The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  The guards rattled their swords and Negri received a blow to the chest from the butt of a musket. He curled forward momentarily. Slowly he straightened and resumed his furious scowl and fake indifference.

  The man whom he had cursed staggered and seemed about to fall. His pale face became ashen. He disappeared into the crowd catatonically, as if he was unsure whether he was alive or dead. The news he had received had brought about his shock, wounding him deeply.

  I approached the nearest guard and slipped a silver coin into his hand.

  “May I speak with Negri?” I asked, cautiously.

  The man hesitated. He glanced about and eyed the office. Then he nodded. “For an instant, but keep it brief.”

  I approached Negri. “Have you any message for Ernesto Paccanini? I am a friend of his.”

  He stared at me and then a smirk arose on his face. “The captain is a good man. Tell him that Teresa is dead and I am worse than dead. He will know for certain that I did not kill Teresa. I could never do such a thing. She shoved the blade into her breast before I could stop her.” He shook his head. “It is better this way.”

  “She killed herself rather than become the property of another man?” I asked.

  Cesare Negri nodded. I had to look twice at him, for I could swear I saw tears glistening in the depth of his sinful eyes.

  The guard gestured for me to come away, so I withdrew. Almost at the same moment the troop’s commanding officer exited the office, his spurs clinking against the cobblestone road. He mounted then shouted a command. The crowd moved back as horses were put to a quick trot. In a few moments the entire band, with the hulking form of Cesare Negri swallowed in their midst, disappeared down the street.

  The people broke up into little groups talking excitedly of what they had witnessed. They returned to their homes or work. In a very short time, the piazza was empty.

  I sat with Santina upon a bench near the center of the piazza. In my mind I pictured the beautiful Teresa lying dead and alone in the mountains with a self-inflicted wound that had freed her from the love and persecution of men. There were some women who preferred death to infidelity. How strange. Common women must be capable of killing themselves for such a reason. Daintily fed, silk-robed women like me would never stab themselves with a vulgar stiletto. Rather, we might retaliate by choosing a lover, or a score of lovers. Or, as in my case, launch a diabolical vendetta.

  As I sat, I found myself glancing at the guards’ office. On an impulse, I rose and entered the building determined to ask for the details of Negri’s capture. I was met by an intelligent-looking man who greeted me cordially.

  “Oh, si!” he said, in answer to my inquiries, “Over the years, Negri has given us a great deal of trouble. But we suspected he fled Vicenza for Pescara, where he went into hiding in the nearby mountains. A few stray bits of information gleaned here and there led us right to him.”

  “Was he caught easily or did he put up a fight?”

  “He surrended like a gentle lamb, signora. One of our men followed the woman named Teresa who lived with Negri. He traced her up to the corner of a narrow mountain pass where she disappeared from his sight. He returned to report this and we sent out an armed party in the middle of the night to find him. Two by two, they surrounded the location where we thought he was hiding. With the first beam of morning light, they rushed in upon him and took him prisoner. They tell me he showed no surprise. He merely said, ‘I expected you!’ They found him sitting next to the dead body of his mistress; she was stabbed and still bleeding. There is little doubt he killed her, even though he swears he is innocent. The man lies as easily as he breathes.”

  “But I thought he was the leader of a large band of men? Where were they?”

  “We captured three of his men two weeks ago, but we can find no trace of the others. My guess is that Cesare dismissed them and sent them far and wide throughout the entire country. At any rate, they are disbanded. When criminals are separated, there is no danger.”

  “What will happen to Negri now?” I asked.

  “A big strong man like him? It will be leg irons, the whip, and the galleys for him, for whatever remains of his sorry life.”

  I thanked him and returned to the piazza where Santina awaited me. Based on what I had just learned, I was reassured that the treasure I had discovered in my family vault was safely mine. A grim smile curled my lips. If Negri knew how I had been wronged, I had little doubt he would be happy that his hidden riches were destined to help me carry out an elaborate vendetta.

  Any difficulties towards my goal had been smoothed out. The path before me was clear, without obstacles. God himself seemed to be on my side, and why not? Is He not on always on the side of the just?

  Oh, Dario. I will be home soon. Those who are un

  faithful should never let down their guard. Just because one goes to church and prays, God is not deceived. My husband attended church regularly, kneeling before sacred altars, his eyes upturned to Christ, but each word he uttered was blasphemy.

  One day soon, all his lies would turn on him like a curse. Prayer is dangerous for liars. And he was the biggest liar of them all.

  Chapter Eleven

  By the middle of September, I found myself once more in Vicenza. The heat of summer had dulled into the gentle warmth of early autumn. News that a decrease in plague victims had eased the panicked, frightened population. Businesses were opening and society once more resumed its entertainments.

  Santina, Paolo, and I disembarked in Venice shortly after midday. I immediately hired a carriage to take us into Vicenza. There, I secured the most amazing suite of rooms in an imposing, elegant villa where the ravages of the plague had killed the entire family except for the matriarch, a kind, middle-aged woman who was more than relieved to receive my generous payment.

  My affluence and rank enthralled her. I mentioned that I needed to purchase a carriage and horses, the services of a launderess, and a few other trifles of the sort, and added that I trusted her recommendations on how or where I should best acquire all that I sought. She became my eager servant in all things, and through the good will of people she knew, I acquired all that I desired and was thoroughly satisfied. Through word of mouth, knowledge of my vast wealth, munificence, and abundant disbursements travelled. People hurried to attend my every wish.

  Hence, on the evening of my first day in Vicenza, I, the fabricated Contessa Giulia Corona, the coveted and advantaged noblewoman, took the first few steps towards fulfilling my vendetta.

  It was one of the most exquisite evenings I had ever experienced. A light breeze blew and the falling sun shone with an opalescent glow amid radiant clouds of rose and lavender. After the evening meal, I called for Paolo to prepare my carriage and drive me to my favorite coffee house. Beatrice and I frequented it regularly on evenings like this and I suspected she might be there. The coffee house hosted literary and musical readings and we had both learned to love the newly discovered dark fragrant beverage that arrived in Venice from Arabic countries.

  The gleaming white and gold salon was crowded, and due to the cool evening, many tables had been pushed out into the street. People played chess, gossiped, and drank coffee and wine. A celebratory air existed due to the good news that the pestilence that had ravaged the city for so long would soon disappear.

  I glanced around. There, unmistakably, sat my former friend, my disloyal adversary, Beatrice Cardano, alone at a table near the window, reading a copy of Vicenza’s newspaper. Dressed in black, the solemn color suited her light skin and ideal features well. As she raised a cup to her lips, a diamond on the ring of her left hand glittered against the evening light. It was of extraordinary size and brilliance. Even at a distance I recognized it as mine.

  Was it a love gift or a memorial for the cherished companion she had lost? I studied her through contemptuous eyes for a moment, and then collecting myself, I strolled toward her and sat at the empty table next to hers.

  She glanced apathetically at
me over the top of her publication, but there was nothing interesting at the sight of a white-haired woman wearing ugly, dark-colored spectacles, so she returned to her reading. I rapped my fan against the table to summon a waiter and ordered coffee.

  Something in my attitude seemed to catch Beatrice’s interest, for she laid down her paper and looked at me with a little more interest and unease.

  And so it begins, my friend. I turned my head and pretended to be absorbed by the view outside. My coffee arrived and I paid for it with an extraordinarily generous gratuity. The impressed waiter buffed my table with enthusiasm. He gathered several publications and books that lay about and set them down in a pile at my right hand.

  “Do you know Vicenza well?” I asked this likeable young man in my well-practiced, disguised voice.

  “Oh, si, gentildonna!”

  “Can you tell me the way to the house of Contessa Carlotta Mancini? She is a wealthy noblewoman of this city.”

  Ha! I had struck a cord. From the corner of my eye, I saw Beatrice twitch as if stung, and then quickly collect herself.

  The waiter shrugged and shook his head sadly. “Ah, Dio! La poverina, the poor woman is dead!”

  “Dead!” I exclaimed, with feigned shock and surprise. “At such a young age? But that is not possible!”

  “Eh! It is the truth, signora. La pestilenza, for which there is no remedy, struck her down. The plague does not spare the old or young, the rich or poor.”

  I leaned my head on my hand as if overcome with shock. Then I looked back up at him. “Oh dear, I am too late! I was a friend of her mother’s. I have been away for many years, and I wanted to meet the young woman whom I last saw as a child. Does she have any relatives living? Was she married?”

  The waiter, whose features had turned mournful in respect of my feelings, perked up immediately. “Oh, si. Signore Gismondi, her husband, lives up at the villa, though I believe he receives no one since his wife died. He is young and handsome. There is a little child too.”

  A swift movement by Beatrice forced me to turn my gaze in her direction and I regarded her through my spectacles.

  She leaned forward with all the elegance I remember so well. “Scusa, signora. I knew Contessa Mancini better than anyone in Vicenza. I would be happy to answer your questions.”

  The unforgettable melody of her voice struck me. For an instant, I could not speak. Rage and anguish nearly suffocated me. Fortunately it passed swiftly. Slowly, I nodded. “Could you introduce me to the relatives of Contessa Mancini? Her mother was dearer to me than a sister. Permit me to introduce myself.” I handed her my visiting card.

  She accepted it, and as she read the name printed upon it, cast me a look of respect mingled with pleased surprise. “Contessa Giulia Corona! How fortunate to meet you!” She raised the newspaper. “Your arrival has already been heralded in this journal, so I am well aware that you are to receive a hearty welcome. I am only sorry that the distressing news of Contessa Mancini has darkened your return here after so long an absence. Permit me to express my hope that it may be the only news that clouds your visit.”

  She extended her hand to me. A cold shudder ran through my veins. Could I touch her? I must if I was to act my part, for if I refused she might think it strange or rude. One false move on my part and I would lose the entire game I had so craftily prepared.

  With a forced smile I held out my gloved hand. She clasped it in her own and the affectionate weight smouldered through my glove. I could have cried out in misery, so acute was the torment I endured. But it passed. From that moment on, I knew I could touch her often and with indifference. Only this once did I allow it to gall me to the quick.

  Beatrice did not notice my reaction. She was in an exceptional mood and turned to the waiter who had watched us make each other’s acquaintance. “More coffee,” she ordered, and then looked at me. “You do not object to another coffee, Contessa? No? That is good.” She removed a silver card case from her purse. “And this is my card.”

  The case was finely engraved with flowers, leaves, and scrolls that surrounded the Mancini coat of arms and coronet with my own initials engraved thereon. It was mine, of course, I thought with grim amusement. I had not seen it since the day I died.

  “I am Beatrice Cardano. Come, let us share a coffee together!”

  I smiled. The waiter vanished to execute his orders and Beatrice joined me at my table.

  “A fine antique,” I remarked, putting out my hand. She happily relinquished the silver card case to me. I turned it over and over in my hand. “Lovely and expensive. Was it a gift or an heirloom?”

  “It used to belong to my late friend, Contessa Carlotta Mancini. The monk who saw her die found it in her purse. That and other trifles she wore on her person were delivered to her husband, and—”

  “He gave it to you as a memento of your friend,” I said, interrupting her.

  “Why si, that is exactly the truth. Grazie.” She took the case as I returned it to her with a frank smile.

  “Is Signore Gismondi young?” I inquired.

  “Young and extremely handsome!” Beatrice replied enthusiastically. “I doubt if sunlight ever fell on a more enchanting man! If you were a young woman, contessa, I would not tell you of his charms for fear of losing him to you, but your white hair assures me you can be no rival to me. Although Carlotta was my friend, and an excellent woman in her own way, she was never worthy of the man who married her!”

  “Is that so?” I asked coldly, as I suffered yet another stiletto-thrust to my heart. “I only knew her when she was a young girl. She seemed to be warm and loving, generous to a fault, and most kind-hearted. Her mother thought so, and I confess I thought so, too. I often received reports about how well she managed the vast fortune she inherited. She donated large sums to charity, did she not? And was she not a lover of books?”

  “Oh, si, that is all true,” Beatrice said impatiently. “She was a most virtuous and moral woman, if you like that sort of thing. Reflective, philosophic, a perfect gentildonna, swollen with pride, gullible, and a great fool!”

  My fury rose but I forced myself to stifle it, recalling the importance of playing the role I had crafted for myself. Instead, I broke out in forceful laughter. “Brava! I can see what a shrewd woman you are. You have no liking for moral women, excellent! I agree with you. I’ve lived long enough to know that an upright woman and a fool are one in the same. Ah, here is our coffee. You and I, cara, must become friends.”

  My unexpected outburst seemed to startle her. Then she gave a hearty laugh herself just as the waiter set down our coffees.

  “And this poor weak-minded friend of yours, was her death sudden?”

  Beatrice leaned back in her chair and turned her flushed face up to the sky where the stars were starting to sparkle. “She rose early and set out for a walk on a hot August morning. At the perimeter of her estate, she came upon a young boy struck down by the plague. Carlotta stopped to help him and hurried into Vicenza to find a healer. Instead of a healer, all she could find was a monk. She was leading him to the boy, who had already died, when she herself was struck with the pestilence. The monk carried her to a common inn, where she died, all the time shrieking demands that no one must take her, alive or dead, to her villa. She showed good sense in that at least, for she did not want to bring the contagion to her husband and child.”

  “Is the child a boy or a girl?” I asked, carelessly.

  “A girl, no more than a baby; a tedious little thing just like her mother.”

  My poor little Chiara. My blood throbbed with indignation at Beatrice’s apathy, for she had often embraced Chiara and pretended to love my poor, motherless child. No doubt her father cared little for her too, and I saw that she was, or soon would be, a snubbed and companionless little thing in the household. But I said nothing. I sipped my coffee with a preoccupied air for a few moments. “How was the contessa buried?”

  “Oh, the monk who was with her saw to her burial, and I believe, admin
istered last rites. He ensured she was buried with the proper respect in her family vault. I attended the funeral.”

  “You were there?” My voice almost failed me.

  Beatrice raised her eyebrows with astonishment. “Of course! Why are you surprised? I was the contessa’s dearest friend. We were closer than sisters. It was natural, even necessary, that I should be with her until she reached her final resting place.”

  I managed to recover. “I see. Because of my age, I’m nervous of disease in any form. I would think the fear of contagion might have kept you away, too.”

  “Me?” she laughed. “I have never been ill a day in my life, and I have no fear whatsoever of the pestilence. I suppose I took a risk, though it never entered my mind at the time. I should have perhaps, because I learned the monk died the next day.”

  “Shocking!” I murmured over my coffee-cup. “And you had no fear for yourself?”

  “None at all. To tell you the truth, I know I will never die of any kind of disease.” Her features became solemn. “An odd prophecy was made about me when I was born, Whether it is true or not, it kept me from panicking while the plagued struck so many people in Vicenza.”

  This was news to me. “And may I ask what the prophecy foretold?”

  “Oh, certainly. I was told that I would die a violent death by the hand of a friend known to me. Of course, I never believed the absurd prediction. It’s nothing more than an old wive’s tale. In fact, it is now more ridiculous than ever, considering that the only friend I have ever had, or am likely to have, is dead and buried, namely, Carlotta Mancini.” And she sighed slightly.

  I raised my head and looked at her. Beneath the shelter of my dark spectacles, she could not see the scrutiny of my gaze.

  A faint tinge of melancholy shadowed her face. She seemed deep in thought, almost sad.