Even while wearing that garment--at thought of which Madonna Gemma,
isolate in her chamber, still shivered and moaned--Cercamorte
resembled one who prepares himself for a wedding, or gallant
rendezvous, that may take place any moment.
Sometimes, reeking with civet-oil, he crept to her door, eavesdropped,
pondered the quality of her sighs, stood hesitant, then stealthily
withdrew, grinding his teeth and wheezing:
"Not yet. Sweet saints in heaven, what a time it takes!"
He loathed his bed, because of the long hours of sleeplessness. He
no longer slept naked. At night, too, his body was encased in the
vest of whitish soft skin.
* * * * *
One morning a horseman in green and yellow scallops appeared before
the castle. It was Count Nicolotto Muti, elder brother of the
troubadour Raffaele.
Lapo, having arranged his features, came down to meet the count.
They kissed, and entered the keep with their arms round each other's
shoulders. Foresto brought in the guest-cup.
Nicolotto Muti was a thin, calm politician, elegant in his manners
and speech, his lips always wearing a sympathetic smile. By the
fireplace, after chatting of this and that, he remarked, with his
hand affectionately on Cercamorte's knee:
"I am trying to find trace of my little Raffaele, who has vanished
like a mist.
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