He soon roused himself from his pleasant reverie, and drawing his chair
closer to mine, assumed an air of mystery.
“And for your friend who is in trouble,” he said, in a confidential
tone, then paused and looked at me as though waiting permission to
proceed.
I nodded.
“Go on, _amico_. What have you arranged?”
“Everything!” he announced, with an air of triumph. “All is smooth
sailing. At six o’clock on Friday morning the ‘_Rondinella_,’ that is
the brig I told you of, _eccellenza_, will weigh anchor for Civita
Vecchia. Her captain, old Antonio Bardi, will wait ten minutes or even
a quarter of an hour if necessary for the—the—”
“Passenger,” I supplemented. “Very amiable of him, but he will not need
to delay his departure for a single instant beyond the appointed hour.
Is he satisfied with the passage money?”
“Satisfied!” and Andrea swore a good-natured oath and laughed aloud.
“By San Pietro! if he were not, he would deserve to drown like a dog on
the voyage! Though truly, it is always difficult to please him, he
being old and cross and crusty. Yes; he is one of those men who have
seen so much of life that they are tired of it. Believe it! even the
stormiest sea is a tame fish-pond to old Bardi. But he is satisfied
this time, _eccellenza_, and his tongue and eyes are so tied up that I
should not wonder if your friend found him to be both dumb and blind
when he steps on board.”
“That is well,” I said, smiling. “I owe you many thanks, Andrea. And
yet there is one more favor I would ask of you.”
He saluted me with a light yet graceful gesture.
“_Eccellenza_, anything I can do—command me.”
“It is a mere trifle,” I returned. “It is merely to take a small valise
belonging to my friend, and to place it on board the ‘_Rondinella_’
under the care of the captain. Will you do this?”
“Most willingly. I will take it now if it so please you.”
“That is what I desire. Wait here and I will bring it to you.”
And leaving him for a minute or two, I went into my bedroom and took
from a cupboard I always kept locked a common rough leather bag, which
I had secretly packed myself, unknown to Vincenzo, with such things as
I judged to be useful and necessary. Chief among them was a bulky roll
of bank-notes. These amounted to nearly the whole of the remainder of
the money I had placed in the bank at Palermo. I had withdrawn it by
gradual degrees, leaving behind only a couple of thousand francs, for
which I had no special need. I locked and strapped the valise; there
was no name on it and it was scarcely any weight to carry. I took it to
Andrea, who swung it easily in his right hand and said, smilingly:
“Your friend is not wealthy, _eccellenza_, if this is all his luggage!”
“You are right,” I answered, with a slight sigh; “he is truly very
poor—beggared of everything that should be his through the treachery of
those whom he has benefited.” I paused; Andrea was listening
sympathetically. “That is why I have paid his passage-money, and have
done my best to aid him.”
“Ah! you have the good heart, _eccellenza_,” murmured the Sicilian,
thoughtfully. “Would there were more like you! Often when fortune gives
a kick to a man, nothing will suit but that all who see him must kick
him also. And thus the _povero diavolo_ dies of so many kicks, often!
This friend of yours is young, _senza dubbio_?”
“Yes, quite young, not yet thirty.”
“It is as if you were a father to him!” exclaimed Andrea,
enthusiastically. “I hope he may be truly grateful to you,
_eccellenza_.”
“I hope so too,” I said, unable to resist a smile. “And now, _amico_,
take this,” and I pressed a small sealed packet into his hand. “It is
for yourself. Do not open it till you are at home with the mother you
love so well, and the little maiden you spoke of by your side. If its
contents please you, as I believe they will, think that _I_ am also
rendered happier by your happiness.”
His dark eyes sparkled with gratitude as I spoke, and setting the
valise he held down on the ground, he stretched out his hand half
timidly, half frankly. I shook it warmly and bade him farewell.
“_Per Bacco_!” he said, with a sort of shamefaced eagerness, “the very
devil must have caught my tongue in his fingers! There is something I
ought to say to you, _eccellenza_, but for my life I cannot find the
right words. I must thank you better when I see you next.”
“Yes,” I answered, dreamily and somewhat wearily, “when you see me
next, Andrea, you shall thank me if you will; but believe me, I need no
thanks.”
And thus we parted, never to meet again—he to the strong glad life that
is born of the wind and sea, and I to—. But let me not anticipate. Step
by step through the labyrinths of memory let me go over the old ground
watered with blood and tears, not missing one sharp stone of detail on
the drear pathway leading to the bitter end.
That same evening I had an interview with Vincenzo. He was melancholy
and taciturn—a mood which was the result of an announcement I had
previously made to him—namely, that his services would not be required
during my wedding-trip. He had hoped to accompany me and to occupy the
position of courier, valet, major-domo, and generally confidential
attendant—a hope which had partially soothed the vexation he had
evidently felt at the notion of my marrying at all.
His plans were now frustrated, and if ever the good-natured fellow
could be ill-tempered, he was assuredly so on this occasion. He stood
before me with his usual respectful air, but he avoided my glance, and
kept his eyes studiously fixed on the pattern of the carpet. I
addressed him with an air of gayety.
“_Ebbene_, Vincenzo! Joy comes at last, you see, even to me! To-morrow
I shall wed the Countess Romani—the loveliest and perhaps the richest
woman in Naples!”
“I know it, _eccellenza_.”
This with the same obstinately fixed countenance and downward look.
“You are not very pleased, I think, at the prospect of my happiness?” I
asked, banteringly.
He glanced up for an instant, then as quickly down again.
“If one could be sure that the _illustrissimo eccellenza_ was indeed
happy, that would be a good thing,” he answered, dubiously.
“And are you not sure?”
He paused, then replied firmly:
“No; the _eccellenza_ does not look happy. _No, no, davvero_! He has
the air of being sorrowful and ill, both together.”
I shrugged my shoulders indifferently.
“You mistake me, Vincenzo. I am well—very well—and happy! _Gran Dio_!
who could be happier? But what of my health or happiness?—they are
nothing to me, and should be less to you. Listen; I have something I
wish you to do for me.”
He gave me a sidelong and half-expectant glance. I went on:
“To-morrow evening I want you to go to Avellino.”
He was utterly astonished.
“To Avellino!” he murmured under his breath, “to Avellino!”
“Yes, to Avellino,” I repeated, somewhat impatiently. “Is there
anything so surprising in that? You will take a letter from me to the
_Signora_ Monti. Look you, Vincenzo, you have been faithful and
obedient so far, I expect implicit fidelity and obedience still. You
will not be needed here to-morrow after the marriage ball has once
begun; you can take the nine o’clock train to Avellino, and—understand
me—you will remain there till you receive further news from me. You
will not have to wait long, and in the mean time,” here I smiled, “you
can make love to Lilla.”
Vincenzo did not return the smile.
“But—but,” he stammered, sorely perplexed—“if I go to Avellino I cannot
wait upon the _eccellenza_. There is the portmanteau to pack—and who
will see to the luggage when you leave on Friday morning for Rome?
And—and—I had thought to see you to the station—” He stopped, his
vexation was too great to allow him to proceed.
I laughed gently.
“How many more trifles can you think of, my friend, in opposition to my
wishes? As for the portmanteau, you can pack it this very day if you so
please—then it will be in readiness. The rest of your duties can for
once be performed by others. It is not only important, but imperative
that you should go to Avellino on my errand. I want you to take this
with you,” and I tapped a small square iron box, heavily made and
strongly padlocked, which stood on the table near me.
He glanced at the box, but still hesitated, and the gloom on his
countenance deepened. I grew a little annoyed.
“What is the matter with you?” I said at last with some sternness. “You
have something on your mind—speak out!”
The fear of my wrath startled him. He looked up with a bewildered pain
in his eyes, and spoke, his mellow Tuscan voice vibrating with his own
eloquent entreaty.
“_Eccellenza_!” he exclaimed, eagerly, “you must forgive me—yes,
forgive your poor servant who seems too bold, and who yet is true to
you—yes, indeed, so true!—and who would go with you to death if there
were need! I am not blind, I can see your sufferings, for you do
suffer, _’lustrissimo_, though you hide it well. Often have I watched
you when you have not known it. I feel that you have what we call a
wound in the heart, bleeding, bleeding always. Such a thing means death
often, as much as a straight shot in battle. Let me watch over you,
_eccellenza_; let me stay with you! I have learned to love you! Ah,
_mio signor_,” and he drew nearer and caught my hand timidly, “you do
not know—how should you?—the look that is in your face sometimes, the
look of one who is stunned by a hard blow. I have said to myself ‘That
look will kill me if I see it often.’ And your love for this great
lady, whom you will wed to-morrow, has not lightened your soul as love
should lighten it. No! you are even sadder than before, and the look I
speak of comes ever again and again. Yes, I have watched you, and
lately I have seen you writing, writing far into the night, when you
should have slept. Ah, _signor_! you are angry, and I know I should not
have spoken; but tell me, how can I look at Lilla and be happy when I
feel that you are alone and sad?”
I stopped the flood of his eloquence by a mute gesture and withdrew my
hand from his clasp.
“I am not angry,” I said, with quiet steadiness, and yet with something
of coldness, though my whole nature, always highly sensitive, was
deeply stirred by the rapid, unstudied expressions of affection that
melted so warmly from his lips in the liquid music of the mellow Tuscan
tongue. “No, I am not angry, but I am sorry to have been the object of
so much solicitude on your part. Your pity is misplaced, Vincenzo, it
is indeed! Pity an emperor clad in purples and seated on a throne of
pure gold, but do not pity _me_! I tell you that, to-morrow, yes,
to-morrow, I shall obtain all that I have ever sought—my greatest
desire will be fulfilled. Believe it. No man has ever been so
thoroughly satiated with—satisfaction—as I shall be!”
Then seeing him look still sad and incredulous, I clapped my hand on
his shoulder and smiled.
“Come, come, _amico_, wear a merrier face for my bridal day, or you
will not deserve to wed Lilla. I thank you from my heart,” and I spoke
more gravely, “for your well meant care and kindness, but I assure you
there is nothing wrong with me. I am well—perfectly well—and happy. It
is understood that you go to Avellino to-morrow evening?”
Vincenzo sighed, but was passive.
“It must be as the _eccellenza_ pleases,” he murmured, resignedly.
“That is well,” I answered, good-humoredly; “and as you know my
pleasure, take care that nothing interferes with your departure.
And—one word more—you must cease to watch me. Plainly speaking, I do
not choose to be under your surveillance. Nay—I am not offended, far
from it, fidelity and devotion are excellent virtues, but in the
present case I prefer obedience—strict, implicit obedience. Whatever I
may do, whether I sleep or wake, walk or sit still—attend to _your_
duties and pay no heed to _my_ actions. So will you best serve me—you
understand?”
“_Si, signor_!” and the poor fellow sighed again, and reddened with his
own inward confusion. “You will pardon me, _eccellenza_, for my freedom
of speech? I feel I have done wrong—”
“I pardon you for what in this world is never pardoned—excess of love,”
I answered, gently. “Knowing you love me, I ask you to obey me in my
present wishes, and thus we shall always be friends.”
His face brightened at these last words, and his thoughts turned in a
new direction. He glanced at the iron box I had before pointed out to
him.
“That is to go to Avellino, _eccellenza_?” he asked, with more alacrity
than he had yet shown.
“Yes,” I answered. “You will place it in the hands of the good
_Signora_ Monti, for whom I have a great respect. She will take care of
it till—I return.”
“Your commands shall be obeyed, _signor_,” he said, rapidly, as though
eager to atone for his past hesitation. “After all,” and he smiled, “it
will be pleasant to see Lilla; she will be interested, too, to hear the
account of the _eccellenza_’s marriage.”
And somewhat consoled by the prospect of the entertainment his
unlooked-for visit would give to the charming little maiden of his
choice, he left me, and shortly afterward I heard him humming a popular
love-song softly under his breath, while he busied himself in packing
my portmanteau for the honeymoon trip—a portmanteau destined never to
be used or opened by its owner.
That night, contrary to my usual habit, I lingered long over my dinner;
at its close I poured out a full glass of fine Lacrima Cristi, and
secretly mixing with it a dose of a tasteless but powerful opiate, I
called my valet and bade him drink it and wish me joy. He did so
readily, draining the contents to the last drop. It was a tempestuous
night; there was a high wind, broken through by heavy sweeping gusts of
rain. Vincenzo cleared the dinner-table, yawning visibly as he did so,
then taking my out-door paletot on his arm, he went to his bedroom, a
small one adjoining mine, for the purpose of brushing it, according to
his customary method. I opened a book, and pretending to be absorbed in
its contents, I waited patiently for about half an hour.
At the expiration of that time I stole softly to his door and looked
in. It was as I had expected; overcome by the sudden and heavy action
of the opiate, he had thrown himself on his bed, and was slumbering
profoundly, the unbrushed overcoat by his side. Poor fellow! I smiled
as I watched him; the faithful dog was chained, and could not follow my
steps for that night at least.
I left him thus, and wrapping myself in a thick Almaviva that muffled
me almost to the eyes, I hurried out, fortunately meeting no one on my
way—out into the storm and darkness, toward the Campo Santo, the abode
of the all-wise though speechless dead. I had work to do there—work
that must be done. I knew that if I had not taken the precaution of
drugging my too devoted servitor, he might, despite his protestations,
have been tempted to track me whither I went. As it was, I felt myself
safe, for four hours must pass, I knew, before Vincenzo could awake
from his lethargy. And I was absent for some time.
Though I performed my task as quickly as might be, it took me longer
than I thought, and filled me with more loathing and reluctance than I
had deemed possible. It was a grewsome, ghastly piece of work—a work of
preparation—and when I had finished it entirely to my satisfaction, I
felt as though the bony fingers of death itself had been plunged into
my very marrow. I shivered with cold, my limbs would scarce bear me
upright, and my teeth chattered as though I were seized by strong ague.
But the fixity of my purpose strengthened me till all was done—till the
stage was set for the last scene of the tragedy. Or comedy? What you
will! I know that in the world nowadays you make a husband’s dishonor
more of a whispered jest than anything else—you and your heavy
machinery of the law. But to me—I am so strangely constituted—dishonor
is a bitterer evil than death. If all those who are deceived and
betrayed felt thus, then justice would need to become more just. It is
fortunate—for the lawyers—that we are not all honorable men!
When I returned from my dreary walk in the driving storm I found
Vincenzo still fast asleep. I was glad of this, for had he seen me in
the plight I was, he would have had good reason to be alarmed
concerning both my physical and mental condition. Perceiving myself in
the glass, I recoiled as from an image of horror. I saw a man with
haunted, hungry eyes gleaming out from under a mass of disordered white
hair, his pale, haggard face set and stern as the face of a merciless
inquisitor of old Spain, his dark cloak dripping with glittering
raindrops, his hands and nails stained as though he had dug them into
the black earth, his boots heavy with mire and clay, his whole aspect
that of one who had been engaged in some abhorrent deed, too repulsive
to be named. I stared at my own reflection thus and shuddered; then I
laughed softly with a sort of fierce enjoyment. Quickly I threw off all
my soiled habiliments, and locked them out of sight, and arraying
myself in dressing-gown and slippers, I glanced at the time. It was
half-past one—already the morning of my bridal. I had been absent three
hours and a half. I went into my salon and remained there writing. A
few minutes after two o’clock had struck the door opened noiselessly,
and Vincenzo, looking still very sleepy, appeared with an expression of
inquiring anxiety. He smiled drowsily, and seemed relieved to see me
sitting quietly in my accustomed place at the writing-table. I surveyed
him with an air of affected surprise.
“_Ebbene_, Vincenzo! What has become of you all this while?”
“_Eccellenza_,” he stammered, “it was the Lacrima; I am not used to
wine! I have been asleep.”
I laughed, pretended to stifle a yawn on my own account, and rose from
my easy-chair.
“_Veramente_,” I said, lightly, “so have I, very nearly! And if I would
appear as a gay bridegroom, it is time I went to bed. _Buona notte_.”
“_Buona notte, signor_.”
And we severally retired to rest, he satisfied that I had been in my
own room all the evening, and I, thinking with a savage joy at my heart
of what I had prepared out there in the darkness, with no witnesses of
my work save the whirling wind and rain.