Chapter Forty Four.
The Sky-Blue Domino.
It was a flue autumnal evening; I had been walking with a friend until dusk on the Piazza Grande, or principal square in the town of Lucca. We had been conversing of England, our own country, from which I had then banished myself for nearly four years, having taken up my residence in Italy to fortify a weak constitution, and having remained there long after it was requisite for my health from an attachment to its pure sky, and the dolce far niente which so wins upon you in that luxurious climate. We had communicated to each other the contents of our respective letters arrived by the last mail; had talked over politics, great men, acquaintances, friends and kindred; and, tired of conversation, had both sank into a pleasing reverie as we watched the stars twinkling above us, when my friend rose hastily and bid me good night.
“Where are you going, Albert?” inquired I.
“I had nearly forgotten I had an appointment this evening. I promised to meet somebody at the Marquesa di Cesto’s masquerade.”
“Pshaw! are you not tired of these things?” replied I; “that eternal round of black masks and dominos of all colours; heavy harlequins, fools and clowns by nature wearing their proper dresses there, and only in masquerade when out of it; nuns who have no holiness in their ideas, friars without a spice of religion, ugly Venuses, Dianas without chastity, and Hebes as old as your grandmother.”
“All very true, Herbert, and life itself is masquerade enough; but the fact is, that I have an appointment: it is of importance, and I must not fail.”
“Well, I wish you more amusement than I have generally extracted from these burlesque meetings,” replied I. “Adieu, and may you be successful!” And Albert hastened away.