“As for the nun of Muran, justly famous for her beauty, if she be M—— M——, nun of the convent..., I not only disbelieve that Murray ever had her, but I am sure she was never the French ambassador’s mistress. If he knew her it could only have been at the grating, where I really cannot say what happens.”
Righelini, who was an honourable and spirited man, answered me coldly that the English ambassador was a man of his word, and that he had the story from his own lips.
“If Mr. Murray,” he continued, “had not told it me under the seal of secrecy I would make him tell it you himself. I shall be obliged if you will take care that he never knows I told you of it.”
“You may rely on my discretion.”
The same evening, supping at Murray’s casino with Righelini, having the matter at heart, and seeing before me the two men who could clear up everything to my satisfaction, I began to speak with enthusiasm of the beauty of M—— E——, whom I had seen at the Vierges.
Here the ambassador struck in, taking the ball on the hop:
“Between friends,” said he, “you can get yourself the enjoyment of those charms, if you are willing to sacrifice a sum of money—not too much, either, but you must have the key.”
“Do you think you have it?”
“No, I am sure; and had less trouble than you might suppose.”
“If you are sure; I congratulate you, and doubt no more. I envy your fortune, for I don’t believe a more perfect beauty could be found in all the convents of Venice.”