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Updated: May 7, 2025
Do observe, she has been sitting just half an hour flirting with that odd-looking adventurer, a Signor Cesarini, merely because he writes sonnets and wears a dress like a stage-player!" "It is the weakness of the sex, my dear lord," said Lumley; "they like to patronise, and they dote upon all oddities, from China monsters to cracked poets.
Oh that I belonged to a /living/ country, France, England, Germany, Arnerica, and not to the corruption of a dead giantess for such is now the land of the ancient lyre." "Let us meet again, and soon," said Maltravers, holding out his hand. Cesarini hesitated a moment, and then accepted and returned the proffered salutation.
"You may," said Cesarini, gloomily. "Farewell, then," said Lumley, as he mounted; and in a few moments he was out of sight. "O world, thou wast the forest to this hart, Dost thou here lie?" /Julius Caesar/.
Yet, when Cesarini, stung beyond endurance by the horrors of his remorse, wrote and confessed all his own share of the fatal treason, though, faithful to his promise, he concealed that of his accomplice, then, ah then, she did indeed repine at her doom, and long to look once more with the eyes of love and joy upon the face of the beautiful world.
"This poor Cesarini may warn me against myself!" thought he. "Better hew wood and draw water than attach ourselves devotedly to an art in which we have not the capacity to excel. . . . It is to throw away the healthful objects of life for a diseased dream, worse than the Rosicrucians, it is to make a sacrifice of all human beauty for the smile of a sylphid that never visits us but in visions."
"And what Prince or Potentate, King or Kaiser," cried Cesarini, catching the quick contagion of the fit that had seized his comrade, "can dictate to the monarch of Earth and Air, the Elements and the music-breathing Stars? I am Cesarini the Bard! and the huntsman Orion halts in his chase above to listen to my lyre!
"Oh," ejaculated Ferrers, thinking it very likely that the gorgeous Florence, hymned by a thousand bards, had done little more than cast a glance over the lines that had cost poor Cesarini such anxious toil, and inspired him with such daring hope. "Oh! and to-night she was more severe she is a terrible coquette, /la belle Florence/! But perhaps you have a rival." "I feel it I saw it I know it."
Cesarini had listened to this speech with a mocking sarcasm on his lip, but an expression of such hopeless wretchedness in his eyes, as they alone can comprehend who have witnessed madness in its lucid intervals. He sank down, and his head drooped gloomily on his breast. "No," said he; "I want nothing but free air or death, no matter which."
But the next moment she recalled the warning of Maltravers, and felt as if her punishment had commenced. "You will think and speak more calmly, sir, when we meet again," and so saying, she swept away. Cesarini remained rooted to the spot, with his dark countenance expressing such passions as are rarely seen in the aspects of civilised men.
Arrived at a place where, even in the citadel of Christianity, Venus retained her ancient empire, where Love made the prime business of life, and to be beautiful was to be of power; the Signora Cesarini had scarcely appeared in public before she saw at her feet half the rank and gallantry of Avignon.
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