His dark eyes sparkled with grat.i.tude as I spoke, and setting the valise he held down on the ground, he stretched out his hand half timidly, half frankly. I shook it warmly and bade him farewell.

"Per Bacco!" he said, with a sort of shamefaced eagerness, "the very devil must have caught my tongue in his fingers! There is something I ought to say to you, eccellenza, but for my life I cannot find the right words. I must thank you better when I see you next."

"Yes," I answered, dreamily and somewhat wearily, "when you see me next, Andrea, you shall thank me if you will; but believe me, I need no thanks."

And thus we parted, never to meet again--he to the strong glad life that is born of the wind and sea, and I to--. But let me not antic.i.p.ate. Step by step through the labyrinths of memory let me go over the old ground watered with blood and tears, not missing one sharp stone of detail on the drear pathway leading to the bitter end.

That same evening I had an interview with Vincenzo. He was melancholy and taciturn--a mood which was the result of an announcement I had previously made to him--namely, that his services would not be required during my wedding-trip. He had hoped to accompany me and to occupy the position of courier, valet, major-domo, and generally confidential attendant--a hope which had partially soothed the vexation he had evidently felt at the notion of my marrying at all.

His plans were now frustrated, and if ever the good-natured fellow could be ill-tempered, he was a.s.suredly so on this occasion. He stood before me with his usual respectful air, but he avoided my glance, and kept his eyes studiously fixed on the pattern of the carpet. I addressed him with an air of gayety.

"Ebbene, Vincenzo! Joy comes at last, you see, even to me! To-morrow I shall wed the Countess Romani--the loveliest and perhaps the richest woman in Naples!"

"I know it, eccellenza."

This with the same obstinately fixed countenance and downward look.

"You are not very pleased, I think, at the prospect of my happiness?" I asked, banteringly.

He glanced up for an instant, then as quickly down again.

"If one could be sure that the ill.u.s.trissimo eccellenza was indeed happy, that would be a good thing," he answered, dubiously.

"And are you not sure?"

He paused, then replied firmly:

"No; the eccellenza does not look happy. No, no, davvero! He has the air of being sorrowful and ill, both together."

I shrugged my shoulders indifferently.

"You mistake me, Vincenzo. I am well--very well--and happy! Gran Dio!

who could be happier? But what of my health or happiness?--they are nothing to me, and should be less to you. Listen; I have something I wish you to do for me."

He gave me a sidelong and half-expectant glance. I went on:

"To-morrow evening I want you to go to Avellino."

He was utterly astonished.

"To Avellino!" he murmured under his breath, "to Avellino!"

"Yes, to Avellino," I repeated, somewhat impatiently. "Is there anything so surprising in that? You will take a letter from me to the Signora Monti. Look you, Vincenzo, you have been faithful and obedient so far, I expect implicit fidelity and obedience still. You will not be needed here to-morrow after the marriage ball has once begun; you can take the nine o'clock train to Avellino, and--understand me--you will remain there till you receive further news from me. You will not have to wait long, and in the mean time," here I smiled, "you can make love to Lilla."

Vincenzo did not return the smile.

"But--but," he stammered, sorely perplexed--"if I go to Avellino I cannot wait upon the eccellenza. There is the portmanteau to pack--and who will see to the luggage when you leave on Friday morning for Rome?

And--and--I had thought to see you to the station--" He stopped, his vexation was too great to allow him to proceed.

I laughed gently.

"How many more trifles can you think of, my friend, in opposition to my wishes? As for the portmanteau, you can pack it this very day if you so please--then it will be in readiness. The rest of your duties can for once be performed by others. It is not only important, but imperative that you should go to Avellino on my errand. I want you to take this with you," and I tapped a small square iron box, heavily made and strongly padlocked, which stood an the table near me.

He glanced at the box, but still hesitated, and the gloom on his countenance deepened. I grew a little annoyed.

"What is the matter with you?" I said at last with some sternness. "You have something on your mind--speak out!"

The fear of my wrath startled him. He looked up with a bewildered pain in his eyes, and spoke, his mellow Tuscan voice vibrating with his own eloquent entreaty.

"Eccellenza!" he exclaimed, eagerly, "you must forgive me--yes, forgive your poor servant who seems too bold, and who yet is true to you--yes, indeed, so true!--and who would go with you to death if there were need! I am not blind, I can see your sufferings, for you do suffer, 'l.u.s.trissimo, though you hide it well. Often have I watched you when you have not known it. I feel that you have what we call a wound in the heart, bleeding, bleeding always. Such a thing means death often, as much as a straight shot in battle. Let me watch over you, eccellenza; let me stay with you! I have learned to love you! Ah, mio signor," and he drew nearer and caught my hand timidly, "you do not know--how should you?--the look that is in your face sometimes, the look of one who is stunned by a hard blow. I have said to myself 'That look will kill me if I see it often.' And your love for this great lady, whom you will wed to-morrow, has not lightened your soul as love should lighten it.

No! you are even sadder than before, and the look I speak of comes ever again and again. Yes, I have watched you, and lately I have seen you writing, writing far into the night, when you should have slept. Ah, signor! you are angry, and I know I should not have spoken; but tell me, how can I look at Lilla and be happy when I feel that you are alone and sad?"

I stopped the flood of his eloquence by a mute gesture and withdrew my hand from his clasp.

"I am not angry," I said, with quiet steadiness, and yet with something of coldness, though my whole nature, always highly sensitive, was deeply stirred by the rapid, unstudied expressions of affection that melted so warmly from his lips in the liquid music of the mellow Tuscan tongue. "No, I am not angry, but I am sorry to have been the object of so much solicitude on your part. Your pity is misplaced, Vincenzo, it is indeed! Pity an emperor clad in purples and seated on a throne of pure gold, but do not pity ME! I tell you that, to-morrow, yes, to-morrow, I shall obtain all that I have ever sought--my greatest desire will be fulfilled. Believe it. No man has ever been so thoroughly satiated with--satisfaction--as I shall be!"

Then seeing him look still sad and incredulous, I clapped my hand on his shoulder and smiled.

"Come, come, amico, wear a merrier face for my bridal day, or you will not deserve to wed Lilla. I thank you from my heart," and I spoke more gravely, "for your well meant care and kindness, but I a.s.sure you there is nothing wrong with me. I am well--perfectly well--and happy. It is understood that you go to Avellino to-morrow evening?"

Vincenzo sighed, but was pa.s.sive.

"It must be as the eccellenza pleases," he murmured, resignedly.

"That is well," I answered, good-humoredly; "and as you know my pleasure, take care that nothing interferes with your departure.

And--one word more--you must cease to watch me. Plainly speaking, I do not choose to be under your surveillance. Nay--I am not offended, far from it, fidelity and devotion are excellent virtues, but in the present case I prefer obedience--strict, implicit obedience. Whatever I may do, whether I sleep or wake, walk or sit still--attend to YOUR duties and pay no heed to MY actions. So will you best serve me--you understand?"

"Si, signor!" and the poor fellow sighed again, and reddened with his own inward confusion. "You will pardon me, eccellenza, for my freedom of speech? I feel I have done wrong--"

"I pardon you for what in this world is never pardoned--excess of love," I answered, gently. "Knowing you love me, I ask you to obey me in my present wishes, and thus we shall always be friends."

His face brightened at these last words, and his thoughts turned in a new direction. He glanced at the iron box I had before pointed out to him.

"That is to go to Avellino, eccellenza?" he asked, with more alacrity than he had yet shown.

"Yes," I answered. "You will place it in the hands of the good Signora Monti, for whom I have a great respect. She will take care of it till--I return."

"Your commands shall be obeyed, signor," he said, rapidly, as though eager to atone for his past hesitation. "After all," and he smiled, "it will be pleasant to see Lilla; she will be interested, too, to hear the account of the eccellenza's marriage."

And somewhat consoled by the prospect of the entertainment his unlooked-for visit would give to the charming little maiden of his choice, he left me, and shortly afterward I heard him humming a popular love-song softly under his breath, while he busied himself in packing my portmanteau for the honeymoon trip--a portmanteau destined never to be used or opened by its owner.

That night, contrary to my usual habit, I lingered long over my dinner; at its close I poured out a full gla.s.s of fine Lacrima Cristi, and secretly mixing with it a dose of a tasteless but powerful opiate, I called my valet and bade him drink it and wish me joy. He did so readily, draining the contents to the last drop. It was a tempestuous night; there was a high wind, broken through by heavy sweeping gusts of rain. Vincenzo cleared the dinner-table, yawning visibly as he did so, then taking my out-door paletot on his arm, he went to his bedroom, a small one adjoining mine, for the purpose of brushing it, according to his customary method. I opened a book, and pretending to be absorbed in its contents, I waited patiently for about half an hour.

At the expiration of that time I stole softly to his door and looked in. It was as I had expected; overcome by the sudden and heavy action of the opiate, he had thrown himself on his bed, and was slumbering profoundly, the unbrushed overcoat by his side. Poor fellow! I smiled as I watched him; the faithful dog was chained, and could not follow my steps for that night at least.

I left him thus, and wrapping myself in a thick Almaviva that m.u.f.fled me almost to the eyes, I hurried out, fortunately meeting no one on my way--out into the storm and darkness, toward the Campo Santo, the abode of the all-wise though speechless dead. I had work to do there--work that must be done. I knew that if I had not taken the precaution of drugging my too devoted servitor, he might, despite his protestations, have been tempted to track me whither I went. As it was, I felt myself safe, for four hours must pa.s.s, I knew, before Vincenzo could awake from his lethargy. And I was absent for some time.

Though I performed my task as quickly as might be, it took me longer than I thought, and filled me with more loathing and reluctance than I had deemed possible. It was a grewsome, ghastly piece of work--a work of preparation--and when I had finished it entirely to my satisfaction, I felt as though the bony fingers of death itself had been plunged into my very marrow. I shivered with cold, my limbs would scarce bear me upright, and my teeth chattered as though I were seized by strong ague.