And now the evening of my first day in Naples came, and I, the supposed Conte Cesare Oliva, the envied and flattered noble, took the first step toward my vengeance.  It was one of the loveliest evenings possible, even in that lovely land—­a soft breeze blew in from the sea—­the sky was pearl-like and pure as an opal, yet bright with delicate shifting clouds of crimson and pale mauve—­small, fleecy flecks of Radiance, that looked like a shower of blossoms fallen from some far invisible flower-land.  The waters of the bay were slightly ruffled by the wind, and curled into tender little dark-blue waves tipped with light forges of foam.  After my dinner I went out and took my way to a well-known and popular cafe which used to be a favorite haunt of mine in the days when I was known as Fabio Romani, Guido Ferrari was a constant habitue of the place, and I felt that I should find him there.  The brilliant rose-white and gold saloons were crowded, and owing to the pleasant coolness of the air there were hundreds of little tables pushed far out into the street, at which groups of persons were seated, enjoying ices, wine, or coffee, and congratulating each other on the agreeable news of the steady decrease of the pestilence that had ravaged the city.  I glanced covertly yet quickly round.  Yes!  I was not mistaken—­there was my quondam friend, my traitorous foe, sitting at his ease, leaning comfortably back in one chair, his feet put up on another.  He was smoking, and glancing now and then through the columns of the Paris “Figaro.”  He was dressed entirely in black—­a hypocritical livery, the somber hue of which suited his fine complexion and perfectly handsome features to admiration.  On the little finger of the shapely hand that every now and then was raised to adjust his cigar, sparkled a diamond that gave out a myriad scintillations as it flashed in the evening light—­it was of exceptional size and brilliancy, and even at a distance I recognized it as my own property!

So!—­a love-gift, signor, or an in memoriam of the dear and valued friend you have lost?  I wondered—­watching him in dark scorn the while—­then recollecting myself, I sauntered slowly toward him, and perceiving a disengaged table next to his, I drew a chair to it and sat down He looked at me in differently over the top of his newspaper—­but there was nothing specially attractive in the sight of a white-haired man wearing smoke-colored spectacles, and he resumed his perusal of the “Figaro” immediately.  I rapped the end of my walking-cane on the table and summoned a waiter from whom I ordered coffee.  I then lighted a cigar, and imitating Ferrari’s easy posture, smoked also.  Something in my attitude then appeared to strike him, for he laid down his paper and again looked at me, this time with more interest and something of uneasiness.  “Ca commence, mon ami!” I thought, but I turned my head slightly aside and feigned to be absorbed in the view.  My coffee was brought—­I paid for it and tossed the waiter an unusually large gratuity—­he naturally found it incumbent upon him to polish my table with extra zeal, and to secure all the newspapers, pictorial or otherwise, that were lying about, for the purpose of obsequiously depositing them in a heap at my right hand.  I addressed this amiable garcon in the harsh and deliberate accents of my carefully disguised voice.