I sighed bitterly. The poison had already entered this child’s soul. I spoke brusquely.
“Pray that you may never be like her,” I said, with somber sternness, and not heeding her look of astonishment. “You are young — you cannot yet have thrown off religion. Well, when you go home to-night, and kneel beside your little bed, made holy by the cross above it and your mother’s blessing — pray — pray with all your strength that you may never resemble in the smallest degree that exquisite woman yonder! So may you be spared her fate.”
I paused, for the girl’s eyes were dilated in extreme wonder and fear. I looked at her, and laughed abruptly and harshly.
“I forgot,” I said; “the lady is my wife — I should have thought of that! I was speaking of — another whom you do not know. Pardon me! when I am fatigued my memory wanders. Pay no attention to my foolish remarks. Enjoy yourself, my child, but do not believe all the pretty speeches of the Prince de Majano. A rivederci!”
And smiling a forced smile I left her, and mingled with the crowd of my guests, greeting one here, another there, jesting lightly, paying unmeaning compliments to the women who expected them, and striving to distract my thoughts with the senseless laughter and foolish chatter of the glittering cluster of society butterflies, all the while desperately counting the tedious minutes, and wondering whether my patience, so long on the rack, would last out its destined time. As I made my way through the brilliant assemblage, Luziano Salustri, the poet, greeted me with a grave smile.
“I have had little time to congratulate you, conte,” he said, in those mellifluous accents of his which were like his own improvised music, “but I assure you I do so with all my heart. Even in my most fantastic dreams I have never pictured a fairer heroine of a life’s romance than the lady who is now the Countess Oliva.”
I silently bowed my thanks.
“I am of a strange temperament, I suppose,” he resumed. “To-night this ravishing scene of beauty and splendor makes me sad at heart, I know not why. It seems too brilliant, too dazzling. I would as soon go home and compose a dirge as anything.”
I laughed satirically.
“Why not do it?” I said. “You are not the first person who, being present at a marriage, has, with perverse incongruity, meditated on a funeral!”
A wistful look came into his brilliant poetic eyes.
“I have thought once or twice,” he remarked in a low tone, “of that misguided young man Ferrari. A pity, was it not, that the quarrel occurred between you?”
“A pity indeed!” I replied, brusquely. Then taking him by the arm I turned him round so that he faced my wife, who was standing not far off. “But look at the — the — angel I have married! Is she not a fair cause for a dispute even unto death? Fy on thee, Luziano! — why think of Ferrari? He is not the first man who has been killed for the sake of a woman, nor will he be the last!”
Salustri shrugged his shoulders, and was silent for a minute or two. Then he added with his own bright smile:
“Still, amico, it would have been much better if it had ended in coffee and cognac. Myself, I would rather shoot a man with an epigram than a leaden bullet! By the way, do you remember our talking of Cain and Abel that night?”
“Perfectly.”
“I have wondered since,” he continued half merrily, half seriously, “whether the real cause of their quarrel has ever been rightly told. I should not be at all surprised if one of these days some savant does not discover a papyrus containing a missing page of Holy Writ, which will ascribe the reason of the first bloodshed to a love affair. Perhaps there were wood nymphs in those days, as we are assured there were giants, and some dainty Dryad might have driven the first pair of human brothers to desperation by her charms! What say you?”
“It is more than probable,” I answered, lightly. “Make a poem of it, Salustri; people will say you have improved on the Bible!”
And I left him with a gay gesture to join other groups, and to take my part in the various dances which were now following quickly on one another. The supper was fixed to take place at midnight. At the first opportunity I had, I looked at the time. Quarter to eleven! — my heart beat quickly, the blood rushed to my temples and surged noisily in my ears. The hour I had waited for so long and so eagerly had come! At last! at last!
Slowly and with a hesitating step I approached my wife. She was resting after her exertions in the dance, and reclined languidly in a low velvet chair, chatting gayly with that very Prince de Majano whose honeyed compliments had partly spoiled the budding sweet nature of the youngest girl in the room. Apologizing for interrupting the conversation, I lowered my voice to a persuasive tenderness as I addressed her.
“Cara, sposina mia! permit me to remind you of your promise.”
What a radiant look she gave me!
“I am all impatience to fulfill it! Tell me when — and how?”
“Almost immediately. You know the private passage through which we entered the hotel this morning on our return from church?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, meet me there in twenty minutes. We must avoid being observed as we pass out. But,” and I touched her delicate dress, “you will wear something warmer than this?”
“I have a long sable cloak that will do,” she replied, brightly. “We are not going far?”
“No, not far.”
“We shall return in time for supper, of course?”
I bent my head.
“Naturally!”
Her eyes danced mirthfully.
“How romantic it seems! A moonlight stroll with you will be charming! Who shall say you are not a sentimental bridegroom? Is there a bright moon?”
“I believe so.”
“Cosa bellissima!” and she laughed sweetly. “I look forward to the trip! In twenty minutes then I shall be with you at the place you name, Cesare; in the meanwhile the Marchese Gualdro claims me for this mazurka.”
And she turned with her bewitching grace of manner to the marchese, who at that moment advanced with his courteous bow and fascinating smile, and I watched them as they glided forward together in the first figure of the elegant Polish dance, in which all lovely women look their loveliest.
Then, checking the curse that rose to my lips, I hurried away. Up to my own room I rushed with feverish haste, full of impatience to be rid of the disguise I had worn so long.
Within a few minutes I stood before my mirror, transformed into my old self as nearly as it was possible to be. I could not alter the snowy whiteness of my hair, but a few deft quick strokes of the razor soon divested me of the beard that had given me so elderly an aspect, and nothing remained but the mustache curling slightly up at the corners of the lip, as I had worn it in past days. I threw aside the dark glasses, and my eyes, densely brilliant, and fringed with the long lashes that had always been their distinguishing feature, shone with all the luster of strong and vigorous youth. I straightened myself up to my full height, I doubled my fist and felt it hard as iron; I laughed aloud in the triumphant power of my strong manhood. I thought of the old rag-dealing Jew— “You could kill anything easily.” Ay, so I could! — even without the aid of the straight swift steel of the Milanese dagger which I now drew from its sheath and regarded steadfastly, while I carefully felt the edge of the blade from hilt to point. Should I take it with me? I hesitated. Yes! it might be needed. I slipped it safely and secretly into my vest.
And now the proofs — the proofs! I had them all ready to my hand, and gathered them quickly together; first the things that had been buried with me — the gold chain on which hung the locket containing the portraits of my wife and child, the purse and card-case which Nina herself had given me, the crucifix the monk had laid on my breast in the coffin. The thought of that coffin moved me to a stern smile — that splintered, damp, and moldering wood must speak for itself by and by. Lastly I took the letters sent me by the Marquis D’Avencourt — the beautiful, passionate love epistles she had written to Guido Ferrari in Rome.
Now, was that all? I thoroughly searched both my rooms, ransacking every corner. I had destroyed everything that could give the smallest clew to my actions; I left nothing save furniture and small valuables, a respectable present enough in their way, to the landlord of the hotel.
I glanced again at myself in the mirror. Yes; I was once more Fabio Romani, in spite of my white hair; no one that had ever known me intimately could doubt my identity. I had changed my evening dress for a rough, every-day suit, and now over this I threw my long Almaviva cloak, which draped me from head to foot. I kept its folds well up about my mouth and chin, and pulled on a soft slouched hat, with the brim far down over my eyes. There was nothing unusual in such a costume; it was common enough to many Neapolitans who have learned to dread the chill night winds that blow down from the lofty Apennines in early spring. Thus attired, too, I knew my features would be almost invisible to her more especially as the place of our rendezvous was a long dim entresol lighted only by a single oil-lamp, a passage that led into the garden, one that was only used for private purposes, having nothing to do with the ordinary modes of exit and entrance to and from the hotel.
Into this hall I now hurried with an eager step; it was deserted; she was not there. Impatiently I waited — the minutes seemed hours! Sounds of music floated toward me from the distant ball-room — the dreamy, swinging measure of a Viennese waltz. I could almost hear the flying feet of the dancers. I was safe from all observation where I stood — the servants were busy preparing the grand marriage supper, and all the inhabitants of the hotel were absorbed in watching the progress of the brilliant and exceptional festivities of the night.
Would she never come? Suppose, after all, she should escape me! I trembled at the idea, then put it from me with a smile at my own folly. No, her punishment was just, and in her case the Fates were inflexible. So I thought and felt. I paced up and down feverishly; I could count the thick, heavy throbs of my own heart. How long the moments seemed! Would she never come? Ah! at last! I caught the sound of a rustling robe and a light step — a breath of delicate fragrance was wafted on the air like the odor of falling orange-blossoms. I turned, and saw her approaching. With swift grace she ran up to me as eagerly as a child, her heavy cloak of rich Russian sable falling back from her shoulders and displaying her glittering dress, the dark fur of the hood heightening by contrast the fairness of her lovely flushed face, so that it looked like the face of one of Correggio’s angels framed in ebony and velvet. She laughed, and her eyes flashed saucily.
“Did I keep you waiting, caro mio?” she whispered; and standing on tiptoe she kissed the hand with which I held my cloak muffled about me. “How tall you look in that Almaviva! I am so sorry I am a little late, but that last waltz was so exquisite I could not resist it; only I wish YOU had danced it with me.”
“You honor me by the wish,” I said, keeping one arm about her waist and drawing her toward the door that opened into the garden. “Tell me, how did you manage to leave the ball-room?”
“Oh, easily. I slipped away from my partner at the end of the waltz, and told him I should return immediately. Then I ran upstairs to my room, got my cloak — and here I am.”
And she laughed again. She was evidently in the highest spirits.
“You are very good to come with me at all, mia bella,” I murmured as gently as I could; “it is kind of you to thus humor my fancy. Did you see your maid? does she know where you are going?”
“She? Oh, no, she was not in my room at all. She is a great coquette, you know; I dare say she is amusing herself with the waiters in the kitchen. Poor thing! I hope she enjoys it.”
I breathed freely; we were so far undiscovered. No one had as yet noticed our departure — no one had the least clew to my intentions, I opened the door of the passage noiselessly, and we passed out. Wrapping my wife’s cloak more closely about her with much apparent tenderness, I led her quickly across the garden. There was no one in sight — we were entirely unobserved. On reaching the exterior gate of the inclosure I left her for a moment, while I summoned a carriage, a common fiacre. She expressed some surprise on seeing the vehicle.
“I thought we were not going far?” she said.
I reassured her on this point, telling her that I only desired to spare her all possible fatigue. Satisfied with this explanation, she suffered me to assist her into the carriage. I followed her, and calling to the driver, “A la Villa Guarda,” we rattled away over the rough uneven stones of the back streets of the city.
“La Villa Guarda!” exclaimed Nina. “Where is that?”
“It is an old house,” I replied, “situated near the place I spoke to you of, where the jewels are.”
“Oh!”
And apparently contented, she nestled back in the carriage, permitting her head to rest lightly on my shoulder. I drew her closer to me, my heart beating with a fierce, terrible joy.
“Mine — mine at last!” I whispered in her ear. “Mine forever!”
She turned her face upward and smiled victoriously; her cool fragrant lips met my burning, eager ones in a close, passionate kiss. Yes, I kissed her now — why should I not? She was as much mine as any purchased slave, and merited less respect than a sultan’s occasional female toy. And as she chose to caress me, I let her do so: I allowed her to think me utterly vanquished by the battery of her charms. Yet whenever I caught an occasional glimpse of her face as we drove along in the semi-darkness, I could not help wondering at the supreme vanity of the woman! Her self-satisfaction was so complete, and, considering her approaching fate, so tragically absurd!
She was entirely delighted with herself, her dress, and her conquest — as she thought — of me. Who could measure the height of the dazzling visions she indulged in; who could fathom the depths of her utter selfishness!
Seeing one like her, beautiful, wealthy, and above all — society knows I speak the truth — well dressed, for by the latter virtue alone is a woman allowed any precedence nowadays — would not all the less fortunate and lovely of her sex feel somewhat envious? Ah, yes; they would and they do; but believe me, the selfish feminine thing, whose only sincere worship is offered at the shrines of Fashion and Folly, is of all creatures the one whose life is to be despised and never desired, and whose death makes no blank even in the circles of her so-called best friends.
I knew well enough that there was not a soul in Naples who was really attached to my wife — not one who would miss her, no, not even a servant — though she, in her superb self-conceit, imagined herself to be the adored beauty of the city. Those who had indeed loved her she had despised, neglected, and betrayed. Musingly I looked down upon her as she rested back in the carriage, encircled by my arm, while now and then a little sigh of absolute delight in herself broke from her lips — but we spoke scarcely at all. Hate has almost as little to say as love!
The night was persistently stormy, though no rain fell — the gale had increased in strength, and the white moon only occasionally glared out from the masses of white and gray cloud that rushed like flying armies across the sky, and her fitful light shone dimly, as though she were a spectral torch glimmering through a forest of shadow. Now and again bursts of music, or the blare of discordant trumpets, reached our ears from the more distant thoroughfares where the people were still celebrating the feast of Giovedi Grasso, or the tinkle of passing mandolins chimed in with the rolling wheels of our carriage; but in a few moments we were out of reach of even such sounds as these.
We passed the outer suburbs of the city and were soon on the open road. The man I had hired drove fast; he knew nothing of us, he was probably anxious to get back quickly to the crowded squares and illuminated quarters where the principal merriment of the evening was going on, and no doubt thought I showed but a poor taste in requiring to be driven away, even for a short distance, out of Naples on such a night of feasting and folly. He stopped at last; the castellated turrets of the villa I had named were faintly visible among the trees; he jumped down from his
box and came to us.
“Shall I drive up to the house?” he asked, looking as though he would rather be spared this trouble.
“No,” I answered, indifferently, “you need not. The distance is short, we will walk.”
And I stepped out into the road and paid him his money.
“You seem anxious to get back to the city, my friend,” I said, half jocosely.
“Si, davvero!” he replied, with decision, “I hope to get many a good fare from the Count Oliva’s marriage-ball to-night.”
“Ah! he is a rich fellow, that count,” I said, as I assisted my wife to alight, keeping her cloak well muffled round her so that this common fellow should not perceive the glitter of her costly costume; “I wish I were he!”
The man grinned and nodded emphatically. He had no suspicion of my identity. He took me, in all probability, for one of those “gay gallants” so common in Naples, who, on finding at some public entertainment a “dama” to their taste, hurry her off, carefully cloaked and hooded, to a mysterious nook known only to themselves, where they can complete the romance of the evening entirely to their own satisfaction. Bidding me a lively buona notte, he sprung on his box again, jerked his horse’s head violently round with a volley of oaths, and drove away at a rattling pace. Nina, standing on the road beside me, looked after him with a bewildered air.
“Could he not have waited to take us back?” she asked.
“No,” I answered, brusquely; “we shall return by a different route. Come.”
And passing my arm round her, I led her onward. She shivered slightly, and there was a sound of querulous complaint in her voice as she said:
“Have we to go much further, Cesare?”
“Three minutes, walk will bring us to our destination,” I replied, briefly, adding in a softer tone, “Are you cold?”
“A little,” and she gathered her sables more closely about her and pressed nearer to my side. The capricious moon here suddenly leaped forth like the pale ghost of a frenzied dancer, standing tiptoe on the edge of a precipitous chasm of black clouds. Her rays, pallidly green and cold, fell full on the dreary stretch of land before us, touching up with luminous distinctness those white mysterious milestones of the Campo Santo which mark where the journeys of men, women, and children began and where they left off, but never explain in what new direction they are now traveling. My wife saw and stopped, trembling violently.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 70