"My dear Casanova," said Tour d'Auvergne, "I can drop you at your own
door without giving myself the slightest inconvenience, though my
carriage is only seated for two; however, my sweetheart can sit on our
knees."

I accepted his offer with pleasure, and we seated ourselves in the
carriage, the count on my left hand and Babet on both our knees.

Burning with amorous passion I thought I would take the opportunity, and,
to lose no time, as the coachman was driving fast, I took her hand and
pressed it softly. The pressure was returned. Joy! I carried the hand to
my lips, and covered it with affectionate though noiseless kisses.
Longing to convince her of the ardour of my passion, and thinking that
her hand would not refuse to do me a sweet service, I . . . but just at
critical moment,

"I am really very much obliged to you, my dear fellow," said the Count de
la Tour d'Auvergne, "for a piece of politeness thoroughly Italian, of
which, however, I do not feel worthy; at least, I hope it's meant as
politeness and not as a sign of contempt."

At these dreadful words I stretched out my hand and felt the sleeve of
his coat. Presence of mind was no good in a situation like this, when his
words were followed by a peal of loud laughter which would have
confounded the hardiest spirit. As for me, I could neither join in his
laughter nor deny his accusation; the situation was a fearful one, or
would have been if the friendly shades of night had not covered my
confusion. Babet did her best to find out from the count why he laughed
so much, but he could not tell her for laughing, for which I gave thanks