the most beautiful women of Rome had bared their bosoms and adorned them
with precious stones. It was for them that their Majesties had entered to
the strains of the Royal March, for them that the /fete/ was becoming
like an apotheosis, for them that a fondly loved queen was smiling,
appearing at that betrothal /gala/ like the good fairy of the nursery
tales, whose coming betokens life-long happiness. And for Prada, this
wondrously brilliant hour when good fortune and joyfulness attained their
apogee, was one of defeat. It was fraught with the victory of that woman
who had refused to be his wife in aught but name, and of that man who now
was about to take her from him: such a public, ostentatious, insulting
victory that it struck him like a buffet in the face. And not merely did
his pride and passion bleed for that: he felt that the triumph of the
Saccos dealt a blow to his fortune. Was it true, then, that the rough
conquerors of the North were bound to deteriorate in the delightful
climate of Rome, was that the reason why he already experienced such a
sensation of weariness and exhaustion? That very morning at Frascati in
connection with that disastrous building enterprise he had realised that
his millions were menaced, albeit he refused to admit that things were
going badly with him, as some people rumoured. And now, that evening,
amidst that /fete/ he beheld the South victorious, Sacco winning the day
like one who feeds at his ease on the warm prey so gluttonously pounced
upon under the flaming sun.

And the thought of Sacco being a minister, an intimate of the King,
allying himself by marriage to one of the noblest families of the Roman
aristocracy, and already laying hands on the people and the national
funds with the prospect of some day becoming the master of Rome and
Italy--that thought again was a blow for the vanity of this man of prey,
for the ever voracious appetite of this enjoyer, who felt as if he were
being pushed away from table before the feast was over! All crumbled and