It came at last, the blessed, the longed-for evening. A soft breeze
sprung up, cooling the burning air after the heat of the day, and
bringing with it the odors of a thousand flowers. A regal glory of
shifting colors blazed on the breast of heaven—the bay, motionless as a
mirror, reflected all the splendid tints with a sheeny luster that
redoubled their magnificence. Pricked in every vein by the stinging of
my own desires, I yet restrained myself; I waited till the sun sunk
below the glassy waters—till the pomp and glow attending its departure
had paled into those dim, ethereal hues which are like delicate
draperies fallen from the flying forms of angels—till the yellow rim of
the round full moon rose languidly on the edge of the horizon—and then
keeping back my eagerness no longer, I took the well-known road
ascending to the Villa Romani. My heart beat high—my limbs trembled
with excitement—my steps were impatient and precipitate—never had the
way seemed so long. At last I reached the great gate-way—it was locked
fast—its sculptured lions looked upon me frowningly. I heard the splash
and tinkle of the fountains within, the scents of the roses and myrtle
were wafted toward me with every breath I drew. Home at last! I
smiled—my whole frame quivered with expectancy and delight. It was not
my intention to seek admission by the principal entrance—I contented
myself with one long, loving look, and turned to the left, where there
was a small private gate leading into an avenue of ilex and pine,
interspersed with orange-trees. This was a favorite walk of mine,
partly on account of its pleasant shade even in the hottest noon—partly
because it was seldom frequented by any member of the household save
myself. Guido occasionally took a turn with me there, but I was more
often alone, and I was fond of pacing up and down in the shadow of the
trees, reading some favorite book, or giving myself up to the _dolce
far niente_ of my own imaginings. The avenue led round to the back of
the villa, and as I now entered it, I thought I would approach the
house cautiously by this means and get private speech with Assunta, the
nurse who had charge of little Stella, and who was moreover an old and
tried family servant, in whose arms my mother had breathed her last.
The dark trees rustled solemnly as I stepped quickly yet softly along
the familiar moss-grown path. The place was very still—sometimes the
nightingales broke into a bubbling torrent of melody, and then were
suddenly silent, as though overawed by the shadows of the heavy
interlacing boughs, through which the moonlight flickered, casting
strange and fantastic patterns on the ground. A cloud of lucciole broke
from a thicket of laurel, and sparkled in the air like gems loosened
from a queen’s crown. Faint odors floated about me, shaken from orange
boughs and trailing branches of white jasmine. I hastened on, my
spirits rising higher the nearer I approached my destination. I was
full of sweet anticipation and passionate longing—I yearned to clasp my
beloved Nina in my arms—to see her lovely lustrous eyes looking fondly
into mine—I was eager to shake Guido by the hand—and as for Stella, I
knew the child would be in bed at that hour, but still, I thought, I
must have her wakened to see me. I felt that my happiness would not be
complete till I had kissed her little cherub face, and caressed those
clustering curls of hers that were like spun gold. Hush—hush! What was
that? I stopped in my rapid progress as though suddenly checked by an
invisible hand. I listened with strained ears. That sound—was it not a
rippling peal of gay sweet laughter? A shiver shook me from head to
foot. It was my wife’s laugh—I knew the silvery chime of it well! My
heart sunk coldly—I paused irresolute. She could laugh then like that,
while she thought me lying dead—dead and out of her reach forever! All
at once I perceived the glimmer of a white robe through the trees;
obeying my own impulse, I stepped softly aside—I hid behind a dense
screen of foliage through which I could see without being seen. The
clear laugh rang out once again on the stillness—its brightness pierced
my brain like a sharp sword! She was happy—she was even merry—she
wandered here in the moonlight joyous-hearted, while I—I had expected
to find her close shut within her room, or else kneeling before the
_Mater Dolorosa_ in the little chapel, praying for my soul’s rest, and
mingling her prayers with her tears! Yes—I had expected this—we men are
such fools when we love women! Suddenly a terrible thought struck me.
Had she gone mad? Had the shock and grief of my so unexpected death
turned her delicate brain? Was she roaming about, poor child, like
Ophelia, knowing not whither she went, and was her apparent gayety the
fantastic mirth of a disordered brain? I shuddered at the idea—and
bending slightly apart the boughs behind which I was secreted, I looked
out anxiously. Two figures were slowly approaching—my wife and my
friend, Guido Ferrari. Well—there was nothing in that—it was as it
should be—was not Guido as my brother? It was almost his duty to
console and cheer Nina as much as lay in his power. But stay! stay! did
I see aright—was she simply leaning on his arm for support—or—a fierce
oath, that was almost a cry of torture, broke from my lips! Oh, would
to God I had died! Would to God I had never broken open the coffin in
which I lay at peace! What was death—what were the horrors of the
vault—what was anything I had suffered to the anguish that racked me
now? The memory of it to this day burns in my brain like
inextinguishable fire, and my hand involuntarily clinches itself in an
effort to beat back the furious bitterness of that moment! I know not
how I restrained the murderous ferocity that awoke within me—how I
forced myself to remain motionless and silent in my hiding-place. But I
did. I watched the miserable comedy out to its end. I looked dumbly on
at my own betrayal! I saw my honor stabbed to the death by those whom I
most trusted, and yet I gave no sign! They—Guido Ferrari and my
wife—came so close to my hiding-place that I could note every gesture
and hear every word they uttered. They paused within three steps of
me—his arm encircled her waist—hers was thrown carelessly around his
neck—her head rested on his shoulder. Even so had she walked with me a
thousand times! She was dressed in pure white save for one spot of deep
color near her heart—a red rose, as red as blood. It was pinned there
with a diamond pin that flashed in the moonlight. I thought wildly,
that instead of that rose, there should be blood indeed—instead of a
diamond pin there should be the good steel of a straight dagger! But I
had no weapon—I stared at her, dry-eyed and mute. She looked
lovely—exquisitely lovely! No trace of grief marred the fairness of her
face—her eyes were as languidly limpid and tender as ever—her lips were
parted in the child-like smile that was so sweet—so innocently
trustful! She spoke—ah, Heaven! the old bewitching music of her low
voice made my heart leap and my brain reel.
“You foolish Guido!” she said, in dreamily amused accents. “What would
have happened, I wonder, if Fabio had not died so opportunely.”
I waited eagerly for the answer. Guido laughed lightly.
“He would never have discovered anything. You were too clever for him,
_piccinina_! Besides, his conceit saved him—he had so good an opinion
of himself that he would not have deemed it possible for you to care
for any other man.”
My wife—flawless diamond-pearl of pure womanhood!—sighed half
restlessly.
“I am glad he is dead!” she murmured; “but, Guido _mio_, you are
imprudent. You cannot visit me now so often—the servants will talk!
Then I must go into mourning for at least six months—and there are many
other things to consider.”
Guide’s hand played with the jeweled necklace she wore—he bent and
kissed the place where its central pendant rested. Again—again, good
sir, I pray you! Let no faint scruples interfere with your rightful
enjoyment! Cover the white flesh with caresses—it is public property! a
dozen kisses more or less will not signify! So I madly thought as I
crouched among the trees—the tigerish wrath within me making the blood
beat in my head like a hundred hammer-strokes.
“Nay then, my love,” he replied to her, “it is almost a pity Fabio is
dead! While he lived he played an excellent part as a screen—he was an
unconscious, but veritable duenna of propriety for both of us, as no
one else could be!”
The boughs that covered me creaked and rustled. My wife started, and
looked uneasily round her.
“Hush!” she said, nervously. “He was buried only yesterday—and they say
there are ghosts sometimes. This avenue, too—I wish we had not come
here—it was his favorite walk. Besides,” she added, with a slight
accent of regret, “after all he was the father of my child—you must
think of that.”
“By Heaven!” exclaimed Guido, fiercely, “do I not think of it? Ay—and I
curse him for every kiss he stole from your lips!”
I listened half stupefied. Here was a new phase of the marriage law!
Husbands were thieves then—they “stole” kisses; only lovers were honest
in their embraces! Oh, my dear friend—my more than brother—how near you
were to death at that moment! Had you but seen my face peering pallidly
through the dusky leaves—could you have known the force of the fury
pent up within me—you would not have valued your life at one _baiocco_!
“Why did you marry him?” he asked, after a little pause, during which
he toyed with the fair curls that floated against his breast.
She looked up with a little mutinous pout, and shrugged her shoulders.
“Why? Because I was tired of the convent, and all the stupid, solemn
ways of the nuns; also because he was rich, and I was horribly poor. I
cannot bear to be poor! Then he loved me”—here her eyes glimmered with
malicious triumph—“yes—he was mad for me—and—”
“You loved him?” demanded Guido, almost fiercely.
“_Ma che_!” she answered, with an expressive gesture. “I suppose I
did—for a week or two. As much as one ever loves a husband! What does
one marry for at all? For convenience—money—position—he gave me these
things, as you know.”
“You will gain nothing by marrying me, then,” he said, jealously.
She laughed, and laid her little white hand, glittering with rings,
lightly against his lips.
“Of course not! Besides—have I said I will marry you? You are very
agreeable as a lover—but otherwise—I am not sure! And I am free now—I
can do as I like; I want to enjoy my liberty, and—”
She was not allowed to complete her sentence, for Ferrari snatched her
close to his breast and held her there as in a vise. His face was
aflame with passion.
“Look you, Nina,” he said, hoarsely, “you shall not fool me, by Heaven!
you shall not! I have endured enough at your hands, God knows! When I
saw you for the first time on the day of your marriage with that poor
fool, Fabio—I loved you, madly—ay, wickedly as I then thought, but not
for the sin of it did I repent. I knew you were woman, not angel, and I
waited my time. It came—I sought you—I told you my story of love ere
three months of wedded life had passed over your head. I found you
willing—ready—nay, eager to hear me! You led me on; you know you did!
You tempted me by touch, word and look; you gave me all I sought! Why
try to excuse it now? You are as much my wife as ever you were
Fabio’s—nay—you are more so, for you love me—at least you say so—and
though you lied to your husband, you dare not lie to me. I tell you,
you _dare not_! I never pitied Fabio, never—he was too easily duped,
and a married man has no right to be otherwise than suspicious and ever
on his guard; if he relaxes in his vigilance he has only himself to
blame when his honor is flung like a ball from hand to hand, as one
plays with a child’s toy. I repeat to you, Nina, you are mine, and I
swear you shall never escape me!”
The impetuous words coursed rapidly from his lips, and his deep musical
voice had a defiant ring as it fell on the stillness of the evening
air. I smiled bitterly as I heard! She struggled in his arms half
angrily.
“Let me go,” she said. “You are rough, you hurt me!”
He released her instantly. The violence of his embrace had crushed the
rose she wore, and its crimson leaves fluttered slowly down one by one
on the ground at her feet. Her eyes flashed resentfully, and an
impatient frown contracted her fair level brows. She looked away from
him in silence, the silence of a cold disdain. Something in her
attitude pained him, for he sprung forward and caught her hand,
covering it with kisses.
“Forgive me, _carina mia_” he cried, repentantly. “I did not mean to
reproach you. You cannot help being beautiful—it is the fault of God or
the devil that you are so, and that your beauty maddens me! You are the
heart of my heart, the soul of my soul! Oh, Nina _mia_, let us not
waste words in useless anger. Think of it, we are free—free! Free to
make life a long dream of delight—delight more perfect than angels can
know! The greatest blessing that could have befallen us is the death of
Fabio, and now that we are all in all to each other, do not harden
yourself against me! Nina, be gentle with me—of all things in the
world, surely love is best!”
She smiled, with the pretty superior smile of a young empress pardoning
a recreant subject, and suffered him to draw her again, but with more
gentleness, into his embrace. She put up her lips to meet his—I looked
on like a man in a dream! I saw them cling together—each kiss they
exchanged was a fresh stab to my tortured soul.
“You are so foolish, Guido _mio_” she pouted, passing her little
jeweled fingers through his clustering hair with a light caress—“so
impetuous—so jealous! I have told you over and over again that I love
you! Do you not remember that night when Fabio sat out on the balcony
reading his Plato, poor fellow!”—here she laughed musically—“and we
were trying over some songs in the drawing—room—did I not say then that
I loved you best of any one in the world? You know I did! You ought to
be satisfied!”
Guido smiled, and stroked her shining golden curls.
“I _am_ satisfied,” he said, without any trace of his former heated
impatience—“perfectly satisfied. But do not expect to find love without
jealousy. Fabio was never jealous—I know—he trusted you too
implicitly—he was nothing of a lover, believe me! He thought more of
himself than of you. A man who will go away for days at a time on
solitary yachting and rambling excursions, leaving his wife to her own
devices—a man who reads Plato in preference to looking after _her_,
decides his own fate, and deserves to be ranked with those so-called
wise but most ignorant philosophers to whom Woman has always remained
an unguessed riddle. As for me—I am jealous of the ground you tread
upon—of the air that touches you—I was jealous of Fabio while he
lived—and—by heaven!”—his eyes darkened with a somber wrath—“if any
other man dared now to dispute your love with me I would not rest till
his body had served my sword as a sheath!”
Nina raised her head from his breast with an air of petulant weariness.
“Again!” she murmured, reproachfully, “you are going to be angry
_again_!”
He kissed her.
“Not I, sweet one! I will be as gentle as you wish, so long as you love
me and only me. Come—this avenue is damp and chilly for you—shall we go
in?”
My wife—nay, I should say _our_ wife, as we had both shared her
impartial favors—assented. With arms interlaced and walking slowly,
they began to retrace their steps toward the house. Once they paused.
“Do you hear the nightingales?” asked Guido.
Hear them! Who could not hear them? A shower of melody rained from the
trees on every side—the pure, sweet, passionate tones pierced the ear
like the repeated chime of little golden bells—the beautiful, the
tender, the God-inspired birds sung their love-stories simply and with
perfect rapture—love-stories untainted by hypocrisy—unsullied by
crime—different, ah! so very different from the love-stories of selfish
humanity! The exquisite poetic idyl of a bird’s life and love—is it not
a thing to put us inferior creatures to shame—for are we ever as true
to our vows as the lark to his mate?—are we as sincere in our
thanksgivings for the sunlight as the merry robin who sings as blithely
in the winter snow as in the flower-filled mornings of spring? Nay—not
we! Our existence is but one long impotent protest against God,
combined with an insatiate desire to get the better of one another in
the struggle for base coin!
Nina listened—and shivered, drawing her light scarf more closely about
her shoulders.
“I hate them,” she said, pettishly; “their noise is enough to pierce
one’s ears. And _he_ used to be so fond of them! he used to sing—what
was it?
‘Ti salute, Rosignuolo,
Nel tuo duolo, il saluto!
Sei l’amante della rosa
Che morendo si fa sposa!’”
Her rich voice rippled out on the air, rivaling the songs of the
nightingales themselves. She broke off with a little laugh—
“Poor Fabio! there was always a false note somewhere when he sung.
Come, Guido!”
And they paced on quietly, as though their consciences were clean—as
though no just retribution dogged their steps—as though no shadow of a
terrible vengeance loomed in the heaven of their pilfered happiness! I
watched them steadily as they disappeared in the distance—I stretched
my head eagerly out from between the dark boughs and gazed after their
retreating figures till the last glimmer of my wife’s white robe had
vanished behind the thick foliage. They were gone—they would return no
more that night.
I sprung out from my hiding-place. I stood on the spot where they had
stood. I tried to bring home to myself the actual truth of what I had
witnessed. My brain whirled—circles of light swam giddily before me in
the air—the moon looked blood-red. The solid earth seemed unsteady
beneath my feet—almost I doubted whether I was indeed alive, or whether
I was not rather the wretched ghost of my past self, doomed to return
from the grave to look helplessly upon the loss and ruin of all the
fair, once precious things of by-gone days. The splendid universe
around me seemed no more upheld by the hand of God—no more a majestic
marvel; it was to me but an inflated bubble of emptiness—a mere ball
for devils to kick and spurn through space! Of what avail these
twinkling stars—these stately leaf-laden trees—these cups of fragrance
we know as flowers—this round wonder of the eyes called Nature? of what
avail was God Himself, I widely mused, since even He could not keep one
woman true? She whom I loved—she as delicate of form, as angel-like in
face as the child-bride of Christ, St. Agnes—she, even she was—what? A
thing lower than the beasts, a thing as vile as the vilest wretch in
female form that sells herself for a gold piece—a thing—great
Heaven!—for all men to despise and make light of—for the finger of
Scorn to point out—for the foul hissing tongue of Scandal to mock at!
This creature was my wife—the mother of my child—she had cast mud on
her soul by her own free will and choice—she had selected evil as her
good—she had crowned herself with shame willingly, nay—joyfully; she
had preferred it to honor. What should be done? I tortured myself
occasionally with this question. I stared blankly on the ground—would
some demon spring from it and give me the answer I sought? What should
be done with _her_—with _him_, my treacherous friend, my smiling
betrayer? Suddenly my eyes lighted on the fallen rose-leaves—those that
had dropped when Guido’s embrace had crushed the flower she wore. There
they lay on the path, curled softly at the edges like little crimson
shells. I stooped and picked them up—I placed them all in the hollow of
my hand and looked at them. They had a sweet odor—almost I kissed
them—nay, nay, I could not—they had too recently lain on the breast of
an embodied Lie! Yes; she was that, a Lie, a living, lovely, but
accursed Lie! “Go and kill her.” Stay! where had I heard that?
Painfully I considered, and at last remembered—and then I thought
moodily that the starved and miserable rag-picker was more of a man
than I. He had taken his revenge at once; while I, like a fool, had let
occasion slip. Yes, but not forever! There were different ways of
vengeance; one must decide the best, the keenest way—and, above all,
the way that shall inflict the longest, the cruelest agony upon those
by whom honor is wronged. True—it would be sweet to slay sin in the act
of sinning, but then—must a Romani brand himself as a murderer in the
sight of men? Not so; there were other means—other roads, leading to
the same end if the tired brain could only plan them out. Slowly I
dragged my aching limbs to the fallen trunk of a tree and sat down,
still holding the dying rose-leaves in my clinched palm. There was a
surging noise in my ears—my mouth tasted of blood, my lips were parched
and burning as with fever. “A white-haired fisherman.” That was me! The
king had said so. Mechanically I looked down at the clothes I wore—the
former property of a suicide. “He was a fool,” the vender of them had
said, “he killed himself.”
Yes, there was no doubt of it—he was a fool. I would not follow his
example, or at least not yet. I had something to do first—something
that must be done if I could only see my way clear to it. Yes—if I
could only see my way and follow it straightly, resolutely,
remorselessly! My thoughts were confused, like the thoughts of a
fever-stricken man in delirium—the scent of the rose-leaves I held
sickened me strangely—yet I would not throw them from me; no, I would
keep them to remind me of the embraces I had witnessed! I felt for my
purse! I found and opened it, and placed the withering red petals
carefully within it. As I slipped it again in my pocket I remembered
the two leathern pouches I carried—the one filled with gold, the other
with the jewels I had intended for—_her_. My adventures in the vault
recurred to me; I smiled as I recollected the dire struggle I had made
for life and liberty. Life and liberty!—of what use were they to me
now, save for one thing—revenge? I was not wanted; I was not expected
back to refill my former place on earth—the large fortune I had
possessed was now my wife’s by the decree of my own last will and
testament, which she would have no difficulty in proving. But still,
wealth was mine—the hidden stores of the brigands were sufficient to
make any man more than rich for the term of his natural life. As I
considered this, a sort of dull pleasure throbbed in my veins. Money!
Anything could be done for money—gold would purchase even vengeance.
But what sort of vengeance? Such a one as I sought must be
unique—refined, relentless, and complete. I pondered deeply. The
evening wind blew freshly up from the sea; the leaves of the swaying
trees whispered mysteriously together; the nightingales warbled on with
untired sweetness; and the moon, like the round shield of an angel
warrior, shone brightly against the dense blue background of the sky.
Heedless of the passing of hours, I sat still, lost in a bewildered
reverie. “There was always a false note somewhere when he sung!” So she
had said, laughing that little laugh of hers as cold and sharp as the
clash of steel. True, true; by all the majesty of Heaven, most true!
There was indeed a false note—jarring, not so much the voice as the
music of life itself. There is stuff in all of us that will weave, as
we desire it, into a web of stately or simple harmony; but let the
meteor-like brilliancy of a woman’s smile—a woman’s touch—a woman’s
LIE—intermingle itself with the strain, and lo! the false note is
struck, discord declares itself, and God Himself, the great Composer,
can do nothing in this life to restore the old calm tune of peaceful,
unspoiled days! So I have found; so all of you must find, long before
you and sorrow grow old together.
“A white-haired fisherman!”
The words of the king repeated themselves over and over again in my
tortured brain. Yes—I was greatly changed, I looked worn and old—no one
would recognize me for my former self. All at once, with this thought,
an idea occurred to me—a plan of vengeance, so bold, so new, and withal
so terrible, that I started from my seat as though stung by an adder. I
paced up and down restlessly, with this lurid light of fearful revenge
pouring in on every nook and cranny of my darkened mind. From whence
had come this daring scheme? What devil, or rather what angel of
retribution, had whispered it to my soul? Dimly I wondered—but amid all
my wonder I began practically to arrange the details of my plot. I
calculated every small circumstance that was likely to occur in the
process of carrying it out. My stupefied senses became aroused from the
lethargy of despair, and stood up like soldiers on the alert armed to
the teeth. Past love, pity, pardon, patience—pooh! what were all these
resources of the world’s weakness to _me_? What was it to me that the
bleeding Christ forgave His enemies in death? He never loved a woman!
Strength and resolution returned to me. Let common sailors and
rag-pickers resort to murder and suicide as fit outlets for their
unreasoning brute wrath when wronged; but as for me, why should I blot
my family scutcheon with a merely vulgar crime? Nay, the vengeance of a
Romani must be taken with assured calmness and easy deliberation—no
haste, no plebeian fury, no effeminate fuss, no excitement. I walked up
and down slowly, meditating on every point of the bitter drama in which
I had resolved to enact the chief part, from the rise to the fall of
the black curtain. The mists cleared from my brain—I breathed more
easily—my nerves steadied themselves by degrees—the prospect of what I
purposed doing satisfied me and calmed the fever in my blood. I became
perfectly cool and collected. I indulged in no more futile regrets for
the past—why should I mourn the loss of a love I never possessed? It
was not as if they had waited till my supposed sudden death—no! within
three months of my marriage they had fooled me; for three whole years
they had indulged in their criminal amour, while I, blind dreamer, had
suspected nothing. _Now_ I knew the extent of my injury; I was a man
bitterly wronged, vilely duped. Justice, reason, and self-respect
demanded that I should punish to the utmost the miserable tricksters
who had played me false. The passionate tenderness I had felt for my
wife was gone—I plucked it from my heart as I would have torn a thorn
from my flesh—I flung it from me with disgust as I had flung away the
unseen reptile that had fastened on my neck in the vault. The deep warm
friendship of years I had felt for Guido Ferrari froze to its very
foundations—and in its place there rose up, not hate, but pitiless,
immeasurable contempt. A stern disdain of myself also awoke in me, as I
remembered the unreasoning joy with which, I had hastened—as I
thought—home, full of eager anticipation and Romeo-like ardor. An idiot
leaping merrily to his death over a mountain chasm was not more fool
than I! But the dream was over—the delusion of my life was passed. I
was strong to avenge—I would be swift to accomplish. So, darkly musing
for an hour or more, I decided on the course I had to pursue, and to
make the decision final I drew from my breast the crucifix that the
dead monk Cipriano had laid with me in my coffin, and kissing it, I
raised it aloft, and swore by that sacred symbol never to relent, never
to relax, never to rest, till I had brought my vow of just vengeance to
its utmost fulfillment. The stars, calm witnesses of my oath, eyed me
earnestly from their judgment thrones in the quiet sky—there was a
brief pause in the singing of the nightingales, as though they too
listened—the wind sighed plaintively, and scattered a shower of jasmine
blossoms like snow at my feet. Even so, I thought, fall the last leaves
of my white days—days of pleasure, days of sweet illusion, days of dear
remembrance; even so let them wither and perish utterly forever! For
from henceforth my life must be something other than a mere garland of
flowers—it must be a chain of finely tempered steel, hard, cold, and
unbreakable—formed into links strong enough to wind round and round two
false lives and imprison them so closely as to leave no means of
escape. This was what must be done—and I resolved to do it. With a
firm, quiet step I turned to leave the avenue. I opened the little
private wicket, and passed into the dusty road. A clanging noise caused
me to look up as I went by the principal entrance of the Villa Romani.
A man servant—my own man-servant by the by—was barring the great gates
for the night. I listened as he slid the bolts into their places, and
turned the key. I remembered that those gates had been thoroughly
fastened before, when I came up the road from Naples—why then had they
been opened since? To let out a visitor? Of course! I smiled grimly at
my wife’s cunning! She evidently knew what she was about. Appearances
must be kept up—the _Signor_ Ferrari must be decorously shown out by a
servant at the chief entrance of the house. Naturally!—all very
unsuspicious-looking and quite in keeping with the proprieties! Guido
had just left her then? I walked steadily, without hurrying my pace,
down the hill toward the city, and on the way I overtook him. He was
strolling lazily along, smoking as usual, and he held a spray of
stephanotis in his hand—well I knew who had given it to him! I passed
him—he glanced up carelessly, his handsome face clearly visible in the
bright moonlight—but there was nothing about a common fisherman to
attract his attention—his look only rested upon me for a second and was
withdrawn immediately. An insane desire possessed me to turn upon
him—to spring at his throat—to wrestle with him and throw him in the
dust at my feet—to spit at him and trample upon him—but I repressed
those fierce and dangerous emotions. I had a better game to play—I had
an exquisite torture in store for him, compared to which a hand-to-hand
fight was mere vulgar fooling. Vengeance ought to ripen slowly in the
strong heat of intense wrath, till of itself it falls—hastily snatched
before its time it is like unmellowed fruit, sour and ungrateful to the
palate. So I let my dear friend—my wife’s consoler—saunter on his
heedless way without interference—I passed, leaving him to indulge in
amorous musings to his false heart’s content. I entered Naples, and
found a night’s lodging at one of the usual resorts for men of my
supposed craft, and, strange to say, I slept soundly and dreamlessly.
Recent illness, fatigue, fear, and sorrow, all aided to throw me like
an exhausted child upon the quiet bosom of slumber, but perhaps the
most powerfully soothing opiate to my brain was the consciousness I had
of a practical plan of retribution—more terrible perhaps than any human
creature had yet devised, so far as I knew. Unchristian you call me? I
tell you again, Christ never loved a woman! Had He done so, He would
have left us some special code of justice.