“Aha, I know what such women are!  My wife, Beatrice Sacchini, whom I took from Naples, when I failed with this very Viola, divorced me when my money failed, and, as the mistress of a judge, passes me in her carriage while I crawl through the streets.  Plague on her!—­but patience, patience! such is the lot of virtue.  Would I were Robespierre for a day!”

“Cease these tirades!” exclaimed Glyndon, impatiently; “and to the point.  What would you advise?”

“Leave your Fillide behind.”

“Leave her to her own ignorance; leave her unprotected even by the mind; leave her in the Saturnalia of Rape and Murder?  No!  I have sinned against her once.  But come what may, I will not so basely desert one who, with all her errors, trusted her fate to my love.”

“You deserted her at Marseilles.”

“True; but I left her in safety, and I did not then believe her love to be so deep and faithful.  I left her gold, and I imagined she would be easily consoled; but since then we have known danger together!  And now to leave her alone to that danger which she would never have incurred but for devotion to me!—­no, that is impossible.  A project occurs to me.  Canst thou not say that thou hast a sister, a relative, or a benefactress, whom thou wouldst save?  Can we not—­till we have left France—­make Fillide believe that Viola is one in whom thou only art interested; and whom, for thy sake only, I permit to share in our escape?”

“Ha, well thought of!—­certainly!”

“I will then appear to yield to Fillide’s wishes, and resign the project, which she so resents, of saving the innocent object of her frantic jealousy.  You, meanwhile, shall yourself entreat Fillide to intercede with me to extend the means of escape to—­”

“To a lady (she knows I have no sister) who has aided me in my distress.  Yes, I will manage all, never fear.  One word more,—­what has become of that Zanoni?”

“Talk not of him,—­I know not.”

“Does he love this girl still?”

“It would seem so.  She is his wife, the mother of his infant, who is with her.”

“Wife!—­mother!  He loves her.  Aha!  And why—­”

“No questions now.  I will go and prepare Viola for the flight; you, meanwhile, return to Fillide.”

“But the address of the Neapolitan?  It is necessary I should know, lest Fillide inquire.”

“Rue M—­ T—­, No. 27.  Adieu.”

Glyndon seized his hat and hastened from the house.

Nicot, left alone, seemed for a few moments buried in thought.  “Oho,” he muttered to himself, “can I not turn all this to my account?  Can I not avenge myself on thee, Zanoni, as I have so often sworn,—­through thy wife and child?  Can I not possess myself of thy gold, thy passports, and thy Fillide, hot Englishman, who wouldst humble me with thy loathed benefits, and who hast chucked me thine alms as to a beggar?  And Fillide, I love her:  and thy gold, I love that more!  Puppets, I move your strings!”