So through
Mantua and Bologna down to Florence, where, I think, the spirits of
Catharine and Cosmo linger yet, the women and the men all so soft-toned,
and silky, and sinful, and cruel. We did not stay long there, for we had
all visited it before once or twice, but kept on our way, by the upper
road, to Rome, till we reached our last halting-place--Civita
Castellana.
We were gathered round the wood fire after dinner (for the October
evenings grew chilly as they closed in); I don't know how it was that
Forrester began telling us about their flight.
"You ought to have seen Bella's baggage," he said, at last; "it was so
compact. You can't fancy any thing so tiny as the _sac de nuit_. A
courier's moneybag would make two of it. Then a vast cloak, and that's
all. Quite in light marching order."
"I wonder you are not ashamed to talk about baggage," his wife retorted.
"When we got to Dover, there was his servant with four immense
portmanteaus and a dressing-case nearly as large, waiting for us. Was it
not romantic?"
"Bah!" Charley said. "A man must have his comforts, even if he is
eloping. I am sure I arranged every thing superbly. I don't know how I
did it--an undeveloped talent for intrigue, I suppose.
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