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Vendetta: A Story of One Forgotten

by Marie Corelli · English · Gutenberg #4360 · 813,466 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Vendetta: A Story of One Forgotten

Author: Marie Corelli


        
Release date: August 1, 2003 [eBook #4360]
                Most recently updated: March 27, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENDETTA: A STORY OF ONE FORGOTTEN ***

[Illustration]




Vendetta

Or
A Story of One Forgotten

by Marie Corelli

Author of “ARDATH,” “THELMA,” “A ROMANCE OF
TWO WORLDS,” “WORMWOOD,” etc., etc.


Contents

 PREFACE
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 CHAPTER XIII.
 CHAPTER XIV.
 CHAPTER XV.
 CHAPTER XVI.
 CHAPTER XVII.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
 CHAPTER XIX.
 CHAPTER XX.
 CHAPTER XXI.
 CHAPTER XXII.
 CHAPTER XXIII.
 CHAPTER XXIV.
 CHAPTER XXV.
 CHAPTER XXVI.
 CHAPTER XXVII.
 CHAPTER XXVIII.
 CHAPTER XXIX.
 CHAPTER XXX.
 CHAPTER XXXI.
 CHAPTER XXXII.
 CHAPTER XXXIII.
 CHAPTER XXXIV.
 CHAPTER XXXV.
 CHAPTER XXXVI.
 CHAPTER XXXVII.




PREFACE


Lest those who read the following pages should deem this story at all
improbable, it is perhaps necessary to say that its chief incidents are
founded on an actual occurrence which took place in Naples during the
last scathing visitation of the cholera in 1884. We know well enough,
by the chronicle of daily journalism, that the infidelity of wives is,
most unhappily, becoming common—far too common for the peace and good
repute of society. Not so common is an outraged husband’s vengeance—not
often dare he take the law into his own hands—for in England, at least,
such boldness on his part would doubtless be deemed a worse crime than
that by which he personally is doomed to suffer. But in Italy things
are on a different footing—the verbosity and red-tape of the law, and
the hesitating verdict of special juries, are not there considered
sufficiently efficacious to soothe a man’s damaged honor and ruined
name. And thus—whether right or wrong—it often happens that strange and
awful deeds are perpetrated—deeds of which the world in general hears
nothing, and which, when brought to light at last, are received with
surprise and incredulity. Yet the romances planned by the brain of the
novelist or dramatist are poor in comparison with the romances of real
life—life wrongly termed commonplace, but which, in fact, teems with
tragedies as great and dark and soul-torturing as any devised by
Sophocles or Shakespeare. Nothing is more strange than truth—nothing,
at times, more terrible!

_Marie Corelli_.
August, 1886.




VENDETTA!




CHAPTER I.


I, who write this, am a dead man. Dead legally—dead by absolute
proofs—dead and buried! Ask for me in my native city and they will tell
you I was one of the victims of the cholera that ravaged Naples in
1884, and that my mortal remains lie moldering in the funeral vault of
my ancestors. Yet—I live! I feel the warm blood coursing through my
veins—the blood of thirty summers—the prime of early manhood
invigorates me, and makes these eyes of mine keen and bright—these
muscles strong as iron—this hand powerful of grip—this well-knit form
erect and proud of bearing. Yes!—I am alive, though declared to be
dead; alive in the fullness of manly force—and even sorrow has left few
distinguishing marks upon me, save one. My hair, once ebony-black, is
white as a wreath of Alpine snow, though its clustering curls are thick
as ever.

“A constitutional inheritance?” asks one physician, observing my
frosted locks.

“A sudden shock?” suggests another.

“Exposure to intense heat?” hints a third.

I answer none of them. I did so once. I told my story to a man I met by
chance—one renowned for medical skill and kindliness. He heard me to
the end in evident incredulity and alarm, and hinted at the possibility
of madness. Since then I have never spoken.

But now I write. I am far from all persecution—I can set down the truth
fearlessly. I can dip the pen in my own blood if I choose, and none
shall gainsay me! For the green silence of a vast South American forest
encompasses me—the grand and stately silence of a virginal nature,
almost unbroken by the ruthless step of man’s civilization—a haven of
perfect calm, delicately disturbed by the fluttering wings and soft
voices of birds, and the gentle or stormy murmur of the freeborn winds
of heaven. Within this charmed circle of rest I dwell—here I lift up my
overburdened heart like a brimming chalice, and empty it on the ground,
to the last drop of gall contained therein. The world shall know my
history.

Dead, and yet living! How can that be?—you ask. Ah, my friends! If you
seek to be rid of your dead relations for a certainty, you should have
their bodies cremated. Otherwise there is no knowing what may happen!
Cremation is the best way—the only way. It is clean, and _safe_. Why
should there be any prejudice against it? Surely it is better to give
the remains of what we loved (or pretended to love) to cleansing fire
and pure air than to lay them in a cold vault of stone, or down, down
in the wet and clinging earth. For loathly things are hidden deep in
the mold—things, foul and all unnameable—long worms—slimy creatures
with blind eyes and useless wings—abortions and deformities of the
insect tribe born of poisonous vapor—creatures the very sight of which
would drive you, oh, delicate woman, into a fit of hysteria, and would
provoke even you, oh, strong man, to a shudder of repulsion! But there
is a worse thing than these merely physical horrors which come of
so-called Christian burial—that is, the terrible _uncertainty_. What,
if after we have lowered the narrow strong box containing our dear
deceased relation into its vault or hollow in the ground—what, if after
we have worn a seemly garb of woe, and tortured our faces into the
fitting expression of gentle and patient melancholy—what, I say, if
after all the reasonable precautions taken to insure safety, they
should actually prove insufficient? What—if the prison to which we have
consigned the deeply regretted one should not have such close doors as
we fondly imagined? What, if the stout coffin should be wrenched apart
by fierce and frenzied fingers—what, if our late dear friend should
_not_ be dead, but should, like Lazarus of old, come forth to challenge
our affection anew? Should we not grieve sorely that we had failed to
avail ourselves of the secure and classical method of cremation?
Especially if we had benefited by worldly goods or money left to us by
the so deservedly lamented! For we are self-deceiving hypocrites—few of
us are really sorry for the dead—few of us remember them with any real
tenderness or affection. And yet God knows! they may need more pity
than we dream of!

But let me to my task. I, Fabio Romani, lately deceased, am about to
chronicle the events of one short year—a year in which was compressed
the agony of a long and tortured life-time! One little year!—one sharp
thrust from the dagger of Time! It pierced my heart—the wound still
gapes and bleeds, and every drop of blood is tainted as it falls!

One suffering, common to many, I have never known—that is—poverty. I
was born rich. When my father, Count Filippo Romani, died, leaving me,
then a lad of seventeen, sole heir to his enormous possessions—sole
head of his powerful house—there were many candid friends who, with
their usual kindness, prophesied the worst things of my future. Nay,
there were even some who looked forward to my physical and mental
destruction with a certain degree of malignant expectation—and they
were estimable persons too. They were respectably connected—their words
carried weight—and for a time I was an object of their maliciously
pious fears. I was destined, according to their calculations, to be a
gambler, a spendthrift, a drunkard, an incurable roue of the most
abandoned character. Yet, strange to say, I became none of these
things. Though a Neapolitan, with all the fiery passions and hot blood
of my race, I had an innate scorn for the contemptible vices and low
desires of the unthinking vulgar. Gambling seemed to me a delirious
folly—drink, a destroyer of health and reason—and licentious
extravagance an outrage on the poor. I chose my own way of life—a
middle course between simplicity and luxury—a judicious mingling of
home-like peace with the gayety of sympathetic social intercourse—an
even tenor of intelligent existence which neither exhausted the mind
nor injured the body.

I dwelt in my father’s villa—a miniature palace of white marble,
situated on a wooded height overlooking the Bay of Naples. My
pleasure-grounds were fringed with fragrant groves of orange and
myrtle, where hundreds of full-voiced nightingales warbled their
love-melodies to the golden moon. Sparkling fountains rose and fell in
huge stone basins carved with many a quaint design, and their cool
murmurous splash refreshed the burning silence of the hottest summer
air. In this retreat I lived at peace for some happy years, surrounded
by books and pictures, and visited frequently by friends—young men
whose tastes were more or less like my own, and who were capable of
equally appreciating the merits of an antique volume, or the flavor of
a rare vintage.

Of women I saw little or nothing. Truth to tell, I instinctively
avoided them. Parents with marriageable daughters invited me frequently
to their houses, but these invitations I generally refused. My best
books warned me against feminine society—and I believed and accepted
the warning. This tendency of mine exposed me to the ridicule of those
among my companions who were amorously inclined, but their gay jests at
what they termed my “weakness” never affected me. I trusted in
friendship rather than love, and I had a friend—one for whom at that
time I would gladly have laid down my life—one who inspired me with the
most profound attachment. He, Guido Ferrari, also joined occasionally
with others in the good-natured mockery I brought down upon myself by
my shrinking dislike of women.

“Fie on thee, Fabio!” he would cry. “Thou wilt not taste life till thou
hast sipped the nectar from a pair of rose-red lips—thou shalt not
guess the riddle of the stars till thou hast gazed deep down into the
fathomless glory of a maiden’s eyes—thou canst not know delight till
thou hast clasped eager arms round a coy waist and heard the beating of
a passionate heart against thine own! A truce to thy musty volumes!
Believe it, those ancient and sorrowful philosophers had no manhood in
them—their blood was water—and their slanders against women were but
the pettish utterances of their own deserved disappointments. Those who
miss the chief prize of life would fain persuade others that it is not
worth having. What, man! Thou, with a ready wit, a glancing eye, a gay
smile, a supple form, thou wilt not enter the lists of love? What says
Voltaire of the blind god?

“‘Qui que tu sois voilà ton maître,
Il fût—il est—ou il doit être!’”


When my friend spoke thus I smiled, but answered nothing. His arguments
failed to convince me. Yet I loved to hear him talk—his voice was
mellow as the note of a thrush, and his eyes had an eloquence greater
than all speech. I loved him—God knows! unselfishly, sincerely—with
that rare tenderness sometimes felt by schoolboys for one another, but
seldom experienced by grown men. I was happy in his society, as he,
indeed, appeared to be in mine. We passed most of our time together,
he, like myself, having been bereaved of his parents in early youth,
and therefore left to shape out his own course of life as suited his
particular fancy. He chose art as a profession, and, though a fairly
successful painter, was as poor as I was rich. I remedied this neglect
of fortune for him in various ways with due forethought and
delicacy—and gave him as many commissions as I possibly could without
rousing his suspicion or wounding his pride. For he possessed a strong
attraction for me—we had much the same tastes, we shared the same
sympathies, in short, I desired nothing better than his confidence and
companionship.

In this world no one, however harmless, is allowed to continue happy.
Fate—or caprice—cannot endure to see us monotonously at rest. Something
perfectly trivial—a look, a word, a touch, and lo! a long chain of old
associations is broken asunder, and the peace we deemed so deep and
lasting is finally interrupted. This change came to me, as surely as it
comes to all. One day—how well I remember it!—one sultry evening toward
the end of May, 1881, I was in Naples. I had passed the afternoon in my
yacht, idly and slowly sailing over the bay, availing myself of what
little wind there was. Guido’s absence (he had gone to Rome on a visit
of some weeks’ duration) rendered me somewhat of a solitary, and as my
light craft ran into harbor, I found myself in a pensive,
half-uncertain mood, which brought with it its own depression. The few
sailors who manned my vessel dispersed right and left as soon as they
were landed—each to his own favorite haunts of pleasure or
dissipation—but I was in no humor to be easily amused. Though I had
plenty of acquaintance in the city, I cared little for such
entertainment as they could offer me. As I strolled along through one
of the principal streets, considering whether or not I should return on
foot to my own dwelling on the heights, I heard a sound of singing, and
perceived in the distance a glimmer of white robes. It was the Month of
Mary, and I at once concluded that this must be an approaching
Procession of the Virgin. Half in idleness, half in curiosity, I stood
still and waited. The singing voices came nearer and nearer—I saw the
priests, the acolytes, the swinging gold censers heavy with fragrance,
the flaring candles, the snowy veils of children and girls—and then all
suddenly the picturesque beauty of the scene danced before my eyes in a
whirling blur of brilliancy and color from which looked forth—one face!
One face beaming out like a star from a cloud of amber tresses—one face
of rose-tinted, childlike loveliness—a loveliness absolutely perfect,
lighted up by two luminous eyes, large and black as night—one face in
which the small, curved mouth smiled half provokingly, half sweetly! I
gazed and gazed again, dazzled and excited, beauty makes such fools of
us all! This was a woman—one of the sex I mistrusted and avoided—a
woman in the earliest spring of her youth, a girl of fifteen or sixteen
at the utmost. Her veil had been thrown back by accident or design, and
for one brief moment I drank in that soul-tempting glance, that
witch-like smile! The procession passed—the vision faded—but in that
breath of time one epoch of my life had closed forever, and another had
begun!


Of course I married her. We Neapolitans lose no time in such matters.
We are not prudent. Unlike the calm blood of Englishmen, ours rushes
swiftly through our veins—it is warm as wine and sunlight, and needs no
fictitious stimulant. We love, we desire, we possess; and then? We
tire, you say? These southern races are so fickle! All wrong—we are
less tired than you deem. And do not Englishmen tire? Have they no
secret ennui at times when sitting in the chimney nook of “home, sweet
home,” with their fat wives and ever-spreading families? Truly, yes!
But they are too cautious to say so.

I need not relate the story of my courtship—it was brief and sweet as a
song sung perfectly. There were no obstacles. The girl I sought was the
only daughter of a ruined Florentine noble of dissolute character, who
gained a bare subsistence by frequenting the gaming-tables. His child
had been brought up in a convent renowned for strict discipline—she
knew nothing of the world. She was, he assured me, with maudlin tears
in his eyes, “as innocent as a flower on the altar of the Madonna.” I
believed him—for what could this lovely, youthful, low-voiced maiden
know of even the shadow of evil? I was eager to gather so fair a lily
for my own proud wearing—and her father gladly gave her to me, no doubt
inwardly congratulating himself on the wealthy match that had fallen to
the lot of his dowerless daughter.

We were married at the end of June, and Guido Ferrari graced our bridal
with his handsome and gallant presence.

“By the body of Bacchus!” he exclaimed to me when the nuptial ceremony
was over, “thou hast profited by my teaching, Fabio! A quiet rogue is
often most cunning! Thou hast rifled the casket of Venus, and stolen
her fairest jewel—thou hast secured the loveliest maiden in the two
Sicilies!”

I pressed his hand, and a touch of remorse stole over me, for he was no
longer first in my affection. Almost I regretted it—yes, on my very
wedding-morn I looked back to the old days—old now though so recent—and
sighed to think they were ended. I glanced at Nina, my wife. It was
enough! Her beauty dazzled and overcame me. The melting languor of her
large limpid eyes stole into my veins—I forgot all but her. I was in
that high delirium of passion in which love, and love only, seems the
keynote of creation. I touched the topmost peak of the height of
joy—the days were feasts of fairy-land, the nights dreams of rapture!
No; I never tired! My wife’s beauty never palled upon me; she grew
fairer with each day of possession. I never saw her otherwise than
attractive, and within a few months she had probed all the depths of my
nature. She discovered how certain sweet looks of hers could draw me to
her side, a willing and devoted slave; she measured my weakness with
her own power; she knew—what did she not know? I torture myself with
these foolish memories. All men past the age of twenty have learned
somewhat of the tricks of women—the pretty playful nothings that weaken
the will and sap the force of the strongest hero. She loved me? Oh,
yes, I suppose so! Looking back on those days, I can frankly say I
believe she loved me—as nine hundred wives out of a thousand love their
husbands, namely—for what they can get. And I grudged her nothing. If I
chose to idolize her, and raise her to the stature of an angel when she
was but on the low level of mere womanhood, that was my folly, not her
fault.

We kept open house. Our villa was a place of rendezvous for the leading
members of the best society in and around Naples. My wife was
universally admired; her lovely face and graceful manners were themes
of conversation throughout the whole neighborhood. Guido Ferrari, my
friend, was one of those who were loudest in her praise, and the
chivalrous homage he displayed toward her doubly endeared him to me. I
trusted him as a brother; he came and went as pleased him; he brought
Nina gifts of flowers and fanciful trifles adapted to her taste, and
treated her with fraternal and delicate kindness. I deemed my happiness
perfect—with love, wealth, and friendship, what more could a man
desire?

Yet another drop of honey was added to my cup of sweetness. On the
first morning of May, 1882, our child was born—a girl-babe, fair as one
of the white anemones which at that season grew thickly in the woods
surrounding our home. They brought the little one to me in the shaded
veranda where I sat at breakfast with Guido—a tiny, almost shapeless
bundle, wrapped in soft cashmere and old lace. I took the fragile thing
in my arms with a tender reverence; it opened its eyes; they were large
and dark like Nina’s, and the light of a recent heaven seemed still to
linger in their pure depths. I kissed the little face; Guido did the
same; and those clear, quiet eyes regarded us both with a strange
half-inquiring solemnity. A bird perched on a bough of jasmine broke
into a low, sweet song, the soft wind blew and scattered the petals of
a white rose at our feet. I gave the infant back to the nurse, who
waited to receive it, and said, with a smile, “Tell my wife we have
welcomed her May-blossom.”

Guido laid his hand on my shoulder as the servant retired; his face was
unusually pale.

“Thou art a good fellow, Fabio!” he said, abruptly.

“Indeed! How so?” I asked, half laughingly; “I am no better than other
men.”

“You are less suspicious than the majority,” he returned, turning away
from me and playing idly with a spray of clematis that trailed on one
of the pillars of the veranda.

I glanced at him in surprise. “What do you mean, _amico_? Have I reason
to suspect any one?”

He laughed and resumed his seat at the breakfast-table.

“Why, no!” he answered, with a frank look. “But in Naples the air is
pregnant with suspicion—jealousy’s dagger is ever ready to strike,
justly or unjustly—the very children are learned in the ways of vice.
Penitents confess to priests who are worse than penitents, and by
Heaven! in such a state of society, where conjugal fidelity is a
farce”—he paused a moment, and then went on—“is it not wonderful to
know a man like you, Fabio? A man happy in home affections, without a
cloud on the sky of his confidence?”

“I have no cause for distrust,” I said. “Nina is as innocent as the
little child of whom she is to-day the mother.”

“True!” exclaimed Ferrari. “Perfectly true!” and he looked me full in
the eyes, with a smile. “White as the virgin snow on the summit of Mont
Blanc—purer than the flawless diamond—and unapproachable as the
furthest star! Is it not so?”

I assented with a certain gravity; something in his manner puzzled me.
Our conversation soon turned on different topics, and I thought no more
of the matter. But a time came—and that speedily—when I had stern
reason to remember every word he had uttered.




CHAPTER II.


Every one knows what kind of summer we had in Naples in 1884. The
newspapers of all lands teemed with the story of its horrors. The
cholera walked abroad like a destroying demon; under its withering
touch scores of people, young and old, dropped down in the streets to
die. The fell disease, born of dirt and criminal neglect of sanitary
precautions, gained on the city with awful rapidity, and worse even
than the plague was the unreasoning but universal panic. The
never-to-be-forgotten heroism of King Humbert had its effect on the
more educated classes, but among the low Neapolitan populace, abject
fear, vulgar superstition, and utter selfishness reigned supreme. One
case may serve as an example of many others. A fisherman, well known in
the place, a handsome and popular young fellow, was seized, while
working in his boat, with the first symptoms of cholera. He was carried
to his mother’s house. The old woman, a villainous-looking hag, watched
the little procession as it approached her dwelling, and taking in the
situation at once, she shut and barricaded her door.

“_Santissima Madonna_!” she yelled, shrilly, through a half-opened
window. “Leave him in the street, the abandoned, miserable one! The
ungrateful pig! He would bring the plague to his own hard-working,
honest mother! Holy Joseph! who would have children? Leave him in the
street, I tell you!”

It was useless to expostulate with this feminine scarecrow; her son
was, happily for himself, unconscious, and after some more wrangling he
was laid down on her doorstep, where he shortly afterward expired, his
body being afterward carted away like so much rubbish by the
_beccamorti_.

The heat in the city was intense. The sky was a burning dome of
brilliancy, the bay was still as a glittering sheet of glass. A thin
column of smoke issuing from the crater of Vesuvius increased the
impression of an all-pervading, though imperceptible ring of fire, that
seemed to surround the place. No birds sung save in the late evening,
when the nightingales in my gardens broke out in a bubbling torrent of
melody, half joyous, half melancholy. Up on that wooded height where I
dwelt it was comparatively cool. I took all precautions necessary to
prevent the contagion from attacking our household; In fact, I would
have left the neighborhood altogether, had I not known that hasty
flight from an infected district often carries with it the possibility
of closer contact with the disease. My wife, besides, was not nervous—I
think very beautiful women seldom are. Their superb vanity is an
excellent shield to repel pestilence; it does away with the principal
element of danger—fear. As for our Stella, a toddling mite of two years
old, she was a healthy child, for whom neither her mother nor myself
entertained the least anxiety.

Guido Ferrari came and stayed with us, and while the cholera, like a
sharp scythe put into a field of ripe corn, mowed down the dirt-loving
Neapolitans by hundreds, we three, with a small retinue of servants,
none of whom were ever permitted to visit the city, lived on
farinaceous food and distilled water, bathed regularly, rose and
retired early, and enjoyed the most perfect health.

Among her many other attractions my wife was gifted with a beautiful
and well-trained voice. She sung with exquisite expression, and many an
evening when Guido and myself sat smoking in the garden, after little
Stella had gone to bed, Nina would ravish our ears with the music of
her nightingale notes, singing song after song, quaint _stornelli_ and
_ritornelli_—songs of the people, full of wild and passionate beauty.
In these Guido would often join her, his full barytone chiming in with
her delicate and clear soprano as deliciously as the fall of a fountain
with the trill of a bird. I can hear those two voices now; their united
melody still rings mockingly in my ears; the heavy perfume of
orange-blossom, mingled with myrtle, floats toward me on the air; the
yellow moon burns round and full in the dense blue sky, like the King
of Thule’s goblet of gold flung into a deep sea, and again I behold
those two heads leaning together, the one fair, the other dark; my
wife, my friend—those two whose lives were a million times dearer to me
than my own. Ah! they were happy days—days of self-delusion always are.
We are never grateful enough to the candid persons who wake us from our
dream—yet such are in truth our best friends, could we but realize it.

August was the most terrible of all the summer months in Naples. The
cholera increased with frightful steadiness, and the people seemed to
be literally mad with terror. Some of them, seized with a wild spirit
of defiance, plunged into orgies of vice and intemperance with a
reckless disregard of consequences. One of these frantic revels took
place at a well-known cafe. Eight young men, accompanied by eight girls
of remarkable beauty, arrived, and ordered a private room, where they
were served with a sumptuous repast. At its close one of the party
raised his glass and proposed, “Success to the cholera!” The toast was
received with riotous shouts of applause, and all drank it with
delirious laughter. That very night every one of the revelers died in
horrible agony; their bodies, as usual, were thrust into flimsy coffins
and buried one on top of another in a hole hastily dug for the purpose.
Dismal stories like these reached us every day, but we were not
morbidly impressed by them. Stella was a living charm against
pestilence; her innocent playfulness and prattle kept us amused and
employed, and surrounded us with an atmosphere that was physically and
mentally wholesome.

One morning—one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching month—I
woke at an earlier hour than usual. A suggestion of possible coolness
in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden. My wife
slept soundly at my side. I dressed softly, without disturbing her. As
I was about to leave the room some instinct made me turn back to look
at her once more. How lovely she was! she smiled in her sleep! My heart
beat as I gazed—she had been mine for three years—mine only!—and my
passionate admiration and love of her had increased in proportion to
that length of time. I raised one of the scattered golden locks that
lay shining like a sunbeam on the pillow, and kissed it tenderly.
Then—all unconscious of my fate—I left her.

A faint breeze greeted me as I sauntered slowly along the garden
walks—a breath of wind scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves, yet
it had a salt savor in it that was refreshing after the tropical heat
of the past night. I was at that time absorbed in the study of Plato,
and as I walked, my mind occupied itself with many high problems and
deep questions suggested by that great teacher. Lost in a train of
profound yet pleasant thought, I strayed on further than I intended,
and found myself at last in a by-path, long disused by our household—a
winding footway leading downward in the direction of the harbor. It was
shady and cool, and I followed the road almost unconsciously, till I
caught a glimpse of masts and white sails gleaming through the leafage
of the overarching trees. I was then about to retrace my steps, when I
was startled by a sudden sound. It was a low moan of intense pain—a
smothered cry that seemed to be wrung from some animal in torture. I
turned in the direction whence it came, and saw, lying face downward on
the grass, a boy—a little fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of
age. His basket of wares stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches,
grapes, pomegranates, and melons—lovely but dangerous eating in cholera
times. I touched the lad on the shoulder.

“What ails you?” I asked. He twisted himself convulsively and turned
his face toward me—a beautiful face, though livid with anguish.

“The plague, _signor_!” he moaned; “the plague! Keep away from me, for
the love of God! I am dying!”

I hesitated. For myself I had no fear. But my wife—my child—for their
sakes it was necessary to be prudent. Yet I could not leave this poor
boy unassisted. I resolved to go to the harbor in search of medical
aid. With this idea in my mind I spoke cheerfully.

“Courage, my boy,” I said; “do not lose heart! All illness is not the
plague. Rest here till I return; I am going to fetch a doctor.”

The little fellow looked at me with wondering, pathetic eyes, and tried
to smile. He pointed to his throat, and made an effort to speak, but
vainly. Then he crouched down in the grass and writhed in torture like
a hunted animal wounded to the death. I left him and walked on rapidly;
reaching the harbor, where the heat was sulphurous and intense, I found
a few scared-looking men standing aimlessly about, to whom I explained
the boy’s case, and appealed for assistance. They all hung back—none of
them would accompany me, not even for the gold I offered. Cursing their
cowardice, I hurried on in search of a physician, and found one at
last, a sallow Frenchman, who listened with obvious reluctance to my
account of the condition in which I had left the little fruit-seller,
and at the end shook his head decisively, and refused to move.

“He is as good as dead,” he observed, with cold brevity. “Better call
at the house of the _Miserecordia_; the brethren will fetch his body.”

“What!” I cried; “you will not try if you can save him?”

The Frenchman bowed with satirical suavity.

“Monsieur must pardon me! My own health would be seriously endangered
by touching a cholera corpse. Allow me to wish monsieur the good-day!”

And he disappeared, shutting his door in my face. I was thoroughly
exasperated, and though the heat and the fetid odor of the sun-baked
streets made me feel faint and sick, I forgot all danger for myself as
I stood in the plague-stricken city, wondering what I should do next to
obtain succor. A grave, kind voice saluted my ear.

“You seek aid, my son?”

I looked up. A tall monk, whose cowl partly concealed his pale, but
resolute features, stood at my side—one of those heroes who, for the
love of Christ, came forth at that terrible time and faced the
pestilence fearlessly, where the blatant boasters of no-religion
scurried away like frightened hares from the very scent of danger. I
greeted him with an obeisance, and explained my errand.

“I will go at once,” he said, with an accent of pity in his voice. “But
I fear the worst. I have remedies with me; I may not be too late.”

“I will accompany you,” I said, eagerly. “One would not let a dog die
unaided; much less this poor lad, who seems friendless.”

The monk looked at me attentively as we walked on together.

“You are not residing in Naples?” he asked.

I gave him my name, which he knew by repute, and described the position
of my villa.

“Up on that height we enjoy perfect health,” I added. “I cannot
understand the panic that prevails in the city. The plague is fostered
by such cowardice.”

“Of course!” he answered, calmly. “But what will you? The people here
love pleasure. Their hearts are set solely on this life. When death,
common to all, enters their midst, they are like babes scared by a dark
shadow. Religion itself”—here he sighed deeply—“has no hold upon them.”

“But you, my father,” I began, and stopped abruptly, conscious of a
sharp throbbing pain in my temples.

“I,” he answered, gravely, “am the servant of Christ. As such, the
plague has no terrors for me. Unworthy as I am, for my Master’s sake I
am ready—nay, willing—to face all deaths.”

He spoke firmly, yet without arrogance. I looked at him in a certain
admiration, and was about to speak, when a curious dizziness overcame
me, and I caught at his arm to save myself from falling. The street
rocked like a ship at sea, and the skies whirled round me in circles of
blue fire. The feeling slowly passed, and I heard the monk’s voice, as
though it were a long way off, asking me anxiously what was the matter.
I forced a smile.

“It is the heat, I think,” I said, in feeble tones like those of a very
aged man. “I am faint—giddy. You had best leave me here—see to the boy.
Oh, my God!”

This last exclamation was wrung out of me by sheer anguish. My limbs
refused to support me, and a pang, cold and bitter as though naked
steel had been thrust through my body, caused me to sink down upon the
pavement in a kind of convulsion. The tall and sinewy monk, without a
moment’s hesitation, dragged me up and half carried, half led me into a
kind of auberge, or restaurant for the poorer classes. Here he placed
me in a recumbent position on one of the wooden benches, and called up
the proprietor of the place, a man to whom he seemed to be well known.
Though suffering acutely I was conscious, and could hear and see
everything that passed.

“Attend to him well, Pietro—it is the rich Count Fabio Romani. Thou
wilt not lose by thy pains. I will return within an hour.”

“The Count Romani! _Santissima Madonna_! He has caught the plague!”

“Thou fool!” exclaimed the monk, fiercely. “How canst thou tell? A
stroke of the sun is not the plague, thou coward! See to him, or by St.
Peter and the keys there shall be no place for thee in heaven!”

The trembling innkeeper looked terrified at this menace, and
submissively approached me with pillows, which he placed under my head.
The monk, meanwhile, held a glass to my lips containing some medicinal
mixture, which I swallowed mechanically.

“Rest here, my son,” he said, addressing me in soothing tones. “These
people are good-natured. I will but hasten to the boy for whom you
sought assistance—in less than an hour I will be with you again.”

I laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“Stay,” I murmured, feebly, “let me know the worst. Is this the
plague?”

“I hope not!” he replied, compassionately. “But what if it be? You are
young and strong enough to fight against it without fear.”

“I have no fear,” I said. “But, father, promise me one thing—send no
word of my illness to my wife—swear it! Even if I am
unconscious—dead—swear that I shall not be taken to the villa. Swear
it! I cannot rest till I have your word.”

“I swear it most willingly, my son,” he answered, solemnly. “By all I
hold sacred, I will respect your wishes.”

I was infinitely relieved—the safety of those I loved was assured—and I
thanked him by a mute gesture. I was too weak to say more. He
disappeared, and my brain wandered into a chaos of strange fancies. Let
me try to revolve these delusions. I plainly see the interior of the
common room where I lie. There is the timid innkeeper—he polishes his
glasses and bottles, casting ever and anon a scared glance in my
direction. Groups of men look in at the door, and, seeing me, hurry
away. I observe all this—I know where I am—yet I am also climbing the
steep passes of an Alpine gorge—the cold snow is at my feet—I hear the
rush and roar of a thousand torrents. A crimson cloud floats above the
summit of a white glacier—it parts asunder gradually, and in its bright
center a face smiles forth! “Nina! my love, my wife, my soul!” I cry
aloud. I stretch out my arms—I clasp her!—bah! it is this good rogue of
an innkeeper who holds me in his musty embrace! I struggle with him
fiercely—pantingly.

“Fool!” I shriek in his ear. “Let me go to her—her lips pout for
kisses—let me go!”

Another man advances and seizes me; he and the innkeeper force me back
on the pillows—they overcome me, and the utter incapacity of a terrible
exhaustion steals away my strength. I cease to struggle. Pietro and his
assistant look down upon me.

“_E morto_!” they whisper one to the other.

I hear them and smile. Dead? Not I! The scorching sunlight streams
through the open door of the inn—the thirsty flies buzz with persistent
loudness—some voices are singing “_La Fata di Amalfi_”—I can
distinguish the words—

“Chiagnarò la mia sventura
Si non tuorne chiù, Rosella!
Tu d’ Amalfi la chiù bella,
Tu na Fata sì pe me!
Viene, vie, regina mie,
Viene curre a chisto core,
Ca non c’è non c’è sciore,
Non c’è stella comm’a te!”[1]


 [1] A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect.


That is a true song, Nina _mia_! “_Non c’è Stella comm’ a te_!” What
did Guido say? “Purer than the flawless diamond—unapproachable as the
furthest star!” That foolish Pietro still polishes his wine-bottles. I
see him—his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but I cannot
understand how he comes to be here at all, for I am on the banks of a
tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy alligators lie
asleep in the sun. Their large jaws are open—their small eyes glitter
greenly. A light boat glides over the silent water—in it I behold the
erect lithe figure of an Indian. His features are strangely similar to
those of Guido. He draws a long thin shining blade of steel as he
approaches. Brave fellow!—he means to attack single-handed the cruel
creatures who lie in wait for him on the sultry shore. He springs to
land—I watch him with a weird fascination. He passes the alligators—he
seems not to be aware of their presence—he comes with swift,
unhesitating step to _me_—it is I whom he seeks—it is in _my_ heart
that he plunges the cold steel dagger, and draws it out again dripping
with blood! Once—twice—thrice!—and yet I cannot die! I writhe—I moan in
bitter anguish! Then something dark comes between me and the glaring
sun—something cool and shadowy, against which I fling myself
despairingly. Two dark eyes look steadily into mine, and a voice
speaks:

“Be calm, my son, be calm. Commend thyself to Christ!”

It is my friend the monk. I recognize him gladly. He has returned from
his errand of mercy. Though I can scarcely speak, I hear myself asking
for news of the boy. The holy man crosses himself devoutly.

“May his young soul rest in peace! I found him dead.”

I am dreamily astonished at this. Dead—so soon! I cannot understand it;
and I drift off again into a state of confused imaginings. As I look
back now to that time, I find I have no specially distinct recollection
of what afterward happened to me. I know I suffered intense,
intolerable pain—that I was literally tortured on a rack of
excruciating anguish—and that through all the delirium of my senses I
heard a muffled, melancholy sound like a chant or prayer. I have an
idea that I also heard the tinkle of the bell that accompanies the
Host, but my brain reeled more wildly with each moment, and I cannot be
certain of this. I remember shrieking out after what seemed an eternity
of pain, “Not to the villa! no, no, not there! You shall not take me—my
curse on him who disobeys me!”

I remember then a fearful sensation, as of being dragged into a deep
whirlpool, from whence I stretched up appealing hands and eyes to the
monk who stood above me—I caught a drowning glimpse of a silver
crucifix glittering before my gaze, and at last, with one loud cry for
help, I sunk—down—down! into an abyss of black night and nothingness!




CHAPTER III.


There followed a long drowsy time of stillness and shadow. I seemed to
have fallen in some deep well of delicious oblivion and obscurity.
Dream-like images still flitted before my fancy—these were at first
undefinable, but after awhile they took more certain shapes. Strange
fluttering creatures hovered about me—lonely eyes stared at me from a
visible deep gloom; long white bony fingers grasping at nothing made
signs to me of warning or menace. Then—very gradually, there dawned
upon my sense of vision a cloudy red mist like a stormy sunset, and
from the middle of the blood-like haze a huge black hand descended
toward me. It pounced upon my chest—it grasped my throat in its
monstrous clutch, and held me down with a weight of iron. I struggled
violently—I strove to cry out, but that terrific pressure took from me
all power of utterance. I twisted myself to right and left in an
endeavor to escape—but my tyrant of the sable hand had bound me in on
all sides. Yet I continued to wrestle with the cruel opposing force
that strove to overwhelm me—little by little—inch by inch—so! At last!
One more struggle—victory! I woke! Merciful God! Where was I? In what
horrible atmosphere—in what dense darkness? Slowly, as my senses
returned to me, I remembered my recent illness. The monk—the man
Pietro—where were they? What had they done to me? By degrees, I
realized that I was lying straight down upon my back—the couch was
surely very hard? Why had they taken the pillows from under my head? A
pricking sensation darted through my veins—I felt my own hands
curiously—they were warm, and my pulse beat strongly, though fitfully.
But what was this that hindered my breathing? Air—air! I must have air!
I put up my hands—horror! They struck against a hard opposing substance
above me. Quick as lightning then the truth flashed upon my mind! I had
been buried—buried alive; this wooden prison that inclosed me was a
coffin! A frenzy surpassing that of an infuriated tiger took swift
possession of me—with hands and nails I tore and scratched at the
accursed boards—with all the force of my shoulders and arms I toiled to
wrench open the closed lid! My efforts were fruitless! I grew more
ferociously mad with rage and terror. How easy were all deaths compared
to one like this! I was suffocating—I felt my eyes start from their
sockets—blood sprung from my mouth and nostrils—and icy drops of sweat
trickled from my forehead. I paused, gasping for breath. Then, suddenly
nerving myself for one more wild effort, I hurled my limbs with all the
force of agony and desperation against one side of my narrow prison. It
cracked—it split asunder!—and then—a new and horrid fear beset me, and
I crouched back, panting heavily. If—if I were buried in the ground—so
ran my ghastly thoughts—of what use to break open the coffin and let in
the mold—the damp wormy mold, rich with the bones of the dead—the
penetrating mold that would choke up my mouth and eyes, and seal me
into silence forever! My mind quailed at this idea—my brain tottered on
the verge of madness! I laughed—think of it!—and my laugh sounded in my
ears like the last rattle in the throat of a dying man. But I could
breathe more easily—even in the stupefaction of my fears—I was
conscious of air. Yes!—the blessed air had rushed in somehow. Revived
and encouraged as I recognized this fact, I felt with both hands till I
found the crevice I had made, and then with frantic haste and strength
I pulled and dragged at the wood, till suddenly the whole side of the
coffin gave way, and I was able to force up the lid. I stretched out my
arms—no weight of earth impeded their movements—I felt nothing but
air—empty air. Yielding to my first strong impulse, I leaped out of the
hateful box, and fell—fell some little distance, bruising my hands and
knees on what seemed to be a stone pavement. Something weighty fell
also, with a dull crashing thud close to me. The darkness was
impenetrable. But there was breathing room, and the atmosphere was cool
and refreshing. With some pain and difficulty I raised myself to a
sitting position where I had fallen. My limbs were stiff and cramped as
well as wounded, and I shivered as with strong ague. But my senses were
clear—the tangled chain of my disordered thoughts became even and
connected—my previous mad excitement gradually calmed, and I began to
consider my condition. I had certainly been buried alive—there was no
doubt of that. Intense pain had, I suppose, resolved itself into a long
trance of unconsciousness—the people of the inn where I had been taken
ill had at once believed me to be dead of cholera, and with the
panic-stricken, indecent haste common in all Italy, especially at a
time of plague, had thrust me into one of those flimsy coffins which
were then being manufactured by scores in Naples—mere shells of thin
deal, nailed together with clumsy hurry and fear. But how I blessed
their wretched construction! Had I been laid in a stronger casket, who
knows if even the most desperate frenzy of my strength might not have
proved unavailing! I shuddered at the thought. Yet the question
remained—Where was I? I reviewed my case from all points, and for some
time could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion. Stay, though! I
remembered that I had told the monk my name; he knew that I was the
only descendant of the rich Romani family. What followed? Why,
naturally, the good father had only done what his duty called upon him
to do. He had seen me laid in the vault of my ancestors—the great
Romani vault that had never been opened since my father’s body was
carried to its last resting-place with all the solemn pomp and
magnificence of a wealthy nobleman’s funeral obsequies. The more I
thought of this the more probable it seemed. The Romani vault! Its
forbidding gloom had terrified me as a lad when I followed my father’s
coffin to the stone niche assigned to it, and I had turned my eyes away
in shuddering pain when I was told to look at the heavy oaken casket
hung with tattered velvet and ornamented with tarnished silver, which
contained all that was left of my mother, who died young. I had felt
sick and faint and cold, and had only recovered myself when I stood out
again in the free air with the blue dome of heaven high above me. And
now I was shut in the same vault—a prisoner—with what hope of escape? I
reflected. The entrance to the vault, I remembered, was barred by a
heavy door of closely twisted iron—from thence a flight of steep steps
led downward—downward to where in all probability I now was. Suppose I
could in the dense darkness feel my way to those steps and climb up to
that door—of what avail? It was locked—nay, barred—and as it was
situated in a remote part of the burial-ground, there was no likelihood
of even the keeper of the cemetery passing by it for days—perhaps not
for weeks. Then must I starve? Or die of thirst? Tortured by these
imaginings, I rose up from the pavement and stood erect. My feet were
bare, and the cold stone on which I stood chilled me to the marrow. It
was fortunate for me, I thought, that they had buried me as a cholera
corpse—they had left me half-clothed for fear of infection. That is, I
had my flannel shirt on and my usual walking trousers. Something there
was, too, round my neck; I felt it, and as I did so a flood of sweet
and sorrowful memories rushed over me. It was a slight gold chain, and
on it hung a locket containing the portraits of my wife and child. I
drew it out in the darkness; I covered it with passionate kisses and
tears—the first I had shed since my death—like trance-tears scalding
and bitter welled into my eyes. Life was worth living while Nina’s
smile lightened the world! I resolved to fight for existence, no matter
what dire horrors should be yet in store for me. Nina—my love—my
beautiful one! Her face gleamed out upon me in the pestilent gloom of
the charnel-house; her eyes beckoned me—her young faithful eyes that
were now, I felt sure, drowned in weeping for my supposed death. I
seemed to see my tender-hearted darling sobbing alone in the empty
silence of the room that had witnessed a thousand embraces between
herself and me; her lovely hair disheveled; her sweet face pale and
haggard with the bitterness of grief! Baby Stella, too, no doubt she
would wonder, poor innocent! why I did not come to swing her as usual
under the orange boughs. And Guido—brave and true friend! I thought of
him with tenderness. I felt I knew how deep and lasting would be his
honest regret for my loss. Oh, I would leave no means of escape
untried; I would find some way out of this grim vault! How overjoyed
they would all be to see me again—to know that I was not dead after
all! What a welcome I should receive! How Nina would nestle into my
arms; how my little child would cling to me; how Guido would clasp me
by the hand! I smiled as I pictured the scene of rejoicing at the dear
old villa—the happy home sanctified by perfect friendship and faithful
love!

A deep hollow sound booming suddenly on my ears startled me—one! two!
three! I counted the strokes up to twelve. It was some church bell
tolling the hour. My pleasing fancies dispersed—I again faced the drear
reality of my position. Twelve o’clock! Midday or midnight? I could not
tell. I began to calculate. It was early morning when I had been taken
ill—not much past eight when I had met the monk and sought his
assistance for the poor little fruit-seller who had after all perished
alone in his sufferings. Now supposing my illness had lasted some
hours, I might have fallen into a trance—died—as those around me had
thought, somewhere about noon. In that case they would certainly have
buried me with as little delay as possible—before sunset at all events.
Thinking these points over one by one, I came to the conclusion that
the bell I had just heard must have struck midnight—the midnight of the
very day of my burial. I shivered; a kind of nervous dread stole over
me. I have always been physically courageous, but at the same time, in
spite of my education, I am somewhat superstitious—what Neapolitan is
not? it runs in the southern blood. And there was something unutterably
fearful in the sound of that midnight bell clanging harshly on the ears
of a man pent up alive in a funeral vault with the decaying bodies of
his ancestors close within reach of his hand! I tried to conquer my
feelings—to summon up my fortitude. I endeavored to reason out the best
method of escape. I resolved to feel my way, if possible, to the steps
of the vault, and with this idea in my mind I put out my hands and
began to move along slowly and with the utmost care. What was that? I
stopped; I listened; the blood curdled in my veins! A shrill cry,
piercing, prolonged, and melancholy, echoed through the hollow arches
of my tomb. A cold perspiration broke out all over my body—my heart
beat so loudly that I could hear it thumping against my ribs.
Again—again—that weird shriek, followed by a whir and flap of wings. I
breathed again.

“It is an owl,” I said to myself, ashamed of my fears; “a poor innocent
bird—a companion and watcher of the dead, and therefore its voice is
full of sorrowful lamentation—but it is harmless,” and I crept on with
increased caution. Suddenly out of the dense darkness there stared two
large yellow eyes, glittering with fiendish hunger and cruelty. For a
moment I was startled, and stepped back; the creature flew at me with
the ferocity of a tiger-cat! I fought with the horrible thing in all
directions; it wheeled round my head, it pounced toward my face, it
beat me with its large wings—wings that I could feel but not see; the
yellow eyes alone shone in the thick gloom like the eyes of some
vindictive demon! I struck at it right and left—the revolting combat
lasted some moments—I grew sick and dizzy, yet I battled on recklessly.
At last, thank Heaven! the huge owl was vanquished; it fluttered
backward and downward, apparently exhausted, giving one wild screech of
baffled fury, as its lamp-like eyes disappeared in the darkness.
Breathless, but not subdued—every nerve in my body quivering with
excitement—I pursued my way, as I thought, toward the stone staircase
feeling the air with my outstretched hands as I groped along. In a
little while I met with an obstruction—it was hard and cold—a stone
wall, surely? I felt it up and down and found a hollow in it—was this
the first step of the stair? I wondered; it seemed very high. I touched
it cautiously—suddenly I came in contact with something soft and clammy
to the touch like moss or wet velvet. Fingering this with a kind of
repulsion, I soon traced out the oblong shape of a coffin. Curiously
enough, I was not affected much by the discovery. I found myself
monotonously counting the bits of raised metal which served, as I
judged, for its ornamentation. Eight bits lengthwise—and the soft wet
stuff between—four bits across; then a pang shot through me, and I drew
my hand away quickly, as I considered—_whose_ coffin was this? My
father’s? Or was I thus plucking, like a man in delirium, at the
fragments of velvet on that cumbrous oaken casket wherein lay the
sacred ashes of my mother’s perished beauty? I roused myself from the
apathy into which I had fallen. All the pains I had taken to find my
way through the vault were wasted; I was lost in the profound gloom,
and knew not where to turn. The horror of my situation presented itself
to me with redoubled force. I began to be tormented with thirst. I fell
on my knees and groaned aloud.

“God of infinite mercy!” I cried. “Saviour of the world! By the souls
of the sacred dead whom Thou hast in Thy holy keeping, have pity upon
me! Oh, my mother! if indeed thine earthly remains are near me—think of
me, sweet angel in that heaven where thy spirit dwells at rest—plead
for me and save me, or let me die now and be tortured no more!”

I uttered these words aloud, and the sound of my wailing voice ringing
through the somber arches of the vault was strange and full of
fantastic terror to my own ears. I knew that were my agony much further
prolonged I should go mad. And I dared not picture to myself the
frightful things which a maniac might be capable of, shut up in such a
place of death and darkness, with moldering corpses for companions! I
remained on my knees, my face buried in my hands. I forced myself into
comparative calmness, and strove to preserve the equilibrium of my
distracted mind. Hush! What exquisite far-off floating voice of cheer
was that? I raised my head and listened, entranced!

“Jug, jug, Jug! lodola, lodola! trill-lil-lil! sweet, sweet, sweet!”

It was a nightingale. Familiar, delicious, angel-throated bird! How I
blessed thee in that dark hour of despair! How I praised God for thine
innocent existence! How I sprung up and laughed and wept for joy, as,
all unconscious of me, thou didst shake out a shower of pearly
warblings on the breast of the soothed air! Heavenly messenger of
consolation!—even now I think of thee with tenderness—for thy sweet
sake all birds possess me as their worshiper; humanity has grown
hideous in my sight, but the singing-life of the woods and hills—how
pure, how fresh!—the nearest thing to happiness on this side heaven!

A rush of strength and courage invigorated me. A new idea entered my
brain. I determined to follow the voice of the nightingale. It sung on
sweetly, encouragingly—and I began afresh my journeyings through the
darkness. I fancied that the bird was perched on one of the trees
outside the entrance of the vault, and that if I tried to get within
closer hearing of its voice, I should most likely be thus guided to the
very staircase I had been so painfully seeking. I stumbled along
slowly. I felt feeble, and my limbs shook under me. This time nothing
impeded my progress; the nightingale’s liquid notes floated nearer and
nearer, and hope, almost exhausted, sprung up again in my heart. I was
scarcely conscious of my own movements. I seemed to be drawn along like
one in a dream by the golden thread of the bird’s sweet singing. All at
once I caught my foot against a stone and fell forward with some force,
but I felt no pain—my limbs were too numb to be sensible of any fresh
suffering. I raised my heavy, aching eyes in the darkness; as I did so
I uttered an exclamation of thanksgiving. A slender stream of
moonlight, no thicker than the stem of an arrow, slanted downward
toward me, and showed me that I had at last reached the spot I
sought—in fact, I had fallen upon the lowest step of the stone
stairway. I could not distinguish the entrance door of the vault, but I
knew that it must be at the summit of the steep ascent. I was too weary
to move further just then. I lay still where I was, staring at the
solitary moon-ray, and listening to the nightingale, whose rapturous
melodies now rang out upon my ears with full distinctness. _One_! The
harsh-toned bell I had heard before clanged forth the hour. It would
soon be morning; I resolved to rest till then. Utterly worn out in body
and mind, I laid down my head upon the cold stones as readily as if
they had been the softest cushions, and in a few moments forgot all my
miseries in a profound sleep.


I must have slumbered for some time, when I was suddenly awakened by a
suffocating sensation of faintness and nausea, accompanied by a sharp
pain on my neck as though some creatures were stinging me. I put my
hand up to the place—God! shall I ever forget the feel of the _thing_
my trembling fingers closed upon! It was fastened in my flesh—a winged,
clammy, breathing horror! It clung to me with a loathly persistency
that nearly drove me frantic, and wild with disgust and terror I
screamed aloud! I closed both hands convulsively upon its fat, soft
body—I literally tore it from my flesh and flung it as far back as I
could into the interior blackness of the vault. For a time I believe I
was indeed mad—the echoes rang with the piercing shrieks I could not
restrain! Silent at last through sheer exhaustion I glared about me.
The moonbeam had vanished, in its place lay a shaft of pale gray light,
by which I could easily distinguish the whole length of the staircase
and the closed gateway at its summit. I rushed up the ascent with the
feverish haste of a madman—I grasped the iron grating with both hands
and shook it fiercely. It was firm as a rock, locked fast. I called for
help. Utter silence answered me. I peered through the closely twisted
bars. I saw the grass, the drooping boughs of trees, and straight
before my line of vision a little piece of the blessed sky, opal tinted
and faintly blushing with the consciousness of the approaching sunrise.
I drank in the sweet fresh air, a long trailing branch of the wild
grape vine hung near me; its leaves were covered thickly with dew. I
squeezed one hand through the grating and gathered a few of these green
morsels of coolness—I ate them greedily. They seemed to me more
delicious than any thing I had ever tasted, they relieved the burning
fever of my parched throat and tongue. The glimpse of the trees and sky
soothed and calmed me. There was a gentle twittering of awaking birds,
my nightingale had ceased singing.

I began to recover slowly from my nervous terrors, and leaning against
the gloomy arch of my charnel house I took courage to glance backward
down the steep stairway up which I had sprung with such furious
precipitation. Something white lay in a corner on the seventh step from
the top. Curious to see what it was, I descended cautiously and with
some reluctance; it was the half of a thick waxen taper, such as are
used in the Catholic ritual at the burial of the dead. No doubt it had
been thrown down there by some careless acolyte, to save himself the
trouble of carrying it after the service had ended. I looked at it
meditatively. If I only had a light! I plunged my hands half
abstractedly into the pockets of my trousers—something jingled! Truly
they had buried me in haste. My purse, a small bunch of keys, my
card-case—one by one I drew them out and examined them surprisedly—they
looked so familiar, and withal so strange! I searched again; and this
time found something of real value to one in my condition—a small box
of wax vestas. Now, had they left me my cigar-case? No, that was gone.
It was a valuable silver one—no doubt the monk, who attended my
supposed last moments, had taken it, together with my watch and chain,
to my wife.

Well, I could not smoke, but I could strike a light. And there was the
funeral taper ready for use. The sun had not yet risen. I must
certainly wait till broad day before I could hope to attract by my
shouts any stray person who might pass through the cemetery. Meanwhile,
a fantastic idea suggested itself. I would go and look at my own
coffin! Why not? It would be a novel experience. The sense of fear had
entirely deserted me; the possession of that box of matches was
sufficient to endow me with absolute hardihood. I picked up the
church-candle and lighted it; it gave at first a feeble flicker, but
afterward burned with a clear and steady flame. Shading it with one
hand from the draught, I gave a parting glance at the fair daylight
that peeped smilingly in through my prison door, and then went
down—down again into the dismal place where I had passed the night in
such indescribable agony.




CHAPTER IV.


Numbers of lizards glided away from my feet as I descended the steps,
and when the flare of my torch penetrated the darkness I heard a
scurrying of wings mingled with various hissing sounds and wild cries.
I knew now—none better—what weird and abominable things had habitation
in this storehouse of the dead, but I felt I could defy them all, armed
with the light I carried. The way that had seemed so long in the dense
gloom was brief and easy, and I soon found myself at the scene of my
unexpected awakening from sleep. The actual body of the vault was
square-shaped, like a small room inclosed within high walls—walls which
were scooped out in various places so as to form niches in which the
narrow caskets containing the bones of all the departed members of the
Romani family were placed one above the other like so many bales of
goods arranged evenly on the shelves of an ordinary warehouse. I held
the candle high above my head and looked about me with a morbid
interest. I soon perceived what I sought—my own coffin.

There it was in a niche some five feet from the ground, its splintered
portions bearing decided witness to the dreadful struggle I had made to
obtain my freedom. I advanced and examined it closely. It was a frail
shell enough—unlined, unornamented—a wretched sample of the
undertaker’s art, though God knows _I_ had no fault to find with its
workmanship, nor with the haste of him who fashioned it. Something
shone at the bottom of it—it was a crucifix of ebony and silver. That
good monk again! His conscience had not allowed him to see me buried
without this sacred symbol; he had perhaps laid it on my breast as the
last service he could render me; it had fallen from thence, no doubt,
when I had wrenched my way through the boards that inclosed me. I took
it and kissed it reverently—I resolved that if ever I met the holy
father again, I would tell him my story, and, as a proof of its truth,
restore to him this cross, which he would be sure to recognize. Had
they put my name on the coffin-lid? I wondered. Yes, there it
was—painted on the wood in coarse, black letters, “_Fabio Romani_”—then
followed the date of my birth; then a short Latin inscription, stating
that I had died of cholera on August 15, 1884. That was yesterday—only
yesterday! I seemed to have lived a century since then.

I turned to look at my father’s resting-place. The velvet on his coffin
hung from its sides in moldering remnants—but it was not so utterly
damp-destroyed and worm-eaten as the soaked and indistinguishable
material that still clung to the massive oaken chest in the next niche,
where _she_ lay—she from whose tender arms I had received my first
embrace—she in whose loving eyes I had first beheld the world! I knew
by a sort of instinct that it must have been with the frayed fragments
on her coffin that my fingers had idly played in the darkness. I
counted as before the bits of metal—eight bits length-wise, and four
bits across—and on my father’s close casket there were ten silver
plates lengthwise and five across. My poor little mother! I thought of
her picture—it hung in my library at home; the picture of a young,
smiling, dark-haired beauty, whose delicate tint was as that of a peach
ripening in the summer sun. All that loveliness had decayed into—what?
I shuddered involuntarily—then I knelt humbly before those two sad
hollows in the cold stone, and implored the blessing of the dead and
gone beloved ones to whom, while they lived, my welfare had been dear.
While I occupied this kneeling position the flame of my torch fell
directly on some small object that glittered with remarkable luster. I
went to examine it; it was a jeweled pendant composed of one large
pear-shaped pearl, set round with fine rose brilliants! Surprised at
this discovery, I looked about to see where such a valuable gem could
possibly have come from. I then noticed an unusually large coffin lying
sideways on the ground; it appeared as if it had fallen suddenly and
with force, for a number of loose stones and mortar were sprinkled near
it. Holding the light close to the ground, I observed that a niche
exactly below the one in which _I_ had been laid was empty, and that a
considerable portion of the wall there was broken away. I then
remembered that when I had sprung so desperately out of my narrow box I
had heard something fall with a crash beside me. This was the thing,
then—this long coffin, big enough to contain a man seven feet high and
broad in proportion. What gigantic ancestor had I irreverently
dislodged?—and was it from a skeleton throat that the rare jewel which
I held in my hand had been accidentally shaken?

My curiosity was excited, and I bent close to examine the lid of this
funeral chest. There was no name on it—no mark of any sort, save one—a
dagger roughly painted in red. Here was a mystery! I resolved to
penetrate it. I set up my candle in a little crevice of one of the
empty niches, and laid the pearl and diamond pendant beside it, thus
disembarrassing myself of all incumbrance. The huge coffin lay on its
side, as I have said; its uppermost corner was splintered; I applied
both hands to the work of breaking further asunder these already split
portions. As I did so a leathern pouch or bag rolled out and fell at my
feet. I picked it up and opened it—it was full of gold pieces! More
excited than ever, I seized a large pointed stone, and by the aid of
this extemporized instrument, together with the force of my own arms,
hands, and feet, I managed, after some ten minutes’ hard labor, to
break open the mysterious casket.

When I had accomplished this deed I stared at the result like a man
stupefied. No moldering horror met my gaze—no blanched or decaying
bones; no grinning skull mocked me with its hollow eye-sockets. I
looked upon a treasure worthy of an emperor’s envy! The big coffin was
literally lined and packed with incalculable wealth. Fifty large
leathern bags tied with coarse cord lay uppermost; more than half of
these were crammed with gold coins, the rest were full of priceless
gems—necklaces, tiaras, bracelets, watches, chains, and other articles
of feminine adornment were mingled with loose precious stones—diamonds,
rubies, emeralds, and opals, some of unusual size and luster, some
uncut, and some all ready for the jeweler’s setting. Beneath these bags
were packed a number of pieces of silk, velvet, and cloth of gold, each
piece being wrapped by itself in a sort of oil-skin, strongly perfumed
with camphor and other spices. There were also three lengths of old
lace, fine as gossamer, of matchless artistic design, in perfect
condition. Among these materials lay two large trays of solid gold
workmanship, most exquisitely engraved and ornamented, also four gold
drinking-cups, of quaint and massive construction. Other valuables and
curious trifles there were, such as an ivory statuette of Psyche on a
silver pedestal, a waistband of coins linked together, a painted fan
with a handle set in amber and turquois, a fine steel dagger in a
jeweled sheath, and a mirror framed in old pearls. Last, but not least,
at the very bottom of the chest lay rolls upon rolls of paper money
amounting to some millions of francs—in all far surpassing what I had
myself formerly enjoyed from my own revenues. I plunged my hands deep
in the leathern bags; I fingered the rich materials; all this treasure
was mine! I had found it in my own burial vault! I had surely the right
to consider it as my property? I began to consider—how could it have
been placed there without my knowledge? The answer to this question
occurred to me at once. Brigands! Of course!—what a fool I was not to
have thought of them before; the dagger painted on the lid of the chest
should have guided me to the solution of the mystery. A red dagger was
the recognized sign-manual of a bold and dangerous brigand named
Carmelo Neri, who, with his reckless gang, haunted the vicinity of
Palermo.

“So!” I thought, “this is one of your bright ideas, my cut-throat
Carmelo! Cunning rogue! you calculated well—you thought that none would
disturb the dead, much less break open a coffin in search of gold.
Admirably planned, my Carmelo! But this time you must play a losing
game! A supposed dead man coming to life again deserves something for
his trouble, and I should be a fool not to accept the goods the gods
and the robbers provide. An ill-gotten hoard of wealth, no doubt; but
better in my hands than in yours friend Carmelo!”

And I meditated for some minutes on this strange affair. If, indeed—and
I saw no reason to doubt it—I had chanced to find some of the spoils of
the redoubtable Neri, this great chest must have been brought over by
sea from Palermo. Probably four stout rascals had carried the supposed
coffin in a mock solemn procession, under the pretense of its
containing the body of a comrade. These thieves have a high sense of
humor. Yet the question remained to be solved—How had they gained
access to _my_ ancestral vault, unless by means of a false key? All at
once I was left in darkness. My candle went out as though blown upon by
a gust of air. I had my matches, and of course could easily light it
again, but I was puzzled to imagine the cause of its sudden extinction.
I looked about me in the temporary gloom and saw, to my surprise, a ray
of light proceeding from a corner of the very niche where I had fixed
the candle between two stones. I approached and put my hand to the
place; a strong draught blew through a hole large enough to admit the
passage of three fingers. I quickly relighted my torch, and examining
this hole and the back of the niche attentively, found that four blocks
of granite in the wall had been removed and their places supplied by
thick square logs cut from the trunks of trees. These logs were quite
loosely fitted. I took them out easily one by one, and then came upon a
close pile of brushwood. As I gradually cleared this away a large
aperture disclosed itself wide enough for any man to pass through
without trouble. My heart beat with the rapture of expected liberty; I
clambered up—I looked—thank God! I saw the landscape—the sky! In two
minutes I stood outside the vault on the soft grass, with the high arch
of heaven above me, and the broad Bay of Naples glittering deliciously
before my eyes! I clapped my hands and shouted for pure joy! I was
free! Free to return to life, to love, to the arms of my beautiful
Nina—free to resume the pleasant course of existence on the gladsome
earth—free to forget, if I could, the gloomy horrors of my premature
burial. If Carmelo Neri had heard the blessings I heaped upon his
head—he would for once have deemed himself a saint rather than a
brigand. What did I not owe to the glorious ruffian! Fortune and
freedom! for it was evident that this secret passage into the Romani
vault had been cunningly contrived by himself or his followers for
their own private purposes. Seldom has any man been more grateful to
his best benefactor than I was to the famous thief upon whose grim
head, as I knew, a price had been set for many months. The poor wretch
was in hiding. Well! the authorities should get no aid from me, I
resolved; even if I were to discover his whereabouts. Why should I
betray him? He had unconsciously done more for me than my best friend.
Nay, what friends will you find at all in the world when you need
substantial good? Few, or none. Touch the purse—test the heart!

What castles in the air I built as I stood rejoicing in the morning
light and my newly acquired liberty—what dreams of perfect happiness
flitted radiantly before my fancy! Nina and I would love each other
more fondly than before, I thought—our separation had been brief, but
terrible—and the idea of what it might have been would endear us to one
another with tenfold fervor. And little Stella! Why—this very evening I
would swing her again under the orange boughs and listen to her sweet
shrill laughter! This very evening I would clasp Guido’s hand in a
gladness too great for words! This very night my wife’s fair head would
lie pillowed on my breast in an ecstatic silence broken only by the
music of kisses. Ah! my brain grew dizzy with the joyful visions that
crowded thickly and dazzlingly upon me! The sun had risen—his long
straight beams, like golden spears, touched the tops of the green
trees, and roused little flashes as of red and blue fire on the shining
surface of the bay. I heard the rippling of water and the measured soft
dash of oars; and somewhere from a distant boat the mellifluous voice
of a sailor sung a verse of the popular _ritornello_—

“Sciore d’amenta
Sta parolella mia tieul’ ammento
    Zompa llarì llirà!
Sciore limone!
Le voglio fa mori de passione
    Zompa llarì llirà!”[2]


 [2] Neapolitan dialect


I smiled—“_Mori de passione_!” Nina and I would know the meaning of
those sweet words when the moon rose and the nightingales sung their
love-songs to the dreaming flowers! Full of these happy fancies, I
inhaled the pure morning air for some minutes, and then re-entered the
vault.




CHAPTER V.


The first thing I did was to repack all the treasures I had discovered.
This work was easily accomplished. For the present I contented myself
with taking two of the leathern bags for my own use, one full of gold
pieces, the other of jewels. The chest had been strongly made, and was
not much injured by being forced open. I closed its lid as tightly as
possible, and dragged it to a remote and dark corner of the vault,
where I placed three heavy stones upon it. I then took the two leathern
pouches I had selected, and stuffed one in each of the pockets of my
trousers. The action reminded me of the scantiness of attire in which I
stood arrayed. Could I be seen in the public roads in such a plight? I
examined my purse, which, as I before stated, had been left to me,
together with my keys and card-case, by the terrified persons who had
huddled me into my coffin with such scant ceremony. It contained two
twenty-franc pieces and some loose silver. Enough to buy a decent
costume of some sort. But where could I make the purchase, and how?
Must I wait till evening and slink out of this charnel-house like the
ghost of a wretched criminal? No! come what would, I made up my mind
not to linger a moment longer in the vault. The swarms of beggars that
infest Naples exhibit themselves in every condition of rags, dirt, and
misery; at the very worst I could only be taken for one of them. And
whatever difficulties I might encounter, no matter!—they would soon be
over.

Satisfied that I had placed the brigand coffin in a safe position, I
secured the pearl and diamond pendant I had first found, to the chain
round my neck. I intended this ornament as a gift for my wife. Then,
once more climbing through the aperture, I closed it completely with
the logs and brushwood as it was before, and examining it narrowly from
the outside, I saw that it was utterly impossible to discern the
smallest hint of any entrance to a subterranean passage, so well and
cunningly had it been contrived. Now, nothing more remained for me to
do but to make the best of my way to the city, there to declare my
identity, obtain food and clothes, and then to hasten with all possible
speed to my own residence.

Standing on a little hillock, I looked about me to see which direction
I should take. The cemetery was situated on the outskirts of
Naples—Naples itself lay on my left hand. I perceived a sloping road
winding in that direction, and judged that if I followed it it would
lead me to the city suburbs. Without further hesitation I commenced my
walk. It was now full day. My bare feet sunk deep in the dust that was
hot as desert sand—the blazing sun beat down fiercely on my uncovered
head, but I felt none of these discomforts; my heart was too full of
gladness. I could have sung aloud for delight as I stepped swiftly
along toward home—and Nina! I was aware of a great weakness in my
limbs—my eyes and head ached with the strong dazzling light;
occasionally, too, an icy shiver ran through me that made my teeth
chatter. But I recognized these symptoms as the after effects of my so
nearly fatal illness, and I paid no heed to them. A few weeks’ rest
under my wife’s loving care, and I knew I should be as well as ever. I
stepped on bravely. For some time I met no one, but at last I overtook
a small cart laden with freshly gathered grapes. The driver lay on his
seat asleep; his pony meanwhile cropped the green herbage by the
roadside, and every now and then shook the jingling bells on his
harness as though expressing the satisfaction he felt at being left to
his own devices. The piled-up grapes looked tempting, and I was both
hungry and thirsty. I laid a hand on the sleeping man’s shoulder; he
awoke with a start. Seeing me, his face assumed an expression of the
wildest terror; he jumped from his cart and sunk down on his knees in
the dust, imploring me by the Madonna, St. Joseph, and all the saints
to spare his life. I laughed; his fears seemed to me ludicrous. Surely
there was nothing alarming about me beyond my paucity of clothing.

“Get up, man!” I said. “I want nothing of you but a few grapes, and for
them I will pay.” And I held out to him a couple of francs. He rose
from the dust, still trembling and eying me askance with evident
suspicion, took several bunches of the purple fruit, and gave them to
me without saying a word. Then, pocketing the money I proffered, he
sprung into his cart, and lashing his pony till the unfortunate animal
plunged and reared with pain and fury, rattled off down the road at
such a break-neck speed that I saw nothing but a whirling blot of
wheels disappearing in the distance. I was amused at the absurdity of
this man’s terror. What did he take me for, I wondered? A ghost or a
brigand? I ate my grapes leisurely as I walked along—they were
deliciously cool and refreshing—food and wine in one. I met several
other persons as I neared the city, market people and venders of
ices—but they took no note of me—in fact, I avoided them all as much as
possible. On reaching the suburbs I turned into the first street I saw
that seemed likely to contain a few shops. It was close and dark and
foul-smelling, but I had not gone far down it when I came upon the sort
of place I sought—a wretched tumble-down hovel, with a partly broken
window, through which a shabby array of second-hand garments were to be
dimly perceived, strung up for show on pieces of coarse twine. It was
one of those dirty dens where sailors, returning from long voyages,
frequently go to dispose of the various trifles they have picked up in
foreign countries, so that among the forlorn specimens of second-hand
wearing apparel many quaint and curious objects were to be seen, such
as shells, branches of rough coral, strings of beads, cups and dishes
carved out of cocoa-nut, dried gourds, horns of animals, fans, stuffed
parakeets, and old coins—while a grotesque wooden idol peered hideously
forth from between the stretched-out portions of a pair of old nankeen
trousers, as though surveying the miscellaneous collection in idiotic
amazement. An aged man sat smoking at the open door of this promising
habitation—a true specimen of a Neapolitan grown old. The skin of his
face was like a piece of brown parchment scored all over with deep
furrows and wrinkles, as though Time, disapproving of the history he
had himself penned upon it, had scratched over and blotted out all
records, so that no one should henceforth be able to read what had once
been clear writing. The only animation left in him seemed to have
concentrated itself in his eyes, which were black and bead-like, and
roved hither and thither with a glance of ever-restless and
ever-suspicious inquiry. He saw me coming toward him, but he pretended
to be absorbed in a profound study of the patch of blue sky that
gleamed between the closely leaning houses of the narrow street. I
accosted him—and he brought his gaze swiftly down to my level, and
stared at me with keen inquisitiveness.

“I have had a long tramp,” I said, briefly, for he was not the kind of
man to whom I could explain my recent terrible adventure, “and I have
lost some of my clothes by an accident on the way. Can you sell me a
suit? Anything will do—I am not particular.”

The old man took his pipe from his mouth.

“Do you fear the plague?” he asked.

“I have just recovered from an attack of it,” I replied, coolly.

He looked at me attentively from head to foot, and then broke into a
low chuckling laugh.

“Ha! ha!” he muttered, half to himself, half to me. “Good—good! Here is
one like myself—not afraid—not afraid! We are not cowards. We do not
find fault with the blessed saints—they send the plague. The beautiful
plague!—I love it! I buy all the clothes I can get that are taken from
the corpses—they are nearly always excellent clothes. I never clean
them—I sell them again at once—yes—yes! Why not? The people must
die—the sooner the better! I help the good God as much as I can.” And
the old blasphemer crossed himself devoutly.

I looked down upon him from where I stood drawn up to my full height,
with a glance of disgust. He filled me with something of the same
repulsion I had felt when I touched the unnameable Thing that fastened
on my neck while I slept in the vault.

“Come!” I said, somewhat roughly, “will you sell me a suit or no?”

“Yes, yes!” and he rose stiffly from his seat; he was very short of
stature, and so bent with age and infirmity that he looked more like
the crooked bough of a tree than a man, as he hobbled before me into
his dark shop. “Come inside, come inside! Take your choice; there is
enough here to suit all tastes. See now, what would you? Behold here
the dress of a gentleman, ah! what beautiful cloth, what strong wool!
English make? Yes, yes! He was English that wore it; a big, strong
milord, that drank beer and brandy like water—and rich—just heaven!—how
rich! But the plague took him; he died cursing God, and calling bravely
for more brandy. Ha, ha! a fine death—a splendid death! His landlord
sold me his clothes for three francs—one, two, three—but you must give
me six; that is fair profit, is it not? And I am old and poor. I must
make something to live upon.”

I threw aside the tweed suit he displayed for my inspection. “Nay,” I
said, “I care nothing for the plague, but find me something better than
the cast-off clothing of a brandy-soaked Englishman. I would rather
wear the motley garb of a fellow who played the fool in carnival.”

The old dealer laughed with a crackling sound in his withered throat,
like the rattling of stones in a tin pot.

“Good, good!” he croaked. “I like that, I like that! Thou art old, but
thou art merry. That pleases me; one should laugh always. Why not?
Death laughs; you never see a solemn skull; it laughs always!”

And he plunged his long lean fingers into a deep drawer full of
miscellaneous garments, mumbling to himself all the while. I stood
beside him in silence, pondering on his words, “Thou art _old_, but
merry.” What did he mean by calling _me_ old? He must be blind, I
thought, or in his dotage. Suddenly he looked up.

“Talking of the plague,” he said, “it is not always wise. It did a
foolish thing yesterday—a very foolish thing. It took one of the
richest men in the neighborhood, young too, strong and brave; looked as
if he would never die. The plague touched him in the morning—before
sunset he was nailed up and put down in his big family vault—a cold
lodging, and less handsomely furnished than his grand marble villa on
the heights yonder. When I heard the news I told the Madonna she was
wicked. Oh, yes! I rated her soundly; she is a woman, and capricious; a
good scolding brings her to reason. Look you! I am a friend to God and
the plague, but they both did a stupid thing when they took Count Fabio
Romani.”

I started, but quickly controlled myself into an appearance of
indifference.

“Indeed!” I said, carelessly. “And pray who was he that he should not
deserve to die as well as other people?”

The old man raised himself from his stooping attitude, and stared at me
with his keen black eyes.

“Who was he? who was he?” he cried, in a shrill tone. “Oh, he! One can
see you know nothing of Naples. You have not heard of the rich Romani?
See you, I wished him to live. He was clever and bold, but I did not
grudge him that—no, he was good to the poor; he gave away hundreds of
francs in charity. I have seen him often—I saw him married.” And here
his parchment face screwed itself into an expression of the most
malignant cruelty. “Pah! I hate his wife—a fair, soft thing, like a
white snake! I used to watch them both from the corners of the streets
as they drove along in their fine carriage, and I wondered how it would
all end, whether he or she would gain the victory first. I wanted _him_
to win; I would have helped him to kill her, yes! But the saints have
made a mistake this time, for he is dead, and that she-devil has all.
Oh, yes! God and the plague have done a foolish thing for once.”

I listened to the old wretch with deepening aversion, yet with some
curiosity too. Why should he hate my wife? I thought, unless, indeed,
he hated all youth and beauty, as was probably the case. And if he had
seen me as often as he averred he must know me by sight. How was it
then that he did not recognize me now? Following out this thought, I
said aloud:

“What sort of looking man was this Count Romani? You say he was
handsome—was he tall or short—dark or fair?”

Putting back his straggling gray locks from his forehead, the dealer
stretched out a yellow, claw-like hand, as though pointing to some
distant vision.

“A beautiful man!” he exclaimed; “a man good for the eyes to see! As
straight as you are!—as tall as you are!—as broad as you are! But your
eyes are sunken and dim—his were full and large and sparkling. Your
face is drawn and pale—his was of a clear olive tint, round and flushed
with health; and his hair was glossy black—ah! as jet-black, my friend,
as yours is snow-white!”

I recoiled from these last words in a sort of terror; they were like an
electric shock! Was I indeed so changed? Was it possible that the
horrors of a night in the vault had made such a dire impression upon
me? My hair white?—mine! I could hardly believe it. If so, perhaps Nina
would not recognize me—she might be terrified at my aspect—Guido
himself might have doubts of my identity. Though, for that matter, I
could easily prove myself to be indeed Fabio Romani—even if I had to
show the vault and my own sundered coffin. While I revolved all this in
my mind the old man, unconscious of my emotion, went on with his
mumbling chatter.

“Ah, yes, yes! He was a fine fellow—a strong fellow. I used to rejoice
that he was so strong. He could have taken the little throat of his
wife between finger and thumb and nipped it—so! and she would have told
no more lies. I wanted him to do it—I waited for it. He would have done
it surely, had he lived. That is why I am sorry he died.”

Mastering my feelings by a violent effort, I forced myself to speak
calmly to this malignant old brute.

“Why do you hate the Countess Romani so much?” I asked him with
sternness. “Has she done you any harm?”

He straightened himself as much as he was able and looked me full in
the eyes.

“See you!” he answered, with a sort of leering laugh about the corners
of his wicked mouth. “I will tell you why I hate her—yes—I will tell
you, because you are a man and strong. I like strong men—they are
sometimes fooled by women, it is true—but then they can take revenge. I
was strong myself once. And you—you are old—but you love a jest—you
will understand. The Romani woman has done me no harm. She
laughed—once. That was when her horses knocked me down in the street. I
was hurt—but I saw her red lips widen and her white teeth glitter—she
has a baby smile—the people will tell you—so innocent! I was picked
up—her carriage drove on—her husband was not with her—he would have
acted differently. But it is no matter—I tell you she laughed—and then
I saw at once the likeness.”

“The likeness!” I exclaimed impatiently, for his story annoyed me.
“What likeness?”

“Between her and my wife,” the dealer replied, fixing his cruel eyes
upon me with increasing intensity of regard. “Oh, yes! I know what love
is. I know too that God had very little to do with the making of women.
It was a long time before even He could find the Madonna. Yes—yes, I
know! I tell you I married a thing as beautiful as a morning in
spring-time—with a little head that seemed to droop like a flower under
its weight of sunbeam hair—and eyes! ah—like those of a tiny child when
it looks up and asks you for kisses. I was absent once—I returned and
found her sleeping tranquilly—yes! on the breast of a black-browed
street-singer from Venice—a handsome lad enough and brave as a young
lion. He saw me and sprung at my throat—I held him down and knelt upon
his chest—she woke and gazed upon us, too terrified to speak or
scream—she only shivered and made a little moaning sound like that of a
spoiled baby. I looked down into her prostrate lover’s eyes and smiled.
‘I will not hurt you,’ I said. ‘Had she not consented, you could not
have gained the victory. All I ask of you is to remain here for a few
moments longer.’ He stared, but was mute. I bound him hand and foot so
that he could not stir. Then I took my knife and went to her. Her blue
eyes glared wide—imploringly she turned them upon me—and ever she wrung
her small hands and shivered and moaned. I plunged the keen bright
blade deep through her soft white flesh—her lover cried out in
agony—her heart’s blood welled up in a crimson tide, staining with a
bright hue the white garments she wore; she flung up her arms—she sank
back on her pillows—dead. I drew the knife from her body, and with it
cut the bonds of the Venetian boy. I then gave it to him.

“‘Take it as a remembrance of her,’ I said. ‘In a month she would have
betrayed you as she betrayed me.’”

“He raged like a madman. He rushed out and called the gendarmes. Of
course I was tried for murder—but it was not murder—it was justice. The
judge found extenuating circumstances. Naturally! He had a wife of his
own. He understood my case. Now you know why I hate that dainty jeweled
woman up at the Villa Romani. She is just like that other one—that
creature I slew—she has just the same slow smile and the same
child-like eyes. I tell you again, I am sorry her husband is dead—it
vexes me sorely to think of it. For he would have killed her in
time—yes!—of that I am quite sure!”




CHAPTER VI.


I listened to his narrative with a pained feeling at my heart, and a
shuddering sensation as of icy cold ran through my veins. Why, I had
fancied that all who beheld Nina must, perforce, love and admire her.
True, when this old man was accidentally knocked down by her horses (a
circumstance she had never mentioned to me), it was careless of her not
to stop and make inquiry as to the extent of his injuries, but she was
young and thoughtless; she could not be intentionally heartless. I was
horrified to think that she should have made such an enemy as even this
aged and poverty-stricken wretch; but I said nothing. I had no wish to
betray myself. He waited for me to speak and grew impatient at my
silence.

“Say now, my friend!” he queried, with a sort of childish eagerness,
“did I not take a good vengeance? God himself could not have done
better!”

“I think your wife deserved her fate,” I said, curtly, “but I cannot
say I admire you for being her murderer.”

He turned upon me rapidly, throwing both hands above his head with a
frantic gesticulation. His voice rose to a kind of muffled shriek.

“Murderer you call me—ha! ha! that is good. No, no! She murdered me! I
tell you I died when I saw her asleep in her lover’s arms—she killed me
at one blow. A devil rose up in my body and took swift revenge; that
devil is in me now, a brave devil, a strong devil! That is why I do not
fear the plague; the devil in me frightens away death. Some day it will
leave me”—here his smothered yell sunk gradually to a feeble, weary
tone; “yes, it will leave me and I shall find a dark place where I can
sleep; I do not sleep much now.” He eyed me half wistfully.

“You see,” he explained, almost gently, “my memory is very good, and
when one thinks of many things one cannot sleep. It is many years ago,
but every night I see _her_; she comes to me wringing her little white
hands, her blue eyes stare, I hear short moans of terror. Every night,
every night!” He paused, and passed his hands in a bewildered way
across his forehead. Then, like a man suddenly waking from sleep, he
stared as though he saw me now for the first time, and broke into a low
chuckling laugh.

“What a thing, what a thing it is, the memory!” he muttered.
“Strange—strange! See, I remembered all that, and forgot you! But I
know what you want—a suit of clothes—yes, you need them badly, and I
also need the money for them. Ha, ha! And you will not have the fine
coat of _Milord Inglese_! No, no! I understand. I will find you
something—patience, patience!”

And he began to grope among a number of things that were thrown in a
confused heap at the back of the shop. While in this attitude he looked
so gaunt and grim that he reminded me of an aged vulture stooping over
carrion, and yet there was something pitiable about him too. In a way I
was sorry for him; a poor half-witted wretch, whose life had been full
of such gall and wormwood. What a different fate was his to mine, I
thought. _I_ had endured but one short night of agony; how trifling it
seemed compared to _his_ hourly remorse and suffering! He hated Nina
for an act of thoughtlessness; well, no doubt she was not the only
woman whose existence annoyed him; it was most probably that he was at
enmity with all women. I watched him pityingly as he searched among the
worn-out garments which were his stock-in-trade, and wondered why
Death, so active in smiting down the strongest in the city, should have
thus cruelly passed by this forlorn wreck of human misery, for whom the
grave would have surely been a most welcome release and rest. He turned
round at last with an exulting gesture.

“I have found it!” he exclaimed. “The very thing to suit you. You are
perhaps a coral-fisher? You will like a fisherman’s dress. Here is one,
red sash, cap and all, in beautiful condition! He that wore it was
about your height it will fit you as well as it fitted him, and, look
you! the plague is not in it, the sea has soaked through and through
it; it smells of the sand and weed.”

He spread out the rough garb before me. I glanced at it carelessly.

“Did the former wearer kill _his_ wife?” I asked, with a slight smile.

The old rag-picker shook his head and made a sign with his outspread
fingers expressive of contempt.

“Not he!—He was a fool—He killed himself.”

“How was that? By accident or design?”

“Chè! Chè! He knew very well what he was doing. It happened only two
months since. It was for the sake of a black-eyed jade, she lives and
laughs all day long up at Sorrento. He had been on a long voyage, he
brought her pearls for her throat and coral pins for her hair. She had
promised to marry him. He had just landed, he met her on the quay, he
offered her the pearl and coral trinkets. She threw them back and told
him she was tired of him. Just that—nothing more. He tried to soften
her; she raged at him like a tiger-cat. Yes, I was one of the little
crowd that stood round them on the quay, I saw it all. Her black eyes
flashed, she stamped and bit her lips at him, her full bosom heaved as
though it would burst her laced bodice. She was only a market-girl, but
she gave herself the airs of a queen. ‘I am tired of you!’ she said to
him. ‘Go! I wish to see you no more.’ He was tall and well-made, a
powerful fellow; but he staggered, his face grew pale, his lips
quivered. He bent his head a little—turned—and before any hand could
stop him he sprung from the edge of the quay into the waves, they
closed over his head, for he did not try to swim; he just sunk down,
down, like a stone. Next day his body came ashore, and I bought his
clothes for two francs; you shall have them for four.”

“And what became of the girl?” I asked.

“Oh, _she_! She laughs all day long, as I told you. She has a new lover
every week. What should _she_ care?”

I drew out my purse. “I will take this suit,” I said. “You ask four
francs, here are six, but for the extra two you must show me some
private corner where I can dress.”

“Yes, yes. But certainly!” and the old fellow trembled all over with
avaricious eagerness as I counted the silver pieces into his withered
palm. “Anything to oblige a generous stranger! There is the place I
sleep in; it is not much, but there is a mirror—_her_ mirror—the only
thing I keep of hers; come this way, come this way!”

And stumbling hastily along, almost falling over the disordered bundles
of clothing that lay about in all directions, he opened a little door
that seemed to be cut in the wall, and led me into a kind of close
cupboard, smelling most vilely, and furnished with a miserable pallet
bed and one broken chair. A small square pane of glass admitted light
enough to see all that there was to be seen, and close to this
extemporized window hung the mirror alluded to, a beautiful thing set
in silver of antique workmanship, the costliness of which I at once
recognized, though into the glass itself I dared not for the moment
look. The old man showed me with some pride that the door to this
narrow den of his locked from within.

“I made the lock and key, and fitted it all myself,” he said. “Look how
neat and strong! Yes; I was clever once at all that work—it was my
trade—till that morning when I found her with the singer from Venice;
then I forgot all I used to know—it went away somehow, I could never
understand why. Here is the fisherman’s suit; you can take your time to
put it on; fasten the door; the room is at your service.”

And he nodded several times in a manner that was meant to be friendly,
and left me. I followed his advice at once and locked myself in. Then I
stepped steadily to the mirror hanging on the wall, and looked at my
own reflection. A bitter pang shot through me. The dealer’s sight was
good, he had said truly. I was old! If twenty years of suffering had
passed over my head, they could hardly have changed me more terribly.
My illness had thinned my face and marked it with deep lines of pain;
my eyes had retreated far back into my head, while a certain wildness
of expression in them bore witness to the terrors I had suffered in the
vault, and to crown all, my hair was indeed perfectly white. I
understood now the alarm of the man who had sold me grapes on the
highway that morning; my appearance was strange enough to startle any
one. Indeed, I scarcely recognized myself. Would my wife, would Guido
recognize me? Almost I doubted it. This thought was so painful to me
that the tears sprung to my eyes. I brushed them away in haste.

“Fy on thee, Fabio! Be a man!” I said, addressing myself angrily. “Of
what matter after all whether hairs are black or white? What matter how
the face changes, so long as the heart is true? For a moment, perhaps,
thy love may grow pale at sight of thee; but when she knows of thy
sufferings, wilt thou not be dearer to her than ever? Will not one of
her soft embraces recompense thee for all thy past anguish, and suffice
to make thee young again?”

And thus encouraging my sinking spirits, I quickly arrayed myself in
the Neapolitan coral-fisher’s garb. The trousers were very loose, and
were provided with two long deep pockets, convenient receptacles, which
easily contained the leathern bags of gold and jewels I had taken from
the brigand’s coffin. When my hasty toilet was completed I took another
glance at the mirror, this time with a half smile. True, I was greatly
altered; but after all I did not look so bad. The fisherman’s
picturesque costume became me well; the scarlet cap sat jauntily on the
snow-white curls that clustered so thickly over my forehead, and the
consciousness I had of approaching happiness sent a little of the old
fearless luster back into my sunken eyes. Besides, I knew I should not
always have this care-worn and wasted appearance; rest, and perhaps a
change of air, would infallibly restore the roundness to my face and
the freshness to my complexion; even my white locks might return to
their pristine color, such things had been; and supposing they remained
white? well!—there were many who would admire the peculiar contrast
between a young man’s face and an old man’s hair.

Having finished dressing, I unlocked the door of the stuffy little
cabin and called the old rag-picker. He came shuffling along with his
head bent, but raising his eyes as he approached me, he threw up his
hands in astonishment, exclaiming,

“_Santissima Madonna_! But you are a fine man—a fine man! Eh, eh! Holy
Joseph! What height and breadth! A pity—a pity you are old; you must
have been strong when you were young!”

Half in joke, and half to humor him in his fancy for mere muscular
force, I rolled up the sleeve of my jacket to the shoulder, saying,
lightly,

“Oh, as for being strong! There is plenty of strength in me still, you
see.”

He stared; laid his yellow fingers on my bared arm with a kind of
ghoul-like interest and wonder, and felt the muscles of it with
childish, almost maudlin admiration.

“Beautiful, beautiful!” he mumbled. “Like iron—just think of it! Yes,
yes. You could kill anything easily. Ah! I used to be like that once. I
was clever at sword-play. I could, with well-tempered steel, cut
asunder a seven-times-folded piece of silk at one blow without fraying
out a thread. Yes, as neatly as one cuts butter! You could do that too
if you liked. It all lies in the arm—the brave arm that kills at a
single stroke.”

And he gazed at me intently with his small blear eyes as though anxious
to know more of my character and temperament. I turned abruptly from
him, and called his attention to my own discarded garments.

“See,” I said, carelessly; “you can have these, though they are not of
much value. And, stay, here are another three francs for some socks and
shoes, which I dare say you can find to suit me.”

He clasped his hands ecstatically, and poured out a torrent of thanks
and praises for this additional and unexpected sum, and protesting by
all the saints that he and the entire contents of his shop were at the
service of so generous a stranger, he at once produced the articles I
asked for. I put them on—and then stood up thoroughly equipped and
ready to make my way back to my own home when I chose. But I had
resolved on one thing. Seeing that I was so greatly changed, I
determined not to go to the Villa Romani by daylight, lest I should
startle my wife too suddenly. Women are delicate; my unexpected
appearance might give her a nervous shock which perhaps would have
serious results. I would wait till the sun had set, and then go up to
the house by a back way I knew of, and try to get speech with one of
the servants. I might even meet my friend Guido Ferrari, and he would
break the joyful news of my return from death to Nina by degrees, and
also prepare her for my altered looks. While these thoughts flitted
rapidly through my brain, the old ragpicker stood near me with his head
on one side like a meditative raven, and regarded me intently.

“Are you going far?” he asked at last, with a kind of timidity.

“Yes,” I answered him, abruptly; “very far.”

He laid a detaining hand on my sleeve, and his eyes glittered—with a
malignant expression.

“Tell me,” he muttered, eagerly, “tell me—I will keep the secret. Are
you going to a woman?”

I looked down upon him, half in disdain, half in amusement.

“Yes!” I said, quietly, “I am going to a woman.”

He broke into silent laughter—hideous laughter that contorted his
visage and twisted his body in convulsive writhings.

I glanced at him in disgust, and shaking off his hand from my arm, I
made my way to the door of the shop. He hobbled quickly after me,
wiping away the moisture that his inward merriment had brought into his
eyes.

“Going to a woman!” he croaked. “Ha, ha! You are not the first, nor
will you be the last, that has gone so! Going to a woman! that is
well—that is good! Go to her, go! You are strong, you have a brave arm!
Go to her, find her out, and—_kill her_! Yes, yes—you will be able to
do it easily—quite easily! Go and kill her.”

He stood at his low door mouthing and pointing, his stunted figure and
evil face reminding me of one of Heinrich Heine’s dwarf devils who are
depicted as piling fire on the heads of the saints. I bade him “Good
day” in an indifferent tone, but he made me no answer. I walked slowly
away. Looking back once I saw him still standing on the threshold of
his wretched dwelling, his wicked mouth working itself into all manner
of grimaces, while with his crooked fingers he made signs in the air as
if he caught an invisible something and throttled it. I went on down
the street and out of it into the broader thoroughfares, with his last
words ringing in my ears, “go and kill her!”




CHAPTER VII.


That day seemed very long to me I wandered aimlessly about the city,
seeing few faces that I knew, for the wealthier inhabitants, afraid of
the cholera, had either left the place together or remained closely
shut within their own houses. Everywhere I went something bore witness
to the terrible ravages of the plague. At almost every corner I met a
funeral procession. Once I came upon a group of men who were standing
in an open door way packing a dead body into a coffin too small for it.
There was something truly revolting in the way they doubled up the arms
and legs and squeezed in the shoulders of the deceased man—one could
hear the bones crack. I watched the brutal proceedings for a minute or
so, and then I said aloud:

“You had better make sure he is quite dead.”

The _beccamorti_ looked at me in surprise; one laughed grimly and
swore. “By the body of God, if I thought he were not I would twist his
accursed neck for him! But the cholera never fails, he is dead for
certain—see!” And he knocked the head of the corpse to and fro against
the sides of the coffin with no more compunction than if it had been a
block of wood. Sickened at the sight, I turned away and said no more.
On reaching one of the more important thoroughfares I perceived several
knots of people collected, who glanced at one another with eager yet
shamed faces, and spoke in low voices. A whisper reached my ears, “The
king! the king!” All heads were turned in one direction; I paused and
looked also. Walking at a leisurely pace, accompanied by a few
gentlemen of earnest mien and grave deportment, I saw the fearless
monarch, Humbert of Italy—he whom his subjects delight to honor. He was
making a round of visits to all the vilest holes and corners of the
city, where the plague raged most terribly—he had not so much as a
cigarette in his mouth to ward off infection. He walked with the easy
and assured step of a hero; his face was somewhat sad, as though the
sufferings of his people had pressed heavily upon his sympathetic
heart. I bared my head reverently as he passed, his keen kind eyes
lighted on me with a smile.

“A subject for a painting, yon white-haired fisherman!” I heard him say
to one of his attendants. Almost I betrayed myself. I was on the point
of springing forward and throwing myself at his feet to tell him my
story. It seemed to me both cruel and unnatural that he, my beloved
sovereign, should pass me without recognition—me, to whom he had spoken
so often and so cordially. For when I visited Rome, as I was accustomed
to do annually, there were few more welcome guests at the balls of the
Quirinal Palace than Count Fabio Romani. I began to wonder stupidly who
Fabio Romani was; the gay gallant known as such seemed no longer to
have any existence—a “white-haired fisherman” usurped his place. But
though I thought these things I refrained from addressing the king.
Some impulse, however, led me to follow him at a respectful distance,
as did also many others. His majesty strolled through the most
pestilential streets with as much unconcern as though he were taking
his pleasure in a garden of roses; he stepped quietly into the dirtiest
hovels where lay both dead and dying; he spoke words of kindly
encouragement to the grief-stricken and terrified mourners, who stared
through their tears at the monarch with astonishment and gratitude;
silver and gold were gently dropped into the hands of the suffering
poor, and the very pressing cases received the royal benefactor’s
personal attention and immediate relief. Mothers with infants in their
arms knelt to implore the king’s blessing—which to pacify them he gave
with a modest hesitation, as though he thought himself unworthy, and
yet with a parental tenderness that was infinitely touching. One
wild-eyed, black-haired girl flung herself down on the ground right in
the king’s path; she kissed his feet, and then sprung erect with a
gesture of triumph.

“I am saved!” she cried; “the plague cannot walk in the same road with
the king!”

Humbert smiled, and regarded her somewhat as an indulgent father might
regard a spoiled daughter; but he said nothing, and passed on. A
cluster of men and women standing at the open door of one of the
poorest-looking houses in the street next attracted the monarch’s
attention. There was some noisy argument going on; two or three
_beccamorti_ were loudly discussing together and swearing
profusely—some women were crying bitterly, and in the center of the
excited group a coffin stood on end as though waiting for an occupant.
One of the gentlemen in attendance on the king preceded him and
announced his approach, whereupon the loud clamor of tongues ceased,
the men bared their heads, and the women checked their sobs.

“What is wrong here, my friends?” the monarch asked with exceeding
gentleness.

There was silence for a moment; the _beccamorti_ looked sullen and
ashamed. Then one of the women, with a fat good-natured face and eyes
rimmed redly round with weeping, elbowed her way through the little
throng to the front and spoke.

“May the Holy Virgin and saints bless your majesty!” she cried, in
shrill accents. “And as for what is wrong, it would soon be right if
those shameless pigs,” pointing to the _beccamorti_, “would let us
alone. They would kill a man rather than wait an hour—one little hour!
The girl is dead, your majesty—and Giovanni, poor lad! will not leave
her; he has his two arms round her tight—Holy Virgin!—think of it! and
she a cholera corpse—and do what we can, he will not be parted from
her, and they seek her body for the burial. And if we force him away,
_poverino_, he will lose his head for certain. One little hour, your
majesty, just one, and the reverend father will come and persuade
Giovanni better than we can.”

The king raised his hand with a slight gesture of command—the little
crowd parted before him—and he entered the miserable dwelling wherein
lay the corpse that was the cause of all the argument. His attendants
followed; I, too, availed myself of a corner in the doorway. The scene
disclosed was so terribly pathetic that few could look upon it without
emotion—Humbert of Italy himself uncovered his head and stood silent.
On a poor pallet bed lay the fair body of a girl in her first youth,
her tender loveliness as yet untouched even by the disfiguring marks of
the death that had overtaken her. One would have thought she slept, had
it not been for the rigidity of her stiffened limbs, and the wax-like
pallor of her face and hands. Right across her form, almost covering it
from view, a man lay prone, as though he had fallen there
lifeless—indeed he might have been dead also for any sign he showed to
the contrary. His arms were closed firmly round the girl’s corpse—his
face was hidden from view on the cold breast that would no more respond
to the warmth of his caresses. A straight beam of sunlight shot like a
golden spear into the dark little room and lighted up the whole
scene—the prostrate figures on the bed—the erect form of the
compassionate king, and the grave and anxious faces of the little crowd
of people who stood around him.

“See! that is the way he has been ever since last night when she died,”
whispered the woman who had before spoken; “and his hands are clinched
round her like iron—one cannot move a finger!”

The king advanced. He touched the shoulder of the unhappy lover. His
voice, modulated to an exquisite softness, struck on the ears of the
listeners like a note of cheerful music.

“_Figlio mio_!”

There was no answer. The women, touched by the simple endearing words
of the monarch, began to sob though gently, and even the men brushed a
few drops from their eyes. Again the king spoke.

“_Figlio mio_! I am your king. Have you no greeting for me?”

The man raised his head from its pillow on the breast of the beloved
corpse and stared vacantly at the royal speaker. His haggard face,
tangled hair, and wild eyes gave him the appearance of one who had long
wandered in a labyrinth of frightful visions from which there was no
escape but self-murder.

“Your hand, my son!” resumed the king in a tone of soldier-like
authority.

Very slowly—very reluctantly—as though he were forced to the action by
some strange magnetic influence which he had no power to withstand, he
loosened his right arm from the dead form it clasped so pertinaciously,
and stretched forth the hand as commanded. Humbert caught it firmly
within his own and held it fast—then looking the poor fellow full in
the face, he said with grave steadiness and simplicity,

“There is no death in love, my friend!”

The young man’s eyes met his—his set mouth softened—and wresting his
hand passionately from that of the king, he broke into a passion of
weeping. Humbert at once placed a protecting arm around him, and with
the assistance of one of his attendants raised him from the bed, and
led him unresistingly away, as passively obedient as a child, though
sobbing convulsively as he went. The rush of tears had saved his
reason, and most probably his life. A murmur of enthusiastic applause
greeted the good king as he passed through the little throng of persons
who had witnessed what had taken place. Acknowledging it with a quiet
unaffected bow, he left the house, and signed to the _beccamorti_, who
still waited outside, that they were now free to perform their
melancholy office. He then went on his way attended by more heart-felt
blessings and praises than ever fell to the lot of the proudest
conqueror returning with the spoils of a hundred battles. I looked
after his retreating figure till I could see it no more—I felt that I
had grown stronger for the mere presence of a hero—a man who indeed was
“every inch a king.” I am a royalist—yes. Governed by such a sovereign,
few men of calm reason would be otherwise. But royalist though I am, I
would assist in bringing about the dethronement and death of a mean
tyrant, were he crowned king a hundred times over! Few monarchs are
like Humbert of Italy—even now my heart warms when I think of him—in
all the distraction of my sufferings, his figure stands out like a
supreme embodied Beneficent Force surrounded by the clear light of
unselfish goodness—a light in which Italia suns her fair face and
smiles again with the old sweet smile of her happiest days of high
achievement—days in which her children were great, simply because they
were _earnest_. The fault of all modern labor lies in the fact that
there is no heart in anything we do—we seldom love our work for work’s
sake—we perform it solely for what we can get by it. Therein lies the
secret of failure. Friends will scarcely serve each other unless they
can also serve their own interests—true, there are exceptions to this
rule, but they are deemed fools for their pains.

As soon as the king disappeared I also left the scene of the foregoing
incident. I had a fancy to visit the little restaurant where I had been
taken ill, and after some trouble I found it. The door stood open. I
saw the fat landlord, Pietro, polishing his glasses as though he had
never left off; and there in the same corner was the very wooden bench
on which I had lain—where I had—as was generally supposed—died. I
stepped in. The landlord looked up and bade me good-day. I returned his
salutation, and ordered some coffee and rolls of bread. Seating myself
carelessly at one of the little tables I turned over the newspaper,
while he bustled about in haste to serve me. As he dusted and rubbed up
a cup and saucer for my use, he said, briskly,

“You have had a long voyage, _amico_? And successful fishing?”

For a moment I was confused and knew not what to answer, but gathering
my wits together I smiled and answered readily in the affirmative.

“And you?” I said, gayly. “How goes the cholera?”

The landlord shook his head dolefully.

“Holy Joseph! do not speak of it. The people die like flies in a
honey-pot. Only yesterday—body of Bacchus!—who would have thought it?”

And he sighed deeply as he poured out the steaming coffee, and shook
his head more sorrowfully than before.

“Why, what happened yesterday?” I asked, though I knew perfectly well
what he was going to say; “I am a stranger in Naples, and empty of
news.”

The perspiring Pietro laid a fat thumb on the marble top of the table,
and with it traced a pattern meditatively.

“You never heard of the rich Count Romani?” he inquired.

I made a sign in the negative, and bent my face over my coffee-cup.

“Ah, well!” he went on with a half groan, “it does not matter—there is
no Count Romani any more. It is all gone—finished! But he was rich—as
rich as the king, they say—yet see how low the saints brought him! Fra
Cipriano of the Benedictines carried him in here yesterday morning—he
was struck by the plague—in five hours he was dead,” here the landlord
caught a mosquito and killed it—“ah! as dead as that _zinzara_! Yes, he
lay dead on that very wooden bench opposite to you. They buried him
before sunset. It is like a bad dream!”

I affected to be deeply engrossed with the cutting and spreading of my
roll and butter.

“I see nothing particular about it,” I said, indifferently. “That he
was rich is nothing—rich and poor must die alike.”

“And that is true, very true,” assented Pietro, with another groan,
“for not all his property could save the blessed Cipriano.”

I started, but quickly controlled myself.

“What do you mean?” I asked, as carelessly as I could. “Are you talking
of some saint?”

“Well, if he were not canonized he deserves to be,” replied the
landlord; “I speak of the holy Benedictine father who brought hither
the Count Romani in a dying condition. Ah I little he knew how soon the
good God would call him himself!”

I felt a sickening sensation at my heart.

“Is he dead?” I exclaimed.

“Dead as the martyrs!” answered Pietro. “He caught the plague, I
suppose, from the count, for he was bending over him to the last. Ay,
and he sprinkled holy water over the corpse, and laid his own crucifix
upon it in the coffin. Then up he went to the Villa Romani, taking with
him the count’s trinkets, his watch, ring, and cigar-case—and nothing
would satisfy him but that he should deliver them himself to the young
_contessa_, telling her how her husband died.”

My poor Nina!—I thought. “Was she much grieved?” I inquired, with a
vague curiosity.

“How do I know?” said the landlord, shrugging his bulky shoulders. “The
reverend father said nothing, save that she swooned away. But what of
that? Women swoon at everything—from a mouse to a corpse. As I said,
the good Cipriano attended the count’s burial—and he had scarce
returned from it when he was seized with the illness. And this morning
he died at the monastery—may his soul rest in peace! I heard the news
only an hour ago. Ah! he was a holy man! He has promised me a warm
corner in Paradise, and I know he will keep his word as truly as St.
Peter himself.”

I pushed away the rest of my meal untasted. The food choked me. I could
have shed tears for the noble, patient life thus self-sacrificed. One
hero the less in this world of unheroic, uninspired persons! I sat
silent, lost in sorrowful thought. The landlord looked at me curiously.

“The coffee does not please you?” he said at last. “You have no
appetite?” I forced a smile.

“Nay—your words would take the edge off the keenest appetite ever born
of the breath of the sea. Truly Naples affords but sorry entertainment
to a stranger; is there naught to hear but stories of the dying and the
dead?”

Pietro put on an air that was almost apologetic.

“Well, truly!” he answered, resignedly—“very little else. But what
would you, _amico_? It is the plague and the will of God.”

As he said the last words my gaze was caught and riveted by the figure
of a man strolling leisurely past the door of the cafe. It was Guido
Ferrari—my friend! I would have rushed out to speak to him—but
something in his look and manner checked the impulse as it rose in me.
He was walking very slowly, smoking a cigar as he went; there was a
smile on his face, and in his coat he wore a freshly-gathered rose _La
Gloire de France_, similar to those that grew in such profusion on the
upper terrace of my villa. I stared at him as he passed—my feelings
underwent a kind of shock. He looked perfectly happy and tranquil,
happier indeed than ever I remembered to have seen him, and yet—and
yet, according to _his_ knowledge, I, his best friend, had died only
yesterday! With this sorrow fresh upon him, he could smile like a man
going to a _festa_, and wear a coral-pink rose, which surely was no
sign of mourning! For one moment I felt hurt, the next, I laughed at my
own sensitiveness. After all, what of the smile, what of the rose! A
man could not always be answerable for the expression of his
countenance, and as for the flower, he might have gathered it _en
passent_, without thinking, or what was still more likely, the child
Stella might have given it to him, in which case he would have worn it
to please her. He displayed no badge of mourning? True!—but then
consider—I had only died yesterday! There had been no time to procure
all those outward appurtenances of woe which social customs rendered
necessary, but which were no infallible sign of the heart’s sincerity.
Satisfied with my own self-reasoning I made no attempt to follow Guido
in his walk—I let him go on his way unconscious of my existence. I
would wait, I thought, till the evening—then everything would be
explained.

I turned to the landlord. “How much to pay?” I asked.

“What you will, _amico_” he replied—“I am never hard on the fisher
folk—but times are bad, or you would be welcome to a breakfast for
nothing. Many and many a day have I done as much for men of your craft,
and the blessed Cipriano who is gone used to say that St. Peter would
remember me for it. It is true the Madonna gives a special blessing if
one looks after the fishers, because all the holy apostles were of the
trade; and I would be loth to lose her protection—yet—”

I laughed and tossed him a franc. He pocketed it at once and his eyes
twinkled.

“Though you have not taken half a franc’s worth,” he admitted, with an
honesty very unusual in a Neapolitan—“but the saints will make it up to
you, never fear!”

“I am sure of that!” I said, gayly. “_Addio_, my friend! Prosperity to
you and our Lady’s favor!”

This salutation, which I knew to be a common one with Sicilian
mariners, the good Pietro responded to with amiable heartiness, wishing
me luck on my next voyage. He then betook himself anew to the polishing
of his glasses—and I passed the rest of the day in strolling about the
least frequented streets of the city, and longing impatiently for the
crimson glory of the sunset, which, like a wide flag of triumph, was to
be the signal of my safe return to love and happiness.




CHAPTER VIII.


It came at last, the blessed, the longed-for evening. A soft breeze
sprung up, cooling the burning air after the heat of the day, and
bringing with it the odors of a thousand flowers. A regal glory of
shifting colors blazed on the breast of heaven—the bay, motionless as a
mirror, reflected all the splendid tints with a sheeny luster that
redoubled their magnificence. Pricked in every vein by the stinging of
my own desires, I yet restrained myself; I waited till the sun sunk
below the glassy waters—till the pomp and glow attending its departure
had paled into those dim, ethereal hues which are like delicate
draperies fallen from the flying forms of angels—till the yellow rim of
the round full moon rose languidly on the edge of the horizon—and then
keeping back my eagerness no longer, I took the well-known road
ascending to the Villa Romani. My heart beat high—my limbs trembled
with excitement—my steps were impatient and precipitate—never had the
way seemed so long. At last I reached the great gate-way—it was locked
fast—its sculptured lions looked upon me frowningly. I heard the splash
and tinkle of the fountains within, the scents of the roses and myrtle
were wafted toward me with every breath I drew. Home at last! I
smiled—my whole frame quivered with expectancy and delight. It was not
my intention to seek admission by the principal entrance—I contented
myself with one long, loving look, and turned to the left, where there
was a small private gate leading into an avenue of ilex and pine,
interspersed with orange-trees. This was a favorite walk of mine,
partly on account of its pleasant shade even in the hottest noon—partly
because it was seldom frequented by any member of the household save
myself. Guido occasionally took a turn with me there, but I was more
often alone, and I was fond of pacing up and down in the shadow of the
trees, reading some favorite book, or giving myself up to the _dolce
far niente_ of my own imaginings. The avenue led round to the back of
the villa, and as I now entered it, I thought I would approach the
house cautiously by this means and get private speech with Assunta, the
nurse who had charge of little Stella, and who was moreover an old and
tried family servant, in whose arms my mother had breathed her last.

The dark trees rustled solemnly as I stepped quickly yet softly along
the familiar moss-grown path. The place was very still—sometimes the
nightingales broke into a bubbling torrent of melody, and then were
suddenly silent, as though overawed by the shadows of the heavy
interlacing boughs, through which the moonlight flickered, casting
strange and fantastic patterns on the ground. A cloud of lucciole broke
from a thicket of laurel, and sparkled in the air like gems loosened
from a queen’s crown. Faint odors floated about me, shaken from orange
boughs and trailing branches of white jasmine. I hastened on, my
spirits rising higher the nearer I approached my destination. I was
full of sweet anticipation and passionate longing—I yearned to clasp my
beloved Nina in my arms—to see her lovely lustrous eyes looking fondly
into mine—I was eager to shake Guido by the hand—and as for Stella, I
knew the child would be in bed at that hour, but still, I thought, I
must have her wakened to see me. I felt that my happiness would not be
complete till I had kissed her little cherub face, and caressed those
clustering curls of hers that were like spun gold. Hush—hush! What was
that? I stopped in my rapid progress as though suddenly checked by an
invisible hand. I listened with strained ears. That sound—was it not a
rippling peal of gay sweet laughter? A shiver shook me from head to
foot. It was my wife’s laugh—I knew the silvery chime of it well! My
heart sunk coldly—I paused irresolute. She could laugh then like that,
while she thought me lying dead—dead and out of her reach forever! All
at once I perceived the glimmer of a white robe through the trees;
obeying my own impulse, I stepped softly aside—I hid behind a dense
screen of foliage through which I could see without being seen. The
clear laugh rang out once again on the stillness—its brightness pierced
my brain like a sharp sword! She was happy—she was even merry—she
wandered here in the moonlight joyous-hearted, while I—I had expected
to find her close shut within her room, or else kneeling before the
_Mater Dolorosa_ in the little chapel, praying for my soul’s rest, and
mingling her prayers with her tears! Yes—I had expected this—we men are
such fools when we love women! Suddenly a terrible thought struck me.
Had she gone mad? Had the shock and grief of my so unexpected death
turned her delicate brain? Was she roaming about, poor child, like
Ophelia, knowing not whither she went, and was her apparent gayety the
fantastic mirth of a disordered brain? I shuddered at the idea—and
bending slightly apart the boughs behind which I was secreted, I looked
out anxiously. Two figures were slowly approaching—my wife and my
friend, Guido Ferrari. Well—there was nothing in that—it was as it
should be—was not Guido as my brother? It was almost his duty to
console and cheer Nina as much as lay in his power. But stay! stay! did
I see aright—was she simply leaning on his arm for support—or—a fierce
oath, that was almost a cry of torture, broke from my lips! Oh, would
to God I had died! Would to God I had never broken open the coffin in
which I lay at peace! What was death—what were the horrors of the
vault—what was anything I had suffered to the anguish that racked me
now? The memory of it to this day burns in my brain like
inextinguishable fire, and my hand involuntarily clinches itself in an
effort to beat back the furious bitterness of that moment! I know not
how I restrained the murderous ferocity that awoke within me—how I
forced myself to remain motionless and silent in my hiding-place. But I
did. I watched the miserable comedy out to its end. I looked dumbly on
at my own betrayal! I saw my honor stabbed to the death by those whom I
most trusted, and yet I gave no sign! They—Guido Ferrari and my
wife—came so close to my hiding-place that I could note every gesture
and hear every word they uttered. They paused within three steps of
me—his arm encircled her waist—hers was thrown carelessly around his
neck—her head rested on his shoulder. Even so had she walked with me a
thousand times! She was dressed in pure white save for one spot of deep
color near her heart—a red rose, as red as blood. It was pinned there
with a diamond pin that flashed in the moonlight. I thought wildly,
that instead of that rose, there should be blood indeed—instead of a
diamond pin there should be the good steel of a straight dagger! But I
had no weapon—I stared at her, dry-eyed and mute. She looked
lovely—exquisitely lovely! No trace of grief marred the fairness of her
face—her eyes were as languidly limpid and tender as ever—her lips were
parted in the child-like smile that was so sweet—so innocently
trustful! She spoke—ah, Heaven! the old bewitching music of her low
voice made my heart leap and my brain reel.

“You foolish Guido!” she said, in dreamily amused accents. “What would
have happened, I wonder, if Fabio had not died so opportunely.”

I waited eagerly for the answer. Guido laughed lightly.

“He would never have discovered anything. You were too clever for him,
_piccinina_! Besides, his conceit saved him—he had so good an opinion
of himself that he would not have deemed it possible for you to care
for any other man.”

My wife—flawless diamond-pearl of pure womanhood!—sighed half
restlessly.

“I am glad he is dead!” she murmured; “but, Guido _mio_, you are
imprudent. You cannot visit me now so often—the servants will talk!
Then I must go into mourning for at least six months—and there are many
other things to consider.”

Guide’s hand played with the jeweled necklace she wore—he bent and
kissed the place where its central pendant rested. Again—again, good
sir, I pray you! Let no faint scruples interfere with your rightful
enjoyment! Cover the white flesh with caresses—it is public property! a
dozen kisses more or less will not signify! So I madly thought as I
crouched among the trees—the tigerish wrath within me making the blood
beat in my head like a hundred hammer-strokes.

“Nay then, my love,” he replied to her, “it is almost a pity Fabio is
dead! While he lived he played an excellent part as a screen—he was an
unconscious, but veritable duenna of propriety for both of us, as no
one else could be!”

The boughs that covered me creaked and rustled. My wife started, and
looked uneasily round her.

“Hush!” she said, nervously. “He was buried only yesterday—and they say
there are ghosts sometimes. This avenue, too—I wish we had not come
here—it was his favorite walk. Besides,” she added, with a slight
accent of regret, “after all he was the father of my child—you must
think of that.”

“By Heaven!” exclaimed Guido, fiercely, “do I not think of it? Ay—and I
curse him for every kiss he stole from your lips!”

I listened half stupefied. Here was a new phase of the marriage law!
Husbands were thieves then—they “stole” kisses; only lovers were honest
in their embraces! Oh, my dear friend—my more than brother—how near you
were to death at that moment! Had you but seen my face peering pallidly
through the dusky leaves—could you have known the force of the fury
pent up within me—you would not have valued your life at one _baiocco_!

“Why did you marry him?” he asked, after a little pause, during which
he toyed with the fair curls that floated against his breast.

She looked up with a little mutinous pout, and shrugged her shoulders.

“Why? Because I was tired of the convent, and all the stupid, solemn
ways of the nuns; also because he was rich, and I was horribly poor. I
cannot bear to be poor! Then he loved me”—here her eyes glimmered with
malicious triumph—“yes—he was mad for me—and—”

“You loved him?” demanded Guido, almost fiercely.

“_Ma che_!” she answered, with an expressive gesture. “I suppose I
did—for a week or two. As much as one ever loves a husband! What does
one marry for at all? For convenience—money—position—he gave me these
things, as you know.”

“You will gain nothing by marrying me, then,” he said, jealously.

She laughed, and laid her little white hand, glittering with rings,
lightly against his lips.

“Of course not! Besides—have I said I will marry you? You are very
agreeable as a lover—but otherwise—I am not sure! And I am free now—I
can do as I like; I want to enjoy my liberty, and—”

She was not allowed to complete her sentence, for Ferrari snatched her
close to his breast and held her there as in a vise. His face was
aflame with passion.

“Look you, Nina,” he said, hoarsely, “you shall not fool me, by Heaven!
you shall not! I have endured enough at your hands, God knows! When I
saw you for the first time on the day of your marriage with that poor
fool, Fabio—I loved you, madly—ay, wickedly as I then thought, but not
for the sin of it did I repent. I knew you were woman, not angel, and I
waited my time. It came—I sought you—I told you my story of love ere
three months of wedded life had passed over your head. I found you
willing—ready—nay, eager to hear me! You led me on; you know you did!
You tempted me by touch, word and look; you gave me all I sought! Why
try to excuse it now? You are as much my wife as ever you were
Fabio’s—nay—you are more so, for you love me—at least you say so—and
though you lied to your husband, you dare not lie to me. I tell you,
you _dare not_! I never pitied Fabio, never—he was too easily duped,
and a married man has no right to be otherwise than suspicious and ever
on his guard; if he relaxes in his vigilance he has only himself to
blame when his honor is flung like a ball from hand to hand, as one
plays with a child’s toy. I repeat to you, Nina, you are mine, and I
swear you shall never escape me!”

The impetuous words coursed rapidly from his lips, and his deep musical
voice had a defiant ring as it fell on the stillness of the evening
air. I smiled bitterly as I heard! She struggled in his arms half
angrily.

“Let me go,” she said. “You are rough, you hurt me!”

He released her instantly. The violence of his embrace had crushed the
rose she wore, and its crimson leaves fluttered slowly down one by one
on the ground at her feet. Her eyes flashed resentfully, and an
impatient frown contracted her fair level brows. She looked away from
him in silence, the silence of a cold disdain. Something in her
attitude pained him, for he sprung forward and caught her hand,
covering it with kisses.

“Forgive me, _carina mia_” he cried, repentantly. “I did not mean to
reproach you. You cannot help being beautiful—it is the fault of God or
the devil that you are so, and that your beauty maddens me! You are the
heart of my heart, the soul of my soul! Oh, Nina _mia_, let us not
waste words in useless anger. Think of it, we are free—free! Free to
make life a long dream of delight—delight more perfect than angels can
know! The greatest blessing that could have befallen us is the death of
Fabio, and now that we are all in all to each other, do not harden
yourself against me! Nina, be gentle with me—of all things in the
world, surely love is best!”

She smiled, with the pretty superior smile of a young empress pardoning
a recreant subject, and suffered him to draw her again, but with more
gentleness, into his embrace. She put up her lips to meet his—I looked
on like a man in a dream! I saw them cling together—each kiss they
exchanged was a fresh stab to my tortured soul.

“You are so foolish, Guido _mio_” she pouted, passing her little
jeweled fingers through his clustering hair with a light caress—“so
impetuous—so jealous! I have told you over and over again that I love
you! Do you not remember that night when Fabio sat out on the balcony
reading his Plato, poor fellow!”—here she laughed musically—“and we
were trying over some songs in the drawing—room—did I not say then that
I loved you best of any one in the world? You know I did! You ought to
be satisfied!”

Guido smiled, and stroked her shining golden curls.

“I _am_ satisfied,” he said, without any trace of his former heated
impatience—“perfectly satisfied. But do not expect to find love without
jealousy. Fabio was never jealous—I know—he trusted you too
implicitly—he was nothing of a lover, believe me! He thought more of
himself than of you. A man who will go away for days at a time on
solitary yachting and rambling excursions, leaving his wife to her own
devices—a man who reads Plato in preference to looking after _her_,
decides his own fate, and deserves to be ranked with those so-called
wise but most ignorant philosophers to whom Woman has always remained
an unguessed riddle. As for me—I am jealous of the ground you tread
upon—of the air that touches you—I was jealous of Fabio while he
lived—and—by heaven!”—his eyes darkened with a somber wrath—“if any
other man dared now to dispute your love with me I would not rest till
his body had served my sword as a sheath!”

Nina raised her head from his breast with an air of petulant weariness.

“Again!” she murmured, reproachfully, “you are going to be angry
_again_!”

He kissed her.

“Not I, sweet one! I will be as gentle as you wish, so long as you love
me and only me. Come—this avenue is damp and chilly for you—shall we go
in?”

My wife—nay, I should say _our_ wife, as we had both shared her
impartial favors—assented. With arms interlaced and walking slowly,
they began to retrace their steps toward the house. Once they paused.

“Do you hear the nightingales?” asked Guido.

Hear them! Who could not hear them? A shower of melody rained from the
trees on every side—the pure, sweet, passionate tones pierced the ear
like the repeated chime of little golden bells—the beautiful, the
tender, the God-inspired birds sung their love-stories simply and with
perfect rapture—love-stories untainted by hypocrisy—unsullied by
crime—different, ah! so very different from the love-stories of selfish
humanity! The exquisite poetic idyl of a bird’s life and love—is it not
a thing to put us inferior creatures to shame—for are we ever as true
to our vows as the lark to his mate?—are we as sincere in our
thanksgivings for the sunlight as the merry robin who sings as blithely
in the winter snow as in the flower-filled mornings of spring? Nay—not
we! Our existence is but one long impotent protest against God,
combined with an insatiate desire to get the better of one another in
the struggle for base coin!

Nina listened—and shivered, drawing her light scarf more closely about
her shoulders.

“I hate them,” she said, pettishly; “their noise is enough to pierce
one’s ears. And _he_ used to be so fond of them! he used to sing—what
was it?

‘Ti salute, Rosignuolo,
Nel tuo duolo, il saluto!
Sei l’amante della rosa
Che morendo si fa sposa!’”


Her rich voice rippled out on the air, rivaling the songs of the
nightingales themselves. She broke off with a little laugh—

“Poor Fabio! there was always a false note somewhere when he sung.
Come, Guido!”

And they paced on quietly, as though their consciences were clean—as
though no just retribution dogged their steps—as though no shadow of a
terrible vengeance loomed in the heaven of their pilfered happiness! I
watched them steadily as they disappeared in the distance—I stretched
my head eagerly out from between the dark boughs and gazed after their
retreating figures till the last glimmer of my wife’s white robe had
vanished behind the thick foliage. They were gone—they would return no
more that night.

I sprung out from my hiding-place. I stood on the spot where they had
stood. I tried to bring home to myself the actual truth of what I had
witnessed. My brain whirled—circles of light swam giddily before me in
the air—the moon looked blood-red. The solid earth seemed unsteady
beneath my feet—almost I doubted whether I was indeed alive, or whether
I was not rather the wretched ghost of my past self, doomed to return
from the grave to look helplessly upon the loss and ruin of all the
fair, once precious things of by-gone days. The splendid universe
around me seemed no more upheld by the hand of God—no more a majestic
marvel; it was to me but an inflated bubble of emptiness—a mere ball
for devils to kick and spurn through space! Of what avail these
twinkling stars—these stately leaf-laden trees—these cups of fragrance
we know as flowers—this round wonder of the eyes called Nature? of what
avail was God Himself, I widely mused, since even He could not keep one
woman true? She whom I loved—she as delicate of form, as angel-like in
face as the child-bride of Christ, St. Agnes—she, even she was—what? A
thing lower than the beasts, a thing as vile as the vilest wretch in
female form that sells herself for a gold piece—a thing—great
Heaven!—for all men to despise and make light of—for the finger of
Scorn to point out—for the foul hissing tongue of Scandal to mock at!
This creature was my wife—the mother of my child—she had cast mud on
her soul by her own free will and choice—she had selected evil as her
good—she had crowned herself with shame willingly, nay—joyfully; she
had preferred it to honor. What should be done? I tortured myself
occasionally with this question. I stared blankly on the ground—would
some demon spring from it and give me the answer I sought? What should
be done with _her_—with _him_, my treacherous friend, my smiling
betrayer? Suddenly my eyes lighted on the fallen rose-leaves—those that
had dropped when Guido’s embrace had crushed the flower she wore. There
they lay on the path, curled softly at the edges like little crimson
shells. I stooped and picked them up—I placed them all in the hollow of
my hand and looked at them. They had a sweet odor—almost I kissed
them—nay, nay, I could not—they had too recently lain on the breast of
an embodied Lie! Yes; she was that, a Lie, a living, lovely, but
accursed Lie! “Go and kill her.” Stay! where had I heard that?
Painfully I considered, and at last remembered—and then I thought
moodily that the starved and miserable rag-picker was more of a man
than I. He had taken his revenge at once; while I, like a fool, had let
occasion slip. Yes, but not forever! There were different ways of
vengeance; one must decide the best, the keenest way—and, above all,
the way that shall inflict the longest, the cruelest agony upon those
by whom honor is wronged. True—it would be sweet to slay sin in the act
of sinning, but then—must a Romani brand himself as a murderer in the
sight of men? Not so; there were other means—other roads, leading to
the same end if the tired brain could only plan them out. Slowly I
dragged my aching limbs to the fallen trunk of a tree and sat down,
still holding the dying rose-leaves in my clinched palm. There was a
surging noise in my ears—my mouth tasted of blood, my lips were parched
and burning as with fever. “A white-haired fisherman.” That was me! The
king had said so. Mechanically I looked down at the clothes I wore—the
former property of a suicide. “He was a fool,” the vender of them had
said, “he killed himself.”

Yes, there was no doubt of it—he was a fool. I would not follow his
example, or at least not yet. I had something to do first—something
that must be done if I could only see my way clear to it. Yes—if I
could only see my way and follow it straightly, resolutely,
remorselessly! My thoughts were confused, like the thoughts of a
fever-stricken man in delirium—the scent of the rose-leaves I held
sickened me strangely—yet I would not throw them from me; no, I would
keep them to remind me of the embraces I had witnessed! I felt for my
purse! I found and opened it, and placed the withering red petals
carefully within it. As I slipped it again in my pocket I remembered
the two leathern pouches I carried—the one filled with gold, the other
with the jewels I had intended for—_her_. My adventures in the vault
recurred to me; I smiled as I recollected the dire struggle I had made
for life and liberty. Life and liberty!—of what use were they to me
now, save for one thing—revenge? I was not wanted; I was not expected
back to refill my former place on earth—the large fortune I had
possessed was now my wife’s by the decree of my own last will and
testament, which she would have no difficulty in proving. But still,
wealth was mine—the hidden stores of the brigands were sufficient to
make any man more than rich for the term of his natural life. As I
considered this, a sort of dull pleasure throbbed in my veins. Money!
Anything could be done for money—gold would purchase even vengeance.
But what sort of vengeance? Such a one as I sought must be
unique—refined, relentless, and complete. I pondered deeply. The
evening wind blew freshly up from the sea; the leaves of the swaying
trees whispered mysteriously together; the nightingales warbled on with
untired sweetness; and the moon, like the round shield of an angel
warrior, shone brightly against the dense blue background of the sky.
Heedless of the passing of hours, I sat still, lost in a bewildered
reverie. “There was always a false note somewhere when he sung!” So she
had said, laughing that little laugh of hers as cold and sharp as the
clash of steel. True, true; by all the majesty of Heaven, most true!
There was indeed a false note—jarring, not so much the voice as the
music of life itself. There is stuff in all of us that will weave, as
we desire it, into a web of stately or simple harmony; but let the
meteor-like brilliancy of a woman’s smile—a woman’s touch—a woman’s
LIE—intermingle itself with the strain, and lo! the false note is
struck, discord declares itself, and God Himself, the great Composer,
can do nothing in this life to restore the old calm tune of peaceful,
unspoiled days! So I have found; so all of you must find, long before
you and sorrow grow old together.

“A white-haired fisherman!”

The words of the king repeated themselves over and over again in my
tortured brain. Yes—I was greatly changed, I looked worn and old—no one
would recognize me for my former self. All at once, with this thought,
an idea occurred to me—a plan of vengeance, so bold, so new, and withal
so terrible, that I started from my seat as though stung by an adder. I
paced up and down restlessly, with this lurid light of fearful revenge
pouring in on every nook and cranny of my darkened mind. From whence
had come this daring scheme? What devil, or rather what angel of
retribution, had whispered it to my soul? Dimly I wondered—but amid all
my wonder I began practically to arrange the details of my plot. I
calculated every small circumstance that was likely to occur in the
process of carrying it out. My stupefied senses became aroused from the
lethargy of despair, and stood up like soldiers on the alert armed to
the teeth. Past love, pity, pardon, patience—pooh! what were all these
resources of the world’s weakness to _me_? What was it to me that the
bleeding Christ forgave His enemies in death? He never loved a woman!
Strength and resolution returned to me. Let common sailors and
rag-pickers resort to murder and suicide as fit outlets for their
unreasoning brute wrath when wronged; but as for me, why should I blot
my family scutcheon with a merely vulgar crime? Nay, the vengeance of a
Romani must be taken with assured calmness and easy deliberation—no
haste, no plebeian fury, no effeminate fuss, no excitement. I walked up
and down slowly, meditating on every point of the bitter drama in which
I had resolved to enact the chief part, from the rise to the fall of
the black curtain. The mists cleared from my brain—I breathed more
easily—my nerves steadied themselves by degrees—the prospect of what I
purposed doing satisfied me and calmed the fever in my blood. I became
perfectly cool and collected. I indulged in no more futile regrets for
the past—why should I mourn the loss of a love I never possessed? It
was not as if they had waited till my supposed sudden death—no! within
three months of my marriage they had fooled me; for three whole years
they had indulged in their criminal amour, while I, blind dreamer, had
suspected nothing. _Now_ I knew the extent of my injury; I was a man
bitterly wronged, vilely duped. Justice, reason, and self-respect
demanded that I should punish to the utmost the miserable tricksters
who had played me false. The passionate tenderness I had felt for my
wife was gone—I plucked it from my heart as I would have torn a thorn
from my flesh—I flung it from me with disgust as I had flung away the
unseen reptile that had fastened on my neck in the vault. The deep warm
friendship of years I had felt for Guido Ferrari froze to its very
foundations—and in its place there rose up, not hate, but pitiless,
immeasurable contempt. A stern disdain of myself also awoke in me, as I
remembered the unreasoning joy with which, I had hastened—as I
thought—home, full of eager anticipation and Romeo-like ardor. An idiot
leaping merrily to his death over a mountain chasm was not more fool
than I! But the dream was over—the delusion of my life was passed. I
was strong to avenge—I would be swift to accomplish. So, darkly musing
for an hour or more, I decided on the course I had to pursue, and to
make the decision final I drew from my breast the crucifix that the
dead monk Cipriano had laid with me in my coffin, and kissing it, I
raised it aloft, and swore by that sacred symbol never to relent, never
to relax, never to rest, till I had brought my vow of just vengeance to
its utmost fulfillment. The stars, calm witnesses of my oath, eyed me
earnestly from their judgment thrones in the quiet sky—there was a
brief pause in the singing of the nightingales, as though they too
listened—the wind sighed plaintively, and scattered a shower of jasmine
blossoms like snow at my feet. Even so, I thought, fall the last leaves
of my white days—days of pleasure, days of sweet illusion, days of dear
remembrance; even so let them wither and perish utterly forever! For
from henceforth my life must be something other than a mere garland of
flowers—it must be a chain of finely tempered steel, hard, cold, and
unbreakable—formed into links strong enough to wind round and round two
false lives and imprison them so closely as to leave no means of
escape. This was what must be done—and I resolved to do it. With a
firm, quiet step I turned to leave the avenue. I opened the little
private wicket, and passed into the dusty road. A clanging noise caused
me to look up as I went by the principal entrance of the Villa Romani.
A man servant—my own man-servant by the by—was barring the great gates
for the night. I listened as he slid the bolts into their places, and
turned the key. I remembered that those gates had been thoroughly
fastened before, when I came up the road from Naples—why then had they
been opened since? To let out a visitor? Of course! I smiled grimly at
my wife’s cunning! She evidently knew what she was about. Appearances
must be kept up—the _Signor_ Ferrari must be decorously shown out by a
servant at the chief entrance of the house. Naturally!—all very
unsuspicious-looking and quite in keeping with the proprieties! Guido
had just left her then? I walked steadily, without hurrying my pace,
down the hill toward the city, and on the way I overtook him. He was
strolling lazily along, smoking as usual, and he held a spray of
stephanotis in his hand—well I knew who had given it to him! I passed
him—he glanced up carelessly, his handsome face clearly visible in the
bright moonlight—but there was nothing about a common fisherman to
attract his attention—his look only rested upon me for a second and was
withdrawn immediately. An insane desire possessed me to turn upon
him—to spring at his throat—to wrestle with him and throw him in the
dust at my feet—to spit at him and trample upon him—but I repressed
those fierce and dangerous emotions. I had a better game to play—I had
an exquisite torture in store for him, compared to which a hand-to-hand
fight was mere vulgar fooling. Vengeance ought to ripen slowly in the
strong heat of intense wrath, till of itself it falls—hastily snatched
before its time it is like unmellowed fruit, sour and ungrateful to the
palate. So I let my dear friend—my wife’s consoler—saunter on his
heedless way without interference—I passed, leaving him to indulge in
amorous musings to his false heart’s content. I entered Naples, and
found a night’s lodging at one of the usual resorts for men of my
supposed craft, and, strange to say, I slept soundly and dreamlessly.
Recent illness, fatigue, fear, and sorrow, all aided to throw me like
an exhausted child upon the quiet bosom of slumber, but perhaps the
most powerfully soothing opiate to my brain was the consciousness I had
of a practical plan of retribution—more terrible perhaps than any human
creature had yet devised, so far as I knew. Unchristian you call me? I
tell you again, Christ never loved a woman! Had He done so, He would
have left us some special code of justice.




CHAPTER IX.


I rose very early the next morning—I was more than ever strengthened in
my resolutions of the past night—my projects were entirely formed, and
nothing remained now but for me to carry them out. Unobserved of any
one I took my way again to the vault. I carried with me a small
lantern, a hammer, and some strong nails. Arrived at the cemetery I
looked carefully everywhere about me, lest some stray mourner or
curious stranger might possibly be in the neighborhood. Not a soul was
in sight. Making use of the secret passage, I soon found myself on the
scene of my recent terrors and sufferings, all of which seemed now so
slight in comparison with the mental torture of my present condition. I
went straight to the spot where I had left the coffined treasure—I
possessed myself of all the rolls of paper money, and disposed them in
various small packages about my person and in the lining of my clothes
till, as I stood, I was worth many thousand of francs. Then with the
help of the tools I had brought, I mended the huge chest in the split
places where I had forced it open, and nailed it up fast so that it
looked as if it had never been touched. I lost no time over my task,
for I was in haste. It was my intention to leave Naples for a fortnight
or more, and I purposed taking my departure that very day. Before
leaving the vault I glanced at the coffin I myself had occupied. Should
I mend that and nail it up as though my body were still inside?
No—better leave it as it was—roughly broken open—it would serve my
purpose better so. As soon as I had finished all I had to do, I
clambered through the private passage, closing it after me with extra
care and caution, and then I betook myself directly to the Molo. On
making inquiries among the sailors who were gathered there, I heard
that a small coasting brig was on the point of leaving for Palermo.
Palermo would suit me as well as any other place; I sought out the
captain of the vessel. He was a brown-faced, merry-eyed mariner—he
showed his glittering white teeth in the most amiable of smiles when I
expressed my desire to take passage with him, and consented to the
arrangement at once for a sum which I thought extremely moderate, but
which I afterward discovered to be about treble his rightful due. But
the handsome rogue cheated me with such grace and exquisite courtesy,
that I would scarcely have had him act otherwise than he did. I hear a
good deal of the “plain blunt honesty” of the English. I dare say there
is some truth in it, but for my own part I would rather be cheated by a
friendly fellow who gives you a cheery word and a bright look than
receive exact value for my money from the “plain blunt” boor who seldom
has the common politeness to wish you a good-day.

We got under way at about nine o’clock—the morning was bright, and the
air, for Naples, was almost cool. The water rippling against the sides
of our little vessel had a gurgling, chatty murmur, as though it were
talking vivaciously of all the pleasant things it experienced between
the rising and the setting of the sun; of the corals and trailing
sea-weed that grew in its blue depths, of the lithe glittering fish
that darted hither and thither between its little waves, of the
delicate shells in which dwelt still more delicate inhabitants,
fantastic small creatures as fine as filmy lace, that peeped from the
white and pink doors of their transparent habitations, and looked as
enjoyingly on the shimmering blue-green of their ever-moving element as
we look on the vast dome of our sky, bespangled thickly with stars. Of
all these things, and many more as strange and sweet, the gossiping
water babbled unceasingly; it had even something to say to me
concerning woman and woman’s love. It told me gleefully how many fair
female bodies it had seen sunk in the cold embrace of the conquering
sea, bodies, dainty and soft as the sylphs of a poet’s dream, yet
which, despite their exquisite beauty, had been flung to and fro in
cruel sport by the raging billows, and tossed among pebbles for the
monsters of the deep to feed upon.

As I sat idly on the vessel’s edge and looked down, down into the clear
Mediterranean, brilliantly blue as a lake of melted sapphires, I
fancied I could see her the Delilah of my life, lying prone on the
golden sand, her rich hair floating straightly around her like yellow
weed, her hands clinched in the death agony, her laughing lips blue
with the piercing chilliness of the washing tide—powerless to move or
smile again. She would look well so, I thought—better to my mind than
she looked in the arms of her lover last night. I fell into a train of
profound meditation—a touch on my shoulder startled me. I looked up,
the captain of the brig stood beside me. He smiled and held out a
cigarette.

“The _signor_ will smoke?” he said courteously.

I accepted the little roll of fragrant Havanna half mechanically.

“Why do you call me _signor_?” I inquired brusquely. “I am a
coral-fisher.”

The little man shrugged his shoulders and bowed deferentially, yet with
the smile still dancing gayly in his eyes and dimpling his olive
cheeks.

“Oh, certainly! As the _signor_ pleases—ma—” And he ended with another
expressive shrug and bow.

I looked at him fixedly. “What do you mean?” I asked with some
sternness.

With that birdlike lightness and swiftness which were part of his
manner, the Sicilian skipper bent forward and laid a brown finger on my
wrist.

“_Scusa, vi prego_! But the hands are not those of a fisher of coral.”

I glanced down at them. True enough, their smoothness and pliant shape
betrayed my disguise—the gay little captain was sharp-witted enough to
note the contrast between them and the rough garb I wore, though no one
else with whom I had come in contact had been as keen of observation as
he. At first I was slightly embarrassed by his remark—but after a
moment’s pause I met his gaze frankly, and lighting my cigarette I
said, carelessly:

“_Ebbene_! And what then, my friend?”

He made a deprecatory gesture with his hands.

“Nay, nay, nothing—but only this. The _signor_ must understand he is
perfectly safe with me. My tongue is discreet—I talk of things only
that concern myself. The _signor_ has good reasons for what he does—of
that I am sure. He has suffered; it is enough to look in his face to
see that. Ah, _Dio_ if there are so many sorrows in life; there is
love,” he enumerated rapidly on his fingers—“there is revenge—there are
quarrels—there is loss of money; any of these will drive a man from
place to place at all hours and in all weathers. Yes; it is so,
indeed—I know it! The _signor_ has trusted himself in my boat—I desire
to assure him of my best services.”

And he raised his red cap with so charming a candor that in my lonely
and morose condition I was touched to the heart. Silently I extended my
hand—he caught it with an air in which respect, sympathy, and entire
friendliness were mingled. And yet he overcharged me for my passage,
you exclaim! Ay—but he would not have made me the object of impertinent
curiosity for twenty times the money! You cannot understand the
existence of such conflicting elements in the Italian character? No—I
dare say not. The tendency of the calculating northerner under the same
circumstances would have been to make as much out of me as possible by
means of various small and contemptible items, and then to go with
broadly honest countenance to the nearest police-station and describe
my suspicious appearance and manner, thus exposing me to fresh expense
besides personal annoyance. With the rare tact that distinguishes the
southern races the captain changed the conversation by a reference to
the tobacco we were both enjoying.

“It is good, is it not?” he asked.

“Excellent!” I answered, as indeed it was.

His white teeth glittered in a smile of amusement.

“It should be of the finest quality—for it is a present from one who
will smoke nothing but the choice brands. Ah, _Dio_! what a fine
gentleman spoiled is Carmelo Neri!”

I could not repress a slight start of surprise. What caprice of Fate
associated me with this famous brigand? I was actually smoking his
tobacco, and I owed all my present wealth to his stolen treasures
secreted in my family vault!

“You know the man, then?” I inquired with some curiosity.

“Know him? As well as I know myself. Let me see, it is two
months—yes—two months to-day since he was with me on board this very
vessel. It happened in this way—I was at Gaeta—he came to me and told
me the gendarmes were after him. He offered me more gold than I ever
had in my life to take him to Termini, from whence he could get to one
of his hiding-places in the Montemaggiore. He brought Teresa with him;
he found me alone on the brig, my men had gone ashore. He said, ‘Take
us to Termini and I will give you so much; refuse and I will slit your
throat.’ Ha! ha! ha! That was good. I laughed at him. I put a chair for
Teresa on deck, and gave her some big peaches. I said, ‘See, my
Carmelo! what use is there in threats? You will not kill me, and I
shall not betray you. You are a thief, and a bad thief—by all the
saints you are—but I dare say you would not be much worse than the
hotel-keepers, if you could only keep your hand off your knife.’ (For
you know, _signor_, if you once enter a hotel you must pay almost a
ransom before you can get out again!) Yes—and I reasoned with Carmelo
in this manner: I told him, ‘I do not want a large fortune for carrying
you and Teresa across to Termini—pay me the just passage and we shall
part friends, if only for Teresa’s sake.’ Well, he was surprised. He
smiled that dark smile of his, which may mean gratitude or murder. He
looked at Teresa. She sprung up from her seat, and let her peaches fall
from her lap on the deck. She put her little hands on mine—the tears
were in her pretty blue eyes. ‘You are a good man,’ she said. ‘Some
woman must love you very much!’ Yes—she said that. And she was right.
Our Lady be praised for it!”

And his dark eyes glanced upward with a devout gesture of thanksgiving.
I looked at him with a sort of jealous hunger gnawing at my heart. Here
was another self deluded fool—a fond wretch feasting on the
unsubstantial food of a pleasant dream—a poor dupe who believed in the
truth of woman!

“You are a happy man,” I said with a forced smile; “you have a guiding
star for your life as well as for your boat—a woman that loves you and
is faithful? is it so?”

He answered me directly and simply, raising his cap slightly as he did
so.

“Yes, _signor_—my mother.”

I was deeply touched by his naive and unexpected reply—more deeply than
I cared to show. A bitter regret stirred in my soul—why, oh, why had my
mother died so young! Why had I never known the sacred joy that seemed
to vibrate through the frame, and sparkle in the eyes of this common
sailor! Why must I be forever alone, with a curse of a woman’s lie on
my life, weighing me down to the dust and ashes of a desolate despair!
Something in my face must have spoken my thoughts, for the captain
said, gently:

“The _signor_ has no mother?”

“She died when I was but a child,” I answered, briefly.

The Sicilian puffed lightly at his cigarette in silence—the silence of
an evident compassion. To relieve him of his friendly embarrassment, I
said:

“You spoke of Teresa? Who is Teresa?”

“Ah, you may well ask, _signor_! No one knows who she is; she loves
Carmelo Neri, and there all is said. Such a little thing she is—so
delicate! like a foam-bell on the waves; and Carmelo—You have seen
Carmelo, _signor_?”

I shook my head in the negative.

“_Ebbene_! Carmelo is big and rough and black like a wolf of the
forests, all hair and fangs; Teresa is, well! you have seen a little
cloud in the sky at night, wandering past the moon all flecked with
pale gold?—that is Teresa. She is, small and slight as a child; she has
rippling curls, and soft praying eyes, and tiny, weak, white hands, not
strong enough to snap a twig in two. Yet she can do anything with
Carmelo—she is the one soft spot in his life.”

“I wonder if she is true to him,” I muttered, half to myself and half
aloud.

The captain caught up my words with an accent of surprise.

“True to him? Ah, _Dio_! but the _signor_ does not know her. There was
one of Carmelo’s own band, as bold and handsome a cut-throat as ever
lived—he was mad for Teresa—he followed her everywhere like a beaten
cur. One day he found her alone; he tried to embrace her—she snatched a
knife from his own girdle and stabbed him with it, like a little fury!
She did not kill him then, but Carmelo did afterward. To think of a
little woman like that with such a devil in her! It is her boast that
no man, save Carmelo, has ever touched so much as a ringlet of her
hair. Ay; she is true to him—more’s the pity.”

“Why—you would not have her false?” I asked.

“Nay, nay—for a false woman deserves death—but still it is a pity
Teresa should have fixed her love on Carmelo. Such a man! One day the
gendarmes will have him, then he will be in the galleys for life, and
she will die. Yes—you may be sure of that! If grief does not kill her
quickly enough, then she will kill herself, that is certain! She is
slight and frail to look at as a flower, but her soul is strong as
iron. She, will have her own way in death as well as in love—some women
are made so, and it is generally the weakest-looking among them who
have the most courage.”

Our conversation was here interrupted by one of the sailors who came
for his master’s orders. The talkative skipper, with an apologetic
smile and bow, placed his box of cigarettes beside me where I sat, and
left me to my own reflections.

I was not sorry to be alone. I needed a little breathing time—a rest in
which to think, though my thoughts, like a new solar system, revolved
round the red planet of one central idea, _vengeance_. “A false woman
deserves death.” Even this simple Sicilian mariner said so. “Go and
kill her, go and kill her!” These words reiterated themselves over and
over again in my ears, till I found myself almost uttering them aloud.
My soul sickened at the contemplation of the woman Teresa—the mistress
of a wretched brigand whose name was fraught with horror—whose looks
were terrific—she, even _she_ could keep herself sacred from the
profaning touch of other men’s caresses—she was proud of being faithful
to her wolf of the mountains, whose temper was uncertain and
treacherous—she could make lawful boast of her fidelity to her
blood-stained lover—while Nina—the wedded wife of a noble whose descent
was lofty and unsullied, could tear off the fair crown of honorable
marriage and cast it in the dust—could take the dignity of an ancient
family and trample upon it—could make herself so low and vile that even
this common Teresa, knowing all, might and most probably would, refuse
to touch her hand, considering it polluted. Just God! what had Carmelo
Neri done to deserve the priceless jewel of a true woman’s heart? what
had I done to merit such foul deception as that which I was now called
upon to avenge? Suddenly I thought of my child. Her memory came upon me
like a ray of light—I had almost forgotten her. Poor little
blossom!—the slow hot tears forced themselves between my eyelids, as I
called up before my fancy the picture of the soft baby face—the young
untroubled eyes—the little coaxing mouth always budding into innocent
kisses! What should I do with her? When the plan of punishment I had
matured in my brain was carried out to its utmost, should I take her
with me far, far away into some quiet corner of the world, and devote
my life to hers? Alas! alas! she, too, would be a woman and
beautiful—she was a flower born of a poisoned tree, who could say that
there might not be a canker-worm hidden even in her heart, which waited
but for the touch of maturity to commence its work of destruction! Oh,
men! you that have serpents coiled round your lives in the shape of
fair false women—if God has given you children by them, the curse
descends upon you doubly! Hide it as you will under the society masks
we are all forced to wear, you know there is nothing more keenly
torturing than to see innocent babes look trustingly in the deceitful
eyes of an unfaithful wife, and call her by the sacred name of
“Mother.” Eat ashes and drink wormwood, you shall find them sweet in
comparison to that nauseating bitterness! For the rest of the day I was
very much alone. The captain of the brig spoke cheerily to me now and
then, but we were met by light contrary winds that necessitated his
giving most of his attention to the management of his vessel, so that
he could not permit himself to yield to the love of gossip that was
inherent in him. The weather was perfect, and notwithstanding our
constant shifting and tacking about to catch the erratic breeze, the
gay little brig made merry and rapid way over the sparkling
Mediterranean, at a rate that promised our arrival at Palermo by the
sunset of the following day. As the evening came on the wind freshened,
and by the time the moon soared like a large blight bird into the sky,
we were scudding along sideways, the edge of our vessel leaning over to
kiss the waves that gleamed like silver and gold, flecked here and
there with phosphorescent flame. We skimmed almost under the bows of a
magnificent yacht—the English flag floated from her mast—her sails
glittered purely white in the moonbeams, and she sprung over the water
like a sea-gull. A man, whose tall athletic figure was shown off to
advantage by the yachting costume he wore, stood on deck, his arm
thrown round the waist of a girl beside him. We were but a minute or
two passing the stately vessel, yet I saw plainly this loving group of
two, and—I pitied the man! Why? He was English undoubtedly—the son of a
country where the very soil is supposed to be odorous of
virtue—therefore the woman beside him must be a perfect pearl of
purity; an Englishman never makes a mistake in these things! Never? Are
you sure? Ah, believe me, there is not much difference nowadays between
women of opposite nations. Once there was—I am willing to admit that
possibility. Once, from all accounts received, the English rose was the
fitting emblem of the English woman, but now, since the world has grown
so wise and made such progress in the art of running rapidly downhill,
is even the aristocratic British peer quite easy in his mind regarding
his fair peeress? Can he leave her to her own devices with safety? Are
there not men, boastful too of their “blue blood,” who are perhaps
ready to stoop to the thief’s trick of entering his house during his
absence by means of private keys, and stealing away his wife’s
affections?—and is not she, though a mother of three or four children,
ready to receive with favor the mean robber of her husband’s rights and
honor? Read the London newspapers any day and you will find that once
“moral” England is running a neck and neck race with other less
hypocritical nations in pursuit of social vice. The barriers that once
existed are broken down; “professional beauties” are received in
circles where their presence formerly would have been the signal for
all respectable women instantly to retire; ladies of title are
satisfied to caper on the boards of the theatrical stage, in costumes
that display their shape as undisguisedly as possible to the eyes of
the grinning public, or they sing in concert halls for the pleasure of
showing themselves off, and actually accept the vulgar applause of
unwashed crowds with a smile and a bow of gratitude! Ye gods! what has
become of the superb pride of the old regime—the pride which disdained
all ostentation and clung to honor more closely than life! What a
striking sign of the times too, is this: let a woman taint her virtue
BEFORE marriage, she is never forgiven—her sin is never forgotten; but
let her do what she will when she has a husband’s name to screen her,
and society winks its eyes at her crimes. Couple this fact with the
general spirit of mockery that prevails in fashionable circles—mockery
of religion, mockery of sentiment, mockery of all that is best and
noblest in the human heart—add to it the general spread of
“free-thought,” and _therefore_ of conflicting and unstable
opinions—let all these things together go on for a few years longer and
England will stare at her sister nations like a bold woman in a
domino—her features partly concealed from a pretense at shame, but her
eyes glittering coldly through the mask, betraying to all who look at
her how she secretly revels in her new code of lawlessness coupled with
greed. For she will always be avaricious—and the worst of it is, that
her nature being prosaic, there will be no redeeming grace to cast a
glamour about her. France is unvirtuous enough, God knows, yet there is
a sunshiny smile on her lips that cheers the heart. Italy is also
unvirtuous, yet her voice is full of bird-like melody, and her face is
a dream of perfect poetry! But England unvirtuous will be like a
cautiously calculating, somewhat shrewish matron, possessed of
unnatural and unbecoming friskiness, without either laugh, or song, or
smile—her one god, Gold, and her one commandment, the suggested
eleventh, “Thou shall not be found out!”

I slept that night on deck. The captain offered me the use of his
little cabin, and was, in his kind-hearted manner, truly distressed at
my persistent refusal to occupy it.

“It is bad to sleep in the moonlight, _signor_,” he said, anxiously.
“It makes men mad, they say.”

I smiled. Had madness been my destiny, I should have gone mad last
night, I thought!

“Have no fear!” I answered him, gently. “The moonlight is a joy to
me—it has no impression on my mind save that of peace. I shall rest
well here, my friend—do not trouble yourself about me.”

He hesitated and then abruptly left me, to return in the space of two
or three minutes with a thick rug of sheepskin. He insisted so
earnestly on my accepting this covering as a protection from the night
air, that, to please him, I yielded to his entreaties and lay down,
wrapped in its warm folds. The good-natured fellow then wished me a
“_Buon riposo, signor_!” and descended to his own resting-place,
humming a gay tune as he went. From my recumbent posture on the deck I
stared upward at the myriad stars that twinkled softly in the warm
violet skies—stared long and fixedly till it seemed to me that our ship
had also become a star, and was sailing through space with its
glittering companions. What inhabitants peopled those fair planets, I
wondered? Mere men and women who lived and loved and lied to one
another as bravely as we do? or superior beings to whom the least
falsehood is unknown? Was there one world among them where no women
were born? Vague fancies—odd theories—flitted through my brain. I lived
over again the agony of my imprisonment in the vaults—again I forced
myself to contemplate the scene I had witnessed between my wife and her
lover—again I meditated on every small detail requisite to the
fulfillment of the terrible vengeance I had designed. I have often
wondered how, in countries where divorce is allowed, a wronged husband
can satisfy himself with so meager a compensation for his injuries as
the mere getting rid of the woman who has deceived him. It is no
punishment to her—it is what she wishes. There is not even any very
special disgrace in it according to the present standard of social
observances. Were public whipping the recognized penalty for the crime
of a married woman’s infidelity, there would be fewer of the like
scandals—the divorce might follow the scourging. A daintily brought-up
feminine creature would think twice, nay, fifty times, before she would
run the risk of allowing her delicate body to be lashed by whips
wielded by the merciless hands of a couple of her own sex—such a
prospect of degradation, pain, shame, and outraged vanity would be more
effectual to kill the brute in her than all the imposing ceremonials of
courts of law and special juries. Think of it, kings, lords, and
commons! Whipping at the cart’s tail was once a legal punishment—if you
would stop the growing immorality and reckless vice of women you had
best revive it again—only apply it to rich as well as to poor, for it
is most probable that the gay duchesses and countesses of your lands
will need its sharp services more frequently than the work-worn wives
of your laboring men. Luxury, idleness, and love of dress are hot-beds
for sin—look for it, therefore, not so much in the hovels of the
starving and naked as in the rose-tinted, musk-scented boudoirs of the
aristocracy—look for it, as your brave physicians would search out the
seeds of a pestilence that threatens to depopulate a great city, and
trample it out if you _can_ and _will_—if you desire to keep the name
of your countries glorious in the eyes of future history. Spare not the
rod because “my lady” forsooth! with her rich hair falling around her
in beauteous dishevelment and her eyes bathed in tears, implores your
mercy—for by very reason of her wealth and station she deserves less
pity than the painted outcast who knows not where to turn for bread. A
high post demands high duty! But I talk wildly. Whipping is done away
with, for women at least—we give a well-bred shudder of disgust at the
thought of it. When do we shudder with equal disgust at our own social
enormities? Seldom or never. Meanwhile, in cases of infidelity,
husbands and wives can separate and go on their different ways in
comparative peace. Yes—some can and some do; but I am not one of these.
No law in all the world can mend the torn flag of _my_ honor; therefore
I must be a law to myself—a counsel, a jury, a judge, all in one and
from my decision there can be no appeal! Then I must act as
executioner—and what torture was ever so perfectly unique as the one I
have devised? So I mused, lying broadly awake, with face upturned to
the heavens, watching the light of the moon pouring itself out on the
ocean like a shower of gold, while the water rushed gurgling softly
against the sides of the brig, and broke into the laughter of white
foam as we scudded along.




CHAPTER X.


All the next day the wind was in our favor, and we arrived at Palermo
an hour before sunset. We had scarcely run into harbor when a small
party of officers and gendarmes, heavily laden with pistols and
carbines, came on board and showed a document authorizing them to
search the brig for Carmelo Neri. I was somewhat anxious for the safety
of my good friend the captain—but he was in nowise dismayed; he smiled
and welcomed the armed emissaries of the government as though they were
his dearest friends.

“To give you my opinion frankly,” he said to them, as he opened a flask
of line Chianti for their behoof, “I believe the villain Carmelo is
somewhere about Gaeta. I would not tell you a lie—why should I? Is
there not a reward offered, and am not I poor? Look you, I would do my
best to assist you!”

One of the men looked at him dubiously.

“We received information,” he said, in precise, business-like tones,
“that Neri escaped from Gaeta two months since, and was aided and
abetted in his escape by one Andrea Luziani, owner of the coasting brig
‘Laura,’ journeying for purposes of trade between Naples and Palermo.
You are Andrea Luziani, and this is the brig ‘Laura,’—we are right in
this; is it not so?”

“As if you could ever be wrong, _caro_!” cried the captain with
undiminished gayety, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nay, if St. Peter
should have the bad taste to shut you out of heaven, you would be
cunning enough to find another and better entrance! Ah, _Dio_! I
believe it! Yes, you are right about my name and the name of my brig,
but in the other things,”—here he shook his fingers with an expressive
sign of denial—“you are wrong—wrong—all wrong!” He broke into a gay
laugh. “Yes, wrong—but we will not quarrel about it! Have some more
Chianti! Searching for brigands is thirsty work. Fill your glasses,
_amici_—spare not the flask—there are twenty more below stairs!”

The officers smiled in spite of themselves, as they drank the proffered
wine, and the youngest-looking of the party, a brisk, handsome fellow,
entered into the spirit of the captain with ardor, though he evidently
thought he should trap him into a confession unawares, by the apparent
carelessness and bonhomie of his manner.

“Bravo, Andrea!” he cried, merrily. “So! let us all be friends
together! Besides, what harm is there in taking a brigand for a
passenger—no doubt he would pay you better than most cargoes!”

But Andrea was not to be so caught. On the contrary; he raised his
hands and eyes with an admirably feigned expression of shocked alarm.

“Our Lady and the saints forgive you!” he exclaimed, piously, “for
thinking that I, an honest _marinaro_, would accept one _baiocco_ from
an accursed brigand! Ill-luck would follow me ever after! Nay,
nay—there has been a mistake; I know nothing of Carmelo Neri, and I
hope the saints will grant that I may never meet him!”

He spoke with so much apparent sincerity that the officers in command
were evidently puzzled, though the fact of their being so did not deter
them from searching the brig thoroughly. Disappointed in their
expectations, they questioned all on board, including myself, but were
of course unable to obtain any satisfactory replies. Fortunately they
accepted my costume as a sign of my trade, and though they glanced
curiously at my white hair, they seemed to think there was nothing
suspicious about me. After a few more effusive compliments and
civilities on the part of the captain, they took their departure,
completely baffled, and quite convinced that the information they had
received had been somehow incorrect. As soon as they were out of sight,
the merry Andrea capered on his deck like a child in a play-ground, and
snapped his fingers defiantly.

“_Per Bacco_!” he cried, ecstatically, “they should as soon make a
priest tell confessional secrets, as force me, honest Andrea Luziani,
to betray a man who has given me good cigars! Let them run back to
Gaeta and hunt in every hole and corner! Carmelo may rest comfortably
in the Montemaggiore without the shadow of a gendarme to disturb him!
Ah, _signor_!” for I had advanced to bid him farewell—“I am truly sorry
to part company with you! You do not blame me for helping away a poor
devil who trusts me?”

“Not I!” I answered him heartily. “On the contrary, I would there were
more like you. _Addio_! and with this,” here I gave him the
passage-money we had agreed upon, “accept my thanks. I shall not forget
your kindness; if you ever need a friend, send to me.”

“But,” he said, with a naive mingling of curiosity and timidity, “how
can I do that if the _signor_ does not tell me his name?”

I had thought of this during the past night. I knew it would be
necessary to take a different name, and I had resolved on adopting that
of a school-friend, a boy to whom I had been profoundly attached in my
earliest youth, and who had been drowned before my eyes while bathing
in the Venetian Lido. So I answered Andrea’s question at once and
without effort.

“Ask for the Count Cesare Oliva,” I said. “I shall return to Naples
shortly, and should you seek me, you will find me there.”

The Sicilian doffed his cap and saluted me profoundly.

“I guessed well,” he remarked, smilingly, “that the _Signor Conte’s_
hands were not those of a coral-fisher. Oh, yes! I know a gentleman
when I see him—though we Sicilians say we are all gentlemen. It is a
good boast, but alas! not always true! _A rivederci, signor_! Command
me when you will—I am your servant!”

Pressing his hand, I sprung lightly from the brig on to the quay.

“_A rivederci_!” I called to him. “Again, and yet again, a thousand
thanks!”

“_Oh! tropp’ onore, signor—tropp’ onore_!” and thus I left him,
standing still bareheaded on the deck of his little vessel, with a
kindly light on his brown face like the reflection of a fadeless
sunbeam. Good-hearted, merry rogue! His ideas of right and wrong were
oddly mixed—yet his lies were better than many truths told us by our
candid friends—and you may be certain the great Recording Angel knows
the difference between a lie that saves and a truth that kills, and
metes out Heaven’s reward or punishment accordingly.

My first care, when I found myself in the streets of Palermo, was to
purchase clothes of the best material and make adapted to a gentleman’s
wear. I explained to the tailor whose shop I entered for this purpose
that I had joined a party of coral-fishers for mere amusement, and had
for the time adopted their costume. He believed my story the more
readily as I ordered him to make several more suits for me immediately,
giving him the name of Count Cesare Oliva, and the address of the best
hotel in the city. He served me with obsequious humility, and allowed
me the use of his private back-room, where I discarded my fisher garb
for the dress of a gentleman—a ready-made suit that happened to fit me
passably well. Thus arrayed as became my station, I engaged rooms at
the chief hotel of Palermo for some weeks—weeks that were for me full
of careful preparation for the task of vengeful retribution that lay
before me. One of my principal objects was to place the money I had
with me in safe hands. I sought out the leading banker in Palermo, and
introducing myself under my adopted name, I stated that I had newly
returned to Sicily after some years’ absence. He received me well, and
though he appeared astonished at the large amount of wealth I had
brought, he was eager and willing enough to make satisfactory
arrangements with me for its safe keeping, including the bag of jewels,
some of which, from their unusual size and luster, excited his genuine
admiration. Seeing this, I pressed on his acceptance a fine emerald and
two large brilliants, all unset, and requested him to have a ring made
of them for his own wear. Surprised at my generosity, he at first
refused—but his natural wish to possess such rare gems finally
prevailed, and he took them, overpowering me with thanks—while I was
perfectly satisfied to see that I had secured his services so
thoroughly by my jeweled bribe, that he either forgot, or else saw no
necessity to ask me for personal references, which in my position would
have been exceeding difficult, if not impossible, to obtain. When this
business transaction was entirely completed, I devoted myself to my
next consideration—which was to disguise myself so utterly that no one
should possibly be able to recognize the smallest resemblance in me to
the late Fabio Romani, either by look, voice, or trick of manner. I had
always worn a mustache—it had turned white in company with my hair. I
now allowed my beard to grow—it came out white also. But in contrast
with these contemporary signs of age, my face began to fill up and look
young again; my eyes, always large and dark, resumed their old
flashing, half-defiant look—a look, which it seemed to me, would make
some familiar suggestion to those who had once known me as I was before
I died. Yes—they spoke of things that must be forgotten and unuttered;
what should I do with these tell-tale eyes of mine?

I thought, and soon decided. Nothing was easier than to feign weak
sight—sight that was dazzled by the heat and brilliancy of the southern
sunshine, I would wear smoke-colored glasses. I bought them as soon as
the idea occurred to me, and alone in my room before the mirror I tried
their effect. I was satisfied; they perfectly completed the disguise of
my face. With them and my white hair and beard, I looked like a
well-preserved man of fifty-five or so, whose only physical ailment was
a slight affection of the eyes.

The next thing to alter was my voice. I had, naturally, a peculiarly
soft voice and a rapid, yet clear, enunciation, and it was my habit, as
it is the habit of almost every Italian, to accompany my words with the
expressive pantomime of gesture. I took myself in training as an actor
studies for a particular part. I cultivated a harsh accent, and spoke
with deliberation and coldness—occasionally with a sort of sarcastic
brusquerie, carefully avoiding the least movement of hands or head
during converse. This was exceedingly difficult of attainment to me,
and took me an infinite deal of time and trouble; but I had for my
model a middle-aged Englishman who was staying in the same hotel as
myself, and whose starched stolidity never relaxed for a single
instant. He was a human iceberg—perfectly respectable, with that air of
decent gloom about him which is generally worn by all the sons of
Britain while sojourning in a foreign clime. I copied his manners as
closely as possible; I kept my mouth shut with the same precise air of
not-to-be-enlightened obstinacy—I walked with the same upright drill
demeanor—and I surveyed the scenery with the same superior contempt. I
knew I had succeeded at last, for I overheard a waiter speaking of me
to his companion as “the white bear!”

One other thing I did. I wrote a courteous note to the editor of the
principal newspaper published in Naples—a newspaper that I knew always
found its way to the Villa Romani—and inclosing fifty francs, I
requested him to insert a paragraph for me in his next issue. This
paragraph was worded somewhat as follows:

“The _Signor_ Conte Cesare Oliva, a nobleman who has been for many
years absent from his native country, has, we understand, just
returned, possessed of almost fabulous wealth, and is about to arrive
in Naples, where he purposes making his home for the future. The
leaders of society here will no doubt welcome with enthusiasm so
distinguished an addition to the brilliant circles commanded by their
influence.”

The editor obeyed my wishes, and inserted what I sent him, word for
word as it was written. He sent me the paper containing it “with a
million compliments,” but was discreetly silent concerning the fifty
francs, though I am certain he pocketed them with unaffected joy. Had I
sent him double the money, he might have been induced to announce me as
a king or emperor in disguise. Editors of newspapers lay claim to be
honorable men; they may be so in England, but in Italy most of them
would do anything for money. Poor devils! who can blame them,
considering how little they get by their limited dealings in pen and
ink! In fact, I am not at all certain but that a few English newspaper
editors might be found capable of accepting a bribe, if large enough,
and if offered with due delicacy. There are surely one or two
magazines, for instance, in London, that would not altogether refuse to
insert an indifferently, even badly written article, if paid a thousand
pounds down for doing it!

On the last day but one of my sojourn in Palermo I was reclining in an
easy-chair at the window of the hotel smoking-room, looking out on the
shimmering waters of the gulf. It was nearly eight o’clock, and though
the gorgeous colors of the sunset still lingered in the sky, the breeze
blew in from the sea somewhat coldly, giving warning of an approaching
chilly night. The character I had adopted, namely that of a somewhat
harsh and cynical man who had seen life and did not like it, had by
constant hourly practice become with me almost second nature—indeed, I
should have had some difficulty in returning to the easy and
thoughtless abandon of my former self. I had studied the art of being
churlish till I really _was_ churlish; I had to act the chief character
in a drama, and I knew my part thoroughly well. I sat quietly puffing
at my cigar and thinking of nothing in particular—for, as far as my
plans went, I had done with thought, and all my energies were strung up
to action—when I was startled by a loud and increasing clamor, as of
the shouting of a large crowd coming onward like an overflowing tide. I
leaned out of the window, but could see nothing, and I was wondering
what the noise could mean, when an excited waiter threw open the door
of the smoking-room and cried, breathlessly:

“Carmelo Neri, _signor_! Carmelo Neri! They have him, _poverino_! they
have him at last!”

Though almost as strongly interested in this news as the waiter
himself, I did not permit my interest to become manifest. I never
forgot for a second the character I had assumed, and drawing the cigar
slowly from my lips I merely said:

“Then they have caught a great rascal. I congratulate the Government!
Where is the fellow?”

“In the great square,” returned the garçon, eagerly. “If the _signor_
would walk round the corner he would see Carmelo, bound and fettered.
The saints have mercy upon him! The crowds there are thick as flies
round a honeycomb! I must go thither myself—I would not miss the sight
for a thousand francs!”

And he ran off, as full of the anticipated delight of looking at a
brigand as a child going to its first fair. I put on my hat and
strolled leisurely round to the scene of excitement. It was a
picturesque sight enough; the square was black with a sea of eager
heads, and restless, gesticulating figures, and the center of this
swaying, muttering crowd was occupied by a compact band of mounted
gendarmes with drawn swords flashing in the pale evening light—both
horses and men nearly as motionless as though cast in bronze. They were
stationed opposite the head-quarters of the Carabinieri, where the
chief officer of the party had dismounted to make his formal report
respecting the details of the capture before proceeding further.
Between these armed and watchful guards, with his legs strapped to a
sturdy mule, his arms tied fast behind him, and his hands heavily
manacled, was the notorious Neri, as dark and fierce as a mountain
thunder-storm. His head was uncovered—his thick hair, long and unkempt,
hung in matted locks upon his shoulders—his heavy mustachios and beard
were so black and bushy that they almost concealed his coarse and
forbidding features—though I could see the tiger-like glitter of his
sharp white teeth as he bit and gnawed his under lip in impotent fury
and despair—and his eyes, like leaping flames, blazed with a wrathful
ferocity from under his shaggy brows. He was a huge, heavy man, broad
and muscular; his two hands clinched, tied and manacled behind him,
looked like formidable hammers capable of striking a man down dead at
one blow; his whole aspect was repulsive and terrible—there was no
redeeming point about him—for even the appar

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