CHAPTER IX.
THE COUNTESS ORSETTI'S BALL.
The ball at Casa Orsetti was much canvassed in Lucca. Hospitality is by no means a cardinal virtue in Italy. Even in the greatest houses, the bread and salt of the Arab is not offered to you—or, if offered at all, appears in the shape of such dangerously acid lemonade or such weak tea, it is best avoided. Every year there are dances at the Casino dei Nobili, during the Carnival, and there are veglioni, or balls, at the theatre, where ladies go masked and in dominoes, but do not dance; but these annual dissipations are paid for by ticket. A general reception, therefore, including dancing, supper, and champagne, gratis, was an event.
The Orsetti Palace, a huge square edifice of reddish-gray stone, with overtopping roof, four tiers of lofty windows, and a broad arched entrance, or portone, with dark-green doors, stands in the street of San Michele. You pass it, going from the railway-station to the city-gate (where the Lucchese lions keep guard), and the road leads onward to the peaked mountains over Spezia.
On the evening of the ball the entire street of San Michele was hung with Chinese lanterns, arranged in festoons. Opposite the entrance shone a gigantic star of gas. The palace itself was a blaze of light. As the night was warm, every window was thrown open; chandeliers—scintillating like jeweled fountains—hung from the ceilings; wax-lights innumerable, in gilded sconces, were grouped upon the walls; crimson-silk curtains cast a ruddy glare across the street, and the sound of harps and violins floated through the night air. The crowd of beggars and idlers, generally gathered in the street, saw so much that they might be considered to "assist," in an independent but festive capacity, at the entertainment from outside. Matches were hawked about for the convenience of the male portion of this extempore assembly, and fruit in baskets was on sale for the women. "Cigars—cigars of quality!"—"Good fruit—ripe fruit!" were cries audible even in the ballroom; and a fine aroma of coarse tobacco mounted rapidly upward to the illuminated windows.
Within the archway groups of servants were ranged in the Orsetti livery. Also a magnificent personage, not to be classed with any of the other domestics, wearing a silver chain with a key passed across his breast. The personage called a major-domo, in the discharge of his duty, divested the ladies of their shawls, and arranged their draperies.
All this was witnessed with much glee by the plebs outside—the men smoking, the women eating and talking. As the guests arrived in rapid succession, the plebs pressed more and more forward, until at last some of the boldest stood within the threshold. The giants in livery not only tolerated this, but might be said to observe them individually with favor—seeing how much of their admiration was bestowed on themselves and their fine clothes. The major-domo also, with amiable condescension, affected not to notice them—no, not even when one tall fellow, a butcher, with eyes as black as sloes, a pipe in his mouth, and a coarse cloak wrapped round him, took off his hat to the Princess Cardeneff, as she passed by him glittering with diamonds, and cried in her face, "Oh! bella, bella!"
When the major-domo had performed those mysteries intrusted to him, attendant giants threw open folding doors at the farther end of the court, and the bright visions disappeared into a long gallery on the ground-floor, painted in brilliant frescoes, to the reception-room. The suite of rooms on the ground-floor are the summer apartments, specially arranged for air and coolness. Rustic chairs stand against walls painted with fruit and flowers, the stems and leaves represented as growing out of the floor, as at Pompeii. The whole saloon is like a parterre. Settees, sofas, and cozy Paris chairs covered with rich satins, are placed under arbors of light-gilt trellis-work, wreathed with exquisite creepers in full flower. Palms, orange and lemon trees, flowering cacti, and large-leaved cane-plants, are grouped about; consoles and marble tables, covered with the loveliest cut flowers.
Near the door, in the first of these floral saloons where sweet scents made the air heavy, stands the Countess Orsetti. Although she had certainly passed that great female climacteric, forty, a stately presence, white skin, abundant hair, and good features treated artistically, gave her still a certain claim to matronly beauty. She greets each guest with compliments and phrases which would have been deemed excessive out of Italy. Here in Lucca, where she met most of her guests every day, these compliments and phrases were not only excessive, but wearisome and out of place. Yet such is the custom of the country, and to such fulsome flattery do the language and common usage lend themselves. Countess Orsetti, therefore, is not responsible for this absurdity.
Her son is beside her. He is short, stout, and smiling, with a hesitating manner, and a habit of referring every thing to his magnificent mamma. Away from his mamma, he is frank, talkative, and amusing. It is to be hoped that he will marry soon, and escape from the leading-strings. If he marries Teresa Ottolini—and it is said such a result is certain—no palace in Lucca would be big enough to hold Teresa and the countess-mother at one time.
Group after group enters, bows to the countess, and passes on among the flowers: the Countess Navascoes (with her lord), pale, statuesque, dark-eyed, raven-haired—a type of Italian womanhood; Marchesa Manzi—born of the noble house of Buoncampagni—looking as if she had walked out of a picture by Titian; the Da Gia, separated from her husband—a little habit, this, of Italian ladies, consequent upon intimacy with the jeunesse dorée, who prefer the wives of their best friends to all other women—it saves trouble, and a "golden youth" is essentially idle. This little habit, moreover, of separation from husbands does not damage the lady in the least; no one inquires what has happened, or who is in the wrong. Society receives and pets her just the same, and, quite impartial, receives and pets the husband also.—Luisa Bernardini, a glowing little countess, as plump as an ortolan, dimpling with smiles, an ugly old husband at her side—comes next. It is whispered, unless the ugly old husband is blind as well as deaf, they will be separated, too, very shortly. Young Civilla, a "golden youth," is so very pressing. He could live with Luisa at Naples—a cheap place. They might have gone on for years as a triangular household—but for Civilla's carelessness. Civilla would always put out old Bernardini about the dinner. (Civilla dined at Bernardini's house every day, as he would at a café.) Now, old Bernardini did not care a button that his little wife had a lover; it would not have been en règle if she had not—nor did he care that his wife's lover should dine with him every day—not a bit—but old Bernardini is a gourmand, and he does care to be kept waiting for his dinner. He has lately confided to a friend, that he should be sorry to cause a scandal, but that he must separate from his wife if Civilla will not reform in the matter of the dinner-hour. "He is getting old," Bernardini says, "and his digestion suffers." No man keeps a French cook to be kept waiting for his dinner.
Luisa, who looks the picture of innocence, wears an unexceptionable pink dress, with a train that bodes ill-luck, and many apologies, to her partners. A long train is Luisa's little game. (Spite of Civilla, she has many other little games.) Fragments of the train fly about the room all the evening, and admirers take care that she shall see these picked up, fervently kissed, and stowed away as relics in breast-pockets. One enthusiast pinned his fragment to his shoulder, like an order—a knight of San Luisa, he called himself.
Teresa Ottolini, with her mother, has just arrived. Being single, Teresa either is, or affects to be, excessively steady; no one would marry her if she were not—not even the good-natured Orsetti. Your Italian husband in futuro will pardon nothing in his wife that may be—not even that her dress should be conspicuous, much less her manners. Neither is it expedient that she should be seen much in society. That dangerous phalanx of "golden youth" are ever on the watch, "gentlemen sportsmen," to a man; their sport, woman. If she goes out much these "golden youth" might compromise her. Less than a breath upon a maiden's name is social death. That name must not be coupled with any man's—not coupled even in lightest parlance. So the lady waits, waits until she has a husband—it is more piquant to be a naughty wife than a fast miss—then she makes her choice—one, or a dozen—it is a matter of taste. Danger is added to vice; and that element of intrigue dear to the Italian soul, both male and female. The jeunesse dorée delight in mild danger—a duel with swords, not pistols, with a foolish husband. Why cannot he grin and bear it?—others do.
But to return to Teresa. She is courtesying very low to the Countess Orsetti. Although it is well known that these ladies hate each other, Countess Orsetti receives Teresa with a special welcome, kisses her on both cheeks, addresses more compliments to her, and makes her more courtesies than to any one else. How beautiful she is, the Ottolini, with those white flowers twisted into the braids of her chestnut hair!—those large, lazy eyes, too—like sleeping volcanoes!—Count Orsetti thinks her beautiful, clearly; for, under the full battery of his mother's glances, he advances to meet her, blushing like a girl. He presses Teresa's hand, and whispers in her ear that "she must not forget her promise about the cotillon. He has lived upon it ever since." Her reply has apparently satisfied him, for the honest fellow breaks out all over into smiles and bows and amorous glances. Then she passes on, the fair Teresa, like a queen, followed by looks of unmistakable admiration—much more unmistakable looks of admiration than would be permitted elsewhere; but we are in Italy, where men are born artists and have artistic feelings.
The men, as a rule, are neither as distinguished looking nor as well dressed as the women. The type of the Lucchese nobleman is dark, short, and commonplace—rustic is the word.
There is the usual crowding in doorways, and appropriation of seats whence arrivals can be seen and criticised. But there is no line of melancholy young girls wanting partners. The gentlemen decidedly predominate, and all the ladies, except Teresa Ottolini and the Boccarini, are married.
The Marchesa Boccarini had already arrived, accompanied by her three daughters. They are seated near the door leading from the first saloon, where Countess Orsetti is stationed. In front of them is a group of flowering plants and palm-trees. Madame Boccarini peers through the leaves, glass in eye. As a general scans the advance of the enemy's troops from behind an ambush, calculates what their probable movements will be, and how he can foil them—either by open attack or feigned retreat, skirmish or manoeuvre—so Madame Boccarini scans the various arrivals between the dark-green foliage.
To her every young and pretty woman is a rival to her daughters; if a rival, an enemy—if an enemy, to be annihilated if possible, or at least disabled, and driven ignominiously from the field.
It is well known that the Boccarini girls are poor. They will have no portions—every one understands that. The Boccarini girls must marry as they can; no priest will interest himself in their espousals. It was this that made Nera so attractive. She was perfectly natural and unconventionally bold—"like an English mees," it was said—with looks of horror. (The Americans have much to answer for; they have emancipated young ladies; all their sins, and our own to boot, we have to answer for abroad.)
The Boccarini were in reality so poor that it was no uncommon thing for them to remain at home because they could not afford to buy new dresses in which to display themselves. (Poor Madame Boccarini felt this far more than the girls did themselves.) To be seen more than thrice in the same dress is impossible. Lucca is so small, every one's clothes are known. There was no throwing dust in the eyes of dear female friends in this particular.
On the present occasion the Boccarini girls had made great efforts to produce a brilliant result. Madame Boccarini had told her daughters that they must expect no fresh dresses for six months at least, so great had been the outlay. Nera, on hearing this, had tossed her stately head, and had inwardly resolved that before six months she would marry—and that, dress or no dress, she would go wherever she had a chance of meeting Count Nobili. Her mother tacitly concurred in these views, as far as Count Nobili was concerned, but said nothing.
A Belgravian mother who frankly drills her daughter and points out, viva voce, when to advance and when to retreat, and to whom the honors of war are to be accorded—is an article not yet imported into classic Italy with the current Anglomania.
Beside Nera sat Prince Ruspoli, a young Roman of great wealth. Ruspoli aspired to lead the fashion, but not even Poole could well tailor him. (Ruspoli was called poule mouillée.) Nature had not intended it. His tall, gaunt figure, long arms, and thin legs, rendered him artistically unavailable. The music has just sounded from a large saloon at the end of the suite, and Prince Ruspoli has offered his arm to Nera for the first waltz. If Count Nobili had arrived, she would have refused Ruspoli, even on the chance of losing the dance; but he had not come. Her sisters, who are older, and less attractive than herself, had as yet found no partners; but they were habitually resigned and amiable, and submitted with perfect meekness to be obliterated by Nera.
A knot of young men have now formed near the door of the dancing-saloon. They are eagerly discussing the cotillon, the final dance of the evening. Count Orsetti had left his mother's side and joined them.
The cotillon is a matter of grave consideration—the very gravest. Indeed it was very seldom these young heads considered any thing so grave. On the success of the cotillon depends the success of the evening. All the "presents" had come from Paris. Some of the figures were new and required consultation.
"I mean to dance with Teresa Ottolini," announced Count Orsetti, timidly—he could not name Teresa without reddening. "We arranged it together a month ago."
"And I am engaged to Countess Navascoes," said Count Malatesta.
This engagement was said to have begun some years back, and to be very enthralling. No one objected, least of all the husband, who worshiped at the shrine of the blooming Bernardini when she quarreled with Civilla. A lady of fashion has a choice of lovers, as she has a choice of dresses—for all emergencies.
"But how about these new figures?" asked Orsetti.
"Per Bacco—hear the music!" cried Malatesta. "What a delicious waltz!
I want to dance. Let's settle it at once. Who's to lead?"
"Oh! Baldassare, of course," replied Franchi, a sallow, languid young man, who looked as if he had been raised in a hot-house, and had lost all his color. "Nobody else would take the trouble. Who is he to dance with?"
"Let him see who will have him. I shall not interfere. He'll dance for both, anyhow," answered Orsetti, laughing. "No one competes with Adonis."
"Where is he?"
"Oh! dancing, of course," returned Orsetti. "Don't you see him twirling round like a teetotum, with Marchesa Amici 'of the swan-neck?'" And he pointed to a pair who were waltzing with such precision that they never by a single step broke the circle—Baldassare gallantly receiving the charge of any free lancers who flung themselves in their path.
Baldassare is much elated at being permitted to dance with "the swan-neck," a little faded now, but once a noted beauty. The swan-neck is a famous lady. Ill-natured persons might have added an awkward syllable to famous. She had been very dear to a great Russian magnate who lived in a villa lined with malachite, and loaded her with gifts. But as the marquis, her husband, was always with her and invariably spoke of his wife as an angel, where was the harm? Now the Russian magnate was dead, and the Marchesa Amici had retired to Lucca, to enjoy the spoils along with her discreet and complaisant marquis.
"How that young fellow does push himself!" observes the cynical Franchi. "Dancing with the Amici—such a great lady! Nothing is sacred to him."
"I wish Nobili were come." It was Orsetti who spoke now. "I should have liked him to lead instead of Baldassare. Adonis is getting forward. He wants keeping in order. Will no one else lead? I cannot, in my own house."
"Oh! but you would mortally offend poor Trenta if you did not let Baldassare lead. The women will keep him in order," was the immediate reply of a young man who had not yet spoken. "The cavaliere must marshal the dancers, and Baldassare must lead, or the old man would break his heart."
"I wish Nobili were here all the same," replied Orsetti. "If he does not come soon, we must select his partner for him. Whom is he to have?"
"Oh! Nera Boccarini, of course," responded two or three voices, amid a general titter.
"I don't think Nobili cares a straw about Nera," put in the languid Franchi, drawling out his words. "I have heard quite another story about Nobili. Give Nera to Ruspoli. He seems about to take her for life. I wish him joy!" with a sneer. "Ruspoli likes English manners. Nera won't get Nobili, my word upon that—there are too many stories about her."
But these remarks at the moment passed unnoticed. No one asked what Franchi had heard, all being intent about the cotillon and the choice of partners.
"Well," burst out Orsetti, no longer able to resist the music (the waltz had been turned into a galop), "I am sure I don't care if Nobili or Ruspoli likes Nera. I shall not try to cut them out."
"No, no, not you, Orsetti! We know your taste does not lie in that quarter. Yours is the domestic style, chaste and frigid!" cried Malatesta, with a sardonic smile. There was a laugh. Malatesta was so bad, even according to the code of the "golden youths," that he compromised any lady by his attentions. Orsetti blushed crimson.
"Pardon me," he replied, much confused, "I must go; my partner is looking daggers at me. Call up old Trenta and tell him what he has to do." Orsetti rushes off to the next room, where Teresa Ottolini is waiting for him, with a look of gentle reproach in her sleepy eyes, where lies the hidden fire.
Meanwhile Cavaliere Trenta's white head, immaculate blue coat and gold buttons—to which coat were attached several orders—had been seen hovering about from chair to chair through the rooms. He attached himself specially to elderly ladies, his contemporaries. To these he repeated the identical high-flown compliments he had addressed to them thirty years before, in the court circle of the Duke of Lucca—compliments such as elderly ladies love, though conscious all the time of their absurd inappropriateness.
Like the dried-up rose-bud of one's youth, religiously preserved as a relic, there is a faint flavor of youth and pleasure about them, sweet still, as a remembrance of the past. "Always beautiful, always amiable!" murmured the cavaliere, like a rhyme, a placid smile upon his rosy face.
Summoned to the cabinet council held near the door, Trenta becomes intensely interested. He weighs each detail, he decides every point with the gravity of a judge: how the new figures are to be danced, and with whom Baldassare is to lead—no one else could do it. He himself would marshal the dances.
The double orchestra now play as if they were trying to drown each other. Half a dozen rooms are full of dancers. The matrons, and older men, have subsided into whist up-stairs. All the ladies have found partners; there is not a single wall-flower.
Nothing could exceed the stately propriety of the ball. It was a grand and stately gathering. Nobody but Nera Boccarini was natural. "To save appearances" is the social law. "Do what you like, but save appearances." A dignified hypocrisy none disobey. These men and women, with the historic names, dare not show each other what they are. There was no flirting, no romping, no loud laughter; not a loud word—no telltale glances, no sitting in corners. It was a pose throughout. Men bowed ceremoniously, and addressed as strangers ladies with whom they spent every evening. Husbands devoted themselves to wives whom they never saw but in public. Innocence may betray itself, seems to betray itself—guilt never. Guilt is cautious.
At this moment Count Nobili entered. He was received with lofty courtesy by the countess. Her manner implied a gentle protest. Count Nobili was a banker's son; his mother was not—née—any thing. Still he was welcome. She graciously bent her head, on which a tiara of diamonds glittered—in acknowledgment of his compliments on the brilliancy of her ball.
Nobili's address was frank and manly. There was an ease and freedom about him that contrasted favorably with the effeminate appearance and affected manners of the jeunesse dorée. His voice, too, was a pleasant voice, and gave a value to all he said. A sunny smile lighted up his fair-complexioned face, the face old Carlotta had called "lucky."
"You are very late," the countess had said, with the slightest tone of annoyance in her voice—fanning herself languidly as she spoke. "My son has been looking for you."
"It has been my loss, Signora Contessa," replied Nobili, bowing. "Pardon me. I was delayed. With your permission, I will find your son." He bowed again, then walked on into the dancing-rooms beyond.
Nobili had come late. "Why should he go at all?" he had asked himself, sighing, as he sat at home, smoking a solitary cigar. "What was the Orsetti ball, or any other ball, to him, when Enrica was not there?"
Nevertheless, he did dress, and he did go, telling himself, however, that he was simply fulfilling a social duty by so doing. Now that he is here, standing in the ballroom, the incense of the flowers in his nostrils, the music thrilling in his ear—now that flashing eyes, flushed cheeks, graceful forms palpitating with the fury of the dance—and hands with clasping fingers, are turned toward him—does he still feel regretful—sad? Not in the least.
No sooner had he arrived than he found himself the object of a species of ovation. This put him into the highest possible spirits. It was most gratifying. He could not possibly do less than return these salutations with the same warmth with which they were offered.
Not that Count Nobili acknowledged any inferiority to those among whom he moved as an equal. Count Nobili held that, in New Italy, every man is a gentleman who is well educated and well mannered. As to the language the Marchesa Guinigi used about him, he shook with laughter whenever it was mentioned.
So it fell out that, before he had arrived many minutes, the remembrance of Enrica died out, and Nobili flung himself into the spirit of the ball with all the ardor of his nature.
"Why did you come so late, Nobili?" asked Orsetti, turning his head, and speaking in the pause of a waltz with Luisa Bernardini. "You must go at once and talk to Trenta about the cotillon."
"Well, Nobili, you gave us a splendid entertainment for the festival," said Franchi. "Per Dio! there were no women to trouble us."
"No women!" exclaimed Civilla—"that was the only fault. Divine woman!—Otherwise it was superb. Who has been ill-treating you, Franchi, to make you so savage?"
Franchi put up his eye-glass and stared at him.
"When there is good wine, I prefer to drink it without women. They distract me."
"Never saw such a reception in Lucca," said Count Malatesta; "never drank such wine. Go on, caro mio, go on, and prosper. We will all support you, but we cannot imitate you."
Nobili, passing on quickly, nearly ran over Cavaliere Trenta. He was in the act of making a profound obeisance, as he handed an ice to one of his contemporaries.
"Ah, youth! youth!" exclaimed poor Trenta, softly, with difficulty recovering his equilibrium by the help of his stick.—"Never mind, Count Nobili, don't apologize; I can bear any thing from a young man who celebrates the festival of the Holy Countenance with such magnificence. Per Bacco! you are the best Lucchese in Lucca. I have seen nothing like it since the duke left. My son, it was worthy of the palace you inhabit."
Ah! could the marchesa have heard this, she would never have spoken to
Trenta again!
"You gratify me exceedingly, cavaliere," replied Nobili, really pleased at the old man's praise. "I desire, as far as I can, to become Lucchese at heart. Why should not the festivals of New Italy exceed those of the old days? At least, I shall do my best that it be so."
"Eh? eh?" replied Trenta, rubbing his nose with a doubtful expression; "difficult—very difficult. In the old days, my young friend, society was a system. Each sovereign was the centre of a permanent court circle. There were many sovereigns and many circles—many purses, too, to pay the expenses of each circle. Now it is all hap-hazard; no money, no court, no king."
"No king?" exclaimed Nobili, with surprise.
"I beg pardon, count," answered the urbane Trenta, remembering Nobili's liberal politics—"I mean no society. Society, as a system, has ceased to exist in Italy. But we must think of the cotillon. It is now twelve o'clock. There will be supper. Then we must soon begin. You, count, are to dance with Nera Boccarini. You came so late we were obliged to arrange it for you."
Nobili colored crimson.
"Does the lady—does Nera Boccarini know this?" he asked, and as he asked his color heightened.
"Well, I cannot tell you, but I presume she does. Count Orsetti will have told her. The cotillon was settled early. You have no objection to dance with her, I presume?"
"None—none in the world. Why should I?" replied Nobili, hastily (now the color of his cheeks had grown crimson). "Only—only I might not have selected her." The cavaliere looked up at him with evident surprise. "Am I obliged to dance the cotillon at all, cavaliere?" added Nobili, more and more confused. "Can't I sit out?"
"Oh, impossible—simply impossible!" cried Trenta, authoritatively. "Every couple is arranged. Not a man could fill your place; the whole thing would be a failure."
"I am sorry," answered Nobili, in a low voice—"sorry all the same."
"Now go, and find your partner," said Trenta, not heeding this little speech. "I am about to have the chairs arranged. Go and find your partner."
"Now what could make Nobili object to dance with Nera Boccarini?" Trenta asked himself, when Nobili was gone, striking his stick loudly on the floor, as a sign for the music to cease.
There was an instant silence. The gentlemen handed the ladies to a long gallery, the last of the suite of the rooms on the ground-floor. Here a buffet was arranged. The musicians also were refreshed with good wine and liquors, before the arduous labors of the cotillon commenced. No brilliant cotillon ends before 8 A.M.; then there is breakfast and driving home by daylight at ten o'clock.
Nobili, his cheeks still tingling, felt that the moment had come when he must seek his partner. It would be difficult to define the contending feelings that made him reluctant to do so. Nera Boccarini had taken no pains to conceal how much she liked him. This was flattering; perhaps he felt it was too flattering. There was a determination about Nera, a power of eye and tongue, an exuberance of sensuous youth, that repelled while it allured him. It was like new wine, luscious to the taste, but strong and heavy. New wine is very intoxicating. Nobili loved Enrica. At that moment every woman that did not in some subtile way remind him of her, was distasteful to him. Now, it was not possible to find two women more utterly different, more perfect contrasts, than the dreamy, reserved, tender Enrica—so seldom seen, so little known—and the joyous, outspoken Nera—to be met with at every mass, every fête, in the shops, on the Corso, on the ramparts.
Now, Nera, who had been dancing much with Prince Ruspoli, had heard from him that Nobili was selected as her partner in the cotillon.
"Another of your victims," Prince Ruspoli had said, with a kindling eye.
Nera had laughed gayly.
"My victims?" she retorted. "I wish you would tell me who they are."
This question was accompanied by a most inviting glance. Prince
Ruspoli met her glance, but said nothing. (Nera greatly preferred
Nobili, but it is well to have two strings to one's bow, and Ruspoli
was a prince with a princely revenue.)
When Nobili appeared, Prince Ruspoli, who had handed Nera to a seat near a window, bowed to her and retired.
"To the devil with Nobili!" was Prince Ruspoli's thought, as he resigned her. "I do like that girl—she is so English!" and Ruspoli glanced at Poole's dress-clothes, which fitted him so badly, and remembered with satisfaction certain balls in London, and certain water-parties at Maidenhead (Ruspoli had been much in England), where he had committed the most awful solecisms, according to Italian etiquette, with frank, merry-hearted girls, whose buoyant spirits were contagious.
Nobili's eyes fell instinctively to the ground as he approached Nera. The rosy shadow of the red-silk curtains behind her fell upon her face, bosom, and arms, with a ruddy glow.
"I am to have the honor of dancing the cotillon with you, I believe?" he said, still looking down.
"Yes, I believe so," she responded—"at least so I am told; but you have not asked me yet. Perhaps you would prefer some one else. I confess I am satisfied."
As she spoke, Nera riveted her full black eyes upon Nobili. If he only would look up, she would read his thoughts, and tell him her own thoughts also. But Nobili did not look up; he felt her gaze, nevertheless; it thrilled him through and through.
At this moment, the melody of a voluptuous waltz, the opening of the cotillon, burst from the orchestra with an entrain that might have moved an anchorite. As the sounds struck upon his ear, Nobili grew dizzy under the magnetism of those unseen eyes. His cheeks flushed suddenly, and the blood stirred itself tumultuously in his veins.
"Why should I repulse this girl because she loves me?" he asked himself.
This question came to him, wafted, as it were, upon the wings of the music.
"Count Nobili, you have not answered me," insisted Nera. She had not moved. "You are very absent this evening. Do you wish to dance with me? Tell me."
She dwelt upon the words. Her voice was low and very pleading. Nobili had not yet spoken.
"I ask you again," she said.
This time her voice sounded most enticing. She touched his arm, too, laying her soft fingers upon it, and gazed up into his face. Still no answer.
"Will you not speak to me, Nobili?" She leaned forward, and grasped his arm convulsively. "Nobili, tell me, I implore you, what have I done to offend you?"
Tears gathered in her eyes. Nobili felt her hand tremble.
He looked up; their eyes met. There was a fire in hers that was contagious. His heart gave a great bound. Pressing within his own the hand that still rested so lovingly upon his arm, Nobili gave a rapid glance round. The room was empty; they were standing alone near the window, concealed by the ample curtains. Now the red shadow fell upon them both—
"This shall be my answer, Nera—siren," whispered Nobili.
As he speaks he clasps her in his arms; a passionate kiss is imprinted upon her lips.
* * * * *
Hours have passed; one intoxicating waltz-measure has been exchanged for another, that falls upon the ear as enthralling as the last. Not an instant had the dances ceased. The Cavaliere Trenta, his round face beaming with smiles, is seated in an arm-chair at the top of the largest ballroom. He keeps time with his foot. Now and then he raps loudly with his stick on the floor and calls out the changes of the figures. Baldassare and Luisa Bernardini lead with the grace and precision of practised dancers.
"Brava! brava! a thousand times! Brava!" calls out the cavaliere from his arm-chair, clapping his hands. "You did that beautifully, marchesa!"—This was addressed to the swan's-neck, who had circled round, conducted by her partner, selecting such gentlemen as she pleased, and grouping them in one spot, in order to form a bouquet. "You couldn't have done it better if you had been taught in Paris.—Forward! forward!" to a timid couple, to whom the intricacies of the figure were evidently distracting. "Belle donne! belle donne! Victory to the brave! Fear nothing.—Orsetti, keep the circle down there; you are out of your place. You will never form the bouquet if you don't—Louder! louder!" to the musicians, holding up his stick at them like a marshal's bâton—"loud as they advance—then piano—diminuendo—pia-nis-si-mo—as they retreat. That sort of thing gives picturesqueness—light and shade, like a picture. Hi! hi! Malatesta! The devil! You are spoiling every thing! Didn't I tell you to present the flowers to your partner? So—so. The flowers—they are there." Trenta pointed to a table. He struggled to rise to fetch the bouquets himself. Malatesta was too quick for him, however.
"Now bring up all the ladies and place them in chairs; bow to them," etc., etc.
Thanks to the energy of the cavaliere, and the agility of Baldassare—who, it is admitted on all hands, had never distinguished himself so much as on this occasion—all the difficulties of the new figures have been triumphantly surmounted. Gentlemen had become spokes of a gigantic wheel that whirled round a lady seated on a chair in the centre of the room. They had been named as roots, trees, and even vegetables; they had answered to such names, seeking corresponding weeds as their partners. At a clap of the cavaliere's hands they had dashed off wildly, waltzing. Gentlemen had worn paper nightcaps, put on masks, and been led about blindfold. They had crept under chairs, waved flags from tables, thrown up colored balls, and unraveled puzzles—all to the rhythm of the waltz-measure babbling on like a summer brooklet under the sun, through emerald meadows.
And now the exciting moment of the ribbons is come—the moment when the best presents are to be produced—the ribbons—a sheaf of rainbow-colors, fastened into a strong golden ring, which ring is to be held by a single lady, each gentleman grasping (as best he can) a single ribbon. As long as the lady seated on the chair in the centre pleases, the gentlemen are to gyrate round her. When she drops the ring holding the sheaf of ribbons, the Cavaliere Trenta is to clap his hands, and each gentleman is instantly to select that lady who wears a rosette corresponding in color to his ribbon—the lady in the chair being claimed by her partner.
Nobili has placed Nera Boccarini on the chair in the centre. (Ever since the flavor of that fervid kiss has rested on his lips, Nobili has been lost in a delicious dream. "Why should not he and Nera dance on—on—on—forever?—Into indefinite space, if possible—only together?" He asks himself this question vaguely, as she rests within his arms—as he drinks in the subtile perfume of the red roses bound in her glossy hair.)
Nera is triumphant. Nobili is her own! As she sits in that chair when he has placed her, she is positively radiant. Love has given an unknown tenderness to her eyes, a more delicate brilliancy to her cheeks, a softness, almost a languor, to her movements. (Look out, acknowledged belle of Lucca—look out, Teresa Ottolini—here is a dangerous rival to your supremacy! If Nobili loves Nera as Nera believes he does—Nera will ripen quickly into yet more transcendent beauty.)
Now Nobili has left Nera, seated in the chair. He is distributing the various ribbons among the dancers. As there are over a hundred couples, and there is some murmuring and struggling to secure certain ladies, who match certain ribbons, this is difficult, and takes time. See—it is done; again Nobili retires behind Nera's chair, to wait the moment when he shall claim her himself.
How the men drag at the ribbons, whirling round and round, hand-in-hand!—Nera's small hand can scarcely hold them—the men whirling round every instant faster—tumbling over each other, indeed; each moment the ribbons are dragged harder. Nera laughs; she sways from side to side, her arms extended. Faster and more furiously the men whirl round—like runaway horses now, bearing dead upon the reins. The strain is too great, Nera lets fall the ring. The cavaliere claps his hands. Each gentleman rushes toward the lady wearing a rosette matching his ribbon. Nera rises. Already she is encircled by Nobili's arm. He draws her to him; she makes one step forward. Nera is a bold, firm dancer, but, unknown to her, the ribbons in falling have become entangled about her feet; she, is bound, she cannot stir; she gives a little scream. Nobili, startled, suddenly loosens his hold upon her waist. Nera totters, extends her arms, then falls heavily backward, her head striking on the parquet floor. There is a cry of horror. Every dancer stops. They gather round her where she lies. Her face is turned upward, her eyes are set and glassy, her cheeks are ashen.
"Holy Virgin!" cries Nobili, in a voice of anguish, "I have killed her!" He casts himself on the floor beside her—he raises her in his strong arms. "Air, air!—give her air, or she will die!" he cries.
Putting every one aside, he carries Nera to the nearest window, he lays her tenderly on a sofa. It is the very spot where he had kissed her—under the fiery shadow of the red curtain. Alas! Nobili is sobered now from the passion of that moment. The glamour has departed with the light of Nera's eyes. He is ashamed of himself; but there is a swelling at his heart, nevertheless—an impulse of infinite compassion toward the girl who lies senseless before him—her beauty, her undisguised love for him, plead powerfully for her. Does he love her?
The Countess Boccarini and Nera's sisters are by her side. The poor mother at first is speechless; she can only chafe her child's cold hands, and kiss her white lips.
"Nera, Nera," at last she whispers, "Nera, speak to me—speak to me—one word—only one word!"
But, alas! there is no sign of animation—to all appearance Nera is dead. Nobili, convinced that he alone is responsible, and too much agitated to care what he does, kneels beside her, and places his hand upon her heart.
"She lives! she lives!" he cries—"her heart beats! Thank God, I have not killed her!"
This leap from death to life is too much for him; he staggers to his feet, falls into a chair, and sobs aloud. Nera's eyelids tremble; she opens her eyes, her lips move.
"Nera, my child, my darling, speak to me!" cries Madame Boccarini.
"Tell me that you can hear me."
Nera tries to raise her head, but in vain. It falls back upon the cushion.
"Home, mamma—home!" her lips feebly whisper.
At the sound of her voice Nobili starts up; he brushes away the tears that still roll down his cheeks. Again he lifts Nera tenderly in his arms. For that night Nera belongs to him; no one else shall touch her. He bears her down-stairs to a carriage. Then he disappears into the darkness of the night.
No one will leave the ball until there is some report of Nera's condition from the doctor who has been summoned. The gay groups sit around the glittering ballroom, and whisper to each other. The "golden youth" offer bets as to Nera's recovery; the ladies, who are jealous, back freely against it. In half an hour, however, Countess Orsetti is able to announce that "Nera Boccarini is better, and that, beyond the shock, it is hoped that she is not seriously hurt."
"You see, Malatesta, I was right," drawls out the languid Franchi as he descends the stairs. "You will believe me another time. You know I told you and Orsetti that Nera Boccarini and Nobili understood each other. He's desperately in love with her."
"I don't believe it, all the same," answers Malatesta, shaking his head. "A man can't half kill a girl and show no compunction—specially not Nobili—the best-hearted fellow breathing. Nobili is just the man to feel such an accident as that dreadfully. How splendid Nera looked to-night! She quite cut out the Ottolini." Malatesta spoke with enthusiasm; he had a practised eye for woman's fine points. "Here, Adonis—I beg your pardon—Baldassare, I mean—where are you going?"
"Home," replies the Greek mask.
"Never mind home; we are all obliged to you. You lead the cotillon admirably."
Baldassare smiles, and shows two rows of faultless teeth.
"Come and have some supper with us at the Universo. Franchi is coming, and all our set."
"With the greatest pleasure," replies Baldassare, smiling.