senatorial families of Venice and that her grandfather had been
Doge of the town.

She was of an exquisite beauty--and when I, Etienne Gerard, use
such a word as "exquisite," my friends, it has a meaning. I have
judgment, I have memories, I have the means of comparison. Of
all the women who have loved me there are not twenty to whom I
could apply such a term as that. But I say again that Lucia was
exquisite.

Of the dark type I do not recall her equal unless it were Dolores
of Toledo. There was a little brunette whom I loved at Santarem
when I was soldiering under Massena in Portugal--her name has
escaped me. She was of a perfect beauty, but she had not the
figure nor the grace of Lucia. There was Agnes also. I could
not put one before the other, but I do none an injustice when I
say that Lucia was the equal of the best.

It was over this matter of pictures that I had first met her, for
her father owned a palace on the farther side of the Rialto
Bridge upon the Grand Canal, and it was so packed with
wall-paintings that Suchet sent a party of sappers to cut some of
them out and send them to Paris.

I had gone down with them, and after I had seen Lucia in tears it
appeared to me that the plaster would crack if it were taken from
the support of the wall. I said so, and the sappers were
withdrawn. After that I was the friend of the family, and many a
flask of Chianti have I cracked with the father and many a sweet
lesson have I had from the daughter. Some of our French officers