I know them. As you say, they are charming. It’s not very difficult to obtain access to them; and I suppose they are good girls, as I have not heard their names in connection with any scandal. However, I know that Mdlle. F has a lover, but it is a great secret; he is the only son of one of the noblest of our families. Unfortunately, they are not rich; but if they are clever, as I am sure they are, they may make good matches. If you like I can get someone to introduce you there.


I haven’t made up my mind yet. I may be able to forget them easily only having seen them once. Nevertheless, I am infinitely obliged to you for your kind offer.


The marquis will dine with us, and, no doubt, he will bring the money with him for this treasure.


You think it a treasure, then?


Yes, fit for a queen to wear.


I wish the treasure had the virtue of giving you a crown; one head-dress is as good as another.


I have spoken to her about it, and your proposal made her laugh; but I am sure she will make up her mind when she finds herself in possession of the dress.


I would gladly buy that dress.


I did not buy it to sell again,


Excuse me. I thought it was for sale, and I am sorry it is not.


You are a great favourite of Canano’s, and he wants you to come and dine with him. He can’t ask you to supper, as he is obliged to spend his nights in the assembly-rooms.


Tell him I will come any day he likes except the day after to-morrow, when I have to go to a wedding at the ‘Apple Garden.’


I congratulate you, it will no doubt be very pleasant.


I expect to enjoy myself heartily there.


Could not we come, too?


Do you really want to?


Certainly.


Then I will get you an invitation from the fair bride herself on the condition that the countess comes as well. I must warn you that the company will consist of honest people of the lower classes, and I cannot have them humiliated in any way.


I will persuade the countess,


To make your task an easier one, I may as well tell you that the wedding is that of the fair Zenobia.


Bravo! I am sure the countess will come to that.


I have the thousand sequins in my pocket, and if I find her reasonable, I will leave them with her.


I will go and speak to her first.


Do so. This lace is yours, dearest Zenobia, if you will content me this moment.


I love you well, but I should be glad if you would wait till after my marriage.


No, dearest, now or never. I cannot wait. I shall die if you do not grant my prayer. Look! do you not see what a state I am in?


I see it plainly enough, but it can’t be done.


Why not? Are you afraid of your husband noticing the loss of your maidenhead?


Not I, and if he did I shouldn’t care. I promise you if he dared to reproach me, he should not have me at all.


Well said, for my leavings are too good for him. Come quick!


But you will shut the door, at least?


No, the noise would be heard, and might give rise to suspicion. Nobody will come in.


I have been watching you all the time by this chink and I have found it very amusing.


I am delighted to hear it, but keep it to yourself.


Of course, of course. My wife, will be very pleased to see you; and I, shall be very pleased as well.


You are a philosophical husband, but I am afraid after the exercises you witnessed the countess will find me rather slow.


Not at all, the recollection will make it all the pleasanter for you.


Mentally perhaps, but in other respects . . .


Oh! you will manage to get out of it. My carriage is at your service, as I shall not be going out for the rest of the day.


I am very well, my husband has done me good. Aren’t you going out any more to-day? you have got your dressing-gown on.


I fell asleep lying on my bed, and when I awoke I decided on keeping you company if you will be as good and gentle as you are pretty.


If you behave well to me, you will always find me so.


And will you love me?


That depends on you. So you are going to sacrifice Canano to me this evening.


Yes, and with the greatest pleasure. He has won a lot from me already, and I foresee that he will win the fifteen thousand francs I have in my pocket to-morrow. This is the money the Marquis Triulzi gave me for the dress.


It would be a pity to lose such a large sum.


You are right, and I need not lose them if you will be complaisant, for they are meant for you. Allow me to shut the door.


What for?


Because I am perishing with cold and desire, and intend warming myself in your bed.


I will never allow that.


I don’t want to force you. Good-bye, countess, I will go and warm myself by my own fire, and to-morrow I will wage war on Canano’s bank.


You are certainly a sad dog. Stay here, I like your conversation.


‘Tis not my fault, madam, that your charms have so little power over me. Here, take these fifteen thousand francs by way of consolation.


My wife is very well, and told me to wish you good day. I am glad, that you gave her francs instead of the sequins you got from Triulzi, and I hope, as Triulzi said, you will have luck with it at the bank.


I am not going to the opera, but to the masked ball, and I don’t want anyone to recognize me.


Was she really asleep, when I was outraging her so shamefully?


You a monster? On the contrary I owe much to you, and there is nothing I can think of for which I have cause to reproach you.


He accosted me and congratulated me on my luck,


You look hot, come and rest in my box. But how did you recognize me, dearest?


By your snuff-box. I knew it, otherwise I should never have found you out.


Then you think that nobody has recognized me?


Nobody, unless in the same way as I did.


None of the people here have seen my snuff-box. There will be four of us in all.


Fie, fie! your punishment is never to know who we are.


You shall know, if you will come to the ‘Three Kings.’


Are you alone?


No, my father and mother, who are old friends of yours, are with me


I will call on Monday.


Canano knew you, by the way you opened your snuff-box, and he hopes to see us to dinner before long. He says he hopes you will win a hundred pounds weight of gold; he has a fancy for you.


Canano, has keen eyes, and plays faro admirably. I have not the slightest wish to win his money from him.


I went to my room, leaving your wife at your house, for which I beg your pardon.


Didn’t you see that the gentleman had spilt a cup of coffee over his handsome breeches?


My dear wife. I don’t see everything, nor is it necessary that I should do so, but you should have accompanied the gentleman to his room.


Immensely, and my friends have done the same; but you must let me pay you, dear gossip, for what you spent over and above the twenty-four sequins. You can tell me how much it is.


Very little, a mere trifle; Zenobia shall bring you the bill.


I am delighted to see you again, are you still living with your husband?


You will see him in half an hour, and he will be glad to present his respects to you.


I should not at all care for it myself, madam; there are old quarrels between us which I do not want to renew, so, madam, farewell.


No, no, don’t go yet, sit down.


Pardon me.


Irene, don’t let the gentleman go.


Let me through, fair Irene,


we may see each other somewhere else.


Pray do not go before you have seen my father.


At Mantua,


three months after I left Venice.


And when did you leave Venice?


Six months after I met you.


That is a curious coincidence, and if we had been tenderly acquainted you might say that Irene was my daughter, and I should believe you, and think that my affection for her was purely paternal.


Your memory is not very good, sir, I wonder at that.


I may tell you, that I never forget certain things, But I guess your meaning. You want me to subdue my liking for Irene. I am willing to do so, but she will be the loser.


No, no,


if you were like me you would not be so pretty.


I don’t think so; I think you are very handsome.


You flatter me.


Stay to dinner with us.


No, if I stayed I might fall in love with you, and that would be a pity, as your mother says I am your father.


I was joking,


you may love Irene with a good conscience.


We will see what can be done.


I like your daughter, but I won’t be long sighing for her, and you mustn’t take me for a dupe.


Speak to my husband about it. We are very poor, and we want to go to Cremona.


I suppose Irene has a lover?


No.


But she has had one, of course?


Never anything serious.


I can’t believe it.


It’s true, nevertheless. Irene is intact.


It is only you,


who can furnish me with funds to go to Cremona.


I have several debts here, and am in some danger of imprisonment. Nobody of any consequence comes to see me. My dear daughter is the only thing of value which I still possess. I have just been trying to sell this pinchbeck watch, and though I asked only six sequins, which is half what it is worth, they would not give me more than two. When a man gets unfortunate, everything is against him.


Here,


you can sell it again now.


I have come,


to beg your pardons for having revealed to you the secret of the snuff-box.


She’s my sister,


I bet I know you, if you come to the bank.


I am not going to play any more,


All the better for me, for though your punting is unlucky, you don’t leave off till you have won my money. But that’s only my joke; try again, and I protest I would see you win half my fortune gladly.


When?


Before going to the opera.


Very good; but on two turns of the cards, and a deal to each.


No. No, I never punt.


Then we must equalise the game.


How do you mean?


By leaving doubles and the last two cards out of account.


Then you would have the advantage.


If you can prove that I will pay you a hundred sequins. Indeed, I would bet anything you like that the game would still be to the advantage of the banker.


Can you prove it?


Yes; and I will name the Marquis Triulzi as judge. The advantages of the banker, are two. The first and the smaller is that all he has got to attend to is not to deal wrongly, which is a very small matter to an habitual player; and all the time the punter has to rack his brains on the chances of one card or another coming out. The other advantage is one of time. The banker draws his card at least a second before the punter, and this again gives him a purchase.


All that is too sublime for me,


I don’t understand it.


Forgive an old and unfortunate man, forgive a father, if I ask you whether it is true that you promised Irene a hundred sequins if I would let her go to the ball with you.


It is quite true, but of course you know what the consequences will be.


You must not think me a liar, or that my parents suspected that I was imposing on them; they only thought you said fifty instead of a hundred, as if I were not worth such a sum.


You are worth a thousand, my dear Irene; your courage in barring the way pleased me extremely. But you must come to the ball in a domino.


Oh! you will be pleased with my dress.


Are those the shoes and buckles you are going to wear? Have you no other stockings? Where are your gloves?


Good heavens! I have nothing.


Quick! Send for the tradesmen. We will choose what we want, and I will pay.


Be ready, before the time for the opera to-morrow, for before going to the ball we will sup together in a room which belongs to me, where we shall be quite at our ease. You know what to expect,


To Marseilles, then to Paris, and then to London, at which place I intend stopping a year. Your flight from The Leads was wonderfully lucky.


Yes, but I risked my life.


You have certainly deserved all your good fortune.


Do you think so? I have only used my fortune--in subservience to my pleasures.


I wonder you do not have a regular mistress.


The reason is, that I like to be my own master. A mistress at my coat-tails would be more troublesome than a wife; she would be an obstacle to the numerous pleasant adventures I encounter at every town. For example, if I had a mistress I should not be able to take the charming Irene to the ball to-morrow.


You speak like a wise man.


Yes, though my wisdom is by no means of the austere kind.


I did not tell you that I aspired to the honour of marrying her.


No, and I did not say anything about marriage; but that’s what the girls are always aiming at.


I must go and disabuse her of the notion.


That’s a good idea; principals are always the best in these affairs. Come at two o’clock, I shall be dining there, and as I have got to speak to her cousin you will be at liberty to say what you like.


You mean till the day when it advances your suit with a lady,


I hope it will be so,


But what is this, my dear countess, it isn’t snuff?


No, it makes the nose bleed, and is an excellent thing for the head-ache. It won’t bleed much, and it is really beneficial. Come here. I am beginning to bleed too. This admixture of our blood, will create a sweet sympathy between us, which will only end with the death of one or the other.


I guess what you mean, but please to understand that my brother gave me your message in perfect innocence. Let him believe what he likes. Do you think I really believed you capable of taking such a step, when we barely knew each other?


I am glad to hear you say so.


I thought the best thing would be to give a matrimonial turn to your gallantry. Otherwise my brother, who is quite a young man, might have interpreted it in an unfavourable sense.


That was cleverly done, and of course I have nothing more to say. Nevertheless, I am grateful to your brother for having given you to understand that your charms have produced a vivid impression on me. I would do anything to convince you of my affection.


That is all very well, but it would have been wiser to conceal your feelings from my brother, and, allow me to add, from myself as well. You might have loved me without telling me, and then, though I should have perceived the state of your affections, I could have pretended not to do so. Then I should have been at my ease, but as circumstances now stand I shall have to be careful. Do you see?


Really, marchioness, you astonish me. I was never so clearly convinced that I have done a foolish thing. And what is still more surprising, is that I was aware of all you have told me. But you have made me lose my head. I hope you will not punish me too severely?


Pray inform me how it lies in my power to punish you.


By not loving me.


Ah! loving and not loving; that is out of one’s power. Of a sudden we know that we are in love, and our fate is sealed. No.


Perhaps you are going incognito?


We should like to, but it is an impossibility; there is always someone who knows us.


If you would take me into your service, I would wager anything that you would not be recognized.


You would not care to trouble yourself about us.


I like you to be a little sceptical, but put me to the proof. If you could manage to slip out unobserved, I would engage to disguise you in such a manner that no one would know you.


We could leave the house with my brother and a young lady with whom he is in love. I am sure he would keep our counsel.


I shall be delighted, but it must be for the ball on Sunday. I will talk it over with your brother. Kindly warn him not to let Barbaro know anything about it. You will be able to put on your disguise in a place I know of. However, we can settle about that again. I shall carry the matter through, you may be sure, with great secrecy. Permit me to kiss your hand.


If you only play on a single card,


you are sure to lose.


Never mind; go ahead.


When I am not playing against sharpers. I can also punt very well.


Then you can come to Canano’s bank and risk the hundred sequins I have given you. Put twenty sequins on a card, and if you win go paroli, seven, and the va, and leave the game when they turn up. If you can’t make the three cards come out second, you will lose, but I will reimburse you.


No,


you shall have it all.


I am sure it is my father weeping for joy.


I won’t go. I want to stay with my lover. You are the ruin of my life. Whenever anybody takes a liking to me, you snatch me away. I belong to this gentleman, and I won’t leave him.


My sister has told me about the masquerade, but I have a great secret to confide in you.


Say on, and count on my keeping your secret.


One of the finest noblemen of the town, my friend and my cousin’s lover, who has to be very careful of his actions on account of his exalted position, would like to be of the party if you have no objection. My sister and my cousin would like him to come very much.


Of course he shall. I have been making my calculations for a party of five, and now it will be a party of six, that is all.


You really are a splendid fellow.


On Sunday evening you must be at a certain place, of which I will tell you. First of all we will have supper, then put on our disguises, and then go to the ball. To-morrow at five o’clock we shall meet at your sister’s. All I want to know is what is the height of your mistress and of the young nobleman.


My sweetheart is two inches shorter than my sister, and a little thinner; my friend is just about the same make as you are, and if you were dressed alike you would be mistaken for each other.


That will do. Let me think it over, and leave me alone now; there’s a Capuchin waiting for me, and I am curious to learn his business.


Sir, listen attentively to what I am about to tell you, and beware of despising my advice, for it might cost you your life. You would repent when it was too late. After hearing me, follow my advice immediately; but ask no questions, for I can answer none. You may guess, perhaps, that what silences me is a reason incumbent on all Christians--the sacred seal of the confessional. You may be sure that my word is above suspicion; I have no interests of my own to serve. I am acting in obedience to an inspiration; I think it must be your guardian angel speaking with my voice. God will not abandon you to the malice of your enemies. Tell me if I have touched your heart, and if you feel disposed to follow the counsels I am going to give you.


I have listened to you, father, with attention and respect. Speak freely and advise me; what you have said has not only moved me, but has almost frightened me. I promise to do as you tell me if it is nothing against honour or the light of reason.


Very good. A feeling of charity will prevent your doing anything to compromise me, whatever may be the end of the affair. You will not speak of me to anyone, or say either that you know me or do not know me?


I swear to you I will not on my faith as a Christian. But speak, I entreat you. Your long preface has made me burn with impatience.


This day, before noon, go by yourself to---- Square, No.--, on the second floor, and ring at the bell on your left. Tell the person who opens the door that you want to speak to Madame. You will be taken to her room without any difficulty; I am sure your name will not be asked, but if they do ask you, give an imaginary name. When you are face to face with the woman, beg her to hear you, and ask her for her secret, and to inspire confidence put a sequin or two in her hand. She is poor, and I am sure that your generosity will make her your friend. She will shut her door, and tell you to say on. You must then look grave, and tell her that you are not going to leave her house before she gives you the little bottle that a servant brought her yesterday with a note. If she resists, remain firm, but make no noise; do not let her leave the room or call anybody. Finally, tell her that you will give her double the money she may lose by giving you the bottle and all that depends on it. Remember these words: and all that depends on it. She will do whatever you want. It will not cost you much, but even if it did, your life is worth more than all the gold of Peru. I can say no more, but before I go, promise me that you will follow my advice.


Yes, reverend father, I will follow the inspiration of the angel who led you here.


May God give you His blessing.


I shall lose six sequins, but you will gladly pay double when I shew you what I have got; I know who you are.


Who am I?


Giacomo Casanova, the Venetian.


I would not have killed you outright, certainly, but I would have made you amorous and wretched.


Explain what you mean.


Follow me. Here is the bottle,


What does it contain?


Your blood and the countess’s, as you will see in this letter.


What would you have done with this blood?


I should have plastered you with it.


What do you mean by ‘plastered’? I don’t understand you.


I will shew you.


You laugh, do you? Woe to you if I had bathed you in the bath of blood mingled according to my art, and more woe still if, after I had bathed you, I had thrown your image on a burning coal.


Is this all?


Yes.


All the apparatus is to become mine for twelve sequins; here they are. And now, quick! light me a fire that I may melt this monster, and as for the blood I think I will throw it out of the window.


I dreamt,


that you were so angry with me that you were going to have me assassinated.


I want to look at your very finest costumes, both for ladies and gentlemen.


Would you like something that has never been worn?


Certainly, if you have got such a thing.


I have a very rich assortment of new clothes.


Get me, then, in the first place, a handsome velvet suit, all in one piece, which nobody in Milan will be able to recognize.


Now, gossip, it is your turn; I want you to sew in these pieces into the holes I have made, and I hope your tailoring genius will aid you to produce some pretty contrasts. You see that you have got your work cut out for you and no time to lose. I will see that your meals are properly served in an adjoining chamber, but you must not leave the house till the work is finished. I will go for your wife, who will help you, and you can sleep together.


For God’s sake, sir! you don’t want the ladies’ dresses treated like the coats and trousers?


Just the same.


What a pity! it will make my wife cry.


I will console her.


You have been losing, then?


Yes, but my brother has won something,


I hope luck will declare itself on your side also.


No, we are not lucky.


I know all, and I hope you will enjoy yourselves, but you will not do so more than I. I want to speak to the gallant lieutenant to-morrow morning.


Tell us about our disguises.


You will be disguised in such a manner that nobody will recognize you.


But how shall we be dressed?


Very handsomely.


But what costume have you given us?


That is my secret, ladies. However much I should like to please you, I shall say nothing till the time for you to dress comes round. Don’t ask me anything more, as I have promised myself the enjoyment of your surprise. I am very fond of dramatic situations. You shall know all after supper.


Are we to have supper, then?


Certainly, if you would like it. I am a great eater myself and I hope you will not let me eat alone.


Then we will have some supper to please you. We will take care not to eat much dinner, so as to be able to vie with you in the evening. The only thing I am sorry about, is that you should be put to such expense.


It is a pleasure; and when I leave Milan I shall console myself with the thought that I have supped with the two handsomest ladies in the town.


How is fortune treating you?


Canano wins two hundred sequins from me every day.


But you won two thousand from him in one night. You will break his bank on Sunday. We will bring you luck.


Would you like to look on?


We should be delighted, but my brother says you don’t want to go with us.


Quite so, the reason is that I should be recognized. But I believe the gentleman who will accompany you is of the same figure as myself.


Exactly the same, except that he is fair.


All the better, the fair always conquer the dark with ease.


Not always. But tell us, at any rate, whether we are to wear men’s dresses.


Fie! fie! I should be angry with myself if I had entertained such a thought.


That’s curious; why so?


I’ll tell you. If the disguise is complete I am disgusted, for the shape of a woman is much more marked than that of a man, and consequently a woman in man’s dress, who looks like a man, cannot have a good figure.


But when a woman skews her shape well?


Then I am angry with her for shewing too much, for I like to see the face and the general outlines of the form and to guess the rest.


But the imagination is often deceptive!


Yes, but it is with the face that I always fall in love, and that never deceives me as far as it is concerned. Then if I have the good fortune to see anything more I am always in a lenient mood and disposed to pass over small faults. You are laughing?


I am smiling at your impassioned arguments.


Would you like to be dressed like a man?


I was expecting something of the kind, but after you have said we can make no more objections.


I can imagine what you would say; I should certainly not take you for men, but I will say no more.


You must get a carriage and four, and as soon as the five of you are in it tell the coachman to drive as fast as his horses can gallop out of Milan, and to bring you back again by another road to the house. There you must get down, send the carriage away, after enjoining silence on the coachman, and come in. After the ball you will undress in the same house, and then go home in sedan-chairs. Thus we shall be able to baffle the inquisitive, who will be pretty numerous, I warn you.


My friend the marquis will see to all that, and I promise you he will do it well, for he is longing to make your acquaintance.


I shall expect you, then, at seven o’clock to-morrow. Warn your friend that it is important the coachman should not be known, and do not let anybody bring a servant.


As I am not going to appear with you, I may as well tell you the parts you are to play. You are to be five beggars, two men and three women, all rags and tatters. You will each carry a plate in your hands to solicit alms, and you must walk together about the ball-room as a band of mendicants. But now follow me and take possession of your ragged robes.


Here, ladies, are your dresses, and here is yours, mademoiselle--a little smaller. Here are your shifts, your handkerchiefs and your stockings, and I think you will find everything you require on this table. Here are masks, the faces of which shew so poorly beside your own, and here are three plates to crave alms. If anybody looks as high as your garters, they will see how wretched you are, and the holes in the stockings will let people know that you have not the wherewithal to buy silk to mend them. This packthread must serve you for buckles, and we must take care that there are holes in your shoes and also in your gloves, and as everything must match, as soon as you have put on your chemises you must tear the lace round the neck.


What a pity!


Here, gentlemen, are your beggar-clothes. I forgot to lacerate your beaver hats, but that is soon done. Well, what do you think of the costume? Now, ladies, we must leave you; shut the door fast, for it is a case of changing your shifts. Now, gentlemen, leave the room.


What a sensation we shall create! nothing could be better.


What a disguise!


It’s wonderful!


Who are they?


Who can they be?


I don’t know.


I’ll find out.


That’s the Chevalier de Seingalt.


No. I saw him a little while ago in the ball-room disguised as a beggar, with four other masquers whom nobody knows.


How do you mean, dressed as a beggar?


Why, in rags, and the four others, too; but in spite of that the dresses are splendid and the effect is very good. They are asking for alms.


They ought to be turned out,


It isn’t Seingalt; he doesn’t play like that; besides, he is at the ball.


Here come the beggars. I don’t pity you with that fine hair of yours, and if you like to put it on a card I will allow you a thousand sequins for it. Pierrot seems to like beggars,


The beggar in the straw-coloured dress is certainly Casanova.


I recognized him directly, but who are the others?


We shall find out in due time. A dearer costume could not be imagined; all the dresses are quite new.


Would you like to go on playing?


I am taken for you, sir, and it may cause some annoyance to our fair friends here.


I have foreseen that, and I shall unmask before the end of the ball. This will falsify all suppositions, and nobody will succeed in identifying you.


Our pockets are full of sweetmeats. Everybody wanted to fill our plates.


Yes, everybody admired us; the ladies came down from their boxes to have a closer view of us, and everyone said that no richer disguise could be imagined.


You have enjoyed yourselves, then?


Yes, indeed.


And I too. I feel quite boastful at having invented a costume which has drawn all eyes upon you, and yet has concealed your identity.


You have made us all happy. I never thought I should have such a pleasant evening.


Finis coronat opus,


and I hope the end will be even better than the beginning.


We will go down now,


So will I, for I want to dance, and I am sure I shall make you laugh as Pierrot.


Do you know how much money you gave each of us?


I cannot say precisely, but I believe I gave each an equal share.


That is so. I think it is wonderful how you could do it.


I have done it a thousand times. When I lose a paroli of ten sequins I put three fingers into my purse, and am certain to bring up thirty sequins. I would bet I gave you each from thirty-eight to forty sequins.


Forty exactly. It’s wonderful. We shall remember this masqued ball.


I don’t think anybody will imitate us,


and we would not dare to wear the same dresses again.


You are the Pierrot who broke the bank?


I answered the question in the affirmative by a nod.


What are you going to do with this chemise?


You will laugh at our silliness. We have determined to keep everything as a memorial of the splendid evening we have had. My brother will bring it all to the house. Are you coming to see us this evening?


If I were wise I should avoid you.


And if I were wise I shouldn’t ask you to come.


That is fairly answered! Of course I will come; but before we part may I ask one kiss?


Say two.


I guessed you were going to humiliate me.


Such was not my intention, and I do not insist; but then you know I shall be humiliated.


Not at all; I reckon on your good sense. It really costs me nothing. Besides, I give you my word to let you pay for all the parties of pleasure we enjoy together during the carnival. We will sup here when you like; you shall invite the company, and I will leave you to pay the bill.


That arrangement will suit me admirably. We must be friends. I leave you with this charming attendant. I did not think that such a beauty could exist in Milan unknown to all but you.


She is a townswoman, who knows how to keep a secret. Do you not?


I would rather die than tell anyone that this gentleman is the Marquis of F----.


That’s right; always keep your word, and take this trifle as a souvenir of me.


He won’t be uneasy, he is a philosopher.


He need be with such a pretty wife. Kiss me again, Zenobia, and then we must part.


I will not betray you,


or tell anyone that I surprised you reading a prayer-book.


No, don’t; for my reputation would be gone if I were thought to be a devotee.


Has there been any talk of the masqued ball or of the mysterious masquers?


People talk of nothing else, and condole with us for not having been to the ball, but no one can guess who the beggars were. It seems that an unknown carriage and four that sped like the wind took them as far as the first stage, and where they went next God alone knows! It is said that my hair was false, and I have longed to let it down and thus give them the lie. It is also said that you must know who the beggars were, as you loaded them with ducats.


One must let people say and believe what they like and not betray ourselves.


You are right; and after all we had a delightful evening. If you acquit yourself of all commissions in the same way, you must be a wonderful man.


But it is only you who could give me such a commission.


I to-day, and another to-morrow.


I see you think I am inconstant, but believe me if I find favour in your eyes your face will ever dwell in my memory.


I am certain you have told a thousand girls the same story, and after they have admitted you to their favour you have despised them.


Pray do not use the word ‘despise,’ or I shall suppose you think me a monster. Beauty seduces me. I aspire to its possession, and it is only when it is given me from other motives than love that I despise it. How should I despise one who loved me? I should first be compelled to despise myself. You are beautiful and I worship you, but you are mistaken if you think that I should be content for you to surrender yourself to me out of mere kindness.


Ah! I see it is my heart you want.


Exactly.


To make me wretched at the end of a fortnight.


To love you till death, and to obey your slightest wishes.


My slightest wishes?


Yes, for to me they would be inviolable laws.


Would you settle in Milan?


Certainly, if you made that a condition of my happiness.


What amuses me in all this is that you are deceiving me without knowing it, if indeed you really love me.


Deceiving you without knowing it! That is something new. If I am not aware of it, I am innocent of deceit.


I am willing to admit your innocency, but you are deceiving me none the less, for after you had ceased to love me no power of yours could bring love back again.


That, of course, might happen, but I don’t choose to entertain such unpleasant thoughts; I prefer to think of myself as loving you to all eternity. It is certain at all events that no other woman in Milan has attracted me.


Not the pretty girl who waited on us, and whose arms you have possibly left an hour or, two ago?


What are you saying? She is the wife of the tailor who made your clothes. She left directly after you, and her husband would not have allowed her to come at all if he was not aware that she would be wanted to wait on the ladies whose dresses he had made.


She is wonderfully pretty. Is it possible that you are not in love with her?


How could one love a woman who is at the disposal of a low, ugly fellow? The only pleasure she gave me was by talking of you this morning.


Of me?


Yes. You will excuse me if I confess to having asked her which of the ladies she waited on looked handsomest without her chemise.


That was a libertine’s question. Well, what did she say?


That the lady with the beautiful hair was perfect in every respect.


I don’t believe a word of it. I have learnt how to change my chemise with decency, and so as not to shew anything I might not shew a man. She only wished to flatter your impertinent curiosity. If I had a maid like that, she should soon go about her business.


You are angry with me.


No.


It’s no good saying no, your soul flashed forth in your denunciation. I am sorry to have spoken.


Oh! it’s of no consequence. I know men ask chambermaids questions of that kind, and they all give answers like your sweetheart, who perhaps wanted to make you curious about herself.


But how could she hope to do that by extolling your charms above those of the other ladies? And, how could she know that I preferred you?


If she did not know it, I have made a mistake; but for all that, she lied to you.


She may have invented the tale, but I do not think she lied. You are smiling again! I am delighted.


I like to let you believe what pleases you.


Then you will allow me to believe that you do not hate me.


Hate you? What an ugly word! If I hated you, should I see you at all? But let’s talk of something else. I want you to do me a favour. Here are two sequins; I want you to put them on an ‘ambe’ in the lottery. You can bring me the ticket when you call again, or still better, you can send it me, but don’t tell anybody.


You shall have the ticket without fail, but why should I not bring it?


Because, perhaps, you are tired of coming to see me.


Do I look like that? If so I am very unfortunate. But what numbers will you have?


Three and forty; you gave them me yourself.


How did I give them you?


You put your hand three times on the board, and took up forty sequins each time. I am superstitious, and you will laugh at me, I daresay, but it seems to me that you must have come to Milan to make me happy.


Now you make me happy indeed. You say you are superstitious, but if these numbers don’t win you mustn’t draw the conclusion that I don’t love you; that would be a dreadful fallacy.


I am not superstitious as all that, nor so vile a logician.


Do you believe I love you?


Yes.


May I tell you so a hundred times?


And prove it in every way?


I must enquire into your methods before I consent to that, for it is possible that what you would call a very efficacious method might strike me as quite useless.


I see you are going to make me sigh after you for a long time.


As long as I can.


And when you have no strength left?


I will surrender. Does that satisfy you?


Certainly, but I shall exert all my strength to abate yours.


Do so; I shall like it.


And will you help me to succeed?


Perhaps.


Ah, dear marchioness; you need only speak to make a man happy. You have made me really so, and I am leaving you full of ardour.


That will do. The bank is prosperous, but it is not always so. Pierrot was very lucky the other night. No, I was so firmly persuaded that the beggar was you. You know who he is?


I haven’t an idea. I never saw him before that day.


It is said that they are Venetians, and that they went to Bergamo.


It may be so, but I know nothing about them. I left the ball before they did.


I had let the cat out of the bag by giving the beggars handfuls of sequins.


That is a mistake. When the luck is in my favour I never refuse anyone who asks me for money, for I have a superstition that I should lose if I did. I had won thirty pounds weight of gold, and I could afford to let fools talk.


My brother, will call on you to-morrow to see what can be arranged.


The Marquis of F----, asks you to supper in your own rooms with all the band of beggars. He wishes to give us a surprise, and would be obliged if you would lend him the room to have a set of disguises made, and to ensure secrecy he wants you to let have the same waiting-maid.


With pleasure; tell the marquis that all shall be according to his pleasure.


Get the girl to come there at three o’clock to-day, and let the pastry-cook know that the marquis has full powers to do what he likes in the place.


Everything shall be done as you suggest.


I don’t want you, as it is only women’s dresses that have to be done. My good gossip here will be sufficient.


At three o’clock she may go, and I shall not expect to see her again for three days.


And that makes you happy, does it?


It does, not because of the gain in money, though I am by no means rich, but for the beauty of the idea and for the thought that I owe it all to you. These two things speak volumes in your favour.


What do they say?


That you deserve to be loved.


And also that you love me?


No, but my heart tells me as much.


You make me happy, but does not your heart also tell you that you should prove your love?


Dearest, can you doubt it? My first idea, was to put the whole forty sequins on the ‘ambe’.


You hadn’t sufficient courage?


It wasn’t that, I felt ashamed to do it. I was afraid that you might have a thought you would not tell me of--namely, that if I gave you the forty sequins to risk on the lottery, you would think I despised your present. This would have been wrong, and if you had encouraged me I should have risked all the money.


I am so sorry not to have thought of it. You would have had ten thousand sequins, and I should be a happy man.


We will say no more about it.


Your brother tells me that we are going to the masqued ball under the direction of the marquis, and I leave you to imagine how glad I feel at the thought of spending a whole night with you. But one thought troubles me.


What is that?


I am afraid it will not go off so well as before.


Don’t be afraid, the marquis is a man of much ingenuity, and loves my cousin’s honour as herself. He is sure to get us disguises in which we shall not be recognized.


I hope so. He wants to pay for everything, including the supper.


He cannot do better than imitate your example in that respect.


Yes, with her work. I did not ask her to do anything else for me.


Oh! of course I believe it, but I am afraid your sweetheart will be rather sceptical.


She knows that I cannot love anyone besides herself.


Well, well, we will say no more about it.


Here, ladies, are your disguises, and here is your maid who will help you while we dress in another room. Let us be as quick as we can.


Your fine garters, make me want to wear some too.


Exactly, but the worst of it is nobody will take the trouble to find out whether we have garters or not, for two young ladies five feet ten in height will not inspire very ardent desires.


Supposing somebody knew us, we should be undone!


We must make up our minds, shall we go to the ball or go home?


Neither, we will dance here.


Where are the violins you could not get them to-night for their weight in gold.


Well, we will do without them. We will have some punch, laugh, and be merry, and we shall enjoy ourselves better than at the ball, and when we are tired we can go to sleep. We have three beds here.


Two would be enough,


True, but we can’t have too much of a good thing. I don’t think I need fear its going any farther, we will leave the marquis with your cousin then, and I will watch over you while you sleep.


No, no, you shall sleep too. I breathe again. Those dreadful trousers were too tight; they hurt me.


Where did the breeches hurt you?


I can’t tell you, but I should think you must find them dreadfully uncomfortable.


But, dearest, our anatomy is different, and breeches do not trouble us at all where they hurt you.


What a difference there is, between nature and art!


But of course you think that art is the better?


No, certainly not.


But there may be imperfections in nature, whereas art is perfect.


I do not know whether there be any imperfection in what I behold, but I do know that I have never seen anything so beautiful. If we were wise, instead of going to the ball again we would come here and enjoy ourselves.


He paid me well,


That is enough, no one can see you without loving you, or love you without desiring to possess your charms.


The marquis did not go so far as that.


It may be so, but I am surprised to hear it.


I was sure, that you would come and see me;


What friend is that?


Myself.


What is your name?


I cannot tell you.


Then you need not tell me to come, for if you were a true friend of mine you would tell me your name. I am surprised to see you here,


I dare say your are. I have come here in this carnival season, when one can wear a mask, to compel my relations to give me what they owe me; but they put me off from one day to another, as they are sure I shall be obliged to go when Lent begins.


And will you do so?


I shall be obliged to, but as you will not come and see me, give me twenty sequins, which will enable me to leave Milan. My cousin owes me ten thousand livres, and will not pay me a tenth even. I will kill him before I go.


I haven’t a farthing, and that mask of yours has made me lose a thousand sequins, which I do not know how to pay.


I know. I am an unlucky man, and bring bad luck to all my friends. It was I who told her to give you a card, in the hope that it would change the run against you.


Is she a Milanese girl?


No, she comes from Marseilles, and is the daughter of a rich agent. I fell in love with her, seduced her, and carried her off to her unhappiness. I had plenty of money then, but, wretch that I am, I lost it all at Genoa, where I had to sell all my possessions to enable me to come here. I have been a week in Milan. Pray give me the wherewithal to escape.


Have compassion, sir, on the most wretched creature breathing. M. de la Croix has gone away in despair. He has left me here in the inn, where he has paid for nothing. Good God! what will become of me? I conjure you to come and see me, be it only to give me your advice.


She has been tiring me for more than an hour. I cannot understand what she says, but I can make out that she wants to do me a service. However, I do not feel inclined to accept her assistance.


Who told you to come and see this young lady?


One of the servants of the inn told me that a young lady from foreign parts had been left alone here, and that she was much to be pitied. My feelings of humanity made me come and see if I could be useful to her; but I see she is in good hands, and I am very glad of it for her sake, poor dear!


Soon after he put on his great coat and got ready to go out, telling me that if he did not return he would communicate with me by you, at the same time giving me your address, of which I have made use as you know. He has not come back, and if you have not seen him I am sure he has gone off on foot without a penny in his pocket. The landlord wants to be paid, and by selling all I have I could satisfy his claims; but, good God! what is to become of me, then?


Dare you return to your father?


Yes, sir, I dare return to him. He will forgive me when on my knees and with tears in my eyes I tell him that I am ready to bury myself in a nunnery.


Very good! then I will take you to Marseilles myself, and in the meanwhile I will find you a lodging with some honest people. Till then, shut yourself up in your room, do not admit anyone to see you, and be sure I will have a care for you.


She shall have my place, if she won’t mind sleeping with my wife. I will hire a small room hard by, and will sleep there as long as the young lady stays.


That’s a good idea, gossip, but your wife will lose by the exchange.


Not much,


As for her meals, she must arrange that herself.


That’s a very simple matter. Zenobia will get them and I will pay for them.


She makes me happy, and though she brought me no dower, I seem to be a richer man, for she has taught me to look on everything we don’t possess as a superfluity.


There, indeed, you have the true philosophy of an honest man.


There’s not a lock or a key, in the whole castle, except in the cellar, but everything is safe for all that. There are no robbers at St. Angelo, and if there were they would not dare to come here.


I daresay, my dear count, but you know it is my business to suppose robbers everywhere. My own valet might take the opportunity of robbing me, and you see I should have to keep silence if I were robbed.


Quite so, I feel the force of your argument. Tomorrow morning a locksmith shall put locks and keys to your doors, and you will be the only person in the castle who is proof against thieves. We will go and see the beautiful penitent. She was once a Lais of Milan, and enjoyed such a reputation for beauty that not only all the flower of Milan but people from the neighbouring towns were at her feet. Her hall-door was opened and shut a hundred times in a day, and even then she was not able to satisfy the desires aroused. At last an end came to what the old and the devout called a scandal. Count Firmian, a man of learning and wit, went to Vienna, and on his departure received orders to have her shut up in a convent. Our august Marie Thérèse cannot pardon mercenary beauty, and the count had no choice but to have the fair sinner imprisoned. She was told that she had done amiss, and dealt wickedly; she was obliged to make a general confession, and was condemned to a life-long penance in this convent. She was absolved by Cardinal Pozzobonelli, Archbishop of Milan, and he then confirmed her, changing the name of Thérèse, which she had received at the baptismal font, to Mary Magdalen, thus shewing her how she should save her soul by following the example of her new patroness, whose wantonness had hitherto been her pattern. Our family are the patrons of this convent, which is devoted to penitents. It is situated in an inaccessible spot, and the inmates are in the charge of a kind mother-superior, who does her best to soften the manifold austerities of their existences. They only work and pray, and see no one besides their confessor, who says mass every day. We are the only persons whom the superioress would admit, as long as some of our family are present she always let them bring whom they like.


O my God! what do I see? Holy Mary, come to my aid! Begone, dreadful sinner, though thou deservest to be here more than I. Scoundrel!


Do not be offended, sir, the poor girl has become mad, and unless she really has recognized you . . . .


That is impossible, madam, I have never seen her before.


Of course not, but you must forgive her, as she has lost the use of her reason.


Maybe the Lord has made her thus in mercy.


She has begged me, to take down the pictures of St. Louis de Gonzaga and St. Antony from the chapel wall because she says they distract her fearfully. I have thought it my duty to yield to her request, in spite of our confessor, who says it’s all nonsense.


May I ask you, fair countess, why you laugh thus to yourself?


Forgive me; I was not amused at the poor girl’s recognizing you, for that must have been a mistake, but I cannot help laughing when I think of your face at her words, ‘You are more deserving of imprisonment than I.’


Perhaps you think she was right.


I? Not at all. But how is it that she attacked you and not my brother-in-law?


Probably because she thought I looked a greater sinner than he.


That, I suppose, must have been the reason. One should never heed the talk of mad people.


You are sarcastic, but I take it all in good part. Perhaps I am as great a sinner as I look; but beauty should be merciful to me, for it is by beauty that I am led astray.


I wonder the empress does not shut up men as well as women.


Perhaps she hopes to see them all at her feet when there are no more girls left to amuse them.


That is a jest. You should rather say that she cannot forgive her own sex the lack of a virtue which she exercises so eminently, and which is so easily observed.


I have nothing to allege against the empress’s virtue, but with your leave I beg to entertain very strong doubts as to the possibility of the general exercise of that virtue which we call continence.


No doubt everyone thinks by his own standard. A man may be praised for temperance in whom temperance is no merit. What is easy to you may be hard to me, and ‘vice versa’. Both of us may be right.


I am thinking some matter over, and I must go and write one or two letters in my room till it is time for supper.


You won’t leave us surely? Clementine, help me to keep M. de Seingalt; you must make him postpone his letter-writing.


But my dear brother, if M. de Seingalt has business to do, it would be rude of me to try and prevent his doing it.


Do you think it would bring you ill luck?


I don’t like birds of ill omen.


I was not listening, but I hope you will give me my revenge after supper.


After supper I shall be going to bed, but you shall have your revenge, and as much as you like of it, tomorrow, provided that our charming hostesses like playing. I hope the luck will be in your favour.


Sir, as we haven’t got a maid to look after your linen, I have come to beg you to let me undertake that office.


You! my dear countess?


Yes, I, sir, and I hope you will make no objection. It will be a pleasure to me, and I hope to you as well. Let me have the shirt you are going to wear to-morrow, and say no more about it.


Very good, it shall be as you please. Every day I want a shirt, a collar, a front, a pair of drawers, a pair of stocking, and two handkerchiefs; but I don’t mind which you take, and leave the choice to you as the mistress, as I wish you were in deed and truth. I shall sleep a happier sleep than Jove himself. Farewell, dear Hebe!


Very good! Tell him that he can pay when he likes, but warn him not to play this evening. I will not take his bets. But you would have no objection to his punting with ready money. Certainly I should, unless he pays me first, otherwise he would be punting with my money. Of course it’s a mere trifle, and I hope he won’t trouble himself in the least or put himself to any inconvenience to pay it. I am afraid he will be mortified. So much the better, what did he play for, when he knew that he could not pay his debts if he incurred any? It will be a lesson to him. My dear Clementine, tell me frankly whether the rather uncivil way in which I have treated the abbé has pained you. I am going to give you twenty sequins, do you send them to him, and to-night he can pay me honourably, and make a good figure. I promise you no one shall know about it. Thank you, but the honour of the abbé is not dear enough to me for me to accept your offer. The lesson will do him good. A little shame will teach him that he must mend his ways. You will see he won’t come this evening. That may be, but do you think I shall care? Well--yes, I did think so. Because we joked together, I suppose. He is a hare-brained fellow, to whom I do not give two thoughts in the year. I pity him, as heartily as I congratulate anyone of whom you do think. Maybe there is no such person What! You have not yet met a man worthy of your regard? Many worthy of regard, but none of love. Then you have never been in love? Never. Your heart is empty? You make me laugh. Is it happiness, is it unhappiness? Who can say. If it be happiness, I am glad, and if it be unhappiness, I do not care, for I do not feel it to be so. Nevertheless, it is a misfortune, and you will know it to have been so on the day in which you love. And if I become unhappy through love, shall I not pronounce my emptiness of heart to have been happiness. I confess you would be right, but I am sure love would make you happy. I do not know. To be happy one must live in perfect agreement; that is no easy matter, and I believe it to be harder still when the bond is lifelong. I agree, but God sent us into the world that we might run the risk To a man it may be a necessity and a delight, but a girl is bound by stricter laws. In nature the necessity is the same though the results are different, and the laws you speak of are laid down by society.


I wish you would fall in love with one another,


You wish to see us unhappy, do you? What do you mean by that? I should be unhappy with an inconstant lover, and you would be unhappy too, for you would feel bitter remorse for having destroyed my peace of mind.


Clementine is rather too romantic; she will get over it, however; she is young yet. Do you know, my dear sister, that the chevalier here is in love with Clementine, and she seems inclined to pay him back in his own coin?


I hope a suitable match like that may make us relations.


You have no right to complain. Hebe’s duty is to keep the cup of the chief of the gods always full. Very good; but you know Jupiter sent her away. Yes, but I know why. I will take care not to stumble in the same way; and no Ganymede shall take my place for a like cause. You are very wise. Jupiter was wrong, and henceforth I will be Hercules. Will that please you, fair Hebe? No; because he did not marry her till after her death. True, again. I will be Iolas then, for . . . Be quiet. Iolas was old. True; but so was I yesterday. You have made me young again. I am very glad, dear Iolas; but remember what I did when he left me. And what did you do? I do not remember. I did not believe a word he said. You can believe. I took away the gift I had made.


Pray where was that young lady educated?


In the country. She was always present when my brother had his lessons, but the tutor, Sardini, never took any notice of her, and it was only she who gained anything; my brother only yawned. Clementine used to make my mother laugh, and puzzle the old tutor sadly sometimes.


Sardini wrote and published some poems which are not bad; but nobody reads them, because they are so full of mythology.


Quite so. Clementine possesses a manuscript with which he presented her, containing a number of mythological tales verified. Try and make her shew you her books and the verses she used to write; she won’t shew them to any of us.


I should be ashamed. I had to give over my studies two years ago, when my sister married and we came to live here, where we only see honest folks who talk about the stable, the harvest, and the weather. You are the first person I have seen who has talked to me about literature. If our old Sardini had come with us I should have gone on learning, but my sister did not care to have him here.


But my dear Clementine, what do you think my husband could have done with an old man of eighty whose sole accomplishments are weighing the wind, writing verses, and talking mythology?


He would have been useful enough, if he could have managed the estate, but the honest old man will not believe in the existence of rascals. He is so learned that he is quite stupid.


Good heavens! Sardini stupid? It is certainly easy to deceive him, but that is because he is so noble. I love a man who is easily deceived, but they call me silly.


Not at all, my dear sister. On the contrary, there is wisdom in all you say, but it is wisdom out of place in a woman; the mistress of a household does not want to know anything about literature, poetry, or philosophy, and when it comes to marrying you I am very much afraid that your taste for this kind of thing will stand in your way.


I know it, and I am expecting to die a maid; not that it is much compliment to the men. Have you been to see him? I have never been to Milan. Is it possible? It is not far from here. Distance is relative, you know.


Do you know, my dear Hebe, that you want more books? I have often suspected it, dear Iolas, without being able to say exactly what I want. No, they are too bad. I expect so; but the good will outweigh the bad. I don’t think so. Oh, yes! you needn’t be afraid. I will forgive the bad grammar, bad style, absurd images, faulty method, and even the verses that won’t scan. That’s too much, Iolas; Hebe doesn’t need so vast a pardon as all that. Here, sir, these are my scribblings; sift the faults and the defaults. Read what you will.


You have come to St. Angelo to make me happy.


It will be my pleasure to read these books, when you have left us.


she would be able to find the two guests who were wanted at Lodi,


he would take the lady friend with her two children.


The Pastor Fido will please you still more.


Is it more beautiful?


Not exactly.


Then why do you say it will please me more?


Because it charms the heart. It appeals to our softest feelings, and seduces us--and we love seduction.


It is a seducer, then?


No, not a seducer; but seductive, like you.


That’s a good distinction. I will read it this evening. Now I am going to dress.


It must not be lost, madam; allow me to sip nectar which will elevate me to the rank of the gods. Do not be afraid of my teeth.


Certainly, if I had any milk.


You have the source of the milk; I will see to the rest.


Vigi will bring his translation of the thirteenth book, and I shall not know a word about it. But I wanted to read the Pastor Fido.


We are in a hurry; we must read that another time.


I will follow your advice in all things, my dear Iolas.


That will make me happy, dearest Hebe.


I might still pardon you if, before abandoning me, you had left me a little AEneas to play about these halls.


What a night!


It has been one of great pleasure to me, has it not to you?


I have enjoyed it because you have.


And if you had been reading by yourself?


It would have still been a pleasure, but a much smaller one. I love your intellect to distraction, Clementine, but tell me, do you think it possible to love the intellect without loving that which contains it? No, for without the body the spirit would vanish away. I conclude from that that I am deeply in love with you, and that I cannot pass six or seven hours in your company without longing to kiss you. Certainly, but we resist these desires because we have duties to perform, which would rise up against us if we left them undone. True again, but if your disposition at all resembles mine this constraint must be very painful to you. Perhaps I feel it as much as you do, but it is my belief that it is only hard to withstand temptation at first. By degrees one gets accustomed to loving without running any risk and without effort. Our senses, at first so sharp set, end by becoming blunted, and when this is the case we may spend hours and days in safety, untroubled by desire. I have my doubts as far as I am concerned, but we shall see. Good night, fair Hebe. Good night, my good Iolas, may you sleep well! My sleep will be haunted by visions of you.


May I rise in your presence? Why not? A man has need of very little care to observe the laws of decency.


Then please give me that shirt.


I will do the same for you at the first opportunity,


It’s not nearly so far from you to me as it is from me to you.


Divine Hebe, that is beyond my understanding. You speak like the Cumaean sibyls, or as if you were rendering oracles at your temple in Corinth.


Had Hebe a temple at Corinth? Sardini never said so.


But Apollodorus says so. It was an asylum as well as a temple. But come back to the point, and pray do not elude it. What you said is opposed to all the laws of geometry. The distance from you to me ought to be precisely the same as from me to you.


Perhaps, then, I have said a stupid thing.


Not at all, Hebe, you have an idea which may be right or wrong, but I want to bring it out. Come, tell me.


Well, then, the two distances differ from each other with respect to the ascent and descent, or fall, if you like. Are not all bodies inclined to obey the laws of gravitation unless they are held back by a superior force?


Certainly.


And is it not the case that no bodies move in an upward direction unless they are impelled?


Quite true.


Then you must confess that since I am shorter than you I should have to ascend to attain you, and ascension is always an effort; while if you wish to attain me, you have only to let yourself go, which is no effort whatever. Thus it is no risk at all for you to let me put on your shirt, but it would be a great risk for me if I allowed you to do the same service for me. I might be overwhelmed by your too rapid descent on me. Are you persuaded?


Persuaded is not the word, fair Hebe. I am ravished in an ecstacy of admiration. Never was paradox so finely maintained. I might cavil and contest it, but I prefer to keep silence to admire and adore.


Thank you, dear Iolas, but I want no favour. Tell me how you could disprove my argument?


I should attack it on the point of height. You know you would not let me change your chemise even if I were a dwarf.


Ah, dear Iolas! we cannot deceive each other. Would that Heaven had destined me to be married to a man like you!


Alas! why am I not worthy of aspiring to such a position?


Madly, but we are discreet.


If you are discreet, you cannot love madly.


True, countess,


for the madness of love and wisdom cannot dwell together. I should rather say we are reasonable, for the mind may be grave while the heart’s gay.


My dear countess, it is quite worthless; and I only praised it to flatter the descendant of the author. However, the same writer made a poem on the tricks of countryfolk, which is by no means devoid of merit. But you are sleepy, and I am preventing you from undressing.


Not at all.


You are trembling,


Yes, dearest countess, and I assure you I tremble for fear of you. Good night, I am going; and my prayer must be that I may love you less.


Why so? To love less is to begin to hate. Do as I do, and pray that your love may grow and likewise the strength to resist it.


If she loves me, she cannot refuse me, but it is my part to beg and pray, and even to push her to an extremity, that she may find an excuse for her defeat. A lover’s duty is to oblige the woman he loves to surrender at discretion, and love always absolves him for so doing.


My sister, read till three o’clock this morning. Now that she has so many books, she is getting quite mad over them. Let us play a trick on her; get into the bed beside her; it will be amusing to see her surprise when she wakes up.


But do you think she will take it as a joke? She won’t be able to help laughing; besides, you are dressed.


This is a fine trick, you are two charmers indeed!


You see. I have had a kiss from my sweet Hebe.


I thought I was giving it to my sister. ‘Tis the kiss that Amaryllis gave to Mistillo.


It comes to the same thing. The kiss has produced its effects, and Iolas is young again.


Dear Eleanore, you have gone too far, for we love each other, and I was dreaming of him. No, no. Iolas is dressed. Look!


Dearest Hebe, you are certainly fairer than the cupbearer of the gods. I have just seen what must have been seen when Hebe was falling, and if I had been Jupiter I should have changed my mind.


Sardini told me that Jupiter drove Hebe away, and now I ought to drive Jupiter away out of revenge.


Yes; but, my angel, I am Iolas, and not Jupiter. I adore you, and I seek to quench the desires which torture me.


This is a trick between you and Eleanore.


My dearest, it was all pure chance. I thought I should find you dressed, and I went in to wish you good day. You were asleep and your sister was dressing. I gazed at you, and Eleanore suggested that I should lie down beside you to enjoy your astonishment when you awoke. I ought to be grateful to her for a pleasure which has turned out so pleasantly. But the beauties she discovered to me surpass all the ideas I had formed on the subject. My charming Hebe will not refuse to pardon me.


No, since all is the effect of chance. But it is curious that when one loves passionately one always feels inquisitive concerning the person of the beloved object.


It is a very natural feeling, dearest. Love itself is a kind of curiosity, if it be lawful to put curiosity in the rank of the passions; but you have not that feeling about me?


No, for fear you might disappoint me, for I love you, and I want everything to speak in your favour.


I know you might be disappointed, and consequently I must do everything in my power to preserve your good opinion.


Then you are satisfied with me? Surely. I am a good architect, and I think you are grandly built. Stay, Iolas, do not touch me; it is enough that you have seen me.


Alas! it is by touching that one rectifies the mistakes of the eyes; one judges thus of smoothness and solidity. Let me kiss these two fair sources of life. I prefer them to the hundred breasts of Cybele, and I am not jealous of Athys.


You are wrong there; Sardini told me that it was Diana of Ephesus who had the hundred breasts.


The quintessence of a kiss.


I think you must have swallowed something of me, since you have given me a pleasurable sensation I have never before experienced.


Dear Hebe, you make me happy.


I am glad to hear it, but I think the kiss on the lips is much better.


Certainly, because the pleasure is reciprocal, and consequently greater.


You teach by precept and example too. Cruel teacher! Enough, this pleasure is too sweet. Love must be looking at us and laughing.


Why should we not let him enjoy a victory which would make us both happier?


Because such happiness is not built on a sure foundation. No, no! put your arms down. If we can kill each other with kisses, let us kiss on; but let us use no other arms. I am delighted to see you back. I am full of the poetic frenzy and propose to tell the story of the victory we have gained in verse.


A sad victory, abhorred by love, hateful to nature.


That will do nicely. Will each write a poem; I to celebrate the victory and you to deplore it. But you look sad.


I am in pain; but as the masculine anatomy is unknown to you, I cannot explain matters.


Your enjoyment cannot be so great as mine,


Then, you have no right to ask me to pity you. I possess her, but she does not possess me.


Very good, we will start at eight o’clock to-morrow, and nobody need be at any trouble, the carriages are ordered.


What is the matter with you, dearest? Has Ricciardetto displeased you?


Not at all, he has pleased me, and in the princess’s place I should have done the same; but we shall not sleep all night, and it is your fault.


What have I done, pray?


Nothing, but you can make us happy, and give us a great proof of your friendship.


Speak, then. What is it you want of me? I would do anything to please you. My life is yours. You shall sleep soundly.


Well, then, tell us where we are going to-morrow.


Have I not already said that I would tell you just as we are going?


Yes, but that won’t do. We want to know now, and if you won’t tell us we shan’t sleep, all night, and we shall look frightful to-morrow.


I should be so sorry, but I don’t think that you could look frightful.


You don’t think we can keep a secret. It is nothing very important, is it?


No, it is not very important, but all the same it is a secret.


It would be dreadful if you refused me.


Dearest Hebe! how can I refuse you anything? I confess freely that I have been wrong in keeping you waiting so long. Here is my secret: you are to dine with me to-morrow.


With you? Where?


Milan.


We have never seen Milan,


and it has been the dream of our lives to see that splendid town. How often I have been put to the blush when I have been forced to confess that I have never been to Milan.


It makes me very happy, but my happiness is troubled by the idea that we shall see nothing of the town, for we shall have to return after dinner. It is cruel! Are we to go fifteen miles to Milan only to dine and come back again? At least we must see our sister-in-law.


I have foreseen all your objections, and that was the reason I made a mystery of it, but it has been arranged. You don’t like it? Speak and tell me your pleasure.


Of course we like it, dear Iolas. The party will be charming, and perhaps, if we knew all, the very conditions are all for the best.


It may be so, but I may not tell you any more now.


And we will not press you.


Drive to Milan.


Milan! Milan!


Capital! capital!


What will my wife say?


Nothing, for she will not know anything about it, and if she does I am the only guilty party. You are to dine with me in a suite of rooms which I have occupied incognito since I have been at Milan; for you will understand that I could not have my wants attended to at your house, where the place is already taken.


And how about Zenobia?


Zenobia was a lucky chance, and is a very nice girl, but she would not suffice for my daily fare.


You are a lucky fellow!


I try to make myself comfortable.


My dear husband, you proposed a visit to Milan two years ago, and the chevalier proposed it a few hours ago, and now we are on our way.


Yes, sweetheart, but my idea was that we should spend a month there.


If you want to do that,


I will see to everything.


Thank you, my dear sir; you are really a wonderful man.


You do me too much honour, count, there is nothing wonderful about me, except that I execute easily an easy task.


Yes; but you will confess that a thing may be difficult from the way in which we regard it, or from the position in which we find ourselves.


You are quite right.


You must confess, sir, that you are a very fortunate man.


I do not deny it, my dear countess, but my happiness is due to the company I find myself in; if you were to expel me from yours, I should be miserable.


You are not the kind of man to be expelled from any society.


That is a very kindly compliment.


Say, rather, a very true one.


I am happy to hear you say so, but it would be both foolish and presumptuous for me to say so myself.


I want to call on a lady. I should lose her favour forever if she came to know that I had been in Milan without paying her a visit.


You must submit to the conditions, so don’t count on my intercession.


Here are two pretty girls. Who are you, pray?


We are the chevalier’s humble servants, and we are here only to wait on you.


What a lovely dress! To whom does it belong, M. de Seingalt? You ought to know.


Certainly. It belongs to your husband who can do what he likes with it, and I hope, if he gives it you, you will take it. Take it, count; it is yours; and if you refuse I will positively kill myself.


We love you too well to drive you to an act of despair. The idea is worthy of your nobility of heart. I take your beautiful present with one hand, and with the other I deliver it to her to whom it really belongs.


What, dear husband! is this beautiful dress really mine? Whom am I to thank? I thank you both, and I must put it on for dinner.


How do you know? It is the longer, and you are taller than your sister.


That is true. It is really mine, then?


If I may hope that you will deign to accept it.


Surely, dear Iolas, and I will put it on directly.


Very good, very good!


we will leave you to dress, and here are your maids.


You have all given me such a warm welcome,


that I felt obliged to give you some small proof of my gratitude.


You must have contrived to take our measures,


but we cannot imagine how you did it.


The funniest thing is, that you have had my dress made so that it can be let out when necessary without destroying the shape. But what a beautiful piece of trimming! It is worth four times as much as the dress itself.


You will be at Marseilles,


a fortnight after Easter at latest.


Do you think, that I shall be happy when you have left me all alone?


Dearest Hebe, both of us will be unhappy for the first few days, but then philosophy will step in and soften the bitterness of parting without lessening our love.


Soften the bitterness! I do not think any philosophy can work such a miracle. I know that you, dear sophist, will soon console yourself with other girls. Don’t think me jealous; I should abhor myself if I thought I was capable of so vile a passion, but I should despise myself if I was capable of seeking consolation in your way.


I shall be in despair if you entertain such ideas of me.


They are natural, however.


Possibly. What you call ‘other girls’ can never expel your image from my breast. The chief of them is the wife of a tailor, and the other is a respectable young woman, whom I am going to take back to Marseilles, whence she has been decoyed by her wretched seducer.


From henceforth to death, you and you alone will reign in my breast; and if, led astray by my senses, I ever press another in these arms, I shall soon be punished for an act of infidelity in which my mind will have no share.


I at all events will never need to repent in that fashion. But I cannot understand how, with your love for me, and holding me in your arms, you can even contemplate the possibility of becoming unfaithful to me.


I don’t contemplate it, dearest, I merely take it as an hypothesis.


I don’t see much difference.


Would you like to take me away with you? I am ready to follow you, and it would make me happy. If you love me, you ought to be enchanted for your own sake. Let us make each other happy, dearest.


I could not dishonour your family.


Do you not think me worthy of becoming your wife?


You are worthy of a crown, and it is I who am all unworthy of possessing such a wife. You must know that I have nothing in the world except my fortune, and that may leave me to-morrow. By myself I do not dread the reverses of fortune, but I should be wretched if, after linking your fate with mine, you were forced to undergo any privation.


I think--I know not why--that you can never be unfortunate, and that you cannot be happy without me. Your love is not so ardent as mine; you have not so great a faith.


My angel, if my fate is weaker than yours, that is the result of cruel experience which makes me tremble for the future. Affrighted love loses its strength but gains reason.


Cruel reason! Must we, then, prepare to part?


We must indeed, dearest; it is a hard necessity, but my heart will still be thine. I shall go away your fervent adorer, and if fortune favours me in England you will see me again next year. I will buy an estate wherever you like, and it shall be yours on your wedding day, our children and literature will be our delights.


What a happy prospect!--a golden vision indeed! I would that I might fall asleep dreaming thus, and wake not till that blessed day, or wake only to die if it is not to be. But what shall I do if you have left me with child?


Divine Hebe, you need not fear. I have managed that.


Managed? I did not think of that, but I see what you mean, and I am very much obliged to you. Alas perhaps after all it would have been better if you had not taken any precautions, for surely you are not born for my misfortune, and you could never have abandoned the mother and the child.


You are right, sweetheart, and if before two months have elapsed you find any signs of pregnancy in spite of my precautions, you have only to write to me, and whatever my fortunes may be, I will give you my hand and legitimise our offspring. You would certainly be marrying beneath your station, but you would not be the less happy for that, would you?


No, no! to bear your name, and to win your hand would be the crowning of all my hopes. I should never repent of giving myself wholly to you.


You make me happy.


All of us love you, all say that you are happy, and that you deserve your happiness. What praise is this! You cannot tell how my heart beats when I hear you lauded when you are away. When they say I love you, I answer that I adore you, and you know that I do not lie.


I am leaving him at Milan. I know how he got this idea into his head, but I will never give my consent. I hope I shall find him wiser by the time I come back.


I am sure M. de la Croix would not have abandoned me if he had not met you at Milan.


You are very charitable, but I am unable to share in your good opinion. To my mind Croce has behaved in a rascally manner, to say the least of it, for in spite of your many charms he had no right to count on me in the matter. I will not say that he openly scorned you, since he might have acted from despair; but I am sure he must have ceased to love you, or he could never have abandoned you thus.


I am sure of the contrary. He saw that he had no means of providing for me, and he had to choose between leaving me and killing himself.


Not at all. He ought to have sold all he had and sent you back to Marseilles. Your journey to Genoa would not have cost much, and thence you could have gone to Marseilles by sea. Croce counted on my having been interested in your pretty face, and he was right; but you must see that he exposed you to a great risk. You must not be offended if I tell you the plain truth. If your face had not inspired me with a lively interest in you, I should have only felt ordinary compassion on reading your appeal, and this would not have been enough to force me to great sacrifices of time and trouble. But I have no business to be blaming Croce. You are hurt; I see you are still in love with him.


I confess it, and I pity him. As for myself, I only pity my cruel destiny. I shall never see him again, but I shall never love anyone else, for my mind is made up. I shall go into a convent and expiate my sins. My father will pardon me, for he is a man of an excellent heart. I have been the victim of love; my will was not my own. The seductive influence of passion ravished my reason from me, and the only thing that I blame myself for is for not having fortified my mind against it. Otherwise I cannot see that I have sinned deeply, but I confess I have done wrong.


You would have gone with Croce from Milan if he had asked you, even on foot.


Of course; it would have been my duty; but he would not expose me to the misery that he saw before us.


Nay, you were miserable enough already. I am sure that if you meet him at Marseilles you will go with him again.


Never. I begin to get back my reason. I am free once more, and the day will come when I shall thank God for having forgotten him.


Alas! you can do what you like. If liberty is a precious thing, it is most precious of all in love.


There is no need for this disobedience. You have inspired me with a tender passion, but if you don’t share my feelings my love for you shall be stifled at its birth. There are two beds here, as you see; you can choose which one you will sleep in.


Then I will sleep in that one, but I shall be very sorry if you are not so kind to me in the future as you have been in the past.


Don’t be afraid. You shall not find me unworthy of your esteem. Good night; we shall be good friends.


This is what I love.


It was a mere chance. The equivocation was innocent because it was not premeditated, for if I had thought it over I should never have said such a thing.


My dear friend, you are very good to call on me directly you arrive, and I hope you will dine with us to-morrow. I owe all my happiness to you, and that is even a sweeter thought than the recollection of the passionate hours we have spent together. Let us kiss, but no more; my duty as an honest wife forbids me from going any further, so do not disturb the happiness you have given. Oh! by the way. I have a pleasant surprise for you.


I want her to come and wait on my niece while we are here,


What! another niece? You have a great many relations! But as she is your niece, I hope you will bring her with you to-morrow.


Certainly, and all the more willingly as she is from Marseilles.


From Marseilles? Why, we might know each other. Not that that would matter, for all your nieces are discreet young persons. What is her name?


Crosin.


I don’t know it.


I daresay you don’t. She is the daughter of a cousin of mine who lived at Marseilles.


Tell that to someone else; but, after all, what does it matter? You choose well, amuse yourself, and make them happy. It may be wisdom after all, and at any rate I congratulate you. I shall be delighted to see your niece, but if she knows me you must see that she knows her part as well.


My cook?


Yes, sir, the one your secretary, M. Possano, engaged for you. I could have got a much better one and a much cheaper one myself.


Get one to-morrow.


Certainly; but you must rid yourself and me of the present cook, for he has taken up his position here with his wife and children. Tell Possano to send for him.


I will do so, and in the meanwhile do you get me a fresh cook. I will try him the day after to-morrow.


You might spare me the pain of having to sleep by myself.


I cannot allow that, my dear young lady.


Why not? it is a mark of friendship.


That may be, but such marks cannot be given to anyone but your lover without your degrading yourself.


I engaged the man by your orders, for the whole time you stayed at Genoa, at four francs a day, with board and lodging.


Where is my letter?


Here it is: ‘Get me a good cook; I will keep him while I stay in Genoa.’


Perhaps you did not remark the expression, a good cook? Well, this fellow is a very bad cook; and, at all events, I am the best judge whether he is good or bad.


You are wrong, for the man will prove his skill. He will cite you in the law courts, and win his case.


Then you have made a formal agreement with him?


Certainly; and your letter authorized me to do so.


Tell him to come up; I want to speak to him.


Sir. I am skilled in my business, and I can get four thousand Genoese to swear as much.


That doesn’t say much for their good taste; but whatever they may say, the execrable supper you gave me last night proves that you are only fit to keep a low eating-house.


That may be,


but as I stick to my own opinion, and think his cooking horrible, he must go, for I want to get another, and I will pay that fellow as if he had served me the whole time.


That won’t do. I will summon you before the judge and demand damages for defamation of character.


My dear sir, you had better not go into court, or you will be cast in costs, for the evidence is against you. Probably this man makes a slight mistake in believing himself to be an excellent cook, but the chief mistake is in the agreement, which ought to have stipulated that he should cook a trial dinner. The person who drew up the agreement is either a great knave or a great fool.


But you are cousin to the cook,


Do I owe you any money, Possano?


On the contrary, you paid me a month in advance, and there are ten more days of the month to run.


I will make you a present of the ten days and send you away this very moment, unless your cousin does not leave my house to-day, and give you the foolish engagement which you signed in my name.


That’s what I call cutting the Gordian knot. Signora Isola-Bella will be delighted to see her.


As the marquis did not mention her in his letter, I did not take the liberty of bringing her.


I knew her at home; she and her mother used to bring linen from the wash. I always liked her.


You must be nearly the same age.


She is two years older than I am. I recognized her directly.


What did she tell you?


That it was you who brought her from Marseilles and made her fortune.


She has not made you the depositary of any other confidences?


No, but there are some things which don’t need telling.


You are right. And what did you tell her?


Only what she could have guessed for herself. I told her that you were not my uncle, and if she thought you were my lover I was not sorry. You do not know how I have enjoyed myself to-day, you must have been born to make me happy.


But how about La Croix?


For heaven’s sake say nothing about him.


If the lady is really your niece, may I hope that you still love me?


Assuredly, dear Annette, I shall always love you. Undress, and let us have a little talk.


Your decision,


will decide the fate of my cook; it will be his trial dinner.


Alas!


you may not believe me, but I assure you I am only beginning with her.


I shall certainly believe you, if you tell me so, though it seems very strange.


Strange but true. You must understand, however, that I have only known her for a very short time; and, again, I would not be made happy save through love, mere submission would kill me.


Good! but what did she say of me? As you have not yet gone far with your niece, would you object if the young man who shewed her so much attention yesterday were of the party to-morrow?


Who is he? I should like to know him.


M. N----, the only son of a rich merchant.


Certainly, bring him with you.


You are too kind to me, my dear uncle. I will go to Rosalie’s.


Very good. Are you satisfied with Annette?


Oh! by the way, she told me that you spent last night with her, and that you had been her lover and her sister’s at the same time.


It is true, but she is very indiscreet to say anything about it.


We must forgive her, though. She told me that she only consented to sleep with you on the assurance that I was really your niece. I am sure she only made this confession out of vanity, and in the hope of gaining my favour, which would be naturally bestowed on a woman you love.


I wish you had the right to be jealous of her; and I swear that if she does not comport herself with the utmost obedience to you in every respect, I will send her packing, in despite of our relations. As for you, you may not be able to love me, and I have no right to complain; but I will not have you degrade yourself by becoming my submissive victim.


A very pleasant young man, who is coming to dine with us to-morrow, paid me great attention.


The same, I suppose, that did so yesterday?


Yes. Amongst other pretty things he told me that if I liked he would go to Marseilles and ask my hand of my father. I said nothing, but I thought to myself that if the poor young man gave himself all this trouble he would be woefully misled, as he would not see me.


Why not?


Because I should be in a nunnery. My kind good father will forgive me, but I must punish myself.


That is a sad design, which I hope you will abandon. You have all that would make the happiness of a worthy husband. The more I think it over, the more I am convinced of the truth of what I say. My dear child, your tears weary me. You are only here to amuse me, and if you can’t do that, you had better go.


My dear niece, tell her to behave better or else I will send her back to her mother’s.


Who told you about it?


I have just been at the coffee-house, where everybody is talking of it. It was a wonderful victory, for those biribanti are knaves of the first water. Your adventure is making a great noise, for everyone says that you could not have broken their bank unless you had made an agreement with the man that kept the bag.


My dear fellow, I am tired of you. Here, take this piece of money for your wife and be off.


Three thousand sequins! that is a grand haul indeed.


Quite so.


The funny part of it is that the man who keeps the bag is in the pay of the others.


What strikes you as funny in that?


Why, he gained half without any risk, otherwise he would not have been likely to have entered into an agreement with you.


You think, then, that it was a case of connivance?


Everybody says so; indeed what else could it be? The rascal has made his fortune without running any risk. All the Greeks in Genoa are applauding him and you.


As the greater rascal of the two?


They don’t call you a rascal; they say you’re a great genius; you are praised and envied.


I am sure I ought to be obliged to them.


I heard it all from a gentleman who was there. He says that the second and the third time the man with the bag gave you the office.


And you believe this?


I am sure of it. No man of honour in your position could have acted otherwise. However, when you come to settle up with the fellow I advise you to be very careful, for there will be spies on your tracks. If you like, I will do the business for you.


My dear chevalier, you ought to laugh at it, and I should not advise you to take the trouble to refute the calumny.


Then you advise me to confess openly that I am a rogue?


No, for only fools will think that of you. Despise them, unless they tell you you are a rogue to your face.


I should like to know the name of the nobleman who was present and sent this report about the town.


I do not know who it is. He was wrong to say anything, but you would be equally wrong in taking any steps against him, for I am sure he did not tell the story with any intention of giving offence; quite the contrary.


I am lost in wonder at his course of reasoning. Let us suppose that the facts were as he told them, do you think they are to my honour?


Neither to your honour nor shame. Such are the morals and such the maxims of gamesters. The story will be laughed at, your skill will be applauded, and you will be admired, for each one will say that in your place he would have done likewise!


Would you?


Certainly. If I had been sure that the ball would have gone to the harlequin, I would have broken the rascal’s bank, as you did. I will say honestly that I do not know whether you won by luck or skill, but the most probable hypothesis, to my mind, is that you knew the direction of the ball. You must confess that there is something to be said in favour of the supposition.


I confess that there is, but it is none the less a dishonourable imputation on me, and you in your turn must confess that those who think that I won by sleight of hand, or by an agreement with a rascal, insult me grievously.


That depends on the way you look at it. I confess they insult you, if you think yourself insulted; but they are not aware of that, and their intention being quite different there is no insult at all in the matter. I promise you no one will tell you to your face that you cheated, but how are you going to prevent them thinking so?


Well, let them think what they like, but let them take care not to tell me their thoughts.


Shew him in.


The man with the bag!


What do you want?


Sir, I am come to ask you to help me. I am a family man, and it is thought that . . .


I have never refused to aid the unfortunate,


Clairmont, give him ten sequins. Leave the room.


I went to the bank to change the piece of gold you gave me. It was weighed, and found to be ten carats under weight. I was told to name the person from whom I got it, but of course I did not do so. I then had to go to prison, and if you do not get me out of the scrape I shall be prosecuted, though of course I am not going to get myself hanged for anybody.


This is a very serious matter, for it may end in the gallows for the man who clipped the coin.


Then they can hang the biribanti! That won’t hurt me much.


No, that won’t do; it would compromise Madame Isola-Bella, as biribi is strictly forbidden. Leave it all to me, I will speak to the State Inquisitors about it. Tell Possano to persevere in his silence, and that you will see him safely through. The laws against coiners and clippers are only severe with regard to these particular coins, as the Government has special reasons for not wishing them to be depreciated.


a priest who would not give his name wanted to speak to me.


The story of my misfortunes would be only too long. Take me into your room, and I will sit down and tell you the whole story.


First of all, answer my questions. How long have you been here?


Since yesterday.


Who told you that I was here?


Count B----, at Milan.


Who told you that the count knew me?


I found out by chance. I was at M. de Bragadin’s a month ago, and on his table I saw a letter from the count to you.


Did you tell him you were my brother?


I had to when he said how much I resembled you.


He made a mistake, for you are a blockhead.


He did not think so, at all events, for he asked me to dinner.


You must have cut a pretty figure, if you were in your present state.


He gave me four sequins to come here; otherwise, I should never have been able to do the journey.


Then he did a very foolish thing. You’re a mere beggar, then; you take alms. Why did you leave Venice? What do you want with me? I can do nothing for you.


Ah! do not make me despair, or I shall kill myself.


That’s the very best thing you could do; but you are too great a coward. I ask again why you left Venice, where you could say mass, and preach, and make an honest living, like many priests much better than you?


That is the kernel of the whole matter. Let us go in and I will tell you.


No; wait for me here. We will go somewhere where you can tell me your story, if I have patience to listen to it. But don’t tell any of my people that you are my brother, for I am ashamed to have such a relation. Come, take me to the place where you are staying.


I must tell you that at my inn I am not alone, and I want to have a private interview with you.


Who is with you?


I will tell you presently, but let us go into a coffeehouse.


Are you in company with a band of brigands? What are you sighing at?


I must confess it, however painful it may be to my feelings. I am with a woman.


A woman! and you a priest!


Forgive me. I was blinded by love, and seduced by my senses and her beauty, so I seduced her under a promise to marry her at Geneva. I can never go back to Venice, for I took her away from her father’s house.


What could you do at Geneva? They would expel you after you had been there three or four days. Come, we will go to the inn and see the woman you have deceived. I will speak to you afterwards.


Are you the brother of this liar and monster who has deceived me so abominably?


Yes. I have the honour.


A fine honour, truly. Well, have the kindness to send me back to Venice, for I won’t stop any longer with this rascal whom I listened to like the fool I was, who turned my head with his lying tales. He was going to meet you at Milan, and you were to give us enough money to go to Geneva, and there we were to turn Protestants and get married. He swore you were expecting him at Milan, but you were not there at all, and he contrived to get money in some way or another, and brought me here miserably enough. I thank Heaven he has found you at last, for if he had not I should have started off by myself and begged my way. I have not a single thing left; the wretch sold all I possessed at Bergamo and Verona. I don’t know how I kept my senses through it all. To hear him talk, the world was a paradise outside Venice, but I have found to my cost that there is no place like home. I curse the hour when I first saw the miserable wretch. He’s a beggarly knave; always whining. He wanted to enjoy his rights as my husband when we got to Padua, but I am thankful to say I gave him nothing. Here is the writing he gave me; take it, and do what you like with it. But if you have any heart, send me back to Venice or I will tramp there on foot.


I promise to send you back to Venice with a respectable woman to look after you; but you will be unfortunate if you carry back with you the results of your amours.


What results? Did I not tell you that we were going to be married at Geneva?


Yes, but in spite of that . . .


I understand you, sir, but I am quite at ease on that point, as I am happy to say that I did not yield to any of the wretch’s desires.


Remember, the oath you took to be mine for ever. You swore it upon the crucifix.


You are too malicious, my dear, the poor devil is only unhappy because you have made him in love with you.


If he is it’s his own fault, I should never have thought of him but for his coming to me and fooling me, I shall never forgive him till he is out of my sight. That’s not the first blow I have given him; I had to begin at Padua.


Yes, but you are excommunicated, for I am a priest.


It’s little I care for the excommunication of a scoundrel like you, and if you say another word I will give you some more.


Calm yourself, my child, you have cause to be angry, but you should not beat him. Take up your things and follow me.


Where are you going to take her?


To my own house, and I should advise you to hold your tongue. Here, take these twenty sequins and buy yourself some clean clothes and linen, and give those rags of yours to the beggars. I will come and talk to you to-morrow, and you may thank your stars that you found me here. As for you, mademoiselle, I will have you conducted to my lodging, for Genoa must not see you in my company after arriving here with a priest. We must not have any scandal. I shall place you under the charge of my landlady, but whatever you do don’t tell her this sad story. I will see that you are properly dressed, and that you want for nothing.


May Heaven reward you!


There is nothing of the kind, and Rosalie thinks with you.


Then tell him by word of mouth that you give your consent, and will expect to see him at Marseilles.


Very good; as you think so, I will tell him tomorrow.


I seem to have suddenly passed from hell to Paradise.


Indeed, you look like an angel.