Chapter 15

How dazzlingly lovely she was! I gazed at her with the same bewildered fascination that had stupefied my reason and judgment when I beheld her for the first time. The black robes she wore, the long crape veil thrown back from her clustering hair and _mignonne_ face, all the somber shadows of her mourning garb only served to heighten and display her beauty to greater advantage. A fair widow truly! I, her lately deceased husband, freely admitted the magnetic power of her charms! She paused for an instant on the threshold, a winning smile on her lips; she looked at me, hesitated, and finally spoke in courteous accents:

“I think I cannot be mistaken! Do I address the noble _Conte_ Cesare Oliva?”

I tried to speak, but could not. My mouth was dry and parched with excitement, my throat swelled and ached with the pent-up wrath and despair of my emotions. I answered her question silently by a formal bow. She at once advanced, extending both her hands with the coaxing grace of manner I had so often admired.

“I am the Countess Romani,” she said, still smiling. “I heard from _Signor_ Ferrari that you purposed visiting his studio this afternoon, and I could not resist the temptation of coming to express my personal acknowledgments for the almost regal gift you sent me. The jewels are really magnificent. Permit me to offer you my sincere thanks!”

I caught her outstretched hands and wrung them hard—so hard that the rings she wore must have dug into her flesh and hurt her, though she was too well-bred to utter any exclamation. I had fully recovered myself, and was prepared to act out my part.

“On the contrary, madame,” I said in a strong harsh voice, “the thanks must come entirely from me for the honor you have conferred upon me by accepting trifles so insignificant—especially at a time when the cold brilliancy of mere diamonds must jar upon the sensitive feelings of your recent widowhood. Believe me, I sympathize deeply with your bereavement. Had your husband lived, the jewels would have been his gift to you, and how much more acceptable they would then have appeared in your eyes! I am proud to think you have condescended so far as to receive them from so unworthy a hand as mine.”

As I spoke her face paled—she seemed startled, and regarded me earnestly. Sheltered behind my smoked spectacles, I met the gaze of her large dark eyes without embarrassment. Slowly she withdrew her slight fingers from my clasp. I placed an easy chair for her, she sunk softly into it with her old air of indolent ease, the ease of a spoiled empress or sultan’s favorite, while she still continued to look up at me thoughtfully. Ferrari, meanwhile, busied himself in bringing out more wine, he also produced a dish of fruit and some sweet cakes, and while occupied in these duties as our host he began to laugh.

“Ha, ha! you are caught!” he exclaimed to me gayly. “You must know we planned this together, madame and I, just to take you by surprise. There was no knowing when you would be persuaded to visit the _contessa_, and she could not rest till she had thanked you, so we arranged this meeting. Could anything be better? Come, _conte_, confess that you are charmed!”

“Of course I am!” I answered with a slight touch of satire in my tone. “Who would not be charmed in the presence of such youth and beauty! And I am also flattered—for I know what exceptional favor the _Contessa_ Romani extends toward me in allowing me to make her acquaintance at a time which must naturally be for her a secluded season of sorrow.”

At these words my wife’s face suddenly assumed an expression of wistful sadness and appealing gentleness.

“Ah, poor unfortunate Fabio,” she sighed. “How terrible it seems that he is not here to greet you! How gladly he would have welcomed any friend of his father’s—he adored his father, poor fellow! I cannot realize that he is dead. It was too sudden, too dreadful! I do not think I shall ever recover the shock of his loss!”

And her eyes actually filled with tears; though the fact did not surprise me in the least, for many women can weep at will. Very little practice is necessary—and we men are such fools, we never know how it is done; we take all the pretty feigned piteousness for real grief, and torture ourselves to find methods of consolation for the feminine sorrows which have no root save in vanity and selfishness. I glanced quickly from my wife to Ferrari: he coughed, and appeared embarrassed—he was not so good an actor as she was an actress. Studying them both, I know not which feeling gained the mastery in my mind—contempt or disgust.

“Console yourself, madame,” I said, coldly. “Time should be quick to heal the wounds of one so young and beautiful as you are! Personally speaking, I much regret your husband’s death, but I would entreat _you_ not to give way to grief, which, however sincere, must unhappily be useless. Your life lies before you—and may happy days and as fair a future await you as you deserve!”

She smiled, her tear-drops vanished like morning dew disappearing in the heat.

“I thank you for your good wishes, _conte_,” she said “but it rests with you to commence my happy days by honoring me with a visit. You will come, will you not? My house and all that it contains are at your service!”

I hesitated. Ferrari looked amused.

“Madame is not aware of your dislike to the society of ladies, _conte_,” he said, and there was a touch of mockery in his tone. I glanced at him coldly, and addressed my answer to my wife.

“_Signor_ Ferrari is perfectly right,” I said, bending over her, and speaking in a low tone; “I am often ungallant enough to avoid the society of mere women, but, alas! I have no armor of defense against the smile of an angel.”

And I bowed with a deep and courtly reverence. Her face brightened—she adored her own loveliness, and the desire of conquest awoke in her immediately. She took a glass of wine from my hand with a languid grace, and fixed her glorious eyes full on me with a smile.

“That is a very pretty speech,” she said, sweetly, “and it means, of course, that you will come to-morrow. Angels exact obedience! Gui—, I mean _Signor_ Ferrari, you will accompany the _conte_ and show him the way to the villa?”

Ferrari bent his head with some stiffness. He looked slightly sullen.

“I am glad to see,” he observed, with some petulance, “that your persuasions have carried more conviction to the _Conte_ Oliva than mine. To me he was apparently inflexible.”

She laughed gayly. “Of course! It is only a woman who can always win her own way—am I not right, _conte_?” And she glanced up at me with an arch expression of mingled mirth and malice. What a love of mischief she had! She saw that Guido was piqued, and she took intense delight in teasing him still further.

“I cannot tell, madame,” I answered her. “I know so little of your charming sex that I need to be instructed. But I instinctively feel that _you_ must be right, whatever you say. Your eyes would convert an infidel!”

Again she looked at me with one of those wonderfully brilliant, seductive, arrowy glances—then she rose to take her leave.

“An angel’s visit truly,” I said, lightly, “sweet, but brief!”

“We shall meet to-morrow,” she replied, smiling. “I consider I have your promise; you must not fail me! Come as early as you like in the afternoon, then you will see my little girl Stella. She is very like poor Fabio. Till to-morrow, adieu!”

She extended her hand. I raised it to my lips. She smiled as she withdrew it, and looking at me, or rather at the glasses I wore, she inquired:

“You suffer with your eyes?”

“Ah, madame, a terrible infirmity! I cannot endure the light. But I should not complain—it is a weakness common to age.”

“You do not seem to be old,” she said, thoughtfully. With a woman’s quick eye she had noted, I suppose, the unwrinkled smoothness of my skin, which no disguise could alter. But I exclaimed with affected surprise:

“Not old! With these white hairs!”

“Many young men have them,” she said. “At any rate, they often accompany middle age, or what is called the prime of life. And really, in your case, they are very becoming!”

And with a courteous gesture of farewell she moved to leave the room. Both Ferrari and myself hastened to escort her downstairs to her carriage, which stood in waiting at the door—the very carriage and pair of chestnut ponies which I myself had given her as a birthday present. Ferrari offered to assist her in mounting the step of the vehicle; she put his arm aside with a light jesting word and accepted mine instead. I helped her in, and arranged her embroidered wraps about her feet, and she nodded gayly to us both as we stood bareheaded in the afternoon sunlight watching her departure. The horses started at a brisk canter, and in a couple of minutes the dainty equipage was out of sight. When nothing more of it could be seen than the cloud of dust stirred up by its rolling wheels, I turned to look at my companion. His face was stern, and his brows were drawn together in a frown. Stung already! I thought. Already the little asp of jealousy commenced its bitter work! The trifling favor _his_ light-o’-love and _my_ wife had extended to me in choosing _my_ arm instead of _his_ as a momentary support had evidently been sufficient to pique his pride. God! what blind bats men are! With all their high capabilities and immortal destinies, with all the world before them to conquer, they can sink unnerved and beaten down to impotent weakness before the slighting word or insolent gesture of a frivolous feminine creature, whose best devotions are paid to the mirror that reflects her in the most becoming light! How easy would be my vengeance, I mused, as I watched Ferrari. I touched him on the shoulder; he started from his uncomfortable reverie and forced a smile. I held out a cigar-case.

“What are you dreaming of?” I asked him, laughingly. “Hebe as she waited on the gods, or Venus as she rose in bare beauty from the waves? Either, neither, or both? I assure you a comfortable smoke is as pleasant in its way as the smile of a woman.”

He took a cigar and lighted it, but made no answer.

“You are dull, my friend,” I continued, gayly, hooking my arm through his and pacing him up and down on the turf in front of his studio. “Wit, they say, should be sharpened by the glance of a bright eye; how comes it that the edge of your converse seems blunted? Perhaps your feelings are too deep for words? If so, I do not wonder at it, for the lady is extremely lovely.”

He glanced quickly at me.

“Did I not say so?” he exclaimed. “Of all creatures under heaven she is surely the most perfect! Even you, _conte_, with your cynical ideas about women, even you were quite subdued and influenced by her; I could see it!”

I puffed slowly at my cigar and pretended to meditate.

“Was I?” I said at last, with an air of well-acted surprise. “Really subdued and influenced? I do not think so. But I admit I have never seen a woman so entirely beautiful.”

He stopped in his walk, loosened his arm from mine, and regarded me fixedly.

“I told you so,” he said, deliberately. “You must remember that I told you so. And now perhaps I ought to warn you.”

“Warn me!” I exclaimed, in feigned alarm. “Of what? against whom? Surely not the _Contessa_ Romani, to whom you were so anxious to introduce me? She has no illness, no infectious disorder? She is not dangerous to life or limb, is she?”

Ferrari laughed at the anxiety I displayed for my own bodily safety—an anxiety which I managed to render almost comic—but he looked somewhat relieved too.

“Oh, no,” he said, “I meant nothing of that kind. I only think it fair to tell you that she has very seductive manners, and she may pay you little attentions which would flatter any man who was not aware that they are only a part of her childlike, pretty ways; in short, they might lead him erroneously to suppose himself the object of her particular preference, and—”

I broke into a violent fit of laughter, and clapped him roughly on the shoulder.

“Your warning is quite unnecessary, my good young friend,” I said. “Come now, do I look a likely man to attract the attention of an adored and capricious beauty? Besides, at my age the idea is monstrous! I could figure as her father, as yours, if you like, but in the capacity of a lover—impossible!”

He eyed me attentively

“She said you did not seem old,” he murmured, half to himself and half to me.

“Oh, I grant you she made me that little compliment, certainly,” I answered, amused at the suspicions that evidently tortured his mind; “and I accepted it as it was meant—in kindness. I am well aware what a battered and unsightly wreck of a man I must appear in her eyes when contrasted with _you_, Sir Antinous!”

He flushed warmly. Then, with a half-apologetic air, he said:

“Well, you must forgive me if I have seemed overscrupulous. The _contessa_ is like a—a sister to me; in fact, my late friend Fabio encouraged a fraternal affection between us, and now he is gone I feel it more than ever my duty to protect her, as it were, from herself. She is so young and light-hearted and thoughtless that—but you understand me, do you not?”

I bowed. I understood him perfectly. He wanted no more poachers on the land he himself had pilfered. Quite right, from his point of view! But I was the rightful owner of the land after all, and I naturally had a different opinion of the matter. However, I made no remark, and feigned to be rather bored by the turn the conversation was taking. Seeing this, Ferrari exerted himself to be agreeable; he became a gay and entertaining companion once more, and after he had fixed the hour for our visit to the Villa Romani the next afternoon, our talk turned upon various matters connected with Naples and its inhabitants and their mode of life. I hazarded a few remarks on the general immorality and loose principles that prevailed among the people, just to draw my companion out and sound his character more thoroughly—though I thought I knew his opinions well.

“Pooh, my dear _conte_,” he exclaimed, with a light laugh, as he threw away the end of his cigar, and watched it as it burned dully like a little red lamp among the green grass where it had fallen, “what is immorality after all? Merely a matter of opinion. Take the hackneyed virtue of conjugal fidelity. When followed out to the better end what is the good of it—where does it lead? Why should a man be tied to one woman when he has love enough for twenty? The pretty slender girl whom he chose as a partner in his impulsive youth may become a fat, coarse, red-faced female horror by the time he has attained to the full vigor of manhood—and yet, as long as she lives, the law insists that the full tide of passion shall flow always in one direction—always to the same dull, level, unprofitable shore! The law is absurd, but it exists; and the natural consequence is that we break it. Society pretends to be horrified when we do—yes, I know; but it is all pretense. And the thing is no worse in Naples than it is in London, the capital of the moral British race, only here we are perfectly frank, and make no effort to hide our little sins, while there, they cover them up carefully and make believe to be virtuous. It is the veriest humbug—the parable of Pharisee and Publican over again.”

“Not quite,” I observed, “for the Publican was repentant, and Naples is not.”

“Why should she be?” demanded Ferrari, gayly; “what, in the name of Heaven, is the good of being penitent about anything? Will it mend matters? Who is to be pacified or pleased by our contrition? God? My dear _conte_, there are very few of us nowadays who believe in a Deity. Creation is a mere caprice of the natural elements. The best thing we can do is to enjoy ourselves while we live; we have a very short time of it, and when we die there is an end of all things so far as we are concerned.”

“That is your creed?” I asked.

“That is my creed, certainly. It was Solomon’s in his heart of hearts. ‘Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.’ It is the creed of Naples, and of nearly all Italy. Of course the vulgar still cling to exploded theories of superstitious belief, but the educated classes are far beyond the old-world notions.”

“I believe you,” I answered, composedly. I had no wish to argue with him; I only sought to read his shallow soul through and through that I might be convinced of his utter worthlessness. “According to modern civilization there is really no special need to be virtuous unless it suits us. The only thing necessary for pleasant living is to avoid public scandal.”

“Just so!” agreed Ferrari; “and that can always be easily managed. Take a woman’s reputation—nothing is so easily lost, we all know, before she is actually married; but marry her well, and she is free. She can have a dozen lovers if she likes, and if she is a good manager her husband need never be the wiser. He has _his_ amours, of course—why should she not have hers also? Only some women are clumsy, they are over-sensitive and betray themselves too easily; then the injured husband (carefully concealing his little peccadilloes) finds everything out and there is a devil of a row—a moral row, which is the worst kind of row. But a really clever woman can always steer clear of slander if she likes.”

Contemptible ruffian! I thought, glancing at his handsome face and figure with scarcely veiled contempt. With all his advantages of education and his well-bred air he was yet ruffian to the core—as low in nature, if not lower, than the half-savage tramp for whom no social law has ever existed or ever will exist. But I merely observed:

“It is easy to see that you have a thorough knowledge of the world and its ways. I admire your perception! From your remarks I judge that you have no sympathy with marital wrongs?”

“Not the least,” he replied, dryly; “they are too common and too ludicrous. The ‘wronged husband,’ as he considers himself in such cases, always cuts such an absurd figure.”

“Always?” I inquired, with apparent curiosity.

“Well, generally speaking, he does. How can he remedy the matter? He can only challenge his wife’s lover. A duel is fought in which neither of the opponents are killed, they wound each other slightly, embrace, weep, have coffee together, and for the future consent to share the lady’s affections amicably.”

“_Veramente_!” I exclaimed, with a forced laugh, inwardly cursing his detestable flippancy; “that is the fashionable mode of taking vengeance?”

“Absolutely the one respectable way of doing it,” he replied; “it is only the _canaille_ who draw heart’s blood in earnest.”

Only the _canaille_! I looked at him fixedly. His smiling eyes met mine with a frank and fearless candor. Evidently he was not ashamed of his opinions, he rather gloried in them. As he stood there with the warm sunlight playing upon his features he seemed the very type of youthful and splendid manhood; an Apollo in exterior—in mind a Silenus. My soul sickened at the sight of him. I felt that the sooner this strong treacherous life was crushed the better; there would be one traitor less in the world at any rate. The thought of my dread but just purpose passed over me like the breath of a bitter wind—a tremor shook my nerves. My face must have betrayed some sign of my inward emotion, for Ferrari exclaimed:

“You are fatigued, _conte_? You are ill! Pray take my arm!”

He extended it as he spoke. I put it gently but firmly aside.

“It is nothing,” I said, coldly; “a mere faintness which often overcomes me, the remains of a recent illness.” Here I glanced at my watch; the afternoon was waning rapidly.

“If you will excuse me,” I continued, “I will now take leave of you. Regarding the pictures you have permitted me to select, my servant shall call for them this evening to save you the trouble of sending them.”

“It is no trouble—” began Ferrari.

“Pardon me,” I interrupted him; “you must allow me to arrange the matter in my own way. I am somewhat self-willed, as you know.”

He bowed and smiled—the smile of a courtier and sycophant—a smile I hated. He eagerly proposed to accompany me back to my hotel, but I declined this offer somewhat peremptorily, though at the same time thanking him for his courtesy. The truth was I had had almost too much of his society; the strain on my nerves began to tell; I craved to be alone. I felt that if I were much longer with him I should be tempted to spring at him and throttle the life out of him. As it was, I bade him adieu with friendly though constrained politeness; he was profuse in his acknowledgments of the favor I had done him by purchasing his pictures. I waived all thanks aside, assuring him that my satisfaction in the matter far exceeded his, and that I was proud to be the possessor of such valuable proofs of his genius. He swallowed my flattery as eagerly as a fish swallows bait, and we parted on excellent terms. He watched me from his door as I walked down the hilly road with the slow and careful step of an elderly man; once out of his sight, however, I quickened my pace, for the tempest of conflicting sensations within me made it difficult for me to maintain even the appearance of composure. On entering my apartment at the hotel the first thing that met my eyes was a large gilt osier basket, filled with fine fruit and flowers, placed conspicuously on the center-table.

I summoned my valet. “Who sent this?” I demanded.

“Madame the _Contessa_ Romani,” replied Vincenzo with discreet gravity. “There is a card attached, if the _eccellenza_ will be pleased to look.”

I did look. It was my wife’s visiting-card, and on it was written in her own delicate penmanship—

“To remind the _conte_ of his promised visit to-morrow.”

A sudden anger possessed me. I crumpled up the dainty glossy bit of pasteboard and flung it aside. The mingled odors of the fruit and flowers offended my senses.

“I care nothing for these trifles,” I said, addressing Vincenzo almost impatiently. “Take them to the little daughter of the hotel-keeper; she is a child, she will appreciate them. Take them away at once.”

Obediently Vincenzo lifted the basket and bore it out of the room. I was relieved when its fragrance and color had vanished. I, to receive as a gift, the product of my own garden! Half vexed, half sore at heart, I threw myself into an easychair—anon I laughed aloud! So! Madame commences the game early, I thought. Already paying these marked attentions to a man she knows nothing of beyond that he is reported to be fabulously wealthy. Gold, gold forever! What will it not do! It will bring the proud to their knees, it will force the obstinate to servile compliance, it will conquer aversion and prejudice. The world is a slave to its yellow glitter, and the love of woman, that perishable article of commerce, is ever at its command. Would you obtain a kiss from a pair of ripe-red lips that seem the very abode of honeyed sweetness? Pay for it then with a lustrous diamond; the larger the gem the longer the kiss! The more diamonds you give, the more caresses you will get. The _jeunesse dorée_ who ruin themselves and their ancestral homes for the sake of the newest and prettiest female puppet on the stage know this well enough. I smiled bitterly as I thought of the languid witching look my wife had given me when she said, “You do not seem to be old!” I knew the meaning of her eyes; I had not studied their liquid lights and shadows so long for nothing. My road to revenge was a straight and perfectly smooth line—almost too smooth. I could have wished for some difficulty, some obstruction; but there was none—absolutely none. The traitors walked deliberately into the trap set for them. Over and over again I asked myself quietly and in cold blood—was there any reason why I should have pity on them? Had they shown one redeeming point in their characters? Was there any nobleness, any honesty, any real sterling good quality in either of them to justify my consideration? And always the answer came, _no_! Hollow to the heart’s core, hypocrites both, liars both—even the guilty passion they cherished for one another had no real earnestness in it save the pursuit of present pleasure; for she, Nina, in that fatal interview in the avenue where I had been a tortured listener, had hinted at the possibility of tiring of her lover, and _he_ had frankly declared to me that very day that it was absurd to suppose a man could be true to one woman all his life. In brief, they deserved their approaching fate. Such men as Guido and such women as my wife, are, I know, common enough in all classes of society, but they are not the less pernicious animals, meriting extermination as much, if not more, than the less harmful beasts of prey. The poor beasts at any rate tell no lies, and after death their skins are of some value; but who shall measure the mischief done by a false tongue—and of what use is the corpse of a liar save to infect the air with pestilence? I used to wonder at the superiority of men over the rest of the animal creation, but I see now that it is chiefly gained by excess of selfish cunning. The bulky, good-natured, ignorant lion who has only one honest way of defending himself, namely with tooth and claw, is no match for the jumping two-legged little rascal who hides himself behind a bush and fires a gun aimed direct at the bigger brute’s heart. Yet the lion’s mode of battle is the braver of the two, and the cannons, torpedoes and other implements of modern warfare are proofs of man’s cowardice and cruelty as much as they are of his diabolical ingenuity. Calmly comparing the ordinary lives of men and beasts—judging them by their abstract virtues merely—I am inclined to think the beasts the more respectable of the two!