So the supper was a regal entertainment.
The Prince, seated next la Tinti, was keenly alive, all through the
meal, to what poets in every language call the darts of love. The
transcendental vision of Massimilla was eclipsed, just as the idea of
God is sometimes hidden by clouds of doubt in the consciousness of
solitary thinkers. Clarina thought herself the happiest woman in the
world as she perceived Emilio was in love with her. Confident of
retaining him, her joy was reflected in her features, her beauty was
so dazzling that the men, as they lifted their glasses, could not
resist bowing to her with instinctive admiration.
"The Duchess is not to compare with la Tinti," said the Frenchman,
forgetting his theory under the fire of the Sicilian's eyes.
The tenor ate and drank languidly; he seemed to care only to identify
himself with the prima donna's life, and had lost the hearty sense of
enjoyment which is characteristic of Italian men singers.
"Come, signorina," said the Duke, with an imploring glance at Clarina,
"and you, _caro prima uomo_," he added to Genovese, "unite your voices
in one perfect sound.
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