“Yes, sir—­the under-cook; he stood godfather with me for the baby of a cousin of mine—­the young man who drives Prince Valdarno’s private brougham:  a clever fellow, too.”

“And this under-cook,” said Del Ferice, who was not above entering into details with his servant—­“is he a discreet character?”

“Oh, for that, you may trust him.  Only sometimes—­” Temistocle grinned, and made a gesture which signified drinking.

“And when he is drunk?” asked Del Ferice.

“When he is drunk he tells everything; but he never remembers anything he has been told, or has said.  When he is drunk he is a dictionary; but the first draught of water washes out his memory like a slate.”

“Well—­give me my purse; it is under my pillow.  Go.  Here is a scudo, Temistocle.  You can make him very drunk for that.”

Temistocle hesitated, and looked at the money.

“Another couple of pauls would make it safer,” he remarked.

“Well, there they are; but you must make him very drunk indeed.  You must find out all he knows, and you must keep sober yourself.”

“Leave that to me.  I will make of him a sponge; he shall be squeezed dry, and sopped again and squeezed again.  I will be his confessor.”

“If you find out what I want, I will give you—­” Del Ferice hesitated; he did not mean to give too much.

“The grey trousers?” asked Temistocle, with an avaricious light in the eye which did not wander.

“Yes,” answered his master, rather regretfully; “I suppose you must have the grey trousers at last.”

“For those grey trousers I will upset heaven and earth,” returned Temistocle in great glee.

Nothing more was said on that day, but early on the following morning the man entered and opened the shutters, and removed the little oil-light that had burned all night.  He kept one eye upon his master, who presently turned slowly and looked inquiringly at him.

“The Duchessa goes to Astrardente in the Sabines on the day after to-morrow,” said Temistocle.  “It is quite sure that she goes, because she has already sent out two pairs of horses, and several boxes of effects, besides the second housemaid and the butler and two grooms.”

“Ah! that is very good.  Temistocle, I think I will get up this morning and sit in the next room.”

“And the grey trousers?”

“Take them, and wear them in honour of the most generous master living,” said Del Ferice, impressively.  “It is not every master who gives his servant a pair of grey trousers.  Remember that.”

“Heaven bless you, Signor Conte!” exclaimed Temistocle, devoutly.

Del Ferice lost no time.  He was terribly weak still, and his wound was not entirely healed yet; but he set himself resolutely to his writing-table, and did not rise until he had written two letters.  The first was carefully written in a large round hand, such as is used by copyists in Italy, resembling the Gothic.  It was impossible to connect the laboriously formed and conventional letters with any particular person.  It was very short, as follows:—­