Croce Is Expelled From Venice--Sgombro--His Infamy and Death--Misfortune
Which Befalls My Dear C. C.--I Receive An Anonymous Letter From a Nun,
and Answer It--An Amorous Intrigue
My former partner was, as I have said before, a skilful and experienced
hand at securing the favours of Fortune; he was driving a good trade in
Venice, and as he was amiable, and what is called in society a gentleman,
he might have held that excellent footing for a long time, if he had been
satisfied with gambling; for the State Inquisitors would have too much to
attend to if they wished to compel fools to spare their fortunes, dupes
to be prudent, and cheats not to dupe the fools; but, whether through the
folly of youth or through a vicious disposition, the cause of his exile
was of an extraordinary and disgusting nature.
A Venetian nobleman, noble by birth, but very ignoble in his
propensities, called Sgombro, and belonging to the Gritti family, fell
deeply in love with him, and Croce, either for fun or from taste, shewed
himself very compliant. Unfortunately the reserve commanded by common
decency was not a guest at their amorous feats, and the scandal became so
notorious that the Government was compelled to notify to Croce the order
to quit the city, and to seek his fortune in some other place.
Some time afterwards the infamous Sgombro seduced his own two sons, who
were both very young, and, unfortunately for him, he put the youngest in
such a state as to render necessary an application to a surgeon. The
infamous deed became publicly known, and the poor child confessed that he
had not had the courage to refuse obedience to his father. Such obedience
was, as a matter of course, not considered as forming a part of the
duties which a son owes to his father, and the State Inquisitors sent the
disgusting wretch to the citadel of Cataro, where he died after one year
of confinement.
It is well known that the air of Cataro is deadly, and that the Tribunal
sentences to inhale it only such criminals as are not judged publicly for
fear of exciting too deeply the general horror by the publication of the
trial.
It was to Cataro that the Council of Ten sent, fifteen years ago, the
celebrated advocate Cantarini, a Venetian nobleman, who by his eloquence
had made himself master of the great Council, and was on the point of
changing the constitution of the State. He died there at the end of the
year. As for his accomplices, the Tribunal thought that it was enough to
punish the four or five leaders, and to pretend not to know the others,
who through fear of punishment returned silently to their allegiance.
That Sgombro, of whom I spoke before, had a charming wife who is still
alive, I believe. Her name was Cornelia Gitti; she was as celebrated by
her wit as by her beauty, which she kept in spite of her years. Having
recovered her liberty through the death of her husband, she knew better
than to make herself a second time the prisoner of the Hymenean god; she
loved her independence too much; but as she loved pleasure too, she
accepted the homage of the lovers who pleased her taste.
One Monday, towards the end of July, my servant woke me at day-break to
tell me that Laura wished to speak to me. I foresaw some misfortune, and
ordered the servant to shew her in immediately. These are the contents of
the letter which she handed to me:
"My dearest, a misfortune has befallen me last evening, and it makes me
very miserable because I must keep it a secret from everyone in the
convent. I am suffering from a very severe loss of blood, and I do not
know what to do, having but very little linen. Laura tells me I shall
require a great deal of it if the flow of blood continues. I can take no
one into my confidence but you, and I entreat you to send me as much
linen as you can. You see that I have been compelled to make a confidante
of Laura, who is the only person allowed to enter my room at all times.
If I should die, my dear husband, everybody in the convent would, of
course, know the cause of my death; but I think of you, and I shudder.
What will you do in your grief? Ah, darling love! what a pity!"
I dressed myself hurriedly, plying Laura with questions all the time. She
told me plainly that it was a miscarriage, and that it was necessary to
act with great discretion in order to save the reputation of my young
friend; that after all she required nothing but plenty of linen, and that
it would be nothing. Commonplace words of consolation, which did not
allay the fearful anxiety under which I was labouring. I went out with
Laura, called on a Jew from whom I bought a quantity of sheets and two
hundred napkins, and, putting it all in a large bag, I repaired with her
to Muran. On our way there I wrote in pencil to my sweetheart, telling
her to have entire confidence in Laura, and assuring her that I would not
leave Muran until all danger had passed. Before we landed, Laura told me
that, in order not to be remarked, I had better conceal myself in her
house. At any other time it would have been shutting up the wolf in the
sheep-fold. She left me in a miserable-looking small room on the ground
floor, and concealing about herself as much linen as she could she
hurried to her patient, whom she had not seen since the previous evening.
I was in hopes that she would find her out of danger, and I longed to see
her come back with that good news.
She was absent about one hour, and when she returned her looks were sad.
She told me that my poor friend, having lost a great deal of blood during
the night, was in bed in a very weak state, and that all we could do was
to pray to God for her, because, if the flooding of the blood did not
stop soon, she could not possibly live twenty-four hours.
When I saw the linen which she had concealed under her clothes to bring
it out, I could not disguise my horror, and I thought the sight would
kill me. I fancied myself in a slaughter-house! Laura, thinking of
consoling me, told me that I could rely upon the secret being well kept.
"Ah! what do I care!" I exclaimed. "Provided she lives, let the whole
world know that she is my wife!"
At any other time, the foolishness of poor Laura would have made me
laugh; but in such a sad moment I had neither the inclination nor the
courage to be merry.
"Our dear patient," added Laura, "smiled as she was reading your letter,
and she said that, with you so near her, she was certain not to die."
Those words did me good, but a man needs so little to console him or to
soothe his grief.
"When the nuns are at their dinner," said Laura, "I will go back to the
convent with as much linen as I can conceal about me, and in the mean
time I am going to wash all this."
"Has she had any visitors?"
"Oh, yes! all the convent; but no one has any suspicion of the truth."
"But in such hot weather as this she can have only a very light blanket
over her, and her visitors must remark the great bulk of the napkins."
"There is no fear of that, because she is sitting up in her bed."
"What does she eat?"
"Nothing, for she must not eat."
Soon afterwards Laura went out, and I followed her. I called upon a
physician, where I wasted my time and my money, in order to get from him
a long prescription which was useless, for it would have put all the
convent in possession of the secret, or, to speak more truly, her secret
would have been known to the whole world, for a secret known to a nun
soon escapes out of the convent's walls. Besides, the physician of the
convent himself would most likely have betrayed it through a spirit of
revenge.
I returned sadly to my miserable hole in Laura's house. Half an hour
afterwards she came to me, crying bitterly, and she placed in my hands
this letter, which was scarcely legible:
"I have not strength enough to write to you, my darling; I am getting
weaker and weaker; I am losing all my blood, and I am afraid there is no
remedy. I abandon myself to the will of God, and I thank Him for having
saved me from dishonour. Do not make yourself unhappy. My only
consolation is to know that you are near me. Alas! if I could see you but
for one moment I would die happy."
The sight of a dozen napkins brought by Laura made me shudder, and the
good woman imagined that she afforded me some consolation by telling me
that as much linen could be soaked with a bottle of blood. My mind was
not disposed to taste such consolation; I was in despair, and I addressed
to myself the fiercest reproaches, upbraiding myself as the cause of the
death of that adorable creature. I threw myself on the bed, and remained
there, almost stunned, for more than six hours, until Laura's return from
the convent with twenty napkins entirely soaked. Night had come on, and
she could not go back to her patient until morning. I passed a fearful
night without food, without sleep, looking upon myself with horror, and
refusing all the kind attentions that Laura's daughters tried to shew me.
It was barely daylight when Laura same to announce to me, in the saddest
tone, that my poor friend did not bleed any more. I thought she was dead,
and I screamed loudly,
"Oh! she is no more!"
"She is still breathing, sir; but I fear she will not outlive this day,
for she is worn out. She can hardly open her eyes, and her pulse is
scarcely to be felt."
A weight was taken off me; I was instinctively certain that my darling
was saved.
"Laura," I said, "this is not bad news; provided the flooding has ceased
entirely, all that is necessary is to give her some light food."
"A physician has been sent for. He will prescribe whatever is right, but
to tell you the truth I have not much hope."
"Only give me the assurance that she is still alive."
"Yes, she is, I assure you; but you understand very well that she will
not tell the truth to the doctor, and God knows what he will order. I
whispered to her not to take anything, and she understood me."
"You are the best of women. Yes, if she does not die from weakness before
to-morrow, she is saved; nature and love will have been her doctors."
"May God hear you! I shall be back by twelve."
"Why not before?"
"Because her room will be full of people."
Feeling the need of hope, and almost dead for want of food, I ordered
some dinner, and prepared a long letter for my beloved mistress, to be
delivered to her when she was well enough to read it. The instants given
to repentance are very sad, and I was truly a fit subject for pity. I
longed to see Laura again, so as to hear what the doctor had said. I had
very good cause for laughing at all sorts of oracles, yet through some
unaccountable weakness I longed for that of the doctor; I wanted, before
all, to find it a propitious one.
Laura's young daughters waited upon me at dinner; I could not manage to
swallow a mouthful, but it amused me to see the three sisters devour my
dinner at the first invitation I gave them. The eldest sister, a very
fine girl, never raised her large eyes once towards me. The two younger
ones seemed to me disposed to be amiable, but if I looked at them it was
only to feed my despair and the cruel pangs of repentance.
At last Laura, whom I expected anxiously, came back; she told me that the
dear patient remained in the same state of debility; the doctor had been
greatly puzzled by her extreme weakness because he did not know to what
cause to attribute it. Laura added,
"He has ordered some restoratives and a small quantity of light broth; if
she can sleep, he answers for her life. He has likewise desired her to
have someone to watch her at night, and she immediately pointed her
finger at me, as if she wished me to undertake that office. Now, I
promise you never to leave her either night or day, except to bring you
news."
I thanked her, assuring her that I would reward her generously. I heard
with great pleasure that her mother had paid her a visit, and that she
had no suspicion of the real state of things, for she had lavished on her
the most tender caresses.
Feeling more at ease I gave six sequins to Laura, one to each of her
daughters, and ate something for my supper: I then laid myself down on
one of the wretched beds in the room. As soon as the two younger sisters
saw me in bed, they undressed themselves without ceremony, and took
possession of the second bed which was close by mine. Their innocent
confidence pleased me. The eldest sister, who most likely had more
practical experience, retired to the adjoining room; she had a lover to
whom she was soon to be married. This time, however, I was not possessed
with the evil spirit of concupiscence, and I allowed innocence to sleep
peacefully without attempting anything against it.
Early the next morning Laura was the bearer of good news. She came in
with a cheerful air to announce that the beloved patient had slept well,
and that she was going back soon to give her some soup. I felt an almost
maddening joy in listening to her, and I thought the oracle of
AEsculapius a thousand times more reliable than that of Apollo. But it
was not yet time to exult in our victory, for my poor little friend had
to recover her strength and to make up for all the blood she had lost;
that could be done only by time and careful nursing. I remained another
week at Laura's house, which I left only after my dear C---- C---- had
requested me to do so in a letter of four pages. Laura, when I left, wept
for joy in seeing herself rewarded by the gift of all the fine linen I
had bought for my C---- C----, and her daughters were weeping likewise,
most probably because, during the ten days I had spent near them, they
had not obtained a single kiss from me.
After my return to Venice, I resumed my usual habits; but with a nature
like mine how could I possibly remain satisfied without positive love? My
only pleasure was to receive a letter from my dear recluse every
Wednesday, who advised me to wait patiently rather than to attempt
carrying her off. Laura assured me that she had become more lovely than
ever, and I longed to see her. An opportunity of gratifying my wishes
soon offered itself, and I did not allow it to escape. There was to be a
taking of the veil--a ceremony which always attracts a large number of
persons. On those occasions the nuns always received a great many
visitors, and I thought that the boarders were likely to be in the
parlour on such an occasion. I ran no risk of being remarked any more
than any other person, for I would mingle with the crowd. I therefore
went without saying anything about it to Laura, and without acquainting
my dear little wife of my intentions. I thought I would fall, so great
was my emotion, when I saw her within four yards from me, and looking at
me as if she had been in an ecstatic state. I thought her taller and more
womanly, and she certainly seemed to me more beautiful than before. I saw
no one but her; she never took her eyes off me, and I was the last to
leave that place which on that day struck me as being the temple of
happiness.
Three days afterwards I received a letter from her. She painted with such
vivid colours the happiness she had felt in seeing me, that I made up my
mind to give her that pleasure as often as I could. I answered at once
that I would attend mass every Sunday at the church of her convent. It
cost me nothing: I could not see her, but I knew that she saw me herself,
and her happiness made me perfectly happy. I had nothing to fear, for it
was almost impossible that anyone could recognize me in the church which
was attended only by the people of Muran.
After hearing two or three masses, I used to take a gondola, the
gondolier of which could not feel any curiosity about me. Yet I kept on
my guard, for I knew that the father of C---- C---- wanted her to forget
me, and I had no doubt he would have taken her away, God knew where if he
had had the slightest suspicion of my being acquainted with the place
where he had confined her.
Thus I was reasoning in my fear to lose all opportunity of corresponding
with my dear C---- C----, but I did not yet know the disposition and the
shrewdness of the sainted daughters of the Lord. I did not suppose that
there was anything remarkable in my person, at least for the inmates of a
convent; but I was yet a novice respecting the curiosity of women, and
particularly of unoccupied hearts; I had soon occasion to be convinced.
I had executed my Sunday manoeuvering only for a month or five weeks,
when my dear C---- C---- wrote me jestingly that I had become a living
enigma for all the convent, boarders and nuns, not even excepting the old
ones. They all expected me anxiously; they warned each other of my
arrival, and watched me taking the holy water. They remarked that I never
cast a glance toward the grating, behind which were all the inmates of
the convent; that I never looked at any of the women coming in or going
out of the church. The old nuns said that I was certainly labouring under
some deep sorrow, of which I had no hope to be cured except through the
protection of the Holy Virgin, and the young ones asserted that I was
either melancholy or misanthropic.
My dear wife, who knew better than the others, and had no occasion to
lose herself in suppositions, was much amused, and she entertained me by
sending me a faithful report of it all. I wrote to her that, if she had
any fear of my being recognized I would cease my Sunday visits to the
church. She answered that I could not impose upon her a more cruel
privation, and she entreated me to continue my visits. I thought it would
be prudent, however, to abstain from calling at Laura's house, for fear
of the chattering nuns contriving to know it, and discovering in that
manner a great deal more than I wished them to find out. But that
existence was literally consuming me by slow degrees, and could not last
long. Besides, I was made to have a mistress, and to live happily with
her. Not knowing what to do with myself, I would gamble, and I almost
invariably won; but, in spite of that, weariness had got hold of me and I
was getting thinner every day.
With the five thousand sequins which my partner Croce had won for me in
Padua I had followed M. Bragadin's advice. I had hired a casino where I
held a faro bank in partnership with a matador, who secured me against
the frauds of certain noblemen--tyrants, with whom a private citizen is
always sure to be in the wrong in my dear country.
On All Saints' Day, in the year 1753, just as, after hearing mass, I was
going to step into a gondola to return to Venice, I saw a woman, somewhat
in Laura's style who, passing near me, looked at me and dropped a letter.
I picked it up, and the woman, seeing me in possession of the epistle,
quietly went on. The letter had no address, and the seal represented a
running knot. I stepped hurriedly into the gondola, and as soon as we
were in the offing I broke the seal. I read the following words.
"A nun, who for the last two months and a half has seen you every Sunday
in the church of her convent, wishes to become acquainted with you. A
pamphlet which you have lost, and which chance has thrown into her hands,
makes her believe that you speak French; but, if you like it better, you
can answer in Italian, because what she wants above all is a clear and
precise answer. She does not invite you to call for her at the parlour of
the convent, because, before you place yourself under the necessity of
speaking to her, she wishes you to see her, and for that purpose she will
name a lady whom you can accompany to the parlour. That lady shall not
know you and need not therefore introduce you, in case you should not
wish to be known.
"Should you not approve of that way to become acquainted, the nun will
appoint a certain casino in Muran, in which you will find her alone, in
the evening, any night you may choose. You will then be at liberty either
to sup with her, or to retire after an interview of a quarter of an hour,
if you have any other engagements.
"Would you rather offer her a supper in Venice? Name the night, the hour,
the place of appointment, and you will see her come out of a gondola.
Only be careful to be there alone, masked and with a lantern.
"I feel certain that you will answer me, and that you will guess how
impatiently I am waiting for your letter. I entreat you, therefore, to
give it to-morrow to the same woman through whom you will receive mine!
you will find her one hour before noon in the church of St. Cancian, near
the first altar on the right.
"Recollect that, if I did not suppose you endowed with a noble soul and a
high mind, I could never have resolved on taking a step which might give
you an unfavorable opinion of my character."
The tone of that letter, which I have copied word by word, surprised me
even more than the offer it contained. I had business to attend to, but I
gave up all engagements to lock myself in my room in order to answer it.
Such an application betokened an extravagant mind, but there was in it a
certain dignity, a singularity, which attracted me. I had an idea that
the writer might be the same nun who taught French to C---- C----. She had
represented her friend in her letters as handsome, rich, gallant, and
generous. My dear wife had, perhaps, been guilty of some indiscretion. A
thousand fancies whirled through my brain, but I would entertain only
those which were favourable to a scheme highly pleasing to me. Besides,
my young friend had informed me that the nun who had given her French
lessons was not the only one in the convent who spoke that language. I
had no reason to suppose that, if C---- C---- had made a confidante of her
friend, she would have made a mystery of it to me. But, for all that, the
nun who had written to me might be the beautiful friend of my dear little
wife, and she might also turn out to be a different person; I felt
somewhat puzzled. Here is, however, the letter which I thought I could
write without implicating myself:
"I answer in French, madam, in the hope that my letter will have the
clearness and the precision of which you give me the example in yours.
"The subject is highly interesting and of the highest importance,
considering all the circumstances. As I must answer without knowing the
person to whom I am writing, you must feel, madam, that, unless I should
possess a large dose of vanity, I must fear some mystification, and my
honour requires that I should keep on my guard.
"If it is true that the person who has penned that letter is a
respectable woman, who renders me justice in supposing me endowed with
feeling as noble as her own, she will find, I trust, that I could not
answer in any other way than I am doing now.
"If you have judged me worthy, madam, of the honour which you do me by
offering me your acquaintance, although your good opinion can have been
formed only from my personal appearance, I feel it my duty to obey you,
even if the result be to undeceive you by proving that I had unwittingly
led you into a mistaken appreciation of my person.
"Of the three proposals which you so kindly made in your letter, I dare
not accept any but the first, with the restriction suggested by your
penetrating mind. I will accompany to the parlour of your convent a lady
who shall not know who I am, and, consequently, shall have no occasion to
introduce me.
"Do not judge too severely, madam, the specious reasons which compel me
not to give you my name, and receive my word of honour that I shall learn
yours only to render you homage. If you choose to speak to me, I will
answer with the most profound respect. Permit me to hope that you will
come to the parlour alone. I may mention that I am a Venetian, and
perfectly free.
"The only reason which prevents me from choosing one of the two other
arrangements proposed by you, either of which would have suited me better
because they greatly honour me, is, allow me to repeat it, a fear of
being the victim of a mystification; but these modes of meeting will not
be lost when you know me and when I have seen you. I entreat you to have
faith in my honour, and to measure my patience by your own. Tomorrow, at
the same place and at the same hour, I shall be anxiously expecting your
answer."
I went to the place appointed, and having met the female Mercury I gave
her my letter with a sequin, and I told her that I would come the next
day for the answer. We were both punctual. As soon as she saw me, she
handed me back the sequin which I had given her the day before, and a
letter, requesting me to read it and to let her know whether she was to
wait for an answer. Here is the exact copy of the letter:
"I believe, sir, that I have not been mistaken in anything. Like you, I
detest untruth when it can lead to important consequences, but I think it
a mere trifle when it can do no injury to anyone. Of my three proposals
you have chosen the one which does the greatest honour to your
intelligence, and, respecting the reasons which induce you to keep your
incognito, I have written the enclosed to the Countess of S----, which I
request you to read. Be kind enough to seal it before delivery of it to
her. You may call upon her whenever convenient to yourself. She will name
her own hour, and you will accompany her here in her gondola. The
countess will not ask you any questions, and you need not give her any
explanation. There will be no presentation; but as you will be made
acquainted with my name, you can afterwards call on me here, masked,
whenever you please, and by using the name of the countess. In that way
we shall become acquainted without the necessity of disturbing you, or of
your losing at night some hours which may be precious to you. I have
instructed my servant to wait for your answer in case you should be known
to the countess and object to her. If you approve of the choice I have
made of her, tell the messenger that there is no answer."
As I was an entire stranger to the countess, I told the woman that I had
no answer to give, and she left me.
Here are the contents of the note addressed by the nun to the countess,
and which I had to deliver to her:
"I beg of you, my dear friend, to pay me a visit when you are at leisure,
and to let the masked gentleman-bearer of this note know the hour, so
that he can accompany you. He will be punctual. Farewell. You will much
oblige your friend."
That letter seemed to me informed by a sublime spirit of intrigue; there
was in it an appearance of dignity which captivated me, although I felt
conscious that I was playing the character of a man on whom a favour
seemed to be bestowed.
In her last letter, my nun, pretending not to be anxious to know who I
was, approved of my choice, and feigned indifference for nocturnal
meetings; but she seemed certain that after seeing her I would visit her.
I knew very well what to think of it all, for the intrigue was sure to
have an amorous issue. Nevertheless, her assurance, or rather confidence,
increased my curiosity, and I felt that she had every reason to hope, if
she were young and handsome. I might very well have delayed the affair
for a few days, and have learned from C---- C---- who that nun could be;
but, besides the baseness of such a proceeding, I was afraid of spoiling
the game and repenting it afterwards. I was told to call on the countess
at my convenience, but it was because the dignity of my nun would not
allow her to shew herself too impatient; and she certainly thought that I
would myself hasten the adventure. She seemed to me too deeply learned in
gallantry to admit the possibility of her being an inexperienced novice,
and I was afraid of wasting my time; but I made up my mind to laugh at my
own expense if I happened to meet a superannuated female. It is very
certain that if I had not been actuated by curiosity I should not have
gone one step further, but I wanted to see the countenance of a nun who
had offered to come to Venice to sup with me. Besides, I was much
surprised at the liberty enjoyed by those sainted virgins, and at the
facility with which they could escape out of their walls.
At three o'clock I presented myself before the countess and delivered the
note, and she expressed a wish to see me the next day at the same hour.
We dropped a beautiful reverence to one another, and parted. She was a
superior woman, already going down the hill, but still very handsome.
The next morning, being Sunday, I need not say that I took care to attend
mass at the convent, elegantly dressed, and already unfaithful--at least
in idea--to my dear C---- C----, for I was thinking of being seen by the
nun, young or old, rather than of shewing myself to my charming wife.
In the afternoon I masked myself again, and at the appointed time I
repaired to the house of the countess who was waiting for me. We went in
a two-oared gondola, and reached the convent without having spoken of
anything but the weather. When we arrived at the gate, the countess asked
for M---- M----. I was surprised by that name, for the woman to whom it
belonged was celebrated. We were shewn into a small parlour, and a few
minutes afterwards a nun came in, went straight to the grating, touched a
spring, and made four squares of the grating revolve, which left an
opening sufficiently large to enable the two friends to embrace the
ingenious window was afterwards carefully closed. The opening was at
least eighteen inches wide, and a man of my size could easily have got
through it. The countess sat opposite the nun, and I took my seat a
little on one side so as to be able to observe quietly and at my ease one
of the most beautiful women that it was possible to see. I had no doubt
whatever of her being the person mentioned by my dear C---- C---- as
teaching her French. Admiration kept me in a sort of ecstacy, and I never
heard one word of their conversation; the beautiful nun, far from
speaking to me, did not even condescend to honour me with one look. She
was about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, and the shape of her
face was most beautiful. Her figure was much above the ordinary height,
her complexion rather pale, her appearance noble, full of energy, but at
the same time reserved and modest; her eyes, large and full, were of a
lovely blue; her countenance was soft and cheerful; her fine lips seemed
to breathe the most heavenly voluptuousness, and her teeth were two rows
of the most brilliant enamel. Her head-dress did not allow me to see her
hair, but if she had any I knew by the colour of her eyebrows that it was
of a beautiful light brown. Her hand and her arm, which I could see as
far as the elbow, were magnificent; the chisel of Praxiteles never carved
anything more grace fully rounded and plump, I was not sorry to have
refused the two rendezvous which had been offered to me by the beauty,
for I was sure of possessing her in a few days, and it was a pleasure for
me to lay my desires at her feet. I longed to find myself alone with her
near that grating, and I would have considered it an insult to her if,
the very next day, I had not come to tell her how fully I rendered to her
charms the justice they deserved. She was faithful to her determination
not to look at me once, but after all I was pleased with her reserve. All
at once the two friends lowered their voices, and out of delicacy I
withdrew further. Their private conversation lasted about a quarter of an
hour, during which I pretended to be intently looking at a painting; then
they kissed one another again by the same process as at the beginning of
the interview; the nun closed the opening, turned her back on us, and
disappeared without casting one glance in my direction.
As we were on our way back to Venice, the countess, tired perhaps of our
silence, said to me, with a smile,
"M---- M---- is beautiful and very witty."
"I have seen her beauty, and I believe in her wit."
"She did not address one word to you."
"I had refused to be introduced to her, and she punished me by pretending
not to know that I was present."
The countess made no answer, and we reached her house without exchanging
another word. At her door a very ceremonious curtesy, with these words,
"Adieu, sir!" warned me that I was not to go any further. I had no wish
to do so, and went away dreaming and wondering at the singularity of the
adventure, the end of which I longed to see.