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 mouth—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 indifferently 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. “_Ça 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
garçon 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, garçon, 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 me 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 garçon 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 one, “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.