“I would,” said Taquisara.  “I would write.  I would see her—­I would empty hell and drag Satan out by the hair to help me, if the saints would not.  But you!  You sit still and die of love.  And when you are dead, what will you have?  A fine tomb out in the country, and lights, and crowns, and some masses—­but you will not get the woman you love.  It is not love that consumes you.  It is imagination.  You imagine that you are going to die, and unless you recover from this, you probably will.  With your temperament, the best thing you can do is to come with me to Sicily and forget all about Donna Veronica Serra.  No woman would ever look at a man who loves as you do.  She might pity you enough to marry you, if no one else presented himself just then; but when she was tired of pitying you she would love some one else.  It is not life to be always pitying.  That is the business of saints and nuns—­not of men and women.”

Gianluca was hurt by his friend’s tone.

“You admit that you never were in love,” he said; “how can you understand me?”

“That is just it!  I do not understand you.  But if I were you, I would take matters into my own hands.  I will wager anything you please that Donna Veronica has never so much as heard that you wish to marry her—­”

“But they have told her, of course!” interrupted Gianluca.  “They have asked her—­”

“Who told you so?” inquired Taquisara, incredulously.  “And if any one has told you, why should you believe it?  There are several millions on the one side, which Macomer wishes to possess, and there can be nothing on the other but the word of one of the interested persons.  You have met her in the world and exchanged a few words—­that has been all—­”

“I have spoken with her five times,” said Gianluca, thoughtfully.

“Have you counted?” Taquisara smiled.  “Very good—­five times—­seventeen, if you like—­you, sitting on the edge of your chair and opening your eyes wide to see her profile while she was looking at her aunt—­you, saying that it was a fine day, or that Tamagno was a great singer; and she, saying ‘yes’ to everything.  And you love her.  Well, no doubt.  I could love a woman with whom I might never have spoken at all—­surely—­and why not?  But you take it for granted that she knows you love her and expects you to ask for her, and has been told that you have done so and has herself dictated the refusal.  You are credulous and despondent, and you are not strong.  Besides, you sit here all day long, brooding and doing nothing but expecting to die, and hoping that she will shed a tear when she hears of your untimely end.  Is that what you call making love in Naples?”

“I have told you that I can do nothing.”

“It does not follow that there is nothing to be done.”

“What is there, for instance?”

“Go to the Palazzo Macomer and find out the truth yourself.  Write to her—­take your place before the door and stand there day and night until she sees you and notices you.”  Taquisara laughed.  “Do anything—­but do not sit here waiting to die in cotton wool with your feet to the fire and your head in the clouds.”