The Contessa's Vendetta (29 page)

She sighed uneasily.
“I dare say not! I scarce can follow it myself. But if it was so hard for an old man to writhe himself out of life, what must it have been like for Carlotta! We were friends; we used to walk arm-in-arm, and she was young and full of vitality; stronger, too, than I am. She must have fought death with every muscle and nerve in her body.” She stopped and shuddered. “By Heaven, death should be made easier. It is a frightful thing!”

Contempt
arose in me. Was she a coward as well as traitor? I touched her lightly on the arm. “Excuse me if I say that this depressing conversation is tiring. I cannot accept it as suitable for our dinner party. And permit me to remind you that you have yet to get dressed.”

My gentle sarcasm
made her look up and smile. Her face cleared, and she passed her hand over her forehead, as though she swept it free of some unpleasant thought. “I believe I am nervous,” she said with a half laugh. “For the last few hours I have experienced an ominous foreboding, and I can’t seem to rid myself of it.”

“
No wonder!” I returned carelessly. “You have been through a terrible time. Besides, the Eternal City smells of death. Shake the dust of the Caesars from your feet, and enjoy your life, while it lasts!”

“
Excellent advice!” she said, smiling, “and not difficult to follow. Now I must get dressed for the party. Have I your permission?”

I
tinkled the bell which summoned Santina, and bade her to assist Signorina Cardano. Beatrice disappeared with her escort with a laugh and a nod as she left the room.

I watched her
leave with strange pity; the first emotion of the kind that had awakened in me for her since I learned of her treachery. Her allusion to that time when we had been young girls together, when we had walked arm-in-arm, had affected me more than I cared to admit. It was true, we had been happy then, two careless young girls with all the world before us. Dario had not yet darkened our world; he had not yet entered my life with his false face to turn me into a blind, doting madwoman, and to transform Beatrice into a liar and hypocrite. All this was his fault. All the misery and horror; he was the blight on our lives. He merited the heaviest punishment, and he would receive it. Yet, would to God we had neither of us ever seen him! His good looks, like a sword, had severed the bonds of friendship between us; a bond stronger and more tender than the love of man.

Any regrets were useless now. The evil was done, and there was no undoing it. I had
no time left to reflect. Each moment that passed brought me nearer to the end I had planned for them both.

At about a quarter to eight my guests began to arrive
. One by one they entered, all except the two Respetti sisters. While we waited for them, Beatrice made her grand entrance. She swept into the room with the confidence and charm of a beautiful woman who knows she is looking her best. The guests all greeted her enthusiastically, welcoming her back to Vicenza. Most of the guests were old friends of Contessa Mancini who were now eager to meet Contessa Corona. So they embraced and kissed Beatrice on both cheeks, all except for Federica Marina, who merely bowed her head with courtesy and asked about certain families of distinction who lived in Rome.

Beatrice
was replying with her usual grace and ease, when Santina brought me a note marked
Immediate
. It contained an elegantly worded apology from Carla Respetti, who informed me that an unforeseen matter would prevent her and her sister from in dining with us that evening. I therefore rang my bell as a sign that the dinner need no longer be delayed. Turning to my guests, I announced the absence of the two sisters.

“
A pity Francesca cannot come,” said Louisa Freccia, twirling one end of a long curl that cascaded from the right side of her coif. “She loves good wine, and, better still, good company.”

“
My dear Louisa,” broke in the musical voice of Ippolita Gualdro, “you know that our Francesca goes nowhere without her beloved sister, Carla. Carla cannot come, so Francesca will not. Would that all women were so respectful and so close to each other!”

“
If they were,” laughed Luciana Salustri, rising from the piano where she had been playing softly, “half the world would be at peace. You, for instance,” turning to Gilda D’Avencorta, “would scarcely know how to occupy your time.”

Gilda
waved her hand in disapproval. “It is an impossible dream for all women to socialize as if equals. Look at the differences in our births, breeding, and education. That is what makes us noble and different. We cannot be forced down to the lowest level of working class women. I do not think we could help them even if we wanted to.”

“
You are quite right,” said Beatrice. “You cannot ask a race horse to pull a plow. I have always imagined that the first quarrel between Cain and Abel must have happened because of a difference in status as well as jealousy. Perhaps Abel was a negro and Cain a white man, or vice versa, which would account for the antipathy existing between the two races to this day.”

Federica
Marina coughed a stately cough, and shrugged her shoulders. “That first quarrel, as related in the Bible, was exceedingly vulgar. It must have been an unpleasant fight.”

Ippolita
Gualdro laughed delightedly. “So like you, Federica to say that. I sympathize with your sentiments. Imagine the butcher Abel piling up his reeking carcasses and setting them on fire, while on the other side stood Cain the green-grocer frizzling his cabbages, turnips, carrots, and other vegetable matter. What a spectacle! I myself prefer the smell of roasted vegetables to the rather disagreeable odor of scorching meat!”

We laughed
, and at that moment the door was thrown open. “Dinner is served,” announced Paolo in a solemn tone befitting his dignity.

I led the way to the
dining room. My guests followed talking and jesting among themselves. They were all in high good humor. None of them had yet noticed the bad omen caused by the absence of the Respetti sisters. But I had. My guests now numbered thirteen instead of fifteen. Thirteen at table! For anyone who was superstitious, it meant some misfortune would befall one of us. I wondered if any of my guests were superstitious? Beatrice was not, I knew, unless her nerves had been shaken after watching her uncle die. At any rate, I decided to say nothing to call attention to the circumstance. If any one should notice it, it would be easy to make light of it and of all similar superstitions.

I w
as the one most affected by it, for it had a curious and deadly significance. I was so pre-occupied thinking about it, that I scarcely listened to Federica Marina, who, walking beside me, seemed to be talking more than usual.

We reached the
dining room doors, which were thrown wide in anticipation of our arrival. Delightful strains of music met our ears as we entered. Murmurs of astonishment and admiration broke from all the ladies as they viewed the lovely scene before them. I pretended not to hear their praise as I took my seat at the head of the table. Beatrice sat on my right and Federica Marina on my left. The music sounded louder and more triumphant, and while all the guests were seating themselves in the places assigned to them, a choir of young fresh voices broke forth in an aria.

An enthusiastic clapping of hands rewarded
the unseen vocalists. When the music ceased, the conversation turned to general matters.

“
By heaven!” exclaimed Beatrice, “if that was meant as a welcome to me,
amica
, all I can say is that I do not deserve it. Why, it is more fitting for the welcome of one queen to another.”

“
Who better than for honest women like us to embrace and honor each other?” I asked. “Let us hope we are worthy of each other’s esteem.”

She f
lashed a bright look of gratitude and fell silent, listening to the compliments uttered by Federica Marina about my exquisitely arranged table.

“
You must have traveled in the East, contessa,” said Federica. “Your banquet reminds me of an Oriental romance I once read, called
Vathek
.”

“That’s it e
xactly” exclaimed Beatrice “I think the contessa is much like Vathek.”

“
Hardly!” I said, smiling coldly. “I lay no claim to supernatural experiences. The realities of life are sufficiently wonderful for me.”

Antoni
a Biscardi, the painter, a refined, gentle-featured woman, looked at us and said modestly, “I think you are right, contessa. The beauties of nature and of humanity are so varied and profound that were it not for our never-ending longing for immortality, I think we would be perfectly satisfied with this world as it is.”

“
You speak like an artist and a woman of even temperament,” broke in Ippolita Gualdro, who had finished her soup quickly in order to be able to talk, talking being her chief delight. “For me, I am never content. I never have enough of anything! That is my nature. When I see lovely flowers, I wish I had more of them. When I behold a fine sunset, I yearn for many more such sunsets. When I look upon a handsome man—”

“
You would have lovely men surrounding you ad infinitum!” laughed Eugenia d’Angelo.

“
And why not?” questioned Ippolita Gualdro. “Just like a hot-house, where one is free to wander every day, sometimes gathering a gorgeous lily, sometimes a simple violet, and sometimes—”

“
A thorn?” suggested Luciana Salustri.

“
Well, perhaps!” laughed Ippolita Gualdro. “I would gladly take the risk in order to find the perfect rose.”

Elizabetta Mancona
looked up. She was a thin woman with keen eyes and a shrewd face, which at a first glance appeared stern, but could with the least provocation, break into hearty laugher. “There is undoubtedly something fascinating about the idea,” she observed in her typical precise way. “I have always believed that arranged marriages are a great mistake.”

“So
that is why you have never married. You are waiting for a love match!” queried Beatrice with amusement.

“And what if I am?”
Elizabetta Mancona’s serious expression began to relax under her mocking wit. “I have decided that I will never be bound by the law to kiss only one man. Rather, I can kiss them all until I find the right one.”

Merry laughter
greeted this remark, which Beatrice did not seem inclined to take part in. “All?” she said with a dubious air. “You mean all except the married ones?”

Elizabetta
surveyed her with comic severity. “When I said all, I meant all,” she returned. “The married ones in particular. They need special attention, and often seek it out. And why not? Their wives have likely ceased to be amorous after the first months of marriage.”

I burst out laughing.
“You are very right, Elizabetta,” I said. “And even if the wives are foolish enough to continue to deny them their bodies, the men deserve to be duped. And they usually are! Come,
amica
,” I added, turning to Beatrice. “Those are your own sentiments, for you have often confided them to me.”

She
smiled uncomfortably, and her brows contracted. I could see that she was annoyed. To change the conversation I signalled for the music to recommence. Instantly, the melody of a
passacaglia
dance floated through the room. The dinner was now fairly on its way. The appetites of my guests were stimulated and tempted by the choicest, most savory meats and vegetables, prepared with all the skill of my first rate chef. Good wine also flowed freely.

Paolo
obediently followed my instructions. He stood behind my chair, and seldom moved except to refill Beatrice’s glass with the contents of the designated wine bottle. Beatrice was a self-disciplined and careful woman who was wise enough to know never to mix wines. She always liked to remain faithful to the first beverage she had selected. So she partook freely of the special wine Paolo kept pouring into her glass, without its causing the slightest flush to appear on her pale aristocratic features. The wine’s warm, mellow flavor brightened her eyes and loosened her tongue enough that she spoke elegantly and often.