I must tell the reader (supposing I ever have one), that when I was about twelve years old I went to the theatre with my mother and saw, not without much heart-beating, a girl of eight who danced a minuet in so ravishing a manner that the whole house applauded loudly.  This young dancer, who was the pantaloon’s daughter, charmed me to such a degree that I could not resist going to her dressing-room to compliment her on her performance.  I wore the cassock in those days, and she was astonished when she heard her father order her to get up and kiss me.  She kissed me, nevertheless, with much grace, and though I received the compliment with a good deal of awkwardness I was so delighted, that I could not help buying her a little ring from a toy merchant in the theatre.  She kissed me again with great gratitude and enthusiasm.

The pleasantest part about this was that the sequin I had given for the ring belonged to Dr. Gozzi, and so when I went back to him I was in a pitiable state, for I had not only spent money which did not belong to me, but I had spent it for so small a favour as a kiss.

I knew that the next day I should have to give an account of the money he had entrusted to me, and not having the least idea as to what I should say, I had a bad night of it.  The next morning everything came out, and my mother made up the sequin to the doctor.  I laugh now when I think of this childish piece of gallantry, which was an omen of the extent to which my heart was to be swayed by the fair sex.

The toy-woman who had sold me the ring came the next day at dinner-time to our house, and after producing several rings and trinkets which were judged too dear, she began to praise my generosity, and said that I had not thought the ring I had given to pretty Jeannette too dear.  This did my business; and I had to confess the whole, laying my fault to the account of love, and promising not to do such a thing again.  But when I uttered the word love, everybody roared with laughter, and began to make cruel game of me.  I wished myself a mile away, and registered an interior resolve never to confess my faults again.  The reader knows how well I kept my promise.

The pantaloon’s little daughter was my mother’s goddaughter, and my thoughts were full of her.  My mother, who loved me and saw my pain, asked me if I would like the little girl to be asked to supper.  My grandmother, however, opposed the idea, and I was obliged to her.

The day after this burlesque scene I returned to Padua, where Bettina soon made me forget the little ballet-girl.  I saw her again at Charlottenbourg, and that was now seventeen years ago.

I longed to have a talk with her, and to see whether she would remember me, though I did not expect her to do so.  I asked if her husband Denis was with her, and they told me that the king had banished him because he ill-treated her.

I called on her the day after the performance, and was politely received, but she said she did not think she had had the pleasure of seeing me before.