ed myself with
caution. My plan was to allege decent excuses for my conduct, without
touching the repulsive wound. However, I had not divined the whole. She
led me into a room, where, to my surprise, I beheld the idol of my first
affections, seated and shedding tears. "What I wanted to say to you,"
exclaimed the dame, "you will hear from the lips of this afflicted
damsel." On this, she left the room, while I remained like a statue
before the beauty I had adored, and who was still supremely charming in
my sight. She lifted her forehead, and began to load me with the
bitterest reproaches. I did not allow her to run on, but told her with
resolute plainness that a young woman who, during my absence, had played
so false was no longer worthy of my love. She turned pale, crying aloud:
"What scoundrelly scandal-monger has dared...." Again I cut her speech
short, adding: "Do not tire yourself by attempting the justification of
your conduct. I know the whole truth from an infallible source. I am
neither inconstant, nor a dreamer, nor ungrateful, nor unjust." The
assurance with which I uttered these words made the poor girl lower her
face, as though she was ashamed that I should look at her. Then bursting
into a passion of tears, broken with sobs, she brought these incoherent
phrases forth: "You are right ... I am no longer worthy of you.... Oh,
cursed poverty, thrice-cursed poverty!" She was unable to continue, and
I thought her tears would suffocate her. I was fit to drop to earth with
the vertigo caused by this confession, which left no flattering hopes of
innocence. My senses still painted a Venus in that desolated beauty. My
romantic head and heart painted her a horrid Fury from the pit of hell.
I kept silence. In my purse were some ducats, few indeed, but yet I had
them. I took these coins out, and, speechless still, I let them gently
drop into the loveliest bosom I have ever seen. Then I turned my back
and fled. Half mad with grief, I bounded down the staircase like a
greyhound, screaming with the ecstasy of one possessed by devils:
"Cursed poverty! Cursed, thrice-cursed poverty!"

[Illustration: GOZZI AND HIS FIRST LOVE

_Original Etching by Ad. Lalauze_]

Since then I never saw the object of my first love. I thought I must
have died under the pressure of a passion which gnawed my entrails, but
which, although I was but a boy, I had the cruel strength to subjugate.
Soon afterwards I learned with satisfaction that the unh