The Contessa's Vendetta
Page 22
We were now crossing the hall. I ventured on another inquiry. “He was a favorite pupil of yours, I believe?”
The monk turned his passionless face toward me with an air of mild surprise and reproof. “I have no favorites,” he answered, coldly. “All the young boys and men educated here share equally in my attention and regard.”
I murmured an apology. “You must pardon my curiosity, but as the future wife of the man who was educated here under your care, I am naturally interested in all that concerns him.”
Again the cleric surveyed me. He sighed slightly. “I am aware of the connection between you,” he said, in rather a pained tone. “Signore Gismondi belongs to the world, and follows the ways of the world. Of course, marriage is the natural fulfillment of most young men’s destinies. There are few who are called out of the ranks to serve Christ. Therefore, when Signore Gismondi married the esteemed Contessa Mancini, of whom everyone spoke of so favorably, we rejoiced, feeling that his future was safe in the hands of a gentle and wise woman. May her soul rest in peace! But a second marriage for him is what I did not expect, and what I cannot in my conscience approve. You see I speak frankly.”
“I am honored that you do so, brother!” I said, earnestly, feeling a certain respect for this sternly composed, yet patient man. “Though you may have reasonable objections, a second marriage is I think, in Signore Gismondi’s case almost necessary. He is young and handsome and needs an heir!”
The monk’s eyes grew solemn and almost mournful. “His handsome face is his fatal, curse. As a young boy, it made him wayward. As a grown man, it keeps him wayward still. But enough of this, contessa,” and he bowed his head. “Excuse my fothrightness. Rest assured that I wish you both happiness.”
We had reached the chapel door through which the sound of the pealing organ poured forth surges of melody. Brother Maurizio dipped his fingers in the holy water, and made the sign of the cross, pointed out a bench at the back of the church as one that strangers were allowed to occupy. I seated myself and admired the picturesque scene before me.
There was the sparkle of twinkling lights; the bloom and fragrance of flowers. There were silent rows of monks, black-robed and bare-headed, kneeling and absorbed in prayer. Behind these men were a little cluster of youths also in black with drooped heads. Behind them, I could see one man’s form arrayed in dark and elegant clothes; his black doublet of embroidered glazed linen stood out like a star against the sombre vestments of the monks around him. The sheeny glitter of golden hair confirmed that he was my husband. How devout he looked bathed by the rainbow of colors from the stained glass windows. I smiled in dreary scorn as I watched him. I cursed him afresh in the name of the woman I had killed.
The stately service went on. The organ music swept through the church as though it were a strong wind striving to set itself free. Amid it all, I sat as one in a dark dream, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing, inflexible, and cold as marble.
The rich deep voice of one of the monks in the choir singing the Agnus Dei, moved me to a chill. Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. No, there are some sins that cannot be taken away; the sins of faithless men.
Absorbed in thought, I knew not when the service ended. A hand touched me, and looking up I saw Brother Maurizio. “Follow me, if you please,” he whispered.
I rose and obeyed him.
He paused outside the chapel door. “Pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to see our members leaving.”
I nodded and walked on beside him. Feeling forced to say something, I asked, “Have you many boarders at this holiday season?”
“Only fourteen,” he replied, “and they are children whose parents live far away. Poor little ones!” The monk’s stern face softened into tenderness as he spoke. “We do our best to make them happy, but naturally they feel lonely. We have generally fifty or sixty young boys here, besides the day scholars.”
“A great responsibility,” I remarked.
“Very great indeed!” he sighed. “Almost terrible. So much of a man’s after-life depends on the early training he receives. We do all we can, and yet in some cases our utmost efforts are in vain. Evil creeps in, we know not how. Some unsuspected fault spoils a character that we judged to be admirable, and we are often disappointed in our most promising pupils. Sadly, there is nothing entirely without fault in this world.”
Thus talking, he showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room, lined with books.
“This is one of our libraries,” he explained. “Signore Gismondi will receive you here, as other visitors might disturb you in the drawing-room. Pardon me,” and his steady gaze had something of compassion in it, “but you do not look well. Can I offer you some wine?”
I declined this offer with many expressions of gratitude, and assured him I was perfectly well.
He hesitated. “I trust you were not offended at my remark concerning Signore Gismondi’s marriage with you? I fear I might have been too hasty.”
“Not so,” I answered earnestly. “Nothing is more pleasant to me than an honest opinion. Unfortunately, I have grown accustomed to deception—” Here I broke off and added hastily, “Please do not think me capable of judging you wrongly.”
He seemed relieved and gave me a shadowy, flitting smile. “No doubt you are impatient, contessa; Signore Gismondi shall come to you directly,” and with a small gesture, left me.
Surely he was a good man, I thought. I wondered about his past history—that past which he had buried forever under a mountain of prayers. What had he been like when young, before he had shut himself within the monastery, before he had set the crucifix like a seal on his heart? Had he ever trapped a woman’s soul and strangled it with lies? I fancied not. His look was too honest and candid. Yet who could tell? Were not Dario’s eyes trained to appear as though they held the very soul of truth?
A few minutes passed. Then came the shuffle of familiar footsteps. The door opened, and my husband entered.
Chapter Twenty-Three
He approached with his usual lion-like majesty and agile stride, his lips parted in a charming smile.
“So good of you to come, and on Christmas morning too!” He held out his two hands as though he invited an embrace, and then paused. Seeing that I did not move or speak, he regarded me with apprehension. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Has anything happened?”
I looked at him and saw that he was worried. I made no attempt to soothe him. I merely gestured at a chair.
“Let us sit first,” I said, gravely. “I am the bearer of bad news.”
He waited for me to sit first, and then sank into the chair. He gazed at me nervously.
Watching him keenly, I observed his unease with deep satisfaction. I saw plainly what was passing through his mind. A great dread had seized him; the dread that I had discovered his treachery. Indeed I had, but the time had not yet come for him to know it. Meanwhile I could see he suffered a gnawing terror; suspense ate into his soul. I said nothing, but waited for him to speak.
After a pause, during which his face had lost all color, he forced a smile. “Bad news? What can it be? Some unpleasantness with Beatrice? Have you seen her?”
“I have seen her,” I answered in the same formal and serious tone. “I have just left her. She sends you this,” and I held out my diamond ring that I had drawn off Beatrice’s dead finger.
If he had been pale before, he grew paler now. All the brilliancy of his complexion faded into an awful haggardness. He took the ring with fingers that shook and were icy cold. There was no attempt at smiling now. He drew a sharp quick breath; he thought I knew everything that he and she had done.
I deliberately kept my silence.
He looked at the diamond signet with a bewildered air. “I do not understand,” he murmured. “I gave her this as a remembrance of her friend, Carlotta. Why does she return it?”
Self-tortured criminal! I studied him with a dark amusement, but answered nothing.
&nbs
p; Suddenly he looked up at me. “Why are you acting so cold and strange? Do not stand there like a gloomy sentinel; kiss me and tell me at once what has happened.”
Kiss him! So soon after kissing the dead hand of his lover! No, I could not and would not. I remained where I was, unyielding, soundless.
He glanced at me again. “Do you not love me?” he murmured. “You could not be so stern and silent if you did. If there is bad news, break it to me. I thought you would never keep anything secret from me.”
“I agree and that is what I mean to do,” I said interrupting his complaint. “In your own words, you told me that your adopted sister, Beatrice Cardano, had become loathsome to you. Remember, I promised that I would silence her? Well, I have kept my word. She is silenced—forever!”
He tensed. “Silenced? How? You mean—”
I rose and stood so that I faced him. “I mean that she is dead.”
He exhaled a pent up breath, not of sorrow but of disbelief. “Dead? That is not possible. Dead!”
I bent my head gravely. “She became suddenly ill, perhaps from an illness she caught while in Rome. We spoke, and forgave each other in the moments before she died.”
He listened intently. A little color came returned to his face, but he still looked anxious.
“Did she mention my name?” he asked.
I glanced at his troubled features with contempt. He feared the dying woman might have made some confession to me. “No.”
He heaved a sigh of relief. He was safe now, he thought. His lips widened into a cruel smile. “What bad taste.” he said, coldly. “Why she would not think of me, I cannot imagine. I have always been kind to her – too kind.”
Too kind indeed. Kind enough to be glad when the object of all his kindness was dead. For he was glad. I could see that in the murderous glitter of his eyes.
“You are not sorry?” I inquired, with an air of pretended surprise.
“Sorry? Not at all! Why should I be? She was a very good friend while my wife was alive to keep her in order, but after my poor Carlotta’s death, her treatment of me was quite unbearable.”
Take care, handsome hypocrite, take care! Take care lest your poor Carlotta’s fingers should suddenly nip your throat with a convulsive twitch that means death. Heaven only knows how I managed to keep my hands off him at that moment. Any beast of the field had more feeling than this wretch whom I had made my husband. Even for Beatrice’s sake, I could have slain him in that very moment, but I restrained my fury. “Then I was mistaken? I thought you would be deeply grieved; that my news would shock you.” I spoke in a calm and steady voice.
He sprung up from his chair like a pleased child and pulled me to him in an embrace. “No, not in the least. Rather, I did not want to burden you by making you feel more grief.”
I looked at him in loathing and disgust. Every word he spewed from his lips was defamed. He did not notice my expression. He was absorbed, excellent actor that he was, in the role he had chosen to play.
“And so you acted sad because you did not wish to grieve me? Oh, you poor dear!” he said, in a caressing tone, such as he could assume when he chose. “But now that you see I am not unhappy, you will be cheerful again? Si? Know that I love you!” He held the ring out to me. “It is a small trifle, but because it once belonged to Carlotta, and to Carlotta’s father, whom you knew, I think you ought to have it. Will you take it and wear it to please me?” He slipped the diamond signet, my own ring, onto my finger.
I could have laughed aloud, but I nodded seriously as I accepted it. “Only as a proof of your affection, carissimo, though it has a terrible association for me. I took it from Beatrice’s hand as she lay dying.”
“Si, I know! It must have been trying for you to have seen her dead. Try to forget the matter. Illnesses are very common occurrences, after all!”
“Very common,” I answered, mechanically, still regarding the handsome face, the powerful allure of his eyes, the golden hair. “But they do not often end so fatally. The result of this one compels me to leave Vicenza for some days. I go to Venice tonight.”
“To Venice?” he asked with interest. “Carlotta and I went there often when we were first married.”
“And were you happy there?” I inquired, coldly. I remembered the times he spoke of; journeys of such feral, foolish joy!
“Happy? Si! Everything was so new to me then. It was delightful to be free and out of the monastery.”
“I thought you liked the monks?” I said.
“Some of them, yes. The abbot is a kind man, but Brother Maurizio, the one that received you, I detest!”
“Why?”
His lips curled mutinously. “Because he is so sly and silent. Some of the boys here adore him, but they have no choice, for there is no one else to love behind these strict walls.
“They have no choice? Must they?” I asked the question by rote, merely for the sake of saying something.
“Of course they must,” he answered. “The boys are starved for love and attention, only they do not dare let the monks know. Since I have been here they follow me everywhere and ask me to tell them stories. And I do it because it vexes Brother Maurizio.”
I was silent. What a curse love was. Its poison even finds its way into the hearts of children; young things shut within the walls of a secluded monastery, and guarded by the meticulous care of holy men.
“And the monks?” I said, uttering half my thoughts aloud. “How do they manage without love?”
A wicked smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in his eyes. “Do they manage without love?” he asked, half indolently. “I suppose they do in one way or another.”
Roused by something in his tone, I caught his hand and held it firmly. “And you? Is it possible that you sympathize with those who participate in illicit lust?”
He recollected himself in time. “Not me!” he answered, with a grave and virtuous air. “How can you think so? In my mind, there is nothing as horrible as deceit. No good ever comes of it.”
I loosened his hand from mine. “You are right,” I said, calmly; “I am glad your values are so correct! I have always hated lies.”
“So have I!” he declared with a frank look. “I have often wondered why people tell them. It is disastrous when they are found out.”
I bit my lips hard to stop the accusations my tongue longed to utter. Why should I damn the actor or the play before the curtain was ready to fall on both? I changed the subject. “How long do you propose remaining here? Now there is nothing to prevent your return to Vicenza.”
He pondered for some minutes before replying. “I told father superior I came here for a week. I had better stay till that time is expired. Not longer, because with Beatrice’s death, my presence in Vicenza is necessary.”
“Indeed! May I ask why?”
He laughed a little consciously. “Simply to put forth her last will and testament. Before she left for Rome, she gave it into my keeping.”
A light flashed on my mind. “And its contents?” I inquired.
“Its contents make me the owner of everything she died possessed of!” he said, with an air of quiet, yet malicious triumph.
Poor Beatrice! What trust she had placed in this vile, self-interested, heartless man! She had loved him, even as I had loved him – he who was unworthy of any love! I controlled my rising emotion, and merely said with gravity, ““I congratulate you! May I be permitted to see this document?”
“Certainly. I can show it to you now. I have it here,” and he drew a leather case from a pocket, and opening it, handed me a sealed envelope. “Break the seal!” he added eagerly. “She saled it up like that after I had read it.”
With a reluctant hand, and a pained sympathy at my heart, I opened the packet. It was as he had said, a will drawn up in perfectly legal form, signed and witnessed, leaving everything unconditionally to Dario Gismondi of the Villa Mancini, Vicenza. I read it through and returned it to him. “She must have loved you very much!”
I nodded. I could not trust myself to speak.
“I thought so,” he murmured, gleefully, more to himself than to me. “And I have a right to all her papers and letters.” There he paused abruptly and checked himself.
Now I clearly understood. He wanted to get back his own letters to the dead woman, lest his intimacy with her should leak out in some way for which he was unprepared. Cunning devil! I was almost glad he showed me to what a depths of vulgarity he would sink. In his case, there was no hope for me to show any pity or restraint. If all the tortures invented by savages or inquisitors could be heaped upon him at once, such punishment would be light in comparison with his crimes; crimes for which the law gives you no remedy but divorce. I grew tired of this wretched comedy.
“It is time to take my leave,” I said stiffly. “Moments fly fast whenever I am with you, but I have many things to attend to before I leave for Venice this evening. On my return, will you welcome me?”
“You know it,” he returned pulling me close until I rested my head against his shoulder.
For appearance’s sake I was forced to remain in his partial embrace.
“I only wish you were not going at all. Do not stay away long.”
“Absence strengthens love, they say,” I observed, with a forced smile. “May it do so in our case. Pray for me while I am gone. I suppose you do pray a great deal here, don’t you?”
“What else is there to do?” He held my hands. The betrothal ring on his finger and the diamond signet on my own, flashed in the light like the crossing of swords.
“Pray then for the repose of poor Beatrice’s soul. Remember that she loved you, even though you never loved her. Who knows, but maybe her spirit may be near us now, hearing our voices, watching our looks?”