“That’s not true,” cried Leonilda, rushing to my arms, “she will think you are really old, and I am sorry.”

“Is your mother an elderly woman?”

“She’s a charming Woman,” said the duke, “full of wit, and not thirty-eight yet.”

“What has she got to do with Galiani?”

“She is an intimate friend of the marchioness’s, and she lives with the family but pays for her board.”

Next morning, having some business with my banker to attend to, I told the duke that I should not be able to see Leonilda till supper-time.  I went there at eight o’clock and I found the three sitting in front of the fire.

“Here he is!” cried the duke.

As soon as the mother saw me she screamed and fell nearly fainting on a chair.  I looked at her fixedly for a minute, and exclaimed,—­

“Donna Lucrezia!  I am fortunate indeed!”

“Let us take breath, my dear friend.  Come and sit by me.  So you are going to marry my daughter, are you?”

I took a chair and guessed it all.  My hair stood on end, and I relapsed into a gloomy silence.

The stupefied astonishment of Leonilda and the duke cannot be described.  They could see that Donna Lucrezia and I knew each other, but they could not get any farther.  As for myself, as I pondered gloomily and compared Leonilda’s age with the period at which I had been intimate with Lucrezia Castelli, I could see that it was quite possible that she might be my daughter; but I told myself that the mother could not be certain of the fact, as at the time she lived with her husband, who was very fond of her and not fifty years of age.  I could bear the suspense no longer, so, taking a light and begging Leonilda and the duke to excuse me, I asked Lucrezia to come into the next room with me.

As soon as she was seated, she drew me to her and said,—­

“Must I grieve my dear one when I have loved so well?  Leonilda is your daughter, I am certain of it.  I always looked upon her as your daughter, and my husband knew it, but far from being angry, he used to adore her.  I will shew you the register of her birth, and you can calculate for yourself.  My husband was at Rome, and did not see me once, and my daughter did not come before her time.  You must remember a letter which my mother should have given you, in which I told you I was with child.  That was in January, 1744, and in six months my daughter will be seventeen.  My late husband gave her the names of Leonilda Giacomina at the baptismal font, and when he played with her he always called her by the latter name.  This idea of your marrying her horrifies me, but I cannot oppose it, as I am ashamed to tell the reason.  What do you think?  Have you still the courage to marry her?  You seem to hesitate.  Have you taken any earnest of the marriage-bed?”

“No, dear Lucrezia, your daughter is as pure as a lily.”

“I breathe again.”

“Ah, yes! but my heart is torn asunder.”