“Then he knows you? Let us walk. What is it that you want? What do you think of my garden?” His enquiries after my needs and of his garden were simultaneous. To any other person I should have answered that I did not know anything about gardening, but this would have been equivalent to refusing to answer the question; and no monarch, even if he be a philosopher, could endure that. I therefore replied that I thought the garden superb. “But,” he said, “the gardens of Versailles are much finer.” “Yes, sire, but that is chiefly on account of the fountains.” “True, but it is not my fault; there is no water here. I have spent more than three hundred thousand crowns to get water, but unsuccessfully.” “Three hundred thousand crowns, sire! If your majesty had spent them all at once, the fountains should be here.” “Oh, oh! I see you are acquainted with hydraulics.” I could not say that he was mistaken, for fear of offending him, so I simply bent my head, which might mean either yes or no. Thank God the king did not trouble to test my knowledge of the science of hydraulics, with which I was totally unacquainted. He kept on the move all the time, and as he turned his head from one side to the other hurriedly asked me what forces Venice could put into the field in war time. “Twenty men-of-war, sire, and a number of galleys.” “What are the land forces?” “Seventy thousand men, sire; all of whom are subjects of the Republic, and assessing each village at one man.” “That is not true; no doubt you wish to amuse me by telling me these fables. Give me your opinions on taxation.” This was the first conversation I had ever had with a monarch. I made a rapid review of the situation, and found myself much in the same position as an actor of the improvised comedy of the Italians, who is greeted by the hisses of the gods if he stops short a moment. I therefore replied with all the airs of a doctor of finance that I could say something about the theory of taxation. “That’s what I want,” he replied, “for the practice is no business of yours.” “There are three kinds of taxes, considered as to their effects. The first is ruinous, the second a necessary evil, and the third invariably beneficial.” “Good! Go on.” “The ruinous impost is the royal tax, the necessary is the military, and the beneficial is the popular.” As I had not given the subject any thought I was in a disagreeable position, for I was obliged to go on speaking, and yet not to talk nonsense. “The royal tax, sire, is that which deplenishes the purses of the subject to fill the coffers of the king.” “And that kind of tax is always ruinous, you think.” “Always, sire; it prevents the circulation of money--the soul of commerce and the mainstay of the state.” “But if the tax be levied to keep up the strength of the army, you say it is a necessary evil.” “Yes, it is necessary and yet evil, for war is an evil.” “Quite so; and now about the popular tax.”