It was impossible for anybody, whose eye rested on the Marchese for an instant, as he sat amid the flowers in his carriage, to avoid seeing that there was something wrong with him—­that he was very unlike his usual self.  And every eye, as the carriages passed each other in the long procession, forming two lines as one passed down the street while the other moved in the contrary direction, did rest on him.  But it never for an instant entered into the head of a single human being there, to guess at anything like the real cause of the change in the Marchese.

“Time begins to tell on the Marchese; he takes too much out of himself; always busy—­no rest—­a bad thing!” said one.

“The Marchese Lamberto looks knocked up with this carnival.  Quite time for him that Lent was come,” said another.

“The fact is that the Marchese is growing old, and he wants more rest.  He has not a minute to himself,—­too many irons in the fire at once, said a third.

“I dare say he has been worried out of his life in getting this new Opera put upon the stage.  You’ll see he’ll be all right enough at the ball to-morrow night.”

“Is she in the Corso—­La Lalli?”

“Altro.  I should think so—­and looking so lovely.  What a woman she is!”

“Whereabouts is she?”

“About twenty carriages further ahead.  You’ll see her presently, when we are near the turn, sitting buried up to her waist nearly in flowers—­a regular Flora, and such a representative as the Goddess never had before.”

“Who has she got with her in her carriage?” asked the first speaker.  “I expected to have seen the Marchesino Ludovico there, but he is with the Conte Leandro, in one of the Castelmare carriages.”

“Che! catch her compromising herself in any such manner.  I wonder how much some of our friends would have given to have the place beside her to-day?  But not a bit of it:  she has got the old man she calls her father with her.”

“Funny, isn’t it?  I wonder what her game is?”

“Simply to work hard at her vocation, and make as much money as she can, I take it.  Probably you would find, if you got at the truth, some animal of a baritono robuato, who owns the Diva’s heart, and for whom she works and slaves.”

“Poverina! there are the Castelmare carriages coming round again.”

The manner of an Italian “Corso” is this:  A certain street, or streets—­the most adapted to the exigencies of the case that the city can supply—­is selected for the purpose; and when the line of carriages reaches the end of this, it turns and proceeds back again to the other end; turns again, and so on.  Thus, at each turn, every carriage in the line meets every other once in each circuit.