More than ten days had passed since Stella’s death. Her mother had
asked me to see to the arrangements for the child’s funeral, declaring
herself too ill to attend to anything. I was glad enough to accede to
her request, for I was thus able to avoid the Romani vault as a place
of interment. I could not bear to think of the little cherished body
being laid to molder in that terrific place where I had endured such
frantic horrors. Therefore, informing all whom it concerned that I
acted under the countess’s orders, I chose a pretty spot in the open
ground of the cemetery, close to the tree where I had heard the
nightingale singing in my hour of supreme misery and suffering. Here my
little one was laid tenderly to rest in warm mother-earth, and I had
sweet violets and primroses planted thickly all about the place, while
on the simple white marble cross that marked the spot I had the words
engraved—
“_Una Stella svanità_,”[3]
[3] A vanished star.
adding the names of her parents and the date of her birth and death.
Since all this had been done I had visited my wife several times. She
was always at home to me, though of course, for decency’s sake, in
consequence of the child’s death, she denied herself to everybody else.
She looked lovelier than ever; the air of delicate languor she assumed
suited her as perfectly as its fragile whiteness suits a hot-house
lily. She knew the power of her own beauty most thoroughly, and
employed it in arduous efforts to fascinate me. But I had changed my
tactics; I paid very little heed to her, and never went to see her
unless she asked me very pressingly to do so. All compliments and
attentions from me to her had ceased. _She_ courted me, and I accepted
her courtship in unresponsive silence. I played the part of a taciturn
and reserved man, who preferred reading some ancient and abstruse
treatise on metaphysics to even the charms of her society—and often,
when she urgently desired my company, I would sit in her drawing-room,
turning over the leaves of a book and feigning to be absorbed in it,
while she, from her velvet fauteuil, would look at me with a pretty
pensiveness made up half of respect, half of gentle admiration—a
capitally acted facial expression, by the bye, and one that would do
credit to Sarah Bernhardt. We had both heard from Guido Ferrari; his
letter to my wife I of course did not see; she had, however, told me he
was “much shocked and distressed to hear of Stella’s death.” The
epistle he addressed to me had a different tale to tell. In it he
wrote—“_You_ can understand, my dear _conte_, that I am not much
grieved to hear of the death of Fabio’s child. Had she lived, I confess
her presence would have been a perpetual reminder to me of things I
prefer to forget. She never liked me—she might have been a great source
of trouble and inconvenience; so, on the whole, I am glad she is out of
the way.”
Further on in the letter he informed me:
“My uncle is at death’s door, but though that door stands wide open for
him, he cannot make up his mind to go in. His hesitation will not be
allowed to last, so the doctors tell me—at any rate I fervently hope I
shall not be kept waiting too long, otherwise I shall return to Naples
and sacrifice my heritage, for I am restless and unhappy away from
Nina, though I know she is safely guarded by your protecting care.”
I read this particular paragraph to my wife, watching her closely as I
slowly enunciated the words contained in it. She listened, and a vivid
blush crimsoned her cheeks—a blush of indignation—and her brows
contracted in the vexed frown I knew so well. Her lips parted in a
half-sweet, half-chilly smile as she said, quietly:
“I owe you my thanks, _conte_, for showing me to what extent _Signor_
Ferrari’s impertinence may reach. I am surprised at his writing to you
in such a manner! The fact is, my late husband’s attachment for him was
so extreme that he now presumes upon a supposed right that he has over
me—he fancies I am really his sister, and that he can tyrannize, as
brothers sometimes do! I really regret I have been so patient with
him—I have allowed him too much liberty.”
True enough! I thought and smiled bitterly. I was now in the heat of
the game—the moves must be played quickly—there was no more time for
hesitation or reflection.
“I think, madam,” I said, deliberately, as I folded Guido’s letter and
replaced it in my pocket-book, “_Signor_ Ferrari ardently aspires to be
something more than a brother to you at no very distant date.”
Oh, the splendid hypocrisy of women! No wonder they make such excellent
puppets on the theatrical stage—acting is their natural existence, sham
their breath of life! This creature showed no sign of embarrassment—she
raised her eyes frankly to mine in apparent surprise—then she gave a
little low laugh of disdain.
“Indeed!” she said. “Then I fear _Signor_ Ferrari is doomed to have his
aspirations disappointed! My dear _conte_,” and here she rose and swept
softly across the room toward me with that graceful gliding step that
somehow always reminded me of the approach of a panther, “do you really
mean to tell me that his audacity has reached such a height that—really
it is _too_ absurd!—that he hopes to marry me?” And sinking into a
chair near mine she looked at me in calm inquiry. Lost in amazement at
the duplicity of the woman, I answered, briefly:
“I believe so! He intimated as much to me.” She smiled scornfully.
“I am too much honored! And did you, _conte_, think for a moment that
such an arrangement would meet with my approval?”
I was silent. My brain was confused—I found it difficult to meet with
and confront such treachery as this. What! Had she no conscience? Were
all the passionate embraces, the lingering kisses, the vows of
fidelity, and words of caressing endearment as naught? Were they all
blotted from her memory as the writing on a slate is wiped out by a
sponge! Almost I pitied Guido! His fate, in her hands, was evidently to
be the same as mine had been; yet after all, why should I be surprised?
why should I pity? Had I not calculated it all? and was it not part of
my vengeance?
“Tell me!” pursued my wife’s dulcet voice, breaking in upon my
reflections, “did you really imagine _Signor_ Ferrari’s suit might meet
with favor at my hands?”
I must speak—the comedy had to be played out. So I answered, bluntly:
“Madam, I certainly did think so. It seemed a natural conclusion to
draw from the course of events. He is young, undeniably handsome, and
on his uncle’s death will be fairly wealthy—what more could you desire?
besides, he was your husband’s friend—”
“And for that reason I would never marry him!” she interrupted me with
a decided gesture. “Even if I liked him sufficiently, which I do not”
(oh, miserable traitress), “I would not run the risk of what the world
would say of such a marriage.”
“How, madam? Pardon me if I fail to comprehend you.”
“Do you not see, _conte_?” she went on in a coaxing voice, as of one
that begged to be believed, “if I were to marry one that was known to
have been my husband’s most intimate friend, society is so
wicked—people would be sure to say that there had been something
between us before my husband’s death—I _know_ they would, and I could
not endure such slander!”
“Murder will out” they say! Here was guilt partially declaring itself.
A perfectly innocent woman could not foresee so readily the
condemnation of society. Not having the knowledge of evil she would be
unable to calculate the consequences. The overprudish woman betrays
herself; the fine lady who virtuously shudders at the sight of a nude
statue or picture, announces at once to all whom it may concern that
there is something far coarser in the suggestions of her own mind than
the work of art she condemns. Absolute purity has no fear of social
slander; it knows its own value, and that it must conquer in the end.
My wife—alas! that I should call her so—was innately vicious and false;
yet how particular she was in her efforts to secure the blind world’s
good opinion! Poor old world! how exquisitely it is fooled, and how
good-naturedly it accepts its fooling! But I had to answer the fair
liar, whose net of graceful deceptions was now spread to entrap me,
therefore I said with an effort of courtesy:
“No one would dare to slander you, _contessa_, in my presence.” She
bowed and smiled prettily. “But,” I went on, “if it is true that you
have no liking for _Signor_ Ferrari—”
“It is true!” she exclaimed with sudden emphasis. “He is rough and
ill-mannered; I have seen him the worse for wine, sometimes he is
insufferable! I am afraid of him!”
I glanced at her quietly. Her face had paled, and her hands, which were
busied with some silken embroidery, trembled a little.
“In that case,” I continued, slowly, “though I am sorry for Ferrari,
poor fellow! he will be immensely disappointed! I confess I am glad in
other respects, because—”
“Because what?” she demanded, eagerly.
“Why,” I answered, feigning a little embarrassment, “because there will
be more chance for other men who may seek to possess the hand of the
accomplished and beautiful _Contessa_ Romani.”
She shook her fair head slightly. A transient expression of
disappointment passed over her features.
“The ‘other men’ you speak of, _conte_, are not likely to indulge in
such an ambition,” she said, with a faint sigh; “more especially,” and
her eyes flashed indignantly, “since _Signor_ Ferrari thinks it his
duty to mount guard over me. I suppose he wishes to keep me for
himself—a most impertinent and foolish notion! There is only one thing
to do—I shall leave Naples before he returns.”
“Why?” I asked.
She flushed deeply. “I wish to avoid him,” she said, after a little
pause; “I tell you frankly, he has lately given me much cause for
annoyance. I will not be persecuted by his attentions; and as I before
said to you, I am often afraid of him. Under _your_ protection I know I
am quite safe, but I cannot always enjoy that—”
The moment had come. I advanced a step or two.
“Why not?” I said. “It rests entirely with yourself.”
She started and half rose from her chair—her work dropped from her
hands.
“What do you mean, _conte_?” she faltered, half timidly, yet anxiously;
“I do not understand!”
“I mean what I say,” I continued in cool hard tones, and stooping, I
picked up her work and restored it to her; “but pray do not excite
yourself! You say you cannot always enjoy my protection; it seems to me
that you can—by becoming my wife.”
“_Conte_!” she stammered. I held up my hand as a sign to her to be
silent.
“I am perfectly aware,” I went on in business-like accents—“of the
disparity in years that exists between us. I have neither youth,
health, or good looks to recommend me to you. Trouble and bitter
disappointment have made me what I am. But I have wealth which is
almost inexhaustible—I have position and influence—and beside these
things”—and here I looked at her steadily, “I have an ardent desire to
do justice to your admirable qualities, and to give you all you
deserve. If you think you could be happy with me, speak frankly—I
cannot offer you the passionate adoration of a young man—my blood is
cold and my pulse is slow—but what I _can_ do, I will!”
Having spoken thus, I was silent—gazing at her intently. She paled and
flushed alternately, and seemed for a moment lost in thought—then a
sudden smile of triumph curved her mouth—she raised her large lovely
eyes to mine, with a look of melting and wistful tenderness. She laid
her needle-work gently down, and came close up to me—her fragrant
breath fell warm on my cheek—her strange gaze fascinated me, and a sort
of tremor shook my nerves.
“You mean,” she said, with a tender pathos in her voice—“that you are
willing to marry me, but that you do not really _love_ me?”
And almost appealingly she laid her white hand on my shoulder—her
musical accents were low and thrilling—she sighed faintly. I was
silent—battling violently with the foolish desire that had sprung up
within me, the desire to draw this witching fragile thing to my heart,
to cover her lips with kisses—to startle her with the passion of my
embraces! But I forced the mad impulse down and stood mute. She watched
me—slowly she lifted her hand from where it had rested, and passed it
with a caressing touch through my hair.
“No—you do not really _love_ me,” she whispered—“but I will tell you
the truth—_I love you_!”
And she drew herself up to her full height and smiled again as she
uttered the lie. I knew it was a lie—but I seized the hand whose
caresses stung me, and held it hard, as I answered:
“_You_ love _me_? No, no—I cannot believe it—it is impossible!”
She laughed softly. “It is true though,” she said, emphatically, “the
very first time I saw you I knew I should love you! I never even liked
my husband, and though in some things you resemble him, you are quite
different in others—and superior to him in every way. Believe it or not
as you like, you are the only man in all the world I have ever loved!”
And she made the assertion unblushingly, with an air of conscious pride
and virtue. Half stupefied at her manner, I asked:
“Then you will be my wife?”
“I will!” she answered—“and tell me—your name is Cesare, is it not?”
“Yes,” I said, mechanically.
“Then, _Cesare_” she murmured, tenderly, “I will _make_ you love me
very much!”
And with a quick lithe movement of her supple figure, she nestled
softly against me, and turned up her radiant glowing face.
“Kiss me!” she said, and waited. As one in a whirling dream, I stooped
and kissed those false sweet lips! I would have more readily placed my
mouth upon that of a poisonous serpent! Yet that kiss roused a sort of
fury in me. I slipped my arms round her half-reclining figure, drew her
gently backward to the couch she had left, and sat down beside her,
still embracing her. “You really love me?” I asked almost fiercely.
“Yes!”
“And I am the first man whom you have really cared for?”
“You are!”
“You never liked Ferrari?”
“Never!”
“Did he ever kiss you as I have done?”
“Not once!”
God! how the lies poured forth! a very cascade of them! and they were
all told with such an air of truth! I marveled at the ease and rapidity
with which they glided off this fair woman’s tongue, feeling somewhat
the same sense of stupid astonishment a rustic exhibits when he sees
for the first time a conjurer drawing yards and yards of many-colored
ribbon out of his mouth. I took up the little hand on which the
wedding-ring _I_ had placed there was still worn, and quietly slipped
upon the slim finger a circlet of magnificent rose-brilliants. I had
long carried this trinket about with me in expectation of the moment
that had now come. She started from my arms with an exclamation of
delight.
“Oh, Cesare! how lovely! How good you are to me!”
And leaning toward me, she kissed me, then resting against my shoulder,
she held up her hand to admire the flash of the diamonds in the light.
Suddenly she said, with some anxiety in her tone:
“You will not tell Guido? not yet?”
“No,” I answered; “I certainly will not tell him till he returns.
Otherwise he would leave Rome at once, and we do not want him back just
immediately, do we?” And I toyed with her rippling gold tresses half
mechanically, while I wondered within myself at the rapid success of my
scheme. She, in the meantime grew pensive and abstracted, and for a few
moments we were both silent. If she had known! I thought, if she could
have imagined that she was encircled by the arm of _her own husband_,
the man whom she had duped and wronged, the poor fool she had mocked at
and despised, whose life had been an obstruction in her path, whose
death she had been glad of! Would she have smiled so sweetly? Would she
have kissed me then?
She remained leaning against me in a reposeful attitude for some
moments, ever and anon turning the ring I had given her round and round
upon her finger. By and by she looked up.
“Will you do me one favor?” she asked, coaxingly; “such a little
thing—a trifle! but it would give me such pleasure!”
“What is it?” I asked; “it is you to command and I to obey!”
“Well, to take off those dark glasses just for a minute! I want to see
your eyes.”
I rose from the sofa quickly, and answered her with some coldness.
“Ask anything you like but that, _mia bella_. The least light on my
eyes gives me the most acute pain—pain that irritates my nerves for
hours afterward. Be satisfied with me as I am for the present, though I
promise you your wish shall be gratified—”
“When?” she interrupted me eagerly. I stooped and kissed her hand.
“On the evening of our marriage day,” I answered.
She blushed and turned away her head coquettishly.
“Ah! that is so long to wait!” she said, half pettishly.
“Not very long, I _hope_,” I observed, with meaning emphasis. “We are
now in November. May I ask you to make my suspense brief? to allow me
to fix our wedding for the second month of the new year?”
“But my recent widowhood!—Stella’s death!”—she objected faintly,
pressing a perfumed handkerchief gently to her eyes.
“In February your husband will have been dead nearly six months,” I
said, decisively; “it is quite a sufficient period of mourning for one
so young as yourself. And the loss of your child so increases the
loneliness of your situation, that it is natural, even necessary, that
you should secure a protector as soon as possible. Society will not
censure you, you may be sure—besides, _I_ shall know how to silence any
gossip that savors of impertinence.”
A smile of conscious triumph parted her lips.
“It shall be as you wish,” she said, demurely; “if you, who are known
in Naples as one who is perfectly indifferent to women like now to
figure as an impatient lover, I shall not object!”
And she gave me a quick glance of mischievous amusement from under the
languid lids of her dreamy dark eyes. I saw it, but answered, stiffly:
“_You_ are aware, _contessa_, and I am also aware that I am not a
‘lover’ according to the accepted type, but that I am impatient I
readily admit.”
“And why?” she asked.
“Because,” I replied, speaking slowly and emphatically; “I desire you
to be mine and mine only, to have you absolutely in my possession, and
to feel that no one can come between us, or interfere with my wishes
concerning you.”
She laughed gayly. “_A la bonne heure_! You _are_ a lover without
knowing it! Your dignity will not allow you to believe that you are
actually in love with me, but in spite of yourself you _are_—you know
you are!”
I stood before her in almost somber silence. At last I said: “If _you_
say so, _contessa_, then it must be so. I have had no experience in
affairs of the heart, as they are called, and I find it difficult to
give a name to the feelings which possess me; I am only conscious of a
very strong wish to become the absolute master of your destiny.” And
involuntarily I clinched my hand as I spoke. She did not observe the
action, but she answered the words with a graceful bend of the head and
a smile.
“I could not have a better fortune,” she said, “for I am sure my
destiny will be all brightness and beauty with _you_ to control and
guide it!”
“It will be what you desire,” I half muttered; then with an abrupt
change of manner I said: “I will wish you goodnight, _contessa_. It
grows late, and my state of health compels me to retire to rest early.”
She rose from her seat and gave me a compassionate look.
“You are really a great sufferer then?” she inquired tenderly. “I am
sorry! But perhaps careful nursing will quite restore you. I shall be
so proud if I can help you to secure better health.”
“Rest and happiness will no doubt do much for me,” I answered, “still I
warn you, _cara mia_, that in accepting me as your husband you take a
broken-down man, one whose whims are legion and whose chronic state of
invalidism may in time prove to be a burden on your young life. Are you
sure your decision is a wise one?”
“Quite sure!” she replied firmly. “Do I not _love_ you! And you will
not always be ailing—you look so strong.”
“I am strong to a certain extent,” I said, unconsciously straightening
myself as I stood. “I have plenty of muscle as far as that goes, but my
nervous system is completely disorganized. I—why, what is the matter?
Are you ill?”
For she had turned deathly pale, and her eyes look startled and
terrified. Thinking she would faint, I extended my arms to save her
from falling, but she put them aside with an alarmed yet appealing
gesture.
“It is nothing,” she murmured feebly, “a sudden giddiness—I thought—no
matter what! Tell me, are you not related to the Romani family? When
you drew yourself up just now you were so like—like FABIO! I fancied,”
and she shuddered, “that I saw his ghost!”
I supported her to a chair near the window, which I threw open for air,
though the evening was cold.
“You are fatigued and overexcited,” I said calmly, “your nature is too
imaginative. No; I am not related to the Romanis, though possibly I may
have some of their mannerisms. Many men are alike in these things. But
you must not give way to such fancies. Rest perfectly quiet, you will
soon recover.”
And pouring out a glass of water I handed it to her. She sipped it
slowly, leaning back in the fauteuil where I had placed her, and in
silence we both looked out on the November night. There was a moon, but
she was veiled by driving clouds, which ever and anon swept asunder to
show her gleaming pallidly white, like the restless spirit of a
deceived and murdered lady. A rising wind moaned dismally among the
fading creepers and rustled the heavy branches of a giant cypress that
stood on the lawn like a huge spectral mourner draped in black,
apparently waiting for a forest funeral. Now and then a few big drops
of rain fell—sudden tears wrung as though by force from the black heart
of the sky. My wife shivered.
“Shut the window!” she said, glancing back at me where I stood behind
her chair. “I am much better now. I was very silly. I do not know what
came over me, but for the moment I felt afraid—horribly afraid!—of
YOU!”
“That was not complimentary to your future husband,” I remarked,
quietly, as I closed and fastened the window in obedience to her
request. “Should I not insist upon an apology?”
She laughed nervously, and played with her ring of rose-brilliants.
“It is not yet too late,” I resumed, “if on second thoughts you would
rather not marry me, you have only to say so. I shall accept my fate
with equanimity, and shall not blame you.”
At this she seemed quite alarmed, and rising, laid her hand pleadingly
on my arm.
“Surely you are not offended?” she said. “I was not really afraid of
you, you know—it was a stupid fancy—I cannot explain it. But I am quite
well now, and I am only _too_ happy. Why, I would not lose your love
for all the world—you _must_ believe me!”
And she touched my hand caressingly with her lips. I withdrew it
gently, and stroked her hair with an almost parental tenderness; then I
said quietly:
“If so, we are agreed, and all is well. Let me advise you to take a
long night’s rest: your nerves are weak and somewhat shaken. You wish
me to keep our engagement secret?”
She thought for a moment, then answered musingly:
“For the present perhaps it would be best. Though,” and she laughed,
“it would be delightful to see all the other women jealous and envious
of my good fortune! Still, if the news were told to any of our
friends—who knows?—it might accidentally reach Guido, and—”
“I understand! You may rely upon my discretion. Good-night,
_contessa_!”
“You may call me Nina,” she murmured, softly.
“_Nina_, then,” I said, with some effort, as I lightly kissed her.
“Good-night!—may your dreams be of me!” She responded to this with a
gratified smile, and as I left the room she waved her hand in a parting
salute. My diamonds flashed on it like a small circlet of fire; the
light shed through the rose-colored lamps that hung from the painted
ceiling fell full on her exquisite loveliness, softening it into
ethereal radiance and delicacy, and when I strode forth from the house
into the night air heavy with the threatening gloom of coming tempest,
the picture of that fair face and form flitted before me like a
mirage—the glitter of her hair flashed on my vision like little snakes
of fire—her lithe hands seemed to beckon me—her lips had left a
scorching heat on mine. Distracted with the thoughts that tortured me,
I walked on and on for hours. The storm broke at last; the rain poured
in torrents, but heedless of wind and weather, I wandered on like a
forsaken fugitive. I seemed to be the only human being left alive in a
world of wrath and darkness. The rush and roar of the blast, the angry
noise of waves breaking hurriedly on the shore, the swirling showers
that fell on my defenseless head—all these things were unfelt, unheard
by me. There are times in a man’s life when mere physical feeling grows
numb under the pressure of intense mental agony—when the indignant
soul, smarting with the experience of some vile injustice, forgets for
a little its narrow and poor house of clay. Some such mood was upon me
then, I suppose, for in the very act of walking I was almost
unconscious of movement. An awful solitude seemed to encompass me—a
silence of my own creating. I fancied that even the angry elements
avoided me as I passed; that there was nothing, nothing in all the wide
universe but myself and a dark brooding horror called Vengeance. All
suddenly, the mists of my mind cleared; I moved no longer in a deaf,
blind stupor. A flash of lightning danced vividly before my eyes,
followed by a crashing peal of thunder. I saw to what end of a wild
journey I had come! Those heavy gates—that undefined stretch of
land—those ghostly glimmers of motionless white like spectral
mile-stones emerging from the gloom—I knew it all too well—it was the
cemetery! I looked through the iron palisades with the feverish
interest of one who watches the stage curtain rise on the last scene of
a tragedy. The lightning sprung once more across the sky, and showed me
for a brief second the distant marble outline of the Romani vault.
There the drama began—where would it end? Slowly, slowly there flitted
into my thoughts the face of my lost child—the young, serious face as
it had looked when the calm, preternaturally wise smile of Death had
rested upon it; and then a curious feeling of pity possessed me—pity
that her little body should be lying stiffly out there, not in the
vault, but under the wet sod, in such a relentless storm of rain. I
wanted to take her up from that cold couch—to carry her to some home
where there should be light and heat and laughter—to warm her to life
again within my arms; and as my brain played with these foolish
fancies, slow hot tears forced themselves into my eyes and scalded my
cheeks as they fell. These tears relieved me—gradually the tightly
strung tension of my nerves relaxed, and I recovered my usual composure
by degrees. Turning deliberately away from the beckoning grave-stones,
I walked back to the city through the thick of the storm, this time
with an assured step and a knowledge of where I was going. I did not
reach my hotel till past midnight, but this was not late for Naples,
and the curiosity of the fat French hall-porter was not so much excited
by the lateness of my arrival as by the disorder of my apparel.
“Ah, Heaven!” he cried; “that monsieur the distinguished should have
been in such a storm all unprotected! Why did not monsieur send for his
carriage?” I cut short his exclamations by dropping five francs into
his ever-ready hand, assuring him that I had thoroughly enjoyed the
novelty of a walk in bad weather, whereat he smiled and congratulated
me as much as he had just commiserated me. On reaching my own rooms, my
valet Vincenzo stared at my dripping and disheveled condition, but was
discreetly mute. He quickly assisted me to change my wet clothes for a
warm dressing-gown, and then brought a glass of mulled port wine, but
performed these duties with such an air of unbroken gravity that I was
inwardly amused while I admired the fellow’s reticence. When I was
about to retire for the night, I tossed him a napoleon. He eyed it
musingly and inquiringly; then he asked:
“Your excellency desires to purchase something?”
“Your silence, my friend, that is all!” I replied, with a laugh.
“Understand me, Vincenzo, you will serve yourself and me best by
obeying implicitly, and asking no questions. Fortunate is the servant
who, accustomed to see his master drunk every night, swears to all
outsiders that he has never served so sober and discreet a gentleman!
That is your character, Vincenzo—keep to it, and we shall not quarrel.”
He smiled gravely, and pocketed my piece of gold without a word—like a
true Tuscan as he was. The sentimental servant, whose fine feelings
will not allow him to accept an extra “tip,” is, you may be sure, a
humbug. I never believed in such a one. Labor can always command its
price, and what so laborious in this age as to be honest? What so
difficult as to keep silence on other people’s affairs? Such herculean
tasks deserve payment! A valet who is generously bribed, in addition to
his wages, can be relied on; if underpaid, all heaven and earth will
not persuade him to hold his tongue. Left alone at last in my sleeping
chamber, I remained for some time before actually going to bed. I took
off the black spectacles which served me so well, and looked at myself
in the mirror with some curiosity. I never permitted Vincenzo to enter
my bedroom at night, or before I was dressed in the morning, lest he
should surprise me without these appendages which were my chief
disguise, for in such a case I fancy even his studied composure would
have given way. For, disburdened of my smoke-colored glasses, I
appeared what I was, young and vigorous in spite of my white beard and
hair. My face, which had been worn and haggard at first, had filled up
and was healthily colored; while my eyes, the spokesmen of my thoughts,
were bright with the clearness and fire of constitutional strength and
physical well-being. I wondered, as I stared moodily at my own
reflection, how it was that I did not look ill. The mental suffering I
continually underwent, mingled though it was with a certain gloomy
satisfaction, should surely have left more indelible traces on my
countenance. Yet it has been proved that it is not always the
hollow-eyed, sallow and despairing-looking persons who are really in
sharp trouble—these are more often bilious or dyspeptic, and know no
more serious grief than the incapacity to gratify their appetites for
the high-flavored delicacies of the table. A man may be endowed with
superb physique, and a constitution that is in perfect working
order—his face and outward appearance may denote the most harmonious
action of the life principle within him—and yet his nerves may be so
finely strung that he may be capable of suffering acuter agony in his
mind than if his body were to be hacked slowly to pieces by jagged
knives, and it will leave no mark on his features while _youth_ still
has hold on his flesh and blood.
So it was with me; and I wondered what _she_—Nina—would say, could she
behold me, unmasked as it were, in the solitude of my own room. This
thought roused another in my mind—another at which I smiled grimly. I
was an engaged man! Engaged to marry my own wife; betrothed for the
second time to the same woman! What a difference between this and my
first courtship of her! _Then_, who so great a fool as I—who so
adoring, passionate and devoted! _Now_, who so darkly instructed, who
so cold, so absolutely pitiless! The climax to my revenge was nearly
reached. I looked through the coming days as one looks through a
telescope out to sea, and I could watch the end approaching like a
phantom ship—neither slow nor fast, but steadily and silently. I was
able to calculate each event in its due order, and I knew there was no
fear of failure in the final result. Nature itself—the sun, moon and
stars, the sweeping circle of the seasons—all seem to aid in the cause
of rightful justice. Man’s duplicity may succeed in withholding a truth
for a time, but in the end it must win its way. Once resolve, and then
determine to carry out that resolve, and it is astonishing to note with
what marvelous ease everything makes way for you, provided there be no
innate weakness in yourself which causes you to hesitate. I had
formerly been weak, I knew, very weak—else I had never been fooled by
wife and friend; but now, now my strength was as the strength of a
demon working within me. My hand had already closed with an iron grip
on two false unworthy lives, and had I not sworn “never to relax, never
to relent” till my vengeance was accomplished? I had! Heaven and earth
had borne witness to my vow, and now held me to its stern fulfillment.