The incline of the roof covered with lead plates, will render it impossible for you to walk, indeed you will scarcely be able to stand on your feet. It is true that the roof has seven or eight windows, but they are all barred with iron, and you could not keep your footing near them since they are far from the sides. Your ropes are useless, as you will find nothing whereon to fasten them; and even if you did, a man descending from such a height cannot reach the ground by himself. One of you will therefore have to lower the two others one at a time as one lowers a bucket or a bundle of wood, and he who does so will have to stay behind and go back to his cell. Which of you three has a vocation for this dangerous work of charity? And supposing that one of you is heroic enough to do so, can you tell me on which side you are going to descend? Not by the side towards the palace, for you would be seen; not by the church, as you would find yourselves still shut up, and as to the court side you surely would not think of it, for you would fall into the hands of the ‘arsenalotti’ who are always going their rounds there. You have only the canal side left, and where is your gondola to take you off? Not having any such thing, you will be obliged to throw yourself in and escape by swimming towards St. Appollonia, which you will reach in a wretched condition, not knowing where to turn to next. You must remember that the leads are slippery, and that if you were to fall into the canal, considering the height of the fall and the shallowness of the water, you would most certainly be killed if you could swim like sharks. You would be crushed to death, for three or four feet of water are not sufficient to counteract the effect of a fall from such a height. In short, the best fate you can expect is to find yourselves on the ground with broken arms and legs.


I shall profit by your wise counsels, and be very prudent, but my trust in God and in my own strength will carry me through all difficulties. All I ask, is that the fog be not made of oil. Put your cloak in a packet with some of the rope which must be divided equally between us.


I should be sure, to fall over into the canal, and I should not be of any use to you. Ah! leave me here, and all the night I will pray to St. Francis for you. You can kill me or save me alive; but of this I am determined, never to follow you.


You are right, you may stop here on the condition that you will pray to St. Francis; and that you go forthwith and fetch my books, which I wish to leave to the count. You may be sure, that you will never see me here again. The books will cover your expenditure of two sequins. As to this rascal, I am delighted, as he cannot muster sufficient courage to come with me. He would be in the way, and the fellow is not worthy of sharing with Father Balbi and myself the honours of so brave a flight.


That’s true, provided that he does not congratulate himself to-morrow.


I shall not die, but live and declare the works of the Lord. Our lords of state are bound to do all in their power to keep a prisoner under the Leads, and on the other hand the prisoner, who is fortunately not on parole, is bound also to make his escape. Their right to act thus is founded on justice, while the prisoner follows the voice of nature; and since they have not asked him whether he will be put in prison, so he ought not to ask them leave to escape. Jacques Casanova, writing in the bitterness of his heart, knows that he may have the ill luck to be recaptured before he succeeds in leaving the Venetian territory and escaping to a friendly state; but if so, he appeals to the humanity of the judges not to add to the misery of the condition from which, yielding to the voice of nature, he is endeavouring to escape. He begs them, if he be taken, to return him whatever may be in his cell, but if he succeed he gives the whole to Francis Soradaci, who is still a captive for want of courage to escape, not like me preferring liberty to life. Casanova entreats their excellencies not to refuse the poor wretch this gift. Dated an hour before midnight, in the cell of Count Asquin, on October 31st, 1756.


A bad omen, our task is but begun and here am I deprived of shirt, hat, and a precious manuscript, containing a curious account of the festivals of the palace.


They ought rather, to warn you to be prudent, and to remind you that God is certainly watching over us, for if your hat had fallen to the left instead of to the right, we should have been undone; as in that case it would have fallen into the palace court, where it would have caught the attention of the guards, and have let them know that there was someone on the roof; and in a few minutes we should have been retaken.


What did you think had become of me?


I thought you must have fallen over.


And you can find no better way than abuse to express the joy you ought to feel at seeing me again?


What have you been doing all this time?


Follow me, and you shall see.


You let me down, and when I have got to the bottom you will have plenty of time to think how you are going to follow me.


This is not a prison, there ought, therefore, be some easy exit from it.


My work is done, the rest must be left to God and fortune. Abbia chi regge il ciel cura del resto, O la fortuna se non tocca a lui. I do not know whether those who sweep out the palace will come here to-day, which is All Saints’ Day, or tomorrow, All Souls’ Day. If anyone comes, I shall run out as soon as the door opens, and do you follow after me; but if nobody comes, I do not budge a step, and if I die of hunger so much the worse for me.


To the church! to the church!


Why didn’t you go by yourself?


I did not, like to abandon you. I did not like to lose the comfort of your company.


I want to go to Fusina; be quick and, call another gondolier.


When do you think we shall get to Mestre?


But you told me to go to Fusina.


You must be mad; I said Mestre.


Bravely spoken, and now for Mestre, ho!


We shall be there in three quarters of an hour, as the wind and tide are in our favour.


Get up,


She’s charming,


I don’t want any, and do you make haste!


I am delighted to see you here. I suppose you have just escaped. How did you do it?


I have not escaped, but have been set at liberty.


No, no, that’s not possible, as I was at M. Grimani’s yesterday evening, and I should have heard of it.


We must make for Borgo di Valsugano, it is the first town beyond the borders of the Republic. We shall be as safe there as if we were in London, and we can take our ease for awhile; but to get there we must go carefully to work, and the first thing we must do is to separate. You must go by Mantello Woods, and I by the mountains; you by the easiest and shortest way, and I by the longest and most difficult; you with money and I without a penny. I will make you a present of my cloak, which you must exchange for a great coat and a hat, and everybody will take you for a countryman, as you are luckily rather like one in the face. Take these seventeen livres, which is all that remains to me of the two sequins Count Asquin gave me. You will reach Borgo by the day after to-morrow, and I shall be twenty-four hours later. Wait for me in the first inn on the left-hand side of the street, and be sure I shall come in due season. I require a good night’s rest in a good bed; and Providence will get me one somewhere, but I must sleep without fear of being disturbed, and in your company that would be out of the question. I am certain that we are being sought for on all sides, and that our descriptions have been so correctly given that if we went into any inn together we should be certain to be arrested. You see the state I am in, and my urgent necessity for a ten hours’ rest. Farewell, then, do you go that way and I will take this, and I will find somewhere near here a rest for the sole of my foot.


I have been expecting you to say as much, and for answer I will remind you of the promise you gave me when I let myself be persuaded to break into your cell. You promised me that we should always keep company; and so don’t flatter yourself that I shall leave you, your fate and mine are linked together. We shall be able to get a good refuge for our money, we won’t go to the inns, and no one will arrest us.


You are determined, are you, not to follow the good advice I have given you?


I am.


We shall see about that. since I am about to bury you here, alive or dead; and if you prove the stronger, you will bury me. You can escape if you wish to, as I shall not pursue you.


I will do what you want,


What is the name of this village, my friend?


Valde Piadene, signor,


I am sorry, to hear that my gossip is not in, though at the same time I am delighted to make the acquaintance of his charming wife.


Your gossip? You will be M. Vetturi, then? My husband told me that you had kindly promised to be the god-father of our next child. I am delighted to know you, but my husband will be very vexed to have been away:


I hope he will soon return, as I wanted to ask him for a night’s lodging. I dare not go anywhere in the state you see me.


You shall have the best bed in the house, and I will get you a good supper. My husband when he comes back will thank your excellence for doing us so much honour. He went away with all his people an hour ago, and I don’t expect him back for three or four days.


Why is he away for such a long time, my dear madam?


You have not heard, then, that two prisoners have escaped from The Leads? One is a noble and the other a private individual named Casanova. My husband has received a letter from Messer-Grande ordering him to make a search for them; if he find them he will take them back to Venice, and if not he will return here, but he will be on the look-out for three days at least.


I am sorry for this accident, my dear madam, but I should not like to put you out, and indeed I should be glad to lie down immediately.


You shall do so, and my mother shall attend to your wants. But what is the matter with your knees?


I fell down whilst hunting on the mountains, and gave myself some severe wounds, and am much weakened by loss of blood.


Oh! my poor gentleman, my poor gentleman! But my mother will cure you.


son


What are you doing here, Casanova, and what has become of your friend?


I have given him what little money I had for him to escape by another road, whilst I, without a penny in my pocket, am endeavouring to reach a place of safety by this way. If your excellence would kindly give me some help, it would speed my journey for me.


I can’t give you anything, but you will find recluses on your way who won’t let you die of hunger. But tell me how you contrived to pierce the roof of The Leads.


The story is an interesting one, but it would take up too much time, and in the meanwhile the recluses might eat up the food which is to keep me from dying of hunger.


You asked me for sixty.


Yes, that was when I was asking a loan of you as a friend; but since I owe the money to force, I require six only, and I will give you no note of hand. You shall be repaid at Venice, where I shall write of the pass to which you forced me, you cowardly wretch!


I beg your pardon! take the sixty sequins, I entreat you.


No, no more. I am going on my way, and I advise you not to hinder me, lest in my despair I come back and burn your house about your ears.


Without me you would never have escaped


What miracle is that, reverend father?


The empress, the widow of Charles VII, whose body is still exposed to the public gaze, has warm feet, although she is dead.


Perhaps something keeps them warm.


You can assure yourself personally of the truth of this wonderful circumstance.


I need not trouble myself any more about the monk, as she was sure that the dean would take care of him, and even make it all right at Venice.


is not gentleman enough to offer to give me anything.


What do you want at Paris?


What do you want yourself?


To put my talents to account.


So do I.


Well, then, you don’t require me, and can fly on your own wings. The people who are taking me to Paris would probably not care for me if I had you for a companion.


You promised not to abandon me.


Can a man who leaves another well provided for and an assured future be said to abandon him?


Well provided! I have not got a penny.


What do you want with money? You have a good table, a good lodging, clothes, linen, attendance, and so forth. And if you want pocket-money, why don’t you ask your brethren the monks?


Ask monks for money? They take it, but they don’t give it.


Ask your friends, then.


I have no friends.


You are to be pitied, but the reason probably is that you have never been a friend to anyone. You ought to say masses, that is a good way of getting money.


I am unknown.


You must wait, then, till you are known, and then you can make up for lost time.


Your suggestions are idle; you will surely give me a few sequins.


I can’t spare any.


Wait for the dean. He will be back to-morrow. You can talk to him and persuade him to lend me some money. You can tell him that I will pay it back.


I cannot wait, for I am setting out on my journey directly, and were he here this moment I should not have the face to tell him to lend you money after all his generous treatment of you, and when he or anyone can see that you have all you need.


strike while the iron’s hot.


The king is assassinated!


The king is wounded, and he has been taken to his room. The assassin, whom nobody knows, is under arrest. M. de la Martiniere is being looked for everywhere.


The king has been assassinated.


Not at all; he is able to go to the Trianon, or the Parc-aux-cerfs, if he likes. M. de la Martiniere has bled him, and found him to be in no danger. The assassin has been arrested, and the wretched man will be burnt, drawn with red-hot pincers, and quartered.


I will be reserved,


in what I say and what I do, and thus I shall get a reputation for discretion which will bring its reward.


C--C---- often comes to see me, but I grieve to say she is not happy with her husband.


You can present yourself, my dear Casanova, to the Duc de Choiseul, and M. de Boulogne, the comptroller. You will be well received, and with a little wit you ought to be able to make good use of the letter. He himself will give you the cue, and you will see that he who listens obtains. Try to invent some useful plan for the royal exchequer; don’t let it be complicated or chimerical, and if you don’t write it out at too great length I will give you my opinion on it.


Tell me how you succeeded.


My lord, it would be too long a story; it would take me at least two hours, and your grace seems busy.


Tell me briefly about it.


However much I speak to the point, I shall take two hours.


You can keep the details for another time.


The story is devoid of interest without the details


Well, well, you can tell me the whole story in brief, without losing much of the interest.


Very good; after that I can say no more. I must tell your lordship, then, that, the State Inquisitors shut me up under the Leads; that after fifteen months and five days of imprisonment I succeeded in piercing the roof; that after many difficulties I reached the chancery by a window, and broke open the door; afterwards I got to St. Mark’s Place, whence, taking a gondola which bore me to the mainland, I arrived at Paris, and have had the honour to pay my duty to your lordship.


But.... what are The Leads?


My lord, I should take a quarter of an hour, at least, to explain.


How did you pierce the roof?


I could not tell your lordship in less than half an hour.


Why were you shut up?


It would be a long tale, my lord.


I think you are right. The interest of the story lies chiefly in the details.


I took the liberty of saying as much to your grace.


Well, I must go to Versailles, but I shall be delighted if you will come and see me sometimes. In the meanwhile, M. Casanova, think what I can do for you.


Give me your views; either on paper or ‘viva voce’. You will find me willing to learn and ready to grasp your ideas. Here is M. Paris du Vernai, who wants twenty millions for his military school; and he wishes to get this sum without a charge on the state or emptying the treasury.


It is God alone, sir, who has the creative power. I am not a god, but for all that I have now and then created but the times have changed.


Everything,


is more difficult than it used to be; but in spite of difficulties I have a plan which would give the king the interest of a hundred millions.


What expense would there be to the Crown?


Merely the cost of receiving.


The nation, then, would furnish the sum in question?


Undoubtedly, but voluntarily.


I know what you are thinking of.


You astonish me, sir, as I have told nobody of my plan.


If you have no other engagement, do me the honour of dining with me to-morrow, and I will tell you what your project is. It is a good one, but surrounded, I believe, with insuperable difficulties. Nevertheless, we will talk it over and see what can be done. Will you come?


I will do myself that honour.


Very good, I will expect you at Plaisance.


If he thinks he is going to pump me,


he will find himself mistaken. When he tells me what the plan is, it will rest with me to say he has guessed it or he is wrong as the inspiration of the moment suggests. If the question lies within my comprehension I may, perhaps, be able to suggest something new; and if I understand nothing I will wrap myself up in a mysterious silence, which sometimes produces a good effect. At all events, I will not repulse Fortune when she appears to be favourable to me.


That, I think, M. Casanova, is your plan.


I confess, sir, that is exactly my idea.


You have been anticipated, then; the project is by M. de Calsabigi here.


I am delighted, not at being anticipated, but to find that we think alike; but may I ask you why you have not carried out the plan?


Several very plausible reasons have been given against it, which have had no decisive answers.


I can only conceive one reason against it,


perhaps the king would not allow his subjects to gamble.


Never mind that, the king will let his subjects gamble as much as they like: the question is, will they gamble?


I wonder how anyone can have any doubt on that score, as the winners are certain of being paid.


Let us grant, then, that they will gamble: how is the money to be found?


How is the money to be found? The simplest thing in the world. All you want is a decree in council authorizing you to draw on the treasury. All I want is for the nation to believe that the king can afford to pay a hundred millions.


A hundred millions!


Yes, a hundred millions, sir. We must dazzle people.


But if France is to believe that the Crown can afford to pay a hundred millions, it must believe that the Crown can afford to lose a hundred millions, and who is going to believe that? Do you?


To be sure I do, for the Crown, before it could lose a hundred millions, would have received at least a hundred and fifty millions, and so there need be no anxiety on that score.


I am not the only person who has doubts on the subject. You must grant the possibility of the Crown losing an enormous sum at the first drawing?


Certainly, sir, but between possibility and reality is all the region of the infinite. Indeed, I may say that it would be a great piece of good fortune if the Crown were to lose largely on the first drawing.


A piece of bad fortune, you mean, surely?


A bad fortune to be desired. You know that all the insurance companies are rich. I will undertake to prove before all the mathematicians in Europe that the king is bound to gain one in five in this lottery. That is the secret. You will confess that the reason ought to yield to a mathematical proof?


Yes, of course; but how is it that the Castelletto cannot guarantee the Crown a certain gain?


Neither the Castelletto nor anybody in the world can guarantee absolutely that the king shall always win. What guarantees us against any suspicion of sharp practice is the drawing once a month, as then the public is sure that the holder of the lottery may lose.


Will you be good enough to express your sentiments on the subject before the council?


I will do so with much pleasure.


You will answer all objections?


I think I can promise as much.


Will you give me your plan?


Not before it is accepted, and I am guaranteed a reasonable profit.


But your plan may possibly be the same as the one before us.


I think not. I see M. de Calsabigi for the first time, and as he has not shewn me his scheme, and I have not communicated mine to him, it is improbable, not to say impossible, that we should agree in all respects. Besides, in my plan I clearly shew how much profit the Crown ought to get per annum.


It might, therefore, be formed by a company who would pay the Crown a fixed sum?


I think not.


Why?


For this reason. The only thing which would make the lottery pay, would be an irresistible current of public opinion in its favour. I should not care to have anything to do with it in the service of a company, who, thinking to increase their profits, might extend their operations--a course which would entail certain loss.


I don’t see how.


In a thousand ways which I will explain to you another time, and which I am sure you can guess for yourself. In short, if I am to have any voice in the matter, it must be a Government lottery or nothing.


M. de Calsabigi thinks so, too.


I am delighted to hear it, but not at all surprised; for, thinking on the same lines, we are bound to arrive at the same results.


Have you anybody ready for the Castelletto?


I shall only want intelligent machines, of whom there are plenty in France.


he should like to have some further conversation with me


I should esteem it as an honour to be numbered amongst his friends. if I had not called on him it was only because I did not wish to be troublesome.


my decisive way of speaking had made a great impression, and he was certain that if I cared to make interest with the comptroller we could set up the lottery and make a large profit.


I think so, too, but the financiers will make a much larger profit, and yet they do not seem anxious about it. They have not communicated with me, but it is their look-out, as I shall not make it my chief aim.


You will undoubtedly hear something about it today, for I know for a fact that M. de Boulogne has spoken of you to M. de Courteuil.


Very good, but I assure you I did not ask him to do so.


You can force Du Vernai himself to accept the lottery, and your fortune is made if you are not too rich already to care about such matters.


Nobody is ever rich enough to despise good fortune, especially when it is not due to favour.


Very true. We have been doing our utmost for two years to get the plan accepted, and have met with nothing beyond foolish objections which you have crushed to pieces. Nevertheless, our plans must be very similar. Believe me it will be best for us to work in concert, for by yourself you would find insuperable difficulties in the working, and you will find no ‘intelligent machines’ in Paris. My brother will do all the work, and you will be able to reap the advantages at your ease.


Are you, then, not the inventor of the scheme which has been shewn me?


No, it is the work of my brother.


Shall I have the pleasure or seeing him?


Certainly. His body is feeble, but his mind is in all its vigour. We shall see him directly.


You are a believer, then, in final causes? I think you are right, but still I believe you would have scratched yourself if God had forgotten to give you any nails.


If you think you can do without me. I must compliment you on your abilities; but I think you will find yourself mistaken, for if you have no practical knowledge of the matter and no business men to help you, your theories will not carry you far. What will you do after you have obtained the decree? When you speak before the council, if you take my advice, you will fix a date after which you are not to be held responsible--that is to say, after which you will have nothing more to do with it. Unless you do so, you will be certain to encounter trifling and procrastination which will defer your plan to the Greek Kalends. On the other hand, I can assure you that M. du Vernai would be very glad to see us join hands.


he would bet that but for him I should never have discovered my talent for finance. M. de Boulogne tells me you astonished M. du Vernai, who is generally esteemed one of the acutest men in France. If you will take my advice, Casanova, you will keep up that acquaintance and pay him assiduous court. I may tell you that the lottery is certain to be established, that it will be your doing, and that you ought to make something considerable out of it. As soon as the king goes out to hunt, be at hand in the private apartments, and I will seize a favourable moment for introducing you to the famous marquise. Afterwards go to the Office for Foreign Affairs, and introduce yourself in my name to the Abbé de la Ville. He is the chief official there, and will give you a good reception.


Do you go, to see your ambassador?


I shew my respect to him, madam, by keeping away.


I hope you mean to settle in France.


It would be my dearest wish to do so, madam, but I stand in need of patronage, and I know that in France patronage is only given to men of talent, which is for me a discouraging circumstance.


On the contrary, I think you have reason to be hopeful, as you have some good friends. I myself shall be delighted if I can be of any assistance to you.


I was there writing a letter, and I could hear all the obliging things the abbé said to you. May I ask, sir, how you obtained access to him?


If you really wish to know, I may be able to tell you.


It is pure curiosity on my part.


Well, then, I will say nothing, from pure prudence.


I beg your pardon.


Certainly, with pleasure.


I am delighted to hear it, and I will go to M. de Boulogne’s every day, and get you appointed chief administrator as soon as I know what I have got for myself.


I have played similar strokes myself, and have mostly succeeded; and as for the other receivers they are at perfect liberty to follow M. Casanova’s example, and it all tends to increase the repute of an institution which we owe to him and to you.


The French,


have rejected me once, and I am far from bearing them ill-will on that account, for I would reject myself now if I were what I was then; but with their love of genius I reckon on a better reception this time.


And now, that you may be at your ease with me, I should like to know in what manner I can be of service to you?


I have need of your friendship, perhaps of your purse, but at any rate of your protection.


You have my friendship and my protection already, and my purse is at your service.


A year ago the Supreme Council of my country entrusted me with an employment dangerous to one of my years. I was made, with some other young gentlemen of my own age, a keeper of the Mont de Piete. The pleasures of the carnival having put us to a good deal of expense, we were short of money, and borrowed from the till hoping to be able to make up the money before balancing-day, but hoping all in vain. The fathers of my two companions, richer than mine, paid the sums they had taken, and I, not being able to pay, took the part of escaping by flight from the shame and the punishment I should have undergone. Madame Manzoni advised me to throw myself on your mercy, and she gave me a little box which you shall have to-day. I only got to Paris yesterday, and have only two louis, a little linen, and the clothes on my back. I am twenty-five, have an iron constitution, and a determination to do all in my power to make an honest living; but I can do nothing. I have not cultivated any one talent in a manner to make use of it now. I can play on the flute, but only as an amateur. I only know my own language, and I have no taste for literature. So what can you make of me? I must add that I have not a single expectation, least of all from my father, for to save the honour of the family he will be obliged to sell my portion of the estate, to which I shall have to bid an eternal farewell.


Begin,


by bringing your small belongings to the room next to mine, and get your meals there. I will pay for everything while I am looking out for something which may do for you.


We will talk of business to-morrow, for as I never dine here I rarely if ever come home till late, and I do not expect to have the honour of seeing you again today. Leave me for the present, as I have got some work to do; and if you go out to walk, beware of bad company, and whatever you do keep your own counsel. You are fond of gaming, I suppose?


I hate it, as it has been the cause of half my troubles.


And the other half, I’ll wager, was caused by women.


You have guessed aright--oh, those women!


Well, don’t be angry with them, but make them pay for the ill they have done you.


I will, with the greatest pleasure, if I can.


If you are not too particular in your goods, you will find Paris rich in such commodities.


What do you mean by particular? I would never be a prince’s pathic.


No, no, I was not thinking of that. I mean by ‘particular’ a man who cannot be affectionate unless he is in love. The man who . . . .


I see what you mean, and I can lay no claim to such a character. Any hag with golden eyes will always find me as affectionate as a Celadon.


Well said! I shall soon be able to arrange matters for you.


I hope you will.


Are you going to the ambassador’s?


Good God!--no! What should I do when I got there? Tell him my story? He might make things unpleasant for me.


Not without your going to see him, but I expect he is not concerning himself with your case.


That’s all I ask him.


Everybody, my dear count, is in mourning in Paris, so go to my tailor’s and get yourself a black suit. Tell him you come from me, and say you want it by tomorrow. Good bye.


They are quick, you see, at Paris. It would have taken a week at Trevisa.


Trevisa, my dear fellow, is not Paris.


Yes,


and I have tickets left for several thousands more.


Very good, then I will invest a thousand crowns in it.


Whenever you please. If you call at my office you can choose the numbers.


No, I don’t think I’ll trouble to do so; give me any numbers just as they come.


Very good; here is the list you can choose from.


Why so? I can’t do business that way, as I only dispose of my tickets for cash.


But you may be certain that you will have the money to-morrow.


I am quite sure I should, but you ought to be certain that you will have the tickets to-morrow. They are registered at my office, and I can dispose of them in no other manner.


Give me some which are not registered.


Impossible; I could not do it.


Why not?


Because if they proved to be winning numbers I should have to pay out of my own pocket an honour I do not desire.


Well, I think you might run the risk.


I think not, if I wish to remain an honest man, at all events.


Does M. du Vernai take me for a fool or a knave? As I am neither, I shall complain to M. de Boulogne.


You will be wrong; he merely wanted to warn you and not offend you.


You offend me very much yourself, sir, in talking to me in that fashion; and you may make up your mind that no one shall talk to me thus a second time.


You have been sleeping out, have you, master profligate?


Yes, I was so charmed with the she-pope that I kept her company all the night.


You were not afraid of being in the way?


On the contrary, I think she was thoroughly satisfied with my conversation.


As far as I can see, you had to bring into play all your powers of eloquence.


She is so well pleased with my fluency that she has begged me to accept a room in her house, and to allow her to introduce me as a cousin to M. le Noir, who, I suppose, is her lover.


You will be a trio, then; and how do you think you will get on together?


That’s her business. She says this gentleman will give me a good situation in the Inland Revenue.


Have you accepted her offer?


I did not refuse it, but I told her that I could do nothing without your advice. She entreated me to get you to come to dinner with her on Sunday.


I shall be happy to go.


What has gained my friend so fine a title, madam?


His erotic achievements. He is lord of an honour of which little is known in France, and I am desirous of being the lady.


I commend you for so noble an ambition.


M. le Noir will drop in after dinner, and I am dying to introduce Count ‘Sixtimes’ to him.


I can’t believe it,


Would you like to try?


He knows nothing about cards, but that’s no matter, he will learn, and I will undertake to instruct him.


I should have some difficulty in getting her niece to talk about anything. I hope I would be lenient with her as she had only just left a convent.


He is a nobleman, and a fellow-countryman of mine, whom an affair of honour has banished from his country.


He speaks a curious dialect.


Yes, but the fact is that French is very little spoken in Italy; he will soon pick it up in Paris, and then he will be laughed at no longer. I am sorry to have brought him here, for in less than twenty-four hours he was spoiled.


How spoiled?


I daren’t tell you as, perhaps, your aunt would not like it.


I don’t think I should tell her, but, perhaps, I should not have asked.


Oh, yes! you should; and as you wish to know I will make no mystery of it. Madame Lambertini took a fancy to him; they passed the night together, and in token of the satisfaction he gave her she has given him the ridiculous nickname of ‘Count Sixtimes.’ That’s all. I am vexed about it, as my friend was no profligate. But what has ‘Sixtimes’ got to do with sleeping with Madame Lambertini?


My dear young lady, the explanation is perfectly simple: my friend in a single night did what a husband often takes six weeks to do.


And you think me silly enough to tell my aunt of what we have been talking? Don’t believe it.


But there’s another thing I am sorry about.


You shall tell me what that is directly.


Now, what else is it that you are sorry about?


May I tell you, do you think?


You have said so much already, that I don’t think you need have any scruples in telling me the rest.


Very good: you must know, then, that this very day and in my presence he---- -her.


If that displeased you, you must be jealous.


Possibly, but the fact is that I was humbled by a circumstance I dare not tell you.


I think you are laughing at me with your ‘dare not tell you.’


God forbid, mademoiselle! I will confess, then, that I was humbled because Madame Lambertini made me see that my friend was taller than myself by two inches.


Then she imposed on you, for you are taller than your friend.


I am not speaking of that kind of tallness, but another; you know what I mean, and there my friend is really monstrous.


Monstrous! then what have you to be sorry about? Isn’t it better not to be monstrous?


Certainly; but in the article we are discussing, some women, unlike you, prefer monstrosity.


I think that’s absurd of them, or rather mad; or perhaps, I have not sufficiently clear ideas on the subject to imagine what size it would be to be called monstrous; and I think it is odd that such a thing should humble you.


You would not have thought it of me, to see me?


Certainly not, for when I came into the room I thought you looked a well-proportioned man, but if you are not I am sorry for you.


I won’t leave you in doubt on the subject; look for yourself, and tell me what you think.


Why, it’s you who are the monster! I declare you make me feel quite afraid.


Get you gone, little silly, you are bringing me bad luck! Besides, it is bad manners to leave the gentleman who so kindly offered to keep you company all by himself.


If my aunt knew, what you had done to me, she would not have accused me of bad manners.


I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I want you to have some evidence of my repentance, but all that I can do is to go. Will you be offended if I do?


If you leave me, my aunt will call me a dreadful stupid, and will say that I have tired you out.


Would you like me to stay, then?


You can’t go.


Had you no idea what I shewed you was like till just now?


My ideas on the subject were inaccurate. My aunt only took me out of the convent a month ago, and I had been there since I was seven.


How old are you now?


Seventeen. They tried to make me take the veil, but not having any relish for the fooleries of the cloister I refused.


Are you vexed with me?


I ought to be very angry with you, but I know it was my fault, so I will only ask you to be discreet.


Don’t be afraid, if I were indiscreet I should be the first to suffer.


You have given me a lesson which will come in useful. Stop! stop! or I will go away.


No, keep quiet; it’s done now.


What is that?


The most pleasant of substances, which renovates the world.


I see you are an excellent master. Your pupils make rapid progress, and you give your lessons with such a learned air.


Now don’t be angry with me for what has happened. I should never have dared to go so far if your beauty had not inspired me.


Am I to take that speech as a declaration of love?


Yes, it is bold, sweetheart, but it is sincere. If it were not, I should be unworthy both of you and of myself.


Can I believe you?


Yes, with all your heart. But tell me if I may hope for your love?


I don’t know. All I know at present is that I ought to hate you, for in the space of a quarter of an hour you have taught me what I thought I should never know till I was married.


Are you sorry?


I ought to be, although I feel that I have nothing more to learn on a matter which I never dared to think about. But how is it that you have got so quiet?


Because we are talking reasonably and after the rapture love requires some repose. But look at this!


What! again? Is that the rest of the lesson?


It is the natural result of it.


How is it that you don’t frighten me now?


The soldier gets used to fire.


I see our fire is going out.


Believe me,


that if I make anyone happy it will be my husband, to whom I have given my hand and heart.


Madam, you have sovereign power in your house, and I shall be delighted to see the count in your society.


Madame, my aunt, my late mother’s sister, is a devotee, fond of gaming, rich, stingy, and unjust. She does not like me, and not having succeeded in persuading me to take the veil, she wants to marry me to a wealthy Dunkirk merchant, whom I do not know, but (mark this) whom she does not know any more than I do. The matrimonial agent has praised him very much, and very naturally, as a man must praise his own goods. This gentleman is satisfied with an income of twelve hundred francs per annum, but he promises to leave me in his will no less than a hundred and fifty thousand francs. You must know that by my mother’s will my aunt is obliged to pay me on my wedding day twenty-five thousand crowns. If what has taken place between us has not made me contemptible in your sight, I offer you my hand and heart with sixty-five thousand francs, and as much more on my aunt’s death. Don’t send me any answer, as I don’t know how or by whom to receive your letter. You can answer me in your own person next Sunday at Madame Lambertini’s. You will thus have four days whereon to consider this most important question. I do not exactly know whether I love you, but I am quite sure that I prefer you to any other man. I know that each of us has still to gain the other’s esteem, but I am sure you would make my life a happy one, and that I should be a faithful wife. If you think that the happiness I seek can add to your own, I must warn you that you will need the aid of a lawyer, as my aunt is miserly, and will stick at trifles. If you decide in the affirmative you must find a convent for me to take refuge in before I commit myself to anything, as otherwise I should be exposed to the harsh treatment I wish to avoid. If, on the other hand, my proposal does not meet your views, I have one favour to ask by granting which you will earn my everlasting gratitude. This is that you will endeavour to see me no more, and will take care not to be present in any company in which you think I am to be found. Thus you will help me to forget you, and this is the least you can do for me. You may guess that I shall never be happy till I have become your wife or have forgotten you. Farewell! I reckon upon seeing you on Sunday.


I see you are in cash, old fellow; I congratulate you.


It’s a grievous piece of luck to me, for the money is stolen, and I am sorry I have got it though I was an accomplice in the theft.


What! the money is stolen?


Yes, sharping is done here, and I have been taught to help. I share in their ill-gotten gains because I have not the strength of mind to refuse. My landlady and two or three women of the same sort pluck the pigeons. The business does not suit me, and I am thinking of leaving it. Sooner or later I shall kill or be killed, and either event will be the death of me, so I am thinking of leaving this cutthroat place as soon as possible.


I advise you--nay, I bid you do so by all means, and I should think you had better be gone to-day than to-morrow.


I don’t want to do anything suddenly, as M. le Noir is a gentleman and my friend, and he thinks me a cousin to this wretched woman. As he knows nothing of the infamous trade she carries on, he would suspect something, and perhaps would leave her after learning the reason of my departure. I shall find some excuse or other in the course of the next five or six days, and then I will make haste and return to you.


Sixtimes,


I am too good a monarch to ask too much of my vassals.


My niece is a virtuous and sweet-tempered girl, sir, but she is utterly devoid either of intelligence or piety.


Never mind the intelligence, but I was never found wanting in piety at the convent.


I dare say the nuns are of the jesuitical party.


What has that got to do with it, aunt?


Very much, child; the Jesuits and their adherents are well known to have no vital religion. But let us talk of something else. All that I want you to do is to know how to please your future husband.


Is mademoiselle about to marry, then?


Her intended will probably arrive at the beginning of next month.


Is he a lawyer?


No, sir; he is a well-to-do merchant.


M. le Noir told me that your niece was the daughter of a councillor, and I did not imagine that you would sanction her marrying beneath her.


There will be no question of such a thing in this instance, sir; and, after all, what is marrying beneath one? My niece’s intended is an honest, and therefore a noble, man, and I am sure it will be her fault if she does not lead a life of perfect happiness with him.


Quite so, supposing she loves him.


Oh! love and all that kind of thing will come in good time, you know.


Your letter, dearest, has made me the happiest of men. You have displayed in it such intelligence and such admirable characteristics as would win you the fervent adoration of every man of good sense. I only want one man’s love. I will be content with the esteem of the rest. My angel, I will make you my wife, and I shall bless till my latest breath the lucky audacity to which I owe my being chosen before other men who would not have refused your hand, even without the fifty thousand crowns, which are nothing in comparison with your beauty and your wit. I am very glad you like me so much. Could I do otherwise? And now that you know my heart, do nothing hastily, but trust in me. You will not forget how I am placed. I will bear it in mind. Let me have time to take a house, to furnish it and to put myself in a position in which I shall be worthy of your hand. You must remember that I am only in furnished apartments; that you are well connected, and that I should not like to be regarded as a fortune-hunter. You know that my intended husband will soon arrive? Yes, I will take care of that. When he does come, you know, matters will be pushed on rapidly. Not too rapidly for me to be able to set you free in twenty-four hours, and without letting your aunt know that the blow comes from me. You may rest assured, dearest, that the minister for foreign affairs, on being assured that you wish to marry me, and me only, will get you an inviolable asylum in the best convent in Paris. He will also retain counsel on your behalf, and if your mother’s will is properly drawn out your aunt will soon be obliged to hand over your dowry, and to give security for the rest of the property. Do not trouble yourself about the matter, but let the Dunkirk merchant come when he likes. At all hazards, you may reckon upon me, and you may be sure you will not be in your aunt’s house on the day fixed for the wedding. I confide in you entirely, but for goodness’ sake say no more on a circumstance which wounds my sense of modesty. You said that I offered you marriage because you took liberties with me? Was I wrong? Yes, partly, at all events; and you ought to know that if I had not good reasons I should have done a very foolish thing in offering to marry you, but I may as well tell you that, liberties or no liberties, I should always have liked you better than anyone.


Sir,


this book treats of a lottery in which all the calculations are made in the fairest manner possible. It contains twelve hundred leaves, two hundred being winning leaves, while the rest are blanks. Anyone who wants to play has only to pay a crown, and then to put a pin’s point at random between two leaves of the closed book. The book is then opened at the place where the pin is, and if the leaf is blank the player loses; but if, on the other hand, the leaf bears a number, he is given the corresponding ticket, and an article of the value indicated on the ticket is then handed to him. Please to observe, sir, that the lowest prize is twelve francs, and there are some numbers worth as much as six hundred francs, and even one to the value of twelve hundred. We have been playing for an hour, and have lost several costly articles, and madam, has won a ring worth six louis, but as she preferred cash, she continued playing and lost the money she had gained.


Yes,


and these gentlemen have won everybody’s money with their accursed game; which proves it is all a mere cheat.


It proves they are rogues,


But gentlemen, in that case the receivers of the Government lottery are rogues too


All lotteries,


are advantageous to the holders, but the king is at the head of the Government lottery, and I am the principal receiver, in which character I shall proceed to confiscate this casket, and give you the choice of the following alternatives: You can, if you like, return to the persons present the money you have unlawfully won from them, whereupon I will let you go with your box. If you refuse to do so, I shall send for a policeman, who will take you to prison, and to-morrow you will be tried by M. Berier, to whom I shall take this book in the morning. We shall soon see whether we are rogues as well as they.


You might have given them back their book,


And you, ladies, might have let them keep their money.


But they cheated us of it.


Did they? Well, their cheating was done with the book, and I have done them a kindness by taking it from them.


What were you doing behind Madame--?


I am sure you saw nothing, or anybody else either.


No, because when I saw the beginning of your manoeuvres, and guessed what was coming, I stood in such a way that neither the Lambertini or the pretty niece could see you. I can guess what your goal was, and I must say I admire your hearty appetite. But your wretched victim appears to be rather angry.


Oh! my dear fellow, that’s all the affectation of an old maid. She may pretend to be put out, but as she kept quiet the whole time I am certain she would be glad to begin all over again.


I think so, too, in her heart of hearts; but her pride might suggest that you had been lacking in respect, and the suggestion would be by no means groundless.


Respect, you say; but must one not always be lacking in respect to women when one wants to come to the point?


Quite so, but there’s a distinction between what lovers may do when they are together, and what is proper in the presence of a mixed company.


Yes, but I snatched four distinct favours from her, without the least opposition; had I not therefore good reasons for taking her consent for granted?


You reason well, but you see she is out of humour with you. She wants to speak to me to-morrow, and I have no doubt that you will be the subject of our conversation.


Possibly, but still I should think she would not speak to you of the comic piece of business; it would be very silly of her.


Why so? You don’t know these pious women. They are brought up by Jesuits, who often give them some good lessons on the subject, and they are delighted to confess to a third party; and these confessions with a seasoning of tears gives them in their own eyes quite a halo of saintliness.


Well, let her tell you if she likes. We shall see what comes of it.


Possibly she may demand satisfaction; in which case I shall be glad to do my best for her.


You make me laugh! I can’t imagine what sort of satisfaction she could claim, unless she wants to punish me by the ‘Lex talionis’, which would be hardly practicable without a repetition of the original offence. If she had not liked the game, all she had to do was to give me a push which would have sent me backwards.


Yes, but that would have let us know what you had been trying to do.


Well, if it comes to that, the slightest movement would have rendered the whole process null and void; but as it was she stood in the proper position as quiet as a lamb; nothing could be easier.


It’s an amusing business altogether. But did you notice that the Lambertini was angry with you, too? She, perhaps, saw what you were doing, and felt hurt.


Oh! she has got another cause of complaint against me. We have fallen out, and I am leaving her this evening.


Really?


Yes, I will tell you all about it. Yesterday evening, a young fellow in the Inland Revenue who had been seduced to sup with us by a hussy of Genoa, after losing forty louis, threw, the cards in the face of my landlady and called her a thief. On the impulse of the moment I took a candle and put it out on his face. I might have destroyed one of his eyes, but I fortunately hit him on the cheek. He immediately ran for his sword, mine was ready, and if the Genoese had not thrown herself between us murder might have been committed. When the poor wretch saw his cheek in the glass, he became so furious that nothing short of the return of all his money would appease him. They gave it him back, in spite of my advice, for in doing so they admitted, tacitly at all events, that it had been won by cheating. This caused a sharp dispute between the Lambertini and myself after he had gone. She said we should have kept the forty louis, and nothing would have happened except for my interference, that it was her and not me whom the young man had insulted. The Genoese added that if we had kept cool we should have had the plucking of him, but that God alone knew what he would do now with the mark of the burn on his face. Tired of the talk of these infamous women, I was about to leave them, but my landlady began to ride the high horse, and went so far as to call me a beggar. If M. le Noir had not come in just then, she would have had a bad time of it, as my stick was already in my hand. As soon as they saw him they told me to hold my tongue, but my blood was up; and turning towards the worthy man I told him that his mistress had called me a beggar, that she was a common prostitute, that I was not her cousin, nor in any way related to her, and that I should leave her that very day. As soon as I had come to the end of this short and swift discourse, I went out and shut myself up in my room. In the course of the next two hours I shall go and fetch my linen, and I hope to breakfast with you to-morrow.


You will be surprised, sir, at what I am going to tell you, for I have determined to bring before you a complaint of an unheard-of character. The case is really of the most delicate nature, and I am impelled to make a confidant of you by the impression you made on me when I first saw you. I consider you to be a man of discretion, of honour, and above all a moral man; in short, I believe you have experienced religion, and if I am making a mistake it will be a pity, for though I have been insulted I don’t lack means of avenging myself, and as you are his friend you will be sorry for him.


Is Tiretta the guilty party, madam?


The same.


And what is his crime?


He is a villain; he has insulted me in the most monstrous manner.


I should not have thought him capable of doing so.


I daresay not, but then you are a moral man.


But what was the nature of his offence? You may confide in my secrecy.


I really couldn’t tell you, it’s quite out of the question; but I trust you will be able to guess it. Yesterday, during the execution of the wretched Damien, he strongly abused the position in which he found himself behind me.


I see; I understand what you mean; you need say no more. You have cause for anger, and he is to blame for acting in such a manner. But allow me to say that the case is not unexampled or even uncommon, and I think you might make some allowance for the strength of love, the close quarters, and above all for the youth and passion of the sinner. Moreover, the offence is one which may be expiated in a number of ways, provided the parties come to an agreement. Tiretta is young and a perfect gentleman, he is handsome and at bottom a good fellow; could not a marriage be arranged? If marriage should not meet your views, we might try a lasting friendship, in which he could shew his repentance and prove himself deserving of pardon. Remember, madam, that Tiretta is only a man, and therefore subject to all the weaknesses of our poor human nature; and even you have your share of the blame.


I, sir?


Involuntarily, madam, involuntarily; not you but your charms led him astray. Nevertheless, without this incentive the circumstance would never have taken place, and I think you should consider your beauty as a mitigation of the offence.


You plead your cause well, sir, but I will do you justice and confess that all your remarks have been characterized by much Christian feeling. However, you are reasoning on false premises; you are ignorant of his real crime, yet how should you guess it?


He can’t have stolen her purse, as I don’t think him capable of such an action; and if I did I’d blow his brains out.


You are thinking of a deed which one might possibly succeed in reconciling with reason, and in making amends for; but the crime of which that brute has been guilty I dare scarcely imagine, as it is almost enough to drive me mad.


Good heavens! you can’t mean it? This is dreadful; do I hear you aright?


Yes. You are moved, I see, but such are the circumstances of the case. Pardon my tears, which flow from anger and the shame with which I am covered.


Yes, and from outraged religion, too.


Certainly, certainly. That is the chief source of my grief, and I should have mentioned it if I had not feared you were not so strongly attached to religion as myself.


Nobody, God be praised! could be more strongly attached to religion than I, and nothing can ever unloose the ties which bind me to it.


You will be grieved, then, to hear that I am destined to suffer eternal punishment, for I must and will be avenged.


Not so, madam, perish the thought, as I could not become your accomplice in such a design, and if you will not abandon it at least say nothing to me on the subject. I will promise you to tell him nothing, although as he lives with me the sacred laws of hospitality oblige me to give him due warning.


I thought he lived with the Lambertini


He left her yesterday. The connection between them was a criminal one, and I have drawn him back from the brink of the precipice.


You don’t mean to say so!


Yes, upon my word of honour.


You astonish one. This is very edifying. I don’t wish the young man’s death, but you must confess he owes me some reparation.


He does indeed. A charming Frenchwoman is not to be handled in the Italian manner without signal amends, but I can think of nothing at all commensurate with the offence. There is only one plan, which I will endeavour to carry out if you will agree to it.


What is that?


I will put the guilty party in your power without his knowing what is to happen, and I will leave you alone, so that you can wreak all your wrath upon him, provided you will allow me to be, unknown to him, in the next room, as I shall regard myself as responsible for his safety.


I consent. You will stay in this room, and he must be left in the other where I shall receive you, but take care he has no suspicion of your presence.


He shan’t dream of it. He will not even know where I am taking him, for he must not think that I have been informed of his misdoings. As soon as we be there, and the conversation becomes general, I shall leave the room, pretending to be going away.


When will you bring him? I long to cover him with confusion. I will make him tremble. I am curious to hear how he will justify himself for such an offence.


I can’t say, but I think and hope that your presence will make him eloquent, as I should like to see your differences adjusted.


What! she has had the courage to tell you all?


You don’t deny the fact, then?


If she says it is so, I don’t think I can give her the lie, but I am ready to swear that I don’t know how the land lay. In the position I was in it was impossible for me to say where I took up my dwelling. However, I will quiet her indignation, as I shall come to the point quickly, and not let her wait.


You will ruin the business if you don’t take care; be as long as you can; she will like that best, and it will be to your interest. Don’t hurry yourself, and never mind me, as I am sure to get on all right while you are changing anger into a softer passion. Remember not to know that I am in the house, and if you only stay with her a short time (which I don’t think will be the case) take a coach and be off. You know the least a pious woman like her can do will be to provide me with fire and company. Don’t forget that she is well-born like yourself. These women of quality are, no doubt, as immoral as any other women, since they are constructed of the same material, but they like to have their pride flattered by certain attentions. She is rich, a devote, and, what is more, inclined to pleasure; strive to gain her friendship ‘faciem ad faciem’, as the King of Prussia says. You may, perhaps, make your fortune. If she asks you why you have left the Pope’s niece, take care not to tell her the reason. She will be pleased with your discretion. In short, do your best to expiate the enormity of your offence.


I have only to speak the truth. I went in in the dark.


That’s an odd reason, but it may seem convincing to a Frenchwoman.


I never take supper, but if you had forewarned me of your visit I should have got something for you.


If I am more than a quarter of an hour, don’t wait. Take a coach home and we shall see each other to-morrow.


I think I must be dreaming, but my aunt has charged me not to leave you alone, and to tell her woman not to come upstairs unless she rings the bell. Your friend is with her, and she told me to speak low as he is not to know that you are here. What does it all mean?


You are curious, are you?


I confess I am in this instance, for all this mystery seems designed to excite curiosity.


Dearest, you shall know all; but how cold it is.


My aunt has told me to make a good fire, she has become liberal or rather lavish all of a sudden; look at the wax candles.


That’s a new thing, is it?


Oh, quite new.


Dearest,


Very true, for if she did not like it she had only to change her position.


Not so much as that; she need only have kept the door shut.


There, sweetheart, you are wrong, for a properly-made man only asks you to keep still and he will overcome all obstacles. Moreover, I don’t expect that your aunt’s door is so well shut as yours.


I believe that I could defy all the Tirettas in the world.


There’s another thing I don’t understand, and that is how my blessed aunt came to tell you all about it; for if she had any sense she might have known that it would only make you laugh. And what satisfaction does she expect to get from a brute like that, who possibly thinks the affair a matter of no consequence. I should think he would do the same to any woman who occupied the same position as my aunt.


You are right, for he told me he went in like a blind man, not knowing where he was going.


Your friend is a queer fellow, and if other men are like him I am sure I should have no feeling but contempt for them.


She has told me nothing about the satisfaction she is thinking of, and which she possibly feels quite sure of attaining; but I think I can guess what it will be namely, a formal declaration of love; and I suppose he will expiate his crime by becoming her lover, and doubtless this will be their wedding night.


The affair is getting amusing. I can’t believe it. My dear aunt is too anxious about her salvation; and how do you imagine the young man can ever fall in love with her, or play the part with such a face as hers before his eyes. Have you ever seen a countenance as disgusting as my aunt’s? Her skin is covered with pimples, her eyes distil humours, and her teeth and breath are enough to discourage any man. She’s hideous.


All that is nothing to a young spark of twenty-five; one is always ready for an assault at that age; not like me who only feel myself a man in presence of charms like yours, of which I long to be the lawful possessor.


You will find me the most affectionate of wives, and I feel quite sure that I shall have your heart in such good keeping that I shall never be afraid of losing it.


I can only give you,


Bring them quick, then; I am fainting with hunger.


Don’t you want to know what your aunt has been doing the last two hours with M. Sixtimes?


They are playing, perhaps; but there is a small hole in the wall, and I will look and see. I can only see the two candles, and the wicks are an inch long.


Didn’t I say so? Give me a coverlet and I will sleep on the sofa here, and do you go to bed. But let me look at it first.


Your bed is too small for you, dear heart.


Oh, not at all! I am very comfortable


What a beautiful wife I shall have! Nay, don’t move, let me look at you so.


Sweetheart, I cannot resist, but you will not love me afterwards.


I will always love you.


I grieve to leave you without having rendered to your beauty the greatest homage which it deserves so well. Give me a coverlet, dearest, that I may go away from you, for I should die here between love and cold if you made me abstain.


Lie where I have been, sweetheart. I will get up and rekindle the fire.


Still asleep, M. Casanova?


Ah! good morning, madam, good morning. And what has become of my friend?


He has become mine, I have forgiven him.


What has he done to be worthy of so generous a pardon?


He proved to me that he made a mistake.


I am delighted to hear it; where is he?


He has gone home, where you will find him; but don’t say anything about your spending the night here, or he will think it was spent with my niece. I am very much obliged to you for what you have done, and I have only to ask you to be discreet.


You can count on me entirely, for I am grateful to you for having forgiven my friend.


Who would not do so? The dear young man is something more than mortal. If you knew how he loved me! I am grateful to him, and I have taken him to board for a year; he will be well lodged, well fed, and so on.


What a delightful plan! You have arranged the terms, I suppose.


All that will be settled in a friendly way, and we shall not need to have recourse to arbitration. We shall set out to-day for Villette, where I have a nice little house; for you know that it is necessary, at first, to act in such a way as to give no opportunity to slanderers. My lover will have all he wants, and whenever you, sir, honour us with your presence you will find a pretty room and a good bed at your disposal. All I am sorry for is that you will find it tedious; my poor niece is so dull.


Madam, your niece is delightful; she gave me yesterday evening an excellent supper and kept me company till three o’clock this morning.


Really? I can’t make it out how she gave you anything, as there was nothing in the house.


At any rate, madam, she gave me an excellent supper, of which there are no remains, and after keeping me company she went to bed, and I have had a good night on this comfortable sofa.


I am glad that you, like myself, were pleased with everything, but I did not think my niece so clever.


She is very clever, madam--in my eyes, at all events.


Oh, sir! you are a judge of wit, let us go and see her. She has locked her door. Come open the door, why have you shut yourself up, you little prude? what are you afraid of. My Casanova is incapable of hurting you. There she is, and she is not so bad looking after all, but it is a pity she is so stupid. You were very right to give this gentleman a supper. I am much obliged to you for doing so. I have been playing all night, and when one is playing one only thinks of the game. I have determined on taking young Tiretta to board with us. He is an excellent and clever young man, and I am sure he will learn to speak French before long. Get dressed, my dear, as we must begin to pack. We shall set out this afternoon for Villette, and shall spend there the whole of the spring. There is no need, you know, to say anything about this to my sister.


I, aunt? Certainly not. Did I ever tell her anything on the other occasions?


Other occasions! You see what a silly girl it is. Do you mean by ‘other occasions,’ that I have been circumstanced like this before?


No, aunt. I only meant to say that I had never told her anything of what you did.


That’s right, my dear, but you must learn to express yourself properly. We dine at two, and I hope to have the pleasure of M. Casanova’s company at dinner; we will start immediately after the meal. Tiretta promised to bring his small portmanteau with him, and it will go with our luggage.


Well. I find you have got a place. Tell me all about it.


My dear fellow, I have sold myself for a year. My pay is to be twenty-five louis a month, a good table, good lodging, etc., etc.


I congratulate you.


Do you think it is worth the trouble?


There’s no rose without a thorn. She told me you were something more than mortal.


I worked hard all night to prove it to her; but I am quite sure your time was better employed than mine.


I slept like a king. Dress yourself, as I am coming to dinner, and I want to see you set out for Villette. I shall come and see you there now and then, as your sweetheart has told me that a room shall be set apart for my convenience.


She believes, that we do not know he sleeps with her.


Believes, or pretends to believe.


Possibly. She rang for me at eleven o’clock this morning and told me to go and ask him what kind of night he had passed. I did so, but seeing his bed had not been slept in I asked him if he had not been to sleep.


No. I have been writing all night, but please don’t say anything about it to your aunt: I promised with all my heart to be as silent as the grave.


Does he make sheep’s eyes at you?


No, but if he did it would be all the same. Though he is not over sharp he knows, I think, what I think of him.


Why have you such a poor opinion of him?


Why? My aunt pays him. I think selling one’s self is a dreadful idea.


But you pay me.


Yes, but in the same coin as you give me.


I don’t like it much, but as it costs me nothing I am not absolutely wretched.


But her face!


I don’t look at it, and there’s one thing I like about her--she is so clean.


Does she take good care of you?


O yes, she is full of feeling for me. This morning she refused the greeting I offered her.


I am sure, that my refusal will pain you, but your health is so dear to me that I feel bound to look after it. I shall see no more of that foolish priest, for after telling me that I was lost both in this world and the next he threatened to abandon me, and I took him at his word.


Am I to let myself be robbed, then?


Yes, you have a free choice in the matter; nobody will make you play.


I certainly will not pay him that hundred louis.


I advise you to do so, and to do so before you are asked.


You have a knack of persuading one to do what you will, even though one be disposed to take no notice of your advice.


That’s because I speak from heart and head at once, and have some experience in these affairs as well.


You are in love with the niece,


Why do you think so?


By the mystery you make about her; but love betrays itself even by its silence.


You are a knowing fellow, Tiretta. I will come to dinner, but don’t say a word to anybody.


Your intended, would have pronounced you charming without all that.


My aunt doesn’t think so


You have not seen him yet?


No, but I should like to, although I trust with your help never to become his wife.


Won’t you, my dear?


Yes, aunt, I shall be very glad to see the gentleman again.


Well, what do you think of your husband?


Allow me to put off my answer till to-morrow; but be good enough, when we are at table, to draw me into the conversation, for it is very possible that my face has not repelled him, but so far he knows nothing of my mental powers; possibly my want of wit may destroy any slight impression my face may have made.


Yes, I am afraid you will begin to talk nonsense, and make him lose the good opinion he seems to have formed of you.


It is not right to deceive anybody. If he is disabused of his fictitious ideas by the appearance of the truth, so much the better for him; and so much the worse for both of us, if we decide on marrying without the slightest knowledge of each other’s habits and ways of thought.


What do you think of him?


I think he is rather nice-looking, and his manners are kind and polite; but let us wait till to-morrow. Perhaps he will have nothing more to say to me; I am so stupid.


I know very well that you think yourself very clever, and that’s where your fault lies; it’s your self-conceit which makes you stupid, although M. Casanova takes you for a wit.


Perhaps he may know what he is talking about.


My poor dear, he is only laughing at you.


I have good reasons for thinking otherwise, aunt.


There you go; you will never get any sense.


Pardon me, madam, if I cannot be of your opinion. Mademoiselle is quite right in saying that I do not laugh at her. I dare to say that to-morrow she will shine in the conversation.


You think so? I am glad to hear it. Now let us have a game at piquet, and I will play against you and my niece, for she must learn the game.


You are astonished to see me thus, but I want to speak to you for a moment, and then I will take off my clothes. Tell me plainly whether I am to consent to this marriage or no?


How do you like him?


Fairly well.


Consent, then!


Very good; farewell! From this moment our love ends, and our friendship begins. Get you to bed, and I will go and do the same. Farewell!


No, stay, and let our friendship begin to-morrow.


Not so, were my refusal to cost the lives of both of us. You know what it must cost me to speak thus, but it is my irrevocable determination. If I am to become another’s wife, I must take care to be worthy of him; perhaps I may be happy. Do not hold me, let me go. You know how well I love you.


At least, let us have one final embrace.


Alas! no.


You are weeping.


No, I am not. In God’s name let me go.


Dear heart, you go but to weep in your chamber; stay here. I will marry you.


Nay, no more of that.


To-morrow, we are all to dine with M. Corneman, where the deed of settlement will be signed.


Dearest, it is too late; you have decided on my destiny, and I cannot go back from my word. Come to dinner at M. Corneman’s, and be sure that in a few weeks we shall be congratulating ourselves on having won a great victory. Our love, crowned all too soon, will soon live only in our memories. I beg of you to write to me no more.


Have I the necessary talents?


I think so.


I have an inclination for all honest means of earning a livelihood, and as for my talents I will take your excellency’s opinion for granted.


Voltaire is wrong, for the Neapolitan dialect is of such a nature that it is impossible to write verses in it that are not laughable. And why should he be vexed; he who makes people laugh is sure of being beloved. The Neapolitan dialect is truly a singular one; we have it in translations of the Bible and of the Iliad, and both are comic.


I can imagine that the Bible would be, but I should not have thought that would have been the case with the Iliad.


It is, nevertheless.


I will make the attempt, and will hand you in my report on my return, and it will be for you to say if I have succeeded or not.


As this is a secret mission, I cannot give you a letter of commendation; I can only give you some money and wish you a pleasant journey.


I do not wish to be paid in advance--on my return you can give me what you think fit. I shall want three or four days before setting out, as I must procure some letters of introduction.


Very good. Try to come back before the end of the month. I have no further instructions to give you.


This was the last occasion on which I made use of his purse; I did not borrow from him at Rome fourteen years afterwards.


As you are on a secret mission, my dear Casanova, I cannot give you a passport. I am sorry for it, but if I did so your object would be suspected. However, you will easily be able to get one from the first gentleman of the chamber, on some pretext or other. Silvia will be more useful to you in that way than anybody else. You quite understand how discreet your behaviour must be. Above all, do not get into any trouble; for I suppose you know that, if anything happened to you, it would be of no use to talk of your mission. We should be obliged to know nothing about you, for ambassadors are the only avowed spies. Remember that you must be even more careful and reserved than they, and yet, if you wish to succeed, all this must be concealed, and you must have an air of freedom from constraint that you may inspire confidence. If, on your return, you like to shew me your report before handing it in, I will tell you what may require to be left out or added.


You can take her the box of china statuettes, if M. Corneman has not sent them already.


Get me the horses. I will make them open the gates.


Who goes there?


Express messenger.


Whose messenger are you?


Nobody’s, but as I am in a hurry.


That will do. We will talk the matter over tomorrow. In the meanwhile you will accept the hospitality of the guard-room.


But, sir . . .


But me no buts, if you please; leave the room.


Your name, sir?


Here is my passport.


Would you like to see the governor?


Yes, I should. Not so fast, sir, I am not in such a hurry now. I shall send a messenger to Paris and wait his return; for by stopping me on my journey you have violated all the rights of the subject.


You violated them yourself in calling yourself a messenger.


Not at all; I told you that I was not one.


Yes, but you told your postillion that you were, and that comes to the same thing.


The postillion is a liar, I told him nothing of the kind.


Why didn’t you shew your passport?


Why didn’t you give me time to do so? In the course of the next few days we shall see who is right.


Just as you please.


I am sorry for what has happened, sir, and above all that you think you have good reason for complaint, inasmuch as I only did my duty, for how was I to imagine that your postillion had called you a messenger on his own responsibility.


That’s all very well, sir, but your sense of duty need not have made you drive me from your room.


I was in need of sleep.


I am in the same position at the present moment, but a feeling of politeness prevents me from imitating your example.


May I ask if you have ever been in the service?


I have served by land and sea, and have left off when most people are only beginning.


In that case you will be aware that the gates of a fortified town are only opened by night to the king’s messengers or to military superiors.


Yes, I know; but since they were opened the thing was done, and you might as well have been polite.


Will you not put on your clothes, and walk a short distance with me!


Sir--my wife, here is M. de Casanova, who has come to dinner with us.


I am delighted to hear it, sir, as otherwise I should have had no chance of forgiving you for waking me up the other night.


I paid dearly for my fault, madam, but after the purgatory I had endured I am sure you will allow me to be happy in this paradise.


You’re a nice man, to think I was going to fight you. Ah! ha! I have caught you, haven’t I?


Who told you that I was meditating a duel?


Confess that such was the case?


I protest; there is a great difference between believing and supposing; the one is positive, the other merely hypothetical. I must confess, however, that your invitation to take a walk roused my curiosity as to what was to come next, and I admire your wit. But you must believe me that I do not regard myself as caught in a trap--far from that, I am so well pleased that I feel grateful to you.


As you talk in that style, we will see what we can see.


You can go if you like, we are not your servants.


Without your paying either the fine or caution money,


you will find it a hard matter to get yourself out of the difficulty.


There’s a whole day lost, then,


Let us go and hunt him up; he must have well-known resorts and friends, and we will find them out. I will give you a louis for the day’s work; will that be enough?


Ample.


And so, sir, I may reveal to you what after all is no secret. My daughter told me yesterday evening that she was going to dine at Madame N----’s, and that the superintendent was to be there. Do you go after him now, and you will find him at table in the best society in Amiens, but. I advise you not to give your name at the door. The numerous servants will shew you the way without asking for your name. You can then speak to him whether he likes it or not, and though you don’t know him he will hear all you say. I am sorry that I cannot be present at so fine a situation.


Ladies and gentlemen, you will excuse my troubling your quiet on this festive occasion with a tale of terror.


Since seven o’clock this morning I have been searching from door to door and from street to street for his honour the superintendent, whom I have at last been fortunate enough to find here, for I know perfectly well that he is present, and that if he have ears he hears me now. I am come to request him to order his scoundrelly myrmidons who have seized my carriage to give it up, so that I may continue my journey. If the laws bid me pay twelve hundred francs for seven ounces of snuff for my own private use, I renounce those laws and declare that I will not pay a farthing. I shall stay here and send a messenger to my ambassador, who will complain that the ‘jus gentium’ has been violated in the Ile-de-France in my person, and I will have reparation. Louis XV. is great enough to refuse to become an accomplice in this strange onslaught. And if that satisfaction which is my lawful right is not granted me, I will make the thing an affair of state, and my Republic will not revenge itself by assaulting Frenchmen for a few pinches of snuff, but will expel them all root and branch. If you want to know whom I am, read this.


If you are here to do justice, you will look upon my passport as a positive command to speed me on my way, and I bid you yourself be my surety if you are a gentleman.


Does high birth go bail for breaches of the law in your country?


In my country men of high birth do not condescend to take dishonourable employments.


No service under the king can be dishonourable.


The hangman would say the same thing.


Take care what you say.


Take care what you do. Know, sir, that I am a free man who has been grievously outraged, and know, too, that I fear no one. Throw me out of the window, if you dare.


Sir, in my house there is no throwing out of windows.


Madam, an angry man makes use of terms which his better reason disowns. I am wronged by a most cruel act of injustice, and I humbly crave your pardon for having offended you. Please to reflect that for the first time in my life I have been oppressed and insulted, and that in a kingdom where I thought myself safe from all but highway robbers. For them I have my pistols, and for the worthy superintendents I have a passport, but I find the latter useless. For the sake of seven ounces of snuff which I bought at St. Omer three weeks ago, this gentleman robs me and interrupts my journey, though the king’s majesty is my surety that no one shall interfere with me; he calls on me to pay fifty louis, he delivers me to the rage of his impudent menials and to the derision of the mob, from whom I had to rid myself by my money and the aid of this worthy man beside me. I am treated like a scoundrel, and the man who should have been my defender and deliverer slinks away and hides himself, and adds to the insults I have received. His myrmidons have turned my clothes upside down, and pitchforked my linen at the foot of the town gates, to revenge themselves on me for not giving them twenty-four sous. To-morrow the manner in which I have been treated will be known to the diplomatic bodies at Versailles and Paris, and in a few days it will be in all the newspapers. I will pay not a farthing because I owe not a farthing. Now, sir, am I to send a courier to the Duc de Gesvres?


What you have got to do is to pay, and if you do not care to pay, you may do whatever you like.


Then, ladies and gentlemen, good-bye. As for you, sir, we shall meet again.


Let this gentleman proceed on his journey; I will go bail for him. Do you understand me, superintendent? I will be his surety. You don’t know these Italians. I went through the whole of the last war in Italy, and I understand the national character. Besides, I think the gentleman is in the right.


Very good. All you have to do is to pay a matter of thirty or forty francs at the customs’ office as the affair is already booked.


I thought I told you that I would not pay a single farthing, and I tell it you again. But who are you, sir,


who are good enough to become surety for me without knowing me?


I am a commissary of musters, sir, and my name is de la Bretonniere. I live in Paris at the ‘Hotel de Saxe,’ Rue Colombien, where I shall be glad to see you after to-morrow. We will go together to M. Britard, who, after hearing your case, will discharge my bail.


I wonder at that since it has been left in the hands of men of your stamp; shall I find the snuff? The snuff has been confiscated, my lord.


I am sorry for you, then; for if it had been there I would have given you a louis.


I will go and look for it directly.


I have no time to wait for it. Drive on, postillion.


a wife, if a good one, would have been only too happy to alleviate my troubles by sharing in them,


a woman of parts, after seeing to the safety of my baggage and my coach, would have busied herself in taking the necessary steps for setting me at liberty,


My dear Casanova. I can drop you at your own door without giving myself the slightest inconvenience, though my carriage is only seated for two; however, my sweetheart can sit on our knees.


I am really very much obliged to you, my dear fellow, for a piece of politeness thoroughly Italian, of which, however, I do not feel worthy; at least, I hope it’s meant as politeness and not as a sign of contempt.


My dear count, let us forget this foolish story. You have no business to attack me, as I do not know how to defend myself.


Why should you defend yourself, my dear fellow. We like you all the better for it, and this humorous adventure makes us merry every evening.


Everybody knows it, then?


Of course, why not? It makes Camille choke with laughter. Come this evening; I will bring Babet, and she will amuse you as she maintains that you were not mistaken.


She is right.


Eh? what? You do me too much honour, and I don’t believe you; but have it as you like.


I can’t do better, but I must confess when all’s said that you were not the person to whom my fevered imagination offered such ardent homage.


villain,


I haven’t got the money,


but my purse and all it contains is at your service.


I want a hundred louis, my dear fellow, and immediately, as I lost them at play yesterday evening at the Princess of Anhalt’s.


But I haven’t got them.


The receiver of the lottery ought always to be able to put his hand on a hundred louis.


Yes, but I can’t touch my cash-box; I have to give it up this day week.


So you can; as I will repay you on Saturday. Take a hundred louis from the box, and put in my word of honour instead; don’t you think that is worth a hundred Louis?


I have nothing to say to that, wait for me a minute.


I give you my word of honour.


Your word of honour is in my box, so let’s say nothing about that. You can repay me when you like.


My word of honour, my dear Casanova, is more precious to me than my life; and I will give you the hundred louis at nine o’clock to-morrow morning at a hundred paces from the cafe at the end of the Champs-Elysees. I will give you them in person, and nobody will see us. I hope you will not fail to be there, and that you will bring your sword. I shall have mine.


Faith, count! that’s making me pay rather dear for my jest. You certainly do me a great honour, but I would rather beg your pardon, if that would prevent this troublesome affair from going any further.


No, I am more to blame than you, and the blame can only be removed by the sword’s point. Will you meet me?


I do not see how I can refuse you, although I am very much averse to the affair.


I am satisfied.


Very good, then I will go out and buy a brush.


I will send a servant.


No, I must get it myself, as I want some drugs as well.


I must have a little of your----, this liquid is indispensable, and it must be quite fresh.


You were sure of success, then, as you did not come to see me the day after your astounding operation.


Of course I was sure, but if I had not been too busy you would have seen me, for all that.


May I take a bath?


No, don’t bathe till you feel quite well.


Very good. Everybody is in a state of astonishment at your feat, as I could not help telling the miracle to all my acquaintances. There are certainly some sceptics who laugh at me, but I let them talk.


You should have kept your own counsel; you know what Paris is like. Everybody will be considering me as a master-quack.


Not at all, not at all. I have come to ask a favour of you.


What’s that?


I have an aunt who enjoys a great reputation for her skill in the occult sciences, especially in alchemy. She is a woman of wit, very, rich, and sole mistress of her fortune; in short, knowing her will do you no harm. She longs to see you, for she pretends to know you, and says that you are not what you seem. She has entreated me to take you to dine with her, and I hope you will accept the invitation. Her name is the Marchioness d’Urfe.


She has twelve people every day to dinner, and you will find yourself in the company of the best society in Paris.


My dear fellow, that’s exactly what I don’t want; for I hate to be thought a magician, which must have been the effect of the tales you have told.


Oh, no! not at all; your character is well known, and you will find yourself in the society of people who have the greatest regard for you.


Are you sure of that?


The Duchess de l’Oragnais told me, that, four or five years ago, you were often to be seen at the Palais Royal, and that you used to spend whole days with the Duchess d’Orleans; Madame de Bouffers, Madame de Blots, and Madame de Melfort have also talked to me about you. You are wrong not to keep up your old acquaintances. I know at least a hundred people of the first rank who are suffering from the same malady as that of which you cured me, and would give the half of their goods to be cured. I do not wish to become a public character, and that he must tell Madame d’Urfe that I would have the honour of calling on her in strict privacy only, and that she might tell me the day and hour on which I should kneel before her.


You do not believe, then, in steganography.


No, sir, and if you would like it, I will give you this which has been copied from the original.


I accept it, madam, with all the more gratitude in that I know its worth.


and. I often get letters from him. If the Regent of France, had listened to me he would be alive now. He was my first friend; he gave me the name of Egeria, and he married me to M. d’Urfe.


You know the ingredients, I suppose?


Yes; this fixed salt is a salt of urine.


You are right.


I admire your sagacity, madam. You have made an analysis of the mixture with which I traced the pentacle on your nephew’s thigh, but in what way can you discover the words which give the pentacle its efficacy?


In the manuscript of an adept, which I will shew you, and where you will find the very words you used.


I have never heard of them, madam, but I know those of Poliphilus. It is said they are the same. I don’t believe it. We shall see. If you will write the words you uttered, as you drew the pentacle on my nephew’s thigh, and if I find the same talisman with the same words around it, the identity will be proved. It will, I confess. I will write the words immediately. You see, that Poliphilus and the Count de Treves possessed the same art.


I shall be convinced that it is so, if your book contains the manner of pronouncing the ineffable names. Do you know the theory of the planetary hours?


I think so, but they are not needed in this operation.


They are indispensable, madam, for without them one cannot work with any certainty. I drew Solomon’s pentacle on the thigh of Count de la Tour d’Auvergne in the hour of Venus, and if I had not begun with Arael, the spirit of Venus, the operation would have had no effect.


I did not know that. And after Arael?


Next comes Mercury, then the Moon, then Jupiter, and then the Sun. It is, you see, the magic cycle of Zoroaster, in which Saturn and Mars are omitted.


And how would you have proceeded if you had gone to work in the hour of the Moon?


I should have begun with Jupiter, passed to the Sun, then to Arael or Venus, and I should have finished at Mercury.


I see sir, that you are most apt in the calculation of the planetary hours.


Without it one can do nothing in magic, as one would have no proper data; however, it is an easy matter to learn. Anyone could pick it up in a month’s time. The practical use, however, is much more difficult than the theory; this, indeed, is a complicated affair. I never leave my house without ascertaining the exact number of minutes in the day, and take care that my watch is exact to the time, for a minute more or less would make all the difference in the world.


Would you have the goodness to explain the theory to me.


You will find it in Artephius and more clearly in Sandivogius.


I have both works, but they are in Latin.


I will make you a translation of them.


You are very kind; I shall be extremely obliged to you.


I have seen such things here, madam, that I could not refuse, for reasons which I may, perhaps, tell you to-morrow.


Why not to-day?


Because I ought to know the name of your familiar spirit before I tell you.


You know, then, that I have a familiar? You should have one, if it is true that you possess the powder of projection.


I have one.


Give me the oath of the order.


I dare not, and you know why.


Perhaps I shall be able to remove your fears by tomorrow.


When we find this oath alluded to in the Holy Scriptures, it is indicated by the words ‘he swore to him by laying his hand on his thigh.’


But the thigh is not really what is meant; and consequently we never find any notice of a man taking this oath to a woman, as a woman has no ‘verbum’.


and I am going to take leave of you, my dear aunt, at least for a month, as I intend to shut myself up with the sick man.


Hang it round his neck and the eruption will come out well, and he will be perfectly cured.


I do not know, madam, what your bag contains, but if it have aught to do with magic, I have no confidence in its efficacy, as you have neglected to observe the planetary hour.


It is an electrum, and magic and the observance of the hour have nothing to do with it.


I beg your pardon.


I will introduce you to all my friends, by asking them one at a time, and you will then be able to enjoy the company of them all.


Yes,


I have deciphered it, and consequently read it, and I now beg to return it you with my word of honour that I have not made a copy; in fact, I found nothing in it that I did not know before.


Without the key you mean, but of course you could never find out that.


Shall I tell you the key?


Pray do so. This is too amazing. I thought myself the sole possessor of that mysterious word--for I had never written it down, laying it up in my memory--and I am sure I have never told anyone of it.


I did not think, that your spirit would have been able to force mine to reveal my secrets.


There was no need to force your spirit, madam, as mine knows all things of his own power.


Does he know the inmost secrets of my soul?


Certainly, and if I ask him he is forced to disclose all to me.


Can you ask him when you like?


Oh, yes! provided I have paper and ink. I can even ask him questions through you by telling you his name.


And will you tell it me?


I can do what I say; and, to convince you, his name is Paralis. Ask him a simple question in writing, as you would ask a common mortal. Ask him, for instance, how I deciphered your manuscript, and you shall see I will compel him to answer you.


I know that, and what is more I know the death I shall have to die; but for all that I am ready.


What, then, is that death, madam?


It is by the same poison which killed Paracelsus.


Do you think that Paracelsus obtained the hypostasis?


No, but I know the reason of his not doing so.


What is the reason?


It is that he was neither man or woman, and a composite nature is incapable of the hypostasis, to obtain which one must be either the one or the other.


Very true, but do you know how to make the poison, and that the thing is impossible without the aid of a salamander?


That may or may not be! I beseech you to enquire of the oracle whether there be anyone in Paris in possession of this potion. You see that all we want is a male child born of an immortal. This, I am advised, will be provided by you; and I do not think you will be found wanting out of a foolish pity for this poor old body of mine. Can it be done, my dear friend? I see that you have been weeping.


As you do not require money in advance, you will be able to get as many letters of recommendation as you like.


For my part. I will credit our ambassador with twenty millions, and if, contrary to my hopes, you do not succeed, the paper can be sent back to France.


The margin will be a small one; however, you will hear about that from the ambassador, who will have full instructions.


I am a poor man, and I can do nothing for this unfortunate girl; while if I had a hundred crowns I could do everything.


Don’t let that stand in your way,


Now, sir. I will be the ruin of her husband, who shall never know where his wife is.


I have solved your problem, sir; come in here and I will tell you about it.


Look at this note, which I received this morning from the Mint. It informs me that an issue of four hundred thousand ducats is about to be made which will be disposed of at the current rate of gold, which is fortunately not high just now. Each ducat will fetch five florins, two stivers and three-fifths. This is the rate of exchange with Frankfort. Buy in four hundred thousand ducats; take them or send them to Frankfort, with bills of exchange on Amsterdam, and your business is done. On every ducat you will make a stiver and one-ninth, which comes to twenty-two thousand, two hundred and twenty-two of our florins. Get hold of the gold to-day, and in a week you will have your clear profit. That’s my idea.


But, will the clerks of the Mint trust me with such a sum?


Certainly not, unless you pay them in current money or in good paper.


My dear sir, I have neither money nor credit to that amount.


Then you will certainly never make twenty thousand florins in a week. By the way you talked yesterday I took you for a millionaire.


I am very sorry you were so mistaken.


I shall get one of my sons to transact the business to-day.


because, in business, most honest and least knavish mean pretty much the same thing. If you like. I will give you a letter of introduction to M. Pels, of Amsterdam.


I am posting, sir, and, moreover, I am a foreigner.


Sir, in Holland we take no notice of posting or not posting; and if you are foreigner, as you say, you must confess that you have fewer rights than I who am in my own country.


But would you, mademoiselle, like to go?


Yes, I should like to go very well, but I cannot go by myself.


If I might presume to offer to escort you . . . but I dare not think you would accept.


I should be delighted, and if you were to ask my father I am sure he would not refuse his permission.


Are you sure of that?


Quite sure, for otherwise he would be guilty of impoliteness, and my father would not do such a thing. But I see you don’t know the manners of the country.


I confess I do not.


Young ladies enjoy great liberty here--liberty which they lose only by marrying. Go and ask, and you will see.


Have you a carriage?


Yes, sir.


Then I need not give orders to get mine ready. Esther!


Yes, father.


Go and dress, my dear; M. Casanova has been kind enough to offer to take you to the concert.


How good of him! Thank you, papa, for letting me go.


that she was a treasure of whom I was not worthy to be the keeper.


I know that in other countries a young girl would not be trusted alone with a gentleman, but here they teach us discretion and how to look after ourselves.


Happy the man who is charged with your welfare, and happier still he on whom your choice has fallen!


That choice is not for me to make; ‘tis my father’s business.


But supposing your father’s choice is not pleasing to you, or supposing you love another?


We are not allowed to love a man until we know he is to be our husband.


Then you are not in love with anyone?