At last the curtain fell. The young debutante was standing upon the stage; she turned to go, but at the instant her hand was clasped by Antonio and covered with burning kisses.
“Marietta, dear Marietta, how can I thank you for this?”
She struggled to withdraw her hand; she repelled him haughtily. He saw that her face was bathed in tears.
“For pity’s sake, Marietta, tell me how I have offended you!”
“Let me go, sir; it is all I ask!”
But love was stronger than reason or reserve. The torrent had burst its bounds, and it must overflow. In language impassioned as his own heart, irrepressible as the burning lava of a volcano, he poured forth the love so long nourished in secret. He told her of his hopes and fears—all, all swallowed up in earnest, ardent devotion! The tide of feeling had swept down at once both memory and resolution.
The hues of the rose and lily chased each other rapidly across the cheek of the beautiful girl. Suddenly, at a rustling in the silken folds that veiled them from a view of the audience, she snatched her hands from her lover and rushed off the stage.
Antonio was about to follow her, when Madame Gioja appeared. She led by the hand her trembling and blushing daughter.
“My daughter came hither in obedience to my commands,” said she. “And now, Marietta, that your bashful scruples are satisfied, and there is no danger that our friend can charge you with any unmaidenly project for storming his heart, you may as well tell him that you love him in sincerity, though in truth this scene is not the fittest for a real declaration. Since it must be, however, take my blessing, dear children!”
There was a continued clamor without, and frequent cries of “Tamburini.” Presently a corner of the curtain was raised, and the Marchese di Ronza appeared, his face radiant with benevolent joy.