and so soon as the name of the Marchese Semifonte was mentioned, remembered Prato with horror.  The marchese may well have thought me reserved, for it is true that I could barely be civil to him.  He argued from that, as I learned afterwards from Donna Giulia, that I was of a ducal family, and in proportion as I froze, so did he thaw.  As I receded, so did he advance.  He pressed invitations upon me, all of which I could not decline; it was proper that I should offer him some hospitality in return—­and I did.  He supped with me once or twice in my lodgings, lost money to me at cards and so had some grounds for believing himself “my friend.”  Presuming upon this, he was not long in discovering himself to me for the monomaniac he was, one of those miserable men devoured by a passion which may lift us to the stars or souse us in the deepest slime of the pit.  He made proposals to me, tentatively at first, then with increasing fervency, at last with importunity which would have wearied me inexpressibly if it had not disgusted me beyond endurance—­proposals, I mean, to share his depraved excursions.  Outraged as I was, loathing the man (as I had good reason) from the bottom of my heart, I was driven to confide in Count Giraldi something of my knowledge of him.  I had the good sense, it is true, to withhold the fact that Virginia, his intended victim, was in Florence; but that is the extent of my prudence.  It might have served me, but for the accident which I must relate in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXII

I WORK FOR AURELIA, AND HEAR OF HER

It was to the sympathetic ears of Donna Giulia, first of all, that I imparted the state of my feelings, my hopes, fears and prayers with regard to Aurelia.  There was that about Count Giraldi, a diamantine brilliancy, a something hard and crystalline, a positiveness, an incisiveness of view and reflection, which on first acquaintance decided me not to take him into my confidence.  When I came to know him better, or to think that I did, I followed my natural bent and talked to him unreservedly; but in the lady, from the beginning, I found a very interested listener.  She led me on from stage to stage of my story until she had it all, and gave me the sum of her thoughts freely and with candour.  “I agree with you, Don Francis,” she said, “that your lady will be in Florence before long.  A wounded bird makes straight for the nest, and only puts into a thicket on the way to recover itself for the longer flight.  You will have to make the most of your time here, for I do not believe that even your eloquence—­and you are most eloquent—­will hold her from her mother’s arms, as things are now.  You will be sure to follow her to Siena, and can there make your arrangements at ease.”

“My arrangements, dear madam, are very simple,” said I.  “Pardon is all I ask, and leave to serve her.  She may give me these in Florence as well as in Siena.”