“A thousand devils!—­no,” was Nobili’s irate reply, pushing him back.  “Let me go up; I shall say nothing.  Cospetto!  What is it to me?”

“Thanks! thanks!  The excellency is full of mercy to an old, overworked servant.  There was a time when the Boccarini—­”

Nobili did not wait to hear more, but strode through the darkness at hazard, to find the stairs.

“Stop! stop! the excellency will break his limbs against the wall!” the old man shouted.

He fumbled in his pocket, and drew out some matches.  He struck one against the wall, held it above his head, and pointed with his bony finger to a broad stone stair under an inner arch.

Nobili ascended rapidly; he was in no mood for delay.  The old man, standing at the foot, struck match after match to light him.

“Above, excellency, you will find our usual lamps.  You must go on to the second story.”

On the landing at the first floor there was still a little daylight from a window as big as if set in the tribune of a cathedral.  Here a lamp was placed on an old painted table.  Some moth-eaten tapestry hung from a mildewed wall.  Here and there a rusty nail had given way, and the stuff fell in downward folds.  Nobili paused.  His head was hot and dizzy.  He had dined well, and he had drunk freely.  His eyes traveled upward to the old tapestry—­(it was the daughter of Herodias dancing before Herod the cancan of the day).  Something in the face and figure of the girl recalled Nera to him, or he fancied it—­his mind being full of her.  Nobili envied Herod in a dreamy way, who, with round, leaden eyes, a crown upon his head—­watched the dancing girl as she flung about her lissome limbs.  Nobili envied Herod—­and the thought came across him, how pleasant it would be to sit royally enthroned, and see Nera gambol so!  From that—­quicker than I can write it—­his thoughts traveled backward to that night when he had danced with Nera at the Orsetti ball.  Again the refrain of that waltz buzzed in his ear.  Again the measure rose and fell in floods of luscious sweetness—­again Nera lay within his arms—­her breath was on his cheek—­the perfume of the flowers in her flossy hair was wafted in the air—­the blood stirred in his veins.

The old man said truly.  All the way up the second stair was lit by little lamps, fed by mouldy oil; and all the way up that waltz rang in Nobili’s ear.  It mounted to his brain like fumes of new wine tapped from the skin.  A green door of faded baize faced him on the upper landing, and another bell—­a red tassel fastened to a bit of whipcord.  He rang it hastily.  This time a servant came promptly.  He carried in his hand a lamp of brass.

“Did the ladies receive?”

“They did,” was the answer; and the servant held the lamp aloft to light Nobili into the anteroom.

This anteroom was as naked as a barrack.  The walls were painted in a Raphaelesque pattern, the coronet and arms of the Boccarini in the centre.