“Sai, he never has a moment to spare. And he is afraid of talking too loudly—of making your head ache.”
“He is not fond of musk, I fancy?” And she smiled a strange smile.
“Perfumes send the blood to his head. I will tell him to call on you.”
“Senti, Caterina, strength like his is almost overwhelming. Does it not almost frighten you? Are you never afraid of him?”
Caterina looked astonished, as she replied: “Afraid...! I do not understand you.... Why should I be afraid?”
“I don’t know,” said the other, shrugging her shoulders crossly. “I must eat this ice, for here comes Alberto again.”
During this conversation the performance continued—alternately interesting and tiresome. Connoisseurs opined that the tournament was a great success, and the Neapolitan school had been worthily represented. The Filomarina averred, with the audacity of a Titianesque beauty, that Galeota was an Antinous. The Marchesa Leale, a great friend of Baron Mattei’s, was enraptured. She was seated quietly by her husband’s side; she wore a badge—a brooch representing two crossed foils—that the Baron had presented to her. On the latter’s scarf was embroidered a red rose, the Marchesa’s emblem.
In the excitement incidental to the clashing of swords and the triumph of physical strength, Giovanna Casacalenda, with flushed cheeks and moist lips, began to neglect her Commendatore, and to cast enthusiastic and incendiary glances at Roberto Gentile. Many ladies regretted having exchanged their fans for muffs in the increasingly heated atmosphere. By degrees a vapour ascended towards the roof, and excited fancy conjured up visions of duels, gleaming foils, shining swords, secret thrusts, and applauding beauty. A warlike ardour reigned in boxes and parterre.
“Has the ice refreshed you, Lucia?” inquired her cousin.
“No, I burn more than ever; there was fire in it.”