Some days later the young countess left her cards and letters of introduction, and as they were from Orsinis, Colonnas, and other grandees of Rome, her hotel was crowded with elegant equipages, and she was admitted into the charmed circles of the first society in Vienna.
As for the furniture of her hotel, it surpassed anything in the city.
Her orders of every kind had been princely. Her sofas and chairs were of embroidered satin; her tables of inlaid wood and verde antique; her carpets the richest Persian; her paintings and statuary of rarest value. She had bespoken several services of gold, and jewellers were revelling in her orders for parures such as princesses would have been proud to possess.
One quality which the Countess Baillou possessed gave her unbounded popularity with those whom she patronized. Her purchases were all promptly paid in new Austrian bank-notes, and tradesman vied with tradesman as to who should have the privilege of her custom.
Finally, her palace was furnished, and the day of her ball had dawned. Every invitation had been accepted, for the world was curious to see the splendors of her fairy abode, and to behold the fairy emerge from the retreat wherein she had buried herself up to the date of this grand reception.
And now the long suites were lit up, and room after room was one blazing sea of light, gold, crystal, bronze, and marble. Here and there were charming boudoirs, where those who were weary of splendor could retire to converse in the soft, subdued light that was shed upon them from veiled lamps. The whole was closed by magnificent conservatories, where flourished the flowers and fruits of every clime; where tropical birds were seen fluttering among the branches of the orange-trees, or dipping their beaks in the classic basins of the fountains that were gently plashing there.
The countess had just emerged from her dressing-room. Her dress for the evening was of white satin, and the coronal of brilliants which flashed among the braids of her black hair was worthy to be the bridal-diadem of a queen. The Countess Baillou was tall and stately in her beauty, hers was the fascination of the dark-eyed Italian, united to the majesty of a daughter of ancient Rome, and the union was irresistible. Her throat was slender, her head small, and her classic oval face was of a pale, pearly hue, without a tinge of the rose, which, while it lends animation to a woman's face, detracts from the camelia-like purity of genuine patrician beauty.
The countess glided across the room, and throwing back her head took a critical survey of her apartments. They presented a combination of taste with magnificence, and their mistress was satisfied.
She turned to her steward, who was breathlessly awaiting the result of his lady's inspection. "Not bad," said she, in a rich, melodious voice. "I am quite pleased with your labors."
"Will my lady walk through the rooms to see the conservatories?" asked the steward.