Before I took leave I requested her to appoint another rendezvous for the next day, which she postponed for three days, adding, with a satirical smile, that I must needs be in want of repose.  I was very ill at ease during the interval; my heart was full of her charms and graces; I felt my extravagance, and reproached myself with it, regretting the loss of the moments I had so ill employed, and which, had I chosen, I might have rendered more agreeable than any in my whole life; waiting with the most burning impatience for the moment in which I might repair the loss, and yet, notwithstanding all my reasoning upon what I had discovered, anxious to reconcile the perfections of this adorable girl with the indignity of her situation.  I ran, I flew to her apartment at the hour appointed.  I know not whether or not her ardor would have been more satisfied with this visit, her pride at least would have been flattered by it, and I already rejoiced at the idea of my convincing her, in every respect, that I knew how to repair the wrongs I had done.  She spared me this justification.  The gondolier whom I had sent to her apartment brought me for answer that she had set off, the evening before, for Florence.  If I had not felt all the love I had for her person when this was in my possession, I felt it in the most cruel manner on losing her.  Amiable and charming as she was in my eyes, I could not console myself for the loss of her; but this I have never been able to do relative to the contemptuous idea which at her departure she must have had of me.

These are my two narratives.  The eighteen months I passed at Venice furnished me with no other of the same kind, except a simple prospect at most.  Carrio was a gallant.  Tired of visiting girls engaged to others, he took a fancy to have one to himself, and, as we were inseparable, he proposed to mean arrangement common enough at Venice, which was to keep one girl for us both.  To this I consented.  The question was, to find one who was safe.  He was so industrious in his researches that he found out a little girl from eleven to twelve years of age, whom her infamous mother was endeavoring to sell, and I went with Carrio to see her.  The sight of the child moved me to the most lively compassion.  She was fair and as gentle as a lamb.  Nobody would have taken her for an Italian.  Living is very cheap in Venice; we gave a little money to the mother, and provided for the subsistence of her daughter.  She had a voice, and to procure her some resource we gave her a spinnet, and a singing—­master.  All these expenses did not cost each of us more than two sequins a month, and we contrived to save a much greater sum in other matters; but as we were obliged to wait until she became of a riper age, this was sowing a long time before we could possibly reap.  However, satisfied with passing our evenings, chatting and innocently playing with the child, we perhaps enjoyed greater pleasure than if we had received the last favors.