flowers. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +After some little time the doctor’s genial voice, slightly tremulous +from kindly emotion, roused me from my grief-stricken attitude. + +“Monsieur, permit me to persuade you to come away. Poor little child! +she is free from pain now. Her fancy that you were her father was a +fortunate delusion for her. It made her last moments happy. Pray come +with me—I can see this has been a shock to your feelings.” + +Reverently I laid the fragile corpse back on the yet warm pillows. With +a fond touch I stroked the flaxen head; I closed the dark, upturned, +and glazing eyes—I kissed the waxen cheeks and lips, and folded the +tiny hands in an attitude of prayer. There was a grave smile on the +young dead face—a smile of superior wisdom and sweetness, majestic in +its simplicity. Assunta rose from her knees and laid her crucifix on +the little breast—the tears were running down her worn and withered +countenance. As she strove to wipe them away with her apron, she said +tremblingly:— + +“It must be told to _madama_.” A frown came on the doctor’s face. He +was evidently a true Britisher, decisive in his opinions, and frank +enough to declare them openly. “Yes,” he said, curtly, “_Madama_, as +you call her, should have been here.” + +“The little angel did not once ask for her,” murmured Assunta. + +“True!” he answered. And again there was silence. We stood round the +small bed, looking at the empty casket that had held the lost jewel—the +flawless pearl of innocent childhood that had gone, according to a +graceful superstition, to ornament the festal robes of the Madonna as +she walked in all her majesty through heaven. A profound grief was at +my heart—mingled with a sense of mysterious and awful satisfaction. I +felt, not as though I had lost my child, but had rather gained her to +be more entirely mine than ever. She seemed nearer to me dead than she +had been when living. Who could say what her future might have been? +She would have grown to womanhood—what then? What is the usual fate +that falls to even the best woman? Sorrow, pain, and petty worry, +unsatisfied longings, incompleted aims, the disappointment of an +imperfect and fettered life—for say what you will to the contrary, +woman’s inferiority to man, her physical weakness, her inability to +accomplish any great thing for the welfare of the world in which she +lives, will always make her more or less an object of pity. If good, +she needs all the tenderness, support, and chivalrous guidance of her +master, man—if bad, she merits what she receives, his pitiless disdain +and measureless contempt. From all dangers and griefs of the kind my +Stella had escaped—for her, sorrow no longer existed. I was glad of it, +I thought, as I watched Assunta shutting the blinds close, as a signal +to outsiders that death was in the house. At a sign from the doctor I +followed him out of the room—on the stairs he turned round abruptly, +and asked: + +“Will _you_ tell the countess?” + +“I would rather be excused,” I replied, decisively. “I am not at all in +the humor for a _scene_.” + +“You think she will make a scene?” he said with an astonished uplifting +of his eyebrows. “I dare say you are right though! She is an excellent +actress.” + +By this time we had reached the foot of the stairs. + +“She is very beautiful,” I answered evasively. + +“Oh, very! No doubt of that!” And here a strange frown contracted the +doctor’s brow. “For my own taste, I prefer an ugly woman to _such_ +beauty.” + +And with these words he left me, disappearing down the passage which +led to “_madama_’s” boudoir. Left alone, I paced up and down the +drawing-room, gazing abstractedly on its costly fittings, its many +luxurious knickknacks and elegancies—most of which I had given to my +wife during the first few months of our marriage. By and by I heard the +sound of violent hysterical sobbing, accompanied by the noise of +hurrying footsteps and the rapid whisking about of female garments. In +a few moments the doctor entered with an expression of sardonic +amusement on his face. “Yes!” he said in reply to my look of inquiry, +“hysterics, lace handkerchiefs, eau-de-Cologne, and attempts at +fainting. All very well done! I have assured the lady there is no fear +of contagion, as under my orders everything will be thoroughly +disinfected. I shall go now. Oh, by the way, the countess requests that +you will wait here a few minutes—she has a message for you—she will not +detain you long. I should recommend you to get back to your hotel as +soon as you can, and take some good wine. _A rivederci_! Anything I can +do for you pray command me!” + +And with a cordial shake of the hand he left me, and I heard the street +door close behind him. Again I paced wearily up and down, wrapped in +sorrowful musings. I did not hear a stealthy tread on the carpet behind +me, so that when I turned round abruptly, I was startled to find myself +face to face with old Giacomo, who held out a note to me on a silver +salver, and who meanwhile peered at me with his eager eyes in so +inquisitive a manner that I felt almost uneasy. + +“And so the little angel is dead!” he murmured in a thin, quavering +voice. “Dead! Ay, that is a pity, a pity! But _my_ master is not +dead—no, no! I am not such an old fool as to believe that.” + +I paid no heed to his rambling talk, but read the message Nina had sent +to me through him. + +“I am _broken-hearted_!” so ran the delicately penciled lines. “Will +you kindly telegraph my _dreadful_ loss to _Signor_ Ferrari? I shall be +much obliged to you.” I looked up from the perfumed missive and down at +the old butler’s wrinkled visage; he was a short man and much bent, and +something in the downward glance I gave him evidently caught and +riveted his attention, for he clasped his hands together and muttered +something I could not hear. + +“Tell your mistress,” I said, speaking slowly and harshly, “that I will +do as she wishes. That I am entirely at her service. Do you +understand?” + +“Yes, yes! I understand!” faltered Giacomo, nervously, “My master never +thought me foolish—I could always understand him—” + +“Do you know, my friend,” I observed, in a purposely cold and cutting +tone, “that I have heard somewhat too much about your master? The +subject is tiresome to me! Were your master alive, he would say you +were in your dotage! Take my message to the countess at once.” + +The old man’s face paled and his lips quivered—he made an attempt to +draw up his shrunken figure with a sort of dignity as he answered +“_Eccellenza_, my master would never speak to me so—never, never!” Then +his countenance fell, and he muttered, softly—“Though it is just—I am a +fool—I am mistaken—quite mistaken—there is no resemblance!” After a +little pause he added, humbly, “I will take your message, +_eccellenza_.” And stooping more than ever, he shambled out of the +room. My heart smote me as he disappeared; I had spoken very harshly to +the poor old fellow—but I instinctively felt that it was necessary to +do so. His close and ceaseless examination of me—his timidity when he +approached me—the strange tremors he experienced when I addressed him, +were so many warnings to me to be on my guard with this devoted +domestic. Were he, by some unforeseen chance, to recognize me, my plans +would all be spoiled. I took my hat and left the house. As I crossed +the upper terrace, I saw a small round object lying in the grass—it was +Stella’s ball that she used to throw for Wyvis to catch and bring to +her. I picked up the poor plaything tenderly and put it in my +pocket—and glancing up once more at the darkened nursery windows, I +waved a kiss of farewell to my little one lying there in her last +sleep. Then fiercely controlling all the weaker and softer emotions +that threatened to overwhelm me, I hurried away. On my road to the +hotel I stopped at the telegraph-office and dispatched the news of +Stella’s death to Guido Ferrari in Rome. He would be surprised, I +thought, but certainly not grieved—the poor child had always been in +his way. Would he come back to Naples to console the now childless +widow? Not he!—he would know well that she stood in very small need of +consolation—and that she took Stella’s death as she had taken mine—as a +blessing, and not a bereavement. On reaching my own rooms, I gave +orders to Vincenzo that I was not at home to any one who might call—and +I passed the rest of the day in absolute solitude. I had much to think +of. The last frail tie between my wife and myself had been snapped +asunder—the child, the one innocent link in the long chain of falsehood +and deception, no longer existed. Was I glad or sorry for this? I asked +myself the question a hundred times, and I admitted the truth, though I +trembled to realize it. I was _glad_—yes—_glad_! Glad that my own child +was dead! You call this inhuman perhaps? Why? She was bound to have +been miserable; she was now happy! + +The tragedy of her parents’ lives could be enacted without imbittering +and darkening her young days, she was out of it all, and I rejoiced to +know it. For I was absolutely relentless; had my little Stella lived, +not even for her sake would I have relaxed in one detail of my +vengeance—nothing seemed to me so paramount as the necessity for +restoring my own self-respect and damaged honor. In England I know +these things are managed by the Divorce Court. Lawyers are paid +exorbitant fees, and the names of the guilty and innocent are dragged +through the revolting slums of the low London press. It may be an +excellent method—but it does not tend to elevate a man in his own eyes, +and it certainly does not do much to restore his lost dignity. It has +one advantage—it enables the criminal parties to have their way without +further interference—the wronged husband is set free—left out in the +cold—and laughed at by those who wronged him. An admirable arrangement +no doubt—but one that would not suit me. _Chacun a son gout_! It would +be curious to know in matters of this kind whether divorced persons are +really satisfied when they have got their divorce—whether the amount of +red tape and parchment expended in their interest has done them good +and really relieved their feelings. Whether, for instance, the betrayed +husband is glad to have got rid of his unfaithful wife by throwing her +(with the full authority and permission of the law) into his rival’s +arms? I almost doubt it! I heard of a strange case in England once. A +man, moving in good society, having more than suspicions of his wife’s +fidelity, divorced her—the law pronounced her guilty. Some years +afterward, he being free, met her again, fell in love with her for the +second time and remarried her. She was (naturally!) delighted at his +making such a fool of himself—for henceforth, whatever she chose to do, +he could not reasonably complain without running the risk of being +laughed at. So now the number and variety of her lovers is notorious in +the particular social circle where she moves—while he, poor wretch, is +perforce tongue-tied, and dare not consider himself wronged. There is +no more pitiable object in the world than such a man—secretly derided +and jeered at by his fellows, he occupies an almost worse position than +that of a galley slave, while in his own esteem he has sunk so low that +he dare not, even in secret, try to fathom the depth to which he has +fallen. Some may assert that to be divorced is a social stigma. It used +to be so perhaps, but society has grown very lenient nowadays. Divorced +women hold their own in the best and most brilliant circles, and what +is strange is that they are very generally petted and pitied. + +“Poor thing!” says society, putting up its eyeglass to scan admiringly +the beautiful heroine of the latest aristocratic scandal—“she had such +a brute of a husband! No wonder she liked that _dear_ Lord So-and-So! +Very wrong of her, of course, but she is so young! She was married at +sixteen—quite a child!—could not have known her own mind!” + +The husband alluded to might have been the best and most chivalrous of +men—anything but a “brute”—yet he always figures as such somehow, and +gets no sympathy. And, by the way, it is rather a notable fact that all +the beautiful, famous, or notorious women were “married at sixteen.” +How is this managed? I can account for it in southern climates, where +girls are full-grown at sixteen and old at thirty—but I cannot +understand its being the case in England, where a “miss” of sixteen is +a most objectionable and awkward ingenue, without any of the “charms +wherewith to charm,” and whose conversation is always vapid and silly +to the point of absolute exhaustion on the part of those who are forced +to listen to it. These sixteen-year-old marriages are, however, the +only explanation frisky English matrons can give for having such +alarmingly prolific families of tall sons and daughters, and it is a +happy and convenient excuse—one that provides a satisfactory reason for +the excessive painting of their faces and dyeing of their hair. Being +young (as they so nobly assert), they wish to look even younger. _A la +bonne heure_! If men cannot see through the delicate fiction, they have +only themselves to blame. As for me, I believe in the old, old, +apparently foolish legend of Adam and Eve’s sin and the curse which +followed it—the curse on man is inevitably carried out to this day. God +said: + +“_Because_” (mark that _because_!) “thou hast hearkened unto the voice +of thy wife” (or thy _woman_, whoever she be), “and hast eaten of the +tree of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it” (the +tree or fruit being the evil suggested _first_ to man by woman), +“cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all +the days of thy life!” + +True enough! The curse is upon all who trust woman too far—the sorrow +upon all who are beguiled by her witching flatteries. Of what avail her +poor excuse in the ancient story—“The serpent beguiled me and I did +eat!” Had she never listened she could not have been beguiled. The +weakness, the treachery, was in herself, and is there still. Through +everything the bitterness of it runs. The woman tempts—the man +yields—and the gate of Eden—the Eden of a clear conscience and an +untrammeled soul, is shut upon them. Forever and ever the Divine +denunciation re-echoes like muttering thunder through the clouds of +passing generations; forever and ever we unconsciously carry it out in +our own lives to its full extent till the heart grows sick and the +brain weary, and we long for the end of it all, which is death—death, +that mysterious silence and darkness at which we sometimes shudder, +wondering vaguely—Can it be worse than life? + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +More than ten days had passed since Stella’s death. Her mother had +asked me to see to the arrangements for the child’s funeral, declaring +herself too ill to attend to anything. I was glad enough to accede to +her request, for I was thus able to avoid the Romani vault as a place +of interment. I could not bear to think of the little cherished body +being laid to molder in that terrific place where I had endured such +frantic horrors. Therefore, informing all whom it concerned that I +acted under the countess’s orders, I chose a pretty spot in the open +ground of the cemetery, close to the tree where I had heard the +nightingale singing in my hour of supreme misery and suffering. Here my +little one was laid tenderly to rest in warm mother-earth, and I had +sweet violets and primroses planted thickly all about the place, while +on the simple white marble cross that marked the spot I had the words +engraved— + +“_Una Stella svanità_,”[3] + + + [3] A vanished star. + + +adding the names of her parents and the date of her birth and death. +Since all this had been done I had visited my wife several times. She +was always at home to me, though of course, for decency’s sake, in +consequence of the child’s death, she denied herself to everybody else. +She looked lovelier than ever; the air of delicate languor she assumed +suited her as perfectly as its fragile whiteness suits a hot-house +lily. She knew the power of her own beauty most thoroughly, and +employed it in arduous efforts to fascinate me. But I had changed my +tactics; I paid very little heed to her, and never went to see her +unless she asked me very pressingly to do so. All compliments and +attentions from me to her had ceased. _She_ courted me, and I accepted +her courtship in unresponsive silence. I played the part of a taciturn +and reserved man, who preferred reading some ancient and abstruse +treatise on metaphysics to even the charms of her society—and often, +when she urgently desired my company, I would sit in her drawing-room, +turning over the leaves of a book and feigning to be absorbed in it, +while she, from her velvet fauteuil, would look at me with a pretty +pensiveness made up half of respect, half of gentle admiration—a +capitally acted facial expression, by the bye, and one that would do +credit to Sarah Bernhardt. We had both heard from Guido Ferrari; his +letter to my wife I of course did not see; she had, however, told me he +was “much shocked and distressed to hear of Stella’s death.” The +epistle he addressed to me had a different tale to tell. In it he +wrote—“_You_ can understand, my dear _conte_, that I am not much +grieved to hear of the death of Fabio’s child. Had she lived, I confess +her presence would have been a perpetual reminder to me of things I +prefer to forget. She never liked me—she might have been a great source +of trouble and inconvenience; so, on the whole, I am glad she is out of +the way.” + +Further on in the letter he informed me: + +“My uncle is at death’s door, but though that door stands wide open for +him, he cannot make up his mind to go in. His hesitation will not be +allowed to last, so the doctors tell me—at any rate I fervently hope I +shall not be kept waiting too long, otherwise I shall return to Naples +and sacrifice my heritage, for I am restless and unhappy away from +Nina, though I know she is safely guarded by your protecting care.” + +I read this particular paragraph to my wife, watching her closely as I +slowly enunciated the words contained in it. She listened, and a vivid +blush crimsoned her cheeks—a blush of indignation—and her brows +contracted in the vexed frown I knew so well. Her lips parted in a +half-sweet, half-chilly smile as she said, quietly: + +“I owe you my thanks, _conte_, for showing me to what extent _Signor_ +Ferrari’s impertinence may reach. I am surprised at his writing to you +in such a manner! The fact is, my late husband’s attachment for him was +so extreme that he now presumes upon a supposed right that he has over +me—he fancies I am really his sister, and that he can tyrannize, as +brothers sometimes do! I really regret I have been so patient with +him—I have allowed him too much liberty.” + +True enough! I thought and smiled bitterly. I was now in the heat of +the game—the moves must be played quickly—there was no more time for +hesitation or reflection. + +“I think, madam,” I said, deliberately, as I folded Guido’s letter and +replaced it in my pocket-book, “_Signor_ Ferrari ardently aspires to be +something more than a brother to you at no very distant date.” + +Oh, the splendid hypocrisy of women! No wonder they make such excellent +puppets on the theatrical stage—acting is their natural existence, sham +their breath of life! This creature showed no sign of embarrassment—she +raised her eyes frankly to mine in apparent surprise—then she gave a +little low laugh of disdain. + +“Indeed!” she said. “Then I fear _Signor_ Ferrari is doomed to have his +aspirations disappointed! My dear _conte_,” and here she rose and swept +softly across the room toward me with that graceful gliding step that +somehow always reminded me of the approach of a panther, “do you really +mean to tell me that his audacity has reached such a height that—really +it is _too_ absurd!—that he hopes to marry me?” And sinking into a +chair near mine she looked at me in calm inquiry. Lost in amazement at +the duplicity of the woman, I answered, briefly: + +“I believe so! He intimated as much to me.” She smiled scornfully. + +“I am too much honored! And did you, _conte_, think for a moment that +such an arrangement would meet with my approval?” + +I was silent. My brain was confused—I found it difficult to meet with +and confront such treachery as this. What! Had she no conscience? Were +all the passionate embraces, the lingering kisses, the vows of +fidelity, and words of caressing endearment as naught? Were they all +blotted from her memory as the writing on a slate is wiped out by a +sponge! Almost I pitied Guido! His fate, in her hands, was evidently to +be the same as mine had been; yet after all, why should I be surprised? +why should I pity? Had I not calculated it all? and was it not part of +my vengeance? + +“Tell me!” pursued my wife’s dulcet voice, breaking in upon my +reflections, “did you really imagine _Signor_ Ferrari’s suit might meet +with favor at my hands?” + +I must speak—the comedy had to be played out. So I answered, bluntly: + +“Madam, I certainly did think so. It seemed a natural conclusion to +draw from the course of events. He is young, undeniably handsome, and +on his uncle’s death will be fairly wealthy—what more could you desire? +besides, he was your husband’s friend—” + +“And for that reason I would never marry him!” she interrupted me with +a decided gesture. “Even if I liked him sufficiently, which I do not” +(oh, miserable traitress), “I would not run the risk of what the world +would say of such a marriage.” + +“How, madam? Pardon me if I fail to comprehend you.” + +“Do you not see, _conte_?” she went on in a coaxing voice, as of one +that begged to be believed, “if I were to marry one that was known to +have been my husband’s most intimate friend, society is so +wicked—people would be sure to say that there had been something +between us before my husband’s death—I _know_ they would, and I could +not endure such slander!” + +“Murder will out” they say! Here was guilt partially declaring itself. +A perfectly innocent woman could not foresee so readily the +condemnation of society. Not having the knowledge of evil she would be +unable to calculate the consequences. The overprudish woman betrays +herself; the fine lady who virtuously shudders at the sight of a nude +statue or picture, announces at once to all whom it may concern that +there is something far coarser in the suggestions of her own mind than +the work of art she condemns. Absolute purity has no fear of social +slander; it knows its own value, and that it must conquer in the end. +My wife—alas! that I should call her so—was innately vicious and false; +yet how particular she was in her efforts to secure the blind world’s +good opinion! Poor old world! how exquisitely it is fooled, and how +good-naturedly it accepts its fooling! But I had to answer the fair +liar, whose net of graceful deceptions was now spread to entrap me, +therefore I said with an effort of courtesy: + +“No one would dare to slander you, _contessa_, in my presence.” She +bowed and smiled prettily. “But,” I went on, “if it is true that you +have no liking for _Signor_ Ferrari—” + +“It is true!” she exclaimed with sudden emphasis. “He is rough and +ill-mannered; I have seen him the worse for wine, sometimes he is +insufferable! I am afraid of him!” + +I glanced at her quietly. Her face had paled, and her hands, which were +busied with some silken embroidery, trembled a little. + +“In that case,” I continued, slowly, “though I am sorry for Ferrari, +poor fellow! he will be immensely disappointed! I confess I am glad in +other respects, because—” + +“Because what?” she demanded, eagerly. + +“Why,” I answered, feigning a little embarrassment, “because there will +be more chance for other men who may seek to possess the hand of the +accomplished and beautiful _Contessa_ Romani.” + +She shook her fair head slightly. A transient expression of +disappointment passed over her features. + +“The ‘other men’ you speak of, _conte_, are not likely to indulge in +such an ambition,” she said, with a faint sigh; “more especially,” and +her eyes flashed indignantly, “since _Signor_ Ferrari thinks it his +duty to mount guard over me. I suppose he wishes to keep me for +himself—a most impertinent and foolish notion! There is only one thing +to do—I shall leave Naples before he returns.” + +“Why?” I asked. + +She flushed deeply. “I wish to avoid him,” she said, after a little +pause; “I tell you frankly, he has lately given me much cause for +annoyance. I will not be persecuted by his attentions; and as I before +said to you, I am often afraid of him. Under _your_ protection I know I +am quite safe, but I cannot always enjoy that—” + +The moment had come. I advanced a step or two. + +“Why not?” I said. “It rests entirely with yourself.” + +She started and half rose from her chair—her work dropped from her +hands. + +“What do you mean, _conte_?” she faltered, half timidly, yet anxiously; +“I do not understand!” + +“I mean what I say,” I continued in cool hard tones, and stooping, I +picked up her work and restored it to her; “but pray do not excite +yourself! You say you cannot always enjoy my protection; it seems to me +that you can—by becoming my wife.” + +“_Conte_!” she stammered. I held up my hand as a sign to her to be +silent. + +“I am perfectly aware,” I went on in business-like accents—“of the +disparity in years that exists between us. I have neither youth, +health, or good looks to recommend me to you. Trouble and bitter +disappointment have made me what I am. But I have wealth which is +almost inexhaustible—I have position and influence—and beside these +things”—and here I looked at her steadily, “I have an ardent desire to +do justice to your admirable qualities, and to give you all you +deserve. If you think you could be happy with me, speak frankly—I +cannot offer you the passionate adoration of a young man—my blood is +cold and my pulse is slow—but what I _can_ do, I will!” + +Having spoken thus, I was silent—gazing at her intently. She paled and +flushed alternately, and seemed for a moment lost in thought—then a +sudden smile of triumph curved her mouth—she raised her large lovely +eyes to mine, with a look of melting and wistful tenderness. She laid +her needle-work gently down, and came close up to me—her fragrant +breath fell warm on my cheek—her strange gaze fascinated me, and a sort +of tremor shook my nerves. + +“You mean,” she said, with a tender pathos in her voice—“that you are +willing to marry me, but that you do not really _love_ me?” + +And almost appealingly she laid her white hand on my shoulder—her +musical accents were low and thrilling—she sighed faintly. I was +silent—battling violently with the foolish desire that had sprung up +within me, the desire to draw this witching fragile thing to my heart, +to cover her lips with kisses—to startle her with the passion of my +embraces! But I forced the mad impulse down and stood mute. She watched +me—slowly she lifted her hand from where it had rested, and passed it +with a caressing touch through my hair. + +“No—you do not really _love_ me,” she whispered—“but I will tell you +the truth—_I love you_!” + +And she drew herself up to her full height and smiled again as she +uttered the lie. I knew it was a lie—but I seized the hand whose +caresses stung me, and held it hard, as I answered: + +“_You_ love _me_? No, no—I cannot believe it—it is impossible!” + +She laughed softly. “It is true though,” she said, emphatically, “the +very first time I saw you I knew I should love you! I never even liked +my husband, and though in some things you resemble him, you are quite +different in others—and superior to him in every way. Believe it or not +as you like, you are the only man in all the world I have ever loved!” + +And she made the assertion unblushingly, with an air of conscious pride +and virtue. Half stupefied at her manner, I asked: + +“Then you will be my wife?” + +“I will!” she answered—“and tell me—your name is Cesare, is it not?” + +“Yes,” I said, mechanically. + +“Then, _Cesare_” she murmured, tenderly, “I will _make_ you love me +very much!” + +And with a quick lithe movement of her supple figure, she nestled +softly against me, and turned up her radiant glowing face. + +“Kiss me!” she said, and waited. As one in a whirling dream, I stooped +and kissed those false sweet lips! I would have more readily placed my +mouth upon that of a poisonous serpent! Yet that kiss roused a sort of +fury in me. I slipped my arms round her half-reclining figure, drew her +gently backward to the couch she had left, and sat down beside her, +still embracing her. “You really love me?” I asked almost fiercely. + +“Yes!” + +“And I am the first man whom you have really cared for?” + +“You are!” + +“You never liked Ferrari?” + +“Never!” + +“Did he ever kiss you as I have done?” + +“Not once!” + +God! how the lies poured forth! a very cascade of them! and they were +all told with such an air of truth! I marveled at the ease and rapidity +with which they glided off this fair woman’s tongue, feeling somewhat +the same sense of stupid astonishment a rustic exhibits when he sees +for the first time a conjurer drawing yards and yards of many-colored +ribbon out of his mouth. I took up the little hand on which the +wedding-ring _I_ had placed there was still worn, and quietly slipped +upon the slim finger a circlet of magnificent rose-brilliants. I had +long carried this trinket about with me in expectation of the moment +that had now come. She started from my arms with an exclamation of +delight. + +“Oh, Cesare! how lovely! How good you are to me!” + +And leaning toward me, she kissed me, then resting against my shoulder, +she held up her hand to admire the flash of the diamonds in the light. +Suddenly she said, with some anxiety in her tone: + +“You will not tell Guido? not yet?” + +“No,” I answered; “I certainly will not tell him till he returns. +Otherwise he would leave Rome at once, and we do not want him back just +immediately, do we?” And I toyed with her rippling gold tresses half +mechanically, while I wondered within myself at the rapid success of my +scheme. She, in the meantime grew pensive and abstracted, and for a few +moments we were both silent. If she had known! I thought, if she could +have imagined that she was encircled by the arm of _her own husband_, +the man whom she had duped and wronged, the poor fool she had mocked at +and despised, whose life had been an obstruction in her path, whose +death she had been glad of! Would she have smiled so sweetly? Would she +have kissed me then? + + +She remained leaning against me in a reposeful attitude for some +moments, ever and anon turning the ring I had given her round and round +upon her finger. By and by she looked up. + +“Will you do me one favor?” she asked, coaxingly; “such a little +thing—a trifle! but it would give me such pleasure!” + +“What is it?” I asked; “it is you to command and I to obey!” + +“Well, to take off those dark glasses just for a minute! I want to see +your eyes.” + +I rose from the sofa quickly, and answered her with some coldness. + +“Ask anything you like but that, _mia bella_. The least light on my +eyes gives me the most acute pain—pain that irritates my nerves for +hours afterward. Be satisfied with me as I am for the present, though I +promise you your wish shall be gratified—” + +“When?” she interrupted me eagerly. I stooped and kissed her hand. + +“On the evening of our marriage day,” I answered. + +She blushed and turned away her head coquettishly. + +“Ah! that is so long to wait!” she said, half pettishly. + +“Not very long, I _hope_,” I observed, with meaning emphasis. “We are +now in November. May I ask you to make my suspense brief? to allow me +to fix our wedding for the second month of the new year?” + +“But my recent widowhood!—Stella’s death!”—she objected faintly, +pressing a perfumed handkerchief gently to her eyes. + +“In February your husband will have been dead nearly six months,” I +said, decisively; “it is quite a sufficient period of mourning for one +so young as yourself. And the loss of your child so increases the +loneliness of your situation, that it is natural, even necessary, that +you should secure a protector as soon as possible. Society will not +censure you, you may be sure—besides, _I_ shall know how to silence any +gossip that savors of impertinence.” + +A smile of conscious triumph parted her lips. + +“It shall be as you wish,” she said, demurely; “if you, who are known +in Naples as one who is perfectly indifferent to women like now to +figure as an impatient lover, I shall not object!” + +And she gave me a quick glance of mischievous amusement from under the +languid lids of her dreamy dark eyes. I saw it, but answered, stiffly: + +“_You_ are aware, _contessa_, and I am also aware that I am not a +‘lover’ according to the accepted type, but that I am impatient I +readily admit.” + +“And why?” she asked. + +“Because,” I replied, speaking slowly and emphatically; “I desire you +to be mine and mine only, to have you absolutely in my possession, and +to feel that no one can come between us, or interfere with my wishes +concerning you.” + +She laughed gayly. “_A la bonne heure_! You _are_ a lover without +knowing it! Your dignity will not allow you to believe that you are +actually in love with me, but in spite of yourself you _are_—you know +you are!” + +I stood before her in almost somber silence. At last I said: “If _you_ +say so, _contessa_, then it must be so. I have had no experience in +affairs of the heart, as they are called, and I find it difficult to +give a name to the feelings which possess me; I am only conscious of a +very strong wish to become the absolute master of your destiny.” And +involuntarily I clinched my hand as I spoke. She did not observe the +action, but she answered the words with a graceful bend of the head and +a smile. + +“I could not have a better fortune,” she said, “for I am sure my +destiny will be all brightness and beauty with _you_ to control and +guide it!” + +“It will be what you desire,” I half muttered; then with an abrupt +change of manner I said: “I will wish you goodnight, _contessa_. It +grows late, and my state of health compels me to retire to rest early.” + +She rose from her seat and gave me a compassionate look. + +“You are really a great sufferer then?” she inquired tenderly. “I am +sorry! But perhaps careful nursing will quite restore you. I shall be +so proud if I can help you to secure better health.” + +“Rest and happiness will no doubt do much for me,” I answered, “still I +warn you, _cara mia_, that in accepting me as your husband you take a +broken-down man, one whose whims are legion and whose chronic state of +invalidism may in time prove to be a burden on your young life. Are you +sure your decision is a wise one?” + +“Quite sure!” she replied firmly. “Do I not _love_ you! And you will +not always be ailing—you look so strong.” + +“I am strong to a certain extent,” I said, unconsciously straightening +myself as I stood. “I have plenty of muscle as far as that goes, but my +nervous system is completely disorganized. I—why, what is the matter? +Are you ill?” + +For she had turned deathly pale, and her eyes look startled and +terrified. Thinking she would faint, I extended my arms to save her +from falling, but she put them aside with an alarmed yet appealing +gesture. + +“It is nothing,” she murmured feebly, “a sudden giddiness—I thought—no +matter what! Tell me, are you not related to the Romani family? When +you drew yourself up just now you were so like—like FABIO! I fancied,” +and she shuddered, “that I saw his ghost!” + +I supported her to a chair near the window, which I threw open for air, +though the evening was cold. + +“You are fatigued and overexcited,” I said calmly, “your nature is too +imaginative. No; I am not related to the Romanis, though possibly I may +have some of their mannerisms. Many men are alike in these things. But +you must not give way to such fancies. Rest perfectly quiet, you will +soon recover.” + +And pouring out a glass of water I handed it to her. She sipped it +slowly, leaning back in the fauteuil where I had placed her, and in +silence we both looked out on the November night. There was a moon, but +she was veiled by driving clouds, which ever and anon swept asunder to +show her gleaming pallidly white, like the restless spirit of a +deceived and murdered lady. A rising wind moaned dismally among the +fading creepers and rustled the heavy branches of a giant cypress that +stood on the lawn like a huge spectral mourner draped in black, +apparently waiting for a forest funeral. Now and then a few big drops +of rain fell—sudden tears wrung as though by force from the black heart +of the sky. My wife shivered. + +“Shut the window!” she said, glancing back at me where I stood behind +her chair. “I am much better now. I was very silly. I do not know what +came over me, but for the moment I felt afraid—horribly afraid!—of +YOU!” + +“That was not complimentary to your future husband,” I remarked, +quietly, as I closed and fastened the window in obedience to her +request. “Should I not insist upon an apology?” + +She laughed nervously, and played with her ring of rose-brilliants. + +“It is not yet too late,” I resumed, “if on second thoughts you would +rather not marry me, you have only to say so. I shall accept my fate +with equanimity, and shall not blame you.” + +At this she seemed quite alarmed, and rising, laid her hand pleadingly +on my arm. + +“Surely you are not offended?” she said. “I was not really afraid of +you, you know—it was a stupid fancy—I cannot explain it. But I am quite +well now, and I am only _too_ happy. Why, I would not lose your love +for all the world—you _must_ believe me!” + +And she touched my hand caressingly with her lips. I withdrew it +gently, and stroked her hair with an almost parental tenderness; then I +said quietly: + +“If so, we are agreed, and all is well. Let me advise you to take a +long night’s rest: your nerves are weak and somewhat shaken. You wish +me to keep our engagement secret?” + +She thought for a moment, then answered musingly: + +“For the present perhaps it would be best. Though,” and she laughed, +“it would be delightful to see all the other women jealous and envious +of my good fortune! Still, if the news were told to any of our +friends—who knows?—it might accidentally reach Guido, and—” + +“I understand! You may rely upon my discretion. Good-night, +_contessa_!” + +“You may call me Nina,” she murmured, softly. + +“_Nina_, then,” I said, with some effort, as I lightly kissed her. +“Good-night!—may your dreams be of me!” She responded to this with a +gratified smile, and as I left the room she waved her hand in a parting +salute. My diamonds flashed on it like a small circlet of fire; the +light shed through the rose-colored lamps that hung from the painted +ceiling fell full on her exquisite loveliness, softening it into +ethereal radiance and delicacy, and when I strode forth from the house +into the night air heavy with the threatening gloom of coming tempest, +the picture of that fair face and form flitted before me like a +mirage—the glitter of her hair flashed on my vision like little snakes +of fire—her lithe hands seemed to beckon me—her lips had left a +scorching heat on mine. Distracted with the thoughts that tortured me, +I walked on and on for hours. The storm broke at last; the rain poured +in torrents, but heedless of wind and weather, I wandered on like a +forsaken fugitive. I seemed to be the only human being left alive in a +world of wrath and darkness. The rush and roar of the blast, the angry +noise of waves breaking hurriedly on the shore, the swirling showers +that fell on my defenseless head—all these things were unfelt, unheard +by me. There are times in a man’s life when mere physical feeling grows +numb under the pressure of intense mental agony—when the indignant +soul, smarting with the experience of some vile injustice, forgets for +a little its narrow and poor house of clay. Some such mood was upon me +then, I suppose, for in the very act of walking I was almost +unconscious of movement. An awful solitude seemed to encompass me—a +silence of my own creating. I fancied that even the angry elements +avoided me as I passed; that there was nothing, nothing in all the wide +universe but myself and a dark brooding horror called Vengeance. All +suddenly, the mists of my mind cleared; I moved no longer in a deaf, +blind stupor. A flash of lightning danced vividly before my eyes, +followed by a crashing peal of thunder. I saw to what end of a wild +journey I had come! Those heavy gates—that undefined stretch of +land—those ghostly glimmers of motionless white like spectral +mile-stones emerging from the gloom—I knew it all too well—it was the +cemetery! I looked through the iron palisades with the feverish +interest of one who watches the stage curtain rise on the last scene of +a tragedy. The lightning sprung once more across the sky, and showed me +for a brief second the distant marble outline of the Romani vault. +There the drama began—where would it end? Slowly, slowly there flitted +into my thoughts the face of my lost child—the young, serious face as +it had looked when the calm, preternaturally wise smile of Death had +rested upon it; and then a curious feeling of pity possessed me—pity +that her little body should be lying stiffly out there, not in the +vault, but under the wet sod, in such a relentless storm of rain. I +wanted to take her up from that cold couch—to carry her to some home +where there should be light and heat and laughter—to warm her to life +again within my arms; and as my brain played with these foolish +fancies, slow hot tears forced themselves into my eyes and scalded my +cheeks as they fell. These tears relieved me—gradually the tightly +strung tension of my nerves relaxed, and I recovered my usual composure +by degrees. Turning deliberately away from the beckoning grave-stones, +I walked back to the city through the thick of the storm, this time +with an assured step and a knowledge of where I was going. I did not +reach my hotel till past midnight, but this was not late for Naples, +and the curiosity of the fat French hall-porter was not so much excited +by the lateness of my arrival as by the disorder of my apparel. + +“Ah, Heaven!” he cried; “that monsieur the distinguished should have +been in such a storm all unprotected! Why did not monsieur send for his +carriage?” I cut short his exclamations by dropping five francs into +his ever-ready hand, assuring him that I had thoroughly enjoyed the +novelty of a walk in bad weather, whereat he smiled and congratulated +me as much as he had just commiserated me. On reaching my own rooms, my +valet Vincenzo stared at my dripping and disheveled condition, but was +discreetly mute. He quickly assisted me to change my wet clothes for a +warm dressing-gown, and then brought a glass of mulled port wine, but +performed these duties with such an air of unbroken gravity that I was +inwardly amused while I admired the fellow’s reticence. When I was +about to retire for the night, I tossed him a napoleon. He eyed it +musingly and inquiringly; then he asked: + +“Your excellency desires to purchase something?” + +“Your silence, my friend, that is all!” I replied, with a laugh. +“Understand me, Vincenzo, you will serve yourself and me best by +obeying implicitly, and asking no questions. Fortunate is the servant +who, accustomed to see his master drunk every night, swears to all +outsiders that he has never served so sober and discreet a gentleman! +That is your character, Vincenzo—keep to it, and we shall not quarrel.” +He smiled gravely, and pocketed my piece of gold without a word—like a +true Tuscan as he was. The sentimental servant, whose fine feelings +will not allow him to accept an extra “tip,” is, you may be sure, a +humbug. I never believed in such a one. Labor can always command its +price, and what so laborious in this age as to be honest? What so +difficult as to keep silence on other people’s affairs? Such herculean +tasks deserve payment! A valet who is generously bribed, in addition to +his wages, can be relied on; if underpaid, all heaven and earth will +not persuade him to hold his tongue. Left alone at last in my sleeping +chamber, I remained for some time before actually going to bed. I took +off the black spectacles which served me so well, and looked at myself +in the mirror with some curiosity. I never permitted Vincenzo to enter +my bedroom at night, or before I was dressed in the morning, lest he +should surprise me without these appendages which were my chief +disguise, for in such a case I fancy even his studied composure would +have given way. For, disburdened of my smoke-colored glasses, I +appeared what I was, young and vigorous in spite of my white beard and +hair. My face, which had been worn and haggard at first, had filled up +and was healthily colored; while my eyes, the spokesmen of my thoughts, +were bright with the clearness and fire of constitutional strength and +physical well-being. I wondered, as I stared moodily at my own +reflection, how it was that I did not look ill. The mental suffering I +continually underwent, mingled though it was with a certain gloomy +satisfaction, should surely have left more indelible traces on my +countenance. Yet it has been proved that it is not always the +hollow-eyed, sallow and despairing-looking persons who are really in +sharp trouble—these are more often bilious or dyspeptic, and know no +more serious grief than the incapacity to gratify their appetites for +the high-flavored delicacies of the table. A man may be endowed with +superb physique, and a constitution that is in perfect working +order—his face and outward appearance may denote the most harmonious +action of the life principle within him—and yet his nerves may be so +finely strung that he may be capable of suffering acuter agony in his +mind than if his body were to be hacked slowly to pieces by jagged +knives, and it will leave no mark on his features while _youth_ still +has hold on his flesh and blood. + +So it was with me; and I wondered what _she_—Nina—would say, could she +behold me, unmasked as it were, in the solitude of my own room. This +thought roused another in my mind—another at which I smiled grimly. I +was an engaged man! Engaged to marry my own wife; betrothed for the +second time to the same woman! What a difference between this and my +first courtship of her! _Then_, who so great a fool as I—who so +adoring, passionate and devoted! _Now_, who so darkly instructed, who +so cold, so absolutely pitiless! The climax to my revenge was nearly +reached. I looked through the coming days as one looks through a +telescope out to sea, and I could watch the end approaching like a +phantom ship—neither slow nor fast, but steadily and silently. I was +able to calculate each event in its due order, and I knew there was no +fear of failure in the final result. Nature itself—the sun, moon and +stars, the sweeping circle of the seasons—all seem to aid in the cause +of rightful justice. Man’s duplicity may succeed in withholding a truth +for a time, but in the end it must win its way. Once resolve, and then +determine to carry out that resolve, and it is astonishing to note with +what marvelous ease everything makes way for you, provided there be no +innate weakness in yourself which causes you to hesitate. I had +formerly been weak, I knew, very weak—else I had never been fooled by +wife and friend; but now, now my strength was as the strength of a +demon working within me. My hand had already closed with an iron grip +on two false unworthy lives, and had I not sworn “never to relax, never +to relent” till my vengeance was accomplished? I had! Heaven and earth +had borne witness to my vow, and now held me to its stern fulfillment. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +Winter, or what the Neapolitans accept as winter, came on apace. For +some time past the air had been full of that mild chill and vaporous +murkiness, which, not cold enough to be bracing, sensibly lowered the +system and depressed the spirits. The careless and jovial temperament +of the people, however, was never much affected by the change of +seasons—they drank more hot coffee than usual, and kept their feet warm +by dancing from midnight up to the small hours of the morning. The +cholera was a thing of the past—the cleansing of the city, the sanitary +precautions, which had been so much talked about and recommended in +order to prevent another outbreak in the coming year, were all +forgotten and neglected, and the laughing populace tripped lightly over +the graves of its dead hundreds as though they were odorous banks of +flowers. “_Oggi_! _Oggi_!” is their cry—to-day, to-day! Never mind what +happened yesterday, or what will happen to-morrow—leave that to _i +signori Santi and la Signora Madonna_! And after all there is a grain +of reason in their folly, for many of the bitterest miseries of man +grow out of a fatal habit of looking back or looking forward, and of +never living actually in the full-faced present. Then, too, Carnival +was approaching; Carnival, which, though denuded of many of its best +and brightest features, still reels through the streets of Naples with +something of the picturesque madness that in old times used to +accompany its prototype, the Feast of Bacchus. I was reminded of this +coming festivity on the morning of the 21st of December, when I noted +some unusual attempts on the part of Vincenzo to control his +countenance, that often, in spite of his efforts, broadened into a +sunny smile as though some humorous thought had flitted across his +mind. He betrayed himself at last by asking me demurely whether I +purposed taking any part in the carnival? I smiled and shook my head. +Vincenzo looked dubious, but finally summoned up courage to say: + +“Will the _eccellenza_ permit—” + +“You to make a fool of yourself?” I interrupted, “by all means! Take +your own time, enjoy the fun as much as you please; I promise you I +will ask no account of your actions.” + +He was much gratified, and attended to me with even more +punctiliousness than usual. As he prepared my breakfast I asked him: + +“By the way, when does the carnival begin?” + +“On the 26th,” he answered, with a slight air of surprise. “Surely the +_eccellenza_ knows.” + +“Yes, yes,” I said, impatiently. “I know, but I had forgotten. I am not +young enough to keep the dates of these follies in my memory. What +letters have you there?” + +He handed me a small tray full of different shaped missives, some from +fair ladies who “desired the honor of my company,” others from +tradesmen, “praying the honor of my custom,” all from male and female +toadies as usual, I thought contemptuously, as I turned them over, when +my glance was suddenly arrested by one special envelope, square in form +and heavily bordered with black, on which the postmark “Roma” stood out +distinctly. “At last!” I thought, and breathed heavily. I turned to my +valet, who was giving the final polish to my breakfast cup and saucer: + +“You may leave the room, Vincenzo,” I said, briefly. He bowed, the door +opened and shut noiselessly—he was gone. + +Slowly I broke the seal of that fateful letter; a letter from Guido +Ferrari, a warrant self-signed, for his own execution! + +“MY BEST FRIEND,” so it ran, “you will guess by the ‘black flag’ on my +envelope the good news I have to give you. My uncle is dead _at last_, +thank God! and I am left his sole heir unconditionally. I am free, and +shall of course return to Naples immediately, that is, as soon as some +trifling law business has been got through with the executors. I +believe I can arrange my return for the 23d or 24th instant, but will +telegraph to you the exact day, and, if possible, the exact hour. Will +you oblige me by _not_ announcing this to the countess, as I wish to +take her by surprise. Poor girl! she will have often felt lonely, I am +sure, and I want to see the first beautiful look of rapture and +astonishment in her eyes! You can understand this, can you not, +_amico_, or does it seem to you a folly? At any rate, I should consider +it very churlish were I to keep _you_ in ignorance of my coming home, +and I know you will humor me in my desire that the news should be +withheld from Nina. How delighted she will be, and what a joyous +carnival we will have this winter! I do not think I ever felt more +light of heart; perhaps it is because I am so much heavier in pocket. I +am glad of the money, as it places me on a more equal footing with +_her_, and though all her letters to me have been full of the utmost +tenderness, still I feel she will think even better of me, now I am in +a position somewhat nearer to her own. As for you, my good _conte_, on +my return I shall make it my first duty to pay back with interest the +rather large debt I owe to you—thus my honor will be satisfied, and +you, I am sure, will have a better opinion of + + +“Yours to command, +“GUIDO FERRARI.” + + +This was the letter, and I read it over and over again. Some of the +words burned themselves into my memory as though they were living +flame. “All her letters to me have been full of the utmost tenderness!” +Oh, miserable-dupe! fooled, fooled to the acme of folly even as I had +been! _She_, the arch-traitress, to prevent his entertaining the +slightest possible suspicion or jealousy of her actions during his +absence, had written him, no doubt, epistles sweet as honey brimming +over with endearing epithets and vows of constancy, even while she knew +she had accepted me as her husband—me—good God! What a devil’s dance of +death it was! + +“On my return I shall make it my first duty to pay back with interest +the rather large debt I owe you” (rather large indeed, Guido, so large +that you have no idea of its extent!), “thus my honor will be +satisfied” (and so will mine in part), “and you, I am sure, will have a +better opinion of yours to command.” Perhaps I shall, Guido—mine to +command as you are—perhaps when all my commands are fulfilled to the +bitter end, I may think more kindly of you. But not till then! In the +meantime—I thought earnestly for a few minutes, and then sitting down, +I penned the following note. + +“Caro _amico_! Delighted to hear of your good fortune, and still more +enchanted to know you will soon enliven us all with your presence! I +admire your little plan of surprising the countess, and will respect +your wishes in the matter. But you, on your part, must do me a trifling +favor: we have been very dull since you left, and I purpose to start +the gayeties afresh by giving a dinner on the 24th (Christmas Eve), in +honor of your return—an epicurean repast for gentlemen only. Therefore, +I ask you to oblige me by fixing your return for that day, and on +arrival at Naples, come straight to me at this hotel, that I may have +the satisfaction of being the first to welcome you as you deserve. +Telegraph your answer and the hour of your train; and my carriage shall +meet you at the station. The dinner-hour can be fixed to suit your +convenience of course; what say you to eight o’clock? After dinner you +can betake yourself to the Villa Romani when you please—your enjoyment +of the lady’s surprise and rapture will be the more keen for having +been slightly delayed. Trusting you will not refuse to gratify an old +man’s whim, I am, + + +“Yours for the time being, +“CESARE OLIVA.” + + +This epistle finished and written in the crabbed disguised penmanship +it was part of my business to effect, I folded, sealed and addressed +it, and summoning Vincenzo, bade him post it immediately. As soon as he +had gone on this errand, I sat down to my as yet untasted breakfast and +made some effort to eat as usual. But my thoughts were too active for +appetite—I counted on my fingers the days—there were four, only four, +between me and—what? One thing was certain—I must see my wife, or +rather I should say my _betrothed_—I must see her that very day. I then +began to consider how my courtship had progressed since that evening +when she had declared she loved me. I had seen her frequently, though +not daily—her behavior had been by turns affectionate, adoring, timid, +gracious and once or twice passionately loving, though the latter +impulse in her I had always coldly checked. For though I could bear a +great deal, any outburst of sham sentiment on her part sickened and +filled me with such utter loathing that often when she was more than +usually tender I dreaded lest my pent-up wrath should break loose and +impel me to kill her swiftly and suddenly as one crushes the head of a +poisonous adder—an all-too-merciful death for such as she. I preferred +to woo her by gifts alone—and her hands were always ready to take +whatever I or others chose to offer her. From a rare jewel to a common +flower she never refused anything—her strongest passions were vanity +and avarice. Sparkling gems from the pilfered store of Carmelo +Neri—trinkets which I had especially designed for her—lace, rich +embroideries, bouquets of hot-house blossoms, gilded boxes of costly +sweets—nothing came amiss to her—she accepted all with a certain +covetous glee which she was at no pains to hide from me—nay, she made +it rather evident that she expected such things as her right. + +And after all, what did it matter to me—I thought—of what value was +anything I possessed save to assist me in carrying out the punishment I +had destined for her? I studied her nature with critical coldness—I saw +its inbred vice artfully concealed beneath the affectation of +virtue—every day she sunk lower in my eyes, and I wondered vaguely how +I could ever have loved so coarse and common a thing! Lovely she +certainly was—lovely too are many of the wretched outcasts who sell +themselves in the streets for gold, and who in spite of their criminal +trade are less vile than such a woman as the one I had wedded. Mere +beauty of face and form can be bought as easily as one buys a +flower—but the loyal heart, the pure soul, the lofty intelligence which +can make of woman an angel—these are unpurchasable ware, and seldom +fall to the lot of man. For beauty, though so perishable, is a snare to +us all—it maddens our blood in spite of ourselves—we men are made so. +How was it that I—even I, who now loathed the creature I had once +loved—could not look upon her physical loveliness without a foolish +thrill of passion awaking within me—passion that had something of the +murderous in it—admiration that was almost brutal—feelings which I +could not control though I despised myself for them while they lasted! +There is a weak point in the strongest of us, and wicked women know +well where we are most vulnerable. One dainty pin-prick well-aimed—and +all the barriers of caution and reserve are broken down—we are ready to +fling away our souls for a smile or a kiss. Surely at the last day when +we are judged—and may be condemned—we can make our last excuse to the +Creator in the words of the first misguided man: + +“The woman whom thou gavest to be with me—she tempted me, and I did +eat!” + +I lost no time that day in going to the Villa Romani. I drove there in +my carriage, taking with me the usual love-offering in the shape of a +large gilded osier-basket full of white violets. Their delicious odor +reminded me of that May morning when Stella was born—and then quickly +there flashed into my mind the words spoken by Guido Ferrari at the +time. How mysterious they had seemed to me then—how clear their meaning +now! On arriving at the villa I found my fiance in her own boudoir, +attired in morning deshabille, if a trailing robe of white cashmere +trimmed with Mechlin lace and swan’s-down can be considered deshabille. +Her rich hair hung loosely on her shoulders, and she was seated in a +velvet easy-chair before a small sparkling wood fire, reading. Her +attitude was one of luxurious ease and grace, but she sprung up as soon +as her maid announced me, and came forward with her usual charming air +of welcome, in which there was something imperial, as of a sovereign +who receives a subject. I presented the flowers I had brought, with a +few words of studied and formal compliment, uttered for the benefit of +the servant who lingered in the room—then I added in a lower tone: + +“I have news of importance—can I speak to you privately?” + +She smiled assent, and motioning me by a graceful gesture of her hand +to take a seat, she at once dismissed her maid. As soon as the door had +closed behind the girl I spoke at once and to the point, scarcely +waiting till my wife resumed her easy-chair before the fire. + +“I have had a letter from _Signor_ Ferrari.” + +She started slightly, but said nothing, she merely bowed her head and +raised her delicately arched eyebrows with a look of inquiry as of one +who should say, “Indeed! in what way does this concern me?” I watched +her narrowly, and then continued, “He is coming back in two or three +days—he says he is sure,” and here I smiled, “that you will be +delighted to see him.” + +This time she half rose from her seat, her lips moved as though she +would speak, but she remained silent, and sinking back again among her +violet velvet cushions, she grew very pale. + +“If,” I went on, “you have any reason to think that he may make himself +disagreeable to you when he knows of your engagement to me, out of +disappointed ambition, conceit, or self-interest (for of course _you_ +never encouraged him), I should advise you to go on a visit to some +friends for a few days, till his irritation shall have somewhat passed. +What say you to such a plan?” + +She appeared to meditate for a few moments—then raising her lovely eyes +with a wistful and submissive look, she replied: + +“It shall be as you wish, Cesare! _Signor_ Ferrari is certainly rash +and hot-tempered, he might be presumptuous enough to—But you do not +think of yourself in the matter! Surely _you_ also are in danger of +being insulted by him when he knows all?” + +“I shall be on my guard!” I said, quietly. “Besides, I can easily +pardon any outburst of temper on his part—it will be perfectly natural, +I think! To lose all hope of ever winning such a love as yours must +needs be a sore trial to one of his hot blood and fiery impulses. Poor +fellow!” and I sighed and shook my head with benevolent gentleness. “By +the way, he tells me he has had letters from you?” + +I put this question carelessly, but it took her by surprise. She caught +her breath hard and looked at me sharply, with an alarmed expression. +Seeing that my face was perfectly impassive, she recovered her +composure instantly, and answered: + +“Oh, yes! I have been compelled to write to him once or twice on +matters of business connected with my late husband’s affairs. Most +unfortunately, Fabio made him one of the trustees of his fortune in +case of his death—it is exceedingly awkward for me that he should +occupy that position—it appears to give him some authority over my +actions. In reality he has none. He has no doubt exaggerated the number +of times I have written to him? it would be like his impertinence to do +so.” + +Though this last remark was addressed to me almost as a question, I let +it pass without response. I reverted to my original theme. + +“What think you, then?” I said. “Will you remain here or will you +absent yourself for a few days?” + +She rose from her chair and approaching me, knelt down at my side, +clasping her two little hands round my arm. “With your permission,” she +returned, softly, “I will go to the convent where I was educated. It is +some eight or ten miles distant from here, and I think” (here she +counterfeited the most wonderful expression of ingenuous sweetness and +piety)—“I think I should like to make a ‘RETREAT’—that is, devote some +time solely to the duties of religion before I enter upon a second +marriage. The dear nuns would be so glad to see me—and I am sure you +will not object? It will be a good preparation for my future.” + +I seized her caressing hands and held them hard, while I looked upon +her kneeling there like the white-robed figure of a praying saint. + +“It will indeed!” I said in a harsh voice. “The best of all possible +preparations! We none of us know what may happen—we cannot tell whether +life or death awaits us—it is wise to prepare for either by words of +penitence and devotion! I admire this beautiful spirit in you, +_carina_! Go to the convent by all means! I shall find you there and +will visit you when the wrath and bitterness of our friend Ferrari have +been smoothed into silence and resignation. Yes—go to the convent, +among the good and pious nuns—and when you pray for yourself, pray for +the peace of your dead husband’s soul—and—for me! Such prayers, +unselfish and earnest, uttered by pure lips like yours, fly swiftly to +heaven! And as for young Guido—have no fear—I promise you he shall +offend you no more!” + +“Ah, you do not know him!” she murmured, lightly kissing my hands that +still held hers; “I fear he will give you a great deal of trouble.” + +“I shall at any rate know how to silence him,” I said, releasing her as +I spoke, and watching her as she rose from her kneeling position and +stood before me, supple and delicate as a white iris swaying in the +wind. “You never gave him reason to hope—therefore he has no cause of +complaint.” + +“True!” she replied, readily, with an untroubled smile. “But I am such +a nervous creature! I am always imagining evils that never happen. And +now, Cesare, when do you wish me to go to the convent?” + +I shrugged my shoulders with an air of indifference. + +“Your submission to my will, _mia bella_” I said, coldly, “is +altogether charming, and flatters me much, but I am not your master—not +yet! Pray choose your own time, and suit your departure to your own +pleasure.” + +“Then,” she replied, with an air of decision, “I will go today. The +sooner the better—for some instinct tells me that Guido will play us a +trick and return before we expect him. Yes—I will go to-day.” + +I rose to take my leave. “Then you will require leisure to make your +preparations,” I said, with ceremonious politeness. “I assure you I +approve your resolve. If you inform the superioress of the convent that +I am your betrothed husband, I suppose I shall be permitted to see you +when I call?” + +“Oh, certainly!” she replied. “The dear nuns will do anything for me. +Their order is one of perpetual adoration, and their rules are very +strict, but they do not apply them to their old pupils, and I am one of +their great favorites.” + +“Naturally!” I observed. “And will you also join in the service of +perpetual adoration?” + +“Oh, yes!” + +“It needs an untainted soul like yours,” I said, with a satirical +smile, which she did not see, “to pray before the unveiled Host without +being conscience-smitten! I envy you your privilege. _I_ could not do +it—but _you_ are probably nearer to the angels than we know. And so you +will pray for me?” + +She raised her eyes with devout gentleness. “I will indeed!” + +“I thank you!”—and I choked back the bitter contempt and disgust I had +for her hypocrisy as I spoke—“I thank you heartily—most heartily! +_Addio_!” + +She came or rather floated to my side, her white garments trailing +about her and the gold of her hair glittering in the mingled glow of +the firelight and the wintery sunbeams that shone through the window. +She looked up—a witch-like languor lay in her eyes—her red lips pouted. + +“Not one kiss before you go?” she said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +FOR a moment I lost my self-possession. I scarcely remember now what I +did. I know I clasped her almost roughly in my arms—I know that I +kissed her passionately on lips, throat and brow—and that in the fervor +of my embraces, the thought of what manner of vile thing she was came +swiftly upon me, causing me to release her with such suddenness that +she caught at the back of a chair to save herself from falling. Her +breath came and went in little quick gasps of excitement, her face was +flushed—she looked astonished, yet certainly not displeased. No, SHE +was not angry, but I was—thoroughly annoyed—bitterly vexed with myself, +for being such a fool. + +“Forgive me,” I muttered. “I forgot—I—” + +A little smile stole round the corners of her mouth. + +“You are fully pardoned!” she said, in a low voice, “you need not +apologize.” + +Her smile deepened; suddenly she broke into a rippling laugh, sweet and +silvery as a bell—a laugh that went through me like a knife. Was it not +the self-same laughter that had pierced my brain the night I witnessed +her amorous interview with Guido in the avenue? Had not the cruel +mockery of it nearly driven me mad? I could not endure it—I sprung to +her side—she ceased laughing and looked at me in wide-eyed wonderment. + +“Listen!” I said, in an impatient, almost fierce tone. “Do not laugh +like that! It jars my nerves—it—hurts me! I will tell you why. +Once—long ago—in my youth—I loved a woman. She was _not_ like +you—no—for she was false! False to the very heart’s core—false in every +word she uttered. You understand me? she resembled you in +nothing—nothing! But she used to laugh at me—she trampled on my life +and spoiled it—she broke my heart! It is all past now, I never think of +her, only your laughter reminded me—there!” And I took her hands and +kissed them. “I have told you the story of my early folly—forget it and +forgive me! It is time you prepared for your journey, is it not? If I +can be of service to you, command me—you know where to send for me. +Good-bye! and the peace of a pure conscience be with you!” + +And I laid my burning hand on her head weighted with its clustering +curls of gold. _She_ thought this gesture was one of blessing. _I_ +thought—God only knows what I thought—yet surely if curses can be so +bestowed, my curse crowned her at that moment! I dared not trust myself +longer in her presence, and without another word or look I left her and +hurried from the house. I knew she was startled and at the same time +gratified to think she could thus have moved me to any display of +emotion—but I would not even turn my head to catch her parting glance. +I could not—I was sick of myself and of her. I was literally torn +asunder between love and hatred—love born basely of material feeling +alone—hatred, the offspring of a deeply injured spirit for whose wrong +there could scarce be found sufficient remedy. Once out of the +influence of her bewildering beauty, my mind grew calmer—and the drive +back to the hotel in my carriage through the sweet dullness of the +December air quieted the feverish excitement of my blood and restored +me to myself. It was a most lovely day—bright and fresh, with the savor +of the sea in the wind. The waters of the bay were of a steel-like blue +shading into deep olive-green, and a soft haze lingered about the +shores of Amalfi like a veil of gray, shot through with silver and +gold. Down the streets went women in picturesque garb carrying on their +heads baskets full to the brim of purple violets that scented the air +as they passed—children ragged and dirty ran along, pushing the +luxuriant tangle of their dark locks away from their beautiful wild +antelope eyes, and, holding up bunches of roses and narcissi with +smiles as brilliant as the very sunshine, implored the passengers to +buy “for the sake of the little Gesu who was soon coming!” + +Bells clashed and clanged from the churches in honor of San Tommaso, +whose festival it was, and the city had that aspect of gala gayety +about it, which is in truth common enough to all continental towns, but +which seems strange to the solemn Londoner who sees so much apparently +reasonless merriment for the first time. He, accustomed to have his +reluctant laughter pumped out of him by an occasional visit to the +theater where he can witness the “original,” English translation of a +French farce, cannot understand _why_ these foolish Neapolitans should +laugh and sing and shout in the manner they do, merely because they are +glad to be alive. And after much dubious consideration, he decides +within himself that they are all rascals—the scum of the earth—and that +he and he only is the true representative of man at his best—the model +of civilized respectability. And a mournful spectacle he thus seems to +the eyes of us “base” foreigners—in our hearts we are sorry for him and +believe that if he could manage to shake off the fetters of his insular +customs and prejudices, he might almost succeed in enjoying life as +much as we do! + +As I drove along I saw a small crowd at one of the street corners—a +gesticulating, laughing crowd, listening to an “_improvisatore_” or +wandering poet—a plump-looking fellow who had all the rhymes of Italy +at his fingers’ ends, and who could make a poem on any subject or an +acrostic on any name, with perfect facility. I stopped my carriage to +listen to his extemporized verses, many of which were really admirable, +and tossed him three francs. He threw them up in the air, one after the +other, and caught them, as they fell, in his mouth, appearing to have +swallowed them all—then with an inimitable grimace, he pulled off his +tattered cap and said: + +“_Ancora affamato, excellenza_!” (I am still hungry!) amid the renewed +laughter of his easily amused audience. A merry poet he was and without +conceit—and his good humor merited the extra silver pieces I gave him, +which caused him, to wish me—“_Buon appetito e un sorriso della +Madonna_!”—(a good appetite to you and a smile of the Madonna!) Imagine +the Lord Laureate of England standing at the corner of Regent Street +swallowing half-pence for his rhymes! Yet some of the quaint conceits +strung together by such a fellow as this _improvisatore_ might furnish +material for many of the so called “poets” whose names are mysteriously +honored in Britain. + +Further on I came upon a group of red-capped coral fishers assembled +round a portable stove whereon roasting chestnuts cracked their glossy +sides and emitted savory odors. The men were singing gayly to the +thrumming of an old guitar, and the song they sung was familiar to me. +Stay! where had I heard it?—let me listen! + + “Sciore limone +Le voglio far morì de passione + Zompa llarì llirà!”[4] + + + [4] Neapolitan dialect. + + +Ha! I remembered now. When I had crawled out of the vault through the +brigand’s hole of entrance—when my heart had bounded with glad +anticipations never to be realized—when I had believed in the worth of +love and friendship—when I had seen the morning sun glittering on the +sea, and had thought—poor fool!—that his long beams were like so many +golden flags of joy hung up in heaven to symbolize the happiness of my +release from death and my restoration to liberty—then—then I had heard +a sailor’s voice in the distance singing that “_ritornello_,” and I had +fondly imagined its impassioned lines were all for me! Hateful +music—most bitter sweetness! I could have put my hands up to my ears to +shut out the sound of it now that I thought of the time when I had +heard it last! For then I had possessed a heart—a throbbing, +passionate, sensitive thing—alive to every emotion of tenderness and +affection—now that heart was dead and cold as a stone. Only its corpse +went with me everywhere, weighing me down with itself to the strange +grave it occupied, a grave wherein were also buried so many dear +delusions—such plaintive regrets, such pleading memories, that surely +it was no wonder their small ghosts arose and haunted me, saying, “Wilt +thou not weep for this lost sweetness?” “Wilt thou not relent before +such a remembrance?” or “Hast thou no desire for that past delight?” +But to all such inward temptations my soul was deaf and inexorable; +justice—stern, immutable justice was what I sought and what I meant to +have. + +May be you find it hard to understand the possibility of Scheming and +carrying out so prolonged a vengeance as mine? If you that read these +pages are English, I know it will seem to you well-nigh +incomprehensible. The temperate blood of the northerner, combined with +his open, unsuspicious nature, has, I admit, the advantage over us in +matters of personal injury. An Englishman, so I hear, is incapable of +nourishing a long and deadly resentment, even against an unfaithful +wife—he is too indifferent, he thinks it not worth his while. But we +Neapolitans, we can carry a “vendetta” through a life-time—ay, through +generation after generation! This is bad, you say—immoral, unchristian. +No doubt! We are more than half pagans at heart; we are as our country +and our traditions have made us. It will need another visitation of +Christ before we shall learn how to forgive those that despitefully use +us. Such a doctrine seems to us a mere play upon words—a weak maxim +only fit for children and priests. Besides, did Christ himself forgive +Judas? The gospel does not say so! + +When I reached my own apartments at the hotel I felt worn out and +fagged. I resolved to rest and receive no visitors that day. While +giving my orders to Vincenzo a thought occurred to me. I went to a +cabinet in the room and unlocked a secret drawer. In it lay a strong +leather case. I lifted this, and bade Vincenzo unstrap and open it. He +did so, nor showed the least sign of surprise when a pair of richly +ornamented pistols was displayed to his view. + +“Good weapons?” I remarked, in a casual manner. + +My valet took each one out of the case, and examined them both +critically. + +“They need cleaning, _eccellenza_.” + +“Good!” I said, briefly. “Then clean them and put them in good order. I +may require to use them.” + +The imperturbable Vincenzo bowed, and taking the weapons, prepared to +leave the room. + +“Stay!” + +He turned. I looked at him steadily. + +“I believe you are a faithful fellow, Vincenzo,” I said. + +He met my glance frankly. + +“The day may come,” I went on, quietly, “when I shall perhaps put your +fidelity to the proof.” + +The dark Tuscan eyes, keen and clear the moment before, flashed +brightly and then grew humid. + +“_Eccellenza_, you have only to command! I was a soldier once—I know +what duty means. But there is a better service—gratitude. I am your +poor servant, but you have won my heart. I would give my life for you +should you desire it!” + +He paused, half ashamed of the emotion that threatened to break through +his mask of impassibility, bowed again and would have left me, but that +I called him back and held out my hand. + +“Shake hands, _amico_” I said, simply. + +He caught it with an astonished yet pleased look—and stooping, kissed +it before I could prevent him, and this time literally scrambled out of +my presence with an entire oblivion of his usual dignity. Left alone, I +considered this behavior of his with half-pained surprise. This poor +fellow loved me it was evident—why, I knew not. I had done no more for +him than any other master might have done for a good servant. I had +often spoken to him with impatience, even harshness; and yet I had “won +his heart”—so he said. Why should he care for me? why should my poor +old butler Giacomo cherish me so devotedly in his memory; why should my +very dog still love and obey me, when my nearest and dearest, my wife +and my friend, had so gladly forsaken me, and were so eager to forget +me! Perhaps fidelity was not the fashion now among educated persons? +Perhaps it was a worn-out virtue, left to the _bas-peuple_—to the +vulgar—and to animals? Progress might have attained this result—no +doubt it had. + +I sighed wearily, and threw myself down in an arm-chair near the +window, and watched the white-sailed boats skimming like flecks of +silver across the blue-green water. The tinkling of a tambourine by and +by attracted my wandering attention, and looking into the street just +below my balcony I saw a young girl dancing. She was lovely to look at, +and she danced with exquisite grace as well as modesty, but the beauty +of her face was not so much caused by perfection of feature or outline +as by a certain wistful expression that had in it something of nobility +and pride. I watched her; at the conclusion of her dance she held up +her tambourine with a bright but appealing smile. Silver and copper +were freely flung to her, I contributing my quota to the amount; but +all she received she at once emptied into a leathern bag which was +carried by a young and handsome man who accompanied her, and who, alas! +was totally blind. I knew the couple well, and had often seen them; +their history was pathetic enough. The girl had been betrothed to the +young fellow when he had occupied a fairly good position as a worker in +silver filigree jewelry. His eyesight, long painfully strained over his +delicate labors, suddenly failed him—he lost his place, of course, and +was utterly without resources. He offered to release his fiance from +her engagement, but she would not take her freedom—she insisted on +marrying him at once. She had her way, and devoted herself to him soul +and body—danced in the streets and sung to gain a living for herself +and him; taught him to weave baskets so that he might not feel himself +entirely dependent on her, and she sold these baskets for him so +successfully that he was gradually making quite a little trade of them. +Poor child! for she was not much more than a child—what a bright face +she had!—glorified by the self-denial and courage of her everyday life. +No wonder she had won the sympathy of the warmhearted and impulsive +Neapolitans—they looked upon her as a heroine of romance; and as she +passed through the streets, leading her blind husband tenderly by the +hand, there was not a creature in the city, even among the most +abandoned and vile characters, who would have dared to offer her the +least insult, or who would have ventured to address her otherwise than +respectfully. She was good, innocent, and true; how was it, I wondered +dreamily, that I could not have won a woman’s heart like hers? Were the +poor alone to possess all the old world virtues—honor and faith, love +and loyalty? Was there something in a life of luxury that sapped virtue +at its root? Evidently early training had little to do with after +results, for had not my wife been brought up among an order of nuns +renowned for simplicity and sanctity; had not her own father declared +her to be “as pure as a flower on the altar of the Madonna;” and yet +the evil had been in her, and nothing had eradicated it; for even +religion, with her, was a mere graceful sham, a kind of theatrical +effect used to tone down her natural hypocrisy. My own thoughts began +to harass and weary me. I took up a volume of philosophic essays and +began to read, in an endeavor to distract my mind from dwelling on the +one perpetual theme. The day wore on slowly enough; and I was glad when +the evening closed in, and when Vincenzo, remarking that the night was +chilly, kindled a pleasant wood-fire in my room, and lighted the lamps. +A little while before my dinner was served he handed me a letter +stating that it had just been brought by the Countess Romani’s +coachman. It bore my own seal and motto. I opened it; it was dated, +“_La Santissima Annunziata_,” and ran as follows: + +“Beloved! I arrived here safely; the nuns are delighted to see me, and +you will be made heartily welcome when you come. I think of you +constantly—how happy I felt this morning! You seemed to love me so +much; why are you not always so fond of your faithful + + +“NINA?” + + +I crumpled this note fiercely in my hand and flung it into the leaping +flames of the newly lighted fire. There was a faint perfume about it +that sickened me—a subtle odor like that of a civet cat when it moves +stealthily after its prey through a tangle of tropical herbage. I +always detested scented note-paper—I am not the only man who does so. +One is led to fancy that the fingers of the woman who writes upon it +must have some poisonous or offensive taint about them, which she +endeavors to cover by the aid of a chemical concoction. I would not +permit myself to think of this so “faithful Nina,” as she styled +herself. I resumed my reading, and continued it even at dinner, during +which meal Vincenzo waited upon me with his usual silent gravity and +decorum, though I could feel that he watched me with a certain +solicitude. I suppose I looked weary—I certainly felt so, and retired +to rest unusually early. The time seemed to me so long—would the end +NEVER come? The next day dawned and trailed its tiresome hours after +it, as a prisoner might trail his chain of iron fetters, until sunset, +and then—then, when the gray of the wintry sky flashed for a brief +space into glowing red—then, while the water looked like blood and the +clouds like flame—then a few words sped along the telegraph wires that +stilled my impatience, roused my soul, and braced every nerve and +muscle in my body to instant action. They were plain, clear, and +concise: + +“From Guido Ferrari, Rome, to _Il Conte_ Cesare Oliva, Naples.—Shall be +with you on the 24th inst. Train arrives at 6:30 P.M. Will come to you +as you desire without fail.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +Christmas Eve! The day had been extra chilly, with frequent showers of +stinging rain, but toward five o’clock in the afternoon the weather +cleared. The clouds, which had been of a dull uniform gray, began to +break asunder and disclose little shining rifts of pale blue and bright +gold; the sea looked like a wide satin ribbon shaken out and shimmering +with opaline tints. Flower girls trooped forth making the air musical +with their mellow cries of “_Fiori! chi vuol fiori_” and holding up +their tempting wares—not bunches of holly and mistletoe such as are +known in England, but roses, lilies, jonquils, and sweet daffodils. The +shops were brilliant with bouquets and baskets of fruits and flowers; a +glittering show of _etrennes_, or gifts to suit all ages and +conditions, were set forth in tempting array, from a box of bonbons +costing one franc to a jeweled tiara worth a million, while in many of +the windows were displayed models of the “Bethlehem,” with babe Jesus +lying in his manger, for the benefit of the round-eyed children—who, +after staring fondly at His waxen image for some time, would run off +hand in hand to the nearest church where the usual Christmas creche was +arranged, and there kneeling down, would begin to implore their “dear +little Jesus,” their “own little brother,” not to forget them, with a +simplicity of belief that was as touching as it was unaffected. + +I am told that in England the principle sight on Christmas-eve are the +shops of the butchers and poulterers hung with the dead carcases of +animals newly slaughtered, in whose mouths are thrust bunches of +prickly holly, at which agreeable spectacle the passers-by gape with +gluttonous approval. Surely there is nothing graceful about such a +commemoration of the birth of Christ as this? nothing picturesque, +nothing poetic?—nothing even orthodox, for Christ was born in the East, +and the Orientals are very small eaters, and are particularly sparing +in the use of meat. One wonders what such an unusual display of vulgar +victuals has to do with the coming of the Saviour, who arrived among us +in such poor estate that even a decent roof was denied to Him. Perhaps, +though, the English people read their gospels in a way of their own, +and understood that the wise men of the East, who are supposed to have +brought the Divine Child symbolic gifts of gold, frankincense, and +myrrh, really brought joints of beef, turkeys, and “plum-pudding,” that +vile and indigestible mixture at which an Italian shrugs his shoulders +in visible disgust. There is something barbaric, I suppose, in the +British customs still—something that reminds one of their ancient +condition when the Romans conquered them—when their supreme idea of +enjoyment was to have an ox roasted whole before them while they drank +“wassail” till they groveled under their own tables in a worse +condition than overfed swine. Coarse and vulgar plenty is still the +leading characteristic at the dinners of English or American parvenus; +they have scarcely any idea of the refinements that can be imparted to +the prosaic necessity of eating—of the many little graces of the table +that are understood in part by the French, but that perhaps never reach +such absolute perfection of taste and skill as at the banquets of a +cultured and clever Italian noble. Some of these are veritable “feasts +of the gods,” and would do honor to the fabled Olympus, and such a one +I had prepared for Guido Ferrari as a greeting to him on his return +from Rome—a feast of welcome and—farewell! + +All the resources of the hotel at which I stayed had been brought into +requisition. The chef, a famous _cordon bleu_, had transferred the work +of the usual _table d’hote_ to his underlings, and had bent the powers +of his culinary intelligence solely on the production of the +magnificent dinner I had ordered. The landlord, in spite of himself, +broke into exclamations of wonder and awe as he listened to and wrote +down my commands for different wines of the rarest kinds and choicest +vintages. The servants rushed hither and thither to obey my various +behests, with looks of immense importance; the head waiter, a superb +official who prided himself on his artistic taste, took the laying-out +of the table under his entire superintendence, and nothing was talked +of or thought of for the time but the grandeur of my proposed +entertainment. + +About six o’clock I sent my carriage down to the railway station to +meet Ferrari as I had arranged; and then, at my landlord’s invitation, +I went to survey the stage that was prepared for one important scene of +my drama—to see if the scenery, side-lights, and general effects were +all in working order. To avoid disarranging my own apartments, I had +chosen for my dinner-party a room on the ground-floor of the hotel, +which was often let out for marriage-breakfasts and other purposes of +the like kind; it was octagonal in shape, not too large, and I had had +it most exquisitely decorated for the occasion. The walls were hung +with draperies of gold-colored silk and crimson velvet, interspersed +here and there with long mirrors, which were ornamented with crystal +candelabra, in which twinkled hundreds of lights under rose-tinted +glass shades. At the back of the room, a miniature conservatory was +displayed to view, full of rare ferns and subtly perfumed exotics, in +the center of which a fountain rose and fell with regular and melodious +murmur. Here, later on, a band of stringed instruments and a choir of +boys’ voices were to be stationed, so that sweet music might be heard +and felt without the performers being visible. One, and one only, of +the long French windows of the room was left uncurtained, it was simply +draped with velvet as one drapes a choice picture, and through it the +eyes rested on a perfect view of the Bay of Naples, white with the +wintery moonlight. + +The dinner-table, laid for fifteen persons, glittered with sumptuous +appointments of silver, Venetian glass, and the rarest flowers; the +floor was carpeted with velvet pile, in which some grains of ambergris +had been scattered, so that in walking the feet sunk, as it were, into +a bed of moss rich with the odors of a thousand spring blossoms. The +very chairs wherein my guests were to seat themselves were of a +luxurious shape and softly stuffed, so that one could lean back in them +or recline at ease—in short, everything was arranged with a lavish +splendor almost befitting the banquet of an eastern monarch, and yet +with such accurate taste that there was no detail one could have wished +omitted. + +I was thoroughly satisfied, but as I know what an unwise plan it is to +praise servants too highly for doing well what they are expressly paid +to do, I intimated my satisfaction to my landlord by a mere careless +nod and smile of approval. He, who waited on my every gesture with +abject humility, received this sign of condescension with as much +delight as though it had come from the king himself, and I could easily +see that the very fact of my showing no enthusiasm at the result of his +labors, made him consider me a greater man than ever. I now went to my +own apartments to don my evening attire; I found Vincenzo brushing +every speck of dust from my dresscoat with careful nicety—he had +already arranged the other articles of costume neatly on my bed ready +for wear. I unlocked a dressing-case and took from thence three studs, +each one formed of a single brilliant of rare clearness and lusters and +handed them to him to fix in my shirt-front. While he was polishing +these admiringly on his coat-sleeve I watched him earnestly—then I +suddenly addressed him. + +“Vincenzo!” He started. + +“_Eccellenza_?” + +“To-night you will stand behind my chair and assist in serving the +wine.” + +“Yes, _eccellenza_.” + +“You will,” I continued, “attend particularly to _Sigor_ Ferrari, who +will sit at my right hand. Take care that his glass is never empty.” + +“Yes, _eccellenza_.” + +“Whatever may be said or done,” I went on, quietly, “you will show no +sign of alarm or surprise. From the commencement of dinner till I tell +you to move, remember your place is fixed by me.” + +The honest fellow looked a little puzzled, but replied as before: + +“Yes, _eccellenza_.” + +I smiled, and advancing, laid my hand on his arm. + +“How about the pistols, Vincenzo?” + +“They are cleaned and ready for use, _eccellenza_,” he replied. “I have +placed them in your cabinet.” + +“That is well!” I said with a satisfied gesture. “You can leave me and +arrange the salon for the reception of my friends.” + +He disappeared, and I busied myself with my toilet, about which I was +for once unusually particular. The conventional dress-suit is not very +becoming, yet there are a few men here and there who look well in it, +and who, in spite of similarity in attire, will never be mistaken for +waiters. Others there are who, passable in appearance when clad in +their ordinary garments, reach the very acme of plebeianism when they +clothe themselves in the unaccommodating evening-dress. Fortunately, I +happened to be one of the former class—the sober black, the broad white +display of starched shirt-front and neat tie became me, almost too well +I thought. It would have been better for my purposes if I could have +feigned an aspect of greater age and weightier gravity. I had scarcely +finished my toilet when the rumbling of wheels in the court-yard +outside made the hot blood rush to my face, and my heart beat with +feverish excitement. I left my dressing-room, however, with a composed +countenance and calm step, and entered my private salon just as its +doors were flung open and “_Signor_ Ferrari” was announced. He entered +smiling—his face was alight with good humor and glad anticipation—he +looked handsomer than usual. + +“_Eccomi qua_!” he cried, seizing my hands enthusiastically in his own. +“My dear _conte_, I am delighted to see you! What an excellent fellow +you are! A kind of amiable Arabian Nights genius, who occupies himself +in making mortals happy. And how are you? You look remarkably well!” + +“I can return the compliment,” I said, gayly. “You are more of an +Antinous than ever.” + +He laughed, well pleased, and sat down, drawing off his gloves and +loosening his traveling overcoat. + +“Well, I suppose plenty of cash puts a man in good humor, and therefore +in good condition,” he replied. “But my dear fellow, you are dressed +for dinner—_quel preux chevalier_! I am positively unfit to be in your +company! You insisted that I should come to you directly, on my +arrival, but I really must change my apparel. Your man took my valise; +in it are my dress-clothes—I shall not be ten minutes putting them on.” + +“Take a glass of wine first,” I said, pouring out some of his favorite +Montepulciano. “There is plenty of time. It is barely seven, and we do +not dine till eight.” He took the wine from my hand and smiled. I +returned the smile, adding, “It gives me great pleasure to receive you, +Ferrari! I have been impatient for your return—almost as impatient as—” +He paused in the act of drinking, and his eyes flashed delightedly. + +“As _she_ has? _Piccinina_! How I long to see her again! I swear to +you, _amico_, I should have gone straight to the Villa Romani had I +obeyed my own impulse—but I had promised you to come here, and, on the +whole, the evening will do as well”—and he laughed with a covert +meaning in his laughter—“perhaps better!” + +My hands clinched, but I said with forced gayety: + +“_Ma certamente_! The evening will be much better! Is it not Byron who +says that women, like stars, look best at night? You will find her the +same as ever, perfectly well and perfectly charming. It must be her +pure and candid soul that makes her face so fair! It may be a relief to +your mind to know that I am the only man she has allowed to visit her +during your absence!” + +“Thank God for that!” cried Ferrari, devoutly, as he tossed off his +wine. “And now tell me, my dear _conte_, what bacchanalians are coming +to-night? _Per Dio_, after all I am more in the humor for dinner than +love-making!” + +I burst out laughing harshly. “Of course! Every sensible man prefers +good eating even to good women! Who are my guests you ask? I believe +you know them all. First, there is the _Duca_ Filippo Marina.” + +“By Heaven!” interrupted Guido. “An absolute gentleman, who by his +manner seems to challenge the universe to disprove his dignity! Can he +unbend so far as to partake of food in public? My dear _conte_, you +should have asked him that question!” + +“Then,” I went on, not heeding this interruption, “_Signor_ Fraschetti +and the _Marchese_ Giulano.” + +“Giulano drinks deep,” laughed Ferrari, “and should he mix his wines, +you will find him ready to stab all the waiters before the dinner is +half over.” + +“In mixing wines,” I returned, coolly, “he will but imitate your +example, _caro mio_.” + +“Ah, but I can stand it!” he said. “He cannot! Few Neapolitans are like +me!” + +I watched him narrowly, and went on with the list of my invited guests. + +“After these, comes the _Capitano_ Luigi Freccia.” + +“What! the raging fire-eater?” exclaimed Guido. “He who at every second +word raps out a pagan or Christian oath, and cannot for his life tell +any difference between the two!” + +“And the illustrious gentleman Crispiano Dulci and Antonio Biscardi, +artists like yourself,” I continued. + +He frowned slightly—then smiled. + +“I wish them good appetites! Time was when I envied their skill—now I +can afford to be generous. They are welcome to the whole field of art +as far as I am concerned. I have said farewell to the brush and +palette—I shall never paint again.” + +True enough! I thought, eying the shapely white hand with which he just +then stroked his dark mustache; the same hand on which my family +diamond ring glittered like a star. He looked up suddenly. + +“Go on, _conte_ I am all impatience. Who comes next?” + +“More fire-eaters, I suppose you will call them,” I answered, “and +French fire-eaters, too. _Monsieur le Marquis_ D’Avencourt, and _le +beau Capitaine_ Eugene de Hamal.” + +Ferrari looked astonished. “_Per Bacco_!” he exclaimed. “Two noted +Paris duelists! Why—what need have you of such valorous associates? I +confess your choice surprises me.” + +“I understood them to be _your_ friends,” I said, composedly. “If you +remember, _you_ introduced me to them. I know nothing of the gentlemen +beyond that they appear to be pleasant fellows and good talkers. As for +their reputed skill I am inclined to set that down to a mere rumor, at +any rate, my dinner-table will scarcely provide a field for the display +of swordsmanship.” + +Guido laughed. “Well, no! but these fellows would like to make it +one—why, they will pick a quarrel for the mere lifting of an eyebrow. +And the rest of your company?” + +“Are the inseparable brother sculptors Carlo and Francesco Respetti, +Chevalier Mancini, scientist and man of letters, Luziano Salustri, poet +and musician, and the fascinating _Marchese_ Ippolito Gualdro, whose +conversation, as you know, is more entrancing than the voice of Adelina +Patti. I have only to add,” and I smiled half mockingly, “the name of +_Signor_ Guido Ferrari, true friend and loyal lover—and the party is +complete.” + +“_Altro_! Fifteen in all including yourself,” said Ferrari, gayly, +enumerating them on his fingers. “_Per la madre di Dio_! With such a +goodly company and a host who entertains _en roi_ we shall pass a merry +time of it. And did you, _amico_, actually organize this banquet, +merely to welcome back so unworthy a person as myself?” + +“Solely and entirely for that reason,” I replied. + +He jumped up from his chair and clapped his two hands on my shoulders. + +“_A la bonne heure_! But why, in the name of the saints or the devil, +have you taken such a fancy to me?” + +“Why have I taken such a fancy to you?” I repeated, slowly. “My dear +Ferrari, I am surely not alone in my admiration for your high +qualities! Does not every one like you? Are you not a universal +favorite? Do you not tell me that your late friend the Count Romani +held you as the dearest to him in the world after his wife? _Ebbene_! +Why underrate yourself?” + +He let his hands fall slowly from my shoulders and a look of pain +contracted his features. After a little silence he said: + +“Fabio again! How his name and memory haunt me! I told you he was a +fool—it was part of his folly that he loved me too well—perhaps. Do you +know I have thought of him very much lately?” + +“Indeed?” and I feigned to be absorbed in fixing a star-like japonica +in my button-hole. “How is that?” + +A grave and meditative look softened the usually defiant brilliancy of +his eyes. + +“I saw my uncle die,” he continued, speaking in a low tone. “He was an +old man and had very little strength left,—yet his battle with death +was horrible—horrible! I see him yet—his yellow convulsed face—his +twisted limbs—his claw-like hands tearing at the empty air—then the +ghastly grim and dropped jaw—the wide-open glazed eyes—pshaw! it +sickened me!” + +“Well, well!” I said in a soothing way, still busying myself with the +arrangement of my button-hole, and secretly wondering what new emotion +was at work in the volatile mind of my victim. “No doubt it was +distressing to witness—but you could not have been very sorry—he was an +old man, and, though it is a platitude not worth repeating—we must all +die.” + +“Sorry!” exclaimed Ferrari, talking almost more to himself than to me. +“I was glad! He was an old scoundrel, deeply dyed in every sort of +social villainy. No—I was not sorry, only as I watched him in his +frantic struggle, fighting furiously for each fresh gasp of breath—I +thought—I know not why—of Fabio.” + +Profoundly astonished, but concealing my astonishment under an air of +indifference, I began to laugh. + +“Upon my word, Ferrari—pardon me for saying so, but the air of Rome +seems to have somewhat obscured your mind! I confess I cannot follow +your meaning.” + +He sighed uneasily. “I dare say not! I scarce can follow it myself. But +if it was so hard for an old man to writhe himself out of life, what +must it have been for Fabio! We were students together; we used to walk +with our arms round each other’s necks like school-girls, and he was +young and full of vitality—physically stronger, too, than I am. He must +have battled for life with every nerve and sinew stretched to almost +breaking.” He stopped and shuddered. “By Heaven! death should be made +easier for us! It is a frightful thing!” + +A contemptuous pity arose in me. Was he coward as well as traitor? I +touched him lightly on the arm. + +“Excuse me, my young friend, if I say frankly that your dismal +conversation is slightly fatiguing. I cannot accept it as a suitable +preparation for dinner! And permit me to remind you that you have still +to dress.” + +The gentle satire of my tone made him look up and smile. His face +cleared, and he passed his hand over his forehead, as though he swept +it free of some unpleasant thought. + +“I believe I am nervous,” he said with a half laugh. “For the last few +hours I have had all sorts of uncomfortable presentiments and +forebodings.” + +“No wonder!” I returned carelessly, “with such a spectacle as you have +described before the eyes of your memory. The Eternal City savors +somewhat disagreeably of graves. Shake the dust of the Caesars from +your feet, and enjoy your life, while it lasts!” + +“Excellent advice!” he said, smiling, “and not difficult to follow. Now +to attire for the festival. Have I your permission?” + +I touched the bell which summoned Vincenzo, and bade him wait on +_Signor_ Ferrari’s orders. Guido disappeared under his escort, giving +me a laughing nod of salutation as he left the room. I watched his +retiring figure with a strange pitifulness—the first emotion of the +kind that had awakened in me for him since I learned his treachery. His +allusion to that time when we had been students together—when we had +walked with arms round each other’s necks “like school-girls,” as he +said, had touched me more closely than I cared to realize. It was true, +we had been happy then—two careless youths with all the world like an +untrodden race-course before us. _She_ had not then darkened the heaven +of our confidence; she had not come with her false fair face to make of +ME a blind, doting madman, and to transform him into a liar and +hypocrite. It was all her fault, all the misery and horror; she was the +blight on our lives; she merited the heaviest punishment, and she would +receive it. Yet, would to God we had neither of us ever seen her! Her +beauty, like a sword, had severed the bonds of friendship that after +all, when it _does_ exist between two men, is better and braver than +the love of woman. However, all regrets were unavailing now; the evil +was done, and there was no undoing it. I had little time left me for +reflection; each moment that passed brought me nearer to the end I had +planned and foreseen. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +At about a quarter to eight my guests began to arrive, and one by one +they all came in save two—the brothers Respetti. While we were awaiting +them, Ferrari entered in evening-dress, with the conscious air of a +handsome man who knows he is looking his best. I readily admitted his +charm of manner; had I not myself been subjugated and fascinated by it +in the old happy, foolish days? He was enthusiastically greeted and +welcomed back to Naples by all the gentlemen assembled, many of whom +were his own particular friends. They embraced him in the +impressionable style common to Italians, with the exception of the +stately _Duca_ di Marina, who merely bowed courteously, and inquired if +certain families of distinction whom he named had yet arrived in Rome +for the winter season. Ferrari was engaged in replying to these +questions with his usual grace and ease and fluency, when a note was +brought to me marked “Immediate.” It contained a profuse and elegantly +worded apology from Carlo Respetti, who regretted deeply that an +unforeseen matter of business would prevent himself and his brother +from having the inestimable honor and delight of dining with me that +evening. I thereupon rang my bell as a sign that the dinner need no +longer be delayed; and, turning to those assembled, I announced to them +the unavoidable absence of two of the party. + +“A pity Francesco could not have come,” said Captain Freccia, twirling +the ends of his long mustachios. “He loves good wine, and, better +still, good company.” + +“_Caro Capitano_!” broke in the musical voice of the _Marchese_ +Gualdro, “you know that our Francesco goes nowhere without his beloved +Carlo. Carlo _cannot_ come—_altro_! Francesco _will not_. Would that +all men were such brothers!” + +“If they were,” laughed Luziano Salustri, rising from the piano where +he had been playing softly to himself, “half the world would be thrown +out of employment. You, for instance,” turning to the Marquis +D’Avencourt, “would scarce know what to do with your time.” + +The marquis smiled and waved his hand with a deprecatory gesture—that +hand, by the by, was remarkably small and delicately formed—it looked +almost fragile. Yet the strength and suppleness of D’Avencourt’s wrist +was reputed to be prodigious by those who had seen him handle the +sword, whether in play or grim earnest. + +“It is an impossible dream,” he said, in reply to the remarks of +Gualdro and Salustri, “that idea of all men fraternizing together in +one common pig-sty of equality. Look at the differences of caste! +Birth, breeding and education make of man that high-mettled, sensitive +animal known as gentleman, and not all the socialistic theories in the +world can force him down on the same level with the rough boor, whose +flat nose and coarse features announce him as plebeian even before one +hears the tone of his voice. We cannot help these things. I do not +think we _would_ help them even if we could.” + +“You are quite right,” said Ferrari. “You cannot put race-horses to +draw the plow. I have always imagined that the first quarrel—the Cain +and Abel affair—must have occurred through some difference of caste as +well as jealousy—for instance, perhaps Abel was a negro and Cain a +white man, or vice versa; which would account for the antipathy +existing between the races to this day.” + +The Duke di Marina coughed a stately cough, and shrugged his shoulders. + +“That first quarrel,” he said, “as related in the Bible, was +exceedingly vulgar. It must have been a kind of prize-fight. _Ce +n’etait pas fin_.” + +Gualdro laughed delightedly. + +“So like you, Marina!” he exclaimed, “to say that! I sympathize with +your sentiments! Fancy the butcher Abel piling up his reeking carcasses +and setting them on fire, while on the other side stood Cain the +green-grocer frizzling his cabbages, turnips, carrots, and other +vegetable matter! What a spectacle! The gods of Olympus would have +sickened at it! However, the Jewish Deity, or rather, the well-fed +priest who represented him, showed his good taste in the matter; I +myself prefer the smell of roast meat to the rather disagreeable odor +of scorching vegetables!” + +We laughed—and at that moment the door was thrown open, and the +head-waiter announced in solemn tones befitting his dignity— + +“_Le dîner de Monsieur le Conte est servi!_” + +I at once led the way to the banqueting-room—my guests followed gayly, +talking and jesting among themselves. They were all in high good humor, +none of them had as yet noticed the fatal blank caused by the absence +of the brothers Respetti. I had—for the number of my guests was now +thirteen instead of fifteen. Thirteen at table! I wondered if any of +the company were superstitious? Ferrari was not, I knew—unless his +nerves had been latterly shaken by witnessing the death of his uncle. +At any rate, I resolved to say nothing that could attract the attention +of my guests to the ill-omened circumstance; if any one should notice +it, it would be easy to make light of it and of all similar +superstitions. I myself was the one most affected by it—it had for me a +curious and fatal significance. I was so occupied with the +consideration of it that I scarcely attended to the words addressed to +me by the Duke di Marina, who, walking beside me, seemed disposed to +converse with more familiarity than was his usual custom. We reached +the door of the dining-room; which at our approach was thrown wide +open, and delicious strains of music met our ears as we entered. Low +murmurs of astonishment and admiration broke from all the gentlemen as +they viewed the sumptuous scene before them. I pretended not to hear +their eulogies, as I took my seat at the head of the table, with Guido +Ferrari on my right and the Duke di Marina on my left. The music +sounded louder and more triumphant, and while all the company were +seating themselves in the places assigned to them, a choir of young +fresh voices broke forth into a Neapolitan “madrigale”—which as far as +I can translate it ran as follows: + + “Welcome the festal hour! +Pour the red wine into cups of gold! +Health to the men who are strong and bold! + Welcome the festal hour! +Waken the echoes with riotous mirth— +Cease to remember the sorrows of earth + In the joys of the festal hour! +Wine is the monarch of laughter and light, +Death himself shall be merry to-night! + Hail to the festal hour!” + + +An enthusiastic clapping of hands rewarded this effort on the part of +the unseen vocalists, and the music having ceased, conversation became +general. + +“By heaven!” exclaimed Ferrari, “if this Olympian carouse is meant as a +welcome to me, _amico_, all I can say is that I do not deserve it. Why, +it is more fit for the welcome of one king to his neighbor sovereign!” + +“_Ebbene_!” I said. “Are there any better kings than honest men? Let us +hope we are thus far worthy of each other’s esteem.” + +He flashed a bright look of gratitude upon me and was silent, listening +to the choice and complimentary phrases uttered by the Duke di Marina +concerning the exquisite taste displayed in the arrangement of the +table. + +“You have no doubt traveled much in the East, _conte_,” said this +nobleman. “Your banquet reminds me of an Oriental romance I once read, +called ‘Vathek.’” + +“Exactly,” exclaimed Guido. “I think Oliva must be Vathek himself.” + +“Scarcely!” I said, smiling coldly. “I lay no claim to supernatural +experiences. The realities of life are sufficiently wonderful for me.” + +Antonio Biscardi the painter, a refined, gentle-featured man, looked +toward us and said modestly: + +“I think you are right, _conte_. The beauties of nature and of humanity +are so varied and profound that were it not for the inextinguishable +longing after immortality which has been placed in every one of us, I +think we should be perfectly satisfied with this world as it is.” + +“You speak like an artist and a man of even temperament,” broke in the +_Marchese_ Gualdro, who had finished his soup quickly in order to be +able to talk—talking being his chief delight. “For me, I am never +contented. I never have enough of anything! That is my nature. When I +see lovely flowers, I wish more of them—when I behold a fine sunset, I +desire many more such sunsets—when I look upon a lovely woman—” + +“You would have lovely women ad infinitum!” laughed the French +_Capitaine_ de Hamal. “_En vérité_, Gualdro, you should have been a +Turk!” + +“And why not?” demanded Gualdro. “The Turks are very sensible +people—they know how to make coffee better than we do. And what more +fascinating than a harem? It must be like a fragrant hot-house, where +one is free to wander every day, sometimes gathering a gorgeous lily, +sometimes a simple violet—sometimes—” + +“A thorn?” suggested Salustri. + +“Well, perhaps!” laughed the _Marchese_. “Yet one would run the risk of +that for the sake of a perfect rose.” + +Chevalier Mancini, who wore in his button-hole the decoration of the +_Legion d’Honneur_, looked up—he was a thin man with keen eyes and a +shrewd face which, though at a first glance appeared stern, could at +the least provocation break up into a thousand little wrinkles of +laughter. + +“There is undoubtedly something _entrainant_ about the idea,” he +observed, in his methodical way. “I have always fancied that marriage +as we arrange it is a great mistake.” + +“And that is why you have never tried it?” queried Ferrari, looking +amused. + +“_Certissimamente_!” and the chevalier’s grim countenance began to work +with satirical humor. “I have resolved that I will never be bound over +by the law to kiss only one woman. As matters stand, I can kiss them +all if I like.” + +A shout of merriment and cries of “Oh! oh!” greeted this remark, which +Ferrari, however, did not seem inclined to take in good part. + +“All?” he said, with a dubious air. “You mean all except the married +ones?” + +The chevalier put on his spectacles, and surveyed him with a sort of +comic severity. + +“When I said _all_, I meant all,” he returned—“the married ones in +particular. They, poor things, need such attentions—and often invite +them—why not? Their husbands have most likely ceased to be amorous +after the first months of marriage.” + +I burst out laughing. “You are right, Mancini,” I said; “and even if +the husbands are fools enough to continue their gallantries they +deserve to be duped—and they generally are! Come, _amico_,” I added, +turning to Ferrari, “those are your own sentiments—you have often +declared them to me.” + +He smiled uncomfortably, and his brows contracted. I could easily +perceive that he was annoyed. To change the tone of the conversation I +gave a signal for the music to recommence, and instantly the melody of +a slow, voluptuous Hungarian waltz-measure floated through the room. +The dinner was now fairly on its way; the appetites of my guests were +stimulated and tempted by the choicest and most savory viands, prepared +with all the taste and intelligence a first rate chef can bestow on his +work, and good wine flowed freely. + +Vincenzo obediently following my instructions, stood behind my chair, +and seldom moved except to refill Ferrari’s glass, and occasionally to +proffer some fresh vintage to the Duke di Marina. He, however, was an +abstemious and careful man, and followed the good example shown by the +wisest Italians, who never mix their wines. He remained faithful to the +first beverage he had selected—a specially fine Chianti, of which he +partook freely without its causing the slightest flush to appear on his +pale aristocratic features. Its warm and mellow flavor did but brighten +his eyes and loosen his tongue, inasmuch that he became almost as +elegant a talker as the _Marchese_ Gualdro. This latter, who scarce had +a _scudo_ to call his own, and who dined sumptuously every day at other +people’s expense for the sake of the pleasure his company afforded, was +by this time entertaining every one near him by the most sparkling +stories and witty pleasantries. + +The merriment increased as the various courses were served; shouts of +laughter frequently interrupted the loud buzz of conversation, mingling +with the clinking of glasses and clattering of porcelain. Every now and +then might be heard the smooth voice of Captain Freccia rolling out his +favorite oaths with the sonority and expression of a _primo tenore_; +sometimes the elegant French of the Marquis D’Avencourt, with his high, +sing-song Parisian accent, rang out above the voices of the others; and +again, the choice Tuscan of the poet Luziano Salustri rolled forth in +melodious cadence as though he were chanting lines from Dante or +Ariosto, instead of talking lightly on indifferent matters. I accepted +my share in the universal hilarity, though I principally divided my +conversation between Ferrari and the duke, paying to both, but +specially to Ferrari, that absolute attention which is the greatest +compliment a host can bestow on those whom he undertakes to entertain. + +We had reached that stage of the banquet when the game was about to be +served—the invisible choir of boys’ voices had just completed an +enchanting _stornello_ with an accompaniment of mandolines—when a +stillness, strange and unaccountable, fell upon the company—a pause—an +ominous hush, as though some person supreme in authority had suddenly +entered the room and commanded “Silence!” No one seemed disposed to +speak or to move, the very footsteps of the waiters were muffled in the +velvet pile of the carpets—no sound was heard but the measured plash of +the fountain that played among the ferns and flowers. The moon, shining +frostily white through the one uncurtained window, cast a long pale +green ray, like the extended arm of an appealing ghost, against one +side of the velvet hangings—a spectral effect which was heightened by +the contrast of the garish glitter of the waxen tapers. Each man looked +at the other with a sort of uncomfortable embarrassment, and somehow, +though I moved my lips in an endeavor to speak and thus break the +spell, I was at a loss, and could find no language suitable to the +moment. Ferrari toyed with his wine-glass mechanically—the duke +appeared absorbed in arranging the crumbs beside his plate into little +methodical patterns; the stillness seemed to last so long that it was +like a suffocating heaviness in the air. Suddenly Vincenzo, in his +office of chief butler, drew the cork of a champagne-bottle with a +loud-sounding pop! We all started as though a pistol had been fired in +our ears, and the _Marchese_ Gualdro burst out laughing. + +“_Corpo di Bacco_!” he cried. “At last you have awakened from sleep! +Were you all struck dumb, _amici_, that you stared at the table-cloth +so persistently and with such admirable gravity? May Saint Anthony and +his pig preserve me, but for the time I fancied I was attending a +banquet on the wrong side of the Styx, and that you, my present +companions, were all dead men!” + +“And that idea made _you_ also hold your tongue, which is quite an +unaccountable miracle in its way,” laughed Luziano Salustri. “Have you +never heard the pretty legend that attaches to such an occurrence as a +sudden silence in the midst of high festivity? An angel enters, +bestowing his benediction as he passes through.” + +“That story is more ancient than the church,” said Chevalier Mancini. +“It is an exploded theory—for we have ceased to believe in angels—we +call them women instead.” + +“_Bravo, mon vieux gaillard_!” cried Captain de Hamal. “Your sentiments +are the same as mine, with a very trifling difference. You believe +women to be angels—I know them to be devils—_mas il n’y a qu’un pas +entre les deux_? We will not quarrel over a word—_à votre santé, mon +cher_!” + +And he drained his glass, nodding to Mancini, who followed his example. + +“Perhaps,” said the smooth, slow voice of Captain Freccia, “our silence +was caused by the instinctive consciousness of something wrong with our +party—a little inequality—which I dare say our noble host has not +thought it worth while to mention.” + +Every head was turned in his direction. “What do you mean?” “What +inequality?” “Explain yourself!” chorused several voices. + +“Really it is a mere nothing,” answered Freccia, lazily, as he surveyed +with the admiring air of a gourmet the dainty portion of pheasant just +placed before him. “I assure you, only the uneducated would care two +_scudi_ about such a circumstance. The excellent brothers Respetti are +to blame—their absence to-night has caused—but why should I disturb +your equanimity? I am not superstitious—_ma, chi sa_?—some of you may +be.” + +“I see what you mean!” interrupted Salustri, quickly. “We are thirteen +at table!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +At this announcement my guests looked furtively at each other, and I +could see they were counting up the fatal number for themselves. They +were undeniably clever, cultivated men of the world, but the +superstitious element was in their blood, and all, with the exception +perhaps of Freccia and the ever-cool Marquis D’Avencourt, were +evidently rendered uneasy by the fact now discovered. On Ferrari it had +a curious effect—he started violently and his face flushed. +“_Diabolo_!” he muttered, under his breath, and seizing his never-empty +glass, he swallowed its contents thirstily and quickly at one gulp as +though attacked by fever, and pushed away his plate with a hand that +trembled nervously. I, meanwhile, raised my voice and addressed my +guests cheerfully! + +“Our distinguished friend Salustri is perfectly right, gentlemen. I +myself noticed the discrepancy in our number some time ago—but I knew +that you were all advanced thinkers, who had long since liberated +yourselves from the trammels of superstitious observances, which are +the result of priestcraft, and are now left solely to the vulgar. +Therefore I said nothing. The silly notion of any misfortune attending +the number thirteen arose, as you are aware, out of the story of the +Last Supper, and children and women may possibly still give credence to +the fancy that one out of thirteen at table must be a traitor and +doomed to die. But we men know better. None of us here to-night have +reason to put ourselves in the position of a Christ or a Judas—we are +all good friends and boon companions, and I cannot suppose for a moment +that this little cloud can possibly affect you seriously. Remember also +that this is Christmas-eve, and that according to the world’s greatest +poet, Shakespeare, + + “‘Then no planet strikes, +No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, +So hallowed and so gracious is the time.’” + + +A murmur of applause and a hearty clapping of hands rewarded this +little speech, and the _Marchese_ Gualdro sprung to his feet— + +“By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “we are not a party of terrified old women +to shiver on the edge of a worn-out omen! Fill your glasses, _signori_! +More wine, garçon! _Per bacco_! if Judas Iscariot himself had such a +feast as ours before he hanged himself, he was not much to be pitied! +_Hola amici_! To the health of our noble host, _Conte_ Cesare Oliva!” + +He waved his glass in the air three times—every one followed his +example and drank the toast with enthusiasm. I bowed my thanks and +acknowledgments—and the superstitious dread which at first had +undoubtedly seized the company passed away quickly—the talking, the +merriment, and laughter were resumed, and soon it seemed as though the +untoward circumstance were entirely forgotten. Only Guido Ferrari +seemed still somewhat disturbed in his mind—but even his uneasiness +dissipated itself by degrees, and heated by the quantity of wine he had +taken, he began to talk with boastful braggartism of his many +successful gallantries, and related his most questionable anecdotes in +such a manner as to cause some haughty astonishment in the mind of the +Duke di Marina, who eyed him from time to time with ill-disguised +impatience that bordered on contempt. I, on the contrary, listened to +everything he said with urbane courtesy—I humored him and drew him out +as much as possible—I smiled complacently at his poor jokes and vulgar +witticisms—and when he said something that was more than usually +outrageous, I contented myself with a benevolent shake of my head, and +the mild remark: + +“Ah! young blood! young blood!” uttered in a bland _sotto-voce_. + +The dessert was now served, and with it came the costly wines which I +had ordered to be kept back till then. Priceless “Chateau Yquem,” “Clos +Vougeot,” of the rarest vintages, choice “Valpulcello” and an +exceedingly superb “Lacrima Cristi”—one after the other, these were +tasted, criticised, and heartily appreciated. There was also a very +unique brand of champagne costing nearly forty francs a bottle, which +was sparkling and mellow to the palate, but fiery in quality. This +particular beverage was so seductive in flavor that every one partook +of it freely, with the result that the most discreet among the party +now became the most uproarious. Antonio Biscardi, the quiet and +unobtrusive painter, together with his fellow-student, Crispiano Dulci, +usually the shyest of young men, suddenly grew excited, and uttered +blatant nothings concerning their art. Captain Freccia argued the +niceties of sword-play with the Marquis D’Avencourt, both speakers +illustrating their various points by thrusting their dessert-knives +skillfully into the pulpy bodies of the peaches they had on their +plates. Luziano Salustri lay back at ease in his chair, his classic +head reclining on the velvet cushions, and recited in low and measured +tones one of his own poems, caring little or nothing whether his +neighbors attended to him or not. The glib tongue of the _Marchese_ +Gualdro ran on smoothly and incessantly, though he frequently lost the +thread of his anecdotes and became involved in a maze of contradictory +assertions. The rather large nose of the Chevalier Mancini reddened +visibly as he laughed joyously to himself at nothing in particular—in +short, the table had become a glittering whirlpool of excitement and +feverish folly, which at a mere touch, or word out of season, might +rise to a raging storm of frothy dissension. The Duke di Marina and +myself alone of all the company were composed as usual—he had resisted +the champagne, and as for me, I had let all the splendid wines go past +me, and had not taken more than two glasses of a mild Chianti. + +I glanced keenly round the riotous board—I noted the flushed faces and +rapid gesticulations of my guests, and listened to the Babel of +conflicting tongues. I drew a long breath as I looked—I calculated that +in two or three minutes at the very least I might throw down the trump +card I had held so patiently in my hand all the evening. + +I took a close observation of Ferrari. He had edged his chair a little +away from mine, and was talking confidentially to his neighbor, Captain +de Hamal—his utterance was low and thick, but yet I distinctly heard +him enumerating in somewhat coarse language the exterior charms of a +woman—what woman I did not stop to consider—the burning idea struck me +that he was describing the physical perfections of my wife to this De +Hamal, a mere _spadaccino_, for whom there was nothing sacred in heaven +or earth. My blood rapidly heated itself to boiling point—to this day I +remember how it throbbed in my temples, leaving my hands and feet icy +cold. I rose in my seat, and tapped on the table to call for silence +and attention—but for some time the noise of argument and the clatter +of tongues were so great that I could not make myself heard. The duke +endeavored to second my efforts, but in vain. At last Ferrari’s notice +was attracted—he turned round, and seizing a dessert knife beat with it +on the table and on his own plate so noisily and persistently that the +loud laughter and conversation ceased suddenly. The moment had come—I +raised my head, fixed my spectacles more firmly over my eyes, and spoke +in distinct and steady tones, first of all stealing a covert glance +toward Ferrari. He had sunk back again lazily in his chair and was +lighting a cigarette. + +“My friends,” I said, meeting with a smile the inquiring looks that +were directed toward me, “I have presumed to interrupt your mirth for a +moment, not to restrain it, but rather to give it a fresh impetus. I +asked you all here to-night, as you know, to honor me by your presence +and to give a welcome to our mutual friend, _Signor_ Guido Ferrari.” +Here I was interrupted by a loud clapping of hands and ejaculations of +approval, while Ferrari himself murmured affably between two puffs of +his cigarette. “_Tropp’ onore_, _amico, tropp’ onore_!” I resumed, +“This young and accomplished gentleman, who is, I believe, a favorite +with you all, has been compelled through domestic affairs to absent +himself from our circle for the past few weeks, and I think he must +himself be aware how much we have missed his pleasant company. It will, +however, be agreeable to you, as it has been for me, to know that he +has returned to Naples a richer man than when he left it—that fortune +has done him justice, and that with the possession of abundant wealth +he is at last called upon to enjoy the reward due to his merits!” + +Here there was more clapping of hands and exclamations of pleasure, +while those who were seated near Ferrari raised their glasses and drank +to his health with congratulations, all of which courtesies he +acknowledged by a nonchalant, self-satisfied bow. I glanced at him +again—how tranquil he looked!—reclining among the crimson cushions of +his chair, a brimming glass of champagne beside him, the cigarette +between his lips, and his handsome face slightly upturned, though his +eyes rested half drowsily on the uncurtained window through which the +Bay of Naples was seen glittering in the moonlight. + +I continued: “It was, gentlemen, that you might welcome and +congratulate _Signor_ Ferrari as you have done, that I assembled you +here to-night—or rather, let me say it was _partly_ the object of our +present festivity—but there is yet another reason which I shall now +have the pleasure of explaining to you—a reason which, as it concerns +myself and my immediate happiness, will, I feel confident, secure your +sympathy and good wishes.” + +This time every one was silent, intently following my words. + +“What I am about to say,” I went on, calmly, “may very possibly +surprise you. I have been known to you as a man of few words, and, I +fear, of abrupt and brusque manners”—cries of “No, no!” mingled with +various complimentary assurances reached my ears from all sides of the +table. I bowed with a gratified air, and when silence was restored—“At +any rate you would not think me precisely the sort of man to take a +lady’s fancy.” A look of wonder and curiosity was now exchanged among +my guests. Ferrari took his cigarette out of his mouth and stared at me +in blank astonishment. + +“No,” I went on, meditatively, “old as I am, and a half-blind invalid +besides, it seems incredible that any woman should care to look at me +more than twice _en passant_. But I have met—let me say with the +Chevalier Mancini—an angel—who has found me not displeasing to her, +and—in short—I am going to marry!” + +There was a pause. Ferrari raised himself slightly from his reclining +position and seemed about to speak, but apparently changing his mind he +remained silent—his face had somewhat paled. The momentary hesitation +among my guests passed quickly. All present, except Guido, broke out +into a chorus of congratulations, mingled with good-humored jesting and +laughter. + +“Say farewell to jollity, _conte_!” cried Chevalier Mancini; “once +drawn along by the rustling music of a woman’s gown, no more such +feasts as we have had to-night!” + +And he shook his head with tipsy melancholy. + +“By all the gods!” exclaimed Gualdro, “your news has surprised me! I +should have thought you were the last man to give up liberty for the +sake of a woman. _One_ woman, too! Why, man, freedom could give you +twenty!” + +“Ah!” murmured Salustri, softly and sentimentally, “but the one perfect +pearl—the one flawless diamond—” + +“Bah! Salustri, _caro mio_, you are half asleep!” returned Gualdro. +“’Tis the wine talks, not you. Thou art conquered by the bottle, +_amico_. You, the darling of all the women in Naples, to talk of one! +_Buona notte, bambino_!” + +I still maintained my standing position, leaning my two hands on the +table before me. + +“What our worthy Gualdro says,” I went on, “is perfectly true. I have +been noted for my antipathy to the fair sex. I know it. But when one of +the loveliest among women comes out of her way to tempt me—when she +herself displays the matchless store of her countless fascinations for +my attraction—when she honors me by special favors and makes me plainly +aware that I am not too presumptuous in venturing to aspire to her hand +in marriage—what can I do but accept with a good grace the fortune +thrown to me by Providence? I should be the most ungrateful of men were +I to refuse so precious a gift from Heaven, and I confess I feel no +inclination to reject what I consider to be the certainty of happiness. +I therefore ask you all to fill your glasses, and do me the favor to +drink to the health and happiness of my future bride.” + +Gualdro sprung erect, his glass held high in the air; every man +followed his example, Ferrari rose to his feet with some unsteadiness, +while the hand that held his full champagne glass trembled. + +The Duke di Marina, with a courteous gesture, addressed me: “You will, +of course, honor us by disclosing the name of the fair lady whom we are +prepared to toast with all befitting reverence?” + +“I was about to ask the same question,” said Ferrari, in hoarse +accents—his lips were dry, and he appeared to have some difficulty in +speaking. “Possibly we are not acquainted with her?” + +“On the contrary,” I returned, eying him steadily with a cool smile. +“You all know her name well! _Illustrissimi Signori_!” and my voice +rang out clearly—“to the health of my betrothed wife, the _Contessa_ +Romani!” + +“Liar!” shouted Ferrari—and with all a madman’s fury he dashed his +brimming glass of champagne full in my face! In a second the wildest +scene of confusion ensued. Every man left his place at table and +surrounded us. I stood erect and perfectly calm—wiping with my +handkerchief the little runlets of wine that dripped from my +clothing—the glass had fallen at my feet, striking the table as it fell +and splitting itself to atoms. + +“Are you drunk or mad, Ferrari?” cried Captain de Hamal, seizing him by +the arm—“do you know what you have done?” + +Ferrari glared about him like a tiger at bay—his face was flushed and +swollen like that of a man in apoplexy—the veins in his forehead stood +out like knotted cords—his breath came and went hard as though he had +been running. He turned his rolling eyes upon me. “Damn you!” he +muttered through his clinched teeth—then suddenly raising his voice to +a positive shriek, he cried, “I will have your blood if I have to tear +your heart for it!”—and he made an effort to spring upon me. The +Marquis D’Avencourt quietly caught his other arm and held it as in a +vise. + +“Not so fast, not so fast, _mon cher_” he said, coolly. “We are not +murderers, we! What devil possesses you, that you offer such +unwarrantable insult to our host?” + +“Ask _him_!” replied Ferrari, fiercely, struggling to release himself +from the grasp of the two Frenchmen—“he knows well enough! Ask _him_!” + +All eyes were turned inquiringly upon me. I was silent. + +“The noble _conte_ is really not bound to give any explanation,” +remarked Captain Freccia—“even admitting he were able to do so.” + +“I assure you, my friends,” I said, “I am ignorant of the cause of this +fracas, except that this young gentleman had pretensions himself to the +hand of the lady whose name affects him so seriously!” + +For a moment I thought Ferrari would have choked. + +“Pretensions—pretensions!” he gasped. “_Gran Dio_! Hear him!—hear the +miserable scoundrel!” + +“Ah, _basta_!” exclaimed Chevalier Mancini, scornfully—“Is that all? A +mere bagatelle! Ferrari, you were wont to be more sensible! What! +quarrel with an excellent friend for the sake of a woman who happens to +prefer him to you! _Ma che_! Women are plentiful—friends are few.” + +“If,” I resumed, still methodically wiping the stains of wine from my +coat and vest—“if _Signor_ Ferrari’s extraordinary display of temper is +a mere outcome of natural disappointment, I am willing to excuse it. He +is young and hotblooded—let him apologize, and I shall freely pardon +him.” + +“By my faith!” said the Duke di Marina with indignation, “such +generosity is unheard of, _conte_! Permit me to remark that it is +altogether exceptional, after such ungentlemanly conduct.” + +Ferrari looked from one to the other in silent fury. His face had grown +pale as death. He wrenched himself from the grasp of D’Avencourt and De +Hamal. + +“Fools! let me go!” he said, savagely. “None of you are on my side—I +see that!” He stepped to the table, poured out a glass of water and +drank it off. He then turned and faced me—his head thrown back, his +eyes blazing with wrath and pain. + +“Liar!” he cried again, “double-faced accursed liar! You have stolen +HER—you have fooled _me_—but, by G-d, you shall pay for it with your +life!” + +“Willingly!” I said, with a mocking smile, restraining by a gesture the +hasty exclamations of those around me who resented this fresh +attack—“most willingly, _caro signor_! But excuse me if I fail to see +wherein you consider yourself wronged. The lady who is now my fiancee +has not the slightest affection for you—she told me so herself. Had she +entertained any such feelings I might have withdrawn my proposals—but +as matters stand, what harm have I done you?” + +A chorus of indignant voices interrupted me. “Shame on you, Ferrari!” +cried Gualdro. “The count speaks like a gentleman and a man of honor. +Were I in his place you should have had no word of explanation +whatever. I would not have condescended to parley with you—by Heaven I +would not!” + +“Nor I!” said the duke, stiffly. + +“Nor I!” said Mancini. + +“Surely,” said Luziano Salustri, “Ferrari will make the amende +honorable.” + +There was a pause. Each man looked at Ferrari with some anxiety. The +suddenness of the quarrel had sobered the whole party more effectually +than a cold douche. Ferrari’s face grew more and more livid till his +very lips turned a ghastly blue—he laughed aloud in bitter scorn. Then, +walking steadily up to me, with his eyes full of baffled +vindictiveness, he said, in a low clear tone: + +“You say that—you say she never cared for me—_you_! and I am to +apologize to you! Thief, coward, traitor—take that for my apology!” And +he struck me across the mouth with his bare hand so fiercely that the +diamond ring he wore (my diamond ring) cut my flesh and slightly drew +blood. A shout of anger broke from all present! I turned to the Marquis +D’Avencourt. + +“There can be but one answer to this,” I said, with indifferent +coldness. “_Signor_ Ferrari has brought it on himself. Marquis, will +you do me the honor to arrange the affair?” + +The marquis bowed, “I shall be most happy!” + +Ferrari glared about him for a moment and then said, “Freccia, you will +second me?” + +Captain Freccia shrugged his shoulders. “You must positively excuse +me,” he said. “My conscience will not permit me to take up such a +remarkably wrong cause as yours, _cara mio_! I shall be pleased to act +with D’Avencourt for the count, if he will permit me.” The marquis +received him with cordiality, and the two engaged in earnest +conversation. Ferrari next proffered his request to his quondam friend +De Hamal, who also declined to second him, as did every one among the +company. He bit his lips in mortification and wounded vanity, and +seemed hesitating what to do next, when the marquis approached him with +frigid courtesy and appeared to offer him some suggestions in a low +tone of voice—for after a few minutes’ converse, Ferrari suddenly +turned on his heel and abruptly left the room without another word or +look. At the same instant I touched Vincenzo, who, obedient to his +orders, had remained an impassive but evidently astonished spectator of +all that had passed, and whispered—“Follow that man and do not let him +see you.” He obeyed so instantly that the door had scarcely closed upon +Ferrari when Vincenzo had also disappeared. The Marquis D’Avencourt now +came up to me. + +“Your opponent has gone to find two seconds,” he said. “As you +perceived, no one here would or could support him. It is a most +unfortunate affair.” + +“Most unfortunate,” chorused De Hamal, who, though not in it, appeared +thoroughly to enjoy it. + +“For my part,” said the Duke di Marina, “I wonder how our noble friend +could be so lenient with such a young puppy. His conceit is +insufferable!” + +Others around me made similar remarks, and were evidently anxious to +show how entirely they were on my side. I however remained silent, lest +they should see how gratified I was at the success of my scheme. The +marquis addressed me again: + +“While awaiting the other seconds, who are to find us here,” he said, +with a glance at his watch, “Freccia and I have arranged a few +preliminaries. It is now nearly midnight. We propose that the affair +should come off in the morning at six precisely. Will that suit you?” + +I bowed. + +“As the insulted party you have the choice of weapons. Shall we say—” + +“Pistols,” I replied briefly. + +“_A la bonne heure_! Then, suppose we fix upon the plot of open ground +just behind the hill to the left of the Casa Ghirlande—between that and +the Villa Romani—it is quiet and secluded, and there will be no fear of +interruption.” + +I bowed again. + +“Thus it stands,” continued the marquis, affably—“the hour of six—the +weapons pistols—the paces to be decided hereafter when the other +seconds arrive.” + +I professed myself entirely satisfied with these arrangements, and +shook hands with my amiable coadjutor. I then looked round at the rest +of the assembled company with a smile at their troubled faces. + +“Gentlemen,” I said, “our feast has broken up in a rather disagreeable +manner—and I am sorry for it, the more especially as it compels me to +part from you. Receive my thanks for your company, and for the +friendship you have displayed toward me! I do not believe that this is +the last time I shall have the honor of entertaining you—but if it +should be so, I shall at any rate carry a pleasant remembrance of you +into the next world! If on the contrary I should survive the combat of +the morning, I hope to see you all again on my marriage-day, when +nothing shall occur to mar our merriment. In the meantime—good-night!” + +They closed round me, pressing my hands warmly and assuring me of their +entire sympathy with me in the quarrel that had occurred. The duke was +especially cordial, giving me to understand that had the others failed +in their services, he himself, in spite of his dignity and peace-loving +disposition, would have volunteered as my second. I escaped from them +all at last and reached the quiet of my own apartments. There I sat +alone for more than an hour, waiting for the return of Vincenzo, whom I +had sent to track Ferrari. I heard the departing footsteps of my guests +as they left the hotel by twos and threes—I heard the equable voices of +the marquis and Captain Freccia ordering hot coffee to be served to +them in a private room where they were to await the other seconds—now +and then I caught a few words of the excited language of the waiters +who were volubly discussing the affair as they cleared away the remains +of the superb feast at which, though none knew it save myself, death +had been seated. Thirteen at table! One was a traitor and one must die. +I knew which one. No presentiment lurked in my mind as to the doubtful +result of the coming combat. It was not my lot to fall—my time had not +come yet—I felt certain of that! No! All the fateful forces of the +universe would help me to keep alive till my vengeance was fulfilled. +Oh, what bitter shafts of agony Ferrari carried in his heart at that +moment, I thought. _How_ he had looked when I said she never cared for +him! Poor wretch! I pitied him even while I rejoiced at his torture. He +suffered now as I had suffered—he was duped as I had been duped—and +each quiver of his convulsed face and tormented frame had been fraught +with satisfaction to me! Each moment of his life was now a pang to him. +Well! it would soon be over—thus far at least I was merciful. I drew +out pens and paper and commenced to write a few last instructions, in +case the result of the fight should be fatal to me. I made them very +concise and brief—I knew, while writing, that they would not be needed. +Still—for the sake of form I wrote—and sealing the document, I directed +it to the Duke di Marina. I looked at my watch—it was past one o’clock +and Vincenzo had not yet returned. I went to the window, and drawing +back the curtains, surveyed the exquisitely peaceful scene that lay +before me. The moon was still high and bright—and her reflection made +the waters of the bay appear like a warrior’s coat of mail woven from a +thousand glittering links of polished steel. Here and there, from the +masts of anchored brigs and fishing-boats gleamed a few red and green +lights burning dimly like fallen and expiring stars. There was a heavy +unnatural silence everywhere—it oppressed me, and I threw the window +wide open for air. Then came the sound of bells chiming softly. People +passed to and fro with quiet footsteps—some paused to exchange friendly +greetings. I remembered the day with a sort of pang at my heart. The +night was over, though as yet there was no sign of dawn—and—it was +Christmas morning! + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +The opening of the room door aroused me from my meditations. I +turned—to find Vincenzo standing near me, hat in hand—he had just +entered. + +“_Ebbene_!” I said, with a cheerful air—“what news?” + +“_Eccellenza_, you have been obeyed. The young _Signor_ Ferrari is now +at his studio.” + +“You left him there?” + +“Yes, _eccellenza_”—and Vincenzo proceeded to give me a graphic account +of his adventures. On leaving the banqueting-room, Ferrari had taken a +carriage and driven straight to the Villa Romani—Vincenzo, unperceived, +had swung himself on to the back of the vehicle and had gone also. + +“Arriving there,” continued my valet, “he dismissed the fiacre—and rang +the gate-bell furiously six or seven times. No one answered. I hid +myself among the trees and watched. There were no lights in the villa +windows—all was darkness. He rang it again—he even shook the gate as +though he would break it open. At last the poor Giacomo came, half +undressed and holding a lantern in his hand—he seemed terrified, and +trembled so much that the lantern jogged up and down like a +corpse-candle on a tomb. + +“‘I must see the _contessa_,’ said the young _signor_, Giacomo blinked +like an owl, and coughed as though the devil scratched in his throat. + +“‘The _contessa_!’ he said. ‘She is gone!’ + +“The _signor_ then threw himself upon Giacomo and shook him to and fro +as though he were a bag of loose wheat. + +“‘Gone!’ and he screamed like a madman! ‘_Where_? Tell me _where_, +dolt! idiot! driveler! before I twist your neck for you!’ + +“Truly, _eccellenza_, I would have gone to the rescue of the poor +Giacomo, but respect for your commands kept me silent. ‘A thousand +pardons, _signor_!’ he whispered, out of breath with his shaking.’ I +will tell you instantly—most instantly. She is at the _Convento dell’ +Annunziata_—ten miles from here—the saints know I speak the truth—she +left two days since.’ + +“The _Signor_ Ferrari then flung away the unfortunate Giacomo with so +much force that he fell in a heap on the pavement and broke his lantern +to pieces. The old man set up a most pitiful groaning, but the _signor_ +cared nothing for that. He was mad, I think. ‘Get to bed!’ he cried, +‘and sleep—sleep till you die! Tell your mistress when you see her that +I came to kill her! My curse upon this house and all who dwell in it!’ +And with that he ran so quickly through the garden into the high-road +that I had some trouble to follow him. There after walking unsteadily +for a few paces, he suddenly fell down, senseless.” + +Vincenzo paused. “Well,” I said, “what happened next?” + +“_Eccellenza_, I could not leave him there without aid. I drew my cloak +well up to my mouth and pulled my hat down over my eyes so that he +could not recognize me. Then I took water from the fountain close by +and dashed it on his face. He soon came to himself, and, taking me for +a stranger, thanked me for my assistance, saying that he had a sudden +shock. He then drank greedily from the fountain and went on his way.” + +“You followed?” + +“Yes, _eccellenza_—at a little distance. He next visited a common +tavern in one of the back streets of the city and came out with two +men. They were well dressed—they had the air of gentlemen spoiled by +bad fortune. The _signor_ talked with them for some time—he seemed much +excited. I could not hear what they said except at the end, when these +two strangers consented to appear as seconds for _Signor_ Ferrari, and +they at once left him, to come straight to this hotel. And they are +arrived, for I saw them through a half-opened door as I came in, +talking with the Marquis D’Avencourt.” + +“Well!” I said, “and what of _Signor_ Ferrari when he was left alone by +his two friends?” + +“There is not much more to tell, _eccellenza_. He went up the little +hill to his own studio, and I noticed that he walked like a very old +man with his head bent. Once he stopped and shook his fist in the air +as though threatening some one. He let himself in at his door with a +private key—and I saw him no more. I felt that he would not come out +again for some time. And as I moved away to return here, I heard a +sound as of terrible weeping.” + +“And that is all, Vincenzo?” + +“That is all, _eccellenza_.” + +I was silent. There was something in the simple narration that touched +me, though I remained as determinately relentless as ever. After a few +moments I said: + +“You have done well, Vincenzo. You are aware how grossly this young man +has insulted me—and that his injurious treatment can only be wiped out +in one way. That way is already arranged. You can set out those pistols +you cleaned.” + +Vincenzo obeyed—but as he lifted the heavy case of weapons and set them +on the table, he ventured to remark, timidly: + +“The _eccellenza_ knows it is now Christmas-day?” + +“I am quite aware of the fact,” I said somewhat frigidly. + +In nowise daunted he went on, “Coming back just now I saw the big +Nicolo—the _eccellenza_ has doubtless seen him often?—he is a +vine-grower, and they say he is the largest man in Naples—three months +since he nearly killed his brother—_ebbene_! To-night that same big +Nicolo is drinking Chianti with that same brother, and both shouted +after me as I passed, ‘_Hola_! Vincenzo Flamma! all is well between us +because it is the blessed Christ’s birthday.’” Vincenzo stopped and +regarded me wistfully. + +“Well!” I said, calmly, “what has the big Nicolo or his brother to do +with me?” + +My valet hesitated—looked up—then down—finally he said, simply, “May +the saints preserve the _eccellenza_ from all harm!” + +I smiled gravely. “Thank you, my friend! I understand what you mean. +Have no fear for me. I am now going to lie down and rest till five +o’clock or thereabouts—and I advise you to do the same. At that time +you can bring me some coffee.” + +And I nodded kindly to him as I left him and entered my sleeping +apartment, where I threw myself on the bed, dressed as I was. I had no +intention of sleeping—my mind was too deeply engrossed by all I had +gone through. I could enter into Guido’s feelings—had I not suffered as +he was now suffering?—nay! more than he—for _he_, at any rate, would +not be buried alive! I should take care of that! _He_ would not have to +endure the agony of breaking loose from the cold grasp of the grave to +come back to life and find his name slandered, and his vacant place +filled up by a usurper. Do what I would, I could not torture him as +much as I myself had been tortured. That was a pity—death, sudden and +almost painless, seemed too good for him. I held up my hand in the half +light and watched it closely to see if it trembled ever so slightly. +No! it was steady as a rock—I felt I was sure of my aim. I would not +fire at his heart, I thought but just above it—for I had to remember +one thing—he must live long enough to recognize me before he died. THAT +was the sting I reserved for his last moments! The sick dreams that had +bewildered my brain when I was taken ill at the auberge recurred to me. +I remembered the lithe figure, so like Guido, that had glided in the +Indian canoe toward me and had plunged a dagger three times in my +heart? Had it not been realized? Had not Guido stabbed me thrice?—in +his theft of my wife’s affections—in his contempt for my little dead +child—in his slanders on my name? Then why such foolish notions of +pity—of forgiveness, that were beginning to steal into my mind? It was +too late now for forgiveness—the very idea of it only rose out of a +silly sentimentalism awakened by Ferrari’s allusion to our young +days—days for which, after all, he really cared nothing. Meditating on +all these things, I suppose I must have fallen by imperceptible degrees +into a doze which gradually deepened till it became a profound and +refreshing sleep. From this I was awakened by a knocking at the door. I +arose and admitted Vincenzo, who entered bearing a tray of steaming +coffee. + +“Is it already so late?” I asked him. + +“It wants a quarter to five,” replied Vincenzo—then looking at me in +some surprise, he added, “Will not the _eccellenza_ change his +evening-dress?” + +I nodded in the affirmative—and while I drank my coffee my valet set +out a suit of rough tweed, such as I was accustomed to wear every day. +He then left me, and I quickly changed my attire, and while I did so I +considered carefully the position of affairs. Neither the Marquis +D’Avencourt nor Captain Freccia had ever known me personally when I was +Fabio Romani—nor was it at all probable that the two tavern companions +of Ferrari had ever seen me. A surgeon would be on the field—most +probably a stranger. Thinking over these points, I resolved on a bold +stroke—it was this—that when I turned to face Ferrari in the combat, I +would do so with uncovered eyes—I would abjure my spectacles altogether +for the occasion. Vaguely I wondered what the effect would be upon him. +I was very much changed even without these disguising glasses—my white +beard and hair had seemingly altered my aspect—yet I knew there was +something familiar in the expression of my eyes that could not fail to +startle one who had known me well. My seconds would consider it very +natural that I should remove the smoke-colored spectacles in order to +see my aim unencumbered—the only person likely to be disconcerted by my +action was Ferrari himself. The more I thought of it the more +determined I was to do it. I had scarcely finished dressing when +Vincenzo entered with my overcoat, and informed me that the marquis +waited for me, and that a close carriage was in attendance at the +private door of the hotel. + +“Permit me to accompany you, _eccellenza_!” pleaded the faithful +fellow, with anxiety in the tone of his voice. + +“Come then, _amico_!” I said, cheerily. “If the marquis makes no +objection I shall not. But you must promise not to interrupt any of the +proceedings by so much as an exclamation.” + +He promised readily, and when I joined the marquis he followed, +carrying my case of pistols. + +“He can be trusted, I suppose?” asked D’Avencourt, glancing keenly at +him while shaking hands cordially with me. + +“To the death!” I replied, laughingly. “He will break his heart if he +is not allowed to bind up my wounds!” + +“I see you are in good spirits, _conte_,” remarked Captain Freccia, as +we took our seats in the carriage. “It is always the way with the man +who is in the right. Ferrari, I fear, is not quite so comfortable.” + +And he proffered me a cigar, which I accepted. Just as we were about to +start, the fat landlord of the hotel rushed toward us, and laying hold +of the carriage door—“_Eccellenza_,” he observed in a confidential +whisper, “of course this is only a matter of coffee and glorias? They +will be ready for you all on your return. I know—I understand!” And he +smiled and nodded a great many times, and laid his finger knowingly on +the side of his nose. We laughed heartily, assuring him that his +perspicuity was wonderful, and he stood on the broad steps in high good +humor, watching us as our vehicle rumbled heavily away. + +“Evidently,” I remarked, “he does not consider a duel as a serious +affair.” + +“Not he!” replied Freccia. “He has known of too many sham fights to be +able to understand a real one. D’Avencourt knows something about that +too, though he always kills his man. But very often it is sufficient to +scratch one another with the sword-point so as to draw a quarter of a +drop of blood, and honor is satisfied! Then the coffee and glorias are +brought, as suggested by our friend the landlord.” + +“It is a ridiculous age,” said the marquis, taking his cigar from his +mouth, and complacently surveying his small, supple white hand, +“thoroughly ridiculous, but I determined it should never make a fool of +ME. You see, my dear _conte_, nowadays a duel is very frequently +decided with swords rather than pistols, and why? Because cowards fancy +it is much more difficult to kill with the sword. But not at all. Long +ago I made up my mind that no man should continue to live who dared to +insult me. I therefore studied swordplay as an art. And I assure you it +is a simple matter to kill with the sword—remarkably simple. My +opponents are astonished at the ease with which I dispatch them!” + +Freccia laughed. “De Hamal is a pupil of yours, marquis, is he not?” + +“I regret to say yes! He is marvelously clumsy. I have often earnestly +requested him to eat his sword rather than handle it so boorishly. Yet +he kills his men, too, but in a butcher-like manner—totally without +grace or refinement. I should say he was about on a par with our two +associates, Ferrari’s seconds.” + +I roused myself from a reverie into which I had fallen. + +“What men are they?” I inquired. + +“One calls himself the _Capitano_ Ciabatti, the other _Cavaliere_ +Dursi, at your service,” answered Freccia, indifferently. “Good +swearers both and hard drinkers—filled with stock phrases, such as ‘our +distinguished dear friend, Ferrari,’ ‘wrongs which can only be wiped +out by blood’—all bombast and braggadocio! These fellows would as soon +be on one side as the other.” + +He resumed his smoking, and we all three lapsed into silence. The drive +seemed very long, though in reality the distance was not great. At last +we passed the Casa Ghirlande, a superb chateau belonging to a +distinguished nobleman who in former days had been a friendly neighbor +to me, and then our vehicle jolted down a gentle declivity which sloped +into a small valley, where there was a good-sized piece of smooth flat +greensward. From this spot could be faintly discerned the castellated +turrets of my own house, the Villa Romani. Here we came to a +standstill. Vincenzo jumped briskly down from his seat beside the +coachman, and assisted us to alight. The carriage then drove off to a +retired corner behind some trees. We surveyed the ground, and saw that +as yet only one person beside ourselves had arrived. This was the +surgeon, a dapper good-humored little German who spoke bad French and +worse Italian, and who shook hands cordially with us all. On learning +who I was he bowed low and smiled very amiably. “The best wish I can +offer to you, _signor_,” he said, “is that you may have no occasion for +my services. You have reposed yourself? That is well—sleep steadies the +nerves. Ach! you shiver! True it is, the morning is cold.” + +I did indeed experience a passing shudder, but not because the air was +chilly. It was because I felt certain—so terribly certain, of killing +the man I had once loved well. Almost I wished I could also feel that +there was the slightest possibility of his killing me; but no!—all my +instincts told me there was no chance of this. I had a sort of sick +pain at my heart, and as I thought of _her_, the jewel-eyed snake who +had wrought all the evil, my wrath against her increased tenfold. I +wondered scornfully what she was doing away in the quiet convent where +the sacred Host, unveiled, glittered on the altar like a star of the +morning. No doubt she slept; it was yet too early for her to practice +her sham sanctity. She slept, in all probability most peacefully, while +her husband and her lover called upon death to come and decide between +them. The slow clear strokes of a bell chiming from the city tolled +six, and as its last echo trembled mournfully on the wind there was a +slight stir among my companions. I looked and saw Ferrari approaching +with his two associates. He walked slowly, and was muffled in a thick +cloak; his hat was pulled over his brows, and I could not see the +expression of his face, as he did not turn his head once in my +direction, but stood apart leaning against the trunk of a leafless +tree. The seconds on both sides now commenced measuring the ground. + +“We are agreed as to the distance, gentlemen,” said the marquis. +“Twenty paces, I think?” + +“Twenty paces,” stiffly returned one of Ferrari’s friends—a +battered-looking middle-aged roue with ferocious mustachios, whom I +presumed was Captain Ciabatti. + +They went on measuring carefully and in silence. During the pause I +turned my back on the whole party, slipped off my spectacles and put +them in my pocket. Then I lowered the brim of my hat slightly so that +the change might not be observed too suddenly—and resuming my first +position, I waited. It was daylight though not full morning—the sun had +not yet risen, but there was an opaline luster in the sky, and one pale +pink streak in the east like the floating pennon from the lance of a +hero, which heralded his approach. There was a gentle twittering of +awakening birds—the grass sparkled with a million tiny drops of frosty +dew. A curious calmness possessed me. I felt for the time as though I +were a mechanical automaton moved by some other will than my own. I had +no passion left. + +The weapons were now loaded—and the marquis, looking about him with a +cheerful business-like air, remarked: + +“I think we may now place our men?” + +This suggestion agreed to, Ferrari left his place near the tree against +which he had in part inclined as though fatigued, and advanced to the +spot his seconds pointed out to him. He threw off his hat and overcoat, +thereby showing that he was still in his evening-dress. His face was +haggard and of a sickly paleness—his eyes had dark rings of pain round +them, and were full of a keen and bitter anguish. He eagerly grasped +the pistol they handed to him, and examined it closely with vengeful +interest. I meanwhile also threw off my hat and coat—the marquis +glanced at me with careless approval. + +“You look a much younger man without your spectacles, _conte_,” he +remarked as he handed me my weapon. I smiled indifferently, and took up +my position at the distance indicated, exactly opposite Ferrari. He was +still occupied in the examination of his pistol, and did not at once +look up. + +“Are we ready, gentlemen?” demanded Freccia, with courteous coldness. + +“Quite ready,” was the response. The Marquis D’Avencourt took out his +handkerchief. Then Ferrari raised his head and faced me fully for the +first time. Great Heaven! shall I ever forget the awful change that +came over his pallid countenance—the confused mad look of his eyes—the +startled horror of his expression! His lips moved as though he were +about to utter an exclamation—he staggered. + +“One!” cried D’Avencourt. + +We raised our weapons. + +“Two!” + +The scared and bewildered expression of Ferrari’s face deepened visibly +as he eyed me steadily in taking aim. I smiled proudly—I gave him back +glance for glance—I saw him waver—his hand shook. + +“Three!” and the white handkerchief fluttered to the ground. Instantly, +and together, we fired. Ferrari’s bullet whizzed past me, merely +tearing my coat and grazing my shoulder. The smoke cleared—Ferrari +still stood erect, opposite to me, staring straight forward with the +same frantic far-off look—the pistol had dropped from his hand. +Suddenly he threw up his arms—shuddered—and with a smothered groan +fell, face forward, prone on the sward. The surgeon hurried to his side +and turned him so that he lay on his back. He was unconscious—though +his dark eyes were wide open, and turned blindly upward to the sky. The +front of his shirt was already soaked with blood. We all gathered round +him. + +“A good shot?” inquired the marquis, with the indifference of a +practiced duelist. + +“Ach! a good shot indeed!” replied the little German doctor, shaking +his head as he rose from his examination of the wound. “Excellent! He +will be dead in ten minutes. The bullet has passed through the lungs +close to the heart. Honor is satisfied certainly!” + +At that moment a deep anguished sigh parted the lips of the dying man. +Sense and speculation returned to those glaring eyes so awfully +upturned. He looked upon us all doubtfully one after the other—till +finally his gaze rested upon me. Then he grew strangely excited—his +lips moved—he eagerly tried to speak. The doctor, watchful of his +movements, poured brandy between his teeth. The cordial gave him +momentary strength—he raised himself by a supreme effort. + +“Let me speak,” he gasped faintly, “to _him_!” And he pointed to +me—then he continued to mutter like a man in a dream—“to +him—alone—alone!—to him alone!” + +The others, slightly awed by his manner, drew aside out of ear-shot, +and I advanced and knelt beside him, stooping my face between his and +the morning sky. His wild eyes met mine with a piteous beseeching +terror. + +“In God’s name,” he whispered, thickly, “_who are you_?” + +“You know me, Guido!” I answered, steadily. “I am Fabio Romani, whom +you once called friend! I am he whose wife you stole!—whose name you +slandered!—whose honor you despised! Ah! look at me well! your own +heart tells you who I am!” + +He uttered a low moan and raised his hand with a feeble gesture. + +“Fabio? Fabio?” he gasped. “He died—I saw him in his coffin—” + +I leaned more closely over him. “I was _buried alive_,” I said with +thrilling distinctness. “Understand me, Guido—buried alive! I +escaped—no matter how. I came home—to learn your treachery and my own +dishonor! Shall I tell you more?” + +A terrible shudder shook his frame—his head moved restlessly to and +fro, the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead. With my own +handkerchief I wiped his lips and brow tenderly—my nerves were strung +up to an almost brittle tension—I smiled as a woman smiles when on the +verge of hysterical weeping. + +“You know the avenue,” I said, “the dear old avenue, where the +nightingales sing? I saw you there, Guido—with _her_!—on the very night +of my return from death—_she_ was in your arms—you kissed her—you spoke +of me—you toyed with the necklace on her white breast!” + +He writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement. + +“Tell me—quick!” he gasped. “Does—_she_—know you?” + +“Not yet!” I answered, slowly. “But soon she will—when I have married +her!” + +A look of bitter anguish filled his straining eyes. “Oh, God, God!” he +exclaimed with a groan like that of a wild beast in pain. “This is +horrible, too horrible! Spare me—spare—” A rush of blood choked his +utterance. His breathing grew fainter and fainter; the livid hue of +approaching dissolution spread itself gradually over his countenance. +Staring wildly at me, he groped with his hands as though he searched +for some lost thing. I took one of those feebly wandering hands within +my own, and held it closely clasped. + +“You know the rest,” I said gently; “you understand my vengeance! But +it is all over, Guido—all over, now! She has played us both false. May +God forgive you as I do!” + +He smiled—a soft look brightened his fast-glazing eyes—the old boyish +look that had won my love in former days. + +“All over!” he repeated in a sort of plaintive babble. “All over now! +God—Fabio—forgive!—” A terrible convulsion wrenched and contorted his +limbs and features, his throat rattled, and stretching himself out with +a long shivering sigh—he died! The first beams of the rising sun, +piercing through the dark, moss-covered branches of the pine-trees, +fell on his clustering hair, and lent a mocking brilliancy to his +wide-open sightless eyes: there was a smile on the closed lips! A +burning, suffocating sensation rose in my throat, as of rebellious +tears trying to force a passage. I still held the hand of my friend and +enemy—it had grown cold in my clasp. Upon it sparkled my family +diamond—the ring _she_ had given him. I drew the jewel off: then I +kissed that poor passive hand as I laid it gently down—kissed it +tenderly, reverently. Hearing footsteps approaching, I rose from my +kneeling posture and stood erect with folded arms, looking tearlessly +down on the stiffening clay before me. The rest of the party came up; +no one spoke for a minute, all surveyed the dead body in silence. At +last Captain Freccia said, softly in half-inquiring accents: + +“He is gone, I suppose?” + +I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak. + +“He made you his apology?” asked the marquis. + +I bowed again. There was another pause of heavy silence. The rigid +smiling face of the corpse seemed to mock all speech. The doctor +stooped and skillfully closed those glazed appealing eyes—and then it +seemed to me as though Guido merely slept and that a touch would waken +him. The Marquis D’Avencourt took me by the arm and whispered, “Get +back to the city, _amico_, and take some wine—you look positively ill! +Your evident regret does you credit, considering the circumstances—but +what would you?—it was a fair fight. Consider the provocation you had! +I should advise you to leave Naples for a couple of weeks—by that time +the affair will be forgotten. I know how these things are managed—leave +it all to me.” + +I thanked him and shook his hand cordially and turned to depart. +Vincenzo was in waiting with the carriage. Once I looked back, as with +slow steps I left the field; a golden radiance illumined the sky just +above the stark figure stretched so straightly on the sward; while +almost from the very side of that pulseless heart a little bird rose +from its nest among the grasses and soared into the heavens, singing +rapturously as it flew into the warmth and glory of the living, +breathing day. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +Entering the fiacre, I drove in it a very little way toward the city. I +bade the driver stop at the corner of the winding road that led to the +Villa Romani, and there I alighted. I ordered Vincenzo to go on to the +hotel and send from thence my own carriage and horses up to the villa +gates, where I would wait for it. I also bade him pack my portmanteau +in readiness for my departure that evening, as I proposed going to +Avellino, among the mountains, for a few days. He heard my commands in +silence and evident embarrassment. Finally he said: + +“Do I also travel with the _eccellenza_?” + +“Why, no!” I answered with a forced sad smile. “Do you not see, +_amico_, that I am heavy-hearted, and melancholy men are best left to +themselves. Besides—remember the carnival—I told you you were free to +indulge in its merriment, and shall I not deprive you of your pleasure? +No, Vincenzo; stay and enjoy yourself, and take no concern for me.” + +Vincenzo saluted me with his usual respectful bow, but his features +wore an expression of obstinacy. + +“The _eccellenza_ must pardon me,” he said, “but I have just looked at +death, and my taste is spoiled for carnival. Again—the _eccellenza_ is +sad—it is necessary that I should accompany him to Avellino.” + +I saw that his mind was made up, and I was in no humor for argument. + +“As you will,” I answered, wearily, “only believe me, you make a +foolish decision. But do what you like; only arrange all so that we +leave to-night. And now get back quickly—give no explanation at the +hotel of what has occurred, and lose no time in sending on my carriage. +I will wait alone at the Villa Romani till it comes.” + +The vehicle rumbled off, bearing Vincenzo seated on the box beside the +driver. I watched it disappear, and then turned into the road that led +me to my own dishonored home. The place looked silent and deserted—not +a soul was stirring. The silken blinds of the reception-rooms were all +closely drawn, showing that the mistress of the house was absent; it +was as if some one lay dead within. A vague wonderment arose in my +mind. _Who_ was dead? Surely it must be I—I the master of the +household, who lay stiff and cold in one of those curtained rooms! This +terrible white-haired man who roamed feverishly up and down outside the +walls was not me—it was some angry demon risen from the grave to wreak +punishment on the guilty. _I_ was dead—_I_ could never have killed the +man who had once been my friend. And he also was dead—the same +murderess had slain us both—and _she_ lived! Ha! that was wrong—she +must now die—but in such torture that her very soul shall shrink and +shrivel under it into a devil’s flame for the furnace of hell! + +With my brain full of hot whirling thoughts like these I looked through +the carved heraldic work of the villa gates. Here had Guido stood, poor +wretch, last night, shaking these twisted wreaths of iron in impotent +fury. There on the mosaic pavement he had flung the trembling old +servant who had told him of the absence of his traitress. On this very +spot he had launched his curse, which, though he knew it not, was the +curse of a dying man. I was glad he had uttered it—such maledictions +cling! There was nothing but compassion for him in my heart now that he +was dead. He had been duped and wronged even as I; and I felt that his +spirit, released from its grosser clay, would work with mine and aid in +her punishment. + +I paced round the silent house till I came to the private wicket that +led into the avenue; I opened it and entered the familiar path. I had +not been there since the fatal night on which I had learned my own +betrayal. How intensely still were those solemn pines—how gaunt and +dark and grim! Not a branch quivered—not a leaf stirred. A cold dew +that was scarcely a frost glittered on the moss at my feet, No bird’s +voice broke the impressive hush of the wood-lands morning dream. No +bright-hued flower unbuttoned its fairy cloak to the breeze; yet there +was a subtle perfume everywhere—the fragrance of unseen violets whose +purple eyes were still closed in slumber. + +I gazed on the scene as a man may behold in a vision the spot where he +once was happy. I walked a few paces, then paused with a strange +beating at my heart. A shadow fell across my path—it flitted before me, +it stopped—it lay still. I saw it resolve itself into the figure of a +man stretched out in rigid silence, with the light beating full on its +smiling, dead face, and also on a deep wound just above his heart, from +which the blood oozed redly, staining the grass on which he lay. +Mastering the sick horror which seized me at this sight, I sprung +forward—the shadow vanished instantly—it was a mere optical delusion, +the result of my overwrought and excited condition. I shuddered +involuntarily at the image my own heated fancy had conjured up; should +I always see Guido thus, I thought, even in my dreams? + +Suddenly a ringing, swaying rush of sound burst joyously on the +silence—the slumbering trees awoke, their leaves moved, their dark +branches quivered, and the grasses lifted up their green lilliputian +sword-blades. Bells!—and _such_ bells!—tongues of melody that stormed +the air with sweetest eloquence—round, rainbow bubbles of music that +burst upon the wind, and dispersed in delicate broken echoes. + +“Peace on earth, good will to men! Peace—on—earth—good—will—to—men!” +they seemed to say over and over again, till my ears ached with the +repetition. Peace! What had I to do with peace or good-will? The Christ +Mass could teach me nothing. I was as one apart from human life—an +alien from its customs and affections—for me no love, no brotherhood +remained. The swinging song of the chimes jarred my nerves. Why, I +thought, should the wild erring world, with all its wicked men and +women, presume to rejoice at the birth of the Saviour?—they, who were +not worthy to be saved! I turned swiftly away; I strode fiercely past +the kingly pines that, now thoroughly awakened, seemed to note me with +a stern disdain as though they said among themselves: “What manner of +small creature is this that torments himself with passions unknown to +_us_ in our calm converse with the stars?” + +I was glad when I stood again on the high-road, and infinitely relieved +when I heard the rapid trot of horses, rumbling of wheels, and saw my +closed brougham, drawn by its prancing black Arabians, approaching. I +walked to meet it; the coachman seeing me drew up instantly, I bade him +take me to the _Convento dell’Annunziata_, and entering the carriage, I +was driven rapidly away. + +The convent was situated, I knew, somewhere between Naples and +Sorrento. I guessed it to be near Castellamare, but it was fully three +miles beyond that, and was a somewhat long drive of more than two +hours. It lay a good distance out of the direct route, and was only +attained by a by-road, which from its rough and broken condition was +evidently not much frequented. The building stood apart from all other +habitations in a large open piece of ground, fenced in by a high stone +wall spiked at the top. Roses climbed thickly among the spikes, and +almost hid their sharp points from view, and from a perfect nest of +green foliage, the slender spire of the convent chapel rose into the +sky like a white finger pointing to heaven. My coachman drew up before +the heavily barred gates. I alighted, and bade him take the carriage to +the principal hostelry at Castellamare, and wait for me there. As soon +as he had driven off, I rang the convent bell. A little wicket fixed in +the gate opened immediately, and the wrinkled visage of a very old and +ugly nun looked out. She demanded in low tones what I sought. I handed +her my card, and stated my desire to see the Countess Romani, if +agreeable to the superioress. While I spoke she looked at me +curiously—my spectacles, I suppose, excited her wonder—for I had +replaced these disguising glasses immediately on leaving the scene of +the duel—I needed them yet a little while longer. After peering at me a +minute or two with her bleared and aged eyes, she shut the wicket in my +face with a smart click and disappeared. While I awaited her return I +heard the sound of children’s laughter and light footsteps running +trippingly on the stone passage within. + +“Fi donc, Rosie!” said the girl’s voice in French; “_la bonne Mère +Marguerite sera tres tres fachee avec toi_.” + +“_Tais-toi, petite sainte_!” cried another voice more piercing and +silvery in tone. “_Je veux voir qui est la_! _C’est un homme je sais +bien—parceque la vieille Mère Laura a rougi_!” and both young voices +broke into a chorus of renewed laughter. + +Then came the shuffling noise of the old nun’s footsteps returning; she +evidently caught the two truants, whoever they were, for I heard her +expostulating, scolding and apostrophizing the saints all in a breath, +as she bade them go inside the house and ask the good little Jesus to +forgive their naughtiness. A silence ensued, then the bolts and bars of +the huge gate were undone slowly—it opened, and I was admitted. I +raised my hat as I entered, and walked bareheaded through a long, cold +corridor, guided by the venerable nun, who looked at me no more, but +told her beads as she walked, and never spoke till she had led me into +the building, through a lofty hall glorious with sacred paintings and +statues, and from thence into a large, elegantly furnished room, whose +windows commanded a fine view of the grounds. Here she motioned me to +take a seat, and without lifting her eyelids, said: + +“Mother Marguerite will wait upon you instantly, _signor_.” + +I bowed, and she glided from the room so noiselessly that I did not +even hear the door close behind her. Left alone in what I rightly +concluded was the reception-room for visitors, I looked about me with +some faint interest and curiosity. I had never before seen the interior +of what is known as an educational convent. There were many photographs +on the walls and mantelpiece—portraits of girls, some plain of face and +form, others beautiful—no doubt they had all been sent to the nuns as +souvenirs of former pupils. Rising from my chair I examined a few of +them carelessly, and was about to inspect a fine copy of Murillo’s +Virgin, when my attention was caught by an upright velvet frame +surmounted with my own crest and coronet. In it was the portrait of my +wife, taken in her bridal dress, as she looked when she married me. I +took it to the light and stared at the features dubiously. This was +she—this slim, fairy-like creature clad in gossamer white, with the +marriage veil thrown back from her clustering hair and child-like +face—this was the _thing_ for which two men’s lives had been +sacrificed! With a movement of disgust I replaced the frame in its +former position; I had scarcely done so when the door opened quietly +and a tall woman, clad in trailing robes of pale blue with a nun’s band +and veil of fine white cashmere, stood before me. I saluted her with a +deep reverence; she responded by the slightest possible bend of her +head. Her outward manner was so very still and composed that when she +spoke her colorless lips scarcely moved, her very breathing never +stirred the silver crucifix that lay like a glittering sign-manual on +her quiet breast. Her voice, though low, was singularly clear and +penetrating. + +“I address the Count Oliva?” she inquired. + +I bowed in the affirmative. She looked at me keenly: she had dark, +brilliant eyes, in which the smoldering fires of many a conquered +passion still gleamed. + +“You would see the Countess Romani, who is in retreat here?” + +“If not inconvenient or out of rule—” I began. + +The shadow of a smile flitted across the nun’s pale, intellectual face; +it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. + +“Not at all,” she replied, in the same even monotone. “The Countess +Nina is, by her own desire, following a strict regime, but to-day being +a universal feast-day all rules are somewhat relaxed. The reverend +mother desires me to inform you that it is now the hour for mass—she +has herself already entered the chapel. If you will share in our +devotions, the countess shall afterward be informed of your presence +here.” + +I could do no less than accede to this proposition, though in truth it +was unwelcome to me. I was in no humor for either prayers or praise; I +thought moodily how startled even this impassive nun might have been, +could she have known what manner of man it was that she thus invited to +kneel in the sanctuary. However, I said no word of objection, and she +bade me follow her. As we left the room I asked: + +“Is the countess well?” + +“She seems so,” returned _Mère_ Marguerite; “she follows her religious +duties with exactitude, and makes no complaint of fatigue.” + +We were now crossing the hall. I ventured on another inquiry. + +“She was a favorite pupil of yours, I believe?” + +The nun turned her passionless face toward me with an air of mild +surprise and reproof. + +“I have no favorites,” she answered, coldly. “All the children educated +here share my attention and regard equally.” + +I murmured an apology, and added with a forced smile: + +“You must pardon my apparent inquisitiveness, but as the future husband +of the lady who was brought up under your care, I am naturally +interested in all that concerns her.” + +Again the searching eyes of the _religieuse_ surveyed me; she sighed +slightly. + +“I am aware of the connection between you,” she said, in rather a +pained tone. “Nina Romani belongs to the world, and follows the ways of +the world. Of course, marriage is the natural fulfillment of most young +girls’ destinies, there are comparatively few who are called out of the +ranks to serve Christ. Therefore, when Nina married the estimable Count +Romani, of whom report spoke ever favorably, we rejoiced greatly, +feeling that her future was safe in the hands of a gentle and wise +protector. May his soul rest in peace! But a second marriage for her is +what I did not expect, and what I cannot in my conscience approve. You +see I speak frankly.” + +“I am honored that you do so, madame!” I said, earnestly, feeling a +certain respect for this sternly composed yet patient-featured woman; +“yet, though in general you may find many reasonable objections to it, +a second marriage is I think, in the Countess Romani’s case almost +necessary. She is utterly without a protector—she is very young and how +beautiful!” + +The nun’s eyes grew solemn and almost mournful. + +“Such beauty is a curse,” she answered, with emphasis; “a fatal—a +fearful curse! As a child it made her wayward. As a woman it keeps her +wayward still. Enough of this, _signor_!” and she bowed her head; +“excuse my plain speaking. Rest assured that I wish you both +happiness.” + +We had by this time reached the door of the chapel, through which the +sound of the pealing organ poured forth in triumphal surges of melody. +_Mère_ Marguerite dipped her fingers in the holy water, and signing +herself with the cross, pointed out a bench at the back of the church +as one that strangers were allowed to occupy. I seated myself, and +looked with a certain soothed admiration at the picturesque scene +before me. There was the sparkle of twinkling lights—the bloom and +fragrance of flowers. There were silent rows of nuns blue-robed and +white-veiled, kneeling and absorbed in prayer. Behind these a little +cluster of youthful figures in black, whose drooped heads were entirely +hidden in veils of flowing white muslin. Behind these again, one +woman’s slight form arrayed in heavy mourning garments; her veil was +black, yet not so thick but that I could perceive the sheeny glitter of +golden hair—that was my wife, I knew. Pious angel! how devout she +looked! I smiled in dreary scorn as I watched her; I cursed her afresh +in the name of the man I had killed. And above all, surrounded with the +luster of golden rays and incrusted jewels, the uncovered Host shone +serenely like the gleam of the morning star. The stately service went +on—the organ music swept through and through the church as though it +were a strong wind striving to set itself free—but amid it all I sat as +one in a dark dream, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing—inflexible and +cold as marble. The rich plaintive voice of one of the nuns in the +choir, singing the _Agnus Dei_, moved me to a chill sort of wonder. +“_Qui tollis peccata mundi_—Who takest away the sin of the world.” No, +no! there are some sins that cannot be taken away—the sins of faithless +women, the “_little_” sins as they are called nowadays—for we have +grown very lenient in some things, and very severe in others. We will +imprison the miserable wretch who steals five francs from our pockets, +but the cunning feminine thief who robs us of our prestige, our name +and honorable standing among our fellow-men, escapes almost scot-free; +she cannot be put in prison, or sentenced to hard labor—not she! A pity +it is that Christ did not leave us some injunction as to what was to be +done with such women—not the penitent Magdalenes, but the creatures +whose mouths are full of lies even when they pretend to pray—they who +would be capable of trying to tempt the priest who comes to receive +their last confessions—they who would even act out a sham repentance on +their deathbeds in order to look well. What can be done with devils +such as these? Much has been said latterly of the wrongs perpetrated on +women by men; will no one take up the other side of the question? We, +the stronger sex, are weak in this—we are too chivalrous. When a woman +flings herself on our mercy we spare her and are silent. Tortures will +not wring her secrets out of us; something holds us back from betraying +her. I know not what it can be—perhaps it is the memory of our mothers. +Whatever it is, it is certain that many a man allows himself to be +disgraced rather than he will disgrace a woman. But a time is at hand +when this foolish chivalry of ours will die out. _On changera tout +cela_! When once our heavy masculine brains shall have grasped the +novel idea that woman has by her own wish and choice resigned all claim +on our respect or forbearance, we shall have our revenge. We are slow +to change the traditions of our forefathers, but no doubt we shall soon +manage to quench the last spark of knightly reverence left in us for +the female sex, as this is evidently the point the women desire to +bring us to. We shall meet them on that low platform of the “equality” +they seek for, and we shall treat them with the unhesitating and +regardless familiarity they so earnestly invite! + +Absorbed in thought, I knew not when the service ended. A hand touched +me, and looking up I saw _Mère_ Marguerite, who whispered: + +“Follow me, if you please.” + +I rose and obeyed her mechanically. Outside the chapel door she said: + +“Pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to +see the nuns and boarders passing out.” + +I bowed, and walked on beside her. Feeling forced to say something, I +asked: + +“Have you many boarders at this holiday season?” + +“Only fourteen,” she replied, “and they are children whose parents live +far away. Poor little ones!” and the set lines of the nun’s stern face +softened into tenderness as she spoke. “We do our best to make them +happy, but naturally they feel lonely. We have generally fifty or sixty +young girls here, besides the day scholars.” + +“A great responsibility,” I remarked. + +“Very great indeed!” and she sighed; “almost terrible. So much of a +woman’s after life depends on the early training she receives. We do +all we can, and yet in some cases our utmost efforts are in vain; evil +creeps in, we know not how—some unsuspected fault spoils a character +that we judged to be admirable, and we are often disappointed in our +most promising pupils. Alas! there is nothing entirely without blemish +in this world.” + +Thus talking, she showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room, +lined with books and softly carpeted. + +“This is one of our libraries,” she explained. “The countess will +receive you here, as other visitors might disturb you in the +drawing-room. Pardon me,” and her steady gaze had something of +compassion in it, “but you do not look well. Can I send you some wine?” + +I declined this offer with many expressions of gratitude, and assured +her I was perfectly well. She hesitated, and at last said, anxiously: + +“I trust you were not offended at my remark concerning Nina Romani’s +marriage with you? I fear I was too hasty?” + +“Not so, madame,” I answered, with all the earnestness I felt. “Nothing +is more pleasant to me than a frank opinion frankly spoken. I have been +so accustomed to deception—” Here I broke off and added hastily, “Pray +do not think me capable of judging you wrongly.” + +She seemed relieved, and smiling that shadowy, flitting smile of hers, +she said: + +“No doubt you are impatient, _signor_; Nina shall come to you +directly,” and with a slight salutation she left me. + +Surely she was a good woman, I thought, and vaguely wondered about her +past history—that past which she had buried forever under a mountain of +prayers. What had she been like when young—before she had shut herself +within the convent walls—before she had set the crucifix like a seal on +her heart? Had she ever trapped a man’s soul and strangled it with +lies? I fancied not—her look was too pure and candid; yet who could +tell? Were not Nina’s eyes trained to appear as though they held the +very soul of truth? A few minutes passed. I heard the fresh voices of +children singing in the next room: + +“D’ou vient le petit Gesù? + Ce joli bouton de rose + Qui fleurit, enfant cheri +Sur le cœur de notre mère Marie.” + + +Then came a soft rustle of silken garments, the door opened, and my +wife entered. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +She approached with her usual panther-like grace and supple movement, +her red lips parted in a charming smile. + +“So good of you to come!” she began, holding out her two hands as +though she invited an embrace; “and on Christmas morning too!” She +paused, and seeing that I did not move or speak, she regarded me with +some alarm. “What is the matter?” she asked, in fainter tones; “has +anything happened?” + +I looked at her. I saw that she was full of sudden fear, I made no +attempt to soothe her, I merely placed a chair. + +“Sit down,” I said, gravely. “I am the bearer of bad news.” + +She sunk into the chair as though unnerved, and gazed at me with +terrified eyes. She trembled. Watching her keenly, I observed all these +outward signs of trepidation with deep satisfaction. I saw plainly what +was passing in her mind. A great dread had seized her—the dread that I +had found out her treachery. So indeed I had, but the time had not yet +come for her to know it. Meanwhile she suffered—suffered acutely with +that gnawing terror and suspense eating into her soul. I said nothing, +I waited for her to speak. After a pause, during which her cheeks had +lost their delicate bloom, she said, forcing a smile as she spoke— + +“Bad news? You surprise me! What can it be? Some unpleasantness with +Guido? Have you seen him?” + +“I have seen him,” I answered in the same formal and serious tone; “I +have just left him. He sends you _this_,” and I held out my diamond +ring that I had drawn off the dead man’s finger. + +If she had been pale before, she grew paler now. All the brilliancy of +her complexion faded for the moment into an awful haggardness. She took +the ring with fingers that shook visibly and were icy cold. There was +no attempt at smiling now. She drew a sharp quick breath; she thought I +knew all. I was again silent. She looked at the diamond signet with a +bewildered air. + +“I do not understand,” she murmured, petulantly. “I gave him this as a +remembrance of his friend, my husband, why does he return it?” + +Self-tortured criminal! I studied her with a dark amusement, but +answered nothing. Suddenly she looked up at me and her eyes filled with +tears. + +“Why are you so cold and strange, Cesare?” she pleaded, in a sort of +plaintive whimper. “Do not stand there like a gloomy sentinel; kiss me +and tell me at once what has happened.” + +Kiss her! So soon after kissing the dead hand of her lover! No, I could +not and would not. I remained standing where I was, inflexibly silent. +She glanced at me again, very timidly, and whimpered afresh. + +“Ah, you do not love me!” she murmured. “You could not be so stern and +silent if you loved me! If there is indeed any bad news, you ought to +break it to me gently and kindly. I thought you would always make +everything easy for me—” + +“Such has been my endeavor, madame,” I said interrupting her complaint. +“From your own statement, I judged that your adopted brother Guido +Ferrari had rendered himself obnoxious to you. I promised that I would +silence him—you remember! I have kept my word. He _is_ +silenced—forever!” + +She started. + +“Silenced? How? You mean—” + +I moved away from my place behind her chair, and stood so that I faced +her as I spoke. + +“I mean that he is dead.” + +She uttered a slight cry, not of sorrow but of wonderment. + +“_Dead_!” she exclaimed. “Not possible! Dead! You have killed him?” + +I bent my head gravely. “I killed him—yes! But in open combat, openly +witnessed. Last night he insulted me grossly; we fought this morning. +We forgave each other before he died.” + +She listened attentively. A little color came back into her cheeks. + +“In what way did he insult you?” she asked, in a low voice. + +I told her all, briefly. She still looked anxious. + +“Did he mention my name?” she said. + +I glanced at her troubled features in profound contempt. She feared the +dying man might have made some confession to me! I answered: + +“No; not after our quarrel. But I hear he went to your house to kill +you! Not finding you there, he only cursed you.” + +She heaved a sigh of relief. She was safe now, she thought! + +Her red lips widened into a cruel smile. + +“What bad taste!” she said, coldly. “Why he should curse me I cannot +imagine! I have always been kind to him—_too_ kind.” + +Too kind indeed! kind enough to be glad when the object of all her +kindness was dead! For she _was_ glad! I could see that in the +murderous glitter of her eyes. + +“You are not sorry?” I inquired, with an air of pretended surprise. + +“Sorry? Not at all! Why should I be? He was a very agreeable friend +while my husband was alive to keep him in order, but after my poor +Fabio’s death, his treatment of me was quite unbearable.” + +Take care, beautiful hypocrite! take care! Take care lest your “poor +Fabio’s” fingers should suddenly nip your slim throat with a convulsive +twitch that means death! Heaven only knows how I managed to keep my +hands off her at that moment! Why, any groveling beast of the field had +more feeling than this wretch whom I had made my wife! Even for Guido’s +sake—such are the strange inconsistencies of the human heart—I could +have slain her then. But I restrained my fury; I steadied my voice and +said calmly: “Then I was mistaken? I thought you would be deeply +grieved, that my news would shock and annoy you greatly, hence my +gravity and apparent coldness. But it seems I have done well?” + +She sprung up from her chair like a pleased child and flung her arms +round my neck. + +“You are brave, you are brave!” she exclaimed, in a sort of exultation. +“You could not have done otherwise! He insulted you and you killed him. +That was right! I love you all the more for being such a man of honor!” + +I looked down upon her in loathing and disgust. Honor! Its very name +was libeled coming from _her_ lips. She did not notice the expression +of my face—she was absorbed, excellent actress as she was, in the part +she had chosen to play. + +“And so you were dull and sad because you feared to grieve me! Poor +Cesare!” she said, in child-like caressing accents, such as she could +assume when she chose. “But now that you see I am not unhappy, you will +be cheerful again? Yes? Think how much I love you, and how happy we +will be! And see, you have given me such lovely jewels, so many of them +too, that I scarcely dare offer you such a trifle as this; but as it +really belonged to Fabio, and to Fabio’s father, whom you knew, I think +you ought to have it. Will you take it and wear it to please me?” and +she slipped on my finger the diamond signet—my own ring! + +I could have laughed aloud! but I bent my head gravely as I accepted +it. + +“Only as a proof of your affection, _cara mia_,” I said, “though it has +a terrible association for me. I took it from Ferrari’s hand when—” + +“Oh, yes, I know!” she interrupted me with a little shiver; “it must +have been trying for you to have seen him dead. I think dead people +look so horrid—the sight upsets the nerves! I remember when I was at +school here, they _would_ take me to see a nun who died; it sickened me +and made me ill for days. I can quite understand your feelings. But you +must try and forget the matter. Duels are very common occurrences, +after all!” + +“Very common,” I answered, mechanically, still regarding the fair +upturned face, the lustrous eyes, the rippling hair; “but they do not +often end so fatally. The result of this one compels me to leave Naples +for some days. I go to Avellino to-night.” + +“To Avellino?” she exclaimed, with interest. “Oh, I know it very well. +I went there once with Fabio when I was first married.” + +“And were you happy there?” I inquired, coldly. + +I remembered the time she spoke of—a time of such unreasoning, foolish +joy! + +“Happy? Oh, yes; everything was so new to me then. It was delightful to +be my own mistress, and I was so glad to be out of the convent.” + +“I thought you liked the nuns?” I said. + +“Some of them—yes. The reverend mother is a dear old thing. But _Mère_ +Marguerite, the _Vicaire_ as she is called—the one that received +you—oh, I do detest her!” + +“Indeed! and why?” + +The red lips curled mutinously. + +“Because she is so sly and silent. Some of the children here adore her; +but they _must_ have something to love, you know,” and she laughed +merrily. + +“Must they?” + +I asked the question automatically, merely for the sake of saying +something. + +“Of course they must,” she answered, gayly. “You foolish Cesare! The +girls often play at being one another’s lovers, only they are careful +not to let the nuns know their game. It is very amusing. Since I have +been here they have what is called a ‘CRAZE’ for me. They give me +flowers, run after me in the garden, and sometimes kiss my dress, and +call me by all manner of loving names. I let them do it because it +vexes _Madame la Vicaire_; but of course it is very foolish.” + +I was silent. I thought what a curse it was—this necessity of loving. +Even the poison of it must find its way into the hearts of +children—young things shut within the walls of a secluded convent, and +guarded by the conscientious care of holy women. + +“And the nuns?” I said, uttering half my thoughts aloud. “How do they +manage without love or romance?” + +A wicked little smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in her eyes. + +“_Do_ they always manage without love or romance?” she asked, half +indolently. “What of Abelard and Heloise, or Fra Lippi?” + +Roused by something in her tone, I caught her round the waist, and held +her firmly while I said, with some sternness: + +“And you—is it possible that _you_ have sympathy with, or find +amusement in, the contemplation of illicit and dishonorable +passion—tell me?” + +She recollected herself in time; her white eyelids drooped demurely. + +“Not I!” she answered, with a grave and virtuous air; “how can you +think so? There is nothing to my mind so horrible as deceit; no good +ever comes of it.” + +I loosened her from my embrace. + +“You are right,” I said, calmly; “I am glad your instincts are so +correct! I have always hated lies.” + +“So have I!” she declared, earnestly, with a frank and open look; “I +have often wondered why people tell them. They are so sure to be found +out!” + +I bit my lips hard to shut in the burning accusations that my tongue +longed to utter. Why should I damn the actress or the play before the +curtain was ready to fall on both? I changed the subject of converse. + +“How long do you propose remaining here in retreat?” I asked. “There is +nothing now to prevent your returning to Naples.” + +She pondered for some minutes before replying, then she said: + +“I told the superioress I came here for a week. I had better stay till +that time is expired. Not longer, because as Guido is really dead, my +presence is actually necessary in the city.” + +“Indeed! May I ask why?” + +She laughed a little consciously. + +“Simply to prove his last will and testament,” she replied. “Before he +left for Rome, he gave it into my keeping.” + +A light flashed on my mind. + +“And its contents?” I inquired. + +“Its contents make _me_ the owner of everything he died possessed of!” +she said, with an air of quiet yet malicious triumph. + +Unhappy Guido! What trust he had reposed in this vile, self-interested, +heartless woman! He had loved her, even as I had loved her—she who was +unworthy of any love! I controlled my rising emotion, and merely said +with gravity: + +“I congratulate you! May I be permitted to see this document?” + +“Certainly; I can show it to you now. I have it here,” and she drew a +Russia-leather letter-case from her pocket, and opening it, handed me a +sealed envelope. “Break the seal!” she added, with childish eagerness. +“He closed it up like that after I had read it.” + +With reluctant hand, and a pained piteousness at my heart, I opened the +packet. It was as she had said, a will drawn up in perfectly legal +form, signed and witnessed, leaving everything _unconditionally_ to +“Nina, Countess Romani, of the Villa Romani, Naples.” I read it through +and returned it to her. + +“He must have loved you!” I said. + +She laughed. + +“Of course,” she said, airily. “But many people love me—that is nothing +new; I am accustomed to be loved. But you see,” she went on, reverting +to the will again, “it specifies, ‘_everything he dies possessed of_;’ +that means all the money left to him by his uncle in Rome, does it +not?” + +I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak. + +“I thought so,” she murmured, gleefully, more to herself than to me; +“and I have a right to all his papers and letters.” There she paused +abruptly and checked herself. + +I understood her. She wanted to get back her own letters to the dead +man, lest her intimacy with him should leak out in some chance way for +which she was unprepared. Cunning devil! I was almost glad she showed +me to what a depth of vulgar vice she had fallen. There was no question +of pity or forbearance in _her_ case. If all the tortures invented by +savages or stern inquisitors could be heaped upon her at once, such +punishment would be light in comparison with her crimes—crimes for +which, mark you, the law gives you no remedy but divorce. Tired of the +wretched comedy, I looked at my watch. + +“It is time for me to take my leave of you,” I said, in the stiff, +courtly manner I affected. “Moments fly fast in your enchanting +company! But I have still to walk to Castellamare, there to rejoin my +carriage, and I have many things to attend to before my departure this +evening. On my return from Avellino shall I be welcome?” + +“You know it,” she returned, nestling her head against my shoulder, +while for mere form’s sake I was forced to hold her in a partial +embrace. “I only wish you were not going at all. Dearest, do not stay +long away—I shall be so unhappy till you come back!” + +“Absence strengthens love, they say,” I observed, with a forced smile. +“May it do so in our case. Farewell, _cara mia_! Pray for me; I suppose +you _do_ pray a great deal here?” + +“Oh, yes,” she replied, naively; “there is nothing else to do.” + +I held her hands closely in my grasp. The engagement ring on her +finger, and the diamond signet on my own, flashed in the light like the +crossing of swords. + +“Pray then,” I said, “storm the gates of heaven with sweet-voiced +pleadings for the repose of poor Ferrari’s soul! Remember he loved you, +though _you_ never loved him. For _your_ sake he quarreled with me, his +best friend—for _your_ sake he died! Pray for him—who knows,” and I +spoke in thrilling tones of earnestness—“who knows but that his +too-hastily departed spirit may not be near us now—hearing our voices, +watching our looks?” + +She shivered slightly, and her hands in mine grew cold. + +“Yes, yes,” I continued, more calmly; “you must not forget to pray for +him—he was young and not prepared to die.” + +My words had some of the desired effect upon her—for once her ready +speech failed—she seemed as though she sought for some reply and found +none. I still held her hands. + +“Promise me!” I continued; “and at the same time pray for your dead +husband! He and poor Ferrari were close friends, you know; it will be +pious and kind of you to join their names in one petition addressed to +Him ‘from whom no secrets are hid,’ and who reads with unerring eyes +the purity of your intentions. Will you do it?” + +She smiled, a forced, faint smile. + +“I certainly will,” she replied, in a low voice; “I promise you.” + +I released her hands—I was satisfied. If she dared to pray thus I +felt—I _knew_ that she would draw down upon her soul the redoubled +wrath of Heaven; for I looked beyond the grave! The mere death of her +body would be but a slight satisfaction to me; it was the utter +destruction of her wicked soul that I sought. She should never repent, +I swore; she should never have the chance of casting off her vileness +as a serpent casts its skin, and, reclothing herself in innocence, +presume to ask admittance into that Eternal Gloryland whither my little +child had gone—never, never! No church should save her, no priest +should absolve her—not while _I_ lived! + +She watched me as I fastened my coat and began to draw on my gloves. + +“Are you going now?” she asked, somewhat timidly. + +“Yes, I am going now, _cara mia_,” I said. “Why! what makes you look so +pale?” + +For she had suddenly turned very white. + +“Let me see your hand again,” she demanded, with feverish eagerness, +“the hand on which I placed the ring!” + +Smilingly and with readiness I took off the glove I had just put on. + +“What odd fancy possesses you now, little one?” I asked, with an air of +playfulness. + +She made no answer, but took my hand and examined it closely and +curiously. Then she looked up, her lips twitched nervously, and she +laughed a little hard mirthless laugh. + +“Your hand,” she murmured, incoherently, “with—that—signet—on it—is +exactly like—like Fabio’s!” + +And before I had time to say a word she went off into a violent fit of +hysterics—sobs, little cries, and laughter all intermingled in that +wild and reasonless distraction that generally unnerves the strongest +man who is not accustomed to it. I rang the bell to summon assistance; +a lay-sister answered it, and seeing Nina’s condition, rushed for a +glass of water and summoned _Madame la Vicaire_. This latter, entering +with her quiet step and inflexible demeanor, took in the situation at a +glance, dismissed the lay-sister, and possessing herself of the tumbler +of water, sprinkled the forehead of the interesting patient, and forced +some drops between her clinched teeth. Then turning to me she inquired, +with some stateliness of manner, what had caused the attack? + +“I really cannot tell you, madame,” I said, with an air of affected +concern and vexation. “I certainly told the countess of the unexpected +death of a friend, but she bore the news with exemplary resignation. +The circumstance that appears to have so greatly distressed her is that +she finds, or says she finds, a resemblance between my hand and the +hand of her deceased husband. This seems to me absurd, but there is no +accounting for ladies’ caprices.” + +And I shrugged my shoulders as though I were annoyed and impatient. + +Over the pale, serious face of the nun there flitted a smile in which +there was certainly the ghost of sarcasm. + +“All sensitiveness and tenderness of heart, you see!” she said, in her +chill, passionless tones, which, icy as they were, somehow conveyed to +my ear another meaning than that implied by the words she uttered. “We +cannot perhaps understand the extreme delicacy of her feelings, and we +fail to do justice to them.” + +Here Nina opened her eyes, and looked at us with piteous plaintiveness, +while her bosom heaved with those long, deep sighs which are the +finishing chords of the Sonata Hysteria. + +“You are better, I trust?” continued the nun, without any sympathy in +her monotonous accents, and addressing her with some reserve. “You have +greatly alarmed the Count Oliva.” + +“I am sorry—” began Nina, feebly. + +I hastened to her side. + +“Pray do not speak of it!” I urged, forcing something like a lover’s +ardor into my voice. “I regret beyond measure that it is my misfortune +to have hands like those of your late husband! I assure you I am quite +miserable about it. Can you forgive me?” + +She was recovering quickly, and she was evidently conscious that she +had behaved somewhat foolishly. She smiled a weak pale smile; but she +looked very scared, worn and ill. She rose from her chair slowly and +languidly. + +“I think I will go to my room,” she said, not regarding _Mère_ +Marguerite, who had withdrawn to a little distance, and who stood +rigidly erect, immovably featured, with her silver crucifix glittering +coldly on her still breast. + +“Good-bye, Cesare! Please forget my stupidity, and write to me from +Avellino.” + +I took her outstretched hand, and bowing over it, touched it gently +with my lips. She turned toward the door, when suddenly a mischievous +idea seemed to enter her mind. She looked at _Madame la Vicaire_ and +then came back to me. + +“_Addio_, _amor mio_!” she said, with a sort of rapturous emphasis, and +throwing her arms round my neck she kissed me almost passionately. + +Then she glanced maliciously at the nun, who had lowered her eyes till +they appeared fast shut, and breaking into a low peal of indolently +amused laughter, waved her hand to me, and left the room. + +I was somewhat confused. The suddenness and warmth of her caress had +been, I knew, a mere monkeyish trick, designed to vex the religious +scruples of _Mère_ Marguerite. I knew not what to say to the stately +woman who remained confronting me with downcast eyes and lips that +moved dumbly as though in prayer. As the door closed after my wife’s +retreating figure, the nun looked up; there was a slight flush on her +pallid cheeks, and to my astonishment, tears glittered on her dark +lashes. + +“Madame,” I began, earnestly, “I assure you—” + +“Say nothing, _signor_,” she interrupted me with a slight deprecatory +gesture; “it is quite unnecessary. To mock a _religieuse_ is a common +amusement with young girls and women of the world. I am accustomed to +it, though I feel its cruelty more than I ought to do. Ladies like the +Countess Romani think that we—we, the sepulchers of +womanhood—sepulchers that we have emptied and cleansed to the best of +our ability, so that they may more fittingly hold the body of the +crucified Christ; these _grandes dames_, I say, fancy that _we_ are +ignorant of all they know—that we cannot understand love, tenderness or +passion. They never reflect—how should they?—that we also have had our +histories—histories, perhaps, that would make angels weep for pity! I, +even I—” and she struck her breast fiercely, then suddenly recollecting +herself, she continued coldly: “The rule of our convent, _signor_, +permits no visitor to remain longer than one hour—that hour has +expired. I will summon a sister to show you the way out.” + +“Wait one instant, madame,” I said, feeling that to enact my part +thoroughly I ought to attempt to make some defense of Nina’s conduct; +“permit me to say a word! My fiancee is very young and thoughtless. I +really cannot think that her very innocent parting caress to me had +anything in it that was meant to purposely annoy you.” + +The nun glanced at me—her eyes flashed disdainfully. + +“You think it was all affection for you, no doubt, _signor_? very +natural supposition, and—I should be sorry to undeceive you.” + +She paused a moment and then resumed: + +“You seem an earnest man—may be you are destined to be the means of +saving Nina; I could say much—yet it is wise to be silent. If you love +her do not flatter her; her overweening vanity is her ruin. A firm, +wise, ruling master-hand may perhaps—who knows?” She hesitated and +sighed, then added, gently, “Farewell, _signor_! _Benedicite_!” and +making the sign of the cross as I respectfully bent my head to receive +her blessing, she passed noiselessly from the room. + +One moment later, and a lame and aged lay-sister came to escort me to +the gate. As I passed down the stone corridor a side door opened a very +little way, and two fair young faces peeped out at me. For an instant I +saw four laughing bright eyes; I heard a smothered voice say, “Oh! +_c’est un vieux papa_!” and then my guide, who though lame was not +blind, perceived the opened door and shut it with an angry bang, which, +however, did not drown the ringing merriment that echoed from within. +On reaching the outer gates I turned to my venerable companion, and +laying four twenty-franc pieces in her shriveled palm, I said: + +“Take these to the reverend mother for me, and ask that mass may be +said in the chapel to-morrow for the repose of the soul of him whose +name is written here.” + +And I gave her Guido Ferrari’s visiting-card, adding in lower and more +solemn tones: + +“He met with a sudden and unprepared death. Of your charity, pray also +for the man who killed him!” + +The old woman looked startled, and crossed herself devoutly; but she +promised that my wishes should be fulfilled, and I bade her farewell +and passed out, the convent gates closing with a dull clang behind me. +I walked on a few yards, and then paused, looking back. What a peaceful +home it seemed; how calm and sure a retreat, with the white Noisette +roses crowning its ancient gray walls! Yet what embodied curses were +pent up in there in the shape of girls growing to be women; women for +whom all the care, stern training and anxious solicitude of the nuns +would be unavailing; women who would come forth from even that abode of +sanctity with vile natures and animal impulses, and who would +hereafter, while leading a life of vice and hypocrisy, hold up this +very strictness of their early education as proof of their +unimpeachable innocence and virtue! To such, what lesson is learned by +the daily example of the nuns who mortify their flesh, fast, pray and +weep? No lesson at all—nothing save mockery and contempt. To a girl in +the heyday of youth and beauty the life of a _religieuse_ seems +ridiculous. “The poor nuns!” she says, with a laugh; “they are so +ignorant. Their time is over—mine has not yet begun.” Few, very few, +among the thousands of young women who leave the scene of their quiet +schooldays for the social whirligig of the world, ever learn to take +life in earnest, love in earnest, sorrow in earnest. To most of them +life is a large dressmaking and millinery establishment; love a +question of money and diamonds; sorrow a solemn calculation as to how +much or how little mourning is considered becoming or fashionable. And +for creatures such as these we men work—work till our hairs are gray +and our backs bent with toil—work till all the joy and zest of living +has gone from us, and our reward is—what? Happiness?—seldom. +Infidelity?—often. Ridicule? Truly we ought to be glad if we are only +ridiculed and thrust back to occupy the second place in our own houses; +our lady-wives call that “kind treatment.” Is there a married woman +living who does not now and then throw a small stone of insolent satire +at her husband when his back is turned? What, madame? You, who read +these words—you say with indignation: “Certainly there is, and _I_ am +that woman!” Ah, truly? I salute you profoundly!—you are, no doubt, the +one exception! + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +Avellino is one of those dreamy, quiet and picturesque towns which have +not as yet been desecrated by the Vandal tourist. Persons holding +“through tickets” from Messrs. Cook or Gaze do not stop there—there are +no “sights” save the old sanctuary called _Monte Virgine_ standing +aloft on its rugged hill, with all the memories of its ancient days +clinging to it like a wizard’s cloak, and wrapping it in a sort of +mysterious meditative silence. It can look back through a vista of +eventful years to the eleventh century, when it was erected, so the +people say, on the ruins of a temple of Cybele. But what do the sheep +and geese that are whipped abroad in herds by the drovers Cook and Gaze +know of Monte Virgine or Cybele? Nothing—and they care less; and quiet +Avellino escapes from their depredations, thankful that it is not +marked on the business map of the drovers’ “_Runs_.” Shut in by the +lofty Apennines, built on the slope of the hill that winds gently down +into a green and fruitful valley through which the river Sabato rushes +and gleams white against cleft rocks that look like war-worn and +deserted castles, a drowsy peace encircles it, and a sort of +stateliness, which, compared with the riotous fun and folly of Naples +only thirty miles away, is as though the statue of a nude Egeria were +placed in rivalry with the painted waxen image of a half-dressed +ballet-dancer. Few lovelier sights are to be seen in nature than a +sunset from one of the smaller hills round Avellino—when the peaks of +the Apennines seem to catch fire from the flaming clouds, and below +them, the valleys are full of those tender purple and gray shadows that +one sees on the canvases of Salvator Rosa, while the town itself looks +like a bronzed carving on an old shield, outlined clearly against the +dazzling luster of the sky. To this retired spot I came—glad to rest +for a time from my work of vengeance—glad to lay down my burden of +bitterness for a brief space, and become, as it were, human again, in +the sight of the near mountains. For within their close proximity, +things common, things mean seem to slip from the soul—a sort of +largeness pervades the thoughts, the cramping prosiness of daily life +has no room to assert its sway—a grand hush falls on the stormy waters +of passion, and like a chidden babe the strong man stands, dwarfed to +an infinite littleness in his own sight, before those majestic monarchs +of the landscape whose large brows are crowned with the blue circlet of +heaven. + +I took up my abode in a quiet, almost humble lodging, living simply, +and attended only by Vincenzo. I was tired of the ostentation I had +been forced to practice in Naples in order to attain my ends—and it was +a relief to me to be for a time as though I were a poor man. The house +in which I found rooms that suited me was a ramblingly built, +picturesque little place, situated on the outskirts of the town, and +the woman who owned it, was, in her way, a character. She was a Roman, +she told me, with pride flashing in her black eyes—I could guess that +at once by her strongly marked features, her magnificently molded +figure, and her free, firm tread—that step which is swift without being +hasty, which is the manner born of Rome. She told me her history in a +few words, with such eloquent gestures that she seemed to live through +it again as she spoke: her husband had been a worker in a marble +quarry—one of his fellows had let a huge piece of the rock fall on him, +and he was crushed to death. + +“And well do I know,” she said, “that he killed my Toni purposely, for +he would have loved me had he dared. But I am a common woman, see +you—and it seems to me one cannot lie. And when my love’s poor body was +scarce covered in the earth, that miserable one—the murderer—came to +me—he offered marriage. I accused him of his crime—he denied it—he said +the rock slipped from his hands, he knew not how. I struck him on the +mouth, and bade him leave my sight and take my curse with him! He is +dead now—and surely if the saints have heard me, his soul is not in +heaven!” + +Thus she spoke with flashing eyes and purposeful energy, while with her +strong brown arms she threw open the wide casement of the sitting-room +I had taken, and bade me view her orchard. It was a fresh green strip +of verdure and foliage—about eight acres of good land, planted entirely +with apple-trees. + +“Yes, truly!” she said, showing her white teeth in a pleased smile as I +made the admiring remark she expected. “Avellino has long had a name +for its apples—but, thanks to the Holy Mother, I think in the season +there is no fruit in all the neighborhood finer than mine. The produce +of it brings me almost enough to live upon—that and the house, when I +can find _signori_ willing to dwell with me. But few strangers come +hither; sometimes an artist, sometimes a poet—such as these are soon +tired of gayety, and are glad to rest. To common persons I would not +open my door—not for pride, ah, no! but when one has a girl, one cannot +be too careful.” + +“You have a daughter, then?” + +Her fierce eyes softened. + +“One—my Lilla. I call her my blessing, and too good for me. Often I +fancy that it is because she tends them that the trees bear so well, +and the apples are so sound and sweet! And when she drives the load of +fruit to market, and sits so smilingly behind the team, it seems to me +that her very face brings luck to the sale.” + +I smiled at the mother’s enthusiasm, and sighed. I had no fair faiths +left—I could not even believe in Lilla. My landlady, _Signora_ Monti as +she was called, saw that I looked fatigued, and left me to myself—and +during my stay I saw very little of her, Vincenzo constituting himself +my majordomo, or rather becoming for my sake a sort of amiable slave, +always looking to the smallest details of my comfort, and studying my +wishes with an anxious solicitude that touched while it gratified me. I +had been fully three days in my retreat before he ventured to enter +upon any conversation with me, for he had observed that I always sought +to be alone, that I took long, solitary rambles through the woods and +across the hills—and, not daring to break through my taciturnity, he +had contented himself by merely attending to my material comforts in +silence. One afternoon, however, after clearing away the remains of my +light luncheon, he lingered in the room. + +“The _eccellenza_ has not yet seen Lilla Monti?” he asked, +hesitatingly. + +I looked at him in some surprise. There was a blush on his olive-tinted +cheeks and an unusual sparkle in his eyes. For the first time I +realized that this valet of mine was a handsome young fellow. + +“Seen Lilla Monti!” I repeated, half absently; “oh, you mean the child +of the landlady? No, I have not seen her. Why do you ask?” + +Vincenzo smiled. “Pardon, _eccellenza_! but she is beautiful, and there +is a saying in my province: Be the heart heavy as stone, the sight of a +fair face will lighten it!” + +I gave an impatient gesture. “All folly, Vincenzo! Beauty is the curse +of the world. Read history, and you shall find the greatest conquerors +and sages ruined and disgraced by its snares.” + +He nodded gravely. He probably thought of the announcement I had made +at the banquet of my own approaching marriage, and strove to reconcile +it with the apparent inconsistency of my present observation. But he +was too discreet to utter his mind aloud—he merely said: + +“No doubt you are right, _eccellenza_. Still one is glad to see the +roses bloom, and the stars shine, and the foam-bells sparkle on the +waves—so one is glad to see Lilla Monti.” + +I turned round in my chair to observe him more closely—the flush +deepened on his cheek as I regarded him. I laughed with a bitter +sadness. + +“In love, _amico_, art thou? So soon!—three days—and thou hast fallen a +prey to the smile of Lilla! I am sorry for thee!” + +He interrupted me eagerly. + +“The _eccellenza_ is in error! I would not dare—she is too innocent—she +knows nothing! She is like a little bird in the nest, so soft and +tender—a word of love would frighten her; I should be a coward to utter +it.” + +Well, well! I thought, what was the use of sneering at the poor fellow! +Why, because my own love had turned to ashes in my grasp, should I mock +at those who fancied they had found the golden fruit of the Hesperides? +Vincenzo, once a soldier, now half courier, half valet, was something +of a poet at heart; he had the grave meditative turn of mind common to +Tuscans, together with that amorous fire that ever burns under their +lightly worn mask of seeming reserve. + +I roused myself to appear interested. + +“I see, Vincenzo,” I said, with a kindly air of banter, “that the sight +of Lilla Monti more than compensates you for that portion of the +Neapolitan carnival which you lose by being here. But why you should +wish me to behold this paragon of maidens I know not, unless you would +have me regret my own lost youth.” + +A curious and perplexed expression flitted over his face. At last he +said firmly, as though his mind were made up: + +“The _eccellenza_ must pardon me for seeing what perhaps I ought not to +have seen, but—” + +“But what?” I asked. + +“_Eccellenza_, you have not lost your youth.” + +I turned my head toward him again—he was looking at me in some alarm—he +feared some outburst of anger. + +“Well!” I said, calmly. “That is your idea, is it? and why?” + +“_Eccellenza_, I saw you without your spectacles that day when you +fought with the unfortunate _Signor_ Ferrari. I watched you when you +fired. Your eyes are beautiful and terrible—the eyes of a young man, +though your hair is white.” + +Quietly I took off my glasses and laid them on the table beside me. + +“As you have seen me once without them, you can see me again,” I +observed, gently. “I wear them for a special purpose. Here in Avellino +the purpose does not hold. Thus far I confide in you. But beware how +you betray my confidence.” + +“_Eccellenza_!” cried Vincenzo, in truly pained accents, and with a +grieved look. + +I rose and laid my hand on his arm. + +“There! I was wrong—forgive me. You are honest; you have served your +country well enough to know the value of fidelity and duty. But when +you say I have not lost my youth, you are wrong, Vincenzo! I _have_ +lost it—it has been killed within me by a great sorrow. The strength, +the suppleness of limb, the brightness of eye these are mere outward +things: but in the heart and soul are the chill and drear bitterness of +deserted age. Nay, do not smile; I am in truth very old—so old that I +tire of my length of days; yet again, not too old to appreciate your +affection, _amico_, and”—here I forced a faint smile—“when I see the +maiden Lilla, I will tell you frankly what I think of her.” + +Vincenzo stooped his head, caught my hand within his own, and kissed +it, then left the room abruptly, to hide the tears that my words had +brought to his eyes. He was sorry for me, I could see, and I judged him +rightly when I thought that the very mystery surrounding me increased +his attachment. On the whole, I was glad he had seen me undisguised, as +it was a relief to me to be without my smoked glasses for a time, and +during all the rest of my stay at Avellino I never wore them once. + +One day I saw Lilla. I had strolled up to a quaint church situated on a +rugged hill and surrounded by fine old chestnut-trees, where there was +a picture of the Scourging of Christ, said to have been the work of Fra +Angelico. The little sanctuary was quite deserted when I entered it, +and I paused on the threshold, touched by the simplicity of the place +and soothed by the intense silence. I walked on my tiptoe up to the +corner where hung the picture I had come to see, and as I did so a girl +passed me with a light step, carrying a basket of fragrant winter +narcissi and maiden-hair fern. Something in her graceful, noiseless +movements caused me to look after her; but she had turned her back to +me and was kneeling at the shrine consecrated to the Virgin, having +placed her flowers on the lowest step of the altar. She was dressed in +peasant costume—a simple, short blue skirt and scarlet bodice, relieved +by the white kerchief that was knotted about her shoulders; and round +her small well-shaped head the rich chestnut hair was coiled in thick +shining braids. + +I felt that I must see her face, and for that reason went back to the +church door and waited till she should pass out. Very soon she came +toward me, with the same light timid step that I had often before +noticed, and her fair young features were turned fully upon me. What +was there in those clear candid eyes that made me involuntarily bow my +head in a reverential salutation as she passed? I know not. It was not +beauty—for though the child was lovely I had seen lovelier; it was +something inexplicable and rare—something of a maidenly composure and +sweet dignity that I had never beheld on any woman’s face before. Her +cheeks flushed softly as she modestly returned my salute, and when she +was once outside the church door she paused, her small white fingers +still clasping the carven brown beads of her rosary. She hesitated a +moment, and then spoke shyly yet brightly: + +“If the _eccellenza_ will walk yet a little further up the hill he will +see a finer view of the mountains.” + +Something familiar in her look—a sort of reflection of her mother’s +likeness—made me sure of her identity. I smiled. + +“Ah! you are Lilla Monti?” + +She blushed again. + +“_Si, signor_. I am Lilla.” + +I let my eyes dwell on her searchingly and almost sadly. Vincenzo was +right: the girl was beautiful, not with the forced hot-house beauty of +the social world and its artificial constraint, but with the loveliness +and fresh radiance which nature gives to those of her cherished ones +who dwell with her in peace. I had seen many exquisite women—women of +Juno-like form and face—women whose eyes were basilisks to draw and +compel the souls of men—but I had never seen any so spiritually fair as +this little peasant maiden, who stood fearlessly yet modestly regarding +me with the innocent inquiry of a child who suddenly sees something +new, to which it is unaccustomed. She was a little fluttered by my +earnest gaze, and with a pretty courtesy turned to descend the hill. I +said gently: + +“You are going home, _fauciulla mia_?” + +The kind protecting tone in which I spoke reassured her. She answered +readily: + +“_Si signor_. My mother waits for me to help her with the +_eccellenza_’s dinner.” + +I advanced and took the little hand that held the rosary. + +“What!” I exclaimed, playfully, “do you still work hard, little Lilla, +even when the apple season is over?” + +She laughed musically. + +“Oh! I love work. It is good for the temper. People are so cross when +their hands are idle. And many are ill for the same reason. Yes, +truly!” and she nodded her head with grave importance, “it is often so. +Old Pietro, the cobbler, took to his bed when he had no shoes to +mend—yes; he sent for the priest and said he would die, not for want of +money—oh no! he has plenty, he is quite rich—but because he had nothing +to do. So my mother and I found some shoes with holes, and took them to +him; he sat up in bed to mend them, and now he is as well as ever! And +we are careful to give him something always.” + +She laughed again, and again looked grave. + +“Yes, yes!” she said, with a wise shake of her little glossy head, “one +cannot live without work. My mother says that good women are never +tired, it is only wicked persons who are lazy. And that reminds me I +must make haste to return and prepare the _eccellenza_’s coffee.” + +“Do you make my coffee, little one?” I asked, “and does not Vincenzo +help you?” + +The faintest suspicion of a blush tinged her pretty cheeks. + +“Oh, he is very good, Vincenzo,” she said, demurely, with downcast +eyes; “he is what we call _buon’ amico_, yes, indeed! But he is often +glad when I make coffee for him also; he likes it so much! He says I do +it so well! But perhaps the _eccellenza_ will prefer Vincenzo?” + +I laughed. She was so naive, so absorbed in her little duties—such a +child altogether. + +“Nay, Lilla, I am proud to think you make anything for me. I shall +enjoy it more now that I know what kind hands have been at work. But +you must not spoil Vincenzo—you will turn his head if you make his +coffee too often.” + +She looked surprised. She did not understand. Evidently to her mind +Vincenzo was nothing but a good-natured young fellow, whose palate +could be pleased by her culinary skill; she treated him, I dare say, +exactly as she would have treated one of her own sex. She seemed to +think over my words, as one who considers a conundrum, then she +apparently gave it up as hopeless, and shook her head lightly as though +dismissing the subject. + +“Will the _eccellenza_ visit the Punto d’Angelo?” she said brightly, as +she turned to go. + +I had never heard of this place, and asked her to what she alluded. + +“It is not far from here,” she explained, “it is the view I spoke of +before. Just a little further up the hill you will see a flat gray +rock, covered with blue gentians. No one knows how they grow—they are +always there, blooming in summer and winter. But it is said that one of +God’s own great angels comes once in every month at midnight to bless +the Monte Vergine, and that he stands on that rock. And of course +wherever the angels tread there are flowers, and no storm can destroy +them—not even an avalanche. That is why the people call it the Punto +d’Angelo. It will please you to see it, _eccellenza_—it is but a walk +of a little ten minutes.” + +And with a smile, and a courtesy as pretty and as light as a flower +might make to the wind, she left me, half running, half dancing down +the hill, and singing aloud for sheer happiness and innocence of heart. +Her pure lark-like notes floated upward toward me where I stood, +wistfully watching her as she disappeared. The warm afternoon sunshine +caught lovingly at her chestnut hair, turning it to a golden bronze, +and touched up the whiteness of her throat and arms, and brightened the +scarlet of her bodice, as she descended the grassy slope, and was at +last lost to my view amid the foliage of the surrounding trees. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + +I sighed heavily as I resumed my walk. I realized all that I had lost. +This lovely child with her simple fresh nature, why had I not met such +a one and wedded _her_ instead of the vile creature who had been my +soul’s undoing? The answer came swiftly. Even if I _had_ seen her when +I was free, I doubt if I should have known her value. We men of the +world who have social positions to support, we see little or nothing in +the peasant type of womanhood; we must marry “ladies,” +so-called—educated girls who are as well versed in the world’s ways as +ourselves, if not more so. And so we get the Cleopatras, the Du Barrys, +the Pompadours, while unspoiled maidens such as Lilla too often become +the household drudges of common mechanics or day-laborers, living and +dying in the one routine of hard work, and often knowing and caring for +nothing better than the mountain-hut, the farm-kitchen, or the covered +stall in the market-place. Surely it is an ill-balanced world—so many +mistakes are made; Fate plays us so many apparently unnecessary tricks, +and we are all of us such blind madmen, knowing not whither we are +going from one day to another! I am told that it is no longer +fashionable to believe in a devil—but I care nothing for fashion! A +devil there is I am sure, who for some inscrutable reason has a share +in the ruling of this planet—a devil who delights in mocking us from +the cradle to the grave. And perhaps we are never so hopelessly, +utterly fooled as in our marriages! + +Occupied in various thoughts, I scarcely saw where I wandered, till a +flashing glimmer of blue blossoms recalled me to the object of my walk. +I had reached the Punto d’Angelo. It was, as Lilla had said, a flat +rock bare in every place save at the summit, where it was thickly +covered with the lovely gentians, flowers that are rare in this part of +Italy. Here then the fabled angel paused in his flight to bless the +venerable sanctuary of Monte Vergine. I stopped and looked around me. +The view was indeed superb—from the leafy bosom of the valley, the +green hills like smooth, undulating billows rolled upward, till their +emerald verdure was lost in the dense purple shadows and tall peaks of +the Apennines; the town of Avellino lay at my feet, small yet clearly +defined as a miniature painting on porcelain; and a little further +beyond and above me rose the gray tower of the Monte Vergine itself, +the one sad and solitary-looking object in all the luxuriant riante +landscape. + +I sat down to rest, not as an intruder on the angel’s +flower-embroidered throne, but on a grassy knoll close by. And then I +bethought me of a packet I had received from Naples that morning—a +packet that I desired yet hesitated to open. It had been sent by the +Marquis D’Avencourt, accompanied by a courteous letter, which informed +me that Ferrari’s body had been privately buried with all the last +religious rites in the cemetery, “close to the funeral vault of the +Romani family,” wrote D’Avencourt, “as, from all we can hear or +discover, such seems to have been his own desire. He was, it appears, a +sort of adopted brother of the lately deceased count, and on being +informed of this circumstance, we buried him in accordance with the +sentiments he would no doubt have expressed had he considered the +possible nearness of his own end at the time of the combat.” + +With regard to the packet inclosed, D’Avencourt continued—“The +accompanying letters were found in Ferrari’s breast-pocket, and on +opening the first one, in the expectation of finding some clew as to +his last wishes, we came to the conclusion that you, as the future +husband of the lady whose signature and handwriting you will here +recognize, should be made aware of the contents, not only for your own +sake, but in justice to the deceased. If all the letters are of the +same tone as the one I unknowingly opened, I have no doubt Ferrari +considered himself a sufficiently injured man. But of that you will +judge for yourself, though, if I might venture so far in the way of +friendship, I should recommend you to give careful consideration to the +inclosed correspondence before tying the matrimonial knot to which you +alluded the other evening. It is not wise to walk on the edge of a +precipice with one’s eyes shut! Captain Ciabatti was the first to +inform me of what I now know for a fact—namely, that Ferrari left a +will in which everything he possessed is made over unconditionally to +the Countess Romani. You will of course draw your own conclusions, and +pardon me if I am guilty of _trop de zele_ in your service. I have now +only to tell you that all the unpleasantness of this affair is passing +over very smoothly and without scandal—I have taken care of that. You +need not prolong your absence further than you feel inclined, and I, +for one, shall be charmed to welcome you back to Naples. With every +sentiment of the highest consideration and regard, I am, my dear +_conte_, + +“Your very true friend and servitor, +“PHILIPPE D’AVENCOURT.” + + +I folded this letter carefully and put it aside. The little package he +had sent me lay in my hand—a bundle of neatly folded letters tied +together with a narrow ribbon, and strongly perfumed with the faint +sickly perfume I knew and abhorred. I turned them over and over; the +edges of the note-paper were stained with blood—Guido’s blood—as though +in its last sluggish flowing it had endeavored to obliterate all traces +of the daintily penned lines that now awaited my perusal. Slowly I +untied the ribbon. With methodical deliberation I read one letter after +the other. They were all from Nina—all written to Guido while he was in +Rome, some of them bearing the dates of the very days when she had +feigned to love _me_—me, her newly accepted husband. One very amorous +epistle had been written on the self-same evening she had plighted her +troth to me! Letters burning and tender, full of the most passionate +protestations of fidelity, overflowing with the sweetest terms of +endearment; with such a ring of truth and love throughout them that +surely it was no wonder that Guido’s suspicions were all unawakened, +and that he had reason to believe himself safe in his fool’s paradise. +One passage in this poetical and romantic correspondence fixed my +attention: it ran thus: + +“Why do you write so much of marriage to me, Guido _mio_? it seems to +my mind that all the joy of loving will be taken from us when once the +hard world knows of our passion. If you become my husband you will +assuredly cease to be my lover, and that would break my heart. Ah, my +best beloved! I desire you to be my lover always, as you were when +Fabio lived—why bring commonplace matrimony into the heaven of such a +passion as ours?” + +I studied these words attentively. Of course I understood their drift. +She had tried to feel her way with the dead man. She had wanted to +marry me, and yet retain Guido for her lonely hours, as “her lover +always!” Such a pretty, ingenious plan it was! No thief, no murderer +ever laid more cunning schemes than she, but the law looks after +thieves and murderers. For such a woman as this, law says, “Divorce +her—that is your best remedy.” Divorce her! Let the criminal go +scot-free! Others may do it that choose—I have different ideas of +justice! + +Tying up the packet of letters again, with their sickening perfume and +their blood-stained edges, I drew out the last graciously worded +missive I had received from Nina. Of course I heard from her every +day—she was a most faithful correspondent! The same affectionate +expressions characterized her letters to me as those that had deluded +her dead lover—with this difference, that whereas she inveighed much +against the prosiness of marriage to Guido, to me she drew the much +touching pictures of her desolate condition: how lonely she had felt +since her “dear husband’s” death, how rejoiced she was to think that +she was soon again to be a happy wife—the wife of one so noble, so +true, so devoted as I was! She had left the convent and was now at +home—when should she have the happiness of welcoming me, her best +beloved Cesare, back to Naples? She certainly deserved some credit for +artistic lying; I could not understand how she managed it so well. +Almost I admired her skill, as one sometimes admires a cool-headed +burglar, who has more skill, cunning, and pluck than his comrades. I +thought with triumph that though the wording of Ferrari’s will enabled +her to secure all other letters she might have written to him, this one +little packet of documentary evidence was more than sufficient for _my_ +purposes. And I resolved to retain it in my own keeping till the time +came for me to use it against her. + +And how about D’Avencourt’s friendly advice concerning the matrimonial +knot? “A man should not walk on the edge of a precipice with his eyes +shut.” Very true. But if his eyes are open, and he has his enemy by the +throat, the edge of a precipice is a convenient position for hurling +that enemy down to death in a quiet way, that the world need know +nothing of! So for the present I preferred the precipice to walking on +level ground. + +I rose from my seat near the Punto d’Angelo. It was growing late in the +afternoon. From the little church below me soft bells rang out the +Angelus, and with them chimed in a solemn and harsher sound from the +turret of the Monte Vergine. I lifted my hat with the customary +reverence, and stood listening, with my feet deep in the grass and +scented thyme, and more than once glanced up at the height whereon the +venerable sanctuary held its post, like some lonely old god of memory +brooding over vanished years. There, according to tradition, was once +celebrated the worship of the many-breasted Cybele; down that very +slope of grass dotted with violets had rushed the howling, naked +priests beating their discordant drums and shrieking their laments for +the loss of Atys, the beautiful youth, their goddess’s paramour. +Infidelity again!—even in this ancient legend, what did Cybele care for +old Saturn, whose wife she was? Nothing, less than nothing!—and her +adorers worshiped not her chastity, but her faithlessness; it is the +way of the world to this day! + +The bells ceased ringing; I descended the hill and returned homeward +through a shady valley, full of the odor of pines and bog-myrtle. On +reaching the gate of the _Signora_ Monti’s humble yet picturesque +dwelling, I heard the sound of laughter and clapping of hands, and +looking in the direction of the orchard, I saw Vincenzo hard at work, +his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, splitting some goodly logs +of wood, while Lilla stood beside him, merrily applauding and +encouraging his efforts. He seemed quite in his element, and wielded +his ax with a regularity and vigor I should scarcely have expected from +a man whom I was accustomed to see performing the somewhat effeminate +duties of a _valet-de-chambre_. I watched him and the fair girl beside +him for a few moments, myself unperceived. + +If this little budding romance were left alone it would ripen into a +flower, and Vincenzo would be a happier man than his master. He was a +true Tuscan, from the very way he handled his wood-ax; I could see that +he loved the life of the hills and fields—the life of a simple farmer +and fruit-grower, full of innocent enjoyments, as sweet as the ripe +apples in his orchard. I could foresee his future with Lilla beside +him. He would have days of unwearying contentment, rendered beautiful +by the free fresh air and the fragrance of flowers—his evenings would +slip softly by to the tinkle of the mandolin, and the sound of his wife +and children’s singing. + +What fairer fate could a man desire?—what life more certain to keep +health in the body and peace in the mind? Could I not help him to his +happiness, I wondered? I, who had grown stern with long brooding upon +my vengeance—could I not aid in bringing joy to others! If I could, my +mind would be somewhat lightened of its burden—a burden grown heavier +since Guide’s death, for from his blood had sprung forth a new group of +Furies, that lashed me on to my task with scorpion whips of redoubled +wrath and passionate ferocity. Yet if I could do one good action +now—would it not be as a star shining in the midst of my soul’s storm +and darkness? Just then Lilla laughed—how sweetly!—the laugh of a very +young child. What amused her now? I looked, and saw that she had taken +the ax from Vincenzo, and lifting it in her little hands, was +endeavoring bravely to imitate his strong and telling stroke; he +meanwhile stood aside with an air of smiling superiority, mingled with +a good deal of admiration for the slight active figure arrayed in the +blue kirtle and scarlet bodice, on which the warm rays of the late sun +fell with so much amorous tenderness. Poor little Lilla! A penknife +would have made as much impression as her valorous blows produced on +the inflexible, gnarled, knotty old stump she essayed to split in +twain. Flushed and breathless with her efforts, she looked prettier +than ever, and at last, baffled, she resigned her ax to Vincenzo, +laughing gayly at her incapacity for wood-cutting, and daintily shaking +her apron free from the chips and dust, till a call from her mother +caused her to run swiftly into the house, leaving Vincenzo working away +as arduously as ever. I went up to him; he saw me approaching, and +paused in his labors with an air of slight embarrassment. + +“You like this sort of work, _amico_?” I said, gently. + +“An old habit, _eccellenza_—nothing more. It reminds me of the days of +my youth, when I worked for my mother. Ah! a pleasant place it was—the +old home just above Fiesole.” His eyes grew pensive and sad. “It is all +gone now—finished. That was before I became a soldier. But one thinks +of it sometimes.” + +“I understand. And no doubt you would be glad to return to the life of +your boyhood?” + +He looked a little startled. + +“Not to leave _you_, _eccellenza_!” + +I smiled rather sadly. “Not to leave _me_? Not if you wedded Lilla +Monti?” + +His olive cheek flushed, but he shook his head. + +“Impossible! She would not listen to me. She is a child.” + +“She will soon be a woman, believe me! A little more of your company +will make her so. But there is plenty of time. She is beautiful, as you +said: and something better than that, she is innocent—think of that, +Vincenzo! Do you know how rare a thing innocence is—in a woman? Respect +it as you respect God; let her young life be sacred to you.” + +He glanced upward reverently. + +“_Eccellenza_, I would as soon tear the Madonna from her altars as vex +or frighten Lilla!” + +I smiled and said no more, but turned into the house. From that moment +I resolved to let this little love-idyll have a fair chance of success. +Therefore I remained at Avellino much longer than I had at first +intended, not for my own sake, but for Vincenzo’s. He served me +faithfully; he should have his reward. I took a pleasure in noticing +that my efforts to promote his cause were not altogether wasted. I +spoke with Lilla often on indifferent matters that interested her, and +watched her constantly when she was all unaware of my observant gaze. +With me she was as frank and fearless as a tame robin; but after some +days I found that she grew shy of mentioning the name of Vincenzo, that +she blushed when he approached her, that she was timid of asking him to +do anything for her; and from all these little signs I knew her mind, +as one knows by the rosy streaks in the sky that the sunrise is near. + +One afternoon I called the _Signora_ Monti to my room. She came, +surprised, and a little anxious. Was anything wrong with the service? I +reassured her housewifely scruples, and came to the point at once. + +“I would speak to you of your child, the little Lilla,” I said, kindly. +“Have you ever thought that she may marry?” + +Her dark bold eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered. + +“Truly I have,” she replied with a wistful sadness; “but I have prayed, +perhaps foolishly, that she would not leave me yet. I love her so well; +she is always a babe to me, so small and sweet! I put the thought of +her marriage from me as a sorrowful thing.” + +“I understand your feeling,” I said. “Still, suppose your daughter +wedded a man who would be to you as a son, and who would not part her +from you?—for instance, let us say Vincenzo?” + +_Signora_ Monti smiled through her tears. + +“Vincenzo! He is a good lad, a very good lad, and I love him; but he +does not think of Lilla—he is devoted to the _eccellenza_.” + +“I am aware of his devotion,” I answered. “Still I believe you will +find out soon that he loves your Lilla. At present he says nothing—he +fears to offend you and alarm her; but his eyes speak—so do hers. You +are a good woman, a good mother; watch them both, you will soon tell +whether love is between them or no. And see,” here I handed her a +sealed envelope, “in this you will find notes to the amount of four +thousand francs.” She uttered a little cry of amazement. “It is Lilla’s +dowry, whoever she marries, though I think she will marry Vincenzo. +Nay—no thanks, money is of no value to me; and this is the one pleasure +I have had for many weary months. Think well of Vincenzo—he is an +excellent fellow. And all I ask of you is, that you keep this little +dowry a secret till the day of your fair child’s espousals.” + +Before I could prevent her the enthusiastic woman had seized my hand +and kissed it. Then she lifted her head with the proud free-born +dignity of a Roman matron; her broad bosom heaved, and her strong voice +quivered with suppressed emotion. + +“I thank you, _signor_,” she said, simply, “for Lilla’s sake! Not that +my little one needs more than her mother’s hands have toiled for, +thanks be to the blessed saints who have had us both in their keeping! +But this is a special blessing of God sent through your hands, and I +should be unworthy of all prosperity were I not grateful. _Eccellenza_, +pardon me, but my eyes are quick to see that you have suffered sorrow. +Good actions lighten grief! We will pray for your happiness, Lilla and +I, till the last breath leaves our lips. Believe it—the name of our +benefactor shall be lifted to the saints night and morning, and who +knows but good may come of it!” + +I smiled faintly. + +“Good will come of it, my excellent _signora_, though I am all unworthy +of your prayers. Rather pray,” and I sighed heavily, “for the dead, +‘that they may be loosed from their sins.’” + +The good woman looked at me with a sort of kindly pity mingled with +awe, then murmuring once more her thanks and blessing, she left the +room. A few minutes afterward Vincenzo entered. I addressed him +cheerfully. + +“Absence is the best test of love, Vincenzo; prepare all for our +departure! We shall leave Avellino the day after to-morrow.” + +And so we did. Lilla looked slightly downcast, but Vincenzo seemed +satisfied, and I augured from their faces, and from the mysterious +smile of _Signora_ Monti, that all was going well. I left the beautiful +mountain town with regret, knowing I should see it no more. I touched +Lilla’s fair cheek lightly at parting, and took what I knew was my last +look into the sweet candid young face. Yet the consciousness that I had +done some little good gave my tired heart a sense of satisfaction and +repose—a feeling I had not experienced since I died and rose again from +the dead. + +On the last day of January I returned to Naples, after an absence of +more than a month, and was welcomed back by all my numerous +acquaintance with enthusiasm. The Marquis D’Avencourt had informed me +rightly—the affair of the duel was a thing of the past—an almost +forgotten circumstance. The carnival was in full riot, the streets were +scenes of fantastic mirth and revelry; there was music and song, +dancing and masquerading, and feasting. But I withdrew from the tumult +of merriment, and absorbed myself in the necessary preparations for—my +marriage. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + +Looking back on the incidents of those strange feverish weeks that +preceded my wedding-day, they seemed to me like the dreams of a dying +man. Shifting colors, confused images, moments of clear light, hours of +long darkness—all things gross, refined, material, and spiritual were +shaken up in my life like the fragments in a kaleidoscope, ever +changing into new forms and bewildering patterns. My brain was clear; +yet I often questioned myself whether I was not going mad—whether all +the careful methodical plans I formed were but the hazy fancies of a +hopelessly disordered mind? Yet no; each detail of my scheme was too +complete, too consistent, too business-like for that. A madman may have +a method of action to a certain extent, but there is always some slight +slip, some omission, some mistake which helps to discover his +condition. Now, _I_ forgot nothing—I had the composed exactitude of a +careful banker who balances his accounts with the most elaborate +regularity. I can laugh to think of it all now; but _then_—then I +moved, spoke, and acted like a human machine impelled by stronger +forces than my own—in all things precise, in all things inflexible. + +Within the week of my return from Avellino my coming marriage with the +Countess Romani was announced. Two days after it had been made public, +while sauntering across the Largo del Castello, I met the Marquis +D’Avencourt. I had not seen him since the morning of the duel, and his +presence gave me a sort of nervous shock. He was exceedingly cordial, +though I fancied he was also slightly embarrassed After a few +commonplace remarks he said, abruptly: + +“So your marriage will positively take place?” + +I forced a laugh. + +“_Ma_! _certamente_! Do you doubt it?” + +His handsome face clouded and his manner grew still more constrained. + +“No; but I thought—I had hoped—” + +“_Mon cher_,” I said, airily, “I perfectly understand to what you +allude. But we men of the world are not fastidious—we know better than +to pay any heed to the foolish love-fancies of a woman before her +marriage, so long as she does not trick us afterward. The letters you +sent me were trifles, mere trifles! In wedding the _Contessa_ Romani I +assure you I believe I secure the most virtuous as well as the most +lovely woman in Europe!” And I laughed again heartily. + +D’Avencourt looked puzzled; but he was a punctilious man, and knew how +to steer clear of a delicate subject. He smiled. + +“_A la bonne heure_,” he said—“I wish you joy with all my heart! You +are the best judge of your own happiness; as for me—_vive la liberté_!” + +And with a gay parting salute he left me. No one else in the city +appeared to share his foreboding scruples, if he had any, about my +forthcoming marriage. It was everywhere talked of with as much interest +and expectation as though it were some new amusement invented to +heighten the merriment of carnival. Among other things, I earned the +reputation of being a most impatient lover, for now I would consent to +no delays. I hurried all the preparations on with feverish +precipitation. I had very little difficulty in persuading Nina that the +sooner our wedding took place the better; she was to the full as eager +as myself, as ready to rush on her own destruction as Guido had been. +Her chief passion was avarice, and the repeated rumors of my supposed +fabulous wealth had aroused her greed from the very moment she had +first met me in my assumed character of the Count Oliva. As soon as her +engagement to me became known in Naples, she was an object of envy to +all those of her own sex who, during the previous autumn, had laid out +their store of fascinations to entrap me in vain—and this made her +perfectly happy. Perhaps the supremest satisfaction a woman of this +sort can attain to is the fact of making her less fortunate sisters +discontented and miserable! I loaded her, of course, with the costliest +gifts, and she, being the sole mistress of the fortune left her by her +“late husband,” as well as of the unfortunate Guido’s money, set no +limits to her extravagance. She ordered the most expensive and +elaborate costumes; she was engaged morning after morning with +dressmakers, tailors, and milliners, and she was surrounded by a +certain favored “set” of female friends, for whose benefit she +displayed the incoming treasures of her wardrobe till they were ready +to cry for spite and vexation, though they had to smile and hold in +their wrath and outraged vanity beneath the social mask of complacent +composure. And Nina loved nothing better than to torture the poor women +who were stinted of pocket-money with the sight of shimmering satins, +soft radiating plushes, rich velvets, embroidery studded with real +gems, pieces of costly old lace, priceless scents, and articles of +_bijouterie_; she loved also to dazzle the eyes and bewilder the brains +of young girls, whose finest toilet was a garb of simplest white stuff +unadorned save by a cluster of natural blossoms, and to send them away +sick at heart, pining for they knew not what, dissatisfied with +everything, and grumbling at fate for not permitting them to deck +themselves in such marvelous “arrangements” of costume as those +possessed by the happy, the fortunate future Countess Oliva. + +Poor maidens! had they but known all they would not have envied her! +Women are too fond of measuring happiness by the amount of fine clothes +they obtain, and I truly believe dress is the one thing that never +fails to console them. How often a fit of hysterics can be cut short by +the opportune arrival of a new gown! + +My wife, in consideration of her approaching second nuptial, had thrown +off her widow’s crape, and now appeared clad in those soft subdued +half-tints of color that suited her fragile, fairy-like beauty to +perfection. All her old witcheries and her graceful tricks of manner +and speech were put forth again for my benefit. I knew them all so +well! I understood the value of her light caresses and languishing +looks so thoroughly! She was very anxious to attain the full dignity of +her position as the wife of so rich a nobleman as I was reputed to be, +therefore she raised no objection when I fixed the day of our marriage +for Giovedi Grasso. Then the fooling and mumming, the dancing, +shrieking, and screaming would be at its height; it pleased my whim to +have this other piece of excellent masquerading take place at the same +time. + +The wedding was to be as private as possible, owing to my wife’s +“recent sad bereavements,” as she herself said with a pretty sigh and +tearful, pleading glance. It would take place in the chapel of San +Gennaro, adjoining the cathedral. We were married there before! During +the time that intervened, Nina’s manner was somewhat singular. To me +she was often timid, and sometimes half conciliatory. Now and then I +caught her large dark eyes fixed on me with a startled, anxious look, +but this expression soon passed away. She was subject, too, to wild +fits of merriment, and anon to moods of absorbed and gloomy silence. I +could plainly see that she was strung up to an extreme pitch of nervous +excitement and irritability, but I asked her no questions. If—I +thought—if she tortured herself with memories, all the better—if she +saw, or fancied she saw, the resemblance between me and her “dear dead +Fabio,” it suited me that she should be so racked and bewildered. + +I came and went to and fro from the villa as I pleased. I wore my dark +glasses as usual, and not even Giacomo could follow me with his +peering, inquisitive gaze; for since the night he had been hurled so +fiercely to the ground by Guido’s reckless and impatient hand, the poor +old man had been paralyzed, and had spoken no word. He lay in an upper +chamber, tended by Assunta, and my wife had already written to his +relatives in Lombardy, asking them to send for him home. + +“Of what use to keep him?” she had asked me. + +True! Of what use to give even roof-shelter to a poor old human +creature, maimed, broken, and useless for evermore? After long years of +faithful service, turn him out, cast him forth! If he die of neglect, +starvation, and ill-usage, what matter?—he is a worn-out tool, his day +is done—let him perish. I would not plead for him—why should I? I had +made my own plans for his comfort—plans shortly to be carried out; and +in the mean time Assunta nursed him tenderly as he lay speechless, with +no more strength than a year-old baby, and only a bewildered pain in +his upturned, lack-luster eyes. One incident occurred during these last +days of my vengeance that struck a sharp pain to my heart, together +with a sense of the bitterest anger. I had gone up to the villa +somewhat early in the morning, and on crossing the lawn I saw a dark +form stretched motionless on one of the paths that led directly up to +the house. I went to examine it, and started back in horror—it was my +dog Wyvis shot dead. His silky black head and forepaws were dabbled in +blood—his honest brown eyes were glazed with the film of his dying +agonies. Sickened and infuriated at the sight, I called to a gardener +who was trimming the shrubbery. + +“Who has done this?” I demanded. + +The man looked pityingly at the poor bleeding remains, and said, in a +low voice: + +“It was _madama_’s order, _signor_. The dog bit her yesterday; we shot +him at daybreak.” + +I stooped to caress the faithful animal’s body, and as I stroked the +silky coat my eyes were dim with tears. + +“How did it happen?” I asked in smothered accents. “Was your lady +hurt?” + +The gardener shrugged his shoulders and sighed. + +“Ma!—no! But he tore the lace on her dress with his teeth and grazed +her hand. It was little, but enough. He will bite no more—_povera +bestia_!” + +I gave the fellow five francs. + +“I liked the dog,” I said briefly, “he was a faithful creature. Bury +him decently under that tree,” and I pointed to the giant cypress on +the lawn, “and take this money for your trouble.” + +He looked surprised but grateful, and promised to do my bidding. Once +more sorrowfully caressing the fallen head of perhaps the truest friend +I ever possessed, I strode hastily into the house, and met Nina coming +out of her morning-room, clad in one of her graceful trailing garments, +in which soft lavender hues were blended like the shaded colors of late +and early violets. + +“So Wyvis has been shot?” I said, abruptly. + +She gave a slight shudder. + +“Oh, yes; is it not sad? But I was compelled to have it done. Yesterday +I went past his kennel within reach of his chain, and he sprung +furiously at me for no reason at all. See!” And holding up her small +hand she showed me three trifling marks in the delicate flesh. “I felt +that you would be so unhappy if you thought I kept a dog that was at +all dangerous, so I determined to get rid of him. It is always painful +to have a favorite animal killed; but really Wyvis belonged to my poor +husband, and I think he has never been quite safe since his master’s +death, and now Giacomo is ill—” + +“I see!” I said, curtly, cutting her explanations short. + +Within myself I thought how much more sweet and valuable was the dog’s +life than hers. Brave Wyvis—good Wyvis! He had done his best—he had +tried to tear her dainty flesh; his honest instincts had led him to +attempt rough vengeance on the woman he had felt was his master’s foe. +And he had met his fate, and died in the performance of duty. But I +said no more on the subject. The dog’s death was not alluded to again +by either Nina or myself. He lay in his mossy grave under the cypress +boughs—his memory untainted by any lie, and his fidelity enshrined in +my heart as a thing good and gracious, far exceeding the +self-interested friendship of so-called Christian humanity. + +The days passed slowly on. To the revelers who chased the flying steps +of carnival with shouting and laughter, no doubt the hours were brief, +being so brimful of merriment; but to me, who heard nothing save the +measured ticking of my own timepiece of revenge, and who saw naught +save its hands, that every second drew nearer to the last and fatal +figure on the dial, the very moments seemed long and laden with +weariness. I roamed the streets of the city aimlessly, feeling more +like a deserted stranger than a well-known envied nobleman, whose +wealth made him the cynosure of all eyes. The riotous glee, the music, +the color that whirled and reeled through the great street of Toledo at +this season bewildered and pained me. Though I knew and was accustomed +to the wild vagaries of carnival, yet this year they seemed to be out +of place, distracting, senseless, and all unfamiliar. + +Sometimes I escaped from the city tumult and wandered out to the +cemetery. There I would stand, dreamily looking at the freshly turned +sods above Guido Ferrari’s grave. No stone marked the spot as yet, but +it was close to the Romani vault—not more than a couple of yards away +from the iron grating that barred the entrance to that dim and fatal +charnel-house. I had a drear fascination for the place, and more than +once I went to the opening of that secret passage made by the brigands +to ascertain if all was safe and undisturbed. Everything was as I had +left it, save that the tangle of brush-wood had become thicker, and +weeds and brambles had sprung up, making it less visible than before, +and probably rendering it more impassable. By a fortunate accident I +had secured the key of the vault. I knew that for family burial-places +of this kind there are always two keys—one left in charge of the keeper +of the cemetery, the other possessed by the person or persons to whom +the mausoleum belongs, and this other I managed to obtain. + +On one occasion, being left for some time alone in my own library at +the villa, I remembered that in an upper drawer of an old oaken +escritoire that stood there, had always been a few keys belonging to +the doors of cellars and rooms in the house. I looked, and found them +lying there as usual; they all had labels attached to them, signifying +their use, and I turned them over impatiently, not finding what I +sought. I was about to give up the search, when I perceived a large +rusty iron key that had slipped to the back of the drawer; I pulled it +out, and to my satisfaction it was labeled “Mausoleum.” I immediately +took possession of it, glad to have obtained so useful and necessary an +implement; I knew that I should soon need it. The cemetery was quite +deserted at this festive season—no one visited it to lay wreaths of +flowers or sacred mementoes on the last resting-places of their +friends. In the joys of the carnival who thinks of the dead? In my +frequent walks there I was always alone; I might have opened my own +vault and gone down into it without being observed, but I did not; I +contented myself with occasionally trying the key in the lock, and +assuring myself that it worked without difficulty. + +Returning from one of these excursions late on a mild afternoon toward +the end of the week preceding my marriage, I bent my steps toward the +Molo, where I saw a picturesque group of sailors and girls dancing one +of those fantastic, graceful dances of the country, in which +impassioned movement and expressive gesticulation are everything. Their +steps were guided and accompanied by the sonorous twanging of a +full-toned guitar and the tinkling beat of a tambourine. Their +handsome, animated faces, their flashing eyes and laughing lips, their +gay, many-colored costumes, the glitter of beads on the brown necks of +the maidens, the red caps jauntily perched on the thick black curls of +the fishermen—all made up a picture full of light and life thrown up +into strong relief against the pale gray and amber tints of the +February sky and sea; while shadowing overhead frowned the stern dark +walls of the Castel Nuovo. + +It was such a scene as the English painter Luke Fildes might love to +depict on his canvas—the one man of to-day who, though born of the land +of opaque mists and rain-burdened clouds, has, notwithstanding these +disadvantages, managed to partly endow his brush with the exhaustless +wealth and glow of the radiant Italian color. I watched the dance with +a faint sense of pleasure—it was full of so much harmony and delicacy +of rhythm. The lad who thrummed the guitar broke out now and then into +song—a song in dialect that fitted into the music of the dance as +accurately as a rosebud into its calyx. I could not distinguish all the +words he sung, but the refrain was always the same, and he gave it in +every possible inflection and variety of tone, from grave to gay, from +pleading to pathetic. + +“Che bella cosa è de morire acciso, +Nnanze a la porta de la nnamorata!”[5] + + + [5] Neapolitan dialect. + + +meaning literally—“How beautiful a thing to die, suddenly slain at the +door of one’s beloved!” + +There was no sense in the thing, I thought half angrily—it was a stupid +sentiment altogether. Yet I could not help smiling at the ragged, +barefooted rascal who sung it: he seemed to feel such a gratification +in repeating it, and he rolled his black eyes with lovelorn intensity, +and breathed forth sighs that sounded through his music with quite a +touching earnestness. Of course he was only following the manner of all +Neapolitans, namely, acting his song; they all do it, and cannot help +themselves. But this boy had a peculiarly roguish way of pausing and +crying forth a plaintive “Ah!” before he added “_Che bella cosa_,” +etc., which gave point and piquancy to his absurd ditty. He was +evidently brimful of mischief—his expression betokened it; no doubt he +was one of the most thorough little scamps that ever played at +“_morra_,” but there was a charm about his handsome dirty face and +unkempt hair, and I watched him amusedly, glad to be distracted for a +few minutes from the tired inner workings of my own unhappy thoughts. +In time to come, so I mused, this very boy might learn to set his song +about the “beloved” to a sterner key, and might find it meet, not to be +slain himself, but to slay _her_! Such a thing—in Naples—was more than +probable. By and by the dance ceased, and I recognized in one of the +breathless, laughing sailors my old acquaintance Andrea Luziani, with +whom I had sailed to Palermo. The sight of him relieved me from a +difficulty which had puzzled me for some days, and as soon as the +little groups of men and women had partially dispersed, I walked up to +him and touched him on the shoulder. He started, looked round +surprised, and did not appear to recognize me. I remembered that when +he had seen me I had not grown a beard, neither had I worn dark +spectacles. I recalled my name to him; his face cleared and he smiled. + +“Ah! _buon giorno, eccellenza_!” he cried. “A thousand pardons that I +did not at first know you! Often have I thought of you! often have I +heard your name—ah! what a name! Rich, great, generous!—ah! what a glad +life! And on the point of marrying—ah, _Dio_! love makes all the +troubles go—so!” and taking his cigar from his mouth, he puffed a ring +of pale smoke into the air and laughed gayly. Then suddenly lifting his +cap from his clustering black hair, he added, “All joy be with you, +_eccellenza_!” + +I smiled and thanked him. I noticed he looked at me curiously. + +“You think I have changed in appearance, my friend?” I said. + +The Sicilian looked embarrassed. + +“_Ebbene_! we must all change,” he answered, lightly, evading my +glance. “The days pass on—each day takes a little bit of youth away +with it. One grows old without knowing it!” + +I laughed. + +“I see,” I observed. “You think I have aged somewhat since you saw me?” + +“A little, _eccellenza_,” he frankly confessed. + +“I have suffered severe illness,” I said, quietly, “and my eyes are +still weak, as you perceive,” and I touched my glasses. “But I shall +get stronger in time. Can you come with me for a few moments? I want +your help in a matter of importance.” + +He nodded a ready assent and followed me. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + +We left the Molo, and paused at a retired street corner leading from +the Chiaja. + +“You remember Carmelo Neri?” I asked. + +Andrea shrugged his shoulders with an air of infinite commiseration. + +“Ah! _povero diavolo_! Well do I remember him! A bold fellow and brave, +with a heart in him, too, if one did but know where to find it. And now +he drags the chain! Well, well, no doubt it is what he deserves; but I +say, and always will maintain, there are many worse men than Carmelo.” + +I briefly related how I had seen the captured brigand in the square at +Palermo and had spoken with him. “I mentioned you,” I added, “and he +bade me tell you Teresa had killed herself.” + +“Ah! that I well know,” said the little captain, who had listened to me +intently, and over whose mobile face flitted a shadow of tender pity, +as he sighed. “_Poverinetta_! So fragile and small! To think she had +the force to plunge the knife in her breast! As well imagine a little +bird flying down to pierce itself on an uplifted bayonet. Ay, ay! women +will do strange things—and it is certain she loved Carmelo.” + +“You would help him to escape again if you could, no doubt?” I inquired +with a half smile. + +The ready wit of the Sicilian instantly asserted itself. + +“Not I, _eccellenza_,” he replied, with an air of dignity and most +virtuous honesty. “No, no, not now. The law is the law, and I, Andrea +Luziani, am not one to break it. No, Carmelo must take his punishment; +it is for life they say—and hard as it seems, it is but just. When the +little Teresa was in the question, look you, what could I do? but +now—let the saints that choose help Carmelo, for I will not.” + +I laughed as I met the audacious flash of his eyes; I knew, despite his +protestations, that if Carmelo Neri ever did get clear of the galleys, +it would be an excellent thing for him if Luziani’s vessel chanced to +be within reach. + +“You have your brig the ‘Laura’ still?” I asked him. + +“Yes, _eccellenza_, the Madonna be praised! And she has been newly +rigged and painted, and she is as trig and trim a craft as you can meet +with in all the wide blue waters of the Mediterranean.” + +“Now you see,” I said, impressively, “I have a friend, a relative, who +is in trouble: he wishes to get away from Naples quietly and in secret. +Will you help him? You shall be paid whatever you think proper to +demand.” + +The Sicilian looked puzzled. He puffed meditatively at his cigar and +remained silent. + +“He is not pursued by the law,” I continued, noting his hesitation. “He +is simply involved in a cruel difficulty brought upon him by his own +family—he seeks to escape from unjust persecution.” + +Andrea’s brow cleared. + +“Oh, if that is the case, _eccellenza_, I am at your service. But where +does your friend desire to go?” + +I paused for a moment and considered. + +“To Civita Vecchia,” I said at last, “from that port he can obtain a +ship to take him to his further destination.” + +The captain’s expressive face fell—he looked very dubious. + +“To Civita Vecchia is a long way, a very long way,” he said, +regretfully; “and it is the bad season, and there are cross currents +and contrary winds. With all the wish in the world to please you, +_eccellenza_, I dare not run the ‘Laura’ so far; but there is another +means—” + +And interrupting himself he considered awhile in silence. I waited +patiently for him to speak. + +“Whether it would suit your friend I know not,” he said at last, laying +his hand confidentially on my arm, “but there is a stout brig leaving +here for Civita Vecchia on Friday morning next—” + +“The day after Giovedi Grasso?” I queried, with a smile he did not +understand. He nodded. + +“Exactly so. She carries a cargo of Lacrima Cristi, and she is a swift +sailer. I know her captain—he is a good soul; but,” and Andrea laughed +lightly, “he is like the rest of us—he loves money. You do not count +the francs—no, they are nothing to you—but we look to the _soldi_. Now, +if it please you I will make him a certain offer of passage money, as +large as you shall choose, also I will tell him when to expect his one +passenger, and I can almost promise you that he will not say no!” + +This proposal fitted in so excellently with my plans that I accepted +it, and at once named an exceptionally munificent sum for the passage +required. Andrea’s eyes glistened as he heard. + +“It is a little fortune!” he cried, enthusiastically. “Would that I +could earn as much in twenty voyages! But one should not be +churlish—such luck cannot fall in all men’s way.” + +I smiled. + +“And do you think, _amico_, I will suffer you to go unrewarded?” I +said. And placing two twenty-franc pieces in his brown palm I added, +“As you rightly said, francs are nothing to me. Arrange this little +matter without difficulty, and you shall not be forgotten. You can call +at my hotel to-morrow or the next day, when you have settled +everything—here is the address,” and I penciled it on my card and gave +it to him; “but remember, this is a secret matter, and I rely upon you +to explain it as such to your friend who commands the brig going to +Civita Vecchia. He must ask no questions of his passenger—the more +silence the more discretion—and when once he has landed him at his +destination he will do well to straightway forget all about him. You +understand?” + +Andrea nodded briskly. + +“_Si, si, signor_. He has a bad memory as it is—it shall grow worse at +your command! Believe it!” + +I laughed, shook hands, and parted with the friendly little fellow, he +returning to the Molo, and I slowly walking homeward by way of the +Villa Reale. An open carriage coming swiftly toward me attracted my +attention; as it drew nearer I recognized the prancing steeds and the +familiar liveries. A fair woman clad in olive velvets and Russian +sables looked out smiling, and waved her hand. + +It was my wife—my betrothed bride, and beside her sat the Duchess di +Marina, the most irreproachable of matrons, famous for her piety not +only in Naples but throughout Italy. So immaculate was she that it was +difficult to imagine her husband daring to caress that upright, +well-dressed form, or venturing to kiss those prim lips, colder than +the carven beads of her jeweled rosary. Yet there was a story about her +too—an old story that came from Padua—of how a young and handsome +nobleman had been found dead at her palace doors, stabbed to the heart. +Perhaps—who knows—he also might have thought— + +“Che bella cosa è de morire accisa, +Nnanze a la porta de la nnamorata!” + + +Some said the duke had killed him; but nothing could be proved, nothing +was certain. The duke was silent, so was his duchess; and Scandal +herself sat meekly with closed lips in the presence of this stately and +august couple, whose bearing toward each other in society was a lesson +of complete etiquette to the world. What went on behind the scenes no +one could tell. I raised my hat with the profoundest deference as the +carriage containing the two ladies dashed by; I knew not which was the +cleverest hypocrite of the two, therefore I did equal honor to both. I +was in a meditative and retrospective mood, and when I reached the +Toledo the distracting noises, the cries of the flower-girls, and +venders of chestnuts and confetti, the nasal singing of the +street-rhymers, the yells of punchinello, and the answering laughter of +the populace, were all beyond my endurance. To gratify a sudden whim +that seized me, I made my way into the lowest and dirtiest quarters of +the city, and roamed through wretched courts and crowded alleys, trying +to discover that one miserable street which until now I had always +avoided even the thought of, where I had purchased the coral-fisher’s +clothes on the day of my return from the grave. I went in many wrong +directions, but at last I found it, and saw at a glance that the old +rag-dealer’s shop was still there, in its former condition of +heterogeneous filth and disorder. A man sat at the door smoking, but +not the crabbed and bent figure I had before seen—this was a younger +and stouter individual, with a Jewish cast of countenance, and dark, +ferocious eyes. I approached him, and seeing by my dress and manner +that I was some person of consequence, he rose, drew his pipe from his +mouth, and raised his greasy cap with a respectful yet suspicious air. + +“Are you the owner of this place?” I asked. + +“_Si, signor_!” + +“What has become of the old man who used to live here?” + +He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and drew his pipe-stem across his +throat with a significant gesture. + +“So, _signor_!—with a sharp knife! He had a good deal of blood, too, +for so withered a body. To kill himself in that fashion was stupid: he +spoiled an Indian shawl that was on his bed, worth more than a thousand +francs. One would not have thought he had so much blood.” + +And the fellow put back his pipe in his mouth and smoked complacently. +I heard in sickened silence. + +“He was mad, I suppose?” I said at last. + +The long pipe was again withdrawn. + +“Mad? Well, the people say so. I for one think he was very +reasonable—all except that matter of the shawl—he should have taken +that off his bed first. But he was wise enough to know that he was of +no use to anybody—he did the best he could! Did you know him, +_signor_?” + +“I gave him money once,” I replied, evasively; then taking out a few +francs I handed them to this evil-eyed, furtive-looking son of Israel, +who received the gift with effusive gratitude. + +“Thank you for your information,” I said coldly. “Good-day.” + +“Good-day to you, _signor_,” he replied, resuming his seat and watching +me curiously as I turned away. + +I passed out of the wretched street feeling faint and giddy. The end of +the miserable rag-dealer had been told to me briefly and brutally +enough—yet somehow I was moved to a sense of regret and pity. Abjectly +poor, half crazy, and utterly friendless, he had been a brother of mine +in the same bitterness and irrevocable sorrow. I wondered with a half +shudder—would my end be like his? When my vengeance was completed +should I grow shrunken, and old, and mad, and one lurid day draw a +sharp knife across my throat as a finish to my life’s history? I walked +more rapidly to shake off the morbid fancies that thus insidiously +crept in on my brain; and as before, the noise and glitter of the +Toledo had been unbearable, so now I found it a relief and a +distraction. Two maskers bedizened in violet and gold whizzed past me +like a flash, one of them yelling a stale jest concerning _la +’nnamorata_—a jest I scarcely heard, and certainly had no heart or wit +to reply to. A fair woman I knew leaned out of a gayly draped balcony +and dropped a bunch of roses at my feet; out of courtesy I stooped to +pick them up, and then raising my hat I saluted the dark-eyed donor, +but a few paces on I gave them away to a ragged child. Of all flowers +that bloom, they were, and still are, the most insupportable to me. +What is it the English poet Swinburne says— + +“I shall never be friends again with roses!” + + +My wife wore them always: even on that night when I had seen her +clasped in Guido’s arms, a red rose on her breast had been crushed in +that embrace—a rose whose withered leaves I still possess. In the +forest solitude where I now dwell there are no roses—and I am glad! The +trees are too high, the tangle of bramble and coarse brushwood too +dense—nothing grows here but a few herbs and field flowers—weeds unfit +for wearing by fine ladies, yet to my taste infinitely sweeter than all +the tenderly tinted cups of fragrance, whose colors and odors are +spoiled to me forever. I am unjust, say you? the roses are innocent of +evil? True enough, but their perfume awakens memory, and—I strive +always to forget! + +I reached my hotel that evening to find that I was an hour late for +dinner, an unusual circumstance, which had caused Vincenzo some +disquietude, as was evident from the relieved expression of his face +when I entered. For some days the honest fellow had watched me with +anxiety; my abstracted moods, the long solitary walks I was in the +habit of taking, the evenings I passed in my room writing, with the +doors locked—all this behavior on my part exercised his patience, I +have no doubt, to the utmost limit, and I could see he had much ado to +observe his usual discretion and tact, and refrain from asking +questions. On this particular occasion I dined very hastily, for I had +promised to join my wife and two of her lady friends at the theater +that night. + +When I arrived there, she was already seated in her box, looking +radiantly beautiful. She was attired in some soft, sheeny, clinging +primrose stuff, and the brigand’s jewels I had given her through +Guido’s hands, flashed brilliantly on her uncovered neck and arms. She +greeted me with her usual child-like enthusiasm as I entered, bearing +the customary offering—a costly bouquet, set in a holder of +mother-of-pearl studded with turquois, for her acceptance. I bowed to +her lady friends, both of whom I knew, and then stood beside her +watching the stage. The _comedietta_ played there was the airiest +trifle—it turned on the old worn-out story—a young wife, an aged, +doting husband, and a lover whose principles were, of course, of the +“noblest” type. The husband was fooled (naturally), and the chief +amusement of the piece appeared to consist in his being shut out of his +own house in dressing-gown and slippers during a pelting storm of rain, +while his spouse (who was particularly specified as “pure”) enjoyed a +luxurious supper with her highly moral and virtuous admirer. My wife +laughed delightedly at the poor jokes and the stale epigrams, and +specially applauded the actress who successfully supported the chief +role. This actress, by the way, was a saucy, brazen-faced jade, who had +a trick of flashing her black eyes, tossing her head, and heaving her +ample bosom tumultuously whenever she hissed out the words _Vecchiáccio +maladetto_[6] at her discomfited husband, which had an immense effect +on the audience—an audience which entirely sympathized with her, though +she was indubitably in the wrong. I watched Nina in some derision as +she nodded her fair head and beat time to the music with her painted +fan. I bent over her. + + [6] Accursed, villainous old monster. + + +“The play pleases you?” I asked, in a low tone. + +“Yes, indeed!” she answered, with a laughing light in her eyes. “The +husband is so droll! It is all very amusing.” + +“The husband is always droll!” I remarked, smiling coldly. “It is not a +temptation to marry when one knows that as a husband one must always +look ridiculous.” + +She glanced up at me. + +“Cesare! You surely are not vexed? Of course it is only in plays that +it happens so!” + +“Plays, _cara mia_, are often nothing but the reflex of real life,” I +said. “But let us hope there are exceptions, and that all husbands are +not fools.” + +She smiled expressively and sweetly, toyed with the flowers I had given +her, and turned her eyes again to the stage. I said no more, and was a +somewhat moody companion for the rest of the evening. As we all left +the theater one of the ladies who had accompanied Nina said lightly: + +“You seem dull and out of spirits, _conte_?” + +I forced a smile. + +“Not I, _signora_! Surely you do not find me guilty of such +ungallantry? Were I dull in _your_ company I should prove myself the +most ungrateful of my sex.” + +She sighed somewhat impatiently. She was very young and very lovely, +and, as far as I knew, innocent, and of a more thoughtful and poetical +temperament than most women. + +“That is the mere language of compliment,” she said, looking straightly +at me with her clear, candid eyes. “You are a true courtier! Yet often +I think your courtesy is reluctant.” + +I looked at her in some surprise. + +“Reluctant? _Signora_, pardon me if I do not understand!” + +“I mean,” she continued, still regarding me steadily, though a faint +blush warmed the clear pallor of her delicate complexion, “that you do +not really like us women; you say pretty things to us, and you try to +be amiable in our company, but you are in truth averse to our ways—you +are sceptical—you think we are all hypocrites.” + +I laughed a little coldly. + +“Really, _signora_, your words place me in a very awkward position. +Were I to tell you my real sentiments—” + +She interrupted me with a touch of her fan on my arm, and smiled +gravely. + +“You would say, ‘Yes, you are right, _signora_. I never see one of your +sex without suspecting treachery.’ Ah, _Signor_ _Conte_, we women are +indeed full of faults, but nothing can blind our instinct!” She paused, +and her brilliant eyes softened as she added gently, “I pray your +marriage may be a very happy one.” + +I was silent. I was not even courteous enough to thank her for the +wish. I was half angered that this girl should have been able to probe +my thoughts so quickly and unerringly. Was I so bad an actor after all? +I glanced down at her as she leaned lightly on my arm. + +“Marriage is a mere _comedietta_,” I said, abruptly and harshly. “We +have seen it acted to-night. In a few days I shall play the part of the +chief buffoon—in other words, the husband.” + +And I laughed. My young companion looked startled, almost frightened, +and over her fair face there flitted an expression of something like +aversion. I did not care—why should I?—and there was no time for more +words between us, for we had reached the outer vestibule of the +theater. + +My wife’s carriage was drawn up at the entrance—my wife herself was +stepping into it. I assisted her, and also her two friends, and then +stood with uncovered head at the door wishing them all the +“_felicissima notte_.” Nina put her tiny jeweled hand through the +carriage window—I stooped and kissed it lightly. Drawing it back +quickly, she selected a white gardenia from her bouquet and gave it to +me with a bewitching smile. + +Then the glittering equipage dashed away with a whirl and clatter of +prancing hoofs and rapid wheels, and I stood alone under the wide +portico of the theater—alone, amid the pressing throngs of the people +who were still coming out of the house—holding the strongly scented +gardenia in my hand as vaguely as a fevered man who finds a strange +flower in one of his sick dreams. + +After a minute or two I suddenly recollected myself, and throwing the +blossom on the ground, I crushed it savagely beneath my heel—the +penetrating odor rose from its slain petals as though a vessel of +incense had been emptied at my feet. There was a nauseating influence +in it; where had I inhaled that subtle perfume last? I remembered—Guido +Ferrari had worn one of those flowers in his coat at my banquet—it had +been still in his buttonhole when I killed him! + +I strode onward and homeward; the streets were full of mirth and music, +but I heeded none of it. I felt, rather than saw, the quiet sky bending +above me dotted with its countless millions of luminous worlds; I was +faintly conscious of the soft plash of murmuring waves mingling with +the dulcet chords of deftly played mandolins echoing from somewhere +down by the shore; but my soul was, as it were, benumbed—my mind, +always on the alert, was for once utterly tired out—my very limbs +ached, and when I at last flung myself on my bed, exhausted, my eyes +closed instantly, and I slept the heavy, motionless sleep of a man +weary unto death. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + +“_Tout le monde vient à celui qui sait attendre_.” So wrote the great +Napoleon. The virtue of the aphorism consists in the little words ‘_qui +sait_’. All the world comes to him who _knows how_ to wait, _I_ knew +this, and I had waited, and my world—a world of vengeance—came to me at +last. + +The slow-revolving wheel of Time brought me to the day before my +strange wedding—the eve of my remarriage with my own wife! All the +preparations were made—nothing was left undone that could add to the +splendor of the occasion. For though the nuptial ceremony was to be +somewhat quiet and private in character, and the marriage breakfast was +to include only a few of our more intimate acquaintances, the +proceedings were by no means to terminate tamely. The romance of these +remarkable espousals was not to find its conclusion in bathos. No; the +bloom and aroma of the interesting event were to be enjoyed in the +evening, when a grand supper and ball, given by me, the happy and +much-to-be-envied bridegroom, was to take place in the hotel which I +had made my residence for so long. No expense was spared for this, the +last entertainment offered by me in my brilliant career as a successful +Count Cesare Oliva. After it, the dark curtain would fall on the +played-out drama, never to rise again. + +Everything that art, taste, and royal luxury could suggest was included +in the arrangements for this brilliant ball, to which a hundred and +fifty guests had been invited, not one of whom had refused to attend. + +And now—now, in the afternoon of this, the last of my self-imposed +probation—I sat alone with my fair wife in the drawing-room of the +Villa Romani, conversing lightly on various subjects connected with the +festivities of the coming morrow. The long windows were open—the warm +spring sunlight lay like a filmy veil of woven gold on the tender green +of the young grass, birds sung for joy and flitted from branch to +branch, now poising hoveringly above their nests, now soaring with all +the luxury of perfect liberty into the high heaven of cloudless +blue—the great creamy buds of the magnolia looked ready to burst into +wide and splendid flower between their large, darkly shining leaves, +the odor of violets and primroses floated on every delicious breath of +air, and round the wide veranda the climbing white china roses had +already unfurled their little crumpled rosette-like blossoms to the +balmy wind. It was spring in Southern Italy—spring in the land where, +above all other lands, spring is lovely—sudden and brilliant in its +beauty as might be the smile of a happy angel. _Gran Dio_!—talk of +angels! Had I not a veritable angel for my companion at that moment? +What fair being, even in Mohammed’s Paradise of Houris, could outshine +such charms as those which it was my proud privilege to gaze upon +without rebuke—dark eyes, rippling golden hair, a dazzling and perfect +face, a form to tempt the virtue of a Galahad, and lips that an emperor +might long to touch—in vain? Well, no!—not altogether in vain: if his +imperial majesty could offer a bribe large enough—let us say a diamond +the size of a pigeon’s egg—he might possibly purchase one, nay!—perhaps +two kisses from that seductive red mouth, sweeter than the ripest +strawberry. I glanced at her furtively from time to time when she was +not aware of my gaze; and glad was I of the sheltering protection of +the dark glasses I wore, for I knew and felt that there was a terrible +look in my eyes—the look of a half-famished tiger ready to spring on +some long-desired piece of prey. She herself was exceptionally bright +and cheerful; with her riante features and agile movements, she +reminded me of some tropical bird of gorgeous plumage swaying to and +fro on a branch of equally gorgeous blossom. + +“You are like a prince in a fairy tale, Cesare,” she said, with a +little delighted laugh; “everything you do is superbly done! How +pleasant it is to be so rich—there is nothing better in all the world.” + +“Except love!” I returned, with a grim attempt to be sentimental. + +Her large eyes softened like the pleading eyes of a tame fawn. + +“Ay, yes!” and she smiled with expressive tenderness, “except love. But +when one has both love and wealth, what a paradise life can be!” + +“So great a paradise,” I assented, “that it is hardly worth while +trying to get into heaven at all! Will you make earth a heaven for me, +_Nina mia_, or will you only love me as much—or as little—as you loved +your late husband?” + +She shrugged her shoulders and pouted like a spoilt child. + +“Why are you so fond of talking about my late husband, Cesare?” she +asked, peevishly; “I am so tired of his name! Besides, one does not +always care to be reminded of dead people—and he died so horribly too! +I have often told you that I did not love him at all. I liked him a +little, and I was quite ill when that dreadful monk, who looked like a +ghost himself, came and told me he was dead. Fancy hearing such a piece +of news suddenly, while I was actually at luncheon with Gui—_Signor_e +Ferrari! We were both shocked, of course, but I did not break my heart +over it. Now I really _do_ love _you_—” + +I drew nearer to her on the couch where she sat, and put one arm round +her. + +“You really _do_?” I asked, in a half-incredulous tone; “you are quite +sure?” + +She laughed and nestled her head on my shoulder. + +“I am quite sure! How many times have you asked me that absurd +question? What can I say, what can I do—to make you believe me?” + +“Nothing,” I answered, and answered truly, for certainly nothing she +could say or do would make me believe her for a moment. “But _how_ do +you love me—for myself or for my wealth?” + +She raised her head with a proud, graceful gesture. + +“For yourself, of course! Do you think mere wealth could ever win _my_ +affection? No, Cesare! I love you for your own sake—your own merits +have made you dear to me.” + +I smiled bitterly. She did not see the smile. I slowly caressed her +silky hair. + +“For that sweet answer, _carissima mia_, you shall have your reward. +You called me a fairy prince just now—perhaps I merit that title more +than you know. You remember the jewels I sent you before we ever met?” + +“Remember them!” she exclaimed. “They are my choicest ornaments. Such a +parure is fit for an empress.” + +“And an empress of beauty wears them!” I said, lightly. “But they are +mere trifles compared to other gems which I possess, and which I intend +to offer for your acceptance.” + +Her eyes glistened with avarice and expectancy. + +“Oh, let me see them!” she cried. “If they are lovelier than those I +already have, they must be indeed magnificent! And are they all for +me?” + +“All for you!” I replied, drawing her closer, and playing with the +small white hand on which the engagement-ring I had placed there +sparkled so bravely. “All for my bride. A little hoard of bright +treasures; red rubies, ay—as red as blood—diamonds as brilliant as the +glittering of crossed daggers—sapphires as blue as the lightning—pearls +as pure as the little folded hands of a dead child—opals as dazzlingly +changeful as woman’s love! Why do you start?” for she had moved +restlessly in my embrace. “Do I use bad similes? Ah, _cara mia_, I am +no poet! I can but speak of things as they seem to my poor judgment. +Yes, these precious things are for you, _bellissima_; you have nothing +to do but to take them, and may they bring you much joy!” + +A momentary pallor had stolen over her face while I was +speaking—speaking in my customary hard, harsh voice, which I strove to +render even harder and harsher than usual—but she soon recovered from +whatever passing emotion she may have felt, and gave herself up to the +joys of vanity and greed, the paramount passions of her nature. + +“I shall have the finest jewels in all Naples!” she laughed, +delightedly. “How the women will envy me! But where are these +treasures? May I see them now—immediately?” + +“No, not quite immediately,” I replied, with a gentle derision that +escaped her observation. “To-morrow night—our marriage night—you shall +have them. And I must also fulfill a promise I made to you. You wish to +see me for once without these,” and I touched my dark glasses—“is it +not so?” + +She raised her eyes, conveying into their lustrous depths an expression +of melting tenderness. + +“Yes,” she murmured; “I want to see you as you _are_!” + +“I fear you will be disappointed,” I said, with some irony, “for my +eyes are not pleasant to look at.” + +“Never mind,” she returned, gayly. “I shall be satisfied if I see them +just once, and we need not have much light in the room, as the light +gives you pain. I would not be the cause of suffering to you—no, not +for all the world!” + +“You are very amiable,” I answered, “more so than I deserve. I hope I +may prove worthy of your tenderness! But to return to the subject of +the jewels. I wish you to see them for yourself and choose the best +among them. Will you come with me to-morrow night? and I will show you +where they are.” + +She laughed sweetly. + +“Are you a miser, Cesare?—and have you some secret hiding-place full of +treasure like Aladdin?” + +I smiled. + +“Perhaps I have,” I said. “There are exceptional cases in which one +fears to trust even to a bank. Gems such as those I have to offer you +are almost priceless, and it would be unwise, almost cruel to place +such tempting toys within the reach of even an honest man. At any rate, +if I have been something of a miser, it is for your sake, for your sake +I have personally guarded the treasure that is to be your bridal gift. +You cannot blame me for this?” + +In answer she threw her fair arms round my neck and kissed me. Strive +against it as I would, I always shuddered at the touch of her lips—a +mingled sensation of loathing and longing possessed me that sickened +while it stung my soul. + +“_Amor mio_!” she murmured. “As if _I_ could blame you! You have no +faults in my estimation of you. You are good, brave and generous—the +best of men; there is only one thing I wish sometimes—” Here she +paused, and her brow knitted itself frowningly, while a puzzled, pained +expression came into her eyes. + +“And that one thing is?” I inquired. + +“That you did not remind me so often of Fabio,” she said, abruptly and +half angrily. “Not when you speak of him, I do not mean that. What I +mean is, that you have ways like his. Of course I know there is no +actual resemblance, and yet—” She paused again, and again looked +troubled. + +“Really, _carina mia_,” I remarked, lightly and jestingly, “you +embarrass me profoundly! This fancy of yours is a most awkward one for +me. At the convent where I visited you, you became quite ill at the +contemplation of my hand, which you declared was like the hand of your +deceased husband; and now—this same foolish idea is returning, when I +hoped it had gone, with other morbid notions of an oversensitive brain, +forever. Perhaps you think I am your late husband?” + +And I laughed aloud! She trembled a little, but soon laughed also. + +“I know I am very absurd,” she said, “perhaps I am a little nervous and +unstrung: I have had too much excitement lately. Tell me more about the +jewels. When will you take me to see them?” + +“To-morrow night,” I answered, “while the ball is going on, you and I +will slip away together—we shall return again before any of our friends +can miss us. You will come with me?” + +“Of course I will,” she replied, readily, “only we must not be long +absent, because my maid will have to pack my wedding-dress, and then +there will be the jewels also to put in my strong box. Let me see! We +stay the night at the hotel, and leave for Rome and Paris the first +thing in the morning, do we not?” + +“That is the arrangement, certainly,” I said, with a cold smile. + +“The little place where you have hidden your jewels, you droll Cesare, +is quite near then?” she asked. + +“Quite near,” I assented, watching her closely. + +She laughed and clapped her hands. + +“Oh, I must have them,” she exclaimed. “It would be ridiculous to go to +Paris without them. But why will you not get them yourself, Cesare, and +bring them here to me?” + +“There are so many,” I returned, quietly, “and I do not know which you +would prefer. Some are more valuable than others. And it will give me a +special satisfaction—one that I have long waited for—to see you making +your own choice.” + +She smiled half shyly, half cunningly. + +“Perhaps I will make no choice,” she whispered, “perhaps I will take +them _all_, Cesare. What will you say then?” + +“That you are perfectly welcome to them,” I replied. + +She looked slightly surprised. + +“You are really too good to me, _caro mio_,” she said; “you spoil me.” + +“_Can_ you be spoiled?” I asked, half jestingly. “Good women are like +fine brilliants—the more richly they are set the more they shine.” + +She stroked my hand caressingly. + +“No one ever made such pretty speeches to me as you do!” she murmured. + +“Not even Guido Ferrari?” I suggested, ironically. + +She drew herself up with an inimitably well-acted gesture of lofty +disdain. + +“Guido Ferrari!” she exclaimed. “He dared not address me save with the +greatest respect! I was as a queen to him! It was only lately that he +began to presume on the trust left him by my husband, and then he +became too familiar—a mistake on his part, for which _you_ punished +him—as he deserved!” + +I rose from my seat beside her. I could not answer for my own composure +while sitting so close to the actual murderess of _my_ friend and _her_ +lover. Had she forgotten her own “familiar” treatment of the dead +man—the thousand nameless wiles and witcheries and tricks of her trade, +by which she had beguiled his soul and ruined his honor? + +“I am glad you are satisfied with my action in that affair,” I said, +coldly and steadily. “I myself regret the death of the unfortunate +young man, and shall continue to do so. My nature, unhappily, is an +oversensitive one, and is apt to be affected by trifles. But now, _mia +bella_, farewell until to-morrow—happy to-morrow!—when I shall call you +mine indeed!” + +A warm flush tinted her cheeks; she came to me where I stood, and +leaned against me. + +“Shall I not see you again till we meet in the church?” she inquired, +with a becoming bashfulness. + +“No. I will leave you this last day of your brief widowhood alone. It +is not well that I should obtrude myself upon your thoughts or prayers. +Stay!” and I caught her hand which toyed with the flower in my +buttonhole. “I see you still wear your former wedding-ring. May I take +it off?” + +“Certainly.” And she smiled while I deftly drew off the plain gold +circlet I had placed there nearly four years since. + +“Will you let me keep it?” + +“If you like. _I_ would rather not see it again.” + +“You shall not,” I answered, as I slipped it into my pocket. “It will +be replaced by a new one to-morrow—one that I hope may be the symbol of +more joy to you than this has been.” + +And as her eyes turned to my face in all their melting, perfidious +languor, I conquered my hatred of her by a strong effort, and stooped +and kissed her. Had I yielded to my real impulses, I would have crushed +her cruelly in my arms, and bruised her delicate flesh with the brutal +ferocity of caresses born of bitterest loathing, not love. But no sign +of my aversion escaped me—all she saw was her elderly looking admirer, +with his calmly courteous demeanor, chill smile, and almost parental +tenderness; and she judged him merely as an influential gentleman of +good position and unlimited income, who was about to make her one of +the most envied women in all Italy. + +The fugitive resemblance she traced in me to her “dead” husband was +certainly attributed by her to a purely accidental likeness common to +many persons in this world, where every man, they say, has his double, +and for that matter every woman also. Who does not remember the +touching surprise of Heinrich Heine when, on visiting the +picture-gallery of the Palazzo Durazzo in Genoa, he was brought face to +face with the portrait, as he thought, of a dead woman he had +loved—“_Maria la morte_.” It mattered not to him that the picture was +very old, that it had been painted by Giorgio Barbarelli centuries +before his “Maria” could have lived; he simply declares: “_Il est +vraiment d’une ressemblance admirable, ressemblant jusqu’au silence de +la mort_!” + +Such likenesses are common enough, and my wife, though my resemblance +to myself (!) troubled her a little, was very far from imagining the +real truth of the matter, as indeed how should she? What woman, +believing and knowing, as far as anything can be known, her husband to +be dead and fast buried, is likely to accept even the idea of his +possible escape from the tomb! Not one!—else the disconsolate widows +would indeed have reason to be more inconsolable than they appear! + +When I left her that morning I found Andrea Luziani waiting for me at +my hotel. He was seated in the outer entrance hall; I bade him follow +me into my private salon. He did so. Abashed at the magnificence of the +apartment, he paused at the doorway, and stood, red cap in hand, +hesitating, though with an amiable smile on his sunburned merry +countenance. + +“Come in, _amico_,” I said, with an inviting gesture, “and sit down. +All this tawdry show of velvet and gilding must seem common to your +eyes, that have rested so long on the sparkling pomp of the foaming +waves, the glorious blue curtain of the sky, and the sheeny white of +the sails of the ‘Laura’ gleaming in the gold of the sun. Would I could +live such a life as yours, Andrea!—there is nothing better under the +width of heaven.” + +The poetical temperament of the Sicilian was caught and fired by my +words. He at once forgot the splendid appurtenances of wealth and the +costly luxuries that surrounded him; he advanced without embarrassment, +and seated himself on a velvet and gold chair with as much ease as +though it were a coil of rough rope on board the “Laura.” + +“You say truly, _eccellenza_,” he said, with a gleam of his white teeth +through his jet-black mustache, while his warm southern eyes flashed +fire, “there is nothing sweeter than the life of the _marinaro_. And +truly there are many who say to me, ‘Ah, ah! Andrea! _buon amico_, the +time comes when you will wed, and the home where the wife and children +sit will seem a better thing to you than the caprice of the wind and +waves.’ But I—see you!—I know otherwise. The woman I wed must love the +sea; she must have the fearless eyes that can look God’s storms in the +face—her tender words must ring out all the more clearly for the sound +of the bubbling waves leaping against the ‘Laura’ when the wind is +high! And as for our children,” he paused and laughed, “per la +_Santissima Madonna_! if the salt and iron of the ocean be not in their +blood, they will be no children of mine!” + +I smiled at his enthusiasm, and pouring out some choice Montepulciano, +bade him taste it. He did so with a keen appreciation of its flavor, +such as many a so-called connoisseur of wines does not possess. + +“To your health, _eccellenza_!” he said, “and may you long enjoy your +life!” + +I thanked him; but in my heart I was far from echoing the kindly wish. + +“And are you going to fulfill the prophecy of your friends, Andrea?” I +asked. “Are you about to marry?” + +He set down his glass only partly emptied, and smiled with an air of +mystery. + +“_Ebbene_! _chi sa_!” he replied, with a gay little shrug of his +shoulders, yet with a sudden tenderness in his keen eyes that did not +escape me. “There is a maiden—my mother loves her well—she is little +and fair as Carmelo Neri’s Teresa—so high,” and he laid his brown hand +lightly on his breast, “her head touches just here,” and he laughed. +“She looks as frail as a lily, but she is hardy as a sea-gull, and no +one loves the wild waves more than she. Perhaps, in the month of the +Madonna, when the white lilies bloom—perhaps!—one can never tell—the +old song may be sung for us— + +“Chi sa fervente amar +Solo è felice!” + + +And humming the tune of the well-known love-ditty under his breath, he +raised his glass of wine to his lips and drained it off with a relish, +while his honest face beamed with gayety and pleasure. Always the same +story, I thought, moodily. Love, the tempter—Love, the destroyer—Love, +the curse! Was there _no_ escape possible from this bewildering snare +that thus caught and slew the souls of men? + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + +He soon roused himself from his pleasant reverie, and drawing his chair +closer to mine, assumed an air of mystery. + +“And for your friend who is in trouble,” he said, in a confidential +tone, then paused and looked at me as though waiting permission to +proceed. + +I nodded. + +“Go on, _amico_. What have you arranged?” + +“Everything!” he announced, with an air of triumph. “All is smooth +sailing. At six o’clock on Friday morning the ‘_Rondinella_,’ that is +the brig I told you of, _eccellenza_, will weigh anchor for Civita +Vecchia. Her captain, old Antonio Bardi, will wait ten minutes or even +a quarter of an hour if necessary for the—the—” + +“Passenger,” I supplemented. “Very amiable of him, but he will not need +to delay his departure for a single instant beyond the appointed hour. +Is he satisfied with the passage money?” + +“Satisfied!” and Andrea swore a good-natured oath and laughed aloud. +“By San Pietro! if he were not, he would deserve to drown like a dog on +the voyage! Though truly, it is always difficult to please him, he +being old and cross and crusty. Yes; he is one of those men who have +seen so much of life that they are tired of it. Believe it! even the +stormiest sea is a tame fish-pond to old Bardi. But he is satisfied +this time, _eccellenza_, and his tongue and eyes are so tied up that I +should not wonder if your friend found him to be both dumb and blind +when he steps on board.” + +“That is well,” I said, smiling. “I owe you many thanks, Andrea. And +yet there is one more favor I would ask of you.” + +He saluted me with a light yet graceful gesture. + +“_Eccellenza_, anything I can do—command me.” + +“It is a mere trifle,” I returned. “It is merely to take a small valise +belonging to my friend, and to place it on board the ‘_Rondinella_’ +under the care of the captain. Will you do this?” + +“Most willingly. I will take it now if it so please you.” + +“That is what I desire. Wait here and I will bring it to you.” + +And leaving him for a minute or two, I went into my bedroom and took +from a cupboard I always kept locked a common rough leather bag, which +I had secretly packed myself, unknown to Vincenzo, with such things as +I judged to be useful and necessary. Chief among them was a bulky roll +of bank-notes. These amounted to nearly the whole of the remainder of +the money I had placed in the bank at Palermo. I had withdrawn it by +gradual degrees, leaving behind only a couple of thousand francs, for +which I had no special need. I locked and strapped the valise; there +was no name on it and it was scarcely any weight to carry. I took it to +Andrea, who swung it easily in his right hand and said, smilingly: + +“Your friend is not wealthy, _eccellenza_, if this is all his luggage!” + +“You are right,” I answered, with a slight sigh; “he is truly very +poor—beggared of everything that should be his through the treachery of +those whom he has benefited.” I paused; Andrea was listening +sympathetically. “That is why I have paid his passage-money, and have +done my best to aid him.” + +“Ah! you have the good heart, _eccellenza_,” murmured the Sicilian, +thoughtfully. “Would there were more like you! Often when fortune gives +a kick to a man, nothing will suit but that all who see him must kick +him also. And thus the _povero diavolo_ dies of so many kicks, often! +This friend of yours is young, _senza dubbio_?” + +“Yes, quite young, not yet thirty.” + +“It is as if you were a father to him!” exclaimed Andrea, +enthusiastically. “I hope he may be truly grateful to you, +_eccellenza_.” + +“I hope so too,” I said, unable to resist a smile. “And now, _amico_, +take this,” and I pressed a small sealed packet into his hand. “It is +for yourself. Do not open it till you are at home with the mother you +love so well, and the little maiden you spoke of by your side. If its +contents please you, as I believe they will, think that _I_ am also +rendered happier by your happiness.” + +His dark eyes sparkled with gratitude as I spoke, and setting the +valise he held down on the ground, he stretched out his hand half +timidly, half frankly. I shook it warmly and bade him farewell. + +“_Per Bacco_!” he said, with a sort of shamefaced eagerness, “the very +devil must have caught my tongue in his fingers! There is something I +ought to say to you, _eccellenza_, but for my life I cannot find the +right words. I must thank you better when I see you next.” + +“Yes,” I answered, dreamily and somewhat wearily, “when you see me +next, Andrea, you shall thank me if you will; but believe me, I need no +thanks.” + +And thus we parted, never to meet again—he to the strong glad life that +is born of the wind and sea, and I to—. But let me not anticipate. Step +by step through the labyrinths of memory let me go over the old ground +watered with blood and tears, not missing one sharp stone of detail on +the drear pathway leading to the bitter end. + +That same evening I had an interview with Vincenzo. He was melancholy +and taciturn—a mood which was the result of an announcement I had +previously made to him—namely, that his services would not be required +during my wedding-trip. He had hoped to accompany me and to occupy the +position of courier, valet, major-domo, and generally confidential +attendant—a hope which had partially soothed the vexation he had +evidently felt at the notion of my marrying at all. + +His plans were now frustrated, and if ever the good-natured fellow +could be ill-tempered, he was assuredly so on this occasion. He stood +before me with his usual respectful air, but he avoided my glance, and +kept his eyes studiously fixed on the pattern of the carpet. I +addressed him with an air of gayety. + +“_Ebbene_, Vincenzo! Joy comes at last, you see, even to me! To-morrow +I shall wed the Countess Romani—the loveliest and perhaps the richest +woman in Naples!” + +“I know it, _eccellenza_.” + +This with the same obstinately fixed countenance and downward look. + +“You are not very pleased, I think, at the prospect of my happiness?” I +asked, banteringly. + +He glanced up for an instant, then as quickly down again. + +“If one could be sure that the _illustrissimo eccellenza_ was indeed +happy, that would be a good thing,” he answered, dubiously. + +“And are you not sure?” + +He paused, then replied firmly: + +“No; the _eccellenza_ does not look happy. _No, no, davvero_! He has +the air of being sorrowful and ill, both together.” + +I shrugged my shoulders indifferently. + +“You mistake me, Vincenzo. I am well—very well—and happy! _Gran Dio_! +who could be happier? But what of my health or happiness?—they are +nothing to me, and should be less to you. Listen; I have something I +wish you to do for me.” + +He gave me a sidelong and half-expectant glance. I went on: + +“To-morrow evening I want you to go to Avellino.” + +He was utterly astonished. + +“To Avellino!” he murmured under his breath, “to Avellino!” + +“Yes, to Avellino,” I repeated, somewhat impatiently. “Is there +anything so surprising in that? You will take a letter from me to the +_Signora_ Monti. Look you, Vincenzo, you have been faithful and +obedient so far, I expect implicit fidelity and obedience still. You +will not be needed here to-morrow after the marriage ball has once +begun; you can take the nine o’clock train to Avellino, and—understand +me—you will remain there till you receive further news from me. You +will not have to wait long, and in the mean time,” here I smiled, “you +can make love to Lilla.” + +Vincenzo did not return the smile. + +“But—but,” he stammered, sorely perplexed—“if I go to Avellino I cannot +wait upon the _eccellenza_. There is the portmanteau to pack—and who +will see to the luggage when you leave on Friday morning for Rome? +And—and—I had thought to see you to the station—” He stopped, his +vexation was too great to allow him to proceed. + +I laughed gently. + +“How many more trifles can you think of, my friend, in opposition to my +wishes? As for the portmanteau, you can pack it this very day if you so +please—then it will be in readiness. The rest of your duties can for +once be performed by others. It is not only important, but imperative +that you should go to Avellino on my errand. I want you to take this +with you,” and I tapped a small square iron box, heavily made and +strongly padlocked, which stood on the table near me. + +He glanced at the box, but still hesitated, and the gloom on his +countenance deepened. I grew a little annoyed. + +“What is the matter with you?” I said at last with some sternness. “You +have something on your mind—speak out!” + +The fear of my wrath startled him. He looked up with a bewildered pain +in his eyes, and spoke, his mellow Tuscan voice vibrating with his own +eloquent entreaty. + +“_Eccellenza_!” he exclaimed, eagerly, “you must forgive me—yes, +forgive your poor servant who seems too bold, and who yet is true to +you—yes, indeed, so true!—and who would go with you to death if there +were need! I am not blind, I can see your sufferings, for you do +suffer, _’lustrissimo_, though you hide it well. Often have I watched +you when you have not known it. I feel that you have what we call a +wound in the heart, bleeding, bleeding always. Such a thing means death +often, as much as a straight shot in battle. Let me watch over you, +_eccellenza_; let me stay with you! I have learned to love you! Ah, +_mio signor_,” and he drew nearer and caught my hand timidly, “you do +not know—how should you?—the look that is in your face sometimes, the +look of one who is stunned by a hard blow. I have said to myself ‘That +look will kill me if I see it often.’ And your love for this great +lady, whom you will wed to-morrow, has not lightened your soul as love +should lighten it. No! you are even sadder than before, and the look I +speak of comes ever again and again. Yes, I have watched you, and +lately I have seen you writing, writing far into the night, when you +should have slept. Ah, _signor_! you are angry, and I know I should not +have spoken; but tell me, how can I look at Lilla and be happy when I +feel that you are alone and sad?” + +I stopped the flood of his eloquence by a mute gesture and withdrew my +hand from his clasp. + +“I am not angry,” I said, with quiet steadiness, and yet with something +of coldness, though my whole nature, always highly sensitive, was +deeply stirred by the rapid, unstudied expressions of affection that +melted so warmly from his lips in the liquid music of the mellow Tuscan +tongue. “No, I am not angry, but I am sorry to have been the object of +so much solicitude on your part. Your pity is misplaced, Vincenzo, it +is indeed! Pity an emperor clad in purples and seated on a throne of +pure gold, but do not pity _me_! I tell you that, to-morrow, yes, +to-morrow, I shall obtain all that I have ever sought—my greatest +desire will be fulfilled. Believe it. No man has ever been so +thoroughly satiated with—satisfaction—as I shall be!” + +Then seeing him look still sad and incredulous, I clapped my hand on +his shoulder and smiled. + +“Come, come, _amico_, wear a merrier face for my bridal day, or you +will not deserve to wed Lilla. I thank you from my heart,” and I spoke +more gravely, “for your well meant care and kindness, but I assure you +there is nothing wrong with me. I am well—perfectly well—and happy. It +is understood that you go to Avellino to-morrow evening?” + +Vincenzo sighed, but was passive. + +“It must be as the _eccellenza_ pleases,” he murmured, resignedly. + +“That is well,” I answered, good-humoredly; “and as you know my +pleasure, take care that nothing interferes with your departure. +And—one word more—you must cease to watch me. Plainly speaking, I do +not choose to be under your surveillance. Nay—I am not offended, far +from it, fidelity and devotion are excellent virtues, but in the +present case I prefer obedience—strict, implicit obedience. Whatever I +may do, whether I sleep or wake, walk or sit still—attend to _your_ +duties and pay no heed to _my_ actions. So will you best serve me—you +understand?” + +“_Si, signor_!” and the poor fellow sighed again, and reddened with his +own inward confusion. “You will pardon me, _eccellenza_, for my freedom +of speech? I feel I have done wrong—” + +“I pardon you for what in this world is never pardoned—excess of love,” +I answered, gently. “Knowing you love me, I ask you to obey me in my +present wishes, and thus we shall always be friends.” + +His face brightened at these last words, and his thoughts turned in a +new direction. He glanced at the iron box I had before pointed out to +him. + +“That is to go to Avellino, _eccellenza_?” he asked, with more alacrity +than he had yet shown. + +“Yes,” I answered. “You will place it in the hands of the good +_Signora_ Monti, for whom I have a great respect. She will take care of +it till—I return.” + +“Your commands shall be obeyed, _signor_,” he said, rapidly, as though +eager to atone for his past hesitation. “After all,” and he smiled, “it +will be pleasant to see Lilla; she will be interested, too, to hear the +account of the _eccellenza_’s marriage.” + +And somewhat consoled by the prospect of the entertainment his +unlooked-for visit would give to the charming little maiden of his +choice, he left me, and shortly afterward I heard him humming a popular +love-song softly under his breath, while he busied himself in packing +my portmanteau for the honeymoon trip—a portmanteau destined never to +be used or opened by its owner. + +That night, contrary to my usual habit, I lingered long over my dinner; +at its close I poured out a full glass of fine Lacrima Cristi, and +secretly mixing with it a dose of a tasteless but powerful opiate, I +called my valet and bade him drink it and wish me joy. He did so +readily, draining the contents to the last drop. It was a tempestuous +night; there was a high wind, broken through by heavy sweeping gusts of +rain. Vincenzo cleared the dinner-table, yawning visibly as he did so, +then taking my out-door paletot on his arm, he went to his bedroom, a +small one adjoining mine, for the purpose of brushing it, according to +his customary method. I opened a book, and pretending to be absorbed in +its contents, I waited patiently for about half an hour. + +At the expiration of that time I stole softly to his door and looked +in. It was as I had expected; overcome by the sudden and heavy action +of the opiate, he had thrown himself on his bed, and was slumbering +profoundly, the unbrushed overcoat by his side. Poor fellow! I smiled +as I watched him; the faithful dog was chained, and could not follow my +steps for that night at least. + +I left him thus, and wrapping myself in a thick Almaviva that muffled +me almost to the eyes, I hurried out, fortunately meeting no one on my +way—out into the storm and darkness, toward the Campo Santo, the abode +of the all-wise though speechless dead. I had work to do there—work +that must be done. I knew that if I had not taken the precaution of +drugging my too devoted servitor, he might, despite his protestations, +have been tempted to track me whither I went. As it was, I felt myself +safe, for four hours must pass, I knew, before Vincenzo could awake +from his lethargy. And I was absent for some time. + +Though I performed my task as quickly as might be, it took me longer +than I thought, and filled me with more loathing and reluctance than I +had deemed possible. It was a grewsome, ghastly piece of work—a work of +preparation—and when I had finished it entirely to my satisfaction, I +felt as though the bony fingers of death itself had been plunged into +my very marrow. I shivered with cold, my limbs would scarce bear me +upright, and my teeth chattered as though I were seized by strong ague. +But the fixity of my purpose strengthened me till all was done—till the +stage was set for the last scene of the tragedy. Or comedy? What you +will! I know that in the world nowadays you make a husband’s dishonor +more of a whispered jest than anything else—you and your heavy +machinery of the law. But to me—I am so strangely constituted—dishonor +is a bitterer evil than death. If all those who are deceived and +betrayed felt thus, then justice would need to become more just. It is +fortunate—for the lawyers—that we are not all honorable men! + +When I returned from my dreary walk in the driving storm I found +Vincenzo still fast asleep. I was glad of this, for had he seen me in +the plight I was, he would have had good reason to be alarmed +concerning both my physical and mental condition. Perceiving myself in +the glass, I recoiled as from an image of horror. I saw a man with +haunted, hungry eyes gleaming out from under a mass of disordered white +hair, his pale, haggard face set and stern as the face of a merciless +inquisitor of old Spain, his dark cloak dripping with glittering +raindrops, his hands and nails stained as though he had dug them into +the black earth, his boots heavy with mire and clay, his whole aspect +that of one who had been engaged in some abhorrent deed, too repulsive +to be named. I stared at my own reflection thus and shuddered; then I +laughed softly with a sort of fierce enjoyment. Quickly I threw off all +my soiled habiliments, and locked them out of sight, and arraying +myself in dressing-gown and slippers, I glanced at the time. It was +half-past one—already the morning of my bridal. I had been absent three +hours and a half. I went into my salon and remained there writing. A +few minutes after two o’clock had struck the door opened noiselessly, +and Vincenzo, looking still very sleepy, appeared with an expression of +inquiring anxiety. He smiled drowsily, and seemed relieved to see me +sitting quietly in my accustomed place at the writing-table. I surveyed +him with an air of affected surprise. + +“_Ebbene_, Vincenzo! What has become of you all this while?” + +“_Eccellenza_,” he stammered, “it was the Lacrima; I am not used to +wine! I have been asleep.” + +I laughed, pretended to stifle a yawn on my own account, and rose from +my easy-chair. + +“_Veramente_,” I said, lightly, “so have I, very nearly! And if I would +appear as a gay bridegroom, it is time I went to bed. _Buona notte_.” + +“_Buona notte, signor_.” + +And we severally retired to rest, he satisfied that I had been in my +own room all the evening, and I, thinking with a savage joy at my heart +of what I had prepared out there in the darkness, with no witnesses of +my work save the whirling wind and rain. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + +My marriage morning dawned bright and clear, though the high wind of +the past night still prevailed and sent the white clouds scudding +rapidly, like ships running a race, across the blue fairness of the +sky. The air was strong, fresh, and exhilarating, and the crowds that +swarmed into the Piazza del Popolo, and the Toledo, eager to begin the +riot and fun of Giovedi Grasso, were one and all in the highest good +humor. As the hours advanced, many little knots of people hurried +toward the cathedral, anxious, if possible, to secure places in or near +the Chapel of San Gennaro, in order to see to advantage the brilliant +costumes of the few distinguished persons who had been invited to +witness my wedding. The ceremony was fixed to take place at eleven, and +at a little before half past ten I entered my carriage, in company with +the Duke di Marina as best man, and drove to the scene of action. Clad +in garments of admirable cut and fit, with well-brushed hair and beard, +and wearing a demeanor of skillfully mingled gravity and gayety, I bore +but little resemblance to the haggard, ferocious creature who had faced +me in the mirror a few hours previously. + +A strange and secret mirth too possessed me, a sort of half-frenzied +merriment that threatened every now and then to break through the mask +of dignified composure it was necessary for me to wear. There were +moments when I could have laughed, shrieked, and sung with the fury of +a drunken madman. As it was, I talked incessantly; my conversation was +flavored with bitter wit and pungent sarcasm, and once or twice my +friend the duke surveyed me with an air of wondering inquiry, as though +he thought my manner forced or unnatural. My coachman was compelled to +drive rather slowly, owing to the pressing throngs that swarmed at +every corner and through every thoroughfare, while the yells of the +masqueraders, the gambols of street clowns, the firing of toy guns, and +the sharp explosion of colored bladders, that were swung to and fro and +tossed in the air by the merry populace, startled my spirited horses +frequently, and caused them to leap and prance to a somewhat dangerous +extent, thus attracting more than the customary attention to my +equipage. As it drew up at last at the door of the chapel, I was +surprised to see what a number of spectators had collected there. There +was a positive crowd of loungers, beggars, children, and middle-class +persons of all sorts, who beheld my arrival with the utmost interest +and excitement. + +In accordance with my instructions a rich crimson carpet had been laid +down from the very edge of the pavement right into the church as far as +the altar; a silken awning had also been erected, under which bloomed a +miniature avenue of palms and tropical flowers. All eyes were turned +upon me curiously as I stepped from my carriage and entered the chapel, +side by side with the duke, and murmurs of my vast wealth and +generosity were audibly whispered as I passed along. One old crone, +hideously ugly, but with large, dark piercing eyes, the fading lamps of +a lost beauty, chuckled and mumbled as she craned her skinny throat +forward to observe me more closely. “Ay, ay! The saints know he need be +rich and generous—_pover’uomo_ to fill _her_ mouth. A little red cruel +mouth always open, that swallows money like macaroni, and laughs at the +suffering poor! Ah! that is bad, bad! He need be rich to satisfy +_her_!” + +The Duke di Marina caught these words and glanced quickly at me, but I +affected not to have heard. Inside the chapel there were a great number +of people, but my own invited guests, not numbering more than twenty or +thirty, were seated in the space apportioned to them near the altar, +which was divided from the mere sight-seers by means of a silken rope +that crossed the aisle. I exchanged greetings with most of these +persons, and in return received their congratulations; then I walked +with a firm deliberate step up to the high altar and there waited. The +magnificent paintings on the wall round me seemed endowed with +mysterious life—the grand heads of saints and martyrs were turned upon +me as though they demanded—“_must_ thou do this thing? Hast thou no +forgiveness?” + +And ever my stern answer, “Nay; if hereafter I am tortured in eternal +flame for all ages, yet now—now while I live, I will be avenged!” + +A bleeding Christ suspended on His cross gazed at me reproachfully with +long-enduring eyes of dreadful anguish—eyes that seemed to say, “Oh, +erring man, that tormentest thyself with passing passions, shall not +thine own end approach speedily?—and what comfort wilt thou have in thy +last hour?” + +And inwardly I answered, “None! No shred of consolation can ever again +be mine—no joy, save fulfilled revenge! And this I will possess though +the heavens should crack and the earth split asunder! For once a +woman’s treachery shall meet with punishment—for once such strange +uncommon justice shall be done!” + +And my spirit wrapped itself again in somber meditative silence. The +sunlight fell gloriously through the stained windows—blue, gold, +crimson, and violet shafts of dazzling radiance glittered in lustrous +flickering patterns on the snowy whiteness of the marble altar, and +slowly, softly, majestically, as though an angel stepped forward, the +sound of music stole on the incense-laden air. The unseen organist +played a sublime voluntary of Palestrina’s, and the round harmonious +notes came falling gently on one another like drops from a fountain +trickling on flowers. + +I thought of my last wedding-day, when I had stood in this very place, +full of hope, intoxicated with love and joy, when Guido Ferrari had +been by my side, and had drunk in for the first time the poisoned +draught of temptation from the loveliness of my wife’s face and form; +when I, poor fool! would as soon have thought that God could lie, as +that either of these whom I adored could play me false. I drew the +wedding-ring from my pocket and looked at it—it was sparklingly bright +and appeared new. Yet it was old—it was the very same ring I had drawn +off my wife’s finger the day before; it had only been burnished afresh +by a skilled jeweler, and showed no more marks of wear than if it had +been bought that morning. + +The great bell of the cathedral boomed out eleven, and as the last +stroke swung from the tower, the chapel doors were flung more widely +open: then came the gentle rustle of trailing robes, and turning, I +beheld my wife. She approached, leaning lightly on the arm of the old +Chevalier Mancini, who, true to his creeds of gallantry, had accepted +with alacrity the post of paternal protector to the bride on this +occasion; and I could not well wonder at the universal admiration that +broke in suppressed murmurs from all assembled, as this most fair +masterpiece of the devil’s creation paced slowly and gracefully up the +aisle. She wore a dress of clinging white velvet made with the greatest +simplicity—a lace veil, priceless in value and fine as gossamer, draped +her from head to foot—the jewels I had given her flashed about her like +scintillating points of light, in her hair, at her waist, on her breast +and uncovered arms. + +Being as she deemed herself, a widow, she had no bride-maids; her train +was held up by a handsome boy clad in the purple and gold costume of a +sixteenth century page—he was the youngest son of the Duke di Marina. +Two tiny girls of five and six years of age went before, strewing white +roses and lilies, and stepping daintily backward as though in +attendance on a queen; they looked like two fairies who had slipped out +of a midnight dream, in their little loose gowns of gold-colored plush, +with wreaths of meadow daffodils on their tumbled curly hair. They had +been well trained by Nina herself, for on arrival at the altar they +stood demurely, one on each side of her, the pretty page occupying his +place behind, and still holding up the end of the velvet train with a +charming air of hauteur and self-complacency. + +The whole cortege was a picture in its way, as Nina had meant it to be: +she was fond of artistic effects. She smiled languishingly upon me as +she reached the altar, and sunk on her knees beside me in prayer. The +music swelled forth with redoubled grandeur, the priests and acolytes +appeared, the marriage service commenced. As I placed the ring on the +book I glanced furtively at the bride; her fair head was bent +demurely—she seemed absorbed in holy meditations. The priest having +performed the ceremony of sprinkling it with holy water, I took it +back, and set it for the second time on my wife’s soft white little +hand—set it in accordance with the Catholic ritual, first on the thumb, +then on the second finger, then on the third, and lastly on the fourth, +where I left it in its old place, wondering as I did so, and murmured, +“_In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen_!” whether she +recognized it as the one she had worn so long! But it was evident she +did not; her calm was unbroken by even so much as a start or tremor; +she had the self-possession of a perfectly satisfied, beautiful, vain, +and utterly heartless woman. + +The actual ceremony of marriage was soon over; then followed the Mass, +in which we, the newly-wedded pair, were compelled, in submission to +the rule of the Church, to receive the Sacrament. I shuddered as the +venerable priest gave me the Sacred Host. What had I to do with the +inward purity and peace this memento of Christ is supposed to leave in +our souls? Methought the Crucified Image in the chapel regarded me +afresh with those pained eyes, and said, “Even so dost thou seal thine +own damnation!” Yet _she_, the true murderess, the arch liar, received +the Sacrament with the face of a rapt angel—the very priest himself +seemed touched by those upraised, candid, glorious eyes, the sweet lips +so reverently parted, the absolute, reliable peace that rested on that +white brow, like an aureole round the head of a saint! + +“If _I_ am damned, then is _she_ thrice damned!” I said to myself, +recklessly. “I dare say hell is wide enough for us to live apart when +we get there.” + +Thus I consoled my conscience, and turned resolutely away from the +painted appealing faces on the wall—the faces that in their various +expressions of sorrow, resignation, pain, and death seemed now to be +all pervaded by another look, that of astonishment—astonishment, so I +fancied, that such a man as I, and such a woman as she, should be found +in the width of the whole world, and should be permitted to kneel at +God’s altar without being struck dead for their blasphemy! + +Ah, good saints, well may you be astonished! Had you lived in our day +you must have endured worse martyrdoms than the boiling oil or the +wrenching rack! What you suffered was the mere physical pain of torn +muscles and scorching flesh, pain that at its utmost could not last +long; but your souls were clothed with majesty and power, and were +glorious in the light of love, faith, hope, and charity with all men. +WE have reversed the position _you_ occupied! We have partly learned, +and are still learning, how to take care of our dearly beloved bodies, +how to nourish and clothe them and guard them from cold and disease; +but our souls, good saints, the souls that with you were +everything—_these_ we smirch, burn, and rack, torture and destroy—these +we stamp upon till we crush out God’s image therefrom—these we spit and +jeer at, crucify and drown! _There_ is the difference between you, the +strong and wise of a fruitful olden time, and we, the miserable, puny +weaklings of a sterile modern age. + +Had you, sweet St. Dorothy, or fair child-saint Agnes, lived in this +day, you would have felt something sharper than the executioner’s +sword; for being pure, you would have been dubbed the worst of +women—being prayerful, you would have been called hypocrites—being +faithful, you would have been suspected of all vileness—being loving, +you would have been mocked at more bitterly than the soldiers of +Pontius Pilate mocked Christ; but you would have been _free_—free to +indulge your own opinions, for ours is the age of liberty. Yet how much +better for you to have died than have lived till now! + +Absorbed in strange, half-morose, half-speculative fancies, I scarcely +heard the close of the solemn service. I was roused by a delicate touch +from my wife, and I woke, as it were, with a start, to hear the +sonorous, crashing chords of the wedding-march in “Lohengrin” +thundering through the air. All was over: my wife was _mine_ +indeed—mine most thoroughly—mine by the exceptionally close-tied knot +of a double marriage—mine to do as I would with “_till death should us +part_.” How long, I gravely mused, how long before death could come to +do us this great service? And straightway I began counting, counting +certain spaces of time that must elapse before—I was still absorbed in +this mental arithmetic, even while I mechanically offered my arm to my +wife as we entered the vestry to sign our names in the marriage +register. So occupied was I in my calculations that I nearly caught +myself murmuring certain numbers aloud. I checked this, and recalling +my thoughts by a strong effort, I strove to appear interested and +delighted, as I walked down the aisle with my beautiful bride, through +the ranks of admiring and eager spectators. + +On reaching the outer doors of the chapel several flower-girls emptied +their full and fragrant baskets at our feet; and in return, I bade one +of my servants distribute a bag of coins I had brought for the purpose, +knowing from former experience that it would be needed. To tread across +such a heap of flowers required some care, many of the blossoms +clinging to Nina’s velvet train—we therefore moved forward slowly. + +Just as we had almost reached the carriage, a young girl, with large +laughing eyes set like flashing jewels in her soft oval face, threw +down in my path a cluster of red roses. A sudden fury of impotent +passion possessed me, and I crushed my heel instantly and savagely upon +the crimson blossoms, stamping upon them again and again so violently +that my wife raised her delicate eyebrows in amazement, and the +pressing people who stood round us, shrugged their shoulders, and gazed +at one another with looks of utter bewilderment—while the girl who had +thrown them shrunk back in terror, her face paling as she murmured, +“_Santissima Madonna_! _mi fa paura_!” I bit my lip with vexation, +inwardly cursing the weakness of my own behavior. I laughed lightly in +answer to Nina’s unspoken, half-alarmed inquiry. + +“It is nothing—a mere fancy of mine. I hate red roses! They look to me +like human blood in flower!” + +She shuddered slightly. + +“What a horrible idea! How can you think of such a thing?” + +I made no response, but assisted her into the carriage with elaborate +care and courtesy; then entering it myself, we drove together back to +the hotel, where the wedding breakfast awaited us. + +This is always a feast of general uneasiness and embarrassment +everywhere, even in the sunny, pleasure-loving south; every one is glad +when it is over, and when the flowery, unmeaning speeches and +exaggerated compliments are brought to a fitting and happy conclusion. +Among my assembled guests, all of whom belonged to the best and most +distinguished families in Naples, there was a pervading atmosphere of +undoubted chilliness: the women were dull, being rendered jealous of +the bride’s beauty and the richness of her white velvets and jewels; +the men were constrained, and could scarcely force themselves into even +the appearance of cordiality—they evidently thought that, with such +wealth as mine, I would have done much better to remain a bachelor. In +truth, Italians, and especially Neapolitans, are by no means +enthusiastic concerning the supposititious joys of marriage. They are +apt to shake their heads, and to look upon it as a misfortune rather +than a blessing. “_L’altare è la tomba dell’ amore_,” is a very common +saying with us, and very commonly believed. + +It was a relief to us all when we rose from the splendidly appointed +table, and separated for a few hours. We were to meet again at the +ball, which was fixed to commence at nine o’clock in the evening. The +cream of the event was to be tasted _then_—the final toasting of the +bride was to take place _then_—_then_ there would be music, mirth and +dancing, and all the splendor of almost royal revelry. I escorted my +wife with formal courtesy to a splendid apartment which had been +prepared for her, for she had, as she told me, many things to do—as, +for instance, to take off her bridal robes, to study every detail of +her wondrous ball costume for the night, and to superintend her maid in +the packing of her trunks for the next day’s journey. _The next day_! I +smiled grimly—I wondered how she would enjoy her trip! Then I kissed +her hand with the most profound respect and left her to repose—to +refresh and prepare herself for the brilliant festivity of the evening. + +Our marriage customs are not as coarse as those of some countries; a +bridegroom in Italy thinks it scarcely decent to persecute his bride +with either his presence or his caresses as soon as the Church has made +her his. On the contrary, if ardent, he restrains his ardor—he forbears +to intrude, he strives to keep up the illusion, the rose-colored light, +or rather mist, of love as long as possible, and he has a wise, +instinctive dread of becoming over-familiar; well knowing that nothing +kills romance so swiftly and surely as the bare blunt prose of close +and constant proximity. And I, like other gentlemen of my rank and +class, gave my twice-wedded wife her liberty—the last hours of liberty +she would ever know. I left her to busy herself with the trifles she +best loved—trifles of dress and personal adornment, for which many +women barter away their soul’s peace and honor, and divest themselves +of the last shred of right and honest principle merely to outshine +others of their own sex, and sow broadcast heart-burnings, petty +envies, mean hatreds and contemptible spites, where, if they did but +choose, there might be a widely different harvest. + +It is easy to understand the feelings of Marie Stuart when she arrayed +herself in her best garments for her execution: it was simply the +heroism of supreme vanity, the desire to fascinate if possible the very +headsman. One can understand any beautiful woman being as brave as she. +Harder than death itself would it have seemed to her had she been +compelled to appear on the scaffold looking hideous. She was resolved +to make the most of her charms so long as life lasted. I thought of +that sweet-lipped, luscious-smiling queen as I parted from my wife for +a few brief hours: royal and deeply injured lady though she was, she +merited her fate, for she was treacherous—there can be no doubt of +that. Yet most people reading her her story pity her—I know not why. It +is strange that so much of the world’s sympathy is wasted on false +women! + +I strolled into one of the broad _loggie_ of the hotel, from whence I +could see a portion of the Piazza del Popolo, and lighting a cigar, I +leisurely watched the frolics of the crowd. The customary fooling +proper to the day was going on, and no detail of it seemed to pall on +the good-natured, easily amused folks who must have seen it all so +often before. Much laughter was being excited by the remarks of a +vender of quack medicines, who was talking with extreme volubility to a +number of gayly dressed girls and fishermen. I could not distinguish +his words, but I judged he was selling the “elixir of love,” from his +absurd amatory gestures—an elixir compounded, no doubt, of a little +harmless _eau sucré_. + +Flags tossed on the breeze, trumpets brayed, drums beat; +_improvisatores_ twanged their guitars and mandolins loudly to attract +attention, and failing in their efforts, swore at each other with the +utmost joviality and heartiness; flower-girls and lemonade-sellers made +the air ring with their conflicting cries: now and then a shower of +chalky confetti flew out from adjacent windows, dusting with white +powder the coats of the passers-by; clusters of flowers tied with +favors of gay-colored ribbon were lavishly flung at the feet of +bright-eyed peasant girls, who rejected or accepted them at pleasure, +with light words of badinage or playful repartee; clowns danced and +tumbled, dogs barked, church bells clanged, and through all the waving +width of color and movement crept the miserable, shrinking forms of +diseased and loathly beggars whining for a _soldo_, and clad in rags +that barely covered their halting, withered limbs. + +It was a scene to bewilder the brain and dazzle the eyes, and I was +just turning away from it out of sheer fatigue, when a sudden cessation +of movement in the swaying, whirling crowd, and a slight hush, caused +me to look out once more. I perceived the cause of the momentary +stillness—a funeral cortege appeared, moving at a slow and solemn pace; +as it passed across the square, heads were uncovered, and women crossed +themselves devoutly. Like a black shadowy snake it coiled through the +mass of shifting color and brilliance—another moment, and it was gone. +The depressing effect of its appearance was soon effaced—the merry +crowds resumed their thousand and one freaks of folly, their shrieking, +laughing and dancing, and all was as before. Why not? + +The dead are soon forgotten; none knew that better than I! Leaning my +arms lazily on the edge of the balcony, I finished smoking my cigar. +That glimpse of death in the midst of life had filled me with a certain +satisfaction. Strangely enough, my thoughts began to busy themselves +with the old modes of torture that used to be legal, and that, after +all, were not so unjust when practiced upon persons professedly vile. +For instance, the iron coffin of Lissa—that ingeniously contrived box +in which the criminal was bound fast hand and foot, and then was forced +to watch the huge lid descending slowly, slowly, slowly, half an inch +at a time, till at last its ponderous weight crushed into a flat and +mangled mass the writhing wretch within, who had for long agonized +hours watched death steadily approaching. Suppose that _I_ had such a +coffin now! I stopped my train of reflection with a slight shudder. No, +no; she whom I sought to punish was so lovely, such a softly colored, +witching, gracious body, though tenanted by a wicked soul—she should +keep her beauty! I would not destroy that—I would be satisfied with my +plan as already devised. + +I threw away the end of my smoked-out cigar and entered my own rooms. +Calling Vincenzo, who was now resigned and even eager to go to +Avellino, I gave him his final instructions, and placed in his charge +the iron cash-box, which, unknown to him, contained 12,000 francs in +notes and gold. This was the last good action I could do: it was a +sufficient sum to set him up as a well-to-do farmer and fruit-grower in +Avellino with Lilla and her little dowry combined. He also carried a +sealed letter to _Signora_ Monti, which I told him she was not to open +till a week had elapsed; this letter explained the contents of the box +and my wishes concerning it; it also asked the good woman to send to +the Villa Romani for Assunta and her helpless charge, poor old +paralyzed Giacomo, and to tend the latter as well as she could till his +death, which I knew could not be far off. + +I had thought of everything as far as possible, and I could already +foresee what a happy, peaceful home there would be in the little +mountain town guarded by the Monte Vergine. Lilla and Vincenzo would +wed, I knew; _Signora_ Monti and Assunta would console each other with +their past memories and in the tending of Lilla’s children; for some +little time, perhaps, they would talk of me and wonder sorrowfully +where I had gone; then gradually they would forget me, even as I +desired to be forgotten. + +Yes; I had done all I could for those who had never wronged me. I had +acquitted myself of my debt to Vincenzo for his affection and fidelity; +the rest of my way was clear. I had no more to do save the _one thing_, +the one deed which had clamored so long for accomplishment. Revenge, +like a beckoning ghost, had led me on step by step for many weary days +and months, which to me had seemed cycles of suffering; but now it +paused—it faced me—and turning its blood-red eyes upon my soul said, +“Strike!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + +The ball opened brilliantly. The rooms were magnificently decorated, +and the soft luster of a thousand lamps shone on a scene of splendor +almost befitting the court of a king. Some of the stateliest nobles in +all Italy were present, their breasts glittering with jeweled orders +and ribbons of honor; some of the loveliest women to be seen anywhere +in the world flitted across the polished floors, like poets’ dreams of +the gliding sylphs that haunt rivers and fountains by moonlight. + +But fairest where all were fair, peerless in the exuberance of her +triumphant vanity, and in the absolute faultlessness of her delicate +charms, was my wife—the bride of the day, the heroine of the night. +Never had she looked so surpassingly beautiful, and I, even I, felt my +pulse beat quicker, and the blood course more hotly through my veins, +as I beheld her, radiant, victorious, and smiling—a veritable queen of +the fairies, as dainty as a drop of dew, as piercing to the eye as a +flash of light. Her dress was some wonderful mingling of misty lace, +with the sheen of satin and glimmering showers of pearl; diamonds +glittered on her bodice like sunlight on white foam; the brigand’s +jewels flashed gloriously on her round white throat and in her tiny +shell-like ears, while the masses of her gold hair were coiled to the +top of her small head and there caught by a priceless circlet of +rose-brilliants—brilliants that I well remembered—they had belonged to +my mother. Yet more lustrous than the light of the gems she wore was +the deep, ardent glory of her eyes, dark as night and luminous as +stars; more delicate than the filmy robes that draped her was the pure, +pearl-like whiteness of her neck, which was just sufficiently displayed +to be graceful without suggesting immodesty. + +For Italian women do not uncover their bosoms for the casual inspection +of strangers, as is the custom of their English and German sisters; +they know well enough that any lady venturing to wear a decollete dress +would find it impossible to obtain admittance to a court ball at the +Palazzo Quirinale. She would be looked upon as one of a questionable +class, and no matter how high her rank and station, would run the risk +of ejection from the doors, as on one occasion did unfortunately happen +to an English peeress, who, ignorant of Italian customs, went to an +evening reception in Rome arrayed in a very low bodice with straps +instead of sleeves. Her remonstrances were vain; she was politely but +firmly refused admittance, though told she might gain her point by +changing her costume, which I believe she wisely did. + +Some of the _grandes dames_ present at the ball that night wore dresses +the like of which are seldom or never seen out of Italy—robes sown with +jewels, and thick with wondrous embroidery, such as have been handed +down from generation to generation through hundreds of years. As an +example of this, the Duchess of Marina’s cloth of gold train, stitched +with small rubies and seed-pearls, had formerly belonged to the family +of Lorenzo de Medici. Such garments as these, when they are part of the +property of a great house, are worn only on particular occasions, +perhaps once in a year; and then they are laid carefully by and +sedulously protected from dust and moths and damp, receiving as much +attention as the priceless pictures and books of a famous historical +mansion. Nothing ever designed by any great modern tailor or milliner +can hope to compete with the magnificent workmanship and durable +material of the _festa_ dresses that are locked preciously away in the +old oaken coffers of the greatest Italian families—dresses that are +beyond valuation, because of the romances and tragedies attached to +them, and which, when worn, make all the costliest fripperies of to-day +look flimsy and paltry beside them, like the attempts of a servant to +dress as tastefully as her mistress. + +Such glitter of gold and silver, such scintillations from the burning +eyes of jewels, such cloud-like wreaths of floating laces, such subtle +odors of rare and exquisite perfume, all things that most keenly prick +and stimulate the senses were round me in fullest force this night—this +one dazzling, supreme and terrible night, that was destined to burn +into my brain like a seal of scorching fire. Yes; till I die, that +night will remain with me as though it were a breathing, sentient +thing; and after death, who knows whether it may not uplift itself in +some tangible, awful shape, and confront me with its flashing +mock-luster, and the black heart of its true meaning in its menacing +eyes, to take its drear place by the side of my abandoned soul through +all eternity! I remember now how I shivered and started out of the +bitter reverie into which I had fallen at the sound of my wife’s low, +laughing voice. + +“You must dance, Cesare,” she said, with a mischievous smile. “You are +forgetting your duties. You should open the ball with me!” + +I rose at once mechanically. + +“What dance is it?” I asked, forcing a smile. “I fear you will find me +but a clumsy partner.” + +She pouted. + +“Oh, surely not! You are not going to disgrace me—you really must try +and dance properly just this once. It will look so stupid if you make +any mistake. The band was going to play a quadrille; I would not have +it, and told them to strike up the Hungarian waltz instead. But I +assure you I shall never forgive you if you waltz badly—nothing looks +so awkward and absurd.” + +I made no answer, but placed my arm round her waist and stood ready to +begin. I avoided looking at her as much as possible, for it was growing +more and more difficult with each moment that passed to hold the +mastery over myself. I was consumed between hate and love. Yes, +love!—of an evil kind, I own, and in which there was no shred of +reverence—filled me with a sort of foolish fury, which mingled itself +with another and manlier craving, namely, to proclaim her vileness then +and there before all her titled and admiring friends, and to leave her +shamed in the dust of scorn, despised and abandoned. Yet I knew well +that were I to speak out—to declare my history and hers before that +brilliant crowd—I should be accounted mad, and that for a woman such as +she there existed no shame. + +The swinging measure of the slow Hungarian waltz, that most witching of +dances, danced perfectly only by those of the warm-blooded southern +temperament, now commenced. It was played pianissimo, and stole through +the room like the fluttering breath of a soft sea wind. I had always +been an excellent waltzer, and my step had fitted in with that of Nina +as harmoniously as the two notes of a perfect chord. She found it so on +this occasion, and glanced up with a look of gratified surprise as I +bore her lightly with languorous, dreamlike ease of movement through +the glittering ranks of our guests, who watched us admiringly as we +circled the room two or three times. + +Then—all present followed our lead, and in a couple of minutes the +ball-room was like a moving flower-garden in full bloom, rich with +swaying colors and rainbow-like radiance; while the music, growing +stronger, and swelling out in marked and even time, echoed forth like +the sound of clear-toned bells broken through by the singing of birds. +My heart beat furiously, my brain reeled, my senses swam as I felt my +wife’s warm breath on my cheek; I clasped her waist more closely, I +held her little gloved hand more firmly. She felt the double pressure, +and, lifting her white eyelids fringed with those long dark lashes that +gave such a sleepy witchery to her eyes, her lips parted in a little +smile. + +“At last you love me!” she whispered. + +“At last, at last,” I muttered, scarce knowing what I said. “Had I not +loved you at first, _bellissima_, I should not have been to you what I +am to-night.” + +A low ripple of laughter was her response. + +“I knew it,” she murmured again, half breathlessly, as I drew her with +swifter and more voluptuous motion into the vortex of the dancers. “You +tried to be cold, but I knew I could make you love me—yes, love me +passionately—and I was right.” Then with an outburst of triumphant +vanity she added, “I believe you would die for me!” + +I bent over her more closely. My hot quick breath moved the feathery +gold of her hair. + +“I _have_ died for you,” I said; “I have killed my old self for your +sake.” + +Dancing still, encircled by my arms, and gliding along like a sea-nymph +on moonlighted foam, she sighed restlessly. + +“Tell me what you mean, _amor mio_,” she asked, in the tenderest tone +in the world. + +Ah, God! that tender seductive cadence of her voice, how well I knew +it!—how often had it lured away my strength, as the fabled siren’s song +had been wont to wreck the listening mariner. + +“I mean that you have changed me, sweetest!” I whispered, in fierce, +hurried accents. “I have seemed old—for you to-night I will be young +again—for you my chilled slow blood shall again be hot and quick as +lava—for you my long-buried past shall rise in all its pristine vigor; +for you I will be a lover, such as perhaps no woman ever had or ever +will have again!” + +She heard, and nestled closer to me in the dance. My words pleased her. +Next to her worship of wealth her delight was to arouse the passions of +men. She was very panther-like in her nature—her first tendency was to +devour, her next to gambol with any animal she met, though her sleek, +swift playfulness might mean death. She was by no means exceptional in +this; there are many women like her. + +As the music of the waltz grew slower and slower, dropping down to a +sweet and persuasive conclusion, I led my wife to her fauteuil, and +resigned her to the care of a distinguished Roman prince who was her +next partner. Then, unobserved, I slipped out to make inquiries +concerning Vincenzo. He had gone; one of the waiters at the hotel, a +friend of his, had accompanied him and seen him into the train for +Avellino. He had looked in at the ball-room before leaving, and had +watched me stand up to dance with my wife, then “with tears in his +eyes”—so said the vivacious little waiter who had just returned from +the station—he had started without daring to wish me good-bye. + +I heard this information of course with an apparent kindly +indifference, but in my heart I felt a sudden vacancy, a drear, strange +loneliness. With my faithful servant near me I had felt conscious of +the presence of a friend, for friend he was in his own humble, +unobtrusive fashion; but now I was alone—alone in a loneliness beyond +all conceivable comparison—alone to do my work, without prevention or +detection. I felt, as it were, isolated from humanity, set apart with +my victim on some dim point of time, from which the rest of the world +receded, where the searching eye of the Creator alone could behold me. +Only she and I and God—these three were all that existed for me in the +universe; between these three must justice be fulfilled. + +Musingly, with downcast eyes, I returned to the ball-room. At the door +a young girl faced me—she was the only daughter of a great Neapolitan +house. Dressed in pure white, as all such maidens are, with a crown of +snow-drops on her dusky hair, and her dimpled face lighted with +laughter, she looked the very embodiment of early spring. She addressed +me somewhat timidly, yet with all a child’s frankness. + +“Is not this delightful? I feel as if I were in fairy-land! Do you know +this is my first ball?” + +I smiled wearily. + +“Ay, truly? And you are happy?” + +“Oh, happiness is not the word—it is ecstasy! How I wish it could last +forever! And—is it not strange?—I did not know I was beautiful till +to-night.” + +She said this with perfect simplicity, and a pleased smile radiated her +fair features. I glanced at her with cold scrutiny. + +“Ah! and some one has told you so.” + +She blushed and laughed a little consciously. + +“Yes; the great Prince de Majano. And he is too noble to say what is +not true, so I _must_ be ‘_la più bella donzella_,’ as he said, must I +not?” + +I touched the snow-drops that she wore in a white cluster at her +breast. + +“Look at your flowers, child,” I said, earnestly. “See how they begin +to droop in this heated air. The poor things! How glad they would feel +could they again grow in the cool wet moss of the woodlands, waving +their little bells to the wholesome, fresh wind! Would they revive now, +think you, for your great Prince de Majano if he told them they were +fair? So with your life and heart, little one—pass them through the +scorching fire of flattery, and their purity must wither even as these +fragile blossoms. And as for beauty—are you more beautiful than _she_?” + +And I pointed slightly to my wife, who was at that moment courtesying +to her partner in the stately formality of the first quadrille. + +My young companion looked, and her clear eyes darkened enviously. + +“Ah, no, no! But if I wore such lace and satin and pearls, and had such +jewels, I might perhaps be more like her!” + +I sighed bitterly. The poison had already entered this child’s soul. I +spoke brusquely. + +“Pray that you may never be like her,” I said, with somber sternness, +and not heeding her look of astonishment. “You are young—you cannot yet +have thrown off religion. Well, when you go home to-night, and kneel +beside your little bed, made holy by the cross above it and your +mother’s blessing—pray—pray with all your strength that you may never +resemble in the smallest degree that exquisite woman yonder! So may you +be spared her fate.” + +I paused, for the girl’s eyes were dilated in extreme wonder and fear. +I looked at her, and laughed abruptly and harshly. + +“I forgot,” I said; “the lady is my wife—I should have thought of that! +I was speaking of—another whom you do not know. Pardon me! when I am +fatigued my memory wanders. Pay no attention to my foolish remarks. +Enjoy yourself, my child, but do not believe all the pretty speeches of +the Prince de Majano. _A rivederci_!” + +And smiling a forced smile I left her, and mingled with the crowd of my +guests, greeting one here, another there, jesting lightly, paying +unmeaning compliments to the women who expected them, and striving to +distract my thoughts with the senseless laughter and foolish chatter of +the glittering cluster of society butterflies, all the while +desperately counting the tedious minutes, and wondering whether my +patience, so long on the rack, would last out its destined time. As I +made my way through the brilliant assemblage, Luziano Salustri, the +poet, greeted me with a grave smile. + +“I have had little time to congratulate you, _conte_,” he said, in +those mellifluous accents of his which were like his own improvised +music, “but I assure you I do so with all my heart. Even in my most +fantastic dreams I have never pictured a fairer heroine of a life’s +romance than the lady who is now the Countess Oliva.” + +I silently bowed my thanks. + +“I am of a strange temperament, I suppose,” he resumed. “To-night this +ravishing scene of beauty and splendor makes me sad at heart, I know +not why. It seems too brilliant, too dazzling. I would as soon go home +and compose a dirge as anything.” + +I laughed satirically. + +“Why not do it?” I said. “You are not the first person who, being +present at a marriage, has, with perverse incongruity, meditated on a +funeral!” + +A wistful look came into his brilliant poetic eyes. + +“I have thought once or twice,” he remarked in a low tone, “of that +misguided young man Ferrari. A pity, was it not, that the quarrel +occurred between you?” + +“A pity indeed!” I replied, brusquely. Then taking him by the arm I +turned him round so that he faced my wife, who was standing not far +off. “But look at the—the—_angel_ I have married! Is she not a fair +cause for a dispute even unto death? Fy on thee, Luziano!—why think of +Ferrari? He is not the first man who has been killed for the sake of a +woman, nor will he be the last!” + +Salustri shrugged his shoulders, and was silent for a minute or two. +Then he added with his own bright smile: + +“Still, _amico_, it would have been much better if it had ended in +coffee and cognac. Myself, I would rather shoot a man with an epigram +than a leaden bullet! By the way, do you remember our talking of Cain +and Abel that night?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“I have wondered since,” he continued half merrily, half seriously, +“whether the real cause of their quarrel has ever been rightly told. I +should not be at all surprised if one of these days some savant does +not discover a papyrus containing a missing page of Holy Writ, which +will ascribe the reason of the first bloodshed to a love affair. +Perhaps there were wood nymphs in those days, as we are assured there +were giants, and some dainty Dryad might have driven the first pair of +human brothers to desperation by her charms! What say you?” + +“It is more than probable,” I answered, lightly. “Make a poem of it, +Salustri; people will say you have improved on the Bible!” + +And I left him with a gay gesture to join other groups, and to take my +part in the various dances which were now following quickly on one +another. The supper was fixed to take place at midnight. At the first +opportunity I had, I looked at the time. Quarter to eleven!—my heart +beat quickly, the blood rushed to my temples and surged noisily in my +ears. The hour I had waited for so long and so eagerly had come! At +last! at last! + + +Slowly and with a hesitating step I approached my wife. She was resting +after her exertions in the dance, and reclined languidly in a low +velvet chair, chatting gayly with that very Prince de Majano whose +honeyed compliments had partly spoiled the budding sweet nature of the +youngest girl in the room. Apologizing for interrupting the +conversation, I lowered my voice to a persuasive tenderness as I +addressed her. + +“_Cara, sposina mia_! permit me to remind you of your promise.” + +What a radiant look she gave me! + +“I am all impatience to fulfill it! Tell me when—and how?” + +“Almost immediately. You know the private passage through which we +entered the hotel this morning on our return from church?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“Well, meet me there in twenty minutes. We must avoid being observed as +we pass out. But,” and I touched her delicate dress, “you will wear +something warmer than this?” + +“I have a long sable cloak that will do,” she replied, brightly. “We +are not going far?” + +“No, not far.” + +“We shall return in time for supper, of course?” + +I bent my head. + +“Naturally!” + +Her eyes danced mirthfully. + +“How romantic it seems! A moonlight stroll with you will be charming! +Who shall say you are not a sentimental bridegroom? Is there a bright +moon?” + +“I believe so.” + +“_Cosa bellissima_!” and she laughed sweetly. “I look forward to the +trip! In twenty minutes then I shall be with you at the place you name, +Cesare; in the meanwhile the _Marchese_ Gualdro claims me for this +mazurka.” + +And she turned with her bewitching grace of manner to the _marchese_, +who at that moment advanced with his courteous bow and fascinating +smile, and I watched them as they glided forward together in the first +figure of the elegant Polish dance, in which all lovely women look +their loveliest. + +Then, checking the curse that rose to my lips, I hurried away. Up to my +own room I rushed with feverish haste, full of impatience to be rid of +the disguise I had worn so long. + +Within a few minutes I stood before my mirror, transformed into my old +self as nearly as it was possible to be. I could not alter the snowy +whiteness of my hair, but a few deft quick strokes of the razor soon +divested me of the beard that had given me so elderly an aspect, and +nothing remained but the mustache curling slightly up at the corners of +the lip, as I had worn it in past days. I threw aside the dark glasses, +and my eyes, densely brilliant, and fringed with the long lashes that +had always been their distinguishing feature, shone with all the luster +of strong and vigorous youth. I straightened myself up to my full +height, I doubled my fist and felt it hard as iron; I laughed aloud in +the triumphant power of my strong manhood. I thought of the old +rag-dealing Jew—“You could kill anything easily.” Ay, so I could!—even +without the aid of the straight swift steel of the Milanese dagger +which I now drew from its sheath and regarded steadfastly, while I +carefully felt the edge of the blade from hilt to point. Should I take +it with me? I hesitated. Yes! it might be needed. I slipped it safely +and secretly into my vest. + +And now the proofs—the proofs! I had them all ready to my hand, and +gathered them quickly together; first the things that had been buried +with me—the gold chain on which hung the locket containing the +portraits of my wife and child, the purse and card-case which Nina +herself had given me, the crucifix the monk had laid on my breast in +the coffin. The thought of that coffin moved me to a stern smile—that +splintered, damp, and moldering wood must speak for itself by and by. +Lastly I took the letters sent me by the Marquis D’Avencourt—the +beautiful, passionate love epistles she had written to Guido Ferrari in +Rome. + +Now, was that all? I thoroughly searched both my rooms, ransacking +every corner. I had destroyed everything that could give the smallest +clew to my actions; I left nothing save furniture and small valuables, +a respectable present enough in their way, to the landlord of the +hotel. + +I glanced again at myself in the mirror. Yes; I was once more Fabio +Romani, in spite of my white hair; no one that had ever known me +intimately could doubt my identity. I had changed my evening dress for +a rough, every-day suit, and now over this I threw my long Almaviva +cloak, which draped me from head to foot. I kept its folds well up +about my mouth and chin, and pulled on a soft slouched hat, with the +brim far down over my eyes. There was nothing unusual in such a +costume; it was common enough to many Neapolitans who have learned to +dread the chill night winds that blow down from the lofty Apennines in +early spring. Thus attired, too, I knew my features would be almost +invisible to _her_ more especially as the place of our rendezvous was a +long dim entresol lighted only by a single oil-lamp, a passage that led +into the garden, one that was only used for private purposes, having +nothing to do with the ordinary modes of exit and entrance to and from +the hotel. + +Into this hall I now hurried with an eager step; it was deserted; she +was not there. Impatiently I waited—the minutes seemed hours! Sounds of +music floated toward me from the distant ball-room—the dreamy, swinging +measure of a Viennese waltz. I could almost hear the flying feet of the +dancers. I was safe from all observation where I stood—the servants +were busy preparing the grand marriage supper, and all the inhabitants +of the hotel were absorbed in watching the progress of the brilliant +and exceptional festivities of the night. + +Would she never come? Suppose, after all, she should escape me! I +trembled at the idea, then put it from me with a smile at my own folly. +No, her punishment was just, and in her case the Fates were inflexible. +So I thought and felt. I paced up and down feverishly; I could count +the thick, heavy throbs of my own heart. How long the moments seemed! +Would she never come? Ah! at last! I caught the sound of a rustling +robe and a light step—a breath of delicate fragrance was wafted on the +air like the odor of falling orange-blossoms. I turned, and saw her +approaching. With swift grace she ran up to me as eagerly as a child, +her heavy cloak of rich Russian sable falling back from her shoulders +and displaying her glittering dress, the dark fur of the hood +heightening by contrast the fairness of her lovely flushed face, so +that it looked like the face of one of Correggio’s angels framed in +ebony and velvet. She laughed, and her eyes flashed saucily. + +“Did I keep you waiting, _caro mio_?” she whispered; and standing on +tiptoe she kissed the hand with which I held my cloak muffled about me. +“How tall you look in that Almaviva! I am so sorry I am a little late, +but that last waltz was so exquisite I could not resist it; only I wish +YOU had danced it with me.” + +“You honor me by the wish,” I said, keeping one arm about her waist and +drawing her toward the door that opened into the garden. “Tell me, how +did you manage to leave the ball-room?” + +“Oh, easily. I slipped away from my partner at the end of the waltz, +and told him I should return immediately. Then I ran upstairs to my +room, got my cloak—and here I am.” + +And she laughed again. She was evidently in the highest spirits. + +“You are very good to come with me at all, _mia bella_,” I murmured as +gently as I could; “it is kind of you to thus humor my fancy. Did you +see your maid? does she know where you are going?” + +“She? Oh, no, she was not in my room at all. She is a great coquette, +you know; I dare say she is amusing herself with the waiters in the +kitchen. Poor thing! I hope she enjoys it.” + +I breathed freely; we were so far undiscovered. No one had as yet +noticed our departure—no one had the least clew to my intentions, I +opened the door of the passage noiselessly, and we passed out. Wrapping +my wife’s cloak more closely about her with much apparent tenderness, I +led her quickly across the garden. There was no one in sight—we were +entirely unobserved. On reaching the exterior gate of the inclosure I +left her for a moment, while I summoned a carriage, a common fiacre. +She expressed some surprise on seeing the vehicle. + +“I thought we were not going far?” she said. + +I reassured her on this point, telling her that I only desired to spare +her all possible fatigue. Satisfied with this explanation, she suffered +me to assist her into the carriage. I followed her, and calling to the +driver, “_A la Villa Guarda_,” we rattled away over the rough uneven +stones of the back streets of the city. + +“La Villa Guarda!” exclaimed Nina. “Where is that?” + +“It is an old house,” I replied, “situated near the place I spoke to +you of, where the jewels are.” + +“Oh!” + +And apparently contented, she nestled back in the carriage, permitting +her head to rest lightly on my shoulder. I drew her closer to me, my +heart beating with a fierce, terrible joy. + +“Mine—mine at last!” I whispered in her ear. “Mine forever!” + +She turned her face upward and smiled victoriously; her cool fragrant +lips met my burning, eager ones in a close, passionate kiss. Yes, I +kissed her now—why should I not? She was as much mine as any purchased +slave, and merited less respect than a sultan’s occasional female toy. +And as she chose to caress me, I let her do so: I allowed her to think +me utterly vanquished by the battery of her charms. Yet whenever I +caught an occasional glimpse of her face as we drove along in the +semi-darkness, I could not help wondering at the supreme vanity of the +woman! Her self-satisfaction was so complete, and, considering her +approaching fate, so tragically absurd! + +She was entirely delighted with herself, her dress, and her conquest—as +she thought—of me. Who could measure the height of the dazzling visions +she indulged in; who could fathom the depths of her utter selfishness! + +Seeing one like her, beautiful, wealthy, and above all—society knows I +speak the truth—_well dressed_, for by the latter virtue alone is a +woman allowed any precedence nowadays—would not all the less fortunate +and lovely of her sex feel somewhat envious? Ah, yes; they would and +they do; but believe me, the selfish feminine thing, whose only sincere +worship is offered at the shrines of Fashion and Folly, is of all +creatures the one whose life is to be despised and never desired, and +whose death makes no blank even in the circles of her so-called best +friends. + +I knew well enough that there was not a soul in Naples who was really +attached to my wife—not one who would miss her, no, not even a +servant—though she, in her superb self-conceit, imagined herself to be +the adored beauty of the city. Those who had indeed loved her she had +despised, neglected, and betrayed. Musingly I looked down upon her as +she rested back in the carriage, encircled by my arm, while now and +then a little sigh of absolute delight in herself broke from her +lips—but we spoke scarcely at all. Hate has almost as little to say as +love! + +The night was persistently stormy, though no rain fell—the gale had +increased in strength, and the white moon only occasionally glared out +from the masses of white and gray cloud that rushed like flying armies +across the sky, and her fitful light shone dimly, as though she were a +spectral torch glimmering through a forest of shadow. Now and again +bursts of music, or the blare of discordant trumpets, reached our ears +from the more distant thoroughfares where the people were still +celebrating the feast of Giovedi Grasso, or the tinkle of passing +mandolins chimed in with the rolling wheels of our carriage; but in a +few moments we were out of reach of even such sounds as these. + +We passed the outer suburbs of the city and were soon on the open road. +The man I had hired drove fast; he knew nothing of us, he was probably +anxious to get back quickly to the crowded squares and illuminated +quarters where the principal merriment of the evening was going on, and +no doubt thought I showed but a poor taste in requiring to be driven +away, even for a short distance, out of Naples on such a night of +feasting and folly. He stopped at last; the castellated turrets of the +villa I had named were faintly visible among the trees; he jumped down +from his box and came to us. + +“Shall I drive up to the house?” he asked, looking as though he would +rather be spared this trouble. + +“No,” I answered, indifferently, “you need not. The distance is short, +we will walk.” + +And I stepped out into the road and paid him his money. + +“You seem anxious to get back to the city, my friend,” I said, half +jocosely. + +“Si, _davvero_!” he replied, with decision, “I hope to get many a good +fare from the Count Oliva’s marriage-ball to-night.” + +“Ah! he is a rich fellow, that count,” I said, as I assisted my wife to +alight, keeping her cloak well muffled round her so that this common +fellow should not perceive the glitter of her costly costume; “I wish I +were he!” + +The man grinned and nodded emphatically. He had no suspicion of my +identity. He took me, in all probability, for one of those “gay +gallants” so common in Naples, who, on finding at some public +entertainment a “_dama_” to their taste, hurry her off, carefully +cloaked and hooded, to a mysterious nook known only to themselves, +where they can complete the romance of the evening entirely to their +own satisfaction. Bidding me a lively _buona notte_, he sprung on his +box again, jerked his horse’s head violently round with a volley of +oaths, and drove away at a rattling pace. Nina, standing on the road +beside me, looked after him with a bewildered air. + +“Could he not have waited to take us back?” she asked. + +“No,” I answered, brusquely; “we shall return by a different route. +Come.” + +And passing my arm round her, I led her onward. She shivered slightly, +and there was a sound of querulous complaint in her voice as she said: + +“Have we to go much further, Cesare?” + +“Three minutes, walk will bring us to our destination,” I replied, +briefly, adding in a softer tone, “Are you cold?” + +“A little,” and she gathered her sables more closely about her and +pressed nearer to my side. The capricious moon here suddenly leaped +forth like the pale ghost of a frenzied dancer, standing tiptoe on the +edge of a precipitous chasm of black clouds. Her rays, pallidly green +and cold, fell full on the dreary stretch of land before us, touching +up with luminous distinctness those white mysterious milestones of the +Campo Santo which mark where the journeys of men, women, and children +began and where they left off, but never explain in what new direction +they are now traveling. My wife saw and stopped, trembling violently. + +“What place is this?” she asked, nervously. + +In all her life she had never visited a cemetery—she had too great a +horror of death. + +“It is where I keep all my treasures,” I answered, and my voice sounded +strange and harsh in my own ears, while I tightened my grasp of her +full, warm waist. “Come with me, my beloved!” and in spite of my +efforts, my tone was one of bitter mockery. “With me you need have no +fear! Come.” + +And I led her on, too powerless to resist my force, too startled to +speak—on, on, on, over the rank dewy grass and unmarked ancient +graves—on, till the low frowning gate of the house of my dead ancestors +faced me—on, on, on, with the strength of ten devils in my arm as I +held her—on, on, on, to her just doom! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + +The moon had retreated behind a dense wall of cloud, and the landscape +was enveloped in semi-darkness. Reaching the door of the vault, I +unlocked it; it opened instantly, and fell back with a sudden clang. +She whom I held fast with my iron grip shrunk back, and strove to +release herself from my grasp. + +“Where are you going?” she demanded, in a faint tone. “I—I am afraid!” + +“Of what?”—I asked, endeavoring to control the passionate vibrations of +my voice and to speak unconcernedly. “Because it is dark? We shall have +a light directly—you will see—you—you,” and to my own surprise I broke +into a loud and violent laugh. “You have no cause to be frightened! +Come!” + +And I lifted her swiftly and easily over the stone step of the entrance +and set her safely inside. _Inside_ at last, thank Heaven! I shut the +great gate upon us both and locked it! Again that strange undesired +laugh broke from my lips involuntarily, and the echoes of the charnel +house responded to it with unearthly and ghastly distinctness. Nina +clung to me in the dense gloom. + +“Why do you laugh like that?” she cried, loudly and impatiently. “It +sounds horrible.” + +I checked myself by a strong effort. + +“Does it? I am sorry—very sorry! I laugh because—because, _cara mia_, +our moonlight ramble is so pleasant—and amusing—is it not?” + +And I caught her to my heart and kissed her roughly. “Now,” I +whispered, “I will carry you—the steps are too rough for your little +feet—dear, dainty, white little feet! I will carry you, you armful of +sweetness!—yes, carry you safely down into the fairy grotto where the +jewels are—_such_ jewels, and all for you—my love, my wife!” + +And I raised her from the ground as though she were a young, frail +child. Whether she tried to resist me or not I cannot now remember. I +bore her down the moldering stairway, setting my foot on each crooked +step with the firmness of one long familiar with the place. But my +brain reeled—rings of red fire circled in the darkness before my eyes; +every artery in my body seemed strained to bursting; the pent-up agony +and fury of my soul were such that I thought I should go mad or drop +down dead ere I gained the end of my long desire. As I descended I felt +her clinging to me; her hands were cold and clammy on my neck, as +though she were chilled to the blood with terror. At last I reached the +lowest step—I touched the floor of the vault. I set my precious burden +down. Releasing my clasp of her, I remained for a moment inactive, +breathing heavily. She caught my arm—she spoke in a hoarse whisper. + +“What place is this? Where is the light you spoke of?” + +I made no answer. I moved from her side, and taking matches from my +pocket, I lighted up six large candles which I had fixed in various +corners of the vault the night previously. Dazzled by the glare after +the intense darkness, she did not at once perceive the nature of the +place in which she stood. I watched her, myself still wrapped in the +heavy cloak and hat that so effectually disguised my features. What a +sight she was in that abode of corruption! Lovely, delicate, and full +of life, with the shine of her diamonds gleaming from under the folds +of rich fur that shrouded her, and the dark hood falling back as though +to display the sparkling wonder of her gold hair. + +Suddenly, and with a violent shock, she realized the gloom of her +surroundings—the yellow flare of the waxen torches showed her the stone +niches, the tattered palls, the decaying trophies of armor, the drear +shapes of worm-eaten coffins, and with a shriek of horror she rushed to +me where I stood, as immovable as a statue clad in coat of mail, and +throwing her arms about me clung to me in a frenzy of fear. + +“Take me away, take me away!” she moaned, hiding her face against my +breast. “’Tis a vault—oh, _Santissima Madonna_!—a place for the dead! +Quick—quick! take me out to the air—let us go home—home—” + +She broke off abruptly, her alarm increasing at my utter silence. She +gazed up at me with wild wet eyes. + +“Cesare! Cesare! speak! What ails you? Why have you brought me here? +Touch me—kiss me! say something—anything—only speak!” + +And her bosom heaved convulsively; she sobbed with terror. + +I put her from me with a firm hand. I spoke in measured accents, tinged +with some contempt. + +“Hush, I pray you! This is no place for an hysterical _scena_. Consider +where you are! You have guessed aright—this is a vault—your own +mausoleum, fair lady!—if I mistake not—the burial-place of the Romani +family.” + +At these words her sobs ceased, as though they had been frozen in her +throat; she stared at me in speechless fear and wonder. + +“Here,” I went on with methodical deliberation, “here lie all the great +ancestors of your husband’s family, heroes and martyrs in their day. +Here will your own fair flesh molder. Here,” and my voice grew deeper +and more resolute, “here, six months ago, your husband himself, Fabio +Romani, was buried.” + +She uttered no sound, but gazed at me like some beautiful pagan goddess +turned to stone by the Furies. Having spoken thus far I was silent, +watching the effect of what I had said, for I sought to torture the +very nerves of her base soul. At last her dry lips parted—her voice was +hoarse and indistinct. + +“You must be mad!” she said, with smothered anger and horror in her +tone. + +Then seeing me still immovable, she advanced and caught my hand half +commandingly, half coaxingly. I did not resist her. + +“Come,” she implored, “come away at once!” and she glanced about her +with a shudder. “Let us leave this horrible place; as for the jewels, +if you keep them here, they may stay here; I would not wear them for +the world! Come.” + +I interrupted her, holding her hand in a fierce grasp; I turned her +abruptly toward a dark object lying on the ground near us—my own coffin +broken asunder. I drew her close to it. + +“Look!” I said in a thrilling whisper, “what is this? Examine it well: +it is a coffin of flimsiest wood, a cholera coffin! What says this +painted inscription? Nay, do not start! It bears your husband’s name; +he was buried in it. Then how comes it to be open? _Where is he_?” + +I felt her sway under me; a new and overwhelming terror had taken +instant possession of her, her limbs refused to support her, she sunk +on her knees. Mechanically and feebly she repeated the words after me— + +_Where is he_? _Where is he_?” + +“Ay!” and my voice rang out through the hollow vault, its passion +restrained no more. “_Where is he_?—the poor fool, the miserable, +credulous dupe, whose treacherous wife played the courtesan under his +very roof, while he loved and blindly trusted her? _Where is he_? Here, +here!” and I seized her hands and forced her up from her kneeling +posture. “I promised you should see me as I am! I swore to grow young +to-night for your sake!—Now I keep my word! Look at me, Nina!—look at +me, my twice-wedded wife!—Look at me!—do you not know your _husband_?” + +And throwing my dark habiliments from me, I stood before her +undisguised! As though some defacing disease had swept over her at my +words and look, so her beauty suddenly vanished. Her face became drawn +and pinched and almost old—her lips turned blue, her eyes grew glazed, +and strained themselves from their sockets to stare at me; her very +hands looked thin and ghost-like as she raised them upward with a +frantic appealing gesture; there was a sort of gasping rattle in her +throat as she drew herself away from me with a convulsive gesture of +aversion, and crouched on the floor as though she sought to sink +through it and thus avoid my gaze. + +“Oh, no, no, no!” she moaned, wildly, “not Fabio!—no, it cannot +be—Fabio is dead—dead! And you!—you are mad!—this is some cruel jest of +yours—some trick to frighten me!” + +She broke off breathlessly, and her large, terrified eyes wandered to +mine again with a reluctant and awful wonder. She attempted to arise +from her crouching position; I approached, and assisted her to do so +with ceremonious politeness. She trembled violently at my touch, and +slowly staggering to her feet, she pushed back her hair from her +forehead and regarded me fixedly with a searching, anguished look, +first of doubt, then of dread, and lastly of convinced and hopeless +certainty, for she suddenly covered her eyes with her hands as though +to shut out some repulsive object and broke into a low wailing sound +like that of one in bitter physical pain. I laughed scornfully. + +“Well, do you know me at last?” I cried. “’Tis true I have somewhat +altered. This hair of mine was black, if you remember—it is white +enough now, blanched by the horrors of a living death such as you +cannot imagine, but which,” and I spoke more slowly and impressively, +“you may possibly experience ere long. Yet in spite of this change I +think you know me! That is well. I am glad your memory serves you thus +far!” + +A low sound that was half a sob and half a cry broke from her. + +“Oh, no, no!” she muttered, again, incoherently—“it cannot be! It must +be false—it is some vile plot—it cannot be true! True! Oh, Heaven! it +would be too cruel, too horrible!” + +I strode up to her. I drew her hands away from her eyes and grasped +them tightly in my own. + +“Hear me!” I said, in clear, decisive tones. “I have kept silence, God +knows, with a long patience, but now—now I can speak. Yes! you thought +me dead—you had every reason to think so, you had every proof to +believe so. How happy my supposed death made you! What a relief it was +to you!—what an obstruction removed from your path! But—I was buried +alive!” She uttered a faint shriek of terror, and looking wildly about +her, strove to wrench her hands from my clasp. I held them more +closely. “Ay, think of it, wife of mine!—you to whom luxury has been +second nature, think of this poor body straightened in a helpless +swoon, packed and pressed into yonder coffin and nailed up fast, shut +out from the blessed light and air, as one would have thought, forever! +Who could have dreamed that life still lingered in me—life still strong +enough to split asunder the boards that inclosed me, and leave them +shattered, as you see them now!” + +She shuddered and glanced with aversion toward the broken coffin, and +again tried to loosen her hands from mine. She looked at me with a +burning anger in her face. + +“Let me go!” she panted. “Madman! liar!—let me go!” + +I released her instantly and stood erect, regarding her fixedly. + +“I am no madman,” I said, composedly; “and you know as well as I do +that I speak the truth. When I escaped from that coffin I found myself +a prisoner in this very vault—this house of my perished ancestry, +where, if old legends could be believed, the very bones that are stored +up here would start and recoil from _your_ presence as pollution to the +dead, whose creed was _honor_.” + +The sound of her sobbing breath ceased suddenly; she fixed her eyes on +mine; they glittered defiantly. + +“For one long awful night,” I resumed, “I suffered here. I might have +starved—or perished of thirst. I thought no agony could surpass what I +endured! But I was mistaken: there was a sharper torment in store for +me. I discovered a way of escape; with grateful tears I thanked God for +my rescue, for liberty, for life! Oh, what a fool was I! How could I +dream that my death was so desired!—how could I know that I had better +far have died than have returned to _such_ a home!” + +Her lips moved, but she uttered no word; she shivered as though with +intense cold. I drew nearer to her. + +“Perhaps you doubt my story?” + +She made no answer. A rapid impulse of fury possessed me. + +“Speak!” I cried, fiercely, “or by the God above us I will _make_ you! +Speak!” and I drew the dagger I carried from my vest. “Speak the truth +for once—’twill be difficult to you who love lies—but this time I must +be answered! Tell me, do you know me! _Do_ you or do you _not_ believe +that I am indeed your husband—your living husband, Fabio Romani?” + +She gasped for breath. The sight of my infuriated figure—the glitter of +the naked steel before her eyes—the suddenness of my action, the horror +of her position, all terrified her into speech. She flung herself down +before me in an attitude of abject entreaty. She found her voice at +last. + +“Mercy! mercy!” she cried. “Oh, God! you will not kill me? +Anything—anything but death; I am too young to die! Yes, yes; I know +you are Fabio—Fabio, my husband, Fabio, whom I thought dead—Fabio—oh!” +and she sobbed convulsively. “You said you loved me to-day—when you +married me! Why did you marry me? I was your wife already—why—why? Oh, +horrible, horrible! I see—I understand it all now! But do not, do not +kill me, Fabio—I am afraid to die!” + +And she hid her face at my feet and groveled there. As quickly calmed +as I had been suddenly furious, I put back the dagger. I smoothed my +voice and spoke with mocking courtesy. + +“Pray do not alarm yourself,” I said, coolly. “I have not the slightest +intention of killing you! I am no vulgar murderer, yielding to mere +brute instincts. You forget: a Neapolitan has hot passions, but he also +has finesse, especially in matters of vengeance. I brought you here to +tell you of my existence, and to confront you with the proofs of it. +Rise, I beg of you, we have plenty of time to talk; with a little +patience I shall make things clear to you—rise!” + +She obeyed me, lifting herself up reluctantly with a long, shuddering +sigh. As she stood upright I laughed contemptuously. + +“What! no love words for me?” I cried, “not one kiss, not one smile, +not one word of welcome? You say you know me—well!—are you not glad to +see your husband?—you, who were such an inconsolable widow?” + +A strange quiver passed over her face—she wrung her hands together +hard, but she said no word. + +“Listen!” I said, “there is more to tell. When I broke loose from the +grasp of death, when I came _home_—I found my vacant post already +occupied. I arrived in time to witness a very pretty pastoral play. The +scene was the ilex avenue—the actors, you, my wife, and Guido, my +friend!” + +She raised her head and uttered a low exclamation of fear. I advanced a +step or two and spoke more rapidly. + +“You hear? There was moonlight, and the song of nightingales—yes; the +stage effects were perfect! _I_ watched the progress of the comedy—with +what emotions you may imagine. I learned much that was news to me. I +became aware that for a lady of your large heart and sensitive feelings +_one_ husband was not sufficient”—here I laid my hand on her shoulder +and gazed into her face, while her eyes, dilated with terror, stared +hopelessly up to mine—“and that within three little months of your +marriage to me you provided yourself with another. Nay, no denial can +serve you! Guido Ferrari was husband to you in all things but the name. +I mastered the situation—I rose to the emergency. Trick for trick, +comedy for comedy! You know the rest. As the Count Oliva you can not +deny that I acted well! For the second time I courted you, but not half +so eagerly as _you_ courted _me_! For the second time I have married +you! Who shall deny that you are most thoroughly mine—mine, body and +soul, till death do us part!” + +And I loosened my grasp of her: she writhed from me like some +glittering wounded serpent. The tears had dried on her cheeks, her +features were rigid and wax-like as the features of a corpse; only her +dark eyes shone, and these seemed preternaturally large, and gleamed +with an evil luster. I moved a little away, and turning my own coffin +on its side, I sat down upon it as indifferently as though it were an +easy-chair in a drawing-room. Glancing at her then, I saw a wavering +light upon her face. Some idea had entered into her mind. She moved +gradually from the wall where she leaned, watching me fearfully as she +did so. I made no attempt to stir from the seat I occupied. + +Slowly, slowly, still keeping her eyes on me, she glided step by step +onward and passed me—then with a sudden rush she reached the stairway +and bounded up it with the startled haste of a hunted deer. I smiled to +myself. I heard her shaking the iron gateway to and fro with all her +feeble strength; she called aloud for help several times. Only the +sullen echoes of the vault answered her, and the wild whistle of the +wind as it surged through the trees of the cemetery. At last she +screamed furiously, as a savage cat might scream—the rustle of her +silken robes came swiftly sweeping down the steps, and with a spring +like that of a young tigress she confronted me, the blood now burning +wrathfully in her face, and transforming it back to something of its +old beauty. + +“Unlock that door!” she cried, with a furious stamp of her foot. +“Assassin! traitor! I hate you! I always hated you! Unlock the door, I +tell you! You dare not disobey me; you have no right to murder me!” + +I looked at her coldly; the torrent of her words was suddenly checked, +something in my expression daunted her; she trembled and shrunk back. + +“No right!” I said, mockingly. “I differ from you! A man _once_ married +has _some_ right over his wife, but a man _twice_ married to the same +woman has surely gained a double authority! And as for ‘_dare not_!’ +there is nothing I ‘dare not’ do to-night.” + +And with that I rose and approached her. A torrent of passionate +indignation boiled in my veins; I seized her two white arms and held +her fast. + +“You talk of murder!” I muttered, fiercely. “_You_—you who have +remorselessly murdered two men! Their blood be on your head! For though +I live, I am but the moving corpse of the man I was—hope, faith, +happiness, peace—all things good and great in me have been slain by +YOU. And as for Guido—” + +She interrupted me with a wild sobbing cry. + +“He loved me! Guido loved me!” + +“Ay, he loved you, oh, devil in the shape of a woman! he loved you! +Come here, here!” and in a fury I could not restrain I dragged her, +almost lifted her along to one corner of the vault, where the light of +the torches scarcely illumined the darkness, and there I pointed +upward. “Above our very heads—to the left of where we stand—the brave +strong body of your lover lies, festering slowly in the wet mould, +thanks to you!—the fair, gallant beauty of it all marred by the +red-mouthed worms—the thick curls of hair combed through by the +crawling feet of vile insects—the poor frail heart pierced by a gaping +wound—” + +“You killed him; you—you are to blame,” she moaned, restlessly, +striving to turn her face away from me. + +“_I_ killed him? No, no, not I, but _you_! He died when he learned your +treachery—when he knew you were false to him for the sake of wedding a +supposed wealthy stranger—my pistol-shot but put him out of torment. +You! you were glad of his death—as glad as when you thought of mine! +YOU talk of murder! Oh, vilest among women! if I could murder you +twenty times over, what then? Your sins outweigh all punishment!” + +And I flung her from me with a gesture of contempt and loathing. This +time my words had struck home. She cowered before me in horror—her +sables were loosened and scarcely protected her, the richness of her +ball costume was fully displayed, and the diamonds on her bosom heaved +restlessly up and down as she panted with excitement, rage and fear. + +“I do not see,” she muttered, sullenly, “why you should blame _me_! I +am no worse than other women!” + +“No worse! no worse!” I cried. “Shame, shame upon you that thus outrage +your sex! Learn for once what _men_ think of unfaithful wives—for may +be you are ignorant. The novels you have read in your luxurious, idle +hours have perhaps told you that infidelity is no sin—merely a little +social error easily condoned, or set right by the divorce court. Yes! +modern books and modern plays teach you so: in them the world swerves +upside down, and vice looks like virtue. But _I_ will tell you what may +seem to you a strange and wonderful thing! There is no mean animal, no +loathsome object, no horrible deformity of nature so utterly repulsive +to a true man as a faithless wife! The cowardly murderer who lies in +wait for his victim behind some dark door, and stabs him in the back as +he passes by unarmed—he, I say, is more to be pardoned than the woman +who takes a husband’s name, honor, position, and reputation among his +fellows, and sheltering herself with these, passes her beauty +promiscuously about like some coarse article of commerce, that goes to +the highest bidder! Ay, let your French novels and books of their type +say what they will—infidelity is a crime, a low, brutal crime, as bad +if not worse than murder, and deserves as stern a sentence!” + +A sudden spirit of defiant insolence possessed her. She drew herself +erect, and her level brows knitted in a dark frown. + +“Sentence!” she exclaimed, imperiously. “How dare you judge me! What +harm have I done? If I am beautiful, is that my fault? If men are +fools, can _I_ help it? You loved me—Guido loved me—could _I_ prevent +it? I cared nothing for him, and less for you!” + +“I know it,” I said, bitterly. “Love was never part of _your_ nature! +Our lives were but cups of wine for your false lips to drain; once the +flavor pleased you, but now—now, think you not the dregs taste somewhat +cold?” + +She shrunk at my glance—her head drooped, and drawing near a projecting +stone in the wall, she sat down upon it, pressing one hand to her +heart. + +“No heart, no conscience, no memory!” I cried. “Great Heaven! that such +a thing should live and call itself woman! The lowest beast of the +field has more compassion for its kind! Listen: before Guido died he +knew me, even as my child, neglected by you, in her last agony knew her +father. She being innocent, passed in peace; but he!—imagine if you +can, the wrenching torture in which he perished, knowing all! How his +parted spirit must curse you!” + +She raised her hands to her head and pushed away the light curls from +her brow. There was a starving, hunted, almost furious look in her +eyes, but she fixed them steadily on me. + +“See,” I went on—“here are more proofs of the truth of my story. These +things were buried with me,” and I threw into her lap as she sat before +me the locket and chain, the card-case and purse she herself had given +me. “You will no doubt recognize them. This—” and I showed her the +monk’s crucifix—“this was laid on my breast in the coffin. It may be +useful to you—you can pray to it presently!” + +She interrupted me with a gesture of her hand; she spoke as though in a +dream. + +“You escaped from this vault?” she said, in a low tone, looking from +right to left with searching eagerness. “Tell me how—and—where?” + +I laughed scornfully, guessing her thoughts. + +“It matters little,” I replied. “The passage I discovered is now closed +and fast cemented. I have seen to that myself! No other living creature +left here can escape as I did. Escape is impossible.” + +A stifled cry broke from her; she threw herself at my feet, letting the +things I had given her as proofs of my existence fall heedlessly on the +floor. + +“Fabio! Fabio!” she cried, “save me, pity me! Take me out to the +light—the air—let me live! Drag me through Naples—let all the crowd see +me dishonored, brand me with the worst of names, make of me a common +outcast—only let me feel the warm life throbbing in my veins! I will do +anything, say anything, be anything—only let me live! I loath the cold +and darkness—the horrible—horrible ways of death!” She shuddered +violently and clung to me afresh. “I am so young! and after all, am I +so vile? There are women who count their lovers by the score, and yet +they are not blamed; why should I suffer more than they?” + +“Why, why?” I echoed, fiercely. “Because for once a husband takes the +law into his own hands—for once a wronged man insists on justice—for +once he dares to punish the treachery that blackens his honor! Were +there more like me there would be fewer like you! A score of lovers! +’Tis not your fault that you had but one! I have something else to say +which concerns you. Not content with fooling two men, you tried the +same amusement on a supposed third. Ay, you wince at that! While you +thought me to be the Count Oliva—while you were betrothed to me in that +character, you wrote to Guido Ferrari in Rome. Very charming letters! +here they are,” and I flung them down to her. “I have no further use +for them—I have read them all!” + +She let them lie where they fell; she still crouched at my feet, and +her restless movements loosened her cloak so far that it hung back from +her shoulders, showing the jewels that flashed on her white neck and +arms like points of living light. I touched the circlet of diamonds in +her hair—I snatched it from her. + +“These are mine!” I cried, “as much as this signet I wear, which was +your love-gift to Guido Ferrari, and which you afterward returned to +me, its rightful owner. These are my mother’s gems—how dared you wear +them? The stones _I_ gave you are your only fitting ornaments—they are +stolen goods, filched by the blood-stained hands of the blackest +brigand in Sicily! I promised you more like them; behold them!”—and I +threw open the coffin-shaped chest containing the remainder of Carmelo +Neri’s spoils. It occupied a conspicuous position near where I stood, +and I had myself arranged its interior so that the gold ornaments and +precious stones should be the first things to meet her eyes. “You see +now,” I went on, “where the wealth of the supposed Count Oliva came +from. I found this treasure hidden here on the night of my +burial—little did I think then what dire need I should have for its +usage! It has served me well; it is not yet exhausted; the remainder is +at your service!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + +At these words she rose from her knees and stood upright. Making an +effort to fasten her cloak with her trembling hands, she moved +hesitatingly toward the brigand’s coffin and leaned over it, looking in +with a faint light of hope as well as curiosity in her haggard face. I +watched her in vague wonderment—she had grown old so suddenly. The +peach-like bloom and delicacy of her flesh had altogether +disappeared—her skin appeared drawn and dry as though parched in +tropical heat. Her hair was disordered, and fell about her in +clustering showers of gold—that, and her eyes, were the only signs of +youth about her. A sudden wave of compassion swept over my soul. + +“Oh wife!” I exclaimed—“wife that I so ardently loved—wife that I would +have died for indeed, had you bade me!—why did you betray me? I thought +you truth itself—ay! and if you had but waited for one day after you +thought me dead, and _then_ chosen Guido for your lover, I tell you, so +large was my tenderness, I would have pardoned you! Though risen from +the grave, I would have gone away and made no sign—yes if you had +waited—if you had wept for me ever so little! But when your own lips +confessed your crime—when I knew that within three months of our +marriage-day you had fooled me—when I learned that my love, my name, my +position, my honor, were used as mere screens to shelter your intrigue +with the man I called friend!—God! what creature of mortal flesh and +blood could forgive such treachery? I am no more than others—but I +loved you—and in proportion to my love, so is the greatness of my +wrongs!” + +She listened—she advanced a little toward me—a faint smile dawned on +her pallid lips—she whispered: + +“Fabio! Fabio!” + +I looked at her—unconsciously my voice dropped into a cadence of +intense melancholy softened by tenderness. + +“Ay—Fabio! What wouldst thou with a ghost of him? Does it not seem +strange to thee—that hated name?—thou, Nina, whom I loved as few men +love women—thou who gavest me no love at all—thou, who hast broken my +heart and made me what I am!” + +A hard, heavy sob rose in my throat and choked my utterance. I was +young; and the cruel waste and destruction of my life seemed at that +moment more than I could bear. She heard me, and the smile brightened +more warmly on her countenance. She came close to me—half timidly yet +coaxingly she threw one arm about my neck—her bosom heaved quickly. + +“Fabio,” she murmured—“Fabio, forgive me! I spoke in haste—I do not +hate thee! Come! I will make amends for all thy suffering—I will love +thee—I will be true to thee, I will be all thine! See! thou knowest I +have not lost my beauty!” + +And she clung to me with passion, raising her lips to mine, while with +her large inquiring eyes she searched my face for the reply to her +words. I gazed down upon her with sorrowful sternness. + +“Beauty? Mere food for worms—I care not for it! Of what avail is a fair +body tenanted by a fiendish soul? Forgiveness?—you ask too late! A +wrong like mine can never be forgiven.” + +There ensued a silence. She still embraced me, but her eyes roved over +me as though she searched for some lost thing. The wind tore furiously +among the branches of the cypresses outside, and screamed through the +small holes and crannies of the stone-work, rattling the iron gate at +the summit of the stairway with a clanking sound, as though the famous +brigand chief had escaped with all his chains upon him, and were +clamoring for admittance to recover his buried property. Suddenly her +face lightened with an expression of cunning intensity—and before I +could perceive her intent—with swift agility she snatched from my vest +the dagger I carried! + +“Too late!” she cried, with a wild laugh. “No; not too late! +Die—wretch!” + +For one second the bright steel flashed in the wavering light as she +poised it in act to strike—the next, I had caught her murderous hand +and forced it down, and was struggling with her for the mastery of the +weapon. She held it with a desperate grip—she fought with me +breathlessly, clinging to me with all her force—she reminded me of that +ravenous unclean bird with which I had had so fierce a combat on the +night of my living burial. For some brief moments she was possessed of +supernatural strength—she sprung and tore at my clothes, keeping the +poniard fast in her clutch. At last I thrust her down, panting and +exhausted, with fury flashing in her eyes—I wrenched the steel from her +hand and brandished it above her. + +“Who talks of murder _now_?” I cried, in bitter derision. “Oh, what a +joy you have lost! What triumph for you, could you have stabbed me to +the heart and left me here dead indeed! What a new career of lies would +have been yours! How sweetly you would have said your prayers with the +stain of my blood upon your soul! Ay! you would have fooled the world +to the end, and died in the odor of sanctity. And you dared to ask my +forgiveness—” + +I stopped short—a strange, bewildered expression suddenly passed over +her face—she looked about her in a dazed, vague way—then her gaze +became suddenly fixed, and she pointed toward a dark corner and +shuddered. + +“Hush—hush!” she said, in a low, terrified whisper. “Look! how still he +stands! how pale he seems! Do not speak—do not move—hush! he must not +hear your voice—I will go to him and tell him all—all—” She rose and +stretched out her arms with a gesture of entreaty: + +“Guido! Guido!” + +With a sudden chilled awe at my heart I looked toward the spot that +thus riveted her attention—all was shrouded in deep gloom. She caught +my arm. + +“Kill him!” she whispered, fiercely—“kill him, and then I will love +you! Ah!” and with an exclamation of fear she began to retire swiftly +backward as though confronted by some threatening figure. “He is +coming—nearer! No, no, Guido! You shall not touch me—you dare not—Fabio +is dead and I am free—free!” She paused—her wild eyes gazed upward—did +she see some horror there? She put up both hands as though to shield +herself from some impending blow, and uttering a loud cry she fell +prone on the stone floor insensible. Or dead? I balanced this question +indifferently, as I looked down upon her inanimate form. The flavor of +vengeance was hot in my mouth, and filled me with delirious +satisfaction. True, I had been glad, when my bullet whizzing sharply +through the air had carried death to Guido, but my gladness had been +mingled with ruthfulness and regret. _Now_, not one throb of pity +stirred me—not the faintest emotion of tenderness, Ferrari’s sin was +great, but _she_ tempted him—her crime outweighed his. And now—there +she lay white and silent—in a swoon that was like death—that might be +death for aught I knew—or cared! Had her lover’s ghost indeed appeared +before the eyes of her guilty conscience? I did not doubt it—I should +scarcely have been startled had I seen the poor pale shadow of him by +my side, as I musingly gazed upon the fair fallen body of the traitress +who had wantonly wrecked both our lives. + +“Ay, Guido,” I muttered, half aloud—“dost see the work? Thou art +avenged, frail spirit—avenged as well as I—part thou in peace from +earth and its inhabitants!—haply thou shalt cleanse in pure fire the +sins of thy lower nature, and win a final pardon; but for her—is hell +itself black enough to match _her_ soul?” + +And I slowly moved toward the stairway; it was time, I thought, with a +grim resolve—_to leave her_! Possibly she was dead—if not—why then she +soon would be! I paused irresolute—the wild wind battered ceaselessly +at the iron gateway, and wailed as though with a hundred voices of +aerial creatures, lamenting. The torches were burning low, the darkness +of the vault deepened. Its gloom concerned me little—I had grown +familiar with its unsightly things, its crawling spiders, its strange +uncouth beetles, the clusters of blue fungi on its damp walls. The +scurrying noises made by bats and owls, who, scared by the lighted +candles, were hiding themselves in holes and corners of refuge, +startled me not at all—I was well accustomed to such sounds. In my then +state of mind, an emperor’s palace were less fair to me than this brave +charnel house—this stone-mouthed witness of my struggle back to life +and all life’s misery. The deep-toned bell outside the cemetery struck +_one_! We had been absent nearly two hours from the brilliant +assemblage left at the hotel. No doubt we were being searched for +everywhere—it mattered not! they would not come to seek us _here_. I +went on resolutely toward the stair—as I placed my foot on the firm +step of the ascent, my wife stirred from her recumbent position—her +swoon had passed. She did not perceive me where I stood, ready to +depart—she murmured something to herself in a low voice, and taking in +her hand the falling tresses of her own hair she seemed to admire its +color and texture, for she stroked it and restroked it and finally +broke into a gay laugh—a laugh so out of all keeping with her +surroundings, that it startled me more than her attempt to murder me. + +She presently stood up with all her own lily-like grace and fairy +majesty; and smiling as though she were a pleased child, she began to +arrange her disordered dress with elaborate care. I paused wonderingly +and watched her. She went to the brigand’s chest of treasure and +proceeded to examine its contents—laces, silver and gold embroideries, +antique ornaments, she took carefully in her hands, seeming mentally to +calculate their cost and value. Jewels that were set as necklaces, +bracelets and other trinkets of feminine wear she put on, one after the +other, till her neck and arms were loaded—and literally blazed with the +myriad scintillations of different-colored gems. I marveled at her +strange conduct, but did not as yet guess its meaning. I moved away +from the staircase and drew imperceptibly nearer to her—Hark! what was +that? A strange, low rumbling like a distant earthquake, followed by a +sharp cracking sound; I stopped to listen attentively. A furious gust +of wind rushed round the mausoleum shrieking wildly like some devil in +anger, and the strong draught flying through the gateway extinguished +two of the flaring candles. My wife, entirely absorbed in counting over +Carmelo Neri’s treasures, apparently saw and heard nothing. Suddenly +she broke into another laugh—a chuckling, mirthless laugh such as might +come from the lips of the aged and senile. The sound curdled the blood +in my veins—it was the laugh of a mad-woman! With an earnest, distinct +voice I called to her: + +“Nina! Nina!” + +She turned toward me still smiling—her eyes were bright, her face had +regained its habitual color, and as she stood in the dim light, with +her rich tresses falling about her, and the clustering gems massed +together in a glittering fire against her white skin, she looked +unnaturally, wildly beautiful. She nodded to me, half graciously, half +haughtily, but gave me no answer. Moved with quick pity I called again: + +“Nina!” + +She laughed again—the same terrible laugh. + +“_Si, si_! _Son’ bella, son’ bellissima_!” she murmured. “_E tu, Guido +mio_? _Tu m’ami_?” + +Then raising one hand as though commanding attention she cried: + +“Ascolta!” and began to sing clearly though feebly: + +“Ti saluto, Rosignuolo! +Nel tuo duolo—ti saluto! +Sei l’amante della rosa +Che morendo si fa sposa!” + + +As the old familiar melody echoed through the dreary vault, my bitter +wrath against her partially lessened; with the swiftness of my southern +temperament a certain compassion stirred my soul. She was no longer +quite the same woman who had wronged and betrayed me—she had the +helplessness and fearful innocence of madness—in that condition I could +not have hurt a hair of her head. I stepped hastily forward—I resolved +to take her out of the vault—after all I would not leave her thus—but +as I approached, she withdrew from me, and with an angry stamp of her +foot motioned me backward, while a dark frown knitted her fair brows. + +“Who are you?” she cried, imperiously. “You are dead, quite dead! How +dare you come out of your grave!” + +And she stared at me defiantly—then suddenly clasping her hands as +though in ecstasy, and seeming to address some invisible being at her +side, she said, in low, delighted tones: + +“He is dead, Guido! Are you not glad?” She paused, apparently expecting +some reply, for she looked about her wonderingly, and continued—“You +did not answer me—are you afraid? Why are you so pale and stern? Have +you just come back from Rome? What have you heard? That I am false?—oh, +no! I will love you still—Ah! I forgot! you also are dead, Guido! I +remember now—you cannot hurt me any more—I am free—and quite happy!” + +Smiling, she continued her song: + +“Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio +Col two raggio ti saluto! +Sei l’Apollo del passato +Sei l’amore incoronato!” + + +Again—again!—that hollow rumbling and crackling sound overhead. What +could it be? + +“_L’amore incoronato_!” hummed Nina fitfully, as she plunged her round, +jeweled arm down again into the chest of treasure. “_Sì, sì_! _Che +morendo si fa sposa—che morendo si fa sposa—ah_!” + +This last was an exclamation of pleasure; she had found some toy that +charmed her—it was the old mirror set in its frame of pearls. The +possession of this object seemed to fill her with extraordinary joy, +and she evidently retained no consciousness of where she was, for she +sat down on the upturned coffin, which had held my living body, with +absolute indifference. Still singing softly to herself, she gazed +lovingly at her own reflection, and fingered the jewels she wore, +arranging and rearranging them in various patterns with one hand, while +in the other she raised the looking-glass in the flare of the candles +which lighted up its quaint setting. A strange and awful picture she +made there—gazing with such lingering tenderness on the portrait of her +own beauty—while surrounded by the moldering coffins that silently +announced how little such beauty was worth—playing with jewels, the +foolish trinkets of life, in the abode of skeletons, where the password +is death! Thinking thus, I gazed at her, as one might gaze at a dead +body—not loathingly any more, but only mournfully. My vengeance was +satiated. I could not wage war against this vacantly smiling mad +creature, out of whom the spirit of a devilish intelligence and cunning +had been torn, and who therefore was no longer the same woman. Her loss +of wit should compensate for my loss of love. I determined to try and +attract her attention again. I opened my lips to speak—but before the +words could form themselves, that odd rumbling noise again broke on my +ears—this time with a loud reverberation that rolled overhead like the +thunder of artillery. Before I could imagine the reason of it—before I +could advance one step toward my wife, who still sat on the upturned +coffin, smiling at herself in the mirror—before I could utter a word or +move an inch, a tremendous crash resounded through the vault, followed +by a stinging shower of stones, dust, and pulverized mortar! I stepped +backward amazed, bewildered—speechless—instinctively shutting my +eyes—when I opened them again all was darkness—all was silence! Only +the wind howled outside more frantically than ever—a sweeping gust +whirled through the vault, blowing some dead leaves against my face, +and I heard the boughs of trees creaking noisily in the fury of the +storm. Hush!—was that a faint moan? Quivering in every limb, and sick +with a nameless dread, I sought in my pocket for matches—I found them. +Then with an effort, mastering the shuddering revulsion of my nerves, I +struck a light. The flame was so dim that for an instant I could see +nothing. I called loudly: + +“Nina!” There was no answer. + +One of the extinguished candles was near me; I lighted it with +trembling hands and held it aloft—then I uttered a wild shriek of +horror! Oh, God of inexorable justice, surely Thy vengeance was greater +than mine! An enormous block of stone, dislodged by the violence of the +storm, had fallen from the roof of the vault; fallen sheer down over +the very place where _she_ had sat a minute or two before, +fantastically smiling! Crushed under the huge mass—crushed into the +very splinters of my own empty coffin, she lay—and yet—and yet—I could +see nothing, save one white hand protruding—the hand on which the +marriage-ring glittered mockingly! Even as I looked, that hand quivered +violently—beat the ground—and then—was still! It was horrible. In +dreams I see that quivering white hand now, the jewels on it sparkling +with derisive luster. It appeals, it calls, it threatens, it prays! and +when my time comes to die, it will beckon me to my grave! A portion of +her costly dress was visible—my eyes lighted on this—and I saw a slow +stream of blood oozing thickly from beneath the stone—the ponderous +stone that no man could have moved an inch—the stone that sealed her +awful sepulcher! Great Heaven! how fast the crimson stream of life +trickled!—staining the snowy lace of her garment with a dark and +dreadful hue! Staggering feebly like a drunken man—half delirious with +anguish—I approached and touched that small white hand that lay stiffly +on the ground—I bent my head—I almost kissed it, but some strange +revulsion rose in my soul and forbade the act! + +In a stupor of dull agony I sought and found the crucifix of the monk +Cipriano that had fallen to the floor—I closed the yet warm finger-tips +around it and left it thus; an unnatural, terrible calmness froze the +excitement of my strained nerves. + +“’Tis all I can do for thee!” I muttered, incoherently. “May Christ +forgive thee, though I cannot!” + +And covering my eyes to shut out the sight before me I turned away. I +hurried in a sort of frenzy toward the stairway—on reaching the lowest +step I extinguished the torch I carried. Some impulse made me glance +back—and I saw what I see now—what I shall always see till I die! An +aperture had been made through the roof of the vault by the fall of the +great stone, and through this the fitful moon poured down a long +ghostly ray. The green glimmer, like a spectral lamp, deepened the +surrounding darkness, only showing up with fell distinctness one +object—that slender protruding wrist and hand, whiter than Alpine snow! +I gazed at it wildly—the gleam of the jewels down there hurt my +eyes—the shine of the silver crucifix clasped in those little waxen +fingers dazzled my brain—and with a frantic cry of unreasoning terror, +I rushed up the steps with a maniac speed—opened the iron gate through +which _she_ would pass no more, and stood at liberty in the free air, +face to face with a wind as tempestuous as my own passions. With what +furious haste I shut the entrance to the vault! with what fierce +precaution I locked and doubled-locked it! Nay, so little did I realize +that she was actually dead, that I caught myself saying +aloud—“Safe—safe at last! She cannot escape—I have closed the secret +passage—no one will hear her cries—she will struggle a little, but it +will soon be over—she will never laugh any more—never kiss—never +love—never tell lies for the fooling of men!—she is buried as I +was—buried alive!” + +Muttering thus to myself with a sort of sobbing incoherence, I turned +to meet the snarl of the savage blast of the night, with my brain +reeling, my limbs weak and trembling—with the heavens and earth rocking +before me like a wild sea—with the flying moon staring aghast through +the driving clouds—with all the universe, as it were, in a broken and +shapeless chaos about me; even so I went forth to meet my fate—and left +her! + + +Unrecognized, untracked, I departed from Naples. Wrapped in my cloak, +and stretched in a sort of heavy stupor on the deck of the +“_Rondinella_,” my appearance apparently excited no suspicion in the +mind of the skipper, old Antonio Bardi, with whom my friend Andrea had +made terms for my voyage, little aware of the real identity of the +passenger he recommended. + +The morning was radiantly beautiful—the sparkling waves rose high on +tiptoe to kiss the still boisterous wind—the sunlight broke in a wide +smile of springtide glory over the world! With the burden of my agony +upon me—with the utter exhaustion of my overwrought nerves, I beheld +all things as in a feverish dream—the laughing light, the azure ripple +of waters—the receding line of my native shores—everything was blurred, +indistinct, and unreal to me, though my soul, Argus-eyed, incessantly +peered down, down into those darksome depths where _she_ lay, silent +forever. For now I knew she was dead. Fate had killed her—not I. All +unrepentant as she was, triumphing in her treachery to the last, even +in her madness, still I would have saved her, though she strove to +murder me. + +Yet it was well the stone had fallen—who knows!—if she had lived—I +strove not to think of her, and drawing the key of the vault from my +pocket, I let it drop with a sudden splash into the waves. All was +over—no one pursued me—no one inquired whither I went. I arrived at +Civita Vecchia unquestioned; from thence I travelled to Leghorn, where +I embarked on board a merchant trading vessel bound for South America. +Thus I lost myself to the world; thus I became, as it were, buried +alive for the second time. I am safely sepulchered in these wild woods, +and I seek no escape. + +Wearing the guise of a rough settler, one who works in common with +others, hewing down tough parasites and poisonous undergrowths in order +to effect a clearing through these pathless solitudes, none can trace +in the strong stern man, with the care-worn face and white hair, any +resemblance to the once popular and wealthy Count Oliva, whose +disappearance, so strange and sudden, was for a time the talk of all +Italy. For, on one occasion when visiting the nearest town, I saw an +article in a newspaper, headed “Mysterious Occurrence in Naples,” and I +read every word of it with a sensation of dull amusement. + +From it I learned that the Count Oliva was advertised for. His abrupt +departure, together with that of his newly married wife, formerly +_Contessa_ Romani, on the very night of their wedding, had created the +utmost excitement in the city. The landlord of the hotel where he +stayed was prosecuting inquiries—so was the count’s former valet, one +Vincenzo Flamma. Any information would be gratefully received by the +police authorities. If within twelve months no news were obtained, the +immense properties of the Romani family, in default of existing +kindred, would be handed over to the crown. + +There was much more to the same effect, and I read it with the utmost +indifference. Why do they not search the Romani vault?—I thought +gloomily—they would find some authentic information there! But I know +the Neapolitans well; they are timorous and superstitious; they would +as soon hug a pestilence as explore a charnel house. One thing +gladdened me; it was the projected disposal of my fortune. The crown, +the Kingdom of Italy, was surely as noble an heir as a man could have! +I returned to my woodland hut with a strange peace on my soul. + +As I told you at first, I am a dead man—the world, with its busy life +and aims, has naught to do with me. The tall trees, the birds, the +whispering grasses are my friends and my companions—they, and they +only, are sometimes the silent witnesses of the torturing fits of agony +that every now and then overwhelm me with bitterness. For I suffer +always. That is natural. Revenge is sweet!—but who shall paint the +horrors of memory? My vengeance now recoils upon my own head. I do not +complain of this—it is the law of compensation—it is just. I blame no +one—save Her, the woman who wrought my wrong. Dead as she is I do not +forgive her; I have tried to, but I cannot! Do men ever truly forgive +the women who ruin their lives? I doubt it. As for me, I feel that the +end is not yet—that when my soul is released from its earthly prison, I +shall still be doomed in some drear dim way to pursue her treacherous +flitting spirit over the black chasms of a hell darker than Dante’s—she +in the likeness of a wandering flame—I as her haunting shadow; she, +flying before me in coward fear—I, hasting after her in relentless +wrath—and this forever and ever! + +But I ask no pity—I need none. I punished the guilty, and in doing so +suffered more than they—that is as it must always be. I have no regret +and no remorse; only one thing troubles me—one little thing—a mere +foolish fancy! It comes upon me in the night, when the large-faced moon +looks at me from heaven. For the moon is grand in this climate; she is +like a golden-robed empress of all the worlds as she sweeps in lustrous +magnificence through the dense violet skies. I shut out her radiance as +much as I can; I close the blind at the narrow window of my solitary +forest cabin; and yet do what I will, one wide ray creeps in always—one +ray that eludes all my efforts to expel it. Under the door it comes, or +through some unguessed cranny in the wood-work. I have in vain tried to +find the place of its entrance. + +The color of the moonlight in this climate is of a mellow amber—so I +cannot understand why that pallid ray that visits me so often, should +be green—a livid, cold, watery green; and in it, like a lily in an +emerald pool, I see a little white hand on which the jewels cluster +thick like drops of dew! The hand moves—it lifts itself—the small +fingers point at me threateningly—they quiver—and then—they beckon me +slowly, solemnly, commandingly onward!—onward!—to some infinite land of +awful mysteries where Light and Love shall dawn for me no more. + + +The End + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENDETTA *** + +***** This file should be named 4360-0.txt or 4360-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/6/4360/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + |