“Pardon you may be certain of,” said Donna Giulia.

“What has she to pardon you but the fact that you admired her, and told her so?  I assure you we don’t think that an irremediable sin in Italy.  Permission to serve her, in other words, permission to prove your admiration by deeds (not words), is another affair.  She will certainly wish to consult her mother about that.”

“Her husband too, madam,” said I; “this is the real difficulty of the case.”  She gave me a queer look.

“It is unusual to consult the husband,” she said.  “It puts him in a difficult position.”

“It is my fault,” said I ruefully, “that he has been put there already.”

“Undoubtedly it is,” returned Donna Giulia.  “You should have remained in the cupboard.  Why, the fact that she put you there is proof of that.  She has given you all possible encouragement.”

I said no more on the subject just then, but a few days afterwards, being out with the count on horseback, he himself spoke to me about my business, frankly owning that it was none of his.  “Donna Giulia mentioned it to me in secrecy,” he said, “in the charitable hope that I might be of use to you.  Need I say that all my abilities are at your service in an affair of the sort?  I have had a good deal of experience:  are you inclined to make use of me?  Let me add, that if you are not, I am discretion itself.  I shall understand your reticence, and even take it as a compliment; for if you think I am not the kind of man whom you would care to interest in your mistress, it will be a gratifying proof that I am younger than I venture to think myself.”

My reply to this frankly stated case was to put before him the tale of the fair Aurelia, the cupboard and the pilgrimage of penitence.  Count Giraldi, greatly to his credit, listened without the alteration of a muscle, and expressed at the close of my blushing narrative his convictions that Aurelia must be a charming lady, and that I should prove an equally charming damerino when I had learned the rules of the game, “One of which,” he added with mock severity, “One of which is that while the husband must know everything, he is to be told nothing.  To break that rule is to outrage society.”  It may be that something of bewilderment and pain upon my face told him that he had overstepped his path.  He changed the conversation rapidly, encouraged me to talk of Aurelia’s perfections and of my own shortcomings as I would, reserving, no doubt, his private view of each; and ended the conversation by promising me to put all his interest at my service.  “I will do what I can, and welcome,” he said.  “I will make friends with the doctor, and perhaps find a place for him under this Government; I will introduce the doctor’s wife to Donna Giulia, and listen to your reading of your poetry at least as readily as she will.  More, I will make you acquainted with my personal bookbinder, the Abbe Loisic, a truly great virtuoso.  If Donna Aurelia won’t