companion but that deaf old caretaker. Twice a week, Tuesdays and
Fridays—always at just the same hour, regardless of the weather—we
would see the old hunchback light the lamps, and in a few moments the
Master would appear, tuck up his black robe, step into the boat, take
the oar and away they would go. It was always to Murano, and always to
the same landing—one of our gondoliers had followed them several
times, just out of curiosity.

Finally it came to the ears of Pascale that Gian took this regular
trip to Murano. “It is a rendezvous,” said Pascale. “It is worse than
that: an orgy among those lacemakers and the rogues of the glassworks.
Oh, to think that Gian should stoop to such things at his age—his
pretended asceticism is but a mask—and at his age!”

The Pascale students took it up, and once came in collision with that
Tiziano of Cadore, who they say broke a boat-hook over the head of one
of them who had spoken ill of the Master.

But this did not silence the talk, and one dark night, when the air
was full of flying mist, one of Pascale’s students came to me and told
me that he wanted me to take a party over to Murano. The weather was
so bad that I refused to go—the wind blew in gusts, sheet lightning
filled the Eastern sky, and all honest men, but poor belated
gondoliers, had hied them home.

I refused to go.

Had I not seen Gian the painter go not half an hour before? Well, if
he could go, others could too.