In the dusk
they could just discern the outlines of carved and gilded furniture, and
a Venice mirror gave back their faces like phantoms in a magic crystal.
"This is stifling," said Odo impatiently. "Would your Highness not be
better in the open?"
"No, no," she persisted. "Unbar the shutters and we shall have air
enough. I love a deserted house: I have always fancied that if one came
in noiselessly enough one might catch the ghosts of the people who used
to live in it."
He obeyed in silence, and the green-filtered forest noon filled the room
with a quiver of light. A chill stole upon Odo as he looked at the
dust-shrouded furniture, the painted harpsichord with green mould
creeping over its keyboard, the consoles set with empty wine flagons and
goblets of Venice glass. The place was like the abandoned corpse of
pleasure.
But Maria Clementina laughed and clapped her hands. "This is
enchanting," she cried, throwing herself into an arm-chair of threadbare
damask, "and I shall rest here while you refresh me with a glass of
Lacrima Christi from one of those dusty flagons. They are empty, you
say? Never mind, for I have a flask of cordial in my saddle-bag. Fetch
it, cousin, and wash these two glasses in the spring, that we may toast
all the dead lovers that have drunk out of them."
When Odo returned with the flask and glasses, she had brushed the dust
from a slender table of inlaid wood, and drawn a seat near her own. She
filled the two goblets with cordial and signed to Odo to seat himself
beside her.
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