As soon as I was awake, I thought of the shepherdess who had danced the ‘forlana’ so well at the ball, and I resolved to pay her a visit.  I was not more interested in her beauty than to find out who her father and mother, “old friends of mine,” could be.  I dressed and walked to the “Three Kings,” and on walking into the room which the shepherdess had indicated to me, what was my astonishment to find myself face to face with the Countess Rinaldi, whom Zavoisky had introduced me to at the ‘locanda’ of Castelletto sixteen years ago.  The reader will remember how M. de Bragadin paid her husband the money he won from me at play.

Madame Rinaldi had aged somewhat, but I knew her directly.  However, as I had never had more than a passing fancy for her, we did not go back to days which did neither of us any honour.

“I am delighted to see you again,” said I; “are you still living with your husband?”

“You will see him in half an hour, and he will be glad to present his respects to you.”

“I should not at all care for it myself, madam; there are old quarrels between us which I do not want to renew, so, madam, farewell.”

“No, no, don’t go yet, sit down.”

“Pardon me.”

“Irene, don’t let the gentleman go.”

At these words Irene ran and barred the way—­not like a fierce mastiff, but like an angel, entreating me to stay with that mingled look of innocence, fear, and hope, of which girls know the effect so well.  I felt I could not go.

“Let me through, fair Irene,” said I, “we may see each other somewhere else.”

“Pray do not go before you have seen my father:” 

The words were spoken so tenderly that our lips met.  Irene was victorious.  How can one resist a pretty girl who implores with a kiss?  I took a chair, and Irene, proud of her victory, sat on my knee and covered me with kisses.

I took it into my head to task the countess where and when Irene was born.

“At Mantua,” said she, “three months after I left Venice.”

“And when did you leave Venice?”

“Six months after I met you.”

“That is a curious coincidence, and if we had been tenderly acquainted you might say that Irene was my daughter, and I should believe you, and think that my affection for her was purely paternal.”

“Your memory is not very good, sir, I wonder at that.”

“I may tell you, that I never forget certain things, But I guess your meaning.  You want me to subdue my liking for Irene.  I am willing to do so, but she will be the loser.”

This conversation had silenced Irene, but she soon took courage, and said she was like me.

“No, no,” I answered, “if you were like me you would not be so pretty.”

“I don’t think so; I think you are very handsome.”

“You flatter me.”

“Stay to dinner with us.”

“No, if I stayed I might fall in love with you, and that would be a pity, as your mother says I am your father.”