It was almost more than Franz could bear, his mind burned with the
anguished heat brought on by too much wine and the breathless crowds
swirling about in the streets in a mad dance of celebration. This had not
been a wise idea, he vaguely thought as a streamer twisted down from the
heavens and draped itself over his shoulder like a wanton maid dizzy from
the revelry that surrounded him. From his seat in the carriage, which was
all but standing still in the street crowded with writhing bodies, he
watched with glazed eyes as the young Viscount de Morcerf strutted like a
peacock and tried in vain to woo the masked Roman girls who flooded the
streets with swishing petticoats and unfurled waves of raven hair.
Albert, the young Viscount de Morcerf. As foolhardy and spoiled as any titled youth whom Nature had carved so fine a face for could be. Inconstant, spontaneous and devastating in a well-cut suit. Franz considered himself lucky to have such a friend. Such a dear friend, the toast of Paris and a sought after husband for any daughter of privilege whom he may deign worthy of his fancy. Dear, lovely Albert. How Franz longed to attain such splendor.
Destiny had not granted Franz such blessings, he had never fought off young ladies with his walking stick, had never been the toast of anything. Indeed, the Baron d'Epinay had always been too slight, too quiet, and too humble to ever find a niche in the high society of Paris. Instead, he chose to make his home in Italy. Italy, where the golden sun left him in peace and warmth that Paris could only imitate with her tarted-up face and eyes as cold and jagged as the Seine in winter.
It was Carnival in Rome. Franz himself was here for little other reason aside from escorting the Viscount, whom had never been to the shores of Italia. The spirit of the Carnival seemed to burn in Albert like the flame of his moccoletto. In Franz, the festivities were simply another task to attend to until Albert tired himself out and allowed them to retire to the hotel. The constant promenade of carriages and the sticky sweetmeats tossed by the handful, along with the unavoidable stench of the crowded Italian streets were wearing on Franz, he felt his head spinning faster than the light-footed creatures on the cobbles, who seemed to transform into their assumed disguises of the evening. Exotic birds spread their wings; lions and tigers extended their claws and bared gleaming fangs.
Franz closed his eyelids against the chimeras, allowing himself to lose sight of Albert just this once. Albert, wearing the false finery of an Italian peasant, a mockery of a modest shepherd's garb sewn in the fabrics of a prince, twirled an equally garishly styled peasant girl in mad circles before kissing her gloved hand and hopping lightly back into the carriage next to Franz. The roar of the crowd swallowed any words that spilled lazily from his lips, a boyish grin flashed at Franz as Albert no doubt extolled the questionable virtues of his mysterious dancing partner.
The Viscount's celebrating had caught up with him, his eyes sparkled with the intoxicated shine that was equal parts excitement and liquor, and his smile was loose and half-mad with exhaustion. His frame slumped and his head came to rest on Franz's shoulder, his silk eye mask still tied securely with trailing ribbons. Albert's flushed face tilted up toward Franz, "Home, Franz…" said the Viscount as his lids began to droop behind the mask.
The Baron d'Epinay relayed the command to their driver and the carriage jolted from its standstill through the slowly dispersing throng of fantastical creatures in the candlelit streets. Albert's head resting heavily on his shoulder told him that the younger man was fast asleep from the day's festivities, the scent of spirits and heat hung on his precious silks, placid face lit by a sliver of moonlight with his mask crossing the painfully beautiful portrait like a foreboding shadow. Franz tugged at the ribbons, which held his own mask in place, letting it tumble down round his collar. Bending near the masked face, Franz dropped the lightest of kisses on the Viscount's forehead.
In a half choked tenor, he whispered, "Sweet dreams, my dear Albert." As the streets of Rome trundled by, drenched in moonlight and littered with silk ribbons.
Albert, the young Viscount de Morcerf. As foolhardy and spoiled as any titled youth whom Nature had carved so fine a face for could be. Inconstant, spontaneous and devastating in a well-cut suit. Franz considered himself lucky to have such a friend. Such a dear friend, the toast of Paris and a sought after husband for any daughter of privilege whom he may deign worthy of his fancy. Dear, lovely Albert. How Franz longed to attain such splendor.
Destiny had not granted Franz such blessings, he had never fought off young ladies with his walking stick, had never been the toast of anything. Indeed, the Baron d'Epinay had always been too slight, too quiet, and too humble to ever find a niche in the high society of Paris. Instead, he chose to make his home in Italy. Italy, where the golden sun left him in peace and warmth that Paris could only imitate with her tarted-up face and eyes as cold and jagged as the Seine in winter.
It was Carnival in Rome. Franz himself was here for little other reason aside from escorting the Viscount, whom had never been to the shores of Italia. The spirit of the Carnival seemed to burn in Albert like the flame of his moccoletto. In Franz, the festivities were simply another task to attend to until Albert tired himself out and allowed them to retire to the hotel. The constant promenade of carriages and the sticky sweetmeats tossed by the handful, along with the unavoidable stench of the crowded Italian streets were wearing on Franz, he felt his head spinning faster than the light-footed creatures on the cobbles, who seemed to transform into their assumed disguises of the evening. Exotic birds spread their wings; lions and tigers extended their claws and bared gleaming fangs.
Franz closed his eyelids against the chimeras, allowing himself to lose sight of Albert just this once. Albert, wearing the false finery of an Italian peasant, a mockery of a modest shepherd's garb sewn in the fabrics of a prince, twirled an equally garishly styled peasant girl in mad circles before kissing her gloved hand and hopping lightly back into the carriage next to Franz. The roar of the crowd swallowed any words that spilled lazily from his lips, a boyish grin flashed at Franz as Albert no doubt extolled the questionable virtues of his mysterious dancing partner.
The Viscount's celebrating had caught up with him, his eyes sparkled with the intoxicated shine that was equal parts excitement and liquor, and his smile was loose and half-mad with exhaustion. His frame slumped and his head came to rest on Franz's shoulder, his silk eye mask still tied securely with trailing ribbons. Albert's flushed face tilted up toward Franz, "Home, Franz…" said the Viscount as his lids began to droop behind the mask.
The Baron d'Epinay relayed the command to their driver and the carriage jolted from its standstill through the slowly dispersing throng of fantastical creatures in the candlelit streets. Albert's head resting heavily on his shoulder told him that the younger man was fast asleep from the day's festivities, the scent of spirits and heat hung on his precious silks, placid face lit by a sliver of moonlight with his mask crossing the painfully beautiful portrait like a foreboding shadow. Franz tugged at the ribbons, which held his own mask in place, letting it tumble down round his collar. Bending near the masked face, Franz dropped the lightest of kisses on the Viscount's forehead.
In a half choked tenor, he whispered, "Sweet dreams, my dear Albert." As the streets of Rome trundled by, drenched in moonlight and littered with silk ribbons.