“Where do you lodge, Signor Cesarini?” asked the bland, familiar voice of Ferrers. “Let us walk part of the way together—that is, when you are tired of these hot rooms.”
Cesarini groaned. “You are ill,” continued Ferrers; “the air will revive you—come.” He glided from the room, and the Italian mechanically followed him. They walked together for some moments in silence, side by side, in a clear, lovely, moonlight night. At length Ferrers said, “Pardon me, my dear signor, but you may already have observed that I am a very frank, odd sort of fellow. I see you are caught by the charms of my cruel cousin. Can I serve you in any way?”
A man at all acquainted with the world in which we live would have been suspicious of such cordiality in the cousin of an heiress, towards a very unsuitable aspirant. But Cesarini, like many indifferent poets (but like few good ones), had no common sense. He thought it quite natural that a man who admired his poetry so much as Lumley had declared he did, should take a lively interest in his welfare; and he therefore replied warmly, “Oh, sir, this is indeed a crushing blow: I dreamed she loved me. She was ever flattering and gentle when she spoke to me, and in verse already I had told her of my love, and met with no rebuke.”
“Did your verses really and plainly declare love, and in your own person?”
“Why, the sentiment was veiled, perhaps—put into the mouth of a fictitious character, or conveyed in an allegory.”
“Oh,” ejaculated Ferrers, thinking it very likely that the gorgeous Florence, hymned by a thousand bards, had done little more than cast a glance over the lines that had cost poor Cesarini such anxious toil, and inspired him with such daring hope. “Oh!—and to-night she was more severe—she is a terrible coquette, la belle Florence! But perhaps you have a rival.”
“I feel it—I saw it—I know it.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
“That accursed Maltravers! He crosses me in every path—my spirit quails beneath his whenever we encounter. I read my doom.”
“If it be Maltravers,” said Ferrers, gravely, “the danger cannot be great. Florence has seen but little of him, and he does not admire her much; but she is a great match, and he is ambitious. We must guard against this betimes, Cesarini—for know that I dislike Maltravers as much as you do, and will cheerfully aid you in any plan to blight his hopes in that quarter.”