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
his 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!”
He accepted the glass I proffered him, and tasted the wine with the air
of a connoisseur.
“Exquisite!” he murmured, sipping it lazily. “You are lodged _en
prince_ here, _conte_! I envy you!”
“You need not,” I answered. “You have youth and health, and—as you have
hinted to me—love; all these things are better than wealth, so people
say. At any rate, youth and health are good things—love I have no
belief in. As for me, I am a mere luxurious animal, loving comfort and
ease beyond anything. I have had many trials—I now take my rest in my
own fashion.”
“A very excellent and sensible fashion!” smiled Ferrari, leaning his
head easily back on the satin cushions of the easy-chair into which he
had thrown himself.
“Do you know, _conte_, now I look at you well, I think you must have
been very handsome when you were young! You have a superb figure.”
I bowed stiffly. “You flatter me, _signor_! I believe I never was
specially hideous—but looks in a man always rank second to strength,
and of strength I have plenty yet remaining.”
“I do not doubt it,” he returned, still regarding me attentively with
an expression in which there was the faintest shadow of uneasiness.
“It is an odd coincidence, you will say, but I find a most
extraordinary resemblance in the height and carriage of your figure to
that of my late friend Romani.”
I poured some wine out for myself with a steady hand, and drank it.
“Really?” I answered. “I am glad that I remind you of him—if the
reminder is agreeable! But all tall men are much alike so far as figure
goes, providing they are well made.”
Ferrari’s brow was contracted in a musing frown and he answered not. He
still looked at me, and I returned his look without embarrassment.
Finally he roused himself, smiled, and finished drinking his glass of
Montepulciano. Then he rose to go.
“You will permit me to mention your name to the Countess Romani, I
hope?” he said, cordially. “I am certain she will receive you, should
you desire it.”
I feigned a sort of vexation, and made an abrupt movement of
impatience.
“The fact is,” I said, at last, “I very much dislike talking to women.
They are always illogical, and their frivolity wearies me. But you have
been so friendly that I will give you a message for the countess—if you
have no objection to deliver it. I should be sorry to trouble you
unnecessarily—and you perhaps will not have an opportunity of seeing
her for some days?”
He colored slightly and moved uneasily. Then with a kind of effort, he
replied:
“On the contrary, I am going to see her this very evening. I assure you
it will be a pleasure to me to convey to her any greeting you may
desire to send.”
“Oh, it is no greeting,” I continued, calmly, noting the various signs
of embarrassment in his manner with a careful eye. “It is a mere
message, which, however, may enable you to understand why I was anxious
to see the young man who is dead. In my very early manhood the elder
Count Romani did me an inestimable service. I never forgot his
kindness—my memory is extraordinarily tenacious of both benefits and
injuries—and I have always desired to repay it in some suitable manner.
I have with me a few jewels of almost priceless value—I have myself
collected them, and I reserved them as a present to the son of my old
friend, simply as a trifling souvenir or expression of gratitude for
past favors received from his family. His sudden death has deprived me
of the pleasure of fulfilling this intention—but as the jewels are
quite useless to me, I am perfectly willing to hand them over to the
Countess Romani, should she care to have them. They would have been
hers had her husband lived—they should be hers now. If you, _signor_,
will report these facts to her and learn her wishes with respect to the
matter, I shall be much indebted to you.”
“I shall be delighted to obey you,” replied Ferrari, courteously,
rising at the same time to take his leave. “I am proud to be the bearer
of so pleasing an errand. Beautiful women love jewels, and who shall
blame them? Bright eyes and diamonds go well together! _A rivederci_,
_Signor_ _Conte_! I trust we shall meet often.”
“I have no doubt we shall,” I answered, quietly.
He shook hands cordially—I responded to his farewell salutations with
the brief coldness which was now my habitual manner, and we parted.
From the window of my saloon I could see him sauntering easily down the
hotel steps and from thence along the street. How I cursed him as he
stepped jauntily on—how I hated his debonair grace and easy manner! I
watched the even poise of his handsome head and shoulders, I noted the
assured tread, the air of conscious vanity—the whole demeanor of the
man bespoke his perfect self-satisfaction and his absolute confidence
in the brightness of the future that awaited him when that stipulated
six months of pretended mourning for my untimely death should have
expired. Once, as he walked on his way, he turned and paused—looking
back—he raised his hat to enjoy the coolness of the breeze on his
forehead and hair. The light of the moon fell full on his features and
showed them in profile, like a finely-cut cameo against the dense
dark-blue background of the evening sky. I gazed at him with a sort of
grim fascination—the fascination of a hunter for the stag when it
stands at bay, just before he draws his knife across its throat. He was
in my power—he had deliberately thrown himself in the trap I had set
for him. He lay at the mercy of one in whom there was no mercy. He had
said and done nothing to deter me from my settled plans. Had he shown
the least tenderness of recollection for me as Fabio Romani, his friend
and benefactor—had he hallowed my memory by one generous word—had he
expressed one regret for my loss—I might have hesitated, I might have
somewhat changed my course of action so that punishment should have
fallen more lightly on him than on her. For I knew well enough that
she, my wife, was the worst sinner of the two. Had _she_ chosen to
respect herself, not all the forbidden love in the world could have
touched her honor. Therefore, the least sign of compunction or
affection from Ferrari for me, his supposed dead friend, would have
turned the scale in his favor, and in spite of his treachery,
remembering how _she_ must have encouraged him, I would at least have
spared him torture. But no sign had been given, no word had been
spoken, there was no need for hesitation or pity, and I was glad of it!
All this I thought as I watched him standing bareheaded in the
moonlight, on his way to—whom? To my wife, of course. I knew that well
enough. He was going to console her widow’s tears—to soothe her aching
heart—a good Samaritan in very earnest! He moved, he passed slowly out
of my sight. I waited till I had seen the last glimpse of his
retreating figure, and then I left the window satisfied with my day’s
work. Vengeance had begun.