The chemist had socialistic ideas of his own.

“To please you,” said Ruggiero, “I will go and see her now, and I will be back in an hour to tell you that you do not understand your business.  My brother is to go there at twelve and I will go with him.  Of course I shall see her.”

He turned to go, but stopped suddenly on the threshold and came back.

“There!” he cried triumphantly.  “There it is again, but not so hard this time.  Is the lady here, now?” He pushed his chest against the old man’s ear.

“Madonna mia!  What a machine!” exclaimed the latter, after listening a moment.  “If I had a heart like that!”

“Now you see for yourself,” said Ruggiero.  “I want the best medicine.”

But again the chemist broke into a laugh.

“Medicine!  A medicine for love!  Do you not see that it began to beat at the thought of seeing her?  Go and try it, as you proposed.  Then you will understand.”

“I understand that you are crazy.  But I will try it all the same.”

Thereupon Ruggiero strode out of the shop without further words, considerably disappointed and displeased with the result of the interview.  The chemist apparently took him for a fool.  It was absurd to suppose that the sight of any woman, or the mention of any woman, could make a man’s heart behave in such a way, and yet he was obliged to admit that the coincidence was undeniable.

He found his brother just coming out of the house in which they lodged, arrayed at all points exactly like himself.  Sebastiano’s young beard was not quite so thick, his eyes were a little softer, his movements a trifle less energetically direct than Ruggiero’s, and he was, perhaps, an inch shorter; but the resemblance was extraordinary and would have struck any one.

They were admitted to the presence of the Marchesa di Mola in due time.  She lay in a deep chair under the arches of her terrace, shaded by brown linen curtains, languid, idle, indifferent as ever.

“Beatrice!” she called in a lazy tone, as the two men stood still at a respectful distance, waiting to be addressed.

But instead of Beatrice, a maid appeared at a door at the other end of the terrace—­a fresh young thing with rosy cheeks, brown hair, sparkling black eyes and a pretty figure.

“Call Donna Beatrice,” said the Marchesa.  Then, as though exhausted by the effort of speaking she closed her eyes and waited.

The maid cast a quick glance at the two handsome sailors and disappeared again.  Ruggiero and Sebastiano stood motionless, only their eyes turning from side to side and examining everything with the curiosity habitual in seamen.

Presently Beatrice entered, looked at them both for a moment and then went up to her mother.

“It is for the boat, mamma,” she said.  “Do you wish me to arrange about it?”

“Of course,” answered the Marchesa opening her eyes and immediately shutting them again.