There could be no doubt that I had been arrested by the despotic viceroy, who had been persuaded by Nina that I was her favoured lover.  The question of my passports must have been a mere pretext, for eight or ten days would have sufficed to send them to Madrid and have them back again if their authenticity had been doubted.  Possibly Passano might have told the viceroy that any passports of mine were bound to be false, as I should have had to obtain the signature of my own ambassador.  This, he might have said, was out of the question as I was in disgrace with the Venetian Government.  As a matter of fact, he was mistaken if he really said so, but the mistake would have been an excusable one.

When I made up my mind at the end of August to leave Madrid, I asked the Count of Aranda for a passport.  He replied that I must first obtain one from my ambassador, who, he added, could not refuse to do me this service.

Fortified with this opinion I called at the embassy.  M. Querini was at San Ildefonso at the time, and I told the porter that I wanted to speak to the secretary of embassy.

The servant sent in my name, and the fop gave himself airs, and pretended that he could not receive me.  In my indignation I wrote to him saying that I had not called to pay my court to the secretary, but to demand a passport which was my right.  I gave my name and my degree (doctor of law), and begged him to leave the passport with the porter, as I should call for it on the following day.

I presented myself accordingly, and the porter told me that the ambassador had left verbal orders that I was not to have a passport.

I wrote immediately to the Marquis Grimaldi and to the Duke of Lossada, begging them to request the ambassador to send me a passport in the usual form, or else I should publish the shameful reasons for which his uncle Mocenigo had disgraced me.

I do not know whether these gentlemen shewed my letters to Querini, but I do know that the secretary Oliviera sent me my passport.

Thereupon the Count Aranda furnished me with a passport signed by the king.

On the last day of the year I left Barcelona with a servant who sat behind my chaise, and I agreed with my driver to take me to Perpignan by January 3rd, 1769.

The driver was a Piedmontese and a worthy man:  The next day he came into the room of the wayside inn where I was dining, and in the presence of my man asked me whether I had any suspicion that I was being followed.

“Well, I may be,” I said, “but what makes you ask that question?”

“As you were leaving Barcelona yesterday, I noticed three ill-looking fellows watching us, armed to the teeth.  Last night they slept in the stable with my mules.  They dined here to-day, and they went on three quarters of an hour ago.  They don’t speak to anyone, and I don’t like the looks of them.”

“What shall we do to avoid assassination, or the dread of it?”