e there--"

"Yes," said I, repeating my Baedeker as accurately as he, "the Villa
Reale, and the Iron Crown of the Emperors of the West."

"Exactly so, sir, and the cathedral built--"

"By Theodolinda, Queen of the Lombards, A.D. 595, restored in the
sixteenth century. I know; I only asked whether you could get me a
decent carriage."

"A matchless one! At half-past three, when the heat is less intense,
your lordship will find the horses harnessed. You will have plenty of
time to get to Desio before sunset, and be back in time for supper."

At the appointed time I received notice. My host had more than kept his
word, for the horses sped through Milan at a trot which they did not
relinquish when we got into the Como road, amid the flat and fertile
country which is called the garden of Italy.

After an hour and a half, including a brief halt at Monza, the coachman
drew up his horses before the first house in Desio--an inn.

It was a very poor inn, situated at the corner of the main street and
of a road which branched off into the country. In front of it a few
plane-trees, trained into an arbor, formed an arch of shade. A few feet
of vine clambered about their trunks. The sun was scorching the leaves
and the heavy bunches of grapes which hung here and there. The shutters
were closed, and the little house seemed to have been lulled to sleep by
the heat and light of the atmosphere and the buzzing of the gnats.

"Oh, go in; they'll wake up at once," said the coachman, who had divined
my thoughts.

Then, without waiting for my answer, like a man familiar with the
customs of the country, he took his horses down the road to the stable.

I went in. A swarm of bees and drones were buzzing like a whirlwind
beneath the plane-trees; a frightened white hen ran cackling from her
nest in the dust. No one appeared. I opened the door; still nobody was
to be seen. Inside I found a passage, with rooms to right and left and
a wooden staircase at the end. The house, having been kept well closed,
was cool and fresh. As I stood on the threshold striving to accustom my
eyes to the darkness of the interior, I heard the sound of voices to my
right:

"Picturesque as you please, but the journey has been a failure! These
people are no better than savages; introductions, distinctions, and I
may say even fame, had no effect upon them!"

"Do you think they have even read your letters?" "That would be still
worse, to refuse to read letters ad