the bluebird came again to perch on garibaldi’s cap, the baby maples put forth their leaves, and signor di bello told bertino it was time to give the wooden bunch a new coat of yellow. once more the fire-escapes on either side of corso di mulberry bloomed with potted geraniums; glistening radishes lent their vernal blush to the vegetable stalls, and the thoughts of sara the frier of pepper pods turned to summer profits. the building trades had set the winter idlers to work, and the alley of the moon resounded no longer with the wild shouts of mora players. the hokey-pokey man, tiding over the cold months with an ancient hand organ, yearned to put away [pg 154]the blue danube and the marseillaise, and wheel out his gorgeous ice-cream cart. the old gondolier, selling pine-cone seeds at the foot of china hill, could leave his toe-toaster at home now, and let the may sunshine economize the charcoal.
bertino mixed the paint, selected a cheap brush from the stock of the shop, and set to work on the bunch. it is doubtful that he heard the swish, swish of the brush. his thoughts were of juno. her absence had extended long over the six months, and for more than thirty days he had not heard from her. there was no excuse for this neglect, he reasoned, since her education had been so liberal that she could spell and write as well as any woman in mulberry. of the few letters received from her, each had contained a tale of woe—the woe of a ballet lady striving to live on the road with a salary of ten dollars a week. the missives, rich in terms of endearment, always touched his pocket as well as his heart, and by return mail he never failed to send her a dollar or [pg 155]two. but why had she been silent this last month of the tour, instead of writing to tell him where to meet her when she should reach the city? already she ought to be here. what if she never came back—if she forsook him? in the shock of this terrible thought he upset the pail of yellow just as signor di bello stepped out of the shop.
“soul of a cat!” exclaimed the grocer, the toe of one of his black shoes tipped with the paint. “what the rhinoceros are you about? gran dio, what stupendous stupidity!”
re-entering the shop, he cleaned off the paint, fuming the while and growling. then he flew out, scowling at bertino as he passed, and made straight for the caffè of the three gardens.
“the monkey!” said bertino to himself. “when the bust arrives i’ll be rid of him.”
a moment afterward the letter carrier handed him a large envelope addressed in a big, round hand to “bertino manconi, esq.” it was from a customhouse agent, [pg 156]announcing the arrival of the bust, and offering to attend to the business of clearing it. to this end it would be necessary for bertino to forward the amount of the duty, a hundred and forty dollars. he put the letter in his pocket, filled with apprehension of trouble, for his english was so weak that he could not make out the meaning of the part about the duty, though he suspected that the sum of a hundred and forty dollars was in some way required of him. that evening, after he had lugged in the wooden bunch and locked the shop door, he took the mysterious paper to signor tomato, who told him the awful truth.
“it must be a great work of art,” said the banker; “very valuable.”
“valuable!” said bertino. “ah, caro mio, if you only knew! well, i will tell you. it is a bust of her majesty the presidentessa.”
“what presidentessa?”
“of the united states.”
“st. januarius! is it possible?”
[pg 157]
one hundred and forty dollars! the sum rose like an impassable mountain between bertino and the hopes he had cherished so long and fervidly. as well have been forty thousand. he could not pay the duty. marriage had eaten up the savings brought from italy and what he had earned since. when signor tomato told him that the government would retain the marble until the impost were paid, he blotted out the poor lad’s fondest anticipations—his dreams of release from signor di bello and the misery of his secret marriage, the freedom to say to his uncle, “juno is my wife.” to the bust he had looked forward as to a loyal friend, who should come some day to lift him to the plane whereon a man ought to stand. but now that the friend was near, some power which he comprehended but vaguely had clapped her in a prison, from which the future held no promise of letting her go. there came over him the terrible throbbing of blood and the fire of brain that he felt the night he crouched, burning with [pg 158]suspicion, in the doorway with a ready knife waiting for juno. he could not have answered if asked just now whom he wished to kill. some infernal prank was playing at his expense, and the time had come to end it. a strange calm possessed him as he began to cast about for the joker. he had been walking in mulberry street. at the corner of spring street he entered the caffè of the three gardens. dropping into a chair near the door, he ordered a glass of marsala; but before the waiter had returned with the wine, bertino sprang up and darted out of the place. at a table in the caffè’s depth he had seen juno and signor di bello with their heads together! holy blood of the angels!
no need of looking further for the joker. his wife returns after six months, does not let her husband know, and goes first to meet another. yes, the prank has gone far enough.
it was only a block to casa di bello. in a few minutes he was there and in his [pg 159]room. when he came into the street again he had his right hand in his coat pocket.
the meeting of juno and signor di bello came about in this manner: the signore was walking in mulberry street, on his way to the caffè to smoke an after-dinner cavour, and help some good comrades empty a flask of chianti. suddenly he stopped, stood still, his eyes staring and his mouth a gulf of astonishment.
“by the egg of columbus!” he exclaimed. “it is she, or i am dreaming!”
there she was, moving toward him on the same side of the street, dressed no better than when he last came face to face with her, but her grand air not a whit impaired.
“at last, at last i find you!” he cried, catching up her hand and kissing it with a loud smack. “ah! the good god knows how i have hunted for you. but joy, joy! i find you! i see you! my eyes look into yours! come, away from here! ah, the three gardens! let us enter. i have [pg 160]something to say—something very important.”
he drew her into the caffè, and sought a table far from the door.
“what do you want to say to me?” asked juno. she had responded not at all to signor di bello’s passionate greeting.
“ah, my angel! i want to say to you what i would have said long ago if i had found you. the hunt i have had! and once when i caught sight of you, it was only to have you vanish again like a wine bubble. where have you been? how beautiful you are! oh, the grand hunt!”
“why have you hunted for me?” she said, releasing her hand from his, and moving her chair.
“to offer you what you demanded—a wedding ring.”
“you wish to make me your wife?”
“yes. before the madonna, it is true! months and months ago i was ready.”
for a moment juno was silent, contemplative. then she said, eying him steadily:
[pg 161]
“would you have married me before i left mulberry?”
“yes; dio my witness.”
“why did you not come to me and say so?”
“but i could not find you. my nephew, bertino, will tell you that i speak truth. i told him that i intended to make you my wife.”
“when did you tell him that?” she asked quickly, leaning forward and awaiting the answer eagerly, while signor di bello strove to recollect.
“ah, yes, now i have it,” he said at length. “i remember because it was the day after my sister carolina sailed for genova—two days after the feast of san giorgio, my saint.”
the recollection rose clear to juno that it was on the day following carolina’s departure that she and bertino went to the little rectory in second avenue. and equally vivid to her consciousness stood forth the inflaming truth that bertino, with [pg 162]full knowledge of signor di bello’s purpose to take her for wife, had hastened their union in order to checkmate his rival. so this moneyless clerk had tricked her into marriage, and cheated her of a rich husband!
“maledetto!” she said in a half-stifled voice. at the same instant there flashed in her brain a resolve to rid herself of bertino.
“why maledetto?” asked the signore. “do you not accept my offer?”
“another time i will give you my answer,” she said, rising. “i must go.”
they stood outside, he holding her hand and looking up into her face with worshipful eyes. suddenly she drew back, and without a parting word took herself off. a face that she had seen in a near-by doorway made her eager to end the interview. she had gone but a few paces when bertino was by her side.
“so you are here, and putting horns on your husband?” he said, gripping her arm. “welcome, signora, welcome!” a smile of hellish mockery played on his livid face.
[pg 163]
“no, i am not,” she pleaded, a tremor in her voice, because she knew her race.
he laughed, and gripped her arm tighter.
“i know,” he said. “you want a rich man.” then, with his lips close to her ear: “do you think you will live?”
“it is not my fault,” she said, still pleading. “what can a woman do when a man plays the fool and annoys her?”
“he annoys you?”
“yes,” she answered, seizing her chance. “if you were a man you would make him leave me alone. i do not want him.”
“i will kill the dog!” said bertino, letting go of her arm. a moment he regarded her with the old tenderness, but a black look settled again on his face, and he asked slowly, “why did you not let me know you were back?”
“i have not been in the city an hour. the shop was closed. luigia the garlic woman will tell you that i asked her if she knew where you had gone. i was going to send a note to casa di bello. we met in [pg 164]the street and—he annoyed me.” she thought now only of saving herself.
“by the heart of mary!” he said, “this shall stop. i will go to him and tell him you are my wife.”
“no, no! don’t do that. wait—wait until you are rid of him—until you are your own padrone—until the bust is here and you have sold it and are a free man.”
“the bust?” he said hopelessly. “it is here, but as well might it have remained in armando’s studio.”
“what?” she said. “it is here? where? let me see it.”
“no; i can not. the government has it, and will keep it until i pay one hundred and forty dollars. seven hundred lire! gesù bambino! where shall i get them?”
as they walked on he recounted the distress that had overtaken the supposed first lady of the land; her captivity in the hands of revenue officials, and his inability to pay the kingly ransom demanded. this news was a cut and thrust at the hope [pg 165]whereon juno’s crude self-love had fed for many a month, and it killed the solitary motive that made her hold to bertino. by neither word nor sign, however, did she betray her disgust and anger; she even feigned sympathy, and bade him be of good cheer, saying tenderly that ill fortune would not dog them forever; that by luck or pluck they should get possession of the bust, and carry out his plan for money-making. these were the first heartening words she had ever spoken to him—the first kindness he could recall as coming from her lips. despite the black cloud that had risen so suddenly from behind the customhouse, a sweet rapture filled his soul. what mattered it all?—his wife loved him. their joys and griefs were one. the loneliness that had burdened his spirit since the day of his marriage departed, and his heart lost its bitterness.
“true, my precious,” he said, pressing her hand, “we love each other, and shall know how to manage in spite of the government.”
at the same time juno said to herself, [pg 166]“how can i get rid of the fool and marry his uncle?”
they came to a halt at the mouth of the alley of the moon, a wide passage between two tenements that led to a rear court heaped with push-carts laid up for the night. halfway up the alley a large gas lamp with a sputtering light hung over a doorway. on its green glass showed the words, restaurant of santa lucia. in three dingy rooms above, luigia the garlic woman lived with a lodger known to the public of mulberry as chiara the hair comber. the latter had her shop and living apartment in the “front” room, looking on the alley, and directly over the green light, which shed its rays on her sign, hair combing in signora style, two cents. the remaining room of the trio had been engaged that day by juno, who had merely fibbed when she told bertino that she had been in town only an hour. it was the same humble chamber she had occupied during her brief career of starhood on the stage of la scala.
[pg 167]
“i have come here because it costs only twenty soldi a day,” she said to bertino, “and here i shall remain until—until we can do better. good night, my dear husband. courage. be allegro, and our fortune will sing.”
“ah, yes; allegro i will be. good night, my precious wife. until to-morrow.”
in the solitude of her dreary little coop, while the hoarse shouts of mora players in the restaurant below sounded in her ears, juno set her wits calmly to the knotty puzzle that the day had brought forth: how to get rid of her husband that she might accept signor di bello’s offer of marriage? a few grains of poison dropped in wine for bertino to drink would accomplish the needful state of widowhood, but this method, she discerned, had its faults. it was likely to bring man-hunters from the central office about one’s head, and detectives were given to putting awkward questions. moreover, they had a trick of locking up persons whose answers did not suit them. no; in a strictly private [pg 168]matter of this kind it would never do to have the police meddling. that might spoil all. she thought of other plans of removal that she had heard talked about in the porto quarter of naples. and while she considered these there darted into her mind one of those mystic shafts of memory that come unbidden by cognate suggestion. it was a sunday afternoon, and she and bertino, walking in the suburbs, stood upon washington bridge. from the height of the great span she looked down again on the slopes of the harlem valley beautiful in the gold and flame of autumn; the sedge marshes that waved to the temperate wind, and far below, growing narrow in the distance, the silvery ribbon of water that glimmered yet faintly in the gloam of sunset. it was one of those sundays that bertino brought her a package of bob veal, and she recalled the desire that had seized her to throw him over the parapet. had she done so in the darkness that soon fell not a soul would have known. what she could have [pg 169]done then she could do now. by this method there would be no police knocking at one’s door and prying into secrets. the quicker he were out of the way the better, and next sunday, if no moon shone, the thing could be done. with deep satisfaction she viewed her brawny arms and stalwart frame and felt sure of the strength needful to execute the task without bungling. then she went to bed and slept soundly.
but the morrow had in its teeth a fine marplot for her little tragedy. it happened in the evening in this wise: the shutters of the shop put up, bertino hastened to the restaurant of santa lucia, where juno had promised to await him. he opened the door, and what he saw caused him to pause on the threshold, but for only a moment. she was not alone. seated by her side on the rough wooden bench that flanked the long oil-clothed table was signor di bello. their backs were turned to the door, but bertino knew both at first glance. on the opposite side of the board the gaslight fell [pg 170]upon a row of dusky faces, into the caverns of which large quantities of spaghetti coiled about forks were being despatched. in other parts of the low-ceiled room, muggy with smoke of two-cent cigars, coatless men, engaged in furious combats at cards, shouted and rained sledge-hammer blows on the tables. before any one had seen him enter, bertino sprang across the floor like a jaguar and snatched from his uncle’s hand a knife with which he was in the act of conveying a bit of sheep’s-milk cheese to his mouth. then without ado the gudgeon who believed that his wife was annoyed fell to the performance of a husband’s duty. it was a wild thrust, but well enough aimed to have found a mortal course had the tool been of the standard pattern used in mulberry for odd jobs of this kind—the long thin steel, fine tempered, and needlelike of point. as it chanced, signor di bello’s left shoulder blade was stabbed flesh deep, and a second lunge only slit his coat sleeve, because he dropped sidewise out of harm’s way just as [pg 171]bertino brought down the knife again. every eye in the restaurant had witnessed the second blow and the fall of signor di bello from the end of the bench, so the conclusion was instant and general that the odd job had been finished.
“fly!” they cried, one and all, rising and pointing to the door. “your work is done.”
bertino stood a moment, grasping the knife and looking at juno; then he flung it down and made for the door. one of the card players held it open for him as he passed out; for the vendetta is a man’s sacred right—a strictly private matter to be settled by him in his own way, free of outside interference. enough that he use the genteel knife and not the clumsy pistol, which is seldom sure of its mark, and brings the police to make trouble for one’s friends.
