“Come now, Signor Ercole, you won’t be so ill-natured.  You know how much interest I take in the matter.  Think how long I have waited here for you, and nobody else has cared enough to do that.  Come now, be good-natured, and tell a fellow.  Just one word.  Look here now,” added the Conte Leandro, seeing that he was on the point of losing the gratification for the sake of which he had undergone the penance of standing sentinel in the cold for the last hour, and that his only hope was to bring forward les grands moyens,—­“see now, the only thing to bring you round is a glass of hot punch.  Now, while you go home and get your things off, I will go to the cafe and get you a good glass of punch, hot and strong—­smoking hot! and have it brought to your house, all hot, you know, in a covered jug.  But before I go; you will just say the one word:  Have you been successful?  Come now.  Just one word.”

Signor Ercole Stadione, the impresario, would much have preferred not saying that one word just then.  He knew perfectly well that the grand object of his questioner was to be the first to carry the great news to the Circolo—­the club where all the young nobles of the town were in the habit of congregating; and to make the most of the sort of reputation to be gained by being the first in Ravenna to have accurate information on the matter in question.  He knew also that within a quarter-of-an-hour after the news should be told to Signor Leandro Lombardoni it would be known to all Ravenna.  Further, he was perfectly aware that, frozen or not frozen, he must wait that evening on the Marchese, of whom Signor Leandro had spoken—­the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare, in order to communicate to him the news which Signor Leandro was so anxious to hear; that not to do so would be as much as his standing and position in Ravenna were worth.  And he would have preferred that the Marchese should not have heard what he had to tell before telling it to him himself; which he thought likely enough to happen, if he let the cat out of the bag to Signor Leandro.  But the offer of the punch was irresistible.  The poor little impresario knew how little possibility there was of finding any such pleasant stimulant in the cold, cheerless, wifeless little quartiere which he and Marta called their home.  His teeth were chattering with cold; and the hot punch carried the day.

“Troppo buono, Signor Conte!  Truly a good glass of hot ponche would be the saving of me!  It is very kindly thought of.  Well, then; listen in your ear.  But you won’t say a word about it till to-morrow morning.  It is all right.  The thing is done.  The writings signed.  Have I done well, eh?  Have I deserved well of the city, eh?  But you won’t say a word!”

“Bravo, Signor Ercole!  Bravo, bravissimo!  Not a word.  Not a word.  I run to order the punch.  Good night.  Not a word to a living soul!”

And the Conte Leandro ran off to give a hasty order at the cafe in the Piazza, on his way to the Circolo to spread his important news all over the town.