I only see one way of providing against such a misfortune. When I have been unfaithful to you I will punish myself by depriving myself of the pleasure of giving you proofs of my affection till I am certain that I can do so without danger.


Ah! you would punish me for your faults, would you? If you love me as I love you, believe me you would find a better remedy than that.


What is that?


You would never be unfaithful to me.


You are right. I am sorry I was not the first to think of this plan, which I promise to follow for the future.


Don’t make any promises, it might prove too difficult to keep them.


I know, that my nephew owes his fortune to you; he is just going to be made general, and I and all the family will be enchanted to make your acquaintance. I have come to offer my services, and to beg that you will dine with me to-day, and on any other day you please when you have nothing better to do, and I hope you will always consider yourself of the family. At the same time I beg of you not to tell anybody that my nephew has become a Catholic, as according to the prejudices of the country it would be a dishonour which would reflect on the whole family.


What, ladies! is not M. de Voltaire good-natured, polite, and affable to you who have been kind enough to act in his plays with him?


Not in the least. When he hears us rehearse he grumbles all the time. We never say a thing to please him: here it is a bad pronunciation, there a tone not sufficiently passionate, sometimes one speaks too softly, sometimes too loudly; and it’s worse when we are acting. What a hubbub there is if one add a syllable, or if some carelessness spoil one of his verses. He frightens us. So and so laughed badly; so and so in Alzire had only pretended to weep.


Does he want you to weep really?


Certainly. He will have real tears. He says that if an actor wants to draw tears he must shed them himself.


I think he is right there; but he should not be so severe with amateurs, above all with charming actresses like you. Such perfection is only to be looked for from professionals, but all authors are the same. They never think that the actor has pronounced the words with the force which the sense, as they see it, requires.


I told him, one day, that it was not my fault if his lines had not the proper force.


I am sure he laughed.


Laughed? No, sneered, for he is a rude and impertinent man.


But I suppose you overlook all these failings?


Not at all; we have sent him about his business.


Sent him about his business?


Yes. He left the house he had rented here, at short notice, and retired to where you will find him now. He never comes to see us now, even if we ask him.


Oh, you do ask him, though you sent him about his business?


We cannot deprive ourselves of the pleasure of admiring his talents, and if we have teased him, that was only from revenge, and to teach him something of the manners of good society.


You have given a lesson to a great master.


Yes; but when you see him mention Lausanne, and see what he will say of us. But he will say it laughingly, that’s his way.


That face pleases me, it is therefore beautiful!


It is a magic which the god of taste distils from my brains through my brushes. It is the divinity of Beauty whom all the world adores, and which no one can define, since no one knows of what it consists. That canvas shews you what a delicate shade there is between beauty and ugliness; and nevertheless this shade seems an enormous difference to those unacquainted with art.


If I write and tell him to think no more of you, I must marry you myself. No.


Take this letter, dearest, and read it, and if you approve its contents put your signature beside mine. Farewell, farewell, we shall see each other again as soon as Lebel comes. Excuse me to-day, my dear fellow, but I will dine with you there to-morrow.


I should never have sold it, for I have no need of money.


In that case I will give it back to you, but promise me never to part with it, and keep the hundred Louis as some small reward of the services you have rendered me. You are about to possess yourself of a treasure which I cannot commend too highly. You are a man of honour; you will appreciate her excellent qualities, and you will know how to make her happy. She will love you only, take care of your household, and keep no secrets from you. She is full of wit and spirits, and will easily disperse the slightest shadow of ill humour which may fall on you.


I am not really gay, but I oblige myself to appear so. I shall not be happy till the scar on my heart has healed. Lebel can only claim my esteem, but I shall be his alone though my love be all for you. When we see each other again, as from what you say I hope we shall, we shall be able to meet as true friends, and perhaps we shall congratulate each other on the wise part we have taken. As for you, though I do not think you will forget me, I am sure that before long some more or less worthy object will replace me and banish your sorrow. I hope it will be so. Be happy. I may be with child; and if it prove to be so, you shall have no cause to complain of my care of your child, which you shall take away when you please. We made an agreement on this point yesterday. We arranged that the marriage should not be consummated for two months; thus we shall be certain whether the child belongs to you or no, and we will let people think that it is the legitimate offspring of our marriage. Lebel conceived this plan that he might have his mind at rest on the supposed force of blood, in which he declares he believes no more than I do. He has promised to love the child as if he were its father. If you write to me, I will keep you acquainted with everything; and if I have the happiness to give you a child, it will be much dearer to me than your ring.


It will be impossible to destroy this prejudice at Geneva, till the Government orders the effacement of an inscription on the church door which everybody reads, and which speaks of the head of the Roman Church in this manner. The people, are wholly ignorant; but I have a niece of twenty, who does not belong to the people in this way. I shall have the honour of making you known to her; she is a theologian, and pretty as well.


I shall be delighted to see her, but God preserve me from arguing with her!


She will make you argue, and I can assure you that it will be a pleasure for you!


We shall see; but will you give me your address?


No sir, but I shall have the honour of conducting you to your inn and acting as your guide.


You will forget Henriette.


What have you been doing this morning, my dear niece?


I have been reading St. Augustine, whom I thought absurd, and I think I can refute him very shortly.


On what point?


Concerning the mother of the Saviour.


What does St. Augustine say?


You have no doubt remarked the passage, uncle. He says that the Virgin Mary conceived Jesus Christ through the ears.


You do not believe that?


Certainly not, and for three good reasons. In the first place because God, being immaterial, had no need of a hole to go in or come out by; in the second place, because the ear has no connection with the womb; and in the third place, because Mary, if she had conceived by the ear, would have given birth by the same channel. This would do well enough for the Catholics, as then they would be reasonable in calling her a virgin before her conception, during her pregnancy, and after she had given birth to the child.


If I were a theologian and allowed myself an exact examination into the miracles, it is possible I should be of your opinion; but as this is by no means the case, I must limit myself to condemning St. Augustine for having analysed the mystery of the Annunciation. I may say, however, that if the Virgin had been deaf, St. Augustine would have been guilty of a manifest absurdity, since the Incarnation would have been an impossibility, as in that case the nerves of the ear would have had no sort of communication with the womb, and the process would have been inconceivable; but the Incarnation is a miracle.


M. de Voltaire, this is the happiest moment of my life. I have been your pupil for twenty years, and my heart is full of joy to see my master.


Honour me with your attendance on my course for twenty years more, and promise me that you will bring me my fees at the end of that time.


Certainly, if you promise to wait for me.


These gentlemen are English. I wish I were.


I know him, but not because I am a Venetian, as seven-eighths of my dear countrymen are not even aware of his existence.


I should have said, as a man of letters.


I know him from having spent two months with him at Padua, seven years ago, and what particularly attracted my attention was the admiration he professed for M. de Voltaire.


That is flattering for me, but he has no need of admiring anyone.


If Algarotti had not begun by admiring others, he would never have made a name for himself. As an admirer of Newton he endeavoured to teach the ladies to discuss the theory of light.


Has he succeeded?


Not as well as M. de Fontenelle in his ‘Plurality of Worlds;’ however, one may say he has succeeded.


True. If you see him at Bologna, tell him I am expecting to hear from him about Russia. He can address my letters to my banker, Bianchi, at Milan, and they will be sent on to me.


I will not fail to do so if I see him.


I have heard that the Italians do not care for his style.


No; all that he writes is full of French idioms. His style is wretched.


But do not these French turns increase the beauty of your language?


They make it insufferable, as French would be mixed with Italian or German even though it were written by M. de Voltaire.


You are right; every language should preserve its purity. Livy has been criticised on this account; his Latin is said to be tainted with patavinity.


When I began to learn Latin, the Abbé Lazzarini told me he preferred Livy to Sallust.


The Abbé Lazzarini, author of the tragedy, ‘Ulisse il giovine’? You must have been very young; I wish I had known him. But I knew the Abbé Conti well; the same that was Newton’s friend, and whose four tragedies contain the whole of Roman history.


I also knew and admired him. I was young, but I congratulated myself on being admitted into the society of these great men. It seems as if it were yesterday, though it is many years ago; and now in your presence my inferiority does not humiliate me. I wish to be the younger son of all humanity.


Better so than to be the chief and eldest. May I ask you to what branch of literature you have devoted yourself?


To none; but that, perhaps, will come afterwards. In the meantime I read as much as I can, and try to study character on my travels.


That is the way to become learned, but the book of humanity is too vast. Reading a history is the easier way.


Yes, if history did not lie. One is not sure of the truth of the facts. It is tiring, while the study of the world is amusing. Horace, whom I know by heart, is my guide-book.


Algarotti, too, is very fond of Horace. Of course you are fond of poetry?


It is my passion.


Have you made many sonnets?


Ten or twelve I like, and two or three thousand which in all probability I have not read twice.


The Italians are mad after sonnets.


Yes; if one can call it a madness to desire to put thought into measured harmony. The sonnet is difficult because the thought has to be fitted exactly into the fourteen lines.


It is Procrustes’ bed, and that’s the reason you have so few good ones. As for us, we have not one; but that is the fault of our language.


And of the French genius, which considers that a thought when extended loses all its force.


And you do not think so?


Pardon me, it depends on the kind of thought. A witty saying, for example, will not make a sonnet; in French or Italian it belongs to the domain of epigram.


What Italian poet do you like best?


Ariosto; but I cannot say I love him better than the others, for he is my only love.


You know the others, though?


I think I have read them all, but all their lights pale before Ariosto’s. Fifteen years ago I read all you have written against him, and I said that you would retract when you had read his works.


I am obliged to you for thinking that I had not read them. As a matter of fact I had done so, but I was young. I knew Italian very imperfectly, and being prejudiced by the learned Italians who adore Tasso I was unfortunate enough to publish a criticism of Ariosto which I thought my own, while it was only the echo of those who had prejudiced me. I adore your Ariosto!


Ah! M. de Voltaire, I breathe again. But be good enough to have the work in which you turned this great man into ridicule excommunicated.


What use would that be? All my books are excommunicated; but I will give you a good proof of my retractation.


And I, sir, will let all Europe know of the amends I owe to the greatest genius our continent has produced.


Yes, but not the finest.


It ought to be; for without it Signor Lodovico would not have gained his apotheosis.


He has been canonised, then? I was not aware of that.


Are you thinking, of some more than human passage?


Yes,


What passage is that?


The last thirty-six stanzas of the twenty-third canto, where the poet describes in detail how Roland became mad. Since the world has existed no one has discovered the springs of madness, unless Ariosto himself, who became mad in his old age. These stanzas are terrible, and I am sure they must have made you tremble.


Yes, I remember they render love dreadful. I long to read them again.


Perhaps the gentleman will be good enough to recite them,


Willingly, if you will have the goodness to listen to me.


You have learn them by heart, then, have you?


Yes, it was a pleasure and no trouble. Since I was sixteen, I have read over Ariosto two or three times every year; it is my passion, and the lines naturally become linked in my memory without my having given myself any pains to learn them. I know it all, except his long genealogies and his historical tirades, which fatigue the mind and do not touch the heart. It is only Horace that I know throughout, in spite of the often prosaic style of his epistles, which are certainly far from equalling Boileau’s.


Boileau is often too lengthy; I admire Horace, but as for Ariosto, with his forty long cantos, there is too much of him.


It is fifty-one cantos, M. de Voltaire.


Come, come, let us hear the thirty-six stanzas which earned the author the title of divine, and which are to make us tremble.


I always said so; the secret of drawing tears is to weep one’s self, but they must be real tears, and to shed them the heart must be stirred to its depths. I am obliged to you, sir, and I promise to recite the same stanzas myself to-morrow, and to weep like you.


It is astonishing, that intolerant Rome should not have condemned the song of Roland.


Far from it. Leo X. excommunicated whoever should dare to condemn it. The two great families of Este and Medici interested themselves in the poet’s favour. Without that protection it is probable that the one line on the donation of Rome by Constantine to Silvester, where the poet speaks ‘puzza forte’ would have sufficed to put the whole poem under an interdict.


I believe, that the line which has excited the most talk is that in which Ariosto throws doubt on the general resurrection. Ariosto, in speaking of the hermit who would have hindered Rhodomonte from getting possession of Isabella, widow of Zerbin, paints the African, who wearied of the hermit’s sermons, seizes him and throws him so far that he dashes him against a rock, against which he remains in a dead swoon, so that ‘che al novissimo di forse fia desto’.


It is a pity, that Ariosto was not more careful in these hyperbolical expressions.


Be quiet, niece, they are full of wit. They are all golden grains, which are dispersed throughout the work in the best taste.


If I liked to play it at his house he would write to M. de Chavigni to send the Lindane, and that he himself would play Montrose.


Sir. I have only come to Geneva to have the honour of seeing you, and now that I have obtained that favour I have nothing more to do.


Have you come to speak to me, or for me to speak to you?


In a measure, of course, to speak to you, but much more for you to speak to me.


Then stay here three days at least; come to dinner every day, and we will have some conversation.


I was present,


at your argument with the great man, and though I did not open my mouth I should much like to have an hour’s talk with you.


I shall wait for you,


Very good, but don’t tell anyone of the party.


Yes, provided he resigns himself to play the part of a dumb man. 'Tis the Rhone, which I send into France.


It does not cost you much in carriage, at all events,


This, is the only tragicomic poem which Italy has. Tassoni was a monk, a wit and a genius as well as a poet.


I will grant his poetical ability but not his learning, for he ridiculed the system of Copernicus, and said that if his theories were followed astronomers would not be able to calculate lunations or eclipses.


Where does he make that ridiculous remark?


In his academical discourses.


I have not read them, but I will get them. But Tassoni has criticised Petrarch very ingeniously.


Yes, but he has dishonoured taste and literature, like Muratori.


Here he is. You must allow that his learning is immense.


Est ubi peccat.


That’s my correspondence. You see before you nearly fifty thousand letters, to which I have replied.


Have you a copy of your answers?


Of a good many of them. That’s the business of a servant of mine, who has nothing else to do.


I know plenty of booksellers who would give a good deal to get hold of your answers.


Yes; but look out for the booksellers when you publish anything, if you have not yet begun; they are greater robbers than Barabbas.


I shall not have anything to do with these gentlemen till I am an old man.


Then they will be the scourge of your old age. Where’s that from?


It’s a line from a celebrated poem in twenty-four cantos.


Celebrated?


Yes; and, what is more, worthy of being celebrated; but to appreciate it one must understand the Mantuan dialect.


I could make it out, if you could get me a copy.


I shall have the honour of presenting you with one to-morrow.


You will oblige me extremely.


Ladies, if you like, I will shew you all three, one after the other, why the sentence, ‘Gaudeant bene nati’, was uttered”;


You, are the only man besides myself they know. You shall see them again, but I beg you will take care not to leave anything behind you, for in this town of prejudices that would be a great misfortune for them and for me.


You are always moderate in your enjoyment, then?


Unfortunately, that is no merit as far as I am concerned. I was born for the service of love, and Venus has punished me for worshipping her when I was too young.


Do you know, the Marquis Albergati Capacelli, senator of Bologna, and Count Paradisi?


I do not know Paradisi, but I know Albergati by sight and by reputation; he is not a senator, but one of the Forty, who at Bologna are Fifty.


Dear me! That seems rather a riddle!


Do you know him?


No, but he has sent me Goldoni’s ‘Theatre,’ the translation of my Tancred, and some Bologna sausages, and he says he will come and see me.


He will not come; he is not such a fool.


How a fool? Would there be anything foolish in coming to see me?


Certainly not, as far as you are concerned; but very much so far his own sake.


Would you mind telling me why?


He knows what he would lose; for he enjoys the idea you seem to have of him, and if he came you would see his nothingness, and good-bye to the illusion. He is a worthy man with six thousand sequins a year, and a craze for the theatre. He is a good actor enough, and has written several comedies in prose, but they are fit neither for the study nor the stage.


You certainly give him a coat which does not make him look any bigger.


I assure you it is not quite small enough.


But tell me how he can belong to the Forty and the Fifty?


Just as at Bale noon is at eleven.


I understand; just as your Council of Ten is composed of seventeen members.


Exactly; but the cursed Forty of Bologna are men of another kind.


Why cursed?


Because they are not subject to the fisc, and are thus enabled to commit whatever crimes they like with perfect impunity; all they have got to do is to live outside the state borders on their revenues.


That is a blessing, and not a curse; but let me return to our subject. I suppose the Marquis Albergati is a man of letters?


He writes well enough, but he is fond of the sound of his own voice, his style is prolix, and I don’t think he has much brains.


He is an actor, I think you said?


Yes, and a very good one, above all, when he plays the lover’s part in one of his own plays.


Is he a handsome man?


Yes, on the stage, but not elsewhere; his face lacks expression.


But his plays give satisfaction?


Not to persons who understand play writing; they would be hissed if they were intelligible.


And what do you think of Goldoni?


I have the highest opinion of him. Goldoni is the Italian Moliere.


Why does he call himself poet to the Duke of Parma?


No doubt to prove that a wit as well as a fool has his weak points; in all probability the duke knows nothing about it. He also calls himself a barrister, though he is such only in his own imagination. Goldoni is a good play writer, and nothing more. Everybody in Venice knows me for his friend, and I can therefore speak of him with authority. He does not shine in society, and in spite of the fine satire of his works he is a man of an extremely gentle disposition.


So I have been told. He is poor, and wants to leave Venice. The managers of the theatres where they play his pieces will not like that.


People talked about getting him a pension, but the project has been relegated to the Greek Kalends, as they said that if he had a pension he would write no more.


Cumae refused to give a pension to Homer, for fear that all the blind men would ask for a pension. not the first Adam.


That feeling which prevents our shewing those parts which we have been taught to cover from our childhood, may often proceed from virtue, but is weaker than the force of education, as it cannot resist an attack when the attacking party knows what he is about. I think the easiest way to vanquish modesty is to ignore its presence, to turn it into ridicule, to carry it by storm. Victory is certain. The hardihood of the assailer subdues the assailed, who usually only wishes to be conquered, and nearly always thanks you for your victory. Clement of Alexandria, a learned man and a philosopher, has remarked that the modesty which appears so deeply rooted in women’s hearts really goes no farther than the clothes they wear, and that when these are plucked off no trace of it remains.


My dear girls, I care more for your honour than your beauty; but do not think I am going to shut myself in a piece of dead skin to prove that I am alive. Here, is a surer and less disagreeable way of securing you from any unpleasant consequences. After fifteen years’ experience I can assure you that with these golden balls you can give and take without running the least risk. For the future you will have no need of those humiliating sheaths. Trust in me and accept this little present from a Venetian who adores you.


We are very grateful, but how are these pretty balls used?


The ball has to be at the rear of the temple of love, whilst the amorous couple are performing the sacrifice. The antipathy communicated to the metal by its being soaked for a certain time in an alkaline solution prevents impregnation.


But, one must take great care that the ball is not shaken out by the motion before the end of the sacrifice.


You needn’t be afraid of that if you place yourself in a proper position.


Let us see how it’s done,


You certainly gave it me with good intentions, but I owe you no thanks for praising it so highly, as you made me lose four hours in reading nonsense. That’s true, but as for your Merlin, I will read him no more. I have put him beside Chapelain’s ‘Pucelle’.


Which pleases all the critics, in spite of its bad versification, for it is a good poem, and Chapelain was a real poet though he wrote bad verses. I cannot overlook his genius.


Crebillon! You cite a weighty authority. But how is my friend Crebillon your master, may I ask?


He taught me to speak French in less than two years, and as a mark of my gratitude I translated his Radamiste into Italian Alexandrines. I am the first Italian who has dared to use this metre in our language.


The first? I beg your pardon, as that honour belongs to my friend Pierre Jacques Martelli.


I am sorry to be obliged to tell you that you are making a mistake.


Why, I have his works, printed at Bologna, in my room!


I don’t deny that, I am only talking about the metre used by Martelli. What you are thinking of must be verses of fourteen syllables; without alternative masculine and feminine rhymes. However, I confess that he thinks he has imitated the French Alexandrines, and his preface made me explode with laughter. Did you read it?


Read it? I always read prefaces, and Martelli proves there that his verses have the same effect in Italian as our Alexandrine verses have in French.


Exactly, that’s what’s so amusing. The worthy man is quite mistaken, and I only ask you to listen to what I have to say on the subject. Your masculine verse has only twelve poetic syllables, and the feminine thirteen. All Martelli’s lines have fourteen syllables, except those that finish with a long vowel, which at the end of a line always counts as two syllables. You will observe that the first hemistitch in Martelli always consists of seven syllables, while in French it only has six. Your friend Pierre Jacques was either stone deaf or very hard of hearing.


Then you have followed our theory of versification rigorously.


Just so, in spite of the difficulty, as nearly all our words end with a short syllable.


What reception has been accorded to your innovation?


It has not been found pleasing, because nobody knows how to recite my verses; but I hope to triumph when I deliver them myself before our literary clubs.


Do you remember any of your version of the Radamiste?


I remember it all.


You have a wonderful memory; I should be glad to hear it.


It doesn’t strike one as at all harsh,


Which is that?


You do not write, ‘Contentus paucis lectoribus’.


If Horace had had to combat the hydra-headed monster of superstition, he would have written as I have written--for all the world.


It seems to me that you might spare yourself the trouble of combating what you will never destroy.


That which I cannot finish others will, and I shall always have the glory of being the first in the field.


Very good; but supposing you succeed in destroying superstition, what are you going to put in its place?


I like that. If I deliver the race of man from a wild beast which is devouring it, am I to be asked what I intend to put in its place?


It does not devour it; on the contrary, it is necessary to its existence.


Necessary to its existence! That is a horrible blasphemy, the falsity of which will be seen in the future. I love the human race; I would fain see men like myself, free and happy, and superstition and freedom cannot go together. Where do you find an enslaved and yet a happy people?


You wish, then, to see the people sovereign?


God forbid! There must be a sovereign to govern the masses.


In that case you must have superstition, for without it the masses will never obey a mere man decked with the name of monarch.


I will have no monarch; the word expresses despotism, which I hate as I do slavery.


What do you mean, then? If you wish to put the government in the hands of one man, such a man, I maintain, will be a monarch.


I would have a sovereign ruler of a free people, of which he is the chief by an agreement which binds them both, which would prevent him from becoming a tyrant.


Addison will tell you that such a sovereign is a sheer impossibility. I agree with Hobbes, of two evils choose the least. A nation without superstition would be a nation of philosophers, and philosophers would never obey. The people will only be happy when they are crushed and down-trodden, and bound in chains.


This is horrible; and you are of the people yourself. If you have read my works you must have seen how I shew that superstition is the enemy of kings.


Read your works? I have read and re-read them, especially in places where I have differed from you. Your ruling passion is the love of humanity. ‘Est ubi peccas’. This blinds you. Love humanity, but love it as it is. It is not fit to receive the blessings you would lavish on it, and which would only make it more wretched and perverse. Leave men their devouring monster, it is dear to them. I have never laughed so heartily as at Don Quixote assailed by the galley-slaves whom his generosity had set free.


I am sorry that you have such a bad opinion of your fellow-creatures. And by the way, tell me whether there is freedom in Venice.


As much as can be expected under an aristocracy. Our liberty is not so great as that which the English enjoy, but we are content.


Even under The Leads?


My imprisonment was certainly despotic; but as I had knowingly abused my liberty I am satisfied that the Government was within its rights in shutting me up without the usual formalities.


All the same, you made your escape.


I used my rights as they had used theirs.


Very good! But as far as I can see, no one in Venice is really free.


That may be; but you must agree that the essence of freedom consists in thinking you have it.


I shall not agree to that so easily. You and I see liberty from very different points of view. The aristocrats, the members of the Government even, are not free at Venice; for example, they cannot travel without permission.


True, but that is a restriction of their own making to preserve their power. Would you say that a Bernese is not free, because he is subject to the sumptuary laws, which he himself had made.


Well, well, I wish the people made the laws everywhere.


From Roche,


I should have been very sorry to leave Switzerland without seeing the famous Haller. In my travels I render homage to my learned contemporaries, and you come the last and best.


You must have liked Haller.


I spent three of the happiest days of my life with him.


I congratulate you. He is a great man and worthy of all honour.


I think as you do, and I am glad to hear you doing him justice; I am sorry he was not so just towards you.


Well, you see we may be both of us mistaken.


I challenge you to prove that you are speaking the truth,


Why has he gone?


he said he was going to stay here for another week.


So many of them,


are not worthy the trouble.


The place next to you was conveniently empty,


Very conveniently, for my neighbour wearied me.


Had he no appetite?


Gamesters only have an appetite for money.


Usually, but your power is extraordinary; for I have never made two dinners on one day before now.


Only out of pride; as I am sure you will eat no supper.


Let us make a bet on it.


We will; we will bet the supper.


All right.


It is my business,


to order the supper.


Yes, you are right; for he who pays, orders. My part will be to oppose you to the knife, and if I eat as much as you I shall be the winner.


Very good.


I knew a man of that name,


at Paris; he came from Lyons, and owes me a pair of ears, which I mean to cut off his head when I meet him.


No, would you like to see your room?


It’s all I can offer you, but I will have a good bed, a table, and chairs taken there.


You will sleep in my room, take care to provide yourself with a bed, and bring my baggage in.


What do you think of Gilbert, sir? I only recognized him just as he was going, and I had a lively desire to take him by the back of his neck.


You would have done well to have satisfied that desire.


I will, when I see him again.


I am the only one, who takes them out of necessity. I am consumptive; I get thinner every day, and if the waters don’t do me any good I shall not last much longer.


So all the others have only come here for amusement’s sake?


And to game, sir, for they are all professional gamesters.


Are they French?


They are all from Piedmont or Savoy; I am the only Frenchman here.


What part of France do you come from?


From Lorraine; my father, who is eighty years old, is the Marquis Desarmoises. He only keeps on living to spite me, for as I married against his wishes he has disinherited me. However, as I am his only son, I shall inherit his property after his death, in spite of him. My house is at Lyons, but I never go there, as I have the misfortune to be in love with my eldest daughter, and my wife watches us so closely as to make my courtship hopeless.


That is very fine; otherwise, I suppose, your daughter would take pity on her amorous papa?


I daresay, for she is very fond of me, and has an excellent heart.


In spite of your father’s sternness, you live very well.


On the contrary, I live very ill. I enjoy a pension from the Government, which I surrender to my wife, and as for me I make a livelihood on my travels. I play black gammon and most other games perfectly. I win more often than I lose, and I live on my winnings.


But is what you have told me about your daughter known to the visitors here?


Everybody knows it; why should I hide it? I am a man of honour and injure no one; and, besides, my sword is sharp.


Quite so; but would you tell me whether you allow your daughter to have a lover?


I should have no objection, but my wife is religious.


Is your daughter pretty?


Very; if you are going to Lyons, you can go and see her; I will give you a letter of introduction for her.


Thank you, but I am going to Italy. Can you tell me the name of the gentleman who kept the bank?


That is the famous Parcalier, Marquis de Prie since the death of his father, whom you may have known as ambassador at Venice. The gentleman who asked you if you knew the Abbé Gilbert is the Chevalier Zeroli, husband of the lady you are to sup with. The rest are counts, marquises, and barons of the usual kind, some from Piedmont and some from Savoy. Two or three are merchants’ sons, and the ladies are all their friends or relations. They are all professional gamblers and sharp-witted. When a stranger comes here they know how to get over him, and if he plays it is all up with him, for they go together like pickpockets at a fair. They think they have got you, so take care of yourself.


I am good for another two hundred louis,


I should be glad to continue playing, if I had not to go at day-break


Very good, but I will wager that you will not go for all that.


The too charming and hapless M---- M----, must have left her convent, desperate--nay, mad; for why does she still wear the habit of her order? Perhaps, though, she has got a dispensation to come here for the waters; that must be the reason why she has a nun with her, and why she has not left off her habit. At all events the journey must have been undertaken under false pretences. Has she abandoned herself to some fatal passion, of which the result has been pregnancy? She is doubtless perplexed, and must have been pleased to see me. I will not deceive her expectations; I will do all in my power to convince her that I am worthy of her.


She takes the waters,


but she does not speak to anyone.


Where does she come from?


Nobody knows; she lives in a peasant’s house.


Sir, the young nun begs you to return this evening at nine o’clock; the lay-sister will be asleep then, and she will be able to speak freely to you.


I thought you were gone?


I am going at two.


But, you have only got to stay.


Give me some hope, and I will stay till to-morrow.


You are in too much of a hurry, take things more quietly. I have persuaded the gentleman to stay till the day after to-morrow.


I am all the more pleased to hear it, my dear, as I owe him his revenge.


I have no time to dress, so I will have my dinner in bed, if you gentlemen will keep me company. Breakfast with me to-morrow morning. We shall be alone.


I have found out the secret; they gave her coachman two Louis to substitute a sick horse for his own.


It’s a matter of give and take. I am in love with the chevalier’s wife, and I am putting off my departure till I have got all I want out of her.


I am afraid you will have to pay pretty dearly for your pleasure. However, I will do what I can for your interests.


Fear nothing; come.


Why, have you not a light? I hope you are going to inform me of an event which seems wonderful to me; quick, dearest, satisfy my impatience.


You surprise me; I do not know M. de Coudert. What! Are you not a Venetian? Are you not the nun I saw this morning? Hapless one! I have made a mistake. I am the nun you saw this morning, but I am French. In the name of God keep my counsel and begone, for I have nothing to say to you! Whisper, for if the lay-sister woke up I should be undone.


Do not be afraid of my discretion. What deceived me was your exact likeness to a nun of your order who will be always dear to me: and if you had not allowed me to see your features I should not have followed you. Forgive the tenderness I shewed towards you, though you must think me very audacious.


You astonished me very much, but you did not offend me. I wish I were the nun in whom you are interested. I am on the brink of a fearful precipice.


If ten louis are any good to you, it will be an honour for me to give you them.


Thank you, I have no need of money. Allow me to give you back the louis you sent me this morning.


The louis was for the country-woman. You increase my surprise; pray tell me what is the misfortune under which you labour, for which money can do nothing.


Perhaps God has sent you to my aid. Maybe you will give me good advice. Listen to what I am about to tell you.


I am at your service, and I will listen with the greatest attention. Let us sit down.


I am afraid there is neither seat nor bed.


Say on, then; we will remain standing.


I come from Grenoble. I was made to take the veil at Chamberi. Two years after my profession, M. de Coudert found means to see me. I received him in the convent garden, the walls of which he scaled, and at last I was so unfortunate as to become pregnant. The idea of giving birth to a child at the convent was too dreadful--I should have languished till I died in a terrible dungeon--and M. de Coudert thought of a plan for taking me out of the convent. A doctor whom he gained over with a large sum of money declared that I should die unless I came here to take the waters, which he declared were the only cure for my illness. A princess whom M. de Coudert knew was partly admitted to the secret, and she obtained the leave of absence for three months from the Bishop of Chamberi, and the abbess consented to my going. I thus hoped to be delivered before the expiration of the three months; but I have assuredly made a mistake, for the time draws to an end and I feel no signs of a speedy delivery. I am obliged to return to the convent, and yet I cannot do so. The lay-sister who is with me is a perfect shrew. She has orders not to let me speak to anybody, and never to let my face be seen. She it was who made me turn when she saw you following us. I lifted my veil for you to see that I was she of whom I thought you were in search, and happily the lay-sister did not notice me. She wants me to return with her to the convent in three days, as she thinks I have an incurable dropsy. She does not allow me to speak to the doctor, whom I might, perhaps, have gained over by telling him the truth. I am only twenty-one, and yet I long for death.


Do not weep so, dear sister, and tell me how you expect to be delivered here without the lay-sister being aware of it?


The worthy woman with whom I am staying is an angel of goodness. I have confided in her, and she promised me that when I felt the pangs coming on she would give that malicious woman a soporific, and thus we should be freed from all fears of her. By virtue of the drug she now sleeps soundly in the room under this garret.


Why was I not let in by the door?


To prevent the woman’s brother seeing you; he is a rude boor.


What made you think that I had anything to do with M. de Coudert?


Ten or twelve days ago, I wrote to him and told him of my dreadful position. I painted my situation with such lively colours that I thought he must do all in his power to help me. As the wretched cling to every straw, I thought, when I saw you following me, that you were the deliverer he had sent.


Are you sure he got your letter?


The woman posted it at Anneci.


You should write to the princess.


I dare not.


I will see her myself, and I will see M. de Coudert. In fine, I will move heaven and earth, I will even go to the bishop, to obtain an extension of your leave; for it is out of the question for you to return to the convent in your present situation. You must decide, for I can do nothing without your consent. Will you trust in me? If so, I will bring you a man’s clothes to-morrow and take you to Italy with me, and while I live I swear I will care for you.


At least be kind enough to take me to the fountain.


I think not. If you take me for a freshman, you make a mistake, and I don’t care to give the impression that I am pleased when I am displeased. You can get whomsoever you please to take you to the fountain, but as for me I must beg to be excused. Farewell, madam.


Gentlemen. I shall rise at eight o’clock precisely.


Will you stake the value of this bill on a card, without knowing its value?


Yes, if you will tell me upon whom it is drawn, and provided that it does not exceed the value of the bank.


The bill is not for so large a sum as your bank, and it is payable at sight by Zappata, of Turin.


Sir, you can draw back if you like.


No, go on.


My lord,


it’s two to one that I do not hold the ace, I repeat you can draw back.


No, no, you are too generous, go on.


What have you decided on doing?


I have decided on nothing, for an unforeseen incident has confounded us. The lay-sister has been asleep for eighteen hours.


She will die of convulsions or of an apoplectic fit to-night if you do not call a doctor, who may possibly restore her to life with a dose of castor oil.


We have thought of that, but we did not dare to take that step for fear of consequences; for whether he restores her or not, he will say that we have poisoned her.


I pity you, upon my soul! Indeed, I believe that it is too late, and that a doctor could do nothing. One must obey the laws of prudence and let her die. The mischief is done, and I see no remedy.


At any rate, we ought to think of her soul and send for a priest.


A priest would do her no good, as she is in a perfect lethargy; her soul is safe enough. Besides, an ignorant priest would find out too much, and would tell the whole story either through malice or stupidity. It will be time to call a priest when she has ceased to breathe. You must tell him that she died very suddenly; you must weep a great deal, and give him a fee, and he will think only of calming your grief, and nothing about the sudden death.


Then we must let her die?


We must leave her to nature.


If she dies I will send a messenger to the abbess, who will dispatch another lay-sister.


Yes, and that will give you another ten days. During that time you may be delivered, and you will confess that every cloud has a silver lining. Do not grieve so, but let us endeavour to submit to the will of God. Send for the country-woman, for I must give her some hints as to her conduct in this delicate matter, on which the honour and life of all three may depend. For instance, if it were discovered that I had come here, I might be taken for the poisoner.


Please let me put on my veil again,


I see you do not believe me, but I assure you that the abbess threatened me with excommunication if I let myself be seen by a man.


Fear these bolts no longer, dear, they cannot hurt you.


Why the night, dearest, while we have the day before us? The night is for slumber, and in the day one enjoys double bliss, since the light allows all the senses to be satisfied at once. If you do not expect anybody, I will pass the whole morning with you.


Very good; nobody will interrupt us.


I promise you, to stay here as long as you continue giving me such marks of your love as you have given me this morning.


Let us get up, then, and go to dinner.


In company, dearest? Look at your eyes.


All the better. People will guess what has happened, and the two countesses will burst with envy. I want everybody to know that it is for me alone that you are remaining at Aix.


I am not worth the trouble, my angel, but so be it; I will gladly oblige you, even though I lose all my money in the next three days.


I should be in despair if you lost; but if you abstain from punting you will not lose, though you may let yourself be robbed.


You may be sure that I know what I am about, and that I shall only allow ladies to rob me. You have had some money out of me yourself.


Yes, but not nearly so much as the countesses, and I am sorry you allowed them to impose on you, as they no doubt put it down to your being in love with them.


They are quite wrong, poor dears, for neither would have kept me here a day.


I am delighted to hear it. But let me tell you what the Marquis of St. Maurice was saying about you yesterday.


Say on. I hope he did not allow himself any offensive remarks.


No; he only said that you should never have offered the Englishman to be off at eight cards, as you had as much chance as he, and if he had won he might have thought that you knew the card was there.


Very good, but tell the marquis that a gentleman is incapable of such a thought, and besides I knew the character of the young nobleman, and I was almost sure he would not accept my offer.


Are you ill?


I was ill for a time, but praised be God! I am now quite well, having given birth to a fine boy at two o’clock this morning.


Where is the child?


Alas! I did but kiss him once, and my good hostess carried him away I know not where. The Holy Virgin heard my prayers, for my pains, though sharp, were soon over, and a quarter of an hour after my delivery I was still sneezing. Tell me whether you are a man or an angel, for I fear lest I sin in adoring you.


This is good news indeed. And how about the lay-sister?


She still breathes, but we have no hope that she will recover. Her face is terribly distorted. We have sinned exceedingly, and God will punish me for it.


No, dearest, God will forgive you, for the Most Holy judges by the heart, and in your heart you had no evil thoughts. Adore Divine Providence, which doeth all things well.


You console me. The country-woman assures me that you are an angel, for the powder you gave me delivered me. I shall never forget you, though I do not know your name.


All will be well, for no one knows if the lay-sister is well or ill, or why the lady does not leave her bed.


What have you done with the child?


I took him with my own hands to Anneci, where I bought everything necessary for the well-being of this lady and for the death of the other one.


Doesn’t your brother know anything about it?


Lord preserve us--no! He went away yesterday, and will not be back for a week. We have nothing to fear.


What news have you?


The lay-sister is dead, and she is to be buried tomorrow. To-morrow is the day we were to have returned to the convent. This is the letter I am sending to the abbess. She will dispatch another laysister, unless she orders the country-woman to bring me back to the convent.


What did the priest say?


He said the lay-sister died of a cerebral lethargy, which super-induced an attack of apoplexy.


Very good, very good.


I want him to say fifteen masses for her, if you will let me?


Certainly, my dear, they will serve as the priest’s reward, or rather as the reward of his happy ignorance.


When you put the child at the hospital door, were you recognized?


Nobody saw me as I put it into the box, and I wrote a note to say the child had not been baptized.


Who wrote the note?


I did.


You will, of course, see that the funeral is properly carried out?


It will only cost six francs, and the parson will take that from two louis which were found on the deceased; the rest will do for masses to atone for her having had the money.


What! ought she not to have had the two louis?


we are forbidden to have any money without the knowledge of the abbess, under pain of excommunication.


What did they give you to come here?


Ten Savoy sols a day. But now I live like a princess, as you shall see at supper, for though this worthy woman knows the money you gave her is for herself she lavishes it on me.


She knows, dear sister, that such is my intention, and here is some more to go on with.


As to my state when I was so fortunate as to meet you, I think he cannot have received my letter.


Possibly, but is he a rich or handsome man?


He is rich but certainly not handsome. On the contrary, he is extremely ugly, deformed, and over fifty.


How did you become amorous of a fellow like that?


I never loved him, but he contrived to gain my pity. I thought he would kill himself, and I promised to be in the garden on the night he appointed, but I only went there with the intention of bidding him begone, and he did so, but after he had carried his evil designs into effect.


Did he use violence towards you, then?


No, for that would have been no use. He wept, threw himself on his knees, and begged so hard, that I let him do what he liked on the condition that he would not kill himself, and that he would come no more to the garden.


Had you no fear of consequences?


I did not understand anything about it; I always thought that one could not conceive under three times at least.


Unhappy ignorance! how many woes are caused by it! Then he did not ask you to give him any more assignations?


He often asked me, but I would not grant his request because our confessor made me promise to withstand him thenceforth, if I wished to be absolved.


Did you tell him the name of the seducer?


Certainly not; the good confessor would not have allowed me to do so; it would have been a great sin.


Did you tell your confessor the state you were in?


No, but he must have guessed it. He is a good old man, who doubtless prayed to God for me, and my meeting you was, perhaps, the answer to his prayers.


Allow me to examine them, I know something about it.


Look!


The beauty of your bosom,


You will lose.


We will see. Here is my hand on the table, and I stake a louis on each of the thirteen cards.


Then I will stop in bed, and indeed I shall be very glad to do so, as I experience great discomfort from the heat of my woollen habit; but I think I should please you more if I were decently dressed; however, as you like it better, I will stop in bed.


I am obliged to you for having shewn me this letter, but be pleased to tell me if I may visit you for the next week or ten days, without doing hurt to your conscience; for I must tell you I am a man. I have only stopped in this place because of the lively interest with which you have inspired me, but if you have the least objection to receive me on account of the singular excommunication with which you are threatened, I will leave Aix tomorrow. Speak.


Sir, our abbess is lavish of these thunders, and I have already incurred the excommunication with which she threatens me; but I hope it will not be ratified by God, as my fault has made me happy and not miserable. I will be sincere with you; your visits are my only joy, and that joy is doubled when you tell me you like to come. But if you can answer my question without a breach of confidence, I should like to know for whom you took me the first time you saw me; you cannot imagine how you astonished and frightened me. I have never felt such kisses as those you lavished on me, but they cannot increase my sin as I was not a consenting party, and you told me yourself that you thought you were kissing another.


I will satisfy your curiosity. I think I can do so as you are aware by this time that the flesh is weak, or rather stronger than the spirit, and that it compels the strongest intellects to commit faults against right reason. You shall hear the history of an amour that lasted for two years with the fairest and the best of all the nuns of Venice.


Tell me all, sir. I have fallen myself, and I should be cruel and unjust if I were to take offence at anything you may tell me, for you cannot have done anything with her that Coudert did not do to me.


I did much more and much less, for I never gave her a child. If I had been so unfortunate I should have carried her off to Rome, where we should have fallen at the feet of the Holy Father, who would have absolved her from her vows, and my dear M---- M---- would now be my wife.


Good heavens M---- M---- is my name.


But is your M---- M---- really so like me, that you mistook me for her?


Judge for yourself.


She really is; it might pass for my portrait. It is my dress and my face; it is wonderful. To this likeness I owe all my good fortune. Thanks be to God that you do not love me as you loved her, whom I am glad to call my sister. There are indeed two M---- M----s. Mighty Providence, all Thy least ways are wonderful, and we are at best poor, weak, ignorant mortals.


I have only one objection to make to that--namely, that if I wanted to play in the same way again he could only prevent me by fighting for it.


His mistress swears she will make you play in the usual way.


In the meanwhile, you can use the cards on the table, which are as good as new.


I want them new, not as good as new. I have my prejudices, and they are so strong as to be invincible. In the meanwhile I shall remain a spectator, though I am sorry to keep the ladies waiting.


How do you feel to-day, madam?


Say daughter, that name is so sweet to me that I would you were my father that I might clasp you in my arms without fearing anyone.


Well, my dear daughter, do not fear anything, but open your arms to me.


I will; we will embrace one another.


My little ones are prettier than they were yesterday let me suck them.


You silly papa, you are drinking your daughter’s milk.


It is so sweet, darling, and the little drop I tasted has made me feel so happy. You cannot be angry at my enjoying this harmless privilege.


Of course I am not angry; you delighted me. But I shall have to call you baby, not papa.


How glad I am to find you in better spirits to-night!


You have given me back my happiness, and I feel at peace once more. The country-woman told me that in a few days I should be just the same as if I had never seen Coudert.


That is not quite true; how about your stomach, for instance?


Be quiet; you can’t know anything about such things, and I am quite astonished myself.


Let me see.


Oh, no; you mustn’t see, but you may feel.


All right.


Oh! please don’t go there.


Why not? You can’t be made differently from your sister, who would be now about thirty. I want to shew you her portrait naked.


Have you got it with you? I should so like to see it.


Certainly. She knew that such a picture would give me pleasure.


It is very fine. It is more like me than the other picture. But I suppose the long hair is only put in to please you?


Not at all. Italian nuns are allowed to wear their hair as long as they please, provided they do not shew it.


We have the same privilege. Our hair is cut once, and then we may let it grow as long as we like.


Then you have long hair?


As long as in the picture; but you would not like my hair as it is black.


Why, black is my favourite colour. In the name of God, let me see it.


You ask me in God’s name to commit a sin; I shall incur another excommunication, but I cannot refuse you anything. You shall see my hair after supper, as I don’t want to scandalize the countrywoman.


You are right; I think you are the sweetest of your sex. I shall die of grief when you leave this cottage to return to your sad prison.


I must indeed return and do penance for my sins.


I hope you have the wit to laugh at the abbess’s silly excommunications?


I begin not to dread them so much as I used to.


I am delighted to hear it, as I see you will make me perfectly happy after supper.


You are handsomer than your sister, but I think she was more affectionate than you.


She may have been more affectionate, but she had not a better heart.


She was much more amorous than you.


I daresay; I have never been in love.


That is strange; how about your nature and the impulse of the senses?


We arrange all that easily at the convent. We accuse ourselves to the confessor, for we know it is a sin, but he treats it as a childish fault, and absolves us without imposing any penances.


He knows human nature, and makes allowances for your sad position.


He is an old man, very learned, and of ascetic habits, but he is all indulgence. It will be a sad day when we lose him.


But in your amorous combats with another nun, don’t you feel as if you would like her to change into a man?


You make me laugh. To be sure, if my sweetheart became a man I should not be sorry, but we do not desire such a miracle.


That is, perhaps, through a coldness of temperament. In that your sister was better, for she liked me much more than C---- C----, and you do not like me as well as the sweetheart you left behind you at the convent.


Certainly not, for with you I should violate my own chastity and expose myself to consequences I tremble to think of.


You do not love me, then?


What are you saying? I adore you, and I am very sorry you are not a woman.


I love you too, but your desire makes me laugh; for I would rather not be turned into a woman to please you, especially as I expect I should not think you nearly as beautiful. Sit down, my dear, and let me see your fine hair flowing over your beautiful body.


Do you want me to take off my chemise?


Of course; how handsome you look without it. Let me suck your pretty breasts, as I am your baby.


If such delights as these were allowed friendship, I should say it is better than love; for I have never experienced so great pleasure as when you put your lips to my bosom. Let me do the same to you.


You must be very rich. Don’t think it, dearest, but I love you passionately; and not being able to give you anything by reason of your unfortunate vow of poverty, I lavish what I possess on this worthy woman, to induce her to spare nothing for your comfort while you are here. Perhaps, too--though it is not a definite thought--I hope that it will make you love me more. How can I love you more than I do? The only thing that makes me unhappy is the idea of returning to the convent. But you told me yesterday that it was exactly that idea which made you happy. I have changed my mind since yesterday. I passed a cruel night, for as soon as I fell asleep I was in your arms, and I awoke again and again on the point of consummating the greatest of crimes. You did not go through such a struggle before committing the same crime with a man you did not love. It is exactly because I did not love him that my sin struck me as venial. Do you understand what I mean? It’s a piece of superstitious metaphysics, but I understand you perfectly. You have made me happy, and I feel very grateful to you, and I feel glad and certain of conquering when I reflect that your situation is different to mine. I will not dispute it with you, although I am sorry for what you say. Why? Because you think yourself in duty bound to refuse caresses which would not hurt you, and which would give me new life and happiness. I have thought it over. Are you weeping? Yes, and what is more, these tears are dear to me. I do not understand. I have two favours to ask of you. Say on, and be sure you will obtain what you ask.


Yesterday, you left in my hands the two portraits of my Venetian sister. I want you to give them to me.


They are yours.


I thank you. My second favour is, that you will be good enough to take my portrait in exchange; you shall have it to-morrow.


I shall be delighted. It will be the most precious of all my jewels, but I wonder how you can ask me to take it as a favour, whereas you are doing me a favour I should never have dared to demand. How shall I make myself worthy of giving you my portrait?


Ah, dearest! it would be a dear possession, but God preserve me from having it at the convent!


I will get myself painted under the costume of St. Louis of Gonzaga, or St. Anthony of Padua.


I shall be damned eternally.


We will say no more about it.


Seeing her fortune made, the worthy woman tries every possible way to convince her benefactor that she is grateful to him. Look at the bed; she was certainly thinking of you, and look at these fine materials. I confess I enjoy their softness extremely. I shall sleep better to-night if I am not plagued by those seductive dreams which tormented me last night.


Do you think that the bed and the fine linen will deliver you from the dreams you fear?


No doubt they will have a contrary effect, for softness irritates the passions. I shall leave everything with the good woman. I do not know what they would say if I took them with me to the convent.


You are not so comfortable there?


Oh, no! A straw bed, a couple of blankets, and sometimes, as a great favour, a thin mattress and two coarse sheets. But you seem sad; you were so happy yesterday.


How can I be happy when I can no longer toy with you without making you unhappy.


You should have said without giving me the greatest delight.


Then will you consent to receive pleasure in return for that which you give me?


But yours is innocent and mine is not.


What would you do, then, if mine and yours were the same?


You might have made me wretched yesterday, for I could not have refused you anything.


Why wretched? You would have had none of those dreams, but would have enjoyed a quiet night. I am very sorry the peasant woman has given you that corset, as otherwise I might at least have seen my little pets without fear of bad dreams.


But you must not be angry with the good woman, for she knows that a corset is easy to unlace. And I cannot bear to see you sad.


I should be blithe, if it were only to please you.


Then grant me the favour you accorded me yesterday evening.


I would rather incur all the excommunications in the world than run the risk of appearing unjust to you. Take me.


Ah! it is true then. Yes, my angel! are you happy? Alas! I am happy now, but you must leave me till the evening. Let us talk of our happiness, and enjoy it over again. Then you do not repent having made me a happy man? No; it is you who have made me happy. You are an angel from heaven. We loved, we crowned our love; I cannot have done aught to offend God. I am free from all my fears. We have obeyed nature and our destinies. Do you love me still? Can you ask me? I will shew you to-night.


I was afraid of disturbing him,


How do you mean?


I should be interrupting him in his business.


He has no business, and he would be delighted to see you. Come to-morrow, he always breakfasts in my room.


Yes,


but I have some business in hand, and cannot come with you.


Would you be kind enough to escort me?


Why are you not in your own bed, dearest?


Because I feel quite well again, my darling, and I wished to sup with you at table. We will go to bed afterwards, if that will give you any pleasure.


It will give me pleasure if you share in my delight.


Alas! I am undone, and I shall doubtless die when I have to leave you.


Do not leave me, sweetheart; come with me to Rome; and leave the matter in my hands. I will make you my wife, and we will live happily together ever after.


That would be too great a bliss, but I could never make up my mind to it; say no more about it.


What does this packet contain, darling?


It is the present I have got for you my portrait, but you must not see it till I am in bed.


I will indulge you in that fancy, although I am very curious to see the portrait.


You will say I am right afterwards.


It isn’t a copy,


there would not have been time. He only made the eyes and hair black, and the latter more abundant. Thus you have in it a portrait of the first and also of the second M---- M----, in whom you must forget the first. She has also vanished from the clothed portrait, for you see the nun has black eyes. I could shew this picture to anyone as my portrait.


You do not know how precious your present is to me! Tell me, dearest, how you succeeded in carrying out your plan so well.


I told the country-woman about it yesterday morning, and she said that she had a foster-son at Anneci, who was a miniature painter. Through him she sent the two miniatures to a more skilful painter at Geneva, who made the change you see for four or five Louis; he was probably able to do it in two or three hours. I entrusted the two portraits to him, and you see how well he did his work. The woman has no doubt just received them, and to-morrow she may be able to tell you more about it.


She is really a wonderful woman. I will indemnify her for the expense. But now tell me why you did not want me to see the portrait before you were in bed?


Guess.


Because I can now see you in the same posture as that in which you are represented.


Exactly.


It is an excellent idea; only love can have given it you. But you must wait till I am in the same state.


I will put it on myself; you don’t know how I shall enjoy it. Why didn’t you use one last night? How could you have forgotten it? Well, I shall be very wretched if anything comes of it. What shall I do in four or five months, when my condition becomes past doubt?


Dearest, the only thing to do is not to think of it, for if the damage is done, there is no cure for it; but from my experience and knowledge of the laws of nature I expect that our sweet combats of last night will probably have no troublesome consequences. It has been stated that after child-birth a woman cannot conceive afresh without having seen something which I expect you have not seen.


No, God be thanked!


Good. Then let us not give any thought to the dismal future lest we lose our present bliss.


I am quite comforted; but I can’t understand why you are afraid to-day of what you were not afraid yesterday; my state is the same.


The event has sometimes given the lie to the most eminent physicians. Nature, wiser than they, has exceptions to her rules, let us not defy them for the future, but let us not trouble ourselves if we have defied them in the past.


I like to hear you talk so sagely. Yes, we will be prudent whatever it costs. There you are, hooded like a mother abbess, but in spite of the fineness of the sheath I like the little fellow better quite naked. I think that this covering degrades us both.


You are right, it does. But let us not dwell on these ideas which will only spoil our pleasure.


We will enjoy our pleasure directly; let me be reasonable now, for I have never thought of these matters before. Love must have invented these little sheaths, but it must first have listened to the voice of prudence, and I do not like to see love and prudence allied.


The correctness of your arguments surprises me, but we will philosophize another time.


Wait a minute. I have never seen a man before, and I have never wished to enjoy the sight as much as now. Ten months ago I should have called that article an invention of the devil; but now I look upon the inventor as a benefactor, for if my wretched hump-back had provided himself with such a sheath he would not have exposed me to the danger of losing my honour and my life. But, tell me, how is that the makers of these things remain unmolested; I wonder they are not found out, excommunicated, or heavily fined, or even punished corporeally, if they are Jews as I expect. Dear me, the maker of this one must have measured you badly! Look! it is too large here, and too small there; it makes you into a regular curve. What a stupid the fellow must be, he can’t know his own trade! But what is that?


You make me laugh; it’s all your fault. You have been feeling and fondling, and you see the natural consequence. I knew it would be so.


And you couldn’t keep it back a minute. It is going on now. I am so sorry; it is a dreadful pity.


There is not much harm done, so console yourself.


How can I? you are quite dead. How can you laugh?


At your charming simplicity. You shall see in a moment that your charms will give me new life which I shall not lose so easily.


Wonderful! I couldn’t have believed it!


But how if the rubbing makes the sheath fall off?


How do you do?


But the abbess said the sisters could not start before ten days had expired.


She must have changed her mind.


Sorrow intrudes into our happy state. Will you be my wife? Will you follow me to Rome and receive absolution from your vows. You may be sure that I shall have a care for your happiness.


Nay, I have lived long enough; let me return to my tomb.


We will go to bed after supper,


and will not get up till the messenger brings the fatal news that the lay-sisters have started.


Don’t go, stay with me a couple of days longer.


I feel the honour you are conferring on me, but business of the greatest importance obliges me to be gone forthwith.


Impossible,


I owe you twenty,


Do I look worthy of contempt?


I promise to be yours to-morrow, wait till then.


I think I can get you rooms in a beautiful house, but it is outside the town walls. The door-keeper is an excellent cook, and for the sake of doing your cooking I am sure he will lodge you for nothing.


I don’t wish that,


Don’t be afraid, he will make it up by means of his dishes; and besides, the house is for sale and costs him nothing. Come and see it.


She is a good girl, who sees no company, and is quite poor.


Those are three reasons which make me the more anxious to know her.


You will really find nothing to do in that quarter.


Very good.


There is her aunt, I will introduce you to her as we leave the concert-room.


He is making a fool of you and me,


On the contrary, he has guessed my tastes. Don’t you think everything was very good?


I don’t deny it, but . . . .


Don’t be afraid; I love spending my money. I beg your pardon, I only want you to be pleased. Go on as you have begun, and do better if you can; but let me have your bill every morning. You are quite right; with such an arrangement one can tell how one is getting on. I should like you always to give me ices, and you must let me have two more lights. But, unless I am mistaken, those are candles that I see. I am a Venetian, and accustomed to wax lights.


That is your servant’s fault, sir.


Because, after eating a good supper, he went to bed, saying he was ill. Thus I heard nothing as to how you liked things done. Very good, you shall learn from my own lips.


He asked my wife to make chocolate for you tomorrow morning; he gave her the chocolate, I will make it myself. It’s her goodness of heart. I am obliged to her all the same. She is an excellent woman.


You must take care of the poor fellow. What is your name?


My name is Rose, and my sister is Manon.


I am delighted to hear it, and I shall be very pleased if you will be kind enough to do the same offices for me till my servant recovers.


With pleasure, sir. will shave you.


I should like to see how you do it; get the water. You must give me a kiss. I shall be vexed, if you refuse to kiss me. Well, if you won’t kiss me, you shan’t shave me. Your daughter has just shaved me admirably, and she refuses to kiss me, because it is not the custom at Grenoble.


You little silly, it is the custom in Paris. You kiss me fast enough after you have shaved me, why should you be less polite to this gentleman? Ah! your turn will come when you have finished doing the gentleman’s hair.


Certainly, the two sisters are delightful. I suppose they are well off.


What makes you think that? The sight of the three Graces here, who are made of better stuff than your handsome housekeeper, who would not let me kiss her. They are making me wait too long for my broth, however. I shall have to speak severely about it. Le Duc, you are a rascal. Do you want me to get well? I want you to put a stop to this farce, as I don’t like it. I shall dine in bed. You shall be attended to. She puts on big airs, but that does not impose on me. Don’t you think she is very pretty? I think you are very impudent. You ape your betters, and I don’t approve of it. Get up. You must wait on me at table, and afterwards you will eat your dinner by yourself, and try to get yourself respected as an honest man always is, whatever his condition, so long as he does not forget himself. You must not stay any longer in this room, the doorkeeper will give you another. Oh, I am very glad! I have been talking of you,


and of the impression her niece made on you. She promised to send for her, and to keep her at the house all day.


No. I have never found anybody to do it.


It is never too late, and without doubt God has willed that this pleasure should be reserved for me.


I am delighted to see you, and above all to look at your smiling face, for I thought you much too serious yesterday.


That’s because M. le Duc is a greater gentleman than you are; I should not have presumed to laugh in his presence; but I had my reward in seeing him start off this morning in his gilded coach.


Did he see you laughing at him?


Yes, unless he is blind.


He will be vexed.


All the better.


You are really very charming. What have you got in that parcel?


Some goods of our own manufacture. Look; they are embroidered gloves.


They are beautiful; the embroidery is exquisitely done. How much for the lot?


Are you a good hand at a bargain.


Certainly.


Then we must take that into account. The lot will cost you two hundred and ten francs.


There are nine louis; give me six francs change.


But you told us you would make a bargain.


You were wrong to believe it.


Shall we have the pleasure of waiting on you at the table?


I wish you would.


But we should like to know who is coming to dinner first; as if it is officers from the garrison we dare not come; they make so free.


My guests are Madame Morin, her husband, and her niece.


Very good.


Mdlle. Roman is the prettiest and the best girl in Grenoble; but she will find some difficulty in marrying as she has no money.


She may meet some rich man who will think her goodness and her beauty worth a million of money.


There are not many men of that kind.


No; but there are a few.


Sir. Sir, if my destiny points to marriage I do not deny that I should be happy to find a husband like you.


I heard singing in the kitchen, and on going in I found Le Duc in a high state of excitement and very drunk. As soon as he saw me he tried to rise, but he lost his centre of gravity, and fell right under the kitchen table. He was carried away to bed.


Has he a carriage and servants?


He has nothing, no servants and no money.


Where did he come from?


From the skies.


A fair abode, certainly; how long has he been here?


For the last fortnight. He visits, but asks for nothing.


How does he live?


On credit at the inn; he is supposed to be waiting for his carriage and servants.


He is probably a vagabond.


He does not look like one, as you saw for yourself, and his diamonds contradict that hypothesis.


Yes, if they are not imitation stones, for it seems to me that if they were real he would sell them.


I shall only see one beauty,


God alone knows, what people will say in Grenoble!


They will say it is your wedding ball,


Yes, and they will doubtless talk of my magnificent dress, my lace, and my diamonds,


They will talk of your beauty, your wit, and your goodness, goodness which will make your husband a happy man.


I don’t mind the indecency of it, but what strikes me is the exact likeness.


Madam, that is the portrait of a Venetian, lady, of whom I was very found.


I daresay, but it’s very curious. These two M’s, these cast-off robes sacrificed to love, everything makes my surprise greater.


She is a nun and named M---- M----.


And a Welsh niece of mine at Camberi is also named M---- M----, and belongs to the same order. Nay, more, she has been at Aix, whence you have come, to get cured of an illness.


And this portrait is like her?


As one drop of water is like another. If you go to Chamberi call on her and say you come from me; you will be welcome and you will be as much surprised as I am.


I will do so, after I have been in Italy. However, I will not shew her this portrait, which would scandalize her; I will put it away carefully.


I beg you not to shew it to anyone.


You may rely on me.


I was in an ecstasy at having put her off so effectually.


At eight o’clock all my guests arrived, and I saw before me all the fairest ladies and the noblest gentlemen of Grenoble. The only thing which vexed me was the compliments they lavished on me, as is customary in the provinces.


I opened the ball with the lady pointed out to me by M. Valenglard, and then I danced with all the ladies in succession; but my partner in all the square dances was the fair Mdlle. Roman, who shone from her simplicity--at least, in my eyes.


After a quadrille, in which I had exerted myself a good deal, I felt hot and went up to my room to put on a lighter suit, and as I was doing so, in came the fair cousin, who asked me if I required anything.


Yes, you, dearest. Did anyone see you coming in here?


No, I came from upstairs, and my cousins are in the dancing-room.


That is capital. You are fair as Love himself, and this is an excellent opportunity for shewing you how much I love you.


Good heavens! What are you doing? Let me go, somebody might come in. Well, put out the light!


What name is it?


Bouchenu de Valbonnais.


He was my uncle. Ah! sir, you must come and stay with us. You danced with my daughter. What was your father’s name?


Be my friend, sir, and not my enemy and the cause of my ruin.


It will give people but a poor opinion of our merits.


I am tired, but if you will promise to be kind I will dance a minuet with you.


What do want me to do?


Go into my bedroom and wait for me there in the dark when you see your sister and your cousin busy dancing.


And you will only dance with me.


I swear!


Then you will find me in your room.


Well, let them think so, they are worthy of love, though not to be named in the same breath with one past compare, but who leaves me no hope.


Let me tell Madame d’Urfe all about it.


Certainly; I shall be delighted.


She would never have done anything, if she had not left America and come to France; and if my niece does not go to Paris nobody can say that the horoscope has prophesied falsely. We should therefore go to Paris, but how is it to be done? I don’t see my way to it. The prediction of the birth of a son has something divine and entrancing about it. I don’t wish to seem prejudiced, but my niece has certainly more qualifications for gaining the king’s affection than the Maintenon had: my niece is a good girl and young, while the Maintenon was no longer as young as she had been, and had led a strange life before she became a devotee. But we shall never accomplish this journey to Paris.


Nay, she must go; her fate must be fulfilled.


According to the horoscope, the king is to fall in love with my niece in her eighteenth year; she is now close on it. What are we to do? Where are we to get the hundred louis necessary? And when she gets to Paris is she to go to the king and say, ‘Here I am, your majesty’? And who is going to take her there? I can’t.


My aunt Roman might,


Well, there is Madame Varnier, of the Rue de Richelieu; she is an aunt of yours. She has a good establishment, and knows everybody.


See, how the ways of destiny are made plain. You talk of a hundred louis; twelve will be sufficient to take you to Madame Varnier’s. When you get there, leave the rest to your fate, which will surely favour you.


If you do go to Paris, say nothing to Madame Roman or Madame Varnier about the horoscope.


I will say nothing to anyone about it; but, after all, it is only a happy dream. I shall never see Paris, still less Louis XV.


They are gold,


And the goldsmith will give you a hundred and fifty louis for them,


I beg you will keep them; you can give me a bill payable at Paris when you become rich.


I wish you would tell me, if this horoscope is not all a joke.


No, it is quite serious, but it all depends on an if. If you do not go to Paris the prophecy will never be fulfilled.


You must think so, certainly, or you would never have offered me those fifty medals.


Do me the pleasure of accepting them now; nobody will know anything about it.


No, I cannot, though I am much obliged to you. But why should you want to give me such a large sum?


For the pleasure of contributing to your happiness, and in the hope that you will allow me to love you.


If you really love me why should I oppose your love? You need not buy my consent; and to be happy I do not want to possess the King of France, if you did but know to what my desires are limited.


Tell me.


I would fain find a kind husband, rich enough for us not to lack the necessaries of life.


But how if you did not love him?


If he was a good, kind man how could I help loving him?


I see that you do not know what love is.


You are right. I do not know the love that maddens, and I thank God for it.


Well, I think you are wise; may God preserve you from that love.


You say, that as soon as the king sees me he will fall in love with me, and to tell you the truth that strikes me as vastly improbable; for though it is quite possible that he may not think me plain, or he might even pronounce me pretty, yet I do not think he will become so madly in love as you say.


You don’t? Let us sit down. You have only got to fancy that the king will take the same liking to you that I have done; that is all.


But what do you find in me that you will not find in most girls of my age? I certainly may have struck you; but that only proves that I was born to exercise this sway over you, and not at all that I am to rule the king in like manner. Why should I go and look for the king, if you love me yourself?


Because I cannot give you the position you deserve.


I should have thought you had plenty of money.


Then there’s another reason: you are not in love with me.


I love you as tenderly as if I were your wife. I might then kiss you, though duty now forbids my doing so.


I am much obliged to you for not being angry with me for being so happy with you!


On the contrary, I am delighted to please you.


Then you will allow me to call on you at an early hour to-morrow, and to take coffee at your bedside.


Do not dream of such a thing. If I would I could not. I sleep with my aunt, and I always rise at the same time she does. Take away your hand; you promised not to do it again. In God’s name, let me alone.


She pleased me so well, that I have resolved to go away to-morrow to avoid making proposals to you which would bring the great fortune that awaits her to nought. If it were not for that I should have been happy to have asked her hand of you.


Alas! her happiness would, perhaps, be built on a better foundation. Explain yourself.


I dare not wage war with fate.


But you are not going to-morrow?


Excuse me, but I shall call to take leave at two o’clock. At least. I may have the honour of escorting you to your door?


That will protract our happiness for some minutes.


Tell him I don’t know his name.


he was the gentleman who had had the honour of supping with me at Madame Morin’s.


Tell him to come in.


Sir. I want to speak with you in private.


I cannot order these young ladies to leave my room, sir. Be kind enough to wait for me outside till I have put on my dressing-gown, and then I shall be ready to speak to you.


If I am troubling you, I will call again to-morrow.


You would not find me, as I am leaving Grenoble to-day.


In that case I will wait. Sir. I must leave this place, and I have not a penny to pay my landlord. I beg of you to come to my aid. I dare not have recourse to anyone else in the town for fear of exposing myself to the insult of a refusal.


Perhaps I ought to feel myself flattered at the preference you have shewn me, but without wishing to insult you in any way I am afraid I shall be obliged to refuse your request.


If you knew who I am I am sure you would not refuse me some small help.


If you think so, tell me who you are; you may count on my silence.


I am Charles, second son of Ivan, Duke of Courland, who is in exile in Siberia. I made my escape.


If you go to Genoa you will find yourself beyond the reach of poverty; for no doubt the brother of your lady-mother would never abandon you.


He died in Silesia.


When?


Two years ago, I believe.


You have been deceived, for I saw him at Stuttgart scarcely six months ago. He is the Baron de Treiden.


You have diamond buckles. Why don’t you sell them?


It’s the last piece of jewellery I possess out of all my mother gave me, and I promised her never to part with them.


I would not shew those buckles if I were you; your pocket would be a better place for them. I may tell you frankly that I believe the stones to be counterfeit, and that your lie displeases me.


Sir, I am not a liar.


We shall see. Prove that the stones are genuine, and I will give you six louis. I shall be delighted if I am in the wrong. Farewell.


Sir. I do not wish to leave your house without having the pleasure of dining with your charming girls, to shew them how I appreciate the care they have taken of me. Let me have, then, a delicate repast for four, and also order post horses, that I may start in the evening.


Sir. I entreat you to order a saddle-horse besides; I was not made for a seat behind a chaise.


Nevertheless, M. le Duc, you will have to wait on her at table.


Yes, as she waits on you in bed.


Come back, I forgive you. Very good, but don’t be so impudent another time. Here, take this watch.


I would jump again for another watch like this.


You will save time and money,


I will do so, if these girls of yours will keep me company all night, as I am determined I will not go to bed.


O Lord! that’s their business.


The famous Astrodi at Avignon--how she will be astonished to see me!


May I have the pleasure of sending a glass to your wife?


she never took anything to drink.


who she was.


I was a newcomer and did not know,


her husband called himself the Chevalier Stuard, that he came from Lyons, and was going to Marseilles; he came, it appeared, to Avignon a week ago, without servants, and in a very poor carriage.


Where is the famous Astrodi? I have not seen her yet.


Excuse me, she has danced and sang before your eyes.


By Jove, it’s impossible! I know her perfectly, and if she has so changed as not to be recognized she is no longer herself.


Who told you that?


I heard it from here; their room is only separated from this by a wooden partition. If they were in it now, I am sure they could hear all we are saying.


Where are they, then?


At table, where they are eating for to-morrow, but the lady is crying. There’s a fine chance for you, sir.


Be quiet; I shan’t have anything to do with it. It’s a trap, for a woman of any worth would die rather than weep at a public table.


Ah, if you saw how pretty she looks in tears! I am only a poor devil, but I would willingly give her two louis if she would earn them.


Go and offer her the money. Go to bed, and next morning tell the landlord to get me another room, for a wooden partition is too thin a barrier to keep off people whom despair drive to extremities. Say I don’t know anybody of that name.


I am going to see, that your pistols are well primed for the future.


Go, and ask the landlord to give me another room.


If you don’t get me another room I shall leave your house on the spot, because I don’t like hearing sobs and reproaches all night.


Can you hear them, sir?


You can hear them yourself now. What do you think of it? The woman will kill herself, and you will be the cause of her death.


I, sir? I have only asked them to pay me my just debts.


Hush! there goes the husband. I am sure he is telling his wife in his language that you are an unfeeling monster.


He may tell her what he likes so long as he pays me.


You have condemned them to die of hunger. How much do they owe you?


Fifty francs.


Aren’t you ashamed of making such a row for a wretched sum like that?


Sir, I am only ashamed of an ill deed, and I do not commit such a deed in asking for my own.


There’s your money. Go and tell them that you have been paid, and that they may eat again; but don’t say who gave you the money.


That’s what I call a good action. You may dine and sup, at the public table, but you must pay me day by day.


You stupid fool!


they will know everything.


What’s the matter with you, idiot?


That’s fine. I see. I am going on the stage. You would do well to become an actor.


You are a fool.


Not so big a fool as you think.


I am going for a walk; mind you don’t leave my room for a moment.


Sir, I don’t know to what you are referring.


Not having the honour to know anyone here, I did not care that anyone should be able to say that he had regaled one who was unknown to him. But you, sir, are a man who needs no introduction.


You do me too much honour.


You are staying at the ‘St. Omer’!


Yes; I am only stopping here to see Vaucluse, where I think of going to-morrow if I can get a good guide.


If you would do me the honour of accepting me, I should be delighted. My name is Dolci, I am son of the captain of the vice-legate’s guard.


I feel the honour you do me, and I accept your obliging offer. I will put off my start till your arrival.


I will be with you at seven.


If I don’t leave before it comes off, I will,


Give him sixteen tickets,


After the show we will come and sup with you, but on the condition that you ask nobody else, as we want to be alone.


Let us go there,


it is not far off.


Morte bella parea nel suo bel viso


Four hundred years have past and gone,


since Laura de Sade walked here; perhaps she was not as handsome as you, but she was lively, kindly, polite, and good of heart. May this air which she breathed and which you breathe now kindle in you the spark of fire divine; that fire that coursed through her veins, and made her heart beat and her bosom swell. Then you would win the worship of all worthy men, and from none would you receive the least offence. Gladness, madam, is the lot of the happy, and sadness the portion of souls condemned to everlasting pains. Be cheerful, then, and you will do something to deserve your beauty.


That woman is an old hand, infatuated with a sense of her own merit. I would bet that she has only left her own country because her charms, from being too freely displayed, have ceased to please there. She must be sure of making her fortune out of anybody she comes across. I suspect that the fellow who passes for her husband is a rascal, and that her pretended melancholy is put on to drive a persistent lover to distraction. She has not yet succeeded in finding a dupe, but as she will no doubt try to catch a rich man, it is not improbable that she is hovering over you.


I did not find her satisfactory in all respects,


There are some very pretty women in Genoa, but not one to compare with her whom you took to Vaucluse to-day. I sat opposite to her at table yesterday evening, and I was struck with her perfect beauty. I offered her my arm up the stair; I told her that I was sorry to see her so sad, and if I could do anything for her she had only to speak. You know I was aware she had no money. Her husband, real or pretended, thanked me for my offer, and after I had wished them a good night I left them. An hour ago you left her and her husband at the door of their apartment, and soon afterwards I took the liberty of calling. She welcomed me with a pretty bow, and her husband went out directly, begging me to keep her company till his return. The fair one made no difficulty in sitting next to me on a couch, and this struck me as a good omen, but when I took her hand she gently drew it away. I then told, her, in as few words as I could, that her beauty had made me in love with her, and that if she wanted a hundred louis they were at her service, if she would drop her melancholy, and behave in a manner suitable to the feelings with which she had inspired me. She only replied by a motion of the head, which shewed gratitude, but also an absolute refusal of my offer. ‘I am going to-morrow,’ said I. No answer. I took her hand again, and she drew it back with an air of disdain which wounded me. I begged her to excuse me, and I left the room without more ado. I am going to-morrow,


That’s an account of what happened an hour ago. I am not amorous of her, it was only a whim; but knowing, as I do, that she has no money, her manner astonished me. I fancied that you might have placed her in a position to despise my offer, and this would explain her conduct, in a measure; otherwise I can’t understand it at all. May I ask you to tell me whether you are more fortunate than I?


She has had an excellent dinner,


and in all probability she will not have any supper.


I bet she will,


It was her husband,


Her husband! Oh, that’s another thing; husbands don’t fight--a man of honour always apologises to them. The husband’s a fool. He shut the door in my face, and told me to satisfy my desires somewhere else. It isn’t worth the trouble of stopping, but I wish I had made an end of it.


No more would I, but if she had accepted my hundred louis it would have been different. I am curious to know the further history of this siren, and I rely upon you to tell me all about it as you go through Genoa.


Thank you; I am now going to Marseilles.


I hope you will have a prosperous journey.


I have just had a row with the Chevalier Stuard.


What about?


Because he has nothing to pay me with, and I am going to turn them out immediately, although the lady is in bed in convulsions which are suffocating her.


Take out your bill in her charms.


Ah, I don’t care for that sort of thing! I am getting on in life, and I don’t want any more scenes to bring discredit on my house.


Go and tell her that from henceforth she and her husband will dine and sup in their own room and that I will pay for them as long as I remain here.


You are very generous, sir, but you know that meals in a private room are charged double.


I know they are.


Very good.


She will give me no answers, and you know that that sort of thing is rather tedious.


Come, she knows what you have done for her; she will talk to you, for her feelings . . . .


What business have you to talk about feelings after what happened yesterday evening? It was well for that gentleman that he went away at midnight, otherwise I should have killed him this morning.


My dear sir, allow me to tell you that all that is pure braggadocio. Yesterday, not to-day, was the time to kill him, or to throw your plate at his head, at all events. We will now go and see your wife.


A hundred Louis! what folly! We might have been at home at Liege by now. A princess allows one to kiss her hand for nothing, and she.... A hundred Louis! Oh, damnable!


he was gone to fetch some water.


Only the vice-legate’s auditor, and though he makes me his pathic he is good-natured and generous. I have accustomed myself to his taste easily enough, though I should have thought such a thing impossible a year ago, as I fancied the exercise a harmful one, but I was wrong.


So the auditor makes a boy of you?


Yes. My sister would have adored him, as that sort of love is her passion.


But your sister has such fine haunches.


So have I! Look here, feel me.


You are right; but wait a bit, it is too soon for that kind of thing yet.


We will be wanton after supper.


I think you are wanton now,


Why?


Why? Ought you to shew your person like that?


My dear girl, you will be shewing yourself soon. When one is in good company, one is in the golden age.


I wonder at your telling everyone what sort of a connection you have with the auditor,


Nonsense! I don’t tell everyone, but everyone tells me and congratulates me too. They know the worthy man never cared for women, and it would be absurd to deny what everybody guesses. I used to be astonished at my sister, but the best plan in this world is to be astonished at nothing. But don’t you like that?


No, I only like this.


Have you never had a lover?


No, she is still a maid.


No, I am not. I had a lover at Bordeaux, and another at Montpellier.


Yes, I know, but you are still as you were born.


I can’t deny it.


What’s that? Two lovers and still a maid! I don’t understand; please tell me about it, for I have never heard of such a thing.


Before I satisfied my first lover which happened when I was only twelve, I was just the same as I am now.


It’s wonderful. And what did he say when he saw it?


I swore that he was my first, and he believed me, putting it down to the peculiar shape of my body.


He was a man of spirit; but didn’t he hurt you?


Not a bit; but then he was very gentle.


You must have a try after supper, that would be fine fun.


No, no, the gentleman would be too big for me.


Nonsense! You don’t want to take in all of him. I will show you how it is.


That’s just what I should have thought, it could never be done.


Well, he is rather big, but there’s a cure for everything, and he will be content with half-measures.


It’s not the length, my dear, but the thickness which frightens me; I am afraid the door is too narrow.


All the better for you, for you can sell your maidenhead after having had two lovers.


Certainly,


and I will turn away while you are getting ready.


Now comes my turn, but I don’t want you to infringe on the rights of my auditor, so come and look round and see where the path lies. Take that.


What am I to do with this slice of lemon?


I want you to try whether the place is free from infection, or whether it would be dangerous for you to pay it a visit.


Is that a sure method?


Infallible; if everything were not right I could not bear the smart.


There you are. How’s that?


All right; but don’t deceive me, I want no half measures. My reputation would be made if I became with child.


That’s rather tragic, but I can find a cure. I will disburse twenty-five Louis, but it is your wife who must receive them; and the only condition is that she must receive me alone for an hour, and be entirely kind.


Sir, we need just that sum; my wife is disposed to receive you; go and talk to her. I shall not be in till noon.