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Updated: May 11, 2025
I walked back to the hotel, wondering how I could learn something about the Contessa Salvi-Scarabelli. In the doorway I found the innkeeper, and near him stood a young man whom I immediately perceived to be a compatriot, and with whom, apparently, he had been in conversation. "I wonder whether you can give me a piece of information," I said to the landlord.
It was covered with a napkin, and on the napkin was pinned a piece of paper, inscribed with an address. This address caught my glance there was a name on it I knew. It was very legibly written evidently by a scribe who had made up in zeal what was lacking in skill. Contessa Salvi-Scarabelli, Via Ghibellina so ran the superscription; I looked at it for some moments; it caused me a sudden emotion.
"Do you know anything about the Count Salvi-Scarabelli?" The landlord looked down at his boots, then slowly raised his shoulders, with a melancholy smile. "I have many regrets, dear sir " "You don't know the name?" "I know the name, assuredly. But I don't know the gentleman."
PARIS, December 17th. A note from young Stanmer, whom I saw in Florence a remarkable little note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing. "My dear General I have it at heart to tell you that I was married a week ago to the Countess Salvi-Scarabelli. You talked me into a great muddle; but a month after that it was all very clear.
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