“Do you make my coffee? Does Paolo not help you?”
The faintest blush tinged her cheeks. “Oh, he is very good, Paolo. He is a good friend and is glad when I make coffee for him too. He loves it so much and likes how I make it. But perhaps the contessa prefers Paolo to make your coffee?”
I laughed. For a grown woman, she was so naive, so absorbed in her duties. “No, Lilla. I shall enjoy my coffee more now that I know your kind hands have been at work. But you must not spoil Paolo. You will turn his head if you make his coffee too often.”
She looked surprised and did not seem to understand. Evidently, in her mind, Paolo was nothing more than a good-natured man whose palate could be pleased by her culinary skill. She treated him exactly as she would have treated one of her own sex. She seemed to think over my words as if they caused a conundrum, and then she apparently gave it up as hopeless, shaking her head and dismissing the subject. “Has the contessa seen the new bridge?” she said brightly, as she turned to go.
I asked her to what she alluded.
“It is not far from here,” she explained, “The enclosed bridge is made of white limestone and has windows with stone bars. It passes over the Rio di Palazzo and connects the prison to the Doge’s Palace. Some people believe that lovers will be granted eternal love if they kiss on a gondola at sunset under the bridge. It will please you to see it, contessa. It is but a walk of ten minutes.”
And with a smile, she left me, singing aloud for sheer happiness. Her pure lark-like notes floated toward me where I stood, wistfully watching her as she disappeared. The warm afternoon sunshine caught her chestnut hair, turning it to a golden bronze, touching up the whiteness of her throat and arms, and brightening the scarlet of her bodice. As she descended the grassy slope, I lost sight of her amid the stone façades of Venizia’s homes.
Limestone Bridge
(Known today as The Bridge of Sighs)
Chapter Twenty-Five
I heaved a sigh and resumed my walk. With every step, I came to realize all that I had lost in my life. This lovely young woman, near to my own age, with her simple fresh nature, had trapped the heart of a good, caring, and loyal man like Paolo. Why had I not attracted such a man and wedded him instead of the vile creature who had been my soul’s undoing? The answer came swiftly. Even if a good man had been attracted to me when I was free, I could never have married him. Noblewomen must marry well educated gentlemen who are as wealthy and as well versed in the world’s ways as they are, if not more so. And so we get the scoundrels while young women like Lilla too often become the household drudges of common workers, living and dying in the routine of hard work, and often knowing little more than the mountain-hut, the farm-kitchen, or the covered stall in the market-place. Women are often are never so hopelessly, utterly fooled as in their marriages!
Occupied in various thoughts, I scarcely saw where I wandered, till a flashing glimmer of blue water recalled me to the reason for my walk. I stopped and looked around me. I had reached the corner where I could observe the structure. The view was indeed superb. Beyond the new bridge I could see the azure sea. The structure looked exactly as Lilla had described it, made of white limestone construction with barred windows stretching high above the canal that attached the Doge’s palace to the prison. Two windows with stone bars appeared at the summit of the enclosed bridge. Despite the dismal reason for the bridge, it was beautiful from the outside. I had been inside the doge’s palace several times, but had always entered by the front on the lagoon side – never from the rear of the residence. The bridge was lovely and I immediately understood why lovers in gondola stole kisses while gliding across the water beneath it.
I sat down on a bench to rest. Then I remembered the the packet I had received that morning; a packet I had hesitated to open. It had been sent by Gilda D’Avencorta, accompanied by a courteous letter.
Contessa,
I am writing to inform you that Beatrice Cardano’s body has been privately buried with last rites in the cemetery close to the funeral vault of the Mancini family. From all we can discern, this seemed to be her desire since she was a close friend of the lately deceased contessa.
Within this packet, I have enclosed some letters found among Signorina Cardano’s personal possesions. Upon opening the first one, in the expectation of finding some clue as to her last wishes, I quickly concluded that you, as the future wife of the man whose signature and handwriting you will recognize, should be made aware, not only for your own sake, but in fairness to the deceased. If all the letters are of the same tone as the one I unknowingly opened, I have no doubt Beatrice Cardano considered herself sufficiently injured by you the night you quarrelled. But of that you will judge for yourself, though I recommend you to give careful consideration to the enclosed correspondence before marrying Signore Gismondi. It is not wise to walk on the edge of a precipice with one’s eyes shut. I have learned that Beatrice Cardano left a will in which everything she possessed was left unconditionally to him. You will of course draw your own conclusions. Please pardon me if I am guilty of too much zeal in informing you of all this. I have now only to tell you that all the unpleasantness of this affair is passing over very smoothly and without scandal. I have taken care of that. You need not prolong your absence further than you feel inclined, and I, for one, shall be charmed to welcome you back to Vicenza. With every sentiment of the highest consideration and regard, I am,
Your very true friend,
Gilda D’Avencorta
I folded this letter carefully and set it aside. The package she had sent me lay in my hand – a bundle of neatly folded letters tied together with a narrow ribbon, and strongly perfumed with the faint sickly cologne I knew and abhorred and Beatrice’s favourite perfume. I turned them over and over; the edges of the note-paper had already become worn with use. Slowly I untied the ribbon. With methodical deliberation I read one letter after the other.
They were all from Dario, all very amorous, and all written to Beatrice while she was in Rome. Some bore the exact dates when he had declared his love to love me, his newly betrothed. Letters burning and tender, full of the most passionate promises of fidelity, overflowing with the sweetest terms of endearment; with such a ring of truth and love throughout them that it was no wonder that Beatrice had not suspected anything, and that she had believed herself safe in her fool’s paradise. One passage in this romantic correspondence stood out from all the others:
Why do you write so much of marriage to me, Beatrice? It seems that all the joy of loving will be taken from us when the world learns of our passion. If you become my wife you will cease to be my lover, and that would break my heart. Ah, my beloved! I desire you to be my lover always, as you were when Carlotta lived. Why bring matrimony into the midst of such a love and passion as ours?”
I read and reread these words, searing them into my mind. Of course I understood their drift. Dario had tried to feel his way with the dead woman. He had wanted to marry me, and yet retain Beatrice as his lover. Such an ingenious plan it was! No thief, no murderer ever laid a more cunning scheme than he, but the law looks after thieves and murderers. For a cheating man, the law is mute. There is no justice for those he betrays. Ah, but I have my own way of seeking a remedy.
Tying up the packet of letters again, with their sickening aroma and fraying edges, I drew out the last graciously worded missive I had received from Dario. Of course I heard from him every day. He was a most faithful correspondent. The same affectionate expressions characterized his letters to me as those that he had deluded his dead lover with. The only difference was that in Beatrice’s letters he railed against the dreariness of marriage. In mine, he painted touching pictures of his desolation; how lonely he had felt since his dear wife’s death, how happy he was to think that he would be a happy husband again – the husband of one so noble, so true, so devoted as I was. He had left the monastery and was now at home. He wanted to know when he would have the joy of welcoming me, his beloved, back to Vicenza?
> He certainly deserved some credit for artistic lying. I could not understand how he managed it so well. I almost admire his skill, as one would admire a cool-headed burglar, who has more cunning and pluck than his comrades. I thought with triumph that though the wording of Cardano’s will enabled him to secure all other letters he might have written to her, this one little packet of documentary evidence was more than sufficient for my purposes. And I was determined to keep it till the time came for me to use it against him.
And how about Gilda’s friendly advice concerning the matrimonial knot? A woman should not walk on the edge of a precipice with her eyes shut. Very true. But if her eyes are open and she has her enemy within her clutches, the edge of a precipice is a convenient position for hurling that enemy down to death in a quiet way so that the world will not know about it. So, for the present I preferred the precipice to walking on level ground.
I rose from my seat. It was growing late in the afternoon. From the little church below me soft bells rang out. When the bells ceased ringing, I returned homeward through the shady streets.
On reaching the gate of the Signora Monti’s humble yet picturesque dwelling, I heard the sound of laughter. In the shady orchard, I saw Paolo hard at work, his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, splitting logs while Lilla and Santina stood beside him, encouraging his efforts. He seemed in his element, and wielded his ax with a regularity and vigor I did not expect from a man whom I was accustomed to see performing somewhat effeminate duties in attending me. I watched him and the young women for a few moments unnoticed.
If this budding romance were left alone it would ripen into a flower, and Paolo would be happier than I had ever been in my entire life. From the way he handled his wood-ax, I could see that he loved the hills and fields, the life of a simple farmer and fruit-grower, full of innocent enjoyments as sweet as the ripe apples in my orchards. I could foresee his future with Lilla beside him. Santina seemed to like Lilla too. Together, they would be content, living hale lives made all the more beautiful by the fresh air and the fragrance of flowers. Their evenings would slip softly by to the tinkle of the mandolin, and the sound of his family’s singing.
What better future could a man desire? What more certain way to keep health in the body and peace in the mind? Could I not help him be happy, I wondered? I, who had grown severe because of brooding too long upon my vengeance, could I not bring joy to others? If I could, my mind would be lightened of its burden; a burden grown heavier since Beatrice’s death. From her death, a new fury had been unleashed inside me, twice as wrathful. But if I could do one good act, it might help ease my soul’s stormy darkness.
Just then Lilla laughed. What amused her now? I looked and saw that she had taken the ax from Paolo, and lifting it in her hands, was attempting to imitate his strong stroke. He stood aside with a look of admiration for her. The warm rays of late afternoon sun rained down on the tender scene. Poor Lilla. A knife would have made as much impression as her valorous blows on the knotty old stump she was trying to split. Flushed and breathless with her efforts, she looked more beautiful than ever, and at last, baffled, she handed the ax back to Paolo, laughing at her incapacity for wood-cutting. She shook her apron free from the chips and dust. A call from her mother caused her to run swiftly into the house, and Santina followed her inside. Paolo remained alone, working away at his task.
I walked to him.
When he saw me approaching, he paused with a look of slight embarrassment.
“You like this sort of work?” I said, gently.
“An old habit, contessa, nothing more. It reminds me of my boyhood days when I worked for my mother. My old home was a pleasant place.” His eyes grew pensive and sad. “It is all gone now, finished. That was before I became a soldier. But one thinks of it sometimes.”
“I understand. And no doubt you would be glad to return to the life of your boyhood?”
He looked a little startled.
“Not to leave you, contessa!”
I smiled rather sadly. “Not to leave me? Not even if you wedded Lilla Monti?”
His cheeks flushed, but he shook his head. “I do not think such a thing possible.”
“She is a grown woman, past marrying age. But there is plenty of time. She is beautiful, as you said, and something better than that, she is honest. Think of that, Paolo! Do you know how rare a thing honesty is? Respect it as you respect God; let her life be sacred to you.”
He glanced upward reverently. “Contessa, would that I had a chance.”
I smiled and said no more, but turned into the house. From that moment I was determined to give this love of Paolo’s a chance at success.
So, I remained in Venice longer than I intended, not for my own sake, but for Paolo’s. He had served me faithfully; he should have his reward. I took a pleasure in seeing my efforts to promote his cause succeed. I spoke with Lilla often on insignificant matters and watched her constantly when she was unaware of my gaze. With me she was frank and fearless, but soon I found that she grew shy of mentioning Paolo’s name, that she blushed when he approached her, that she was timid of asking him to do anything for her. By her reactions, I knew what was in her mind and heart.
One afternoon I called Signora Monti to my room.
She entered, surprised and a little anxious. “Is anything wrong with the service?”
I reassured her that everything had been impeccable and came to the point at once. “I would like to speak to you about your daughter, Lilla,” I said, kindly. “Have you ever thought that she might wish to marry one day?”
Her dark bold eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered. “I have, but I have prayed, perhaps foolishly, that she would not leave me yet. I love her so much. I would be distraught if she married and moved away from me.”
“I understand,” I said. “Still, suppose your daughter wedded a man who would be like a son to you and who would not part her from you? For instance, let us say Paolo?”
Signora Monti smiled through her tears. “Paolo! He is a good man and I like him, but he does not think of Lilla. Rather, he seems very devoted to you, contessa.”
“I am aware of his devotion to me,” I answered. “Still, I believe you will find out soon that he loves Lilla. At present he says nothing and is afraid to offend you, but his eyes speak, and so do hers. You are a good woman, a good mother. Watch them both and you will see for yourself that they love each other.” I handed her a pouch I had filled with gold coins. “Inside you will find enough to cover Lilla’s dowry.”
She uttered a little cry of amazement.
“It is for whoever she marries, though I think she will marry Paolo. Giving you these coins is the only pleasure I have had for many weary months. Think well of Paolo, for he is an excellent man. And all I ask of you is, that you keep this dowry a secret till the day your daughter marries.”
Before I could stop her, she seized my hand and kissed it. Then she lifted her head with the proud dignity of a Roman matron. Her broad bosom heaved and her strong voice quivered with suppressed emotion. “I thank you, contessa, for Lilla’s sake! Not that my daughter needs more than what my hands can give her; I thank the blessed saints who have watched over us. But this is a special blessing God sent to me through your hands, and I would be unworthy of it, were I not grateful. Contessa, pardon me, but I can see that you have suffered much sorrow. Good actions lighten grief! We will pray for your happiness, Lilla and I, till the last breath leaves our lips. Believe it. We will lift your name to the saints night and morning, and who knows but good may come of it.”
I smiled faintly and sighed. “I am certain much good will come of your prayers, signora, though I am unworthy of them. Rather pray for the dead that that they may be freed from their sins.”
The good woman looked at me with kind pity mingled with awe. Murmuring her thanks and a blessing once more, she left the room.
A few minutes later, Paolo entered. “Absence is the best test of love, Paolo. Prepare everything for our de
parture. We will be leaving Venice the day after tomorrow.”
And so we did. Lilla looked downcast, but Paolo seemed satisfied, and I knew from their expressions and from the mysterious smile of Signora Monti, that all was going well.
I left La Serenissimma with regret, knowing I should see it no more. I gave Lilla a smile when we parted and took what I knew was my last look of her. Yet the knowledge that I had done some good gave my tired heart a sense of satisfaction and repose—a feeling I had not experienced since I died and rose again from the dead.
On the last day of January, after an absence of more than a month, I returned to Vicenza. My many acquaintances and friends welcomed me back. Gilda D’Avencorta informed me the affair over Beatrice’s death was a thing of the past—an almost forgotten circumstance. The carnival was in full riot, the streets were scenes of revelry. There was music and dancing, masquerading and feasting. But I ignored all the merriment and instead absorbed myself in preparing for my marriage.
Basilica Palladiana
Chapter Twenty-Six
When I look back over those frantic weeks preceding my wedding-day, they seemed like the dreams of a dying woman. Shifting colors, confused images, moments of clear light, hours of long darkness. All things coarse, cultured, material, and spiritual were blending into ever-changing new forms and bewildering patterns. My mind was clear, yet I often questioned whether I was not going mad; whether all the careful, methodical plans I formed were but the hazy wishes of a disordered mind? But no. Each detail of my scheme was too complete, too consistent, too organized.
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