“If I were Borso Valserra,” he said to himself (this being one of the generals of the first Sforza), “I should go and stab that lout of a Marchese, and with that very same dagger with the ivory handle which Clelia gave me on that happy day, and I should teach him to have the insolence to present himself with his Marchesa in a room in which I am.”
His expression altered so greatly that the General of the Friars Minor said to him:
“Does Your Excellency feel unwell?”
“I have a raging headache … these lights are hurting me … and I am staying here only because I have been put down for the Prince’s whist-table.”
On hearing this the General of the Friars Minor, who was of plebeian origin, was so disconcerted that, not knowing what to do, he began to bow to Fabrizio, who, for his part, far more seriously disturbed than the General, started to talk with a strange volubility: he noticed that there was a great silence in the room behind him, but would not turn round to look. Suddenly a baton tapped a desk; a ritornello was played, and the famous Signora P⸺ sang that air of Cimarosa, at one time so popular: “Quelle pupille tenere!”
Fabrizio stood firm throughout the opening bars, but presently his anger melted away, and he felt a compelling need to shed tears. “Great God!” he said to himself, “what a ridiculous scene! and with my cloth, too!” He felt it wiser to talk about himself.
“These violent headaches, when I do anything to thwart them, as I am doing this evening,” he said to the General of the Minorites, “end in floods of tears which provide food for scandal in a man of our calling; and so I request Your Illustrious Reverence to allow me to look at him while I cry, and not to pay any attention.”
“Our Father Provincial at Catanzaro suffers from the same disability,” said the General of the Minorites. And he began in an undertone a long narrative.
The absurdity of this story, which included the details of the Father Provincial’s evening meals, made Fabrizio smile, a thing which had not happened to him for a long time; but presently he ceased to listen to the General of the Minorites. Signora P⸺ was singing, with divine talent, an air of Pergolese (the Duchessa had a fondness for old music). She was interrupted by a slight sound, a few feet away from Fabrizio; for the first time in the evening, he turned his head, to look. The chair that had been the cause of this faint creak in the woodwork of the floor was occupied by the Marchesa Crescenzi whose eyes, filled with tears, met the direct gaze of Fabrizio’s which were in much the same state. The Marchesa bent her head; Fabrizio continued to gaze at her for some moments: he made a thorough study of that head loaded with diamonds; but his gaze expressed anger and disdain. Then, saying to himself: “and my eyes shall never look upon you,” he turned back to his Father General, and said to him:
“There, now, my weakness is taking me worse than ever.”
And indeed, Fabrizio wept hot tears for more than half an hour. Fortunately, a Symphony of Mozart, horribly mutilated, as is the way in Italy, came to his rescue and helped him to dry his tears.
He stood firm and did not turn his eyes towards the Marchesa Crescenzi; but Signora P⸺ sang again, and Fabrizio’s soul, soothed by his tears, arrived at a state of perfect repose. Then life appeared to him in a new light. “Am I pretending,” he asked himself, “to be able to forget her in the first few moments? Would such a thing be possible?” The idea came to him: “Can I be more unhappy than I have been for the last two months? Then, if nothing can add to my anguish, why resist the pleasure of seeing her? She has forgotten her vows; she is fickle: are not all women so? But who could deny her a heavenly beauty? She has a look in her eyes that sends me into ecstasies, whereas I have to make an effort to force myself to look at the women who are considered the greatest beauties! Very well, why not let myself be enraptured? It will be at least a moment of respite.”
Fabrizio had some knowledge of men, but no experience of the passions, otherwise he would have told himself that this momentary pleasure, to which he was about to yield, would render futile all the efforts that he had been making for the last two months to forget Clelia.
That poor woman would not have come to this party save under compulsion from her husband; even then she wished to slip away after half an hour, on the excuse of her health, but the Marchese assured her that to send for her carriage to go away, when many carriages were still arriving, would be a thing absolutely without precedent, which might even be interpreted as an indirect criticism of the party given by the Princess.
“In my capacity as Cavaliere d’onore,” the Marchese added, “I have to remain in the drawing-room at the Princess’s orders, until everyone has gone. There may be and no doubt will be orders to be given to the servants, they are so careless! And
