The Contessa's Vendetta (7 page)

While I
contemplated all this, the old woman carried on with her ramblings. “Ah,
si
, she was a fine woman. I used to rejoice that she was so wise. She could have poisoned that snake of a husband so he could tell no more lies. I wanted her to do it. I would have gladly have provided her with the poison. Had she lived, I am certain she would have done it one day. That is why I am sorry the contessa died.”

It took intense effort master my emotions so I could speak calmly to this spiteful old crone.
“Why do you hate the contessa’s husband so much? Has he done you any harm?”

She straightened as much as she was able and stared at me with
unrelenting force. “I’ll tell you why I hate him. You are an intelligent woman,” she answered with a sneer about the corners of her vile mouth. “I like intelligent women, but sometimes they’re easily fooled by men. That’s when a woman should take revenge. I was intelligent and strong myself once. You are old, so will understand. Dario Gismondi has done me harm. When his horse knocked me down in the street, he laughed at me. I was hurt, but I saw his lips widen and his white teeth glitter. He has an enchanting smile, the people will tell you. So innocent! Someone picked me up, but it wasn’t him. His carriage drove on. His wife was not with him otherwise I know she would have stopped to help me. But it doesn’t matter, because he laughed and it was then that I saw the likeness.”

“
The likeness?” Her story annoyed me. “What likeness?”

“
Between him and my husband,” she replied, fixing her cruel eyes upon me with increasing intensity. “Oh,
si
! I know what love is. I married a man as handsome as a morning in spring with eyes as gentle as a tiny child who looks up and asks you for kisses. I was away from home once. When I returned home I found him sleeping with a black-browed beauty from Venice as brash and as brazen as a lioness. While they slept, I made my way to her side of the bed and put my stiletto to the whore’s throat, signalling for her to keep her mouth shut. I forced her to the ground and knelt upon her chest. I looked down into her eyes and smiled. ‘I won’t not hurt you. All I ask is that you keep your mouth shut.’ She stared at me mute with fear. I gagged her then bound her hands and feet so that she could not move. I took my stiletto and went to him. His face looked so peaceful as I plunged the keen bright blade through the hairy white flesh of his chest. His brown eyes glared wide and imploring, while his heart’s blood welled up in a crimson tide, staining the bed linens with a brilliant burgundy hue. Behind me, his whore moaned out in agony. He flung up his arms and sank back on his pillows dead. I drew the blade from his body, and with it cut the bonds of the Venetian slut. I then gave her the stiletto. ‘Take it as a remembrance of him. In a month he would have betrayed you as he betrayed me.’ She raved like a mad woman and rushed from the room straight to the constable. 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 rogue at the Villa Mancini. He is just like the husband I slew. He has the same slow smile and the same child-like eyes. I tell you again, I’m sorry that his wife is dead. It vexes me to think of it. In time, he would have driven her to kill him, of that I am certain.”

C
hapter Six

The old woman
’s story turned my blood cold. For our entire married life, I believed that everyone who met or knew Dario, respected and admired him. I could not deny that when my husband’s horses knocked down this old woman, an event he had never mentioned to me, it was careless of him not to stop and at least inquire as to the extent of her injuries. He was young and thoughtless, but I did not want to believe he could be so heartless. It horrified me to think that he had made an enemy of this aged and poverty-stricken wretch, but I said nothing. I had no wish to betray myself to her.

She waited for me to speak and grew impatient at my silence.
“Was it not fair vengeance I took?” she said with childlike zeal. “God himself could not have done better!”

“
I think your husband deserved his fate, but I cannot say I admire you for being his murderer,” I responded brusquely.

She turned on me in an instant and flung both of her hands above her head with frenetic motion.
“You call me a murderer? How dare you! He murdered me!” Her voice escalated into shrillness. “I died when I saw him asleep with his whore. That vision killed me. It was the devil rose up inside of me to take swift revenge. That same devil is in me now, a brave devil, a strong devil! That is why I do not fear the plague. The devil inside me frightens away death, but someday the evil will leave me.” Her voice sank into a frail, pathetic tone. “
Si
, it will leave me and I shall find a dark place where I can sleep; I do not sleep much anymore. You see, my memory is very good, and when one thinks too much, one cannot sleep. Even though many years have passed, I still see my husband every night. He appears before me wringing his hands, his brown eyes piercing. I hear his terrorized moans and see his wretchedness.” She paused, and then like a woman waking from sleep, she stared at me as if she saw me for the first time, and broke into a low chuckling laugh.

“
What a thing the mind is!” she muttered. “Strange, very strange. See, I remembered all that and forgot about you! You want a new gown and I need to be paid for it. If you do not want the fine gown of the French noblewoman, I will find you something else, but you must have patience.”

She rummaged through a mound of garments at the rear of the shop. She looked so scrawny and forbidding that she reminded me of an aged vulture stooping over carrion. Yet, there was something pathetic about her too. In a way I pitied her; a poor dim-witted wretch who had lived a life filled with bitterness and aggravation.

How different my life was in comparison to hers. I had suffered only a day or two of anguish over my illness; trivial in comparison to the constant torment in her mind. She hated Dario for a single act of thoughtlessness. Well, no doubt, he was not the only man whose existence annoyed her. She was probably hostile towards all men.

I felt sympathy for her as she searched among the shabby
garments that provided her with a paltry livelihood. I wondered why death, so vigorous in slaying the strongest, should have overlooked this downhearted ruin of human misery for which the grave would have been a welcome release.

She turned round at last with a triumphant wave.
“I have found it!” she exclaimed as she raised a gown up and laid it against her body. “This one will suit you. She who wore it was about your height and it will fit you as well as it once fit her.”

It was not the servant
’s garb I expected, but it would suffice. The emerald colored gown consisted of a whale-boned bodice and three separate skirts. Large, elbow length sleeves were of several layers – two of black silk, and the final top layer of emerald silk, which was slashed so that the black layer beneath was visible. The lower part of the sleeve was gathered into a narrow band and fastened with black ribbon ties. The centre front panel of the bodice was embroidered in a floral pattern with silk and metallic thread. The first of the three skirts was split-fronted and gathered onto a waistband and fastened at the centre front by means of ribbon ties. The second skirt was in black, but unsplit and also gathered onto the waistband as was the third, which was of a heavy turquoise satin and also unsplit. She spread out garment before me.

I
studied it with disinterest. “Did the former wearer kill her husband?” I asked with a clear wince.

The old rag
-picker shook her head. “Not her! She was foolish woman who killed herself.”

“
How? By accident or intent?”

“
She knew very well what she was doing. It happened two months ago. All for the sake of a blue-eyed naval officer who had promised to marry her as soon as he returned from a long voyage. On the day his ship sailed into port, she met him on the quay, but before she could greet him, another woman flung herself into his arms and they kissed. I am not talking about a brotherly kiss either, rather, one that was long and lingering, the kind that women dream about. When he noticed her, he laughed. Just that and nothing more. She was tall and pretty, but she staggered, her face grew pale, her lips quivered. She bent her head a little, turned, and before anyone could stop her, she dove from the edge of the quay into the waves that closed over her head. She did not try to swim; she just sank down, down, down like a stone. He next day her body floated ashore, and I bought her dress for five
scudi.
You may purchase it for ten.”

“
And what became of the naval officer?” I asked.

“
Oh, he is enjoying his life. He has a new lover every week. He doesn’t care.”

I drew out my purse.
“I will take this gown,” I said. “You ask ten
scudi
, but here are twelve. For the extra two you must show me to a private room where I can dress.”

“
You are most generous.” The old woman quivered with greed as I counted the money into her withered palm.

“
You may change in my room. It is not much, but there is a mirror, his mirror, the only thing of his worth keeping. Come this way.”

Stumbling along, almost tripping over the muddled collection of clothing that lay strewn about the entire floor and in every nook and cranny, she opened a small door and led me into a vile smelling room furnished with a dismal pallet bed and one broken chair. A small square pane of glass admitted adequate light. Next to the crude window hung the mirror
she had alluded to, a beautiful item set in ornate silver, the costliness of which I at once recognized, though I dared not yet look into the glass at myself.

With pride, the old woman showed me that the door to this narrow den of hers locked from within.
“Here is the gown. You can take your time putting it on. Lock the door if you wish. The room is at your service.” She nodded several times and left me.

I followed her advice and locked myself in. Then I stepped to the mirror and looked at my reflection. A bitter pain struck me. The hag
’s sight was excellent, for she had described me well. I looked old! Even if I had endured twenty years of suffering, I could not have changed so dreadfully.

My illness had thinned my face and
carved deep lines into it. My eyes had sunk deep into my head and they bore a wild look that reflected the terrors I had suffered in the vault. Most obvious of all, my hair had indeed turned completely white; all my ebony tendrils gone.

Now I understood the alarm of the man who had sold me fruit on the
road that morning. My appearance was horrendous enough to startle the bravest of men. Indeed, I scarcely recognized myself. Would Dario recognize me? I feared he would not. Pain stirred within me, forcing tears in my eyes. I brushed them away in haste.

I must be strong, I thought
. What did it matter whether my hair was black or white? What did it matter that my face had aged, as long as my heart was true? For a moment, perhaps, Dario might grow pale at the sight of me, but when he learned of all that I had suffered, I would become dearer to him than ever before. One of his soft embraces would make up for all my anguish and would be enough to make me young again.

Thus, I
uplifted my sinking spirits and dressed in the wrinkled emerald gown. The gown was a little loose, leaving plenty of room to disguise the leather bags of coins and jewels from the brigand’s coffin still secreted around my waist.

When I completed my hasty toilet, I glanced one last time at the mirror, this time with a half smile. True, my appearance had changed
, but I did not think I looked quite so bad. The dress enhanced me. My snow-white curls clustered around my face and the anticipation of reuniting with my husband and daughter brought some luster back into my sunken eyes and color into my hollow cheeks.

I knew I would not always look so worn and wasted. Rest, perhaps a change of air, would soon restore brightness to my complexion. Perhaps even my white tresses might transform back to their dark richness. But what if they remained white? Well, I knew of many people who
went to great lengths to dust their hair to make it as white as possible. It was the fashion these days. Many would admire the stark contrast between my young face and old, white hair.