“You are not very pleased, I think, at the prospect of my happiness?” I asked, banteringly.

He glanced up for an instant, then as quickly down again.

“If one could be sure that the illustrissimo eccellenza was indeed happy, that would be a good thing,” he answered, dubiously.

“And are you not sure?”

He paused, then replied firmly: 

“No; the eccellenza does not look happy.  No, no, davvero!  He has the air of being sorrowful and ill, both together.”

I shrugged my shoulders indifferently.

“You mistake me, Vincenzo.  I am well—­very well—­and happy!  Gran Dio! who could be happier?  But what of my health or happiness?—­they are nothing to me, and should be less to you.  Listen; I have something I wish you to do for me.”

He gave me a sidelong and half-expectant glance.  I went on: 

“To-morrow evening I want you to go to Avellino.”

He was utterly astonished.

“To Avellino!” he murmured under his breath, “to Avellino!”

“Yes, to Avellino,” I repeated, somewhat impatiently.  “Is there anything so surprising in that?  You will take a letter from me to the Signora Monti.  Look you, Vincenzo, you have been faithful and obedient so far, I expect implicit fidelity and obedience still.  You will not be needed here to-morrow after the marriage ball has once begun; you can take the nine o’clock train to Avellino, and—­ understand me—­you will remain there till you receive further news from me.  You will not have to wait long, and in the mean time,” here I smiled, “you can make love to Lilla.”

Vincenzo did not return the smile.

“But—­but,” he stammered, sorely perplexed—­“if I go to Avellino I cannot wait upon the eccellenza.  There is the portmanteau to pack—­ and who will see to the luggage when you leave on Friday morning for Rome?  And—­and—­I had thought to see you to the station—­” He stopped, his vexation was too great to allow him to proceed.

I laughed gently.

“How many more trifles can you think of, my friend, in opposition to my wishes?  As for the portmanteau, you can pack it this very day if you so please—­then it will be in readiness.  The rest of your duties can for once be performed by others.  It is not only important, but imperative that you should go to Avellino on my errand.  I want you to take this with you,” and I tapped a small square iron box, heavily made and strongly padlocked, which stood an the table near me.

He glanced at the box, but still hesitated, and the gloom on his countenance deepened.  I grew a little annoyed.

“What is the matter with you?” I said at last with some sternness.  “You have something on your mind—­speak out!”

The fear of my wrath startled him.  He looked up with a bewildered pain in his eyes, and spoke, his mellow Tuscan voice vibrating with his own eloquent entreaty.