I sent for the landlord, who, after a very cold interview, referred me to the Consul; but the Consul had on that very morning left the city for Verona, so that his aid was cut off. My last resource--my only one, indeed--was to write to Florence for money, and wait for the answer. This was a delay of seven, possibly of eight, days, but it was unavoidable.
This done, I ordered supper--a very humble one too, and befitting the condition of one who had not wherewithal to pay for it. I remember still the sense of shame I felt as the waiter, on entering, looked around for my luggage, and saw neither trunk nor carpet-bag--not even a hat-box. I thought--nay, there could be no mistake about it, it was quite clear--he laid the table with a certain air of careless and noisy indifference that bespoke his contempt. The very bang of the door as he went out, was a whole narrative of my purseless state.
I had been very hungry when I ordered the meal. I had not tasted food for several hours, and yet now I could not eat a morsel; chagrin and shame had routed all appetite, and I sat looking at the table, and almost wondering why the dishes were there. I thought of all the kind friends far away, who would have been so delighted to assist me; who, at that very hour perhaps, were speaking of me affectionately; and yet I had not one near, even to speak a word of counsel, or say one syllable of encouragement. It was not, it may well be believed, the monied loss that afflicted me--the sum was neither large, nor did I care for it. It was the utter desolation, and the sense of dependence, that galled me--a feeling whose painful tortures, even temporary as they were, I cannot, at this hour, eradicate from my memory.
Had I been left enough to continue my journey in the very humblest way, on foot even, it would have been happiness compared with what I felt. I arose at last from the table, where the untasted food still stood, and strolled out into the streets. I wandered about listlessly, not even feeling that amusement the newly seen objects of a great city almost always confer, and it was late when I turned back to the inn. As I entered, a man was standing talking with the master of the house, who, in his broken English, said, as I passed, “There he is!” I at once suspected that my sad adventure had been the subject of conversation, and hurried up the stairs to hide my shame. In my haste, however, I forgot my key at the porter’s lodge, and was obliged to go back to fetch it. On doing so, I met on the stairs a large, coarse-looking man, with a florid face, and an air of rough but of simple good-nature in his countenance. “You are a countryman, I believe?” said he in English. “Well, I’ve just heard of what has happened to you. The rascals tried the same trick with me at Modena; but I had an iron chain around _my_ trunk, and as they were baulked, and while they were rattling at it, I got a shot at one of them with a pistol--not to hurt the devil, for it was only duck-shot; not a bullet, you know. Where’s your room?--is this it?”