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

monstrous wooden statue stared down from a shelf between a chipped vase and a worn pair of boots, as though it scrutinized the peculiar assortment of goods with dim-witted bewilderment.
    An old woman sat mending a tattered gown at the open door. Deep furrows scored her wrinkled, sun-weathered face the color of brown parchment. Only her blue, bead-like eyes shone with life. They roved left and right with restlessness and suspicion. She saw me approach, but feigned absorption in her work. I stopped before her and she raised her gaze to mine, her eyes glaring with inquisitiveness.
    “ I have travelled a long way.” She was not the type of person I could entrust with my secrets. “I lost some of my clothes in an accident. Can you sell me a gown? Anything will do. I am not particular.”
    The old woman laid her mending on her lap and looked at me through narrowed eyes of startling blue. “Are you afraid of the plague?” 
    “ No. In fact, I have recovered from it,” I replied with composure.
    She stared at me from head to foot, and then broke out in a shrill cackling laugh. “Ha! Excellent! Just like me, another woman who is unafraid. The plague is a beautiful thing. I love it. I buy clothes that have been stripped from the corpses. They are usually in perfect condition. I never wash them and sell them immediately. And why not? Those afflicted with the illness die. Better for them they die sooner than later!” The old hag crossed herself.
    I glared down at her with an air of disgust. She repulsed me as much as the beast that had fastened itself on my neck when I slept in the vault. “Will you sell me a gown or not?”
    “ Si , si , of course!” She rose stiffly from the bench. Short of stature and misshapen by age and infirmity, she looked more like the warped limb of an ancient olive tree than a woman. I followed her as she hobbled into her dark shop. “ Vieni dentro , come inside! Choose whatever you like. I have a great variety to suit all tastes and sizes. Here’s a good one, the dress of a noblewoman. What strong wool! Made in Paris. The woman who wore this was French; a comely, jovial woman who drank wine like water, and she was rich too. The plague took her swiftly. She died drunk and cursing God. A marvellous way to die! One of her servants sold me her gowns for five scudi , but you must give me ten. That is a fair profit, is it not, especially for someone as old and poor as I am who must work hard to earn enough to feed herself?” 
    I cast aside the wool gown she held up for my examination. “I’m not worried about the plague, but find me something better than the cast-off clothing of a wine-soaked French woman. I would rather wear the dismal garb of a house servant.”
    A raspy laugh escaped the old woman ’s withered throat. “Good,” she croaked. “I like that. You are old, but cheery. I like that. Everyone should laugh. And why not? Death always laughs and taunts us.”
    She plunged her knobby fingers into a chest stuffed with a variety of garments, mumbling to herself all the while. I stood b eside her, bewildered by her words. You are old, but cheery. Why did she think me old? She must be blind, I thought, or in her dotage.
    Suddenly she glanced up. “Speaking about the plague, did you know that it took one of the richest, most beautiful women in all of Vicenza? She was young too, strong and full of life; someone who looked as if she would live forever. The plague touched her one morning and before sunrise the next day, they nailed her into a coffin. They carried her into her big family vault; a cold lodging compared to her grand marble villa on the heights yonder. When I heard the news, I scolded God for taking Contessa Carlotta Mancini.”
    My heart pounded in my chest, but I composed myself enough to appear indifferent. “And why is she so special that she should not deserve to die?”
    The old woman straightened from her stoop ed stance and stared at me with her keen blue eyes. “Who was