Magnani alone had watched him closely and half guessed the truth.
"Michel," he said, after a few moments, when their work had brought them together once more, "you seem very timid, but I believe that you are insanely bold. It is certain that the princess thought you a handsome fellow, and that she looked at you in a certain way which might have meant something very different on the part of any other woman; but do not be too presumptuous, my boy; this excellent princess is a virtuous lady; she has never been known to have a lover, and if she chose to take one, it isn't at all likely that she would begin with a little painter in distemper, when so many illustrious noblemen ——"
"Hush, Magnani," said Michel, vehemently; "your jests wound me, and I have never given you the right to laugh at me in this way; I won't endure it."
"Come, no temper," rejoined the young journeyman; "I have no intention of offending you, and when a man has arms like mine, he would be a coward to insult a boy like you. Besides, I am not naturally unkind, and as I told you before, if I speak frankly to you, it is because I am inclined to like you. I feel that you have a mind superior to mine, which attracts and charms me. But I also feel that you have a weak character and a wild imagination. If you have more intelligence and more refinement, I have more common sense and experience. Do not take my reflections in bad part. You have no friends among us as yet, and you could already reckon more than one enmity prepared to break out, if you should incline to see what is going on around you. I may be able to be of service to you in some way, and if you listen to my warning, you will avoid many vexations which you do not foresee. Come, Michel, do you scorn me, and reject my friendship?"
"On the contrary, I request it," replied Michel, moved and completely conquered by Magnani's frankness; "and I propose to show myself worthy of it by justifying myself. I know nothing, I believe nothing, I think nothing of the princess. For the first time in my life I see so great a lady at close quarters, and ——. But why do you smile?"
"You stop to ask about my smile to avoid finishing your sentence. I will finish it for you. You find that a great lady is something divine, and you fall madly in love with her. You love grandeur! I understood that perfectly the first time I saw you."
"No, no!" cried Michel, "I have not fallen in love; I do not know this woman, and, as for her grandeur, I do not know in what it consists. You might as well say that I am in love with her palace, her dress, or her diamonds, for thus far I have seen no other signs of superiority, except excellent taste, in which we assist her materially, it seems to me, as well as her jeweller and her dressmaker."
"As you know nothing more of her, that is well said," rejoined Magnani; "but in that case will you explain to me why you nearly fainted when you kissed her hand?"
"Do you explain it to me, if you can; for my part, I have no idea. I knew that ladies had a way of using their eyes which was bolder than that of a courtesan, and at the same time more contemptuous than that of a nun. Yes, I had noticed that; and that blending of seduction and pride drove me wild when I happened, against my will, to touch elbows with any of them in a crowd. And that is why I hated great ladies. But this one has a glance which resembles no other woman's. I could not undertake to say whether it is voluptuous languor or good-humored torpor; but no woman ever looked at me so, and —— what can you expect, Magnani? I am young and impressionable, and it gave me the vertigo; that is all. I am not intoxicated with vanity, I swear, for I am perfectly certain that she would have looked at you in the same way if chance had placed your face before her instead of mine."
"I don't believe it," replied Magnani, pensively.
He had dropped his hammer and seated himself on a bench. He seemed to be struggling painfully to solve a problem.
"Ah! young men!" exclaimed old Pier-Angelo, as he passed them; "you are chattering and not working; only the old men know how to work fast."
Touched by the rebuke, Michel hastened to assist his father, after whispering to his new friend that they would resume their conversation later.
"Your best course," said Magnani, in an undertone, with a strange expression, "will be to think as little as possible about it."
Michel loved his father fervently, and with good reason. Pier-Angelo was a man of spirit, of courage, and of sound sense. An artist in his way, he followed the good old traditions in his work, and was not irritated by the innovations that he saw all about him. On the contrary, he very quickly assimilated such progressive ideas as he was made to understand. He was an easy-going, jovial mortal, optimistic in general, tolerant in particular cases, almost never ascribing evil intentions, but never paltering with them when it was no longer possible for him to entertain his generous illusions. A straightforward, simple, unselfish soul, content with little, entertained by everything, loving work for himself, and money for others, that is to say, living from day to day, and unable to deny his neighbor anything.
Providence had given the impulsive Michel the only guide he could ever have accepted; for that young man was entirely different from his father in several respects. He was restless, suspicious, slightly egotistical, with a decided tendency toward ambition, instability and anger. And yet his also was a noble nature, because it was sincerely in love with the noble and the great, and surrendered enthusiastically when its confidence was justified. But it is beyond question that his temperament was less happy than it might have been, that his active and inquisitive intellect often fed upon itself; and that his sensitive and excitable mind sometimes made a desperate onslaught on the tranquillity of his heart.
If a rough hand, the heavy hand of a mechanic desperately bent upon money-making, or subject to all the jealous indignation peculiar to the republican spirit, had undertaken to mould young Michel's mobile nature and discontented mind, it would have driven them to exasperation and would speedily have shattered or destroyed them. The improvident and cheerful temper of Pier-Angelo had acted as a counterpoise and sedative upon his passionate instincts. He rarely talked the language of cold reason to him, and never thwarted his fickle inclinations. But the fearless heedlessness of certain natures has a sympathetic effect which makes us blush for our weaknesses, and acts upon us more powerfully by example, by precepts nobly and simply put in execution, than all the speeches and sermons in the world could do. It was by this means that Pier-Angelo, while seeming to accede to Michel's desires and caprices, still exerted the only ascendancy to which he could have been induced to submit.
Once more, when he saw his father doing the work of two, Michel was ashamed of his absent-mindedness, and hastened to assist him. There was still a temporary staircase to be erected at one side of the ball-room, to communicate with a gallery on the floor above, and afford the anticipated crowd an additional artery of circulation.
They could already hear numerous carriages rumbling in the distance over that magnificent street which is proudly called theÆtnean Road, and which passes through Catania in a straight line, from the water's edge to the foot of Ætna; as if, to quote a traveller, "the people who had erected their superb palaces along that road had intended to afford the angry volcano a way befitting its majesty."
At critical moments, when the time is too short, when the hours seem rather to gallop than to walk, when human forces are at odds with the impossible in some feverish toil, very few men are endowed with sufficient strength of will to retain the hope of triumphing at last. At such moments it is simply a matter of quadrupling one's own faculties and performing a miracle. Most of the workmen were utterly discouraged and proposed to abandon that temporary structure and to conceal the opening with flowers and pictures; in short, to inflict upon the organizers of the fête the unpleasant surprise of a departure from their plans. Pier-Angelo revived the courage of those who seemed well-disposed, and set to work. Michel performed prodigies in the way of assisting them; and in ten minutes, the task which it was said would take two hours was completed as if by magic.
"Michel," then said the old man, wiping his head, which was bald to the base of the skull, "I am satisfied with you, and I see that you are a good workman; which, in my eyes, is an indispensable qualification for any man who wishes to become a great artist. Everyone cannot work fast, and most of those who make haste do bad work. We must not despise them for that. In the ordinary course of affairs all work requires coolness, calculation, orderly management, foresight, in short, common sense—yes, even in loading a cart with stones, there are a thousand ways of going about it and only one right way. One man will take too many on his shovel, another not enough; one lifts his arm too high and throws the stones over the cart, another doesn't lift it high enough and throws them among the wheels. Have you never compared one thing with another and reflected, as you watched the simple work of the fields? Have you seen men digging? In that, as in everything else, there is one good workman to twenty bunglers. And who can say that the man who does as much work with the spade as four others, without tiring himself out and without losing a second, is not a superior man, who would do more difficult things admirably? Tell me, what do you think about it? For my part, I have always had that thought in my mind, and by watching the girls picking strawberries on the mountain, I can pick out the one who will best manage her house and bring up her children someday. Do you think I am talking nonsense? Answer me."
"I think that you are right, father," Michel replied, with a smile; "to work quickly and well, one must combine presence of mind with an ardent will; he must have fever in his blood and a clear head. He must be able to think and act simultaneously. No, that power certainly is not given to everyone; and it is a painful thing to see so many feeble and incompetent organizations in proportion to the small number of placid and powerful ones. Alas! I am alarmed for myself, notwithstanding the praise you have just given me, for I rarely feel in that powerful and productive humor, and if I was in that humor just now, I owe it to your example."
"No, no, Michel, no example is of any use to the impotent. Poor creatures! they do what they can, and that is an excellent reason why those who are stronger and more capable should make it their duty to relieve them. Do you not feel glad and proud to have done it?"
"You are right, father! you can find the noble and praiseworthy aspect of my instincts better than I can myself. Ah! Pier-Angelo, you do not know how to read, and you have had me taught a thousand things that you do not know. And yet you are the light of my mind, and, at every step I take, I feel that you are helping to open a blind man's eyes."
"That is well said!" cried honest Pier-Angelo, with artless joy. "I wish that could be written down. It reminded me of when the actors recite noble sentences on the stage. Let us see, how did you say it? repeat it for me. You called me by my name, as if I were not here, and you were thinking aloud of your old friend. Oh! I love fine words, that I do!Pier-Angelo, you do not know how to write—you began so. And then you compared yourself to a blind man whose light I was—I, a poor ignorant fellow, whose heart sees clear for you, Michel, none the less. I wish I could write poetry in pure Tuscan; but I only know how to improvise in my Sicilian dialect, in which, provided you rhyme inianduyou can always succeed in producing something that resembles poetry. If I could I would write a beautiful ballad about the love and modesty of a son who attributes to his old simpleton of a father all that he discovers about himself; a ballad! there is nothing in the world more perfect than a good ballad. I know a great many of them, but there are very few with which I am perfectly satisfied. I would like to be able to supply something that is lacking in them all. That reminds me that I shall have to sing to-night at supper. Hum! after swallowing such a lot of dust! but there will be plenty of good wine for the workmen to drink. Don't you mean to come? Evidently you don't like to drink with everybody. Perhaps you are right. They say that you are proud; but, on the other hand, you are sober and dignified. You must do what suits you. After all, it's of no use for you to talk, you will never be a simple mechanic like me, whatever you may do. You help me at my work now, and that is well done. But once our little debts are paid, you will return to Rome, for I propose that you shall continue the noble studies that attract you so."
"Ah! father, every word you say goes to my heart. Our little debts! it was I who contracted them, not only for useful studies, but for foolish diversions and insane, childish vanities. And when I think that each year I pass at Rome costs you the whole avails of your toil!"
"Even so! for whom should I earn money, if not for my son?"
"But you rob yourself!"
"Of nothing at all. I find friendship and confidence wherever I am employed; and except a little good wine, which is an old man's milk, and which is neither scarce nor dear in our blessed climate, thank God! I need nothing. What does a man of my age require? Must I think of the future? Your sister is industrious; she will find a good husband. Is not my present lot what my lot will be to my last hour? There is nothing new for me to learn which I can put to any use. Why should I hoard money? to hoard it for your maturer years would be absurd; it would simply be depriving your youth of the means of developing and making sure of the future."
"Alas! it is the thought of your future that terrifies me, father! An old man's future is loss of strength, infirmity, neglect, destitution! And suppose all your sacrifices were wasted! Suppose I should prove to be devoid of virtue, intelligence, courage, talent! Suppose I should not succeed in making my fortune, in finding a good husband for my sister, and in assuring your comfort and security in your old age!"
"Nonsense! nonsense! it is insulting Providence to doubt yourself when you are conscious of being disposed to do what is right. Besides, let us put everything in the worst light, and you will see that nothing is lost. I will assume that you are simply an ordinary artist; you will still earn your living, and as you do not lack wit, you will know how to be contented with such pleasures as are within your reach. You will do like me, who, although I have never been rich, have never considered myself poor, because my wants have never exceeded my resources. That is a philosophy with which you are not familiar as yet, because you are at the age of expansive desires and expansive hopes; but it will come to you if your plans fail. Mind you, I do not admit that they can fail. That is why I do not preach moderation to you now. Power is still better. The man who aims true at the ring with his lance is drunk with joy. He carries off the prize, and congratulates himself on having had the courage to compete. But he who has broken several lances with no result goes away saying: 'My luck is bad; I will not try again.' And he too is pleased that he has profited by experience and has had the courage to read himself a salutary lesson. But the evening breeze dries the perspiration on my old forehead a little too quickly; I am going to the pantry to eat and drink. As there is nothing more for you to do here, you may as well get our tools together and go home."
"And when will you come home, father?"
"Ah! Michel, I don't know when or how! it will depend on how much I enjoy the supper. You know that I am very sober, generally speaking, and drink only to quench my thirst; but if they lead me on to laugh and sing, and chatter, I get excited and have paroxysms of merriment and poetic enthusiasm which carry me off to the moon; and then it's of no use to talk to me about going to bed. Don't be anxious about me. I shall not fall down in a corner, I am not a beastly sot; my drunkenness is that of brilliant minds, on the contrary, and I never act more reasonably than when I am a little mad; that is to say, I shall be at work again here at daylight to-morrow, to assist in undoing all we have done this week, and I shall be less tired than if I had passed the night in my bed."
"You must despise me for being unable to find in wine the superhuman strength that it gives you!"
"You have never cared to try!" cried the old man; and he added instantly: "and you have done well! because at your age it is an unnecessary stimulant. Ah! when I was young the lightest glance from a woman would have given me more strength than the whole of the princess's cellar would give me at this moment! Well, good-night, my boy."
As he spoke, Pier-Angelo started up the wooden staircase he had helped to put in place, for he and his son had been talking in the garden, where he had thrown himself on the turf to recover his breath. Michel detained him, and, instead of leaving him, said with inexplicable emotion:
"Father, are you entitled to remain at the ball after the invited guests have arrived?"
"Why, surely," replied Pier-Angelo, surprised by the young man's manner. "Several of us were selected from each branch of trade, about a hundred men in all, to see that nothing goes wrong during the festivity. In the midst of so much commotion, a board may give way, or a piece of canvas get loose and take fire from the candles; a thousand accidents always have to be guarded against, and a certain number of tried arms always kept in readiness to repair them. We may have nothing to do; and in that case we shall pass the night merrily at table; but, whatever happens, we are at hand. Moreover, we have the right to go everywhere, in order to have an eye upon everything and to prevent fire, confusion, the bad smell from the candles that go out, the fall of a picture, a chandelier, a vase, heaven knows what! We are always wanted, and we make a circuit of the rooms, turn and turn about, if for nothing more than to prevent pickpockets from creeping in."
"And you are paid to do this servant's work?"
"We are paid if we choose. To those who do it purely from good-will the princess always makes some acceptable present, and for old friends like me she always has a pleasant word and some delicate little attention. And then, even if it brought me in nothing, isn't it my duty to place my foresight, my activity, and my loyalty at the service of a woman whom I esteem as much as I esteem her? I have no need of her assistance as yet; but I have seen how she helps those who get into difficulty, and I know that she would dress my wounds with her own hands if I were wounded."
"Yes, yes, I know all about that," rejoined Michel, gloomily; "benevolence, charity, pity, alms-giving!"
"Come, come! Master Pier-Angelo," said a valet, who passed them at that moment, "it is time to change your clothes. Take off your apron, the guests are arriving; go to the dressing-room, or to the buffet first, if you like."
"True," said Pier-Angelo, "we are a little untidy to rub elbows with such beautiful gowns. Farewell, Michel, I am going to beautify myself. Go home and rest."
Michel glanced at his own clothes, which were soiled and torn in a thousand places. His pride returned; he slowly descended the steps leading to the main ball-room and walked across it, amid the resplendent groups which were beginning to appear. A young man who entered as Michel was going out jostled him roughly. Michel was on the point of flying into a rage; but he restrained himself when he saw that the young man in question was as distraught as he.
He was a youth of some twenty-five years, of small stature and with a most attractive face. And yet, both in his face and bearing there was something peculiar which attracted Michel's attention, although he could not explain to his own satisfaction why he should take an interest in the stranger. It is certain, however, that there must have been something unusual about him, for the door-keeper to whom he had handed his card of admission glanced several times from him to the card and from the card to him, as if he wished to make sure that it was all right. He had not taken three steps into the room when other people turned their eyes upon him as if by virtue of a contagious impulse, and Michel, still standing by the door, heard a lady say to the gentleman who escorted her:
"Who is that man? I do not know him."
"Nor do I," was the reply; "but what do you expect? In a company so numerous as this is likely to be, do you fancy that you will not meet many strange faces?"
"Of course, I expect to," replied the lady, "and we shall see, in this ball for which anyone can buy a ticket, a mixture that will amuse us. To begin with, I am amused by this person who has just come in, and has stopped short under the first chandelier, as if he were looking for his road through this huge room. Just look at him! it is very curious; he's a handsome fellow!"
"Really, you are very much engrossed by that youth," said her escort, who, whether lover or husband, knew Sicilian womankind by heart. And so, instead of looking at the man to whom his attention was directed, he looked behind, to see whether, while his attention was attracted in one direction, someone on the other side did not hand her a note or exchange a meaning glance with her. But, whether because she was really virtuous, or by mere chance, she was sincere at that moment and looked at no one but the stranger.
Michel did not go away, and yet he had ceased to think of the reckless youth who had jostled him; he had espied, at the end of the ball-room, a white dress and a coronet of diamonds which twinkled like pale stars. He had seen the princess only an instant, and there were many other women at the ball in white dresses, many other diadems of precious stones. However, he was not mistaken as to her identity, and he could not take his eyes from her.
The lady and gentleman who had noticed the arrival of the unknown young man walked away, and Michel heard other voices at his side.
"I have seen that face somewhere, I don't know where," said a lady.
A pale, lovely young woman, who was walking with the last speaker, exclaimed, in a tone which aroused Michel from his reverie:
"Ah! great God! what a resemblance!"
"Why! what is the matter, my dear?"
"Nothing; a memory, a resemblance; but it is not the same——"
"What are you talking about, pray?"
"I will tell you later. First of all, look at that man."
"That short young man? I certainly don't know him."
"Nor do I; but he bears a most appalling resemblance to a man who——"
Michel heard no more; the beautiful young woman had lowered her voice as she walked on.
Who could that man be who had just come in, and who already produced such a marked sensation? Michel looked at him and saw that he was retracing his steps as if he intended to go out; but he halted in front of him and said in a voice as soft as a woman's: "My friend, will you be kind enough to tell me which of all the ladies who are already here is Princess Agatha de Palmarosa?"
"I have no idea," replied Michel, impelled by an instinctive feeling of distrust and jealousy.
"Then you do not know her?" queried the stranger.
"No, signor," replied Michel, dryly.
The stranger entered the ball-room and plunged into the crowd, which was rapidly increasing. Michel looked after him and observed something peculiar in his carriage. Although he was dressed in the height of fashion, and with an elaborateness which bordered on bad taste, he seemed ill at ease in his clothes, like a man who had never before worn a black coat and close-fitting breeches. And yet there was in his manner a something haughty and distinguished which did not denote the petty bourgeois in his Sunday garb.
As Michel turned to go away at last, he saw that the halberdier who was guarding the door was equally engrossed by the stranger's appearance.
"I don't know," he was saying to Barbagallo, the majordomo, who had just accosted him, apparently to question him; "I know a peasant who looks like him, but it isn't the man."
A third retainer came up and said:
"That must be the Greek prince who arrived yesterday, or one of his escort."
"Or else some follower of the Egyptian envoy," said the halberdier.
"Or else," added Barbagallo, "some Levantine merchant. When those people leave off their native costume and dress in the European style, you can't recognize them. Did he buy his ticket at the door? You mustn't allow anybody to do that."
"He had his ticket in his hand; I saw him present it all open, and the door-keeper said: 'Her Highness's signature.'"
Michel had not listened to this discussion; he was already well on his way to Catania.
He returned to his humble abode and sat down on his bed; but he forgot to lie down. As he threw back his hair, the weight of which made his forehead hot, he saw a small flower fall. It was a white cyclamen blossom. How had it broken off and clung to his hair? There was no reason for much surprise or uneasiness. The place where he had worked and hustled about, gone hither and thither a thousand times, was so thickly strewn with flowers of all sorts.
But Michel did not remember that. He simply remembered the enormous bouquet of cyclamen which the Princess of Palmarosa carried when he had stooped tremblingly and kissed her hand. He put the flower to his lips; it exhaled an intoxicating odor. He took his head in both hands. It seemed to him that he was going mad.
The mental disturbance which our young painter experienced at that moment was due to two causes, one an absurd sort of jealousy, which had taken possession of him like an attack of fever, with respect to Princess Agatha; the other, a feeling of disquiet, because he had failed to obtain that noble person's approval of his paintings. Of course it was not mere love of gain, the desire to be paid more or less handsomely, which worked upon him thus. So long as he had been engrossed by the fever of production, he had given very little thought to the subject of the signora's personal opinion; he had thought only of succeeding, of satisfying himself; then, having almost succeeded in his own eyes, and having not as yet seen his mysterious patroness, he had wondered, with more hope than alarm, whether he should find enough enlightened judges in that province to establish his reputation upon an undertaking of that sort. In short, he had had so much to do up to the last moment that he had not had time to analyze his anxiety.
When he was quite alone, he found that he was strangely disturbed by the knowledge that people were passing judgment on his work, and that he could not be there. What prevented him? No orders related to his humble position in society, but a poignant false shame, which he did not feel the strength to overcome.
And yet Michel was not cowardly, either as a man or as an artist. Despite his youth he had already reflected deeply concerning his future prospects, and he had already reviewed concisely enough the list of successes and reverses connected with his destiny. Feeling that he was seized with faint-heartedness at the outset, he was surprised, and tried to fight against himself. But the more he questioned himself, the more fully he recognized his weakness, but would not avow its cause. Therefore we will give the reader that information.
At the bottom of this depression and alarm there lay a feeling of uncertainty as to the opinion the princess had formed concerning him. Pier-Angelo had told him that morning that during Sunday her highness had inspected the ball-room; but that, as he was not present, he did not know what she had said. Master Barbagallo, being in ill-humor because of the numerous vexations attendant upon the fête, had spoken very coldly to him on the subject, but had not said that the princess seemed dissatisfied or that she criticised anything. Whereupon honest Pier-Angelo had added, with his usual confidence: "Never fear, she knows what is what. It is impossible that she should not be satisfied beyond what she expected." Michel had surrendered to that confidence without paying much heed to the question whether it was justified. He had said to himself that, even if the princess were not a connoisseur, there would soon be enough connoisseurs about her to guide her judgment.
Moreover, he was afraid of everybody now because he was afraid of the princess. She had looked at him in a way that had completely upset him; but she had said nothing to him; not a word of praise or encouragement had accompanied that glance, which was more than kind, it is true, but for that very reason incomprehensible. And suppose he had been mistaken touching the expression of her face! suppose that, when she thus fixed her lovely, joy-laden eyes upon him, she was thinking of some entirely different person—her lover, perhaps, for she must have a lover, whatever Magnani might say!
At the bare idea Michel felt faint and sick; he fancied that he saw the princess leaning on the arm of the fortunate mortal for whose sake she pretended to entertain no thought of marriage. They were glancing absently at the young painter's work, and smiling as they looked into each other's eyes, as if to say:
"What does it matter to us? nothing is beautiful, nothing exists for us, except ourselves."
Weary of suffering so entirely without reason, Michel thought to conquer and tranquillize himself by adopting a superb resolution.
"I will go to bed," he said to himself, "and sleep like a prince, like a hero, while people are criticising me, disputing and perhaps getting excited about me in yonder palace. To-morrow morning, father will come and wake me, and tell me whether I have won the laurel wreath or have been hissed. What does it matter to me, after all?"
It mattered so little to him, in very truth, that, instead of undressing, he dressed to go to the ball. In a most extraordinary fit of abstraction, he arranged his beautiful hair, which would have been a bit too long for a strictly fashionable patrician, but which formed a beautiful frame for his intelligent and impassioned face. He removed with the greatest care all traces of toil; he donned his finest linen and his best clothes; and when he had glanced at his little mirror, he decided, and with good reason, that no guest at the princess's ball would present a more distinguished figure than he.
Having thus prepared for bed, he left the house, and when he had taken ten steps out of doors, he discovered that an inexplicable preoccupation was leading him in the direction of the Palmarosa palace. Indignant with himself, he returned, took off his coat, tossed it on the bed, opened his window and sat beside it, torn between the heroic determination to retire and the irresistible temptation to go and witness the fête.
The countless lights of the palace twinkled before his eyes, the notes of the orchestra reached his ears through the echoing night. Carriages were rolling in all directions; no one was asleep in the city or the outlying country. Indeed, it was not nine o'clock, and Michel felt little inclined to sleep. He closed his window and started to take up a book; but the cyclamen, which he had tossed upon the table in an outburst of anger against himself, was the only object within his reach.
Thereupon it seemed to him that, through the delicate and penetrating odor of musk exhaled by the pink-tipped petals of that pretty little flower, he saw palpable images take shape and gather about him. Women, lights, flowers, gushing waters, diamonds with a bluish gleam; and with the things which seemed real, fanciful things were mingled as in a dream. Lovely dancing-girls of antique times, whom Michel had painted on the ceiling, stood forth gracefully from the canvas, and, raising their azure and purple tunics above their knees, glided through the crowd, and cast upon him as they passed lewd glances and mysterious smiles. Drunk with desire, he followed them, and lost them, and found them again, seizing one by her floating girdle, another by her transparentpeplum, but exhausting himself in vain efforts, in vain entreaties, to detain them and give them substance.
Then a white female passed slowly and took sole possession of his vagrant passion. She stopped in front of him and gazed at him, at first with stony eyes, which gradually became animated and ended by flashing flames, whereby he felt that he was being consumed. Lying motionless at her feet, he saw her stoop over him. He fancied that he felt her breath upon his brow; but instantly the giddy band of Latin harlots entangled him in a network of multi-colored tunics and whirled him upward toward the ceiling. Then he found himself alone on his ladder, smeared with paint, covered with dirt, exhausted, gasping for breath, in a ghastly solitude, dimly lighted by a vague gleam of daylight. Silence hovered over the cold, deserted rooms; naught remained of his vision save a little broken flower, whose fragrance he had exhausted by inhaling it.
This hallucination became so painful that Michel, in terror, pushed the cyclamen away once more, thinking that there must be something soporific or poisonous in its exhalations. But he could not make up his mind to destroy it. He placed it in a glass of water and opened his window again.
"Why suffer thus without reason and without any object?" he said to himself; "is it a woman's glance, or the distant view of a great fête, that makes my disordered imagination run riot thus? Very well! if the mad creature is untamable, let her have her way; doubtless the spectacle of what really is will either extinguish her frenzy or furnish it with fresh food. I shall either become calm, or suffer in some new way; what does it matter!"
"What is the trouble, that you are talking to yourself so, Michel?" said a soft voice, while at the same time the door of his little chamber opened behind him. And Michel, turning his head, saw his little sister Mila, who approached him on tiptoe, with bare feet and her body wrapped in apiddemia—a brown cloak worn by the women of the people.
No one in the world was so pretty, so sweet, and so lovable as Mila. Michel had always loved her dearly. And yet her appearance at that moment caused him some vexation.
"What are you doing here, little one?" he said; "why aren't you asleep?"
"Asleep already!" she said, "when I hear carriages rumbling through the streets and see the princess's palace shining yonder like a star? Oh! I cannot sleep! Our father made me promise to go to bed as usual, and not to go running about the palace with the other girls, to try to look at the fête through the open doors. So I went to bed, and although those violins, which you can hear from here, made my heart beat time, I was determined to go to sleep, when my friend Nenna came and asked me to go with her."
"And you mean to go, Mila? to disobey your father? to loiter about that house, which is all surrounded by servants, beggars and vagabonds, with a hare-brained creature like Nenna? You shall not do it, I forbid you!"
"Oh! you needn't put on those high and mighty paternal airs, my dear brother," retorted Mila, in an offended tone. "Do you suppose I am mad enough to listen to Nenna? I sent her away; she is a long way from here, and I was going to sleep again when I heard you walking about and talking. I thought father was with you; but I saw through the crack of the door that you were alone, and then ——"
"Then you came in here to chatter, in order to avoid going to sleep, eh?"
"It is true that I have no desire to go to bed so early, and father didn't forbid me to listen and look on from a distance at what is going on up there! Oh! how beautiful it must be! You can see much better from your window than from mine, Michel; do let me feast my eyes on that beautiful bright light!"
"No, little one. The wind is cool to-night, and you have almost no clothes on. I am going to shut the window and go to bed. Go and do the same; good-night."
"You are going to bed; and have just dressed yourself! what did you do it for, pray? Michel, you are deceiving me, you are going to see the ball, you are going in! I will bet that you are invited, and that you won't tell me so!"
"Invited! they don't invite people like us to such grand affairs, my poor dear! When we enter that palace, we go as workmen, not as friends."
"What difference does that make, so long as you're there? Then you are going? Oh! how I would like to be in your place!"
"Why, what is the meaning of this frantic desire to see this fête?"
"To see what is beautiful, Michel, isn't that all? When you draw a beautiful figure, I take more pleasure in looking at it, perhaps, than you do who drew it."
"But if you were there, it would be on condition that you were hidden in some hole, for if they saw you, they would turn you out; you could not even show yourself, much less dance!"
"Very true; but I should see the others dance, and that would be much."
"You are a child. Good-night."
"I see that you aren't willing to take me!"
"No, surely not; I can't. They would turn you out, and I should have to break the head of some insolent lackey for insulting you when you were on my arm."
"What! isn't there some little corner no bigger than your hand, where I could hide? I am so small! Look, Michel, I could get into your cupboard. Anyway, you could take me to the door without taking me in, and father would not be angry to know that I was there with you."
Michel preached a beautiful sermon to Mila on the subject of childish curiosity, and the violent instinctive longing which she felt to intoxicate herself with the spectacle of patrician grandeur. He forgot that he was consumed by the same longing, and that he was anxious to be alone so that he might give way to it.
Mila listened to reason when Michel told her that he was going to assist his father to overlook the decorations of the ball; but she heaved a deep sigh, none the less.
"Well," she said, tearing herself away from the window, "it's no use to think any more about it. However, it's my own fault; for if I had had any idea that I should be so wild to go, I could very easily have asked the princess to invite me."
"Now you are going mad again, just as I thought you were becoming reasonable, Mila! As if the princess could have invited you, even if she had taken it into her head to do it!"
"Why, of course she could; isn't she the mistress of her own house?"
"Even so! what would all those ancient dowagers, all those august blockheads say, if they should see little Mila, with her velvet jacket and striped skirt, dancing about among their noble dolls of daughters?"
"Let me tell you, that I might perhaps cut a better figure than all of them, young and old!"
"That is no reason."
"I know that; but the princess is a queen in her house, and I will bet that she will invite me to the first ball she chooses to give."
"You will ask her to, I suppose?"
"To be sure! I know her, and she is very fond of me; she is a friend of mine."
As she said this, Mila drew herself up and assumed an air of importance, so comical and so fascinating that Michel laughed and kissed her.
"I like to see, Mila," he said, "that you have no suspicion of anything. And why should I deceive you? You will lose soon enough the trustful illusions of your age of gold! But, since you know this beautiful princess so well, pray tell me something about her, my dear little sister; tell me how it happens that you are so intimately acquainted with her, without my knowing anything about it?"
"Aha! Michel, you are curious to know that, now! But since you have shown so little eagerness to question me, you will kindly wait a little longer, until it pleases me to answer you."
"So it's a secret, is it?"
"Perhaps! what do you care?"
"I care very little, in truth, to know anything whatsoever concerning this princess. She has a fine palace, I work there, she pays me, and I care little about anything else for the moment. But nothing that interests my little Mila can be indifferent to me, nor should it be hidden from me, in my opinion."
"Now you are flattering me to make me speak. Well, I will not speak, there! But I will show you something that will make you open your eyes. See, what do you say to this pretty thing?"
And Mila took from her bosom a locket surrounded by large diamonds.
"They are fine stones," she said, "and worth I don't know how much money. Enough to provide me with a marriage portion if I chose to sell them; but I will never part with them, because they came from my best friend."
"And that friend is the Princess of Palmarosa?"
"Yes, Agatha Palmarosa; don't you see her cipher engraved on the gold of the locket?"
"Yes, that is true! But what is there inside this priceless trinket?"
"Hair, lovely light chestnut hair, with a touch of gold, naturally curly, and so fine!" said the girl, opening the locket. "Isn't it soft and glossy?"
"That isn't the princess's, for hers is black."
"So you have seen her, after all?"
"Yes, I just caught a glimpse of her. But tell me, Mila, whose hair you wear against your heart, and in such a valuable locket?"
"How inquisitive you are! you are blind and dull, too, like all inquisitive people. Don't you recognize it? Don't you remember where I got it?"
"No, indeed, I do not."
"Well, put it against yours and you will recognize it, although your head has grown a little darker in a year."
"Dear little sister! yes, I do remember now that you cut it from my head the day you left Rome—and you have kept it all this time!"
"I used to carry it in a little black bag. My friend Agatha asked of what saint I carried a relic in my scapulary, and when I told her that it was my darling and only brother's hair, she took it and said she would send it back to me the next day; and the next day she sent me by father this lovely locket filled with your hair. However, some of it was missing. The jeweller who put it inside either stole it or lost it."
"Lost it, that may be," said Michel, with a smile; "but as for stealing it! This hair has no value to anyone but you, Mila!"
"But, after all, what is the source of this friendship of the princess for you," continued Michel, after a pause; "what have you ever done for her that she should make you such presents?"
"Nothing at all. Father, who is on excellent terms with her, took me to the palace one day to present me to her. She took a fancy to me; she paid me all sorts of attentions; she asked me for my friendship, and I promised it and gave it to her at once. I passed the day all alone with her, walking about her villa and the gardens. Since then I go there when I choose, and I am always sure of being well received."
"And you go often?"
"I have never been but twice, for it isn't long since I first knew her. I know that the palace has been turned upside down this last week by the preparations for the ball, and I was afraid of being in poor Agatha's way when, of course, she had a thousand things to do. But I shall go in two or three days."
"So that is the whole of the mystery, is it? Why did you need so much urging to tell it?"
"Oh! because the princess said to me when I came away: 'Mila, please don't tell anyone about the delightful day we have passed together and the friendship we have formed. I have my reasons for asking you to keep it secret. You shall know them later, and I know that I can rely on your promise if you will give it to me.'—As you can imagine, Michel, I did not refuse it."
"Very good; but you are breaking your word now."
"No, I am not. You are notanybodyto me, and, of course, the princess didn't suppose I would have any secrets from my father or my brother."
"Does my father know all this, then?"
"Certainly, I told him about it at once."
"And he was neither surprised nor disturbed by this whim of the princess?"
"Why surprised, please? It is your surprise that is very strange and a little impertinent, Michel. Am I not capable of inspiring friendship, even in a princess? And why disturbed? Is not friendship a good and pleasant thing?"
"Still, my child, I am, if not disturbed, at all events astonished at this friendship. Tell me this, which may explain it in some measure. Has our father rendered Princess Agatha some great service?"
"He has done much beautiful decorating in the palace. He has made some superb foliage in the dining-room among other things."
"I have seen all that; but he is well paid. The princess has taken a liking to him because of his zeal and disinterestedness, I suppose?"
"Yes, that must be it. Isn't it true that anybody who knows father for a little time loves him?"
"That is so. Then it is because of our excellent father that you arouse so much interest in this great lady!"
"Oh! Michel, she isn't a great lady, I tell you! she's a good woman, a kind, lovely woman."
"And what could she find to say to you, my child, for a whole day?"
"She asked me a thousand questions, about myself and father and you, about our life in Rome, your occupations, our home life and our tastes. I really believe that she made me tell our whole history day by day, ever since I was born; I talked so much that I was tired out that evening."
"It seems that this lady is terribly inquisitive; for what does it all matter to her?"
"Now you mention it, I believe that she is a little inquisitive; but it is a pleasure to answer her questions; she listens to you with so much interest, and she is so pleasant! Come, don't speak ill of her, or I shall be angry with you!"
"Very well, let us say no more about her; God forbid that I should teach you distrust and dread, my lovely angel heart! Go to bed, now; father is waiting for me. To-morrow we will talk again of your adventure, for surely this great friendship with a beautiful princess is a marvellous adventure in a life like yours—although she no more thinks of you now than of the last pair of slippers she wore. No matter! don't put on that injured air. It may be that, some day when she is lonely and idle, the Princess of Palmarosa will send for you, to be entertained again by your prattle."
"You don't know what you are saying, Michel. The princess is not idle, and if you insist upon taking it this way, I will tell you that, kind-hearted as she is, she has the reputation of being decidedly cold with people of our station. Some say that she is proud, others that she is timid. The fact is that she always speaks pleasantly and courteously to the workmen and servants who come in contact with her, but that she speaks to them so little, so little!—that she is noted for it, and that some people who have worked for her for years have never known the sound of her voice and have hardly seen her in her own house. So that her friendship for father and me is no commonplace thing; it is genuine friendship, and your mockery will never prevent me from relying upon it. Good-night, Michel; I am not very well pleased with you to-night; I never saw you with this sarcastic air before. You talk as if you meant to say that I am only a little girl and no one can love me!"
"That is not my thought, so far as I myself am concerned, at all events! for, little slip of a girl as you are, I adore you!"
"What did you say, brother? You adore me? that is a lovely word. Kiss me."
The child threw herself into his arms. Michel embraced her lovingly, and as she laid her lovely brown head on his shoulder, he kissed the long hair that fell over the girl's half uncovered back.
But suddenly he pushed her away with a painful shudder. All the burning thoughts that had excited his brain an hour earlier recurred to his mind with the vividness of remorse, and it seemed to him that his lips were no longer pure enough to bless his little sister.
He was no sooner alone than he rushed through the door of the old house in which he lived, without pausing to close that of his room. To tell the truth, he paid no heed to the distance he travelled, and, still haunted by his dreams, he fancied that he stepped directly from the landing of his attic to the marble peristyle of the villa. And yet it was nearly a mile from the last houses of the suburb of Catania to the gateway of the palace.
The first face upon which his eyes fell as he was about to enter the ball-room was that of the stranger to whom his attention had been attracted as he went away. The young man was walking slowly from the room, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief trimmed with lace. Michel, puzzled by his conduct, and wondering if it were not a woman in disguise, resolutely accosted him.
"Well, my friend," he said, "did you succeed in seeing Princess Agatha?"
The stranger, who seemed absorbed by his thoughts, raised his head abruptly, and darted at Michel a glance instinct with such inexplicable distrust, and even malevolence, that the young painter felt a sort of cold shiver run down his back. It was not the glance of a woman, but of a forceful and hot-tempered man. The feeling of hostility is unfamiliar to youthful hearts, and Michel's contracted as with a sudden pang. It seemed to him that the stranger instinctively felt for a knife in his gold embroidered satin waistcoat, and he followed his movements with surprise.
"How does it happen?" said the other, in the same soft voice, in marked contrast to his angry, threatening manner, "that you were a mechanic a short time ago, and that now you are a gentleman?"
"The fact is that I am neither one nor the other," replied Michel, with a smile; "I am an artist employed in the palace. Do you feel more at ease? my question seems to have disturbed you greatly. However, one question deserves another. Did you not ask me one without knowing me?"
"Do you mean to jest, signor?" retorted the stranger, who spoke in excellent Italian, without any accent to justify the Greek or Egyptian antecedents suggested by Barbagallo.
"Not in the least," replied Michel, "and, as for my accosting you, pray pardon an impulsive exhibition of curiosity entirely free from malevolent intention."
"Curiosity! why curiosity?" rejoined the unknown, clenching his teeth and crowding his words together in peculiarly Sicilian fashion.
"Faith! I have no idea," replied Michel. "We have had enough discussion over a thoughtless word; I had no purpose of offending you. If your displeasure continues, do not look about for pretexts to begin a quarrel, for I have no intention of avoiding it."
"Are not you the one who seeks to quarrel with me?" rejoined the stranger, with a glance more threatening than the first.
"On my word, signor, you are mad," said Michel, with a shrug.
"You are right," retorted the unknown, "for I stand here listening to the idle talk of a fool."
The words had no sooner passed his lips than Michel rushed at him with a sudden determination to strike him. But, fearing lest he might strike a woman, for the stranger's sex still seemed to him very doubtful, he paused; and he congratulated himself when he saw that problematical personage turn upon his heel and vanish so quickly that Michel could not determine in what direction he had gone, and concluded that he had been dreaming again.
"Surely I am beset by phantoms to-night," he said to himself. But as soon as he found himself in presence of real mortals, he recovered the notion of reality. He was asked for his card of admission. He gave his name.
"Ah! Michel," said the door-keeper, "I did not know you. How fine you are! You look like an invited guest. Go in, my boy, and pay close attention to the lights. The pretty stuff that you have hung over our heads would take fire so quickly! It seems that you are coming in for a deal of praise. Everybody says that the figures are done by a master hand."
Michel was offended at being addressed thus familiarly by a servant, offended at being assigned to the duties of fireman, and secretly delighted nevertheless at having obtained a triumph which was already the talk of the antechamber.
He glided into the crowd, hoping to pass through unnoticed and to reach some secluded corner where he could see and hear at his ease; but there were so many people in the great ball-room that they brushed against one another and trod on one another's feet. He was carried to the other end of the vast structure before he realized the impetus that the compact mass had imparted to him; and thus he arrived at the foot of the great staircase. Not until then was he able to stop, gasping for breath, and open his eyes, nostrils, ears, and mind, to the enchanting spectacle of the fête.
Being somewhat above the flower-bedecked benches, he could see at a glance both the dances in progress about the fountains, and the spectators who jostled and squeezed one another to watch the dances. The noise and glare and commotion were well adapted to dazzle and bewilder a more mature brain than Michel's. What an array of lovely women, marvellous jewels, white shoulders and resplendent head-dresses! What majestic or alluring charms! What merriment, feigned or genuine! What airs of languor, counterfeited or ill dissembled!
Michel was intoxicated for an instant; but when his eyes began to see more clearly and to separate the countless details of the scene,—when he asked himself which of all those women would be, in his mind, an ideal model,—he looked up at the ideal figures he had painted in the ceiling, and was better satisfied, vain-glorious youth, with his own work than with God's.
He had dreamed of perfect beauty. He believed that he had found it in the creations of his brush. He was probably mistaken; for it is impossible to create a divine image without giving it human features, and nothing on earth is blessed with absolute perfection. However that may have been, Michel, still faltering and awkward in his art in several respects, had approached as nearly as possible to perfect beauty in his types. That was what impressed all those who examined his work; above all, that was what impressed him when he sought among real persons the personification of his ideas. Among the whole number he saw only two or three women who seemed truly beautiful, and even those two or three he would have liked to hold against his canvas, in order to take away from one or give to another a certain outline or a certain coloring, wherein they seemed to him to lack fullness or purity.
He was perfectly cool,—cool as an artist analyzing a figure,—and he realized that the human countenance made up for its shortcomings in the way of perfection of feature solely by the expression of life.
"I have drawn more beautiful faces," he said to himself, "but they are not true. They do not think, they do not breathe, they do not love. It would be better that they should be less beautiful and more animate. When I roll up these canvases to-morrow, I will destroy them all, and then I will change them, and, it may be, overturn all the ideas which have guided me hitherto."
And he abandoned the quest for ideal perfection of form among the living dancers whom he was studying, to watch their movements, their grace, the attitudes of the body, the expression of the glance and smile; in a word, the secret of life.
Enchanted at first, he felt that he grew cold once more as he analyzed each being by itself. In all probability there are many ingenuous souls among women and among men; but there are very few ingenuous faces to be found at a ball in fashionable society. People there assume expressions which are almost always at variance with their characters, whether they are seeking to attract or to shun attention. Michel fancied that he could see that some were hypocritically concealing their vanity, while others arrogantly flaunted it; that this girl, who desired to seem amorous, was cold and blasé; that the gayety of that other was dismal, and the melancholy of a third a pretence. A parvenu strove to assume the air of a man of noble birth; a noble strove to adopt the bearing of a man of the people. Everybody posed more or less. The most humble tried to seem self-possessed, and even touching timidity struggled to avoid the awkwardness which triumphed over its efforts.
Michel saw several young mechanics of his acquaintance pass. They were performing the duties which they had undertaken, and they attracted attention by their manly appearance and by a touch of picturesqueness in their holiday attire. The majordomo had evidently selected them from among the mostpresentable, and they were well aware of it; for they, too, posed artlessly: one put forward each shoulder in turn to display its enormous breadth; another made the most of every inch of his great stature as he passed many a diminutive great personage; a third elevated the arch of his eyebrows to show the fair dames an eye as bright as a carbuncle.
Michel was surprised to see those honest fellows transform themselves so, and sacrifice the advantages of their natural dignity or their attractive exterior by an affectation, perhaps involuntary, but certainly ridiculous.—"I knew," he thought, "that all men eagerly sought approbation, to whatever class or profession they might belong. But why does this craving to attract attention suddenly deprive us of the charm or the dignity of our manners? Can it be that the desire is over-eager, or that the object is contemptible? Must beauty necessarily be unconscious of itself in order to lose nothing of its splendor? Or am I alone endowed with this intolerable clearness of vision? Where is the intense enjoyment that I expected to find here? Instead of following with interest the actions of other people, I am exerting myself to pass judgment in cold blood on everything that meets my eye, and to deprive myself of any external enjoyment!"
By dint of watching so closely and making so many comparisons, Michel had forgotten the main object of his presence at the ball. He remembered at last that he was especially desirous to study calmly a certain figure, and he was about to ascend the great staircase and wander about the interior of the palace, where all the rooms were open and lighted, When, happening to turn his head, he saw close at hand a detail of the decorations of which he had forgotten to observe the effect.
It was a rockwork grotto, which formed a recess of considerable size under the staircase. He had himself decorated with shellwork, branches of coral and picturesque plants, that cool retreat, at the farther end of which an alabaster naiad poured water from her urn into a huge shell, always brimming full of clear running water.
The taste Michel had displayed in all the details entrusted to him had induced the majordomo to allow him to arrange many things as he chose; and as this naiad had impressed him as a charming creation, he had taken pleasure in placing in her grotto the prettiest vases, the daintiest garlands and the finest rugs. He had spent a full hour surrounding the mother-of-pearl shell with a border of moss, as fine and soft as velvet, in selecting and arranging in graceful and charming disorder bunches of iris and water-lilies, and those long ribbon-like leaves which harmonize so perfectly with the undulating movement of running water.
Now the grotto was lighted by a pale light concealed behind the foliage; and as everybody was intent upon watching the dance, the entrance was unobstructed. Michel entered stealthily; but he had not taken three steps when he saw a person seated, or rather reclining, in the half-light, at the naiad's feet. He hastily concealed himself behind a jutting rock, and was about to retire; but an irresistible fascination detained him.
Princess Agatha was reclining on a divan of dark velvet, where her graceful and noble figure resembled a ghost in the moonlight. Michel could see her profile in the dim light, and the reflection of the candles behind her outlined with admirable distinctness features as delicate and pure as a young maid's. Her long full white gown assumed all the shades of the opal in that soft light, and the diamonds in her coronet shot flames of changing hue, now like the sapphire and again like the emerald. Michel lost altogether the idea that he had formed of her age when he first saw her. It seemed to him that she was a child, and when he remembered that he had believed her to be above thirty, he asked himself whether she was thus transfigured by a celestial radiance or by a gleam from hell, wherewith she was able, like a sorceress, to envelop herself in order to deceive the senses.
She seemed fatigued and depressed. But her attitude was modest and her expression serene. She was inhaling the perfume of her bouquet of cyclamen and playing idly with her fan. Michel gazed at her a long time before he heard, or, at least, attached a meaning to the words she was saying. She seemed to him lovelier than any of the beauties he had been scrutinizing so closely, and he could not understand the unmixed, boundless admiration which she aroused in him. He strove in vain to examine her features in detail and analyze her charms; he could not succeed. She seemed to be floating in a magic fluid which protected her from being studied like other women. From time to time, thinking that he understood her, he closed his eyes and tried to sketch her portrait in his memory, to draw her in imagination, in strokes of flame, on the black veil which he spread before his own eyes by lowering his lids. But he saw naught but confused lines, and could not conjure up any distinct face. He was compelled to reopen his eyes in haste and gaze at her with anxiety, with intense delight, and above all, with surprise.
For there was a something indescribable about her. She was perfectly natural; of all the women Michel had seen, she alone seemed to have no thought of herself; she had assumed no studied air or manner; she did not know, or did not choose to know, what people thought of her, what they felt as they looked at her; she had the tranquillity of a mind disassociated from all human things, and the entire freedom from constraint that she might have had in absolute solitude.
And yet she was arrayed like a genuine princess; she was giving a ball, she displayed her magnificence, she played her rôle of a great lady and of a woman of the world, like any other, to all appearance. Why then that madonna-like air, that inward meditation, or that rapt contemplation of a soul above human vanities?
She was a living enigma to the young artist's restless imagination. Something still more strange perplexed him beyond measure; and that was that it seemed to him that he had not seen her that day for the first time.
Where could he have seen her before? In vain did he rack his memory. When he arrived at Catania her very name was strange to him. A person of such exalted rank, and so remarkable by reason of her wealth, her beauty, and her reputation for virtue, could not have come to Romeincognito. Michel cudgelled his brain. He could recall no occasion when he could have seen her; especially as when he looked at her, he had a feeling, not that he had known her slightly, but that he had known her intimately and for a long time, ever since he was born.
When he had exhausted his memory, he said to himself that there must be some abstract reason for that sensation. It must be due to the fact that she was the ideal type of beauty of which he had always dreamed, but which he had never been able to grasp and produce. That was a poetic commonplace. He was fain to be content with it for lack of a better.
But the princess was not alone, for she was talking; and Michel soon discovered that she was tête-à-tête with a man. That was certainly a reason to impel him to withdraw, but it was difficult to do so. To preserve the mysterious obscurity of the grotto and exclude the brilliant light of the ball-room, the entrance had been masked by a heavy blue velvet curtain, which our inquisitive hero, by the merest chance, had drawn aside a little way when he entered, without attracting the attention of the two persons who were talking there. The entrance to the grotto being only half as wide as the grotto itself, formed a frame, not of artificial rocks, as would have been the case with us, in our imitations ofrococo, but of genuine blocks of lava, vitrified, and of divers shades of color, curious and valuable specimens collected long before in the very crater of the volcano to be set like jewels in the masonry. This beautiful door-frame protruded far enough into the grotto to conceal Michel, who was able to see because of its uneven surface. But, in order to go out, he must raise the curtain again, and he could hardly hope that both the princess and her companion would be sufficiently engrossed not to notice him.
Michel thought of all this too late to avert the consequences of his imprudence. It was too late for him to go out naturally, as he had entered. Moreover he was nailed to his place by the most intense curiosity and anxiety. Doubtless that man was the princess's lover.
He was a man of about thirty-five years, tall, and with a grave, sweet face, wonderfully handsome and regular. In his manner, as he sat facing Agatha at a distance, which indicated something betwixt respect and intimacy, there was nothing to criticise; but when Michel had recovered his presence of mind sufficiently to listen to the words that fell upon his ears, he fancied that he could detect an indication of mutual affection in this observation of the princess:
"Thank heaven it has not yet occurred to anyone to raise the curtain and discover this delightful retreat; although I might naturally take some pride in bringing my guests here,—for it is beautifully decorated to-night,—I would like to pass the night here all alone, or with you, marquis, while the fête and the dancing and the tumult run their course behind the curtain."
The marquis replied, in a tone which did not indicate a presumptuous man:
"You should have had the grotto closed altogether by a door to which you alone had a key, and have transformed it into a private salon, whither you could come from time to time to obtain some repose from the heat, the glare and the compliments. You are not accustomed to society now, and you were over-confident of your strength. You will be terribly tired to-morrow."
"I am already; but it was not the crowd and the noise that broke me down so in an instant."
"I understand that, my dear friend," said the marquis, pressing Agatha's hand fraternally in his. "Try to think of something else, at least for a few hours, so that your preoccupation may not be manifest; for you cannot escape people's eyes, and, outside of this grotto, you have not left yourself a single corner of your whole palace where you can take refuge without running the gauntlet of obsequious salutations, inquisitive glances—"
"And trite remarks with which I am already sated," added the princess, struggling to smile. "How can anyone be fond of society, marquis? Can you understand it?"
"I can understand it in the case of people who are satisfied with themselves, and who think that it is always an advantage to exhibit themselves."
"To my mind, the ball is delightful thus, at a distance, when we cannot see it or be seen. There is something piquant—almost poetic—in the buzzing, this distant music that we hear, and in the idea that people are being amused or bored outside, and that we are not compelled to take any part in it."
"But it is reported to-day that you are about to become reconciled to society, and that this magnificent fête, which you are giving for love of good works, will incline you to give or to see others. In short, they say that you are going to change all your habits and reappear in the world, like a star too long eclipsed."
"And why do people say such an extraordinary thing?"
"Ah! in order to answer that question, I should have to constitute myself the echo of all the laudations to which you refused to listen; and I am not in the habit of telling you even the truth when it bears a resemblance to insipid compliments."
"I do you that justice, and I authorize you to-night to repeat all that you have heard."
"Very well! People say that you are still lovelier than all those women who take pains to appear lovely; that you outshine the most brilliant and most admired women by a certain charm peculiar to yourself, and by an air of noble simplicity which wins all hearts. They are beginning anew to be surprised that you live in solitude, and—must I tell everything?"
"Yes, absolutely everything."
"They say—I heard it with my own ears as I brushed against people who had no idea that I was so near: 'What strange whim prevents her marrying the Marquis della Serra?'"
"Go on, go on, marquis; say on; have no fear. They say, doubtless, that I am the more ill-advised in that you are my lover?"
"No, signora, they do not say that," replied the marquis, in a chivalrous tone; "and they will not say it, so long as I have a tongue to deny it, and an arm to avenge your honor."
"Dear and generous friend!" exclaimed the princess, offering him her hand; "you take that too seriously. I will wager that everybody believes and says that we love each other."
"They may believe and say that I love you, for that is the truth; and the truth always comes out sooner or later. That is why people know also that you do not love me."
"Noble heart! But, now less than ever—— To-morrow I will talk to you more freely on this subject than I have ever done. I will tell you everything. This is neither a fitting time nor place. I must return to the ball, where it is probable that my long absence causes surprise."
"Are you sufficiently rested and calm?"
"Yes; now I can resume my mask of impassibility."
"Ah! it costs you little to assume it, terrible woman!" cried the marquis, rising and pressing convulsively to his breast the arm that she had passed through his. "You are as invulnerable in the depths of your heart as you are on the surface."