“Unique, Monsieur!”

“Unfortunately you are going away, and to-morrow I have to leave Milan myself, for Paris.”

“You have been some time in Italy, then?”

“Nearly a fortnight.”

M. Charnot gave his daughter a meaning look, and suddenly became more friendly.

“I thought you had just come.  We have not been here so long,” he added; “my daughter has been a little out of sorts, and the doctor advised us to travel for change of air.  Paris is not healthful in this very hot weather.”

He looked hard at me to see whether his fib had taken me in.  I replied, with an air of the utmost conviction, “That is putting it mildly.  Paris, in July, is uninhabitable.”

“That’s it, Monsieur, uninhabitable; we were forced to leave it.  We soon made up our minds, and, in spite of the time of the year, we turned our steps toward the home of the classics, to Italy, the museum of Europe.  And you really think, then, that by means of your good offices we should have been admitted to the villa?”

“Yes, Monsieur, but owing only to the missive with which I am entrusted.”

M. Charnot hesitated.  He was probably thinking of the blot of ink, and certainly of M. Mouillard’s visit.  But he doubtless reflected that Jeanne knew nothing of the old lawyer’s proceedings, that we were far from Paris, that the opportunity was not to be lost; and in the end his passion for numismatics conquered at once his resentment as a bookworm and his scruples as a father.

“There is a later train at ten minutes to eight, father,” said Jeanne.

“Well, dear, do you care to try your luck again, and return to the assault of that Annia Faustina?”

“As you please, father.”

We left the inn together by the by-road down the hill.  I could not believe my eyes.  This old man with refined features who walked on my left, leaning on his malacca cane, was M. Charnot.  The same man who received me so discourteously the day after I made my blot was now relying on me to introduce him to an Italian nobleman; on me, a lawyer’s clerk.  I led him on with confidence, and both of us, carried away by our divers hopes, he dreaming of medals, I of the reopened horizon full of possibilities, conversed on indifferent subjects with a freedom hitherto unknown between us.

And this charming Parisienne, whose presence I divined rather than saw, whom I dared not look in the face, who stepped along by her father’s side, light of foot, her eyes seeking the vault of heaven, her ear attentive though her thoughts were elsewhere, catching her Parisian sunshade in the hawthorns of Desio, was Jeanne, Jeanne of the flower-market, Jeanne whom Lampron had sketched in the woods of St. Germain!  It did not seem possible.

Yet it was so, for we arrived together at the gates of the Villa Dannegianti, which is hardly a mile from the inn.

I rang the bell.  The fat, idle, insolent Italian porter was beginning to refuse me admission, with the same words and gestures which he had so often used.  But I explained, in my purest Tuscan, that I was not of the ordinary kind of importunate tourist.  I told him that he ran a serious risk if he did not immediately hand my card and my letter—­Lampron’s card in an envelope—­to the Comtesse Dannegianti.