“He is very young?”
“Scarcely older than you. They say he was educated in Paris, and that
he is an atheist. He fought against the Turks in Candia, and is said to
have distinguished himself there no less by his race-hatred and
cruelty, than by his bravery.”
“All in all, then, a man,” she cried with sparkling eyes.
“At present he is living in Florence,” I continued, “he is said to be
tremendously rich—”
“I didn’t ask you about that,” she interrupted quickly and sharply.
“The man is dangerous. Aren’t you afraid of him? I am afraid of him.
Has he a wife?”
“No.”
“A mistress?”
“No.”
“What theaters does he attend?”
“To-night he will be at the Nicolini Theater, where Virginia Marini and
Salvini are acting; they are the greatest living artists in Italy,
perhaps in Europe.
“See that you get a box—and be quick about it!” she commanded.
“But, mistress—”
“Do you want a taste of the whip?”
* * * * *
“You can wait down in the lobby,” she said when I had placed the
opera-glasses and the programme on the edge of her box and adjusted the
footstool.
I am standing there and had to lean against the wall for support so as
not to fall down with envy and rage—no, rage isn’t the right word; it
was a mortal fear.
I saw her in her box dressed in blue moire, with a huge ermine cloak
about her bare shoulders; he sat opposite. I saw them devour each other
with their eyes. For both of them the stage, Goldoni’s _Pamela,_
Salvini, Marini, the public, even the entire world, were non-existant
to-night. And I—what was I at that moment?—
* * * * *
To-day she is attending the ball at the Greek ambassador’s. Does she
know, that she will meet him there?
At any rate she dressed, as if she did. A heavy sea-green silk dress
plastically encloses her divine form, leaving the bust and arms bare.
In her hair, which is done into a single flaming knot, a white
water-lily blossoms; from it the leaves of reeds interwoven with a few
loose strands fall down toward her neck. There no longer is any trace
of agitation or trembling feverishness in her being. She is calm, so
calm, that I feel my blood congealing and my heart growing cold under
her glance. Slowly, with a weary, indolent majesty, she ascends the
marble staircase, lets her precious wrap slide off, and listlessly
enters the hall, where the smoke of a hundred candles has formed a
silvery mist.
For a few moments my eyes follow her in a daze, then I pick up her
furs, which without my being aware, had slipped from my hands. They are
still warm from her shoulders.