Chapter 12

The third week of September was drawing to its close when I returned to Naples. The weather had grown cooler, and favorable reports of the gradual decrease of the cholera began to gain ground with the suffering and terrified population. Business was resumed as usual, pleasure had again her votaries, and society whirled round once more in its giddy waltz as though it had never left off dancing. I arrived in the city somewhat early in the day, and had time to make some preliminary arrangements for my plan of action. I secured the most splendid suite of apartments in the best hotel, impressing the whole establishment with a vast idea of my wealth and importance. I casually mentioned to the landlord that I desired to purchase a carriage and horses—that I needed a first-class valet, and a few other trifles of the like sort, and added that I relied on his good advice and recommendation as to the places where I should best obtain all that I sought. Needless to say, he became my slave—never was monarch better served than I—the very waiters hustled each other in a race to attend upon me, and reports of my princely fortune, generosity, and lavish expenditure, began to flit from mouth to mouth—which was the result I desired to obtain.

And now the evening of my first day in Naples came, and I, the supposed Conte Cesare Oliva, the envied and flattered noble, took the first step toward my vengeance. It was one of the loveliest evenings possible, even in that lovely land—a soft breeze blew in from the sea—the sky was pearl-like and pure as an opal, yet bright with delicate shifting clouds of crimson and pale mauve—small, fleecy flecks of Radiance, that looked like a shower of blossoms fallen from some far invisible flower-land. The waters of the bay were slightly ruffled by the wind, and curled into tender little dark-blue waves tipped with light forges of foam. After my dinner I went out and took my way to a well-known and popular cafe which used to be a favorite haunt of mine in the days when I was known as Fabio Romani. Guido Ferrari was a constant habitue of the place, and I felt that I should find him there. The brilliant rose-white and gold saloons were crowded, and owing to the pleasant coolness of the air there were hundreds of little tables pushed far out into the street, at which groups of persons were seated, enjoying ices, wine, or coffee, and congratulating each other on the agreeable news of the steady decrease of the pestilence that had ravaged the city. I glanced covertly yet quickly round. Yes! I was not mistaken—there was my quondam friend, my traitorous foe, sitting at his ease, leaning comfortably back in one chair, his feet put up on another. He was smoking, and glancing now and then through the columns of the Paris “Figaro.” He was dressed entirely in black—a hypocritical livery, the somber hue of which suited his fine complexion and perfectly handsome features to admiration. On the little finger of the shapely hand that every now and then was raised to adjust his cigar, sparkled a diamond that gave out a myriad scintillations as it flashed in the evening light—it was of exceptional size and brilliancy, and even at a distance I recognized it as my own property!

So!—a love-gift, _signor_, or an _in memoriam_ of the dear and valued friend you have lost? I wondered—watching him in dark scorn the while—then recollecting myself, I sauntered slowly toward him, and perceiving a disengaged table next to his, I drew a chair to it and sat down He looked at me indifferently over the top of his newspaper—but there was nothing specially attractive in the sight of a white-haired man wearing smoke-colored spectacles, and he resumed his perusal of the “Figaro” immediately. I rapped the end of my walking-cane on the table and summoned a waiter from whom I ordered coffee. I then lighted a cigar, and imitating Ferrari’s easy posture, smoked also. Something in my attitude then appeared to strike him, for he laid down his paper and again looked at me, this time with more interest and something of uneasiness. “_Ça commence, mon ami_!” I thought, but I turned my head slightly aside and feigned to be absorbed in the view. My coffee was brought—I paid for it and tossed the waiter an unusually large gratuity—he naturally found it incumbent upon him to polish my table with extra zeal, and to secure all the newspapers, pictorial or otherwise, that were lying about, for the purpose of obsequiously depositing them in a heap at my right hand. I addressed this amiable garçon in the harsh and deliberate accents of my carefully disguised voice.

“By the way, I suppose you know Naples well?”

“Oh, _si, signor_!”

“_Ebbene_, can you tell me the way to the house of one Count Fabio Romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?”

Ha! a good hit this time! Though apparently not looking at him I saw Ferrari start as though he had been stung, and then compose himself in his seat with an air of attention. The waiter meanwhile, in answer to my question, raised his hands, eyes and shoulders all together with a shrug expressive of resigned melancholy.

“_Ah, gran Dio! e morto!_”

“Dead!” I exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise. “So young? Impossible!”

“Eh! what will you, _signor_? It was _la pesta_; there was no remedy. _La pesta_ cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich nor poor.”

For a moment I leaned my head on my hand, affecting to be overcome by the suddenness of the news. Then looking up, I said, regretfully:

“Alas! I am too late! I was a friend of his father’s. I have been away for many years, and I had a great wish to meet the young Romani whom I last saw as a child. Are there any relations of his living—was he married?”

The waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness in accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up immediately as he replied eagerly:

“Oh, _si, signor_! The _Contessa_ Romani lives up at the villa, though I believe she receives no one since her husband’s death. She is young and beautiful as an angel. There is a little child too.”

A hasty movement on the part of Ferrari caused me to turn my eyes, or rather my spectacles, in his direction. He leaned forward, and raising his hat with the old courteous grace I knew so well, said politely:

“Pardon me, _signor_, for interrupting you! I knew the late young Count Romani well—perhaps better than any man in Naples. I shall be delighted to afford you any information you may seek concerning him.”

Oh, the old mellow music of his voice—how it struck on my heart and pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of our youth. For an instant I could not speak—wrath and sorrow choked my utterance. Fortunately this feeling was but momentary—slowly I raised my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly:

“I am your servant, _signor_. You will oblige me indeed if you can place me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate young nobleman. The elder Count Romani was dearer to me than a brother—men have such attachments occasionally. Permit me to introduce myself,” and I handed him my visiting-card with a slight and formal bow. He accepted it, and as he read the name it bore he gave me a quick glance of respect mingled with pleased surprise.

“The Conte Cesare Oliva!” he exclaimed. “I esteem myself most fortunate to have met you! Your arrival has already been notified to us by the avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we are well aware,” here laughing lightly, “of the distinctive right you have to a hearty welcome in Naples. I am only sorry that any distressing news should have darkened the occasion of your return here after so long an absence. Permit me to express the hope that it may at least be the only cloud for you on our southern sunshine!”

And he extended his hand with that ready frankness and bonhomie which are always a part of the Italian temperament, and were especially so of his. A cold shudder ran through my veins. God! could I take his hand in mine? I must—if I would act my part thoroughly—for should I refuse he would think it strange—even rude—I should lose the game by one false move. With a forced smile I hesitatingly held out my hand also—it was gloved, yet as he clasped it heartily in his own the warm pressure burned through the glove like fire. I could have cried out in agony, so excruciating was the mental torture which I endured at that moment. But it passed, the ordeal was over, and I knew that from henceforth I should be able to shake hands with him as often and as indifferently as with any other man. It was only this _first_ time that it galled me to the quick. Ferrari noticed nothing of my emotion—he was in excellent spirits, and turning to the waiter, who had lingered to watch us make each other’s acquaintance, he exclaimed:

“More coffee, garçon, and a couple of glorias.” Then looking toward me, “You do not object to a gloria, _conte_? No? That is well. And here is _my_ card,” taking one from his pocket and laying it on the table. “Guido Ferrari, at your service, an artist and a very poor one. We shall celebrate our meeting by drinking each other’s health!”

I bowed. The waiter vanished to execute his orders and Ferrari drew his chair closer to mine.

“I see you smoke,” he said, gayly. “Can I offer you one of my cigars? They are unusually choice. Permit me,” and he proffered me a richly embossed and emblazoned silver cigar-case, with the Romani arms and coronet and _my own initials_ engraved thereon. It was mine, of course—I took it with a sensation of grim amusement—I had not seen it since the day I died!

“A fine antique,” I remarked, carelessly, turning it over and over in my hand, “curious and valuable. A gift or an heirloom?”

“It belonged to my late friend, Count Fabio,” he answered, puffing a light cloud of smoke in the air as he drew his cigar from his lips to speak. “It was found in his pocket by the priest who saw him die. That and other trifles which he wore on his person were delivered to his wife, and—”

“She naturally gave _you_ the cigar-case as a memento of your friend,” I said, interrupting him.

“Just so. You have guessed it exactly. Thanks,” and he took the case from me as I returned it to him with a frank smile.

“Is the Countess Romani young?” I forced myself to inquire.

“Young and beautiful as a midsummer morning!” replied Ferrari, with enthusiasm. “I doubt if sunlight ever fell on a more enchanting woman! If you were a young man, _conte_, I should be silent regarding her charms—but your white hairs inspire one with confidence. I assure you solemnly, though Fabio was my friend, and an excellent fellow in his ways, he was never worthy of the woman he married!”

“Indeed!” I said, coldly, as this dagger-thrust struck home to my heart. “I only knew him when he was quite a boy. He seemed to me then of a warm and loving temperament, generous to a fault, perhaps over-credulous, yet he promised well. His father thought so, I confess I thought so too. Reports have reached me from time to time of the care with which he managed the immense fortune left to him. He gave large sums away in charity, did he not? and was he not a lover of books and simple pleasures?”

“Oh, I grant you all that!” returned Ferrari, with some impatience. “He was the most moral man in immoral Naples, if you care for that sort of thing. Studious—philosophic—_parfait gentilhomme_—proud as the devil, virtuous, unsuspecting, and—withal—a fool!”

My temper rose dangerously—but I controlled it, and remembering my part in the drama I had constructed, I broke into violent, harsh laughter.

“Bravo!” I exclaimed. “One can easily see what a first-rate young fellow _you_ are! You have no liking for moral men—ha, ha! excellent! I agree with you. A virtuous man and a fool are synonyms nowadays. Yes—I have lived long enough to know that! And here is our coffee—behold also the glorias! I drink your health with pleasure, _Signor_ Ferrari—you and I must be friends!”

For one moment he seemed startled by my sudden outburst of mirth—the next, he laughed heartily himself, and as the waiter appeared with the coffee and cognac, inspired by the occasion, he made an equivocal, slightly indelicate joke concerning the personal charms of a certain Antoinetta whom the garçon was supposed to favor with an eye to matrimony. The fellow grinned, in nowise offended—and pocketing fresh gratuities from both Ferrari and myself, departed on new errands for other customers, apparently in high good humor with himself, Antoinetta, and the world in general. Resuming the interrupted conversation I said:

“And this poor weak-minded Romani—was his death sudden?”

“Remarkably so,” answered Ferrari, leaning back in his chair, and turning his handsome flushed face up to the sky where the stars were beginning to twinkle out one by one, “it appears from all accounts that he rose early and went out for a walk on one of those insufferably hot August mornings, and at the furthest limit of the villa grounds he came upon a fruit-seller dying of cholera. Of course, with his quixotic ideas, he must needs stay and talk to the boy, and then run like a madman through the heat into Naples, to find a doctor for him. Instead of a physician he met a priest, and he was taking this priest to the assistance of the fruit-seller (who by the bye died in the meantime and was past all caring for) when he himself was struck down by the plague. He was carried then and there to a common inn, where in about five hours he died—all the time shrieking curses on any one who should dare to take him alive or dead inside his own house. He showed good sense in that at least—naturally he was anxious not to bring the contagion to his wife and child.”

“Is the child a boy or a girl?” I asked, carelessly.

“A girl. A mere baby—an uninteresting old-fashioned little thing, very like her father.”

My poor little Stella.

Every pulse of my being thrilled with indignation at the indifferently chill way in which he, the man who had fondled her and pretended to love her, now spoke of the child. She was, as far as he knew, fatherless; he, no doubt, had good reason to suspect that her mother cared little for her, and, I saw plainly that she was, or soon would be, a slighted and friendless thing in the household. But I made no remark—I sipped my cognac with an abstracted air for a few seconds—then I asked:

“How was the count buried? Your narrative interests me greatly.”

“Oh, the priest who was with him saw to his burial, and I believe, was able to administer the last sacraments. At any rate, he had him laid with all proper respect in his family vault—I myself was present at the funeral.”

I started involuntarily, but quickly repressed myself.

“_You_ were present—_you_—_you_—” and my voice almost failed me.

Ferrari raised his eyebrows with a look of surprised inquiry.

“Of course! You are astonished at that? But perhaps you do not understand. I was the count’s very closest friend, closer than a brother, I may say. It was natural, even necessary, that I should attend his body to its last resting place.”

By this time I had recovered myself.

“I see—I see!” I muttered, hastily. “Pray excuse me—my age renders me nervous of disease in any form, and I should have thought the fear of contagion might have weighed with you.”

“With _me_!” and he laughed lightly. “I was never ill in my life, and I have no dread whatever of cholera. I suppose I ran some risk, though I never thought about it at the time—but the priest—one of the Benedictine order—died the very next day.”

“Shocking!” I murmured over my coffee-cup. “Very shocking. And you actually entertained no alarm for yourself?”

“None in the least. To tell you the truth, I am armed against contagious illnesses, by a conviction I have that I am not doomed to die of any disease. A prophecy”—and here a cloud crossed his features—“an odd prophecy was made about me when I was born, which, whether it comes true or not, prevents me from panic in days of plague.”

“Indeed!” I said, with interest, for this was news to me. “And may one ask what this prophecy is?”

“Oh, certainly. It is to the effect that I shall die a violent death by the hand of a once familiar friend. It was always an absurd statement—an old nurse’s tale—but it is now more absurd than ever, considering that the only friend of the kind I ever had or am likely to have is dead and buried—namely, Fabio Romani.”

And he sighed slightly. I raised my head and looked at him steadily.