"Shall you take your wedding trip in a balloon?" asked the Boy
demurely; and this was the last straw. Gaeta did not make the faintest
protest when, soon after, it was announced that he and I thought of
leaving Aix on the morrow. I am not sure that she even heard my vague
apologies concerning a telegram from friends.
We all went to the opera at one of the Casinos that night. It was
"Rigoletto," and Gaeta and Paolo sat side by side, looking into each
other's eyes during the love scene in the first act. But the Boy was
adamant, and I did not turn a hair. He and I were much occupied in
wondering at the strange infatuation of the stage hero, but especially
the villain--quite a superior villain--for the heroine, who looked
like an elderly papoose: therefore we had no time to be jealous of
anything that went on under our noses. The party supped with me, _en
masse_, at my hotel; and afterwards I said good-bye to Gaeta.
She did not know that I had planned my journey with a thought of
seeing her at the end, and drowning my sorrows in flirtation; but the
Boy knew, and had not forgotten--the little wretch. I saw his thought
twinkling in his eyes, as I said debonairly that we might all meet on
the Riviera. If I had not sternly removed my gaze, I should probably
have burst out laughing, and precipitated a second duel in which I,
and not the Boy, would have been a principal.
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