“I had heard of France as being a country where novelties were favorably received, and I wanted to get there; my wife had a little money and we came to Paris. Till then no one had actually laughed in my face; but in this dreadful city I had to endure that new form of torture, to which abject poverty ere long added its bitter sufferings. Reduced to lodging in this mephitic quarter, for many months we have lived exclusively on Marianna’s sewing, she having found employment for her needle in working for the unhappy prostitutes who make this street their hunting ground. Marianna assures me that among those poor creatures she has met with such consideration and generosity as I, for my part, ascribe to the ascendency of virtue so pure that even vice is compelled to respect it.” “Hope on,” said Andrea. “Perhaps you have reached the end of your trials. And while waiting for the time when my endeavor, seconding yours, shall set your labors in a true light, allow me, as a fellow-countryman and an artist like yourself, to offer you some little advances on the undoubted success of your score.” “All that has to do with matters of material existence I leave to my wife,” replied Gambara. “She will decide as to what we may accept without a blush from so thorough a gentleman as you seem to be. For my part,--and it is long since I have allowed myself to indulge such full confidences,--I must now ask you to allow me to leave you. I see a melody beckoning to me, dancing and floating before me, bare and quivering, like a girl entreating her lover for her clothes which he has hidden. Good-night. I must go and dress my mistress. My wife I leave with you.” He hurried away, as a man who blames himself for the loss of valuable time; and Marianna, somewhat embarrassed, prepared to follow him. Andrea dared not detain her. Giardini came to the rescue. “But you heard, signora,” said he. “Your husband has left you to settle some little matters with the Signor Conte.” Marianna sat down again, but without raising her eyes to Andrea, who hesitated before speaking. “And will not Signor Gambara’s confidence entitle me to his wife’s?” he said in agitated tones. “Can the fair Marianna refuse to tell me the story of her life?” “My life!” said Marianna. “It is the life of the ivy. If you wish to know the story of my heart, you must suppose me equally destitute of pride and of modesty if you can ask me to tell it after what you have just heard.” “Of whom, then, can I ask it?” cried the Count, in whom passion was blinding his wits. “Of yourself,” replied Marianna. “Either you understand me by this time, or you never will. Try to ask yourself.” “I will, but you must listen. And this hand, which I am holding, is to lie in mine as long as my narrative is truthful.” “I am listening,” said Marianna.