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The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Volume 06: Paris

by Giacomo Casanova · English · Gutenberg #2956 · 368,896 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Volume 06: Paris

Author: Giacomo Casanova

Translator: Arthur Machen


        
Release date: December 10, 2004 [eBook #2956]
                Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2956

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MEMOIRS OF JACQUES CASANOVA DE SEINGALT, 1725-1798. VOLUME 06: PARIS ***




Produced by David Widger





MEMOIRS OF JACQUES CASANOVA de SEINGALT 1725-1798

TO PARIS AND PRISON, Volume 2a--PARIS

THE RARE UNABRIDGED LONDON EDITION OF 1894 TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR MACHEN TO
WHICH HAS BEEN ADDED THE CHAPTERS DISCOVERED BY ARTHUR SYMONS.




PARIS




CHAPTER I

Leave Bologna a Happy Man--The Captain Parts from Us in Reggio, where I
Spend a Delightful Night with Henriette--Our Arrival in Parma--Henriette
Resumes the Costume of a Woman; Our Mutual Felicity--I Meet Some
Relatives of Mine, but Do not Discover Myself

The reader can easily guess that there was a change as sudden as a
transformation in a pantomime, and that the short but magic sentence,
"Come to Parma," proved a very fortunate catastrophe, thanks to which I
rapidly changed, passing from the tragic to the gentle mood, from the
serious to the tender tone. Sooth to say, I fell at her feet, and
lovingly pressing her knees I kissed them repeatedly with raptures of
gratitude. No more 'furore', no more bitter words; they do not suit the
sweetest of all human feelings! Loving, docile, grateful, I swear never
to beg for any favour, not even to kiss her hand, until I have shewn
myself worthy of her precious love! The heavenly creature, delighted to
see me pass so rapidly from despair to the most lively tenderness, tells
me, with a voice the tone of which breathes of love, to get up from my
knees.

"I am sure that you love me," says she, "and be quite certain that I
shall leave nothing undone to secure the constancy of your feelings."
Even if she had said that she loved me as much as I adored her, she would
not have been more eloquent, for her words expressed all that can be
felt. My lips were pressed to her beautiful hands as the captain entered
the room. He complimented us with perfect good faith, and I told him, my
face beaming with happiness, that I was going to order the carriage. I
left them together, and in a short time we were on our road, cheerful,
pleased, and merry.

Before reaching Reggio the honest captain told me that in his opinion it
would be better for him to proceed to Parma alone, as, if we arrived in
that city all together, it might cause some remarks, and people would
talk about us much less if we were without him. We both thought him quite
right, and we immediately made up our minds to pass the night in Reggio,
while the captain would take a post-chaise and go alone to Parma.
According to that arrangement his trunk was transferred to the vehicle
which he hired in Reggio, he bade us farewell and went away, after having
promised to dine with us on the following day in Parma.

The decision taken by the worthy Hungarian was, doubtless, as agreeable
to my lovely friend as to me, for our delicacy would have condemned us to
a great reserve in his presence. And truly, under the new circumstances,
how were we to arrange for our lodgings in Reggio? Henriette could not,
of course, share the bed of the captain any more, and she could not have
slept with me as long as he was with us, without being guilty of great
immodesty. We should all three have laughed at that compulsory reserve
which we would have felt to be ridiculous, but we should, for all that,
have submitted to it. Love is the little impudent god, the enemy of
bashfulness, although he may very often enjoy darkness and mystery, but
if he gives way to it he feels disgraced; he loses three-fourths of his
dignity and the greatest portion of his charms.

Evidently there could be no happiness for Henriette or for me unless we
parted with the person and even with the remembrance of the excellent
captain.

We supped alone. I was intoxicated with a felicity which seemed too
immense, and yet I felt melancholy, but Henriette, who looked sad
likewise, had no reproach to address to me. Our sadness was in reality
nothing but shyness; we loved each other, but we had had no time to
become acquainted. We exchanged only a few words, there was nothing
witty, nothing interesting in our conversation, which struck us both as
insipid, and we found more pleasure in the thoughts which filled our
minds. We knew that we were going to pass the night together, but we
could not have spoken of it openly. What a night! what a delightful
creature was that Henriette whom I have loved so deeply, who has made me
so supremely happy!

It was only three or four days later that I ventured on asking her what
she would have done, without a groat in her possession, having not one
acquaintance in Parma, if I had been afraid to declare my love, and if I
had gone to Naples. She answered that she would doubtless have found
herself in very great difficulties, but that she had all along felt
certain of my love, and that she had foreseen what had happened. She
added that, being impatient to know what I thought of her, she had asked
me to translate to the captain what she had expressed respecting her
resolution, knowing that he could neither oppose that resolution nor
continue to live with her, and that, as she had taken care not to include
me in the prayer which she had addressed to him through me, she had
thought it impossible that I should fail to ask whether I could be of
some service to her, waiting to take a decision until she could have
ascertained the nature of my feelings towards her. She concluded by
telling me that if she had fallen it was the fault of her husband and of
her father-in-law, both of whom she characterized as monsters rather than
men.

When we reached Parma, I gave the police the name of Farusi, the same
that I had assumed in Cesena; it was the family name of my mother; while
Henriette wrote down, "Anne D'Arci, from France." While we were answering
the questions of the officer, a young Frenchman, smart and
intelligent-looking, offered me his services, and advised me not to put
up at the posting-inn, but to take lodgings at D'Andremorit's hotel,
where I should find good apartments, French cooking, and the best French
wines.

Seeing that Henriette was pleased with the proposal, I told the young man
to take us there, and we were soon very comfortably lodged. I engaged the
Frenchman by the day, and carefully settled all my arrangements with
D'Andremont. After that I attended to the housing of my carriage.

Coming in again for a few minutes, I told Henriette that I would return
in time for dinner, and, ordering the servant to remain in the ante-room,
I went out alone.

Parma was then groaning under a new government. I had every reason to
suppose that there were spies everywhere and under every form. I
therefore did not want to have at my heels a valet who might have injured
rather than served me. Though I was in my father's native city, I had no
acquaintances there, but I knew that I should soon find my way.

When I found myself in the streets, I scarcely could believe that I was
in Italy, for everything had a tramontane appearance. I heard nothing but
French and Spanish, and those who did not speak one of those languages
seemed to be whispering to one another. I was going about at random,
looking for a hosier, yet unwilling to enquire where I could find one; at
last I saw what I wanted.

I entered the shop, and addressing myself to a stout, good-looking woman
seated behind the counter, I said,

"Madam, I wish to make some purchases."

"Sir, shall I send for someone speaking French?"

"You need not do so, I am an Italian."

"God be praised! Italians are scarce in these days."

"Why scarce?"

"Do you not know that Don Philip has arrived, and that his wife, Madame
de France, is on the road?"

"I congratulate you, for it must make trade very good. I suppose that
money is plentiful, and that there is abundance of all commodities."

"That is true, but everything is high in price, and we cannot get
reconciled to these new fashions. They are a bad mixture of French
freedom and Spanish haughtiness which addles our brains. But, sir, what
sort of linen do you require?"

"In the first place, I must tell you that I never try to drive a hard
bargain, therefore be careful. If you charge me too much, I shall not
come again. I want some fine linen for twenty-four chemises, some dimity
for stays and petticoats, some muslin, some cambric for
pocket-handkerchiefs, and many other articles which I should be very glad
to find in your shop, for I am a stranger here, and God knows in what
hands I am going to trust myself!"

"You will be in honest ones, if you will give me your confidence."

"I am sure that you deserve it, and I abandon my interests to you. I want
likewise to find some needlewomen willing to work in the lady's room,
because she requires everything to be made very rapidly."

"And dresses?"

"Yes, dresses, caps, mantles-in fact, everything, for she is naked."

"With money she will soon have all she wants. Is she young?"

"She is four years younger than I. She is my wife."

"Ah! may God bless you! Any children?"

"Not yet, my good lady; but they will come, for we do all that is
necessary to have them."

"I have no doubt of it. How pleased I am! Well, sir, I shall send for the
very phoenix of all dressmakers. In the mean time, choose what you
require, it will amuse you."

I took the best of everything and paid, and the dressmaker making her
appearance at that moment I gave my address, requesting that various
sorts of stuff might be sent at once. I told the dressmaker and her
daughter, who had come with her, to follow me and to carry the linen. On
my way to the hotel I bought several pairs of silk stockings, and took
with me a bootmaker who lived close by.

Oh, what a delightful moment! Henriette, who had not the slightest idea
of what I had gone out for, looked at everything with great pleasure, yet
without any of those demonstrations which announce a selfish or
interested disposition. She shewed her gratitude only by the delicate
praise which she bestowed upon my taste and upon the quality of the
articles I had purchased. She was not more cheerful on account of my
presents, but the tender affection with which she looked at me was the
best proof of her grateful feelings.

The valet I had hired had entered the room with the shoemaker. Henriette
told him quietly to withdraw, and not to come unless he was called. The
dressmaker set to work, the shoemaker took her measure, and I told him to
bring some slippers. He returned in a short time, and the valet came in
again with him without having been called. The shoemaker, who spoke
French, was talking the usual nonsense of dealers, when she interrupted
him to ask the valet, who was standing familiarly in the room, what he
wanted.

"Nothing, madam, I am only waiting for your orders."

"Have I not told you that you would be called when your services were
required?"

"I should like to know who is my master, you or the gentleman?"

"Neither," I replied, laughing. "Here are your day's wages. Be off at
once."

The shoemaker, seeing that Henriette spoke only French, begged to
recommend a teacher of languages.

"What country does he belong to?" she enquired.

"To Flanders, madam," answered Crispin, "he is a very learned man, about
fifty years old. He is said to be a good man. He charges three libbre for
each lesson of one hour, and six for two hours, but he requires to be
paid each time."

"My dear," said Henriette to me, "do you wish me to engage that master?"

"Yes, dearest, it will amuse you."

The shoemaker promised to send the Flemish professor the next morning.

The dressmakers were hard at work, the mother cutting and the daughter
sewing, but, as progress could not be too rapid, I told the mother that
she would oblige us if she could procure another seamstress who spoke
French.

"You shall have one this very day, sir," she answered, and she offered me
the services of her own son as a servant, saying that if I took him I
should be certain to have neither a thief nor a spy about me, and that he
spoke French pretty well. Henriette thought we could not do better than
take the young man. Of course that was enough to make me consent at once,
for the slightest wish of the woman we love is our supreme law. The
mother went for him, and she brought back at the same time the
half-French dressmaker. It all amused my goddess, who looked very happy.

The young man was about eighteen, pleasant, gentle and modest. I enquired
his name, and he answered that it was Caudagna.

The reader may very likely recollect that my father's native place had
been Parma, and that one of his sisters had married a Caudagna. "It would
be a curious coincidence," I thought, "if that dressmaker should be my
aunt, and my valet my cousin!" but I did not say it aloud.

Henriette asked me if I had any objection to the first dressmaker dining
at our table.

"I entreat you, my darling," I answered, "never, for the future, to ask
my consent in such trifling matters. Be quite certain, my beloved, that I
shall always approve everything you may do."

She smiled and thanked me. I took out my purse, and said to her;

"Take these fifty sequins, dearest, to pay for all your small expenses,
and to buy the many trifles which I should be sure to forget."

She took the money, assuring me that she was vastly obliged to me.

A short time before dinner the worthy captain made his appearance.
Henriette ran to meet him and kissed him, calling him her dear father,
and I followed her example by calling him my friend. My beloved little
wife invited him to dine with us every day. The excellent fellow, seeing
all the women working busily for Henriette, was highly pleased at having
procured such a good position for his young adventuress, and I crowned
his happiness by telling him that I was indebted to him for my felicity.

Our dinner was delicious, and it proved a cheerful meal. I found out that
Henriette was dainty, and my old friend a lover of good wines. I was
both, and felt that I was a match for them. We tasted several excellent
wines which D'Andremont had recommended, and altogether we had a very
good dinner.

The young valet pleased me in consequence of the respectful manner in
which he served everyone, his mother as well as his masters. His sister
and the other seamstress had dined apart.

We were enjoying our dessert when the hosier was announced, accompanied
by another woman and a milliner who could speak French. The other woman
had brought patterns of all sorts of dresses. I let Henriette order caps,
head-dresses, etc., as she pleased, but I would interfere in the dress
department although I complied with the excellent taste of my charming
friend. I made her choose four dresses, and I was indeed grateful for her
ready acceptance of them, for my own happiness was increased in
proportion to the pleasure I gave her and the influence I was obtaining
over her heart.

Thus did we spend the first day, and we could certainly not have
accomplished more.

In the evening, as we were alone at supper, I fancied that her lovely
face looked sad. I told her so.

"My darling," she answered, with a voice which went to my heart, "you are
spending a great deal of money on me, and if you do so in the hope of my
loving you more dearly I must tell you it is money lost, for I do not
love you now more than I did yesterday, but I do love you with my whole
heart. All you may do that is not strictly necessary pleases me only
because I see more and more how worthy you are of me, but it is not
needed to make me feel all the deep love which you deserve."

"I believe you, dearest, and my happiness is indeed great if you feel
that your love for me cannot be increased. But learn also, delight of my
heart, that I have done it all only to try to love you even more than I
do, if possible. I wish to see you beautiful and brilliant in the attire
of your sex, and if there is one drop of bitterness in the fragrant cup
of my felicity, it is a regret at not being able to surround you with the
halo which you deserve. Can I be otherwise than delighted, my love, if
you are pleased?"

"You cannot for one moment doubt my being pleased, and as you have called
me your wife you are right in one way, but if you are not very rich I
leave it to you to judge how deeply I ought to reproach myself."

"Ah, my beloved angel! let me, I beg of you, believe myself wealthy, and
be quite certain that you cannot possibly be the cause of my ruin. You
were born only for my happiness. All I wish is that you may never leave
me. Tell me whether I can entertain such a hope."

"I wish it myself, dearest, but who can be sure of the future? Are you
free? Are you dependent on anyone?"

"I am free in the broadest meaning of that word, I am dependent on no one
but you, and I love to be so."

"I congratulate you, and I am very glad of it, for no one can tear you
from my arms, but, alas! you know that I cannot say the same as you. I am
certain that some persons are, even now, seeking for me, and they will
not find it very difficult to secure me if they ever discover where I am.
Alas! I feel how miserable I should be if they ever succeeded in dragging
me away from you!"

"You make me tremble. Are you afraid of such a dreadful misfortune here?"

"No, unless I should happen to be seen by someone knowing me."

"Are any such persons likely to be here at present?"

"I think not."

"Then do not let our love take alarm, I trust your fears will never be
verified. Only, my darling one, you must be as cheerful as you were in
Cesena."

"I shall be more truly so now, dear friend. In Cesena I was miserable;
while now I am happy. Do not be afraid of my being sad, for I am of a
naturally cheerful disposition."

"I suppose that in Cesena you were afraid of being caught by the officer
whom you had left in Rome?"

"Not at all; that officer was my father-in-law, and I am quite certain
that he never tried to ascertain where I had gone. He was only too glad
to get rid of me. I felt unhappy because I could not bear to be a charge
on a man whom I could not love, and with whom I could not even exchange
one thought. Recollect also that I could not find consolation in the idea
that I was ministering to his happiness, for I had only inspired him with
a passing fancy which he had himself valued at ten sequins. I could not
help feeling that his fancy, once gratified, was not likely at his time
of life to become a more lasting sentiment, and I could therefore only be
a burden to him, for he was not wealthy. Besides, there was a miserable
consideration which increased my secret sorrow. I thought myself bound in
duty to caress him, and on his side, as he thought that he ought to pay
me in the same money, I was afraid of his ruining his health for me, and
that idea made me very unhappy. Having no love for each other, we allowed
a foolish feeling of regard to make both of us uncomfortable. We
lavished, for the sake of a well-meaning but false decorum, that which
belongs to love alone. Another thing troubled me greatly. I was afraid
lest people might suppose that I was a source of profit to him. That idea
made me feel the deepest shame, yet, whenever I thought of it, I could
not help admitting that such a supposition, however false, was not
wanting in probability. It is owing to that feeling that you found me so
reserved towards you, for I was afraid that you might harbour that
fearful idea if I allowed, you to read in my looks the favourable
impression which you had made on my heart."

"Then it was not owing to a feeling of self-love?"

"No, I confess it, for you could but judge me as I deserved. I had been
guilty of the folly now known to you because my father-in-law intended to
bury me in a convent, and that did not suit my taste. But, dearest
friend, you must forgive me if, I cannot confide even to you the history
of my life."

"I respect your secret, darling; you need not fear any intrusion from me
on that subject. All we have to do is to love one another, and not to
allow any dread of the future to mar our actual felicity."

The next day, after a night of intense enjoyment, I found myself more
deeply in love than before, and the next three months were spent by us in
an intoxication of delight.

At nine o'clock the next morning the teacher of Italian was announced. I
saw a man of respectable appearance, polite, modest, speaking little but
well, reserved in his answers, and with the manners of olden times. We
conversed, and I could not help laughing when he said, with an air of
perfect good faith, that a Christian could only admit the system of
Copernicus as a clever hypothesis. I answered that it was the system of
God Himself because it was that of nature, and that it was not in Holy
Scripture that the laws of science could be learned.

The teacher smiled in a manner which betrayed the Tartufe, and if I had
consulted only my own feelings I should have dismissed the poor man, but
I thought that he might amuse Henriette and teach her Italian; after all
it was what I wanted from him. My dear wife told him that she would give
him six libbre for a lesson of two hours: the libbra of Parma being worth
only about threepence, his lessons were not very expensive. She took her
first lesson immediately and gave him two sequins, asking him to purchase
her some good novels.

Whilst my dear Henriette was taking her lesson, I had some conversation
with the dressmaker, in order to ascertain whether she was a relative of
mine.

"What does your husband do?" I asked her.

"He is steward to the Marquis of Sissa."

"Is your father still alive?"

"No, sir, he is dead."

"What was his family name?"

"Scotti."

"Are your husband's parents still alive?"

"His father is dead, but his mother is still alive, and resides with her
uncle, Canon Casanova."

That was enough. The good woman was my Welsh cousin, and her children
were my Welsh nephews. My niece Jeanneton was not pretty; but she
appeared to be a good girl. I continued my conversation with the mother,
but I changed the topic.

"Are the Parmesans satisfied with being the subjects of a Spanish
prince?"

"Satisfied? Well, in that case, we should be easily pleased, for we are
now in a regular maze. Everything is upset, we do not know where we are.
Oh! happy times of the house of Farnese, whither have you departed? The
day before yesterday I went to the theatre, and Harlequin made everybody
roar with laughter. Well, now, fancy, Don Philipo, our new duke, did all
he could to remain serious, and when he could not manage it, he would
hide his face in his hat so that people should not see that he was
laughing, for it is said that laughter ought never to disturb the grave
and stiff countenance of an Infante of Spain, and that he would be
dishonoured in Madrid if he did not conceal his mirth. What do you think
of that? Can such manners suit us? Here we laugh willingly and heartily!
Oh! the good Duke Antonio (God rest his soul!) was certainly as great a
prince as Duke Philipo, but he did not hide himself from his subjects
when he was pleased, and he would sometimes laugh so heartily that he
could be heard in the streets. Now we are all in the most fearful
confusion, and for the last three months no one in Parma knows what's
o'clock."

"Have all the clocks been destroyed?"

"No, but ever since God created the world, the sun has always gone down
at half-past five, and at six the bells have always been tolled for the
Angelus. All respectable people knew that at that time the candle had to
be lit. Now, it is very strange, the sun has gone mad, for he sets every
day at a different hour. Our peasants do not know when they are to come
to market. All that is called a regulation but do you know why? Because
now everybody knows that dinner is to be eaten at twelve o'clock. A fine
regulation, indeed! Under the Farnese we used to eat when we were hungry,
and that was much better."

That way of reasoning was certainly singular, but I did not think it
sounded foolish in the mouth of a woman of humble rank. It seems to me
that a government ought never to destroy ancient customs abruptly, and
that innocent errors ought to be corrected only by degrees.

Henriette had no watch. I felt delighted at the idea of offering her such
a present, and I went out to purchase one, but after I had bought a very
fine watch, I thought of ear-rings, of a fan, and of many other pretty
nicknacks. Of course I bought them all at once. She received all those
gifts offered by love with a tender delicacy which overjoyed me. She was
still with the teacher when I came back.

"I should have been able," he said to me, "to teach your lady heraldry,
geography, history, and the use of the globes, but she knows that
already. She has received an excellent education."

The teacher's name was Valentin de la Haye. He told me that he was an
engineer and professor of mathematics. I shall have to speak of him very
often in these Memoirs, and my readers will make his acquaintance by his
deeds better than by any portrait I could give of him, so I will merely
say that he was a true Tartufe, a worthy pupil of Escobar.

We had a pleasant dinner with our Hungarian friend. Henriette was still
wearing the uniform, and I longed to see her dressed as a woman. She
expected a dress to be ready for the next day, and she was already
supplied with petticoats and chemises.

Henriette was full of wit and a mistress of repartee. The milliner, who
was a native of Lyons, came in one morning, and said in French:

"Madame et Monsieur, j'ai l'honneur de vous souhaiter le bonjour."

"Why," said my friend, "do you not say Monsieur et madame?"

"I have always heard that in society the precedence is given to the
ladies."

"But from whom do we wish to receive that honour?"

"From gentlemen, of course."

"And do you not see that women would render themselves ridiculous if they
did not grant to men the same that they expect from them. If we wish them
never to fail in politeness towards us, we must shew them the example."

"Madam," answered the shrewd milliner, "you have taught me an excellent
lesson, and I will profit by it. Monsieur et madame, je suis votre
servante."

This feminine controversy greatly amused me.

Those who do not believe that a woman can make a man happy through the
twenty-four hours of the day have never possessed a woman like Henriette.
The happiness which filled me, if I can express it in that manner, was
much greater when I conversed with her even than when I held her in my
arms. She had read much, she had great tact, and her taste was naturally
excellent; her judgment was sane, and, without being learned, she could
argue like a mathematician, easily and without pretension, and in
everything she had that natural grace which is so charming. She never
tried to be witty when she said something of importance, but accompanied
her words with a smile which imparted to them an appearance of trifling,
and brought them within the understanding of all. In that way she would
give intelligence even to those who had none, and she won every heart.
Beauty without wit offers love nothing but the material enjoyment of its
physical charms, whilst witty ugliness captivates by the charms of the
mind, and at last fulfils all the desires of the man it has captivated.

Then what was my position during all the time that I possessed my
beautiful and witty Henriette? That of a man so supremely happy that I
could scarcely realize my felicity!

Let anyone ask a beautiful woman without wit whether she would be willing
to exchange a small portion of her beauty for a sufficient dose of wit.
If she speaks the truth, she will say, "No, I am satisfied to be as I
am." But why is she satisfied? Because she is not aware of her own
deficiency. Let an ugly but witty woman be asked if she would change her
wit against beauty, and she will not hesitate in saying no. Why?
Because, knowing the value of her wit, she is well aware that it is
sufficient by itself to make her a queen in any society.

But a learned woman, a blue-stocking, is not the creature to minister to
a man's happiness. Positive knowledge is not a woman's province. It is
antipathetic to the gentleness of her nature, to the amenity, to the
sweet timidity which are the greatest charms of the fair sex, besides,
women never carry their learning beyond certain limits, and the
tittle-tattle of blue-stockings can dazzle no one but fools. There has
never been one great discovery due to a woman. The fair sex is deficient
in that vigorous power which the body lends to the mind, but women are
evidently superior to men in simple reasoning, in delicacy of feelings,
and in that species of merit which appertains to the heart rather than to
the mind.

Hurl some idle sophism at a woman of intelligence. She will not unravel
it, but she will not be deceived by it, and, though she may not say so,
she will let you guess that she does not accept it. A man, on the
contrary, if he cannot unravel the sophism, takes it in a literal sense,
and in that respect the learned woman is exactly the same as man. What a
burden a Madame Dacier must be to a man! May God save every honest man
from such!

When the new dress was brought, Henriette told me that she did not want
me to witness the process of her metamorphosis, and she desired me to go
out for a walk until she had resumed her original form. I obeyed
cheerfully, for the slightest wish of the woman we love is a law, and our
very obedience increases our happiness.

As I had nothing particular to do, I went to a French bookseller in whose
shop I made the acquaintance of a witty hunchback, and I must say that a
hunchback without wit is a raga avis; I have found it so in all
countries. Of course it is not wit which gives the hump, for, thank God,
all witty men are not humpbacked, but we may well say that as a general
rule the hump gives wit, for the very small number of hunchbacks who have
little or no wit only confirms the rule: The one I was alluding to just
now was called Dubois-Chateleraux. He was a skilful engraver, and
director of the Mint of Parma for the Infante, although that prince could
not boast of such an institution.

I spent an hour with the witty hunchback, who shewed me several of his
engravings, and I returned to the hotel where I found the Hungarian
waiting to see Henriette. He did not know that she would that morning
receive us in the attire of her sex. The door was thrown open, and a
beautiful, charming woman met us with a courtesy full of grace, which no
longer reminded us of the stiffness or of the too great freedom which
belong to the military costume. Her sudden appearance certainly
astonished us, and we did not know what to say or what to do. She invited
us to be seated, looked at the captain in a friendly manner, and pressed
my hand with the warmest affection, but without giving way any more to
that outward familiarity which a young officer can assume, but which does
not suit a well-educated lady. Her noble and modest bearing soon
compelled me to put myself in unison with her, and I did so without
difficulty, for she was not acting a part, and the way in which she had
resumed her natural character made it easy for me to follow her on that
ground.

I was gazing at her with admiration, and, urged by a feeling which I did
not take time to analyze, I took her hand to kiss it with respect, but,
without giving me an opportunity of raising it to my lips, she offered me
her lovely mouth. Never did a kiss taste so delicious.

"Am I not then always the same?" said she to me, with deep feeling.

"No, heavenly creature, and it is so true that you are no longer the same
in my eyes that I could not now use any familiarity towards you. You are
no longer the witty, free young officer who told Madame Querini about the
game of Pharaoh, end about the deposits made to your bank by the captain
in so niggardly a manner that they were hardly worth mentioning."

"It is very true that, wearing the costume of my sex, I should never dare
to utter such words. Yet, dearest friend, it does not prevent my being
your Henriette--that Henriette who has in her life been guilty of three
escapades, the last of which would have utterly ruined me if it had not
been for you, but which I call a delightful error, since it has been the
cause of my knowing you."

Those words moved me so deeply that I was on the point of throwing myself
at her feet, to entreat her to forgive me for not having shewn her more
respect, but Henriette, who saw the state in which I was, and who wanted
to put an end to the pathetic scene, began to shake our poor captain, who
sat as motionless as a statue, and as if he had been petrified. He felt
ashamed at having treated such a woman as an adventuress, for he knew
that what he now saw was not an illusion. He kept looking at her with
great confusion, and bowing most respectfully, as if he wanted to atone
for his past conduct towards her. As for Henriette, she seemed to say to
him, but without the shadow of a reproach;

"I am glad that you think me worth more than ten sequins."

We sat down to dinner, and from that moment she did the honours of the
table with the perfect ease of a person who is accustomed to fulfil that
difficult duty. She treated me like a beloved husband, and the captain
like a respected friend. The poor Hungarian begged me to tell her that if
he had seen her, as she was now, in Civita Vecchia, when she came out of
the tartan, he should never have dreamed of dispatching his cicerone to
her room.

"Oh! tell him that I do not doubt it. But is it not strange that a poor
little female dress should command more respect than the garb of an
officer?"

"Pray do not abuse the officer's costume, for it is to it that I am
indebted for my happiness."

"Yes," she said, with a loving smile, "as I owe mine to the sbirri of
Cesena."

We remained for a long time at the table, and our delightful conversation
turned upon no other topic than our mutual felicity. If it had not been
for the uneasiness of the poor captain, which at last struck us, we
should never have put a stop either to the dinner or to, our charming
prattle.




CHAPTER II

I Engage a Box at the Opera, in Spite of Henriette's Reluctance--M.
Dubois Pays Us a Visit and Dines with Us; My Darling Plays Him a
Trick--Henriette Argues on Happiness--We Call on Dubois, and My Wife
Displays Her Marvellous Talent--M. Dutillot The Court gives a Splendid
Entertainment in the Ducal Gardens--A Fatal Meeting--I Have an Interview
with M. D'Antoine, the Favourite of the Infante of Spain

The happiness I was enjoying was too complete to last long. I was fated
to lose it, but I must not anticipate events. Madame de France, wife of
the Infante Don Philip, having arrived in Parma, the opera house was
opened, and I engaged a private box, telling Henriette that I intended to
take her to the theatre every night. She had several times confessed that
she had a great passion for music, and I had no doubt that she would be
pleased with my proposal. She had never yet seen an Italian opera, and I
felt certain that she wished to ascertain whether the Italian music
deserved its universal fame. But I was indeed surprised when she
exclaimed,

"What, dearest! You wish to go every evening to the opera?"

"I think, my love, that, if we did not go, we should give some excuse for
scandal-mongers to gossip. Yet, should you not like it, you know that
there is no need for us to go. Do not think of me, for I prefer our
pleasant chat in this room to the heavenly concert of the seraphs."

"I am passionately fond of music, darling, but I cannot help trembling at
the idea of going out."

"If you tremble, I must shudder, but we ought to go to the opera or leave
Parma. Let us go to London or to any other place. Give your orders, I am
ready to do anything you like."

"Well, take a private box as little exposed as possible."

"How kind you are!"

The box I had engaged was in the second tier, but the theatre being small
it was difficult for a pretty woman to escape observation.

I told her so.

"I do not think there is any danger," she answered; "for I have not seen
the name of any person of my acquaintance in the list of foreigners which
you gave me to read."

Thus did Henriette go to the opera. I had taken care that our box should
not be lighted up. It was an opera-buffa, the music of Burellano was
excellent, and the singers were very good.

Henriette made no use of her opera-glass except to look on the stage, and
nobody paid any attention to us. As she had been greatly pleased with the
finale of the second act, I promised to get it for her, and I asked
Dubois to procure it for me. Thinking that she could play the
harpsichord, I offered to get one, but she told me that she had never
touched that instrument.

On the night of the fourth or fifth performance M. Dubois came to our
box, and as I did not wish to introduce him to my friend, I only asked
what I could do for him. He then handed me the music I had begged him to
purchase for me, and I paid him what it had cost, offering him my best
thanks. As we were just opposite the ducal box, I asked him, for the sake
of saying something, whether he had engraved the portraits of their
highnesses. He answered that he had already engraved two medals, and I
gave him an order for both, in gold. He promised to let me have them, and
left the box. Henriette had not even looked at him, and that was
according to all established rules, as I had not introduced him, but the
next morning he was announced as we were at dinner. M. de la Haye, who
was dining with us, complimented us upon having made the acquaintance of
Dubois, and introduced him to his pupil the moment he came into the room.
It was then right for Henriette to welcome him, which she did most
gracefully.

After she had thanked him for the 'partizione', she begged he would get
her some other music, and the artist accepted her request as a favour
granted to him.

"Sir," said Dubois to me, "I have taken the liberty of bringing the
medals you wished to have; here they are."

On one were the portraits of the Infante and his wife, on the other was
engraved only the head of Don Philip. They were both beautifully
engraved, and we expressed our just admiration. "The workmanship is
beyond all price," said Henriette, "but the gold can be bartered for
other gold." "Madam," answered the modest artist, "the medals weight
sixteen sequins." She gave him the amount immediately, and invited him to
call again at dinner-time. Coffee was just brought in at that moment, and
she asked him to take it with us. Before sweetening his cup, she enquired
whether he liked his coffee very sweet.

"Your taste, madam," answered the hunchback, gallantly, "is sure to be
mine."

"Then you have guessed that I always drink coffee without sugar. I am
glad we have that taste in common."

And she gracefully offered him the cup of coffee without sugar. She then
helped De la Haye and me, not forgetting to put plenty of sugar in our
cups, and she poured out one for herself exactly like the one she handed
to Dubois. It was much ado for me not to laugh, for my mischievous
French-woman, who liked her coffee in the Parisian fashion, that is to
say very sweet, was sipping the bitter beverage with an air of delight
which compelled the director of the Mint to smile under the infliction.
But the cunning hunchback was even with her; accepting the penalty of his
foolish compliment, and praising the good quality of the coffee, he
boldly declared that it was the only way to taste the delicious aroma of
the precious berry.

When Dubois and De la Haye had left us, we both laughed at the trick.

"But," said I to Henriette, "you will be the first victim of your
mischief, for whenever he dines with us, you must keep up the joke, in
order not to betray yourself."

"Oh! I can easily contrive to drink my coffee well sweetened, and to make
him drain the bitter cup."

At the end of one month, Henriette could speak Italian fluently, and it
was owing more to the constant practice she had every day with my cousin
Jeanneton, who acted as her maid, than to the lessons of Professor de la
Haye. The lessons only taught her the rules, and practice is necessary to
acquire a language. I have experienced it myself. I learned more French
during the too short period that I spent so happily with my charming
Henriette than in all the lessons I had taken from Dalacqua.

We had attended the opera twenty times without making any acquaintance,
and our life was indeed supremely happy. I never went out without
Henriette, and always in a carriage; we never received anyone, and nobody
knew us. Dubois was the only person, since the departure of the good
Hungarian, who sometimes dined with us; I do not reckon De la Haye, who
was a daily guest at our table. Dubois felt great curiosity about us, but
he was cunning and did not shew his curiosity; we were reserved without
affectation, and his inquisitiveness was at fault. One day he mentioned
to us that the court of the Infante of Parma was very brilliant since the
arrival of Madame de France, and that there were many foreigners of both
sexes in the city. Then, turning towards Henriette, he said to her;

"Most of the foreign ladies whom we have here are unknown to us."

"Very likely, many of them would not shew themselves if they were known."

"Very likely, madam, as you say, but I can assure you that, even if their
beauty and the richness of their toilet made them conspicuous, our
sovereigns wish for freedom. I still hope, madam, that we shall have the
happiness of seeing you at the court of the duke."

"I do not think so, for, in my opinion, it is superlatively ridiculous
for a lady to go to the court without being presented, particularly if
she has a right to be so."

The last words, on which Henriette had laid a little more stress than
upon the first part of her answer, struck our little hunchback dumb, and
my friend, improving her opportunity, changed the subject of
conversation.

When he had gone we enjoyed the check she had thus given to the
inquisitiveness of our guest, but I told Henriette that, in good
conscience, she ought to forgive all those whom she rendered curious,
because.... she cut my words short by covering me with loving kisses.

Thus supremely happy, and finding in one another constant satisfaction,
we would laugh at those morose philosophers who deny that complete
happiness can be found on earth.

"What do they mean, darling--those crazy fools--by saying that happiness
is not lasting, and how do they understand that word? If they mean
everlasting, immortal, unintermitting, of course they are right, but the
life of man not being such, happiness, as a natural consequence, cannot
be such either. Otherwise, every happiness is lasting for the very reason
that it does exist, and to be lasting it requires only to exist. But if
by complete felicity they understand a series of varied and
never-interrupted pleasures, they are wrong, because, by allowing after
each pleasure the calm which ought to follow the enjoyment of it, we have
time to realize happiness in its reality. In other words those necessary
periods of repose are a source of true enjoyment, because, thanks to
them, we enjoy the delight of recollection which increases twofold the
reality of happiness. Man can be happy only when in his own mind he
realizes his happiness, and calm is necessary to give full play to his
mind; therefore without calm man would truly never be completely happy,
and pleasure, in order to be felt, must cease to be active. Then what do
they mean by that word lasting?

"Every day we reach a moment when we long for sleep, and, although it be
the very likeness of non-existence, can anyone deny that sleep is a
pleasure? No, at least it seems to me that it cannot be denied with
consistency, for, the moment it comes to us, we give it the preference
over all other pleasures, and we are grateful to it only after it has
left us.

"Those who say that no one can be happy throughout life speak likewise
frivolously. Philosophy teaches the secret of securing that happiness,
provided one is free from bodily sufferings. A felicity which would thus
last throughout life could be compared to a nosegay formed of a thousand
flowers so beautifully, so skillfully blended together, that it would
look one single flower. Why should it be impossible for us to spend here
the whole of our life as we have spent the last month, always in good
health, always loving one another, without ever feeling any other want or
any weariness? Then, to crown that happiness, which would certainly be
immense, all that would be wanted would be to die together, in an
advanced age, speaking to the last moment of our pleasant recollections.
Surely that felicity would have been lasting. Death would not interrupt
it, for death would end it. We could not, even then, suppose ourselves
unhappy unless we dreaded unhappiness after death, and such an idea
strikes me as absurd, for it is a contradiction of the idea of an
almighty and fatherly tenderness."

It was thus that my beloved Henriette would often make me spend
delightful hours, talking philosophic sentiment. Her logic was better
than that of Cicero in his Tusculan Disputations, but she admitted that
such lasting felicity could exist only between two beings who lived
together, and loved each other with constant affection, healthy in mind
and in body, enlightened, sufficiently rich, similar in tastes, in
disposition, and in temperament. Happy are those lovers who, when their
senses require rest, can fall back upon the intellectual enjoyments
afforded by the mind! Sweet sleep then comes, and lasts until the body
has recovered its general harmony. On awaking, the senses are again
active and always ready to resume their action.

The conditions of existence are exactly the same for man as for the
universe, I might almost say that between them there is perfect identity,
for if we take the universe away, mankind no longer exists, and if we
take mankind away, there is no longer an universe; who could realize the
idea of the existence of inorganic matter? Now, without that idea, 'nihil
est', since the idea is the essence of everything, and since man alone
has ideas. Besides, if we abstract the species, we can no longer imagine
the existence of matter, and vice versa.

I derived from Henriette as great happiness as that charming woman
derived from me. We loved one another with all the strength of our
faculties, and we were everything to each other. She would often repeat
those pretty lines of the good La, Fontaine:

  'Soyez-vous l'un a l'autre un monde toujours beau,
   Toujours divers, toujours nouveau;
   Tenez-vous lieu de tout; comptez pour rien le reste.'

And we did not fail to put the advice into practice, for never did a
minute of ennui or of weariness, never did the slightest trouble, disturb
our bliss.

The day after the close of the opera, Dubois, who was dining with us,
said that on the following day he was entertaining the two first artists,
'primo cantatore' and 'prima cantatrice', and added that, if we liked to
come, we would hear some of their best pieces, which they were to sing in
a lofty hall of his country-house particularly adapted to the display of
the human voice. Henriette thanked him warmly, but she said that, her
health being very delicate, she could not engage herself beforehand, and
she spoke of other things.

When we were alone, I asked her why she had refused the pleasure offered
by Dubois.

"I should accept his invitation," she answered, "and with delight, if I
were not afraid of meeting at his house some person who might know me,
and would destroy the happiness I am now enjoying with you."

"If you have any fresh motive for dreading such an occurrence, you are
quite right, but if it is only a vague, groundless fear, my love, why
should you deprive yourself of a real and innocent pleasure? If you knew
how pleased I am when I see you enjoy yourself, and particularly when I
witness your ecstacy in listening to fine music!"

"Well, darling, I do not want to shew myself less brave than you. We will
go immediately after dinner. The artists will not sing before. Besides,
as he does not expect us, he is not likely to have invited any person
curious to speak to me. We will go without giving him notice of our
coming, without being expected, and as if we wanted to pay him a friendly
visit. He told us that he would be at his country-house, and Caudagna
knows where it is."

Her reasons were a mixture of prudence and of love, two feelings which
are seldom blended together. My answer was to kiss her with as much
admiration as tenderness, and the next day at four o'clock in the
afternoon we paid our visit to M. Dubois. We were much surprised, for we
found him alone with a very pretty girl, whom he presented to us as his
niece.

"I am delighted to see you," he said, "but as I did not expect to see you
I altered my arrangements, and instead of the dinner I had intended to
give I have invited my friends to supper. I hope you will not refuse me
the honour of your company. The two virtuosi will soon be here."

We were compelled to accept his invitation.

"Will there be many guests?" I enquired.

"You will find yourselves in the midst of people worthy of you," he
answered, triumphantly. "I am only sorry that I have not invited any
ladies."

This polite remark, which was intended for Henriette, made her drop him a
curtsy, which she accompanied with a smile. I was pleased to read
contentment on her countenance, but, alas! she was concealing the painful
anxiety which she felt acutely. Her noble mind refused to shew any
uneasiness, and I could not guess her inmost thoughts because I had no
idea that she had anything to fear.

I should have thought and acted differently if I had known all her
history. Instead of remaining in Parma I should have gone with her to
London, and I know now that she would have been delighted to go there.

The two artists arrived soon afterwards; they were the 'primo cantatore'
Laschi, and the 'prima donna' Baglioni, then a very pretty woman. The
other guests soon followed; all of them were Frenchmen and Spaniards of a
certain age. No introductions took place, and I read the tact of the
witty hunchback in the omission, but as all the guests were men used to
the manners of the court, that neglect of etiquette did not prevent them
from paying every honour to my lovely friend, who received their
compliments with that ease and good breeding which are known only in
France, and even there only in the highest society, with the exception,
however, of a few French provinces in which the nobility, wrongly called
good society, shew rather too openly the haughtiness which is
characteristic of that class.

The concert began by a magnificent symphony, after which Laschi and
Baglioni sang a duet with great talent and much taste. They were followed
by a pupil of the celebrated Vandini, who played a concerto on the
violoncello, and was warmly applauded.

The applause had not yet ceased when Henriette, leaving her seat, went up
to the young artist, and told him, with modest confidence, as she took
the violoncello from him, that she could bring out the beautiful tone of
the instrument still better. I was struck with amazement. She took the
young man's seat, placed the violoncello between her knees, and begged
the leader of the orchestra to begin the concerto again. The deepest
silence prevailed. I was trembling all over, and almost fainting.
Fortunately every look was fixed upon Henriette, and nobody thought of
me. Nor was she looking towards me, she would not have then ventured even
one glance, for she would have lost courage, if she had raised her
beautiful eyes to my face. However, not seeing her disposing herself to
play, I was beginning to imagine that she had only been indulging in a
jest, when she suddenly made the strings resound. My heart was beating
with such force that I thought I should drop down dead.

But let the reader imagine my situation when, the concerto being over,
well-merited applause burst from every part of the room! The rapid change
from extreme fear to excessive pleasure brought on an excitement which
was like a violent fever. The applause did not seem to have any effect
upon Henriette, who, without raising her eyes from the notes which she
saw for the first time, played six pieces with the greatest perfection.
As she rose from her seat, she did not thank the guests for their
applause, but, addressing the young artist with affability, she told him,
with a sweet smile, that she had never played on a finer instrument.
Then, curtsying to the audience, she said,

"I entreat your forgiveness for a movement of vanity which has made me
encroach on your patience for half an hour."

The nobility and grace of this remark completely upset me, and I ran out
to weep like a child, in the garden where no one could see me.

"Who is she, this Henriette?" I said to myself, my heart beating, and my
eyes swimming with tears of emotion, "what is this treasure I have in my
possession?"

My happiness was so immense that I felt myself unworthy of it.

Lost in these thoughts which enhanced the pleasure of any tears, I should
have stayed for a long time in the garden if Dubois had not come out to
look for me. He felt anxious about me, owing to my sudden disappearance,
and I quieted him by saying that a slight giddiness had compelled me to
come out to breathe the fresh air.

Before re-entering the room, I had time to dry my tears, but my eyelids
were still red. Henriette, however, was the only one to take notice of
it, and she said to me,

"I know, my darling, why you went into the garden!"

She knew me so well that she could easily guess the impression made on my
heart by the evening's occurrence.

Dubois had invited the most amiable noblemen of the court, and his supper
was dainty and well arranged. I was seated opposite Henriette who was, as
a matter of course, monopolizing the general attention, but she would
have met with the same success if she had been surrounded by a circle of
ladies whom she would certainly have thrown into the shade by her beauty,
her wit, and the distinction of her manners. She was the charm of that
supper by the animation she imparted to the conversation. M. Dubois said
nothing, but he was proud to have such a lovely guest in his house. She
contrived to say a few gracious words to everyone, and was shrewd enough
never to utter something witty without making me take a share in it. On
my side, I openly shewed my submissiveness, my deference, and my respect
for that divinity, but it was all in vain. She wanted everybody to know
that I was her lord and master. She might have been taken for my wife,
but my behaviour to her rendered such a supposition improbable.

The conversation having fallen on the respective merits of the French and
Spanish nations, Dubois was foolish enough to ask Henriette to which she
gave preference.

It would have been difficult to ask a more indiscreet question,
considering that the company was composed almost entirely of Frenchmen
and Spaniards in about equal proportion. Yet my Henriette turned the
difficulty so cleverly that the Frenchmen would have liked to be
Spaniards, and 'vice versa'. Dubois, nothing daunted, begged her to say
what she thought of the Italians. The question made me tremble. A certain
M. de la Combe, who was seated near me, shook his head in token of
disapprobation, but Henriette did not try to elude the question.

"What can I say about the Italians," she answered, "I know only one? If I
am to judge them all from that one my judgment must certainly be most
favourable to them, but one single example is not sufficient to establish
the rule."

It was impossible to give a better answer, but as my readers may well
imagine, I did not appear to have heard it, and being anxious to prevent
any more indiscreet questions from Dubois I turned the conversation into
a different channel.

The subject of music was discussed, and a Spaniard asked Henriette
whether she could play any other instrument besides the violoncello.

"No," she answered, "I never felt any inclination for any other. I
learned the violoncello at the convent to please my mother, who can play
it pretty well, and without an order from my father, sanctioned by the
bishop, the abbess would never have given me permission to practise it."

"What objection could the abbess make?"

"That devout spouse of our Lord pretended that I could not play that
instrument without assuming an indecent position."

At this the Spanish guests bit their lips, but the Frenchmen laughed
heartily, and did not spare their epigrams against the over-particular
abbess.

After a short silence, Henriette rose, and we all followed her example.
It was the signal for breaking up the party, and we soon took our leave.

I longed to find myself alone with the idol of my soul. I asked her a
hundred questions without waiting for the answers.

"Ah! you were right, my own Henriette, when you refused to go to that
concert, for you knew that you would raise many enemies against me. I am
certain that all those men hate me, but what do I care? You are my
universe! Cruel darling, you almost killed me with your violoncello,
because, having no idea of your being a musician, I thought you had gone
mad, and when I heard you I was compelled to leave the room in order to
weep undisturbed. My tears relieved my fearful oppression. Oh! I entreat
you to tell me what other talents you possess. Tell me candidly, for you
might kill me if you brought them out unexpectedly, as you have done this
evening."

"I have no other accomplishments, my best beloved. I have emptied my bag
all at once. Now you know your Henriette entirely. Had you not chanced to
tell me about a month ago that you had no taste for music, I would have
told you that I could play the violoncello remarkably well, but if I had
mentioned such a thing, I know you well enough to be certain that you
would have bought an instrument immediately, and I could not, dearest,
find pleasure in anything that would weary you."

The very next morning she had an excellent violoncello, and, far from
wearying me, each time she played she caused me a new and greater
pleasure. I believe that it would be impossible even to a man disliking
music not to become passionately fond of it, if that art were practised
to perfection by the woman he adores.

The 'vox humana' of the violoncello; the king of instruments, went to my
heart every time that my beloved Henriette performed upon it. She knew I
loved to hear her play, and every day she afforded me that pleasure. Her
talent delighted me so much that I proposed to her to give some concerts,
but she was prudent enough to refuse my proposal. But in spite of all her
prudence we had no power to hinder the decrees of fate.

The fatal hunchback came the day after his fine supper to thank us and to
receive our well-merited praises of his concert, his supper, and the
distinction of his guests.

"I foresee, madam," he said to Henriette, "all the difficulty I shall
have in defending myself against the prayers of all my friends, who will
beg of me to introduce them to you."

"You need not have much trouble on that score: you know that I never,
receive anyone."

Dubois did not again venture upon speaking of introducing any friend.

On the same day I received a letter from young Capitani, in which he
informed me that, being the owner of St. Peter's knife and sheath, he had
called on Franzia with two learned magicians who had promised to raise
the treasure out of the earth, and that to his great surprise Franzia had
refused to receive him: He entreated me to write to the worthy fellow,
and to go to him myself if I wanted to have my share of the treasure. I
need not say that I did not comply with his wishes, but I can vouch for
the real pleasure I felt in finding that I had succeeded in saving that
honest and simple farmer from the impostors who would have ruined him.

One month was gone since the great supper given by Dubois. We had passed
it in all the enjoyment which can be derived both from the senses and the
mind, and never had one single instant of weariness caused either of us
to be guilty of that sad symptom of misery which is called a yawn. The
only pleasure we took out of doors was a drive outside of the city when
the weather was fine. As we never walked in the streets, and never
frequented any public place, no one had sought to make our acquaintance,
or at least no one had found an opportunity of doing so, in spite of all
the curiosity excited by Henriette amongst the persons whom we had
chanced to meet, particularly at the house of Dubois. Henriette had
become more courageous, and I more confident, when we found that she had
not been recognized by any one either at that supper or at the theatre.
She only dreaded persons belonging to the high nobility.

One day as we were driving outside the Gate of Colorno, we met the duke
and duchess who were returning to Parma. Immediately after their carriage
another vehicle drove along, in which was Dubois with a nobleman unknown
to us. Our carriage had only gone a few yards from theirs when one of our
horses broke down. The companion of Dubois immediately ordered his
coachman to stop in order to send to our assistance. Whilst the horse was
raised again, he came politely to our carriage, and paid some civil
compliment to Henriette. M. Dubois, always a shrewd courtier and anxious
to shew off at the expense of others, lost no time in introducing him as
M. Dutillot, the French ambassador. My sweetheart gave the conventional
bow. The horse being all right again, we proceeded on our road after
thanking the gentlemen for their courtesy. Such an every-day occurrence
could not be expected to have any serious consequences, but alas! the
most important events are often the result of very trifling
circumstances!

The next day, Dubois breakfasted with us. He told us frankly that M.
Dutillot had been delighted at the fortunate chance which had afforded
him an opportunity of making our acquaintance, and that he had entreated
him to ask our permission to call on us.

"On madam or on me?" I asked at once.

"On both."

"Very well, but one at a time. Madam, as you know, has her own room and I
have mine."

"Yes, but they are so near each other!"

"Granted, yet I must tell you that, as far as I am concerned, I should
have much pleasure in waiting upon his excellency if he should ever wish
to communicate with me, and you will oblige me by letting him know it. As
for madam, she is here, speak to her, my dear M. Dubois, for I am only
her very humble servant."

Henriette assumed an air of cheerful politeness, and said to him,

"Sir, I beg you will offer my thanks to M. Dutillot, and enquire from him
whether he knows me."

"I am certain, madam," said the hunchback, "that he does not."

"You see he does not know me, and yet he wishes to call on me. You must
agree with me that if I accepted his visits I should give him a singular
opinion of my character. Be good enough to tell him that, although known
to no one and knowing no one, I am not an adventuress, and therefore I
must decline the honour of his visits."

Dubois felt that he had taken a false step, and remained silent. We never
asked him how the ambassador had received our refusal.

Three weeks after the last occurrence, the ducal court residing then at
Colorno, a great entertainment was given in the gardens which were to be
illuminated all night. Everybody had permission to walk about the
gardens. Dubois, the fatal hunchback appointed by destiny, spoke so much
of that festival, that we took a fancy to see it. Always the same story
of Adam's apple. Dubois accompanied us. We went to Colorno the day before
the entertainment, and put up at an inn.

In the evening we walked through the gardens, in which we happened to
meet the ducal family and suite. According to the etiquette of the French
court, Madame de France was the first to curtsy to Henriette, without
stopping. My eyes fell upon a gentleman walking by the side of Don Louis,
who was looking at my friend very attentively. A few minutes after, as we
were retracing our steps, we came across the same gentleman who, after
bowing respectfully to us, took Dubois aside. They conversed together for
a quarter of an hour, following us all the time, and we were passing out
of the gardens, when the gentleman, coming forward, and politely
apologizing to me, asked Henriette whether he had the honour to be known
to her.

"I do not recollect having ever had the honour of seeing you before."

"That is enough, madam, and I entreat you to forgive me."

Dubois informed us that the gentleman was the intimate friend of the
Infante Don Louis, and that, believing he knew madam, he had begged to be
introduced. Dubois had answered that her name was D'Arci, and that, if he
was known to the lady, he required no introduction. M. d'Antoine said
that the name of D'Arci was unknown to him, and that he was afraid of
making a mistake. "In that state of doubt," added Dubois, "and wishing to
clear it, he introduced himself, but now he must see that he was
mistaken."

After supper, Henriette appeared anxious. I asked her whether she had
only pretended not to know M. d'Antoine.

"No, dearest, I can assure you. I know his name which belongs to an
illustrious family of Provence, but I have never seen him before."

"Perhaps he may know you?"

"He might have seen me, but I am certain that he never spoke to me, or I
would have recollected him."

"That meeting causes me great anxiety, and it seems to have troubled
you."

"I confess it has disturbed my mind."

"Let us leave Parma at once and proceed to Genoa. We will go to Venice as
soon as my affairs there are settled."

"Yes, my dear friend, we shall then feel more comfortable. But I do not
think we need be in any hurry."

We returned to Parma, and two days afterwards my servant handed me a
letter, saying that the footman who had brought it was waiting in the
ante-room.

"This letter," I said to Henriette, "troubles me."

She took it, and after she had read it--she gave it back to me, saying,

"I think M. d'Antoine is a man of honour, and I hope that we may have
nothing to fear."

The letter ran as, follows:

"Either at your hotel or at my residence, or at any other place you may
wish to appoint, I entreat you, sir, to give me an opportunity of
conversing with you on a subject which must be of the greatest importance
to you.

"I have the honour to be, etc.

                    "D'ANTOINE."

It was addressed M. Farusi.

"I think I must see him," I said, "but where?"

"Neither here nor at his residence, but in the ducal gardens. Your answer
must name only the place and the hour of the meeting."

I wrote to M. d'Antoine that I would see him at half-past eleven in the
ducal gardens, only requesting him to appoint another hour in case mine
was not convenient to him.

I dressed myself at once in order to be in good time, and meanwhile we
both endeavoured, Henriette and I, to keep a cheerful countenance, but we
could not silence our sad forebodings. I was exact to my appointment and
found M. d'Antoine waiting for me. As soon as we were together, he said
to me,

"I have been compelled, sir, to beg from you the favour of an interview,
because I could not imagine any surer way to get this letter to Madame
d'Arci's hands. I entreat you to deliver it to her, and to excuse me if I
give it you sealed. Should I be mistaken, my letter will not even require
an answer, but should I be right, Madame d'Arci alone can judge whether
she ought to communicate it to you. That is my reason for giving it to
you sealed. If you are truly her friend, the contents of that letter must
be as interesting to you as to her. May I hope, sir, that you will be
good enough to deliver it to her?"

"Sir, on my honour I will do it."

We bowed respectfully to each other, and parted company. I hurried back
to the hotel.




CHAPTER III

Henriette Receives the Visit of M. d'Antoine I Accompany Her as Far as
Geneva and Then I Lose Her--I Cross the St. Bernard, and Return to
Parma--A Letter from Hensiette--My Despair De La Haye Becomes Attached to
Me--Unpleasant Adventure with an Actress and Its Consequences--I Turn a
Thorough Bigot--Bavois--I Mystify a Bragging Officer.

As soon as I had reached our apartment, my heart bursting with anxiety, I
repeated to Henriette every word spoken by M. d'Antoine, and delivered
his letter which contained four pages of writing. She read it attentively
with visible emotion, and then she said,

"Dearest friend, do not be offended, but the honour of two families does
not allow of my imparting to you the contents of this letter. I am
compelled to receive M. d'Antoine, who represents himself as being one of
my relatives."

"Ah!" I exclaimed, "this is the beginning of the end! What a dreadful
thought! I am near the end of a felicity which was too great to last!
Wretch that I have been! Why did I tarry so long in Parma? What fatal
blindness! Of all the cities in the whole world, except France, Parma was
the only one I had to fear, and it is here that I have brought you, when
I could have taken you anywhere else, for you had no will but mine! I am
all the more guilty that you never concealed your fears from me. Why did
I introduce that fatal Dubois here? Ought I not to have guessed that his
curiosity would sooner or later prove injurious to us? And yet I cannot
condemn that curiosity, for it is, alas! a natural feeling. I can only
accuse all the perfections which Heaven has bestowed upon
you!--perfections which have caused my happiness, and which will plunge
me in an abyss of despair, for, alas! I foresee a future of fearful
misery."

"I entreat you, dearest, to foresee nothing, and to calm yourself. Let us
avail ourselves of all our reason in order to prove ourselves superior to
circumstances, whatever they may be. I cannot answer this letter, but you
must write to M. d'Antoine to call here tomorrow and to send up his
name."

"Alas! you compel me to perform a painful task."

"You are my best, my only friend; I demand nothing, I impose no task upon
you, but can you refuse me?"

"No, never, no matter what you ask. Dispose of me, I am yours in life and
death."

"I knew what you would answer. You must be with me when M. d'Antoine
calls, but after a few minutes given to etiquette, will you find some
pretext to go to your room, and leave us alone? M. d'Antoine knows all my
history; he knows in what I have done wrong, in what I have been right;
as a man of honour, as my relative, he must shelter me from all affront.
He shall not do anything against my will, and if he attempts to deviate
from the conditions I will dictate to him, I will refuse to go to France,
I will follow you anywhere, and devote to you the remainder of my life.
Yet, my darling, recollect that some fatal circumstances may compel us to
consider our separation as the wisest course to adopt, that we must
husband all our courage to adopt it, if necessary, and to endeavour not
to be too unhappy.

"Have confidence in me, and be quite certain that I shall take care to
reserve for myself the small portion of happiness which I can be allowed
to enjoy without the man who alone has won all my devoted love. You will
have, I trust, and I expect it from your generous soul, the same care of
your future, and I feel certain that you must succeed. In the mean time,
let us drive away all the sad forebodings which might darken the hours we
have yet before us."

"Ah! why did we not go away immediately after we had met that accursed
favourite of the Infante!"

"We might have made matters much worse; for in that case M. d'Antoine
might have made up his mind to give my family a proof of his zeal by
instituting a search to discover our place of residence, and I should
then have been exposed to violent proceedings which you would not have
endured. It would have been fatal to both of us."

I did everything she asked me. From that moment our love became sad, and
sadness is a disease which gives the death-blow to affection. We would
often remain a whole hour opposite each other without exchanging a single
word, and our sighs would be heard whatever we did to hush them.

The next day, when M. d'Antoine called, I followed exactly the
instructions she had given me, and for six mortal hours I remained alone,
pretending to write.

The door of my room was open, and a large looking-glass allowed us to see
each other. They spent those six hours in writing, occasionally stopping
to talk of I do not know what, but their conversation was evidently a
decisive one. The reader can easily realize how much I suffered during
that long torture, for I could expect nothing but the total wreck of my
happiness.

As soon as the terrible M. d'Antoine had taken leave of her, Henriette
came to me, and observing that her eyes were red I heaved a deep sigh,
but she tried to smile.

"Shall we go away to-morrow, dearest?"

"Oh! yes, I am ready. Where do you wish me to take you?"

"Anywhere you like, but we must be here in a fortnight."

"Here! Oh, fatal illusion!"

"Alas! it is so. I have promised to be here to receive the answer to a
letter I have just written. We have no violent proceedings to fear, but I
cannot bear to remain in Parma."

"Ah! I curse the hour which brought us to this city. Would you like to go
to Milan?"

"Yes."

"As we are unfortunately compelled to come back, we may as well take with
us Caudagna and his sister."

"As you please."

"Let me arrange everything. I will order a carriage for them, and they
will take charge of your violoncello. Do you not think that you ought to
let M. d'Antoine know where we are going?"

"No, it seems to me, on the contrary, that I need not account to him for
any of my proceedings. So much the worse for him if he should, even for
one moment, doubt my word."

The next morning, we left Parma, taking only what we wanted for an
absence of a fortnight. We arrived in Milan without accident, but both
very sad, and we spent the following fifteen days in constant
tete-a-tete, without speaking to anyone, except the landlord of the hotel
and to a dressmaker. I presented my beloved Henriette with a magnificent
pelisse made of lynx fur--a present which she prized highly.

Out of delicacy, she had never enquired about my means, and I felt
grateful to her for that reserve. I was very careful to conceal from her
the fact that my purse was getting very light. When we came back to Parma
I had only three or four hundred sequins.

The day after our return M. d'Antoine invited himself to dine with us,
and after we had drunk coffee, I left him alone with Henriette. Their
interview was as long as the first, and our separation was decided. She
informed me of it, immediately after the departure of M. d'Antoine, and
for a long time we remained folded in each other's arms, silent, and
blending our bitter tears.

"When shall I have to part from you, my beloved, alas! too much beloved
one?"

"Be calm, dearest, only when we reach Geneva, whither you are going to
accompany me. Will you try to find me a respectable maid by to-morrow?
She will accompany me from Geneva to the place where I am bound to go."

"Oh! then, we shall spend a few days more together! I know no one but
Dubois whom I could trust to procure a good femme-de-chambre; only I do
not want him to learn from her what you might not wish him to know."

"That will not be the case, for I will take another maid as soon as I am
in France."

Three days afterwards, Dubois, who had gladly undertaken the commission,
presented to Henriette a woman already somewhat advanced in years, pretty
well dressed and respectable-looking, who, being poor, was glad of an
opportunity of going back to France, her native country. Her husband, an
old military officer, had died a few months before, leaving her totally
unprovided for. Henriette engaged her, and told her to keep herself ready
to start whenever M. Dubois should give her notice. The day before the
one fixed for our departure, M. d'Antoine dined with us, and, before
taking leave of us, he gave Henriette a sealed letter for Geneva.

We left Parma late in the evening, and stopped only two hours in Turin,
in order to engage a manservant whose services we required as far as
Geneva. The next day we ascended Mont Cenis in sedan-chairs, and we
descended to the Novalaise in mountain-sledges. On the fifth day we
reached Geneva, and we put up at the Hotel des Balances. The next
morning, Henriette gave me a letter for the banker Tronchin, who, when he
had read it, told me that he would call himself at the hotel, and bring
me one thousand louis d'or.

I came back and we sat down to dinner. We had not finished our meal when
the banker was announced. He had brought the thousand louis d'or, and
told Henriette that he would give her two men whom he could recommend in
every way.

She answered that she would leave Geneva as soon as she had the carriage
which he was to provide for her, according to the letter I had delivered
to him. He promised that everything would be ready for the following day,
and he left us. It was indeed a terrible moment! Grief almost benumbed us
both. We remained motionless, speechless, wrapped up in the most profound
despair.

I broke that sad silence to tell her that the carriage which M. Tronchin
would provide could not possibly be as comfortable and as safe as mine,
and I entreated her to take it, assuring her that by accepting it she
would give me a last proof of her affection.

"I will take in exchange, my dearest love, the carriage sent by the
banker."

"I accept the change, darling," she answered, "it will be a great
consolation to possess something which has belonged to you."

As she said these words, she slipped in my pocket five rolls containing
each one hundred louis d'or--a slight consolation for my heart, which was
almost broken by our cruel separation! During the last twenty-four hours
we could boast of no other eloquence but that which finds expression in
tears, in sobs, and in those hackneyed but energetic exclamations, which
two happy lovers are sure to address to reason, when in its sternness it
compels them to part from one another in the very height of their
felicity. Henriette did not endeavour to lure me with any hope for the
future, in order to allay my sorrow! Far from that, she said to me,

"Once we are parted by fate, my best and only friend, never enquire after
me, and, should chance throw you in my way, do not appear to know me."

She gave me a letter for M. d'Antoine, without asking me whether I
intended to go back to Parma, but, even if such had not been my
intention, I should have determined at once upon returning to that city.
She likewise entreated me not to leave Geneva until I had received a
letter which she promised to, write to me from the first stage on her
journey. She started at day-break, having with her a maid, a footman on
the box of the carriage, and being preceded by a courier on horseback. I
followed her with my eyes as long as I could, see her carriage, and I was
still standing on the same spot long after my eyes had lost sight of it.
All my thoughts were wrapped up in the beloved object I had lost for
ever. The world was a blank!

I went back to my room, ordered the waiter not to disturb me until the
return of the horses which had drawn Henriette's carriage, and I lay down
on my bed in the hope that sleep would for a time silence a grief which
tears could not drown.

The postillion who had driven Henriette did not return till the next day;
he had gone as far as Chatillon. He brought me a letter in which I found
one single word: Adieu! He told me that they had reached Chatillon
without accident, and that the lady had immediately continued her journey
towards Lyons. As I could not leave Geneva until the following day, I
spent alone in my room some of the most melancholy hours of my life. I
saw on one of the panes of glass of a window these words which she had
traced with the point of a diamond I had given her: "You will forget
Henriette." That prophecy was not likely to afford me any consolation.
But had she attached its full meaning to the word "forget?" No; she could
only mean that time would at last heal the deep wounds of my heart, and
she ought not to have made it deeper by leaving behind her those words
which sounded like a reproach. No, I have not forgotten her, for even
now, when my head is covered with white hair, the recollection of her is
still a source of happiness for my heart! When I think that in my old age
I derive happiness only from my recollections of the past, I find that my
long life must have counted more bright than dark days, and offering my
thanks to God, the Giver of all, I congratulate myself, and confess that
life is a great blessing.

The next day I set off again for Italy with a servant recommended by M.
Tronchin, and although the season was not favourable I took the road over
Mont St. Bernard, which I crossed in three days, with seven mules
carrying me, my servant, my luggage, and the carriage sent by the banker
to the beloved woman now for ever lost to me. One of the advantages of a
great sorrow is that nothing else seems painful. It is a sort of despair
which is not without some sweetness. During that journey I never felt
either hunger or thirst, or the cold which is so intense in that part of
the Alps that the whole of nature seems to turn to ice, or the fatigue
inseparable from such a difficult and dangerous journey.

I arrived in Parma in pretty good health, and took up my quarters at a
small inn, in the hope that in such a place I should not meet any
acquaintance of mine. But I was much disappointed, for I found in that
inn M. de la Haye, who had a room next to mine. Surprised at seeing me,
he paid me a long compliment, trying to make me speak, but I eluded his
curiosity by telling him that I was tired, and that we would see each
other again.

On the following day I called upon M. d'Antoine, and delivered the letter
which Henriette had written to him. He opened it in my presence, and
finding another to my address enclosed in his, he handed it to me without
reading it, although it was not sealed. Thinking, however, that it might
have been Henriette's intention that he should read it because it was
open, he asked my permission to do so, which I granted with pleasure as
soon as I had myself perused it. He handed it back to me after he had
read it, telling me very feelingly that I could in everything rely upon
him and upon his influence and credit.

Here is Henriette's letter

"It is I, dearest and best friend, who have been compelled to abandon
you, but do not let your grief be increased by any thought of my sorrow.
Let us be wise enough to suppose that we have had a happy dream, and not
to complain of destiny, for never did so beautiful a dream last so long!
Let us be proud of the consciousness that for three months we gave one
another the most perfect felicity. Few human beings can boast of so much!
Let us swear never to forget one another, and to often remember the happy
hours of our love, in order to renew them in our souls, which, although
divided, will enjoy them as acutely as if our hearts were beating one
against the other. Do not make any enquiries about me, and if chance
should let you know who I am, forget it for ever. I feel certain that you
will be glad to hear that I have arranged my affairs so well that I
shall, for the remainder of my life, be as happy as I can possibly be
without you, dear friend, by my side. I do not know who you are, but I am
certain that no one in the world knows you better than I do. I shall not
have another lover as long as I live, but I do not wish you to imitate
me. On the contrary I hope that you will love again, and I trust that a
good fairy will bring along your path another Henriette. Farewell . . .
farewell."

          ......................

I met that adorable woman fifteen years later; the reader will see where
and how, when we come to that period of my life.

          ......................

I went back to my room, careless of the future, broken down by the
deepest of sorrows, I locked myself in, and went to bed. I felt so low in
spirits that I was stunned. Life was not a burden, but only because I did
not give a thought to life. In fact I was in a state of complete apathy,
moral and physical. Six years later I found myself in a similar
predicament, but that time love was not the cause of my sorrow; it was
the horrible and too famous prison of The Leads, in Venice.

I was not much better either in 1768, when I was lodged in the prison of
Buen Retiro, in Madrid, but I must not anticipate events. At the end of
twenty-four hours, my exhaustion was very great, but I did not find the
sensation disagreeable, and, in the state of mind in which I was then, I
was pleased with the idea that, by increasing, that weakness would at
last kill me. I was delighted to see that no one disturbed me to offer me
some food, and I congratulated myself upon having dismissed my servant.
Twenty-four more hours passed by, and my weakness became complete
inanition.

I was in that state when De la Haye knocked at my door. I would not have
answered if he had not said that someone insisted upon seeing me. I got
out of bed, and, scarcely able to stand, I opened my door, after which I
got into bed again.

"There is a stranger here," he said, "who, being in want of a carriage,
offers to buy yours."

"I do not want to sell it."

"Excuse me if I have disturbed you, but you look ill."

"Yes, I wish to be left alone."

"What is the matter with you?"

Coming nearer my bed, he took my hand, and found my pulse extremely low
and weak.

"What did you eat yesterday?"

"I have eaten nothing, thank God I for two days."

Guessing the real state of things, De la Haye became anxious, and
entreated me to take some broth. He threw so much kindness, so much
unction, into his entreaties that, through weakness and weariness, I
allowed myself to be persuaded. Then, without ever mentioning the name of
Henriette, he treated me to a sermon upon the life to come, upon the
vanity of the things of this life which we are foolish enough to prefer,
and upon the necessity of respecting our existence, which does not belong
to us.

I was listening without answering one word, but, after all, I was
listening, and De la Haye, perceiving his advantage, would not leave me,
and ordered dinner. I had neither the will nor the strength to resist,
and when the dinner was served, I ate something. Then De la Have saw that
he had conquered, and for the remainder of the day devoted himself to
amusing me by his cheerful conversation.

The next day the tables were turned, for it was I who invited him to keep
me company and to dine with me. It seemed to me that I had not lost a
particle of my sadness, but life appeared to me once more preferable to
death, and, thinking that I was indebted to him for the preservation of
my life, I made a great friend of him. My readers will see presently that
my affection for him went very far, and they will, like me, marvel at the
cause of that friendship, and at the means through which it was brought
about.

Three or four days afterwards, Dubois, who had been informed of
everything by De la Haye, called on me, and persuaded me to go out. I
went to the theatre, where I made the acquaintance of several Corsican
officers, who had served in France, in the Royal Italian regiment. I also
met a young man from Sicily, named Paterno, the wildest and most heedless
fellow it was possible to see. He was in love with an actress who made a
fool of him. He amused me with the enumeration of all her adorable
qualities, and of all the cruelties she was practising upon him, for,
although she received him at all hours, she repulsed him harshly whenever
he tried to steal the slightest favour. In the mean time, she ruined him
by making him pay constantly for excellent dinners and suppers, which
were eaten by her family, but which did not advance him one inch towards
the fulfilment of his wishes.

He succeeded at last in exciting my curiosity. I examined the actress on
the stage, and finding that she was not without beauty I expressed a wish
to know her. Paterno was delighted to introduce me to her.

I found that she was of tolerably easy virtue, and, knowing that she was
very far from rolling in riches, I had no doubt that fifteen or twenty
sequins would be quite sufficient to make her compliant. I communicated
my thoughts to Paterno, but he laughed and told me that, if I dared to
make such a proposition to her, she would certainly shut her door against
me. He named several officers whom she had refused to receive again,
because they had made similar offers.

"Yet," added the young man, "I wish you would make the attempt, and tell
me the result candidly."

I felt piqued, and promised to do it.

I paid her a visit in her dressing-room at the theatre, and as she
happened during our conversation to praise the beauty of my watch, I told
her that she could easily obtain possession of it, and I said at what
price. She answered, according to the catechism of her profession, that
an honourable man had no right to make such an offer to a respectable
girl.

"I offer only one ducat," said I, "to those who are not respectable."

And I left her.

When I told Paterno what had occurred, he fairly jumped for joy, but I
knew what to think of it all, for 'cosi sono tutte', and in spite of all
his entreaties, I declined to be present at his suppers, which were far
from amusing, and gave the family of the actress an opportunity of
laughing at the poor fool who was paying for them.

Seven or eight days afterwards, Paterno told me that the actress had
related the affair to him exactly in the same words which I had used, and
she had added that, if I had ceased my visits, it was only because I was
afraid of her taking me at my word in case I should renew my proposal. I
commissioned him to tell her that I would pay her another visit, not to
renew my offer, but to shew my contempt for any proposal she might make
me herself.

The heedless fellow fulfilled his commission so well that the actress,
feeling insulted, told him that she dared me to call on her. Perfectly
determined to shew that I despised her, I went to her dressing-room the
same evening, after the second act of a play in which she had not to
appear again. She dismissed those who were with her, saying that she
wanted to speak with me, and, after she had bolted the door, she sat down
gracefully on my knees, asking me whether it was true that I despised her
so much.

In such a position a man has not the courage to insult a woman, and,
instead of answering, I set to work at once, without meeting even with
that show of resistance which sharpens the appetite. In spite of that,
dupe as I always was of a feeling truly absurd when an intelligent man
has to deal with such creatures, I gave her twenty sequins, and I confess
that it was paying dearly for very smarting regrets. We both laughed at
the stupidity of Paterno, who did not seem to know how such challenges
generally end.

I saw the unlucky son of Sicily the next morning, and I told him that,
having found the actress very dull, I would not see her again. Such was
truly my intention, but a very important reason, which nature took care
to explain to me three days afterwards, compelled me to keep my word
through a much more serious motive than a simple dislike for the woman.

However, although I was deeply grieved to find myself in such a
disgraceful position, I did not think I had any right to complain. On the
contrary, I considered that my misfortune to be a just and well-deserved
punishment for having abandoned myself to a Lais, after I had enjoyed the
felicity of possessing a woman like Henriette.

My disease was not a case within the province of empirics, and I
bethought myself of confiding in M. de is Haye who was then dining every
day with me, and made no mystery of his poverty. He placed me in the
hands of a skilful surgeon, who was at the same time a dentist. He
recognized certain symptoms which made it a necessity to sacrifice me to
the god Mercury, and that treatment, owing to the season of the year,
compelled me to keep my room for six weeks. It was during the winter of
1749.

While I was thus curing myself of an ugly disease, De la Haye inoculated
me with another as bad, perhaps even worse, which I should never have
thought myself susceptible of catching. This Fleming, who left me only
for one hour in the morning, to go--at least he said so--to church to
perform his devotions, made a bigot of me! And to such an extent, that I
agreed with him that I was indeed fortunate to have caught a disease
which was the origin of the faith now taking possession of my soul. I
would thank God fervently and with the most complete conviction for
having employed Mercury to lead my mind, until then wrapped in darkness,
to the pure light of holy truth! There is no doubt that such an
extraordinary change in my reasoning system was the result of the
exhaustion brought on by the mercury. That impure and always injurious
metal had weakened my mind to such an extent that I had become almost
besotted, and I fancied that until then my judgment had been insane. The
result was that, in my newly acquired wisdom, I took the resolution of
leading a totally different sort of life in future. De la Haye would
often cry for joy when he saw me shedding tears caused by the contrition
which he had had the wonderful cleverness to sow in my poor sickly soul.
He would talk to me of paradise and the other world, just as if he had
visited them in person, and I never laughed at him! He had accustomed me
to renounce my reason; now to renounce that divine faculty a man must no
longer be conscious of its value, he must have become an idiot. The
reader may judge of the state to which I was reduced by the following
specimen. One day, De la Haye said to me:

"It is not known whether God created the world during the vernal equinox
or during the autumnal one."

"Creation being granted," I replied, in spite of the mercury, "such a
question is childish, for the seasons are relative, and differ in the
different quarters of the globe."

De la Haye reproached me with the heathenism of my ideas, told me that I
must abandon such impious reasonings.... and I gave way!

That man had been a Jesuit. He not only, however, refused to admit it,
but he would not even suffer anyone to mention it to him. This is how he
completed his work of seduction by telling me the history of his life.

"After I had been educated in a good school," he said, "and had devoted
myself with some success to the arts and sciences, I was for twenty years
employed at the University of Paris. Afterwards I served as an engineer
in the army, and since that time I have published several works
anonymously, which are now in use in every boys' school. Having given up
the military service, and being poor, I undertook and completed the
education of several young men, some of whom shine now in the world even
more by their excellent conduct than by their talents. My last pupil was
the Marquis Botta. Now being without employment I live, as you see,
trusting in God's providence. Four years ago, I made the acquaintance of
Baron Bavois, from Lausanne, son of General Bavois who commanded a
regiment in the service of the Duke of Modem, and afterwards was
unfortunate enough to make himself too conspicuous. The young baron, a
Calvinist like his father, did not like the idle life he was leading at
home, and he solicited me to undertake his education in order to fit him
for a military career. Delighted at the opportunity of cultivating his
fine natural disposition, I gave up everything to devote myself entirely
to my task. I soon discovered that, in the question of faith, he knew
himself to be in error, and that he remained a Calvinist only out of
respect to his family. When I had found out his secret feelings on that
head, I had no difficulty in proving to him that his most important
interests were involved in that question, as his eternal salvation was at
stake. Struck by the truth of my words, he abandoned himself to my
affection, and I took him to Rome, where I presented him to the Pope,
Benedict XIV., who, immediately after the abjuration of my pupil got him
a lieutenancy in the army of the Duke of Modena. But the dear proselyte,
who is only twenty-five years of age, cannot live upon his pay of seven
sequins a month, and since his abjuration he has received nothing from
his parents, who are highly incensed at what they call his apostacy. He
would find himself compelled to go back to Lausanne, if I did not assist
him. But, alas! I am poor, and without employment, so I can only send him
the trifling sums which I can obtain from the few good Christians with
whom I am acquainted.

"My pupil, whose heart is full of gratitude, would be very glad to know
his benefactors, but they refuse to acquaint him with their names, and
they are right, because charity, in order to be meritorious, must not
partake of any feeling of vanity. Thank God, I have no cause for such a
feeling! I am but too happy to act as a father towards a young saint, and
to have had a share, as the humble instrument of the Almighty, in the
salvation of his soul. That handsome and good young man trusts no one but
me, and writes to me regularly twice a week. I am too discreet to
communicate his letters to you, but, if you were to read them, they would
make you weep for sympathy. It is to him that I have sent the three gold
pieces which you gave me yesterday."

As he said the last words my converter rose, and went to the window to
dry his tears, I felt deeply moved, anal full of admiration for the
virtue of De la Haye and of his pupil, who, to save his soul, had placed
himself under the hard necessity of accepting alms. I cried as well as
the apostle, and in my dawning piety I told him that I insisted not only
upon remaining unknown to his pupil, but also upon ignoring the amount of
the sums he might take out of my purse to forward to him, and I therefore
begged that he would help himself without rendering me any account. De la
Haye embraced me warmly, saying that, by following the precepts of the
Gospel so well, I should certainly win the kingdom of heaven.

The mind is sure to follow the body; it is a privilege enjoyed by matter.
With an empty stomach, I became a fanatic; and the hollow made in my
brain by the mercury became the home of enthusiasm. Without mentioning it
to De la Haye, I wrote to my three friends, Messrs. Bragadin and company,
several letters full of pathos concerning my Tartufe and his pupil, and I
managed to communicate my fanaticism to them. You are aware, dear reader,
that nothing is so catching as the plague; now, fanaticism, no matter of
what nature, is only the plague of the human mind.

I made my friends to understand that the good of our society depended
upon the admission of these two virtuous individuals. I allowed them to
guess it, but, having myself became a Jesuit, I took care not to say it
openly. It would of course be better if such an idea appeared to have
emanated from those men, so simple, and at the same time so truly
virtuous. "It is God's will," I wrote to them (for deceit must always
take refuge under the protection of that sacred name), "that you employ
all your influence in Venice to find an honourable position for M. de la
Haye, and to promote the interests of young M. Bavois in his profession."

M. de Bragadin answered that De la Haye could take up his quarters with
us in his palace, and that Bavois was to write to his protector, the
Pope, entreating His Holiness to recommend him to the ambassador of
Venice, who would then forward that recommendation to the Senate, and
that Bavois could, in that way, feel sure of good employment.

The affair of the Patriarchate of Aquileia was at that time under
discussion; the Republic of Venice was in possession of it as well as the
Emperor of Austria, who claimed the 'jus eligendi': the Pope Benedict
XIV. had been chosen as arbitrator, and as he had not yet given his
decision it was evident that the Republic would shew very great deference
to his recommendation.

While that important affair was enlisting all our sympathies, and while
they were expecting in Venice a letter stating the effect of the Pope's
recommendation, I was the hero of a comic adventure which, for the sake
of my readers, must not pass unnoticed.

At the beginning of April I was entirely cured of my last misfortune. I
had recovered all my usual vigour, and I accompanied my converter to
church every day, never missing a sermon. We likewise spent the evening
together at the cafe, where we generally met a great many officers. There
was among them a Provencal who amused everybody with his boasting and
with the recital of the military exploits by which he pretended to have
distinguished himself in the service of several countries, and
principally in Spain. As he was truly a source of amusement, everybody
pretended to believe him in order to keep up the game. One day as I was
staring at him, he asked me whether I knew him.

"By George, sir!"--I exclaimed, "know you! Why, did we not fight side by
side at the battle of Arbela?"

At those words everybody burst out laughing, but the boaster, nothing
daunted, said, with animation,

"Well, gentlemen, I do not see anything so very laughable in that. I was
at that battle, and therefore this gentleman might very well have
remarked me; in fact, I think I can recollect him."

And, continuing to speak to me, he named the regiment in which we were
brother officers. Of course we embraced one another, congratulating each
other upon the pleasure we both felt in meeting again in Parma. After
that truly comic joke I left the coffee-room in the company of my
inseparable preacher.

The next morning, as I was at breakfast with De la Haye, the boasting
Provencal entered my room without taking off his hat, and said,

"M. d'Arbela, I have something of importance to tell you; make haste and
follow me. If you are afraid, you may take anyone you please with you. I
am good for half a dozen men."

I left my chair, seized my pistols, and aimed at him.

"No one," I said, with decision, "has the right to come and disturb me in
my room; be off this minute, or I blow your brains out."

The fellow, drawing his sword, dared me to murder him, but at the same
moment De la Haye threw himself between us, stamping violently on the
floor. The landlord came up, and threatened the officer to send for the
police if he did not withdraw immediately.

He went away, saying that I had insulted him in public, and that he would
take care that the reparation I owed him should be as public as the
insult.

When he had gone, seeing that the affair might take a tragic turn, I
began to examine with De la Haye how it could be avoided, but we had not
long to puzzle our imagination, for in less than half an hour an officer
of the Infante of Parma presented himself, and requested me to repair
immediately to head-quarters, where M. de Bertolan, Commander of Parma,
wanted to speak to me.

I asked De la Haye to accompany me as a witness of what I had said in the
coffee-room as well as of what had taken place in my apartment.

I presented myself before the commander, whom I found surrounded by
several officers, and, among them, the bragging Provencal.

M. de Bertolan, who was a witty man, smiled when he saw me; then, with a
very serious countenance, he said to me,

"Sir, as you have made a laughing-stock of this officer in a public
place, it is but right that you should give him publicly the satisfaction
which he claims, and as commander of this city I find myself bound in
duty to ask you for that satisfaction in order to settle the affair
amicably."

"Commander," I answered, "I do not see why a satisfaction should be
offered to this gentleman, for it is not true that I have insulted him by
turning him into ridicule. I told him that I had seen him at the battle
of Arbela, and I could not have any doubt about it when he said that he
had been present at that battle, and that he knew me again."

"Yes," interrupted the officer, "but I heard Rodela and not Arbela, and
everybody knows that I fought at Rodela. But you said Arbela, and
certainly with the intention of laughing at me, since that battle has
been fought more than two thousand years ago, while the battle of Rodela
in Africa took place in our time, and I was there under the orders of the
Duke de Mortemar."

"In the first place, sir, you have no right to judge of my intentions,
but I do not dispute your having been present at Rodela, since you say
so; but in that case the tables are turned, and now I demand a reparation
from you if you dare discredit my having been at Arbela. I certainly did
not serve under the Duke de Mortemar, because he was not there, at least
to my knowledge, but I was aid-de-camp of Parmenion, and I was wounded
under his eyes. If you were to ask me to shew you the scar, I could not
satisfy you, for you must understand that the body I had at that time
does not exist any longer, and in my present bodily envelope I am only
twenty-three years old."

"All this seems to me sheer madness, but, at all events, I have witnesses
to prove that you have been laughing at me, for you stated that you had
seen me at that battle, and, by the powers! it is not possible, because I
was not there. At all events, I demand satisfaction."

"So do I, and we have equal rights, if mine are not even better than
yours, for your witnesses are likewise mine, and these gentlemen will
assert that you said that you had seen me at Rodela, and, by the powers!
it is not possible, for I was not there."

"Well, I may have made a mistake."

"So may I, and therefore we have no longer any claim against one
another."

The commander, who was biting his lips to restrain his mirth, said to
him,

"My dear sir, I do not see that you have the slightest right to demand
satisfaction, since this gentleman confesses, like you, that he might
have been mistaken."

"But," remarked the officer, "is it credible that he was at the battle of
Arbela?"

"This gentleman leaves you free to believe or not to believe, and he is
at liberty to assert that he was there until you can prove the contrary.
Do you wish to deny it to make him draw his sword?"

"God forbid! I would rather consider the affair ended."

"Well, gentlemen," said the commander, "I have but one more duty to
perform, and it is to advise you to embrace one another like two honest
men."

We followed the advice with great pleasure.

The next day, the Provencal, rather crestfallen, came to share my dinner,
and I gave him a friendly welcome. Thus was ended that comic adventure,
to the great satisfaction of M. de la Haye.




CHAPTER IV

I Receive Good News From Venice, to Which City I Return with De la Haye
and Bavois--My Three Friends Give Me a Warm Welcome; Their Surprise at
Finding Me a Model of Devotion--Bavois Lures Me Back to My Former Way of
Living--De la Haye a Thorough Hypocrite--Adventure with the Girl
Marchetti--I Win a Prize in the Lottery--I Meet Baletti--De la Haye
Leaves M. de Bragadin's Palace--My Departure for Paris

Whilst De la Haye was every day gaining greater influence over my
weakened mind, whilst I was every day devoutly attending mass, sermons,
and every office of the Church, I received from Venice a letter
containing the pleasant information that my affair had followed its
natural course, namely, that it was entirely forgotten; and in another
letter M. de Bragadin informed me that the minister had written to the
Venetian ambassador in Rome with instructions to assure the Holy Father
that Baron Bavois would, immediately after his arrival in Venice, receive
in the army of the Republic an appointment which would enable him to live
honourably and to gain a high position by his talents.

That letter overcame M. de la Haye with joy, and I completed his
happiness by telling him that nothing hindered me from going back to my
native city.

He immediately made up his mind to go to Modena in order to explain to
his pupil how he was to act in Venice to open for himself the way to a
brilliant fortune. De la Haye depended on me in every way; he saw my
fanaticism, and he was well aware that it is a disease which rages as
long as the causes from which it has sprung are in existence. As he was
going with me to Venice, he flattered himself that he could easily feed
the fire he had lighted. Therefore he wrote to Bavois that he would join
him immediately, and two days after he took leave of me, weeping
abundantly, praising highly the virtues of my soul, calling me his son,
his dear son, and assuring me that his great affection for me had been
caused by the mark of election which he had seen on my countenance. After
that, I felt my calling and election were sure.

A few days after the departure of De la Haye, I left Parma in my carriage
with which I parted in Fusina, and from there I proceeded to Venice.
After an absence of a year, my three friends received me as if I had been
their guardian angel. They expressed their impatience to welcome the two
saints announced by my letters. An apartment was ready for De la Haye in
the palace of M. de Bragadin, and as state reasons did not allow my
father to receive in his own house a foreigner who had not yet entered
the service of the Republic, two rooms had been engaged for Bavois in the
neighbourhood.

They were thoroughly amazed at the wonderful change which had taken place
in my morals. Every day attending mass, often present at the preaching
and at the other services, never shewing myself at the casino,
frequenting only a certain cafe which was the place of meeting for all
men of acknowledged piety and reserve, and always studying when I was not
in their company. When they compared my actual mode of living with the
former one, they marvelled, and they could not sufficiently thank the
eternal providence of God whose inconceivable ways they admired. They
blessed the criminal actions which had compelled me to remain one year
away from my native place. I crowned their delight by paying all my debts
without asking any money from M. de Bragadin, who, not having given me
anything for one year, had religiously put together every month the sum
he had allowed me. I need not say how pleased the worthy friends were,
when they saw that I had entirely given up gambling.

I had a letter from De la Haye in the beginning of May. He announced that
he was on the eve of starting with the son so dear to his heart, and that
he would soon place himself at the disposition of the respectable men to
whom I had announced him.

Knowing the hour at which the barge arrived from Modena, we all went to
meet them, except M. de Bragadin, who was engaged at the senate. We
returned to the palace before him, and when he came back, finding us all
together, he gave his new guests the most friendly welcome. De la Haye
spoke to me of a hundred things, but I scarcely heard what he said, so
much was my attention taken up by Bavois. He was so different to what I
had fancied him to be from the impression I had received from De la Haye,
that my ideas were altogether upset. I had to study him; for three days
before I could make up my mind to like him. I must give his portrait to
my readers.

Baron Bavois was a young man of about twenty-five, of middle size,
handsome in features, well made, fair, of an equable temper, speaking
well and with intelligence, and uttering his words with a tone of modesty
which suited him exactly. His features were regular and pleasing, his
teeth were beautiful, his hair was long and fine, always well taken care
of, and exhaling the perfume of the pomatum with which it was dressed.
That individual, who was the exact opposite of the man that De la Haye
had led me to imagine, surprised my friends greatly, but their welcome
did not in any way betray their astonishment, for their pure and candid
minds would not admit a judgment contrary to the good opinion they had
formed of his morals. As soon as we had established De la Haye in his
beautiful apartment, I accompanied Bavois to the rooms engaged for him,
where his luggage had been sent by my orders. He found himself in very
comfortable quarters, and being received with distinction by his worthy
host, who was already greatly prejudiced in his favour, the young baron
embraced me warmly, pouring out all his gratitude, and assuring me that
he felt deeply all I had done for him without knowing him, as De la Haye
had informed him of all that had occurred. I pretended not to understand
what he was alluding to, and to change the subject of conversation I
asked him how he intended to occupy his time in Venice until his military
appointment gave him serious duties to perform. "I trust," he answered,
"that we shall enjoy ourselves in an agreeable way, for I have no doubt
that our inclinations are the same."

Mercury and De la Haye had so completely besotted me that I should have
found some difficulty in understanding these words, however intelligible
they were; but if I did not go any further than the outward signification
of his answer, I could not help remarking that he had already taken the
fancy of the two daughters of the house. They were neither pretty nor
ugly, but he shewed himself gracious towards them like a man who
understands his business. I had, however, already made such great
progress in my mystical education, that I considered the compliments he
addressed to the girls as mere forms of politeness.

For the first day, I took my young baron only to the St. Mark's Square
and to the cafe, where we remained until supper-time, as it had been
arranged that he would take his meals with us. At the supper-table he
shewed himself very witty, and M. Dandolo named an hour for the next day,
when he intended to present him to the secretary for war. In the evening
I accompanied him to his lodging, where I found that the two young girls
were delighted because the young Swiss nobleman had no servant, and
because they hoped to convince him that he would not require one.

The next day, a little earlier than the time appointed, I called upon him
with M. Dandolo and M. Barbaro, who were both to present him at the war
office. We found him at his toilet under the delicate hands of the eldest
girl, who was dressing his hair. His room, was fragrant with the perfumes
of his pomatums and scents. This did not indicate a sainted man; yet my
two friends did not feel scandalized, although their astonishment was
very evident, for they had not expected that show of gallantry from a
young neophyte. I was nearly bursting into a loud laugh, when I heard M.
Dandolo remark that, unless we hurried, we would not have time to hear
mass, whereupon Bavois enquired whether it was a festival. M. Dandolo,
without passing any remark, answered negatively, and after that, mass was
not again mentioned. When Bavois was ready, I left them and went a
different way. I met them again at dinner-time, during which the
reception given to the young baron by the secretary was discussed, and in
the evening my friends introduced him to several ladies who were much
pleased with him. In less than a week he was so well known that there was
no fear of his time hanging wearily on his hands, but that week was
likewise enough to give me a perfect insight into his nature and way of
thinking. I should not have required such a long study, if I had not at
first begun on a wrong scent, or rather if my intelligence had not been
stultified by my fanaticism. Bavois was particularly fond of women, of
gambling, of every luxury, and, as he was poor, women supplied him with
the best part of his resources. As to religious faith he had none, and as
he was no hypocrite he confessed as much to me.

"How have you contrived," I said to him one day, "such as you are, to
deceive De la Haye?"

"God forbid I should deceive anyone. De la Haye is perfectly well aware
of my system, and of my way of thinking on religious matters, but, being
himself very devout, he entertains a holy sympathy for my soul, and I do
not object to it. He has bestowed many kindnesses upon me, and I feel
grateful to him; my affection for him is all the greater because he never
teases me with his dogmatic lessons or with sermons respecting my
salvation, of which I have no doubt that God, in His fatherly goodness,
will take care. All this is settled between De la Haye and me, and we
live on the best of terms:"

The best part of the joke is that, while I was studying him, Bavois,
without knowing it, restored my mind to its original state, and I was
ashamed of myself when I realized that I had been the dupe of a Jesuit
who was an arrant hypocrite, in spite of the character of holiness which
he assumed, and which he could play with such marvellous ability. From
that moment I fell again into all my former practices. But let us return
to De la Haye.

That late Jesuit, who in his inmost heart loved nothing but his own
comfort, already advanced in years, and therefore no longer caring for
the fair sex, was exactly the sort of man to please my simpleminded trio
of friends. As he never spoke to them but of God, of His angels, and of
everlasting glory, and as he was always accompanying them to church, they
found him a delightful companion. They longed for the time when he would
discover himself, for they imagined he was at the very least a
Rosicrucian, or perhaps the hermit of Courpegna, who had taught me the
cabalistic science and made me a present of the immortal Paralis. They
felt grieved because the oracle had forbidden them, through my cabalistic
lips, ever to mention my science in the presence of Tartufe.

As I had foreseen, that interdiction left me to enjoy as I pleased all
the time that I would have been called upon to devote to their devout
credulity, and besides, I was naturally afraid lest De la Haye, such as I
truly believed him to be, would never lend himself to that trifling
nonsense, and would, for the sake of deserving greater favour at their
hands, endeavour to undeceive them and to take my place in their
confidence.

I soon found out that I had acted with prudence, for in less than three
weeks the cunning fox had obtained so great an influence over the mind of
my three friends that he was foolish enough, not only to believe that he
did not want me any more to support his credit with them, but likewise
that he could supplant me whenever he chose. I could see it clearly in
his way of addressing me, as well as in the change in his proceedings.

He was beginning to hold with my friends frequent conversations to which
I was not summoned, and he had contrived to make them introduce him to
several families which I was not in the habit of visiting. He assumed his
grand jesuitic airs, and, although with honeyed word he would take the
liberty of censuring me because I sometimes spent a night out, and, as he
would say, "God knows where!"

I was particularly vexed at his seeming to accuse me of leading his pupil
astray. He then would assume the tone of a man speaking jestingly, but I
was not deceived. I thought it was time to put an end to his game, and
with that intention I paid him a visit in his bedroom. When I was seated,
I said,

"I come, as a true worshipper of the Gospel, to tell you in private
something that, another time, I would say in public."

"What is it, my dear friend?"

"I advise you for the future not to hurl at me the slightest taunt
respecting the life I am leading with Bavois, when we are in the presence
of my three worthy friends. I do not object to listen to you when we are
alone."

"You are wrong in taking my innocent jests seriously."

"Wrong or right, that does not matter. Why do you never attack your
proselyte? Be careful for the future, or I might on my side, and only in
jest like you, throw at your head some repartee which you have every
reason to fear, and thus repay you with interest."

And bowing to him I left his room.

A few days afterwards I spent a few hours with my friends and Paralis,
and the oracle enjoined them never to accomplish without my advice
anything that might be recommended or even insinuated by Valentine; that
was the cabalistic name of the disciple of Escobar. I knew I could rely
upon their obedience to that order.

De la Haye soon took notice of some slight change; he became more
reserved, and Bavois, whom I informed of what I had done, gave me his
full approbation. He felt convinced, as I was, that De la Haye had been
useful to him only through weak or selfish reasons, that is, that he
would have cared little for his soul if his face had not been handsome,
and if he had not known that he would derive important advantages from
having caused his so-called conversion.

Finding that the Venetian government was postponing his appointment from
day to day, Bavois entered the service of the French ambassador. The
decision made it necessary for him not only to cease his visits to M. de
Bragadin, but even to give up his intercourse with De la Haye, who was
the guest of that senator.

It is one of the strictest laws of the Republic that the patricians and
their families shall not hold any intercourse with the foreign
ambassadors and their suites. But the decision taken by Bavois did not
prevent my friends speaking in his favour, and they succeeded in
obtaining employment for him, as will be seen further on.

The husband of Christine, whom I never visited, invited me to go to the
casino which he was in the habit of frequenting with his aunt and his
wife, who had already presented him with a token of their mutual
affection. I accepted his invitation, and I found Christine as lovely as
ever, and speaking the Venetian dialect like her husband. I made in that
casino the acquaintance of a chemist, who inspired me with the wish to
follow a course of chemistry. I went to his house, where I found a young
girl who greatly pleased me. She was a neighbour, and came every evening
to keep the chemist's elderly wife company, and at a regular hour a
servant called to take her home. I had never made love to her but once in
a trifling sort of way, and in the presence of the old lady, but I was
surprised not to see her after that for several days, and I expressed my
astonishment. The good lady told me that very likely the girl's cousin,
an abbe, with whom she was residing, had heard of my seeing her every
evening, had become jealous, and would not allow her to come again.

"An abbe jealous?"

"Why not? He never allows her to go out except on Sundays to attend the
first mass at the Church of Santa Maria Mater Domini, close by his
dwelling. He did not object to her coming here, because he knew that we
never had any visitors, and very likely he has heard through the servant
of your being here every evening."

A great enemy to all jealous persons, and a greater friend to my amorous
fancies, I wrote to the young girl that, if she would leave her cousin
for me, I would give her a house in which she should be the mistress, and
that I would surround her with good society and with every luxury to be
found in Venice. I added that I would be in the church on the following
Sunday to receive her answer.

I did not forget my appointment, and her answer was that the abbe being
her tyrant, she would consider herself happy to escape out of his
clutches, but that she could not make up her mind to follow me unless I
consented to marry her. She concluded her letter by saying that, in case
I entertained honest intentions towards her, I had only to speak to her
mother, Jeanne Marchetti, who resided in Lusia, a city thirty miles
distant from Venice.

This letter piqued my curiosity, and I even imagined that she had written
it in concert with the abbe. Thinking that they wanted to dupe me, and
besides, finding the proposal of marriage ridiculous, I determined on
having my revenge. But I wanted to get to the bottom of it, and I made up
my mind to see the girl's mother. She felt honoured by my visit, and
greatly pleased when, after I had shewn her her daughter's letter, I told
her that I wished to marry her, but that I should never think of it as
long as she resided with the abbe.

"That abbe," she said, "is a distant relative. He used to live alone in
his house in Venice, and two years ago he told me that he was in want of
a housekeeper. He asked me to let my daughter go to him in that capacity,
assuring me that in Venice she would have good opportunities of getting
married. He offered to give me a deed in writing stating that, on the day
of her marriage, he would give her all his furniture valued at about one
thousand ducats, and the inheritance of a small estate, bringing one
hundred ducats a year, which lie possesses here. It seemed to me a good
bargain, and, my daughter being pleased with the offer, I accepted. He
gave me the deed duly drawn by a notary, and my daughter went with him. I
know that he makes a regular slave of her, but she chose to go.
Nevertheless, I need not tell you that my most ardent wish is to see her
married, for, as long as a girl is without a husband, she is too much
exposed to temptation, and the poor mother cannot rest in peace."

"Then come to Venice with me. You will take your daughter out of the
abbe's house, and I will make her my wife. Unless that is done I cannot
marry her, for I should dishonour myself if I received my wife from his
hands."

"Oh, no! for he is my cousin, although only in the fourth degree, and,
what is more, he is a priest and says the mass every day."

"You make me laugh, my good woman. Everybody knows that a priest says the
mass without depriving himself of certain trifling enjoyments. Take your
daughter with you, or give up all hope of ever seeing her married."

"But if I take her with me, he will not give her his furniture, and
perhaps he will sell his small estate here."

"I undertake to look to that part of the business. I promise to take her
out of his hands, and to make her come back to you with all the
furniture, and to obtain the estate when she is my wife. If you knew me
better, you would not doubt what I say. Come to Venice, and I assure you
that you shall return here in four or five days with your daughter."

She read the letter which had been written to me by her daughter again,
and told me that, being a poor widow, she had not the money necessary to
pay the expenses of her journey to Venice, or of her return to Louisa.

"In Venice you shall not want for anything," I said; "in the mean time,
here are ten sequins."

"Ten sequins! Then I can go with my sister-in-law?"

"Come with anyone you like, but let us go soon so as to reach Chiozza,
where we must sleep. To-morrow we shall dine in Venice, and I undertake
to defray all expenses."

We arrived in Venice the next day at ten o'clock, and I took the two
women to Castello, to a house the first floor of which was empty. I left
them there, and provided with the deed signed by the abbe I went to dine
with my three friends, to whom I said that I had been to Chiozza on
important business. After dinner, I called upon the lawyer, Marco de
Lesse, who told me that if the mother presented a petition to the
President of the Council of Ten, she would immediately be invested with
power to take her daughter away with all the furniture in the house,
which she could send wherever she pleased. I instructed him to have the
petition ready, saying that I would come the next morning with the
mother, who would sign it in his presence.

I brought the mother early in the morning, and after she had signed the
petition we went to the Boussole, where she presented it to the President
of the Council. In less than a quarter of an hour a bailiff was ordered
to repair to the house of the priest with the mother, and to put her in
possession of her daughter, and of all the furniture, which she would
immediately take away.

The order was carried into execution to the very letter. I was with the
mother in a gondola as near as possible to the house, and I had provided
a large boat in which the sbirri stowed all the furniture found on the
premises. When it was all done, the daughter was brought to the gondola,
and she was extremely surprised to see me. Her mother kissed her, and
told her that I would be her husband the very next day. She answered that
she was delighted, and that nothing had been left in her tyrant's house
except his bed and his clothes.

When we reached Castello, I ordered the furniture to be brought out of
the boat; we had dinner, and I told the three women that they must go
back to Lusia, where I would join them as soon as I had settled all my
affairs. I spent the afternoon gaily with my intended. She told us that
the abbe was dressing when the bailiff presented the order of the Council
of Ten, with injunctions to allow its free execution under penalty of
death; that the abbe finished his toilet, went out to say his mass, and
that everything had been done without the slightest opposition. "I was
told," she added, "that my mother was waiting for me in the gondola, but
I did not expect to find you, and I never suspected that you were at the
bottom of the whole affair."

"It is the first proof I give you of my love."

These words made her smile very pleasantly.

I took care to have a good supper and some excellent wines, and after we
had spent two hours at table in the midst of the joys of Bacchus, I
devoted four more to a pleasant tete-a-tete with my intended bride.

The next morning, after breakfast, I had the whole of the furniture
stowed in a peotta, which I had engaged for the purpose and paid for
beforehand. I gave ten more sequins to the mother, and sent them away all
three in great delight. The affair was completed to my honour as well as
to my entire satisfaction, and I returned home.

The case had made so much noise that my friends could not have remained
ignorant of it; the consequence was that, when they saw me, they shewed
their surprise and sorrow. De la Haye embraced me with an air of profound
grief, but it was a feigned feeling--a harlequin's dress, which he had
the talent of assuming with the greatest facility. M. de Bragadin alone
laughed heartily, saying to the others that they did not understand the
affair, and that it was the forerunner of something great which was known
only to heavenly spirits. On my side, being ignorant of the opinion they
entertained of the matter, and certain that they were not informed of all
the circumstances, I laughed like M. de Bragadin, but said nothing. I had
nothing to fear, and I wanted to amuse myself with all that would be
said.

We sat down to table, and M. Barbaro was the first to tell me in a
friendly manner that he hoped at least that this was not the day after my
wedding.

"Then people say that I am married?"

"It is said everywhere and by everybody. The members of the Council
themselves believe it, and they have good reason to believe that they are
right."

"To be right in believing such a thing, they ought to be certain of it,
and those gentlemen have no such certainty. As they are not infallible
any more than any one, except God, I tell you that they are mistaken. I
like to perform good actions and to get pleasure for my money, but not at
the expense of my liberty: Whenever you want to know my affairs,
recollect that you can receive information about them only from me, and
public rumour is only good to amuse fools."

"But," said M. Dandolo, "you spent the night with the person who is
represented as your wife?"

"Quite true, but I have no account to give to anyone respecting what I
have done last night. Are you not of my opinion, M. de la Haye?"

"I wish you would not ask my opinion, for I do not know. But I must say
that public rumour ought not to be despised. The deep affection I have
for you causes me to grieve for what the public voice says about you."

"How is it that those reports do not grieve M. de Bragadin, who has
certainly greater affection for me than you have?"

"I respect you, but I have learned at my own expense that slander is to
be feared. It is said that, in order to get hold of a young girl who was
residing with her uncle--a worthy priest, you suborned a woman who
declared herself to be the girl's mother, and thus deceived the Supreme
Council, through the authority of which she obtained possession of the
girl for you. The bailiff sent by the Council swears that you were in the
gondola with the false mother when the young girl joined her. It is said
that the deed, in virtue of which you caused the worthy ecclesiastic's
furniture to be carried off, is false, and you are blamed for having made
the highest body of the State a stepping-stone to crime. In fine, it is
said that, even if you have married the girl, and no doubt of it is
entertained, the members of the Council will not be silent as to the
fraudulent means you have had recourse to in order to carry out your
intentions successfully."

"That is a very long speech," I said to him, coldly, "but learn from me
that a wise man who has heard a criminal accusation related with so many
absurd particulars ceases to be wise when he makes himself the echo of
what he has heard, for if the accusation should turn out to be a calumny,
he would himself become the accomplice of the slanderer."

After that sentence, which brought the blood to the face of the Jesuit,
but which my friends thought very wise, I entreated him, in a meaning
voice, to spare his anxiety about me, and to be quite certain that I knew
the laws of honour, and that I had judgment enough to take care of
myself, and to let foul tongues say what they liked about me, just as I
did when I heard them speak ill of him.

The adventure was the talk of the city for five or six days, after which
it was soon forgotten.

But three months having elapsed without my having paid any visit to
Lusia, or having answered the letters written to me by the damigella
Marchetti, and without sending her the money she claimed of me, she made
up her mind to take certain proceedings which might have had serious
consequences, although they had none whatever in the end.

One day, Ignacio, the bailiff of the dreaded tribunal of the State
inquisitors, presented himself as I was sitting at table with my friends,
De la Haye, and two other guests. He informed me that the Cavaliere
Cantarini dal Zoffo wished to see me, and would wait for me the next
morning at such an hour at the Madonna de l'Orto. I rose from the table
and answered, with a bow, that I would not fail to obey the wishes of his
excellency. The bailiff then left us.

I could not possibly guess what such a high dignitary of State could want
with my humble person, yet the message made us rather anxious, for
Cantarini dal Zoffo was one of the Inquisitors, that is to say, a bird of
very ill omen. M. de Bragadin, who had been Inquisitor while he was
Councillor, and therefore knew the habits of the tribunal, told me that I
had nothing to fear.

"Ignacio was dressed in private clothes," he added, "and therefore he did
not come as the official messenger of the dread tribunal. M. Cantarini
wishes to speak to you only as a private citizen, as he sends you word to
call at his palace and not at the court-house. He is an elderly man,
strict but just, to whom you must speak frankly and without equivocating,
otherwise you would make matters worse."

I was pleased with M. de Bragadin's advice, which was of great use to me.
I called at the appointed time.

I was immediately announced, and I had not long to wait. I entered the
room, and his excellency, seated at a table, examined me from head to
foot for one minute without speaking to me; he then rang the bell, and
ordered his servant to introduce the two ladies who were waiting in the
next room. I guessed at once what was the matter, and felt no surprise
when I saw the woman Marchetti and her daughter. His excellency asked me
if I knew them.

"I must know them, monsignor, as one of them will become my wife when she
has convinced me by her good conduct that she is worthy of that honour."

"Her conduct is good, she lives with her mother at Lusia; you have
deceived her. Why do you postpone your marriage with her? Why do you not
visit her? You never answer her letters, and you let her be in want."

"I cannot marry her, your excellency, before I have enough to support
her. That will come in three or four years, thanks to a situation which
M. de Bragadin, my only protector, promises to obtain for me. Until then
she must live honestly, and support herself by working. I will only marry
her when I am convinced of her honesty, and particularly when I am
certain that she has given up all intercourse with the abbe, her cousin
in the fourth degree. I do not visit her because my confessor and my
conscience forbid me to go to her house."

"She wishes you to give her a legal promise of marriage, and
sustentation."

"Monsignor, I am under no obligation to give her a promise of marriage,
and having no means whatever I cannot support her. She must earn her own
living with her mother."

"When she lived with her cousin," said her mother, "she never wanted
anything, and she shall go back to him."

"If she returns to his house I shall not take the trouble of taking her
out of his hands a second time, and your excellency will then see that I
was right to defer my marriage with her until I was convinced of her
honesty."

The judge told me that my presence, was no longer necessary. It was the
end of the affair, and I never heard any more about it. The recital of
the dialogue greatly amused my friends.

At the beginning of the Carnival of 1750 I won a prize of three thousand
ducats at the lottery. Fortune made me that present when I did not
require it, for I had held the bank during the autumn, and had won. It
was at a casino where no nobleman dared to present himself, because one
of the partners was an officer in the service of the Duke de Montalegre,
the Spanish Ambassador. The citizens of Venice felt ill at ease with the
patricians, and that is always the case under an aristocratic government,
because equality exists in reality only between the members of such a
government.

As I intended to take a trip to Paris, I placed one thousand sequins in
M. de Bragadin's hands, and with that project in view I had the courage
to pass the carnival without risking my money at the faro-table. I had
taken a share of one-fourth in the bank of an honest patrician, and early
in Lent he handed me a large sum.

Towards mid-Lent my friend Baletti returned from Mantua to Venice. He was
engaged at the St. Moses Theatre as ballet-master during the Fair of the
Assumption. He was with Marina, but they did not live together. She made
the conquest of an English Jew, called Mendez, who spent a great deal of
money for her. That Jew gave me good news of Therese, whom he had known
in Naples, and in whose hands he had left some of his spoils. The
information pleased me, and I was very glad to have been prevented by
Henriette from joining Therese in Naples, as I had intended, for I should
certainly have fallen in love with her again, and God knows what the
consequences might have been.

It was at that time that Bavois was appointed captain in the service of
the Republic; he rose rapidly in his profession, as I shall mention
hereafter.

De la Haye undertook the education of a young nobleman called Felix
Calvi, and a short time afterwards he accompanied him to Poland. I met
him again in Vienna three years later.

I was making my preparations to go to the Fair of Reggio, then to Turin,
where the whole of Italy was congregating for the marriage of the Duke of
Savoy with a princess of Spain, daughter of Philip V., and lastly to
Paris, where, Madame la Dauphine being pregnant, magnificent preparations
were made in the expectation of the birth of a prince. Baletti was
likewise on the point of undertaking the same journey. He was recalled by
his parents, who were dramatic artists: his mother was the celebrated
Silvia.

Baletti was engaged at the Italian Theatre in Paris as dancer and first
gentleman. I could not choose a companion more to my taste, more
agreeable, or in a better position to procure me numerous advantageous
acquaintances in Paris.

I bade farewell to my three excellent friends, promising to return within
two years.

I left my brother Francois in the studio of Simonetti, the painter of
battle pieces, known as the Parmesan. I gave him a promise to think of
him in Paris, where, at that time particularly, great talent was always
certain of a high fortune. My readers will see how I kept my word.

I likewise left in Venice my brother Jean, who had returned to that city
after having travelled through Italy with Guarienti. He was on the point
of going to Rome, where he remained fourteen years in the studio of
Raphael Mengs. He left Rome for Dresden in 1764, where he died in the
year 1795.

Baletti started before me, and I left Venice, to meet him in Reggio, on
the 1st of June, 1750. I was well fitted out, well supplied with money,
and sure not to want for any, if I led a proper life. We shall soon see,
dear reader, what judgment you will pass on my conduct, or rather I shall
not see it, for I know that when you are able to judge, I shall no longer
care for your sentence.




CHAPTER V

I Stop at Ferrara, Where I Have a Comic Adventure--My Arrival in Paris

Precisely at twelve o'clock the peotta landed me at Ponte di Lago Oscuro,
and I immediately took a post-chaise to reach Ferrara in time for dinner.
I put up at St. Mark's Hotel. I was following the waiter up the stairs,
when a joyful uproar, which suddenly burst from a room the door of which
was open, made me curious to ascertain the cause of so much mirth. I
peeped into the room, and saw some twelve persons, men and women, seated
round a well-supplied table. It was a very natural thing, and I was
moving on, when I was stopped by the exclamation, "Ah, here he is!"
uttered by the pretty voice of a woman, and at the same moment, the
speaker, leaving the table, came to me with open arms and embraced me,
saying,

"Quick, quick, a seat for him near me; take his luggage to his room."

A young man came up, and she said to him, "Well, I told you he would
arrive to-day?"

She made me sit near her at the table, after I had been saluted by all
the guests who had risen to do me honour.

"My dear cousin," she said, addressing me, "you must be hungry;" and as
she spoke she squeezed my foot under the table. "Here is my intended
husband whom I beg to introduce to you, as well as my father and
mother-in-law. The other guests round the table are friends of the
family. But, my dear cousin, tell me why my mother has not come with
you?"

At last I had to open my lips!

"Your mother, my dear cousin, will be here in three or four days, at the
latest."

I thought that my newly-found cousin was unknown to me, but when I looked
at her with more attention, I fancied I recollected her features. She was
the Catinella, a dancer of reputation, but I had never spoken to her
before. I easily guessed that she was giving me an impromptu part in a
play of her own composition, and I was to be a 'deux ex machina'.
Whatever is singular and unexpected has always attracted me, and as my
cousin was pretty, I lent myself most willingly to the joke, entertaining
no doubt that she would reward me in an agreeable manner. All I had to do
was to play my part well, but without implicating myself. Therefore,
pretending to be very hungry, I gave her the opportunity of speaking and
of informing me by hints of what I had to know, in order not to make
blunders. Understanding the reason of my reserve, she afforded me the
proof of her quick intelligence by saying sometimes to one person,
sometimes to the other, everything it was necessary for me to know. Thus
I learnt that the wedding could not take place until the arrival of her
mother, who was to bring the wardrobe and the diamonds of my cousin. I
was the precentor going to Turin to compose the music of the opera which
was to be represented at the marriage of the Duke of Savoy. This last
discovery pleased me greatly, because I saw that I should have no
difficulty in taking my departure the next morning, and I began to enjoy
the part I had to play. Yet, if I had not reckoned upon the reward, I
might very well have informed the honourable company that my false cousin
was mad, but, although Catinella was very near thirty, she was very
pretty and celebrated for her intrigues; that was enough, and she could
turn me round her little finger.

The future mother-in-law was seated opposite, and to do me honour she
filled a glass and offered it to me. Already identified with my part in
the comedy, I put forth my hand to take the glass, but seeing that my
hand was somewhat bent, she said to me,

"What is the matter with your hand, sir?"

"Nothing serious, madam; only a slight sprain which a little rest will
soon cure."

At these words, Catinella, laughing heartily, said that she regretted the
accident because it would deprive her friends of the pleasure they would
have enjoyed in hearing me play the harpsichord.

"I am glad to find it a laughing matter, cousin."

"I laugh, because it reminds me of a sprained ankle which I once feigned
to have in order not to dance."

After coffee, the mother-in-law, who evidently understood what was
proper, said that most likely my cousin wanted to talk with me on family
matters, and that we ought to be left alone.

Every one of the guests left the room.

As soon as I was alone with her in my room, which was next to her own she
threw herself on a sofa, and gave way to a most immoderate fit of
laughter.

"Although I only know you by name," she said to me, "I have entire
confidence in you, but you will do well to go away to-morrow. I have been
here for two months without any money. I have nothing but a few dresses
and some linen, which I should have been compelled to sell to defray my
expenses if I had not been lucky enough to inspire the son of the
landlord with the deepest love. I have flattered his passion by promising
to become his wife, and to bring him as a marriage portion twenty
thousand crowns' worth of diamonds which I am supposed to have in Venice,
and which my mother is expected to bring with her. But my mother has
nothing and knows nothing of the affair, therefore she is not likely to
leave Venice."

"But, tell me, lovely madcap, what will be the end of this extravaganza?
I am afraid it will take a tragic turn at the last."

"You are mistaken; it will remain a comedy, and a very amusing one, too.
I am expecting every hour the arrival of Count Holstein, brother of the
Elector of Mainz. He has written to me from Frankfort; he has left that
city, and must by this time have reached Venice. He will take me to the
Fair of Reggio, and if my intended takes it into his head to be angry,
the count will thrash him and pay my bill, but I am determined that he
shall be neither thrashed nor paid. As I go away, I have only to whisper
in his ear that I will certainly return, and it will be all right. I know
my promise to become his wife as soon as I come back will make him
happy."

"That's all very well! You are as witty as a cousin of Satan, but I shall
not wait your return to marry you; our wedding must take place at once."

"What folly! Well, wait until this evening."

"Not a bit of it, for I can almost fancy I hear the count's carriage. If
he should not arrive, we can continue the sport during the night."

"Do you love me?"

"To distraction! but what does it matter? However, your excellent comedy
renders you worthy of adoration. Now, suppose we do not waste our time."

"You are right: it is an episode, and all the more agreeable for being
impromptu."

I can well recollect that I found it a delightful episode. Towards
evening all the family joined us again, a walk was proposed, and we were
on the point of going out, when a carriage drawn by six post-horses
noisily entered the yard. Catinella looked through the window, and
desired to be left alone, saying that it was a prince who had come to see
her. Everybody went away, she pushed me into my room and locked me in. I
went to the window, and saw a nobleman four times as big as myself
getting out of the carriage. He came upstairs, entered the room of the
intended bride, and all that was left to me was the consolation of having
seized fortune by the forelock, the pleasure of hearing their
conversation, and a convenient view, through a crevice in the partition,
of what Catinella contrived to do with that heavy lump of flesh. But at
last the stupid amusement wearied me, for it lasted five hours, which
were employed in amorous caresses, in packing Catinella's rags, in
loading them on the carriage, in taking supper, and in drinking numerous
bumpers of Rhenish wine. At midnight the count left the hotel, carrying
away with him the beloved mistress of the landlord's son.

No one during those long hours had come to my room, and I had not called.
I was afraid of being discovered, and I did not know how far the German
prince would have been pleased if he had found out that he had an
indiscreet witness of the heavy and powerless demonstrations of his
tenderness, which were a credit to neither of the actors, and which
supplied me with ample food for thoughts upon the miseries of mankind.

After the departure of the heroine, catching through the crevice a
glimpse of the abandoned lover, I called out to him to unlock my door.
The poor silly fellow told me piteously that, Catinella having taken the
key with her, it would be necessary to break the door open. I begged him
to have it done at once, because I was hungry. As soon as I was out of my
prison I had my supper, and the unfortunate lover kept me company. He
told me that Catinella had found a moment to promise him that she would
return within six weeks, that she was shedding tears in giving him that
assurance, and that she had kissed him with great tenderness.

"Has the prince paid her expenses?"

"Not at all. We would not have allowed him to do it, even if he had
offered. My future wife would have felt offended, for you can have no
idea of the delicacy of her feelings."

"What does your father say of her departure?"

"My father always sees the worst side of everything; he says that she
will never come back, and my mother shares his opinion rather than mine.
But you, signor maestro, what do you think?"

"That if she has promised to return, she will be sure to keep her word."

"Of course; for if she did not mean to come back, she would not have
given me her promise."

"Precisely; I call that a good argument."

I had for my supper what was left of the meal prepared by the count's
cook, and I drank a bottle of excellent Rhenish wine which Catinella had
juggled away to treat her intended husband, and which the worthy fellow
thought could not have a better destination than to treat his future
cousin. After supper I took post-horses and continued my journey,
assuring the unhappy, forlorn lover that I would do all I could to
persuade my cousin to come back very soon. I wanted to pay my bill, but
he refused to receive any money. I reached Bologna a few minutes after
Catinella, and put up at the same hotel, where I found an opportunity of
telling her all her lover had said. I arrived in Reggio before her, but I
could not speak to her in that city, for she was always in the company of
her potent and impotent lord. After the fair, during which nothing of
importance occurred to me, I left Reggio with my friend Baletti and we
proceeded to Turin, which I wanted to see, for the first time I had gone
to that city with Henriette I had stopped only long enough to change
horses.

I found everything beautiful in Turin, the city, the court, the theatre,
and the women, including the Duchess of Savoy, but I could not help
laughing when I was told that the police of the city was very efficient,
for the streets were full of beggars. That police, however, was the
special care of the king, who was very intelligent; if we are to believe
history, but I confess that I laughed when I saw the ridiculous face of
that sovereign.

I had never seen a king before in my life, and a foolish idea made me
suppose that a king must be preeminent--a very rare being--by his beauty
and the majesty of his appearance, and in everything superior to the rest
of men. For a young Republican endowed with reason, my idea was not,
after all, so very foolish, but I very soon got rid of it when I saw that
King of Sardinia, ugly, hump-backed, morose and vulgar even in his
manners. I then realized that it was possible to be a king without being
entirely a man.

I saw L'Astrua and Gafarello, those two magnificent singers on the stage,
and I admired the dancing of La Geofroi, who married at that time a
worthy dancer named Bodin.

During my stay in Turin, no amorous fancy disturbed the peace of my soul,
except an accident which happened to me with the daughter of my
washerwoman, and which increased my knowledge in physics in a singular
manner. That girl was very pretty, and, without being what might be
called in love with her, I wished to obtain her favours. Piqued at my not
being able to obtain an appointment from her, I contrived one day to
catch her at the bottom of a back staircase by which she used to come to
my room, and, I must confess, with the intention of using a little
violence, if necessary.

Having concealed myself for that purpose at the time I expected her, I
got hold of her by surprise, and, half by persuasion, half by the
rapidity of my attack, she was brought to a right position, and I lost no
time in engaging in action. But at the first movement of the connection a
loud explosion somewhat cooled my ardour, the more so that the young girl
covered her face with her hands as if she wished to hide her shame.
However, encouraging her with a loving kiss, I began again. But, a
report, louder even than the first, strikes at the same moment my ear and
my nose. I continue; a third, a fourth report, and, to make a long matter
short, each movement gives an explosion with as much regularity as a
conductor making the time for a piece of music!

This extraordinary phenomenon, the confusion of the poor girl, our
position--everything, in fact, struck me as so comical, that I burst into
the most immoderate laughter, which compelled me to give up the
undertaking. Ashamed and confused, the young girl ran away, and I did
nothing to hinder her. After that she never had the courage to present
herself before me. I remained seated on the stairs for a quarter of an
hour after she had left me, amused at the funny character of a scene
which even now excites my mirth. I suppose that the young girl was
indebted for her virtue to that singular disease, and most likely, if it
were common to all the fair sex, there would be fewer gallant women,
unless we had different organs; for to pay for one moment of enjoyment at
the expense both of the hearing and of the smell is to give too high a
price.

Baletti, being in a hurry to reach Paris, where great preparations were
being made for the birth of a Duke of Burgundy--for the duchess was near
the time of her delivery--easily persuaded me to shorten my stay in
Turin. We therefore left that city, and in five days we arrived at Lyons,
where I stayed about a week.

Lyons is a very fine city in which at that time there were scarcely three
or four noble houses opened to strangers; but, in compensation, there
were more than a hundred hospitable ones belonging to merchants,
manufacturers, and commission agents, amongst whom was to be found an
excellent society remarkable for easy manners, politeness, frankness, and
good style, without the absurd pride to be met with amongst the nobility
in the provinces, with very few honourable exceptions. It is true that
the standard of good manners is below that of Paris, but one soon gets
accustomed to it. The wealth of Lyons arises from good taste and low
prices, and Fashion is the goddess to whom that city owes its prosperity.
Fashion alters every year, and the stuff, to which the fashion of the day
gives a value equal, say to thirty, is the next year reduced to fifteen
or twenty, and then it is sent to foreign countries where it is bought up
as a novelty.

The manufacturers of Lyons give high salaries to designers of talent; in
that lies the secret of their success. Low prices come from
Competition--a fruitful source of wealth, and a daughter of Liberty.
Therefore, a government wishing to establish on a firm basis the
prosperity of trade must give commerce full liberty; only being careful
to prevent the frauds which private interests, often wrongly understood,
might invent at the expense of public and general interests. In fact, the
government must hold the scales, and allow the citizens to load them as
they please.

In Lyons I met the most famous courtezan of Venice. It was generally
admitted that her equal had never been seen. Her name was Ancilla. Every
man who saw her coveted her, and she was so kindly disposed that she
could not refuse her favours to anyone; for if all men loved her one
after the other, she returned the compliment by loving them all at once,
and with her pecuniary advantages were only a very secondary
consideration.

Venice has always been blessed with courtezans more celebrated by their
beauty than their wit. Those who were most famous in my younger days were
Ancilla and another called Spina, both the daughters of gondoliers, and
both killed very young by the excesses of a profession which, in their
eyes, was a noble one. At the age of twenty-two, Ancilla turned a dancer
and Spina became a singer. Campioni, a celebrated Venetian dancer,
imparted to the lovely Ancilla all the graces and the talents of which
her physical perfections were susceptible, and married her. Spina had for
her master a castrato who succeeded in making of her only a very ordinary
singer, and in the absence of talent she was compelled, in order to get a
living, to make the most of the beauty she had received from nature.

I shall have occasion to speak again of Ancilla before her death. She was
then in Lyons with her husband; they had just returned from England,
where they had been greatly applauded at the Haymarket Theatre. She had
stopped in Lyons only for her pleasure, and, the moment she shewed
herself, she had at her feet the most brilliant young men of the town,
who were the slaves of her slightest caprice. Every day parties of
pleasure, every evening magnificent suppers, and every night a great faro
bank. The banker at the gaming table was a certain Don Joseph Marratti,
the same man whom I had known in the Spanish army under the name of Don
Pepe il Cadetto, and a few years afterwards assumed the name of Afflisio,
and came to such a bad end. That faro bank won in a few days three
hundred thousand francs. In a capital that would not have been considered
a large sum, but in a commercial and industrial city like Lyons it raised
the alarm amongst the merchants, and the Ultramontanes thought of taking
their leave.

It was in Lyons that a respectable individual, whose acquaintance I made
at the house of M. de Rochebaron, obtained for me the favour of being
initiated in the sublime trifles of Freemasonry. I arrived in Paris a
simple apprentice; a few months after my arrival I became companion and
master; the last is certainly the highest degree in Freemasonry, for all
the other degrees which I took afterwards are only pleasing inventions,
which, although symbolical, add nothing to the dignity of master.

No one in this world can obtain a knowledge of everything, but every man
who feels himself endowed with faculties, and can realize the extent of
his moral strength, should endeavour to obtain the greatest possible
amount of knowledge. A well-born young man who wishes to travel and know
not only the world, but also what is called good society, who does not
want to find himself, under certain circumstances, inferior to his
equals, and excluded from participating in all their pleasures, must get
himself initiated in what is called Freemasonry, even if it is only to
know superficially what Freemasonry is. It is a charitable institution,
which, at certain times and in certain places, may have been a pretext
for criminal underplots got up for the overthrow of public order, but is
there anything under heaven that has not been abused? Have we not seen
the Jesuits, under the cloak of our holy religion, thrust into the
parricidal hand of blind enthusiasts the dagger with which kings were to
be assassinated! All men of importance, I mean those whose social
existence is marked by intelligence and merit, by learning or by wealth,
can be (and many of them are) Freemasons: is it possible to suppose that
such meetings, in which the initiated, making it a law never to speak,
'intra muros', either of politics, or of religions, or of governments,
converse only concerning emblems which are either moral or trifling; is
it possible to suppose, I repeat, that those meetings, in which the
governments may have their own creatures, can offer dangers sufficiently
serious to warrant the proscriptions of kings or the excommunications of
Popes?

In reality such proceedings miss the end for which they are undertaken,
and the Pope, in spite of his infallibility, will not prevent his
persecutions from giving Freemasonry an importance which it would perhaps
have never obtained if it had been left alone. Mystery is the essence of
man's nature, and whatever presents itself to mankind under a mysterious
appearance will always excite curiosity and be sought, even when men are
satisfied that the veil covers nothing but a cypher.

Upon the whole, I would advise all well-born young men, who intend to
travel, to become Freemasons; but I would likewise advise them to be
careful in selecting a lodge, because, although bad company cannot have
any influence while inside of the lodge, the candidate must guard against
bad acquaintances.

Those who become Freemasons only for the sake of finding out the secret
of the order, run a very great risk of growing old under the trowel
without ever realizing their purpose. Yet there is a secret, but it is so
inviolable that it has never been confided or whispered to anyone. Those
who stop at the outward crust of things imagine that the secret consists
in words, in signs, or that the main point of it is to be found only in
reaching the highest degree. This is a mistaken view: the man who guesses
the secret of Freemasonry, and to know it you must guess it, reaches that
point only through long attendance in the lodges, through deep thinking,
comparison, and deduction. He would not trust that secret to his best
friend in Freemasonry, because he is aware that if his friend has not
found it out, he could not make any use of it after it had been whispered
in his ear. No, he keeps his peace, and the secret remains a secret.

Everything done in a lodge must be secret; but those who have
unscrupulously revealed what is done in the lodge, have been unable to
reveal that which is essential; they had no knowledge of it, and had they
known it, they certainly would not have unveiled the mystery of the
ceremonies.

The impression felt in our days by the non-initiated is of the same
nature as that felt in former times by those who were not initiated in
the mysteries enacted at Eleusis in honour of Ceres. But the mysteries of
Eleusis interested the whole of Greece, and whoever had attained some
eminence in the society of those days had an ardent wish to take a part
in those mysterious ceremonies, while Freemasonry, in the midst of many
men of the highest merit, reckons a crowd of scoundrels whom no society
ought to acknowledge, because they are the refuse of mankind as far as
morality is concerned.

In the mysteries of Ceres, an inscrutable silence was long kept, owing to
the veneration in which they were held. Besides, what was there in them
that could be revealed? The three words which the hierophant said to the
initiated? But what would that revelation have come to? Only to dishonour
the indiscreet initiate, for they were barbarous words unknown to the
vulgar. I have read somewhere that the three sacred words of the
mysteries of Eleusis meant: Watch, and do no evil. The sacred words and
the secrets of the various masonic degrees are about as criminal.

The initiation in the mysteries of Eleusis lasted nine days. The
ceremonies were very imposing, and the company of the highest. Plutarch
informs us that Alcibiades was sentenced to death and his property
confiscated, because he had dared to turn the mysteries into ridicule in
his house. He was even sentenced to be cursed by the priests and
priestesses, but the curse was not pronounced because one of the
priestesses opposed it, saying:

"I am a priestess to bless and not to curse!"

Sublime words! Lessons of wisdom and of morality which the Pope despises,
but which the Gospel teaches and which the Saviour prescribes.

In our days nothing is important, and nothing is sacred, for our
cosmopolitan philosophers.

Botarelli publishes in a pamphlet all the ceremonies of the Freemasons,
and the only sentence passed on him is:

"He is a scoundrel. We knew that before!"

A prince in Naples, and M. Hamilton in his own house, perform the miracle
of St. Januarius; they are, most likely, very merry over their
performance, and many more with them. Yet the king wears on his royal
breast a star with the following device around the image of St.
Januarius: 'In sanguine foedus'. In our days everything is inconsistent,
and nothing has any meaning. Yet it is right to go ahead, for to stop on
the road would be to go from bad to worse.

We left Lyons in the public diligence, and were five days on our road to
Paris. Baletti had given notice of his departure to his family; they
therefore knew when to expect him. We were eight in the coach and our
seats were very uncomfortable, for it was a large oval in shape, so that
no one had a corner. If that vehicle had been built in a country where
equality was a principle hallowed by the laws, it would not have been a
bad illustration. I thought it was absurd, but I was in a foreign
country, and I said nothing. Besides, being an Italian, would it have
been right for me not to admire everything which was French, and
particularly in France?--Example, an oval diligence: I respected the
fashion, but I found it detestable, and the singular motion of that
vehicle had the same effect upon me as the rolling of a ship in a heavy
sea. Yet it was well hung, but the worst jolting would have disturbed me
less.

As the diligence undulates in the rapidity of its pace, it has been
called a gondola, but I was a judge of gondolas, and I thought that there
was no family likeness between the coach and the Venetian boats which,
with two hearty rowers, glide along so swiftly and smoothly. The effect
of the movement was that I had to throw up whatever was on my stomach. My
travelling companions thought me bad company, but they did not say so. I
was in France and among Frenchmen, who know what politeness is. They only
remarked that very likely I had eaten too much at my supper, and a
Parisian abbe, in order to excuse me, observed that my stomach was weak.
A discussion arose.

"Gentlemen," I said, in my vexation, and rather angrily, "you are all
wrong, for my stomach is excellent, and I have not had any supper."

Thereupon an elderly man told me, with a voice full of sweetness, that I
ought not to say that the gentlemen were wrong, though I might say that
they were not right, thus imitating Cicero, who, instead of declaring to
the Romans that Catilina and the other conspirators were dead, only said
that they had lived.

"Is it not the same thing?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, one way of speaking is polite, the other is
not." And after treating me to a long dissection on politeness, he
concluded by saying, with a smile, "I suppose you are an Italian?"

"Yes, I am, but would you oblige me by telling me how you have found it
out?"

"Oh! I guessed it from the attention with which you have listened to my
long prattle."

Everybody laughed, and, I, much pleased with his eccentricity, began to
coax him. He was the tutor of a young boy of twelve or thirteen years who
was seated near him. I made him give me during the journey lessons in
French politeness, and when we parted he took me apart in a friendly
manner, saying that he wished to make me a small present.

"What is it?"

"You must abandon, and, if I may say so, forget, the particle 'non',
which you use frequently at random. 'Non' is not a French word; instead
of that unpleasant monosyllable, say, 'Pardon'. 'Non' is equal to giving
the lie: never say it, or prepare yourself to give and to receive
sword-stabs every moment."

"I thank you, monsieur, your present is very precious, and I promise you
never to say non again."

During the first fortnight of my stay in Paris, it seemed to me that I
had become the most faulty man alive, for I never ceased begging pardon.
I even thought, one evening at the theatre, that I should have a quarrel
for having begged somebody's pardon in the wrong place. A young fop,
coming to the pit, trod on my foot, and I hastened to say,

"Your pardon, sir."

"Sir, pardon me yourself."

"No, yourself."

"Yourself!"

"Well, sir, let us pardon and embrace one another!" The embrace put a
stop to the discussion.

One day during the journey, having fallen asleep from fatigue in the
inconvenient gondola, someone pushed my arm.

"Ah, sir! look at that mansion!"

"I see it; what of it?"

"Ah! I pray you, do you not find it...."

"I find nothing particular; and you?"

"Nothing wonderful, if it were not situated at a distance of forty
leagues from Paris. But here! Ah! would my 'badauds' of Parisians believe
that such a beautiful mansion can be found forty leagues distant from the
metropolis? How ignorant a man is when he has never travelled!"

"You are quite right."

That man was a Parisian and a 'badaud' to the backbone, like a Gaul in
the days of Caesar.

But if the Parisians are lounging about from morning till night, enjoying
everything around them, a foreigner like myself ought to have been a
greater 'badaud' than they! The difference between us was that, being
accustomed to see things such as they are, I was astonished at seeing
them often covered with a mask which changed their nature, while their
surprise often arose from their suspecting what the mask concealed.

What delighted me, on my arrival in Paris, was the magnificent road made
by Louis XV., the cleanliness of the hotels, the excellent fare they
give, the quickness of the service, the excellent beds, the modest
appearance of the attendant, who generally is the most accomplished girl
of the house, and whose decency, modest manners, and neatness, inspire
the most shameless libertine with respect. Where is the Italian who is
pleased with the effrontery and the insolence of the hotel-waiters in
Italy? In my days, people did not know in France what it was to
overcharge; it was truly the home of foreigners. True, they had the
unpleasantness of often witnessing acts of odious despotism, 'lettres de
cachet', etc.; it was the despotism of a king. Since that time the French
have the despotism of the people. Is it less obnoxious?

We dined at Fontainebleau, a name derived from Fontaine-belle-eau; and
when we were only two leagues from Paris we saw a berlin advancing
towards us. As it came near the diligence, my friend Baletti called out
to the postillions to stop. In the berlin was his mother, who offered me
the welcome given to an expected friend. His mother was the celebrated
actress Silvia, and when I had been introduced to her she said to me;

"I hope, sir, that my son's friend will accept a share of our family
supper this evening."

I accepted gratefully, sat down again in the gondola, Baletti got into
the berlin with his mother, and we continued our journey.

On reaching Paris, I found a servant of Silvia's waiting for me with a
coach; he accompanied me to my lodging to leave my luggage, and we
repaired to Baletti's house, which was only fifty yards distant from my
dwelling.

Baletti presented me to his father, who was known under the name of
Mario. Silvia and Mario were the stage names assumed by M. and Madame
Baletti, and at that time it was the custom in France to call the Italian
actors by the names they had on the stage. 'Bon jour', Monsieur Arlequin;
'bon jour', Monsieur Pantalon: such was the manner in which the French
used to address the actors who personified those characters on the stage.




CHAPTER VI

My Apprenticeship in Paris--Portraits--Oddities--All Sorts of Things

To celebrate the arrival of her son, Silvia gave a splendid supper to
which she had invited all her relatives, and it was a good opportunity
for me to make their acquaintance. Baletti's father, who had just
recovered from a long illness, was not with us, but we had his father's
sister, who was older than Mario. She was known, under her theatrical
name of Flaminia, in the literary world by several translations, but I
had a great wish to make her acquaintance less on that account than in
consequence of the story, known throughout Italy, of the stay that three
literary men of great fame had made in Paris. Those three literati were
the Marquis Maffei, the Abbe Conti, and Pierre Jacques Martelli, who
became enemies, according to public rumour, owing to the belief
entertained by each of them that he possessed the favours of the actress,
and, being men of learning, they fought with the pen. Martelli composed a
satire against Maffei, in which he designated him by the anagram of
Femia.

I had been announced to Flaminia as a candidate for literary fame, and
she thought she honoured me by addressing me at all, but she was wrong,
for she displeased me greatly by her face, her manners, her style, even
by the sound of her voice. Without saying it positively, she made me
understand that, being herself an illustrious member of the republic of
letters, she was well aware that she was speaking to an insect. She
seemed as if she wanted to dictate to everybody around her, and she very
likely thought that she had the right to do so at the age of sixty,
particularly towards a young novice only twenty-five years old, who had
not yet contributed anything to the literary treasury. In order to please
her, I spoke to her of the Abbe Conti, and I had occasion to quote two
lines of that profound writer. Madam corrected me with a patronizing air
for my pronunciation of the word 'scevra', which means divided, saying
that it ought to be pronounced 'sceura', and she added that I ought to be
very glad to have learned so much on the first day of my arrival in
Paris, telling me that it would be an important day in my life.

"Madam, I came here to learn and not to unlearn. You will kindly allow me
to tell you that the pronunciation of that word 'scevra' with a v, and
not 'sceura' with a u, because it is a contraction of 'sceverra'."

"It remains to be seen which of us is wrong."

"You, madam, according to Ariosto, who makes 'scevra' rhyme with
'persevra', and the rhyme would be false with 'sceura', which is not an
Italian word."

She would have kept up the discussion, but her husband, a man eighty
years of age, told her that she was wrong. She held her tongue, but from
that time she told everybody that I was an impostor.

Her husband, Louis Riccoboni, better known as Lelio, was the same who had
brought the Italian company to Paris in 1716, and placed it at the
service of the regent: he was a man of great merit. He had been very
handsome, and justly enjoyed the esteem of the public, in consequence not
only of his talent but also of the purity of his life.

During supper my principal occupation was to study Silvia, who then
enjoyed the greatest reputation, and I judged her to be even above it.
She was then about fifty years old, her figure was elegant, her air
noble, her manners graceful and easy; she was affable, witty, kind to
everybody, simple and unpretending. Her face was an enigma, for it
inspired everyone with the warmest sympathy, and yet if you examined it
attentively there was not one beautiful feature; she could not be called
handsome, but no one could have thought her ugly. Yet she was not one of
those women who are neither handsome nor ugly, for she possessed a
certain something which struck one at first sight and captivated the
interest. Then what was she?

Beautiful, certainly, but owing to charms unknown to all those who, not
being attracted towards her by an irresistible feeling which compelled
them to love her, had not the courage to study her, or the constancy to
obtain a thorough knowledge of her.

Silvia was the adoration of France, and her talent was the real support
of all the comedies which the greatest authors wrote for her, especially
of, the plays of Marivaux, for without her his comedies would never have
gone to posterity. Never was an actress found who could replace her, and
to find one it would be necessary that she should unite in herself all
the perfections which Silvia possessed for the difficult profession of
the stage: action, voice, intelligence, wit, countenance, manners, and a
deep knowledge of the human heart. In Silvia every quality was from
nature, and the art which gave the last touch of perfection to her
qualities was never seen.

To the qualities which I have just mentioned, Silvia added another which
surrounded her with a brilliant halo, and the absence of which would not
have prevented her from being the shining star of the stage: she led a
virtuous life. She had been anxious to have friends, but she had
dismissed all lovers, refusing to avail herself of a privilege which she
could easily have enjoyed, but which would have rendered her contemptible
in her own estimation. The irreproachable conduct obtained for her a
reputation of respectability which, at her age, would have been held as
ridiculous and even insulting by any other woman belonging to the same
profession, and many ladies of the highest rank honoured her with her
friendship more even than with their patronage. Never did the capricious
audience of a Parisian pit dare to hiss Silvia, not even in her
performance of characters which the public disliked, and it was the
general opinion that she was in every way above her profession.

Silvia did not think that her good conduct was a merit, for she knew that
she was virtuous only because her self-love compelled her to be so, and
she never exhibited any pride or assumed any superiority towards her
theatrical sisters, although, satisfied to shine by their talent or their
beauty, they cared little about rendering themselves conspicuous by their
virtue. Silvia loved them all, and they all loved her; she always was the
first to praise, openly and with good faith, the talent of her rivals;
but she lost nothing by it, because, being their superior in talent and
enjoying a spotless reputation, her rivals could not rise above her.

Nature deprived that charming woman of ten year of life; she became
consumptive at the age of sixty, ten years after I had made her
acquaintance. The climate of Paris often proves fatal to our Italian
actresses. Two years before her death I saw her perform the character of
Marianne in the comedy of Marivaux, and in spite of her age and declining
health the illusion was complete. She died in my presence, holding her
daughter in her arms, and she was giving her the advice of a tender
mother five minutes before she breathed her last. She was honourably
buried in the church of St. Sauveur, without the slightest opposition
from the venerable priest, who, far from sharing the anti-christain
intolerancy of the clergy in general, said that her profession as an
actress had not hindered her from being a good Christian, and that the
earth was the common mother of all human beings, as Jesus Christ had been
the Saviour of all mankind.

You will forgive me, dear reader, if I have made you attend the funeral
of Silvia ten years before her death; believe me I have no intention of
performing a miracle; you may console yourself with the idea that I shall
spare you that unpleasant task when poor Silvia dies.

Her only daughter, the object of her adoration, was seated next to her at
the supper-table. She was then only nine years old, and being entirely
taken up by her mother I paid no attention to her; my interest in her was
to come.

After the supper, which was protracted to a late hour, I repaired to the
house of Madame Quinson, my landlady, where I found myself very
comfortable. When I woke in the morning, the said Madame Quinson came to
my room to tell me that a servant was outside and wished to offer me his
services. I asked her to send him in, and I saw a man of very small
stature; that did not please me, and I told him so.

"My small stature, your honour, will be a guarantee that I shall never
borrow your clothes to go to some amorous rendezvous."

"Your name?"

"Any name you please."

"What do you mean? I want the name by which you are known."

"I have none. Every master I serve calls me according to his fancy, and I
have served more than fifty in my life. You may call me what you like."

"But you must have a family name."

"I never had any family. I had a name, I believe, in my young days, but I
have forgotten it since I have been in service. My name has changed with
every new master."

"Well! I shall call you Esprit."

"You do me a great honour."

"Here, go and get me change for a Louis."

"I have it, sir."

"I see you are rich."

"At your service, sir."

"Where can I enquire about you?"

"At the agency for servants. Madame Quinson, besides, can answer your
enquiries. Everybody in Paris knows me."

"That is enough. I shall give you thirty sous a day; you must find your
own clothes: you will sleep where you like, and you must be here at seven
o'clock every morning."

Baletti called on me and entreated me to take my meals every day at his
house. After his visit I told Esprit to take me to the Palais-Royal, and
I left him at the gates. I felt the greatest curiosity about that
renowned garden, and at first I examined everything. I see a rather fine
garden, walks lined with big trees, fountains, high houses all round the
garden, a great many men and women walking about, benches here and there
forming shops for the sale of newspapers, perfumes, tooth-picks, and
other trifles. I see a quantity of chairs for hire at the rate of one
sou, men reading the newspaper under the shade of the trees, girls and
men breakfasting either alone or in company, waiters who were rapidly
going up and down a narrow staircase hidden under the foliage.

I sit down at a small table: a waiter comes immediately to enquire my
wishes. I ask for some chocolate made with water; he brings me some, but
very bad, although served in a splendid silver-gilt cup. I tell him to
give me some coffee, if it is good.

"Excellent, I made it myself yesterday."

"Yesterday! I do not want it."

"The milk is very good."

"Milk! I never drink any. Make me a cup of fresh coffee without milk."

"Without milk! Well, sir, we never make coffee but in the afternoon.
Would you like a good bavaroise, or a decanter of orgeat?"

"Yes, give me the orgeat."

I find that beverage delicious, and make up my mind to have it daily for
my breakfast. I enquire from the waiter whether there is any news; he
answers that the dauphine has been delivered of a prince. An abbe, seated
at a table close by, says to him,--

"You are mad, she has given birth to a princess."

A third man comes forward and exclaims,--

"I have just returned from Versailles, and the dauphine has not been
delivered either of a prince or of a princess."

Then, turning towards me, he says that I look like a foreigner, and when
I say that I am an Italian he begins to speak to me of the court, of the
city, of the theatres, and at last he offers to accompany me everywhere.
I thank him and take my leave. The abbe rises at the same time, walks
with me, and tells me the names of all the women we meet in the garden.

A young man comes up to him, they embrace one another, and the abbe
presents him to me as a learned Italian scholar. I address him in
Italian, and he answers very wittily, but his way of speaking makes me
smile, and I tell him why. He expressed himself exactly in the style of
Boccacio. My remark pleases him, but I soon prove to him that it is not
the right way to speak, however perfect may have been the language of
that ancient writer. In less than a quarter of an hour we are excellent
friends, for we find that our tastes are the same.

My new friend was a poet as I was; he was an admirer of Italian
literature, while I admired the French.

We exchanged addresses, and promise to see one another very often.

I see a crowd in one corner of the garden, everybody standing still and
looking up. I enquire from my friend whether there is anything wonderful
going on.

"These persons are watching the meridian; everyone holds his watch in his
hand in order to regulate it exactly at noon."

"Is there not a meridian everywhere?"

"Yes, but the meridian of the Palais-Royal is the most exact."

I laugh heartily.

"Why do you laugh?"

"Because it is impossible for all meridians not to be the same. That is
true 'badauderie'."

My friend looks at me for a moment, then he laughs likewise, and supplies
me with ample food to ridicule the worthy Parisians. We leave the
Palais-Royal through the main gate, and I observe another crowd of people
before a shop, on the sign-board of which I read "At the Sign of the
Civet Cat."

"What is the matter here?"

"Now, indeed, you are going to laugh. All these honest persons are
waiting their turn to get their snuff-boxes filled."

"Is there no other dealer in snuff?"

"It is sold everywhere, but for the last three weeks nobody will use any
snuff but that sold at the 'Civet Cat.'"

"Is it better than anywhere else?"

"Perhaps it is not as good, but since it has been brought into fashion by
the Duchesse de Chartres, nobody will have any other."

"But how did she manage to render it so fashionable?"

"Simply by stopping her carriage two or three times before the shop to
have her snuff-box filled, and by saying aloud to the young girl who
handed back the box that her snuff was the very best in Paris. The
'badauds', who never fail to congregate near the carriage of princes, no
matter if they have seen them a hundred times, or if they know them to be
as ugly as monkeys, repeated the words of the duchess everywhere, and
that was enough to send here all the snuff-takers of the capital in a
hurry. This woman will make a fortune, for she sells at least one hundred
crowns' worth of snuff every day."

"Very likely the duchess has no idea of the good she has done."

"Quite the reverse, for it was a cunning artifice on her part. The
duchess, feeling interested in the newly-married young woman, and wishing
to serve her in a delicate manner, thought of that expedient which has
met with complete success. You cannot imagine how kind Parisians are. You
are now in the only country in the world where wit can make a fortune by
selling either a genuine or a false article: in the first case, it
receives the welcome of intelligent and talented people, and in the
second, fools are always ready to reward it, for silliness is truly a
characteristic of the people here, and, however wonderful it may appear,
silliness is the daughter of wit. Therefore it is not a paradox to say
that the French would be wiser if they were less witty.

"The gods worshipped here although no altars are raised for them--are
Novelty and Fashion. Let a man run, and everybody will run after him. The
crowd will not stop, unless the man is proved to be mad; but to prove it
is indeed a difficult task, because we have a crowd of men who, mad from
their birth, are still considered wise.

"The snuff of the 'Civet Cat' is but one example of the facility with
which the crowd can be attracted to one particular spot. The king was one
day hunting, and found himself at the Neuilly Bridge; being thirsty, he
wanted a glass of ratafia. He stopped at the door of a drinking-booth,
and by the most lucky chance the poor keeper of the place happened to
have a bottle of that liquor. The king, after he had drunk a small glass,
fancied a second one, and said that he had never tasted such delicious
ratafia in his life. That was enough to give the ratafia of the good man
of Neuilly the reputation of being the best in Europe: the king had said
so. The consequence was that the most brilliant society frequented the
tavern of the delighted publican, who is now a very wealthy man, and has
built on the very spot a splendid house on which can be read the
following rather comic motto: 'Ex liquidis solidum,' which certainly came
out of the head of one of the forty immortals. Which gods must the worthy
tavern-keeper worship? Silliness, frivolity, and mirth."

"It seems to me," I replied, "that such approval, such ratification of
the opinion expressed by the king, the princes of the blood, etc., is
rather a proof of the affection felt for them by the nation, for the
French carry that affection to such an extent that they believe them
infallible."

"It is certain that everything here causes foreigners to believe that the
French people adore the king, but all thinking men here know well enough
that there is more show than reality in that adoration, and the court has
no confidence in it. When the king comes to Paris, everybody calls out,
'Vive le Roi!' because some idle fellow begins, or because some policeman
has given the signal from the midst of the crowd, but it is really a cry
which has no importance, a cry given out of cheerfulness, sometimes out
of fear, and which the king himself does not accept as gospel. He does
not feel comfortable in Paris, and he prefers being in Versailles,
surrounded by twenty-five thousand men who protect him against the fury
of that same people of Paris, who, if ever they became wiser, might very
well one day call out, 'Death to the King!' instead of, 'Long life to the
King!' Louis XIV. was well aware of it, and several councillors of the
upper chamber lost their lives for having advised the assembling of the
states-general in order to find some remedy for the misfortunes of the
country. France never had any love for any kings, with the exception of
St. Louis, of Louis XII, and of the great and good Henry IV.; and even in
the last case the love of the nation was not sufficient to defend the
king against the dagger of the Jesuits, an accursed race, the enemy of
nations as well as of kings. The present king, who is weak and entirely
led by his ministers, said candidly at the time he was just recovering
from illness, 'I am surprised at the rejoicings of the people in
consequence of my health being restored, for I cannot imagine why they
should love me so dearly.' Many kings might repeat the same words, at
least if love is to be measured according to the amount of good actually
done. That candid remark of Louis XV. has been highly praised, but some
philosopher of the court ought to have informed him that he was so much
loved because he had been surnamed 'le bien aime'."

"Surname or nickname; but are there any philosophers at the court of
France?"

"No, for philosophers and courtiers are as widely different as light and
darkness; but there are some men of intelligence who champ the bit from
motives of ambition and interest."

As we were thus conversing, M. Patu (such was the name of my new
acquaintance) escorted me as far as the door of Silvia's house; he
congratulated me upon being one of her friends, and we parted company.

I found the amiable actress in good company. She introduced me to all her
guests, and gave me some particulars respecting every one of them. The
name of Crebillon struck my ear.

"What, sir!" I said to him, "am I fortunate enough to see you? For eight
years you have charmed me, for eight years I have longed to know you.
Listen, I beg 'of you."

I then recited the finest passage of his 'Zenobie et Rhadamiste', which I
had translated into blank verse. Silvia was delighted to see the pleasure
enjoyed by Crebillon in hearing, at the age of eighty, his own lines in a
language which he knew thoroughly and loved as much as his own. He
himself recited the same passage in French, and politely pointed out the
parts in which he thought that I had improved on the original. I thanked
him, but I was not deceived by his compliment.

We sat down to supper, and, being asked what I had already seen in Paris,
I related everything I had done, omitting only my conversation with Patu.
After I had spoken for a long time, Crebillon, who had evidently observed
better than anyone else the road I had chosen in order to learn the good
as well as the bad qualities by his countrymen, said to me,

"For the first day, sir, I think that what you have done gives great
hopes of you, and without any doubt you will make rapid progress. You
tell your story well, and you speak French in such a way as to be
perfectly understood; yet all you say is only Italian dressed in French.
That is a novelty which causes you to be listened to with interest, and
which captivates the attention of your audience; I must even add that
your Franco-Italian language is just the thing to enlist in your favour
the sympathy of those who listen to you, because it is singular, new, and
because you are in a country where everybody worships those two
divinities--novelty and singularity. Nevertheless, you must begin
to-morrow and apply yourself in good earnest, in order to acquire a
thorough knowledge of our language, for the same persons who warmly
applaud you now, will, in two or three months, laugh at you."

"I believe it, sir, and that is what I fear; therefore the principal
object of my visit here is to devote myself entirely to the study of the
French language. But, sir, how shall I find a teacher? I am a very
unpleasant pupil, always asking questions, curious, troublesome,
insatiable, and even supposing that I could meet with the teacher I
require, I am afraid I am not rich enough to pay him."

"For fifty years, sir, I have been looking out for a pupil such as you
have just described yourself, and I would willingly pay you myself if you
would come to my house and receive my lessons. I reside in the Marais,
Rue de Douze Portes. I have the best Italian poets. I will make you
translate them into French, and you need not be afraid of my finding you
insatiable."

I accepted with joy. I did not know how to express my gratitude, but both
his offer and the few words of my answer bore the stamp of truth and
frankness.

Crebillon was a giant; he was six feet high, and three inches taller than
I. He had a good appetite, could tell a good story without laughing, was
celebrated for his witty repartees and his sociable manners, but he spent
his life at home, seldom going out, and seeing hardly anyone because he
always had a pipe in his mouth and was surrounded by at least twenty
cats, with which he would amuse himself all day. He had an old
housekeeper, a cook, and a man-servant. His housekeeper had the
management of everything; she never allowed him to be in need of
anything, and she gave no account of his money, which she kept
altogether, because he never asked her to render any accounts. The
expression of Crebillon's face was that of the lion's or of the cat's,
which is the same thing. He was one of the royal censors, and he told me
that it was an amusement for him. His housekeeper was in the habit of
reading him the works brought for his examination, and she would stop
reading when she came to a passage which, in her opinion, deserved his
censure, but sometimes they were of a different opinion, and then their
discussions were truly amusing. I once heard the housekeeper send away an
author with these words:

"Come again next week; we have had no time to examine your manuscript."

During a whole year I paid M. Crebillon three visits every week, and from
him I learned all I know of the French language, but I found it
impossible to get rid of my Italian idioms. I remark that turn easily
enough when I meet with it in other people, but it flows naturally from
my pen without my being aware of it. I am satisfied that, whatever I may
do, I shall never be able to recognize it any more than I can find out in
what consists the bad Latin style so constantly alleged against Livy.

I composed a stanza of eight verses on some subject which I do not
recollect, and I gave it to Crebillon, asking him to correct it. He read
it attentively, and said to me,

"These eight verses are good and regular, the thought is fine and truly
poetical, the style is perfect, and yet the stanza is bad."

"How so?"

"I do not know. I cannot tell you what is wanting. Imagine that you see a
man handsome, well made, amiable, witty-in fact, perfect, according to
your most severe judgment. A woman comes in, sees him, looks at him, and
goes away telling you that the man does not please her. 'But what fault
do you find in him, madam?' 'None, only he does not please me.' You look
again at the man, you examine him a second time, and you find that, in
order to give him a heavenly voice, he has been deprived of that which
constitutes a man, and you are compelled to acknowledge that a
spontaneous feeling has stood the woman in good stead."

It was by that comparison that Crebillon explained to me a thing almost
inexplicable, for taste and feeling alone can account for a thing which
is subject to no rule whatever.

We spoke a great deal of Louis XIV., whom Crebillon had known well for
fifteen years, and he related several very curious anecdotes which were
generally unknown. Amongst other things he assured me that the Siamese
ambassadors were cheats paid by Madame de Maintenon. He told us likewise
that he had never finished his tragedy of Cromwell, because the king had
told him one day not to wear out his pen on a scoundrel.

Crebillon mentioned likewise his tragedy of Catilina, and he told me
that, in his opinion, it was the most deficient of his works, but that he
never would have consented, even to make a good tragedy, to represent
Caesar as a young man, because he would in that case have made the public
laugh, as they would do if Madea were to appear previous to her
acquaintances with Jason.

He praised the talent of Voltaire very highly, but he accused him of
having stolen from him, Crebillon, the scene of the senate. He, however,
rendered him full justice, saying that he was a true histo

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