Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  CHAPTER XIII.

  Quite early in the next day Ferrari called to see me. I was at breakfast — he apologized for disturbing me at the meal.

  “But,” he explained, frankly, “the Countess Romani laid such urgent commands upon me that I was compelled to obey. We men are the slaves of women!”

  “Not always,” I said, dryly, as I motioned him to take a seat— “there are exceptions — myself for instance. Will you have some coffee?”

  “Thanks, I have already breakfasted. Pray do not let me be in your way, my errand is soon done. The countess wishes me to say—”

  “You saw her last night?” I interrupted him.

  He flushed slightly. “Yes — that is — for a few minutes only. I gave her your message. She thanks you, and desires me to tell you that she cannot think of receiving the jewels unless you will first honor her by a visit. She is not at home to ordinary callers in consequence of her recent bereavement — but to you, so old a friend of her husband’s family, a hearty welcome will be accorded.”

  I bowed stiffly. “I am extremely flattered!” I said, in a somewhat sarcastical tone, “it is seldom I receive so tempting an invitation! I regret that I cannot accept it — at least, not at present. Make my compliments to the lady, and tell her so in whatever sugared form of words you may think best fitted to please her ears.”

  He looked surprised and puzzled.

  “Do you really mean,” he said, with a tinge of hauteur in his accents, “that you will not visit her — that you refuse her request?”

  I smiled. “I really mean, my dear Signor Ferrari, that, being always accustomed to have my own way, I can make no exception in favor of ladies, however fascinating they may be. I have business in Naples — it claims my first and best attention. When it is transacted I may possibly try a few frivolities for a change — at present I am unfit for the society of the fair sex — an old battered traveler as you see, brusque, and unaccustomed to polite lying. But I promise you I will practice suave manners and a court bow for the countess when I can spare time to call upon her. In the meanwhile I trust to you to make her a suitable and graceful apology for my non-appearance.”

  Ferrari’s puzzled and vexed expression gave way to a smile — finally he laughed aloud. “Upon my word!” he exclaimed, gayly, “you are really a remarkable man, conte! You are extremely cynical! I am almost inclined to believe that you positively hate women.”

  “Oh, by no means! Nothing so strong as hatred,” I said, coolly, as I peeled and divided a fine peach as a finish to my morning’s meal. “Hatred is a strong passion — to hate well one must first have loved. No, no — I do not find women worth hating — I am simply indifferent to them. They seem to me merely one of the burdens imposed on man’s existence — graceful, neatly packed, light burdens in appearance, but in truth, terribly heavy and soul-crushing.”

  “Yet many accept such burdens gayly!” interrupted Ferrari, with a smile. I glanced at him keenly.

  “Men seldom attain the mastery over their own passions,” I replied; “they are in haste to seize every apparent pleasure that comes in their way. Led by a hot animal impulse which they call love, they snatch at a woman’s beauty as a greedy school-boy snatches ripe fruit — and when possessed, what is it worth? Here is its emblem” — and I held up the stone of the peach I had just eaten— “the fruit is devoured — what remains? A stone with a bitter kernel.”

  Ferrari shrugged his shoulders.

  “I cannot agree with you, count,” he said; “but I will not argue with you. From your point of view you may be right — but when one is young, and life stretches before you like a fair pleasure-ground, love and the smile of woman are like sunlight falling on flowers! You too must have felt this — in spite of what you say, there must have been a time in your life when you also loved!”

  “Oh, I have had my fancies, of course!” I answered, with an indifferent laugh. “The woman I fancied turned out to be a saint — I was not worthy of her — at least, so I was told. At any rate, I was so convinced of her virtue and my own unworthiness — that — I left her.”

  He looked surprised. “An odd reason, surely, for resigning her, was it not?”

  “Very odd — very unusual — but a sufficient one for me. Pray let us talk of something more interesting — your pictures, for instance. When may I see them?”

  “When you please,” he answered, readily— “though I fear they are scarcely worth a visit. I have not worked much lately. I really doubt whether I have any that will merit your notice.”

  “You underrate your powers, signor,” I said with formal politeness. “Allow me to call at your studio this afternoon. I have a few minutes to spare between three and four o’clock, if that time will suit you.”

  “It will suit me admirably,” he said, with a look of gratification; “but I fear you will be disappointed. I assure you I am no artist.”

  I smiled. I knew that well enough. But I made no reply to his remark — I said, “Regarding the matter of the jewels for the Countess Romani — would you care to see them?”

  “I should indeed,” he answered; “they are unique specimens, I think?”

  “I believe so,” I answered, and going to an escritoire in the corner of the room, I unlocked it and took out a massive carved oaken jewel-chest of square shape, which I had had made in Palermo. It contained a necklace of large rubies and diamonds, with bracelets to match, and pins of their hair — also a sapphire ring — a cross of fine rose-brilliants, and the pearl pendant I had first found in the vault. All the gems, with the exception of this pendant, had been reset by a skillful jeweler in Palermo, who had acted under my superintendence — and Ferrari uttered an exclamation of astonishment and admiration as he lifted the glittering toys out one by one and noted the size and brilliancy of the precious stones.

  “They are trifles,” I said, carelessly— “but they may please a woman’s taste — and they amount to a certain fixed value. You would do me a great service if you consented to take them to the Contessa Romani for me — tell her to accept them as heralds of my forthcoming visit. I am sure you will know how to persuade her to take what would unquestionably have been hers had her husband lived. They are really her property — she must not refuse to receive what is her own.”

  Ferrari hesitated and looked at me earnestly.

  “You — will visit her — she may rely on your coming for a certainty, I hope?”

  I smiled. “You seem very anxious about it. May I ask why?”

  “I think,” he replied at once, “that it would embarrass the countess very much if you gave her no opportunity to thank you for so munificent and splendid a gift — and unless she knew she could do so, I am certain she would not accept it.”

  “Make yourself quite easy,” I answered. “She shall thank me to her heart’s content. I give you my word that within a few days I will call upon the lady — in fact you said you would introduce me — I accept your offer!”

  He seemed delighted, and seizing my hand, shook it cordially.

  “Then in that case I will gladly take the jewels to her,” he exclaimed. “And I may say, count, that had you searched the whole world over, you could not have found one whose beauty was more fitted to show them off to advantage. I assure you her loveliness is of a most exquisite character!”

  “No doubt!” I said, dryly. “I take your word for it. I am no judge of a fair face or form. And now, my good friend, do not think me churlish if I request you leave me in solitude for the present. Between three and four o’clock I shall be at your studio.”

  He rose at once to take his leave. I placed the oaken box of jewels in the leathern case which had been made to contain it, strapped and locked it, and handed it to him together with its key. He was profuse in his compliments and thanks — almost obsequious, in truth — and I discovered another defect in his character — a defect which, as his friend in former days, I had guessed nothing of. I saw that very little encouragement would make him a toady — a fawning
servitor on the wealthy — and in our old time of friendship I had believed him to be far above all such meanness, but rather of a manly, independent nature that scorned hypocrisy. Thus we are deluded even by our nearest and dearest — and is it well or ill for us, I wonder, when we are at last undeceived? Is not the destruction of illusion worse than illusion itself? I thought so, as my quondam friend clasped my hand in farewell that morning. What would I not have given to believe in him as I once did! I held open the door of my room as he passed out, carrying the box of jewels for my wife, and as I bade him a brief adieu, the well-worn story of Tristram and King Mark came to my mind. He, Guido, like Tristram, would in a short space clasp the gemmed necklace round the throat of one as fair and false as the fabled Iseulte, and I — should I figure as the wronged king? How does the English laureate put it in his idyl on the subject?

  “‘Mark’s way,’ said Mark, and clove him through the brain.”

  Too sudden and sweet a death by far for such a traitor! The Cornish king should have known how to torture his betrayer! I knew — and I meditated deeply on every point of my design, as I sat alone for an hour after Ferrari had left me. I had many things to do — I had resolved on making myself a personage of importance in Naples, and I wrote several letters and sent out visiting-cards to certain well-established families of distinction as necessary preliminaries to the result I had in view. That day, too, I engaged a valet — a silent and discreet Tuscan named Vincenzo Flamma. He was an admirably trained servant — he never asked questions — was too dignified to gossip, and rendered me instant and implicit obedience — in fact he was a gentleman in his way, with far better manners than many who lay claim to that title. He entered upon his duties at once, and never did I know him to neglect the most trifling thing that could add to my satisfaction or comfort. In making arrangements with him, and in attending to various little matters of business, the hours slipped rapidly away, and in the afternoon, at the time appointed, I made my way to Ferrari’s studio. I knew it of old — I had no need to consult the card he had left with me on which the address was written. It was a queer, quaintly built little place, situated at the top of an ascending road — its windows commanded an extensive view of the bay and the surrounding scenery. Many and many a happy hour had I passed there before my marriage reading some favorite book or watching Ferrari as he painted his crude landscapes and figures, most of which I good-naturedly purchased as soon as completed. The little porch over-grown with star-jasmine looked strangely and sorrowfully familiar to my eyes, and my heart experienced a sickening pang of regret for the past, as I pulled the bell and heard the little tinkling sound to which I was so well accustomed. Ferrari himself opened the door to me with eager rapidity — he looked excited and radiant.

  “Come in, come in!” he cried with effusive cordiality. “You will find everything in confusion, but pray excuse it. It is some time since I had any visitors. Mind the steps, conte! — the place is rather dark just here — every one stumbles at this particular corner.”

  So talking, and laughing as he talked, he escorted me up the short narrow flight of stairs to the light airy room where he usually worked. Glancing round it, I saw at once the evidences of neglect and disorder — he had certainly not been there for many days, though he had made an attempt to arrange it tastefully for my reception. On the table stood a large vase of flowers grouped with artistic elegance — I felt instinctively that my wife had put them there. I noticed that Ferrari had begun nothing new — all the finished and unfinished studies I saw I recognized directly. I seated myself in an easy-chair and looked at my betrayer with a calmly critical eye. He was what the English would call “got up for effect.” Though in black, he had donned a velvet coat instead of the cloth one he had worn in the morning — he had a single white japonica in his buttonhole — his face was pale and his eyes unusually brilliant. He looked his best — I admitted it, and could readily understand how an idle, pleasure-seeking feminine animal might be easily attracted by the purely physical beauty of his form and features. I spoke a part of my thoughts aloud.

  “You are not only an artist by profession, Signor Ferrari — you are one also in appearance.”

  He flushed slightly and smiled.

  “You are very amiable to say so,” he replied, his pleased vanity displaying itself at once in the expression of his face. “But I am well aware that you flatter me. By the way, before I forget it, I must tell you that I fulfilled your commission.”

  “To the Countess Romani?”

  “Exactly. I cannot describe to you her astonishment and delight at the splendor and brilliancy of those jewels you sent her. It was really pretty to watch her innocent satisfaction.”

  I laughed.

  “Marguerite and the jewel song in ‘Faust,’ I suppose, with new scenery and effects?” I asked, with a slight sneer. He bit his lip and looked annoyed. But he answered, quietly:

  “I see you must have your joke, conte; but remember that if you place the countess in the position of Marguerite, you, as the giver of the jewels, naturally play the part of Mephistopheles.”

  “And you will be Faust, of course!” I said, gayly. “Why, we might mount the opera with a few supernumeraries and astonish Naples by our performance! What say you? But let us come to business. I like the picture you have on the easel there — may I see it more closely?”

  He drew it nearer; it was a showy landscape with the light of the sunset upon it. It was badly done, but I praised it warmly, and purchased it for five hundred francs. Four other sketches of a similar nature were then produced. I bought these also. By the time we got through these matters, Ferrari was in the best of humors. He offered me some excellent wine and partook of it himself; he talked incessantly, and diverted me extremely, though my inward amusement was not caused by the witty brilliancy of his conversation. No, I was only excited to a sense of savage humor by the novelty of the position in which we two men stood. Therefore I listened to him attentively, applauded his anecdotes — all of which I had heard before — admired his jokes, and fooled his egotistical soul till he had no shred of self-respect remaining. He laid his nature bare before me — and I knew what it was at last — a mixture of selfishness, avarice, sensuality, and heartlessness, tempered now and then by a flash of good-nature and sympathetic attraction which were the mere outcomes of youth and physical health — no more. This was the man I had loved — this fellow who told coarse stories only worthy of a common pot-house, and who reveled in a wit of a high and questionable flavor; this conceited, empty-headed, muscular piece of humanity was the same being for whom I had cherished so chivalrous and loyal a tenderness! Our conversation was broken in upon at last by the sound of approaching wheels. A carriage was heard ascending the road — it came nearer — it stopped at the door. I set down the glass of wine I had just raised to my lips, and looked at Ferrari steadily.

  “You expect other visitors?” I inquired.

  He seemed embarrassed, smiled, and hesitated.

  “Well — I am not sure — but—” The bell rang. With a word of apology Ferrari hurried away to answer it. I sprung from my chair — I knew — I felt who was coming. I steadied my nerves by a strong effort. I controlled the rapid beating of my heart; and fixing my dark glasses more closely over my eyes, I drew myself up erect and waited calmly. I heard Ferrari ascending the stairs — a light step accompanied his heavier footfall — he spoke to his companion in whispers. Another instant — and he flung the door of the studio wide open with the haste and reverence due for the entrance of a queen. There was a soft rustle of silk — a delicate breath of perfume on the air — and then — I stood face to face with my wife!

  CHAPTER XIV.

  How dazzlingly lovely she was! I gazed at her with the same bewildered fascination that had stupefied my reason and judgment when I beheld her for the first time. The black robes she wore, the long crape veil thrown back from her clustering hair and mignonne face, all the somber shadows of her mourning garb only served to heighten and
display her beauty to greater advantage. A fair widow truly! I, her lately deceased husband, freely admitted the magnetic power of her charms! She paused for an instant on the threshold, a winning smile on her lips; she looked at me, hesitated, and finally spoke in courteous accents:

  “I think I cannot be mistaken! Do I address the noble Conte Cesare Oliva?”

  I tried to speak, but could not. My mouth was dry and parched with excitement, my throat swelled and ached with the pent-up wrath and despair of my emotions. I answered her question silently by a formal bow. She at once advanced, extending both her hands with the coaxing grace of manner I had so often admired.

  “I am the Countess Romani,” she said, still smiling. “I heard from Signor Ferrari that you purposed visiting his studio this afternoon, and I could not resist the temptation of coming to express my personal acknowledgments for the almost regal gift you sent me. The jewels are really magnificent. Permit me to offer you my sincere thanks!”