The Duchess owed this visit from the Austrian General to the fact that a French physician had come to Venice whom the General wished to introduce to her.  The Prince, seeing Vendramin wandering about the parterre, went out for a few minutes of confidential talk with his friend, whom he had not seen for three months; and as they walked round the gangway which divides the seats in the pit from the lowest tier of boxes, he had an opportunity of observing Massimilla’s reception of the foreigner.

“Who is that Frenchman?” asked the Prince.

“A physician sent for by Cataneo, who wants to know how long he is likely to live,” said Vendramin.  “The Frenchman is waiting for Malfatti, with whom he is to hold a consultation.”

Like every Italian woman who is in love, the Duchess kept her eyes fixed on Emilio; for in that land a woman is so wholly wrapped up in her lover that it is difficult to detect an expressive glance directed at anybody else.

“Caro,” said the Prince to his friend, “remember I slept at your house last night.”

“Have you triumphed?” said Vendramin, putting his arm round Emilio’s waist.

“No; but I hope I may some day be happy with Massimilla.”

“Well,” replied Marco, “then you will be the most envied man on earth.  The Duchess is the most perfect woman in Italy.  To me, seeing things as I do through the dazzling medium of opium, she seems the very highest expression of art; for nature, without knowing it, has made her a Raphael picture.  Your passion gives no umbrage to Cataneo, who has handed over to me a thousand crowns, which I am to give to you.”

“Well,” added Emilio, “whatever you may hear said, I sleep every night at your house.  Come, for every minute spent away from her, when I might be with her, is torment.”

Emilio took his seat at the back of the box and remained there in silence, listening to the Duchess, enchanted by her wit and beauty.  It was for him, and not out of vanity, that Massimilla lavished the charms of her conversation bright with Italian wit, in which sarcasm lashed things but not persons, laughter attacked nothing that was not laughable, mere trifles were seasoned with Attic salt.

Anywhere else she might have been tiresome.  The Italians, an eminently intelligent race, have no fancy for displaying their talents where they are not in demand; their chat is perfectly simple and effortless, it never makes play, as in France, under the lead of a fencing master, each one flourishing his foil, or, if he has nothing to say, sitting humiliated.

Conversation sparkles with a delicate and subtle satire that plays gracefully with familiar facts; and instead of a compromising epigram an Italian has a glance or a smile of unutterable meaning.  They think —­and they are right—­that to be expected to understand ideas when they only seek enjoyment, is a bore.

Indeed, la Vulpato had said to Massimilla: