“Oh, I grant you all that!” returned Ferrari, with some impatience. “He was the most moral man in immoral Naples, if you care for that sort of thing. Studious — philosophic — parfait gentilhomme — proud as the devil, virtuous, unsuspecting, and — withal — a fool!”
My temper rose dangerously — but I controlled it, and remembering my part in the drama I had constructed, I broke into violent, harsh laughter.
“Bravo!” I exclaimed. “One can easily see what a first-rate young fellow you are! You have no liking for moral men — ha, ha! excellent! I agree with you. A virtuous man and a fool are synonyms nowadays. Yes — I have lived long enough to know that! And here is our coffee — behold also the glorias! I drink your health with pleasure, Signor Ferrari — you and I must be friends!”
For one moment he seemed startled by my sudden outburst of mirth — the next, he laughed heartily himself, and as the waiter appeared with the coffee and cognac, inspired by the occasion, he made an equivocal, slightly indelicate joke concerning the personal charms of a certain Antoinetta whom the garçon was supposed to favor with an eye to matrimony. The fellow grinned, in nowise offended — and pocketing fresh gratuities from both Ferrari and myself, departed on new errands for other customers, apparently in high good humor with himself, Antoinetta, and the world in general. Resuming the interrupted conversation I said:
“And this poor weak-minded Romani — was his death sudden?”
“Remarkably so,” answered Ferrari, leaning back in his chair, and turning his handsome flushed face up to the sky where the stars were beginning to twinkle out one by one, “it appears from all accounts that he rose early and went out for a walk on one of those insufferably hot August mornings, and at the furthest limit of the villa grounds he came upon a fruit-seller dying of cholera. Of course, with his quixotic ideas, he must needs stay and talk to the boy, and then run like a madman through the heat into Naples, to find a doctor for him. Instead of a physician he met a priest, and he was taking this priest to the assistance of the fruit-seller (who by the bye died in the meantime and was past all caring for) when he himself was struck down by the plague. He was carried then and there to a common inn, where in about five hours he died — all the time shrieking curses on any one who should dare to take him alive or dead inside his own house. He showed good sense in that at least — naturally he was anxious not to bring the contagion to his wife and child.”
“Is the child a boy or a girl?” I asked, carelessly.
“A girl. A mere baby — an uninteresting old-fashioned little thing, very like her father.”
My poor little Stella.
Every pulse of my being thrilled with indignation at the indifferently chill way in which he, the man who had fondled her and pretended to love her, now spoke of the child. She was, as far as he knew, fatherless; he, no doubt, had good reason to suspect that her mother cared little for her, and, I saw plainly that she was, or soon would be, a slighted and friendless thing in the household. But I made no remark — I sipped my cognac with an abstracted air for a few seconds — then I asked:
“How was the count buried? Your narrative interests me greatly.”
“Oh, the priest who was with him saw to his burial, and I believe, was able to administer the last sacraments. At any rate, he had him laid with all proper respect in his family vault — I myself was present at the funeral.”
I started involuntarily, but quickly repressed myself.
“You were present — you — you—” and my voice almost failed me.
Ferrari raised his eyebrows with a look of surprised inquiry.
“Of course! You are astonished at that? But perhaps you do not understand. I was the count’s very closest friend, closer than a brother, I may say. It was natural, even necessary, that I should attend his body to its last resting place.”
By this time I had recovered myself.
“I see — I see!” I muttered, hastily. “Pray excuse me — my age renders me nervous of disease in any form, and I should have thought the fear of contagion might have weighed with you.”
“With me!” and he laughed lightly. “I was never ill in my life, and I have no dread whatever of cholera. I suppose I ran some risk, though I never thought about it at the time — but the priest — one of the Benedictine order — died the very next day.”
“Shocking!” I murmured over my coffee-cup. “Very shocking. And you actually entertained no alarm for yourself?”
“None in the least. To tell you the truth, I am armed against contagious illnesses, by a conviction I have that I am not doomed to die of any disease. A prophecy” — and here a cloud crossed his features— “an odd prophecy was made about me when I was born, which, whether it comes true or not, prevents me from panic in days of plague.”
“Indeed!” I said, with interest, for this was news to me. “And may one ask what this prophecy is?”
“Oh, certainly. It is to the effect that I shall die a violent death by the hand of a once familiar friend. It was always an absurd statement — an old nurse’s tale — but it is now more absurd than ever, considering that the only friend of the kind I ever had or am likely to have is dead and buried — namely, Fabio Romani.”
And he sighed slightly. I raised my head and looked at him steadily.
CHAPTER XII.
The sheltering darkness of the spectacles I wore prevented him from noticing the searching scrutiny of my fixed gaze. His face was shadowed by a faint tinge of melancholy; his eyes were thoughtful and almost sad.
“You loved him well then in spite of his foolishness?” I said.
He roused himself from the pensive mood into which he had fallen, and smiled.
“Loved him? No! Certainly not — nothing so strong as that! I liked him fairly — he bought several pictures of me — a poor artist has always some sort of regard for the man who buys his work. Yes, I liked him well enough — till he married.”
“Ha! I suppose his wife came between you?” He flushed slightly, and drank off the remainder of his cognac in haste.
“Yes,” he replied, briefly, “she came between us. A man is never quite the same after marriage. But we have been sitting a long time here — shall we walk?”
He was evidently anxious to change the subject. I rose slowly as though my joints were stiff with age, and drew out my watch, a finely jeweled one, to see the time. It was past nine o’clock.
“Perhaps,” I said, addressing him, “you will accompany me as far as my hotel. I am compelled to retire early as a rule — I suffer much from a chronic complaint of the eyes as you perceive,” here touching my spectacles, “and I cannot endure much artificial light. We can talk further on our way. Will you give me a chance of seeing your pictures? I shall esteem myself happy to be one of your patrons.”
“A thousand thanks!” he answered, gayly. “I will show you my poor attempts with pleasure. Should you find anything among them to gratify your taste, I shall of course be honored. But, thank Heaven! I am not as greedy of patronage as I used to be — in fact I intended resigning the profession altogether in about six months or so.”
“Indeed! Are you coming into a fortune?” I asked, carelessly.
“Well — not exactly,” he answered, lightly. “I am going to marry one — that is almost the same thing, is it not?”
“Precisely! I congratulate you!” I said, in a studiously indifferent and slightly bored tone, though my heart pulsed fiercely with the torrent of wrath pent up within it. I understood his meaning well. In six months he proposed marrying my wife. Six months was the shortest possible interval that could be observed, according to social etiquette, between the death of one husband and the wedding of another, and even that was so short as to be barely decent. Six months — yet in that space of time much might happen — things undreamed of and undesired — slow tortures carefully measured out, punishment sudden and heavy! Wrapped in these sombre musings I walked beside him in profound silence. The moon shone brilliantly; groups of girls danced o
n the shore with their lovers, to the sound of a flute and mandoline — far off across the bay the sound of sweet and plaintive singing floated from some boat in the distance, to our ears — the evening breathed of beauty, peace and love. But I — my fingers quivered with restrained longing to be at the throat of the graceful liar who sauntered so easily and confidently beside me. Ah! Heaven, if he only knew! If he could have realized the truth, would his face have worn quite so careless a smile — would his manner have been quite so free and dauntless? Stealthily I glanced at him; he was humming a tune softly under his breath, but feeling instinctively, I suppose, that my eyes were upon him, he interrupted the melody and turned to me with the question:
“You have traveled far and seen much, conte!”
“I have.”
“And in what country have you found the most beautiful women!”
“Pardon me, young sir,” I answered, coldly, “the business of life has separated me almost entirely from feminine society. I have devoted myself exclusively to the amassing of wealth, understanding thoroughly that gold is the key to all things, even to woman’s love; if I desired that latter commodity, which I do not. I fear that I scarcely know a fair face from a plain one — I never was attracted by women, and now at my age, with my settled habits, I am not likely to alter my opinion concerning them — and I frankly confess those opinions are the reverse of favorable.”
Ferrari laughed. “You remind me of Fabio!” he said. “He used to talk in that strain before he was married — though he was young and had none of the experiences which may have made you cynical, conte! But he altered his ideas very rapidly — and no wonder!”
“Is his wife so very lovely then?” I asked.
“Very! Delicately, daintily beautiful. But no doubt you will see her for yourself — as a friend of her late husband’s father, you will call upon her, will you not?”
“Why should I?” I said, gruffly— “I have no wish to meet her! Besides, an inconsolable widow seldom cares to receive visitors — I shall not intrude upon her sorrows!”
Never was there a better move than this show of utter indifference I affected. The less I appeared to care about seeing the Countess Romani, the more anxious Ferrari was to introduce me — (introduce me! — to my wife!) — and he set to work preparing his own doom with assiduous ardor.
“Oh, but you must see her!” he exclaimed, eagerly. “She will receive you, I am sure, as a special guest. Your age and your former acquaintance with her late husband’s family will win from her the utmost courtesy, believe me! Besides, she is not really inconsolable—” He paused suddenly. We had arrived at the entrance of my hotel. I looked at him steadily.
“Not really inconsolable?” I repeated, in a tone of inquiry. Ferrari broke into a forced laugh,
“Why no!” he said, “What would you? She is young and light-hearted — perfectly lovely and in the fullness of youth and health. One cannot expect her to weep long, especially for a man she did not care for.”
I ascended the hotel steps. “Pray come in!” I said, with an inviting movement of my hand. “You must take a glass of wine before you leave. And so — she did not care for him, you say?”
Encouraged by my friendly invitation and manner, Ferrari became more at his ease than ever, and hooking his arm through mine as we crossed the broad passage of the hotel together, he replied in a confidential tone:
“My dear conte, how can a woman love a man who is forced upon her by her father for the sake of the money he gives her? As I told you before, my late friend was utterly insensible to the beauty of his wife — he was cold as a stone, and preferred his books. Then naturally she had no love for him!”
By this time we had reached my apartments, and as I threw open the door, I saw that Ferrari was taking in with a critical eye the costly fittings and luxurious furniture. In answer to this last remark, I said with a chilly smile:
“And as I told you before, my dear Signor Ferarri, I know nothing whatever about women, and care less than nothing for their loves or hatreds! I have always thought of them more or less as playful kittens, who purr when they are stroked the right way, and scream and scratch when their tails are trodden on. Try this Montepulciano!”
He accepted the glass I proffered him, and tasted the wine with the air of a connoisseur.
“Exquisite!” he murmured, sipping it lazily. “You are lodged en prince here, conte! I envy you!”
“You need not,” I answered. “You have youth and health, and — as you have hinted to me — love; all these things are better than wealth, so people say. At any rate, youth and health are good things — love I have no belief in. As for me, I am a mere luxurious animal, loving comfort and ease beyond anything. I have had many trials — I now take my rest in my own fashion.”
“A very excellent and sensible fashion!” smiled Ferrari, leaning his head easily back on the satin cushions of the easy-chair into which he had thrown himself.
“Do you know, conte, now I look at you well, I think you must have been very handsome when you were young! You have a superb figure.”
I bowed stiffly. “You flatter me, signor! I believe I never was specially hideous — but looks in a man always rank second to strength, and of strength I have plenty yet remaining.”
“I do not doubt it,” he returned, still regarding me attentively with an expression in which there was the faintest shadow of uneasiness.
“It is an odd coincidence, you will say, but I find a most extraordinary resemblance in the height and carriage of your figure to that of my late friend Romani.”
I poured some wine out for myself with a steady hand, and drank it.
“Really?” I answered. “I am glad that I remind you of him — if the reminder is agreeable! But all tall men are much alike so far as figure goes, providing they are well made.”
Ferrari’s brow was contracted in a musing frown and he answered not. He still looked at me, and I returned his look without embarrassment. Finally he roused himself, smiled, and finished drinking his glass of Montepulciano. Then he rose to go.
“You will permit me to mention your name to the Countess Romani, I hope?” he said, cordially. “I am certain she will receive you, should you desire it.”
I feigned a sort of vexation, and made an abrupt movement of impatience.
“The fact is,” I said, at last, “I very much dislike talking to women. They are always illogical, and their frivolity wearies me. But you have been so friendly that I will give you a message for the countess — if you have no objection to deliver it. I should be sorry to trouble you unnecessarily — and you perhaps will not have an opportunity of seeing her for some days?”
He colored slightly and moved uneasily. Then with a kind of effort, he replied:
“On the contrary, I am going to see her this very evening. I assure you it will be a pleasure to me to convey to her any greeting you may desire to send.”
“Oh, it is no greeting,” I continued, calmly, noting the various signs of embarrassment in his manner with a careful eye. “It is a mere message, which, however, may enable you to understand why I was anxious to see the young man who is dead. In my very early manhood the elder Count Romani did me an inestimable service. I never forgot his kindness — my memory is extraordinarily tenacious of both benefits and injuries — and I have always desired to repay it in some suitable manner. I have with me a few jewels of almost priceless value — I have myself collected them, and I reserved them as a present to the son of my old friend, simply as a trifling souvenir or expression of gratitude for past favors received from his family. His sudden death has deprived me of the pleasure of fulfilling this intention — but as the jewels are quite useless to me, I am perfectly willing to hand them over to the Countess Romani, should she care to have them. They would have been hers had her husband lived — they should be hers now. If you, signor, will report these facts to her and learn her wishes with respect to the matter, I shall be much indebted to you.”
“I shall be
delighted to obey you,” replied Ferrari, courteously, rising at the same time to take his leave. “I am proud to be the bearer of so pleasing an errand. Beautiful women love jewels, and who shall blame them? Bright eyes and diamonds go well together! A rivederci, Signor Conte! I trust we shall meet often.”
“I have no doubt we shall,” I answered, quietly.
He shook hands cordially — I responded to his farewell salutations with the brief coldness which was now my habitual manner, and we parted. From the window of my saloon I could see him sauntering easily down the hotel steps and from thence along the street. How I cursed him as he stepped jauntily on — how I hated his debonair grace and easy manner! I watched the even poise of his handsome head and shoulders, I noted the assured tread, the air of conscious vanity — the whole demeanor of the man bespoke his perfect self-satisfaction and his absolute confidence in the brightness of the future that awaited him when that stipulated six months of pretended mourning for my untimely death should have expired. Once, as he walked on his way, he turned and paused — looking back — he raised his hat to enjoy the coolness of the breeze on his forehead and hair. The light of the moon fell full on his features and showed them in profile, like a finely-cut cameo against the dense dark-blue background of the evening sky. I gazed at him with a sort of grim fascination — the fascination of a hunter for the stag when it stands at bay, just before he draws his knife across its throat. He was in my power — he had deliberately thrown himself in the trap I had set for him. He lay at the mercy of one in whom there was no mercy. He had said and done nothing to deter me from my settled plans. Had he shown the least tenderness of recollection for me as Fabio Romani, his friend and benefactor — had he hallowed my memory by one generous word — had he expressed one regret for my loss — I might have hesitated, I might have somewhat changed my course of action so that punishment should have fallen more lightly on him than on her. For I knew well enough that she, my wife, was the worst sinner of the two. Had she chosen to respect herself, not all the forbidden love in the world could have touched her honor. Therefore, the least sign of compunction or affection from Ferrari for me, his supposed dead friend, would have turned the scale in his favor, and in spite of his treachery, remembering how she must have encouraged him, I would at least have spared him torture. But no sign had been given, no word had been spoken, there was no need for hesitation or pity, and I was glad of it! All this I thought as I watched him standing bareheaded in the moonlight, on his way to — whom? To my wife, of course. I knew that well enough. He was going to console her widow’s tears — to soothe her aching heart — a good Samaritan in very earnest! He moved, he passed slowly out of my sight. I waited till I had seen the last glimpse of his retreating figure, and then I left the window satisfied with my day’s work. Vengeance had begun.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 43
