have been talking to the lady whom you call the beautiful Claudia,' I said.
'By the way, why have you not been to her?'
'I really don't know,' I said. 'Why should I?'
'You told me you had progressed a long way in her favours during the half-hour's talk you had with her the other night; have you not followed up the advantage?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'I don't think I like a woman to make all the advances.'
'Don't you?' said Matteo. 'I do!'
'Besides, I don't care for the type; she is too massive.'
'She feels very much hurt at your neglect. She says you have fallen in love with Giulia.'
'That is absurd,' I replied; 'and as to her being hurt at my neglect, I am very sorry, but I don't feel any obligation to throw myself into the arms of every woman who chooses to open them.'
'I quite agree with you; neither she nor Giulia are a bit better than they should be. I'm told Giulia's latest lover is Amtrogio della Treccia. It seems one day he was almost caught by old Bartolomeo, and had to slip out of the window and perform feats worthy of a professional acrobat to get out of the way.'
'I don't think I attach belief to all the scandal circulating on the subject of that lady.'
'You're not in love with her?' asked Matteo, quickly.
I laughed.
'Certainly not. But still—'
'That's all right; because, of course, you know it's notorious that she has had the most disgraceful amours. And she hasn't even kept them to her own class; all sorts of people have enjoyed her favours.'
'She does not look very much like a Messalina,' I said, sneering a little.
'Honestly, Filippo, I do think she is really very little better than a harlot.'
'You are extremely charitable,' I said. 'But don't you think you are somewhat prejudiced by the fact that you yourself did not find her one. Besides, her character makes no particular difference to me; I really care nothing if she's good or bad; she is agreeable, and that is all I care about. She is not going to be my wife.'
'She may make you very unhappy; you won't be the first.'
'What a fool you are!' I said, a little angrily. 'You seem to think that because I go and see a woman I must be dying of love for her. You are absurd.'
I left him, and soon found myself at the Palazzo Aste, where Donna Giulia was waiting for me. I had been to see her nearly every day since my arrival in Forli, for I really liked her. Naturally, I was not in love with her as Matteo suggested, and I had no intention of entering into that miserable state. I had found her charmingly simple, very different from the monster of dissipation she was supposed to be. She must have been three or four-and-twenty, but in all her ways she was quite girlish, merry and thoughtless, full of laughter at one moment, and then some trifling thing would happen to discompose her and she would be brought to the verge of tears; but a word or caress, even a compliment, would make her forget the unhappiness which had appeared so terrible, and in an instant she would be wreathed in smiles. She seemed so delightfully fragile, so delicate, so weak, that one felt it necessary to be very gentle with her. I could not imagine how anyone could use a hard word to her face.
Her eyes lit up as she saw me.
'How long you've been,' she said. 'I thought you were never coming.'
She always seemed so glad so see you that you thought she must have been anxiously awaiting you, and that you were the very person of all others that she wished to have with her. Of course, I knew it was an affectation, but it was a very charming one.
'Come and sit by me here,' she said, making room for me on a couch; then when I had sat down, she nestled close up to me in her pretty childish way, as if seeking protection. 'Now, tell me all you've been doing.'
'I've been talking to Matteo,' I said.
'What about?'
'You.'
'Tell me what he said.'
'Nothing to your credit, my dear,' I said, laughing.
'Poor Matteo,' she answered. 'He's such a clumsy, lumbering creature, one can see he's spent half his life in camps.'
'And I? I have spent the same life as Matteo. Am I a clumsy, lumbering creature?'
'Oh, no,' she answered, 'you are quite different.' She put the pleasantest compliments in the look of her eyes.
'Matteo told me all sorts of scandal about you.' She blushed a little.
'Did you believe it?'
'I said I did not much care if it were true or not.'
'But do you believe it?' she asked, insisting.
'If you'll tell me it is not true, I will believe absolutely what you say.'
The little anxious look on her face gave way to a bright smile.
'Of course, it is not true.'
'How beautiful you are when you smile,' I remarked irrelevantly. 'You should always smile.'
'I always do on you,' she answered. She opened her mouth, as if about to speak, held back, as if unable to make up her mind, then said, 'Did Matteo tell you he made love to me once, and was very angry because I would not pick up the handkerchief which he had condescended to throw.'
'He mentioned it.'
'Since then, I am afraid he has not had very much good to say of me.'
I had thought at the time that Matteo was a little bitter in his account of Donna Giulia, and I felt more inclined to believe her version of the story than his.
'He has been beseeching me not to fall in love with you,' I said.
She laughed.
'Claudia Piacentini has been telling everyone that it is too late, and she is horribly jealous.'
'Has she? Matteo also seemed certain I was in love with you.'
'And are you?' she asked suddenly.
'No!' I replied with great promptness.
'Brutta bestia!' she said, throwing herself to the end of the couch, and beginning to pout.
'I am very sorry,' I said, laughing, 'but I cannot help it.'
'I think it is horrid of you,' she remarked.
'You have so many adorers,' I said in expostulation.
'Yes, but I want more,' she smiled.
'But what good can it do you to have all these people in love with you?'
'I
