y heart tells me," I began, "that your excellence's name is Zaguri?"

"Exactly so, my dear Casanova. As soon as my friend Dandolo told me of
your arrival here, I determined to come and congratulate you on your
approaching recall, which will take place either this year or the next,
as I hope to see two friends of mine made Inquisitors. You may judge of
my friendship for you when I tell you that I am an 'avogador', and that
there is a law forbidding such to leave Venice. We will spend to-day and
to-morrow together."

I replied in a manner to convince him that I was sensible of the honour
he had done me; and I heard Baron Pittoni begging me to excuse him for
not having come to see me. He said he had forgotten all about it, and a
handsome old man begged his excellence to ask me to dine with him, though
he had not the pleasure of knowing me.

"What!" said Zaguri. "Casanova has been here for the last ten days, and
does not know the Venetian consul?"

I hastened to speak.

"It's my own fault," I observed, "I did not like calling on this
gentleman, for fear he might think me contraband."

The consul answered wittily that I was not contraband but in quarantine,
pending my return to my native land; and that in the meanwhile his house
would always be open to me, as had been the house of the Venetian consul
at Ancona.

In this manner he let me know that he knew something about me, and I was
not at all sorry for it.

Marco Monti, such was the consul's name, was a man of parts and much
experience; a pleasant companion and a great conversationalist, fond of
telling amusing stories with a grave face--in fact, most excellent
company.

I was something of a 'conteur' myself, and we soon became friendly rivals
in telling anecdotes. In spite of his thirty additional years I was a
tolerable match for him, and when we were in a room there was no question
of gaining to kill the time.

We became fast friends, and I benefited a good deal by his offices during
the two years I spent in Trieste, and I have always thought that he had a
considerable share in obtaining my recall. That was my great object in
those days; I was a victim to nostalgia, or home sickness.

With the Swiss and the Sclavs it is really a fatal disease, which carries
them off if they are not sent home immediately. Germans are subject to
this weakness also; whilst the French suffer very little, and Italians
not much more from the complaint.

No rule, however, lacks