On the Tuesday in Holy Week I was just getting up, when Clairmont came to tell me that a priest who would not give his name wanted to speak to me. I went out in my night-cap, and the rascally priest rushed at me and nearly choked me with his embraces. I did not like so much affection, and as I had not recognized him at first on account of the darkness of the room, I took him by the arm and led him to the window. It was my youngest brother, a good-for-nothing fellow, whom I had always disliked. I had not seen him for ten years, but I cared so little about him that I had not even enquired whether he were alive or dead in the correspondence I maintained with M. de Bragadin, Dandolo, and Barbaro.
As soon as his silly embraces were over, I coldly asked him what chance had brought him to Genoa in this disgusting state of dirt, rags, and tatters. He was only twenty-nine, his complexion was fresh and healthy, and he had a splendid head of hair. He was a posthumous son, born like Mahomet, three months after the death of his father.
“The story of my misfortunes would be only too long. Take me into your room, and I will sit down and tell you the whole story.”
“First of all, answer my questions. How long have you been here?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Who told you that I was here?”
“Count B——, at Milan.”
“Who told you that the count knew me?”
“I found out by chance. I was at M. de Bragadin’s a month ago, and on his table I saw a letter from the count to you.”
“Did you tell him you were my brother?”