by far the greater composed of the ignorant and superficial, and the
other of the learned and reflective, I beg to state that it is to the
latter I would appeal. Their judgment, I believe, will be in favour of my
veracity, and, indeed, why should I not be veracious? A man can have no
object in deceiving himself, and it is for myself that I chiefly write.

Hitherto I have spoken nothing but the truth, without considering whether
the truth is in my favour or no. My book is not a work of dogmatic
theology, but I do not think it will do harm to anyone; while I fancy
that those who know how to imitate the bee and to get honey from every
flower will be able to extract some good from the catalogue of my vices
and virtues.

After this digression (it may be too long, but that is my business and
none other's), I must confess that never have I had so unpleasant a truth
to set down as that which I am going to relate. I committed a fatal act
of indiscretion--an act which after all these years still gives my heart
a pang as I think of it.

The day after my conquest I dined with the Venetian ambassador, and I had
the pleasure of hearing that all the ministers and grandees with whom I
had associated had the highest possible opinion of me. In three or four
days the king, the royal family, and the ministers would return to town,
and I expected to have daily conferences with the latter respecting the
colony in the Sierra Morena, where I should most probably be going.
Manucci, who continued to treat me as a valued friend, proposed to
accompany me on my journey, and would bring with him an adventuress, who
called herself Porto-Carrero, pretending to be the daughter or niece of
the late cardinal of that name, and thus obtained a good deal of
consideration; though in reality she was only the mistress of the French