Odo had hardly recovered from his confusion when the door of the box opened and the young Scaramouch he had seen in the market-place peeped in and beckoned to Cantapresto.  The soprano rose with alacrity, leaving Odo alone in the dimly-lit box, his mind agrope in a labyrinth of memories.  A moment later Cantapresto returned with that air of furtive relish that always proclaimed him the bearer of a tender message.  The one he now brought was to the effect that the Signorina Miranda Malmocco, justly renowned as one of the first Columbines of Italy, had charged him to lay at the Cavaliere Valsecca’s feet her excuses for the liberty she had taken with his illustrious name, and to entreat that he would show his magnanimity by supping with her after the play in her room at the Three Crowns—­a request she was emboldened to make by the fact that she was lately from Pianura, and could give him the last news of the court.

The message chimed with Odo’s mood, and the play over he hastened back to the inn with Cantapresto, and bid the landlord send to the Signorina Miranda’s room whatever delicacies the town could provide.  Odo on arriving that afternoon had himself given orders that his carriage should be at the door the next morning an hour before sunrise; and he now repeated these instructions to Cantapresto, charging him on his life to see that nothing interfered with their fulfilment.  The soprano objected that the hour was already late, and that they could easily perform the day’s journey without curtailing their rest; but on Odo’s reiteration of the order he resigned himself, with the remark that it was a pity old age had no savings-bank for the sleep that youth squandered.

2.8.

It was something of a disappointment to Odo, on entering the Signorina Miranda’s room, to find that she was not alone.  Engaged in feeding her pet monkey with sugar-plums was the young man who had given her his arm in the Piazza.  This gentleman, whom she introduced to Odo as her cousin and travelling companion, the Count of Castelrovinato, had the same air of tarnished elegance as his richly-laced coat and discoloured ruffles.  He seemed, however, of a lively and obliging humour, and Mirandolina observed with a smile that she could give no better notion of his amiability than by mentioning that he was known among her friends as the Cavaliere Frattanto.  This praise, Odo thought, seemed scarcely to the cousin’s liking; but he carried it off with the philosophic remark that it is the mortar between the bricks that holds the building together.

“At present,” said Mirandolina laughing, “he is engaged in propping up a ruin; for he has fallen desperately in love with our prima amorosa, a lady who lost her virtue under the Pharaohs, but whom, for his sake, I have been obliged to include in our little supper.”

This, it was clear, was merely a way of palliating the Count’s infatuation for herself; but he took the second thrust as good-naturedly as the first, remarking that he had been bred for an archeologist and had never lost his taste for the antique.