‘One of your peasants, Mirabeau, with, doubtless, a Provencal cheese and some olives for you.’
‘Or a letter of loving tidings from that dear uncle,’ cried another; ‘the only one who ever knew the real goodness of your nature.’
‘Let him come up,’ said Mirabeau, as he closed the window.
When Gerald reached the top of the stair, he saw in front of him a large, powerfully-built man, who, standing with his back to the light, had his features in deep shadow.
‘You are the Count de Mirabeau?’ began Gerald.
‘And you—who are you?’ responded he quickly.
‘That you shall know, when I am certain of whom I am addressing/
‘Come in,’ said the Count, and walked before him into the room. He turned about just as the door closed, and Gerald, fixing his eyes upon him, cried out, ‘Good heavens! is it possible? Signor Gabriel!’
‘Now for your own name, my friend,’ said Mirabeau calmly.
‘Don’t you know me, then? don’t you remember the boy you saved years ago from death in the Roman Maremma—Fitzgerald?’