The Memoirs of Casanova, though they have enjoyed the popularity of a bad reputation, have never had justice done to them by serious students of literature, of life, and of history.


du dyamatique, de la rapidite, du comique, de la philosophie, des choses neuves, sublimes, inimitables meme


It is not probable that these two chapters have been withdrawn from the manuscript of Casanova by a strange hand; everything leads us to believe that the author himself suppressed them, in the intention, no doubt, of re-writing them, but without having found time to do so.


Elle venoit presque tous les jours lui faire une belle visite.


Cependant chaque jour Thérèse venait lui faire une visite.


avoit, comme de raison, forme le projet d’allier Dieu avec le diable.


Qui, comme de raison, avait saintement forme le projet d’allier les interets du ciel aux oeuvres de ce monde.


pour devenir reine du monde;


pour une couronne,


Il ne savoit que lui dire


Dans cet etat de perplexite;


I beg you to tell my servant what the biscuits are that I like to eat; dipped in wine, to fortify my stomach. I believe that they can all be found at Roman’s. A compliment which is only made to gild the pill is a positive impertinence, and Monsieur Bailli is nothing but a charlatan; the monarch ought to have spit in his face, but the monarch trembled with fear. All fools are not proud, and all proud men are fools. Many fools are happy, all proud men are unhappy. Whether it is possible to compose a Latin distich of the greatest beauty without knowing either the Latin language or prosody. We must examine the possibility and the impossibility, and afterwards see who is the man who says he is the author of the distich, for there are extraordinary people in the world. My brother, in short, ought to have composed the distich, because he says so, and because he confided it to me tete-’a-tete. I had, it is true, difficulty in believing him; but what is one to do! Either one must believe, or suppose him capable of telling a lie which could only be told by a fool; and that is impossible, for all Europe knows that my brother is not a fool.


I wager that it is not true that a man who weighs a hundred pounds will weigh more if you kill him. I wager that if there is any difference, he will weigh less. I wager that diamond powder has not sufficient force to kill a man. it had only arrived at the solution of problems of the second degree, inclusive. did not like regular towns. I like. Venice, Rome, Florence, Milan, Constantinople, Genoa. The name of Paradise is a name in Genesis which indicates a place of pleasure (lieu voluptueux): this term is Persian. This place of pleasure was made by God before he had created man. Voltaire, the hardy Voltaire, whose pen is without bit or bridle; Voltaire, who devoured the Bible, and ridiculed our dogmas, doubts, and after having made proselytes to impiety, is not ashamed, being reduced to the extremity of life, to ask for the sacraments, and to cover his body with more relics than St. Louis had at Amboise. A girl who is pretty and good, and as virtuous as you please, ought not to take it ill that a man, carried away by her charms, should set himself to the task of making their conquest. If this man cannot please her by any means, even if his passion be criminal, she ought never to take offence at it, nor treat him unkindly; she ought to be gentle, and pity him, if she does not love him, and think it enough to keep invincibly hold upon her own duty. Harmony makes beauty. An object really beautiful ought to seem beautiful to all whose eyes fall upon it. That is all; there is nothing more to be said.


yes. Why not, monseigneur? It is not a secret,


Is His Majesty coming to Dux?


If he goes to Oberlaitensdorf (sic) he will go to Dux, too; and he may ask you for it, for there is a monument there which relates to him when he was Grand Duke.


In that case, His Majesty can also see my critical remarks on the Egyptian prints.


You have all the Italians, then?


All, sire.


See what a lie leads to. If I had not lied in saying that I was making an anthology, I should not have found myself obliged to lie again in saying that we have all the Italian poets. If the Emperor comes to Dux, I shall kill myself.


They say that this Dux is a delightful spot,


and I see that it might be for many; but not for me, for what delights me in my old age is independent of the place which I inhabit. When I do not sleep I dream, and when I am tired of dreaming I blacken paper, then I read, and most often reject all that my pen has vomited.


I have been in London for six months and have been to see them (that is the mother and daughter) in their own house, swindlers, who cause all who go there to lose their money in gambling. My handwriting is known.


Mon cher Giacometto Carissimo a Amatissimo


Unico Mio vero Amico


goodnight, and sleep better than I Never believe me, but when I tell you that I love you, and that I shall love you always: Be assured that evil tongues, vapours, calumny, nothing can change my heart, which is yours entirely, and has no will to change its master.


preserve them religiously all her life.


These letters, numbered more than two hundred, and the shortest were of four pages:


un commerce epistolaire


I replied to her, accepting the correspondence that she offered me, and telling her briefly all my vicissitudes. She related to me in turn, in some forty letters, all the history of her life. If she dies before me, I shall add these letters to these Memoirs; but to-day she is still alive, and always happy, though now old.


No, it is impossible to be sulky with you! If I become vicious, it is you, my Mentor, who make me so, and I cast my sins upon you. Even if I were damned I should still be your most devoted friend, Henriette de Schnetzmann.


a distinguished man of letters whom I was anxious to see,


since the affair of the Marquis Albergati, carried on a most interesting correspondence with me I used to spend my evenings in a very agreeable manner at the house of Count Max de Lamberg, who resided at the court of the Prince-Bishop with the title of Grand Marshal. What particularly attached me to Count Lamberg was his literary talent. A first-rate scholar, learned to a degree, he has published several much esteemed works. I carried on an exchange of letters with him which ended only with his death four years ago in 1792. supped with Count Lamberg two or three times a week,


a man known in literature, a man of profound knowledge.


hinder black melancholy from devouring his poor existence, or sending him out of his mind,


I write in the hope that my history will never see the broad day light of publication. Truth is the only God I have ever adored,


Where can such a book as this be found?


I will begin with this confession: whatever I have done in the course of my life, whether it be good or evil, has been done freely; I am a free agent. The doctrine of the Stoics or of any other sect as to the force of Destiny is a bubble engendered by the imagination of man, and is near akin to Atheism. I not only believe in one God, but my faith as a Christian is also grafted upon that tree of philosophy which has never spoiled anything. I believe in the existence of an immaterial God, the Author and Master of all beings and all things, and I feel that I never had any doubt of His existence, from the fact that I have always relied upon His providence, prayed to Him in my distress, and that He has always granted my prayers. Despair brings death, but prayer does away with despair; and when a man has prayed he feels himself supported by new confidence and endowed with power to act. As to the means employed by the Sovereign Master of human beings to avert impending dangers from those who beseech His assistance, I confess that the knowledge of them is above the intelligence of man, who can but wonder and adore. Our ignorance becomes our only resource, and happy, truly happy; are those who cherish their ignorance! Therefore must we pray to God, and believe that He has granted the favour we have been praying for, even when in appearance it seems the reverse. As to the position which our body ought to assume when we address ourselves to the Creator, a line of Petrarch settles it:


Con le ginocchia della mente inchine.


What depraved tastes!


Are you not ashamed to confess such inclinations without blushing!


I pretend to the friendship, to the esteem, to the gratitude of my readers. I claim their gratitude, if my Memoirs can give them instruction and pleasure; I claim their esteem if, rendering me justice, they find more good qualities in me than faults, and I claim their friendship as soon as they deem me worthy of it by the candour and the good faith with which I abandon myself to their judgment, without disguise and exactly as I am in reality. They will find that I have always had such sincere love for truth, that I have often begun by telling stories for the purpose of getting truth to enter the heads of those who could not appreciate its charms. They will not form a wrong opinion of me when they see one emptying the purse of my friends to satisfy my fancies, for those friends entertained idle schemes, and by giving them the hope of success I trusted to disappointment to cure them. I would deceive them to make them wiser, and I did not consider myself guilty, for I applied to my own enjoyment sums of money which would have been lost in the vain pursuit of possessions denied by nature; therefore I was not actuated by any avaricious rapacity. I might think myself guilty if I were rich now, but I have nothing. I have squandered everything; it is my comfort and my justification. The money was intended for extravagant follies, and by applying it to my own frolics I did not turn it into a very different, channel.


If I were deceived in my hope to please, I candidly confess I would regret it, but not sufficiently so to repent having written my Memoirs, for, after all, writing them has given me pleasure. Oh, cruel ennui! It must be by mistake that those who have invented the torments of hell have forgotten to ascribe thee the first place among them. Yet I am bound to own that I entertain a great fear of hisses; it is too natural a fear for me to boast of being insensible to them, and I cannot find any solace in the idea that, when these Memoirs are published, I shall be no more. I cannot think without a shudder of contracting any obligation towards death: I hate death; for, happy or miserable, life is the only blessing which man possesses, and those who do not love it are unworthy of it. If we prefer honour to life, it is because life is blighted by infamy; and if, in the alternative, man sometimes throws away his life, philosophy must remain silent.


Oh, death, cruel death! Fatal law which nature necessarily rejects because thy very office is to destroy nature! Cicero says that death frees us from all pains and sorrows, but this great philosopher books all the expense without taking the receipts into account. I do not recollect if, when he wrote his ‘Tusculan Disputations’, his own Tullia was dead. Death is a monster which turns away from the great theatre an attentive hearer before the end of the play which deeply interests him, and this is reason enough to hate it.


All my adventures are not to be found in these Memoirs; I have left out those which might have offended the persons who have played a sorry part therein. In spite of this reserve, my readers will perhaps often think me indiscreet, and I am sorry for it. Should I perchance become wiser before I give up the ghost, I might burn every one of these sheets, but now I have not courage enough to do it.


It may be that certain love scenes will be considered too explicit, but let no one blame me, unless it be for lack of skill, for I ought not to be scolded because, in my old age, I can find no other enjoyment but that which recollections of the past afford to me. After all, virtuous and prudish readers are at liberty to skip over any offensive pictures, and I think it my duty to give them this piece of advice; so much the worse for those who may not read my preface; it is no fault of mine if they do not, for everyone ought to know that a preface is to a book what the play-bill is to a comedy; both must be read.


My Memoirs are not written for young persons who, in order to avoid false steps and slippery roads, ought to spend their youth in blissful ignorance, but for those who, having thorough experience of life, are no longer exposed to temptation, and who, having but too often gone through the fire, are like salamanders, and can be scorched by it no more. True virtue is but a habit, and I have no hesitation in saying that the really virtuous are those persons who can practice virtue without the slightest trouble; such persons are always full of toleration, and it is to them that my Memoirs are addressed.


I have written in French, and not in Italian, because the French language is more universal than mine, and the purists, who may criticise in my style some Italian turns will be quite right, but only in case it should prevent them from understanding me clearly. The Greeks admired Theophrastus in spite of his Eresian style, and the Romans delighted in their Livy in spite of his Patavinity. Provided I amuse my readers, it seems to me that I can claim the same indulgence. After all, every Italian reads Algarotti with pleasure, although his works are full of French idioms.


There is one thing worthy of notice: of all the living languages belonging to the republic of letters, the French tongue is the only one which has been condemned by its masters never to borrow in order to become richer, whilst all other languages, although richer in words than the French, plunder from it words and constructions of sentences, whenever they find that by such robbery they add something to their own beauty. Yet those who borrow the most from the French, are the most forward in trumpeting the poverty of that language, very likely thinking that such an accusation justifies their depredations. It is said that the French language has attained the apogee of its beauty, and that the smallest foreign loan would spoil it, but I make bold to assert that this is prejudice, for, although it certainly is the most clear, the most logical of all languages, it would be great temerity to affirm that it can never go farther or higher than it has gone. We all recollect that, in the days of Lulli, there was but one opinion of his music, yet Rameau came and everything was changed. The new impulse given to the French nation may open new and unexpected horizons, and new beauties, fresh perfections, may spring up from new combinations and from new wants.


The motto I have adopted justifies my digressions, and all the commentaries, perhaps too numerous, in which I indulge upon my various exploits: ‘Nequidquam sapit qui sibi non sapit’. For the same reason I have always felt a great desire to receive praise and applause from polite society:


Excitat auditor stadium, laudataque virtus Crescit, et immensum gloria calcar habet.


I would willingly have displayed here the proud axiom: ‘Nemo laeditur nisi a se ipso’, had I not feared to offend the immense number of persons who, whenever anything goes wrong with them, are wont to exclaim, “It is no fault of mine!” I cannot deprive them of that small particle of comfort, for, were it not for it, they would soon feel hatred for themselves, and self-hatred often leads to the fatal idea of self-destruction.


As for myself I always willingly acknowledge my own self as the principal cause of every good or of every evil which may befall me; therefore I have always found myself capable of being my own pupil, and ready to love my teacher.


not to be frightened


my haemorrhage would little by little leave me, provided I should never disclose to any one what she had done to cure me the loss of all my blood and with death, should I ever breathe a word concerning those mysteries a beautiful lady would pay me a visit during the following night, and that she would make me happy, on condition that I should have sufficient control over myself never to mention to anyone my having received such a visit


to be silent death if I dared to say anything respecting my night’s adventures


Ah, dear mother! what is this? the trees are walking! How is it, that the trees are walking.


The boat is moving, the trees are not. Now dress yourself.


Then it may be, that the sun does not move, and that we, on the contrary, are revolving from west to east.


Thou are right, my child. The sun does not move; take courage, give heed to your reasoning powers and let others laugh.


This is Latin indeed.


We know that, but can you explain it?


To explain it is not enough, it is a question which is worthy of an answer.


And why not?


Because both are obscene.


But they are sublime.


Let us go to bed and speak no more on the subject. Your answer was wonderful, because you cannot possibly know anything of the subject in question, or of the manner in which verses ought to be written.


As your father is away it is not necessary to leave your door ajar as usual. When we leave the supper-table I will go to your closet; you will find me there.


It may be, my dear mother, but we must be careful not to make a mistake. Who is the witch? Our old servant, and I have just had a proof of it. How so? I have barred the door of my room with two broomsticks placed in the shape of a cross, which she must have undone to go in; but when she saw them she drew back, and she went round by the other door. It is evident that, were she not a witch, she would not be afraid of touching them.


It is not complete evidence, dear mother; send the woman to me. Why, did you not enter my mother’s room this morning through the usual door?


I do not know what you mean.


Did you not see the St. Andrew’s cross on the door?


What cross is that?


It is useless to plead ignorance, where did you sleep last Thursday night?


At my niece’s, who had just been confined.


Nothing of the sort. You were at the witches’ Sabbath; you are a witch, and have bewitched my daughter.


whether he would be in the way;


that he had no faith in any miracles except in those of the Gospel.


Take courage, get well again, and rely upon my discretion.


If it is the devil who has offended thee with his words, resent the insult with words likewise, jackass that thou art, but if I have offended thee myself, learn, stupid booby, that thou must respect me, and be off at once. My name is Bettina.


It cannot be, for it is the name of a baptized girl.


Then thou art of opinion that a devil must rejoice in a masculine name? Learn, ignorant friar, that a devil is a spirit, and does not belong to either sex. But as thou believest that a devil is speaking to thee through my lips, promise to answer me with truth, and I will engage to give way before thy incantations.


Very well, I agree to this.


Tell me, then, art thou thinking that thy knowledge is greater than mine?


No, but I believe myself more powerful in the name of the holy Trinity, and by my sacred character.


If thou art more powerful than I, then prevent me from telling thee unpalatable truths. Thou art very vain of thy beard, thou art combing and dressing it ten times a day, and thou would’st not shave half of it to get me out of this body. Cut off thy beard, and I promise to come out.


Father of lies, I will increase thy punishment a hundred fold.


I dare thee to do it.


that I was wanting in faith, and that I ought to leave the room;


that he had guessed rightly.


that there was no doubt of the girl being possessed, but that another exorcist must be sent for, since he had not, himself, obtained God’s grace to eject the evil spirit.


that she felt quite well, that, the ball taking place on the morrow, she would come to my room in the morning to dress my hair like a girl’s.


that, as she had been so ill, she ought to nurse herself.


You must accompany me to the ball, disguised as a girl, or I will give you a sight which will cause you to weep.


I cannot go to the ball, because I have fully made up my mind to avoid every opportunity of being alone with you. As for the painful sight with which you threaten to entertain me, I believe you capable of keeping your word, but I entreat you to spare my heart, for I love you as if you were my sister. I have forgiven you, dear Bettina, and I wish to forget everything. I enclose a note which you must be delighted to have again in your possession. You see what risk you were running when you left it in your pocket. This restitution must convince you of my friendship.


Thou art not mad, my girl.


that he was not drunk.


Thou art possessed of the devil, my dear child.


Yes, father, and you alone can cure me.


Well, I am ready.


that he was certain that the devil would not disturb his daughter during the night.


that the exorcist would come again on the morrow, and that he had promised to deliver Bettina within three hours if she were truly possessed of the demon, but that he made no promise if it should turn out to be a case of madness.


that he would surely deliver her, that he would surely deliver her, and she poured out her thanks to God for having allowed her the grace of beholding a saint before her death.


he had very good hopes of the case, and requesting that the doctor would send him news of the patient.


to prepare ourselves for the next day,


You ought, all of you, to confess to Father Mancia, so as to obtain absolution from that holy man. I intend to go to him myself.


Spurn me, but respect my honour and the shadow of peace to which I aspire. No one from this house must confess to Father Mancia; you alone can prevent the execution of that project, and I need not suggest the way to succeed. It will prove whether you have some friendship for me.


I can well understand that, notwithstanding the inviolability of confession, your mother’s proposal should cause you great anxiety; but I cannot see why, in order to prevent its execution, you should depend upon me rather than upon Cordiani who has expressed his acceptance of it. All I can promise you is that I will not be one of those who may go to Father Mancia; but I have no influence over your lover; you alone can speak to him.


I have never addressed a word to Cordiani since the fatal night which has sealed my misery, and I never will speak to him again, even if I could by so doing recover my lost happiness. To you alone I wish to be indebted for my life and for my honour.


No, for you thus afford me an occasion of assuring you that, my feelings towards you being those of a friend only, you need not have any fear of my causing you any anxiety or displeasure. Therefore Bettina, you may do whatever suits you; my love is no more. You have at one blow given the death-stroke to the intense passion which was blossoming in my heart. When I reached my room, after the ill-treatment I had experienced at Cordiani’s hands, I felt for you nothing but hatred; that feeling soon merged into utter contempt, but that sensation itself was in time, when my mind recovered its balance, changed for a feeling of the deepest indifference, which again has given way when I saw what power there is in your mind. I have now become your friend; I have conceived the greatest esteem for your cleverness. I have been the dupe of it, but no matter; that talent of yours does exist, it is wonderful, divine, I admire it, I love it, and the highest homage I can render to it is, in my estimation, to foster for the possessor of it the purest feelings of friendship. Reciprocate that friendship, be true, sincere, and plain dealing. Give up all nonsense, for you have already obtained from me all I can give you. The very thought of love is repugnant to me; I can bestow my love only where I feel certain of being the only one loved. You are at liberty to lay my foolish delicacy to the account of my youthful age, but I feel so, and I cannot help it. You have written to me that you never speak to Cordiani; if I am the cause of that rupture between you, I regret it, and I think that, in the interest of your honour, you would do well to make it up with him; for the future I must be careful never to give him any grounds for umbrage or suspicion. Recollect also that, if you have tempted him by the same manoeuvres which you have employed towards me, you are doubly wrong, for it may be that, if he truly loves you, you have caused him to be miserable.


All you have just said to me,


Admit me this evening in your closet, the door of which, leading to the yard, can be left ajar, or prepare yourself to make the best of it with the doctor, to whom I intend to deliver, if you should refuse my request, the letter of which I enclose a copy. After giving to the case the consideration it required,


Forse era ver, ma non pero credibile A chi del senso suo fosse signor.


Well, my dear Bettina, your story has affected me; but how do you think I am going to accept your convulsions as natural, and to believe in the demoniac symptoms which came on so seasonably during the exorcisms, although you very properly expressed your doubts on the matter? Poor me! oh, poor me! I thought, that I would reconquer my lost influence over your heart, but, I see it too plainly, you no longer feel an interest in me. Go on treating me harshly; go on taking for mere fictions sufferings which are but too real, which you have caused, and which you will now increase. Some day, but too late, you will be sorry, and your repentance will be bitter indeed.


I cannot help being convulsed,


but what do you mean by applying to the Jacobin that epithet of handsome? Could you suppose--?


Not at all, not at all--I suppose nothing; to do so would be necessary for me to be jealous. But I cannot help saying that the preference given by your devils to the exorcism of that handsome monk over the incantations of the ugly Capuchin is likely to give birth to remarks rather detrimental to your honour. Moreover, you are free to do whatever pleases you.


Bettina, you are getting better; but if you dare to scratch yourself, you will become such a fright that nobody will ever love you.


He comes from Padua, where he has completed his studies.


But where can I find such table companions?


It is rather a delicate matter,


but you must take your guests on trial, and after they have been found such as you wish them to be, the only difficulty will be to keep them as your guests without their being aware of the real cause of your preference, for no respectable man could acknowledge that he enjoys the honour of sitting at your excellency’s table only because he eats twice as much as any other man.


Then make her the offer of a large sum of money, or a position. She says that she would not, even for a crown, commit a deadly sin. In that case, you must either take her by storm, or banish her for ever from your presence. I can do neither one nor the other; physical as well as moral strength is deficient in me. Kill her, then. That will very likely be the case unless I die first. Indeed I pity your excellency. Do you sometimes visit her? No, for I might fall in love with her, and I would be miserable. You are right.


clericus qui nutrit coman, anathema sit


It is my province, as president of the Confraternity of the Holy Sacrament, to choose the preacher who is to deliver the sermon on the fourth Sunday of this month, which happens to be the second Christmas holiday. I mean to appoint you, and I am certain that the abbé will not dare to reject my choice. What say you to such a triumphant reappearance? Does it satisfy you?


Ploravere suis non respondere favorem sperdtum meritis


I will give you a sermon written by myself, which I have never delivered; you will commit it to memory, and I promise to let everybody suppose that it is of your own composition.


I thank you, very reverend father, but I will preach my own sermon, or none at all. I will preach my own sermon, or none at all.


At all events, you shall not preach such a sermon as this in my church.


You can talk the matter over with M. de Malipiero. In the meantime I will take my work to the censorship, and to His Eminence the Patriarch, and if it is not accepted I shall have it printed.


All very well, young man. The patriarch will coincide with me.


In the first case. I can pronounce it in your church, and no responsibility can possibly fall upon your shoulders; in the second, I must, of course, give way.


Do not go to the patriarch; I accept your sermon; I only request you to change your text. Horace was a villain.


Why do you quote Seneca, Tertullian, Origen, and Boethius? They were all heretics, and must, consequently, be considered by you as worse wretches than Horace, who, after all, never had the chance of becoming a Christian!


He can well do it, for he is a man of talent; but I should like to know what he can do with you?


Whatever he can.


I am told that he thinks you rather stupid.


How did you find your bed?


Very comfortable; I am sure you made it. Pray, who are you?


I am Lucie, the daughter of the gate-keeper: I have neither brothers nor sisters, and I am fourteen years old. I am very glad you have no servant with you; I will be your little maid, and I am sure you will be pleased with me.


She is, our only child, our darling pet, the hope of our old age. She loves and obeys us, and fears God; she is as clean as a new pin, and has but one fault.


What is that?


She is too young.


That is a charming fault which time will mend.


Shall I disturb you?


No; but I am thinking that if your mother happened to come in, she would be angry.


Mother would not think of any harm.


Come, then. But Lucie, do you know what danger you are exposing yourself to?


Certainly I do; but you are good, and, what is more, you are a priest.


Come; only lock the door.


No, no, for people might think.... I do not know what.


When I see that man. I am afraid and I run away.


What ails you?


I have had no sleep through the night.


And why?


Because I have made up my mind to impart to you a project which, although fraught with misery to myself, will at least secure me your esteem.


But if your project is to insure my esteem it ought to make you very cheerful. Only tell me, reverend sir, why, after calling me ‘thou’ yesterday, you treat me today respectfully, like a lady? What have I done? I will get your coffee, and you must tell me everything after you have drunk it; I long to hear you.


All you have just told me, proves the sincerity of your great love for me, but I cannot imagine why you should be in such dread of a feeling which affords me the most intense pleasure. You wish to banish me from your presence because you stand in fear of your love, but what would you do if you hated me? Am I guilty because I have pleased you? If it is a crime to have won your affection, I can assure you that I did not think I was committing a criminal action, and therefore you cannot conscientiously punish me. Yet I cannot conceal the truth; I am very happy to be loved by you. As for the danger we run, when we love, danger which I can understand, we can set it at defiance, if we choose, and I wonder at my not fearing it, ignorant as I am, while you, a learned man, think it so terrible. I am astonished that love, which is not a disease, should have made you ill, and that it should have exactly the opposite effect upon me. Is it possible that I am mistaken, and that my feeling towards you should not be love? You saw me very cheerful when I came in this morning; it is because I have been dreaming all night, but my dreams did not keep me awake; only several times I woke up to ascertain whether my dream was true, for I thought I was near you; and every time, finding that it was not so, I quickly went to sleep again in the hope of continuing my happy dream, and every time I succeeded. After such a night, was it not natural for me to be cheerful this morning? My dear abbé, if love is a torment for you I am very sorry, but would it be possible for you to live without love? I will do anything you order me to do, but, even if your cure depended upon it, I would not cease to love you, for that would be impossible. Yet if to heal your sufferings it should be necessary for you to love me no more, you must do your utmost to succeed, for I would much rather see you alive without love, than dead for having loved too much. Only try to find some other plan, for the one you have proposed makes me very miserable. Think of it, there may be some other way which will be less painful. Suggest one more practicable, and depend upon Lucie’s obedience.


Yes, dearest Lucie, yes, thou hast it in thy power to afford the sweetest relief to my devouring pain; abandon to my ardent kisses thy divine lips which have just assured me of thy love.


Oh, God! is it true? is it not a dream? My heart begins to speak, I must go;


If your complete happiness, rests in my power, be happy; there is nothing that I can refuse you.


There is nothing in the world, reverend sir, that I would not readily do for my friend. She visits at our house every holiday, has supper with us, and sleeps under our roof. I will suggest the best way for you to make the acquaintance of Madame Orio, our aunt; but, if you obtain an introduction to her, you must be very careful not to let her suspect your preference for Angela, for our aunt would certainly object to her house being made a place of rendezvous to facilitate your interviews with a stranger to her family. Now for the plan I propose, and in the execution of which I will give you every assistance in my power. Madame Orio, although a woman of good station in life, is not wealthy, and she wishes to have her name entered on the list of noble widows who receive the bounties bestowed by the Confraternity of the Holy Sacrament, of which M. de Malipiero is president. Last Sunday, Angela mentioned that you are in the good graces of that nobleman, and that the best way to obtain his patronage would be to ask you to entreat it in her behalf. The foolish girl added that you were smitten with me, that all your visits to our mistress of embroidery were made for my special benefit and for the sake of entertaining me, and that I would find it a very easy task to interest you in her favour. My aunt answered that, as you are a priest, there was no fear of any harm, and she told me to write to you with an invitation to call on her; I refused. The procurator Rosa, who is a great favourite of my aunt’s, was present; he approved of my refusal, saying that the letter ought to be written by her and not by me, that it was for my aunt to beg the honour of your visit on business of real importance, and that, if there was any truth in the report of your love for me, you would not fail to come. My aunt, by his advice, has therefore written the letter which you will find at your house. If you wish to meet Angela, postpone your visit to us until next Sunday. Should you succeed in obtaining M. de Malipiero’s good will in favour of my aunt, you will become the pet of the household, but you must forgive me if I appear to treat you with coolness, for I have said that I do not like you. I would advise you to make love to my aunt, who is sixty years of age; M. Rosa will not be jealous, and you will become dear to everyone. For my part, I will manage for you an opportunity for some private conversation with Angela, and I will do anything to convince you of my friendship. Adieu.


Oh, my dear abbé! you shall have a kiss, but not on my hand, and no one can object to it, as I am thirty years older than you.


I cannot, Madame.


Why, I beg?


I have--.


I understand. Nanette, shew the way.


Dear aunt, excuse me.


Well, then, Marton.


Oh! dear aunt, why do you not insist upon my sister obeying your orders?


Alas! madame, these young ladies are quite right. Allow me to retire.


No, my dear abbé, my nieces are very foolish; M. Rosa, I am sure, will kindly.


My aunt will invite you to supper; do not accept. Go away as soon as we sit down to table, and Marton will escort you as far as the street door, but do not leave the house. When the street door is closed again, everyone thinking you are gone, go upstairs in the dark as far as the third floor, where you must wait for us. We will come up the moment M. Rosa has left the house, and our aunt has gone to bed. Angela will be at liberty to grant you throughout the night a tete-a-tete which, I trust, will prove a happy one.


What can we do in the dark?


We can talk.


The joke,


has lasted long enough; it is foolish, as I could not run after you, and I am surprised to hear you laugh, for your strange conduct leads me to suppose that you are making fun of me. Come and take your seat near me, and if I must speak to you without seeing you let my hands assure me that I am not addressing my words to the empty air. To continue this game would be an insult to me, and my love does not deserve such a return.


Well, be calm. I will listen to every word you may say, but you must feel that it would not be decent for me to place myself near you in this dark room.


Do you want me to stand where I am until morning?


Lie down on the bed, and go to sleep.


In wonder, indeed, at your thinking me capable of doing so in the state I am in. Well, I suppose we must play at blind man’s buff.


If you are not afraid of passing another night with me you shall have no reason to complain of me, for I love you, and I wish to hear from your own lips whether you would still have loved me if I had consented to become contemptible in your eyes.


M. Rosa having undertaken to bring you back to our house, I prepare these few lines to let you know that Angela is in despair at having lost you. I confess that the night you spent with us was a cruel one, but I do not think that you did rightly in giving up your visits to Madame Orio. If you still feel any love for Angela, I advise you to take your chances once more. Accept a rendezvous for another night; she may vindicate herself, and you will be happy. Believe me; come. Farewell!


Where is Angela?


She must have been unable to come, or to send a message. Yet she knows you are here.


She thinks she has made a fool of me; but I suspected she would act in this way. You know her now. She is trifling with me, and very likely she is now revelling in her triumph. She has made use of you to allure me in the snare, and it is all the better for her; had she come, I meant to have had my turn, and to have laughed at her.


Ah! you must allow me to have my doubts as to that.


Doubt me not, beautiful Nanette; the pleasant night we are going to spend without her must convince you.


That is to say that, as a man of sense, you can accept us as a makeshift; but you can sleep here, and my sister can lie with me on the sofa in the next room.


I cannot hinder you, but it would be great unkindness on your part. At all events, I do not intend to go to bed.


What! you would have the courage to spend seven hours alone with us? Why, I am certain that in a short time you will be at a loss what to say, and you will fall asleep.


Well, we shall see. In the mean-time here are provisions. You will not be so cruel as to let me eat alone? Can you get any bread?


Yes, and to please you we must have a second supper.


I ought to be in love with you. Tell me, beautiful Nanette, if I were as much attached to you as I was to Angela, would you follow her example and make me unhappy?


How can you ask such a question? It is worthy of a conceited man. All I can answer is, that I do not know what I would do.


Then let me,


have for you the tender feelings of a brother, and share those feelings yourselves as if you were my sisters; let us exchange, in all innocence, proofs of our mutual affection, and swear to each other an eternal fidelity.


She loves you. I know she does, but if you do not mean to marry her, you will do well to give up all intercourse with her, for she is quite determined not to grant you even a kiss as long as you are not her acknowledged suitor. You must therefore either give up the acquaintance altogether, or make up your mind that she will refuse you everything.


You argue very well, but how do you know that she loves me?


I am quite sure of it, and as you have promised to be our brother, I can tell you why I have that conviction. When Angela is in bed with me, she embraces me lovingly and calls me her dear abbé.


There is no doubt, that everybody knows those trifles, and I do not think, dear Nanette, that you ought to reproach your sister with indiscretion for her friendly confidence.


It cannot be helped now, but such things ought not to be mentioned. If Angela knew it!


She would be vexed, of course; but Marton has given me a mark of her friendship which I never can forget. But it is all over; I hate Angela, and I do not mean to speak to her any more! she is false, and she wishes my ruin.


Yet, loving you, is she wrong to think of having you for her husband?


Granted that she is not; but she thinks only of her own self, for she knows what I suffer, and her conduct would be very different if she loved me. In the mean time, thanks to her imagination, she finds the means of satisfying her senses with the charming Marton who kindly performs the part of her husband.


But, what name did Nanette, in her rapture, give to her husband?


Nobody knows.


Do you love anyone, Nanette?


I do; but my secret is my own.


It is very lucky, that I have for you only feelings of friendship; otherwise it would be very hard to pass the night without giving way to the temptation of bestowing upon you proofs of my affection, for you are both so lovely, so bewitching, that you would turn the brains of any man.


Go to bed without any ceremony, we will lie down on the sofa in the adjoining room.


I would be a very poor-spirited fellow indeed, if I agreed to this; let us talk; my sleepiness will soon pass off, but I am anxious about you. Go to bed yourselves, my charming friends, and I will go into the next room. If you are afraid of me, lock the door, but you would do me an injustice, for I feel only a brother’s yearnings towards you.


We cannot accept such an arrangement, but let me persuade you; take this bed.


I cannot sleep with my clothes on.


Undress yourself; we will not look at you.


I have no fear of it, but how could I find the heart to sleep, while on my account you are compelled to sit up?


Well, we can lie down, too, without undressing.


If you shew me such distrust, you will offend me. Tell me, Nanette, do you think I am an honest man?


Most certainly.


Well, then, give me a proof of your good opinion; lie down near me in the bed, undressed, and rely on my word of honour that I will not even lay a finger upon you. Besides, you are two against one, what can you fear? Will you not be free to get out of the bed in case I should not keep quiet? In short, unless you consent to give me this mark of your confidence in me, at least when I have fallen asleep, I cannot go to bed.


Yes, I am Nanette, and I declare myself happy, as well as my sister, if you prove yourself true and faithful.


Until death, my beloved ones, and as everything we have done is the work of love, do not let us ever mention the name of Angela. Let us get up, my darlings, and swear to each other eternal affection.


Take me to your bedroom; I have just got an amusing idea. I wish you, to dress me up in your ecclesiastical clothes, and I will disguise you as a woman with my own things. We will go down and dance together. Come, let us first dress our hair.


As you please, beautiful Juliette, but I give you due notice that I adore you!


What! is she dead?


Would to God she were!


What has she done?


She has run away with Count Daniel’s courier, and we have been unable to trace her anywhere.


I know that man l’Aigle, he is a scoundrel. Did he ask to marry Lucie?


No; he knew well enough that our consent would have been refused!


I wonder at Lucie acting in such a way.


He seduced her, and her running away made us suspect the truth, for she had become very stout.


Had he known her long?


About a month after your last visit she saw him for the first time. He must have thrown a spell over her, for our Lucie was as pure as a dove, and you can, I believe, bear testimony to her goodness.


And no one knows where they are?


No one. God alone knows what this villain will do with her.


Oh, heavens! we shall have a storm.


Yes, and although the chaise is covered, the rain will spoil your pretty dress. I am very sorry.


I do not mind the dress; but the thunder frightens me so!


Close your ears.


And the lightning?


Postillion, let us go somewhere for shelter.


There is not a house, sir, for a league, and before we come to it, the storm will have passed off.


I keep my eye upon him, he is not thinking of us, and even if he should turn his head, the cloak shelters us from him. Be quiet, and pretend to have fainted, for I will not let you go. The storm, dear one, is my best friend to-day. Consent to everything, or I let the cloak drop,


Well, you dreadful man, are you satisfied, now that you have insured my misery for the remainder of my life?


No, not yet.


What more do you want?


A shower of kisses.


How unhappy I am! Well! here they are.


Tell me you forgive me, and confess that you have shared all my pleasure.


You know I did. Yes, I forgive you.


Tell me you love me,


No, I do not, for you are an atheist, and hell awaits you.


Why, the same remedy has very likely been applied a million of times within the last thousand years. To tell you the truth, I had somewhat depended upon it, when we entered the chaise together, for I did not know any other way of obtaining the happiness of possessing you. But console yourself with the belief that, placed in the same position, no frightened woman could have resisted.


I believe you; but for the future I will travel only with my husband.


You would be wrong, for your husband would not have been clever enough to cure your fright in the way I have done.


True, again. One learns some curious things in your company; but we shall not travel tete-a-tete again.


What are you laughing at?


Oh! you know.


Here, take this ducat and keep a quiet tongue in your head.


Nor I with him, for, in his fearful impiety, he exorcised the lightning with jokes.


My dear son, I have made here the acquaintance of a learned Minim friar, a Calabrian by birth, whose great qualities have made me think of you every time he has honoured me with a visit. A year ago I told him that I had a son who was preparing himself for the Church, but that I had not the means of keeping him during his studies, and he promised that my son would become his own child, if I could obtain for him from the queen a bishopric in his native country, and he added that it would be very easy to succeed if I could induce the sovereign to recommend him to her daughter, the queen of Naples.


Full of trust in the Almighty, I threw myself at the feet of her majesty, who granted me her gracious protection. She wrote to her daughter, and the worthy friar has been appointed by the Pope to the bishopric of Monterano. Faithful to his promise, the good bishop will take you with him about the middle of next year, as he passes through Venice to reach Calabria. He informs you himself of his intentions in the enclosed letter. Answer him immediately, my dear son, and forward your letter to me; I will deliver it to the bishop. He will pave your way to the highest dignities of the Church, and you may imagine my consolation if, in some twenty or thirty years, I had the happiness of seeing you a bishop, at least! Until his arrival, M. Grimani will take care of you. I give you my blessing, and I am, my dear child, etc., etc.


Farewell, Venice, I exclaimed; the days for vanity are gone by, and in the future I will only think of a great, of a substantial career!


The famous precept of the Stoic philosophers. Sequere Deum’, can be perfectly explained by these words: ‘Give yourself up to whatever fate offers to you, provided you do not feel an invincible repugnance to accept it.


You have struck me while you were the slave of your anger; you cannot therefore boast of having given me a lesson, and I have not learned anything. To forgive you I must forget that you are a man of great wisdom, and I can never forget it.


I had not the slightest idea where it might be.


he must know what I had done with the furniture.


I had nothing to do with him,


take himself off as quickly as possible,


I had found myself under the necessity of selling them to avoid running into debt.


a rascal, those things did not belong to me, he knew what he had to do, leave his house on the very instant.


The seals shall be removed to-morrow morning, and in the meantime I shall summon Razetta before the avogador. But to-night, my dear friend, you must beg the hospitality of some one of your acquaintances. It has been a violent proceeding, but you shall be paid handsomely for it; the man is evidently acting under M. Grimani’s orders.


Well, that is their business. what my intentions were.


I intend to shield myself from your violent proceedings under the protection of the law, and to defend myself against a man with whom I ought never to have had any connection, and who has compelled me to pass the night in a disreputable place.


In a disreputable place?


Of course. Why was I, against all right and justice, prevented from entering my own dwelling?


You have possession of it now. But you must go to your lawyer and tell him to suspend all proceedings against Razetta, who has done nothing but under my instructions. I suspected that your intention was to sell the rest of the furniture; I have prevented it. There is a room at your disposal at St. Chrysostom’s, in a house of mine, the first floor of which is occupied by La Tintoretta, our first opera dancer. Send all your things there, and come and dine with me every day. Your sister and your brothers have been provided with a comfortable home; therefore, everything is now arranged for the best.


was delighted to have me in her house, and would be pleased to receive me in her intimate circle.


I did not know she was my neighbour, that M. Grimani had not mentioned the circumstance, otherwise I would have paid my duties to her before taking possession of my lodging.


I would cut but a poor figure in her drawing-room, as they seldom spoke any other language there, because she received a great many foreigners.


Reverend father, I do not think that any one has the right of punishing me.


No, no, my son. I only meant that you would be very happy with us.


I beg your pardon, madam, but I am very glad to go there, and intend to remain until the arrival of the bishop.


You do not know your own nature, and you do not know your bishop, with whom you will not remain very long either.


To which school do you wish to belong?


To the dogmatic, reverend father; I wish to study the history of the Church.


I will introduce you to the father examiner.


I am doctor in divinity, most reverend father, and do not want to be examined.


It is necessary, my dear son; come with me.


Accipiamus pecuniam, et mittamus asinum in patriam suam


Why did you feign such ignorance at the examination?


Why, were you unjust enough to compel me to the degradation of an examination?


Ah, villain! wait until to-morrow--until to-morrow!


Listen to me, all of you. You are aware of what has taken place this last night. Two amongst you must be guilty; but I wish to forgive them, and to save their honour I promise that their names shall not be made public. I expect every one of you to come to me for confession before recess.


And now, you are certain of being forgiven, for, of course, you have wisely confessed your error?


You are joking, why, the good rector would not have known any more than he knows at present, even if my visit to you had been paid with a criminal intent.


Then you must have made a false confession: you are at all events guilty of disobedience?


That may be, but the rector is responsible for the guilt, as he used compulsion.


My dear friend, you argue in a very forcible way, and the very reverend rector must by this time be satisfied that the inmates of our dormitory are more learned than he is himself.


I have made a mistake, as I returned from a certain place in the dark, I found your bed empty, and mistook it for mine.


Very likely. I had to get up, too.


Yes, but how does it happen that you went to bed without making any remark when, on your return, you found your bed already tenanted? And how is it that, being in the dark, you did not suppose that you were mistaken yourself?


I could not be mistaken, for I felt the pedestal of this crucifix of mine, and I knew I was right; as to my companion here, I did not feel him.


It is all very unlikely. The wick has been forced into the oil, gentlemen; it has not gone out of itself; it has been the handiwork of one of you, but it will be seen to in the morning.


You stand both convicted of a scandalous connivance, and it is proved by the fact of the lantern having been wilfully extinguished. I am disposed to believe that the cause of all this disorder is, if not entirely innocent, at least due only to extreme thoughtlessness; but the scandal given to all your comrades, the outrage offered to the discipline and to the established rules of the seminary, call loudly for punishment. Leave the room.


I solemnly swear by this God that I have never spoken to the seminarist who was found in my bed. As an innocent person I must protest against this shameful violence. I shall appeal to the justice of his lordship the patriarch.


Now, reverend sir, my further orders are only to keep you a prisoner in the fort, and I am responsible for your remaining here. I give you the whole of the fortress for your prison. You shall have a good room in which you will find your bed and all your luggage. Walk anywhere you please; but recollect that, if you should escape, you would cause my ruin. I am sorry that my instructions are to give you only ten sous a day, but if you have any friends in Venice able to send you some money, write to them, and trust to me for the security of your letters. Now you may go to bed, if you need rest.


he owed it all to me


I trust to God, that my husband will not find out that you have spent an hour alone with me, for I should never hear the end of it.


my visits would not be welcome for the future, as I was a conceited puppy, unworthy of the society of good and respectable women.


I have brought you your rags; take them.


Some day I will bring you a ‘rigano’.


Very likely we should have met your wife in such places. I am a good judge of faces, and I can see that you are a true gallows-bird.


I have good news to give you,


Razetta was soundly cudgelled last night and thrown into a canal.


Has he been killed?


No; but I am glad of it for your sake, for his death would make your position much more serious. You are accused of having done it.


I am very glad people think me guilty; it is something of a revenge, but it will be rather difficult to bring it home to me.


Dear sir, there has been so much talk in Venice about the skill with which you proved your incredible alibi, that I could not help asking for the honour of your acquaintance.


But, count, the alibi being a true one, there can be no skill required to prove it. Allow me to say that those who doubt its truth are paying me a very poor compliment, for--


Never mind; do not let us talk any more of that, and forgive me. But as we happen to be companions in misfortune, I trust you will not refuse me your friendship. Now for breakfast.


I am the Count de Bonafede. In my early days I served under Prince Eugene, but I gave up the army, and entered on a civil career in Austria. I had to fly from Austria and take refuge in Bavaria in consequence of an unfortunate duel. In Munich I made the acquaintance of a young lady belonging to a noble family; I eloped with her and brought her to Venice, where we were married. I have now been twenty years in Venice. I have six children, and everybody knows me. About a week ago I sent my servant to the postoffice for my letters, but they were refused him because he had not any money to pay the postage. I went myself, but the clerk would not deliver me my letters, although I assured him that I would pay for them the next time. This made me angry, and I called upon the Baron de Taxis, the postmaster, and complained of the clerk, but he answered very rudely that the clerk had simply obeyed his orders, and that my letters would only be delivered on payment of the postage. I felt very indignant, but as I was in his house I controlled my anger, went home, and wrote a note to him asking him to give me satisfaction for his rudeness, telling him that I would never go out without my sword, and that I would force him to fight whenever and wherever I should meet him. I never came across him, but yesterday I was accosted by the secretary of the inquisitors, who told me that I must forget the baron’s rude conduct, and go under the guidance of an officer whom he pointed out to me, to imprison myself for a week in this fortress. I shall thus have the pleasure of spending that time with you.


Only wait for two years, at the utmost, and all that your imagination is now creating will then exist in reality.


This is the way to offer your arm to a lady,


I am learning,


and when you call upon us I will shew you Adam and Eve, after the Chevalier Liberi; I have made a copy which has been found very fine by some professors, although they did not know it was my work.


Why did you not tell them?


Because those two figures are too naked.


I am not curious to see your Adam, but I will look at your Eve with pleasure, and keep your secret.


It is, a figure with nothing in it.


Yet it is the one which I shall like best.


No; believe me, Adam will please you most.


I thank you for your skill in proving your alibi, but you have also to thank me for having understood you so well. My husband never heard anything about it until it was all over.


I see that you are astonished, reverend sir, and I know the reason of your surprise. You expected to see great splendour here, and you find only misery. The government allows my father but a small salary, and there are nine of us. As we must attend church on Sundays and holidays in a style proper to our condition, we are often compelled to go without our dinner, in order to get out of pledge the clothes which urgent need too often obliges us to part with, and which we pledge anew on the following day. If we did not attend mass, the curate would strike our names off the list of those who share the alms of the Confraternity of the Poor, and those alms alone keep us afloat.


Were I wealthy. I would soon shew you that your tale of woe has not fallen on unfeeling ears; but I am poor, and, being at the eve of my departure from Venice, even my friendship would be useless to you.


That may happen some day, provided that the man who feels the power of my charms understands that they can be bestowed only with my heart, and is willing to render me the justice I deserve; I am only looking for a lawful marriage, without dreaming of rank or fortune; I no longer believe in the first, and I know how to live without the second; for I have been accustomed to poverty, and even to abject need; but you cannot realize that. Come and see my drawings.


You are very good, mademoiselle.


I wish I could, but the box of chalks alone costs two sequins.


Will you forgive me if I am bold enough to offer you six?


Alas! I accept them gratefully, and to be indebted to you for such a service makes me truly happy.


When we meet in Rome, we can go together to Martorano by way of Naples. Call upon me to-morrow morning, and have your breakfast with me. I intend to leave the day after.


Wherever you please, provided you let this man know where it is, so that he can give you notice when the peotta is ready to sail. My duty, is to leave you at the lazzaretto of Ancona free of expense from the moment we leave this place. Until then enjoy yourself as well as you can.


You can come to my house, if you have no objection to share a large bed with the cook, whose wife remains on board.


You are right. I have lost all my money. Lend me twenty sequins.


When I lend money I am sure to lose; you may call it superstition, but I have tried it too often. Try to find money somewhere else, and come. Farewell.


Reverend father, I am unhappy.


You will forget all your sorrow, if you will come and dine with me at the house of one of our devout friends.


because she was afraid of some surprise.


Have you received money likewise?


God forbid! In the first place, our glorious order does not permit me to touch money, and, in the second place, were I to be foolish enough to receive any when I am begging, people would think themselves quit of me with one or two sous, whilst they give me ten times as much in eatables. Believe me Saint-Francis, was a very judicious man.


I undertake to take care of you until we reach Rome; only tell me whether you can write. What a question! Are you joking? Why should I? Look at me; I cannot write anything but my name. True, I can write it with either hand; and what else do I want to know? You astonish me greatly, for I thought you were a priest. I am a monk; I say the mass, and, as a matter of course, I must know how to read. Saint-Francis, whose unworthy son I am, could not read, and that is the reason why he never said a mass. But as you can write, you will to-morrow pen a letter in my name to the persons whose names I will give you, and I warrant you we shall have enough sent here to live like fighting cocks all through our quarantine.


I did not know that somebody was looking at me.


Beautiful angel from the East, I worship you. I will remain all night on this balcony in the hope that you will come to me for a quarter of an hour, and listen to my voice through the hole under my feet. We can speak softly, and in order to hear me you can climb up to the top of the bale of goods which lies beneath the same hole.


What are you about?


I agreed to meet Friar Stephano at the exchange, and I took the Jew from whom I had hired the furniture, to the convent of the Minims, where I received from Father Lazari ten sequins and the address of the bishop, who, after performing quarantine on the frontiers of Tuscany, had proceeded to Rome, where he would expect me to meet him.


I cannot doubt, that a person like you, travelling on foot, must come here from devout motives; come with me. You shall be well attended to.


Why do you suppose that I want to conceal my age?


It is very natural, because, if your lordship did not wish to do so, your lordship would have shaved long ago. Countess Marcolini is here; does your lordship know her? I must go to her at noon to dress her hair. Is this your lordship’s first visit to this house? It is the finest hospital throughout the papal states.


I quite agree with you, and I shall compliment His Holiness on the establishment.


Oh! His Holiness knows all about it, he resided here before he became pope. If Monsignor Caraffa had not been well acquainted with you, he would not have introduced you here.


I want, to reach Rome without fatigue and in good health. I am in no hurry, and if you feel disposed to travel with me and in the same quiet way, Saint-Francis will not find it difficult to keep us both during the journey. I undertake to walk six miles, instead of three, today, if you will carry my cloak, which I find very heavy.


The hospitals, are all under the curse of Saint-Francis, because the mendicant friars are not admitted in them; but we do not mind their gates being shut against us, because they are too far apart from each other. We prefer the homes of the persons attached to our order; these we find everywhere.


Why do you not ask hospitality in the convents of your order?


I am not so foolish. In the first place, I should not be admitted, because, being a fugitive, I have not the written obedience which must be shown at every convent, and I should even run the risk of being thrown into prison; your monks are a cursed bad lot. In the second place, I should not be half so comfortable in the convents as I am with our devout benefactors.


Why and how are you a fugitive?


Have you forgotten that we have already broken our fast to-day?


Mind your own business.


Heavens, where am I?


Chi va piano va sano. I came to see you, and as I find you recovered from your illness, we can start again together; I agree to walk six miles every day to please you. Come, let us forget the past, and let us be at once on our way.


I cannot go; I have lost my purse, and I owe twenty paoli.


I will go and find the amount in the name of Saint-Francis.


I will give you, forty paoli, if you will promise me the protection of your ambassador; but if you do not succeed in obtaining it for me in Rome, you will undertake to repay me. Therefore you must give me an acknowledgement of the debt.


I have no objection.


It is a good distance from here to Collefiorito; we had better put up there for the night.


You must boil the hen, and bring out of the cellar the bottle of wine which I have kept now for twenty years.


Oh, God!


She has her quietus.


It is possible, but I have not done it intentionally.


I have,


some very excellent muscatel wine grown in the East, which I could sell you cheap.


I might buy some, but I warn you I am a good judge.


So much the better. Which do you prefer?


The Cerigo wine.


You are right. I have some rare Cerigo muscatel, and we can taste it if you have no objection to dine with me.


None whatever.


I can likewise give you the wines of Samos and Cephalonia. I have also a quantity of minerals, plenty of vitriol, cinnabar, antimony, and one hundred quintals of mercury.


Are all these goods here?


No, they are in Naples. Here I have only the muscatel wine and the mercury.


You can find out if you come to my room,


Then we must have supper together this evening,


But,


you must be very wealthy.


No, I am not, because I am in search of the secret of the augmentation of gold, and it is a very expensive study for us.


How many are there in your company?


Only my uncle and myself.


What do you want to augment gold for? The augmentation of mercury ought to be enough for you. Pray, tell me whether the mercury augmented by you to-day is again susceptible of a similar increase.


No, if it were so, it would be an immense source of wealth for us.


I am much pleased with your sincerity.


Willingly; but tell me, reverend abbé, whether you would feel disposed to sell me your secret?


Why not? When we meet in Naples--


But why not now?


I am expected in Salerno; besides, I would only sell the secret for a large sum of money, and I am not acquainted with you.


That does not matter, as I am sufficiently known here to pay you in cash. How much would you want?


Two thousand ounces.


I agree to pay you that sum provided that I succeed in making the augmentation myself with such matter as you name to me, which I will purchase.


It is impossible, because the necessary ingredients cannot be got here; but they are common enough in Naples.


If it is any sort of metal, we can get it at the Tour-du-Grec. We could go there together. Can you tell me what is the expense of the augmentation?


One and a half per cent. but are you likewise known at the Tour-du-Grec, for I should not like to lose my time?


Your doubts grieve me.


At sight, pay to bearer the sum of fifty gold ounces, on account of Panagiotti.


I have made the amalgam, but the mercury is not perfect.


It is equal to that which I have sold in Portici, and that is the very letter of your engagement.


But my engagement says likewise without injury to the quality. You must agree that the quality is injured, because it is no longer susceptible of further augmentation.


You knew that to be the case; the point is its equality with the mercury I sold in Portici. But we shall have to go to law, and you will lose. I am sorry the secret should become public. Congratulate yourself, sir, for, if you should gain the lawsuit, you will have obtained my secret for nothing. I would never have believed you capable of deceiving me in such a manner.


Reverend sir, I can assure you that I would not willingly deceive any one.


Do you know the secret, or do you not? Do you suppose I would have given it to you without the agreement we entered into? Well, there will be some fun over this affair in Naples, and the lawyers will make money out of it. But I am much grieved at this turn of affairs, and I am very sorry that I allowed myself to be so easily deceived by your fine talk. In the mean time, here are your fifty ounces.


Give me your blessing,


and let me go; or, rather, come with me. I promise you that we shall make a fortune somewhere else.


What! died of laughing!


Yes. This disease, which was not known to Hippocrates, is called li flati.


What do you mean? Does an hypochondriac affection, which causes sadness and lowness in all those who suffer from it, render you cheerful?


Yes, because, most likely, my flati, instead of influencing the hypochondrium, affects my spleen, which my physician asserts to be the organ of laughter. It is quite a discovery.


You are mistaken; it is a very ancient notion, and it is the only function which is ascribed to the spleen in our animal organization.


Well, we must discuss the matter at length, for I hope you will remain with us a few weeks.


I wish I could, but I must leave Naples to-morrow or the day after.


Have you got any money?


I rely upon the sixty ducats you have to give me.


I am amused at the idea that I can keep you here as long as I like. But be good enough to see my son; he writes pretty verses enough.


And truly his son, although only fourteen, was already a great poet.


I am, sir, the great-grandson of the unfortunate Marco Antonio Casanova, secretary to Cardinal Pompeo Colonna, who died of the plague in Rome, in the year 1528, under the pontificate of Clement VII.


I am rich, and you must not scruple to come with me to my tailor;


Am I to have the honour of sleeping with the reverend gentleman?


The gentleman, is an advocate, and one of the ladies is his wife, but I do not know which of the two.


But we ought to decide first, whether or not it is slovenly to go bearded.


Of course it is. Beard is nothing but a dirty excrescence.


You may think so, but everybody does not share your opinion. Do we consider as a dirty excrescence the hair of which we take so much care, and which is of the same nature as the beard? Far from it; we admire the length and the beauty of the hair.


Then, the barber is a fool.


But after all, have I any beard?


I thought you had,


In that case, I will begin to shave as soon as I reach Rome, for this is the first time that I have been convicted of having a beard.


My dear wife, you should have held your tongue; perhaps the reverend abbé is going to Rome with the intention of becoming a Capuchin friar. Oh! you are wrong, for my wife is very fond of Capuchins, and if you wish to please her, you had better follow your original vocation.


Strangers are liked in Rome. I feel certain that you will be pleased with your residence in that city.


May I hope, madam, that you will allow me to pay you my respects?


We shall be honoured by your calling on us,


I am very candid, it is because the difference in your manner was so marked, and because you were so careful to avoid looking at me through the whole day. A toothache would not have prevented you from being polite, and therefore I thought it had been feigned for some purpose. But I am certain that not one of us can possibly have given you any grounds for such a rapid change in your manner.


Yet something must have caused the change, and you, madam, are only half sincere.


You are mistaken, sir, I am entirely sincere; and if I have given you any motive for anger, I am, and must remain, ignorant of it. Be good enough to tell me what I have done.


Nothing, for I have no right to complain.


Yes, you have; you have a right, the same that I have myself; the right which good society grants to every one of its members. Speak, and shew yourself as sincere as I am.


You are certainly bound not to know, or to pretend not to know the real cause, but you must acknowledge that my duty is to remain silent.


Very well; now it is all over; but if your duty bids you to conceal the cause of your bad humour, it also bids you not to shew it. Delicacy sometimes enforces upon a polite gentleman the necessity of concealing certain feelings which might implicate either himself or others; it is a restraint for the mind, I confess, but it has some advantage when its effect is to render more amiable the man who forces himself to accept that restraint.


You would see me at your feet, in token of my repentance, were I not afraid of injuring you--


Do not let us allude to the matter any more,


I will buy you one, dear.


Then buy mine. I will let you have it for twenty ounces, and you can give me a note of hand payable to bearer in payment. I owe that amount to an Englishman, and I will give it him to redeem my debt.


Your snuff-box, my dear abbé, is worth twenty ounces, but I cannot buy it unless you agree to receive payment in cash; I should be delighted to see it in my wife’s possession, and she would keep it as a remembrance of you. But, can you not guess the Englishman exists only in our friend’s imagination? He would never enter an appearance, and we would have the snuff-box for nothing. Do not trust the abbé, my dear, he is a great cheat.


I had no idea, that the world contained rogues of this species.


Perhaps I may; but in that case you must come and see me often, and never conceal from me anything, you understand, not anything, of what interests you, or of what happens to you.


Don Lelio has likewise given me a letter for the Cardinal Acquaviva.


I congratulate you; the cardinal’s influence in Rome is greater even than that of the Pope.


Must I deliver the letter at once?


No; I will see him this evening, and prepare him for your visit. Call on me to-morrow morning, and I will then tell you where and when you are to deliver your letter to the cardinal. Have you any money?


Enough for all my wants during one year.


That is well. Have you any acquaintances?


Not one.


Do not make any without first consulting me, and, above all, avoid coffee-houses and ordinaries, but if you should happen to frequent such places, listen and never speak. Be careful to form your judgment upon those who ask any questions from you, and if common civility obliges you to give an answer, give only an evasive one, if any other is likely to commit you. Do you speak French?


Not one word.


I am sorry for that; you must learn French. Have you been a student?


A poor one, but I have a sufficient smattering to converse with ordinary company.


That is enough; but be very prudent, for Rome is the city in which smatterers unmask each other, and are always at war amongst themselves. I hope you will take your letter to the cardinal, dressed like a modest abbé, and not in this elegant costume which is not likely to conjure fortune. Adieu, let me see you to-morrow.


Come to my office to-morrow morning, and ask for the Abbé Gama, to whom I will give my instructions. You must apply yourself diligently to the study of the French language; it is indispensable.


Recollect, that to lead a blameless life you must curb your passions, and that whatever misfortune may befall you it cannot be ascribed by any one to a want of good luck, or attributed to fate; those words are devoid of sense, and all the fault will rightly fall on your own head.


I foresee, reverend father, that my youth and my want of experience will often make it necessary for me to disturb you. I am afraid of proving myself too heavy a charge for you, but you will find me docile and obedient.


I suppose you will often think me rather too severe; but you are not likely to confide everything to me.


Everything, without any exception.


Allow me to feel somewhat doubtful; you have not told me where you spent four hours yesterday.


Because I did not think it was worth mentioning. I made the acquaintance of those persons during my journey; I believe them to be worthy and respectable, and the right sort of people for me to visit, unless you should be of a different opinion.


God forbid! It is a very respectable house, frequented by honest people. They are delighted at having made your acquaintance; you are much liked by everybody, and they hope to retain you as a friend; I have heard all about it this morning; but you must not go there too often and as a regular guest.


Must I cease my visits at once, and without cause?


No, it would be a want of politeness on your part. You may go there once or twice every week, but do not be a constant visitor. You are sighing, my son?


No, I assure you not. I will obey you.


I hope it may not be only a matter of obedience, and I trust your heart will not feel it a hardship, but, if necessary, your heart must be conquered. Recollect that the heart is the greatest enemy of reason.


Yet they can be made to agree.


We often imagine so; but distrust the animism of your dear Horace. You know that there is no middle course with it: ‘nisi paret, imperat’.


I know it, but in the family of which we were speaking there is no danger for my heart.


I am glad of it, because in that case it will be all the easier for you to abstain from frequent visits. Remember that I shall trust you.


And I, reverend father; will listen to and follow your good advice. I will visit Donna Cecilia only now and then.


Minerva, desires you to form some idea of such places. Sit down by me.


if I liked, he would shew me whether I had been right or wrong.


I flatter myself I have,


You are wrong, you are flattering yourself. You have so conspicuously avoided the questions put to you that everybody in the room noticed your extreme reserve. In the future no one will ask you any questions.


I should be sorry if it should turn out so, but was I to expose my own concerns?


No, but there is a medium in all things.


Yes, the medium of Horace, but it is often a matter of great difficulty to hit it exactly.


A man ought to know how to obtain affection and esteem at the same time.


That is the very wish nearest to my heart.


To-day you have tried for the esteem much more than for the affection of your fellow-creatures. It may be a noble aspiration, but you must prepare yourself to fight jealousy and her daughter, calumny; if those two monsters do not succeed in destroying you, the victory must be yours. Now, for instance, you thoroughly refuted Salicetti to-day. Well, he is a physician, and what is more a Corsican; he must feel badly towards you.


Could I grant that the longings of women during their pregnancy have no influence whatever on the skin of the foetus, when I know the reverse to be the case? Are you not of my opinion?


I am for neither party; I have seen many children with some such marks, but I have no means of knowing with certainty whether those marks have their origin in some longing experienced by the mother while she was pregnant.


But I can swear it is so.


All the better for you if your conviction is based upon such evidence, and all the worse for Salicetti if he denies the possibility of the thing without certain authority. But let him remain in error; it is better thus than to prove him in the wrong and to make a bitter enemy of him.


Has he become jealous?


Oh! dear, how unhappy we are!


What is the matter?


We are at home.


I have loved Barbara for the last six months, and for three months she has given me indisputable proofs of her affection. Five days ago, we were betrayed by the servant, and the father caught us in a rather delicate position. He left the room without saying one word, and I followed him, thinking of throwing myself at his feet; but, as I appeared before him, he took hold of me by the arm, pushed me roughly to the door, and forbade me ever to present myself again at his house. I cannot claim her hand in marriage, because one of my brothers is married, and my father is not rich; I have no profession, and my mistress has nothing. Alas, now that I have confessed all to you, tell me, I entreat you, how she is. I am certain that she is as miserable as I am myself. I cannot manage to get a letter delivered to her, for she does not leave the house, even to attend church. Unhappy wretch! What shall I do?


Ah!


I think you might find time to come and see me!


My beloved one, it is not that I cannot find time, but I am so jealous of my love that I would rather die than let it be known publicly. I have been thinking of inviting you all to dine with me at Frascati. I will send you a phaeton, and I trust that some lucky accident will smile upon our love.


Oh! yes, do, dearest! I am sure your invitation will be accepted.


If you think it to be a sin to deliver the enclosed to your friend, burn it. Have pity on an unfortunate girl, and be discreet.


If you love me as deeply as I love you, you cannot hope to be happy without me; we cannot correspond in any other way than the one I am bold enough to adopt. I am ready to do anything to unite our lives until death. Consider and decide.


Her grace, wishes to know whether you are making rapid progress in the French language, which she speaks admirably.


You should be bold, but without showing any pretension. It is the best way to disarm criticism.


I shall have my turn as we return to Rome,


Did you remark, with what candour I secured for us two hours of delightful ‘tete-a-tete’, and a ‘tete-a-tete’ in a ‘vis-a-vis’, too! How clever Love is!


Yes, darling, Love has made but one of our two souls. I adore you, and if I have the courage to pass so many days without seeing you it is in order to be rewarded by the freedom of one single day like this.


I did not think it possible. But you have managed it all very well. You know too much for your age, dearest.


A month ago, my beloved, I was but an ignorant child, and you are the first woman who has initiated me into the mysteries of love. Your departure will kill me, for I could not find another woman like you in all Italy.


What! am I your first love? Alas! you will never be cured of it. Oh! why am I not entirely your own? You are also the first true love of my heart, and you will be the last. How great will be the happiness of my successor! I should not be jealous of her, but what suffering would be mine if I thought that her heart was not like mine!


Do not fear, my best beloved, we are under the guardianship of our good angels.


Look there! idol of my heart, have I not told you so? Yes, the angels are watching over us! Ah! how he stares at us! He seems to try to give us confidence. Look at that little demon; admire him! He must certainly be your guardian spirit or mine. Ah!


What are you saying, dearest? I do not understand you. What am I to admire?


Do you not see that beautiful serpent with the blazing skin, which lifts its head and seems to worship us?


What!


are you not afraid?


I tell you, again, that the sight is delightful to me, and I feel certain that it is a spirit with nothing but the shape, or rather the appearance, of a serpent.


And if the spirit came gliding along the grass and hissed at you?


I would hold you tighter against my bosom, and set him at defiance. In your arms Lucrezia is safe. Look! the spirit is going away. Quick, quick! He is warning us of the approach of some profane person, and tells us to seek some other retreat to renew our pleasures. Let us go.


In spite of all her strength of mind, she is dreadfully afraid of thunder, and she will scream with terror at the sight of the smallest snake. There are some here, but she need not be frightened, for they are not venomous.


Tell me, wonderful being, bewitching woman, what would you have done if, instead of your pretty serpent, you had seen your husband and your mother?


Nothing. Do you not know that, in moments of such rapture, lovers see and feel nothing but love? Do you doubt having possessed me wholly, entirely?


Are you certain,


that we are not suspected?


My husband does not believe us to be in love with each other, or else he does not mind such trifling pleasures as youth is generally wont to indulge in. My mother is a clever woman, and perhaps she suspects the truth, but she is aware that it is no longer any concern of hers. As to my sister, she must know everything, for she cannot have forgotten the broken-down bed; but she is prudent, and besides, she has taken it into her head to pity me. She has no conception of the nature of my feelings towards you. If I had not met you, my beloved, I should probably have gone through life without realizing such feelings myself; for what I feel for my husband.... well, I have for him the obedience which my position as a wife imposes upon me.


And yet he is most happy, and I envy him! He can clasp in his arms all your lovely person whenever he likes! There is no hateful veil to hide any of your charms from his gaze.


Oh! where art thou, my dear serpent? Come to us, come and protect us against the surprise of the uninitiated, and this very instant I fulfil all the wishes of him I adore!


O Love, we thank thee!


I pray the god of love, to grant us a night as beautiful as this day has been. But alas! the ecclesiastical lawsuit which has brought my husband to Rome is progressing so favourably that I am mortally afraid he will obtain judgment all too soon.


How did you like Frascati?


Very much, madam; I have never seen such a beautiful place.


But your company was still more beautiful, and your vis-a-vis was very smart.


You are astonished at your adventure being known?


No, my lord; but I am surprised that people should talk of it. I could not have believed Rome to be so much like a small village.


The longer you live in Rome, the more you will find it so. You have not yet presented yourself to kiss the foot of our Holy Father?


Not yet, my lord.


Then you must do so.


Of course you have already shewn yourself in the Marchioness G.’s palace?


No, I have never been there.


You astonish me; but she often speaks to you!


I have no objection to go with you.


I never visit at her palace.


Yet she speaks to you likewise.


Yes, but.... You do not know Rome; go alone; believe me, you ought to go.


Will she receive me?


You are joking, I suppose. Of course it is out of the question for you to be announced. You will call when the doors are wide open to everybody. You will meet there all those who pay homage to her.


Will she see me?


No doubt of it.


You are right, place your trust in God;


This man,


most Holy Father, has not been pleased with the answer of Your Holiness.


Why?


Because most likely he had already addressed himself to God before he ventured to apply to you; and when Your Holiness sends him to God again, he finds himself sent back, as the proverb says, from Herod to Pilate.


I cannot, do any good without God’s assistance.


Very true, Holy Father; but the man is aware that you are God’s prime minister, and it is easy to imagine his trouble now that the minister sends him again to the master. His only resource is to give money to the beggars of Rome, who for one ‘bajocco’ will pray for him. They boast of their influence before the throne of the Almighty, but as I have faith only in your credit, I entreat Your Holiness to deliver me of the heat which inflames my eyes by granting me permission to eat meat.


Eat meat, my son.


Holy Father, give me your blessing.


I was there, it is true, madam; but I had no idea that I had had the honour to be seen by your ladyship.


Oh! I see everybody. They tell me that you have wit.


If it is not a mistake on the part of your informants, your ladyship gives me very good news.


Oh! they are excellent judges.


Then, madam, those persons must have honoured me with their conversation; otherwise, it is not likely that they would have been able to express such an opinion.


No doubt; but let me see you often at my receptions.


Sir. I give you fair notice that the moment I become mistress in this house you will be the very first person to be excluded.


I feel greatly obliged to you, signora, for your timely notice.


My darling, my happiness cannot last long; the cruel moment of our separation is drawing near. When I have gone, pray undertake the task of compelling her to acknowledge her error. Angelique pities me, be sure to avenge me.


It should be my room that night.


It is my angel, my love; never mind him, and go to sleep.


Oh, my beloved Lucrezia! how supremely happy I am! But, my darling, mind your sister; she might turn round and see us.


Fear nothing, my life; my sister is kind, she loves me, she pities me; do you not love me, my dear Angelique? Oh! turn round, see how happy your sister is, and know what felicity awaits you when you own the sway of love. Then forgive likewise, darling Angelique, forgive him who loves me, and whom I adore,


Angelique hates me. I dare not....


No, I do not hate you!


Kiss her, dearest,


Do not reproach me, when I deserve praise. I have brought light into the darkness of my charming sister’s soul; I have initiated her in the sweetest of mysteries, and now, instead of pitying me, she must envy me. Far from having hatred for you, she must love you dearly, and as I am so unhappy as to have to part from you very soon, my beloved, I leave her to you; she will replace me.


Ah, Lucrezia! how can I love her?


Is she not a charming girl?


No doubt of it; but my adoration for you is a shield against any other love. Besides Don Francisco must, of course, entirely monopolize her, and I do not wish to cause coolness between them, or to ruin the peace of their home. I am certain your sister is not like you, and I would bet that, even now, she upbraids herself for having given way to the ardour of her temperament.


Most likely; but, dearest, I am sorry to say my husband expects to obtain judgment in the course of this week, and then the short instants of happiness will for ever be lost to me.


I candidly confess, madam, that I have felt her loss deeply. She was kind and generous; above all, she was indulgent when I did not call often upon her. My friendship for her was innocent.


I have no doubt of it, although your ode was the work of a poet deeply in love.


Oh! a poet cannot possibly write without professing to be in love.


But, if the poet is really in love, he has no need of professing a feeling which he possesses. This is the ode, it does great honour to the poet, for it is admitted to be a masterpiece by all the literati in Rome, and Donna Lucrezia knows it by heart. I only write French prose, and a prose translation destroys half the beauty of poetry. I am satisfied with writing occasionally a little Italian poetry without any pretension to poetical fame.


I should consider myself fortunate, madam, if I could obtain the happiness of admiring some of your poetry.


Here is a sonnet of her ladyship’s. If you should happen to go out in the morning, you could bring it back, and dine with me.


He will be sure to go out purposely.


He complimented me upon the honour conferred on me by the invitation of Cardinal S. C.


But be prudent, for his eminence has the reputation of being jealous.


What do you think, of the sonnet?


Monsignor, it is perfectly written, and, what is more, it is a charming composition. Allow me to return it to you with my thanks.


She has much talent. I wish to shew you ten stanzas of her composition, my dear abbé, but you must promise to be very discreet about it.


Your eminence may rely on me.


No. I have not; but would you feel disposed to lend me your poetical pen, always under the seal of secrecy?


As to secrecy, monsignor, I promise it faithfully; but I am afraid the marchioness will remark the difference between your style and mine.


She has nothing of my composition. I do not think she supposes me a fine poet, and for that reason your stanzas must be written in such a manner that she will not esteem them above my abilities.


I will write them with pleasure, monsignor, and your eminence can form an opinion; if they do not seem good enough to be worthy of you, they need not be given to the marchioness.


That is well said. Will you write them at once?


What! now, monsignor? It is not like prose.


Well, well! try to let me have them to-morrow.


By-the-by, abbé, have you read my sonnet?


Yes, madam, and I have had the honour to return it to his eminence. I have found it so perfect that I am certain it must have cost you a great deal of time.


Time? Oh! you do not know the marchioness.


Monsignor, nothing can be done well without time, and that is why I have not dared to shew to your eminence an answer to the sonnet which I have written in half an hour.


Let us see it, abbé. I want to read it.


Answer of Silesia to Love.


But Love is not mentioned in the sonnet,


Wait, we must respect the idea of the poet.


Ah, I see, I see! Silesia is a woman.... and the King of Prussia.... Oh! oh! that is really a fine idea! I must copy that sonnet, indeed I must have it.


The abbé, will save you the trouble: I will dictate it to him.


My dear marchioness, this is wonderful; he has kept the same rhymes as in your own sonnet: did you observe it?


If ever your stanzas and mine become known in Rome, you may be sure of my enmity.


Madam, I do not understand what you mean.


I expected you to answer me in this manner, but recollect what I have said.


My stanzas, are too fiery; they compromise her dignity, and her pride is offended at my knowing the secret of her intrigue with Cardinal S. C. Yet, I feel certain that the dread she expresses of my want of discretion is only feigned, it is but a pretext to turn me out of her favour. She has not understood my reserve! What would she have done, if I had painted her in the simple apparel of the golden age, without any of those veils which modesty imposes upon her sex!


My dear sir, the cardinal wishes to see you, and I am sent by the beautiful marchioness and Cardinal S. C., who desire you to come down.


I am very sorry, but I cannot go; tell them the truth; I am ill in bed.


Are you truly ill?


No, monsignor, I was only sleepy.


I am very glad to hear it; but you are wrong, for you are loved. Cardinal S. C. has been bled this morning.


I know it, monsignor. The cardinal tells me so in this note, in which he invites me to dine with him, with your excellency’s permission.


Certainly. But this is amusing! I did not know that he wanted a third person.


Will there be a third person?


I do not know, and I have no curiosity about it.


I am compelled to observe strict diet. I shall have to let you dine alone, but you will not lose by it as my cook does not know it. What I wanted to tell you is that your stanzas are, I am afraid, too pretty, for the marchioness adores them. If you had read them to me in the same way that she does, I could never have made up my mind to offer them.


But she believes them to be written by your eminence?


Of course.


That is the essential point, monsignor.


Yes; but what should I do if she took it into her head to compose some new stanzas for me?


You would answer through the same pen, for you can dispose of me night and day, and rely upon the utmost secrecy.


I beg of you to accept this small present; it is some negrillo snuff from Habana, which Cardinal Acquaviva has given me.


If I had known you were in good company. I would not have come.


I am sure, dear marchioness, you will not find our dear abbé in the way.


No, for I believe him to be honest and true. Yes, but I shall not enjoy my dinner, for I hate to eat alone.


If you would honour him so far, the abbé would keep you company.


I have told you that the abbé is equal to me in that respect,


I truly believe, that he does not remain far behind you; but, you are more dainty in your tastes.


Would her ladyship be so good as to tell me in what I have appeared to her to be a mere glutton? For in all things I like only dainty and exquisite morsels.


Explain what you mean by saying in all things,


My courage, madam, is due to you, for I am as timid as a hare when I am not encouraged; you are the author of my impromptu.


I admire you. As for myself, were I encouraged by Apollo himself, I could not compose four lines without paper and ink.


Only give way boldly to your genius, madam, and you will produce poetry worthy of heaven.


That is my opinion, too. I entreat you to give me permission to shew your ten stanzas to the abbé.


They are not very good, but I have no objection provided it remains between us. How well you have read those stanzas! I can hardly believe them to be my own composition; I thank you very much. But have the goodness to give the benefit of your reading to the stanzas which his eminence has written in answer to mine. They surpass them much.


Do not believe it, my dear abbé. Yet try not to let them lose anything through your reading.


Yes, beautiful marchioness, pronounce my sentence.


I fear you are a libertine and an unfaithful lover.


I am neither one nor the other.


I only come to beg of you some good advice.


On what subject can I advise you?


Take this and read it; it will explain everything.


I am pregnant of a child, the pledge of our mutual love; I can no longer have any doubt of it, my beloved, and I forewarn you that I have made up my mind to quit Rome alone, and to go away to die where it may please God, if you refuse to take care of me and save me. I would suffer anything, do anything, rather than let my father discover the truth.


If you are a man of honour, you cannot abandon the poor girl. Marry her in spite of your father, in spite of her own, and live together honestly. The eternal Providence of God will watch over you and help you in your difficulties.


I have hired, the top floor of the house next to Barbara’s dwelling; she knows it, and to-night I will gain her apartment through one of the windows of the garret, and we will make all our arrangements to enable me to carry her off. I have made up my mind; I have decided upon taking her to Naples, and I will take with us the servant who, sleeping in the garret, had to be made a confidante of.


God speed you, my friend! What do you want so late?


I wish to introduce you to this handsome abbé.


Has anyone seen you enter the house?


No; and if we had been seen, what of it? It is only an abbé. We now pass every night together.


I congratulate you.


The servant is our friend; she has consented to follow us, and all our arrangements are completed.


I wish you every happiness. Adieu. I beg you to leave me. What kind of execution?