“Beautiful she certainly is,” was the reply; “but what is woman’s beauty! The vision of a day; snow, sullied and dispelled in a night.”
“You are in exceeding good humour,” said the friend of this morose and moralising bridegroom.
A pause ensued, during which Federico’s heart beat so strongly that he thought its throbbings must surely be audible through the slight barrier separating him from the speakers. A servant brought lights, and a slender bright ray shot through a small opening in the tapestry, previously unobserved by the student. Applying his eye to the crevice, he obtained a view of the apartment, and of the persons whose conversation he had overheard. One of these wore a uniform glittering with embroidery; the other was dressed in black, with several stars and orders on his breast. Both were in the middle period of life: the one in uniform was the youngest and most agreeable looking; the dark features of the other were of a sombre and unpleasing cast.
The servant left the room, and the man in black suspended his walk and paused opposite his friend.
“You had something to communicate?” he said, in a suppressed voice.
“Are we secure from listeners?” asked the officer, in French.
“Entirely; and doubly so if we speak French. Rosaura herself, did she overhear us, would be none the wiser.”
“Count,” said the soldier, “I sincerely wish you joy of this marriage.”
“A thousand thanks! But with equal sincerity I tell you that I am heartily weary of such congratulations. In marrying, one gives and takes. I give Rosaura my name and rank, titles and dignities, honours and privileges.”
“And you take your lovely ward and a rich estate. A fair exchange, Excellency. I can only say that the world wonders at the delay of so suitable a union, and even inclines to the belief that a certain disinclination——”