Free Pleasure by Gabriele D'Annunzio

Andrea’s, who lived in Palazzo Roccagiovine, were very well attended. Her attraction lay especially in her witty cheerfulness, the freedom of her movements, her indefatigable smile. The joyful features of her face recalled certain feminine profiles in the drawings of the young Moreau, or in Gravelot’s vignettes. In her manner, in her tastes, in her dress style, there was something Pompadouresque, not without some affectation, because she did have a singular resemblance to Louis XV’s favorite mistress.
    Every Wednesday, Andrea Sperelli had a place at the marchioness’s dining table. One Tuesday evening, in a box at the Valle Theater, the marchioness had laughingly said to him:
    â€”Mind that you don’t miss tomorrow, Andrea. We have among our guests an
interesting
person, or rather,
fatal
. Therefore, arm yourself against the spell . . . You are in a moment of weakness.
    He had answered her, laughing:
    â€”I shall come vulnerable, if you don’t mind, cousin; rather, dressed as a victim. It’s an outfit I wear as a seduction ploy, which I’ve been wearing for many evenings; in vain, alas!
    â€”The sacrifice is at hand, cousin!
    â€”The victim is ready!
    The following evening he came to Palazzo Roccagiovine some minutes earlier than the customary hour, with a marvelous gardenia in his buttonhole and a vague disquiet at the base of his soul. His
coupé
had stopped in front of the main door, because the porte-cochère was already occupied by another carriage. The liveries, the horses, all the ceremony that accompanied the lady’s descent had the stamp of a great noble family. The count glimpsed a tall and slim figure, a hairstyle shot through with many diamonds, a small foot placed on the step. Then, as he, too, was ascending the stairs, he saw the lady from behind.
    She was going up before him, slowly, with a supple and measured pace. Her mantle lined with a snowy fur, like swansdown, no longer held up by its clasp, was lying loosely around her upper body, leaving her shoulders bare. Her shoulders emerged, pale as polished ivory, divided by a soft hollow with shoulder blades that, disappearing below the lace of her bodice, had a brief curve, like the sweet slope of wings; and from her shoulders rose her neck, agile and rounded; and from the nape of her neck her hair, gathered into a coil, folded over at the crown of her head to form a knot held in place by jeweled hairpins.
    That harmonious ascension of the unknown woman gave such intense delight to Andrea’s eyes that he stopped for an instant on the first landing to admire her. Her train rustled heavily on the stairs. Her manservant walked behind her, not in the wake of his lady on the red carpet, but to one side, along the wall, with an irreprehensible composure. The contrast between that magnificent creature and that rigid automaton was highly bizarre. Andrea smiled.
    In the antechamber, while the manservant was taking her mantle, the woman cast a rapid glance toward the young man who was entering. He heard being announced:
    â€”Her Excellency the Duchess of Scerni!
    Immediately afterward:
    â€”The Lord Count Sperelli-Fieschi of Ugenta!
    And it pleased him that his name was uttered alongside the name of that woman.
    In the reception room, the Marquis and Marchioness of Ateleta, the Baron and Baroness of Isola, and Don Filippo del Monte were already present. A fire burned in the fireplace; some couches were arranged in the glow of its heat; four
musae
palms stretched their wide red-veined leaves over the low backrests.
    The marchioness, coming forward to the two who by now were standing next to each other, said with her lovely, inextinguishable laugh:
    â€”As chance would have it, there’s no need to introduce the two of you. Cousin Sperelli, bow to the divine Elena.
    Andrea bowed deeply. The duchess gracefully offered him her hand, looking him in the eyes.
    â€”I am very glad to meet you, Count. A