He came up to me and gave me a letter he had received the evening before from his mother. She told him that Paris de Monmartel had just informed her that he was in possession of a bill for two hundred thousand francs drawn by her son, and that he would honour it if she would furnish him with the funds. She had replied that she would let him know in two or three days if she could do so; but she warned her son that she had only asked for this delay to give him time to escape, as the bill would certainly be protested and returned, it being absolutely out of the question for her to get the money. “You had better make yourself scarce as soon as you can,” said I, returning him the letter. “Buy this ring, and so furnish me with the means for my escape. You would not know that it was not my property if I had not told you so in confidence.” I made an appointment with him, and had the stone taken out and valued by one of the best jewellers in Rome. “I know this stone,” said he, “it is worth two thousand Roman crowns.” At four o’clock I took the earl five hundred crowns in gold and fifteen hundred crowns in paper, which he would have to take to a banker, who would give him a bill of exchange in Amsterdam. “I will be off at nightfall,” said he, “and travel by myself to Amsterdam, only taking such effects as are absolutely necessary, and my beloved blue ribbon.” “A pleasant journey to you,” said I, and left him. In ten days I had the stone mounted at Bologna. I got a letter of introduction from Cardinal Albani for Onorati, the nuncio at Florence, and another letter from M. Mengs to Sir Mann, whom he begged to receive me in his house. I was going to Florence for the sake of the Corticelli and my dear Therese, and I reckoned on the auditor’s feigning to ignore my return, in spite of his unjust order, especially if I were residing at the English minister’s. On the second day of Lent the disappearance of Lord Lismore was the talk of the town. The English tailor was ruined, the Jew who owned the ring was in despair, and all the silly fellow’s servants were turned out of the house in almost a state of nakedness, as the tailor had unceremoniously taken possession of everything in the way of clothes that he could lay his hands on. Poor Poinsinet came to see me in a pitiable condition; he had only his shirt and overcoat. He had been despoiled of everything, and threatened with imprisonment. “I haven’t a farthing,” said the poor child of the muses, “I have only the shirt on my back. I know nobody here, and I think I shall go and throw myself into the Tiber.” He was destined, not to be drowned in the Tiber but in the Guadalquivir. I calmed him by offering to take him to Florence with me, but I warned him that I must leave him there, as someone was expecting me at Florence. He immediately took up his abode with me, and wrote verses incessantly till it was time to go.