“They live about nine miles from Milan, on the Monza road, but beyond that town, close to the village of Desio. The villa is called Dannegianti, after its owners. It used to be hidden among poplars, and its groves were famous for their shade. You must send in your card to the old lady of the house together with mine. They will receive you. Then you must break the news to them as you think best, that, in accordance with the dying wish of Sylvestre Lampron’s mother, the portrait of Rafaella is to be given in perpetuity to the Villa Dannegianti. Given, you understand. “You may even tell them that it is on its way. I have just arranged with Plumet about packing it. He is a good workman, as you know. To-morrow all will be ready, and my home an absolute void. “I intend to take refuge in hard work, and I count upon you to alleviate to some extent the hardships of such a method of consolation. “SYLVESTRE LAMPRON.” When I got Lampron’s letter, at ten in the morning, I went at once to see the landlord of the Albergo dell’ Agnello. “You can get me a carriage for Desio, can’t you?” “Oh, your lordship thinks of driving to Desio? That is quite right. It is much more picturesque than going by train. A little way beyond Monza. Monza, sir, is one of our richest jewels; you will see there--” “Yes,” said I, repeating my Baedeker as accurately as he, “the Villa Reale, and the Iron Crown of the Emperors of the West.” “Exactly so, sir, and the cathedral built--” “By Theodolinda, Queen of the Lombards, A.D. 595, restored in the sixteenth century. I know; I only asked whether you could get me a decent carriage.” “A matchless one! At half-past three, when the heat is less intense, your lordship will find the horses harnessed. You will have plenty of time to get to Desio before sunset, and be back in time for supper.” At the appointed time I received notice. My host had more than kept his word, for the horses sped through Milan at a trot which they did not relinquish when we got into the Como road, amid the flat and fertile country which is called the garden of Italy. After an hour and a half, including a brief halt at Monza, the coachman drew up his horses before the first house in Desio--an inn. It was a very poor inn, situated at the corner of the main street and of a road which branched off into the country. In front of it a few plane-trees, trained into an arbor, formed an arch of shade. A few feet of vine clambered about their trunks. The sun was scorching the leaves and the heavy bunches of grapes which hung here and there. The shutters were closed, and the little house seemed to have been lulled to sleep by the heat and light of the atmosphere and the buzzing of the gnats. “Oh, go in; they’ll wake up at once,” said the coachman, who had divined my thoughts.