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Vendetta

M >> Marie Corelli >> Vendetta




August was the most terrible of all the summer months in Naples. The
cholera increased with frightful steadiness, and the people seemed
to be literally mad with terror. Some of them, seized with a wild
spirit of defiance, plunged into orgies of vice and intemperance
with a reckless disregard of consequences. One of these frantic
revels took place at a well-known cafe. Eight young men, accompanied
by eight girls of remarkable beauty, arrived, and ordered a private
room, where they were served with a sumptuous repast. At its close
one of the party raised his glass and proposed, "Success to the
cholera!" The toast was received with riotous shouts of applause,
and all drank it with delirious laughter. That very night every one
of the revelers died in horrible agony; their bodies, as usual, were
thrust into flimsy coffins and buried one on top of another in a
hole hastily dug for the purpose. Dismal stories like these reached
us every day, but we were not morbidly impressed by them. Stella was
a living charm against pestilence; her innocent playfulness and
prattle kept us amused and employed, and surrounded us with an
atmosphere that was physically and mentally wholesome.

One morning--one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching
month--I woke at an earlier hour than usual. A suggestion of
possible coolness in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through
the garden. My wife slept soundly at my side. I dressed softly,
without disturbing her. As I was about to leave the room some
instinct made me turn back to look at her once more. How lovely she
was! she smiled in her sleep! My heart beat as I gazed--she had been
mine for three years--mine only!--and my passionate admiration and
love of her had increased in proportion to that length of time. I
raised one of the scattered golden locks that lay shining like a
sunbeam on the pillow, and kissed it tenderly. Then--all unconscious
of my fate--I left her.

A faint breeze greeted me as I sauntered slowly along the garden
walks--a breath of wind scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves,
yet it had a salt savor in it that was refreshing after the tropical
heat of the past night. I was at that time absorbed in the study of
Plato, and as I walked, my mind occupied itself with many high
problems and deep questions suggested by that great teacher. Lost in
a train of profound yet pleasant thought, I strayed on further than
I intended, and found myself at last in a by-path, long disused by
our household--a winding footway leading downward in the direction
of the harbor. It was shady and cool, and I followed the road almost
unconsciously, till I caught a glimpse of masts and white sails
gleaming through the leafage of the overarching trees. I was then
about to retrace my steps, when I was startled by a sudden sound. It
was a low moan of intense pain--a smothered cry that seemed to be
wrung from some animal in torture. I turned in the direction whence
it came, and saw, lying face downward on the grass, a boy--a little
fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of age. His basket of wares
stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches, grapes, pomegranates,
and melons--lovely but dangerous eating in cholera times. I touched
the lad on the shoulder."

"What ails you?" I asked. He twisted himself convulsively and turned
his face toward me--a beautiful face, though livid with anguish.

"The plague, signor!" he moaned; "the plague! Keep away from me, for
the love of God! I am dying!"

I hesitated. For myself I had no fear. But my wife--my child--for
their sakes it was necessary to be prudent. Yet I could not leave
this poor boy unassisted. I resolved to go to the harbor in search
of medical aid. With this idea in my mind I spoke cheerfully.

"Courage, my boy," I said; "do not lose heart! All illness is not
the plague. Rest here till I return; I am going to fetch a doctor."

The little fellow looked at me with wondering, pathetic eyes, and
tried to smile. He pointed to his throat, and made an effort to
speak, but vainly. Then he crouched down in the grass and writhed in
torture like a hunted animal wounded to the death. I left him and
walked on rapidly; reaching the harbor, where the heat was
sulphurous and intense, I found a few scared-looking men standing
aimlessly about, to whom I explained the boy's case, and appealed
for assistance. They all hung back--none of them would accompany me,
not even for the gold I offered. Cursing their cowardice, I hurried
on in search of a physician, and found one at last, a sallow
Frenchman, who listened with obvious reluctance to my account of the
condition in which I had left the little fruit-seller, and at the
end shook his head decisively, and refused to move.

"He is as good as dead," he observed, with cold brevity. "Better
call at the house of the Miserecordia; the brethren will fetch his
body."

"What!" I cried; "you will nor try if you can save him?"

The Frenchman bowed with satirical suavity.

"Monsieur must pardon me! My own health would be seriously
endangered by touching a cholera corpse. Allow me to wish monsieur
the good-day!"

And he disappeared, shutting his door in my face. I was thoroughly
exasperated, and though the heat and the fetid odor of the sun-baked
streets made me feel faint and sick, I forgot all danger for myself
as I stood in the plague-stricken city, wondering what I should do
next to obtain succor. A grave, kind voice saluted my ear.

"You seek aid, my son?"

I looked up. A tall monk, whose cowl partly concealed his pale, but
resolute features, stood at my side--one of those heroes who, for
the love of Christ, came forth at that terrible time and faced the
pestilence fearlessly, where the blatant boasters of no-religion
scurried away like frightened hares from the very scent of danger. I
greeted him with an obeisance, and explained my errand.

"I will go at once," he said, with an accent of pity in his voice.
"But I fear the worst. I have remedies with me; I may not be too
late."

"I will accompany you," I said, eagerly. "One would not let a dog
die unaided; much less this poor lad, who seems friendless."

The monk looked at me attentively as we walked on together.

"You are not residing in Naples?" he asked.

I gave him my name, which he knew by repute, and described the
position of my villa.

"Up on that height we enjoy perfect health," I added. "I cannot
understand the panic that prevails in the city. The plague is
fostered by such cowardice."

"Of course!" he answered, calmly. "But what will you? The people
here love pleasure. Their hearts are set solely on this life. When
death, common to all, enters their midst, they are like babes scared
by a dark shadow. Religion itself"--here he sighed deeply--"has no
hold upon them."

"But you, my father," I began, and stopped abruptly, conscious of a
sharp throbbing pain in my temples.

"I," he answered, gravely, "am the servant of Christ. As such, the
plague has no terrors for me. Unworthy as I am, for my Master's sake
I am ready--nay, willing--to face all deaths."

He spoke firmly, yet without arrogance. I looked at him in a certain
admiration, and was about to speak, when a curious dizziness
overcame me, and I caught at his arm to save myself from falling.
The street rocked like a ship at sea, and the skies whirled round me
in circles of blue fire. The feeling slowly passed, and I heard the
monk's voice, as though it were a long way off, asking me anxiously
what was the matter. I forced a smile.

"It is the heat, I think," I said, in feeble tones like those of a
very aged man. "I am faint--giddy. You had best leave me here--see
to the boy. Oh, my God!"

This last exclamation was wrung out of me by sheer anguish. My limbs
refused to support me, and a pang, cold and bitter as though naked
steel had been thrust through my body, caused me to sink down upon
the pavement in a kind of convulsion. The tall and sinewy monk,
without a moment's hesitation, dragged me up and half carried, half
led me into a kind of auberge, or restaurant for the poorer classes.
Here he placed me in a recumbent position on one of the wooden
benches, and called up the proprietor of the place, a man to whom he
seemed to be well known. Though suffering acutely I was conscious,
and could hear and see everything that passed.

"Attend to him well, Pietro--it is the rich Count Fabio Romani. Thou
wilt not lose by thy pains. I will return within an hour."

"The Count Romani! Santissima Madonna! He has caught the plague!"

"Thou fool!" exclaimed the monk, fiercely. "How canst thou tell? A
stroke of the sun is not the plague, thou coward! See to him, or by
St. Peter and the keys there shall be no place for thee in heaven!"

The trembling innkeeper looked terrified at this menace, and
submissively approached me with pillows, which he placed under my
head. The monk, meanwhile, held a glass to my lips containing some
medicinal mixture, which I swallowed mechanically.

"Rest here, my son," he said, addressing me in soothing tones.
"These people are good-natured. I will but hasten to the boy for
whom you sought assistance--in less than an hour I will be with you
again."

I laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"Stay," I murmured, feebly, "let me know the worst. Is this the
plague?"

"I hope not!" he replied, compassionately. "But what if it be? You
are young and strong enough to fight against it without fear."

"I have no fear," I said. "But, father, promise me one thing--send
no word of my illness to my wife--swear it! Even if I am
unconscious--dead--swear that I shall not be taken to the villa.
Swear it! I cannot rest till I have your word."

"I swear it most willingly, my son," he answered, solemnly. "By all
I hold sacred, I will respect your wishes."

I was infinitely relieved--the safety of those I loved was assured--
and I thanked him by a mute gesture. I was too weak to say more. He
disappeared, and my brain wandered into a chaos of strange fancies.
Let me try to revolve these delusions. I plainly see the interior of
the common room where I lie. There is the timid innkeeper--he
polishes his glasses and bottles, casting ever and anon a scared
glance in my direction. Groups of men look in at the door, and,
seeing me, hurry away. I observe all this--I know where I am--yet I
am also climbing the steep passes of an Alpine gorge--the cold snow
is at my feet--I hear the rush and roar of a thousand torrents. A
crimson cloud floats above the summit of a white glacier--it parts
asunder gradually, and in its bright center a face smiles forth!
"Nina! my love, my wife, my soul!" I cry aloud. I stretch out my
arms--I clasp her!--bah! it is this good rogue of an innkeeper who
holds me in his musty embrace! I struggle with him fiercely--
pantingly.

"Fool!" I shriek in his ear. "Let me go to her--her lips pout for
kisses--let me go!"

Another man advances and seizes me; he and the innkeeper force me
back on the pillows--they overcome me, and the utter incapacity of a
terrible exhaustion steals away my strength. I cease to struggle.
Pietro and his assistant look down upon me.

"E morto!" they whisper one to the other.

I hear them and smile. Dead? Not I! The scorching sunlight streams
through the open door of the inn--the thirsty flies buzz with
persistent loudness--some voices are singing "La Fata di Amalfi"--I
can distinguish the words--

"Chiagnaro la mia sventura
Si non tuorne chiu, Rosella!
Tu d' Amalfi la chiu bella,
Tu na Fata si pe me!
Viene, vie, regina mie,
Viene curre a chisto core,
Ca non c'e non c'e sciore,
Non c'e Stella comm'a te!"
[Footnote: A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect.]

That is a true song, Nina mia! "Non c'e Stella comm' a te!" What did
Guido say? "Purer than the flawless diamond--unapproachable as the
furthest star!" That foolish Pietro still polishes his wine-bottles.
I see him--his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but I
cannot understand how he comes to be here at all, for I am on the
banks of a tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy
alligators lie asleep in the sun. Their large jaws are open--their
small eyes glitter greenly. A light boat glides over the silent
water--in it I behold the erect lithe figure of an Indian. His
features are strangely similar to those of Guido. He draws a long
thin shining blade of steel as he approaches. Brave fellow!--he
means to attack single-handed the cruel creatures who lie in wait
for him on the sultry shore. He springs to land--I watch him with a
weird fascination. He passes the alligators--he seems not to be
aware of their presence--he comes with swift, unhesitating step to
ME--it is I whom he seeks--it is in MY heart that he plunges the
cold steel dagger, and draws it out again dripping with blood! Once-
-twice--thrice!--and yet I cannot die! I writhe--I moan in bitter
anguish! Then something dark comes between me and the glaring sun--
something cool and shadowy, against which I fling myself
despairingly. Two dark eyes look steadily into mine, and a voice
speaks:

"Be calm, my son, be calm. Commend thyself to Christ!"

It is my friend the monk. I recognize him gladly. He has returned
from his errand of mercy. Though I can scarcely speak, I hear myself
asking for news of the boy. The holy man crosses himself devoutly.

"May his young soul rest in peace! I found him dead."

I am dreamily astonished at this. Dead--so soon! I cannot understand
it; and I drift off again into a state of confused imaginings. As I
look back now to that time, I find I have no specially distinct
recollection of what afterward happened to me. I know I suffered
intense, intolerable pain--that I was literally tortured on a rack
of excruciating anguish--and that through all the delirium of my
senses I heard a muffled, melancholy sound like a chant or prayer. I
have an idea that I also heard the tinkle of the bell that
accompanies the Host, but my brain reeled more wildly with each
moment, and I cannot be certain of this. I remember shrieking out
after what seemed an eternity of pain, "Not to the villa! no, no,
not there! You shall not take me--my curse on him who disobeys me!"

I remember then a fearful sensation, as of being dragged into a deep
whirlpool, from whence I stretched up appealing hands and eyes to
the monk who stood above me--I caught a drowning glimpse of a silver
crucifix glittering before my gaze, and at last, with one loud cry
for help, I sunk--down--down! into an abyss of black night and
nothingness!




CHAPTER III.


There followed a long drowsy time of stillness and shadow. I seemed
to have fallen in some deep well of delicious oblivion and
obscurity. Dream-like images still flitted before my fancy--these
were at first undefinable, but after awhile they took more certain
shapes. Strange fluttering creatures hovered about me--lonely eyes
stared at me from a visible deep gloom; long white bony fingers
grasping at nothing made signs to me of warning or menace. Then--
very gradually, there dawned upon my sense of vision a cloudy red
mist like a stormy sunset, and from the middle of the blood-like
haze a huge black hand descended toward me. It pounced upon my
chest--it grasped my throat in its monstrous clutch, and held me
down with a weight of iron. I struggled violently--I strove to cry
out, but that terrific pressure took from me all power of utterance.
I twisted myself to right and left in an endeavor to escape--but my
tyrant of the sable hand had bound me in on all sides. Yet I
continued to wrestle with the cruel opposing force that strove to
overwhelm me--little by little--inch by inch--so! At last! One more
struggle--victory! I woke! Merciful God! Where was I? In what
horrible atmosphere--in what dense darkness? Slowly, as my senses
returned to me, I remembered my recent illness. The monk--the man
Pietro--where were they? What had they done to me? By degrees, I
realized that I was lying straight down upon my back--the couch was
surely very hard? Why had they taken the pillows from under my head?
A pricking sensation darted through my veins--I felt my own hands
curiously--they were warm, and my pulse beat strongly, though
fitfully. But what was this that hindered my breathing? Air--air! I
must have air! I put up my hands--horror! They struck against a hard
opposing substance above me. Quick as lightning then the truth
flashed upon my mind! I had been buried--buried alive; this wooden
prison that inclosed me was a coffin! A frenzy surpassing that of an
infuriated tiger took swift possession of me--with hands and nails I
tore and scratched at the accursed boards--with all the force of my
shoulders and arms I toiled to wrench open the closed lid! My
efforts were fruitless! I grew more ferociously mad with rage and
terror. How easy were all deaths compared to one like this! I was
suffocating--I felt my eyes start from their sockets--blood sprung
from my mouth and nostrils--and icy drops of sweat trickled from my
forehead. I paused, gasping for breath. Then, suddenly nerving
myself for one more wild effort, I hurled my limbs with all the
force of agony and desperation against one side of my narrow prison.
It cracked--it split asunder!--and then--a new and horrid fear beset
me, and I crouched back, panting heavily. If--if I were buried in
the ground--so ran my ghastly thoughts--of what use to break open
the coffin and let in the mold--the damp wormy mold, rich with the
bones of the dead--the penetrating mold that would choke up my mouth
and eyes, and seal me into silence forever! My mind quailed at this
idea--my brain tottered on the verge of madness! I laughed--think of
it!--and my laugh sounded in my ears like the last rattle in the
throat of a dying man. But I could breathe more easily--even in the
stupefaction of my fears--I was conscious of air. Yes!--the blessed
air had rushed in somehow. Revived and encouraged as I recognized
this fact, I felt with both hands till I found the crevice I had
made, and then with frantic haste and strength I pulled and dragged
at the wood, till suddenly the whole side of the coffin gave way,
and I was able to force up the lid. I stretched out my arms--no
weight of earth impeded their movements--I felt nothing but air--
empty air. Yielding to my first strong impulse, I leaped out of the
hateful box, and fell--fell some little distance, bruising my hands
and knees on what seemed to be a stone pavement. Something weighty
fell also, with a dull crashing thud close to me. The darkness was
impenetrable. But there was breathing room, and the atmosphere was
cool and refreshing. With some pain and difficulty I raised myself
to a sitting position where I had fallen. My limbs were stiff and
cramped as well as wounded, and I shivered as with strong ague. But
my senses were clear--the tangled chain of my disordered thoughts
became even and connected--my previous mad excitement gradually
calmed, and I began to consider my condition. I had certainly been
buried alive--there was no doubt of that. Intense pain had, I
suppose, resolved itself into a long trance of unconsciousness--the
people of the inn where I had been taken ill had at once believed me
to be dead of cholera, and with the panic-stricken, indecent haste
common in all Italy, especially at a time of plague, had thrust me
into one of those flimsy coffins which were then being manufactured
by scores in Naples--mere shells of thin deal, nailed together with
clumsy hurry and fear. But how I blessed their wretched
construction! Had I been laid in a stronger casket, who knows if
even the most desperate frenzy of my strength might not have proved
unavailing! I shuddered at the thought. Yet the question remained--
Where was I? I reviewed my case from all points, and for some time
could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. Stay, though! I
remembered that I had told the monk my name; he knew that I was the
only descendant of the rich Romani family. What followed? Why,
naturally, the good father had only done what his duty called upon
him to do. He had seen me laid in the vault of my ancestors--the
great Romani vault that had never been opened since my father's body
was carried to its last resting-place with all the solemn pomp and
magnificence of a wealthy nobleman's funeral obsequies. The more I
thought of this the more probable it seemed. The Romani vault! Its
forbidding gloom had terrified me as a lad when I followed my
father's coffin to the stone niche assigned to it, and I had turned
my eyes away in shuddering pain when I was told to look at the heavy
oaken casket hung with tattered velvet and ornamented with tarnished
silver, which contained all that was left of my mother, who died
young. I had felt sick and faint and cold, and had only recovered
myself when I stood out again in the free air with the blue dome of
heaven high above me. And now I was shut in the same vault--a
prisoner--with what hope of escape? I reflected. The entrance to the
vault, I remembered, was barred by a heavy door of closely twisted
iron--from thence a flight of steep steps led downward--downward to
where in all probability I now was. Suppose I could in the dense
darkness feel my way to those steps and climb up to that door--of
what avail? It was locked--nay, barred--and as it was situated in a
remote part of the burial-ground, there was no likelihood of even
the keeper of the cemetery passing by it for days--perhaps not for
weeks. Then must I starve? Or die of thirst? Tortured by these
imaginings, I rose up from the pavement and stood erect. My feet
were bare, and the cold stone on which I stood chilled me to the
marrow. It was fortunate for me, I thought, that they had buried me
as a cholera corpse--they had left me half-clothed for fear of
infection. That is, I had my flannel shirt on and my usual walking
trousers. Something there was, too, round my neck; I felt it, and as
I did so a flood of sweet and sorrowful memories rushed over me. It
was a slight gold chain, and on it hung a locket containing the
portraits of my wife and child. I drew it out in the darkness; I
covered it with passionate kisses and tears--the first I had shed
since my death--like trance-tears scalding and bitter welled into my
eyes. Life was worth living while Nina's smile lightened the world!
I resolved to fight for existence, no matter what dire horrors
should be yet in store for me. Nina--my love--my beautiful one! Her
face gleamed out upon me in the pestilent gloom of the charnel-
house; her eyes beckoned me--her young faithful eyes that were now,
I felt sure, drowned in weeping for my supposed death. I seemed to
see my tender-hearted darling sobbing alone in the empty silence of
the room that had witnessed a thousand embraces between herself and
me; her lovely hair disheveled; her sweet face pale and haggard with
the bitterness of grief! Baby Stella, too, no doubt she would
wonder, poor innocent! why I did not come to swing her as usual
under the orange boughs. And Guido--brave and true friend! I thought
of him with tenderness. I felt I knew how deep and lasting would be
his honest regret for my loss. Oh, I would leave no means of escape
untried; I would find some way out of this grim vault! How overjoyed
they would all be to see me again--to know that I was not dead after
all! What a welcome I should receive! How Nina would nestle into my
arms; how my little child would cling to me; how Guido would clasp
me by the hand! I smiled as I pictured the scene of rejoicing at the
dear old villa--the happy home sanctified by perfect friendship and
faithful love!

A deep hollow sound booming suddenly on my ears startled me--one!
two! three! I counted the strokes up to twelve. It was some church
bell tolling the hour. My pleasing fancies dispersed--I again faced
the drear reality of my position. Twelve o'clock! Midday or
midnight? I could not tell. I began to calculate. It was early
morning when I had been taken ill--not much past eight when I had
met the monk and sought his assistance for the poor little fruit-
seller who had after all perished alone in his sufferings. Now
supposing my illness had lasted some hours, I might have fallen into
a trance--died--as those around me had thought, somewhere about
noon. In that case they would certainly have buried me with as
little delay as possible--before sunset at all events. Thinking
these points over one by one, I came to the conclusion that the bell
I had just heard must have struck midnight--the midnight of the very
day of my burial. I shivered; a kind of nervous dread stole over me.
I have always been physically courageous, but at the same time, in
spite of my education, I am somewhat superstitious--what Neapolitan
is not? it runs in the southern blood. And there was something
unutterably fearful in the sound of that midnight bell clanging
harshly on the ears of a man pent up alive in a funeral vault with
the decaying bodies of his ancestors close within reach of his hand!
I tried to conquer my feelings--to summon up my fortitude. I
endeavored to reason out the best method of escape. I resolved to
feel my way, if possible, to the steps of the vault, and with this
idea in my mind I put out my hands and began to move along slowly
and with the utmost care. What was that? I stopped; I listened; the
blood curdled in my veins! A shrill cry, piercing, prolonged, and
melancholy, echoed through the hollow arches of my tomb. A cold
perspiration broke out all over my body--my heart beat so loudly
that I could hear it thumping against my ribs. Again--again--that
weird shriek, followed by a whir and flap of wings. I breathed
again.

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