Don Ottavio shook hands with me, looking the picture of woe, and re-read the note without answering. "Do try," I said, "to offer me some explanation of this affair. Devil take it if I can make anything of it!" He shrugged his shoulders. "At least tell me what I ought to do," I said; "to whom I should address my grievances in this pious town of yours, in order to see justice done to this gentleman who peppers passers-by without even asking them their names. I confess I should love to see him hanged." "Be very careful," he cried. "You do not know this country. Do not say a word to anyone of what has happened, or you will expose yourself too much." "What shall I expose myself to? Damn it! I mean to have my revenge. If I had offended the scoundrel there might be some excuse; but, because I picked up a rose.... In all conscience, surely I did not deserve to be shot." "Let me act in the matter," said Don Ottavio; "perhaps I shall succeed in clearing up the mystery. But I ask you as a special favour, as a signal proof of your friendship for me, not to mention this to a single soul. Will you promise me?" He looked so sad as he entreated that I had not the heart to resist him, and I promised him all he asked. He thanked me effusively, and, when he had himself applied a compress of eau de Cologne to my chest, he shook hands and bid me adieu. "By the way," I asked him, as I opened the door to let him go out, "tell me how it happened that you were there just in the nick of time to help me." "I heard the gunshot," he replied in an embarrassed tone, "and I came out at once, fearing some mischance had happened to you." He left me hastily, after he had again sworn me to secrecy. In the morning a surgeon came to see me, sent no doubt by Don Ottavio. He prescribed a poultice, but asked no questions about the cause that had added violet marks to my white skin. People are very discreet in Rome, and I desired to conform to the customs of the country. Several days passed by without my being able to talk freely with Don Ottavio. He was preoccupied and even more gloomy than usual; besides, he seemed to try to avoid my questionings. During the rare moments that I was alone with him he did not say a word about the strange inhabitants of the Viccolo di Madama Lucrezia. The day fixed for the ceremony of his ordination drew near, and I attributed his melancholy to his repugnance to the profession he was being forced to adopt. I prepared to leave Rome for Florence. When I announced my departure to the Marquise Aldobrandi, Don Ottavio made some excuse to take me up to his room. When we reached it he took both my hands in his--