The Contessa's Vendetta (36 page)

I
wanted to see her face, so I went back to the church door and waited till she should leave. Soon she came toward me with the same light step that I had already noticed and looked directly at me. What was there in those clear candid eyes that made me involuntarily nod in greeting as she passed? I do not know. It was not beauty. Though the woman was lovely, I had seen lovelier. There was something inexplicable and rare about her, a composure and sweet dignity that I had never beheld on anyone’s face before. Her cheeks flushed softly as she returned my nod.

When
she was outside the church door she paused, her small white fingers still clasping the carved brown beads of her rosary. She hesitated a moment. “If the contessa will walk a little further on, she will see a finer view of the lagoon.”

Something familiar in her look
, a reflection of her mother’s likeness, made me sure of her identity. I smiled. “Ah! You must be Lilla Monti?”

She blushed again.
“
Si
, contessa. I am Lilla.”

I
studied her with sadness. Paolo was right. The young woman was indeed beautiful; not with the forced beauty of society d and its artificial constraints, but with a natural, fresh radiance. I had never seen anyone so spiritually beautiful as this woman, who stood fearlessly yet modestly regarding me. She was a little flustered by my scrutiny, and with a pretty courtesy turned to descend the hill.

“
You are going home?”

“
Si
contessa. My mother waits for me to help her with dinner.”

I advanced and took the hand
in which she held her rosary. “You work hard, don’t you, Lilla?”

She laughed musically.
“I love work. It is good for the soul. People are so cross when their hands are idle. And many are ill for the same reason.” She nodded gravely. “It is often the case. Old Pietro, the cobbler, took to his bed when he had no shoes to mend. He sent for the priest who said he would die, not for want of money, because he had plenty and was quite rich, but because he had nothing to do. So my mother and I found some shoes with holes, and took them to him. He sat up in bed to mend them, and now he is as well as ever! And we are always careful to offer him more.” She laughed once more and turned serious. “One cannot live without work. My mother says that good women are never tired, it is only wicked persons who are lazy. And that reminds me I must make haste to return and prepare your coffee.”

“
Do you make my coffee? Does Paolo not help you?”

The faintest blush tinged her cheeks.
“Oh, he is very good, Paolo. He is a good friend and is glad when I make coffee for him too. He loves it so much and likes how I make it. But perhaps the contessa prefers Paolo to make your coffee?”

I laughed.
For a grown woman, she was so naive, so absorbed in her duties. “No, Lilla. I shall enjoy my coffee more now that I know your kind hands have been at work. But you must not spoil Paolo. You will turn his head if you make his coffee too often.”

She looked surprised
and did not seem to understand. Evidently, in her mind, Paolo was nothing more than a good-natured man whose palate could be pleased by her culinary skill. She treated him exactly as she would have treated one of her own sex. She seemed to think over my words as if they caused a conundrum, and then she apparently gave it up as hopeless, shaking her head and dismissing the subject. “Has the contessa seen the new bridge?” she said brightly, as she turned to go.

I asked her to what she alluded.

“It is not far from here,” she explained, “The enclosed bridge is made of white limestone and has windows with stone bars. It passes over the Rio di Palazzo and connects the prison to the Doge’s Palace. Some people believe that lovers will be granted eternal love if they kiss on a gondola at sunset under the bridge. It will please you to see it, contessa. It is but a walk of ten minutes.”

And with a smile, she left me,
singing aloud for sheer happiness. Her pure lark-like notes floated toward me where I stood, wistfully watching her as she disappeared. The warm afternoon sunshine caught her chestnut hair, turning it to a golden bronze, touching up the whiteness of her throat and arms, and brightening the scarlet of her bodice. As she descended the grassy slope, I lost sight of her amid the stone façades of Venizia’s homes.

Limestone Bridge

(
Known today as The Bridge of Sighs)

I heaved a sigh and resumed my walk. With every step, I came to realize all that I had lost in my life. This lovely young woman, near to my own age, with her simple fresh nature, had trapped the heart of a good, caring, and loyal man like Paolo. Why had I not attracted such a man and wedded him instead of the vile creature who had been my soul’s undoing? The answer came swiftly. Even if a good man had been attracted to me when I was free, I could never have married him. Noblewomen must marry well educated gentlemen who are as wealthy and as well versed in the world’s ways as they are, if not more so. And so we get the scoundrels while young women like Lilla too often become the household drudges of common workers, living and dying in the routine of hard work, and often knowing little more than the mountain-hut, the farm-kitchen, or the covered stall in the market-place. Women are often are never so hopelessly, utterly fooled as in their marriages!

Occupied in various thoughts, I scarcely saw where I wandered, till a flashing glimmer of blue
water recalled me to the reason for my walk. I stopped and looked around me. I had reached the corner where I could observe the structure. The view was indeed superb. Beyond the new bridge I could see the azure sea. The structure looked exactly as Lilla had described it, made of white limestone construction with barred windows stretching high above the canal that attached the Doge’s palace to the prison. Two windows with stone bars appeared at the summit of the enclosed bridge. Despite the dismal reason for the bridge, it was beautiful from the outside. I had been inside the doge’s palace several times, but had always entered by the front on the lagoon side – never from the rear of the residence. The bridge was lovely and I immediately understood why lovers in gondola stole kisses while gliding across the water beneath it.

I sat down
on a bench to rest. Then I remembered the the packet I had received that morning; a packet I had hesitated to open. It had been sent by Gilda D’Avencorta, accompanied by a courteous letter.

Contessa,

I am writing to inform you that Beatrice Cardano
’s body has been privately buried with last rites in the cemetery close to the funeral vault of the Mancini family. From all we can discern, this seemed to be her desire since she was a close friend of the lately deceased contessa.

Within this packet, I have enclosed some letters found among Signorina Cardano
’s personal possesions. Upon opening the first one, in the expectation of finding some clue as to her last wishes, I quickly concluded that you, as the future wife of the man whose signature and handwriting you will recognize, should be made aware, not only for your own sake, but in fairness to the deceased. If all the letters are of the same tone as the one I unknowingly opened, I have no doubt Beatrice Cardano considered herself sufficiently injured by you the night you quarrelled. But of that you will judge for yourself, though I recommend you to give careful consideration to the enclosed correspondence before marrying Signore Gismondi. It is not wise to walk on the edge of a precipice with one’s eyes shut. I have learned that Beatrice Cardano left a will in which everything she possessed was left unconditionally to him. You will of course draw your own conclusions. Please pardon me if I am guilty of too much zeal in informing you of all this. I have now only to tell you that all the unpleasantness of this affair is passing over very smoothly and without scandal. I have taken care of that. You need not prolong your absence further than you feel inclined, and I, for one, shall be charmed to welcome you back to Vicenza. With every sentiment of the highest consideration and regard, I am, 

Your very true friend
,

Gilda
D’Avencorta

I folded this letter carefully and set it aside. The package she had sent me lay in my hand – a bundle of neatly folded letters tied together with a narrow ribbon, and strongly perfumed with the faint sickly cologne I knew and abhorred and Beatrice’s favourite perfume. I turned them over and over; the edges of the note-paper had already become worn with use. Slowly I untied the ribbon. With methodical deliberation I read one letter after the other.

They were all from
Dario, all very amorous, and all written to Beatrice while she was in Rome. Some bore the exact dates when he had declared his love to love me, his newly betrothed. Letters burning and tender, full of the most passionate promises of fidelity, overflowing with the sweetest terms of endearment; with such a ring of truth and love throughout them that it was no wonder that Beatrice had not suspected anything, and that she had believed herself safe in her fool’s paradise. One passage in this romantic correspondence stood out from all the others:

Why do you write so much of marriage to me, Beatrice? It seems that all the joy of loving will be taken from us when the world learns of our passion. If you become my wife you will cease to be my lover, and that would break my heart. Ah, my beloved! I desire you to be my lover always, as you were when Carlotta lived. Why bring matrimony into the midst of such a love and passion as ours?”

I read and reread these words, searing them into my mind. Of course I understood their drift. Dario had tried to feel his way with the dead woman. He had wanted to marry me, and yet retain Beatrice as his lover. Such an ingenious plan it was! No thief, no murderer ever laid a more cunning scheme than he, but the law looks after thieves and murderers. For a cheating man, the law is mute. There is no justice for those he betrays. Ah, but I have my own way of seeking a remedy.

Tying up the packet of letters again, with their sickening
aroma and fraying edges, I drew out the last graciously worded missive I had received from Dario. Of course I heard from him every day. He was a most faithful correspondent. The same affectionate expressions characterized his letters to me as those that he had deluded his dead lover with. The only difference was that in Beatrice’s letters he railed against the dreariness of marriage. In mine, he painted touching pictures of his desolation; how lonely he had felt since his dear wife’s death, how happy he was to think that he would be a happy husband again – the husband of one so noble, so true, so devoted as I was. He had left the monastery and was now at home. He wanted to know when he would have the joy of welcoming me, his beloved, back to Vicenza?

He
certainly deserved some credit for artistic lying. I could not understand how he managed it so well. I almost admire his skill, as one would admire a cool-headed burglar, who has more cunning and pluck than his comrades. I thought with triumph that though the wording of Cardano’s will enabled him to secure all other letters he might have written to her, this one little packet of documentary evidence was more than sufficient for my purposes. And I was determined to keep it till the time came for me to use it against him.

And how about
Gilda’s friendly advice concerning the matrimonial knot?
A woman should not walk on the edge of a precipice with her eyes shut.
Very true. But if her eyes are open and she has her enemy within her clutches, the edge of a precipice is a convenient position for hurling that enemy down to death in a quiet way so that the world will not know about it. So, for the present I preferred the precipice to walking on level ground.