fancied that, even in that obscure place, persons might be anxious to
catch a glimpse of the celebrated poet; and he concealed his residence
from all; dined on a roll when he did not dine out, and left his address
at "The Travellers." He looked round, I say, and he did observe a tall
figure wrapped in a cloak that had indeed followed him from a distant
and more populous part of the town. But the figure turned round, and
vanished instantly. Cesarini mounted to his second floor. And about
the middle of the next day a messenger left a letter at his door,
containing one hundred pounds in a blank envelope. Cesarini knew not
the writing of the address; his pride was deeply wounded. Amidst all
his penury, he had not even applied to his own sister. Could it come
from her, from De Montaigne? He was lost in conjecture. He put the
remittance aside for a few days; for he had something fine in him, the
poor poet! but bills grew pressing, and necessity hath no law.

Two days afterwards, Cesarini brought to Ferrers the answer he had
received from Maltravers. Lumley had rightly foreseen that the high
spirit of Ernest would conceive some indignation at the coquetry of
Florence in beguiling the Italian into hopes never to be realised, and
that he would express himself openly and warmly. He did so, however,
with more gentleness than Lumley had anticipated.

"This is not exactly the thing," said Ferrers, after twice reading the
letter; "still it may hereafter be a strong card in our hands--we will
keep it."

So saying, he locked the letter up in his desk, and Cesarini soon forgot
its existence.