“Ti saluto, Sol di Maggio
Col two raggio ti saluto!
Sei l’Apollo del passato
Sei l’amore incoronato!”
Again—again!—that hollow rumbling and crackling sound overhead. What could it be?
“L’amore incoronato!” hummed Nina fitfully, as she plunged her round, jeweled arm down again into the chest of treasure. “Sì, sì! Che morendo si fa sposa—che morendo si fa sposa—ah!”
This last was an exclamation of pleasure; she had found some toy that charmed her—it was the old mirror set in its frame of pearls. The possession of this object seemed to fill her with extraordinary joy, and she evidently retained no consciousness of where she was, for she sat down on the upturned coffin, which had held my living body, with absolute indifference. Still singing softly to herself, she gazed lovingly at her own reflection, and fingered the jewels she wore, arranging and rearranging them in various patterns with one hand, while in the other she raised the looking-glass in the flare of the candles which lighted up its quaint setting. A strange and awful picture she made there—gazing with such lingering tenderness on the portrait of her own beauty—while surrounded by the moldering coffins that silently announced how little such beauty was worth—playing with jewels, the foolish trinkets of life, in the abode of skeletons, where the password is death! Thinking thus, I gazed at her, as one might gaze at a dead body—not loathingly any more, but only mournfully. My vengeance was satiated. I could not wage war against this vacantly smiling mad creature, out of whom the spirit of a devilish intelligence and cunning had been torn, and who therefore was no longer the same woman. Her loss of wit should compensate for my loss of love. I determined to try and attract her attention again. I opened my lips to speak—but before the words could form themselves, that odd rumbling noise again broke on my ears—this time with a loud reverberation that rolled overhead like the thunder of artillery. Before I could imagine the reason of it—before I could advance one step toward my wife, who still sat on the upturned coffin, smiling at herself in the mirror—before I could utter a word or move an inch, a tremendous crash resounded through the vault, followed by a stinging shower of stones, dust, and pulverized mortar! I stepped backward amazed, bewildered—speechless—instinctively shutting my eyes—when I opened them again all was darkness—all was silence! Only the wind howled outside more frantically than ever—a sweeping gust whirled through the vault, blowing some dead leaves against my face, and I heard the boughs of trees creaking noisily in the fury of the storm. Hush!—was that a faint moan? Quivering in every limb, and sick with a nameless dread, I sought in my pocket for matches—I found them. Then with an effort, mastering the shuddering revulsion of my nerves, I struck a light. The flame was so dim that for an instant I could see nothing. I called loudly:
“Nina!” There was no answer.
One of the extinguished candles was near me; I lighted it with trembling hands and held it aloft—then I uttered a wild shriek of horror! Oh, God of inexorable justice, surely Thy vengeance was greater than mine! An enormous block of stone, dislodged by the violence of the storm, had fallen from the roof of the vault; fallen sheer down over the very place where she had sat a minute or two before, fantastically smiling! Crushed under the huge mass—crushed into the very splinters of my own empty coffin, she lay—and yet—and yet—I could see nothing, save one white hand protruding—the hand on which the marriage-ring glittered mockingly! Even as I looked, that hand quivered violently—beat the ground—and then—was still! It was horrible. In dreams I see that quivering white hand now, the jewels on it sparkling with derisive luster. It appeals, it calls, it threatens, it prays! and when my time comes to die, it will beckon me to my grave! A portion of her costly dress was visible—my eyes lighted on this—and I saw a slow stream of blood oozing thickly from beneath the stone—the ponderous stone that no man could have moved an inch—the stone that sealed her awful sepulcher! Great Heaven! how fast the crimson stream of life trickled!—staining the snowy lace of her garment with a dark and dreadful hue! Staggering feebly like a drunken man—half delirious with anguish—I approached and touched that small white hand that lay stiffly on the ground—I bent my head—I almost kissed it, but some strange revulsion rose in my soul and forbade the act!
In a stupor of dull agony I sought and found the crucifix of the monk Cipriano that had fallen to the floor—I closed the yet warm finger-tips around it and left it thus; an unnatural, terrible calmness froze the excitement of my strained nerves.
“’Tis all I can do for thee!” I muttered, incoherently. “May Christ forgive thee, though I cannot!”
And covering my eyes to shut out the sight before me I turned away. I hurried in a sort of frenzy toward the stairway—on reaching the lowest step I extinguished the torch I carried. Some impulse made me glance back—and I saw what I see now—what I shall always see till I die! An aperture had been made through the roof of the vault by the fall of the great stone, and through this the fitful moon poured down a long ghostly ray. The green glimmer, like a spectral lamp, deepened the surrounding darkness, only showing up with fell distinctness one object—that slender protruding wrist and hand, whiter than Alpine snow! I gazed at it wildly—the gleam of the jewels down there hurt my eyes—the shine of the silver crucifix clasped in those little waxen fingers dazzled my brain—and with a frantic cry of unreasoning terror, I rushed up the steps with a maniac speed—opened the iron gate through which she would pass no more, and stood at liberty in the free air, face to face with a wind as tempestuous as my own passions. With what furious haste I shut the entrance to the vault! with what fierce precaution I locked and doubled-locked it! Nay, so little did I realize that she was actually dead, that I caught myself saying aloud—“Safe—safe at last! She cannot escape—I have closed the secret passage—no one will hear her cries—she will struggle a little, but it will soon be over—she will never laugh any more—never kiss—never love—never tell lies for the fooling of men!—she is buried as I was—buried alive!”
Muttering thus to myself with a sort of sobbing incoherence, I turned to meet the snarl of the savage blast of the night, with my brain reeling, my limbs weak and trembling—with the heavens and earth rocking before me like a wild sea—with the flying moon staring aghast through the driving clouds—with all the universe, as it were, in a broken and shapeless chaos about me; even so I went forth to meet my fate—and left her!