Quite early in the next day Ferrari called to see me. I was at
breakfast—he apologized for disturbing me at the meal.
“But,” he explained, frankly, “the Countess Romani laid such urgent
commands upon me that I was compelled to obey. We men are the slaves of
women!”
“Not always,” I said, dryly, as I motioned him to take a seat—“there
are exceptions—myself for instance. Will you have some coffee?”
“Thanks, I have already breakfasted. Pray do not let me be in your way,
my errand is soon done. The countess wishes me to say—”
“You saw her last night?” I interrupted him.
He flushed slightly. “Yes—that is—for a few minutes only. I gave her
your message. She thanks you, and desires me to tell you that she
cannot think of receiving the jewels unless you will first honor her by
a visit. She is not at home to ordinary callers in consequence of her
recent bereavement—but to you, so old a friend of her husband’s family,
a hearty welcome will be accorded.”
I bowed stiffly. “I am extremely flattered!” I said, in a somewhat
sarcastical tone, “it is seldom I receive so tempting an invitation! I
regret that I cannot accept it—at least, not at present. Make my
compliments to the lady, and tell her so in whatever sugared form of
words you may think best fitted to please her ears.”
He looked surprised and puzzled.
“Do you really mean,” he said, with a tinge of hauteur in his accents,
“that you will not visit her—that you refuse her request?”
I smiled. “I really mean, my dear _Signor_ Ferrari, that, being always
accustomed to have my own way, I can make no exception in favor of
ladies, however fascinating they may be. I have business in Naples—it
claims my first and best attention. When it is transacted I may
possibly try a few frivolities for a change—at present I am unfit for
the society of the fair sex—an old battered traveler as you see,
brusque, and unaccustomed to polite lying. But I promise you I will
practice suave manners and a court bow for the countess when I can
spare time to call upon her. In the meanwhile I trust to you to make
her a suitable and graceful apology for my non-appearance.”
Ferrari’s puzzled and vexed expression gave way to a smile—finally he
laughed aloud. “Upon my word!” he exclaimed, gayly, “you are really a
remarkable man, _conte_! You are extremely cynical! I am almost
inclined to believe that you positively hate women.”
“Oh, by no means! Nothing so strong as hatred,” I said, coolly, as I
peeled and divided a fine peach as a finish to my morning’s meal.
“Hatred is a strong passion—to hate well one must first have loved. No,
no—I do not find women worth hating—I am simply indifferent to them.
They seem to me merely one of the burdens imposed on man’s
existence—graceful, neatly packed, light burdens in appearance, but in
truth, terribly heavy and soul-crushing.”
“Yet many accept such burdens gayly!” interrupted Ferrari, with a
smile. I glanced at him keenly.
“Men seldom attain the mastery over their own passions,” I replied;
“they are in haste to seize every apparent pleasure that comes in their
way. Led by a hot animal impulse which they call love, they snatch at a
woman’s beauty as a greedy school-boy snatches ripe fruit—and when
possessed, what is it worth? Here is its emblem”—and I held up the
stone of the peach I had just eaten—“the fruit is devoured—what
remains? A stone with a bitter kernel.”
Ferrari shrugged his shoulders.
“I cannot agree with you, count,” he said; “but I will not argue with
you. From your point of view you may be right—but when one is young,
and life stretches before you like a fair pleasure-ground, love and the
smile of woman are like sunlight falling on flowers! You too must have
felt this—in spite of what you say, there must have been a time in your
life when you also loved!”
“Oh, I have had my fancies, of course!” I answered, with an indifferent
laugh. “The woman I fancied turned out to be a saint—I was not worthy
of her—at least, so I was told. At any rate, I was so convinced of her
virtue and my own unworthiness—that—I left her.”
He looked surprised. “An odd reason, surely, for resigning her, was it
not?”
“Very odd—very unusual—but a sufficient one for me. Pray let us talk of
something more interesting—your pictures, for instance. When may I see
them?”
“When you please,” he answered, readily—“though I fear they are
scarcely worth a visit. I have not worked much lately. I really doubt
whether I have any that will merit your notice.”
“You underrate your powers, _signor_,” I said with formal politeness.
“Allow me to call at your studio this afternoon. I have a few minutes
to spare between three and four o’clock, if that time will suit you.”
“It will suit me admirably,” he said, with a look of gratification;
“but I fear you will be disappointed. I assure you I am no artist.”
I smiled. I knew that well enough. But I made no reply to his remark—I
said, “Regarding the matter of the jewels for the Countess Romani—would
you care to see them?”
“I should indeed,” he answered; “they are unique specimens, I think?”
“I believe so,” I answered, and going to an escritoire in the corner of
the room, I unlocked it and took out a massive carved oaken jewel-chest
of square shape, which I had had made in Palermo. It contained a
necklace of large rubies and diamonds, with bracelets to match, and
pins of their hair—also a sapphire ring—a cross of fine
rose-brilliants, and the pearl pendant I had first found in the vault.
All the gems, with the exception of this pendant, had been reset by a
skillful jeweler in Palermo, who had acted under my superintendence—and
Ferrari uttered an exclamation of astonishment and admiration as he
lifted the glittering toys out one by one and noted the size and
brilliancy of the precious stones.
“They are trifles,” I said, carelessly—“but they may please a woman’s
taste—and they amount to a certain fixed value. You would do me a great
service if you consented to take them to the _Contessa_ Romani for
me—tell her to accept them as heralds of my forthcoming visit. I am
sure you will know how to persuade her to take what would
unquestionably have been hers had her husband lived. They are really
her property—she must not refuse to receive what is her own.”
Ferrari hesitated and looked at me earnestly.
“You—_will_ visit her—she may rely on your coming for a certainty, I
hope?”
I smiled. “You seem very anxious about it. May I ask why?”
“I think,” he replied at once, “that it would embarrass the countess
very much if you gave her no opportunity to thank you for so munificent
and splendid a gift—and unless she knew she could do so, I am certain
she would not accept it.”
“Make yourself quite easy,” I answered. “She shall thank me to her
heart’s content. I give you my word that within a few days I will call
upon the lady—in fact you said you would introduce me—I accept your
offer!”
He seemed delighted, and seizing my hand, shook it cordially.
“Then in that case I will gladly take the jewels to her,” he exclaimed.
“And I may say, count, that had you searched the whole world over, you
could not have found one whose beauty was more fitted to show them off
to advantage. I assure you her loveliness is of a most exquisite
character!”
“No doubt!” I said, dryly. “I take your word for it. I am no judge of a
fair face or form. And now, my good friend, do not think me churlish if
I request you leave me in solitude for the present. Between three and
four o’clock I shall be at your studio.”
He rose at once to take his leave. I placed the oaken box of jewels in
the leathern case which had been made to contain it, strapped and
locked it, and handed it to him together with its key. He was profuse
in his compliments and thanks—almost obsequious, in truth—and I
discovered another defect in his character—a defect which, as his
friend in former days, I had guessed nothing of. I saw that very little
encouragement would make him a toady—a fawning servitor on the
wealthy—and in our old time of friendship I had believed him to be far
above all such meanness, but rather of a manly, independent nature that
scorned hypocrisy. Thus we are deluded even by our nearest and
dearest—and is it well or ill for us, I wonder, when we are at last
undeceived? Is not the destruction of illusion worse than illusion
itself? I thought so, as my quondam friend clasped my hand in farewell
that morning. What would I not have given to believe in him as I once
did! I held open the door of my room as he passed out, carrying the box
of jewels for my wife, and as I bade him a brief adieu, the well-worn
story of Tristram and King Mark came to my mind. He, Guido, like
Tristram, would in a short space clasp the gemmed necklace round the
throat of one as fair and false as the fabled Iseulte, and I—should I
figure as the wronged king? How does the English laureate put it in his
idyl on the subject?
“‘Mark’s way,’ said Mark, and clove him through the brain.”
Too sudden and sweet a death by far for such a traitor! The Cornish
king should have known how to torture his betrayer! _I_ knew—and I
meditated deeply on every point of my design, as I sat alone for an
hour after Ferrari had left me. I had many things to do—I had resolved
on making myself a personage of importance in Naples, and I wrote
several letters and sent out visiting-cards to certain well-established
families of distinction as necessary preliminaries to the result I had
in view. That day, too, I engaged a valet—a silent and discreet Tuscan
named Vincenzo Flamma. He was an admirably trained servant—he never
asked questions—was too dignified to gossip, and rendered me instant
and implicit obedience—in fact he was a gentleman in his way, with far
better manners than many who lay claim to that title. He entered upon
his duties at once, and never did I know him to neglect the most
trifling thing that could add to my satisfaction or comfort. In making
arrangements with him, and in attending to various little matters of
business, the hours slipped rapidly away, and in the afternoon, at the
time appointed, I made my way to Ferrari’s studio. I knew it of old—I
had no need to consult the card he had left with me on which the
address was written. It was a queer, quaintly built little place,
situated at the top of an ascending road—its windows commanded an
extensive view of the bay and the surrounding scenery. Many and many a
happy hour had I passed there before my marriage reading some favorite
book or watching Ferrari as he painted his crude landscapes and
figures, most of which I good-naturedly purchased as soon as completed.
The little porch over-grown with star-jasmine looked strangely and
sorrowfully familiar to my eyes, and my heart experienced a sickening
pang of regret for the past, as I pulled the bell and heard the little
tinkling sound to which I was so well accustomed. Ferrari himself
opened the door to me with eager rapidity—he looked excited and
radiant.
“Come in, come in!” he cried with effusive cordiality. “You will find
everything in confusion, but pray excuse it. It is some time since I
had any visitors. Mind the steps, _conte_!—the place is rather dark
just here—every one stumbles at this particular corner.”
So talking, and laughing as he talked, he escorted me up the short
narrow flight of stairs to the light airy room where he usually worked.
Glancing round it, I saw at once the evidences of neglect and
disorder—he had certainly not been there for many days, though he had
made an attempt to arrange it tastefully for my reception. On the table
stood a large vase of flowers grouped with artistic elegance—I felt
instinctively that my wife had put them there. I noticed that Ferrari
had begun nothing new—all the finished and unfinished studies I saw I
recognized directly. I seated myself in an easy-chair and looked at my
betrayer with a calmly critical eye. He was what the English would call
“got up for effect.” Though in black, he had donned a velvet coat
instead of the cloth one he had worn in the morning—he had a single
white japonica in his buttonhole—his face was pale and his eyes
unusually brilliant. He looked his best—I admitted it, and could
readily understand how an idle, pleasure-seeking feminine animal might
be easily attracted by the purely physical beauty of his form and
features. I spoke a part of my thoughts aloud.
“You are not only an artist by profession, _Signor_ Ferrari—you are one
also in appearance.”
He flushed slightly and smiled.
“You are very amiable to say so,” he replied, his pleased vanity
displaying itself at once in the expression of his face. “But I am well
aware that you flatter me. By the way, before I forget it, I must tell
you that I fulfilled your commission.”
“To the Countess Romani?”
“Exactly. I cannot describe to you her astonishment and delight at the
splendor and brilliancy of those jewels you sent her. It was really
pretty to watch her innocent satisfaction.”
I laughed.
“Marguerite and the jewel song in ‘Faust,’ I suppose, with new scenery
and effects?” I asked, with a slight sneer. He bit his lip and looked
annoyed. But he answered, quietly:
“I see you must have your joke, _conte_; but remember that if you place
the countess in the position of Marguerite, you, as the giver of the
jewels, naturally play the part of Mephistopheles.”
“And you will be Faust, of course!” I said, gayly. “Why, we might mount
the opera with a few supernumeraries and astonish Naples by our
performance! What say you? But let us come to business. I like the
picture you have on the easel there—may I see it more closely?”
He drew it nearer; it was a showy landscape with the light of the
sunset upon it. It was badly done, but I praised it warmly, and
purchased it for five hundred francs. Four other sketches of a similar
nature were then produced. I bought these also. By the time we got
through these matters, Ferrari was in the best of humors. He offered me
some excellent wine and partook of it himself; he talked incessantly,
and diverted me extremely, though my inward amusement was not caused by
the witty brilliancy of his conversation. No, I was only excited to a
sense of savage humor by the novelty of the position in which we two
men stood. Therefore I listened to him attentively, applauded his
anecdotes—all of which I had heard before—admired his jokes, and fooled
his egotistical soul till he had no shred of self-respect remaining. He
laid his nature bare before me—and I knew what it was at last—a mixture
of selfishness, avarice, sensuality, and heartlessness, tempered now
and then by a flash of good-nature and sympathetic attraction which
were the mere outcomes of youth and physical health—no more. This was
the man I had loved—this fellow who told coarse stories only worthy of
a common pot-house, and who reveled in a wit of a high and questionable
flavor; this conceited, empty-headed, muscular piece of humanity was
the same being for whom I had cherished so chivalrous and loyal a
tenderness! Our conversation was broken in upon at last by the sound of
approaching wheels. A carriage was heard ascending the road—it came
nearer—it stopped at the door. I set down the glass of wine I had just
raised to my lips, and looked at Ferrari steadily.
“You expect other visitors?” I inquired.
He seemed embarrassed, smiled, and hesitated.
“Well—I am not sure—but—” The bell rang. With a word of apology Ferrari
hurried away to answer it. I sprung from my chair—I knew—I felt who was
coming. I steadied my nerves by a strong effort. I controlled the rapid
beating of my heart; and fixing my dark glasses more closely over my
eyes, I drew myself up erect and waited calmly. I heard Ferrari
ascending the stairs—a light step accompanied his heavier footfall—he
spoke to his companion in whispers. Another instant—and he flung the
door of the studio wide open with the haste and reverence due for the
entrance of a queen. There was a soft rustle of silk—a delicate breath
of perfume on the air—and then—I stood face to face with my wife!