“A la bonne heure,” he said— “I wish you joy with all my heart! You are the best judge of your own happiness; as for me — vive la liberté!”
And with a gay parting salute he left me. No one else in the city appeared to share his foreboding scruples, if he had any, about my forthcoming marriage. It was everywhere talked of with as much interest and expectation as though it were some new amusement invented to heighten the merriment of carnival. Among other things, I earned the reputation of being a most impatient lover, for now I would consent to no delays. I hurried all the preparations on with feverish precipitation. I had very little difficulty in persuading Nina that the sooner our wedding took place the better; she was to the full as eager as myself, as ready to rush on her own destruction as Guido had been. Her chief passion was avarice, and the repeated rumors of my supposed fabulous wealth had aroused her greed from the very moment she had first met me in my assumed character of the Count Oliva. As soon as her engagement to me became known in Naples, she was an object of envy to all those of her own sex who, during the previous autumn, had laid out their store of fascinations to entrap me in vain — and this made her perfectly happy. Perhaps the supremest satisfaction a woman of this sort can attain to is the fact of making her less fortunate sisters discontented and miserable! I loaded her, of course, with the costliest gifts, and she, being the sole mistress of the fortune left her by her “late husband,” as well as of the unfortunate Guido’s money, set no limits to her extravagance. She ordered the most expensive and elaborate costumes; she was engaged morning after morning with dressmakers, tailors, and milliners, and she was surrounded by a certain favored “set” of female friends, for whose benefit she displayed the incoming treasures of her wardrobe till they were ready to cry for spite and vexation, though they had to smile and hold in their wrath and outraged vanity beneath the social mask of complacent composure. And Nina loved nothing better than to torture the poor women who were stinted of pocket-money with the sight of shimmering satins, soft radiating plushes, rich velvets, embroidery studded with real gems, pieces of costly old lace, priceless scents, and articles of bijouterie; she loved also to dazzle the eyes and bewilder the brains of young girls, whose finest toilet was a garb of simplest white stuff unadorned save by a cluster of natural blossoms, and to send them away sick at heart, pining for they knew not what, dissatisfied with everything, and grumbling at fate for not permitting them to deck themselves in such marvelous “arrangements” of costume as those possessed by the happy, the fortunate future Countess Oliva.
Poor maidens! had they but known all they would not have envied her! Women are too fond of measuring happiness by the amount of fine clothes they obtain, and I truly believe dress is the one thing that never fails to console them. How often a fit of hysterics can be cut short by the opportune arrival of a new gown!
My wife, in consideration of her approaching second nuptial, had thrown off her widow’s crape, and now appeared clad in those soft subdued half-tints of color that suited her fragile, fairy-like beauty to perfection. All her old witcheries and her graceful tricks of manner and speech were put forth again for my benefit. I knew them all so well! I understood the value of her light caresses and languishing looks so thoroughly! She was very anxious to attain the full dignity of her position as the wife of so rich a nobleman as I was reputed to be, therefore she raised no objection when I fixed the day of our marriage for Giovedi Grasso. Then the fooling and mumming, the dancing, shrieking, and screaming would be at its height; it pleased my whim to have this other piece of excellent masquerading take place at the same time.
The wedding was to be as private as possible, owing to my wife’s “recent sad bereavements,” as she herself said with a pretty sigh and tearful, pleading glance. It would take place in the chapel of San Gennaro, adjoining the cathedral. We were married there before! During the time that intervened, Nina’s manner was somewhat singular. To me she was often timid, and sometimes half conciliatory. Now and then I caught her large dark eyes fixed on me with a startled, anxious look, but this expression soon passed away. She was subject, too, to wild fits of merriment, and anon to moods of absorbed and gloomy silence. I could plainly see that she was strung up to an extreme pitch of nervous excitement and irritability, but I asked her no questions. If — I thought — if she tortured herself with memories, all the better — if she saw, or fancied she saw, the resemblance between me and her “dear dead Fabio,” it suited me that she should be so racked and bewildered.
I came and went to and fro from the villa as I pleased. I wore my dark glasses as usual, and not even Giacomo could follow me with his peering, inquisitive gaze; for since the night he had been hurled so fiercely to the ground by Guido’s reckless and impatient hand, the poor old man had been paralyzed, and had spoken no word. He lay in an upper chamber, tended by Assunta, and my wife had already written to his relatives in Lombardy, asking them to send for him home.
“Of what use to keep him?” she had asked me.
True! Of what use to give even roof-shelter to a poor old human creature, maimed, broken, and useless for evermore? After long years of faithful service, turn him out, cast him forth! If he die of neglect, starvation, and ill-usage, what matter? — he is a worn-out tool, his day is done — let him perish. I would not plead for him — why should I? I had made my own plans for his comfort — plans shortly to be carried out; and in the mean time Assunta nursed him tenderly as he lay speechless, with no more strength than a year-old baby, and only a bewildered pain in his upturned, lack-luster eyes. One incident occurred during these last days of my vengeance that struck a sharp pain to my heart, together with a sense of the bitterest anger. I had gone up to the villa somewhat early in the morning, and on crossing the lawn I saw a dark form stretched motionless on one of the paths that led directly up to the house. I went to examine it, and started back in horror — it was my dog Wyvis shot dead. His silky black head and forepaws were dabbled in blood — his honest brown eyes were glazed with the film of his dying agonies. Sickened and infuriated at the sight, I called to a gardener who was trimming the shrubbery.
“Who has done this?” I demanded.
The man looked pityingly at the poor bleeding remains, and said, in a low voice:
“It was madama’s order, signor. The dog bit her yesterday; we shot him at daybreak.”
I stooped to caress the faithful animal’s body, and as I stroked the silky coat my eyes were dim with tears.
“How did it happen?” I asked in smothered accents. “Was your lady hurt?”
The gardener shrugged his shoulders and sighed.
“Ma! — no! But he tore the lace on her dress with his teeth and grazed her hand. It was little, but enough. He will bite no more — povera bestia!”
I gave the fellow five francs.
“I liked the dog,” I said briefly, “he was a faithful creature. Bury him decently under that tree,” and I pointed to the giant cypress on the lawn, “and take this money for your trouble.”
He looked surprised but grateful, and promised to do my bidding. Once more sorrowfully caressing the fallen head of perhaps the truest friend I ever possessed, I strode hastily into the house, and met Nina coming out of her morning-room, clad in one of her graceful trailing garments, in which soft lavender hues were blended like the shaded colors of late and early violets.
“So Wyvis has been shot?” I said, abruptly.
She gave a slight shudder.
“Oh, yes; is it not sad? But I was compelled to have it done. Yesterday I went past his kennel within reach of his chain, and he sprung furiously at me for no reason at all. See!” And holding up her small hand she showed me three trifling marks in the delicate flesh. “I felt that you would be so unhappy if you thought I kept a dog that was at all dangerous, so I determined to get rid of him. It is always painful to have a favorite animal killed; but really Wyvis belonged to my poor husband, and I think he has never been quite safe since his master’s death, and now Giacomo is ill—
”
“I see!” I said, curtly, cutting her explanations short.
Within myself I thought how much more sweet and valuable was the dog’s life than hers. Brave Wyvis — good Wyvis! He had done his best — he had tried to tear her dainty flesh; his honest instincts had led him to attempt rough vengeance on the woman he had felt was his master’s foe. And he had met his fate, and died in the performance of duty. But I said no more on the subject. The dog’s death was not alluded to again by either Nina or myself. He lay in his mossy grave under the cypress boughs — his memory untainted by any lie, and his fidelity enshrined in my heart as a thing good and gracious, far exceeding the self-interested friendship of so-called Christian humanity.
The days passed slowly on. To the revelers who chased the flying steps of carnival with shouting and laughter, no doubt the hours were brief, being so brimful of merriment; but to me, who heard nothing save the measured ticking of my own timepiece of revenge, and who saw naught save its hands, that every second drew nearer to the last and fatal figure on the dial, the very moments seemed long and laden with weariness. I roamed the streets of the city aimlessly, feeling more like a deserted stranger than a well-known envied nobleman, whose wealth made him the cynosure of all eyes. The riotous glee, the music, the color that whirled and reeled through the great street of Toledo at this season bewildered and pained me. Though I knew and was accustomed to the wild vagaries of carnival, yet this year they seemed to be out of place, distracting, senseless, and all unfamiliar.
Sometimes I escaped from the city tumult and wandered out to the cemetery. There I would stand, dreamily looking at the freshly turned sods above Guido Ferrari’s grave. No stone marked the spot as yet, but it was close to the Romani vault — not more than a couple of yards away from the iron grating that barred the entrance to that dim and fatal charnel-house. I had a drear fascination for the place, and more than once I went to the opening of that secret passage made by the brigands to ascertain if all was safe and undisturbed. Everything was as I had left it, save that the tangle of brush-wood had become thicker, and weeds and brambles had sprung up, making it less visible than before, and probably rendering it more impassable. By a fortunate accident I had secured the key of the vault. I knew that for family burial-places of this kind there are always two keys — one left in charge of the keeper of the cemetery, the other possessed by the person or persons to whom the mausoleum belongs, and this other I managed to obtain.
On one occasion, being left for some time alone in my own library at the villa, I remembered that in an upper drawer of an old oaken escritoire that stood there, had always been a few keys belonging to the doors of cellars and rooms in the house. I looked, and found them lying there as usual; they all had labels attached to them, signifying their use, and I turned them over impatiently, not finding what I sought. I was about to give up the search, when I perceived a large rusty iron key that had slipped to the back of the drawer; I pulled it out, and to my satisfaction it was labeled “Mausoleum.” I immediately took possession of it, glad to have obtained so useful and necessary an implement; I knew that I should soon need it. The cemetery was quite deserted at this festive season — no one visited it to lay wreaths of flowers or sacred mementoes on the last resting-places of their friends. In the joys of the carnival who thinks of the dead? In my frequent walks there I was always alone; I might have opened my own vault and gone down into it without being observed, but I did not; I contented myself with occasionally trying the key in the lock, and assuring myself that it worked without difficulty.
Returning from one of these excursions late on a mild afternoon toward the end of the week preceding my marriage, I bent my steps toward the Molo, where I saw a picturesque group of sailors and girls dancing one of those fantastic, graceful dances of the country, in which impassioned movement and expressive gesticulation are everything. Their steps were guided and accompanied by the sonorous twanging of a full-toned guitar and the tinkling beat of a tambourine. Their handsome, animated faces, their flashing eyes and laughing lips, their gay, many-colored costumes, the glitter of beads on the brown necks of the maidens, the red caps jauntily perched on the thick black curls of the fishermen — all made up a picture full of light and life thrown up into strong relief against the pale gray and amber tints of the February sky and sea; while shadowing overhead frowned the stern dark walls of the Castel Nuovo.
It was such a scene as the English painter Luke Fildes might love to depict on his canvas — the one man of to-day who, though born of the land of opaque mists and rain-burdened clouds, has, notwithstanding these disadvantages, managed to partly endow his brush with the exhaustless wealth and glow of the radiant Italian color. I watched the dance with a faint sense of pleasure — it was full of so much harmony and delicacy of rhythm. The lad who thrummed the guitar broke out now and then into song — a song in dialect that fitted into the music of the dance as accurately as a rosebud into its calyx. I could not distinguish all the words he sung, but the refrain was always the same, and he gave it in every possible inflection and variety of tone, from grave to gay, from pleading to pathetic.
“Che bella cosa è de morire acciso,
Inanze a la porta de la Inamorata!”
[Footnote: Neapolitan dialect.]
meaning literally— “How beautiful a thing to die, suddenly slain at the door of one’s beloved!”
There was no sense in the thing, I thought half angrily — it was a stupid sentiment altogether. Yet I could not help smiling at the ragged, barefooted rascal who sung it: he seemed to feel such a gratification in repeating it, and he rolled his black eyes with lovelorn intensity, and breathed forth sighs that sounded through his music with quite a touching earnestness. Of course he was only following the manner of all Neapolitans, namely, acting his song; they all do it, and cannot help themselves. But this boy had a peculiarly roguish way of pausing and crying forth a plaintive “Ah!” before he added “Che bella cosa,” etc., which gave point and piquancy to his absurd ditty. He was evidently brimful of mischief — his expression betokened it; no doubt he was one of the most thorough little scamps that ever played at “morra,” but there was a charm about his handsome dirty face and unkempt hair, and I watched him amusedly, glad to be distracted for a few minutes from the tired inner workings of my own unhappy thoughts. In time to come, so I mused, this very boy might learn to set his song about the “beloved” to a sterner key, and might find it meet, not to be slain himself, but to slay her! Such a thing — in Naples — was more than probable. By and by the dance ceased, and I recognized in one of the breathless, laughing sailors my old acquaintance Andrea Luziani, with whom I had sailed to Palermo. The sight of him relieved me from a difficulty which had puzzled me for some days, and as soon as the little groups of men and women had partially dispersed, I walked up to him and touched him on the shoulder. He started, looked round surprised, and did not appear to recognize me. I remembered that when he had seen me I had not grown a beard, neither had I worn dark spectacles. I recalled my name to him; his face cleared and he smiled.
“Ah! buon giorno, eccellenza!” he cried. “A thousand pardons that I did not at first know you! Often have I thought of you! often have I heard your name — ah! what a name! Rich, great, generous! — ah! what a glad life! And on the point of marrying — ah, Dio! love makes all the troubles go — so!” and taking his cigar from his mouth, he puffed a ring of pale smoke into the air and laughed gayly. Then suddenly lifting his cap from his clustering black hair, he added, “All joy be with you, eccellenza!”
I smiled and thanked him. I noticed he looked at me curiously.
“You think I have changed in appearance, my friend?” I said.
The Sicilian looked embarrassed.
“Ebbene! we must all change,” he answered, lightly, evading my glance. “The days pass on — each day takes a little bit of youth away with it. One grows old without knowing it!”
I laughed.
“I see,” I observed. “You th
ink I have aged somewhat since you saw me?”
“A little, eccellenza,” he frankly confessed.
“I have suffered severe illness,” I said, quietly, “and my eyes are still weak, as you perceive,” and I touched my glasses. “But I shall get stronger in time. Can you come with me for a few moments? I want your help in a matter of importance.”
He nodded a ready assent and followed me.
CHAPTER XXXI.
We left the Molo, and paused at a retired street corner leading from the Chiaja.
“You remember Carmelo Neri?” I asked.
Andrea shrugged his shoulders with an air of infinite commiseration.
“Ah! povero diavolo! Well do I remember him! A bold fellow and brave, with a heart in him, too, if one did but know where to find it. And now he drags the chain! Well, well, no doubt it is what he deserves; but I say, and always will maintain, there are many worse men than Carmelo.”
I briefly related how I had seen the captured brigand in the square at Palermo and had spoken with him. “I mentioned you,” I added, “and he bade me tell you Teresa had killed herself.”
“Ah! that I well know,” said the little captain, who had listened to me intently, and over whose mobile face flitted a shadow of tender pity, as he sighed. “Poverinetta! So fragile and small! To think she had the force to plunge the knife in her breast! As well imagine a little bird flying down to pierce itself on an uplifted bayonet. Ay, ay! women will do strange things — and it is certain she loved Carmelo.”
“You would help him to escape again if you could, no doubt?” I inquired with a half smile.
The ready wit of the Sicilian instantly asserted itself.
“Not I, eccellenza,” he replied, with an air of dignity and most virtuous honesty. “No, no, not now. The law is the law, and I, Andrea Luziani, am not one to break it. No, Carmelo must take his punishment; it is for life they say — and hard as it seems, it is but just. When the little Teresa was in the question, look you, what could I do? but now — let the saints that choose help Carmelo, for I will not.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 64
