Massimilla Doni | Page 9

that a Naples guardsman, having failed to win a
hearing, killed himself in despair. The prima donna of the Fenice had
the same refinement of features, the same elegant figure, and was
equally young; but she had in addition the warm blood of Sicily that
gave a glow to her loveliness. Her voice was fuller and richer, and she
had that air of native majesty that is characteristic of Italian women.
La Tinti--whose name also resembled that which the French singer
assumed--was now seventeen, and the poor Prince three-and-twenty.
What mocking hand had thought it sport to bring the match so near the
powder? A fragrant room hung with rose-colored silk and brilliant with
wax lights, a bed dressed in lace, a silent palace, and Venice! Two
young and beautiful creatures! every ravishment at once.
Emilio snatched up his trousers, jumped out of bed, escaped into the
dressing-room, put on his clothes, came back and hurried to the door.
These were his thoughts while dressing:--
"Massimilla, beloved daughter of the Doni, in whom Italian beauty is
an hereditary prerogative, you who are worthy of the portrait of
Margherita, one of the few canvases painted entirely by Raphael to his
glory! My beautiful and saintly mistress, shall I not have deserved you
if I fly from this abyss of flowers? Should I be worthy of you if I
profaned a heart that is wholly yours? No; I will not fall into the vulgar
snare laid for me by my rebellious senses! This girl has her Duke, mine
be my Duchess!"
As he lifted the curtain, he heard a moan. The heroic lover looked
round and saw Clarina on her knees, her face hidden in the bed,
choking with sobs. Is it to be believed? The singer was lovelier
kneeling thus, her face invisible, than even in her confusion with a
glowing countenance. Her hair, which had fallen over her shoulders,
her Magdalen-like attitude, the disorder of her half-unfastened dress,
--the whole picture had been composed by the devil, who, as is well
known, is a fine colorist.
The Prince put his arm round the weeping girl, who slipped from him
like a snake, and clung to one foot, pressing it to her beautiful bosom.
"Will you explain to me," said he, shaking his foot to free it from her

embrace, "how you happen to be in my palazzo? How the impoverished
Emilio Memmi--"
"Emilio Memmi!" cried Tinti, rising. "You said you were a Prince."
"A Prince since yesterday."
"You are in love with the Duchess Cataneo!" said she, looking at him
from head to foot.
Emilio stood mute, seeing that the prima dona was smiling at him
through her tears.
"Your Highness does not know that the man who had me trained for the
stage--that the Duke--is Cataneo himself. And your friend Vendramini,
thinking to do you a service, let him this palace for a thousand crowns,
for the period of my season at the Fenice. Dear idol of my heart!" she
went on, taking his hand and drawing him towards her, "why do you fly
from one for whom many a man would run the risk of broken bones?
Love, you see, is always love. It is the same everywhere; it is the sun of
our souls; we can warm ourselves whenever it shines, and here--now--it
is full noonday. If to-morrow you are not satisfied, kill me! But I shall
survive, for I am a real beauty!"
Emilio decided on remaining. When he signified his consent by a nod
the impulse of delight that sent a shiver through Clarina seemed to him
like a light from hell. Love had never before appeared to him in so
impressive a form.
At that moment Carmagnola whistled loudly.
"What can he want of me?" said the Prince.
But bewildered by love, Emilio paid no heed to the gondolier's repeated
signals.
If you have never traveled in Switzerland you may perhaps read this
description with pleasure; and if you have clambered among those
mountains you will not be sorry to be reminded of the scenery.
In that sublime land, in the heart of a mass of rock riven by a gorge, --a
valley as wide as the Avenue de Neuilly in Paris, but a hundred
fathoms deep and broken into ravines,--flows a torrent coming from
some tremendous height of the Saint-Gothard on the Simplon, which
has formed a pool, I know not how many yards deep or how many feet
long and wide, hemmed in by splintered cliffs of granite on which
meadows find a place, with fir-trees between them, and enormous elms,
and where violets also grow, and strawberries. Here and there stands a

chalet and at the window you may see the rosy face of a yellow-haired
Swiss girl. According to the moods of