tori. When the gentleman sees my card, he reads, "Bar. Gianni Ah, I see-Baron Gianni!" He gets up, and says, "Baron Gianni, Senator! Bring him in! Bring him in at once!" And in I go.

Ger. And after you have once got in?

Gian. Oh, at your service, madam.

Ger. (to GIORGIO). You see how he does it?

Gior. Yes, he gains his daily bread by daily tricks.
Gian. Now, that is a piece of cruel and unmerited sar-

casm.

Gior. Do you mean to say yours are not daily tricks? Gian. Yes, the tricks are. But the bread is not daily; it is irregular, and sometimes annoyingly accompanied by cold water." Signor Lorenzo."

The Penalty for Deceived Husbands.

RAIMONDO BRAGANZA and his Son FEDERICO.

Rai. I know, ninety per cent of the unfaithful wives represent only ninety out of a hundred husbands who deserve being deceived. But half of them deserve it through a single mistake they have made-an imprudent choice. And your case? The remedy? To make up for the first mistake with all the good sense possible. It is difficult, true, but there is a certain sword of Damocles which sharpens the wit and points the will.

Fed. A sword of Damocles?

Rai. Yes, a sword on whose blade a single word stands inscribed, the little word describing the husband of the

faithless wife. It is the Inquisition of our day. Should the man kill her? Should he forgive her? The law offers him a wash-basin, and when he has washed his hands he is no better off than he was before. Because society makes no allowances, but strikes him with a terrible punishment, which overtakes him and is inflicted on him without his being conscious of it. Nothing changes; no one denies him the usual bow. Quite the contrary, poor fellow! His friends shake hands with him; why not, poor devil? He is always welcome at his club; he is permitted to act as second in duels; he is invited to shoot at pigeons, to belong to racing committees. But the bows and the hand-shakes have an imperceptible touch of irony, the very least tinge of mockery, which is most pronounced when he passes arm in arm with his best friend. The unhappy man feels as though he were in an unhealthy atmosphere; only he does not reflect, he does not stop to give himself an accurate account of his indisposition. Oh, it may be the heat; or it may be the dampness. No, the name of the disease that has smitten him is ridicule. A secret has escaped from a bedroom in his house, and has reached the hall; it runs down to the porter's lodge, slips out into the street, and behold! a whole city is whispering it; a whole city conspires not to spoil the poor wretch's comical trustfulness, to form a shield, while laughing and joking, between him and the two fortunate accomplices in this secret of Punchinello's-while Punchinello is the only one ignorant of it.

Fed. Now I must really protest! The Hebrews stoned the unfaithful wife, the Locretians put her eyes out, the English cut her ears off, the Egyptians her nose, and the Romans, forsooth, chopped off her head-and we moderns make fun of the husband! Oh, if the husband has been a libertine or

a fool, I agree; but if his wife has found in him youth, love, protection, and a worthy example, then, by God! the fools are they who laugh at him. And I join with the husband in laughing all the more heartily at those apes playing cockatoo ! A man of character has no fear of ridicule.

Rai. Which is the same as if you said a man of character need have no fear of sickness.

Fed. So, then, there is ridicule for the innocent husband, and for the wife, and for the lover?

Rai. The same disease for all of them, you may be sure. But what is the use of telling you? It is time wasted!

-"Ridicule."

Enrico Castelnuovo

The Pythagorean Problem

"THE Pythagorean Problem!" said Professor Roveni, in a tone of mild sarcasm, as he unfolded a paper which I had extracted, very gingerly, from an urn standing on his desk. Then he showed it to the government inspector who stood beside him, and whispered something into his ear. Finally he handed me the document, so that I might read the question with my own eyes.

"Go up to the blackboard," added the professor, rubbing his hands.

The candidate who had preceded me in the arduous trial, and had got out of it as best he could, had left the schoolroom on tiptoe, and in opening the door let in a long streak of sunshine, which flickered on wall and floor, and in which I had the satisfaction of seeing my shadow. The door closed again, and the room was once more plunged into twilight. It was a stifling day in August, and the great sunblinds of blue canvas were a slight defense against the heat, so that the Venetian shutters had been closed as well. The little light which remained was concentrated on the master's desk and the blackboard, and was, at any rate, sufficient to illuminate my defeat.

"Go to the blackboard and draw the figure," repeated Professor Roveni, perceiving my hesitation.

Tracing the figure was the only thing I knew how to do; so I took a piece of chalk and conscientiously went to work.

I was in no hurry; the more time I took up in this graphic part, the less remained for oral explanation.

But the professor was not the man to lend himself to my innocent artifice.

"Make haste," he said. "You are not going to draw one of Raphael's Madonnas."

I had to come to an end.

"Put in the letters now.

Quick! You are not giv-
Why did you erase

ing specimens of handwriting.

that G?"

"Because it is too much like the C which I have made already. I was going to put an H instead of it."

"What a subtle idea!" observed Roveni, with his usual irony. "Have you finished?"

"Yes, sir," said I; adding under my breath, "more's the pity!"

"Come, why are you standing there moonstruck? Enunciate the theorem!"

Then began my sorrows. The terms of the question had escaped my memory.

"In a triangle-" I stammered.

"Go on."

I took courage and said all I knew.

"In a triangle-the square of the hypotenuse is equal to

the squares of the other two sides."

"In any triangle?"

66

'No, no!" suggested a compassionate soul behind me. "No, sir!" said I.

"A right-angled triangle," whispered the prompting voice. "A right-angled triangle," I repeated, like a parrot. "Silence behind there!" shouted the professor, and then