The Contessa's Vendetta (25 page)

He did not observe the action, but he answered with a bend of the head and a smile.
“I could not have a better future and I am sure my destiny will be bright with you in it.”

“
It will be all that you deserve,” I half muttered, and then with an abrupt change of manner I said, “I must wish you goodnight. It grows late, and with my state of health being so tenuous, it is important that I retire to bed early.”

He rose from his seat and gave me a compassionate look.

“You really suffer then?” he inquired tenderly. “I am sorry. Perhaps careful nursing will restore you. I shall be so proud if I can help you to attain better health.”

“
Rest and happiness will no doubt do much for me,” I answered. “Still, I warn you that in accepting me as your wife, you take on a pitiful woman, one whose whims are notorious and whose chronic state as an invalid may in time prove to be a burden to you. Are you sure your decision is a wise one?”

“
Quite sure!” he replied firmly. “I love you and you will not always be ailing. You look so strong.”

“
I am strong to a certain extent,” I said, unconsciously straightening myself as I stood. “But my nervous system is completely muddled. I—why, what is the matter?”

He had turned deathly pale and
looked startled. I extended my arm to him, but he pushed it aside with an alarmed yet appealing gesture. “It is nothing. A sudden memory I recalled. Tell me, are you certain you are not related to the Mancini family, even distantly? When you stood up just now, you were so much like Carlotta that for a moment I thought you were her ghost.”

“
You are tired and still distressed over your daughter’s death,” I said calmly. “No, I am not related to the Mancinis, though I may have aquired some of their mannerisms. Many women are alike in these things.” And pouring out two glasses of brandy, I handed one to him.

He sipped slowly, leaning back in his chair, and in silence we both looked out on the November night. There was a moon, veiled by driving clouds. A rising wind moaned dismally among the fading creepers and rustled the heavy branches of a giant cypress that stood on the lawn. Now and then, a few big drops of rain fell like sudden tears wrung by force from the black heart of the sky.

“Shut the window!” my husband demanded harshly.

His abrupt
, rude command caused me to frown.

At my look of reproach,
Dario quickly changed his tone. “I do no know what came over me, but I felt bothered, very uncomfortable with you.”

“
That was hardly a complimentary way to speak to your future wife,” I remarked, quietly, as I closed and fastened the window shutters in obedience to his request. “Should I not insist upon an apology?”

He laughed nervously.

“It is not yet too late,” I resumed. “If you have second thoughts and would rather not marry me, you have only to say so. I shall accept my fate with composure, and will not blame you.”

At this he seemed quite alarmed, and rising, laid his hand on my arm.

“Surely you are not offended?” he said. “I was not really bothered by you, you know. It was a stupid reaction, one I cannot explain. But you make me happy and I would not risk losing your love for all the world. You must believe me.” He touched my hand with his lips.

I withdrew it gently.
“If so, we are agreed, and all is well. Let us both try to take a long night’s rest. Do you wish me to keep our betrothal a secret?”

He thought for a moment.
“For the present, it would be best. Though,” he laughed, “it would be delightful to see all the other men envious of my good fortune! Still, if the news were told to any of our friends it might accidentally reach Beatrice, and—”

“
I understand! We must be discreet.
Buona Note
. May your dreams be of me!”

He responded to this with a gratified smile, and as I left the room he waved
. The emerald ring flashed upon his hand. The light from the wall sconces that hung from the painted ceiling highlighted his handsomeness, softening it into near godliness.

When I left the house and walked into the night air heavy with the threatening gloom of
a coming tempest, the vision of his face and body flitted before me like a mirage; hands that seemed to beckon me; lips that had left a scorching heat on mine. Distracted with such torturous thoughts, I boarded my carriage and returned home. There I stared out at the world from my room for what seemed like hours.

The storm broke at last
. The rain poured in torrents, but heedless of wind and weather, I felt forsaken. I seemed to be the only human being left alive in a world filled with wrath and darkness. The rush and roar of the wind, the pounding rain that fell, were all unheeded by me.

There are times when one can grow numb under the pressure of mental agony; when the soul, smarting by some vile injustice, forgets. Such
was my mood. An awful loneliness encompassed me; one of my own creation. There was nothing in all the world except me and the dark brooding horror of vengeance.

Suddenly, the mists
in my mind cleared. I no longer moved in a deaf, blind stupor. A flash of lightning danced vividly before my eyes, followed by a crashing peal of thunder. In my thoughts, I saw to what end of a wild journey I had come. The memory of heavy gates, undefined stretch of land, and ghostly glimmers of motionless tombstones emerged. I knew it all too well - the cemetery. Another bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. I recalled the marble outline of the Mancini vault. There the drama had begun, but where would it end?

I conjured the vision of my lost child
’s face as it had looked in death, and then I experienced a curious feeling of pity. Pity that her little body should be lying stiffly out there, not in the vault, but under the wet sod, in such a relentless storm of rain. I wanted to pull her from the cold earth, carry her to a home filled with light and heat and laughter, warm her to life again within my arms.

As my
mind tossed about these foolish fancies, slow hot tears forced themselves into my eyes and scalded my cheeks as they fell. These tears relieved me. Gradually my tense nerves relaxed, and I recovered my composure. Turning deliberately away from the window, I knew where I was going. Left alone at last in my sleeping chamber, I remained for some time before actually going to bed. I took off the black spectacles which served me so well, and looked at myself in the mirror with curiosity. Without my smoke-colored glasses, I appeared what I was, young and vigorous in spite of my white hair. My face, once worn and haggard, had filled out. My eyes blazed with life. I wondered, as I stared moodily at my own reflection, how it was that I did not look ill. All the mental suffering I had experienced, my intense grief over Chiara’s death, my gloomy satisfaction over my vendetta, should have destroyed my features.

I wondered what Dario would say, could he behold me, unmasked as it were, in the solitude of my own room. This thought roused another
vision in my mind, a vision which made me smile grimly. I was a betrothed woman! Engaged to marry my own husband; to be wedded for the second time to the same man. What a difference between this and my first courtship. Then I was a fool, adoring, passionate, and devoted. Now, I was utterly ruthless and I must remain that way, for I had nearly reached the pinnacle of my vendetta.

I pondered the coming days and watched the end approaching neither slow nor fast, but steadily and silently. I was able to calculate each event in its due order, and I knew there was no fear of failure in the final result. I had formerly been very weak, fooled by my husband and friend. But now my strength worked like a demon within me. My hand had already closed with an iron grip on two false
, unworthy lives, and I swore never to relax, never to relent until I accomplished my vendetta. Heaven and earth had borne witness to my vow, and now held me to its strict fulfillment.

Winter in Vincenza arrived with full force. The chilly air depressed my spirits. The people became carefree, their mood unaffected by the change of seasons. They drank more freely and kept their feet warm by dancing into the small hours of the morning. The plague was finally a thing of the past; a cleansing for the entire population. The sanitary precautions, so widely recommended to prevent another outbreak, were all neglected. The population tripped lightly over the graves of its dead as though they were covered with flowers and long forgotten. They thought only for today, not for what happened yesterday, or for what would happen tomorrow. All that, they left to God.

I could understand their foolishness, for many of the world
’s bitterest miseries come from looking too often to the past or future, and of never living in the present.

Carnivale was approaching. Carnivale with all its festivities, would soon reel through the streets of Vicenza with picturesque, brilliant madness. I was reminded of this coming festivity on the morning of December 21
st
when I noticed Santina trying to control her expression. Despite her efforts, she kept smiling as though something funny had flitted across her mind. She betrayed herself at last by asking me whether I planned to take part in any of the festivities. I smiled and shook my head.

Santina
looked dubious, but finally summoned up her courage. “Will the contessa permit—”

“
By all means, go, partake of the foolishness with everyone else. Take your time, enjoy the fun.”

She was so grateful, she attended to me even more
fastidiously than usual.

“
When does the carnival begin?” I asked.

“
On the 26
th
,” she answered, with a slight air of surprise. “Surely the contessa knows.”

“
Si, si
,” I said, impatiently. “I know, but I had forgotten. I am not young enough to keep dates of such celebrations in my memory. What letters have you there?”

She handed me a small tray full of different shaped
notes, some from women who
desired the honor of my company
and others from tradesmen who
desired the honor of my custom
. Toadies, all of them, I thought contemptuously, as I flipped through the letters. One special envelope, square in form and heavily bordered in black grabbed my attention. The postmark
Roma
stood out distinctly.

“
Finally!” I breathed, excited. I turned to Santina who was giving the final polish to my breakfast cup and saucer. “You may leave the room,” I said.

She curtseyed, the door opened and shut noiselessly, and she was gone.

Slowly I broke the seal of that fateful letter; a letter from Beatrice Cardano, a warrant self-signed, for her own execution.

My dear friend,

You will guess by the black trim on my envelope the good news I have to give you. My uncle is dead at last, thank God, and I am left his sole heir unconditionally. I am free, and shall return to Vicenza immediately, that is, as soon as some trifling law business has been completed with the executors. I believe I can arrange my return for
December 23
rd
or 24
th
. Will you oblige me by not announcing this to Signore Gismondi as I wish to surprise him. Poor man! He must have been lonely without me, I am sure, and I wish to see the astonishment in his eyes when he first sees me after so long an absence. You can understand this, can you not, or does it seem silly to you? I know you will humor me in my desire that the news should be withheld from Dario. How delighted he will be and what a joyous Carnivale we will have this winter. I do not think I ever felt more light of heart. Perhaps it is because I am so much heavier in purse. I am glad of the money, as it places me on a more equal footing with him, and though all his letters to me have been full of tenderness, I believe he will think even more highly of me now that I am somewhat nearer to his own rank. As for you, my good contessa, on my return I shall make it my first duty to pay back with interest the rather large debt I owe to you. Thus my honor will be satisfied, and you, I am sure, will have a better opinion of me.

Your friend to command,