Fate which deprives him of the "paltry means" (one hundred and seventy
thousand florins) to buy off the "heartless monster" (Rodicaso). Having
wreaked himself upon Destiny to his own satisfaction, he suddenly
remembers that he has not eaten anything for thirty-six hours. He feels
in all his pockets successively, but finds nothing. He then draws from
his bosom a portrait of his father, set with antique gems. He gazes upon
it reverently, kisses it, and says: "Shall I part with this sacred
memento for vulgar bread? Never! Let me die!" He restores the portrait
to his bosom, folds his arms again, inclines his head, and shuts his
eyes, as if preparing to expire comfortably.

All this time, a fat red face, belonging to a corpulent body, has been
watching the depressed lover from the right wing. As Alberto utters the
last sad ejaculation, a thick hand attached to a short arm raises a
kerchief to a pair of small eyes in this fat red face, and wipes them.
Then the stout gentleman reflects a moment, nods his head approvingly,
draws forth a wallet, opens it slowly, takes out some paper that rustles
like bank notes, produces a memorandum book, writes a few lines on one
of the leaves hastily with a pencil, tears out the leaf, encloses the
leaf and the bank notes in an envelope, emerges with his entire figure
into the full light of the stage, walks stealthily toward Alberto with a
pair of creaking shoes that would have waked the soundest sleeper,
places the note on the table by his side, raises his hands to heaven,
murmuring, "God bless the boy!" and retires in the same feline but
tumultuous manner.

This mysterious visitor was Bignolio (Matthew Maltboy), a rich money
lender, uncle of Alberto, and commonly reported to be the "tightest old
skinflint in Venice."

After a pause, scarcely long enough to allow his uncle's heavy footsteps
to die away in the distance, Alberto came out of his revery. His first
act was to look at the ceiling, then at the floor, then all about
him--everywhere but at the note on the table. At last, when nothing else
remained to be scrutinized, his eyes naturally fell upon this valuable
communication.

"What is this?" he asked. Then he answered his own question by opening
the letter, and reading it, as follows:

Venice, Oct. 16,----.

Dear Nephew:

I have watched you, and know all. You are indeed the son of
your father, and, I am proud to add, the nephew of your
uncle. Enclosed