ion
of the doctor himself, genial Brancadori, who could neither read nor
write. But he had preserved a faithful remembrance of all his old
customers, and when he felt confidential, standing erect upon the
threshold of his kitchen, of the possession of which he was so
insolently proud, he repeated curious stories of Rome in the days of
his youth. His gestures, so conformable to the appearance of things, his
mobile face and his Tuscan tongue, which softened into h all the harsh
e's between two vowels, gave a savor to his stories which delighted a
seeker after local truths. It was in the morning especially, when there
was no one in the restaurant, that he voluntarily left his ovens to
chat, and if Dorsenne gave the address of the Marzocco to his cabman, it
was in the hope that the old cook would in his manner sketch for him the
story of the ruin of Ardea. Brancadori was standing by the bar where
was enthroned his niece, Signorina Sabatina, with a charming Florentine
face, chin a trifle long, forehead somewhat broad, nose somewhat short,
a sinuous mouth, large, black eyes, an olive complexion and waving hair,
which recalled in a forcible manner the favorite type of the first of
the Ghirlandajos.

"Uncle," said the young girl, as soon as she perceived Dorsenne, "where
have you put the letter brought for the Prince?"

In Italy every foreigner is a prince or a count, and the profound
good-nature which reigns in the habit gives to those titles, in
the mouths of those who employ them, an amiability often free from
calculation. There is no country in the world where there is a truer, a
more charming familiarity of class for class, and Brancadori immediately
gave a proof of it in addressing as "Carolei"--that is to say, "my
dear"--him whom his daughter had blazoned with a coronet, and he cried,
fumbling in the pockets of the alpaca waistcoat which he wore over his
apron of office:

"The brain is often lacking in a gray head. I put it in the pocket of my
coat in order to be more sure of not forgetting it. I changed my coat,
because it was warm, and left it with the letter in my apartments."

"You can look for it after lunch," said Dorsenne.

"No," replied the young girl, rising, "it is not two steps from here; I
will go. The concierge of the palace where your Excellency lives brought
it himself, and said it must be delivered immediately."

"Very well, go and fetch it," replied Julien, who could not suppress a
smile at the ho