I did not get much sleep that night after the excitements of the day, but towards the morning fell into an uneasy slumber, during which I had fragmentary dreams in which Pallanza, the Contessa, and the antique chamber were all mixed up together. One moment I was at the iron door of the tomb, and the guardian angel took the semblance of Signora Morone; the next I was kneeling beside the corpse of Pallanza, illuminated by the faint light of the candles; and I ever saw the pallid shade of Donna Renata pointing towards the watchful face of her husband, filled with ghastly meanings in the dim shadows. No wonder, after these terrific visions which blended the real and the ideal, I awoke in the grey morning light unrefreshed and haggard; so when the waiter brought me my roll and coffee I left them untouched, and, lying quietly in bed, wondered what step it was necessary to take next in solving this riddle.
Riddle do I say? No! it was a riddle no longer, save as to the visit of the Contessa to the vault of her family, for otherwise everything was clear enough. She had met Pallanza at Rome, and had fallen in love with his handsome face. The young man, flattered by the attentions of a great lady, had yielded readily enough to the charm of the situation, but, growing tired of the intrigue, had come to Verona, where Bianca awaited him, with the intention of breaking it off. With a woman of Giulietta Morone's fiery nature the sequel can easily be guessed--she had followed him hither, and having in some way forced him to come to the deserted palace, had there poisoned him out of revenge for his contemplated infidelity.
Of course, this was all theoretical, but from one thing and another I guessed that this could be the only feasible way of accounting for the whole affair. Two points, however, remained to be cleared up before the reading of the riddle could be successfully accomplished: the first being the reason of the burial-ground episode, the second the strange disappearance of the dead man's body.
In thinking over the legend related by Peppino, one thing struck me as peculiar--that Donna Renata had never been seen again after her husband entered the chamber, and I guessed from this that there was some secret oubliette or alcove in the room, with a concealed entrance in which Mastino Morone had entombed his guilty wife as a punishment for her crimes. Doubtless, from tradition or from old family papers, Madame Morone knew of this secret hiding-place, and having killed Pallanza, had put his body therein so as to destroy all evidences of her criminality. No one had seen Pallanza enter this deserted palace, so once his body was hidden in the secret alcove it would remain there for ever undiscovered, and no human being, save the Contessa herself, could ever tell what had become of him. She, for her own sake, would remain silent, and thus Guiseppe Pallanza's fate would remain a mystery for evermore.
Fortunately, however, God, who had thus permitted this evil woman to conceive and carry out her crime, had also permitted me to behold the murder, so that, secure as she no doubt felt of her safety, yet one word from me and the whole affair would be revealed. I never thought, however, of going to the Veronese police and telling them what I had seen, as in their suspicions of foreigners they would doubtless regard me as an accessory, and thus I would get myself into trouble, which I had no desire to do. I therefore determined to once more go to the fatal chamber and make a final effort to discover what had become of the body of the unfortunate Pallanza.
So far so good, but now the question arose, how much of this story was I to reveal to Bianca? I could not tell her the whole, for if the body of her lover were discovered, the poor child would suffer quite enough without the additional information of Guiseppe's infidelity; so, making a virtue of necessity, I determined upon telling her a pious lie. To do this it was necessary to leave out the Contessa Morone altogether, as the least mention of a woman's name would arose Bianca's suspicions, and for the Contessa I substituted a robber, who had decoyed Guiseppe to the deserted palace by means of a false letter, and there ended his life. Of course it was somewhat difficult to be consistent in the narrative; but I was so anxious to hide the cruel truth of Pallanza's worthlessness from Bianca that I went over the story I had invented, again and again, until I thought I had the whole pious fraud quite perfect.
Having thus arranged my plans, I arose, finished my roll and coffee, then, having dressed myself rapidly, set off at once for the Casa Angello, as it was nearly time for my lesson. All my bruises were now quite well, yet I felt very depressed and downcast, as the state of nervous excitement which I had been in for the last few days had told terribly on my system. However, having once put my hand to the plough I could not, with satisfaction to myself, turn back; and although I heartily dreaded the coming interview with Bianca, yet it was unavoidable, as the poor child was so anxious over her lost lover that it was necessary to tell my fictitious story without delay in order to set her mind at rest.
On my arrival at the Casa Angello I found no one there but Bianca, who was anxiously awaiting me. It appeared that the Maestro had taken it into his head that he would like a walk in the sunshine, and had gone out under the care of Petronella; but, as Bianca knew I was coming to take my usual lesson, and was anxious to hear if I had any news of her lover, she remained indoors to speak to me.
The "Fiorè della Casa," as old Petronella tenderly called her in the poetic language of the Italians, looked even paler than usual, and the dark shadows under her dark eyes made them appear wonderfully large and star-like. She had a bunch of delicate lilies-of-the-valley in the bosom of her white dress, and she looked as pale and blanched as the frail flowers themselves. Lying back on the green-covered sofa on which she was seated, she reminded me of a late snowflake resting on the emerald grass of early spring, which at any moment might vanish under the pale rays of the sun.
We were talking together in the room in which I generally had my lessons, and my eyes wandered from one thing to another with vague hesitation as I looked everywhere but on the face of this delicate girl to whom I had to tell such a cruel story--for, soften it as I might, the story was cruel and could not fail to affect her terribly. Every object in the apartment photographed itself on my memory with terrible distinctness, and, even after the lapse of years, by simply closing my eyes I can recall the whole scene with the utmost truthfulness. The dull red of the terra-cotta floor, the heavy time-worn furniture, covered with faded green rep, the small ebony piano with its glistening white keys alternating with the black, the mirror-fronted press in which Petronella kept everything from food to clothes, the many photographs of operatic celebrities, and the gaudily painted picture of St. Paul, the Maestro's patron saint, encircled by a faded wreath of withered laurel-leaves and dead flowers, flung to some favourite pupil in her hour of triumph. Even the view from the window I can recall, with the slender campanile tower, from whence every quarter rang the brazen bells, and then the faltering voice of Bianca, "Fiorè della Casa," stealing like a melancholy wind through the silence of the room.
"Signor!" she said, twisting her thin white hands nervously together, "you have something to tell me of Guiseppe. I can see it in your face--is it good or evil?"
"What does my face tell you, Signorina?"
"Evil, evil! your eyes are sad, your mouth does not smile! Oh, tell me quickly what you know! Is he found? is he ill? is he--dead?"
She brought out the last word in a shrill scream, with dilated eyes that almost terrified me by the fear expressed in them, and, dreading the effect of a sudden shock on this fragile child, I hastily replied in the negative.
"No, Signorina, no! Do not look so fearful, I pray you. He is not dead. Child, I am sure he is not dead!"
"Then you have not found him yet?"
"No; I have not found him, but I think I know where he is to be found."
"What do you mean, Signor Hugo, tell me all--tell me all. See, I am strong, I can bear it--I wish to know everything."
"Signorina, the note which Guiseppe Pallanza received at the Ezzelino was not from a friend but from an enemy."
"An enemy!"
"Yes! from one who wished him ill. Thinking it was from his dying friend, he obeyed the letter and was lured to the deserted Palazzo Morone."
"I do not know that palazzo, Signor. I am a stranger in Verona."
"I know where it is, Signorina, for on that night I was wandering about near it, when I saw Pallanza go into it alone. Knowing the evil reputation of the place, I followed him, although he was a stranger to me. He went to a room in the palace where his enemy met him, and--and----"
"Yes! yes, Signor--for the love of the Saints, go on."
"I can tell you no more, Signorina, except that I do not believe Guiseppe left that room again. I believe he is there still, perhaps held captive by the robber who lured him thither in the hope of obtaining a ransom."
Bianca looked at me searchingly. She was a simple little thing as a rule, but this ridiculous story I had manufactured of brigands in the heart of Verona was too much even for her confiding nature, and she made a gesture of disbelief.
"It is not true! it is not true!" she cried vehemently. "Why do you deceive me, Signor?"
"I am not deceiving you."
"An enemy! a false letter! a deserted palace! held captive! Oh, I cannot believe it. If it is true, why did you not rescue him?"
"Because some one I do not know seized me from behind as I watched, and, rendering me insensible with chloroform, bore me away from the palace. I had great difficulty in finding it again, I assure you."
"Signor, your story is that of a dream. I cannot believe you."
"It is true, nevertheless."
Bianca said nothing, but tapped her little foot on the ground with a thoughtful frown on her small face. I was glad that my task was over, for absurd as was the story I had told her, it was more merciful than the truth. Now that I had to some extent quieted her fears by telling her that Guiseppe was alive--a thing, alas! that I could not be certain of myself--I hoped to get away at once to the Palazzo Morone and make one last effort to find his body. If I failed there would be nothing left for me to do but to inform the police, and in the interests of Bianca I was unwilling to do this until I had exhausted every means of solving the mystery myself.
Suddenly Bianca's face cleared, and she looked at me with steady determination.
"Signor, you know this palazzo?"
"Yes, Signorina."
"And this room where you think Guiseppe is held captive?"
"I do, Signorina."
"Then take me to it at once."
She started to her feet with a deep flush on her face, and threw out her hands towards me with an appealing gesture. As for me, I sat still, transfixed with astonishment at the spirit displayed by this gentle girl, who was thus willing to dare the dangers, of the unknown in order to save her lover.
"Take me to it at once!" she repeated quickly.
"Signorina, I--I cannot. You are mad to think of such a thing."
"Is your story true or false, Signor Hugo?"
"True! yes, it is true!"
"Then I will judge of its truth myself--with my own eyes. Wait, I will put on my hat, and you will take me to this palazzo at once."
"Signorina----"
"Not another word, I have made up my mind. You promised to be my friend, Signor Hugo. I hold you to that promise. Ecco!"
She was gone before I could utter further remonstrance, and during her absence I reflected rapidly. It was true that Guiseppe was dead, that I believed his body was concealed somewhere in that room, so perhaps after all it was best that Bianca should come, as her quick woman's wit might succeed where I had failed. She knew nothing about the implication of the Contessa Morone in the affair, the palazzo would be quite deserted during the daytime, so I would be able to take her there, let her examine the room, and if by chance the truth was revealed that Guiseppe was dead, it would be a more merciful way than by the lips of a stranger. Yes, I would take her there at once. If we failed in our mission she would be no wiser than before, but if we succeeded--ah! how I pitied the poor child if we succeeded in finding out the terrible secret of the Contessa. At this moment she returned trembling with ill-suppressed excitement.
"Well, Signor Hugo, are you ready--are you willing to help me?"
"With all my heart, Signorina."
"Ebbene! come, then."
She ran lightly out of the room, and I followed with a heavy heart, for I had a presentiment of evil. I feared that fatal chamber, which held so many impure memories--I feared the discovery of the dead--I feared for this child who went forward in ignorance to face such horrors.
On returning from my last visit to the palace I had carefully noted the way thereto, so I was able to escort Signorina Angello without calling in the services of Peppino. I was unwilling to drive there, as the presence of a fiacre even in that deserted piazza might be noticed, and I did not want any comment made by the scandal-loving Italian populace on our visit to this out-of-the-way locality. So in company with Bianca, who had put on a veil, and who said nothing to me from the time we left Casa Angello, being apparently occupied with her own reflections, I walked down the gloomy, narrow streets towards that terrible Palazzo Morone, the very idea of which inspired me with horror and dismay.
It was one of those burning days common to that time of the year in Italy, and much as I despised and cursed those drain-like alleys in wet weather, yet I now saw there was method in the madness of their style of building, for their cool shadow and humid atmosphere was wonderfully pleasant after the glare, the dust, and heat of the great piazza. We walked on the broad carriage-way, which was less painful to the feet than the cobble-stone paving between, and every now and then saw some typical picture of Italian life. A dark-faced woman with a red handkerchief twisted carelessly round her head, leaning from a high balcony, on the iron railings of which was displayed the family washing; a purple cloud of wisteria blooming in some pergola near the red roof-tops; sleek grey donkeys laden with panniers, stepping complacently along the narrow way; slender Italian men presiding over fruit-stalls, piled high with their picturesque contents; and over all, the vivacious clatter and din of voices, struck through at times with the sharp, metallic notes of the mandolin. It was very charming, and, I would have enjoyed it thoroughly, artistically speaking, had it not been for the local odours. Oh, the smells of those picturesque streets! they were too terrible for description; and how the Italians are not swept off the face of the earth by a plague of typhoid is more than I can understand. I smoked cigarettes most of the time, as a preventive against infection; but on beholding ideal paintings of Italian scenes, I always shudder at the memory of the malodorous reality, and on arriving in well-drained London again, my first prayer was one of thanks for having escaped from ill-smelling Italy.
My thoughts during this portentous walk were, I am afraid, rather frivolous; but so fearful had been the strain on my nerves for the past few days, that it was a great relief to think idly of anything and any one. Not so Bianca; even through her veil I could see the glisten of tears, and catch the sound of her quick indrawn breath as she strove to fight down the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. I saw that the poor child was nearly hysterical with her efforts to control herself, and stopped short in dismay.
"Signorina, you are not well. Do not go to this palazzo."
"Yes, yes! I must, Signor Hugo. I cannot pass another night in this state of suspense. I must know all, and at once. Is the Palazzo Morone far off?"
"We are just at it, Signorina."
And so we were; for at that moment we entered the silent, grass-grown square, at the end of which stood the palazzo, looking gruesome even in the sunshine, with its broken windows, damp, disfigured walls, and general air of weird solitude. Some swallows were shooting through the still air and twittering round the rich sculptures of the façade, but their merry chirpings only added to the eerie feeling inspired by the great mansion--a feeling which I noticed thrilled Bianca with fear as she paused shuddering, under the grinning masks and unlovely faces peering downward from the arched entrance.
"Oh, how could he come to this terrible place at night!" she cried, crossing herself, with a look of fear in her eyes. "Desolate as it is in the sun, what must it be when the moon shines! It is an abode of the dead--a tomb--a tomb! Dio! his tomb."
"Signorina, do not affright yourself thus! Things may not be so bad as you think."
"It is like the Inferno of Dante! and turns my blood cold with fear; but I will not go back! I must find Guiseppe, even if it cost me my life. Come, Signor, presto! there is no time to lose."
She crossed herself once more, then flitted through the opening in the iron gate like a noiseless-winged bird, upon which I hastily followed her, and we stood for a moment in the lonely courtyard, gazing at the great portals of the door leading to the hall, which stood half-open.
"Signorina, I will lead you to the room. You are not afraid? You do not tremble?"
"Ah! I am afraid, and I do tremble, Signor, for I am only a girl; but lead on, love will make me strong, and you will protect me. Give me your hand, Signor; I am not afraid when I hold your hand."
With a fleeting smile on her pale lips, she placed her hand in mine, and as I grasped its cold whiteness, I guessed how terrified this delicate, superstitious girl was of this unholy place. But for the resolute look on her pallid face, I would have insisted upon her turning back; but it was useless to urge retreat now, so with the name "Guiseppe! Guiseppe!" on her lips, as if to inspire her with courage, she almost dragged me through the half-closed door into the hall of shadows.
"Ah! Mother Mary, it is like a church!"
It was like a church--like some old deserted church, filled with the chill atmosphere of the grave; and the slow movement of the wind-shaken tapestries, the glimmer of the ghostly white stairs in the dim distance, and the solemnity of the huge pillars of black marble, made me think of those God-cursed cities of the "Thousand and One Nights," whose silence is only broken by the voice of the one survivor chanting the melancholy verses of the Koran. Bianca, overpowered by this mute spectacle of a dead past, clung convulsively to my arm with faltering prayers on her lips, and I became afraid lest, by a feeling of sympathy, her terror should unnerve me also, so with a cheerful laugh, which echoed dismally through the vast vestibule, I led her onward towards the grand staircase.
"Come, Signorina, do not be afraid. You are quite safe with me."
"Yes, yes! Guiseppe! Guiseppe!"
We slowly ascended the staircase, gained the corridor, and at length arrived at the second flight of shallow steps leading to the secret room. Here Bianca, seeing the darkness, nearly fainted with nervous fear, for, deeply imbued with grim Italian superstitions, she beheld unseen terrors in every shadowy corner. I again wanted her to return, but with wilful obstinacy she refused, so, as I luckily had a pocket-flask of brandy with me, I made her take a little to revive her. The fiery spirit put new life into her sinking limbs, and, after lighting my candle as usual, I led her up the steps, through the short corridor, through the tapestried ante-chamber, until at last we stood in the fatal room.
"Here, Signor Hugo!"
"Yes!"
She flung back her veil with a feverish gesture, and peered into the darkness, which was hardly broken by the feeble light of the small candle I carried. Suddenly a thought struck me which I at once put into execution, and lighted all the tapers yet remaining in the candelabra on the table. To the darkness succeeded a blaze of mellow light, and Bianca, with a look of surprise on her face, gazed round the singular room with the white pillars, the ominous blood-red hangings, and the banquet of the dead set forth with such splendid display on the gilt table.
"What a strange room!" she said timidly. "Signor Hugo! what does it mean?"
"I have told you all I know, Signorina. Your lover was lured to this room. I saw him pass through that door, and then I was drugged as I have said."
"You did not then see who received him here?"
"No! I did not."
The first part of the lie was difficult to utter on account of a choking feeling in my throat, but the last sentence came out with tolerable grace.
"And you do not think Guiseppe left this room again?"
"I'm afraid not, Signorina!"
"Then, where can he be?" she asked with an anxious look around.
"I think he is concealed in some secret cell, the entrance to which is from this apartment."
"Oh, Signor Hugo, let us look for it at once."
"Certainly!"
"A meal on the table--all this gold and silver. It is a robbers' cave, Signor."
"Y--es--I suppose so!"
"Come, let us be quick then, or the robbers may arrive."
She looked nervously towards the door, but I, taking a candle off the table, reassured her with a gay laugh,--
"Do not be afraid, Signorina. No one comes here during the day."
"Hush! what is that?"
Infected by her terror my heart gave a jump, and I listened intently, but could hear no sound.
"It is nothing, Signorina. Your nerves are unstrung!"
"No! No! I can hear it. Some one is coming. Listen!"
In order to humour her fancy I remained silent with all my senses on the alert, and with a feeling of dread I heard the sound. The light fall of footsteps, the rustle of a silken dress--a dress!--the full horror of the situation rushed on me at once.
"It must be the Contessa Morone!"
In a moment I had blown out all the candles, and, dragging Bianca with me, retreated in the darkness to the far end of the room. The girl gave a little cry as the lights disappeared, but I pressed her hand significantly.
"Hush, Signorina. Not a word!"
At the time I heard the steps they were at the door of the ante-chamber, where the new-comer was evidently pausing a moment, and as the curtains of the inner room had been half drawn aside on our entrance, it was for this reason we had heard them so clearly. The steps recommenced. I heard their soft, light fall on the marble floor, the rustle of the silken gown, like the sound of dry leaves in an autumnal wind, and then I felt that this woman was standing in the arched doorway, looking straight at myself and the shrinking girl through the darkness.
"Why are you here, Signor Hugo, and who is that woman?"
It was the voice of the Contessa, and I gave a cry of horror as I suddenly remembered how ineffectual the darkness was to conceal us from the eyes of this nyctalopist. Bianca, however, knew nothing of this woman, or of her gift of seeing in the dark; so, overcome with fear at the demoniac power she believed the unknown possessed, she gave a shriek of terror and sank fainting at my feet.
"What does this mean?"
Again the voice of the Contessa sounded cruel and menacing in its tones; so feeling myself at a disadvantage in the dark, through not possessing the terrible attribute of this woman, I staggered forward and lighted the candles. At once out of the gloom sprang that evil face with a frown on the white brow, a deadly glitter in the cruel eyes, and an ominous tightening of the thin lips.
I don't think I can call myself a coward, but at that moment my blood ran cold at the horror of that Medusa-like countenance, and I stood before this phantom of Lucrezia Borgia as if turned into stone, unable to move or speak.
The Contessa moved forward to the table and looked at me steadily, with a wicked smile frozen on her red lips.
"You do not reply, Signor Hugo; but I begin to understand. You have been here before?"
"Yes!"
I hardly recognised my own voice, so hoarse and broken did it sound, stealing in a whisper from between my dry lips. She still looked at me steadily, and I felt fascinated with dread by the snake-like glare of those cruel eyes.
"When were you here, Signor?"
"On Monday night!"
"And you saw--nothing," she said in a meaning tone.
"Yes!" I replied, lifting my head boldly, "I saw you receive Guiseppe Pallanza, and I saw you give him the poisoned cup!"
She gave a cry of rage like a trapped animal, and made a step forward, but restraining herself with a powerful effort, sank into a chair and leaned her elbow on the table. Dressed in heavy black garments of velvet and silk, she looked more like the Borgia than ever, and the ruby necklace she constantly wore flashed forth rays of red fire in the glimmer of the tremulous light.
"I understand now why you said Guiseppe Pallanza would not come back," she said with a scornful smile. "I thought last night you knew more than you told. Eh! Signor, and it was you who sang at the door of the Ezzelino."
"Yes, it was I."
"Meddlesome Englishman that you are, do you not fear that I will treat you as I treated that false one?"
"No! I mistrust your wine!"
"True, Signor Machiavella! forewarned is forearmed. So you came here to look for Pallanza?"
"I came to look for his body, Madame Morone, but I do not know where it is."
"No; nor will you find it. And who is this woman?"
"Guiseppe's betrothed."
The Contessa gave a cry of rage, and, rising from her seat, rushed towards the unconscious girl where she lay in the darkness. Owing to her singular gift she needed no light to see by, but examined the face of her rival minutely in the gloom. I had stepped forward, fearing lest, carried away by jealous anger, she should do the poor child an injury; but such was not her intention, for after a minute's examination, she arose from her stooping position with a burst of wicked laughter.
"So it was for this white-faced thing that he was going to leave me--me, Giulietta Morone! Eh, I feel much flattered at having such a rival. Why is she here, Signor Hugo?"
"To find Pallanza," I replied shortly.
"She will never find him; he is lost to her for ever. But," she added, with a wicked smile, "I am not afraid of your betraying me, Signor Hugo. I am not afraid of this poor fool, who thought to take Guiseppe from me, so I will revenge myself."
"Revenge yourself?"
"Yes; I have said it. You came here like a thief in the night, and saw what you were not meant to see. She comes in the daylight to seek her lover. Well, she shall see him. Wait till she revives, and I will blast her eyes with the sight of what he is now."
"You are a demon!"
"I am a wronged woman, whom a man sought to deceive. Ecco! Behold, then, Englishman that you are, how we Italian women revenge ourselves!"
She stepped past the unconscious body Of the girl, and, going to one of the pillars on the right side of the room, apparently touched a spring, for the whole pillar--which, as I have described before, was half built into the wall--revolved slowly with a grating sound and displayed a cavity. I bent forward with a shudder of horror, and saw--nothing!
The cavity was empty!
Signora Morone gazed at it with a look of horror on the wild beauty of her face; then, with a cry of rage, of fear, and of dread, rushed out of the room.
I heard her shriek, "Lost! lost! lost!" three times, then the sound of her retreating footsteps died away in the distance, and I was left alone in the ghastly gloom with the unconscious girl at my feet, and an agony in my heart such as I never hope to feel again in this life.
How I got out of that accursed room I hardly know; but I faintly remember lifting Bianca in my arms, and, guided by instinct, stagger through the dark corridors, down the silent stairs, and out into the courtyard. The fresh air seemed to revive me, and, collecting my scattered senses together with a gigantic effort, I looked round for some means by which to bring Bianca out of her faint, the length of which alarmed me terribly.
In the corner of the courtyard there was a sculptured trough, which the late rains had brimmed over, so, hastening towards this, I filled my cap with water, and, returning to Bianca, threw it in her face.
She revived slowly with a shuddering sigh, and looked round vacantly; then, with a sudden recollection of what she had come through, she flung herself into my arms with an imploring cry,--
"Oh, that voice! that voice! Take me away from that cruel voice!"
I managed to take Bianca home without much difficulty, for it was my good fortune to meet a disengaged fiacre in one of the narrow streets leading to the piazza Vittorio Emanuele, and placing the poor girl therein, we drove straight to the Casa Angello. The Signorina was in a very excited state, as that menacing voice, issuing out of the darkness, had quite unnerved her; so, placing her in charge of Petronella, who made her lie down, I went for a doctor. Being a stranger in Verona it was difficult to find one, but at last I did so, and took him at once to see Bianca, for whom he prescribed a soothing draught, and assured me that she would be all right after a few hours' sleep. This trouble therefore being off my mind, I went back to my hotel, in order to consider what was best to be done in the present emergency.
I now saw that my surmise was right, and that the Contessa had hidden the body of the unfortunate Pallanza in the concealed tomb contrived by Count Mastino Morone for his guilty wife. It was a horribly ingenious idea that revolving pillar, and no one would have guessed its ghastly secret without being shown. Doubtless the wicked Donna Renata, shut up in this circular prison, had there starved slowly to death in an upright position, for, of course, the cavity was too narrow and too shallow to admit of any human being lying down. The skilful devilry of the device made me feel quite ill, especially when I thought how the worthy descendant of Borgia's accursed daughter had utilised this secret cell for her own infamous purpose. In this frightful oubliette the body of Guiseppe Pallanza would have remained for ever concealed; but then, according to the evidence of my own eyes, the body was not there.
That the Contessa had placed the corpse in the pillar I had not the slightest doubt, as in showing the hiding-place she evidently expected to overwhelm me by the hideous evidence of her barbarous criminality. That the cavity was empty was as much a surprise to her as to me, and the shriek of terror she had given when flying from the chamber showed me that she was overpowered with fear at the thought that her gruesome secret was shared by another person, for, putting me out of the question altogether, there appeared to be a third party implicated in this singular affair.
For my own part I believed it to be the man who had watched with me at the curtained archway, and who, after drugging me, bore me insensible from that terrible place. After doing so, and thus, according to his idea, putting it out of my power to re-discover the palace, he had returned to his post and seen the Contessa conceal the body of her victim in the cavity of the pillar. On her departure, for some reason best known to himself, he had removed the corpse, and hidden it somewhere else. This was, no doubt, the true story of the affair, but who was the man who had watched at the door, and who had taken away the body of Pallanza? It was impossible to guess the reasons for his behaving in this mysterious way, and the Contessa was evidently as ignorant as myself of his actions, judging from her terrified flight on discovering the truth. Whomsoever this unknown person was, he, to all appearances, held the key to the whole riddle, and, could I find him, I would doubtless learn the reason of Madame Morone's visit to the burial-ground, and the final fate of the unhappy tenor whom she had lured to his destruction.
But how to find him! that was the question, and one to which I could find no satisfactory answer; so in the dilemma in which I thus found myself involved, I decided to tell Luigi Beltrami, as the only friend I had in Verona, the whole devilish story. In addition to the desire I felt of asking his advice and opinion, I thought it but right that he should know the real character of the woman he was about to marry, and not discover too late that he was tied for life to a ghoul, a vampire, a murderess.
With this determination I looked for the card the Marchese had given me, and finding it in one of my pockets, discovered that my Italian friend lived in the Via Cartoni. As he had mentioned that he was always at home in the afternoon, doubtless to take a siesta during the heat of the day, on finishing my midday meal I went out to pay him a visit.
In spite of his assertion that he was poor, Beltrami had a sufficient income to warrant him living in a moderately expensive manner, and on my arrival at his rooms in the Via Cartoni, I was shown into a very well-furnished apartment. As the Marchese was stationed with his regiment at Verona for some considerable time, he had evidently brought a portion of his furniture from his Florentine palazzo, for the room was too handsome to be that of the ordinary class of furnished apartments. As usual, the ceiling was charmingly painted; the floor was of marble, covered here and therewith square Turkish carpets; and in addition to a piano there were plenty of pictures and photographs, showing the artistic taste of the owner of the place.
Beltrami himself, dressed as usual in his uniform, was seated at a desk placed in the window, writing letters, but he desisted when I was announced, and arose to greet me with marked cordiality.
"Ma foi, Hugo, this is kind of you to call so soon," he said when I was comfortably established in a chair. "I was just writing you a letter asking you to dine with me and go to the Ezzelino to-night, but as you are here the note is useless."
"The fact is, my dear Marchese, I have called on a selfish errand."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; still it is one that concerns yourself also."
"How so, mon ami? Come, tell me this mystery about which I know nothing and you know everything; but first here are some excellent cigarettes--Russian, my friend, not Italian. Dame! the tobacco of this country, it is horrible. Will you have some wine?"
"No, thank you, Beltrami, but I will be glad to smoke."
"Bene! help yourself."
He pushed the box towards me, and, after I had taken a cigarette, followed my example, then, throwing himself into a chair near me, he nodded his head to show that he was ready to hear what I had to say.
"Marchese!" I said, after some slight hesitation, "I think we are old enough friends to admit of my speaking to you freely."
"Eh! certainly!"
"I trust you will not be offended."
Beltrami blew a wreath of smoke, and laying back his handsome head on the cushions of the chair, laughed heartily.
"No, my doubting Englishman, I promise you I will not be offended at anything you say."
"But, Luigi, it is about the Contessa Morone!"
"Eh! about the Contessa?--I thought as much!"
"How so?" I asked in some surprise.
The face of the Marchese assumed that cruel, cunning look I so much disliked to see, and he eyed me in a nonchalant manner.
"Dame! Signor Hugo, I will tell you when I hear your story of the Contessa."
Thus committed to narrative, I told Beltrami the whole story of my adventure from the time I had seen the Contessa at the graveyard to the hour when she had fled in dismay from the Palazzo Morone. He listened attentively, and when I had finished remained silent for a few minutes with a thoughtful look on his dark face.
"Why do you tell me all this, mon ami?" he asked, at length, twisting his moustache in a reflective manner.
"For two reasons. First, you may be able to aid me in my search for Pallanza; and second, you must have been ignorant of the character of the woman you are going to marry."
"As to the first reason, Hugo, you are right. As to the second, you are wrong."
"What, you know----"
"I know most of the story you have told me, and as to the Signora Morone, mon Dieu! I know her better than she does herself."
"Then why marry her?"
Beltrami shrugged his shoulders and selected another cigarette.
"Eh! she is rich and I am poor. It is time I ranged myself, as the French say, and I cannot afford to marry a poor wife; besides----"
"Besides what?"
"I rather like the task of taming this demon of a woman. Madame Morone is Satan's mistress in the matter of temper, I know, but I come of a race who either broke the will of their wives or----"
"Or?" I asked interrogatively.
"Or killed them!"
"That's rather risky nowadays, Marchese. We do not live in the time of the Renaissance remember. But let us leave off this discussion of Madame Morone. I have told you my story, and you say you knew most of it before!"
"And I say truly. Now listen, you cold-blooded islander, and see if I cannot disturb your phlegmatic disposition."
He paused a moment to give greater weight to his remarks, the conclusion of which I impatiently awaited.
"I was the man who drugged you and had you carried to the Piazza Vittorio."
"You!"
"I was the man who carried away the body of Guiseppe Pallanza."
"You!"
"I am the man who, knowing what I do, calmly and with open eyes, have made up my mind to marry Madame Morone."
"You!"
I was so overwhelmed with the disclosures made by Beltrami that I could only sit thunderstruck in my chair, looking like an idiot and repeating "You! you! you!" parrot-fashion. Beltrami enjoyed my confusion for some time, and then went on speaking with a mocking smile:--
"Eh! I astonish you, Hugo. Well, I admit I treated you rather badly, my friend; but then at the time I did not know whom you were. Dame! I cannot see in the dark like Madame Gatta."
The Marchese then was the man who held the key to this enigma, and, far from being offended at his rough treatment of me on that fatal night, I was only too delighted at discovering the unknown person who, in this strange repetition of the old legend, had played the part of Count Mastino Morone.
"I have rather startled you, I fancy, Hugo?" said Beltrami with an ironical laugh.
"I would be a fool to deny it; but now that your dramatic surprise has come off so excellently, perhaps you will tell me what it all means."
"Without doubt; confidence for confidence! Besides, I want your help to carry this comedy to its legitimate conclusion."
"Comedy, you call it? To my mind it is more like a tragedy."
"There you are wrong, mon ami. In a tragedy there must be a death."
"Well! You forget Pallanza?"
"Not at all, Hugo; that is the whole point. Pallanza is not dead."
I stared at the Marchese in astonishment.
"Pallanza not dead! Impossible! I saw him die on that night."
"Dame! You saw him fall insensible at the feet of the Contessa Morone, but insensibility is not death."
"Then he is alive?"
"Naturally! One must either be alive or dead. And as this devil of a tenor is not the latter, he must therefore be the former."
"Then where is he?"
"Eh! that is part of the story."
This epigrammatic fencing on the part of Beltrami annoyed me greatly, as it piqued my curiosity without satisfying it, and I threw my half-smoked cigarette away with an outburst of bad temper.
"My dear Luigi, you have promised to tell me the story of this mystery, and instead of doing so you fire off epigrammatic squibs like Pasquin during the Carnival. The story, the story! I beg of you."
"Eh! certainly! Then take another cigarette, and I will tell you this 'Thousand and Second Night' romance."