“No,” I replied.

“Very good, then I will do so myself; come and dine with me to-morrow.”

She then left the house, and I went to visit the ballet-girls, who were undressing:  The Binetti, who was one of the oldest of my acquaintances, was in an ecstasy of joy at seeing me, and asked me to dine with her every day.  Cartz, the violin, who had been with me in the orchestra at St. Samuel’s, introduced me to his pretty daughter, saying,

“She is not made for the duke’s eyes to gaze on, and he shall never have her.”

The good man was no prophet, as the duke got possession of her a short time after.  She presented him with two babies, but these pledges of affection could not fix the inconstant prince.  Nevertheless, she was a girl of the most captivating kind, for to the most perfect beauty she added grace, wit, goodness, and kindness, which won everyone’s heart.  But the duke was satiated, and his only pleasure lay in novelty.

After her I saw the Vulcani, whom I had known at Dresden, and who suddenly presented her husband to me.  He threw his arms round my neck.  He was Baletti, brother of my faithless one, a young man of great talent of whom I was very fond.

I was surrounded by all these friends, when the officer whom I had so foolishly told that I was related to the Gardella came in and began to tell the story.  The Binetti, after hearing it, said to him,

“It’s a lie.”

“But my dear,” said I to her, “you can’t be better informed on the subject than I am.”  She replied by laughing, but Cartz said, very wittily,

“As Gardella is only a boatman’s daughter, like Binetti, the latter thinks, and very rightly, that you ought to have given her the refusal of your cousinship.”

Next day I had a pleasant dinner with the favourite, though she told me that, not having seen the duke, she could not tell me how he would take my pleasantry, which her mother resented very much.  This mother of hers, a woman of the lowest birth, had become very proud since her daughter was a prince’s mistress, and thought my relationship a blot on their escutcheon.  She had the impudence to tell me that her relations had never been players, without reflecting that it must be worse to descend to this estate than to rise from it, if it were dishonourable.  I ought to have pitied her, but not being of a forbearing nature I retorted by asking if her sister was still alive, a question which made her frown and to which she gave no answer.  The sister I spoke of was a fat blind woman, who begged on a bridge in Venice.

After having spent a pleasant day with the favourite, who was the oldest of my theatrical friends, I left her, promising to come to breakfast the next day; but as I was going out the porter bade me not to put my feet there again, but would not say on whose authority he gave me this polite order.  It would have been wiser to hold my tongue, as this stroke must have come from the mother; or, perhaps, from the daughter, whose vanity I had wounded:  she was a good-enough actress to conceal her anger.