Flodoardo.--I could not be entrusted with a more precious charge.
Rosabella, during this conversation, had been leaning against the
back of her uncle's chair. She repeated to herself Lomellino's
assertion, "that to see Flodoardo, and not to like him, was as
difficult as to look at Paradise and not wish to enter;" and while
she gazed on the youth, she allowed that Lomellino had not
exaggerated. When her uncle desired Flodoardo to conduct her to the
dancers, a soft blush overspread her cheek, and she doubted whether
she should accept or decline the hand which was immediately offered.
And to tell you my real opinion, my fair ladies, I suspect that very
few of you would have been more collected than Rosabella, had you
found yourselves similarly situated. In truth, such a form as
Flodoardo's; a countenance whose physiognomy seemed a passport at
once to the hearts of all who examined it; features so exquisitely
fashioned that the artist who wished to execute a model of manly
beauty, had he imitated them, would have had nothing to supply or
improve; features, every one of which spoke so clearly, "The bosom
of this youth contains the heart of a hero." Ah, ladies, my dear
ladies, a man like this might well make some little confusion in the
head and heart of a poor young girl, tender and unsuspicious!
Flodoardo took Rosabella's hand, and led her into the ball-room.
Here all was mirth and splendour, the roofs re-echoed with the full
swell of harmony, and the floor trembled beneath the multitude of
dancers, who formed a thousand beautiful groups by the blaze of
innumerable lustres. Yes, Flodoardo and Rosabella passed on in
silence till they reached the extreme end of the great saloon. Here
they stopped, and remained before an open window. Some minutes
passed, and still they spoke not. Sometimes they gazed on each
other, sometimes on the dancers, sometimes on the moon; and then
again they forgot each other, the dancers, and the moon, and were
totally absorbed in themselves.
"Lady," said Flodoardo, at length, "can there be a greater
misfortune?"
"A misfortune?" said Rosabella, starting as if suddenly awaking from
a dream; "what misfortune, signor? Who is unfortunate?"
"He who is doomed to behold the joys of Elysium and never to possess
them. He who dies of thirst and sees a cup stand full before him,
but which he knows is destined for the lips of another."
"And are you, my lord, this outcast from Elysium? Are you the
thirsty one who stands near the cup which is filled for another? Is
it thus that you wish me to understand your speech?"