Delphi collected works o.., p.36
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 36
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
He straightened himself as much as he was able and looked me full in the eyes.
“See you!” he answered, with a sort of leering laugh about the corners of his wicked mouth. “I will tell you why I hate her — yes — I will tell you, because you are a man and strong. I like strong men — they are sometimes fooled by women, it is true — but then they can take revenge. I was strong myself once. And you — you are old — but you love a jest — you will understand. The Romani woman has done me no harm. She laughed — once. That was when her horses knocked me down in the street. I was hurt — but I saw her red lips widen and her white teeth glitter — she has a baby smile — the people will tell you — so innocent! I was picked up — her carriage drove on — her husband was not with her — he would have acted differently. But it is no matter — I tell you she laughed — and then I saw at once the likeness.”
“The likeness!” I exclaimed impatiently, for his story annoyed me. “What likeness?”
“Between her and my wife,” the dealer replied, fixing his cruel eyes upon me with increasing intensity of regard. “Oh, yes! I know what love is. I know too that God had very little to do with the making of women. It was a long time before even He could find the Madonna. Yes — yes, I know! I tell you I married a thing as beautiful as a morning in spring-time — with a little head that seemed to droop like a flower under its weight of sunbeam hair — and eyes! ah — like those of a tiny child when it looks up and asks you for kisses. I was absent once — I returned and found her sleeping tranquilly — yes! on the breast of a black-browed street-singer from Venice — a handsome lad enough and brave as a young lion. He saw me and sprung at my throat — I held him down and knelt upon his chest — she woke and gazed upon us, too terrified to speak or scream — she only shivered and made a little moaning sound like that of a spoiled baby. I looked down into her prostrate lover’s eyes and smiled. ‘I will not hurt you,’ I said. ‘Had she not consented, you could not have gained the victory. All I ask of you is to remain here for a few moments longer.’ He stared, but was mute. I bound him hand and foot so that he could not stir. Then I took my knife and went to her. Her blue eyes glared wide — imploringly she turned them upon me — and ever she wrung her small hands and shivered and moaned. I plunged the keen bright blade deep through her soft white flesh — her lover cried out in agony — her heart’s blood welled up in a crimson tide, staining with a bright hue the white garments she wore; she flung up her arms — she sank back on her pillows — dead. I drew the knife from her body, and with it cut the bonds of the Venetian boy. I then gave it to him.
“‘Take it as a remembrance of her,’ I said. ‘In a month she would have betrayed you as she betrayed me.’”
“He raged like a madman. He rushed out and called the gendarmes. Of course I was tried for murder — but it was not murder — it was justice. The judge found extenuating circumstances. Naturally! He had a wife of his own. He understood my case. Now you know why I hate that dainty jeweled woman up at the Villa Romani. She is just like that other one — that creature I slew — she has just the same slow smile and the same child-like eyes. I tell you again, I am sorry her husband is dead — it vexes me sorely to think of it. For he would have killed her in time — yes! — of that I am quite sure!”
CHAPTER VI.
I listened to his narrative with a pained feeling at my heart, and a shuddering sensation as of icy cold ran through my veins. Why, I had fancied that all who beheld Nina must, perforce, love and admire her. True, when this old man was accidentally knocked down by her horses (a circumstance she had never mentioned to me), it was careless of her not to stop and make inquiry as to the extent of his injuries, but she was young and thoughtless; she could not be intentionally heartless. I was horrified to think that she should have made such an enemy as even this aged and poverty-stricken wretch; but I said nothing. I had no wish to betray myself. He waited for me to speak and grew impatient at my silence.
“Say now, my friend!” he queried, with a sort of childish eagerness, “did I not take a good vengeance? God himself could not have done better!”
“I think your wife deserved her fate,” I said, curtly, “but I cannot say I admire you for being her murderer.”
He turned upon me rapidly, throwing both hands above his head with a frantic gesticulation. His voice rose to a kind of muffled shriek.
“Murderer you call me — ha! ha! that is good. No, no! She murdered me! I tell you I died when I saw her asleep in her lover’s arms — she killed me at one blow. A devil rose up in my body and took swift revenge; that devil is in me now, a brave devil, a strong devil! That is why I do not fear the plague; the devil in me frightens away death. Some day it will leave me” — here his smothered yell sunk gradually to a feeble, weary tone; “yes, it will leave me and I shall find a dark place where I can sleep; I do not sleep much now.” He eyed me half wistfully.
“You see,” he explained, almost gently, “my memory is very good, and when one thinks of many things one cannot sleep. It is many years ago, but every night I see her; she comes to me wringing her little white hands, her blue eyes stare, I hear short moans of terror. Every night, every night!” He paused, and passed his hands in a bewildered way across his forehead. Then, like a man suddenly waking from sleep, he stared as though he saw me now for the first time, and broke into a low chuckling laugh.
“What a thing, what a thing it is, the memory!” he muttered. “Strange — strange! See, I remembered all that, and forgot you! But I know what you want — a suit of clothes — yes, you need them badly, and I also need the money for them. Ha, ha! And you will not have the fine coat of Milord Inglese! No, no! I understand. I will find you something — patience, patience!”
And he began to grope among a number of things that were thrown in a confused heap at the back of the shop. While in this attitude he looked so gaunt and grim that he reminded me of an aged vulture stooping over carrion, and yet there was something pitiable about him too. In a way I was sorry for him; a poor half-witted wretch, whose life had been full of such gall and wormwood. What a different fate was his to mine, I thought. I had endured but one short night of agony; how trifling it seemed compared to his hourly remorse and suffering! He hated Nina for an act of thoughtlessness; well, no doubt she was not the only woman whose existence annoyed him; it was most probably that he was at enmity with all women. I watched him pityingly as he searched among the worn-out garments which were his stock-in-trade, and wondered why Death, so active in smiting down the strongest in the city, should have thus cruelly passed by this forlorn wreck of human misery, for whom the grave would have surely been a most welcome release and rest. He turned round at last with an exulting gesture.
“I have found it!” he exclaimed. “The very thing to suit you. You are perhaps a coral-fisher? You will like a fisherman’s dress. Here is one, red sash, cap and all, in beautiful condition! He that wore it was about your height it will fit you as well as it fitted him, and, look you! the plague is not in it, the sea has soaked through and through it; it smells of the sand and weed.”
He spread out the rough garb before me. I glanced at it carelessly.
“Did the former wearer kill his wife?” I asked, with a slight smile.
The old rag-picker shook his head and made a sign with his outspread fingers expressive of contempt.
“Not he! — He was a fool — He killed himself.”
“How was that? By accident or design?”
“Che! Che! He knew very well what he was doing. It happened only two months since. It was for the sake of a black-eyed jade, she lives and laughs all day long up at Sorrento. He had been on a long voyage, he brought her pearls for her throat and coral pins for her hair. She had promised to marry him. He had just landed, he met her on the quay, he offered her the pearl and coral trinkets. She threw them back and told him she was tired of him. Just that — nothing more. He tried to soften her; she raged at him like a tiger-cat. Yes, I was one of the little crowd that stood round them on the quay, I saw it all. Her black eyes flashed, she stamped and bit her lips at him, her full bosom heaved as though it would burst her laced bodice. She was only a market-girl, but she gave herself the airs of a queen. ‘I am tired of you!’ she said to him. ‘Go! I wish to see you no more.’ He was tall and well-made, a powerful fellow; but he staggered, his face grew pale, his lips quivered. He bent his head a little — turned — and before any hand could stop him he sprung from the edge of the quay into the waves, they closed over his head, for he did not try to swim; he just sunk down, down, like a stone. Next day his body came ashore, and I bought his clothes for two francs; you shall have them for four.”
“And what became of the girl?” I asked.
“Oh, she! She laughs all day long, as I told you. She has a new lover every week. What should she care?”
I drew out my purse. “I will take this suit,” I said. “You ask four francs, here are six, but for the extra two you must show me some private corner where I can dress.”
“Yes, yes. But certainly!” and the old fellow trembled all over with avaricious eagerness as I counted the silver pieces into his withered palm. “Anything to oblige a generous stranger! There is the place I sleep in; it is not much, but there is a mirror — her mirror — the only thing I keep of hers; come this way, come this way!”
And stumbling hastily along, almost falling over the disordered bundles of clothing that lay about in all directions, he opened a little door that seemed to be cut in the wall, and led me into a kind of close cupboard, smelling most vilely, and furnished with a miserable pallet bed and one broken chair. A small square pane of glass admitted light enough to see all that there was to be seen, and close to this extemporized window hung the mirror alluded to, a beautiful thing set in silver of antique workmanship, the costliness of which I at once recognized, though into the glass itself I dared not for the moment look. The old man showed me with some pride that the door to this narrow den of his locked from within.
“I made the lock and key, and fitted it all myself,” he said. “Look how neat and strong! Yes; I was clever once at all that work — it was my trade — till that morning when I found her with the singer from Venice; then I forgot all I used to know — it went away somehow, I could never understand why. Here is the fisherman’s suit; you can take your time to put it on; fasten the door; the room is at your service.”
And he nodded several times in a manner that was meant to be friendly, and left me. I followed his advice at once and locked myself in. Then I stepped steadily to the mirror hanging on the wall, and looked at my own reflection. A bitter pang shot through me. The dealer’s sight was good, he had said truly. I was old! If twenty years of suffering had passed over my head, they could hardly have changed me more terribly. My illness had thinned my face and marked it with deep lines of pain; my eyes had retreated far back into my head, while a certain wildness of expression in them bore witness to the terrors I had suffered in the vault, and to crown all, my hair was indeed perfectly white. I understood now the alarm of the man who had sold me grapes on the highway that morning; my appearance was strange enough to startle any one. Indeed, I scarcely recognized myself. Would my wife, would Guido recognize me? Almost I doubted it. This thought was so painful to me that the tears sprung to my eyes. I brushed them away in haste.
“Fy on thee, Fabio! Be a man!” I said, addressing myself angrily. “Of what matter after all whether hairs are black or white? What matter how the face changes, so long as the heart is true? For a moment, perhaps, thy love may grow pale at sight of thee; but when she knows of thy sufferings, wilt thou not be dearer to her than ever? Will not one of her soft embraces recompense thee for all thy past anguish, and suffice to make thee young again?”
And thus encouraging my sinking spirits, I quickly arrayed myself in the Neapolitan coral-fisher’s garb. The trousers were very loose, and were provided with two long deep pockets, convenient receptacles, which easily contained the leathern bags of gold and jewels I had taken from the brigand’s coffin. When my hasty toilet was completed I took another glance at the mirror, this time with a half smile. True, I was greatly altered; but after all I did not look so bad. The fisherman’s picturesque costume became me well; the scarlet cap sat jauntily on the snow-white curls that clustered so thickly over my forehead, and the consciousness I had of approaching happiness sent a little of the old fearless luster back into my sunken eyes. Besides, I knew I should not always have this care-worn and wasted appearance; rest, and perhaps a change of air, would infallibly restore the roundness to my face and the freshness to my complexion; even my white locks might return to their pristine color, such things had been; and supposing they remained white? well! — there were many who would admire the peculiar contrast between a young man’s face and an old man’s hair.
Having finished dressing, I unlocked the door of the stuffy little cabin and called the old rag-picker. He came shuffling along with his head bent, but raising his eyes as he approached me, he threw up his hands in astonishment, exclaiming,
“Santissima Madonna! But you are a fine man — a fine man! Eh, eh! Holy Joseph! What height and breadth! A pity — a pity you are old; you must have been strong when you were young!”
Half in joke, and half to humor him in his fancy for mere muscular force, I rolled up the sleeve of my jacket to the shoulder, saying, lightly,
“Oh, as for being strong! There is plenty of strength in me still, you see.”
He stared; laid his yellow fingers on my bared arm with a kind of ghoul-like interest and wonder, and felt the muscles of it with childish, almost maudlin admiration.
“Beautiful, beautiful!” he mumbled. “Like iron — just think of it! Yes, yes. You could kill anything easily. Ah! I used to be like that once. I was clever at sword-play. I could, with well-tempered steel, cut asunder a seven-times-folded piece of silk at one blow without fraying out a thread. Yes, as neatly as one cuts butter! You could do that too if you liked. It all lies in the arm — the brave arm that kills at a single stroke.”
And he gazed at me intently with his small blear eyes as though anxious to know more of my character and temperament. I turned abruptly from him, and called his attention to my own discarded garments.
“See,” I said, carelessly; “you can have these, though they are not of much value. And, stay, here are another three francs for some socks and shoes, which I dare say you can find to suit me.”
He clasped his hands ecstatically, and poured out a torrent of thanks and praises for this additional and unexpected sum, and protesting by all the saints that he and the entire contents of his shop were at the service of so generous a stranger, he at once produced the articles I asked for. I put them on — and then stood up thoroughly equipped and ready to make my way back to my own home when I chose. But I had resolved on one thing. Seeing that I was so greatly changed, I determined not to go to the Villa Romani by daylight, lest I should startle my wife too suddenly. Women are delicate; my unexpected appearance might give her a nervous shock which perhaps would have serious results. I would wait till the sun had set, and then go up to the house by a back way I knew of, and try to get speech with one of the servants. I might even meet my friend Guido Ferrari, and he would break the joyful news of my return from death to Nina by degrees, and also prepare her for my altered looks. While these thoughts flitted rapidly through my brain, the old ragpicker stood near me with his head on one side like a meditative raven, and regarded me intently.
“Are you going far?” he asked at last, with a kind of timidity.
“Yes,” I answered him, abruptly; “very far.”
He laid a detaining hand on my sleeve, and his eyes glittered — with a malignant expression.
“Tell me,” he muttered, eagerly, “tell me — I will keep the secret. Are you going to a woman?”
I looked down upon him, half in disdain, half in amusement.
“Yes!” I said, quietly, “I am going to a woman.”
He broke into silent laughter — hideous laughter that contorted his visage and twisted his body in convulsive writhings.
I glanced at him in disgust, and shaking off his hand from my arm, I made my way to the door of the shop. He hobbled quickly after me, wiping away the moisture that his inward merriment had brought into his eyes.
“Going to a woman!” he croaked. “Ha, ha! You are not the first, nor will you be the last, that has gone so! Going to a woman! that is well — that is good! Go to her, go! You are strong, you have a brave arm! Go to her, find her out, and — kill her! Yes, yes — you will be able to do it easily — quite easily! Go and kill her.”
He stood at his low door mouthing and pointing, his stunted figure and evil face reminding me of one of Heinrich Heine’s dwarf devils who are depicted as piling fire on the heads of the saints. I bade him “Good day” in an indifferent tone, but he made me no answer. I walked slowly away. Looking back once I saw him still standing on the threshold of his wretched dwelling, his wicked mouth working itself into all manner of grimaces, while with his crooked fingers he made signs in the air as if he caught an invisible something and throttled it. I went on down the street and out of it into the broader thoroughfares, with his last words ringing in my ears, “go and kill her!”
CHAPTER VII.
That day seemed very long to me I wandered aimlessly about the city, seeing few faces that I knew, for the wealthier inhabitants, afraid of the cholera, had either left the place together or remained closely shut within their own houses. Everywhere I went something bore witness to the terrible ravages of the plague. At almost every corner I met a funeral procession. Once I came upon a group of men who were standing in an open door way packing a dead body into a coffin too small for it. There was something truly revolting in the way they doubled up the arms and legs and squeezed in the shoulders of the deceased man — one could hear the bones crack. I watched the brutal proceedings for a minute or so, and then I said aloud:
