g, I beg of you; it is a thing which I cannot endure.
Sit down there, and tell me quietly how matters stand as regards your
beautiful Magdalene and your love-affair altogether, and where the
stumbling-blocks are which we must get out of the way, for I promise
you, to commence with, that I will help you. The more difficult and
arduous and adventurous the things are that we have to set about, the
better I shall be pleased, for the blood is running quick in my veins
again, and the state of my health calls upon me to set to work and play
a wild trick or two; so tell me all about it, Antonio, and, as
aforesaid, none of your 'Ohs' and your 'Ahs.'"

Antonio sat down in the chair which Salvator had placed for him near
the easel where he was at work, and commenced as follows:--

"In Strada Ripetta, in the lofty house whose projecting balcony you see
as soon as you go through the Porta del Popolo, lives the greatest ass
and most idiotic donkey in all Rome. An old bachelor, with all the
faults of his class--vain, trying to be young, in love, and a coxcomb.
He is tall, thin as a whip-stalk, dresses in party-coloured Spanish
costume, with a blonde periwig, a steeple-crowned hat, gauntlets, and
long sword at his side----"

"Stop, stop! wait a moment, Antonio," cried Salvator, and, turning
round the picture he was working at, he took a crayon, and, on the
reverse side of it, drew, in a few bold touches, the curious old fellow
who had been going on so absurdly in front of Antonio's picture.

"By all the saints!" cried Antonio, jumping up from his chair, and
laughing loud and clear in spite of his despair, "that is the very
man--that is Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, of whom I am speaking, to the
very life."

"There, you see," said Salvator quietly, "I know the gentleman who is
probably your bitter rival. But go on with your story."

"Signor Pasquale Capuzzi," continued Antonio, "is as rich as Cr[oe]sus,
but, as I think I was telling you, a terrible miser, as well as a
perfect ass. His best quality is that he is devoted to the arts,
particularly to music and painting. But there is so much idiotic
absurdity mixed up with this, that, even in those directions, it is
impossible to put up with him. He believes himself to be the greatest
composer in the world, and a singer the like of whom is not to be found
in the Papal Chapel. Therefore he looks askance at our old Frescobaldi,
and when the Romans talk of the marvellous charm and spell which