In 1836, when the Sardinian Court was residing at Genoa, two
Parisians, more or less famous, could fancy themselves still in Paris
when they found themselves in a palazzo, taken by the French
Consul-General, on the hill forming the last fold of the Apennines
between the gate of San Tomaso and the well-known lighthouse, which is
to be seen in all the keepsake views of Genoa. This palazzo is one of
the magnificent villas on which Genoese nobles were wont to spend
millions at the time when the aristocratic republic was a power.

If the early night is beautiful anywhere, it surely is at Genoa, after
it has rained as it can rain there, in torrents, all the morning; when
the clearness of the sea vies with that of the sky; when silence
reigns on the quay and in the groves of the villa, and over the marble
heads with yawning jaws, from which water mysteriously flows; when the
stars are beaming; when the waves of the Mediterranean lap one after
another like the avowal of a woman, from whom you drag it word by
word. It must be confessed, that the moment when the perfumed air
brings fragrance to the lungs and to our day-dreams; when
voluptuousness, made visible and ambient as the air, holds you in your
easy-chair; when, a spoon in your hand, you sip an ice or a sorbet,
the town at your feet and fair woman opposite--such Boccaccio hours
can be known only in Italy and on the shores of the Mediterranean.

Imagine to yourself, round the table, the Marquis di Negro, a knight
hospitaller to all men of talent on their travels, and the Marquis
Damaso Pareto, two Frenchmen disguised as Genoese, a Consul-General
with a wife as beautiful as a Madonna, and two silent children--silent
because sleep has fallen on them--the French Ambassador and his wife,
a secretary to the Embassy who believes himself to be crushed and