“I will tell you presently, but let us go into a coffeehouse.”

“Are you in company with a band of brigands?  What are you sighing at?”

“I must confess it, however painful it may be to my feelings.  I am with a woman.”

“A woman! and you a priest!”

“Forgive me.  I was blinded by love, and seduced by my senses and her beauty, so I seduced her under a promise to marry her at Geneva.  I can never go back to Venice, for I took her away from her father’s house.”

“What could you do at Geneva?  They would expel you after you had been there three or four days.  Come, we will go to the inn and see the woman you have deceived.  I will speak to you afterwards.”

I began to trace my steps in the direction he had pointed out, and he was obliged to follow me.  As soon as we got to the inn, he went on in front, and after climbing three flights of stairs I entered a wretched den where I saw a tall young girl, a sweet brunette, who looked proud and not in the least confused.  As soon as I made my appearance she said, without any greeting,—­

“Are you the brother of this liar and monster who has deceived me so abominably?”

“Yes,” said I.  “I have the honour.”

“A fine honour, truly.  Well, have the kindness to send me back to Venice, for I won’t stop any longer with this rascal whom I listened to like the fool I was, who turned my head with his lying tales.  He was going to meet you at Milan, and you were to give us enough money to go to Geneva, and there we were to turn Protestants and get married.  He swore you were expecting him at Milan, but you were not there at all, and he contrived to get money in some way or another, and brought me here miserably enough.  I thank Heaven he has found you at last, for if he had not I should have started off by myself and begged my way.  I have not a single thing left; the wretch sold all I possessed at Bergamo and Verona.  I don’t know how I kept my senses through it all.  To hear him talk, the world was a paradise outside Venice, but I have found to my cost that there is no place like home.  I curse the hour when I first saw the miserable wretch.  He’s a beggarly knave; always whining.  He wanted to enjoy his rights as my husband when we got to Padua, but I am thankful to say I gave him nothing.  Here is the writing he gave me; take it, and do what you like with it.  But if you have any heart, send me back to Venice or I will tramp there on foot.”

I had listened to this long tirade without interrupting her.  She might have spoken at much greater length, so far as I was concerned; my astonishment took my breath away.  Her discourse had all the fire of eloquence, and was heightened by her expressive face and the flaming glances she shot from her eyes.