When Andrea Sperelli entered the room with the Princess di Ferentino, he looked about him rapidly with a secret tremor--Is _she_ here? he said to himself.
She was there, seated at the table between the Cavaliere Davila and Don Filippo del Monte. Before her on the table lay her gloves and her muff, to which a little bunch of violets was fastened. She held in her hand a little bas-relief in silver, attributed to Caradosso Foppa, which she was examining with great attention. Each article passed from hand to hand along the table while the auctioneer proclaimed its merits in a loud voice, those standing behind the line of chairs leaning over to look.
'Make your bids, gentlemen! make your bids!' cried the auctioneer from time to time.
Some amateur encouraged by this cry bid a higher sum with his eye on his competitors. The auctioneer raised his hammer.
He rapped the table. The article fell to the last bidder. A murmur went round the assemblage, then the bidding recommenced. The Cavaliere Davila, a Neapolitan gentleman of gigantic stature and almost femininely gentle manners, a noted collector and connoisseur of majolica, gave his opinion on each article of importance. Three lots in this sale of the Cardinal's effects were really of 'superior' quality: the Story of Narcissus, the rock-crystal goblet, and an embossed silver helmet by Antonio del Pollajuolo presented by the City of Florence to the Count of Urbino in 1472 for services rendered during the taking of Volterra.
'Here is the Princess,' said Filippo del Monte to the Duchess.
Elena rose and shook hands with her friend.
'Already in the field!' exclaimed the Princess.
Four or five young men--the Duke of Grimiti, Roberto Casteldieri, Ludovico Barbarisi, Gianetto Rutolo--drew up round them. Others joined them. The rattle of the rain against the windows almost drowned their voices.
Elena held out her hand frankly to Sperelli as to everybody else, but somehow he felt that that handshake set him at a distance from her. Elena seemed to him cold and grave. That instant sufficed to freeze and destroy all his dreams; his memories of the preceding evening grew confused and dim, the torch of hope was extinguished. What had happened to her?--She was not the same woman. She was wrapped in the folds of a long otter-skin coat, and wore a toque of the same fur on her head. There was something hard, almost contemptuous, in the expression of her face.