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Orsetti and Malatesta suddenly find that their cigars want relighting, and turn aside. Orazio seats himself at a distance, and scowls at Prince Ruspoli. Nobili gives a quick glance round. An instant tells him that something is wrong. Prince Ruspoli breaks the awkward silence. He walks up, looks at Nobili with immovable gravity, then slaps him on the shoulder. "I congratulate you, Nobili.
"Oh! dancing, of course," returned Orsetti. "Don't you see him twirling round like a teetotum, with Marchesa Amici 'of the swan-neck?" And he pointed to a pair who were waltzing with such precision that they never by a single step broke the circle Baldassare gallantly receiving the charge of any free lancers who flung themselves in their path.
"Give me time! give me time!" was Franchi's answer. He raised his head, and eyed them all with a look of feigned surprise. "Is it possible no one has heard it?" He was answered by a general protest that nothing had been heard. "Nobody knows what has happened at the Universo?" Franchi asked with unusual energy. "No, no!" burst forth from Malatesta and Orsetti. "No, no!" sounded from behind.
He bowed again, then walked on into the dancing-rooms beyond. Nobili had come late. "Why should he go at all?" he had asked himself, sighing, as he sat at home, smoking a solitary cigar. "What was the Orsetti ball, or any other ball, to him, when Enrica was not there?" Nevertheless, he did dress, and he did go, telling himself, however, that he was simply fulfilling a social duty by so doing.
To emancipate Enrica from her miserable life by an honorable marriage, was, to his benevolent heart, infinite happiness! "Good-night, marchesa. May you repose well!" "Good-night, Cesarino a rivederci!" So they parted. The ball at Casa Orsetti was much canvassed in Lucca. Hospitality is by no means a cardinal virtue in Italy.
Yours is the domestic style, chaste and frigid!" cried Malatesta, with a sardonic smile. There was a laugh. Malatesta was so bad, even according to the code of the "golden youths," that he compromised any lady by his attentions. Orsetti blushed crimson. "Pardon me," he replied, much confused, "I must go; my partner is looking daggers at me. Call up old Trenta and tell him what he has to do."
Who's to lead?" "Oh! Baldassare, of course," replied Franchi, a sallow, languid young man, who looked as if he had been raised in a hot-house, and had lost all his color. "Nobody else would take the trouble. Who is he to dance with?" "Let him see who will have him. I shall not interfere. He'll dance for both, anyhow," answered Orsetti, laughing. "No one competes with Adonis." "Where is he?"
The Marchesa Boccarini had already arrived, accompanied by her three daughters. They are seated near the door leading from the first saloon, where Countess Orsetti is stationed. In front of them is a group of flowering plants and palm-trees. Madame Boccarini peers through the leaves, glass in eye.
The savage look Ruspoli had cast on him, when he led her up to him in one of the figures of the cotillon; how Malatesta had grinned at him how Orsetti had whispered "Bravo!" in his ear. Might not some rumor of all this reach Enrica? through Trenta, perhaps, or that chattering fool, Baldassare? If they spoke of the accident, they would surely connect his name with that of Nera.
"More news!" cried Malatesta. "Gracious heavens! Wave after wave it comes! a mighty sea. I hear the distant roar it dashes high! It breaks! Speak, oh, speak, Adonis!" "The Marchesa Guinigi has left Lucca suddenly." "Who cares? Do you, Pietrino?" asked Franchi of Orsetti, with a contemptuous glance at Baldassare. "Let him speak," cried Malatesta; "Baldassare is an oracle."
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