“And you will thus fuse into one two kinds of love, which he sees as distinct—divided by a mountain of poetic fancy, that will melt away like the snow on a glacier under the beams of the midsummer sun.”
“I shall be eternally your debtor,” said the Duchess, gravely.
When the French doctor returned to the gallery, where the orgy had by this time assumed the stamp of Venetian frenzy, he had a look of satisfaction which the Prince, absorbed by la Tinti, failed to observe; he was promising himself a repetition of the intoxicating delights he had known. La Tinti, a true Sicilian, was floating on the tide of a fantastic passion on the point of being gratified.
The doctor whispered a few words to Vendramin, and la Tinti was uneasy.
“What are you plotting?” she inquired of the Prince’s friend.
“Are you kind-hearted?” said the doctor in her ear, with the sternness of an operator.
The words pierced to her comprehension like a dagger-thrust to her heart.
“It is to save Emilio’s life,” added Vendramin.
“Come here,” said the doctor to Clarina.
The hapless singer rose and went to the other end of the table where, between Vendramin and the Frenchman, she looked like a criminal between the confessor and the executioner.