I told him that, if Donna Aurelia was reconciled to her husband through his means, I should be eternally in his debt—­and not less so though I should be in Padua and with the mountains between us.

He frowned, he was puzzled.  “You leave us?” he said; “you abandon Donna Aurelia?” I told him that I could never cease to love her, but that love for a lady seemed to me an extremely bad reason for bringing about her ruin.  I had gone so near to that already that nothing in the world would induce me to risk it again.

He affected to misunderstand me, in his scoffing way.  “Admirable!  Admirable!” he cried.  “I see that you have recovered your spirits.”

“I hope my spirit has never failed me yet when I have had need of it,” I said.  “I shall thank God on my knees this night that my lady has been saved alive.  No lover in the world has ever begged for his mistress’s surrender so heartily as I shall pray for the return of mine to her husband’s arms.”

He clapped me on the back.  “You are a master of paradox indeed,” he said.

I assured him that I was serious.  “Then,” said he, “I admire while I do not follow you.  I ask you once more, do you wish me to understand that you abandon Donna Aurelia?  I have my reasons, mind you, and have no wish to take you unawares.”

“I cannot abandon what I do not pursue,” I replied.  “I can only repeat that it would be a very curious proof of my love for a lady to urge her to perdition on my account.”

He looked at me oddly, fixedly, for a long time.  Then he said, “It is true that you are an Englishman.  I had forgotten it.”  Suddenly he threw up his hands.  “What a nation!  What a lover!” His hand came down and rested upon my shoulders.  “My friend,” he said, “I am not so young as I was, but I do believe that I can teach you something.”  With that he left me.

Upon returning to my house, sadly out of countenance by the coldness of Aurelia, I was met by Virginia, who reminded me that Scipione had obtained leave of absence for the night in order to visit his wife.  She seemed excited and unlike herself, very careful to lock and bolt the front door, and was continually at the window, looking over the Piazza.  Occupied as I was with my own troubles, I took no notice of her, and she, with the intelligence peculiar to her, saw how the land lay.  She was not accustomed to pick her words with me—­no Tuscan servants are—­ and after a time of silence on my part and pretended business about the room on hers, she asked leave to speak to me, and without getting it, said, “Excuse me, Don Francis, for the liberty I take, but I see you very miserable, and guess the reason.  You have had words with your mistress—­and no wonder.  Let me tell you that you have not the rudiments of love in you.”

“Enough of that, Virginia,” I said; but she would not oblige me.