“Bah!  Salustri, caro mio, you are half asleep!” returned Gualdro.  “’Tis the wine talks, not you.  Thou art conquered by the bottle, amico.  You, the darling of all the women in Naples, to talk of one!  Buona notte, bambino!”

I still maintained my standing position, leaning my two hands on the table before me.

“What our worthy Gualdro says,” I went on, “is perfectly true.  I have been noted for my antipathy to the fair sex.  I know it.  But when one of the loveliest among women comes out of her way to tempt me—­when she herself displays the matchless store of her countless fascinations for my attraction—­when she honors me by special favors and makes me plainly aware that I am not too presumptuous in venturing to aspire to her hand in marriage—­what can I do but accept with a good grace the fortune thrown to me by Providence?  I should be the most ungrateful of men were I to refuse so precious a gift from Heaven, and I confess I feel no inclination to reject what I consider to be the certainty of happiness.  I therefore ask you all to fill your glasses, and do me the favor to drink to the health and happiness of my future bride.”

Gualdro sprung erect, his glass held high in the air; every man followed his example, Ferrari rose to his feet with some unsteadiness, while the hand that held his full champagne glass trembled.

The Duke di Marina, with a courteous gesture, addressed me:  “You will, of course, honor us by disclosing the name of the fair lady whom we are prepared to toast with all befitting reverence?”

“I was about to ask the same question,” said Ferrari, in hoarse accents—­his lips were dry, and he appeared to have some difficulty in speaking.  “Possibly we are not acquainted with her?”

“On the contrary,” I returned, eying him steadily with a cool smile.  “You all know her name well!  Illustrissimi Signori!” and my voice rang out clearly—­“to the health of my betrothed wife, the Contessa Romani!”

“Liar!” shouted Ferrari—­and with all a madman’s fury he dashed his brimming glass of champagne full in my face!  In a second the wildest scene of confusion ensued.  Every man left his place at table and surrounded us.  I stood erect and perfectly calm—­wiping with my handkerchief the little runlets of wine that dripped from my clothing—­the glass had fallen at my feet, striking the table as it fell and splitting itself to atoms.

“Are you drunk or mad, Ferrari?” cried Captain de Hamal, seizing him by the arm—­“do you know what you have done?”

Ferrari glared about him like a tiger at bay—­his face was flushed and swollen like that of a man in apoplexy—­the veins in his forehead stood out like knotted cords—­his breath came and went hard as though he had been running.  He turned his rolling eyes upon me.  “Damn you!” he muttered through his clinched teeth—­then suddenly raising his voice to a positive shriek, he cried, “I will have your blood if I have to tear your heart for it!”—­and he made an effort to spring upon me.  The Marquis D’Avencourt quietly caught his other arm and held it as in a vise.