Of the dark type I do not recall her equal unless it were Dolores
of Toledo. There was a little brunette whom I loved at Santarem
when I was soldiering under Massena in Portugal--her name has
escaped me. She was of a perfect beauty, but she had not the
figure nor the grace of Lucia. There was Agnes also. I could
not put one before the other, but I do none an injustice when I
say that Lucia was the equal of the best.
It was over this matter of pictures that I had first met her, for
her father owned a palace on the farther side of the Rialto
Bridge upon the Grand Canal, and it was so packed with
wall-paintings that Suchet sent a party of sappers to cut some of
them out and send them to Paris.
I had gone down with them, and after I had seen Lucia in tears it
appeared to me that the plaster would crack if it were taken from
the support of the wall. I said so, and the sappers were
withdrawn. After that I was the friend of the family, and many a
flask of Chianti have I cracked with the father and many a sweet
lesson have I had from the daughter.
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