“It is marvellously beautiful,” I replied.  “I would that we might be permitted to become guests as well.”

“As to that, my brother will have no objections, I am sure,” replied the Countess, “specially if you tell your countrymen on your return to your own country.  He counts on the English to get him his money back.  The French have no taste for scenery.  They care only for theatres and pretty women, and the Italians have no money—­alas! poor Castel del Monte!”

I understood that she was referring to her husband, and said hastily—­

“Madame is Italian?”

“Who knows?” she returned, with a pretty, indescribable movement of her shoulders.  “My father was a Russian of rank.  He married an Englishwoman.  I was born in Italy, educated in England.  I married an Italian of rank at seventeen; at nineteen I found myself a widow, and free to choose the world as my home.  Since then I have lived as an Englishwoman expatriated—­for she of all human beings is the freest.”

I looked at her for explanation.  Henry, whose appreciation of women was for the time-being seared by his recent experience of Madame of the Red Eyelids, got out to assist Beppo with the horses.  In a little I saw him take the reins.  We were going slowly uphill all the time.

“In what way,” I said, “is the Englishwoman abroad the freest of all human beings?”

“Because, being English, she is supposed to be a little mad at any rate.  Secondly, because she is known to be rich, for all English are rich.  And, lastly, because she is recognised to be a woman of sense and discretion, having the wisdom to live out of her own country.”

We arrived on the sweep of gravel before the door.  I was astonished at the decorations.  Upon a flat plateau of small extent, which lay along the edge of a small mountain lake, gravelled paths cut the green sward in every direction.  The waters of the lake had been carefully led here and there, in order apparently that they might be crossed by rustic bridges which seemed transplanted from an opera.  Little windmills made pretty waterwheels to revolve, which in turn set in motion mechanical toys and models of race-courses in open booths and gaily painted summer-houses.

“You must not laugh,” said the Countess gravely, seeing me smile, “for this, you must know, is a mixture of the courts of Italy and Russia among the Alps.  It is to my brother a very serious matter.  To me it is the Fair of Asnieres and the madhouse at Charenton rolled into one.”

I remarked that she did the place scant justice.

“Oh,” she said, “the place is lovely enough, and in a little while one becomes accustomed to the tomfoolery.”

We ascended the steps.  At the top stood a small dark man, with a flash in his eyes which I recognised as kin to the glance which Madame the Countess shot from hers, save that the eyes of the man were black as jet.

“These gentlemen,” said the Countess, “are English.  They are travelling for their pleasure, and one of them stopped my stupid horses when the stupider Beppo let them run away, and jumped himself into the ditch to save his useless skin.  You will thank the gentlemen for me, Nicholas.”