"Dear Leonilda," said she, "you must be let into the secret of this
disagreeable mystery, and your mother is the proper person to enlighten
you. Do you remember what name my late husband used to call you when he
petted you?"

"He used to call me his charming Giacomina."

"That is M. Casanova's name; it is the name of your father. Go and kiss
him; his blood flows in your veins; and if he has been your lover, repent
of the crime which was happily quite involuntary."

The scene was a pathetic one, and we were all deeply moved. Leonilda
clung to her mother's knees, and in a voice that struggled with sobs
exclaimed,--

"I have only felt what an affectionate daughter might feel for a father"

At this point silence fell on us, a silence that was only broken by the
sobs of the two women, who held each other tightly embraced; while the
duke and I sat as motionless as two posts, our heads bent and our hands
crossed, without as much as looking at each other.

Supper was served, and we sat at table for three hours, talking sadly
over this dramatic recognition, which had brought more grief than joy;
and we departed at midnight full of melancholy, and hoping that we should
be calmer on the morrow, and able to take the only step that now remained
to us.

As we were going away the duke made several observations on what moral
philosophers call prejudices. There is no philosopher who would maintain