She approached with her usual panther-like grace and supple movement,
her red lips parted in a charming smile.
“So good of you to come!” she began, holding out her two hands as
though she invited an embrace; “and on Christmas morning too!” She
paused, and seeing that I did not move or speak, she regarded me with
some alarm. “What is the matter?” she asked, in fainter tones; “has
anything happened?”
I looked at her. I saw that she was full of sudden fear, I made no
attempt to soothe her, I merely placed a chair.
“Sit down,” I said, gravely. “I am the bearer of bad news.”
She sunk into the chair as though unnerved, and gazed at me with
terrified eyes. She trembled. Watching her keenly, I observed all these
outward signs of trepidation with deep satisfaction. I saw plainly what
was passing in her mind. A great dread had seized her—the dread that I
had found out her treachery. So indeed I had, but the time had not yet
come for her to know it. Meanwhile she suffered—suffered acutely with
that gnawing terror and suspense eating into her soul. I said nothing,
I waited for her to speak. After a pause, during which her cheeks had
lost their delicate bloom, she said, forcing a smile as she spoke—
“Bad news? You surprise me! What can it be? Some unpleasantness with
Guido? Have you seen him?”
“I have seen him,” I answered in the same formal and serious tone; “I
have just left him. He sends you _this_,” and I held out my diamond
ring that I had drawn off the dead man’s finger.
If she had been pale before, she grew paler now. All the brilliancy of
her complexion faded for the moment into an awful haggardness. She took
the ring with fingers that shook visibly and were icy cold. There was
no attempt at smiling now. She drew a sharp quick breath; she thought I
knew all. I was again silent. She looked at the diamond signet with a
bewildered air.
“I do not understand,” she murmured, petulantly. “I gave him this as a
remembrance of his friend, my husband, why does he return it?”
Self-tortured criminal! I studied her with a dark amusement, but
answered nothing. Suddenly she looked up at me and her eyes filled with
tears.
“Why are you so cold and strange, Cesare?” she pleaded, in a sort of
plaintive whimper. “Do not stand there like a gloomy sentinel; kiss me
and tell me at once what has happened.”
Kiss her! So soon after kissing the dead hand of her lover! No, I could
not and would not. I remained standing where I was, inflexibly silent.
She glanced at me again, very timidly, and whimpered afresh.
“Ah, you do not love me!” she murmured. “You could not be so stern and
silent if you loved me! If there is indeed any bad news, you ought to
break it to me gently and kindly. I thought you would always make
everything easy for me—”
“Such has been my endeavor, madame,” I said interrupting her complaint.
“From your own statement, I judged that your adopted brother Guido
Ferrari had rendered himself obnoxious to you. I promised that I would
silence him—you remember! I have kept my word. He _is_
silenced—forever!”
She started.
“Silenced? How? You mean—”
I moved away from my place behind her chair, and stood so that I faced
her as I spoke.
“I mean that he is dead.”
She uttered a slight cry, not of sorrow but of wonderment.
“_Dead_!” she exclaimed. “Not possible! Dead! You have killed him?”
I bent my head gravely. “I killed him—yes! But in open combat, openly
witnessed. Last night he insulted me grossly; we fought this morning.
We forgave each other before he died.”
She listened attentively. A little color came back into her cheeks.
“In what way did he insult you?” she asked, in a low voice.
I told her all, briefly. She still looked anxious.
“Did he mention my name?” she said.
I glanced at her troubled features in profound contempt. She feared the
dying man might have made some confession to me! I answered:
“No; not after our quarrel. But I hear he went to your house to kill
you! Not finding you there, he only cursed you.”
She heaved a sigh of relief. She was safe now, she thought!
Her red lips widened into a cruel smile.
“What bad taste!” she said, coldly. “Why he should curse me I cannot
imagine! I have always been kind to him—_too_ kind.”
Too kind indeed! kind enough to be glad when the object of all her
kindness was dead! For she _was_ glad! I could see that in the
murderous glitter of her eyes.
“You are not sorry?” I inquired, with an air of pretended surprise.
“Sorry? Not at all! Why should I be? He was a very agreeable friend
while my husband was alive to keep him in order, but after my poor
Fabio’s death, his treatment of me was quite unbearable.”
Take care, beautiful hypocrite! take care! Take care lest your “poor
Fabio’s” fingers should suddenly nip your slim throat with a convulsive
twitch that means death! Heaven only knows how I managed to keep my
hands off her at that moment! Why, any groveling beast of the field had
more feeling than this wretch whom I had made my wife! Even for Guido’s
sake—such are the strange inconsistencies of the human heart—I could
have slain her then. But I restrained my fury; I steadied my voice and
said calmly: “Then I was mistaken? I thought you would be deeply
grieved, that my news would shock and annoy you greatly, hence my
gravity and apparent coldness. But it seems I have done well?”
She sprung up from her chair like a pleased child and flung her arms
round my neck.
“You are brave, you are brave!” she exclaimed, in a sort of exultation.
“You could not have done otherwise! He insulted you and you killed him.
That was right! I love you all the more for being such a man of honor!”
I looked down upon her in loathing and disgust. Honor! Its very name
was libeled coming from _her_ lips. She did not notice the expression
of my face—she was absorbed, excellent actress as she was, in the part
she had chosen to play.
“And so you were dull and sad because you feared to grieve me! Poor
Cesare!” she said, in child-like caressing accents, such as she could
assume when she chose. “But now that you see I am not unhappy, you will
be cheerful again? Yes? Think how much I love you, and how happy we
will be! And see, you have given me such lovely jewels, so many of them
too, that I scarcely dare offer you such a trifle as this; but as it
really belonged to Fabio, and to Fabio’s father, whom you knew, I think
you ought to have it. Will you take it and wear it to please me?” and
she slipped on my finger the diamond signet—my own ring!
I could have laughed aloud! but I bent my head gravely as I accepted
it.
“Only as a proof of your affection, _cara mia_,” I said, “though it has
a terrible association for me. I took it from Ferrari’s hand when—”
“Oh, yes, I know!” she interrupted me with a little shiver; “it must
have been trying for you to have seen him dead. I think dead people
look so horrid—the sight upsets the nerves! I remember when I was at
school here, they _would_ take me to see a nun who died; it sickened me
and made me ill for days. I can quite understand your feelings. But you
must try and forget the matter. Duels are very common occurrences,
after all!”
“Very common,” I answered, mechanically, still regarding the fair
upturned face, the lustrous eyes, the rippling hair; “but they do not
often end so fatally. The result of this one compels me to leave Naples
for some days. I go to Avellino to-night.”
“To Avellino?” she exclaimed, with interest. “Oh, I know it very well.
I went there once with Fabio when I was first married.”
“And were you happy there?” I inquired, coldly.
I remembered the time she spoke of—a time of such unreasoning, foolish
joy!
“Happy? Oh, yes; everything was so new to me then. It was delightful to
be my own mistress, and I was so glad to be out of the convent.”
“I thought you liked the nuns?” I said.
“Some of them—yes. The reverend mother is a dear old thing. But _Mère_
Marguerite, the _Vicaire_ as she is called—the one that received
you—oh, I do detest her!”
“Indeed! and why?”
The red lips curled mutinously.
“Because she is so sly and silent. Some of the children here adore her;
but they _must_ have something to love, you know,” and she laughed
merrily.
“Must they?”
I asked the question automatically, merely for the sake of saying
something.
“Of course they must,” she answered, gayly. “You foolish Cesare! The
girls often play at being one another’s lovers, only they are careful
not to let the nuns know their game. It is very amusing. Since I have
been here they have what is called a ‘CRAZE’ for me. They give me
flowers, run after me in the garden, and sometimes kiss my dress, and
call me by all manner of loving names. I let them do it because it
vexes _Madame la Vicaire_; but of course it is very foolish.”
I was silent. I thought what a curse it was—this necessity of loving.
Even the poison of it must find its way into the hearts of
children—young things shut within the walls of a secluded convent, and
guarded by the conscientious care of holy women.
“And the nuns?” I said, uttering half my thoughts aloud. “How do they
manage without love or romance?”
A wicked little smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in her eyes.
“_Do_ they always manage without love or romance?” she asked, half
indolently. “What of Abelard and Heloise, or Fra Lippi?”
Roused by something in her tone, I caught her round the waist, and held
her firmly while I said, with some sternness:
“And you—is it possible that _you_ have sympathy with, or find
amusement in, the contemplation of illicit and dishonorable
passion—tell me?”
She recollected herself in time; her white eyelids drooped demurely.
“Not I!” she answered, with a grave and virtuous air; “how can you
think so? There is nothing to my mind so horrible as deceit; no good
ever comes of it.”
I loosened her from my embrace.
“You are right,” I said, calmly; “I am glad your instincts are so
correct! I have always hated lies.”
“So have I!” she declared, earnestly, with a frank and open look; “I
have often wondered why people tell them. They are so sure to be found
out!”
I bit my lips hard to shut in the burning accusations that my tongue
longed to utter. Why should I damn the actress or the play before the
curtain was ready to fall on both? I changed the subject of converse.
“How long do you propose remaining here in retreat?” I asked. “There is
nothing now to prevent your returning to Naples.”
She pondered for some minutes before replying, then she said:
“I told the superioress I came here for a week. I had better stay till
that time is expired. Not longer, because as Guido is really dead, my
presence is actually necessary in the city.”
“Indeed! May I ask why?”
She laughed a little consciously.
“Simply to prove his last will and testament,” she replied. “Before he
left for Rome, he gave it into my keeping.”
A light flashed on my mind.
“And its contents?” I inquired.
“Its contents make _me_ the owner of everything he died possessed of!”
she said, with an air of quiet yet malicious triumph.
Unhappy Guido! What trust he had reposed in this vile, self-interested,
heartless woman! He had loved her, even as I had loved her—she who was
unworthy of any love! I controlled my rising emotion, and merely said
with gravity:
“I congratulate you! May I be permitted to see this document?”
“Certainly; I can show it to you now. I have it here,” and she drew a
Russia-leather letter-case from her pocket, and opening it, handed me a
sealed envelope. “Break the seal!” she added, with childish eagerness.
“He closed it up like that after I had read it.”
With reluctant hand, and a pained piteousness at my heart, I opened the
packet. It was as she had said, a will drawn up in perfectly legal
form, signed and witnessed, leaving everything _unconditionally_ to
“Nina, Countess Romani, of the Villa Romani, Naples.” I read it through
and returned it to her.
“He must have loved you!” I said.
She laughed.
“Of course,” she said, airily. “But many people love me—that is nothing
new; I am accustomed to be loved. But you see,” she went on, reverting
to the will again, “it specifies, ‘_everything he dies possessed of_;’
that means all the money left to him by his uncle in Rome, does it
not?”
I bowed. I could not trust myself to speak.
“I thought so,” she murmured, gleefully, more to herself than to me;
“and I have a right to all his papers and letters.” There she paused
abruptly and checked herself.
I understood her. She wanted to get back her own letters to the dead
man, lest her intimacy with him should leak out in some chance way for
which she was unprepared. Cunning devil! I was almost glad she showed
me to what a depth of vulgar vice she had fallen. There was no question
of pity or forbearance in _her_ case. If all the tortures invented by
savages or stern inquisitors could be heaped upon her at once, such
punishment would be light in comparison with her crimes—crimes for
which, mark you, the law gives you no remedy but divorce. Tired of the
wretched comedy, I looked at my watch.
“It is time for me to take my leave of you,” I said, in the stiff,
courtly manner I affected. “Moments fly fast in your enchanting
company! But I have still to walk to Castellamare, there to rejoin my
carriage, and I have many things to attend to before my departure this
evening. On my return from Avellino shall I be welcome?”
“You know it,” she returned, nestling her head against my shoulder,
while for mere form’s sake I was forced to hold her in a partial
embrace. “I only wish you were not going at all. Dearest, do not stay
long away—I shall be so unhappy till you come back!”
“Absence strengthens love, they say,” I observed, with a forced smile.
“May it do so in our case. Farewell, _cara mia_! Pray for me; I suppose
you _do_ pray a great deal here?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, naively; “there is nothing else to do.”
I held her hands closely in my grasp. The engagement ring on her
finger, and the diamond signet on my own, flashed in the light like the
crossing of swords.
“Pray then,” I said, “storm the gates of heaven with sweet-voiced
pleadings for the repose of poor Ferrari’s soul! Remember he loved you,
though _you_ never loved him. For _your_ sake he quarreled with me, his
best friend—for _your_ sake he died! Pray for him—who knows,” and I
spoke in thrilling tones of earnestness—“who knows but that his
too-hastily departed spirit may not be near us now—hearing our voices,
watching our looks?”
She shivered slightly, and her hands in mine grew cold.
“Yes, yes,” I continued, more calmly; “you must not forget to pray for
him—he was young and not prepared to die.”
My words had some of the desired effect upon her—for once her ready
speech failed—she seemed as though she sought for some reply and found
none. I still held her hands.
“Promise me!” I continued; “and at the same time pray for your dead
husband! He and poor Ferrari were close friends, you know; it will be
pious and kind of you to join their names in one petition addressed to
Him ‘from whom no secrets are hid,’ and who reads with unerring eyes
the purity of your intentions. Will you do it?”
She smiled, a forced, faint smile.
“I certainly will,” she replied, in a low voice; “I promise you.”
I released her hands—I was satisfied. If she dared to pray thus I
felt—I _knew_ that she would draw down upon her soul the redoubled
wrath of Heaven; for I looked beyond the grave! The mere death of her
body would be but a slight satisfaction to me; it was the utter
destruction of her wicked soul that I sought. She should never repent,
I swore; she should never have the chance of casting off her vileness
as a serpent casts its skin, and, reclothing herself in innocence,
presume to ask admittance into that Eternal Gloryland whither my little
child had gone—never, never! No church should save her, no priest
should absolve her—not while _I_ lived!
She watched me as I fastened my coat and began to draw on my gloves.
“Are you going now?” she asked, somewhat timidly.
“Yes, I am going now, _cara mia_,” I said. “Why! what makes you look so
pale?”
For she had suddenly turned very white.
“Let me see your hand again,” she demanded, with feverish eagerness,
“the hand on which I placed the ring!”
Smilingly and with readiness I took off the glove I had just put on.
“What odd fancy possesses you now, little one?” I asked, with an air of
playfulness.
She made no answer, but took my hand and examined it closely and
curiously. Then she looked up, her lips twitched nervously, and she
laughed a little hard mirthless laugh.
“Your hand,” she murmured, incoherently, “with—that—signet—on it—is
exactly like—like Fabio’s!”
And before I had time to say a word she went off into a violent fit of
hysterics—sobs, little cries, and laughter all intermingled in that
wild and reasonless distraction that generally unnerves the strongest
man who is not accustomed to it. I rang the bell to summon assistance;
a lay-sister answered it, and seeing Nina’s condition, rushed for a
glass of water and summoned _Madame la Vicaire_. This latter, entering
with her quiet step and inflexible demeanor, took in the situation at a
glance, dismissed the lay-sister, and possessing herself of the tumbler
of water, sprinkled the forehead of the interesting patient, and forced
some drops between her clinched teeth. Then turning to me she inquired,
with some stateliness of manner, what had caused the attack?
“I really cannot tell you, madame,” I said, with an air of affected
concern and vexation. “I certainly told the countess of the unexpected
death of a friend, but she bore the news with exemplary resignation.
The circumstance that appears to have so greatly distressed her is that
she finds, or says she finds, a resemblance between my hand and the
hand of her deceased husband. This seems to me absurd, but there is no
accounting for ladies’ caprices.”
And I shrugged my shoulders as though I were annoyed and impatient.
Over the pale, serious face of the nun there flitted a smile in which
there was certainly the ghost of sarcasm.
“All sensitiveness and tenderness of heart, you see!” she said, in her
chill, passionless tones, which, icy as they were, somehow conveyed to
my ear another meaning than that implied by the words she uttered. “We
cannot perhaps understand the extreme delicacy of her feelings, and we
fail to do justice to them.”
Here Nina opened her eyes, and looked at us with piteous plaintiveness,
while her bosom heaved with those long, deep sighs which are the
finishing chords of the Sonata Hysteria.
“You are better, I trust?” continued the nun, without any sympathy in
her monotonous accents, and addressing her with some reserve. “You have
greatly alarmed the Count Oliva.”
“I am sorry—” began Nina, feebly.
I hastened to her side.
“Pray do not speak of it!” I urged, forcing something like a lover’s
ardor into my voice. “I regret beyond measure that it is my misfortune
to have hands like those of your late husband! I assure you I am quite
miserable about it. Can you forgive me?”
She was recovering quickly, and she was evidently conscious that she
had behaved somewhat foolishly. She smiled a weak pale smile; but she
looked very scared, worn and ill. She rose from her chair slowly and
languidly.
“I think I will go to my room,” she said, not regarding _Mère_
Marguerite, who had withdrawn to a little distance, and who stood
rigidly erect, immovably featured, with her silver crucifix glittering
coldly on her still breast.
“Good-bye, Cesare! Please forget my stupidity, and write to me from
Avellino.”
I took her outstretched hand, and bowing over it, touched it gently
with my lips. She turned toward the door, when suddenly a mischievous
idea seemed to enter her mind. She looked at _Madame la Vicaire_ and
then came back to me.
“_Addio_, _amor mio_!” she said, with a sort of rapturous emphasis, and
throwing her arms round my neck she kissed me almost passionately.
Then she glanced maliciously at the nun, who had lowered her eyes till
they appeared fast shut, and breaking into a low peal of indolently
amused laughter, waved her hand to me, and left the room.
I was somewhat confused. The suddenness and warmth of her caress had
been, I knew, a mere monkeyish trick, designed to vex the religious
scruples of _Mère_ Marguerite. I knew not what to say to the stately
woman who remained confronting me with downcast eyes and lips that
moved dumbly as though in prayer. As the door closed after my wife’s
retreating figure, the nun looked up; there was a slight flush on her
pallid cheeks, and to my astonishment, tears glittered on her dark
lashes.
“Madame,” I began, earnestly, “I assure you—”
“Say nothing, _signor_,” she interrupted me with a slight deprecatory
gesture; “it is quite unnecessary. To mock a _religieuse_ is a common
amusement with young girls and women of the world. I am accustomed to
it, though I feel its cruelty more than I ought to do. Ladies like the
Countess Romani think that we—we, the sepulchers of
womanhood—sepulchers that we have emptied and cleansed to the best of
our ability, so that they may more fittingly hold the body of the
crucified Christ; these _grandes dames_, I say, fancy that _we_ are
ignorant of all they know—that we cannot understand love, tenderness or
passion. They never reflect—how should they?—that we also have had our
histories—histories, perhaps, that would make angels weep for pity! I,
even I—” and she struck her breast fiercely, then suddenly recollecting
herself, she continued coldly: “The rule of our convent, _signor_,
permits no visitor to remain longer than one hour—that hour has
expired. I will summon a sister to show you the way out.”
“Wait one instant, madame,” I said, feeling that to enact my part
thoroughly I ought to attempt to make some defense of Nina’s conduct;
“permit me to say a word! My fiancee is very young and thoughtless. I
really cannot think that her very innocent parting caress to me had
anything in it that was meant to purposely annoy you.”
The nun glanced at me—her eyes flashed disdainfully.
“You think it was all affection for you, no doubt, _signor_? very
natural supposition, and—I should be sorry to undeceive you.”
She paused a moment and then resumed:
“You seem an earnest man—may be you are destined to be the means of
saving Nina; I could say much—yet it is wise to be silent. If you love
her do not flatter her; her overweening vanity is her ruin. A firm,
wise, ruling master-hand may perhaps—who knows?” She hesitated and
sighed, then added, gently, “Farewell, _signor_! _Benedicite_!” and
making the sign of the cross as I respectfully bent my head to receive
her blessing, she passed noiselessly from the room.
One moment later, and a lame and aged lay-sister came to escort me to
the gate. As I passed down the stone corridor a side door opened a very
little way, and two fair young faces peeped out at me. For an instant I
saw four laughing bright eyes; I heard a smothered voice say, “Oh!
_c’est un vieux papa_!” and then my guide, who though lame was not
blind, perceived the opened door and shut it with an angry bang, which,
however, did not drown the ringing merriment that echoed from within.
On reaching the outer gates I turned to my venerable companion, and
laying four twenty-franc pieces in her shriveled palm, I said:
“Take these to the reverend mother for me, and ask that mass may be
said in the chapel to-morrow for the repose of the soul of him whose
name is written here.”
And I gave her Guido Ferrari’s visiting-card, adding in lower and more
solemn tones:
“He met with a sudden and unprepared death. Of your charity, pray also
for the man who killed him!”
The old woman looked startled, and crossed herself devoutly; but she
promised that my wishes should be fulfilled, and I bade her farewell
and passed out, the convent gates closing with a dull clang behind me.
I walked on a few yards, and then paused, looking back. What a peaceful
home it seemed; how calm and sure a retreat, with the white Noisette
roses crowning its ancient gray walls! Yet what embodied curses were
pent up in there in the shape of girls growing to be women; women for
whom all the care, stern training and anxious solicitude of the nuns
would be unavailing; women who would come forth from even that abode of
sanctity with vile natures and animal impulses, and who would
hereafter, while leading a life of vice and hypocrisy, hold up this
very strictness of their early education as proof of their
unimpeachable innocence and virtue! To such, what lesson is learned by
the daily example of the nuns who mortify their flesh, fast, pray and
weep? No lesson at all—nothing save mockery and contempt. To a girl in
the heyday of youth and beauty the life of a _religieuse_ seems
ridiculous. “The poor nuns!” she says, with a laugh; “they are so
ignorant. Their time is over—mine has not yet begun.” Few, very few,
among the thousands of young women who leave the scene of their quiet
schooldays for the social whirligig of the world, ever learn to take
life in earnest, love in earnest, sorrow in earnest. To most of them
life is a large dressmaking and millinery establishment; love a
question of money and diamonds; sorrow a solemn calculation as to how
much or how little mourning is considered becoming or fashionable. And
for creatures such as these we men work—work till our hairs are gray
and our backs bent with toil—work till all the joy and zest of living
has gone from us, and our reward is—what? Happiness?—seldom.
Infidelity?—often. Ridicule? Truly we ought to be glad if we are only
ridiculed and thrust back to occupy the second place in our own houses;
our lady-wives call that “kind treatment.” Is there a married woman
living who does not now and then throw a small stone of insolent satire
at her husband when his back is turned? What, madame? You, who read
these words—you say with indignation: “Certainly there is, and _I_ am
that woman!” Ah, truly? I salute you profoundly!—you are, no doubt, the
one exception!