“Then you don’t like the French,” said M. Memmo.

“I like them well enough so far as I know them, but I am only acquainted with their exterior, as I don’t speak or understand the language.”

After this everybody knew how to take her, and the gaiety became general.

She answered all questions to the point, and entertained the company with her remarks on French manners, so different to Venetian customs.

In the course of dinner M. Querini asked how she had known him, and she replied that she had often seen him at Divine service, whereat the devotee seemed greatly flattered.  M. Morosini, pretending not to know that she was to return to Venice, told her that unless she made haste to acquire French, the universal language, she would find London very tedious, as the Italian language was very little known there.

“I hope,” she replied, “that M. de Seingalt will not bring me into the society of people with whom I cannot exchange ideas.  I know I shall never be able to learn French.”

When we had left the table the ambassadors begged me to tell the story of my escape from The Leads, and I was glad to oblige them.  My story lasted for two whole hours; and as it was noticed that Marcoline’s eyes became wet with tears when I came to speak of my great danger.  She was rallied upon the circumstance, and told that nieces were not usually so emotional.

“That may be, gentlemen,” she replied, “though I do not see why a niece should not love her uncle.  But I have never loved anyone else but the hero of the tale, and I cannot see what difference there can be between one kind of love and another.”

“There are five kinds of love known to man,” said M. Querini.  “The love of one’s neighbour, the love of God, which is beyond compare, the highest of all, love matrimonial, the love of house and home, and the love of self, which ought to come last of all, though many place it in the first rank.”

The nobleman commented briefly on these diverse kinds of love, but when he came to the love of God he began to soar, and I was greatly astonished to see Marcoline shedding tears, which she wiped away hastily as if to hide them from the sight of the worthy old man whom wine had made more theological than usual.  Feigning to be enthusiastic, Marcoline took his hand and kissed it, while he in his vain exaltation drew her towards him and kissed her on the brow, saying, “Poveretta, you are an angel!”

At this incident, in which there was more love of our neighbour than love of God, we all bit our lips to prevent ourselves bursting out laughing, and the sly little puss pretended to be extremely moved.

I never knew Marcoline’s capacities till then, for she confessed that her emotion was wholly fictitious, and designed to win the old man’s good graces; and that if she had followed her own inclinations she would have laughed heartily.  She was designed to act a part either upon the stage or on a throne.  Chance had ordained that she should be born of the people, and her education had been neglected; but if she had been properly tutored she would have been fit for anything.