The Italians by Frances Elliot
page 44 of 453 (09%)
page 44 of 453 (09%)
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husband, who may, or may not, add the name of Guinigi to his own) is
most slender. She has been able to add nothing to it during these last years--not a farthing. But there is one consolation. While she lives, all is safe from spoliation. While she lives, no creditor lives bold enough to pass that threshold. While she lives--and then? Further she forbids her thoughts to wander. She will not admit, even to herself, that there is danger--that even, during her own life, she may be forced to sell what is dearer to her than life--the palace and the heirlooms! Meanwhile the consciousness of wealth is pleasant to her. She opens the cupboards in the wall, and handles the precious vessels of Venetian glass, the silver plates and golden flagons, the jeweled cups; she examines the ancient bronzes and ivory carvings; unlocks the caskets and the inlaid cabinets, and turns over the gold guipure lace, the rich mediaeval embroideries, the christening-robes--these she flings quickly by--and the silver ornaments. She uncloses the carved coffers, and passes through her long fingers the wedding garments of brides turned to dust centuries ago--the silver veils, bridal crowns, and quaintly-cut robes of taffetas and brocade, once white, now turned to dingy yellow. She assures herself that all is in its place. As she moves to and fro she catches sight of herself reflected in one of the many mirrors encased in what were once gorgeous frames hanging on the wall. She stops and fixes her keen black eyes upon her own worn face. "I am not old," she says aloud, "only fifty-five this year. I may live many years yet. Much may happen before I die! Cesare Trenta says I am ruined"--as she speaks, she turns her face toward the streaks of light that penetrate the shutters.--"Not yet, not ruined |
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