“Assuredly, most beautiful,” he answered; and fell to counting on his fingers. “You have given us already certain proof of the guilty complicity of--One: Signor Domenico Cirillo, professor of botany, arborist, edenist, pupil of Jean Jacques, too delicate a flower for this climate; two: Francesco Conforti, court theologian, a priest and ambitious--nothing singular, but he will be beaten in the race for power by a neck; three: Carlo Muscari; four: his excellency the Marquis of Polvica, a lamentable case; five: Pasquale Baffi, professor of dead languages, for which he will soon be literally qualified; six: Gennaro Serra di Cassano, a very pretty young gentleman, late released from confinement--but it is sometimes policy to spare the cub, if one would learn the way to the dam; seven:--but, ’tis enough, madam: those six will vindicate you.” “You are welcome to them, monsieur,” I said, “if only you would exchange against them all my dear, indispensable Gogo.” At which, as usual, he shook his head, tightening his lips. “A bond of sentiment. You are better apart.” “At least you might acquaint me where he is?” “As to that, he is very safe and well cared for.” “In prison?” “Nominally--nominally, _ma belle_. But, observe--so are you, you know. What then? There are prisons and prisons.” “Well, if he is as well off as I?” I sighed. And, indeed, the assurance was a wonderful comfort to me. As a matter of course he kept me constantly informed--though I never questioned him--as to the career of the Pissanis, the head and front of all offending. “Signor Nicola is our bell-wether,” he would say. “We have hung a little invisible cymbal about his neck, which has the strange quality of sounding only to us. O, we police are the latter-day fairies, believe me! All unconsciously to himself, he calls the flock about him; and we--we have nothing to do but keep count of them, till the season of the butcher arrives. Then we shall see. I shall want, perhaps, all the fingers of my own hands, and of yours too--my God, a dainty tally! And madam, you ask--though your lips do not move? It is very laughable, take my word. At once, since her marriage, the dear little frog emulates the bull. O, fie, fie! Madam misreads me. Such a scandal! I would say only that it has inoculated her with her husband’s ambition; that she is become an enthusiast in the cause, attending meetings, distributing tracts, haranguing multitudes in her sweet round voice, that is like pelting giants with sugar-plums. Yes, as madam implies, it is marvellous. What will not love do? But for me, I am susceptible: I adore all beauty. I could wish the poor child another embrace than the hangman’s.” “Well, sir,” I answered, “you will have occasion, perhaps, to offer her the alternative.” “O, fie!” he said. “Is not my heart engaged immutably? Otherwise--who knows? It is a sad world.”