Vendetta. Marie Corelli

with as much unconcern as though he were taking his pleasure in a garden of roses; he stepped quietly into the dirtiest hovels where lay both dead and dying; he spoke words of kindly encouragement to the grief-stricken and terrified mourners, who stared through their tears at the monarch with astonishment and gratitude; silver and gold were gently dropped into the hands of the suffering poor, and the very pressing cases received the royal benefactor's personal attention and immediate relief. Mothers with infants in their arms knelt to implore the king's blessing—which to pacify them he gave with a modest hesitation, as though he thought himself unworthy, and yet with a parental tenderness that was infinitely touching. One wild-eyed, black-haired girl flung herself down on the ground right in the king's path; she kissed his feet, and then sprung erect with a gesture of triumph.

      "I am saved!" she cried; "the plague cannot walk in the same road with the king!"

      Humbert smiled, and regarded her somewhat as an indulgent father might regard a spoiled daughter; but he said nothing, and passed on. A cluster of men and women standing at the open door of one of the poorest-looking houses in the street next attracted the monarch's attention. There was some noisy argument going on; two or three beccamorti were loudly discussing together and swearing profusely—some women were crying bitterly, and in the center of the excited group a coffin stood on end as though waiting for an occupant. One of the gentlemen in attendance on the king preceded him and announced his approach, whereupon the loud clamor of tongues ceased, the men bared their heads, and the women checked their sobs.

      "What is wrong here, my friends?" the monarch asked with exceeding gentleness.

      There was silence for a moment; the beccamorti looked sullen and ashamed. Then one of the women, with a fat good-natured face and eyes rimmed redly round with weeping, elbowed her way through the little throng to the front and spoke.

      "May the Holy Virgin and saints bless your majesty!" she cried, in shrill accents. "And as for what is wrong, it would soon be right if those shameless pigs," pointing to the beccamorti, "would let us alone. They would kill a man rather than wait an hour—one little hour! The girl is dead, your majesty—and Giovanni, poor lad! will not leave her; he has his two arms round her tight—Holy Virgin!—think of it! and she a cholera corpse—and do what we can, he will not be parted from her, and they seek her body for the burial. And if we force him away, poverino, he will lose his head for certain. One little hour, your majesty, just one, and the reverend father will come and persuade Giovanni better than we can."

      The king raised his hand with a slight gesture of command—the little crowd parted before him—and he entered the miserable dwelling wherein lay the corpse that was the cause of all the argument. His attendants followed; I, too, availed myself of a corner in the doorway. The scene disclosed was so terribly pathetic that few could look upon it without emotion—Humbert of Italy himself uncovered his head and stood silent. On a poor pallet bed lay the fair body of a girl in her first youth, her tender loveliness as yet untouched even by the disfiguring marks of the death that had overtaken her. One would have thought she slept, had it not been for the rigidity of her stiffened limbs, and the wax-like pallor of her face and hands. Right across her form, almost covering it from view, a man lay prone, as though he had fallen there lifeless—indeed he might have been dead also for any sign he showed to the contrary. His arms were closed firmly round the girl's corpse—his face was hidden from view on the cold breast that would no more respond to the warmth of his caresses. A straight beam of sunlight shot like a golden spear into the dark little room and lighted up the whole scene—the prostrate figures on the bed—the erect form of the compassionate king, and the grave and anxious faces of the little crowd of people who stood around him.

      "See! that is the way he has been ever since last night when she died," whispered the woman who had before spoken; "and his hands are clinched round her like iron—one cannot move a finger!"

      The king advanced. He touched the shoulder of the unhappy lover. His voice, modulated to an exquisite softness, struck on the ears of the listeners like a note of cheerful music.

      "Figlio mio!"

      There was no answer. The women, touched by the simple endearing words of the monarch, began to sob though gently, and even the men brushed a few drops from their eyes. Again the king spoke.

      "Figlio mio! I am your king. Have you no greeting for me?"

      The man raised his head from its pillow on the breast of the beloved corpse and stared vacantly at the royal speaker. His haggard face, tangled hair, and wild eyes gave him the appearance of one who had long wandered in a labyrinth of frightful visions from which there was no escape but self-murder.

      "Your hand, my son!" resumed the king in a tone of soldier-like authority.

      Very slowly—very reluctantly—as though he were forced to the action by some strange magnetic influence which he had no power to withstand, he loosened his right arm from the dead form it clasped so pertinaciously, and stretched forth the hand as commanded. Humbert caught it firmly within his own and held it fast—then looking the poor fellow full in the face, he said with grave steadiness and simplicity,

      "There is no death in love, my friend!"

      The young man's eyes met his—his set mouth softened—and wresting his hand passionately from that of the king, he broke into a passion of weeping. Humbert at once placed a protecting arm around him, and with the assistance of one of his attendants raised him from the bed, and led him unresistingly away, as passively obedient as a child, though sobbing convulsively as he went. The rush of tears had saved his reason, and most probably his life. A murmur of enthusiastic applause greeted the good king as he passed through the little throng of persons who had witnessed what had taken place. Acknowledging it with a quiet unaffected bow, he left the house, and signed to the beccamorti, who still waited outside, that they were now free to perform their melancholy office. He then went on his way attended by more heart-felt blessings and praises than ever fell to the lot of the proudest conqueror returning with the spoils of a hundred battles. I looked after his retreating figure till I could see it no more—I felt that I had grown stronger for the mere presence of a hero—a man who indeed was "every inch a king." I am a royalist—yes. Governed by such a sovereign, few men of calm reason would be otherwise. But royalist though I am, I would assist in bringing about the dethronement and death of a mean tyrant, were he crowned king a hundred times over! Few monarchs are like Humbert of Italy—even now my heart warms when I think of him—in all the distraction of my sufferings, his figure stands out like a supreme embodied Beneficent Force surrounded by the clear light of unselfish goodness—a light in which Italia suns her fair face and smiles again with the old sweet smile of her happiest days of high achievement—days in which her children were great, simply because they were earnest. The fault of all modern labor lies in the fact that there is no heart in anything we do—we seldom love our work for work's sake—we perform it solely for what we can get by it. Therein lies the secret of failure. Friends will scarcely serve each other unless they can also serve their own interests—true, there are exceptions to this rule, but they are deemed fools for their pains.

      As soon as the king disappeared I also left the scene of the foregoing incident. I had a fancy to visit the little restaurant where I had been taken ill, and after some trouble I found it. The door stood open. I saw the fat landlord, Pietro, polishing his glasses as though he had never left off; and there in the same corner was the very wooden bench on which I had lain—where I had—as was generally supposed—died. I stepped in. The landlord looked up and bade me good-day. I returned his salutation, and ordered some coffee and rolls of bread. Seating myself carelessly at one of the little tables I turned over the newspaper, while he bustled about in haste to serve me. As he dusted and rubbed up a cup and saucer for my use, he said, briskly,

      "You have had a long voyage, amico? And successful fishing?"

      For a moment I was confused and knew not what to answer, but gathering my wits together I smiled and answered readily in the affirmative.

      "And you?" I said, gayly. "How goes the cholera?"

      The landlord shook his head dolefully.

      "Holy