The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  Soon, I grew calmer and the drive back to the hotel in my carriage through the dull December air calmed and restored me. The day was lovely, bright and fresh. A soft haze lingered above Vicenza like a veil of gray. In the streets, women strolled, eager to purchase their daily fare. Children, ragged and dirty, ran along, pushing the luxuriant tangle of their dark locks away from their eyes with smiles. Bells clashed and clanged from the churches in honor of Saint Thomas, whose feast day it was, and the city had an air of gaiety about it.

  As I drove along I saw a small crowd at a street corner. A laughing crowd was listening to a wandering bard. He was a plump-looking fellow who had captured their interest.

  I asked Paolo to stop so that I could listen to his tale. When he was finished, I tossed him three scudi. He threw them up in the air, one after the other, and as they fell, he caught them in his mouth, appearing to have swallowed them all. Then with a grimace, he pulled off his tattered cap and said, “Ancora affamato, excellenza! I am still hungry!” amid the renewed laughter of his amused audience.

  A merry bard he was, and without conceit. His good humor merited the extra silver pieces I gave him, which caused him to wish me, “Buon appetito and the smile of the Madonna upon you!”

  Further on I came upon a group of fisherman assembled round a portable stove upon which roasting chestnuts cracked their glossy sides and emitted savory odors. The men were singing to the strumming of an old viola da mano, a guitar-like instrument. The song they sang was familiar to me.

  Where had I heard it? It took a moment for me to recall it. It was when I had crawled out of the vault through the brigand’s hole, when my heart had bounded with joy at the anticipation of being reunited with my family, when I had believed in the worth of love and friendship, when I had seen the morning sun glittering on the world and celebrated my release from death and my restored freedom. It was then that I had heard a voice somewhere in the distance singing that song and I had fondly imagined its impassioned words were meant for me. But that was then and it seemed like an eternity ago.

  Now, the song sounded hateful, bittersweet. I wanted to cover my ears to shut out the sound of it. It reminded me of a time when I possessed a heart, a throbbing, passionate, sensitive thing alive to emotion, tenderness, and affection. Now my heart was dead and cold as a stone. My soul was heavily burdened. All I yearned for now was justice – stern, immutable justice, and I meant to have it.

  Many would find it difficult to understand all the planning and the carrying out of such a prolonged a vendetta as mine. Many will find it incomprehensible. Many are incapable of carrying a lengthy deadly resentment against an unfaithful husband. They are too indifferent or may think it is not worth their while. But I can carry a vendetta for a lifetime. Many will think this is immoral and unchristian. Did Christ forgive Judas? The gospel does not say so.

  When I reached my rented villa, I felt exhausted. I decided to rest and receive no visitors that day. Paolo accompanied me inside. Just as I was about to dismiss him, a thought occurred to me. I went to a cabinet in the room and unlocked a secret cupboard. Inside was a bottle of rare wine. I removed it and handed it to Paolo. “It is a hundred year old wine from Monemasia, the Venetian fortress on the coast of Laconia.”

  He did not show the least sign of surprise as he studied the burgundy liquid inside the dusty green glassed bottle with its round body and long neck. He ran his hand delicately over the label delicately ornamented with foliate scroll-work.

  “Good wine?” I remarked, in a casual manner.

  He nodded and examined the bottle critically. “It needs dusting, contessa.”

  “Good!” I said, briefly. “Then wipe it and put it back in the cupboard. I may need to serve this particular bottle of wine soon.”

  The imperturbable Paolo bowed and prepared to leave the room.

  “Stay a moment.”

  He turned.

  I looked at him steadily. “I believe you are a loyal and faithful man, Paolo,” I said.

  He met my glance frankly.

  “The day may come when I shall perhaps put your fidelity to the test,” I said quietly.

  His dark eyes, keen and clear the moment before, flashed brightly and then grew humid. “Contessa, you have only to command! I was a soldier once. I know what duty means. But there is a better service – gratitude. I may be only a poor servant, but you have won my heart. I would give my life for you should you desire it!” He paused, half ashamed of the emotion that threatened to break through his mask of impassibility. He bowed again and would have left me, but I called him back and held out my hand.

  “Shake hands, dear friend,” I said, simply.

  He caught it with an astonished yet pleased look. Stooping, he kissed it before I could prevent him, and this time literally scrambled out of my presence with his usual dignity.

  Alone, I considered this behavior of his with surprise. This loyal man evidently loved me, but I knew not why. I had done no more for him than any other mistress might have done for a good servant. I had often spoken to him with impatience, even harshness; and yet I had somehow won his heart, at least so he said. Why should he care for me? Why should my poor old steward, Giacomo, still cherish me so devotedly in his memory? Why should my dog Tito still love and obey me, when my nearest and dearest, my husband and my only friend had both forsaken me and were eager to forget me? Perhaps fidelity was not the fashion any longer. Perhaps it was a worn-out virtue, left to the most humble, the poor, the animals. I sighed wearily, and threw myself down into an arm-chair near the window to watch the carriages roll past, their riders garmented in colorful winter cloaks.

  The brassy jingles of bells attracted my attention. In the street below my balcony I saw a young man singing and dancing. His voice was hauntingly beautiful, his ballads heartwrenching. But what attracted me was not his superior tone, but his wistful expression of pride. I could not help but watch him. When his dance concluded, a young woman, his companion, held and jingled silver bells with a bright but appealing smile. Silver scudi were freely flung to her on his behalf. I contributed my quota to the amount. All that she received, she emptied into a leather bag, earnings for the both of them. She was totally blind.

  I knew the couple well, and had often seen them. Their story was a sad one. The young man had been betrothed to the girl. She had been renowned for her skill in delicate embroidery, having received work orders from the Vatican itself to adorn papal gowns and decorations. With these meagre earnings she helped support her widowed mother and six younger siblings. Her eyesight, long painfully strained over her delicate labors, suddenly failed her. Before long, she became totally blind. She lost her ability to work and her family soon found themselves destitute. She offered to release him from their betrothal, but he would not leave her. He insisted on marrying her at once and devoted himself to her completely, body and soul.

  To earn a living to support her and her family, he sang in the streets. He had a skilled artisan teach her to weave baskets so that she might have some independence and a way to earn a living should something ever happen to him. She sold these baskets so successfully that she was making good trade.

  They were both so young. She was not much more than a child with a bright face glorified by the self-denial and courage of her everyday life. He was only a year or two older, with a gentle spirit and a kind heart. No wonder he had won the sympathy of the warmhearted people of Vicenza. They looked upon him as a romantic hero. When he passed through the streets, leading his blind wife tenderly by the hand, there was not a person in the entire city who would dare insult or offend them. They treated the couple with great respect because they were good, innocent, and true.

  How was it, I wondered dreamily, that I could not have won a man’s heart like his? Were the poor alone deserving of respect and faith, love and loyalty? Was there something in a life of wealth and luxury that destroyed one’s morals or virtues? Evidently, education had little impact, for had not my husband been educated among an or
der of monks renowned for their books and knowledge, their life of simplicity and sanctity? And yet, he was evil itself. Nothing had eradicated it. For him, even religion was a sham. He went through the motions only to disguise the true extent of his malevolence and hypocrisy.

  My own thoughts began to weary me. To distract myself, I picked up a book of poems and began to read. The day wore on slowly enough. I was glad when evening arrived, when Paolo, 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 Signore Gismondi’s coachman had just delivered it. It bore my own seal, and I opened it.

  Beloved!

  I arrived here safely; the monks 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 little. Why are you not always so fond of your faithful, Dario?

  I crumpled the note and flung it into the leaping flames of the newly lighted fire. There was a faint scent of cologne about it that sickened me because it reminded me of the brand he preferred and which I always associated with him. I would not permit myself to think of this so faithful Dario as he called himself.

  I resumed my reading, and continued it even at dinner, during which Paolo waited upon me with his usual silent gravity and decorum, though I could feel that he watched me with concern. I suppose I looked tired. I certainly felt so, and retired to bed unusually early. The time seemed to me so long. Would the end never come?

  The next day dawned, trailing its boring hours after it, as a prisoner might trail his chain of iron fetters, until sunset. Then, when the gray winter sky began to darken, Paolo brought me a note; a few scrawled words, a hastily written note that stilled my impatience, roused my soul, and braced every nerve and muscle in my body to instant action. The words were plain, clear, and concise:

  From Beatrice Cardano, Rome

  To la Contessa Giulia Corona, Vicenza.

  I shall be with you on the 24th. Coach arrives at 6:30 P.M. Will come to you as you desire without fail.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Christmas Eve! An extra chilly day fraught with frequent showers of stinging rain. Towards late afternoon, the weather cleared. Dull, gray clouds began to break apart, revealing gaps of pale blue sky and golden sunshine. Vendors proudly set up their tables displaying their wares. The shops were brilliant with displays of food and glittering items to suit all ages and needs; a tempting array from bonbons to jewellery. Nativity scenes with baby Jesus lying in his manger decorated shop windows. Round eyed children stared fondly at the waxen images.

  I intended to prepare an elegant feast for the party to honor Beatrice. I had requisitioned all the best resources. The villa’s cook had transferred her daily work to her underlings, and focused her culinary intelligence solely on producing the magnificent dinner I had ordered. Paolo, in spite of himself, broke into exclamations of wonder and awe as he listened to and wrote down my orders for different wines of the rarest kinds and choicest vintages. The servants rushed about to obey my various requests with looks of immense importance. Santina, took the setting of the table under her scrutiny. The talk everywhere was all about the grandeur of my forthcoming feast.

  About six o’clock I sent a male servants with the carriage to meet Beatrice as I had arranged. Then, I checked the dining hall to ensure the scenery, side-lights, and general effects were all in working order. The room was octagonal in shape, not too large, and I had it exquisitely decorated for the occasion. The walls were hung with draperies of gold-colored silk and crimson velvet and interspersed with long mirrors ornamented with crystal candelabra, in which twinkled hundreds of lights under rose-tinted glass shades. At the back of the room there was a small conservatory full of rare ferns and subtly perfumed exotic plants, in the center of which a fountain flowed melodiously. Here, later on, a band of stringed instruments and a boys’ choir would perform, so that sweet music might be heard without the performers being visible. One of the long French windows of the room was left uncurtained, simply draped with velvet as one drapes a painting, and through it my guests would be able to enjoy a perfect view of Vicenza in the wintery moonlight.

  The dinner-table, laid for fifteen persons, glittered with silver cutlery, Venetian glass, and rare flowers grown in elite conservatories. The floor was carpeted with velvet pile, in which some grains of ambergris had been scattered. When walking over it, one’s feet sunk into the softness, rich with the perfume of spring blossoms. The very chairs where my guests would sit were luxurious and softly stuffed, so that they could lean back or recline at ease. Everything was arranged with a lavish splendor befitting the banquet of the highest nobility, and yet with such accurate taste that no detail was omitted.

  I was more than satisfied and returned to my room where Santina waited to help me dress for the party. Afterwards, I returned to the dining hall where I found Paolo wiping water stains from crystal wine glasses set on a tray on a sideboard.

  “Paolo!”

  He tensed. “Contessa?”

  “Tonight you will stand behind my chair and assist in serving the wine.”

  “Si, contessa.”

  “You will attend particularly to Sigorina Cardano, who will sit at my right hand. The rare wine in the cabinet I showed you earlier is meant only for her and no one else, not even me.”

  “Of course, contessa.”

  “And take care to ensure that her glass is never empty.”

  “As you wish, contessa.”

  “Whatever may be said or done,” I went on, quietly, “you will show no sign of alarm or surprise. From the start of dinner, unless I tell you otherwise, your place is to remain by me, serving only Signorina Cardano.”

  He looked a little puzzled. “Si, contessa.”

  I smiled, and advancing, laid my hand on his arm. “Is the rare wine bottle wiped down and set out, Paolo?”

  “It is ready, contessa,” he replied. “It sits ready in your cabinet.”

  “Good. You can leave me now and arrange the salon to receive my friends,” I said with a satisfied gesture.

  I looked into a gilded mirror that hung on one wall and studied my appearance, which I had take particular care with. For this evening, I had commissioned a most extravagant gown in a silver-colored silk embroidered with a rich, floral pattern in gold and silver thread. Gems and pearls decorated the entire gown from bodice to hem. Tiers of delicate gold cloth formed my sleeves, which ran to my elbows. Around my neck I wore gold choker with a pear shaped pendant studded with diamonds. A set of matching earings decorated my ears. A jeweled and feathered hair ornament in my neatly coifed hair matched the color of my gown. The dress was a work of art in itself. The garment became me, almost too well I thought. It would have been better for my purposes if I could have appeared older and more serious.

  While I waited, I sat and quietly read a book.

  I had scarcely finished reading the first page when the rumbling of wheels in the courtyard outside made the hot blood rush to my face, and my heart beat with feverish excitement. I waited in the room, composed. The doors were flung open and a servant announced Signorina Cardano.

  She entered smiling, her face alight with good humor and enthusiasm. She looked more beautiful than usual wearing a new mantle and matching travelling gown the color of the reddest wine. How appropriate and ironic for what was to come this evening, I thought.

  “Here I am,” she exclaimed, taking my hands enthusiastically in her own. “My dear contessa, I am delighted to see you! What an excellent friend you are! A generous-hearted woman who always strives to make others happy. And how are you? You look remarkably well!”

  “I can return the compliment,” I said, gaily. “You are more radiant than ever.”

  She laughed, well pleased, and sat down, drawing off her gloves and loosening her traveling cloak.

  “Well, I suppose plenty of money puts a woman in good spirits and health,” she r
eplied. “But dear contessa, you are beautifully dressed for dinner, and I am still in my travelling clothes. 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 clothes. Your man took my valise; in it are my dress-clothes for this evening. I shall not be long in putting them on.”

  “I know how you enjoy a glass a wine before dinner. Share one with me first,” I said, pouring out some of her favorite wine. I glanced at the cabinet where the special wine waited. Soon, my dear Beatrice, very soon you will enjoy the finest of wines; a bottle I have already opened and prepared solely for you. “There is plenty of time. It is barely seven, and we do not dine till eight.”

  She took the wine from my hand and smiled.

  I returned the smile. “It gives me great pleasure to receive you, Beatrice! I have been impatient for your return, almost as impatient as—”

  She paused in the act of drinking, and her eyes flashed delightedly. “As Dario has been? How I long to see him again! I swear to you, I would have gone straight to the Villa Mancini had I heeded my own desire, but I promised you I would come here first. The evening you have planned will do just as well,” she laughed with a covert meaning in her laughter, “perhaps even better!”

  My hands clinched. “Why certainly. The evening will be much better,” I said with forced gaiety. “You will find him the same as ever, perfectly well and perfectly charming. It must be his sincerity and clear conscience that makes him even more handsome. It may be a relief for you to know I am the only woman he has allowed to visit him during your absence!”

  “Thank goodness for that!” Beatrice devoutly sipped her wine. “And now tell me, my dear contessa, who is coming tonight? After all I am more in the mood for dinner than romance!”