Read Online The Contessa's Vendetta by Mirella Sichirollo Patzer - Free Book Online
Authors: Mirella Sichirollo Patzer
Tags: Historical
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low voices. One of their whispers reached me. “The Doge of Venice! The Doge!” All heads were turned in the same direction. I paused to look too.
Down the street, a group of men walked towards us at a leisurely pace. Among them, I recognized the Doge of Venice, Francesco Erizzo, who had been elected in April after his predecessor died from the plague. His election had been nearly unanimous. The vote had been forty to one in his favor. There were those, however, who believed his election fraudulent. Regardless of what anyone said, I knew him to be a good, honest man.
“ That white-haired beauty would make a fascinating subject for a painting,” I heard him say in a rich, deep voice to one of his attendants, as he pointed directly at me.
His words almost caused me to spring forward and throw myself at his feet to tell him my tale. But I h esitated to betray myself. How cruel that he, a dear aquaintance, did not recognize me and was about to pass me by when we had conversed on many occasions. I visited Venice several times a year and had attended many a ball within the splendor of the Palazzo Ducale where we had encountered each other and entered into exquisite conversations. But that Carlotta Mancini existed no more. A white-haired woman with an unfamiliar face had usurped her place. Not even my friend, the doge, recognized me.
I refrained from approaching the doge. Instead, I followed him at a respectful distance, as did many others. He wandered through the most plague-ridden streets as unconcerned as if he strolled through a garden of roses after a pleasant dinner.
He walked without worry into the most dilapidated of homes to observe the dead and dying. He spoke heartening words to grieving mourners who gazed at him wide-eyed through their grateful tears. The doge dropped silver coins into the hands of the anguished.
A mother knelt at his feet, raised her infant to him, and implored his blessing, which he gave.
One golden-haired girl flung herself at his feet and kissed them. Then she leaped up in triumph. The doge smiled, rested his hand on her head as a tolerant father would, and said nothing as he walked on.
A small cluster of men and women huddled outside a hovel listening to the shouts and cries that came from within. As I approached, I could see two burly beccamorti arguing and swearing at three women who wept. At the center of all this agitation, a coffin stood on end awaiting its occupant. One of the doge’s attendants announced his presence. The people outside the door stepped back to allow him room to approach. The strident hues and cries from within ceased as the beccamorti bared their heads and the women stifled their sobs.
“ What is wrong here, my friends?” Erizzo asked in a placid and concerned tone.
Everyone fell silent. T he beccamorti looked glum and mortified. Then, a woman with a round, but strained face, her eyes crimson with grief, elbowed her way through the gathering and stepped into the doorway to face the Doge.
“ May God and the Holy Virgin bless you.” Her voice quavered with emotion as she pointed to the beccamorti . “All would be well if those shameless pigs would leave us alone for an hour. One short hour! The girl is dead, and Giovanni, poor lad, refuses to let her go. She died from the plague and he has wrapped his two arms round her tight. We have begged and done all that we can, but he refuses to let them take her away. I fear if we force him, he will lose his mind, poverino . One hour, that is all we need; enough time for the priest to arrive who will help us persuade Giovanni.”
The doge raised his hand and entered the miserable dwelling. His attendants followed and I, too, could not resist placing myself near the doorway to see what would happen.
The scene I glimpsed was so heartbreaking that I could hardly bear to look upon it. Erizzo uncovered his head and stood silent beside a pallet bed where the body of a young girl lay, her beauty not yet marred by death.
Down the street, a group of men walked towards us at a leisurely pace. Among them, I recognized the Doge of Venice, Francesco Erizzo, who had been elected in April after his predecessor died from the plague. His election had been nearly unanimous. The vote had been forty to one in his favor. There were those, however, who believed his election fraudulent. Regardless of what anyone said, I knew him to be a good, honest man.
“ That white-haired beauty would make a fascinating subject for a painting,” I heard him say in a rich, deep voice to one of his attendants, as he pointed directly at me.
His words almost caused me to spring forward and throw myself at his feet to tell him my tale. But I h esitated to betray myself. How cruel that he, a dear aquaintance, did not recognize me and was about to pass me by when we had conversed on many occasions. I visited Venice several times a year and had attended many a ball within the splendor of the Palazzo Ducale where we had encountered each other and entered into exquisite conversations. But that Carlotta Mancini existed no more. A white-haired woman with an unfamiliar face had usurped her place. Not even my friend, the doge, recognized me.
I refrained from approaching the doge. Instead, I followed him at a respectful distance, as did many others. He wandered through the most plague-ridden streets as unconcerned as if he strolled through a garden of roses after a pleasant dinner.
He walked without worry into the most dilapidated of homes to observe the dead and dying. He spoke heartening words to grieving mourners who gazed at him wide-eyed through their grateful tears. The doge dropped silver coins into the hands of the anguished.
A mother knelt at his feet, raised her infant to him, and implored his blessing, which he gave.
One golden-haired girl flung herself at his feet and kissed them. Then she leaped up in triumph. The doge smiled, rested his hand on her head as a tolerant father would, and said nothing as he walked on.
A small cluster of men and women huddled outside a hovel listening to the shouts and cries that came from within. As I approached, I could see two burly beccamorti arguing and swearing at three women who wept. At the center of all this agitation, a coffin stood on end awaiting its occupant. One of the doge’s attendants announced his presence. The people outside the door stepped back to allow him room to approach. The strident hues and cries from within ceased as the beccamorti bared their heads and the women stifled their sobs.
“ What is wrong here, my friends?” Erizzo asked in a placid and concerned tone.
Everyone fell silent. T he beccamorti looked glum and mortified. Then, a woman with a round, but strained face, her eyes crimson with grief, elbowed her way through the gathering and stepped into the doorway to face the Doge.
“ May God and the Holy Virgin bless you.” Her voice quavered with emotion as she pointed to the beccamorti . “All would be well if those shameless pigs would leave us alone for an hour. One short hour! The girl is dead, and Giovanni, poor lad, refuses to let her go. She died from the plague and he has wrapped his two arms round her tight. We have begged and done all that we can, but he refuses to let them take her away. I fear if we force him, he will lose his mind, poverino . One hour, that is all we need; enough time for the priest to arrive who will help us persuade Giovanni.”
The doge raised his hand and entered the miserable dwelling. His attendants followed and I, too, could not resist placing myself near the doorway to see what would happen.
The scene I glimpsed was so heartbreaking that I could hardly bear to look upon it. Erizzo uncovered his head and stood silent beside a pallet bed where the body of a young girl lay, her beauty not yet marred by death.
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