The Contessa's Vendetta (27 page)

“
Don’t laugh like that! It upsets me! Once, long ago, I loved a man. He was not like you; he was a liar. He lied to me with every word he uttered. He used to laugh at me, too. He trampled on my life and spoiled it. He broke my heart! It is all in the past now, and I never think of him anymore, except now, your laughter reminded me of him.” I paused, taking in his lack of expression. “It’s time for you to get ready for your journey, is it not? Please let me know if I can help you in any way. Travel safely and may the peace of a pure conscience be with you.”

I laid my burning hand on his head. He
thought this gesture was a motherly blessing. I thought, well, God only knows what I thought, yet if curses can be so easily cast, then this curse had just marked him. I dared not trust myself any longer in his presence, and without another word or look, I left him and hurried from the villa.

I knew he was startled and at the same time gratified to think he had moved me to such emotion, but I
refused to look back at him to catch his parting glance. I could not because I was sick of myself and of him, and was weary of my broken spirit, for which there could never be a cure.

Soon, I grew calmer and the drive back to the hotel in my carriage through the dull December air calmed and restored me. The day was lovely, bright and fresh. A soft haze lingered above Vicenza like a veil of gray.
In the streets, women strolled, eager to purchase their daily fare. Children, ragged and dirty, ran along, pushing the luxuriant tangle of their dark locks away from their eyes with smiles. Bells clashed and clanged from the churches in honor of Saint Thomas, whose feast day it was, and the city had an air of gaiety about it.

As I drove along I saw a small crowd at
a street corner. A laughing crowd was listening to a wandering bard. He was a plump-looking fellow who had captured their interest.

I asked
Paolo to stop so that I could listen to his tale. When he was finished, I tossed him three
scudi
. He threw them up in the air, one after the other, and as they fell, he caught them in his mouth, appearing to have swallowed them all. Then with a grimace, he pulled off his tattered cap and said, “
Ancora affamato
, excellenza! I am still hungry!” amid the renewed laughter of his amused audience.

A merry bard he was, and without conceit. His good humor merited the extra silver pieces I gave him, which caused him to wish me,
“
Buon appetito
and the smile of the Madonna upon you!”

Further on I came upon a group of fisherman assembled round a portable stove
upon which roasting chestnuts cracked their glossy sides and emitted savory odors. The men were singing to the strumming of an old
viola da mano
, a guitar-like instrument. The song they sang was familiar to me.

Where had I heard it? It took a moment
for me to recall it. It was when I had crawled out of the vault through the brigand’s hole, when my heart had bounded with joy at the anticipation of being reunited with my family, when I had believed in the worth of love and friendship, when I had seen the morning sun glittering on the world and celebrated my release from death and my restored freedom. It was then that I had heard a voice somewhere in the distance singing that song and I had fondly imagined its impassioned words were meant for me. But that was then and it seemed like an eternity ago.

Now, the
song sounded hateful, bittersweet. I wanted to cover my ears to shut out the sound of it. It reminded me of a time when I possessed a heart, a throbbing, passionate, sensitive thing alive to emotion, tenderness, and affection. Now my heart was dead and cold as a stone. My soul was heavily burdened. All I yearned for now was justice – stern, immutable justice, and I meant to have it.

Many would find it difficult to understand
all the planning and the carrying out of such a prolonged a vendetta as mine. Many will find it incomprehensible. Many are incapable of carrying a lengthy deadly resentment against an unfaithful husband. They are too indifferent or may think it is not worth their while. But I can carry a vendetta for a lifetime. Many will think this is immoral and unchristian. Did Christ forgive Judas? The gospel does not say so.

When I reached my
rented villa, I felt exhausted. I decided to rest and receive no visitors that day. Paolo accompanied me inside. Just as I was about to dismiss him, a thought occurred to me. I went to a cabinet in the room and unlocked a secret cupboard. Inside was a bottle of rare wine.  I removed it and handed it to Paolo. “It is a hundred year old wine from Monemasia, the Venetian fortress on the coast of Laconia.”

He did not show the least sign of surprise a
s he studied the burgundy liquid inside the dusty green glassed bottle with its round body and long neck. He ran his hand delicately over the label delicately ornamented with foliate scroll-work. 

“
Good wine?” I remarked, in a casual manner.

He nodded and examined the bottle c
ritically. “It needs dusting, contessa.”

“
Good!” I said, briefly. “Then wipe it and put it back in the cupboard. I may need to serve this particular bottle of wine soon.”

The imperturbable
Paolo bowed and prepared to leave the room.              

“
Stay a moment.”

He turned.

I looked at him steadily. “I believe you are a loyal and faithful man, Paolo,” I said.

He met my glance frankly.

“The day may come when I shall perhaps put your fidelity to the test,” I said quietly.

His dark
eyes, keen and clear the moment before, flashed brightly and then grew humid. “Contessa, you have only to command! I was a soldier once. I know what duty means. But there is a better service – gratitude. I may be only a poor servant, but you have won my heart. I would give my life for you should you desire it!” He paused, half ashamed of the emotion that threatened to break through his mask of impassibility. He bowed again and would have left me, but I called him back and held out my hand.

“
Shake hands, dear friend,” I said, simply.

He caught it with an astonished yet pleased look. Stooping, he kissed it before I could prevent him, and this time literally scrambled out of my presence with his usual dignity.

Alone, I considered this behavior of his with surprise. This loyal man evidently loved me, but I knew not why. I had done no more for him than any other mistress might have done for a good servant. I had often spoken to him with impatience, even harshness; and yet I had somehow won his heart, at least so he said. Why should he care for me? Why should my poor old steward, Giacomo, still cherish me so devotedly in his memory? Why should my dog Tito still love and obey me, when my nearest and dearest, my husband and my only friend had both forsaken me and were eager to forget me? Perhaps fidelity was not the fashion any longer. Perhaps it was a worn-out virtue, left to the most humble, the poor, the animals. I sighed wearily, and threw myself down into an arm-chair near the window to watch the carriages roll past, their riders garmented in colorful winter cloaks.

The brassy jingles of bells attracted my attention. In the street below my balcony I saw a young man singing and dancing. His voice was hauntingly beautiful, his ballads heartwrenching
. But what attracted me was not his superior tone, but his wistful expression of pride. I could not help but watch him. When his dance concluded, a young woman, his companion, held and jingled silver bells with a bright but appealing smile. Silver
scudi
were freely flung to her on his behalf. I contributed my quota to the amount. All that she received, she emptied into a leather bag, earnings for the both of them. She was totally blind.

I knew the couple well, and had often seen them
. Their story was a sad one. The young man had been betrothed to the girl. She had been renowned for her skill in delicate embroidery, having received work orders from the Vatican itself to adorn papal gowns and decorations. With these meagre earnings she helped support her widowed mother and six younger siblings. Her eyesight, long painfully strained over her delicate labors, suddenly failed her. Before long, she became totally blind. She lost her ability to work and her family soon found themselves destitute. She offered to release him from their betrothal, but he would not leave her. He insisted on marrying her at once and devoted himself to her completely, body and soul.

To earn a living
to support her and her family, he sang in the streets. He had a skilled artisan teach her to weave baskets so that she might have some independence and a way to earn a living should something ever happen to him. She sold these baskets so successfully that she was making good trade.

They were both so young. She was not much more than a child with a bright face glorified by the self-denial and courage of her everyday life. He was only a year or two older
, with a gentle spirit and a kind heart. No wonder he had won the sympathy of the warmhearted people of Vicenza. They looked upon him as a romantic hero. When he passed through the streets, leading his blind wife tenderly by the hand, there was not a person in the entire city who would dare insult or offend them. They treated the couple with great respect because they were good, innocent, and true.

How was it, I wondered dreamily, that I could not have won a man
’s heart like his? Were the poor alone deserving of respect and faith, love and loyalty? Was there something in a life of wealth and luxury that destroyed one’s morals or virtues? Evidently, education had little impact, for had not my husband been educated among an order of monks renowned for their books and knowledge, their life of simplicity and sanctity? And yet, he was evil itself. Nothing had eradicated it. For him, even religion was a sham. He went through the motions only to disguise the true extent of his malevolence and hypocrisy.

My own thoughts began to weary me.
To distract myself, I picked up a book of poems and began to read. The day wore on slowly enough. I was glad when evening arrived, when Paolo, remarking that the night was chilly, kindled a pleasant wood-fire in my room, and lighted the lamps. A little while before my dinner was served he handed me a letter stating that Signore Gismondi’s coachman had just delivered it. It bore my own seal, and I opened it.

Beloved!

I arrived here safely;
the monks are delighted to see me, and you will be made heartily welcome when you come. I think of you constantly. How happy I felt this morning! You seemed to love me so little. Why are you not always so fond of your faithful, Dario?

I crumpled the note and flung it into the leaping flames of the newly lighted fire. There was a faint scent of cologne about it that sickened me because it reminded me of the brand he preferred and which I always associated with him. I would not permit myself to think of this so
faithful Dario
as he called himself.

I
resumed my reading, and continued it even at dinner, during which Paolo waited upon me with his usual silent gravity and decorum, though I could feel that he watched me with concern. I suppose I looked tired. I certainly felt so, and retired to bed unusually early. The time seemed to me so long. Would the end never come?

The next day
dawned, trailing its boring hours after it, as a prisoner might trail his chain of iron fetters, until sunset. Then, when the gray winter sky began to darken, Paolo brought me a note; a few scrawled words, a hastily written note that stilled my impatience, roused my soul, and braced every nerve and muscle in my body to instant action. The words were plain, clear, and concise:

From Beatrice Cardano, Rome

To la
Contessa Giulia Corona, Vicenza.

I shall be with you on the 24
th
. Coach arrives at 6:30 P.M. Will come to you as you desire without fail.

Christmas Eve
! An extra chilly day fraught with frequent showers of stinging rain. Towards late afternoon, the weather cleared. Dull, gray clouds began to break apart, revealing gaps of pale blue sky and golden sunshine. Vendors proudly set up their tables displaying their wares. The shops were brilliant with displays of food and glittering items to suit all ages and needs; a tempting array from bonbons to jewellery. Nativity scenes with baby Jesus lying in his manger decorated shop windows. Round eyed children stared fondly at the waxen images.