“You have a very pretty young lady with you.”

Marcoline stepped forward, seized his hand, and kissed it before I could answer.

Querini, who was greatly astonished, thanked her and said,—­

“What have I done to deserve this honour?”

“Because,” said Marcoline, speaking in the Venetian dialect, “I have the honour of knowing his excellency M. Querini.”

“What are you doing with M. Casanova?”

“He is my uncle.”

My carriage came up.  I made a profound bow to the ambassadors, and called out to the coachman, “To the ’Hotel du Parc’.”  It was the best hotel in Lyons, and I was not sorry for the Venetians to hear where I was staying.

Marcoline was in despair, for she saw that the time for parting was near at hand.

“We have three or four days before us,” said I, “in which we can contrive how to communicate with your uncle Mattio.  I must commend you highly for kissing M. Querini’s hand.  That was a masterstroke indeed.  All will go off well; but I hope you will be merry, for sadness I abhor.”

We were still at table when I heard the voice of M. Memmo in the ante-chamber; he was a young man, intelligent and good-natured.  I warned Marcoline not to say a word about our private affairs, but to display a moderate gaiety.  The servant announced the young nobleman, and we rose to welcome him; but he made us sit down again, and sat beside us, and drank a glass of wine with the utmost cordiality.  He told me how he had been supping with the old devotee Querini, who had had his hand kissed by a young and fair Venetian.  The ambassadors were much amused at the circumstance, and Querini himself, in spite of his scrupulous conscience, was greatly flattered.

“May I ask you, mademoiselle,” he added, “how you came to know M. Querini?”

“It’s a mystery, sir.”

“A mystery, is it?  What fun we shall have tomorrow!  I have come,” he said, addressing himself to me, “to ask you to dine with us to-morrow, and you must bring your charming niece.”

“Would you like to go, Marcoline?”

“‘Con grandissimo piacere’!  We shall speak Venetian, shall we not?”

“Certainly.”

“‘E viva’!  I cannot learn French.”

“M.  Querini is in the same position,” said M. Memmo.

After half an hour’s agreeable conversation he left us, and Marcoline embraced me with delight at having made such a good impression on these gentlemen.

“Put on your best dress to-morrow,” said I, “and do not forget your jewels.  Be agreeable to everybody, but pretend not to see your Uncle Mattio, who will be sure to wait at table.”

“You may be sure I shall follow your advice to the letter.”

“And I mean to make the recognition a scene worthy of the drama.  I intend that you shall be taken back to Venice by M. Querini himself, while your uncle will take care of you by his special orders.”