she would have to
surrender at last, if not at Genoa, certainly on the journey, when we
would be thrown constantly in each other's society with nobody to spy
upon our actions, and with nothing else to do but to make love. It is the
weariness of a journey, the constant monotony, that makes one do
something to make sure of one's existence; and when it comes to the
reckoning there is usually more joy than repentance.

But the story of my journey from Genoa to Marseilles was written in the
book of fate, and could not be read by me. All I knew was that I must
soon go as Madame d'Urfe was waiting for me at Marseilles. I knew not
that in this journey would be involved the fate of a Venetian girl of
whom I had never heard, who had never seen me, but whom I was destined to
render happy. My fate seemed to have made me stop at Genoa to wait for
her.

I settled my accounts with the banker, to whom I had been accredited, and
I took a letter of credit on Marseilles, where, however, I was not likely
to want for funds, as my high treasurer, Madame d'Urfe was there. I took
leave of Madame Isola-Bella and her circle that I might be able to devote
all my time to Rosalie and her friends.

CHAPTER II

Disgraceful Behaviour of My Brother, the Abbe, I Relieve Him
of His Mistress--Departure from Genoa--The Prince of Monaco-
-My Niece Overcome--Our Arrival at Antibes

On the Tuesday in Holy Week I was just getting up, when Clairmont came to
tell me that a priest who would not give his name wanted to speak to me.
I went out in my night-cap, and the rascally priest rushed at me and
nearly choked me with his embraces. I did not like so much affection, and
as I had not recognized him at first on account of the darkness of the
room, I took him by the arm and led him to the window. It was my youngest
brother, a good-for-nothing fellow, whom I had always disliked. I had not
seen him for ten years, but I cared so little about him that I had not
even enquired whether he were alive or dead in the correspondence I
maintained with M. de Bragadin, Dandolo, and Barbaro.

As soon as his silly embraces were over, I coldly asked him what chance
had brought him to Genoa in this disgusting state of dirt, rags, and
tatters. He was only twenty-nine, his complexion was fresh and healthy,
and he had a splendid head of hair. He was a posthumous son, born like
Mahomet, three months after the death of his father.

"The story of my misfortune