The Contessa's Vendetta (39 page)

Piazza dei Signori

We left the
Piazza dei Signori, and paused at a street corner.

“
Do you remember Cesare Negri?” I asked.

He
shrugged. “Oh,
povero diavolo
, the poor devil! I remember him well, a courageous fellow and fearless, with a big heart, too, if one knew where to find it. Now he drags his chains through hell. Well, no doubt he deserves it, but there are worse men in the world than Cesare.”

I
told him how I had seen Negri under arrest when I was in Pescara and that I had spoken with him. “I mentioned you, and he asked me to tell you that Teresa killed herself.”

“
Ah! Unfortunately I already know,” he said sympathetically and sighed. “
Poverinetta
! Poor little one. So fragile and small! To think she had the courage and strength to plunge the knife in her own breast. Ah well, women will do strange things, especially over the love of a man, and there is no doubt she loved Cesare.”

“
If you had the opportunity, would you help Negri escape again?” I inquired with a half smile.

“
Not I, contessa. No, not now. The law is the law, and I, Ernesto Paccanini, do not wish to break it. No, Cesare must accept his punishment. It is a life sentence, and rather harsh, but no one can deny it is fair. When Teresa was alive, that was different. I might have considered it, but now, let the saints help Cesare, for I cannot.”

I laughed as I met the audacious flash of his
eyes. I knew, despite his denial, that if Cesare Negri ever got free of the galleys, he might just find the captain and his vessel waiting nearby. “Do you still own your brig, the Laura Bella?” 

“
Si
, contessa, the Madonna be praised! And she has been newly rigged and painted. She is as trim a craft as any you will find in the wide blue waters of the Adriatic.”

“
I have a friend, someone related to me, who is experiencing some trouble. It is best for her that she leave Vicenza in secret. Will you help her? You will be paid well.”

He looked p
uzzled and remained silent while he pondered my request.

I continued, noting his
hesitation. “She is the victim of some cruel and malicious acts by a family member and is desperate to escape his vicious maltreatment.”

His
brow cleared. “Oh, if that is the case, contessa, I am at your service. But where does your friend wish to go?”

I paused for a moment and considered
. “To Civita Vecchia. From that port she can obtain a ship to take her to a further destination; anywhere she wants.”

The captain
’s expression turned solemn and he looked doubtful. “Civita Vecchia is a long way from here, and it is winter with many cross currents and opposing winds. With all my heart, contessa, it would be my pleasure to help you in any way I can, but I cannot risk sailing the Laura Bella so far in such adverse weather.” He paused to consider something in silence. “But I know of another ship, and it might suit your friend’s needs.” He layed his hand confidentially on my arm. “It is a stout brig and leaves for Civita Vecchia next Friday morning.”

“
The day after Fat Thursday?” I queried, with a smile he did not understand.

He nodded.
“Yes, exactly. She carries a cargo of Prosecco wine, and is very swift, very sturdy. I know her captain very well.” He laughed lightly. “He is a good soul, but like the rest of us, he works hard to earn a good living. For someone as wealthy as you, money is of little consequence, but for people like us, well, we work hard and there is never enough to meet the needs of our families. Now, if you agree, I will approach him and make him an offer for passage in whatever amount of money you decide to pay, and I will tell him to expect one passenger. I can assure you, he will not refuse.”

His suggestion fit
with my plans perfectly and I offered to pay a generous sum for the passage.

The captain’s
eyes glistened. “That is a small fortune! I’d be lucky to earn that in twenty voyages! But I should not be impolite. Such good fortune cannot touch everyone.”

I smiled.
“Do not worry. I would never allow you to go unrewarded.” I placed two gold florins in his palm. “As you said, money is of little consequence to me. Arrange this little matter without difficulty, and I shall not forget you. You can call at my rented villa tomorrow or the next day, when you have settled everything. Here is the address.” I handed him my card. “But remember, in order to protect my friend, this voyage and her presence on his ship must be kept in the strictest confidence. I will rely on you to explain it as such to your friend who commands the brig going to Civita Vecchia. He must ask no questions of his passenger. The more silence, the more discretion. Then, when he has safely landed the passenger at her destination, he must forget all about her. Do you understand?”

Enrico
nodded and winked. “
Si, si,
contessa. He has a very bad memory, and it shall only become worse. Believe it!”

I laughed
and then we parted. As I walked away, an open carriage coming swiftly toward me attracted my attention. As it drew nearer I recognized the prancing steeds and the familiar livery. An elegant man clad in olive velvets and a cloak trimmed in Russian sables looked out, smiling and waving at the dancers.

Dario! M
y husband, my betrothed. Beside him sat the Doge’s Grand Equerry, Giovanni Gabaldi, a most upstanding and irreproachable men, famous for his honorable conduct not only in Vicenza but throughout the Veneto region. He was so virtuous and unimpeachable, that it was difficult to imagine him even daring to be affectionate with his righteous, well-dressed wife. Yet I recalled a rumour about him; an old tale that came from Padua, of how a young and handsome nobleman had been found dead at his villa’s doors, stabbed to the heart. Some say Gabaldi killed him, but nothing could be proved, so nothing was certain. On the matter, the Equerry remained silent, and so did his wife. Scandal seemed to elude this stately couple, whose behavior toward each other when out in society was a lesson in perfect etiquette. If dissension existed behind the scenes, no one knew, for they kept it well hidden from the world. I ducked behind a column as the carriage containing the two hypocrites dashed by.

I was in a
reflective mood, and when I reached the market, the distracting noises of venders selling their wares of chestnuts and confetti, the nasal singing of the street-rhymers, the yells of
Punchinello
marionettes
,
and people’s laughter frayed my nerves and tried my endurance.

To
indulge a sudden impulse that took hold of me, I made my way into some crowded alleys, trying to find the street where I had purchased the clothes on the day I had escaped from the crypt. I took several wrong turns, but at last I found it.

The
old rag-dealer’s shop was still there, and in the same filthy condition of utter disorder. Like before, a woman sat at the door mending, but she was not the same brusque, warped old hag of before. This was a much younger and stouter individual, with a Jewish face and dark, ferocious eyes. I approached her. When she noticed my fancy dress and refined manner, she rose courteously and smiled with a respectful, yet suspicious air.

“
Are you the owner?” I asked.

“
Si, signora!”

“
What became of the old woman who used to own the shop before you?”

She
laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and drew her finger across her throat. “She killed herself with a sharp knife! She left behind a great deal of blood, too, for so withered a body. To kill herself in that fashion was stupid. She spoiled a rare Indian shawl that was on her bed, worth more than a thousand lire. One would not have thought she had so much blood in her.”

I
listened in sickened silence. “Was she mad?” I asked.

“
Mad? Well, everyone certainly seems to think so, but I think she was sane, all except for the matter of that shawl. She should have taken that off her bed first before she killed herself. Yet, she was wise enough to know that she was of no use to anybody. She did the best she could. Did you know her, signora?”

“
I gave her money once,” I replied, evasively; then taking out a few silver coins, I handed them to this evil-eyed, furtive-looking daughter of Israel, who received the gift with overenthusiastic gratitude. “Thank you for your information,” I said coldly. “Good-day.”

“
Good-day to you, signora,” she replied, resuming her mending and watching me curiously as I turned away.

I
walked down the dirty street feeling faint and giddy. The death of the miserable rag-dealer had been relayed to me in a callous manner, yet I was moved by a sense of regret and pity. Poor, half crazy, and utterly friendless, the old woman had suffered betrayal and had wallowed in the same bitterness and sorrow as me. I shuddered and wondered if my death would be as violent as hers. When my vendetta was complete, would I grow old, shrunken, and mad? On a lurid day, would I also draw a sharp knife across my throat to end my life? I walked more rapidly to shake off the morbid thoughts that crept insidiously into my mind.

Earlier,
the chaotic noise of the market had became unbearable. Now, I found it both a relief and a distraction. Two men in carnivale masks dressed in violet and gold costumes whizzed past me. A man leaned out of a colorfully decorated balcony and dropped a bunch of roses at my feet. I stooped to pick them up, and then raising my eyes, I waved to him in gratitude. A few paces on, I gave them away to a ragged child. Of all flowers in the world, they were, and still are, the ones I most detest. Dario had given Beatrice a rose on that night when I had seen her clasped in his arms. The red rose on her breast had been crushed in their embrace—a rose whose withered leaves I still possess.

In
my rented villa there are no roses, and I am much relieved. The trees are very tall, the tangle of bramble and coarse brushwood far too dense. Nothing grows there but a few herbs and field flowers, unsuitable for picking, wearing or decorating. Yet to me, they are preferable than roses whose vibrant colors and lush aromas are forever spoiled to me. I may be harsh in judging such beautiful flowers, but their perfume now provokes a terrible memory I yearn to forget.

When I
returned home, I discovered I was late for dinner. The worried expressions on Paolo’s and Santina’s faces faded moments after I walked through the door. Both had been watching over me anxiously. My brooding, long, solitary walks, and all the hours I spent locked in my room writing, worried them. Paolo helped me remove my gloves and mantle, biting his tongue as if to keep from asking me any questions.

I
hurried through my dinner and then rushed to my room to change. I was to meet Dario and two of his friends at the theatre, and knew I would be late. I found him already seated in his box, looking refined and elegant in his golden embroidered waistcoat and white silk shirt with ruffles sleeves. His breeches were black brocade above white stockings and black shoes with gold buckles. On his wrists and fingers he wore the rings and bracelets I had asked Beatrice to give him from the stolen hoard. The jewels flared against the flaming sconces around us.

When he saw me enter, he and his friends rose simultaneously to greet me. Dario kissed me on the cheek
with his usual enthusiasm, and handed me a gift of an expensive bouquet of gardenias set within a mother-of-pearl handle studded with garnets. I acknowledged his friends with a nod; both of whom I was acquainted with from long ago, and then took my seat next to Dario just as the comedy was about to begin.

T
he play was about a young wife, her old doting husband, and her noble lover. The husband was played the fool, of course. The climax of the comedy occurred when the husband found himself locked out of his own house in his nightclothes during a pelting rainstorm while his virtuous spouse enjoyed a luxurious supper with her admirer. My husband laughed heartily at all the poor jokes and stale adages. He especially seemed taken by the actress who played the wife; a cheeky, hotheaded liar who flagrantly flashed her dark eyes, tossed her head, and heaved her abundant bosom flamboyantly whenever she hissed out the words v
ecchiaccio maladetto
, accursed villainous old monster, at her husband’s humiliation. What shocked me the most, was how the audience sympathized with her, even though she was in the wrong.