dy used her
advantages too long, and her beauty was beginning to fade when she
arrived in Fontainebleau.

I met her again in Paris at the ambassador's, and she told me with a
laugh that she had only been in jest when she called herself Madame
Querini, and that I should oblige her if for the future I would call her
by her real name of Countess Preati. She invited me to visit her at the
Hotel de Luxembourg, where she was staying. I often called on her, for
her intrigues amused me, but I was wise enough not to meddle with them.

She remained in Paris four months, and contrived to infatuate M. Ranchi,
secretary of the Venetian Embassy, an amiable and learned man. He was so
deeply in love that he had made up his mind to marry her; but through a
caprice which she, perhaps, regretted afterwards, she ill-treated him,
and the fool died of grief. Count de Canes, ambassador of Maria Theresa,
had some inclination for her, as well as the Count of Zinzendorf. The
person who arranged these transient and short-lived intrigues was a
certain Guasco, an abbe not over-favoured with the gifts of Plutus. He
was particularly ugly, and had to purchase small favours with great
services.

But the man whom she really wished to marry was Count Saint Simon. He
would have married her if she had not given him false addresses to make
enquiries respecting her birth. The Preati family of Verona denied all
knowledge of her, as a matter of course, and M. de Saint Simon, who, in
spite of all his love, had not entirely lost his senses, had the courage
to abandon her. Altogether, Paris did not prove an 'el dorado' for my
handsome countrywoman, for she was obliged to pledge her diamonds, and to
leave them behind her. After her return to Venice she married the son of
the Uccelli, who sixteen years before had taken her out of her poverty.
She died ten years ago.

I was still taking my French lessons with my good old Crebillon; yet my
style, which was full of Italianisms, often expressed the very reverse of
what I meant to say. But generally my 'quid pro quos' only resulted in
curious jokes which made my fortune; and the best of it is that my
gibberish did me no harm on the score of wit: on the contrary, it
procured me fine acquaintances.

Several ladies of the best society begged me to teach them Italian,
saying that it would afford them the opportunity of teaching me French;
in such an exchange I always won more than they did.

Madame Preodot, who was o