Edith Wharton - "Tales Of Men And Ghosts"

Charles Reade - "The Woman Hater"

Lord Dunsany [Edward J. M. D. Plunkett] - "Time and the Gods"

Thomas H. Huxley - "Criticisms on The Origin of Species"

Vendetta

M >> Marie Corelli >> Vendetta




"Oh, the galleys for life of course; there is no possible
alternative."

I thanked my informant, and left the office. I was glad to have
learned these few particulars, for the treasure I had discovered in
my own family vault was now more mine than ever. There was not the
remotest chance of any one of the Neri band venturing so close to
Naples in search of it, and I thought with a grim smile that had the
brigand chief himself known the story of my wrongs, he would most
probably have rejoiced to think that his buried wealth was destined
to aid me in carrying out so elaborate a plan of vengeance. All
difficulties smoothed themselves before me--obstacles were taken out
of my path--my way was made perfectly clear--each trifling incident
was a new finger-post pointing out the direct road that led me to
the one desired end. God himself seemed on my side, as He is surely
ever on the side of justice! Let not the unfaithful think that
because they say long prayers or go regularly and devoutly to church
with meek faces and piously folded hands that the Eternal Wisdom is
deceived thereby. My wife could pray--she could kneel like a lovely
saint in the dim religious light of the sacred altars, her deep eyes
upturned to the blameless, infinitely reproachful Christ--and look
you! each word she uttered was a blasphemy, destined to come back
upon herself as a curse. Prayer is dangerous for liars--it is like
falling willfully on an upright naked sword. Used as an honorable
weapon the sword defends--snatched up as the last resource of a
coward it kills.




CHAPTER XI.


The third week of September was drawing to its close when I returned
to Naples. The weather had grown cooler, and favorable reports of
the gradual decrease of the cholera began to gain ground with the
suffering and terrified population. Business was resumed as usual,
pleasure had again her votaries, and society whirled round once more
in its giddy waltz as though it had never left off dancing. I
arrived in the city somewhat early in the day, and had time to make
some preliminary arrangements for my plan of action. I secured the
most splendid suite of apartments in the best hotel, impressing the
whole establishment with a vast idea of my wealth and importance. I
casually mentioned to the landlord that I desired to purchase a
carriage and horses--that I needed a first-class valet, and a few
other trifles of the like sort, and added that I relied on his good
advice and recommendation as to the places where I should best
obtain all that I sought. Needless to say, he became my slave--never
was monarch better served than I--the very waiters hustled each
other in a race to attend upon me, and reports of my princely
fortune, generosity, and lavish expenditure, began to flit from
mouth to month--which was the result I desired to obtain.

And now the evening of my first day in Naples came, and I, the
supposed Conte Cesare Oliva, the envied and flattered noble, took
the first step toward my vengeance. It was one of the loveliest
evenings possible, even in that lovely land--a soft breeze blew in
from the sea--the sky was pearl-like and pure as an opal, yet bright
with delicate shifting clouds of crimson and pale mauve--small,
fleecy flecks of Radiance, that looked like a shower of blossoms
fallen from some far invisible flower-land. The waters of the bay
were slightly ruffled by the wind, and curled into tender little
dark-blue waves tipped with light forges of foam. After my dinner I
went out and took my way to a well-known and popular cafe which used
to be a favorite haunt of mine in the days when I was known as Fabio
Romani, Guido Ferrari was a constant habitue of the place, and I
felt that I should find him there. The brilliant rose-white and gold
saloons were crowded, and owing to the pleasant coolness of the air
there were hundreds of little tables pushed far out into the street,
at which groups of persons were seated, enjoying ices, wine, or
coffee, and congratulating each other on the agreeable news of the
steady decrease of the pestilence that had ravaged the city. I
glanced covertly yet quickly round. Yes! I was not mistaken--there
was my quondam friend, my traitorous foe, sitting at his ease,
leaning comfortably back in one chair, his feet put up on another.
He was smoking, and glancing now and then through the columns of the
Paris "Figaro." He was dressed entirely in black--a hypocritical
livery, the somber hue of which suited his fine complexion and
perfectly handsome features to admiration. On the little finger of
the shapely hand that every now and then was raised to adjust his
cigar, sparkled a diamond that gave out a myriad scintillations as
it flashed in the evening light--it was of exceptional size and
brilliancy, and even at a distance I recognized it as my own
property!

So!--a love-gift, signor, or an in memoriam of the dear and valued
friend you have lost? I wondered--watching him in dark scorn the
while--then recollecting myself, I sauntered slowly toward him, and
perceiving a disengaged table next to his, I drew a chair to it and
sat down He looked at me in differently over the top of his
newspaper--but there was nothing specially attractive in the sight
of a white-haired man wearing smoke-colored spectacles, and he
resumed his perusal of the "Figaro" immediately. I rapped the end of
my walking-cane on the table and summoned a waiter from whom I
ordered coffee. I then lighted a cigar, and imitating Ferrari's easy
posture, smoked also. Something in my attitude then appeared to
strike him, for he laid down his paper and again looked at me, this
time with more interest and something of uneasiness. "Ca commence,
mon ami!" I thought, but I turned my head slightly aside and feigned
to be absorbed in the view. My coffee was brought--I paid for it and
tossed the waiter an unusually large gratuity--he naturally found it
incumbent upon him to polish my table with extra zeal, and to secure
all the newspapers, pictorial or otherwise, that were lying about,
for the purpose of obsequiously depositing them in a heap at my
right hand. I addressed this amiable garcon in the harsh and
deliberate accents of my carefully disguised voice.

"By the way, I suppose you know Naples well?"

"Oh, si, signor!"

"Ebbene, can you tell me the way to the house of one Count Fabio
Romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?"

Ha! a good hit this time! Though apparently not looking at him I saw
Ferrari start as though he had been stung, and then compose himself
in his seat with an air of attention. The waiter meanwhile, in
answer to my question, raised his hands, eyes and shoulders all
together with a shrug expressive of resigned melancholy.

"Ah, gran Dio! e morto!"

"Dead!" I exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise. "So
young? Impossible!"

"Eh! what will you, signor? It was la pesta; there was no remedy. La
pesta cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich nor
poor."

For a moment I leaned my head on my hand, affecting to be overcome
by the suddenness of the news. Then looking up, I said, regretfully:

"Alas! I am too late! I was a friend of his father's. I have been
away for many years, and I had a great wish to meet the young Romani
whom I last saw as a child. Are there any relations of his living--
was he married?"

The waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness
in accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up
immediately as he replied eagerly:

"Oh, si, signor! The Contessa Romani lives up at the villa, though I
believe she receives no one since her husband's death. She is young
and beautiful as an angel. There is a little child too."

A hasty movement on the part of Ferrari caused me to turn my eyes,
or rather my spectacles, in his direction. He leaned forward, and
raising his hat with the old courteous grace I knew so well, said
politely:

"Pardon me, signor, for interrupting you! I knew the late young
Count Romani well--perhaps better than any man in Naples. I shall be
delighted to afford you any information you may seek concerning
him."

Oh, the old mellow music of his voice--how it struck on my heart and
pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of
our youth. For an instant I could not speak--wrath and sorrow choked
my utterance. Fortunately this feeling was but momentary--slowly I
raised my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly:

"I am your servant, signor. You will oblige me indeed if you can
place me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate
young nobleman. The elder Count Romani was dearer to me than a
brother--men have such attachments occasionally. Permit me to
introduce myself," and I handed him my visiting-card with a slight
and formal bow. He accepted it, and as he read the name it bore he
gave me a quick glance of respect mingled with pleased surprise.

"The Conte Cesare Oliva!" he exclaimed. "I esteem myself most
fortunate to have met you! Your arrival has already been notified to
us by the avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we
are well aware," here laughing lightly, "of the distinctive right
you have to a hearty welcome in Naples. I am only sorry that any
distressing news should have darkened the occasion of your return
here after so long an absence. Permit me to express the hope that it
may at least be the only cloud for you on our southern sunshine!"

And he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie
which are always a part of the Italian temperament, and were
especially so of his. A cold shudder ran through my veins. God!
could I take his hand in mine? I must--if I would act my part
thoroughly--for should I refuse he would think it strange--even
rude--I should lose the game by one false move. With a forced smile
I hesitatingly held out my hand also--it was gloved, yet as he
clasped it heartily in his own the warm pressure burned through the
glove like fire. I could have cried out in agony, so excruciating
was the mental torture which I endured at that moment. But it
passed, the ordeal was over, and I knew that from henceforth I
should be able to shake hands with him as often and as indifferently
as with any other man. It was only this FIRST time that it galled me
to the quick. Ferrari noticed nothing of my emotion--he was in
excellent spirits, and turning to the waiter, who had lingered to
watch us make each other's acquaintance, he exclaimed:

"More coffee, garcon, and a couple of glorias." Then looking toward
me, "You do not object to a gloria, conte? No? That is well. And
here is MY card," taking one from his pocket and laying it on the
table. "Guido Ferrari, at your service, an artist and a very poor
one. We shall celebrate our meeting by drinking each other's
health!"

I bowed. The waiter vanished to execute his orders and Ferrari drew
his chair closer to mine.

"I see you smoke," he said, gayly. "Can I offer you one of my
cigars? They are unusually choice. Permit me," and he proffered roe
a richly embossed and emblazoned silver cigar-case, with the Romani
arms and coronet and MY OWN INITIALS engraved thereon. It was mine,
of course--I took it with a sensation of grim amusement--I had not
seen it since the day I died!

"A fine antique," I remarked, carelessly, turning it over and over
in my hand, "curious and valuable. A gift or an heirloom?"

"It belonged to my late friend, Count Fabio," he answered, puffing a
light cloud of smoke in the air as he drew his cigar from his lips
to speak. "It was found in his pocket by the priest who saw him die.
That and other trifles which he wore on his person were delivered to
his wife, and--"

"She naturally gave YOU the cigar-case as a memento of your friend,"
I said, interrupting him.

"Just so. You have guessed it exactly. Thanks," and he took the case
from me as I returned it to him with a frank smile.

"Is the Countess Romani young?" I forced myself to inquire.

"Young and beautiful as a midsummer morning!" replied Ferrari, with
enthusiasm. "I doubt if sunlight ever fell on a more enchanting
woman! If you were a young man, conte, I should be silent regarding
her charms--but your white hairs inspire one with confidence. I
assure you solemnly, though Fabio was my friend, and an excellent
fellow in his ways, he was never worthy of the woman he married!"

"Indeed!" I said, coldly, as this dagger-thrust struck home to my
heart. "I only knew him when he was quite a boy. He seemed to me
then of a warm and loving temperament, generous to a fault, perhaps
over-credulous, yet he promised well. His father thought so, I
confess I thought so too. Reports have reached me from time to time
of the care with which he managed the immense fortune left to him.
He gave large sums away in charity, did he not? and was he not a
lover of books and simple pleasures?"

"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 garcon 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 ones "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 on 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 this 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!"

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