“You would have gone with Croce from Milan if he had asked you, even on foot.”

“Of course; it would have been my duty; but he would not expose me to the misery that he saw before us.”

“Nay, you were miserable enough already.  I am sure that if you meet him at Marseilles you will go with him again.”

“Never.  I begin to get back my reason.  I am free once more, and the day will come when I shall thank God for having forgotten him.”

Her sincerity pleased me, and as I knew too well the power of love I pitied her from my heart.  For two hours she told me the history of her unfortunate amour, and as she told it well I began to take a liking for her.

We reached Tortona in the evening, and with the intention of sleeping there I told Clairmont to get us a supper to my taste.  While we were eating it I was astonished at my false niece’s wit, and she made a good match for me at the meal, for she had an excellent appetite, and drank as well as any girl of her age.  As we were leaving the table, she made a jest which was so much to the point that I burst out laughing, and her conquest was complete.  I embraced her in the joy of my heart, and finding my kiss ardently returned, I asked her without any, circumlocution if she was willing that we should content ourselves with one bed.

At this invitation her face fell, and she replied, with an air of submission which kills desire,—­

“Alas! you can do what you like.  If liberty is a precious thing, it is most precious of all in love.”

“There is no need for this disobedience.  You have inspired me with a tender passion, but if you don’t share my feelings my love for you shall be stifled at its birth.  There are two beds here, as you see; you can choose which one you will sleep in.”

“Then I will sleep in that one, but I shall be very sorry if you are not so kind to me in the future as you have been in the past.”

“Don’t be afraid.  You shall not find me un worthy of your esteem.  Good night; we shall be good friends.”

Early the next morning I sent the countess’s letter to the bishop, and an hour afterwards, as I was at breakfast, an old priest came to ask me and the lady with me to dine with my lord.  The countess’s letter did not say anything about a lady, but the prelate, who was a true Spaniard and very polite, felt that as I could not leave my real or false niece alone in the inn I should not have accepted the invitation if she had not been asked as well.  Probably my lord had heard of the lady through his footmen, who in Italy are a sort of spies, who entertain their masters with the scandalous gossip of the place.  A bishop wants something more than his breviary to amuse him now that the apostolic virtues have grown old-fashioned and out of date; in short, I accepted the invitation, charging the priest to present my respects to his lordship.