The Contessa's Vendetta (30 page)

The merriment increased as the various courses were served
. Bouts of laughter often interrupted the loud buzz of conversation, mingling with the clinking of glasses and clattering of porcelain. Every now and then Louisa Freccia sharing a favorite rumor, or Luciana Salustri recited a poem to give variance to the constant chatter about trite matters. I did my part to keep the banter light-hearted, though I mostly divided my conversation between Beatrice and Federica Marina, paying close attention to both, but especially to Beatrice.

We had reached that stage of the banquet when the game
course was about to be served. The invisible choir of boys’ voices had just completed an enchanting song, when a stillness, strange and unaccountable, fell upon us; a pause, an ominous hush, as though someone of supreme importance had suddenly entered the room and commanded everyone to be silent.

No one
spoke or moved. The very footsteps of the waiters were muffled by the velvet carpet. No sound was heard except for the splash of the fountain as it flowed among the ferns and flowers. The moon, shining frostily white through the one uncurtained window, cast a long pale ray against one side of the velvet hangings; a spectral effect which was enhanced by the garish glitter of the wax candles.

The women glanced at each
other with a sort of uncomfortable embarrassment, and somehow, though I wanted to speak and break the spell, I was at a loss, and could not find suitable words. Beatrice toyed with her wine-glass mechanically. Federica Marina appeared absorbed in arranging the crumbs beside her plate into little methodical patterns. The stillness seemed to last so long that it was like a suffocating heaviness in the air.

Suddenly
Paolo, in his duties as chief steward, pulled out the cork of a champagne bottle with a loud pop!

It startled us all and
Ippolita Gualdro burst out laughing. “Oh, dear!” she cried. “At last we woke up! We must have all been struck dumb, staring at the tablecloth so persistently and with such gravity. May Saint Anthony and his pig preserve me, but for a brief moment in time, I dreamed I was attending a banquet with the dead!”

“
And you managed to hold your tongue, which is a miracle in itself,” laughed Luciana Salustri. “Have you heard the legend about a sudden silence in the midst of a celebration? It is said that an angel enters, blessing everyone as he passes through.”

“
That story is more ancient than the church,” said Elizabetta Mancona. “Nobody believes in angels anymore. These days, we call them men instead.”

“
Brava
,” cried Eugenia d’Angelo. “Your sentiments are the same as mine, with a very small difference. You believe men are angels, but I know them to be real devils, but I don’t want to quarrel with you over such a small difference in interpretation.” She raised her glass. “
Saluti
,” and she sipped her wine nodding to Elizabetta Mancona, who followed her example.

“
Perhaps,” said the smooth voice of Louisa Freccia, “our silence was caused by the consciousness that something is amiss with our party. It is only a small inequity, which I dare say our hostess has not thought it worth mentioning.”

Every head turned in
my direction and then back to Louisa.

“
What do you mean?”

“
What inequality?”

“
Explain yourself!”

The questions were asked nearly all at once.

“Really it is nothing.” Louisa lazily admired the dainty portion of pheasant just placed before her. “I assure you, only the uneducated would care about it. The Respetti sisters are to blame. Their absence tonight has caused the problem, but why should I upset us. I am not superstitious, but maybe some of you are.”

“
Oh, I see what you mean!” gasped Luciana Salustri. “There are thirteen of us seated around this table! Oh,
Dio
, what a horrific omen!”

At
Louisa’s exclamation, my guests looked warily at each other, and they were counting the number for themselves. They were intelligent, sophisticated women, but superstition ran deep in their blood. All, with the exception of Louisa Freccia and the ever-unruffled Gilda d’Avencorta, were definitely uneasy.

Beatrice
also seemed bothered. She appeared tense and her face was flushed. Seizing her never-empty glass, she swallowed its contents thirstily, in two or three gulps as though attacked by fever, and pushed away her plate with a trembling hand.

I
raised my voice and addressed my guests. “Our dear friend Luciana Salustri is perfectly correct, ladies. I noticed the discrepancy in our number the moment I learned the Respetti sisters could not attend, but I knew that you are all modern women who are not constrained by silly superstitions. Therefore I did not mention it earlier. The idea that misfortune might befall one of us because we are thirteen is ludicrous. As you are aware, the belief stems from the story of the Last Supper, where it was once believed that like Judas Iscariot, one out of the thirteen at the table must be a traitor and doomed to die. But we know better. None of us here tonight has any reason to worry. We are all good friends and kindred hearts, and I cannot believe this will affect anyone here. Remember also that this is Christmas Eve, the most holy of evenings.”

A murmur of applause and a hearty clapping of hands rewarded
my speech.

Ippolita
Gualdro sprung to her feet. “We are not terrified old women to shiver on the edge of a worn-out omen! Fill your glasses, ladies. To the health of our noble hostess, Contessa Giulia Corona!” She waved her glass in the air three times. Everyone followed her example and drank the toast with enthusiasm.

I bowed my
head in gratitude and the superstitious dread which had seized my guests passed. They resumed their conversations, merriment, and laughter, and soon it seemed as though the unpleasant incident was entirely forgotten.

Only
Beatrice continued to be ill at ease, but even her disquiet slowly disappeared. Influenced by the quantity of wine she had drank, she began to talk boastfully of her new wealth, gowns, and jewels.

Soon
Federica Marina became disgusted with her. She eyed Beatrice with an ill-disguised impatience that bordered on contempt.

I, on the contrary, listened to everything
she said with civility, humouring her, and drawing her out as much as possible. I smiled smugly at her brash retorts. When she said something that was more than usually outrageous, I gave her a charitable shake of my head.

The dessert was now served
, and the wine continued to flow. Paolo kept Beatrice’s glass filled from the contents of the special green bottle, while the others shared the costly wines poured by the hired waiters. The result of all this wine was that the more reserved among us now became the most uproarious.

Antoni
a Biscardi, a quiet and modest painter, together with Cristina Dulci, usually the shyest of all, suddenly became animated, and uttered blatant nothings concerning their art. Louisa Freccia argued with Gilda d’Avencorta, both speakers emphasizing their points by thrusting their dessert-knives into the ripe peaches they had on their plates. Luciana Salustri sat back in her chair, her head reclining on the velvet cushions, and recited one of her poems in a low tone, caring little or nothing whether anyone was listening or not. The slick tongue of Ippolita Gualdro ran on incessantly, though she frequently forgot what she was talking about and became trapped in a maze of contradictory statements. The rather large nose of Elizabetta Mancona reddened as she laughed at nothing in particular. In short, the table had become a glittering whirlpool of exhilaration and intense silliness.

Federica
Marina and myself were the only ones who remained composed. After the first glass of wine, she had declined any more, and as for me, I had not taken more than half a glass of a mild Chianti.

I glanced
at my boisterous guests and noted their flushed faces, rapid gestures, and vibrant voices. I inhaled a long, deep breath, for I knew that in a mere two or three minutes, I would make my move.

I
observed Beatrice closely. She had moved her chair a little further from mine, and was saying something confidential to Eugenia d’Angelo. Beatrice’s voice was low and thick, yet distinct as she spoke about the charms of a particular man. What man, I did not stop to consider, but then it struck me that she was describing the physical perfections of my husband to Eugenia, the most inexhaustible of gossipers I had ever encountered in my life.

My blood rapidly
boiled. To this day I recall how it throbbed in my temples, leaving my hands and feet icy cold. I rose from my seat, and tapped on the table to call for everyone’s attention, but the clatter of tongues was so great that I could not make myself heard. Federica Marina tried to silence the crowd on my behalf, but in vain. At last, my attempts attracted Beatrice’s notice. She turned round, and seizing a dessert knife, beat it against her plate so persistently that the loud laughter and conversation ceased.

The moment had come
. I raised my head, fixed my spectacles more firmly over my eyes, gave Beatrice a covert glance, and prepared to speak. She had sunk back again lazily in her chair and was taking another sip of her special wine.

“
My friends,” I said, meeting their inquiring looks with a smile. “I wish to interrupt your mirth for a moment; not to restrain it, but to enhance it. I asked you all here tonight, as you know, to honor me by your presence and to welcome our friend, Signorina Beatrice Cardano.”

Here I was interrupted by a loud clapping of hands and
exclamations, while Beatrice murmured cordially between sips of wine. “You honor me too much, contessa, too much.”

I
gave Beatrice a contrived smile and resumed. “This young and accomplished woman, who is, I believe, a favorite with you all, has been away for several weeks because of an urgent matter. I am certain she is aware of how much we have missed her pleasant company, but I am pleased to say that she has returned to Vicenza a richer woman than when she left. Fortune has done her justice, and now that she is abudantly wealthy, she is now free to enjoy all the rewards due to her!”

The guests clapped again
in agreement. Beatrice acknowledged them all with a casual, smug nod.

I glanced at h
er again. How tranquil she looked reclining among the crimson cushions of her chair, a brimming glass of wine beside her, and her lovely face upturned as she looked half drowsily at the uncurtained window through which the city glittered in the moonlight.

“
I assembled you here tonight not only to welcome and congratulate Signorina Cardano on her good fortune, as you have done, but also for another reason which I shall now explain to you. It is something that concerns me and my future happiness, and I am certain you will offer me your good wishes.”

Everyone remained silent, intent on my every word.
“What I am about to say,” I went on, calmly, “may very possibly surprise you. I have been known to you as a woman of few words, and, I fear, of abrupt and brusque manners.”

I paused for
cries of “No, no!” mingled with various compliments and assurances. I nodded with a gratified air, and waited for silence to be restored. “None of you would think me the sort of woman to catch a gentleman’s fancy.”

My guests exchanged looks of curiosity.
Beatrice set down her wine glass and stared at me in blank astonishment.

“
Old as I am, and a half-blind invalid besides,” I continued, “it seems incredible that any man would look at me more than once in passing. But I have met a fine man who has found me not displeasing. In short, I am going to be married soon!”

There was a pause.
Beatrice rose slightly and seemed about to speak, but apparently changed her mind. She remained silent, but her face had turned pale. Hesitation among my guests passed quickly and everyone, except Beatrice, broke out with congratulatory words.

I
remained standing, leaning my two hands on the table before me. “I am known for my aversion to men, but when one of the handsomest men goes out of his way to court me and show his fascination for me, when he honors me with special gifts and makes me aware that I am not too daring in my desire to wed him, what can I do but accept my good fortune with grace. I would be the most ungrateful of women were I to refuse so precious a gift from Heaven, and I confess I do not feel inclined to reject the opportunity that has presented itself to me. I therefore hope for your good wishes for happiness with my future husband.”