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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 Nobili starts up; he brushes away the tears that still roll down his cheeks.
"You must be calm," she said, hastily, "or my mother will hear you." Yes. Will any one believe the marchesa would have given her niece to you otherwise?" Nobili was pale and silent now. Nera's words had called up long trains of thought, opening out into horrible vistas. There was a dreadful logic about all she said that brought instant conviction with it.
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.
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! Nobili is sobered now from the passion of that moment. The glamour has departed with the light of Nera's eyes.
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.
"O Nera!" one of her sisters exclaimed, reproachfully. These innocent sisters never could accommodate themselves to Nera's caustic tongue. Nera gave her sister a look. She rose at once; then the other sister rose also. They both slipped out of the room. "Now," thought the marchesa, "I must go, too."
I offer you a broken heart; have pity on me! Say, can you love me, Nera? Only a little. Speak! tell me!" Nobili was on his knees before her; every feature of his bright young face formed into an agony of entreaty. There was a flash of triumph in Nera's black eyes as she bent them on Nobili, that chilled him to the soul. Kneeling before her, he feels it. He doubts her love, doubts all.
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.
It was plain his mind was running upon some unspoken thought. "Yes," Nera said. "Spite of your absence, however you make yourself remembered. You give us so much to talk of! Such a succession of surprises!" One by one Nera's phrases dropped out, suggesting so much behind. Nobili, greatly excited, felt he must speak or flee.
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 Nobili retires behind Nera's chair, to wait the moment when he shall claim her himself.
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