How often since the world began have such vows been made and broken--broken, not willingly, but of necessity--broken and mourned over, and, in due course of time, forgotten! I looked at the Marchese di San Silvestro the other night, as she sailed up the room in her lace and diamonds, with her fat little husband toddling after her, and wondered whether, in these days of her magnificence, she ever gave a thought to her lost Alberto--Alberto, who has been married himself this many a long day, and has succeeded to his father’s estates, and has numerous family, I am told. At all events, she was unhappy enough over parting with him at the time. The two old gentlemen, who, as holders of the purse-strings, knew that they were completely masters of the situation, and could afford to be generous, showed some kindliness of feeing at the last. They allowed the poor lovers an uninterrupted half-hour in which to bid each other adieu forever, and abstained from any needless harshness in making their decision known. When the time was up, two travelling-carriages were seen waiting at the door. Count von Rosenau pushed his son before him into the first; the marchese assisted the half-fainting Bianca into the second; the vetturini cracked their whips, and presently both vehicles were rolling away, the one toward the north, the other toward the south. I suppose the young people had been promising to remain faithful to each other until some happier future time should permit of their union, for at the last moment Albrecht thrust his head out of the carriage window, and, waving his hand, cried, “_A rivederci!_” I don’t know whether they ever met again. The whole scene, I confess, had affected me a good deal, in spite of some of the absurdities by which it had been marked; and it was not until I had been alone for some time, and silence had once more fallen upon the Longarone _osteria_, that I awoke to the fact that it was _my_ carriage which the Marchese Marinelli had calmly appropriated to his own use, and that there was no visible means of my getting back to Venice that day. Great was my anger and great my dismay when the ostler announced this news to me, with a broad grin, in reply to my order to put the horses to without delay. “But the marchese himself--how did he get here?” I inquired. “Oh, he came by the diligence.” “And the count--the young gentleman?” “On horseback, signore; but you cannot have his horse. The poor beast is half dead as it is.” “Then will you tell me how I am to escape from your infernal town? For nothing shall induce me to pass another night here.” “Eh! there is the diligence which goes through at two o’clock in the morning!” There was no help for it. I sat up for that diligence, and returned by it to Mestre, seated between a Capuchin monk and a peasant farmer whose whole system appeared to be saturated with garlic. I could scarcely have fared worse in my bed at Longarone.