The ball opened brilliantly. The rooms were magnificently decorated,
and the soft luster of a thousand lamps shone on a scene of splendor
almost befitting the court of a king. Some of the stateliest nobles in
all Italy were present, their breasts glittering with jeweled orders
and ribbons of honor; some of the loveliest women to be seen anywhere
in the world flitted across the polished floors, like poets’ dreams of
the gliding sylphs that haunt rivers and fountains by moonlight.
But fairest where all were fair, peerless in the exuberance of her
triumphant vanity, and in the absolute faultlessness of her delicate
charms, was my wife—the bride of the day, the heroine of the night.
Never had she looked so surpassingly beautiful, and I, even I, felt my
pulse beat quicker, and the blood course more hotly through my veins,
as I beheld her, radiant, victorious, and smiling—a veritable queen of
the fairies, as dainty as a drop of dew, as piercing to the eye as a
flash of light. Her dress was some wonderful mingling of misty lace,
with the sheen of satin and glimmering showers of pearl; diamonds
glittered on her bodice like sunlight on white foam; the brigand’s
jewels flashed gloriously on her round white throat and in her tiny
shell-like ears, while the masses of her gold hair were coiled to the
top of her small head and there caught by a priceless circlet of
rose-brilliants—brilliants that I well remembered—they had belonged to
my mother. Yet more lustrous than the light of the gems she wore was
the deep, ardent glory of her eyes, dark as night and luminous as
stars; more delicate than the filmy robes that draped her was the pure,
pearl-like whiteness of her neck, which was just sufficiently displayed
to be graceful without suggesting immodesty.
For Italian women do not uncover their bosoms for the casual inspection
of strangers, as is the custom of their English and German sisters;
they know well enough that any lady venturing to wear a decollete dress
would find it impossible to obtain admittance to a court ball at the
Palazzo Quirinale. She would be looked upon as one of a questionable
class, and no matter how high her rank and station, would run the risk
of ejection from the doors, as on one occasion did unfortunately happen
to an English peeress, who, ignorant of Italian customs, went to an
evening reception in Rome arrayed in a very low bodice with straps
instead of sleeves. Her remonstrances were vain; she was politely but
firmly refused admittance, though told she might gain her point by
changing her costume, which I believe she wisely did.
Some of the _grandes dames_ present at the ball that night wore dresses
the like of which are seldom or never seen out of Italy—robes sown with
jewels, and thick with wondrous embroidery, such as have been handed
down from generation to generation through hundreds of years. As an
example of this, the Duchess of Marina’s cloth of gold train, stitched
with small rubies and seed-pearls, had formerly belonged to the family
of Lorenzo de Medici. Such garments as these, when they are part of the
property of a great house, are worn only on particular occasions,
perhaps once in a year; and then they are laid carefully by and
sedulously protected from dust and moths and damp, receiving as much
attention as the priceless pictures and books of a famous historical
mansion. Nothing ever designed by any great modern tailor or milliner
can hope to compete with the magnificent workmanship and durable
material of the _festa_ dresses that are locked preciously away in the
old oaken coffers of the greatest Italian families—dresses that are
beyond valuation, because of the romances and tragedies attached to
them, and which, when worn, make all the costliest fripperies of to-day
look flimsy and paltry beside them, like the attempts of a servant to
dress as tastefully as her mistress.
Such glitter of gold and silver, such scintillations from the burning
eyes of jewels, such cloud-like wreaths of floating laces, such subtle
odors of rare and exquisite perfume, all things that most keenly prick
and stimulate the senses were round me in fullest force this night—this
one dazzling, supreme and terrible night, that was destined to burn
into my brain like a seal of scorching fire. Yes; till I die, that
night will remain with me as though it were a breathing, sentient
thing; and after death, who knows whether it may not uplift itself in
some tangible, awful shape, and confront me with its flashing
mock-luster, and the black heart of its true meaning in its menacing
eyes, to take its drear place by the side of my abandoned soul through
all eternity! I remember now how I shivered and started out of the
bitter reverie into which I had fallen at the sound of my wife’s low,
laughing voice.
“You must dance, Cesare,” she said, with a mischievous smile. “You are
forgetting your duties. You should open the ball with me!”
I rose at once mechanically.
“What dance is it?” I asked, forcing a smile. “I fear you will find me
but a clumsy partner.”
She pouted.
“Oh, surely not! You are not going to disgrace me—you really must try
and dance properly just this once. It will look so stupid if you make
any mistake. The band was going to play a quadrille; I would not have
it, and told them to strike up the Hungarian waltz instead. But I
assure you I shall never forgive you if you waltz badly—nothing looks
so awkward and absurd.”
I made no answer, but placed my arm round her waist and stood ready to
begin. I avoided looking at her as much as possible, for it was growing
more and more difficult with each moment that passed to hold the
mastery over myself. I was consumed between hate and love. Yes,
love!—of an evil kind, I own, and in which there was no shred of
reverence—filled me with a sort of foolish fury, which mingled itself
with another and manlier craving, namely, to proclaim her vileness then
and there before all her titled and admiring friends, and to leave her
shamed in the dust of scorn, despised and abandoned. Yet I knew well
that were I to speak out—to declare my history and hers before that
brilliant crowd—I should be accounted mad, and that for a woman such as
she there existed no shame.
The swinging measure of the slow Hungarian waltz, that most witching of
dances, danced perfectly only by those of the warm-blooded southern
temperament, now commenced. It was played pianissimo, and stole through
the room like the fluttering breath of a soft sea wind. I had always
been an excellent waltzer, and my step had fitted in with that of Nina
as harmoniously as the two notes of a perfect chord. She found it so on
this occasion, and glanced up with a look of gratified surprise as I
bore her lightly with languorous, dreamlike ease of movement through
the glittering ranks of our guests, who watched us admiringly as we
circled the room two or three times.
Then—all present followed our lead, and in a couple of minutes the
ball-room was like a moving flower-garden in full bloom, rich with
swaying colors and rainbow-like radiance; while the music, growing
stronger, and swelling out in marked and even time, echoed forth like
the sound of clear-toned bells broken through by the singing of birds.
My heart beat furiously, my brain reeled, my senses swam as I felt my
wife’s warm breath on my cheek; I clasped her waist more closely, I
held her little gloved hand more firmly. She felt the double pressure,
and, lifting her white eyelids fringed with those long dark lashes that
gave such a sleepy witchery to her eyes, her lips parted in a little
smile.
“At last you love me!” she whispered.
“At last, at last,” I muttered, scarce knowing what I said. “Had I not
loved you at first, _bellissima_, I should not have been to you what I
am to-night.”
A low ripple of laughter was her response.
“I knew it,” she murmured again, half breathlessly, as I drew her with
swifter and more voluptuous motion into the vortex of the dancers. “You
tried to be cold, but I knew I could make you love me—yes, love me
passionately—and I was right.” Then with an outburst of triumphant
vanity she added, “I believe you would die for me!”
I bent over her more closely. My hot quick breath moved the feathery
gold of her hair.
“I _have_ died for you,” I said; “I have killed my old self for your
sake.”
Dancing still, encircled by my arms, and gliding along like a sea-nymph
on moonlighted foam, she sighed restlessly.
“Tell me what you mean, _amor mio_,” she asked, in the tenderest tone
in the world.
Ah, God! that tender seductive cadence of her voice, how well I knew
it!—how often had it lured away my strength, as the fabled siren’s song
had been wont to wreck the listening mariner.
“I mean that you have changed me, sweetest!” I whispered, in fierce,
hurried accents. “I have seemed old—for you to-night I will be young
again—for you my chilled slow blood shall again be hot and quick as
lava—for you my long-buried past shall rise in all its pristine vigor;
for you I will be a lover, such as perhaps no woman ever had or ever
will have again!”
She heard, and nestled closer to me in the dance. My words pleased her.
Next to her worship of wealth her delight was to arouse the passions of
men. She was very panther-like in her nature—her first tendency was to
devour, her next to gambol with any animal she met, though her sleek,
swift playfulness might mean death. She was by no means exceptional in
this; there are many women like her.
As the music of the waltz grew slower and slower, dropping down to a
sweet and persuasive conclusion, I led my wife to her fauteuil, and
resigned her to the care of a distinguished Roman prince who was her
next partner. Then, unobserved, I slipped out to make inquiries
concerning Vincenzo. He had gone; one of the waiters at the hotel, a
friend of his, had accompanied him and seen him into the train for
Avellino. He had looked in at the ball-room before leaving, and had
watched me stand up to dance with my wife, then “with tears in his
eyes”—so said the vivacious little waiter who had just returned from
the station—he had started without daring to wish me good-bye.
I heard this information of course with an apparent kindly
indifference, but in my heart I felt a sudden vacancy, a drear, strange
loneliness. With my faithful servant near me I had felt conscious of
the presence of a friend, for friend he was in his own humble,
unobtrusive fashion; but now I was alone—alone in a loneliness beyond
all conceivable comparison—alone to do my work, without prevention or
detection. I felt, as it were, isolated from humanity, set apart with
my victim on some dim point of time, from which the rest of the world
receded, where the searching eye of the Creator alone could behold me.
Only she and I and God—these three were all that existed for me in the
universe; between these three must justice be fulfilled.
Musingly, with downcast eyes, I returned to the ball-room. At the door
a young girl faced me—she was the only daughter of a great Neapolitan
house. Dressed in pure white, as all such maidens are, with a crown of
snow-drops on her dusky hair, and her dimpled face lighted with
laughter, she looked the very embodiment of early spring. She addressed
me somewhat timidly, yet with all a child’s frankness.
“Is not this delightful? I feel as if I were in fairy-land! Do you know
this is my first ball?”
I smiled wearily.
“Ay, truly? And you are happy?”
“Oh, happiness is not the word—it is ecstasy! How I wish it could last
forever! And—is it not strange?—I did not know I was beautiful till
to-night.”
She said this with perfect simplicity, and a pleased smile radiated her
fair features. I glanced at her with cold scrutiny.
“Ah! and some one has told you so.”
She blushed and laughed a little consciously.
“Yes; the great Prince de Majano. And he is too noble to say what is
not true, so I _must_ be ‘_la più bella donzella_,’ as he said, must I
not?”
I touched the snow-drops that she wore in a white cluster at her
breast.
“Look at your flowers, child,” I said, earnestly. “See how they begin
to droop in this heated air. The poor things! How glad they would feel
could they again grow in the cool wet moss of the woodlands, waving
their little bells to the wholesome, fresh wind! Would they revive now,
think you, for your great Prince de Majano if he told them they were
fair? So with your life and heart, little one—pass them through the
scorching fire of flattery, and their purity must wither even as these
fragile blossoms. And as for beauty—are you more beautiful than _she_?”
And I pointed slightly to my wife, who was at that moment courtesying
to her partner in the stately formality of the first quadrille.
My young companion looked, and her clear eyes darkened enviously.
“Ah, no, no! But if I wore such lace and satin and pearls, and had such
jewels, I might perhaps be more like her!”
I sighed bitterly. The poison had already entered this child’s soul. I
spoke brusquely.
“Pray that you may never be like her,” I said, with somber sternness,
and not heeding her look of astonishment. “You are young—you cannot yet
have thrown off religion. Well, when you go home to-night, and kneel
beside your little bed, made holy by the cross above it and your
mother’s blessing—pray—pray with all your strength that you may never
resemble in the smallest degree that exquisite woman yonder! So may you
be spared her fate.”
I paused, for the girl’s eyes were dilated in extreme wonder and fear.
I looked at her, and laughed abruptly and harshly.
“I forgot,” I said; “the lady is my wife—I should have thought of that!
I was speaking of—another whom you do not know. Pardon me! when I am
fatigued my memory wanders. Pay no attention to my foolish remarks.
Enjoy yourself, my child, but do not believe all the pretty speeches of
the Prince de Majano. _A rivederci_!”
And smiling a forced smile I left her, and mingled with the crowd of my
guests, greeting one here, another there, jesting lightly, paying
unmeaning compliments to the women who expected them, and striving to
distract my thoughts with the senseless laughter and foolish chatter of
the glittering cluster of society butterflies, all the while
desperately counting the tedious minutes, and wondering whether my
patience, so long on the rack, would last out its destined time. As I
made my way through the brilliant assemblage, Luziano Salustri, the
poet, greeted me with a grave smile.
“I have had little time to congratulate you, _conte_,” he said, in
those mellifluous accents of his which were like his own improvised
music, “but I assure you I do so with all my heart. Even in my most
fantastic dreams I have never pictured a fairer heroine of a life’s
romance than the lady who is now the Countess Oliva.”
I silently bowed my thanks.
“I am of a strange temperament, I suppose,” he resumed. “To-night this
ravishing scene of beauty and splendor makes me sad at heart, I know
not why. It seems too brilliant, too dazzling. I would as soon go home
and compose a dirge as anything.”
I laughed satirically.
“Why not do it?” I said. “You are not the first person who, being
present at a marriage, has, with perverse incongruity, meditated on a
funeral!”
A wistful look came into his brilliant poetic eyes.
“I have thought once or twice,” he remarked in a low tone, “of that
misguided young man Ferrari. A pity, was it not, that the quarrel
occurred between you?”
“A pity indeed!” I replied, brusquely. Then taking him by the arm I
turned him round so that he faced my wife, who was standing not far
off. “But look at the—the—_angel_ I have married! Is she not a fair
cause for a dispute even unto death? Fy on thee, Luziano!—why think of
Ferrari? He is not the first man who has been killed for the sake of a
woman, nor will he be the last!”
Salustri shrugged his shoulders, and was silent for a minute or two.
Then he added with his own bright smile:
“Still, _amico_, it would have been much better if it had ended in
coffee and cognac. Myself, I would rather shoot a man with an epigram
than a leaden bullet! By the way, do you remember our talking of Cain
and Abel that night?”
“Perfectly.”
“I have wondered since,” he continued half merrily, half seriously,
“whether the real cause of their quarrel has ever been rightly told. I
should not be at all surprised if one of these days some savant does
not discover a papyrus containing a missing page of Holy Writ, which
will ascribe the reason of the first bloodshed to a love affair.
Perhaps there were wood nymphs in those days, as we are assured there
were giants, and some dainty Dryad might have driven the first pair of
human brothers to desperation by her charms! What say you?”
“It is more than probable,” I answered, lightly. “Make a poem of it,
Salustri; people will say you have improved on the Bible!”
And I left him with a gay gesture to join other groups, and to take my
part in the various dances which were now following quickly on one
another. The supper was fixed to take place at midnight. At the first
opportunity I had, I looked at the time. Quarter to eleven!—my heart
beat quickly, the blood rushed to my temples and surged noisily in my
ears. The hour I had waited for so long and so eagerly had come! At
last! at last!
Slowly and with a hesitating step I approached my wife. She was resting
after her exertions in the dance, and reclined languidly in a low
velvet chair, chatting gayly with that very Prince de Majano whose
honeyed compliments had partly spoiled the budding sweet nature of the
youngest girl in the room. Apologizing for interrupting the
conversation, I lowered my voice to a persuasive tenderness as I
addressed her.
“_Cara, sposina mia_! permit me to remind you of your promise.”
What a radiant look she gave me!
“I am all impatience to fulfill it! Tell me when—and how?”
“Almost immediately. You know the private passage through which we
entered the hotel this morning on our return from church?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, meet me there in twenty minutes. We must avoid being observed as
we pass out. But,” and I touched her delicate dress, “you will wear
something warmer than this?”
“I have a long sable cloak that will do,” she replied, brightly. “We
are not going far?”
“No, not far.”
“We shall return in time for supper, of course?”
I bent my head.
“Naturally!”
Her eyes danced mirthfully.
“How romantic it seems! A moonlight stroll with you will be charming!
Who shall say you are not a sentimental bridegroom? Is there a bright
moon?”
“I believe so.”
“_Cosa bellissima_!” and she laughed sweetly. “I look forward to the
trip! In twenty minutes then I shall be with you at the place you name,
Cesare; in the meanwhile the _Marchese_ Gualdro claims me for this
mazurka.”
And she turned with her bewitching grace of manner to the _marchese_,
who at that moment advanced with his courteous bow and fascinating
smile, and I watched them as they glided forward together in the first
figure of the elegant Polish dance, in which all lovely women look
their loveliest.
Then, checking the curse that rose to my lips, I hurried away. Up to my
own room I rushed with feverish haste, full of impatience to be rid of
the disguise I had worn so long.
Within a few minutes I stood before my mirror, transformed into my old
self as nearly as it was possible to be. I could not alter the snowy
whiteness of my hair, but a few deft quick strokes of the razor soon
divested me of the beard that had given me so elderly an aspect, and
nothing remained but the mustache curling slightly up at the corners of
the lip, as I had worn it in past days. I threw aside the dark glasses,
and my eyes, densely brilliant, and fringed with the long lashes that
had always been their distinguishing feature, shone with all the luster
of strong and vigorous youth. I straightened myself up to my full
height, I doubled my fist and felt it hard as iron; I laughed aloud in
the triumphant power of my strong manhood. I thought of the old
rag-dealing Jew—“You could kill anything easily.” Ay, so I could!—even
without the aid of the straight swift steel of the Milanese dagger
which I now drew from its sheath and regarded steadfastly, while I
carefully felt the edge of the blade from hilt to point. Should I take
it with me? I hesitated. Yes! it might be needed. I slipped it safely
and secretly into my vest.
And now the proofs—the proofs! I had them all ready to my hand, and
gathered them quickly together; first the things that had been buried
with me—the gold chain on which hung the locket containing the
portraits of my wife and child, the purse and card-case which Nina
herself had given me, the crucifix the monk had laid on my breast in
the coffin. The thought of that coffin moved me to a stern smile—that
splintered, damp, and moldering wood must speak for itself by and by.
Lastly I took the letters sent me by the Marquis D’Avencourt—the
beautiful, passionate love epistles she had written to Guido Ferrari in
Rome.
Now, was that all? I thoroughly searched both my rooms, ransacking
every corner. I had destroyed everything that could give the smallest
clew to my actions; I left nothing save furniture and small valuables,
a respectable present enough in their way, to the landlord of the
hotel.
I glanced again at myself in the mirror. Yes; I was once more Fabio
Romani, in spite of my white hair; no one that had ever known me
intimately could doubt my identity. I had changed my evening dress for
a rough, every-day suit, and now over this I threw my long Almaviva
cloak, which draped me from head to foot. I kept its folds well up
about my mouth and chin, and pulled on a soft slouched hat, with the
brim far down over my eyes. There was nothing unusual in such a
costume; it was common enough to many Neapolitans who have learned to
dread the chill night winds that blow down from the lofty Apennines in
early spring. Thus attired, too, I knew my features would be almost
invisible to _her_ more especially as the place of our rendezvous was a
long dim entresol lighted only by a single oil-lamp, a passage that led
into the garden, one that was only used for private purposes, having
nothing to do with the ordinary modes of exit and entrance to and from
the hotel.
Into this hall I now hurried with an eager step; it was deserted; she
was not there. Impatiently I waited—the minutes seemed hours! Sounds of
music floated toward me from the distant ball-room—the dreamy, swinging
measure of a Viennese waltz. I could almost hear the flying feet of the
dancers. I was safe from all observation where I stood—the servants
were busy preparing the grand marriage supper, and all the inhabitants
of the hotel were absorbed in watching the progress of the brilliant
and exceptional festivities of the night.
Would she never come? Suppose, after all, she should escape me! I
trembled at the idea, then put it from me with a smile at my own folly.
No, her punishment was just, and in her case the Fates were inflexible.
So I thought and felt. I paced up and down feverishly; I could count
the thick, heavy throbs of my own heart. How long the moments seemed!
Would she never come? Ah! at last! I caught the sound of a rustling
robe and a light step—a breath of delicate fragrance was wafted on the
air like the odor of falling orange-blossoms. I turned, and saw her
approaching. With swift grace she ran up to me as eagerly as a child,
her heavy cloak of rich Russian sable falling back from her shoulders
and displaying her glittering dress, the dark fur of the hood
heightening by contrast the fairness of her lovely flushed face, so
that it looked like the face of one of Correggio’s angels framed in
ebony and velvet. She laughed, and her eyes flashed saucily.
“Did I keep you waiting, _caro mio_?” she whispered; and standing on
tiptoe she kissed the hand with which I held my cloak muffled about me.
“How tall you look in that Almaviva! I am so sorry I am a little late,
but that last waltz was so exquisite I could not resist it; only I wish
YOU had danced it with me.”
“You honor me by the wish,” I said, keeping one arm about her waist and
drawing her toward the door that opened into the garden. “Tell me, how
did you manage to leave the ball-room?”
“Oh, easily. I slipped away from my partner at the end of the waltz,
and told him I should return immediately. Then I ran upstairs to my
room, got my cloak—and here I am.”
And she laughed again. She was evidently in the highest spirits.
“You are very good to come with me at all, _mia bella_,” I murmured as
gently as I could; “it is kind of you to thus humor my fancy. Did you
see your maid? does she know where you are going?”
“She? Oh, no, she was not in my room at all. She is a great coquette,
you know; I dare say she is amusing herself with the waiters in the
kitchen. Poor thing! I hope she enjoys it.”
I breathed freely; we were so far undiscovered. No one had as yet
noticed our departure—no one had the least clew to my intentions, I
opened the door of the passage noiselessly, and we passed out. Wrapping
my wife’s cloak more closely about her with much apparent tenderness, I
led her quickly across the garden. There was no one in sight—we were
entirely unobserved. On reaching the exterior gate of the inclosure I
left her for a moment, while I summoned a carriage, a common fiacre.
She expressed some surprise on seeing the vehicle.
“I thought we were not going far?” she said.
I reassured her on this point, telling her that I only desired to spare
her all possible fatigue. Satisfied with this explanation, she suffered
me to assist her into the carriage. I followed her, and calling to the
driver, “_A la Villa Guarda_,” we rattled away over the rough uneven
stones of the back streets of the city.
“La Villa Guarda!” exclaimed Nina. “Where is that?”
“It is an old house,” I replied, “situated near the place I spoke to
you of, where the jewels are.”
“Oh!”
And apparently contented, she nestled back in the carriage, permitting
her head to rest lightly on my shoulder. I drew her closer to me, my
heart beating with a fierce, terrible joy.
“Mine—mine at last!” I whispered in her ear. “Mine forever!”
She turned her face upward and smiled victoriously; her cool fragrant
lips met my burning, eager ones in a close, passionate kiss. Yes, I
kissed her now—why should I not? She was as much mine as any purchased
slave, and merited less respect than a sultan’s occasional female toy.
And as she chose to caress me, I let her do so: I allowed her to think
me utterly vanquished by the battery of her charms. Yet whenever I
caught an occasional glimpse of her face as we drove along in the
semi-darkness, I could not help wondering at the supreme vanity of the
woman! Her self-satisfaction was so complete, and, considering her
approaching fate, so tragically absurd!
She was entirely delighted with herself, her dress, and her conquest—as
she thought—of me. Who could measure the height of the dazzling visions
she indulged in; who could fathom the depths of her utter selfishness!
Seeing one like her, beautiful, wealthy, and above all—society knows I
speak the truth—_well dressed_, for by the latter virtue alone is a
woman allowed any precedence nowadays—would not all the less fortunate
and lovely of her sex feel somewhat envious? Ah, yes; they would and
they do; but believe me, the selfish feminine thing, whose only sincere
worship is offered at the shrines of Fashion and Folly, is of all
creatures the one whose life is to be despised and never desired, and
whose death makes no blank even in the circles of her so-called best
friends.
I knew well enough that there was not a soul in Naples who was really
attached to my wife—not one who would miss her, no, not even a
servant—though she, in her superb self-conceit, imagined herself to be
the adored beauty of the city. Those who had indeed loved her she had
despised, neglected, and betrayed. Musingly I looked down upon her as
she rested back in the carriage, encircled by my arm, while now and
then a little sigh of absolute delight in herself broke from her
lips—but we spoke scarcely at all. Hate has almost as little to say as
love!
The night was persistently stormy, though no rain fell—the gale had
increased in strength, and the white moon only occasionally glared out
from the masses of white and gray cloud that rushed like flying armies
across the sky, and her fitful light shone dimly, as though she were a
spectral torch glimmering through a forest of shadow. Now and again
bursts of music, or the blare of discordant trumpets, reached our ears
from the more distant thoroughfares where the people were still
celebrating the feast of Giovedi Grasso, or the tinkle of passing
mandolins chimed in with the rolling wheels of our carriage; but in a
few moments we were out of reach of even such sounds as these.
We passed the outer suburbs of the city and were soon on the open road.
The man I had hired drove fast; he knew nothing of us, he was probably
anxious to get back quickly to the crowded squares and illuminated
quarters where the principal merriment of the evening was going on, and
no doubt thought I showed but a poor taste in requiring to be driven
away, even for a short distance, out of Naples on such a night of
feasting and folly. He stopped at last; the castellated turrets of the
villa I had named were faintly visible among the trees; he jumped down
from his box and came to us.
“Shall I drive up to the house?” he asked, looking as though he would
rather be spared this trouble.
“No,” I answered, indifferently, “you need not. The distance is short,
we will walk.”
And I stepped out into the road and paid him his money.
“You seem anxious to get back to the city, my friend,” I said, half
jocosely.
“Si, _davvero_!” he replied, with decision, “I hope to get many a good
fare from the Count Oliva’s marriage-ball to-night.”
“Ah! he is a rich fellow, that count,” I said, as I assisted my wife to
alight, keeping her cloak well muffled round her so that this common
fellow should not perceive the glitter of her costly costume; “I wish I
were he!”
The man grinned and nodded emphatically. He had no suspicion of my
identity. He took me, in all probability, for one of those “gay
gallants” so common in Naples, who, on finding at some public
entertainment a “_dama_” to their taste, hurry her off, carefully
cloaked and hooded, to a mysterious nook known only to themselves,
where they can complete the romance of the evening entirely to their
own satisfaction. Bidding me a lively _buona notte_, he sprung on his
box again, jerked his horse’s head violently round with a volley of
oaths, and drove away at a rattling pace. Nina, standing on the road
beside me, looked after him with a bewildered air.
“Could he not have waited to take us back?” she asked.
“No,” I answered, brusquely; “we shall return by a different route.
Come.”
And passing my arm round her, I led her onward. She shivered slightly,
and there was a sound of querulous complaint in her voice as she said:
“Have we to go much further, Cesare?”
“Three minutes, walk will bring us to our destination,” I replied,
briefly, adding in a softer tone, “Are you cold?”
“A little,” and she gathered her sables more closely about her and
pressed nearer to my side. The capricious moon here suddenly leaped
forth like the pale ghost of a frenzied dancer, standing tiptoe on the
edge of a precipitous chasm of black clouds. Her rays, pallidly green
and cold, fell full on the dreary stretch of land before us, touching
up with luminous distinctness those white mysterious milestones of the
Campo Santo which mark where the journeys of men, women, and children
began and where they left off, but never explain in what new direction
they are now traveling. My wife saw and stopped, trembling violently.
“What place is this?” she asked, nervously.
In all her life she had never visited a cemetery—she had too great a
horror of death.
“It is where I keep all my treasures,” I answered, and my voice sounded
strange and harsh in my own ears, while I tightened my grasp of her
full, warm waist. “Come with me, my beloved!” and in spite of my
efforts, my tone was one of bitter mockery. “With me you need have no
fear! Come.”
And I led her on, too powerless to resist my force, too startled to
speak—on, on, on, over the rank dewy grass and unmarked ancient
graves—on, till the low frowning gate of the house of my dead ancestors
faced me—on, on, on, with the strength of ten devils in my arm as I
held her—on, on, on, to her just doom!