The Contessa's Vendetta (43 page)

My
wedding morning dawned bright and clear, though last night’s wind still sent clouds scuttling rapidly across a fair blue sky. The air was strong, fresh, and exhilarating, and the high spirited crowd that swarmed into the Piazza dei Signori was anxious to begin celebrating
Giovedi Grasso
, Fat Tuesday.

As the hours
passed, people hurried to the cathedral, anxious to secure their places in order to catch a glimpse of the pageantry and brilliant garments of the few distinguished persons who had been invited to my wedding. The ceremony was to take place at eleven, and at a little before half past ten I entered my carriage, accompanied by Federica Marina, my sole bridesmaid, and drove to the church. Clad in my dazzling gown of blue and gold silk brocade with adornments of satin and silk taffeta ribbon, and with an intricate embroidered veil to cover my simply styled hair, I bore almost no resemblance to the haggard woman who had faced me in the mirror a few hours earlier.

A strange
happiness took hold of me; a sort of half-frenzied merriment that threatened to break through the mask of dignified composure I must wear. There were moments when I could have laughed, shrieked, and sung with the energy of a drunken barmaid. As it was, I talked incessantly; my conversation flavored with bitter wit and pungent sarcasm. Once or twice Federica studied me with wonder, as though she thought my behavior contrived or unnatural. Paolo was compelled to drive rather slowly because of the pressing throngs that swarmed at every corner and through every thoroughfare. Masked celebrants yelled, street clowns romped about, and sharp bursts of colored bladders that people tossed into the air startled my spirited horses frequently, causing them to leap and prance dangerously, thus attracting more than the usual attention to my carriage. As it drew up at last at the door of the church, I was surprised to see such a large crowd. There were loungers, beggars, children, and middle-class persons of all sorts, who excitedly watched my arrival.

As per my
instructions, a rich crimson carpet had been laid down from the edge of the pavement right into the church as far as the altar. A silken awning had also been erected, under which bloomed a miniature avenue of palms and tropical flowers. All eyes were turned upon me as I stepped from my carriage and entered the chapel with Federica. Murmurs of my vast wealth and generosity were whispered as I passed along.

One old crone, hideously ugly, but with dark piercing
eyes, the fading lamps of a lost beauty, chuckled and mumbled as she craned her skinny neck to observe me more closely. “Oh, that poor woman. She has to be rich and generous to satisfy that money-hungry scoundrel she weds today – he who scoffs at the suffering poor!”

Federica
caught these words and glanced quickly at me, but I pretended not to have heard them.

The great bell of the cathedral boomed out eleven, and as the last stroke swung from the tower, the
massive doors were flung more widely open. I heard the gentle rustle of my trailing robes as I began my walk down the aisle.

Ahead,
standing before the altar, I beheld my husband. He wore a coat of dark blue velvet over a brocade waistcoat embroidered with silver thread. On his hands, wrists, and around his neck, he wore the jewels I had given him, and they flashed about him like scintillating points of light.

Inside the ch
urch, there were a great number of people, but my own invited guests, not numbering more than twenty or thirty, were seated in the space reserved for them near the altar, which was separated from the sight-seers by a silken rope that crossed the aisle. I smiled at most of them, and in return received their congratulations as I walked confidently towards the high altar. In my role as an older woman, I was without the escort of a paternal protector with only Federica to walk behind me.

The magnificent paintings
and frescos on the wall round me seemed endowed with mysterious life. The eyes of the saints and martyrs were turned to me as though they reprimanded me -
Must you do this? Is there no hope for forgiveness?

And
in my mind came my stern answer.
No! If hereafter I am tortured in hell, now while I live, I must be avenged! No consolation or joy can be mine without my fulfilled revenge. And this I will seek as long as I breathe. For once, a man’s treachery shall meet with punishment. For once, justice shall be done!

As I walked, I wrapped myself in
the somber, meditative silence. The sunlight fell gloriously through the stained windows; blue, gold, crimson, and violet shafts of dazzling radiance glittered in lustrous flickering patterns on the snowy whiteness of the marble altar, and slowly, softly, majestically, as though an angel stepped forward, the sound of music flowed on the incense-laden air.

I
recalled my former wedding, when I had stood in this very spot, full of hope, intoxicated with love and joy, when Beatrice Cardano had been by my side, and had been tempted for the first time by my husband’s handsome face and body; when I, poor fool, had never believed that either of these two people whom I adored could play me false.

I could
see the admiration that broke out in suppressed murmurs from those assembled, as I paced slowly and gracefully up the aisle towards the devil’s masterpiece who awaited me there. He smiled when I reached the altar and sank to my knees beside him in prayer. The music swelled forth with grandeur, the priests and acolytes appeared, and the marriage service commenced.

Soon came the blessing and exchange of rings.
I drew the wedding-ring from my small purse that hung from my waist and and looked at it. It was sparklingly bright and appeared new. But it was old - the very same ring I had drawn off my husband’s finger the day before. It had been newly burnished by a skilled jeweler, and showed no signs of wear, as if it had been bought that morning.

As we placed our rings on the book the priest held, I glanced at Dario.
His fair head was bent as if absorbed in holy meditations. The priest sprinkled them with holy water. Dario took the ring I had provided him to give me, and set it on my hand - first on the thumb, then on the index finger, then on the middle finger, and lastly on the ring finger, where he left it in its old place. As he did so, I wondered whether he recognized it as the one he had given me so long ago when we were first wed. But it was evident he did not. His calm remained unbroken. He had the self-possession of a perfectly satisfied, handsome, vain, and utterly heartless man.

The actual ceremony was soon over
. The Mass flowed smoothly, and we, the newly-wedded pair, were required to receive Communion. I shuddered as the priest placed the Host on my tongue. What had I to do with the purity and peace this memento of Christ is supposed to leave in our souls? In fact, as I swallowed, I believed the crucified image of Christ with the pained eyes let me know that I would soon seal my own damnation. Yet, my husband, the true murderer, the arch liar, received the Sacrament with untroubled tranquility.

If I am damned, then
he is double damned. Hell is wide enough for us to live apart when we get there.

Thus I consoled my conscience, and
looked away from the painted faces on the wall; the faces that in their various expressions of sorrow, resignation, pain, and death seemed now to bear another look, that of astonishment—astonishment that a woman like me and a man like him had been permitted to kneel at God’s altar without being struck dead for blasphemy.

Absorbed in
my morose thoughts, I scarcely heard the close of the service. I was roused by a touch from my husband, and I returned to the moment to hear the organ music thunder through the air. All was over: my husband was mine; mine by the exceptionally close-tied knot of a double marriage; mine to do with as I pleased until death should us part. How long before death would come to us? And I began mentally counting the spaces of time that must elapse before the curtain closed on the final act of this, my long drawn plan.

I was still absorbed in this mental arithmetic, even while
my husband offered me his arm before we entered the vestry to sign our names in the marriage register. So occupied was I in my calculations that I nearly caught myself murmuring certain numbers aloud. I checked myself and tried to appear interested and delighted, as I walked down the aisle with my groom through the rows of admiring spectators.

On reaching the outer doors of the ch
urch, several flower-girls emptied their fragrant baskets at our feet; and in return, I handed a bag of coins to Dario to distribute to them, knowing from prior experience that it would be needed. To tread across such a heap of flowers required some care. Many of the blossoms clung to my gown as we moved forward slowly.

Just as we had almost reached the carriage, a young girl, with large laughing
eyes set like flashing jewels in her soft oval face, threw a cluster of red roses down in my path. A sudden fury possessed me, and I crushed my heel instantly and savagely upon the crimson blossoms, stamping upon them again and again so violently that my husband raised his brows in amazement, and the pressing people who stood round us, shrugged and gazed at each other with looks of utter bewilderment—while the girl who had thrown them shrunk back in terror, her face paling as she murmured, “
Santissima Madonna! Mi fa paura!
Holy Mother, she scares me!”

I bit my lip with vexation, inwardly cursing the weakness of my own behavior. I laughed lightly in answer to
Dario’s unspoken, half-alarmed inquiry. “It is nothing—a mere fancy of mine. I hate red roses! They remind me of human blood!”

He frowned.
“What a horrible thought. How can you think such a thing?”

I gave him no
response. He assisted me into the carriage with courtesy; then entering it himself, we drove together back to my rented villa, where the wedding breakfast awaited us.

This is always a feast of uneasiness and embarrassment
. Everyone is glad when it is over; when the flowery speeches and exaggerated compliments are brought to a fitting and happy conclusion. Among my assembled guests, all of whom belonged to the best and most distinguished families in Vicenza, there was a pervading atmosphere of chilliness. The women were bored, jealous of my rich gown and jewels. The men were constrained, and could scarcely force themselves into even the semblance of warmth. They evidently thought that, with such wealth as Dario’s, he would have done much better to remain a bachelor. In truth, the Veneto people are by no means enthusiastic concerning marriage. They are apt to shake their heads, and to look upon it as a misfortune rather than a blessing.
The altar is the tomb of love
is a very common saying.

It was a relief to us all when we
all rose from the splendidly appointed table, and separated for a few hours. We were to meet again at the masquerade wedding ball, which was to commence at nine o’clock that evening. The highlight of the event was to be the final toasting of the bride after which there would be music, mirth, and dancing with all the splendor of royal revelry. At the end of the night, everyone would remove their masks and reveal themselves.

My husband escorted me
to my private room, for I had many things to do such as to take off my bridal gown, don my ball costume for the night, and supervise Santina as she packed my trunks for the next day’s journey.

The next day!
I smiled grimly and wondered how Dario would enjoy his last trip. He kissed my hand respectfully and left me alone to prepare for the brilliant evening’s feast.

Bridegrooms in Vicenza do not
bother their brides with their presence or caresses as soon as they are married. Instead, they restrain their ardor to preserve the rose-colored mist of love as long as possible. They have a wise, instinctive dread of becoming overfamiliar; aware that nothing kills romance so swiftly as close and constant proximity.

And
Dario and I, like other members of our rank and class, permitted each other a few moments of freedom. To my twice-wedded husband, I gave the last hours of liberty he would ever know. He left me to dress and adornment myself as most women do, believing I was eager to outshine others of my sex, and sow petty envies, mean hatreds and contemptible spites. But I was not such a woman. Tonight, I dressed only for Dario.

From my window
I could see the Piazza dei Signori and I stepped out onto the balcony to watch the crowd’s frolics. The foolery had begun, and no detail of it seemed to bore the easily amused folks who must have seen it all so often before. A vendor of quack medicines was making the crowd laugh. He was talking to a number of colorfully dressed girls and fishermen. I could not make out his exact words, but judging by his absurd romantic gestures, I could see he was selling an
elixir of love;
an elixir compounded, no doubt, of a little harmless honeyed water.

Flags
flapped in the breeze, trumpets brayed, and drums beat. Musicians twanged their mandolins loudly to attract attention, and failing in their efforts, swore at each other jovially. The conflicting calls of flower-girls and lemonade-sellers rang through the air. Now and then a shower of confetti flew out from adjacent windows, dusting the coats of the passers-by. Clusters of flowers tied with favors of brightly colored ribbon were lavishly flung at the feet of bright-eyed peasant girls, who rejected or accepted them at pleasure, with light words and playful talk. Clowns danced and tumbled, dogs barked, and church bells clanged. Through all the waves of color and movement crept the miserable, shrinking forms of poor diseased beggars clad in rags that barely covered their halting, withered limbs as the pleaded for a coin or two.