e pantaloon's daughter, charmed me to such a degree
that I could not resist going to her dressing-room to compliment her on
her performance. I wore the cassock in those days, and she was astonished
when she heard her father order her to get up and kiss me. She kissed me,
nevertheless, with much grace, and though I received the compliment with
a good deal of awkwardness I was so delighted, that I could not help
buying her a little ring from a toy merchant in the theatre. She kissed
me again with great gratitude and enthusiasm.

The pleasantest part about this was that the sequin I had given for the
ring belonged to Dr. Gozzi, and so when I went back to him I was in a
pitiable state, for I had not only spent money which did not belong to
me, but I had spent it for so small a favour as a kiss.

I knew that the next day I should have to give an account of the money he
had entrusted to me, and not having the least idea as to what I should
say, I had a bad night of it. The next morning everything came out, and
my mother made up the sequin to the doctor. I laugh now when I think of
this childish piece of gallantry, which was an omen of the extent to
which my heart was to be swayed by the fair sex.

The toy-woman who had sold me the ring came the next day at dinner-time
to our house, and after producing several rings and trinkets which were
judged too dear, she began to praise my generosity, and said that I had
not thought the ring I had given to pretty Jeannette too dear. This did
my business; and I had to confess the whole, laying my fault to the
account of love, and promising not to do such a thing again. But when I
uttered the word love, everybody roared with laughter, and began to make
cruel game of me. I wished myself a mile away, and registered an interior
resolve never to confess my faults again. The reader knows how well I
kept my promise.

The pantaloon's little daughter was my mother's goddaughter, and my
thoughts were full of her. My mother, who loved me and saw my pain, asked
me if I would like the little girl to be asked to supper. My grandmother,
however, opposed the idea, and I was obliged to her.

The day after this burlesque scene I returned to Padua, where Bettina
soon made me forget the little ballet-girl. I saw her again at
Charlottenbourg, and that was now seventeen years ago.

I longed to have a talk with her, and to see whether she would remember
me, though I did not expect her to do so. I asked if