There are many towns in Italy where one can enjoy all the pleasures obtainable at Bologna; but nowhere so cheaply, so easily, or with so much freedom.  The living is excellent, and there are arcades where one can walk in the shade in learned and witty company.  It is a great pity that either from the air, the water, or the wine—­for men of science have not made up their minds on the subject persons who live at Bologna are subject to a slight itch.  The Bolognese, however, far from finding this unpleasant, seem to think it an advantage; it gives them the pleasure of scratching themselves.  In springtime the ladies distinguish themselves by the grace with which they use their fingers.

Towards mid-Lent I left the Corticelli, wishing her a pleasant journey, for she was going to fulfil a year’s engagement at Prague as second dancer.  I promised to fetch her and her mother to Paris, and my readers will see how I kept my word.

I got to Modena the evening after I left Bologna, and I stopped there, with one of those sudden whims to which I have always been subject.  Next morning I went out to see the pictures, and as I was returning to my lodging for dinner a blackguardly-looking fellow came up and ordered me, on the part of the Government, to continue my journey on the day following at latest.

“Very good,” said I, and the fellow went away.

“Who is that man?” I said to the landlord. 
“A spy.”

“A spy; and the Government dares to send such a fellow to me?”

“The ‘borgello’ must have sent him.”

“Then the ‘borgello’ is the Governor of Modena—­the infamous wretch!”

“Hush! hush! all the best families speak to him in the street.”

“Then the best people are very low here, I suppose?”

“Not more than anywhere else.  He is the manager of the opera house, and the greatest noblemen dine with him and thus secure his favour.”

“It’s incredible!  But why should the high and mighty borgello send me away from Modena?”

“I don’t know, but do you take my advice and go and speak to him; you will find him a fine fellow.”

Instead of going to see this b. . . .  I called on the Abbe Testa Grossa, whom I had known at Venice in 1753.  Although he was a man of low extraction he had a keen wit.  At this time he was old and resting on his laurels; he had fought his way into favour by the sheer force of merit, and his master, the Duke of Modena, had long chosen him as his representative with other powers.

Abbe Testa Grossa recognized me and gave me the most gracious reception, but when he heard of what had befallen me he seemed much annoyed.

“What can I do?” said I.

“You had better go, as the man may put a much more grievous insult on you.”

“I will do so, but could you oblige me by telling me the reason for such a high-handed action?”

“Come again this evening; I shall probably be able to satisfy you.”