“Count, you are most welcome to our home.”
Rinaldo did not notice my embarrassment; he was occupied in giving orders about the luggage, the game, and a hundred other things; and when he had completed these commands, turning to me, who had been saying some confused nothings to the visitor, he said:
“Come, count, and you, madame, let us proceed to the supper room, and after we have rendered our duties there, we will return hither for conversation.”
All my husband’s movements were abrupt and singular, otherwise I should have been astonished at this sudden interruption. Count Calabrella offered me his arm, and leaning on that strong arm, and looking on that handsome, energetic face, which afterwards became, oh! how dear to me, I followed my stern lord, who strode before, to the banqueting hall. Rinaldo sat at the head of the table, myself and his guest at each side. By the brilliant light of the lamps around us, I could more fully observe the stranger. The count was opposite in appearance to my husband; he was taller, of an athletic form, strong, and manly. His eyes, large, languid, yet sparkling, sometimes flashed fire, sometimes were the impersonation of repose. His hands, and feet were rather large, not so delicate as Monsieur de Serval’s. His whole appearance was rather massive, not feminine or soft, as was the look, the whole person of my husband.
Rinaldo’s face was flushed from wine, and he talked loudly and gayly, not to me, but to his friend. He talked most of his ill success on the bear hunt, cursing the ill attendance of the servants and grooms. He drank glass after glass of wine, and his evanescent spirits grew higher and higher under the influence. I regarded him with feelings of painful regret, but he seemed not to observe my earnest looks, save by a return glance of scorn.
The count appeared embarrassed. I saw he felt for me and for his friend, and looked relieved when the repast was over, and we returned to the salon. He must have seen the coldness existing between my husband and myself, for he also seemed infected by it, and after several efforts at a general conversation, asked me to favor him with a song. I did so with alacrity, to relieve the tedium which seemed to pervade the drawing room: yet though I sang, I did so mechanically. One idea dwelt in my mind—who was this Count Calabrella, this man, whose beautiful eyes had so long before haunted me, like a foreshadowing dream of futurity? How strange that he should so unexpectedly cross my path now, when a married woman; now, when his acquaintance could be nothing to me. Still, the same presentiment haunted me, that my destiny in future would have something to do with him; and as I glanced around at him, as he sat near my husband, listening to the song, leaning on the arm of the sofa, his strongly marked features distinctly shown by the glancing firelight, what a contrast did that manly form, so energetic, breathing, living,—speaking of nobility of soul,—what a contrast did it not present to my fair, yet dissipated, reckless husband! He had thrown himself in an attitude of ease upon a sofa, and with his eyes closed, seemed half asleep. That was scarcely polite to his guest, but Rinaldo cared not what any one thought; he cared more for his own comfort, than for fixed rules of etiquette.
The count drew his chair towards me, and remarked, “Your castle, madame, is delightfully situated here, in this beautiful ravine; I have often heard Monsieur de Serval speak of his mountain home, but never, till now, had an opportunity of seeing it.”
“Yes, the castle is a charming summer residence, though rather dreary in winter.”
“I have never,” continued he, “been so far north before; my attendance on his majesty has hitherto prevented me from travelling to any great extent; and Naples and its environs, you know, do not afford any great variety to one who has been accustomed to it a lifetime.”