“Yes, it was a providence,” broke in the count—­“a real hermit, not one of those fat friars, with shaven crowns, we have in Rome, but a genuine recluse, a man whose life is one long act of practical piety.”

When Marescotti had entered, he seemed only the calm, high-bred gentleman; now, as he spoke, his eye sparkled, and his pale cheeks flushed.

“Yes, I addressed the hermit,” he continued, and he raised his fine head and crossed his hands on his breast as if he were still before him.  “I kissed his bare feet, road-stained with errands of charity.  ‘My father,’ I said to him, ’bless me’—­”

“Not only so,” interrupted Baldassare, “but, would you believe it, madame, the count cast himself down on the dusty street to receive his blessing!”

“And why not?” asked the count, looking at him severely.  “It came to me like a voice from heaven.  The hermit is a holy man.  Would I were like him!  I have heard of him for thirty years past.  Winter after winter, among those savage mountains, in roaring winds, in sweeping storms, in frost and snow, and water-floods, he has assisted hundreds, who, but for him, must infallibly have perished.  What courage! what devotion!  It is a poem.”  Marescotti spoke hurriedly and in a low voice.  “Yes, I craved his blessing.  I kissed his hands, his feet.  I would have kissed the ground on which he stood.”  As he proceeded, Marescotti grew more and more abstracted.  All that he described was passing like a vision before him.  “Those venerable hands—­yes, I kissed them.”

“How much money did you leave in them, count?” asked the marchesa, with a sneer.

“Great is the mercy of God!” ejaculated the count, earnestly, not heeding her.  “Sinner as I am, the touch of those hands—­that blessing—­purified me.  I feel it.”

“Incredible!  Well,” cried Baldassare, “the price of that blessing will keep the good man in bread and meat for a year.  Let the old beggar go to the devil, count, his own way.  He must soon appear there, anyhow.  A good-for-nothing old cheat!  His blessing, indeed!  I can get you a dozen begging friars who will bless you all day for a few farthings.”

The count’s brow darkened.

“Baldassare,” said he, very gravely, “you are young, and, like your age, inconsiderate.  I request that, in my presence, you speak with becoming respect of this holy man.”

“Per Bacco!” exclaimed the cavaliere, advancing from where he had been standing behind the marchesa’s chair, and patting Baldassare patronizingly on the shoulder, “I never heard you talk so much before at one time, Baldassare.  Now, you had better have held your tongue, and listened to Count Marescotti.  Leading the cotillon last night has turned your head.  Take my advice, however—­an old man’s advice—­stick to your dancing.  You understand that.  Every man has his forte—­yours is the ballroom.”

Baldassare smiled complaisantly at this allusion to the swiftness of his heels.