Venetian Masque

Her hands crashed a discordant jangle from the keys, her head sank forward, and Isotta, usually so calmly proud and self-contained, was bowing over the instrument and sobbing like a hurt child.

It lasted no more than a few seconds; but long enough to be perceived by those in the loggia, already startled by the explosive discord from the harpsichord.

Donna Leocadia came hastening down the room in a flutter of maternal concern; and, no doubt, with more than a suspicion of the source of this distress. The others followed.

'What have you said to her?' Vendramin was angrily demanding.

Marc-Antoine raised his eyebrows. 'Said to her? Said to her?'

'I demand to know.'

Domenico thrust between them.

'Are you mad, Leonardo?'

Before this need to be collected, Isotta rose. 'You make me ashamed. It is only that I am not so well. I will go now, mother.'

Vendramin moved towards her in concern.

'Dear child ...'

But the Countess gently waved him back. 'Not now,' she begged.

Mother and daughter departed, and the Count, protesting that here was a deal of turmoil because a girl was feeling indisposed, drew Vendramin back to the cool of the loggia, leaving the other two to follow.

But Domenico detained Marc-Antoine. His manner was hesitant.

'Marc, my friend, are you not being imprudent? You don't misunderstand me? You know that if I could change the course of things I would not spare myself.'

Marc-Antoine was short. 'I will study to be prudent, Domenico.'

'You see,' the young soldier continued, 'there is Isotta to consider. Already her fate is hard enough.'

'Ha! You perceive that, do you?'

'Can you suppose that I am blind: that I don't see, that I don't feel—for both of you?'

'Leave me out of account. If you feel so much for Isotta, why do you do nothing?'

'What is there to be done? You see how my father fawns upon him tonight now that he has given proof of his power. That is the expression of my father's love for Venice. Against that selfless passion of patriotism, to which he will sacrifice everything that he possesses, don't you see that it is idle to contend? We must bow, Marc.' He pressed his friend's arm.

'Oh, I am bowing. But whilst I bow, I watch.'

'For what?'

'For a gift from the gods.'

Domenico still detained him. 'They tell me you are a deal together: you and Vendramin.'

'That is by his seeking.'

'As I supposed.' Domenico was scornful. 'To Vendramin all travelling Englishmen are wealthy. Has he borrowed money from you yet?'

'How well you know him,' said Marc-Antoine.

CHAPTER XII THE VICOMTESSE

Battista, the landlord of the Inn of the Swords, had procured a valet for Mr. Melville: a Frenchman named Philibert, who was an excellent hairdresser.

This Philibert, a plump, soft-voiced, soft-footed man of forty, had dressed for years the hair of the Duc de Ligniáres. But the guillotine having taken off the Duke's head, Philibert found himself out of work, and since other aristocratic heads in France seemed equally impermanent, Philibert, following the example of his betters, had emigrated from a republic in which the National Barber left hairdressers without employment.

Marc-Antoine, who was fastidious about the appearance of his glossy black mane, thanked God for it, and took the soft-voiced man into his service.

Philibert was at his duties on the head of his new master; to be particular, he was in the act of shaving him. Upon the intimate operation, Messer Vendramin, very brave in lilac taffeta, intruded. He strolled in familiarly, swinging a gold-headed cane, and found himself a chair by the dressing-table, whence he faced the lathered Mr. Melville.

He entertained the supposed Englishman with small talk and little anecdotes, mostly scandalous and sometimes salacious, of which invariably he was the hero. The presence of Philibert set no restraints upon him. Ser Leonardo made it appear that in Venice reticence was little practised. Besides, he was of those for whom kissing would lose half its delights if there were no telling.

Mr. Melville, wishing him at the devil, let him chatter, and grew somnolent.

'I shall take you today,' Vendramin announced, 'to one of the most elegant and exclusive casinos in Venice: that of the exquisite Isabella Teotochi. You'll have heard of her?'

Mr. Melville had not. The Venetian prattled on.

'I take you there at the request of a very entrancing lady who has remarked you, and desires your acquaintance: a very dear and charming friend of mine, the Vicomtesse de Saulx.'

Razor in hand, Philibert leapt back with a cry of dismay. 'Ah, Dieu de Dieu!' His voice was soft no longer. 'Not in twenty years has such a thing happened to me. Never shall I forgive myself, monsieur. Never!'

A crimson stain suffusing the lather on Mr. Melville's cheek explained the valet's anguish.

Vendramin was pouring abuse upon the luckless Frenchman. 'Clumsy, maladroit lout! You should be caned for that, by God! What the devil are you? A valet or a butcher?'