“A poet, a poet!  It is better than nothing.  But tell me truly, which do you esteem most highly, Mozart or Homer?”

“I admire them equally.”

“On your honor?”

“On my honor.”

“H’m!  Once more.  What do you think of Meyerbeer and Byron?”

“You have measured them by naming them together.”

The Count’s carriage was waiting.  The composer and his noble physician ran down-stairs, and in a few minutes they were with Marianna.

As they went in, Gambara threw himself into his wife’s arms, but she drew back a step and turned away her head; the husband also drew back and beamed on the Count.

“Oh, monsieur!” said Gambara in a husky voice, “you might have left me my illusions.”  He hung his head, and then fell.

“What have you done to him?  He is dead drunk!” cried Marianna, looking down at her husband with a mingled expression of pity and disgust.

The Count, with the help of his servant, picked up Gambara and laid him on his bed.

Then Andrea left, his heart exultant with horrible gladness.

The Count let the usual hour for calling slip past next day, for he began to fear lest he had duped himself and had made this humble couple pay too dear for their improved circumstances and added wisdom, since their peace was destroyed for ever.

At last Giardini came to him with a note from Marianna.

“Come,” she wrote, “the mischief is not so great as you so cruelly meant it to be.”

“Excellenza,” said the cook, while Andrea was making ready, “you treated us splendidly last evening.  But apart from the wine, which was excellent, your steward did not put anything on the table that was worthy to set before a true epicure.  You will not deny, I suppose, that the dish I sent to you on the day when you did me the honor to sit down at my board, contained the quintessence of all those that disgraced your magnificent service of plate?  And when I awoke this morning I remembered the promise you once made me of a place as chef.  Henceforth I consider myself as a member of your household.”

“I thought of the same thing a few days ago,” replied Andrea.  “I mentioned you to the secretary of the Austrian Embassy, and you have permission to recross the Alps as soon as you please.  I have a castle in Croatia which I rarely visit.  There you may combine the offices of gate-keeper, butler, and steward, with two hundred crowns a year.  Your wife will have as much for doing all the rest of the work.  You may make all the experiments you please in anima vili, that is to say on the stomach of my vassals.  Here is a cheque for your traveling expenses.”

Giardini kissed the Count’s hand after the Neapolitan fashion.

“Excellenza,” said he, “I accept the cheque, but beg to decline the place.  It would dishonor me to give up my art by losing the opinion of the most perfect epicures, who are certainly to be found in Paris.”