The Bellini Card

38

Pop! Pop! Corks flew. The boys were in ecstasies.

“I say, Palewski!” Compston’s eyes shone. “I say!”

“To Venice,” Palewski proposed.

They drank again. Palewski filled their glasses.

“And what is Venice, gentlemen? The city of pleasure. Masques, balls, the Arabian nights reborn-a place of love and squalor, of high art-and low desire.”

The young men tittered.

“I daresay you’ve been to the Doges’ Palace? To the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni? And the Accademia? Of course, of course. To art, gentlemen! To the glory of Bellini, and Tiepolo, and Titian!”

“To art!” they chorused enthusiastically.

“Tell the truth,” said Compston, “I’ve seen about as much art as I could want.”

Fizerly nodded. “Writing it all up for the ladies at home, too. Bit grueling, Palewski.”

“Karolyi?”

But Count Karolyi, too, seemed to have flagged beneath the deluge of Venetian art. “It is all very old,” he said. “Nothing new.”

Palewski nodded. “You are right. It’s all old. Wonderful but frozen. To frozen Venice!”

They drank.

“‘S’all very well for you, Palewski,” Compston declared with a wink.

“I think you are right, Mr. Compston,” Karolyi said. “Count Palewski’s Venice does not appear to be all frozen.” He gave his host a thin-lipped smile.

“To which end, gentlemen, I have arranged for you to meet some charming young friends of mine,” Palewski continued smoothly. “I believe I hear them now on the stairs.”

He went to the door and pulled it open.

“Here they are. Please consider my home as your own.”

He stepped out onto the landing. Maria tapped him with her fan and smiled.

The three young men stood, unsteadily, as Maria and her friends entered the room, laughing.

Avanti, sorelle!”