The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  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. 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 through the streets with quiet footsteps. Some paused to exchange friendly greetings. I remembered what day it was with a pang at my heart. The night was over, though as yet there was no sign of dawn. It was Christmas morning!

  I looked back at Beatrice. Had I not suffered as she was now suffering? No, I had suffered more than she, for she would not be buried alive! I would take care of that. She would not have to endure the agony of breaking free from a cold grave to come back to life and find her name slandered and her place taken by a usurper. Do what I would, I could not torture her as much as I myself had been tortured. That was a pity. Death, sudden and almost painless, seemed too good for her. She must live long enough to recognize me before she died. That was the sting I reserved for her last moments. Beatrice had hurt me three times. Once in her theft of my husband’s affections, once in her contempt for my little dead child, and once more in her slanders on my name. Then why were such foolish notions such as pity and forgiveness beginning to creep into my thoughts? It was too late now for forgiveness. The very idea of it only rose out of silly sentimentalism awakened when Beatrice alluded to our young days; days for which, after all, she really cared nothing about.

  I turned to look at Beatrice again and would do so with uncovered eyes. I removed my spectacles and placed them on the bedside table. Vaguely, I wondered what the effect would be upon her. I was very much changed even without these disguising glasses. My white hair had altered my appearance, yet I knew there was something familiar in the expression of my eyes that could not fail to startle one who had known me so well.

  As I studied her pained, suffering face, I experienced a passing shudder, but not because the air was chilly. It was because of the terrible certainty of killing the woman I had once loved, my dearest friend. I experienced a sick pain in my heart. And when I thought of Dario, the snake who had wrought all the evil, my wrath against him increased tenfold. I wondered scornfully what he was doing in the quiet monastery in Padua. No doubt he slept; it was yet too early for him to practice his sham of sanctity. He slept, in all probability most peacefully, while his wife waited for death to take his lover.

  Beatrice moaned and opened her eyes, glazed with agony. She stared at me with a frantic faroff look. Suddenly she shuddered and gave out another smothered groan. A deep anguished sigh parted her lips. Sense and speculation returned to those glaring eyes so awfully upturned. She looked upon my face without the dark glasses with doubt, and then she grew strangely shocked. Her lips moved and she tried to speak. She pointed at me. Her wild eyes met mine with a piteous beseeching terror.

  “In God’s name,” she whispered. “Who are you?”

  “You know me, Beatrice!” I answered, steadily. “I am Carlotta Mancini, whom you once called friend. I am the woman whose husband you stole and whose name you slandered and whose honor you despised. Look at me well. Your own heart tells you who I am!”

  She uttered a low moan and raised her hand with a feeble gesture. “Carlotta? Carlotta?” she gasped. “She died. I saw her in her coffin.”

  I leaned more closely over her. “I was buried alive,” I said distinctly. “Do you understand, Beatrice. Buried alive! I escaped, never mind how. I came home, only to learn about your treachery. Shall I tell you more?”

  A terrible shudder shook her frame. Her head moved restlessly to and fro, the sweat stood in large drops upon her forehead. With my own handkerchief I wiped her lips and brow tenderly. My nerves were fraught to a brittle tension. I smiled as if on the verge of hysterical weeping.

  “You know the dear old avenue where the nightingales sing? I saw you there with him on the night I returned from death. He held you in his arms and you kissed. You spoke of me and toyed with a flower.”

  She writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement. “Tell me!” she gasped. “Does he know you?”

  “Not yet!” I answered, slowly. “But soon he will, when I marry him.”

  A look of bitter anguish filled her straining eyes. “Oh, God, God!” she exclaimed with a groan like that of a wild beast in pain. “This is horrible, too horrible! Spare me, spare—” A rush of vomit choked her utterance. Her breathing grew fainter and fainter; the livid hue of her approaching death spread itself gradually over her expression. Staring wildly at me, she groped with her hands as though she searched for some lost thing. I took one of those feebly wandering hands within my own, and held it closely clasped.

  “You know the rest,” I said gently. “You understand my vengeance! But it is all over, Beatrice, all over, now! He has played us both false. You drank poisoned wine all night, all part of my vendetta. It is over now. May God forgive you as I do!”

  “I must see Dario.” She laboured to speak each word.

  “He is gone. I sent him away to Padua.”

  Slowly I watched her expression of rage turn to one of understanding. She gave me a weak smile. “You won. You always win.” A soft look brightened her fast-glazing eyes, the old girlish look that had won my love and friendship in former days. “All over!” she repeated in a sort of plaintive babble. “All over now! God—Carlotta—forgive—” A terrible convulsion wrenched and contorted her limbs and features, her throat rattled, and stretching herself out with a long shivering sigh, she died.

  The first beams of the rising sun, piercing through the dark, moss-covered branches of the pine-trees, fell on her clustering hair, and lent a mocking brilliancy to her wide-open sightless eyes. There was a smile on her closed lips.

  A burning, suffocating sensation rose in my throat. Rebellious tears tried to force a passage, but I refused to set them free. 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 he had given her. I drew the jewel off then I kissed that poor hand tenderly, reverently, as I laid it gently down. Hearing footsteps approaching, I rose and stood with folded arms, looking down on the stiffening form before me.

  Paolo came up beside me. He did not speak for a moment, but surveyed the body in silence. “She is dead.”

  I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak.

  “She apologized?” Paolo asked.

  I nodded again. There was another pause of heavy silence. The rigid smiling face of the corpse seemed to mock all speech. Paolo stooped and skillfully closed those glazed appealing eyes, and then it seemed to me as though Beatrice merely slept and that a touch would waken her.

  “You must take some wine, contessa. You look ill!”

  I glanced out the window. A golden radiance illuminated the sky, while 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.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Benedictine Abbey of Praglia

  Later that night, Paolo helped me secretly deposit Beatrice’s body at the rear of the church. Afterwards, as he drove me back through the streets of Vicenza, I bade him stop at the corner of the winding road that led to the Villa Mancini. There I alighted. I must leave Vicenza temporarily, until Beatrice’s death became a thing of the past so that no suspicion would fall upon me.

  I asked Paolo to continue on to my rented villa and have Santina pack my trunk in readiness to depart that evening for Venice.

  He listened to my commands in silence. “Do Santina and I also travel with the contessa?”

  “No, not this time,” I answered with a forced smile. “I am heavy-hearted, and melancholy women are best left to themselves. Besides, remember the carnivale. I promised you and your daughter you were free to indulge in its merriment. If you come with me, you will feel obligated to take care of me, and I shall I not deprive you of your pleasure. No, Paolo; stay here in Vice
nza and enjoy yourself, and do not worry about me.”

  Paolo saluted me with his usual respectful bow, but his features wore an expression of obstinacy. “The contessa must pardon me,” he said, “but I have looked upon death this night, and my taste is spoiled for carnivale. Again, the contessa suffers with sadness. It believe it is necessary that I should accompany her to Venice.”

  I saw that his mind was made up, and I was in no mood for argument.

  “As you wish,” I answered, wearily, “but believe me, you make a foolish decision. But do what you like. Arrange everything so that we leave immediately. Give no explanation to anyone of what has occurred, and lose no time in returning with the carriage. I will wait for you alone at Villa Mancini.”

  Paolo rumbled off in the vehicle. I watched it disappear, and then turned into the road that led me to my own sullied 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 master of the house was absent, or that someone lay dead within.

  A vague wonder arose in my mind. Who was dead? Surely it must be I, the mistress of the household, who lay stiff and cold in one of those curtained rooms. This terrible white-haired woman who roamed feverishly up and down outside the walls was not me. It was some angry demoness risen from the grave to wreak punishment on the guilty. I was dead, otherwise I could never have killed the woman who had once been my friend. And she also was dead—the same murderer had slain us both—and he still lived! Ha! That was wrong and it was his turn to die next, but in such a torturous way that his very body would shrink and shrivel and descend into the furnaces of hell.

  With my mind full of hot whirling thoughts like these I looked through the carved heraldic work of the villa gates. Here, behind these twisted wreaths of iron, Beatrice had once walked. There was nothing but compassion for her in my heart now that she was dead. She had been duped and wronged. Now I believed that her spirit would work with mine and help me to punish Dario.

  I paced round the silent villa 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 of my own betrayal. How still were those solemn trees. 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 this Christmas morning. No bright-hued flower unfurled itself against the morning sun. Yet, there was a subtle perfume everywhere; the fragrance of unseen violets still closed in winter’s slumber.

  I gazed on the scene; a woman staring at a place where she once was happy. I walked a few paces, and then paused with a strange beating in my heart. A shadow fell across my path. It flitted before me, stopped, and remained still. Gradually, as if swirling in a mist, it turned into the figure of a woman standing in rigid silence, with the light beating full on her smiling, dead face, and also on a pool of vomit staining the grass at her feet. Sick horror seized me at this sight, and I sprung forward. The shadow vanished instantly.

  It was a mere delusion; the result of my overwrought and excited condition. I shuddered involuntarily at the image my own heated imagination had conjured up. Would I always see Beatrice thus, I thought, even in my dreams?

  Suddenly a ringing, swaying rush of sound burst into the silence. The slumbering trees awoke, their leaves moved, their dark branches quivered, and the grasses quivered. Christmas bells! And such bells! Their melody stormed the air with sweet eloquence, round, rainbow bubbles of music that burst upon the wind, and dispersed in delicate broken echoes.

  Peace on earth, good will to men! Peace on earth, good will to men!

  This was the melody the bells sang over and over again until my ears ached. Peace! What had I to do with peace or good-will? Christmas could teach me nothing. I was utterly alone in life. For me, no bonds of family remained.

  The 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 elegant trees, now thoroughly awakened, which seemed to surround me with disdain.

  I was glad when I stood again on the road, and was relieved to hear the rapid trot of horses, the rumbling of wheels, and saw my closed carriage drawn by its prancing white Arabians, approaching. I walked to meet it.

  Seeing me, Paolo drew up instantly. He helped me into the carriage where I settled next to Santina, huddled beneath warm furs. Then I bade Paolo take me to Padua, to the Benedictine Abbey of Praglia.

  The monastery was a two hour drive away. It was a good distance off the direct route and could only be reached by a side road, which from its rough and broken condition was evidently not used much. It lay at the foot of the Euganean Hills, between Padua and Abano Terme, along the ancient road to Este.

  The building stood apart from all other habitations in a large open piece of ground, fenced in by a high stone wall. Paolo drew up before the heavily barred gates. I alighted, and bade him take the carriage to a nearby inn where he and Santina were to wait for me. As soon as he had driven off, I rang the monastery bell.

  A little wicket fixed in the gate opened and the wrinkled face of a very old and ugly monk looked out. In a low tone, he demanded what I sought. I handed him my card, and stated my desire to see Signore Gismondi, if agreeable to the father superior. While I spoke he looked at me curiously. My spectacles, I suppose, made him wonder. After peering at me a minute or two with his bleared and aged eyes, he shut the wicket in my face with a smart click and disappeared. While I awaited his return I heard the sound of children’s laughter and light footsteps running over the cobblestone passage inside.

  “Robert,” a young boy said. “Brother Maurizio is very angry with you.”

  “Keep quiet,” another boy said in a more piercing tone. “I want to see who is there. I know it’s a woman, because Brother Lorenzo’s cheeks turned red.”

  Both voices broke into a chorus of renewed laughter.

  Then came the shuffling noise of the old monk’s footsteps returning. He evidently caught the two truants, whoever they were, for I heard him admonishing, scolding, and naming saints all in a breath, as he ordered them to go inside and ask the good Jesus to forgive their naughtiness. A silence ensued, then the bolts and bars of the huge gate were undone slowly. They swung open and I was admitted.

  The monk guided me through a long, cold avenue lined by trees on either side. He looked at me no more and never spoke again till we entered the building. We entered a lofty hall glorious with sacred paintings and statues, and from there into a large, elegantly furnished room, whose windows commanded a fine view of the grounds. Here he motioned me to take a seat, and without lifting his eyelids, said, “Father Maurizio will be with you shortly, signora.”

  I bowed, and he strode from the room so noiselessly that I did not even hear the door close behind him. Left alone in the reception-room, I looked about me with curiosity. I had never before seen the interior of an educational monastery. There were many paintings on the walls and mantelpiece; portraits of young men, some plain of face, others handsome. No doubt they had all been sent to the monks as mementos of former pupils.

  Rising from my chair I examined a few of them carelessly. My attention was caught by a frame surmounted with a familiar crest and coronet. In it was my husband’s portrait the way he looked when we married. I took it to the light and stared at the features dubiously. This was he—this slim, tall creature clad in dark sapphire blue. This was the man for which two women’s lives had been sacrificed. With a sigh of disgust I returned the frame to its former position

  The door opened quietly and a tall man clad in a black cossack stood before me. I curtseyed to him with respectful reverence. He responded with a slight nod. His outward manner was so composed that when he spoke, his colorless lips scarcely moved. His breathing never sti
rred the silver crucifix that lay like a glittering sign-manual on his chest. His voice, though low, was singularly clear and penetrating.

  “You are the Contessa Corona?” he inquired.

  I nodded in the affirmative. He looked at me keenly. He had dark, brilliant eyes, in which the smoldering fires of many a conquered passion still gleamed.

  “You wish to see Signore Gismondi, who is in retreat here?”

  “If it is not inconvenient or against the rules—” I began.

  The shadow of a smile flitted across the monk’s pale, intellectual face; it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

  “Not at all,” he replied, in the same even monotone. “Signore Gismondi is, by his own desire, following a strict regime, but today being Christmas, all rules are relaxed. The reverend father desires me to inform you that it is now the hour for mass—he has himself already entered the chapel. If you will share in our devotions, Signore Gismondi shall afterward be informed of your presence here.”

  I could do no less than accede to this proposition, though in truth it was the last thing I wanted. I was in no humor for church, prayers, or worship of any kind. How shocked this monk would be if he could have known what manner of woman he had just invited to kneel in the sanctuary. I offered no objection and he bade me follow him.

  “Is Signore Gismondi well?” I asked as we left the room.

  “He seems so,” returned Brother Maurizio. “He follows his studies with exactitude, and makes no complaint of boredom.”