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Updated: June 3, 2025
Four rows of windows divide the front. The lower ones, barred with iron, are dismal to the eye. Over the principal entrance are the Boccarini arms, carved on a stone escutcheon, supported by two angels, the whole so moss-eaten the details cannot be traced. Above is a marquis's coronet in which a swallow has built its nest. Both in and out it is a house where poverty has set its seal.
"Does the lady does Nera Boccarini know this?" he asked, and as he asked his color heightened. "Well, I cannot tell you, but I presume she does. Count Orsetti will have told her. The cotillon was settled early. You have no objection to dance with her, I presume?" "None none in the world. "Only only I might not have selected her." The cavaliere looked up at him with evident surprise.
"They did," was the answer; and the servant held the lamp aloft to light Nobili into the anteroom. This anteroom was as naked as a barrack. The walls were painted in a Raphaelesque pattern, the coronet and arms of the Boccarini in the centre. Count Nobili and the servant passed through many lofty rooms of faded splendor.
As a general scans the advance of the enemy's troops from behind an ambush, calculates what their probable movements will be, and how he can foil them either by open attack or feigned retreat, skirmish or manoeuvre so Madame Boccarini scans the various arrivals between the dark-green foliage.
The sun strikes upon his fresh-complexioned face and lights up his fair hair and restless eyes. It is clear to see no care has yet troubled that curly head of his. Nobili is closely followed by a lady of mature age, dark, thin, and sharp-featured. She has a glass in her eye, with which she peers at every thing and everybody. This is the Marchesa Boccarini.
"I beg pardon, count," answered the urbane Trenta, remembering Nobili's liberal politics "I mean no society. Society, as a system, has ceased to exist in Italy. But we must think of the cotillon. It is now twelve o'clock. There will be supper. Then we must soon begin. You, count, are to dance with Nera Boccarini. You came so late we were obliged to arrange it for you." Nobili colored crimson.
He took up his hunting-whip and whirled it in the air dangerously near Orazio's head, eying him all the while as a dog eyes a rat he means to crunch between his teeth. "Whoever says that Count Nobili will marry the Boccarini, is a liar!" Prince Ruspoli spoke with perfect composure, still whirling his whip. "I shall be happy to explain my reason anywhere, out of the city, on the shortest notice."
He is ashamed of himself; but there is a swelling at his heart, nevertheless an impulse of infinite compassion 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.
Nobili, his cheeks still tingling, felt that the moment had come when he must seek his partner. It would be difficult to define the contending feelings that made him reluctant to do so. Nera Boccarini had taken no pains to conceal how much she liked him. This was flattering; perhaps he felt it was too flattering.
"Now go, and find your partner," said Trenta, not heeding this little speech. "I am about to have the chairs arranged. Go and find your partner." "Now what could make Nobili object to dance with Nera Boccarini?" Trenta asked himself, when Nobili was gone, striking his stick loudly on the floor, as a sign for the music to cease. There was an instant silence.
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