We thought the matter settled, and busied ourselves with preparations for
our departure; but three or four days after, the marquis (who we imagined
had forgotten all about his godson) came and asked us to dine with him at
St. Pierre d'Arena, where Rosalie had never been.

"I want you to see my beautiful garden before you go," said M. Grimaldi
to her; "it will be one more pleasant recollection of your stay for me."

We went to see him at noon the next day. He was with an elderly man and
woman, to whom he introduced us. He introduced me by name, and Rosalie as
a person who belonged to me.

We proceeded to walk in the garden, where the two old people got Rosalie
between them, and overwhelmed her with politeness and complimentary
remarks. She, who was happy and in high spirits, answered in Italian, and
delighted them by her intelligence, and the grace which she gave to her
mistakes in grammar.

The servants came to tell us that dinner was ready, and what was my
astonishment on entering the room to see the table laid for six. I did
not want much insight now to see through the marquis's trick, but it was
too late. We sat down, and just then a young man came in.

"You are a little late," said the marquis; and then, without waiting for
his apology, he introduced him to me as M. Petri, his godson, and nephew
to his other guests, and he made him sit down at his left hand, Rosalie
being on his right. I sat opposite to her, and seeing that she turned as
pale as death the blood rushed to my face; I was terribly enraged. This
small despot's plot seemed disgraceful to me; it was a scandalous insult