A little way beyond that Porta al Prato, within the walls, there was, and still is, I believe, a broad neglected field—­ragged grass and broken potsherds—­surrounded on three sides out of four by shabby houses, taverns and garden walls.  It was called the Prato, and by the shocking discrepancy between its name and appearance added to my dejection, for the one recalled and the other mocked memories of that green and sunlit plain in Padua, that dear Pra della Valle, upon whose grassy dimples looked the house of Aurelia, and to whose wandering winds I had so often sighed her name.  Here, however, the Marchese Corsini had a casino and loggia, here stood in rows the country coaches from the north and west, awaiting their times of departure; here the Florentines used to hold their horse-races of St. John’s day, and here, finally, you could be robbed, strangled or stabbed any night of the year.  Yet it boasted at least two convents of nuns among its border of untidy buildings, and was destined, before long, to become of supreme interest to myself.  Virginia the shrewd knew that, although I did not.

As we passed for the first time in our lives over the littered, disconsolate spot where, in the heavy rain, a pack of ruffians and drabs were sprawling, she took care to point out one of those two convents—­a plain yellow house, closely shuttered, and by its side the red roof and rickety cross of the church appurtenant.  “That,” she said, “is the Convent of SS.  Maria and Giuseppe sul Prato.  Mark the house.  You should look there for your Donna Aurelia.”

My dejection held me fast; the rain, the heavy air and fog of Florence, this vile Prato and its company of tumbling, scuffling wretches loaded me with an apathy impossible to shake off.  “Why there?” I asked her languidly.  “Why anywhere within these fatal walls?”

“If, as you suppose and I do not suppose, she has taken shelter in a convent,” Virginia replied, “it will be in that convent.  That society is wholly of Siena.  All the Sienese, arriving in Florence (and in need of such shelter) go thither.  I am sure there is not a woman behind those walls who cannot tell you what ‘l’ andare a Provenzano’ means—­and most of them by more than hearsay.  Yes, yes.  Either she is there, or she will be there before long—­always supposing that she is miserable.  For my part, I have never disguised from your honour my belief that she is not so miserable as you flatter yourself.”

“Aurelia can have no place here,” said I heavily.  “This is a fatal place.  I shall find her in Siena, and am minded to go there this very day.”

Better for me to have done so; but “Florence lies dead in her road,” Virginia persisted, “and by the time she had reached it she would be very ready for one of the two things Florence affords.”

“And what are they, Virginia?” Her oracular moods always interested me, consorting so oddly with her youth.

“Pleasure or religion,” said she, and would explain herself no further.