Though, for that matter, I
could easily prove myself to be indeed Fabio Romani--even if I had to
show the vault and my own sundered coffin. While I revolved all this in
my mind the old man, unconscious of my emotion, went on with his
mumbling chatter.

"Ah, yes, yes! He was a fine fellow--a strong fellow. I used to rejoice
that he was so strong. He could have taken the little throat of his
wife between finger and thumb and nipped it--so! and she would have
told no more lies. I wanted him to do it--I waited for it. He would
have done it surely, had he lived. That is why I am sorry he died."

Mastering my feelings by a violent effort, I forced myself to speak
calmly to this malignant old brute.

"Why do you hate the Countess Romani so much?" I asked him with
sternness. "Has she done you any harm?"

He straightened himself as much as he was able and looked me full in
the eyes.

"See you!" he answered, with a sort of leering laugh about the corners
of his wicked mouth. "I will tell you why I hate her--yes--I will tell
you, because you are a man and strong. I like strong men--they are
sometimes fooled by women, it is true--but then they can take revenge.
I was strong myself once. And you--you are old--but you love a
jest--you will understand. The Romani woman has done me no harm. She
laughed--once. That was when her horses knocked me down in the street.
I was hurt--but I saw her red lips widen and her white teeth
glitter--she has a baby smile--the people will tell you--so innocent! I
was picked up--her carriage drove on--her husband was not with her--he
would have acted differently. But it is no matter--I tell you she
laughed--and then I saw at once the likeness."

"The likeness!" I exclaimed impatiently, for his story annoyed me.
"What likeness?"

"Between her and my wife," the dealer replied, fixing his cruel eyes
upon me with increasing intensity of regard. "Oh, yes! I know what love
is. I know too that God had very little to do with the making of women.
It was a long time before even He could find the Madonna. Yes--yes, I
know! I tell you I married a thing as beautiful as a morning in
spring-time--with a little head that seemed to droop like a flower
under its weight of sunbeam hair--and eyes! ah--like those of a tiny
child when it looks up and asks you for kisses. I was absent once--I
returned and found her sleeping tranquilly--yes! on the breast of a
black-browed street-singer from Venice--a handsome lad enou