A ball-room is not a pleasant exercise-ground for a jealous man who
does not dance. No "bolgia" of the hell invented by the sombre
imagination of the great poet could have surpassed, in torment, the
Circolo ball-room on that last Carnival night to the Marchese
Lamberto.
The sight of the sorceress who had bewitched him, as he watched her
in the dance, had once again scattered to the winds all resolution,
all hope of the possibility of escaping from the toils. What was all
else that he desired to be put in comparison with that raging,
craving desire that he felt and sickened with for her? That was what
he really wanted--what he must have or die. It was madness to see
her, as he saw her then, in the arms of other men, laughing,
sparkling, brilliant with animation and enjoyment. Worst hell of all
to see her thus with his nephew, her admiration for whom she had
frankly confessed; whose ways with women he knew, and whose intimacy
with Bianca had already become suspicious to him.
Yet not the less did he stand and gaze, as they danced together,
clearly the handsomest and best-matched couple in the room--matched
so admirably evidently by design and forethought.
He had seen Ludovico and Bianca leave the ball-room, after the last
dance, together with the crowd of most of those who had been joining
in it, and had begun fluttering, poor moth, after the irresistible
attraction, to follow them towards the supper-room.
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