The opening of the room door aroused me from my meditations. I
turned—to find Vincenzo standing near me, hat in hand—he had just
entered.
“_Ebbene_!” I said, with a cheerful air—“what news?”
“_Eccellenza_, you have been obeyed. The young _Signor_ Ferrari is now
at his studio.”
“You left him there?”
“Yes, _eccellenza_”—and Vincenzo proceeded to give me a graphic account
of his adventures. On leaving the banqueting-room, Ferrari had taken a
carriage and driven straight to the Villa Romani—Vincenzo, unperceived,
had swung himself on to the back of the vehicle and had gone also.
“Arriving there,” continued my valet, “he dismissed the fiacre—and rang
the gate-bell furiously six or seven times. No one answered. I hid
myself among the trees and watched. There were no lights in the villa
windows—all was darkness. He rang it again—he even shook the gate as
though he would break it open. At last the poor Giacomo came, half
undressed and holding a lantern in his hand—he seemed terrified, and
trembled so much that the lantern jogged up and down like a
corpse-candle on a tomb.
“‘I must see the _contessa_,’ said the young _signor_, Giacomo blinked
like an owl, and coughed as though the devil scratched in his throat.
“‘The _contessa_!’ he said. ‘She is gone!’
“The _signor_ then threw himself upon Giacomo and shook him to and fro
as though he were a bag of loose wheat.
“‘Gone!’ and he screamed like a madman! ‘_Where_? Tell me _where_,
dolt! idiot! driveler! before I twist your neck for you!’
“Truly, _eccellenza_, I would have gone to the rescue of the poor
Giacomo, but respect for your commands kept me silent. ‘A thousand
pardons, _signor_!’ he whispered, out of breath with his shaking.’ I
will tell you instantly—most instantly. She is at the _Convento dell’
Annunziata_—ten miles from here—the saints know I speak the truth—she
left two days since.’
“The _Signor_ Ferrari then flung away the unfortunate Giacomo with so
much force that he fell in a heap on the pavement and broke his lantern
to pieces. The old man set up a most pitiful groaning, but the _signor_
cared nothing for that. He was mad, I think. ‘Get to bed!’ he cried,
‘and sleep—sleep till you die! Tell your mistress when you see her that
I came to kill her! My curse upon this house and all who dwell in it!’
And with that he ran so quickly through the garden into the high-road
that I had some trouble to follow him. There after walking unsteadily
for a few paces, he suddenly fell down, senseless.”
Vincenzo paused. “Well,” I said, “what happened next?”
“_Eccellenza_, I could not leave him there without aid. I drew my cloak
well up to my mouth and pulled my hat down over my eyes so that he
could not recognize me. Then I took water from the fountain close by
and dashed it on his face. He soon came to himself, and, taking me for
a stranger, thanked me for my assistance, saying that he had a sudden
shock. He then drank greedily from the fountain and went on his way.”
“You followed?”
“Yes, _eccellenza_—at a little distance. He next visited a common
tavern in one of the back streets of the city and came out with two
men. They were well dressed—they had the air of gentlemen spoiled by
bad fortune. The _signor_ talked with them for some time—he seemed much
excited. I could not hear what they said except at the end, when these
two strangers consented to appear as seconds for _Signor_ Ferrari, and
they at once left him, to come straight to this hotel. And they are
arrived, for I saw them through a half-opened door as I came in,
talking with the Marquis D’Avencourt.”
“Well!” I said, “and what of _Signor_ Ferrari when he was left alone by
his two friends?”
“There is not much more to tell, _eccellenza_. He went up the little
hill to his own studio, and I noticed that he walked like a very old
man with his head bent. Once he stopped and shook his fist in the air
as though threatening some one. He let himself in at his door with a
private key—and I saw him no more. I felt that he would not come out
again for some time. And as I moved away to return here, I heard a
sound as of terrible weeping.”
“And that is all, Vincenzo?”
“That is all, _eccellenza_.”
I was silent. There was something in the simple narration that touched
me, though I remained as determinately relentless as ever. After a few
moments I said:
“You have done well, Vincenzo. You are aware how grossly this young man
has insulted me—and that his injurious treatment can only be wiped out
in one way. That way is already arranged. You can set out those pistols
you cleaned.”
Vincenzo obeyed—but as he lifted the heavy case of weapons and set them
on the table, he ventured to remark, timidly:
“The _eccellenza_ knows it is now Christmas-day?”
“I am quite aware of the fact,” I said somewhat frigidly.
In nowise daunted he went on, “Coming back just now I saw the big
Nicolo—the _eccellenza_ has doubtless seen him often?—he is a
vine-grower, and they say he is the largest man in Naples—three months
since he nearly killed his brother—_ebbene_! To-night that same big
Nicolo is drinking Chianti with that same brother, and both shouted
after me as I passed, ‘_Hola_! Vincenzo Flamma! all is well between us
because it is the blessed Christ’s birthday.’” Vincenzo stopped and
regarded me wistfully.
“Well!” I said, calmly, “what has the big Nicolo or his brother to do
with me?”
My valet hesitated—looked up—then down—finally he said, simply, “May
the saints preserve the _eccellenza_ from all harm!”
I smiled gravely. “Thank you, my friend! I understand what you mean.
Have no fear for me. I am now going to lie down and rest till five
o’clock or thereabouts—and I advise you to do the same. At that time
you can bring me some coffee.”
And I nodded kindly to him as I left him and entered my sleeping
apartment, where I threw myself on the bed, dressed as I was. I had no
intention of sleeping—my mind was too deeply engrossed by all I had
gone through. I could enter into Guido’s feelings—had I not suffered as
he was now suffering?—nay! more than he—for _he_, at any rate, would
not be buried alive! I should take care of that! _He_ would not have to
endure the agony of breaking loose from the cold grasp of the grave to
come back to life and find his name slandered, and his vacant place
filled up by a usurper. Do what I would, I could not torture him as
much as I myself had been tortured. That was a pity—death, sudden and
almost painless, seemed too good for him. I held up my hand in the half
light and watched it closely to see if it trembled ever so slightly.
No! it was steady as a rock—I felt I was sure of my aim. I would not
fire at his heart, I thought but just above it—for I had to remember
one thing—he must live long enough to recognize me before he died. THAT
was the sting I reserved for his last moments! The sick dreams that had
bewildered my brain when I was taken ill at the auberge recurred to me.
I remembered the lithe figure, so like Guido, that had glided in the
Indian canoe toward me and had plunged a dagger three times in my
heart? Had it not been realized? Had not Guido stabbed me thrice?—in
his theft of my wife’s affections—in his contempt for my little dead
child—in his slanders on my name? Then why such foolish notions of
pity—of forgiveness, that were beginning to steal into my mind? It was
too late now for forgiveness—the very idea of it only rose out of a
silly sentimentalism awakened by Ferrari’s allusion to our young
days—days for which, after all, he really cared nothing. Meditating on
all these things, I suppose I must have fallen by imperceptible degrees
into a doze which gradually deepened till it became a profound and
refreshing sleep. From this I was awakened by a knocking at the door. I
arose and admitted Vincenzo, who entered bearing a tray of steaming
coffee.
“Is it already so late?” I asked him.
“It wants a quarter to five,” replied Vincenzo—then looking at me in
some surprise, he added, “Will not the _eccellenza_ change his
evening-dress?”
I nodded in the affirmative—and while I drank my coffee my valet set
out a suit of rough tweed, such as I was accustomed to wear every day.
He then left me, and I quickly changed my attire, and while I did so I
considered carefully the position of affairs. Neither the Marquis
D’Avencourt nor Captain Freccia had ever known me personally when I was
Fabio Romani—nor was it at all probable that the two tavern companions
of Ferrari had ever seen me. A surgeon would be on the field—most
probably a stranger. Thinking over these points, I resolved on a bold
stroke—it was this—that when I turned to face Ferrari in the combat, I
would do so with uncovered eyes—I would abjure my spectacles altogether
for the occasion. Vaguely I wondered what the effect would be upon him.
I was very much changed even without these disguising glasses—my white
beard and hair had seemingly altered my aspect—yet I knew there was
something familiar in the expression of my eyes that could not fail to
startle one who had known me well. My seconds would consider it very
natural that I should remove the smoke-colored spectacles in order to
see my aim unencumbered—the only person likely to be disconcerted by my
action was Ferrari himself. The more I thought of it the more
determined I was to do it. I had scarcely finished dressing when
Vincenzo entered with my overcoat, and informed me that the marquis
waited for me, and that a close carriage was in attendance at the
private door of the hotel.
“Permit me to accompany you, _eccellenza_!” pleaded the faithful
fellow, with anxiety in the tone of his voice.
“Come then, _amico_!” I said, cheerily. “If the marquis makes no
objection I shall not. But you must promise not to interrupt any of the
proceedings by so much as an exclamation.”
He promised readily, and when I joined the marquis he followed,
carrying my case of pistols.
“He can be trusted, I suppose?” asked D’Avencourt, glancing keenly at
him while shaking hands cordially with me.
“To the death!” I replied, laughingly. “He will break his heart if he
is not allowed to bind up my wounds!”
“I see you are in good spirits, _conte_,” remarked Captain Freccia, as
we took our seats in the carriage. “It is always the way with the man
who is in the right. Ferrari, I fear, is not quite so comfortable.”
And he proffered me a cigar, which I accepted. Just as we were about to
start, the fat landlord of the hotel rushed toward us, and laying hold
of the carriage door—“_Eccellenza_,” he observed in a confidential
whisper, “of course this is only a matter of coffee and glorias? They
will be ready for you all on your return. I know—I understand!” And he
smiled and nodded a great many times, and laid his finger knowingly on
the side of his nose. We laughed heartily, assuring him that his
perspicuity was wonderful, and he stood on the broad steps in high good
humor, watching us as our vehicle rumbled heavily away.
“Evidently,” I remarked, “he does not consider a duel as a serious
affair.”
“Not he!” replied Freccia. “He has known of too many sham fights to be
able to understand a real one. D’Avencourt knows something about that
too, though he always kills his man. But very often it is sufficient to
scratch one another with the sword-point so as to draw a quarter of a
drop of blood, and honor is satisfied! Then the coffee and glorias are
brought, as suggested by our friend the landlord.”
“It is a ridiculous age,” said the marquis, taking his cigar from his
mouth, and complacently surveying his small, supple white hand,
“thoroughly ridiculous, but I determined it should never make a fool of
ME. You see, my dear _conte_, nowadays a duel is very frequently
decided with swords rather than pistols, and why? Because cowards fancy
it is much more difficult to kill with the sword. But not at all. Long
ago I made up my mind that no man should continue to live who dared to
insult me. I therefore studied swordplay as an art. And I assure you it
is a simple matter to kill with the sword—remarkably simple. My
opponents are astonished at the ease with which I dispatch them!”
Freccia laughed. “De Hamal is a pupil of yours, marquis, is he not?”
“I regret to say yes! He is marvelously clumsy. I have often earnestly
requested him to eat his sword rather than handle it so boorishly. Yet
he kills his men, too, but in a butcher-like manner—totally without
grace or refinement. I should say he was about on a par with our two
associates, Ferrari’s seconds.”
I roused myself from a reverie into which I had fallen.
“What men are they?” I inquired.
“One calls himself the _Capitano_ Ciabatti, the other _Cavaliere_
Dursi, at your service,” answered Freccia, indifferently. “Good
swearers both and hard drinkers—filled with stock phrases, such as ‘our
distinguished dear friend, Ferrari,’ ‘wrongs which can only be wiped
out by blood’—all bombast and braggadocio! These fellows would as soon
be on one side as the other.”
He resumed his smoking, and we all three lapsed into silence. The drive
seemed very long, though in reality the distance was not great. At last
we passed the Casa Ghirlande, a superb chateau belonging to a
distinguished nobleman who in former days had been a friendly neighbor
to me, and then our vehicle jolted down a gentle declivity which sloped
into a small valley, where there was a good-sized piece of smooth flat
greensward. From this spot could be faintly discerned the castellated
turrets of my own house, the Villa Romani. Here we came to a
standstill. Vincenzo jumped briskly down from his seat beside the
coachman, and assisted us to alight. The carriage then drove off to a
retired corner behind some trees. We surveyed the ground, and saw that
as yet only one person beside ourselves had arrived. This was the
surgeon, a dapper good-humored little German who spoke bad French and
worse Italian, and who shook hands cordially with us all. On learning
who I was he bowed low and smiled very amiably. “The best wish I can
offer to you, _signor_,” he said, “is that you may have no occasion for
my services. You have reposed yourself? That is well—sleep steadies the
nerves. Ach! you shiver! True it is, the morning is cold.”
I did indeed experience a passing shudder, but not because the air was
chilly. It was because I felt certain—so terribly certain, of killing
the man I had once loved well. Almost I wished I could also feel that
there was the slightest possibility of his killing me; but no!—all my
instincts told me there was no chance of this. I had a sort of sick
pain at my heart, and as I thought of _her_, the jewel-eyed snake who
had wrought all the evil, my wrath against her increased tenfold. I
wondered scornfully what she was doing away in the quiet convent where
the sacred Host, unveiled, glittered on the altar like a star of the
morning. No doubt she slept; it was yet too early for her to practice
her sham sanctity. She slept, in all probability most peacefully, while
her husband and her lover called upon death to come and decide between
them. The slow clear strokes of a bell chiming from the city tolled
six, and as its last echo trembled mournfully on the wind there was a
slight stir among my companions. I looked and saw Ferrari approaching
with his two associates. He walked slowly, and was muffled in a thick
cloak; his hat was pulled over his brows, and I could not see the
expression of his face, as he did not turn his head once in my
direction, but stood apart leaning against the trunk of a leafless
tree. The seconds on both sides now commenced measuring the ground.
“We are agreed as to the distance, gentlemen,” said the marquis.
“Twenty paces, I think?”
“Twenty paces,” stiffly returned one of Ferrari’s friends—a
battered-looking middle-aged roue with ferocious mustachios, whom I
presumed was Captain Ciabatti.
They went on measuring carefully and in silence. During the pause I
turned my back on the whole party, slipped off my spectacles and put
them in my pocket. Then I lowered the brim of my hat slightly so that
the change might not be observed too suddenly—and resuming my first
position, I waited. It was daylight though not full morning—the sun had
not yet risen, but there was an opaline luster in the sky, and one pale
pink streak in the east like the floating pennon from the lance of a
hero, which heralded his approach. There was a gentle twittering of
awakening birds—the grass sparkled with a million tiny drops of frosty
dew. A curious calmness possessed me. I felt for the time as though I
were a mechanical automaton moved by some other will than my own. I had
no passion left.
The weapons were now loaded—and the marquis, looking about him with a
cheerful business-like air, remarked:
“I think we may now place our men?”
This suggestion agreed to, Ferrari left his place near the tree against
which he had in part inclined as though fatigued, and advanced to the
spot his seconds pointed out to him. He threw off his hat and overcoat,
thereby showing that he was still in his evening-dress. His face was
haggard and of a sickly paleness—his eyes had dark rings of pain round
them, and were full of a keen and bitter anguish. He eagerly grasped
the pistol they handed to him, and examined it closely with vengeful
interest. I meanwhile also threw off my hat and coat—the marquis
glanced at me with careless approval.
“You look a much younger man without your spectacles, _conte_,” he
remarked as he handed me my weapon. I smiled indifferently, and took up
my position at the distance indicated, exactly opposite Ferrari. He was
still occupied in the examination of his pistol, and did not at once
look up.
“Are we ready, gentlemen?” demanded Freccia, with courteous coldness.
“Quite ready,” was the response. The Marquis D’Avencourt took out his
handkerchief. Then Ferrari raised his head and faced me fully for the
first time. Great Heaven! shall I ever forget the awful change that
came over his pallid countenance—the confused mad look of his eyes—the
startled horror of his expression! His lips moved as though he were
about to utter an exclamation—he staggered.
“One!” cried D’Avencourt.
We raised our weapons.
“Two!”
The scared and bewildered expression of Ferrari’s face deepened visibly
as he eyed me steadily in taking aim. I smiled proudly—I gave him back
glance for glance—I saw him waver—his hand shook.
“Three!” and the white handkerchief fluttered to the ground. Instantly,
and together, we fired. Ferrari’s bullet whizzed past me, merely
tearing my coat and grazing my shoulder. The smoke cleared—Ferrari
still stood erect, opposite to me, staring straight forward with the
same frantic far-off look—the pistol had dropped from his hand.
Suddenly he threw up his arms—shuddered—and with a smothered groan
fell, face forward, prone on the sward. The surgeon hurried to his side
and turned him so that he lay on his back. He was unconscious—though
his dark eyes were wide open, and turned blindly upward to the sky. The
front of his shirt was already soaked with blood. We all gathered round
him.
“A good shot?” inquired the marquis, with the indifference of a
practiced duelist.
“Ach! a good shot indeed!” replied the little German doctor, shaking
his head as he rose from his examination of the wound. “Excellent! He
will be dead in ten minutes. The bullet has passed through the lungs
close to the heart. Honor is satisfied certainly!”
At that moment a deep anguished sigh parted the lips of the dying man.
Sense and speculation returned to those glaring eyes so awfully
upturned. He looked upon us all doubtfully one after the other—till
finally his gaze rested upon me. Then he grew strangely excited—his
lips moved—he eagerly tried to speak. The doctor, watchful of his
movements, poured brandy between his teeth. The cordial gave him
momentary strength—he raised himself by a supreme effort.
“Let me speak,” he gasped faintly, “to _him_!” And he pointed to
me—then he continued to mutter like a man in a dream—“to
him—alone—alone!—to him alone!”
The others, slightly awed by his manner, drew aside out of ear-shot,
and I advanced and knelt beside him, stooping my face between his and
the morning sky. His wild eyes met mine with a piteous beseeching
terror.
“In God’s name,” he whispered, thickly, “_who are you_?”
“You know me, Guido!” I answered, steadily. “I am Fabio Romani, whom
you once called friend! I am he whose wife you stole!—whose name you
slandered!—whose honor you despised! Ah! look at me well! your own
heart tells you who I am!”
He uttered a low moan and raised his hand with a feeble gesture.
“Fabio? Fabio?” he gasped. “He died—I saw him in his coffin—”
I leaned more closely over him. “I was _buried alive_,” I said with
thrilling distinctness. “Understand me, Guido—buried alive! I
escaped—no matter how. I came home—to learn your treachery and my own
dishonor! Shall I tell you more?”
A terrible shudder shook his frame—his head moved restlessly to and
fro, the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead. With my own
handkerchief I wiped his lips and brow tenderly—my nerves were strung
up to an almost brittle tension—I smiled as a woman smiles when on the
verge of hysterical weeping.
“You know the avenue,” I said, “the dear old avenue, where the
nightingales sing? I saw you there, Guido—with _her_!—on the very night
of my return from death—_she_ was in your arms—you kissed her—you spoke
of me—you toyed with the necklace on her white breast!”
He writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement.
“Tell me—quick!” he gasped. “Does—_she_—know you?”
“Not yet!” I answered, slowly. “But soon she will—when I have married
her!”
A look of bitter anguish filled his straining eyes. “Oh, God, God!” he
exclaimed with a groan like that of a wild beast in pain. “This is
horrible, too horrible! Spare me—spare—” A rush of blood choked his
utterance. His breathing grew fainter and fainter; the livid hue of
approaching dissolution spread itself gradually over his countenance.
Staring wildly at me, he groped with his hands as though he searched
for some lost thing. I took one of those feebly wandering hands within
my own, and held it closely clasped.
“You know the rest,” I said gently; “you understand my vengeance! But
it is all over, Guido—all over, now! She has played us both false. May
God forgive you as I do!”
He smiled—a soft look brightened his fast-glazing eyes—the old boyish
look that had won my love in former days.
“All over!” he repeated in a sort of plaintive babble. “All over now!
God—Fabio—forgive!—” A terrible convulsion wrenched and contorted his
limbs and features, his throat rattled, and stretching himself out with
a long shivering sigh—he died! The first beams of the rising sun,
piercing through the dark, moss-covered branches of the pine-trees,
fell on his clustering hair, and lent a mocking brilliancy to his
wide-open sightless eyes: there was a smile on the closed lips! A
burning, suffocating sensation rose in my throat, as of rebellious
tears trying to force a passage. I still held the hand of my friend and
enemy—it had grown cold in my clasp. Upon it sparkled my family
diamond—the ring _she_ had given him. I drew the jewel off: then I
kissed that poor passive hand as I laid it gently down—kissed it
tenderly, reverently. Hearing footsteps approaching, I rose from my
kneeling posture and stood erect with folded arms, looking tearlessly
down on the stiffening clay before me. The rest of the party came up;
no one spoke for a minute, all surveyed the dead body in silence. At
last Captain Freccia said, softly in half-inquiring accents:
“He is gone, I suppose?”
I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak.
“He made you his apology?” asked the marquis.
I bowed again. There was another pause of heavy silence. The rigid
smiling face of the corpse seemed to mock all speech. The doctor
stooped and skillfully closed those glazed appealing eyes—and then it
seemed to me as though Guido merely slept and that a touch would waken
him. The Marquis D’Avencourt took me by the arm and whispered, “Get
back to the city, _amico_, and take some wine—you look positively ill!
Your evident regret does you credit, considering the circumstances—but
what would you?—it was a fair fight. Consider the provocation you had!
I should advise you to leave Naples for a couple of weeks—by that time
the affair will be forgotten. I know how these things are managed—leave
it all to me.”
I thanked him and shook his hand cordially and turned to depart.
Vincenzo was in waiting with the carriage. Once I looked back, as with
slow steps I left the field; a golden radiance illumined the sky just
above the stark figure stretched so straightly on the sward; while
almost from the very side of that pulseless heart a little bird rose
from its nest among the grasses and soared into the heavens, singing
rapturously as it flew into the warmth and glory of the living,
breathing day.