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Updated: June 25, 2025
What does this mean?" "Nothing," said Orsetti, trying to smile, but not succeeding. "I hear, Nobili, you have behaved with extraordinary generosity," he adds, fencing the question. "Yes, by Jove!" adds Prince Ruspoli. Ruspoli was leaning up against a pillar, watching Orazio as he would a mischievous cur. "A most suitable marriage. Not that I care a button for blood, except in horses."
"The festival of the Holy Countenance and the cotillon!" cried the marchesa, with great indignation. "Tell me nothing about the Orsetti ball. I won't listen to it. Good Heavens!" she continued, reddening, "I am thirty years younger than you are, but I left off dancing fifteen years ago. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cesarino!" Cesarino only smiled at her benignantly in reply.
Like the magic rose that was the guerdon of the Troubadours, you have passed in an hour from leaf to bud, from bud to fairest flower. You were, of course, at the Orsetti ball last night?" He asked this question, trying to rouse himself. "What ball in Lucca would be complete without you?"
I would fast for a week to ride once in such a carriage. Oh! I would give any thing to splash the mud in people's faces. She's a fine woman the Orsetti. Observe her light hair. Madonna mia! What a train of silk! Twelve shillings a yard not a penny less. She's got a cavaliere still. He! he! a cavaliere!" Carlotta grins, and winks her wicked old eyes. "She wants to marry her son to Teresa Ottolini.
I wish Nobili joy of his bargain," he added, turning to Malatesta. "I wonder that he cares to take up with Marescotti's leavings." "Here's Ruspoli, crossing the square. Perhaps he can throw some light on this strange story," said Orsetti. Prince Ruspoli, still at Lucca, is on a visit to some relatives.
It was not the first time she had found it to her advantage to accept Trenta's hints. Trenta was a man of the world, and he had his eyes open. What he meant, however, she could not even guess. Meanwhile the count had drawn a chair beside Enrica. "Yes, yes, the Orsetti ball," he said, absently, passing his hand through the masses of black curls that rested upon his forehead.
Count Orsetti had left his mother's side and joined them. The cotillon is a matter of grave consideration the very gravest. Indeed it was very seldom these young heads considered any thing so grave. On the success of the cotillon depends the success of the evening. All the "presents" had come from Paris. Some of the figures were new and required consultation.
How beautiful she is, the Ottolini, with those white flowers twisted into the braids of her chestnut hair! those large, lazy eyes, too like sleeping volcanoes! Count Orsetti thinks her beautiful, clearly; for, under the full battery of his mother's glances, he advances to meet her, blushing like a girl.
At Compiegne, where the home of the Orsetti family was sacked, silver plate, jewellery and articles of value were collected in the courtyard of the chateau, then classified, registered, packed and "put into two carts, upon which they took care to place the Red Cross flag."
Here in Lucca, where she met most of her guests every day, these compliments and phrases were not only excessive, but wearisome and out of place. Yet such is the custom of the country, and to such fulsome flattery do the language and common usage lend themselves. Countess Orsetti, therefore, is not responsible for this absurdity. Her son is beside her.
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