MENAGGIO.

After the sky-blue of Maggiore and the vivid green of Lugano, comes the violet-blue of Como, with its luminous landscape, its banks covered with olives, Roman ruins, and modern villas.  Never have I felt the air so clear.  Here for the first time I said to myself:  “This is the spot where I would choose to dwell.”  I have even selected my house; it peeps out from a mass of pomegranates, evergreens, and citrons, on a peninsula around which the water swells with gentle murmur, and whence the view is perfect across lake, mountain, and sky.

A nightingale is singing, and I can not help reflecting that his fellows here are put to death in thousands.  Yes, the reapers, famed in poems and lithographs, are desperate bird-catchers.  At the season of migration they capture thousands of these weary travellers with snares or limed twigs; on Maggiore alone sixty thousand meet their end.  We have but those they choose to leave us to charm our summer nights.

Perhaps they will kill my nightingale in the Carmelite garden.  The idea fills me with indignation.

Then my thoughts run back to my rooms in the Rue de Rennes, and I see Madame Menin, with a dejected air, dusting my slumbering furniture; Lampron at work, his mother knitting; the old clerk growing sleepy with the heat and lifting his pen as he fancies he has got a bite; Madame Plumet amid her covey of workgirls, and M. Plumet blowing away with impatient breath the gold dust which the gum has failed to fix on the mouldings of a newly finished frame.

M. Plumet is pensive.  He is burdened with a secret.  I am convinced I did wrong in not waiting longer on the Place de L’Opera.

Milan.

At last I am in Milan, an ancient city, but full of ideas and energy, my destination, and the cradle of the excellent Porfirio Zampini, suspected forger.  The examination of documents does not begin till the day after to-morrow, so I am making the best of the time in seeing the sights.

There are four sights to see at Milan if you are a musician, and three if you are not:  the Duomo, ‘vulgo’, cathedral; “The Marriage of the Virgin,” by Raphael; “The Last Supper,” by Leonardo; and, if it suits your tastes, a performance at La Scala.

I began with the Duomo, and on leaving it I received the news that still worries me.

But first of all I must make a confession.  When I ascended through the tropical heat to the marble roof of the cathedral, I expected so much that I was disappointed.  Surprise goes for so much in what we admire.  Neither this mountain of marble, nor the lacework and pinnacles which adorn the enormous mass, nor the amazing number of statues, nor the sight of men smaller than flies on the Piazza del Duomo, nor the vast stretch of flat country which spreads for miles on every side of the city—­none of these sights kindled the spark of enthusiasm within me which has often glowed for much less.  No, what pleased me was something quite different, a detail not noticed in the guide-books, I suppose.