I returned to Trieste determined to do my best for the Tribunal, for I longed to return to Venice after nineteen years’ wanderings.

I was then forty-nine, and I expected no more of Fortune’s gifts, for the deity despises those of ripe age.  I thought, however, that I might live comfortably and independently at Venice.

I had talents and experience, I hoped to make use of them, and I thought the Inquisitors would feel bound to give me some sufficient employment.

I was writing the history of the Polish troubles, the first volume was printed, the second was in preparation, and I thought of concluding the work in seven volumes.  Afterwards I had a translation of the “Iliad” in view, and other literary projects would no doubt present themselves.

In fine, I thought myself sure of living in Venice, where many persons who would be beggars elsewhere continue to live at their ease.

I left Gorice on the last day of December, 1773, and on January 1st I took up my abode at Trieste.

I could not have received a warmer welcome.  Baron Pittoni, the Venetian consul, all the town councillors, and the members of the club, seemed delighted to see me again.  My carnival was a pleasant one, and in the beginning of Lent I published the second volume of my work on Poland.

The chief object of interest to me at Trieste was an actress in a company that was playing there.  She was no other than the daughter of the so-called Count Rinaldi, and my readers may remember her under the name of Irene.  I had loved her at Milan, and neglected her at Genoa on account of her father’s misdeeds, and at Avignon I had rescued her at Marcoline’s request.  Eleven years had passed by since I had heard of her.

I was astonished to see her, and I think more sorry than glad, for she was still beautiful, and I might fall in love again; and being no longer in a position to give her assistance, the issue might be unfortunate for me.  However, I called on her the next day, and was greeted with a shriek of delight.  She told me she had seen me at the theatre, and felt sure I would come and see her.

She introduced me to her husband, who played parts like Scapin, and to her nine-year-old daughter, who had a talent for dancing.

She gave me an abridged account of her life since we had met.  In the year I had seen her at Avignon she had gone to Turin with her father.  At Turin she fell in love with her present husband, and left her parents to join her lot to his.

“Since that,” she said, “I have heard of my father’s death, but I do not know what has become of my mother.”

After some further conversation she told me she was a faithful wife, though she did not push fidelity so far as to drive a rich lover to despair.

“I have no lovers here,” she added, “but I give little suppers to a few friends.  I don’t mind the expense, as I win some money at faro.”