an imperfect
one, in the world--a marvel which I would give a day of my life to see;
yes, my dear, a day of my life!"

Such talk as this, in French, in such an inn as this!

I felt a presentiment, and stepped softly to the right-hand door.

In the darkened room, lighted only by a few rays filtered between the
slats of the shutters, sat a young girl. Her hat was hung upon a nail
above her head; one arm rested on a wretched white wood table; her head
was bent forward in mournful resignation. On the other side of the table,
her father was leaning back in his chair against the whitewashed wall,
with folded arms, heightened color, and every sign of extreme disgust.
Both rose as I entered--Jeanne first, M. Charnot after her. They were
astonished at seeing me.

I was no less astounded than they.

We stood and stared at each other for some time, to make sure that we
were not dreaming.

M. Charnot was the first to break the silence. He did not seem altogether
pleased at my appearance, and turned to his daughter, whose face had
grown very red and yet rather chilling:

"Jeanne, put your hat on; it is time to go to the station." Then he
addressed me:

"We shall leave you the room to yourself, sir; and since the most
extraordinary coincidence"--he emphasized the words--"has brought you to
this damnable village, I hope you will enjoy your visit."

"Have you been here long, Monsieur?"

"Two hours, Monsieur, two mortal hours in this inn, fried by the sun,
bored to death, murdered piecemeal by flies, and infuriated by the want
of hospitality in this out-of-the-way hole in Lombardy."

"Yes, I noticed that the host was nowhere to be seen, and that is the
reason why I came in here; I had no idea that I should have the honor of
meeting you."

"Good God! I'm not complaining of him! He's asleep in his barn over
there. You can wake him up; he doesn't mind showing himself; he even
makes himself agreeable when he has finished his siesta."

"I only wish to ask him one question, which perhaps you could answer,
Monsieur; then I need not waken him. Could you tell me the way to the
Villa Dannegianti?"

M. Charnot walked up to me, looked me straight in the eyes, shrugged his
shoulders, and burst out laughing.

"The Villa Dannegianti!"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Are you going to the Villa Dannegianti?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Then you may as well turn round and go home again."

"Why?"

"Because there's no admission."

"But I have a