As soon as my mistress saw me she told me she had been deceived, as she would have wagered that I was the masker who broke Count Verita’s bank.  I told her I had only just come.

At the end of the dance the count spied me out and said, “My dear fellow-countryman, I am sure you are the man who broke my bank; I congratulate you.”  “I should congratulate myself if I were the fortunate individual.”

“I am sure that it was you.”

I left him laughing, and after having taken some refreshments I continued dancing.  Two hours afterwards the count saw me again and said,—­

“You changed your domino in such a room, in such a house.  The Elector knows all about it, and as a punishment for this deceit he has ordered me to tell you that you are not to leave Bonn to-morrow.”

“Is he going to arrest me, then?”

“Why not, if you refuse his invitation to dinner tomorrow?”

“Tell his highness that his commands shall be obeyed.  Will you present me to him now?”

“He has left the ball, but wait on me to-morrow at noon.”  So saying, he gave me his hand and went away.

I took care to keep the appointment on the day following, but when I was presented I was in some confusion, as the Elector was surrounded by five or six courtiers, and never having seen him I looked in vain for an ecclesiastic.  He saw my embarrassment and hastened to put an end to it, saying, in bad Venetian, “I am wearing the costume of Grand Master of the Teutonic Order to-day.”  In spite of his costume I made the usual genuflexion, and when I would have kissed his hand he would not allow it, but shook mine in an affectionate manner.  “I was at Venice,” said he, “when you were under the Leads, and my nephew, the Elector of Bavaria, told me that after your fortunate escape you stayed some time at Munich; if you had come to Cologne I should have kept you.  I hope that after dinner you will be kind enough to tell us the story of your escape, that you will stay to supper, and will join in a little masquerade with which we propose to amuse ourselves.”

I promised to tell my tale if he thought it would not weary him, warning him that it would take two hours.  “One could never have too much of a good thing,” he was kind enough to say; and I made him laugh by my account of the conversation between the Duc de Choiseul and myself.

At dinner the prince spoke to me in Venetian, and was pleased to be most gracious towards me.  He was a man of a jovial and easy-going disposition, and with his look of health one would not have prophesied so soon an end as came to him.  He died the year following.

As soon as we rose from table he begged me to begin my story, and for two hours I had the pleasure of keeping this most brilliant company amused.

My readers know the history; its interest lies in the dramatic nature of the details, but it is impossible to communicate the fire of a well-told story to an account in writing.