“Talking of the plague,” he said, “it is not always wise.  It did a foolish thing yesterday—­a very foolish thing.  It took one of the richest men in the neighborhood, young too, strong and brave; looked as if he would never die.  The plague touched him in the morning—­ before sunset he was nailed up and put down in his big family vault--a cold lodging, and less handsomely furnished than his grand marble villa on the heights yonder.  When I heard the news I told the Madonna she was wicked.  Oh, yes!  I rated her soundly; she is a woman, and capricious; a good scolding brings her to reason.  Look you!  I am a friend to God and the plague, but they both did a stupid thing when they took Count Fabio Romani.”

I started, but quickly controlled myself into an appearance of indifference.

“Indeed!” I said, carelessly.  “And pray who was he that he should not deserve to die as well as other people?”

The old man raised himself from his stooping attitude, and stared at me with his keen black eyes.

“Who was he? who was he?” he cried, in a shrill tone.  “Oh, he!  One can see you know nothing of Naples.  You have not heard of the rich Romani?  See you, I wished him to live.  He was clever and bold, but I did not grudge him that—­no, he was good to the poor; he gave away hundreds of francs in charity.  I have seen him often—­I saw him married.”  And here his parchment face screwed itself into an expression of the most malignant cruelty.  “Pah!  I hate his wife—­a fair, soft thing, like a white snake!  I used to watch them both from the corners of the streets as they drove along in their fine carriage, and I wondered how it would all end, whether he or she would gain the victory first.  I wanted him to win; I would have helped him to kill her, yes!  But the saints have made a mistake this time, for he is dead, and that she-devil has all.  Oh, yes!  God and the plague have done a foolish thing for once.”

I listened to the old wretch with deepening aversion, yet with some curiosity too.  Why should he hate my wife?  I thought, unless, indeed, he hated all youth and beauty, as was probably the case.  And if he had seen me as often as he averred he must know me by sight.  How was it then that he did not recognize me now?  Following out this thought, I said aloud: 

“What sort of looking man was this Count Romani?  You say he was handsome—­was he tall or short—­dark or fair?”

Putting back his straggling gray locks from his forehead, the dealer stretched out a yellow, claw-like hand, as though pointing to some distant vision.

“A beautiful man!” he exclaimed; “a man good for the eyes to see!  As straight as you are!—­as tall as you are!—­as broad as you are!  But your eyes are sunken and dim—­his were full and large and sparkling.  Your face is drawn and pale—­his was of a clear olive tint, round and flushed with health; and his hair was glossy black—­ah! as jet-black, my friend, as yours is snow-white!”