“Ben tornato, Signor Ercole!  I thank you for coming to me,” said the Marchese, rising from his seat at his library-table, which was covered with papers and books, to receive the impresario.

Despite the extreme cold, this owner of a large fortune, and of one of the finest palaces in Ravenna, was not sitting in an easy-chair by the fire, as an Englishman might be expected to be found at such an hour.  The Italian’s day is not divided into two portions as clearly as an Englishman’s day is divided by his dinner hour into the time for business or out-door exercise, and the time for relaxation, for a book or other amusement.  He is quite as likely to apply himself to any business or work of any kind after dinner as before.  Still less has he the Englishman’s notion of making himself comfortable in his home.

There was a miserable morsel of wood fire in the room in which the Marchese sat; but it was at the far end of it.  And in many a well-to-do Italian home there would have been none at all.  In order not to be absolutely frozen, he sat in a large cloak, and had beside him, or in his hands, a little earthen-ware pot filled with burning braize—­a scaldino, as it is called,—­the use of which is common to the noble in his palace, and the beggar in the street.

He pointed to a chair near the table, and as he spoke, paid his visitor the ordinary courtesy of offering him his scaldino.

“My duty, my mere duty, Eccellenza,” said Signor Ercole, letting his cloak fall gracefully from his shoulders, and declining the proffered pot of braize with an action that might have suited an Emperor.  “Of course my first care and object on arriving was to wait on your Excellency.  I arrived with barely a breath of life remaining in my body.  What a journey!  What a journey!  But if I had been frozen quite I could not have forgotten that my first duty was to report what I have accomplished to your Excellency.”

“Thanks, good Signor Ercole, thanks; you know the interest I take in all that concerns the honour of our theatre, and the pleasures of our citizens; and I may truly add, in all that touches your interest, my good Signor Ercole.”

“Troppo buono!  Eccellenza!  Troppo buono davvero!” said the little man, half rising from his chair, to execute a bow in return for the Marchese’s speech, while his cloak fell around his legs.

“I suppose that in such weather as this the diligence was behind its time—­E naturale—­but I have already heard, in a general way, that you have been successful.  I congratulate you on it, Signor Ercole, with all my heart!”

“I trusted that I should have been the first to tell your Excellency the news.  I am conscious that it was due to you, Signor Marchese, to be the first to hear the result of my negotiation.  But che vuole?  There was the Conte Leandro waiting for the coach, and standing at the door as I got out of it, more dead than alive!  And there was no way of getting rid of him.  I was forced to tell him, in a word, that our hopes were crowned with success.  He faithfully promised to keep the fact secret.  But, doubtless, all the town knows it by this time!  Che vuole?”