“Pray where was that young lady educated?” I said to the countess.

“In the country.  She was always present when my brother had his lessons, but the tutor, Sardini, never took any notice of her, and it was only she who gained anything; my brother only yawned.  Clementine used to make my mother laugh, and puzzle the old tutor sadly sometimes.”

“Sardini wrote and published some poems which are not bad; but nobody reads them, because they are so full of mythology.”

“Quite so.  Clementine possesses a manuscript with which he presented her, containing a number of mythological tales verified.  Try and make her shew you her books and the verses she used to write; she won’t shew them to any of us.”

I was in a great state of admiration.  When she returned I complimented her upon her acquirements, and said that as I was a great lover of literature myself I should be delighted if she would shew me her verses.

“I should be ashamed.  I had to give over my studies two years ago, when my sister married and we came to live here, where we only see honest folks who talk about the stable, the harvest, and the weather.  You are the first person I have seen who has talked to me about literature.  If our old Sardini had come with us I should have gone on learning, but my sister did not care to have him here.”

“But my dear Clementine,” said the countess, “what do you think my husband could have done with an old man of eighty whose sole accomplishments are weighing the wind, writing verses, and talking mythology?”

“He would have been useful enough,” said the husband, “if he could have managed the estate, but the honest old man will not believe in the existence of rascals.  He is so learned that he is quite stupid.”

“Good heavens!” cried Clementine.  “Sardini stupid?  It is certainly easy to deceive him, but that is because he is so noble.  I love a man who is easily deceived, but they call me silly.”

“Not at all, my dear sister,” said the countess.  “On the contrary, there is wisdom in all you say, but it is wisdom out of place in a woman; the mistress of a household does not want to know anything about literature, poetry, or philosophy, and when it comes to marrying you I am very much afraid that your taste for this kind of thing will stand in your way.”

“I know it, and I am expecting to die a maid; not that it is much compliment to the men.”

To know all that such a dialogue meant for me, the reader must imagine himself most passionately in love.  I thought myself unfortunate.  I could have given her a hundred thousand crowns, and I would have married her that moment.  She told me that Sardini was at Milan, very old and ill.

“Have you been to see him?” I asked.

“I have never been to Milan.”

“Is it possible?  It is not far from here.”

“Distance is relative, you know.”

This was beautifully expressed.  It told me without any false shame that she could not afford to go, and I was pleased by her frankness.  But in the state of mind I was in I should have been pleased with anything she chose to do.  There are moments in a man’s life when the woman he loves can make anything of him.