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The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but
when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know
the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance
to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely
settled--but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved,
precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with
impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its
redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make
himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given
Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to
smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at
the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point--this Fortunato--although in other regards he was a
man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his
connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit.
For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and
opportunity--to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian
millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen,
was a quack--but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this
respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the
Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the
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