The bark was almost at the palace. Forms might be seen in the embrasures of the windows, and even those in the depths of the rooms. They seemed no longer spectres floating in a dream, but real personages; nobles, ladies, servants, artists, and many who were not unknown to Consuelo. She made no effort of memory, however, to recall their names, nor the palaces and the theatres where she had seen them. To her, the world had, all at once, become insignificant as a magic lantern, and as completely devoid of interest. The only being in the universe who seemed alive was the one who furtively clasped her hand amid the folds of her dress.
"Do you not know that magnificent voice," said Marcus again, "which now sings a Venetian air?" He was surprised at her total want of emotion. He came near her, and sat by her side to ask the question.
"I beg your pardon," said Consuelo, who had made an effort to hear him; "I did not understand you. I know the air and voice. I composed the first long ago. It is not only bad, but badly sung."
"What, then, is the name of the singer to whom you are so severe? I think him admirable."
"Ah! you have not lost it?" said Consuelo, in a low tone to Leverani. This remark was called forth by his pressing against the palm of her hand the little filagree cross, which, for the first time in her life, she parted with during her escape from Spandau.
"You do not know the name of that singer?" said Marcus, carefully watching Consuelo's countenance.
"Excuse me, sir," said she, rather impatiently, "his name is Anzoleto. Ah! that is a bad G; he has lost that note."
"Do you not wish to see his face? You are perhaps mistaken. You can see him distinctly from here: at least, I do. He is a very handsome man."
"Why should I see him?" said Consuelo, with some ill temper. "I am sure he is unchanged."
Marcus took her hand gently, and Leverani seconding him, induced her to stand up and look through the open window. Consuelo would possibly have resisted either, but yielded to both. She glanced at the stage, the handsome Venetian who was at that time the object of attraction to a hundred female eyes, languishing, ardent, and burning for him. "He has got fat," said Consuelo, sitting down and avoiding the fingers of Leverani, who wished to regain possession of the little cross which she had again recovered.