Read Online The Contessa's Vendetta by Mirella Sichirollo Patzer - Free Book Online Page B

of the table. “Have you heard of Contessa Mancini?” 
    I shook my head and bent my face over my wine cup.
    “ Ah, well, it does not matter,” he groaned. “There is no Contessa Mancini anymore. She is gone. She was rich, they say, yet as vulnerable as the rest of us. Fra Cipriano of the Benedictines carried her in here yesterday morning because she fell ill with the plague. She died in a matter of hours.” The landlord caught a mosquito and killed it. “As dead as that zanzara ! Si , she lay dead on that very wooden bench opposite to you. The beccamorti took her away before sunset. Life in Vicenza has become like a bad dream!”
    I pretended to be engrossed with breaking off a piece of the bread and dipping it into the wine. “Whether a person is rich or not makes no difference. The rich must die just like the poor.”
    “ Ah, that is true, very true,” assented Giovanni. “All the money in the world could not save the blessed Cipriano.”
    I tensed, but regained my composure. “What do you mean?”
    “ Si, Fra Cipriano. He deserves to be canonized a saint one day, the poor man. I speak of the holy Benedictine brother who brought Contessa Mancini here so ill. Little did I know that God would soon call him too.”
    A sickening sensation settled in my heart. “Is he dead?”
    “ As dead as a martyr. He caught the plague, I suppose, from the contessa, for he was bending over her to the last. He sprinkled holy water over her corpse and laid his own crucifix upon it in the coffin. Then he went to Villa Mancini to deliver the news to her family.”
    My poor Dario. “How did her husband take the news?”
    The landlord shrugged his bulky shoulders. “How should I know? The reverend brother said nothing, save that the man turned away from him. But that is not so unusual. A man never lets another man see him cry. As I said before, the good brother Cipriano presided over the contessa’s burial, and he had scarce returned from it when the illness seized him. He died this morning at the monastery.” Giovanni crossed himself. “May his soul rest in peace!
    I pushed away my meal untasted. The bread choked me and the wine tasted sour. I fought back tears for the gracious, tolerant monk who had sacrificed his life for me and the young boy I had asked him to help. One hero less in this brutal, heartless world. I sat quiet, lost in my mournful thoughts.
    The landlord looked at me curiously. “Does the wine not please you? Have you no appetite?
    I forced a smile. “Your story about the death of the good brother stripped me of my appetite. Vicenza seems such a terrible place right now. There is nothing to hear but stories of the dead and dying.”
    Giovanni gave me an apologetic expression. “Well, truly, there is very little else. The plague is everywhere, touching everyone, and it is the will of God.”
    As he finished speaking, a woman who strolled past the open door of the inn caught my gaze. It was Beatrice Cardano! My dear friend! I yearned to run out and embrace her, but something in her look and manner restrained me.
    She walked with a smile on her face and a posy of roses in her hands, similar to the roses that grew in such profusion on the upper terrace of my villa. Shocked, I stared at her as she passed. She looked happy and tranquil, happier indeed than I had ever seen her. Yet, I, her best friend, had died only yesterday. With such recent sorrow, how could she smile so happily and carry such beautiful roses? These were not the signs of mourning.
    For one long moment, I felt the sting of hurt. Then I laughed at my own over-sensitivity. After all, what did it matter that she bore a smile and carried roses? A woman could not always be answerable for the expression in her face. As for the flowers, perhaps she might have gathered them in passing or Chiara might have given them to her. Beatrice did not appear to be mourning, but with my recent death, there would have been no time for her to procure black