My Dear Old Friend,--Nothing could be more romantic than our meeting at my country house six years ago, and now again, after a parting of so many years. Naturally we have both grown older, and though I love you still I am glad you did not recognize me. Not that I have become ugly, but I am stout, and this gives me another look. I am a widow, and well enough off to tell you that if you lack money you will find some ready for you in Henriette’s purse. Do not come back to Aix to see me, as your return might give rise to gossip; but if you chance to come here again after some time, we may meet, though not as old acquaintances. I am happy to think that I have perhaps prolonged your days by giving you a nurse for whose trustworthiness I would answer. If you would like to correspond with me I should be happy to do my part. I am very curious to know what happened to you after your flight from The Leads, and after the proofs you have given me of your discretion I think I shall be able to tell you how we came to meet at Cesena, and how I returned to my country. The first part is a secret for everyone; only M. d’Antoine is acquainted with a portion of the story. I am grateful for the reticence you have observed, though Marcoline must have delivered the message I gave her. Tell me what has become of that beautiful girl. Farewell!


I thank you, signor, and I am sure that you are telling me the truth, as I am in Switzerland.


I must take the liberty of telling you, sir, that it is customary for strangers who take up their residence in Lugano, to pay some trifling sum, either by the week, the month, or the year.


And if they refuse to pay?


Then their safety is not so sure.


Money does everything in Lugano, I suppose.


But, sir----


I understand, but let me tell you that I have no fears, and I shall consequently beg to be excused from paying anything.


You will forgive me, but I happen to know that you have some disputes with the Venetian Government.


You are making a mistake, my good fellow.


No, I am not.


If you are so sure, find someone to bet me two hundred sequins that I have reason to fear the Venetian Government; I will take the bet and deposit the amount.


He’s a very nice Swiss gentleman, and his wife a clever woman, and as fair as the day.


I will go and see him to-morrow.


Don’t let him go! send for the bargello and have him away to prison. You will hear that at M. de R----’s, where I shall await you.


What fate is that? I have seen a good deal of misfortune since I left you.


I mean the presidio.


But that has never been my lot, thank God! Who told you such a story?


A Count Marazzani, who was here three weeks ago, and told me he had been luckier than you, as he had made his escape.


He’s a liar and a scoundrel; and if ever I meet him again he shall pay me dearly.


You can make the document more effective, by placing your actual grievance in a strong light, and laying stress on his sudden appearance in your room without sending in his name. That’s what you had better do, and it remains to be seen how I shall answer your plea. I shall ask him for his passport and delay the case, and order him to be severely treated; but in the end I shall only be able to drive him out of the town, unless he can find good bail.


And furthermore. M. Casanova’s suspicion that you were going to assassinate him is justified by your giving a false name, for the plaintiff maintains that you are not Count Marazzani at all. He offers to furnish surety on this behalf, and if M. Casanova does you wrong, his bail will escheat to you as damages. In the mean time you will remain in prison till we have further information about your real status.


Do you want a thousand guineas? You can have them if you like, on the condition that your wife travels with me for three years without our having the pleasure of your society.


He will be setting sail before long. I have advices from Leghorn to that effect.


That's just what I mean to find out before embarking my effects.


You won’t be able to speak to him till to-morrow.


Certainly.


What are you doing here, my dear Casanova?


I am waiting for an interview with the admiral.


He is very busy.


After dinner, if you please. Eat away, gentlemen, eat away; Quite so; but kindly tell me, count, what is to be my status or employment on board your ship? At present I have no special employ to give you; that will come in time. Come on board as my friend. The offer is an honourable one so far as you are concerned, but all the other officers might treat me with contempt. I should be regarded as a kind of fool, and I should probably kill the first man who dared to insult me. Give me a distinct office, and let me wear your uniform; I will be useful to you. I know the country for which you are bound, I can speak the language, and I am not wanting in courage. My dear sir, I really have no particular office to give you. Then, count, I wish you a pleasant sail; I am going to Rome. I hope you may never repent of not taking me, for without me you will never pass the Dardanelles. Is that a prophecy? It’s an oracle. We will test its veracity, my dear Calchus.


her dear abbé,


Sit down. So you are going to stay a week, I see, from the dear abbé’s letter. That’s a short time for us, but perhaps it may be too long for you. I hope the abbé has not painted us in too rosy colours.


He only told me that I was to spend a week here, and that I should find with you all the charms of intellect and sensibility.


Stratico should have condemned you to a month without mercy.


Why mercy? What hazard do I run?


Of being tired to death, or of leaving some small morsel of your heart at Sienna.


All that might happen in a week, but I am ready to dare the danger, for Stratico has guarded me from the first by counting on you, and from the second by counting on myself. You will receive my pure and intelligent homage. My heart will go forth from Sienna as free as it came, for I have no hope of victory, and defeat would make me wretched.


Is it possible that you are amongst the despairing?


Yes, and to that fact I owe my happiness.


It would be a pity for you if you found yourself mistaken.


Not such a pity as you may think, Madam. ‘Carpe diem’ is my motto. ‘Tis likewise the motto of that finished voluptuary, Horace, but I only take it because it suits me. The pleasure which follows desires is the best, for it is the most acute.


True, but it cannot be calculated on, and defies the philosopher. May God preserve you, madam, from finding out this painful truth by experience! The highest good lies in enjoyment; desire too often remains unsatisfied. If you have not yet found out the truth of Horace’s maxim, I congratulate you.


I had rather contradict you, than renounce all hopes of pleasing you. The abbé has thrown the apple of discord between us, but if we continue as we have begun I shall take up my abode at Sienna. Pray do not take the trouble. I want to leave Sienna with the feeling that you are the only lady to whom I have done homage, and that the Abbé Chiaccheri has been my only guide.


I can’t understand that, 'sublata lucerna', you know.


Not at all. I love her for her face, since it is inseparable from my idea of her.


Stratico admires Fortuna, and I confess that her writings have great merit, but it’s a pity one cannot go to the house, except under an incognito.


Why not?


What! you did not tell him whose house it is?


I did not think it necessary, her father and mother rarely shew themselves.


Well, it’s of no consequence.


But what is her father? the hangman, perhaps?


Worse, he’s the ‘bargello’, and you must see that a stranger cannot be received into good society here if he goes to such places as that. I saw her sister once, she is really charmingly pretty, and it’s a great pity that with her beauty and irreproachable morality she should be condemned to marry a man of her father’s class.


I once knew a man named Coltellini, he is the son of the bargello of Florence, and is poet-in-ordinary to the Empress of Russia. I shall try to make a match between him and Fortuna’s sister; he is a young man of the greatest talents.


I don’t want anyone.


You are wrong, for she is very beautiful.


Is she by herself?


No, she is with a gentleman on horseback, who wishes to ride all the way to Rome.


Then how did the girl come here?


On horseback, but she is tired out, and cannot bear it any longer. The gentleman has offered me four sequins to take her to Rome, and as I am a poor man I think you might let me earn the money.


I suppose he will follow the carriage?


He can go as he likes; that can’t make much difference to either of us.


You say she is young and pretty.


I have been told so, but I haven’t seen her myself.


What sort of a man is her companion?


He’s a fine man, but he can speak very little Italian.


Has he sold the lady’s horse?


No, it was hired. He has only one trunk, which will go behind the carriage.


This is all very strange. I shall not give any decision before speaking to this man.


I will tell him to wait on you.


Your wife, sir?


God be praised! You can speak my native tongue. Yes, sir, she is an Englishwoman and my wife. I am sure she will be no trouble to you.


Very good. I don’t want to start later than I had arranged. Will she be ready at five o’clock?


Certainly.


I hope you can speak French madam?


Yes, and a little Italian too.


I congratulate myself on having you for my travelling companion.


I think you should congratulate me.


I heard you came to Sienna on horseback.


Yes, but I will never do such a foolish thing again.


I think your husband would have been wise to sell his horse and buy a carriage.


He hired it; it does not belong to him. From Rome we are going to drive to Naples.


You like travelling?


Very much, but with greater comfort.


He has given me a mark of his confidence, madam, and there is nothing to be offended at.


Madame, you must please look upon me as an old friend. I guess you have no money about you, and that you wish to fast from motives of delicacy. Your husband shall repay me, if he will have it so. If I told the landlord to only prepare dinner for myself I should be dishonouring the count, yourself possibly, and myself most of all.


I feel you are right sir. Let dinner be served for two, then; but I cannot eat, for I feel ill, and I hope you will not mind my lying on the bed for a moment.


Pray do not let me disturb you. This is a pleasant room, and they can lay the table in the next. Lie down, and sleep if you can, and I will order dinner to be ready by two. I hope you will be feeling better by then.


Wait a moment before you bring in the dinner. I will go and see if the lady is awake.


I opened the door gently, and saw she was still asleep, but as I closed the door after me the noise awoke her, and she asked if I had dined.


I shall not take any dinner, madam, unless you do me the honour to dine with me. You have had a five hours’ rest, and I hope you are better.


I will sit down with you to dinner, as you wish it.


That makes me happy, and I will order dinner to be served forthwith.


Has Sophie grown tall?


No, she is quite small, but she is very pretty, and so clever.


She must now be seventeen.


Exactly. We are of the same age.


Are you ill?


Not at all. I scarcely like to say it, but Sophie is the very image of you.


Why should you hesitate to say so? It has been remarked to me before. No doubt it is a mere coincidence. How long ago is it since you have seen her?


Eighteen months; she went back to her mother’s, to be married as it was said, but I don’t know to whom.


Your news interests me deeply.


Was Miss Nancy Steyne there when you left?


Was she pretty when you knew her?


She was a beauty, but her loveliness was a fatal gift to her. Nancy was a close friend of mine, we loved each other tenderly; and perhaps our sympathy arose from the similarity of the fate in store for us. Nancy, too loving and too simple, is now, perhaps, even more unhappy than myself.


More unhappy? What do you mean?


Alas!


Is it possible that fate has treated you harshly? Is it possible that you can be unhappy with such a letter of commendation as nature has given you?


Alas! let us speak of something else.


Tell me why you think Nancy is unhappy.


She ran away with a young man she loved; they despaired of gaining the parents’ consent to the match. Since her flight nothing has been heard of her, and you see I have some reason to fear that she is unhappy.


You are right. I would willingly give my life if it could be the saving of her.


Where did you know her?


In my own house. She and Sophie dined with me, and her father came in at the end of the meal.


Now I know who you are. How often have I heard Sophie talking of you. Nancy loved you as well as her father. I heard that you had gone to Russia, and had fought a duel with a general in Poland. Is this true? How I wish I could tell dear Sophie all this, but I may not entertain such hopes now.


You have heard the truth about me; but what should prevent you writing what you like to England? I take a lively interest in you, trust in me, and I promise you that you shall communicate with whom you please.


I am vastly obliged to you.


This blockhead does not understand what I say to him; but as he may have right on his side, I must ask you to give him two sequins. I will return you the money at Rome. By an odd chance I happen to have no money about me, but the fellow might trust me as he has got my trunk. However, he says he must be paid, so will you kindly oblige me? You shall hear more of me at Rome.


Laugh too,


I agree with you that it’s laughable enough, but I have not the spirit to laugh.


Well, sit down at all events.


I understand your grief, but you must try to overcome it. I have only one favour to ask of you, and if you refuse to grant me that, I shall be as sad as you, so we shall be rather a melancholy couple.


What can I do for you?


You can tell me on your word of honour whether that extraordinary character is your husband, or only your lover.


I will tell you the simple truth; he is not my husband, but we are going to be married at Rome.


I breathe again. He never shall be your husband, and so much the better for you. He has seduced you, and you love him, but you will soon get over that.


Never, unless he deceives me.


He has deceived you already. I am sure he has told you that he is rich, that he is a man of rank, and that he will make you happy; and all that is a lie.


How can you know all this?


Experience--experience is my great teacher. Your lover is a young feather-brain, a man of no worth. He might possibly marry you, but it would be only to support himself by the sale of your charms.


He loves me; I am sure of it.


Yes, he loves you, but not with the love of a man of honour. Without knowing my name, or my character, or anything about me, he delivered you over to my tender mercies. A man of any delicacy would never abandon his loved one thus.


He is not jealous. You know Frenchmen are not.


A man of honour is the same in France, and England, and Italy, and all the world over. If he loved you, would he have left you penniless in this fashion? What would you do, if I were inclined to play the brutal lover? You may speak freely.


I should defend myself.


Very good; then I should abandon you here, and what would you do then? You are pretty, you are a woman of sensibility, but many men would take but little account of your virtue. Your lover has left you to me; for all he knew I might be the vilest wretch; but as it is, cheer up, you have nothing to fear.


How can you think that adventurer loves you? He is a mere monster. I am sorry that what I say makes you weep, but it must be said. I even dare tell you that I have taken a great liking to you; but you may feel quite sure that I shall not ask you to give me so much as a kiss, and I will never abandon you. Before we get to Rome I shall convince you that the count, as he calls himself, not only does not love you, but is a common swindler as well as a deceiver.


You will convince me of that?


Yes, on my word of honour! Dry your eyes, and let us try to make this day pass as pleasantly as yesterday. You cannot imagine how glad I feel that chance has constituted me your protector. I want you to feel assured of my friendship, and if you do not give me a little love in return, I will try and bear it patiently.


Would it not be better to go on now?


it will be very hot from ten till noon.


Yes, but the Comte de l’Ltoile, whom we should be sure to meet at Radicofani, would not like to see me.


Why not? I am sure he would.


You mean to go as far as Centino, I suppose,


No, we must push on, as the lady’s husband may be in need of help. The wounded postillion has followed him; and as he speaks Italian very imperfectly, there’s no knowing what may happen to him.


Very good; we will go off.


Would you like us to go on to Acquapendente?


Very good. Get me two horses immediately.


Where’s the slashed postillion?


He is drinking to my health with his comrade; they have both begged my pardon.


Yes, this gentleman gave him a crown.


What a pity! You shouldn’t have given them anything.


You see my lover is only without money by chance; he has a bill of exchange for a large amount.


I believe it to be a forgery.


You are really too cruel.


Not at all; I only wish I were mistaken, but I am sure of the contrary. Twenty years ago I should have taken it for a good one, but now it’s another thing, and if the bill is a good one, why did he not negotiate it at Sienna, Florence, or Leghorn?


It may be that he had not the time; he was in such a hurry to be gone. Ah! if you knew all!


I only want to know what you like to tell me, but I warn you again that what I say is no vague suspicion but hard fact.


Then you persist in the idea that he does not love me.


Nay, he loves you, but in such a fashion as to deserve hatred in return.


How do you mean?


Would you not hate a man who loved you only to traffic in your charms?


I should be sorry for you to think that of him.


If you like, I will convince you of what I say this evening.


You will oblige me; but I must have some positive proof. It would be a sore pain to me, but also a true service.


And when you are convinced, will you cease to love him?


Certainly; if you prove him to be dishonest, my love will vanish away.


You are mistaken; you will still love him, even when you have had proof positive of his wickedness. He has evidently fascinated you in a deadly manner, or you would see his character in its true light before this.


All this may be true; but do you give me your proofs, and leave to me the care of shewing that I despise him.


I will prove my assertions this evening; but tell me how long you have known him?


About a month; but we have only been together for five days.


And before that time you never accorded him any favours?


Not a single kiss. He was always under my windows, and I had reason to believe that he loved me fondly.


Oh, yes! he loves you, who would not? but his love is not that of a man of honour, but that of an impudent profligate.


But how can you suspect a man of whom you know nothing?


Would that I did not know him! I feel sure that not being able to visit you, he made you visit him, and then persuaded you to fly with him.


Yes, he did. He wrote me a letter, which I will shew you. He promises to marry me at Rome.


And who is to answer for his constancy?


His love is my surety.


Do you fear pursuit?


No.


Did he take you from a father, a lover, or a brother?


From a lover, who will not be back at Leghorn for a week or ten days.


Where has he gone?


To London on business; I was under the charge of a woman whom he trusted.


That’s enough; I pity you, my poor Betty. Tell me if you love your Englishman, and if he is worthy of your love.


Alas! I loved him dearly till I saw this Frenchman, who made me unfaithful to a man I adored. He will be in despair at not finding me when he returns.


Is he rich?


Not very; he is a business man, and is comfortably off.


Is he young?


No. He is a man of your age, and a thoroughly kind and honest person. He was waiting for his consumptive wife to die to marry me.


Poor man! Have you presented him with a child?


No. I am sure God did not mean me for him, for the count has conquered me completely.


Everyone whom love leads astray says the same thing.


Now you have heard everything, and I am glad I told you, for I am sure you are my friend.


I will be a better friend to you, dear Betty, in the future than in the past. You will need my services, and I promise not to abandon you. I love you, as I have said; but so long as you continue to love the Frenchman I shall only ask you to consider me as your friend.


I accept your promise, and in return I promise not to hide anything from you.


Tell me why you have no luggage.


I escaped on horseback, but my trunk, which is full of linen and other effects, will be at Rome two days after us. I sent it off the day before my escape, and the man who received it was sent by the count.


Then good-bye to your trunk!


Why, you foresee nothing but misfortune!


Well, dear Betty, I only wish my prophecies may not be accomplished. Although you escaped on horseback I think you should have brought a cloak and a carpet bag with some linen.


All that is in the small trunk; I shall have it taken into my room tonight.


Thus. Betty ought to procure me the enjoyment of Fanny, if she has reason to think I have taken a fancy to her; and per contra, as I adore Betty, if I found that she loved you I should procure her the pleasure of sleeping with you.


I confess, my dear count,


that, theoretically speaking, your system strikes me as sublime, and calculated to bring about the return of the Golden Age; but I am afraid it would prove absurd in practice. No doubt you are a man of courage, but I am sure you would never let your mistress be enjoyed by another man. Here are twenty-five sequins. I will wager that amount that you will not allow me to sleep with your wife.


Ha! ha! You are mistaken in me, I assure you. I’ll bet fifty sequins that I will remain in the room a calm spectator of your exploits. My dear Betty, we must punish this sceptic; go to bed with him.


You are joking.


Not at all; to bed with you, I shall love you all the more.


You must be crazy, I shall do nothing of the kind.


Are you ready to go, my dear Betty?


I am much better, but I should so like a cup of tea.


For pity’s sake do not abandon a poor girl, more worthy of compassion than blame!


Be a father to me, do not advise but command; you may reckon on my obedience. I have no need to give you any further particulars, for you have guessed all except the horror with which the thought of my betrayer now inspires me. If it had not been for you, he would have plunged me into an abyss of shame and misery.


Can you reckon on the Englishman forgiving you?


I think so.


Then we must go back to Leghorn. Are you strong enough to follow this counsel? I warn you that if you approve of it, it must be put into execution at once. Young, pretty, and virtuous as you are, you need not imagine that I shall allow you to go by yourself, or in the company of strangers. If you think I love you, and find me worthy of your esteem, that is sufficient regard for me. I will live with you like a father, if you are not in a position to give me marks of a more ardent affection. Be sure I will keep faith with you, for I want to redeem your opinion of men, and to shew you that there are men as honourable as your seducer was vile.


You need not think, my dear friend, that my silence proceeds from irresolution. If my mind were not made up already I should despise myself. I am wise enough at any rate to appreciate the wisdom of your generous counsels. I thank Providence that I have fallen into the hands of such a man who will treat me as if I were his daughter.


Then we will go back to Leghorn, and start immediately.


My only doubt is how to manage my reconciliation with Sir B---- M----. I have no doubt he will pardon me eventually; but though he is tender and good-hearted he is delicate where a point of honour is concerned, and subject to sudden fits of violence. This is what I want to avoid; for he might possibly kill me, and then I should be the cause of his ruin.


You must consider it on the way, and tell me any plans you may think of.


He is an intelligent man, and it would be hopeless to endeavour to dupe him by a lie. I must make a full confession in writing without hiding a single circumstance; for if he thought he was being duped his fury would be terrible. If you will write to him you must not say that you think me worthy of forgiveness; you must tell him the facts and leave him to judge for himself. He will be convinced of my repentance when he reads the letter I shall bedew with my tears, but he must not know of my whereabouts till he has promised to forgive me. He is a slave to his word of honour, and we shall live together all our days without my ever hearing of this slip. I am only sorry that I have behaved so foolishly.


You must not be offended if I ask you whether you have ever given him like cause for complaint before.


Never.


What is his history?


He lived very unhappily with his first wife; and he was divorced from his second wife for sufficient reasons. Two years ago he came to our school with Nancy’s father, and made my acquaintance. My father died, his creditors seized everything, and I had to leave the school, much to Nancy’s distress and that of the other pupils. At this period Sir B---- M---- took charge of me, and gave me a sum which placed me beyond the reach of want for the rest of my days. I was grateful, and begged him to take me with him when he told me he was leaving England. He was astonished; and, like a man of honour, said he loved me too well to flatter himself that we could travel together without his entertaining more ardent feelings for me than those of a father. He thought it out of the question for me to love him, save as a daughter. This declaration, as you may imagine, paved the way for a full agreement.


However you love me. I shall be well pleased, and if I can do anything for you I shall be all the happier. Dry your eyes, dear Betty, he is sure to forgive you. I have friends at Leghorn, and no one shall find out that we have made acquaintance. I will put you in good hands, and I shall not leave the town till I hear you are back with Sir B---- M----. If he prove inexorable I promise never to abandon you, and to take you back to England if you like.


But how can you spare the time?


I will tell you the truth, my dear Betty. I have nothing particular to do at Rome, or anywhere else. London and Rome are alike to me.


How can I shew my gratitude to you?


We will read it all to-morrow, to-day we have something else to do. If you like. I will have a bed made up for me in the next room.


No, dear friend, ought I not to love your society? What would have become of me without you?


Listen, it is absolutely necessary for me to recover my pocket-book, and I hope to find it at Acquapendente.


Very good, sir, very good, pay me as if I had taken you to Rome, and a sequin a day for the future, and if you like, I will take you to England on those terms.


He might pursue us.


He dare not do so. I expect not, but if he does I will give him a warm welcome. If he does not take himself off I will blow out his brains.


Not even the reward you gave me?


Oh, yes! That is a little secret between ourselves.


Heaven is arranging everything. My mistake will serve as a warning to me for the future, for the lesson has been a severe one, and might have been much worse if I had not had the good fortune of meeting you.


I congratulate you on having cured yourself so quickly of a passion that had deprived you of your reason.


Ah! a woman’s reason is a fragile thing. I shudder when I think of the monster; but I verily believe that I should not have regained my senses if he had not called me a hypocrite, and said that he was certain I had already granted you my favours. These infamous words opened my eyes, and made me see my shame. I believe I would have helped you to pierce him to the heart if the coward had not run away. But I am glad he did run away, not for his sake but for ours, for we should have been in an unpleasant position if he had been killed.


You are right; he escaped my sword because he is destined for the rope.


Let him look to that himself, but I am sure he will never dare to shew his face before you or me again.


Ah! there you are. Let me go, traitor!


No, no! he is my preserver.


Let me go, traitors!


Sir, you are labouring under a delusion.


What do you mean by ‘preserver’?


Read that.


You must forgive my conduct, sir, for I could not guess that the man I found with her was her saviour and not her betrayer. I thank Heaven which inspired you with the idea of catching hold of me from behind, as I should certainly have killed you the moment I set eyes on you, and at this moment I should be the most wretched of men. You must forgive me, sir, and become my friend. Forgiveness? you may be sure I have already forgiven her, and she well deserves it. Poor Betty repented directly you shewed her the path she was treading, and the tears she is shedding now are tears of sorrow at her mistake. I am sure she recognizes her folly, and will never be guilty of such a slip again.


I provided myself with two good pistols, not with the idea of using one against her, for my first thought about her was pity, and my second forgiveness; but I determined to blow out the scoundrel’s brains, and I mean to do it yet. We will start for Rome to-morrow.


We shall find him at Roland’s. I understand your purpose, but you shall not execute your plans without me. Let me have the charge of seeing that justice is done you. If you will not agree, I shall start for Rome directly, I shall get there before you, and shall give the wretched actor warning of your approach. If you had killed him before I should have said nothing, but at Rome it is different, and you would have reason to repent of having indulged your righteous indignation. You don’t know Rome and priestly justice. Come, give me your hand and your word to do nothing without my consent, or else I shall leave you directly.


Yes, dearest, leave vengeance to the friend whom Heaven has sent us.


I consent to do so, provided everything is done in concert between us.


For Rome! Then you have found your pocketbook? It seems to me, my good sir, that you would have been wiser not to search for it.


I promise you to have the rogue imprisoned as soon as we reach Rome, and that ought to be sufficient vengeance for you. Instead of the advantages he proposed for himself, he will receive only shame and all the misery of a prison.


You see, that our demand is a very moderate one, and we could get all we want by the ordinary channels of the law; but we are in a hurry, and I want you to take charge of the whole affair. If you care to do so we shall be prepared to defray legal expenses to the extent of fifty crowns.


As soon as I have made him confess the facts you allege against him, we shall be able to do something. I have already heard that he is at Roland’s, and has been trying to get the Englishwoman’s trunk. If you liked to spend a hundred crowns instead of fifty we could send him to the galleys for a couple of years.


We will see about that, for the present we will have him into prison.


How’s this? I thought you were still at the Place d’Espagne.


I have given my old house to my daughter who has married a prosperous Frenchman, while I have taken this palace where there are some magnificent rooms.


Has your daughter many foreigners staying at her house now?


Only one Frenchman, the Comte de l’Etoile, who is waiting for his equipage to come on. He has an excellent horse, and I am thinking of buying it from him.


I advise you to wait till to-morrow, and to say nothing about the advice I have given you.


Why should I wait?


I can’t say any more just now. I understood that my brother could not come to Rome.


He came with a safe-conduct which the Dowager Electress of Saxony obtained for him from the Holy Father. He wants his case to be re-tried, and there he makes a mistake, for if it were heard a hundred times the sentence would continue the same. No one will see him, everyone avoids him, even Mengs will have nothing to say to him.


Mengs is here, is he? I though he had been at Madrid.


He has got leave of absence for a year, but his family remains in Spain.


Before making up my mind I should like to speak to him,


You can do so to-morrow. He confessed everything without any trouble, and made a jest of it, saying he was not afraid of any consequences, as the young lady had gone with him of her own free will. I shewed him the bill of exchange, but he evinced no emotion whatever. He told me that he was an actor by profession, but also a man of rank. As to the horse, he said he was at perfect liberty to sell it, as the watch he had left in pledge was worth more than the beast.


I owed him twenty-five Louis as he had left Betty to sleep with me. Are you Betty’s lover?


Yes, and if I had caught you with her I should have blown out your brains, for you have deceived her doubly; you’re only a beggarly actor.


I have three thousand crowns.


I will pay six thousand if the bill proves to be a good one. In the meanwhile you will stay here, and if it be false, as I expect it is, you will go to the galleys.


Very good. I shall speak to my counsel.


I don’t care who the punter is, it is not of the slightest consequence to me, as I tell you plainly that as long as Medini is the banker I will have nothing to do with it.


I have told Medini about it and wanted to take a third away from the bank, but he seemed offended and said he would make up any loss to you, but that he could not have the bank touched.


Very good, but if he does not bring me my money by to-morrow morning there will be trouble. Indeed, the responsibility lies with you, for I have told you that as long as Medini deals I will have nothing to do with it.


Of course you have a claim on me for two hundred ounces, but I hope you will be reasonable; it would be rather hard for me to lose two-thirds.


Will you kindly give me my two hundred ounces, for, of course, Goudar told you that I was out of it?


I confess myself indebted to you for that amount, as you absolutely insist, but pray tell me why you refuse to be interested in the bank when I am dealing.


Because I have no confidence in your luck.


You must see that your words are capable of a very unpleasant interpretation.


I can’t prevent your interpreting my words as you please, but I have a right to my own opinion. I want my two hundred ounces, and I am quite willing to leave you any moneys you propose to make out of the conqueror of to-night. You must make your arrangements with M. Goudar, and by noon to-morrow, you, M. Goudar, will bring me that sum.


I can’t remit you the money till the count gives it me, for I haven’t got any money.


I am sure you will have some money by twelve o’clock to-morrow morning. Goodnight.


begging me to call on him and settle the matter.


I replied that he must make his arrangements with Goudar, and I begged to be excused calling on him.


You are in the right about your money, but just at present my husband has not got any; you really must wait two or three days, I will guarantee the payment.


I am really sorry, not to be able to oblige such a charming woman, but the only thing that will pacify me is my money, and till I have had it, you will see me no more in your house, against which I declare war.


I will do it myself,


Now I am a rich woman, and my good fortune is all your making; so take back what you gave me. Don’t be offended; I am so grateful to you, and my good husband and I agreed on this plan this morning.


So pretty, and yet poor?


Yes, for she will have all or nothing; and lovers of that kind are rare in Naples.


But she must have some lover?


If she has, no one has heard of him. You had better make her acquaintance and go and see her. You will soon be friends.


What’s her name?


Callimena. The lady who is speaking to her is her aunt, and I expect they are talking about you.


It is my baptismal name.


It is Greek; but, of course, you know what it means?


No.


Mad beauty, or fair moon.


I am glad to say that I have nothing in common with my name.


Have you any brothers or sisters?


I have only one married sister, with whom you may possibly be acquainted.


What is her name, and who is her husband?


Her husband is a Piedmontese, but she does not live with him.


Is she the Madame Slopis who travels with Aston?


Exactly.


I can give you good news of her.


My husband is her godfather.


What is her exact age?


Fourteen.


She’s a simple prodigy! What loveliness!


Her sister is still handsomer.


I have never seen her.


M. Goudar would like to have a little private conversation with the advocate.


Then that’s all settled, and I am very glad of it. I have certainly made an eternal enemy of him, but that doesn’t trouble me much.


I told her all I knew about her sister, and promised I would write to Turin to enquire whether she were still there. I told her that I loved her, and that if she would allow me, I would come and see her. Her reply was extremely satisfactory.


All that makes you more desirable in my eyes, and I am only sorry that I cannot offer you a fortune.


Not one.


And have you never had one?


Never.


Not even a fancy for anyone?


No, never.


What, with your beauty and sensibility, is there no man in Naples who has succeeded in inspiring you with desire?


No one has ever tried to do so. No one has spoken to me as you have, and that is the plain truth.


I believe you, and I see that I must make haste to leave Naples, if I would not be the most unhappy of men.


What do you mean?


I should love you without the hope of possessing you, and thus I should be most unhappy.


Love me then, and stay. Try and make me love you. Only you must moderate your ecstacies, for I cannot love a man who cannot exercise self-restraint.


As just now, for instance?


Yes. If you calm yourself I shall think you do so for my sake, and thus love will tread close on the heels of gratitude.


Alas! I have only too great a need of twenty ducats (about eighty francs) to pay my rent.


Who are you? I think I have seen you before, and yet . . .


I will soon tell you my name and the story of my woes; but first give me something to eat, for I am dying of hunger. I have had nothing but bad soup for the last few days.


Certainly; go downstairs and have your dinner, and then come back to me; you can’t eat and speak at the same time. Sit down, and speak freely.


My name is Albergoni.


What!


A club of young rakes, of whom I was one, had a casino at the Zuecca; we passed many a pleasant hour there without hurting anyone. Some one imagined that these meetings were the scenes of unlawful pleasures, the engines of the law were secretly directed against us, and the casino was shut up, and we were ordered to be arrested. All escaped except myself and a man named Branzandi. We had to wait for our unjust sentence for two years, but at last it appeared. My wretched fellow was condemned to lose his head, and afterwards to be burnt, while I was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment ‘in carcere duro’. In 1765 I was set free, and went to Padua hoping to live in peace, but my persecutors gave me no rest, and I was accused of the same crime. I would not wait for the storm to burst, so I fled to Rome, and two years afterwards the Council of Ten condemned me to perpetual banishment. I might bear this if I had the wherewithal to live, but a brother-in-law of mine has possessed himself of all I have, and the unjust Tribunal winks at his misdeeds. A Roman attorney made me an offer of an annuity of two paoli a day on the condition that I should renounce all claims on my estate. I refused this iniquitous condition, and left Rome to come here and turn hermit. I have followed this sorry trade for two years, and can bear it no more.


Go back to Rome; you can live on two paoli a day.


I would rather die.


You have stolen more than twenty from me.


Not I, but some of my mates. If you come with me, perhaps we shall be able to get them all back.


Is it far off?


In the Largo del Castello. Let me go; people are looking at us.


What kind of commodities are they?


Watches, snuff-boxes, rings, and jewels, which I dare not sell here.


Aren’t you afraid of being discovered?


Not much, I don’t tell everyone of my business.


Bartoldi was an old friend of mine.


If you are alone. I should be glad to share your repast.


Certainly; I will order dinner for two.


Are you married to the marquis?


No.


Then how could you keep him for seven years?


Alas . . . . You can think of a hundred ways, and they would all be true.


I see.


Can you procure me an interview with the duchess?


I will try, but I warn you that I shall tell her the simple truth.


Very good.


Come again to-morrow.


What’s his name?


His name is Gaetano, and he says he is a relation of yours.


gossip.


I am sorry to see you here, but what can I do for you?


You can pay me the hundred crowns you owe me, for the goods supplied to you at Paris by me.


Sir, the man is mad; I don’t owe him anything, and the evidence of this book is utterly worthless.


You make a mistake, sir, this ledger is good evidence, and our laws deal very favorably with imprisoned creditors. I am retained for them, and if you do not settle the matter by to-morrow I shall serve you with a summons.


How did you come to Naples? Whom are you with?


I am by myself. I wanted to see Italy, and my mother gave me this pleasure. I have seen Turin, Milan, Genoa, Florence, Venice, and Rome; and after I have done Italy I shall see Switzerland and Germany, and then return to England by way of Holland.


How long is this expedition to take?


Six months.


I suppose you will be able to give a full account of everything when you go back to London?


I hope to convince my mother that the money she spent was not wasted.


How much do you think it will cost you?


The five hundred guineas she gave me, no more.


Do you mean to say you are only going to spend five hundred guineas in six months? I can’t believe it.


Economy works wonders.


I suppose so. How have you done as to letters of introduction in all these countries of which you now know so much?


I have had no introductions. I carry an English passport, and let people think that I am English.


Aren’t you afraid of getting into bad company?


I don’t give myself the chance. I don’t speak to anyone, and when people address me I reply in monosyllables. I always strike a bargain before I eat a meal or take a lodging. I only travel in public conveyances.


Very good. Here you will be able to economize; I will pay all your expenses, and give you an excellent cicerone, one who will cost you nothing.


I am much obliged, but I promised my mother not to accept anything from anybody.


I think you might make an exception in my case.


No. I have relations in Venice, and I would not take so much as a single dinner from them. When I promise, I perform.


Are you in any business?


No. My mother is always talking of buying a cargo and sending me with it to the Indies, but the day never seems to come, and I am afraid it never will come. To buy a cargo one must have some money, and my mother has none.


one could play without being afraid of anything.


as I seemed inclined to do something for her niece, she would let me know as soon as possible what she wanted most.


as I should soon be leaving for Rome, I should like to sup with her niece every evening.


this a very natural wish on my part,


It had been agreed that his wife should come with him.


Ti aspettero nel medesimo luogo, ed alla stessa ora, coll’ impazienza medesima che ha una vacca che desidera l’avicinamento del toro.


Chi infamia!


they should be delighted to play if she or I would take the bank, but they feared the count’s extraordinary fortune.


I will not deal under a half share, though I have no confidence in my luck. I would never have consented if fortune had been kinder to me. I should like to have the value of the jewels,


it would be unmannerly to refuse; there could be no humiliation in it,


they must give in,


there would be no danger;


He is never more grieved, than when his minister Tanucci shews him that he must be severe, and his greatest joy is to grant a favour.


Don’t put yourselves out, take care that Tanucci doesn’t catch you, but don’t mind me. There are four things which astonish me very much. The first is that though the Jesuits were said to be so rich, not a penny was found upon them at the suppression; the second, that though the Scrivani of Naples are supposed to take no fees, yet their wealth is immense; the third, that while all the other young couples have children sooner or later, we have none; and the fourth, that all men die at last, except Tanucci, who, I believe, will live on in ‘saecula saeculorum’.


I had intended to visit him, if Lucrezia were still with him.


She lives at Salerno, with her daughter the Marchioness C----.


if he knew the Marchioness C----.


I only know the marquis, he is old and very rich.


a gentleman would be rather more choice in his expressions.


Maybe, but I am not going to learn manners from you.


I was tired of the rudeness with which he treated me in company.


You would find me ruder still, if we could meet without company.


I think I could convince you of your mistake if we could have a private meeting.


I should very much like to see you do it.


When you see me go out, follow me, and don’t say a word to anyone.


I will not fail.


With pleasure, at Rome, and I hope the third lesson will be more effectual than the two I have already given you.


She is longing to see you, and her husband too; he is a worthy old man, and will be so glad to know you.


How does he know of my existence?


Leonilda has mentioned your name a thousand times during the five years they have been married. He is aware that you gave her five thousand ducats. We shall sup together.


Let us go directly; I cannot rest till I have seen my Leonilda and the good husband God has given her. Have they any children?


No, unluckily for her, as after his death the property passes to his relations. But Leonilda will be a rich woman for all that; she will have a hundred thousand ducats of her own.


You have never married.


No.


You are as pretty as you were twenty-six years ago, and if it had not been for the Abbé Galiani I should have left Naples without seeing you.


My dear friend, embrace me.


Your sweetheart will explain it to you,


They are all ugly, awkward lads, more like peasants than noblemen; all their education has been given them by a pack of ignorant priests; and so it is not to be wondered that the marquis does not care for them much.


But is Leonilda really happy?


She is, though her husband cannot be quite so ardent as she would like at her age.


He doesn’t seem to me to be a very jealous man.


He is entirely free from jealousy, and if Leonilda would take a lover I am sure he would be his best friend. And I feel certain he would be only too glad to find the beautiful soil which he cannot fertile himself fertilized by another.


Is it positively certain that he is incapable of begetting a child?


No, when he is well he does his best; but there seems no likelihood of his ardour having any happy results. There was some ground to hope in the first six months of the marriage, but since he has had the gout so badly there seems reason to fear lest his amorous ecstasies should have a fatal termination. Sometimes he wants to approach her, but she dare not let him, and this pains her very much.


I have come on an affair of the highest importance, and if I fail I shall for ever lose the reputation of a diplomatist.


Who is the other diplomatist with whom you are afraid of failing?


'Tis yourself.


Then your battle is over, for I consent before I know what you ask. I only make a reserve on one point.


So much the worse, as that may turn out to be just what I want you to do. Tell me what it is.


I was going to Rome, when the Abbé Galiani told me that Donna Lucrezia was here with you.


And can a short delay interfere with your happiness? Are you not your own master?


Smile on me once more; your desires are orders which must be obeyed. I have always been my own master, but I cease to be so from this moment, since I am your most humble servant.


Very good. Then I command you to come and spend a few days with us at an estate we have at a short distance. My husband will have himself transported here. You will allow me to send to the inn for your luggage?


Here, sweet marchioness, is the key to my room. Happy the mortal whom you deign to command. When had I the pleasure of knowing you, mademoiselle?


Nine year ago. You have often spoken to me and teased me.


Where, may I ask?


At the Duchess of Matalone’s.


That may be, and I think I do begin to remember, but I really cannot recollect having teased you.


It strikes me, that you were much smaller in those days.


Yes, I was only twelve or thirteen. You have changed also.


Yes, I have aged.


I suppose you will not mind having our friend for a neighbor?


No, but we will be discreet, for the flower of our lives has withered.


I shall believe as much of that as I please.


Yes, yes, but get ready to receive me. Draw the bill, and to-morrow I will accept it.


I promise you, to do my best to ensure your meeting your obligations.


Do you think I may draw my bill at nine months?


It will very probably be met,


Really?


Yes, really; and it will be to you that my husband will owe the happiness he has so long desired. He told me so when he left me an hour ago.


I shall be delighted to add to your mutual happiness.


In an hour and a half we arrived at his fine and well-situated castle.


I shall lock my door, because it is my duty to do so. This room is my mistress’s closet, and my companion would probably make some remark if I left the door open contrary to my usual custom.


Your reasons are too good for me to overcome, but will you not sit down beside me for a few minutes and help me to recollect how I used to tease you?


I don’t want you to recollect anything about it; please let me go.


You must please yourself,


I applauded her virtuous resistance, but I said she might safely assist at your toilette every evening.


No, she doesn’t tire me at all; she is pretty and amusing. But how can you imagine that I really love her, when you know very well that the whole affair is only designed to cast dust in everyone’s eyes?


Anastasia fully believes that you adore her, and indeed I am not sorry that you should give her a little taste for gallantry.


If I can persuade her to leave her door open I can easily visit you, for she will not imagine for a moment that after leaving her I go to your room instead of my own.


Take care how you set about it.


I will see what I can do this evening.


I am glad to see you so calm, you quite frightened me at supper.


The reason is that I know you think yourself in danger when you are alone with me.


Not at all; you are much more discreet than you were nine years ago.


What folly did I commit then?


No folly, but you did not respect my childhood.


I only gave you a few caresses, for which I am now sorry, as you are frightened of me, and persist in locking your door.


I don’t mistrust you, but I have told you my reasons for locking the door. I think that you must mistrust me, as you won’t go to bed while I am in the room.


You must think me very presumptuous. I will go to bed, but you must not leave me without giving me a kiss.


I promise to do so.


These five thousand ducats,


with seven thousand from the duke, composed her dower, and I have added a hundred thousand, so that she is sure of a comfortable living, even if I die without a successor.


Now, I want you to take back the five thousand ducats you gave her; and she herself is as desirous of your doing so as I am. She did not like to ask you herself; she is too delicate.


Well, I should have refused Leonilda if she had asked me, but I accept this mark of your friendship. A refusal would have borne witness to nothing but a foolish pride, as I am a poor man. I should like Leonilda and her mother to be present when you give me the money.


Embrace me; we will do our business after dinner.


I think of paying my suit to him to-morrow,


Do so, for I have never heard his eminence speak of anyone with as much consideration as he speaks of yourself.


He has been very kind to me, and I shall always be grateful to him. Your eminence, is a little stouter, otherwise you look as fresh as ever and not at all changed.


You make a mistake. I am very different from what I was then. I am fifty-five now, and then I was thirty-six. Moreover, I am reduced to a vegetable diet.


Is that to keep down the lusts of the flesh?


I wish people would think so; but no one does, I am afraid. We will begin to break the ice to-morrow. You shall dine with me, and his excellence shall hear of it. I shall write about you to M---- M----. I have always kept up a correspondence with that delightful nun. You ought to ask the Prince of Santa Croce to introduce you to the princess. We might pass some pleasant hours with her, though not in our old Venetian style, for the princess is not at all like M---- M----.


And yet she serves to amuse your eminence?


Well, I have to be content with what I can get.


I have been expecting that, even since the cardinal talked to her about you for more than an hour. You can call any day at eleven in the morning or two in the afternoon.


Where is your daughter?


She’s asleep, and I really cannot allow you to pass the whole night with her any longer.


But she only stays with me till I get into bed. This new whim wounds my feelings. I object to such unworthy suspicions. What has Margarita been telling you? If she has made any complaints of me, she has lied, and I shall leave your house to-morrow.


You are wrong; Margarita has made no complaints; on the contrary she says that you have done nothing to her.


Very good. Do you think there is any harm in a little joking?


No, but you might be better employed.


And these are your grounds for a suspicion of which you should be ashamed, if you are a good Christian.


God save me from thinking evil of my neighbour, but I have been informed that your laughter and your jests are of such a nature as to be offensive to people of morality.


Then it is my neighbour the abbé who has been foolish enough to give you this information?


I cannot tell you how I heard it, but I have heard it.


Very good. To-morrow I shall seek another lodging, so as to afford your tender conscience some relief.


Can’t I attend on you as well as my daughter?


No; your daughter makes me laugh, and laughing is beneficial to me, whereas you would not make me laugh at all. You have insulted me, and I leave your house to-morrow.


I shall have to tell my husband the reason of your departure, and I do not want to do that.


You can do as you like; that’s no business of mine. Go away; I want to get into bed.


Allow me to wait on you.


Certainly not; if you want anybody to wait on me, send Margarita.


She’s asleep.


Then wake her up.


I was sleeping soundly, and my mother woke me up all of a sudden, and told me to come and wait on you, or else you would leave, and my father would think we had been in mischief.


I will stay, if you will continue to wait on me.


I should like to come very much, but we mustn’t laugh any more, as the abbé has complained of us. Sire,


Oh! it is the abbé, is it?


Of course it is. Our jests and laughter irritate his passions.


The rascal! We will punish him rarely. If we laughed last night, we will laugh ten times louder tonight.


Come now,


do you think our amusements criminal?


Not a bit; but you see your innocent orgies keep your neighbour awake.


Then he had better go and sleep somewhere else; I am not going to put myself out for him. I will even say that you must choose between him and me; if I consent to stay with you, you must send him away, and I will take his room.


I can’t send him away before the end of the month, and I am afraid he will say things to my husband which will disturb the peace of the house.


I promise you he shall go to-morrow and say nothing at all. Leave him to me; the abbé shall leave of his own free will, without giving you the slightest trouble. In future be afraid for your daughter when she is alone with a man and you don’t hear laughing. When one does not laugh, one does something serious.


Very good,


I will present you with another twenty crowns; but you must go to-day, and not say a word to anyone, unless you wish me to become your implacable enemy.


My dear Casanova, let us forget what happened at Madrid and be friends once more.


So be it, provided no allusion is made to the cause of our quarrel; for I warn you that I cannot speak of it and keep my head cool.


I dare say; but if you had understood my position at Madrid you would never have obliged me to take a course which gave me great pain.


I do not understand you.


I dare say not. You must know, then, that I was strongly suspected of being a Protestant; and if I had shewn myself indifferent to your conduct, I might possibly have been ruined. But dine with me tomorrow; we will make up a party of friends, and discuss our quarrel in a good bottle of wine. I know that you do not receive your brother, so he shall not be there. Indeed, I do not receive him myself, for if I did all honest people would give me the cold shoulder.


Where do you come from?


From Venice; I had to leave the place, as I could no longer make a living there.


Then how do you think of making a living at Rome?


By saying masses and teaching French.


You a teacher of languages! Why, you do not know your native tongue.


I know Italian and French too, and I have already got two pupils.


They will no doubt make wonderful progress under your fostering care. Who are they?


The son and daughter of the inn-keeper, at whose house I am staying. But that’s not enough to keep me, and you must give me something while I am starting.


You have no right to count on me. Leave the room.


You can keep him out of Rome, and he is ready to go if you will allow him three paoli a day.


I suppose you know him well, and as I am going to present him to the Holy Father to-morrow, I should be much obliged if you could tell me who he really is.


I knew him at Madrid, where he lived with Mocenigo our ambassador; he is well mannered, polite, and a fine looking young man, and that’s all I know about him.


Was he received at the Spanish Court?


I think so, but I cannot be positive.


Well, I think he was not received; but I see that you won’t tell me all you know about him. It’s of no consequence; I shall run no risk in presenting him to the Pope. He says he is descended from Manucci, the famous traveller of the thirteenth century, and from the celebrated printers of the same name who did so much for literature. He shewed me the Aldine anchor on his coat of arms which has sixteen quarters.


How and where have you seen your mistress?


for there I see nothing but darkness.


The first time the governess chanced to have a candle, but this privilege is confined, under pain of excommunication, to relations.


Then she will have a light to-day?


I expect not, as the portress will have sent up word that there was a stranger with me.


But how could you see your sweetheart, as you are not related to her?


By chance; the first time she came my sister’s governess--a good soul--said nothing about it. Ever since there has been no candle when she has been present.


Then there are a good many old women here?


There are a hundred of us, and the number is only decreased by death and by occasional marriages.


But how do those who go out to get married succeed in inspiring the love of their husbands?


I have been here for twenty years, and in that time only four have gone out, and they did not know their husbands till they met at the altar. As might be expected, the men who solicit the cardinal for our hands are either madmen, or fellows of desperate fortunes who want the two hundred piastres. However, the cardinal-superintendent refuses permission unless the postulant can satisfy him that he is capable of supporting a wife.


How does he choose his bride?


He tells the cardinal what age and disposition he would prefer, and the cardinal informs the mother-superior.


I suppose you keep a good table, and are comfortably lodged.


Not at all. Three thousand crowns a year are not much to keep a hundred persons. Those who do a little work and earn something are the best off.


What manner of people put their daughters in such a prison?


Either poor people or bigots who are afraid of their children falling into evil ways. We only receive pretty girls here.


Who is the judge of their prettiness?


The parents, the priest, and on the last appeal the cardinal-superintendent, who rejects plain girls without pity, observing that ugly women have no reason to fear the seductions of vice. So you may imagine that, wretched as we are, we curse those who pronounced us pretty.


I pity you, and I wonder why leave is not given to see you openly; you might have some chance of getting married then.


The cardinal says that it is not in his power to give permission, as anyone transgressing the foundation is excommunicated.


Then I should imagine that the founder of this house is now consumed by the flames of hell.


We all think so, and hope he may stay there. The Pope ought to take some order with the house.


I suppose I shall never see your mistress or your sister,


your sister’s voice went to my heart.


I should think your ten paistres ought to work miracles.


I suppose there is another parlour.


Yes; but only priests are allowed to enter it under pain of excommunication, unless you get leave from the Holy Father.


The mother-superior is well pleased, and all my young companions are overjoyed; but the older ones whom circumstance has made into bigots are scandalized at everything. The superior has already given orders for windows to be made in the dark parlours, though the old women say that she cannot go beyond the concessions she has already received. To this the superior answered that as free communication had been allowed, it would be absurd to retain the darkness. She has also given orders for the alteration of the double grating, as there was only a single one in the large parlour.


I envy your lot,


for your happiness is assured, while I, though I love your sister, despair of possessing her.


Are you married then?


Alas, yes! Keep my counsel, for I propose visiting her every day, and if it were known that I was married, my visits would be received with suspicion.


All this, cannot improve them from a mortal point of view, and takes up a lot of their time, so that they have none left for their work, by the sale of which they procure some small comforts for themselves.


How many confessors have you?


Four.


Are you satisfied with the other three?


Yes, they are sensible men, and do not ask too much of poor human nature.


I will carry your just complaint to the cardinal; will you write out your petition?


Kindly give me a model.


what there was in common between affection and the inconvenience of sleeping two in a narrow bed.


Can I continue to live, dear Armelline, with no other consolation than that of kissing your fair hands?


I saw you at St. Peter’s, at the midnight mass on Christmas Eve, but not daring to approach you because of the people with whom I was, I told a friend of mine to follow you and find out where you lived.


How is it that I have tried to find you out in vain for the last three months?


My husband set up at Frascati eight years ago, and we have lived there very happily ever since.


I am very glad to hear it. Have you any children?


Four; and the eldest, who is nine years old, is very like you.


Do you love her?


I adore her, but I love the other three as well.


He’s a rascal; he robbed me.


I guessed as much; his theft did him no good. He left his wife two years after their marriage, and no one knows what has become of him.


How about his wife?


She is living miserably in Rome. Her father is dead.


The cardinal will make no objection, as Armelline has taken no vows; but as you must know our friend’s mistress before making your request, you have only to tell the cardinal that you would like to see the interior of the house.


Do you think he will give me leave?


Certainly; the inmates are not cloistered nuns. We will go with you.


You will come too? that will be a delightful party indeed.


Ask for leave, and we will arrange the day.


To-morrow afternoon, we will fix the day and the hour for the visit.


I know it. I am coming with her.


When is she coming?


I don’t know yet, but I will inform you later on.


This novelty has turned the house upside down. The devotees scarcely know whether they are awake or dreaming, for with the exception of a few priests, the doctor, and the surgeon, no one has ever entered the house since its foundation.


All these restrictions are now removed, and you need not ask the cardinal’s permission to receive visits from your friends.


I know that, but I don’t like to go so far.


I shall mention your name to Cardinal Orsini, and you may be sure I shall do you all the justice you deserve. I have heard of your sadness, but I know the reason of it. You are a good girl, and pretty too, and I shall get you a husband who will cure you of your melancholy.


his eminence had now a perfect right to relax any or all of the rules of the establishment.


but I haven’t the slightest doubt that we shall get rid of a score at least.


My dear fellow. I shall take two or three days before I congratulate you on your self-restraint.


Go and tell your sister, that I shall continue to interest the princess on her behalf, but that I shall see her no more.


Why not?


Because I wish to cure myself of an unhappy passion. Your sister does not love me: I am sure of it. I am no longer a young man, and I don’t feel inclined to become a martyr to her virtue. Virtue goes rather too far when it prevents a girl giving the man who adores her a single kiss.


Indeed, I would not have believed that of her.


Nevertheless it is the fact, and I must make an end of it. Your sister cannot understand the danger she runs in treating a lover in this fashion. Tell her all that, my dear Menicuccio, but don’t give her any advice of your own.


You can’t think how grieved I am to hear all this; perhaps it’s Emilie’s presence that makes her so cold.


No; I have often pressed her when we have been alone together, but all in vain. I want to cure myself, for if she does not love me I do not wish to obtain her either by seduction or by any feeling of gratitude on her part. Tell me how your future bride treats you.


Very well, ever since she has been sure of my marrying her.


Because I am in love with Armelline.


If that reason brought you here every day, I do not see how it can have suddenly operated in another direction.


And yet it is all quite natural; for when one loves one desires, and when one desires in vain one suffers, and continual suffering is great unhappiness. And so you see that I am bound to act thus for my own sake.


I pity you, and see the wisdom of your course; but allow me to tell you that, esteeming Armelline, you have no right to lay her open to a judgment being passed upon her which is very far from the truth.


And what judgment is that?


That your love was only a whim, and that as soon as it was satisfied you abandoned her.


I am sorry indeed to hear of this, but what can I do? I must cure myself of this unhappy passion. Do you know any other remedy than absence? Kindly advise me.


I don’t know much about the affection called love, but it seems to me that by slow degrees love becomes friendship, and peace is restored.


True, but if it is to become friendship, love must be gently treated. If the beloved object is not very tender, love grows desperate and turns to indifference or contempt. I neither wish to grow desperate nor to despise Armelline, who is a miracle of beauty and goodness. I shall do my utmost for her, just as if she had made me happy, but I will see her no more.


I am in complete darkness on the matter. They assure me that they have never failed in their duty towards you, and that they cannot imagine why you have ceased coming here.


Whether by prudence, or timidity, or a delicate wish not to say anything against me, they have told you a lie; but you deserve to know all, and my honour requires that I should tell you the whole story.


Please do so; you may count on my discretion.


I have always tried,


never to believe evil except on compulsion, nevertheless, knowing as I do the weakness of the human heart, I could never have believed that throughout so long and intimate an acquaintance you could have kept yourself so severely within bounds. In my opinion there would be much less harm in a kiss than in all this scandal.


I am sure that Armelline does not care about it.


She does nothing but weep.


Her tears probably spring from vanity, or from the cause her companions assign for my absence.


No, I have told them all that you are ill.


What does Emilie say?


She does not weep, but she looks sad, and says over and over again that it is not her fault if you do not come, thereby hinting that it is Armelline’s fault. Come tomorrow to oblige me. They are dying to see the opera at the Aliberti, and the comic opera at the Capronica.


Very good, then I will breakfast with them to-morrow morning, and to-morrow evening they shall see the opera.


You are very good; I thank you. Shall I tell them the news?


Please tell Armelline that I am only coming after hearing all that you have said to me.


I would not have said anything if I had had anything important to say.


Armelline has become unhappy through knowing you.


Because she does not want to fail in her duty, and she sees that you only love her to turn her from it.


But her unhappiness will cease when I cease troubling her.


Do you mean you are not going to see her any more?


Exactly. Do you think that it costs me no pain? But I must make the effort for the sake of my peace of mind.


Then she will be sure that you do not love her.


She must think what she pleases. In the meanwhile I feel sure that if she loved me as I loved her, we should be of one mind.


We have duties which seem to press lightly on you.


Then be faithful to your duties, and permit a man of honour to respect them by visiting you no more.


Why do you look so grave and pale?


Because you have grieved me.


Come then, be gay once more, and allow me to cure myself of a passion, the essence of which is to induce you to fail in your duty. I shall be still your friend, and I shall come to see you once a week while I remain in Rome.


Once a week! You needn’t have begun by coming once a day.


You are right; it was your kind expression which deceived me, but I hope you will allow me to become rational again. For this to happen, I must try not to see you more than I can help. Think over it, and you will see that I am doing all for the best.


It’s very hard that you can’t love me as I love you.


You mean calmly, and without desires.


I don’t say that; but holding your desires in check, if they are contrary to the voice of duty.


I’m too old to learn this method, and it does not seem to me an attractive one. Kindly tell me whether the restraint of your desires gives you much pain?


I don’t repress my desires when I think of you, I cherish them; I wish you were the Pope, I wish you were my father, that I might caress you in all innocence; in my dreams I wish you could become a girl, so that we might always live happily together.


Would you dare to sleep in the same bed with him?


No; an honest girl ought always to sleep by herself.


If I had foreseen that,


I would have ordered a good supper, whereas I have now only potluck to offer you.


Never mind. How many shall we be?


We three.


So much the better; we shall be more at liberty.


Then you don’t like the princess?


I beg your pardon, but she wants me to kiss her in a way I don’t like.


Nevertheless, you kissed her ardently enough.


I was afraid she would take me for a simpleton if I did not do so.


Then do you think you committed a sin in kissing her like that?


Certainly not, for it was very unpleasant for me.


Then why won’t you make the same effort on my behalf?


They are from the arsenal at Venice,


and we can’t sell them under fifty pains a hundred.


Very good, I will take a hundred, but you must open them here.


I beg pardon, Armelline,


I only took my hand away because it was not worthy of being carried to your fair lips.


Not on account of its delicacy,


but because at every mouthful we swallow half a paulo.


Half a paolo and the Holy Father does not forbid such a luxury? If this is not the sin of gluttony, I don’t know what is. These oysters are delightful; but I shall speak about the matter to my director.


I am sure you are too sensible to find anything wrong in that,


Why don’t you ask Armelline?


Do you give him one first, and if you have the courage I will try to do the same.


What courage do you want? It’s a child’s game; there’s no harm in it.


Then you are not afraid of my turning you from the path of duty?


No, I feel quite safe with you.


And what do you say, dear Emilie?


I shall love you too, when you do for me what the superioress will tell you to-morrow.


I will do anything, but I shan’t come to speak to her till the evening, for it is three o’clock now.


What will the mother say?


You missed your opportunity,


I don’t think so. I believe, on the contrary, that he has made his victory more sure for another time.


If you do this, you will have the merit of making Emilie happy. Are you still determined to cure yourself of your love for Armelline?


Yes, but I shall not begin the cure till Lent.


I congratulate you; the carnival is unusually long this year.


I will give you no other favours. than those which Armelline may give you. You ought to try to get her married also.


You are the only man I have ever seen; and as I have no hopes of getting married I will give you no pledges at all, though I do not know what you mean by the word.


I want a room with a bed,


That’s not allowed in Rome, signor, but on the third floor we have two rooms with large sofas which might do instead, without the Holy Office being able to say anything.


I have just heard your name,


and tomorrow I shall have the honour of delivering the letter in person, if you will kindly give me your address.


The charming marchioness has deigned to entrust me with the answer you speak of.


I long to read it.


Then I may give you the letter now, though I shall still claim the privilege of calling on you to-morrow. I will bring it to you in your box, if you will allow me.


Pray do so.


I shall stay in Rome till Easter,


as I want to see all the sights; though indeed I cannot hope to see anything more beautiful than the vision now before me.


He is a fine man, but his compliments shews he has no taste. Tell me, is it the custom for people of fashion to make a young girl blush the first time they see her?


No, dear Armelline, it is neither customary nor polite; and anyone who wishes to mix in good society would never do such a thing.


I had hoped he had pleased her.


I want my oyster,


Take it, then.


it it had given me much pleasure to play the part of an infant.


Yes, dearest,


but it’s only an innocent jest.


I don’t think so; and I hope you will say nothing about it to the superioress. It may be innocent for you, but it is not for me, as I experienced sensations which must partake of the nature of sin. We will pick up no more oysters.


These are mere trifles, the stain of which will easily be wiped out with a little holy water. At all events we can swear that there has been no kissing between us.


She will be bigger than I, though I am the taller.


Well, there would be no harm in letting me see.


I think there would.


Well, I will feel with my hands.


No, you would look at the same time.


I swear I will not.


Let me bandage your eyes.


Certainly; but I will bandage yours too.


Yes; we will play, at blindman’s buff.


I made him some coffee, and he was pleased to pronounce it excellent. He would not tell me his name, but he will come again tomorrow. He gave me a piece of money, but I hope you will not mind. I don’t know how much it is worth.


Who knows? I may eventually do so.


Princess, I can tell you an interesting history of my six hours of adventure, but you must give me a free hand, for some of the episodes must be told strictly after nature.


Is it anything in the style of Sister M---- M----?


Yes, my lord, something of the kind.


Princess, will you be deaf?


Of course I will,


In three or four days, you will have the dispensation, and then Emilie can marry whom she likes.


At the same time,


you shall have your grant of two hundred crowns.


What shall I do, without Emilie? What shall I do when you are gone? I am unhappy. I love myself no longer. I don’t want a thousand crowns, but I hope you will see me married as you say; if you do not keep your promise it will kill me.


I would die rather than deceive you; but you on your side must forgive my love, which, perhaps, made me go too far the other evening.


I forgive you everything if you will remain my friend.


I will; and now let me kiss your beautiful lips.


I want you to do as much for Armelline’s new friend as you have done for Emilie,


I will do everything in my power,


and in return I hope you will allow me to take these young ladies to the theatre this evening.


You will find them ready; how could I refuse you anything?


Our consent! we should be ungrateful indeed if we refused you anything after all you have done for us.


And you, Armelline, will you withstand my love?


No; so long as it keeps within due bounds. No more blind man’s buff!


And it is such a nice game! You really grieve me. Well, invent another game,


Because the young ladies were getting tired. I have found out that they do not belong to the Venetian ambassador’s household.


You are right, and I hope you will pardon my small fiction.


It was an impromptu effort to avoid telling me who they are, but they are known.


Then I congratulate the curious.


The one I addressed deserves to excite general curiosity; but if I were in your place I should make her use a little powder.


I have not the authority to do so, and if I had, I would not trouble her for the world.


it would do if I turned my back,


I will do as you like, but I am very sorry to be in the way. You are in love with each other, and here am I preventing you from giving one another marks of your affection. Why don’t you treat me with confidence? I am not a child, and I am your friend.


You are right, fair Scholastics. I do love Armelline, but she does not love me, and refuses to make me happy on one pretence or another.


I was sure that I was in the way, and if you do not trust me, I warn you that I will not go with you to the opera to-morrow.


Well, then, embrace him,


With all my heart.


You are making a mistake. I have a brother who is very like me, just as you have a sister who is your living portrait. My brother had the pleasure of exchanging a few words with her at the Capronica.


This gentleman says I have only to imitate him, and that I cannot possibly make any mistakes.


I cannot have the honour, and my two companions know the reason.


That is as much as to say, that he will do as you please,


True, but you can do as you please. Very well, go and ask her.


As to my necessities. I shall ask for help of no one; I have sufficient funds to ensure my independence. I think of devoting the whole of my time to study.


So long as your conduct is good, the laws guarantee your freedom; but I am glad you have applied to me. Whom do you know in Florence?


Ten years ago, my lord, I had some distinguished acquaintances here; but now I propose to live in retirement, and do not intend renewing any old friendships.


The whole lot, won’t pay the vetturino, and the sooner they are out of my house the better I shall be pleased.


How in the world, could he contract this enormous debt? The vetturino will never take me as bail for such an amount, and even if he would I should never be so foolish as to contract such a debt.


Let me have a word with you in the next room. I will put the matter clearly before you.


Certainly.


I know, but there is play going on in these houses, and I am sure of gaining immense sums.


You may be aware that I have no confidence in your good luck.


Then I have another resource.


What is that?


Give him a fortnight’s respite, and if he escapes before the expiration of that term I will pay you.


Very good, sir, but I am not going to pay any legal expenses.


Zen was a patrician name, and I felt obliged to ask what titles I ought to give him.


Such titles as one old friend gives another, though it is very possible you do not recollect me, as I was only ten years old when we saw each other last. That’s twenty-eight years ago; but I remember you, though you had not had the small-pox in those days.


But as his highness must have his reasons, it seems to me that I am within my rights in enquiring what they are.


If you think so you had better betake yourself to the prince; I know nothing about it. He left yesterday for Pisa, where he will stay three days; you can go there.


Will he pay for my journey?


I should doubt it, but you can see for yourself.


I shall not go to Pisa, but I will write to his highness if you will promise to send on the letter.


I will do so immediately, for it is my duty.


Very good; you shall have the letter before noon tomorrow, and before day-break I shall be in the States of the Church.


There’s no need for you to hurry yourself.


There is a very great hurry. I cannot breathe the air of a country where liberty is unknown and the sovereign breaks his word; that is what I am going to write to your master.


What! have you been expelled, too?


Yes.


What have you done?


Nothing.


Nor I. Let us go to Pisa.


You can go if you like, but I shall leave Florence tonight. My Lord; The thunder which Jove has placed in your hands is only for the guilty; in launching it at me you have done wrong. Seven months ago you promised that I should remain unmolested so long as I obeyed the laws. I have done so scrupulously, and your lordship has therefore broken your word. I am merely writing to you to let you know that I forgive you, and that I shall never give utterance to a word of complaint. Indeed I would willingly forget the injury you have done me, if it were not necessary that I should remember never to set foot in your realms again. The magistrate tells me that I can go and see you at Pisa, but I fear such a step would seem a hardy one to a prince, who should hear what a man has to say before he condemns him, and not afterwards. I am, etc.


We are all going to Pisa, and cannot imagine why you do not come, too.


Very good, but please to leave me now as I have to do my packing.


She cursed the grand duke, saying she could not imagine how he could confound the innocent with the guilty. She informed me that Madame Lamberti had received orders to quit, as also a hunchbacked Venetian priest, who used to go and see the dancer but had never supped with her.


You may think what you like, but if you knew all you would see that his highness has done me a very great service though quite unintentionally.


Oh, here you are! I was expecting you.


How could you, my lord? Why should I have come to Bologna rather than to any other place?


For two reasons. In the first place because Bologna is better than many other places, and besides I flatter myself you thought of me. But you needn’t say anything here about the life we led together when we were young men.


It has always been a pleasant recollection to me.


No doubt. Count Marulli told me yesterday that you spoke very highly of the grand duke, and you are quite right. You can talk to me in confidence; the walls of this room have no ears. How much did you get of the twelve thousand guineas?


It has been no trouble at all, but I hope you will read the letter. It is written by M. de Zaguri, whom I asked to do me this service, as I have long desired to make your lordship’s acquaintance.


Is he a general in the Polish service as well?


I really don’t know.


I understand it all. In Poland a chamberlain has the rank of adjutant-general, and the marquis calls himself general. But general what? The adjective without a substantive is a mere cheat.


Now I can die happy.


Queen Barbara was as good as Elizabeth of Parma was wicked.


I could stake my life, that Nina is no more with child than you are.


Oh, come! that is really too strong; why shouldn’t she have a child? It is a very simple matter, it seems to me. Possibly it may not be Ricla’s child but there can be no doubt that she is with somebody’s child. What object could she have for feigning pregnancy?


To make herself famous by defiling the Count de Ricla, who was a model of justice and virtue before knowing this Messalina. If your eminence knew the hideous character of Nina you would not wonder at anything she did.


Well, we shall see.


Yes. It must be for some great crime,


No doubt. It is the woman who was with Nina the day before yesterday.


What! has Nina been brought to bed?


Yes; but of a still-born child.


I see it all.


Here is a treasure for you,


She’s certainly very pretty, but what am I to do with her? She does not belong to me.


Yes she does, as I have given her to you. You must know that she has six thousand francs a year, and that I shall be her cashier till I get her married to a good dancer. I want her to learn character dancing, and to make her appearance on the boards. You must take her out on holidays.


What shall I say if people ask me who she is?


Say she is your daughter, and that you are certain, because your wife gave her to you.


I can’t say that.


Ah, you have always stayed at home, and consequently your wits are homely. Fox, you have deceived so many tender pullets, that I don’t like to trust you with this one, for fear of your making her too precocious.


I did not think of that, but you are right.


My mother brought me into the world, and I think she will send me out of it; this dancing is killing me.


Misfortune? Does she make you sigh in vain? If so you should leave her, and thus regain your happiness.


How can I sigh? I am not in love with her. She is in love with me, and tries to make me her slave.


How do you mean?


She wants me to marry her, and I promised to do so, partly from weakness, and partly from pity; and now she is in a hurry.


I daresay; all these elderly girls are in a hurry.


Every evening she treats me to tears, supplications, and despair. She summons me to keep my promise, and accuses me of deceiving her, so you may imagine that my situation is an unhappy one.


Have you any obligations towards her?


None whatever. She has violated me, so to speak, for all the advances came from her. She has only what her sister gives her from day to day, and if she got married she would not get that.


Have you got her with child?


I have taken good care not to do so, and that’s what has irritated her; she calls all my little stratagems detestable treason.


Nevertheless, you have made up your mind to marry her sooner or later?


I’d as soon hang myself. If I got married to her I should be four times as poor as I am now, and all my relations at Novara would laugh at me for bringing home a wife of her age. Besides, she is neither rich nor well born, and at Novara they demand the one or the other.


Then as a man of honour and as a man of sense, you ought to break with her, and the sooner the better.


I know, but lacking normal strength what am I to do? If I did not go and sup with her to-night, she would infallibly come after me to see what had happened. I can’t lock my door in her face, and I can’t tell her to go away.


No, but neither can I go on in this miserable way. You must make up your mind, and cut the Gordian knot, like Alexander.


I haven’t his sword.


I will lend it you.


What do you mean?


Listen to me. You must go and live in another town. She will hardly go after you there, I suppose.


That is a very good plan, but flight is a difficult matter.


Difficult? Not at all. Do you promise to do what I tell you, and I will arrange everything quite comfortably. Your mistress will not know anything about it till she misses you at supper.


I will do whatever you tell me, and I shall never forget your kindness; but Brigida will go mad with grief.


Well my first order to you is not to give her grief a single thought. You have only to leave everything to me. Would you like to start to-morrow?


To-morrow?


Yes. Have you any debts?


No.


Do you want any money?


I have sufficient. But the idea of leaving tomorrow has taken my breath away. I must have three days delay.


Why so?


I expect some letters the day after to-morrow, and I must write to my relations to tell them where I am going.


I will take charge of your letters and send them on to you.


Where shall I be?


I will tell you at the moment of your departure; trust in me. I will send you at once where you will be comfortable. All you have to do is to leave your trunk in the hands of your landlord, with orders not to give it up to anyone but myself.


Very good. I am to go without my trunk, then.


Yes. You must dine with me every day till you go, and mind not to tell anyone whatsoever that you intend leaving Bologna.


I will take care not to do so.


She has all my linen, but I hope to get a good part of it back under one pretext or another, and she is welcome to the rest.


Every family is troubled by some small tragedy, which should be kept private with the greatest care. In fine, people should learn to wash their dirty linen in private.


Nulla est mihi religio!


Let not thy right hand know what thy left hand doeth.


whether I would allow him to accommodate a Jew who was going to Ancona in the chaise.


You must take this poor Israelite;


Then you must make up your mind to start at an earlier hour, for it is Friday to-morrow, and you know the Jews are not allowed to travel after sunset.


I shall not start a moment earlier than I intended, but you can make your horses travel as quickly as you like.


why I did not like Jews.


Because your religion teaches you to hate men of all other religions, especially Christians, and you think you have done a meritorious action when you have deceived us. You do not look upon us as brothers. You are usurious, unmerciful, our enemies, and so I do not like you.


You are mistaken, sir. Come with me to our synagogue this evening, and you will hear us pray for all Christians, beginning with our Lord the Pope.


True,


but the prayer comes from the mouth only, and not from the heart. If you do not immediately confess that the Jews would not pray for the Christians if they were the masters, I will fling you out of the chaise.


his religion would not allow him to do so, and that he would only eat eggs, fruit, and some foiegras sausage he had in his pocket. He only drank water because he was not sure that the wine was unadulterated.


You stupid fellow, how can you ever be certain of the purity of wine unless you have made it yourself?


that if I liked to come and stay with him, and to content myself with such dishes as God had not forbidden, he would make me more comfortable than if I went to the inn, and at a cheaper rate.


Then you let lodgings to Christians?


I don’t let lodgings to anybody, but I will make an exception in your case to disabuse you of some of your mistaken notions. I will only ask you six paoli a day, and give you two good meals without wine.


Then you must give me fish and wine, I paying for them as extras.


Certainly; I have a Christian cook, and my wife pays a good deal of attention to the cooking.


You can give me the foie gras every day, if you will eat it with me.


I know what you think, but you shall be satisfied.


Sire,


it was not necessary to be in love before one married.


she had not been in love with her husband till the first child was born.


that I could give my linen to the maid, and that Leah could get it up for me.


I had relished my supper, but that I should like the foie gras every day as I had a dispensation.


You shall have some to-morrow, but Leah is the only one of us who eats it.


Then Leah must take it with me, and you can tell her that I shall give her some Cyprus wine which is perfectly pure.


He is rich, but he is also a great usurer, and if you borrow money of him he will make you repent it.


how I liked my lace got up.


I left it all to her, and that she could do what she liked with the linen.


Then it will all come under my hands if you are in no hurry to go.


You can make me stay as long as you like,


Everything is quite right,


except the chocolate; I like it well frothed.


Then I will make it for you myself.


Then I will give out a double quantity, and we will take it together.


I don’t like chocolate.


I am sorry to hear that; but you like foie gras?


Yes, I do; and from what father tells me I am going to take some with you to-day.


I shall be delighted.


I suppose you are afraid of being poisoned?


Not at all; I only wish we could die together.


I will stay then, but I am afraid my father will object.


Very good. Call your master,


I have a word to speak to him.


My dear Mardocheus,


your daughter’s appetite doubles mine, and I shall be much obliged if you will allow her to keep me company whenever we have foie gras.


It isn’t to my profit to double your appetite, but if you like to pay double I shall have no objection.


Very good, that arrangement will suit me.


her eyes are inflaming me and that she must let me kiss them.


My duty obliges me to say nay. No kissing and no touching; we have only got to eat and drink together, and I shall like it as much as you.


You are cruel.


I am wholly dependent on my father.


Shall I ask your father to give you leave to be kind?


I don’t think that would be proper, and my father might be offended and not allow me to see you any more.


And supposing he told you not to be scrupulous about trifles?


Then I should despise him and continue to do my duty.


It’s too much for honour and too little for love.


Why didn’t you take any supper?


I suppose it was because of your excellent Cyprus wine, to which my father has taken a great liking.


Ah! he like it? We will give him some. Are you not aware that you have a beautiful breast?


I thought all young girls were just the same.


Have you no suspicion that the sight is a very pleasant one for me?


If that be so, I am very glad, for I have nothing to be ashamed of, for a girl has no call to hide her throat any more than her face, unless she is in grand company.


Do you like the little heart?


Very much. Is it pure gold?


Certainly. Certainly, and that being so I think I may offer it to you. Take it; I will never ask any favour of you.


But I should be indebted to you, and that’s the reason why I never take anything.


This girl, who breaks the law of her religion with such levity, who likes pleasure and does not conceal it, this is the girl who wants to make me believe that she is insensible to the pleasures of love; that’s impossible, though she may not love me. She must have some secret means of satisfying her passions, which in my opinion are very violent. We will see what can be done this evening with the help of a bottle of good Muscat.


You are whole right, for if I were to see the whole breast I might not think it beautiful.


I shan’t care to see them. But her breast is like any other,


Take away your handkerchief.


Take it back; it’s disgusting. It’s well enough done, but it’s no novelty for me.


No novelty for you?


Of course not; every girl does like that before she gets married.


Then you do it, too?


Whenever I want to.


Do it now.


A well-bred girl always does it in private.


And what do you do after?


If I am in bed I go to sleep.


My dear Leah, your sincerity is too much for me. Either be kind or visit me no more.


You are very weak, I think.


Yes, because I am strong.


Then henceforth we shall only meet at dinner. But shew me some more miniatures.


I have some pictures which you will not like.


Let me see them.


Do you think them interesting?


Yes, very; they are so natural. But a good girl should not look at such pictures; anyone must be aware that these voluptuous attitudes excite one’s emotions.


I believe you, Leah, and I feel it as much as you. Look here!


Certainly,


but you must answer all my questions as to your sex.


I promise to do so, if they arise naturally from the pictures.


Do you mean to say, that one man is not as good as another?


How do you mean?


Are not all men able to make love every day, and every hour, just as they eat, drink and sleep every day?


No, dear Leah, they that can make love every day are very scarce.


With all my heart, but be sure I shall not be the first to break the conditions.


I am sure you would not be guilty of such a disgraceful action. I don’t love you.


Your father, will hand them all over to the Venetian consul, who will send them to me at Trieste.


I intend setting out an hour before dusk.


I shall be ready. I shall be delighted to do you this small service.


I make you a present of it all, it will prime you up for your nocturnal orgies.


She smiled and said I had had a gratuitous sight of a spectacle which was worth money, and that if I were not going so suddenly she would gladly have given me another opportunity.


I should like to help you to pack,


And I should like to be left alone,


I will take coffee, mademoiselle, and as I do not want foie gras any longer, I will take dinner by myself. Consequently, you may tell your father that I shall only pay seven paoli a day. In future I shall only drink Orvieto wine.


You have still four bottles of Scopolo and Cyprus.