no, you must hear me out, if you please,” he said peremptorily, stopping my protest before it could be framed in words.  “Upon your representations I interested myself in Donna Aurelia.  I judged her attractive by your report; I found that your discernment was even better than I had expected.  She came to the convent in some distress, I saw her, she was charming, she charmed me.  She was in a chastened mood, subdued, softly melancholy.  I believe—­indeed, I know—­ that she had a tenderness for you.  Well, I was prepared to be loyal, no one is to say in my presence that I am a false friend.  I was loyal until—­Pest!” cried he, “what did I find?  I found that, while you professed the most extravagant regard for the lady, you asked nothing better for yourself than that she should return to the arms of her horrible old spouse!  I found also that you had recovered possession of your straight young Contadina by means which were more ingenious than lawful—­that she was in your lodgings—­your friend—­your——­”

Semifonte here gave a harsh guttural cry.  Giraldi spoke to him in an undertone, then resumed: 

“You may remember my interest in that young woman’s appearance and manner, when I chanced to find her in your lodgings in the dress of a fine lady.  You remember that you then told me her history?  Believe me when I say that I did not tell my illustrious friend here of the adventure.  He was told, it is true, but not by me.  If it will satisfy you, I will take my oath to that.  I had no intention of depriving you of your mistress; far from it, that would have destroyed my particular object, which, I will now confess, was to take your place in Donna Aurelia’s regard, for which you would not ask.  I own also that I did not care to have you in her neighbourhood, and that I very much desired to get rid of you.  Why?  Because I could see that Donna Aurelia was in love with you.”

He paused while I admired his affectation of candour.  Presently he went on:  “When my friend here proposed to secure your mistress by means of the Capuchin I gave him a free hand; that is to say, I gave you no warning, I admit that.  Why again?  Because I knew you, Don Francis, and was certain that you would never allow a hand to be laid upon her.  I was right, you did not.  You did precisely what I desired.  You as good as killed the Capuchin and you went into hiding.  I wished to keep you there, and so I did.  If I had not sent Carabineers into the Piazza—­if I had been accessible to your messengers—­you would have been fatally in my way.  You were never in danger of arrest or imprisonment—­but you believed that you were, and that served my purpose.