I retraced my steps
to the lane. The door (needless to say) was closed; but behind it,
not far within the garden, I heard a gentle persistent tapping, as of
a hammer, and wondered what it might mean.
It spoke eloquently for the Prince Camillo's zest after pleasure that
he pursued it abroad in spite of the weather, which was abominable.
A searching mistral blew through the streets for four days, parching
the blood, and on the night of the fourth rose to something like a
hurricane. Our players fought their way against it to the theatre,
only to find it empty; and returned in the lowest of spirits.
The pretty Bianca was especially disconsolate.
Before dawn the gale dropped, and between eleven o'clock and noon, in
a flat calm, the snow began, freezing as it fell.
The Prince Camillo did not show himself in the streets that day.
But towards dusk, as we passed down the Via Roma, he drove by in an
improvised sleigh with bells jingling on the necks of his horses.
He was bound for the theatre, which stood at the head of the street.
The Princess turned with me, and we were in time to see him alight
and run up the steps, radiant, wrapped in furs, and carrying a great
bouquet of pink roses, such as grow in the Genoese gardens throughout
the winter.
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