The next day my landlord told me that I could give my linen to the maid, and that Leah could get it up for me.
I told him I had relished my supper, but that I should like the foie gras every day as I had a dispensation.
“You shall have some to-morrow, but Leah is the only one of us who eats it.”
“Then Leah must take it with me, and you can tell her that I shall give her some Cyprus wine which is perfectly pure.”
I had no wine, but I went for it the same morning to the Venetian consul, giving him M. Dandolo’s letter.
The consul was a Venetian of the old leaven. He had heard my name, and seemed delighted to make my acquaintance. He was a kind of clown without the paint, fond of a joke, a regular gourmand, and a man of great experience. He sold me some Scopolo and old Cyprus Muscat, but he began to exclaim when he heard where I was lodging, and how I had come there.
“He is rich,” he said, “but he is also a great usurer, and if you borrow money of him he will make you repent it.”
After informing the consul that I should not leave till the end of the month, I went home to dinner, which proved excellent.
The next day I gave out my linen to the maid, and Leah came to ask me how I liked my lace got up.
If Leah had examined me more closely she would have seen that the sight of her magnificent breast, unprotected by any kerchief, had had a remarkable effect on me.