ad
only an hour before us, we set to without even taking off our clothes.
After the last kiss which ended the third assault, she told me that she
was to be married on the eve of Shrove Tuesday, and that all had been
arranged by her confessor. She also thanked me for having asked Momolo to
invite her intended.

"When shall we see each other again, my angel?"

"On Sunday, the eve of my wedding, we shall be able to spend four hours
together."

"Delightful! I promise you that when you leave me you will be in such a
state that the caresses of your husband won't hurt you."

She smiled and departed, and I threw myself on the bed where I rested for
a good hour.

As I was going home I met a carriage and four going at a great speed. A
footman rode in front of the carriage, and within it I saw a young
nobleman. My attention was arrested by the blue ribbon on his breast. I
gazed at him, and he called out my name and had the carriage stopped. I
was extremely surprised when I found it was Lord O'Callaghan, whom I had
known at Paris at his mother's, the Countess of Lismore, who was
separated from her husband, and was the kept mistress of M. de St. Aubin,
the unworthy successor of the good and virtuous Fenelon in the
archbishopric of Cambrai. However, the archbishop owed his promotion to
the fact that he was a bastard of the Duc d'Orleans, the French Regent.

Lord O'Callaghan was a fine-looking young man, with wit and talent, but
the slave of his unbridled passions and of every species of vice. I knew
that if he were lord in name he was not so in fortune, and I was
astonished to see him driving such a handsome carriage, and still more so
at his blue ribbon. In a few words he told me that he was going to dine
with the Pretender, but that he would sup at home. He invited me to come
to supper, and I accepted.

After dinner I took a short walk, and then went to enliven myself at the
theatre, where I saw Momolo's girls strutting about with Costa;
afterwards I went to Lord O'Callaghan, and was pleasantly surprised to
meet the poet Poinsinet. He was young, short, ugly, full of poetic fire,
a wit, and dramatist. Five or six years later the poor fellow fell into
the Guadalquivir and was drowned. He had gone to Madrid in the hope of
making his fortune. As I had known him at Paris I addressed him as an old
acquaintance.

"What are you doing at Rome? Where's my Lord O'Callaghan?"

"He's in the next room, but as his father is dead his ti