She insisted upon showing him his quarters.  They were not, it seemed, upon this floor, nor the next below—­no, but on the next below that.  Signor Francesco must follow her as, lamp in hand, she went downstairs, her high heels clattering like Spanish castanets.  She opened his door with a key which she then handed over to him:  she showed him his bedroom, his saloon.  “Your citadel, Don Francis,” she said, “your refuge from my heedless tongue.  Your chocolate shall be brought to you here, but we hope you will give yourself the trouble to dine with us.  Generally my husband sups too late for your convenience.  He is always at the cafe till nine o’clock.  He sits there with his friends and hears the news, which he knows beforehand as well as they do.  And when they have done, he tells it all over again to them.  This is the way with men; and I sit at home and make my clothes.  This also is the way with women, it seems.  There is no other.”  She stayed a few more minutes, chattering, laughing and blushing; then with a sudden access of shyness wished him “felicissima notte,” and held him out her hand.  Mr. Francis stooped over it, and saluted it once more with profound respect.

He was long in going to bed.  He wrote furiously in his diary after a space of restless contemplation, when he roamed across and across the room.  But now I must leave his raptures and himself to his own pen, having got him inmate of a household where by ordinary he might have lived a blameless three years.  If, however, he had done that, I don’t suppose the singular memoirs which follow would ever have been written.

CHAPTER I

MY EXORDIUM:  A JUSTIFICATORY PIECE

If we soberly reflect upon the part which the trappings and mantlings of men have played in their affairs, we shall not hesitate, I believe, to put into that category many things which have hitherto been considered far less occasional.  What is honour but a garment?  What money but a walking-stick?  What are fine manners but a wig?  If I professed, instead of abhorring, the Cynic school of philosophy, I might go on to ask what were love but an ointment, or religion but a tinted glass.  I can thank my Redeemer, as I sit here in my green haven, with the stormy sea of my troubles afar off, beating in vain against the walls of contentment, that through all my vicissitudes I was never tempted to stray into such blasphemous imaginations.  Fool as I have been, and fool as I have declared myself upon the forefront of this very book, I have never said in my heart, there is no god; but much and loudly have maintained the affirmative.  And although I have been sadly, wickedly, detestably errant from His way, there is one divine precept which I have never failed to keep, and that is, love one another.  All other affections, additions, accidents, accessories of men, however, from the lowest, which is Money,