“You are a nobleman, count,” she said to me at last, “and I can trust you as one of my own people, I am sure.  Yes, I know:  you have been unfortunate, and are now a professor.  But that does not change the blood.  I can trust you.  You need not tell him I came, unless you wish it.  I shall never see him again.  I am glad to have been here, to see where he lives.”  She rose, and moved to go.  I confess that the tears were in my eyes.  There was a pile of music on the old piano.  There was a loose leaf on the top, with his name written on it.  She took it in her hand, and looked inquiringly at me out of her sad eyes.  I knew she wanted to take it, and I nodded.

“I shall never see him again, you know.”  Her voice was gentle and weak, and she hastened to the door; so that almost before I knew it she was gone.  The sun had left the red-tiled roofs opposite, and the goldfinch was silent in his cage.  So I sat down in the chair where she had rested, and folded my hands, and thought, as I am always thinking ever since, how I could have loved such a woman as that; so passionate, so beautiful, so piteously sorry for what she had done that was wrong.  Ah me! for the years that are gone away so cruelly, for the days so desperately dead!  Give me but one of those golden days, and I would make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.

A greater man than I said that,—­a man over the seas, with a great soul, who wrote in a foreign tongue, but spoke a language germane to all human speech.  But even he cannot bring back one of those dear days.  I would give much to have that one day back, when she came and told me all her woes.  But that is impossible.

When they came to wake her in the morning—­the very morning after that—­she was dead in her bed; the colour gone for ever from those velvet cheeks, the fire quenched out of those passionate eyes, past power of love or hate to rekindle. Requiescat in pace, and may God give her eternal rest and forgiveness for all her sins.  Poor, beautiful, erring woman!

CHAPTER IX

At nine o’clock on the morning of the baroness’ death, as Nino was busy singing scales, there was a ring at the door, and presently Mariuccia came running in as fast as her poor old legs could carry her, and whiter than a pillow-case, to say that there was a man at the door with two gendarmes, asking for Nino; and before I could question her the three men walked unbidden into the room, demanding which was Giovanni Cardegna, the singer.  Nino started, and then said quietly that he was the man.  I have had dealings with these people, and I know what is best to be done.  They were inclined to be rough and very peremptory.  I confess I was frightened; but I think I am more cunning when I am a little afraid.

“Mariuccia,” I said, as she stood trembling in the door-way, waiting to see what would happen, “fetch a flask of that old wine, and serve these gentlemen,—­and a few chestnuts, if you have some.  Be seated, signori,” I said to them, “and take one of these cigars.  My boy is a singer, and you would not hurt his voice by taking him out so early on this raw morning.  Sit down, Nino, and ask these gentlemen what they desire.”  They all sat down, somewhat sullenly, and the gendarmes’ sabres clanked on the brick floor.