In spite of this dismissal C——­ C——­ did not marry N——­ till after my flight from The Leads, when nobody expected to see me again in Venice.  I did not see her for nineteen years, and then I was grieved to find her a widow, and poorly off.  If I went to Venice now I should not marry her, for at my age marriage is an absurdity, but I would share with her my little all, and live with her as with a dear sister.

When I hear women talking about the bad faith and inconstancy of men, and maintaining that when men make promises of eternal constancy they are always deceivers, I confess that they are right, and join in their complaints.  Still it cannot be helped, for the promises of lovers are dictated by the heart, and consequently the lamentations of women only make me want to laugh.  Alas! we love without heeding reason, and cease to love in the same manner.

About this time I received a letter from the Abbe de Bernis, who wrote also to M——­ M——.  He told me that I ought to do my utmost to make our nun take a reasonable view of things, dwelling on the risks I should run in carrying her off and bringing her to Paris, where all his influence would be of no avail to obtain for us that safety so indispensable to happiness.  I saw M——­ M——­; we shewed each other our letters, she had some bitter tears, and her grief pierced me to the heart.  I still had a great love for her in spite of my daily infidelities, and when I thought of those moments in which I had seen her given over to voluptuousness I could not help pitying her fate as I thought of the days of despair in store for her.  But soon after this an event happened which gave rise to some wholesome reflections.  One day, when I had come to see her, she said,

“They have just been burying a nun who died of consumption the day before yesterday in the odour of sanctity.  She was called ‘Maria Concetta.’  She knew you, and told C——­ C——­ your name when you used to come to mass on feast days.  C——­ C——­ begged her to be discreet, but the nun told her that you were a dangerous man, whose presence should be shunned by a young girl.  C——­ C——­ told me all this after the mask of Pierrot.”

“What was this saint’s name when she was in the world?”

“Martha.”

“I know her.”

I then told M——­ M——­ the whole history of my loves with Nanette and Marton, ending with the letter she wrote me, in which she said that she owed me, indirectly, that eternal salvation to which she hoped to attain.

In eight or ten days my conversation with my hostess’ daughter—­conversation which took place on the balcony, and which generally lasted till midnight—­and the lesson I gave her every morning, produced the inevitable and natural results; firstly, that she no longer complained of her breath failing, and, secondly, that I fell in love with her.  Nature’s cure had not yet relieved her, but she no longer needed to be let blood.  Righelini came to visit her