who had fought, pistol in hand, against death. A miniature-painter named
Morol, who was subject to indigestions and who was at last killed by one,
had taught me his system which was that, to cure those attacks, all that
was necessary was to drink plenty of water and to be patient. He died
because he was bled once when he could not oppose any resistance.

My indigestion reminded me of a witty saying of a man who was not much in
the habit of uttering many of them; I mean M. de Maisonrouge, who was
taken home one day almost dying from a severe attack of indigestion: his
carriage having been stopped opposite the Quinze-Vingts by some
obstruction, a poor man came up and begged alms, saying,

"Sir, I am starving."

"Eh! what are you complaining of?" answered Maisonrouge, sighing deeply;
"I wish I was in your place, you rogue!"

At that time I made the acquaintance of a Milanese dancer, who had wit,
excellent manners, a literary education, and what is more--great beauty.
She received very good society, and did the honours of her drawing-room
marvellously well. I became acquainted at her house with Count
Christopher Erdodi, an amiable, wealthy and generous man; and with a
certain Prince Kinski who had all the grace of a harlequin. That girl
inspired me with love, but it was in vain, for she was herself enamoured
of a dancer from Florence, called Argiolini. I courted her, but she only
laughed at me, for an actress, if in love with someone, is a fortress
which cannot be taken, unless you build a bridge of gold, and I was not
rich. Yet I did not despair, and kept on burning my incense at her feet.
She liked my society because she used to shew me the letters she wrote,
and I was very careful to admire her style. She had her own portrait in