Villa Palmarosa, situated on the slope of a hill whose rugged summit was exposed to the ravages of Ætna, had existed for centuries amid continual disasters which it had been privileged to contemplate undisturbed. The palace was very old, of a graceful type of architecture, borrowed from Saracen models. The ball-room, which now concealed the façade of the ground-floor, presented a striking contrast to the dark coloring and severe decorations of the upper floors. Within, the contrast was even more striking. While all was uproar and confusion on the ground floor, all was tranquillity, order and mystery on the floor above, where the princess lived. At meal times Michel entered that silent portion of the mansion, for the little room with the glass door, where he had supped with his father on the first evening, was reserved for him, as a special and mysterious favor. They were all alone there, and if the curtain moved again, the movement was so slight that Michel could not be certain that he had inspired a romantic passion in the first lady's-maid's breast. The palace being built against the cliff, the princess's apartments were on a level with terraces embellished with flower-beds and fountains; and by descending a narrow flight of steps, boldly cut in the lava, one could reach by that means the park and the open country. Once Michel wandered into those Babylonian flower-gardens suspended over a terrifying abyss. He saw the windows of the princess's boudoir, which was two hundred feet above the main entrance of the palace, and yet she could go out of doors to walk without descending a single step. Such boldness of conception and such charm in the construction of a dwelling made him giddy both physically and mentally. But he never saw the queen of that enchanted abode. At the times when he went up to her apartments she was taking a siesta or receiving visits from her intimate friends in the salons on the second floor.