From Menaggio to Porlezza we continued our trip in a carriage, and took the boat again to Lugano. The Swiss frontier begins on the middle of the lake, and thus, for a short time, we found ourselves on Helvetic waters. Towards night we returned to Como by the railway. Baron Rosen, the Russian military attaché at Rome, came to spend two or three days at the Villa d’Este. We saw a great deal of him; he devoted his whole attention to me, and offered me his escort for moonlight promenades, but I preferred to regain prosaically my bed rather than stroll with him about the moonlit park. He called me obstinate and matter-of-fact, and said that I had warm water instead of blood, and that, like the “Sleeping Beauty in the Woods,” I was asleep to the whole of life’s pleasures, leading the existence of a nun; but his agreeable task to wake me up did not succeed. The heat continued to be overpowering, then one morning, after many days of waiting, the rain fell, but in the afternoon, the sun was ablaze, and again there was no breath of air in the overheated atmosphere. During dinner that same day, I saw by the expression of Sergy’s face that he was preparing a surprise for me. And, in fact, he made me awfully happy by announcing that instead of establishing me at Frau Weidemann’s boarding-house, he would take me with him to Piacenza, a small town in the neighbourhood of which the manœuvres would take place. And thus it was settled that we should start on the following day for the Baromees Islands on Lake Maggiore, and go straight from there to Piacenza. We left the train at Verona and took the boat, coasting along Lake Maggiore. We passed Isola Madre and moored at Isola Bella, the residence of the Counts Barromée, who dwell here only in autumn, but the beautiful feudal castle and gardens are open to the public. A smart footman showed us all over the place, after which we took a row-boat and crossed over to Isola Peschia, a fishing village with only nets all along the shore hanging out to dry, and a fishy smell over it all. On the water edge small boats were moored and a group of fishermen were sitting on the shore, mending their nets and counting their day’s catch. Suddenly I heard someone calling “Romeo!” I turned round and beheld a fisher-lad, bare-legged, with clothes in tatters, and a dirty fish-basket over his arm, looking most unromantic, and bearing very little resemblance to the Shakesperian hero.