“Who is the cook?” said I.

“I am, and I have been using all my skill on it since five, when I got up.”

“What time is it now, then?”

“Past one.”

The girl astonished me.  She was no longer the shy Tonine of last night; she had that exultant air which happiness bestows, and the look of pleasure which the delights of love give to a young beauty.  I could not understand how I had escaped from doing homage to her beauty when I first saw her at her mother’s house.  But I was then too deeply in love with C——­ C——­; I was in too great distress; and, moreover, Tonine was then unformed.  I got up, and making her bring me a cup of coffee I asked her to keep the dinner back for a couple of hours.

I found M——­ M——­’s letter affectionate, but not so interesting as it would have been the day before.  I set myself to answer it, and was almost thunderstruck to find the task, for the first time, a painful one.  However, my short journey to Venice supplied me with talk which covered four pages.

I had an exquisite dinner with my charming Tonine.  Looking at her as at the same time my wife, my mistress, and my housekeeper, I was delighted to find myself made happy at such a cheap rate.  We spent the whole day at the table talking of our love, and giving each other a thousand little marks of it; for there is no such rich and pleasant matter for conversation as when they who talk are parties to an amorous suit.  She told with charming simplicity that she knew perfectly well that she could not make me amorous of her, because I loved another, and that her only hope was therefore in a surprise, and that she had foreseen the happy moment when I told her that she need not dress herself to light a candle.

Tonine was naturally quick-witted, but she did not know either how to read or to write.  She was enchanted to see herself become rich (for she thought herself so) without a soul at Muran being able to breathe a word against her honour.  I passed three weeks in the company of this delightful girl—­weeks which I still reckon among the happiest of my life; and what embitters my old age is that, having a heart as warm as ever, I have no longer the strength necessary to secure a single day as blissful as those which I owed to this charming girl.

Towards the end of April I saw M. M. at the grating, looking thin and much changed, but out of danger.  I therefore returned to Venice.  In my interview, calling my attachment and tender feelings to my aid, I succeeded in behaving myself in such wise that she could not possibly detect the change which a new love had worked in my heart.  I shall be, I trust, easily believed when I say that I was not imprudent enough to let her suspect that I had given up the idea of escaping with her, upon which she counted more than ever.  I was afraid lest she should fall ill again, if I took this hope away from her.  I kept my casino, which cost me little, and as I went to see M. M. twice a week I slept there on those occasions, and made love with my dashing Tonine.