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in the Cafe Florian, situated on the great Piazza San Marco. He is tall like his sister, and like her he wears clothes long out of fashion: striped gold-and-white stockings and a faded jacket of corn-coloured satin. I saw patches on his breeches, the seams of which are cleverly hidden beneath ivory-coloured braiding. Monsieur de la Haye also sported a chestnut tie wig, and in the crook of his arm he carried a bamboo walking stick with tassels that jiggled as he moved. Several café-goers stared curiously in his direction, but most of the crowd at the Florian was too engrossed in talk about General Bonaparte to notice him. Father learned this morning that General Junot, a French officer, is in Venice to see the Doge, demanding money to finance General Bonaparte’s war against Austria.
    Monsieur de la Haye arrived with Count Waldstein and a man named Guido Pozzo, who wants to sell Father sketches from a collection called the Paper Museum. Bowing deeply in the style of the old French court, Monsieur de la Haye asked if I liked Venice.
    “Very much,” I replied. “Despite the fear of an invasion by General Bonaparte, I nevertheless feel enveloped in an atmosphere of safety.”
    Father and Monsieur Pozzo turned to listen.
    “You feel safe in Venice?” Monsieur de la Haye asked.
    “Even from the perils of time.” I paused, pretending not to see Father wiggling his eyebrows at me. “In Venice, one does not age, one floats.”
    The two gentlemen brayed with pleasure, and Father grunted. “Thank you, child. Now Mr. Pozzo and I have important matters to discuss.”
    From a small leather bag, Monsieur Pozzo produced a sketch entitled “The Artist moved by the grandeur of ancient ruins.” Drawn by a man named Fuseli, it portrayed a melancholy young nobleman sitting by the pedestal of a shattered colossus. Nothing remained of the statue except a gigantic foot and a single hand with a beckoning finger. The young nobleman’s arm was stretched across the foot’s monster arch, his head bowed as if receiving inspiration from the gigantic antiquity.
    “Fuseli’s sketch shows the impact of our great Roman heritage on the European traveller,” Monsieur Pozzo said. “In the more peaceful days of this century, no English-speaking visitor”—and here Monsieur Pozzo bowed to Father—“could see Rome without visiting the Paper Museum.”
    “What Grand Tourist goes abroad with General
    Bonaparte on the march?” Father nodded.
    As the men talked, the brother of Countess Waldstein pulled a portable writing box from his satchel. He set it on his lap and began scribbling in a journal. His concentrated expression suggested he was absorbed in his writing, andI thought of my own journal in which I am recording my travel adventures. In the style of French novels, I reproduce dialogue and other literary devices. I carry a new edition of
Les Liaisons dangereuses
in my trunk. Father says the French novels I admire are an immoral influence on young people like myself. So I have not told him about my method of journal keeping. I am afraid Father cannot think hypothetically. If I say. Imagine this, he will say I am taking liberties with truth. My parent prefers empirical facts, such as the number of Quincy apples he sold to the army during our revolutionary war.
    Like my parent, I, too, must check, test and verify, and in that sense at least, I am my father’s daughter.
    “Are you willing to sell me what is left of the Paper Museum?” Father asked Monsieur Pozzo. “My cousin would be pleased to display this drawing and others like it in our White House.”
    “Please approach me, sir,” Monsieur Pozzo whispered. And in a low, agitated voice, he asked my parent to adjourn to our hotel. It was then I noticed the French soldier in a tricorne hat calling out for free champagne. We overheard the man say the liberators of Venice were on their way and a few café-goers hurried out of the Florian, fear engraved on their faces. Father went off