Neri uttered a ferocious curse between his teeth, and looked for an instant like a wild beast ready to spring.
“You betrayed me,” he said in fierce yet smothered accents— “you followed me — you hunted me down! Teresa told me all. Yes — she belongs to you now — you have got your wish. Go and take her — she waits for you — make her speak and tell you how she loves you — if you can!”
Something jeering and withal threatening in the ruffian’s look, evidently startled the young officer, for he exclaimed hastily:
“What do you mean, wretch? You have not — my God! you have not killed her?”
Carmelo broke into a loud savage laugh.
“She has killed herself!” he cried, exultingly. “Ha, ha, I thought you would wince at that! She snatched my knife and stabbed herself with it! Yes — rather than see your lying white face again — rather than feel your accursed touch! Find her — she lies dead and smiling up there in the mountains and her last kiss was for me — for me — you understand! Now go! and may the devil curse you!”
Again the gendarmes clashed their swords suggestively — and the brigand resumed his sullen attitude of suppressed wrath and feigned indifference. But the man to whom he had spoken staggered and seemed about to fall — his pale face grew paler — he moved away through the curious open-eyed by-standers with the mechanical air of one who knows not whether he be alive or dead. He had evidently received an unexpected shock — a wound that pierced deeply and would be a long time healing.
I approached the nearest gendarme and slipped a five-franc piece into his hand.
“May one speak?” I asked, carelessly. The man hesitated.
“For one instant, signor. But be brief.”
I addressed the brigand in a low clear-tone.
“Have you any message for one Andrea Luziani? I am a friend of his.”
He looked at me and a dark smile crossed his features.
“Andrea is a good soul. Tell him if you will that Teresa is dead. I am worse than dead. He will know that I did not kill Teresa. I could not! She had the knife in her breast before I could prevent her. It is better so.”
“She did that rather than become the property of another man?” I queried.
Carmelo Neri nodded in acquiescence. Either my sight deceived me, or else this abandoned villain had tears glittering in the depth of his wicked eyes.
The gendarme made me a sign, and I withdrew. Almost at the same moment the officer in command of the little detachment appeared, his spurs clinking with measured metallic music on the hard stones of the pavement — he sprung into his saddle and gave the word — the crowd dispersed to the right and left — the horses were put to a quick trot, and in a few moments the whole party with the bulky frowning form of the brigand in their midst had disappeared. The people broke up into little groups talking excitedly of what had occurred, and scattered here and there, returning to their homes and occupations — and more swiftly than one could have imagined possible, the great square was left almost empty. I paced up and down for awhile thinking deeply; I had before my mind’s eye the picture of the slight fair Teresa as described by the Sicilian captain, lying dead in the solitudes of the Montemaggiore with that self-inflicted wound in her breast which had set her free of all men’s love and persecution. There were some women then who preferred death to infidelity? Strange! very strange! common women of course they must be — such as this brigand’s mistress; your daintily fed, silk-robed duchess would find a dagger somewhat a vulgar consoler — she would rather choose a lover, or better still a score of lovers. It is only brute ignorance that selects a grave instead of dishonor — modern education instructs us more wisely, and teaches us not to be over-squeamish about such a trifle as breaking a given word or promise. Blessed age of progress! Age of steady advancement when the apple of vice is so cunningly disguised and so prettily painted that we can actually set it on a porcelain dish and hand it about among our friends as a valuable and choice fruit of virtue — and no one finds out the fraud we are practicing, nay, we scarcely perceive it ourselves, it is such an excellent counterfeit!
As I walked to and fro, I found myself continually passing the head office of the Carabinieri, and, acting on a sudden impulse of curiosity, I at last entered the building, determined to ask for a few particulars concerning the brigand’s capture. I was received by a handsome and intelligent-looking man, who glanced at the card with which I presented myself, and saluted me with courteous affability.
“Oh, yes!” he said, in answer to my inquiries, “Neri has given us a great deal of trouble. But we had our suspicions that he had left Gaeta, where he was for a time in hiding. A few stray bits of information gleaned here and there put us on the right track.”
“Was he caught easily, or did he show fight?”
“He gave himself up like a lamb, signor! It happened in this way. One of our men followed the woman who lived with Neri, one Teresa, and traced her up to a certain point, the corner of a narrow mountain pass — where she disappeared. He reported this, and thereupon we sent out an armed party. These crept at midnight two by two, till they were formed in a close ring round the place where Neri was judged to be. With the first beam of morning they rushed in upon him and took him prisoner. It appears that he showed no surprise — he merely said, ‘I expected you!’ He was found sitting by the dead body of his mistress; she was stabbed and newly bleeding. No doubt he killed her, though he swears the contrary — lies are as easy to him as breathing.”
“But where were his comrades? I thought he commanded a large band?”
“So he did, signor; and we caught three of the principals only a fortnight ago, but of the others no trace can be found. I suppose Carmelo himself dismissed them and sent them far and wide through the country. At any rate, they are disbanded, and with these sort of fellows, where there is no union there is no danger.”
“And Neri’s sentence?” I asked.
“Oh, the galleys for life of course; there is no possible alternative.”
I thanked my informant, and left the office. I was glad to have learned these few particulars, for the treasure I had discovered in my own family vault was now more mine than ever. There was not the remotest chance of any one of the Neri band venturing so close to Naples in search of it, and I thought with a grim smile that had the brigand chief himself known the story of my wrongs, he would most probably have rejoiced to think that his buried wealth was destined to aid me in carrying out so elaborate a plan of vengeance. All difficulties smoothed themselves before me — obstacles were taken out of my path — my way was made perfectly clear — each trifling incident was a new finger-post pointing out the direct road that led me to the one desired end. God himself seemed on my side, as He is surely ever on the side of justice! Let not the unfaithful think that because they say long prayers or go regularly and devoutly to church with meek faces and piously folded hands that the Eternal Wisdom is deceived thereby. My wife could pray — she could kneel like a lovely saint in the dim religious light of the sacred altars, her deep eyes upturned to the blameless, infinitely reproachful Christ — and look you! each word she uttered was a blasphemy, destined to come back upon herself as a curse. Prayer is dangerous for liars — it is like falling willfully on an upright naked sword. Used as an honorable weapon the sword defends — snatched up as the last resource of a coward it kills.
CHAPTER XI.
The third week of September was drawing to its close when I returned to Naples. The weather had grown cooler, and favorable reports of the gradual decrease of the cholera began to gain ground with the suffering and terrified population. Business was resumed as usual, pleasure had again her votaries, and society whirled round once more in its giddy waltz as though it had never left off dancing. I arrived in the city somewhat early in the day, and had time to make some preliminary arrangements for my plan of action. I secured the most splendid suite of apartments in the best hotel, impressing the whole establishment with a vast idea of my wealth and
importance. I casually mentioned to the landlord that I desired to purchase a carriage and horses — that I needed a first-class valet, and a few other trifles of the like sort, and added that I relied on his good advice and recommendation as to the places where I should best obtain all that I sought. Needless to say, he became my slave — never was monarch better served than I — the very waiters hustled each other in a race to attend upon me, and reports of my princely fortune, generosity, and lavish expenditure, began to flit from mouth to mouth — which was the result I desired to obtain.
And now the evening of my first day in Naples came, and I, the supposed Conte Cesare Oliva, the envied and flattered noble, took the first step toward my vengeance. It was one of the loveliest evenings possible, even in that lovely land — a soft breeze blew in from the sea — the sky was pearl-like and pure as an opal, yet bright with delicate shifting clouds of crimson and pale mauve — small, fleecy flecks of Radiance, that looked like a shower of blossoms fallen from some far invisible flower-land. The waters of the bay were slightly ruffled by the wind, and curled into tender little dark-blue waves tipped with light forges of foam. After my dinner I went out and took my way to a well-known and popular cafe which used to be a favorite haunt of mine in the days when I was known as Fabio Romani. Guido Ferrari was a constant habitue of the place, and I felt that I should find him there. The brilliant rose-white and gold saloons were crowded, and owing to the pleasant coolness of the air there were hundreds of little tables pushed far out into the street, at which groups of persons were seated, enjoying ices, wine, or coffee, and congratulating each other on the agreeable news of the steady decrease of the pestilence that had ravaged the city. I glanced covertly yet quickly round. Yes! I was not mistaken — there was my quondam friend, my traitorous foe, sitting at his ease, leaning comfortably back in one chair, his feet put up on another. He was smoking, and glancing now and then through the columns of the Paris “Figaro.” He was dressed entirely in black — a hypocritical livery, the somber hue of which suited his fine complexion and perfectly handsome features to admiration. On the little finger of the shapely hand that every now and then was raised to adjust his cigar, sparkled a diamond that gave out a myriad scintillations as it flashed in the evening light — it was of exceptional size and brilliancy, and even at a distance I recognized it as my own property!
So! — a love-gift, signor, or an in memoriam of the dear and valued friend you have lost? I wondered — watching him in dark scorn the while — then recollecting myself, I sauntered slowly toward him, and perceiving a disengaged table next to his, I drew a chair to it and sat down He looked at me indifferently over the top of his newspaper — but there was nothing specially attractive in the sight of a white-haired man wearing smoke-colored spectacles, and he resumed his perusal of the “Figaro” immediately. I rapped the end of my walking-cane on the table and summoned a waiter from whom I ordered coffee. I then lighted a cigar, and imitating Ferrari’s easy posture, smoked also. Something in my attitude then appeared to strike him, for he laid down his paper and again looked at me, this time with more interest and something of uneasiness. “Ça commence, mon ami!” I thought, but I turned my head slightly aside and feigned to be absorbed in the view. My coffee was brought — I paid for it and tossed the waiter an unusually large gratuity — he naturally found it incumbent upon him to polish my table with extra zeal, and to secure all the newspapers, pictorial or otherwise, that were lying about, for the purpose of obsequiously depositing them in a heap at my right hand. I addressed this amiable garçon in the harsh and deliberate accents of my carefully disguised voice.
“By the way, I suppose you know Naples well?”
“Oh, si, signor!”
“Ebbene, can you tell me the way to the house of one Count Fabio Romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?”
Ha! a good hit this time! Though apparently not looking at him I saw Ferrari start as though he had been stung, and then compose himself in his seat with an air of attention. The waiter meanwhile, in answer to my question, raised his hands, eyes and shoulders all together with a shrug expressive of resigned melancholy.
“Ah, gran Dio! e morto!”
“Dead!” I exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise. “So young? Impossible!”
“Eh! what will you, signor? It was la pesta; there was no remedy. La pesta cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich nor poor.”
For a moment I leaned my head on my hand, affecting to be overcome by the suddenness of the news. Then looking up, I said, regretfully:
“Alas! I am too late! I was a friend of his father’s. I have been away for many years, and I had a great wish to meet the young Romani whom I last saw as a child. Are there any relations of his living — was he married?”
The waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness in accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up immediately as he replied eagerly:
“Oh, si, signor! The Contessa Romani lives up at the villa, though I believe she receives no one since her husband’s death. She is young and beautiful as an angel. There is a little child too.”
A hasty movement on the part of Ferrari caused me to turn my eyes, or rather my spectacles, in his direction. He leaned forward, and raising his hat with the old courteous grace I knew so well, said politely:
“Pardon me, signor, for interrupting you! I knew the late young Count Romani well — perhaps better than any man in Naples. I shall be delighted to afford you any information you may seek concerning him.”
Oh, the old mellow music of his voice — how it struck on my heart and pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of our youth. For an instant I could not speak — wrath and sorrow choked my utterance. Fortunately this feeling was but momentary — slowly I raised my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly:
“I am your servant, signor. You will oblige me indeed if you can place me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate young nobleman. The elder Count Romani was dearer to me than a brother — men have such attachments occasionally. Permit me to introduce myself,” and I handed him my visiting-card with a slight and formal bow. He accepted it, and as he read the name it bore he gave me a quick glance of respect mingled with pleased surprise.
“The Conte Cesare Oliva!” he exclaimed. “I esteem myself most fortunate to have met you! Your arrival has already been notified to us by the avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we are well aware,” here laughing lightly, “of the distinctive right you have to a hearty welcome in Naples. I am only sorry that any distressing news should have darkened the occasion of your return here after so long an absence. Permit me to express the hope that it may at least be the only cloud for you on our southern sunshine!”
And he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie which are always a part of the Italian temperament, and were especially so of his. A cold shudder ran through my veins. God! could I take his hand in mine? I must — if I would act my part thoroughly — for should I refuse he would think it strange — even rude — I should lose the game by one false move. With a forced smile I hesitatingly held out my hand also — it was gloved, yet as he clasped it heartily in his own the warm pressure burned through the glove like fire. I could have cried out in agony, so excruciating was the mental torture which I endured at that moment. But it passed, the ordeal was over, and I knew that from henceforth I should be able to shake hands with him as often and as indifferently as with any other man. It was only this first time that it galled me to the quick. Ferrari noticed nothing of my emotion — he was in excellent spirits, and turning to the waiter, who had lingered to watch us make each other’s acquaintance, he exclaimed:
“More coffee, garçon, and a couple of glorias.” Then looking toward me, “You do not object to a gloria, conte? No? That is well. And here is my card,” taking one from his pocket and laying it on the table. “Guido Ferrari, at your service, an artist and a ver
y poor one. We shall celebrate our meeting by drinking each other’s health!”
I bowed. The waiter vanished to execute his orders and Ferrari drew his chair closer to mine.
“I see you smoke,” he said, gayly. “Can I offer you one of my cigars? They are unusually choice. Permit me,” and he proffered me a richly embossed and emblazoned silver cigar-case, with the Romani arms and coronet and my own initials engraved thereon. It was mine, of course — I took it with a sensation of grim amusement — I had not seen it since the day I died!
“A fine antique,” I remarked, carelessly, turning it over and over in my hand, “curious and valuable. A gift or an heirloom?”
“It belonged to my late friend, Count Fabio,” he answered, puffing a light cloud of smoke in the air as he drew his cigar from his lips to speak. “It was found in his pocket by the priest who saw him die. That and other trifles which he wore on his person were delivered to his wife, and—”
“She naturally gave you the cigar-case as a memento of your friend,” I said, interrupting him.
“Just so. You have guessed it exactly. Thanks,” and he took the case from me as I returned it to him with a frank smile.
“Is the Countess Romani young?” I forced myself to inquire.
“Young and beautiful as a midsummer morning!” replied Ferrari, with enthusiasm. “I doubt if sunlight ever fell on a more enchanting woman! If you were a young man, conte, I should be silent regarding her charms — but your white hairs inspire one with confidence. I assure you solemnly, though Fabio was my friend, and an excellent fellow in his ways, he was never worthy of the woman he married!”
“Indeed!” I said, coldly, as this dagger-thrust struck home to my heart. “I only knew him when he was quite a boy. He seemed to me then of a warm and loving temperament, generous to a fault, perhaps over-credulous, yet he promised well. His father thought so, I confess I thought so too. Reports have reached me from time to time of the care with which he managed the immense fortune left to him. He gave large sums away in charity, did he not? and was he not a lover of books and simple pleasures?”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 42
