felt the slightest inclination for me.  No, such a piece of self-conceit was not in accordance with my nature.  Her cardinal himself had invited me to dinner.  Would he have done so if he had admitted the possibility of the beautiful marchioness feeling anything for me?  Of course not, and he gave me an invitation to dine with him only because he had understood, from the very words of the lady, that I was just the sort of person with whom they could converse for a few hours without any risk; to be sure, without any risk whatever.  Oh, Master Casanova! do you really think so?

Well, why should I put on a mask before my readers?  They may think me conceited if they please, but the fact of the matter is that I felt sure of having made a conquest of the marchioness.  I congratulated myself because she had taken the first, most difficult, and most important step.  Had she not done so, I should never have dared-to lay siege to her even in the most approved fashion; I should never have even ventured to dream of winning her.  It was only this evening that I thought she might replace Lucrezia.  She was beautiful, young, full of wit and talent; she was fond of literary pursuits, and very powerful in Rome; what more was necessary?  Yet I thought it would be good policy to appear ignorant of her inclination for me, and to let her suppose from the very next day that I was in love with her, but that my love appeared to me hopeless.  I knew that such a plan was infallible, because it saved her dignity.  It seemed to me that Father Georgi himself would be compelled to approve such an undertaking, and I had remarked with great satisfaction that Cardinal Acquaviva had expressed his delight at Cardinal S. C.’s invitation—­an honour which he had never yet bestowed on me himself.  This affair might have very important results for me.

I read the marchioness’s sonnet, and found it easy, flowing, and well written.  It was composed in praise of the King of Prussia, who had just conquered Silesia by a masterly stroke.  As I was copying it, the idea struck me to personify Silesia, and to make her, in answer to the sonnet, bewail that Love (supposed to be the author of the sonnet of the marchioness) could applaud the man who had conquered her, when that conqueror was the sworn enemy of Love.

It is impossible for a man accustomed to write poetry to abstain when a happy subject smiles upon his delighted imagination.  If he attempted to smother the poetical flame running through his veins it would consume him.  I composed my sonnet, keeping the same rhymes as in the original, and, well pleased with my muse, I went to bed.

The next morning the Abbe Gama came in just as I had finished recopying my sonnet, and said he would breakfast with me.  He complimented me upon the honour conferred on me by the invitation of Cardinal S. C.

“But be prudent,” he added, “for his eminence has the reputation of being jealous:” 

I thanked him for his friendly advice, taking care to assure him that I had nothing to fear, because I did not feel the slightest inclination for the handsome marchioness.