should not
deserve to die as well as other people?"

The old man raised himself from his stooping attitude, and stared at me
with his keen black eyes.

"Who was he? who was he?" he cried, in a shrill tone. "Oh, he! One can
see you know nothing of Naples. You have not heard of the rich Romani?
See you, I wished him to live. He was clever and bold, but I did not
grudge him that--no, he was good to the poor; he gave away hundreds of
francs in charity. I have seen him often--I saw him married." And here
his parchment face screwed itself into an expression of the most
malignant cruelty. "Pah! I hate his wife--a fair, soft thing, like a
white snake! I used to watch them both from the corners of the streets
as they drove along in their fine carriage, and I wondered how it would
all end, whether he or she would gain the victory first. I wanted HIM
to win; I would have helped him to kill her, yes! But the saints have
made a mistake this time, for he is dead, and that she-devil has all.
Oh, yes! God and the plague have done a foolish thing for once."

I listened to the old wretch with deepening aversion, yet with some
curiosity too. Why should he hate my wife? I thought, unless, indeed,
he hated all youth and beauty, as was probably the case. And if he had
seen me as often as he averred he must know me by sight. How was it
then that he did not recognize me now? Following out this thought, I
said aloud:

"What sort of looking man was this Count Romani? You say he was
handsome--was he tall or short--dark or fair?"

Putting back his straggling gray locks from his forehead, the dealer
stretched out a yellow, claw-like hand, as though pointing to some
distant vision.

"A beautiful man!" he exclaimed; "a man good for the eyes to see! As
straight as you are!--as tall as you are!--as broad as you are! But
your eyes are sunken and dim--his were full and large and sparkling.
Your face is drawn and pale--his was of a clear olive tint, round and
flushed with health; and his hair was glossy black--ah! as jet-black,
my friend, as yours is snow-white!"

I recoiled from these last words in a sort of terror; they were like an
electric shock! Was I indeed so changed? Was it possible that the
horrors of a night in the vault had made such a dire impression upon
me? My hair white?--mine! I could hardly believe it. If so, perhaps
Nina would not recognize me--she might be terrified at my aspect--Guido
himself might have doubts of my identity.