The Duke of Durazzo walked up and down his room several times like a lion in a cage, counting the minutes in a fever of impatience, and was on the point of summoning a servant and renewing his commands, when two dull raps on the door informed him that the person he was waiting for had arrived.  He opened at once, and a man of about fifty, dressed in black from head to foot, entered, humbly bowing, and carefully shut the door behind him.  Charles threw himself into an easy-chair, and gazing fixedly at the man who stood before him, his eyes on the ground and his arms crossed upon his breast in an attitude of the deepest respect and blind obedience, he said slowly, as though weighing each word—­

“Master Nicholas of Melazzo, have you any remembrance left of the services I once rendered you?”

The man to whom these words were addressed trembled in every limb, as if he heard the voice of Satan come to claim his soul; then lifting a look of terror to his questioner’s face, he asked in a voice of gloom—­

“What have I done, my lord, to deserve this reproach?”

“It is not a reproach:  I ask a simple question.”

“Can my lord doubt for a moment of my eternal gratitude?  Can I forget the favours your Excellency showed me?  Even if I could so lose my reason and my memory, are not my wife and son ever here to remind me that to you we owe all our life, our honour, and our fortune?  I was guilty of an infamous act,” said the notary, lowering his voice, “a crime that would not only have brought upon my head the penalty of death, but which meant the confiscation of my goods, the ruin of my family, poverty and shame for my only son—­that very son, sire, for whom I, miserable wretch, had wished to ensure a brilliant future by means of my frightful crime:  you had in your hands the proofs of this!

“I have them still.”

“And you will not ruin me, my lord,” resumed the notary, trembling; “I am at your feet, your Excellency; take my life and I will die in torment without a murmur, but save my son since you have been so merciful as to spare him till now; have pity on his mother; my lord, have pity!”

“Be assured,” said Charles, signing to him to rise; “it is nothing to do with your life; that will come later, perhaps.  What I wish to ask of you now is a much simpler, easier matter.”

“My lord, I await your command.”

“First,” said the duke, in a voice of playful irony, “you must draw up a formal contract of my marriage.”

“At once, your Excellency.”

“You are to write in the first article that my wife brings me as dowry the county of Alba, the jurisdiction of Grati and Giordano, with all castles, fiefs, and lands dependent thereto.”

“But, my lord—­” replied the poor notary, greatly embarrassed.

“Do you find any difficulty, Master Nicholas?”

“God forbid, your Excellency, but—­”

“Well, what is it?”