“You will hear that at M. de R——’s, where I shall await you.”
I must now explain my anger. You may remember, reader, that I left the wretched fellow in the prison of Buen Retiro. I heard afterwards that the King of Spain, Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, had given him a small post in a galley off the coast of Africa.
He had done me no harm, and I pitied him; but not being his intimate friend, and having no power to mitigate the hardship of his lot, I had well-nigh forgotten him.
Eight months after, I met at Barcelona Madame Bellucci, a Venetian dancer, with whom I had had a small intrigue. She gave an exclamation of delight on seeing me, and said she was glad to see me delivered from the hard fate to which a tyrannous Government had condemned me.
“What fate is that?” I asked, “I have seen a good deal of misfortune since I left you.”
“I mean the presidio.”
“But that has never been my lot, thank God! Who told you such a story?”
“A Count Marazzani, who was here three weeks ago, and told me he had been luckier than you, as he had made his escape.”
“He’s a liar and a scoundrel; and if ever I meet him again he shall pay me dearly.”
From that moment I never thought of the rascal without feeling a lively desire to give him a thrashing, but I never thought that chance would bring about so early a meeting.