The party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye upon
the young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied. I noticed
the same singular, and, as it were, furtive glance over the shoulder
that had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The party moved on, and
I followed; they passed along the walks called the Broglio; turned the
corner of the Ducal palace, and getting into a gondola, glided swiftly
away.
The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind. There
was something in his appearance that interested me exceedingly. I met
him a day or two after in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently a
connoisseur, for he always singled out the most masterly productions,
and the few remarks drawn from him by his companions showed an intimate
acquaintance with the art. His own taste, however, ran on singular
extremes. On Salvator Rosa in his most savage and solitary scenes; on
Raphael, Titian, and Corregio in their softest delineations of female
beauty. On these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm.
But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still would recur that
cautious glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn, as though
something terrible had met his view.
I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at balls, at
concerts; at the promenades in the gardens of San Georgio; at the
grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark; among the throng of
merchants on the Exchange by the Rialto.
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