University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The haughty Countess D— led the fashion
of Florence. She was the divinity of general admiration.
At the numerous soirées, balls, concerts,
and operas, none appeared so marked and dazzling.

The Count D— had been a man of ninety; and
scarcely were they united by the priest when they
were separated by death. The old man went quietly
to the grave, and the magnificent young countess
to the very meridian blaze and splendour of
fashion.

Her establishment was gorgeous. Her palace
was newly furnished with most costly care. Four
sable coursers drew her every afternoon through
the glittering throng; and after her were turned
all eyes, if not all hearts.

The interest she attracted was not a little heightened
by her mien of cold and distant pride. Her
manner was even severe and freezing. Her very
face, beautiful as it was, had in it something passionless
and sepulchral. A colourless transparency
marked her dark complexion. An almost bitter
smile often revealed her snowy teeth; and her
large eyes gleamed, not only brilliantly, but burningly
around upon her throng of worshippers. fascinating
the men with a dangerous and lustrous softness,
which, on encountering the distrustful look
of her own sex, turned to cool and keen contempt.
One more cordially hated by the fair, more rapturously
applauded by the manly, more remarked and
courted by all, dwelt not within the walls of Florence.

She seemed to delight in her triumphs in the
beau monde; but with the delight of pride rather
than passion. Her lip curled and her eye flashed;
but her heart never melted. Her countenance still
seemed immutable, passionless, and sometimes
even wretched. She never sighed, it was not in
her nature; but a close observer might discover
that she suffered—that amid the highest gayety of
the revel, her soul was sad and solitary—that amid
its most melting ardour, her heart was ice—was

marble. High, inscrutable, cold, and beautiful, her
course was watched and wondered at. Dukes and
counts, nay, princes and kings, it was said, came to
her feet when her eyes softened with encouragement.
Yet even her encouragement was bestowed
with the artificial brilliancy of an actress, who
smiles from the prompt-book, who sustains a tender
or a gay rôle with the ease of her profession;
yet whose radiant joy, or graceful love, falls from
her as an idle mantle the moment she reaches the
side-scene.

There was a magnificent ball at the Prince
M—'s the second evening after Norman's adventure
with the panel. Antonia, the Countess
D—, Leslie, all the world, were present. Norman
taxed his powers to make himself agreeable
to the fair siren, who won and flung away a thousand
hearts, any of which others would be proud
to gain, and prone to treasure. In subsequent conversations
with Morton, he had learned that the female
he had seen in New-York was a very ordinarily
dressed woman, and apparently from the common
ranks of life; but that she had spoken English,
both at Clairmont's hotel and at the interview
in the street. Norman, with the most courtly
respect, first attached himself to the duke, and quite
succeeded in captivating him. He next contrived
to draw the countess herself into the discourse,
and, with intense but guarded vigilance, watched
to detect the slightest change in her features as,
with artful abruptness, he asked if she had “ever
known a distinguished nobleman, Count Clairmont?”

“Never!” she said, with the most perfect ease
and composure. “She had heard the name, or one
like it, but had never met the count himself.”

During this apparently casual colloquy, Norman

regarded her with all his awakened soul. Their
eyes even met, full and uncloudedly, as she replied.
There was no change whatever in her countenance.
It was still cold, high, haughty, calm,—not a hue
arose—not a feature changed—her lids drooped not
—her eyes shed no beam of light the less.

His heart sank within him. It was evidently impossible.
He was convinced, and he utterly abandoned
the idea. Thus completely satisfied of the
fallacy both of his own suspicions and of Morton's,
and with that proneness to confidence peculiar to
warm and candid natures, he addressed the countess
with a respect so sincere and evident, so much
more real than that which he had hitherto assumed,
that she seemed slightly pleased with his attention,
and even bent on him her eyes, divested of their
unmelting and distant coldness, with a shadowed
tenderness that made him whisper to his heart—

“She is a thousand times more beautiful than
even I supposed!”

“You will excuse me,” he said, “but you bear
a resemblance so singularly strong to a friend in
whom I am fatally interested, that I could not forbear
indulging the hope that you might be the
same.”

She smiled calmly again; and they were interrupted
by Prince M—. As she turned to reply
to the salutation of the prince, Antonia, with her
father, approached. The marquis entered into conversation
with the duke. Norman spoke with Antonia.

“Like all the world, Signore Montfort,” she said,
not with her usual free and delightful manner, “you
are captivated with the lady at your side, I perceive.”

The remark was made and answered in
English.

“She is a remarkable woman!” replied Norman.
“A strange interest attaches to her in my eyes.
Seven years since, in New-York, my native city, I
rescued the life of a lady with her child, from the
fury of two maddened horses in full flight. This
lady is the very counterpart of my beautiful American
friend. In Florence I have accidentally met
with a painting of the very child—I cannot be mistaken.
And, what is still more singular, I am certain
that yesterday, at your palace, in the room of
the holy Father Ambrose, I beheld the lovely boy
himself. I knew him by his eyes and face; and
more certainly by the scar over—”

A faint exclamation caused them to turn. The
prince had just left the countess. Norman fixed his
eyes on her countenance, as if he could pierce to
her very soul; and for the moment his suspicions
were again awakened. She sat leaning back upon
the embroidered couch, her eyes fixed upon a
statue—so silent, so thoughtful, so sad and calm,
that it seemed impossible she had uttered the cry,
which was attributed to a lady very near her, whose
coronet of diamonds had nearly fallen. He then
resumed his inquiries of Antonia, who informed
him that the child he had seen was the nephew of
Father Ambrose, who had lately suffered him to
visit Florence for a time, and over whose education
he watched with peculiar care.

“Indeed,” she added, “so great is his anxiety,
that he scarcely permits the young lad to leave his
presence for a moment.”

The countess and Antonia stood together in conversation.
They were the two most lovely women
in the rooms: but how different! The one had
evidently seen the world, and suffered from its
blight. Splendidly beautiful she was; and as Norman
gazed upon her tall and majestic form, her

head, in its queenly shape and lift, reminded him
of Cleopatra. Over her remarkable eyes glittered
and trembled a tiara of diamonds of untold value.
Beneath, shone her dark, thoughtful face, with the
romance of eastern beauty. An Asiatic softness
and indolence of manner had crept over her, and
the splendour of her attire recalled recollections of
Arabian tales. Still, even through the whole there
were memory and misery. She seemed a Zenobia
—not in the splendour of her Palmyrean throne,
nor fainting in the triumph of Aurelian; but afterward,
calmed and subdued, the ambitious victor,
the Syrian queen, sunk into the melancholy Italian
in her Roman villa.

Norman's eyes turned from her to Antonia. In
her shone beauty all unshaded by sorrow, all untouched
by time—a rosebud scarce opened to the
summer light. Could ever tears cross that sunny
face? Dewdrops would be no more pretty—no
more lightly wafted away; at least, so thought
Norman.