Signor Giardini’s voice was drowned by the noisy greetings of the guests, who streamed in two and two, or one at a time, after the manner of tables-d’hote.  Giardini stayed by the Count, playing the showman by telling him who the company were.  He tried by his witticisms to bring a smile to the lips of a man who, as his Neapolitan instinct told him, might be a wealthy patron to turn to good account.

“This one,” said he, “is a poor composer who would like to rise from song-writing to opera, and cannot.  He blames the managers, music-sellers,—­everybody, in fact, but himself, and he has no worse enemy.  You can see—­what a florid complexion, what self-conceit, how little firmness in his features! he is made to write ballads.  The man who is with him and looks like a match-hawker, is a great music celebrity—­Gigelmi, the greatest Italian conductor known; but he has gone deaf, and is ending his days in penury, deprived of all that made it tolerable.  Ah! here comes our great Ottoboni, the most guileless old fellow on earth; but he is suspected of being the most vindictive of all who are plotting for the regeneration of Italy.  I cannot think how they can bear to banish such a good man.”

And here Giardini looked narrowly at the Count, who, feeling himself under inquisition as to his politics, entrenched himself in Italian impassibility.

“A man whose business it is to cook for all comers can have no political opinions, Excellenza,” Giardini went on.  “But to see that worthy man, who looks more like a lamb than a lion, everybody would say what I say, were it before the Austrian ambassador himself.  Besides, in these times liberty is no longer proscribed; it is going its rounds again.  At least, so these good people think,” said he, leaning over to speak in the Count’s ear, “and why should I thwart their hopes?  I, for my part, do not hate an absolute government.  Excellenza, every man of talent is for depotism!

“Well, though full of genius, Ottoboni takes no end of pains to educate Italy; he writes little books to enlighten the intelligence of the children and the common people, and he smuggles them very cleverly into Italy.  He takes immense trouble to reform the moral sense of our luckless country, which, after all, prefers pleasure to freedom,—­and perhaps it is right.”

The Count preserved such an impenetrable attitude that the cook could discover nothing of his political views.

“Ottoboni,” he ran on, “is a saint; very kind-hearted; all the refugees are fond of him; for, Excellenza, a liberal may have his virtues.  Oho!  Here comes a journalist,” said Giardini, as a man came in dressed in the absurd way which used to be attributed to a poet in a garret; his coat was threadbare, his boots split, his hat shiny, and his overcoat deplorably ancient.  “Excellenza, that poor man is full of talent, and incorruptibly honest.  He was born into the wrong times, for he tells the truth to everybody; no one can endure him.  He writes theatrical articles for two small papers, though he is clever enough to work for the great dailies.  Poor fellow!