t to
convulsions, which are the plague of my life. I want to try the Teplitz
waters, which are said to be excellent for all nervous affections; but
the king has refused his permission, which I, nevertheless, hope to
obtain next year."

I felt ardently disposed, and I thought she was pleased with the
restraint I put upon myself.

"Will you be annoyed," said I, "if I call upon you frequently?"

"If you don't mind I will call myself your niece, or your cousin, and
then we can see each other."

"Do you know that that may possibly be true? I would not swear that you
were not my sister."

This sally made us talk of the friendship that had subsisted between her
father and my mother, and we allowed ourselves those caresses which are
permitted to near relations; but feeling that things were going too far
we ceased. As she bade me farewell, she asked me to dine with her the
next day, and I accepted.

As I went back to my inn I reflected on the strange combinations which
made my life one continuous chain of events, and I felt it my duty to
give thanks to eternal Providence, for I felt that I had been born under
a happy star.

The next day, when I went to dine with Madame Denis, I found a numerous
company assembled. The first person who greeted me with the warmth of an
old friend was a young dancer named Aubri, whom I had known at Paris and
at Venice. He was famous for having been the lover of one of the most
exalted Venetian ladies, and at the same time her husband's pathic. It
was said that this scandalous intimacy was of such a nature that Aubri
used to sleep between the husband and wife. At the beginning of Lent the
State Inquisitors sent him to Trieste. He introduced me to his wife, who
danced like himself and was called La Panting. He had married her at St.
Petersburg, from which city he had just come, and they were going to
spend the winter in Paris. The next person who advanced to greet me was a
fat man, who held out his hand and said we had been friends twenty-five
years ago, but that we were so young then that it would be no wonder if
we did not know each other. "We knew each other at Padua, at Dr.
Gozzi's," he added; "my name is Joseph da Loglio."

"I remember you," I replied, "in those days you were violoncello at the
Russian chapel."

"Exactly; and now I am returning to my native land to leave it no more. I
have the honour to introduce you to my wife, who was born at St.
Petersburg, but is a daughter of Mod