minimum of sixteen meals for seven francs, they kept for four years an excellent table, at which were to be found all the distinguished tourists in Rome.  The year 1870 had disbanded that little society of connoisseurs and of conversationalists, and the club was metamorphosed into a restaurant, almost unknown, except to a few artists or diplomats who were attracted by the ancient splendors of the place, and, above all, by the knowledge of the “doctor’s” talents.

It was not unusual at eight o’clock for the three small rooms which composed the establishment to be full of men in white cravats, white waistcoats and evening coats.  To cosmopolitan Dorsenne this was a singularly interesting sight; a member of the English embassy here, of the Russian embassy farther on, two German attaches elsewhere, two French secretaries near at hand from St. Siege, another from the Quirinal.  What interested the novelist still more was the conversation of the doctor himself, genial Brancadori, who could neither read nor write.  But he had preserved a faithful remembrance of all his old customers, and when he felt confidential, standing erect upon the threshold of his kitchen, of the possession of which he was so insolently proud, he repeated curious stories of Rome in the days of his youth.  His gestures, so conformable to the appearance of things, his mobile face and his Tuscan tongue, which softened into h all the harsh e’s between two vowels, gave a savor to his stories which delighted a seeker after local truths.  It was in the morning especially, when there was no one in the restaurant, that he voluntarily left his ovens to chat, and if Dorsenne gave the address of the Marzocco to his cabman, it was in the hope that the old cook would in his manner sketch for him the story of the ruin of Ardea.  Brancadori was standing by the bar where was enthroned his niece, Signorina Sabatina, with a charming Florentine face, chin a trifle long, forehead somewhat broad, nose somewhat short, a sinuous mouth, large, black eyes, an olive complexion and waving hair, which recalled in a forcible manner the favorite type of the first of the Ghirlandajos.

“Uncle,” said the young girl, as soon as she perceived Dorsenne, “where have you put the letter brought for the Prince?”

In Italy every foreigner is a prince or a count, and the profound good-nature which reigns in the habit gives to those titles, in the mouths of those who employ them, an amiability often free from calculation.  There is no country in the world where there is a truer, a more charming familiarity of class for class, and Brancadori immediately gave a proof of it in addressing as “Carolei”—­that is to say, “my dear”—­him whom his daughter had blazoned with a coronet, and he cried, fumbling in the pockets of the alpaca waistcoat which he wore over his apron of office: 

“The brain is often lacking in a gray head.  I put it in the pocket of my coat in order to be more sure of not forgetting it.  I changed my coat, because it was warm, and left it with the letter in my apartments.”