She interrupted me with a wild sobbing cry.
“He loved me! Guido loved me!”
“Ay, he loved you, oh, devil in the shape of a woman! he loved you! Come here, here!” and in a fury I could not restrain I dragged her, almost lifted her along to one corner of the vault, where the light of the torches scarcely illumined the darkness, and there I pointed upward. “Above our very heads — to the left of where we stand — the brave strong body of your lover lies, festering slowly in the wet mould, thanks to you! — the fair, gallant beauty of it all marred by the red-mouthed worms — the thick curls of hair combed through by the crawling feet of vile insects — the poor frail heart pierced by a gaping wound—”
“You killed him; you — you are to blame,” she moaned, restlessly, striving to turn her face away from me.
“I killed him? No, no, not I, but you! He died when he learned your treachery — when he knew you were false to him for the sake of wedding a supposed wealthy stranger — my pistol-shot but put him out of torment. You! you were glad of his death — as glad as when you thought of mine! YOU talk of murder! Oh, vilest among women! if I could murder you twenty times over, what then? Your sins outweigh all punishment!”
And I flung her from me with a gesture of contempt and loathing. This time my words had struck home. She cowered before me in horror — her sables were loosened and scarcely protected her, the richness of her ball costume was fully displayed, and the diamonds on her bosom heaved restlessly up and down as she panted with excitement, rage and fear.
“I do not see,” she muttered, sullenly, “why you should blame me! I am no worse than other women!”
“No worse! no worse!” I cried. “Shame, shame upon you that thus outrage your sex! Learn for once what men think of unfaithful wives — for may be you are ignorant. The novels you have read in your luxurious, idle hours have perhaps told you that infidelity is no sin — merely a little social error easily condoned, or set right by the divorce court. Yes! modern books and modern plays teach you so: in them the world swerves upside down, and vice looks like virtue. But I will tell you what may seem to you a strange and wonderful thing! There is no mean animal, no loathsome object, no horrible deformity of nature so utterly repulsive to a true man as a faithless wife! The cowardly murderer who lies in wait for his victim behind some dark door, and stabs him in the back as he passes by unarmed — he, I say, is more to be pardoned than the woman who takes a husband’s name, honor, position, and reputation among his fellows, and sheltering herself with these, passes her beauty promiscuously about like some coarse article of commerce, that goes to the highest bidder! Ay, let your French novels and books of their type say what they will — infidelity is a crime, a low, brutal crime, as bad if not worse than murder, and deserves as stern a sentence!”
A sudden spirit of defiant insolence possessed her. She drew herself erect, and her level brows knitted in a dark frown.
“Sentence!” she exclaimed, imperiously. “How dare you judge me! What harm have I done? If I am beautiful, is that my fault? If men are fools, can I help it? You loved me — Guido loved me — could I prevent it? I cared nothing for him, and less for you!”
“I know it,” I said, bitterly. “Love was never part of your nature! Our lives were but cups of wine for your false lips to drain; once the flavor pleased you, but now — now, think you not the dregs taste somewhat cold?”
She shrunk at my glance — her head drooped, and drawing near a projecting stone in the wall, she sat down upon it, pressing one hand to her heart.
“No heart, no conscience, no memory!” I cried. “Great Heaven! that such a thing should live and call itself woman! The lowest beast of the field has more compassion for its kind! Listen: before Guido died he knew me, even as my child, neglected by you, in her last agony knew her father. She being innocent, passed in peace; but he! — imagine if you can, the wrenching torture in which he perished, knowing all! How his parted spirit must curse you!”
She raised her hands to her head and pushed away the light curls from her brow. There was a starving, hunted, almost furious look in her eyes, but she fixed them steadily on me.
“See,” I went on— “here are more proofs of the truth of my story. These things were buried with me,” and I threw into her lap as she sat before me the locket and chain, the card-case and purse she herself had given me. “You will no doubt recognize them. This—” and I showed her the monk’s crucifix— “this was laid on my breast in the coffin. It may be useful to you — you can pray to it presently!”
She interrupted me with a gesture of her hand; she spoke as though in a dream.
“You escaped from this vault?” she said, in a low tone, looking from right to left with searching eagerness. “Tell me how — and — where?”
I laughed scornfully, guessing her thoughts.
“It matters little,” I replied. “The passage I discovered is now closed and fast cemented. I have seen to that myself! No other living creature left here can escape as I did. Escape is impossible.”
A stifled cry broke from her; she threw herself at my feet, letting the things I had given her as proofs of my existence fall heedlessly on the floor.
“Fabio! Fabio!” she cried, “save me, pity me! Take me out to the light — the air — let me live! Drag me through Naples — let all the crowd see me dishonored, brand me with the worst of names, make of me a common outcast — only let me feel the warm life throbbing in my veins! I will do anything, say anything, be anything — only let me live! I loath the cold and darkness — the horrible — horrible ways of death!” She shuddered violently and clung to me afresh. “I am so young! and after all, am I so vile? There are women who count their lovers by the score, and yet they are not blamed; why should I suffer more than they?”
“Why, why?” I echoed, fiercely. “Because for once a husband takes the law into his own hands — for once a wronged man insists on justice — for once he dares to punish the treachery that blackens his honor! Were there more like me there would be fewer like you! A score of lovers! ’Tis not your fault that you had but one! I have something else to say which concerns you. Not content with fooling two men, you tried the same amusement on a supposed third. Ay, you wince at that! While you thought me to be the Count Oliva — while you were betrothed to me in that character, you wrote to Guido Ferrari in Rome. Very charming letters! here they are,” and I flung them down to her. “I have no further use for them — I have read them all!”
She let them lie where they fell; she still crouched at my feet, and her restless movements loosened her cloak so far that it hung back from her shoulders, showing the jewels that flashed on her white neck and arms like points of living light. I touched the circlet of diamonds in her hair — I snatched it from her.
“These are mine!” I cried, “as much as this signet I wear, which was your love-gift to Guido Ferrari, and which you afterward returned to me, its rightful owner. These are my mother’s gems — how dared you wear them? The stones I gave you are your only fitting ornaments — they are stolen goods, filched by the blood-stained hands of the blackest brigand in Sicily! I promised you more like them; behold them!” — and I threw open the coffin-shaped chest containing the remainder of Carmelo Neri’s spoils. It occupied a conspicuous position near where I stood, and I had myself arranged its interior so that the gold ornaments and precious stones should be the first things to meet her eyes. “You see now,” I went on, “where the wealth of the supposed Count Oliva came from. I found this treasure hidden here on the night of my burial — little did I think then what dire need I should have for its usage! It has served me well; it is not yet exhausted; the remainder is at your service!”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
At these words she rose from her knees and stood upright. Making an effort to fasten her cloak with her trembling hands, she moved hesitatingly toward the brigand’s coffin and leaned over it, looking in with a faint light of hope as well as curiosity in her haggard face. I watched her in vagu
e wonderment — she had grown old so suddenly. The peach-like bloom and delicacy of her flesh had altogether disappeared — her skin appeared drawn and dry as though parched in tropical heat. Her hair was disordered, and fell about her in clustering showers of gold — that, and her eyes, were the only signs of youth about her. A sudden wave of compassion swept over my soul.
“Oh wife!” I exclaimed— “wife that I so ardently loved — wife that I would have died for indeed, had you bade me! — why did you betray me? I thought you truth itself — ay! and if you had but waited for one day after you thought me dead, and then chosen Guido for your lover, I tell you, so large was my tenderness, I would have pardoned you! Though risen from the grave, I would have gone away and made no sign — yes if you had waited — if you had wept for me ever so little! But when your own lips confessed your crime — when I knew that within three months of our marriage-day you had fooled me — when I learned that my love, my name, my position, my honor, were used as mere screens to shelter your intrigue with the man I called friend! — God! what creature of mortal flesh and blood could forgive such treachery? I am no more than others — but I loved you — and in proportion to my love, so is the greatness of my wrongs!”
She listened — she advanced a little toward me — a faint smile dawned on her pallid lips — she whispered:
“Fabio! Fabio!”
I looked at her — unconsciously my voice dropped into a cadence of intense melancholy softened by tenderness.
“Ay — Fabio! What wouldst thou with a ghost of him? Does it not seem strange to thee — that hated name? — thou, Nina, whom I loved as few men love women — thou who gavest me no love at all — thou, who hast broken my heart and made me what I am!”
A hard, heavy sob rose in my throat and choked my utterance. I was young; and the cruel waste and destruction of my life seemed at that moment more than I could bear. She heard me, and the smile brightened more warmly on her countenance. She came close to me — half timidly yet coaxingly she threw one arm about my neck — her bosom heaved quickly.
“Fabio,” she murmured— “Fabio, forgive me! I spoke in haste — I do not hate thee! Come! I will make amends for all thy suffering — I will love thee — I will be true to thee, I will be all thine! See! thou knowest I have not lost my beauty!”
And she clung to me with passion, raising her lips to mine, while with her large inquiring eyes she searched my face for the reply to her words. I gazed down upon her with sorrowful sternness.
“Beauty? Mere food for worms — I care not for it! Of what avail is a fair body tenanted by a fiendish soul? Forgiveness? — you ask too late! A wrong like mine can never be forgiven.”
There ensued a silence. She still embraced me, but her eyes roved over me as though she searched for some lost thing. The wind tore furiously among the branches of the cypresses outside, and screamed through the small holes and crannies of the stone-work, rattling the iron gate at the summit of the stairway with a clanking sound, as though the famous brigand chief had escaped with all his chains upon him, and were clamoring for admittance to recover his buried property. Suddenly her face lightened with an expression of cunning intensity — and before I could perceive her intent — with swift agility she snatched from my vest the dagger I carried!
“Too late!” she cried, with a wild laugh. “No; not too late! Die — wretch!”
For one second the bright steel flashed in the wavering light as she poised it in act to strike — the next, I had caught her murderous hand and forced it down, and was struggling with her for the mastery of the weapon. She held it with a desperate grip — she fought with me breathlessly, clinging to me with all her force — she reminded me of that ravenous unclean bird with which I had had so fierce a combat on the night of my living burial. For some brief moments she was possessed of supernatural strength — she sprung and tore at my clothes, keeping the poniard fast in her clutch. At last I thrust her down, panting and exhausted, with fury flashing in her eyes — I wrenched the steel from her hand and brandished it above her.
“Who talks of murder now?” I cried, in bitter derision. “Oh, what a joy you have lost! What triumph for you, could you have stabbed me to the heart and left me here dead indeed! What a new career of lies would have been yours! How sweetly you would have said your prayers with the stain of my blood upon your soul! Ay! you would have fooled the world to the end, and died in the odor of sanctity. And you dared to ask my forgiveness—”
I stopped short — a strange, bewildered expression suddenly passed over her face — she looked about her in a dazed, vague way — then her gaze became suddenly fixed, and she pointed toward a dark corner and shuddered.
“Hush — hush!” she said, in a low, terrified whisper. “Look! how still he stands! how pale he seems! Do not speak — do not move — hush! he must not hear your voice — I will go to him and tell him all — all—” She rose and stretched out her arms with a gesture of entreaty:
“Guido! Guido!”
With a sudden chilled awe at my heart I looked toward the spot that thus riveted her attention — all was shrouded in deep gloom. She caught my arm.
“Kill him!” she whispered, fiercely— “kill him, and then I will love you! Ah!” and with an exclamation of fear she began to retire swiftly backward as though confronted by some threatening figure. “He is coming — nearer! No, no, Guido! You shall not touch me — you dare not — Fabio is dead and I am free — free!” She paused — her wild eyes gazed upward — did she see some horror there? She put up both hands as though to shield herself from some impending blow, and uttering a loud cry she fell prone on the stone floor insensible. Or dead? I balanced this question indifferently, as I looked down upon her inanimate form. The flavor of vengeance was hot in my mouth, and filled me with delirious satisfaction. True, I had been glad, when my bullet whizzing sharply through the air had carried death to Guido, but my gladness had been mingled with ruthfulness and regret. Now, not one throb of pity stirred me — not the faintest emotion of tenderness, Ferrari’s sin was great, but she tempted him — her crime outweighed his. And now — there she lay white and silent — in a swoon that was like death — that might be death for aught I knew — or cared! Had her lover’s ghost indeed appeared before the eyes of her guilty conscience? I did not doubt it — I should scarcely have been startled had I seen the poor pale shadow of him by my side, as I musingly gazed upon the fair fallen body of the traitress who had wantonly wrecked both our lives.
“Ay, Guido,” I muttered, half aloud— “dost see the work? Thou art avenged, frail spirit — avenged as well as I — part thou in peace from earth and its inhabitants! — haply thou shalt cleanse in pure fire the sins of thy lower nature, and win a final pardon; but for her — is hell itself black enough to match her soul?”
And I slowly moved toward the stairway; it was time, I thought, with a grim resolve — to leave her! Possibly she was dead — if not — why then she soon would be! I paused irresolute — the wild wind battered ceaselessly at the iron gateway, and wailed as though with a hundred voices of aerial creatures, lamenting. The torches were burning low, the darkness of the vault deepened. Its gloom concerned me little — I had grown familiar with its unsightly things, its crawling spiders, its strange uncouth beetles, the clusters of blue fungi on its damp walls. The scurrying noises made by bats and owls, who, scared by the lighted candles, were hiding themselves in holes and corners of refuge, startled me not at all — I was well accustomed to such sounds. In my then state of mind, an emperor’s palace were less fair to me than this brave charnel house — this stone-mouthed witness of my struggle back to life and all life’s misery. The deep-toned bell outside the cemetery struck one! We had been absent nearly two hours from the brilliant assemblage left at the hotel. No doubt we were being searched for everywhere — it mattered not! they would not come to seek us here. I went on resolutely toward the stair — as I placed my foot on the firm step of the ascent, my wife stirred from her recumbent position — her swoo
n had passed. She did not perceive me where I stood, ready to depart — she murmured something to herself in a low voice, and taking in her hand the falling tresses of her own hair she seemed to admire its color and texture, for she stroked it and restroked it and finally broke into a gay laugh — a laugh so out of all keeping with her surroundings, that it startled me more than her attempt to murder me.
She presently stood up with all her own lily-like grace and fairy majesty; and smiling as though she were a pleased child, she began to arrange her disordered dress with elaborate care. I paused wonderingly and watched her. She went to the brigand’s chest of treasure and proceeded to examine its contents — laces, silver and gold embroideries, antique ornaments, she took carefully in her hands, seeming mentally to calculate their cost and value. Jewels that were set as necklaces, bracelets and other trinkets of feminine wear she put on, one after the other, till her neck and arms were loaded — and literally blazed with the myriad scintillations of different-colored gems. I marveled at her strange conduct, but did not as yet guess its meaning. I moved away from the staircase and drew imperceptibly nearer to her — Hark! what was that? A strange, low rumbling like a distant earthquake, followed by a sharp cracking sound; I stopped to listen attentively. A furious gust of wind rushed round the mausoleum shrieking wildly like some devil in anger, and the strong draught flying through the gateway extinguished two of the flaring candles. My wife, entirely absorbed in counting over Carmelo Neri’s treasures, apparently saw and heard nothing. Suddenly she broke into another laugh — a chuckling, mirthless laugh such as might come from the lips of the aged and senile. The sound curdled the blood in my veins — it was the laugh of a mad-woman! With an earnest, distinct voice I called to her:
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 72