Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “That is well!” I said with a satisfied gesture. “You can leave me and arrange the salon for the reception of my friends.”

  He disappeared, and I busied myself with my toilet, about which I was for once unusually particular. The conventional dress-suit is not very becoming, yet there are a few men here and there who look well in it, and who, in spite of similarity in attire, will never be mistaken for waiters. Others there are who, passable in appearance when clad in their ordinary garments, reach the very acme of plebeianism when they clothe themselves in the unaccommodating evening-dress. Fortunately, I happened to be one of the former class — the sober black, the broad white display of starched shirt-front and neat tie became me, almost too well I thought. It would have been better for my purposes if I could have feigned an aspect of greater age and weightier gravity. I had scarcely finished my toilet when the rumbling of wheels in the court-yard outside made the hot blood rush to my face, and my heart beat with feverish excitement. I left my dressing-room, however, with a composed countenance and calm step, and entered my private salon just as its doors were flung open and “Signor Ferrari” was announced. He entered smiling — his face was alight with good humor and glad anticipation — he looked handsomer than usual.

  “Eccomi qua!” he cried, seizing my hands enthusiastically in his own. “My dear conte, I am delighted to see you! What an excellent fellow you are! A kind of amiable Arabian Nights genius, who occupies himself in making mortals happy. And how are you? You look remarkably well!”

  “I can return the compliment,” I said, gayly. “You are more of an Antinous than ever.”

  He laughed, well pleased, and sat down, drawing off his gloves and loosening his traveling overcoat.

  “Well, I suppose plenty of cash puts a man in good humor, and therefore in good condition,” he replied. “But my dear fellow, you are dressed for dinner — quel preux chevalier! I am positively unfit to be in your company! You insisted that I should come to you directly, on my arrival, but I really must change my apparel. Your man took my valise; in it are my dress-clothes — I shall not be ten minutes putting them on.”

  “Take a glass of wine first,” I said, pouring out some of his favorite Montepulciano. “There is plenty of time. It is barely seven, and we do not dine till eight.” He took the wine from my hand and smiled. I returned the smile, adding, “It gives me great pleasure to receive you, Ferrari! I have been impatient for your return — almost as impatient as—” He paused in the act of drinking, and his eyes flashed delightedly.

  “As she has? Piccinina! How I long to see her again! I swear to you, amico, I should have gone straight to the Villa Romani had I obeyed my own impulse — but I had promised you to come here, and, on the whole, the evening will do as well” — and he laughed with a covert meaning in his laughter— “perhaps better!”

  My hands clinched, but I said with forced gayety:

  “Ma certamente! The evening will be much better! Is it not Byron who says that women, like stars, look best at night? You will find her the same as ever, perfectly well and perfectly charming. It must be her pure and candid soul that makes her face so fair! It may be a relief to your mind to know that I am the only man she has allowed to visit her during your absence!”

  “Thank God for that!” cried Ferrari, devoutly, as he tossed off his wine. “And now tell me, my dear conte, what bacchanalians are coming to-night? Per Dio, after all I am more in the humor for dinner than love-making!”

  I burst out laughing harshly. “Of course! Every sensible man prefers good eating even to good women! Who are my guests you ask? I believe you know them all. First, there is the Duca Filippo Marina.”

  “By Heaven!” interrupted Guido. “An absolute gentleman, who by his manner seems to challenge the universe to disprove his dignity! Can he unbend so far as to partake of food in public? My dear conte, you should have asked him that question!”

  “Then,” I went on, not heeding this interruption, “Signor Fraschetti and the Marchese Giulano.”

  “Giulano drinks deep,” laughed Ferrari, “and should he mix his wines, you will find him ready to stab all the waiters before the dinner is half over.”

  “In mixing wines,” I returned, coolly, “he will but imitate your example, caro mio.”

  “Ah, but I can stand it!” he said. “He cannot! Few Neapolitans are like me!”

  I watched him narrowly, and went on with the list of my invited guests.

  “After these, comes the Capitano Luigi Freccia.”

  “What! the raging fire-eater?” exclaimed Guido. “He who at every second word raps out a pagan or Christian oath, and cannot for his life tell any difference between the two!”

  “And the illustrious gentleman Crispiano Dulci and Antonio Biscardi, artists like yourself,” I continued.

  He frowned slightly — then smiled.

  “I wish them good appetites! Time was when I envied their skill — now I can afford to be generous. They are welcome to the whole field of art as far as I am concerned. I have said farewell to the brush and palette — I shall never paint again.”

  True enough! I thought, eying the shapely white hand with which he just then stroked his dark mustache; the same hand on which my family diamond ring glittered like a star. He looked up suddenly.

  “Go on, conte I am all impatience. Who comes next?”

  “More fire-eaters, I suppose you will call them,” I answered, “and French fire-eaters, too. Monsieur le Marquis D’Avencourt, and le beau Capitaine Eugene de Hamal.”

  Ferrari looked astonished. “Per Bacco!” he exclaimed. “Two noted Paris duelists! Why — what need have you of such valorous associates? I confess your choice surprises me.”

  “I understood them to be your friends,” I said, composedly. “If you remember, you introduced me to them. I know nothing of the gentlemen beyond that they appear to be pleasant fellows and good talkers. As for their reputed skill I am inclined to set that down to a mere rumor, at any rate, my dinner-table will scarcely provide a field for the display of swordsmanship.”

  Guido laughed. “Well, no! but these fellows would like to make it one — why, they will pick a quarrel for the mere lifting of an eyebrow. And the rest of your company?”

  “Are the inseparable brother sculptors Carlo and Francesco Respetti, Chevalier Mancini, scientist and man of letters, Luziano Salustri, poet and musician, and the fascinating Marchese Ippolito Gualdro, whose conversation, as you know, is more entrancing than the voice of Adelina Patti. I have only to add,” and I smiled half mockingly, “the name of Signor Guido Ferrari, true friend and loyal lover — and the party is complete.”

  “Altro! Fifteen in all including yourself,” said Ferrari, gayly, enumerating them on his fingers. “Per la madre di Dio! With such a goodly company and a host who entertains en roi we shall pass a merry time of it. And did you, amico, actually organize this banquet, merely to welcome back so unworthy a person as myself?”

  “Solely and entirely for that reason,” I replied.

  He jumped up from his chair and clapped his two hands on my shoulders.

  “A la bonne heure! But why, in the name of the saints or the devil, have you taken such a fancy to me?”

  “Why have I taken such a fancy to you?” I repeated, slowly. “My dear Ferrari, I am surely not alone in my admiration for your high qualities! Does not every one like you? Are you not a universal favorite? Do you not tell me that your late friend the Count Romani held you as the dearest to him in the world after his wife? Ebbene! Why underrate yourself?”

  He let his hands fall slowly from my shoulders and a look of pain contracted his features. After a little silence he said:

  “Fabio again! How his name and memory haunt me! I told you he was a fool — it was part of his folly that he loved me too well — perhaps. Do you know I have thought of him very much lately?”

  “Indeed?” and I feigned to be absorbed in fixing a star-like japonica in my button-hole. “How is that?”

  A g
rave and meditative look softened the usually defiant brilliancy of his eyes.

  “I saw my uncle die,” he continued, speaking in a low tone. “He was an old man and had very little strength left, — yet his battle with death was horrible — horrible! I see him yet — his yellow convulsed face — his twisted limbs — his claw-like hands tearing at the empty air — then the ghastly grim and dropped jaw — the wide-open glazed eyes — pshaw! it sickened me!”

  “Well, well!” I said in a soothing way, still busying myself with the arrangement of my button-hole, and secretly wondering what new emotion was at work in the volatile mind of my victim. “No doubt it was distressing to witness — but you could not have been very sorry — he was an old man, and, though it is a platitude not worth repeating — we must all die.”

  “Sorry!” exclaimed Ferrari, talking almost more to himself than to me. “I was glad! He was an old scoundrel, deeply dyed in every sort of social villainy. No — I was not sorry, only as I watched him in his frantic struggle, fighting furiously for each fresh gasp of breath — I thought — I know not why — of Fabio.”

  Profoundly astonished, but concealing my astonishment under an air of indifference, I began to laugh.

  “Upon my word, Ferrari — pardon me for saying so, but the air of Rome seems to have somewhat obscured your mind! I confess I cannot follow your meaning.”

  He sighed uneasily. “I dare say not! I scarce can follow it myself. But if it was so hard for an old man to writhe himself out of life, what must it have been for Fabio! We were students together; we used to walk with our arms round each other’s necks like school-girls, and he was young and full of vitality — physically stronger, too, than I am. He must have battled for life with every nerve and sinew stretched to almost breaking.” He stopped and shuddered. “By Heaven! death should be made easier for us! It is a frightful thing!”

  A contemptuous pity arose in me. Was he coward as well as traitor? I touched him lightly on the arm.

  “Excuse me, my young friend, if I say frankly that your dismal conversation is slightly fatiguing. I cannot accept it as a suitable preparation for dinner! And permit me to remind you that you have still to dress.”

  The gentle satire of my tone made him look up and smile. His face cleared, and he passed his hand over his forehead, as though he swept it free of some unpleasant thought.

  “I believe I am nervous,” he said with a half laugh. “For the last few hours I have had all sorts of uncomfortable presentiments and forebodings.”

  “No wonder!” I returned carelessly, “with such a spectacle as you have described before the eyes of your memory. The Eternal City savors somewhat disagreeably of graves. Shake the dust of the Caesars from your feet, and enjoy your life, while it lasts!”

  “Excellent advice!” he said, smiling, “and not difficult to follow. Now to attire for the festival. Have I your permission?”

  I touched the bell which summoned Vincenzo, and bade him wait on Signor Ferrari’s orders. Guido disappeared under his escort, giving me a laughing nod of salutation as he left the room. I watched his retiring figure with a strange pitifulness — the first emotion of the kind that had awakened in me for him since I learned his treachery. His allusion to that time when we had been students together — when we had walked with arms round each other’s necks “like school-girls,” as he said, had touched me more closely than I cared to realize. It was true, we had been happy then — two careless youths with all the world like an untrodden race-course before us. She had not then darkened the heaven of our confidence; she had not come with her false fair face to make of ME a blind, doting madman, and to transform him into a liar and hypocrite. It was all her fault, all the misery and horror; she was the blight on our lives; she merited the heaviest punishment, and she would receive it. Yet, would to God we had neither of us ever seen her! Her beauty, like a sword, had severed the bonds of friendship that after all, when it does exist between two men, is better and braver than the love of woman. However, all regrets were unavailing now; the evil was done, and there was no undoing it. I had little time left me for reflection; each moment that passed brought me nearer to the end I had planned and foreseen.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  At about a quarter to eight my guests began to arrive, and one by one they all came in save two — the brothers Respetti. While we were awaiting them, Ferrari entered in evening-dress, with the conscious air of a handsome man who knows he is looking his best. I readily admitted his charm of manner; had I not myself been subjugated and fascinated by it in the old happy, foolish days? He was enthusiastically greeted and welcomed back to Naples by all the gentlemen assembled, many of whom were his own particular friends. They embraced him in the impressionable style common to Italians, with the exception of the stately Duca di Marina, who merely bowed courteously, and inquired if certain families of distinction whom he named had yet arrived in Rome for the winter season. Ferrari was engaged in replying to these questions with his usual grace and ease and fluency, when a note was brought to me marked “Immediate.” It contained a profuse and elegantly worded apology from Carlo Respetti, who regretted deeply that an unforeseen matter of business would prevent himself and his brother from having the inestimable honor and delight of dining with me that evening. I thereupon rang my bell as a sign that the dinner need no longer be delayed; and, turning to those assembled, I announced to them the unavoidable absence of two of the party.

  “A pity Francesco could not have come,” said Captain Freccia, twirling the ends of his long mustachios. “He loves good wine, and, better still, good company.”

  “Caro Capitano!” broke in the musical voice of the Marchese Gualdro, “you know that our Francesco goes nowhere without his beloved Carlo. Carlo cannot come — altro! Francesco will not. Would that all men were such brothers!”

  “If they were,” laughed Luziano Salustri, rising from the piano where he had been playing softly to himself, “half the world would be thrown out of employment. You, for instance,” turning to the Marquis D’Avencourt, “would scarce know what to do with your time.”

  The marquis smiled and waved his hand with a deprecatory gesture — that hand, by the by, was remarkably small and delicately formed — it looked almost fragile. Yet the strength and suppleness of D’Avencourt’s wrist was reputed to be prodigious by those who had seen him handle the sword, whether in play or grim earnest.

  “It is an impossible dream,” he said, in reply to the remarks of Gualdro and Salustri, “that idea of all men fraternizing together in one common pig-sty of equality. Look at the differences of caste! Birth, breeding and education make of man that high-mettled, sensitive animal known as gentleman, and not all the socialistic theories in the world can force him down on the same level with the rough boor, whose flat nose and coarse features announce him as plebeian even before one hears the tone of his voice. We cannot help these things. I do not think we would help them even if we could.”

  “You are quite right,” said Ferrari. “You cannot put race-horses to draw the plow. I have always imagined that the first quarrel — the Cain and Abel affair — must have occurred through some difference of caste as well as jealousy — for instance, perhaps Abel was a negro and Cain a white man, or vice versa; which would account for the antipathy existing between the races to this day.”

  The Duke di Marina coughed a stately cough, and shrugged his shoulders.

  “That first quarrel,” he said, “as related in the Bible, was exceedingly vulgar. It must have been a kind of prize-fight. Ce n’etait pas fin.”

  Gualdro laughed delightedly.

  “So like you, Marina!” he exclaimed, “to say that! I sympathize with your sentiments! Fancy the butcher Abel piling up his reeking carcasses and setting them on fire, while on the other side stood Cain the green-grocer frizzling his cabbages, turnips, carrots, and other vegetable matter! What a spectacle! The gods of Olympus would have sickened at it! However, the Jewish Deity, or rather, the well-fed priest who represented hi
m, showed his good taste in the matter; I myself prefer the smell of roast meat to the rather disagreeable odor of scorching vegetables!”

  We laughed — and at that moment the door was thrown open, and the head-waiter announced in solemn tones befitting his dignity —

  “Le dîner de Monsieur le Conte est servi!”

  I at once led the way to the banqueting-room — my guests followed gayly, talking and jesting among themselves. They were all in high good humor, none of them had as yet noticed the fatal blank caused by the absence of the brothers Respetti. I had — for the number of my guests was now thirteen instead of fifteen. Thirteen at table! I wondered if any of the company were superstitious? Ferrari was not, I knew — unless his nerves had been latterly shaken by witnessing the death of his uncle. At any rate, I resolved to say nothing that could attract the attention of my guests to the ill-omened circumstance; if any one should notice it, it would be easy to make light of it and of all similar superstitions. I myself was the one most affected by it — it had for me a curious and fatal significance. I was so occupied with the consideration of it that I scarcely attended to the words addressed to me by the Duke di Marina, who, walking beside me, seemed disposed to converse with more familiarity than was his usual custom. We reached the door of the dining-room; which at our approach was thrown wide open, and delicious strains of music met our ears as we entered. Low murmurs of astonishment and admiration broke from all the gentlemen as they viewed the sumptuous scene before them. I pretended not to hear their eulogies, as I took my seat at the head of the table, with Guido Ferrari on my right and the Duke di Marina on my left. The music sounded louder and more triumphant, and while all the company were seating themselves in the places assigned to them, a choir of young fresh voices broke forth into a Neapolitan “madrigale” — which as far as I can translate it ran as follows:

  “Welcome the festal hour!

  Pour the red wine into cups of gold!