t
Baldassare was not to be discouraged. He had that tough skin of true
vulgarity which is impervious to any thing but downright hard blows.

"Allow me to make my excuses," he continued. "The cavaliere here
has been scolding me all the way up-stairs for not bringing Count
Marescotti sooner to you. I could not."

Marescotti bowed an acquiescence.

"While we were standing in the street, waiting to know if the
noble lady received, an old beggar, known in Lucca as the Hermit of
Pizzorna, come down from the mountains for the festival, passed by."

"Yes, it was a providence," broke in the count--"a real hermit, not
one of those fat friars, with shaven crowns, we have in Rome, but a
genuine recluse, a man whose life is one long act of practical piety."

When Marescotti had entered, he seemed only the calm, high-bred
gentleman; now, as he spoke, his eye sparkled, and his pale cheeks
flushed.

"Yes, I addressed the hermit," he continued, and he raised his fine
head and crossed his hands on his breast as if he were still before
him. "I kissed his bare feet, road-stained with errands of charity.
'My father,' I said to him, 'bless me'--"

"Not only so," interrupted Baldassare, "but, would you believe it,
madame, the count cast himself down on the dusty street to receive his
blessing!"

"And why not?" asked the count, looking at him severely. "It came to
me like a voice from heaven. The hermit is a holy man. Would I were
like him! I have heard of him for thirty years past. Winter after
winter, among those savage mountains, in roaring winds, in sweeping
storms, in frost and snow, and water-floods, he has assisted hundreds,
who, but for him, must infallibly have perished. What courage! what
devotion! It is a poem." Marescotti spoke hurriedly and in a low
voice. "Yes, I craved his blessing. I kissed his hands, his feet.
I would have kissed the ground on which he stood." As he proceeded,
Marescotti grew more and more abstracted. All that he described was
passing like a vision before him. "Those venerable hands--yes, I
kissed them."

"How much money did you leave in them, count?" asked the marchesa,
with a sneer.

"Great is the mercy of God!" ejaculated the count, earnestly,
not heeding her. "Sinner as I am, the touch of those hands--that
blessing--purified me. I feel it."

"Incredible! Well," cried Baldassare, "the price of that blessing will
keep the good man in bread and meat for a year. Let the old beggar go
to the dev