 | III. Inklings of adventure |  |
3. III.
The conversation between the Russian Secretary and
the Prince Poniatowski ended at last in a graceful bow
from the former to his horse's neck; and the quicker
rattling of the small hoofs on the ground, as the fine
creature felt the movement in the saddle and prepared
to bound away, drew all eyes once more upon the
handsomest and most idolized gallant of Florence. The
narrow lane of carriages, commencing with the showy
the plain chariot of the Lady Geraldine, was still open,
and with a glance at the latter which sufficiently indicated
his destination, Count Basil raised his spurred
heel, and with a smile of delight and the quickness of
a barb in the desert, galloped toward the opening. In
the same instant the Marchesa del Marmore gave a
convulsive spring forward, and, in obedience to an imperative
order, her coachman violently drew rein and
shot back the forward wheels of the caleche directly
across his path. Met in full career by this sudden obstacle,
the horse of the Russian reared high in air; but
ere the screams of apprehension had arisen from the
adjacent carriages, the silken bridle was slacked, and
with a low bow to the foiled and beautiful Marchesa as
he shot past, he brushed the hammer-cloths of the two
scarce separated carriages, and at the same instant
stood at the chariot window of the Lady Geraldine, as
calm and respectful as if he had never known danger
or emotion.
A hundred eyes had seen the expression of his face
as he leaped past the unhappy woman, and the drama
of which that look was the key was understood in Florence.
The Lady Geraldine alone, seated far back in
her chariot, was unconscious of the risk run for the
smile with which she greeted its hero; and unconscious,
as well, of the poignant jealousy and open mortification
she had innocently assisted to inflict, she
stretched her fair and transparent hand from the carriage,
and stroked the glossy neck of his horse, and
while the Marchesa del Marmore drove past with a
look of inexpressible anguish and hate, and the dispersing
nobles and dames took their way to the city gates,
Count Basil leaned close to the ear of that loveliest of
breathing creatures, and forgot, as she forgot in listening
to the bewildering music of his voice, that the
them.
The Cascine had long been silent when the chariot
of the Lady Geraldine took its way to the town, and,
with the reins loose upon his horse's neck, Count
Basil followed at a slower pace, lost in the reverie of a
tumultuous passion. The sparkling and unobstructed
stars broke through the leafy roof of the avenue whose
silence was disturbed by those fine and light-stepping
hoofs, and the challenge of the Duke's forester, going
his rounds ere the gates closed, had its own deep-throated
echo for its answer. The Arno rippled among
the rushes on its banks, the occasional roll of wheels
passing the paved arch of the Ponte Seraglio, came
faintly down the river upon the moist wind, the pointed
cypresses of the Convent of Bello Sguardo laid their
slender fingers against the lowest stars in the southern
horizon, and with his feet pressed, carelessly, far
through his stirrups, and his head dropped on his bosom,
the softened diplomate turned instinctively to the
left in the last diverging point of the green alleys, and
his horse's ears were already pricked at the tread, before
the gate, of the watchful and idle doganieri.
Close under the city wall, on this side Florence, the
traveler will remember that the trees are more thickly
serried, and the stone seats, for the comfort and pleasure
of those who would step forth from the hot streets
for an hour of fresh air and rest, are mossy with the
depth of the perpetual shade. In the midst of this dark
avenue, the unguided animal beneath the careless and
forgetful rider suddenly stood still, and the next moment
starting aside, a female sprang high against his
neck, and Count Basil, ere awake from his reverie, felt
the glance of a dagger-blade across his bosom.
With the slender wrist that had given the blow firmly
arrested in his left hand, the Count Basil slowly dismounted,
and after a steadfast look, by the dim light,
fingers respectfully, and with well counterfeited emotion,
to his lips.
“Twice since the Ave-Maria!” he said in a tone of
reproachful tenderness, “and against a life that is your
own!”
He could see, even in that faint light, the stern compression
of those haughty lips, and the flash of the
darkest eyes of the Val d'Arno. But leading her gently
to a seat, he sat beside her, and with scarce ten brief
moments of low-toned and consummate eloquence, he
once more deluded her soul!
“We meet to-morrow,” she said, as after a burst of
irrepressible tears, she disengaged herself from his
neck, and looked toward the end of the avenue, where
Count Basil had already heard the pawing of her impatient
horses.
“To-morrow!” he answered; “but, mia carissima!”
he continued, opening his breast to stanch the blood of
his wound, “you owe me a concession after this rude
evidence of your love.”
She looked into his face as if answer were superfluous.
“Drive to my palazzo at noon, and remain with me
till the Ave-Maria.”
For but half a moment the impassioned Italian hesitated.
Though the step he demanded of her was apparently
without motive or reason—though it was one
that sacrificed to a whim her station, her fortune, and
her friends—she hesitated but to question her reason
if the wretched price of this sacrifice would be paid—
if the love, to which she fled from this world and heaven,
was her own. In other countries, the crime of infidelity
is punished—in Italy it is the appearance only
that is criminal. In proportion as the sin is overlooked,
the violation of the outward proprieties of life is severely
visited; and while a lover is stipulated for in the
is an offence which brands the perpetrator with irremediable
shame. The Marchesa del Marmore well
knew that in going forth from the ancestral palace of
her husband on a visit to Count Basil, she took leave
of it for ever. The equipage that would bear her to
him would never return for her; the protection, the
fortune, the noble relations, the troops of friends,
would all drop from her. In the pride of her youth
and beauty,—from the highest pinnacle of rank,—
from the shelter of fortune and esteem—she would descend,
by a single step, to be a beggar for life and love
from the mercy of the heart she fled to!
“I will come,” she said, in a firm voice, looking
close into his face, as if she would read in his dim features
the prophetic answer of his soul.
The Count Basil strained her to his bosom, and
starting back as if with the pain of his wound, he
pleaded the necessity of a surgeon, and bade her a
hasty good-night. And while she gained her own carriage
in secrecy, he rode round to the other gate,
which opens upon the Borg'-ognisanti, and dismounting
at the Cafe Colonna, where the artists were at this
hour usually assembled, he sought out his fellow-traveler,
Giannino Speranza, who had sketched the Marchesa
upon the lagoon, and made an appointment with
him for the morrow.
| III. Inklings of adventure | |