"Upon my word!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could speak, "I should have made a fool of myself, had I fought a duel with the fellow! But do the men who are with him know who he is?"
"Certainly. They know perfectly well. And yet shake hands with him! They call him their friend."
The Italian could stand no more of this. He rose from his chair. "Come," he said, "this is the Carnival, let us end the day merrily."
"I should be only too glad to do so," was the Vicomte's reply, "anything to make me forget the disagreeable scene with that man!"
The Vicomte called the contumely heaped on his father's name and his own, "a disagreeable scene."
The two young men sauntered across the garden. Just as they reached the fountain, Frederic stopped.
"What is it?" asked the Italian.
A young girl was singing to a guitar. A curious crowd had gathered about her. She was a pretty creature; her brown curls were covered by a handkerchief of white wool, her face was perfect in shape and in coloring, her eyes were dark—gay, but at the same time innocent.
She accompanied herself on a guitar as she sang, and her voice was so delicious that the crowd clamored for more. The girl bowed her thanks, and extended the back of her guitar for money. She colored deeply as she did so. When she reached Frederic, he said, in a whisper, as he laid a gold piece on the instrument, "You are alone to-day."