ned to escape without further annoyances. A woman wounded
in her _amour propre_ becomes the worst of wild beasts. This I soon
discovered; for Mme. Ricci, when she saw I was in earnest, made a point
of vexing me, as though, forsooth, she could worry me back into
good-will!

That Lent the actors stayed at Venice; and we used to meet at Sacchi's
house during the evenings. A game of cards, a plate of fritters, a
bottle of wine, and a lavish expenditure of wit and merriment, formed
the staple of our recreation. The Ricci had never been in the habit of
joining these parties. She did so now in order to launch sarcasms at me.
Her rudeness became so intolerable, that, after bearing it in silence
for three evenings, I stayed at home. This alarmed the actors, by whom I
was regarded as their tutelary genius. They came to me and told me that
she had been peremptorily forbidden to show her face again at their
reunions.

This did not improve her temper; and her next move was an attempt to
draw me into correspondence. First came a letter complaining that my
man-servant had spoken insultingly about her to her maid. Of course I
paid no attention to such nonsense. Then, about the middle of Lent,
arrived a huge epistle in a handwriting I did not recognise. It turned
out to be from her husband, who rated me soundly for having outraged his
wife by withdrawing my protection. He had the impudence to say that my
behaviour was unworthy of a gentleman. The remainder of this voluminous
rigmarole consisted of arguments to prove the following thesis:--If a
husband approves of the male friends his wife receives, her other male
friends have no right to inquire into their character. "Farewell,
compliant husband!" cried I, folding up the letter, and laying it aside
unanswered.

One morning during Holy Week my servant announced Mme. Ricci's husband.
I allowed him to enter, asked him to sit beside me on the sofa, and told
my man to bring him chocolate. Looking into the poor fellow's eyes, I
could see that he had been forced to pay this visit, and that he was
doing his very best to pluck up courage. "We are on the point of leaving
for Mantua," he began, "and I am come to pay you my respects, to offer
you my wife's regards, and to wish you good health." "You have given
yourself unnecessary trouble," I replied; "nevertheless, I am obliged,
and I wish you a good journey and a prosperous tour." He kept silence
for a minute or so. Then he pulled himself toge