“A man in my bed!” exclaimed Clarina, hastily looking round.
“And after daring to eat our supper, as if he were at home,” added the Duke.
“But am I not at home?” cried Emilio. “I am the Prince of Varese; this palace is mine.”
As he spoke, Emilio sat up in bed, his handsome and noble Venetian head framed in the flowing hangings.
At first Clarina laughed—one of those irrepressible fits of laughter which seize a girl when she meets with an adventure comic beyond all conception. But her laughter ceased as she saw the young man, who, as has been said, was remarkably handsome, though but lightly attired; the madness that possessed Emilio seized her, too, and, as she had no one to adore, no sense of reason bridled her sudden fancy—a Sicilian woman in love.
“Although this is the palazzo Memmi, I will thank your Highness to quit,” said the Duke, assuming the cold irony of a polished gentleman. “I am at home here.”
“Let me tell you, Monsieur le Duc, that you are in my room, not in your own,” said Clarina, rousing herself from her amazement. “If you have any doubts of my virtue, at any rate give me the benefit of my crime—”
“Doubts! Say proof positive, my lady!”
“I swear to you that I am innocent,” replied Clarina.
“What, then, do I see in that bed?” asked the Duke.