"It is such a long story, Hugo," said Beltrami, a trifle maliciously, "that we must really have some wine."

"I do not want wine; I want 'The Thousand and Second Night.'"

"Bene! you shall have both."

The Marchese arose and summoned his servant, who brought up a bottle of Barbera, that rough-tasting wine which is so pleasant and cool in hot weather. For the sake of companionship I took some with Beltrami, and haying thus attended to the duties of hospitality, he signed to his servant to withdraw, and without further preamble began his tale.

"Eh, Hugo, mon ami," he said, settling himself comfortably in his chair, "this would be a charming story for M. Bourget, that modern Balzac, who analyses the hearts of the ladies of this generation in so masterly a fashion. Dame! I would like to give him Madame Morone's to dissect--he'd find some strange things there. Yet--would you believe it?--this woman, worthy to be a sister of Lucrezia Borgia, came out of a convent to marry my poor friend Morone."

"You knew him then?"

"Ma foi! I should think so, for many years. People said he was mad, but the only mad action he committed, to my mind, was in marrying Giulietta Rossana."

"Yet you propose to do the same thing?"

"True, but I possess a means of taming this tigress of which the unfortunate Giorgio Morone knew nothing. He was a great chemist, this poor Count, and particularly fond of toxicology, a dangerous science with such a wife, as he found out to his cost. Cospetto! I would not care myself about forging weapons for another to use against me, but that is exactly what Morone did."

"She poisoned him?"

"Eh! nobody says so, yet everybody thinks so. For my part, I believe the Contessa capable of anything. At all events, Morone died very suddenly, and was duly buried in that old ancestral vault to which his devoted wife, a year after his death, paid a visit. Well, before he died, Morone grew suspicious of the Contessa, and as he had just invented or rediscovered a poison which left no trace of having been used, and also an antidote to the same, he determined not to give the Signora an opportunity of exercising it on him, so this toxicological secret was buried with him."

"Ah! I see now why she went to the graveyard. It was to get this poison."

"Exactly! Whether it was put in the coffin of the dead man, or merely hidden in the vault, I don't know, but we will go and see."

"To what end? She has the poison!"

"Certainly! I believe that, after seeing it exercised upon Pallanza; but she has not got the antidote."

"How do you know that, Beltrami."

"Because the Contessa knows nothing of the existence of the antidote. Morone talked enough about the poison itself, but he only mentioned the antidote to one man, and that was myself. You see, Hugo, he thought madame might try a little of his own poison on himself, in which case I would be able to give him the antidote."

"Couldn't he have taken it himself?"

"No! this poison does not kill unless given in a large quantity; five drops make you feel chill and listless; ten drops take away your senses and converts you into what I may paradoxically call a breathing corpse; but fifteen drops kill. So, if madame had given her husband fifteen drops he would have lapsed into a stupor and died, unless the antidote was given, so that is why he bestowed it on me."

"Well, but she killed him after all?"

"Yes, but with another poison not of home manufacture. Eh! what would you, Hugo, the Contessa was not going to be thwarted by a husband who kept his laboratory locked. However, he tricked her over this particular poison, for he either gave instructions that it was to be put into his coffin without the knowledge of his dear wife, or he hid it himself in the vault, as he hinted to me one day he intended to do."

"There's no doubt then that the Contessa went to the vault for the poison; but what about the antidote? Is it in your possession?"

"Unfortunately, no, mon ami. I was ordered away from Verona, and gave back the antidote to the Count; but on my return here, I heard casually that he had left a letter for me, to be delivered after his death. I went to Rome, where the Contessa was one of the ornaments of the Court, and asked for the letter. Of course she denied ever having heard of it."

"And what do you think was in this letter?"

"Eh! ma foi, I believe it told me where the poison was hidden in the vault, and that our dear Contessa found the letter, went to the vault on the night you saw her and obtained the poison."

"Also the antidote?"

"Dame! I'm not so sure of that. I knew about the antidote so well that I don't think Morone would have mentioned it in the letter, in case it should meet the eye of his wife. No! No! mon ami! she has the poison, of course; but the antidote, I believe it is still in the vault, where we will look for it."

"For what reason?"

"Diamine! to revive this devil of a tenor who has had the misfortune to take ten drops of the Signora Morone's mixture."

"But where is Pallanza?"

"All in good time, Hugo, all in good time. I must tell you the rest of the story first."

"I am all impatience, Beltrami."

The Marchese, I saw, was enjoying this conversation, as the subject-matter was of an involved and difficult character which appealed to the subtleties of his Italian nature; and the chance of playing a part in this intrigue, worthy of the Court of Lorenzo di Medici, delighted him beyond measure. He was, as I have said before, an anachronism, and this everyday, commonplace life of the nineteenth century offered no field for the exercise of his cunning brain and delicate diplomacy, which revelled in those bizarre complications, full of sophistry and double meanings, which distinguished the intricate statecraft of the Italian republics.

"You wonder," continued the Marchese reflectively; "you wonder, no doubt, after hearing my opinions about the Contessa Morone, that I should care to marry her; but, as I told you before, there are reasons. I am poor, she is rich, and I marry her for her money. This is brutal is it not? but then you see I look at the matter from a Latin point of view, you from an English. As Euclid---whom, by the way, I always hated--says, 'Two parallel straight lines cannot meet,' it is no use our arguing over this point, as neither of us would convince the other. It is a question of race, Hugo, nothing more. Ebbene! my other reason is that I wish to tame this woman with the heart of a tigress. I am wearied of the dulness of this present life, and the task of fencing with Signora Morone will be a perpetual excitement, particularly as I know it will not be unattended with danger. This is also a question of race, and the theory of straight lines applies, so again we will not argue; but you can see one thing plainly, that I want to marry the Contessa?"

"Yes, I can see that, and I wonder at your daring."

"Straight lines, for the third time, Signor Hugo. Ebbene! Although I wanted to marry the Contessa, she hating and detesting me with her whole soul, as a friend of her late husband, would not listen to me at all, so as she would not go to the altar willingly, I determined to force her there. I made it my business to find out all about her life, and a devil of a life it is, I can tell you. Pallanza is not the first lover this daughter of Venus has smiled on."

"Oh!" I broke out in disgust, "how can you think of marrying this infamous woman--a murderess, a poisoner, a fiend in human form?"

"Dio! I have given you my reasons, and you, straitlaced Englishman that you are, cannot understand them. However, we will talk of this again; meantime to continue. The Contessa was so madly in love with Pallanza, who I grant you is a handsome fellow with a charming voice, that I foresaw when he attempted to leave her there would be trouble. I discovered that he was engaged to some Signorina of Milan, that she was at Verona, and that Pallanza was going to sing at Verona; so when he did arrive I was in nowise astonished at the appearance of Madame Morone at the Ezzelino. Things were coming to a climax, so I watched for the bursting of the storm. The rendezvous of these lovers would be, I knew, at the deserted Palazzo Morone. How did I know? Mon cher ami, you are simplicity itself. Have I not told you that I knew the Contessa when she lived at Verona with her husband, and--and--well it is not the first time she has used that palazzo and played at Boccaccian stories in that room. You know she fancies herself like Lucrezia Borgia, and tries to imitate those picturesque feasts to which Ferrara's Duchess was so addicted--yes, even to the use of poison. Dame! I thought I was at the opera when I saw that supper the other night."

"How did you get into the palazzo?"

"Ah, that is an adventure worthy of Gil Bias. I filed through a bar in the gate and wrenched it out."

"I thought so, for I entered the same way!"

"I guessed as much, my friend. Ebbene! I watched the palace from the time Madame Morone arrived in Verona, and my patience was rewarded on Monday night by seeing our picturesque tenor use his key and enter by the side door. I was not alone, for I greatly mistrusted Madame Morone should she discover me in that lonely palazzo; so, as I had two men absolutely devoted to me, I took them with me."

"They were very brave to go near that ghastly palace, considering the reputation it has."

"Ma foi, they are Florentines, and know nothing about Verona. Their ancestors have been in the service of mine for many years, and in their eyes a Beltrami can do no wrong. Now is that not wonderful in this present age of ducats and steam-engines?"

"So wonderful, Marchese, that I can hardly believe it!"

"Cospetto! it is true I tell you. These men are absolutely devoted to me, and think me a much greater man than Umberto of Savoy. Ebbene! I posted my two men in a dark corner of the palazzo with instructions not ............