Over its arched and pillared entrance there was a balcony, richly hung
with tapestry and damask, and tenanted, for the time, by a gentleman of
venerable aspect and a group of ladies. The white hair and whiskers of
the former, and the winter roses in his cheeks, had an English look; the
ladies, too, showed a fair-haired Saxon bloom, and seemed to taste the
mirth of the Carnival with the freshness of spectators to whom the scene
was new. All the party, the old gentleman with grave earnestness, as if
he were defending a rampart, and his young companions with exuberance of
frolic, showered confetti inexhaustibly upon the passers-by.
In the rear of the balcony, a broad-brimmed, ecclesiastical beaver was
visible. An abbate, probably an acquaintance and cicerone of the English
family, was sitting there, and enjoying the scene, though partially
withdrawn from view, as the decorum for his order dictated.
There seemed no better nor other course for Kenyon than to keep watch at
this appointed spot, waiting for whatever should happen next. Clasping
his arm round a lamp-post, to prevent being carried away by the
turbulent stream of wayfarers, he scrutinized every face, with the idea
that some one of them might meet his eyes with a glance of intelligence.
He looked at each mask,--harlequin, ape, bulbous-headed monster, or
anything that was absurdest,--not knowing but that the messenger might
come, even in such fantastic guise. Or perhaps one of those quaint
figures, in the stately ruff, the cloak, tunic, and trunk-hose of three
centuries ago, might bring him tidings of Hilda, out of that long-past
age. At times his disquietude took a hopeful aspect; and he fancied that
Hilda might come by, her own sweet self, in some shy disguise which the
instinct Of his love would be sure to penetrate. Or, she might be
borne past on a triumphal car, like the one just now approaching, its
slow-moving wheels encircled and spoked with foliage, and drawn by
horses, that were harnessed and wreathed with flowers. Being, at best,
so far beyond the bounds of reasonable conjecture, he might anticipate
the wildest event, or find either his hopes or fears disappointed in
what appeared most probable.
The old Englishman and his daughters, in the opposite balcony, must have
seen something unutterably absurd in the sculptor's deportment, poring
into this whirlpool of nonsense so earnestly, in quest of what was to
make his life dark or bright. Earnest people, who try to get a reality
out of human existence, are necessarily absurd in the view of the
revellers and masqueraders. At all events, after a good deal of mirth at
the expense of his melancholy visage, the fair occupants of the balcony
favored Kenyon with a salvo of confetti, which came rattling about him
like a hailstorm. Looking up instinctively, he was surprised to see
the abbate in the background lean forward and give a courteous sign of
recognition.