My nice companion who had hitherto only spoken to back up the gondoliers, thought himself bound to offer me his consolations.  He did not understand why I was weeping, and the tone he took made me pass from sweet affliction to a strange mirthfulness which made him go astray once more, as he thought I had got mad.  The poor monk, as I have said, was a fool, and whatever was bad about him was the result of his folly.  I had been under the sad necessity of turning him to account, but though without intending to do so he had almost been my ruin.  It was no use trying to make him believe that I had told the gondoliers to go to Fusina whilst I intended to go to Mestre; he said I could not have thought of that till I got on to the Grand Canal.

In due course we reached Mestre.  There were no horses to ride post, but I found men with coaches who did as well, and I agreed with one of them to take me to Trevisa in an hour and a quarter.  The horses were put in in three minutes, and with the idea that Father Balbi was behind me I turned round to say “Get up,” but he was not there.  I told an ostler to go and look for him, with the intention of reprimanding him sharply, even if he had gone for a necessary occasion, for we had no time to waste, not even thus.  The man came back saying he could not find’ him, to my great rage and indignation.  I was tempted to abandon him, but a feeling of humanity restrained me.  I made enquiries all round; everybody had seen him, but not a soul knew where he was.  I walked along the High Street, and some instinct prompting me to put my head in at the window of a cafe.  I saw the wretched man standing at the bar drinking chocolate and making love to the girl.  Catching sight of me, he pointed to the girl and said—­

“She’s charming,” and then invited me to take a cup of chocolate, saying that I must pay, as he hadn’t a penny.  I kept back my wrath and answered,

“I don’t want any, and do you make haste!” and caught hold of his arm in such sort that he turned white with pain.  I paid the money and we went out.  I trembled with anger.  We got into our coach, but we had scarcely gone ten paces before I recognised:  an inhabitant, of Mestre named Balbi Tommasi, a good sort of man; but reported to be one of the familiars of the Holy Office.  He knew me, too, and coming up called out,

“I am delighted to see you here.  I suppose you have just escaped.  How did you do it?”

“I have not escaped, but have been set at liberty.”

“No, no, that’s not possible, as I was at M. Grimani’s yesterday evening, and I should have heard of it.”