me know that he knew something about me, and I was
not at all sorry for it.

Marco Monti, such was the consul's name, was a man of parts and much
experience; a pleasant companion and a great conversationalist, fond of
telling amusing stories with a grave face--in fact, most excellent
company.

I was something of a 'conteur' myself, and we soon became friendly rivals
in telling anecdotes. In spite of his thirty additional years I was a
tolerable match for him, and when we were in a room there was no question
of gaining to kill the time.

We became fast friends, and I benefited a good deal by his offices during
the two years I spent in Trieste, and I have always thought that he had a
considerable share in obtaining my recall. That was my great object in
those days; I was a victim to nostalgia, or home sickness.

With the Swiss and the Sclavs it is really a fatal disease, which carries
them off if they are not sent home immediately. Germans are subject to
this weakness also; whilst the French suffer very little, and Italians
not much more from the complaint.

No rule, however, lacks its exception, and I was one. I daresay I should
have got over my nostalgia if I had treated it with contempt, and then I
should not have wasted ten years of my life in the bosom of my cruel
stepmother Venice.

I dined with M. Zaguri at the consul's, and I was invited to dine with
the governor, Count Auersperg, the next day.

The visit from a Venetian 'avogador' made me a person of great
consideration. I was no longer looked upon as an exile, but as one who
had successfully escaped from illegal confinement.

The day after I accompanied M. Zaguri to Gorice, where he stayed three
days to enjoy the hospitality of the nobility. I was included in all
their invitations, and I saw that a stranger could live very pleasantly
at Gorice.

I met there a certain Count Cobenzl, who may be alive now--a man of
wisdom, generosity, and the vastest learning, and yet without any kind of
pretention. He gave a State dinner to M. Zaguri, and I had the pleasure
of meeting there three or four most charming ladies. I also met Count
Tomes, a Spaniard whose father was in in the Austrian service. He had
married at sixty, and had five children all as ugly as himself. His
daughter was a charming girl in spite of her plainness; she evidently got
her character from the mother's side. The eldest son, who was ugly and
squinted, was a kind of pleasant madman, but he w