The Grand Duke Leopold, a most excellent old man, and greatly beloved by a large circle of the nobility, was adored by the poor, whose sick-beds he frequently visited in person. The Grand Duchess, his consort, a Princess of Naples, though much younger than her husband, had ever borne a perfectly unblemished reputation. Her imperial highness was a remarkably fine woman, with the most beautifully-formed shoulders I ever beheld. She was most gracious, and at the same time dignified in her manners, and always had a kind and affable word for the ladies whom she recognized as frequent attendants at her receptions.
The youthful imperial family were worthy of their royal parents. The two elder Arch-Dukes, although mere boys, were distinguished in the ballroom for their graceful and amiable manners, and for their skill in the dance, of which they were passionately fond, as is usual with youths of their age. The heir-apparent had lately brought home his young and beautiful bride, a Princess of Saxony. Alas! who could have imagined, in a few short years, that lovely girl would be laid in an early grave!—this august family would be forever exiled from their native soil! Even now, I see the poor old man; his white hairs, powerless to protect him from insult, bowed down with sorrow—yet struggling manfully with his grief, in order to console his weeping consort, Grand Duchess—now in name only. I see the faithful guardia nobile press around the carriages, to spare the beloved and venerated family the gibes and sneers of the ladies (women are ever the most cruel) who had so frequently partaken of their sovereign’s hospitality, but who now were congregated at the gate of the city, to smile at a misfortune which, however possible its ultimate benefits to Italy, had fallen on innocent heads.
The government of Leopold of Tuscany was almost of too paternal a character. There were literally no police. I never heard of any spies; and the obnoxious Austrian soldiers had long been sent back to their own country. Why the Florentines preferred their country being turned into a province of Piedmont, and governed by a Viceroy, instead of remaining an independent State, I am at a loss to imagine; nor can I make out wherefore they disliked their excellent Sovereign and his amiable family. No good has, for the present, resulted from their bloodless revolution. Let us, however, hope the day may dawn, which will see fair Italy once more a nation, united under one head. Then, perhaps, Florence herself may derive the benefit she has not yet reaped from her change of rulers.
CHAPTER X.
COQUETRY
All Florence was talking of the Bal Costumé to be given at the Casino de’ Nobili to H. R. H. the Count of Syracuse, a Neapolitan Prince, brother to the Grand Duchess, and at present on a visit to his Imperial sister at the Palazzo Pitti. The ladies were endeavoring each to outvie the other in the novelty and richness of their costumes. The Grand Ducal family were to represent their ancient predecessors on the throne of Florence, the rich and princely family of Medici. The notorious and once lovely Lady C—— F——, it was known would appear as Pomona, her dress to be looped up with bunches of fruit interspersed with diamonds, to represent the dew. A beautiful Florentine duchess, it was whispered, would personify the “Queen of Hearts;” but so well did her modiste keep the secret that none could guess either the fashion or color of her robe, which proves that women can be trusted, at least in so important an affair as that of the toilette. Counting on her fresh beauty, and conscious that she could not hope to out-blaze her fair rivals in jewelry, Evelyn wisely preferred to be unique in the simplicity of her costume. She therefore chose the becoming dress of a peasant girl of Frascati, in the environs of Rome. Her corset of cherry-colored velvet, laced over a chemisette of plaited muslin, displayed to advantage the rounded waist and perfectly modelled shoulders. The full petticoat of blue silk trimmed with rows of ribbon to match the corsage, just cleared the well-turned ankle, and fully discovered the little Spanish foot with its arched instep. The hair, wrapped around the head, was fastened in a rich knot by two pins of diamond, and one large brilliant clasped the narrow band of red velvet which encircled her throat. The peasant’s apron, and bows of ribbon of blue and silver completed a costume in which the wearer looked scarcely more than eighteen. I accompanied my friend en Marquise, as this required but little exercise of the fancy, in which (as regards dress) I am lamentably deficient. Colonel Melville (whose leave expired very shortly), was to wear the uniform of his corps, and to meet us at the ball.
Evelyn’s toilette was a decided success; a murmur of admiration accompanied us as we threaded our way through the brilliant crowd of officers and gaily attired young nobles who thronged the vestibule and ante-rooms of the building. After some difficulty we succeeded in reaching the upper end of the ball room, where on a slightly elevated dais were seated the Imperial family. The Grand Duchess, as the celebrated Catherine de Medicis in a magnificent costume of the middle ages, was literally one blaze of jewels. On perceiving Evelyn—who was rather a favorite—she beckoned her to approach, and graciously complimented her on the good taste and simplicity of her attire. The Count Syracuse, who was a great admirer of beauty, then stepped forward and engaged the pretty Frascatana for a quadrille. The Prince, who, though somewhat stout, was a remarkably fine-looking man, appeared to the utmost advantage as Lorenzo de Medicis.—His extremely fascinating manners, together with his exalted rank, rendered him (if report speak true) almost irresistible with the female sex. But he was by no means a constant lover; he might with truth say, with a celebrated French roué: “Moi je suis fidèle à tout le monde.”
The count devoted himself to his “Cynthia of the minute,” and scarcely left her side, much to the disgust and envy of many a noble signora, who longed in vain for even one glance of passing admiration from the illustrious Don Giovanni, who had no eyes but for his simple Zerlina. Evelyn gave herself up to the intoxication of gratified vanity, and appeared to be as much charmed with her royal cavalier as he was taken with her. Had not the prince been a married man, I believe she would have aspired even to an alliance with royalty, for the recent choice of the French Emperor had contributed to turn the head of many a beauty. As it was, to permit such marked attention from a Prince, whose success with ladies was proverbial, could not but be detrimental to a virtuous woman’s reputation. Thus reflecting, I turned to seek Melville. Poor fellow! he was leaning against a fluted column the very statue of despair. In his expressive countenance you might see depicted all the tortures of jealousy and mortified pride. I advanced towards him and touched his elbow. He started as from a dream, made a few polite and common-place observations, and before I could speak a word, had vanished from the room. I still thought he would return, as was his wont, to escort us to the refreshment table, for Evelyn’s Italian adorers were usually too intently occupied in discussing the excellent supper and wines provided by their royal host, to have time to attend to the wants of any fair lady.
The Count Syracuse was forced to accompany the Imperial party to supper. He therefore brought his lovely partner all glowing with the triumphs and excitement of the dance to my side. Evelyn passed her arm within mine.