Bartolomeo bowed. The notary made a slight inclination of the head,
looked at Ginevra with a sly expression, took out his snuff-box,
opened it, and slowly inhaled a pinch, as if seeking for the words
with which to open his errand; then, while uttering them, he made
continual pauses (an oratorical manoeuvre very imperfectly represented
by the printer's dash--).

"Monsieur," he said, "I am Monsieur Roguin, your daughter's notary,
and we have come--my colleague and I--to fulfil the intentions of the
law and--put an end to the divisions which--appear--to exist--between
yourself and Mademoiselle, your daughter,--on the subject--of--her
--marriage with Monsieur Luigi Porta."

This speech, pedantically delivered, probably seemed to Monsieur
Roguin so fine that his hearer could not at once understand it. He
paused, and looked at Bartolomeo with that peculiar expression of the
mere business lawyer, a mixture of servility with familiarity.
Accustomed to feign much interest in the persons with whom they deal,
notaries have at last produced upon their features a grimace of their
own, which they take on and off as an official "pallium." This mask of
benevolence, the mechanism of which is so easy to perceive, irritated
Bartolomeo to such an extent that he was forced to collect all the
powers of his reason to prevent him from throwing Monsieur Roguin
through the window. An expression of anger ran through his wrinkles,
which caused the notary to think to himself: "I've produced an
effect."

"But," he continued, in a honeyed tone, "Monsieur le baron, on such
occasions our duties are preceded by--efforts at--conciliation--Deign,
therefore, to have the goodness to listen to me--It is in evidence