Though the young marquis did not know my name, I got introduced to him, and had the pleasure of meeting him a second time at the theatre.  He was accompanied by a priest, who was called his governor, but such an office was a superfluity for him, who was wiser at twenty than most men are at sixty.

I was delighted to see that the young man was the living image of the old marquis.  I shed tears of joy as I thought how this likeness must have pleased the old man and his wife, and I admired this chance which seemed to have abetted nature in her deceit.

I wrote to my dear Leonilda, placing the letter in the hands of her son.  She did not get it till the Carnival of 1792, when the young marquis returned to Naples; and a short time after I received an answer inviting me to her son’s marriage and begging me to spend the remainder of my days with her.

“Who knows?  I may eventually do so.”

I called on the Princess Santa Croce at three o’clock, and found her in bed, with the cardinal reading to her.

The first question she asked was, why I had left the opera at the end of the second act.

“Princess, I can tell you an interesting history of my six hours of adventure, but you must give me a free hand, for some of the episodes must be told strictly after nature.”

“Is it anything in the style of Sister M——­ M——?” asked the cardinal.

“Yes, my lord, something of the kind.”

“Princess, will you be deaf?” said his eminence,

“Of course I will,” she replied.

I then told my tale almost as I have written it.  The slipping oysters and the game of blind man’s buff made the princess burst with laughing, in spite of her deafness.  She agreed with the cardinal that I had acted with great discretion, and told me that I should be sure to succeed on the next attempt.

“In three or four days,” said the cardinal, “you will have the dispensation, and then Emilie can marry whom she likes.”

The next morning the Florentine came to see me at nine o’clock, and I found him to answer to the marchioness’s description; but I had a bone to pick with him, and I was none the better pleased when he began asking me about the young person in my box at the theatre; he wanted to know whether she were married or engaged, if she had father, mother, or any other relations.

I smiled sardonically, and begged to be excused giving him the required information, as the young lady was masked when he saw her.

He blushed, and begged my pardon.

I thanked him for doing Margarita the honour of accepting a cup of coffee from her hands, and begged him to take one with me, saying I would breakfast with him next morning.  He lived with Roland, opposite St. Charles, where Madame Gabrieli, the famous singer, nicknamed la Coghetta, lived.

As soon as the Florentine was gone, I went to St. Paul’s in hot haste, for I longed to see what reception I should have from the two vestals I had initiated so well.