The rouleau contained a hundred gold ounces with the words “for travelling expenses,” and the letter was addressed to a Roman bank, and proved to be an order for twenty-four thousand Roman crowns.

For twenty-nine years this worthy woman kept an establishment at Rome, and did so in a manner which proved her worthy of her good fortune.

The day after Donna Pelliccia’s departure the king saw the Duke of Arcos, and told him not to be sad, but to forget the woman, who had been sent away for his own good.

“By sending her away, your majesty obliged me to turn fiction into fact, for I only knew her by speaking to her in various public places, and I had never made her the smallest present.”

“Then you never gave her twenty-five thousand doubloons?”

“Sire, I gave her double that sum, but only on the day before yesterday.  Your majesty has absolute power, but if she had not received her dismissal I should never have gone to her house, nor should I have given her the smallest present.”

The king was stupefied and silent; he was probably meditating on the amount of credit a monarch should give to the gossip that his courtiers bring him.

I heard about this from M. Monnino, who was afterwards known under the title of Castille de Florida Blanca, and is now living in exile in Murcia, his native country.

After Marescalchi had gone, and I was making my preparations for my journey to Barcelona, I saw one day, at the bull fight, a woman whose appearance had a strange kind of fascination about it.

There was a knight of Alcantara at my side, and I asked him who the lady was.

“She is the famous Nina.”

“How famous?”

“If you do not know her story, it is too long to be told here.”

I could not help gazing at her, and two minutes later an ill-looking fellow beside her came up to my companion and whispered something in his ear.

The knight turned towards me and informed me in the most polite manner that the lady whose name I had asked desired to know mine.

I was silly enough to be flattered by her curiosity, and told the messenger that if the lady would allow me I would come to her box and tell her my name in person after the performance.

“From your accent I should suppose you were an Italian.”

“I am a Venetian.”

“So is she.”

When he had gone away my neighbour seemed inclined to be more communicative, and informed me that Nina was a dancer whom the Count de Ricla, the Viceroy of Barcelona, was keeping for some weeks at Valentia, till he could get her back to Barcelona, whence the bishop of the diocese had expelled her on account of the scandals to which she gave rise.  “The count,” he added, “is madly in love with her, and allows her fifty doubloons a day.”

“I should hope she does not spend them.”

“She can’t do that, but she does not let a day pass without committing some expensive act of folly.”