k was calculated to wound
several of their fellow-guests; but finally he burst into a brilliant
defence of the place. The Marchesa showed no feeling; Paolin, Paolon,
and the prefect, all natives of Valsolda, were silent and abashed.

Then, in pompous language, Pasotti sang the praises of Niscioree, the
villa belonging to Bianchi, near Oria. These praises did not seem to
please the Marchese, who, himself a most loyal man, had not always found
Pasotti to his liking, in the past. He invited Donna Carabelli to come
to Niscioree. "You must not go on foot, Eugenia," said the Marchesa,
well aware that her friend was tormented by the fear of growing stout.
"The road from the Custom House to Niscioree is so narrow! You could not
possibly pass." Donna Eugenia protested hotly. "It is not, indeed, the
Corso of Porta Renza," said the Marchese, "but neither is it _le chemin
du Paradis_--unfortunately!"

"That it is not! Most certainly not! You may take my word for it!"
exclaimed Viscontini, heated, as ill luck would have it, by too many
glasses of Ghemme. All eyes were turned upon him, and Paolin said
something to him in a low tone. "Crazy?" the little man retorted, his
face aflame. "Not by any means! I tell you----" And here he related how,
coming from Lugano that morning, he had felt cold in the boat, and had
gotten out at Niscioree, intending to pursue his journey on foot; how
there, between those two walls, where the path was so narrow an ass
could not turn round in it, he had met the customs-officers, who had
first abused him for getting out at Niscioree, and had then taken
him back to the beastly custom-house. He said that beast of a
Ricevitore--the receiver of customs--had confiscated a roll of
manuscript music he had with him, taking the crotchets and quavers for a
secret political correspondence.

Profound silence followed this recital. Presently the Marchesa declared
that Signor Viscontini was entirely in the wrong. He should not have
landed at Niscioree; it was forbidden. As to the Ricevitore, he was a
most worthy man. Pasotti, with a solemn face, confirmed this statement.

"Excellent official," said he. "Excellent rascal!" muttered the prefect
between his teeth. Franco, who at first appeared to be thinking of
something else, roused himself, and cast a contemptuous glance at
Pasotti.

"After all," the Marchesa added, "it seems to me that, in the disguise
of manuscript music, there might easily----"

"Certainly," sai