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

by Marie Corelli

  “Welcome the festal hour!

  Pour the red wine into cups of gold!

  Health to the men who are strong and bold!

  Welcome the festal hour!

  Waken the echoes with riotous mirth —

  Cease to remember the sorrows of earth

  In the joys of the festal hour!

  Wine is the monarch of laughter and light,

  Death himself shall be merry to-night!

  Hail to the festal hour!”

  An enthusiastic clapping of hands rewarded this effort on the part of the unseen vocalists, and the music having ceased, conversation became general.

  “By heaven!” exclaimed Ferrari, “if this Olympian carouse is meant as a welcome to me, amico, all I can say is that I do not deserve it. Why, it is more fit for the welcome of one king to his neighbor sovereign!”

  “Ebbene!” I said. “Are there any better kings than honest men? Let us hope we are thus far worthy of each other’s esteem.”

  He flashed a bright look of gratitude upon me and was silent, listening to the choice and complimentary phrases uttered by the Duke di Marina concerning the exquisite taste displayed in the arrangement of the table.

  “You have no doubt traveled much in the East, conte,” said this nobleman. “Your banquet reminds me of an Oriental romance I once read, called ‘Vathek.’”

  “Exactly,” exclaimed Guido. “I think Oliva must be Vathek himself.”

  “Scarcely!” I said, smiling coldly. “I lay no claim to supernatural experiences. The realities of life are sufficiently wonderful for me.”

  Antonio Biscardi the painter, a refined, gentle-featured man, looked toward us and said modestly:

  “I think you are right, conte. The beauties of nature and of humanity are so varied and profound that were it not for the inextinguishable longing after immortality which has been placed in every one of us, I think we should be perfectly satisfied with this world as it is.”

  “You speak like an artist and a man of even temperament,” broke in the Marchese Gualdro, who had finished his soup quickly in order to be able to talk — talking being his chief delight. “For me, I am never contented. I never have enough of anything! That is my nature. When I see lovely flowers, I wish more of them — when I behold a fine sunset, I desire many more such sunsets — when I look upon a lovely woman—”

  “You would have lovely women ad infinitum!” laughed the French Capitaine de Hamal. “En verité, Gualdro, you should have been a Turk!”

  “And why not?” demanded Gualdro. “The Turks are very sensible people — they know how to make coffee better than we do. And what more fascinating than a harem? It must be like a fragrant hot-house, where one is free to wander every day, sometimes gathering a gorgeous lily, sometimes a simple violet — sometimes—”

  “A thorn?” suggested Salustri.

  “Well, perhaps!” laughed the Marchese. “Yet one would run the risk of that for the sake of a perfect rose.”

  Chevalier Mancini, who wore in his button-hole the decoration of the Legion d’Honneur, looked up — he was a thin man with keen eyes and a shrewd face which, though at a first glance appeared stern, could at the least provocation break up into a thousand little wrinkles of laughter.

  “There is undoubtedly something entrainant about the idea,” he observed, in his methodical way. “I have always fancied that marriage as we arrange it is a great mistake.”

  “And that is why you have never tried it?” queried Ferrari, looking amused.

  “Certissimamente!” and the chevalier’s grim countenance began to work with satirical humor. “I have resolved that I will never be bound over by the law to kiss only one woman. As matters stand, I can kiss them all if I like.”

  A shout of merriment and cries of “Oh! oh!” greeted this remark, which Ferrari, however, did not seem inclined to take in good part.

  “All?” he said, with a dubious air. “You mean all except the married ones?”

  The chevalier put on his spectacles, and surveyed him with a sort of comic severity.

  “When I said all, I meant all,” he returned— “the married ones in particular. They, poor things, need such attentions — and often invite them — why not? Their husbands have most likely ceased to be amorous after the first months of marriage.”

  I burst out laughing. “You are right, Mancini,” I said; “and even if the husbands are fools enough to continue their gallantries they deserve to be duped — and they generally are! Come, amico,” I added, turning to Ferrari, “those are your own sentiments — you have often declared them to me.”

  He smiled uncomfortably, and his brows contracted. I could easily perceive that he was annoyed. To change the tone of the conversation I gave a signal for the music to recommence, and instantly the melody of a slow, voluptuous Hungarian waltz-measure floated through the room. The dinner was now fairly on its way; the appetites of my guests were stimulated and tempted by the choicest and most savory viands, prepared with all the taste and intelligence a first rate chef can bestow on his work, and good wine flowed freely.

  Vincenzo obediently following my instructions, stood behind my chair, and seldom moved except to refill Ferrari’s glass, and occasionally to proffer some fresh vintage to the Duke di Marina. He, however, was an abstemious and careful man, and followed the good example shown by the wisest Italians, who never mix their wines. He remained faithful to the first beverage he had selected — a specially fine Chianti, of which he partook freely without its causing the slightest flush to appear on his pale aristocratic features. Its warm and mellow flavor did but brighten his eyes and loosen his tongue, inasmuch that he became almost as elegant a talker as the Marchese Gualdro. This latter, who scarce had a scudo to call his own, and who dined sumptuously every day at other people’s expense for the sake of the pleasure his company afforded, was by this time entertaining every one near him by the most sparkling stories and witty pleasantries.

  The merriment increased as the various courses were served; shouts of laughter frequently interrupted the loud buzz of conversation, mingling with the clinking of glasses and clattering of porcelain. Every now and then might be heard the smooth voice of Captain Freccia rolling out his favorite oaths with the sonority and expression of a primo tenore; sometimes the elegant French of the Marquis D’Avencourt, with his high, sing-song Parisian accent, rang out above the voices of the others; and again, the choice Tuscan of the poet Luziano Salustri rolled forth in melodious cadence as though he were chanting lines from Dante or Ariosto, instead of talking lightly on indifferent matters. I accepted my share in the universal hilarity, though I principally divided my conversation between Ferrari and the duke, paying to both, but specially to Ferrari, that absolute attention which is the greatest compliment a host can bestow on those whom he undertakes to entertain.

  We had reached that stage of the banquet when the game was about to be served — the invisible choir of boys’ voices had just completed an enchanting stornello with an accompaniment of mandolines — when a stillness, strange and unaccountable, fell upon the company — a pause — an ominous hush, as though some person supreme in authority had suddenly entered the room and commanded “Silence!” No one seemed disposed to speak or to move, the very footsteps of the waiters were muffled in the velvet pile of the carpets — no sound was heard but the measured plash of the fountain that played among the ferns and flowers. The moon, shining frostily white through the one uncurtained window, cast a long pale green ray, like the extended arm of an appealing ghost, against one side of the velvet hangings — a spectral effect which was heightened by the contrast of the garish glitter of the waxen tapers. Each man looked at the other with a sort of uncomfortable embarrassment, and somehow, though I moved my lips in an endeavor to speak and thus break the spell, I was at a loss, and could find no language suitable to the moment. Ferrari toyed with his wine-glass mechanically — the duke appeared absorbed in arranging the crumbs beside his plate into little methodical patterns; th
e stillness seemed to last so long that it was like a suffocating heaviness in the air. Suddenly Vincenzo, in his office of chief butler, drew the cork of a champagne-bottle with a loud-sounding pop! We all started as though a pistol had been fired in our ears, and the Marchese Gualdro burst out laughing.

  “Corpo di Bacco!” he cried. “At last you have awakened from sleep! Were you all struck dumb, amici, that you stared at the table-cloth so persistently and with such admirable gravity? May Saint Anthony and his pig preserve me, but for the time I fancied I was attending a banquet on the wrong side of the Styx, and that you, my present companions, were all dead men!”

  “And that idea made you also hold your tongue, which is quite an unaccountable miracle in its way,” laughed Luziano Salustri. “Have you never heard the pretty legend that attaches to such an occurrence as a sudden silence in the midst of high festivity? An angel enters, bestowing his benediction as he passes through.”

  “That story is more ancient than the church,” said Chevalier Mancini. “It is an exploded theory — for we have ceased to believe in angels — we call them women instead.”

  “Bravo, mon vieux gaillard!” cried Captain de Hamal. “Your sentiments are the same as mine, with a very trifling difference. You believe women to be angels — I know them to be devils — mas il n’y a qu’un pas entre les deux? We will not quarrel over a word — à votre santé, mon cher!”

  And he drained his glass, nodding to Mancini, who followed his example.

  “Perhaps,” said the smooth, slow voice of Captain Freccia, “our silence was caused by the instinctive consciousness of something wrong with our party — a little inequality — which I dare say our noble host has not thought it worth while to mention.”

  Every head was turned in his direction. “What do you mean?” “What inequality?” “Explain yourself!” chorused several voices.

  “Really it is a mere nothing,” answered Freccia, lazily, as he surveyed with the admiring air of a gourmet the dainty portion of pheasant just placed before him. “I assure you, only the uneducated would care two scudi about such a circumstance. The excellent brothers Respetti are to blame — their absence to-night has caused — but why should I disturb your equanimity? I am not superstitious — ma, chi sa? — some of you may be.”

  “I see what you mean!” interrupted Salustri, quickly. “We are thirteen at table!”

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  At this announcement my guests looked furtively at each other, and I could see they were counting up the fatal number for themselves. They were undeniably clever, cultivated men of the world, but the superstitious element was in their blood, and all, with the exception perhaps of Freccia and the ever-cool Marquis D’Avencourt, were evidently rendered uneasy by the fact now discovered. On Ferrari it had a curious effect — he started violently and his face flushed. “Diabolo!” he muttered, under his breath, and seizing his never-empty glass, he swallowed its contents thirstily and quickly at one gulp as though attacked by fever, and pushed away his plate with a hand that trembled nervously. I, meanwhile, raised my voice and addressed my guests cheerfully!

  “Our distinguished friend Salustri is perfectly right, gentlemen. I myself noticed the discrepancy in our number some time ago — but I knew that you were all advanced thinkers, who had long since liberated yourselves from the trammels of superstitious observances, which are the result of priestcraft, and are now left solely to the vulgar. Therefore I said nothing. The silly notion of any misfortune attending the number thirteen arose, as you are aware, out of the story of the Last Supper, and children and women may possibly still give credence to the fancy that one out of thirteen at table must be a traitor and doomed to die. But we men know better. None of us here to-night have reason to put ourselves in the position of a Christ or a Judas — we are all good friends and boon companions, and I cannot suppose for a moment that this little cloud can possibly affect you seriously. Remember also that this is Christmas-eve, and that according to the world’s greatest poet, Shakespeare,

  “‘Then no planet strikes,

  No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

  So hallowed and so gracious is the time.’”

  A murmur of applause and a hearty clapping of hands rewarded this little speech, and the Marchese Gualdro sprung to his feet —

  “By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “we are not a party of terrified old women to shiver on the edge of a worn-out omen! Fill your glasses, signori! More wine, garçon! Per bacco! if Judas Iscariot himself had such a feast as ours before he hanged himself, he was not much to be pitied! Hola amici! To the health of our noble host, Conte Cesare Oliva!”

  He waved his glass in the air three times — every one followed his example and drank the toast with enthusiasm. I bowed my thanks and acknowledgments — and the superstitious dread which at first had undoubtedly seized the company passed away quickly — the talking, the merriment, and laughter were resumed, and soon it seemed as though the untoward circumstance were entirely forgotten. Only Guido Ferrari seemed still somewhat disturbed in his mind — but even his uneasiness dissipated itself by degrees, and heated by the quantity of wine he had taken, he began to talk with boastful braggartism of his many successful gallantries, and related his most questionable anecdotes in such a manner as to cause some haughty astonishment in the mind of the Duke di Marina, who eyed him from time to time with ill-disguised impatience that bordered on contempt. I, on the contrary, listened to everything he said with urbane courtesy — I humored him and drew him out as much as possible — I smiled complacently at his poor jokes and vulgar witticisms — and when he said something that was more than usually outrageous, I contented myself with a benevolent shake of my head, and the mild remark:

  “Ah! young blood! young blood!” uttered in a bland sotto-voce.

  The dessert was now served, and with it came the costly wines which I had ordered to be kept back till then. Priceless “Chateau Yquem,” “Clos Vougeot,” of the rarest vintages, choice “Valpulcello” and an exceedingly superb “Lacrima Cristi” — one after the other, these were tasted, criticised, and heartily appreciated. There was also a very unique brand of champagne costing nearly forty francs a bottle, which was sparkling and mellow to the palate, but fiery in quality. This particular beverage was so seductive in flavor that every one partook of it freely, with the result that the most discreet among the party now became the most uproarious. Antonio Biscardi, the quiet and unobtrusive painter, together with his fellow-student, Crispiano Dulci, usually the shyest of young men, suddenly grew excited, and uttered blatant nothings concerning their art. Captain Freccia argued the niceties of sword-play with the Marquis D’Avencourt, both speakers illustrating their various points by thrusting their dessert-knives skillfully into the pulpy bodies of the peaches they had on their plates. Luziano Salustri lay back at ease in his chair, his classic head reclining on the velvet cushions, and recited in low and measured tones one of his own poems, caring little or nothing whether his neighbors attended to him or not. The glib tongue of the Marchese Gualdro ran on smoothly and incessantly, though he frequently lost the thread of his anecdotes and became involved in a maze of contradictory assertions. The rather large nose of the Chevalier Mancini reddened visibly as he laughed joyously to himself at nothing in particular — in short, the table had become a glittering whirlpool of excitement and feverish folly, which at a mere touch, or word out of season, might rise to a raging storm of frothy dissension. The Duke di Marina and myself alone of all the company were composed as usual — he had resisted the champagne, and as for me, I had let all the splendid wines go past me, and had not taken more than two glasses of a mild Chianti.

  I glanced keenly round the riotous board — I noted the flushed faces and rapid gesticulations of my guests, and listened to the Babel of conflicting tongues. I drew a long breath as I looked — I calculated that in two or three minutes at the very least I might throw down the trump card I had held so patiently in my hand all the evening.

 
I took a close observation of Ferrari. He had edged his chair a little away from mine, and was talking confidentially to his neighbor, Captain de Hamal — his utterance was low and thick, but yet I distinctly heard him enumerating in somewhat coarse language the exterior charms of a woman — what woman I did not stop to consider — the burning idea struck me that he was describing the physical perfections of my wife to this De Hamal, a mere spadaccino, for whom there was nothing sacred in heaven or earth. My blood rapidly heated itself to boiling point — to this day I remember how it throbbed in my temples, leaving my hands and feet icy cold. I rose in my seat, and tapped on the table to call for silence and attention — but for some time the noise of argument and the clatter of tongues were so great that I could not make myself heard. The duke endeavored to second my efforts, but in vain. At last Ferrari’s notice was attracted — he turned round, and seizing a dessert knife beat with it on the table and on his own plate so noisily and persistently that the loud laughter and conversation ceased suddenly. The moment had come — I raised my head, fixed my spectacles more firmly over my eyes, and spoke in distinct and steady tones, first of all stealing a covert glance toward Ferrari. He had sunk back again lazily in his chair and was lighting a cigarette.

  “My friends,” I said, meeting with a smile the inquiring looks that were directed toward me, “I have presumed to interrupt your mirth for a moment, not to restrain it, but rather to give it a fresh impetus. I asked you all here to-night, as you know, to honor me by your presence and to give a welcome to our mutual friend, Signor Guido Ferrari.” Here I was interrupted by a loud clapping of hands and ejaculations of approval, while Ferrari himself murmured affably between two puffs of his cigarette. “Tropp’ onore, amico, tropp’ onore!” I resumed, “This young and accomplished gentleman, who is, I believe, a favorite with you all, has been compelled through domestic affairs to absent himself from our circle for the past few weeks, and I think he must himself be aware how much we have missed his pleasant company. It will, however, be agreeable to you, as it has been for me, to know that he has returned to Naples a richer man than when he left it — that fortune has done him justice, and that with the possession of abundant wealth he is at last called upon to enjoy the reward due to his merits!”