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

by Marie Corelli

  This suggestion met with approval, and Ferrari walked with me to show me where the kennel stood. I chained Wyvis, and stroked him tenderly; he appeared to understand, and he accepted his fate with perfect resignation, lying down upon his bed of straw without a sign of opposition, save for one imploring look out of his intelligent eyes as I turned away and left him.

  On making my adieus to Nina, I firmly refused Ferrari’s offered companionship in the walk back to my hotel.

  “I am fond of a solitary moonlight stroll,” I said. “Permit me to have my own way in the matter.”

  After some friendly argument they yielded to my wishes. I bade them both a civil “good-night,” bending low over my wife’s hand and kissing it, coldly enough, God knows, and yet the action was sufficient to make her flush and sparkle with pleasure. Then I left them, Ferrari himself escorting me to the villa gates, and watching me pass out on the open road. As long as he stood there, I walked with a slow and meditative pace toward the city, but the instant I heard the gate clang heavily as it closed, I hurried back with a cautious and noiseless step. Avoiding the great entrance, I slipped round to the western side of the grounds, where there was a close thicket of laurel that extended almost up to the veranda I had just left. Entering this and bending the boughs softly aside as I pushed my way through, I gradually reached a position from whence I could see the veranda plainly, and also hear anything that passed. Guido was sitting on the low chair I had just vacated, leaning his head back against my wife’s breast; he had reached up one arm so that it encircled her neck, and drew her head down toward his. In this half embrace they rested absolutely silent for some moments. Suddenly Ferrari spoke:

  “You are very cruel, Nina! You actually made me think you admired that rich old conte.”

  She laughed. “So I do! He would be really handsome if he did not wear those ugly spectacles. And his jewels are lovely. I wish he would give me some more!”

  “And supposing he were to do so, would you care for him, Nina?” he demanded, jealously. “Surely not. Besides, you have no idea how conceited he is. He says he will never make love to a woman unless she first makes love to him; what do you think of that?”

  She laughed again, more merrily than before.

  “Think! Why, that he is very original — charmingly so! Are you coming in, Guido?”

  He rose, and standing erect, almost lifted her from her chair and folded her in his arms.

  “Yes, I am coming in,” he answered; “and I will have a hundred kisses for every look and smile you bestowed on the conte! You little coquette! You would flirt with your grandfather!”

  She rested against him with apparent tenderness, one hand playing with the flower in his buttonhole, and then she said, with a slight accent of fear in her voice —

  “Tell me, Guido, do you not think he is a little like — like Fabio? Is there not a something in his manner that seems familiar?”

  “I confess I have fancied so once or twice,” he returned, musingly; “there is rather a disagreeable resemblance. But what of that? many men are almost counterparts of each other. But I tell you what I think. I am almost positive he is some long-lost relation of the family — Fabio’s uncle for all we know, who does not wish to declare his actual relationship. He is a good old fellow enough, I believe, and is certainly rich as Croesus; he will be a valuable friend to us both. Come, sposina mia, it is time to go to rest.”

  And they disappeared within the house, and shut the windows after them. I immediately left my hiding-place, and resumed my way toward Naples. I was satisfied they had no suspicion of the truth. After all, it was absurd of me to fancy they might have, for people in general do not imagine it possible for a buried man to come back to life again. The game was in my own hands, and I now resolved to play it out with as little delay as possible.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  Time flew swiftly on — a month, six weeks, passed, and during that short space I had established myself in Naples as a great personage — great, because of my wealth and the style in which I lived. No one in all the numerous families of distinction that eagerly sought my acquaintance cared whether I had intellect or intrinsic personal worth; it sufficed to them that I kept a carriage and pair, an elegant and costly equipage, softly lined with satin and drawn by two Arabian mares as black as polished ebony. The value of my friendship was measured by the luxuriousness of my box at the opera, and by the dainty fittings of my yacht, a swift trim vessel furnished with every luxury, and having on board a band of stringed instruments which discoursed sweet music when the moon emptied her horn of silver radiance on the rippling water. In a little while I knew everybody who was worth knowing in Naples; everywhere my name was talked of, my doings were chronicled in the fashionable newspapers; stories of my lavish generosity were repeated from mouth to mouth, and the most highly colored reports of my immense revenues were whispered with a kind of breathless awe at every cafe and street corner. Tradesmen waylaid my reticent valet, Vincenzo, and gave him douceurs in the hope he would obtain my custom for them— “tips” which he pocketed in his usual reserved and discreet manner, but which he was always honest enough to tell me of afterward. He would most faithfully give me the name and address of this or that particular tempter of his fidelity, always adding— “As to whether the rascal sells good things or bad our Lady only knows, but truly he gave me thirty francs to secure your excellency’s good-will. Though for all that I would not recommend him if your excellency knows of an honester man!”

  Among other distinctions which my wealth forced upon me, were the lavish attentions of match-making mothers. The black spectacles which I always wore, were not repulsive to these diplomatic dames — on the contrary, some of them assured me they were most becoming, so anxious were they to secure me as a son-in-law. Fair girls in their teens, blushing and ingenuous, were artfully introduced to me — or, I should say, thrust forward like slaves in a market for my inspection — though, to do them justice, they were remarkably shrewd and sharp-witted for their tender years. Young as they were, they were keenly alive to the importance of making a good match — and no doubt the pretty innocents laid many dainty schemes in their own minds for liberty and enjoyment when one or the other of them should become the Countess Oliva and fool the old black-spectacled husband to her heart’s content. Needless to say their plans were not destined to be fulfilled, though I rather enjoyed studying the many devices they employed to fascinate me. What pretty ogling glances I received! — what whispered admiration of my “beautiful white hair! so distingué” — what tricks of manner, alternating from grave to gay, from rippling mirth to witching languor! Many an evening I sat at ease on board my yacht, watching with a satirical inward amusement, one, perhaps two or three of these fair schemers ransacking their youthful brains for new methods to entrap the old millionaire, as they thought me, into the matrimonial net. I used to see their eyes — sparkling with light in the sunshine — grow liquid and dreamy in the mellow radiance of the October moon, and turn upon me with a vague wistfulness most lovely to behold, and — most admirably feigned! I could lay my hand on a bare round white arm and not be repulsed — I could hold little clinging fingers in my own as long as I liked without giving offense such are some of the privileges of wealth!

  In all the parties of pleasure I formed, and these were many — my wife and Ferrari were included as a matter of course. At first Nina demurred, with some plaintive excuse concerning her “recent terrible bereavement,” but I easily persuaded her out of this. I even told some ladies I knew to visit her and add their entreaties to mine, as I said, with the benignant air of an elderly man, that it was not good for one so young to waste her time and injure her health by useless grieving. She saw the force of this, I must admit, with admirable readiness, and speedily yielded to the united invitations she received, though always with a well-acted reluctance, and saying that she did so merely “because the Count Oliva was such an old friend of the family and knew my poor dear husband as a child.”


  On Ferrari I heaped all manner of benefits. Certain debts of his contracted at play I paid privately to surprise him — his gratitude was extreme. I humored him in many of his small extravagances — I played with his follies as an angler plays the fish at the end of his line, and I succeeded in winning his confidence. Not that I ever could surprise him into a confession of his guilty amour — but he kept me well informed as to what he was pleased to call “the progress of his attachment,” and supplied me with many small details which, while they fired my blood and brain to wrath, steadied me more surely in my plan of vengeance. Little did he dream in whom he was trusting! — little did he know into whose hands he was playing! Sometimes a kind of awful astonishment would come over me as I listened to his trivial talk, and heard him make plans for a future that was never to be. He seemed so certain of his happiness — so absolutely sure that nothing could or would intervene to mar it. Traitor as he was he was unable to foresee punishment — materialist to the heart’s core, he had no knowledge of the divine law of compensation. Now and then a dangerous impulse stirred me — a desire to say to him point-blank:

  “You are a condemned criminal — a doomed man on the brink of the grave. Leave this light converse and frivolous jesting — and, while there is time, prepare for death!”

  But I bit my lips and kept stern silence. Often, too, I felt disposed to seize him by the throat, and, declaring my identity, accuse him of his treachery to his face, but I always remembered and controlled myself. One point in his character I knew well — I had known it of old — this was his excessive love of good wine. I aided and abetted him in this weakness, and whenever he visited me I took care that he should have his choice of the finest vintages. Often after a convivial evening spent in my apartments with a few other young men of his class and caliber, he reeled out of my presence, his deeply flushed face and thick voice bearing plain testimony as to his condition. On these occasions I used to consider with a sort of fierce humor how Nina would receive him — for though she saw no offense in the one kind of vice she herself practiced, she had a particular horror of vulgarity in any form, and drunkenness was one of those low failings she specially abhorred.

  “Go to your lady-love, mon beau Silenus!” I would think, as I watched him leaving my hotel with a couple of his boon companions, staggering and laughing loudly as he went, or singing the last questionable street-song of the Neapolitan bas-peuple. “You are in a would-be riotous and savage mood — her finer animal instincts will revolt from you, as a lithe gazelle would fly from the hideous gambols of a rhinoceros. She is already afraid of you — in a little while she will look upon you with loathing and disgust — tant pis pour vous, tant mieux pour moi!”

  I had of course attained the position of ami intime at the Villa Romani. I was welcome there at any hour — I could examine and read my own books in my own library at leisure (what a privilege was mine); I could saunter freely through the beautiful gardens accompanied by Wyvis, who attended me as a matter of course; in short, the house was almost at my disposal, though I never passed a night under its roof. I carefully kept up my character as a prematurely elderly man, slightly invalided by a long and ardous career in far-off foreign lands, and I was particularly prudent in my behavior toward my wife before Ferrari. Never did I permit the least word or action on my part that could arouse his jealousy or suspicion. I treated her with a sort of parental kindness and reserve, but she — trust a woman for intrigue! — she was quick to perceive my reasons for so doing. Directly Ferrari’s back was turned she would look at me with a glance of coquettish intelligence, and smile — a little mocking, half-petulant smile — or she would utter some disparaging remark about him, combining with it a covert compliment to me. It was not for me to betray her secrets — I saw no occasion to tell Ferrari that nearly every morning she sent her maid to my hotel with fruit and flowers and inquiries after my health — nor was my valet Vincenzo the man to say that he carried gifts and similar messages from me to her. But at the commencement of November things were so far advanced that I was in the unusual position of being secretly courted by my own wife! — I reciprocating her attentions with equal secrecy! The fact of my being often in the company of other ladies piqued her vanity — she knew that I was considered a desirable parti — and — she resolved to win me. In this case I also resolved — to be won! A grim courtship truly — between a dead man and his own widow! Ferrari never suspected what was going on; he had spoken of me as “that poor fool Fabio, he was too easily duped;” yet never was there one more “easily duped” than himself, or to whom the epithet “poor fool” more thoroughly applied. As I said before, he was sure — too sure of his own good fortune. I wished to excite his distrust and enmity sometimes, but this I found I could not do. He trusted me — yes! as much as in the old days I had trusted him. Therefore, the catastrophe for him must be sudden as well as fatal — perhaps, after all, it was better so.

  During my frequent visits to the villa I saw much of my child Stella. She became passionately attached to me — poor little thing! — her love was a mere natural instinct, had she but known it. Often, too, her nurse, Assunta, would bring her to my hotel to pass an hour or so with me. This was a great treat to her, and her delight reached its climax when I took her on my knee and told her a fairy story — her favorite one being that of a good little girl whose papa suddenly went away, and how the little girl grieved for him till at last some kind fairies helped her to find him again. I was at first somewhat afraid of old Assunta — she had been my nurse — was it possible that she would not recognize me? The first time I met her in my new character I almost held my breath in a sort of suspense — but the good old woman was nearly blind, and I think she could scarce make out my lineaments. She was of an entirely different nature to Giacomo the butler — she thoroughly believed her master to be dead, as indeed she had every reason to do, but strange to say, Giacomo did not. The old man had a fanatical notion that his “young lord” could not have died so suddenly, and he grew so obstinate on the point that my wife declared he must be going crazy. Assunta, on the other hand, would talk volubly of my death and tell me with assured earnestness:

  “It was to be expected, eccellenza — he was too good for us, and the saints took him. Of course our Lady wanted him — she always picks out the best among us. The poor Giacomo will not listen to me, he grows weak and childish, and he loved the master too well — better,” and here her voice would deepen into reproachful solemnity, “yes, better actually than St. Joseph himself! And of course one is punished for such a thing. I always knew my master would die young — he was too gentle as a baby, and too kind-hearted as a man to stay here long.”

  And she would shake her gray head and feel for the beads of her rosary, and mutter many an Ave for the repose of my soul. Much as I wished it, I could never get her to talk about her mistress — it was the one subject on which she was invariably silent. On one occasion when I spoke with apparent enthusiasm of the beauty and accomplishments of the young countess, she glanced at me with sudden and earnest scrutiny — sighed — but said nothing. I was glad to see how thoroughly devoted she was to Stella, and the child returned her affection with interest — though as the November days came on apace my little one looked far from strong. She paled and grew thin, her eyes looked preternaturally large and solemn, and she was very easily wearied. I called Assunta’s attention to these signs of ill-health; she replied that she had spoken to the countess, but that “madam” had taken no notice of the child’s weakly condition. Afterward I mentioned the matter myself to Nina, who merely smiled gratefully up in my face and answered:

  “Really, my dear conte, you are too good! There is nothing the matter with Stella, her health is excellent; she eats too many bonbons, perhaps, and is growing rather fast, that is all. How kind you are to think of her! But, I assure you, she is quite well.”

  I did not feel so sure of this, yet I was obliged to conceal my anxiety, as overmuch concern about the child would not have been in keeping w
ith my assumed character.

  It was a little past the middle of November, when a circumstance occurred that gave impetus to my plans, and hurried them to full fruition. The days were growing chilly and sad even in Naples — yachting excursions were over, and I was beginning to organize a few dinners and balls for the approaching winter season, when one afternoon Ferrari entered my room unannounced and threw himself into the nearest chair with an impatient exclamation, and a vexed expression of countenance.

  “What is the matter?” I asked, carelessly, as I caught a furtive glance of his eyes. “Anything financial? Pray draw upon me! I will be a most accommodating banker!”

  He smiled uneasily though gratefully.

  “Thanks, conte — but it is nothing of that sort — it is — gran Dio! what an unlucky wretch I am!”

  “I hope,” and here I put on an expression of the deepest anxiety, “I hope the pretty contessa has not played you false? she has refused to marry you?”

  He laughed with a disdainful triumph in his laughter.

  “Oh, as far as that goes there is no danger! She dares not play me false.”

  “Dares not! That is rather a strong expression, my friend!” And I stroked my beard and looked at him steadily. He himself seemed to think he had spoken too openly and hastily — for he reddened as he said with a little embarrassment:

  “Well, I did not mean that exactly — of course she is perfectly free to do as she likes — but she cannot, I think, refuse me after showing me so much encouragement.”

  I waved my hand with an airy gesture of amicable agreement.

  “Certainly not,” I said, “unless she be an arrant coquette and therefore a worthless woman, and you, who know so well her intrinsic goodness and purity, have no reason to fear. But, if not love or money, what is it that troubles you? It must be serious, to judge from your face.”