The Contessa's Vendetta (38 page)

As soon as
our betrothal became known, he became an object of envy to all the men who had tried to entrap me in vain, and this made him perfectly happy. I continued to give him costly gifts. And he, being the sole owner of the fortune I had left him, as well as that of Beatrice’s, there were no limits to his extravagance. He ordered the most expensive, elaborate items, rare and antique jewelery to add to his increasing collection. He occupied himself morning after morning with tailors and shoemakers, and he was surrounded by numerous friends  for whose benefit he flaunted his wealth till they became annoyed, though they kept their outrage to themselves.

And
Dario loved nothing better than to torture the poorest of the men by the sight of his new horses, tack, rich clothes, and priceless jewelry. He also loved to dazzle the eyes of young girls and to send them away sick at heart, pining for his attention. Poor women. Had they known everything, they would not have envied him. Women are often too fond of measuring happiness by fine clothes and luxurious items.

My
husband, because of his approaching second nuptials, had thrown off all signs of mourning and now appeared as spirited as any young man. All his old tricks of manner and speech were put forth to impress me. I knew them all so well! I understood the value of his caresses and fake lustful looks so thoroughly! He was anxious to enjoy all the dignity owing to him as the husband of an extremely rich noblewoman. Therefore he did not object when I set our wedding day for Fat Thursday,
Giovedi Grasso
. Then the fooling and mumming, the dancing, shrieking, and screaming would be at its height. It pleased him to know that our wedding ball was to be a masquerade; an display of Venetian masks and rich costume. 

Because of my husband’s recent bereavements, the
wedding was to be as private as possible. It would take place in the Basilica Palladiana where we were married the first time. Since then, Dario’s manner was somewhat curious. To me he was often apprehensive, and sometimes half conciliatory. Now and then I caught him looking at me anxiously, but his expression soon faded away. He was subject to fits of cheerfulness or moods of gloomy silence. I could plainly see that he was in a state of unease and irritability, but I asked him no questions. If he tortured himself with memories, all the better. If he saw, or believed he saw, the resemblance between me and his dear dead Carlotta, it suited me that he should be disturbed and befuddled.

I came and went from the villa as I pleased. I wore my dark glasses as usual, and not even Giacomo follow
ed me with his peering, inquisitive gaze. The poor man had been feeling poorly and had spoken little. He lay in an upper chamber, tended by Annunziata. Dario had already written to his relatives, asking them to take him home. “Why bother to keep him?” he had asked me.

True
. Why bother with a poor old man, maimed, broken, and useless for evermore? After so many years of faithful service, turn him out, cast him forth! If he died of neglect, starvation, and ill-usage, who cared? He is a worn-out tool, his day is done. Let him perish. I would not plead for him. Why should I? I had made my own plans to see him well cared for; plans shortly to be carried out, of which Dario would know nothing about. In the meantime, Annunziata nursed him tenderly as he lay speechless, with no more strength than a baby, and only a bewildered pain in his upturned, lack-luster eyes.

One incident occurred during these last days of my vengeance that struck a sharp pain to my heart, together with a sense of the bitterest anger. I had gone to the villa early in the morning, and on crossing the lawn I saw a dark form stretched motionless on one of the paths that led
to the house. I went to examine it, and recoiled in horror. It was my dog Tito shot dead. His silky black head and forepaws were dabbled in blood. His brown eyes were glazed with the film of his dying agonies. Sickened and infuriated at the sight, I called out to a gardener who was trimming the shrubbery.

“
Who has done this?” I demanded.

The man looked pityingly at the poor bleeding remains, and said, in a low voice
, “It was Signore Dario’s order. The dog bit him yesterday. We shot him at daybreak.”

I stooped to caress the faithful animal
’s body, and as I stroked the silky coat, my eyes were dim with tears. “How did it happen?” I asked in smothered accents. “Was the signore hurt?”

The gardener shrugged his shoulders and sighed.
“No, but the dog tore his shirt sleeve with his teeth and grazed his hand. It was a small wound, but enough. He will bite no more,
povera bestia
, poor beast!”

I gave the fellow five
coins. “I liked the dog,” I said briefly. “He was a faithful creature. Bury him decently under that tree.” I pointed to the giant cypress on the lawn. “The coins are for you, for your trouble.”

He looked surprised but grateful, and promised to do my bidding. Once more caressing the head of the truest friend I ever possessed, I strode into the house
. I met Dario as he came out of his room. He was wearing a new white linen shirt, black velvet breeches, and fine black leather riding boots.

“
So Tito has been shot?” I said, abruptly.

He
gave a false shudder. “Oh,
si
. Is it not sad? But I was compelled to have it done. Yesterday I went past his kennel within reach of his chain, and he sprung furiously at me for no reason at all. See!” And holding up his hand he showed me three marks in his flesh. “I felt that you would be displeased to keep such a dangerous dog, so I had no choice but to get rid of him. It is always painful to have a favorite animal killed; but Tito belonged to my poor wife, and I think he has never been safe to handle since her death, and now that Giacomo is ill—”

“
I see!” I said, curtly, cutting his explanations short.

To
myself I thought of how much more valuable Tito’s life was than his. Brave Tito, good Tito! He had done his best. He had tried to tear Dario’s flesh; his instincts had led him to attempt to avenge the man he had felt was his mistress’ foe. And he had met his fate, and died in the performance of duty. But I said no more on the subject. The dog’s death was not alluded to again by either Dario or myself. My pet lay in his mossy grave under the cypress boughs, his memory untainted by any lie, and his fidelity enshrined in my heart as a thing good and gracious.

The days passed slowly on. To the revelers of
the carnivale with their shouting and laughter, no doubt the hours were brief, but to me, who heard nothing except the ticking clock of my revenge, where every second brought me closer to my last and fatal act, the moments seemed long and weary.

I
n my carriage, I rode through the streets of the city aimlessly, feeling more like a deserted stranger than an envied noblewoman whose wealth made her the center of attention. The disorderly hilarity, the music, the color that whirled and reeled through the great streets of Vicenza this season befuddled and upset me. Though I was accustomed to the wildness of carnivale, this year it seemed out of place, a mere senseless distraction that seemed unfamiliar.

Sometimes I escaped the tumult and
asked Paolo to drive me to the cemetery. While he waited, I would stare down at the freshly turned grass above Beatrice Cardano’s grave. No stone marked the spot as yet, but it was not more than a couple of yards away from the iron grating that barred the entrance to that dim and fatal Mancini charnel-house.

I had a
gruesome fascination for the place, and more than once I went to the opening of that secret passage made by the brigands to make certain it remained undisturbed. Everything was as I had left it, except the tangle of brush-wood had become thicker, and more weeds and brambles had sprung up, making it less visible than before and rendering it more impassable. By a fortunate accident I had secured the key of the vault. I knew that for family burial-places of this kind there are always two keys; one left in charge of the keeper of the cemetery, the other in possession of the owners of the mausoleum, and this is the one I managed to obtain.

On one occasion, alone in my own library at the villa, I remembered that in an upper drawer of an old oaken escritoire
, was a ring of keys belonging to the cellar doors and other rooms in the house. I found them lying there as usual and they were all labeled. I turned them over impatiently, not finding what I sought. I was about to give up the search, when I noticed a large rusty iron key that had slipped to the back of the drawer. I pulled it out, and to my delight it was labeled
Mausoleum
. I immediately took it, glad to have obtained something so necessary to my plan. It would not be long before I would need it.

The cemetery was deserted at this festive season
. No one visited it to lay wreaths of flowers or sacred mementoes on the final resting-places of their loved ones. Amidst all the joy of the carnivale, nobody gave a thought to the dead. In my frequent walks there I was always alone. I could have opened my vault and gone down into it without being observed, but I never did. I contented myself with occasionally trying the key in the lock, and reassuring myself that it worked without difficulty.

R
eturning from one of these excursions late on a mild afternoon toward the end of the week before my marriage, I strolled through the Piazza dei Signori, where I saw young men and women dancing a country dance with graceful, impassioned movements. The twang of a guitar and the metallic beat of a tambourine accompanied their steps. The dancers’ handsome, animated faces, their flashing eyes and laughing lips, their many-colored costumes, the glitter of beads on the brown necks of the maidens, their red caps jauntily perched on the thick black curls of the men, painted a pleasant picture of vibrant life against the pale gray of the February sky.

I watched the dance with pleasure—
so full of harmony and rhythm. The lad who thrummed the guitar broke out now and then into a song that matched the music perfectly. I could not distinguish all the words he sang, but the refrain was always the same, and he gave it in every possible inflection and variety of tone, from grave to gay, from pleading to pathetic:
How beautiful a thing to die, suddenly slain at the door of one’s beloved!

The stupid
words made no sense, I thought half angrily, yet I could not help smiling at the young man who sang it. He seemed to enjoy repeating it, and he rolled his black eyes with lovelorn intensity, and breathed forth sighs that sounded through his music with earnestness. He had a charm about his handsome dirty face and unkempt hair, and I watched him with amusement, glad for the distraction from my intrigues and unhappy thoughts.

Soon,
the dance ended and I recognized one of the breathless, laughing dancers. It was Ernesto Paccanini, who had taken me aboard his ship to Pescara. The sight of him offered some relief from a question that had been puzzling me for several days. As soon as the dancers dispersed, I walked up to him and touched him on the shoulder.

He
tensed, looked round in surprise, and did not seem to recognize me at first. I recalled that when he had first met me, I had not yet purchased my dark spectacles.

“Signore Paccanini, it is I, Contessa Corona,” I reminded him.

His face cleared and he smiled. “
Buon giorno
, contessa!” he cried. “A thousand pardons that I did not recognize you. I have heard your name spoken often and think of you all the time. Rich, great, generous. And on the verge of getting married too! Love makes everyone’s troubles disappear, does it not?” He laughed heartily. Then lifting his cap from his clustering black hair, he added, “All joy be with you, contessa!”

I smiled and thanked him. I noticed he looked at me curiously.
“Do you think my appearance has changed?” I asked.

He
flushed with embarrassment. “We all change,” he answered, lightly, evading my glance. “The days pass and each one takes a little bit of our youth away with it. One grows old without knowing it!”

I laughed.
“I see. You think I have aged somewhat since you saw me?”

“
A little, contessa,” he confessed.

“
I have suffered a severe illness,” I said, quietly, “and my eyes are still weak, as you perceive,” and I touched my glasses. “But I shall get stronger in time. Can you come with me for a few moments? I seek your help in a matter of importance.”

He nodded and followed me.