I begged her to tell me her story; but she said there was little to tell.  She had not left Padua, as I had supposed, but had stayed with friends of hers in the hope that what she called the pazzeria of the doctor would be blown away.  Finding that he was obstinate, she had gone to Modena, where she lived for a while as companion to an ancient lady, who became very fond of her.  It needed, indeed, a convenient bronchitis to give her her liberty again.  When this occurred she found herself provided with a pretty legacy—­enough to make her independent of the doctor, but at the same time more necessary to his happiness.  She had intended, she said, for Siena; but the hospitality of Donna Giulia was pressed upon her, and the good services of the count were freely hers.  There was talk of a judgeship for her husband; she would see how events turned about before she made any plans.  “And you, Francis,” she continued, “are not to be ridiculous any more, nor wander about without shoes, nor consort with rubbish any more.  You are to go back to your studies and your books, and take your degree.  You are to say good-bye to Aurelia as soon as you are well enough, and forget that you ever knew her, if you can.”

“If I forget you, Aurelia, I shall forget Heaven,” I said.

“We will talk about Heaven another time,” said Aurelia.  “Who was that saucy girl I met at the convent, who seemed to know all about you?”

I told her Virginia’s story exactly.  She said, “The piece is madly in love with you.”  I assured her that she was mistaken, but she shook her head, then nodded it many times.  “Certainly, certainly she is in love with you,” and after a pause—­“and I don’t wonder.  You have greatly improved, Francis.”

To this I said that nothing was further from my thoughts than to do Virginia any harm.  I promised to marry her to my man Scipione as soon as possible, since protection of some sort was necessary to a bondswoman who had run away from the land to which she belonged.  Aurelia heard me thoughtfully, tapping her little foot on the floor in that quick, impatient way I loved so well in her.  “Marry her—­yes,” she said, “that will be only prudent on your part.  Well! it is not for me to quarrel with you—­but—­” she shrugged and went on quickly—­“Oh, I don’t deny that the wench is well enough in her broomstick way!” she cried out.

I said, No, she looked very well when she was dressed.  This was an unlucky speech.

“So I have understood, sir,” cried Aurelia, breathing fast.  “I hear that you were seen with her at Prato; that she was dressed in silk and a hoop, and had her hair on a cushion, and I dare say a fan, of the afternoons.  And you think her very well?  So—­so—­so!” My beloved Aurelia had tears in her eyes—­one dropped and lay upon her bosom.  I fell on my knees before her and would have kissed her foot, but she sprang from me, and went quickly out of the room.

I was left alone in the greatest agitation.  It was the recollection of this scene which troubled me when, returning to my lodging, I found Virginia again in masquerade.