he
distance a masked woman; and was astonished, altho it was the time of
carnival, for poor people do not go masked, and it was strange that at
such an hour a Venetian lady should be out alone on foot. He
perceived, however, that what he had taken for a mask was the face of
a negress. On getting a nearer look at her, he saw she was not badly
formed. She walked very quickly, and a puff of wind which forced her
checkered skirt close to her limbs, showed her to have a graceful
figure. Pippo leaned over the balcony and saw not without surprize
that the negress knocked at his door.

The porter failed to open it.

"What do you want?" cried the young man. "Is it with me that your
business lies, brunette? My name is Vecellio, and if they are going to
keep you waiting, I will come and let you in myself."

The negress lifted her head.

"Your name is Pomponio Vecellio?"

"Yes, or Pippo, whichever you like."

"You are the son of Titian?"

"At your service. What can I do to please you?"

Having cast on Pippo a rapid and curious glance, the negress took a
few steps backward, and skilfully threw up into the balcony a little
box rolled in paper, and then promptly fled, turning round from time
to time. Pippo picked up the box, opened it, and found a pretty purse
wrapt in cotton. He rightly suspected that he might find under the
cotton a note that would explain this adventure. The note was found
indeed, but it was as mysterious as the rest, for it contained only
these words: "Do not spend too readily what I enclose herein; when you
leave home, charge me with one piece of gold. It is enough for one
day; and if in the evening you have any of it left, however little, it
may be you will find some poor person who will thank you for it."

The young man examined the box in a hundred different ways,
scrutinized the purse, looked once more on to the quay, and at length
realized that he had learned all he could. "Of a truth," thought he,
"this is a strange present, but it comes at a cruelly awkward moment.
The advice they give me is good, but it is too late to tell people to
swim when they are already at the bottom of the Adriatic. Who the
devil could have sent me this?"

THEOPHILE GAUTIER

Born in 1811, died in 1872; studied painting in Paris, but
soon joined the romantic literary movement; his first book,
"Poesies," published in 1830; an art and dramatic critic
1837-45; traveled in Spain, Holland, Italy,