The next day Barbaro, who was as honest as most professional sharpers are, brought me the two hundred sequins I had lent him, with a profit of two hundred more.  He told me that he had had a slight difference with the lieutenant, and was not going to play any more.  I thanked him for having presented me to the fair marchioness, telling him that I was quite in love with her and in hopes of overcoming her scruples.  He smiled, and praised my discretion, letting me understand that I did not take him in; but it was enough for me not to confess to anything.

About three o’clock I called on my sweetheart, and spent five hours with her as before.  As Barbaro was not playing, the servants had been ordered to say that no one was at home.  As I was the declared lover of the marchioness, her cousin treated me as an intimate friend.  She begged me to stay at Milan as long as possible, not only to make her cousin happy, but for her sake as well, since without me she could not enjoy the marquis’s society in private, and while her father was alive he would never dare to come openly to the house.  She thought she would certainly become his wife as soon as her old father was dead, but she hoped vainly, for soon after the marquis fell into evil ways and was ruined.

Next evening we all assembled at supper, and instead of going to the ball gave ourselves up to pleasure.  We spent a delicious night, but it was saddened by the reflection that the carnival was drawing to a close, and with it our mutual pleasures would be over.

On the eve of Shrove Tuesday as there was no ball I sat down to play, and not being able once to hit on three winning cards, I lost all the gold I had about me.  I should have left the table as usual if a woman disguised as a man had not given me a card, and urged me by signs to play it.  I risked a hundred sequins on it, giving my word for the payment.  I lost, and in my endeavours to get back my money I lost a thousand sequins, which I paid the next day.

I was just going out to console myself with the company of my dear marchioness, when I saw the evil-omened masquer approaching, accompanied by a man, also in disguise, who shook me by the hand and begged me to come at ten o’clock to the “Three Kings” at such a number, if the honour of an old friend was dear to me.

“What friend is that?”

“Myself.”

“What is your name?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Then you need not tell me to come, for if you were a true friend of mine you would tell me your name.”

I went out and he followed me, begging me to come with him to the end of the arcades.  When we got there he took off his mask, and I recognized Croce, whom my readers may remember.

I knew he was banished from Milan, and understood why he did not care to give his name in public, but I was exceedingly glad I had refused to go to his inn.

“I am surprised to see you here,” said I.