Although my niece had no rights over me, I valued her esteem, and thought it best to tell her the whole story lest she should pass an unfavourable judgment on me.  She listened attentively and thanked me for my confidence in her, and said she should very much like to see the girl and the abbe too, whom she pitied, though she admitted he was to be blamed for what he had done.  I had got her a dress to wear at dinner, which became her exquisitely.  I felt only too happy to be able to please her in any way, for her conduct towards myself and the way she treated her ardent lover commanded my admiration.  She saw him every day either at my house or at Rosalie’s.  The young man had received an excellent education, though he was of the mercantile class, and wrote to her in a business-like manner, that, as they were well suited to each other in every way, there was nothing against his going to Marseilles and obtaining her father’s consent to the match, unless it were a feeling of aversion on her side.  He finished by requesting her to give him an answer.  She shewed me the letter, and I congratulated her, and advised her to accept, if there was nothing about the young man which displeased her.

“There is nothing of the kind,” she said, “and Rosalie thinks with you.”

“Then tell him by word of mouth that you give your consent, and will expect to see him at Marseilles.”

“Very good; as you think so, I will tell him tomorrow.”

When dinner was over a feeling of curiosity made me go into the room where Annette was dining with the Venetian girl, whose name was Marcoline.  I was struck with astonishment on seeing her, for she was completely changed, not so much by the pretty dress she had on as by the contented expression of her face, which made her look quite another person.  Good humour had vanquished unbecoming rage, and the gentleness born of happiness made her features breathe forth love.  I could scarcely believe that this charming creature before me was the same who had dealt such a vigorous blow to my brother, a priest, and a sacred being in the eyes of the common people.  They were eating, and laughing at not being able to understand each other, for Marcoline only spoke Venetian, and Annette Genoese, and the latter dialect does not resemble the former any more than Bohemian resembles Dutch.

I spoke to Marcoline in her native tongue, which was mine too, and she said,—­

“I seem to have suddenly passed from hell to Paradise.”

“Indeed, you look like an angel.”

“You called me a little devil this morning.  But here is a fair angel,” said she, pointing to Annette; “we don’t see such in Venice.”

“She is my treasure.”

Shortly after my niece came in, and seeing me talking and laughing with the two girls began to examine the new-comer.  She told me in French that she thought her perfectly beautiful, and repeating her opinion to the girl in Italian gave her a kiss.  Marcoline asked her plainly in the Venetian manner who she was.