The chisels of the greatest artists of many centuries had sculptured the bronze brackets supporting long-necked or pot-bellied Chinese vases, and the candelabra for a thousand tapers.  Every country had furnished some contribution to the splendor that decked the walls and ceilings.  But now the panels were stripped of the handsome hangings, the melancholy ceilings were speechless and sad.  No Turkey carpets, no lustres bright with flowers, no statues, no pictures, no more joy, no money—­the great means to enjoyment!  Venice, the London of the Middle Ages, was falling stone by stone, man by man.  The ominous green weed which the sea washes and kisses at the foot of every palace, was in the Prince’s eyes, a black fringe hung by nature as an omen of death.

And finally, a great English poet had rushed down on Venice like a raven on a corpse, to croak out in lyric poetry—­the first and last utterance of social man—­the burden of a de profundis.  English poetry!  Flung in the face of the city that had given birth to Italian poetry!  Poor Venice!

Conceive, then, of the young man’s amazement when roused from such meditations by Carmagnola’s cry: 

“Serenissimo, the palazzo is on fire, or the old Doges have risen from their tombs!  There are lights in the windows of the upper floor!”

Prince Emilio fancied that his dream was realized by the touch of a magic wand.  It was dusk, and the old gondolier could by tying up his gondola to the top step, help his young master to land without being seen by the bustling servants in the palazzo, some of whom were buzzing about the landing-place like bees at the door of a hive.  Emilio stole into the great hall, whence rose the finest flight of stairs in all Venice, up which he lightly ran to investigate the cause of this strange bustle.

A whole tribe of workmen were hurriedly completing the furnishing and redecoration of the palace.  The first floor, worthy of the antique glories of Venice, displayed to Emilio’s waking eyes the magnificence of which he had just been dreaming, and the fairy had exercised admirable taste.  Splendor worthy of a parvenu sovereign was to be seen even in the smallest details.  Emilio wandered about without remark from anybody, and surprise followed on surprise.

Curious, then, to know what was going forward on the second floor, he went up, and found everything finished.  The unknown laborers, commissioned by a wizard to revive the marvels of the Arabian nights in behalf of an impoverished Italian prince, were exchanging some inferior articles of furniture brought in for the nonce.  Prince Emilio made his way into the bedroom, which smiled on him like a shell just deserted by Venus.  The room was so charmingly pretty, so daintily smart, so full of elegant contrivance, that he straightway seated himself in an armchair of gilt wood, in front of which a most appetizing cold supper stood ready, and, without more ado, proceeded to eat.