“She shall have my place,” cried the worthy tailor, “if she won’t mind sleeping with my wife. I will hire a small room hard by, and will sleep there as long as the young lady stays.”
“That’s a good idea, gossip, but your wife will lose by the exchange.”
“Not much,” said Zenobia; and the tailor burst out laughing.
“As for her meals,” he added, “she must arrange that herself.”
“That’s a very simple matter,” said I, “Zenobia will get them and I will pay for them.”
I wrote the girl a short note, telling her of the arrangements I had made, and charged Zenobia to take her the letter. The next day I found her in the poor lodging with these worthy folks, looking pleased and ravishingly pretty. I felt that I could behave well for the present, but I sighed at the thought of the journey. I should have to put a strong restraint on myself.
I had nothing more to do at Milan, but the count had made me promise to spend a fortnight at St. Angelo. This was an estate belonging to him, fifteen miles from Milan, and the count spoke most enthusiastically of it. If I had gone away without seeing St. Angelo, he would have been exceedingly mortified. A married brother of his lived there, and the count often said that his brother was longing to know me. When we returned he would no doubt let me depart in peace.
I had made up my mind to shew my gratitude to the worthy man for his hospitality, so on the fourth day of Lent I took leave of Thérèse, Greppi, and the affectionate marchioness, for two weeks, and we set out on our way.
To my great delight the countess did not care to come. She much preferred staying in Milan with Triulzi, who did not let her lack for anything.
We got to St. Angelo at three o’clock, and found that we were expected to dinner.