Taquisara | Page 4

life in the Palazzo Macomer, for months at a time. He
was free to go and come as he pleased, and since he preferred the
country, she wondered why he did not live out of town altogether. His
existence was the more incomprehensible to her, as he rarely lost an
opportunity of finding fault with Naples as a city and with the
Neapolitans as human beings. Sometimes he did not leave the house for
many days, as he frankly admitted, preferring the little apartment in the
upper story of the house, where he lived independently, with one old

servant, amongst his books and his pictures, appearing downstairs only
at dinner, and not always then. His place was always ready for him, but
no one ever remarked his absence, nor inquired where he might be
when he chose to stay away.
He was on excellent terms with every one. The servants adored him,
while they feared his brother and disliked the countess; when he
appeared he never failed to kiss the countess's hand, and to exchange a
friendly word or two with Gregorio; but as for the latter, Bosio made no
secret of the fact that he preferred the society of the ladies of the
household to that of the count, with whom he had little in common. He
certainly admired his sister-in-law, and more than once frankly
confessed to Veronica that in his opinion Matilde Macomer was still
the most beautiful woman in the world. Yet Veronica had observed that
he was critical of looks in other women, and she thought his criticisms
generally just and in good taste. For her part, however, if he chose to
consider her middle-aged aunt lovely, Veronica would not contradict
him, for she was cautious in a certain degree, and in spite of herself she
distrusted her surroundings.
There were times when the Countess Macomer inspired her with
confidence. Those very beautiful dark eyes of hers had but one defect,
namely, that they were quite too near together; but they were still the
best features in the elder woman's face, and when Veronica looked at
them from such an angle as not to notice their relative position, she
almost believed that she could trust them. But she never liked the
smooth red lips, nor the over-pointed nose, which had something of the
falcon's keenness without its nobility. The thick and waving brown hair
grew almost too low on the white forehead, and, whether by art or
nature, the eyebrows were too broad and too dark for the face, though
they were so well placed as to greatly improve the defect of the
close-set eyes. There was a marvellous genuine freshness of colour in
the clear complexion, and the woman carried her head well upon a
really magnificent neck. She was strong and vital and healthy, and her
personality was as distinctly dominating as her physical self. Yet she
was generally very careful not to displease her husband, even when he
was capricious, and Veronica was sometimes surprised by the apparent

weakness with which she yielded to him in matters about which she
had as good a right as he to an opinion and a decision. The girl
supposed that her aunt was not so strong as she seemed to be, when
actually brought face to face with the rough ice of Gregorio Macomer's
character.
Veronica made her observations discreetly and kept them to herself, as
was not only becoming but wise. At first the change from the
semi-cloistered existence of the convent in Rome to the life at the
Palazzo Macomer had dazzled the girl and had confused her ideas. But
with the natural desire of the very young to seem experienced, she had
begun by manifesting no surprise at anything she saw; and she had
soon discovered that, although she was supposed to be living in the
society of the most idle and pleasure-loving city in the world, her
surroundings were in reality neither gay nor dazzling, but decidedly
monotonous and dull. She had dim, childish memories of magnificent
things in her father's house, though the main impression was that of his
death, following closely, as she had been told, upon her mother's. Of
the latter, she could remember nothing. In dreams she saw beautiful
things, and brilliant light and splendid pictures and enchanted gardens,
and when she awoke she felt that the dreams had been recollections of
what she had seen, and of what still belonged to her. But she sought the
reality in vain. The grand old palace in the Toledo was hers, she was
told, but it was let for a term of years to the municipality and was filled
with public offices; the marble staircases were black and dingy with the
passing of many feet that tracked in the mud in