Thus began Andrea Sperelli’s affair with Donna Elena Muti.
The next day, the halls of the auction house in Via Sistina were crowded with elegant people who had come to watch the contest Andrea had announced.
It was raining hard. A gray light entered those damp and low-ceilinged rooms; along the walls were neatly arranged some pieces of furniture made of carved wood and some large triptychs and diptychs of the Tuscan school of the fourteenth century; four Flemish tapestries representing the Story of Narcissus hung to the floor; Metaurensian majolica ceramics took up two long shelves; fabrics, mostly ecclesiastical, were arranged either unfolded on chairs or piled onto tables; the rarest relics, ivories, enameled objects, glass pieces, carved jewels, medals, coins, prayer books, illuminated codices, ornate silverware, were gathered in another showcase behind the auctioneers’ table; and a particular odor, emanating from the dampness of the place and from those ancient things, filled the air.
When Andrea Sperelli entered accompanying the Princess of Ferentino, he felt a secret quiver. He thought: Has she already come? and his eyes rapidly sought her out.
She had indeed already come. She was sitting in front of the table between Cavalier Dàvila and Don Filippo del Monte. She had placed her gloves and her otter muff, from which a bunch of violets peeped out, on the edge of the table. She held a small silver picture in her fingers, attributed to Caradosso Foppa; and was examining it with much attention. Objects were passing from hand to hand along the table; and the auctioneer was praising them loudly; the people standing behind the row of chairs leaned over to see; and then the auction sale began. The figures proceeded rapidly. At each step, the auctioneer would cry:
—Do I hear . . . ?
An amateur, incited by his cry, would call a higher sum, looking at his adversaries. The auctioneer would shout, his gavel raised:
—Going once, twice, third and final call: SOLD!
And would pound his gavel on the table. The object would go to the last bidder. A murmur would spread; then once again the contest would heat up. Cavalier Dàvila, a Neapolitan gentleman of gigantic proportions and almost feminine mannerisms, a celebrated collector and connoisseur of majolica ceramics, gave his judgment on each important piece. There were in truth three superior things in that cardinalitial sale: the Story of Narcissus, the rock crystal chalice, and a helmet made of embossed silver by Antonio del Pollajuolo, which the Signoria of Florence gave the Count of Urbino in 1472 as reward for services rendered by him at the time of the conquest of Volterra.
—Here is the princess, Don Filippo del Monte said to Elena Muti.
Elena arose to greet her friend.
—Already in the field! exclaimed the Princess of Ferentino.
—Already.
—And Francesca?
—She’s not here yet.
Four or five elegant gentlemen, the Duke of Grimiti, Roberto Casteldieri, Ludovico Barbarisi, Giannetto Rùtolo, approached. Others arrived. The pouring rain drowned the sound of speech.
Donna Elena held out her hand to Andrea Sperelli, matter-of-factly, as to everyone else. He felt himself distanced by that handshake. Elena seemed cold and serious to him. All his dreams froze and collapsed in one moment; the memories of the preceding evening became confused; his hopes died. What was the matter with her? She was no longer the same woman. She wore a kind of long tunic made of otter and a kind of mortarboard cap on her head, also of otter. In her facial expression there was something sour and almost scornful.
—There’s still time before the goblet, she said to the princess; and sat down again.
Every object passed through her hands. A centaur engraved in chalcedony, a very fine piece of work, perhaps originating from the dispersed museum of Lorenzo il Magnifico, tempted her. And she took part in the contest. She communicated her bids to the auctioneer in a low voice, without raising her eyes to him. At a certain point her competitors withdrew: she obtained the stone at a good price.
—An excellent purchase, said Andrea Sperelli, who was standing behind her chair.
Elena could not restrain a slight tremor. She picked up the chalcedony and gave it to him to look at, lifting her hand to shoulder height without turning around. It was truly a very beautiful thing.
—It could be the centaur that Donatello copied, Andrea added.
And in his soul, together with his admiration for the beautiful object, admiration arose for the noble taste of the woman who now possessed it. She is therefore, in everything, an elect spirit, he thought. How much pleasure she could give a refined lover! In his imagination she was growing in dimension; but in growing, she was escaping him. The great confidence of the evening before was changing into a kind of discouragement; and his original doubts rose up again. He had dreamed too much during the night; daydreaming, swimming in an endless happiness, while the memory of a gesture, a smile, a position of her head, a fold of her dress caught him and ensnared him like a net. Now, that entire imaginary world was collapsing miserably, coming into contact with reality. He had not seen in Elena’s eyes the special greeting about which he had thought so much; he had not been singled out by her, from among the others, with any sign. Why? He felt humiliated. All those fatuous people around him made him angry; those things that attracted her attention made him angry; Don Filippo del Monte, who was leaning down toward her every now and then, perhaps to murmur some nasty gossip to her, made him angry. The Marchioness of Ateleta arrived. She was, as usual, cheerful. Her laughter, amid the men that already surrounded her, made Don Filippo turn around eagerly.
—The Trinity is perfect, he said, and got up.
Andrea immediately occupied his chair, next to Elena Muti. When the subtle scent of violets reached his nostrils, he murmured:
—They’re not the ones from last night.
—No, said Elena, coldly.
In her mutability, undulating and caressing like a wave, there was always the threat of unexpected frost. She was prone to instant rigidity. Andrea remained silent, not comprehending.
—Do I hear . . . ? cried the auctioneer.
The numbers mounted. The competition was fierce for the helmet by Antonio del Pollajuolo. Even Cavalier Dàvila took up the gauntlet. It seemed that little by little the air was heating up and that the desire for those beautiful and rare objects was capturing every spirit. The mania spread like a contagion. That year in Rome, the love for bibelots and bric-à-brac had reached excesses; every salon of the nobility and of the upper bourgeoisie was cluttered with “curiosities”; every lady cut the cushions of her couch from a chasuble or from a cope, and placed her roses in an Umbrian pharmacist’s vase or in a goblet made of chalcedony. The places of public auction were a favorite meeting place; and sales were very frequent. Ladies would arrive at afternoon tea, flaunting their elegance, saying, “I’ve just come from the sale of the painter Campos. Much hustle and bustle. His Arabo-Hispanic plates are magnificent! I bought a jewel that belonged to Maria Leczinska.1 Here it is.”
—Do I hear . . . ?
The figures rose. The table was thronged with amateurs. The elegant crowd devoted themselves to fine talk, among the Nativities and the Annunciations by Giotto. Ladies, amid that odor of mold and curios, bore the scent of their fur coats and, most noticeably, that of violets, because every muff contained a small bunch, as was charmingly decreed by fashion. With the presence of so many people a pleasant mist pervaded the air, as in a damp chapel where many faithful have congregated. The rain continued to pour down outside and the light to diminish. Gaslights were lit; and the two different intensities of light competed against each other.
—Going once, twice, third and final call: SOLD!
The thump of the gavel gave possession of the Florentine helmet to Lord Humphrey Heathfield. The sale began once more, of small objects, which passed along the table from hand to hand. Elena took them delicately, examined them, and then placed them in front of Andrea without saying anything. There were enamels, ivories, timepieces of the eighteenth century, jewelry made by Milanese goldsmiths from the time of Ludovico il Moro, prayer books written in gold letters on parchment illuminated with blue. In Elena’s aristocratic hands, those precious materials seemed to acquire value. Her small hands appeared on occasion to tremble slightly, coming into contact with the most desirable things. Andrea watched intently; and in his imagination he transformed every motion of those hands into a caress. But why was Elena placing every object on the table, instead of holding them out to him?
He anticipated Elena’s gesture, holding out his hand. And from then on, the ivories, the enamels, the jewelry passed from the fingers of the loved one to those of the lover, transmitting an indefinable delight. It seemed that a particle of the amorous charm of that woman passed into them, the way some of the qualities of a magnet pass into a piece of iron. It was truly a magnetic sensation of pleasure, one of those intense and profound sensations that one feels almost only at the beginning of a love affair, and that appear to have neither a physical basis nor a spiritual one, like all others, but have rather a basis in a neutral element of our beings, in an element one could almost call intermediate, unknown by nature, less simple than a spirit, more fragile than a shape, where passion is collected as in a bowl, from which passion radiates outward as from a hearth.
It is a pleasure never felt before, Andrea thought once more.
A slight torpor was invading his senses and he was slowly losing consciousness of place and time.
—I advise you to buy this timepiece, Elena said to him with a look whose significance he did not at first understand.
It was a small skull carved into ivory with extraordinarily good anatomical precision. Each jawbone bore a row of diamonds, and two rubies glinted at the base of the eye sockets. On the forehead a motto was inscribed: RUIT HORA;2 on the occipital bone, there was another motto: TIBI, HIPPOLYTA.3 The skull opened like a hinged box, although the joint was almost invisible. The inner heartbeat of the device gave that small skull an inexpressible semblance of life. That burial jewel, the gift of a mysterious craftsman to his woman, would have marked the hours of exhilaration and symbolized a warning for loving souls.
In truth, Pleasure could not wish for a more exquisite and more stimulating meter of time. Andrea thought: Is she advising me to buy it for us? And with that thought all his hopes revived and rose up again amid the uncertainty, confusedly. He threw himself into the contest with a kind of enthusiasm. Two or three ruthless competitors responded to him, among whom Giannetto Rùtolo, who, being the lover of Donna Ippolita Albónico, was attracted by the inscription: TIBI, HIPPOLYTA.
After a short while, only Rùtolo and Sperelli remained as contenders. The figures rose above the real price of the object, while the dealers smiled. At a certain point, Giannetto Rùtolo stopped bidding, beaten down by the obstinacy of his rival.
—Do I hear . . . ?
Donna Ippolita’s lover, slightly pale, shouted out one last sum. Sperelli added to it. There was a moment of silence. The auctioneer looked at both bidders; then slowly lifted his gavel, watching them all the time.
—Going once, twice, third and final call: SOLD!
The death’s head was Sperelli’s. A murmur spread throughout the hall. A ray of light entered through the window, glittered on the gilded backgrounds of the triptychs and lit up the sorrowful forehead of a Sienese Madonna and the little gray hat of the Princess of Ferentino, which was covered in steel spangles.
—When’s it going to be the goblet? the princess asked impatiently.
Her friends looked at the catalogues. There was no more hope that the goblet of the bizarre Florentine humanist would go up for sale that day. Due to the great deal of competition, the sale was proceeding slowly. A long list of tiny objects still remained, such as cameos, coins, medals. Some antique dealers and Prince Stroganow disputed every item. All those waiting felt disappointed. The Duchess of Scerni stood up to leave.
—Good-bye, Sperelli, she said. —I’ll see you this evening, perhaps.
—Why “perhaps”?
—I feel very ill.
—Whatever is the matter?
Without answering, she turned to the others to say good-bye. But the others were following her example; they were going out together. The young men quipped about the spectacle that had not taken place. The Marchioness of Ateleta was laughing, but the Princess of Ferentino appeared to be in a filthy mood. The servants waiting in the corridor called the carriages forward, as at the door of a theater or a concert hall.
—Aren’t you coming to Laura Miano’s? the Marchioness of Ateleta asked Elena.
—No, I’m going home.
She waited on the edge of the pavement for her coupé to come forward. The rain was dispersing; between the great white clouds one could see some patches of blue; one area of light rays made the flagstones shine. And the lady, struck by that light, of a shade between blond and rose pink, in her magnificent cloak that fell with a few straight, almost symmetrical folds, was beautiful. The same dream of the evening before rose up in Andrea’s mind when he glimpsed the interior of the coupé upholstered in satin as in a boudoir, with its shining silver cylinder full of hot water used for warming small noble feet. To be there, with her, in that cozy intimacy, in that warmth made of her breath, in the scent of wilted violets, barely glimpsing the muddy streets, the gray houses, the humble masses through the clouded windowpanes!
But she bowed her head slightly at the window, without smiling; and the carriage departed, toward Palazzo Barberini, leaving a vague sadness, an undefined discouragement in his soul. She had said “perhaps.” Perhaps she would not come to Palazzo Farnese. And in that case?
This uncertainty afflicted him. The thought of not seeing her again was unbearable: every hour that he spent away from her already weighed heavily on him. He asked himself: Do I already love her so much, then? His spirit seemed to be enclosed in a circle within which whirled pell-mell all the phantasms of the feelings felt in the presence of that woman. Suddenly there would emerge from his memory with extraordinary precision a phrase of hers, an intonation of her voice, a pose, a movement of her eyes, the shape of a couch on which she was sitting, the finale of Beethoven’s sonata, a note sung by Mary Dyce, the figure of the servant standing at the door of the coach, any detail, any fragment, and they obscured with the vividness of their image the things of his current existence; they superimposed themselves upon present things. He spoke to her mentally; he said mentally everything he would say to her later in reality, in their future talks. He foresaw the scenes, the incidents, the events, the entire unfolding of their love affair, according to the promptings of his desire. How would she give herself to him, for the first time?
While he ascended the stairs of Palazzo Zuccari to enter his apartment, this thought flashed across his mind. She, certainly, would come there. Via Sistina, Via Gregoriana, the square of Trinità de’ Monti, especially at certain times, were almost deserted. The house was inhabited only by foreigners. She could therefore venture there without fear. But how to entice her? His impatience was so great that he would have liked to be able to say “She will come tomorrow!”
She is free, he thought. No husband keeps guard on her. No one can ask her to account for long or even unusual absences. She is mistress of her every act, always. To his mind, immediately, whole days and whole nights of passion presented themselves. He looked around in the hot, deep, secret room; and that intense and refined luxury all made of art, pleased him, for her. That air awaited her breath; those carpets asked to be pressed under her foot; those cushions wanted the imprint of her body.
She will love my house, he thought. She will love the things that I love. The thought gave him an unutterable sense of sweetness; and it seemed to him already that a new soul, conscious of imminent joy, palpitated under the high ceilings.
He asked his manservant for tea; and made himself comfortable in front of the fireplace to enjoy the fictions of his hope all the better. He took the small jeweled skull out of its case and began to examine it with care. In the light of the fire, the fragile diamond teeth glittered on the yellowed ivory, and the two rubies illuminated the shadows of the eye sockets. Beneath the polished cranium resounded the incessant beat of time—RUIT HORA. What kind of craftsman could ever have imagined for his Ippolita such a proud and free fantasy of death, in the century when master enamelists were painting tender pastoral idylls on the little watches destined to mark the trysting hours of gallants with their ladies in Watteau’s parks? The sculpture revealed an erudite, vigorous hand, master of its own style: it was in all ways worthy of a fifteenth-century artist as insightful as Verrocchio.4
“I advise you to buy this timepiece.” Andrea smiled a little, remembering Elena’s words uttered in such a strange way, after such a cold silence. Undoubtedly, in saying that phrase, she was thinking of love: she was thinking of imminent love trysts, without a doubt. But then why had she become so impenetrable again? Why had she taken no more notice of him? What was wrong with her? Andrea lost himself in the examination of this thought. However, the warm air, the softness of the armchair, the dim light, the flickering of the fire, the aroma of the tea, all those pleasant sensations brought his spirit back to errant pleasures. His mind was wandering aimlessly, as in a fantastical labyrinth. Sometimes his thoughts took on the effects of opium: they could intoxicate him.
—May I remind the Lord Count that he is awaited at the Doria residence at seven o’clock, the manservant said in a low voice, having also the duty of reminding Andrea of his appointments. —Everything is ready.
He went to dress in the octagonal room, which was, in truth, the most elegant and comfortable dressing room that a young modern gentleman could desire. When dressing, he had an infinite number of detailed attentions that he lavished upon his person. Upon a large Roman sarcophagus, transformed with much taste into a dressing table, there were neatly arranged his batiste handkerchiefs, dancing gloves, wallets, cigarette cases, essence vials, and five or six fresh gardenias in small blue porcelain vases. He chose a handkerchief with white initials and dabbed it with two or three drops of pao rosa;5 he did not take a gardenia because he would find one on the table at the Doria residence; he filled with Russian cigarettes a case made of beaten gold, very slender, with a sapphire set into the thumb piece, slightly curved to fit around the thigh inside the pocket of one’s trousers. Then he left.
At the Doria house, between one topic and another, after mentioning the recent childbirth of Duchess Miano, Duchess Angelieri said:
—It appears as if Laura Miano and Elena Muti are quarreling.
—About Giorgio, perhaps? another lady asked, laughing.
—Rumor has it. The whole thing started this summer in Lucerne . . .
—But Laura wasn’t in Lucerne.
—Exactly. Her husband was, though . . .
—I think that’s just nasty gossip; nothing else, interrupted the Florentine countess, Donna Bianca Dolcebuono.
—Giorgio is in Paris now.
Andrea had heard this, even though on his right the talkative Countess Starnina kept him constantly occupied. The words of Countess Dolcebuono were not enough to soothe the piercing stab he felt. He would have liked, at least, to know everything. But Duchess Angelieri did not continue; and other conversations mingled amid the centerpieces fashioned from the magnificent roses of Villa Pamphily.
Who was this Giorgio? Elena’s last lover perhaps? She had spent part of the summer in Lucerne. She had just returned from Paris. In leaving the auction sale, she had refused to go to the Miano residence. In Andrea’s mind, it seemed as if everything was in her disfavor. An atrocious desire invaded him, to see her again, to speak to her. The invitation to Palazzo Farnese was for ten; at half past ten he was already there, waiting.
He waited for a long time. The halls were filling up rapidly; the dancing was beginning: in Annibale Caracci’s gallery the demigoddesses of ancient Rome competed in comeliness with the Ariadnes, the Galateas, the Auroras, the Dianas of the frescoes; the whirling couples exuded perfumes; the gloved hands of the ladies pressed the shoulders of dance partners; the jeweled heads were bent over or held high; certain semi-open mouths shone like crimson; certain bare shoulders glistened, veiled with moisture; certain bosoms appeared to burst out of their corsets from the force of exertion.
—You aren’t dancing, Sperelli? asked Gabriella Barbarisi, a girl as brown-skinned as the oliva speciosa, passing by on the arm of a dancer, waving her fan in her hand and causing a mole in a dimple near her mouth to shift with her smile.
—Yes, later, answered Andrea. —Later.
Indifferent to the introductions and greetings of others, he felt his torment grow in the futility of his wait; and wandered from room to room at random. The word “perhaps” made him fear that Elena was not coming. And if she really did not come? When would he see her again? Donna Bianca Dolcebuono passed by; and, without knowing why, he fell in beside her, saying many courteous things to her, feeling a sense almost of relief in her company. He would have liked to talk to her about Elena, to interrogate her, to reassure himself. The orchestra began a rather languid mazurka; and the Florentine countess entered the dance with her partner.
Then Andrea turned to a group of young men who were standing near a door. There was Ludovico Barbarisi, there was the Duke of Beffi, with Filippo del Gallo, with Gino Bommìnaco. They watched the couples circle the room, and gossiped, rather vulgarly. Barbarisi recounted having seen both curves of the bosom of the Countess of Lùcoli, while dancing the waltz. Bommìnaco demanded:
—But how?
—Try. Just look down her corsage.6 I assure you it’s worth the trouble . . .
—Have you noticed the armpits of Madame Chrysoloras? Look!
The Duke of Beffi indicated a lady dancing who had on her forehead, as white as the marble of Luni, a pile of red locks, like a high priestess painted by Alma-Tadema.7 Her bodice was joined at the shoulders by a simple ribbon, and one could discern in each of her armpits an overabundant clump of reddish hair.
Bommìnaco started deliberating upon the singular odor of red-haired women.
—You know that odor well, Barbarisi said with malice.
—Why?
—Princess Micigliano . . .
The young man was manifestly smug at hearing one of his lovers mentioned. He didn’t protest, but laughed; then, turning to Sperelli, he said:
—What’s wrong with you this evening? Your cousin was looking for you, a moment ago. She’s dancing with my brother now. There she is.
—Look! exclaimed Filippo del Gallo. —Donna Albónico is back. She’s dancing with Giannetto.
—Elena Muti also got back, a week ago, said Ludovico. —What a beautiful creature!
—Is she here?
—I haven’t seen her yet.
Andrea felt his heart jump, fearing that some unpleasant gossip about her, too, would issue from one of those mouths. But the passage of Princess Issé on the arm of the minister of Denmark distracted his friends. Nonetheless he felt compelled by rash curiosity to bring the talk back to the name of his beloved, in order to know, to discover; but he did not dare. The mazurka was ending; the group was dispersing. She is not coming! She is not coming! His internal anxiety was becoming so powerful that he thought he would leave the halls, because the contact with that crowd was unbearable for him.
Turning, he saw the Duchess of Scerni appear at the entrance to the gallery on the arm of the ambassador of France. In a moment, he met her gaze; and their eyes, in that moment, seemed to mingle with each other, penetrate each other, drink each other in. Both felt that each sought the other; both felt, at the same time, silence descend upon their souls, amid all that noise, and something akin to an abyss open up into which all the surrounding world disappeared, under the force of one thought.
She came forward8 through Caracci’s frescoed gallery, to where the crowd was thinner, bearing a long white brocade train that followed her like a heavy wave on the floor. So white and simple, in passing she turned her head toward the many greetings, displaying an air of tiredness, smiling with a small visible effort that creased the corners of her mouth, while her eyes seemed wider under her bloodless forehead. Not only her forehead but all the lines of her face had taken on an almost psychic tenuity in its extreme paleness. She was no longer the woman seated at the d’Ateletas’ table, nor the one at the table of the auction sale, nor the one standing for an instant on the sidewalk of Via Sistina. Her beauty now held an expression of sovereign ideality, which shone all the more in the midst of those other women, red in the face from dancing, excited, overactive, slightly agitated. Some men, observing her, became pensive. She elicited even in the most obtuse or fatuous of spirits a sense of commotion, uneasiness, an indefinable aspiration. Those whose heart was free imagined loving her, with a profound thrill; those who had a lover felt an obscure regret, their hearts unsatisfied, dreaming of some unknown delight; whoever harbored within themselves the open wound caused by the jealousy or deceit of some other woman, felt sure that they would be able to heal.
She came forward this way, receiving reverences on all sides, enveloped in the gaze of men. At the end of the gallery she joined a group of ladies who were talking excitedly, waving their fans, below the painting of Perseus and Phineus turned to stone. The Princess of Ferentino, the Marchioness Massa d’Albe, the Marchioness Daddi-Tosinghi, and Countess Dolcebuono were there.
—Why are you so late? the latter asked of her.
—I was very hesitant about coming, because I don’t feel well.
—Indeed, you are pale.
—I think I’m getting neuralgia in my face again, like last year.
—I hope not!
—Look, Elena, Madame de la Boissière, said Giovanella Daddi, with that strange hoarse voice of hers. —Doesn’t she look like a camel dressed as a cardinal, with a yellow wig?
—Mademoiselle Vanloo is going crazy over your cousin this evening, said the Marchioness Massa d’Albe to the princess, seeing Sofia Vanloo pass by on the arm of Ludovico Barbarisi. —I heard her begging, earlier, after a polka, next to me: “Ludovic, ne faites plus ça en dansant; je frissonne toute . . .”9
The ladies began to laugh in unison, waving their fans. The first notes of a Hungarian waltz reached them from the nearby ballrooms. Dancing partners presented themselves. Andrea could finally offer his arm to Elena and draw her away with him.
—Waiting for you, I thought I would die! If you had not come, Elena, I would have searched for you everywhere. When I saw you enter the room, I could barely restrain a shout. This is the second evening that I’m seeing you, but I seem to have loved you for I don’t know how long. The one, incessant thought of you, is now the life of my life . . .10
He spoke these words of love in a humble tone, without looking at her, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him; and she listened to them in the same pose, seemingly impassive, almost marblelike. Few people remained in the gallery. Along the walls, among the busts of the Caesars, the opaque crystal lampshades shaped like lilies cast a uniform light, not overly bright. The profusion of green and flowered plants gave the impression of a sumptuous greenhouse. The waves of music undulated through the warm air below the concave and sonorous vaulted ceilings, passing along all those mythological figures like a breeze flowing over an opulent garden.
—Will you love me? asked the young man. —Tell me that you’ll love me!
She answered slowly:
—I came here only for you.
—Tell me that you’ll love me! the young man repeated, feeling all the blood in his veins flood to his heart in a torrent of joy.
She answered:
—Perhaps.
And she gazed at him with the same gaze that the evening before had seemed to him a divine promise, that indefinable gaze that almost gave one’s flesh the sensation of a hand’s loving touch. Then both fell silent; and they listened to the enveloping dance music, which now and then became as soft as a whisper or rose up like a sudden whirlwind.
—Would you like to dance? Andrea asked, trembling internally at the thought of holding her in his arms.
She hesitated briefly. Then she replied:
—No, I don’t want to.
Seeing the Duchess of Bugnara, her maternal aunt, and Princess Alberoni entering the room with the French ambassador’s wife, she added:
—Now, be prudent; leave me.
She held out her gloved hand to him; and went to meet the three women, alone, with a rhythmic and light step. The long white train gave a sovereign grace to her figure and her step, due to the contrast between the width and weight of the brocade and the narrowness of her waist. Andrea, watching her go, mentally repeated her phrase: “I came only for you.” She was just so beautiful, for him, for him alone! Instantly, from the base of his heart, the residue of bitterness left there by the words of the Duchess Angelieri disappeared. The orchestra now threw itself enthusiastically into a reprise. And he never forgot those notes, nor that sudden anguish, nor the pose of the woman, nor the splendor of the fabric trailing behind her, nor the smallest fold, nor the slightest shadow, nor any detail of that supreme moment.