Occasionally, also, she would receive the visits of the Marchese Ludovico; evidently by reason of the unavoidable intimacy of his uncle in the house.  And Ludovico reported to them all at the Circolo that she was a most charming woman indeed—­full of talent, merry as a young girl, companionable, and fond of society, but wholly devoted to her art, and quite inaccessible in the way of love-making.  He assured the jeunesse doree of Ravenna that they lost nothing in any such point of view by their exclusion from her intimacy, for that all their enterprises in that line would be quite thrown away.

The Conte Leandro Lombardoni, indeed, always carried about with him in his breast-pocket, a carefully preserved little letter on pink notepaper, which he gave the world to understand was part of a correspondence carried on between him (reconciled as he was to the bel sesso) and the Diva; and had more than once contrived to be seen hanging about the door of her house at hours when honest Divas, as well as mortals, ought to be in bed and asleep.  But nobody believed him, or imagined that anything save a bad cold was at all likely to result from his vigils beneath the cold stars.  He showed, indeed, with many mysterious precautions against the remainder of the letter being seen, that the little pink sheet of notepaper did indeed bear the signature of “Bianca Lalli.”  But when one of the ingenuous youth picked his pocket of it, it was found to be a very coldly courteous acknowledgment of a copy of verses, which the Diva promised to read as soon as her avocations would permit her to do so!

“Any way,” said the discomfited poet, “that is more than any of you others have got.  And it’s not so small a matter, when you come to think of it!”

“Per Bacco, no!  Leandro is in the right of it!” said the young Conte Beppo Farini; “a small matter to find somebody who promises even to read his verses!  I should think not, indeed!  Where will you find another to do as much?”

“Riconciliato col bel sesso!  I should think you were, indeed!” cried another; “she absolutely thanks you for sending her your rhymes!  Nobody ever did as much as that before, Leandro mio!  No wonder you haunt the street before her door!”

“I don’t haunt the street before her door.  Envy, Jealousy, ye green-eyed and loathsome monsters, how miserably small and mean can ye make the hearts of men!” said Leandro, lifting up hands and eyes.

“Bravo, Leandro, bravo! get upon the table, man!” cried Farini.

“Get home to bed, rather.  It is too bad, because no human being will read his poetry, he takes to spouting it!” said the other.

“Let us look what she says,” cried Ludovico di Castelmare; putting out his hand to take the little note.  “Upon my word she writes a pretty hand.  It is a very neatly expressed note.”

“Oh, you can see that much, can you?” returned Leandro.  “I should think it was too!  Is there any one of you here can show such a note from any woman, let her be who she may?  She says she will read the poem I have been good enough to send her—­good enough to send her, mark that!—­as soon as she can find time to do so!  What could she say more, I should like to know?  Of course she is occupied.  It stands to reason.  But she will read my poem; and then you will see!”