Better Than Byron

The Continent Again

XVII

For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.

-Lord Byron

Edgar left England the following day, taking his daughter and her nurse with him. It was a spontaneous trip, but he knew where he was going and what he was doing. He was not so half-mad with grief and perplexed with life as he had been a decade ago, and he felt that he could live on without Margaret for at least a couple of years. He had no concrete plans for the future, but preferred living freely for the time being.

Once again he found himself on the Continent. He journeyed down to Italy, and at length stopped in Venice, where he had once bought a villa on a small, isolated island which had room only for the villa itself and a snug little garden at the back. They reached it by boat, and after spending two days settling in, Edgar was invited to a true Venetian evening party. Count Galdino, upon hearing of his old acquaintance's arrival in the city, had sent him an invitation to one of his well-known evening parties, which most often ended in the party drifting down the Canal in gondolas; singing and playing and lounging until dawn. It was everything a Venetian party should be.

When he departed, the sun was already beginning to set, casting its hot, vacillating colours on the green-blue water as his boatman rowed him away from his villa and towards the main land, which was at a ten-minute distance. He witnessed the sun slipping below the watery horizon, and then the moon and the stars shining upon the vibrant city. He was glad to be there, and yet these sights and sounds would have been infinitely more appreciated with Margaret. After arriving on land Edgar leapt out of his boat and transferred into a dog-cart that was waiting for him on the sidewalk. It took him deep into the city, and then he was conveyed to a gondola, from whence he was taken to the Count's residence. After leaping out of the gondola and paying the driver, he knocked energetically on the door and was quickly answered by the butler, who showed him in after casually inspecting his invitation card. The Count's parties were very exclusive, and were only attended by the nobility and by artistic men and women. Artists, as everybody knows, may mingle with any class.

He was led into the Count's boudoir, which was filled with the brightest beauties. Edgar was the only foreigner in the vicinity, but though his polished manners were those of an Englishmen, his garb was that of an Italian, and his complexion that of a Frenchman. As soon as the courteous Count had observed his old friend slinking in, he hallooed to him from across the room. Edgar rejoined him as swiftly as his long legs could take him, and then seated himself at Count Galdino's elbow beneath two baby palm-trees.

"You've hardly changed, my friend!" exclaimed the jovial, corpulent nobleman with a red fez hat, bringing his red wine up to his nose and inhaling its aroma sensuously. "I invited you to my home to introduce you to some pretty ladies."

"There is always a pretty lady where you are concerned, Count," he smirked, glancing round the room indifferently. "But I am no bachelor, free to give his heart to anyone who asks for it."

"You married, Turloh?" he asked sharply but not aggressively.

"No," he replied shortly.

"You engaged?"

"No."

"Then you are bachelor, my friend!"