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When he turned round to look for Baldassare, Baldassare had disappeared. When Nobili rushed home through the dark streets from the Countess Orsetti's ball, he shut himself up in his own particular room, threw himself on a divan, and tried to collect his thoughts. At first he was only conscious of one overwhelming feeling a feeling of intense joy that Nera Boccarina was alive.
Yesterday was the festival of the Holy Countenance, that solemn anniversary that brings prosperity to our dear city!" And the cavaliere cast up his mild blue eyes, and crossed himself upon the breast. "I was most of the day in the cathedral. Such a service! Better music than last year. In the evening I had promised to arrange the cotillon at Countess Orsetti's ball.
Again Nobili glances round; this time there is the shadow of a frown upon his smooth brow. Orsetti feels that he must speak. "Have you known the lady long?" Orsetti asks, with an embarrassment foreign to him. "Yes, and no," answers Nobili, reddening, and scanning the veiled expression on Orsetti's face with intense curiosity.
"Compromising very," murmured Franchi, feebly, leaning back out of the range of Orsetti's arm. "The Red count was a communist, we all know," observed Malatesta. "Mon cher! he was a poet also," responded Orazio. Orazio's languor never interfered with his love of scandal. "When any lady struck his fancy, Marescotti made a sonnet a damaging practice. These sonnets are a diary of his life.
"The marchesa left Lucca suddenly," persisted Baldassare, not daring to notice Orsetti's insolence. "She took her niece with her." "Have it cried about the streets," interrupted Orazio, opening his eyes. "Yesterday morning an express came down for Cavaliere Trenta. The ancient tower of Corellia has been entirely burnt. The marchesa was rescued."
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