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diff --git a/4360-h/4360-h.htm b/4360-h/4360-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5072db1 --- /dev/null +++ b/4360-h/4360-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,19880 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Vendetta, by Marie Corelli</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Vendetta, by Marie Corelli</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Vendetta<br /> +A Story of One Forgotten</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Marie Corelli</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 15, 2002 [eBook #4360]<br /> +[Most recently updated: March 27, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENDETTA ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>Vendetta</h1> + +<h3>Or<br /> +A Story of One Forgotten</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Marie Corelli</h2> + +<h4>Author of “ARDATH,” “THELMA,” “A ROMANCE OF +TWO WORLDS,” “WORMWOOD,” etc., etc.</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap00">PREFACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap00"></a>PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +<i>Marie Corelli</i>.<br /> +August, 1886. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>VENDETTA!</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A constitutional inheritance?” asks one physician, observing my +frosted locks. +</p> + +<p> +“A sudden shock?” suggests another. +</p> + +<p> +“Exposure to intense heat?” hints a third. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>safe</i>. 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 +<i>uncertainty</i>. 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 <i>not</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Qui que tu sois voilà ton maître,<br /> +Il fût—il est—ou il doit être!’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We were married at the end of June, and Guido Ferrari graced our bridal with +his handsome and gallant presence. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Guido laid his hand on my shoulder as the servant retired; his face was +unusually pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou art a good fellow, Fabio!” he said, abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! How so?” I asked, half laughingly; “I am no better +than other men.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +I glanced at him in surprise. “What do you mean, <i>amico</i>? Have I +reason to suspect any one?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed and resumed his seat at the breakfast-table. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no cause for distrust,” I said. “Nina is as innocent +as the little child of whom she is to-day the mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Santissima Madonna</i>!” 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>beccamorti</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>stornelli</i> and +<i>ritornelli</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What ails you?” I asked. He twisted himself convulsively and +turned his face toward me—a beautiful face, though livid with anguish. +</p> + +<p> +“The plague, <i>signor</i>!” he moaned; “the plague! Keep +away from me, for the love of God! I am dying!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He is as good as dead,” he observed, with cold brevity. +“Better call at the house of the <i>Miserecordia</i>; the brethren will +fetch his body.” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” I cried; “you will not try if you can save +him?” +</p> + +<p> +The Frenchman bowed with satirical suavity. +</p> + +<p> +“Monsieur must pardon me! My own health would be seriously endangered by +touching a cholera corpse. Allow me to wish monsieur the good-day!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You seek aid, my son?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will accompany you,” I said, eagerly. “One would not let a +dog die unaided; much less this poor lad, who seems friendless.” +</p> + +<p> +The monk looked at me attentively as we walked on together. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not residing in Naples?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +I gave him my name, which he knew by repute, and described the position of my +villa. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you, my father,” I began, and stopped abruptly, conscious of a +sharp throbbing pain in my temples. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Count Romani! <i>Santissima Madonna</i>! He has caught the +plague!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I laid a detaining hand on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay,” I murmured, feebly, “let me know the worst. Is this +the plague?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not!” he replied, compassionately. “But what if it +be? You are young and strong enough to fight against it without fear.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear it most willingly, my son,” he answered, solemnly. +“By all I hold sacred, I will respect your wishes.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Fool!” I shriek in his ear. “Let me go to her—her lips +pout for kisses—let me go!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>E morto</i>!” they whisper one to the other. +</p> + +<p> +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 “<i>La Fata di +Amalfi</i>”—I can distinguish the words— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Chiagnarò la mia sventura<br /> +Si non tuorne chiù, Rosella!<br /> +Tu d’ Amalfi la chiù bella,<br /> +Tu na Fata sì pe me!<br /> +Viene, vie, regina mie,<br /> +Viene curre a chisto core,<br /> +Ca non c’è non c’è sciore,<br /> +Non c’è stella comm’a te!”<a href="#fn1" name="fnref1" id="fnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn1" id="fn1"></a> <a href="#fnref1">[1]</a> +A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect. +</p> + +<p> +That is a true song, Nina <i>mia</i>! “<i>Non c’è Stella +comm’ a te</i>!” 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 <i>me</i>—it is I whom he seeks—it is +in <i>my</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Be calm, my son, be calm. Commend thyself to Christ!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May his young soul rest in peace! I found him dead.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>whose</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“Jug, jug, Jug! lodola, lodola! trill-lil-lil! sweet, sweet, +sweet!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +<i>One</i>! 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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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 <i>thing</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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, “<i>Fabio +Romani</i>”—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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i> +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>I</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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>my</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>ritornello</i>— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Sciore d’amenta<br /> +Sta parolella mia tieul’ ammento<br /> + Zompa llarì llirà!<br /> +Sciore limone!<br /> +Le voglio fa mori de passione<br /> + Zompa llarì llirà!”<a href="#fn2" name="fnref2" id="fnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn2" id="fn2"></a> <a href="#fnref2">[2]</a> +Neapolitan dialect +</p> + +<p> +I smiled—“<i>Mori de passione</i>!” 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man took his pipe from his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you fear the plague?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I have just recovered from an attack of it,” I replied, coolly. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me attentively from head to foot, and then broke into a low +chuckling laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” I said, somewhat roughly, “will you sell me a suit or +no?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The old dealer laughed with a crackling sound in his withered throat, like the +rattling of stones in a tin pot. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>old</i>, but merry.” What did +he mean by calling <i>me</i> old? He must be blind, I thought, or in his +dotage. Suddenly he looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I started, but quickly controlled myself into an appearance of indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” I said, carelessly. “And pray who was he that he +should not deserve to die as well as other people?” +</p> + +<p> +The old man raised himself from his stooping attitude, and stared at me with +his keen black eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>him</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of looking man was this Count Romani? You say he was +handsome—was he tall or short—dark or fair?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mastering my feelings by a violent effort, I forced myself to speak calmly to +this malignant old brute. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you hate the Countess Romani so much?” I asked him with +sternness. “Has she done you any harm?” +</p> + +<p> +He straightened himself as much as he was able and looked me full in the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The likeness!” I exclaimed impatiently, for his story annoyed me. +“What likeness?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Take it as a remembrance of her,’ I said. ‘In a month +she would have betrayed you as she betrayed me.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think your wife deserved her fate,” I said, curtly, “but I +cannot say I admire you for being her murderer.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned upon me rapidly, throwing both hands above his head with a frantic +gesticulation. His voice rose to a kind of muffled shriek. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>her</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>Milord Inglese</i>! No, no! I understand. I will find you +something—patience, patience!” +</p> + +<p> +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>I</i> had endured but one +short night of agony; how trifling it seemed compared to <i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He spread out the rough garb before me. I glanced at it carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Did the former wearer kill <i>his</i> wife?” I asked, with a +slight smile. +</p> + +<p> +The old rag-picker shook his head and made a sign with his outspread fingers +expressive of contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“Not he!—He was a fool—He killed himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“How was that? By accident or design?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what became of the girl?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>she</i>! She laughs all day long, as I told you. She has a new +lover every week. What should <i>she</i> care?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>her</i> mirror—the +only thing I keep of hers; come this way, come this way!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Santissima Madonna</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, as for being strong! There is plenty of strength in me still, you +see.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going far?” he asked at last, with a kind of timidity. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I answered him, abruptly; “very far.” +</p> + +<p> +He laid a detaining hand on my sleeve, and his eyes glittered—with a +malignant expression. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” he muttered, eagerly, “tell me—I will keep +the secret. Are you going to a woman?” +</p> + +<p> +I looked down upon him, half in disdain, half in amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” I said, quietly, “I am going to a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +He broke into silent laughter—hideous laughter that contorted his visage +and twisted his body in convulsive writhings. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>kill her</i>! Yes, yes—you will be +able to do it easily—quite easily! Go and kill her.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You had better make sure he is quite dead.” +</p> + +<p> +The <i>beccamorti</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am saved!” she cried; “the plague cannot walk in the same +road with the king!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>beccamorti</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is wrong here, my friends?” the monarch asked with exceeding +gentleness. +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for a moment; the <i>beccamorti</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>beccamorti</i>, “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, +<i>poverino</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Figlio mio</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Figlio mio</i>! I am your king. Have you no greeting for me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your hand, my son!” resumed the king in a tone of soldier-like +authority. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“There is no death in love, my friend!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>beccamorti</i>, 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 <i>earnest</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“You have had a long voyage, <i>amico</i>? And successful fishing?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And you?” I said, gayly. “How goes the cholera?” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord shook his head dolefully. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +And he sighed deeply as he poured out the steaming coffee, and shook his head +more sorrowfully than before. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The perspiring Pietro laid a fat thumb on the marble top of the table, and with +it traced a pattern meditatively. +</p> + +<p> +“You never heard of the rich Count Romani?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +I made a sign in the negative, and bent my face over my coffee-cup. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>zinzara</i>! Yes, he lay dead on that very wooden bench +opposite to you. They buried him before sunset. It is like a bad dream!” +</p> + +<p> +I affected to be deeply engrossed with the cutting and spreading of my roll and +butter. +</p> + +<p> +“I see nothing particular about it,” I said, indifferently. +“That he was rich is nothing—rich and poor must die alike.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is true, very true,” assented Pietro, with another groan, +“for not all his property could save the blessed Cipriano.” +</p> + +<p> +I started, but quickly controlled myself. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” I asked, as carelessly as I could. “Are +you talking of some saint?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I felt a sickening sensation at my heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he dead?” I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>contessa</i>, telling her how her husband died.” +</p> + +<p> +My poor Nina!—I thought. “Was she much grieved?” I inquired, +with a vague curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The coffee does not please you?” he said at last. “You have +no appetite?” I forced a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Pietro put on an air that was almost apologetic. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, truly!” he answered, resignedly—“very little +else. But what would you, <i>amico</i>? It is the plague and the will of +God.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>La Gloire de France</i>, 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 <i>his</i> knowledge, I, his best friend, had +died only yesterday! With this sorrow fresh upon him, he could smile like a man +going to a <i>festa</i>, 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 <i>en passent</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +I turned to the landlord. “How much to pay?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“What you will, <i>amico</i>” 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—” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed and tossed him a franc. He pocketed it at once and his eyes twinkled. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure of that!” I said, gayly. “<i>Addio</i>, my friend! +Prosperity to you and our Lady’s favor!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>dolce far +niente</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Mater Dolorosa</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“You foolish Guido!” she said, in dreamily amused accents. +“What would have happened, I wonder, if Fabio had not died so +opportunely.” +</p> + +<p> +I waited eagerly for the answer. Guido laughed lightly. +</p> + +<p> +“He would never have discovered anything. You were too clever for him, +<i>piccinina</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +My wife—flawless diamond-pearl of pure womanhood!—sighed half +restlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad he is dead!” she murmured; “but, Guido <i>mio</i>, +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The boughs that covered me creaked and rustled. My wife started, and looked +uneasily round her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Heaven!” exclaimed Guido, fiercely, “do I not think of +it? Ay—and I curse him for every kiss he stole from your lips!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>baiocco</i>! +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you marry him?” he asked, after a little pause, during +which he toyed with the fair curls that floated against his breast. +</p> + +<p> +She looked up with a little mutinous pout, and shrugged her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“You loved him?” demanded Guido, almost fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ma che</i>!” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will gain nothing by marrying me, then,” he said, jealously. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed, and laid her little white hand, glittering with rings, lightly +against his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>dare not</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go,” she said. “You are rough, you hurt me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, <i>carina mia</i>” 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 <i>mia</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are so foolish, Guido <i>mio</i>” 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Guido smiled, and stroked her shining golden curls. +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>am</i> 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 <i>her</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Nina raised her head from his breast with an air of petulant weariness. +</p> + +<p> +“Again!” she murmured, reproachfully, “you are going to be +angry <i>again</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +My wife—nay, I should say <i>our</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear the nightingales?” asked Guido. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Nina listened—and shivered, drawing her light scarf more closely about +her shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I hate them,” she said, pettishly; “their noise is enough to +pierce one’s ears. And <i>he</i> used to be so fond of them! he used to +sing—what was it? +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Ti salute, Rosignuolo,<br /> +Nel tuo duolo, il saluto!<br /> +Sei l’amante della rosa<br /> +Che morendo si fa sposa!’” +</p> + +<p> +Her rich voice rippled out on the air, rivaling the songs of the nightingales +themselves. She broke off with a little laugh— +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Fabio! there was always a false note somewhere when he sung. Come, +Guido!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i>—with <i>him</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>her</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“A white-haired fisherman!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>me</i>? 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. <i>Now</i> 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 <i>Signor</i> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>signor</i> will smoke?” he said courteously. +</p> + +<p> +I accepted the little roll of fragrant Havanna half mechanically. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you call me <i>signor</i>?” I inquired brusquely. “I +am a coral-fisher.” +</p> + +<p> +The little man shrugged his shoulders and bowed deferentially, yet with the +smile still dancing gayly in his eyes and dimpling his olive cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly! As the <i>signor</i> pleases—ma—” And +he ended with another expressive shrug and bow. +</p> + +<p> +I looked at him fixedly. “What do you mean?” I asked with some +sternness. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Scusa, vi prego</i>! But the hands are not those of a fisher of +coral.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>! And what then, my friend?” +</p> + +<p> +He made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, nothing—but only this. The <i>signor</i> must understand +he is perfectly safe with me. My tongue is discreet—I talk of things only +that concern myself. The <i>signor</i> 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, <i>Dio</i> 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 <i>signor</i> has trusted himself in my +boat—I desire to assure him of my best services.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is good, is it not?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent!” I answered, as indeed it was. +</p> + +<p> +His white teeth glittered in a smile of amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“It should be of the finest quality—for it is a present from one +who will smoke nothing but the choice brands. Ah, <i>Dio</i>! what a fine +gentleman spoiled is Carmelo Neri!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“You know the man, then?” I inquired with some curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>signor</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He answered me directly and simply, raising his cap slightly as he did so. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>signor</i>—my mother.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>signor</i> has no mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“She died when I was but a child,” I answered, briefly. +</p> + +<p> +The Sicilian puffed lightly at his cigarette in silence—the silence of an +evident compassion. To relieve him of his friendly embarrassment, I said: +</p> + +<p> +“You spoke of Teresa? Who is Teresa?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you may well ask, <i>signor</i>! 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, <i>signor</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +I shook my head in the negative. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder if she is true to him,” I muttered, half to myself and +half aloud. +</p> + +<p> +The captain caught up my words with an accent of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“True to him? Ah, <i>Dio</i>! but the <i>signor</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why—you would not have her false?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>vengeance</i>. “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 <i>she</i> 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 <i>therefore</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is bad to sleep in the moonlight, <i>signor</i>,” he said, +anxiously. “It makes men mad, they say.” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled. Had madness been my destiny, I should have gone mad last night, I +thought! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 “<i>Buon riposo, signor</i>!” +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 <i>can</i> and <i>will</i>—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 +<i>my</i> 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +One of the men looked at him dubiously. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“As if you could ever be wrong, <i>caro</i>!” 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, <i>Dio</i>! 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, <i>amici</i>—spare not the flask—there are twenty more +below stairs!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Our Lady and the saints forgive you!” he exclaimed, piously, +“for thinking that I, an honest <i>marinaro</i>, would accept one +<i>baiocco</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco</i>!” 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, +<i>signor</i>!” 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I!” I answered him heartily. “On the contrary, I would +there were more like you. <i>Addio</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” he said, with a naive mingling of curiosity and timidity, +“how can I do that if the <i>signor</i> does not tell me his name?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask for the Count Cesare Oliva,” I said. “I shall return to +Naples shortly, and should you seek me, you will find me there.” +</p> + +<p> +The Sicilian doffed his cap and saluted me profoundly. +</p> + +<p> +“I guessed well,” he remarked, smilingly, “that the <i>Signor +Conte’s</i> 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! <i>A rivederci, signor</i>! Command +me when you will—I am your servant!” +</p> + +<p> +Pressing his hand, I sprung lightly from the brig on to the quay. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>A rivederci</i>!” I called to him. “Again, and yet again, +a thousand thanks!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Oh! tropp’ onore, signor—tropp’ onore</i>!” +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>Signor</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Carmelo Neri, <i>signor</i>! Carmelo Neri! They have him, +<i>poverino</i>! they have him at last!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Then they have caught a great rascal. I congratulate the Government! +Where is the fellow?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the great square,” returned the garçon, eagerly. “If the +<i>signor</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Corpo di Cristo</i>!” he muttered—“think you a man +tied hand and foot can run like a deer? I am trapped—I know it! But tell +<i>him</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +The gendarmes looked at one another, and then at the swaying crowd about them +in perplexity—they did not understand. +</p> + +<p> +Carmelo, without wasting more words upon them, raised himself as uprightly as +he could in his strained and bound position, and called aloud: +</p> + +<p> +“Luigi Biscardi! <i>Capitano</i>! Oh he—you thought I could not see +you! <i>Dio</i>! I should know you in hell! Come near, I have a parting word +for you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>!” he said, “you are caught at last, Carmelo! +You called me—here I am. What do you want with me, rascal?” +</p> + +<p> +Neri uttered a ferocious curse between his teeth, and looked for an instant +like a wild beast ready to spring. +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>if you can</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +Something jeering and withal threatening in the ruffian’s look, evidently +startled the young officer, for he exclaimed hastily: +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, wretch? You have not—my God! you have not +<i>killed</i> her?” +</p> + +<p> +Carmelo broke into a loud savage laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>me</i>—for <i>me</i>—you +understand! Now go! and may the devil curse you!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“May one speak?” I asked, carelessly. The man hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“For one instant, <i>signor</i>. But be brief.” +</p> + +<p> +I addressed the brigand in a low clear-tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any message for one Andrea Luziani? I am a friend of +his.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me and a dark smile crossed his features. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She did that rather than become the property of another man?” I +queried. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>were</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he caught easily, or did he show fight?” +</p> + +<p> +“He gave himself up like a lamb, <i>signor</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where were his comrades? I thought he commanded a large band?” +</p> + +<p> +“So he did, <i>signor</i>; 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Neri’s sentence?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the galleys for life of course; there is no possible +alternative.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +So!—a love-gift, <i>signor</i>, or an <i>in memoriam</i> 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. +“<i>Ça commence, mon ami</i>!” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, I suppose you know Naples well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>si, signor</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>, can you tell me the way to the house of one Count Fabio +Romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah, gran Dio! e morto!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead!” I exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise. +“So young? Impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh! what will you, <i>signor</i>? It was <i>la pesta</i>; there was no +remedy. <i>La pesta</i> cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich +nor poor.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>si, signor</i>! The <i>Contessa</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, <i>signor</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I am your servant, <i>signor</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>first</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“More coffee, garçon, and a couple of glorias.” Then looking toward +me, “You do not object to a gloria, <i>conte</i>? No? That is well. And +here is <i>my</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed. The waiter vanished to execute his orders and Ferrari drew his chair +closer to mine. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>my own initials</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +“A fine antique,” I remarked, carelessly, turning it over and over +in my hand, “curious and valuable. A gift or an heirloom?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“She naturally gave <i>you</i> the cigar-case as a memento of your +friend,” I said, interrupting him. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is the Countess Romani young?” I forced myself to inquire. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>conte</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>parfait +gentilhomme</i>—proud as the devil, virtuous, unsuspecting, +and—withal—a fool!” +</p> + +<p> +My temper rose dangerously—but I controlled it, and remembering my part +in the drama I had constructed, I broke into violent, harsh laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo!” I exclaimed. “One can easily see what a first-rate +young fellow <i>you</i> 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, +<i>Signor</i> Ferrari—you and I must be friends!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“And this poor weak-minded Romani—was his death sudden?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is the child a boy or a girl?” I asked, carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“A girl. A mere baby—an uninteresting old-fashioned little thing, +very like her father.” +</p> + +<p> +My poor little Stella. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“How was the count buried? Your narrative interests me greatly.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I started involuntarily, but quickly repressed myself. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You</i> were present—<i>you</i>—<i>you</i>—” +and my voice almost failed me. +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari raised his eyebrows with a look of surprised inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time I had recovered myself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“With <i>me</i>!” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shocking!” I murmured over my coffee-cup. “Very shocking. +And you actually entertained no alarm for yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” I said, with interest, for this was news to me. +“And may one ask what this prophecy is?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And he sighed slightly. I raised my head and looked at him steadily. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You loved him well then in spite of his foolishness?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +He roused himself from the pensive mood into which he had fallen, and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha! I suppose his wife came between you?” He flushed slightly, and +drank off the remainder of his cognac in haste. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Are you coming into a fortune?” I asked, carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—not exactly,” he answered, lightly. “I am going +to marry one—that is almost the same thing, is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“You have traveled far and seen much, <i>conte</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“And in what country have you found the most beautiful women!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>conte</i>! But he +altered his ideas very rapidly—and no wonder!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is his wife so very lovely then?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not really inconsolable?” I repeated, in a tone of inquiry. +Ferrari broke into a forced laugh, +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“My dear <i>conte</i>, how <i>can</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“And as <i>I</i> told <i>you</i> before, my dear <i>Signor</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +He accepted the glass I proffered him, and tasted the wine with the air of a +connoisseur. +</p> + +<p> +“Exquisite!” he murmured, sipping it lazily. “You are lodged +<i>en prince</i> here, <i>conte</i>! I envy you!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know, <i>conte</i>, now I look at you well, I think you must have +been very handsome when you were young! You have a superb figure.” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed stiffly. “You flatter me, <i>signor</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not doubt it,” he returned, still regarding me attentively +with an expression in which there was the faintest shadow of uneasiness. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I poured some wine out for myself with a steady hand, and drank it. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I feigned a sort of vexation, and made an abrupt movement of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He colored slightly and moved uneasily. Then with a kind of effort, he replied: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>signor</i>, +will report these facts to her and learn her wishes with respect to the matter, +I shall be much indebted to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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! <i>A rivederci</i>, +<i>Signor</i> <i>Conte</i>! I trust we shall meet often.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt we shall,” I answered, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i> 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 <i>she</i> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<p> +Quite early in the next day Ferrari called to see me. I was at +breakfast—he apologized for disturbing me at the meal. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not always,” I said, dryly, as I motioned him to take a +seat—“there are exceptions—myself for instance. Will you have +some coffee?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“You saw her last night?” I interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked surprised and puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled. “I really mean, my dear <i>Signor</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>conte</i>! You are extremely cynical! I am +almost inclined to believe that you positively hate women.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet many accept such burdens gayly!” interrupted Ferrari, with a +smile. I glanced at him keenly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked surprised. “An odd reason, surely, for resigning her, was it +not?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You underrate your powers, <i>signor</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should indeed,” he answered; “they are unique specimens, I +think?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>Contessa</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari hesitated and looked at me earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“You—<i>will</i> visit her—she may rely on your coming for a +certainty, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled. “You seem very anxious about it. May I ask why?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed delighted, and seizing my hand, shook it cordially. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Mark’s way,’ said Mark, and clove him through the +brain.” +</p> + +<p> +Too sudden and sweet a death by far for such a traitor! The Cornish king should +have known how to torture his betrayer! <i>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>conte</i>!—the place is rather dark +just here—every one stumbles at this particular corner.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not only an artist by profession, <i>Signor</i> +Ferrari—you are one also in appearance.” +</p> + +<p> +He flushed slightly and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“To the Countess Romani?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“I see you must have your joke, <i>conte</i>; 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You expect other visitors?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +He seemed embarrassed, smiled, and hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>mignonne</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“I think I cannot be mistaken! Do I address the noble <i>Conte</i> Cesare +Oliva?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am the Countess Romani,” she said, still smiling. “I heard +from <i>Signor</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>contessa</i>, +and she could not rest till she had thanked you, so we arranged this meeting. +Could anything be better? Come, <i>conte</i>, confess that you are +charmed!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>Contessa</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +At these words my wife’s face suddenly assumed an expression of wistful +sadness and appealing gentleness. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>you</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled, her tear-drops vanished like morning dew disappearing in the heat. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for your good wishes, <i>conte</i>,” 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!” +</p> + +<p> +I hesitated. Ferrari looked amused. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame is not aware of your dislike to the society of ladies, +<i>conte</i>,” he said, and there was a touch of mockery in his tone. I +glanced at him coldly, and addressed my answer to my wife. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Signor</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Signor</i> Ferrari, you will accompany the <i>conte</i> +and show him the way to the villa?” +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari bent his head with some stiffness. He looked slightly sullen. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to see,” he observed, with some petulance, “that +your persuasions have carried more conviction to the <i>Conte</i> Oliva than +mine. To me he was apparently inflexible.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed gayly. “Of course! It is only a woman who can always win her +own way—am I not right, <i>conte</i>?” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>you</i> must be right, whatever you say. Your eyes would convert an +infidel!” +</p> + +<p> +Again she looked at me with one of those wonderfully brilliant, seductive, +arrowy glances—then she rose to take her leave. +</p> + +<p> +“An angel’s visit truly,” I said, lightly, “sweet, but +brief!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You suffer with your eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, madame, a terrible infirmity! I cannot endure the light. But I +should not complain—it is a weakness common to age.” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Not old! With these white hairs!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>his</i> light-o’-love and <i>my</i> wife had extended to me in +choosing <i>my</i> arm instead of <i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He took a cigar and lighted it, but made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He glanced quickly at me. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I not say so?” he exclaimed. “Of all creatures under +heaven she is surely the most perfect! Even you, <i>conte</i>, with your +cynical ideas about women, even you were quite subdued and influenced by her; I +could see it!” +</p> + +<p> +I puffed slowly at my cigar and pretended to meditate. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped in his walk, loosened his arm from mine, and regarded me fixedly. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you so,” he said, deliberately. “You must remember +that I told you so. And now perhaps I ought to warn you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Warn me!” I exclaimed, in feigned alarm. “Of what? against +whom? Surely not the <i>Contessa</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +I broke into a violent fit of laughter, and clapped him roughly on the +shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He eyed me attentively +</p> + +<p> +“She said you did not seem old,” he murmured, half to himself and +half to me. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>you</i>, Sir Antinous!” +</p> + +<p> +He flushed warmly. Then, with a half-apologetic air, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you must forgive me if I have seemed overscrupulous. The +<i>contessa</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, my dear <i>conte</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite,” I observed, “for the Publican was repentant, and +Naples is not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>conte</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is your creed?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>his</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Always?” I inquired, with apparent curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Veramente</i>!” I exclaimed, with a forced laugh, inwardly +cursing his detestable flippancy; “that is the fashionable mode of taking +vengeance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Absolutely the one respectable way of doing it,” he replied; +“it is only the <i>canaille</i> who draw heart’s blood in +earnest.” +</p> + +<p> +Only the <i>canaille</i>! 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: +</p> + +<p> +“You are fatigued, <i>conte</i>? You are ill! Pray take my arm!” +</p> + +<p> +He extended it as he spoke. I put it gently but firmly aside. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no trouble—” began Ferrari. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I summoned my valet. “Who sent this?” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame the <i>Contessa</i> Romani,” replied Vincenzo with discreet +gravity. “There is a card attached, if the <i>eccellenza</i> will be +pleased to look.” +</p> + +<p> +I did look. It was my wife’s visiting-card, and on it was written in her +own delicate penmanship— +</p> + +<p> +“To remind the <i>conte</i> of his promised visit to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>jeunesse dorée</i> 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, <i>no</i>! 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 <i>he</i> 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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<p> +“Welcome to Villa Romani!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>my</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Welcome to Villa Romani!” so said my wife. Then, remarking my +silence as I looked about me, she added with a pretty coaxing air, +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid after all you are sorry you have come to see me!” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled. It served my purpose now to be as gallant and agreeable as I could; +therefore I answered: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember it very well,” I added, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember it!” exclaimed Ferrari, quickly, as though surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. I omitted to tell you, my friend, that I used to visit this +spot often when a boy. The elder <i>Conte</i> Romani and myself played about +these grounds together. The scene is quite familiar to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Nina listened with an appearance of interest. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever see my late husband?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” she exclaimed, settling herself on a low ottoman and +fixing her eyes upon me; “what was she like?” +</p> + +<p> +I paused a moment before replying. Could I speak of that unstained sacred life +of wifehood and motherhood to this polluted though lovely creature? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari glanced at me with an evil sneer in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“That was fortunate,” he said. “She had no time to tire of +her husband, else—who knows?” +</p> + +<p> +My blood rose rapidly to an astonishing heat, but I controlled myself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Nina hastily interposed. “Oh, my dear <i>conte</i>,” 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 +<i>was</i> so fond of him. But, <i>conte</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>buried</i>? 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She became meditative. “Papa said I was,” she answered, softly and +shyly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The child’s lip quivered, but she was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen my papa?” she asked, timidly. “Will he come +back soon?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Fair play, <i>signor</i>! Fair play! Strength becomes mere bullying when +it is employed against absolute weakness.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“This little <i>donzella</i>, 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, really, <i>conte</i>, 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 <i>juste +milieu</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“You are such an old friend of the family, <i>conte</i>, that perhaps you +will not mind sitting at the head of the table?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Tropp’ onore, signora</i>!” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that a good likeness?” Ferrari asked, suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fabio was also very proud,” chimed in my wife’s sweet voice. +“Very cold and haughty.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The butler here coughed apologetically behind his hand—an old trick of +his, and one which signified his intense desire to speak. +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari laughed, as he held out his glass for more wine. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is old Giacomo,” he said, nodding to him lightly. “He +remembers both the Romanis—ask him <i>his</i> opinion of Fabio—he +worshiped his master.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned to my servant, and with a benignant air addressed him: +</p> + +<p> +“Your face is not familiar to me, my friend,” I said. +“Perhaps you were not here when I visited the elder Count Romani?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, <i>eccellenza</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, <i>eccellenza</i>!” And his bleared eyes roved over me with +a sort of alarmed inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +“You loved him well?” I said, composedly, observing him with +embarrassment. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>that</i> I saw at once, +and she spared no pains to succeed in her ambition. Graceful sallies, witty +<i>bon-mots</i> 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 <i>spirituelle</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>en famille</i>; you know he is +just like a brother to me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A lovely woman!” I murmured, meditatively, sipping my wine, +“and intelligent also. I admire your taste, <i>signor</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +He started violently. “What—what do you mean?” he demanded, +half fiercely. I stroked my mustache and smiled at him benevolently. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think—you imagine that—that—I—” +</p> + +<p> +“That you are in love with her?” I said, composedly. +“<i>Ma—certamente</i>! And why not? It is as it should be. Even the +late <i>conte</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, <i>conte</i>,” 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!” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed quietly. “<i>Veramente</i>! How very amiable of you! It was a +good intention, but you know what place is paved with similar designs?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, <i>conte</i>, it is like your generosity to take my confession so +lightly; but I assure you, for the last hour I have been absolutely +wretched!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He drank off his wine at one gulp and spoke with some excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will frankly confide in you. I <i>do</i> love the +<i>contessa</i>. 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! <i>You</i> cannot know—<i>you</i> could not understand +the joy, the pain—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Think! <i>Gran Dio</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that too!” I answered, steadily. “The most casual +observer cannot fail to notice it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +My heart leaped with a sudden impulse of fury, but I controlled my voice and +answered calmly: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Requiescat in pace</i>! 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?” +</p> + +<p> +He lowered his eyes as he replied in an indistinct tone: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you—you were a most loyal and faithful friend to him, in spite +of the tempting bright eyes of his lady?” +</p> + +<p> +Again he answered huskily, “Why, of course!” But the shapely hand +that rested on the table so near to mine trembled. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“And so you really entertain no admiration for the +<i>contessa</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, pardon me, I <i>do</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Unless what?” he asked, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“Unless she happens to make love to me. In which case it would be +ungallant not to reciprocate!” +</p> + +<p> +And I laughed harshly. He stared at me in blank surprise. “<i>She</i> +make love to <i>you</i>!” he exclaimed, “You jest. She would never +do such a thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” I asked, though the question was needless, for I +knew the sound. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Wyvis! He was sorely punished for his fidelity. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly! Guido, will you go and unfasten him?” +</p> + +<p> +Guido did not move; he leaned easily back in his chair sipping his coffee. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“After such an account of the animal’s conduct, perhaps the +<i>conte</i> will not care to see him. It is true enough,” turning to me +as she spoke, “Wyvis has taken a great dislike to <i>Signor</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Giacomo,” she continued, “unloose Wyvis and send him +here.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I told you how it would be! It is nothing remarkable, I assure you. All +dogs treat me in the same way.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you afraid of this noble animal, madame?” I asked, watching +her closely. She laughed, a little forcedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari, by his looks, agreed with her, and appeared to be uneasily considering +the circumstance. +</p> + +<p> +“Strange to say,” he remarked, “Wyvis has for once forgotten +me. He never fails to give me a passing snarl.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>contessa</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +On making my adieus to Nina, I firmly refused Ferrari’s offered +companionship in the walk back to my hotel. +</p> + +<p> +“I am fond of a solitary moonlight stroll,” I said. “Permit +me to have my own way in the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You are very cruel, Nina! You actually made me think you admired that +rich old <i>conte</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed again, more merrily than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Think! Why, that he is very original—charmingly so! Are you coming +in, Guido?” +</p> + +<p> +He rose, and standing erect, almost lifted her from her chair and folded her in +his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I <i>am</i> coming in,” he answered; “and I will have a +hundred kisses for every look and smile you bestowed on the <i>conte</i>! You +little coquette! You would flirt with your grandfather!” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>sposina mia</i>, it is time to go to +rest.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>douceurs</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>should</i> 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 <i>distingué</i>”—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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Go to your lady-love, <i>mon beau</i> 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 <i>bas-peuple</i>. “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—<i>tant pis pour vous, tant mieux pour moi</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +I had of course attained the position of <i>ami intime</i> 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 +<i>parti</i>—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 +<i>sure</i>—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 <i>him</i>. Therefore, +the catastrophe for him must be sudden as well as fatal—perhaps, after +all, it was better so. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>my</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“It was to be expected, <i>eccellenza</i>—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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Really, my dear <i>conte</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled uneasily though gratefully. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks, <i>conte</i>—but it is nothing of that sort—it +is—<i>gran Dio</i>! what an unlucky wretch I am!” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope,” and here I put on an expression of the deepest anxiety, +“I hope the pretty <i>contessa</i> has not played you false? she has +refused to marry you?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed with a disdainful triumph in his laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, as far as that goes there is no danger! She dares not play me +false.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dares</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I waved my hand with an airy gesture of amicable agreement. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He played absently with a ring I had given him, turning it round and round upon +his finger many times before replying. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the fact is,” he said at last, “I am compelled to go +away—to leave Naples for a time.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Going away! Surely you cannot mean it. Why?—what for? and +where?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Here he hesitated and looked at me anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Continue, <i>caro mio</i>, continue!” I said with some impatience. +“If I can do anything in your absence, you have only to command +me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You can do much!” he replied, earnestly, “and I feel that I +can thoroughly depend upon you. Watch over <i>her</i>! 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>brother</i>—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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you! I know I can rely upon your honor.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“And when must you leave us, <i>carino</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most unhappily, at once,” he answered “I start by the early +train to-morrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked gratefully at me “Really? It is very kind of you, but I should +be sorry to interfere with any of your plans—” +</p> + +<p> +“Say no more about it, <i>amico</i>,” I interrupted him lightly. +“Everything can wait till you come back. Besides, I am sure you will +prefer to think of <i>madama</i> as living in some sort of seclusion during +your enforced absence—” +</p> + +<p> +“I should not like her to be dull!” he eagerly exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A delighted look flashed into his eyes. He was greatly flattered and pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“You are uncommonly good to me, <i>conte</i>!” he said, earnestly. +“I can never thank you sufficiently.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>my</i> 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—<i>forever</i>! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I really do not know,” he answered, indifferently, “I have +only just bought it. It is by Victor Hugo.” +</p> + +<p> +And he held up the title-page for me to see. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamne</i>,” I read aloud with +careful slowness. “Ah, indeed! You do well to read that. It is a very +fine study!” +</p> + +<p> +The train was on the point of starting, when he leaned out of the carriage +window and beckoned me to approach more closely. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember!” he whispered, “I trust you to take care of +her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Never fear!” I answered, “I will do my best to replace +<i>you</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Please come at once. Stella is very ill, and asks for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who brought this?” I demanded, quickening my pace, and signing to +Vincenzo to keep beside me. +</p> + +<p> +“The old man, <i>eccellenza</i>—Giacomo. He was weeping and in +great trouble—he said the little <i>donzella</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A doctor has been sent for, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>eccellenza</i>. So Giacomo said. But—” +</p> + +<p> +“But <i>what</i>?” I asked, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, <i>eccellenza</i>! Only the old man said the doctor had come +too late.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How is the child?” I asked him eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay!” I said, laying a detaining hand on his arm. “Is there +any hope?” +</p> + +<p> +He eyed me gravely. “I fear not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can nothing be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the <i>contessa</i>?” I asked in a whisper, as I trod +softly up the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>contessa</i>?” said the girl, opening her eyes in +astonishment. “In her own bedroom, <i>eccellenza</i>—<i>madama</i> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“Has she not seen her child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Since the illness? Oh, no, <i>eccellenza</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, <i>poverinetta</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My throat aches so, papa!” she said, pitifully. “Can you not +make it better?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could, my darling!” I murmured. “I would bear all +the pain for you if it were possible!” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent a minute. Then she said: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And as I obeyed her request she encircled the doll with one arm, while she +still clung to me with the other, and added: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Assunta!” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Bambinetta</i>!” she answered, and her aged voice trembled. +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you crying?” inquired Stella with an air of plaintive +surprise. “Are you not glad to see papa?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling, you must not talk,” I whispered, imploringly; “try +to be very still—then the poor throat will not ache so much.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me wistfully. After a minute or two she said, gently: +</p> + +<p> +“Kiss me, then, and I will be quite good.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you in pain, my dear?” I softly asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And she turned her eyes upon me with a look of bright intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +“Her brain wanders,” said the doctor, in a low, pitying voice; +“it will soon be over.” +</p> + +<p> +Stella did not hear him; she turned and nestled in my arms, asking in a sort of +babbling whisper: +</p> + +<p> +“You did not go away because I was naughty, did you, papa?” +</p> + +<p> +“No darling!” I answered, hiding my face in her curls. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<p> +After some little time the doctor’s genial voice, slightly tremulous from +kindly emotion, roused me from my grief-stricken attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“It must be told to <i>madama</i>.” 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, “<i>Madama</i>, as you call her, should have been here.” +</p> + +<p> +“The little angel did not once ask for her,” murmured Assunta. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Will <i>you</i> tell the countess?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather be excused,” I replied, decisively. “I am not +at all in the humor for a <i>scene</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time we had reached the foot of the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“She is very beautiful,” I answered evasively. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>such</i> beauty.” +</p> + +<p> +And with these words he left me, disappearing down the passage which led to +“<i>madama</i>’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. <i>A rivederci</i>! +Anything I can do for you pray command me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And so the little angel is dead!” he murmured in a thin, quavering +voice. “Dead! Ay, that is a pity, a pity! But <i>my</i> master is not +dead—no, no! I am not such an old fool as to believe that.” +</p> + +<p> +I paid no heed to his rambling talk, but read the message Nina had sent to me +through him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am <i>broken-hearted</i>!” so ran the delicately penciled lines. +“Will you kindly telegraph my <i>dreadful</i> loss to <i>Signor</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes! I understand!” faltered Giacomo, nervously, “My +master never thought me foolish—I could always understand +him—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, 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, +<i>eccellenza</i>.” 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 <i>glad</i>—yes—<i>glad</i>! Glad that my own +child was dead! You call this inhuman perhaps? Why? She was bound to have been +miserable; she was now happy! +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Chacun a son +gout</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>dear</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>A la bonne heure</i>! 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: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Because</i>” (mark that <i>because</i>!) “thou hast +hearkened unto the voice of thy wife” (or thy <i>woman</i>, 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 +<i>first</i> to man by woman), “cursed is the ground for thy sake; in +sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“<i>Una Stella svanità</i>,”<a href="#fn3" name="fnref3" id="fnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn3" id="fn3"></a> <a href="#fnref3">[3]</a> +A vanished star. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. <i>She</i> 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—“<i>You</i> can understand, my dear <i>conte</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Further on in the letter he informed me: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I owe you my thanks, <i>conte</i>, for showing me to what extent +<i>Signor</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, madam,” I said, deliberately, as I folded Guido’s +letter and replaced it in my pocket-book, “<i>Signor</i> Ferrari ardently +aspires to be something more than a brother to you at no very distant +date.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” she said. “Then I fear <i>Signor</i> Ferrari is +doomed to have his aspirations disappointed! My dear <i>conte</i>,” 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 <i>too</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so! He intimated as much to me.” She smiled scornfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I am too much honored! And did you, <i>conte</i>, think for a moment +that such an arrangement would meet with my approval?” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me!” pursued my wife’s dulcet voice, breaking in upon +my reflections, “did you really imagine <i>Signor</i> Ferrari’s +suit might meet with favor at my hands?” +</p> + +<p> +I must speak—the comedy had to be played out. So I answered, bluntly: +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How, madam? Pardon me if I fail to comprehend you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not see, <i>conte</i>?” 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 <i>know</i> they would, and I could +not endure such slander!” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“No one would dare to slander you, <i>contessa</i>, in my +presence.” She bowed and smiled prettily. “But,” I went on, +“if it is true that you have no liking for <i>Signor</i> +Ferrari—” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I glanced at her quietly. Her face had paled, and her hands, which were busied +with some silken embroidery, trembled a little. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Because what?” she demanded, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Contessa</i> Romani.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her fair head slightly. A transient expression of disappointment +passed over her features. +</p> + +<p> +“The ‘other men’ you speak of, <i>conte</i>, are not likely +to indulge in such an ambition,” she said, with a faint sigh; “more +especially,” and her eyes flashed indignantly, “since <i>Signor</i> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>your</i> protection I know I am quite +safe, but I cannot always enjoy that—” +</p> + +<p> +The moment had come. I advanced a step or two. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” I said. “It rests entirely with yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +She started and half rose from her chair—her work dropped from her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, <i>conte</i>?” she faltered, half timidly, yet +anxiously; “I do not understand!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Conte</i>!” she stammered. I held up my hand as a sign to her +to be silent. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>can</i> do, I will!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean,” she said, with a tender pathos in her +voice—“that you are willing to marry me, but that you do not really +<i>love</i> me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No—you do not really <i>love</i> me,” she +whispered—“but I will tell you the truth—<i>I love +you</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You</i> love <i>me</i>? No, no—I cannot believe it—it is +impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +And she made the assertion unblushingly, with an air of conscious pride and +virtue. Half stupefied at her manner, I asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will be my wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will!” she answered—“and tell me—your name is +Cesare, is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I said, mechanically. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, <i>Cesare</i>” she murmured, tenderly, “I will +<i>make</i> you love me very much!” +</p> + +<p> +And with a quick lithe movement of her supple figure, she nestled softly +against me, and turned up her radiant glowing face. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am the first man whom you have really cared for?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are!” +</p> + +<p> +“You never liked Ferrari?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he ever kiss you as I have done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not once!” +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Cesare! how lovely! How good you are to me!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You will not tell Guido? not yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>her own husband</i>, 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? +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you do me one favor?” she asked, coaxingly; “such a +little thing—a trifle! but it would give me such pleasure!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” I asked; “it is you to command and I to +obey!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to take off those dark glasses just for a minute! I want to see +your eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +I rose from the sofa quickly, and answered her with some coldness. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask anything you like but that, <i>mia bella</i>. 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“When?” she interrupted me eagerly. I stooped and kissed her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“On the evening of our marriage day,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +She blushed and turned away her head coquettishly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that is so long to wait!” she said, half pettishly. +</p> + +<p> +“Not very long, I <i>hope</i>,” 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“But my recent widowhood!—Stella’s death!”—she +objected faintly, pressing a perfumed handkerchief gently to her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> shall know how to silence any gossip that savors +of impertinence.” +</p> + +<p> +A smile of conscious triumph parted her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You</i> are aware, <i>contessa</i>, and I am also aware that I am not +a ‘lover’ according to the accepted type, but that I am impatient I +readily admit.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed gayly. “<i>A la bonne heure</i>! You <i>are</i> 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 <i>are</i>—you +know you are!” +</p> + +<p> +I stood before her in almost somber silence. At last I said: “If +<i>you</i> say so, <i>contessa</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I could not have a better fortune,” she said, “for I am sure +my destiny will be all brightness and beauty with <i>you</i> to control and +guide it!” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be what you desire,” I half muttered; then with an abrupt +change of manner I said: “I will wish you goodnight, <i>contessa</i>. It +grows late, and my state of health compels me to retire to rest early.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from her seat and gave me a compassionate look. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rest and happiness will no doubt do much for me,” I answered, +“still I warn you, <i>cara mia</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite sure!” she replied firmly. “Do I not <i>love</i> you! +And you will not always be ailing—you look so strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I supported her to a chair near the window, which I threw open for air, though +the evening was cold. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed nervously, and played with her ring of rose-brilliants. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +At this she seemed quite alarmed, and rising, laid her hand pleadingly on my +arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>too</i> happy. Why, I would not lose +your love for all the world—you <i>must</i> believe me!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She thought for a moment, then answered musingly: +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand! You may rely upon my discretion. Good-night, +<i>contessa</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“You may call me Nina,” she murmured, softly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Nina</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Your excellency desires to purchase something?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>youth</i> still has hold on his +flesh and blood. +</p> + +<p> +So it was with me; and I wondered what <i>she</i>—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! +<i>Then</i>, who so great a fool as I—who so adoring, passionate and +devoted! <i>Now</i>, 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<p> +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. +“<i>Oggi</i>! <i>Oggi</i>!” is their cry—to-day, to-day! +Never mind what happened yesterday, or what will happen to-morrow—leave +that to <i>i signori Santi and la Signora Madonna</i>! 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: +</p> + +<p> +“Will the <i>eccellenza</i> permit—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He was much gratified, and attended to me with even more punctiliousness than +usual. As he prepared my breakfast I asked him: +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, when does the carnival begin?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the 26th,” he answered, with a slight air of surprise. +“Surely the <i>eccellenza</i> knows.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You may leave the room, Vincenzo,” I said, briefly. He bowed, the +door opened and shut noiselessly—he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly I broke the seal of that fateful letter; a letter from Guido Ferrari, a +warrant self-signed, for his own execution! +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“M<small>Y BEST</small> F<small>RIEND</small>,” 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 <i>at last</i>, 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 <i>not</i> 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, <i>amico</i>, +or does it seem to you a folly? At any rate, I should consider it very churlish +were I to keep <i>you</i> 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 <i>her</i>, 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 <i>conte</i>, 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 +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Yours to command, <br /> +“G<small>UIDO</small> F<small>ERRARI</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +<i>She</i>, 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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Caro <i>amico</i>! 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, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Yours for the time being, <br /> +“C<small>ESARE</small> O<small>LIVA</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>betrothed</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“The woman whom thou gavest to be with me—she tempted me, and I did +eat!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I have news of importance—can I speak to you privately?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have had a letter from <i>Signor</i> Ferrari.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>you</i> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +She appeared to meditate for a few moments—then raising her lovely eyes +with a wistful and submissive look, she replied: +</p> + +<p> +“It shall be as you wish, Cesare! <i>Signor</i> Ferrari is certainly rash +and hot-tempered, he might be presumptuous enough to—But you do not think +of yourself in the matter! Surely <i>you</i> also are in danger of being +insulted by him when he knows all?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Though this last remark was addressed to me almost as a question, I let it pass +without response. I reverted to my original theme. +</p> + +<p> +“What think you, then?” I said. “Will you remain here or will +you absent yourself for a few days?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +<i>carina</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I shrugged my shoulders with an air of indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“Your submission to my will, <i>mia bella</i>” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Naturally!” I observed. “And will you also join in the +service of perpetual adoration?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes!” +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> could not do +it—but <i>you</i> are probably nearer to the angels than we know. And so +you will pray for me?” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her eyes with devout gentleness. “I will indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“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! <i>Addio</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not one kiss before you go?” she said. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me,” I muttered. “I forgot—I—” +</p> + +<p> +A little smile stole round the corners of her mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“You are fully pardoned!” she said, in a low voice, “you need +not apologize.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>not</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +And I laid my burning hand on her head weighted with its clustering curls of +gold. <i>She</i> thought this gesture was one of blessing. <i>I</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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>why</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +As I drove along I saw a small crowd at one of the street corners—a +gesticulating, laughing crowd, listening to an +“<i>improvisatore</i>” 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: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ancora affamato, excellenza</i>!” (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—“<i>Buon appetito e un sorriso della +Madonna</i>!”—(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 <i>improvisatore</i> might furnish material +for many of the so called “poets” whose names are mysteriously +honored in Britain. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Sciore limone<br /> +Le voglio far morì de passione<br /> + Zompa llarì llirà!”<a href="#fn4" name="fnref4" id="fnref4"><sup>[4]</sup></a> +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn4" id="fn4"></a> <a href="#fnref4">[4]</a> +Neapolitan dialect. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 +“<i>ritornello</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good weapons?” I remarked, in a casual manner. +</p> + +<p> +My valet took each one out of the case, and examined them both critically. +</p> + +<p> +“They need cleaning, <i>eccellenza</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” I said, briefly. “Then clean them and put them in +good order. I may require to use them.” +</p> + +<p> +The imperturbable Vincenzo bowed, and taking the weapons, prepared to leave the +room. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay!” +</p> + +<p> +He turned. I looked at him steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you are a faithful fellow, Vincenzo,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +He met my glance frankly. +</p> + +<p> +“The day may come,” I went on, quietly, “when I shall perhaps +put your fidelity to the proof.” +</p> + +<p> +The dark Tuscan eyes, keen and clear the moment before, flashed brightly and +then grew humid. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shake hands, <i>amico</i>” I said, simply. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bas-peuple</i>—to the vulgar—and to animals? Progress might +have attained this result—no doubt it had. +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>La Santissima Annunziata</i>,” and +ran as follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“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 +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“N<small>INA</small>?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“From Guido Ferrari, Rome, to <i>Il Conte</i> 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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> + +<p> +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 +“<i>Fiori! chi vuol fiori</i>” 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 +<i>etrennes</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +All the resources of the hotel at which I stayed had been brought into +requisition. The chef, a famous <i>cordon bleu</i>, had transferred the work of +the usual <i>table d’hote</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Vincenzo!” He started. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-night you will stand behind my chair and assist in serving the +wine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>eccellenza</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will,” I continued, “attend particularly to <i>Sigor</i> +Ferrari, who will sit at my right hand. Take care that his glass is never +empty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>eccellenza</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The honest fellow looked a little puzzled, but replied as before: +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>eccellenza</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled, and advancing, laid my hand on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“How about the pistols, Vincenzo?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are cleaned and ready for use, <i>eccellenza</i>,” he +replied. “I have placed them in your cabinet.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is well!” I said with a satisfied gesture. “You can +leave me and arrange the salon for the reception of my friends.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +“<i>Signor</i> Ferrari” was announced. He entered smiling—his +face was alight with good humor and glad anticipation—he looked handsomer +than usual. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccomi qua</i>!” he cried, seizing my hands enthusiastically in +his own. “My dear <i>conte</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I can return the compliment,” I said, gayly. “You are more +of an Antinous than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, well pleased, and sat down, drawing off his gloves and loosening +his traveling overcoat. +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>quel preux chevalier</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“As <i>she</i> has? <i>Piccinina</i>! How I long to see her again! I +swear to you, <i>amico</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +My hands clinched, but I said with forced gayety: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ma certamente</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God for that!” cried Ferrari, devoutly, as he tossed off his +wine. “And now tell me, my dear <i>conte</i>, what bacchanalians are +coming to-night? <i>Per Dio</i>, after all I am more in the humor for dinner +than love-making!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Duca</i> Filippo Marina.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>conte</i>, you should +have asked him that question!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” I went on, not heeding this interruption, +“<i>Signor</i> Fraschetti and the <i>Marchese</i> Giulano.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“In mixing wines,” I returned, coolly, “he will but imitate +your example, <i>caro mio</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but I can stand it!” he said. “He cannot! Few +Neapolitans are like me!” +</p> + +<p> +I watched him narrowly, and went on with the list of my invited guests. +</p> + +<p> +“After these, comes the <i>Capitano</i> Luigi Freccia.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And the illustrious gentleman Crispiano Dulci and Antonio Biscardi, +artists like yourself,” I continued. +</p> + +<p> +He frowned slightly—then smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, <i>conte</i> I am all impatience. Who comes next?” +</p> + +<p> +“More fire-eaters, I suppose you will call them,” I answered, +“and French fire-eaters, too. <i>Monsieur le Marquis</i> +D’Avencourt, and <i>le beau Capitaine</i> Eugene de Hamal.” +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari looked astonished. “<i>Per Bacco</i>!” he exclaimed. +“Two noted Paris duelists! Why—what need have you of such valorous +associates? I confess your choice surprises me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understood them to be <i>your</i> friends,” I said, composedly. +“If you remember, <i>you</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are the inseparable brother sculptors Carlo and Francesco Respetti, +Chevalier Mancini, scientist and man of letters, Luziano Salustri, poet and +musician, and the fascinating <i>Marchese</i> 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 +<i>Signor</i> Guido Ferrari, true friend and loyal lover—and the party is +complete.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Altro</i>! Fifteen in all including yourself,” said Ferrari, +gayly, enumerating them on his fingers. “<i>Per la madre di Dio</i>! With +such a goodly company and a host who entertains <i>en roi</i> we shall pass a +merry time of it. And did you, <i>amico</i>, actually organize this banquet, +merely to welcome back so unworthy a person as myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Solely and entirely for that reason,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +He jumped up from his chair and clapped his two hands on my shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>A la bonne heure</i>! But why, in the name of the saints or the +devil, have you taken such a fancy to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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? <i>Ebbene</i>! Why underrate +yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +He let his hands fall slowly from my shoulders and a look of pain contracted +his features. After a little silence he said: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” and I feigned to be absorbed in fixing a star-like +japonica in my button-hole. “How is that?” +</p> + +<p> +A grave and meditative look softened the usually defiant brilliancy of his +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Profoundly astonished, but concealing my astonishment under an air of +indifference, I began to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +A contemptuous pity arose in me. Was he coward as well as traitor? I touched +him lightly on the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent advice!” he said, smiling, “and not difficult to +follow. Now to attire for the festival. Have I your permission?” +</p> + +<p> +I touched the bell which summoned Vincenzo, and bade him wait on <i>Signor</i> +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. <i>She</i> 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 <i>does</i> 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<p> +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 +<i>Duca</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Caro Capitano</i>!” broke in the musical voice of the +<i>Marchese</i> Gualdro, “you know that our Francesco goes nowhere +without his beloved Carlo. Carlo <i>cannot</i> come—<i>altro</i>! +Francesco <i>will not</i>. Would that all men were such brothers!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>would</i> help them even if we +could.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Duke di Marina coughed a stately cough, and shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“That first quarrel,” he said, “as related in the Bible, was +exceedingly vulgar. It must have been a kind of prize-fight. <i>Ce +n’etait pas fin</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Gualdro laughed delightedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +We laughed—and at that moment the door was thrown open, and the +head-waiter announced in solemn tones befitting his dignity— +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Le dîner de Monsieur le Conte est servi!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Welcome the festal hour!<br /> +Pour the red wine into cups of gold!<br /> +Health to the men who are strong and bold!<br /> + Welcome the festal hour!<br /> +Waken the echoes with riotous mirth—<br /> +Cease to remember the sorrows of earth<br /> + In the joys of the festal hour!<br /> +Wine is the monarch of laughter and light,<br /> +Death himself shall be merry to-night!<br /> + Hail to the festal hour!” +</p> + +<p> +An enthusiastic clapping of hands rewarded this effort on the part of the +unseen vocalists, and the music having ceased, conversation became general. +</p> + +<p> +“By heaven!” exclaimed Ferrari, “if this Olympian carouse is +meant as a welcome to me, <i>amico</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>!” I said. “Are there any better kings than +honest men? Let us hope we are thus far worthy of each other’s +esteem.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no doubt traveled much in the East, <i>conte</i>,” said +this nobleman. “Your banquet reminds me of an Oriental romance I once +read, called ‘Vathek.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” exclaimed Guido. “I think Oliva must be Vathek +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Scarcely!” I said, smiling coldly. “I lay no claim to +supernatural experiences. The realities of life are sufficiently wonderful for +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Antonio Biscardi the painter, a refined, gentle-featured man, looked toward us +and said modestly: +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are right, <i>conte</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You speak like an artist and a man of even temperament,” broke in +the <i>Marchese</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“You would have lovely women ad infinitum!” laughed the French +<i>Capitaine</i> de Hamal. “<i>En vérité</i>, Gualdro, you should have +been a Turk!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“A thorn?” suggested Salustri. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, perhaps!” laughed the <i>Marchese</i>. “Yet one would +run the risk of that for the sake of a perfect rose.” +</p> + +<p> +Chevalier Mancini, who wore in his button-hole the decoration of the <i>Legion +d’Honneur</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“There is undoubtedly something <i>entrainant</i> about the idea,” +he observed, in his methodical way. “I have always fancied that marriage +as we arrange it is a great mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is why you have never tried it?” queried Ferrari, looking +amused. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Certissimamente</i>!” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +A shout of merriment and cries of “Oh! oh!” greeted this remark, +which Ferrari, however, did not seem inclined to take in good part. +</p> + +<p> +“All?” he said, with a dubious air. “You mean all except the +married ones?” +</p> + +<p> +The chevalier put on his spectacles, and surveyed him with a sort of comic +severity. +</p> + +<p> +“When I said <i>all</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>amico</i>,” I +added, turning to Ferrari, “those are your own sentiments—you have +often declared them to me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Marchese</i> Gualdro. This latter, who scarce had a <i>scudo</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>primo tenore</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>stornello</i> 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 <i>Marchese</i> Gualdro burst out laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Corpo di Bacco</i>!” he cried. “At last you have awakened +from sleep! Were you all struck dumb, <i>amici</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And that idea made <i>you</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Bravo, mon vieux gaillard</i>!” 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—<i>mas il +n’y a qu’un pas entre les deux</i>? We will not quarrel over a +word—<i>à votre santé, mon cher</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +And he drained his glass, nodding to Mancini, who followed his example. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Every head was turned in his direction. “What do you mean?” +“What inequality?” “Explain yourself!” chorused several +voices. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>scudi</i> 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—<i>ma, chi sa</i>?—some of +you may be.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see what you mean!” interrupted Salustri, quickly. “We are +thirteen at table!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<p> +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. “<i>Diabolo</i>!” 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! +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “‘Then no planet strikes,<br /> +No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,<br /> +So hallowed and so gracious is the time.’” +</p> + +<p> +A murmur of applause and a hearty clapping of hands rewarded this little +speech, and the <i>Marchese</i> Gualdro sprung to his feet— +</p> + +<p> +“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, +<i>signori</i>! More wine, garçon! <i>Per bacco</i>! if Judas Iscariot himself +had such a feast as ours before he hanged himself, he was not much to be +pitied! <i>Hola amici</i>! To the health of our noble host, <i>Conte</i> Cesare +Oliva!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! young blood! young blood!” uttered in a bland +<i>sotto-voce</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Marchese</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>spadaccino</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>Signor</i> 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. +“<i>Tropp’ onore</i>, <i>amico, tropp’ onore</i>!” 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I continued: “It was, gentlemen, that you might welcome and congratulate +<i>Signor</i> Ferrari as you have done, that I assembled you here +to-night—or rather, let me say it was <i>partly</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +This time every one was silent, intently following my words. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>en passant</i>. 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Say farewell to jollity, <i>conte</i>!” 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!” +</p> + +<p> +And he shook his head with tipsy melancholy. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>One</i> woman, too! Why, man, freedom could give +you twenty!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” murmured Salustri, softly and sentimentally, “but the +one perfect pearl—the one flawless diamond—” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! Salustri, <i>caro mio</i>, you are half asleep!” returned +Gualdro. “’Tis the wine talks, not you. Thou art conquered by the +bottle, <i>amico</i>. You, the darling of all the women in Naples, to talk of +one! <i>Buona notte, bambino</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +I still maintained my standing position, leaning my two hands on the table +before me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary,” I returned, eying him steadily with a cool +smile. “You all know her name well! <i>Illustrissimi Signori</i>!” +and my voice rang out clearly—“to the health of my betrothed wife, +the <i>Contessa</i> Romani!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you drunk or mad, Ferrari?” cried Captain de Hamal, seizing +him by the arm—“do you know what you have done?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not so fast, not so fast, <i>mon cher</i>” he said, coolly. +“We are not murderers, we! What devil possesses you, that you offer such +unwarrantable insult to our host?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask <i>him</i>!” replied Ferrari, fiercely, struggling to release +himself from the grasp of the two Frenchmen—“he knows well enough! +Ask <i>him</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +All eyes were turned inquiringly upon me. I was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“The noble <i>conte</i> is really not bound to give any +explanation,” remarked Captain Freccia—“even admitting he +were able to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment I thought Ferrari would have choked. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretensions—pretensions!” he gasped. “<i>Gran Dio</i>! +Hear him!—hear the miserable scoundrel!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, <i>basta</i>!” 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! <i>Ma che</i>! Women are +plentiful—friends are few.” +</p> + +<p> +“If,” I resumed, still methodically wiping the stains of wine from +my coat and vest—“if <i>Signor</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“By my faith!” said the Duke di Marina with indignation, +“such generosity is unheard of, <i>conte</i>! Permit me to remark that it +is altogether exceptional, after such ungentlemanly conduct.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Liar!” he cried again, “double-faced accursed liar! You have +stolen HER—you have fooled <i>me</i>—but, by G-d, you shall pay for +it with your life!” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>caro signor</i>! 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I!” said the duke, stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I!” said Mancini. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” said Luziano Salustri, “Ferrari will make the +amende honorable.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You say that—you say she never cared for me—<i>you</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +“There can be but one answer to this,” I said, with indifferent +coldness. “<i>Signor</i> Ferrari has brought it on himself. Marquis, will +you do me the honor to arrange the affair?” +</p> + +<p> +The marquis bowed, “I shall be most happy!” +</p> + +<p> +Ferrari glared about him for a moment and then said, “Freccia, you will +second me?” +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>cara mio</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most unfortunate,” chorused De Hamal, who, though not in it, +appeared thoroughly to enjoy it. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“As the insulted party you have the choice of weapons. Shall we +say—” +</p> + +<p> +“Pistols,” I replied briefly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>A la bonne heure</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>How</i> 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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>!” I said, with a cheerful air—“what +news?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, you have been obeyed. The young <i>Signor</i> Ferrari +is now at his studio.” +</p> + +<p> +“You left him there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>eccellenza</i>”—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I must see the <i>contessa</i>,’ said the young +<i>signor</i>, Giacomo blinked like an owl, and coughed as though the devil +scratched in his throat. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The <i>contessa</i>!’ he said. ‘She is gone!’ +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>signor</i> then threw himself upon Giacomo and shook him to and +fro as though he were a bag of loose wheat. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Gone!’ and he screamed like a madman! ‘<i>Where</i>? +Tell me <i>where</i>, dolt! idiot! driveler! before I twist your neck for +you!’ +</p> + +<p> +“Truly, <i>eccellenza</i>, I would have gone to the rescue of the poor +Giacomo, but respect for your commands kept me silent. ‘A thousand +pardons, <i>signor</i>!’ he whispered, out of breath with his +shaking.’ I will tell you instantly—most instantly. She is at the +<i>Convento dell’ Annunziata</i>—ten miles from here—the +saints know I speak the truth—she left two days since.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>Signor</i> 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 <i>signor</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vincenzo paused. “Well,” I said, “what happened next?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You followed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>eccellenza</i>—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 <i>signor</i> 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 <i>Signor</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” I said, “and what of <i>Signor</i> Ferrari when he +was left alone by his two friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is not much more to tell, <i>eccellenza</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is all, Vincenzo?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is all, <i>eccellenza</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vincenzo obeyed—but as he lifted the heavy case of weapons and set them +on the table, he ventured to remark, timidly: +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>eccellenza</i> knows it is now Christmas-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite aware of the fact,” I said somewhat frigidly. +</p> + +<p> +In nowise daunted he went on, “Coming back just now I saw the big +Nicolo—the <i>eccellenza</i> 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—<i>ebbene</i>! To-night that same big +Nicolo is drinking Chianti with that same brother, and both shouted after me as +I passed, ‘<i>Hola</i>! Vincenzo Flamma! all is well between us because +it is the blessed Christ’s birthday.’” Vincenzo stopped and +regarded me wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” I said, calmly, “what has the big Nicolo or his +brother to do with me?” +</p> + +<p> +My valet hesitated—looked up—then down—finally he said, +simply, “May the saints preserve the <i>eccellenza</i> from all +harm!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i>, at any rate, would not +be buried alive! I should take care of that! <i>He</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it already so late?” I asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“It wants a quarter to five,” replied Vincenzo—then looking +at me in some surprise, he added, “Will not the <i>eccellenza</i> change +his evening-dress?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Permit me to accompany you, <i>eccellenza</i>!” pleaded the +faithful fellow, with anxiety in the tone of his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Come then, <i>amico</i>!” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +He promised readily, and when I joined the marquis he followed, carrying my +case of pistols. +</p> + +<p> +“He can be trusted, I suppose?” asked D’Avencourt, glancing +keenly at him while shaking hands cordially with me. +</p> + +<p> +“To the death!” I replied, laughingly. “He will break his +heart if he is not allowed to bind up my wounds!” +</p> + +<p> +“I see you are in good spirits, <i>conte</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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—“<i>Eccellenza</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Evidently,” I remarked, “he does not consider a duel as a +serious affair.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>conte</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Freccia laughed. “De Hamal is a pupil of yours, marquis, is he +not?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I roused myself from a reverie into which I had fallen. +</p> + +<p> +“What men are they?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“One calls himself the <i>Capitano</i> Ciabatti, the other +<i>Cavaliere</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +<i>signor</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“We are agreed as to the distance, gentlemen,” said the marquis. +“Twenty paces, I think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty paces,” stiffly returned one of Ferrari’s +friends—a battered-looking middle-aged roue with ferocious mustachios, +whom I presumed was Captain Ciabatti. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The weapons were now loaded—and the marquis, looking about him with a +cheerful business-like air, remarked: +</p> + +<p> +“I think we may now place our men?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You look a much younger man without your spectacles, +<i>conte</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we ready, gentlemen?” demanded Freccia, with courteous +coldness. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“One!” cried D’Avencourt. +</p> + +<p> +We raised our weapons. +</p> + +<p> +“Two!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“A good shot?” inquired the marquis, with the indifference of a +practiced duelist. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me speak,” he gasped faintly, “to <i>him</i>!” And +he pointed to me—then he continued to mutter like a man in a +dream—“to him—alone—alone!—to him alone!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“In God’s name,” he whispered, thickly, “<i>who are +you</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He uttered a low moan and raised his hand with a feeble gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“Fabio? Fabio?” he gasped. “He died—I saw him in his +coffin—” +</p> + +<p> +I leaned more closely over him. “I was <i>buried alive</i>,” 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You know the avenue,” I said, “the dear old avenue, where +the nightingales sing? I saw you there, Guido—with <i>her</i>!—on +the very night of my return from death—<i>she</i> was in your +arms—you kissed her—you spoke of me—you toyed with the +necklace on her white breast!” +</p> + +<p> +He writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me—quick!” he gasped. +“Does—<i>she</i>—know you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet!” I answered, slowly. “But soon she will—when +I have married her!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled—a soft look brightened his fast-glazing eyes—the old +boyish look that had won my love in former days. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>she</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“He is gone, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“He made you his apology?” asked the marquis. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>amico</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Do I also travel with the <i>eccellenza</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no!” I answered with a forced sad smile. “Do you not +see, <i>amico</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vincenzo saluted me with his usual respectful bow, but his features wore an +expression of obstinacy. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>eccellenza</i> must pardon me,” he said, “but I have +just looked at death, and my taste is spoiled for carnival. Again—the +<i>eccellenza</i> is sad—it is necessary that I should accompany him to +Avellino.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw that his mind was made up, and I was in no humor for argument. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Who</i> 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>I</i> was +dead—<i>I</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 <i>she</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>such</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>us</i> in our calm converse with the stars?” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Convento +dell’Annunziata</i>, and entering the carriage, I was driven rapidly +away. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Fi donc, Rosie!” said the girl’s voice in French; +“<i>la bonne Mère Marguerite sera tres tres fachee avec toi</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Tais-toi, petite sainte</i>!” cried another voice more piercing +and silvery in tone. “<i>Je veux voir qui est la</i>! <i>C’est un +homme je sais bien—parceque la vieille Mère Laura a rougi</i>!” and +both young voices broke into a chorus of renewed laughter. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Mother Marguerite will wait upon you instantly, <i>signor</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>thing</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I address the Count Oliva?” she inquired. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You would see the Countess Romani, who is in retreat here?” +</p> + +<p> +“If not inconvenient or out of rule—” I began. +</p> + +<p> +The shadow of a smile flitted across the nun’s pale, intellectual face; +it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Is the countess well?” +</p> + +<p> +“She seems so,” returned <i>Mère</i> Marguerite; “she follows +her religious duties with exactitude, and makes no complaint of fatigue.” +</p> + +<p> +We were now crossing the hall. I ventured on another inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +“She was a favorite pupil of yours, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +The nun turned her passionless face toward me with an air of mild surprise and +reproof. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no favorites,” she answered, coldly. “All the +children educated here share my attention and regard equally.” +</p> + +<p> +I murmured an apology, and added with a forced smile: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the searching eyes of the <i>religieuse</i> surveyed me; she sighed +slightly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The nun’s eyes grew solemn and almost mournful. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>signor</i>!” and she bowed +her head; “excuse my plain speaking. Rest assured that I wish you both +happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Mère</i> +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 <i>Agnus Dei</i>, moved me to a +chill sort of wonder. “<i>Qui tollis peccata mundi</i>—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 “<i>little</i>” +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. <i>On changera tout cela</i>! 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! +</p> + +<p> +Absorbed in thought, I knew not when the service ended. A hand touched me, and +looking up I saw <i>Mère</i> Marguerite, who whispered: +</p> + +<p> +“Follow me, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +I rose and obeyed her mechanically. Outside the chapel door she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to see +the nuns and boarders passing out.” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed, and walked on beside her. Feeling forced to say something, I asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Have you many boarders at this holiday season?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A great responsibility,” I remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus talking, she showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room, lined with +books and softly carpeted. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I declined this offer with many expressions of gratitude, and assured her I was +perfectly well. She hesitated, and at last said, anxiously: +</p> + +<p> +“I trust you were not offended at my remark concerning Nina +Romani’s marriage with you? I fear I was too hasty?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She seemed relieved, and smiling that shadowy, flitting smile of hers, she +said: +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt you are impatient, <i>signor</i>; Nina shall come to you +directly,” and with a slight salutation she left me. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“D’ou vient le petit Gesù?<br /> + Ce joli bouton de rose<br /> + Qui fleurit, enfant cheri<br /> +Sur le cœur de notre mère Marie.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a soft rustle of silken garments, the door opened, and my wife +entered. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> + +<p> +She approached with her usual panther-like grace and supple movement, her red +lips parted in a charming smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down,” I said, gravely. “I am the bearer of bad +news.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Bad news? You surprise me! What can it be? Some unpleasantness with +Guido? Have you seen him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen him,” I answered in the same formal and serious tone; +“I have just left him. He sends you <i>this</i>,” and I held out my +diamond ring that I had drawn off the dead man’s finger. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand,” she murmured, petulantly. “I gave him +this as a remembrance of his friend, my husband, why does he return it?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>is</i> +silenced—forever!” +</p> + +<p> +She started. +</p> + +<p> +“Silenced? How? You mean—” +</p> + +<p> +I moved away from my place behind her chair, and stood so that I faced her as I +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that he is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +She uttered a slight cry, not of sorrow but of wonderment. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dead</i>!” she exclaimed. “Not possible! Dead! You have +killed him?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +She listened attentively. A little color came back into her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“In what way did he insult you?” she asked, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +I told her all, briefly. She still looked anxious. +</p> + +<p> +“Did he mention my name?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +I glanced at her troubled features in profound contempt. She feared the dying +man might have made some confession to me! I answered: +</p> + +<p> +“No; not after our quarrel. But I hear he went to your house to kill you! +Not finding you there, he only cursed you.” +</p> + +<p> +She heaved a sigh of relief. She was safe now, she thought! +</p> + +<p> +Her red lips widened into a cruel smile. +</p> + +<p> +“What bad taste!” she said, coldly. “Why he should curse me I +cannot imagine! I have always been kind to him—<i>too</i> kind.” +</p> + +<p> +Too kind indeed! kind enough to be glad when the object of all her kindness was +dead! For she <i>was</i> glad! I could see that in the murderous glitter of her +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not sorry?” I inquired, with an air of pretended surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +She sprung up from her chair like a pleased child and flung her arms round my +neck. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I looked down upon her in loathing and disgust. Honor! Its very name was +libeled coming from <i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +I could have laughed aloud! but I bent my head gravely as I accepted it. +</p> + +<p> +“Only as a proof of your affection, <i>cara mia</i>,” I said, +“though it has a terrible association for me. I took it from +Ferrari’s hand when—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>would</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Avellino?” she exclaimed, with interest. “Oh, I know it +very well. I went there once with Fabio when I was first married.” +</p> + +<p> +“And were you happy there?” I inquired, coldly. +</p> + +<p> +I remembered the time she spoke of—a time of such unreasoning, foolish +joy! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you liked the nuns?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Some of them—yes. The reverend mother is a dear old thing. But +<i>Mère</i> Marguerite, the <i>Vicaire</i> as she is called—the one that +received you—oh, I do detest her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! and why?” +</p> + +<p> +The red lips curled mutinously. +</p> + +<p> +“Because she is so sly and silent. Some of the children here adore her; +but they <i>must</i> have something to love, you know,” and she laughed +merrily. +</p> + +<p> +“Must they?” +</p> + +<p> +I asked the question automatically, merely for the sake of saying something. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Madame la +Vicaire</i>; but of course it is very foolish.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And the nuns?” I said, uttering half my thoughts aloud. “How +do they manage without love or romance?” +</p> + +<p> +A wicked little smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Do</i> they always manage without love or romance?” she asked, +half indolently. “What of Abelard and Heloise, or Fra Lippi?” +</p> + +<p> +Roused by something in her tone, I caught her round the waist, and held her +firmly while I said, with some sternness: +</p> + +<p> +“And you—is it possible that <i>you</i> have sympathy with, or find +amusement in, the contemplation of illicit and dishonorable passion—tell +me?” +</p> + +<p> +She recollected herself in time; her white eyelids drooped demurely. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I loosened her from my embrace. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” I said, calmly; “I am glad your instincts +are so correct! I have always hated lies.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How long do you propose remaining here in retreat?” I asked. +“There is nothing now to prevent your returning to Naples.” +</p> + +<p> +She pondered for some minutes before replying, then she said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! May I ask why?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a little consciously. +</p> + +<p> +“Simply to prove his last will and testament,” she replied. +“Before he left for Rome, he gave it into my keeping.” +</p> + +<p> +A light flashed on my mind. +</p> + +<p> +“And its contents?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“Its contents make <i>me</i> the owner of everything he died possessed +of!” she said, with an air of quiet yet malicious triumph. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I congratulate you! May I be permitted to see this document?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>unconditionally</i> to “Nina, Countess +Romani, of the Villa Romani, Naples.” I read it through and returned it +to her. +</p> + +<p> +“He must have loved you!” I said. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +‘<i>everything he dies possessed of</i>;’ that means all the money +left to him by his uncle in Rome, does it not?” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Absence strengthens love, they say,” I observed, with a forced +smile. “May it do so in our case. Farewell, <i>cara mia</i>! Pray for me; +I suppose you <i>do</i> pray a great deal here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” she replied, naively; “there is nothing else to +do.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>you</i> never loved him. For <i>your</i> sake he quarreled +with me, his best friend—for <i>your</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +She shivered slightly, and her hands in mine grew cold. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” I continued, more calmly; “you must not forget to +pray for him—he was young and not prepared to die.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled, a forced, faint smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly will,” she replied, in a low voice; “I promise +you.” +</p> + +<p> +I released her hands—I was satisfied. If she dared to pray thus I +felt—I <i>knew</i> 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>I</i> lived! +</p> + +<p> +She watched me as I fastened my coat and began to draw on my gloves. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going now?” she asked, somewhat timidly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am going now, <i>cara mia</i>,” I said. “Why! what +makes you look so pale?” +</p> + +<p> +For she had suddenly turned very white. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see your hand again,” she demanded, with feverish +eagerness, “the hand on which I placed the ring!” +</p> + +<p> +Smilingly and with readiness I took off the glove I had just put on. +</p> + +<p> +“What odd fancy possesses you now, little one?” I asked, with an +air of playfulness. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your hand,” she murmured, incoherently, +“with—that—signet—on it—is exactly +like—like Fabio’s!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Madame la Vicaire</i>. 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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And I shrugged my shoulders as though I were annoyed and impatient. +</p> + +<p> +Over the pale, serious face of the nun there flitted a smile in which there was +certainly the ghost of sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry—” began Nina, feebly. +</p> + +<p> +I hastened to her side. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I will go to my room,” she said, not regarding <i>Mère</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Cesare! Please forget my stupidity, and write to me from +Avellino.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Madame la Vicaire</i> and then came back to +me. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Addio</i>, <i>amor mio</i>!” she said, with a sort of rapturous +emphasis, and throwing her arms round my neck she kissed me almost +passionately. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Mère</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame,” I began, earnestly, “I assure you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Say nothing, <i>signor</i>,” she interrupted me with a slight +deprecatory gesture; “it is quite unnecessary. To mock a +<i>religieuse</i> 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 <i>grandes dames</i>, I say, fancy that <i>we</i> 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, +<i>signor</i>, permits no visitor to remain longer than one hour—that +hour has expired. I will summon a sister to show you the way out.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The nun glanced at me—her eyes flashed disdainfully. +</p> + +<p> +“You think it was all affection for you, no doubt, <i>signor</i>? very +natural supposition, and—I should be sorry to undeceive you.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused a moment and then resumed: +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>signor</i>! +<i>Benedicite</i>!” and making the sign of the cross as I respectfully +bent my head to receive her blessing, she passed noiselessly from the room. +</p> + +<p> +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! <i>c’est un vieux +papa</i>!” 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And I gave her Guido Ferrari’s visiting-card, adding in lower and more +solemn tones: +</p> + +<p> +“He met with a sudden and unprepared death. Of your charity, pray also +for the man who killed him!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>religieuse</i> 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>I</i> am that woman!” Ah, truly? I +salute you profoundly!—you are, no doubt, the one exception! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>Monte Virgine</i> +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’ “<i>Runs</i>.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>signori</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have a daughter, then?” +</p> + +<p> +Her fierce eyes softened. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled at the mother’s enthusiasm, and sighed. I had no fair faiths +left—I could not even believe in Lilla. My landlady, <i>Signora</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>eccellenza</i> has not yet seen Lilla Monti?” he asked, +hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Vincenzo smiled. “Pardon, <i>eccellenza</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt you are right, <i>eccellenza</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“In love, <i>amico</i>, art thou? So soon!—three days—and +thou hast fallen a prey to the smile of Lilla! I am sorry for thee!” +</p> + +<p> +He interrupted me eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>eccellenza</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I roused myself to appear interested. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A curious and perplexed expression flitted over his face. At last he said +firmly, as though his mind were made up: +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>eccellenza</i> must pardon me for seeing what perhaps I ought not +to have seen, but—” +</p> + +<p> +“But what?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, you have not lost your youth.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned my head toward him again—he was looking at me in some +alarm—he feared some outburst of anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” I said, calmly. “That is your idea, is it? and +why?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, I saw you without your spectacles that day when you +fought with the unfortunate <i>Signor</i> Ferrari. I watched you when you +fired. Your eyes are beautiful and terrible—the eyes of a young man, +though your hair is white.” +</p> + +<p> +Quietly I took off my glasses and laid them on the table beside me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>!” cried Vincenzo, in truly pained accents, and +with a grieved look. +</p> + +<p> +I rose and laid my hand on his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>have</i> 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, <i>amico</i>, +and”—here I forced a faint smile—“when I see the maiden +Lilla, I will tell you frankly what I think of her.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“If the <i>eccellenza</i> will walk yet a little further up the hill he +will see a finer view of the mountains.” +</p> + +<p> +Something familiar in her look—a sort of reflection of her mother’s +likeness—made me sure of her identity. I smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you are Lilla Monti?” +</p> + +<p> +She blushed again. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Si, signor</i>. I am Lilla.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You are going home, <i>fauciulla mia</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +The kind protecting tone in which I spoke reassured her. She answered readily: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Si signor</i>. My mother waits for me to help her with the +<i>eccellenza</i>’s dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +I advanced and took the little hand that held the rosary. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” I exclaimed, playfully, “do you still work hard, +little Lilla, even when the apple season is over?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed musically. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed again, and again looked grave. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>eccellenza</i>’s coffee.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you make my coffee, little one?” I asked, “and does not +Vincenzo help you?” +</p> + +<p> +The faintest suspicion of a blush tinged her pretty cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he is very good, Vincenzo,” she said, demurely, with downcast +eyes; “he is what we call <i>buon’ amico</i>, 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 <i>eccellenza</i> will prefer Vincenzo?” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed. She was so naive, so absorbed in her little duties—such a +child altogether. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will the <i>eccellenza</i> visit the Punto d’Angelo?” she +said brightly, as she turned to go. +</p> + +<p> +I had never heard of this place, and asked her to what she alluded. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>eccellenza</i>—it is but a walk of a little ten +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i> instead of the vile creature who had been my soul’s +undoing? The answer came swiftly. Even if I <i>had</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>trop de zele</i> 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 <i>conte</i>, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Your very true friend and servitor, <br /> +“P<small>HILIPPE</small> D’A<small>VENCOURT</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>me</i>—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: +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you write so much of marriage to me, Guido <i>mio</i>? 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>my</i> purposes. And I resolved to retain it in my +own keeping till the time came for me to use it against her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Signora</i> 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 <i>valet-de-chambre</i>. I watched him and the fair girl beside him +for a few moments, myself unperceived. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You like this sort of work, <i>amico</i>?” I said, gently. +</p> + +<p> +“An old habit, <i>eccellenza</i>—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand. And no doubt you would be glad to return to the life of +your boyhood?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked a little startled. +</p> + +<p> +“Not to leave <i>you</i>, <i>eccellenza</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled rather sadly. “Not to leave <i>me</i>? Not if you wedded Lilla +Monti?” +</p> + +<p> +His olive cheek flushed, but he shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible! She would not listen to me. She is a child.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He glanced upward reverently. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, I would as soon tear the Madonna from her altars as +vex or frighten Lilla!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon I called the <i>Signora</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I would speak to you of your child, the little Lilla,” I said, +kindly. “Have you ever thought that she may marry?” +</p> + +<p> +Her dark bold eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +<i>Signora</i> Monti smiled through her tears. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>eccellenza</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you, <i>signor</i>,” 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. +<i>Eccellenza</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“Good will come of it, my excellent <i>signora</i>, 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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Absence is the best test of love, Vincenzo; prepare all for our +departure! We shall leave Avellino the day after to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +And so we did. Lilla looked slightly downcast, but Vincenzo seemed satisfied, +and I augured from their faces, and from the mysterious smile of <i>Signora</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> + +<p> +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>I</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 <i>then</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“So your marriage will positively take place?” +</p> + +<p> +I forced a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ma</i>! <i>certamente</i>! Do you doubt it?” +</p> + +<p> +His handsome face clouded and his manner grew still more constrained. +</p> + +<p> +“No; but I thought—I had hoped—” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mon cher</i>,” 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 <i>Contessa</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +D’Avencourt looked puzzled; but he was a punctilious man, and knew how to +steer clear of a delicate subject. He smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>A la bonne heure</i>,” he said—“I wish you joy with +all my heart! You are the best judge of your own happiness; as for +me—<i>vive la liberté</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bijouterie</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Of what use to keep him?” she had asked me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who has done this?” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +The man looked pityingly at the poor bleeding remains, and said, in a low +voice: +</p> + +<p> +“It was <i>madama</i>’s order, <i>signor</i>. The dog bit her +yesterday; we shot him at daybreak.” +</p> + +<p> +I stooped to caress the faithful animal’s body, and as I stroked the +silky coat my eyes were dim with tears. +</p> + +<p> +“How did it happen?” I asked in smothered accents. “Was your +lady hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +The gardener shrugged his shoulders and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>povera bestia</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +I gave the fellow five francs. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So Wyvis has been shot?” I said, abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +She gave a slight shudder. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“I see!” I said, curtly, cutting her explanations short. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Che bella cosa è de morire acciso,<br /> +Nnanze a la porta de la nnamorata!”<a href="#fn5" name="fnref5" id="fnref5"><sup>[5]</sup></a> +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn5" id="fn5"></a> <a href="#fnref5">[5]</a> +Neapolitan dialect. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +meaning literally—“How beautiful a thing to die, suddenly slain at +the door of one’s beloved!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +“<i>Che bella cosa</i>,” 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 “<i>morra</i>,” 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 <i>her</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! <i>buon giorno, eccellenza</i>!” 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, <i>Dio</i>! 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, <i>eccellenza</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled and thanked him. I noticed he looked at me curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“You think I have changed in appearance, my friend?” I said. +</p> + +<p> +The Sicilian looked embarrassed. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” I observed. “You think I have aged somewhat since +you saw me?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little, <i>eccellenza</i>,” he frankly confessed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded a ready assent and followed me. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> + +<p> +We left the Molo, and paused at a retired street corner leading from the +Chiaja. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember Carmelo Neri?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +Andrea shrugged his shoulders with an air of infinite commiseration. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! <i>povero diavolo</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. “<i>Poverinetta</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would help him to escape again if you could, no doubt?” I +inquired with a half smile. +</p> + +<p> +The ready wit of the Sicilian instantly asserted itself. +</p> + +<p> +“Not I, <i>eccellenza</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have your brig the ‘Laura’ still?” I asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>eccellenza</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Sicilian looked puzzled. He puffed meditatively at his cigar and remained +silent. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Andrea’s brow cleared. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if that is the case, <i>eccellenza</i>, I am at your service. But +where does your friend desire to go?” +</p> + +<p> +I paused for a moment and considered. +</p> + +<p> +“To Civita Vecchia,” I said at last, “from that port he can +obtain a ship to take him to his further destination.” +</p> + +<p> +The captain’s expressive face fell—he looked very dubious. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +<i>eccellenza</i>, I dare not run the ‘Laura’ so far; but there is +another means—” +</p> + +<p> +And interrupting himself he considered awhile in silence. I waited patiently +for him to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“The day after Giovedi Grasso?” I queried, with a smile he did not +understand. He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>soldi</i>. 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you think, <i>amico</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +Andrea nodded briskly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Si, si, signor</i>. He has a bad memory as it is—it shall grow +worse at your command! Believe it!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Che bella cosa è de morire accisa,<br /> +Nnanze a la porta de la nnamorata!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you the owner of this place?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Si, signor</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“What has become of the old man who used to live here?” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and drew his pipe-stem across his throat +with a significant gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“So, <i>signor</i>!—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.” +</p> + +<p> +And the fellow put back his pipe in his mouth and smoked complacently. I heard +in sickened silence. +</p> + +<p> +“He was mad, I suppose?” I said at last. +</p> + +<p> +The long pipe was again withdrawn. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>signor</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for your information,” I said coldly. +“Good-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day to you, <i>signor</i>,” he replied, resuming his seat and +watching me curiously as I turned away. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>la +’nnamorata</i>—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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I shall never be friends again with roses!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>comedietta</i> 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 <i>Vecchiáccio maladetto</i><a href="#fn6" name="fnref6" id="fnref6"><sup>[6]</sup></a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn6" id="fn6"></a> <a href="#fnref6">[6]</a> +Accursed, villainous old monster. +</p> + +<p> +“The play pleases you?” I asked, in a low tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed!” she answered, with a laughing light in her eyes. +“The husband is so droll! It is all very amusing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She glanced up at me. +</p> + +<p> +“Cesare! You surely are not vexed? Of course it is only in plays that it +happens so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Plays, <i>cara mia</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You seem dull and out of spirits, <i>conte</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +I forced a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Not I, <i>signora</i>! Surely you do not find me guilty of such +ungallantry? Were I dull in <i>your</i> company I should prove myself the most +ungrateful of my sex.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at her in some surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Reluctant? <i>Signora</i>, pardon me if I do not understand!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed a little coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, <i>signora</i>, your words place me in a very awkward position. +Were I to tell you my real sentiments—” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupted me with a touch of her fan on my arm, and smiled gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“You would say, ‘Yes, you are right, <i>signora</i>. I never see +one of your sex without suspecting treachery.’ Ah, <i>Signor</i> +<i>Conte</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Marriage is a mere <i>comedietta</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 “<i>felicissima +notte</i>.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> + +<p> +“<i>Tout le monde vient à celui qui sait attendre</i>.” So wrote +the great Napoleon. The virtue of the aphorism consists in the little words +‘<i>qui sait</i>’. All the world comes to him who <i>knows how</i> +to wait, <i>I</i> knew this, and I had waited, and my world—a world of +vengeance—came to me at last. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Gran Dio</i>!—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Except love!” I returned, with a grim attempt to be sentimental. +</p> + +<p> +Her large eyes softened like the pleading eyes of a tame fawn. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, yes!” and she smiled with expressive tenderness, “except +love. But when one has both love and wealth, what a paradise life can +be!” +</p> + +<p> +“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, +<i>Nina mia</i>, or will you only love me as much—or as little—as +you loved your late husband?” +</p> + +<p> +She shrugged her shoulders and pouted like a spoilt child. +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>Signor</i>e Ferrari! We were both +shocked, of course, but I did not break my heart over it. Now I really +<i>do</i> love <i>you</i>—” +</p> + +<p> +I drew nearer to her on the couch where she sat, and put one arm round her. +</p> + +<p> +“You really <i>do</i>?” I asked, in a half-incredulous tone; +“you are quite sure?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed and nestled her head on my shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” I answered, and answered truly, for certainly nothing +she could say or do would make me believe her for a moment. “But +<i>how</i> do you love me—for myself or for my wealth?” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her head with a proud, graceful gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“For yourself, of course! Do you think mere wealth could ever win +<i>my</i> affection? No, Cesare! I love you for your own sake—your own +merits have made you dear to me.” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled bitterly. She did not see the smile. I slowly caressed her silky hair. +</p> + +<p> +“For that sweet answer, <i>carissima mia</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Remember them!” she exclaimed. “They are my choicest +ornaments. Such a parure is fit for an empress.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes glistened with avarice and expectancy. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>cara mia</i>, I +am no poet! I can but speak of things as they seem to my poor judgment. Yes, +these precious things are for you, <i>bellissima</i>; you have nothing to do +but to take them, and may they bring you much joy!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her eyes, conveying into their lustrous depths an expression of +melting tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she murmured; “I want to see you as you +<i>are</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear you will be disappointed,” I said, with some irony, +“for my eyes are not pleasant to look at.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed sweetly. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you a miser, Cesare?—and have you some secret hiding-place +full of treasure like Aladdin?” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Amor mio</i>!” she murmured. “As if <i>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +“And that one thing is?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, <i>carina mia</i>,” 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?” +</p> + +<p> +And I laughed aloud! She trembled a little, but soon laughed also. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the arrangement, certainly,” I said, with a cold smile. +</p> + +<p> +“The little place where you have hidden your jewels, you droll Cesare, is +quite near then?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite near,” I assented, watching her closely. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed and clapped her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled half shyly, half cunningly. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I will make no choice,” she whispered, “perhaps I +will take them <i>all</i>, Cesare. What will you say then?” +</p> + +<p> +“That you are perfectly welcome to them,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +She looked slightly surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“You are really too good to me, <i>caro mio</i>,” she said; +“you spoil me.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Can</i> you be spoiled?” I asked, half jestingly. “Good +women are like fine brilliants—the more richly they are set the more they +shine.” +</p> + +<p> +She stroked my hand caressingly. +</p> + +<p> +“No one ever made such pretty speeches to me as you do!” she +murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“Not even Guido Ferrari?” I suggested, ironically. +</p> + +<p> +She drew herself up with an inimitably well-acted gesture of lofty disdain. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>you</i> punished +him—as he deserved!” +</p> + +<p> +I rose from my seat beside her. I could not answer for my own composure while +sitting so close to the actual murderess of <i>my</i> friend and <i>her</i> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>mia +bella</i>, farewell until to-morrow—happy to-morrow!—when I shall +call you mine indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +A warm flush tinted her cheeks; she came to me where I stood, and leaned +against me. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I not see you again till we meet in the church?” she +inquired, with a becoming bashfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly.” And she smiled while I deftly drew off the plain gold +circlet I had placed there nearly four years since. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you let me keep it?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you like. <i>I</i> would rather not see it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—“<i>Maria la morte</i>.” 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: “<i>Il est vraiment d’une ressemblance admirable, +ressemblant jusqu’au silence de la mort</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, <i>amico</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say truly, <i>eccellenza</i>,” 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 +<i>marinaro</i>. And truly there are many who say to me, ‘Ah, ah! Andrea! +<i>buon amico</i>, 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 <i>Santissima Madonna</i>! if the salt and +iron of the ocean be not in their blood, they will be no children of +mine!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“To your health, <i>eccellenza</i>!” he said, “and may you +long enjoy your life!” +</p> + +<p> +I thanked him; but in my heart I was far from echoing the kindly wish. +</p> + +<p> +“And are you going to fulfill the prophecy of your friends, +Andrea?” I asked. “Are you about to marry?” +</p> + +<p> +He set down his glass only partly emptied, and smiled with an air of mystery. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>! <i>chi sa</i>!” 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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Chi sa fervente amar<br /> +Solo è felice!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>no</i> escape possible from this bewildering snare that thus caught +and slew the souls of men? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> + +<p> +He soon roused himself from his pleasant reverie, and drawing his chair closer +to mine, assumed an air of mystery. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +I nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, <i>amico</i>. What have you arranged?” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything!” he announced, with an air of triumph. “All is +smooth sailing. At six o’clock on Friday morning the +‘<i>Rondinella</i>,’ that is the brig I told you of, +<i>eccellenza</i>, 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>eccellenza</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is well,” I said, smiling. “I owe you many thanks, +Andrea. And yet there is one more favor I would ask of you.” +</p> + +<p> +He saluted me with a light yet graceful gesture. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>, anything I can do—command me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +‘<i>Rondinella</i>’ under the care of the captain. Will you do +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most willingly. I will take it now if it so please you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I desire. Wait here and I will bring it to you.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Your friend is not wealthy, <i>eccellenza</i>, if this is all his +luggage!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you have the good heart, <i>eccellenza</i>,” 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 <i>povero diavolo</i> dies of so many kicks, often! +This friend of yours is young, <i>senza dubbio</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, quite young, not yet thirty.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is as if you were a father to him!” exclaimed Andrea, +enthusiastically. “I hope he may be truly grateful to you, +<i>eccellenza</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so too,” I said, unable to resist a smile. “And now, +<i>amico</i>, 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>I</i> am also +rendered happier by your happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco</i>!” 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, <i>eccellenza</i>, but for my life I cannot +find the right words. I must thank you better when I see you next.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, <i>eccellenza</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +This with the same obstinately fixed countenance and downward look. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not very pleased, I think, at the prospect of my +happiness?” I asked, banteringly. +</p> + +<p> +He glanced up for an instant, then as quickly down again. +</p> + +<p> +“If one could be sure that the <i>illustrissimo eccellenza</i> was indeed +happy, that would be a good thing,” he answered, dubiously. +</p> + +<p> +“And are you not sure?” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, then replied firmly: +</p> + +<p> +“No; the <i>eccellenza</i> does not look happy. <i>No, no, davvero</i>! +He has the air of being sorrowful and ill, both together.” +</p> + +<p> +I shrugged my shoulders indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“You mistake me, Vincenzo. I am well—very well—and happy! +<i>Gran Dio</i>! 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.” +</p> + +<p> +He gave me a sidelong and half-expectant glance. I went on: +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow evening I want you to go to Avellino.” +</p> + +<p> +He was utterly astonished. +</p> + +<p> +“To Avellino!” he murmured under his breath, “to +Avellino!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to Avellino,” I repeated, somewhat impatiently. “Is +there anything so surprising in that? You will take a letter from me to the +<i>Signora</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vincenzo did not return the smile. +</p> + +<p> +“But—but,” he stammered, sorely perplexed—“if I +go to Avellino I cannot wait upon the <i>eccellenza</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +I laughed gently. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He glanced at the box, but still hesitated, and the gloom on his countenance +deepened. I grew a little annoyed. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter with you?” I said at last with some sternness. +“You have something on your mind—speak out!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>!” 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, +<i>’lustrissimo</i>, 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, <i>eccellenza</i>; let me stay +with you! I have learned to love you! Ah, <i>mio signor</i>,” 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, <i>signor</i>! 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?” +</p> + +<p> +I stopped the flood of his eloquence by a mute gesture and withdrew my hand +from his clasp. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>me</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Then seeing him look still sad and incredulous, I clapped my hand on his +shoulder and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, <i>amico</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +Vincenzo sighed, but was passive. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be as the <i>eccellenza</i> pleases,” he murmured, +resignedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>your</i> duties and pay no +heed to <i>my</i> actions. So will you best serve me—you +understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Si, signor</i>!” and the poor fellow sighed again, and reddened +with his own inward confusion. “You will pardon me, <i>eccellenza</i>, +for my freedom of speech? I feel I have done wrong—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That is to go to Avellino, <i>eccellenza</i>?” he asked, with more +alacrity than he had yet shown. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” I answered. “You will place it in the hands of the +good <i>Signora</i> Monti, for whom I have a great respect. She will take care +of it till—I return.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your commands shall be obeyed, <i>signor</i>,” 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 <i>eccellenza</i>’s marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ebbene</i>, Vincenzo! What has become of you all this while?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eccellenza</i>,” he stammered, “it was the Lacrima; I am +not used to wine! I have been asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed, pretended to stifle a yawn on my own account, and rose from my +easy-chair. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Veramente</i>,” I said, lightly, “so have I, very nearly! +And if I would appear as a gay bridegroom, it is time I went to bed. <i>Buona +notte</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Buona notte, signor</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>pover’uomo</i> to fill <i>her</i> +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 <i>her</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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—“<i>must</i> thou do this thing? +Hast thou no forgiveness?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +“<i>In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen</i>!” +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i>, 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! +</p> + +<p> +“If <i>I</i> am damned, then is <i>she</i> thrice damned!” I said +to myself, recklessly. “I dare say hell is wide enough for us to live +apart when we get there.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>you</i> 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—<i>these</i> 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! <i>There</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>free</i>—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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>mine</i> indeed—mine most thoroughly—mine +by the exceptionally close-tied knot of a double marriage—mine to do as I +would with “<i>till death should us part</i>.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>Santissima Madonna</i>! <i>mi fa +paura</i>!” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing—a mere fancy of mine. I hate red roses! They look to +me like human blood in flower!” +</p> + +<p> +She shuddered slightly. +</p> + +<p> +“What a horrible idea! How can you think of such a thing?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. “<i>L’altare è la +tomba dell’ amore</i>,” is a very common saying with us, and very +commonly believed. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>then</i>—the final toasting of the bride was to take place +<i>then</i>—<i>then</i> 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. <i>The next day</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +I strolled into one of the broad <i>loggie</i> 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 <i>eau sucré</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Flags tossed on the breeze, trumpets brayed, drums beat; <i>improvisatores</i> +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 <i>soldo</i>, and clad in rags that barely covered their halting, +withered limbs. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Signora</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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; <i>Signora</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>one thing</i>, 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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Some of the <i>grandes dames</i> 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 <i>festa</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You must dance, Cesare,” she said, with a mischievous smile. +“You are forgetting your duties. You should open the ball with me!” +</p> + +<p> +I rose at once mechanically. +</p> + +<p> +“What dance is it?” I asked, forcing a smile. “I fear you +will find me but a clumsy partner.” +</p> + +<p> +She pouted. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“At last you love me!” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“At last, at last,” I muttered, scarce knowing what I said. +“Had I not loved you at first, <i>bellissima</i>, I should not have been +to you what I am to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +A low ripple of laughter was her response. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I bent over her more closely. My hot quick breath moved the feathery gold of +her hair. +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>have</i> died for you,” I said; “I have killed my old +self for your sake.” +</p> + +<p> +Dancing still, encircled by my arms, and gliding along like a sea-nymph on +moonlighted foam, she sighed restlessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me what you mean, <i>amor mio</i>,” she asked, in the +tenderest tone in the world. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is not this delightful? I feel as if I were in fairy-land! Do you know +this is my first ball?” +</p> + +<p> +I smiled wearily. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, truly? And you are happy?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She said this with perfect simplicity, and a pleased smile radiated her fair +features. I glanced at her with cold scrutiny. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! and some one has told you so.” +</p> + +<p> +She blushed and laughed a little consciously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; the great Prince de Majano. And he is too noble to say what is not +true, so I <i>must</i> be ‘<i>la più bella donzella</i>,’ as he +said, must I not?” +</p> + +<p> +I touched the snow-drops that she wore in a white cluster at her breast. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>she</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +And I pointed slightly to my wife, who was at that moment courtesying to her +partner in the stately formality of the first quadrille. +</p> + +<p> +My young companion looked, and her clear eyes darkened enviously. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, no, no! But if I wore such lace and satin and pearls, and had such +jewels, I might perhaps be more like her!” +</p> + +<p> +I sighed bitterly. The poison had already entered this child’s soul. I +spoke brusquely. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I paused, for the girl’s eyes were dilated in extreme wonder and fear. I +looked at her, and laughed abruptly and harshly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>A rivederci</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have had little time to congratulate you, <i>conte</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +I silently bowed my thanks. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed satirically. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +A wistful look came into his brilliant poetic eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>angel</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Salustri shrugged his shoulders, and was silent for a minute or two. Then he +added with his own bright smile: +</p> + +<p> +“Still, <i>amico</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is more than probable,” I answered, lightly. “Make a poem +of it, Salustri; people will say you have improved on the Bible!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Cara, sposina mia</i>! permit me to remind you of your +promise.” +</p> + +<p> +What a radiant look she gave me! +</p> + +<p> +“I am all impatience to fulfill it! Tell me when—and how?” +</p> + +<p> +“Almost immediately. You know the private passage through which we +entered the hotel this morning on our return from church?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a long sable cloak that will do,” she replied, brightly. +“We are not going far?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not far.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall return in time for supper, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +I bent my head. +</p> + +<p> +“Naturally!” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes danced mirthfully. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Cosa bellissima</i>!” 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 <i>Marchese</i> Gualdro claims me for +this mazurka.” +</p> + +<p> +And she turned with her bewitching grace of manner to the <i>marchese</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I keep you waiting, <i>caro mio</i>?” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And she laughed again. She was evidently in the highest spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very good to come with me at all, <i>mia bella</i>,” 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought we were not going far?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>A +la Villa Guarda</i>,” we rattled away over the rough uneven stones of the +back streets of the city. +</p> + +<p> +“La Villa Guarda!” exclaimed Nina. “Where is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is an old house,” I replied, “situated near the place I +spoke to you of, where the jewels are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mine—mine at last!” I whispered in her ear. “Mine +forever!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Seeing one like her, beautiful, wealthy, and above all—society knows I +speak the truth—<i>well dressed</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I drive up to the house?” he asked, looking as though he +would rather be spared this trouble. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” I answered, indifferently, “you need not. The distance +is short, we will walk.” +</p> + +<p> +And I stepped out into the road and paid him his money. +</p> + +<p> +“You seem anxious to get back to the city, my friend,” I said, half +jocosely. +</p> + +<p> +“Si, <i>davvero</i>!” he replied, with decision, “I hope to +get many a good fare from the Count Oliva’s marriage-ball +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +“<i>dama</i>” 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 <i>buona notte</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Could he not have waited to take us back?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” I answered, brusquely; “we shall return by a different +route. Come.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Have we to go much further, Cesare?” +</p> + +<p> +“Three minutes, walk will bring us to our destination,” I replied, +briefly, adding in a softer tone, “Are you cold?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What place is this?” she asked, nervously. +</p> + +<p> +In all her life she had never visited a cemetery—she had too great a +horror of death. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going?” she demanded, in a faint tone. +“I—I am afraid!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And I lifted her swiftly and easily over the stone step of the entrance and set +her safely inside. <i>Inside</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you laugh like that?” she cried, loudly and impatiently. +“It sounds horrible.” +</p> + +<p> +I checked myself by a strong effort. +</p> + +<p> +“Does it? I am sorry—very sorry! I laugh because—because, +<i>cara mia</i>, our moonlight ramble is so pleasant—and amusing—is +it not?” +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>such</i> jewels, and all for you—my love, my +wife!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What place is this? Where is the light you spoke of?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Take me away, take me away!” she moaned, hiding her face against +my breast. “’Tis a vault—oh, <i>Santissima +Madonna</i>!—a place for the dead! Quick—quick! take me out to the +air—let us go home—home—” +</p> + +<p> +She broke off abruptly, her alarm increasing at my utter silence. She gazed up +at me with wild wet eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Cesare! Cesare! speak! What ails you? Why have you brought me here? +Touch me—kiss me! say something—anything—only speak!” +</p> + +<p> +And her bosom heaved convulsively; she sobbed with terror. +</p> + +<p> +I put her from me with a firm hand. I spoke in measured accents, tinged with +some contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, I pray you! This is no place for an hysterical <i>scena</i>. +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.” +</p> + +<p> +At these words her sobs ceased, as though they had been frozen in her throat; +she stared at me in speechless fear and wonder. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be mad!” she said, with smothered anger and horror in her +tone. +</p> + +<p> +Then seeing me still immovable, she advanced and caught my hand half +commandingly, half coaxingly. I did not resist her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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? <i>Where is he</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +<i>Where is he</i>? <i>Where is he</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” and my voice rang out through the hollow vault, its passion +restrained no more. “<i>Where is he</i>?—the poor fool, the +miserable, credulous dupe, whose treacherous wife played the courtesan under +his very roof, while he loved and blindly trusted her? <i>Where is he</i>? +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 +<i>husband</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +A low sound that was half a sob and half a cry broke from her. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I strode up to her. I drew her hands away from her eyes and grasped them +tightly in my own. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go!” she panted. “Madman! liar!—let me +go!” +</p> + +<p> +I released her instantly and stood erect, regarding her fixedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>your</i> presence as pollution to the dead, whose +creed was <i>honor</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +The sound of her sobbing breath ceased suddenly; she fixed her eyes on mine; +they glittered defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>such</i> a home!” +</p> + +<p> +Her lips moved, but she uttered no word; she shivered as though with intense +cold. I drew nearer to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you doubt my story?” +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer. A rapid impulse of fury possessed me. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak!” I cried, fiercely, “or by the God above us I will +<i>make</i> 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! <i>Do</i> +you or do you <i>not</i> believe that I am indeed your husband—your +living husband, Fabio Romani?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +She obeyed me, lifting herself up reluctantly with a long, shuddering sigh. As +she stood upright I laughed contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +A strange quiver passed over her face—she wrung her hands together hard, +but she said no word. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen!” I said, “there is more to tell. When I broke loose +from the grasp of death, when I came <i>home</i>—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!” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her head and uttered a low exclamation of fear. I advanced a step or +two and spoke more rapidly. +</p> + +<p> +“You hear? There was moonlight, and the song of nightingales—yes; +the stage effects were perfect! <i>I</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 <i>one</i> 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 <i>you</i> +courted <i>me</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at her coldly; the torrent of her words was suddenly checked, +something in my expression daunted her; she trembled and shrunk back. +</p> + +<p> +“No right!” I said, mockingly. “I differ from you! A man +<i>once</i> married has <i>some</i> right over his wife, but a man <i>twice</i> +married to the same woman has surely gained a double authority! And as for +‘<i>dare not</i>!’ there is nothing I ‘dare not’ do +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You talk of murder!” I muttered, fiercely. +“<i>You</i>—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—” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupted me with a wild sobbing cry. +</p> + +<p> +“He loved me! Guido loved me!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“You killed him; you—you are to blame,” she moaned, +restlessly, striving to turn her face away from me. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> killed him? No, no, not I, but <i>you</i>! 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not see,” she muttered, sullenly, “why you should blame +<i>me</i>! I am no worse than other women!” +</p> + +<p> +“No worse! no worse!” I cried. “Shame, shame upon you that +thus outrage your sex! Learn for once what <i>men</i> 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>I</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!” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden spirit of defiant insolence possessed her. She drew herself erect, and +her level brows knitted in a dark frown. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> help it? You loved me—Guido loved me—could +<i>I</i> prevent it? I cared nothing for him, and less for you!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it,” I said, bitterly. “Love was never part of +<i>your</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +She interrupted me with a gesture of her hand; she spoke as though in a dream. +</p> + +<p> +“You escaped from this vault?” she said, in a low tone, looking +from right to left with searching eagerness. “Tell me +how—and—where?” +</p> + +<p> +I laughed scornfully, guessing her thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>then</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +She listened—she advanced a little toward me—a faint smile dawned +on her pallid lips—she whispered: +</p> + +<p> +“Fabio! Fabio!” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at her—unconsciously my voice dropped into a cadence of intense +melancholy softened by tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“Too late!” she cried, with a wild laugh. “No; not too late! +Die—wretch!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who talks of murder <i>now</i>?” 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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Guido! Guido!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +<i>Now</i>, not one throb of pity stirred me—not the faintest emotion of +tenderness, Ferrari’s sin was great, but <i>she</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>her</i> soul?” +</p> + +<p> +And I slowly moved toward the stairway; it was time, I thought, with a grim +resolve—<i>to leave her</i>! 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 <i>one</i>! 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 <i>here</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Nina! Nina!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Nina!” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed again—the same terrible laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Si, si</i>! <i>Son’ bella, son’ bellissima</i>!” +she murmured. “<i>E tu, Guido mio</i>? <i>Tu m’ami</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +Then raising one hand as though commanding attention she cried: +</p> + +<p> +“Ascolta!” and began to sing clearly though feebly: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Ti saluto, Rosignuolo!<br /> +Nel tuo duolo—ti saluto!<br /> +Sei l’amante della rosa<br /> +Che morendo si fa sposa!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” she cried, imperiously. “You are dead, quite +dead! How dare you come out of your grave!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Smiling, she continued her song: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio<br /> +Col two raggio ti saluto!<br /> +Sei l’Apollo del passato<br /> +Sei l’amore incoronato!” +</p> + +<p> +Again—again!—that hollow rumbling and crackling sound overhead. +What could it be? +</p> + +<p> +“<i>L’amore incoronato</i>!” hummed Nina fitfully, as she +plunged her round, jeweled arm down again into the chest of treasure. +“<i>Sì, sì</i>! <i>Che morendo si fa sposa—che morendo si fa +sposa—ah</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Nina!” There was no answer. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis all I can do for thee!” I muttered, incoherently. +“May Christ forgive thee, though I cannot!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Unrecognized, untracked, I departed from Naples. Wrapped in my cloak, and +stretched in a sort of heavy stupor on the deck of the +“<i>Rondinella</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +From it I learned that the Count Oliva was advertised for. His abrupt +departure, together with that of his newly married wife, formerly +<i>Contessa</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="finis"> + +The End +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENDETTA ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 4360-h.htm or 4360-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/6/4360/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. 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