“I have understood, but alas!  I cannot come.  Oh, my beloved! when shall we meet again?  It seems years since Tuesday night—­and yet I am so watched that I can do nothing.  Some one suspects something.  I am sure of it.  A trusty person will bring you this.  I love you always—­do not doubt it, though I cannot meet you to-morrow.”

San Giacinto, who had received a tolerable education and had conscientiously made the best of it, prided himself upon his handwriting.  It was small, clear, and delicate, like that of many strong, quiet men, whose nerves do not run away with their fingers.  On the present occasion he took pains to make it even more careful than usual, and the result was that it looked not unlike the “copperplate” handwriting a girl would learn at the convent, though an expert would probably have declared it disguised.  It had been necessary, in order to deceive Gouache, to write the note on the paper generally used by women of society.  As he could not get any of Faustina’s own, it seemed the next best thing to take Corona’s, since Corona was her most intimate friend.

Gouache had told San Giacinto that he was engaged every afternoon, in hopes that he would in turn chance to mention the fact to Faustina.  It was therefore pretty certain that Anastase would not be at home between four and five o’clock.  San Giacinto drove to the Zouave’s lodgings and asked for him.  If he chanced to be in, the note could be given to his old landlady.  He was out, however, and San Giacinto asked to be allowed to enter the room on the pretext of writing a word for his friend.  The landlady was a dull old creature, who had been warming herself with a pot of coals when San Giacinto rang.  In answer to his request she resumed her occupation and pointed to the door of the Zouave’s apartment.

San Giacinto entered, and looked about him for a conspicuous place in which to put the letter he had prepared.  He preferred not to trust to the memory of the woman, who might forget to deliver it until the next day, especially if Gouache came home late that night, as was very likely.  The table of the small sitting-room was littered with letters and papers, books and drawings, so that an object placed in the midst of such disorder would not be likely to attract Gouache’s attention.  The door beyond was open, and showed a toilet-table in the adjoining chamber, which was indeed the bedroom.  San Giacinto went in, and taking the note from his pocket, laid it on an old-fashioned pincushion before the glass.  The thing slipped, however, and in order to fasten it firmly he thrust a gold pin that lay on the table through the letter and pinned it to the cushion in a conspicuous position.  Then he went out and returned to the Palazzo Saracinesca as he had promised to do.