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

by Marie Corelli

“Cesare Oliva.”

  This epistle finished and written in the crabbed disguised penmanship it was part of my business to effect, I folded, sealed and addressed it, and summoning Vincenzo, bade him post it immediately. As soon as he had gone on this errand, I sat down to my as yet untasted breakfast and made some effort to eat as usual. But my thoughts were too active for appetite — I counted on my fingers the days — there were four, only four, between me and — what? One thing was certain — I must see my wife, or rather I should say my betrothed — I must see her that very day. I then began to consider how my courtship had progressed since that evening when she had declared she loved me. I had seen her frequently, though not daily — her behavior had been by turns affectionate, adoring, timid, gracious and once or twice passionately loving, though the latter impulse in her I had always coldly checked. For though I could bear a great deal, any outburst of sham sentiment on her part sickened and filled me with such utter loathing that often when she was more than usually tender I dreaded lest my pent-up wrath should break loose and impel me to kill her swiftly and suddenly as one crushes the head of a poisonous adder — an all-too-merciful death for such as she. I preferred to woo her by gifts alone — and her hands were always ready to take whatever I or others chose to offer her. From a rare jewel to a common flower she never refused anything — her strongest passions were vanity and avarice. Sparkling gems from the pilfered store of Carmelo Neri — trinkets which I had especially designed for her — lace, rich embroideries, bouquets of hot-house blossoms, gilded boxes of costly sweets — nothing came amiss to her — she accepted all with a certain covetous glee which she was at no pains to hide from me — nay, she made it rather evident that she expected such things as her right.

  And after all, what did it matter to me — I thought — of what value was anything I possessed save to assist me in carrying out the punishment I had destined for her? I studied her nature with critical coldness — I saw its inbred vice artfully concealed beneath the affectation of virtue — every day she sunk lower in my eyes, and I wondered vaguely how I could ever have loved so coarse and common a thing! Lovely she certainly was — lovely too are many of the wretched outcasts who sell themselves in the streets for gold, and who in spite of their criminal trade are less vile than such a woman as the one I had wedded. Mere beauty of face and form can be bought as easily as one buys a flower — but the loyal heart, the pure soul, the lofty intelligence which can make of woman an angel — these are unpurchasable ware, and seldom fall to the lot of man. For beauty, though so perishable, is a snare to us all — it maddens our blood in spite of ourselves — we men are made so. How was it that I — even I, who now loathed the creature I had once loved — could not look upon her physical loveliness without a foolish thrill of passion awaking within me — passion that had something of the murderous in it — admiration that was almost brutal — feelings which I could not control though I despised myself for them while they lasted! There is a weak point in the strongest of us, and wicked women know well where we are most vulnerable. One dainty pin-prick well-aimed — and all the barriers of caution and reserve are broken down — we are ready to fling away our souls for a smile or a kiss. Surely at the last day when we are judged — and may be condemned — we can make our last excuse to the Creator in the words of the first misguided man:

  “The woman whom thou gavest to be with me — she tempted me, and I did eat!”

  I lost no time that day in going to the Villa Romani. I drove there in my carriage, taking with me the usual love-offering in the shape of a large gilded osier-basket full of white violets. Their delicious odor reminded me of that May morning when Stella was born — and then quickly there flashed into my mind the words spoken by Guido Ferrari at the time. How mysterious they had seemed to me then — how clear their meaning now! On arriving at the villa I found my fiance in her own boudoir, attired in morning deshabille, if a trailing robe of white cashmere trimmed with Mechlin lace and swan’s-down can be considered deshabille. Her rich hair hung loosely on her shoulders, and she was seated in a velvet easy-chair before a small sparkling wood fire, reading. Her attitude was one of luxurious ease and grace, but she sprung up as soon as her maid announced me, and came forward with her usual charming air of welcome, in which there was something imperial, as of a sovereign who receives a subject. I presented the flowers I had brought, with a few words of studied and formal compliment, uttered for the benefit of the servant who lingered in the room — then I added in a lower tone:

  “I have news of importance — can I speak to you privately?”

  She smiled assent, and motioning me by a graceful gesture of her hand to take a seat, she at once dismissed her maid. As soon as the door had closed behind the girl I spoke at once and to the point, scarcely waiting till my wife resumed her easy-chair before the fire.

  “I have had a letter from Signor Ferrari.”

  She started slightly, but said nothing, she merely bowed her head and raised her delicately arched eyebrows with a look of inquiry as of one who should say, “Indeed! in what way does this concern me?” I watched her narrowly, and then continued, “He is coming back in two or three days — he says he is sure,” and here I smiled, “that you will be delighted to see him.”

  This time she half rose from her seat, her lips moved as though she would speak, but she remained silent, and sinking back again among her violet velvet cushions, she grew very pale.

  “If,” I went on, “you have any reason to think that he may make himself disagreeable to you when he knows of your engagement to me, out of disappointed ambition, conceit, or self-interest (for of course you never encouraged him), I should advise you to go on a visit to some friends for a few days, till his irritation shall have somewhat passed. What say you to such a plan?”

  She appeared to meditate for a few moments — then raising her lovely eyes with a wistful and submissive look, she replied:

  “It shall be as you wish, Cesare! Signor Ferrari is certainly rash and hot-tempered, he might be presumptuous enough to — But you do not think of yourself in the matter! Surely you also are in danger of being insulted by him when he knows all?”

  “I shall be on my guard!” I said, quietly. “Besides, I can easily pardon any outburst of temper on his part — it will be perfectly natural, I think! To lose all hope of ever winning such a love as yours must needs be a sore trial to one of his hot blood and fiery impulses. Poor fellow!” and I sighed and shook my head with benevolent gentleness. “By the way, he tells me he has had letters from you?”

  I put this question carelessly, but it took her by surprise. She caught her breath hard and looked at me sharply, with an alarmed expression. Seeing that my face was perfectly impassive, she recovered her composure instantly, and answered:

  “Oh, yes! I have been compelled to write to him once or twice on matters of business connected with my late husband’s affairs. Most unfortunately, Fabio made him one of the trustees of his fortune in case of his death — it is exceedingly awkward for me that he should occupy that position — it appears to give him some authority over my actions. In reality he has none. He has no doubt exaggerated the number of times I have written to him? it would be like his impertinence to do so.”

  Though this last remark was addressed to me almost as a question, I let it pass without response. I reverted to my original theme.

  “What think you, then?” I said. “Will you remain here or will you absent yourself for a few days?”

  She rose from her chair and approaching me, knelt down at my side, clasping her two little hands round my arm. “With your permission,” she returned, softly, “I will go to the convent where I was educated. It is some eight or ten miles distant from here, and I think” (here she counterfeited the most wonderful expression of ingenuous sweetness and piety)— “I think I should like to make a ‘RETREAT’ — that is, devote some time solely to the duties of religion before I enter upon a second marriage. The dear nuns would be so glad to see me — and I am s
ure you will not object? It will be a good preparation for my future.”

  I seized her caressing hands and held them hard, while I looked upon her kneeling there like the white-robed figure of a praying saint.

  “It will indeed!” I said in a harsh voice. “The best of all possible preparations! We none of us know what may happen — we cannot tell whether life or death awaits us — it is wise to prepare for either by words of penitence and devotion! I admire this beautiful spirit in you, carina! Go to the convent by all means! I shall find you there and will visit you when the wrath and bitterness of our friend Ferrari have been smoothed into silence and resignation. Yes — go to the convent, among the good and pious nuns — and when you pray for yourself, pray for the peace of your dead husband’s soul — and — for me! Such prayers, unselfish and earnest, uttered by pure lips like yours, fly swiftly to heaven! And as for young Guido — have no fear — I promise you he shall offend you no more!”

  “Ah, you do not know him!” she murmured, lightly kissing my hands that still held hers; “I fear he will give you a great deal of trouble.”

  “I shall at any rate know how to silence him,” I said, releasing her as I spoke, and watching her as she rose from her kneeling position and stood before me, supple and delicate as a white iris swaying in the wind. “You never gave him reason to hope — therefore he has no cause of complaint.”

  “True!” she replied, readily, with an untroubled smile. “But I am such a nervous creature! I am always imagining evils that never happen. And now, Cesare, when do you wish me to go to the convent?”

  I shrugged my shoulders with an air of indifference.

  “Your submission to my will, mia bella” I said, coldly, “is altogether charming, and flatters me much, but I am not your master — not yet! Pray choose your own time, and suit your departure to your own pleasure.”

  “Then,” she replied, with an air of decision, “I will go today. The sooner the better — for some instinct tells me that Guido will play us a trick and return before we expect him. Yes — I will go to-day.”

  I rose to take my leave. “Then you will require leisure to make your preparations,” I said, with ceremonious politeness. “I assure you I approve your resolve. If you inform the superioress of the convent that I am your betrothed husband, I suppose I shall be permitted to see you when I call?”

  “Oh, certainly!” she replied. “The dear nuns will do anything for me. Their order is one of perpetual adoration, and their rules are very strict, but they do not apply them to their old pupils, and I am one of their great favorites.”

  “Naturally!” I observed. “And will you also join in the service of perpetual adoration?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “It needs an untainted soul like yours,” I said, with a satirical smile, which she did not see, “to pray before the unveiled Host without being conscience-smitten! I envy you your privilege. I could not do it — but you are probably nearer to the angels than we know. And so you will pray for me?”

  She raised her eyes with devout gentleness. “I will indeed!”

  “I thank you!” — and I choked back the bitter contempt and disgust I had for her hypocrisy as I spoke— “I thank you heartily — most heartily! Addio!”

  She came or rather floated to my side, her white garments trailing about her and the gold of her hair glittering in the mingled glow of the firelight and the wintery sunbeams that shone through the window. She looked up — a witch-like languor lay in her eyes — her red lips pouted.

  “Not one kiss before you go?” she said.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  FOR a moment I lost my self-possession. I scarcely remember now what I did. I know I clasped her almost roughly in my arms — I know that I kissed her passionately on lips, throat and brow — and that in the fervor of my embraces, the thought of what manner of vile thing she was came swiftly upon me, causing me to release her with such suddenness that she caught at the back of a chair to save herself from falling. Her breath came and went in little quick gasps of excitement, her face was flushed — she looked astonished, yet certainly not displeased. No, SHE was not angry, but I was — thoroughly annoyed — bitterly vexed with myself, for being such a fool.

  “Forgive me,” I muttered. “I forgot — I—”

  A little smile stole round the corners of her mouth.

  “You are fully pardoned!” she said, in a low voice, “you need not apologize.”

  Her smile deepened; suddenly she broke into a rippling laugh, sweet and silvery as a bell — a laugh that went through me like a knife. Was it not the self-same laughter that had pierced my brain the night I witnessed her amorous interview with Guido in the avenue? Had not the cruel mockery of it nearly driven me mad? I could not endure it — I sprung to her side — she ceased laughing and looked at me in wide-eyed wonderment.

  “Listen!” I said, in an impatient, almost fierce tone. “Do not laugh like that! It jars my nerves — it — hurts me! I will tell you why. Once — long ago — in my youth — I loved a woman. She was not like you — no — for she was false! False to the very heart’s core — false in every word she uttered. You understand me? she resembled you in nothing — nothing! But she used to laugh at me — she trampled on my life and spoiled it — she broke my heart! It is all past now, I never think of her, only your laughter reminded me — there!” And I took her hands and kissed them. “I have told you the story of my early folly — forget it and forgive me! It is time you prepared for your journey, is it not? If I can be of service to you, command me — you know where to send for me. Good-bye! and the peace of a pure conscience be with you!”

  And I laid my burning hand on her head weighted with its clustering curls of gold. She thought this gesture was one of blessing. I thought — God only knows what I thought — yet surely if curses can be so bestowed, my curse crowned her at that moment! I dared not trust myself longer in her presence, and without another word or look I left her and hurried from the house. I knew she was startled and at the same time gratified to think she could thus have moved me to any display of emotion — but I would not even turn my head to catch her parting glance. I could not — I was sick of myself and of her. I was literally torn asunder between love and hatred — love born basely of material feeling alone — hatred, the offspring of a deeply injured spirit for whose wrong there could scarce be found sufficient remedy. Once out of the influence of her bewildering beauty, my mind grew calmer — and the drive back to the hotel in my carriage through the sweet dullness of the December air quieted the feverish excitement of my blood and restored me to myself. It was a most lovely day — bright and fresh, with the savor of the sea in the wind. The waters of the bay were of a steel-like blue shading into deep olive-green, and a soft haze lingered about the shores of Amalfi like a veil of gray, shot through with silver and gold. Down the streets went women in picturesque garb carrying on their heads baskets full to the brim of purple violets that scented the air as they passed — children ragged and dirty ran along, pushing the luxuriant tangle of their dark locks away from their beautiful wild antelope eyes, and, holding up bunches of roses and narcissi with smiles as brilliant as the very sunshine, implored the passengers to buy “for the sake of the little Gesu who was soon coming!”

  Bells clashed and clanged from the churches in honor of San Tommaso, whose festival it was, and the city had that aspect of gala gayety about it, which is in truth common enough to all continental towns, but which seems strange to the solemn Londoner who sees so much apparently reasonless merriment for the first time. He, accustomed to have his reluctant laughter pumped out of him by an occasional visit to the theater where he can witness the “original,” English translation of a French farce, cannot understand why these foolish Neapolitans should laugh and sing and shout in the manner they do, merely because they are glad to be alive. And after much dubious consideration, he decides within himself that they are all rascals — the scum of the earth — and that he and he only is the true representative
of man at his best — the model of civilized respectability. And a mournful spectacle he thus seems to the eyes of us “base” foreigners — in our hearts we are sorry for him and believe that if he could manage to shake off the fetters of his insular customs and prejudices, he might almost succeed in enjoying life as much as we do!

  As I drove along I saw a small crowd at one of the street corners — a gesticulating, laughing crowd, listening to an “improvisatore” or wandering poet — a plump-looking fellow who had all the rhymes of Italy at his fingers’ ends, and who could make a poem on any subject or an acrostic on any name, with perfect facility. I stopped my carriage to listen to his extemporized verses, many of which were really admirable, and tossed him three francs. He threw them up in the air, one after the other, and caught them, as they fell, in his mouth, appearing to have swallowed them all — then with an inimitable grimace, he pulled off his tattered cap and said:

  “Ancora affamato, excellenza!” (I am still hungry!) amid the renewed laughter of his easily amused audience. A merry poet he was and without conceit — and his good humor merited the extra silver pieces I gave him, which caused him, to wish me— “Buon appetito e un sorriso della Madonna!” — (a good appetite to you and a smile of the Madonna!) Imagine the Lord Laureate of England standing at the corner of Regent Street swallowing half-pence for his rhymes! Yet some of the quaint conceits strung together by such a fellow as this improvisatore might furnish material for many of the so called “poets” whose names are mysteriously honored in Britain.

  Further on I came upon a group of red-capped coral fishers assembled round a portable stove whereon roasting chestnuts cracked their glossy sides and emitted savory odors. The men were singing gayly to the thrumming of an old guitar, and the song they sung was familiar to me. Stay! where had I heard it? — let me listen!

  “Sciore limone

  Le voglio far mori de passione