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Updated: June 3, 2025
"Sold! you did not think he would sell it!" "Why not? Every artist has the right to sell his works." "Not work of that kind." "Just as much as any other kind." "No, he could not have done that. He would no more sell it than he would sell the portrait of Rafaella Dannegianti. They are two similar relics, two precious reminiscences."
I am quite certain of admission to the Villa Dannegianti, and it would have given me pleasure to repair a mistake which is clearly due only to the stupidity of the servants." He stopped; the stroke had told. "It is certainly quite possible that they never looked at my card or my letters.
M. Charnot walked up to me, looked me straight in the eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and burst out laughing. "The Villa Dannegianti!" "Yes, Monsieur." "Are you going to the Villa Dannegianti?" "Yes, Monsieur." "Then you may as well turn round and go home again." "Why?" "Because there's no admission." "But I have a letter of introduction."
But I explained, in my purest Tuscan, that I was not of the ordinary kind of importunate tourist. I told him that he ran a serious risk if he did not immediately hand my card and my letter Lampron's card in an envelope to the Comtesse Dannegianti. From his stony glare I could not tell whether I had produced any impression, nor even whether he had understood.
Germain! It did not seem possible. Yet it was so, for we arrived together at the gates of the Villa Dannegianti, which is hardly a mile from the inn. I rang the bell. The fat, idle, insolent Italian porter was beginning to refuse me admission, with the same words and gestures which he had so often used.
I looked for the Countess Dannegianti. She had sunk into her great armchair, and was weeping hot tears. Ten minutes later, M. Charnot and Jeanne entered with me into the jealously guarded museum. Museum was the only name to give to a collection of such artistic value, occupying, as it did, the whole of the ground floor to the right of the hall.
It means: "To thee, Rafaella Dannegianti who, aged twenty years and few months having fully experienced the sorrows and illusions of this world on January 6 like an angel longing for its heavenly home didst wing thy way to God in peace and happiness the clergy of Desioand the laborers and artificers of the noble house of Dannegianti tender these last solemn offices."
M. Charnot walked up to me, looked me straight in the eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and burst out laughing. "The Villa Dannegianti!" "Yes, Monsieur." "Are you going to the Villa Dannegianti?" "Yes, Monsieur." "Then you may as well turn round and go home again." "Why?" "Because there's no admission." "But I have a letter of introduction."
"Sold! you did not think he would sell it!" "Why not? Every artist has the right to sell his works." "Not work of that kind." "Just as much as any other kind." "No, he could not have done that. He would no more sell it than he would sell the portrait of Rafaella Dannegianti. They are two similar relics, two precious reminiscences."
He's asleep in his barn over there. You can wake him up; he doesn't mind showing himself; he even makes himself agreeable when he has finished his siesta." "I only wish to ask him one question, which perhaps you could answer, Monsieur; then I need not waken him. Could you tell me the way to the Villa Dannegianti?"
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