I sighed heavily as I resumed my walk. I realized all that I had lost.
This lovely child with her simple fresh nature, why had I not met such
a one and wedded _her_ instead of the vile creature who had been my
soul’s undoing? The answer came swiftly. Even if I _had_ seen her when
I was free, I doubt if I should have known her value. We men of the
world who have social positions to support, we see little or nothing in
the peasant type of womanhood; we must marry “ladies,”
so-called—educated girls who are as well versed in the world’s ways as
ourselves, if not more so. And so we get the Cleopatras, the Du Barrys,
the Pompadours, while unspoiled maidens such as Lilla too often become
the household drudges of common mechanics or day-laborers, living and
dying in the one routine of hard work, and often knowing and caring for
nothing better than the mountain-hut, the farm-kitchen, or the covered
stall in the market-place. Surely it is an ill-balanced world—so many
mistakes are made; Fate plays us so many apparently unnecessary tricks,
and we are all of us such blind madmen, knowing not whither we are
going from one day to another! I am told that it is no longer
fashionable to believe in a devil—but I care nothing for fashion! A
devil there is I am sure, who for some inscrutable reason has a share
in the ruling of this planet—a devil who delights in mocking us from
the cradle to the grave. And perhaps we are never so hopelessly,
utterly fooled as in our marriages!
Occupied in various thoughts, I scarcely saw where I wandered, till a
flashing glimmer of blue blossoms recalled me to the object of my walk.
I had reached the Punto d’Angelo. It was, as Lilla had said, a flat
rock bare in every place save at the summit, where it was thickly
covered with the lovely gentians, flowers that are rare in this part of
Italy. Here then the fabled angel paused in his flight to bless the
venerable sanctuary of Monte Vergine. I stopped and looked around me.
The view was indeed superb—from the leafy bosom of the valley, the
green hills like smooth, undulating billows rolled upward, till their
emerald verdure was lost in the dense purple shadows and tall peaks of
the Apennines; the town of Avellino lay at my feet, small yet clearly
defined as a miniature painting on porcelain; and a little further
beyond and above me rose the gray tower of the Monte Vergine itself,
the one sad and solitary-looking object in all the luxuriant riante
landscape.
I sat down to rest, not as an intruder on the angel’s
flower-embroidered throne, but on a grassy knoll close by. And then I
bethought me of a packet I had received from Naples that morning—a
packet that I desired yet hesitated to open. It had been sent by the
Marquis D’Avencourt, accompanied by a courteous letter, which informed
me that Ferrari’s body had been privately buried with all the last
religious rites in the cemetery, “close to the funeral vault of the
Romani family,” wrote D’Avencourt, “as, from all we can hear or
discover, such seems to have been his own desire. He was, it appears, a
sort of adopted brother of the lately deceased count, and on being
informed of this circumstance, we buried him in accordance with the
sentiments he would no doubt have expressed had he considered the
possible nearness of his own end at the time of the combat.”
With regard to the packet inclosed, D’Avencourt continued—“The
accompanying letters were found in Ferrari’s breast-pocket, and on
opening the first one, in the expectation of finding some clew as to
his last wishes, we came to the conclusion that you, as the future
husband of the lady whose signature and handwriting you will here
recognize, should be made aware of the contents, not only for your own
sake, but in justice to the deceased. If all the letters are of the
same tone as the one I unknowingly opened, I have no doubt Ferrari
considered himself a sufficiently injured man. But of that you will
judge for yourself, though, if I might venture so far in the way of
friendship, I should recommend you to give careful consideration to the
inclosed correspondence before tying the matrimonial knot to which you
alluded the other evening. It is not wise to walk on the edge of a
precipice with one’s eyes shut! Captain Ciabatti was the first to
inform me of what I now know for a fact—namely, that Ferrari left a
will in which everything he possessed is made over unconditionally to
the Countess Romani. You will of course draw your own conclusions, and
pardon me if I am guilty of _trop de zele_ in your service. I have now
only to tell you that all the unpleasantness of this affair is passing
over very smoothly and without scandal—I have taken care of that. You
need not prolong your absence further than you feel inclined, and I,
for one, shall be charmed to welcome you back to Naples. With every
sentiment of the highest consideration and regard, I am, my dear
_conte_,
“Your very true friend and servitor,
“PHILIPPE D’AVENCOURT.”
I folded this letter carefully and put it aside. The little package he
had sent me lay in my hand—a bundle of neatly folded letters tied
together with a narrow ribbon, and strongly perfumed with the faint
sickly perfume I knew and abhorred. I turned them over and over; the
edges of the note-paper were stained with blood—Guido’s blood—as though
in its last sluggish flowing it had endeavored to obliterate all traces
of the daintily penned lines that now awaited my perusal. Slowly I
untied the ribbon. With methodical deliberation I read one letter after
the other. They were all from Nina—all written to Guido while he was in
Rome, some of them bearing the dates of the very days when she had
feigned to love _me_—me, her newly accepted husband. One very amorous
epistle had been written on the self-same evening she had plighted her
troth to me! Letters burning and tender, full of the most passionate
protestations of fidelity, overflowing with the sweetest terms of
endearment; with such a ring of truth and love throughout them that
surely it was no wonder that Guido’s suspicions were all unawakened,
and that he had reason to believe himself safe in his fool’s paradise.
One passage in this poetical and romantic correspondence fixed my
attention: it ran thus:
“Why do you write so much of marriage to me, Guido _mio_? it seems to
my mind that all the joy of loving will be taken from us when once the
hard world knows of our passion. If you become my husband you will
assuredly cease to be my lover, and that would break my heart. Ah, my
best beloved! I desire you to be my lover always, as you were when
Fabio lived—why bring commonplace matrimony into the heaven of such a
passion as ours?”
I studied these words attentively. Of course I understood their drift.
She had tried to feel her way with the dead man. She had wanted to
marry me, and yet retain Guido for her lonely hours, as “her lover
always!” Such a pretty, ingenious plan it was! No thief, no murderer
ever laid more cunning schemes than she, but the law looks after
thieves and murderers. For such a woman as this, law says, “Divorce
her—that is your best remedy.” Divorce her! Let the criminal go
scot-free! Others may do it that choose—I have different ideas of
justice!
Tying up the packet of letters again, with their sickening perfume and
their blood-stained edges, I drew out the last graciously worded
missive I had received from Nina. Of course I heard from her every
day—she was a most faithful correspondent! The same affectionate
expressions characterized her letters to me as those that had deluded
her dead lover—with this difference, that whereas she inveighed much
against the prosiness of marriage to Guido, to me she drew the much
touching pictures of her desolate condition: how lonely she had felt
since her “dear husband’s” death, how rejoiced she was to think that
she was soon again to be a happy wife—the wife of one so noble, so
true, so devoted as I was! She had left the convent and was now at
home—when should she have the happiness of welcoming me, her best
beloved Cesare, back to Naples? She certainly deserved some credit for
artistic lying; I could not understand how she managed it so well.
Almost I admired her skill, as one sometimes admires a cool-headed
burglar, who has more skill, cunning, and pluck than his comrades. I
thought with triumph that though the wording of Ferrari’s will enabled
her to secure all other letters she might have written to him, this one
little packet of documentary evidence was more than sufficient for _my_
purposes. And I resolved to retain it in my own keeping till the time
came for me to use it against her.
And how about D’Avencourt’s friendly advice concerning the matrimonial
knot? “A man should not walk on the edge of a precipice with his eyes
shut.” Very true. But if his eyes are open, and he has his enemy by the
throat, the edge of a precipice is a convenient position for hurling
that enemy down to death in a quiet way, that the world need know
nothing of! So for the present I preferred the precipice to walking on
level ground.
I rose from my seat near the Punto d’Angelo. It was growing late in the
afternoon. From the little church below me soft bells rang out the
Angelus, and with them chimed in a solemn and harsher sound from the
turret of the Monte Vergine. I lifted my hat with the customary
reverence, and stood listening, with my feet deep in the grass and
scented thyme, and more than once glanced up at the height whereon the
venerable sanctuary held its post, like some lonely old god of memory
brooding over vanished years. There, according to tradition, was once
celebrated the worship of the many-breasted Cybele; down that very
slope of grass dotted with violets had rushed the howling, naked
priests beating their discordant drums and shrieking their laments for
the loss of Atys, the beautiful youth, their goddess’s paramour.
Infidelity again!—even in this ancient legend, what did Cybele care for
old Saturn, whose wife she was? Nothing, less than nothing!—and her
adorers worshiped not her chastity, but her faithlessness; it is the
way of the world to this day!
The bells ceased ringing; I descended the hill and returned homeward
through a shady valley, full of the odor of pines and bog-myrtle. On
reaching the gate of the _Signora_ Monti’s humble yet picturesque
dwelling, I heard the sound of laughter and clapping of hands, and
looking in the direction of the orchard, I saw Vincenzo hard at work,
his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, splitting some goodly logs
of wood, while Lilla stood beside him, merrily applauding and
encouraging his efforts. He seemed quite in his element, and wielded
his ax with a regularity and vigor I should scarcely have expected from
a man whom I was accustomed to see performing the somewhat effeminate
duties of a _valet-de-chambre_. I watched him and the fair girl beside
him for a few moments, myself unperceived.
If this little budding romance were left alone it would ripen into a
flower, and Vincenzo would be a happier man than his master. He was a
true Tuscan, from the very way he handled his wood-ax; I could see that
he loved the life of the hills and fields—the life of a simple farmer
and fruit-grower, full of innocent enjoyments, as sweet as the ripe
apples in his orchard. I could foresee his future with Lilla beside
him. He would have days of unwearying contentment, rendered beautiful
by the free fresh air and the fragrance of flowers—his evenings would
slip softly by to the tinkle of the mandolin, and the sound of his wife
and children’s singing.
What fairer fate could a man desire?—what life more certain to keep
health in the body and peace in the mind? Could I not help him to his
happiness, I wondered? I, who had grown stern with long brooding upon
my vengeance—could I not aid in bringing joy to others! If I could, my
mind would be somewhat lightened of its burden—a burden grown heavier
since Guide’s death, for from his blood had sprung forth a new group of
Furies, that lashed me on to my task with scorpion whips of redoubled
wrath and passionate ferocity. Yet if I could do one good action
now—would it not be as a star shining in the midst of my soul’s storm
and darkness? Just then Lilla laughed—how sweetly!—the laugh of a very
young child. What amused her now? I looked, and saw that she had taken
the ax from Vincenzo, and lifting it in her little hands, was
endeavoring bravely to imitate his strong and telling stroke; he
meanwhile stood aside with an air of smiling superiority, mingled with
a good deal of admiration for the slight active figure arrayed in the
blue kirtle and scarlet bodice, on which the warm rays of the late sun
fell with so much amorous tenderness. Poor little Lilla! A penknife
would have made as much impression as her valorous blows produced on
the inflexible, gnarled, knotty old stump she essayed to split in
twain. Flushed and breathless with her efforts, she looked prettier
than ever, and at last, baffled, she resigned her ax to Vincenzo,
laughing gayly at her incapacity for wood-cutting, and daintily shaking
her apron free from the chips and dust, till a call from her mother
caused her to run swiftly into the house, leaving Vincenzo working away
as arduously as ever. I went up to him; he saw me approaching, and
paused in his labors with an air of slight embarrassment.
“You like this sort of work, _amico_?” I said, gently.
“An old habit, _eccellenza_—nothing more. It reminds me of the days of
my youth, when I worked for my mother. Ah! a pleasant place it was—the
old home just above Fiesole.” His eyes grew pensive and sad. “It is all
gone now—finished. That was before I became a soldier. But one thinks
of it sometimes.”
“I understand. And no doubt you would be glad to return to the life of
your boyhood?”
He looked a little startled.
“Not to leave _you_, _eccellenza_!”
I smiled rather sadly. “Not to leave _me_? Not if you wedded Lilla
Monti?”
His olive cheek flushed, but he shook his head.
“Impossible! She would not listen to me. She is a child.”
“She will soon be a woman, believe me! A little more of your company
will make her so. But there is plenty of time. She is beautiful, as you
said: and something better than that, she is innocent—think of that,
Vincenzo! Do you know how rare a thing innocence is—in a woman? Respect
it as you respect God; let her young life be sacred to you.”
He glanced upward reverently.
“_Eccellenza_, I would as soon tear the Madonna from her altars as vex
or frighten Lilla!”
I smiled and said no more, but turned into the house. From that moment
I resolved to let this little love-idyll have a fair chance of success.
Therefore I remained at Avellino much longer than I had at first
intended, not for my own sake, but for Vincenzo’s. He served me
faithfully; he should have his reward. I took a pleasure in noticing
that my efforts to promote his cause were not altogether wasted. I
spoke with Lilla often on indifferent matters that interested her, and
watched her constantly when she was all unaware of my observant gaze.
With me she was as frank and fearless as a tame robin; but after some
days I found that she grew shy of mentioning the name of Vincenzo, that
she blushed when he approached her, that she was timid of asking him to
do anything for her; and from all these little signs I knew her mind,
as one knows by the rosy streaks in the sky that the sunrise is near.
One afternoon I called the _Signora_ Monti to my room. She came,
surprised, and a little anxious. Was anything wrong with the service? I
reassured her housewifely scruples, and came to the point at once.
“I would speak to you of your child, the little Lilla,” I said, kindly.
“Have you ever thought that she may marry?”
Her dark bold eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered.
“Truly I have,” she replied with a wistful sadness; “but I have prayed,
perhaps foolishly, that she would not leave me yet. I love her so well;
she is always a babe to me, so small and sweet! I put the thought of
her marriage from me as a sorrowful thing.”
“I understand your feeling,” I said. “Still, suppose your daughter
wedded a man who would be to you as a son, and who would not part her
from you?—for instance, let us say Vincenzo?”
_Signora_ Monti smiled through her tears.
“Vincenzo! He is a good lad, a very good lad, and I love him; but he
does not think of Lilla—he is devoted to the _eccellenza_.”
“I am aware of his devotion,” I answered. “Still I believe you will
find out soon that he loves your Lilla. At present he says nothing—he
fears to offend you and alarm her; but his eyes speak—so do hers. You
are a good woman, a good mother; watch them both, you will soon tell
whether love is between them or no. And see,” here I handed her a
sealed envelope, “in this you will find notes to the amount of four
thousand francs.” She uttered a little cry of amazement. “It is Lilla’s
dowry, whoever she marries, though I think she will marry Vincenzo.
Nay—no thanks, money is of no value to me; and this is the one pleasure
I have had for many weary months. Think well of Vincenzo—he is an
excellent fellow. And all I ask of you is, that you keep this little
dowry a secret till the day of your fair child’s espousals.”
Before I could prevent her the enthusiastic woman had seized my hand
and kissed it. Then she lifted her head with the proud free-born
dignity of a Roman matron; her broad bosom heaved, and her strong voice
quivered with suppressed emotion.
“I thank you, _signor_,” she said, simply, “for Lilla’s sake! Not that
my little one needs more than her mother’s hands have toiled for,
thanks be to the blessed saints who have had us both in their keeping!
But this is a special blessing of God sent through your hands, and I
should be unworthy of all prosperity were I not grateful. _Eccellenza_,
pardon me, but my eyes are quick to see that you have suffered sorrow.
Good actions lighten grief! We will pray for your happiness, Lilla and
I, till the last breath leaves our lips. Believe it—the name of our
benefactor shall be lifted to the saints night and morning, and who
knows but good may come of it!”
I smiled faintly.
“Good will come of it, my excellent _signora_, though I am all unworthy
of your prayers. Rather pray,” and I sighed heavily, “for the dead,
‘that they may be loosed from their sins.’”
The good woman looked at me with a sort of kindly pity mingled with
awe, then murmuring once more her thanks and blessing, she left the
room. A few minutes afterward Vincenzo entered. I addressed him
cheerfully.
“Absence is the best test of love, Vincenzo; prepare all for our
departure! We shall leave Avellino the day after to-morrow.”
And so we did. Lilla looked slightly downcast, but Vincenzo seemed
satisfied, and I augured from their faces, and from the mysterious
smile of _Signora_ Monti, that all was going well. I left the beautiful
mountain town with regret, knowing I should see it no more. I touched
Lilla’s fair cheek lightly at parting, and took what I knew was my last
look into the sweet candid young face. Yet the consciousness that I had
done some little good gave my tired heart a sense of satisfaction and
repose—a feeling I had not experienced since I died and rose again from
the dead.
On the last day of January I returned to Naples, after an absence of
more than a month, and was welcomed back by all my numerous
acquaintance with enthusiasm. The Marquis D’Avencourt had informed me
rightly—the affair of the duel was a thing of the past—an almost
forgotten circumstance. The carnival was in full riot, the streets were
scenes of fantastic mirth and revelry; there was music and song,
dancing and masquerading, and feasting. But I withdrew from the tumult
of merriment, and absorbed myself in the necessary preparations for—my
marriage.