I read this particular paragraph to my wife, watching her closely as I slowly enunciated the words contained in it. She listened, and a vivid blush crimsoned her cheeks — a blush of indignation — and her brows contracted in the vexed frown I knew so well. Her lips parted in a half-sweet, half-chilly smile as she said, quietly:
“I owe you my thanks, conte, for showing me to what extent Signor Ferrari’s impertinence may reach. I am surprised at his writing to you in such a manner! The fact is, my late husband’s attachment for him was so extreme that he now presumes upon a supposed right that he has over me — he fancies I am really his sister, and that he can tyrannize, as brothers sometimes do! I really regret I have been so patient with him — I have allowed him too much liberty.”
True enough! I thought and smiled bitterly. I was now in the heat of the game — the moves must be played quickly — there was no more time for hesitation or reflection.
“I think, madam,” I said, deliberately, as I folded Guido’s letter and replaced it in my pocket-book, “Signor Ferrari ardently aspires to be something more than a brother to you at no very distant date.”
Oh, the splendid hypocrisy of women! No wonder they make such excellent puppets on the theatrical stage — acting is their natural existence, sham their breath of life! This creature showed no sign of embarrassment — she raised her eyes frankly to mine in apparent surprise — then she gave a little low laugh of disdain.
“Indeed!” she said. “Then I fear Signor Ferrari is doomed to have his aspirations disappointed! My dear conte,” and here she rose and swept softly across the room toward me with that graceful gliding step that somehow always reminded me of the approach of a panther, “do you really mean to tell me that his audacity has reached such a height that — really it is too absurd! — that he hopes to marry me?” And sinking into a chair near mine she looked at me in calm inquiry. Lost in amazement at the duplicity of the woman, I answered, briefly:
“I believe so! He intimated as much to me.” She smiled scornfully.
“I am too much honored! And did you, conte, think for a moment that such an arrangement would meet with my approval?”
I was silent. My brain was confused — I found it difficult to meet with and confront such treachery as this. What! Had she no conscience? Were all the passionate embraces, the lingering kisses, the vows of fidelity, and words of caressing endearment as naught? Were they all blotted from her memory as the writing on a slate is wiped out by a sponge! Almost I pitied Guido! His fate, in her hands, was evidently to be the same as mine had been; yet after all, why should I be surprised? why should I pity? Had I not calculated it all? and was it not part of my vengeance?
“Tell me!” pursued my wife’s dulcet voice, breaking in upon my reflections, “did you really imagine Signor Ferrari’s suit might meet with favor at my hands?”
I must speak — the comedy had to be played out. So I answered, bluntly:
“Madam, I certainly did think so. It seemed a natural conclusion to draw from the course of events. He is young, undeniably handsome, and on his uncle’s death will be fairly wealthy — what more could you desire? besides, he was your husband’s friend—”
“And for that reason I would never marry him!” she interrupted me with a decided gesture. “Even if I liked him sufficiently, which I do not” (oh, miserable traitress), “I would not run the risk of what the world would say of such a marriage.”
“How, madam? Pardon me if I fail to comprehend you.”
“Do you not see, conte?” she went on in a coaxing voice, as of one that begged to be believed, “if I were to marry one that was known to have been my husband’s most intimate friend, society is so wicked — people would be sure to say that there had been something between us before my husband’s death — I know they would, and I could not endure such slander!”
“Murder will out” they say! Here was guilt partially declaring itself. A perfectly innocent woman could not foresee so readily the condemnation of society. Not having the knowledge of evil she would be unable to calculate the consequences. The overprudish woman betrays herself; the fine lady who virtuously shudders at the sight of a nude statue or picture, announces at once to all whom it may concern that there is something far coarser in the suggestions of her own mind than the work of art she condemns. Absolute purity has no fear of social slander; it knows its own value, and that it must conquer in the end. My wife — alas! that I should call her so — was innately vicious and false; yet how particular she was in her efforts to secure the blind world’s good opinion! Poor old world! how exquisitely it is fooled, and how good-naturedly it accepts its fooling! But I had to answer the fair liar, whose net of graceful deceptions was now spread to entrap me, therefore I said with an effort of courtesy:
“No one would dare to slander you, contessa, in my presence.” She bowed and smiled prettily. “But,” I went on, “if it is true that you have no liking for Signor Ferrari—”
“It is true!” she exclaimed with sudden emphasis. “He is rough and ill-mannered; I have seen him the worse for wine, sometimes he is insufferable! I am afraid of him!”
I glanced at her quietly. Her face had paled, and her hands, which were busied with some silken embroidery, trembled a little.
“In that case,” I continued, slowly, “though I am sorry for Ferrari, poor fellow! he will be immensely disappointed! I confess I am glad in other respects, because—”
“Because what?” she demanded, eagerly.
“Why,” I answered, feigning a little embarrassment, “because there will be more chance for other men who may seek to possess the hand of the accomplished and beautiful Contessa Romani.”
She shook her fair head slightly. A transient expression of disappointment passed over her features.
“The ‘other men’ you speak of, conte, are not likely to indulge in such an ambition,” she said, with a faint sigh; “more especially,” and her eyes flashed indignantly, “since Signor Ferrari thinks it his duty to mount guard over me. I suppose he wishes to keep me for himself — a most impertinent and foolish notion! There is only one thing to do — I shall leave Naples before he returns.”
“Why?” I asked.
She flushed deeply. “I wish to avoid him,” she said, after a little pause; “I tell you frankly, he has lately given me much cause for annoyance. I will not be persecuted by his attentions; and as I before said to you, I am often afraid of him. Under your protection I know I am quite safe, but I cannot always enjoy that—”
The moment had come. I advanced a step or two.
“Why not?” I said. “It rests entirely with yourself.”
She started and half rose from her chair — her work dropped from her hands.
“What do you mean, conte?” she faltered, half timidly, yet anxiously; “I do not understand!”
“I mean what I say,” I continued in cool hard tones, and stooping, I picked up her work and restored it to her; “but pray do not excite yourself! You say you cannot always enjoy my protection; it seems to me that you can — by becoming my wife.”
“Conte!” she stammered. I held up my hand as a sign to her to be silent.
“I am perfectly aware,” I went on in business-like accents— “of the disparity in years that exists between us. I have neither youth, health, or good looks to recommend me to you. Trouble and bitter disappointment have made me what I am. But I have wealth which is almost inexhaustible — I have position and influence — and beside these things” — and here I looked at her steadily, “I have an ardent desire to do justice to your admirable qualities, and to give you all you deserve. If you think you could be happy with me, speak frankly — I cannot offer you the passionate adoration of a young man — my blood is cold and my pulse is slow — but what I can do, I will!”
Having spoken thus, I was silent — gazing at her intently. She paled and flushed alternately, and seemed for a moment lost in thought — then a sudden smile of triumph curved her mouth — she raised her large
lovely eyes to mine, with a look of melting and wistful tenderness. She laid her needle-work gently down, and came close up to me — her fragrant breath fell warm on my cheek — her strange gaze fascinated me, and a sort of tremor shook my nerves.
“You mean,” she said, with a tender pathos in her voice— “that you are willing to marry me, but that you do not really love me?”
And almost appealingly she laid her white hand on my shoulder — her musical accents were low and thrilling — she sighed faintly. I was silent — battling violently with the foolish desire that had sprung up within me, the desire to draw this witching fragile thing to my heart, to cover her lips with kisses — to startle her with the passion of my embraces! But I forced the mad impulse down and stood mute. She watched me — slowly she lifted her hand from where it had rested, and passed it with a caressing touch through my hair.
“No — you do not really love me,” she whispered— “but I will tell you the truth — I love you!”
And she drew herself up to her full height and smiled again as she uttered the lie. I knew it was a lie — but I seized the hand whose caresses stung me, and held it hard, as I answered:
“You love me? No, no — I cannot believe it — it is impossible!”
She laughed softly. “It is true though,” she said, emphatically, “the very first time I saw you I knew I should love you! I never even liked my husband, and though in some things you resemble him, you are quite different in others — and superior to him in every way. Believe it or not as you like, you are the only man in all the world I have ever loved!”
And she made the assertion unblushingly, with an air of conscious pride and virtue. Half stupefied at her manner, I asked:
“Then you will be my wife?”
“I will!” she answered— “and tell me — your name is Cesare, is it not?”
“Yes,” I said, mechanically.
“Then, Cesare” she murmured, tenderly, “I will make you love me very much!”
And with a quick lithe movement of her supple figure, she nestled softly against me, and turned up her radiant glowing face.
“Kiss me!” she said, and waited. As one in a whirling dream, I stooped and kissed those false sweet lips! I would have more readily placed my mouth upon that of a poisonous serpent! Yet that kiss roused a sort of fury in me. I slipped my arms round her half-reclining figure, drew her gently backward to the couch she had left, and sat down beside her, still embracing her. “You really love me?” I asked almost fiercely.
“Yes!”
“And I am the first man whom you have really cared for?”
“You are!”
“You never liked Ferrari?”
“Never!”
“Did he ever kiss you as I have done?”
“Not once!”
God! how the lies poured forth! a very cascade of them! and they were all told with such an air of truth! I marveled at the ease and rapidity with which they glided off this fair woman’s tongue, feeling somewhat the same sense of stupid astonishment a rustic exhibits when he sees for the first time a conjurer drawing yards and yards of many-colored ribbon out of his mouth. I took up the little hand on which the wedding-ring I had placed there was still worn, and quietly slipped upon the slim finger a circlet of magnificent rose-brilliants. I had long carried this trinket about with me in expectation of the moment that had now come. She started from my arms with an exclamation of delight.
“Oh, Cesare! how lovely! How good you are to me!”
And leaning toward me, she kissed me, then resting against my shoulder, she held up her hand to admire the flash of the diamonds in the light. Suddenly she said, with some anxiety in her tone:
“You will not tell Guido? not yet?”
“No,” I answered; “I certainly will not tell him till he returns. Otherwise he would leave Rome at once, and we do not want him back just immediately, do we?” And I toyed with her rippling gold tresses half mechanically, while I wondered within myself at the rapid success of my scheme. She, in the meantime grew pensive and abstracted, and for a few moments we were both silent. If she had known! I thought, if she could have imagined that she was encircled by the arm of her own husband, the man whom she had duped and wronged, the poor fool she had mocked at and despised, whose life had been an obstruction in her path, whose death she had been glad of! Would she have smiled so sweetly? Would she have kissed me then?
She remained leaning against me in a reposeful attitude for some moments, ever and anon turning the ring I had given her round and round upon her finger. By and by she looked up.
“Will you do me one favor?” she asked, coaxingly; “such a little thing — a trifle! but it would give me such pleasure!”
“What is it?” I asked; “it is you to command and I to obey!”
“Well, to take off those dark glasses just for a minute! I want to see your eyes.”
I rose from the sofa quickly, and answered her with some coldness.
“Ask anything you like but that, mia bella. The least light on my eyes gives me the most acute pain — pain that irritates my nerves for hours afterward. Be satisfied with me as I am for the present, though I promise you your wish shall be gratified—”
“When?” she interrupted me eagerly. I stooped and kissed her hand.
“On the evening of our marriage day,” I answered.
She blushed and turned away her head coquettishly.
“Ah! that is so long to wait!” she said, half pettishly.
“Not very long, I hope,” I observed, with meaning emphasis. “We are now in November. May I ask you to make my suspense brief? to allow me to fix our wedding for the second month of the new year?”
“But my recent widowhood! — Stella’s death!” — she objected faintly, pressing a perfumed handkerchief gently to her eyes.
“In February your husband will have been dead nearly six months,” I said, decisively; “it is quite a sufficient period of mourning for one so young as yourself. And the loss of your child so increases the loneliness of your situation, that it is natural, even necessary, that you should secure a protector as soon as possible. Society will not censure you, you may be sure — besides, I shall know how to silence any gossip that savors of impertinence.”
A smile of conscious triumph parted her lips.
“It shall be as you wish,” she said, demurely; “if you, who are known in Naples as one who is perfectly indifferent to women like now to figure as an impatient lover, I shall not object!”
And she gave me a quick glance of mischievous amusement from under the languid lids of her dreamy dark eyes. I saw it, but answered, stiffly:
“You are aware, contessa, and I am also aware that I am not a ‘lover’ according to the accepted type, but that I am impatient I readily admit.”
“And why?” she asked.
“Because,” I replied, speaking slowly and emphatically; “I desire you to be mine and mine only, to have you absolutely in my possession, and to feel that no one can come between us, or interfere with my wishes concerning you.”
She laughed gayly. “A la bonne heure! You are a lover without knowing it! Your dignity will not allow you to believe that you are actually in love with me, but in spite of yourself you are — you know you are!”
I stood before her in almost somber silence. At last I said: “If you say so, contessa, then it must be so. I have had no experience in affairs of the heart, as they are called, and I find it difficult to give a name to the feelings which possess me; I am only conscious of a very strong wish to become the absolute master of your destiny.” And involuntarily I clinched my hand as I spoke. She did not observe the action, but she answered the words with a graceful bend of the head and a smile.
“I could not have a better fortune,” she said, “for I am sure my destiny will be all brightness and beauty with you to control and guide it!”
“It will be what you desire,” I half muttered; then with an abrupt change of manner I said: “I will wish you go
odnight, contessa. It grows late, and my state of health compels me to retire to rest early.”
She rose from her seat and gave me a compassionate look.
“You are really a great sufferer then?” she inquired tenderly. “I am sorry! But perhaps careful nursing will quite restore you. I shall be so proud if I can help you to secure better health.”
“Rest and happiness will no doubt do much for me,” I answered, “still I warn you, cara mia, that in accepting me as your husband you take a broken-down man, one whose whims are legion and whose chronic state of invalidism may in time prove to be a burden on your young life. Are you sure your decision is a wise one?”
“Quite sure!” she replied firmly. “Do I not love you! And you will not always be ailing — you look so strong.”
“I am strong to a certain extent,” I said, unconsciously straightening myself as I stood. “I have plenty of muscle as far as that goes, but my nervous system is completely disorganized. I — why, what is the matter? Are you ill?”
For she had turned deathly pale, and her eyes look startled and terrified. Thinking she would faint, I extended my arms to save her from falling, but she put them aside with an alarmed yet appealing gesture.
“It is nothing,” she murmured feebly, “a sudden giddiness — I thought — no matter what! Tell me, are you not related to the Romani family? When you drew yourself up just now you were so like — like FABIO! I fancied,” and she shuddered, “that I saw his ghost!”
I supported her to a chair near the window, which I threw open for air, though the evening was cold.
“You are fatigued and overexcited,” I said calmly, “your nature is too imaginative. No; I am not related to the Romanis, though possibly I may have some of their mannerisms. Many men are alike in these things. But you must not give way to such fancies. Rest perfectly quiet, you will soon recover.”
And pouring out a glass of water I handed it to her. She sipped it slowly, leaning back in the fauteuil where I had placed her, and in silence we both looked out on the November night. There was a moon, but she was veiled by driving clouds, which ever and anon swept asunder to show her gleaming pallidly white, like the restless spirit of a deceived and murdered lady. A rising wind moaned dismally among the fading creepers and rustled the heavy branches of a giant cypress that stood on the lawn like a huge spectral mourner draped in black, apparently waiting for a forest funeral. Now and then a few big drops of rain fell — sudden tears wrung as though by force from the black heart of the sky. My wife shivered.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 51
