The Contessa's Vendetta (44 page)

It was a scene to bewilder the brain and dazzle the
eyes, and I was just turning away from it out of sheer fatigue, when a sudden cessation of movement in the swaying, whirling crowd, and a slight hush, caused me to look out once more to determine what caused the momentary stillness.

A
funeral cortege appeared, moving at a slow and solemn pace. As it passed across the square, heads were uncovered, and women crossed themselves devoutly. Like a black shadowy snake it coiled through the mass of shifting color and brilliance. After a few moments, it was gone. The depressing effect of its appearance soon wore away. The merry crowd resumed their folly and shrieking, their laughing and dancing, and everything returned to the gaiety of before.

And w
hy not? The dead are soon forgotten. No one knew that better than me, I thought, as I leaned my arms lazily on the edge of the balcony. That glimpse of near death in my life had forever changed me. Strangely enough, my thoughts turned to methods of torture practiced upon vile criminals. For instance, the iron coffin where criminals were bound hand and foot, and then forced to watch the huge lid descending slowly, slowly, slowly, half an inch at a time, till at last its heavy weight crushed the writhing wretch who had watched death steadily approaching in agony, into a flat and mangled mass. Suppose that I had such a coffin now. I shuddered. No. He whom I sought to punish was too handsome and well-built despite his wicked soul. He should keep his good magnificent good looks! I would not destroy that. I would be satisfied with my plan as I had crafted it.

I
re-entered my room and called for Paolo, who was now resigned and eager to go to Venice. I gave him his final instructions and placed in his charge the iron cash-box, which, unknown to him, contained a small fortune in gold and silver and jewels. This was the last good act I could do. It was a sufficient sum to set him up as a well-to-do merchant in Venice with Lilla and her little dowry combined. And there was enough for a dowry for Santina too. He also carried a sealed letter to Signora Monti, which I told him she was not to open until a week had elapsed. This letter explained the contents of the box and my wishes concerning it. It also asked Signora Monti to send for Annunziata and poor old Giacomo at Villa Mancini, and tend to them both as well as she could till their deaths, which, judging by their ages, I knew could not be far off.

I had thought of everything
, and I could foresee what a happy, peaceful home they would all find in Venice. Lilla and Paolo would wed, I knew, and form a happy family with Santina. Signora Monti and Annunziata would console each other with their past memories and in the tending of Lilla’s children. For some time, perhaps, they might even talk of me and wonder where I had gone. Then gradually they would all forget me, for that is what I wanted – to be forgotten.

Si
, I had done all I could for those who had never wronged me. I had rewarded Paolo and Santina for their affection and fidelity. Now, the path ahead of me was clear. There was nothing more to do except complete the deed that had clamoured at me for so long to accomplish.

Re
venge, like a beckoning ghost, had led me on, step by step, for many weary days and months in cycles of suffering. But now it paused, it faced me, and turning its blood-red eyes upon my soul, yelled at me to strike!

The
masquerade ball opened brilliantly. The rooms were magnificently decorated. The lustre of a thousand lamps shone on a scene of splendor that befit the court of a queen. Some of the stateliest nobles in all of Venice were present, their breasts glittering with jeweled orders and ribbons of honor. Some of the loveliest women to be seen anywhere in the world flitted across the polished floors, delicate and graceful in a rainbow of brilliant colors and shades.  

But
handsomest among all, peerless when it came to his vanity, and absolutely faultless in his charms, was my husband, the groom, the hero of the night. Never had he looked so splendid, and even I, felt my pulse quicken, and the blood course more hotly through my veins as I beheld him, radiant, victorious, and smiling behind his Bauta mask. It covered his entire face with its square jawline, no mouth, and plenty of gilding. He had changed his garments too. Now he wore a wine-colored coat above a golden silk waistcoat and black brocade breeches. The brigand’s ship pendant flashed gloriously around his neck below his cravat, while his golden hair reflected the light of a hundred or more candles. Around his wrist he wore a heavy, manly bracelet studied with brilliants that I well remembered, for they had once belonged to my father. Yet even more lustrous than the gems he wore was the deep, ardent glory of his eyes, dark as night and luminous as stars that glowed through his mask.

Some of the grandes dames present at the ball that night wore dresses the like
s of which are seldom seen outside of Venice. Gowns sown with jewels and thick with wondrous embroidery that have been handed down from generation to generation through hundreds of years. As an example of this, Federica Marina’s gold train, stitched with small rubies and seed-pearls, had formerly belonged to the family of Lorenzo de Medici. Garments like these, when they are part of the property of a great house, are worn only on particular occasions, perhaps once in a year; and then they are laid carefully away and protected from dust and moths and damp, receiving as much attention as the priceless pictures and books of a famous historical mansion. Nothing ever designed by any great modern tailor or milliner can compete with the magnificent workmanship and durable material of the festa dresses that are locked preciously away in the old oaken coffers of the greatest Venetian families; dresses that are beyond valuation, because of the nostalgic romances and tragedies attached to them.

Such glitter of gold and silver, such scintillations from
glistening jewels, such magnificent embroidery, such subtle aromas of rare and exquisite perfume, such bejewelled masks; all these things that stimulate the senses surrounded me in full force this night; this one dazzling, supreme and terrible night, that was destined to burn into my brain like a seal of scorching fire.
Si,
till I die, this night will remain with me as though it were a breathing, living thing; and after death, who knows whether it may rise again in some tangible, awful shape, and confront me with its flashing mockery and menacing eyes, to haunt me through all eternity. I remember now how I shivered and was startled out of the bitter reverie into which I had fallen when I heard the sound of my husband’s low, laughing voice.

“
You must dance,
cara
,” he said, with a mischievous smile. “You are forgetting your duties. You and I are required to open the ball!”

I rose mechanically.

“What dance is it?” I asked, forcing a smile. I noticed the dance area had filled up with men and women, the men’s steps more athletic than that of the women who kept their upper bodies erect, their arms quiet, their movements minimal above the waist. “I suspect you will find me to be awkward partner. It has been many years since I have danced.”

He shook his head
and his eyes narrowed. “You had better not disgrace me. You have to dance properly. You’ll make us both look stupid if you make any mistake. The band was going to play a quadrille, but I told them to strike up a waltz instead. You’d better not waltz badly. Nothing looks so awkward and absurd.”

I
said nothing, but allowed him to place his arm round my waist and stood ready to begin. I avoided looking at him as much as possible, for it was growing more and more difficult with each passing moment to maintain my self-control. I was consumed with both hate and love.
Si
, love of an evil kind, in which there was nothing admirable about it. I was filled with a foolish fury that battled with an urge to proclaim his vileness then and there before all my titled and admiring guests, and to leave him shamed in the dust of scorn, despised and abandoned. But I knew that if I were to speak out now and declare the truth of my past and his before that brilliant crowd, they would all think me mad. Besides, for a man like him, there existed no shame.

The
slow waltz, that most enchanting of dances, now commenced. It was played
pianissimo
, and stole through the room like the fluttering breath of a soft sea wind. I had always been an excellent waltzer, and my step completed that of Dario’s harmoniously. He glanced up with a look of gratified surprise as I bore his languorous, dreamlike movements through the glittering ranks of our guests, who watched us with admiration as we circled the room.

Then
everyone present followed our lead. In a few minutes the ballroom looked like a moving flower-garden in full bloom, rich with swaying colors and rainbow-like radiance. The music, growing stronger, and swelling out in marked and even time, echoed forth like the sound of clear-toned bells broken through by the singing of birds. My heart beat furiously, my mind reeled, my senses swam as I felt my husband’s warm breath on my cheek. I clasped his shoulder more closely and held his hand more firmly. He felt the double pressure, and his lips parted in a smile. “At last you love me!” he said.

“
At last, at last,” I muttered, scarce knowing what I said. “If I had not loved you from the beginning,
caro
, we would not have been married today.”

A low ripple of laughter was
his response. “I knew it,” he murmured again as he drew me with swifter and with more voluptuous motion into the vortex of the dancers. “You tried to be cold, but I knew I could make you love me,
si
, love me passionately, and I was right.” Then with an outburst of triumph and vanity he added, “I believe you would die for me!”

I
pressed my body closer to his. My hot quick breath moved the feathery gold of his hair away from his ear. “I have died for you,” I said. “I have killed my old self for your sake.”

Still dancing,
with his arms encircling me, and gliding along to the music of the dance, he sighed restlessly. “Tell me what you mean,
amore
,” he asked, in the tenderest tone in the world.

Oh, that
tender seductive cadence of his. How well I knew it. How often had it lured away my strength. “I mean that you have changed me,” I whispered. “I may seem old, but for you tonight, I will be young again. For you my chilled slow blood shall again be hot and quick as lava. For you my long-buried past shall rise in all its pristine vigor. For you I will be a lover, such as perhaps no man ever had or ever will have again!”

My words pleased him and he pulled me
closer to him in the dance. Next to his worship of wealth, his delight was to arouse the passions of women. He was very panther-like in his nature. His first tendency was to devour, his next to gambol like an animal, though his sleek, swift playfulness might mean death. He was by no means exceptional in this; many men are like him.

As the music of the waltz grew slower and slower, dropping down to a sweet conclusion,
my husband led me to a table, and left me as he went to dance with a distinguished Venetian noblewoman who was his next partner.

U
nobserved, I slipped out to make inquiries concerning Paolo and Santina. I learned they had departed. One of the waiters, a friend of his, had seen him leave. Paolo had glanced into the ball-room before leaving, and had watched me dance with my husband, and then with tears in his eyes had left without daring to wish me good-bye.

I
accepted this information with kind indifference, but in my heart I felt a sudden emptiness, a dreary, strange loneliness. With my faithful servants near me I had been in the presence of friends, for friends they both were in their own humble, unobtrusive fashion; but now I was alone and lonely beyond all comparison; alone to do my work, without prevention or detection. I felt isolated from humanity, set apart with my victim on some dim point of time. The rest of the world had receded. Only Dario and I and God were all that existed for me; and between the three of us, justice must be fulfilled.

I returned to the ballroom. At the door a young
boy faced me. He was the only son from a great Paduan house. Dressed in pure blue, as most boys are, with a white flower on his coat, and his dimpled face alight with laughter, he looked the very embodiment of happy youth. He addressed me somewhat timidly, yet with all a child’s frankness. “Is this not grand? I feel as if I were a king. Do you know this is my first ball?”