“True,” answered the priest, resuming his seat.  “I had forgotten.  Well, it is not a long story.  Giovanni Saracinesca is from Naples.  You know there was once a branch of your family in the Neapolitan kingdom—­at least so Giovanni says, and he is an honest fellow.  Their title was Marchese di San Giacinto; and if Giovanni liked to claim it, he has a right to the title still.”

“But those Saracinesca were extinct fifty years ago,” objected the Prince, who knew his family history very well.

“Giovanni says they were not.  They were believed to be.  The last Marchese di San Giacinto fought under Napoleon.  He lost all he possessed—­lands, money, everything—­by confiscation, when Ferdinand was restored in 1815.  He was a rough man; he dropped his title, married a peasant’s only daughter, became a peasant himself, and died obscurely in a village near Salerno.  He left a son who worked on the farm and inherited it from his mother, married a woman of the village of some education, and died of the cholera, leaving his son, the present Giovanni Saracinesca.  This Giovanni received a better education than his father had before him, improved his farm, began to sell wine and oil for exportation, travelled as far as Aquila, and met Felice Baldi, the daughter of a man of some wealth, who has since established an inn here.  Giovanni loved her.  I married them.  He went back to Naples, sold his farm for a good price last year, and returned to Aquila.  He manages his father-in-law’s inn, which is the second largest here, and drives a good business, having put his own capital into the enterprise.  They have two children, the second one of which was born three weeks ago, and they are perfectly happy.”

Saracinesca looked thoughtfully at Don Paolo, the old curate.

“Has this man any papers to prove the truth of this very singular story?” he inquired at last.

“Altro! That was all his grandfather left—­a heap of parchments.  They seem to be in order—­he showed them to me when I married him.”

“Why does he make no claim to have the attainder of his grandfather reversed?”

The curate shrugged his shoulders and spread out the palms of his hands, smiling incredulously.

“The lands, he says, have fallen into the hands of certain patriots.  There is no chance of getting them back.  It is of little use to be a Marchese without property.  What he possesses is a modest competence; it is wealth, even, in his present position.  For a nobleman it would be nothing.  Besides, he is half a peasant by blood and tradition.”

“He is not the only nobleman in that position,” laughed Saracinesca.  “But are you aware—­”

He stopped short.  He was going to say that if he himself and his son both died, the innkeeper of Aquila would become Prince Saracinesca.  The idea shocked him, and he kept it to himself.

“After all,” he continued, “the man is of my blood by direct descent.  I would like to see him.”