Part 15 (1/2)
”Madame the Contessa Romani,” replied Vincenzo with discreet gravity.
”There is a card attached, if the eccelenza will be pleased to look.”
I did look. It was my wife's visiting-card, and on it was written in her own delicate penmans.h.i.+p--
”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 l.u.s.trous diamond; the larger the gem the longer the kiss! The more diamonds you give, the more caresses you will get. The jeunesse doree 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 n.o.bleness, 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 pa.s.sion 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 cla.s.ses 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!
CHAPTER XV.
”Welcome to Villa Romani!”
The words fell strangely on my ears. Was I dreaming, or was I actually standing on the smooth green lawn of my own garden, mechanically saluting my own wife, who, smiling sweetly, uttered this cordial greeting? For a moment or two my brain became confused; the familiar veranda with its cl.u.s.tering roses and jasmine swayed unsteadily before my eyes; the stately house, the home of my childhood, the scene of my past happiness, rocked in the air as though it were about to fall. A choking sensation affected my throat. Even the sternest men shed tears sometimes. Such tears too! wrung like drops of blood from the heart.
And I--I could have wept thus. Oh, the dear old home! and how fair and yet how sad it seemed to my anguished gaze! It should have been in ruins surely--broken and cast down in the dust like its master's peace and honor. Its master, did I say? Who was its master? Involuntarily I glanced at Ferrari, who stood beside me. Not he--not he; by Heaven he should never be master! But where was MY authority? I came to the place as a stranger and an alien. The starving beggar who knows not where to lay his head has no emptier or more desolate heart than I had as I looked wistfully on the home which was mine before I died! I noticed some slight changes here and there; for instance, my deep easy-chair that had always occupied one particular corner of the veranda was gone; a little tame bird that I had loved, whose cage used to hang up among the white roses on the wall, was also gone. My old butler, the servant who admitted Ferrari and myself within the gates, had an expression of weariness and injury on his aged features which he had not worn in my time, and which I was sorry to see. And my dog, the n.o.ble black Scotch colly, what had become of him, I wondered? He had been presented to me by a young Highlander who had pa.s.sed one winter with me in Rome, and who, on returning to his native mountains, had sent me the dog, a perfect specimen of its kind, as a souvenir of our friendly intercourse. Poor Wyvis! I thought. Had they made away with him?
Formerly he had always been visible about the house or garden; his favorite place was on the lowest veranda step, where he loved to bask in the heat of the sun. And now he was nowhere visible. I was mutely indignant at his disappearance, but I kept strict watch over my feelings, and remembered in time the part I had to play.
”Welcome to Villa Romani!” so said my wife. Then, remarking my silence as I looked about me, she added with a pretty coaxing air,
”I am afraid after all you are sorry you have come to see me!”
I smiled. It served my purpose now to be as gallant and agreeable as I could; therefore I answered:
”Sorry, madame! If I were, then should I be the most ungrateful of all men! Was Dante sorry, think you, when he was permitted to behold Paradise?”
She blushed; her eyes drooped softly under their long curling lashes.
Ferrari frowned impatiently--but was silent. She led the way into the house--into the lofty cool drawing-room, whose wide windows opened out to the garden. Here all was the same as ever with the exception of one thing--a marble bust of myself as a boy had been removed. The grand piano was open, the mandoline lay on a side-table, looking as though it had been recently used; there were fresh flowers and ferns in all the tall Venetian gla.s.s vases. I seated myself and remarked on the beauty of the house and its surroundings.
”I remember it very well,” I added, quietly.
”You remember it!” exclaimed Ferrari, quickly, as though surprised.
”Certainly. I omitted to tell you, my friend, that I used to visit this spot often when a boy. The elder Conte Romani and myself played about these grounds together. The scene is quite familiar to me.”
Nina listened with an appearance of interest.
”Did you ever see my late husband?” she asked.
”Once,” I answered her, gravely. ”He was a mere child at the time, and, as far as I could discern, a very promising one. His father seemed greatly attached to him. I knew his mother also.”
”Indeed,” she exclaimed, settling herself on a low ottoman and fixing her eyes upon me; ”what was she like?”