ated and he passed his time in trifling intrigues, hunting,
and reading the papers, literary and political. He laughed at those sages
who declared that there was not one really happy person in the world, and
he supported his denial by the unanswerable dictum:

"I myself am perfectly happy."

However, as he died of a tumor in the head at the age of thirty-five, he
probably acknowledged his mistake in the agonies of death.

There is no such thing as a perfectly happy or perfectly unhappy man in
the world. One has more happiness in his life and another more
unhappiness, and the same circumstance may produce widely different
effects on individuals of different temperaments.

It is not a fact that virtue ensures happiness for the exercise of some
virtues implies suffering, and suffering is incompatible with happiness.

My readers may be aware that I am not inclined to make mental pleasure
pre-eminent and all sufficing. It may be a fine thing to have a clear
conscience, but I cannot see that it would at all relieve the pangs of
hunger.

Baron Pittoni and myself escorted Zaguri to the Venetian border, and we
then returned to Trieste together.

In three or four days Pittoni took me everywhere, including the club
where none but persons of distinction were admitted. This club was held
at the inn where I was staying.

Amongst the ladies, the most noteworthy was the wife of the merchant,
David Riguelin, who was a Swabian by birth.

Pittoni was in love with her and continued so till her death. His suit
lasted for twelve years, and like Petrarch, he still sighed, still hoped,
but never succeeded. Her name was Zanetta, and besides her beauty she had
the charm of being an exquisite singer and a polished hostess. Still more
noteworthy, however, was the unvarying sweetness and equability of her
disposition.

I did not want to know her long before recognizing that she was
absolutely impregnable. I told Pittoni so, but all in vain; he still fed
on empty hope.

Zanetta had very poor health, though no one would have judged so from her
appearance, but it was well known to be the case. She died at an early
age.

A few days after M. Zaguri's departure, I had a note from the consul
informing me that the Procurator Morosini was stopping in my inn, and
advising me to call on him if I knew him.

I was infinitely obliged for this advice, for M. Morosini was a personage
of the greatest importance. He had known me from childhood, and t