ed his palazzo, and he was sadder than ever. The Duchess' gondola
had vanished in the Canareggio.

These fantastic pictures of a romantic and perilous existence, as the
outcome of his love, went out with his cigar, and his lady's gondola
no longer traced his path. Then he saw the present in its real light:
a palace without a soul, a soul that had no effect on the body, a
principality without money, an empty body and a full heart--a thousand
heartbreaking contradictions. The hapless youth mourned for Venice as
she had been,--as did Vendramini, even more bitterly, for it was a great
and common sorrow, a similar destiny, that had engendered such a warm
friendship between these two young men, the wreckage of two illustrious
families.

Emilio could not help dreaming of a time when the palazzo Memmi poured
out light from every window, and rang with music carried far away over
the Adriatic tide; when hundreds of gondolas might be seen tied up to
its mooring-posts, while graceful masked figures and the magnates of the
Republic crowded up the steps kissed by the waters; when its halls and
gallery were full of a throng of intriguers or their dupes; when
the great banqueting-hall, filled with merry feasters, and the upper
balconies furnished with musicians, seemed to harbor all Venice coming
and going on the great staircase that rang with laughter.

The chisels of the greatest artists of many centuries had sculptured the
bronze brackets supporting long-necked or pot-bellied Chinese vases, and
the candelabra for a thousand tapers. Every country had furnished some
contribution to the splendor that decked the walls and ceilings. But
now the panels were stripped of the handsome hangings, the melancholy
ceilings were speechless and sad. No Turkey carpets, no lustres bright
with flowers, no statues, no pictures, no more joy, no money--the great
means to enjoyment! Venice, the London of the Middle Ages, was falling
stone by stone, man by man. The ominous green weed which the sea washes
and kisses at the foot of every palace, was in the Prince's eyes, a
black fringe hung by nature as an omen of death.

And finally, a great English poet had rushed down on Venice like a raven
on a corpse, to croak out in lyric poetry--the first and last utterance
of social man--the burden of a _de profundis_. English poetry! Flung
in the face of the city that had given birth to Italian poetry! Poor
Venice!

Conceive, then, of the young man's amazement