University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The old Marquis Torrini held weekly soirées at
the palace. A brilliant but extraordinary circle
gathered at these entertainments. Most of the celebrated
characters of Europe might, at some time
or other, be seen there. Ex-kings and queens—
the defeated generals of old wars waltzing by the
side of their victors—English statesmen—French
heroes—the Russian prince—tourists and scholars
from far-off countries—and women—all that Italy
could boast of lovely here flashed and floated in the
mazy dance. Among them were belles from other
circles—wandering daughters of wealth and beauty,
freed from the restraint of morality prevailing in
other societies — gay, careless, and bewildering
minions of fashion, accomplished in all but morals,
who lived only to shine, to captivate, and to love.
Here the star-wearing lord led down the dance
some dangerous girl—the tender exile of a colder

clime, who now learned to allow as grace what she
had before concealed as shame. This atmosphere
of rank was as a new existence, and stupid virtue
dwelt in the lower world.

In these elegant regions of aristocracy and splendour,
notwithstanding the pressing desire of the old
nobleman, Norman rarely ventured. One night he
yielded to his curiosity to make the acquaintance
of a celebrated scholar and traveller—a man of
high character and science. Evening came, and
he found himself in the superb and dazzling rooms,
thrown open with all their medley of regal magnificence,
and thronged with the glittering array of
rank and fashion.

He found Sir H—a man of simple manners
and plain strong sense, in addition to his other great
and well-known merits. Two travellers, mutually
familiar with many places and people on different
sides of the globe, have numerous delightful topics
of conversation. They were pleased with each
other, and again Norman forgot his reserve towards
strangers, especially when his companion kindly,
and with unaffected candour, touched upon his history,
which Torrini, at the request of Norman, had
explained to him. The evident sympathy and confidence
of the good philosopher were like healing
balm to his spirit; and he felt that happiness might
be his, even without the grand denouement which
he had once conceived so necessary to his very existence.
A select circle of such friends—the love
of a being like Flora—retirement and study—he
sighed as these softening and grateful visions stole
over his imagination.

Sir H—to his attainments in philosophy added
no inconsiderable knowledge of the fashionable
world, and he recounted the character and leading
adventures of some of the most distinguished men

and conspicuous women present. Much as he
knew of Italian society, Norman was shocked, and
almost incredulous. The most admired females
were giddy runaways from husbands and fathers—
the charming protégées of lords or kings. English
women, glittering in plumes and diamonds, and the
fair divinities of general worship, who, in their own
northern land, might scarce dare the glances of the
world; some notorious for adventures, which they
took no pains to conceal; and others enveloped in
mystery, which only rendered them more interesting.

One beautiful woman attracted much attention.
Her appearance, indeed, was striking. She was
ripened into the full maturity of womanhood. Her
tall, round, perfect figure shone conspicuous amid
the loveliness around. Her complexion was dark
and transparent. Her hair—night was not so sable
—was smoothed glossily upon her beaming brow.
The dignity of her countenance was chastened by
a sweet smile. But the most remarkable feature
were the eyes—large, intently dark and lustrous;
sometimes veiling their fires beneath a softness
that threatened the coldest heart; and again, when
unobserved, darting their glances round the room,
as if in search of some one; bright; haughty—dilated—restless,
and almost wild. At times her
gaze assumed a positive fierceness, and again grew
beautiful and tender as a gazelle's.

“One of the curious effects of travelling,” said
Norman to Sir H—, “is to show the pilgrim facsimiles
of his familiar home-faces in the most remote
parts of the globe. I am really sometimes
startled to meet in cold strangers the very counterparts
of my most intimate friends. Now my father
stalks by me in the form of a duke; and now my
old school-friend sits in state upon a throne. Yonder

superb creature I feel certain I have beheld before—yet
I am equally certain that it must be an
illusion.”

“The Countess D—,” said his companion.

“She is one of the most marked women of the day.
That slender young man who attends her is the
Duke de L—.”

Norman continued to watch this haughty stranger
with singular interest. As he followed her with
frequent glances, he found that he himself was not
altogether unobserved. His appearance was of a
kind, indeed, to command attention in such a scene.
Among other eyes, those of the stranger were fixed
several times full upon him; and once, when he
suddenly turned towards her, he thought she almost
started in an attempt to avoid encountering his
gaze. Antonia stood near, and saw this species of
communion between them. Norman would have
spoken to her subsequently, but she seemed to have
forgotten his presence; except only once, when he
caught her girlish and usually bright face shaded
with a cloud of melancholy, the eyes fixed on him
a moment with an expression of misery and reproach
of which he did not conceive her capable.

A short time afterward, curious to observe more
closely the face which still appeared as one not unknown
to him, he caused himself to be presented
to the Countess D—. If, however, his vanity or
his romance had woven any conjectures out of her
former glances, he was now chilled by her cold and
almost severe demeanour. Nothing could be more
civil and courtly; but still she was one in whose
acquaintance he found it impossible to make the
slightest progress. The Duke de L— chatted
agreeably; but the countess, with her large eyes
opened upon Norman as if with something of surprise
at his seeking with her even the ordinary

familiarities of polite life. She spoke no English
—had never been out of Italy, Switzerland, and
France; and when the duke ordered her carriage,
she passed from the rooms with a courtesy almost
imperceptible, so that Norman doubted whether or
not she even intended it as a greeting. The interview,
however, banished from his mind the impression
that he had seen her before. Some one very
like her he had certainly beheld, but he endeavoured
to dismiss the subject.

On retiring for the night, he found on his table a
package of letters and a card from Frederick Morton,
with a line in pencil, stating the accident by
which he had learned of his change of name and
presence in Florence, and his anxiety to see his old
friend before his departure for Rome.

Nothing rakes up the associations like the sight
of one in a foreign country who has been familiar
with us in our own. Late—late that night did
Norman remain seated by his solitary fire, poring
over letters—oh! how rich with the spirit of distant
lands and other days! Julia—his father—
Howard, had written. A thousand agonizing—a
thousand delightful thoughts awoke in his bosom.
Morton had seemed to him singularly interwoven
with his own fate. If, as he darkly suspected,
Clairmont was the author of the prominent calamity
of his life, it was this very Morton who had
been the cause. He smiled as he recalled the
brilliant night at Mrs. Temple's; he sighed as Flora
Temple's image again rose up before him—softer—
lovelier—dearer than ever. Yes, the presence of
Morton seemed to roll back upon him the stream
of long-buried hope and love, and a flood of tenderness
gushed over his soul. He smiled once more
while recollecting the “B. Hotel, room No. 39, up
stairs:” and thus, with sighs and smiles, the airy

tissue of which most men's memory is woven, and
into which fade and melt at last all the heaven-climbing
schemes of youth and ambition, the
greater part of the night rolled away.