Then he became more contemplative. The most joyful hour of his life was at hand. He asked himself how his dear Jessamy Bride would receive the letters which he was about to take to her. He did not think of himself in connection with her gratitude. He left himself altogether out of consideration in this matter. He only thought of how the girl's face would lighten—how the white roses which he had last seen on her cheeks would change to red when he put the letters into her hand, and she felt that she was safe.
That was the reward for which he looked. He knew that he would feel bitterly disappointed if he failed to see the change of the roses on her face—if he failed to hear her fill the air with the music of her laughter. And then—then she would be happy for evermore, and he would be happy through witnessing her happiness.
He finished dressing, and was in the act of going to his desk for the letters, which he hoped she would soon hold in her hand, when his servant announced two visitors.
Signor Baretti, accompanied by a tall and very thin man, entered. The former greeted Goldsmith, and introduced his friend, who was a compatriot of his own, named Nicolo.
“I have not forgotten the matter which you honoured me by placing in my hands,” said Baretti. “My friend Nicolo is a master of the art of fencing as practised in Italy in the present day. He is under the impression, singular though it may seem, that he spoke to you more than once during your wanderings in Tuscany.”
“And now I am sure of it,” said Nicolo in French. He explained that he spoke French rather better than English. “Yes, I was a student at Pisa when Dr. Goldsmith visited that city. I have no difficulty in recognising him.”
“And I, for my part, have a conviction that I have seen your face, sir,” said Goldsmith, also speaking in French; “I cannot, however, recall the circumstances of our first meeting. Can you supply the deficiency in my memory, sir?”
“There was a students' society that met at the Boccaleone,” said Signor Nicolo.
“I recollect it distinctly; Figli della Torre, you called yourselves,” said Goldsmith quickly. “You were one of the orators—quite reckless, if you will permit me to say so much.”
The man smiled somewhat grimly.