On the ninth day, the vicar gave her absolution, and after administering extreme unction, he left her, as he said, in the hands of God.  In the midst of so much sadness, the conversation of the mother with her son, would, in spite of myself, cause me some amount of merriment.  The good woman wanted to know whether the demon who was dwelling in her child could still influence her to perform extravagant follies, and what would become of the demon in the case of her daughter’s death, for, as she expressed it, she could not think of his being so stupid as to remain in so loathsome a body.  She particularly wanted to ascertain whether the demon had power to carry off the soul of her child.  Doctor Gozzi, who was an ubiquitarian, made to all those questions answers which had not even the shadow of good sense, and which of course had no other effect than to increase a hundred-fold the perplexity of his poor mother.

During the tenth and eleventh days, Bettina was so bad that we thought every moment likely to be her last.  The disease had reached its worst period; the smell was unbearable; I alone would not leave her, so sorely did I pity her.  The heart of man is indeed an unfathomable abyss, for, however incredible it may appear, it was while in that fearful state that Bettina inspired me with the fondness which I showed her after her recovery.

On the thirteenth day the fever abated, but the patient began to experience great irritation, owing to a dreadful itching, which no remedy could have allayed as effectually as these powerful words which I kept constantly pouring into her ear:  “Bettina, you are getting better; but if you dare to scratch yourself, you will become such a fright that nobody will ever love you.”  All the physicians in the universe might be challenged to prescribe a more potent remedy against itching for a girl who, aware that she has been pretty, finds herself exposed to the loss of her beauty through her own fault, if she scratches herself.

At last her fine eyes opened again to the light of heaven; she was moved to her own room, but she had to keep her bed until Easter.  She inoculated me with a few pocks, three of which have left upon my face everlasting marks; but in her eyes they gave me credit for great devotedness, for they were a proof of my constant care, and she felt that I indeed deserved her whole love.  And she truly loved me, and I returned her love, although I never plucked a flower which fate and prejudice kept in store for a husband.  But what a contemptible husband!

Two years later she married a shoemaker, by name Pigozzo—­a base, arrant knave who beggared and ill-treated her to such an extent that her brother had to take her home and to provide for her.  Fifteen years afterwards, having been appointed arch-priest at Saint-George de la Vallee, he took her there with him, and when I went to pay him a visit eighteen years ago, I found Bettina old, ill, and dying.  She breathed her last in my arms in 1776, twenty-four hours after my arrival.  I will speak of her death in good time.