om Leghorn to Pisa, and from Pisa to
Florence, paying for their board all the way.

"The vetturino will never take me as bail for such an amount," I said to
Medini, "and even if he would I should never be so foolish as to contract
such a debt."

"Let me have a word with you in the next room," said he; "I will put the
matter clearly before you."

"Certainly."

Two of the police would have prevented his going into the next room, on
the plea that he might escape through the window, but I said I would be
answerable for him.

Just then the poor vetturino came in and kissed my hand, saying that if I
would go bail for the count he would let me have three months wherein to
find the money.

As it happened it was the same man who had taken me to Rome with the
Englishwoman who had been seduced by the actor l'Etoile. I told him to
wait a moment.

Medini who was a great talker and a dreadful liar thought to persuade me
by shewing me a number of open letters, commending him in pompous terms
to the best houses in Florence. I read the letters, but I found no
mention of money in them, and I told him as much.

"I know," said he, "but there is play going on in these houses, and I am
sure of gaining immense sums."

"You may be aware that I have no confidence in your good luck."

"Then I have another resource."

"What is that?"

He shewed me a bundle of manuscript, which I found to be an excellent
translation of Voltaire's "Henriade" into Italian verse. Tasso himself
could not have done it better. He said he hoped to finish the poem at
Florence, and to present it to the grand duke, who would be sure to make
him a magnificent present, and to constitute him his favourite.

I would not undeceive him, but I laughed to myself, knowing that the
grand duke only made a pretence of loving literature. A certain Abbe
Fontaine, a clever man, amused him with a little natural history, the
only science in which he took any interest. He preferred the worst prose
to the best verse, not having sufficient intellect to enjoy the subtle
charms of poetry. In reality he had only two passions--women and money.

After spending two wearisome hours with Medini, whose wit was great and
his judgment small, after heartily repenting of having yielded to my
curiosity and having paid him a visit, I said shortly that I could do
nothing for him. Despair drives men crazy; as I was making for the door,
he seized me by the collar.

He did not reflect in his