“And what have they done for me?” cried she, roused almost to boldness by his taunting manner.
“Made you thinner, paler, a trifle more aged, perhaps,” said he, scanning her leisurely; “but always what Frenchmen would call a femme charmante.”
The mockery seemed more than she could bear, for she sprang to her feet, and, in a voice vibrating with passion, said, “Take care, Miles M'Caskey,—take care; there are men here, if they saw me insulted, would throw you over that sea-wall as soon as look at you.”
“Ring for your bravos, madam,—summon your condottieri at once,” said he, with an impudent laugh; “they 'll have some warmer work than they bargained for.”
“Oh, why not leave me in peace?—why not let me have these few years of life without more of shame and misery?” said she, throwing herself on her knees before him.
“Permit me to offer you a chair, madam,” said he, as he took her hands, and placed her on a seat; “and let me beg that we talk of something else. Who is the Count?—'The Onoratissimo e Pregiatissimo Signor Conte,'” for he read now from the address of a letter he had drawn from his pocket,—“'Signor Conte d'Amalfi,'—is that the name of the owner of this place?”
“No; it is the Chevalier Butler, formerly minister at Naples, lives here,—Sir Omerod Bramston Butler.”
“Ah, then, I perceive it is really meant for another person! I thought it was a mode of addressing him secretly. The Count of Amalfi lives here, perhaps?” “I never heard of him.” “Who lives here besides Sir Omerod?” “My Lady,—that is, the Countess; none else.” “Who is the Countess? Countess of what, and where?” “She is a Milanese; she was a Brancaleone.” “Brancaleone, Brancaleone! there were two of them. One went to Mexico with the Duke of Sommariva,—not his wife.”
“This is the other; she is married to Sir Omerod.” “She must be Virginia Brancaleone,” said M'Caskey, trying to remember,—“the same Lord Byron used to rave about.” She nodded an assent, and he continued,—“Nini Brancaleone was a toast, I remember, with Wraxall and Trelawney, and the rest of us. She was the 'reason fair' of many a good glass of claret which Byron gave us, in those days before he became stingy.”
“You had better keep your memories to yourself in case you meet her,” said she, warningly. “Miles M'Caskey, madam, requires very little advice or admonition in a matter that touches tact or good breeding.” A sickly smile of more than half-derision curled the woman's lip, but she did not speak.