“I confess that there is, but it is none the less a dishonourable imputation on me, and you in your turn must confess that those who think that I won by sleight of hand, or by an agreement with a rascal, insult me grievously.”

“That depends on the way you look at it.  I confess they insult you, if you think yourself insulted; but they are not aware of that, and their intention being quite different there is no insult at all in the matter.  I promise you no one will tell you to your face that you cheated, but how are you going to prevent them thinking so?”

“Well, let them think what they like, but let them take care not to tell me their thoughts.”

I went home angry with Grimaldi, Rinaldi, and everyone else.  My anger vexed me, I should properly have only laughed, for in the state of morals at Genoa, the accusation, whether true or false, could not injure my honour.  On the contrary I gained by it a reputation for being a genius, a term which the Genoese prefer to that Methodistical word, “a rogue,” though the meaning is the same.  Finally I was astonished to find myself reflecting that I should have had no scruple in breaking the bank in the way suggested, if it had only been for the sake of making the company laugh.  What vexed me most was that I was credited with an exploit I had not performed.

When dinner-time drew near I endeavoured to overcome my ill temper for the sake of the company I was going to receive.  My niece was adorned only with her native charms, for the rascal Croce had sold all her jewels; but she was elegantly dressed, and her beautiful hair was more precious than a crown of rubies.

Rosalie came in richly dressed and looking very lovely.  Her husband, her uncle, and her aunt were with her, and also two friends, one of whom was the aspirant for the hand of my niece.

Madame Isola-Bella and her shadow, M. Grimaldi, came late, like great people.  Just as we were going to sit down, Clairmont told me that a man wanted to speak to me.

“Shew him in.”

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.