Winter, or what the Neapolitans accept as winter, came on apace. For
some time past the air had been full of that mild chill and vaporous
murkiness, which, not cold enough to be bracing, sensibly lowered the
system and depressed the spirits. The careless and jovial temperament
of the people, however, was never much affected by the change of
seasons—they drank more hot coffee than usual, and kept their feet warm
by dancing from midnight up to the small hours of the morning. The
cholera was a thing of the past—the cleansing of the city, the sanitary
precautions, which had been so much talked about and recommended in
order to prevent another outbreak in the coming year, were all
forgotten and neglected, and the laughing populace tripped lightly over
the graves of its dead hundreds as though they were odorous banks of
flowers. “_Oggi_! _Oggi_!” is their cry—to-day, to-day! Never mind what
happened yesterday, or what will happen to-morrow—leave that to _i
signori Santi and la Signora Madonna_! And after all there is a grain
of reason in their folly, for many of the bitterest miseries of man
grow out of a fatal habit of looking back or looking forward, and of
never living actually in the full-faced present. Then, too, Carnival
was approaching; Carnival, which, though denuded of many of its best
and brightest features, still reels through the streets of Naples with
something of the picturesque madness that in old times used to
accompany its prototype, the Feast of Bacchus. I was reminded of this
coming festivity on the morning of the 21st of December, when I noted
some unusual attempts on the part of Vincenzo to control his
countenance, that often, in spite of his efforts, broadened into a
sunny smile as though some humorous thought had flitted across his
mind. He betrayed himself at last by asking me demurely whether I
purposed taking any part in the carnival? I smiled and shook my head.
Vincenzo looked dubious, but finally summoned up courage to say:
“Will the _eccellenza_ permit—”
“You to make a fool of yourself?” I interrupted, “by all means! Take
your own time, enjoy the fun as much as you please; I promise you I
will ask no account of your actions.”
He was much gratified, and attended to me with even more
punctiliousness than usual. As he prepared my breakfast I asked him:
“By the way, when does the carnival begin?”
“On the 26th,” he answered, with a slight air of surprise. “Surely the
_eccellenza_ knows.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, impatiently. “I know, but I had forgotten. I am not
young enough to keep the dates of these follies in my memory. What
letters have you there?”
He handed me a small tray full of different shaped missives, some from
fair ladies who “desired the honor of my company,” others from
tradesmen, “praying the honor of my custom,” all from male and female
toadies as usual, I thought contemptuously, as I turned them over, when
my glance was suddenly arrested by one special envelope, square in form
and heavily bordered with black, on which the postmark “Roma” stood out
distinctly. “At last!” I thought, and breathed heavily. I turned to my
valet, who was giving the final polish to my breakfast cup and saucer:
“You may leave the room, Vincenzo,” I said, briefly. He bowed, the door
opened and shut noiselessly—he was gone.
Slowly I broke the seal of that fateful letter; a letter from Guido
Ferrari, a warrant self-signed, for his own execution!
“MY BEST FRIEND,” so it ran, “you will guess by the ‘black flag’ on my
envelope the good news I have to give you. My uncle is dead _at last_,
thank God! and I am left his sole heir unconditionally. I am free, and
shall of course return to Naples immediately, that is, as soon as some
trifling law business has been got through with the executors. I
believe I can arrange my return for the 23d or 24th instant, but will
telegraph to you the exact day, and, if possible, the exact hour. Will
you oblige me by _not_ announcing this to the countess, as I wish to
take her by surprise. Poor girl! she will have often felt lonely, I am
sure, and I want to see the first beautiful look of rapture and
astonishment in her eyes! You can understand this, can you not,
_amico_, or does it seem to you a folly? At any rate, I should consider
it very churlish were I to keep _you_ in ignorance of my coming home,
and I know you will humor me in my desire that the news should be
withheld from Nina. How delighted she will be, and what a joyous
carnival we will have this winter! I do not think I ever felt more
light of heart; perhaps it is because I am so much heavier in pocket. I
am glad of the money, as it places me on a more equal footing with
_her_, and though all her letters to me have been full of the utmost
tenderness, still I feel she will think even better of me, now I am in
a position somewhat nearer to her own. As for you, my good _conte_, on
my return I shall make it my first duty to pay back with interest the
rather large debt I owe to you—thus my honor will be satisfied, and
you, I am sure, will have a better opinion of
“Yours to command,
“GUIDO FERRARI.”
This was the letter, and I read it over and over again. Some of the
words burned themselves into my memory as though they were living
flame. “All her letters to me have been full of the utmost tenderness!”
Oh, miserable-dupe! fooled, fooled to the acme of folly even as I had
been! _She_, the arch-traitress, to prevent his entertaining the
slightest possible suspicion or jealousy of her actions during his
absence, had written him, no doubt, epistles sweet as honey brimming
over with endearing epithets and vows of constancy, even while she knew
she had accepted me as her husband—me—good God! What a devil’s dance of
death it was!
“On my return I shall make it my first duty to pay back with interest
the rather large debt I owe you” (rather large indeed, Guido, so large
that you have no idea of its extent!), “thus my honor will be
satisfied” (and so will mine in part), “and you, I am sure, will have a
better opinion of yours to command.” Perhaps I shall, Guido—mine to
command as you are—perhaps when all my commands are fulfilled to the
bitter end, I may think more kindly of you. But not till then! In the
meantime—I thought earnestly for a few minutes, and then sitting down,
I penned the following note.
“Caro _amico_! Delighted to hear of your good fortune, and still more
enchanted to know you will soon enliven us all with your presence! I
admire your little plan of surprising the countess, and will respect
your wishes in the matter. But you, on your part, must do me a trifling
favor: we have been very dull since you left, and I purpose to start
the gayeties afresh by giving a dinner on the 24th (Christmas Eve), in
honor of your return—an epicurean repast for gentlemen only. Therefore,
I ask you to oblige me by fixing your return for that day, and on
arrival at Naples, come straight to me at this hotel, that I may have
the satisfaction of being the first to welcome you as you deserve.
Telegraph your answer and the hour of your train; and my carriage shall
meet you at the station. The dinner-hour can be fixed to suit your
convenience of course; what say you to eight o’clock? After dinner you
can betake yourself to the Villa Romani when you please—your enjoyment
of the lady’s surprise and rapture will be the more keen for having
been slightly delayed. Trusting you will not refuse to gratify an old
man’s whim, I am,
“Yours for the time being,
“CESARE OLIVA.”
This epistle finished and written in the crabbed disguised penmanship
it was part of my business to effect, I folded, sealed and addressed
it, and summoning Vincenzo, bade him post it immediately. As soon as he
had gone on this errand, I sat down to my as yet untasted breakfast and
made some effort to eat as usual. But my thoughts were too active for
appetite—I counted on my fingers the days—there were four, only four,
between me and—what? One thing was certain—I must see my wife, or
rather I should say my _betrothed_—I must see her that very day. I then
began to consider how my courtship had progressed since that evening
when she had declared she loved me. I had seen her frequently, though
not daily—her behavior had been by turns affectionate, adoring, timid,
gracious and once or twice passionately loving, though the latter
impulse in her I had always coldly checked. For though I could bear a
great deal, any outburst of sham sentiment on her part sickened and
filled me with such utter loathing that often when she was more than
usually tender I dreaded lest my pent-up wrath should break loose and
impel me to kill her swiftly and suddenly as one crushes the head of a
poisonous adder—an all-too-merciful death for such as she. I preferred
to woo her by gifts alone—and her hands were always ready to take
whatever I or others chose to offer her. From a rare jewel to a common
flower she never refused anything—her strongest passions were vanity
and avarice. Sparkling gems from the pilfered store of Carmelo
Neri—trinkets which I had especially designed for her—lace, rich
embroideries, bouquets of hot-house blossoms, gilded boxes of costly
sweets—nothing came amiss to her—she accepted all with a certain
covetous glee which she was at no pains to hide from me—nay, she made
it rather evident that she expected such things as her right.
And after all, what did it matter to me—I thought—of what value was
anything I possessed save to assist me in carrying out the punishment I
had destined for her? I studied her nature with critical coldness—I saw
its inbred vice artfully concealed beneath the affectation of
virtue—every day she sunk lower in my eyes, and I wondered vaguely how
I could ever have loved so coarse and common a thing! Lovely she
certainly was—lovely too are many of the wretched outcasts who sell
themselves in the streets for gold, and who in spite of their criminal
trade are less vile than such a woman as the one I had wedded. Mere
beauty of face and form can be bought as easily as one buys a
flower—but the loyal heart, the pure soul, the lofty intelligence which
can make of woman an angel—these are unpurchasable ware, and seldom
fall to the lot of man. For beauty, though so perishable, is a snare to
us all—it maddens our blood in spite of ourselves—we men are made so.
How was it that I—even I, who now loathed the creature I had once
loved—could not look upon her physical loveliness without a foolish
thrill of passion awaking within me—passion that had something of the
murderous in it—admiration that was almost brutal—feelings which I
could not control though I despised myself for them while they lasted!
There is a weak point in the strongest of us, and wicked women know
well where we are most vulnerable. One dainty pin-prick well-aimed—and
all the barriers of caution and reserve are broken down—we are ready to
fling away our souls for a smile or a kiss. Surely at the last day when
we are judged—and may be condemned—we can make our last excuse to the
Creator in the words of the first misguided man:
“The woman whom thou gavest to be with me—she tempted me, and I did
eat!”
I lost no time that day in going to the Villa Romani. I drove there in
my carriage, taking with me the usual love-offering in the shape of a
large gilded osier-basket full of white violets. Their delicious odor
reminded me of that May morning when Stella was born—and then quickly
there flashed into my mind the words spoken by Guido Ferrari at the
time. How mysterious they had seemed to me then—how clear their meaning
now! On arriving at the villa I found my fiance in her own boudoir,
attired in morning deshabille, if a trailing robe of white cashmere
trimmed with Mechlin lace and swan’s-down can be considered deshabille.
Her rich hair hung loosely on her shoulders, and she was seated in a
velvet easy-chair before a small sparkling wood fire, reading. Her
attitude was one of luxurious ease and grace, but she sprung up as soon
as her maid announced me, and came forward with her usual charming air
of welcome, in which there was something imperial, as of a sovereign
who receives a subject. I presented the flowers I had brought, with a
few words of studied and formal compliment, uttered for the benefit of
the servant who lingered in the room—then I added in a lower tone:
“I have news of importance—can I speak to you privately?”
She smiled assent, and motioning me by a graceful gesture of her hand
to take a seat, she at once dismissed her maid. As soon as the door had
closed behind the girl I spoke at once and to the point, scarcely
waiting till my wife resumed her easy-chair before the fire.
“I have had a letter from _Signor_ Ferrari.”
She started slightly, but said nothing, she merely bowed her head and
raised her delicately arched eyebrows with a look of inquiry as of one
who should say, “Indeed! in what way does this concern me?” I watched
her narrowly, and then continued, “He is coming back in two or three
days—he says he is sure,” and here I smiled, “that you will be
delighted to see him.”
This time she half rose from her seat, her lips moved as though she
would speak, but she remained silent, and sinking back again among her
violet velvet cushions, she grew very pale.
“If,” I went on, “you have any reason to think that he may make himself
disagreeable to you when he knows of your engagement to me, out of
disappointed ambition, conceit, or self-interest (for of course _you_
never encouraged him), I should advise you to go on a visit to some
friends for a few days, till his irritation shall have somewhat passed.
What say you to such a plan?”
She appeared to meditate for a few moments—then raising her lovely eyes
with a wistful and submissive look, she replied:
“It shall be as you wish, Cesare! _Signor_ Ferrari is certainly rash
and hot-tempered, he might be presumptuous enough to—But you do not
think of yourself in the matter! Surely _you_ also are in danger of
being insulted by him when he knows all?”
“I shall be on my guard!” I said, quietly. “Besides, I can easily
pardon any outburst of temper on his part—it will be perfectly natural,
I think! To lose all hope of ever winning such a love as yours must
needs be a sore trial to one of his hot blood and fiery impulses. Poor
fellow!” and I sighed and shook my head with benevolent gentleness. “By
the way, he tells me he has had letters from you?”
I put this question carelessly, but it took her by surprise. She caught
her breath hard and looked at me sharply, with an alarmed expression.
Seeing that my face was perfectly impassive, she recovered her
composure instantly, and answered:
“Oh, yes! I have been compelled to write to him once or twice on
matters of business connected with my late husband’s affairs. Most
unfortunately, Fabio made him one of the trustees of his fortune in
case of his death—it is exceedingly awkward for me that he should
occupy that position—it appears to give him some authority over my
actions. In reality he has none. He has no doubt exaggerated the number
of times I have written to him? it would be like his impertinence to do
so.”
Though this last remark was addressed to me almost as a question, I let
it pass without response. I reverted to my original theme.
“What think you, then?” I said. “Will you remain here or will you
absent yourself for a few days?”
She rose from her chair and approaching me, knelt down at my side,
clasping her two little hands round my arm. “With your permission,” she
returned, softly, “I will go to the convent where I was educated. It is
some eight or ten miles distant from here, and I think” (here she
counterfeited the most wonderful expression of ingenuous sweetness and
piety)—“I think I should like to make a ‘RETREAT’—that is, devote some
time solely to the duties of religion before I enter upon a second
marriage. The dear nuns would be so glad to see me—and I am sure you
will not object? It will be a good preparation for my future.”
I seized her caressing hands and held them hard, while I looked upon
her kneeling there like the white-robed figure of a praying saint.
“It will indeed!” I said in a harsh voice. “The best of all possible
preparations! We none of us know what may happen—we cannot tell whether
life or death awaits us—it is wise to prepare for either by words of
penitence and devotion! I admire this beautiful spirit in you,
_carina_! Go to the convent by all means! I shall find you there and
will visit you when the wrath and bitterness of our friend Ferrari have
been smoothed into silence and resignation. Yes—go to the convent,
among the good and pious nuns—and when you pray for yourself, pray for
the peace of your dead husband’s soul—and—for me! Such prayers,
unselfish and earnest, uttered by pure lips like yours, fly swiftly to
heaven! And as for young Guido—have no fear—I promise you he shall
offend you no more!”
“Ah, you do not know him!” she murmured, lightly kissing my hands that
still held hers; “I fear he will give you a great deal of trouble.”
“I shall at any rate know how to silence him,” I said, releasing her as
I spoke, and watching her as she rose from her kneeling position and
stood before me, supple and delicate as a white iris swaying in the
wind. “You never gave him reason to hope—therefore he has no cause of
complaint.”
“True!” she replied, readily, with an untroubled smile. “But I am such
a nervous creature! I am always imagining evils that never happen. And
now, Cesare, when do you wish me to go to the convent?”
I shrugged my shoulders with an air of indifference.
“Your submission to my will, _mia bella_” I said, coldly, “is
altogether charming, and flatters me much, but I am not your master—not
yet! Pray choose your own time, and suit your departure to your own
pleasure.”
“Then,” she replied, with an air of decision, “I will go today. The
sooner the better—for some instinct tells me that Guido will play us a
trick and return before we expect him. Yes—I will go to-day.”
I rose to take my leave. “Then you will require leisure to make your
preparations,” I said, with ceremonious politeness. “I assure you I
approve your resolve. If you inform the superioress of the convent that
I am your betrothed husband, I suppose I shall be permitted to see you
when I call?”
“Oh, certainly!” she replied. “The dear nuns will do anything for me.
Their order is one of perpetual adoration, and their rules are very
strict, but they do not apply them to their old pupils, and I am one of
their great favorites.”
“Naturally!” I observed. “And will you also join in the service of
perpetual adoration?”
“Oh, yes!”
“It needs an untainted soul like yours,” I said, with a satirical
smile, which she did not see, “to pray before the unveiled Host without
being conscience-smitten! I envy you your privilege. _I_ could not do
it—but _you_ are probably nearer to the angels than we know. And so you
will pray for me?”
She raised her eyes with devout gentleness. “I will indeed!”
“I thank you!”—and I choked back the bitter contempt and disgust I had
for her hypocrisy as I spoke—“I thank you heartily—most heartily!
_Addio_!”
She came or rather floated to my side, her white garments trailing
about her and the gold of her hair glittering in the mingled glow of
the firelight and the wintery sunbeams that shone through the window.
She looked up—a witch-like languor lay in her eyes—her red lips pouted.
“Not one kiss before you go?” she said.