Part 50 (1/2)
”Unlock that door!” she cried, with a furious stamp of her foot.
”a.s.sa.s.sin! traitor! I hate you! I always hated you! Unlock the door, I tell you! You dare not disobey me; you have no right to murder me!”
I looked at her coldly; the torrent of her words was suddenly checked, something in my expression daunted her; she trembled and shrunk back.
”No right!” I said, mockingly. ”I differ from you! A man ONCE married has SOME right over his wife, but a man TWICE married to the same woman has surely gained a double authority! And as for 'DARE NOT!' there is nothing I 'dare not' do to-night.”
And with that I rose and approached her. A torrent of pa.s.sionate indignation boiled in my veins; I seized her two white arms and held her fast.
”You talk of murder!” I muttered, fiercely. ”YOU--you who have remorselessly murdered two men! Their blood be on your head! For though I live, I am but the moving corpse of the man I was--hope, faith, happiness, peace--all things good and great in me have been slain by YOU. And as for Guido--”
She interrupted me with a wild sobbing cry.
”He loved me! Guido loved me!”
”Ay, he loved you, oh, devil in the shape of a woman! he loved you!
Come here, here!” and in a fury I could not restrain I dragged her, almost lifted her along to one corner of the vault, where the light of the torches scarcely illumined the darkness, and there I pointed upward. ”Above our very heads--to the left of where we stand--the brave strong body of your lover lies, festering slowly in the wet mould, thanks to you!--the fair, gallant beauty of it all marred by the red-mouthed worms--the thick curls of hair combed through by the crawling feet of vile insects--the poor frail heart pierced by a gaping wound--”
”You killed him; you--you are to blame,” she moaned, restlessly, striving to turn her face away from me.
”_I_ killed him? No, no, not I, but YOU! He died when he learned your treachery--when he knew you were false to him for the sake of wedding a supposed wealthy stranger--my pistol-shot but put him out of torment.
You! you were glad of his death--as glad as when you thought of mine!
YOU talk of murder! Oh, vilest among women! if I could murder you twenty times over, what then? Your sins outweigh all punishment!”
And I flung her from me with a gesture of contempt and loathing. This time my words had struck home. She cowered before me in horror--her sables were loosened and scarcely protected her, the richness of her ball costume was fully displayed, and the diamonds on her bosom heaved restlessly up and down as she panted with excitement, rage and fear.
”I do not see,” she muttered, sullenly, ”why you should blame ME! I am no worse than other women!”
”No worse! no worse!” I cried. ”Shame, shame upon you that thus outrage your s.e.x! Learn for once what MEN think of unfaithful wives--for may be you are ignorant. The novels you have read in your luxurious, idle hours have perhaps told you that infidelity is no sin--merely a little social error easily condoned, or set right by the divorce court. Yes!
modern books and modern plays teach you so: in them the world swerves upside down, and vice looks like virtue. But _I_ will tell you what may seem to you a strange and wonderful thing! There is no mean animal, no loathsome object, no horrible deformity of nature so utterly repulsive to a true man as a faithless wife! The cowardly murderer who lies in wait for his victim behind some dark door, and stabs him in the back as he pa.s.ses by unarmed--he, I say, is more to be pardoned than the woman who takes a husband's name, honor, position, and reputation among his fellows, and sheltering herself with these, pa.s.ses her beauty promiscuously about like some coa.r.s.e article of commerce, that goes to the highest bidder! Ay, let your French novels and books of their type say what they will--infidelity is a crime, a low, brutal crime, as bad if not worse than murder, and deserves as stern a sentence!”
A sudden spirit of defiant insolence possessed her. She drew herself erect, and her level brows knitted in a dark frown.
”Sentence!” she exclaimed, imperiously. ”How dare you judge me! What harm have I done? If I am beautiful, is that my fault? If men are fools, can _I_ help it? You loved me--Guido loved me--could _I_ prevent it? I cared nothing for him, and less for you!”
”I know it,” I said, bitterly. ”Love was never part of YOUR nature! Our lives were but cups of wine for your false lips to drain; once the flavor pleased you, but now--now, think you not the dregs taste somewhat cold?”
She shrunk at my glance--her head drooped, and drawing near a projecting stone in the wall, she sat down upon it, pressing one hand to her heart.
”No heart, no conscience, no memory!” I cried. ”Great Heaven! that such a thing should live and call itself woman! The lowest beast of the field has more compa.s.sion for its kind! Listen: before Guido died he knew me, even as my child, neglected by you, in her last agony knew her father. She being innocent, pa.s.sed in peace; but he!--imagine if you can, the wrenching torture in which he perished, knowing all! How his parted spirit must curse you!”
She raised her hands to her head and pushed away the light curls from her brow. There was a starving, hunted, almost furious look in her eyes, but she fixed them steadily on me.
”See,” I went on--”here are more proofs of the truth of my story. These things were buried with me,” and I threw into her lap as she sat before me the locket and chain, the card-case and purse she herself had given me. ”You will no doubt recognize them. This--” and I showed her the monk's crucifix--”this was laid on my breast in the coffin. It may be useful to you--you can pray to it presently!”
She interrupted me with a gesture of her hand; she spoke as though in a dream.
”You escaped from this vault?” she said, in a low tone, looking from right to left with searching eagerness. ”Tell me how--and--where?”