Numbers of lizards glided away from my feet as I descended the steps,
and when the flare of my torch penetrated the darkness I heard a
scurrying of wings mingled with various hissing sounds and wild cries.
I knew now—none better—what weird and abominable things had habitation
in this storehouse of the dead, but I felt I could defy them all, armed
with the light I carried. The way that had seemed so long in the dense
gloom was brief and easy, and I soon found myself at the scene of my
unexpected awakening from sleep. The actual body of the vault was
square-shaped, like a small room inclosed within high walls—walls which
were scooped out in various places so as to form niches in which the
narrow caskets containing the bones of all the departed members of the
Romani family were placed one above the other like so many bales of
goods arranged evenly on the shelves of an ordinary warehouse. I held
the candle high above my head and looked about me with a morbid
interest. I soon perceived what I sought—my own coffin.
There it was in a niche some five feet from the ground, its splintered
portions bearing decided witness to the dreadful struggle I had made to
obtain my freedom. I advanced and examined it closely. It was a frail
shell enough—unlined, unornamented—a wretched sample of the
undertaker’s art, though God knows _I_ had no fault to find with its
workmanship, nor with the haste of him who fashioned it. Something
shone at the bottom of it—it was a crucifix of ebony and silver. That
good monk again! His conscience had not allowed him to see me buried
without this sacred symbol; he had perhaps laid it on my breast as the
last service he could render me; it had fallen from thence, no doubt,
when I had wrenched my way through the boards that inclosed me. I took
it and kissed it reverently—I resolved that if ever I met the holy
father again, I would tell him my story, and, as a proof of its truth,
restore to him this cross, which he would be sure to recognize. Had
they put my name on the coffin-lid? I wondered. Yes, there it
was—painted on the wood in coarse, black letters, “_Fabio Romani_”—then
followed the date of my birth; then a short Latin inscription, stating
that I had died of cholera on August 15, 1884. That was yesterday—only
yesterday! I seemed to have lived a century since then.
I turned to look at my father’s resting-place. The velvet on his coffin
hung from its sides in moldering remnants—but it was not so utterly
damp-destroyed and worm-eaten as the soaked and indistinguishable
material that still clung to the massive oaken chest in the next niche,
where _she_ lay—she from whose tender arms I had received my first
embrace—she in whose loving eyes I had first beheld the world! I knew
by a sort of instinct that it must have been with the frayed fragments
on her coffin that my fingers had idly played in the darkness. I
counted as before the bits of metal—eight bits length-wise, and four
bits across—and on my father’s close casket there were ten silver
plates lengthwise and five across. My poor little mother! I thought of
her picture—it hung in my library at home; the picture of a young,
smiling, dark-haired beauty, whose delicate tint was as that of a peach
ripening in the summer sun. All that loveliness had decayed into—what?
I shuddered involuntarily—then I knelt humbly before those two sad
hollows in the cold stone, and implored the blessing of the dead and
gone beloved ones to whom, while they lived, my welfare had been dear.
While I occupied this kneeling position the flame of my torch fell
directly on some small object that glittered with remarkable luster. I
went to examine it; it was a jeweled pendant composed of one large
pear-shaped pearl, set round with fine rose brilliants! Surprised at
this discovery, I looked about to see where such a valuable gem could
possibly have come from. I then noticed an unusually large coffin lying
sideways on the ground; it appeared as if it had fallen suddenly and
with force, for a number of loose stones and mortar were sprinkled near
it. Holding the light close to the ground, I observed that a niche
exactly below the one in which _I_ had been laid was empty, and that a
considerable portion of the wall there was broken away. I then
remembered that when I had sprung so desperately out of my narrow box I
had heard something fall with a crash beside me. This was the thing,
then—this long coffin, big enough to contain a man seven feet high and
broad in proportion. What gigantic ancestor had I irreverently
dislodged?—and was it from a skeleton throat that the rare jewel which
I held in my hand had been accidentally shaken?
My curiosity was excited, and I bent close to examine the lid of this
funeral chest. There was no name on it—no mark of any sort, save one—a
dagger roughly painted in red. Here was a mystery! I resolved to
penetrate it. I set up my candle in a little crevice of one of the
empty niches, and laid the pearl and diamond pendant beside it, thus
disembarrassing myself of all incumbrance. The huge coffin lay on its
side, as I have said; its uppermost corner was splintered; I applied
both hands to the work of breaking further asunder these already split
portions. As I did so a leathern pouch or bag rolled out and fell at my
feet. I picked it up and opened it—it was full of gold pieces! More
excited than ever, I seized a large pointed stone, and by the aid of
this extemporized instrument, together with the force of my own arms,
hands, and feet, I managed, after some ten minutes’ hard labor, to
break open the mysterious casket.
When I had accomplished this deed I stared at the result like a man
stupefied. No moldering horror met my gaze—no blanched or decaying
bones; no grinning skull mocked me with its hollow eye-sockets. I
looked upon a treasure worthy of an emperor’s envy! The big coffin was
literally lined and packed with incalculable wealth. Fifty large
leathern bags tied with coarse cord lay uppermost; more than half of
these were crammed with gold coins, the rest were full of priceless
gems—necklaces, tiaras, bracelets, watches, chains, and other articles
of feminine adornment were mingled with loose precious stones—diamonds,
rubies, emeralds, and opals, some of unusual size and luster, some
uncut, and some all ready for the jeweler’s setting. Beneath these bags
were packed a number of pieces of silk, velvet, and cloth of gold, each
piece being wrapped by itself in a sort of oil-skin, strongly perfumed
with camphor and other spices. There were also three lengths of old
lace, fine as gossamer, of matchless artistic design, in perfect
condition. Among these materials lay two large trays of solid gold
workmanship, most exquisitely engraved and ornamented, also four gold
drinking-cups, of quaint and massive construction. Other valuables and
curious trifles there were, such as an ivory statuette of Psyche on a
silver pedestal, a waistband of coins linked together, a painted fan
with a handle set in amber and turquois, a fine steel dagger in a
jeweled sheath, and a mirror framed in old pearls. Last, but not least,
at the very bottom of the chest lay rolls upon rolls of paper money
amounting to some millions of francs—in all far surpassing what I had
myself formerly enjoyed from my own revenues. I plunged my hands deep
in the leathern bags; I fingered the rich materials; all this treasure
was mine! I had found it in my own burial vault! I had surely the right
to consider it as my property? I began to consider—how could it have
been placed there without my knowledge? The answer to this question
occurred to me at once. Brigands! Of course!—what a fool I was not to
have thought of them before; the dagger painted on the lid of the chest
should have guided me to the solution of the mystery. A red dagger was
the recognized sign-manual of a bold and dangerous brigand named
Carmelo Neri, who, with his reckless gang, haunted the vicinity of
Palermo.
“So!” I thought, “this is one of your bright ideas, my cut-throat
Carmelo! Cunning rogue! you calculated well—you thought that none would
disturb the dead, much less break open a coffin in search of gold.
Admirably planned, my Carmelo! But this time you must play a losing
game! A supposed dead man coming to life again deserves something for
his trouble, and I should be a fool not to accept the goods the gods
and the robbers provide. An ill-gotten hoard of wealth, no doubt; but
better in my hands than in yours friend Carmelo!”
And I meditated for some minutes on this strange affair. If, indeed—and
I saw no reason to doubt it—I had chanced to find some of the spoils of
the redoubtable Neri, this great chest must have been brought over by
sea from Palermo. Probably four stout rascals had carried the supposed
coffin in a mock solemn procession, under the pretense of its
containing the body of a comrade. These thieves have a high sense of
humor. Yet the question remained to be solved—How had they gained
access to _my_ ancestral vault, unless by means of a false key? All at
once I was left in darkness. My candle went out as though blown upon by
a gust of air. I had my matches, and of course could easily light it
again, but I was puzzled to imagine the cause of its sudden extinction.
I looked about me in the temporary gloom and saw, to my surprise, a ray
of light proceeding from a corner of the very niche where I had fixed
the candle between two stones. I approached and put my hand to the
place; a strong draught blew through a hole large enough to admit the
passage of three fingers. I quickly relighted my torch, and examining
this hole and the back of the niche attentively, found that four blocks
of granite in the wall had been removed and their places supplied by
thick square logs cut from the trunks of trees. These logs were quite
loosely fitted. I took them out easily one by one, and then came upon a
close pile of brushwood. As I gradually cleared this away a large
aperture disclosed itself wide enough for any man to pass through
without trouble. My heart beat with the rapture of expected liberty; I
clambered up—I looked—thank God! I saw the landscape—the sky! In two
minutes I stood outside the vault on the soft grass, with the high arch
of heaven above me, and the broad Bay of Naples glittering deliciously
before my eyes! I clapped my hands and shouted for pure joy! I was
free! Free to return to life, to love, to the arms of my beautiful
Nina—free to resume the pleasant course of existence on the gladsome
earth—free to forget, if I could, the gloomy horrors of my premature
burial. If Carmelo Neri had heard the blessings I heaped upon his
head—he would for once have deemed himself a saint rather than a
brigand. What did I not owe to the glorious ruffian! Fortune and
freedom! for it was evident that this secret passage into the Romani
vault had been cunningly contrived by himself or his followers for
their own private purposes. Seldom has any man been more grateful to
his best benefactor than I was to the famous thief upon whose grim
head, as I knew, a price had been set for many months. The poor wretch
was in hiding. Well! the authorities should get no aid from me, I
resolved; even if I were to discover his whereabouts. Why should I
betray him? He had unconsciously done more for me than my best friend.
Nay, what friends will you find at all in the world when you need
substantial good? Few, or none. Touch the purse—test the heart!
What castles in the air I built as I stood rejoicing in the morning
light and my newly acquired liberty—what dreams of perfect happiness
flitted radiantly before my fancy! Nina and I would love each other
more fondly than before, I thought—our separation had been brief, but
terrible—and the idea of what it might have been would endear us to one
another with tenfold fervor. And little Stella! Why—this very evening I
would swing her again under the orange boughs and listen to her sweet
shrill laughter! This very evening I would clasp Guido’s hand in a
gladness too great for words! This very night my wife’s fair head would
lie pillowed on my breast in an ecstatic silence broken only by the
music of kisses. Ah! my brain grew dizzy with the joyful visions that
crowded thickly and dazzlingly upon me! The sun had risen—his long
straight beams, like golden spears, touched the tops of the green
trees, and roused little flashes as of red and blue fire on the shining
surface of the bay. I heard the rippling of water and the measured soft
dash of oars; and somewhere from a distant boat the mellifluous voice
of a sailor sung a verse of the popular _ritornello_—
“Sciore d’amenta
Sta parolella mia tieul’ ammento
Zompa llarì llirà!
Sciore limone!
Le voglio fa mori de passione
Zompa llarì llirà!”[2]
[2] Neapolitan dialect
I smiled—“_Mori de passione_!” Nina and I would know the meaning of
those sweet words when the moon rose and the nightingales sung their
love-songs to the dreaming flowers! Full of these happy fancies, I
inhaled the pure morning air for some minutes, and then re-entered the
vault.