hts in playing at the house of a certain Countess
Orsini, or at least so-called countess, who made a profession of
ruining the gilded youth of Venice. Every night there assembled at her
house a large company composed of nobles and courtezans; there one
supped and played, and as one did not pay for one's supper, it goes
without saying that the dice helped to indemnify the mistress of the
house. Meanwhile, the sequins and the Cyprian wine began to flow
freely, loving glances were exchanged, and the victims, drunk with
love and wine, lost their money and their reason.

It is from this dangerous resort that we have seen the hero of this
story emerge. He had met with more than one loss during the night.
Besides having emptied his pockets at cards; the only picture he had
ever finished, one that the connoisseurs had pronounced excellent, had
just been destroyed in a fire in the Dolfino palace. It was an
historical subject, treated with a spirit and a sureness of touch
almost worthy of Titian himself. Sold to a rich Senator, this canvas
had met with the same fate as a great number of other previous works
of art; the carelessness of a valet had turned it to ashes. But this
Pippo counted the least of his misfortunes; he was only thinking of
the unlucky star that had lately been following him with unusual
insistence and of the throws of dice it had made him lose.

On entering his house, he began by taking off the coverlet which lay
on his table and counting the money left in his drawer; then, as he
was of a nature naturally gay and optimistic, after he had undrest he
sat at the window in his night robe. Seeing that it was almost
daylight, he began to ponder whether he would close the shutters and
get into bed, or get up like everybody else. It was a long time since
he had seen the sun in the east, and he found the sky more beautiful
than ever. Before deciding whether to wake up or go to sleep, he took
his chocolate on the balcony, in an effort to fight off his
drowsiness. The moment his eyes closed, he would see a table, many
trembling hands and pale faces, and would hear again the sound of the
cornets. "What fatal luck," he murmured. "Is it possible that one can
lose with fifteen?" And he saw his habitual opponent, old Vespiano
Memmo, throwing eighteen and taking up the money piled on the table.

He promptly opened his eyelids to get rid of the bad dream, and looked
at the young girls passing on the quay. He seemed to see in t