The nun’s eyes grew solemn and almost mournful.
“Such beauty is a curse,” she answered, with emphasis; “a fatal — a fearful curse! As a child it made her wayward. As a woman it keeps her wayward still. Enough of this, signor!” and she bowed her head; “excuse my plain speaking. Rest assured that I wish you both happiness.”
We had by this time reached the door of the chapel, through which the sound of the pealing organ poured forth in triumphal surges of melody. Mère Marguerite dipped her fingers in the holy water, and signing herself with the cross, pointed out a bench at the back of the church as one that strangers were allowed to occupy. I seated myself, and looked with a certain soothed admiration at the picturesque scene before me. There was the sparkle of twinkling lights — the bloom and fragrance of flowers. There were silent rows of nuns blue-robed and white-veiled, kneeling and absorbed in prayer. Behind these a little cluster of youthful figures in black, whose drooped heads were entirely hidden in veils of flowing white muslin. Behind these again, one woman’s slight form arrayed in heavy mourning garments; her veil was black, yet not so thick but that I could perceive the sheeny glitter of golden hair — that was my wife, I knew. Pious angel! how devout she looked! I smiled in dreary scorn as I watched her; I cursed her afresh in the name of the man I had killed. And above all, surrounded with the luster of golden rays and incrusted jewels, the uncovered Host shone serenely like the gleam of the morning star. The stately service went on — the organ music swept through and through the church as though it were a strong wind striving to set itself free — but amid it all I sat as one in a dark dream, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing — inflexible and cold as marble. The rich plaintive voice of one of the nuns in the choir, singing the Agnus Dei, moved me to a chill sort of wonder. “Qui tollis peccata mundi — Who takest away the sin of the world.” No, no! there are some sins that cannot be taken away — the sins of faithless women, the “little” sins as they are called nowadays — for we have grown very lenient in some things, and very severe in others. We will imprison the miserable wretch who steals five francs from our pockets, but the cunning feminine thief who robs us of our prestige, our name and honorable standing among our fellow-men, escapes almost scot-free; she cannot be put in prison, or sentenced to hard labor — not she! A pity it is that Christ did not leave us some injunction as to what was to be done with such women — not the penitent Magdalenes, but the creatures whose mouths are full of lies even when they pretend to pray — they who would be capable of trying to tempt the priest who comes to receive their last confessions — they who would even act out a sham repentance on their deathbeds in order to look well. What can be done with devils such as these? Much has been said latterly of the wrongs perpetrated on women by men; will no one take up the other side of the question? We, the stronger sex, are weak in this — we are too chivalrous. When a woman flings herself on our mercy we spare her and are silent. Tortures will not wring her secrets out of us; something holds us back from betraying her. I know not what it can be — perhaps it is the memory of our mothers. Whatever it is, it is certain that many a man allows himself to be disgraced rather than he will disgrace a woman. But a time is at hand when this foolish chivalry of ours will die out. On changera tout cela! When once our heavy masculine brains shall have grasped the novel idea that woman has by her own wish and choice resigned all claim on our respect or forbearance, we shall have our revenge. We are slow to change the traditions of our forefathers, but no doubt we shall soon manage to quench the last spark of knightly reverence left in us for the female sex, as this is evidently the point the women desire to bring us to. We shall meet them on that low platform of the “equality” they seek for, and we shall treat them with the unhesitating and regardless familiarity they so earnestly invite!
Absorbed in thought, I knew not when the service ended. A hand touched me, and looking up I saw Mère Marguerite, who whispered:
“Follow me, if you please.”
I rose and obeyed her mechanically. Outside the chapel door she said:
“Pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to see the nuns and boarders passing out.”
I bowed, and walked on beside her. Feeling forced to say something, I asked:
“Have you many boarders at this holiday season?”
“Only fourteen,” she replied, “and they are children whose parents live far away. Poor little ones!” and the set lines of the nun’s stern face softened into tenderness as she spoke. “We do our best to make them happy, but naturally they feel lonely. We have generally fifty or sixty young girls here, besides the day scholars.”
“A great responsibility,” I remarked.
“Very great indeed!” and she sighed; “almost terrible. So much of a woman’s after life depends on the early training she receives. We do all we can, and yet in some cases our utmost efforts are in vain; evil creeps in, we know not how — some unsuspected fault spoils a character that we judged to be admirable, and we are often disappointed in our most promising pupils. Alas! there is nothing entirely without blemish in this world.”
Thus talking, she showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room, lined with books and softly carpeted.
“This is one of our libraries,” she explained. “The countess will receive you here, as other visitors might disturb you in the drawing-room. Pardon me,” and her steady gaze had something of compassion in it, “but you do not look well. Can I send you some wine?”
I declined this offer with many expressions of gratitude, and assured her I was perfectly well. She hesitated, and at last said, anxiously:
“I trust you were not offended at my remark concerning Nina Romani’s marriage with you? I fear I was too hasty?”
“Not so, madame,” I answered, with all the earnestness I felt. “Nothing is more pleasant to me than a frank opinion frankly spoken. I have been so accustomed to deception—” Here I broke off and added hastily, “Pray do not think me capable of judging you wrongly.”
She seemed relieved, and smiling that shadowy, flitting smile of hers, she said:
“No doubt you are impatient, signor; Nina shall come to you directly,” and with a slight salutation she left me.
Surely she was a good woman, I thought, and vaguely wondered about her past history — that past which she had buried forever under a mountain of prayers. What had she been like when young — before she had shut herself within the convent walls — before she had set the crucifix like a seal on her heart? Had she ever trapped a man’s soul and strangled it with lies? I fancied not — her look was too pure and candid; yet who could tell? Were not Nina’s eyes trained to appear as though they held the very soul of truth? A few minutes passed. I heard the fresh voices of children singing in the next room:
“D’ou vient le petit Gesu?
Ce joli bouton de rose
Qui fleurit, enfant cheri
Sur le coeur de notre mère Marie.”
Then came a soft rustle of silken garments, the door opened, and my wife entered.
CHAPTER XXVII.
She approached with her usual panther-like grace and supple movement, her red lips parted in a charming smile.
“So good of you to come!” she began, holding out her two hands as though she invited an embrace; “and on Christmas morning too!” She paused, and seeing that I did not move or speak, she regarded me with some alarm. “What is the matter?” she asked, in fainter tones; “has anything happened?”
I looked at her. I saw that she was full of sudden fear, I made no attempt to soothe her, I merely placed a chair.
“Sit down,” I said, gravely. “I am the bearer of bad news.”
She sunk into the chair as though unnerved, and gazed at me with terrified eyes. She trembled. Watching her keenly, I observed all these outward signs of trepidation with deep satisfaction. I saw plainly what was passing in her mind. A great dread had seized her — the dread that I had found out her treachery. So indeed I had, but the time had not yet
come for her to know it. Meanwhile she suffered — suffered acutely with that gnawing terror and suspense eating into her soul. I said nothing, I waited for her to speak. After a pause, during which her cheeks had lost their delicate bloom, she said, forcing a smile as she spoke —
“Bad news? You surprise me! What can it be? Some unpleasantness with Guido? Have you seen him?”
“I have seen him,” I answered in the same formal and serious tone; “I have just left him. He sends you this,” and I held out my diamond ring that I had drawn off the dead man’s finger.
If she had been pale before, she grew paler now. All the brilliancy of her complexion faded for the moment into an awful haggardness. She took the ring with fingers that shook visibly and were icy cold. There was no attempt at smiling now. She drew a sharp quick breath; she thought I knew all. I was again silent. She looked at the diamond signet with a bewildered air.
“I do not understand,” she murmured, petulantly. “I gave him this as a remembrance of his friend, my husband, why does he return it?”
Self-tortured criminal! I studied her with a dark amusement, but answered nothing. Suddenly she looked up at me and her eyes filled with tears.
“Why are you so cold and strange, Cesare?” she pleaded, in a sort of plaintive whimper. “Do not stand there like a gloomy sentinel; kiss me and tell me at once what has happened.”
Kiss her! So soon after kissing the dead hand of her lover! No, I could not and would not. I remained standing where I was, inflexibly silent. She glanced at me again, very timidly, and whimpered afresh.
“Ah, you do not love me!” she murmured. “You could not be so stern and silent if you loved me! If there is indeed any bad news, you ought to break it to me gently and kindly. I thought you would always make everything easy for me—”
“Such has been my endeavor, madame,” I said interrupting her complaint. “From your own statement, I judged that your adopted brother Guido Ferrari had rendered himself obnoxious to you. I promised that I would silence him — you remember! I have kept my word. He is silenced — forever!”
She started.
“Silenced? How? You mean—”
I moved away from my place behind her chair, and stood so that I faced her as I spoke.
“I mean that he is dead.”
She uttered a slight cry, not of sorrow but of wonderment.
“Dead!” she exclaimed. “Not possible! Dead! You have killed him?”
I bent my head gravely. “I killed him — yes! But in open combat, openly witnessed. Last night he insulted me grossly; we fought this morning. We forgave each other before he died.”
She listened attentively. A little color came back into her cheeks.
“In what way did he insult you?” she asked, in a low voice.
I told her all, briefly. She still looked anxious.
“Did he mention my name?” she said.
I glanced at her troubled features in profound contempt. She feared the dying man might have made some confession to me! I answered:
“No; not after our quarrel. But I hear he went to your house to kill you! Not finding you there, he only cursed you.”
She heaved a sigh of relief. She was safe now, she thought!
Her red lips widened into a cruel smile.
“What bad taste!” she said, coldly. “Why he should curse me I cannot imagine! I have always been kind to him — too kind.”
Too kind indeed! kind enough to be glad when the object of all her kindness was dead! For she was glad! I could see that in the murderous glitter of her eyes.
“You are not sorry?” I inquired, with an air of pretended surprise.
“Sorry? Not at all! Why should I be? He was a very agreeable friend while my husband was alive to keep him in order, but after my poor Fabio’s death, his treatment of me was quite unbearable.”
Take care, beautiful hypocrite! take care! Take care lest your “poor Fabio’s” fingers should suddenly nip your slim throat with a convulsive twitch that means death! Heaven only knows how I managed to keep my hands off her at that moment! Why, any groveling beast of the field had more feeling than this wretch whom I had made my wife! Even for Guido’s sake — such are the strange inconsistencies of the human heart — I could have slain her then. But I restrained my fury; I steadied my voice and said calmly: “Then I was mistaken? I thought you would be deeply grieved, that my news would shock and annoy you greatly, hence my gravity and apparent coldness. But it seems I have done well?”
She sprung up from her chair like a pleased child and flung her arms round my neck.
“You are brave, you are brave!” she exclaimed, in a sort of exultation. “You could not have done otherwise! He insulted you and you killed him. That was right! I love you all the more for being such a man of honor!”
I looked down upon her in loathing and disgust. Honor! Its very name was libeled coming from her lips. She did not notice the expression of my face — she was absorbed, excellent actress as she was, in the part she had chosen to play.
“And so you were dull and sad because you feared to grieve me! Poor Cesare!” she said, in child-like caressing accents, such as she could assume when she chose. “But now that you see I am not unhappy, you will be cheerful again? Yes? Think how much I love you, and how happy we will be! And see, you have given me such lovely jewels, so many of them too, that I scarcely dare offer you such a trifle as this; but as it really belonged to Fabio, and to Fabio’s father, whom you knew, I think you ought to have it. Will you take it and wear it to please me?” and she slipped on my finger the diamond signet — my own ring!
I could have laughed aloud! but I bent my head gravely as I accepted it.
“Only as a proof of your affection, cara mia,” I said, “though it has a terrible association for me. I took it from Ferrari’s hand when—”
“Oh, yes, I know!” she interrupted me with a little shiver; “it must have been trying for you to have seen him dead. I think dead people look so horrid — the sight upsets the nerves! I remember when I was at school here, they would take me to see a nun who died; it sickened me and made me ill for days. I can quite understand your feelings. But you must try and forget the matter. Duels are very common occurrences, after all!”
“Very common,” I answered, mechanically, still regarding the fair upturned face, the lustrous eyes, the rippling hair; “but they do not often end so fatally. The result of this one compels me to leave Naples for some days. I go to Avellino to-night.”
“To Avellino?” she exclaimed, with interest. “Oh, I know it very well. I went there once with Fabio when I was first married.”
“And were you happy there?” I inquired, coldly.
I remembered the time she spoke of — a time of such unreasoning, foolish joy!
“Happy? Oh, yes; everything was so new to me then. It was delightful to be my own mistress, and I was so glad to be out of the convent.”
“I thought you liked the nuns?” I said.
“Some of them — yes. The reverend mother is a dear old thing. But Mère Marguerite, the Vicaire as she is called — the one that received you — oh, I do detest her!”
“Indeed! and why?”
The red lips curled mutinously.
“Because she is so sly and silent. Some of the children here adore her; but they must have something to love, you know,” and she laughed merrily.
“Must they?”
I asked the question automatically, merely for the sake of saying something.
“Of course they must,” she answered, gayly. “You foolish Cesare! The girls often play at being one another’s lovers, only they are careful not to let the nuns know their game. It is very amusing. Since I have been here they have what is called a ‘CRAZE’ for me. They give me flowers, run after me in the garden, and sometimes kiss my dress, and call me by all manner of loving names. I let them do it because it vexes Madame la Vicaire; but of course it is very foolish.”
I was silent. I thought what a curse it w
as — this necessity of loving. Even the poison of it must find its way into the hearts of children — young things shut within the walls of a secluded convent, and guarded by the conscientious care of holy women.
“And the nuns?” I said, uttering half my thoughts aloud. “How do they manage without love or romance?”
A wicked little smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in her eyes.
“Do they always manage without love or romance?” she asked, half indolently. “What of Abelard and Heloise, or Fra Lippi?”
Roused by something in her tone, I caught her round the waist, and held her firmly while I said, with some sternness:
“And you — is it possible that you have sympathy with, or find amusement in, the contemplation of illicit and dishonorable passion — tell me?”
She recollected herself in time; her white eyelids drooped demurely.
“Not I!” she answered, with a grave and virtuous air; “how can you think so? There is nothing to my mind so horrible as deceit; no good ever comes of it.”
I loosened her from my embrace.
“You are right,” I said, calmly; “I am glad your instincts are so correct! I have always hated lies.”
“So have I!” she declared, earnestly, with a frank and open look; “I have often wondered why people tell them. They are so sure to be found out!”
I bit my lips hard to shut in the burning accusations that my tongue longed to utter. Why should I damn the actress or the play before the curtain was ready to fall on both? I changed the subject of converse.
“How long do you propose remaining here in retreat?” I asked. “There is nothing now to prevent your returning to Naples.”
She pondered for some minutes before replying, then she said:
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 60
