Here was a duty plainly set before me—­my first and greatest reparation, which no other tie must hinder, to accomplish which I must shrink from no hardship however severe, no humiliation however bitter.  Another lay closer to my heart, I’ll allow, the words of pardon which I hoped to sue forth from the dearest lips in all the world—­for I could never hope to be happy until the being whom, most loving, I had most offended could consent to assure me of my peace.  This, however, I resolutely put by as a selfish pleasure which I must not expect to enjoy until I had earned it.  However natural might be the impulse which urged me to find Aurelia, fall at her feet, anoint them with my tears, I must withstand it until I could be sure of her honour saved.  Now, was that surety to be gained first from her or first from her wrathful husband?

I turned to the custode, who stood smiling and rubbing his chin in my doorway.  I said, “Beppo, I am in great perplexity.  It is idle to deny that I am the immediate cause of all this misery, for you know it as well as I do.”

He said that he had guessed something of what I was so good as to tell him.  “There was, as I understand, a little misadventure with a cupboard door,” he said; “but who can contend with Fate?”

“It has been my fate,” I said, “to bring ruin upon the lady whom I adore.  My sin is worse than that of Hophni and Phineas, and I would that the requital might be as theirs was, save that I can make it more bitter yet.”

“Why,” says he, “what was done to those gentlemen?” I told him that they were slain with the sword; to which he replied that, so far as he had ever heard, the doctor was nothing of a swordsman, and that he knew I had some proficiency in fence.  “I hope then,” he added, “that your honour will succeed where those other gentlemen failed; but if you ask my advice, I say, leave the doctor alone, and comfort the little lady.”

His gross misapprehension of every merit of the case nettled me:  I saw it was useless to talk with a person of his condition, and that instant action was my only safety.  I must go, on my knees if must be, to the feet of Donna Aurelia, I must put myself entirely at her service.  Should that lie in spurning me with her heel I must endure it; should she bid me go and receive public chastisement from her dangerous husband, I would assuredly go.  Tears, stripes, hunger, thirst, cold, heat, loneliness, nakedness, unjust accusation, ridicule, malicious persecution—­all these I would cheerfully undergo; and if one or any of them could repair her misfortunes, then they would be repaired.  The custode said that he believed they could not, but I bade him be silent and begone.  “Wretched Venetian,” I cried at him, “thou art incapable of comprehending anything but victuals.  If I tell thee that I have lacerated an angel and deserve the sword, thou speakest of my skill in fence!  I waste my breath upon thee.  Comfort the lady, dost thou dare to say?  What comfort can she have but in my repentance?  What have I to offer but devotion?”