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For the time, indeed, the ecstasy of this delusion is boundless. Who has not, at some one moment or other of his life, experienced the entrancing delight of thinking that the world is full of his friends and admirers, that good wishes follow him as he goes, and kind welcomes await his coming? Much of our character for good or evil, of our subsequent utility in life, or our utter helplessness, will depend upon how we stand the season of trial. Kate Daiton possessed much to encourage this credulity; she was not only eminently handsome, but she had that species of fascination in her air which a clever French writer defines as the feminine essence, “plus femme que les autres femmes.” If a very critical eye might have detected in her manner and address certain little awkwardnesses, a less exacting judgment would have probably been struck with them as attractions, recalling the fact of her youth, her simplicity, and the freshness of her nature. Above all other charms, however, was the radiant happiness that beamed out in every word and look and gesture; such a thorough sense of enjoyment, so intense a pleasure in life, is among the very rarest of all gifts.

There was enough of singularity, of the adventurous, in the nature of her position, to excel all the romance of her nature; there was more than enough of real splendor around her to give an air of fact and truth to the highest flights of her imagination. Had she been the sole daughter of the house and name, flatteries and caresses could not have been lavished on her more profusely; her will consulted, her wishes inquired, her taste evoked on every occasion. And yet, with all these seductions about her, she was not yet spoiled not yet! Home and its dear associations were ever present to her mind; her humble fortune, and that simple life she used to lead, enforcing lessons of humility not yet distasteful. She could still recur to the memory of the little window that looked over the “Murg,” and think the scenery beautiful. Her dear, dear papa was still all she had ever thought him. Nelly was yet the sweet-tempered, gentle, gifted creature she worshipped as a sister; even Hanserl was the kind, quaint emblem of his own dreamy “Vaterland.” As yet no conflict had arisen between the past and the present, between the remembrance of narrow fortune and all its crippling exigencies, and the enjoyment of wealth that seems to expand the generous feelings of the heart. The lustre of her present existence threw, as yet, no sickly light over the bygone; would it might have been always so!

CHAPTER XXIII. A SMALL SUPPER PARTY

THE great ball at the Mazzarini Palace “came off” just as other great balls have done, and will continue to do, doubtless, for ages hence. There was the usual, perhaps a little more than the usual, splendor of dress and diamonds; the same glare and crash and glitter and crowd and heat; the same buoyant light-heartedness among the young; the same corroding ennui of the old; taste in dress was criticised, looks were scanned, flirtations detected, quarrels discovered, fans were mislaid, hearts were lost, flounces were torn, and feelings hurt. There was the ordinary measure of what people call enjoyment, mixed up with the ordinary proportion of envy, shyness, pretension, sarcasm, coldness, and malice. It was a grand tournament of human passions in white satin and jewels; and if the wounds exchanged were not as rudely administered, they were to the full as dangerous as in the real lists of combat. Yet, in this mortal conflict, all seemed happy. There was an air of voluptuous abandonment over everything; and whatever cares they might have carried within, as far as appearance went, the world went well and pleasantly with them. The ball was, however, a splendid one; there was everything that could make it such. The salons were magnificent in decoration; the lighting a perfect blaze. There was beauty in abundance, diamonds in masses, and a Royal Highness from the Court, an insignificant little man, it is true, with a star and a stutter, who stared at every one, and spoke to nobody. Still he was the centre of a glittering group of handsome aides-de-camp, who displayed their fascinations in every gesture and look.

Apart from the great flood-tide of pleasure, down which so many float buoyantly, there is ever on these occasions a deeper current that flows beneath, of human wile and cunning and strategy, just as, in many a German fairy tale, some curious and recondite philosophy lies hid beneath the little incidents related to amuse childhood. It would lead us too far from the path of our story were we to seek for this “tiny thread amid the woof;” enough for our present purpose if we slightly advert to it, by asking our reader to accompany us to the small chamber which called Albert Jekyl master, and where now, at midnight, a little table of three covers was laid for supper. Three flasks of champagne stood in a little ice-pail in one corner, and on a dumbwaiter was arranged a dessert, which, for the season, displayed every charm of rarity. A large bouquet of moss-roses and camellias ornamented the centre of the board, and shed a pleasant odor through the room. The servant, whose dress and look bespoke him a waiter from a restaurant in the neighborhood, had just completed all the arrangements of the table, placing chairs around it, and heaped fresh wood upon the hearth, when a carriage drew up at the door. The merry sound of voices and the step of feet were heard on the stairs, and the next moment a lady entered, whose dress of black lace, adorned with bouquets of blue flowers, admirably set off a figure and complexion of Spanish mould and character. To this, a black lace veil fastened to the hair behind, and worn across the shoulders, contributed. There was a lightness and intrepidity in her step, as she entered the room, that suited the dark, flashing, steady glance of her full black eyes. It would have, indeed, been difficult to trace in that almost insolent air of conscious beauty the calm, subdued, and almost sorrow-struck girl whom we have seen as Nina in a former chapter; but, however dissimilar in appearance, they were the same one individual; and the humble femme de chambre of Kate Dalton was the celebrated ballet-dancer of the great theatre of Barcelona.

The figure which followed was a strange contrast to that light and elegant form. He was an old, short man, of excessive corpulence in body, and whose face was bloated and purple by intemperance. He was dressed in the habit of a priest, and was in reality a canon of the Dome Cathedral. His unwieldy gait, his short and labored respiration, increased almost to suffocation by the ascent of the stairs and his cumbrous dress, seemed doubly absurd beside the flippant lightness of the “Ballarina.” Jekyl came last, mimicking the old canon behind his back, and putting the waiter’s gravity to a severe test by the bloated expansion of his cheek and the fin-like motion of his hands as he went.

“Ecco me!” cried he out, with a deep grunt, as he sank into a chair and wiped the big drops from his forehead with the skirt of his gown.

“You tripped up the stairs like a gazelle, padre,” said the girl, as she arranged her hair before the glass, and disposed the folds of her veil with all the tact of coquetry.

A thick snort, like the ejaculation a hippopotamus might have uttered, was the only reply, and Jekyl, having given a glance over the table to see all was in order, made a sign for Nina to be seated.

“Accursed be the stairs and he that made them!” muttered the padre. “I feel as if my limbs had been torn on the rack. I have been three times up the steps of the high altar already to-day, and am tired as a dog.”

“Here is your favorite soup, padre,” said Jekyl, as he moved the ladle through a smoking compound, whence a rich odor of tomato and garlic ascended. “This will make you young again.”

“And who said I would wish to be young again?” cried the priest, angrily. “I have experience of what youth means every day in the confessional, and I promise you age has the best of it.”

“Such a ripe and ruddy age as yours, padre!” said the girl, with affected simplicity.

“Just so, minx,” rejoined he; “such ripeness as portends falling from the tree! Better even that than to be worm-eaten on the stalk; ay, or a wasp’s nest within, girl, you understand me.”

“You will never be good friends for half an hour together,” said Jekyl, as he filled their glasses with champagne, and then touching his own to each, drank off a bumper.

“These are from Savoy, these truffles, and have no flavor,” said the padre, pushing away his plate. “Let me taste that lobster, for this is a half-fast to-day.”

“They are like the priests,” said Nina, laughing; “all black without and rotten within!”

“The ball went off admirably last night,” interposed Jekyl, to stop what he foresaw might prove a sharp altercation.

“Yes,” said Nina, languidly. “The dresses were fresher than the wearers. It was the first time for much of the satin, the same could not be said for many of the company.”

“The Balderoni looked well,” said Jekyl.

“Too fat, caro mio, too fat!” replied Nina.

“And she has eight penances in the week,” grunted out the canon.

“There ‘s nothing like wickedness for embonpoint, padre,” said Nina, laughing.

“Angels always are represented as chubby girls,” said the priest, whose temper seemed to improve as he ate on.

“Midchekoff, I thought, was out of temper all the evening,” resumed Jekyl; “he went about with his glass in his eye, seeking for flaws in the lapis lazuli, or retouches in the pictures; and seemed terribly provoked at the goodness of the supper.”

“I forgive him all, for not dancing with ‘my Lady,’” said Nina. “She kept herself disengaged for the prince for half the night, and the only reward was his Russian compliment of, ‘What a bore is a ball when one is past the age of dancing!’”

“Did the Noncio eat much?” asked the padre, who seemed at once curious and envious about the dignitary.

“He played whist all night,” said Jekyl, “and never changed his partner!”

“The old Marchesa Guidotti?”

“The same. You know of that, then, padre?” asked Jekyl.

A grunt and a nod were all the response.

“What a curious chapter on ‘La vie privee’ of Florence your revelations might be, padre!” said Jekyl, as if reflectingly. “What a deal of iniquity, great and small, comes to your ears every season!”

“What a vast amount of it has its origin in that little scheming brain of thine, Signor Jekyli, and in the fertile wits of your fair neighbor. The unhappy marriages thou hast made; the promising unions thou hast broken; the doubts thou hast scattered here, the dark suspicions there; the rightful distrust thou hast lulled, the false confidences encouraged, youth, youth, thou hast a terrible score to answer for!”

“When I think of the long catalogue of villany you have been listening to, padre, not only without an effort, but a wish to check; when every sin recorded has figured in your ledger, with its little price annexed; when you have looked out upon the stormy sea of society, as a wrecker ranges his eye over an iron-bound coast in a gale, and thinks of the ‘waifs’ that soon will be his own; when, as I have myself seen you, you have looked indulgently down on petty transgressions, that must one day become big sins, and, like a skilful angler, throw the little fish back into the stream, in the confidence that when full-grown you can take them, when you have done all these things and a thousand more, padre, I cannot help muttering to myself, Age, age, what a terrible score thou hast to answer for!”

“I must say,” interposed Nina, “you are both very bad company, and that nothing can be in worse taste than this interchange of compliments. You are both right to amuse yourselves in this world as your faculties best point out, but each radically wrong in attributing motives to the other. What, in all that is wonderful, have we to do with motives? I’m sure I have no grudges to cherish, no debts of dislike to pay off, anywhere. Any diablerie I take part in, is for pure mischief sake. I do think it rather a hard case, that, with somewhat better features, and I know a far shrewder wit than many others, I should perform second and third rate parts in this great comedy of life, while many without higher qualifications are ‘cast for the best characters.’ This little score I do try and exact, not from individuals, but the world at large. Mischief with me is the child’s pleasure in deranging the chessmen when the players are most intent on the game.”

“Now, as to these Onslows, for we must be practical, padre mio,” said Jekyl, “let us see what is to be done with them. As regards matrimony, the real prize has left for England, this Dalton girl may or may not be a ‘hit;’ some aver that she is heiress to a large estate, of which the Onslows have obtained possession, and that they destine her for the young Guardsman. This must be inquired into. My Lady has ‘excellent dispositions,’ and may have become anything or everything.”

“Let her come to ‘the Church,’ then,” growled out the canon.

“Gently, padre, gently,” said Jekyl, “you are really too covetous, and would drag the river always from your own net. We have been generous, hugely generous, to you for the last three seasons, and have made all your converts the pets of society, no matter how small and insignificant their pretensions. The vulgar have been adopted in the best circles, the ugly dubbed beautiful, the most tiresome of old maids have been reissued from the mint as new coinage. We have petted, flattered, and fawned upon those ‘interesting Christians,’ as the ‘Tablet’ would call them, till the girls began to feel that there were no partners for a polka outside the Church of Rome, and that all the ‘indulgences’ of pleasure, like those of religion, came from the Pope. We cannot give you the Onslows, or, at least, not yet. We have yet to marry the daughter, provide for the friend, squeeze the sou.”

“Profligate young villain! Reach me the champagne, Nina; and, Nina, tell your young mistress that it is scarcely respectful to come on foot to the mid-day mass; that the clergy of the town like to see the equipages of the rich before the doors of the cathedral, as a suitable homage to the Church. The Onslows have carriages in abundance, and their liveries are gorgeous and splendid!”

“It was her own choice,” said Nina; “she is a singular girl for one that never before knew luxury of any kind.”

“I hate these simple tastes,” growled out the padre; “they bespeak that obstinacy which people call a ‘calm temperament.’ Her own dress, too, has no indication of her rank, Nina.”

“That shall be cared for, padre.”

“Why shouldn’t that young soldier come along with her? Tell him that our choir is magnificent; whisper him that the beautiful Marchesa di Guardoni sits on the very bench beside Miss Dalton.”

Nina nodded an assent.

“The young girl herself is lax enough about her duties, Nina; she has not been even once to confession.”

“That comes of these English!” cried Nina; “they make our service a constant jest. There is always some vulgar quizzing about saint-worship, or relic reverence, or the secrets of the confessional, going on amongst them.”

“Does she permit this?” asked the priest, eagerly.

“She blushes sometimes, occasionally she smiles with a good-humor meant to deprecate these attacks, and now and then, when the sallies have been pushed too far, I have seen her in tears some hours after.”

“Oh, if these heretics would but abstain from ridicule!” cried the canon. “The least lettered amongst them can scoff and gibe and rail. They have their stock subjects of sarcasm, too, handed down from father to son, poor, witless little blasphemies, thefts from Voltaire, who laughed at themselves, and much mischief do they work! Let them begin to read, however, let them commence to ‘inquire,’ as the phrase has it, and the game is our own.”

“I think, padre,” said Jekyl, “that more of your English converts are made upon principles of pure economy. Popery, like truffles, is so cheap abroad!”

“Away with you! away with you!” cried the padre, rebukingly. “They come to us as the children seek their mother’s breast. Hand me the maccaroni.”

“Padre mio,” broke in Jekyl, “I wish you would be Catholic enough to be less Popish. We have other plots in hand here, besides increasing the funds of the ‘Holy Carmelites;’ and while we are disputing about the spoil, the game may betake themselves to other hunting-grounds. These Onslows must not be suffered to go hence.”

“Albert is right,” interposed Nina. “When the ‘Midchekoff’ condescends to think himself in love with the Dalton girl, when the Guardsman has lost some thousands more than he can pay, when my Lady has offended one half of Florence and bullied the other, then the city will have taken a hold upon their hearts, and you may begin your crusade when you please. Indeed, I am not sure, if the season be a dull one, I would not listen to you myself.”

“As you listened once before to the Abbe D’Esmonde,” said the canon, maliciously.

The girl’s cheek became deep red, and even over neck and shoulders the scarlet flush spread, while her eyes flashed a look of fiery passion.

“Do you dare are you insolent enough to – ”

Her indignation had carried her thus far, when, by a sudden change of temper, she stopped, and clasping her hands over her face, burst into tears.

Jekyl motioned the priest to be silent, while, gently leading the other into the adjoining room, he drew the curtain, and left her alone.

“How could you say that?” said he, “you, padre, who know that this is more than jest?”

“Spare not the sinner, neither let the stripes be light, ‘Non sit levis flagella,’ says Origen.”

“Are the ortolans good, padre?” asked Jekyl, while his eye glittered with an intense appreciation of the old canon’s hypocrisy.

“They, are delicious! succulent and tender,” said the priest, wiping his lips. “Francesco does them to perfection.”

“You at least believe in a cook,” said Jekyl, but in so low a voice as to escape the other’s notice.

“She is sobbing still,” said the canon, in a whisper, and with a gesture towards the curtained doorway. “I like to hear them gulping down their sighs. It is like the glug-glug of a rich flask of ‘Lagrime.’”

“But don’t you pity them, padre?” asked Jekyl, in mock earnestness.

“Never! never! First of all, they do not suffer in all these outbursts. It is but decanting their feelings into another vessel, and they love it themselves! I have had them for hours together thus in the confessional, and they go away after, so relieved in mind and so light of heart, there ‘s no believing it.”

“But Nina,” said Jekyl, seriously, “is not one of these.”

“She is a woman,” rejoined the padre, “and it is only a priest can read them.”

“You see human nature as the physician does, padre, always in some aspect of suffering. Of its moods of mirth and levity you know less than we do, who pass more butterfly lives!”

“True in one sense, boy; ours are the stony paths, ours are the weary roads in life! I like that Burgundy.”

“It ‘s very pleasant, padre. It is part of a case I ordered for the Onslows, but their butler shook the bottle when bringing it to table, and they begged me to get rid of it.”

“These wines are not suited to Italy generally,” said the canon; “but Florence has the merit of possessing all climates within the bounds of a single day, and even Chambertin is scarcely generous enough when the Tramontana is blowing!”

“Well, have you become better mannered? May I venture to come in?” cried Nina, appearing at the doorway.

“‘Venga pure! Venga pure!’” growled out the canon. “I forgive thee everything. Sit down beside me, and let us pledge a friendship forever.”

“There, then, let this be a peace-offering,” said she, taking the wreath of flowers from her own head and placing it on the brows of the padre. “You are now like the old Bacchus in the Boboli.”

“And thou like – ”

“Like what? Speak it out!” cried she, angrily.

“Come, come, do, I beseech you, be good friends,” interposed Jekyl. “We have met for other objects than to exchange reproaches.”

“These are but the ‘iras amantium.’ boy,” said the priest; “the girl loves me with her whole heart.”

“How you read my most secret thoughts!” said she, with a coquettish affectation of sincerity.

“Lectiones pravissimae would they be!” muttered he, between his teeth.

“What is that? What is he mumbling there, Albert?” cried she, hastily.

“It is a benediction, Nina,” replied Jekyl; “did you not hear the Latin?”

Peace was at last restored, and what between the adroit devices of Jekyl and the goodness of his champagne, a feeling of pleasant sociality now succeeded to all the bickering in which the festivity was prolonged to a late hour. The graver business which brought them together the Onslows and their affairs being discussed, they gave way to all the seductions of their exalted fancies. Jekyl, taking up his guitar, warbled out a French love song, in a little treble a bullfinch might have envied; Nina, with the aid of the padre’s beads for castanets, stepped the measure of a bolero; while the old priest himself broke out into a long chant, in which Ovid, Petrarch, Anacreon, and his breviary alternately figured, and under the influence of which he fell fast asleep at last, totally unconscious of the corked moustaches and eyebrows with which Nina ornamented his reverend countenance.

The sound of wheels in the silent street at last admonished them of the hour, and opening the window, Jekyl saw a brougham belonging to Sir Stafford just drawing up at the door.

“Francois is punctual,” said Nina, looking at her watch; “I told him five o’clock.”

“Had we not better set him down first?” said Jekyl, with a gesture toward the priest; “he does not live far away.”

“With all my heart,” replied she; “but you’re not going to wash his face?”

“Of course I am, Nina. The jest might cost us far more than it was worth.” And so saying, Jekyl proceeded to arrange the disordered dress and dishevelled hair of the padre, during the performance of which the old priest recovered sufficient consciousness to permit himself to be led downstairs and deposited in the carriage.

An hour later and all was still! Jekyl slumbering peacefully on his little French bed, over which the rose-colored mosquito curtains threw a softened half-sunset hue; a gentle smile parted his lips, as in his dreams the dreams of a happy and contented nature he wove pleasant fancies and devised many a future scheme.

In his own dreary little den, behind the “Duomo,” the padre also slept heavily, not a thought, not a single passing idea breaking the stagnant surface of his deep lethargy.

Nina, however, was wakeful, and had no mind for repose. Her brilliant costume carefully laid aside, she was arranging her dark hair into its habitually modest braid; her very features composing themselves, as she did so, into their wonted aspect of gentleness and submission.

All the change of dress being little in comparison with the complete alteration now observable in her whole air and demeanor, she seemed a totally different being. And she was so, too; for while hypocrites to the world, we completely forget that we share in the deception ourselves.