It was still early in the morning, and all Naples knew that Count Bosio
Macomer had committed suicide on the preceding evening. Every morning
newspaper had a paragraph about the shocking tragedy, but few ventured
to guess at any reason for the deed. It was merely stated that Count
Bosio's servant had been alarmed by the report of a pistol about nine
o'clock in the evening, and on finding the door of his master's room
locked had broken in, suspecting some terrible accident. He had found
the count stretched upon the floor, in evening dress, with his own
revolver lying beside him.
That was precisely what had happened, but the meagre account gave no
idea of the confusion which had ensued upon the discovery. It contained
no mention of Matilde nor of Veronica, and merely observed that the
brother of the deceased was overcome with grief.
That would have been too weak an expression to apply to what Matilde
suffered during the hours which followed the first appalling blow. In
the overpowering horror of the situation, she did not lose her mind,
but she sincerely believed that her body could not live till the
morning.
To do her justice, as she sat there beside the dead man, bent and
doubled in silent, tearless grief, a dark shawl drawn over her head to
hide her face, and utterly regardless, for once, of what any one might
think, she thought only of him and of what she had done. For she
understood, and she only, in all the household.
Beyond her conscious thoughts, if they could be called thoughts at all,
the black figures of the forbidding future loomed darkly in her
consciousness. They were the things she knew, rather than the things she
felt, but the terror of what was to be was as real as the grief for what
had been, though as yet it had less strength to move her. The blow had
struck her down, and until she should try to rise she could feel nothing
but the blow. In truth she did not think that she should live until the
morning.
It was midnight when they lit candles, and set them beside him in great
candlesticks as he lay. And she sat down at his feet and watched his
still face, from beneath the shawl that hung over her head. It had been
in her hands when they had told her, and her fingers had closed upon it
stiffly; so she had it when she came to his room. She was glad, for she
could cover herself from the eyes of those who came and went, but her
own eyes could see out, from under it, and no tears blinded her. After
she had sat down, she did not move.
Gregorio Macomer had come, and had gone away, and then he had come
again, when all was done, and had knelt a long time beside the couch on
which his brother lay, repeating prayers audibly. His face was as grey
as a stone. He only spoke to give directions in a whisper, and he said
nothing to his wife, but let her alone, bowed and covered as she sat.
When he had prayed, he went away, with reverently bent head, and she
heard that he trod softly. In two hours he came back, knelt again, and
again repeated Latin words. She knew that he was doing it for a show of
sorrow, and she wished to kill him. Then, when he was softly gone again,
she wondered how soon she herself was to die. There were two servants in
the room, behind her, keeping watch. They were relieved by two others,
changing through the night. She heard them come and go, but did not turn
her head.
When the dawn forelightened, like the ghost of a buried day risen from
the grave to see its past deeds, she was not yet dead. She had once read
how the murderers of Vittoria Accoramboni had been torn with red-hot
pincers and otherwise grievously tortured, and how knives had been
thrust deep into their breasts just where the heart was not, but near
it, and how they had died hard, for they had lived more than half an
hour with the knives in them, and at the last had been quartered alive.
She had not believed what she had read, but now she knew that it was
true. She envied them the searing, the tearing, and the knives which had
at last killed them, though they had died so hard.
The wan dawn turned the dead man's face from waxen yellow to stone grey.
The servants saw it, whispered, and closed the inner shutters, and the
yellow candle-light shone again in the room. Any light is better than
daylight on a dead face.
Matilde sat still, bowed and covered. Fixed in the world of grief, the
hours of sorrow passed her by. There was neither night nor day in the
dead watch of the closed room, under the tall candles, burning steadily.
Then, at last, other feet were on the threshold, stumbling, shuffling,
ill-shod feet of men bearing a burden. In that city, one may not lie in
his home more than one day after he is dead. They set down what they
bore, beside the couch, and waited, and the woman saw their questioning
faces and heard them whispering. Then one of them, with some reverence
and gentleness, thrust his arm under the low pillow, and with his eyes
bade another lift the feet. But Matilde rose then and came between them
and the dead. They thought that she would look at him once more, and
they drew back, while she looked, for she bent over his face. But the
shawl about her head fell about her, and they could not see that she
kissed him. They waited.
The great woman put her hands about him, and bowed herself, and lifted
him from the couch, and the men could not believe it when they saw her
turn with him and lay him down in his coffin, alone, with no one to help
her.
For she was very strong. She stood and looked down at him a long time,
and once she stopped and moved one of his crossed hands, which touched
the edge. And then she drew from her neck, from beneath the shawl, a
piece of fine black lace, and laid it gently over and about his head.
"Cover it," she said to the men, and she stood waiting, lest they should
touch him with their hands.
She had seen his face for the last time, and when they had covered him,
they laid the coffin in another of lead which they had brought, and she
stood quite still, watching the gleaming melted stuff that ran along the
edges of the grey lead, like quicksilver, under the hot tool of copper.
When that was done, with main strength they laid him in the third, which
was covered with black velvet. And there were screws.
At last they went away, and Matilde set the tall candlesticks on each
side of the velvet thing, and looked at it again. Then she, too, with
still covered head, went towards the door. But between the coffin and
the door, she stood still, swaying a little, till she fell to her full
length backwards and straight, as a cypress tree falls when it is cut
down. But she was not dead, for she was too strong to die then. The
servants carried her away to her own room, calling others to help them,
for she was heavy, and they had to take her down the stairs. It was
afternoon then, and when she came to herself and opened her eyes, she
bitterly cursed the day, for it would have been good to die. But she
never went again to the room where she had watched.
She lay still a long time, alone in silence. Then, from a room beyond
hers, came the wild crash of her husband's laughter. She sat up. Her
face was grim and terrible, ghastly and stained with rouge, as the shawl
fell back upon her shoulders. She sat up and listened, and her smooth
lips twisted themselves angrily, one against the other, as a tiger's
sometimes do, when there is blood in the air. She knew now that she was
really alive, for she thought of Veronica.
Veronica had not known in the night. Her rooms were at the farther end
of the apartment in a quiet part of the house, and when she had left
Bosio she had gone to bed immediately and had dismissed her maid.
Elettra came from the room to find the household in the hideous uproar
and confusion which first followed the discovery of Bosio's death.
Elettra was a wise woman as well as a revengeful one. By the deeds of
the Macomer, as she looked at it, her own husband had been killed, and
she had cursed their house, living and dead. She had blood now, for her
blood, and in the dark corridor she smiled once. But no one should
disturb Veronica, and she stood there, where any one must pass to go to
the girl's room, silent, satisfied, watchful. She loved her mistress, as
she hated all the Macomer, body and soul, alive and dead. Some foolish
women of the household would have roused Veronica, for they came, two
together, asking in loud hysterical voices, whether she knew. But
Elettra kept them off, and took the news herself in the morning when
Veronica rang for her.
"A terrible thing has happened in the night," she said, when she had
opened the windows.
Veronica opened her eyes wide and then rubbed them slowly with her slim,
dark fingers and looked again at Elettra.
"It is a very terrible thing," continued the woman, gravely. "It
happened in the night, and all was confusion, but I would not let them
disturb you. They heard the pistol-shot and broke down the door. He was
already dead. He had shot himself."
"Who?" asked Veronica, in instant horror. "Some one in the house? A
servant?"
Elettra shook her head.
"No. I would not tell you--but you must know. It was Count Bosio."
Veronica turned pale and started up. "Bosio? Bosio dead?" she cried in a
voice that was almost a scream.
The woman was sensible and understood her, and by that time the
household was quiet, so that there was no fear lest any one else should
come to Veronica's room.
But when she was quite sure of what had happened, Veronica wept bitterly
for a long time, burying her face in her pillows and refusing to listen
any more to Elettra. Then, if the woman had not prevented her, almost
forcibly, she would have gone upstairs to see him where he lay dead. But
Elettra would not let her go, for she knew that Matilde was there, and
why; and moreover, it was not within her ideas of custom that a young
girl should go and look at any one dead. But Veronica's tears flowed on.
At first it was only sorrow, real and heartfelt, without any attempt to
reason and explain. But by and by she began to ask herself questions for
the dead man's sake. In her dreams the sweet words he had spoken in the
evening had come back to her, and when she had first opened her eyes at
the sound of Elettra's voice she had thought that she saw his eyes
before her in the dimness, before the windows were all opened. She had
not loved him yet, but those words of his had touched something which
would have felt, by and by. And suddenly, he was gone. Why? It was so
sudden. It was as though a part of the earth had fallen through, into
space beneath, without warning. There was too much gone, all at once.
She could only ask why. And there was no answer to that.
Her eyes fell upon the artificial gardenia she had worn. It lay upon the
dressing-table where she had tossed it when she had taken it from her
bodice. Her tears broke out again, for it had meant so much last night,
and could mean now but the memory of that much, and never again anything
more. It was a long time before Veronica dried her eyes, and consented
to dress.
Apart from the sorrowful horror that filled her, it seemed so very
strange that he should have killed himself just after she had promised
to marry him, within an hour after they had spoken together of the
happiness to come.
"It was an accident," she said at last, speaking to herself, as though
she had reached a conclusion. "He did not mean to do it."
Elettra shook her head, but said nothing. Accident, or no accident, it
was the blood of a Macomer for the blood of her own dead husband,
murdered up there in Muro by the peasants because Macomer had burdened
them beyond their power to pay.
She said nothing, and Veronica expected no answer, but sat still, trying
to think, while Elettra noiselessly set the big dressing-room in order.
The woman had given her a black frock without consulting her.
Though Veronica liked her, and knew that she could rely on her devotion,
she was not one of those Italian girls who readily confide in their
serving-women, and she had told Elettra nothing about the projected
marriage, and she said nothing of it now, though she was mourning her
betrothed husband. But she told Elettra to go out and buy a little crape
to put on the black frock, and to send for dressmakers to make mourning
things quickly.
The confusion in the house had subsided into stillness. Bosio Macomer
was in his coffin. The servants were exhausted, and there was no one to
direct. Gregorio had been heard laughing wildly in his room, and a
frightened chambermaid said that he was going mad. Elettra had great
difficulty in getting something to eat, which she brought to Veronica's
room with a glass of wine.
The girl's first outbreak of sorrow ebbed to a melancholy placidity, as
the hours went by. She got her prayer-book, and read certain prayers for
the dead. When her maid had gone out to buy the crape, she knelt down
and said prayers that were not in the book, very earnestly and simply;
and now and then her tears flowed afresh for a little while. She took
the artificial gardenia and put it away in a safe place, after she had
kissed it; and she wondered when she remembered how she had blushed last
night when Bosio kissed her that once--that only once that ever was to
be. And she took his photograph and looked at it, too. But she could not
bear that yet--at least, not to look at it too closely.
Vaguely she tried to think what the others might be doing in the house,
and why no one came to her but her maid. It seemed to her that she was
always to be alone, now, for days, for weeks, for years. As she grew
more calm, she attempted to imagine what life would be without the
companionship of Bosio. That was what she should miss, for she was but
little nearer to love than that. It all looked so blank and gloomy that
she cried again, out of sheer desolation and loneliness. But of this she
was somewhat ashamed, and she presently dried her eyes again.
She did not like to leave her room, either. It seemed to her that death
was outside, walking up and down throughout the rest of the house, until
poor Bosio should be taken away. And again she wondered about Matilde
and Gregorio, and what they were doing. She tried to read, but not the
novel Bosio had given her. She took up another book, and presently found
herself saying prayers over it. The day was very long and very sad.
Before Elettra came back from her errands, a servant knocked at
Veronica's door. He said that there was a priest who was asking for her,
and begged her to receive him for a few moments.
"It cannot be for me," answered Veronica. "It must be a mistake. He
wishes to see my aunt, or the count."
"He asked for the Princess of Acireale," said the man. "I could not be
mistaken, Excellency."
"He does not know who I am, or he would not ask for me by that name.
Does he look poor? It must be for charity."
"So, so, Excellency. He had an old cloak, but his face is that of an
honest man."
"Give him ten francs," said Veronica, rising to get her pocket-book.
"And tell him that I am sorry that I cannot receive him."
The servant took the note, and disappeared. In three minutes he came
back.
"He does not want money, Excellency," he said. "He says he is the
Reverend Teodoro Maresca, curate of your Excellency's church in Muro,
and begs you earnestly to receive him."
Veronica rose again. She knew Don Teodoro by name, for Bosio had often
spoken of him to her, as his former tutor and his friend. It was for
Bosio's sake that he had come--that was clear. Veronica asked where her
aunt was, and on hearing that Matilde had retired to her own room, she
told the servant to bring Don Teodoro to the yellow drawing-room.
A moment later she followed. The tall priest was standing with bent head
before the fireplace, on the very spot where so much had happened during
the last two days. He held his three-cornered hat in one hand, and was
stretching out the other to warm it at the low flame. Veronica was a
little startled by his face and extraordinary features, but he looked at
her clearly and steadily through his big silver spectacles, and he had a
venerable air which she liked. She noticed that when she advanced
towards him, he bowed like a man of the world, and not at all like a
country priest.
"I thank you for receiving me, princess," he said, gravely. "I have
heard the sad news. I was Bosio's friend for many years. I spent an hour
with him only the day before yesterday, during which he told me much
about himself and about you. If, before he died, he told you nothing of
what he told me, as I think probable, it is necessary for you to know it
all from me as soon as possible. Forgive me for speaking hurriedly and
abruptly. The case is urgent, and dangerous for you. Shall we be
interrupted here?"
"I think not," said Veronica, considerably surprised by his manner. "But
of course--" she paused doubtingly.
"Have you a room of your own, where you could receive me?" asked the old
man, without hesitation.
"Yes--that is--I should not like to--"
"I am an old priest, princess, and this is a time of confusion in the
house. You can risk something. It is important. Besides, I am in your
own service," he added, with a quiet smile. "I am the chaplain of your
castle at Muro."
"Yes--that is true." Veronica looked at him with a little curiosity, for
she had never been to Muro, and it was interesting to see one of her
dependents of whom she had often heard. "Come," she said suddenly. "We
shall meet no one, except my maid, perhaps--Elettra. Do you know her?
Her husband was under-steward, and was killed."
"I know of her--I buried him," answered the priest.
She led the way to her own part of the house, to the large room which
served her as dressing-room and boudoir. After all, as he had said, he
was a priest and an old man. She made him sit down beside her fire, in
her own low easy-chair, for he looked thin and cold, she thought, and
she felt charitably disposed towards him, not dreaming what he was going
to say, and supposing that he had exaggerated the importance of his
errand.
"Princess--" he began, and paused, choosing his words.
"Do not call me that," she said. "Nobody does. Call me Donna Veronica."
"I am old fashioned," he answered. "You are my princess and feudal liege
lady. Never mind. It would be better for you if you were in your own
castle of Muro, with your own people about you, though it is a gloomy
place, and the scenery is sad. You would be safe there."
"You speak as though we lived in the Middle Ages," said the young girl,
with a faint smile.
"We live in the dark ages. You are not safe here. Do you know why my
dear friend Bosio killed himself last night?"
"It was an accident! It must have been an accident!" Veronica's face was
very sorrowful again.
"I wish it had been," said Don Teodoro. "They will say so, in charity,
in order to give him Christian burial. But it was not an accident,
princess. My friend told me all the truth, the day before yesterday. It
is very terrible. He killed himself in order not to be bound to marry
you."
The round, silver-rimmed spectacles turned slowly to her face.
"In order not to marry me! You must be mad, Don Teodoro! Or you do not
know the truth--that is it! You do not know the truth. It was only last
night that he asked me to marry him--that is--it had been my aunt who
had asked me, and I gave him the answer."
"You consented?"
"Yes. I consented--"
"That is why he killed himself," said the priest, sadly. "I knew he
would, if it came to that. It is a terrible story."
Veronica stared at him in silence, really believing that he was out of
his mind, and beginning to feel very nervous in his presence. He shocked
her unspeakably, too, by what he said about Bosio; for if the wound was
not deep, perhaps, it was fresh, and his words were brine to it. He saw
what she felt, and made haste to be plain.
"I am sorry that I am obliged to tell you this," he continued, after a
short pause. "I cannot help it. The only thing I can do for my dead
friend is to save you, if I can. I saw the account of his death in a
newspaper an hour ago, and I came at once. Will you please not think
that I am mad, until you have heard me? I was his friend, and I have
eaten your bread these many years. I must speak."
"Tell me your story," said Veronica, leaning back in her chair and
folding her hands.
He began at the beginning, and told her all, as Bosio had told him. He
omitted nothing, for he had the astonishing memory which sometimes
belongs to students, besides the desire to be perfectly accurate, and
to exaggerate nothing. For he knew that she would find it hard to
believe him.
She listened; and as he went on, describing the struggle in poor Bosio's
heart between the desire to save the woman he loved and the horror of
sacrificing Veronica as a means to that end, she leaned forward again,
drawing nearer to him, and watching his face keenly. Her eyes were wide,
and her lips parted a little; for whether true or not, the story was
terrible as he told it, and as he had said that it would be.
"I do not know what he said to you last night," he concluded. "I give
you a dead man's words, as he spoke them to me; but I have no right to
those he spoke to you. This is true, that I have told you, as I hope for
forgiveness of my own sins. If you stay in this house, by the truth of
God, I believe that your life is not safe."
"You believe it, I am sure," said Veronica. "But I cannot. The most I
can believe is that poor Bosio was already mad when he told you this. It
must be true. Even supposing that my uncle were the man you think, and
had ruined himself in speculations and had taken money of mine without
my knowledge, would it not be far more natural that he and my aunt
should come to me and confess everything, and beg me to forgive and help
them for the sake of their good name? Of course it would. You cannot
deny that."
"It is what I told Bosio," answered Don Teodoro, shaking his head; "but
he answered that they feared you, and that your death would be a safer
way, because you might not be so kind. You might go to the cardinal and
lay the case before him, and they would be lost."
"I might. I probably should." Veronica paused. "That is true," she
continued, "but whatever I did, I could not allow the matter to come to
a prosecution--for the sake of my own name, if not for theirs. But I do
not believe it--I do not believe it--indeed, I do not believe it at all.
Poor Bosio was not in his right mind. That is why he killed himself. He
was mad, even when he talked with you the day before yesterday--it is
the only possible explanation."
"Nevertheless, something must be done," said Don Teodoro. "Your safety
must be thought of first, princess."
"I feel perfectly safe here," answered Veronica. "All this is madness.
The countess is my father's sister. I admit that I have not always liked
her, but she has always been kind. You really cannot expect me to
believe that she and my uncle would plot against my life--especially
now, in this terrible trouble and sorrow! I have listened to you, Don
Teodoro, and I am sure that you wish me well, but I never can believe
that you are right. Really--with all respect to you--I must say it. It
is wildly absurd!"
And the longer she thought of it, the more absurd it seemed. The girl
was naturally both sensible and brave, and the whole tale was monstrous
in her eyes, though while he had been telling it she had fallen under
the spell of its thrilling interest, forgetting that it was all about
herself. She looked at the quiet old priest, with his extraordinary face
and quiet manner, and it was far easier to believe that a man with such
features might be mad than that her Aunt Matilde meant to kill her. He
was silent for a few moments.
"There is a terrible logic in the absurdity," he said at last. "Your
aunt constrains you to make a will in her favour, Bosio knew that his
brother is ruined and that several large mortgages expire on the first
of January. He knew that his brother has defrauded you in a way which is
criminal. If they can get control of your money within three weeks they
are saved. They persuaded Bosio and you to be betrothed. But Bosio kills
himself. The main chance is gone. There remains the one with which the
countess threatened him if he would not marry you--your immediate death.
Against that, stands the possibility of penal servitude in the galleys
for a man and woman of high rank and social position--only the
possibility, to be sure, but a possibility, nevertheless. Remember that
to those who know the whole extent and criminality of the count's fraud
the case appears very much worse than it does to you, who now hear of
it for the first time, in a general way, and who do not understand the
nature of such transactions. I have been a confessor many years,
princess. I know how few penitents can be made to believe that those
they have injured will pardon them, if they frankly ask forgiveness. It
is human nature. The best of us have doubted God's willingness to
forgive--how much more do we doubt man's! It is all very logical,
princess, very logical--far too logical, whether you will believe it or
not."
"If I believed the beginning," said Veronica, "I might believe it all.
But it is not proved that my uncle has defrauded me, and all the rest
seems absurd, if that is not true."
"I beseech you at least to be careful!" answered the priest, earnestly.
"In what way? I shall go on living here, just the same, unless we all go
into the country for the rest of the winter. Even if I thought myself in
danger, I do not see what I could do."
"Eat what the others eat. Drink what the others drink. Take nothing
especially prepared for you. Lock your door at night. If you will not
leave the house, that is all you can do."
He shook his head thoughtfully.
It was true Italian advice--against poison and smothering. Veronica
smiled, even in her sadness.
"I have no fear," she said. "Let us say no more about it. Can I do
anything for the people at Muro?" she asked, by way of preparing to send
him away.
"The people at Muro--the people at Muro," he repeated dreamily. "Oh
yes--they are all poor--almost all. Money would help them. The best
would be to come and see us yourself, princess. But if you are not
careful, you will never come now," he added, turning the big spectacles
slowly towards her and looking long into her face. "I have done what I
could to warn you," he said, beginning to rise. "I will do anything I
can to watch over you--but it will be little. Good bye. God preserve
you."
As she rose she rang the bell beside her that her maid might come and
show him the way out. She knew that by this time Elettra must have
returned from her errands. The afternoon light was already failing.
She held out her hand, and he took it and kept it for a moment.
"God preserve you," he repeated earnestly.
He turned just as Elettra opened the door. The woman recognized him at
once, came forward and kissed his hand, he having long been her parish
priest. Then she led the way out. Don Teodoro turned at the door and
bowed again, and Veronica, standing by the fire, nodded and smiled
kindly to him. She was sorry for him. She had never seen him before,
and he seemed to be devoted to her, and yet she was sure that his mind
was feeble and unsettled. No sane person could believe the monstrous
things he had told her.
Outside, he made a few steps and then stopped Elettra, laying his
emaciated hand upon her shoulder. He looked behind him and saw that they
were alone in the passage.
"Take care of your mistress, my daughter," he said. "Naples is not Muro,
but it is no better. Let her eat what others eat, drink what others
drink, and take no medicines except from you, and make her lock her door
at night. This is not a good house."
The dark woman looked at him fixedly for several seconds, and then
nodded twice.
"It is well that you have told me, Father Curate," she said in a low
voice. "I understand."
That was all, and she turned to lead him out.