He was back before I had completed my inventory, thanking me again and again for my extreme kindness in coming, all the while unwrapping the Gorgonzola, and flecking off with a fork the shreds of paper that still clung to its edges. The morsel was then laid upon a broad leaf gathered at the window, and finally upon a plate covered by a napkin so that the flies should not taste it first. This, with a simple salad, a pot of coffee and some rolls, a siphon of seltzer and a little raspberry juice in a glass,—“so much fresher than wine these hot mornings,” he said,—constituted the entire repast.
But there was no apology offered with the serving. Poor as he was, he had that exquisite tact which avoided burdening his guest even with his economies. He had offered me all his slender purse could afford. Indeed, the cheese had quite overstrained it.
When he had drawn a cigarette from my case,—it was delightful to see him do this, and always reminded me of a young girl picking bonbons from a box, it was so daintily done,—the talk drifted into a discussion of the glories of the old days and of the welfare of Italy under the present government. I made a point of expressing my deep admiration for the good King Humbert and his gracious queen. The Professor merely waved his hand, adding:—
“Yes, a good man and a noble lady, worthy successors of the old régime!” Then, with a certain air, “I have known, professionally, very many of these great families. A most charming, delightful society! The women so exquisite, with such wealth of hair and eyes, and so gentilles: always of the Beau Monde! And their traditions and legends, so full of romance and mystery! The palaces too! Think of the grand staircase of the Foscari, the entrance to the Barbaro, and the superb ceilings of the Albrezzi! Then their great gardens and vine orchards! There is nothing like them. Do you happen to know the old garden on the Giudecca, where lived the beautiful Contessa Alberoni? No? And you never heard the romantic story of her life, her disappearance, and its dramatic ending?”
I shook my head. The Professor, to my delight, was now fairly in the saddle; the best part of the breakfast was to come.
“My dear friend! One of the most curious of all the stories of Venice! I know intimately many of her descendants, and I know, too, the old gardener who still cares for what is left of the garden. It has long since passed out of the hands of the family.
“Let me light another cigarette before I tell you,” said the Professor, crossing the room, “and just another drop of seltzer,” filling my glass.
“Is it to be a true story?” I asked.
“Mon cher ami! absolutely so. Would you care to see the garden itself, where it all occurred, or will you take my word for it? No, not until you sit under the arbors and lean over the very balcony where the lovers sat. Come, is your gondola here? Under the window?” pushing aside the flowers. “Which is your gondolier? The one in blue with the white tenda over his boat? Yes, sound asleep like all the rest of them!”
Here the old gentleman picked up his silk hat, passed his hand once or twice around its well-brushed surface, discarded it for a white straw with a narrow black band, adjusted his cravat in a broken mirror that hung near the door, gave an extra twist to his gray mustache, and preceded me downstairs and out into the blinding light of a summer day.