I was racking my brain to contrive some way to know the position of my mistress—­for I felt certain it was a fearful one—­and believing her to be unhappy I reproached myself most bitterly as the cause of her misery.  I had reached such a state of anxiety that I could neither eat nor sleep.

Two days after the refusal of the father, M. de Bragadin and his two friends went to Padua for a month.  I had not had the heart to go with them, and I was alone in the house.  I needed consolation and I went to the gaming-table, but I played without attention and lost a great deal.  I had already sold whatever I possessed of any value, and I owed money everywhere.  I could expect no assistance except from my three kind friends, but shame prevented me from confessing my position to them.  I was in that disposition which leads easily to self-destruction, and I was thinking of it as I was shaving myself before a toilet-glass, when the servant brought to my room a woman who had a letter for me.  The woman came up to me, and, handing me the letter, she said,

“Are you the person to whom it is addressed?”

I recognized at once a seal which I had given to C——­ C——­; I thought I would drop down dead.  In order to recover my composure, I told the woman to wait, and tried to shave myself, but my hand refused to perform its office.  I put the razor down, turned my back on the messenger, and opening the letter I read the following lines,

“Before I can write all I have to say, I must be sure of my messenger.  I am boarding in a convent, and am very well treated, and I enjoy excellent health in spite of the anxiety of my mind.  The superior has been instructed to forbid me all visitors and correspondence.  I am, however, already certain of being able to write to you, notwithstanding these very strict orders.  I entertain no doubt of your good faith, my beloved husband, and I feel sure that you will never doubt a heart which is wholly yours.  Trust to me for the execution of whatever you may wish me to do, for I am yours and only yours.  Answer only a few words until we are quite certain of our messenger.

“Muran, June 12th.”

In less than three weeks my young friend had become a clever moralist; it is true that Love had been her teacher, and Love alone can work miracles.  As I concluded the reading of her letter, I was in the state of a criminal pardoned at the foot of the scaffold.  I required several minutes before I recovered the exercise of my will and my presence of mind.

I turned towards the messenger, and asked her if she could read.

“Ah, sir! if I could not read, it would be a great misfortune for me.  There are seven women appointed for the service of the nuns of Muran.  One of us comes in turn to Venice once a week; I come every Wednesday, and this day week I shall be able to bring you an answer to the letter which, if you like, you can write now.”

“Then you can take charge of the letters entrusted to you by the nuns?”