+COQUETRY+
ALL Florence was talking of the _Bal Costumé_ to be given at the _Casino
de’ Nobili_ to H. R. H. the Count of Syracuse, a Neapolitan Prince,
brother to the Grand Duchess, and at present on a visit to his Imperial
sister at the Palazzo Pitti. The ladies were endeavoring each to outvie
the other in the novelty and richness of their costumes. The Grand Ducal
family were to represent their ancient predecessors on the throne of
Florence, the rich and princely family of Medici. The notorious and once
lovely Lady C—— F——, it was known would appear as Pomona, her dress to
be looped up with bunches of fruit interspersed with diamonds, to
represent the dew. A beautiful Florentine duchess, it was whispered,
would personify the “Queen of Hearts;” but so well did her modiste keep
the secret that none could guess either the fashion or color of her
robe, which proves that women _can_ be trusted, at least in so important
an affair as that of the toilette. Counting on her fresh beauty, and
conscious that she could not hope to out-blaze her fair rivals in
jewelry, Evelyn wisely preferred to be unique in the simplicity of her
costume. She therefore chose the becoming dress of a peasant girl of
Frascati, in the environs of Rome. Her corset of cherry-colored velvet,
laced over a chemisette of plaited muslin, displayed to advantage the
rounded waist and perfectly modelled shoulders. The full petticoat of
blue silk trimmed with rows of ribbon to match the corsage, just cleared
the well-turned ankle, and fully discovered the little Spanish foot with
its arched instep. The hair, wrapped around the head, was fastened in a
rich knot by two pins of diamond, and one large brilliant clasped the
narrow band of red velvet which encircled her throat. The peasant’s
apron, and bows of ribbon of blue and silver completed a costume in
which the wearer looked scarcely more than eighteen. I accompanied my
friend _en Marquise_, as this required but little exercise of the fancy,
in which (as regards dress) I am lamentably deficient. Colonel Melville
(whose leave expired very shortly), was to wear the uniform of his
corps, and to meet us at the ball.
Evelyn’s toilette was a decided success; a murmur of admiration
accompanied us as we threaded our way through the brilliant crowd of
officers and gaily attired young nobles who thronged the vestibule and
ante-rooms of the building. After some difficulty we succeeded in
reaching the upper end of the ball room, where on a slightly elevated
dais were seated the Imperial family. The Grand Duchess, as the
celebrated Catherine de Medicis in a magnificent costume of the middle
ages, was literally one blaze of jewels. On perceiving Evelyn—who was
rather a favorite—she beckoned her to approach, and graciously
complimented her on the good taste and simplicity of her attire. The
Count Syracuse, who was a great admirer of beauty, then stepped forward
and engaged the pretty Frascatana for a quadrille. The Prince, who,
though somewhat stout, was a remarkably fine-looking man, appeared to
the utmost advantage as Lorenzo de Medicis.—His extremely fascinating
manners, together with his exalted rank, rendered him (if report speak
true) almost irresistible with the female sex. But he was by no means a
constant lover; he might with truth say, with a celebrated French roué:
“_Moi je suis fidèle à tout le monde._”
The count devoted himself to his “Cynthia of the minute,” and scarcely
left her side, much to the disgust and envy of many a noble signora, who
longed in vain for even one glance of passing admiration from the
illustrious Don Giovanni, who had no eyes but for his simple Zerlina.
Evelyn gave herself up to the intoxication of gratified vanity, and
appeared to be as much charmed with her royal cavalier as he was taken
with her. Had not the prince been a married man, I believe she would
have aspired even to an alliance with royalty, for the recent choice of
the French Emperor had contributed to turn the head of many a beauty. As
it was, to permit such marked attention from a Prince, whose success
with ladies was proverbial, could not but be detrimental to a virtuous
woman’s reputation. Thus reflecting, I turned to seek Melville. Poor
fellow! he was leaning against a fluted column the very statue of
despair. In his expressive countenance you might see depicted all the
tortures of jealousy and mortified pride. I advanced towards him and
touched his elbow. He started as from a dream, made a few polite and
common-place observations, and before I could speak a word, had vanished
from the room. I still thought he would return, as was his wont, to
escort us to the refreshment table, for Evelyn’s Italian adorers were
usually too intently occupied in discussing the excellent supper and
wines provided by their royal host, to have time to attend to the wants
of any fair lady.
The Count Syracuse was forced to accompany the Imperial party to supper.
He therefore brought his lovely partner all glowing with the triumphs
and excitement of the dance to my side. Evelyn passed her arm within
mine.
“Let us seek Reginald Melville,” said she, “you will doubtless be glad
of some refreshment.”
“Ah! dear Evelyn,” I replied, “I fear your imprudent coquetry has caused
much suffering to-night.”
“He is foolish to be so jealous,” replied she; “does he wish me to speak
to no one, and to make myself disagreeable in society?”
“But to remain so long with one man,” I remonstrated.
“Oh! a _Prince_, you know; how could I refuse? Indeed, Melville is most
unreasonably exacting, and you encourage him. I should detest so jealous
a husband. No; if he cannot bear to see a woman admired, let him choose
a plain wife.”
Her levity vexed me, for I could not imagine a pleasure that necessarily
entailed pain upon others. But then, remember, _I am not a beauty_.
We sought Melville in every room; he was nowhere to be found. Evelyn was
evidently piqued; she became _distraite_, and answered at random the
various compliments and observations addressed to her. She refused all
invitations to dance, and had Melville now seen her, the destiny of two
lives might have been changed. How often do we of the weaker sex wrap
ourselves in our woman’s pride and carefully conceal our true feelings
from the being we respect and esteem most upon earth. How frequently
even in our moments of apparent cruelty and caprice do we in the depth
of our soul resolve one day by the devotion of a life to make full and
ample amends for the momentary pangs we may have caused! Thrice happy
they who may be permitted to put these good resolves into practice ere
it be _too late_.
We remained but a short time at the now distasteful ball. On the morrow
Evelyn had a nervous headache and kept her room. Although she had given
orders that no one was to be admitted, I perceived her look of
disappointment when the name of Colonel Melville was missing from the
pile of cards and notes brought by her maid in the evening to her
bedside.
The following day, being quite restored, she arose and dressed with more
than usual care and good taste. I saw that she expected Melville would
call, that being his last day in Florence, and I doubted not that when
he came all would go well—and I might have to congratulate two happy
affianced lovers. Evelyn was restless and abstracted. She tried to sing,
but was out of voice; she took up a book, but did not get farther than
the title-page; her eyes wandered perpetually towards the French
_pendule_ on the mantel-piece; at last she rose impatiently, and stated
her intention of driving to the Cascines, that loveliest of promenades,
unsurpassed even by the far-famed “Bois de Boulogne.”
At that moment there was a loud ring at the entrance door of the
apartment. My heart beat in sympathy with that of Evelyn, who turned
pale as death. The servant did not at once answer the door—five long
minutes of suspense, and the ring was again repeated. At length the door
was opened. A manly step was heard, and H. R. H. the Count of Syracuse
entered.
Evelyn trembled visibly, but mastered her emotion, and received her
royal visitor with graceful dignity. Though I perceived the Prince
greatly desired my absence, I thought it wiser to remain with my friend,
whose agitation I feared might be interpreted too favorably.
About ten minutes after the Prince’s arrival, another ring at the bell
was heard. This time a well-known voice enquired—
“Is Mrs. Travers at home?”
A short colloquy with the servant followed, and we heard the door of the
apartment closed. I looked towards Evelyn. Her vexation was so evident
that the Prince asked if she were ill, I was obliged to come to the
rescue—and declared, with truth, that she had kept her room the
preceding day, and was scarcely sufficiently recovered to do the honors
to His Royal Highness.
The Count took the hint, and paid us that time but a short visit. The
moment he had quitted, the servant brought in on a small waiter, Col.
Melville’s card, with P. P. C. in the corner. We questioned the man—
“Did the Colonel say he would call again?”
“No, signora.”
“Did he state when he was leaving?”
“No, signora.”
“Well then, what _did_ he say?” I exclaimed, wishing to spare Evelyn the
pain of asking.
“The Colonel asked if the signora was alone. I told him Sna. Altezza
Reale was with the signora. The signore then said, Give this card to the
signora. That is all, ladies.”
It was then near five, the hour of departure of the train. The servant
was sent to inquire if the Colonel left that evening. He returned with
the message—“_Il Colonello è partito già_”—“the Colonel is already
gone.”
Evelyn’s disappointment turned to anger. Her pride was offended, and she
determined to punish Melville by encouraging the visits of her Royal
admirer—a very dangerous game!
“For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair,
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air.”
Her charms and success had made our heroine many enemies, especially
among her own sex, and envious tongues were busy with her fair fame. She
was termed a heartless jilt, and her conduct towards Melville was
commented on in the severest terms.
In Italy no woman ought to permit any marked attention from one of the
opposite sex, if she would preserve an unblemished reputation. The
innocent frankness of my countrywomen, and of the American ladies, is
liable to be sadly misconstrued by the idle and languid Italian “lions,”
who lounge away their time at the doors of the different cafes, and
discuss the appearance and character of the ladies, as they pass in
their carriages toward the Lungo L’Arno and Cascines.
Evelyn, whose conduct had been, and still was, most indiscreet, being,
moreover, without a protector, was especially the mark for scandal.
Women who would have given the world to have been able to do as she did,
were the first to blame her imprudence; and the young Florentine
exquisites, who had never yet succeeded in winning a smile from “_la
bella Inglese_,” now invented all kinds of cruel and false reports
concerning her. The frequent visits of the Count Syracuse were reported
to the Grand Duchess, who henceforth looked coldly upon Evelyn, and the
ladies of society were only too happy to have it in their power to
mortify one who had excited their jealousy. And Melville, too—the good,
the kind, the loving—had he also deserted the woman he once held so
dear? The next chapter may perhaps throw some light on this subject.
[Illustration]
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