ed me in a whisper
whether I had heard of the fatal accident to the patrician Paolo Balbi.
"What accident?" I said with consternation. "Last night he died," was
the reply. "What!" exclaimed I, still more terrified: "why, I was with
him three hours yesterday evening; he was in perfect health and
spirits." "Nevertheless," said my informant, "the poor gentleman is
dead. Excuse me if I have been the bearer of disastrous news." When the
mass, to which I listened without listening, was over, I ran to the
patrician's house. I cherished warm affection for this friend of many
years, and hoped against hope that the news might be false. Alas! the
house resounded with funeral lamentations; the widow and children had
already left it for the palace of their relatives, the Malipieri.

Not many days afterwards I received the sad announcement that my brother
Francesco was seriously ill of a kind of cachexy on his estate in
Friuli. A few days later I learned that he had breathed his last. The
poor fellow left his wife and three sons well provided for; but when the
salutary restraint of his authority was removed by death, they showed
every inclination to dissipate what he had brought together for their
comfort.

One morning my friend Raffaelle Todeschini was announced. His
countenance wore an expression of alarm, while he began: "I come to
bring you painful news. Last evening, in the coffee-house at the Ponte
dell'Angelo, that honourable gentleman, Carlo Maffei, died suddenly."
The blow fell heavy on my heart; for I have enjoyed few friendships
equal to that of this most excellent gentleman. In his will he mentioned
me in terms of the highest and most unmerited praise, bequeathing me his
gold snuff-box by way of remembrance. That was the one and only legacy
which fell to my share in the course of my whole life.

In a short period of time I lost successively several other relatives
and friends. My brother Gasparo expired at Padua, recommending his
second wife, the Mme. Cenet who had nursed him through his long illness,
to my care. A sudden stroke of apoplexy robbed me of the first and
faithfullest friend I ever had, Innocenzio Massimo. My sister Laura, who
was married and lived at Adria, passed away while yet in the prime of
womanhood. I could add other names to this funereal catalogue, if I were
not unwilling to detain my readers longer in the graveyard.

Meanwhile, a terrible attack of fever laid me low in my turn. The
physician, Gio