Can you tell me why the owner objects to the stone being taken out and put in at my expense?


No, I can’t; but he does object.


Then he may take his ring somewhere else.


In sleeping in the closet. I obeyed my aunt’s orders, and in striking you (for which I am very sorry) I was but defending my honour; and I cannot admit that every man who sees me is at liberty to lose his reason. I think you will allow that your duty is to respect, and mine to defend, my honour.


If that is your line of argument, I acknowledge that you are right; but you had nothing to complain of, for I bore your blow in silence, and by my leaving the house you might know that it was my intention to respect you for the future. Did you come to hear me say this? If so, you are satisfied. But you will not be offended if I laugh at your excuses, for after what you have said I cannot help thinking them very laughable.


What have I said?


That you only did your duty in flattening my nose. If so, do you think it is necessary to apologize for the performance of duty?


I ought to have defended myself more gently. But forget everything and forgive me; I will defend myself no more in any way. I am yours and I love you, and I am ready to prove my love.


I have fifty thousand francs in gold, and as much again in jewellery and various possessions. It is my intention to give suppers here and hold a bank, but if I play without correcting the freaks of fortune I am sure to lose.


When the stone is removed,


we shall see what it really is. Listen to my proposal: if it weighs twenty-six grains, I will give you, not two but three hundred louis, but in its present condition I shall give nothing at all.


You have no business to doubt my word; you insult me by doing so.


Not at all, I have no intentions of the kind. I simply propose a wager to you. If the stone be found to weigh twenty-six grains, I shall lose two hundred Louis, if it weighs much less you will lose the ring.


That’s a scandalous proposal; it’s as much as to tell me that I am a liar.


If anyone were to give me the ring I should not have the stone taken out, because one should not look a gift horse in the mouth; but if it came to a question of buying or lending I would not give a crown for it, were the owner an emperor, before the stone was taken out; and I am very much surprised at your refusing to let this be done.


Why didn’t you give him his ring?


Because I have advanced him fifty Louis on it; but if he does not redeem it to-morrow I will have the stone taken out before a judge, and afterwards I shall sell it by auction.


I don’t like the man’s manners, and I hope you will never bring anyone to my rooms again.


I will not follow you,


the matter can be settled here?


We are observed.


All the better. Make haste and draw your sword first.


The advantage is with you.


I know it, and so it ought to be. If you do not draw I will proclaim you to be the coward I am sure you are.


he would take his revenge at another time.


For the future I mean to trust to my skill in play, and thus I am sure of a comfortable living.


Does she know that your revenue is fed solely by the purses of dupes?


She knows that I am a gamester; and as she adores me, her will is as mine. I am thinking of marrying her at Warsaw before she is confined. If you are in any want of money, look upon my purse as your own.


My friend. I have two alternatives, I can kill myself this instant or I can fly without returning to the house. I shall embrace the latter and go to Warsaw on foot, and I leave my wife in your hands, for I know you adore her. It must be your task to give her the dreadful news of the pass to which I have come. Have a care of her, she is too good by far for a poor wretch like me. Take her to Paris and I will write to you there at your brother’s address. I know you have money, but I would die rather than accept a single louis from you. I have still two or three pieces left, and I assure you that I am richer at the present moment than I was two months ago. Farewell; once more I commend Charlotte to your care; I would that she had never known me.


I should blame him for doing so. He ought to escape by all means, if only to save his life for my sake. Has my husband done so? Speak openly to me. My spirit is strong enough to resist even so fatal a blow, for I know I have a friend in you. Speak.


Well, I will tell you all. But first of all remember this; you must look upon me as a tender father who will never let you want, so long as life remains to him.


In that case I cannot be called unfortunate, for I have a true friend. Say on.


I commend Charlotte to your care; I would that she had never known me.


Dear friend, since I can count on you, I am far indeed from utter misery.


I swear to you, Charlotte, that I will never leave you till I place you again in your husband’s hands, provided I do not die before.


That is enough. I swear eternal gratitude, and to be as submissive to you as a good daughter ought to be.


There’s another difference, for I made the fortune of the first by finding her an honest husband, whereas I should never have the courage to adopt the same method with the second.


While Croce lives I am no man’s wife but his, nevertheless I am glad to find myself free.


Dearest, I know it is a foolish superstition, but to a woman in my condition such a meeting is of evil omen.


What, Charlotte! I thought you were too wise to have such silly fears. A woman in child-bed is not a sick woman, and no woman ever died of giving birth to a child except some other disease intervened.


Yes, my dear philosopher, it is like a duel; there are two men in perfect health, when all of a sudden there comes a sword-thrust, and one of them is dead.


That’s a witty idea. But bid all gloomy thoughts go by, and after your child is born, and we have placed it in good hands, you shall come with me to Madrid, and there I hope to see you happy and contented.


We, J. B. Dorival, Councillor to the King, Commissary of the Chatelet, formerly Superintendent of Police in the City of Paris, do certify that there has been taken to the Hospital for Children a male infant, appearing to be one day old, brought from the Faubourg St. Denis by the midwife Lamarre, and bearing a certificate of baptism to the effect that its name is Jacques Charles, son of Antonio della Croce and of Charlotte de----. Wherefore, we have delivered the above certificate at our office in the City of Paris, this 18th day of October, in the year of our Lord, 1767, at seven o’clock in the afternoon.


DORIVAL.


You are an impudent liar,


and if we were out of this room I would give you a kick to teach you to speak respectfully.


I congratulate you, and wish you good luck. I hope you will come to supper at my house.


I should be only too happy, but unfortunately I have an engagement; but I will come and see you if you will give me your address.


What is this?


The money you lent me so kindly at Konigsberg.


This is neither the time nor the place to return it. I will only take it at my own house, so please do not insist.


It is our good pleasure.


Well, chevalier. I have read the little note, and I will try and oblige his majesty as soon as possible. However, if I have not time to get away in twenty-four hours, his majesty must work his dread will on me.


My dear sir, the twenty-four hours are a mere formality. Subscribe the order and give me a receipt for the lettre de cachet, and you can go at your convenience. All I ask of you is that you give me your word of honour not to go to the theatres or public places of amusement on foot.


I give you my word with pleasure.


But, M. Buhot, this news is like March in Lent, it was quite unnecessary; my brother was going in the course of a week.


All the better. If the minister had been aware of that he would not have troubled himself about it.


Is the reason known?


I have heard something about a proposal to kick a gentleman, who though young, is too exalted a person to be spoken to in such a manner.


Why, chevalier, the phrase is a mere formality like the twenty-four hours for if the impudent young rascal had come out he would have met me, and his sword should have been sufficient to ward off any kicks.


And turn Capuchin, I suppose?


You might do much worse.


Very good; but I shall wait till my beard grows the necessary length in a single night.


There’s time enough for that.


It’s very cold, and the road is none of the best. You are no courier, sup here, we will give you a good bed, and you shall start again in the morning.


I have made up my mind to go on, but if you will keep me company at supper I will stay.


That would cost you too dearly.


Never too dear. Quick I make up your minds.


Well, we will sup with you.


Then lay the table for three; I must go on in an hour.


In an hour! You mean three, sir; papa will take two hours to get you a good supper.


Then I will not go on, but you must keep me company all night.


We will do so, if papa does not object. We will have your chaise put into the coach-house.


Very much, but I have enjoyed still more the company of your charming daughters.


I am delighted to hear it. Whenever you come this way they shall keep you company, but now it is past midnight, and time for them to go to bed.


What! To Venice, London, Warsaw, St. Petersburg?


To Constantinople, if you like. You need only give me your address, and you need not pay me till you get the pates.


I have not given myself any trouble in waiting on him.


Are they mad?


Not at all. They wear the Capuchin habit out of devotion, and you would not find a chemise on one of them.


I want to go to Madrid, and hope to obtain a chaplaincy in the house of a grandee. I have a letter for him.


Shew it; they will let you pass then.


You are right.


What, senor abbé! you are going to Madrid with a letter from Squillace, and you dare to shew it?


Senor Don Jacob, you must bear with it in Spain, for the Holy Inquisition must always be at liberty to inspect the rooms of foreigners.


But what in the devil’s name does your cursed Inquisition want . . . ?


For the love of God, Senor Jacob, speak not thus! if you were overheard we should both be undone.


Well, what can the Holy Inquisition want to know?


Everything. It wants to know whether you eat meat on fast days, whether persons of opposite sexes sleep together, if so, whether they are married, and if not married it will cause both parties to be imprisoned; in fine, Senor Don Jaime, the Holy inquisition is continually watching over our souls in this country.


Senor, this snuff will not pass in Spain


What do you want in Spain?


To add fresh treasures to my store of experience, by observing the manners and the customs of the country, and if possible to serve the Government with such feeble talents as I may possess.


Well, you have no need of my protection. If you do not infringe the laws, no one will disturb you. As to your obtaining employment, you had better go to the representative of your country; he will introduce you at Court, and make you known.


My lord, the Venetian ambassador will do nothing for me; I am in disgrace with the Government. He will not even receive me at the embassy.


Then I would advise you to give up all hopes of employment, for the king would begin by asking your ambassador about you, and his answer would be fatal. You will do well to be satisfied with amusing yourself.


I have presented myself, sir, that my enemies may never reproach me for not having done so; I am not aware that I have ever done anything which makes me too infamous to call on my ambassador. I should have credited myself with much greater hardihood if I had left without fulfilling this duty; but I shall be sorry if the ambassador views my proceedings in the same light as yourself, and puts down to temerity what was meant for a mark of respect. I shall be none the less astonished if his excellency refuses to receive me on account of a private quarrel between myself and the State Inquisitors, of which he knows no more than I do, and I know nothing. You will excuse my saying that he is not the ambassador of the State Inquisitors, but of the Republic of which I am a subject; for I defy him and I defy the Inquisitors to tell me what crime I have committed that I am to be deprived of my rights as a Venetian citizen. I think that, while it is my duty to reverence my prince in the person of my ambassador, it is his duty to afford me his protection. Why don’t you write a letter to the ambassador, with the arguments you have just used to me?


I could not write to him before I know whether he will receive me or not. But now, as I have reason to suppose that his opinions are much the same as your own, I will certainly write to him.


I do not know whether his excellency thinks as I do or not, and, in spite of what I said to you, it is just possible that you do not know my own opinions on the question; but write to him, and he may possibly give you an audience.


I shall follow your advice, for which I am much obliged.


I will do my best for you,


I hope soon to receive a letter from a friend of mine, which will authorise your excellency producing me.


I shall be delighted, in that case, to present you to all the Spanish ministers.


Why so?


Because lovers, who feel sure that no one in the pit can see them, may commit improprieties.


I have not got one; I came by myself to enjoy this delightful and excellently-managed entertainment.


Yes, but you ought to come with a companion; then you could dance. At present you cannot do so, as every lady has her partner, who will not allow her to dance with anyone else.


Then I must be content not to dance, for, being a stranger, I do not know any lady whom I can ask to come with me.


As a stranger you would have much less difficulty in securing a partner than a citizen of Madrid. Under the new fashion, introduced by the Count of Aranda, the masked ball has become the rage of all the women in the capital. You see there are about two hundred of them on the floor to-night; well, I think there are at least four thousand girls in Madrid who are sighing for someone to take them to the ball, for, as you may know, no woman is allowed to come by herself. You would only have to go to any respectable people, give your name and address, and ask to have the pleasure of taking their daughter to the ball. You would have to send her a domino, mask, and gloves; and you would take her and bring her back in your carriage.


And if the father and mother refused?


Then you would make your bow and go, leaving them to repent of their folly, for the girl would sigh, and weep, and moan, bewail parental tyranny, call Heaven to witness the innocency of going to a ball, and finally go into convulsions.


I shall be delighted to hear of your success, and you will find me in the box, where I shall be glad if you will follow me now, to be introduced to the lady who is my constant companion.


I have only been a short time in Madrid, and not having been presented at Court I really know no one.


Really! I quite pity you. Come and see me, you will be welcome. My name is Pichona, and anybody will tell you where I live.


I shall be delighted to pay my respects to you, madam.


But, does not the Inquisition object to this dance?


Who is there?


Honest folk,


Senor, there is my daughter, but I don’t know you, and I don’t know whether she wants to go.


I should like to go, if my parents will allow me.


Then you know this gentleman?


I have never seen him, and I suppose he has never seen me.


You speak the truth, senora.


She shall have a good cloak,


Then I hope you will take my measure for a pair of shoes.


I daren’t do that; I’m an hidalgo, and if I were to take anyone’s measure I should have to touch his foot, and that would be a degradation. I am a cobbler, and that is not inconsistent with my nobility.


Then, will you mend me these boots?


I will make them like new; but I see they want a lot of work; it will cost you a pezzo duro, about five francs.


By making you happy. I shall make myself happy, too. I will write to you to-morrow, and you will find the letter sewn into the hood of my domino.


You will find me ready to do anything, fair Ignazia, if you will give me hope.


I am employed at the Mint, but my present salary is a very small one. I hope I shall get an increase before long, and then I shall be in a position to make Ignazia happy. All my relations live at Toledo, and I have no friends at Madrid, so when we set up our only friends will be the father and mother of my wife and yourself, for I am sure you love her like a daughter.


You have probed my heart to its core, but just now I am awaiting remittances, and have very little money about me. You may count on my discretion, and I shall be delighted to see you whenever you care to call on me.


I did not go, for on that day died my only friend the Duke of Medina-Celi. He was ill for three days.


I sympathise with you. Was the duke an old man?


Hardly sixty. You have seen him; he did not look his age.


Where have I seen him?


Did he not bring you to my box?


You don’t say so! He did not tell me his name and I never saw him before.


I am Count Marazzini de Plaisance. I am not rich and I have come to Madrid to try and make my fortune. I hope to enter the bodyguard of his Catholic majesty. I have been indulging in the amusements of the town ever since I came. I saw you at the ball with an unknown beauty. I don’t ask you to tell me her name, but if you are fond of novelty I can introduce you to all the handsomest girls in Madrid. Come with me to the ball, and I will shew you some women worthy of your attention.


She is as good as she is beautiful, she deserves to prosper, and if I have not called on her it is only that I am anxious to do nothing which could injure her reputation.


Her reputation, Senor Caballero, is above all reproach, and I shall be delighted to see you whenever you honour me with a call.


The carnival draws near to its end, and if Donna Ignazia would like to go to another ball I shall be happy to take her again.


You must come and ask her yourself.


I will not fail to do so.


I have not found anyone worthy to be preferred before you, and if you would like to go to the ball again I should be most happy to take you.


What can you ask, and what can I offer, since I must keep myself pure for my husband?


You should abandon yourself to me without reserve, and you may be sure that I should respect your innocence.


If your duty, forces you to repulse me in spite of yourself, your duty is a burden on you. If it is a burden on you, it is your enemy, and if it is your enemy why do you suffer it thus lightly to gain the victory? If you were your own friend, you would at once expel this insolent enemy from your coasts.


That may not be.


Yes, it may. Only shut your eyes.


Like that?


Yes.


You may, of course, seduce me, but if you really love me you will spare me the shame.


Dearest Ignazia, there is no shame in a girl giving herself up to the man she loves. Love justifies all things. If you do not love me I ask nothing of you.


But how shall I convince you that I am actuated by love and not by complaisance?


Leave me to do what I like, and my self-esteem will help me to believe you.


But as I cannot be certain that you will believe me, my duty plainly points to a refusal.


Very good, but you will make me sad and cold.


Then I shall be sad, too.


Certainly, but what shall I say to prevent his taking offence?


Tell him that it is on account of what he asked you. He is poor, and I am sure he is in despair at not seeing me in the window to-night. I shall tell him I only went to the ball with you to please my father.


No exercise is more healthful than dancing, and before his time balls were strictly forbidden. In spite of that he is hated for having expelled ‘los padres de la compagnia de Jesus’, and for his sumptuary regulations. But the poor bless his name, for all the money produced by the balls goes to them.


And thus, to go to the ball is to do a pious work.


I have two cousins, who are perfect angels of goodness. I told them that you had taken me to the ball; but they are so poor that they have no hope of going. If you like you can make them quite happy by taking them on the last day of the carnival. The ball closes at midnight, so as not to profane Ash Wednesday.


I shall be happy to oblige you, all the more as your lady mother will not be obliged to wait for us in the carriage.


You are very kind; but I shall have to introduce you to my aunt; she is so particular. When she knows you, I am sure she will consent, for you have all the air of discretion. Go and see her to-day; she lives in the next street, and over her door you will see a notice that lace is washed within. Tell her that my mother gave you the address. To-morrow morning, after mass, I will see to everything else, and you must come here at noon to agree as to our meeting on the last day of the carnival.


I will have the dominos ready at my house, and you must come in at the back door. We will dine in my room, mask, and go to the ball. The eldest of your cousins must be disguised as a man.


I won’t tell her anything about that, for fear she might think it a sin, but once in your house you will have no difficulty in managing her.


she did not think it could be a sin.


If it were a sin, do you suppose that I should have suggested it to your virtuous sister. Come with me, and do you ladies wait here; I want to enjoy your surprise when you see her in man’s clothes.


I am sorry for that.


Will you allow me to arrange your shirt so as to obviate it?


I shall be much obliged, as I have never dressed in man’s clothes before.


Now it’s your turn,


Go with him. Don Jaime is as honest a man as you will find in Spain.


I don’t know. I did everything for myself.


I only give in because I can’t resist. I thought I should never have done; I had to alter the whole fit of the domino.


I understood her, and took her to my house, feeling sure of two hours of mutual pleasure. I had sufficient strength of mind to conceal my rage and disappointment, and told him to come in, adding that his mistress would be delighted at this unexpected visit. In her rage she told him that she would never have asked me to give her a cup of coffee if she had foreseen this piece of importunity, adding that if he had been a gentleman he would have known better than to intrude himself at such an hour. I tried to calm Donna Ignazia, telling her that Don Francisco had seen us by a mere accident, and that it was I who had asked him to come upstairs, in the hope of pleasing her.


So take me home, but if you love me come and see me again. The trick the stupid fellow has played me shall cost him dear. Are you sure I don’t love him?


Quite certain, for you love me too well to love anybody else.


of whom. I am one. He knows you have concealed weapons in your room. He knows, or thinks he knows, certain other things which authorize him to seize your person and to take you to the prison where persons destined for the galleys are kept. I give you all this warning because I believe you to be a man of honour. Despise not my advice, but look to yourself, and get into some place of security.


To-morrow I shall look out for another lodging.


Yes, and you might have remained there yourself. I did not think you were so easily frightened.


for otherwise, the Venetian gentleman would never have gone to the house of Chevalier Mengs, where he is out of my power.


My page must be a thorough-paced scoundrel; the magistrate’s arresting him for warning me is an absolute proof that he knew of my approaching arrest. What is a servant who does not warn his master under such circumstances but a rascal? Indeed I am absolutely certain that he was the informer, for he was the only person who knew where the arms were concealed.


I am the Chevalier de Casanova,


Then I hope you will follow me of your own free will to the prison of Buen Retiro. I cannot use force here, for this house is the king’s, but I warn you that in less than an hour the Chevalier Mengs will have orders to turn you out, and then you will be dragged to prison, which would be unpleasant for you. I therefore advise you to follow me quietly, and to give up such weapons as you may possess.


The Chevalier Mengs will give you the weapons in question. I have carried them with me for eleven years; they are meant to protect me on the highways. I am ready to follow you, but first allow me to write four notes; I shall not be half an hour.


I can neither allow you to wait nor to write, but you will be at liberty to do so after you have reached the prison.


Very good; then I am ready to follow you, for I have no choice. I shall remember Spanish justice!


I hope, not to be condemned before I am heard. The alcalde will come and interrogate you tomorrow, and your answers will be taken down; that’s all. You may then be sent to hard labour in Africa.


Has your case been heard yet?


They were at me about it for three hours yesterday.


What kind of questions did they ask you?


They wished to know what banker furnished me with money for my expenses. I told them I had not got a banker, and that I lived by borrowing from my friends, in the expectation of becoming one of the king’s body-guard. They then asked me how it was that the Parmese ambassador knew nothing about me, and I replied that I had never been presented to him.


Without the favour of your ambassador, you could never join the royal guard, and you must be aware of that, but the king’s majesty shall give you employment where you will stand in need of no commendation;


and so the alcalde left me. If the Venetian ambassador does not interpose in your behalf you will be treated in the same way.


I have no appetite, and I am not going to give a farthing to anyone till the stolen crown is restored to me. I will not give him a farthing; he is no longer in my service, and would to God I had never seen him!


We are no tyrants, you can write what letters you like.


Then, as this is a free country, is it allowable for a soldier who has received certain moneys to buy certain articles to pocket the money and appropriate it to his own use?


What is his name? I promise you, sir, that the soldier shall be punished and your money restored to you; and in the meanwhile you shall have pens, ink, paper, a table, and a candle, immediately.


And I, promise you that one of the ambassador’s servants shall wait on you at eight o’clock to deliver any letters you may write.


Serve God and your master. Let his Catholic majesty save me from the hands of the infamous alcalde who has arrested me, an honest and a law-abiding man, who came to Spain trusting in his own innocence and the protection of the laws. The person who writes to you, my lord, has a purse full of doubloons in his pocket; he has already been robbed, and fears assassination in the filthy den in which he has been imprisoned.


I have committed no crime, what compensation am I to have when I am released from this filthy and abominable place? Set me at liberty at once, or tell your hangmen to finish their work, for I warn you that no one shall take me to the galleys alive.


All I ask of you, is not to tell the ambassador that you have seen the letter I wrote to the Count of Aranda.


I hope so, for I am perfectly innocent of any offence.


I do not understand Spanish well, and I shall only give written answers to any questions that may be asked of me, in Italian, French, or Latin. I don’t understand what you say. Get a judge who understands one of the languages I have named, and I will write down my answers.


My name is Jacques Casanova; I am a subject of the Republic of Venice, by profession a man of letters, and in rank a Knight of the Golden Spur. I have sufficient means, and I travel for my pleasure. I am known to the Venetian ambassador, the Count of Aranda, the Prince de la Catolica, the Marquis of Moras, and the Duke of Lossada. I have offended in no manner against the laws of his Catholic majesty, but in spite of my innocence I have been cast into a den of thieves and assassins by magistrates who deserve a ten times greater punishment. Since I have not infringed the laws, his Catholic majesty must know that he has only one right over me, and that is to order me to leave his realms, which order I am ready to obey. My arms, which I see before me, have travelled with me for the last eleven years; I carry them to defend myself against highwaymen. They were seen when my effects were examined at the Gate of Alcala, and were not confiscated; which makes it plain that they have served merely as a pretext for the infamous treatment to which I have been subjected.


Valga me Dios! You shall suffer for your insolence.


He has certainly been shamefully used, but an intelligent man should not lose his head. I should have known nothing about it, but for a furious letter he has written me; and Don Emmanuel de Roda and the Duke of Lossada have received epistles in the same style. Casanova is in the right, but that is not the way to address people.


If he really said I was in the right, that is sufficient.


He said it, sure enough.


Then he must do me justice, and as to my style everyone has a style of their own. I am furious, and I wrote furiously. Look at this place; I have no bed, the floor is covered with filth, and I am obliged to sleep on a narrow bench. Don’t you think it is natural that I should desire to eat the hearts of the scoundrels who have placed me here? If I do not leave this hell by tomorrow, I shall kill myself, or go mad.


M. de Casanova! Chevalier, the Count of Aranda is at the gate of the prison; he is much grieved at the treatment you have received. He only heard about it through the letter you wrote him yesterday, and if you had written sooner your pains would have been shorter.


Such was my intention, colonel, but a soldier . . . .


Here,


I can neither rest nor sleep, and a man needs sleep every night. If you had come a little earlier you would have seen the disgusting filth with which the floor was covered.


You must remember, colonel, that I am suffering from injustice, and am in a furious rage. I am a man of honour, like yourself, and you can imagine the effect of such treatment on me.


Afterwards, you must go and thank his excellency the Count of Aranda, who came here expressly for your sake. He bade me tell you that your release would be delayed till the afternoon, that you may have full satisfaction for the affront you have received, if it is an affront, for the penalties of the law only dishonour the guilty. In this instance the Alcalde Messa has been deceived by the rascal who was in your service.


There he is,


Be good enough to have him removed, or else, in my indignation, I might kill him.


He shall be taken away this moment,


If you had not a rascal and a traitor (who shall end his days in the galleys) in your service, Senor Caballero, you would never have written down the servants of his Catholic majesty as scoundrels.


Senor Alcalde, my indignation made me write the same sentence to four of his majesty’s ministers. Then I believed what I wrote, but I do so no longer. Let us forget and forgive; but you must confess that if I had not known how to write a letter you would have sent me to the galleys.


Alas! it is very likely.


I advise you, to take the letter to the ambassador immediately. Take my carriage; after what you have undergone for the last few days you cannot be in a walking humour.


The ambassador, proposes to introduce you at Court next week, and he wants you to dine with him to-day; there will be a numerous company at dinner.


I am engaged to Mengs.


No matter, he shall be asked as well; you must come. Consider the effect of your presence at the ambassador’s the day after your triumph.


You are right. Go and ask Mengs, and tell the ambassador that I have much pleasure in accepting his invitation.


Your business is done. Stay, here are four letters; take them and read them over again.


Why should I read them again? This is the document I gave the alcalde.


I know that. Read, and confess that you should not have written so violently, in spite of the wrongs that vexed you.


I crave your pardon, my lord, but a man who meditates suicide does not pick terms. I believed that your excellency was at the bottom of it all.


Then you don’t know me. Go and thank Don Emmanuel de Roda, who wants to know you, and I shall be glad if you will call once on the alcalde, not to make him an apology, for you owe him none, but as an act of politeness to salve over the hard things you said of him. If you write the history of Princess Lubomirska, I hope you will tell her that I did my best for you.


What could I claim? Everything. Dismissal of the alcalde and compensation to the tune of fifty thousand duros. Spain is a country where a man may speak out save in the matters which the Holy Inquisition looks after.


I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Campomanes and Olavides, men of intellect and of a stamp very rare in Spain.


The Swiss, are a very peculiar people; if you transplant them to a foreign shore, they languish and die; they become a prey to home-sickness. When this once begins in a Switzer, the only thing is to take him home to the mountain, the lake, or the valley, where he was born, or else he will infallibly die. It would be wise, I think, to endeavour to combine a Spanish colony with the Swiss colony, so as to effect a mingling of races. At first, at all events, their rules, both spiritual and temporal, should be Swiss, and, above all, you would have to insure them complete immunity from the Inquisition. The Swiss who has been bred in the country has peculiar customs and manners of love-making, of which the Spanish Church might not exactly approve; but the least attempt to restrain their liberty in this respect would immediately bring about a general home-sickness.


she would like it as much as I, but as it was Lent and near Holy Week, in which God died for our salvation, it was more fit to think of penance than pleasure. we might consider the matter.


Yesterday the rector of the parish in which I reside affixed to the church-door a list of those of his parishioners who are Atheists and have neglected their Easter duties. Amongst them your name figures in full, and the aforesaid rector has reproached me bitterly for harbouring a heretic. I did not know what answer to make, for I feel sure that you could have stopped in Madrid a day longer to discharge the duties of a Christian, even if it were only out of regard for me. The duty I owe to the king, my master, the care I am bound to take of my reputation, and my fears of being molested, all make me request you to look upon my house as yours no longer. When you return to Madrid you may go where you will, and my servants shall transport your effects to your new abode. I am, etc.. ANTONIO RAPHAEL MENGS.


he had orders to await my reply.


Go and tell your unworthy master what I did with his letter, and tell him that is the only answer that such a letter deserves.


Turpius ejicitur quam non admittitur hospes.


I am not at all surprised at what you tell me. Mengs is only liked for his talents in painting; in everything else he is well known to be little better than a fool.


Just as every poet should be a painter, so every painter should be a poet;


these things were but trifles after all, and that I had taken no offence at his omitting the chevalier on the letters he had written to me, though I was a knight of the same order as himself.


it was quite right,


I was certain that my hand was made like that of all the descendants of Adam.


Then whom do you think that I am descended from?


I don’t know, but you are certainly not of the same species as myself.


You mean you are not of my species; all well-made hands of men, and women too, are like mine and not like yours.


I’ll wager a hundred doubloons that you are in the wrong.


We shall see which is right. I am delighted that I can boast of being unique in one particular, at all events.


The picture will be finished to-night.


No, I have not, ninety-nine connoisseurs out of a hundred would have pronounced it finished long ago, but I want the praise of the hundredth man. There’s not a picture in the world that can be called finished save in a relative sense; this Magdalen will not be finished till I stop working at it, and then it will be only finished relatively, for if I were to give another day’s work to it it would be more finished still. Not one of Petrarch’s sonnets is a really finished production; no, nor any other man’s sonnets. Nothing that the mind of man can conceive is perfect, save it be a mathematical theorem. He was such a great painter.


Certainly, but what can you mean by wishing you had been Raphael? This is not sense; if you had been Raphael, you would no longer be existing. But perhaps you only meant to express a wish that you were tasting the joys of Paradise; in that case I will say no more.


No, no; I mean I would have liked to have been Raphael without troubling myself about existing now, either in soul or body.


Really such a desire is an absurdity; think it over, and you will see it for yourself. Find me if you can, a poet who can order his supper between the lines of his tragedy, or discuss the weather whilst he is composing epic verses.


The ambassador, is going to give a grand official dinner to the ambassadors of the other powers, and as I have not been presented at Court I am excluded from being present. However, if I travel, my absence will not give rise to any remarks. We shall be back in five or six days.


This proves, gentlemen, that the dragon is not a fabulous animal;


Yes, but Spain is thinly peopled everywhere, and your plan would amount to impoverishing one district to make another rich.


Not at all, for if you took ten persons who are dying of poverty in the Asturias, and placed them in the Sierra Morena, they would not die till they had begotten fifty children. This fifty would beget two hundred and so on.


Where is he?


That gentleman who is looking in your direction now.


How can I dare to ask him?


He is a true nobleman, and I am sure he will be only too happy to oblige you. Go and ask him now; you will not be denied.


I haven’t the courage to do so. Come with me and introduce me.


That would spoil everything; he must not even think that I am your adviser in the matter. I am just going to leave you; you must make your request directly afterwards. The thing’s as good as done,


It is not so frequented now, senor. I can easily get by it. Oh, senor! men are getting more wicked every day.


Excuse me, I really cannot tell you. Go and see for yourself; your curiosity will soon be satisfied.


Very likely, but it was exactly the physical beauty of the picture that rendered it in my eyes unfit to represent one whose aspect should purify and purge the senses, instead of exciting them. Let all the pictures in the world be destroyed, if they be found to have caused the commission of one mortal sin.


Who allowed you to commit this mutilation? The Venetian State Inquisitors, even M. Barberigo, though he is a devout man, would have put you under the Leads for such a deed. The love of Paradise should not be allowed to interfere with the fine arts, and I am sure that St. Luke himself (who was a painter, as you know) would condemn you if he could come to life again.


Sir, I needed no one’s leave or license. I have to say mass at that altar every day, and I am not ashamed to tell you that I was unable to consecrate. You are a man and a Christian, you can excuse my weakness. That voluptuous picture drew away my thoughts from holy things.


Who obliged you to look at it?


I did not look at it; the devil, the enemy of God, made me see it in spite of myself.


Then you should have mutilated yourself like Origen. Your generative organs, believe me, are not so valuable as the picture you have ruined.


Sir, you insult me.


Not at all, I have no intention of doing so.


The chaplain,” he said, “is himself blameworthy and unfit for his position, in that he has adjudged others to be as weak as himself; in fact, he has committed a wrong against religion. Nevertheless, my dear son, it was not wise of you to go and irritate him.


You were quite right in your contention, but yet every truth is not good to utter, and it was wrong to call the man an ignoramus in his presence. For the future you would do well to avoid all idle discussion on religious matters, both on dogma and discipline. And I must also tell you, in order that you may not leave Spain with any harsh ideas on the Inquisition, that the priest who affixed your name to the church-door amongst the excommunicated has been severely reprimanded. He ought to have given you a fatherly admonition, and, above all, enquired as to your health, as we know that you were seriously ill at the time.


I asked him one day whether the king was fond of Gregorio Squillace only because he had been once his wife’s lover.


That’s an idle calumny. If the epithet of ‘chaste’ can be applied to any monarch, Charles III. certainly deserves it better than any other. He has never touched any woman in his life except his wife, not only out of respect or the sanctity of marriage, but also as a good Christian. He has avoided this sin that his soul may remain pure, and so as not to have the shame of confessing it to his chaplain. He enjoys an iron constitution, sickness is unknown to him, and he is a thorough Spaniard in temperament. Ever since his marriage he has paid his duty to his wife every day, except when the state of her health compelled her to call for a truce. In such seasons this chaste husband brought down his fleshly desires by the fatigue of hunting and by abstinence. You can imagine his distress at being left a widower, for he would rather die than take a mistress. His only resource was in hunting, and in so planning out his day that he should have no time left wherein to think of women. It was a difficult matter, for he cares neither for reading nor writing, music wearies him, and conversation of a lively turn inspires him with disgust. He has adopted the following plan, in which he will preserve till his dying day: He dresses at seven, then goes into his closet and has his hair dressed. At eight o’clock he says his prayers, then hears mass, and when this is over he takes chocolate and an enormous pinch of snuff, over which his big nose ruminates for some minutes; this is his only pinch in the whole day. At nine o’clock he sees his ministers, and works with them till eleven. Then comes dinner, which he always takes alone, then a short visit to the Princess of the Austurias, and at twelve sharp he gets into his carriage and drives to the hunting-grounds. At seven o’clock he takes a morsel wherever he happens to be, and at eight o’clock he comes home, so tired that he often goes to sleep before he can get his clothes off. Thus he keeps down the desires of the flesh.


Poor voluntary martyr!


He thought of marrying a second time, but when Adelaide of France saw his portrait she was quite frightened and refused him. He was very mortified, and renounced all thoughts of marriage; and woe to the courtier who should advise him to get a mistress!


Then he is not a hard man, as some say?


Not at all. Kings seldom have the reputation they deserve. The most accessible monarchs are the least generous; they are overwhelmed with importunate requests, and their first instinct is always to refuse.


But as Charles III. is so inaccessible he can have no opportunity of either granting or refusing.


People catch him when he is hunting; he is usually in a good humour then. His chief defect is his obstinacy; when he has once made up his mind there is no changing it. He has the greatest liking for his brother, and can scarce refuse him anything, though he must be master in all things. It is thought he will give him leave to marry for the sake of his salvation; the king has the greatest horror of illegitimate children, and his brother has three already. They will go back as they come, and that is empty-handed.


Then they ask impossibilities?


They don’t ask anything. ‘What do you want?’ says a minister.


What your excellency will let me have.


What can you do?


I am ready to do whatever your excellency pleases to think best for me’ Please leave me. I have no time to waste.


I have some money, and I will let you have the bill to-morrow.


I went back and asked Philippe, my man, where Don Diego was staying.


It’s some distance, sir; I will take you there tomorrow.


Where is my landlord?


In the floor above; but they are very quiet people.


I should like to see him.


He is gone out and won’t be home till ten.


Towards the end of supper Philippe told me that the landlord had come in, and that with my leave he would wish me a good evening. Shew him in by all means.


All you barons, counts, and marquises who laugh at an untitled man who calls himself a gentleman, pause and reflect, spare your disdain till you have degraded him; allow him a gentle title so long as he does gentle deeds. Respect the man that defines nobility in a new way, which you cannot understand. With him nobility is not a series of descents from father to son; he laughs at pedigrees, in which no account is taken of the impure blood introduced by wifely infidelities; he defines a nobleman as one who does noble deeds, who neither lies nor cheats, who prefers his honour to his life.


I have a much better lodging than I had before; and the rent of your room pays me for the house four times over.


How about the furniture and the linen?


It will all be paid in the course of four years. I hope this house will be the dower of my daughter. It is an excellent speculation, and I have to thank you for it.


I am glad to hear it; but what is this, you seem to be making new boots?


Quite so; but if you look you will see that I am working on a last which has been given me. In this way I have not to put them on, nor need I trouble myself whether they fit well or ill.


How much do you get?


Thirty reals.


That’s a larger price than usual.


Yes, but there’s a great difference between my work and my leather, and the usual work and leather of the bootmakers.


Then I will have a last made, and you shall make me a pair of shoes, if you will; but I warn you they must be of the finest skin, and the soles of morocco.


They will cost more, and not last so long.


I can’t help that; I can’t bear any but the lightest boots.


I heard about it; this was worse than your imprisonment, and I don’t know what I could have done for you if you had not communicated, and obliged the priest to take out your name. Just now they are trying to annoy me with posters on the walls, but I take no notice.


What do they want your excellency to do?


To allow long cloaks and low-crowned hats; you must know all about it.


I only arrived at Madrid yesterday evening.


Very good. Don’t come here on Sunday, as my house is to be blown up.


I should like to see that, my lord, so I will be in your hall at noon.


I expect you will be in good company.


If they catch me, they will hang me,


So I shall not let them catch me.


I was glad to have me in the house, begged me to forget everything that had passed between us.


I was sure she knew she was asking an impossibility. I added that even if I could forget the past I would not do so.


she had broken with her lover at the beginning of Lent, and begged me not to see him if he called on me.


she had shut herself up in her room to celebrate the Feast of Pentecost.


My dear Don Diego, don’t let there be any false compliments between us. Before you go out, tell your daughter not to put herself out for me, and that I do not pretend to put my society in comparison with that of God. Tell her to keep her room to-night, and she can sup with me another time. I hope you will take my message to her.


As you will have it so, you shall be obeyed.


I am very glad she has taken me at my word, and to-morrow I will thank her for it.


a wise father forgives an ecstasy of love.


Alone, sad, and unhappy. I felt that abstinence was the best thing for me.


You look downcast.


You alone can make me look cheerful.


It shall not happen again,


Would you like to come with me to our Lady of Atocha?


I should like it very much,


My girl, true devotion and merriment go together, and the reason is that the truly devout person has trust in God and in the honesty of all men. Thus you can trust in Don Jaime as an honest man, though he has not the good fortune to be born in Spain. What do you want to take the cousin for? I will answer for Don Jaime.


You are very kind, Don Diego, but if Ignazia likes her cousin to come I shall be delighted, provided it be the elder cousin, whom I like better than the younger.


Entirely, if you will forgive me for loving you. Alas, dearest! I think I shall go mad if I keep up the battle any longer.


There needs no battle, dearest Ignazia, either love me as I love you, or tell me to leave the house, and see you no more. I will obey you, but that will not make you happy.


I know that. No, you shall not go from your own house. But allow me to tell you that you are mistaken in your estimate of my cousins’ characters. I know what influenced you, but you do not know all. The younger is a good girl, and though she is ugly, she too has succumbed to love. But the elder, who is ten times uglier, is mad with rage at never having had a lover. She thought she had made you in love with her, and yet she speaks evil of you. She reproaches me for having yielded so easily and boasts that she would never have gratified your passion.


Say no more, we must punish her; and the younger shall come.


I am much obliged to you.


Does she know that we love each other?


I have never told her, but she has guessed it, and pities me. She wants me to join her in a devotion to Our Lady de la Soledad, the effect of which would be a complete cure for us both.


Then she is in love, too?


Yes; and she is unhappy in her love, for it is not returned. That must be a great grief.


I pity her, and yet, with such a face, I do not know any man who would take compassion on her. The poor girl would do well to leave love alone. But as to you. . . .


Say nothing about me: my danger is greater than hers. I am forced to defend myself or to give in, and God knows there are some men whom it is impossible to ward off! God is my witness that in Holy Week I went to a poor girl with the smallpox, and touched her in the hope of catching it, and so losing my beauty; but God would not have it so, and my confessor blamed me, bidding me to do a penance I had never expected.


Tell me what it is?


He told me that a handsome face is the index of a handsome soul, and is a gift of God, for which a woman should render thanks continually; that in attempting to destroy this beauty I had sinned, for I had endeavoured to destroy God’s handiwork. After a good deal of rebuke in this style, he ordered me to put a little rouge on my cheeks whenever I felt myself looking pale. I had to submit, and I have bought a pot of rouge, but hitherto I have not felt obliged to use it. Indeed, my father might notice it, and I should not like to tell him that it is done by way of penance.


Is your confessor a young man?


He is an old man of seventy.


Do you tell him all your sins without reserve?


Certainly, for the smallest circumstance may be really a great sin.


Does he ask you questions?


No, for he sees that I am telling him the whole truth. It is a great trial, but I have to submit to it.


Have you had this confessor for long?


For two years. Before him I had a confessor who was quite unbearable. He asked me questions which made me quite indignant.


What questions were these?


You must please excuse me telling you.


Why do you go to confession so often?


Why? Would to God I had not good cause! but after all I only go once a week.


That’s too often.


Not so, for when I am in mortal sin I cannot sleep at night. I am afraid of dying in my sleep.


I pity you, dearest; I have a consolation which is denied you. I have an infinite trust in the infinite mercy of God.


I am sure that when you go to confession next Sunday you will forget to accuse yourself of having wrongfully suspected Don Jaime of a dishonourable action.


You have been to confession, I suppose? No; I went last Sunday, and I shall wait till next Sunday.


I am very glad that your confession will not be lengthened by any sins I have helped you to commit.


You are wrong.


Wrong? I understand; but you must know that I am not going to be damned for mere desires. I do not wish to torment you or to become a martyr myself. What you granted me has made me fall deeply in love with you, and it makes me shudder when I imagine that our love has become a subject of repentance with you. I have had a bad night; and it is time for me to think of my health. I must forget you, but to bring about that effect I will see you no longer. I will keep on the house, but I will not live in it. If your religion is an intelligent one, you will approve of my idea. Tell your confessor of it next Sunday, and you will see that he will approve it.


You are right, but I cannot agree to it. You can go away if you like, and I shall say nothing, but I shall be the most unhappy girl in all Madrid.


I love you, dearest Ignazia, and I hope not to be damned for my love. I cannot see you without loving you and to this love some positive proof is essential; otherwise, I am unhappy. If I go you say you will be unhappy, and if I stay it is I that will be unhappy, my health will be ruined. But tell me which I shall do stay or go? Say.


Stay.


Then you must be as loving and tender as you were before.


Alas! I promised to commit that sin no more. I tell you to stay, because I am sure that in eight or ten days we shall have become so accustomed to one another that I shall be able to love you like a father, and you will be able to take me in your arms without any amorous sentiments.


Are you sure of this?


Yes, dearest, quite sure.


You make a mistake.


Let me be mistaken, and believe me I shall be glad to be mistaken.


Unhappy devotee!


Why unhappy? Nothing, nothing. I may be too long, I shall endanger . . . let us say no more about it. I will stay.


for, even if I do enjoy her once, Sunday will come again; she will confess, repent, and I shall have to begin all over again. She confessed her love, and flatters herself that she will be able to subdue it--a foolish hope, which could only exist in a mind under the dominion of prejudice.


I never suspected Don Jaime of such a thing, and I only objected out of shyness.


I am laughing at her,


I am certain that I was in earnest, and that I had known her before taking her to the ball.


You are utterly mistaken,


Your father is wiser than you, senora,


What! How and when did you see me?


At the church where I heard mass, and you communicated, when you went out with your cousin. I followed you at some distance; you can guess the rest.


it’s a fine day, and all Madrid will be there, so one must go early to get a good place. I advise you to go, as you have never seen a bull fight; ask Don Jaime to take you with him, Ignazia.


Would you like to have my companionship?


Certainly I would, but you must bring your cousin, as I am in love with her.


It is not so impossible after all.


She recognized me, and said we were fortunate in meeting one another; and then noticing Donna Ignazia, who was close to her, she congratulated me in French on her charms, and asked me whether she was my mistress or my wife.


I replied that she was a beauty before whom I sighed in vain.


She replied, with a smile, that she was rather a sceptical person; and turning to Donna Ignazia began a pleasant and amorous discourse, thinking the girl to be as learned in the laws of love as herself.


You will come with me some day,


to dine at her country house.


You need not look for that.


Why not?


Because she is a madwoman. She talked to me in a way that would have offended me if I did not know that she fancied she was honouring me by laying aside her rank.


Will you go and see the duchess?


No, if you will promise me not to go to confession next Sunday.


But what will he say if I do not go?


Nothing at all, if he understands his business. But let us talk it over a little.


I was not thinking of repentance just then, but as you remind me of it, I must tell you that I shall certainly go to confession.


And after you have been to confession will you love me as you love me now?


I hope God will give me strength to offend Him no more.


I assure you that if you continue loving me God will not give you grace, yet I feel sure that on Sunday evening you will refuse me that which you are now ready to grant.


Indeed I will, sweetheart; but why should we talk of that now?


Because if I abandon myself to pleasure now I shall be more in love with you than ever, and consequently more unhappy than ever, when the day of your repentance comes. So promise me that you will not go to confession whilst I remain at Madrid, or give the fatal order now, and bid me leave you. I cannot abandon myself to love to-day knowing that it will be refused me on Sunday.


You are cruel. I cannot make you that promise for my conscience sake.


We must get her to eat something.


No, I think abstinence will do her good, and in the evening I daresay she will be able to sup with you.


But will you go another day?


No, dearest, because I see it would grieve you.


It’s all over,


The poor girl has made a sincere and full confession, she has avowed her love, and the priest’s cruel duty has made him refuse her absolution.


All is lost. What will come of it?


My peace of mind and hers require me to leave her.


Wretch that I am, to have lost all for all! I should have made allowance for the peculiar Spanish character.


I might have enjoyed her by surprise now and again; the difficulty would have added piquancy to the intrigue. I have behaved as if I were once more twenty, and I have lost all.


At dinner she will be all sad and tearful. I must find some way out of this terrible situation.


I am going to be happy, but let us say nothing, and it will come of itself. More than ever, darling; I adore you.


Then take me to the bull fight.


Quick! Fetch the hairdresser.


she was glad that the detestable duchess was not anywhere near us.


Amigo Senior Don Jaime, I leave you here to enjoy the cool air with my daughter. I am delighted at your loving her, and you may be assured that I shall place no obstacle in the way of your becoming my son-in-law as soon as you can shew your titles of nobility.


I should be only too happy, if it could be managed; but you must know that in my country they only are called nobles who have an hereditary right to rule the state. If I had been born in Spain I should be noble, but as it is I adore you, and I hope you will make me happy.


Yes, dearest, but we must be happy together; I cannot suffer any infidelity.


I give you my word of honour that I will be wholly faithful to you.


Come then, ‘corazon mio’, let us go in.


No, let us put out the lights, and stay here a quarter of an hour. Tell me, my angel, whence comes this unexpected happiness?


You owe it to a piece of tyranny which drove me to desperation. God is good, and I am sure He would not have me become my own executioner. When I told my confessor that I could not help loving you, but that I could restrain myself from all excess of love, he replied that this self-confidence was misplaced, as I had already fallen. He wanted me to promise never to be alone with you again, and on my refusing to do so he would not give me absolution. I have never had such a piece of shame cast on me, but I laid it all in the hands of God, and said, ‘Thy will be done.’ Whilst I heard mass my mind was made up, and as long as you love me I shall be yours, and yours only. When you leave Spain and abandon me to despair, I shall find another confessor. My conscience holds me guiltless; this is my comfort. My cousin, whom I have told all, is astonished, but then she is not very clever.


But we can do good business together, and you cannot possibly be moneyless.


I do not know anything about good business, but I do know that I want my money and cannot part with it.


We are at our wits’ end to quiet our landlord; come and speak to him.


If I were to do so I should do you more harm than good. He would ask me if I would answer for you, and I should reply that you are one of those noblemen who stand in need of no surety. All the same, the landlord would think that if I did not stand your surety, it must be from my entertaining doubts as to your solvency.


What is the matter?


I do not know exactly. For the last week I have refused to see the Baron Fraiture, as not being able to give him money, his presence only wearied me. He has written me a letter, in which he threatens to blow out his brains to-day if I will not lend him a hundred pistoles.


He said the same thing to me three days ago; but I replied that I would bet two hundred pistoles that he would do nothing of the kind. This made him angry, and he proposed to fight a duel with me; but I declined on the plea that as he was a desperate man either he would have an advantage over me or I, over him. Give him the same answer, or, better still, no answer at all.


I cannot follow your advice. Here are the hundred pistoles. Take them to him and get a receipt.


What can be the matter?


I cannot imagine, but I will have an explanation, or perish.


You may,


have me assassinated if you like, but I shall not leave Madrid till its suits me to do so.


Come into my carriage,


we will go and hear mass together.


The duke, replied that he would cease to know you as soon as he found out the badness of your character himself. Such are the ways of the great when they have abjured all virtue and honesty. Nevertheless, I advise you to keep silence about it, unless you would irritate Manucci still farther.


What have you been doing to offend your ambassador?


My lord, I have done nothing to him directly, but by an inexcusable act of stupidity I have wounded his dear friend Manucci in his tenderest part. With the most innocent intentions I reposed my confidence in a cowardly fellow, who sold it to Manucci for a hundred pistoles. In his irritation, Manucci has stirred up the great man against me: ‘hinc illae lacrimae’.


You have been unwise, but what is done is done. I am sorry for you, because there is an end to all your hopes of advancement. The first thing the king would do would be to make enquiries about you of the ambassador.


I feel it to my sorrow, my lord, but must I leave Madrid?


No. The ambassador did his best to make me send you way, but I told him that I had no power over you so long as you did not infringe the laws. He has calumniated a Venetian subject whom I am bound to protect. In that case, you can resort to the ordinary law, and punish him to the best of your ability. The ambassador finally begged me to order you not to mention the matter to any Venetian subjects at Madrid, and I think you can safely promise me this.


My lord, I have much pleasure in giving your excellency my word of honour not to do so.


Very good. Then you can stay at Madrid as long as you please; and, indeed, Mocenigo will be leaving in the course of a week.


There are only ruins there, senor.


That’s just what I want to see.


We shall never get to Valentia to-night.


Here’s a crown; we shall get there to-morrow.


Valga me Dios, es un hombre de buen!


So help me God, this is an honest man!


This place, is always called Murviedro.


It is ridiculous to do so,


common sense forbids us calling a thing old which was once young enough. That’s as if you would tell me that New Castille is really new.


Well, Old Castille is more ancient than New Castille.


No so. New Castille was only called so because it was the latest conquest; but as a matter of fact it is the older of the two.


Madam. I have come to offer you my services, and to tell you of the orders his grace has laid on me, of which you may possibly be ignorant.


I hope, sir, that I am not putting you to any inconvenience, but I am extremely grateful to the duke and to yourself; and I shall have the honour of calling on you to give you my thanks.


Not at all; I have only to say that I have orders to furnish you with any sums you may require, to the amount of twenty-five thousand doubloons.


Twenty-five thousand doubloons?


Exactly, madam, two hundred and fifty thousand francs in French money, and no more. Kindly read his grace’s letter; you do not seem to be aware of its contents. You will furnish Donna Pelliccia with whatever sums she may require, not exceeding twenty-five thousand doubloons, at my account.


at all events. I would rather die of hunger than take a single doubloon of Don Diego.


The duke would be offended. I think you ought to take something.


You must take it all,


By sending her away, your majesty obliged me to turn fiction into fact, for I only knew her by speaking to her in various public places, and I had never made her the smallest present.


Then you never gave her twenty-five thousand doubloons?


Sire, I gave her double that sum, but only on the day before yesterday. Your majesty has absolute power, but if she had not received her dismissal I should never have gone to her house, nor should I have given her the smallest present.


She is the famous Nina.


How famous?


If you do not know her story, it is too long to be told here.


From your accent I should suppose you were an Italian.


I am a Venetian.


So is she.


The count,


is madly in love with her, and allows her fifty doubloons a day.


I should hope she does not spend them.


She can’t do that, but she does not let a day pass without committing some expensive act of folly.


Excuse me, but this fool of a Spaniard wants to persuade me that this lace is really handsome.


Madam, if you do not like the lace, leave it; will you keep the stuffs?


Yes, and as for the lace, I will shew you that it is not the money that deters me.


What a pity!


People will say that you have gone off your head.


Be silent, you pimping rogue! Go to Don Diego Valencia; he will pay you immediately. You needn’t be surprised at my way of treating him. He’s a rascal whom Ricla has placed in my house to spy out my actions, and I treat him as you have seen, so that he may have plenty of news to write to his master. My father, was the famous charlatan Pelandi; you may have known him at Venice.


As for Molinari, after which I had seen, I could only set him down as an infamous wretch.


That may be so, but now he is not here, and yet you do nothing. One would not think it, to look at you.


You are right, for I have my feelings like any other man, but he has disgusted me too much. Wait till tomorrow, and let me not see that monster so unworthy of enjoying you.


He does not enjoy me. If I thought he did I would rather die than let him have to do with me, for I detest him.


What! you do not love him, and yet you make use of him in the way you do?


Yes, just as I might use a mechanical instrument.


He will have got over the effects of the wine.


I tell you he will be ill. Come to-morrow, and come every evening.


I am going the day after to-morrow.


You will not go for a week, and then we will go together.


That’s impossible.


If you go you will insult me beyond bearing. I only use him to satisfy my desires, and because I am certain that he does not love me; if I thought he did I would rather die than allow him to do anything with me, for I detest him. Alas! we shall have to sup alone; Molinari has got the colic.


You said he would be ill; have you poisoned him?


I am quite capable of doing so, but I hope I never shall.


But you have given him something?


Only what he likes himself; but we will talk of that again. Let us sup and play till to-morrow, and tomorrow evening we will begin again.


I am going away at seven o’clock to-morrow.


No, no, you are not; and your coachman will have no cause for complaint, for he has been paid; here is the receipt.


What astonishes me, is that with this fine house you do not care to entertain company.


Everybody is afraid to come; they fear Ricla’s jealousy, for it is well known that that animal who is now suffering from the colic tells him everything I do. He swears that it is not so, but I know him to be a liar. Indeed, I am very glad he does write to Ricla, and only wish he had something of real importance to write about.


He will tell him that I have supped alone with you.


All the better; are you afraid?


No; but I think you ought to tell me if I have anything really to fear.


Nothing at all; it will fall on me.


But I should not like to involve you in a dispute which might be prejudicial to your interests.


Not at all; the more I provoke him, the better he loves me, and I will make him pay dearly when he asks me to make it up.


Then you don’t love him?


Yes, to ruin him; but he is so rich that there doesn’t seem much hope of my ever doing that.


I am astonished to hear it, for no one but myself can say what I can afford or not.


Sir, everything is paid for.


Paid for! I will not have it!


You can settle that with her, but I shall certainly take no payment.


I hope you will enjoy yourself, but I must warn you that if you indulge in the pleasures which my nephew Peralada will doubtless offer you, you will not enjoy a very good reputation at Barcelona.


I am glad to hear it, but I do not think you are wise in inviting me to your house at such late hours.


I only do so to avoid scandal amongst my neighbours.


In my opinion my coming so late is only likely to increase the probability of scandal, and to make your viceroy jealous.


He will never hear of your coming.


I think you are mistaken.


Speak, sir. I will take whatever you say in good part.


Very good. You are a stranger, sir, and may not be acquainted with our Spanish manners, consequently you are unaware of the great risk you run in going to see Nina every evening after the count has left her.


What risk do I run? I have no doubt that the count knows all about it and does not object.


I have no doubt as to his knowing it, and he may possibly pretend to know nothing before her, as he fears as well as loves her; but if she tells you that he does not object, she either deceives herself or you. He cannot love her without being jealous, and a jealous Spaniard . . . Follow my advice, sir, and forgive my freedom.


I am sincerely obliged to you for your kind interest in me, but I cannot follow your advice, as by doing so I should be wanting in politeness to Nina, who likes to see me and gives me a warm welcome. I shall continue to visit her till she orders me not to do so, or till the count signifies to me his displeasure at my visits to his mistress.


The count will never do such a thing; he is too careful of his dignity.


He’s a painter.


I am well acquainted with his history, and will tell you all about it presently; but send him away, or I shall go.


Se ne pentira. He shall be sorry for it.


I am going to bed, and I leave my great coat and the sword in your charge. Tomorrow morning I shall ask you to come with me before the magistrate to denounce this act of assassination, for if the man was killed it must be shewn that I only slew him to save my own life.


I think your best plan would be to fly Barcelona immediately.


Then you think I have not told you the strict truth?


I am sure you have; but I know whence the blow comes, and God knows what will befall you!


Nothing at all; but if I fly I shall be accounted guilty. Take care of the sword; they tried to assassinate me, but I think the assassins got the worst of it. I have no intention of resisting. By whose authority do you ask me for my papers?


By the authority of the governor. They will be returned to you if nothing suspicious is found amongst them.


Where are you going to take me?


To the citadel.


These are all the papers I have,


I advise you, sir, to put all necessary articles into a portmanteau.


Only my passports.


That’s exactly what we want,


My passports are sacred; I will never give them to anyone but the governor-general. Reverence your king; here is his passport, here is that of the Count of Aranda, and here the passport of the Venetian ambassador. You will have to bind me hand and foot before you get them.


Be more moderate, sir. In giving them to me it is just as if you gave them to the viceroy. If you resist I will not bind you hand and foot, but I shall take you before the viceroy, and then you will be forced to give them up in public. Give them to me with a good grace, and you shall have an acknowledgement.


What can this imprisonment have to do with my last night’s adventure? They are bent on examining my papers; they must think I have been tampering in some political or religious intrigue; but my mind is quite at ease on that score. I am well lodged at present, and no doubt shall be set free after my papers have been examined; they can find nothing against me there. The affair of my attempted assassination will, no doubt, be considered separately. Even if the rascal is dead, I do not see what they can do to me. On the other hand, my landlord’s advice to fly from Barcelona looks ominous; what if the assassins received their orders from some person high in authority? It is possible that Ricla may have vowed my ruin, but it does not seem probable to me. Would it have been wise to follow the landlord’s advice? Possibly, but I do not think so; my honour would have suffered, and I might have been caught and laid up in some horrid dungeon, whereas for a prison I am comfortable enough here. In three or four days the examination of my papers will have been completed, and as there is nothing in them likely to be offensive to the powers that be, they will be returned to me with my liberty, which will taste all the sweeter for this short deprivation. As for my passports they all speak in my favour. I cannot think that the all-powerful hand of the viceroy could have directed the assassin’s sword; it would be a dishonour to him, and if it were so, he would not be treating me so kindly now. If it were his doing, he must have heard directly that the blow had failed, and in that case I do not think he would have arrested me this morning. Shall I write to Nina? Will writing be allowed here? Alas! here is fresh food for conjecture. The fellow told Nina’s sister that I should be sorry for what I had done. He must have directed some fearful calumny against me, and they are imprisoning him so as to be sure of his evidence.


What is that, sir?


I have received orders to transfer you to the bottom of the tower.


To transfer me?


Yes.


Then they must have discovered in me a criminal of the deepest dye! Let us go at once. How about lights?


You may lave one lamp always burning, and that will be enough, as books are not allowed. When your dinner is brought, the officer on duty will open the pies and the poultry to see that they do not contain any documents; for here no letters are allowed to come in or go out.


Have these orders been given for my especial benefit?


No, sir; it is the ordinary rule. You will be able to converse with the sentinel.


The door will be open, then?


Not at all.


How about the cleanliness of my cell?


A soldier will accompany the officer in charge of your dinner, and he will attend to your wants for a trifle.


May I amuse myself by making architectural plans with the pencil?


As much as you like.


Then will you be good enough to order some paper to be bought for me?


With pleasure.


I have spoken to the lady, and I have mentioned your name as a person who will answer for me.


You have done wrong; in such a matter I would not stand surety for the most learned of men, and I know nothing about your learning.


But you know I am an oculist.


I know you were introduced to me as such, but that’s all. As a professional man, you should not need anyone’s commendation, you should be able to say, ‘Operibus credite’. That should be your motto.


What’s that?


A substance which I can place in the cornea to supply the loss of the crystalline matter.


As you want to hear it, here it is. There’s a great difference between a tooth and the crystalline humour; and though you may have succeeded in putting an artificial tooth into a gum, this treatment will not do with the eye.


Sir, I am not a dentist.


No, nor an oculist either.


What have you done with your crystals?


I have renounced them since I left Warsaw, though I am sure they would succeed.


Where are we going?


I am about to deliver you to an officer of the viceroy, who is waiting.


I knew that all along.


I suppose so, but we had reasons for doubting their authenticity.


They must have been strange reasons, for, as you now confess, these reasons were devoid of reason.


You must be aware that I cannot reply to such an objection.


I don’t ask you to do so.


Your character is perfectly clear; all the same I must request you to leave Barcelona in three days, and Catalonia in a week.


Of course I will obey; but it strikes me that the Catalonian method of repairing injustice is somewhat peculiar.


If you think you have ground for complaint you are at liberty to go to Madrid and complain to the Court.


I have certainly grounds enough for complaint, sir, but I shall go to France, and not to Madrid; I have had enough of Spanish justice. Will you please give me the order to leave in writing?


That’s unnecessary; you may take it for granted. My name is Emmanuel Badillo; I am a secretary of state. That gentleman will escort you back to the room where you were arrested. You will find everything just as you have left it. You are a free man. To-morrow I will send you your passport, signed by the viceroy and myself. Good day, sir.


I should like to hear you say that I had done nothing but my duty, and that personally I have not done you any injury. Farewell, sir. I hope you will have a pleasant journey.


You do not owe me anything, sir. Here is your bill for the period preceding your imprisonment, and, as you see, it has been settled. I also received orders from the same source to provide for you during your imprisonment, and as long as you stayed at Barcelona.


Did you know how long I should remain in prison?


No, I was paid by the week.


Who paid you?


You know very well.


Have you had any note for me?


Nothing at all.


What has become of the valet de place?


I paid him, and sent him away immediately after your arrest.


I should like to have him with me as far as Perpignan.


You are right, and I think the best thing you can do is to leave Spain altogether, for you will find no justice in it.


What do they say about my assassination?


Why, they say you fired the shot that people heard yourself, and that you made your own sword bloody, for no one was found there, either dead or wounded.


That’s an amusing theory. Where did my hat come from?


It was brought to me three days after.


What a confusion! But was it known that I was imprisoned in the tower?


Everybody knew it, and two good reasons were given, the one in public, and the other in private.


What are these reasons?


The public reason was that you had forged your passports; the private one, which was only whispered at the ear, was that you spent all your nights with Nina.


You might have sworn that I never slept out of your inn.


I told everyone as much, but no matter; you did go to her house, and for a certain nobleman that’s a crime. I am glad you did not fly as I advised you, for as it is your character is cleared before everybody.


I should like to go to the opera this evening; take me a box.


It shall be done; but do not have anything more to do with Nina, I entreat you.


No, my good friend, I have made up my mind to see her no more.


Passano has been vainly endeavouring to persuade me to send these bills to Barcelona, so that they may be protested, and you arrested. I now send them to you to convince you that I am not one of those who delight in trampling down the victims of bad fortune.


--Genoa, November 30th, 1768.


Amor che fa gentile un cor villano


Amor che fa villan un cor gentile


Well, I may be, but what makes you ask that question?


As you were leaving Barcelona yesterday, I noticed three ill-looking fellows watching us, armed to the teeth. Last night they slept in the stable with my mules. They dined here to-day, and they went on three quarters of an hour ago. They don’t speak to anyone, and I don’t like the looks of them.


What shall we do to avoid assassination, or the dread of it?


We must start late, and stop at an inn I know of, a league this side of the ordinary stage where they will be awaiting us. If they turn back, and sleep at the same inn as ourselves, we shall be certain.


Then you have been drinking with them?


Yes, and after we had dispatched a bottle at my expense, one of them asked me why I had not gone on to the end of the stage, where you would be better lodged. I replied that it was late, and you were cold. I might have asked in my turn, why they had not stayed at the stage themselves, and where they were going, but I took care to do nothing of the kind. All I asked was whether the road to Perpignan was a good one, and they told me it was excellent all the way.


What are they doing now?


They are sleeping by my mules, covered with their cloaks.


What shall we do?


We will start at day-break after them, of course, and we shall dine at the usual stage; but after dinner, trust me, we will take a different road, and at midnight we shall be in France safe and sound.


I have no doubt that my husband will finally introduce you to me as his wife.


Yes, I remember her well enough--a delightful and most respectable young woman; but I did not know she came from Montpellier. She was very pretty and very sensible, and I expect she did a good business. I have seen her in several European cities, and the last time at Vienna, where I was able to be of some slight service to her. Her admirable behaviour won her the esteem of all the ladies with whom she came in contact. In England I met her at the house of a duchess.


Do you think you would recognize her if you saw her again?


By Jove! I should think so! But is she at Montpellier? If so, tell her that the Chevalier de Seingalt is here.


Sir, you shall speak to her yourself, if you will do me the honour to follow me. There she is.


What, mademoiselle! You here? I am delighted to see you.


This is not a young lady, sir, ‘tis my dear wife; but I hope that will not hinder you from embracing her.


I have never had such an honour; but I will avail myself of your permission with pleasure. Then you have got married at Montpellier. I congratulate both of you, and wish you all health and happiness. Tell me, did you have a pleasant journey from Vienna to Lyons?


Oh, I hope you won’t go, you must do my husband the honour of dining with us.


My lord, I do my best, but it is really impossible to spend more, unless I compel the inn-keepers to take double the amount of their bills; and your eminence will admit that nothing in the way of rich and expensive dishes has been spared.


That may be, but you ought to use your wits a little; you might for example order meals when we shall not require any. Take care that there are always three tables--one for us, one for my officers, and the third for the servants. Why I see that you only give the postillions a franc over the legal charge, I really blush for you; you must give them a crown extra at least. When they give you change for a louis, leave it on the table; to put back one’s change in one’s pocket is an action only worthy of a beggar. They will be saying at Versailles and Madrid, and maybe at Rome itself, that the Cardinal de la Cerda is a miser. I am no such thing, and I do not want to be thought one. You must really cease to dishonour me, or leave my service.


Una crostata, but I really do not know the Italian for the ‘beatilles’ with which it is stuffed.


in calling them ‘beatilles’ I was making a mock of the glories of hereafter.


I believe it will be Ganganelli, as he is the only monk in the conclave.


Why should it be necessary to choose a monk?


Because none but a monk would dare to commit the excess which the Spaniards will demand of the new pope.


You mean the suppression of the Jesuits.


Exactly.


They will never obtain such a demand.


I hope not, for the Jesuits were my masters, and I love them accordingly. But all the same Ganganelli will be elected, for an amusing and yet a weighty reason.


Tell us the reason.


He is the only cardinal who does not wear a wig; and you must consider that since the foundation of the Holy See the Pope has never been bewigged.


The Pope could never suppress the order,


It seems that you have never been at a Jesuit seminary, for the dogma of the order is that the Pope can do everything, ‘et aliquid pluris’.


The person who gave me the news, was one of your best friends, Count Manucci, an attache at the Venetian embassy. He said there could be no doubt as to the truth of the report.


We are going back to Rome, well pleased with our devotions to St. James of Compostella and to Our Lady del Pilar. We have walked the whole way on foot, living on alms, so as to more surely win the mercy of the God whom I have offended so grievously. We have had silver, and even gold money given us, and in every town we came to we gave what remained to the poor, so as not to offend God by lack of faith. My husband is strong, and has not suffered much, but I have found so much walking very fatiguing. We have slept on straw or bad beds, always with our clothes on, to avoid contracting diseases it would be hard to rid one’s self of.


Do you think of making any stay?


My weariness will oblige us to stay here for three days; then we shall go to Rome by the way of Turin, where we shall pay our devotion to the Holy Sudary.


You know, of course, that there are several of them in Europe.


So we have heard, but we are assured that the Sudary of Turin is the true one. It is the kerchief with which St. Veronica wiped the face of Our Lord, who left the imprint of His divine face upon it.


I congratulate you. If you are not a rich man, you are, at least, certain of earning a living with this talent.


Everybody says the same, but it is a mistake. I have pursued this craft at Rome and at Naples, and found I had to work all day to make half a tester, and that’s not enough to live on.


Impossible! You are a man of talents, for it is much harder to imitate a handwriting than an engraving. You ought to make this talent serve you in good stead; but be careful, or it may cost you your life.


Why so?


Because I was foolish enough to write the truth. Never give way to this temptation, if it assails you. If you once begin on this plan you are not only compelled to record all your vices and follies, but to treat them in the severe tone of a philosophical historian. You must not, of course, omit the good you may have done; and so praise and blame is mingled on every page. All the evil you say of yourself will be held for gospel, your peccadilloes will be made into crimes, and your good deeds will not only be received with incredulity, but you will be taxed with pride and vanity for having recorded them. Besides, if you write your memoirs, you make an enemy in every chapter if you once begin to tell the truth. A man should neither talk of himself nor write of himself, unless it be to refute some calumny or libel.


Then she is not here.


No, sir; she is at Aix.


Since when?


For the last six months.


Where does she live?


In her town house. She will be coming here in three weeks to spend the summer as usual.


Will you let me write a letter?


If you will get down you will find all the necessary materials in madam’s room.


You live here, then.


Yes, sir.


For the last ten years.


How did you come to nurse me?


If you will step upstairs I will tell you. Madam sent for me in haste, and told me to go and attend to you as if it were herself. She told me to say that the doctor had sent me if you asked any questions.


The doctor said he didn’t know you.


Perhaps he was speaking the truth, but most likely he had received orders from madam. That’s all I know, but I wonder you haven’t seen her at Aix.


She cannot see any company, for I have been everywhere.


She does not see any company at her own house, but she goes everywhere.


It’s very strange. I must have seen her, and yet I do not think I could have passed her by unrecognized. You have been with her ten years?


Yes, sir, as I had the honour of informing you.


Has she changed? Has she had any sickness? Has she aged?


Not at all. She has become rather stout, but I assure you you would take her for a woman of thirty.


I must be blind, or I cannot have seen her. I am going to write to her now. Ought I to return to Aix immediately?


What is your sister doing? Is she still at Barcelona?


Yes; but she will not be there long, for the bishop will not have her in the town or the diocese, and the bishop is stronger than the viceroy. She only returned to Barcelona on the plea that she wished to pass through Catalonia of her way home, but she does not need to stay there for nine or ten months on that account. She will have to leave in a month for certain, but she is not much put out, as the viceroy is sure to keep her wherever she goes, and she may eventually succeed in ruining him. In the meanwhile she is revelling in the bad repute she has gained for her lover.


I know something of her peculiarities; but she cannot dislike a man who has made her rich.


Rich! She has only got her diamonds. Do you imagine this monster capable of any feelings of gratitude? She is not a human being, and no one knows her as I do. She has made the count commit a hundred acts of injustice so that all Spain may talk of her, and know that she has made herself mistress of his body and soul, and all he has. The worse his actions are, the more certain she feels that people will talk of her, and that is all she wants. Her obligations to me are beyond counting, for she owes me all, even to her existence, and instead of continuing my husband in her service she has sent him about his business.


Then I wonder how she came to treat me so generously.


If you knew all, you would not feel grateful to her.


Tell me all, then.


She only paid for your keep at the inn and in prison to make people believe you were her lover, and to shame the count. All Barcelona knows that you were assassinated at her door, and that you were fortunate enough to run the fellow through.


But she cannot have been the instigator of, or even the accomplice in, the plot for my assassination. That’s against nature.


I dare say, but everything in Nina is against nature. What I tell you is the bare truth, for I was a witness of it all. Whenever the viceroy visited her she wearied him with praise of your gallantry, your wit, your noble actions, comparing you with the Spaniards, greatly to their disadvantage.


The count got impatient and told her to talk of something else, but she would not; and at last he went away, cursing your name. Two days before you came to grief he left her, saying,--


Valga me Dios! I will give you a pleasure you do not expect.


I assure you that when we heard the pistol-shot after you had gone, she remarked, without evincing the slightest emotion, that the shot was the pleasure her rascally Spaniard had promised her.


I said that you might be killed.


All the worse for the count,


for his turn will come also.


My man--I did not know that he was in correspondence with her.


No, I suppose not; but I assure you the worthy man was very much attached to you.


I am sure he was. Go on.


Nina then wrote a note to your landlord. She did not shew it me, but it no doubt contained instructions to supply you with everything.


The man told us that he had seen your sword all red with blood, and that your cloak had a bullet hole through it. She was delighted, but do not think it was because she loved you; she was glad you had escaped that you might take your revenge. However, she was troubled by the pretext on which the count had had you arrested.


Ricla did not come to see her that day, but he came the next day at eight o’clock, and the infamous creature received him with a smiling face. She told him she had heard he had imprisoned you, and that she was obliged to him, as he had, of course, done so to protect you from any fresh attempts on your life.


He answered, dryly, that your arrest had nothing to do with anything that might have happened the night before. He added that you had only been seized pending the examination of your papers, and that if they were found to be in good form, you would be set at liberty in the course of a few days.


Nina asked him who was the man that you had wounded. He replied that the police were enquiring into the matter, but that so far they had neither found a dead man nor a wounded man, nor any traces of blood. All that had been found was Casanova’s hat, and this had been returned to him.


I left them alone together till midnight, so I cannot say what further converse they may have had on the subject, but three or four days later everybody knew that you were imprisoned in the tower.


Nina asked the count the reason of this severity in the evening, and he replied that your passports were thought to be forgeries, because you were in disgrace with the State Inquisitors, and therefore would not be in a position to get a passport from the Venetian ambassador. On this supposition he said you had been placed in the tower, and if it proved to be a true one, you would be still more severely punished.


This news disturbed us, and when we heard that Pogomas had been arrested we felt certain he had denounced you in revenge for your having procured his dismissal from Nina’s house. When we heard that he had been let out and sent to Genoa, we expected to hear of your being set at liberty, as the authorities must have been satisfied of the genuine character of your passports; but you were still shut up, and Nina did not know what to think, and the count would not answer her when she made enquiries about you. She had made up her mind to say no more about it, when at last we heard you had been set free and that your passports had been declared genuine.


Nina thought to see you in the pit of the opera-house, and made preparations for a triumph in her box; but she was in despair when she heard no performance was to be given. In the evening the count told her that your passports had been returned with the order to leave in three days. The false creature praised her lover’s prudence to his face, but she cursed him in her heart.


She knew you would not dare to see her, and when you left without writing her a note, she said you had received secret orders not to hold any further communications with her. She was furious with the viceroy.


If Casanova had had the courage to ask me to go with him, I would have gone,


Your man told her of your fortunate escape from three assassins. In the evening she congratulated Ricla on the circumstance, but he swore he knew nothing about it. Nina did not believe him. You may thank God from the bottom of your heart that you ever left Spain alive after knowing Nina. She would have cost you your life at last, and she punishes me for having given her life.


What! Are you her mother?


Yes; Nina, that horrible woman, is my daughter.


Really? Everybody says you are her sister.


That is the horrible part of it, everybody is right.


Explain yourself!


Yes, though it is to my shame. She is my sister and my daughter, for she is the daughter of my father.


What! your father loved you?


I do not know whether the scoundrel loved me, but he treated me as his wife. I was sixteen then. She is the daughter of the crime, and God knows she is sufficient punishment for it. My father died to escape her vengeance; may he also escape the vengeance of God. I should have strangled her in her cradle, but maybe I shall strangle her yet. If I do not, she will kill me.


Does Nina know that you are her mother?


Her own father told her the secret when she was twelve, after he had initiated her into the life she has been living ever since. He would have made her a mother in her turn if he had not killed himself the same year, maybe to escape the gallows.


How did the Conte de Ricla fall in love with her?


It is a short story and a curious one. Two years ago she came to Barcelona from Portugal, and was placed in one of the ballets for the sake of her pretty face, for as to talents she had none, and could only do the rebaltade (a sort of skip and pirouette) properly.


The first evening she danced she was loudly applauded by the pit, for as she did the rebaltade she shewed her drawers up to her waist. In Spain any actress who shews her drawers on the stage is liable to a fine of a crown. Nina knew nothing about this, and, hearing the applause, treated the audience to another skip of the same kind, but at the end of the ballet she was told to pay two crowns for her immodesty. Nina cursed and swore, but she had to give in. What do you think she did to elude the law, and at the same time avenge herself?


Danced badly, perhaps.


She danced without any drawers at all, and did her rebaltade as before, which caused such an effervescence of high spirits in the house as had never been known at Barcelona.


In the mean time,


bring her before me.


You are an immodest woman, and have failed in your duty to the public.


What have I done?


You performed the same skip as before.


Yes, but I haven’t broken your law, for no one can have seen my drawers as I took the precaution not to put any on. What more can I do for your cursed law, which has cost me two crowns already? Just tell me.


I will dance no more before you or your people. Let me go away, or kill me if you like; do your worst on me, and you shall find that I am a Venetian and a free woman!


Tell his highness,


that I will come, and that he will find me as gentle as a lamb and as good as an angel.