“I can’t do better, but I must confess when all’s said that you were not the person to whom my fevered imagination offered such ardent homage.” At supper I jested, pretended to be astonished at the count’s indiscretion, and boasted of being cured of my passion. Babet called me a villain, and maintained that I was far from cured; but she was wrong, as the incident had disgusted me with her, and had attached me to the count, who, indeed, was a man of the most amiable character. Nevertheless, our friendship might have been a fatal one, as the reader will see presently. One evening, when I was at the Italian theatre, Tour d’Auvergne came up to me and asked me to lend him a hundred louis, promising to repay me next Saturday. “I haven’t got the money,” I said, “but my purse and all it contains is at your service.” “I want a hundred louis, my dear fellow, and immediately, as I lost them at play yesterday evening at the Princess of Anhalt’s.” “But I haven’t got them.” “The receiver of the lottery ought always to be able to put his hand on a hundred louis.” “Yes, but I can’t touch my cash-box; I have to give it up this day week.” “So you can; as I will repay you on Saturday. Take a hundred louis from the box, and put in my word of honour instead; don’t you think that is worth a hundred Louis?” “I have nothing to say to that, wait for me a minute.” I ran to my office, took out the money and gave it to him. Saturday came but no count, and as I had no money I pawned my diamond ring and replaced the hundred louis I owed the till. Three or four days afterwards, as I was at the Comedie Francaise, the Count de la Tour d’Auvergne came up to me and began to apologize. I replied by shewing my hand, and telling him that I had pawned my ring to save my honour. He said, with a melancholy air, that a man had failed to keep his word with him, but he would be sure to give me the hundred louis on the Saturday following, adding, “I give you my word of honour.” “Your word of honour is in my box, so let’s say nothing about that. You can repay me when you like.” The count grew as pale as death. “My word of honour, my dear Casanova, is more precious to me than my life; and I will give you the hundred louis at nine o’clock to-morrow morning at a hundred paces from the cafe at the end of the Champs-Elysees. I will give you them in person, and nobody will see us. I hope you will not fail to be there, and that you will bring your sword. I shall have mine.” “Faith, count! that’s making me pay rather dear for my jest. You certainly do me a great honour, but I would rather beg your pardon, if that would prevent this troublesome affair from going any further.” “No, I am more to blame than you, and the blame can only be removed by the sword’s point. Will you meet me? “I do not see how I can refuse you, although I am very much averse to the affair.”