“It is yourself, Raffaele?” he said to me, in the politest manner, in our own tongue, the others thinking it some commonplace, and I knew by his voice that the meeting was as surprising and as exasperating3 to him as to me.
Sometimes dazzling flashes of light explode across the eyes of blind people. Such a thing happened to my own, now, in the darkness. I found myself hot all over with a certain rashness that came to me. I felt that anything was possible if I would but dare enough.
“I am able to see that it is the same yourself!” I answered, and made the faintest eye-turn toward Miss Landry. Simultaneously4 bowing, I let my hand fall upon my pocket—a language which he understood, and for which (the Blessed Mother be thanked!) he perceived that I meant to offer battle immediately, though at that moment he offered me an open smile of benevolence5. He knew nothing of my new cause for war; there was enough of the old!
The others were observing us.
“You have met?” asked the gentle voice of Miss Landry. “You know each other?”
“Exceedingly!” I answered, bowing low to her.
“The dinner is waiting in our own salon,” said Mrs. Landry, interrupting. She led the way with Antonio to an open door on the terrace where servants were attending, and such a forest of flowers on the table and about the room as almost to cause her escort to stagger; for I knew, when I caught sight of them, that he had never been wise enough to send them. Neither had Poor Jr. done it out of wisdom, but because of his large way of performing everything, and his wish that loveliest things should be a background for that lady.
Alas6 for him! Those great jars of perfume, orchids7 and hyacinths and roses, almost shut her away from his vision. We were at a small round table, and she directly in opposition8 to him. Upon her right was Antonio, and my heart grew cold to see how she listened to him.
For Antonio could talk. At that time he spoke9 English even better than I, though without some knowledge of the North-American idiom which my travels with Poor Jr. had given me. He was one of those splendid egoists who seem to talk in modesty10, to keep themselves behind scenes, yet who, when the curtain falls, are discovered to be the heroes, after all, though shown in so delicate a fashion that the audience flatters itself in the discovery.
And how practical was this fellow, how many years he had been developing his fascinations11! I was the only person of that small company who could have a suspicion that his moustache was dyed, that his hair was toupee12, or that hints of his real age were scorpions13 and adders14 to him. I should not have thought it, if I had not known it. Here was my advantage: I had known his monstrous15 vanity all my life.
So he talked of himself in his various surreptitious ways until coffee came, Miss Landry listening eagerly, and my poor friend making no effort; for what were his quiet United States absurdities16 compared to the whole-world gaieties and Abyssinian adventures of this Othello, particularly for a young girl to whom Antonio’s type was unfamiliar17? For the first time I saw my young man’s brave front desert him. His mouth drooped18, and his eyes had an appearance of having gazed long at a bright light. I saw that he, unhappy one, was at last too sure what her answer would be.
For myself, I said very little—I waited. I hoped and believed Antonio would attack me in his clever, disguised way, for he had always hated me and my dead brother, and he had never failed to prove himself too skilful19 for us. In my
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