University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Years had confirmed and deepened, without altering,
the outline of Morton's character. In his
society Norman passed several pleasant hours,
learning many interesting particulars from home;
and among others, that Miss Temple had suddenly
recovered after Norman's departure, and continued
yet the belle of the city—even improved in charms,
at the age of twenty-four more fascinating than she
had been at eighteen—and yet unmarried. It had
been whispered that she, with the whole family,
was about coming abroad.

“By-the-way, Leslie,” said Morton one day, as
they were riding on horseback to the Cascine—“or,
I beg your pardon, Signore Montfort, I should have
told you, but I declare I forgot, that she desired me,
if I ever crossed you in my travels, to—d—n it,
now!—what is it? I never—Do you know, Leslie,
I have lost my memory lately?”

Norman turned away his face to hide his emotion.
He felt in that moment that his soul was a
thousand times more bound up in Flora Temple
than it ever had been before. Assuming, however
an indifferent air, he asked—

“But, Morton, what was it that Miss Temple
said?”

“Why, she told me, one night at your sister's—
she and your sister, you know, have grown regular
friends—real hand and glove.”

“Miss Temple and Julia!” faltered Norman, with
a feeling more like his former self than he had experienced
for years.

“Oh, to be sure—why, she half lives at Mrs.
Howard's.”

“And Julia never even mentioned this in her letter—how
strange!”

“Pho! nonsense! I suppose she forgot it.”

“But what did she say! You have not told me.”

“Why, she said—as I was saying—one night,
at Mrs. Howard's—that, if I crossed you in my
travels—you see, I was going to take the whole
tour of Europe—up the Rhine, across the Splugen
—Venice—Vienna—”

“But the message.”

“`Tell Mr. Leslie,' she said, `that is, if you see
him in the course of your travels, that'—I declare
now—I never—I have lost it entirely. It was
something about friends in America—something
about—about—the truth is, I did not expect to meet
you much, so I did not bear it in mind.”

“But she said something of me, and to me? And
she is the bosom friend of Julia?” said Norman,
with flashing eye.

“Yes, bosom friend—regular hand and glove.
She is a prime article, but—however, I have already
written home to our folks, and Maria will go to
Mrs. Howard's at once. I told them how nicely
you were getting on here. I declare, I never was
so astonished.”

“Getting on!” echoed Norman; “why, how did
you tell them I was `getting on?”'

“Oh, I told them; leave me alone for that. I
drew a description of you that will do their very
hearts good:—Great palace, says I, larger than
City Hall; suite of rooms from the marquis, all to
himself; little marchioness, says I, plump as a
peach—half the day in her boudoir with her all
alone, says I; a hundred thousand piasters a year,
at least; and, says I, he's in for it—regular, I tell
you.”

“Morton,” exclaimed Norman, in a voice almost
stern, “did you, really?”

“Oh, yes, d—n me, I did so—honour bright;
leave me alone—I was really poetical on the little
marchioness.”

“Poetical—”

“Yes, I enlarged out, you see, and got into a description.
Why, she is as far above any thing that
ever was, or ever could be seen in America, as a
sun is above a candle!”

“And you are sure that this letter will go to
Miss Temple's knowledge?”

“Why, I was afraid,” said Morton, “lest Mrs.
Howard might not see it; so, what do you think I
did?”

“What, in the name of Heaven?”

“I added a P. S., sending your love—you know
those things are always of course—and begging
Maria to take my letter round, and read them the
passages.”

Norman turned away again, but it was to hide
his vexation.

“Whom do you think I saw in Paris?”

“Whom?” said Norman.

“Guess.”

“God bless me, Morton, it would be easier to
guess whom you did not see there.”

“A great friend of yours.”

“Of mine!”

“Particular.”

“I cannot conjecture.”

“Don't you remember B. Hotel, room No. 39,
up stairs?”

Norman turned suddenly, and with breathless attention.

“Don't you remember `out of one muzzle into
another'—the candle-snuffer—the Veronese lady?”

“For Heaven's sake, Morton, who? It was
not—”

“But I say it was, though—that d—d French
count.”

“Almighty powers!—When—where—how? tell
me.”

“Why, man alive, what's the matter! He is not
here, is he?”

“Would to Heaven he were!”

“Would to Heaven he were not, say I.”

“Morton, I am deeply interested in this man—
deeply, painfully. Tell me instantly the circumstances
under which you saw him.”

“Well, so I will. I caught him in the most infernal—but
you shall hear.”

“Quick! I am on the rack.”

“You see,” resumed Morton, “I do take it upon
myself, with pretty considerable certainty, to declare
that he who would be guilty of such a thing—”

“Guilty!” interrupted Norman. “Ay, guilty!
I'll be sworn, guilt black as—”

“Yes! d—n the fellow. If it were not for his
cursed talent at snuffing candles—ditto, men—I
would horsewhip him as sure as—”

“What was the circumstance?”

“Why, you see, when I was in Paris, I used to
go continually into Galignani's reading-room—”

“Yes!”

“To read the papers—”

“Well!”

“And there, one day, as I went in, who should
be there but Clairmont. I knew him the very moment
I set eyes upon him.”

“What said he? what did he? when was it?”

“Don't interrupt me, my dear fellow. I never
can tell a story if you interrupt me. So, one day,
as I said, who should be there but Clairmont. I had
been expressly eager to get a view of a certain
New-York paper, and he had it in his hands, reading
it intently. He was sitting with his head bent
down over the paper. Well, I waited; still he did
not stop reading; well, I waited longer, still he
never stopped, but kept always reading the same
article. I got up, walked backwards and forwards,
with my hands in my pantaloons pocket; swore a
little, hummed a tune, drummed on the table with
my fingers, and got decidedly out of patience for
about an hour. At last I walked pretty near him,
and looked under his hat; and—what do you
think?”

“I do not know.”

“Guess.”

“Really—”

“The d—d fellow was asleep.”

“And that was all you discovered about him?”

“All! why, he kept me waiting an hour.”

“Come,” said Norman, as they reached the
beautiful circle where all the gay, fashion, beauty,
and nobility of Florence were assembled, “let us
quicken our pace and see who are here.” They
accordingly galloped around before long arrays of
splendid equipages, drawn up motionless on one
side, and crowds of others glittering and flashing
as they glided amid the trees.

“See!” said Norman, “the Marquis Torrini and
his beautiful Antonia!”

The old nobleman bowed, and the young girl
turned and gazed with such a sweet smile upon
Norman, that Morton's susceptibilities were touched.

“Leslie, you are a lucky dog,” he said, “she is
most beautiful!”

Norman ran over the names, great and brilliant
they were, of the gay assembly, and Morton seemed
quite dazzled. He took every opportunity to
display his fine person to advantage, and kept his
horse in a continual prance. He had suffered a
pair of grim mustaches to curl beneath his nose,
and his whiskers commanded attention even in
Florence.

“Ha!” said Norman, “the Countess D—
again!”

“Which is the Countess D—?” asked Morton.

“That superb woman yonder on horseback, with
the servant in green and gold by her side, riding
with the Duke de L—. See, see! Did you
ever before look into such eyes?”

“What! No—yes—I declare, I never—” said
Morton, “as I live. Countess D—, did you
say?”

“Ay,” said Norman, somewhat surprised.

“Countess Fiddlestick,” said Morton: “that woman
is no more a countess than you are. That
very woman I saw in New-York twice, and both
times with that very infernal scoundrel the—”

“Morton—great heavens!” said Norman, turning
pale, “speak!”

“The d—d count in the French army.”

“Clairmont?”

“Ay, Count Clairmont. Once I saw her at his
door striving to see him, and she was turned away

by the black snowball who waited at the hotel;
and the second time—”

“Well, quick!”

“In the night, in the street, by the light of a
lamp, again in close consultation with him; and
they stood scowling on each other like two cocks
a-going to fight.”

“Almighty Providence!” said Norman, plunging
the spurs into his horse's flanks till the blood came.
The startled steed leaped forward with a snort of
pain, leaving Morton in an instant forty yards in
the rear.

“Well! I declare!” said Morton; “what is he
after now? The little marchioness, I vow. No, by
Joe! he passes her carriage! she rises and gazes
at him! He never gives her a look, I do declare.
It's the black-eyed woman he calls the Countess
D—. There! he has caught her up—he bows
—she bows. Why, d—n it, I believe he's after
all the handsome women in Florence—aint he?
I'll have to put another postscript—won't I? I declare
I never did see such a—”

He galloped after his friend, muttering the close
of his sentiment inaudibly.