“A tall gentleman came here late last night, Signor Professore,” said Mariuccia, as I sat down in the old green arm-chair.  “He seemed very angry about something, and said he must positively see you.”  The idea of Benoni flashed uneasily across my brain.

“Was he the grave signore who came a few days before I left?” I asked.

“Heaven preserve us!” ejaculated Mariuccia.  “This one was much older, and seemed to be lame; for when he tried to shake his stick at me, he could not stand without it.  He looked like one of the old Swiss guards at Palazzo.”  By which she meant the Vatican, as you know.

“It must have been the count,” I said, thinking aloud.

“A count!  A pretty sort of count, indeed, to come waking people from their beds in the night!  He had not even a high hat like the one you wear when you go to the University.  A count, indeed!”

“Go and make me some good coffee, Mariuccia,” I said, eying her severely to show I suspected her of having used mine; “and be careful to make it of my best Porto-Rico, if you have any left, without any chicory.”

“A count, indeed!” she muttered angrily as she hobbled away, not in the least heeding my last remark, which I believed to be withering.

I had not much time for reflection that morning.  My old clothes were in tatters, and the others looked very fine by contrast, so that when I had made my toilet I felt better able to show myself to the distinguished company I expected.  I had seen so much extraordinary endurance in Nino and Hedwig during the last two or three days that I was prepared to see them appear at any moment, brushed and curled and ready for anything.  The visit of the count, however, had seriously disturbed me, and I hardly knew what to look for from him.  As it turned out, I had not long to wait.

I was resting myself in the arm-chair, and smoking one of those infamous cigars that nearly suffocate me, just for company, and I was composing in my mind a letter to the authorities of the University, requesting that I might begin to lecture again.  I did not find out until later that I need not have written to them at all when I went away, as ten days are always allowed at Easter, in any case.  It is just like my forgetfulness, to have made such a mistake.  I really only missed four lectures.  But my composition was interrupted by the door-bell, and my heart sank in my breast.  Mariuccia opened, and I knew by the sound of the stick on the bricks that the lame count had come to wreak his vengeance.

Being much frightened, I was very polite, and bowed a great many times as he came toward me.  It was he, looking much the same as ever, wooden and grizzly.

“I am much honoured, sir,” I began, “by seeing you here.”

“You are Signor Grandi?” he inquired, with a stiff bow.

“The same, Signor Conte, and very much at your service,” I answered, rubbing my hands together to give myself an air of satisfaction.

“Let us not waste time,” he said, severely but not roughly.  “I have come to you on business.  My daughter has disappeared with your son, or whatever relation the Signor Giovanni Cardegna is to you.”

“He is no relation, Signor Conte.  He was an orphan, and I ­”

“It is the same,” he interrupted.  “You are responsible for his doings.”

I responsible!  Good heavens, had I not done all in my power to prevent the rashness of that hot-headed boy?

“Will you not sit down, sir?” I said, moving a chair for him.  He took the seat rather reluctantly.

“You do not seem much astonished at what I tell you,” he remarked.  “It is evident that you are in the plot.”

“Unless you will inform me of what you know, Signor Conte,” I replied with urbanity, “I cannot see how I can be of service to you.”

“On the contrary,” said he, “I am the person to ask questions.  I wake up in the morning and find my daughter gone.  I naturally inquire where she is.”

“Most naturally, as you say, sir.  I would do the same.”

“And you, also very naturally, answer my questions,” he continued severely.

“In that case, sir,” I replied, “I would call to your attention the fact that you have asked but one question, ­whether I were Signor Grandi.  I answered that in the affirmative.”  You see I was apprehensive of what he might do, and desired to gain time.  But he began to lose his temper.

“I have no patience with you Italians,” he said, gruffly; “you bandy words and play with them as if you enjoyed it.”

Diavolo, thought I, he is angry at my silence.  What will he be if I speak?

“What do you wish to know, Signor Conte?” I inquired, in suave tones.

“I wish to know where my daughter is.  Where is she?  Do you understand?  I am asking a question now, and you cannot deny it.”

I was sitting in front of him, but I rose and pretended to shut the door, thus putting the table and the end of the piano between us, before I answered.

“She is in Rome, Signor Conte,” I said.

“With Cardegna?” he asked, not betraying any emotion.

“Yes.”

“Very well.  I will have them arrested at once.  That is all I wanted.”  He put his crutch-stick to the floor as though about to rise.  Seeing that his anger was not turned against me, I grew bold.

“You had better not do that,” I mildly observed, across the table.

“And why not, sir?” he asked, quickly, hesitating whether to get upon his feet or to remain seated.

“Because they are married already,” I answered, retreating toward the door.  But there was no need for flight.  He sank back in the chair, and the stick fell from his hands upon the bricks with a loud rattle.  Poor old man!  I thought he was quite overcome by the news I had communicated.  He sat staring at the window, his hands lying idly on his knees.  I moved to come toward him, but he raised one hand and began to twirl his great gray moustache fiercely; whereat I resumed my former position of safety.

“How do you know this?” he demanded on a sudden.

“I was present at the civil marriage yesterday,” I answered, feeling very much scared.  He began to notice my manoeuvre.

“You need not be so frightened,” he said, coldly.  “It would be no use to kill any of you now, though I would like to.”

“I assure you that no one ever frightened me in my own house, sir,” I answered.  I think my voice must have sounded very bold, for he did not laugh at me.

“I suppose it is irrevocable,” he said, as if to himself.

“Oh, yes ­perfectly irrevocable,” I answered, promptly.  “They are married, and have come back to Rome.  They are at the Hotel Costanzi.  I am sure that Nino would give you every explanation.”

“Who is Nino?” he asked.

“Nino Cardegna, of course ­”

“And do you foolishly imagine that I am going to ask him to explain why he took upon himself to carry away my daughter?” The question was scornful enough.

“Signor Conte,” I protested, “you would do well to see them, for she is your daughter, after all.”

“She is not my daughter any longer,” growled the count.  “She is married to a singer, a tenor, an Italian with curls and lies and grins, as you all have.  Fie!” And he pulled his moustache again.

“A singer,” said I, “if you like, but a great singer, and an honest man.”

“Oh, I did not come here to listen to your praises of that scoundrel!” he exclaimed, hotly.  “I have seen enough of him to be sick of him.”

“I wish he were in this room to hear you call him by such names,” I said; for I began to grow angry, as I sometimes do, and then my fear grows small and my heart grows big.

“Ah!” said he, ironically.  “And pray, what would he do to me?”

“He would probably ask you again for that pistol you refused to lend him the other day.”  I thought I might as well show that I knew all about the meeting in the road.  But Lira laughed grimly, and the idea of a fight seemed to please him.

“I would not refuse it this time.  In fact, since you mention it, I think I will go and offer it to him now.  Do you think I should be justified, Master Censor?”

“No,” said I, coming forward and facing him.  “But if you like you can fight me.  I am your own age, and a better match.”  I would have fought him then and there, with the chairs, if he had liked.

“Why should I fight you?” he inquired, in some astonishment.  “You strike me as a very peaceable person indeed.”

“Diavolo! do you expect me to stand quietly and hear you call my boy a scoundrel?  What do you take me for, signore?  Do you know that I am the last of the Conti Grandi, and as noble as any of you, and as fit to fight, though my hair is gray?”

“I knew, indeed, that one member of that illustrious family survived in Rome,” he answered, gravely, “but I was not aware that you were he.  I am glad to make your acquaintance, and I sincerely wish that you were the father of the young man who has married my daughter.  If you were, I would be ready to arrange matters.”  He looked at me searchingly.

“Unfortunately, I am not any relation of his,” I answered.  “His father and mother were peasants on my estate of Serveti, when it still was mine.  They died when he was a baby, and I took care of him and educated him.”

“Yes, he is well educated,” reflected the count, “for I examined him myself.  Let us talk no more about fighting.  You are quite sure that the marriage is legal?”

“Quite certain.  You can do nothing, and any attempt would be a useless scandal.  Besides, they are so happy, you do not know.”

“So happy, are they?  Do you think I am happy too?

“A man has every reason to be so, when his daughter marries an honest man.  It is a piece of good luck that does not happen often.”

“Probably from the scarcity of daughters who are willing to drive their fathers to distraction by their disobedience and contempt of authority,’” he said, savagely.

“No, ­from the scarcity of honest men,” I said.  “Nino is a very honest man.  You may go from one end of Italy to the other and not meet one like him.”

“I sincerely hope so,” growled Lira.  “Otherwise Italy would be as wholly unredeemed and unredeemable as you pretend that some parts of it are now.  But I will tell you, Conte Grandi, you cannot walk across the street, in my country, without meeting a dozen men who would tremble at the idea of such depravity as an elopement.”

“Our ideas of honesty differ, sir,” I replied.  “When a man loves a woman, I consider it honest in him to act as though he did, and not to go and marry another for consolation, beating her with a thick stick whenever he chances to think of the first.  That seems to be the northern idea of domestic felicity.”  Lira laughed gruffly, supposing that my picture was meant for a jest.  “I am glad you are amused,” I added.

“Upon my honour, sir,” he replied, “you are so vastly amusing that I am half inclined to forgive my daughter’s rashness, for the sake of enjoying your company.  First you entrench yourself behind your furniture; then you propose to fight me; and now you give me the most original views upon love and marriage that I ever heard.  Indeed I have cause to be amused.”

“I am happy to oblige you,” I said, tartly, for I did not like his laughter.  “So long as you confine your amusement to me, I am satisfied; but pray avoid using any objectionable language about Nino.”

“Then my only course is to avoid the subject?”

“Precisely,” I replied, with a good deal of dignity.

“In that case I will go,” he said.  I was immensely relieved, for his presence was most unpleasant, as you may readily guess.  He got upon his feet, and I showed him to the door, with all courtesy.  I expected that he would say something about the future before leaving me, but I was mistaken.  He bowed in silence, and stumped down the steps with his stick.

I sank into my arm-chair with a great sigh of relief, for I felt that, for me at least, the worst was over.  I had faced the infuriated father, and I might now face anybody with the consciousness of power.  I always feel conscious of great power when danger is past.  Once more I lit my cigar, and stretched myself out to take some rest.  The constant strain on the nerves was becoming very wearing, and I knew very well that on the morrow I should need bleeding and mallows tea.  Hardly was I settled and comfortable when I heard that dreadful bell again.

“This is the day of the resurrection indeed,” cried Mariuccia frantically from the kitchen.  And she hurried to the door.  But I cannot describe to you the screams of joy and the strange sounds, between laughing and crying, that her leathern throat produced when she found Nino and Hedwig on the landing, waiting for admission.  And when Nino explained that he had been married, and that this beautiful lady with the bright eyes and the golden hair was his wife, the old woman fairly gave way, and sat upon a chair in an agony of amazement and admiration.  But the pair came toward me, and I met them with a light heart.

“Nino,” said Hedwig, “we have not been nearly grateful enough to Signor Grandi for all he has done.  I have been very selfish,” she said, penitently turning to me.

“Ah no, signora,” I replied, ­for she was married now, and no longer “signorina,” ­“it is never selfish of such as you to let an old man do you service.  You have made me very happy.”  And then I embraced Nino, and Hedwig gave me her hand, which I kissed in the old fashion.

“And so this is your old home, Nino?” said Hedwig presently, looking about her, and touching the things in the room, as a woman will when she makes acquaintance with a place she has often heard of.  “What a dear room it is!  I wish we could live here!” How very soon a woman learns that “we” that means so much!  It is never forgotten, even when the love that bred it is dead and cold.

“Yes,” I said, for Nino seemed so enraptured, as he watched her, that he could not speak.  “And there is the old piano, with the end on the boxes because it has no leg, as I dare say Nino has often told you.”

“Nino said it was a very good piano,” said she.

“And indeed it is,” he said, with enthusiasm.  “It is out of tune now, perhaps, but it is the source of all my fortune.”  He leaned over the crazy instrument and seemed to caress it.

“Poor old thing!” said Hedwig, compassionately.  “I am sure there is music in it still ­the sweet music of the past.”

“Yes,” said he laughing, “it must be the music of the past, for it would not stand the ‘music of the future,’ as they call it, for five minutes.  All the strings would break.”  Hedwig sat down on the chair that was in front of it, and her fingers went involuntarily to the keys, though she is no great musician.

“I can play a little, you know, Nino,” she said shyly, and looked up to his face for a response, not venturing to strike the chords.  And it would have done you good to see how brightly Nino smiled and encouraged her little offer of music ­he, the great artist, in whose life music was both sword and sceptre.  But he knew that she had greatness also of a different kind, and he loved the small jewels in his crown as well as the glorious treasures of its larger wealth.

“Play to me, my love,” he said, not caring now whether I heard the sweet words or not.  She blushed a little, nevertheless, and glanced at me; then her fingers strayed over the keys, and drew out music that was very soft and yet very gay.  Suddenly she ceased, and leaned forward on the desk of the piano, looking at him.

“Do you know, Nino, it was once my dream to be a great musician.  If I had not been so rich I should have taken the profession in earnest.  But now, you see, it is different, is it not?”

“Yes, it is all different now,” he answered, not knowing exactly what she meant, but radiantly happy, all the same.

“I mean,” she said, hesitating ­“I mean that now that we are to be always together, what you do I do, and what I do you do.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, perfectly,” said Nino, rather puzzled, but quite satisfied.

“Ah no, dear,” said she, forgetting my presence, and letting her hand steal into his as he stood, “you do not understand ­quite.  I mean that so long as one of us can be a great musician it is enough, and I am just as great as though I did it all myself.”

Thereupon Nino forgot himself altogether, and kissed her golden hair.  But then he saw me looking, for it was so pretty a sight that I could not help it, and he remembered.

“Oh!” he said in a tone of embarrassment that I had never heard before.  Then Hedwig blushed very much too, and looked away, and Nino put himself between her and me, so that I might not see her.

“Could you play something for me to sing, Hedwig?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh, yes!  I can play ‘Spirto gentil,’ by heart,” she cried, hailing the idea with delight.

In a moment they were both lost, and indeed so was I, in the dignity and beauty of the simple melody.  As he began to sing, Nino bent down to her, and almost whispered the first words into her ear.  But soon he stood erect, and let the music flow from his lips just as God made it.  His voice was tired with the long watching and the dust and cold and heat of the journey; but, as De Pretis said when he began, he has an iron throat, and the weariness only made the tones soft and tender and thrilling, that would perhaps have been too strong for my little room.

Suddenly he stopped short in the middle of a note, and gazed open-mouthed at the door.  And I looked, too, and was horrified; and Hedwig, looking also, screamed and sprang back to the window, overturning the chair she had sat on.

In the doorway stood Ahasuerus Benoni, the Jew.

Mariuccia had imprudently forgotten to shut the door when Hedwig and Nino came, and the baron had walked in unannounced.  You may imagine the fright I was in.  But, after all, it was natural enough that after what had occurred he, as well as the count, should seek an interview with me, to obtain what information I was willing to give.

There he stood in his gray clothes, tall and thin and smiling as of yore.