Her wishes were my orders. We had a delicious supper at five o’clock, and at eight we went to bed and spent the night in wantonness, but at five in the morning all were ready to start. Irene, who wore her handsome cloak, shed hot tears at parting from Marcoline, who also wept with all her heart. Old Rinaldi, who proved himself no prophet, told me that I should make a great fortune in England, and his daughter sighed to be in Marcoline’s place. We shall hear of Rinaldi later on. We drove on for fifteen posts without stopping, and passed the night at Valence. The food was bad, but Marcoline forgot her discomfort in talking of Irene. “Do you know,” said she, “that if it had been in my power I should have taken her from her parents. I believe she is your daughter, though she is not like you.” “How can she be my daughter when I have never known her mother?” “She told me that certainly.” “Didn’t she tell you anything else?” “Yes, she told me that you lived with her for three days and bought her maidenhead for a thousand sequins.” “Quite so, but did she tell you that I paid the money to her father?” “Yes, the little fool doesn’t keep anything for herself. I don’t think I should ever be jealous of your mistresses, if you let me sleep with them. Is not that a mark of a good disposition? Tell me.” “You have, no doubt, a good disposition, but you could be quite as good without your dominant passion.” “It is not a passion. I only have desires for those I love.” “Who gave you this taste?” “Nature. I began at seven, and in the last ten years I have certainly had four hundred sweethearts.” “You begin early. But when did you begin to have male sweethearts?” “At eleven.” “Tell me all about it.” “Father Molini, a monk, was my confessor, and he expressed a desire to know the girl who was then my sweetheart. It was in the carnival time, and he gave us a moral discourse, telling us that he would take us to the play if we would promise to abstain for a week. We promised to do so, and at the end of the week we went to tell him that we had kept our word faithfully. The next day Father Molini called on my sweetheart’s aunt in a mask, and as she knew him, and as he was a monk and a confessor, we were allowed to go with him. Besides, we were mere children; my sweetheart was only a year older than I.