“I have always said that the Countess is fascinating.”

“Otherwise,” said Stanmer, “in the case you speak of I would give the lady notice.”

“Give her notice?”

“Mention to her that you regard her with suspicion, and that you propose to do your best to rescue a simple-minded youth from her wiles.  That would be more loyal.”  And he began to laugh again.

It is not the first time he has laughed at me; but I have never minded it, because I have always understood it.

“Is that what you recommend me to say to the Countess?” I asked.

“Recommend you!” he exclaimed, laughing again; “I recommend nothing.  I may be the victim to be rescued, but I am at least not a partner to the conspiracy.  Besides,” he added in a moment, “the Countess knows your state of mind.”

“Has she told you so?”

Stanmer hesitated.

“She has begged me to listen to everything you may say against her.  She declares that she has a good conscience.”

“Ah,” said I, “she’s an accomplished woman!”

And it is indeed very clever of her to take that tone.  Stanmer afterwards assured me explicitly that he has never given her a hint of the liberties I have taken in conversation with—­what shall I call it?—­with her moral nature; she has guessed them for herself.  She must hate me intensely, and yet her manner has always been so charming to me!  She is truly an accomplished woman!

May 4th.—­I have stayed away from Casa Salvi for a week, but I have lingered on in Florence, under a mixture of impulses.  I have had it on my conscience not to go near the Countess again—­and yet from the moment she is aware of the way I feel about her, it is open war.  There need be no scruples on either side.  She is as free to use every possible art to entangle poor Stanmer more closely as I am to clip her fine-spun meshes.  Under the circumstances, however, we naturally shouldn’t meet very cordially.  But as regards her meshes, why, after all, should I clip them?  It would really be very interesting to see Stanmer swallowed up.  I should like to see how he would agree with her after she had devoured him—­(to what vulgar imagery, by the way, does curiosity reduce a man!) Let him finish the story in his own way, as I finished it in mine.  It is the same story; but why, a quarter of a century later, should it have the same denoument?  Let him make his own denoument.

5_th_.—­Hang it, however, I don’t want the poor boy to be miserable.

6_th_.—­Ah, but did my denoument then prove such a happy one?

7_th_.—­He came to my room late last night; he was much excited.

“What was it she did to you?” he asked.

I answered him first with another question.  “Have you quarrelled with the Countess?”

But he only repeated his own.  “What was it she did to you?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”  And he sat there beside the candle, staring at me.  “There was a man always there—­Count Camerino.”