The Italians Part 11

"Another of your victims," Prince Ruspoli had said, with a kindling eye.

Nera had laughed gayly.

"My victims?" she retorted. "I wish you would tell me who they are."

This question was accompanied by a most inviting glance. Prince Ruspoli met her glance, but said nothing. (Nera greatly preferred n.o.bili, but it is well to have two strings to one's bow, and Ruspoli was a prince with a princely revenue.)

When n.o.bili appeared, Prince Ruspoli, who had handed Nera to a seat near a window, bowed to her and retired.

"To the devil with n.o.bili!" was Prince Ruspoli's thought, as he resigned her. "I do like that girl--she is so English!" and Ruspoli glanced at Poole's dress-clothes, which fitted him so badly, and remembered with satisfaction certain b.a.l.l.s in London, and certain water-parties at Maidenhead (Ruspoli had been much in England), where he had committed the most awful solecisms, according to Italian etiquette, with frank, merry-hearted girls, whose buoyant spirits were contagious.

n.o.bili's eyes fell instinctively to the ground as he approached Nera.

The rosy shadow of the red-silk curtains behind her fell upon her face, bosom, and arms, with a ruddy glow.

"I am to have the honor of dancing the cotillon with you, I believe?"

he said, still looking down.

"Yes, I believe so," she responded--"at least so I am told; but you have not asked me yet. Perhaps you would prefer some one else. I confess _I_ am satisfied."

As she spoke, Nera riveted her full black eyes upon n.o.bili. If he only would look up, she would read his thoughts, and tell him her own thoughts also. But n.o.bili did not look up; he felt her gaze, nevertheless; it thrilled him through and through.

At this moment, the melody of a voluptuous waltz, the opening of the cotillon, burst from the orchestra with an _entrain_ that might have moved an anchorite. As the sounds struck upon his ear, n.o.bili grew dizzy under the magnetism of those unseen eyes. His cheeks flushed suddenly, and the blood stirred itself tumultuously in his veins.

"Why should I repulse this girl because she loves me?" he asked himself.

This question came to him, wafted, as it were, upon the wings of the music.

"Count n.o.bili, you have not answered me," insisted Nera. She had not moved. "You are very absent this evening. Do you _wish_ to dance with me? Tell me."

She dwelt upon the words. Her voice was low and very pleading. n.o.bili had not yet spoken.

"I ask you again," she said.

This time her voice sounded most enticing. She touched his arm, too, laying her soft fingers upon it, and gazed up into his face. Still no answer.

"Will you not speak to me, n.o.bili?" She leaned forward, and grasped his arm convulsively. "n.o.bili, tell me, I implore you, what have I done to offend you?"

Tears gathered in her eyes. n.o.bili felt her hand tremble.

He looked up; their eyes met. There was a fire in hers that was contagious. His heart gave a great bound. Pressing within his own the hand that still rested so lovingly upon his arm, n.o.bili gave a rapid glance round. The room was empty; they were standing alone near the window, concealed by the ample curtains. Now the red shadow fell upon them both--

"This shall be my answer, Nera--siren," whispered n.o.bili.

As he speaks he clasps her in his arms; a pa.s.sionate kiss is imprinted upon her lips.

Hours have pa.s.sed; one intoxicating waltz-measure has been exchanged for another, that falls upon the ear as enthralling as the last. Not an instant had the dances ceased. The Cavaliere Trenta, his round face beaming with smiles, is seated in an arm-chair at the top of the largest ballroom. He keeps time with his foot. Now and then he raps loudly with his stick on the floor and calls out the changes of the figures. Balda.s.sare and Luisa Bernardini lead with the grace and precision of practised dancers.

"Brava! brava! a thousand times! Brava!" calls out the cavaliere from his arm-chair, clapping his hands. "You did that beautifully, marchesa!"--This was addressed to the swan's-neck, who had circled round, conducted by her partner, selecting such gentlemen as she pleased, and grouping them in one spot, in order to form a _bouquet_.

"You couldn't have done it better if you had been taught in Paris.--Forward! forward!" to a timid couple, to whom the intricacies of the figure were evidently distracting. "Belle donne! belle donne!

Victory to the brave! Fear nothing.--Orsetti, keep the circle down there; you are out of your place. You will never form the _bouquet_ if you don't--Louder! louder!" to the musicians, holding up his stick at them like a marshal's baton--"loud as they advance--then piano--diminuendo--pia-nis-si-mo--as they retreat. That sort of thing gives picturesqueness--light and shade, like a picture. Hi! hi!

Malatesta! The devil! You are spoiling every thing! Didn't I tell you to present the flowers to your partner? So--so. The flowers--they are there." Trenta pointed to a table. He struggled to rise to fetch the bouquets himself. Malatesta was too quick for him, however.

"Now bring up all the ladies and place them in chairs; bow to them,"

etc., etc.

Thanks to the energy of the cavaliere, and the agility of Balda.s.sare--who, it is admitted on all hands, had never distinguished himself so much as on this occasion--all the difficulties of the new figures have been triumphantly surmounted. Gentlemen had become spokes of a gigantic wheel that whirled round a lady seated on a chair in the centre of the room. They had been named as roots, trees, and even vegetables; they had answered to such names, seeking corresponding weeds as their partners. At a clap of the cavaliere's hands they had dashed off wildly, waltzing. Gentlemen had worn paper nightcaps, put on masks, and been led about blindfold. They had crept under chairs, waved flags from tables, thrown up colored b.a.l.l.s, and unraveled puzzles--all to the rhythm of the waltz-measure babbling on like a summer brooklet under the sun, through emerald meadows.

And now the exciting moment of the ribbons is come--the moment when the best presents are to be produced--the ribbons--a sheaf of rainbow-colors, fastened into a strong golden ring, which ring is to be held by a single lady, each gentleman grasping (as best he can) a single ribbon. As long as the lady seated on the chair in the centre pleases, the gentlemen are to gyrate round her. When she drops the ring holding the sheaf of ribbons, the Cavaliere Trenta is to clap his hands, and each gentleman is instantly to select that lady who wears a rosette corresponding in color to his ribbon--the lady in the chair being claimed by her partner.

n.o.bili has placed Nera Boccarini on the chair in the centre. (Ever since the flavor of that fervid kiss has rested on his lips, n.o.bili has been lost in a delicious dream. "Why should not he and Nera dance on--on--on--forever?--Into indefinite s.p.a.ce, if possible--only together?" He asks himself this question vaguely, as she rests within his arms--as he drinks in the subtile perfume of the red roses bound in her glossy hair.)

Nera is triumphant. n.o.bili is her own! As she sits in that chair when he has placed her, she is positively radiant. Love has given an unknown tenderness to her eyes, a more delicate brilliancy to her cheeks, a softness, almost a languor, to her movements. (Look out, acknowledged _belle_ of Lucca--look out, Teresa Ottolini--here is a dangerous rival to your supremacy! If n.o.bili loves Nera as Nera believes he does--Nera will ripen quickly into yet more transcendent beauty.)

Now n.o.bili has left Nera, seated in the chair. He is distributing the various ribbons among the dancers. As there are over a hundred couples, and there is some murmuring and struggling to secure certain ladies, who match certain ribbons, this is difficult, and takes time.

See--it is done; again n.o.bili retires behind Nera's chair, to wait the moment when he shall claim her himself.

How the men drag at the ribbons, whirling round and round, hand-in-hand!--Nera's small hand can scarcely hold them--the men whirling round every instant faster--tumbling over each other, indeed; each moment the ribbons are dragged harder. Nera laughs; she sways from side to side, her arms extended. Faster and more furiously the men whirl round--like runaway horses now, bearing dead upon the reins.

The strain is too great, Nera lets fall the ring. The cavaliere claps his hands. Each gentleman rushes toward the lady wearing a rosette matching his ribbon. Nera rises. Already she is encircled by n.o.bili's arm. He draws her to him; she makes one step forward. Nera is a bold, firm dancer, but, unknown to her, the ribbons in falling have become entangled about her feet; she, is bound, she cannot stir; she gives a little scream. n.o.bili, startled, suddenly loosens his hold upon her waist. Nera totters, extends her arms, then falls heavily backward, her head striking on the _parquet_ floor. There is a cry of horror.

Every dancer stops. They gather round her where she lies. Her face is turned upward, her eyes are set and gla.s.sy, her cheeks are ashen.

"Holy Virgin!" cries n.o.bili, in a voice of anguish, "I have killed her!" He casts himself on the floor beside her--he raises her in his strong arms. "Air, air!--give her air, or she will die!" he cries.

Putting every one aside, he carries Nera to the nearest window, he lays her tenderly on a sofa. It is the very spot where he had kissed her--under the fiery shadow of the red curtain. Alas! n.o.bili is sobered now from the pa.s.sion of that moment. The glamour has departed with the light of Nera's eyes. He is ashamed of himself; but there is a swelling at his heart, nevertheless--an impulse of infinite compa.s.sion toward the girl who lies senseless before him--her beauty, her undisguised love for him, plead powerfully for her. Does he love her?

The Countess Boccarini and Nera's sisters are by her side. The poor mother at first is speechless; she can only chafe her child's cold hands, and kiss her white lips.

"Nera, Nera," at last she whispers, "Nera, speak to me--speak to me--one word--only one word!"

But, alas! there is no sign of animation--to all appearance Nera is dead. n.o.bili, convinced that he alone is responsible, and too much agitated to care what he does, kneels beside her, and places his hand upon her heart.

"She lives! she lives!" he cries--"her heart beats! Thank G.o.d, I have not killed her!"

This leap from death to life is too much for him; he staggers to his feet, falls into a chair, and sobs aloud. Nera's eyelids tremble; she opens her eyes, her lips move.

"Nera, my child, my darling, speak to me!" cries Madame Boccarini.

"Tell me that you can hear me."

Nera tries to raise her head, but in vain. It falls back upon the cushion.

"Home, mamma--home!" her lips feebly whisper.

At the sound of her voice n.o.bili starts up; he brushes away the tears that still roll down his cheeks. Again he lifts Nera tenderly in his arms. For that night Nera belongs to him; no one else shall touch her.

He bears her down-stairs to a carriage. Then he disappears into the darkness of the night.

No one will leave the ball until there is some report of Nera's condition from the doctor who has been summoned. The gay groups sit around the glittering ballroom, and whisper to each other. The "golden youth" offer bets as to Nera's recovery; the ladies, who are jealous, back freely against it. In half an hour, however, Countess Orsetti is able to announce that "Nera Boccarini is better, and that, beyond the shock, it is hoped that she is not seriously hurt."

"You see, Malatesta, I was right," drawls out the languid Franchi as he descends the stairs. "You will believe me another time. You know I told you and Orsetti that Nera Boccarini and n.o.bili understood each other. He's desperately in love with her."