And she? A vast wave of pity and longing swept over me and whirled me
away into the depths of despair.
Now, I told myself, they have found her. And I fell to shuddering again.
Now they have brought her in, unless what they saw, when they found her,
scattered them, raving, through the woods. Now they are trying to soothe
Antonio, perhaps to wrench a weapon from his hand. Now surely they have
noticed my absence.
I cannot imagine what impulse made me rise, at last, and try the door
again. At my first touch it swung open.
Descending the staircase, I re-entered the hall.
* * * * *
They were all seated at the supper-table, which was now decorated with
flowers, with baskets of fruit, with plates of bonbons, and with favors
in the form of dolls tricked out like little ladies of the Renaissance.
The servants wore tail-coats and white-cotton gloves. Leonello and
Leonardo, Lina and Laura, even Antonio, had on the evening-dress
appropriate to the twentieth century. But my brain reeled indeed when I
saw Fiammetta, her hair done in the last Parisian style, her low-neck
gown the essence of modern chic.
The company looked at me with tolerant smiles.
"Well," exclaimed Antonio, "you have certainly taken your time! We
waited ages for you, then decided that the food was spoiling, and fell
to. There is your place, old fellow. I'll have the relishes brought
back."
I dropped into my chair with a thud. Leonardo, reaching in front of
Lina, took the fabric of my antique costume between thumb and finger.
"Very _recherché_," was his comment. "Do you wear it for a whim?"
"He is soaking wet," announced Lina, compassionately. "I think he has
been looking at the garden."
"A botanist!" cried Laura, clapping her hands. "Will you give me some
advice, signore? What is the best preservative for damask roses?"
"Water them with credulity," Leonello suggested.
And they all burst out laughing in my face, with the exception of the
beautiful Fiammetta.
Antonio, rising and bowing to me, spoke as follows:
"My friend, the sixteenth century bequeathed to us Florentines a little
of its cheerful cruelty and something of its pleasure in vendettas.
Casting your thoughts into a less remote past, you may retrieve an
impression of your last performance before your departure from the
Florence of our youth. Need I describe that performance? Its details
were conceived and executed with much talent. It made me, who was its
butt, the laughing stock of our circle for a month. Did we children of
Boccaccio impart to you that knack for practical joking? Remember that
the pupil does not always permanently abash his teacher. But come, let
us make a lasting peace now. If after all these years I managed to catch
you off your guard, you will never again catch me so. Let us forget our
two chagrins in drinking to this pleasant night, which, though I fancy
the fact has escaped you, happens to be the First of April."
While I was still trying to master my feelings, he added:
"I have forgotten to explain that Lina is the wife of Leonello, our new
Michael Angelo, who did that portrait of me in the wig and costume of
the Renaissance. Laura, on the other hand, is the wife of Leonardo. As
for our heroine, Fiammetta, she is the bride of your unworthy Antonio.
She has been so gracious as to marry me between two of her theatrical
seasons; in fact, we are here on our honeymoon. Why the deuce have you
never married? A wife might keep you out of many a laughable
predicament."
Leonello hazarded, "He is waiting to marry some lady who can describe,
in her trances, the cuisine of Nebuchadnezzar's palace, or the home-life
of the Queen of Sheba."
"Do no such thing," Antonio implored me. "And hereafter avoid the
supernatural like the plague. May this affair instil into your
philosophy of life a little healthy skepticism. There is no better tonic
than laughter for one who has caught the malaria of psychical research.
But even Nuta, my wife's old dresser at the theater, will tell you that
laughter is precious. You have given her to-night the first out-and-out
guffaw that she has enjoyed in years. She says it cured her of a crick
in the neck."
The fair Fiammetta, however, made a gesture of reproof, then held out
her warm hand to me.
"No, Antonio," she protested, "you have not been clever, after all, but
wicked. The worst of revenge is this: that it invariably exceeds its
object. To what do you owe this triumph? To his solicitude for you, to
his trust in you, which you have abused. Also, as I suspect, to his pity
for Fiammetta di Foscone, which I have ill repaid. In fine, we owe the
success of this trick to the misuse of fine emotions. That was not the
custom of Messer Giovanni Boccaccio." And to me, "Will you forgive us?"
All the others looked rather chop-fallen. But Antonio soon recovered. He
retorted:
"If you could have seen what an ass he made of me that time, you would
not at this moment be holding his hand. Look here, old fellow, she has a
sister who rather resembles her, and whose hand I have no objection to
your holding as long as you wish. We will introduce you to-morrow. Ah
yes, we will make you forgive us, you rascal, before we are done with
you!"