"Come, my dear friend, just take off that great hat, and eat, without fear of the servants, a good slice of this paté and another of this ham, as you do every evening when we are alone." Master Jovelin uttered some inarticulate sounds by way of thanks, and began to eat, while the marquis slowly sipped his _clairette_, less from desire than from courtesy, to bear him company; for it is well to say that, although the old man had many absurd foibles, he had not a single vice. Then, while the poor mute ate, the good châtelain carried on the conversation all by himself, which was a very great pleasure to the musician, for no other person would take the trouble to speak to a man who could not answer. People had become accustomed to treat him as a deaf-mute; that is to say, knowing that he could not repeat what he heard, they indulged without hesitation in lying or slander in his hearing. The marquis alone talked directly to him, with much deference for his noble character, his great learning and his misfortunes, of which the following is a brief narrative: Lucilio Giovellino, a native of Florence, was a friend and disciple of the unfortunate and illustrious Giordano Bruno. Trained in the sublime ideas and vast learning of his master, he had, in addition, great aptitude for the fine arts, poetry and languages. Lovable, eloquent and persuasive, he had propagated with success the bold doctrine of the plurality of worlds. On the day when Giordano died at the stake with the calm dignity of a martyr, Giovellino was banished from Italy forever. This happened at Rome two years before the period of our narrative. Under the hand of the tormenters, Giovellino had not chosen to adhere to all of Giordano's doctrines. Although he was deeply attached to his master, he had declined to accept certain of his errors, and as they were able to convict him of only the half of his heresy, they had inflicted only the half of his punishment: they had cut out his tongue. Ruined, banished, exhausted by the torture, Giovellino had come to France, where he played his sweet-toned bag-pipe from door to door, for a crust of bread; and, Providence having guided him to the marquis's door, he was taken in, nursed, cured, entertained by him, and--which was worth far more to the poor fellow--appreciated and loved. He had told him of his misfortunes in writing.