He was going to say “by constant recourse to prayer,” but he reflected that Gouache was probably not of a religious turn of mind, and he changed the sentence. “—­by constant study of the subject.  Situated as I am, a Roman in the midst of Romans, I am obliged to consider the traditions of my own people in respect of all the great affairs of life.  Believe me, I entreat you, that, far from having any prejudice against yourself, I should rejoice sincerely could I take you by the hand and call you my son.  But how can I act?  What can I do?  Go to your own country, dear Monsieur Gouache, think no more of us, or of our daughters, marry a woman of your own nation, and you will not be disappointed in your dreams of matrimonial felicity!”

“In other words, you refuse altogether to listen to my proposal?” By this time Gouache was able to put the question calmly.

“Alas, yes!” replied the prince with an air of mock regret that exasperated the young man beyond measure.  “I cannot think of it, though you are indeed a most sympathetic young man.”

“In that case I will not trespass upon your time any longer,” said Gouache, who was beginning to fear lest his coolness should forsake him.

As he descended the broad marble stairs his detestation of the old hypocrite overcame him, and his wrath broke out.

“You shall pay me for this some day, you old scoundrel!” he said aloud, very savagely.

Montevarchi remained in his study after Gouache had gone.  A sour smile distorted his thin lips, and the expression became more and more accented until the old man broke into a laugh that rang drily against the vaulted ceiling.  Some one knocked at the door, and his merriment disappeared instantly.  Arnoldo Meschini entered the room.  There was something unusual about his appearance which attracted the prince’s attention at once.

“Has anything happened?”

“Everything.  The case is won.  Your Excellency’s son-in-law is Prince Saracinesca.”

The librarian’s bright eyes gleamed with exultation and there was a slight flush in his cheeks that contrasted oddly with his yellow skin.  A disagreeable smile made his intelligent face more ugly than usual.  He stood half-way between the door and his employer, his long arms hanging awkwardly by his sides, his head thrust forward, his knees a little bent, assuming by habit a servile attitude of attention, but betraying in his look that he felt himself his master’s master.

Montevarchi started as he heard the news.  Then he leaned eagerly across the table, his fingers as usual slowly scratching the green cloth.

“Are you quite sure of it?” he asked in a trembling voice.  “Have you got the verdict?”

Meschini produced a tattered pocket-book, and drew from it a piece of stamped paper, which he carefully unfolded and handed to the prince.

“There is an attested note of it.  See for yourself.”