The frate said that Virginia herself had delivered the letter into his hands as he stood taking the air at the inn door.  He scoffed at the notion that he could be mistaken; had he not nearly lost his life for her already?  He described her in terms too luscious to be palatable—­a fine and full wench, he called her, bare-headed, bare-necked, with the breasts of Hebe.  “And,” says he, “Don Francis, you may call her your wife or by what other pleasant phrase you please, but though I’d allow you, to do you pleasure, that that were what she ought to be—­wife, at least, to somebody—­saving your respect, she’s no wife at all.  There’s not a wedded woman in all Italy would go abroad with a bare bosom—­you may take the word of an expert for that.  She’s tricked you, sir,—­or you have tricked her.  She has had what she has had without responsibility—­ and now she’s away; and if I may be allowed the remark, I should say you were well rid of her.  An excellent dinner awaits you here—­more than enough for one, a bare pittance for two; a courteous banker awaits you in Florence.  Old Palamone will scratch his eyes out to save you.  After dinner, sir, half of Arezzo—­”

I said, “Palamone, I lay this command upon you, since you profess yourself my friend.  Find me Virginia, wheresoever she may be.  I will give you a thousand guineas.  Without her you have not one farthing of mine.”

He seized my hands.  “A thousand devils would not send me faster—­ consider her in your arms.”  He went gaily out of my presence with a song on his lips.  I heard him singing it lustily down the street of the town, and saw no more of him for some days.

Belviso was of great comfort to me during my time of anxiety; without the faithful creature I should have run my feet off my legs and my wit out of my head in futile search.  He was much too tactful to remind me of his warnings, but did not cease to show me all sorts of reasonable grounds for Virginia’s conduct, which had the effect of keeping his first prognostication always before me.  “The girl,” he said—­I repeat the sum of his many discourses—­“is evidently a good girl, and of strong character.  She is perfectly reasonable.  She married you—­I take that for granted—­when you were broken, beyond all prospect of repair.  She now finds you restored to your proper station in the world, and will be no party to pulling you off your throne.  She sees very well how that must end—­unhappily.  How can she hope to be a companion of your companions, a friend of your friends, a sharer in your amusements?  Mistress she might be, your toy; wife she can never be.  That parade of her neck and bosom—­ a desperate measure I assure you—­shows to my mind that you will never possess her again, but as you would not care to do.  You assure me that you married her, you name the church, describe the rites.  All seems to be in order; but the more I understand your Virginia in these late proceedings, the less I understand that wedding in the Ghetto.  Everything I learn of her from her own acts convinces me of her good sense; but of her acts as reported by you, Don Francis, I reserve my judgment.”