THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

Count Giraldi had three palaces in or near Florence, or rather, he had four. He himself occupied the great house of his race, the
Palazzo Giraldi, a magnificent pile, built by Muchelozzo, on the Lung' Arno. The Villa Felice, also, on the hillside below Fiesole
was reserved for himself and his friends. His wife, a frigid, devout, elderly lady, had her own establishment, the splendid Palazzo
Manfredi, in Oltr' Arno, and received him with great ceremony once a week for an hour in the afternoon. Never, so long as I
had any familiarity with the count, did she set foot in either of his houses; but he always spoke of her with great respect as the
only person of his acquaintance who had never provided him with matter for amusement. The fourth, of which I have spoken,
was smaller than any, but the most elegant of all. That, too, was over Arno, in a retired street near the Porta San Giorgio, but
within a garden of its own which withdrew it yet more from observation or annoyance. I call it his, since he assured me of it at a
later day; but at this time I knew it as in the occupation of the Contessa Giulia Galluzzo, a charming lady, charming hostess,
centre and inspiration of a charming circle. The count took me with him, very soon after we had become intimate, to wait upon
her; she received me with all possible favour. I never failed of attending her assemblies, never found her otherwise than amiable,
nor her circle than varied and entertaining. Without suspecting in the least how Count Giraldi really stood with regard to her, I
could see that he was free of the house. She called him "Caro amico," and paid great deference to his opinions. He, on his side,
addressed her as "Madonna," was tender without being impresse, alert without seeming to be so, and whether he intended to
take her advice or not, never failed to pay her the compliment of asking it. I am thus particular in speaking of these things for
reasons which will shortly appear.
In the Villa San Giorgio, most of all in the society of its graceful chatelaine, I had my fill of poetry and the other ornamental arts.
Wit, love, philosophy, literature, bric-a-brac, religion—each had its petit- maitre, and each its sparkling Muse. It was before the
day of Arcadia and shepherdesses, those flowers of our more jaded years; women were still called divine, but it was very
possible, or we used to think it so, to discuss matters which you did not understand, and express sentiments which you did not
feel without the prop of a crook, or garters of blue ribbon. At my impressionable age, with my impressionable habit, I took
kindly to all this; I discussed love with Donna Giulia, and puzzled her sadly; I expressed my feelings upon religion to the Abbe
Loisic, the count's bookbinder, and bored him to extinction. One day I was presented to a tall cadaverous gentleman with red
eyelashes and eyes so pale as to seem almost white. I had a suspicion that I had seen him in some former existence, and so
soon as the name of the Marchese Semifonte was mentioned, remembered Prato with horror. The marchese may well have
thought me reserved, for it is true that I could barely be civil to him. He argued from that, as I learned afterwards from Donna
Giulia, that I was of a ducal family, and in proportion as I froze, so did he thaw. As I receded, so did he advance. He pressed
invitations upon me, all of which I could not decline; it was proper that I should offer him some hospitality in return—and I did.
He supped with me once or twice in my lodgings, lost money to me at cards and so had some grounds for believing himself "my
friend." Presuming upon this, he was not long in discovering himself to me for the monomaniac he was, one of those miserable
men devoured by a passion which may lift us to the stars or souse us in the deepest slime of the pit. He made proposals to me,
tentatively at first, then with increasing fervency, at last with importunity which would have wearied me inexpressibly if it had not
disgusted me beyond endurance—proposals, I mean, to share his depraved excursions. Outraged as I was, loathing the man
(as I had good reason) from the bottom of my heart, I was driven to confide in Count Giraldi something of my knowledge of
him. I had the good sense, it is true, to withhold the fact that Virginia, his intended victim, was in Florence; but that is the extent
of my prudence. It might have served me, but for the accident which I must relate in the next chapter.
CHAPTER XXII. I WORK FOR AURELIA, AND HEAR OF HER
It was to the sympathetic ears of Donna Giulia, first of all, that I imparted the state of my feelings, my hopes, fears and prayers
with regard to Aurelia. There was that about Count Giraldi, a diamantine brilliancy, a something hard and crystalline, a
positiveness, an incisiveness of view and reflection, which on first acquaintance decided me not to take him into my confidence.
When I came to know him better, or to think that I did, I followed my natural bent and talked to him unreservedly; but in the
lady, from the beginning, I found a very interested listener. She led me on from stage to stage of my story until she had it all, and
gave me the sum of her thoughts freely and with candour. "I agree with you, Don Francis," she said, "that your lady will be in
Florence before long. A wounded bird makes straight for the nest, and only puts into a thicket on the way to recover itself for
the longer flight. You will have to make the most of your time here, for I do not believe that even your eloquence—and you are
most eloquent—will hold her from her mother's arms, as things are now. You will be sure to follow her to Siena, and can there
make your arrangements at ease."
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