“You are going,” said he, “to one of the first cities of Europe; one that has all the beauty and elegance of the French capital without its follies and excesses.  Turin is blessed with a court where good manners and a fine tone are more highly prized than the extravagances of genius; and I have heard it said of his Majesty that he was delighted to see his courtiers wearing the French fashions outside their heads, provided they didn’t carry the French ideas within.  You are too young, doubtless, cavaliere, to have heard of the philosophers who are raising such a pother north of the Alps:  a set of madmen that, because their birth doesn’t give them the entree of Versailles, are preaching that men should return to a state of nature, great ladies suckle their young like animals, and the peasantry own their land like nobles.  Luckily you’ll hear little of this infectious talk in Turin:  the King stamps out the philosophers like vermin or packs them off to splutter their heresies in Milan or Venice.  But to a nobleman mindful of the privileges of his condition there is no more agreeable sojourn in Europe.  The wines are delicious, the women—­er—­accomplished—­and though the sbirri may hug one a trifle close now and then, why, with money and discretion, a friend or two in the right quarters, and the wit to stand well with the Church, there’s no city in Europe where a man may have pleasanter sins to confess.”

The carriage, by this, was descending the last curves above the valley, and before them, in a hollow of the hills, blinked the warm shimmer of maize and vine, like some bright vintage brimming its cup.  The soprano waved a convivial hand.

“Look,” he cried, “what Nature has done for this happy region!  Where herself has spread the table so bountifully, should her children hang back from the feast?  I vow, cavaliere, if the mountains were built for hermits and ascetics, then the plain was made level for dancing, banqueting and the pleasures of the villeggiatura.  If God had meant us to break our teeth on nuts and roots, why did He hang the vine with fruit and draw three crops of wheat from this indulgent soil?  I protest when I look on such a scene as this, it is sufficient incentive to lowliness to remember that the meek shall inherit the earth!”

This mood held Cantapresto till his after-dinner sleep overtook him; and when he woke again the chariot was clattering across the bridge of Chivasso.  The Po rolled its sunset crimson between flats that seemed dull and featureless after the broken scenery of the hills; but beyond the bridge rose the towers and roofs of the town, with its cathedral-front catching the last slant of light.  In the streets dusk had fallen and a lamp flared under the arch of the inn before which the travellers halted.  Odo’s head was heavy, and he hardly noticed the figures thronging the caffe into which they were led; but presently there rose a shout of “Cantapresto!” and a ring of waving arms and flashing teeth encircled his companion.