“It must have been the count,” I said, thinking aloud.

“A count!  A pretty sort of count, indeed, to come waking people from their beds in the night!  He had not even a high hat like the one you wear when you go to the University.  A count, indeed!”

“Go and make me some good coffee, Mariuccia,” I said, eying her severely to show I suspected her of having used mine; “and be careful to make it of my best Porto-Rico, if you have any left, without any chicory.”

“A count, indeed!” she muttered angrily as she hobbled away, not in the least heeding my last remark, which I believed to be withering.

I had not much time for reflection that morning.  My old clothes were in tatters, and the others looked very fine by contrast, so that when I had made my toilet I felt better able to show myself to the distinguished company I expected.  I had seen so much extraordinary endurance in Nino and Hedwig during the last two or three days that I was prepared to see them appear at any moment, brushed and curled and ready for anything.  The visit of the count, however, had seriously disturbed me, and I hardly knew what to look for from him.  As it turned out, I had not long to wait.

I was resting myself in the arm-chair, and smoking one of those infamous cigars that nearly suffocate me, just for company, and I was composing in my mind a letter to the authorities of the University, requesting that I might begin to lecture again.  I did not find out until later that I need not have written to them at all when I went away, as ten days are always allowed at Easter, in any case.  It is just like my forgetfulness, to have made such a mistake.  I really only missed four lectures.  But my composition was interrupted by the door-bell, and my heart sank in my breast.  Mariuccia opened, and I knew by the sound of the stick on the bricks that the lame count had come to wreak his vengeance.

Being much frightened, I was very polite, and bowed a great many times as he came toward me.  It was he, looking much the same as ever, wooden and grizzly.

“I am much honoured, sir,” I began, “by seeing you here.”

“You are Signor Grandi?” he inquired, with a stiff bow.

“The same, Signor Conte, and very much at your service,” I answered, rubbing my hands together to give myself an air of satisfaction.

“Let us not waste time,” he said, severely but not roughly.  “I have come to you on business.  My daughter has disappeared with your son, or whatever relation the Signor Giovanni Cardegna is to you.”

“He is no relation, Signor Conte.  He was an orphan, and I—­”

“It is the same,” he interrupted.  “You are responsible for his doings.”

I responsible!  Good heavens, had I not done all in my power to prevent the rashness of that hot-headed boy?

“Will you not sit down, sir?” I said, moving a chair for him.  He took the seat rather reluctantly.