They are envious, madam, and they would pity me if they could read the secret pages of my heart. You could easily deliver me from those enemies.


How can you be an object of pity for them, and how could I deliver you from them?


They believe me happy, and I am miserable; you would deliver me from them by ill-treating me in their presence.


Then you would feel my bad treatment less than the envy of the wicked?


Yes, madam, provided your bad treatment in public were compensated by your kindness when we are alone, for there is no vanity in the happiness I feel in belonging to you. Let others pity me, I will be happy on condition that others are mistaken.


That’s a part that I can never play.


Sir, you forget yourself.


No, madam, I do not, for you might have feigned not to have observed such an innocent theft.


Feigning is tiresome.


Was such petty larceny a very great crime?


No crime, but it was an indication of feelings which you have no right to entertain for me.


Feelings which you are at liberty not to return, madam, but which hatred or pride can alone forbid my heart to experience. If you had a heart you would not be the victim of either of those two fearful passions, but you have only head, and it must be a very wicked head, judging by the care it takes to heap humiliation upon me. You have surprised my secret, madam, you may use it as you think proper, but in the meantime I have learned to know you thoroughly. That knowledge will prove more useful than your discovery, for perhaps it will help me to become wiser.


What ails you, my poor Casanova?


A very bad headache, madam, which will be cured to-morrow.


Why should you wait until to-morrow? You must get better at once. I have ordered a basin of broth and two new-laid eggs for you.


Nothing, madam; complete abstinence can alone cure me.


He is right. I know those attacks.


It is all owing to my Eau des carmes, and I will leave you my bottle.


No, madam, be kind enough to take it with you, for the water would have no virtue without your presence.


I am sure of that, so I will leave you here with your patient.


No, no, he must go to sleep now.


My friend, I do not entreat you to respect my weakness, but be generous enough to spare me for the sake of all the love I feel for you.


What! you love me, and you refuse to make me happy! It is impossible! it is unnatural. You compel me to believe that you do not love me. Only allow me to press my lips one moment upon your lips, and I ask no more.


No, dearest, no; it would only excite the ardour of your desires, shake my resolution, and we should then find ourselves more miserable than we are now.


What! you acknowledge your cruelty towards me? You are afraid of the world guessing all your heartless rigour, and yet you continue to enjoy it! You condemn me unmercifully to the torments of Tantalus! You would be delighted to see me gay, cheerful, happy, even at the expense of a judgment by which the world would find you guilty of a supposed but false kindness towards me, and yet you refuse me even the slightest favours!


I do not mind people believing anything, provided it is not true.


What a contrast! Would it be possible for me not to love you, for you to feel nothing for me? Such contradictions strike me as unnatural. But you are growing thinner yourself, and I am dying. It must be so; we shall both die before long, you of consumption, I of exhausting decline; for I am now reduced to enjoying your shadow during the day, during the night, always, everywhere, except when I am in your presence.


I do not believe it, but are they different from those I eat myself?


They are exactly the same, with the exception of the ingredient I have just mentioned, which has been put only in mine.


Tell me what the ingredient is.


It is a secret which I cannot reveal to you.


Then I will never eat any of your comfits.


Because you refuse to take my comfits.


You are master of your secret, and I am mistress of my diet.


That is my reward for having taken you into my confidence. Two more doses like this, and I shall die mad with love for you. Then you will be revenged for my reserve. Farewell, madam.


To prove to you, that you do not require anything of the sort to be loved, here is a token of my affection. Your crime! You frighten me. Yes, I forgive you, but speak quickly, and tell me all.


Yes, everything. My comfits contain your hair reduced to a powder. Here on my arm, see this bracelet on which our names are written with your hair, and round my neck this chain of the same material, which will help me to destroy my own life when your love fails me. Such is my crime, but I would not have been guilty of it, if I had not loved you.


What gives you, the strength to control yourself?


After the kiss which you granted to me of your own accord, I felt that I ought not to wish any favour unless your heart gave it as freely. You cannot imagine the happiness that kiss has given me.


I not imagine it, you ungrateful man! Which of us has given that happiness?


Neither you nor I, angel of my soul! That kiss so tender, so sweet, was the child of love!


Yes, dearest, of love, the treasures of which are inexhaustible. Never, dearest friend, never. Love is a child which must be amused with trifles; too substantial food would kill it.


I know love better than you; it requires that substantial food, and unless it can obtain it, love dies of exhaustion. Do not refuse me the consolation of hope.


Hope as much as you please, if it makes you happy.


What should I do, if I had no hope? I hope, because I know you have a heart.


Ah! yes. Do you recollect the day, when, in your anger, you told me that I had only a head, but no heart, thinking you were insulting me grossly!


Oh! yes, I recollect it.


How heartily I laughed, when I had time to think! Yes, dearest, I have a heart, or I should not feel as happy as I feel now. Let us keep our happiness, and be satisfied with it, as it is, without wishing for anything more.


See whether my leg is less inflamed.


To give an opinion, madam, I ought to have seen it yesterday.


True. I feel great pain, and I am afraid of erysipelas.


Do not be afraid, madam, keep your bed, and I answer for your complete recovery.


I feel humiliated, by the thought that the felicity I have just enjoyed was only a theft.


But supposing you were mistaken?


What are you thinking of?


Of the supreme felicity I have just been enjoying.


You are a cruel man.


No, I am not cruel, for, if you love me, you must not blush for your indulgence. You must know, too, that, loving you passionately, I must not suppose that it is to be a surprise that I am indebted for my happiness in the enjoyment of the most ravishing sights, for if I owed it only to mere chance I should be compelled to believe that any other man in my position might have had the same happiness, and such an idea would be misery to me. Let me be indebted to you for having proved to me this morning how much enjoyment I can derive from one of my senses. Can you be angry with my eyes?


Yes.


They belong to you; tear them out.


Ah! my maid has forgotten to change my chemise.


Allow me to take her place.


Very well, but recollect that I give permission only to your eyes to take a share in the proceedings.


Agreed!


Give me my chemise, it is there on that small table.


Where?


There, near the bed. Well, I will take it myself.


Let us make up to-night for to-morrow’s disappointment, and let us spend it together in conversation. Here are the keys; when you know that my maid has left me, come to me through my husband’s room. Love, must be kept in check with a tight hand, and we can laugh at him, since, in spite of the tyranny which we force him to obey, we succeed all the same in gratifying our desires.


Ah, thou cruel, beloved woman! Thou art burning with the fire of love, and thou deprivest thyself of the only remedy which could bring calm to thy senses! Thy lovely hand is more humane than thou art, but thou has not enjoyed the felicity that thy hand has given me. My hand must owe nothing to thine. Come, darling light of my heart, come! Love doubles my existence in the hope that I will die again, but only in that charming retreat from which you have ejected me in the very moment of my greatest enjoyment.


How canst thou complain, when it is to that very imperfection of our enjoyment that we are indebted for its continuance? I loved thee a few minutes since, now I love thee a thousand times more, and perhaps I should love thee less if thou hadst carried my enjoyment to its highest limit.


Oh! how much art thou mistaken, lovely one! How great is thy error! Thou art feeding upon sophisms, and thou leavest reality aside; I mean nature which alone can give real felicity. Desires constantly renewed and never fully satisfied are more terrible than the torments of hell.


But are not these desires happiness when they are always accompanied by hope?


No, if that hope is always disappointed. It becomes hell itself, because there is no hope, and hope must die when it is killed by constant deception.


Dearest, if hope does not exist in hell, desires cannot be found there either; for to imagine desires without hopes would be more than madness.


Well, answer me. If you desire to be mine entirely, and if you feel the hope of it, which, according to your way of reasoning, is a natural consequence, why do you always raise an impediment to your own hope? Cease, dearest, cease to deceive yourself by absurd sophisms. Let us be as happy as it is in nature to be, and be quite certain that the reality of happiness will increase our love, and that love will find a new life in our very enjoyment.


What I see proves the contrary; you are alive with excitement now, but if your desires had been entirely satisfied, you would be dead, benumbed, motionless. I know it by experience: if you had breathed the full ecstacy of enjoyment, as you desired, you would have found a weak ardour only at long intervals.


Ah! charming creature, your experience is but very small; do not trust to it. I see that you have never known love. That which you call love’s grave is the sanctuary in which it receives life, the abode which makes it immortal. Give way to my prayers, my lovely friend, and then you shall know the difference between Love and Hymen. You shall see that, if Hymen likes to die in order to get rid of life, Love on the contrary expires only to spring up again into existence, and hastens to revive, so as to savour new enjoyment. Let me undeceive you, and believe me when I say that the full gratification of desires can only increase a hundredfold the mutual ardour of two beings who adore each other.


Well, I must believe you; but let us wait. In the meantime let us enjoy all the trifles, all the sweet preliminaries of love. Devour thy mistress, dearest, but abandon to me all thy being. If this night is too short we must console ourselves to-morrow by making arrangements for another one.


And if our intercourse should be discovered?


Do we make a mystery of it? Everybody can see that we love each other, and those who think that we do not enjoy the happiness of lovers are precisely the only persons we have to fear. We must only be careful to guard against being surprised in the very act of proving our love. Heaven and nature must protect our affection, for there is no crime when two hearts are blended in true love. Since I have been conscious of my own existence, Love has always seemed to me the god of my being, for every time I saw a man I was delighted; I thought that I was looking upon one-half of myself, because I felt I was made for him and he for me. I longed to be married. It was that uncertain longing of the heart which occupies exclusively a young girl of fifteen. I had no conception of love, but I fancied that it naturally accompanied marriage. You can therefore imagine my surprise when my husband, in the very act of making a woman of me, gave me a great deal of pain without giving me the slightest idea of pleasure! My imagination in the convent was much better than the reality I had been condemned to by my husband! The result has naturally been that we have become very good friends, but a very indifferent husband and wife, without any desires for each other. He has every reason to be pleased with me, for I always shew myself docile to his wishes, but enjoyment not being in those cases seasoned by love, he must find it without flavour, and he seldom comes to me for it. When I found out that you were in love with me, I felt delighted, and gave you every opportunity of becoming every day more deeply enamoured of me, thinking myself certain of never loving you myself. As soon as I felt that love had likewise attacked my heart, I ill-treated you to punish you for having made my heart sensible. Your patience and constancy have astonished me, and have caused me to be guilty, for after the first kiss I gave you I had no longer any control over myself. I was indeed astounded when I saw the havoc made by one single kiss, and I felt that my happiness was wrapped up in yours. That discovery flattered and delighted me, and I have found out, particularly to-night, that I cannot be happy unless you are so yourself.


That is, my beloved, the most refined of all sentiments experienced by love, but it is impossible for you to render me completely happy without following in everything the laws and the wishes of nature.


My darling, we were on the brink of the precipice.


The precipice! Ah! cruel woman, you have killed me, I feel myself dying, and perhaps you will never see me again.


What are you doing there at this time of night?


I am enjoying the cool evening breeze. Come up for a little while. I am enjoying the cool evening breeze. Come up for a little while.


Dear one, let there be no concealment either on my part or on yours. I felt deeply grieved when I saw you leave me last night, and a little consideration made me understand all the evil which might accrue to you in consequence of what I had done. With a nature like yours, such scenes might cause very dangerous disorders, and I have resolved not to do again anything by halves. I thought that you went out to breathe the fresh air, and I hoped it would do you good. I placed myself at my window, where I remained more than an hour without seeing a light in your room. Sorry for what I had done, loving you more than ever, I was compelled, when my husband came to my room, to go to bed with the sad conviction that you had not come home. This morning, M. F. sent an officer to tell you that he wanted to see you, and I heard the messenger inform him that you were not yet up, and that you had come home very late. I felt my heart swell with sorrow. I am not jealous, dearest, for I know that you cannot love anyone but me; I only felt afraid of some misfortune. At last, this morning, when I heard you coming, I was happy, because I was ready to shew my repentance, but I looked at you, and you seemed a different man. Now, I am still looking at you, and, in spite of myself, my soul reads upon your countenance that you are guilty, that you have outraged my love. Tell me at once, dearest, if I am mistaken; if you have deceived me, say so openly. Do not be unfaithful to love and to truth. Knowing that I was the cause of it, I should never forgive my self, but there is an excuse for you in my heart, in my whole being. What, my darling! you are weeping! Your tears make me miserable. You ought not to have shed any with me but tears of happiness and love. Quick, my beloved, tell me whether you have made me wretched. Tell me what fearful revenge you have taken on me, who would rather die than offend you. If I have caused you any sorrow, it has been in the innocence of a loving and devoted heart.


My own darling angel, I never thought of revenge, for my heart, which can never cease to adore you, could never conceive such a dreadful idea. It is against my own heart that my cowardly weakness has allured me to the commission of a crime which, for the remainder of my life, makes me unworthy of you.


Have you, then, given yourself to some wretched woman?


Yes, I have spent two hours in the vilest debauchery, and my soul was present only to be the witness of my sadness, of my remorse, of my unworthiness.


Sadness and remorse! Oh, my poor friend! I believe it. But it is my fault; I alone ought to suffer; it is I who must beg you to forgive me.


Divine soul, the reproaches you are addressing to yourself increase twofold the gravity of my crime. You would never have been guilty of any wrong against me if I had been really worthy of your love.


Villainous, infamous Melulla!


Keep on your guard, and if you catch him in the act of stealing, thrash him, but be careful not to cripple him; otherwise you must pay me the one hundred ducats the man has cost me.


He works for the major there, he copies Simonetti’s battle-pieces, and the major pays him for them; in that manner he earns his living, and is becoming a good painter.


But he is not a prisoner?


Well, very much like it, for he cannot leave the fort. The major, whose name is Spiridion, is a friend of Razetta, who could not refuse him the pleasure of taking care of your brother.


Is my sister, still with him?


No, she has gone to your mother in Dresden.


Ask the major,


for I have not the faintest idea.


I am not accountable to you for my actions.


That remains to be seen.


It would be a good joke to carry off those three blockheads, and to keep the pretty woman in our possession. Under penalty of death, and by order of the Council of Ten, I command you to follow us immediately, without making the slightest noise; as to you, my good woman, you need not be frightened, you will be escorted to your house.


Do not weep, my beauty, we will not hurt you. We intend only to take some refreshment at the Rialto, and then we will take you home in safety.


Where is my husband?


Never fear; you shall see him again to-morrow.


And I, sir,


will remain near his bed in this arm-chair, for if I went away the patient would die, and he will live as long as I am near him.


Doctor, the person who has delivered me from your mercury, which was killing me, is a more skilful physician than you;


a fiddler could know more than all the doctors in Venice, and that he owed his life to me. for a young man of my age, he thought my learning too extensive, and that he was certain I was the possessor of some supernatural endowment.


The hermit, has without informing you of it, linked an invisible spirit to the calculus he has taught you, for simple numbers can not have the power of reason. You possess a real treasure, and you may derive great advantages from it.


I do not know,


in what way I could make my science useful, because the answers given by the numerical figures are often so obscure that I have felt discouraged, and I very seldom tried to make any use of my calculus. Yet, it is very true that, if I had not formed my pyramid, I never should have had the happiness of knowing your excellency.


How so?


On the second day, during the festivities at the Soranzo Palace, I enquired of my oracle whether I would meet at the ball anyone whom I should not care to see. The answer I obtained was this: ‘Leave the ball-room precisely at four o’clock.’ I obeyed implicitly, and met your excellency.


How long I would require to teach them the rules of my sublime calculus.


Not very long,


and I will teach you as you wish, although the hermit assured me that I would die suddenly within three days if I communicated my science to anyone, but I have no faith whatever in that prediction.


that I was bound to have faith in it,


Whoever you may be, I am indebted to you for my life. Your first protectors wanted to make you a priest, a doctor, an advocate, a soldier, and ended by making a fiddler of you; those persons did not know you. God had evidently instructed your guardian angel to bring you to me. I know you and appreciate you. If you will be my son, you have only to acknowledge me for your father, and, for the future, until my death, I will treat you as my own child. Your apartment is ready, you may send your clothes: you shall have a servant, a gondola at your orders, my own table, and ten sequins a month. It is the sum I used to receive from my father when I was your age. You need not think of the future; think only of enjoying yourself, and take me as your adviser in everything that may happen to you, in everything you may wish to undertake, and you may be certain of always finding me your friend.


Here is a parcel for you.


M. de Casanova may be sure that our playing last night was only a joke: he owes me nothing. My wife begs to send him half of the gold which he has lost in cash.


This evening, you can have a gay supper with the charming countess.


This evening, my dear, respected benefactor, I will have supper with you. You have given me a masterly lesson.


The next time you lose money upon trust, you had better not pay it.


But I should be dishonoured.


Never mind. The sooner you dishonour yourself, the more you will save, for you will always be compelled to accept your dishonour whenever you find yourself utterly unable to pay your losses. It is therefore more prudent not to wait until then.


It is much better still to avoid that fatal impossibility by never playing otherwise than with money in hand.


No doubt of it, for then you will save both your honour and your purse. But, as you are fond of games of chance, I advise you never to punt. Make the bank, and the advantage must be on your side.


Yes, but only a slight advantage.


As slight as you please, but it will be on your side, and when the game is over you will find yourself a winner and not a loser. The punter is excited, the banker is calm. The last says, ‘I bet you do not guess,’ while the first says, ‘I bet I can guess.’ Which is the fool, and which is the wise man? The question is easily answered. I adjure you to be prudent, but if you should punt and win, recollect that you are only an idiot if at the end you lose.


Why an idiot? Fortune is very fickle.


It must necessarily be so; it is a natural consequence. Leave off playing, believe me, the very moment you see luck turning, even if you should, at that moment, win but one groat.


Why, my dear son, do you not ask M. de l’Abbadie to render you that service?


I should not dare to do so, dear father.


Try him; I am certain that he will be glad to lend you that sum.


I doubt it, but I will try.


The Frenchman was deficient in intelligence. You may spare yourself that trouble; the senate has rejected his nomination.


How so? Three days ago L’Abbadie felt sure of his success.


He was right then, for he would have been appointed if I had not made up my mind to speak against him. I have proved to the senate that a right policy forbade the government to trust such an important post to a foreigner.


I am much surprised, for your excellency was not of that opinion the day before yesterday.


Very true, but then I did not know M. de l’Abbadie. I found out only yesterday that the man was not sufficiently intelligent to fill the position he was soliciting. Is he likely to possess a sane judgment when he refuses to lend you one hundred sequins? That refusal has cost him an important appointment and an income of three thousand crowns, which would now be his.


If you had told me, that the one hundred sequins were intended as a gag to stop M. de Bragadin’s mouth, I would have contrived to procure them for you.


If you had had an inspector’s brains you would have easily guessed it.


We are not here in the right place for conversation, but if you would be kind enough to come with me to a cafe, you would be able to speak and to explain your wishes.


You have then some hope of recalling him to the path of duty? I suppose he has promised you marriage?


He has engaged his faith to me in writing. The only favour I claim from your kindness is to take me to his house, to leave me there, and to keep my secret.


You may trust, madam, to the feelings of a man of honour. I am worthy of your trust. Have entire confidence in me, for I already take a deep interest in all your concerns. Tell me his name.


Alas! sir, I give way to fate.


For God’s sake take me to his house.


I will do anything you wish; but have entire confidence in me, and be good enough to hear me. I advise you not to go to his house. He has already done you great injury, and, even supposing that you should happen to find him at home, he might be capable of receiving you badly; if he should not be at home, it is most likely that his mother would not exactly welcome you, if you should tell her who you are and what is your errand. Trust to me, and be quite certain that God has sent me on your way to assist you. I promise you that to-morrow at the latest you shall know whether Steffani is in Venice, what he intends to do with you, and what we may compel him to do. Until then my advice is not to let him know your arrival in Venice.


Good God! where shall I go to-night?


To a respectable house, of course.


I will go to yours, if you are married.


I am a bachelor.


I was unfortunate enough, to inspire him with love, and he postponed his departure. He remained one month in C----, never going out but in the evening, and spending every night under my windows conversing with me. He swore a thousand times that he adored me, that his intentions were honourable. I entreated him to present himself to my parents to ask me in marriage, but he always excused himself by alleging some reason, good or bad, assuring me that he could not be happy unless I shewed him entire confidence. He would beg of me to make up my mind to run away with him, unknown to everybody, promising that my honour should not suffer from such a step, because, three days after my departure, everybody should receive notice of my being his wife, and he assured me that he would bring me back on a visit to my native place shortly after our marriage. Alas, sir! what shall I say now? Love blinded me; I fell into the abyss; I believed him; I agreed to everything. He gave me the paper which you have read, and the following night I allowed him to come into my room through the window under which he was in the habit of conversing with me. I consented to be guilty of a crime which I believed would be atoned for within three days, and he left me, promising that the next night he would be again under my window, ready to receive me in his arms. Could I possibly entertain any doubt after the fearful crime I had committed for him? I prepared a small parcel, and waited for his coming, but in vain. Oh! what a cruel long night it was! In the morning I heard that the monster had gone away with his servant one hour after sealing my shame. You may imagine my despair! I adopted the only plan that despair could suggest, and that, of course, was not the right one. One hour before midnight I left my father’s roof, alone, thus completing my dishonour, but resolved on death, if the man who has cruelly robbed me of my most precious treasure, and whom a natural instinct told me I could find here, does not restore me the honour which he alone can give me back. I walked all night and nearly the whole day, without taking any food, until I got into the barge, which brought me here in twenty-four hours. I travelled in the boat with five men and two women, but no one saw my face or heard my voice, I kept constantly sitting down in a corner, holding my head down, half asleep, and with this prayer-book in my hands. I was left alone, no one spoke to me, and I thanked God for it. When I landed on the wharf, you did not give me time to think how I could find out the dwelling of my perfidious seducer, but you may imagine the impression produced upon me by the sudden apparition of a masked man who, abruptly, and as if placed there purposely by Providence, offered me his services; it seemed to me that you had guessed my distress, and, far from experiencing any repugnance, I felt that I was acting rightly in trusting myself in your hands, in spite of all prudence which, perhaps, ought to have made me turn a deaf ear to your words, and refuse the invitation to enter alone with you the house to which you took me. You know all now, sir; but I entreat you not to judge me too severely; I have been virtuous all through my life; one month ago I had never committed a fault which could call a blush upon my face, and the bitter tears which I shed every day will, I hope, wash out my crime in the eyes of God. I have been carefully brought up, but love and the want of experience have thrown me into the abyss. I am in your hands, and I feel certain that I shall have no cause to repent it.


I have no objection, to your going to C----, and I thank you for the generosity of your offer, but I beg you will postpone your journey. I still hope that Steffani will return, and then I can take a decision.


I think you are quite right. Will you allow me to have some breakfast with you?


Do you suppose I could refuse you?


I should be very sorry to disturb you in any way. How did you use to amuse yourself at home?


I am very fond of books and music; my harpsichord was my delight.


It was easy for me, madam, to guess that you were a beauty in distress, when I observed your youth, the nobleness of your countenance, and, more than all, your candour. The stamp of truth was so well affixed to the first words you uttered that I could not have the shadow of a doubt left in me as to your being the unhappy victim of the most natural of all feelings, and as to your having abandoned your home through a sentiment of honour. Your fault was that of a warm heart seduced by love, over which reason could have no sway, and your flight--the action of a soul crying for reparation or for revenge-fully justifies you. Your cowardly seducer must pay with his life the penalty due to his crime, and he ought never to receive, by marrying you, an unjust reward, for he is not worthy of possessing you after degrading himself by the vilest conduct.


Everything you say is true. My brother, I hope, will avenge me.


You are greatly mistaken if you imagine that Steffani will fight your brother; Steffani is a coward who will never expose himself to an honourable death. What is this?


It is a weapon upon which I reckoned until now to use against myself in case I should not succeed in obtaining reparation for the crime I have committed. But you have opened my eyes. Take away, I entreat you, this stiletto, which henceforth is useless to me. I trust in your friendship, and I have an inward certainty that I shall be indebted to you for my honour as well as for my life.


You are mistaken, it is a portrait of my brother. He is two years older than I, and is an officer in the papal army. Ah, sir! in the situation in which I am placed, I must think of defending myself against my own self much more than against you.


I owe you an apology for not having sung to you yet, knowing that you are fond of music.


Does she not know who you are?


Answer me, and do not ask questions,


He must have found out, that I was in the habit of conversing with him every night from my window, and he must have heard of my having embarked for Venice on board the Ferrara barge. I feel certain that my father is now in Venice, making secretly every effort to discover me. When he visits this city he always puts up at Boncousin; will you ascertain whether he is there?


A nobleman, a subject of the Pope, has been recommended to me, and wishes me to assist him with my influence in a rather delicate and intricate matter. One of our citizens has, it appears, carried off his daughter, and has been hiding somewhere with her for the last fortnight, but nobody knows where. The affair ought to be brought before the Council of Ten, but the mother of the ravisher claims to be a relative of mine, and I do not intend to interfere.


I would rather die than become the wife of the monster who had dishonoured her.


You ought to interfere, but only to advise the father to forgive his daughter and to give up all idea of compelling her to marry her ravisher, for Steffani has been sentenced to death by the will of God.


You had better invite the count and his son to dinner here to-morrow. You must act slowly and prudently; it would be necessary to know where the daughter is before you endeavour to make the father forgive her.


Confess, confess that if you found me to be in love with you you would fear me.


Alas! my only fear is to lose you.


What offence have I to forgive you for, dear friend? You have not rightly interpreted my thoughts. Your love caused me to think of my happiness, and in that moment a cruel recollection drew that sigh from me. Pray rise from your knees.


Then, it is impossible to be certain that he actually seduced her, or to prove that she went off with him.


Very true, sir, but although it cannot be proved, there is no doubt of it, and now that no one knows where Steffani is, he can be nowhere but with her. I only want him to marry her.


It strikes me that it would be better not to insist upon a compulsory marriage which would seal your daughter’s misery, for Steffani is, in every respect, one of the most worthless young men we have amongst our government clerks.


Were I in your place. I would let my daughter’s repentance disarm my anger, and I would forgive her.


Where is she? I am ready to fold her in my arms, but how can I believe in her repentance when it is evident that she is still with him.


Is it quite certain that in leaving C---- she proceeded to this city?


I have it from the master of the barge himself, and she landed within twenty yards of the Roman gate. An individual wearing a mask was waiting for her, joined her at once, and they both disappeared without leaving any trace of their whereabouts.


Very likely it was Steffani waiting there for her.


No, for he is short, and the man with the mask was tall. Besides, I have heard that Steffani had left Venice two days before the arrival of my daughter. The man must have been some friend of Steffani, and he has taken her to him.


But, my dear count, all this is mere supposition.


There are four persons who have seen the man with the mask, and pretend to know him, only they do not agree. Here is a list of four names, and I will accuse these four persons before the Council of Ten, if Steffani should deny having my daughter in his possession.


This is Casanova my son, and I give you my word of honour that, if your daughter is in his hands, she is perfectly safe, although he may not look exactly the sort of man to whom young girls should be trusted.


I have not seen Steffani for six months, sir, but I promise you to kill him in a duel as soon as he returns.


You shall not do it, unless he kills me first.


Gentlemen. I can assure you that you will neither of you fight a duel with him, for Steffani is dead.


Dead!


We must not, take that word in its literal sense, but the wretched man is dead to all honour and self-respect.


You shall not kill him, unless he kills me first.


Steffani,


is dead, as our angel Paralis revealed it to us; he is dead to the world, for he has become a Capuchin friar. The senate, as a matter of course, has been informed of it. We alone are aware that it is a punishment which God has visited upon him. Let us worship the Author of all things, and the heavenly hierarchy which renders us worthy of knowing what remains a mystery to all men. Now we must achieve our undertaking, and console the poor father. We must enquire from Paralis where the girl is. She cannot now be with Steffani. Of course, God has not condemned her to become a Capuchin nun.


I need not consult my angel, dearest father, for it is by his express orders that I have been compelled until now to make a mystery of the refuge found by the young countess.


We must only, keep up the mystery of his daughter’s place of refuge for the count, until we know for a certainty that he will forgive her, and that he will take her with him to C----, or to any other place where he may wish to live hereafter.


He cannot refuse to forgive her, when he finds that the amiable girl would never have left C---- if her seducer had not given her this promise of marriage in his own handwriting. She walked as far as the barge, and she landed at the very moment I was passing the Roman gate. An inspiration from above told me to accost her and to invite her to follow me. She obeyed, as if she was fulfilling the decree of Heaven, I took her to a refuge impossible to discover, and placed her under the care of a God-fearing woman.


Ah! why can we not belong for ever to each other? It is not my acquaintance with Steffani, it is your loss which will seal my eternal misery.


He had the choice, between killing himself and turning friar, and he took the wiser course.


I have joyful news for you, count; your beloved daughter has been found! This, gentlemen, evidently brought your lovely young lady to the verge of madness when she found that he had gone from C---- without her. She left your house alone on foot, and as she landed in Venice Providence threw her in the way of this young man, who induced her to follow him, and has placed her under the care of an honest woman, whom she has not left since, whom she will leave only to fall in your arms as soon as she is certain of your forgiveness for the folly she has committed.


Oh! let her have no doubt of my forgiving her. Dear sir, I beg of you not to delay the fortunate moment on which the whole happiness of my life depends.


Ah! then we can spend a few more hours together! Go, dearest, go and bring my brother.


To whom, dear sister, are we indebted for the happiness of having found you again?


To my guardian angel, to this generous man who was waiting for me, as if Heaven had sent him with the special mission of watching over your sister; it is he who has saved me, who has prevented me from falling into the gulf which yawned under my feet, who has rescued me from the shame threatening me, of which I had then no conception; it is to him I am indebted for all, to him who, as you see, kisses my hand now for the first time.


Those gondoliers, are very fortunate. They took us up at the Rialto for thirty soldi, on condition that they would be allowed to embark other passengers, and here is one already; they will certainly find more.


When I am in a gondola, reverend sir, there is no room left for any more passengers. I am not a Venetian nobleman, reverend sir, and I have no right to the title of Excellenza.


Ah! I am very glad of it.


Why so, signora?


Because when I find myself near a nobleman I am afraid. But I suppose that you are an illustrissimo.


Not even that, signora; I am only an advocate’s clerk.


So much the better, for I like to be in the company of persons who do not think themselves above me. My father was a farmer, brother of my uncle here, rector of P----, where I was born and bred. As I am an only daughter I inherited my father’s property after his death, and I shall likewise be heiress to my mother, who has been ill a long time and cannot live much longer, which causes me a great deal of sorrow; but it is the doctor who says it. Now, to return to my subject, I do not suppose that there is much difference between an advocate’s clerk and the daughter of a rich farmer. I only say so for the sake of saying something, for I know very well that, in travelling, one must accept all sorts of companions: is it not so, uncle?


Yes, my dear Christine, and as a proof you see that this gentleman has accepted our company without knowing who or what we are.


But do you think I would have come if I had not been attracted by the beauty of your lovely niece?


Why do you laugh so heartily, beautiful ‘demigella’? Is it to shew me your fine teeth? I confess that I have never seen such a splendid set in Venice.


Oh! it is not for that, sir, although everyone in Venice has paid me the same compliment. I can assure you that in P---- all the girls have teeth as fine as mine. Is it not a fact, uncle?


Yes, my dear niece.


I was laughing, sir, at a thing which I will never tell you.


Oh! tell me, I entreat you.


Oh! certainly not, never.


You will not,


If you do I will go away.


I defy you to do it, my dear. Do you know what she said, sir, when she saw you on the wharf? ‘Here is a very handsome young man who is looking at me, and would not be sorry to be with us.’ And when she saw that the gondoliers were putting back for you to embark she was delighted.


Why are you angry, lovely Christine, at my hearing that you liked my appearance, when I am so glad to let you know how truly charming I think you?


You are glad for a moment. Oh! I know the Venetians thoroughly now. They have all told me that they were charmed with me, and not one of those I would have liked ever made a declaration to me.


What sort of declaration did you want?


There’s only one sort for me, sir; the declaration leading to a good marriage in church, in the sight of all men. Yet we remained a fortnight in Venice; did we not, uncle?


This girl,


is a good match, for she possesses three thousand crowns. She has always said that she would marry only a Venetian, and I have accompanied her to Venice to give her an opportunity of being known. A worthy woman gave us hospitality for a fortnight, and has presented my niece in several houses where she made the acquaintance of marriageable young men, but those who pleased her would not hear of marriage, and those who would have been glad to marry her did not take her fancy.


But do you imagine, reverend sir, that marriages can be made like omelets? A fortnight in Venice, that is nothing; you ought to live there at least six months. Now, for instance, I think your niece sweetly pretty, and I should consider myself fortunate if the wife whom God intends for me were like her, but, even if she offered me now a dowry of fifty thousand crowns on condition that our wedding takes place immediately, I would refuse her. A prudent young man wants to know the character of a girl before he marries her, for it is neither money nor beauty which can ensure happiness in married life.


What do you mean by character?


is it a beautiful hand-writing?


No, my dear. I mean the qualities of the mind and the heart. I shall most likely get married sometime, and I have been looking for a wife for the last three years, but I am still looking in vain. I have known several young girls almost as lovely as you are, and all with a good marriage portion, but after an acquaintance of two or three months I found out that they could not make me happy.


In what were they deficient?


Well, I will tell you, because you are not acquainted with them, and there can be no indiscretion on my part. One whom I certainly would have married, for I loved her dearly, was extremely vain. She would have ruined me in fashionable clothes and by her love for luxuries. Fancy! she was in the habit of paying one sequin every month to the hair-dresser, and as much at least for pomatum and perfumes.


She was a giddy, foolish girl. Now, I spend only ten soldi in one year on wax which I mix with goat’s grease, and there I have an excellent pomatum.


Another, whom I would have married two years ago, laboured under a disease which would have made me unhappy; as soon as I knew of it, I ceased my visits.


What disease was it?


A disease which would have prevented her from being a mother, and, if I get married, I wish to have children.


All that is in God’s hands, but I know that my health is excellent. Is it not, uncle?


Another was too devout, and that does not suit me. She was so over-scrupulous that she was in the habit of going to her confessor twice a week, and every time her confession lasted at least one hour. I want my wife to be a good Christian, but not bigoted.


She must have been a great sinner, or else she was very foolish. I confess only once a month, and get through everything in two minutes. Is it not true, uncle? and if you were to ask me any questions, uncle, I should not know what more to say.


One young lady thought herself more learned than I, although she would, every minute, utter some absurdity. Another was always low-spirited, and my wife must be cheerful.


Hark to that, uncle! You and my mother are always chiding me for my cheerfulness.


Another, whom I did not court long, was always afraid of being alone with me, and if I gave her a kiss she would run and tell her mother.


How silly she must have been! I have never yet listened to a lover, for we have only rude peasants in P----, but I know very well that there are some things which I would not tell my mother.


One had a rank breath; another painted her face, and, indeed, almost every young girl is guilty of that fault. I am afraid marriage is out of the question for me, because I want, for instance, my wife to have black eyes, and in our days almost every woman colours them by art; but I cannot be deceived, for I am a good judge.


Are mine black?


You are laughing?


I laugh because your eyes certainly appear to be black, but they are not so in reality. Never mind, you are very charming in spite of that.


Now, that is amusing. You pretend to be a good judge, yet you say that my eyes are dyed black. My eyes, sir, whether beautiful or ugly, are now the same as God made them. Is it not so, uncle?


I never had any doubt of it, my dear niece.


And you do not believe me, sir?


No, they are too beautiful for me to believe them natural.


Oh, dear me! I cannot bear it.


Excuse me, my lovely damigella, I am afraid I have been too sincere.


Very well, reverend sir, we will hear it, and you must say it for my intention.


It is what I am in the habit of giving,


Do you suppose that I cannot walk alone?


I have no such idea, but if I do not give you my arm, people will think me wanting in politeness.


Well, I will take it. But now that I have your arm, what will people think?


Perhaps that we love each other and that we make a very nice couple.


And if anyone should inform your mistress that we are in love with each other, or even that you have given your arm to a young girl?


I have no mistress, and I shall have none in future, because I could not find a girl as pretty as you in all Venice.


I am very sorry for you, for we cannot go again to Venice; and even if we could, how could we remain there six months? You said that six months were necessary to know a girl well.


I would willingly defray all your expenses.


Indeed? Then say so to my uncle, and he will think it over, for I could not go alone.


In six months you would know me likewise.


Oh! I know you very well already.


Could you accept a man like me?


Why not?


And will you love me?


Yes, very much, when you are my husband.


My dear sir, you would greatly oblige me if you would come back here from P---- to pledge the ring yourself. Now that it has been offered once by you, it might look very strange if it were brought by another person. Of course I will pay all your expenses.


I promise you to come back.


Reverend sir, let me advise you to take your niece again to Venice. I undertake to defray all expenses, and to find an honest woman with whom your Christine will be as safe as with her own mother. I want to know her well in order to make her my wife, and if she comes to Venice our marriage is certain.


Sir, I will bring my niece myself to Venice as soon as you inform me that you have found a worthy woman with whom I can leave her in safety.


My dear Christine, within a week I shall have arranged the affair. In the meantime, I will write to you. I hope that you have no objection to correspond with me.


My uncle will write for me, for I have never been taught writing.


What, my dear child! you wish to become the wife of a Venetian, and you cannot write.


Is it then necessary to know how to write in order to become a wife? I can read well.


That is not enough, and although a girl can be a wife and a mother without knowing how to trace one letter, it is generally admitted that a young girl ought to be able to write. I wonder you never learned.


There is no wonder in that, for not one girl in our village can do it. Ask my uncle.


It is perfectly true, but there is not one who thinks of getting married in Venice, and as you wish for a Venetian husband you must learn.


Certainly, and before you come to Venice, for everybody would laugh at you, if you could not write. I see that it makes you sad, my dear, but it cannot be helped.


I am sad, because I cannot learn writing in a week.


I undertake, to teach you in a fortnight, if you will only practice diligently. You will then know enough to be able to improve by your own exertions.


It is a great undertaking, but I accept it; I promise you to work night and day, and to begin to-morrow.


We need not undress, as we mean to leave very early, but you can take off your clothes, sir, because you are not going with us, and you will like to remain in bed to-morrow morning.


Oh! I must undress myself, otherwise I could not sleep, but I only want a few minutes to get ready in the morning.


If you do not mind the expense, sir, trust to me, and I undertake to please you. I will give you some Gatta wine.


All right, but let us have supper early.


Do you know what is the matter?


my niece is caressing me because she wants me to leave her here until my return. She tells me that you were like brother and sister during the hour you have spent alone together this morning, and I believe it, but she does not consider that she would be a great trouble to you.


Not at all, quite the reverse, she will afford me great pleasure, for I think her very charming. As to our mutual behaviour, I believe you can trust us both to do our duty.


I have no doubt of it. Well, I will leave her under your care until the day after to-morrow. I will come back early in the morning so as to attend to your business.


I can assure you,


that I wish you to have a thorough knowledge of me; you will see that I have none of the faults which have displeased you so much in the young ladies you have known in Venice, and I promise to learn writing immediately.


You are charming and true; but you must be discreet in P----, and confide to no one that we have entered into an agreement with each other. You must act according to your uncle’s instructions, for it is to him that I intend to write to make all arrangements.


You may rely upon my discretion. I will not say anything even to my mother, until you give me permission to do so.


My uncle has gone. I did not hear him.


Dearest Christine, you are as lovely as one of God’s angels. I have a great longing to give you a kiss.


If you long for a kiss, my dear friend, come and give me one.


What have we done?


We have become husband and wife.


What will my uncle say to-morrow?


He need not know anything about it until he gives us the nuptial benediction in his own church.


And when will he do so?


As soon as we have completed all the arrangements necessary for a public marriage.


How long will that be?


About a month.


We cannot be married during Lent.


I will obtain permission.


You are not deceiving me?


No, for I adore you.


Then, you no longer want to know me better?


No; I know you thoroughly now, and I feel certain that you will make me happy.


And will you make me happy, too?


I hope so.


Let us get up and go to church. Who could have believed that, to get a husband, it was necessary not to go to Venice, but to come back from that city!


It must be,


the same reason which causes you to be thoughtful.


An air of thoughtfulness, my dear, is proper to love when it finds itself in consultation with honour. This affair has become serious, and love is now compelled to think and consider. We want to be married in the church, and we cannot do it before Lent, now that we are in the last days of carnival; yet we cannot wait until Easter, it would be too long. We must therefore obtain a dispensation in order to be married. Have I not reason to be thoughtful?


Oh! what will my uncle say?


Serenus must attend to it.


You must, obtain from the Holy Father a dispensation for a worthy and virtuous girl, so as to give her the privilege of marrying during Lent in the church of her village; she is a young country girl. Here is her certificate of birth. The husband is not yet known; but it does not matter, Paralis undertakes to find one.


Trust to me. I will write at once to our ambassador in Rome, and I will contrive to have my letter sent by special express. You need not be anxious, leave it all to me, I will make it a business of state, and I must obey Paralis all the more readily that I foresee that the intended husband is one of us four. Indeed, we must prepare ourselves to obey.


Charles, has lost his father and his mother, and I feel satisfied that his godfather will guarantee the dowry brought by his wife. I have spoken to him, and I believe him disposed to marry an honest girl whose dowry would enable him to purchase M. Ragionato’s office.


It seems to promise very well, but I cannot decide until I have seen him.


I have invited him to dine with us to-morrow.


I do not care for love, but I should like to get married in order to have a house of my own.


whether he was likewise a clerk.


he was clerk at Ragionato.


I want you to look at my writing, and afterwards we will go and see my mother. Well, sir, what does it matter to you? Besides, I must tell you that I am seventeen, and not nineteen years of age.


For me?


Yes, for you. Charles is one of a thousand; you would be much happier with him than you could be with me; the doctor knows him, and you could ascertain from him everything which I cannot find time to tell you now about my friend.


It will be at dinner, my dear Christine, that my friend will examine and study you; do not fail to shew all the charms and qualities with which God has endowed you, but do not let him suspect our intimacy.


It is all very strange. Is my uncle informed of this wonderful change?


No.


If your friend should feel pleased with me, when would he marry me?


Within ten days. I will take care of everything, and you will see me again in the course of the week.


You are made, lovely Christine, to minister to the happiness of a prince.


I should esteem myself fortunate, sir, if you should judge me worthy of ministering to yours.


I will call to-morrow morning upon Count Algarotti, and you may write to the priest to come with all the necessary documents to make the contract of marriage which I long to sign. Then, we must go full speed ahead!


When you promised to marry me, after we had both been weak enough to give way to our love, did you intend to deceive me?


Certainly not. Then you have not deceived me. On the contrary, I owe you some gratitude for having thought that, if our union should prove unhappy, it was better to find another husband for me, and I thank God that you have succeeded so well. Tell me, now, what I can answer to your friend in case he should ask me, during the first night, why I am so different to what a virgin ought to be?


It is not likely that Charles, who is full of reserve and propriety, would ask you such a thing, but if he should, tell him positively that you never had a lover, and that you do not suppose yourself to be different to any other girl.


Will he believe me?


He would deserve your contempt, and entail punishment on himself if he did not. But dismiss all anxiety; that will not occur. A sensible man, my dear Christine, when he has been rightly brought up, never ventures upon such a question, because he is not only certain to displease, but also sure that he will never know the truth, for if the truth is likely to injure a woman in the opinion of her husband, she would be very foolish, indeed, to confess it.


I understand your meaning perfectly, my dear friend; let us, then, embrace each other for the last time.


No, for we are alone and I am very weak. I adore thee as much as ever.


Do not cry, dear friend, for, truly speaking, I have no wish for it.


We intend to be married, on such a day at P----, and I trust that you will crown your work of kindness by being present at the ceremony. I am deeply in love with her, and I feel that it is to you that I shall be indebted for the happiness I am sure to enjoy with my charming wife. She will soon get rid of her country way of talking in Venice, because here envy and slander will but too easily shew her the absurdity of it.


As soon as I am your wife. I will dress as you please, but here I will not appear before my young companions in any other costume than the one in which they have always seen me. I shall thus avoid being laughed at, and accused of pride, by the girls among whom I have been brought up.


was evidently destined by Heaven for my happiness, and to you I am indebted for the precious possession of that treasure.


Her cheerful spirits, her artless simplicity, her natural wit, are like her beauty, they must be dressed in the Venetian fashion. We are highly pleased with my nephew’s choice, and he has incurred everlasting obligations towards you. I hope that for the future you will consider our house as your own.


M. Casanova, I am happy, and I love to be indebted to you for my happiness.


Whoever you may be, go away and let me sleep quietly, for I do not believe in ghosts;


I? What have I done?


M. Demetrio is dying.


Have I killed him?


I am astonished, reverend sir, at the hasty judgment which is thus passed upon me, when there is no proof to condemn me.


You have done it, you alone are capable of such an abomination; it is just like you. No one but you would have dared to do such a thing!


I am compelled, to draw up an official report.


As you please, I have not the slightest objection. I have nothing to fear.


My daughter is yet a virgin, and she is quite right not to lose her maidenhood without making a good profit by it.


If so. I will give you ten sequins for her virginity.


You may judge for yourself,


Why, did you move?


Because I would not have it in that position.


You would not?


No.


This gentleman, is Count Celi, of Rome; he is my lover.


I congratulate you. Sir, do not be angry at our mutual affection, Marina is my daughter.


She is a prostitute.


True, and you can believe the count, for he is my procurer.


Stop, or you are a dead man. With pleasure. Very well, sir, at four in the afternoon,


Are you sorry to have saved me from the rage of that brute?


No, I am glad to have done so, but tell me truly who and what he is.


He is a gambler by profession, and gives himself out as Count Celi. I made his acquaintance here. He courted me, invited me to supper, played after supper, and, having won a large sum from an Englishman whom he had decoyed to his supper by telling him that I would be present, he gave me fifty guineas, saying that he had given me an interest in his bank. As soon as I had become his mistress, he insisted upon my being compliant with all the men he wanted to make his dupes, and at last he took up his quarters at my lodgings. The welcome I gave you very likely vexed him, and you know the rest. Here I am, and here I will remain until my departure for Mantua where I have an engagement as first dancer. My servant will bring me all I need for to-night, and I will give him orders to move all my luggage to-morrow. I will not see that scoundrel any more. I will be only yours, if you are free as in Corfu, and if you love me still.


Yes, my dear Marina, I do love you, but if you wish to be my mistress, you must be only mine.


Oh! of course. I have three hundred sequins, and I will give them to you to-morrow if you will take me as your mistress.


I do not want any money; all I want is yourself. Well, it is all arranged; to-morrow evening we shall feel more comfortable.


Perhaps you are thinking of a duel for to-morrow? But do not imagine such a thing, dearest. I know that man; he is an arrant coward.


I must keep my engagement with him.


I know that, but he will not keep his, and I am very glad of it. I am the most unhappy of the family.


How so? You are beautiful, and you have become an excellent dancer. Do not be so prodigal of your favours, and you cannot fail to meet with a man who will take care of your fortune.


To be sparing of my favours is very difficult; when I love, I am no longer mine, but when I do not love, I cannot be amiable. Well, dearest, I could be very happy with you.


Dear Marina, I am not wealthy, and my honour would not allow me....


Hold your tongue; I understand you.


Why have you not a lady’s maid with you instead of a male servant? You are right. A maid would look more respectable, but my servant is so clever and so faithful!


I can guess all his qualities, but he is not a fit servant for you.


You told me that you would come alone.


My friend will not be in the way, as I only want to speak to you.


If I had known that, I would not have gone out of my way. But do not let us be noisy, and let us go to some place where we can exchange a few words without being seen. Follow me.


Two to one!


Send your friend away, and this gentleman will go likewise; at all events, your friend wears a sword, therefore we are two against two.


Yes, let us have a four-handed game.


I do not cross swords with a dancer,


Well, speak.


You know me and I do not know you. Tell me who you are.


I will, amuse everybody at the theatre this evening with the story of your meeting. But that which pleases me most is that, if your second is really a dancer, he can be no other than M. Baletti, who is engaged with me for the Mantua Theatre.


Who is that lovely lady?


She is a truly charming woman, and I can tell you an anecdote about her worthy of being transmitted to posterity. You need not suppose that I am going to exaggerate, for the adventure is known to everybody in Cremona. The charming woman whom you have just seen is gifted with wit greater even than her beauty, and here is a specimen of it. A young officer, one amongst many military men who were courting her, when Marshal de Richelieu was commanding in Genoa, boasted of being treated by her with more favour than all the others, and one day, in the very coffee-room where we met, he advised a brother officer not to lose his time in courting her, because he had no chance whatever of obtaining any favour.


My dear fellow. I have a much better right to give you that piece of advice; for I have already obtained from her everything which can be granted to a lover.


I am certain that you are telling a lie, and I request you to follow me out.


Most willingly, but what is the good of ascertaining the truth through a duel and of cutting our throats, when I can make the lady herself certify the fact in your presence.


I bet twenty-five louis that it is all untrue,


I accept your bet. Let us go.


Well gentlemen, what lucky wind has brought you here together at this hour?


It is a bet, madam, and you alone can be the umpire in our quarrel. This gentleman has been boasting of having obtained from you everything a woman can grant to the most favoured lover. I have given him the lie in the most impressive manner, and a duel was to ensue, when he offered to have the truth of his boast certified by you. I have bet twenty-five Louis that you would not admit it, and he has taken my bet. Now, madam, you can say which of us two is right.


You have lost, sir, but now I beg both of you to quit my house, and I give you fair warning that if you ever dare to shew your faces here again, you will be sorry for it.


How did the husband take it all?


Quite well, and like an intelligent, sensible man. He said that, if his wife had acted differently, he would have applied for a divorce, because in that case no one would have entertained a doubt of her being guilty.


That husband is indeed a sensible fellow. It is certain that, if his wife had given the lie to the indiscreet officer, he would have paid the bet, but he would have stood by what he had said, and everybody would have believed him. By declaring him the winner of the bet she has cut the matter short, and she has avoided a judgment by which she would have been dishonoured. The inconsiderate boaster was guilty of a double mistake for which he paid the penalty of his life, but his adversary was as much wanting in delicacy, for in such matters rightly-minded men do not venture upon betting. If the one who says yes is imprudent, the one who says no is a dupe. I like the lady’s presence of mind. But what sentence would you pass on her. Guilty or not guilty?


Not guilty. I am of the same opinion, and it has been the verdict of the public likewise, for she has since been treated even better than before the affair. You will see, if you go to the casino, and I shall be happy to introduce you to her.


No, indeed, I want you to spend a joyous night with me, and in good company. I only consider you, my dear sir, as my friend and guest.


Sir, you are in the wrong, for faro is the freest of games. Why do you not take the bank yourself?


It would be too much trouble, and these gentlemen do not punt high enough for me, but if that sort of thing amuses you, take the bank and I will punt.


Captain, will you take a fourth share in my bank?


Willingly.


Gentlemen, I beg you to give notice that I will lay the cards down after six games.


Good for a hundred sequins, O’Neilan,


Your bank might be defunct before the end of the sixth game.


Sir,


you have been very lucky, but I hope you will give me my revenge to-morrow.


It would be with the greatest pleasure, sir, but I never play except when I am under arrest.


I promise it,


but do not break your word.


Then you were all right before that night?


Yes, my health was excellent.


I am sorry that you should have lost your health in such an ugly place. I would have warned you if I had thought you had any intentions in that quarter.


Did you know of the woman having . . . ?


Zounds! Did I not? It is only a week since I paid a visit to the very same place myself, and I believe the creature was all right before my visit.


Then I have to thank you for the present she has bestowed upon me.


Most likely; but it is only a trifle, and you can easily get cured if you care to take the trouble.


What! Do you not try to cure yourself?


Faith, no. It would be too much trouble to follow a regular diet, and what is the use of curing such a trifling inconvenience when I am certain of getting it again in a fortnight. Ten times in my life I have had that patience, but I got tired of it, and for the last two years I have resigned myself, and now I put up with it.


I pity you, for a man like you would have great success in love.


I do not care a fig for love; it requires cares which would bother me much more than the slight inconvenience to which we were alluding, and to which I am used now.


I am not of your opinion, for the amorous pleasure is insipid when love does not throw a little spice in it. Do you think, for instance, that the ugly wretch I met at the guard-room is worth what I now suffer on her account?


Of course not, and that is why I am sorry for you. If I had known, I could have introduced you to something better.


The very best in that line is not worth my health, and health ought to be sacrificed only for love.


Oh! you want women worthy of love? There are a few here; stop with us for some time, and when you are cured there is nothing to prevent you from making conquests.


I do not care!


It is that mark, which gave me the name of ‘La Fragoletta.’


Yes, madam. I am the son of Gaetan Casanova, of Parma.


Heavens and earth! what is this? Ah! my friend, I adored your father! He was jealous without cause, and abandoned me. Had he not done so, you would have been my son! Allow me to embrace you with the feelings of a loving mother. Although. I do not look an old woman yet. The only fault of your dear father, was a want of gratitude.


Sir. I have been guilty only through ignorance, and if you would be so good as to call for me at my hotel to-morrow morning, before the evening I shall have atoned for my error, and you will no longer have the right to address me the same reproach.


Pray, tell me, what relation there is between this collection and natural history? I see nothing here representing the three kingdoms.


What! You do not see the antediluvian kingdom, that of Sesostris and that of Semiramis? Are not those the three kingdoms?


What! you are the possessor of this knife, and you are not as rich as Croesus?


How could I be so through the possession of the knife?


In two ways. In the first place, you could obtain possession of all the treasures hidden under ground in the States of the Church.


Yes, that is a natural consequence, because St. Peter has the keys.


In the second place, you might sell the knife to the Pope, if you happen to possess proof of its authenticity.


You mean the parchment. Of course I have it; do you think I would have bought one without the other?


All right, then. In order to get possession of that knife, the Pope would, I have no doubt, make a cardinal of your son, but you must have the sheath too.


I have not got it, but it is unnecessary. At all events I can have one made.


That would not do, you must have the very one in which Saint Peter himself sheathed the knife when God said, ‘Mitte gladium tuum in vaginam’. That very sheath does exist, and it is now in the hands of a person who might sell it to you at a reasonable price, or you might sell him your knife, for the sheath without the knife is of no use to him, just as the knife is useless to you without the sheath.


How much would it cost me?


One thousand sequins.


And how much would that person give me for the knife?


One thousand sequins, for one has as much value as the other.


Well, son, would you ever have thought that I would be offered one thousand sequins for this knife? It is not necessary for me to buy it, or for your friend to purchase the knife. We can find out and dig up the treasures together.


Not at all. The rubric says in the most forcible manner that the owner of the blade, ‘in vaginam’, shall be one. If the Pope were in possession of it he would be able, through a magical operation known to me, to cut off one of the ears of every Christian king who might be thinking of encroaching upon the rights of the Church.


Wonderful, indeed! But it is very true, for it is said in the Gospel that Saint Peter did cut off the ear of somebody.


Yes, of a king.


Oh, no! not of a king.


Of a king, I tell you. Enquire whether Malek or Melek does not mean king.


Well! in case I should make up my mind to sell the knife, who would give me the thousand sequins?


I would; one half to-morrow, cash down; the balance of five hundred in a letter of exchange payable one month after date.


Ah! that is like business. Be good enough, to accept a dish of macaroni with us to-morrow, and under a solemn pledge of secrecy we will discuss this important affair. The Treasure, is worth millions; but let us have dinner. You are not going to be served in silver plates and dishes, but in real Raphael mosaic.


My dear commissary, your magnificence astonishes me; mosaic is, indeed, by far superior to silver plate, although an ignorant fool would only consider it ugly earthen ware.


A man in very good circumstances, residing in the Papal States, and owner of the country house in which he lives with all his family, is certain that there is a treasure in his cellar. He has written to my son, declaring himself ready to undertake all expenses necessary to possess himself of that treasure, if we could procure a magician powerful enough to unearth it. Therefore all that is necessary is to give me the possibility of purchasing the sheath on credit, for I have no ready cash at present. You need not be afraid of endorsing my letters of exchange, and if you should know the magician you might go halves with him.


The magician is ready; it is I, but unless you give me five hundred sequins cash down we cannot agree.


I have no money.


Then sell me the knife.


No.


You are wrong, for now that I have seen it I can easily take it from you. But I am honest enough not to wish to play such a trick upon you.


You could take my knife from me? I should like to be convinced of that, but I do not believe it.


You do not? Very well, to-morrow the knife will be in my possession, but when it is once in my hands you need not hope to see it again. A spirit which is under my orders will bring it to me at midnight, and the same spirit will tell me where the treasure is buried.


Let the spirit tell you that, and I shall be convinced.


Give me a pen, ink and paper. That is, a torrent which was once a river.


The treasure is buried in the earth at a depth of seventeen and a half fathoms, and has been there for six centuries. Its value amounts to two millions of sequins, enclosed in a casket, the same which was taken by Godfrey de Bouillon from Mathilda, Countess of Tuscany, in the year 1081, when he endeavoured to assist Henry IV, against that princess. He buried the box himself in the very spot where it now is, before he went to lay siege to Jerusalem. Gregory VII, who was a great magician, having been informed of the place where it had been hidden, had resolved on getting possession of it himself, but death prevented him from carrying out his intentions. After the death of the Countess Mathilda, in the year 1116, the genius presiding over all hidden treasures appointed seven spirits to guard the box. During a night with a full moon, a learned magician can raise the treasure to the surface of the earth by placing himself in the middle of the magical ring called maximus.


I cannot decide, before I have seen the sheath.


I pledge my word to shew it to you to-morrow,


I am very glad it is so, my pretty child. Madame Franzia, what is the cause of that bad smell?


Sir, it arises from the hemp which we are macerating.


What is that hemp worth, madam?


About forty crowns.


Here they are; the hemp belongs to me now, and I must beg your husband to have it removed immediately.


I intend to take up my quarters here to-morrow. I require two meals every day, and the only wine I can drink is jevese. For my breakfast I drink a peculiar kind of chocolate which I make myself, and which I have brought with me. I promise to pay my own expenses in case we do not succeed. Please remove the hemp to a place sufficiently distant from the house, so that its bad smell may not annoy the spirits to be evoked by me, and let the air be purified by the discharge of gunpowder. Besides, you must send a trusty servant to-morrow to convey our luggage from the hotel here, and keep constantly in the house and at my disposal one hundred new wax candles and three torches.


Sir, be kind enough to take back the forty crowns which you paid to my wife for the hemp.


No, I will not do anything of the sort, for I do not want you to sustain any loss.


Take them back, I beg. I can sell the hemp in the course of the day for forty crowns without difficulty.


In that case I will, for I have confidence in what you say.


Very good, now tell me what grounds you have for supposing that there is a treasure in your house?


In the first place, the oral tradition transmitted from father to son for the last eight generations; in the second, the heavy sounds which are heard under ground during the night. Besides, the door of the cellar opens and shuts of itself every three or four minutes; which must certainly be the work of the devils seen every night wandering through the country in the shape of pyramidal flames.


If it is as you say, it is evident that you have a treasure hidden somewhere in your house; it is as certain as the fact that two and two are four. Be very careful not to put a lock to the door of the cellar to prevent its opening and shutting of itself; otherwise you would have an earthquake, which would destroy everything here. Spirits will enjoy perfect freedom, and they break through every obstacle raised against them.


God be praised for having sent here, forty years ago, a learned man who told my father exactly the same thing! That great magician required only three days more to unearth the treasure when my father heard that the Inquisition had given orders to arrest him, and he lost no time in insuring his escape. Can you tell me how it is that magicians are not more powerful than the Inquisitors?


Because the monks have a greater number of devils under their command than we have. But I feel certain that your father had already expended a great deal of money with that learned man.


About two thousand crowns.


Oh! more, more.


I have not bargained for anything, and the merchants must, I have no doubt, have taken me for a fool, for I have certainly paid one-third more than the things are worth.


So much the worse for them if they have deceived you, but you would have spoilt everything if you had beaten them down in their price. Now, send me your daughter and let me be alone with her. Sit down near my bed and begin sewing. You will dine here and remain at work until the evening. When your father comes, you must let us be alone, but as soon as he leaves me, come back and go to bed.


Go, Javotte, get into the bath and call me when you are ready, for I must purify you as I have purified your father and Capitani.


My dear Javotte, have you been displeased at all I have compelled you to submit to this evening?


Not at all; I liked it very much.


Then I hope that you will have no objection to get in the bath with me to-morrow, and to wash me as I have washed you.


Most willingly, but shall I know how to do it well?


I will teach you, and for the future I wish you to sleep every night in my room, because I must have a complete certainty that on the night of the great operation I shall find you such as you ought to be.


Would it injure the success of your operation if we were to sleep together?


No, my dear girl; provided you are a virgin on the day of the great incantation, it is all I require.


As for you, Capitani, proceed at once to Cesena, and remain at the inn until our luggage has been brought by the man whom Franzia is going to send with it.


You may have it, with the sheath, if you will let me have the one thousand Roman crowns, the amount of the letter of exchange.


I am only engaged with the manager,


Have you any lover?


No.


I offer myself for the post, if you have no objection.


Will you take four tickets for the four performances?


I know it, through a letter which I have received from Venice, and I beg to offer my most sincere congratulations to Madame.


How could you possibly expect my visit?


I will tell you my reason as soon as you have handed me one hundred sequins, and you are going to do so at once.


Here are fifty which I brought for you; you cannot demand more from me.


Thank you, I take them on account, but as I am good-natured I advise you not to shew yourself this evening in Count Spada’s drawing-rooms, for you would not be admitted, and it would be owing to me.


I hope that you will think twice before you are guilty of such an ungenerous act.


I have made up my mind; but now leave me.


Here are fifty sequins more, but as an honest man you can take them only to give them to Madame Querini. But how can you hand the amount to her without letting her know that you have forced me to refund it? You understand what consequences such a confession might have for me.


I shall give her the money only when you have left this place; in the mean time I promise to be discreet, but be careful not to assist fortune in my presence, or I must act in a manner that will not be agreeable to you.


Double the capital of my bank, and we can be partners.


Your proposal is an insult.


In that case,


I will take the bank tonight.


I suppose, that by means of this fable you hope to make me accept fifty sequins, but I thank you, I am not in want of money.


I give you my word that I have compelled the thief to refund this money, together with the fifty sequins of which he had likewise cheated me.


That may be, but I do not wish to believe you. I beg to inform you that I am not simple enough to allow myself to be duped, and, what is worse, cheated in such a manner.


This gentleman, who, it appears, can only speak Latin, is in bed with a girl, and the ‘sbirri’ of the bishop have been sent to know whether she is truly his wife; all perfectly regular. If she is his wife, he has only to convince them by shewing a certificate of marriage, but if she is not, of course he must go to prison with her. Yet it need not happen, for I undertake to arrange everything in a friendly manner for a few sequins. I have only to exchange a few words with the chief of the ‘sbirri’, and they will all go away. If you can speak Latin, you had better go in, and make him listen to reason.


Who has broken open the door of his room?


Nobody; I have opened it myself with the key, as is my duty.


Yes, the duty of a highway robber, but not of an honest inn-keeper.


At all events. I am determined not to give one crown to arrange the affair, and to remain in bed until my door is shut. The moment I am dressed, I will treat you to an amusing denouement of the comedy. I will drive away all those scoundrels at the point of my sword. I have written my name and profession, in the hotel book.


The insult you have offered to that officer, Mr. Landlord, will cost you very dear.


I have two, therefore I can let you have one.


Who are you?


Do exactly as you please,


Captain,


keep your bed until I return. I am going now to the bishop to give him an account of these proceedings, and make him understand that he owes you some reparation. Besides, General Spada is here, and....


I know him, and if I had been aware of his being in Cesena, I would have shot the landlord when he opened my door to those scoundrels.


Never mind, I cannot wait.


I shall go to somebody else,


reverend sir, besides the captain of the ‘sbirri’.


From what country,


is your travelling companion?


From France, and he only speaks his native language.


Then you speak French?


Not one word.


That is amusing! Then you converse in pantomime?


Exactly.


I pity you, for it is a difficult language.


Yes, to express the various shades of thought, but in the material part of our intercourse we understand each other quite well.


May I invite myself to breakfast with you?


Ask my friend whether he has any objection.


Amiable companion of the captain,


will you kindly accept me as a third guest at the breakfast-table?


I shall, immediately put a stop to this ridiculous comedy, and treat it in a very serious manner. Go at once to the inn, invite that officer and his companion to dine with me to-day, and repair afterwards to the bishop’s palace. Give him notice that the officer who has been so grossly insulted by his ‘sbirri’ shall not leave the city before he has received a complete apology, and whatever sum of money he may claim as damages. Tell him that the notice comes from me, and that all the expenses incurred by the officer shall be paid by him.


Thirty or nothing,


That is the reason,


for which no bolts are allowed in the rooms of the hotels, so that strangers may not shut themselves up in their chambers. The Holy Inquisition does not allow a man to sleep with any woman but his wife.


It seems strange, that you and the captain should live together without ever speaking to each other.


Why, madam? We understand one another perfectly, for speech is of very little consequence in the kind of business we do together.


I do not know any kind of business, that can be transacted without the assistance of the voice or the pen.


Excuse me, madam, there are some: playing at cards, for instance, is a business of that sort.


Are you always playing?


We do nothing else. We play the game of the Pharaoh (faro), and I hold the bank.


But tell me, does the bank receive much?


As for the deposits, they are of so little importance, that they are hardly worth mentioning.


Adieu. I wish you a pleasant journey to Naples, and hope you will enjoy yourself there.


Well, general, I am not going to Naples immediately; I have changed my mind and intend to proceed to Parma, where I wish to see the Infante. I also wish to constitute myself the interpreter of these two officers who know nothing of Italian.


Ah, young man! opportunity makes a thief, does it not? Well, if I were in your place, I would do the same.


As I have no carriage of my own, we shall have to take the coach.


I have a very comfortable carriage, and I offer you the two back seats if you have no objection to my society.


That is a piece of good fortune. Be kind enough to propose it to Henriette.


Will you, madam, grant me the favour of accompanying you to Parma?


I should be delighted, for we could have some conversation, but take care, sir, your task will not be an easy one, you will often find yourself obliged to translate for both of us.


I shall do so with great pleasure; I am only sorry that the journey is not longer. We can arrange everything at supper-time; allow me to leave you now as I have some business to settle.


At least tell me, madam, whether the captain is your husband or your father.


Neither one nor the other,


Because, in consequence of the agreement in which I have entered with the spirits watching the treasure, at the first attempt made by any other person, the casket containing the treasure will sink to twice its present depth, that is to say as deep as thirty-five fathoms, and then I shall have myself ten times more difficulty in raising it to the surface. I cannot state precisely the time of my return, for it depends upon certain combinations which are not under my control, but recollect that the treasure cannot be obtained by anyone but I.


If you wish to know, ask him to relate the whole story himself, only you must request him not to omit any of the particulars.


A friend of mine, an officer in the army, having occasion to go to Rome, I solicited a furlough of six months, and accompanied him. I seized with great delight the opportunity of visiting a city, the name of which has a powerful influence on the imagination, owing to the memories of the past attached to it. I did not entertain any doubt that the Latin language was spoken there in good society, at least as generally as in Hungary. But I was indeed greatly mistaken, for nobody can speak it, not even the priests, who only pretend to write it, and it is true that some of them do so with great purity. I was therefore rather uncomfortable during my stay in Rome, and with the exception of my eyes my senses remained perfectly inactive. I had spent a very tedious month in that city, the ancient queen of the world, when Cardinal Albani gave my friend dispatches for Naples. Before leaving Rome, he introduced me to his eminence, and his recommendation had so much influence that the cardinal promised to send me very soon with dispatches for the Duke of Parma, Piacenza, and Guastalla, assuring me that all my travelling expenses would be defrayed. As I wished to see the harbour called in former times Centum cellae and now Civita-Vecchia, I gave up the remainder of my time to that visit, and I proceeded there with a cicerone who spoke Latin. I was loitering about the harbour when I saw, coming out of a tartan, an elderly officer and this young woman dressed as she is now. Her beauty struck me, but I should not have thought any more about it, if the officer had not put up at my inn, and in an apartment over which I had a complete view whenever I opened my window. In the evening I saw the couple taking supper at the same table, but I remarked that the elderly officer never addressed a word to the young one. When the supper was over, the disguised girl left the room, and her companion did not lift his eyes from a letter which he was reading, as it seemed to me, with the deepest attention. Soon afterwards the officer closed the windows, the light was put out, and I suppose my neighbors went to bed. The next morning, being up early as is my habit, I saw the officer go out, and the girl remained alone in the room. I sent my cicerone, who was also my servant, to tell the girl in the garb of an officer that I would give her ten sequins for an hour’s conversation. He fulfilled my instructions, and on his return he informed me that her answer, given in French, had been to the effect that she would leave for Rome immediately after breakfast, and that, once in that city, I should easily find some opportunity of speaking to her.


I can find out from the vetturino, where they put up in Rome, and I promise you to enquire of him.


She left Civita-Vecchia with the elderly officer, and I returned home on the following day. Two days afterwards, the cardinal gave me the dispatches, which were addressed to M. Dutillot, the French minister, with a passport and the money necessary for the journey. He told me, with great kindness, that I need not hurry on the road. I had almost forgotten the handsome adventuress, when, two days before my departure, my cicerone gave me the information that he had found out where she lived, and that she was with the same officer. I told him to try to see her, and to let her know that my departure was fixed for the day after the morrow. She sent me word by him that, if I would inform her of the hour of my departure, she would meet me outside of the gate, and get into the coach with me to accompany me on my way. I thought the arrangement very ingenious and during the day I sent the cicerone to tell her the hour at which I intended to leave, and where I would wait for her outside of the Porto del Popolo. She came at the appointed time, and we have remained together ever since. As soon as she was seated near me, she made me understand by signs that she wanted to dine with me. You may imagine what difficulty we had in understanding one another, but we guessed somehow the meaning expressed by our pantomime, and I accepted the adventure with delight. We dined gaily together, speaking without understanding, but after the dessert we comprehended each other very well. I fancied that I had seen the end of it, and you may imagine how surprised I was when, upon my offering her the ten sequins, she refused most positively to take any money, making me understand that she would rather go with me to Parma, because she had some business in that city, and did not want to return to Rome.


The proposal was, after all, rather agreeable to me; I consented to her wishes. I only regretted my inability to make her understand that, if she was followed by anyone from Rome, and if that person wanted to take her back, I was not in a position to defend her against violence. I was also sorry that, with our mutual ignorance of the language spoken by each of us, we had no opportunity of conversation, for I should have been greatly pleased to hear her adventures, which, I think, must be interesting. You can, of course, guess that I have no idea of who she can be. I only know that she calls herself Henriette, that she must be a Frenchwoman, that she is as gentle as a turtledove, that she has evidently received a good education, and that she enjoys good health. She is witty and courageous, as we have both seen, I in Rome and you in Cesena at General Spada’s table. If she would tell you her history, and allow you to translate it for me in Latin she would indeed please me much, for I am sincerely her friend, and I can assure you that it will grieve me to part from her in Parma. Please to tell her that I intend to give her the thirty sequins I received from the Bishop of Cesena, and that if I were rich I would give her more substantial proofs of my tender affection. Now, sir, I shall feel obliged to you if you will explain it all to her in French.


Be good enough to inform him, that the same principle which forbids me to utter a falsehood, does not allow me to tell the truth. As for the thirty sequins which he intends to give me, I will not accept even one of them, and he would deeply grieve me by pressing them upon me. The moment we reach Parma I wish him to allow me to lodge wherever I may please, to make no enquiries whatever about me, and, in case he should happen to meet me, to crown his great kindness to me by not appearing to have ever known me.


You can assure him,


that he need not entertain any anxiety about me.


Who can she be,


this girl who seems to have the most elevated feelings under the veil of the most cynical libertinism? She says that in Parma she wishes to remain perfectly unknown, her own mistress, and I cannot, of course, flatter myself that she will not place me under the same restrictions as the captain to whom she has already abandoned herself. Goodbye to my expectations, to my money, and my illusions! But who is she--what is she? She must have either a lover or a husband in Parma, or she must belong to a respectable family; or, perhaps, thanks to a boundless love for debauchery and to her confidence in her own charms, she intends to set fortune, misery, and degradation at defiance, and to try to enslave some wealthy nobleman! But that would be the plan of a mad woman or of a person reduced to utter despair, and it does not seem to be the case with Henriette. Yet she possesses nothing. True, but she refused, as if she had been provided with all she needed, the kind assistance of a man who has the right to offer it, and from whom, in sooth, she can accept without blushing, since she has not been ashamed to grant him favours with which love had nothing to do. Does she think that it is less shameful for a woman to abandon herself to the desires of a man unknown and unloved than to receive a present from an esteemed friend, and particularly at the eve of finding herself in the street, entirely destitute in the middle of a foreign city, amongst people whose language she cannot even speak? Perhaps she thinks that such conduct will justify the ‘faux pas’ of which she has been guilty with the captain, and give him to understand that she had abandoned herself to him only for the sake of escaping from the officer with whom she was in Rome. But she ought to be quite certain that the captain does not entertain any other idea; he shews himself so reasonable that it is impossible to suppose that he ever admitted the possibility of having inspired her with a violent passion, because she had seen him once through a window in Civita-Vecchia. She might possibly be right, and feel herself justified in her conduct towards the captain, but it is not the same with me, for with her intelligence she must be aware that I would not have travelled with them if she had been indifferent to me, and she must know that there is but one way in which she can obtain my pardon. She may be endowed with many virtues, but she has not the only one which could prevent me from wishing the reward which every man expects to receive at the hands of the woman he loves. If she wants to assume prudish manners towards me and to make a dupe of me, I am bound in honour to shew her how much she is mistaken.


I shall ask her,


to grant me the same favours which she has so easily granted to her old captain, and if I meet with a refusal the best revenge will be to shew her a cold and profound contempt until our arrival in Parma.


The reason for which she begs you,


to leave her in Parma and not to take any further notice of her, must be that she hopes to meet some lover of hers there. Let me have half an hour’s conversation with her, and I flatter myself I can persuade her to sacrifice that lover for me. If she refuses me, I remain here; you will go with her to Parma, where you will leave my carriage at the post, only sending me a receipt, so that I can claim it whenever I please.


As soon as breakfast is over. I shall go and visit the institute, and leave you alone with Henriette. I hope you may succeed, for I should be delighted to see her under your protection when I part with her. Should she persist in her first resolution, I could easily find a ‘vetturino’ here, and you could keep your carriage. I thank you for your proposal, and it will grieve me to leave you.


I should like it very much, if I had some other clothes; but with such a costume as this I do not care to shew myself about the city.


Then you do not want to go out?


No.


Can I keep you company?


That would be delightful.


Tell me now whether you intended the order which you gave him yesterday to forget you, never to enquire after you; and even not to know you if he happened to meet you, from the time of our arrival in Parma, for me as well as for him.


It is not an order that I gave him; I have no right to do so, and I could not so far forget myself; it is only a prayer I addressed to him, a service which circumstances have compelled me to claim at his hands, and as he has no right to refuse me, I never entertained any doubt of his granting my command. As far as you are concerned, it is certain that I should have addressed the same prayer to you, if I had thought that you had any views about me. You have given me some marks of your friendship, but you must understand that if, under the circumstances, I am likely to be injured by the kind attentions of the captain, yours would injure me much more. If you have any friendship for me, you would have felt all that.


As you know that I entertain great friendship for you, you cannot possibly suppose that I would leave you alone, without money, without resources in the middle of a city where you cannot even make yourself understood. Do you think that a man who feels for you the most tender affection can abandon you when he has been fortunate enough to make your acquaintance, when he is aware of the sad position in which you are placed? If you think such a thing possible, you must have a very false idea of friendship, and should such a man grant your request, he would only prove that he is not your friend.


I am certain that the captain is my friend; yet you have heard him, he will obey me, and forget me.