Vendetta Part 33

"I am honored that you do so, madame!" I said, earnestly, feeling a certain respect for this sternly composed yet patient-featured woman; "yet, though in general you may find many reasonable objections to it, a second marriage is I think, in the Countess Romani's case almost necessary. She is utterly without a protector--she is very young and how beautiful!"

The nun's eyes grew solemn and almost mournful.

"Such beauty is a curse," she answered, with emphasis; "a fatal--a fearful curse! As a child it made her wayward. As a woman it keeps her wayward still. Enough of this, signor!" and she bowed her head; "excuse my plain speaking. Rest a.s.sured that I wish you both happiness."

We had by this time reached the door of the chapel, through which the sound of the pealing organ poured forth in triumphal surges of melody.

Mere Marguerite dipped her fingers in the holy water, and signing herself with the cross, pointed out a bench at the back of the church as one that strangers were allowed to occupy. I seated myself, and looked with a certain soothed admiration at the picturesque scene before me. There was the sparkle of twinkling lights--the bloom and fragrance of flowers. There were silent rows of nuns blue-robed and white-veiled, kneeling and absorbed in prayer. Behind these a little cl.u.s.ter of youthful figures in black, whose drooped heads were entirely hidden in veils of flowing white muslin. Behind these again, one woman's slight form arrayed in heavy mourning garments; her veil was black, yet not so thick but that I could perceive the sheeny glitter of golden hair--that was my wife, I knew. Pious angel! how devout she looked! I smiled in dreary scorn as I watched her; I cursed her afresh in the name of the man I had killed. And above all, surrounded with the l.u.s.ter of golden rays and incrusted jewels, the uncovered Host shone serenely like the gleam of the morning star. The stately service went on--the organ music swept through and through the church as though it were a strong wind striving to set itself free--but amid it all I sat as one in a dark dream, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing--inflexible and cold as marble. The rich plaintive voice of one of the nuns in the choir, singing the Agnus Dei, moved me to a chill sort of wonder. "Qui tollis peccata mundi--Who takest away the sin of the world." No, no!

there are some sins that cannot be taken away--the sins of faithless women, the "LITTLE" sins as they are called nowadays--for we have grown very lenient in some things, and very severe in others. We will imprison the miserable wretch who steals five francs from our pockets, but the cunning feminine thief who robs us of our prestige, our name and honorable standing among our fellow-men, escapes almost scot-free; she cannot be put in prison, or sentenced to hard labor--not she! A pity it is that Christ did not leave us some injunction as to what was to be done with such women--not the penitent Magdalenes, but the creatures whose mouths are full of lies even when they pretend to pray--they who would be capable of trying to tempt the priest who comes to receive their last confessions--they who would even act out a sham repentance on their deathbeds in order to look well. What can be done with devils such as these? Much has been said latterly of the wrongs perpetrated on women by men; will no one take up the other side of the question? We, the stronger s.e.x, are weak in this--we are too chivalrous. When a woman flings herself on our mercy we spare her and are silent. Tortures will not wring her secrets out of us; something holds us back from betraying her. I know not what it can be--perhaps it is the memory of our mothers. Whatever it is, it is certain that many a man allows himself to be disgraced rather than he will disgrace a woman. But a time is at hand when this foolish chivalry of ours will die out. On changera tout cela! When once our heavy masculine brains shall have grasped the novel idea that woman has by her own wish and choice resigned all claim on our respect or forbearance, we shall have our revenge. We are slow to change the traditions of our forefathers, but no doubt we shall soon manage to quench the last spark of knightly reverence left in us for the female s.e.x, as this is evidently the point the women desire to bring us to. We shall meet them on that low platform of the "equality" they seek for, and we shall treat them with the unhesitating and regardless familiarity they so earnestly invite!

Absorbed in thought, I knew not when the service ended. A hand touched me, and looking up I saw Mere Marguerite, who whispered:

"Follow me, if you please."

I rose and obeyed her mechanically. Outside the chapel door she said:

"Pray excuse me for hurrying you, but strangers are not permitted to see the nuns and boarders pa.s.sing out."

I bowed, and walked on beside her. Feeling forced to say something, I asked:

"Have you many boarders at this holiday season?"

"Only fourteen," she replied, "and they are children whose parents live far away. Poor little ones!" and the set lines of the nun's stern face softened into tenderness as she spoke. "We do our best to make them happy, but naturally they feel lonely. We have generally fifty or sixty young girls here, besides the day scholars."

"A great responsibility," I remarked.

"Very great indeed!" and she sighed; "almost terrible. So much of a woman's after life depends on the early training she receives. We do all we can, and yet in some cases our utmost efforts are in vain; evil creeps in, we know not how--some unsuspected fault spoils a character that we judged to be admirable, and we are often disappointed in our most promising pupils. Alas! there is nothing entirely without blemish in this world."

Thus talking, she showed me into a small, comfortable-looking room, lined with books and softly carpeted.

"This is one of our libraries," she explained. "The countess will receive you here, as other visitors might disturb you in the drawing-room. Pardon me," and her steady gaze had something of compa.s.sion in it, "but you do not look well. Can I send you some wine?"

I declined this offer with many expressions of grat.i.tude, and a.s.sured her I was perfectly well. She hesitated, and at last said, anxiously:

"I trust you were not offended at my remark concerning Nina Romani's marriage with you? I fear I was too hasty?"

"Not so, madame," I answered, with all the earnestness I felt. "Nothing is more pleasant to me than a frank opinion frankly spoken. I have been so accustomed to deception--" Here I broke off and added hastily, "Pray do not think me capable of judging you wrongly."

She seemed relieved, and smiling that shadowy, flitting smile of hers, she said:

"No doubt you are impatient, signor; Nina shall come to you directly,"

and with a slight salutation she left me.

Surely she was a good woman, I thought, and vaguely wondered about her past history--that past which she had buried forever under a mountain of prayers. What had she been like when young--before she had shut herself within the convent walls--before she had set the crucifix like a seal on her heart? Had she ever trapped a man's soul and strangled it with lies? I fancied not--her look was too pure and candid; yet who could tell? Were not Nina's eyes trained to appear as though they held the very soul of truth? A few minutes pa.s.sed. I heard the fresh voices of children singing in the next room:

"D'ou vient le pet.i.t Gesu?

Ce joli bouton de rose Qui fleurit, enfant cheri Sur le coeur de notre mere Marie."

Then came a soft rustle of silken garments, the door opened, and my wife entered.

CHAPTER XXVII.

She approached with her usual panther-like grace and supple movement, her red lips parted in a charming smile.

"So good of you to come!" she began, holding out her two hands as though she invited an embrace; "and on Christmas morning too!" She paused, and seeing that I did not move or speak, she regarded me with some alarm. "What is the matter?" she asked, in fainter tones; "has anything happened?"

I looked at her. I saw that she was full of sudden fear, I made no attempt to soothe her, I merely placed a chair.

"Sit down," I said, gravely. "I am the bearer of bad news."

She sunk into the chair as though unnerved, and gazed at me with terrified eyes. She trembled. Watching her keenly, I observed all these outward signs of trepidation with deep satisfaction. I saw plainly what was pa.s.sing in her mind. A great dread had seized her--the dread that I had found out her treachery. So indeed I had, but the time had not yet come for her to know it. Meanwhile she suffered--suffered acutely with that gnawing terror and suspense eating into her soul. I said nothing, I waited for her to speak. After a pause, during which her cheeks had lost their delicate bloom, she said, forcing a smile as she spoke--

"Bad news? You surprise me! What can it be? Some unpleasantness with Guido? Have you seen him?"

"I have seen him," I answered in the same formal and serious tone; "I have just left him. He sends you THIS," and I held out my diamond ring that I had drawn off the dead man's finger.

If she had been pale before, she grew paler now. All the brilliancy of her complexion faded for the moment into an awful haggardness. She took the ring with fingers that shook visibly and were icy cold. There was no attempt at smiling now. She drew a sharp quick breath; she thought I knew all. I was again silent. She looked at the diamond signet with a bewildered air.

"I do not understand," she murmured, petulantly. "I gave him this as a remembrance of his friend, my husband, why does he return it?"

Self-tortured criminal! I studied her with a dark amus.e.m.e.nt, but answered nothing. Suddenly she looked up at me and her eyes filled with tears.

"Why are you so cold and strange, Cesare?" she pleaded, in a sort of plaintive whimper. "Do not stand there like a gloomy sentinel; kiss me and tell me at once what has happened."

Kiss her! So soon after kissing the dead hand of her lover! No, I could not and would not. I remained standing where I was, inflexibly silent.

She glanced at me again, very timidly, and whimpered afresh.

"Ah, you do not love me!" she murmured. "You could not be so stern and silent if you loved me! If there is indeed any bad news, you ought to break it to me gently and kindly. I thought you would always make everything easy for me--"

"Such has been my endeavor, madame," I said interrupting her complaint.

"From your own statement, I judged that your adopted brother Guido Ferrari had rendered himself obnoxious to you. I promised that I would silence him--you remember! I have kept my word. He IS silenced--forever!"

She started.

"Silenced? How? You mean--"

I moved away from my place behind her chair, and stood so that I faced her as I spoke.

"I mean that he is dead."

She uttered a slight cry, not of sorrow but of wonderment.

"DEAD!" she exclaimed. "Not possible! Dead! You have killed him?"

I bent my head gravely. "I killed him--yes! But in open combat, openly witnessed. Last night he insulted me grossly; we fought this morning.