At these words she rose from her knees and stood upright. Making an
effort to fasten her cloak with her trembling hands, she moved
hesitatingly toward the brigand’s coffin and leaned over it, looking in
with a faint light of hope as well as curiosity in her haggard face. I
watched her in vague wonderment—she had grown old so suddenly. The
peach-like bloom and delicacy of her flesh had altogether
disappeared—her skin appeared drawn and dry as though parched in
tropical heat. Her hair was disordered, and fell about her in
clustering showers of gold—that, and her eyes, were the only signs of
youth about her. A sudden wave of compassion swept over my soul.
“Oh wife!” I exclaimed—“wife that I so ardently loved—wife that I would
have died for indeed, had you bade me!—why did you betray me? I thought
you truth itself—ay! and if you had but waited for one day after you
thought me dead, and _then_ chosen Guido for your lover, I tell you, so
large was my tenderness, I would have pardoned you! Though risen from
the grave, I would have gone away and made no sign—yes if you had
waited—if you had wept for me ever so little! But when your own lips
confessed your crime—when I knew that within three months of our
marriage-day you had fooled me—when I learned that my love, my name, my
position, my honor, were used as mere screens to shelter your intrigue
with the man I called friend!—God! what creature of mortal flesh and
blood could forgive such treachery? I am no more than others—but I
loved you—and in proportion to my love, so is the greatness of my
wrongs!”
She listened—she advanced a little toward me—a faint smile dawned on
her pallid lips—she whispered:
“Fabio! Fabio!”
I looked at her—unconsciously my voice dropped into a cadence of
intense melancholy softened by tenderness.
“Ay—Fabio! What wouldst thou with a ghost of him? Does it not seem
strange to thee—that hated name?—thou, Nina, whom I loved as few men
love women—thou who gavest me no love at all—thou, who hast broken my
heart and made me what I am!”
A hard, heavy sob rose in my throat and choked my utterance. I was
young; and the cruel waste and destruction of my life seemed at that
moment more than I could bear. She heard me, and the smile brightened
more warmly on her countenance. She came close to me—half timidly yet
coaxingly she threw one arm about my neck—her bosom heaved quickly.
“Fabio,” she murmured—“Fabio, forgive me! I spoke in haste—I do not
hate thee! Come! I will make amends for all thy suffering—I will love
thee—I will be true to thee, I will be all thine! See! thou knowest I
have not lost my beauty!”
And she clung to me with passion, raising her lips to mine, while with
her large inquiring eyes she searched my face for the reply to her
words. I gazed down upon her with sorrowful sternness.
“Beauty? Mere food for worms—I care not for it! Of what avail is a fair
body tenanted by a fiendish soul? Forgiveness?—you ask too late! A
wrong like mine can never be forgiven.”
There ensued a silence. She still embraced me, but her eyes roved over
me as though she searched for some lost thing. The wind tore furiously
among the branches of the cypresses outside, and screamed through the
small holes and crannies of the stone-work, rattling the iron gate at
the summit of the stairway with a clanking sound, as though the famous
brigand chief had escaped with all his chains upon him, and were
clamoring for admittance to recover his buried property. Suddenly her
face lightened with an expression of cunning intensity—and before I
could perceive her intent—with swift agility she snatched from my vest
the dagger I carried!
“Too late!” she cried, with a wild laugh. “No; not too late!
Die—wretch!”
For one second the bright steel flashed in the wavering light as she
poised it in act to strike—the next, I had caught her murderous hand
and forced it down, and was struggling with her for the mastery of the
weapon. She held it with a desperate grip—she fought with me
breathlessly, clinging to me with all her force—she reminded me of that
ravenous unclean bird with which I had had so fierce a combat on the
night of my living burial. For some brief moments she was possessed of
supernatural strength—she sprung and tore at my clothes, keeping the
poniard fast in her clutch. At last I thrust her down, panting and
exhausted, with fury flashing in her eyes—I wrenched the steel from her
hand and brandished it above her.
“Who talks of murder _now_?” I cried, in bitter derision. “Oh, what a
joy you have lost! What triumph for you, could you have stabbed me to
the heart and left me here dead indeed! What a new career of lies would
have been yours! How sweetly you would have said your prayers with the
stain of my blood upon your soul! Ay! you would have fooled the world
to the end, and died in the odor of sanctity. And you dared to ask my
forgiveness—”
I stopped short—a strange, bewildered expression suddenly passed over
her face—she looked about her in a dazed, vague way—then her gaze
became suddenly fixed, and she pointed toward a dark corner and
shuddered.
“Hush—hush!” she said, in a low, terrified whisper. “Look! how still he
stands! how pale he seems! Do not speak—do not move—hush! he must not
hear your voice—I will go to him and tell him all—all—” She rose and
stretched out her arms with a gesture of entreaty:
“Guido! Guido!”
With a sudden chilled awe at my heart I looked toward the spot that
thus riveted her attention—all was shrouded in deep gloom. She caught
my arm.
“Kill him!” she whispered, fiercely—“kill him, and then I will love
you! Ah!” and with an exclamation of fear she began to retire swiftly
backward as though confronted by some threatening figure. “He is
coming—nearer! No, no, Guido! You shall not touch me—you dare not—Fabio
is dead and I am free—free!” She paused—her wild eyes gazed upward—did
she see some horror there? She put up both hands as though to shield
herself from some impending blow, and uttering a loud cry she fell
prone on the stone floor insensible. Or dead? I balanced this question
indifferently, as I looked down upon her inanimate form. The flavor of
vengeance was hot in my mouth, and filled me with delirious
satisfaction. True, I had been glad, when my bullet whizzing sharply
through the air had carried death to Guido, but my gladness had been
mingled with ruthfulness and regret. _Now_, not one throb of pity
stirred me—not the faintest emotion of tenderness, Ferrari’s sin was
great, but _she_ tempted him—her crime outweighed his. And now—there
she lay white and silent—in a swoon that was like death—that might be
death for aught I knew—or cared! Had her lover’s ghost indeed appeared
before the eyes of her guilty conscience? I did not doubt it—I should
scarcely have been startled had I seen the poor pale shadow of him by
my side, as I musingly gazed upon the fair fallen body of the traitress
who had wantonly wrecked both our lives.
“Ay, Guido,” I muttered, half aloud—“dost see the work? Thou art
avenged, frail spirit—avenged as well as I—part thou in peace from
earth and its inhabitants!—haply thou shalt cleanse in pure fire the
sins of thy lower nature, and win a final pardon; but for her—is hell
itself black enough to match _her_ soul?”
And I slowly moved toward the stairway; it was time, I thought, with a
grim resolve—_to leave her_! Possibly she was dead—if not—why then she
soon would be! I paused irresolute—the wild wind battered ceaselessly
at the iron gateway, and wailed as though with a hundred voices of
aerial creatures, lamenting. The torches were burning low, the darkness
of the vault deepened. Its gloom concerned me little—I had grown
familiar with its unsightly things, its crawling spiders, its strange
uncouth beetles, the clusters of blue fungi on its damp walls. The
scurrying noises made by bats and owls, who, scared by the lighted
candles, were hiding themselves in holes and corners of refuge,
startled me not at all—I was well accustomed to such sounds. In my then
state of mind, an emperor’s palace were less fair to me than this brave
charnel house—this stone-mouthed witness of my struggle back to life
and all life’s misery. The deep-toned bell outside the cemetery struck
_one_! We had been absent nearly two hours from the brilliant
assemblage left at the hotel. No doubt we were being searched for
everywhere—it mattered not! they would not come to seek us _here_. I
went on resolutely toward the stair—as I placed my foot on the firm
step of the ascent, my wife stirred from her recumbent position—her
swoon had passed. She did not perceive me where I stood, ready to
depart—she murmured something to herself in a low voice, and taking in
her hand the falling tresses of her own hair she seemed to admire its
color and texture, for she stroked it and restroked it and finally
broke into a gay laugh—a laugh so out of all keeping with her
surroundings, that it startled me more than her attempt to murder me.
She presently stood up with all her own lily-like grace and fairy
majesty; and smiling as though she were a pleased child, she began to
arrange her disordered dress with elaborate care. I paused wonderingly
and watched her. She went to the brigand’s chest of treasure and
proceeded to examine its contents—laces, silver and gold embroideries,
antique ornaments, she took carefully in her hands, seeming mentally to
calculate their cost and value. Jewels that were set as necklaces,
bracelets and other trinkets of feminine wear she put on, one after the
other, till her neck and arms were loaded—and literally blazed with the
myriad scintillations of different-colored gems. I marveled at her
strange conduct, but did not as yet guess its meaning. I moved away
from the staircase and drew imperceptibly nearer to her—Hark! what was
that? A strange, low rumbling like a distant earthquake, followed by a
sharp cracking sound; I stopped to listen attentively. A furious gust
of wind rushed round the mausoleum shrieking wildly like some devil in
anger, and the strong draught flying through the gateway extinguished
two of the flaring candles. My wife, entirely absorbed in counting over
Carmelo Neri’s treasures, apparently saw and heard nothing. Suddenly
she broke into another laugh—a chuckling, mirthless laugh such as might
come from the lips of the aged and senile. The sound curdled the blood
in my veins—it was the laugh of a mad-woman! With an earnest, distinct
voice I called to her:
“Nina! Nina!”
She turned toward me still smiling—her eyes were bright, her face had
regained its habitual color, and as she stood in the dim light, with
her rich tresses falling about her, and the clustering gems massed
together in a glittering fire against her white skin, she looked
unnaturally, wildly beautiful. She nodded to me, half graciously, half
haughtily, but gave me no answer. Moved with quick pity I called again:
“Nina!”
She laughed again—the same terrible laugh.
“_Si, si_! _Son’ bella, son’ bellissima_!” she murmured. “_E tu, Guido
mio_? _Tu m’ami_?”
Then raising one hand as though commanding attention she cried:
“Ascolta!” and began to sing clearly though feebly:
“Ti saluto, Rosignuolo!
Nel tuo duolo—ti saluto!
Sei l’amante della rosa
Che morendo si fa sposa!”
As the old familiar melody echoed through the dreary vault, my bitter
wrath against her partially lessened; with the swiftness of my southern
temperament a certain compassion stirred my soul. She was no longer
quite the same woman who had wronged and betrayed me—she had the
helplessness and fearful innocence of madness—in that condition I could
not have hurt a hair of her head. I stepped hastily forward—I resolved
to take her out of the vault—after all I would not leave her thus—but
as I approached, she withdrew from me, and with an angry stamp of her
foot motioned me backward, while a dark frown knitted her fair brows.
“Who are you?” she cried, imperiously. “You are dead, quite dead! How
dare you come out of your grave!”
And she stared at me defiantly—then suddenly clasping her hands as
though in ecstasy, and seeming to address some invisible being at her
side, she said, in low, delighted tones:
“He is dead, Guido! Are you not glad?” She paused, apparently expecting
some reply, for she looked about her wonderingly, and continued—“You
did not answer me—are you afraid? Why are you so pale and stern? Have
you just come back from Rome? What have you heard? That I am false?—oh,
no! I will love you still—Ah! I forgot! you also are dead, Guido! I
remember now—you cannot hurt me any more—I am free—and quite happy!”
Smiling, she continued her song:
“Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio
Col two raggio ti saluto!
Sei l’Apollo del passato
Sei l’amore incoronato!”
Again—again!—that hollow rumbling and crackling sound overhead. What
could it be?
“_L’amore incoronato_!” hummed Nina fitfully, as she plunged her round,
jeweled arm down again into the chest of treasure. “_Sì, sì_! _Che
morendo si fa sposa—che morendo si fa sposa—ah_!”
This last was an exclamation of pleasure; she had found some toy that
charmed her—it was the old mirror set in its frame of pearls. The
possession of this object seemed to fill her with extraordinary joy,
and she evidently retained no consciousness of where she was, for she
sat down on the upturned coffin, which had held my living body, with
absolute indifference. Still singing softly to herself, she gazed
lovingly at her own reflection, and fingered the jewels she wore,
arranging and rearranging them in various patterns with one hand, while
in the other she raised the looking-glass in the flare of the candles
which lighted up its quaint setting. A strange and awful picture she
made there—gazing with such lingering tenderness on the portrait of her
own beauty—while surrounded by the moldering coffins that silently
announced how little such beauty was worth—playing with jewels, the
foolish trinkets of life, in the abode of skeletons, where the password
is death! Thinking thus, I gazed at her, as one might gaze at a dead
body—not loathingly any more, but only mournfully. My vengeance was
satiated. I could not wage war against this vacantly smiling mad
creature, out of whom the spirit of a devilish intelligence and cunning
had been torn, and who therefore was no longer the same woman. Her loss
of wit should compensate for my loss of love. I determined to try and
attract her attention again. I opened my lips to speak—but before the
words could form themselves, that odd rumbling noise again broke on my
ears—this time with a loud reverberation that rolled overhead like the
thunder of artillery. Before I could imagine the reason of it—before I
could advance one step toward my wife, who still sat on the upturned
coffin, smiling at herself in the mirror—before I could utter a word or
move an inch, a tremendous crash resounded through the vault, followed
by a stinging shower of stones, dust, and pulverized mortar! I stepped
backward amazed, bewildered—speechless—instinctively shutting my
eyes—when I opened them again all was darkness—all was silence! Only
the wind howled outside more frantically than ever—a sweeping gust
whirled through the vault, blowing some dead leaves against my face,
and I heard the boughs of trees creaking noisily in the fury of the
storm. Hush!—was that a faint moan? Quivering in every limb, and sick
with a nameless dread, I sought in my pocket for matches—I found them.
Then with an effort, mastering the shuddering revulsion of my nerves, I
struck a light. The flame was so dim that for an instant I could see
nothing. I called loudly:
“Nina!” There was no answer.
One of the extinguished candles was near me; I lighted it with
trembling hands and held it aloft—then I uttered a wild shriek of
horror! Oh, God of inexorable justice, surely Thy vengeance was greater
than mine! An enormous block of stone, dislodged by the violence of the
storm, had fallen from the roof of the vault; fallen sheer down over
the very place where _she_ had sat a minute or two before,
fantastically smiling! Crushed under the huge mass—crushed into the
very splinters of my own empty coffin, she lay—and yet—and yet—I could
see nothing, save one white hand protruding—the hand on which the
marriage-ring glittered mockingly! Even as I looked, that hand quivered
violently—beat the ground—and then—was still! It was horrible. In
dreams I see that quivering white hand now, the jewels on it sparkling
with derisive luster. It appeals, it calls, it threatens, it prays! and
when my time comes to die, it will beckon me to my grave! A portion of
her costly dress was visible—my eyes lighted on this—and I saw a slow
stream of blood oozing thickly from beneath the stone—the ponderous
stone that no man could have moved an inch—the stone that sealed her
awful sepulcher! Great Heaven! how fast the crimson stream of life
trickled!—staining the snowy lace of her garment with a dark and
dreadful hue! Staggering feebly like a drunken man—half delirious with
anguish—I approached and touched that small white hand that lay stiffly
on the ground—I bent my head—I almost kissed it, but some strange
revulsion rose in my soul and forbade the act!
In a stupor of dull agony I sought and found the crucifix of the monk
Cipriano that had fallen to the floor—I closed the yet warm finger-tips
around it and left it thus; an unnatural, terrible calmness froze the
excitement of my strained nerves.
“’Tis all I can do for thee!” I muttered, incoherently. “May Christ
forgive thee, though I cannot!”
And covering my eyes to shut out the sight before me I turned away. I
hurried in a sort of frenzy toward the stairway—on reaching the lowest
step I extinguished the torch I carried. Some impulse made me glance
back—and I saw what I see now—what I shall always see till I die! An
aperture had been made through the roof of the vault by the fall of the
great stone, and through this the fitful moon poured down a long
ghostly ray. The green glimmer, like a spectral lamp, deepened the
surrounding darkness, only showing up with fell distinctness one
object—that slender protruding wrist and hand, whiter than Alpine snow!
I gazed at it wildly—the gleam of the jewels down there hurt my
eyes—the shine of the silver crucifix clasped in those little waxen
fingers dazzled my brain—and with a frantic cry of unreasoning terror,
I rushed up the steps with a maniac speed—opened the iron gate through
which _she_ would pass no more, and stood at liberty in the free air,
face to face with a wind as tempestuous as my own passions. With what
furious haste I shut the entrance to the vault! with what fierce
precaution I locked and doubled-locked it! Nay, so little did I realize
that she was actually dead, that I caught myself saying
aloud—“Safe—safe at last! She cannot escape—I have closed the secret
passage—no one will hear her cries—she will struggle a little, but it
will soon be over—she will never laugh any more—never kiss—never
love—never tell lies for the fooling of men!—she is buried as I
was—buried alive!”
Muttering thus to myself with a sort of sobbing incoherence, I turned
to meet the snarl of the savage blast of the night, with my brain
reeling, my limbs weak and trembling—with the heavens and earth rocking
before me like a wild sea—with the flying moon staring aghast through
the driving clouds—with all the universe, as it were, in a broken and
shapeless chaos about me; even so I went forth to meet my fate—and left
her!
Unrecognized, untracked, I departed from Naples. Wrapped in my cloak,
and stretched in a sort of heavy stupor on the deck of the
“_Rondinella_,” my appearance apparently excited no suspicion in the
mind of the skipper, old Antonio Bardi, with whom my friend Andrea had
made terms for my voyage, little aware of the real identity of the
passenger he recommended.
The morning was radiantly beautiful—the sparkling waves rose high on
tiptoe to kiss the still boisterous wind—the sunlight broke in a wide
smile of springtide glory over the world! With the burden of my agony
upon me—with the utter exhaustion of my overwrought nerves, I beheld
all things as in a feverish dream—the laughing light, the azure ripple
of waters—the receding line of my native shores—everything was blurred,
indistinct, and unreal to me, though my soul, Argus-eyed, incessantly
peered down, down into those darksome depths where _she_ lay, silent
forever. For now I knew she was dead. Fate had killed her—not I. All
unrepentant as she was, triumphing in her treachery to the last, even
in her madness, still I would have saved her, though she strove to
murder me.
Yet it was well the stone had fallen—who knows!—if she had lived—I
strove not to think of her, and drawing the key of the vault from my
pocket, I let it drop with a sudden splash into the waves. All was
over—no one pursued me—no one inquired whither I went. I arrived at
Civita Vecchia unquestioned; from thence I travelled to Leghorn, where
I embarked on board a merchant trading vessel bound for South America.
Thus I lost myself to the world; thus I became, as it were, buried
alive for the second time. I am safely sepulchered in these wild woods,
and I seek no escape.
Wearing the guise of a rough settler, one who works in common with
others, hewing down tough parasites and poisonous undergrowths in order
to effect a clearing through these pathless solitudes, none can trace
in the strong stern man, with the care-worn face and white hair, any
resemblance to the once popular and wealthy Count Oliva, whose
disappearance, so strange and sudden, was for a time the talk of all
Italy. For, on one occasion when visiting the nearest town, I saw an
article in a newspaper, headed “Mysterious Occurrence in Naples,” and I
read every word of it with a sensation of dull amusement.
From it I learned that the Count Oliva was advertised for. His abrupt
departure, together with that of his newly married wife, formerly
_Contessa_ Romani, on the very night of their wedding, had created the
utmost excitement in the city. The landlord of the hotel where he
stayed was prosecuting inquiries—so was the count’s former valet, one
Vincenzo Flamma. Any information would be gratefully received by the
police authorities. If within twelve months no news were obtained, the
immense properties of the Romani family, in default of existing
kindred, would be handed over to the crown.
There was much more to the same effect, and I read it with the utmost
indifference. Why do they not search the Romani vault?—I thought
gloomily—they would find some authentic information there! But I know
the Neapolitans well; they are timorous and superstitious; they would
as soon hug a pestilence as explore a charnel house. One thing
gladdened me; it was the projected disposal of my fortune. The crown,
the Kingdom of Italy, was surely as noble an heir as a man could have!
I returned to my woodland hut with a strange peace on my soul.
As I told you at first, I am a dead man—the world, with its busy life
and aims, has naught to do with me. The tall trees, the birds, the
whispering grasses are my friends and my companions—they, and they
only, are sometimes the silent witnesses of the torturing fits of agony
that every now and then overwhelm me with bitterness. For I suffer
always. That is natural. Revenge is sweet!—but who shall paint the
horrors of memory? My vengeance now recoils upon my own head. I do not
complain of this—it is the law of compensation—it is just. I blame no
one—save Her, the woman who wrought my wrong. Dead as she is I do not
forgive her; I have tried to, but I cannot! Do men ever truly forgive
the women who ruin their lives? I doubt it. As for me, I feel that the
end is not yet—that when my soul is released from its earthly prison, I
shall still be doomed in some drear dim way to pursue her treacherous
flitting spirit over the black chasms of a hell darker than Dante’s—she
in the likeness of a wandering flame—I as her haunting shadow; she,
flying before me in coward fear—I, hasting after her in relentless
wrath—and this forever and ever!
But I ask no pity—I need none. I punished the guilty, and in doing so
suffered more than they—that is as it must always be. I have no regret
and no remorse; only one thing troubles me—one little thing—a mere
foolish fancy! It comes upon me in the night, when the large-faced moon
looks at me from heaven. For the moon is grand in this climate; she is
like a golden-robed empress of all the worlds as she sweeps in lustrous
magnificence through the dense violet skies. I shut out her radiance as
much as I can; I close the blind at the narrow window of my solitary
forest cabin; and yet do what I will, one wide ray creeps in always—one
ray that eludes all my efforts to expel it. Under the door it comes, or
through some unguessed cranny in the wood-work. I have in vain tried to
find the place of its entrance.
The color of the moonlight in this climate is of a mellow amber—so I
cannot understand why that pallid ray that visits me so often, should
be green—a livid, cold, watery green; and in it, like a lily in an
emerald pool, I see a little white hand on which the jewels cluster
thick like drops of dew! The hand moves—it lifts itself—the small
fingers point at me threateningly—they quiver—and then—they beckon me
slowly, solemnly, commandingly onward!—onward!—to some infinite land of
awful mysteries where Light and Love shall dawn for me no more.
The End