So matters went for the next few days. I began to understand the feelings of the peasants who live on the slopes of Vesuvius and watch the ominous smoke plume rise into the sky. I felt as if an explosion were imminent, but did not know how and when it would occur. I had expected that De Merode would call on us now that Andrea was back from…wherever he had been. But the Captain was fully occupied elsewhere. The entire province was seething like a volcano. Garibaldi had entered Naples in triumph. King Francis had fled. Urbino had risen in rebellion, the Piedmontese troops were massing on the frontier. The Falcon had been seen in Parezzo. Andrea was home one moment, gone the next….
On the third evening after his return, we were again in the Salone dei Tritone. The evening was cool; there was a fire in the fireplace. I was at the piano. Grandfather was working in the library, but the others were all there. Andrea and Galiana were sitting together on a sofa in a shadowy corner. Painfully conscious of them, I played even worse than usual. I was amazed at how complaisant the Contessa had become over their spending so much time together. Surely it was from her mother that Galiana had derived her ideas about marrying an elder son; yet now the older woman smiled affectionately at the young pair as Galiana flirted and Andrea gazed at her with the intent look of a lover.
The Contessa’s maid sat behind her, but by now I had become as accustomed to Bianca as the others were. She was almost part of the furnishings. Stefano was wandering aimlessly around the room, something he seldom did. Finally he came to me, where I sat idly fingering the keys, my short repertoire exhausted.
“Play something,” I said. “Something loud. We are all too quiet.”
“Francesca.” Miss Perkins looked up from her embroidery. She did fancy work very badly, but in those days we all found it necessary to do something with our hands. “Francesca, don’t bother the Count.”
“It’s all right, Miss Perkins.” Stefano sat down as I vacated my seat. “Francesca is right, we are too quiet.”
He played a Chopin ballade—the First. I have heard it many times since then, but never have I heard it played as Stefano played it that night. The poignant, passionate chords of the theme pulsed in the warm air. The music ended in a plunging arpeggio. For a moment Stefano sat still, his head bowed, breathing quickly. Then he rose.
“Andrea,” he said, and made a beckoning gesture.
Andrea looked bewildered, but he obeyed the silent command, and the two brothers walked side by side across the room, toward the Contessa. They looked formidable as they came on, in silence, and the Contessa’s eyes widened. Then Stefano stepped to one side.
“Hold her,” he said, in Italian. “Quickly, Andrea, don’t let her move.”
His hand darted out and snatched something from the hands of Bianca—some small object she was holding under the folds of her skirt. The woman rose with one of her harsh, unearthly cries, and Andrea caught her arms as she snatched at the object Stefano had taken.
“Andrea, Stefano,” the Contessa exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
After that first instinctive gesture, Bianca did not move. Andrea’s eyes were wide as he contemplated the object Stefano was examining.
The rest of us converged on the group. At first I could not make out what Stefano had in his hand. His fingers were clasped tightly around the lower part of it. I saw only a rounded thing the size of a large marble, like a tiny doll’s head. A lock of flaxen hair had been blued to it and it had painted features—crude and unrecognizable, but identifiable as eyes, nose and mouth. A sharp shining point protruded from its forehead.
Galiana was the first to speak.
“La strega,” she gasped. “Maladetta…”
“Good heavens,” Miss Perkins exclaimed. “It is a moment! At least that is what they call it in my home in Lancastershire. Some of the foolish old grannies still believe they can harm an enemy that way, by abusing the doll. Stefano, what person is this image meant to represent? Let me see it.”
“No.” Deliberately Stefano squeezed the body of the doll until the waxen substance of which it was composed oozed out between his clenched fingers. There was something horrible about the gesture, as if he were mutilating living flesh. Bianca’s eyes focused and she drew a long, quivering breath.
“You see,” Stefano addressed her in Italian. “It does not work, Bianca. The one you meant to harm is still alive and well, although I have crushed the image.” Turning, he flung the mangled thing straight into the heart of the fire. A white flame shot up and quickly died.
As it died, so did the life in Bianca’s face. It went blank and flat, like the face of the crudely painted doll. A thin trickle of saliva came out of the corner of her slack mouth. Galiana shrieked. The Contessa put her hands up to hide her eyes.
“Take her away,” she moaned. “I tried to teach her of Christ and the blessed Virgin; and behind my back she practices the arts of the Devil. Take her away, I beg.”
Miss Rhoda rang the bell and one of the footmen came in. Bianca moved obediently as he put a gingerly hand on her arm and drew her away. Her chin was wet with the spittle from her mouth.
“Be gentle with her,” the Contessa murmured. “She has sinned, but she did not know….”
“I’ll go with them,” Andrea promised. “To be sure she is well treated. Contessa, don’t be concerned, she will be cared for; a doctor, tomorrow…”
Despite his reassurances, the Contessa began to weep piteously. Galiana and Miss Rhoda had to help her to her room. When they had gone Miss Perkins shook her head sadly.
“I fear a doctor cannot help her. The poor thing was always weak-witted. This has destroyed her mind completely. Count Stefano, how did you know?”
“I thought there might be some basis for the servants’ gossip,” Stefano answered. “You knew about it, Miss Perkins, but you are too rational to admit that such things exist. I know better. I couldn’t believe the creature would actually carry her foul tricks into the drawing room, but when I saw her clutching something in her lap…”
“Who was it?” I asked. “Why didn’t you let us see it?”
“You are too inquisitive,” Stefano snapped. “What difference does it make? The image was too crude; I couldn’t tell.”
“But I know.” I began to twist my hands nervously together. “Only three people have hair of that pale-blond shade. You and Andrea—and I. She has no reason to want to harm either of you—”
“She had no reason to want to harm anyone,” Miss Perkins interrupted, in her most robust, common-sense tone. “She is mad, Francesca; madness does not know reason.”
“There, I fear, you are mistaken,” Stefano said. “Sempre una ragione. There is always a reason. The behavior of a madman is not irrational, it only seems so to us because it is governed by reasons we do not accept. Always there is an underlying motive; the idée fixe. Find that and you have the clue to the conduct of the insane. But in this case I have no idea what Bianca’s motive was, or who her intended victim may have been. And we will probably never know, since she cannot speak or write.”
The incident cast a pall over the household. As if in keeping with our mood, the weather next day continued to be cool and windy. Rain threatened all forenoon. Andrea had left early in the morning to seek medical advice in Parezzo. At least that was his excuse.
“Was it wise for him to go?” I asked Miss Perkins. “If he encounters De Merode….”
“He can’t hide in the castle all his life,” said Miss Perkins. “Goodness, I wish it would rain. I am as nervous as a cat. Although I don’t know why people say that; cats are usually very placid creatures.”
“You are right,” I said, smiling. “I think I’ll go to the stable and visit my feline family. Perhaps it will give me something pleasant to think about. Will you join me?”
“No, this is the sort of day for a book in the library. I shall read Ovid. He is not calm, but he does distract one.”
So we separated—little dreaming under what circumstances we would meet again.
The mother cat still resisted my blandishments, but the kittens had become quite tame, thanks to the scraps of food I brought them. I played with my favorite—a bushy-tailed little tabby with ears so big he might have had rabbit ancestry—until he tired of chasing string and fell into the easy sleep of infancy. Then I went back to my rooms.
The note was waiting for me on the marble-topped table beside the chaise longue.
