the man who had loaded him and his friend with kindness prevented
him from mentioning it. The count had learned that the two friends
had sent to secure a box at the Argentina Theatre, and were told
they were all let. In consequence, he brought them the key of his
own — at least such was the apparent motive of his visit. Franz and
Albert made some difficulty, alleging their fear of depriving him
of it; but the count replied that, as he was going to the Palli
Theatre, the box at the Argentina Theatre would be lost if they did
not profit by it. This assurance determined the two friends to
accept it.
Franz had by degrees become accustomed to the count's pallor,
which had so forcibly struck him at their first meeting. He could
not refrain from admiring the severe beauty of his features, the
only defect, or rather the principal quality of which was the
pallor. Truly, a Byronic hero! Franz could not, we will not say see
him, but even think of him without imagining his stern head upon
Manfred's shoulders, or beneath Lara's helmet. His forehead was
marked with the line that indicates the constant presence of bitter
thoughts; he had the fiery eyes that seem to penetrate to the very
soul, and the haughty and disdainful upper lip that gives to the
words it utters a peculiar character that impresses them on the
minds of those to whom they are addressed. The count was no longer
young. He was at least forty; and yet it was easy to understand
that he was formed to rule the young men with whom he associated at
present. And, to complete his resemblance with the fantastic heroes
of the English poet, the count seemed to have the power of
fascination. Albert was constantly expatiating on their good
fortune in meeting such a man. Franz was less enthusiastic; but the
count exercised over him also the ascendency a strong mind always
acquires over a mind less domineering. He thought several times of
the project the count had of visiting Paris; and he had no doubt
but that, with his eccentric character, his characteristic face,but that, with his eccentric character, his characteristic face,
and his colossal fortune, he would produce a great effect there.
And yet he did not wish to be at Paris when the count was there.
The evening passed as evenings mostly pass at Italian theatres;
that is, not in listening to the music, but in paying visits and
conversing. The Countess G—— wished to revive the subject of the
count, but Franz announced he had something far newer to tell her,
and, in spite of Albert's demonstrations of false modesty, he
informed the countess of the great event which had preoccupied them
for the last three days. As similar intrigues are not uncommon in
Italy, if we may credit travellers, the comtess did not manifest
the least incredulity, but congratulated Albert on his success.
They promised, upon separating, to meet at the Duke of Bracciano's
ball, to which all Rome was invited. The heroine of the bouquet
kept her word; she gave Albert no sign of her existence the morrow
or the day after.
At length Tuesday came, the last and most tumultuous day of the
Carnival. On Tuesday, the theatres open at ten o'clock in the
morning, as Lent begins after eight at night. On Tuesday, all those
who through want of money, time, or enthusiasm, have not been to
see the Carnival before, mingle in the gayety, and contribute to
the noise and excitement. From two o'clock till five Franz and
Albert followed in the fete, exchanging handfuls of confetti with
the other carriages and the pedestrians, who crowded amongst the
horses' feet and the carriage wheels without a single accident, a
single dispute, or a single fight. The fetes are veritable pleasure
days to the Italians. The author of this history, who has resided
five or six years in Italy, does not recollect to have ever seen a
ceremony interrupted by one of those events so common in other
countries. Albert was triumphant in his harlequin costume. A knot
of rose-colored ribbons fell from his shoulder almost to the
ground. In order that there might be no confusion, Franz wore hisground. In order that there might be no confusion, Franz wore his
peasant's costume.
As the day advanced, the tumult became greater. There was not on
the pavement, in the carriages, at the windows, a single tongue
that was silent, a single arm that did not move. It was a human
storm, made up of a thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats,
flowers, eggs, oranges, and nosegays. At three o'clock the sound of
fireworks, let off on the Piazza del Popolo and the Piazza di
Venezia (heard with difficulty amid the din and confusion)
announced that the races were about to begin. The races, like the
moccoli, are one of the episodes peculiar to the last days of the
Carnival. At the sound of the fireworks the carriages instantly
broke ranks, and retired by the adjacent streets. All these
evolutions are executed with an inconceivable address and
marvellous rapidity, without the police interfering in the matter.
The pedestrians ranged themselves against the walls; then the
trampling of horses and the clashing of steel were heard. A
detachment of carbineers, fifteen abreast, galloped up the Corso in
order to clear it for the barberi. When the detachment arrived at
the Piazza di Venezia, a second volley of fireworks was discharged,
to announce that the street was clear. Almost instantly, in the
midst of a tremendous and general outcry, seven or eight horses,
excited by the shouts of three hundred thousand spectators, passed
by like lightning. Then the Castle of Saint Angelo fired three
cannon to indicate that number three had won. Immediately, without
any other signal, the carriages moved on, flowing on towards the
Corso, down all the streets, like torrents pent up for a while,
which again flow into the parent river; and the immense stream
again continued its course between its two granite banks.
A new source of noise and movement was added to the crowd. The
sellers of moccoletti entered on the scene. The moccoli, or
moccoletti, are candles which vary in size from the pascal taper to