I longed to have a talk with her, and to see whether she would remember me, though I did not expect her to do so. I asked if her husband Denis was with her, and they told me that the king had banished him because he ill-treated her.
I called on her the day after the performance, and was politely received, but she said she did not think she had had the pleasure of seeing me before.
By degrees I told her of the events of her childhood, and how she enchanted all Venice by the grace with which she danced the minuet. She interrupted me by saying that at that time she was only six years old.
“You could not be more,” I replied, “for I was only ten; and nevertheless, I fell in love with you, and never have I forgotten the kiss you gave me by your father’s order in return for some trifling present I made you.”
“Be quiet; you gave me a beautiful ring, and I kissed you of my own free will. You wore the cassock then. I have never forgotten you. But can it really be you?”
“It is indeed.”
“I am delighted to see you again. But I could never have recognized you, and I suppose you would not have recognized me.”
“No, I should not have known you, unless I had heard your name mentioned.”
“One alters in twenty years, you know.”
“Yes, one cannot expect to have the same face as at six.”