t of him
contained in the first volume of these Memoirs.

After the ice had been thus broken it will be imagined that we had a long
conversation. He spoke of Barbaruccia, of the fair Marchioness G----, of
Cardinal S---- C----, and told me how he had passed from the Spanish to
the Portuguese service, in which he still continued. I was enjoying his
talk about numerous subjects which had interested me in my early youth,
when an unexpected sight absorbed all my thinking faculties. A young man
of fifteen or sixteen, as well grown as Italians usually are at that age,
came into the room, saluted the company with easy grace, and kissed
Therese. I was the only person who did not know him, but I was not the
only one who looked surprised. The daring Therese introduced him to me
with perfect coolness with the words:--

"That is my brother."

I greeted him as warmly as I could, but my manner was slightly confused,
as I had not had time to recover my composure. This so-called brother of
Therese was my living image, though his complexion was rather clearer
than mine. I saw at once that he was my son; nature had never been so
indiscreet as in the amazing likeness between us. This, then, was the
surprise of which Therese had spoken; she had devised the pleasure of
seeing me at once astounded and delighted, for she knew that my heart
would be touched at the thought of having left her such a pledge of our
mutual love. I had not the slightest foreknowledge in the matter, for
Therese had never alluded to her being with child in her letters. I
thought, however, that she should not have brought about this meeting in
the presence of a third party, for everyone has eyes in their head, and
anyone with eyes must have seen that the young man was either my son or
my brother. I glanced at her, but she avoided meeting my eye, while the
pretended brother was looking at me so attentively that he did not hear
what was said to him. As to the others, they did nothing but look first
at me and then at him, and if they came to the conclusion that he was my
son they would be obliged to suppose that I had been the lover of
Therese's mother, if she were really his sister, for taking into
consideration the age she looked and gave herself out to be she could not
possibly be his mother. It was equally impossible that I could be
Therese's father, as I did not look any older than she did.

My son spoke the Neapolitan dialect perfectly, but he also spoke Italian