Here the agitation of the Genoese got the better of him, and he walked aside, under a sense of shame, lest he might betray unmanly weakness.  In the mean time, the Baron de Willading advanced from the water-side, without suspecting that his presence was required for more than an act of simple courtesy.

“Baptiste tells me that gentlemen of Genoa are here, who are desirous of hastening to the games of Vevey,” said the latter, raising his beaver, “and that my presence may be of use in obtaining the pleasure of their company.”

“I will not unmask till we are fairly and decently embarked, Enrico,” whispered the Signor Grimaldi; “nay—­by the mass! not till we are fairly disembarked!  The laugh against him will never be forgotten.  Signore,” addressing the Bernese with affected composure, endeavoring to assume the manner of a stranger, though his voice trembled with eagerness at each syllable, “we are indeed of Genoa, and most anxious to be of the party in your bark—­but—­he little suspects who speaks to him, Marcelli!—­but, Signore, there has been some small oversight touching the city signatures, and we have need of friendly assistance, either to pass the gate, or to detain the bark until the forms of the place shall have been respected.’

“Signore, the city of Geneva hath need to be watchful, for it is an exposed and weak state, and I have little hope that my influence can cause this trusty watchman to dispense with his duty.  Touching the bark, a small gratuity will do much with honest Baptiste, should there not be a question of the stability of the breeze, in which case he might be somewhat of a loser.”

“You say the truth, noble Melchior,” put in the patron; “were the wind ahead, or were it two hours earlier in the morning, the little delay should not cost the strangers a batz—­that is to say, nothing unreasonable; but as it is, I have not twenty minutes more to lose, evep were all the city magistrates cloaking to be of the party, in their proper and worshipful persons.”

“I greatly regret, Sigriore, it should be so,” resumed the baron, turning to the applicant with the consideration of one accustomed to season his refusals by a gracious manner; “but these watermen have their secret signs, by which, it would seem, they know the latest moment they may with prudence delay.”

“By the mass!  Marcelli, I will try him a little—­should have known him in a carnival dress.  Signor Barone, we are but poor Italian gentlemen, it is true, of Genoa.  You have heard of our republic, beyond question—­the poor state of Genoa?”

“Though of no great pretensions to letters, Signore,” answered Melchior, smiling, “I am not quite ignorant that such a state exists.  You could not have named a city on the shores of your Mediterranean that would sooner warm my heart than this very town of which you speak.  Many of my happiest hours were passed within its walls, and often, even at this late day, do I live over again my life to recall the pleasures of that merry period.  Were there leisure, I could repeat a list of honorable and much esteemed names that are familiar to your ears, in proof of what I say.”