The countess sent a message to a lady friend of hers, begging her to dine with us, and to bring her sister; while I dispatched Clairmont to a stationer’s, where he bought me a beautiful morocco case with lock and key, containing paper, pens, sealing-wax, ink-well, paper knife, seal, and in fact, everything necessary for writing.  It was a present I meant to give Clementine before dinner.  It was delightful to watch her surprise and pleasure, and to read gratitude so legibly written in her beautiful eyes.  There is not a woman in the world who cannot be overcome by being made grateful.  It is the best and surest way to get on, but it must be skilfully used.  The countess’s friend came and brought her sister, a girl who was dazzlingly beautiful.  I was greatly struck with her, but just then Venus herself could not have dethroned Clementine from her place in my affections.  After the friends had kissed each other, and expressed their joy at meeting, I was introduced, and in so complimentary a manner that I felt obliged to turn it off with a jest.

The dinner was sumptuous and delicious.  At dessert two self-invited guests came in, the lady’s husband and the sister’s lover, but they were welcome, for it was a case of the more the merrier.  After the meal, in accordance with the request of the company, I made a bank at faro, and after three hours’ play I was delighted to find myself a loser to the extent of forty sequins.  It was these little losses at the right time which gave me the reputation of being the finest gamester in Europe.

The lady’s lover was named Vigi, and I asked him if he was descended from the author of the thirteenth book of the “AEneid.”  He said he was, and that in honour of his ancestor he had translated the poem into Italian verse.  I expressed myself curious as to his version, and he promised to bring it me in two days’ time.  I complimented him on belonging to such a noble and ancient family; Maffeo Vigi flourished at the beginning of the fifteenth century.

We started in the evening, and less than two hours we got home.  The moon which shone brightly upon us prevented me making any attempts on Clementine, who had put up her feet in order that she might be able to hold her little nephew with more ease.  The pretty mother could not help thanking me warmly for the pleasure I had given them; I was a universal favourite with them all.

We did not feel inclined to eat any supper, and therefore retired to our apartments; and I accompanied Clementine, who told me that she was ashamed at not knowing anything about the “AEneid.”

“Vigi will bring his translation of the thirteenth book, and I shall not know a word about it.”

I comforted her by telling her that we would read the fine translation by Annibale Caro that very night.  It was amongst her books, as also the version by Anguilara, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and Marchetti’s Lucreece.

“But I wanted to read the Pastor Fido.”