different peoples. Were they gypsies? were they buccaneers?

"Suppose they're the devil himself," said divers young politicians,
"they entertain mighty well."

"The Comte de Lanty may have plundered some _Casbah_ for all I care; I
would like to marry his daughter!" cried a philosopher.

Who would not have married Marianina, a girl of sixteen, whose beauty
realized the fabulous conceptions of Oriental poets! Like the Sultan's
daughter in the tale of the _Wonderful Lamp_, she should have remained
always veiled. Her singing obscured the imperfect talents of the
Malibrans, the Sontags, and the Fodors, in whom some one dominant
quality always mars the perfection of the whole; whereas Marianina
combined in equal degree purity of tone, exquisite feeling, accuracy of
time and intonation, science, soul, and delicacy. She was the type of
that hidden poesy, the link which connects all the arts and which always
eludes those who seek it. Modest, sweet, well-informed, and clever, none
could eclipse Marianina unless it was her mother.

Have you ever met one of those women whose startling beauty defies the
assaults of time, and who seem at thirty-six more desirable than they
could have been fifteen years earlier? Their faces are impassioned
souls; they fairly sparkle; each feature gleams with intelligence;
each possesses a brilliancy of its own, especially in the light. Their
captivating eyes attract or repel, speak or are silent; their gait is
artlessly seductive; their voices unfold the melodious treasures of the
most coquettishly sweet and tender tones. Praise of their beauty, based
upon comparisons, flatters the most sensitive self-esteem. A movement of
their eyebrows, the slightest play of the eye, the curling of the lip,
instils a sort of terror in those whose lives and happiness depend upon
their favor. A maiden inexperienced in love and easily moved by words
may allow herself to be seduced; but in dealing with women of this sort,
a man must be able, like M. de Jaucourt, to refrain from crying out
when, in hiding him in a closet, the lady's maid crushes two of his
fingers in the crack of a door. To love one of these omnipotent sirens
is to stake one's life, is it not? And that, perhaps, is why we love
them so passionately! Such was the Comtesse de Lanty.

Filippo, Marianina's brother, inherited, as did his sister, the
Countess' marvelous beauty. To tell the whole story in a word, that
young man was a living image of Antinous