Flor.
Come on, out with it, answer me. How did this portrait come to be in my pocket?
Truff.
Sir, be kind and forgive me for taking a liberty. The portrait belongs to me, and I hid it there for safety, for fear I might lose it.
Flor.
How did you come by this portrait?
Truff.
My master left it to me.
Flor.
Left it to you?
Truff.
Yes, sir; I had a master who died, and he left me a few trifles which I sold, all except this portrait, sir.
Flor.
Great heavens! and how long is it since this master of yours died?
Truff.
'Twill be just about a week ago, sir. [ Aside ] I say the first thing that comes into my head.
Flor.
What was your master's name?
Truff.
I do not know, sir; he lived incognito .
Flor.
Incognito?
How long were you in his service?
Truff.
Only a short time, sir; ten or twelve days.
Flor.
[ aside ]. Heavens! More and more do I fear that it was Beatrice. She escaped in man's dress; she concealed her name—Oh wretched me, if it be true!
Truff.
[ aside ]. As he believes it all, I may as well go on with the fairy-tale.
Flor.
[ despairingly ]. Tell me, was your master young?
Truff.
Yes, sir, quite a young gentleman.
Flor.
Clean shaven?
Truff.
Clean shaven, sir.
Flor.
[ aside, with a sigh ]. 'Twas she, doubtless.
Truff.
[ aside ]. I hope I'm not in for another thrashing.
Flor.
At least, you know where your late master came from?
Truff.
I did know, sir, but I can't now call it to mind.
Flor.
Was he from Turin?
Truff.
Turin it was, sir.
Flor.
[ aside ]. Every word he speaks is a sword-thrust in my heart. [ To Truff.] Tell me again; this young gentleman from Turin, is he really dead?
Truff.
He is dead indeed, sir.

Flor.
Of what did he die?
Truff.
He met with an accident, and that was the end of him. [ Aside ] That seems to be the best way out.
Flor.
Where was he buried?
Truff.
[ aside ]. I wasn't ready for that one. [ To Flor.] He wasn't buried, sir.
Flor.
What!
Truff.
No, sir, another servant from the same place got permission to have him put into a coffin and sent home, sir.
Flor.
And was it, by any chance, the same servant who got you to fetch his letters for him from the Post this morning?
Truff.
Exactly so, sir; it was Pasqual'.
Flor.
[ aside ]. Then all hope is lost. Beatrice is dead. Unhappy Beatrice! the discomforts of the journey and the tortures of her heart must have killed her. Oh! I can no longer endure the agony of my grief!