The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  Within moments, I stood outside the vault, my bare feet upon soft, green grass and my body beneath an emerging blue sky. I fell to my knees and wept with joy. I was free! Free to resume my life, my love, my marriage to my beloved Dario; free to forget, if I could, the horror of my live burial.

  Thankful, I prayed, heaping numerous blessings upon Cesare Negri. I owed the famous lout my gratitude, not only for the fortune he had left, but also for my freedom. He or his followers must have dug the secret passage into the Mancini vault for their own nefarious purposes. The authorities had been seeking him for quite some time and there was a price on his head. The villain was in hiding somewhere. Even if I were to discover his whereabouts, those who sought him would receive no aid from me. There was no reason for me to betray him. He had been my saviour. Besides, no one could ever accuse me of stealing stolen property.

  Bathed by the morning light, I rejoiced in my deliverance. Happiness the likes of which I had never known radiated through my body. When Dario saw me once more, he would love me more fondly than before, for although our separation had been brief, but terrible, the knowledge that I was alive would endear us to each other even more.

  And my little Chiara! I could not wait to swing her again beneath the orange boughs and listen to her delightful squeals. I would clasp Beatrice’s hand and the joy of our friendship would flood both our hearts. Tonight I would lay my head upon Dario’s chest and listen to his heartbeat after our lovemaking. My head spun with dazzling, euphoric visions.

  The sun had fully risen now. Long golden sunbeams stroked the treetops. I felt as if I would die from all my euphoria. I would share it all with Dario tonight when the moon rose and the nightingales returned to sing their love-songs. Full of such joyful fantasies, I inhaled the pure morning air for several more moments, and then went back down into the vault.

  Chapter Five

  Aided by the light of my candle and the meagre sunlight that filtered into the crypt, I repacked the treasure. I kept two leather bags for myself - one full of jewels and the other of coins. To my relief, the casket had suffered little damage when I had forced it open. I secured the lid and despite my weakness, I managed to push it to the darkest corner of the vault. Fighting for breath, I disguised it beneath three heavy stones then wiped the sweat from my brow and paused to catch my breath.

  Next, I removed the rope belt at my waist and secured my treasure to it. Then I raised the hem of my filthy gown to below my breasts and held it in place with my elbow. I knotted the belt around my waist before lowering my gown over it to disguise the booty.

  Straightening my gown, I ran my hand over my hair. I could tell it was in disarray too. I must look a fright. I did not want anyone to see me in so dirty and disheveled a condition. With all the money I carried, I had more than enough to purchase a gown, but where could I fine one? Unfortunately, I did not know. All my life, I had ordered gowns from exclusive dressmakers who came to my villa with bolts of material to choose from and later for fittings.

  Must I wait until nightfall before I could escape this tomb? No! I could not bear to linger in these gruesome surroundings a moment longer. Throngs of beggars swarm the streets of Vicenza in every manner of rags, dirt, and misery. If taken for one of them, it would matter little to me. Whatever problems I might encounter on my way home would be short-lived.

  Satisfied that I had placed the brigand’s treasure-filled coffin in a safe position, I hung the ship pendant round my neck. It would make a fine gift for Dario, whose fondness for gold jewelery surpassed my own. After one last glance about, I climbed out through the tunnel.

  I used the same logs and brush to disguise the opening, and then stood back to examine my handiwork. I could detect no signs that a passage lay behind it and whispered a prayer of thanks to Cesare Negri for having created such a clever cover-up. All that remained was for me to declare my identity, drink and eat something, purchase a new garment, and then return home.

  I stood on a grassy knoll and looked about. In the distance, I could see the outskirts of Vicenza. A sloping road wound toward the city and I walked in that direction. The sun beamed down with searing vibrancy on my uncovered head. With each step, my bare feet sunk into the scalding hot dust of the road.

  Yet, I cared little about all the unpleasantness. I was ecstatic to be alive and it showed with every buoyant and jaunty step I took. Soon I would be home with Dario and Chiara. My eyes and head throbbed under the shimmering brilliance of daylight. A shiver or two ran through me as I walked - remnants of my near fatal illness, but I was confident that it would pass in a day or two. Enfolded in the loving arms of my family, I knew I would make a full recovery.

  I strode valiantly onward, at first encountering no one. Then I came upon a small fruit cart laden with baskets brimming with lemons, apricots, peaches, and melons. The driver was sleeping across the front seat, his hat over his face. His donkey munched the roadside’s green grass. Every now and then, the creature raised its head to look about and set off a delicate jingle from the small bells on its harness.

  At the rear of the cart, the fruit piled in various baskets lured me. My hunger and thirst near unbearable, I nudged the sleeping man’s foot. He awoke with a start. At the sight of me, his eyes widened with fear. He leaped down and dropped to his knees in the dust trembling. “Madonna Mia! Saint Peter! I implore you, per favore, spare my life.”

  I could not help myself. I burst out laughing at his ludicrous reaction. What could be so fear provoking about a small woman like me other than the filthy state of my clothing?

  “Please, do not be afraid,” I said, holding out several coins. “All I want is to buy some fruit from you.”

  Quivering, he rose and studied me with misgiving. He grabbed two peaches and three apricots and handed them to me without saying a word. The man snatched the coins from my palm, bounded back into his cart, and flogging the poor donkey until the creature kicked back with anger, clattered down the road emitting a cloud of dust in his wake. Amused at the absurdity of his terror, I watched until he disappeared from my sight. Did he think me a ghost who would raid his cart?

  I ate the ripe, sweet, refreshing fruit as I walked along. I encountered more people the closer I came to Vicenza; farmers and venders who paid me no notice. I avoided making eye contact with them and hurried past as fast as possible.

  On reaching the city’s perimeter, I turned into the first street. Dense with houses and foul-smelling, I continued forth until I happened upon a ramshackle cottage with a broken shutter through which I noticed a shabby array of used garments hanging on strings of coarse twine.

  Among the desolate samplings of used garments, I could see many intriguing and charming objects - shells and coral, beads and bracelets, dishes carved out of wood, animal horns, painted fans, and old coins to name a few. A monstrous wooden statue stared down from a shelf between a chipped vase and a worn pair of boots, as though it scrutinized the peculiar assortment of goods with dim-witted bewilderment.

  An old woman sat mending a tattered gown at the open door. Deep furrows scored her wrinkled, sun-weathered face the color of brown parchment. Only her blue, bead-like eyes shone with life. They roved left and right with restlessness and suspicion. She saw me approach, but feigned absorption in her work. I stopped before her and she raised her gaze to mine, her eyes glaring with inquisitiveness.

  “I have travelled a long way.” She was not the type of person I could entrust with my secrets. “I lost some of my clothes in an accident. Can you sell me a gown? Anything will do. I am not particular.”

  The old woman laid her mending on her lap and looked at me through narrowed eyes of startling blue. “Are you afraid of the plague?”

  “No. In fact, I have recovered from it,” I replied with composure.

  She stared at me from head to foot, and then broke out in a shrill cackling laugh. “Ha! Excellent! Just like me, another woman who is unafraid. The plague is a beautiful thing. I love it. I buy clothes that have been stripped fro
m the corpses. They are usually in perfect condition. I never wash them and sell them immediately. And why not? Those afflicted with the illness die. Better for them they die sooner than later!” The old hag crossed herself.

  I glared down at her with an air of disgust. She repulsed me as much as the beast that had fastened itself on my neck when I slept in the vault. “Will you sell me a gown or not?”

  “Si, si, of course!” She rose stiffly from the bench. Short of stature and misshapen by age and infirmity, she looked more like the warped limb of an ancient olive tree than a woman. I followed her as she hobbled into her dark shop. “Vieni dentro, come inside! Choose whatever you like. I have a great variety to suit all tastes and sizes. Here’s a good one, the dress of a noblewoman. What strong wool! Made in Paris. The woman who wore this was French; a comely, jovial woman who drank wine like water, and she was rich too. The plague took her swiftly. She died drunk and cursing God. A marvellous way to die! One of her servants sold me her gowns for five scudi, but you must give me ten. That is a fair profit, is it not, especially for someone as old and poor as I am who must work hard to earn enough to feed herself?”

  I cast aside the wool gown she held up for my examination. “I’m not worried about the plague, but find me something better than the cast-off clothing of a wine-soaked French woman. I would rather wear the dismal garb of a house servant.”

  A raspy laugh escaped the old woman’s withered throat. “Good,” she croaked. “I like that. You are old, but cheery. I like that. Everyone should laugh. And why not? Death always laughs and taunts us.”

  She plunged her knobby fingers into a chest stuffed with a variety of garments, mumbling to herself all the while. I stood beside her, bewildered by her words. You are old, but cheery. Why did she think me old? She must be blind, I thought, or in her dotage.

  Suddenly she glanced up. “Speaking about the plague, did you know that it took one of the richest, most beautiful women in all of Vicenza? She was young too, strong and full of life; someone who looked as if she would live forever. The plague touched her one morning and before sunrise the next day, they nailed her into a coffin. They carried her into her big family vault; a cold lodging compared to her grand marble villa on the heights yonder. When I heard the news, I scolded God for taking Contessa Carlotta Mancini.”

  My heart pounded in my chest, but I composed myself enough to appear indifferent. “And why is she so special that she should not deserve to die?”

  The old woman straightened from her stooped stance and stared at me with her keen blue eyes. “Who was she? I can see you know nothing of Vicenza. Have you not heard of the wealthy Mancini family? I wished the contessa to live a long life. She was clever and bold, but always good to the poor. She gave away hundreds of scudi in charity. I have seen her often, even on the day she got married.” Her crinkled, parchment-like face screwed itself into a malevolent expression. “Bah! I hate her husband, a handsome man, but weak as vile as a snake. I used to watch them both from the streets as they drove along in their fine carriage and I wondered how it would end between them. I knew their marriage could not last. I wanted her to be the victor over him. I would even have helped her kill him to free her from her that cursed marriage. Instead, God made a mistake. She is the one who is dead and that snake lives on and now has all her wealth.”

  I listened to the old wench with loathing, but interest too. Why should she hate my husband? Perhaps she hated all young, handsome men. If she had seen me as often as she claimed, why did she not recognize me? “What did Contessa Mancini look like? You say she was beautiful. Did she have dark or golden hair? Was she slim or tall?”

  Pushing aside an errant wisp of gray hair from her forehead, she stretched out a tawny, garbled hand as though pointing to a vision. “She was a beautiful woman, as straight and tall and as slim as you are! Your eyes are hollow and weak while hers were bursting with life and luminous. Your face is haggard and pallid, but hers was lucent and of a clear olive tint aglow with vigour. Her hair was glossy black, not snow-white like yours.”

  I flinched with fright. Had I changed that much in so short a time? Had the horror of spending a night in the crypt made such a severe impact upon my appearance? White hair instead of my ebony locks? I could hardly believe it.

  Perhaps Dario would not recognize me and would doubt my identity. If need be, I could verify I was Carlotta Mancini. All I had to do was show him the vault and my own splintered coffin inside it.

  While I contemplated all this, the old woman carried on with her ramblings. “Ah, si, she was a fine woman. I used to rejoice that she was so wise. She could have poisoned that snake of a husband so he could tell no more lies. I wanted her to do it. I would have gladly have provided her with the poison. Had she lived, I am certain she would have done it one day. That is why I am sorry the contessa died.”

  It took intense effort master my emotions so I could speak calmly to this spiteful old crone. “Why do you hate the contessa’s husband so much? Has he done you any harm?”

  She straightened as much as she was able and stared at me with unrelenting force. “I’ll tell you why I hate him. You are an intelligent woman,” she answered with a sneer about the corners of her vile mouth. “I like intelligent women, but sometimes they’re easily fooled by men. That’s when a woman should take revenge. I was intelligent and strong myself once. You are old, so will understand. Dario Gismondi has done me harm. When his horse knocked me down in the street, he laughed at me. I was hurt, but I saw his lips widen and his white teeth glitter. He has an enchanting smile, the people will tell you. So innocent! Someone picked me up, but it wasn’t him. His carriage drove on. His wife was not with him otherwise I know she would have stopped to help me. But it doesn’t matter, because he laughed and it was then that I saw the likeness.”

  “The likeness?” Her story annoyed me. “What likeness?”

  “Between him and my husband,” she replied, fixing her cruel eyes upon me with increasing intensity. “Oh, si! I know what love is. I married a man as handsome as a morning in spring with eyes as gentle as a tiny child who looks up and asks you for kisses. I was away from home once. When I returned home I found him sleeping with a black-browed beauty from Venice as brash and as brazen as a lioness. While they slept, I made my way to her side of the bed and put my stiletto to the whore’s throat, signalling for her to keep her mouth shut. I forced her to the ground and knelt upon her chest. I looked down into her eyes and smiled. ‘I won’t not hurt you. All I ask is that you keep your mouth shut.’ She stared at me mute with fear. I gagged her then bound her hands and feet so that she could not move. I took my stiletto and went to him. His face looked so peaceful as I plunged the keen bright blade through the hairy white flesh of his chest. His brown eyes glared wide and imploring, while his heart’s blood welled up in a crimson tide, staining the bed linens with a brilliant burgundy hue. Behind me, his whore moaned out in agony. He flung up his arms and sank back on his pillows dead. I drew the blade from his body, and with it cut the bonds of the Venetian slut. I then gave her the stiletto. ‘Take it as a remembrance of him. In a month he would have betrayed you as he betrayed me.’ She raved like a mad woman and rushed from the room straight to the constable. 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 rogue at the Villa Mancini. He is just like the husband I slew. He has the same slow smile and the same child-like eyes. I tell you again, I’m sorry that his wife is dead. It vexes me to think of it. In time, he would have driven her to kill him, of that I am certain.”

  Chapter Six

  The old woman’s story turned my blood cold. For our entire married life, I believed that everyone who met or knew Dario, respected and admired him. I could not deny that when my husband’s horses knocked down this old woman, an event he had never mentioned to me, it was careless of him not to stop and at least inquire as to the extent of her injur
ies. He was young and thoughtless, but I did not want to believe he could be so heartless. It horrified me to think that he had made an enemy of this aged and poverty-stricken wretch, but I said nothing. I had no wish to betray myself to her.

  She waited for me to speak and grew impatient at my silence. “Was it not fair vengeance I took?” she said with childlike zeal. “God himself could not have done better!”

  “I think your husband deserved his fate, but I cannot say I admire you for being his murderer,” I responded brusquely.

  She turned on me in an instant and flung both of her hands above her head with frenetic motion. “You call me a murderer? How dare you! He murdered me!” Her voice escalated into shrillness. “I died when I saw him asleep with his whore. That vision killed me. It was the devil rose up inside of me to take swift revenge. That same devil is in me now, a brave devil, a strong devil! That is why I do not fear the plague. The devil inside me frightens away death, but someday the evil will leave me.” Her voice sank into a frail, pathetic tone. “Si, it will leave me and I shall find a dark place where I can sleep; I do not sleep much anymore. You see, my memory is very good, and when one thinks too much, one cannot sleep. Even though many years have passed, I still see my husband every night. He appears before me wringing his hands, his brown eyes piercing. I hear his terrorized moans and see his wretchedness.” She paused, and then like a woman waking from sleep, she stared at me as if she saw me for the first time, and broke into a low chuckling laugh.

  “What a thing the mind is!” she muttered. “Strange, very strange. See, I remembered all that and forgot about you! You want a new gown and I need to be paid for it. If you do not want the fine gown of the French noblewoman, I will find you something else, but you must have patience.”