"Madame Morone!" I exclaimed, thunderstruck.
"Yes, the Contessa! Do you know her by sight? Mon Dieu! is she not beautiful? You shall speak the English to her. She loves your foggy islanders."
I was so bewildered by the chance thrown in my way of finding out if the Contessa Morone had anything to do with the burial-ground episode, that I only replied to Beltrami's chatter by an uneasy laugh, and suffered myself to be led unresistingly along.
The Marchese did not take me into the box itself, but into one of those small ante-rooms, on the opposite side of the corridor, which are used by Italian ladies as reception saloons for their friends when at the theatre. I heard the loud chatter of many voices as Beltrami opened the door, and there, standing under the glare of the gas-lamp, with the wicked smile on her lips, the pearls in her hair, the ruby necklace round her throat, I saw the woman who had come from the vault, the woman who had poisoned Pallanza in the secret room, the phantom of Lucrezia Borgia.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
THE PHANTOM OF LUCREZIA BORGIA
I was duly introduced by the Marchese, and Signora Morone received me in the most amiable manner. She was certainly a very charming woman, and had I not known her true character, I would doubtless have been fascinated by her gracious affability; but, in spite of her courtesy, I could hardly speak to her without a feeling of repulsion. This beautiful woman, so suave, so smiling, so seductive, inspired me with that sensation of absolute dread which one experiences at the sight of a sleek, velvet-footed pantheress--a comely beast to admire, but a terrible one to caress. I replied to her polite inquiries in a somewhat mechanical fashion, which she doubtless put down to my imperfect knowledge of Italian, for in spite of all my efforts to feel at ease in her society, yet I was unable to do more than behave with strained courtesy towards this woman whose mask I had torn off, whose secret I had penetrated, and the wickedness of whose heart I knew.
There were several other gentlemen in the room, who talked gaily with the Contessa, and amused themselves by eating the bonbons and crystallised fruits provided for refreshments. The last act of the opera had not yet commenced, so Signora Morone sank gracefully into a velvet-cushioned chair, and permitted her courtiers to retail all the news of the day for her amusement. I am afraid this description sounds somewhat hyperbolical, but indeed it is the only way in which I can describe this woman, whose every movement was full of sinuous grace and feline treachery. Cat, tigeress, pantheress as she was, her claws were now sheathed in her velvet paws, but the claws were there all the same, and would doubtless scratch at the least provocation.
Some people do not believe in transmigration, but I am a true disciple of Pythagoras in that bizarre doctrine, and I firmly believe that in a former existence the soul of Giulietta Morone had animated the body of some tawny tigeress who had stolen through the jungle beneath the burning skies of Hindostan, slaying and devouring her victims in conformity with the instincts of her savage nature. Now she was a woman--a fair, majestic woman--but the instinct of the beast was there, the desire for slaughter and the lust for blood. What made me indulge still more in this fancy was the colours of the dress she wore black and yellow--all twisted in and out with a curious resemblance to the sleek fur of the beast to which I had likened her. The soft glimmer of the pearl strings twined in her magnificent red hair seemed out of place as ornaments for this woman; but the rubies suited her nature well, the red, angry rubies that shot flashes of purple fire from her neck at every heave of her white bosom. Leaning back in her deep chair with a cruel smile on her full crimson lips, the glimmer of pearls, the fire-glint of the fierce-tinted gems, and the bizarre mixture of amber and black in her dress, she slowly waved her sandalwood fan to and fro, diffusing a strange, sleepy perfume through the room, and looking what I verily believed her to be, the type of incarnate evil in repose.
While I was thinking in this fanciful fashion, the Contessa was talking to her friends in a slow, rich voice, and Beltrami--well, Beltrami was watching me closely. Do you know that strange sensation of being watched? that uneasy consciousness that some unseen eye is observing the least movement? Yes, of course you do! Every one has felt it, in a more or less degree, according to their nervous susceptibility. At the present time, with all my senses on the alert for unexpected events, it was therefore little to be wondered at that I felt the magnetism of Beltrami's gaze, and, on looking up, saw his keen black eyes fixed upon me with an enigmatical expression. For the moment I was startled, but immediately that feeling passed away for I well knew the strange nature of the Marchese, which was a peculiar mixture of good and evil, of kindness and cruelty, of hate and love, which must have proceeded from some aberration of his subtle intellect.