ircumstance."

"Nothing extraordinary in that," I answered; "honest men generally
contrive to be hung far away from their native country; and as a proof of
it, sixty Frenchmen have been hung in the course of last year between
Naples, Rome, and Venice. Five times twelve are sixty; so you see that it
is only a fair exchange."

The laughter was all on my side, and the fine councillor went away rather
crestfallen. One of the gentlemen present at the discussion, finding my
answer to his taste, came up to Camille, and asked her in a whisper who I
was. We got acquainted at once.

It was M. de Marigni, whom I was delighted to know for the sake of my
brother whose arrival in Paris I was expecting every day. M. de Marigni
was superintendent of the royal buildings, and the Academy of Painting
was under his jurisdiction. I mentioned my brother to him, and he
graciously promised to protect him. Another young nobleman, who conversed
with me, invited me to visit him. It was the Duke de Matalona.

I told him that I had seen him, then only a child, eight years before in
Naples, and that I was under great obligations to his uncle, Don Lelio.
The young duke was delighted, and we became intimate friends.

My brother arrived in Paris in the spring of 1751, and he lodged with me
at Madame Quinson's. He began at once to work with success for private
individuals; but his main idea being to compose a picture to be submitted
to the judgment of the Academy, I introduced him to M. de Marigni, who
received him with great distinction, and encouraged him by assuring him
of his protection. He immediately set to work with great diligence.

M. de Morosini had been recalled, and M. de Mocenigo had succeeded him as
ambassador of the Republic. M. de Bragadin had recommended me to him, and
he tendered a friendly welcome both to me and to my brother, in whose
favour he felt interested as a Venetian, and as a young artist seeking to
build up a position by his talent.

M. de Mocenigo was of a very pleasant nature; he liked gambling although
he was always unlucky at cards; he loved women, and he was not more
fortunate with them because he did not know how to manage them. Two years
after his arrival in Paris he fell in love with Madame de Colande, and,
finding it impossible to win her affections, he killed himself.

Madame la Dauphine was delivered of a prince, the Duke of Burgundy, and
the rejoicings indulged in at the birth of that child seem to me
inc