"Ah no, I am only too sane. I have too much reason rather than too
little."
"You have, at any rate, what we call a fixed idea."
"There is no harm in that so long as it's a good one."
"But yours is abominable!" she exclaimed, with a laugh.
"Of course you can't like me or my ideas. All things considered, you
have treated me with wonderful kindness, and I thank you and kiss your
hands. I leave Florence tomorrow."
"I won't say I'm sorry!" she said, laughing again. "But I am very glad
to have seen you. I always wondered about you. You are a curiosity."
"Yes, you must find me so. A man who can resist your charms! The fact
is, I can't. This evening you are enchanting; and it is the first time I
have been alone with you."
She gave no heed to this; she turned away. But in a moment she came
back, and stood looking at me, and her beautiful solemn eyes seemed to
shine in the dimness of the room.
"How _could_ you treat my mother so?" she asked.
"Treat her so?"
"How could you desert the most charming woman in the world?"
"It was not a case of desertion; and if it had been it seems to me she
was consoled."
At this moment there was the sound of a step in the ante-chamber, and I
saw that the Countess perceived it to be Stanmer's.
"That wouldn't have happened," she murmured. "My poor mother needed a
protector."
Stanmer came in, interrupting our talk, and looking at me, I thought,
with a little air of bravado. He must think me indeed a tiresome,
meddlesome bore; and upon my word, turning it all over, I wonder at his
docility. After all, he's five-and-twenty--and yet I _must_ add, it
_does_ irritate me--the way he sticks! He was followed in a moment by
two or three of the regular Italians, and I made my visit short.
"Good-bye, Countess," I said; and she gave me her hand in silence. "Do
you need a protector?" I added, softly.
She looked at me from head to foot, and then, almost angrily--"Yes,
Signore."
But, to deprecate her anger, I kept her hand an instant, and then bent my
venerable head and kissed it. I think I appeased her.
BOLOGNA, 14th.--I left Florence on the 11th, and have been here these
three days. Delightful old Italian town--but it lacks the charm of my
Florentine secret.
I wrote that last entry five days ago, late at night, after coming back
from Casa Salsi. I afterwards fell asleep in my chair; the night was
half over when I woke up. Instead of going to bed, I stood a long time
at the window, looking out at the river. It was a warm, still night, and
the first faint streaks of sunrise were in the sky. Presently I heard a
slow footstep beneath my window, and looking down, made out by the aid of
a street lamp that Stanmer was but just coming home. I called to him to
come to my rooms, and, after an interval, he made his appearance.
"I want to bid you good-bye," I said; "I shall depart in the morning.
Don't go to the trouble of saying you are sorry. Of course you are not;
I must have bullied you immensely."
He made no attempt to say he was sorry, but he said he was very glad to
have made my acquaintance.
"Your conversation," he said, with his little innocent air, "has been
very suggestive."
"Have you found Camerino?" I asked, smiling.
"I have given up the search."
"Well," I said, "some day when you find that you have made a great
mistake, remember I told you so."
He looked for a minute as if he were trying to anticipate that day by the
exercise of his reason.
"Has it ever occurred to you that _you_ may have made a great mistake?"
"Oh yes; everything occurs to one sooner or later."
That's what I said to him; but I didn't say that the question, pointed by
his candid young countenance, had, for the moment, a greater force than
it had ever had before.
And then he asked me whether, as things had turned out, I myself had been
so especially happy.
PARIS, _December_ 17th.--A note from young Stanmer, whom I saw in
Florence--a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing.
"My dear General--I have it at heart to tell you that I was married a
week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli. You talked me into a great
muddle; but a month after that it was all very clear. Things that
involve a risk are like the Christian faith; they must be seen from
the inside.--Yours ever, E. S.
"P. S.--A fig for analogies unless you can find an analogy for my
happiness!"
His happiness makes him very clever. I hope it will last--I mean his
cleverness, not his happiness.
LONDON, _April_ 19th, 1877.--Last night, at Lady H---'s, I met Edmund
Stanmer, who married Bianca Salvi's daughter. I heard the other day that
they had come to England. A handsome young fellow, with a fresh
contented face. He reminded me of Florence, which I didn't pretend to
forget; but it was rather awkward, for I remember I used to disparage
that woman to him. I had a complete theory about her. But he didn't
seem at all stiff; on the contrary, he appeared to enjoy our encounter. I
asked him if his wife were there. I had to do that.
"Oh yes, she's in one of the other rooms. Come and make her
acquaintance; I want you to know her."
"You forget that I do know her."
"Oh no, you don't; you never did." And he gave a little significant
laugh.
I didn't feel like facing the _ci-devant_ Scarabelli at that moment; so I
said that I was leaving the house, but that I would do myself the honour
of calling upon his wife. We talked for a minute of something else, and
then, suddenly breaking off and looking at me, he laid his hand on my
arm. I must do him the justice to say that he looks felicitous.
"Depend upon it you were wrong!" he said.
"My dear young friend," I answered, "imagine the alacrity with which I
concede it."
Something else again was spoken of, but in an instant he repeated his
movement.
"Depend upon it you were wrong."
"I am sure the Countess has forgiven me," I said, "and in that case you
ought to bear no grudge. As I have had the honour to say, I will call
upon her immediately."
"I was not alluding to my wife," he answered. "I was thinking of your
own story."
"My own story?"
"So many years ago. Was it not rather a mistake?"