What is it the English poet Swinburne says--

"I shall never be friends again with roses!"

My wife wore them always: even on that night when I had seen her clasped in Guido's arms, a red rose on her breast had been crushed in that embrace--a rose whose withered leaves I still possess. In the forest solitude where I now dwell there are no roses--and I am glad!

The trees are too high, the tangle of bramble and coa.r.s.e brushwood too dense--nothing grows here but a few herbs and field flowers--weeds unfit for wearing by fine ladies, yet to my taste infinitely sweeter than all the tenderly tinted cups of fragrance, whose colors and odors are spoiled to me forever. I am unjust, say you? the roses are innocent of evil? True enough, but their perfume awakens memory, and--I strive always to forget!

I reached my hotel that evening to find that I was an hour late for dinner, an unusual circ.u.mstance, which had caused Vincenzo some disquietude, as was evident from the relieved expression of his face when I entered. For some days the honest fellow had watched me with anxiety; my abstracted moods, the long solitary walks I was in the habit of taking, the evenings I pa.s.sed in my room writing, with the doors locked--all this behavior on my part exercised his patience, I have no doubt, to the utmost limit, and I could see he had much ado to observe his usual discretion and tact, and refrain from asking questions. On this particular occasion I dined very hastily, for I had promised to join my wife and two of her lady friends at the theater that night.

When I arrived there, she was already seated in her box, looking radiantly beautiful. She was attired in some soft, sheeny, clinging primrose stuff, and the brigand's jewels I had given her through Guido's hands, flashed brilliantly on her uncovered neck and arms. She greeted me with her usual child-like enthusiasm as I entered, bearing the customary offering--a costly bouquet, set in a holder of mother-of-pearl studded with turquois, for her acceptance. I bowed to her lady friends, both of whom I knew, and then stood beside her watching the stage. The comedietta played there was the airiest trifle--it turned on the old worn-out story--a young wife, an aged, doting husband, and a lover whose principles were, of course, of the "n.o.blest" type. The husband was fooled (naturally), and the chief amus.e.m.e.nt of the piece appeared to consist in his being shut out of his own house in dressing-gown and slippers during a pelting storm of rain, while his spouse (who was particularly specified as "pure") enjoyed a luxurious supper with her highly moral and virtuous admirer. My wife laughed delightedly at the poor jokes and the stale epigrams, and specially applauded the actress who successfully supported the chief role. This actress, by the way, was a saucy, brazen-faced jade, who had a trick of flashing her black eyes, tossing her head, and heaving her ample bosom tumultuously whenever she hissed out the words Vecchiaccio maladetto [Footnote: Accursed, villainous old monster.] at her discomfited husband, which had an immense effect on the audience--an audience which entirely sympathized with her, though she was indubitably in the wrong. I watched Nina in some derision as she nodded her fair head and beat time to the music with her painted fan. I bent over her.

"The play pleases you?" I asked, in a low tone.

"Yes, indeed!" she answered, with a laughing light in her eyes. "The husband is so droll! It is all very amusing."

"The husband is always droll!" I remarked, smiling coldly. "It is not a temptation to marry when one knows that as a husband one must always look ridiculous."

She glanced up at me.

"Cesare! You surely are not vexed? Of course it is only in plays that it happens so!"

"Plays, cara mia, are often nothing but the reflex of real life," I said. "But let us hope there are exceptions, and that all husbands are not fools."

She smiled expressively and sweetly, toyed with the flowers I had given her, and turned her eyes again to the stage. I said no more, and was a somewhat moody companion for the rest of the evening. As we all left the theater one of the ladies who had accompanied Nina said lightly:

"You seem dull and out of spirits, conte?"

I forced a smile.

"Not I, signora! Surely you do not find me guilty of such ungallantry?

Were I dull in YOUR company I should prove myself the most ungrateful of my s.e.x."

She sighed somewhat impatiently. She was very young and very lovely, and, as far as I knew, innocent, and of a more thoughtful and poetical temperament than most women.

"That is the mere language of compliment," she said, looking straightly at me with her clear, candid eyes. "You are a true courtier! Yet often I think your courtesy is reluctant."

I looked at her in some surprise.

"Reluctant? Signora, pardon me if I do not understand!"

"I mean," she continued, still regarding me steadily, though a faint blush warmed the clear pallor of her delicate complexion, "that you do not really like us women; you say pretty things to us, and you try to be amiable in our company, but you are in truth averse to our ways--you are sceptical--you think we are all hypocrites."

I laughed a little coldly.

"Really, signora, your words place me in a very awkward position. Were I to tell you my real sentiments--"

She interrupted me with a touch of her fan on my arm, and smiled gravely.

"You would say, 'Yes, you are right, signora. I never see one of your s.e.x without suspecting treachery.' Ah, Signor Conte, we women are indeed full of faults, but nothing can blind our instinct!" She paused, and her brilliant eyes softened as she added gently, "I pray your marriage may be a very happy one."

I was silent. I was not even courteous enough to thank her for the wish. I was half angered that this girl should have been able to probe my thoughts so quickly and unerringly. Was I so bad an actor after all?

I glanced down at her as she leaned lightly on my arm.

"Marriage is a mere comedietta," I said, abruptly and harshly. "We have seen it acted to-night. In a few days I shall play the part of the chief buffoon--in other words, the husband."

And I laughed. My young companion looked startled, almost frightened, and over her fair face there flitted an expression of something like aversion. I did not care--why should I?--and there was no time for more words between us, for we had reached the outer vestibule of the theater.

My wife's carriage was drawn up at the entrance--my wife herself was stepping into it. I a.s.sisted her, and also her two friends, and then stood with uncovered head at the door wishing them all the "felicissima notte." Nina put her tiny jeweled hand through the carriage window--I stooped and kissed it lightly. Drawing it back quickly, she selected a white gardenia from her bouquet and gave it to me with a bewitching smile.

Then the glittering equipage dashed away with a whirl and clatter of prancing hoofs and rapid wheels, and I stood alone under the wide portico of the theater--alone, amid the pressing throngs of the people who were still coming out of the house--holding the strongly scented gardenia in my hand as vaguely as a fevered man who finds a strange flower in one of his sick dreams.

After a minute or two I suddenly recollected myself, and throwing the blossom on the ground, I crushed it savagely beneath my heel--the penetrating odor rose from its slain petals as though a vessel of incense had been emptied at my feet. There was a nauseating influence in it; where had I inhaled that subtle perfume last? I remembered--Guido Ferrari had worn one of those flowers in his coat at my banquet--it had been still in his b.u.t.tonhole when I killed him!

I strode onward and homeward; the streets were full of mirth and music, but I heeded none of it. I felt, rather than saw, the quiet sky bending above me dotted with its countless millions of luminous worlds; I was faintly conscious of the soft plash of murmuring waves mingling with the dulcet chords of deftly played mandolins echoing from somewhere down by the sh.o.r.e; but my soul was, as it were, benumbed--my mind, always on the alert, was for once utterly tired out--my very limbs ached, and when I at last flung myself on my bed, exhausted, my eyes closed instantly, and I slept the heavy, motionless sleep of a man weary unto death.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

"Tout le monde vient a celui qui sait attendre." So wrote the great Napoleon. The virtue of the aphorism consists in the little words 'qui sait'. All the world comes to him who KNOWS HOW to wait, _I_ knew this, and I had waited, and my world--a world of vengeance--came to me at last.

The slow-revolving wheel of Time brought me to the day before my strange wedding--the eve of my remarriage with my own wife! All the preparations were made--nothing was left undone that could add to the splendor of the occasion. For though the nuptial ceremony was to be somewhat quiet and private in character, and the marriage breakfast was to include only a few of our more intimate acquaintances, the proceedings were by no means to terminate tamely. The romance of these remarkable espousals was not to find its conclusion in bathos. No; the bloom and aroma of the interesting event were to be enjoyed in the evening, when a grand supper and ball, given by me, the happy and much-to-be-envied bridegroom, was to take place in the hotel which I had made my residence for so long. No expense was spared for this, the last entertainment offered by me in my brilliant career as a successful Count Cesare Oliva. After it, the dark curtain would fall on the played-out drama, never to rise again.

Everything that art, taste, and royal luxury could suggest was included in the arrangements for this brilliant ball, to which a hundred and fifty guests had been invited, not one of whom had refused to attend.

And now--now, in the afternoon of this, the last of my self-imposed probation--I sat alone with my fair wife in the drawing-room of the Villa Romani, conversing lightly on various subjects connected with the festivities of the coming morrow. The long windows were open--the warm spring sunlight lay like a filmy veil of woven gold on the tender green of the young gra.s.s, birds sung for joy and flitted from branch to branch, now poising hoveringly above their nests, now soaring with all the luxury of perfect liberty into the high heaven of cloudless blue--the great creamy buds of the magnolia looked ready to burst into wide and splendid flower between their large, darkly shining leaves, the odor of violets and primroses floated on every delicious breath of air, and round the wide veranda the climbing white china roses had already unfurled their little crumpled rosette-like blossoms to the balmy wind. It was spring in Southern Italy--spring in the land where, above all other lands, spring is lovely--sudden and brilliant in its beauty as might be the smile of a happy angel. Gran Dio!--talk of angels! Had I not a veritable angel for my companion at that moment?

What fair being, even in Mohammed's Paradise of Houris, could outshine such charms as those which it was my proud privilege to gaze upon without rebuke--dark eyes, rippling golden hair, a dazzling and perfect face, a form to tempt the virtue of a Galahad, and lips that an emperor might long to touch--in vain? Well, no!--not altogether in vain: if his imperial majesty could offer a bribe large enough--let us say a diamond the size of a pigeon's egg--he might possibly purchase one, nay!--perhaps two kisses from that seductive red mouth, sweeter than the ripest strawberry. I glanced at her furtively from time to time when she was not aware of my gaze; and glad was I of the sheltering protection of the dark gla.s.ses I wore, for I knew and felt that there was a terrible look in my eyes--the look of a half-famished tiger ready to spring on some long-desired piece of prey. She herself was exceptionally bright and cheerful; with her riante features and agile movements, she reminded me of some tropical bird of gorgeous plumage swaying to and fro on a branch of equally gorgeous blossom.

"You are like a prince in a fairy tale, Cesare," she said, with a little delighted laugh; "everything you do is superbly done! How pleasant it is to be so rich--there is nothing better in all the world."

"Except love!" I returned, with a grim attempt to be sentimental.

Her large eyes softened like the pleading eyes of a tame fawn.

"Ay, yes!" and she smiled with expressive tenderness, "except love. But when one has both love and wealth, what a paradise life can be!"

"So great a paradise," I a.s.sented, "that it is hardly worth while trying to get into heaven at all! Will you make earth a heaven for me, Nina mia, or will you only love me as much--or as little--as you loved your late husband?"

She shrugged her shoulders and pouted like a spoilt child.

"Why are you so fond of talking about my late husband, Cesare?" she asked, peevishly; "I am so tired of his name! Besides, one does not always care to be reminded of dead people--and he died so horribly too!

I have often told you that I did not love him at all. I liked him a little, and I was quite ill when that dreadful monk, who looked like a ghost himself, came and told me he was dead. Fancy hearing such a piece of news suddenly, while I was actually at luncheon with Gui--Signore Ferrari! We were both shocked, of course, but I did not break my heart over it. Now I really DO love YOU--"

I drew nearer to her on the couch where she sat, and put one arm round her.

"You really DO?" I asked, in a half-incredulous tone; "you are quite sure?"

She laughed and nestled her head on my shoulder.