There was evidently a wide difference between Pier-Angelo's idea of the honor conferred upon him by such an invitation and the idea that Michel had conjured up of his triumphal entrance into society. Intoxicated at first by what had seemed to him to be love on the part of the princess; then bewildered by the amiability of the marquis, which tended to diminish the force of the portent, but did not explain it; and, lastly, irritated by the insolence of the man in the great-coat, he did not know which way to turn. His theories concerning the victories of talent fell to the ground before the heedless simplicity of his father, who accepted everything—homage and disdain—with placid gratitude or satirical amusement.
At the doors of the palace Michel met Magnani, who was also going away. But, after walking a few steps, the two young men, revived by the morning air, determined, instead of going to bed, to skirt the hill and watch the rising of the sun, which was just beginning to whiten the sides of Ætna. They paused on a small hill, about the half height of Ætna itself, and seated themselves on a picturesque spot, having at their right the Villa Palmarosa, still gleaming with light and echoing with the strains of the orchestra; on their left the towering cone of the volcano, with the vast slopes forming an amphitheatre of verdure, rocks and snow to the summit. It was a strange and superb spectacle. Everything was ill-defined in that boundless expanse, and the piedimonta could hardly be distinguished from the upper belt, called nemorosa or silvosa. But while the dawn, reflected in the sea, suffused the lower portion of the picture with a pale, vague light, the bold, jagged edges and immaculate snow of the peak were sharply outlined against the transparent atmosphere of the night, which was still a deep blue and studded with stars about the giant's head.
The sublime tranquillity, the imposing serenity of the towering peaks, presented a marked contrast to the commotion all about the palace. The music, the shouts of the servants, the rumbling of the carriages, seemed, in the presence of placid, silent Ætna, a satirical epitome of human life as compared with the mysterious abyss of eternity. As the light grew stronger the peaks became less distinct, and the gorgeous streamer of reddish smoke that had cut the deep blue sky became blue itself, and wound upward like an azure serpent against an opal background.
Then the picture changed, and the contrast was reversed. The commotion and noise rapidly subsided about the palace, and the horrors of the volcano became visible; the formidable inequalities of its surface, its yawning chasms, and all the marks of desolation it had left upon the soil from its crater to its base, even beyond the point from which Michel and Magnani were gazing at it, even to the very seashore, where Catania lies, imprisoned by countless blocks of lava as black as ebony. That awe-inspiring marvel of nature seemed to be defied and insulted by the joyous airs which the orchestra was playing, softly now, and by the fast-dying illuminations which crowned the main façade of the palace. Now and again the music and the candles seemed to make an effort to revive. Evidently some indefatigable dancers compelled the musicians to shake off their torpor. Perhaps the burnt-out candles set fire to their collars of pink paper. One would have said, watching that brilliant and echoing structure, that the heedless gayety of youth was struggling against the prostration of sleep or the languor of sensual desire, while the undying scourge of that sublime country sent its blazing smoke into the air, a menace of destruction which could not always be defied with impunity.
Michelangelo Lavoratori was absorbed by the spectacle of the volcano, Magnani's eyes were fixed more frequently on the villa. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, and his young friend, following the direction of his glance, saw a white figure which seemed to be floating in space. It was a woman walking slowly on the high terrace of the palace.
"She, too," cried Magnani, involuntarily, "is watching the sun rise over the mountain. She, too, is musing, and, it may be, sighing!"
"Who?" queried Michel, whose mind had hardened itself somewhat to eject its own chimera. "Are your eyes sharp enough to see from here whether it is Princess Agatha or her maid who is taking the air on the terrace?"
Magnani hid his face in his hands and made no answer.
"Come, my friend," said Michel, obeying a sudden inspiration, "be frank with me. The great lady with whom you are in love is the Princess Agatha?"
"Well, why should I not admit it?" rejoined the young mechanic, in a profoundly sorrowful tone; "it may be that I shall soon repent of having confided to a child whom I hardly know a secret which I have never allowed those who should be my best friends to suspect. There must be some fateful reason for this longing to unbosom myself which has suddenly drawn me toward you. Perhaps it is the late hour, the fatigue, the excitement caused by the music and lights and perfumes; I do not know. Perhaps, rather, it is because I feel that you are the only person here who is capable of understanding me, and that you are mad enough yourself not to be too severe upon my madness. Well, yes, I love her! I fear her, I hate her, and I adore her all at once—that woman who is unlike all other women, whom no one knows, and whom I do not know myself."