"No; but you will be, perhaps. It is not wise to run any useless risks."
I was again silent. A low breeze rustled in the tree-tops near us; the music of the ballroom reached us only in faint and far echoes; the scent of roses and myrtle was wafted delicately on the balmy air; the radiance of the moon softened the outlines of the landscape into a dreamy suggestiveness of its reality. Suddenly a sound broke on our ears—a delicious, long, plaintive trill; then a wonderful shower of sparkling roulades; and finally, a clear, imploring, passionate note repeated many times. It was a nightingale, singing as only the nightingales of the South can sing. I listened entranced.
"'Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown,'"
quoted Cellini in earnest tones.
"You admire Keats?" I asked eagerly.
"More than any other poet that has lived," he replied. "His was the most ethereal and delicate muse that ever consented to be tied down to earth. But, mademoiselle, you do not wish to examine me as to my taste in poetry. You have some other questions to put to me, have you not?"
For one instant I hesitated. Then I spoke out frankly, and answered:
"Yes, signor. What was there in that wine you gave me this morning?"
He met my searching gaze unflinchingly.
"A medicine," he said. "An excellent and perfectly simple remedy made of the juice of plants, and absolutely harmless."