“What has become of these good people?” asked he of the porter.
“The stranger who arrived in the caleche awhile ago spoke a few words to them, and they went.”
This was all that he knew, and being a porter, one of that privileged caste whose prerogative it is never to reveal what takes place before their eyes, his present communication was remarkable.
“Would that the good genius had remembered me in his moment of generous abandonment!” muttered Norwood, as he took his road homeward to dress for dinner.
Little scrupulous about the means of getting out of a difficulty, provided it were only successful, Norwood scarcely bestowed another thought upon the whole matter, and lounged along the streets, as forgetful of the late scene as though it had passed twenty years before.
As the Viscount strolled along towards his lodgings, Kate Dalton, with trembling limbs and palpitating heart, threaded her way through the thronged streets, now wet and slippery from a thin rain that was falling. So long as her road lay through the less-frequented thoroughfares, her appearance excited little or no attention in the passers-by; but when she entered the Piazza Santa Trinita, all ablaze with gas-lamps and the reflected lights from brilliant shops, many stopped, turned, and gazed at the strange sight of a young and beautiful girl, attired in the very height of fashion, being alone and afoot at such an hour. Unaccountable even to mystery, as it seemed, there was something in her gait and carriage that at once repelled the possibility of a disparaging impression, and many touched or removed their hats respectfully as they made way for her to pass. To avoid the carriages, which whirled past in every direction and at tremendous speed, she passed close along by the houses; and, in doing so, came within that brilliant glare of light that poured from the glass doors of the great Cafe of the Piazza. It was exactly the hour when the idle loungers of Florence society that listless class who form the staple of our club life in England were swarming to talk of the plans of the evening, what resources of pleasure were available, and what receptions were open. The drizzling rain, and the cold, raw feeling of the air prevented their being seated, as their custom was, before the doors, where in every attitude of graceful languor they habitually smoked their cigars and discussed the passersby, in all the plenitude of recreative indolence. The group consisted of men of every age and country.
There were princes and blacklegs and adventurers; some with real rank and fortune, others as destitute of character as of means. Many owned names great and renowned in history; others bore designations only chronicled in the records of criminal jurisprudence. All were well dressed, and, so far as cursory notice could detect, possessed the ease and bearing of men familiar with the habits of good society. Although mixing in very distinct circles, here, at least, they met every day on terms of familiar equality, discussing the politics of the hour and the events of the world with seeming frankness and candor.
From a small chamber at the back of the cafe, a little tide of loungers seemed to ebb and flow; while the sharp rattling sound of a dice-box indicated the nature of the occupation that went forward there. The small apartment was thronged with spectators of the game; and even around the door several were standing, content to hear the tidings of a contest they could not witness.
“To sit upon the Ponte Carraja, and chuck rouleaux of gold into the Arno, would be to the full as amusing, and not a more costly pastime,” said a sharp, ringing voice, which, once heard, there was no difficulty in recognizing as Haggerstone's.
“But Onslow plays well,” said another.