ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A street.—Enter Contarini and Steno.
Contarini.
Know you his name?
Steno.
Antonio Foscarini.
The same whom you a short time since despatched
On the embassy to Switzerland.
Contarini.
So soon
Returned?
Steno.
Some private cause of haste, it seems,
Hath brought him hither. But a few days past,
I know, he was not here.
Contarini.
Well—trace him out,
He’s desperate—and should be removed. Mark you?
Steno.
Signor, ’tis done.
Contarini.
Be wary—but be speedy. [Exit Steno.
Enter Fiorilla.
A lady! I must smooth this troubled brow,
For such fair meeting.
Fiorilla.
Well—my lord—
Contarini.
Fiorilla!
Fiorilla.
Am I so changed, that you scarce know me, sir?
Then doth my mirror flatter, for it tells me
Of features yet unaltered; and in truth
They might be—for short space of time hath passed
Since we last met.
Contarini.
They are all radiant still
With beauty—and would be, though years had striven
To steal some charm away. But those few days
Have wrought a change in me. I’m wedded—lady.
Fiorilla.
Wedded? Aye, I have heard the tale—but sooth,
It dwelt not in my mind. These idle rumors,
You know, my lord, even when they merit credence,
So lightly pass us by—we scarce are wont
To give them heed!
Contarini.
And yet I hoped once, lady,
Fiorilla would not heedlessly have listened
To aught that spoke of me!
Fiorilla.
Ha! ha!
Contarini.
My bride—
You have not seen her! Oh! her gentle beauty
Might rival yours!
Fiorilla.
Indeed!
Contarini.
The rose perchance
Upon her cheek wears not a bloom so rich;
Her brow may be less haughty—but ’tis moulded
In form as perfect.
Fiorilla.
Gallant cavalier!
Why in seclusion veil such matchless charms?
Contarini.
She seeks it.
Fiorilla.
Undisturbed to muse, no doubt,
On you, to greet you with a dearer welcome
When you invade her solitude. Happy bridegroom!
Whom no tormenting sprite of jealousy
Can haunt! whose treasured flower will yield its sweets
To him alone—none other!
Contarini.
She would jest;
Yet plays a smile too mocking on her lips
For courtesy!—Fiorilla—
Fiorilla.
Nay, my lord—
I would not that your gracious words be wasted
On one so worthless, when far dearer cares
Await you at your home. Your lady, doubtless,
Mourns for your absence; or—perchance I err,
Invokes the aid of some more courteous knight
To while away the hours.
Contarini.
Ha!
Fiorilla.
Only, signor,
A substitute. When the proud sun withdraws
His beams, we hail the star—less bright indeed,
That cheers the gloom.—Methinks I saw but now
Young Foscarini.—Ho! there.—
Enter Marco.
Farewell my lord—I’ll not detain you longer—
[Exit Contarini.
Let him go ponder on my words. Hence, Marco,
Seek Loredano, and entreat his presence
Now, at my house. [Exit Marco.] I will no longer pause
But strike the blow, and win a swift revenge! [Exit.