I am ready, sir, to pay with my body for the wretched twenty-five Louis of which my husband is in need. You can do what you like with me; but remember that in taking advantage of my position to assuage your brutal lust you are the viler of the two, for I only sell myself so cheaply because necessity compels me to do so. Your baseness is more shameful than mine. Come on; here I am.


No, madam, I shall not leave this room degraded because you have told me so, but I shall leave it after imparting to you a few degrading truths, of which you cannot be ignorant if you are a woman of any decency whatever. Here are twenty-five louis, a wretched sum to give a virtuous woman in payment of her favours, but much more than you deserve. I am not brutal, and to convince you of the fact I am going to leave you in the undisturbed possession of your charms, which I despise as heartily as I should have admired them if your behaviour had been different. I only give you the money from a feeling of compassion which I cannot overcome, and which is the only feeling I now have for you. Nevertheless, let me tell you that whether a woman sells herself for twenty-five louis or twenty-five million louis she is as much a prostitute in the one case as in the other, if she does not give her love with herself, or at all events the semblance of love. Farewell. Sir, let me alone; I wish to hear no more about your wife.


Only lack of money to return to my native country,


What were you doing at Madrid, and why did you leave?


I was there four years as valet to Dr. Pistoria, physician to the King of Spain, but on my health failing I left him. Here is a certificate which will shew you that I gave satisfaction.


What can you do?


I write a good hand, I can assist a gentleman as his secretary, and I intend being a scribe when I get home. Here are some verses I copied yesterday.


You write well; but can you write correctly without a book?


I can write from dictation in French, Latin, and Spanish.


Correctly?


Yes, sir, if the dictation is done properly, for it is the business of the one who dictates to see that everything is correct.


But you can’t write,


I will breakfast with you to-morrow.


Will you give me my supper?


With pleasure; but I have been taken in so often that I shan’t expect you without an earnest.


How can I give you an earnest? I don’t understand.


You must be a new-comer here.


Just arrived.


Be pleased to explain to this gentleman, who has just asked me for supper, the meaning of the word ‘earnest.’


She’s the wantonest wench in all Marseilles.


Is your favourite amongst them?


No, I keep a ballet-girl, and I will introduce you to her, as I am glad to say that I am free from all jealousy.


I have finer ones, but they are three francs each, and the maker only sells them by the dozen,


I will take a dozen if they are really good. You have got a nice maid,


She is only fifteen, and won’t do anything, as she is new to it.


Will you allow me to see for myself?


You may ask her if you like, but I don’t think she will consent.


I will not, my dear, but tell me truly whether you are still a ‘virgo intacta’.


Certainly, sir!


Wonderful! but tell me why you wouldn’t let me see for myself?


Because it revolted me.


Nevertheless you will have to do so, for otherwise, in spite of your prettiness, people will not know what to make of you. Would you like to let me try?


Yes, but not in this horrible house.


Where, then?


Go to my mother’s to-morrow, I will be there. Your guide knows where she lives.


You will take me to-morrow to see her mother,


What do you want?


Is you daughter here?


No, and what if she were? I am not her bawd.


No, of course not, my good woman.


You hussy! you are bringing disgrace on me; get out of my house. You are no longer my daughter!


How could you lead me into such a dangerous position? You must have known your mother was savage.


I hoped she would behave respectfully to you.


Be calm; don’t weep any more. Tell me how I can serve you.


Rather than return to that horrible house I was in yesterday I would throw myself into the sea.


Do you know of any respectable house where I can keep her? Take me to it, then.


I only want a little nook,


This closet is six francs a month, a month’s rent to be paid in advance, and I may tell you that my door is always shut at ten o’clock, and that nobody can come and pass the night with you.


How much will you board this young woman for?


That will do,


If you wish to board here. I think I could give satisfaction.


I don’t believe you,


It’s true all the same.


You are a bad fellow.


I am charmed to hear it,


Are you contented, dear?


I am quite happy.


Then I hope you will be kind, and find room for me in your bed.


You may come if you like, but I must tell you that you will not find me a maid, as I have had one lover.


You told me a lie, then?


Forgive me, I could not guess you would be my lover.


I forgive you willingly; all the more so as I am no great stickler for maidenheads.


How is it you do not partake my desires?


I dare not, lest you take me for a pretender.


Why did you tell me you had a lover?


I never heard of a girl telling a lie of that sort before.


All the same I did not tell a lie, but I am very glad that I seem as if I had done so.


Tell me all about it.


Certainly I will, for I want to win your confidence. This is the story:


I had enquiries about a maid this morning,


but it is for a gay woman, and you are pretty. You would have a good deal of difficulty in remaining virtuous.


I can keep off the infection,


and in the position I am in I cannot pick and choose.


I think, my poor Rosalie, you have only one chemise.


Alas! that is all.


Comfort yourself, my dear; all your wants shall be supplied tomorrow, and in the evening you shall sup with me in my room on the second floor. I will take care of you.


You pity me, then?


I fancy there is more love than pity in it.


Would to God it were so!


Tell your master,


that Rosalie will sup with me to-morrow; let us have a fasting dinner, but let it be a good one.


There will be no loose women in the amphitheatre,


as everybody has to pay.


You shall be my mistress,


and my servants shall respect you as if you were my wife.


I think I must be in disguise,


I think I must be in disguise, for I have never seen myself so decked out before.


for I have never seen myself so decked out before.


Think no more of your mother, dearest one. You look like a lady of quality, and I shall be quite proud when the people at Genoa ask me if you are my daughter.


At Genoa?


Yes, at Genoa. Why do you blush?


From surprise; perhaps I may see there one whom I have not yet forgotten.


Would you like to stay here better?


No, no! Love me and be sure that I love you and for your own sake, not from any thought of my own interests.


You are moved, my angel; let me wipe away your tears with kisses.


I have as good an appetite as anyone, and an excellent digestion. You shall see for yourself when I grow more accustomed to my sudden happiness.


At least you can drink; this wine is admirable. If you prefer Greek muscat I will send for some. It will remind you of your lover.


If you love me at all, I beg you will spare me that mortification.


You shall have no more mortification from me, I promise you. It was only a joke, and I beg your pardon for it.


As I look upon you I feel in despair at not having known you first.


That feeling of yours, which wells forth from the depths of your open soul, is grand. You are beautiful and good, for you only yielded to the voice of love with the prospect of becoming his wife; and when I think what you are to me I am in despair at not being sure you love me. An evil genius whispers in my ear that you only bear with me because I had the happiness of helping you.


Indeed, that is an evil genius. To be sure, if I had met you in the street I should not have fallen head over ears in love with you, like a wanton, but you would certainly have pleased me. I am sure I love you, and not for what you have done for me; for if I were rich and you were poor, I would do anything in the world for you. But I don’t want it to be like that, for I had rather be your debtor than for you to be mine. These are my real feelings, and you can guess the rest.


I must thank you,


I am delighted. Who cooked this delicious supper?


My daughter.


She understands her craft; tell her I thought it excellent.


Yes, sir, but it is dear.


Not too dear for me. You shall be pleased with me as I with you, and take care to have as good a supper to-morrow evening, as I hope the lady will be well enough to do justice to the products of your daughter’s culinary skill.


Bed is a capital place to get an appetite. Ah! it is sixty years since I have had anything to do with that sort of thing. What are you laughing at, mademoiselle?


At the delight with which you must recollect it.


You are right, it is a pleasant recollection; and thus I am always ready to forgive young folks the peccadilloes that love makes them commit.


You are a wise old man,


everyone should sympathise with the tenderest of all our mortal follies.


If the old man is wise, my mother must be very foolish.


Would you like me to take you to the play to-morrow?


Pray do not. I will come if you like, but it will vex me very much. I don’t want to walk out with you or to go to the theatre with you here. Good heavens! What would people say. No, neither at Marseilles; but elsewhere, anything you please and with all my heart.


Very good, my dear, just as you please. But look at your room; no more garret for you; and in three days we will start.


So soon?


Yes; tell me to-morrow what you require for the journey, for I don’t want you to lack for anything, and if you leave it all to me I might forget something which would vex me.


Well, I should like another cloak, a cloak with a lining, some boots, a night-cap, and a prayer-book.


You know how to read, do you?


Certainly; and I can write fairly well.


I am glad to hear it. Your asking me so freely for what you want is a true proof of your love; where confidence dwells not there is no love. I will not forget anything, but your feet are so small that I should advise you to get your boots yourself.


I wanted it, but I should never have dared to ask for it.


You, my dear,


must be very reserved with them, and not allow them to take the slightest liberty. Give them your orders as a mistress, but without pride, and you will be obeyed and respected. If they forget themselves in the slightest particular, tell me at once.


that he hoped to give madam satisfaction.


I am always afraid, of being asked who I am.


You needn’t be afraid, dearest; in France no gentleman or lady would think of asking such a question.


But if they did, what ought I to do?


You should make use of an evasion.


What’s an evasion?


A way of escaping from a difficulty without satisfying impertinent curiosity.


Give me an example.


Well, if such a question were asked you, you might say, ‘You had better ask this gentleman.’


I see, the question is avoided; but is not that impolite?


Yes; but not so impolite as to ask an embarrassing question.


And what would you say if the question was passed on to you?


Well, my answer would vary in a ratio with the respect in which I held the questioner. I would not tell the truth, but I should say something. And I am glad to see you attentive to my lessons. Always ask questions, and you will always find me ready to answer, for I want to teach you. And now let us to bed; we have to start for Antibes at an early hour, and love will reward you for the pleasure you have given me to-day.


Do you know a Russian who calls himself Charles Ivanoff?


I saw him once at Grenoble.


It is said that he has escaped from Siberia, and that he is the younger son of the Duke of Courland.


So I have heard, but I know no proof of his claim to the title.


He is at Genoa, where it is said a banker is to give him twenty thousand crowns. In spite of that, no one would give him a sou here, so I sent him to Genoa at my own expense, to rid the place of him.


She came here a fortnight ago with a man who calls himself her husband. The poor devils hadn’t a penny, and she, a great beauty, enchanted everybody, but would give no one a smile or a word.


I have both seen and know her,


I furnished her with the means to come here. How could she leave Nice without any money?


That’s just what no one can understand. She went off in a carriage, and the landlord’s bill was paid. I was interested in the woman. The Marquis Grimaldi told me that she had refused a hundred louis he offered her, and that a Venetian of his acquaintance had fared just as badly. Perhaps that is you?


It is, and I gave her some money despite my treatment.


I don’t really want it, it’s only my thoughtlessness.


that he was not quite sure what he would have done under the circumstances.


I want to find her a maid,


a good seamstress, who could go out with her, and above all who could talk Italian to her, for I want her to learn the language that I may take her into society at Florence, Rome and Naples.


Don’t deprive Genoa of the pleasure of entertaining her. I will introduce her under whatever name she pleases, and in my own house to begin with.


She has good reasons for preserving her incognito here.


Ah, I see!--Do you think of staying here long?


A month, or thereabouts, and our pleasures will be limited to seeing the town and its surroundings and going to the theatre. We shall also enjoy the pleasures of the table. I hope to eat champignons every day, they are better here than anywhere else.


An excellent plan. I couldn’t suggest a better. I am going to see what I can do in the way of getting you a maid, mademoiselle.


You sir? How can I deserve such great kindness?


My interest in you is the greater, as I think you come from Marseilles.


I want ribbons and other little things, but I should like to bargain for them and pay for them out of my own money, without your having anything to do with it.


Do whatever you like, my dear, and afterwards we will go to the play.


You have bought me some beautiful things, but you are too lavish with your money; if you had bargained you might have saved four louis at least.


Very likely, dearest, but I never was any hand at a bargain.


It’s the mother of the maid I have engaged,


My daughter, speaks French, and you will find her a good, faithful, and obliging girl.


What is the matter, dearest? You know I do not like to see you looking melancholy.


I am vexed at Veronique’s being prettier than I.


I see what you mean; I like that! But console yourself, Veronique is nothing compared to you, in my eyes at all events. You are my only beauty; but to reassure you I will ask M. de Grimaldi to tell her mother to come and fetch her away, and to get me another maid as ugly as possible.


Oh, no! pray do not do so; he will think I am jealous, and I wouldn’t have him think so for the world.


Well, well, smile again if you do not wish to vex me.


I shall soon do that, if, as you assure me, she will not make me lose your love. But what made the old gentleman get me a girl like that? Do you think he did it out of mischief?


No, I don’t think so. I am sure, on the other hand, that he wanted to let you know that you need not fear being compared with anybody. Are you pleased with her in other respects?


She works well, and she is very respectful. She does not speak four words without addressing me as signora, and she is careful to translate what she says from Italian into French. I hope that in a month I shall speak well enough for us to dispense with her services when we go to Florence. I have ordered Le Duc to clear out the room I have chosen for her, and I will send her her dinner from our own table. I will be kind to her, but I hope you will not make me wretched.


I could not do so; and I do not see what there can be in common between the girl and myself.


Then you will pardon my fears.


The more readily as they shew your love.


I thank you, but keep my secret.


Ask him, if he did not make me keep on. He said he would go if I didn’t, so I gave in to keep him.


he must come to dinner some day that she might have an opportunity of seeing whether he really had any appetite. It’s an easy matter. Your eyes speak to my soul, and tell me what to do and what to say.


The first thing to be done, is for you to listen attentively to the whole piece without minding about your parts. When you know the whole play I will satisfy your curiosity.


I believe she is quite well. My only desire sir, is to avoid all appearance of knowing anything about you.


One word from you will gain me a hundred thousand crowns, and you shall have half.


She has given me an exquisite dinner, you must be very happy with her.


I won’t have any prompter; send him about his business.


We can’t get on without him.


You’ll have to; I will be the prompter.


If we knew our parts as well as the ‘pater noster’ we should be certain to come to a dead stop if the prompter isn’t in his box.


Very good. I will occupy the box myself, but I shall see your drawers.


You would have some difficulty in doing that, she doesn’t wear any.


So much the better.


You know nothing about it.


I don’t read Italian well enough, and I don’t wish to have the actors laughing at me; but Veronique could do it.


Ask if she will read the part. All the better. Si, bella Lindana, debbe adorarvi!


You love Veronique, and you only translated that piece to have an opportunity of declaring your love.


I have reason to suspect, that I am with child, and I am enchanted at the thought of giving you a dear pledge of my love.


If it comes at such a time it will be mine, and I assure you I shall love it dearly.


And if it comes two or three weeks sooner you will not be sure that you are the parent?


Not quite sure; but I shall love it just as well, and look upon it as my child as well as yours.


I am sure you must be the father. It is impossible the child can be Petri’s, who only knew me once, and then very imperfectly, whilst you and I have lived in tender love for so long a time.


Calm yourself, dearest, I implore you! You are right; it cannot be Petri’s child. You know I love you, and I cannot doubt that you are with child by me and by me alone. If you give me a baby as pretty as yourself, it will be mine indeed. Calm yourself.


How can I be calm when you can have such a suspicion? The servant has given me this letter when you were away. I am offended by his doing so, and I want you to avenge me.


Where did you get this letter?


From a young man, who is unknown to me. He gave me a crown, and begged me to give the letter to the lady without your seeing me, and he promised to give me two crowns more if I brought him a reply tomorrow. I did not think I was doing wrong, sir, as the lady was at perfect liberty to tell you.


That’s all very well, but you must go, as the lady, who gave me the letter unopened, as you can see for yourself, is offended with you.


my dear Rosalie. It was just as you were coming out of the theatre, escorted by the Marquis de Grimaldi, who is my godfather. I have not deceived you; I was still intending to come and marry you at Marseilles next spring, as I promised. I love you faithfully, and if you are still my good Rosalie I am ready to marry you here in the presence of my kinfolk. If you have done wrong I promise never to speak of it, for I know that it was I who led you astray. Tell me, I entreat you, whether I may speak to the Marquis de Grimaldi with regard to you. I am ready to receive you from the hands of the gentleman with whom you are living, provided you are not his wife. Be sure, if you are still free, that you can only recover your honour by marrying your seducer.


If you do dear Rosalie, I shall die of grief; but if I do not yield you, my honour bids me marry you, and that I am quite ready to do.


I love you and you alone, darling; but it is not true that your honour bids you marry me. Ours is a marriage of the heart; our love is mutual, and that is enough for my happiness.


Dear Rosalie, I adore you, but I am the best judge of my own honour. If Petri is a well-to-do man and a man who would make you happy, I must either give you up or take you myself.


No, no; there is no hurry to decide. If you love me I am happy, for I love you and none other. I shall not answer the letter, and I don’t want to hear anything more of Petri.


You may be sure that I will say no more of him, but I am sure that the marquis will have a hand in it.


I daresay, but he won’t speak to me twice on the subject.


I want you to see my beautiful garden before you go, it will be one more pleasant recollection of your stay for me.


You are a little late,


However, we will see to that in the future. I mean to make his fortune. We are longing, to see the girl from Marseilles he is going to marry. We should welcome her as a beloved daughter.


I will find some means of vengeance, but I don’t think it would be a good plan to write to him. We will hasten our preparations for leaving, and receive him to-morrow with that cold politeness which bears witness to indignation. Above all, we will not make the slightest reference to his godson.


If Petri really loves me. I pity him. I think he is a good fellow, and I don’t feel angry with him for being present at dinner, as he may possibly be unaware that his presence was likely to give me offence. But I still shudder when I think of it: I thought I should have died when our eyes met! Throughout dinner he could not see my eyes, as I kept them nearly shut, and indeed he could hardly see me. Did he look at me while he was talking?


No, he only looked at me. I am as sorry for him as you are, for, as you say, he looks an honest fellow.


Well, it’s over now, and I hope I shall make a good supper. Did you notice what the aunt said? I am sure she was in the plot. She thought she would gain me over by saying she was ready to treat me like her own child. She was a decent-looking woman, too.


If you really feel, that you have insulted us, that is enough; we are amply avenged. But all the same, sir, we shall be on our guard against you for the future, though that will be for a short while, as we are just leaving. I take a great interest in your mistress’s welfare; and as I feel sure that she cannot long be happy in her present uncertain position, while I am sure that she would make my godson an excellent wife, I was determined that both of you should make his acquaintance, for Rosalie herself knows very little of him. I confess that the means I employed were dishonourable, but you will pardon the means for the sake of the excellent end I had in view. I hope you will have a pleasant journey, and that you may live for a long time in uninterrupted happiness with your charming mistress. I hope you will write to me, and always reckon on my standing your friend, and doing everything in my power for you. Before I go, I will tell you something which will give you an idea of the excellent disposition of young Petri, to whose happiness Rosalie seems essential. He only told me the following, after I had absolutely refused to take charge of a letter he had written to Rosalie, despairing of being able to send it any other way. After assuring me that Rosalie had loved him, and that consequently she could not have any fixed aversion for him, he added that if the fear of being with child was the reason why she would not marry him he would agree to put off the marriage till after the child was born, provided that she would agree to stay in Genoa in hiding, her presence to be unknown to all save himself. He offers to pay all the expenses of her stay. He made a remarkably wise reflection when we were talking it over. If she gave birth to a child too soon after our marriage, both her honour and mine would suffer hurt; she might also lose the liking of my relations, and if Rosalie is to be my wife I want her to be happy in everything.”


If M. Petri did not tell you that it was possible that I might be with child by him, he is a right honest man, but now I tell you so myself. I do not think it likely, but still it is possible. Tell him, sir, that I will remain at Genoa until the child is born, in the case of my being pregnant, of which I have no certain knowledge, or until I am quite sure that I am not with child. If I do have a child the truth will be made known. In the case of there being no doubt of M. Petri’s being the parent, I am ready to marry him; but if he sees for himself that the child is not his I hope he will be reasonable enough to let me alone for the future. As to the expenses and my lodging at Genoa, tell him that he need not trouble himself about either.


You want to leave me, then, Rosalie?


Yes, dearest, but it will not be for long.


I think we shall never see each other again.


Why not, dearest? You have only to remain faithful to me. Listen to me. Your honour and my own make it imperative that I should convince Petri that I am not with child by him, and you that I am with child by you.


I never doubted it, dear Rosalie.


Yes, dear, you doubted it once and that is enough. Our parting will cost me many a bitter tear, but these pangs are necessary to my future happiness. I hope you will write to me, and after the child is born it will be for you to decide on how I shall rejoin you. If I am not pregnant I will rejoin you in a couple of months at latest.


Though I may grieve at your resolve I will not oppose it, for I promised I would never cross you. I suppose you will go into a convent; and the marquis must find you a suitable one, and protect you like a father. Shall I speak to him on the subject? I will leave you as much money as you will want.


That will not be much. As for M. de Grimaldi, he is bound in honour to procure me an asylum. I don’t think it will be necessary for you to speak to him about it.


He may hope as much as he likes,


I have resolved, to go into the convent to-morrow, and I shall be very glad to have a short visit from you the day after.


I will be there, and you may be sure that I will do all in my power to make your stay agreeable.


That’s a rare girl, you really don’t know her, and you ought to know her better.


Ah, that’s in a play, in real life the man who declares his love in words is a simpleton; ‘tis with deeds the true lover shews his love.


Very true, but your lady was frightened all the same.


No, no, Veronique; she is very fond of you.


I know she is; but I have seen her jealous of me.


If so, she was quite wrong. You are right, kindly send Le Duc to me.


Then go behind the lady’s chair,


You owe me no gratitude, your daughter is clever, good, and beautiful.


Thank the gentleman for his compliment, for you are really stupid, wanton, and ugly; But how could you have the face to sit at table with the gentleman in a dirty chemise?


I should blush, mother, if I thought you were right; but I put a clean one on only two hours ago.


Madam, the chemise cannot look white beside your daughter’s whiter skin.


Perhaps the gentleman won’t be pleased at my leaving him twenty-four hours before he goes away.


On the contrary. I should be very vexed.


Well; then, she can stay, sir, but for decency’s sake I must send her younger sister to sleep with her.


If you please,


Be kind enough to tell her, that Veronique has anticipated her wishes and has got her sister Annette to stay with her.


Two are always better than one, my dear fellow. Your Rosalie is contented, and you ought to congratulate yourself on having made her happy, as I am sure she will be. The only thing that vexes me is that you can’t go and see her yourself with any decency.


You are in love with her, my lord.


I confess that I am, but I am an old man, and it vexes me.


That’s no matter, she will love you tenderly; and if Petri ever becomes her husband, I am sure she will never be anything more than a good friend to him. Write to me at Florence and tell me how she receives him.


Stay here for another three days; the two beauties there will make the time seem short.


It’s exactly for that reason that I want to go tomorrow. I am afraid of Veronique.


I shouldn’t have thought that you would have allowed any woman to frighten you.


I am afraid she has cast her fatal nets around me, and when the time comes she will be strictly moral. Rosalie is my only love.


Well, here’s a letter from her.


Dearest,--I see you have placed me in the hands of one who will care for me like a father. This is a new kindness which I owe to the goodness of your heart. I will write to you at whatever address you send me. If you like Veronique, my darling, do not fear any jealousy from me; I should be wrong to entertain such a feeling in my present position. I expect that if you make much of her she will not be able to resist, and I shall be glad to hear that she is lessening your sadness. I hope you will write me a few lines before you go.


Yes, the dear girl will find in me her friend and father, and if she marries my godson and he does not treat her as he ought, he will not possess her long. I shall remember her in my will, and thus when I am dead my care will still continue. But what do you think of her advice as to Veronique? I don’t expect she is exactly a vestal virgin, though I have never heard anything against her.


I am quite well,


I am glad to hear it; but don’t trouble now, you shall wait on me when I am at Leghorn.


Yes, whenever you like and with as many oarsmen as you please; but I hope you will put off your departure for two or three days.


No, the delay might cost me too dear.


Certain persons have asked me to beg you to stay a few days longer, or at least to sup here to-morrow night.


Very good. We will talk of the few days more at supper to-morrow.


Victory!


As my sister is with me, there can be no ground for any suspicion.


I am delighted that you consent; now I am going to talk to you. I beg you will stay; I want to speak to you; come and sit by me. Why should you refuse me a pleasure which after all is a mere mark of friendship?


Because, things being as they are, we could not remain friends, neither could we be lovers.


Lovers! why not, we are perfectly free.


I am not free; I am bound by certain prejudices which do not trouble you.


I should have thought you were superior to prejudices.


There are some prejudices which a woman ought to respect. The superiority you mention is a pitiful thing; always the dupe of itself. What would become of me, I should like to know, if I abandoned myself to the feelings I have for you?


I was waiting for you to say that, dear Veronique. What you feel for me is not love. If it were so, you would feel as I do, and you would soon break the bonds of prejudice.


I confess that my head is not quite turned yet, but still I feel that I shall grieve at your departure.


If so, that is no fault of mine. But tell me what I can do for you during my short stay here.


Nothing; we do not know one another well enough.


I understand you, but I would have you know that I do not intend to marry any woman who is not my friend.


You mean you will not marry her till you have ceased to be her lover?


Exactly.


You would like to finish where I would begin.


You may be happy some day, but you play for high stakes.


Well, well, it’s a case of win all or lose all.


That’s as may be. But without further argument it seems to me that we could safely enjoy our love, and pass many happy moments undisturbed by prejudice.


Possibly, but one gets burnt fingers at that game, and I shudder at the very thought of it. No, no; leave me alone, there is my sister who will wonder why I am in your arms.


Very good; I see I was mistaken, and Rosalie too.


Why what did she think about me?


She wrote and told me that she thought you would be kind.


I hope she mayn’t have to repent for having been too kind herself.


Good bye, Veronique.


Bravo, Veronique! that’s the way. You are intended by nature to rule your lovers with an absolute sway.


You see how I let people believe what they please; I had rather be thought kind, as you call it, than ridiculous, as an honest girl is termed now-a-days. Is it not so?


No, dear Veronique, I will never call you ridiculous, but I shall think you hate me if you make me pass another night in torture. You have inflamed me.


Oh, pray be quiet! For pity’s sake leave me alone! I will not inflame you any more. Oh! Oh!


This is for my sister, I suppose?


No, dear Annette, it’s for you.


Forget everything, I beg, and I will trouble you no more. Give me my buckles, as I am going for a country walk, and I shall not be in till suppertime. I shall doubtless get an excellent appetite, and as you have nothing more to fear you need not trouble to send me Annette again.


Where is your sister?


She is in bed with a bad headache. She gave me a letter for you; here it is. I have been obliged to go to bed on account of a severe headache to which I am subject. I feel better already, and I shall be able to wait on you to-morrow. I tell you as much, because I do not wish you to think that my illness is feigned. I am sure that your repentance for having humiliated me is sincere, and I hope in your turn that you will forgive me or pity me, if my way of thinking prevents me from conforming to yours.


Annette dear, go and ask your sister if she would like us to sup in her room.


I only drink water, sir.


Don’t you like wine?


Yes, but as I am not used to it I am afraid of its getting into my head.


Then you can go to bed; you will sleep all the better.


Then you are very fond of Veronique?


Oh, yes! I love her with all my heart, but she will not let me caress her.


No doubt she is afraid of your ceasing to love her. But do you think she ought to make me suffer so?


No, but if you love her you ought to forgive her.


What do you want it for?


For the blisters that cursed saddle on which I rode six miles gave me.


Does the ointment do them good?


Certainly; it takes away the smart, and by to-morrow I shall be cured, but you must send Costa to me, as I cannot put it on myself.


Can’t I do it?


Yes, but I am afraid that would be an abuse of your kindness.


I guess why; but as I am short-sighted, how shall I see the blisters?


If you want to do it for me, I will place myself so that it will be easier for you. Stay, put the candle on this table. There you are, but don’t let Costa put it on again to-morrow, or he will guess that I or my sister did it to-night.


You will do me the same service, then, to-morrow?


I or my sister, for she will get up early.


Your sister! No, my dear; she would be afraid of giving me too much pleasure by touching me so near.


And I am only afraid of hurting you. Is that right? Good heavens! what a state your skin is in!


You have not finished yet.


I am so short-sighted; turn round.


With pleasure. Here I am.


Did I do it right!


Oh, admirably, dear Annette! You are an angel, and I am sure you know what pleasure you gave me. Can you come and spend an hour with me?


Wait a bit.


Come to my arms, my love; it is very cold.


Here I am. My sister is asleep and suspects nothing; and even if she awoke the bed is so large that she would not notice my absence.


You are a divine creature, and I love you with all my heart.


So much the better. I give myself up to you; do what you like with me, on the condition that you think of my sister no more.


That will not cost me much. I promise that I will not think of her.


I have always found them the best remedy for a headache.


My discretion,


only means that I have given up the hope of winning you. I know how to take my part.


Your love was not very great, then?


It sprang up quickly, and you, Veronique, could have made it increase to a gigantic size.


Because my sister is ill, and spent the whole night in writing,


Do you know what she was writing about?


Oh, no! She does not tell me that kind of thing, but here is a letter for you.


I will be wholly yours, if you will give me the position which Rosalie enjoyed. I will travel in your company, but you must give me a document, which M. de Grimaldi will sign as a witness, in which you must engage to marry me in a year, and to give me a portion of fifty thousand francs; and if at the end of a year you do not wish to marry me, that sum to be at my absolute disposal.


Yes, dear,


I will answer her when I get up.


Why write, when we can talk the matter over?


Because one is often more at ease in writing than in speaking.


In diplomacy and business that will pass, but not in love. Love makes no conditions. Let us have no documents, no safeguards, but give yourself up to me as Rosalie did, and begin to-night without my promising anything. If you trust in love, you will make him your prisoner. That way will honour us and our pleasures, and if you like I will consult M. de Grimaldi on the subject. As to your plan, if it does not injure your honour, it does small justice to your common sense, and no one but a fool would agree to it. You could not possibly love the man to whom you make such a proposal, and as to M. de Grimaldi, far from having anything to do with it, I am sure he would be indignant at the very idea.


I heard all you said to my sister, and I am sure you love her.


If I did, dear Annette, I should not have made my proposal in such plain terms.


I should like to believe that, but what would you have done if she had accepted your offer? You would be in one bed by this, I suppose?


I was more than certain, dearest, that her pride would hinder her receiving me.


You have interrupted our enjoyment, and hurt your sister’s feelings; perhaps you will despise her for the future?


On the contrary, I shall always love her.


Her feelings overcame her, and she surrendered to me without making any terms.


She has more sense than I.


Do you mean that?


I do, really.


I am astonished and delighted to hear it; but as it is so, kiss your sister.


Come, Veronique,


you will die of cold; come and lie down.


Dearest ones,


you have played me a pretty trick; was it premeditated? And was Veronique false this morning, or is she false now?


We did not premeditate anything, I was true this morning, and I am true now. I feel that I and my plan were very silly, and I hope you will forgive me, since I have repented and have had my punishment. Now I think I am in my right senses, as I have yielded to the feelings with which you inspired me when I saw you first, and against which I have fought too long.


What you say pleases me extremely.


Well, forgive me and finish my punishment by shewing that you are not angry with me.


How am I to do that?


By telling me that you are vexed no longer, and by continuing to give my sister proofs of your love.


I swear to you that so far from being angry with you I am very fond of you; but would you like us to be fond in your presence?


Yes, if you don’t mind me.


What do you say,


will you allow your heroic sister to remain a mere looker-on at our sweet struggles? Are you not generous enough to let me make her an actress in the drama?


No; I confess I do not feel as if I could be so generous to-night, but next night, if you will play the same part, we will change. Veronique shall act and I will look on.


That would do beautifully, if the gentleman was not going to-morrow morning.


I will stay, dear Veronique, if only to prove how much I love you.


You tired yourself too much yesterday, and you were not sufficiently temperate at supper. Do not let it trouble you, dearest, I am sure you love me. Do not try to force nature, you will only weaken yourself more. I think a gentle sleep would restore your manly powers better than anything. I can’t sleep myself, but don’t mind me. Sleep, we will make love together afterwards.


I will grant,


that they reason better than you, but I can go no farther; and I think every reasonable man would say as much.


We will go as soon as the weather improves,


in the mean time light me a fire.


Directly, sir,


I have paid already, and I am waiting for my change. Did I not give the money to you?


Certainly not, sir.


Whom did I give it to, then?


I really can’t say; but you will be able to recognize the man, doubtless.


It must have been you or one of your people.


These are all the men in my employ,


That’s an anagram of my Christian name and my surname; is it not a happy combination?


I would do so, if I could find a publisher, for I am not rich enough to pay the expenses, and the publishers are a pack of ignorant beggars. Besides, the press is not free, and the censor would not let the epithet I give to my hero pass. If I could go to Switzerland I am sure it could be managed; but I must have six sequins to walk to Switzerland, and I have not got them.


And when you got to Switzerland, where there are no theatres, what would you do for a living?


I would paint in miniature. Look at those.


I will give you an introduction to a gentleman at Berne,


Know from that beating heart, all that I feel.


I can’t follow your example, but when I saw you I thought I should have fainted. Unfortunately I am engaged to supper. I shall not shut my eyes all night. I shall expect you at eight o’clock to-morrow morning. Where are you staying?


At Dr. Vannini’s.


Under what name?


My own.


How long have you been here?


Since yesterday.


Are you stopping long in Florence?


As long as you like.


Are you married?


No.


Cursed be that supper! What an event! You must leave me now, I have to go on. Good-bye till seven o’clock to-morrow.


You have only come to Florence to-day, sir?


I arrived yesterday.


Ah! well, then it’s excusable. That actress has the same name as I have. She is my wife, and I am Cirillo Palesi, at your service.


You can’t have it till nine o’clock, sir; it was so cold the coachman sent the horses back to the stable.


We will return on foot, then.


You will catch a cold.


What is the prima donna’s name?


When she came here, she called herself Lanti, but for the last two months she has been Madame Palesi. She married a handsome young man with no property and no profession, but she is rich, so he takes his ease and does nothing.


Where does she live?


At the end of this street. There’s her house, sir; she lodges on the first floor.


But it is not light till seven.


I know that.


Very good.


She said seven. Well, well, it’s of no consequence. Kindly walk in here. I will go and awake her.


Are you not the gentleman who asked me my wife’s name last night?


You are right, I did. I have not seen your wife for many years, but I thought I recognized her. My good fortune made me enquire of her husband, and the friendship which formerly attached me to her will henceforth attach me to you.


My dear Palesi, you see before you my father--nay, more than a father, for this is my generous friend to whom I owe all. Oh, happy moment for which my heart has longed for these ten years past.


Yes, sir, your Thérèse is my daughter, my sister, my cherished friend; she is an angel, and this treasure is your wife. I did not reply to your last letter,


I know all. You fell in love with a nun. You were imprisoned under the Leads, and I heard of your almost miraculous flight at Vienna. I had a false presentiment that I should see you in that town. Afterwards I heard of you in Paris and Holland, but after you left Paris nobody could tell me any more about you. You will hear some fine tales when I tell you all that has happened to me during the past ten years. Now I am happy. I have my dear Palesi here, who comes from Rome. I married him a couple of months ago. We are very fond of each other, and I hope you will be as much his friend as mine.


Oh, my love! whom I shall love all my life, clasp me to your breast! Let us give each other a hundred embraces on this happy day, but not again, since my fate has made me another’s bride. To-morrow we will be like brother and sister; to-day let us be lovers. You must know that I am in love with my husband and determined not to deceive him. What I have just done was a debt I had to pay to the remembrance of my first love. I had to pay it to prove how much I love you; but let us forget it now. You must be contented with the thought of my great affection for you--of which you can have no doubt--and let me still think that you love me; but henceforth do not let us be alone together, as I should give way, and that would vex me. What makes you look so sad?


I find you bound, while I am free. I thought we had met never to part again; you had kindled the old fires. I am the same to you as I was at Ancona. I have proved as much, and you can guess how sad I feel at your decree that I am to enjoy you no more. I find that you are not only married but in love with your husband. Alas! I have come too late, but if I had not stayed at Genoa I should not have been more fortunate. You shall know all in due time, and in the meanwhile I will be guided by you in everything. I suppose your husband knows nothing of our connection, and my best plan will be to be reserved, will it not?


Yes, dearest, for he knows nothing of my affairs, and I am glad to say he shews no curiosity respecting them. Like everybody else, he knows I made my fortune at Naples; I told him I went there when I was ten years old. That was an innocent lie which hurts nobody; and in my position I find that inconvenient truths have to give way to lies. I give myself out as only twenty-four, how do you think I look?


You look as if you were telling the truth, though I know you must be thirty-two.


You mean thirty-one, for when I knew you I couldn’t have been more than fourteen.


I thought you were fifteen at least.


Well, I might admit that between ourselves; but tell me if I look more than twenty-four.


I swear to you you don’t look as old, but at Naples . . . .


At Naples some people might be able to contradict me, but nobody would mind them. But I am waiting for what ought to be the sweetest moment of your life.


What is that, pray?


Allow me to keep my own counsel, I want to enjoy your surprise. How are you off? If you want money, I can give you back all you gave me, and with compound interest. All I have belongs to me; my husband is not master of anything. I have fifty thousand ducats at Naples, and an equal sum in diamonds. Tell me how much you want--quick! the chocolate is coming.


At ten o’clock. I have a rehearsal here of the new opera. You can stay and listen if you like. I hope you will dine with us every day, and it will give me great pleasure if you will look upon my house as yours.


To-day. I will stay with you till after supper, and then I will leave you with your fortunate husband.


Will you allow me, to have my footman in? Rascal, who told you to come here with my carriage? Nobody, sir, but I know my duty. Who told you that I was here? I guessed as much. Go and fetch Le Duc, and come back with him.


The same, rising, and placing his arms round my neck he kissed me again and again.


That is my brother.


May I come, too?


Certainty; you too. Come and breakfast with me. I shall be delighted to see you.


My dear, he is the fruit of our amours; he is your son. He makes me happy, and is happy himself, and indeed he has everything to make him so.


And I, too, am happy, dear Thérèse. You must have seen that I recognized him at once.


But do you want to give him a brother? How ardent you are!


Remember, beloved one, that to-morrow we are to be friends, and nothing more.


The duke who took me from Rimini brought up our child; as soon as I knew that I was pregnant I confided my secret to him. No one knew of my delivery, and the child was sent to nurse at Sorrento, and the duke had him baptized under the name of Caesar Philip Land. He remained at Sorrento till he was nine, and then he was boarded with a worthy man, who superintended his education and taught him music. From his earliest childhood he has known me as his sister, and you cannot think how happy I was when I saw him growing so like you. I have always considered him as a sure pledge of our final union. I was ever thinking what would happen when we met, for I knew that he would have the same influence over you as he has over me. I was sure you would marry me and make him legitimate.


And you have rendered all this, which would have made me happy, an impossibility.


The fates decided so; we will say no more about it. On the death of the duke I left Naples, leaving Cesarino at the same boarding school, under the protection of the Prince de la Riccia, who has always looked upon him as a brother. Your son, though he does not know it, possesses the sum of twenty thousand ducats, of which I receive the interest, but you may imagine that I let him want for nothing. My only regret is that I cannot tell him I am his mother, as I think he would love me still more if he knew that he owed his being to me. You cannot think how glad I was to see your surprise to-day, and how soon you got to love him.


He is wonderfully like me.


That delights me. People must think that you were my mother’s lover. My husband thinks that our friendship is due to the connection between you and my mother. He told me yesterday that Cesarino might be my brother on the mother’s side, but not on my father’s; as he had seen his father in the theatre, but that he could not possibly be my father, too. If I have children by Palesi all I have will go to them, but if not Cesarino will be my heir. My property is well secured, even if the Prince de Riccia were to die. Come,


Do you know whether our dear Cesarino has been in love yet?


I don’t think so, but I fancy my pretty maid is in love with him. I shall keep my eyes open.


You mustn’t be too strict.


No, but it isn’t a good thing for a young man to engage too soon in that pleasure which makes one neglect everything else.


Let me have him, I will teach him how to live.


Ask all, but leave me my son. You must know that I never kiss him for fear of my giving way to excessive emotion. I wish you knew how good and pure he is, and how well he loves me, I could not refuse him anything.


What will people say in Venice when they see Casanova again, who escaped from The Leads and has become twenty years younger?


You are going to Venice, then, for the Ascensa?


Yes, and you are going to Rome?


And to Naples, to see my friend the Duke de Matalone.


I know him well. He has already had a son by the daughter of the Duke de Bovino, whom he married. She must be a charming woman to have made a man of him, for all Naples knew that he was impotent.


Probably, she only knew the secret of making him a father.


Well, it is possible.


What are you going to do in Rome?


I am going to beg the Pope to use his influence in my favour with the State Inquisitors at Venice.


I can give you a mark of my friendship, by introducing you to the Marquis de Botta-Adamo, Governor of Tuscany; he is supposed to be a friend of the regent’s.


Well, well, another time will do.


Then you can take her back again this instant, or take this ducat to dine somewhere else, as I don’t want your company or your son’s.


She took the ducat, saying that she was sure she was leaving her daughter in good hands.


You may be sure of that,


so be off.


He is a good fellow, but unfortunately he is rather stupid.


Well, would you like to make an exchange? Certainly, give me some paper. That is not requisite; we will exchange the snuff and the snuff-boxes.


Look, here is your portrait.


I did not think it was worth mentioning, but as you are interested in the subject I may tell you that my means are small, but that I have friends whose purses are always open to me.


If you have true friends you are a rich man, but true friends are scarce.


Haven’t you a better room to receive your friends in?


I have no friends, so I don’t want a room.


Get it, my dear, and you will find the friends come fast enough. This is all very well for you to welcome your relations in, but not persons like myself who come to do homage to your charms and your talents.


Sir, my daughter has but few talents, and thinks nothing of her charms, which are small.


You are extremely modest, and I appreciate your feelings; but everybody does not see your daughter with the same eyes, and she pleased me greatly.


That is an honour for her, and we are duly sensible of it, but not so as to be over-proud. My daughter will see you as often as you please, but here, and in no other place.


But I am afraid of being in the way here.


An honest man is never in the way.


I shall be glad to see you at the opera, and you can get into my dressing-room if you give the door-keeper a small piece of money.


It is only in Russia, that poison enters into politics.


Redegonde must know, that I could see everything in the glass; My dear. I am going to talk plainly to you. You have inflamed my passions and I shall die if you do not make me happy.


You do not say that you will die if you chance to make me unhappy.


I could not say so, because I cannot conceive such a thing as possible. Do not trifle with me, dear Redegonde, you must be aware that I saw all in the mirror, and I cannot think that you are so cruel as to arouse my passions and then leave me to despair.


What could you have seen? I don’t know what you are talking about.


May be, but know that I have seen all your charms. What shall I do to possess you?


To possess me? I don’t understand you, sir; I’m an honest girl.


I dare say; but you wouldn’t be any less honest after making me happy. Dear Redegonde, do not let me languish for you, but tell me my fate now this instant.


I do not know what to tell you, but you can come and see me whenever you like.


When shall I find you alone?


Alone! I am never alone.


Well, well, that’s of no consequence; if only your mother is present, that comes to the same thing. If she is sensible, she will pretend not to see anything, and I will give you a hundred ducats each time.


You are either a madman, or you do not know what sort of people we are.


Begin, by offering the hundred ducats to the mother, and if she refuses, have no more to do with them, and go elsewhere.


Good evening, madam, I am a stranger here; I am only staying a week, and I am in love with your daughter. If you like to be obliging, bring her to sup with me. I will give you a hundred sequins each time, so you see my purse is in your power.


Whom do you think you are talking to, sir? I am astonished at your impudence. Ask the townsfolk what sort of character I bear, and whether my daughter is an honest girl or not! and you will not make such proposals again.


Good-bye, madam.


Good-bye, sir.


Have I done well or ill?


Well enough, but if you love me come and see me.


See you after what your mother said?


Well, why not, who knows of it?


Who knows? You don’t know me, Redegonde. I do not care to indulge myself in idle hopes, and I thought I had spoken to you plainly enough. Come and breakfast with me to-morrow morning, and I will speak to the Israelite in your presence--at least I will do so if he comes.


I love you very much, can’t I stop a little longer here.


You may stop as long as you like, but as I have got some letters to finish, I must ask you to excuse my entertaining you.


Oh! just as you please.


Get along with you, you are not a girl.


He’s a pretty lad, isn’t he?


And that, I hope, will please your excellency,


In what respect?


I have told Redegonde that I am going to call for her, that I will keep her to supper, and have her taken home. You must see that this last condition is properly carried out. Come to supper too, and have your carriage in waiting. I leave the rest to you. You will only be a few minutes with her, but that’s something; and the first step leads far.


An excellent plan. I will sup with you, and my carriage shall be ready. I will tell you all about it to-morrow.


If the gentleman will be so kind. I need not send for a chair.


Who is that?


Why do you allow this horrible union?


What harm is there? They are brother and sister.


That’s just what makes it a criminal matter.


Everything is perfectly innocent.


Possibly; but it’s not a good plan.


You must console yourself, you will not find much difficulty in filling the place in your affections.


Ah! why are you married?


Well, it’s done; and there’s no helping it. But listen to me. As you can’t do without someone, take up with the Corticelli; she’s as good as any other woman, and won’t keep you waiting long.


I am ready to do my best, you have only to write to me, and I will tell you where to direct your letters.


But you know, Le Duc, the affair must be kept secret.


I only want twenty-four hours to give you an answer. To-day I will not let him go out of my sight. I shall find out at what hour he returns home, and to-morrow you shall know the results.


Be discreet, and don’t let anybody into your plans.


Not I!


Whom have you chosen for this expedition?


Myself. These affairs ought to be kept secret, and a secret oughtn’t to be known to more than two people. I am sure that everything will turn out well, but when you are satisfied that the ass’s hide has been well tanned, will there be anything to be picked up?


Twenty-five sequins.


That will do nicely. When I have done the trick I shall put on my great coat again and return by the back door. If necessary Costa himself will be able to swear that I did not leave the house, and that therefore I cannot have committed the assault. However, I shall put my pistols in my pocket in case of accidents, and if anybody tries to arrest me I shall know how to defend myself. The thing’s done. Instead of the Jew’s running away when he received the first blow he threw himself on to the ground. Then I tanned his skin for him nicely, but on hearing some people coming up I ran off. I don’t know whether I did for him, but I gave him two sturdy blows on the head. I should be sorry if he were killed, as then he could not see about the dance.


I am sorry for him, though he is a rascally fellow.


I am not at all sorry for him myself, he’s a knave.


I daresay that everybody will be putting down his wooden baptism to my account.


No, people say that M. Casanova did the deed for good reasons of his own.


It will be difficult to pitch on the right man, the rascal has pushed so many worthy people to extremities that he must have a great many thrashings owing him.


I daren’t cash it in Florence, as I am afraid of being arrested for my unfortunate affair at Genoa. I entreat you, then, to have pity on me, to get the bill cashed, and to bring me the money here, that I may pay my landlord and go.


I advise you, to give the bill to your landlord, who will cash it at M. Sassi’s and bring you your change.


I will follow your advice,


The inn-keeper here, discounted the bill, the Russian has gone off, and when I told him that it was a forgery he said that he knew Charles Ivanoff had it of you, and that thus he had made no difficulty in cashing it; but now he wants you to return him two hundred crowns.


Then he will be disappointed!


You had a right to be angry, but you must not take any notice of what the poor fellow says in his blind rage.


Sir. I will not pay.


I foresee, that the auditor will not let go his hold, and if M. Sassi does not succeed with him I advise you to speak to Marshal Botta.


I don’t think that will be necessary; the auditor can’t force me to pay.


He can do worse.


What can he do?.


He can make you leave Florence.


Well, I shall be astonished if he uses his power in this case, but rather than pay I will leave the town. Let us go to the marshal.


I am sorry to tell you, that I could do nothing with the auditor, and if you want to remain in Florence you will have to pay.


I will leave as soon as I receive the order, and as soon as I reach another state I will print the history of this shameful perversion of justice.


It’s an incredible, a monstrous sentence, and I am sorry I cannot interfere. You are quite right, to leave the place rather than pay.


Your judgment is an iniquitous one, but it shall be obeyed to the letter.


What splendid eyes! let me kiss them. Who are you, my angel?


I am Thérèse, the inn-keeper’s daughter, and this is my sister.


How old are you?


Nearly seventeen.


I hope I shall see you in my room to-morrow morning.


Have you any ladies with you?


No.


That’s a pity, as we never go to the gentlemen’s rooms.


Lower the coverlet a little; I can’t hear what you say.


It’s too cold.


Dear Thérèse, your eyes make me feel as if I were in flames.


Farewell till to-morrow,


As to your table, there is a restaurant in the house where one can get a capital meal.


Your advice is excellent, but I have not the courage to follow it, as I am in love with my landlord’s daughter;


That’s a mere nothing, you can cultivate her acquaintance without staying in the house.


I can say the same, for you are not the Angelica I used to know. Good-bye, madam!


He’s Casanova’s brother,


That’s not correct; you should say Casanova’s my brother.


That comes to the same thing.


Not at all, my dear abbé.


The gentleman is quite right; it does not come to the same thing.


It is not my hardihood in coming to Rome that your eminence should wonder at, but a man of any sense would wonder at the Inquisitors if they had the hardihood to issue an ‘ordine sanctissimo’ against me; for they would be perplexed to allege any crime in me as a pretext for thus infamously depriving me of my liberty.


You saw her in bed, I will bet!


Exactly, and I should very much like to see the rest of her. Would you be so kind as to ask her to step up for a few minutes?


With all my heart.


My brother Cornaro might have made a better choice, as he knows the Pope does not like me.


He thought it better to choose the man who is esteemed than the man who is merely liked.


I don’t know whether the Pope esteems me, but I am sure he knows I don’t esteem him. I both liked and esteemed him before he was pope, and I concurred in his election, but since he has worn the tiara it’s a different matter; he has shewn himself too much of a ‘coglione’.


The conclave ought to have chosen your eminence.


No, no; I’m a root-and-branch reformer, and my hand would not have been stayed for fear of the vengeance of the guilty, and God alone knows what would have come of that. The only cardinal fit to be pope was Tamburini; but it can’t be helped now. I hear people coming; good-bye, come again to-morrow.


He’s a man deserving of respect for his virtues, his character, his firmness, and his farseeing intelligence. He has never disguised his opinion of the Jesuits, whom he styles the fathers of deceits, intrigues, and lies; and that’s what made Passionei mention him. I think, with him, that Tamburini would be a great and good pope.


This Benedictine cardinal is an impious fellow after all; he is on his death-bed, and he has asked for the viaticum, without wishing to purify his soul by confession.


I shall be delighted to satisfy your eminence, but the story is a long one. All the better; they say you tell it well.


But, my lord, am I to sit down on the floor?


No, no; your dress is too good for that. I write better than you speak,


My lord, I never speak well except when I am at my ease.


But you are not afraid of me?


No, my lord, a true man and a philosopher can never make me afraid; but this stool of yours . . . .


You like to be at your ease, above all things. Take this, it is the funeral oration of Prince Eugene; I make you a present of it. I hope you will approve of my Latinity. You can kiss the Pope’s feet tomorrow at ten o’clock.


Holy Father, I have much worse sins than that on my conscience, so I come prostrate at your foot to receive your absolution. I beg Your Holiness to plead for me, that I may be able to return to Venice.


We will speak of it to the ambassador, and then we will speak again to you on the matter. Do you often go and see Cardinal Passionei?


I have been three times. He gave me his funeral oration on Prince Eugene, and in return I sent him the ‘Pandects’.


Has he accepted them?


I think so, Holy Father.


If he has, he will send Winckelmann to pay you for them.


That would be treating me like a bookseller; I will not receive any payment.


Then he will return the volume of the ‘Pandects’; we are sure of it, he always does so.


If his eminence returns me the ‘Pandects’, I will return him his funeral oration.


We shall be pleased to hear the end of the story without anyone being informed of our innocent curiosity.


Yes. I am the man.


Heaven be praised, worthy sir, that I see you again in such good estate!


But whom have I the honour of addressing?


Don’t you recollect me? I am Momolo, formerly gondolier at Venice.


Have you entered holy orders, then?


Not at all, but here everyone wears the cassock. I am the first scopatore (sweeper) of His Holiness the Pope.


I congratulate you on your appointment, but you mustn’t mind me laughing.


Laugh as much as you like. My wife and daughters laugh when I put on the cassock and bands, and I laugh myself, but here the dress gains one respect. Come and see us.


Where do you live?


Behind the Trinity of Monti; here’s my address.


I will come to-night.


I am commissioned to pay you for it.


I have told his eminence that it was a present.


He never accepts books as presents, and he wants yours for his own library; and as he is librarian of the Vatican Library he is afraid lest people might say unpleasant things.


That’s very well, but I am not a bookseller; and as this book only cost me the trouble of accepting it, I am determined only to sell it at the same price. Pray ask the cardinal to honour me by accepting it.


He is sure to send it back to you.


He can if he likes, but I will send back his funeral oration, as I am not going to be under an obligation to anyone who refuses to take a present from me.


They are very nice,


but will you allow me to send for half a dozen flasks of Orvieto from my lodging?


You are master here.


What a fine fellow!


If you like him as well as your girls I will let him stay.


‘Tis Signora Maria and her mother,


Who asked them?


What do they want?


What troublesome people they are!


They might have stayed at home,


My children, they are hungry, and they shall share what Providence has given us.


I could be sure of one number,


I would stake something on it.


Is the lottery still open?


Till midnight,


and if you like I will go and get the number for you.


Here are fifty crowns,


put twenty-five crowns on 27--this for these five young ladies; and the other twenty-five on 27 coming out the fifth number, and this I will keep for myself.


I am sure of it,


for you are the fifth young lady I saw in this house.


I do, sometimes,


but we shall see how it turns out, and when one plays one is obliged either to win or lose.


What’s the matter with the girls?


They are vexed that you did not stake for them in the same way as you did for yourself.


People are never satisfied. If I had staked for them as I did for myself, and the number had come out first instead of fifth, they would have got nothing, and they would have been vexed then. Two days ago they had nothing, and now that they have twenty-seven pounds apiece they ought to be contented.


That’s just what I tell them, but all women are the same.


And men too, dear countryman, unless they are philosophers. Gold does not spell happiness, and mirth can only be found in hearts devoid of care. Let us say no more about it, but be happy.


I will distribute them,


when everybody is here.


Why are they not coming?


They had a quarrel yesterday,


and Mariuccia, who was in the right, went away saying that she would never come here again.


You ungrateful girls!


don’t you know that it is to her that you owe your winnings, for she gave me the number twenty-seven, which I should never have thought of. Quick! think of some way to make her come, or I will go away and take all the sweets with me.


You are quite right,


Ira,


that won’t do; you made her say that she would never come here again, and you must make up the quarrel.


No one will come and look for me here, so we can talk freely together.


Tell me, what I can do to make you happy; for I wish to possess you, but first to shew my deserts.


Make me happy, and I will yield to your desires, for I love you.


Tell me what I can do.


You can draw me out of the poverty and misery which overwhelm me. I live with my mother, who is a good woman, but devout to the point of superstition; she will damn my soul in her efforts to save it. She finds fault with my keeping myself clean, because I have to touch myself when I wash, and that might give rise to evil desires. If you had given me the money you made me win in the lottery as a simple alms she would have made me refuse it, because you might have had intentions. She allows me to go by myself to mass because our confessor told her she might do so; but I dare not stay away a minute beyond the time, except on feast days, when I am allowed to pray in the church for two or three hours. We can only meet here, but if you wish to soften my lot in life you can do so as follows: A fine young man, who is a hairdresser, and bears an excellent character, saw me at Momolo’s a fortnight ago, and met me at the church door next day and gave me a letter. He declared himself my lover, and said that if I could bring him a dowry of four hundred crowns, he could open a shop, furnish it, and marry me. I am poor, and I have only a hundred crowns in charity tickets, which my confessor keeps for me. Now I have two hundred crowns, for if I marry, my mother will willingly give me her share of the money you made us gain. You can therefore make me happy by getting me tickets to the amount of two hundred crowns more. Take the tickets to my confessor, who is a very good man and fond of me; he will not say anything to my mother about it.


I needn’t go about seeking for charity tickets, my angel. I will take two hundred piastres to your confessor to-morrow, and you must manage the rest yourself. Tell me his name, and to-morrow I will tell you what I have done, but not here, as the wind and the cold would be the death of me. You can leave me to find out a room where we shall be at our ease, and without any danger of people suspecting that we have spent an hour together. I will meet you at the church to-morrow at the same hour and when you see me follow me.


I am looking for a room to let.


There are none here, sir, but, you will find a hundred in the square.


I know it, but I want the room to be here, not for the sake of the expense, but that I may be sure of being able to spend an hour or so of a morning with a person in whom I am interested. I am ready to pay anything.


I understand what you mean, and you should have a room in my house if I had one to spare, but a neighbour of mine has one on the ground floor, and if you will wait a moment I will go and speak to her.


You will oblige me very much.


Kindly step in here.


What do you ask for the three months’ rent?


Three Roman crowns.


If you will see to the furnishing of the room this very day I will give you twelve crowns.


Twelve crowns! What furniture do you want?


A good clean bed, a small table covered with a clean cloth, four good chairs, and a large brazier with plenty of fire in it, for I am nearly perishing of cold here. I shall only come occasionally in the morning, and I shall leave by noon at the latest.


Come at three o’clock, then, to-day, and you will find everything to your satisfaction.


Reverend father. I saw at the house of Abbé Momolo, ‘scoptore santissimo’, a young girl named Mary, whose confessor you are. I fell in love with her, and offered her money to try and seduce her. She replied that instead of trying to lead her into sin I would do better to get her some charity tickets that she might be able to marry a young man who loved her, and would make her happy. I was touched by what she said, but my passion still remained. I spoke to her again, and said that I would give her two hundred crowns for nothing, and that her mother should keep them.


That would be my ruin, my mother would think the money was the price of sin, and would not accept it. If you are really going to be so generous, take the money to my confessor, and ask him to do what he can for my marriage.


Here, then, reverend father, is the sum of money for the good girl; be kind enough to take charge of it, and I will trouble her no more. I am going to Naples the day after to-morrow, and I hope when I come back she will be married.


Her mother, is a sainted woman, and as soon as I have enquired into the character of the future husband I will soon bring the marriage about. No one shall ever know from whom this generous gift comes.


We have three hours before us, as I told my mother I was going to give thanks to God for having made me a winner in the lottery.


I shall be at Monolo’s to-night, dearest, and you must come, too; but we must appear indifferent to each other, though our hearts be full of joy, lest those malicious girls suspect our mutual understanding. It is all the more necessary to be cautious, as I have noticed that they suspect that we love each other.


What are you doing with that wretched bauble? It’s a drug in the market, and no one but an impostor would wear it now.


Then, you must stay with me;


If you bear my name, you must be one of my father’s bastards.


No, one of your mother’s.


Did you know, that I had a son?


I was told so, but did not believe it, but now I must do penance for my incredulity, for I see before me an angel capable of working this miracle.


that there was no likeness at all.


The abbé is very wise, for he has deceived so many people with his false antiques that he might have got into trouble. Promise to keep the most absolute secrecy on what I am going to shew you. You must come to the St. Charles Theatre, and I will present you to the handsomest ladies in Naples, and afterwards you can go when you like, as my box is always open to my friends. I will also introduce you to my mistress, and she, I am sure, will always be glad to see you.


What! you have a mistress, have you?


Yes, but only for form’s sake, as I am very fond of my wife. All the same, I am supposed to be deeply in love with her, and even jealous, as I never introduce anyone to her, and do not allow her to receive any visitors.


But does not your young and handsome duchess object to your keeping a mistress?


My wife could not possibly be jealous, as she knows that I am impotent--except, of course, with her.


I see, but it seems strange; can one be said to have a mistress whom one does not love?


I did not say I loved her not; on the contrary, I am very fond of her; she has a keen and pleasant wit, but she interests my head rather than my heart.


I see; but I suppose she is ugly?


Ugly? You shall see her to-night, and you can tell me what you think of her afterwards. She is a handsome and well-educated girl of seventeen.


Can she speak French?


As well as a Frenchwoman.


I am longing to see her.


'Leonilda mia, ti presento il cavalier Don Giacomo Casanova, Veneziano, amico mio'. You may believe me.


It’s credible,


Whatever is possible is credible.


Quite so, but one may believe, or not believe, according to the various degrees of possibility.


I think it’s easier to believe than to disbelieve. You came to Naples yesterday; that’s true and yet incredible.


Why incredible?


Would any man suppose that a stranger would come to Naples at a time when the inhabitants are wishing themselves away?


Indeed, I have felt afraid till this moment, but now I feel quite at my ease, since, you being here, St. Januarius will surely protect Naples.


Why?


Because I am sure he loves you; but you are laughing at me.


It is such a funny idea. I am afraid that if I had a lover like St. Januarius I should not grant him many favours.


Is he very ugly, then?


If his portrait is a good likeness, you can see for yourself by examining his statue. Love, unless it leads to the possession of the beloved object, is a mere torment; if bounds are placed to passion, love must die.


You are right; and the enjoyment of a beautiful object is not a true pleasure unless it be preceded by love.


No doubt if love precedes it accompanies, but I do not think it necessarily follows, enjoyment.


True, it often makes love to cease.


She is a selfish daughter, then, to kill her father; and if after enjoyment love still continue in the heart of one, it is worse than murder, for the party in which love still survives must needs be wretched.


You are right; and from your strictly logical arguments I conjecture that you would have the senses kept in subjection: that is too hard!


I would have nothing to do with that Platonic affection devoid of love, but I leave you to guess what my maxim would be.


To love and enjoy; to enjoy and love. Turn and turn about.


You have hit the mark.


Now we must part, unless you are fond of games of chance.


I don’t object to them when I am to play with good hands.


Then follow me; ten or twelve of my friends will play faro, and then sit down to a cold collation, but I warn you it is a secret, as gaming is forbidden. I will answer for you keeping your own counsel, however.


You may do so.


That’s my way, of distracting attention from my face and figure.


It’s eighteen years ago, since I chose M. Casanova as the companion of your studies.


If you go to the Opera Buffa you will please Leonilda. I will come for you towards the close, and we will sup together as before.


Caro Don Giacomo, I am so pleased to see you again.


But I suppose it is only a poet’s fancy, at which one could but smile.


Possibly, but I did not care to wound your ears.


You are very good, but all the same, I am not so thin-skinned, as I have a closet which the duke has had painted over with couples in various amorous attitudes. We go there sometimes, and I assure you that I do not experience the slightest sensation.


That may be through a defect of temperament, for whenever I see well-painted voluptuous pictures I feel myself on fire. I wonder that while you and the duke look at them, you do not try to put some of them into practice.


We have only friendship for one another.


Let him believe it who will.


I am sure he is a man, but I am unable to say whether he is able to give a woman any real proofs of his love.


Yet he has a son.


Yes, he has a child who calls him father; but he himself confesses that he is only able to shew his manly powers with his wife.


That’s all nonsense, for you are made to give birth to amorous desires, and a man who could live with you without being able to possess you ought to cease to live.


Do you really think so?


Dear Leonilda, if I were in the duke’s place I would shew you what a man who really loves can do.


Caro Don Giacomo, I am delighted to hear you love me, but you will soon forget me, as you are leaving Naples.


Cursed be the gaming-table, for without it we might spend some delightful hour together.


The duke told me that you lost a thousand ducats yesterday evening like a perfect gentleman. You must be very unlucky.


Not always, but when I play on a day in which I have fallen in love I am sure to lose.


You will win back your money this evening.


This is the declaration day; I shall lose again.


Then don’t play.


People would say I was afraid, or that all my money was gone.


I hope at all events that you will win sometimes, and that you will tell me of your good luck. Come and see me to-morrow with the duke. We have been talking about love all the time, so we don’t know what has been going on the stage.


You have done well.


I trust you will bring M. Casanova to see me tomorrow morning, as I hope he will bring me news that he has won.


It’s my turn to deal this evening, dearest, but whether he wins or loses you shall see him to-morrow. You must give us some breakfast.


I shall be delighted.


Then. I will hazard two thousand ducats also and not more, for they say at Venice that a prudent player never risks more than he can win. Each of my counters will be equivalent to two ducats.


Caro mio Don Giacomo, I am sorry to hear that! You would have done better not to play, for I should have loved you all the same, and you would have been two thousand ducats better off.


And I two thousand ducats worse off,


Never mind, dear Leonilda, I shall win this evening if you grant me some favour to-day. If you do not do so, I shall lose heart, and you will mourn at my grave before long.


Think, Leonilda, what you can do for my friend.


I don’t see that I can do anything.


It will not be so with me, charming Leonilda,


You make a mistake, I am sure.


They don’t make any impression on me,


I am in the same state as you,


That can’t be,


It’s astonishing,


you must be as impotent as I am.


If I wanted to controvert that assertion one glance into Leonilda’s eyes would be enough.


Look at him, dearest Leonilda, that I may be convinced.


Give me your hand,


I was in the wrong,


Fortune is the most fickle of beings, but I don’t complain of my loss--nay, when you speak thus I love it, and I even think that you will make me win this evening.


I hope so, but I am afraid not; you will have to contend against Monte Leone, who is usually very lucky.


Dear Leonilda,


What did he say?


That I must ask you, and that he would offer no opposition.


Then we should leave Naples together.


Directly, dearest, and thenceforth death alone would part us.


We will talk of it to-morrow, dear Don Giacomo, and if I can make you happy I am sure you will do the same by me. Don Giacomo and I are talking of marrying,


Marriage, mia carissima,


Yes, when one has time; but my dear Giacomo cannot wait, and we shall have plenty of time to think it over afterwards.


As you are going to marry,


My lord,


Just as you please; it comes to the same thing, but don’t trouble yourself. I have made a bank of four thousand ducats that you may be able to recoup yourself for your losses.


Thanks, I promise to break it or to lose as much.


Well, Don Giacomo, you have spent all the morning with my mistress; do you still wish to marry her?


More than ever; what do you mean?


Nothing; and as you have passed this trial to which I purposely subjected you, we will discuss your union tomorrow, and I hope you will make this charming woman happy, for she will be an excellent wife.


I agree with you.


Leonilda,


has a mother, who lives at a short distance from here, on an income of six hundred ducats, which I have given her for life, in return for an estate belonging to her husband; but Leonilda does not depend on her. She gave her up to me seven years ago, and I have given her an annuity of five hundred ducats, which she will bring to you, with all her diamonds and an extensive trousseau. Her mother gave her up to me entirely, and I gave my word of honour to get her a good husband. I have taken peculiar care of her education, and as her mind has developed I have put her on her guard against all prejudices, with the exception of that which bids a woman keep herself intact for her future husband. You may rest assured that you are the first man whom Leonilda (who is a daughter to me) has pressed to her heart.


I will mortgage them,


I am going to send for your mother, who will be delighted to sign the settlement, and to make the acquaintance of your future husband.


The law business will be all done by then, and we shall be able to go to the little church at Portici, and the priest will marry you. Then we will take your mother to St. Agatha and dine with her, and you can go your way with her maternal blessing.


Dear mamma, come directly and sign my marriage contract with a gentleman introduced to me by the duke, with whom I shall be leaving for Rome on Monday next.


Come without delay, and sign your daughter’s marriage contract, and give her your blessing. She has wisely chosen a husband old enough to be her father; he is a friend of mine.


That’s not true, she will think you are really old, and I am sorry.


Is your mother an elderly woman?


She’s a charming woman, full of wit, and not thirty-eight yet.


What has she got to do with Galiani?


She is an intimate friend of the marchioness’s, and she lives with the family but pays for her board. Here he is!


Donna Lucrezia! I am fortunate indeed!


Let us take breath, my dear friend. Come and sit by me. So you are going to marry my daughter, are you?


Must I grieve my dear one when I have loved so well? Leonilda is your daughter, I am certain of it. I always looked upon her as your daughter, and my husband knew it, but far from being angry, he used to adore her. I will shew you the register of her birth, and you can calculate for yourself. My husband was at Rome, and did not see me once, and my daughter did not come before her time. You must remember a letter which my mother should have given you, in which I told you I was with child. That was in January, 1744, and in six months my daughter will be seventeen. My late husband gave her the names of Leonilda Giacomina at the baptismal font, and when he played with her he always called her by the latter name. This idea of your marrying her horrifies me, but I cannot oppose it, as I am ashamed to tell the reason. What do you think? Have you still the courage to marry her? You seem to hesitate. Have you taken any earnest of the marriage-bed?


No, dear Lucrezia, your daughter is as pure as a lily.


I breathe again.


Ah, yes! but my heart is torn asunder.


I am grieved to see you thus.


She has no likeness to me.


That proves nothing; she has taken after me. You are weeping, dearest, you will break my heart.


Who would not weep in my place? I will send the duke to you; he must know all.


Dear Leonilda, you must be let into the secret of this disagreeable mystery, and your mother is the proper person to enlighten you. Do you remember what name my late husband used to call you when he petted you?


He used to call me his charming Giacomina.


That is M. Casanova’s name; it is the name of your father. Go and kiss him; his blood flows in your veins; and if he has been your lover, repent of the crime which was happily quite involuntary.


I have only felt what an affectionate daughter might feel for a father.


Come and have some broth with me, and from henceforth look upon this marriage project as one of the many pranks in which you have engaged. We will spend the three or four days pleasantly together, and perhaps when we have thought over all this for some time we shall end by thinking it matter for mirth and not sadness. Believe me the mother’s as good as the daughter; recollection is often better than hope; console yourself with Lucrezia. I don’t think you can see any difference between her present appearance and that of eighteen years ago, for I don’t see how she can ever have been handsomer than she is now.


I will marry you, and we will all of us go to Rome on Monday, for since Leonilda is my daughter I do not like to leave her at Naples.


My dear friend, you have slept for five hours; and as I did not like to leave you alone I would not go with the duke and our daughter to the opera.


Once again, then. I am in this charming land which I entered for the first time to the noise of the drum and the rattle of musket shots. Let us be united for life; we are of the same age, we love each other, our means are sufficient for us, we may hope to live a happy life, and to die at the same moment.


‘Tis the darling wish of my heart, but let us stay at Naples and leave Leonilda to the duke. We will see company, find her a worthy husband, and our happiness will be complete.


I cannot live at Naples, dearest, and you know that your daughter intended to leave with me.


My daughter! Say our daughter. I see that you are still in love with her, and do not wish to be considered her father.


Alas, yes! But I am sure that if I live with you my passion for her will be stilled, but otherwise I cannot answer for myself. I shall fly, but flight will not bring me happiness. Leonilda charms me still more by her intelligence than by her beauty. I was sure that she loved me so well that I did not attempt to seduce her, lest thereby I should weaken my hold on her affections; and as I wanted to make her happy I wished to deserve her esteem. I longed to possess her, but in a lawful manner, so that our rights should have been equal. We have created an angel, Lucrezia, and I cannot imagine how the duke . . .


The duke is completely impotent. Do you see now how I was able to trust my daughter to his care?


Impotent? I always thought so myself, but he has a son.


His wife might possibly be able to explain that mystery to you, but you may take it for granted that the poor duke will die a virgin in spite of himself; and he knows that as well as anybody.


Do not let us say any more about it, but allow me to treat you as at Tivoli.


Not just now, as I hear carriage wheels.


As she is your daughter, she can and ought to take this present from her father, if only as a dowry for her future husband.


Will you accept it, then, my dear Leonilda?


Yes, papa dear, on the condition that you will promise to come and see me again as soon as you hear of my marriage.


As you are going to-morrow. I shall ask all the nobility of Naples to meet you at supper. In the meanwhile I leave you with your daughter; we shall see each other again at suppertime.


I hope, Don Giacomo, that you have had no unpleasantness during your short stay at Naples, and that you will sometimes think of your visit with pleasure.


Who goes there?


What happy chance brings you here, dear Don Giacomo? Buy a property, in the kingdom of Naples, and I will spend the remainder of my days with you, without asking a priest to give us his blessing, unless we happen to have children.


I suppose you don’t mind stopping for the night at Piperno?


No. I am afraid that can’t be managed; I don’t intend to break my journey.


But you would get to Rome by to-morrow.


I know that, but I sleep better in my carriage than in the bad beds they give you in the inns.


I dare not travel by night.


Well, well, madam, I have no doubt we shall see each other at Rome.


You are a cruel man. You see I have only a stupid servant, and a maid who is as timid as I am, besides it is cold and my carriage is open. I will keep you company in yours.


I really can’t take you in, as all the available space is taken up by my old secretary, who broke his arm yesterday.


Shall we dine together at Terracino? We could have a little talk.


Certainly.


You are right,


I shall be delighted to see the fair Mariuccia.


It is somebody whom you know, So and so, he saw me here, and we are going to open a hair-dresser’s shop.


The marriage was arranged by good Father St. Barnabe. He has in his keeping my daughter’s dower of four hundred Roman crowns.


He’s a good lad. I have a high opinion of him; he would have married one of my daughters if I could have given him such a dowry.


Never mind, my dear, your turn will come in time.


How about Signora Maria?


As Signora Maria is going to be married, she must not be present at any festivity without her future husband.


When shall we see each other again, my angel?


On Sunday, the eve of my wedding, we shall be able to spend four hours together.


Delightful! I promise you that when you leave me you will be in such a state that the caresses of your husband won’t hurt you.


What are you doing at Rome? Where’s my Lord O’Callaghan?


He’s in the next room, but as his father is dead his title is now Earl of Lismore. You know he was an adherent of the Pretender’s. I left Paris with him, well enough pleased at being able to come to Rome without its costing me anything.


Then the earl is a rich man now?


Not exactly; but he will be, as he is his father’s heir, and the old earl left an immense fortune. It is true that it is all confiscated, but that is nothing, as his claims are irresistible.


In short, he is rich in claims and rich in the future; but how did he get himself made a knight of one of the French king’s orders?


You’re joking. That is the blue ribbon of the Order of St. Michael, of which the late Elector of Cologne was grand master. As you know, my lord plays exquisitely on the violin, and when he was at Bonn he played the Elector a concerto by Tartini. The prince could not find words in which to express the pleasure of my lord’s performance, and gave him the ribbon you have seen.


A fine present, doubtless.


You don’t know what pleasure it gave my lord, for when we go back to Paris everybody will take it for the Order of the Holy Ghost.


Where are you going, prince?


I don’t feel well, my lord. I think I must go out.


What prince is that?


The Prince de Chimai. He is a sub-deacon, and is endeavouring to gain permission to marry, lest his family should become extinct.


I admire his prudence or his delicacy, but I am afraid I should not imitate him.


I wonder people give you credit, then.


They give me credit because everybody knows that I have drawn a bill of exchange on Paris to the tune of two hundred thousand francs. But in four or five days the bill will be returned protested, and I am only waiting for that to happen to make my escape.


If you are certain of its being protested, I advise you to make your escape to-day; for as it is so large a sum it may be taken up before it is due.


No, I won’t do that; I have one hope left. I have written to tell my mother that I shall be undone if she does not furnish the banker, on whom I have drawn the bill, with sufficient funds and if she does that, the bill will be accepted. You know my mother is very fond of me.


Yes, but I also know that she is far from rich.


True, but M. de St. Aubin is rich enough, and between you and me I think he is my father. Meanwhile, my creditors are almost as quiet as I am. All those girls you saw yesterday would give me all they have if I asked them, as they are all expecting me to make them a handsome present in the course of the week, but I won’t abuse their trust in me. But I am afraid I shall be obliged to cheat the Jew, who wants me to give him three thousand sequins for this ring, as I know it is only worth one thousand.


He will send the police after you.


I defy him to do whatever he likes.


Is your father’s garden a pretty one?


Not exactly pretty, but very well kept. As he owns the land, he has separated a plot which he wants to sell; it would bring in twenty crowns a year, and I should be as happy as a cardinal if I could buy it.


How much will it cost?


It’s a heavy price; two hundred crowns.


Why, that’s cheap! Listen to me. I have met your future bride at this house, and I have found her all worthy of happiness. She deserves an honest young fellow like you for a husband. Now what would you do supposing I were to make you a present of two hundred crowns to buy the garden?


I should put it to my wife’s dowry.


Then here are the two hundred crowns. I shall give them to Momolo, as I don’t know you well enough, though I think you are perfectly to be trusted. The garden is yours, as part of your wife’s dowry.


Everything is for the best, and I am sure I shall be happy. My intended adores you, but you did wisely not to accept his invitation, for you would have found everything so poor, and besides tongues might have been set wagging to my disadvantage.


You are quite right, dearest, but what do you intend to do if your husband finds that the door has been opened by someone else, for possibly he expects you to be a maid.


I expect he will know no more about it than I did the first time you knew me; besides, I do not feel that you have defiled me, and my clean conscience will not allow me to think of the matter; and I am sure that he will not think of it any more than I.


Yes, but if he does?


It would not be delicate on his part, but what should prevent me from replying that I don’t know what he means?


You are right; that’s the best way. But have you told your confessor of our mutual enjoyment?


No, for as I did not give myself up to you with any criminal intention, I do not think I have offended God.


You are an angel, and I admire the clearness of your reasoning. But listen to me; it’s possible that you are already with child, or that you may become so this morning; promise to name the child after me.


I will do so.


You are quite right. Why should this castrato be allowed to shew his breast, of which the fairest Roman lady might be proud, and yet wish everyone to consider him as a man and not a woman? If the stage is forbidden to the fair sex lest they excite desires, why do they seek out men-monsters made in the form of women, who excite much more criminal desires? They keep on preaching that pederasty is comparatively unknown and entraps only a few, but many clever men endeavour to be entrapped, and end by thinking it so pleasant that they prefer these monsters to the most beautiful women.


The Pope would be sure of heaven if he put a stop to this scandalous practice.


I don’t agree with you. One could not have a pretty actress to supper without causing a scandal, but such an invitation to a castrato makes nobody talk. It is of course known perfectly well that after supper both heads rest on one pillow, but what everybody knows is ignored by all. One may sleep with a man out of mere friendship, it is not so with a woman.


True, monsignor, appearances are saved, and a sin concealed is half pardoned, as they say in Paris.


At Rome we say it is pardoned altogether. ‘Peccato nascosto non offende’.


Have recourse to God, dear son; His grace will be more efficacious than my prayers;


But has he not questioned you indirectly as to the connection between us?


Not at all. I told him that you went to my confessor after having spoken to me once only in the church, where I told you what a good chance I had of being married to him.


Do you think he believed you?


I am not sure; however, even if it were otherwise, it is enough that he pretends to, for I am determined to win his esteem.


You are right, and I think all the better of him for his suspicions, for it is better to marry a man with some sense in his head than to marry a fool.


You had better make yourself scarce as soon as you can,


Buy this ring, and so furnish me with the means for my escape. You would not know that it was not my property if I had not told you so in confidence.


I know this stone, it is worth two thousand Roman crowns.


I will be off at nightfall, and travel by myself to Amsterdam, only taking such effects as are absolutely necessary, and my beloved blue ribbon.


A pleasant journey to you,


I haven’t a farthing. I have only the shirt on my back. I know nobody here, and I think I shall go and throw myself into the Tiber.


That’s all very well, but you know you ought to call on the auditor.


Where in the world are we going?


Bologna.


How about mamma?


She will come on to-morrow.


Does she know about it?