This was the talk of the evening.
As soon as the Frenchman found himself alone with the Duchess and the
Prince, he understood that they were to be left together, and took
leave. Massimilla bowed with a bend of the neck that placed him at
such a distance that this salute might have secured her the man's
hatred, if he could have ignored the charm of her eloquence and
beauty.
Thus at the end of the opera, Emilio and Massimilla were alone, and
holding hands they listened together to the duet that finishes _Il
Barbiere_.
"There is nothing but music to express love," said the Duchess, moved
by that song as of two rapturous nightingales.
A tear twinkled in Emilio's eye; Massimilla, sublime in such beauty as
beams in Raphael's Saint-Cecilia, pressed his hand, their knees
touched, there was, as it seemed, the blossom of a kiss on her lips.
The Prince saw on her blushing face a glow of joy like that which on a
summer's day shines down on the golden harvest; his heart seemed
bursting with the tide of blood that rushed to it. He fancied that he
could hear an angelic chorus of voices, and he would have given his
life to feel the fire of passion which at this hour last night had
filled him for the odious Clarina; but he was at the moment hardly
conscious of having a body.
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