As soon as he appeared M. Grimaldi exclaimed:
“The man with the bag!”
“What do you want?” I said, dryly.
“Sir, I am come to ask you to help me. I am a family man, and it is thought that . . .”
I did not let him finish.
“I have never refused to aid the unfortunate,” said I. “Clairmont, give him ten sequins. Leave the room.”
This incident spoke in my favour, and made me in a better temper.
We sat down to table, and a letter was handed to me. I recognized Possano’s writing, and put it in my pocket without reading it.
The dinner was delicious, and my cook was pronounced to have won his spurs. Though her exalted rank and the brilliance of her attire gave Signora Isoia-Bella the first place of right, she was nevertheless eclipsed by my two nieces. The young Genoese was all attention for the fair Marseillaise, and I could see that she was not displeased. I sincerely wished to see her in love with someone, and I liked her too well to bear the idea of her burying herself in a convent. She could never be happy till she found someone who would make her forget the rascal who had brought her to the brink of ruin.
I seized the opportunity, when all my guests were engaged with each other, to open Possano’s letter. It ran as follows: