“The last tidings I had of thee, Melchior,” said the Italian, “was the letter sent by the Swiss Ambassador, who took our city in his way as he traveled south, and which was written on the occasion of the birth of this very girl.”

“Not of this, dear friend, but of an elder sister, who is, long since, a cherub in heaven.  Thou seest the ninth precious gift that God bestowed, and thou seest all that is now left of his bounty.”

The countenance of the Signor Grimaldi lost its joyousness, and a deep pause in the discourse succeeded.  They lived in an age when communications between friends that were separated by distance, and by the frontiers of different states, were rare and uncertain.  The fresh and novel affections of marriage had first broken an intercourse that was continued, under such disadvantages as marked the period, long after their duties called them different ways; and time, with its changes and the embarrassments of wars, had finally destroyed nearly every link in the chain of their correspondence.  Each had, therefore, much of a near and interesting character to communicate to the other, and each dreaded to speak, lest he might cause some wound, that was not perfectly healed, to bleed anew.  The volume of matter conveyed in the few words uttered by the Baron de Willading, showed both in how many ways they might inflict pain without intention, and how necessary it was to be guarded in their discourse during the first days of their renewed intercourse.

“This girl at least is a treasure of itself, of which I must envy thee the possession,” the Signor Grimaldi at length rejoined.

The Swiss made one of those quick movements which betray surprise, and it was very apparent, that, just at the moment, he was more affected by some interest of his friend, than by the apprehensions which usually beset him when any very direct allusion was made to his surviving child.

“Gaetano, thou hast a son!”

“He is lost—­hopelessly—­irretrievably lost—­at least, to me!”

These were brief but painful glimpses into each other’s concerns, and another melancholy and embarrassed pause followed.  As the Baron de Willading witnessed the sorrow that deeply shadowed the face of the Genoese, he almost felt that Providence, in summoning his own boys to early graves, might have spared him the still bitterer grief of mourning over the unworthiness of a living son.

“These are God’s decrees, Melchior,” the Italian continued of his own accord, “and we, as soldiers, as men, and more than either, as Christians, should know how to submit.  The letter, of which I spoke, contained the last direct tidings that I received of thy welfare, though different travellers have mentioned thee as among the honored and trusted of thy country, without descending to the particulars of thy private life.”

“The retirement of our mountains, and the little intercourse of strangers with the Swiss, have denied me even this meagre satisfaction as respects thee and thy fortunes.  Since the especial courier sent, according to our ancient agreement, to announce—­”