Stolen Souls — V - Santina, part 1
"From the Contessa, signore."
A tall liveried servant handed me a coroneted missive, and, bowing stiffly, withdrew.
Taking the letter mechanically, I sat puffing at my cigarette and dreaming.
The sultry day was over, and the full moon was shining down clear and cool.
Genoa had drawn breath again; its streets and piazzas had grown alive with the stir of manifold movement; the broad Via Roma, with its fine shops and garish _cafes_, echoed with increasing confusion of voices and jest and laughter and song; while the flower-sellers were everywhere, and the newsboys in strident tones cried the _Secolo_ and the _Gazzetta_.
My small and rather shabby room was on the top floor of a great old palazzo in the Via Balbi.
The jalousies, wide-open, admitted little gusts of fresh air that blew up from the sea, while the ceaseless babel of tongues, the clip-clap of horses' hoofs, and the indescribable odour of garlic, fried oil, and the cheap cigars characteristic of an Italian street, was borne in upon me.
Two candles in the sconces of a small Venetian mirror shed their light over the pedestal, upon which was a statue almost finished.
It was a representation of a lovely woman in carnival dress, that I had chiselled in marble.
The face was absolutely beautiful, not only because of its perfect harmony, not only winsome in the gentleness of its contour, but it was also masterful by virtue of the freedom and force expressed in all its firmness.
Lazily I opened the letter, and prepared to feast upon its contents.
But the few brief words penned in a woman's hand caused me to start to my feet in anger and dismay; and, holding my breath, I crushed the missive and cast it under my foot.
She who had written to me was the original of this statue, which was considered my masterpiece.
The note was cold and formal, unlike her usual graceful letters.
It stated that she was leaving Italy that evening; and expressed regret she could not sit again to me.
She also enclosed a bank-note for two thousand lire, which she apparently believed would repay me for my trouble.
My trouble!
_Dio mio_!
Had it not been a labour of love, when I adored--nay, worshipped her; and she, in her turn, had bestowed smiles and kisses upon me?
Yet she had written and sent me money, as if I were a mere tradesman;
and from the tone of her note, it seemed as if our friendship existed no longer.
Every day she had come to my studio, bringing with her that breath of stephanotis that always pervaded her; and because she was not averse to a mild flirtation, I had believed she loved me!
Bah!
I had been fooled!
The iron of a wasted love, of a useless sacrifice, was in my heart.
This sudden awakening had crushed me; and I stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, unaware of the presence of a visitor, until I felt a hearty slap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, faced my old friend, Pietro Barolini.
"_Chi vide mai tanto_!"
he cried cheerily.
"Why, my dear fellow, you look as if you've got a very bad attack of melancholia.
What's the matter?"
"Read that," I said, pointing to the crumpled letter on the floor.
"Tell me, what am I to do?"
Picking up the note, he read it through, drew a heavy breath, and remained silent and thoughtful.
Pietro and I had been companions ever since our childhood days, when, as bare-legged urchins, sons of honest fishermen, we had played on the beach at our quiet home in rural Tuscany.
When we set out together to seek our fortunes, Fate directed us to Genoa; and in "La Superba" we still lived, Pietro having become a well-known musician; while I, Gasparo Corazzini, had, by a vagary of chance, attracted the notice of the great _maestro_ Verga, under whose tuition I had developed into a successful sculptor.
"It is unfortunate," my friend said at last, twisting his pointed black moustache; "yet she is not of our world, and, after all, perhaps it is best that you should part."
"Ah!"
I said.
"Your words are well meant, Pietro; but I love her too passionately to cast aside her memory so lightly.
I must see her.
She must tell me from her own lips that she no longer cares for me!"
I
cried, starting up impetuously.
"Very well--go.
Take her back the money with which she has insulted you, and bid adieu to her forever.
You will soon forget."
"Yes," I said; "I will."
Snatching up my hat, and crushing the letter into the pocket of my blouse, I rushed out and down the stairs into the street, without a thought of personal appearance, my only desire being to catch her before she departed.
Blindly I hurried across the Piazza del Principe, then out of the town into the open country, never slackening my pace for a moment until I entered the grounds of a great white villa that stood on the hillside at Comigliano, overlooking the moonlit sea.
Then, with a firm determination to be calm, I advanced towards the house cautiously, and, swinging myself upon the low verandah, peered in at a glass door that stood open.
Noiselessly I entered.
The room was dazzling in its magnificence, notwithstanding that the lamps were shaded by soft lace and tinted silk.
The gilt furniture, the great mirrors, the statuary--genuine works by Leopardi and Sansovino--the Persian rugs and rich silken hangings, all betokened wealth, taste, and refinement.
Reclining on a couch with languid grace, clad in a loose wrapper of dove-grey silk, with her hair _en deshabille_, was the woman I loved.
"Santina!"
I whispered, bending over her, uttering a pet name I had bestowed upon her.
She started, and jumped up quickly, half-frightened, exclaiming-- "_Cielo_!
You, Gasparo--you _here_?"
"Yes," I replied, catching her white bejewelled hand and kissing it.
"Yes.
Why not?"
She snatched away her hand quickly, and passed it wearily across her brow.
Her beauty shone with marvellous radiance, for she was only twenty-four--fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slim, graceful figure that gave her an almost girlish appearance.
I own myself entranced by her loveliness.
"I thought," she said, after a moment's hesitation--"I thought my note explained everything.
The statue is practically finished, and--" "No--no!"
I cried.
"It is still incomplete.
You cannot--you shall not leave me, Santina!"
"Pray, why?"
she asked indignantly, raising her eyebrows.
"Because--because I love you," I stammered.
"Love!"
she exclaimed, with a light laugh.
"Bah!
How foolish!
Love!
It is only plebeians and fools who love.
There is no such word in our vocabulary."
"Yes, yes," I said quickly.
"I know the insurmountable barrier that lies between us, Santina.
But do you intend to leave Italy--to leave me alone--now?"
"Of course.
It is not my intention to return for several years; perhaps never.
We have spent many pleasant hours together; but you have become infatuated, therefore we must part."
"No!"
I cried; "I cannot--I will not let you go!
Only a week ago you confessed that you loved me.
What have I done that you should treat me so?"
She made no immediate answer; and as she stood with bowed head and somewhat pale, thoughtful face, I wondered what mystery veiled and troubled her clear, resolute nature.
Placing my arm around her waist, I bent and kissed her lips; but she struggled to free herself.
"_Dio_!"
she cried hoarsely.
"Why have you come here, Gasparo?
Think of my reputation--my honour!
If any one found you here alone with me, and I in _deshabille_."
"Tell me, Santina, do you still love me?"
I asked earnestly, looking into her eyes.
"I--I hardly know," she replied, with a strange, preoccupied air.
"Why are you leaving so suddenly?"
"Because it is imperative," she replied.
"But hush!
listen!
a voice!
_Dio!
it is my husband_!"
"Your husband!"
I gasped.
"What do you mean?
I thought the Count died in Buenos Ayres two years ago, and that you were free?"
"So did I. But that was his voice.
_Cielo_!
I know it, alas!
too well," she said, turning deathly pale.
Rushing suddenly across the room, she snatched something from a small niche in the wall and brought it over to me.
It was a curious little ivory idol, about six inches long, representing Amida, the eternal Buddha.
Kissing it, she handed it to me, saying-- "Quick!
take this as a souvenir.
It has been my talisman; may it be yours.
When I am absent, look upon it sometimes, Gasparo, and think of me."
"You do love me, then, Santina?"
I cried joyously; for answer she placed her lips to mine.
"Hide!
hide at once!"
she implored.
"Kneel behind that screen, or we are lost.
Remain there until we have left the house, and tell no one that you have seen the Count.
_A rivederci_!"
I slipped into the place she indicated, and not a moment too soon, for as I did so, a short, stout man of about sixty years of age entered.
His face wore a strange, fixed expression, and as he strode in, he betrayed no astonishment at meeting his wife, although she, terrified and trembling, shrank from him.
"I thought you were ready," he exclaimed roughly.
"Be quick and put on your travelling dress.
The carriage is on its way round, and we haven't a moment to spare if we mean to leave to-night."
"I shall not keep you long," she sighed, and a few moments later they both turned and left the room.
The reappearance of the Count di Pallanzeno, whom every one believed had died, was puzzling, and the manner in which husband and wife conversed showed there was but little affection between them.
Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten to return the bank-note, but I saw it was useless to attempt to do so now, therefore I decided to keep it until we met again.
Obeying the Contessa's instructions, I remained in my hiding-place for half an hour, until I heard the carriage drive away down the road, then I stole out upon the verandah and let myself down noiselessly into the garden.
The moon was shining brilliantly on the white blossoms and the pale marbles, and in order to escape the observation of any of the servants who might be about, I crept along under the dark shadow of the ilex-trees in the direction of the road.
I had not gone very far when suddenly I caught my foot in an obstruction, and, stumbling, fell over some object that lay in my path.
Regaining my feet, I bent to ascertain the cause of my fall, when, to my amazement, I discovered it was a man.
I touched the face, and drew back in horror.
_The man was dead_!
Everything was quiet, not a leaf stirred, so, taking the body under the arms, I dragged it out into the light.
The silver moonbeam that fell across the white face of the corpse gave it a ghastly appearance, revealing the features of a well-dressed man of middle age, totally unknown to me.
Closer examination disclosed that a murder had been committed.
The man had been shot in the back.
Searching about the spot, I was not long before I discovered the weapon with which the crime had evidently been committed.
It was a five-chambered plated revolver, one cartridge of which had been discharged.
As I inspected it in the cold, bright light, eager to find a clue to the murderer, my eyes fell upon two words engraved on the barrel.
Breathlessly I deciphered them, and then stood dumb with awe and dismay.
_The name engraved upon it was my own_!
In a moment a terrible thought flashed across me.
Was not my presence there, and the discovery of a revolver bearing my name, direct circumstantial evidence against me?
Thus recognising my danger, I put the weapon in my pocket, cast a final glance at the dead man's face, and, creeping noiselessly away under the high hedge of rhododendron and jessamine, I at length gained the road and returned to the noisy city.
------------------------------------------------------------------------ In the Bourse, in the Galleria Mazzini, in the streets, in the _cafes_, everywhere, one topic only was discussed next day.
A startling tragedy had been enacted, for, according to the newspapers, Colonel Rossano had been discovered mysteriously murdered in the gardens of the Villa Pallanzeno.
No motive for the assassination could be assigned, for the colonel, who had only arrived on the previous day from Milan, was a most popular and distinguished officer.
The police, it was stated, had received instructions from the Ministry of the Interior at Rome to spare no effort to discover the assassin, and the King himself had offered a reward of ten thousand lire for any information which would lead to the arrest of the murderer.
During the hour of the siesta, I had stretched myself in an old armchair in the studio, smoking, when Pietro burst into the room, greeting me with that buoyancy habitual to him.
I asked him if he had heard of the tragedy, and gave him the papers to read.
Having eagerly scanned them, he expressed surprise that the shot was not heard.
"I suppose the Contessa does not know anything of it," I said.
"The body was not discovered until after midnight, whereas she left by the mail for Turin at ten o'clock."
"And what was the result of your interview?"
he asked, seating himself on the edge of the table, and carelessly swinging his legs.
"She has gone, but she will return," I replied briefly.
"And she still loves you--eh?"
"Yes; you guess correctly," I laughed.
"So goes the world!
How happy you should be--you, the accepted lover of the girl-widow of a millionaire!
One of these days you'll marry, and then _per Bacco_!
you'll throw over your old companion, the humble fiddler of the Politeama."
His jesting words reminded me of the reappearance of the Count, that Santina was not free, and that our love was illicit.
"No," I said sorrowfully; "I may love, but I shall never marry her."
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