a of the piece. The lover, far from suspecting the real pretensions he
should strive to personate--the Countess, as much puzzled by the
secrecy of her guest's conduct, and by guesses as to his actual rank and
fortune. It is while these doubts are in full conflict, and when
seated at supper, that the King and Richelieu appear, announced as two
travellers, whose carriage being overturned and broken, are fain to
crave the hospitality of the chateau.

The discomfiture of Richelieu and the anger of the King at finding the
ground occupied, contrast well with the patronising graces of the mock
Countess and the insolent demeanour of the lover, who whispers in her
ear that the new arrivals are strolling players, and that he has seen
them repeatedly in the provinces. All Richelieu's endeavours to set
matters right, unobserved by the King, are abortive; while his Majesty
is scarce more fortunate in pressing his suit with the fair Countess,
by whose grace and beauty he is fascinated. In the very midst of the
insolent _badinage_ of the real actors, an officer of the household
arrives, with important despatches. Their delivery brooks no delay,
and he at once presents himself, and, kneeling, hands them to the King.
Shame, discomfiture, terror, and dismay, seize on the intruding players.
The King, however, is merciful. After a smart reproof all is forgiven;
his Majesty sagely observing, that although "the Cowl may not make the
Monk," the Ermine has no small share in forming the Monarch.

CHAPTER IX. _Florence_

What did Shelley, what does any one, mean by their raptures about
Florence? Never, surely, was the epithet of _La Bella_ more misapplied.
I can well understand the enthusiasm with which men call Genoa _Il
Superbo_. Its mountain background, its deep blue sea, its groves of
orange and acacia, the prickly aloe growing wild upon the very shore
in all the luxuriance of tropical vegetation, indicative of an almost
wasteful extravagance of production; while its amphitheatre of palaces,
proudly rising in terraced rows, are gorgeous remembrances of the
haughty Republic. But Florence! dark, dirty, and discordant! Palaces,
gaol-like and gloomy, stand in streets where wretchedness and misery
seem to have chosen their dwelling-place--the types of feudal tyranny
side by side with modern destitution. The boasted Arno, too, a
shrunk-up, trickling stream, not wide enough to be a river, not clear
enough to be a rivulet, winds along betwee