“You are a condemned criminal—­a doomed man on the brink of the grave.  Leave this light converse and frivolous jesting—­and, while there is time, prepare for death!”

But I bit my lips and kept stern silence.  Often, too, I felt disposed to seize him by the throat, and, declaring my identity, accuse him of his treachery to his face, but I always remembered and controlled myself.  One point in his character I knew well—­I had known it of old—­this was his excessive love of good wine.  I aided and abetted him in this weakness, and whenever he visited me I took care that he should have his choice of the finest vintages.  Often after a convivial evening spent in my apartments with a few other young men of his class and caliber, he reeled out of my presence, his deeply flushed face and thick voice bearing plain testimony as to his condition.  On these occasions I used to consider with a sort of fierce humor how Nina would receive him—­for though she saw no offense in the one kind of vice she herself practiced, she had a particular horror of vulgarity in any form, and drunkenness was one of those low failings she specially abhorred.

“Go to your lady-love, mon beau Silenus!” I would think, as I watched him leaving my hotel with a couple of his boon companions, staggering and laughing loudly as he went, or singing the last questionable street-song of the Neapolitan bas-peuple.  “You are in a would-be riotous and savage mood—­her finer animal instincts will revolt from you, as a lithe gazelle would fly from the hideous gambols of a rhinoceros.  She is already afraid of you—­in a little while she will look upon you with loathing and disgust—­tant pis pour vous, tant mieux pour moi!”

I had of course attained the position of ami intime at the Villa Romani.  I was welcome there at any hour—­I could examine and read my own books in my own library at leisure (what a privilege was mine); I could saunter freely through the beautiful gardens accompanied by Wyvis, who attended me as a matter of course; in short, the house was almost at my disposal, though I never passed a night under its roof.  I carefully kept up my character as a prematurely elderly man, slightly invalided by a long and ardous career in far-off foreign lands, and I was particularly prudent in my behavior toward my wife before Ferrari.  Never did I permit the least word or action on my part that could arouse his jealousy or suspicion.  I treated her with a sort of parental kindness and reserve, but she—­trust a woman for intrigue!—­she was quick to perceive my reasons for so doing.  Directly Ferrari’s back was turned she would look at me with a glance of coquettish intelligence, and smile—­a little mocking, half-petulant smile—­or she would utter some disparaging remark about him, combining with it a covert compliment to me.  It was not for me to betray her secrets—­I saw no occasion to tell Ferrari that nearly every morning she sent her maid to my hotel with fruit and