O'Neilan was only twenty-three years old; his father, who was dead, had
been a general, and the beautiful Countess Borsati was his sister. He
presented me to the Countess Zanardi Nerli, still more lovely than his
sister, but I was prudent enough not to burn my incense before either of
them, for it seemed to me that everybody could guess the state of my
health.

I have never met a young man more addicted to debauchery than O'Neilan. I
have often spent the night rambling about with him, and I was amazed at
his cynical boldness and impudence. Yet he was noble, generous, brave,
and honourable. If in those days young officers were often guilty of so
much immorality, of so many vile actions, it was not so much their fault
as the fault of the privileges which they enjoyed through custom,
indulgence, or party spirit. Here is an example:

One day O'Neilan, having drunk rather freely, rides through the city at
full speed. A poor old woman who was crossing the street has no time to
avoid him, she falls, and her head is cut open by the horse's feet.
O'Neilan places himself under arrest, but the next day he is set at
liberty. He had, only to plead that it was an accident.

The officer Laurent not having called upon me to redeem his promisory
note of six sequins during the week, I told him in the street that I
would no longer consider myself bound to keep the affair secret. Instead
of excusing himself, he said,

"I do not care!"

The answer was insulting, and I intended to compel him to give me
reparation, but the next day O'Neilan told me that Captain Laurent had