I watched him narrowly, and went on with the list of my invited guests.
“After these, comes the Capitano Luigi Freccia.”
“What! the raging fire-eater?” exclaimed Guido. “He who at every second word raps out a pagan or Christian oath, and cannot for his life tell any difference between the two!”
“And the illustrious gentleman Crispiano Dulci and Antonio Biscardi, artists like yourself,” I continued.
He frowned slightly—then smiled.
“I wish them good appetites! Time was when I envied their skill—now I can afford to be generous. They are welcome to the whole field of art as far as I am concerned. I have said farewell to the brush and palette—I shall never paint again.”
True enough! I thought, eying the shapely white hand with which he just then stroked his dark mustache; the same hand on which my family diamond ring glittered like a star. He looked up suddenly.
“Go on, conte I am all impatience. Who comes next?”
“More fire-eaters, I suppose you will call them,” I answered, “and French fire-eaters, too. Monsieur le Marquis D’Avencourt, and le beau Capitaine Eugene de Hamal.”
Ferrari looked astonished. “Per Bacco!” he exclaimed. “Two noted Paris duelists! Why—what need have you of such valorous associates? I confess your choice surprises me.”