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Updated: May 12, 2025
Presently the little girl, becoming aware of my attention, glanced up at me, wondering, with a pair of timid brown eyes. "Are you carrying your basket to the Countess Salvi?" I asked. The child stared at me. "To the Countess Scarabelli." "Do you know the Countess?" "Know her?" murmured the child, with an air of small dismay. "I mean, have you seen her?" "Yes, I have seen her."
I wonder if the late Count Scarabelli was also killed in a duel, and if his adversary . . . Is it on the books that his adversary, as well, shall perish by the pistol? Which of those gentlemen is he, I wonder? Is it reserved for poor little Stanmer to put a bullet into him? No; poor little Stanmer, I trust, will do as I did. And yet, unfortunately for him, that woman is consummately plausible.
Perhaps he is looking for his Camerino. I shall leave him, at any rate, to his fate; it is growing insupportably hot. 11th. I went this evening to bid farewell to the Scarabelli. There was no one there; she was alone in her great dusky drawing-room, which was lighted only by a couple of candles, with the immense windows open over the garden. She was dressed in white; she was deucedly pretty.
At this Stanmer got up and walked to the window; he stood looking out a moment, and then he turned round. "You know she was older than I," I went on. "Madame Scarabelli is older than you. One day in the garden, her mother asked me in an angry tone why I disliked Camerino; for I had been at no pains to conceal my feeling about him, and something had just happened to bring it out.
She looked round at him, and as fortune would have it, his appearance at that moment quite confirmed my assertion. He was lounging back in his chair with an air of indolence rather too marked for a drawing-room, and staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man who has just been asked a conundrum. Madame Scarabelli seemed struck with his attitude.
My husband died after three years of marriage." I waited for her to remark that the late Count Scarabelli was also a saint in paradise, but I waited in vain. "That was like your distinguished father," I said. "Yes, he too died young. I can't be said to have known him; I was but of the age of my own little girl. But I weep for him all the more." Again I was silent for a moment.
I saw that my question had attracted the attention of the young Englishman, who looked at me with a good deal of earnestness. He was apparently satisfied with what he saw, for he presently decided to speak. "The Count Scarabelli is dead," he said, very gravely. I looked at him a moment; he was a pleasing young fellow. "And his widow lives," I observed, "in Via Ghibellina?"
"The Countess Scarabelli," said my friend, "brought it to her husband as her marriage-portion." "I hope he appreciated it! There is a fountain in the court, and there is a charming old garden beyond it. The Countess's sitting-room looks into that garden. The staircase is of white marble, and there is a medallion by Luca della Robbia set into the wall at the place where it makes a bend.
I profess an admiration for the Countess Scarabelli, for I accept her hospitality, and at the same time I attempt to poison your mind; isn't that the proper expression? I can't exactly make up my mind to that, though my admiration for the Countess and my desire to prevent you from taking a foolish step are equally sincere. And then, in the second place, you seem to me, on the whole, so happy!
Nevertheless, at moments, she had a charm which made it pure pedantry to be conscious of her faults; and while these moments lasted I would have done anything for her. Unfortunately they didn't last long. But you know what I mean; am I not describing the Scarabelli?" "The Countess Scarabelli never lied!" cried Stanmer.
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