had been very much moved.  Now, should it be true, I thought to myself, what on earth was I to do?  What, indeed, were the merits of the case?  Was the fault mine—­and how could I best repair it?  These questions were beyond my then powers of resolution while I was uncertain of Aurelia’s fate and prospects, and I deliberately put them aside.  I turned all my powers of mind and heart to consider her injuries, probable sufferings and monstrous humiliations, and by the time I was near the Convent of SS.  Maria e Giuseppe I was trembling in every limb, and in the state of apprehension and desire which becomes the devout lover of a lady incredibly lovely and wise.

I approached the shabby gate, and with uncovered head saluted the posts which held it up.  I rang the bell, the portress appeared; I asked her for my mistress by name; she said that she would take up mine to the Lady Superior if my lordship would be pleased to wait.  Then she disappeared, and my lordship stood fainting there.

Father Carnesecchi, I perceived, was with Aurelia; for the note brought back by the portress was all in his handwriting but the signature.  The initials A. L. were in her own.  She said, or the respectable Jesuit said for her, that she was highly sensible of my courtesy in waiting upon her, and deplored that, as she was somewhat fatigued and about to return to Padua, it was impossible for her to receive me at the moment.  She hoped on a future occasion to find suitable expression of her feelings, and begged in the meantime to assure me of her entire respect.

At any other time I might have been chilled by the studious repression of this note; but at that moment I had but one aim.  Begging the portress to wait, I tore a leaf from my pocket-book, wrote upon it, “Madam, forgive the wicked F. S.,” and gave it over to the good nun.  “I beg of you, my sister, to give this note into the hands of Donna Aurelia,” I said.  “It touches on a matter of the utmost consequence to me.”  She agreed, with an indulgent and somewhat intelligent smile, and retired once more.  In half the time she came back with a little twisted note.  “I hope that I can please you this time, sir,” she said.  “At any rate you may be sure of your correspondent, for Donna Aurelia wrote every word of it.”  There were but three words, “Si, si, si—­Aurelia,” I read, and turning my face to the Heavens, thanked God that I was absolved by the dear subject of my crimes.

Transformed, indeed, I trod upon air between the Prato and the Palazzo Giraldi.  I was told that his Excellency was visiting the Contessa Galluzzo.  I sailed, I soared, I flashed over Arno and into the house at the Porta San Giorgio.  “Absolved!  Absolved!” I cried, and kissed Donna Giulia’s hand.  The count pressed mine very warmly.

“Either the Church,” said he, “has gained in you a remarkable champion, or the world lost a promising scoundrel.  I had not suspected you of such a load of sin.”  I showed my precious paper and commented upon it with rapture.