One morning Manucci came to see me in evident perturbation.

“What is the matter?” said I.

“I do not know exactly.  For the last week I have refused to see the Baron Fraiture, as not being able to give him money, his presence only wearied me.  He has written me a letter, in which he threatens to blow out his brains to-day if I will not lend him a hundred pistoles.”

“He said the same thing to me three days ago; but I replied that I would bet two hundred pistoles that he would do nothing of the kind.  This made him angry, and he proposed to fight a duel with me; but I declined on the plea that as he was a desperate man either he would have an advantage over me or I, over him.  Give him the same answer, or, better still, no answer at all.”

“I cannot follow your advice.  Here are the hundred pistoles.  Take them to him and get a receipt.”

I admired his generosity and agreed to carry out his commission.  I called on the baron, who seemed rather uncomfortable when I walked in; but considering his position I was not at all surprised.

I informed him that I was the bearer of a thousand francs from Count Manucci, who thereby placed him in a position to arrange his affairs and to leave Madrid.  He received the money without any signs of pleasure, surprise, or gratitude, and wrote out the receipt.  He assured me that he and his friend would start for Barcelona and France on the following day.

I then took the document to Manucci, who was evidently suffering from some mental trouble; and I remained to dinner with the ambassador.  It was for the last time.

Three days after I went to dine with the ambassadors (for they all dined together), but to my astonishment the porter told me that he had received orders not to admit me.

The effect of this sentence on me was like that of a thunderbolt; I returned home like a man in a dream.  I immediately sat down and wrote to Manucci, asking him why I had been subjected to such an insult; but Philippe, my man, brought me back the letter unopened.

This was another surprise; I did not know what to expect next.  “What can be the matter?” I said to myself.  “I cannot imagine, but I will have an explanation, or perish.”

I dined sadly with Donna Ignazia, without telling her the cause of my trouble, and just as I was going to take my siesta a servant of Manucci’s brought me a letter from his master and fled before I could read it.  The letter contained an enclosure which I read first.  It was from Baron de Fraiture.  He asked Manucci to lend him a hundred pistoles, promising to shew him the man whom he held for his dearest friend to be his worst enemy.

Manucci (honouring me, by the way, with the title of ungrateful traitor) said that the baron’s letter had excited his curiosity and he had met him in St. Jerome’s Park, where the baron had clearly proved this enemy to be myself, since I had informed the baron that though the name of Manucci was genuine the title of count was quite apocryphal.