than a man, as he hobbled before me into
his dark shop. "Come inside, come inside! Take your choice; there is
enough here to suit all tastes. See now, what would you? Behold here
the dress of a gentleman, ah! what beautiful cloth, what strong wool!
English make? Yes, yes! He was English that wore it; a big, strong
milord, that drank beer and brandy like water--and rich--just
heaven!--how rich! But the plague took him; he died cursing God, and
calling bravely for more brandy. Ha, ha! a fine death--a splendid
death! His landlord sold me his clothes for three francs--one, two,
three--but you must give me six; that is fair profit, is it not? And I
am old and poor. I must make something to live upon."

I threw aside the tweed suit he displayed for my inspection. "Nay," I
said, "I care nothing for the plague, but find me something better than
the cast-off clothing of a brandy-soaked Englishman. I would rather
wear the motley garb of a fellow who played the fool in carnival."

The old dealer laughed with a crackling sound in his withered throat,
like the rattling of stones in a tin pot.

"Good, good!" he croaked. "I like that, I like that! Thou art old, but
thou art merry. That pleases me; one should laugh always. Why not?
Death laughs; you never see a solemn skull; it laughs always!"

And he plunged his long lean fingers into a deep drawer full of
miscellaneous garments, mumbling to himself all the while. I stood
beside him in silence, pondering on his words, "Thou art OLD, but
merry." What did he mean by calling ME old? He must be blind, I
thought, or in his dotage. Suddenly he looked up.

"Talking of the plague," he said, "it is not always wise. It did a
foolish thing yesterday--a very foolish thing. It took one of the
richest men in the neighborhood, young too, strong and brave; looked as
if he would never die. The plague touched him in the morning--before
sunset he was nailed up and put down in his big family vault--a cold
lodging, and less handsomely furnished than his grand marble villa on
the heights yonder. When I heard the news I told the Madonna she was
wicked. Oh, yes! I rated her soundly; she is a woman, and capricious; a
good scolding brings her to reason. Look you! I am a friend to God and
the plague, but they both did a stupid thing when they took Count Fabio
Romani."

I started, but quickly controlled myself into an appearance of
indifference.

"Indeed!" I said, carelessly. "And pray who was he that he