ewellers in Rome.

"I know this stone," said he, "it is worth two thousand Roman crowns."

At four o'clock I took the earl five hundred crowns in gold and fifteen
hundred crowns in paper, which he would have to take to a banker, who
would give him a bill of exchange in Amsterdam.

"I will be off at nightfall," said he, "and travel by myself to
Amsterdam, only taking such effects as are absolutely necessary, and my
beloved blue ribbon."

"A pleasant journey to you," said I, and left him. In ten days I had the
stone mounted at Bologna.

I got a letter of introduction from Cardinal Albani for Onorati, the
nuncio at Florence, and another letter from M. Mengs to Sir Mann, whom he
begged to receive me in his house. I was going to Florence for the sake
of the Corticelli and my dear Therese, and I reckoned on the auditor's
feigning to ignore my return, in spite of his unjust order, especially if
I were residing at the English minister's.

On the second day of Lent the disappearance of Lord Lismore was the talk
of the town. The English tailor was ruined, the Jew who owned the ring
was in despair, and all the silly fellow's servants were turned out of
the house in almost a state of nakedness, as the tailor had
unceremoniously taken possession of everything in the way of clothes that
he could lay his hands on.

Poor Poinsinet came to see me in a pitiable condition; he had only his
shirt and overcoat. He had been despoiled of everything, and threatened
with imprisonment. "I haven't a farthing," said the poor child of the
muses, "I have only the shirt on my back. I know nobody here, and I think
I shall go and throw myself into the Tiber."

He was destined, not to be drowned in the Tiber but in the Guadalquivir.
I calmed him by offering to take him to Florence with me, but I warned
him that I must leave him there, as someone was expecting me at Florence.
He immediately took up his abode with me, and wrote verses incessantly
till it was time to go.

My brother Jean made me a present of an onyx of great beauty. It was a
cameo, representing Venus bathing, and a genuine antique, as the name of
the artist, Sostrates, was cut on the stone. Two years later I sold it to
Dr. Masti, at London, for three hundred pounds, and it is possibly still
in the British Museum.

I went my way with Poinsinet who amused me, in spite of his sadness, with
his droll fancies. In two days I got down at Dr. Vannini's, who tried to
conceal his surprise