“Do you know,” said he, “the Marquis Albergati Capacelli, senator of Bologna, and Count Paradisi?”
“I do not know Paradisi, but I know Albergati by sight and by reputation; he is not a senator, but one of the Forty, who at Bologna are Fifty.”
“Dear me! That seems rather a riddle!”
“Do you know him?”
“No, but he has sent me Goldoni’s ‘Theatre,’ the translation of my Tancred, and some Bologna sausages, and he says he will come and see me.”
“He will not come; he is not such a fool.”
“How a fool? Would there be anything foolish in coming to see me?”
“Certainly not, as far as you are concerned; but very much so far his own sake.”
“Would you mind telling me why?”
“He knows what he would lose; for he enjoys the idea you seem to have of him, and if he came you would see his nothingness, and good-bye to the illusion. He is a worthy man with six thousand sequins a year, and a craze for the theatre. He is a good actor enough, and has written several comedies in prose, but they are fit neither for the study nor the stage.”