“I never remember,” writes the duc, “to have felt my spirits so excited as on that evening; we were like so many boys released from school, jostling each other as we reeled or ran down the flight of seven or eight stairs that led from the colonnade into the garden,—­some laughing, some whooping, some scolding, some babbling.  The wine had brought out, as it were, each man’s inmost character.  Some were loud and quarrelsome, others sentimental and whining; some, whom we had hitherto thought dull, most mirthful; some, whom we had ever regarded as discreet and taciturn, most garrulous and uproarious.  I remember that in the midst of our clamorous gayety, my eye fell upon the cavalier Signor Zanoni, whose conversation had so enchanted us all; and I felt a certain chill come over me to perceive that he wore the same calm and unsympathising smile upon his countenance which had characterised it in his singular and curious stories of the court of Louis xiv.  I felt, indeed, half-inclined to seek a quarrel with one whose composure was almost an insult to our disorder.  Nor was such an effect of this irritating and mocking tranquillity confined to myself alone.  Several of the party have told me since, that on looking at Zanoni they felt their blood yet more heated, and gayety change to resentment.  There seemed in his icy smile a very charm to wound vanity and provoke rage.  It was at this moment that the prince came up to me, and, passing his arm into mine, led me a little apart from the rest.  He had certainly indulged in the same excess as ourselves, but it did not produce the same effect of noisy excitement.  There was, on the contrary, a certain cold arrogance and supercilious scorn in his bearing and language, which, even while affecting so much caressing courtesy towards me, roused my self-love against him.  He seemed as if Zanoni had infected him; and in imitating the manner of his guest, he surpassed the original.  He rallied me on some court gossip, which had honoured my name by associating it with a certain beautiful and distinguished Sicilian lady, and affected to treat with contempt that which, had it been true, I should have regarded as a boast.  He spoke, indeed, as if he himself had gathered all the flowers of Naples, and left us foreigners only the gleanings he had scorned.  At this my natural and national gallantry was piqued, and I retorted by some sarcasms that I should certainly have spared had my blood been cooler.  He laughed heartily, and left me in a strange fit of resentment and anger.  Perhaps (I must own the truth) the wine had produced in me a wild disposition to take offence and provoke quarrel.  As the prince left me, I turned, and saw Zanoni at my side.

“‘The prince is a braggart,’ said he, with the same smile that displeased me before.  ’He would monopolize all fortune and all love.  Let us take our revenge.’

“‘And how?’