I was living in Siena, a quiet old Tuscan town, with barely fifteen
thousand inhabitants to occupy a circuit of wall that had once held
fifty,--but with all the remains of its former greatness about it, noble
palaces, a cathedral second in beauty to that of Milan alone, churches
filled with fine pictures, an excellent public library, (God's blessing
be upon it, for it was in one of its dreamy alcoves that I first read
Dante,) a good opera in the summer, and good society all the year round.
Month was gliding after month in happy succession. I had dropped readily
into the tranquil round of the daily life, had formed many acquaintances
and two or three intimate ones, and, though reminded from time to time
of the General by a paternal letter, had altogether forgotten the
specimens of the children of the forest whom I had seen under his roof.
One evening--I do not remember the month, though I think it was late in
the autumn--I had made up my mind to stay at home and study, and was
just sitting down to my books, when a friend came in with the air of a
man who had something very interesting to say.

"Quick, quick! shut your book, and come with me to the theatre."

"Impossible! I'm tired, and, moreover, have something to do which I must
do to-night."

"To-morrow night will do just as well for that, but not for the
theatre."

"Why?"

"Because there are some of your countrymen here who are going to be
exhibited on the stage, and the Countess P---- and all your friends want
you to come and interpret for them."