“Baron Benoni,” he said, in a low voice, “I warn you that you are most unwelcome here.  If you attempt to say any word to my wife, or to force an entrance, I will make short work of you.”  Benoni eyed him with a sort of pitying curiosity as he made this speech:—­

“Do not fear, Signor Cardegna.  I came to see Signor Grandi, and to ascertain from him precisely what you have voluntered to tell me.  You cannot suppose that I have any object in interrupting the leisure of a great artist, or the privacy of his very felicitous domestic relations.  I have not a great deal to say.  That is, I have always a great deal to say about everything, but I shall at present confine myself to a very little.”

“You will be wise,” said Nino, scornfully, “and you would be wiser if you confined yourself to nothing at all.”

“Patience, Signor Cardegna,” protested Benoni.  “You will readily conceive that I am a little out of breath with the stairs, for I am a very old man.”

“In that case,” I said, from the other side of the room, “I may as well occupy your breathing time by telling you that any remarks you are likely to make to me have been forestalled by the Graf von Lira, who has been with me this morning.”  Benoni smiled, but both Hedwig and Nino looked at me in surprise.

“I only wished to say,” returned Benoni, “that I consider you in the light of an interesting phenomenon.  Nay, Signor Cardegna, do not look so fierce.  I am an old man—­”

“An old devil,” said Nino hotly.

“An old fool,” said I.

“An old reprobate,” said Hedwig, from her corner, in deepest indignation.

“Precisely,” returned Benoni, smilingly.  “Many people have been good enough to tell me so before.  Thanks, kind friends, I believe you with all my heart.  Meanwhile, man, devil, fool, or reprobate, I am very old.  I am about to leave Rome for St. Petersburg, and I will take this last opportunity of informing you that in a very singularly long life I have met with only two or three such remarkable instances as this of yours.”

“Say what you wish to say, and go,” said Nino, roughly.

“Certainly.  And whenever I have met with such an instance I have done my very utmost to reduce it to the common level, and to prove to myself that no such thing really exists.  I find it a dangerous thing, however; for an old man in love is likely to exhibit precisely the agreeable and striking peculiarities you have so aptly designated.”  There was something so odd about his manner and about the things he said that Nino was silent, and allowed him to proceed.

“The fact is,” he continued, “that love is a very rare thing, nowadays, and is so very generally an abominable sham that I have often amused myself by diabolically devising plans for its destruction.  On this occasion I very nearly came to grief myself.  The same thing happened to me some time ago—­about forty years, I should say,—­and I perceive that it has not been forgotten.  It may amuse you to look at this paper, which I chance to have with me.  Good-morning.  I leave for St. Petersburg at once.”