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.
[Illustration: 274]
“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.