But Frank never heard or heeded the remark; his whole soul was wrapped up in the contemplation of the old field marshal, on whom he gazed as a devotee might have done upon his saint.
“He 's like my father,” muttered Frank, half aloud; “but haughtier-looking, and older. A true Dalton in every feature! How I long to speak to him, to tell him who I am.”
“Not here, though, not here!” said Walstein, laying his hand on the youth's arm; for he almost feared lest he should give way to the sudden impulse. “Were you even the Colonel of your regiment, you could not approach him now.”
Frank stared with some surprise at a remark which seemed to treat so slightingly the ties of blood and kindred; while Walstein, by no means easy on the score of his companion's prudence, gave the word to the postilion to drive on; and they entered the city of Vienna.
CHAPTER XXX. THE THREAT OP “A SLIGHT EMBARRASSMENT.”
The Mazzarini Palace was now a proverb for all that was dissipated and extravagant throughout Florence, and in proportion as the society which frequented it was select and few in number, the more absurd were the rumors that went abroad of its dissipations and excesses. In default of a real, good, tangible scandal the world invented a thousand shadowy little slanders, that, if not as deadly to reputation at once, were just as certain to kill character in the long run.
Sir Stafford's gout, of which he was confined to his bed or a sofa, was pronounced the lingering agonies of a broken heart. “My Lady's” late dinners were orgies where every licentiousness held sway. George was a reckless gambler, who had already jeopardized all the wealth of his family; and, as for Kate, she was at the mercy of that amiable temperament of the human mind which always believes the worst, and as constantly draws the darkest inference from its belief.
Now, Sir Stafford was very gouty, very irritable, and very unhappy to boot, about a number of matters, which, however deeply interesting to himself, should have had no concern for the world. My Lady did dine at eleven o'clock at night, and the company was assuredly not that from which a discriminating public would have selected archbishops, or even minor canons, consisting for the most part of that class of which we have already made mention in a former chapter, with now and then some passer-through of rank, or some stray diplomate on his way to or from his post. George Onslow was a large loser at play, but without having recourse to those stratagems for payment which were so generally ascribed to him. While Kate poor Kate was neither better nor worse than the reader has hitherto known her.
We do not in this admission seek to conceal the fact that she was very different from what first we saw her. Society had taught her tact, grace, and elegance of deportment. Admiration had rendered her yes,—we say it advisedly admiration had rendered her very attractive, drawing forth a thousand resources of fascination, and a thousand arts of pleasing, that often wither and die in the cold chill of neglect. The most fastidious critic could not have detected a fault in her manner; an ill-natured one might have objected to what seemed an excess of gracefulness; but even this was relieved by a youthful freshness and buoyancy of temperament, the last the very last remnant of her former self.