Wishing to tell the story of our Mouse, because I think it illustrates
some amusing traits of character in a certain class of Italians, I explain
at once that he was not a mouse, but a man so called from his wretched,
trembling little manner, his fugitive expression, and peaked visage.

He first appeared to us on the driver's seat of that carriage in which we
posted so splendidly one spring-time from Padua to Ponte Lagoscuro. But
though he mounted to his place just outside the city gate, we did not
regard him much, nor, indeed, observe what a mouse he was, until the
driver stopped to water his horses near Battaglia, and the Mouse got down
to stretch his forlorn little legs. Then I got down too, and bade him
good-day, and told him it was a very hot day--for he was a mouse
apparently so plunged in wretchedness that I doubted if he knew what kind
of day it was.

When I had spoken, he began to praise (in the wary manner of the Venetians
when they find themselves in the company of a foreigner who does not look
like an Englishman) the Castle of the Obiza near by, which is now the
country-seat of the ex-Duke of Modena; and he presently said something to
imply that he thought me a German.

"But I am not a German," said I.

"As many excuses," said the Mouse sadly, but with evident relief; and then
began to talk more freely, and of the evil times.

"Are you going all the way with us to Florence?" I asked.

"No, signor, to Bologna; from there to Ancona."