“Everybody, my dear count, is in mourning in Paris, so go to my tailor’s and get yourself a black suit. Tell him you come from me, and say you want it by tomorrow. Good bye.” I went out soon after, and did not come back till midnight. I found the box which Madame Manzoni had sent me in my room, and in it my manuscripts and my beloved portraits, for I never pawned a snuff-box without taking the portrait out. Next day Tiretta made his appearance all in black, and thanked me for his transformation. “They are quick, you see, at Paris. It would have taken a week at Trevisa.” “Trevisa, my dear fellow, is not Paris.” As I said this, the Abbe de la Coste was announced. I did not know the name, but I gave orders for him to be admitted; and there presently appeared the same little priest with whom I had dined at Versailles after leaving the Abbe de la Ville. After the customary greetings he began by complimenting me on the success of my lottery, and then remarked that I had distributed tickets for more than six thousand francs. “Yes,” I said, “and I have tickets left for several thousands more.” “Very good, then I will invest a thousand crowns in it.” “Whenever you please. If you call at my office you can choose the numbers.” “No, I don’t think I’ll trouble to do so; give me any numbers just as they come.” “Very good; here is the list you can choose from.” He chose numbers to the amount of three thousand francs, and then asked me for a piece of paper to write an acknowledgment. “Why so? I can’t do business that way, as I only dispose of my tickets for cash.” “But you may be certain that you will have the money to-morrow.” “I am quite sure I should, but you ought to be certain that you will have the tickets to-morrow. They are registered at my office, and I can dispose of them in no other manner.” “Give me some which are not registered.” “Impossible; I could not do it.” “Why not?” “Because if they proved to be winning numbers I should have to pay out of my own pocket an honour I do not desire.” “Well, I think you might run the risk.” “I think not, if I wish to remain an honest man, at all events.” The abbe, who saw he could get nothing out of me, turned to Tiretta, and began to speak to him in bad Italian, and at last offered to introduce him to Madame de Lambertini, the widow of one of the Pope’s nephews. Her name, her relationship to the Pope, and the abbe’s spontaneous offer, made me curious to know more, so I said that my friend would accept his offer, and that I would have the honour to be of the party; whereupon we set out.