“His Excellency will see you, sir,” said the man, returning quickly with the reply.
From the end of a room, so darkened by closed shutters and curtains as to make all approach difficult, a weak voice called out, “Ah, Scaresby, how d' ye do? I was just thinking to myself that I could n't be in Florence, since I had not seen you.”
“You are too good, too kind, Sir Horace, to say so,” said the other, with a voice whose tones by no means corresponded with the words.
“Yes, Scaresby, everything in this good city is in a manner associated with your name. Its intrigues, its quarrels, its loves and jealousies, its mysteries, in fine, have had no such interpreter as yourself within the memory of man! What a pity there were no Scaresbys in the Cinque Cento! How sad there were none of your family here in the Medician period! What a picture might we then have had of a society fuller even than the present of moral delinquencies.” There was a degree of pomposity in the manner he uttered this that served to conceal in a great measure its sarcasm.
“I am much flattered to learn that I have ever enlightened your Excellency on any subject,” said the Major, dryly.
“That you have, Scaresby. I was a mere dabbler in moral toxicology when I heard your first lecture, and, I assure you, I was struck by your knowledge. And how is the dear city doing?”
“It is masquerading to-day,” said Scaresby, “and, consequently, far more natural than at any other period of the whole year. Smeared faces and dirty finery,—exactly its suitable wear!”
“Who are here, Major? Any one that one knows?”
“Old Millington is here.”
“The Marquis?”