FIORE DELLA CASA.
I did not get much sleep that night after the excitements of the day,
but towards the morning fell into an uneasy slumber, during which I
had fragmentary dreams in which Pallanza, the Contessa, and the
antique chamber were all mixed up together. One moment I was at the
iron door of the tomb, and the guardian angel took the semblance of
Signora Morone; the next I was kneeling beside the corpse of Pallanza,
illuminated by the faint light of the candles; and I ever saw the
pallid shade of Donna Renata pointing towards the watchful face of her
husband, filled with ghastly meanings in the dim shadows. No wonder,
after these terrific visions which blended the real and the ideal, I
awoke in the grey morning light unrefreshed and haggard; so when the
waiter brought me my roll and coffee I left them untouched, and, lying
quietly in bed, wondered what step it was necessary to take next in
solving this riddle.
Riddle do I say? No! it was a riddle no longer, save as to the visit
of the Contessa to the vault of her family, for otherwise everything
was clear enough. She had met Pallanza at Rome, and had fallen in love
with his handsome face. The young man, flattered by the attentions of
a great lady, had yielded readily enough to the charm of the
situation, but, growing tired of the intrigue, had come to Verona,
where Bianca awaited him, with the intention of breaking it off. With
a woman of Giulietta Morone's fiery nature the sequel can easily be
guessed--she had followed him hither, and having in some way forced
him to come to the deserted palace, had there poisoned him out of
revenge for his contemplated infidelity.
Of course, this was all theoretical, but from one thing and another I
guessed that this could be the only feasible way of accounting for the
whole affair. Two points, however, remained to be cleared up before
the reading of the riddle could be successfully accomplished: the
first being the reason of the burial-ground episode, the second the
strange disappearance of the dead man's body.
In thinking over the legend related by Peppino, one thing struck me as
peculiar--that Donna Renata had never been seen again after her
husband entered the chamber, and I guessed from this that there was
some secret oubliette or alcove in the room, with a concealed entrance
in which Mastino Morone had entombed his guilty wife as a punishment
for her crimes. Doubtless, from tradition or from old family papers,
Madame Morone knew of this secret hiding-place, and having killed
Pallanza, had put his body therein so as to destroy all evidences of
her criminality. No one had seen Pallanza enter this deserted palace,
so once his body was hidden in the secret alcove it would remain there
for ever undiscovered, and no human being, save the Contessa herself,
could ever tell what had become of him. She, for her own sake, would
remain silent, and thus Guiseppe Pallanza's fate would remain a
mystery for evermore.
Fortunately, however, God, who had thus permitted this evil woman to
conceive and carry out her crime, had also permitted me to behold the
murder, so that, secure as she no doubt felt of her safety, yet one
word from me and the whole affair would be revealed. I never thought,
however, of going to the Veronese police and telling them what I had
seen, as in their suspicions of foreigners they would doubtless regard
me as an accessory, and thus I would get myself into trouble, which I
had no desire to do. I therefore determined to once more go to the
fatal chamber and make a final effort to discover what had become of
the body of the unfortunate Pallanza.
So far so good, but now the question arose, how much of this story was
I to reveal to Bianca? I could not tell her the whole, for if the body
of her lover were discovered, the poor child would suffer quite enough
without the additional information of Guiseppe's infidelity; so,
making a virtue of necessity, I determined upon telling her a pious
lie. To do this it was necessary to leave out the Contessa Morone
altogether, as the least mention of a woman's name would arose
Bianca's suspicions, and for the Contessa I substituted a robber, who
had decoyed Guiseppe to the deserted palace by means of a false
letter, and there ended his life. Of course it was somewhat difficult
to be consistent in the narrative; but I was so anxious to hide the
cruel truth of Pallanza's worthlessness from Bianca that I went over
the story I had invented, again and again, until I thought I had the
whole pious fraud quite perfect.
Having thus arranged my plans, I arose, finished my roll and coffee,
then, having dressed myself rapidly, set off at once for the Casa
Angello, as it was nearly time for my lesson. All my bruises were now
quite well, yet I felt very depressed and downcast, as the state of
nervous excitement which I had been in for the last few days had told
terribly on my system. However, having once put my hand to the plough
I could not, with satisfaction to myself, turn back; and although I
heartily dreaded the coming interview with Bianca, yet it was
unavoidable, as the poor child was so anxious over her lost lover that
it was necessary to tell my fictitious story without delay in order to
set her mind at rest.
On my arrival at the Casa Angello I found no one there but Bianca, who
was anxiously awaiting me. It appeared that the Maestro had taken it
into his head that he would like a walk in the sunshine, and had gone
out under the care of Petronella; but, as Bianca knew I was coming to
take my usual lesson, and was anxious to hear if I had any news of her
lover, she remained indoors to speak to me.
The "Fiorè della Casa," as old Petronella tenderly called her in the
poetic language of the Italians, looked even paler than usual, and the
dark shadows under her dark eyes made them appear wonderfully large
and star-like. She had a bunch of delicate lilies-of-the-valley in the
bosom of her white dress, and she looked as pale and blanched as the
frail flowers themselves. Lying back on the green-covered sofa on
which she was seated, she reminded me of a late snowflake resting on
the emerald grass of early spring, which at any moment might vanish
under the pale rays of the sun.
We were talking together in the room in which I generally had my
lessons, and my eyes wandered from one thing to another with vague
hesitation as I looked everywhere but on the face of this delicate
girl to whom I had to tell such a cruel story--for, soften it as I
might, the story was cruel and could not fail to affect her terribly.
Every object in the apartment photographed itself on my memory with
terrible distinctness, and, even after the lapse of years, by simply
closing my eyes I can recall the whole scene with the utmost
truthfulness. The dull red of the terra-cotta floor, the heavy
time-worn furniture, covered with faded green rep, the small ebony
piano with its glistening white keys alternating with the black, the
mirror-fronted press in which Petronella kept everything from food to
clothes, the many photographs of operatic celebrities, and the gaudily
painted picture of St. Paul, the Maestro's patron saint, encircled by
a faded wreath of withered laurel-leaves and dead flowers, flung to
some favourite pupil in her hour of triumph. Even the view from the
window I can recall, with the slender campanile tower, from whence
every quarter rang the brazen bells, and then the faltering voice of
Bianca, "Fiorè della Casa," stealing like a melancholy wind through
the silence of the room.
"Signor!" she said, twisting her thin white hands nervously together,
"you have something to tell me of Guiseppe. I can see it in your
face--is it good or evil?"
"What does my face tell you, Signorina?"
"Evil, evil! your eyes are sad, your mouth does not smile! Oh, tell me
quickly what you know! Is he found? is he ill? is he--dead?"
She brought out the last word in a shrill scream, with dilated eyes
that almost terrified me by the fear expressed in them, and, dreading
the effect of a sudden shock on this fragile child, I hastily replied
in the negative.
"No, Signorina, no! Do not look so fearful, I pray you. He is not
dead. Child, I am sure he is not dead!"
"Then you have not found him yet?"
"No; I have not found him, but I think I know where he is to be
found."
"What do you mean, Signor Hugo, tell me all--tell me all. See, I am
strong, I can bear it--I wish to know everything."
"Signorina, the note which Guiseppe Pallanza received at the Ezzelino
was not from a friend but from an enemy."
"An enemy!"
"Yes! from one who wished him ill. Thinking it was from his dying
friend, he obeyed the letter and was lured to the deserted Palazzo
Morone."
"I do not know that palazzo, Signor. I am a stranger in Verona."
"I know where it is, Signorina, for on that night I was wandering
about near it, when I saw Pallanza go into it alone. Knowing the
evil reputation of the place, I followed him, although he was a
stranger to me. He went to a room in the palace where his enemy met
him, and--and----"
"Yes! yes, Signor--for the love of the Saints, go on."
"I can tell you no more, Signorina, except that I do not believe
Guiseppe left that room again. I believe he is there still, perhaps
held captive by the robber who lured him thither in the hope of
obtaining a ransom."
Bianca looked at me searchingly. She was a simple little thing as a
rule, but this ridiculous story I had manufactured of brigands in the
heart of Verona was too much even for her confiding nature, and she
made a gesture of disbelief.
"It is not true! it is not true!" she cried vehemently. "Why do you
deceive me, Signor?"
"I am not deceiving you."
"An enemy! a false letter! a deserted palace! held captive! Oh, I
cannot believe it. If it is true, why did you not rescue him?"
"Because some one I do not know seized me from behind as I watched,
and, rendering me insensible with chloroform, bore me away from the
palace. I had great difficulty in finding it again, I assure you."
"Signor, your story is that of a dream. I cannot believe you."
"It is true, nevertheless."
Bianca said nothing, but tapped her little foot on the ground with a
thoughtful frown on her small face. I was glad that my task was over,
for absurd as was the story I had told her, it was more merciful than
the truth. Now that I had to some extent quieted her fears by telling
her that Guiseppe was alive--a thing, alas! that I could not be
certain of myself--I hoped to get away at once to the Palazzo Morone
and make one last effort to find his body. If I failed there would be
nothing left for me to do but to inform the police, and in the
interests of Bianca I was unwilling to do this until I had exhausted
every means of solving the mystery myself.
Suddenly Bianca's face cleared, and she looked at me with steady
determination.
"Signor, you know this palazzo?"
"Yes, Signorina."
"And this room where you think Guiseppe is held captive?"
"I do, Signorina."
"Then take me to it at once."
She started to her feet with a deep flush on her face, and threw out
her hands towards me with an appealing gesture. As for me, I sat
still, transfixed with astonishment at the spirit displayed by this
gentle girl, who was thus willing to dare the dangers, of the unknown
in order to save her lover.
"Take me to it at once!" she repeated quickly.
"Signorina, I--I cannot. You are mad to think of such a thing."
"Is your story true or false, Signor Hugo?"
"True! yes, it is true!"
"Then I will judge of its truth myself--with my own eyes. Wait, I will
put on my hat, and you will take me to this palazzo at once."
"Signorina----"
"Not another word, I have made up my mind. You promised to be my
friend, Signor Hugo. I hold you to that promise. Ecco!"
She was gone before I could utter further remonstrance, and during her
absence I reflected rapidly. It was true that Guiseppe was dead, that
I believed his body was concealed somewhere in that room, so perhaps
after all it was best that Bianca should come, as her quick woman's
wit might succeed where I had failed. She knew nothing about the
implication of the Contessa Morone in the affair, the palazzo would be
quite deserted during the daytime, so I would be able to take her
there, let her examine the room, and if by chance the truth was
revealed that Guiseppe was dead, it would be a more merciful way than
by the lips of a stranger. Yes, I would take her there at once. If we
failed in our mission she would be no wiser than before, but if we
succeeded--ah! how I pitied the poor child if we succeeded in finding
out the terrible secret of the Contessa. At this moment she returned
trembling with ill-suppressed excitement.
"Well, Signor Hugo, are you ready--are you willing to help me?"
"With all my heart, Signorina."
"Ebbene! come, then."
She ran lightly out of the room, and I followed with a heavy heart,
for I had a presentiment of evil. I feared that fatal chamber, which
held so many impure memories--I feared the discovery of the dead--I
feared for this child who went forward in ignorance to face such
horrors.