The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  Bridegrooms in Vicenza do not bother their brides with their presence or caresses as soon as they are married. Instead, they restrain their ardor to preserve the rose-colored mist of love as long as possible. They have a wise, instinctive dread of becoming overfamiliar; aware that nothing kills romance so swiftly as close and constant proximity.

  And Dario and I, like other members of our rank and class, permitted each other a few moments of freedom. To my twice-wedded husband, I gave the last hours of liberty he would ever know. He left me to dress and adornment myself as most women do, believing I was eager to outshine others of my sex, and sow petty envies, mean hatreds and contemptible spites. But I was not such a woman. Tonight, I dressed only for Dario.

  From my window I could see the Piazza dei Signori and I stepped out onto the balcony to watch the crowd’s frolics. The foolery had begun, and no detail of it seemed to bore the easily amused folks who must have seen it all so often before. A vendor of quack medicines was making the crowd laugh. He was talking to a number of colorfully dressed girls and fishermen. I could not make out his exact words, but judging by his absurd romantic gestures, I could see he was selling an elixir of love; an elixir compounded, no doubt, of a little harmless honeyed water.

  Flags flapped in the breeze, trumpets brayed, and drums beat. Musicians twanged their mandolins loudly to attract attention, and failing in their efforts, swore at each other jovially. The conflicting calls of flower-girls and lemonade-sellers rang through the air. Now and then a shower of confetti flew out from adjacent windows, dusting the coats of the passers-by. Clusters of flowers tied with favors of brightly colored ribbon were lavishly flung at the feet of bright-eyed peasant girls, who rejected or accepted them at pleasure, with light words and playful talk. Clowns danced and tumbled, dogs barked, and church bells clanged. Through all the waves of color and movement crept the miserable, shrinking forms of poor diseased beggars clad in rags that barely covered their halting, withered limbs as the pleaded for a coin or two.

  It was a scene to bewilder the brain and dazzle the eyes, and I was just turning away from it out of sheer fatigue, when a sudden cessation of movement in the swaying, whirling crowd, and a slight hush, caused me to look out once more to determine what caused the momentary stillness.

  A funeral cortege appeared, moving at a slow and solemn pace. As it passed across the square, heads were uncovered, and women crossed themselves devoutly. Like a black shadowy snake it coiled through the mass of shifting color and brilliance. After a few moments, it was gone. The depressing effect of its appearance soon wore away. The merry crowd resumed their folly and shrieking, their laughing and dancing, and everything returned to the gaiety of before.

  And why not? The dead are soon forgotten. No one knew that better than me, I thought, as I leaned my arms lazily on the edge of the balcony. That glimpse of near death in my life had forever changed me. Strangely enough, my thoughts turned to methods of torture practiced upon vile criminals. For instance, the iron coffin where criminals were bound hand and foot, and then forced to watch the huge lid descending slowly, slowly, slowly, half an inch at a time, till at last its heavy weight crushed the writhing wretch who had watched death steadily approaching in agony, into a flat and mangled mass. Suppose that I had such a coffin now. I shuddered. No. He whom I sought to punish was too handsome and well-built despite his wicked soul. He should keep his good magnificent good looks! I would not destroy that. I would be satisfied with my plan as I had crafted it.

  I re-entered my room and called for Paolo, who was now resigned and eager to go to Venice. I gave him his final instructions and placed in his charge the iron cash-box, which, unknown to him, contained a small fortune in gold and silver and jewels. This was the last good act I could do. It was a sufficient sum to set him up as a well-to-do merchant in Venice with Lilla and her little dowry combined. And there was enough for a dowry for Santina too. He also carried a sealed letter to Signora Monti, which I told him she was not to open until a week had elapsed. This letter explained the contents of the box and my wishes concerning it. It also asked Signora Monti to send for Annunziata and poor old Giacomo at Villa Mancini, and tend to them both as well as she could till their deaths, which, judging by their ages, I knew could not be far off.

  I had thought of everything, and I could foresee what a happy, peaceful home they would all find in Venice. Lilla and Paolo would wed, I knew, and form a happy family with Santina. Signora Monti and Annunziata would console each other with their past memories and in the tending of Lilla’s children. For some time, perhaps, they might even talk of me and wonder where I had gone. Then gradually they would all forget me, for that is what I wanted – to be forgotten.

  Si, I had done all I could for those who had never wronged me. I had rewarded Paolo and Santina for their affection and fidelity. Now, the path ahead of me was clear. There was nothing more to do except complete the deed that had clamoured at me for so long to accomplish.

  Revenge, like a beckoning ghost, had led me on, step by step, for many weary days and months in cycles of suffering. But now it paused, it faced me, and turning its blood-red eyes upon my soul, yelled at me to strike!

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The masquerade ball opened brilliantly. The rooms were magnificently decorated. The lustre of a thousand lamps shone on a scene of splendor that befit the court of a queen. Some of the stateliest nobles in all of Venice were present, their breasts glittering with jeweled orders and ribbons of honor. Some of the loveliest women to be seen anywhere in the world flitted across the polished floors, delicate and graceful in a rainbow of brilliant colors and shades.

  But handsomest among all, peerless when it came to his vanity, and absolutely faultless in his charms, was my husband, the groom, the hero of the night. Never had he looked so splendid, and even I, felt my pulse quicken, and the blood course more hotly through my veins as I beheld him, radiant, victorious, and smiling behind his Bauta mask. It covered his entire face with its square jawline, no mouth, and plenty of gilding. He had changed his garments too. Now he wore a wine-colored coat above a golden silk waistcoat and black brocade breeches. The brigand’s ship pendant flashed gloriously around his neck below his cravat, while his golden hair reflected the light of a hundred or more candles. Around his wrist he wore a heavy, manly bracelet studied with brilliants that I well remembered, for they had once belonged to my father. Yet even more lustrous than the gems he wore was the deep, ardent glory of his eyes, dark as night and luminous as stars that glowed through his mask.

  Some of the grandes dames present at the ball that night wore dresses the likes of which are seldom seen outside of Venice. Gowns sown with jewels and thick with wondrous embroidery that have been handed down from generation to generation through hundreds of years. As an example of this, Federica Marina’s gold train, stitched with small rubies and seed-pearls, had formerly belonged to the family of Lorenzo de Medici. Garments like these, when they are part of the property of a great house, are worn only on particular occasions, perhaps once in a year; and then they are laid carefully away and protected from dust and moths and damp, receiving as much attention as the priceless pictures and books of a famous historical mansion. Nothing ever designed by any great modern tailor or milliner can compete with the magnificent workmanship and durable material of the festa dresses that are locked preciously away in the old oaken coffers of the greatest Venetian families; dresses that are beyond valuation, because of the nostalgic romances and tragedies attached to them.

  Such glitter of gold and silver, such scintillations from glistening jewels, such magnificent embroidery, such subtle aromas of rare and exquisite perfume, such bejewelled masks; all these things that stimulate the senses surrounded me in full force this night; this one dazzling, supreme and terrible night, that was destined to burn into my brain like a seal of scorching fire. Si, till I die, this night will remain with me as though it were a breathing, living thing; and after death, who knows whether it may rise again in some
tangible, awful shape, and confront me with its flashing mockery and menacing eyes, to haunt me through all eternity. I remember now how I shivered and was startled out of the bitter reverie into which I had fallen when I heard the sound of my husband’s low, laughing voice.

  “You must dance, cara,” he said, with a mischievous smile. “You are forgetting your duties. You and I are required to open the ball!”

  I rose mechanically.

  “What dance is it?” I asked, forcing a smile. I noticed the dance area had filled up with men and women, the men’s steps more athletic than that of the women who kept their upper bodies erect, their arms quiet, their movements minimal above the waist. “I suspect you will find me to be awkward partner. It has been many years since I have danced.”

  He shook his head and his eyes narrowed. “You had better not disgrace me. You have to dance properly. You’ll make us both look stupid if you make any mistake. The band was going to play a quadrille, but I told them to strike up a waltz instead. You’d better not waltz badly. Nothing looks so awkward and absurd.”

  I said nothing, but allowed him to place his arm round my waist and stood ready to begin. I avoided looking at him as much as possible, for it was growing more and more difficult with each passing moment to maintain my self-control. I was consumed with both hate and love. Si, love of an evil kind, in which there was nothing admirable about it. I was filled with a foolish fury that battled with an urge to proclaim his vileness then and there before all my titled and admiring guests, and to leave him shamed in the dust of scorn, despised and abandoned. But I knew that if I were to speak out now and declare the truth of my past and his before that brilliant crowd, they would all think me mad. Besides, for a man like him, there existed no shame.

  The slow waltz, that most enchanting of dances, now commenced. It was played pianissimo, and stole through the room like the fluttering breath of a soft sea wind. I had always been an excellent waltzer, and my step completed that of Dario’s harmoniously. He glanced up with a look of gratified surprise as I bore his languorous, dreamlike movements through the glittering ranks of our guests, who watched us with admiration as we circled the room.

  Then everyone present followed our lead. In a few minutes the ballroom looked like a moving flower-garden in full bloom, rich with swaying colors and rainbow-like radiance. The music, growing stronger, and swelling out in marked and even time, echoed forth like the sound of clear-toned bells broken through by the singing of birds. My heart beat furiously, my mind reeled, my senses swam as I felt my husband’s warm breath on my cheek. I clasped his shoulder more closely and held his hand more firmly. He felt the double pressure, and his lips parted in a smile. “At last you love me!” he said.

  “At last, at last,” I muttered, scarce knowing what I said. “If I had not loved you from the beginning, caro, we would not have been married today.”

  A low ripple of laughter was his response. “I knew it,” he murmured again as he drew me with swifter and with more voluptuous motion into the vortex of the dancers. “You tried to be cold, but I knew I could make you love me, si, love me passionately, and I was right.” Then with an outburst of triumph and vanity he added, “I believe you would die for me!”

  I pressed my body closer to his. My hot quick breath moved the feathery gold of his hair away from his ear. “I have died for you,” I said. “I have killed my old self for your sake.”

  Still dancing, with his arms encircling me, and gliding along to the music of the dance, he sighed restlessly. “Tell me what you mean, amore,” he asked, in the tenderest tone in the world.

  Oh, that tender seductive cadence of his. How well I knew it. How often had it lured away my strength. “I mean that you have changed me,” I whispered. “I may seem old, but for you tonight, I will be young again. For you my chilled slow blood shall again be hot and quick as lava. For you my long-buried past shall rise in all its pristine vigor. For you I will be a lover, such as perhaps no man ever had or ever will have again!”

  My words pleased him and he pulled me closer to him in the dance. Next to his worship of wealth, his delight was to arouse the passions of women. He was very panther-like in his nature. His first tendency was to devour, his next to gambol like an animal, though his sleek, swift playfulness might mean death. He was by no means exceptional in this; many men are like him.

  As the music of the waltz grew slower and slower, dropping down to a sweet conclusion, my husband led me to a table, and left me as he went to dance with a distinguished Venetian noblewoman who was his next partner.

  Unobserved, I slipped out to make inquiries concerning Paolo and Santina. I learned they had departed. One of the waiters, a friend of his, had seen him leave. Paolo had glanced into the ball-room before leaving, and had watched me dance with my husband, and then with tears in his eyes had left without daring to wish me good-bye.

  I accepted this information with kind indifference, but in my heart I felt a sudden emptiness, a dreary, strange loneliness. With my faithful servants near me I had been in the presence of friends, for friends they both were in their own humble, unobtrusive fashion; but now I was alone and lonely beyond all comparison; alone to do my work, without prevention or detection. I felt isolated from humanity, set apart with my victim on some dim point of time. The rest of the world had receded. Only Dario and I and God were all that existed for me; and between the three of us, justice must be fulfilled.

  I returned to the ballroom. At the door a young boy faced me. He was the only son from a great Paduan house. Dressed in pure blue, as most boys are, with a white flower on his coat, and his dimpled face alight with laughter, he looked the very embodiment of happy youth. He addressed me somewhat timidly, yet with all a child’s frankness. “Is this not grand? I feel as if I were a king. Do you know this is my first ball?”

  I smiled wearily. “Truly? And you are happy?”

  “Oh, yes, I am ecstatic and wish it could last forever. And, is it not strange, but I did not know I was so handsome till tonight.” he said this with perfect simplicity, and a pleased smile radiated his features.

  I glanced at him with cold scrutiny. “And some one has told you so?”

  He blushed and laughed. “Si, the daughter of the Venetian duke himself. And she is too noble to say what is not true, so I must be the most handsome young man here, just as she said, is it not true?”

  I touched the flower he wore at his breast. “Look at your flower, child. See how it begins to droop in this heated air. The poor thing! How glad it would feel if it was once again growing in the cool wet moss of the woodlands, waving n the fresh wind! Do you think it could revive now if a young woman told it that it was handsome or beautiful? The same is true about your life and your heart. Pass them through the scorching fire of flattery, and their purity will wither like this fragile blossom. And as for being handsome, are you more handsome than him?” I pointed to my husband who was at that moment courtesying to a most beautiful woman in the stately formality of the first quadrille. My young companion looked, and his clear eyes darkened enviously. “Ah, no! But if I wore such manly brocades and silks, and had such rich jewels, I might be more like him!”

  I sighed bitterly. The poison had already entered this boy’s soul. I spoke brusquely. “Pray that you may never be like him,” I said, with somber sternness, ignoring his look of astonishment. “You are young, you cannot yet have thrown off religion. When you go home tonight, kneel beside your bed, and pray with all your strength that you may never resemble, even in the smallest degree, that man, so that you may be spared his fate!” I paused, for the boy’s eyes were dilated in extreme wonder and fear. I looked at him, and laughed abruptly. “I forgot,” I said. “The man is my husband. I should have thought of that. I was speaking of another whom you do not know. Pardon me. When I am fatigued my memory wanders. Pay no attention to my foolish remarks. Enjoy yourself, but do not believe all the twitters and coquettery of young girls like the little Venetian duchess. Arrivederci!”

&
nbsp; Forcing a smile, I left him to mingle with my guests, greeting one here, another there, jesting lightly, paying compliments to the men who expected them while striving to distract my thoughts with the senseless laughter and foolish chatter of the glittering cluster of people. And all the while, I desperately counted the tedious minutes, wondering whether my patience would until its destined time. As I made my way through the dazzling assemblage, Luciana Salustri greeted me with a grave smile.

  “I have had little time to congratulate you, contessa,” she said, “but I assure you I do so with all my heart. Even in my most fantastic dreams I have never pictured a handsomer hero than the man who is now your husband.”

  I silently bowed my thanks.

  “I am in a strange mood, I suppose,” she resumed. “Tonight this scene of splendor makes me sad at heart, and I do not know why. It seems too radiant, too astounding. I would as soon go home and read a good book.”

  I laughed satirically. “Why not do it?” I said. “You are not the first person who, being present at a wedding feast has had depressing thoughts, just as if you were a t a funeral!”

  A wistful look came into her poetic eyes. “I have thought once or twice of that poor, misguided young woman, Beatrice Cardano. A pity, was it not, that you quarrelled the same night she died?”

  “A pity indeed!” I replied, brusquely. Then linking my arm with hers, I turned her around so that she faced my husband, who was standing not far off. “But look at the Roman god I have married! Is he not a good reason to cause a dispute? Why even bother to think of Beatrice at a time like this? She is not the first woman who has quarelled with another for the sake of a man, nor will she be the last!”

  Luciana shrugged her shoulders, and kept silent for a minute or two. Then she added with her own bright smile, “Still, it would have been better if it had ended cordially between you over a coffee. By the way, do you recall our talking of Cain and Abel that night?”