The legend had never
reached his hears, nobody (for a wonder) having dared to mention it to
him.
Another wreath, from Count Caloveglia--an uncommonly pretty one, with a
simple but heartfelt inscription--created legitimate surprise. Those
white camellias, people reckoned, could not have cost less than twenty
francs, and everybody knew that the dear old boy was as poor as a
church mouse and that, moreover, he had enjoyed nothing but a bowing
acquaintance with the deceased lady. He had indeed only spoken to her
once in his life. But her face--her face had left an indelible
impression on his sensitive and artistic mind.
There was something Greek about Count Caloveglia. His pedigree,
uncontaminated by Moor or Spaniard, went back to hoariest antiquity.
Many people said he was a reincarnation of old Hellas. Elbowing his way
through crowded cities or chatting with sunburnt peasant-lads among the
vineyards, he received thrills of pleasurable inspiration--thrills to
which grosser natures are inaccessible.
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