Time flew swiftly on—a month, six weeks, passed, and during that short
space I had established myself in Naples as a great personage—great,
because of my wealth and the style in which I lived. No one in all the
numerous families of distinction that eagerly sought my acquaintance
cared whether I had intellect or intrinsic personal worth; it sufficed
to them that I kept a carriage and pair, an elegant and costly
equipage, softly lined with satin and drawn by two Arabian mares as
black as polished ebony. The value of my friendship was measured by the
luxuriousness of my box at the opera, and by the dainty fittings of my
yacht, a swift trim vessel furnished with every luxury, and having on
board a band of stringed instruments which discoursed sweet music when
the moon emptied her horn of silver radiance on the rippling water. In
a little while I knew everybody who was worth knowing in Naples;
everywhere my name was talked of, my doings were chronicled in the
fashionable newspapers; stories of my lavish generosity were repeated
from mouth to mouth, and the most highly colored reports of my immense
revenues were whispered with a kind of breathless awe at every cafe and
street corner. Tradesmen waylaid my reticent valet, Vincenzo, and gave
him _douceurs_ in the hope he would obtain my custom for them—“tips”
which he pocketed in his usual reserved and discreet manner, but which
he was always honest enough to tell me of afterward. He would most
faithfully give me the name and address of this or that particular
tempter of his fidelity, always adding—“As to whether the rascal sells
good things or bad our Lady only knows, but truly he gave me thirty
francs to secure your excellency’s good-will. Though for all that I
would not recommend him if your excellency knows of an honester man!”
Among other distinctions which my wealth forced upon me, were the
lavish attentions of match-making mothers. The black spectacles which I
always wore, were not repulsive to these diplomatic dames—on the
contrary, some of them assured me they were most becoming, so anxious
were they to secure me as a son-in-law. Fair girls in their teens,
blushing and ingenuous, were artfully introduced to me—or, I _should_
say, thrust forward like slaves in a market for my inspection—though,
to do them justice, they were remarkably shrewd and sharp-witted for
their tender years. Young as they were, they were keenly alive to the
importance of making a good match—and no doubt the pretty innocents
laid many dainty schemes in their own minds for liberty and enjoyment
when one or the other of them should become the Countess Oliva and fool
the old black-spectacled husband to her heart’s content. Needless to
say their plans were not destined to be fulfilled, though I rather
enjoyed studying the many devices they employed to fascinate me. What
pretty ogling glances I received!—what whispered admiration of my
“beautiful white hair! so _distingué_”—what tricks of manner,
alternating from grave to gay, from rippling mirth to witching languor!
Many an evening I sat at ease on board my yacht, watching with a
satirical inward amusement, one, perhaps two or three of these fair
schemers ransacking their youthful brains for new methods to entrap the
old millionaire, as they thought me, into the matrimonial net. I used
to see their eyes—sparkling with light in the sunshine—grow liquid and
dreamy in the mellow radiance of the October moon, and turn upon me
with a vague wistfulness most lovely to behold, and—most admirably
feigned! I could lay my hand on a bare round white arm and not be
repulsed—I could hold little clinging fingers in my own as long as I
liked without giving offense such are some of the privileges of wealth!
In all the parties of pleasure I formed, and these were many—my wife
and Ferrari were included as a matter of course. At first Nina
demurred, with some plaintive excuse concerning her “recent terrible
bereavement,” but I easily persuaded her out of this. I even told some
ladies I knew to visit her and add their entreaties to mine, as I said,
with the benignant air of an elderly man, that it was not good for one
so young to waste her time and injure her health by useless grieving.
She saw the force of this, I must admit, with admirable readiness, and
speedily yielded to the united invitations she received, though always
with a well-acted reluctance, and saying that she did so merely
“because the Count Oliva was such an old friend of the family and knew
my poor dear husband as a child.”
On Ferrari I heaped all manner of benefits. Certain debts of his
contracted at play I paid privately to surprise him—his gratitude was
extreme. I humored him in many of his small extravagances—I played with
his follies as an angler plays the fish at the end of his line, and I
succeeded in winning his confidence. Not that I ever could surprise him
into a confession of his guilty amour—but he kept me well informed as
to what he was pleased to call “the progress of his attachment,” and
supplied me with many small details which, while they fired my blood
and brain to wrath, steadied me more surely in my plan of vengeance.
Little did he dream in whom he was trusting!—little did he know into
whose hands he was playing! Sometimes a kind of awful astonishment
would come over me as I listened to his trivial talk, and heard him
make plans for a future that was never to be. He seemed so certain of
his happiness—so absolutely sure that nothing could or would intervene
to mar it. Traitor as he was he was unable to foresee
punishment—materialist to the heart’s core, he had no knowledge of the
divine law of compensation. Now and then a dangerous impulse stirred
me—a desire to say to him point-blank:
“You are a condemned criminal—a doomed man on the brink of the grave.
Leave this light converse and frivolous jesting—and, while there is
time, prepare for death!”
But I bit my lips and kept stern silence. Often, too, I felt disposed
to seize him by the throat, and, declaring my identity, accuse him of
his treachery to his face, but I always remembered and controlled
myself. One point in his character I knew well—I had known it of
old—this was his excessive love of good wine. I aided and abetted him
in this weakness, and whenever he visited me I took care that he should
have his choice of the finest vintages. Often after a convivial evening
spent in my apartments with a few other young men of his class and
caliber, he reeled out of my presence, his deeply flushed face and
thick voice bearing plain testimony as to his condition. On these
occasions I used to consider with a sort of fierce humor how Nina would
receive him—for though she saw no offense in the one kind of vice she
herself practiced, she had a particular horror of vulgarity in any
form, and drunkenness was one of those low failings she specially
abhorred.
“Go to your lady-love, _mon beau_ Silenus!” I would think, as I watched
him leaving my hotel with a couple of his boon companions, staggering
and laughing loudly as he went, or singing the last questionable
street-song of the Neapolitan _bas-peuple_. “You are in a would-be
riotous and savage mood—her finer animal instincts will revolt from
you, as a lithe gazelle would fly from the hideous gambols of a
rhinoceros. She is already afraid of you—in a little while she will
look upon you with loathing and disgust—_tant pis pour vous, tant mieux
pour moi_!”
I had of course attained the position of _ami intime_ at the Villa
Romani. I was welcome there at any hour—I could examine and read my own
books in my own library at leisure (what a privilege was mine); I could
saunter freely through the beautiful gardens accompanied by Wyvis, who
attended me as a matter of course; in short, the house was almost at my
disposal, though I never passed a night under its roof. I carefully
kept up my character as a prematurely elderly man, slightly invalided
by a long and ardous career in far-off foreign lands, and I was
particularly prudent in my behavior toward my wife before Ferrari.
Never did I permit the least word or action on my part that could
arouse his jealousy or suspicion. I treated her with a sort of parental
kindness and reserve, but she—trust a woman for intrigue!—she was quick
to perceive my reasons for so doing. Directly Ferrari’s back was turned
she would look at me with a glance of coquettish intelligence, and
smile—a little mocking, half-petulant smile—or she would utter some
disparaging remark about him, combining with it a covert compliment to
me. It was not for me to betray her secrets—I saw no occasion to tell
Ferrari that nearly every morning she sent her maid to my hotel with
fruit and flowers and inquiries after my health—nor was my valet
Vincenzo the man to say that he carried gifts and similar messages from
me to her. But at the commencement of November things were so far
advanced that I was in the unusual position of being secretly courted
by my own wife!—I reciprocating her attentions with equal secrecy! The
fact of my being often in the company of other ladies piqued her
vanity—she knew that I was considered a desirable _parti_—and—she
resolved to win me. In this case I also resolved—to be won! A grim
courtship truly—between a dead man and his own widow! Ferrari never
suspected what was going on; he had spoken of me as “that poor fool
Fabio, he was too easily duped;” yet never was there one more “easily
duped” than himself, or to whom the epithet “poor fool” more thoroughly
applied. As I said before, he was _sure_—too sure of his own good
fortune. I wished to excite his distrust and enmity sometimes, but this
I found I could not do. He trusted me—yes! as much as in the old days I
had trusted _him_. Therefore, the catastrophe for him must be sudden as
well as fatal—perhaps, after all, it was better so.
During my frequent visits to the villa I saw much of my child Stella.
She became passionately attached to me—poor little thing!—her love was
a mere natural instinct, had she but known it. Often, too, her nurse,
Assunta, would bring her to my hotel to pass an hour or so with me.
This was a great treat to her, and her delight reached its climax when
I took her on my knee and told her a fairy story—her favorite one being
that of a good little girl whose papa suddenly went away, and how the
little girl grieved for him till at last some kind fairies helped her
to find him again. I was at first somewhat afraid of old Assunta—she
had been _my_ nurse—was it possible that she would not recognize me?
The first time I met her in my new character I almost held my breath in
a sort of suspense—but the good old woman was nearly blind, and I think
she could scarce make out my lineaments. She was of an entirely
different nature to Giacomo the butler—she thoroughly believed her
master to be dead, as indeed she had every reason to do, but strange to
say, Giacomo did not. The old man had a fanatical notion that his
“young lord” could not have died so suddenly, and he grew so obstinate
on the point that my wife declared he must be going crazy. Assunta, on
the other hand, would talk volubly of my death and tell me with assured
earnestness:
“It was to be expected, _eccellenza_—he was too good for us, and the
saints took him. Of course our Lady wanted him—she always picks out the
best among us. The poor Giacomo will not listen to me, he grows weak
and childish, and he loved the master too well—better,” and here her
voice would deepen into reproachful solemnity, “yes, better actually
than St. Joseph himself! And of course one is punished for such a
thing. I always knew my master would die young—he was too gentle as a
baby, and too kind-hearted as a man to stay here long.”
And she would shake her gray head and feel for the beads of her rosary,
and mutter many an Ave for the repose of my soul. Much as I wished it,
I could never get her to talk about her mistress—it was the one subject
on which she was invariably silent. On one occasion when I spoke with
apparent enthusiasm of the beauty and accomplishments of the young
countess, she glanced at me with sudden and earnest scrutiny—sighed—but
said nothing. I was glad to see how thoroughly devoted she was to
Stella, and the child returned her affection with interest—though as
the November days came on apace my little one looked far from strong.
She paled and grew thin, her eyes looked preternaturally large and
solemn, and she was very easily wearied. I called Assunta’s attention
to these signs of ill-health; she replied that she had spoken to the
countess, but that “madam” had taken no notice of the child’s weakly
condition. Afterward I mentioned the matter myself to Nina, who merely
smiled gratefully up in my face and answered:
“Really, my dear _conte_, you are too good! There is nothing the matter
with Stella, her health is excellent; she eats too many bonbons,
perhaps, and is growing rather fast, that is all. How kind you are to
think of her! But, I assure you, she is quite well.”
I did not feel so sure of this, yet I was obliged to conceal my
anxiety, as overmuch concern about the child would not have been in
keeping with my assumed character.
It was a little past the middle of November, when a circumstance
occurred that gave impetus to my plans, and hurried them to full
fruition. The days were growing chilly and sad even in Naples—yachting
excursions were over, and I was beginning to organize a few dinners and
balls for the approaching winter season, when one afternoon Ferrari
entered my room unannounced and threw himself into the nearest chair
with an impatient exclamation, and a vexed expression of countenance.
“What is the matter?” I asked, carelessly, as I caught a furtive glance
of his eyes. “Anything financial? Pray draw upon me! I will be a most
accommodating banker!”
He smiled uneasily though gratefully.
“Thanks, _conte_—but it is nothing of that sort—it is—_gran Dio_! what
an unlucky wretch I am!”
“I hope,” and here I put on an expression of the deepest anxiety, “I
hope the pretty _contessa_ has not played you false? she has refused to
marry you?”
He laughed with a disdainful triumph in his laughter.
“Oh, as far as that goes there is no danger! She dares not play me
false.”
“_Dares_ not! That is rather a strong expression, my friend!” And I
stroked my beard and looked at him steadily. He himself seemed to think
he had spoken too openly and hastily—for he reddened as he said with a
little embarrassment:
“Well, I did not mean that exactly—of course she is perfectly free to
do as she likes—but she cannot, I think, refuse me after showing me so
much encouragement.”
I waved my hand with an airy gesture of amicable agreement.
“Certainly not,” I said, “unless she be an arrant coquette and
therefore a worthless woman, and you, who know so well her intrinsic
goodness and purity, have no reason to fear. But, if not love or money,
what is it that troubles you? It must be serious, to judge from your
face.”
He played absently with a ring I had given him, turning it round and
round upon his finger many times before replying.
“Well, the fact is,” he said at last, “I am compelled to go away—to
leave Naples for a time.”
My heart gave an expectant throb of satisfaction. Going away!—leaving
Naples!—turning away from the field of battle and allowing me to gain
the victory! Fortune surely favored me. But I answered with feigned
concern:
“Going away! Surely you cannot mean it. Why?—what for? and where?”
“An uncle of mine is dying in Rome,” he answered, crossly. “He has made
me his heir, and I am bound for the sake of decency to attend his last
moments. Rather protracted last moments they threaten to be too, but
the lawyers say I had better be present, as the old man may take it
into his head to disinherit me at the final gasp. I suppose I shall not
be absent long—a fortnight at most—and in the meanwhile—”
Here he hesitated and looked at me anxiously.
“Continue, _caro mio_, continue!” I said with some impatience. “If I
can do anything in your absence, you have only to command me.”
He rose from his chair, and approaching the window where I sat in a
half-reclining position, he drew a small chair opposite mine, and
sitting down, laid one hand confidingly on my wrist.
“You can do much!” he replied, earnestly, “and I feel that I can
thoroughly depend upon you. Watch over _her_! She will have no other
protector, and she is so beautiful and careless! You can guard her—your
age, your rank and position, the fact of your being an old friend of
the family—all these things warrant your censorship and vigilance over
her, and you can prevent any other man from intruding himself upon her
notice—”
“If he does,” I exclaimed, starting up from my seat with a mock tragic
air, “I will not rest till his body serves my sword as a sheath!”
And I laughed loudly, clapping him on the shoulder as I spoke. The
words were the very same he had himself uttered when I had witnessed
his interview with my wife in the avenue. He seemed to find something
familiar in the phrase, for he looked confused and puzzled. Seeing
this, I hastened to turn the current of his reflections. Stopping
abruptly in my mirth, I assumed a serious gravity of demeanor, and
said:
“Nay, nay! I see the subject is too sacred to be jested with—pardon my
levity! I assure you, my good Ferrari, I will watch over the lady with
the jealous scrutiny of a _brother_—an elderly brother too, and
therefore one more likely to be a model of propriety. Though I frankly
admit it is a task I am not specially fitted for, and one that is
rather distasteful to me, still, I would do much to please you, and
enable you to leave Naples with an easy mind. I promise you”—here I
took his hand and shook it warmly—“that I will be worthy of your trust
and true to it, with exactly the same fine loyalty and fidelity you
yourself so nobly showed to your dead friend Fabio! History cannot
furnish me with a better example!”
He started as if he had been stung, and every drop of blood receded
from his face, leaving it almost livid. He turned his eyes in a kind of
wondering doubt upon me, but I counterfeited an air of such good faith
and frankness, that he checked some hasty utterance that rose to his
lips, and mastering himself by a strong effort, said, briefly:
“I thank you! I know I can rely upon your honor.”
“You can!” I answered, decisively—“as positively as you rely upon your
own!” Again he winced, as though whipped smartly by an invisible lash.
Releasing his hand, I asked, in a tone of affected regret,
“And when must you leave us, _carino_?”
“Most unhappily, at once,” he answered “I start by the early train
to-morrow morning.”
“Well, I am glad I knew of this in time,” I said, glancing at my
writing-table, which was strewn with unsent invitation cards, and
estimates from decorators and ball furnishers. “I shall not think of
starting any more gayeties till you return.”
He looked gratefully at me “Really? It is very kind of you, but I
should be sorry to interfere with any of your plans—”
“Say no more about it, _amico_,” I interrupted him lightly. “Everything
can wait till you come back. Besides, I am sure you will prefer to
think of _madama_ as living in some sort of seclusion during your
enforced absence—”
“I should not like her to be dull!” he eagerly exclaimed.
“Oh, no!” I said, with a slight smile at his folly, as if
she—Nina—would permit herself to be dull! “I will take care of that.
Little distractions, such as a drive now and then, or a very quiet,
select musical evening! I understand—leave it all to me! But the
dances, dinners, and other diversions shall wait till your return.”
A delighted look flashed into his eyes. He was greatly flattered and
pleased.
“You are uncommonly good to me, _conte_!” he said, earnestly. “I can
never thank you sufficiently.”
“I shall demand a proof of your gratitude some day,” I answered. “And
now, had you not better be packing your portmanteau? To-morrow will
soon be here. I will come and see you off in the morning.”
Receiving this assurance as another testimony of my friendship, he left
me. I saw him no more that day; it was easy to guess where he was! With
my wife, of course!—no doubt binding her, by all the most sacred vows
he could think of or invent, to be true to him—as true as she had been
false to me. In fancy I could see him clasping her in his arms, and
kissing her many times in his passionate fervor, imploring her to think
of him faithfully, night and day, till he should again return to the
joy of her caresses! I smiled coldly, as this glowing picture came
before my imagination. Ay, Guido! kiss her and fondle her now to your
heart’s content—it is for the last time! Never again will that witching
glance be turned to you in either fear or favor—never again will that
fair body nestle in your jealous embrace—never again will your kisses
burn on that curved sweet mouth; never, never again! Your day is
done—the last brief moments of your sin’s enjoyment have come—make the
most of them!—no one shall interfere! Drink the last drop of sweet
wine—_my_ hand shall not dash the cup from your lips on this, the final
night of your amour! Traitor, liar, and hypocrite! make haste to be
happy for the short time that yet remains to you—shut the door close,
lest the pure pale stars behold your love ecstasies! but let the
perfumed lamps shed their softest artificial luster on all that radiant
beauty which tempted your sensual soul to ruin, and of which you are
now permitted to take your last look! Let there be music too—the music
of her voice, which murmurs in your ear such entrancing falsehoods!
“She will be true,” she says. You must believe her, Guido, as I
did—and, believing her thus, part from her as lingeringly and tenderly
as you will—part from her—_forever_!