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Title: Paris
Author: Jacques Casanova
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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
carress 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
hestitate 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 tune 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 caf‚, 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 caf‚ 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 caf‚, 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
pronounciation 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
historian, and able to write history as well as tragedies, but that
he unfortunately adulterated history by mixing with it such a number
of light anecdotes and tales for the sake of rendering it more
attractive. According to Crebillon, the Man with the Iron Mask was
nothing but an idle tale, and he had been assured of it by Louis XIV.
himself.
On the day of my first meeting with Crebillon at Silvia's, 'Cenie', a
play by Madame de Graffigny, was performed at the Italian Theatre,
and I went away early in order to get a good seat in the pit.
The ladies all covered with diamonds, who were taking possession of
the private boxes, engrossed all my interest and all my attention. I
wore a very fine suit, but my open ruffles and the buttons all along
my coat shewed at once that I was a foreigner, for the fashion was
not the same in Paris. I was gaping in the air and listlessly
looking round, when a gentleman, splendidly dressed, and three times
stouter than I, came up and enquired whether I was a foreigner. I
answered affirmatively, and he politely asked me how I liked Paris.
I praised Paris very warmly. But at that moment a very stout lady,
brilliant with diamonds, entered the box near us. Her enormous size
astonished me, and, like a fool, I said to the gentleman:
"Who is that fat sow?"
"She is the wife of this fat pig."
"Ah! I beg your pardon a thousand times!"
But my stout gentleman cared nothing for my apologies, and very far
from being angry he almost choked with laughter. This was the happy
result of the practical and natural philosophy which Frenchmen
cultivate so well, and which insures the happiness of their existence
under an appearance of frivolity!
I was confused, I was in despair, but the stout gentleman continued
to laugh heartily. At last he left the pit, and a minute afterwards
I saw him enter the box and speak to his wife. I was keeping an eye
on them without daring to look at them openly, and suddenly the lady,
following the example of her husband, burst into a loud laugh. Their
mirth making me more uncomfortable, I was leaving the pit, when the
husband called out to me, "Sir! Sir!"
"I could not go away without being guilty of impoliteness, and I went
up to their box. Then, with a serious countenance and with great
affability, he begged my pardon for having laughed so much, and very
graciously invited me to come to his house and sup with them that
same evening. I thanked him politely, saying that I had a previous
engagement. But he renewed his entreaties, and his wife pressing me
in the most engaging manner I told them, in order to prove that I was
not trying to elude their invitation, that I was expected to sup at
Silvia's house.
"In that case I am certain," said the gentleman, "of obtaining your
release if you do not object. Allow me to go myself to Silvia."
It would have been uncourteous on my part to resist any longer. He
left the box and returned almost immediately with my friend Baletti,
who told me that his mother was delighted to see me making such
excellent acquaintances, and that she would expect to see me at
dinner the next day. He whispered to me that my new acquaintance was
M. de Beauchamp, Receiver-General of Taxes.
As soon as the performance was over, I offered my hand to madame, and
we drove to their mansion in a magnificent carriage. There I found
the abundance or rather the profusion which in Paris is exhibited by
the men of finance; numerous society, high play, good cheer, and open
cheerfulness. The supper was not over till one o'clock in the
morning. Madame's private carriage drove me to my lodgings. That
house offered me a kind welcome during the whole of my stay in Paris,
and I must add that my new friends proved very useful to me. Some
persons assert that foreigners find the first fortnight in Paris very
dull, because a little time is necessary to get introduced, but I was
fortunate enough to find myself established on as good a footing as I
could desire within twenty-four hours, and the consequence was that I
felt delighted with Paris, and certain that my stay would prove an
agreeable one.
The next morning Patu called and made me a present of his prose
panegyric on the Marechal de Saxe. We went out together and took a
walk in the Tuileries, where he introduced me to Madame du Boccage,
who made a good jest in speaking of the Marechal de Saxe.
"It is singular," she said, "that we cannot have a 'De profundis' for
a man who makes us sing the 'Te Deum' so often."
As we left the Tuileries, Patu took me to the house of a celebrated
actress of the opera, Mademoiselle Le Fel, the favourite of all
Paris, and member of the Royal Academy of Music. She had three very
young and charming children, who were fluttering around her like
butterflies.
"I adore them," she said to me.
"They deserve adoration for their beauty," I answered, "although they
have all a different cast of countenance."
"No wonder! The eldest is the son of the Duke d'Anneci, the second
of Count d'Egmont, and the youngest is the offspring of Maison-Rouge,
who has just married the Romainville."
"Ah! pray excuse me, I thought you were the mother of the three."
"You were not mistaken, I am their mother."
As she said these words she looked at Patu, and both burst into
hearty laughter which did not make me blush, but which shewed me my
blunder.
I was a, novice in Paris, and I had not been accustomed to see women
encroach upon the privilege which men alone generally enjoy. Yet
mademoiselle Le Fel was not a bold-faced woman; she was even rather
ladylike, but she was what is called above prejudices. If I had
known the manners of the time better, I should have been aware that
such things were every-day occurrences, and that the noblemen who
thus sprinkled their progeny everywhere were in the habit of leaving
their children in the hands of their mothers, who were well paid.
The more fruitful, therefore, these ladies were, the greater was
their income.
My want of experience often led me into serious blunders, and
Mademoiselle Le Fel would, I have no doubt, have laughed at anyone
telling her that I had some wit, after the stupid mistake of which I
had been guilty.
Another day, being at the house of Lani, ballet-master of the opera,
I saw five or six young girls of thirteen or fourteen years of age
accompanied by their mothers, and all exhibiting that air of modesty
which is the characteristic of a good education. I addressed a few
gallant words to them, and they answered me with down-cast eyes. One
of them having complained of the headache, I offered her my smelling-
bottle, and one of her companions said to her,
"Very likely you did not sleep well last night."
"Oh! it is not that," answered the modest-looking Agnes, "I think I
am in the family-way."
On receiving this unexpected reply from a girl I had taken for a
maiden, I said to her,
"I should never have supposed that you were married, madam."
She looked at me with evident surprise for a moment, then she turned
towards her friend, and both began to laugh immoderately. Ashamed,
but for them more than myself, I left the house with a firm
resolution never again to take virtue for granted in a class of women
amongst whom it is so scarce. To look for, even to suppose, modesty,
amongst the nymphs of the green room, is, indeed, to be very foolish;
they pride themselves upon having none, and laugh at those who are
simple enough to suppose them better than they are.
Thanks to my friend Patu, I made the acquaintance of all the women
who enjoyed some reputation in Paris. He was fond of the fair sex,
but unfortunately for him he had not a constitution like mine, and
his love of pleasure killed him very early. If he had lived, he
would have gone down to posterity in the wake of Voltaire, but he
paid the debt of nature at the age of thirty.
I learned from him the secret which several young French literati
employ in order to make certain of the perfection of their prose,
when they want to write anything requiring as perfect a style as they
can obtain, such as panegyrics, funeral orations, eulogies,
dedications, etc. It was by surprise that I wrested that secret from
Patu.
Being at his house one morning, I observed on his table several
sheets of paper covered with dode-casyllabic blank verse.
I read a dozen of them, and I told him that, although the verses were
very fine, the reading caused me more pain than pleasure.
"They express the same ideas as the panegyric of the Marechal de
Saxe, but I confess that your prose pleases me a great deal more."
"My prose would not have pleased you so much, if it had not been at
first composed in blank verse."
"Then you take very great trouble for nothing."
"No trouble at all, for I have not the slightest difficulty in
writing that sort of poetry. I write it as easily as prose."
"Do you think that your prose is better when you compose it from your
own poetry?"
"No doubt of it, it is much better, and I also secure the advantage
that my prose is not full of half verses which flow from the pen of
the writer without his being aware of it."
"Is that a fault?"
"A great one and not to be forgiven. Prose intermixed with
occasional verses is worse than prosaic poetry."
"Is it true that the verses which, like parasites, steal into a
funeral oration, must be sadly out of place?"
"Certainly. Take the example of Tacitus, who begins his history of
Rome by these words: 'Urbem Roman a principio reges habuere'. They
form a very poor Latin hexameter, which the great historian certainly
never made on purpose, and which he never remarked when he revised
his work, for there is no doubt that, if he had observed it, he would
have altered that sentence. Are not such verses considered a blemish
in Italian prose?"
"Decidedly. But I must say that a great many poor writers have
purposely inserted such verses into their prose, believing that they
would make it more euphonious. Hence the tawdriness which is justly
alleged against much Italian literature. But I suppose you are the
only writer who takes so much pains."
"The only one? Certainly not. All the authors who can compose blank
verses very easily, as I can, employ them when they intend to make a
fair copy of their prose. Ask Crebillon, the Abby de Voisenon,
LaHarpe, anyone you like, and they will all tell you the same thing.
Voltaire was the first to have recourse to that art in the small
pieces in which his prose is truly charming. For instance, the
epistle to Madame du Chatelet, which is magnificent. Read it, and if
you find a single hemistich in it I will confess myself in the
wrong."
I felt some curiosity about the matter, and I asked Crebillon about
it. He told me that Fatu was right, but he added that he had never
practised that art himself.
Patu wished very much to take me to the opera in order to witness the
effect produced upon me by the performance, which must truly astonish
an Italian. 'Les Fetes Venitiennes' was the title of the opera which
was in vogue just then--a title full of interest for me. We went for
our forty sous to the pit, in which, although the audience was
standing, the company was excellent, for the opera was the favourite
amusement of the Parisians.
After a symphony, very fine in its way and executed by an excellent
orchestra, the curtain rises, and I see a beautiful scene
representing the small St. Mark's Square in Venice, taken from the
Island of St. George, but I am shocked to see the ducal palace on my
left, and the tall steeple on my right, that is to say the very
reverse of reality. I laugh at this ridiculous mistake, and Patu, to
whom I say why I am laughing, cannot help joining me. The music,
very fine although in the ancient style, at first amused me on
account of its novelty, but it soon wearied me. The melopaeia
fatigued me by its constant and tedious monotony, and by the shrieks
given out of season. That melopaeia, of the French replaces--at
least they think so--the Greek melapaeia and our recitative which
they dislike, but which they would admire if they understood Italian.
The action of the opera was limited to a day in the carnival, when
the Venetians are in the habit of promenading masked in St. Mark's
Square. The stage was animated by gallants, procuresses, and women
amusing themselves with all sorts of intrigues. The costumes were
whimsical and erroneous, but the whole was amusing. I laughed very
heartily, and it was truly a curious sight for a Venetian, when I saw
the Doge followed by twelve Councillors appear on the stage, all
dressed in the most ludicrous style, and dancing a 'pas d'ensemble'.
Suddenly the whole of the pit burst into loud applause at the
appearance of a tall, well-made dancer, wearing a mask and an
enormous black wig, the hair of which went half-way down his back,
and dressed in a robe open in front and reaching to his heels. Patu
said, almost reverently, "It is the inimitable Dupres." I had heard
of him before, and became attentive. I saw that fine figure coming
forward with measured steps, and when the dancer had arrived in front
of the stage, he raised slowly his rounded arms, stretched them
gracefully backward and forward, moved his feet with precision and
lightness, took a few small steps, made some battements and
pirouettes, and disappeared like a butterfly. The whole had not
lasted half a minute. The applause burst from every part of the
house. I was astonished, and asked my friend the cause of all those
bravos.
"We applaud the grace of Dupres and, the divine harmony of his
movements. He is now sixty years of age, and those who saw him forty
years ago say that he is always the same."
"What! Has he never danced in a different style?"
"He could not have danced in a better one, for his style is perfect,
and what can you want above perfection?"
"Nothing, unless it be a relative perfection."
"But here it is absolute. Dupres always does the same thing, and
everyday we fancy we see it for the first time. Such is the power of
the good and beautiful, of the true and sublime, which speak to the
soul. His dance is true harmony, the real dance, of which you have
no idea in Italy."
At the end of the second act, Dupres appeared again, still with a
mask, and danced to a different tune, but in my opinion doing exactly
the same as before. He advanced to the very footlights, and stopped
one instant in a graceful attitude. Patu wanted to force my
admiration, and I gave way. Suddenly everyone round me exclaimed,--
"Look! look! he is developing himself!"
And in reality he was like an elastic body which, in developing
itself, would get larger. I made Patu very happy by telling him that
Dupres was truly very graceful in all his movements. Immediately
after him we had a female dancer, who jumped about like a fury,
cutting to right and left, but heavily, yet she was applauded 'con
furore'.
"This is," said Patu, "the famous Camargo. I congratulate you, my
friend, upon having arrived in Paris in time to see her, for she has
accomplished her twelfth lustre."
I confessed that she was a wonderful dancer.
"She is the first artist," continued my friend, "who has dared to
spring and jump on a French stage. None ventured upon doing it
before her, and, what is more extraordinary, she does not wear any
drawers."
"I beg your pardon, but I saw...."
"What? Nothing but her skin which, to speak the truth, is not made
of lilies and roses."
"The Camargo," I said, with an air of repentance, "does not please
me. I like Dupres much better."
An elderly admirer of Camargo, seated on my left, told me that in her
youth she could perform the 'saut de basque' and even the
'gargouillade', and that nobody had ever seen her thighs, although
she always danced without drawers.
"But if you never saw her thighs, how do you know that she does not
wear silk tights?"
"Oh! that is one of those things which can easily be ascertained. I
see you are a foreigner, sir."
"You are right."
But I was delighted at the French opera, with the rapidity of the
scenic changes which are done like lightning, at the signal of a
whistle--a thing entirely unknown in Italy. I likewise admired the
start given to the orchestra by the baton of the leader, but he
disgusted me with the movements of his sceptre right and left, as if
he thought that he could give life to all the instruments by the mere
motion of his arm. I admired also the silence of the audience, a
thing truly wonderful to an Italian, for it is with great reason that
people complain of the noise made in Italy while the artists are
singing, and ridicule the silence which prevails through the house as
soon as the dancers make their appearance on the stage. One would
imagine that all the intelligence of the Italians is in their eyes.
At the same time I must observe that there is not one country in the
world in which extravagance and whimsicalness cannot be found,
because the foreigner can make comparisons with what he has seen
elsewhere, whilst the natives are not conscious of their errors.
Altogether the opera pleased me, but the French comedy captivated me.
There the French are truly in their element; they perform splendidly,
in a masterly manner, and other nations cannot refuse them the palm
which good taste and justice must award to their superiority. I was
in the habit of going there every day, and although sometimes the
audience was not composed of two hundred persons, the actors were
perfect. I have seen 'Le Misanthrope', 'L'Avare', 'Tartufe', 'Le
Joueur', 'Le Glorieux', and many other comedies; and, no matter how
often I saw them. I always fancied it was the first time. I arrived
in Paris to admire Sarrazin, La Dangeville, La Dumesnil, La Gaussin,
La Clairon, Preville, and several actresses who, having retired from
the stage, were living upon their pension, and delighting their
circle of friends. I made, amongst others, the acquaintance of the
celebrated Le Vasseur. I visited them all with pleasure, and they
related to me several very curious anecdotes. They were generally
most kindly disposed in every way.
One evening, being in the box of Le Vasseur, the performance was
composed of a tragedy in which a very handsome actress had the part
of a dumb priestess.
"How pretty she is!" I said.
"Yes, charming," answered Le Vasseur, "She is the daughter of the
actor who plays the confidant. She is very pleasant in company, and
is an actress of good promise."
"I should be very happy to make her acquaintance."
"Oh! well; that is not difficult. Her father and mother are very
worthy people, and they will be delighted if you ask them to invite
you to supper. They will not disturb you; they will go to bed early,
and will let you talk with their daughter as long as you please. You
are in France, sir; here we know the value of life, and try to make
the best of it. We love pleasure, and esteem ourselves fortunate
when we can find the opportunity of enjoying life."
"That is truly charming, madam; but how could I be so bold as to
invite myself to supper with worthy persons whom I do not know, and
who have not the slightest knowledge of me?"
"Oh, dear me! What are you saying? We know everybody. You see how
I treat you myself. After the performance, I shall be happy to
introduce you, and the acquaintance will be made at once."
"I certainly must ask you to do me that honour, but another time."
"Whenever you like."
CHAPTER VII
My Blunders in the French Language, My Success, My Numerous
Acquaintances--Louis XV.--My Brother Arrives in Paris.
All the Italian actors in Paris insisted upon entertaining me, in
order to shew me their magnificence, and they all did it in a
sumptuous style. Carlin Bertinazzi who played Harlequin, and was a
great favourite of the Parisians, reminded me that he had already
seen me thirteen years before in Padua, at the time of his return
from St. Petersburg with my mother. He offered me an excellent
dinner at the house of Madame de la Caillerie, where he lodged. That
lady was in love with him. I complimented her upon four charming
children whom I saw in the house. Her husband, who was present, said
to me;
"They are M. Carlin's children."
"That may be, sir, but you take care of them, and as they go by your
name, of course they will acknowledge you as their father."
"Yes, I should be so legally; but M. Carlin is too honest a man not
to assume the care of his children whenever I may wish to get rid of
them. He is well aware that they belong to him, and my wife would be
the first to complain if he ever denied it."
The man was not what is called a good, easy fellow, far from it; but
he took the matter in a philosophical way, and spoke of it with calm,
and even with a sort of dignity. He was attached to Carlin by a warm
friendship, and such things were then very common in Paris amongst
people of a certain class. Two noblemen, Boufflers and Luxembourg,
had made a friendly exchange of each other's wives, and each had
children by the other's wife. The young Boufflers were called
Luxembourg, and the young Luxembourg were called Boufflers. The
descendants of those tiercelets are even now known in France under
those names. Well, those who were in the secret of that domestic
comedy laughed, as a matter of course, and it did not prevent the
earth from moving according to the laws of gravitation.
The most wealthy of the Italian comedians in Paris was Pantaloon, the
father of Coraline and Camille, and a well-known usurer. He also
invited me to dine with his family, and I was delighted with his two
daughters. The eldest, Coraline, was kept by the Prince of Monaco,
son of the Duke of Valentinois, who was still alive; and Camille was
enamoured of the Count of Melfort, the favourite of the Duchess of
Chartres, who had just become Duchess of Orleans by the death of her
father-in-law.
Coraline was not so sprightly as Camille, but she was prettier. I
began to make love to her as a young man of no consequence, and at
hours which I thought would not attract attention: but all hours
belong by right to the established lover, and I therefore found
myself sometimes with her when the Prince of Monaco called to see
her. At first I would bow to the prince and withdraw, but afterwards
I was asked to remain, for as a general thing princes find a tete-a-
tete with their mistresses rather wearisome. Therefore we used to
sup together, and they both listened, while it was my province to
eat, and to relate stories.
I bethought myself of paying my court to the prince, and he received
my advances very well. One morning, as I called on Coraline, he said
to me,
"Ah! I am very glad to see you, for I have promised the Duchess of
Rufe to present you to her, and we can go to her immediately."
Again a duchess! My star is decidedly in the ascendant. Well, let
us go! We got into a 'diable', a sort of vehicle then very
fashionable, and at eleven o'clock in the morning we were introduced
to the duchess.
Dear reader, if I were to paint it with a faithful pen, my portrait
of that lustful vixen would frighten you. Imagine sixty winters
heaped upon a face plastered with rouge, a blotched and pimpled
complexion, emaciated and gaunt features, all the ugliness of
libertinism stamped upon the countenance of that creature relining
upon the sofa. As soon as she sees me, she exclaims with rapid joy,
"Ah! this is a good-looking man! Prince, it is very amiable on your
part to bring him to me. Come and sit near me, my fine fellow!"
I obeyed respectfully, but a noxious smell of musk, which seemed to
me almost corpse-like, nearly upset me. The infamous duchess had
raised herself on the sofa and exposed all the nakedness of the most
disgusting bosom, which would have caused the most courageous man to
draw back. The prince, pretending to have some engagement, left us,
saying that he would send his carriage for me in a short time.
As soon as we were alone, the plastered skeleton thrust its arms
forward, and, without giving me time to know what I was about, the
creature gave me a horrible kiss, and then one of her hands began to
stray with the most bare-faced indecency.
"Let me see, my fine cock," she said, "if you have a fine . . ."
I was shuddering, and resisted the attempt.
"Well, well! What a baby you are!" said the disgusting Messaline;
"are you such a novice?"
"No, madam; but...."
"But what?"
"I have...."
"Oh, the villain!" she exclaimed, loosing her hold; "what was I going
to expose myself to!"
I availed myself of the opportunity, snatched my hat, and took to my
heels, afraid lest the door-keeper should stop me.
I took a coach and drove to Coraline's, where I related the
adventure. She laughed heartily, and agreed with me that the prince
had played me a nasty trick. She praised the presence of mind with
which I had invented an impediment, but she did not give me an
opportunity of proving to her that I had deceived the duchess.
Yet I was not without hope, and suspected that she did not think me
sufficiently enamoured of her.
Three or four days afterwards, however, as we had supper together and
alone, I told her so many things, and I asked her so clearly to make
me happy or else to dismiss me, that she gave me an appointment for
the next day.
"To-morrow," she said, "the prince goes to Versailles, and he will
not return until the day after; we will go together to the warren to
hunt ferrets, and have no doubt we shall come back to Paris pleased
with one another."
"That is right."
The next day at ten o'clock we took a coach, but as we were nearing
the gate of the city a vis-a-vis, with servants in a foreign livery
came tip to us, and the person who was in it called out, "Stop!
Stop!"
The person was the Chevalier de Wurtemburg, who, without deigning to
cast even one glance on me, began to say sweet words to Coraline, and
thrusting his head entirely out of his carriage he whispered to her.
She answered him likewise in a whisper; then taking my hand, she said
to me, laughingly,
"I have some important business with this prince; go to the warren
alone, my dear friend, enjoy the hunt, and come to me to-morrow."
And saying those words she got out, took her seat in the vis-a-vis,
and I found myself very much in the position of Lot's wife, but not
motionless.
Dear reader, if you have ever been in such a predicament you will
easily realize the rage with which I was possessed: if you have never
been served in that way, so much the better for you, but it is
useless for me to try to give you an idea of my anger; you would not
understand me.
I was disgusted with the coach, and I jumped out of it, telling the
driver to go to the devil. I took the first hack which happened to
pass, and drove straight to Patu's house, to whom I related my
adventure, almost foaming with rage. But very far from pitying me or
sharing my anger, Patu, much wiser, laughed and said,
"I wish with all my heart that the same thing might happen to me; for
you are certain of possessing our beautiful Coraline the very first
time you are with her."
"I would not have her, for now I despise her heartily." "Your
contempt ought to have come sooner. But, now that is too late to
discuss the matter, I offer you, as a compensation, a dinner at the
Hotel du Roule."
"Most decidedly yes; it is an excellent idea. Let us go."
The Hotel du Roule was famous in Paris, and I had not been there yet.
The woman who kept it had furnished the place with great elegance,
and she always had twelve or fourteen well-chosen nymphs, with all
the conveniences that could be desired. Good cooking, good beds,
cleanliness, solitary and beautiful groves. Her cook was an artist,
and her wine-cellar excellent. Her name was Madame Paris; probably
an assumed name, but it was good enough for the purpose. Protected
by the police, she was far enough from Paris to be certain that those
who visited her liberally appointed establishment were above the
middle class. Everything was strictly regulated in her house and
every pleasure was taxed at a reasonable tariff. The prices were six
francs for a breakfast with a nymph, twelve for dinner, and twice
that sum to spend a whole night. I found the house even better than
its reputation, and by far superior to the warren.
We took a coach, and Patu said to the driver,
"To Chaillot."
"I understand, your honour."
After a drive of half an hour, we stopped before a gate on which
could be read, "Hotel du Roule."
The gate was closed. A porter, sporting long mustachioes, came out
through a side-door and gravely examined us. He was most likely
pleased with our appearance, for the gate was opened and we went in.
A woman, blind of one eye, about forty years old, but with a remnant
of beauty, came up, saluted us politely, and enquired whether we
wished to have dinner. Our answer being affirmative, she took us to
a fine room in which we found fourteen young women, all very
handsome, and dressed alike in muslin. As we entered the room, they
rose and made us a graceful reverence; they were all about the same
age, some with light hair, some with dark; every taste could be
satisfied. We passed them in review, addressing a few words to each,
and made our choice. The two we chose screamed for joy, kissed us
with a voluptuousness which a novice might have mistaken for love,
and took us to the garden until dinner would be ready. That garden
was very large and artistically arranged to minister to the pleasures
of love. Madame Paris said to us,
"Go, gentlemen, enjoy the fresh air with perfect security in every
way; my house is the temple of peace and of good health."
The girl I had chosen was something like Coraline, and that made me
find her delightful. But in the midst of our amorous occupations we
were called to dinner. We were well served, and the dinner had given
us new strength, when our single-eyed hostess came, watch in hand, to
announce that time was up. Pleasure at the "Hotel du Roule" was
measured by the hour.
I whispered to Patu, and, after a few philosophical considerations,
addressing himself to madame la gouvernante, he said to her,
"We will have a double dose, and of course pay double."
"You are quite welcome, gentlemen."
We went upstairs, and after we had made our choice a second time, we
renewed our promenade in the garden. But once more we were
disagreeably surprised by the strict punctuality of the lady of the
house. "Indeed! this is too much of a good thing, madam."
"Let us go up for the third time, make a third choice, and pass the
whole night here."
"A delightful idea which I accept with all my heart."
"Does Madame Paris approve our plan?"
"I could not have devised a better one, gentlemen; it is a
masterpiece."
When we were in the room, and after we had made a new choice, the
girls laughed at the first ones who had not contrived to captivate
us, and by way of revenge these girls told their companions that we
were lanky fellows.
This time I was indeed astonished at my own choice. I had taken a
true Aspasia, and I thanked my stars that I had passed her by the
first two times, as I had now the certainty of possessing her for
fourteen hours. That beauty's name was Saint Hilaire; and under that
name she became famous in England, where she followed a rich lord the
year after. At first, vexed because I had not remarked her before,
she was proud and disdainful; but I soon proved to her that it was
fortunate that my first or second choice had not fallen on her, as
she would now remain longer with me. She then began to laugh, and
shewed herself very agreeable.
That girl had wit, education and talent-everything, in fact, that is
needful to succeed in the profession she had adopted. During the
supper Patu told me in Italian that he was on the point of taking her
at the very moment I chose her, and the next morning he informed me
that he had slept quietly all night. The Saint Hilaire was highly
pleased with me, and she boasted of it before her companions. She
was the cause of my paying several visits to the Hotel du Roule, and
all for her; she was very proud of my constancy.
Those visits very naturally cooled my ardour for Coraline. A singer
from Venice, called Guadani, handsome, a thorough musician, and very
witty, contrived to captivate her affections three weeks after my
quarrel with her. The handsome fellow, who was a man only in
appearance, inflamed her with curiosity if not with love, and caused
a rupture with the prince, who caught her in the very act. But
Coraline managed to coax him back, and, a short time after, a
reconciliation took place between them, and such a good one, that a
babe was the consequence of it; a girl, whom the prince named
Adelaide, and to whom he gave a dowry. After the death of his
father, the Duke of Valentinois, the prince left her altogether and
married Mlle. de Brignole, from Genoa. Coraline became the mistress
of Count de la Marche, now Prince de Conti. Coraline is now dead, as
well as a son whom she had by the count, and whom his father named
Count de Monreal.
Madame la Dauphine was delivered of a princess, who received the
title of Madame de France.
In the month of August the Royal Academy had an exhibition at the
Louvre, and as there was not a single battle piece I conceived the
idea of summoning my brother to Paris. He was then in Venice, and he
had great talent in that particular style. Passorelli, the only
painter of battles known in France, was dead, and I thought that
Francois might succeed and make a fortune. I therefore wrote to M.
Grimani and to my brother; I persuaded them both, but Francois did
not come to Paris till the beginning of the following year.
Louis XV., who was passionately fond of hunting, was in the habit of
spending six weeks every year at the Chateau of Fontainebleau. He
always returned to Versailles towards the middle of November. That
trip cost him, or rather cost France, five millions of francs. He
always took with him all that could contribute to the amusement of
the foreign ambassadors and of his numerous court. He was followed
by the French and the Italian comedians, and by the actors and
actresses of the opera.
During those six weeks Fontainebleau was more brilliant than
Versailles; nevertheless, the artists attached to the theatres were
so numerous that the Opera, the French and Italian Comedies, remained
open in Paris.
Baletti's father, who had recovered his health, was to go to
Fontainebleau with Silvia and all his family. They invited me to
accompany them, and to accept a lodging in a house hired by them.
It was a splendid opportunity; they were my friends, and I accepted,
for I could not have met with a better occasion to see the court and
all the foreign ministers. I presented myself to M. de Morosini, now
Procurator at St. Mark's, and then ambassador from the Republic to
the French court.
The first night of the opera he gave me permission to accompany him;
the music was by Lulli. I had a seat in the pit precisely under the
private box of Madame de Pompadour, whom I did not know. During the
first scene the celebrated Le Maur gave a scream so shrill and so
unexpected that I thought she had gone mad. I burst into a genuine
laugh, not supposing that any one could possibly find fault with it.
But a knight of the Order of the Holy Ghost, who was near the
Marquise de Pompadour, dryly asked me what country I came from. I
answered, in the same tone,
"From Venice."
"I have been there, and have laughed heartily at the recitative in
your operas."
"I believe you, sir, and I feel certain that no one ever thought of
objecting to your laughing."
My answer, rather a sharp one, made Madame de Pompadour laugh, and
she asked me whether I truly came from down there.
"What do you mean by down there?"
"I mean Venice."
"Venice, madam, is not down there, but up there."
That answer was found more singular than the first, and everybody in
the box held a consultation in order to ascertain whether Venice was
down or up. Most likely they thought I was right, for I was left
alone. Nevertheless, I listened to the opera without laughing; but
as I had a very bad cold I blew my nose often. The same gentleman
addressing himself again to me, remarked that very likely the windows
of my room did not close well. That gentleman, who was unknown to me
was the Marechal de Richelieu. I told him he was mistaken, for my
windows were well 'calfoutrees'. Everyone in the box burst into a
loud laugh, and I felt mortified, for I knew my mistake; I ought to
have said 'calfeutrees'. But these 'eus' and 'ous' cause dire misery
to all foreigners.
Half an hour afterwards M. de Richelieu asked me which of the two
actresses pleased me most by her beauty.
"That one, sir."
"But she has ugly legs."
"They are not seen, sir; besides, whenever I examine the beauty of a
woman, 'la premiere chose que j'ecarte, ce sont les jambes'."
That word said quite by chance, and the double meaning of which I did
not understand, made at once an important personage of me, and
everybody in the box of Madame de Pompadour was curious to know me.
The marshal learned who I was from M. de Morosini, who told me that
the duke would be happy to receive me. My 'jeu de mots' became
celebrated, and the marshal honoured me with a very gracious welcome.
Among the foreign ministers, the one to whom I attached myself most
was Lord Keith, Marshal of Scotland and ambassador of the King of
Prussia. I shall have occasion to speak of him.
The day after my arrival in Fontainebleau I went alone to the court,
and I saw Louis XV., the handsome king, go to the chapel with the
royal family and all the ladies of the court, who surprised me by
their ugliness as much as the ladies of the court of Turin had
astonished me by their beauty. Yet in the midst of so many ugly ones
I found out a regular beauty. I enquired who she was.
"She is," answered one of my neighbours, "Madame de Brionne, more
remarkable by her virtue even than by her beauty. Not only is there
no scandalous story told about her, but she has never given any
opportunity to scandal-mongers of inventing any adventure of which
she was the heroine."
"Perhaps her adventures are not known."
"Ah, monsieur! at the court everything is known."
I went about alone, sauntering through the apartments, when suddenly
I met a dozen ugly ladies who seemed to be running rather than
walking; they were standing so badly upon their legs that they
appeared as if they would fall forward on their faces. Some
gentleman happened to be near me, curiosity impelled me to enquire
where they were coming from, and where they were going in such haste.
"They are coming from the apartment of the queen who is going to
dine, and the reason why they walk so badly is that their shoes have
heels six inches high, which compel them to walk on their toes and
with bent knees in order to avoid falling on their faces."
"But why do they not wear lower heels?"
"It is the fashion."
"What a stupid fashion!"
I took a gallery at random, and saw the king passing along, leaning
with one arm on the shoulder of M. d'Argenson. "Oh, base servility!"
I thought to myself. "How can a man make up his mind thus to bear
the yoke, and how can a man believe himself so much above all others
as to take such unwarrantable liberties!"
Louis XV. had the most magnificent head it was possible to see, and
he carried it with as much grace as majesty. Never did even the most
skilful painter succeed in rendering justice to the expression of
that beautiful head, when the king turned it on one side to look with
kindness at anyone. His beauty and grace compelled love at once. As
I saw him, I thought I had found the ideal majesty which I had been
so surprised not to find in the king of Sardinia, and I could not
entertain a doubt of Madame de Pompadour having been in love with the
king when she sued for his royal attention. I was greatly mistaken,
perhaps, but such a thought was natural in looking at the countenance
of Louis XV.
I reached a splendid room in which I saw several courtiers walking
about, and a table large enough for twelve persons, but laid out only
for one.
"For whom is this table?"
"For the queen. Her majesty is now coming in."
It was the queen of France, without rouge, and very simply dressed;
her head was covered with a large cap; she looked old and devout.
When she was near the table, she graciously thanked two nuns who were
placing a plate with fresh butter on it. She sat down, and
immediately the courtiers formed a semicircle within five yards of
the table; I remained near them, imitating their respectful silence.
Her majesty began to eat without looking at anyone, keeping her eyes
on her plate. One of the dishes being to her taste, she desired to
be helped to it a second time, and she then cast her eyes round the
circle of courtiers, probably in order to see if among them there was
anyone to whom she owed an account of her daintiness. She found that
person, I suppose, for she said,
"Monsieur de Lowendal!"
At that name, a fine-looking man came forward with respectful
inclination, and said,
"Your majesty?"
"I believe this is a fricassee of chickens."
"I am of the same opinion, madam."
After this answer, given in the most serious tone, the queen
continued eating, and the marshal retreated backward to his original
place. The queen finished her dinner without uttering a single word,
and retired to her apartments the same way as she had come. I
thought that if such was the way the queen of France took all her
meals, I would not sue for the honour of being her guest.
I was delighted to have seen the famous captain who had conquered
Bergen-op-Zoom, but I regretted that such a man should be compelled
to give an answer about a fricassee of chickens in the serious tone
of a judge pronouncing a sentence of death.
I made good use of this anecdote at the excellent dinner Silvia gave
to the elite of polite and agreeable society.
A few days afterwards, as I was forming a line with a crowd of
courtiers to enjoy the ever new pleasure of seeing the king go to
mass, a pleasure to which must be added the advantage of looking at
the naked and entirely exposed arms and bosoms of Mesdames de France,
his daughters, I suddenly perceived the Cavamacchia, whom I had left
in Cesena under the name of Madame Querini. If I was astonished to
see her, she was as much so in meeting me in such a place. The
Marquis of Saint Simon, premier 'gentilhomme' of the Prince de Conde,
escorted her.
"Madame Querini in Fontainebleau?"
"You here? It reminds me of Queen Elizabeth saying,
"'Pauper ubique facet.'"
"An excellent comparison, madam."
"I am only joking, my dear friend; I am here to see the king, who
does not know me; but to-morrow the ambassador will present me to his
majesty."
She placed herself in the line within a yard or two from me, beside
the door by which the king was to come. His majesty entered the
gallery with M. de Richelieu, and looked at the so-called Madame
Querini. But she very likely did not take his fancy, for, continuing
to walk on, he addressed to the marshal these remarkable words, which
Juliette must have overheard,
"We have handsomer women here."
In the afternoon I called upon the Venetian ambassador. I found him
in numerous company, with Madame Querini sitting on his right. She
addressed me in the most flattering and friendly manner; it was
extraordinary conduct on the part of a giddy woman who had no cause
to like me, for she was aware that I knew her thoroughly, and that I
had mastered her vanity; but as I understood her manoeuvring I made
up my mind not to disoblige her, and even to render her all the good
offices I could; it was a noble revenge.
As she was speaking of M. Querini, the ambassador congratulated her
upon her marriage with him, saying that he was glad M. Querini had
rendered justice to her merit, and adding,
"I was not aware of your marriage."
"Yet it took place more than two years since," said Juliette.
"I know it for a fact," I said, in my turn; "for, two years ago, the
lady was introduced as Madame Querini and with the title of
excellency by General Spada to all the nobility in Cesena, where I
was at that time."
"I have no doubt of it," answered the ambassador, fixing his eyes
upon me, "for Querini has himself written to me on the subject."
A few minutes afterwards, as I was preparing to take my leave, the
ambassador, under pretense of some letters the contents of which he
wished to communicate to me, invited me to come into his private
room, and he asked me what people generally thought of the marriage
in Venice.
"Nobody knows it, and it is even rumoured that the heir of the house
of Querini is on the point of marrying a daughter of the Grimani
family; but I shall certainly send the news to Venice."
"What news?"
"That Juliette is truly Madame Querini, since your excellency will
present her as such to Louis XV."
"Who told you so?"
"She did."
"Perhaps she has altered her mind."
I repeated to the ambassador the words which the king had said to
M. de Richelieu after looking at Juliette.
"Then I can guess," remarked the ambassador, "why Juliette does not
wish to be presented to the king."
I was informed some time afterwards that M. de Saint Quentin, the
king's confidential minister, had called after mass on the handsome
Venetian, and had told her that the king of France had most certainly
very bad taste, because he had not thought her beauty superior to
that of several ladies of his court. Juliette left Fontainebleau the
next morning.
In the first part of my Memoirs I have spoken of Juliette's beauty;
she had a wonderful charm in her countenance, but she had already
used her advantages too long, and her beauty was beginning to fade
when she arrived in Fontainebleau.
I met her again in Paris at the ambassador's, and she told me with a
laugh that she had only been in jest when she called herself Madame
Querini, and that I should oblige her if for the future I would call
her by her real name of Countess Preati. She invited me to visit her
at the Hotel de Luxembourg, where she was staying. I often called on
her, for her intrigues amused me, but I was wise enough not to meddle
with them.
She remained in Paris four months, and contrived to infatuate M.
Ranchi, secretary of the Venetian Embassy, an amiable and learned
man. He was so deeply in love that he had made up his mind to marry
her; but through a caprice which she, perhaps, regretted afterwards,
she ill-treated him, and the fool died of grief. Count de Canes.
ambassador of Maria Theresa, had some inclination for her, as well as
the Count of Zinzendorf. The person who arranged these transient and
short-lived intrigues was a certain Guasco, an abbe not over-favoured
with the gifts of Plutus. He was particularly ugly, and had to
purchase small favours with great services.
But the man whom she really wished to marry was Count Saint Simon.
He would have married her if she had not given him false addresses to
make enquiries respecting her birth. The Preati family of Verona
denied all knowledge of her, as a matter of course, and M. de Saint
Simon, who, in spite of all his love, had not entirely lost his
senses, had the courage to abandon her. Altogether, Paris did not
prove an 'el dorado' for my handsome countrywoman, for she was
obliged to pledge her diamonds, and to leave them behind her. After
her return to Venice she married the son of the Uccelli, who sixteen
years before had taken her out of her poverty. She died ten years
ago.
I was still taking my French lessons with my good old Crebillon; yet
my style, which was full of Italianisms, often expressed the very
reverse of what I meant to say. But generally my 'quid pro quos'
only resulted in curious jokes which made my fortune; and the best of
it is that my gibberish did me no harm on the score of wit: on the
contrary, it procured me fine acquaintances.
Several ladies of the best society begged me to teach them Italian,
saying that it would afford them the opportunity of teaching me
French; in such an exchange I always won more than they did.
Madame Preodot, who was one of my pupils, received me one morning;
she was still in bed, and told me that she did not feel disposed to
have a lesson, because she had taken medicine the night previous.
Foolishly translating an Italian idiom, I asked her, with an air of
deep interest, whether she had well 'decharge'?
"Sir, what a question! You are unbearable."
I repeated my question; she broke out angrily again.
"Never utter that dreadful word."
"You are wrong in getting angry; it is the proper word."
"A very dirty word, sir, but enough about it. Will you have some
breakfast?"
"No, I thank you. I have taken a 'caf‚' and two 'Savoyards'."
"Dear me! What a ferocious breakfast! Pray, explain yourself."
"I say that I have drunk a caf‚ and eaten two Savoyards soaked in it,
and that is what I do every morning."
"You are stupid, my good friend. A caf‚ is the establishment in
which coffee is sold, and you ought to say that you have drunk 'use
tasse de caf‚'"
"Good indeed! Do you drink the cup? In Italy we say a 'caffs', and
we are not foolish enough to suppose that it means the coffee-house."
"He will have the best of it! And the two 'Savoyards', how did you
swallow them?"
"Soaked in my coffee, for they were not larger than these on your
table."
"And you call these 'Savoyards'? Say biscuits."
"In Italy, we call them 'Savoyards' because they were first invented
in Savoy; and it is not my fault if you imagined that I had swallowed
two of the porters to be found at the corner of the streets--big
fellows whom you call in Paris Savoyards, although very often they
have never been in Savoy."
Her husband came in at that moment, and she lost no time in relating
the whole of our conversation. He laughed heartily, but he said I
was right. Her niece arrived a few minutes after; she was a young
girl about fourteen years of age, reserved, modest, and very
intelligent. I had given her five or six lessons in Italian, and as
she was very fond of that language and studied diligently she was
beginning to speak.
Wishing to pay me her compliments in Italian, she said to me,
"'Signore, sono in cantata di vi Vader in bona salute'."
"I thank you, mademoiselle; but to translate 'I am enchanted', you
must say 'ho pacer', and for to see you, you must say 'di vedervi'."
"I thought, sir, that the 'vi' was to be placed before."
"No, mademoiselle, we always put it behind."
Monsieur and Madame Preodot were dying with laughter; the young lady
was confused, and I in despair at having uttered such a gross
absurdity; but it could not be helped. I took a book sulkily, in the
hope of putting a stop to their mirth, but it was of no use: it
lasted a week. That uncouth blunder soon got known throughout Paris,
and gave me a sort of reputation which I lost little by little, but
only when I understood the double meanings of words better.
Crebillon was much amused with my blunder, and he told me that I
ought to have said after instead of behind. Ah! why have not all
languages the same genius! But if the French laughed at my mistakes
in speaking their language, I took my revenge amply by turning some
of their idioms into ridicule.
"Sir," I once said to a gentleman, "how is your wife?"
"You do her great honour, sir."
"Pray tell me, sir, what her honour has to do with her health?"
I meet in the Bois de Boulogne a young man riding a horse which he
cannot master, and at last he is thrown. I stop the horse, run to the
assistance of the young man and help him up.
"Did you hurt yourself, sir?"
"Oh, many thanks, sir, au contraire."
"Why au contraire! The deuce! It has done you good? Then begin
again, sir."
And a thousand similar expressions entirely the reverse of good
sense. But it is the genius of the language.
I was one day paying my first visit to the wife of President de
N----, when her nephew, a brilliant butterfly, came in, and she
introduced me to him, mentioning my name and my country.
"Indeed, sir, you are Italian?" said the young man. "Upon my word,
you present yourself so gracefully that I would have betted you were
French."
"Sir, when I saw you, I was near making the same mistake; I would
have betted you were Italian."
Another time, I was dining at Lady Lambert's in numerous and
brilliant company. Someone remarked on my finger a cornelian ring on
which was engraved very beautifully the head of Louis XV. My ring
went round the table, and everybody thought that the likeness was
striking.
A young marquise, who had the reputation of being a great wit, said
to me in the most serious tone,
"It is truly an antique?"
"The stone, madam, undoubtedly."
Everyone laughed except the thoughtless young beauty, who did not
take any notice of it. Towards the end of the dinner, someone spoke
of the rhinoceros, which was then shewn for twenty-four sous at the
St. Germain's Fair.
"Let us go and see it!" was the cry.
We got into the carriages, and reached the fair. We took several
turns before we could find the place. I was the only gentleman; I
was taking care of two ladies in the midst of the crowd, and the
witty marquise was walking in front of us. At the end of the alley
where we had been told that we would find the animal, there was a man
placed to receive the money of the visitors. It is true that the
man, dressed in the African fashion, was very dark and enormously
stout, yet he had a human and very masculine form, and the beautiful
marquise had no business to make a mistake. Nevertheless, the
thoughtless young creature went up straight to him and said,
"Are you the rhinoceros, sir?"
"Go in, madam, go in."
We were dying with laughing; and the marquise, when she had seen the
animal, thought herself bound to apologize to the master; assuring
him that she had never seen a rhinoceros in her life, and therefore
he could not feel offended if she had made a mistake.
One evening I was in the foyer of the Italian Comedy, where between
the acts the highest noblemen were in the habit of coming, in order
to converse and joke with the actresses who used to sit there waiting
for their turn to appear on the stage, and I was seated near Camille,
Coraline's sister, whom I amused by making love to her. A young
councillor, who objected to my occupying Camille's attention, being a
very conceited fellow, attacked me upon some remark I made respecting
an Italian play, and took the liberty of shewing his bad temper by
criticizing my native country. I was answering him in an indirect
way, looking all the time at Camille, who was laughing. Everybody
had congregated around us and was attentive to the discussion, which,
being carried on as an assault of wit, had nothing to make it
unpleasant.
But it seemed to take a serious turn when the young fop, turning the
conversation on the police of the city, said that for some time it
had been dangerous to walk alone at night through the streets of
Paris.
"During the last month," he added, "the Place de Greve has seen the
hanging of seven men, among whom there were five Italians. An
extraordinary circumstance."
"Nothing extraordinary in that," I answered; "honest men generally
contrive to be hung far away from their native country; and as a
proof of it, sixty Frenchmen have been hung in the course of last
year between Naples, Rome, and Venice. Five times twelve are sixty;
so you see that it is only a fair exchange."
The laughter was all on my side, and the fine councillor went away
rather crestfallen. One of the gentlemen present at the discussion,
finding my answer to his taste, came up to Camille, and asked her in
a whisper who I was. We got acquainted at once.
It was M. de Marigni, whom I was delighted to know for the sake of my
brother whose arrival in Paris I was expecting every day. M. de
Marigni was superintendent of the royal buildings, and the Academy of
Painting was under his jurisdiction. I mentioned my brother to him,
and he graciously promised to protect him. Another young nobleman,
who conversed with me, invited me to visit him. It was the Duke de
Matalona.
I told him that I had seen him, then only a child, eight years before
in Naples, and that I was under great obligations to his uncle, Don
Lelio. The young duke was delighted, and we became intimate friends.
My brother arrived in Paris in the spring of 1751, and he lodged with
me at Madame Quinson's. He began at once to work with success for
private individuals; but his main idea being to compose a picture to
be submitted to the judgment of the Academy, I introduced him to M.
de Marigni, who received him with great distinction, and encouraged
him by assuring him of his protection. He immediately set to work
with great diligence.
M. de Morosini had been recalled, and M. de Mocenigo had succeeded
him as ambassador of the Republic. M. de Bragadin had recommended me
to him, and he tendered a friendly welcome both to me and to my
brother, in whose favour he felt interested as a Venetian, and as a
young artist seeking to build up a position by his talent.
M. de Mocenigo was of a very pleasant nature; he liked gambling
although he was always unlucky at cards; he loved women, and he was
not more fortunate with them because he did not know how to manage
them. Two years after his arrival in Paris he fell in love with
Madame de Colande, and, finding it impossible to win her affections,
he killed himself.
Madame la Dauphine was delivered of a prince, the Duke of Burgundy,
and the rejoicings indulged in at the birth of that child seem to me
incredible now, when I see what the same nation is doing against the
king. The people want to be free; it is a noble ambition, for
mankind are not made to be the slaves of one man; but with a nation
populous, great, witty, and giddy, what will be the end of that
revolution? Time alone can tell us.
The Duke de Matalona procured me the acquaintance of the two princes,
Don Marc Antoine and Don Jean Baptiste Borghese, from Rome, who were
enjoying themselves in Paris, yet living without display. I had
occasion to remark that when those Roman princes were presented at
the court of France they were only styled "marquis:" It was the same
with the Russian princes, to whom the title of prince was refused
when they wanted to be presented; they were called "knees," but they
did not mind it, because that word meant prince. The court of France
has always been foolishly particular on the question of titles, and
is even now sparing of the title of monsieur, although it is common
enough everywhere every man who was not titled was called Sieur. I
have remarked that the king never addressed his bishops otherwise
than as abbes, although they were generally very proud of their
titles. The king likewise affected to know a nobleman only when his
name was inscribed amongst those who served him.
Yet the haughtiness of Louis XV. had been innoculated into him by
education; it was not in his nature. When an ambassador presented
someone to him, the person thus presented withdrew with the certainty
of having been seen by the king, but that was all. Nevertheless,
Louis XV. was very polite, particularly with ladies, even with his
mistresses, when in public. Whoever failed in respect towards them
in the slightest manner was sure of disgrace, and no king ever
possessed to a greater extent the grand royal virtue which is called
dissimulation. He kept a secret faithfully, and he was delighted
when he knew that no one but himself possessed it.
The Chevalier d'Eon is a proof of this, for the king alone knew and
had always known that the chevalier was a woman, and all the long
discussions which the false chevalier had with the office for foreign
affairs was a comedy which the king allowed to go on, only because it
amused him.
Louis XV. was great in all things, and he would have had no faults if
flattery had not forced them upon him. But how could he possibly
have supposed himself faulty in anything when everyone around him
repeated constantly that he was the best of kings? A king, in the
opinion of which he was imbued respecting his own person, was a being
of a nature by far too superior to ordinary men for him not to have
the right to consider himself akin to a god. Sad destiny of kings!
Vile flatterers are constantly doing everything necessary to reduce
them below the condition of man.
The Princess of Ardore was delivered about that time of a young
prince. Her husband, the Neapolitan ambassador, entreated Louis XV.
to be god-father to the child; the king consented and presented his
god-son with a regiment; but the mother, who did not like the
military career for her son, refused it. The Marshal de Richelieu
told me that he had never known the king laugh so heartily as when he
heard of that singular refusal.
At the Duchess de Fulvie's I made the acquaintance of Mdlle.
Gaussin, who was called Lolotte. She was the mistress of Lord
Albemarle, the English ambassador, a witty and very generous
nobleman. One evening he complained of his mistress praising the
beauty of the stars which were shining brightly over her head, saying
that she ought to know he could not give them to her. If Lord
Albemarle had been ambassador to the court of France at the time of
the rupture between France and England, he would have arranged all
difficulties amicably, and the unfortunate war by which France lost
Canada would not have taken place. There is no doubt that the
harmony between two nations depends very often upon their respective
ambassadors, when there is any danger of a rupture.
As to the noble lord's mistress, there was but one opinion respecting
her. She was fit in every way to become his wife, and the highest
families of France did not think that she needed the title of Lady
Albemarle to be received with distinction; no lady considered it
debasing to sit near her, although she was well known as the mistress
of the English lord. She had passed from her mother's arms to those
of Lord Albemarle at the age of thirteen, and her conduct was always
of the highest respectability. She bore children whom the ambassador
acknowledged legally, and she died Countess d'Erouville. I shall
have to mention her again in my Memoirs.
I had likewise occasion to become acquainted at the Venetian Embassy
with a lady from Venice, the widow of an English baronet named Wynne.
She was then coming from London with her children, where she had been
compelled to go in order to insure them the inheritance of their late
father, which they would have lost if they had not declared
themselves members of the Church of England. She was on her way back
to Venice, much pleased with her journey. She was accompanied by her
eldest daughter--a young girl of twelve years, who, notwithstanding
her youth, carried on her beautiful face all the signs of perfection.
She is now living in Venice, the widow of Count de Rosenberg, who
died in Venice ambassador of the Empress-Queen Maria Theresa. She is
surrounded by the brilliant halo of her excellent conduct and of all
her social virtues. No one can accuse her of any fault, except that
of being poor, but she feels it only because it does not allow her to
be as charitable as she might wish.
The reader will see in the next chapter how I managed to embroil
myself with the French police.
CHAPTER VIII
My Broil With Parisian Justice--Mdlle. Vesian
The youngest daughter of my landlady, Mdlle. Quinson, a young girl
between fifteen and sixteen years of age, was in the habit of often
coming to my room without being called. It was not long before I
discovered that she was in love with me, and I should have thought
myself ridiculous if I had been cruel to a young brunette who was
piquant, lively, amiable, and had a most delightful voice.
During the first four or five months nothing but childish trifles
took place between us; but one night, coming home very late and
finding her fast asleep on my bed, I did not see the necessity of
waking her up, and undressing myself I lay down beside her.... She
left me at daybreak.
Mimi had not been gone three hours when a milliner came with a
charming young girl, to invite herself and her friend to breakfast; I
thought the young girl well worth a breakfast, but I was tired and
wanted rest, and I begged them both to withdraw. Soon after they had
left me, Madame Quinson came with her daughter to make my bed. I put
my dressing-gown on, and began to write.
"Ah! the nasty hussies!" exclaims the mother.
"What is the matter, madam?"
"The riddle is clear enough, sir; these sheets are spoiled."
"I am very sorry, my dear madam, but change them, and the evil will
be remedied at once."
She went out of the room, threatening and grumbling,
"Let them come again, and see if I don't take care of them!"
Mimi remained alone with me, and I addressed her some reproaches for
her imprudence. But she laughed, and answered that Love had sent
those women on purpose to protect Innocence! After that, Mimi was no
longer under any restraint, she would come and share my bed whenever
she had a fancy to do so, unless I sent her back to her own room, and
in the morning she always left me in good time. But at the end of
four months my beauty informed me that our secret would soon be
discovered.
"I am very sorry," I said to her, "but I cannot help it."
"We ought to think of something."
"Well, do so."
"What can I think of? Well, come what will; the best thing I can do
is not to think of it."
Towards the sixth month she had become so large, that her mother, no
longer doubting the truth, got into a violent passion, and by dint of
blows compelled her to name the father. Mimi said I was the guilty
swain, and perhaps it was not an untruth.
With that great discovery Madame Quinson burst into my room in high
dudgeon. She threw herself on a chair, and when she had recovered
her breath she loaded me with insulting words, and ended by telling
me that I must marry her daughter. At this intimation, understanding
her object and wishing to cut the matter short, I told her that I was
already married in Italy.
"Then why did you come here and get my daughter with child?"
"I can assure you that I did not mean to do so. Besides, how do you
know that I am the father of the child?"
"Mimi says so, and she is certain of it."
"I congratulate her; but I warn you, madam, that I am ready to swear
that I have not any certainty about it."
"What then?"
"Then nothing. If she is pregnant, she will be confined."
She went downstairs, uttering curses and threats: the next day I was
summoned before the commissary of the district. I obeyed the
summons, and found Madame Quinson fully equipped for the battle. The
commissary, after the preliminary questions usual in all legal cases,
asked me whether I admitted myself guilty towards the girl Quinson of
the injury of which the mother, there present personally, complained.
"Monsieur le Commissaire, I beg of you to write word by word the
answer which I am going to give you."
"Very well."
"I have caused no injury whatever to Mimi, the plaintiff's daughter,
and I refer you to the girl herself, who has always had as much
friendship for me as I have had for her."
"But she declares that she is pregnant from your doings."
"That may be, but it is not certain."
"She says it is certain, and she swears that she has never known any
other man."
"If it is so, she is unfortunate; for in such a question a man cannot
trust any woman but his own wife."
"What did you give her in order to seduce her?"
"Nothing; for very far from having seduced her, she has seduced me,
and we agreed perfectly in one moment; a pretty woman does not find
it very hard to seduce me."
"Was she a virgin?"
"I never felt any curiosity about it either before or after;
therefore, sir, I do not know."
"Her mother claims reparation, and the law is against you."
"I can give no reparation to the mother; and as for the law I will
obey it when it has been explained to me, and when I am convinced
that I have been guilty against it."
"You are already convinced. Do you imagine that a man who gets an
honest girl with child in a house of which he is an inmate does not
transgress the laws of society?"
"I admit that to be the case when the mother is deceived; but when
that same mother sends her daughter to the room of a young man, are
we not right in supposing that she is disposed to accept peacefully
all the accidents which may result from such conduct?"
"She sent her daughter to your room only to wait on you."
"And she has waited on me as I have waited on her if she sends her to
my room this evening, and if it is agreeable to Mimi, I will
certainly serve her as well as I can; but I will have nothing to do
with her against her will or out of my room, the rent of which I have
always paid punctually."
"You may say what you like, but you must pay the fine."
"I will say what I believe to be just, and I will pay nothing; for
there can be no fine where there is no law transgressed. If I am
sentenced to pay I shall appeal even to the last jurisdiction and
until I obtain justice, for believe me, sir, I know that I am not
such an awkward and cowardly fellow as to refuse my caresses to a
pretty woman who pleases me, and comes to provoke them in my own
room, especially when I feel myself certain of the mother's
agreement."
I signed the interrogatory after I had read it carefully, and went
away. The next day the lieutenant of police sent for me, and after
he had heard me, as well as the mother and the daughter, he acquitted
me and condemned Madame Quinson in costs. But I could not after all
resist the tears of Mimi, and her entreaties for me to defray the
expenses of her confinement. She was delivered of a boy, who was
sent to the Hotel Dieu to be brought up at the nation's expense.
Soon afterwards Mimi ran away from her mother's house, and she
appeared on the stage at St. Laurent's Fair. Being unknown, she had
no difficulty in finding a lover who took her for a maiden. I found
her very pretty on the stage.
"I did not know," I said to her, "that you were a musician."
"I am a musician about as much as all my companions, not one of whom
knows a note of music. The girls at the opera are not much more
clever, and in spite of that, with a good voice and some taste, one
can sing delightfully."
I advised her to invite Patu to supper, and he was charmed with her.
Some time afterwards, however, she came to a bad end, and
disappeared.
The Italian comedians obtained at that time permission to perform
parodies of operas and of tragedies. I made the acquaintance at that
theatre of the celebrated Chantilly, who had been the mistress of the
Marechal de Saxe, and was called Favart because the poet of that name
had married her. She sang in the parody of 'Thetis et Pelee', by M.
de Fontelle, the part of Tonton, amidst deafening applause. Her
grace and talent won the love of a man of the greatest merit, the
Abbe de Voisenon, with whom I was as intimate as with Crebillon. All
the plays performed at the Italian Comedy, under the name of Madame
Favart, were written by the abbe, who became member of the Academie
after my departure from Paris. I cultivated an acquaintance the
value of which I could appreciate, and he honoured me with his
friendship. It was at my suggestions that the Abbe de Voisenon
conceived the idea of composing oratorios in poetry; they were sung
for the first time at the Tuileries, when the theatres were closed in
consequence of some religious festival. That amiable abbe, who had
written several comedies in secret, had very poor health and a very
small body; he was all wit and gracefulness, famous for his shrewd
repartees which, although very cutting, never offended anyone. It
was impossible for him to have any enemies, for his criticism only
grazed the skin and never wounded deeply. One day, as he was
returning from Versailles, I asked him the news of the court.
"The king is yawning," he answered, "because he must come to the
parliament to-morrow to hold a bed of justice."
"Why is it called a bed of justice?"
"I do not know, unless it is because justice is asleep during the
proceedings."
I afterwards met in Prague the living portrait of that eminent writer
in Count Francois Hardig, now plenipotentiary of the emperor at the
court of Saxony.
The Abbe de Voisenon introduced me to Fontenelle, who was then
ninety-three years of age. A fine wit, an amiable and learned man,
celebrated for his quick repartees, Fontenelle could not pay a
compliment without throwing kindness and wit into it. I told him
that I had come from Italy on purpose to see him.
"Confess, sir," he said to me, "that you have kept me waiting a very
long time."
This repartee was obliging and critical at the same time, and pointed
out in a delicate and witty manner the untruth of my compliment. He
made me a present of his works, and asked me if I liked the French
plays; I told him that I had seen 'Thetis et Pelee' at the opera.
That play was his own composition, and when I had praised it, he told
me that it was a 'tete pelee'.
"I was at the Theatre Francais last night," I said, "and saw
Athalie."
"It is the masterpiece of Racine; Voltaire, has been wrong in
accusing me of having criticized that tragedy, and in attributing to
me an epigram, the author of which has never been known, and which
ends with two very poor lines:
Pour avoir fait pis qu'Esther,
Comment diable as-to pu faire"
I have been told that M. de Fontenelle had been the tender friend of
Madame du Tencin, that M. d'Alembert was the offspring of their
intimacy, and that Le Rond had only been his foster-father. I knew
d'Alembert at Madame de Graffigny's. That great philosopher had the
talent of never appearing to be a learned man when he was in the
company of amiable persons who had no pretension to learning or
the sciences, and he always seemed to endow with intelligence those
who conversed with him.
When I went to Paris for the second time, after my escape from The
Leads of Venice, I was delighted at the idea of seeing again the
amiable, venerable Fontenelle, but he died a fortnight after my
arrival, at the beginning of the year 1757.
When I paid my third visit to Paris with the intention of ending my
days in that capital, I reckoned upon the friendship of
M. d'Alembert, but he died, like Fontenelle, a fortnight after my
arrival, towards the end of 1783. Now I feel that I have seen Paris
and France for the last time. The popular effervescence has
disgusted me, and I am too old to hope to see the end of it.
Count de Looz, Polish ambassador at the French court, invited me in
1751 to translate into Italian a French opera susceptible of great
transformations, and of having a grand ballet annexed to the subject
of the opera itself. I chose 'Zoroastre', by M. de Cahusac. I had
to adapt words to the music of the choruses, always a difficult task.
The music remained very beautiful, of course, but my Italian poetry
was very poor. In spite of that the generous sovereign sent me a
splendid gold snuff-box, and I thus contrived at the same time to
please my mother very highly.
It was about that time that Mdlle. Vesian arrived in Paris with her
brother. She was quite young, well educated, beautiful, most
amiable, and a novice; her brother accompanied her. Her father,
formerly an officer in the French army, had died at Parma, his native
city. Left an orphan without any means of support, she followed the
advice given by her friends; she sold the furniture left by her
father, with the intention of going to Versailles to obtain from the
justice and from the generosity of the king a small pension to enable
her to live. As she got out of the diligence, she took a coach, and
desired to be taken to some hotel close by the Italian Theatre; by
the greatest chance she was brought to the Hotel de Bourgogne, where
I was then staying myself.
In the morning I was told that there were two young Italians, brother
and sister, who did not appear very wealthy, in the next room to
mine. Italians, young, poor and newly arrived, my curiosity was
excited. I went to the door of their room, I knocked, and a young
man came to open it in his shirt.
"I beg you to excuse me, sir," he said to me, "if I receive you in
such a state."
"I have to ask your pardon myself. I only come to offer you my
services, as a countryman and as a neighbour."
A mattress on the floor told me where the young man had slept; a bed
standing in a recess and hid by curtains made me guess where the
sister was. I begged of her to excuse me if I had presented myself
without enquiring whether she was up.
She answered without seeing me, that the journey having greatly tried
her she had slept a little later than usual, but that she would get
up immediately if I would excuse her for a short time.
"I am going to my room, mademoiselle, and I will come back when you
send for me; my room is next door to your own."
A quarter of an hour after, instead of being sent for, I saw a young
and beautiful person enter my room; she made a modest bow, saying
that she had come herself to return my visit, and that her brother
would follow her immediately.
I thanked her for her visit, begged her to be seated, and I expressed
all the interest I felt for her. Her gratitude shewed itself more by
the tone of her voice than by her words, and her confidence being
already captivated she told me artlessly, but not without some
dignity, her short history or rather her situation, and she concluded
by these words:
"I must in the course of the day find a less expensive lodging, for I
only possess six francs."
I asked her whether she had any letters of recommendation, and she
drew out of her pocket a parcel of papers containing seven or eight
testimonials of good conduct and honesty, and a passport.
"Is this all you have, my dear countrywoman?"
"Yes. I intend to call with my brother upon the secretary of war, and
I hope he will take pity on me."
"You do not know anybody here?"
"Not one person, sir; you are the first man in France to whom I have
exposed my situation."
"I am a countryman of yours, and you are recommended to me by your
position as well as by your age; I wish to be your adviser, if you
will permit me."
"Ah, sir! how grateful I would be!"
"Do not mention it. Give me your papers, I will see what is to be
done with them. Do not relate your history to anyone, and do not say
one word about your position. You had better remain at this hotel.
Here are two Louis which I will lend you until you are in a position
to return them to me."
She accepted, expressing her heart-felt gratitude.
Mademoiselle Vesian was an interesting brunette of sixteen. She had
a good knowledge of French and Italian, graceful manners, and a
dignity which endowed her with a very noble appearance. She informed
me of her affairs without meanness, yet without that timidity which
seems to arise from a fear of the person who listens being disposed
to take advantage of the distressing position confided to his honour.
She seemed neither humiliated nor bold; she had hope, and she did not
boast of her courage. Her virtue was by no means ostentatious, but
there was in her an air of modesty which would certainly have put a
restraint upon anyone disposed to fail in respect towards her. I
felt the effect of it myself, for in spite of her beautiful eyes, her
fine figure, of the freshness of her complexion, her transparent
skin, her negligee--in one word, all that can tempt a man and which
filled me with burning desires, I did not for one instant lose
control over myself; she had inspired me with a feeling of respect
which helped me to master my senses, and I promised myself not only
to attempt nothing against her virtue, but also not to be the first
man to make her deviate from the right path. I even thought it
better to postpone to another interview a little speech on that
subject, the result of which might be to make me follow a different
course.
"You are now in a city," I said to her, "in which your destiny must
unfold itself, and in which all the fine qualities which nature has
so bountifully bestowed upon you, and which may ultimately cause your
fortune, may likewise cause your ruin; for here, by dear
countrywoman, wealthy men despise all libertine women except those
who have offered them the sacrifice of their virtue. If you are
virtuous, and are determined upon remaining so, prepare yourself to
bear a great deal of misery; if you feel yourself sufficiently above
what is called prejudice, if, in one word, you feel disposed to
consent to everything, in order to secure a comfortable position, be
very careful not to make a mistake. Distrust altogether the sweet
words which every passionate man will address to you for the sake of
obtaining your favours, for, his passion once satisfied, his ardour
will cool down, and you will find yourself deceived. Be wary of your
adorers; they will give you abundance of counterfeit coin, but do not
trust them far. As far as I am concerned, I feel certain that I
shall never injure you, and I hope to be of some use to you. To
reassure you entirely on my account, I will treat you as if you were
my sister, for I am too young to play the part of your father, and I
would not tell you all this if I did not think you a very charming
person."
Her brother joined us as we were talking together. He was a good-
looking young man of eighteen, well made, but without any style about
him; he spoke little, and his expression was devoid of individuality.
We breakfasted together, and having asked him as we were at table for
what profession he felt an inclination, he answered that he was
disposed to do anything to earn an honourable living.
"Have you any peculiar talent?"
"I write pretty well."
"That is something. When you go out, mistrust everybody; do not
enter any caf‚, and never speak to anyone in the streets. Eat your
meals in your room with your sister, and tell the landlady to give
you a small closet to sleep in. Write something in French to-day,
let me have it to-morrow morning, and we will see what can be done.
As for you, mademoiselle, my books are at your disposal, I have your
papers; to-morrow I may have some news to tell you; we shall not see
each other again to-day, for I generally come home very late." She
took a few books, made a modest reverence, and told me with a
charming voice that she had every confidence in me.
Feeling disposed to be useful to her, wherever I went during that day
I spoke of nothing but of her and of her affairs; and everywhere men
and women told me that if she was pretty she could not fail, but that
at all events it would be right for her to take all necessary steps.
I received a promise that the brother should be employed in some
office. I thought that the best plan would be to find some
influential lady who would consent to present Mdlle. Vesian to
M. d'Argenson, and I knew that in the mean time I could support her.
I begged Silvia to mention the matter to Madame de Montconseil, who
had very great influence with the secretary of war. She promised to
do so, but she wished to be acquainted with the young girl.
I returned to the hotel towards eleven o'clock, and seeing that there
was a light still burning in the room of Mdlle. Vesian I knocked at
her door. She opened it, and told me that she had sat up in the hope
of seeing me. I gave her an account of what I had done. I found her
disposed to undertake all that was necessary, and most grateful for
my assistance. She spoke of her position with an air of noble
indifference which she assumed in order to restrain her tears; she
succeeded in keeping them back, but the moisture in her eyes proved
all the efforts she was making to prevent them from falling. We had
talked for two hours, and going from one subject to another I learned
that she had never loved, and that she was therefore worthy of a
lover who would reward her in a proper manner for the sacrifice of
her virtue. It would have been absurd to think that marriage was to
be the reward of that sacrifice; the young girl had not yet made what
is called a false step, but she had none of the prudish feelings of
those girls who say that they would not take such a step for all the
gold in the universe, and usually give way before the slightest
attack; all my young friend wanted was to dispose of herself in a
proper and advantageous manner.
I could not help sighing as I listened to her very sensible remarks,
considering the position in which she was placed by an adverse
destiny. Her sincerity was charming to me; I was burning with
desire. Lucie of Pasean came back to my memory; I recollected how
deeply I had repented the injury I had done in neglecting a sweet
flower, which another man, and a less worthy one, had hastened to
pluck; I felt myself near a lamb which would perhaps become the prey
of some greedy wolf; and she, with her noble feelings, her careful
education, and a candour which an impure breath would perhaps destroy
for ever, was surely not destined for a lot of shame. I regretted I
was not rich enough to make her fortune, and to save her honour and
her virtue. I felt that I could neither make her mine in an
illegitimate way nor be her guardian angel, and that by becoming her
protector I should do her more harm than good; in one word, instead
of helping her out of the unfortunate position in which she was, I
should, perhaps, only contribute to her entire ruin. During that
time I had her near me, speaking to her in a sentimental way, and not
uttering one single word of love; but I kissed her hand and her arms
too often without coming to a resolution, without beginning a thing
which would have too rapidly come to an end, and which would have
compelled me to keep her for myself; in that case, there would have
been no longer any hope of a fortune for her, and for me no means of
getting rid of her. I have loved women even to madness, but I have
always loved liberty better; and whenever I have been in danger of
losing it fate has come to my rescue.
I had remained about four hours with Mdlle. Vesian, consumed by the
most intense desires, and I had had strength enough to conquer them.
She could not attribute my reserve to a feeling of modesty, and not
knowing why I did not shew more boldness she must have supposed that
I was either ill or impotent. I left her, after inviting her to
dinner for the next day.
We had a pleasant dinner, and her brother having gone out for a walk
after our meal we looked together out of the window from which we
could see all the carriages going to the Italian Comedy. I asked her
whether she would like to go; she answered me with a smile of
delight, and we started at once.
I placed her in the amphitheatre where I left her, telling her that
we would meet at the hotel at eleven o'clock. I would not remain
with her, in order to avoid the questions which would have been
addressed to me, for the simpler her toilet was the more interesting
she looked.
After I had left the theatre, I went to sup at Silvia's and returned
to the hotel. I was surprised at the sight of an elegant carriage; I
enquired to whom it belonged, and I was told that it was the carriage
of a young nobleman who had supped with Mdlle. Vesian. She was
getting on.
The first thing next morning, as I was putting my head out of the
window, I saw a hackney coach stop at the door of the hotel; a young
man, well dressed in a morning costume, came out of it, and a minute
after I heard him enter the room of Mdlle. Vesian. Courage! I had
made up my mind; I affected a feeling of complete indifference in
order to deceive myself.
I dressed myself to go out, and while I was at my toilet Vesian came
in and told me that he did not like to go into his sister's room
because the gentleman who had supped with her had just arrived.
"That's a matter of course," I said.
"He is rich and very handsome. He wishes to take us himself to
Versailles, and promises to procure some employment for me."
"I congratulate you. Who is he?"
"I do not know."
I placed in an envelope the papers she had entrusted to me, and I
handed them to him to return to his sister. I then went out. When I
came home towards three o'clock, the landlady gave me a letter which
had been left for me by Mdlle. Vesian, who had left the hotel.
I went to my room, opened the letter, and read the following lines:
"I return the money you have lent me with my best thanks. The Count
de Narbonne feels interested in me, and wishes to assist me and my
brother. I shall inform you of everything, of the house in which he
wishes me to go and live, where he promises to supply me all I want.
Your friendship is very dear to me, and I entreat you not to forget
me. My brother remains at the hotel, and my room belongs to me for
the month. I have paid everything."
"Here is," said I to myself, "a second Lucie de Pasean, and I am a
second time the dupe of my foolish delicacy, for I feel certain that
the count will not make her happy. But I wash my hands of it all."
I went to the Theatre Francais in the evening, and enquired about
Narbonne. The first person I spoke to told me,
"He is the son of a wealthy man, but a great libertine and up to his
neck in debts."
Nice references, indeed! For a week I went to all the theatres and
public places in the hope of making the acquaintance of the count,
but I could not succeed, and I was beginning to forget the adventure
when one morning, towards eight o'clock Vesian calling on me, told me
that his sister was in her room and wished to speak to me. I
followed him immediately. I found her looking unhappy and with eyes
red from crying. She told her brother to go out for a walk, and when
he had gone she spoke to me thus:
"M. de Narbonne, whom I thought an honest man, because I wanted him
to be such, came to sit by me where you had left me at the theatre;
he told me that my face had interested him, and he asked me who I
was. I told him what I had told you. You had promised to think of
me, but Narbonne told me that he did not want your assistance, as he
could act by himself. I believed him, and I have been the dupe of my
confidence in him; he has deceived me; he is a villain."
The tears were choking her: I went to the window so as to let her cry
without restraint: a few minutes after, I came back and I sat down by
her.
"Tell me all, my dear Vesian, unburden your heart freely, and do not
think yourself guilty towards me; in reality I have been wrong more
than you. Your heart would not now be a prey to sorrow if I had not
been so imprudent as to leave you alone at the theatre."
"Alas, sir! do not say so; ought I to reproach you because you
thought me so virtuous? Well, in a few words, the monster promised
to shew me every care, every attention, on condition of my giving him
an undeniable, proof of my affection and confidence--namely, to take
a lodging without my brother in the house of a woman whom he
represented as respectable. He insisted upon my brother not living
with me, saying that evil-minded persons might suppose him to be my
lover. I allowed myself to be persuaded. Unhappy creature! How
could I give way without consulting you? He told me that the
respectable woman to whom he would take me would accompany me to
Versailles, and that he would send my brother there so that we should
be both presented to the war secretary. After our first supper he
told me that he would come and fetch me in a hackney coach the next
morning. He presented me with two louis and a gold watch, and I
thought I could accept those presents from a young nobleman who
shewed so much interest in me. The woman to whom he introduced me
did not seem to me as respectable as he had represented her to be.
I have passed one week with her without his doing anything to benefit
my position. He would come, go out, return as he pleased, telling me
every day that it would be the morrow, and when the morrow came there
was always some impediment. At last, at seven o'clock this morning,
the woman told me that the count was obliged to go into the country,
that a hackney coach would bring me back to his hotel, and that he
would come and see me on his return. Then, affecting an air of
sadness, she told me that I must give her back the watch because the
count had forgotten to pay the watchmaker for it. I handed it to her
immediately without saying a word, and wrapping the little I
possessed in my handkerchief I came back here, where I arrived half
an hour since."
"Do you hope to see him on his return from the country?"
"To see him again! Oh, Lord! why have I ever seen him?"
She was crying bitterly, and I must confess that no young girl ever
moved me so deeply as she did by the expression of her grief. Pity
replaced in my heart the tenderness I had felt for her a week before.
The infamous proceedings of Narbonne disgusted me to that extent
that, if I had known where to find him alone, I would immediately
have compelled him to give me reparation. Of course, I took good
care not to ask the poor girl to give me a detailed account of her
stay in the house of Narbonne's respectable procurers ; I could guess
even more than I wanted to know, and to insist upon that recital
would have humiliated Mdlle. Vesian. I could see all the infamy of
the count in the taking back of the watch which belonged to her as a
gift, and which the unhappy girl had earned but too well. I did all
I could to dry her tears, and she begged me to be a father to her,
assuring me that she would never again do anything to render her
unworthy of my friendship, and that she would always be guided by my
advice.
"Well, my dear young friend, what you must do now is not only to
forget the unworthy count and his criminal conduct towards you, but
also the fault of which you have been guilty. What is done cannot be
undone, and the past is beyond remedy; but compose yourself, and
recall the air of cheerfulness which shone on your countenance a week
ago. Then I could read on your face honesty, candour, good faith,
and the noble assurance which arouses sentiment in those who can
appreciate its charm. You must let all those feelings shine again on
your features; for they alone can interest honest people, and you
require the general sympathy more than ever. My friendship is of
little importance to you, but you may rely upon it all the more
because I fancy that you have now a claim upon it which you had not a
week ago: Be quite certain, I beg, that I will not abandon you until
your position is properly settled. I cannot at present tell you
more; but be sure that I will think of you."
"Ah, my friend! if you promise to think of me, I ask for no more.
Oh! unhappy creature that I am; there is not a soul in the world who
thinks of me."
She was: so deeply moved that she fainted away. I came to her
assistance without calling anyone, and when she had recovered her
consciousness and some calm, I told her a hundred stories, true or
purely imaginary, of the knavish tricks played in Paris by men who
think of nothing but of deceiving young girls. I told her a few
amusing instances in order to make her more cheerful, and at last I
told her that she ought to be thankful for what had happened to her
with Narbonne, because that misfortune would give her prudence for
the future.
During that long tete-a-tete I had no difficulty in abstaining from
bestowing any caresses upon her; I did not even take her hand, for
what I felt for her was a tender pity; and I was very happy when at
the end of two hours I saw her calm and determined upon bearing
misfortune like a heroine.
She suddenly rose from her seat, and, looking at me with an air of
modest trustfulness, she said to me,
"Are, you particularly engaged in any way to-day?"
"No, my dear:"
"Well, then, be good enough to take me somewhere out of Paris; to
some place where I can breathe the fresh air freely; I shall then
recover that appearance which you think I must have to interest in my
favour those who will see me; and if I can enjoy a quiet sleep
throughout the next night I feel I shall be happy again."
"I am grateful to you for your confidence in me. We will go out as
soon as I am dressed. Your brother will return in the mean time."
"Oh, never mind my brother!"
"His presence is, on the contrary, of great importance. Recollect,
my dear Vesian, you must make Narbonne ashamed of his own conduct.
You must consider that if he should happen to hear that, on the very
day he abandoned you, you went into the country alone with me, he
would triumph, and would certainly say that he has only treated you
as you deserved. But if you go with your brother and me your
countryman, you give no occasion for slander."
"I blush not to have made that remark myself. We will wait for my
brother's return."
He was not long in coming back, and having sent for a coach we were
on the point of going, when Baletti called on me. I introduced him
to the young lady, and invited him to join our party. He accepted,
and we started. As my only purpose was to amuse Mdlle. Vesian, I
told the coachman to drive us to the Gros Caillou, where we made an
excellent impromptu dinner, the cheerfulness of the guests making up
for the deficiencies of the servants.
Vesian, feeling his head rather heavy, went out for a walk after
dinner, and I remained alone with his sister and my friend Baletti.
I observed with pleasure that Baletti thought her an agreeable girl,
and it gave me the idea of asking him to teach her dancing. I
informed him of her position, of the reason which had brought her to
Paris, of the little hope there was of her obtaining a pension from
the king, and of the necessity there was for her to do something to
earn a living. Baletti answered that he would be happy to do
anything, and when he had examined the figure and the general
conformation of the young girl he said to her,
"I will get Lani to take you for the ballet at the opera."
"Then," I said, "you must begin your lessons tomorrow. Mdlle. Vesian
stops at my hotel."
The young girl, full of wonder at my plan, began to laugh heartily,
and said,
"But can an opera dancer be extemporized like a minister of state?
I can dance the minuet, and my ear is good enough to enable me to go
through a quadrille; but with the exception of that I cannot dance
one step."
"Most of the ballet girls," said Baletti, "know no more than you do."
"And how much must I ask from M. Lani? I do not think I can expect
much."
"Nothing. The ballet girls are not paid."
"Then where is the advantage for me?" she said, with a sigh; "how
shall I live?"
"Do not think of that. Such as you are, you will soon find ten
wealthy noblemen who will dispute amongst themselves for the honour
of making up for the absence of salary. You have only to make a good
choice, and I am certain that it will not be long before we see you
covered with diamonds."
"Now I understand you. You suppose some great lord will keep me?"
"Precisely; and that will be much better than a pension of four
hundred francs, which you would, perhaps, not obtain without making
the same sacrifice.
Very much surprised, she looked at me to ascertain whether I was
serious or only jesting.
Baletti having left us, I told her it was truly the best thing she
could do, unless she preferred the sad position of waiting-maid to
some grand lady.
"I would not be the 'femme de chambre' even of the queen."
"And 'figurante' at the opera?"
"Much rather."
"You are smiling?"
"Yes, for it is enough to make me laugh. I the mistress of a rich
nobleman, who will cover me with diamonds! Well, I mean to choose
the oldest."
"Quite right, my dear; only do not make him jealous."
"I promise you to be faithful to him. But shall he find a situation
for my brother? However, until I am at the opera, until I have met
with my elderly lover, who will give me the means to support myself?"
"I, my dear girl, my friend Baletti, and all my friends, without
other interest than the pleasure of serving you, but with the hope
that you will live quietly, and that we shall contribute to your
happiness. Are you satisfied?"
"Quite so; I have promised myself to be guided entirely by your
advice, and I entreat you to remain always my best friend."
We returned to Paris at night, I left Mdlle. Vesian at the hotel, and
accompanied Baletti to his mother's. At supper-time, my friend
begged Silvia to speak to M. Lani in favour of our 'protegee', Silvia
said that it was a much better plan than to solicit a miserable
pension which, perhaps, would not be granted. Then we talked of a
project which was then spoken of, namely to sell all the appointments
of ballet girls and of chorus singers at the opera. There was even
some idea of asking a high price for them, for it was argued that the
higher the price the more the girls would be esteemed. Such a
project, in the midst of the scandalous habits and manners of the
time, had a sort of apparent wisdom; for it would have ennobled in a
way a class of women who with very few exceptions seem to glory in
being contemptible.
There were, at that time at the opera, several figurantes, singers
and dancers, ugly rather than plain, without any talent, who, in
spite of it all, lived in great comfort; for it is admitted that at
the opera a girl must needs renounce all modesty or starve. But if a
girl, newly arrived there, is clever enough to remain virtuous only
for one month, her fortune is certainly made, because then the
noblemen enjoying a reputation of wisdom and virtue are the only ones
who seek to get hold of her. Those men are delighted to hear their
names mentioned in connection with the newly-arrived beauty; they
even go so far as to allow her a few frolics, provided she takes
pride in what they give her, and provided her infidelities are not
too public. Besides, it is the fashion never to go to sup with one's
mistress without giving her notice of the intended visit, and
everyone must admit that it is a very wise custom.
I came back to the hotel towards eleven o'clock, and seeing that
Mdlle. Vesian's room was still open I went in. She was in bed.
"Let me get up," she said, "for I want to speak to you."
"Do not disturb yourself; we can talk all the same, and I think you
much prettier as you are."
"I am very glad of it."
"What have you got to tell me?"
"Nothing, except to speak of the profession I am going to adopt.
I am going to practice virtue in order to find a man who loves it
only to destroy it."
"Quite true; but almost everything is like that in this life. Man
always refers everything to himself, and everyone is a tyrant in his
own way. I am pleased to see you becoming a philosopher."
"How can one become a philosopher?"
"By thinking."
"Must one think a long while?"
"Throughout life."
"Then it is never over?"
"Never; but one improves as much as possible, and obtains the sum of
happiness which one is susceptible of enjoying."
"And how can that happiness be felt?"
"By all the pleasure which the philosopher can procure when he is
conscious of having obtained them by his own exertions, and
especially by getting rid of the many prejudices which make of the
majority of men a troop of grown-up children."
"What is pleasure? What is meant by prejudices?"
"Pleasure is the actual enjoyment of our senses; it is a complete
satisfaction given to all our natural and sensual appetites; and,
when our worn-out senses want repose, either to have breathing time,
or to recover strength, pleasure comes from the imagination, which
finds enjoyment in thinking of the happiness afforded by rest. The
philosopher is a person who refuses no pleasures which do not produce
greater sorrows, and who knows how to create new ones."
"And you say that it is done by getting rid of prejudices? Then tell
me what prejudices are, and what must be done to get rid of them."
"Your question, my dear girl, is not an easy one to answer, for moral
philosophy does not know a more important one, or a more difficult
one to decide; it is a lesson which lasts throughout life. I will
tell you in a few words that we call prejudice every so-called duty
for the existence of which we find no reason in nature."
"Then nature must be the philosopher's principal study?"
"Indeed it is; the most learned of philosophers is the one who
commits the fewest errors."
"What philosopher, in your opinion, has committed the smallest
quantity of errors?"
"Socrates."
"Yet he was in error sometimes?"
"Yes, in metaphysics."
"Oh! never mind that, for I think he could very well manage without
that study."
"You are mistaken; morals are only the metaphysics of physics; nature
is everything, and I give you leave to consider as a madman whoever
tells you that he has made a new discovery in metaphysics. But if I
went on, my dear, I might appear rather obscure to you. Proceed
slowly, think; let your maxims be the consequence of just reasoning,
and keep your happiness in view; in the end you must be happy."
"I prefer the lesson you have just taught me to the one which M.
Baletti will give me to-morrow; for I have an idea that it will weary
me, and now I am much interested."
"How do you know that you are interested?"
"Because I wish you not to leave me."
"Truly, my dear Vesian, never has a philosopher described sympathy
better than you have just done. How happy I feel! How is it that I
wish to prove it by kissing you?"
"No doubt because, to be happy, the soul must agree with the senses."
"Indeed, my divine Vesian? Your intelligence is charming."
"It is your work, dear friend; and I am so grateful to you that I
share your desires."
"What is there to prevent us from satisfying such natural desires?
Let us embrace one another tenderly."
What a lesson in philosophy! It seemed to us such a sweet one, our
happiness was so complete, that at daybreak we were still kissing one
another, and it was only when we parted in the morning that we
discovered that the door of the room had remained open all night.
Baletti gave her a few lessons, and she was received at the opera;
but she did not remain there more than two or three months,
regulating her conduct carefully according to the precepts I had laid
out for her. She never received Narbonne again, and at last accepted
a nobleman who proved himself very different from all others, for the
first thing he did was to make her give up the stage, although it was
not a thing according to the fashion of those days. I do not
recollect his name exactly; it was Count of Tressan or Trean. She
behaved in a respectable way, and remained with him until his death.
No one speaks of her now, although she is living in very easy
circumstances; but she is fifty-six, and in Paris a woman of that age
is no longer considered as being among the living.
After she left the Hotel de Bourgogne, I never spoke to her.
Whenever I met her covered with jewels and diamonds, our souls
saluted each other with joy, but her happiness was too precious for
me to make any attempt against it. Her brother found a situation,
but I lost sight of him.
CHAPTER IX
The Beautiful O-Morphi--The Deceitful Painter--I Practice Cabalism
for the Duchess de Chartres I Leave Paris--My Stay in Dresden and My
Departure from that City
I went to St. Lawrence's Fair with my friend Patu, who, taking it
into his head to sup with a Flemish actress known by the name of
Morphi, invited me to go with him. I felt no inclination for the
girl, but what can we refuse to a friend? I did as he wished. After
we had supped with the actress, Patu fancied a night devoted to a
more agreeable occupation, and as I did not want to leave him I asked
for a sofa on which I could sleep quietly during the night.
Morphi had a sister, a slovenly girl of thirteen, who told me that if
I would give her a crown she would abandon her bed to me. I agreed
to her proposal, and she took me to a small closet where I found a
straw palliasse on four pieces of wood.
"Do you call this a bed, my child?"
"I have no other, sir."
"Then I do not want it, and you shall not have the crown."
"Did you intend undressing yourself?"
"Of course."
"What an idea! There are no sheets."
"Do you sleep with your clothes on?"
"Oh, no!"
"Well, then, go to bed as usual, and you shall have the crown."
"Why?"
"I want to see you undressed."
"But you won't do anything to me?"
"Not the slightest thing."
She undressed, laid herself on her miserable straw bed, and covered
herself with an old curtain. In that state, the impression made by
her dirty tatters disappeared, and I only saw a perfect beauty. But
I wanted to see her entirely. I tried to satisfy my wishes, she
opposed some resistance, but a double crown of six francs made her
obedient, and finding that her only fault was a complete absence of
cleanliness, I began to wash her with my own hands.
You will allow me, dear reader, to suppose that you possess a simple
and natural knowledge, namely, that admiration under such
circumstances is inseparable from another kind of approbation;
luckily, I found the young Morphi disposed to let me do all I
pleased, except the only thing for which I did not care! She told me
candidly that she would not allow me to do that one thing, because in
her sister's estimation it was worth twenty-five louis. I answered
that we would bargain on that capital point another time, but that we
would not touch it for the present. Satisfied with what I said, all
the rest was at my disposal, and I found in her a talent which had
attained great perfection in spite of her precocity.
The young Helene faithfully handed to her sister the six francs I had
given her, and she told her the way in which she had earned them.
Before I left the house she told me that, as she was in want of
money, she felt disposed to make some abatement on the price of
twenty-five louis. I answered with a laugh that I would see her
about it the next day. I related the whole affair to Patu, who
accused me of exaggeration; and wishing to prove to him that I was a
real connoisseur of female beauty I insisted upon his seeing Helene
as I had seen her. He agreed with me that the chisel of Praxiteles
had never carved anything more perfect. As white as a lily, Helene
possessed all the beauties which nature and the art of the painter
can possibly combine. The loveliness of her features was so heavenly
that it carried to the soul an indefinable sentiment of ecstacy, a
delightful calm. She was fair, but her beautiful blue eyes equalled
the finest black eyes in brilliance.
I went to see her the next evening, and, not agreeing about the
price, I made a bargain with her sister to give her twelve francs
every time I paid her a visit, and it was agreed that we would occupy
her room until I should make up my mind to pay six hundred francs.
It was regular usury, but the Morphi came from a Greek race, and was
above prejudices. I had no idea of giving such a large sum, because
I felt no wish to obtain what it would have procured me; what I
obtained was all I cared for.
The elder sister thought I was duped, for in two months I had paid
three hundred francs without having done anything, and she attributed
my reserve to avarice. Avarice, indeed! I took a fancy to possess a
painting of that beautiful body, and a German artist painted it for
me splendidly for six louis. The position in which he painted it was
delightful. She was lying on her stomach, her arms and her bosom
leaning on a pillow, and holding her head sideways as if she were
partly on the back. The clever and tasteful artist had painted her
nether parts with so much skill and truth that no one could have
wished for anything more beautiful; I was delighted with that
portrait; it was a speaking likeness, and I wrote under it,
"O-Morphi," not a Homeric word, but a Greek one after all, and
meaning beautiful.
But who can anticipate the wonderful and secret decrees of destiny!
My friend Patu wished to have a copy of that portrait; one cannot
refuse such a slight service to a friend, and I gave an order for it
to the same painter. But the artist, having been summoned to
Versailles, shewed that delightful painting with several others, and
M. de St. Quentin found it so beautiful that he lost no time in
shewing it the king. His Most Christian Majesty, a great connoisseur
in that line, wished to ascertain with his own eyes if the artist had
made a faithful copy; and in case the original should prove as
beautiful as the copy, the son of St. Louis knew very well what to do
with it.
M. de St. Quentin, the king's trusty friend, had the charge of that
important affair; it was his province: He enquired from the painter
whether the original could be brought to Versailles, and the artist,
not supposing there would be any difficulty, promised to attend to
it.
He therefore called on me to communicate the proposal; I thought it
was delightful, and I immediately told the sister, who jumped for
joy. She set to work cleaning, washing and clothing the young
beauty, and two or three days after they went to Versailles with the
painter to see what could be done. M. de St. Quentin's valet,
having received his instructions from his master, took the two
females to a pavilion in the park, and the painter went to the hotel
to await the result of his negotiation. Half an hour afterwards the
king entered the pavilion alone, asked the young O-Morphi if she was
a Greek woman, took the portrait out of his pocket, and after a
careful examination exclaimed,
"I have never seen a better likeness."
His majesty then sat down, took the young girl on his knees, bestowed
a few caresses on her, and having ascertained with his royal hand
that the fruit had not yet been plucked, he gave her a kiss.
O-Morphi was looking attentively at her master, and smiled.
"What are you laughing at?" said the king.
"I laugh because you and a crown of six francs are as like as two
peas."
That naivete made the king laugh heartily, and he asked her whether
she would like to remain in Versailles.
"That depends upon my sister," answered the child.
But the sister hastened to tell the king that she could not aspire to
a greater honour. The king locked them up again in the pavilion and
went away, but in less than a quarter of an hour St. Quentin came to
fetch them, placed the young girl in an apartment under the care of a
female attendant, and with the sister he went to meet at the hotel
the German artist to whom he gave fifty Louis for the portrait, and
nothing to Morphi. He only took her address, promising her that she
would soon hear from him; the next day she received one thousand
Louis. The worthy German gave me twenty-five louis for my portrait,
with a promise to make a careful copy of the one I had given to Patu,
and he offered to paint for me gratuitously the likeness of every
girl of whom I might wish to keep a portrait.
I enjoyed heartily the pleasure of the good Fleeting, when she found
herself in possession of the thousand gold pieces which she had
received. Seeing herself rich, and considering me as the author of
her fortune, she did not know how to shew me her gratitude.
The young and lovely O-Morphi--for the king always called her by that
name--pleased the sovereign by her simplicity and her pretty ways
more even than by her rare beauty--the most perfect, the most
regular, I recollect to have ever seen. He placed her in one of the
apartments of his Parc-dux-cerfs--the voluptuous monarch's harem, in
which no one could get admittance except the ladies presented at the
court. At the end of one year she gave birth to a son who went, like
so many others, God knows where! for as long as Queen Mary lived no
one ever knew what became of the natural children of Louis XV.
O-Morphi fell into disgrace at the end of three years, but the king,
as he sent her away, ordered her to receive a sum of four hundred
thousand francs which she brought as a dowry to an officer from
Britanny. In 1783, happening to be in Fontainebleau, I made the
acquaintance of a charming young man of twenty-five, the offspring of
that marriage and the living portrait of his mother, of the history
of whom he had not the slightest knowledge, and I thought it my duty
not to enlighten him. I wrote my name on his tablets, and I begged
him to present my compliments to his mother.
A wicked trick of Madame de Valentinois, sister-in-law of the Prince
of Monaco, was the cause of O-Morphi's disgrace. That lady, who was
well known in Paris, told her one day that, if she wished to make the
king very merry, she had only to ask him how he treated his old wife.
Too simple to guess the snare thus laid out for her, O-Morphi
actually asked that impertinent question; but Louis XV. gave her a
look of fury, and exclaimed,
"Miserable wretch! who taught you to address me that question?"
The poor O-Morphi, almost dead with fright, threw herself on her
knees, and confessed the truth.
The king left her and never would see her again. The Countess de
Valentinois was exiled for two years from the court. Louis XV., who
knew how wrongly he was behaving towards his wife as a husband, would
not deserve any reproach at her hands as a king, and woe to anyone
who forgot the respect due to the queen!
The French are undoubtedly the most witty people in Europe, and
perhaps in the whole world, but Paris is, all the same, the city for
impostors and quacks to make a fortune. When their knavery is found
out people turn it into a joke and laugh, but in the midst of the
merriment another mountebank makes his appearance, who does something
more wonderful than those who preceded him, and he makes his fortune,
whilst the scoffing of the people is in abeyance. It is the
unquestionable effects of the power which fashion has over that
amiable, clever, and lively nation. If anything is astonishing, no
matter how extravagant it may be, the crowd is sure to welcome it
greedily, for anyone would be afraid of being taken for a fool if he
should exclaim, "It is impossible!" Physicians are, perhaps, the
only men in France who know that an infinite gulf yawns between the
will and the deed, whilst in Italy it is an axiom known to everybody;
but I do not mean to say that the Italians are superior to the
French.
A certain painter met with great success for some time by announcing
a thing which was an impossibility--namely, by pretending that he
could take a portrait of a person without seeing the individual, and
only from the description given. But he wanted the description to be
thoroughly accurate. The result of it was that the portrait did
greater honour to the person who gave the description than--to the
painter himself, but at the same time the informer found himself
under the obligation of finding the likeness very good; otherwise the
artist alleged the most legitimate excuse, and said that if the
likeness was not perfect the fault was to be ascribed to the person
who had given an imperfect description.
One evening I was taking supper at Silvia's when one of the guests
spoke of that wonderful new artist, without laughing, and with every
appearance of believing the whole affair.
"That painter," added he, "has already painted more than one hundred
portraits, and they are all perfect likenesses."
Everybody was of the same opinion; it was splendid. I was the only
one who, laughing heartily, took the liberty of saying it was absurd
and impossible. The gentleman who had brought the wonderful news,
feeling angry, proposed a wager of one hundred louis. I laughed all
the more because his offer could not be accepted unless I exposed
myself to being made a dupe.
"But the portraits are all admirable likenesses."
"I do not believe it, or if they are then there must be cheating
somewhere."
But the gentleman, being bent upon convincing Silvia and me--for she
had taken my part proposed to make us dine with the artist; and we
accepted.
The next day we called upon the painter, where we saw a quantity of
portraits, all of which the artist claimed to be speaking likenesses;
as we did not know the persons whom they represented we could not
deny his claim.
"Sir," said Silvia to the artist, "could you paint the likeness of my
daughter without seeing her?"
"Yes, madam, if you are certain of giving me an exact description of
the expression of her features."
We exchanged a glance, and no more was said about it. The painter
told us that supper was his favourite meal, and that he would be
delighted if we would often give him the pleasure of our company.
Like all quacks, he possessed an immense quantity of letters and
testimonials from Bordeaux, Toulouse, Lyons, Rouen, etc., which paid
the highest compliments to the perfection of his portraits, or gave
descriptions for new pictures ordered from him. His portraits, by
the way, had to be paid for in advance.
Two or three days afterwards I met his pretty niece, who obligingly
upbraided me for not having yet availed myself of her uncle's
invitation to supper; the niece was a dainty morsel worthy of a king,
and, her reproaches being very flattering to my vanity I promised I
would come the next day. In less than a week it turned out a serious
engagement. I fell in love with the interesting niece, who, being
full of wit and well disposed to enjoy herself, had no love for me,
and granted me no favour. I hoped, and, feeling that I was caught, I
felt it was the only thing I could do.
One day that I was alone in my room, drinking my coffee and thinking
of her, the door was suddenly opened without anyone being announced,
and a young man came in. I did not recollect him, but, without
giving me time to ask any questions, he said to me,
"Sir, I have had the honour of meeting you at the supper-table of M.
Samson, the painter."
"Ah! yes; I beg you to excuse me, sir, I did not at first recollect
you."
"It is natural, for your eyes are always on Mdlle. Samson."
"Very likely, but you must admit that she is a charming creature."
"I have no difficulty whatever in agreeing with you; to my misery, I
know it but too well."
"You are in love with her?"
"Alas, yes! and I say, again, to my misery."
"To your misery? But why, do not you gain her love?"
"That is the very thing I have been striving for since last year, and
I was beginning to have some hope when your arrival has reduced me to
despair."
"I have reduced you to despair?"
"Yes, sir."
"I am very sorry, but I cannot help it."
"You could easily help it; and, if you would allow me, I could
suggest to you the way in which you could greatly oblige me."
"Speak candidly."
"You might never put your foot in the house again."
"That is a rather singular proposal, but I agree that it is truly the
only thing I can do if I have a real wish to oblige you. Do you
think, however, that in that case you would succeed in gaining her
affection?"
"Then it will be my business to succeed. Do not go there again, and
I will take care of the rest."
"I might render you that very great service; but you must confess
that you must have a singular opinion of me to suppose that I am a
man to do such a thing."
"Yes, sir, I admit that it may appear singular; but I take you for a
man of great sense and sound intellect, and after considering the
subject deeply I have thought that you would put yourself in my
place; that you would not wish to make me miserable, or to expose
your own life for a young girl who can have inspired you with but a
passing fancy, whilst my only wish is to secure the happiness or the
misery of my life, whichever it may prove, by uniting her existence
with mine."
"But suppose that I should intend, like you, to ask her in marriage?"
"Then we should both be worthy of pity, and one of us would have
ceased to exist before the other obtained her, for as long as I shall
live Mdlle. Samson shall not be the wife of another."
This young man, well-made, pale, grave, as cold as a piece of marble,
madly in love, who, in his reason mixed with utter despair, came to
speak to me in such a manner with the most surprising calm, made me
pause and consider. Undoubtedly I was not afraid, but although in
love with Mdlle. Samson I did not feel my passion sufficiently strong
to cut the throat of a man for the sake of her beautiful eyes, or to
lose my own life to defend my budding affection. Without answering
the young man, I began to pace up and down my room, and for a quarter
of an hour I weighed the following question which I put to myself:
Which decision will appear more manly in the eyes of my rival and
will win my own esteem to the deeper degree, namely-to accept coolly
his offer to cut one another's throats, or to allay his anxiety by
withdrawing from the field with dignity?
Pride whispered, Fight; Reason said, Compel thy rival to acknowledge
thee a wiser man than he is.
"What would you think of me, sir," I said to him, with an air of
decision, "if I consented to give up my visits to Mdlle. Samson?"
"I would think that you had pity on a miserable man, and I say that
in that case you will ever find me ready to shed the last drop of my
blood to prove my deep gratitude."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Garnier, I am the only son of M. Garnier, wine merchant
in the Rue de Seine."
"Well, M. Gamier, I will never again call on Mdlle. Samson. Let us
be friends."
"Until death. Farewell, sir."
"Adieu, be happy!"
Patu came in five minutes after Garnier had left me: I related the
adventure to him, and he thought I was a hero.
"I would have acted as you have done," he observed, "but I would not
have acted like Garnier."
It was about that time that the Count de Melfort, colonel of the
Orleans regiment, entreated me through Camille, Coraline's sister, to
answer two questions by means of my cabalism. I gave two answers
very vague, yet meaning a great deal; I put them under a sealed
envelope and gave them to Camille, who asked me the next day to
accompany her to a place which she said she could not name to me.
I followed her; she took me to the Palais-Royal, and then, through a
narrow staircase, to the apartments of the Duchess de Chartres.
I waited about a quarter of an hour, at the end of which time the
duchess came in and loaded Camille with caresses for having brought
me. Then addressing herself to me, she told me, with dignity yet
very graciously, the difficulty she experienced in understanding the
answers I had sent and which she was holding in her hand. At first I
expressed some perplexity at the questions having emanated from her
royal highness, and I told her afterwards that I understood cabalism,
but that I could not interpret the meaning of the answers obtained
through it, and that her highness must ask new questions likely to
render the answers easier to be understood. She wrote down all she
could not make out and all she wanted to know.
"Madam, you must be kind enough to divide the questions, for the
cabalistic oracle never answers two questions at the same time."
"Well, then, prepare the questions yourself."
"Your highness will excuse me, but every word must be written with
your own hand. Recollect, madam, that you will address yourself to a
superior intelligence knowing all your secrets"
She began to write, and asked seven or eight questions. She read
them over carefully, and said, with a face beaming with noble
confidence,
"Sir, I wish to be certain that no one shall ever know what I have
just written."
"Your highness may rely on my honour."
I read attentively, and I saw that her wish for secrecy was
reasonable, and that if I put the questions in my pocket I should run
the risk of losing them and implicating myself.
"I only require three hours to complete my task," I said to the
duchess, "and I wish your highness to feel no anxiety. If you have
any other engagement you can leave me here alone, provided I am not
disturbed by anybody. When it is completed, I will put it all in a
sealed envelope; I only want your highness to tell me to whom I must
deliver the parcel."
"Either to me or to Madame de Polignac, if you know her."
"Yes, madam, I have the honour to know her."
The duchess handed me a small tinder-box to enable me to light a wax-
candle, and she went away with Camille. I remained alone locked up
in the room, and at the end of three hours, just as I had completed
my task, Madame de Polignac came for the parcel and I left the
palace.
The Duchess de Chartres, daughter of the Prince of Conti, was twenty-
six years of age. She was endowed with that particular sort of wit
which renders a woman adorable. She was lively, above the prejudices
of rank, cheerful, full of jest, a lover of pleasure, which she
preferred to a long life. "Short and sweet," were the words she had
constantly on her lips. She was pretty but she stood badly, and used
to laugh at Marcel, the teacher of graceful deportment, who wanted to
correct her awkward bearing. She kept her head bent forward and her
feet turned inside when dancing; yet she was a charming dancer.
Unfortunately her face was covered with pimples, which injured her
beauty very greatly. Her physicians thought that they were caused by
a disease of the liver, but they came from impurity of the blood,
which at last killed her, and from which she suffered throughout her
life.
The questions she had asked from my oracle related to affairs
connected with her heart, and she wished likewise to know how she
could get rid of the blotches which disfigured her. My answers were
rather obscure in such matters as I was not specially acquainted
with, but they were very clear concerning her disease, and my oracle
became precious and necessary to her highness.
The next day, after dinner, Camille wrote me a note, as I expected,
requesting me to give up all other engagements in order to present
myself at five o'clock at the Palais-Royal, in the same room in which
the duchess had already received me the day before. I was punctual.
An elderly valet de chambre, who was waiting for me, immediately went
to give notice of my arrival, and five minutes after the charming
princess made her appearance. After addressing me in a very
complimentary manner, she drew all my answers from her pocket, and
enquired whether I had any pressing engagements.
"Your highness may be certain that I shall never have any more
important business than to attend to your wishes."
"Very well; I do not intend to go out, and we can work."
She then shewed me all the questions which she had already prepared
on different subjects, and particularly those relating to the cure of
her pimples. One circumstance had contributed to render my oracle
precious to her, because nobody could possibly know it, and I had
guessed it. Had I not done so, I daresay it would have been all the
same. I had laboured myself under the same disease, and I was enough
of a physician to be aware that to attempt the cure of a cutaneous
disease by active remedies might kill the patient.
I had already answered that she could not get rid of the pimples on
her face in less than a week, but that a year of diet would be
necessary to effect a radical cure.
We spent three hours in ascertaining what she was to do, and,
believing implicitly in the power and in the science of the oracle,
she undertook to follow faithfully everything ordered. Within one
week all the ugly pimples had entirely disappeared.
I took care to purge her slightly; I prescribed every day what she
was to eat, and forbade the use of all cosmetics; I only advised her
to wash herself morning and evening with plantain water. The modest
oracle told the princess to make use of the same water for her
ablutions of every part of her body where she desired to obtain the
same result, and she obeyed the prescription religiously.
I went to the opera on purpose on the day when the duchess shewed
herself there with a smooth and rosy shin. After the opera, she took
a walk in the great alley of the Palais-Royal, followed by the ladies
of her suite and flattered by everybody. She saw me, and honoured me
with a smile. I was truly happy. Camille, Madame de Polignac, and
M. de Melfort were the only persons who knew that I was the oracle of
the duchess, and I enjoyed my success. But the next day a few
pimples reappeared on her beautiful complexion, and I received an
order to repair at once to the Palais-Royal.
The valet, who did not know me, shewed me into a delightful boudoir
near a closet in which there was a bath. The duchess came in; she
looked sad, for she had several small pimples on the forehead and the
chin. She held in her hand a question for the oracle, and as it was
only a short one I thought it would give her the pleasure of finding
the answer by herself. The numbers translated by the princess
reproached her with having transgressed the regimen prescribed; she
confessed to having drunk some liquors and eaten some ham; but she
was astounded at having found that answer herself, and she could not
understand how such an answer could result from an agglomeration of
numbers. At that moment, one of her women came in to whisper a few
words to her; she told her to wait outside, and turning towards me,
she said,
"Have you any objection to seeing one of your friends who is as
delicate as discreet?"
With these words, she hastily concealed in her pocket all the papers
which did not relate to her disease; then she called out.
A man entered the room, whom I took for a stableboy; it was M. de
Melfort.
"See," said the princess to him, "M. Casanova has taught me the
cabalistic science."
And she shewed him the answer she had obtained herself. The count
could not believe it.
"Well," said the duchess to me, "we must convince him. What shall I
ask?"
"Anything your highness chooses."
She considered for one instant, and, drawing from her pocket a small
ivory box, she wrote, "Tell me why this pomatum has no longer any
effect"
She formed the pyramid, the columns, and the key, as I had taught
her, and as she was ready to get the answer, I told her how to make
the additions and subtractions which seem to come from the numbers,
but which in reality are only arbitrary; then I told her to interpret
the numbers in letters, and I left the room under some pretext. I
came back when I thought that she had completed her translation, and
I found her wrapped in amazement.
"Ah, sir!" she exclaimed, "what an answer!"
"Perhaps it is not the right one; but that will sometimes happen,
madam."
"Not the right one, sir? It is divine! Here it is: That pomatum has
no effect upon the skin of a woman who has been a mother."
"I do not see anything extraordinary in that answer, madam."
"Very likely, sir, but it is because you do not know that the pomatum
in question was given to me five years ago by the Abbe de Brosses; it
cured me at that time, but it was ten months before the birth of the
Duke de Montpensier. I would give anything in the world to be
thoroughly acquainted with that sublime cabalistic science."
"What!" said the count, "is it the pomatum the history of which I
know?"
"Precisely."
"It is astonishing."
"I wish to ask one more question concerning a woman the name of whom
I would rather not give."
"Say the woman whom I have in my thoughts."
She then asked this question: "What disease is that woman suffering
from?" She made the calculation, and the answer which I made her
bring forth was this: "She wants to deceive her husband." This time
the duchess fairly screamed with astonishment.
It was getting very late, and I was preparing to take leave, when M.
de Melfort, who was speaking to her highness, told me that we might
go together. When we were out, he told me that the cabalistic answer
concerning the pomatum was truly wonderful. This was the history of
it:
"The duchess, pretty as you see her now, had her face so fearfully
covered with pimples that the duke, thoroughly disgusted, had not the
courage to come near her to enjoy his rights as a husband, and the
poor princess was pining with useless longing to become a mother.
The Abbe de Brosses cured her with that pomatum, and her beautiful
face having entirely recovered it original bloom she made her
appearance at the Theatre Francais, in the queen's box. The Duke de
Chartres, not knowing that his wife had gone to the theatre, where
she went but very seldom, was in the king's box. He did not
recognize the duchess, but thinking her very handsome he enquired who
she was, and when he was told he would not believe it; he left the
royal box, went to his wife, complimented her, and announced his
visit for the very same night. The result of that visit was, nine
months afterwards, the birth of the Duke of Montpensier, who is now
five years old and enjoys excellent health. During the whole of her
pregnancy the duchess kept her face smooth and blooming, but
immediately after her delivery the pimples reappeared, and the
pomatum remained without any effect."
As he concluded his explanation, the count offered me a tortoise-
shell box with a very good likeness of her royal highness, and said,
"The duchess begs your acceptance of this portrait, and, in case you
would like to have it set she wishes you to make use of this for that
purpose."
It was a purse of one hundred Louis. I accepted both, and entreated
the count to offer the expressions of my profound gratitude to her
highness. I never had the portrait mounted, for I was then in want
of money for some other purpose.
After that, the duchess did me the honour of sending for me several
times; but her cure remained altogether out of the question; she
could not make up her mind to follow a regular diet. She would
sometimes keep me at work for five or six hours, now in one corner,
now in another, going in and out herself all the time, and having
either dinner or supper brought to me by the old valet, who never
uttered a word.
Her questions to the oracle alluded only to secret affairs which she
was curious to know, and she often found truths with which I was not
myself acquainted, through the answers. She wished me to teach her
the cabalistic science, but she never pressed her wish upon me. She,
however, commissioned M. de Melfort to tell me that, if I would teach
her, she would get me an appointment with an income of twenty-five
thousand francs. Alas! it was impossible! I was madly in love with
her, but I would not for the world have allowed her to guess my
feelings. My pride was the corrective of my love. I was afraid of
her haughtiness humiliating me, and perhaps I was wrong. All I know
is that I even now repent of having listened to a foolish pride. It
is true that I enjoyed certain privileges which she might have
refused me if she had known my love.
One day she wished my oracle to tell her whether it was possible to
cure a cancer which Madame de la Popeliniere had in the breast; I
took it in my head to answer that the lady alluded to had no cancer,
and was enjoying excellent health.
"How is that?" said the duchess; "everyone in Paris believes her to
be suffering from a cancer, and she has consultation upon
consultation. Yet I have faith in the oracle."
Soon afterwards, seeing the Duke de Richelieu at the court, she told
him she was certain that Madame de la Popeliniere was not ill. The
marshal, who knew the secret, told her that she was mistaken; but she
proposed a wager of a hundred thousand francs. I trembled when the
duchess related the conversation to me.
"Has he accepted your wages?" I enquired, anxiously.
"No; he seemed surprised; you are aware that he ought to know the
truth."
Three or four days after that conversation, the duchess told me
triumphantly that M. de Richelieu had confessed to her that the
cancer was only a ruse to excite the pity of her husband, with whom
Madame de la Popeliniere wanted to live again on good terms; she
added that the marshal had expressed his willingness to pay one
thousand Louis to know how she had discovered the truth.
"If you wish to earn that sum," said the duchess to me, "I will tell
him all about it."
But I was afraid of a snare; I knew the temper of the marshal, and
the story of the hole in the wall through which he introduced himself
into that lady's apartment, was the talk of all Paris. M. de la
Popeliniere himself had made the adventure more public by refusing to
live with his wife, to whom he paid an income of twelve thousand
francs.
The Duchess de Chartres had written some charming poetry on that
amusing affair; but out of her own coterie no one knew it except the
king, who was fond of the princess, although she was in the habit of
scoffing at him. One day, for instance, she asked him whether it was
true that the king of Prussia was expected in Paris. Louis XV.
having answered that it was an idle rumour,
"I am very sorry," she said, "for I am longing to see a king."
My brother had completed several pictures and having decided on
presenting one to M. de Marigny, we repaired one morning to the
apartment of that nobleman, who lived in the Louvre, where all the
artists were in the habit of paying their court to him. We were
shewn into a hall adjoining his private apartment, and having arrived
early we waited for M. de Marigny. My brother's picture was exposed
there; it was a battle piece in the style of Bourguignon.
The first person who passed through the room stopped before the
picture, examined it attentively, and moved on, evidently thinking
that it was a poor painting; a moment afterwards two more persons
came in, looked at the picture, smiled, and said,
"That's the work of a beginner."
I glanced at my brother, who was seated near me; he was in a fever.
In less than a quarter of an hour the room was full of people, and
the unfortunate picture was the butt of everybody's laughter. My
poor brother felt almost dying, and thanked his stars that no one
knew him personally.
The state of his mind was such that I heartily pitied him; I rose
with the intention of going to some other room, and to console him I
told him that M. de Marigny would soon come, and that his approbation
of the picture would avenge him for the insults of the crowd.
Fortunately, this was not my brother's opinion; we left the room
hurriedly, took a coach, went home, and sent our servant to fetch
back the painting. As soon as it had been brought back my brother
made a battle of it in real earnest, for he cut it up with a sword
into twenty pieces. He made up his mind to settle his affairs in
Paris immediately, and to go somewhere else to study an art which he
loved to idolatry; we resolved on going to Dresden together.
Two or three days before leaving the delightful city of Paris I dined
alone at the house of the gate-keeper of the Tuileries; his name was
Conde. After dinner his wife, a rather pretty woman, presented me
the bill, on which every item was reckoned at double its value. I
pointed it out to her, but she answered very curtly that she could
not abate one sou. I paid, and as the bill was receipted with the
words 'femme Conde', I took the pen and to the word 'Conde' I added
'labre', and I went away leaving the bill on the table.
I was taking a walk in the Tuileries, not thinking any more of my
female extortioner, when a small man, with his hat cocked on one side
of his head and a large nosegay in his button-hole, and sporting a
long sword, swaggered up to me and informed me, without any further
explanation, that he had a fancy to cut my throat.
"But, my small specimen of humanity," I said, "you would require to
jump on a chair to reach my throat. I will cut your ears."
"Sacre bleu, monsieur!"
"No vulgar passion, my dear sir; follow me; you shall soon be
satisfied."
I walked rapidly towards the Porte de 1'Etoile, where, seeing that
the place was deserted, I abruptly asked the fellow what he wanted,
and why he had attacked me.
"I am the Chevalier de Talvis," he answered. "You have insulted an
honest woman who is under my protection; unsheath!"
With these words he drew his long sword; I unsheathed mine; after a
minute or two I lunged rapidly, and wounded him in the breast. He
jumped backward, exclaiming that I had wounded him treacherously.
"You lie, you rascally mannikin! acknowledge it, or I thrust my
sword through your miserable body."
"You will not do it, for I am wounded; but I insist upon having my
revenge, and we will leave the decision of this to competent judges."
"Miserable wrangler, wretched fighter, if you are not satisfied, I
will cut off your ears""
I left him there, satisfied that I had acted according to the laws of
the duello, for he had drawn his sword before me, and if he had not
been skilful enough to cover himself in good time, it was not, of
course, my business to teach him. Towards the middle of August I
left Paris with my brother. I had made a stay of two years in that
city, the best in the world. I had enjoyed myself greatly, and had
met with no unpleasantness except that I had been now and then short
of money. We went through Metz., Mayence, and Frankfort, and arrived
in Dresden at the end of the same month. My mother offered us the
most affectionate welcome, and was delighted to see us again. My
brother remained four years in that pleasant city, constantly engaged
in the study of his art, and copying all the fine paintings of
battles by the great masters in the celebrated Electoral Gallery.
He went back to Paris only when he felt certain that he could set
criticism at defiance; I shall say hereafter how it was that we both
reached that city about the same time. But before that period, dear,
reader, you will see what good and adverse fortune did for or against
me.
My life in Dresden until the end of the carnival in 1753 does not
offer any extraordinary adventure. To please the actors, and
especially my mother, I wrote a kind of melodrama, in which I brought
out two harlequins. It was a parody of the 'Freres Ennemis', by
Racine. The king was highly amused at the comic fancies which filled
my play, and he made me a beautiful present. The king was grand and
generous, and these qualities found a ready echo in the breast of the
famous Count de Bruhl. I left Dresden soon after that, bidding adieu
to my mother, to my brother Francois, and to my sister, then the wife
of Pierre Auguste, chief player of the harpsichord at the Court, who
died two years ago, leaving his widow and family in comfortable
circumstances.
My stay in Dresden was marked by an amorous souvenir of which I got
rid, as in previous similar circumstances, by a diet of six weeks. I
have often remarked that the greatest part of my life was spent in
trying to make myself ill, and when I had succeeded, in trying to
recover my health. I have met with equal success in both things; and
now that I enjoy excellent health in that line, I am very sorry to be
physically unable to make myself ill again; but age, that cruel and
unavoidable disease, compels me to be in good health in spite of
myself. The illness I allude to, which the Italians call 'mal
francais', although we might claim the honour of its first
importation, does not shorten life, but it leaves indelible marks on
the face. Those scars, less honourable perhaps than those which are
won in the service of Mars, being obtained through pleasure, ought
not to leave any regret behind.
In Dresden I had frequent opportunities of seeing the king, who was
very fond of the Count de Bruhl, his minister, because that favourite
possessed the double secret of shewing himself more extravagant even
than his master, and of indulging all his whims.
Never was a monarch a greater enemy to economy; he laughed heartily
when he was plundered and he spent a great deal in order to have
occasion to laugh often. As he had not sufficient wit to amuse
himself with the follies of other kings and with the absurdities of
humankind, he kept four buffoons, who are called fools in Germany,
although these degraded beings are generally more witty than their
masters. The province of those jesters is to make their owner laugh
by all sorts of jokes which are usually nothing but disgusting
tricks, or low, impertinent jests.
Yet these professional buffoons sometimes captivate the mind of their
master to such an extent that they obtain from him very important
favours in behalf of the persons they protect, and the consequence is
that they are often courted by the highest families. Where is the
man who will not debase himself if he be in want? Does not Agamemnon
say, in Homer, that in such a case man must necessarily be guilty of
meanness? And Agamemnon and Homer lived long before our time! It
evidently proves that men are at all times moved by the same motive-
namely, self-interest.
It is wrong to say that the Count de Bruhl was the ruin of Saxony,
for he was only the faithful minister of his royal master's
inclinations. His children are poor, and justify their father's
conduct.
The court at Dresden was at that time the most brilliant in Europe;
the fine arts flourished, but there was no gallantry, for King
Augustus had no inclination for the fair sex, and the Saxons were not
of a nature to be thus inclined unless the example was set by their
sovereign.
At my arrival in Prague, where I did not intend to stop, I delivered
a letter I had for Locatelli, manager of the opera, and went to pay a
visit to Madame Morelli, an old acquaintance, for whom I had great
affection, and for two or three days she supplied all the wants of my
heart.
As I was on the point of leaving Prague, I met in the street my
friend Fabris, who had become a colonel, and he insisted upon my
dining with him. After 'embracing him, I represented to him, but in
vain, that I had made all my arrangements to go away immediately.
"You will go this evening," he said, "with a friend of mine, and you
will catch the coach."
I had to give way, and I was delighted to have done so, for the
remainder of the day passed in the most agreeable manner. Fabris was
longing for war, and his wishes were gratified two years afterwards;
he covered himself with glory.
I must say one word about Locatelli, who was an original character
well worthy to be known. He took his meals every day at a table laid
out for thirty persons, and the guests were his actors, actresses,
dancers of both sexes, and a few friends. He did the honours of his
well-supplied board nobly, and his real passion was good living. I
shall have occasion to mention him again at the time of my journey to
St. Petersburg, where I met him, and where he died only lately at the
age of ninety.
End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of MEMOIRES OF JACQUES CASANOVA
TO PARIS AND PRISON, Vol. 2a, PARIS by Jacques Casanova de Seingalt