"I will obey you in all things, n.o.ble lady," replied Trenta, submissively.

How he dreaded betraying his secret exultation! To emanc.i.p.ate 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.

CHAPTER IX.

THE COUNTESS ORSETTI'S BALL.

The ball at Casa Orsetti was much canva.s.sed in Lucca. Hospitality is by no means a cardinal virtue in Italy. Even in the greatest houses, the bread and salt of the Arab is not offered to you--or, if offered at all, appears in the shape of such dangerously acid lemonade or such weak tea, it is best avoided. Every year there are dances at the Casino dei n.o.bili, during the Carnival, and there are veglioni, or b.a.l.l.s, at the theatre, where ladies go masked and in dominoes, but do not dance; but these annual dissipations are paid for by ticket.

A general reception, therefore, including dancing, supper, and champagne, _gratis_, was an event.

The Orsetti Palace, a huge square edifice of reddish-gray stone, with overtopping roof, four tiers of lofty windows, and a broad arched entrance, or portone, with dark-green doors, stands in the street of San Michele. You pa.s.s it, going from the railway-station to the city-gate (where the Lucchese lions keep guard), and the road leads onward to the peaked mountains over Spezia.

On the evening of the ball the entire street of San Michele was hung with Chinese lanterns, arranged in festoons. Opposite the entrance shone a gigantic star of gas. The palace itself was a blaze of light. As the night was warm, every window was thrown open; chandeliers--scintillating like jeweled fountains--hung from the ceilings; wax-lights innumerable, in gilded sconces, were grouped upon the walls; crimson-silk curtains cast a ruddy glare across the street, and the sound of harps and violins floated through the night air. The crowd of beggars and idlers, generally gathered in the street, saw so much that they might be considered to "a.s.sist," in an independent but festive capacity, at the entertainment from outside. Matches were hawked about for the convenience of the male portion of this extempore a.s.sembly, and fruit in baskets was on sale for the women.

"Cigars--cigars of quality!"--"Good fruit--ripe fruit!" were cries audible even in the ballroom; and a fine aroma of coa.r.s.e tobacco mounted rapidly upward to the illuminated windows.

Within the archway groups of servants were ranged in the Orsetti livery. Also a magnificent personage, not to be cla.s.sed with any of the other domestics, wearing a silver chain with a key pa.s.sed across his breast. The personage called a major-domo, in the discharge of his duty, divested the ladies of their shawls, and arranged their draperies.

All this was witnessed with much glee by the plebs outside--the men smoking, the women eating and talking. As the guests arrived in rapid succession, the plebs pressed more and more forward, until at last some of the boldest stood within the threshold. The giants in livery not only tolerated this, but might be said to observe them individually with favor--seeing how much of their admiration was bestowed on themselves and their fine clothes. The major-domo also, with amiable condescension, affected not to notice them--no, not even when one tall fellow, a butcher, with eyes as black as sloes, a pipe in his mouth, and a coa.r.s.e cloak wrapped round him, took off his hat to the Princess Cardeneff, as she pa.s.sed by him glittering with diamonds, and cried in her face, "Oh! bella, bella!"

When the major-domo had performed those mysteries intrusted to him, attendant giants threw open folding doors at the farther end of the court, and the bright visions disappeared into a long gallery on the ground-floor, painted in brilliant frescoes, to the reception-room.

The suite of rooms on the ground-floor are the summer apartments, specially arranged for air and coolness. Rustic chairs stand against walls painted with fruit and flowers, the stems and leaves represented as growing out of the floor, as at Pompeii. The whole saloon is like a _parterre_. Settees, sofas, and cozy Paris chairs covered with rich satins, are placed under arbors of light-gilt trellis-work, wreathed with exquisite creepers in full flower. Palms, orange and lemon trees, flowering cacti, and large-leaved cane-plants, are grouped about; consoles and marble tables, covered with the loveliest cut flowers.

Near the door, in the first of these floral saloons where sweet scents made the air heavy, stands the Countess Orsetti. Although she had certainly pa.s.sed that great female climacteric, forty, a stately presence, white skin, abundant hair, and good features treated artistically, gave her still a certain claim to matronly beauty. She greets each guest with compliments and phrases which would have been deemed excessive out of Italy. 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. He is short, stout, and smiling, with a hesitating manner, and a habit of referring every thing to his magnificent mamma. Away from his mamma, he is frank, talkative, and amusing. It is to be hoped that he will marry soon, and escape from the leading-strings. If he marries Teresa Ottolini--and it is said such a result is certain--no palace in Lucca would be big enough to hold Teresa and the countess-mother at one time.

Group after group enters, bows to the countess, and pa.s.ses on among the flowers: the Countess Navascoes (with her lord), pale, statuesque, dark-eyed, raven-haired--a type of Italian womanhood; Marchesa Manzi--born of the n.o.ble house of Buoncampagni--looking as if she had walked out of a picture by t.i.tian; the Da Gia, separated from her husband--a little habit, this, of Italian ladies, consequent upon intimacy with the _jeunesse doree_, who prefer the wives of their best friends to all other women--it saves trouble, and a "golden youth"

is essentially idle. This little habit, moreover, of separation from husbands does not damage the lady in the least; no one inquires what has happened, or who is in the wrong. Society receives and pets her just the same, and, quite impartial, receives and pets the husband also.--Luisa Bernardini, a glowing little countess, as plump as an ortolan, dimpling with smiles, an ugly old husband at her side--comes next. It is whispered, unless the ugly old husband is blind as well as deaf, they will be separated, too, very shortly. Young Civilla, a "golden youth," is so very pressing. He could live with Luisa at Naples--a cheap place. They might have gone on for years as a triangular household--but for Civilla's carelessness. Civilla would always put out old Bernardini about the dinner. (Civilla dined at Bernardini's house every day, as he would at a _cafe_.) Now, old Bernardini did not care a b.u.t.ton that his little wife had a lover; it would not have been _en regle_ if she had not--nor did he care that his wife's lover should dine with him every day--not a bit--but old Bernardini is a gourmand, and he does care to be kept waiting for his dinner. He has lately confided to a friend, that he should be sorry to cause a scandal, but that he must separate from his wife if Civilla will not reform in the matter of the dinner-hour. "He is getting old,"

Bernardini says, "and his digestion suffers." No man keeps a French cook to be kept waiting for his dinner.

Luisa, who looks the picture of innocence, wears an unexceptionable pink dress, with a train that bodes ill-luck, and many apologies, to her partners. A long train is Luisa's little game. (Spite of Civilla, she has many other little games.) Fragments of the train fly about the room all the evening, and admirers take care that she shall see these picked up, fervently kissed, and stowed away as relics in breast-pockets. One enthusiast pinned his fragment to his shoulder, like an order--a knight of San Luisa, he called himself.

Teresa Ottolini, with her mother, has just arrived. Being single, Teresa either is, or affects to be, excessively steady; no one would marry her if she were not--not even the good-natured Orsetti. Your Italian husband _in futuro_ will pardon nothing in his wife that may be--not even that her dress should be conspicuous, much less her manners. Neither is it expedient that she should be seen much in society. That dangerous phalanx of "golden youth" are ever on the watch, "gentlemen sportsmen," to a man; their sport, woman. If she goes out much these "golden youth" might compromise her. Less than a breath upon a maiden's name is social death. That name must not be coupled with any man's--not coupled even in lightest parlance. So the lady waits, waits until she has a husband--it is more piquant to be a naughty wife than a fast miss--then she makes her choice--one, or a dozen--it is a matter of taste. Danger is added to vice; and that element of intrigue dear to the Italian soul, both male and female.

The _jeunesse doree_ delight in mild danger--a duel with swords, not pistols, with a foolish husband. Why cannot he grin and bear it?--others do.

But to return to Teresa. She is courtesying very low to the Countess Orsetti. Although it is well known that these ladies hate each other, Countess Orsetti receives Teresa with a special welcome, kisses her on both cheeks, addresses more compliments to her, and makes her more courtesies than to any one else. 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.

He presses Teresa's hand, and whispers in her ear that "she must not forget her promise about the cotillon. He has lived upon it ever since." Her reply has apparently satisfied him, for the honest fellow breaks out all over into smiles and bows and amorous glances. Then she pa.s.ses on, the fair Teresa, like a queen, followed by looks of unmistakable admiration--much more unmistakable looks of admiration than would be permitted elsewhere; but we are in Italy, where men are born artists and have artistic feelings.

The men, as a rule, are neither as distinguished looking nor as well dressed as the women. The type of the Lucchese n.o.bleman is dark, short, and commonplace--rustic is the word.

There is the usual crowding in doorways, and appropriation of seats whence arrivals can be seen and criticised. But there is no line of melancholy young girls wanting partners. The gentlemen decidedly predominate, and all the ladies, except Teresa Ottolini and the Boccarini, are married.

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, gla.s.s in eye. As a general scans the advance of the enemy's troops from behind an ambush, calculates what their probable movements will be, and how he can foil them--either by open attack or feigned retreat, skirmish or manoeuvre--so Madame Boccarini scans the various arrivals between the dark-green foliage.

To her every young and pretty woman is a rival to her daughters; if a rival, an enemy--if an enemy, to be annihilated if possible, or at least disabled, and driven ignominiously from the field.

It is well known that the Boccarini girls are poor. They will have no portions--every one understands that. The Boccarini girls must marry as they can; no priest will interest himself in their espousals. It was this that made Nera so attractive. She was perfectly natural and unconventionally bold--"like an English mees," it was said--with looks of horror. (The Americans have much to answer for; they have emanc.i.p.ated young ladies; all their sins, and our own to boot, we have to answer for abroad.)

The Boccarini were in reality so poor that it was no uncommon thing for them to remain at home because they could not afford to buy new dresses in which to display themselves. (Poor Madame Boccarini felt this far more than the girls did themselves.) To be seen more than thrice in the same dress is impossible. Lucca is so small, every one's clothes are known. There was no throwing dust in the eyes of dear female friends in this particular.

On the present occasion the Boccarini girls had made great efforts to produce a brilliant result. Madame Boccarini had told her daughters that they must expect no fresh dresses for six months at least, so great had been the outlay. Nera, on hearing this, had tossed her stately head, and had inwardly resolved that before six months she would marry--and that, dress or no dress, she would go wherever she had a chance of meeting Count n.o.bili. Her mother tacitly concurred in these views, as far as Count n.o.bili was concerned, but said nothing.

A Belgravian mother who frankly drills her daughter and points out, _viva voce_, when to advance and when to retreat, and to whom the honors of war are to be accorded--is an article not yet imported into cla.s.sic Italy with the current Anglomania.

Beside Nera sat Prince Ruspoli, a young Roman of great wealth. Ruspoli aspired to lead the fashion, but not even Poole could well tailor him.

(Ruspoli was called _poule mouillee_.) Nature had not intended it.

His tall, gaunt figure, long arms, and thin legs, rendered him artistically unavailable. The music has just sounded from a large saloon at the end of the suite, and Prince Ruspoli has offered his arm to Nera for the first waltz. If Count n.o.bili had arrived, she would have refused Ruspoli, even on the chance of losing the dance; but he had not come. Her sisters, who are older, and less attractive than herself, had as yet found no partners; but they were habitually resigned and amiable, and submitted with perfect meekness to be obliterated by Nera.

A knot of young men have now formed near the door of the dancing-saloon. They are eagerly discussing the cotillon, the final dance of the evening. 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.

"I mean to dance with Teresa Ottolini," announced Count Orsetti, timidly--he could not name Teresa without reddening. "We arranged it together a month ago."

"And I am engaged to Countess Navascoes," said Count Malatesta.

This engagement was said to have begun some years back, and to be very enthralling. No one objected, least of all the husband, who worshiped at the shrine of the blooming Bernardini when she quarreled with Civilla. A lady of fashion has a choice of lovers, as she has a choice of dresses--for all emergencies.

"But how about these new figures?" asked Orsetti.

"Per Bacco--hear the music!" cried Malatesta. "What a delicious waltz!

I want to dance. Let's settle it at once. Who's to lead?"

"Oh! Balda.s.sare, 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. "n.o.body 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?"

"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--Balda.s.sare gallantly receiving the charge of any free lancers who flung themselves in their path.

Balda.s.sare is much elated at being permitted to dance with "the swan-neck," a little faded now, but once a noted beauty. The swan-neck is a famous lady. Ill-natured persons might have added an awkward syllable to _famous._ She had been very dear to a great Russian magnate who lived in a villa lined with malachite, and loaded her with gifts. But as the marquis, her husband, was always with her and invariably spoke of his wife as an angel, where was the harm? Now the Russian magnate was dead, and the Marchesa Amici had retired to Lucca, to enjoy the spoils along with her discreet and complaisant marquis.

"How that young fellow does push himself!" observes the cynical Franchi. "Dancing with the Amici--such a great lady! Nothing is sacred to him."

"I wish n.o.bili were come." It was Orsetti who spoke now. "I should have liked him to lead instead of Balda.s.sare. Adonis is getting forward. He wants keeping in order. Will no one else lead? I cannot, in my own house."

"Oh! but you would mortally offend poor Trenta if you did not let Balda.s.sare lead. The women will keep him in order," was the immediate reply of a young man who had not yet spoken. "The cavaliere must marshal the dancers, and Balda.s.sare must lead, or the old man would break his heart."