nearly choked me with his embraces. I did not like so much affection, and
as I had not recognized him at first on account of the darkness of the
room, I took him by the arm and led him to the window. It was my youngest
brother, a good-for-nothing fellow, whom I had always disliked. I had not
seen him for ten years, but I cared so little about him that I had not
even enquired whether he were alive or dead in the correspondence I
maintained with M. de Bragadin, Dandolo, and Barbaro.

As soon as his silly embraces were over, I coldly asked him what chance
had brought him to Genoa in this disgusting state of dirt, rags, and
tatters. He was only twenty-nine, his complexion was fresh and healthy,
and he had a splendid head of hair. He was a posthumous son, born like
Mahomet, three months after the death of his father.

"The story of my misfortunes would be only too long. Take me into your
room, and I will sit down and tell you the whole story."

"First of all, answer my questions. How long have you been here?"

"Since yesterday."

"Who told you that I was here?"

"Count B----, at Milan."

"Who told you that the count knew me?"

"I found out by chance. I was at M. de Bragadin's a month ago, and on his
table I saw a letter from the count to you."