No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now
receive her child --she will press it to her heart --she will cling to
its little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas! another's
arms have taken it from the stranger --another's arms have taken it
away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the
Marchesa! Her lip --her beautiful lip trembles: tears are gathering in
her eyes --those eyes which, like Pliny's acanthus, are "soft and
almost liquid." Yes! tears are gathering in those eyes-and see! the
entire woman thrills throughout the soul, and the statue has started
into life! The pallor of the marble countenance, the swelling of the
marble bosom, the very purity of the marble feet, we behold suddenly
flushed over with a tide of ungovernable crimson; and a slight shudder
quivers about her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about
the rich silver lilies in the grass.
Why should that lady blush! To this demand there is no answer
--except that, having left, in the eager haste and terror of a
mother's heart, the privacy of her own boudoir, she has neglected to
enthrall her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly forgotten to
throw over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which is their due.
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