“Hast thou not proved me thy friend?” Guiseppo asked. “When first we left Italy together for the court of the French king, we pledged our faith each to the other. During our sojourn there thou still hast found me—thoughtless and gay, perhaps—but ever constant. ’Tis true, we parted, you to continue your travels to the capital of the empire, while I returned to Italy; and we have never met again until to-day, yet, believe me, I am still the same Guiseppo thou hast known among the brave knights and gay dames of France.”
Buondlemonte grasped the hand that was offered to him, and after a momentary pause, said,
“Thou art right, my friend; I am no happy bridegroom. This marriage is hateful to me—’tis none of my seeking.”
“Then why let it proceed?”
“Because the Amedi wish it, and the world thinks my honor demands it; heaven knows for no other cause. ’Tis true, Francesca is fair—so says report, for I have not seen her since her youth—but to me she can never seem so. She may be enchanting, yet me she cannot enchant. There is a dream of my youth about my heart, a spell that will not be dissipated. There is but one form that dwells in my memory, one voice that can breathe music in my ear.”
“And where dwells this siren?” Guiseppo asked with a slight smile at the enthusiasm of his friend.
“Here, even here, in Florence,” Buondlemonte replied.
“And her family is called?”
“Donati.”
“Pandora and all her mischiefs!” exclaimed Guiseppo; “thou couldst not have mentioned a name more hateful to the family of thy affianced bride. The extremes of the earth are not wider apart than the houses of Donati and Amedi—a deadly feud exists between them.”