Morosini was much taken with Sara’s charms, and only thought of how he could possess her.  He was still a young man, full of romantic notions, and she would have become odious in his eyes if he could have guessed that she would have to be bought with a heavy price.

He told me several times that if a woman proposed payment for her favours, his disgust would expel his love in a moment.  As he said, and rightly, he was as good a man as Madame Goudar was a woman.

This was distinctly a good point in his character; no woman who gave her favours in exchange for presents received could hope to dupe him.  Sara’s maxims were diametrically opposed to his; she looked on her love as a bill of exchange.

Stratico was delighted to see him engaged in this intrigue, for the chief point in dealing with him was to keep him occupied.  If he had no distractions he took refuge in bad company or furious riding.  He would sometimes ride ten or twelve stages at full gallop, utterly ruining the horses.  He was only too glad to make his uncle pay for them, as he swore he was an old miser.

After I had made up my mind to leave Naples, I had a visit from Don Pascal Latilla, who brought with him the Abbe Galiani, whom I had known at Paris.

It may be remembered that I had known his brother at St. Agatha’s, where I had stayed with him, and left him Donna Lucrezia Castelli.

I told him that I had intended to visit him, and asked if Lucrezia were still with him.

“She lives at Salerno,” said he, “with her daughter the Marchioness C——.”

I was delighted to hear the news; if it had not been for the abbe’s visit, I should never have heard what had become of these ladies.

I asked him if he knew the Marchioness C——.

“I only know the marquis,” he replied, “he is old and very rich.”

That was enough for me.

A couple of days afterwards Morosini invited Sara, Goudar, two young gamesters, and Medini, to dinner.  The latter had not yet given up hopes of cheating the chevalier in one way or another.

Towards the end of dinner it happened that Medini differed in opinion from me, and expressed his views in such a peremptory manner that I remarked that a gentleman would be rather more choice in his expressions.

“Maybe,” he replied, “but I am not going to learn manners from you.”

I constrained myself, and said nothing, but I was getting tired of his insolence; and as he might imagine that my resentment was caused by fear, I determined on disabusing him.

As he was taking his coffee on the balcony overlooking the sea, I came up to him with my cup in my hand, and said that I was tired of the rudeness with which he treated me in company.

“You would find me ruder still,” he replied, “if we could meet without company.”

“I think I could convince you of your mistake if we could have a private meeting.”