I withdrew my hand from his clasp to stop his revelations. “I am not angry,” I said, with quiet steadiness, and yet with a touch of coldness, though his expressions of affection had deeply stirred me. “No, I am not angry, but I am sorry to have been the object of so much anxiety on your part. Your pity is misplaced, Paolo, it is indeed. Do not pity me. I assure you that tomorrow I will have won all that I have ever sought. My greatest desire will be fulfilled. Believe it. No woman has ever been so thoroughly satisfied as I shall be!”
Then seeing him still look sad and incredulous, I clapped my hand on his shoulder and smiled. “Come, wear a merry face for my bridal day. I thank you from my heart.” I gave him a grave look. “For your well meant care and kindness, I assure you there is nothing wrong with me. I am perfectly well and happy. So, I can depend on you to go to Venice tomorrow evening?”
Paolo sighed, but was passive. “It will be as you please,” he murmured, resigned to my request.
“Good. Now that you know my wishes, please ensure nothing interferes with your departure. And, please do me one more favor. Please cease to watch me. Plainly speaking, I do not like being under your scrutiny. No, I am not offended. Far from it. Loyalty and devotion are excellent virtues, but in my case I prefer obedience – strict and implicit obedience. Whatever I may do, whether I sleep or wake, walk or sit still, go about your duties and pay no attention to me or anything that I may say or do. That is how you can best help me. Do you understand?”
“Si, contessa.” He sighed again, and reddened with his own inward confusion. “You will forgive me, contessa, for being so forthright? I feel I have done wrong—”
“I forgive you for something that never needs to be pardoned – an excess of love. Knowing you love me, I ask you to obey me in my present wishes, and thus we shall always be friends.”
His face brightened at these last words, and his thoughts turned in a new direction. He glanced at the iron box I had pointed out to him. “That is to go to Venice, contessa?” he asked, with more alacrity than he had yet shown.
“Si,” I answered. “You will place it in the hands of Signora Monti, for whom I have a great respect. She will take care of it till I return.”
“I shall do as you wish, contessa,” he said, rapidly, as though eager to atone for his past hesitation. “After all,” he smiled, “it will be pleasant to see Lilla. She will want to hear a full accounting of your wedding.”
Somewhat consoled by the prospect of seeing Lilla, he then left me. Shortly afterward I heard him humming a popular love-song while he packed my portmanteau for the honeymoon trip, a portmanteau destined never to be used or opened by its owner.
That night, in contrast to my usual practice, I lingered for a long time over my dinner. Afterwards, I poured two full glasses of fine wine. Secretly, I mixed a dose of a tasteless opiate into them. I invited Paolo and Santina to join me and bade them drink it to privately celebrate my nuptials before they left for Venice. They both drained the contents to the last drop as we celebrated.
Outside, a tempest blustered with high winds and heavy, sweeping gusts of rain. Santina cleared the dinner-table, yawning as she did so. As usual, Paolo took my mantle and went to his bedroom, a small one adjoining Santina’s, to brush off any dust and dirt from it.
I opened a book, and pretending to be absorbed in the story, waited patiently for about half an hour. Then I went softly to their bedroom doors and looked in. It was as I had expected; overcome by the sleeping opiate, Santina now lay on her bed in a profound slumber. Paolo too, lay in his bed in his room, the unbrushed mantle by his side. I smiled as I watched them; my faithful servants could not follow me tonight.
I left them to their slumber, and wrapping myself in a thick cloak that muffled me almost to the eyes, I hurried out into the dark storm toward the cemetary, the abode of the dead. Fortunately I met no one on the way. I had work to do there. Work that must be done. I knew that if I had not taken the precaution of drugging my devoted servants, Paolo might, despite his protestations, have been tempted to follow me. As it was, I felt I would be safe for at least four hours, when the opiate would wear off and Paolo and Santina would wake up.
I arrived at the crypt and went to work. Though I worked as quickly as possible, it took me longer than I thought. Hatred and reluctance slowed me down. This was a gruesome, ghastly work of preparation, and when I finished it to my satisfaction, I felt as though the bony fingers of death itself had been plunged into my very marrow. I shivered with cold, my limbs would scarce bear me upright, and my teeth chattered as though I were seized by strong fever. But the importance of my task kept me motivated and working until all was completed, until the stage was ready for the last scene of the tragedy. Or comedy? Betrayal by a spouse is a more bitter evil than death.
When I returned from my dismal walk through the lashing storm I found Paolo still fast asleep. I was glad, for had he seen me in my plight, he would have had good reason to be alarmed concerning both my physical and mental condition. I caught a glimpse of myself in the looking glass, and recoiled at the horrible image that reflected back at me. My eyes appeared haunted and hungry eyes as they gleamed out from under a mass of disordered white hair. My pale, haggard face was set and stern. Glittering raindrops dripped from my dark cloak. Dirt and mud stained my hands and nails, and my shoes were heavy with sludge and clay. By my entire appearance and demeanor, it was obvious I had been engaged in some abhorrent deed too repulsive to be named.
I stared at my own reflection and shuddered. Then I laughed softly with a sort of fierce enjoyment. Quickly I threw off all my soiled garments, and locked them out of sight. Arraying myself in dressing-gown and slippers, I glanced at the time. It was half-past one. The morning of my wedding! I had been absent three hours and a half.
I went into my salon and remained there writing. A few minutes after two o’clock, the door opened noiselessly, and a very sleepy Paolo appeared with an expression of inquiring anxiety. He smiled drowsily, and seemed relieved to see me sitting quietly in my accustomed place at the writing-table. I surveyed him with an air of affected surprise. “Paolo! What has become of you all this time?”
“It was the wine,” he stammered. “I am not used to drinking. I have been asleep.”
I laughed, pretended to stifle a yawn, and rose from my easy-chair.
“Truly, so have I,” I said, lightly, “And if I want to be a radiant bride, it’s time I went to bed. Buona notte, Paolo.”
“Buona notte, contessa.”
And we both retired to rest; he satisfied that I had been in my own room all evening, and I, overjoyed with what I had prepared out there in the darkness, without a single witness except for the whirling wind and rain.
Chapter Thirty
My wedding morning dawned bright and clear, though last night’s wind still sent clouds scuttling rapidly across a fair blue sky. The air was strong, fresh, and exhilarating, and the high spirited crowd that swarmed into the Piazza dei Signori was anxious to begin celebrating Giovedi Grasso, Fat Tuesday.
As the hours passed, people hurried to the cathedral, anxious to secure their places in order to catch a glimpse of the pageantry and brilliant garments of the few distinguished persons who had been invited to my wedding. The ceremony was to take place at eleven, and at a little before half past ten I entered my carriage, accompanied by Federica Marina, my sole bridesmaid, and drove to the church. Clad in my dazzling gown of blue and gold silk brocade with adornments of satin and silk taffeta ribbon, and with an intricate embroidered veil to cover my simply styled hair, I bore almost no resemblance to the haggard woman who had faced me in the mirror a few hours earlier.
A strange happiness took hold of me; a sort of half-frenzied merriment that threatened to break through the mask of dignified composure I must wear. There were moments when I could have laughed, shrieked, and sung with the energy of a drunken barmaid. As it was, I talked incessantly; my conversation flavored with bitter wit and pungent sarcasm. Once or twice Federic
a studied me with wonder, as though she thought my behavior contrived or unnatural. Paolo was compelled to drive rather slowly because of the pressing throngs that swarmed at every corner and through every thoroughfare. Masked celebrants yelled, street clowns romped about, and sharp bursts of colored bladders that people tossed into the air startled my spirited horses frequently, causing them to leap and prance dangerously, thus attracting more than the usual attention to my carriage. As it drew up at last at the door of the church, I was surprised to see such a large crowd. There were loungers, beggars, children, and middle-class persons of all sorts, who excitedly watched my arrival.
As per my instructions, a rich crimson carpet had been laid down from the edge of the pavement right into the church as far as the altar. A silken awning had also been erected, under which bloomed a miniature avenue of palms and tropical flowers. All eyes were turned upon me as I stepped from my carriage and entered the chapel with Federica. Murmurs of my vast wealth and generosity were whispered as I passed along.
One old crone, hideously ugly, but with dark piercing eyes, the fading lamps of a lost beauty, chuckled and mumbled as she craned her skinny neck to observe me more closely. “Oh, that poor woman. She has to be rich and generous to satisfy that money-hungry scoundrel she weds today – he who scoffs at the suffering poor!”
Federica caught these words and glanced quickly at me, but I pretended not to have heard them.
The great bell of the cathedral boomed out eleven, and as the last stroke swung from the tower, the massive doors were flung more widely open. I heard the gentle rustle of my trailing robes as I began my walk down the aisle.
Ahead, standing before the altar, I beheld my husband. He wore a coat of dark blue velvet over a brocade waistcoat embroidered with silver thread. On his hands, wrists, and around his neck, he wore the jewels I had given him, and they flashed about him like scintillating points of light.
Inside the church, there were a great number of people, but my own invited guests, not numbering more than twenty or thirty, were seated in the space reserved for them near the altar, which was separated from the sight-seers by a silken rope that crossed the aisle. I smiled at most of them, and in return received their congratulations as I walked confidently towards the high altar. In my role as an older woman, I was without the escort of a paternal protector with only Federica to walk behind me.
The magnificent paintings and frescos on the wall round me seemed endowed with mysterious life. The eyes of the saints and martyrs were turned to me as though they reprimanded me - Must you do this? Is there no hope for forgiveness?
And in my mind came my stern answer. No! If hereafter I am tortured in hell, now while I live, I must be avenged! No consolation or joy can be mine without my fulfilled revenge. And this I will seek as long as I breathe. For once, a man’s treachery shall meet with punishment. For once, justice shall be done!
As I walked, I wrapped myself in the somber, meditative silence. The sunlight fell gloriously through the stained windows; blue, gold, crimson, and violet shafts of dazzling radiance glittered in lustrous flickering patterns on the snowy whiteness of the marble altar, and slowly, softly, majestically, as though an angel stepped forward, the sound of music flowed on the incense-laden air.
I recalled my former wedding, when I had stood in this very spot, full of hope, intoxicated with love and joy, when Beatrice Cardano had been by my side, and had been tempted for the first time by my husband’s handsome face and body; when I, poor fool, had never believed that either of these two people whom I adored could play me false.
I could see the admiration that broke out in suppressed murmurs from those assembled, as I paced slowly and gracefully up the aisle towards the devil’s masterpiece who awaited me there. He smiled when I reached the altar and sank to my knees beside him in prayer. The music swelled forth with grandeur, the priests and acolytes appeared, and the marriage service commenced.
Soon came the blessing and exchange of rings. I drew the wedding-ring from my small purse that hung from my waist and and looked at it. It was sparklingly bright and appeared new. But it was old - the very same ring I had drawn off my husband’s finger the day before. It had been newly burnished by a skilled jeweler, and showed no signs of wear, as if it had been bought that morning.
As we placed our rings on the book the priest held, I glanced at Dario. His fair head was bent as if absorbed in holy meditations. The priest sprinkled them with holy water. Dario took the ring I had provided him to give me, and set it on my hand - first on the thumb, then on the index finger, then on the middle finger, and lastly on the ring finger, where he left it in its old place. As he did so, I wondered whether he recognized it as the one he had given me so long ago when we were first wed. But it was evident he did not. His calm remained unbroken. He had the self-possession of a perfectly satisfied, handsome, vain, and utterly heartless man.
The actual ceremony was soon over. The Mass flowed smoothly, and we, the newly-wedded pair, were required to receive Communion. I shuddered as the priest placed the Host on my tongue. What had I to do with the purity and peace this memento of Christ is supposed to leave in our souls? In fact, as I swallowed, I believed the crucified image of Christ with the pained eyes let me know that I would soon seal my own damnation. Yet, my husband, the true murderer, the arch liar, received the Sacrament with untroubled tranquility.
If I am damned, then he is double damned. Hell is wide enough for us to live apart when we get there.
Thus I consoled my conscience, and looked away from the painted faces on the wall; the faces that in their various expressions of sorrow, resignation, pain, and death seemed now to bear another look, that of astonishment—astonishment that a woman like me and a man like him had been permitted to kneel at God’s altar without being struck dead for blasphemy.
Absorbed in my morose thoughts, I scarcely heard the close of the service. I was roused by a touch from my husband, and I returned to the moment to hear the organ music thunder through the air. All was over: my husband was mine; mine by the exceptionally close-tied knot of a double marriage; mine to do with as I pleased until death should us part. How long before death would come to us? And I began mentally counting the spaces of time that must elapse before the curtain closed on the final act of this, my long drawn plan.
I was still absorbed in this mental arithmetic, even while my husband offered me his arm before we entered the vestry to sign our names in the marriage register. So occupied was I in my calculations that I nearly caught myself murmuring certain numbers aloud. I checked myself and tried to appear interested and delighted, as I walked down the aisle with my groom through the rows of admiring spectators.
On reaching the outer doors of the church, several flower-girls emptied their fragrant baskets at our feet; and in return, I handed a bag of coins to Dario to distribute to them, knowing from prior experience that it would be needed. To tread across such a heap of flowers required some care. Many of the blossoms clung to my gown as we moved forward slowly.
Just as we had almost reached the carriage, a young girl, with large laughing eyes set like flashing jewels in her soft oval face, threw a cluster of red roses down in my path. A sudden fury possessed me, and I crushed my heel instantly and savagely upon the crimson blossoms, stamping upon them again and again so violently that my husband raised his brows in amazement, and the pressing people who stood round us, shrugged and gazed at each other with looks of utter bewilderment—while the girl who had thrown them shrunk back in terror, her face paling as she murmured, “Santissima Madonna! Mi fa paura! Holy Mother, she scares me!”
I bit my lip with vexation, inwardly cursing the weakness of my own behavior. I laughed lightly in answer to Dario’s unspoken, half-alarmed inquiry. “It is nothing—a mere fancy of mine. I hate red roses! They remind me of human blood!”
He frowned. “What a horrible thought. How can you think such a thing?”
I gave him no response. He assisted me into the carriage with courte
sy; then entering it himself, we drove together back to my rented villa, where the wedding breakfast awaited us.
This is always a feast of uneasiness and embarrassment. Everyone is glad when it is over; when the flowery speeches and exaggerated compliments are brought to a fitting and happy conclusion. Among my assembled guests, all of whom belonged to the best and most distinguished families in Vicenza, there was a pervading atmosphere of chilliness. The women were bored, jealous of my rich gown and jewels. The men were constrained, and could scarcely force themselves into even the semblance of warmth. They evidently thought that, with such wealth as Dario’s, he would have done much better to remain a bachelor. In truth, the Veneto people are by no means enthusiastic concerning marriage. They are apt to shake their heads, and to look upon it as a misfortune rather than a blessing. The altar is the tomb of love is a very common saying.
It was a relief to us all when we all rose from the splendidly appointed table, and separated for a few hours. We were to meet again at the masquerade wedding ball, which was to commence at nine o’clock that evening. The highlight of the event was to be the final toasting of the bride after which there would be music, mirth, and dancing with all the splendor of royal revelry. At the end of the night, everyone would remove their masks and reveal themselves.
My husband escorted me to my private room, for I had many things to do such as to take off my bridal gown, don my ball costume for the night, and supervise Santina as she packed my trunks for the next day’s journey.
The next day! I smiled grimly and wondered how Dario would enjoy his last trip. He kissed my hand respectfully and left me alone to prepare for the brilliant evening’s feast.
The Contessa's Vendetta Page 28