The marchese said not a word.  The count took up the tale.

“Let me, in my turn, trouble you with a few denials.  I do not deny that Donna Aurelia was in Florence earlier than you supposed, nor that I kept you in ignorance of it.  It was judged better on all accounts.  Father Carnesecchi was of that opinion.  I believe that the lady had no desire to see you.  Perhaps you will pardon my franchise when I say that it would have been singular if she had.  She desired to be accommodated with her husband—­and that was done.  My part in that affair, which I am very ready to defend, need not concern you, though (if I remember rightly) you professed yourself anxious on that account.  Now for my denials.  I deny flatly that I did any service to my distinguished friend at your expense.  I deny it point-blank.  And I deny that, when—­not for the first time—­you took the law into your own hands, I purposely removed myself from the city.  That suspicion of yours is not worth so many words.  What should my purpose be?  What object could I have?  Why should I become your enemy?”

“That, sir,” I said, “is what I intend to find out.  Be so good as to add these to your denials if you can.  Will you deny that you witnessed the performance of the Donne Furlane in Siena on the occasion of the Grand Duke’s birthday last year?”

He said, “I remember it, and a remarkable performance it was.”

“And did you see it in company of Donna Aurelia?”

“I did.”

“And did you give yourself the pain to send officers to arrest an actor called De’ Pazzi?”

He was silent.  I said then: 

“And did you not know that I was that actor?  Now, Count Giraldi, since you cannot deny these facts, I will ask you why you are my enemy?  For you are not a man who acts without reason.”

We were upon the river bank a little short of the Rubiconte Bridge.  The water rippled languidly over the muddy reaches, but the rush of the weir was audible.  Not another sound was to be heard, not a soul was in sight.  We three stopped—­I was facing the two men, my back to the low river wall.  I heard Giraldi’s breath come short and whistling through his fine nose; I heard Semifonte breathing through his mouth—­shorter breaths—­he was panting.

Count Giraldi spoke, using great command of himself, measuring his words.

“I think I will tell you the facts,” he said, “I think that will be best.  You can then judge my actions, and, as a reasonable man, govern your own by them.

“Man of the world as I am,” he continued, “I must confess that you surprised me upon our first acquaintance.  I could not tell whether I was consorting with a very refined profligate or (forgive me) a very singular fool.  You came into the city in search (as you told me) of a lady with whom you had had an abortive affair—­but you came in company with an attractive person, in a relationship with her which could only bear one interpretation—­No,