‘Here, in Paris, I am Père Canet,’ he said. ‘It was the only way of spelling my name on the register. But in Italy I am Marco Facino Cane, Prince of Varese.’

‘What, are you descended from the great condottiere Facino Cane, whose lands won by the sword were taken by the Dukes of Milan?’

‘E vero,’ returned he. ‘His son’s life was not safe under the Visconti; he fled to Venice, and his name was inscribed on the Golden Book. And now neither Cane nor Golden Book are in existence.’ His gesture startled me; it told of patriotism extinguished and weariness of life.

‘But if you were once a Venetian senator, you must have been a wealthy man. How did you lose your fortune?’

‘In evil days.’

He waved away the glass of wine handed to him by the flageolet, and bowed his head. He had no heart to drink. These details were not calculated to extinguish my curiosity.

As the three ground out the music of the square dance, I gazed at the old Venetian noble, thinking thoughts that set a young man’s mind afire at the age of twenty. I saw Venice and the Adriatic; I saw her ruin in the ruin of the face before me. I walked to and fro in that city, so beloved of her citizens; I went from the Rialto, along the Grand Canal, and from the Riva degli Schiavoni to the Lido, returning to St. Mark’s, that cathedral so unlike all others in its sublimity. I looked up at the windows of the Casa Doro, each with its different sculptured ornaments; I saw old palaces rich in marbles, saw all the wonders which a student beholds with the more sympathetic eyes because visible things take their colour of his fancy, and the sight of realities cannot rob him of the glory of his dreams. Then I traced back a course of life for this latest scion of a race of condottieri, tracking down his misfortunes, looking for the reasons of the deep moral and physical degradation out of which the lately revived sparks of greatness and nobility shone so much the more brightly. My ideas, no doubt, were passing through his mind, for all processes of thought-communications are far more swift, I think, in blind people, because their blindness compels them to concentrate their attention. I had not long to wait for proof that we were in sympathy in this way. Facino Cane left off playing, and came up to me. ‘Let us go out!’ he said; his tones thrilled through me like an electric shock. I gave him my arm, and we went.

Outside in the street he said, ‘Will you take me back to Venice? will you be my guide? Will you put faith in me? You shall be richer than ten of the richest houses in Amsterdam or London, richer than Rothschild; in short, you shall have the fabulous wealth of the Arabian Nights.’

The man was mad, I thought; but in his voice there was a potent something which I obeyed. I allowed him to lead, and he went in the direction of the Fossés de la Bastille, as if he could see; walking till he reached a lonely spot down by the river, just where the bridge has since been built at the junction of the Canal Saint-Martin and the Seine. Here he sat down on a stone, and I, sitting opposite to him, saw the old man’s hair gleaming like threads of silver in the moonlight. The stillness was scarcely troubled by the sound of the far-off thunder of traffic along the boulevards; the clear night air and everything about us combined to make a strangely unreal scene.

‘You talk of millions to a young man,’ I began, ‘and do you think that he will shrink from enduring any number of hardships to gain them? Are you not laughing at me?’

‘May I die unshriven,’ he cried vehemently, ‘if all that I am about to tell you is not true. I was one-and- twenty years old, like you are at this moment. I was rich, I was handsome, and a noble by birth. I began with the first madness of all—with love. I loved as no one can love nowadays. I have hidden myself in a chest, at the risk of a dagger thrust, for nothing more than the promise of a kiss. To die for Her—it seemed to me to be a whole life in itself. In 1760 I fell in love with a lady of the Vendramin family; she was eighteen years old, and married to a Sagredo, one of the richest senators, a man of thirty, madly