At about a quarter to eight my guests began to arrive, and one by one they all came in save two the brothers Respetti. While we were awaiting them, Ferrari entered in evening-dress, with the conscious air of a handsome man who knows he is looking his best. I readily admitted his charm of manner; had I not myself been subjugated and fascinated by it in the old happy, foolish days? He was enthusiastically greeted and welcomed back to Naples by all the gentlemen assembled, many of whom were his own particular friends. They embraced him in the impressionable style common to Italians, with the exception of the stately Duca di Marina, who merely bowed courteously, and inquired if certain families of distinction whom he named had yet arrived in Rome for the winter season. Ferrari was engaged in replying to these questions with his usual grace and ease and fluency, when a note was brought to me marked “Immediate.” It contained a profuse and elegantly worded apology from Carlo Respetti, who regretted deeply that an unforeseen matter of business would prevent himself and his brother from having the inestimable honor and delight of dining with me that evening. I thereupon rang my bell as a sign that the dinner need no longer be delayed; and, turning to those assembled, I announced to them the unavoidable absence of two of the party.

“A pity Francesco could not have come,” said Captain Freccia, twirling the ends of his long mustachios. “He loves good wine, and, better still, good company.”

“Caro Capitano!” broke in the musical voice of the Marchese Gualdro, “you know that our Francesco goes nowhere without his beloved Carlo. Carlo cannot come ­altro! Francesco will not. Would that all men were such brothers!”

“If they were,” laughed Luziano Salustri, rising from the piano where he had been playing softly to himself, “half the world would be thrown out of employment. You, for instance,” turning to the Marquis D’Avencourt, “would scarce know what to do with your time.”

The marquis smiled and waved his hand with a deprecatory gesture that hand, by the by, was remarkably small and delicately formed it looked almost fragile. Yet the strength and suppleness of D’Avencourt’s wrist was reputed to be prodigious by those who had seen him handle the sword, whether in play or grim earnest.

“It is an impossible dream,” he said, in reply to the remarks of Gualdro and Salustri, “that idea of all men fraternizing together in one common pig-sty of equality. Look at the differences of caste! Birth, breeding and education make of man that high-mettled, sensitive animal known as gentleman, and not all the socialistic theories in the world can force him down on the same level with the rough boor, whose flat nose and coarse features announce him as plebeian even before one hears the tone of his voice. We cannot help these things. I do not think we would help them even if we could.”

“You are quite right,” said Ferrari. “You cannot put race-horses to draw the plow. I have always imagined that the first quarrel the Cain and Abel affair must have occurred through some difference of caste as well as jealousy for instance, perhaps Abel was a negro and Cain a white man, or vice versa; which would account for the antipathy existing between the races to this day.”

The Duke di Marina coughed a stately cough, and shrugged his shoulders.

“That first quarrel,” he said, “as related in the Bible, was exceedingly vulgar. It must have been a kind of prize-fight. Ce n’etait pas fin.”

Gualdro laughed delightedly.

“So like you, Marina!” he exclaimed, “to say that! I sympathize with your sentiments! Fancy the butcher Abel piling up his reeking carcasses and setting them on fire, while on the other side stood Cain the green-grocer frizzling his cabbages, turnips, carrots, and other vegetable matter! What a spectacle! The gods of Olympus would have sickened at it! However, the Jewish Deity, or rather, the well-fed priest who represented him, showed his good taste in the matter; I myself prefer the smell of roast meat to the rather disagreeable odor of scorching vegetables!”

We laughed and at that moment the door was thrown open, and the head-waiter announced in solemn tones befitting his dignity

“Le diner de Monsieur lé Conte est servi!”

I at once led the way to the banqueting-room my guests followed gayly, talking and jesting among themselves. They were all in high good humor, none of them had as yet noticed the fatal blank caused by the absence of the brothers Respetti. I had for the number of my guests was now thirteen instead of fifteen. Thirteen at table! I wondered if any of the company were superstitious? Ferrari was not, I knew unless his nerves had been latterly shaken by witnessing the death of his uncle. At any rate, I resolved to say nothing that could attract the attention of my guests to the ill-omened circumstance; if any one should notice it, it would be easy to make light of it and of all similar superstitions. I myself was the one most affected by it it had for me a curious and fatal significance. I was so occupied with the consideration of it that I scarcely attended to the words addressed to me by the Duke di Marina, who, walking beside me, seemed disposed to converse with more familiarity than was his usual custom. We reached the door of the dining-room; which at our approach was thrown wide open, and delicious strains of music met our ears as we entered. Low murmurs of astonishment and admiration broke from all the gentlemen as they viewed the sumptuous scene before them. I pretended not to hear their eulogies, as I took my seat at the head of the table, with Guido Ferrari on my right and the Duke di Manna on my left. The music sounded louder and more triumphant, and while all the company were seating themselves in the places assigned to them, a choir of young fresh voices broke forth into a Neapolitan “madrigale” which as far as I can translate it ran as follows:

“Welcome the festal hour!
Pour the red wine into cups of gold!
Health to the men who are strong and bold!
Welcome the festal hour!
Waken the echoes with riotous mirth
Cease to remember the sorrows of earth
In the joys of the festal hour!
Wine is the monarch of laughter and light,
Death himself shall be merry to-night!
Hail to the festal hour!”

An enthusiastic clapping of hands rewarded this effort on the part of the unseen vocalists, and the music having ceased, conversation became general.

“By heaven!” exclaimed Ferrari, “if this Olympian carouse is meant as a welcome to me, amico, all I can say is that I do not deserve it. Why, it is more fit for the welcome of one king to his neighbor sovereign!”

“Ebbene!” I said. “Are there any better kings than honest men? Let us hope we are thus far worthy of each other’s esteem.”

He flashed a bright look of gratitude upon me and was silent, listening to the choice and complimentary phrases uttered by the Duke di Manna concerning the exquisite taste displayed in the arrangement of the table.

“You have no doubt traveled much in the East, conte,” said this nobleman. “Your banquet reminds me of an Oriental romance I once read, called ‘Vathek.’”

“Exactly ‘” exclaimed Guido “I think Oliva must be Vathek himself’”

“Scarcely!” I said, smiling coldly. “I lay no claim to supernatural experiences. The realities of life are sufficiently wonderful for me.”

Antonio Biscardi the painter, a refined, gentle-featured man, looked toward us and said modestly:

“I think you are right, conte. The beauties of nature and of humanity are so varied and profound that were it not for the inextinguishable longing after immortality which has been placed in every one of us, I think we should be perfectly satisfied with this world as it is.”

“You speak like an artist and a man of even temperament,” broke in the Marchese Gualdro, who had finished his soup quickly in order to be able to talk talking being his chief delight. “For me, I am never contented. I never have enough of anything! That is my nature. When I see lovely flowers, I wish more of them when I behold a fine sunset, I desire many more such sunsets when I look upon a lovely woman ”

“You would have lovely women ad infinitum!” laughed the French Capitaine de Hamal. “En vérité, Gualdro, you should have been a Turk!”

“And why not?” demanded Gualdro. “The Turks are very sensible people they know how to make coffee better than we do. And what more fascinating than a harem? It must be like a fragrant hot-house, where one is free to wander every day, sometimes gathering a gorgeous lily, sometimes a simple violet sometimes ” “A thorn?” suggested Salustri.

“Well, perhaps!” laughed the Marchese. “Yet one would run the risk of that for the sake of a perfect rose.”

Chevalier Mancini, who wore in his button-hole the decoration of the Legion d’Honneur, looked up he was a thin man with keen eyes and a shrewd face which, though at a first glance appeared stern, could at the least provocation break up into a thousand little wrinkles of laughter.

“There is undoubtedly something entrainant about the idea,” he observed, in his methodical way. “I have always fancied that marriage as we arrange it is a great mistake.”

“And that is why you have never tried it?” queried Ferrari, looking amused.

“Certissimamente!” and the chevalier’s grim countenance began to work with satirical humor. “I have resolved that I will never be bound over by the law to kiss only one woman. As matters stand, I can kiss them all if I like.”

A shout of merriment and cries of “Oh! oh!” greeted this remark, which Ferrari, however, did not seem inclined to take in good part.

“All?” he said, with a dubious air. “You mean all except the married ones?”

The chevalier put on his spectacles, and surveyed him with a sort of comic severity.

“When I said all, I meant all,” he returned “the married ones in particular. They, poor things, need such attentions and often invite them why not? Their husbands have most likely ceased to be amorous after the first months of marriage.”

I burst out laughing. “You are right, Mancini,” I said; “and even if the husbands are fools enough to continue their gallantries they deserve to be duped and they generally are! Come, amico.’” I added, turning to Ferrari, “those are your own sentiments you have often declared them to me.”

He smiled uncomfortably, and his brows contracted. I could easily perceive that he was annoyed. To change the tone of the conversation I gave a signal for the music to recommence, and instantly the melody of a slow, voluptuous Hungarian waltz-measure floated through the room. The dinner was now fairly on its way; the appetites of my guests were stimulated and tempted by the choicest and most savory viands, prepared with all the taste and intelligence a first rate chef can bestow on his work, and good wine flowed freely.

Vincenzo obediently following my instructions, stood behind my chair, and seldom moved except to refill Ferrari’s glass, and occasionally to proffer some fresh vintage to the Duke di Marina. He, however, was an abstemious and careful man, and followed the good example shown by the wisest Italians, who never mix their wines. He remained faithful to the first beverage he had selected a specially fine Chianti, of which he partook freely without its causing the slightest flush to appear on his pale aristocratic features. Its warm and mellow flavor did but brighten his eyes and loosen his tongue, inasmuch that he became almost as elegant a talker as the Marchese Gualdro. This latter, who scarce had a scudo to call his own, and who dined sumptuously every day at other people’s expense for the sake of the pleasure his company afforded, was by this time entertaining every one near him by the most sparkling stories and witty pleasantries.

The merriment increased as the various courses were served; shouts of laughter frequently interrupted the loud buzz of conversation, mingling with the clinking of glasses and clattering of porcelain. Every now and then might be heard the smooth voice of Captain Freccia rolling out his favorite oaths with the sonority and expression of a primo tenore; sometimes the elegant French of the Marquis D’Avencourt, with his high, sing-song Parisian accent, rang out above the voices of the others; and again, the choice Tuscan of the poet Luziano Salustri rolled forth in melodious cadence as though he were chanting lines from Dante or Ariosto, instead of talking lightly on indifferent matters. I accepted my share in the universal hilarity, though I principally divided my conversation between Ferrari and the duke, paying to both, but specially to Ferrari, that absolute attention which is the greatest compliment a host can bestow on those whom he undertakes to entertain.

We had reached that stage of the banquet when the game was about to be served the invisible choir of boys’ voices had just completed an enchanting stornello with an accompaniment of mandolines when a stillness, strange and unaccountable, fell upon the company a pause an ominous hush, as though some person supreme in authority had suddenly entered the room and commanded “Silence!” No one seemed disposed to speak or to move, the very footsteps of the waiters were muffled in the velvet pile of the carpets no sound was heard but the measured plash of the fountain that played among the ferns and flowers. The moon, shining frostily white through the one uncurtained window, cast a long pale green ray, like the extended arm of an appealing ghost, against one side of the velvet hangings a spectral effect which was heightened by the contrast of the garish glitter of the waxen tapers. Each man looked at the other with a sort of uncomfortable embarrassment, and somehow, though I moved my lips in an endeavor to speak and thus break the spell, I was at a loss, and could find no language suitable to the moment. Ferrari toyed with his wine-glass mechanically the duke appeared absorbed in arranging the crumbs beside his plate into little methodical patterns; the stillness seemed to last so long that it was like a suffocating heaviness in the air. Suddenly Vincenzo, in his office of chief butler, drew the cork of a champagne-bottle with a loud-sounding pop! We all started as though a pistol had been fired in our ears, and the Marchese Gualdro burst out laughing.

“Corpo di Baceo!” he cried. “At last you have awakened from sleep! Were you all struck dumb, amici, that you stared at the table-cloth so persistently and with such admirable gravity? May Saint Anthony and his pig preserve me, but for the time I fancied I was attending a banquet on the wrong side of the Styx, and that you, my present companions, were all dead men!”

“And that idea made you also hold your tongue, which is quite an unaccountable miracle in its way,” laughed Luziano Salustri. “Have you never heard the pretty legend that attaches to such an occurrence as a sudden silence in the midst of high festivity? An angel enters, bestowing his benediction as he passes through.”

“That story is more ancient than the church,” said Chevalier Mancini. “It is an exploded theory for we have ceased to believe in angels we call them women instead.”

“Bravo, mon vieux gaillard!” cried Captain de Hamal. “Your sentiments are the same as mine, with a very trifling difference. You believe women to be angels I know them to be devils mas il n’y agu’un pas entre es deux? We will not quarrel over a word a vôtre santé, mon cher!”

And he drained his glass, nodding to Mancini, who followed his example.

“Perhaps,” said the smooth, slow voice of Captain Freccia, “our silence was caused by the instinctive consciousness of something wrong with our party a little inequality which I dare say our noble host has not thought it worth while to mention.”

Every head was turned in his direction. “What do you mean?” “What inequality?” “Explain yourself!” chorused several voices.

“Really it is a mere nothing,” answered Freccia, lazily, as he surveyed with the admiring air of a gourmet the dainty portion of pheasant just placed before him. “I assure you, only the uneducated would care two scudi about such a circumstance. The excellent brothers Respetti are to blame their absence to-night has caused but why should I disturb your equanimity? I am not superstitious ma, chi sa? some of you may be.”

“I see what you mean!” interrupted Salustri, quickly. “We are thirteen at table!”