Spicca shook his head again, but Santi paid no attention to the refusal and went about preparing the meal.  When it was ready the old man suffered himself to be persuaded and ate a little.  He was in reality stronger than he looked, and an extraordinary nervous energy still lurked beneath the appearance of a feebleness almost amounting to decrepitude.  The little nourishment he took sufficed to restore the balance, and when he rose from the table, he was outwardly almost himself again.  When a man has suffered great moral pain for years, he bears a new shock, even the worst, better than one who is hard hit in the midst of a placid and long habitual happiness.  The soul can be taught to bear trouble as the great self mortifiers of an earlier time taught their bodies to bear scourging.  The process is painful but hardening.

“I feel better, Santi,” said Spicca.  “Your breakfast has done me good.  You are an excellent doctor.”

He turned away and took out his pocket-book—­not over well garnished.  He found a ten franc note.  Then he looked round and spoke in a gentle, kindly tone.

“Santi—­this trouble has nothing to do with money.  You need a new pair of shoes, I am sure.  Do you think that ten francs is enough?”

Santi bowed respectfully and took the money.

“A thousand thanks, Signor Conte,” he said.

Santi was a strange man, from the heart of the Abruzzi.  He pocketed the note, but that night, when he had undressed his master and was arranging the things on the dressing table, the ten francs found their way back into the black pocket-book.  Spicca never counted, and never knew.

He did not write to Maria Consuelo, for he was well aware that in her present state of mind she would undoubtedly burn his letter unopened, as she had said she would.  Late in the day he went out, walked for an hour, entered the club and read the papers, and at last betook himself to the restaurant where Orsino dined when his people were out of town.

In due time, Orsino appeared, looking pale and ill tempered.  He caught sight of Spicca and went at once to the table where he sat.

“I have had a letter,” said the young man.  “I must speak to you.  If you do not object, we will dine together.”

“By all means.  There is nothing like a thoroughly bad dinner to promote ill-feeling.”

Orsino glanced at the old man in momentary surprise.  But he knew his ways tolerably well, and was familiar with the chronic acidity of his speech.

“You probably guess who has written to me,” Orsino resumed.  “It was natural, perhaps, that she should have something to say, but what she actually says, is more than I was prepared to hear.”

Spicca’s eyes grew less dull and he turned an inquiring glance on his companion.

“When I tell you that in this letter, Madame d’Aranjuez has confided to me the true story of her origin, I have probably said enough,” continued the young man.