The Contessa's Vendetta (31 page)

Ippolita
Gualdro sprung to her feet and raised her glass high in the air. Every woman followed her example. Beatrice rose to her feet unsteadily, her countenance pale, while the hand that held her full wine glass trembled uncontrollably.

“You will, of course, honor us by disclosing the name of the handsome man whom we will soon toast?” Federica Marina asked.

“
I was about to ask the same question,” said Beatrice, her voice hoarse, her lips dry. She appeared to have some difficulty in speaking. “Possibly we are not acquainted with him?”

“
On the contrary,” I returned, eying her steadily with a cool smile. “You all know his name well! To the health of my betrothed, Signore Dario Gismondi!”

“
Liar!” shouted Beatrice, and with a madwoman’s fury, she dashed her brimming glass of wine at my chest. I stood tall and perfectly calm, wiping the rivulets of wine that dripped from my throat and down onto my gown with my napkin. The glass struck the table as it fell, splitting into shards.

“
Are you mad or drunk, Beatrice?” cried Eugenia d’Angelo, seizing her by the arm. “Do you know what you have done?”

Beatrice
glared about like a lioness at bay. Her face was flushed and swollen like that of someone suffering apoplexy. She was perspiring profusely. Her breath came and went hard as though she had been running. She turned her eyes upon me. “You whore!” she muttered through clinched teeth, and then suddenly raising her voice to a positive shriek, she cried, “I will have your blood if I have to tear your heart for it!” Beatrice sprung at me.

Eugenia d
’Angelo grabbed her by the arm arm and pulled her back. “Not so fast, not so fast,
cara
,” she said, coolly. “What devil possesses you, that you insult our hostess?”

“
Ask her!” Beatrice slurred fiercely, struggling to release herself from Eugenia’s grip. “She knows well enough! Ask her!”

All
eyes were turned to me. I remained silent.

“
The contessa is not obliged to give any explanation,” remarked Louisa Freccia.

“
I assure you, I am ignorant of the cause of such an acute reaction, except perhaps that Signorina Cardano aspires to wed my betrothed,” I said.

For a moment I thought
Beatrice might choke.

“
Aspires!” she gasped. “Hear her! Hear the miserable bitch!”

“
Basta!
That’s enough!” Elizabetta Mancona exclaimed scornfully. “You must be more sensible, Beatrice. Why quarrel with an excellent friend for the sake of a man who happens to prefer her to you! Men are plentiful, good friends are few.”

“
If,” I resumed, still wiping the stains of wine from my gown, “Signorina Cardano’s extraordinary display of temper is the outcome of disappointment, I am willing to excuse it. She is young and hotblooded. Let her apologize, and I shall freely pardon her.”

“
By my faith!” said Federica Marina with indignation. “Such generosity is unheard of, contessa! Permit me to say that it is altogether exceptional, after such an undignified and callous act.”

Beatrice
looked from one to the other in silent fury. Her face had grown pale as death. She wrenched herself from Eugenia d’Angelo’s grasp. “Let me go!” she said, savagely. “None of you are on my side. I see that!” She stepped to the table, held out a glass to Paolo, who poured more wine from the green bottle into it and drank heartily from it. She then turned and faced me, her head thrown back, her eyes blazing with wrath and pain. “Liar! You two-faced filthy liar! You have stolen him. You have fooled me, but, you shall pay for it!”

“
Willingly!” I said, with a mocking smile. I gestured with my hand to restrain the shocked exclamations of my other guests who obviously resented this fresh attack. “But excuse me if I fail to see how you consider yourself wronged. The man who is now my betrothed has not the slightest affection for you. He told me so himself. Had he experienced any such feelings I would nver have never accepted his proposal, but as matters stand, what harm have I done you?”

A chorus of indignant voices interrupted me.
“Shame on you, Beatrice Cardano!” cried Ippolita Gualdro. “The contessa is right. Were I in her place, I would give you no explanation whatever. I would not have condescended to discuss it with you at all!”

“
Nor I!” sniffed Federica Marina, stiffly.

“
Nor I!” said Elizabetta Mancona.

“
Surely, Beatrice, you will make amends and apologize,” said Luciana Salustri.

There was a pause. Each
woman anxiously looked at Beatrice. The suddenness of the quarrel had sobered the whole party more effectively than a cold rain. Beatrice’s face grew more and more livid. Her lips turned a ghastly blue. She laughed aloud in bitter scorn. Then, walking steadily up to me, with her eyes full of maliciousness. “You say that he never cared for me and I am to apologize to you? You are nothing more than a thief, a coward, a traitor of the worst sort! Take that for my apology!” And she struck me across the cheek with her bare hand so hard, that the diamond ring she wore, my diamond ring, cut my flesh and drew blood. A shout of anger broke from all present!

Beatrice
stood still for a moment, as did I. Then I saw her raise her hand to her throat and try to swallow. Sweat glistened on her brow. With her free hand, she clutched her stomach. Her face turned a light gray color as she swayed. Leaning slowly forward, she heaved, vomiting the contents of her stomach at my feet. Then she fainted.

I bent down to touch her cold and clammy hand. Then I turned and
touched Paolo, who, obedient to his orders, had remained an impassive but astonished spectator. “Paolo, see that Signorina Cardano is brought up to one of the bedrooms.”

Paolo beckoned two waiters to lift Beatrice
. They obeyed instantly. Speechless, the guests watched them leave. Servants immediately appeared carrying cloths, buckets, and mops to wash away the vomit.

I looked round at the rest of the assembled company with a smile at their troubled faces.
“Ladies, our feast has broken up in a rather disagreeable manner, and I am sorry for it, especially beause it compels me to part from you. Receive my thanks for your company, and for your friendship. I hope to see you all again on my wedding day when nothing shall mar the merry occasion. In the meantime, I bid you all a good night!”

They closed round me, pressing my hands warmly and assuring me of their sympathy
and support over the quarrel that had occurred. I escaped from them all at last and reached the quiet room where Beatrice lay ill and moaning. At her bedside, I sat alone for a while. I heard the departing footsteps of my guests as they left by twos and threes. Now and then I caught a few words whispered in exchange by the waiters who were discussing the affair as they cleared away the remains of the dinner feast where death itself had been seated. Thirteen at table! One was a traitor and one must die. I knew which one. Beatrice! No presentiment lurked in my mind as to the doubtful result. Part of my vengeance would soon be fulfilled.

I looked down upon her. Her breathing was slow and shallow. Cold sweat dampened her face, tendrils of hair damp upon her skin.
Oh, what bitter agony Beatrice Cardano must have carried in her heart when I made my stunning announcement. How she had looked when I said he never cared for her! Just like the things she had said about me. Poor wretch! I pitied her even while I rejoiced at her torture. She suffered now as I had suffered. She was duped as I had been duped. And each quiver of her convulsed and tormented face brought me satisfaction. Each moment that remained of her life was now a pang to her. Well! It would soon be over. At least in that, I would be merciful.

I went to the window, and drawing back the curtains, surveyed the exquisitely peaceful scene that lay before me. The moon was still high and bright
. There was a heavy unnatural silence everywhere. It oppressed me, and I threw the window wide open for air. Then came the sound of bells chiming softly. People passed through the streets with quiet footsteps. Some paused to exchange friendly greetings. I remembered what day it was with a pang at my heart. The night was over, though as yet there was no sign of dawn. It was Christmas morning!

I looked back at Beatrice. H
ad I not suffered as she was now suffering? No, I had suffered more than she, for she would not be buried alive! I would take care of that. She would not have to endure the agony of breaking free from a cold grave to come back to life and find her name slandered and her place taken by a usurper. Do what I would, I could not torture her as much as I myself had been tortured. That was a pity. Death, sudden and almost painless, seemed too good for her. She must live long enough to recognize me before she died. That was the sting I reserved for her last moments. Beatrice had hurt me three times. Once in her theft of my husband’s affections, once in her contempt for my little dead child, and once more in her slanders on my name. Then why were such foolish notions such as pity and forgiveness beginning to creep into my thoughts? It was too late now for forgiveness. The very idea of it only rose out of silly sentimentalism awakened when Beatrice alluded to our young days; days for which, after all, she really cared nothing about.

I turned to
look at Beatrice again and would do so with uncovered eyes. I removed my spectacles and placed them on the bedside table. Vaguely, I wondered what the effect would be upon her. I was very much changed even without these disguising glasses. My white hair had altered my appearance, yet I knew there was something familiar in the expression of my eyes that could not fail to startle one who had known me so well.

As I studied her pain
ed, suffering face, I experienced a passing shudder, but not because the air was chilly. It was because of the terrible certainty of killing the woman I had once loved, my dearest friend. I experienced a sick pain in my heart. And when I thought of Dario, the snake who had wrought all the evil, my wrath against him increased tenfold. I wondered scornfully what he was doing in the quiet monastery in Padua. No doubt he slept; it was yet too early for him to practice his sham of sanctity. He slept, in all probability most peacefully, while his wife waited for death to take his lover.

Beatrice moaned and opened her eyes, glazed with agony. She stared at me
with a frantic faroff look. Suddenly she shuddered and gave out another smothered groan. A deep anguished sigh parted her lips. Sense and speculation returned to those glaring eyes so awfully upturned. She looked upon my face without the dark glasses with doubt, and then she grew strangely shocked. Her lips moved and she tried to speak. She pointed at me. Her wild eyes met mine with a piteous beseeching terror.

“
In God’s name,” she whispered. “Who are you?”

“
You know me, Beatrice!” I answered, steadily. “I am Carlotta Mancini, whom you once called friend. I am the woman whose husband you stole and whose name you slandered and whose honor you despised. Look at me well. Your own heart tells you who I am!”

She
uttered a low moan and raised her hand with a feeble gesture. “Carlotta? Carlotta?” she gasped. “She died. I saw her in her coffin.”

I leaned more closely over h
er. “I was buried alive,” I said distinctly. “Do you understand, Beatrice. Buried alive! I escaped, never mind how. I came home, only to learn about your treachery. Shall I tell you more?”

A terrible shudder shook h
er frame. Her head moved restlessly to and fro, the sweat stood in large drops upon her forehead. With my own handkerchief I wiped her lips and brow tenderly. My nerves were fraught to a brittle tension. I smiled as if on the verge of hysterical weeping.

“
You know the dear old avenue where the nightingales sing? I saw you there with him on the night I returned from death. He held you in his arms and you kissed. You spoke of me and toyed with a flower.”

She
writhed under my gaze with a strong convulsive movement. “Tell me!” she gasped. “Does he know you?”

“
Not yet!” I answered, slowly. “But soon he will, when I marry him.”

A look of bitter anguish filled h
er straining eyes. “Oh, God, God!” she exclaimed with a groan like that of a wild beast in pain. “This is horrible, too horrible! Spare me, spare—” A rush of vomit choked her utterance. Her breathing grew fainter and fainter; the livid hue of her approaching death spread itself gradually over her expression. Staring wildly at me, she groped with her hands as though she searched for some lost thing. I took one of those feebly wandering hands within my own, and held it closely clasped.

“
You know the rest,” I said gently. “You understand my vengeance! But it is all over, Beatrice, all over, now! He has played us both false. You drank poisoned wine all night, all part of my vendetta. It is over now. May God forgive you as I do!”

“
I must see Dario.” She laboured to speak each word.

“
He is gone. I sent him away to Padua.”

Slowly I watched her expression of rage turn to one of understanding.
She gave me a weak smile. “You won. You always win.” A soft look brightened her fast-glazing eyes, the old girlish look that had won my love and friendship in former days. “All over!” she repeated in a sort of plaintive babble. “All over now! God—Carlotta—forgive—” A terrible convulsion wrenched and contorted her limbs and features, her throat rattled, and stretching herself out with a long shivering sigh, she died.