In that country, love is so much a matter of course that the Duchess was regarded as a wonder; for, in spite of her violent attachment to Emilio, everybody was confident of her immaculate purity.  And women gave their sincere pity to the poor young man, who was regarded as a victim to the virtue of his lady-love.  At the same time, no one cared to blame the Duchess, for in Italy religion is a power as much respected as love.

Evening after evening Massimilla’s box was the first object of every opera-glass, and each woman would say to her lover, as she studied the Duchess and her adorer: 

“How far have they got?”

The lover would examine Emilio, seeking some evidence of success; would find no expression but that of a pure and dejected passion.  And throughout the house, as they visited from box to box, the men would say to the ladies: 

“La Cataneo is not yet Emilio’s.”

“She is unwise,” said the old women.  “She will tire him out.”

“Forse!” (Perhaps) the young wives would reply, with the solemn accent that Italians can infuse into that great word—­the answer to many questions here below.

Some women were indignant, thought the whole thing ill-judged, and declared that it was a misapprehension of religion to allow it to smother love.

“My dear, love that poor Emilio,” said the Signora Vulpato to Massimilla, as they met on the stairs in going out.

“I do love him with all my might,” replied the Duchess.

“Then why does not he look happy?”

Massimilla’s reply was a little shrug of her shoulders.

We in France—­France as the growing mania for English proprieties has made it—­can form no idea of the serious interest taken in this affair by Venetian society.

Vendramini alone knew Emilio’s secret, which was carefully kept between two men who had, for private pleasure, combined their coats of arms with the motto Non amici, frates.

The opening night of the opera season is an event at Venice, as in every capital in Italy.  The Fenice was crowded.

The five hours of the night that are spent at the theatre fill so important a place in Italian life that it is well to give an account of the customs that have risen from this manner of spending time.

The boxes in Italy are unlike those of any other country, inasmuch as that elsewhere the women go to be seen, and that Italian ladies do not care to make a show of themselves.  Each box is long and narrow, sloping at an angle to the front and to the passage behind.  On each side is a sofa, and at the end stand two armchairs, one for the mistress of the box, and the other for a lady friend when she brings one, which she rarely does.  Each lady is in fact too much engaged in her own box to call on others, or to wish to see them; also no one cares to introduce a rival.  An Italian woman almost always reigns alone in her box; the mothers are not the slaves of their daughters, the daughters have no mother on their hands; thus there are no children, no relations to watch and censure and bore, or cut into a conversation.