Perhaps he was suffering from a double
intoxication. So he pulled off the counterpane, opened the bed,
undressed in a pretty dressing-room, and lay down to meditate on
destiny.
"I forgot poor Carmagnola," said he; "but my cook and butler will have
provided for him."
At this juncture, a waiting-woman came in, lightly humming an air from
the _Barbiere_. She tossed a woman's dress on a chair, a whole outfit
for the night, and said as she did so:
"Here they come!"
And in fact a few minutes later a young lady came in, dressed in the
latest French style, who might have sat for some English fancy
portrait engraved for a _Forget-me-not_, a _Belle Assemblee_, or a
_Book of Beauty_.
The Prince shivered with delight and with fear, for, as you know, he
was in love with Massimilla. But, in spite of this faith in love which
fired his blood, and which of old inspired the painters of Spain,
which gave Italy her Madonnas, created Michael Angelo's statues and
Ghilberti's doors of the Baptistery,--desire had him in its toils, and
agitated him without infusing into his heart that warm, ethereal glow
which he felt at a look or a word from the Duchess.
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