You called me a little devil this morning. But here is a fair angel, we don’t see such in Venice.


She is my treasure.


I am this gentleman’s niece, and he is taking me back to Marseilles, where my home is. Then you would have been my niece too, if I had married his brother. I wish I had such a pretty niece.


Go to bed, my dear. I will come to you directly.


Do you want to marry me?


No, I am married already.


That’s a lie, I know, but it doesn’t matter. Send me back to Venice, and the sooner the better. I don’t want to be anybody’s concubine.


I admire your sentiments, my dear, they do you honour.


My dear uncle, would you believe it? This sly Venetian has violated me.


This is a rude shock to the respect which your uncle has had for your prejudices,


The sports of two girls cannot tempt a man who has just left the arms of Annette.


You are wrong, and perhaps you know it, for I am more than tempted.


How is Marcoline?


Very well, and you needn’t trouble yourself any more about her. She is well lodged, well dressed, and well fed, and sleeps with my niece’s maid.


I didn’t know I had a niece.


There are many things you don’t know. In three or four days she will return to Venice.


I hope, dear brother, that you will ask me to dine with you to-day.


Not at all, dear brother. I forbid you to set foot in my house, where your presence would be offensive to Marcoline, whom you must not see any more.


Yes, I will; I will return to Venice, if I have to hang for it.


What good would that be? She won’t have you.


She loves me.


She beats you.


She beats me because she loves me. She will be as gentle as a lamb when she sees me so well dressed. You do not know how I suffer.


I can partly guess, but I do not pity you, for you are an impious and cruel fool. You have broken your vows, and have not hesitated to make a young girl endure misery and degradation to satisfy your caprice. What would you have done, I should like to know, if I had given you the cold shoulder instead of helping you?


I should have gone into the street, and begged for my living with her.


She would have beaten you, and would probably have appealed to the law to get rid of you.


But what will you do for me, if I let her go back to Venice without following her.


I will take you to France, and try to get you employed by some bishop.


Employed! I was meant by nature to be employed by none but God.


You proud fool! Marcoline rightly called you a whiner. Who is your God? How do you serve Him? You are either a hypocrite or an idiot. Do you think that you, a priest, serve God by decoying an innocent girl away from her home? Do you serve Him by profaning the religion you do not even understand? Unhappy fool! do you think that with no talent, no theological learning, and no eloquence, you can be a Protestant minister. Take care never to come to my house, or I will have you expelled from Genoa.


Well, well, take me to Paris, and I will see what my brother Francis can do for me; his heart is not so hard as yours.


Very good! you shall go to Paris, and we will start from here in three or four days. Eat and drink to your heart’s content, but remain indoors; I will let you know when we are going. I shall have my niece, my secretary, and my valet with me. We shall travel by sea.


The sea makes me sick.


That will purge away some of your bad humours.


I hate him! but I forgive him, since it is through him I know you.


And I forgive him, too, because unless it had been for him I should never have seen you. But I love you, and I shall die unless you satisfy my desires.


Never; for I know I should be madly in love with you, and then you would leave me, and I should be miserable again.


I will never leave you.


If you will swear that, take me into France and make me all your own. Here you must continue living with Annette; besides, I have got your niece to make love to.


The wind fell dead at Savona, sir;


Then you should have rowed instead of idling.


We were afraid of waking you. You shall be at Antibes by tomorrow.


I thought the game was forbidden in Genoa. I play harlequin,


There isn’t one.


What’s the bank?


There it is. We play for small stakes here, and those two hundred louis are quite sufficient. You can bet as low as you like, and the highest stake is of a louis.


That’s all very well, but my louis is full weight.


I think ours are, too.


Are you sure?


No.


Then I won’t play,


You are right; bring the scales.


You have put in on account of the bad weather, I suppose?


Yes, prince, and if your highness will allow me I will spend the whole day in your delicious villa.


As you please. The princess as well as myself likes it better than our place at Monaco, so we live here by preference.


I should be grateful if your highness would present me to the princess.


The Princess,


O Monaco O monaca.


Certainly,


Parbleu! I am no longer surprised. I will go and tell his highness, and I shall soon have the honour of dining with you at the castle.


I beg you will thank his highness, and at the same time ask him to excuse us. The weather has improved, and I want to be off as soon as we have taken a hasty morsel.


I have already ordered the table to be laid for two more, as I shall have the honour of being of the party. In a quarter of an hour, ladies, the prince will be here.


Very good, but as the prince is coming I must go to the felucca and fetch a capital pie of which the prince is very fond, I know. Come, ladies.


You can leave them here, sir. I will undertake to keep them amused.


I have no doubt you would, but they have some things to get from the felucca as well.


Then you will allow me to come too.


Certainly with pleasure.


Nothing, sir, I have just received orders to serve you in everything, and to take no money from you.


The prince is really magnificent!


We shall have some fun at dinner,


but what are we going to do on the felucca?


We are leaving. Say nothing.


Leaving?


Immediately.


What a jest! it is worth its weight in gold.


Directly?


Yes, this moment.


But the abbé and your secretary are gone for a walk, and two of my men are on shore, too.


That’s no matter; we shall pick them up again at Antibes; it’s only ten leagues, and they have plenty of money. I must go, and directly. Make haste.


All right.


It means that I am going to Antibes and I shall be very glad to take you there for nothing.


This is a fine jest! You are joking, surely?


Your company will be very pleasant on the journey.


Pardieu! put me ashore, for with your leave, ladies, I cannot go to Antibes.


Put the gentleman ashore,


he does not seem to like our company.


It’s not that, upon my honour. These ladies are charming, but the prince would think that I was in the plot to play this trick upon him, which you must confess is rather strong.


I never play a weak trick.


But what will the prince say?


He may say what he likes, and I shall do as I like.


Well, it’s no fault of mine. Farewell, ladies! farewell, sir!


Farewell, and you may thank the prince for me for paying my bill.


At last the hour of my happiness has come!


And mine too, dearest.


Yours? Have you not continually repulsed me?


Never! I always loved you, and your indifference has been a bitter grief to me.


But the first night we left Milan you preferred being alone to sleeping with me.


Could I do otherwise without passing in your eyes for one more a slave to sensual passion than to love? Besides you might have thought I was giving myself to you for the benefits I had received; and though gratitude be a noble feeling, it destroys all the sweet delights of love. You ought to have told me that you loved me and subdued me by those attentions which conquer the hearts of us women. Then you would have seen that I loved you too, and our affection would have been mutual. On my side I should have known that the pleasure you had of me was not given out of a mere feeling of gratitude. I do not know whether you would have loved me less the morning after, if I had consented, but I am sure I should have lost your esteem.


Then you are not jealous?


No, for her happiness is mine too, and I know she will make you happy.


My skin is delicate,


so I am all blistered. But God’s will be done! I do not think any of His servants have endured greater torments than mine during this journey. My body is sore, and so is my soul.


How I pity you, dear uncle!


When we came back from our walk we were greatly astonished not to find the felucca any more. We went to the inn, where I knew you had ordered dinner; but the inn-keeper knew nothing except that he was expecting the prince and a young officer to dine with you. I told him he might wait for you in vain, and just then the prince came up in a rage, and told the inn-keeper that now you were gone he might look to you for his payment. ‘My lord,’ said the inn-keeper, ‘the gentleman wanted to pay me, but I respected the orders I had received from your highness and would not take the money.’ At this the prince flung him a louis with an ill grace, and asked us who we were. I told him that we belonged to you, and that you had not waited for us either, which put us to great trouble. ‘You will get away easily enough,’ said he; and then he began to laugh, and swore the jest was a pleasant one. He then asked me who the ladies were. I told him that the one was your niece, and that I knew nothing of the other; but the abbé interfered, and said she was your cuisine. The prince guessed he meant to say ‘cousin,’ and burst out laughing, in which he was joined by the young officer. ‘Greet him from me,’ said he, as he went away, ‘and tell him that we shall meet again, and that I will pay him out for the trick he has played me.’ The worthy host laughed, too, when the prince had gone, and gave us a good dinner, saying that the prince’s Louis would pay for it all. When we had dined we hired two horses, and slept at Nice. In the morning we rode on again, being certain of finding you here.


My lord,


the gentleman wanted to pay me, but I respected the orders I had received from your highness and would not take the money.


Friend,


I make you a present of the article.


I don’t want your present. I want the ten louis you owe me.


You won’t get the ten louis. I will see you further first.


We will see about that;


Then the man could bequeath his claim to his heir.


I believe he could oblige you to withdraw it, or to allow it to be sold to defray expenses.


You are right, sir, and I wish to spare him that trouble. I make him a present of the carriage.


That’s fair enough. Friend, the carriage is yours.


But sir,


it is not enough; the carriage is not worth ten louis, and I want the surplus.


You are in the wrong. I wish you a pleasant journey, sir, and I hope you will forgive the ignorance of these poor people, who would like to shape the laws according to their needs.


'Tis he, then, who shall make me young again. So has my genius assured me night after night. Ask Paralis if the presents I have prepared are good enough for Semiramis to present to the head of the Fraternity of the Rosy Cross.


I almost think you are right, and it is certain that I have made many happy, and have never brought misfortune to any girl.


God will reward you, my dear friend.


Possibly I am not worth His taking the trouble!


I am afraid, that the rascal has followed me here, and will be annoying me.


Don’t be afraid,


I will see what I can do.


What’s all this? Are you ill?


Yes, I have got something which will teach me to be wiser for the future.


It’s rather late for this kind of thing at sixty.


Better late than never.


You are an old fool. You stink of mercury.


I shall not leave my room.


This will harm you with the marchioness, who believes you to be the greatest of adepts, and consequently above such weaknesses.


Damn the marchioness! Let me be.


What do you mean by pestering Marcoline at the theatre yesterday?


I went to remind her of her duty, and to warn her that I would not be her complaisant lover.


You have insulted me and her too, fool that you are! You owe all to Marcoline, for if it had not been for her, I should never have given you a second glance; and yet you behave in this disgraceful manner.


I have ruined myself for her sake, and I can never shew my face in Venice again. What right have you to take her from me?


The right of love, blockhead, and the right of luck, and the right of the strongest! How is it that she is happy with me, and does not wish to leave me?


You have dazzled her.


Another reason is that with you she was dying of misery and hunger.


Yes, but the end of it will be that you will abandon her as you have done with many others, whereas I should have married her.


Married her! You renegade, you seem to forget that you are a priest. I do not propose to part with her, but if I do I will send her away rich.


Well, well, do as you please; but still I have the right to speak to her whenever I like.


I have forbidden you to do so, and you may trust me when I tell you that you have spoken to her for the last time.


You can do so, as he is a foreigner, but you will have to pay caution-money. You can have him put under arrest at his inn, and you can make him pay unless he is able to prove that he owes you nothing. Is the sum a large one?


Twelve louis.


You must come with me before the magistrate and deposit twelve louis, and from that moment you will be able to have him arrested. Where is he staying?


In the same hotel as I am, but I do not wish to have him arrested there, so I will get him to the ‘Ste. Baume,’ and put him under arrest. Here are the twelve louis caution-money, so you can get the magistrate’s order, and we will meet again to-morrow.


Give me his name, and yours also.


Follow me,


I am going to take you to Marcoline, and you shall have an explanation in her presence.


With pleasure.


You must start for Lyons to-morrow, but you will first write me out an I O U for twelve louis.


Why?


Because I say so. If you do so I will give you twelve louis and tear up the document before your face.


I have no choice in the matter.


You are right.


The reason is, that I am sure you are going to lay hands on twenty or thirty thousand crowns in gold and diamonds, which the marchioness meant me to have.


That may be, but it is not for you to know anything about it. I may tell you that it rests entirely with me to prevent your getting anything. If you think you can succeed go to the marchioness and make your complaints to her. I will do nothing to prevent you.


Then you think I am going to help you in your imposture for nothing; you are very much mistaken. I want a thousand louis, and I will have it, too.


Then get somebody to give it you,


He was an idiot; but how about Querilinthos?


After dinner Paralis will tell us all about him. I have strong suspicions that there is something to be cleared up.


So have I. The man seems changed. Where is he?


He is in bed, ill of a disease which I dare not so much as name to you.


That is a very extraordinary circumstance; I have never heard of such a thing before. It must be the work of an evil genius.


I have never heard of such a thing, either; but now let us dine. We shall have to work hard to-day at the consecration of the tin.


All the better. We must offer an expiatory sacrifice to Oromasis, for, awful thought! in three days he would have to regenerate me, and the operation would be performed in that condition.


Let us eat now,


I fear lest the hour of Jupiter be over-past.


Fear nothing, I will see that all goes well.


The worthy man thinks himself under great obligations to you. He adores his daughter, and he knows you have cared for her like a father. His daughter has drawn your portrait in very favourable colors, and he would be extremely pleased to make your acquaintance. Tell me when you can sup with me; the father will be here to meet you, though unaccompanied by his daughter.


I am delighted at what you tell me, for the young man’s esteem for his future wife will only be augmented when he finds that I am her father’s friend. I cannot come to supper, however; I will be here at six and stop till eight.


M. Bono, pay to M. Possano, on sight, to himself, and not to order, the sum of one hundred louis, if these presents are delivered to you on the 30th day of April, in the year 1763; and after the day aforesaid my order to become null and void.


You’re an infamous traitor, but as Madame d’Urfe knows of the disgraceful state you are in she would not so much as read your letter. I have read it, and by way of reward I give you two alternatives which you must decide on immediately. I am in a hurry. You will either go to the hospital--for we can’t have pestiferous fellows like you here--or start for Lyons in an hour. You must not stop on the way, for I have only given you sixty hours, which is ample to do forty posts in. As soon as you get to Lyons present this to M. Bono, and he will give you a hundred louis. This is a present from me, and afterwards I don’t care what you do, as you are no longer in my service. You can have the carriage I bought for you at Antibes, and there is twenty-five louis for the journey: that is all. Make your choice, but I warn you that if you go to the hospital I shall only give you a month’s wages, as I dismiss you from my service now at this instant. he would go to Lyons, though it would be at the risk of his life, for he was very ill. You must reap the reward of your treachery, and if you die it will be a good thing for your family, who will come in for what I have given you, but not what I should have given you if you had been a faithful servant.


for, everybody is asking who and what I am, and my landlord’s niece is quite angry with me because I will not let her tell the truth. I will do whatever you wish, dearest.


Very good! then listen to me. I will get you a disguise which will make you look like a smart footman, and in that costume you will call on the marchioness with whom I live, at the hour I shall name to you, and you will give her a note. Have you sufficient courage for that?


Certainly. Will you be there?


Yes. She will speak, but you must pretend to be dumb, as the note you bring with you will tell us; as also that you have come to wait upon us while we are bathing. She will accept the offer, and when she tells you to undress her from head to foot you will do so. When you have done, undress yourself, and gently rub the marchioness from the feet to the waist, but not higher. In the meanwhile I shall have taken off my clothes, and while I hold her in a close embrace you must stand so that I can see all your charms.


Further, sweetheart, when I leave you you must gently wash her generative organs, and afterwards wipe them with a fine towel. Then do the same to me, and try to bring me to life again. I shall proceed to embrace the marchioness a second time, and when it is over wash her again and embrace her, and then come and embrace me and kiss in your Venetian manner the instrument with which the sacrifice is consummated. I shall then clasp the marchioness to my arms a third time, and you must caress us till the act is complete. Finally, you will wash us for the third time, then dress, take what she gives you and come here, where I will meet you in the course of an hour.


You may reckon on my following all your instructions, but you must see that the task will be rather trying to my feelings.


Not more trying than to mine. I could do nothing with the old woman if you were not present.


Is she very old?


Nearly seventy.


My poor sweetheart! I do pity you. But after this painful duty is over you must sup here and sleep with me.


Certainly.


He doesn’t ask anything about the dower, a wonderful thing these days, but I will give her a hundred and fifty thousand francs, for the marriage is an excellent one, above all after my poor simpleton’s escape. All Marseilles knows the father of her future husband, and to-morrow I mean to tell the whole story to my wife, and I am sure she will forgive the poor girl as I have done.


I am dumb but not deaf. I am come from the Rhone to bathe you. The hour of Oromasis has begun.


This is the note you are to give to the marchioness,


when you appear before her.


You must take care,


that the bath be here beside your bed, and that Brougnole does not interrupt us.


I will tell her to go out. But Selenis promised to send an Undine.


True, but I have not yet seen such a being.


Ask the oracle.


Willingly.


The commands of Oromasis change not, and in that you have doubted them you have sinned.


To-morrow, Galtinardus, you will be my spouse and my father.


Don’t be afraid. I will make no mistakes.


We are still in the hour of Mars, that of the sun has not yet commenced.


That which is written in water must be read in water.


I understand now,


I am dumb, but not deaf. I am come from the Rhone to bathe you. The hour of Oromasis has begun.


Then bathe me, divine being,


O divine being, wipe the feet of Semiramis, and be the witness of my union with her, to the glory of the immortal Horomadis, King of the Salamanders.


We must now await the hour of Venus.


I was not born to wear the breeches. Here, take the beautiful necklace the madwoman gave me!


I will sell it, fair Undine, and you shall have the proceeds.


Is it worth much?


At least a thousand sequins. By the time you get back to Venice you will be worth at least five thousand ducats, and you will be able to get a husband and live with him in a comfortable style.


Keep it all, I don’t want it; I want you. I will never cease to love you; I will do whatever you tell me, and I promise never to be jealous. I will care for you--yes, as if you were my son.


Do not let us say anything more about it, fair Marcoline, but let us go to bed, for you have never inspired me with so much ardour as now.


But you must be tired.


Yes, but not exhaustion, for I was only able to perform the distillation once.


I thought you sacrificed twice on that old altar. Poor old woman! she is still pretty, and I have no doubt that fifty years ago she was one of the first beauties in France. How foolish of her to be thinking of love at that age.


You excited me, but she undid your work even more quickly.


Are you always obliged to have a girl beside you when you make love to her?


No; before, there was no question of making a son.


What? you are going to make her pregnant? That’s ridiculous! Does she imagine that she has conceived?


Certainly; and the hope makes her happy.


What a mad idea! But why did you try to do it three times?


I thought to shew my strength, and that if I gazed on you I should not fail; but I was quite mistaken.


I pity you for having suffered so much. You will renew my strength.


To thee, beloved Galtinardus, I owe all my happiness,


I am happy to have contributed to it, divine Semiramis, but you must remember I am only the agent of the genii.


Marry me, you will then be able to be governor of the child, who will be your son. In this manner you will keep all my property for me, including what I shall have from my brother M. de Pontcarre, who is old and cannot live much longer. If you do not care for me in February next, when I shall be born again, into what hands shall I fall! I shall be called a bastard, and my income of twenty-four thousand francs will be lost to me. Think over it, dear Galtinardus. I must tell you that I feel already as if I were a man. I confess I am in love with the Undine, and I should like to know whether I shall be able to sleep with her in fourteen or fifteen years’ time. I shall be so if Oromasis will it, and then I shall be happy indeed. What a charming creature she is? Have you ever seen a woman like her? What a pity she is dumb!


She, no doubt, has a male water-spirit for a lover. But all of them are dumb, since it is impossible to speak in the water. I wonder she is not deaf as well. I can’t think why you didn’t touch her. The softness of her skin is something wonderful--velvet and satin are not to be compared to it! And then her breath is so sweet! How delighted I should be if I could converse with such an exquisite being.


Dear Galtinardus, I beg you will consult the oracle to find out where I am to be brought to bed, and if you won’t marry me I think I had better save all I have that I may have some provision when I am born again, for when I am born I shall know nothing, and money will be wanted to educate me. By selling the whole a large sum might be realized which could be put out at interest. Thus the interest would suffice without the capital being touched.


The oracle must be our guide,


You will be my son, and I will never allow anyone to call you a bastard.


Then, the bottles must be filled here, for the other French ports are farther off. I will go as soon as ever I can leave my bed, and will wait for you at Lyons; for as you have to perform expiatory sacrifices to Saturn in this place, you cannot come with me.


If you want to get rid of me, send me back to Venice, but don’t talk to me about marrying.


Calm yourself, my angel! I get rid of you? What an idea! Has my behaviour led you to suppose that you are in my way? This handsome, well-educated, and rich young man has come under my notice. I see he loves you and you like him, and as I love you and wish to see you sheltered from the storms of fortune, and as I think this pleasant young Frenchman would make you happy, I have pointed out to you these advantages, but instead of being grateful you scold me. Do not weep, sweetheart, you grieve my very soul!


I am weeping because you think that I can love him.


It might be so, dearest, and without my honour taking any hurt; but let us say no more about it and get into bed.


What you said last night is a sufficient guide for me for the future.


The proposal is a very agreeable one to me, and I would willingly give her thirty thousand francs as a dowry, but I can have nothing to do with the matter personally. I will send her to you; and if you can win her over you may count on my word, but do not say that you are speaking on my behalf, for that might spoil everything.


I will come for her, and if you like she shall dine with me, and you can take her to the play in the evening.


She spoke to me so kindly and so sensibly, but I contented myself with saying that I would never marry till you told me to do so. All the same I thank you with all my heart for the ten thousand crowns you are willing to give me. You have tossed the ball to me and I have sent it back. I will go back to Venice whenever you please if you will not take me to England with you, but I will never marry. I expect we shall see no more of the young gentleman, though if I had never met you I might have loved him.


I won’t go to Venice, till you send me there.


if she were my daughter.


she was my cousin, and that we were both Venetians.


Fancy not teaching them French!


It is certainly very wrong, but in my country young ladies are neither taught foreign languages nor round games. These important branches of education are attended to afterwards.


Then you are a Venetian, too?


Yes, madam.


Really, I should not have thought so. I see that the young lady understands French, she laughs exactly in the right place.


Yes, she understands it, and as for her laughter it was due to the fact that she knows me to be like all other Venetians.


Possibly, but it is easy to see that you have lived a long time in France.


Yes, madam,


Your ladyship must have lived in Venice to speak the language with so much correctness.


No, I have never been there, but I have associated a good deal with Venetians.


Never mind; if there be a mistake I shall be the gainer.


but she hopes that whenever you are in these parts you will honour her and her house by your company, whether you are alone or with friends.


Capitally. The countess is charming, and we amused ourselves all night with the tricks of two amorous women.


Is she pretty or old?


She is only thirty-three, and, I assure you, she is as pretty as my friend Mdlle. Crosin. I can speak with authority for we saw each other in a state of nature.


You are a singular creature; you were unfaithful to me for a woman, and left me to pass the night by myself.


You must forgive me, and I had to sleep with her as she was the first to declare her love.


Really? How was that?


When I gave her the first of my kisses she returned it in the Florentine manner, and our tongues met. After supper, I confess, I was the first to begin the suggestive caresses, but she met me half-way. I could only make her happy by spending the night with her. Look, this will shew you how pleased she was.


Truly, this woman is fond of pleasure and deserves to have it. But. I can’t think why she did not want me to see her; I think she has treated me rather cavalierly.


No, I think the reason was that she was ashamed to be seen by my lover after having made me unfaithful to him; I had to confess that we were lovers.


Maybe. At all events you have been well paid; that ring is worth two hundred louis.


But I may as well tell you that I was well enough paid for the pleasure I gave by the pleasure I received.


That’s right; I am delighted to see you happy.


If you want to make me really happy, take me to England with you. My uncle will be there, and I could go back to Venice with him.


What! you have an uncle in England? Do you really mean it? It sounds like a fairy-tale. You never told me of it before.


I have never said anything about it up to now, because I have always imagined that this might prevent your accomplishing your desire.


Is your uncle a Venetian? What is he doing in England? Are you sure that he will welcome you?


Yes.


What is his name? And how are we to find him in a town of more than a million inhabitants?


He is ready found. His name is Mattio Boisi, and he is valet de chambre to M. Querini, the Venetian ambassador sent to England to congratulate the new king; he is accompanied by the Procurator Morosini. My uncle is my mother’s brother; he is very fond of me, and will forgive my fault, especially when he finds I am rich. When he went to England he said he would be back in Venice in July, and we shall just catch him on the point of departure.


Are we at Avignon now?


Yes, dearest.


Then I conscientiously discharge the trust which the countess placed in me when she embraced me for the last time this morning. She made me swear not to say a word about it till we got to Avignon.


All this puzzles me, dearest; explain yourself.


She gave me a letter for you.


A letter?


Will you forgive me for not placing it in your hands sooner?


Certainly, if you passed your word to the countess; but where is this letter?


Wait a minute. This is my certificate of baptism.


I see you were born in 1746.


This is a certificate of ‘good conduct.’


Keep it, it may be useful to you.


This is my certificate of virginity.


That’s no use. Did you get it from a midwife?


No, from the Patriarch of Venice.


Did he test the matter for himself?


No, he was too old; he trusted in me.


Well, well, let me see the letter.


I hope I haven’t lost it.


I hope not, to God.


Here is your brother’s promise of marriage; he wanted to be a Protestant.


You may throw that into the fire.


What is a Protestant?


I will tell you another time. Give me the letter.


Praised be God, here it is!


That’s lucky; but it has no address.


Cruel Henriette, you saw me and would not let me see you. No doubt you thought your charms would not have their old power, and feared lest I should discover that after all you were but mortal. And yet I love you with all the ardour of my early passion. Why did you not let me learn from your own mouth that you were happy? That is the only question I should have asked you, cruel fair one. I should not have enquired whether you loved me still, for I feel my unworthiness, who have loved other women after loving the most perfect of her sex. Adorable Henriette, I will fly to you to-morrow, since you told me that I should be always welcome. No, your behaviour proves that you do not wish to see me now, and your wishes shall be respected; but I must see you once before I die.


that he remembered my tastes, and had got me a delicious supper.


Do you know, you quite frightened me? You were as pale and still as a dead man, and remained for a quarter of an hour in a kind of swoon, the like of which I have never seen. What is the reason? I knew that the countess was acquainted with you, but I should never have thought that her name by itself could have such an astonishing effect.


Well, it is strange; but how did you find out that the countess knew me?


She told me as much twenty times over in the night, but she made me promise to say nothing about it till I had given you the letter.


What did she say to you about me?


She only repeated in different ways what she has written for an address.


What a letter it is! Her name, and nothing more.


It is very strange.


Yes, but the name tells all.


She told me that if I wanted to be happy I should always remain with you. I said I knew that well; but that you wanted to send me back to Venice, though you were very fond of me. I can guess now that you were lovers. How long ago was it?


Sixteen or seventeen years.


She must have been very young, but she cannot have been prettier than she is now.


Be quiet, Marcoline.


Did your union with her last long?


We lived together four months in perfect happiness.


I shall not be happy for so long as that.


Yes you will, and longer, too; but with another man, and one more suitable to you in age. I am going to England to try to get my daughter from her mother.


Your daughter? The countess asked me if you were married, and I said no.


You were right; she is my illegitimate daughter. She must be ten now, and when you see her you will confess that she must belong to me.


My dear papa!


What are you doing here, fair Irene?


We have been here for the last fortnight. Good heavens! how lucky I am to find you again. I am quite weak. Will you allow me to sit down, madam?


Yes, yes, my dear, sit down;


they were waiting for her at supper,


I won’t take any supper;


When we have done, you must tell us what chance has brought you to Avignon.


it would have been a mistake if she had not taken any supper.


I hope, that if she doesn’t mind she will sleep with me.


Go to bed and leave us alone. Leave me alone, dearest, the punch has got into your head, and you don’t know what you are doing.


We have enjoyed ourselves, and time that is given to enjoyment is never lost.


I am quite ready.


No, dear Irene, you shall not go; you shall dine with your friend, and your driver can wait. Make him do so, Count Rinaldi; my niece will pay, will you not, Marcoline?


Certainly. I should like to dine here, and still better to put off our departure till the next day.


Do you know, that if it had been in my power I should have taken her from her parents. I believe she is your daughter, though she is not like you.


How can she be my daughter when I have never known her mother?


She told me that certainly.


Didn’t she tell you anything else?


Yes, she told me that you lived with her for three days and bought her maidenhead for a thousand sequins.


Quite so, but did she tell you that I paid the money to her father?


Yes, the little fool doesn’t keep anything for herself. I don’t think I should ever be jealous of your mistresses, if you let me sleep with them. Is not that a mark of a good disposition? Tell me.


You have, no doubt, a good disposition, but you could be quite as good without your dominant passion.


It is not a passion. I only have desires for those I love.


Who gave you this taste?


Nature. I began at seven, and in the last ten years I have certainly had four hundred sweethearts.


You begin early. But when did you begin to have male sweethearts?


At eleven.


Tell me all about it.


Let us go and breakfast at a coffee-house, we will have some discussion together.


I should be a great fool, if I gave the knave more money to escape from the hands of justice. Let him go if he likes, I won’t prevent him; but he had better not expect me to give him anything. He will have a writ out against him to-morrow. I should like to see him branded by the hangman. He has slandered me, his benefactor, too grievously; let him prove what he says, or be dishonoured before all men.


His abandoning the proceedings, would in my opinion amount to the same thing as his failing to prove his charges, and you would do well to prefer it to a trial which would do your reputation no good, even if you were completely successful. And the hundred louis is nothing in comparison with the costs of such a trial.


M. Bono, I value your advice very highly, and still more highly the kindly feelings which prompt you, but you must allow me to follow my own opinion in this case.


Will that do?


So well that I forgive him, but I wonder he did not insist on the hundred Louis.


My dear sir, I gave him the money with pleasure, to prevent a scandalous affair which would have done us all harm in becoming public. If I had told you nothing, you couldn’t have taken any steps in the matter, and I felt myself obliged to repair the mischief I had done in this way. You would have known nothing about it, if you had said that you were not satisfied. I am only too glad to have been enabled to shew my friendship by this trifling service. We will say no more about it.


Very good, we will say no more, but please to receive the assurance of my gratitude.


Farewell, fair Marcoline!


Your excellency is well aware, that nothing is sweeter than forbidden fruit.


I come from Rome, where I had some converse with the Holy Father, whom I knew before, and I am going through Paris on my way to London.


Call on me here, if you have time, I have a little commission to give you.


I shall always have time to serve your excellency in. Are you stopping here for long?


Three or four days.


You have a very pretty young lady with you. What have I done to deserve this honour?


Because. I have the honour of knowing his excellency M. Querini.


What are you doing with M. Casanova?


He is my uncle.


To the ‘Hotel du Parc’. We have three or four days before us, in which we can contrive how to communicate with your uncle Mattio. I must commend you highly for kissing M. Querini’s hand. That was a masterstroke indeed. All will go off well; but I hope you will be merry, for sadness I abhor.


May I ask you, mademoiselle, how you came to know M. Querini?


It’s a mystery, sir.


A mystery, is it? What fun we shall have tomorrow! I have come, to ask you to dine with us to-morrow, and you must bring your charming niece.


Would you like to go, Marcoline?


‘Con grandissimo piacere’! We shall speak Venetian, shall we not?


Certainly.


‘E viva’! I cannot learn French.


M. Querini is in the same position,


Put on your best dress to-morrow, and do not forget your jewels. Be agreeable to everybody, but pretend not to see your Uncle Mattio, who will be sure to wait at table.


You may be sure I shall follow your advice to the letter.


And I mean to make the recognition a scene worthy of the drama. I intend that you shall be taken back to Venice by M. Querini himself, while your uncle will take care of you by his special orders.


I shall be delighted with this arrangement, provided it succeeds.


You may trust to me for that.


The Procurator Morosini is very sorry not to have been able to take a last leave of Mdlle. Charpillon.


Where shall I find her?


I really don’t know. If you find her, give her the letter; if not, it doesn’t matter. That’s a dazzling beauty you have with you, Casanova.


Well, she has dazzled me.


But how did she know Querini?


She has seen him at Venice, but she has never spoken to him.


I thought so; we have been laughing over it, but Querini is hugely pleased. But how did you get hold of her? She must be very young, as Memmo says she cannot speak French.


It would be a long story to tell, and after all we met through a mere chance.


She is not your niece.


Nay, she is more--she is my queen.


You will have to teach her French, as when you get to London--


I am not going to take her there; she wants to return to Venice.


I pity you if you are in love with her! I hope she will dine with us?


Oh, yes! she is delighted with the honour.


And we are delighted to have our poor repast animated by such a charming person.


You will find her worthy of your company; she is full of wit. I will draw you out of the difficulty,


Then you don’t like the French. I like them well enough so far as I know them, but I am only acquainted with their exterior, as I don’t speak or understand the language.


I hope, that M. de Seingalt will not bring me into the society of people with whom I cannot exchange ideas. I know I shall never be able to learn French. That may be, gentlemen, though I do not see why a niece should not love her uncle. But I have never loved anyone else but the hero of the tale, and I cannot see what difference there can be between one kind of love and another.


There are five kinds of love known to man. The love of one’s neighbour, the love of God, which is beyond compare, the highest of all, love matrimonial, the love of house and home, and the love of self, which ought to come last of all, though many place it in the first rank. Poveretta, you are an angel!


Dear heart, you have not shewn me all your perfections till now, when we are about to part; you make me regret you are going back to Venice. Today you won all hearts.


Keep me then, with you, and I will ever be as I have been to-day. By the way, did you see my uncle?


I think so. Was it not he who was in continual attendance?


Yes. I recognized him by his ring. Did he look, at me?


All the time, and with an air of the greatest astonishment. I avoided catching his eye, which roved from you to me continually.


I should like to know what the good man thinks! You will see him again to-morrow. I am sure he will have told M. Querini that, I am his niece, and consequently not yours.


I expect so, too.


And if M. Querini says as much to me to-morrow, I expect I shall have to, admit the fact. What do you think?


You must undoubtedly tell him the truth, but frankly and openly, and so as not to let him think that you have need of him to return to Venice. He is not your father, and has no right over your liberty.


Certainly not. Very good. You must also agree that I am not your uncle, and that the bond between us is of the most tender description. Will, there be any difficulty is that?


How can you ask me such a question? The link between us makes me feel proud, and will ever do so.


Well, well, I say no more. I trust entirely in your tact. Remember that Querini and no other must take you back to Venice; he must treat you as if you were his daughter. If he will not consent, you shall not return at all.


Would to God it were so!


We are getting on. I am very glad that things have taken this turn, for when you come back you can tell me the whole story, and I can regulate my conduct accordingly.


I have a confidence to make to you, M. Casanova, but first I want you to do me the same favor.


I can have no secrets from your excellency.


I am obliged to you, and will try to deserve your good opinion. I beg that you will tell me sincerely whether you know the young person who is with you, for no one believes that she is your niece.


It is true that she is not my niece, but not being acquainted with her relations or family I cannot be said to know her in the sense which your excellency gives to the word. Nevertheless, I am proud to confess that I love her with an affection which will not end save with my life.


I am delighted to hear you say so. How long have you had her?


Nearly two months.


Very good! How did she fall into your hands?


That is a point which only concerns her, and you will allow me not to answer that question.


Good! we will go on. Though you are in love with her, it is very possible that you have never made any enquiries respecting her family.


She has told me that she has a father and a mother, poor but honest, but I confess I have never been curious enough to enquire her name. I only know her baptismal name, which is possibly not her true one, but it does quite well for me.


She has given you her true name.


Your excellency surprises me! You know her, then?


Yes; I did not know her yesterday, but I do now. Two months . . . Marcoline . . . yes, it must be she. I am now certain that my man is not mad.


Your man?


Yes, she is his niece. When we were at London he heard that she had left the paternal roof about the middle of Lent. Marcoline’s mother, who is his sister, wrote to him. He was afraid to speak to her yesterday, because she looked so grand. He even thought he must be mistaken, and he would have been afraid of offending me by speaking to a grand lady at my table. She must have seen him, too.


I don’t think so, she has said nothing about it to me.


It is true that he was standing behind her all the time. But let us come to the point. Is Marcoline your wife, or have you any intention of marrying her?


I love her as tenderly as any man can love a woman, but I cannot make her a wife; the reasons are known only to herself and me.


I respect your secret; but tell me if you would object to my begging her to return to Venice with her uncle?


I think Marcoline is happy, but if she has succeeded in gaining the favour of your excellency, she is happier still; and I feel sure that if she were to go back to Venice under the exalted patronage of your excellency, she would efface all stains on her reputation. As to permitting her to go, I can put no stumbling-block in the way, for I am not her master. As her lover I would defend her to the last drop of my blood, but if she wants to leave me I can only assent, though with sorrow.


You speak with much sense, and I hope you will not be displeased at my undertaking this good work. Of course I shall do nothing without your consent.


I respect the decrees of fate when they are promulgated by such a man as you. If your excellency can induce Marcoline to leave me, I will make no objection; but I warn you that she must be won mildly. She is intelligent, she loves me, and she knows that she is independent; besides she reckons on me, and she has cause to do so. Speak to her to-day by herself; my presence would only be in your way. Wait till dinner is over; the interview might last some time.


My dear Casanova, you are an honest man. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance.


You do me too much honour. I may say that Marcoline will hear nothing of all this.


You must execute a masterly stroke, dearest,


to persuade M. Querini that I did not lie in saying that you had not seen your uncle. As soon as you see him, you must give a shout of surprise, exclaim, ‘My dear uncle!’ and rush to his arms. This would be a splendid and dramatic situation, which would do you honour in the eyes of all the company.


You may be sure that I shall play the part very well, although my heart be sad. My uncle?


Yes, my dear niece.


I knew you had left Venice, dear uncle, but I did not know you were in his excellency’s service. I am so glad to see you again! You will tell my father and mother about me? You see I am happy. Where were you yesterday?


Here.


And you didn’t see me?


Yes; but your uncle there . . .


Well,


let us know each other, cousin, and be good friends. Marcoline, I congratulate you on having such an honest man for an uncle.


That is really very fine,


Very affecting, very affecting indeed!


I must be the judge of that,


Yes, but it is a good thing to have recourse to the advice of discreet persons who are interested in the happiness of both parties.


Excuse me, but I do not think so. If I ever marry, my husband will have to please me first.


Who has taught you this maxim?


My uncle, Casanova, who has, I verily believe, taught me everything that can be learnt in the two months I have been happy enough to live with him.


I congratulate the master and the pupil, but you are both too young to have learnt all the range of science. Moral science cannot be learnt in two months.


What his excellency has just said,


is perfectly correct. In affairs of marriage both parties should rely to a great extent on the advice of friends, for mere marriages of inclination are often unhappy.


That is a really philosophical remark, my dear Marcoline, but tell me the qualities which in your opinion are desirable in a husband.


I should be puzzled to name them, but they would all become manifest in the man that pleased me.


And supposing he were a worthless fellow?


He would certainly not please me, and that’s the reason why I have made up my mind never to marry a man whom I have not studied.


Supposing you made a mistake?


Then I would weep in secret.


How if you were poor?


She need never fear poverty, my lord,


She has an income of fifty crowns a month for the remainder of her life.


Oh, that’s a different matter. If that is so, sweetheart, you are privileged. You will be able to live at Venice in perfect independence.


I think that to live honourably there I only need the protection of a lord like your excellency.


As to that, Marcoline, I give you my word that I will do all in my power for you if you come to Venice. But let me ask you one question, how are you sure of your income of fifty crowns a month? You are laughing.


I laugh because I am such a silly little thing. I don’t have any heed for my own business. My friend there will tell you all about it.


You have not been joking, have you?


Marcoline,


has not only capital which will produce a larger sum than that which I have named, but she has also valuable possessions. Your excellency will note her wisdom in saying that she would need your lordship’s protection at Venice, for she will require someone to look after the investment of her capital. The whole amount is in my hands, and if she likes Marcoline can have it all in less than two hours.


Very good; then you must start for Venice the day after to-morrow. Mattio is quite ready to receive you.


I have the greatest respect and love for my uncle, but it is not to his care that your excellency must commend me if I resolve to go.


Then to whom?


To your own care, my lord. Your excellency has called me dear daughter two or three times, lead me, then, to Venice, like a good father, and I will come willingly; otherwise I protest I will not leave the man to whom I owe all I have. I will start for London with him the day after to-morrow.


We must adore the decrees of Divine Providence, but after the issue, since mortals are not able to discern the future, whether it be good or whether it be evil.


What does that reflection relate to, my dear daughter? and why do you kiss my hand now?


I kiss your hand because you have called me your dear daughter for the fourth time. It was an inspiration, and the result of self-examination. I am well; I have learned something of life; I am only seventeen, and in the course of two months I have become rich by honest means. I am all happy, and yet I owe my happiness to the greatest error a maiden can commit. Thus I humble myself before the decrees, of Providence and adore its wisdom.


You are right, but, none the less you ought to repent of what you have done.


That’s where I am puzzled; for before I can repent; I must think of it, and when I think of it I find nothing for which to repent. I suppose I shall have to consult some great theologian on the point.


That will not be necessary; you are, intelligent, and your heart is good, and I will give you the necessary instruction on the way. When one repents there is no need to think of the pleasure which our sins have given us. I have just been speaking to her; and if you would like to come, all is arranged. You shall sleep with her, and dine with us till we get to Venice, and then I will deliver you into your mother’s keeping, in the presence of your uncle. What do you say?


I will come with pleasure.


Come and see Dame Veneranda.


Willingly.


Come with us, Casanova.


I shall have to put my steward in another carriage, as the calash only holds two.


That will not be necessary,


for Marcoline has her carriage, and Mistress Veneranda will find it a very comfortable one. It will hold her luggage as well.


You want to give me your carriage. You are too good to me.


Are you not afraid, of getting into trouble with the State Inquisitors for recommending M. Casanova?


Reflect, that it is not I who am leaving you, but you who are sending me away; that I long to spend the rest of my days with you, and that you have only got to say a word to keep me.


Good heavens!


I will give her a thousand Venetian ducats, or three thousand francs for it.


You might give her double that amount,


for it is worth three thousand ducats.


We will arrange all that,


It will be a considerable addition to the capital she proposes to invest.


how I could be my own executioner;


Sir, I have come to ask you to do me a favour which will cost you but little, while it will be of immense service to my daughter and myself.


What can I do for you? I am leaving Lyons at day-break to-morrow.


I know it, for you said so at dinner; but we shall be ready at any hour. Be kind enough to give my daughter a seat in your carriage. I will, of course, pay for a third horse, and will ride post.


You cannot have seen the carriage.


Excuse me, I have done so. It is, I know, only meant for one, but she could easily squeeze into it. I know I am troubling you, but if you were aware of the convenience it would be to me I am sure you would not refuse. All the places in the diligence are taken up to next week, and if I don’t get to Paris in six days I might as well stay away altogether. If I were a rich man I would post, but that would cost four hundred francs, and I cannot afford to spend so much. The only course open to me is to leave by the diligence tomorrow, and to have myself and my daughter bound to the roof. You see, sir, the idea makes her weep, and I don’t like it much better myself.


This girl,


may be so charming that I should fall in love with her if I yield to the father’s request, and I do not wish for any such result.


I sympathize with you sincerely; but I really don’t see what I can do for you without causing myself the greatest inconvenience.


Perhaps you think that I shall not be able to ride so many posts in succession, but you needn’t be afraid on that score.


The horse might give in; you might have a fall, and I know that I should feel obliged to stop, and I am in a hurry. If that reason does not strike you as a cogent one, I am sorry, for to me it appears unanswerable.


Let us run the risk, sir, at all events.


There is a still greater risk of which I can tell you nothing. In brief, sir, you ask what is impossible.


In Heaven’s name, sir, rescue me from that dreadful journey on the roof of the diligence! The very idea makes me shudder; I should be afraid of falling off all the way; besides, there is something mean in travelling that way. Do but grant me this favour, and I will sit at your feet so as not to discomfort you.


This is too much! You do not know me, mademoiselle. I am neither cruel nor impolite, especially where your sex is concerned, though my refusal must make you feel otherwise. If I give way you may regret it afterwards, and I do not wish that to happen. A post-chaise costs six Louis. Here they are; take them. I will put off my departure for a few hours, if necessary, to answer for the chaise, supposing you are not known here, and an extra horse will cost four Louis; take them. As to the rest, you would have spent as much in taking two places in the diligence.


You are very kind, sir, but I cannot accept your gift. I am not worthy of it, and I should be still less worthy if I accepted the money. Adele, let us go. Forgive us, sir, if we have wasted half an hour of your time. Come, my poor child.


Wait a moment, father.


Calm yourself, mademoiselle. It shall never be said that I remained unmoved while beauty wept. I yield to your request, for if I did not I should not be able to sleep all night. But I accede on one condition, and that is that you sit at the back of the carriage.


Certainly; but what is to become of your servant?


He will ride on in front. Everything is settled. Go to bed now, and be ready to start at six o’clock.


Certainly, but you will allow me to pay for the extra horse?


You shall pay nothing at all; it would be a shame if I received any money from you. You have told me you are poor, and poverty is no dishonour; well, I may tell you that I am rich, and riches are no honour save when they are used in doing good. Therefore, as I said, I will pay for all.


Very good, but I will pay for the extra horse in the carriage.


Certainly not, and let us have no bargaining, please; it is time to go to bed. I will put you down at Paris without the journey costing you a farthing, and then if you like you may thank me; these are the only conditions on which I will take you. Look! Mdlle. Adele is laughing, that’s reward enough for me.


I am laughing for joy at having escaped that dreadful diligence roof.


I see, but I hope you will not weep in my carriage, for all sadness is an abomination to me.


Certainly. Do you prefer any particular route?


If I went through Nevers I might be able to collect a small account.


Then we will go by the Bourbonnais. No, you had better take a seat.


Can I imprison the rascal? I should like to have the satisfaction of doing so, were it to cost me two Louis.


Two Louis! Your honour shall be attended to in a moment.


How much is your time worth, sir?


Five louis.


Your man will be in prison in the next ten minutes.


I am perfectly ready to swear that he did the damage,


You saw him, did you?


No, but that’s of no consequence, as everybody is sure he did it.


My good sir, take pity on us, for he is our only support. Do a good deed and set him free, for he would stay in prison all his days unless we sold our beds to pay you.


My worthy woman, I forgive him completely. Hand this document to the police magistrate and all will be well.


Sir, your daughter has shewn me her black breeches.


It’s uncommonly lucky for her that she didn’t shew you something else.


You are very kind, but it is quite a mistake for you to think that you would disturb me by talking. Allow me to tell you that you are concealing the real cause of your silence.


Do you know the real cause?


Yes, I think I do.


Well, what is it?


You have changed since you saw my breeches.


You are right, this black attire has clothed my soul with gloom.


I am very sorry, but you must allow that in the first place I was not to suppose that you were going to see my breeches, and in the second place that I could not be aware that the colour would be distasteful to you.


True again, but as I chanced to see the articles you must forgive my disgust. This black has filled my soul with funereal images, just as white would have cheered me. Do you always wear those dreadful breeches?


I am wearing them for the first time to-day.


Then you must allow that you have committed an unbecoming action.


Unbecoming?


Yes, what would you have said if I had come down in petticoats this morning? You would have pronounced them unbecoming. You are laughing.


Forgive me, but I never heard anything so amusing. But your comparison will not stand; everyone would have seen your petticoats, whereas no one has any business to see my breeches.


Then you don’t like night travelling?


I shouldn’t mind it if I were not afraid of going to sleep and falling on you.


Why, I should like it. A pretty girl like you is an agreeable burden.


If I thought you could eat a roast fowl with as good an appetite as mine, I would dine here.


Try me, I will endeavour to match you.


I hope the black colour has given you no funereal thoughts this time.


The hue of the rose, dear Adele, can only inspire me with delicious fancies.


If you had told me before, we would have gone on to Nevers and slept there. You are too kind. I mean to ride the three and a half stages. The riding will do me good, and I like it. I leave my daughter in your care. She will not be so near you as in the carriage.


Oh, we will be very discreet, you may be sure!


I shan’t be offended,


It would be very wrong of me,


to give you such a proof of my want of confidence.


You are frightened of me, I think?


You are wrong, but you surprised me. Come back, I want to see you fall asleep in my arms.


Come and see me sleep.


Will you sleep all the time?


Of course I shall.


We will see about that.


My genius told me at day-break that Galtinardus was starting from Fontainebleau, and that he will come and dine with me to-day.


I want to consult the oracle on a matter of the greatest importance, and I hope you will come and see me tomorrow.


Where is he?


You will see him before long, for it is near supper-time; and as eating and drinking are the chief concerns of his life, he will not fail to put in an appearance.


What has he done?


Everything that a good-for-nothing can do; but I hear him coming, and I will tell you all about it in his presence.


All that an honest man can have against a monster. I have read the letter you wrote to Possano, in which I am styled a cheat, a spy, a coiner, and a poisoner. What does the abbé think of that?


When this fine gentleman first came here, my wife and I gave him a most cordial welcome. I allowed him a nice room, and told him to look upon my house as his own. Possibly with the idea of interesting us in his favour, he began by saying that you were the greatest rascal in the world. To prove it he told us how he had carried off a girl from Venice with the idea of marrying her, and went to you at Genoa as he was in great necessity. He confesses that you rescued him from his misery, but he says that you traitorously took possession of the girl, associating her with two other mistresses you had at that time. In fine, he says that you lay with her before his eyes, and that you drove him from Marseilles that you might be able to enjoy her with greater freedom.


He finished his story by saying that as he could not go back to Venice, he needed our help till he could find some means of living on his talents or through his profession as a priest. I asked him what his talents were, and he said he could teach Italian; but as he speaks it vilely, and doesn’t know a word of French, we laughed at him. We were therefore reduced to seeing what we could do for him in his character of priest, and the very next day my wife spoke to M. de Sauci, the ecclesiastical commissioner, begging him to give my brother an introduction to the Archbishop of Paris, who might give him something that might lead to his obtaining a good benefice. He would have to go to our parish church, and I spoke to the rector of St. Sauveur, who promised to let him say mass, for which he would receive the usual sum of twelve sols. This was a very good beginning, and might have led to something worth having; but when we told the worthy abbé of our success, he got into a rage, saying that he was not the man to say mass for twelve sols, nor to toady the archbishop in the hope of being taken into his service. No, he was not going to be in anyone’s service. We concealed our indignation, but for the three weeks he has been here he has turned everything upside down. My wife’s maid left us yesterday, to our great annoyance, because of him; and the cook says she will go if he remains, as he is always bothering her in the kitchen. We are therefore resolved that he shall go, for his society is intolerable to us. I am delighted to have you here, as I think we ought to be able to drive him away between us, and the sooner the better.


Nothing easier,


if he likes to stay in Paris, let him do so. You can send off his rags to some furnished apartments, and serve him with a police order not to put foot in your house again. On the other hand if he wants to go away, let him say where, and I will pay his journey-money this evening.


Nothing could be more generous. What do you say, abbé?


I say that this is the way in which he drove me from Marseilles. What intolerable violence!


Give God thanks, monster, that instead of thrashing you within an inch of your life as you deserve, I am going to give you some money! You thought you would get me hanged at Lyons, did you?


Where is Marcoline?


What is that to you? Make haste and choose between Rome and Paris, and remember that if you choose Paris you will have nothing to live on.


Then I will go to Rome.


Good! The journey only costs twenty louis, but I will give you twenty-five.


Hand them over.


Patience. Give me pens, ink and paper.


What are you going to write?


Bills of exchange on Lyons, Turin, Genoa, Florence, and Rome. Your place will be paid as far as Lyons, and there you will be able to get five louis, and the same sum in the other towns, but as long as you stay in Paris not one single farthing will I give you. I am staying at the ‘Hotel Montmorenci;’ that’s all you need know about me.


Sir, everybody is still asleep, but who are you? I have instructions.


I am the Chevalier de Seingalt.


Kindly come into my lodge, and amuse yourself with my niece. I will soon be with you.


Mademoiselle, your uncle has told me to come and amuse myself with you.


He is a rascal, for he consulted neither of us.


Yes, but he knew well enough that there could be no doubt about my opinion after I had seen you.


You are very flattering, sir, but I know the value of compliments.


Yes, I suppose that you often get them, and you well deserve them all. What is the matter, my pretty maid? You don’t seem to be in a good humour.


You would have done better to come at noon; it is not nine o’clock yet, and madame did not come home till three o’clock this morning. I am just going to wake her, and I am sorry for her.


Raton, give us the writing materials, and go away. Don’t come till I call you, and if anyone asks for me, I am asleep.


Very good, madam, and I will go to sleep also.


My dear M. Casanova, how is it that the oracle has deceived us? M. du Rumain is still alive, and he ought to have died six months ago. It is true that he is not well, but we will not go into all that again. The really important question is this: You know that music is my favourite pursuit, and that my voice is famous for its strength and compass; well, I have completely lost it. I have not sung a note for three months. The doctors have stuffed me with remedies which have had no effect: It makes me very unhappy, for singing was the one thing that made me cling to life. I entreat you to ask the oracle how I can recover my voice. How delighted I should be if I could sing by to-morrow. I have a great many people coming here, and I should enjoy the general astonishment. If the oracle wills it I am sure that it might be so, for I have a very strong chest. That is my question; it is a long one, but so much the better; the answer will be long too, and I like long answers.


for, the oracle knew that I should catch cold if the window were open. I will do everything the oracle bids me, but I hope you will get me everything necessary for the ceremonies.


I will not only take care that you have all the requisites, but as a proof of my zeal for you, I will come and do the suffumigations myself that you may learn how it is done.


We will both give her the pleasure of seeing us. Certainly, but as you are going on to London, how shall I come back?


By yourself, dressed as a postillion.


What shall I ride post? How delightful!


You must only cover eight or ten posts a day, for you have no need to risk your life by riding all night.


Yes, yes; but I am to dress like a postillion, am I not?


Yes; I will have a handsome jacket and a pair of leather breeches made for you, and you shall have a flag with the arms of France on it.


They will take me for a courier going to London.


I should never have been unhappy if I had never known you.


Yes, you would, only in some other way; your misfortunes are the result of your bad conduct. But tell me what are your misfortunes.


As I could not stay in Turin after you had dishonoured me . . .


You came to dishonour yourself here, I suppose. Drop that tone, or else I will leave you. Then, you are at present the victim of a fearful disease, heavily in debt, likely to be turned out of doors and imprisoned by your creditors. What do you propose to do?


Do! Why, throw myself in the Seine, to be sure; that’s all that is left for me to do. I have not a farthing left.


And what would you do if you had some money?


I would put myself under the doctor’s hands, in the first place, and then if any money was left I would go to Bologna and try to get a living somehow. Perhaps I should have learnt a little wisdom by experience.


Poor girl, I pity you! and in spite of your bad treatment of me, which has brought you to this pass, I will not abandon you. Here are four louis for your present wants, and to-morrow I will tell you where you are to go for your cure. When you have got well again, I will give you enough money for the journey. Dry your tears, repent, amend your ways, and may God have mercy on you! Certainly; but the girl is poor, and I am doing it out of charity.


You will take in the person who brings you this note and three hundred francs, and in six weeks you will send her back cured, if it please God. The person has reasons for not wishing to be known.


I don’t want to hear anything about it; make your choice, Paris or Rome.


Give me the journey-money, I will remain at Paris; but I will give a written engagement not to trouble you or your brother again. That should be sufficient.


It is not for you to judge of that. Begone! I have neither the time nor the wish to listen to you. Remember, Paris without a farthing, or Rome with twenty-five louis.


Take care that the Chevalier de Seingalt is able to come into my room at five o’clock to-morrow.


Rome or Paris, which is it to be?


Rome,


Wait in the antechamber. I will do your business for you. Welcome! You are come just in time to see me deal with the abbé, who has resolved at last to go to Rome and to follow my directions.


Who is to assure me that these bills will be honoured?


I assure you, blockhead. If you don’t like them you can leave them.


But I may dine with you, surely?


No, I have done with you. Go and dine with Possano, as you are his accomplice in the horrible attempt he made to murder me. Clairmont, shew this man out, and never let him set foot here again.


What did you do with the girl he eloped with?


I sent her back to Venice with the ambassadors the better by thirty thousand francs, some fine jewels, and a perfect outfit of clothes. She travelled in a carriage I gave her which was worth more than two hundred louis.


That’s all very fine, but you must make some allowance for the abbé’s grief and rage at seeing you sleep with her.


Fools, my dear sister, are made to suffer such grief, and many others besides. Did he tell you that she would not let him have anything to do with her, and that she used to box his ears?


On the the contrary, he was always talking of her love for him.


He made himself a fine fellow, I have no doubt, but the truth is, it was a very ugly business.


I am no more his wife now, than I was the night before our marriage.


What! Still a maid?


As much a maid as at the moment I was born. They tell me I could easily obtain a dissolution of the marriage, but besides the scandal that would arise, I unhappily love him, and I should not like to do anything that would give him pain.


You are a wonderful woman, but why do you not provide a substitute for him?


I know I might do so, without having to endure much remorse, but I prefer to bear it.


You are very praiseworthy, but in the other ways you are happy?


He is overwhelmed with debt, and if I liked to call upon him to give me back my dowry he would not have a shirt to his back. Why did he marry me? He must have known his impotence. It was a dreadful thing to do.


Yes, but you must forgive him for it.


I should think, that the careful living prescribed by the cabala must have a good effect on my health.


Most certainly,


and if you continue to observe the rules you will keep both your health and your voice.


We will see about it after dinner.


But you can find out in a moment whether she is here or not?


Yes, but there is no hurry.


And what will you do if she is not here?


We will go on till we meet her on the way. In the meanwhile let us go and see the famous manufactory of M. Varobes before dinner.


Go by yourself. I am tired, and I will sleep till you come back.


Very good.


He started for Paris riding post, five minutes after you left. He said he was going after some dispatches you had left at Paris.


If you don’t get him back I will ruin you with law-suits; you had no business to let him have a horse without my orders.


I will capture the little rascal, sir, before he has got to Amiens.


I would catch him up, even if he had four hours start. You shall have him here at six o’clock.


I will give you two louis.


I would catch him for that, though he were a very lark.


I will come with you, I give you my word of honour; but you must let me ride on before you. Otherwise, with this dress of mine, I should be ashamed to go. I don’t want it to be thought that you had to give chase to me, as if I had robbed you.


I accept your word of honour, but be careful to keep it. Embrace me, and order another saddle-horse.


It’s the courier of the Duke of Bedford, the English ambassador, he announces the approach of his master, and is disputing with the captain of the packet. He says he hired the boat by letter, and that the captain had no right to let it to you. The master maintains that he has received no such letter, and no one can prove that he is telling a lie.


My lord duke may dispose of the whole of the packet, with the exception of the space necessary for my own accommodation, that of two other persons, and my luggage. I am delighted to have the opportunity of obliging the English ambassador.


Tell him that it is out of the question, as the boat is paid for already.


He will give you the six guineas.


Tell your master that I cannot allow him to pay. I do not buy to sell again.


However, there is a middle course, let us adopt it, and I shall be just as much indebted to you.


What is that, my lord?


We will each pay half.


My desire to oblige you, my lord, will not allow me to refuse, but it is I who will be indebted to you for the honour your lordship does me. We will start as soon as you like, and I can make my arrangements accordingly.


This apartment and the two servants are for you, and I, too, am your most humble servant.


Where is your room?


Near the roof, and I am to share it with one of those two louts you saw.


Take your trunk there.


Shall I open yours?


No. We will see what can be done to-morrow.


How is my sister Sophie?


Her name is Sophie, is it? She is only known as Miss Cornelis. She is a beauty, a perfect prodigy, she plays at sight on several instruments, dances like Terpsichore, speaks English, French, and Italian equally well--in a word, she is really wonderful. She has a governess and a maid. Unfortunately, she is rather short for her age; she is eight.


at what hour they were to sup.


At ten o’clock and not before, for Madame Cornelis is always engaged till then. She is always with her lawyer, on account of an important law-suit she has against Sir Frederick Fermer.


Quite so, but I am quoting from Boccaccio, and one should be exact in quotations.


I apologize, sir; I see you are a man of letters.


Well, in a small way. My name is Martinelli.


Then you are in a great way indeed. I know you by repute, and if I am not mistaken you are a relation of Calsabigi, who has spoken of you to me. I have read some of your satires.


May I ask to whom I have the honour of speaking?


My name is Seingalt. Have you finished your edition of the Decameron?


I am still at work on it, and trying to increase the number of my subscribers.


If you will be so kind I should be glad to be of the number.


You do me honour. You will experience some trouble in finding your way back, allow me to accompany you.


But you go there.


Yes, but I can say with Juvenal: Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator. The rogues can’t hurt me; I know them and they know me; we never trouble each other.


You have been a long time in London, I suppose.


Five years.


I presume you know a good many people.


Yes, but I seldom wait on anyone but Lord Spencer. I am occupied with literary work and live all by myself. I don’t make much, but enough to live on. I live in furnished apartments, and have twelve shirts and the clothes you see on my back, and that is enough for my happiness. Nec ultra deos lacesso. You will be given an inventory of the goods, and as soon as you get a surety your house will be your castle.


I like the idea, but how shall I find such a house?


That is easily done. That’s all we have to do.


He is very tired, like myself, and considering that we are travellers in need of rest you have kept us waiting a long time.


It was to have been my daughter, but I left her behind, as when I told her that you and her brother had arrived she asked me if you were well.


And you have punished her for doing so?


Certainly, for in my opinion she ought to have asked for her brother first and then for you. Don’t you think I was right?


Poor Sophie! I am sorry for her. Gratitude has evidently more influence over her than blood relationship.


It is not a question of sentiment, but of teaching young persons to think with propriety.


Propriety is often far from proper.


And how am I to help you, my dear mother?


I give twelve balls and twelve suppers to the nobility, and the same number to the middle classes in the year. I have often as many as six hundred guests at two guineas a head. The expenses are enormous, and alone as I am I must be robbed, for I can’t be in two places at once. Now that you are here you can keep everything under lock and key, keep the books, pay and receive accounts, and see that everyone is properly attended to at the assemblies; in fine, you will perform the duties of the master.


And do you think that I can do all that?


You will easily learn it.


I think it will be very difficult.


One of my secretaries will come and live with you, and instruct you in everything. During the first year you will only have to acquire the English language, and to be present at my assemblies, that I may introduce you to the most distinguished people in London. You will get quite English before long.


I would rather remain French.


That’s mere prejudice, my dear, you will like the sound of Mister Cornelis by-and-bye.


Cornelis?


Yes; that is your name.


It’s a very funny one.


I will write it down, so that you may not forget it.


I am very much afraid, that we shall have to begin his education all over again. What has he learnt in the last six years?


He might have learnt a great deal, for he went to the best boarding school in Paris; but he only learnt what he liked, and what he liked was not much. He can play the flute, ride, fence, dance a minuet, change his shirt every day, answer politely, make a graceful bow, talk elegant trifles, and dress well. As he never had any application, he doesn’t know anything about literature; he can scarcely write, his spelling is abominable, his arithmetic limited, and I doubt whether he knows in what continent England is situated.


He has used the six years well, certainly.


Say, rather, he has wasted them; but he will waste many more.


My daughter will laugh at him; but then it is I who have had the care of her education. He will be ashamed when he finds her so well instructed though she is only eight.


He will never see her at eight, if I know anything of reckoning; she is fully ten.


I think I ought to know the age of my own daughter. She knows geography, history, languages, and music; she argues correctly, and behaves in a manner which is surprising in so young a child. All the ladies are in love with her. I keep her at a school of design all day; she shews a great taste for drawing. She dines with me on Sundays, and if you would care to come to dinner next Sunday you will confess that I have not exaggerated her capacities. You are just in time, to witness the last assembly of the year; for in a few weeks all the nobility will leave town in order to pass the summer in the country. I can’t give you a ticket, as they are only issued to the nobility, but you can come as my friend and keep close to me. You will see everything. If I am asked who you are, I will say that you have superintended the education of my son in Paris, and have brought him back to me.


You do me too much honour.


I confess, that you have often given me a thousand pounds at a time, but that was a friendly gift, and nothing to be wondered at in a rich Englishman, considering that we were lovers and lived together. This suit, dishonours Fermer.


I should think it did, but you surely don’t think it honours you.


Certainly I do.


I don’t quite understand how you make that out.


I will explain it all to you.


We will talk it over again.


I never have a penny to spare.


You are not going to stay with me, then?


No, your mother doesn’t know how to welcome or to treat me.


I think you are right. I shall go back to Paris.


Don’t do anything so silly. Remember that here you are at home, and that in Paris you might not find a roof to shelter you. Farewell; I shall see you on Sunday.


M. Querini amused me extremely, he called me a little devil.


He meant to say that your highness is as witty as an angel.


It was all news to me, for I went there to-day for the first time.


Have you seen the king?


My dear, you should not ask such questions,


Why not?


Because the gentleman may not wish to answer them.


On the contrary, madam, I like being questioned. I have been teaching your son for the last six years to be always asking something, for that is the way to acquire knowledge. He who asks nothing knows nothing.


You have not told me yet, whether you saw the king.


Yes, my man, I saw the king and the queen, and both their majesties did me the honour to speak to me.


Who introduced you?


The French ambassador.


I think you will agree with me, that last question was a little too much.


Certainly it would be if it were addressed to a stranger, but not to me who am his friend. You will notice that the reply he extracted from me did me honour. If I had not wished it to be known that I had been at Court, I should not have come here in this dress.


Very good; but as you like to be questioned, may I ask you why you were not presented by your own ambassador?


Because the Venetian ambassador would not present me, knowing that his Government have a bone to pick with me.


Say something to M. de Seingalt,


I don’t know what to say. Tell M. de Seingalt to ask me some questions, and I will answer to the best of my ability.


Well, Sophie, tell me in what studies you are engaged at the present time.


I am learning drawing; if you like I will shew you some of my work.


I will look at it with pleasure; but tell me how you think you have offended me; you have a guilty air.


I, sir? I do not think I have done anything amiss.


Nor do I, my dear; but as you do not look at me when you speak I thought you must be ashamed of something. Are you ashamed of your fine eyes? You blush. What have you done?


You are embarrassing her. Tell him, my dear, that you have done nothing, but that a feeling of modesty and respect prevents you from gazing at the persons you address.


Yes, but if modesty bids young ladies lower their eyes, politeness should make them raise them now and again. I won’t look at anything, Sophie, unless you will look at me.


Come, look at the gentleman.


Now. I know you again, and perhaps you may remember having seen me.


Yes, although it is six years ago since we met, I recognized you directly.


And yet you did not look me in the face! If you knew how impolite it was to lower your eyes when you are addressing anyone, you would not do it. Who can have given you such a bad lesson?


They all rob me, but I have to put up with it. What I want is a sharp man to help me and watch over my interests; if I had such an one I should make an immense fortune in a comparatively short time; for when it is a question of pleasure, the English do not care what they spend.


In the meanwhile, we will begin by letting you see all the nobility at Madame Cornelis’s on Thursday next. I can give you a ticket to admit to ball and supper. It is two guineas.


Is this formality necessary, my lady?


Yes; or else they would ask you for the money at the doors.


Yes. I have one which I intend to present to-morrow. It is a singular letter, being merely a portrait.


Have you got it about you?


Yes, my lady.


May I see it?


Certainly. Here it is.


It is the Duchess of Northumberland. We will go and give it her.


With pleasure!


Just wait till they have marked the game. My dear duchess, here is a letter of introduction which this gentleman begs to present to you.


I know, it is M. de Seingalt. My son has written to me about him. I am delighted to see you, Chevalier, and I hope you will come and see me. I receive thrice a week.


Will your ladyship allow me to present my valuable letter in person?


Certainly. You are right.


You paid in gold. I suppose you had no bank notes about you?


Yes, my lady, I have notes for fifty and a hundred pounds.


Then you must change one of them or wait till another time to play, for in England to pay in gold is a solecism only pardonable in a stranger. Perhaps you noticed that the lady smiled?


Yes; who is she?


Lady Coventry, sister of the Duchess of Hamilton.


Ought I to apologize?


Not at all, the offence is not one of those which require an apology. She must have been more surprised than offended, for she made fifteen shillings by your paying her in gold.


Are you ill?


soup is only fit for invalids.


I had been a week in my new home without seeing Martinelli.


He came on a Monday morning, and I asked him to dine with me.


It was there that I made the acquaintance of Dr. Mati, of whom I shall speak in due course.


On your knees.


On your knees,


I asked him whom he had been speaking to.


That’s the brother of Earl Ferrers, who was hanged a couple of months ago for murdering one of his people.


And you speak to his brother?


Why shouldn’t I?


Is he not dishonoured by the execution of his relative?


Dishonoured! Certainly not; even his brother was not dishonoured. He broke the law, but he paid for it with his life, and owed society nothing more. He’s a man of honour, who played high and lost; that’s all. I don’t know that there is any penalty in the statute book which dishonours the culprit; that would be tyrannical, and we would not bear it. I may break any law I like, so long as I am willing to pay the penalty. It is only a dishonour when the criminal tries to escape punishment by base or cowardly actions.


How do you mean?


To ask for the royal mercy, to beg forgiveness of the people, and the like.


How about escaping from justice?


That is no dishonour, for to fly is an act of courage; it continues the defiance of the law, and if the law cannot exact obedience, so much the worse for it. It is an honour for you to have escaped from the tyranny of your magistrates; your flight from The Leads was a virtuous action. In such cases man fights with death and flees from it. ‘Vir fugiens denuo pugnabit’.


What do you think of highway robbers, then?


I detest them as wretches dangerous to society, but I pity them when I reflect that they are always riding towards the gallows. You go out in a coach to pay a visit to a friend three or four miles out of London. A determined and agile-looking fellow springs upon you with his pistol in his hand, and says, ‘Your money or your life.’ What would you do in such a case?


If I had a pistol handy I would blow out his brains, and if not I would give him my purse and call him a scoundrelly assassin.


You would be wrong in both cases. If you killed him, you would be hanged, for you have no right to take the law into your own hands; and if you called him an assassin, he would tell you that he was no assassin as he attacked you openly and gave you a free choice. Nay, he is generous, for he might kill you and take your money as well. You might, indeed, tell him he has an evil trade, and he would tell you that you were right, and that he would try to avoid the gallows as long as possible. He would then thank you and advise you never to drive out of London without being accompanied by a mounted servant, as then no robber would dare to attack you. We English always carry two purses on our journeys; a small one for the robbers and a large one for ourselves.


How could that be?


The Crown asked the Duc de Nivernois to extradite him, and Louis XV. granted the request to make England assent to some articles of the peace. It was an act unworthy of a king, for it violates the right of nations. It is true that the man is a wretch, but that has nothing to do with the principle of the thing.


Of course they have got back the seventy thousand pounds?


Not a shilling of it.


How was that?


Because no money was found on him. He has most likely left his little fortune to his wife, who can marry again as she is still young and pretty.


I wonder the police have not been after her.


Such a thing is never thought of. What could they do? It’s not likely that she would confess that her husband left her the stolen money. The law says robbers shall be hanged, but it says nothing about what they have stolen, as they are supposed to have made away with it. Then if we had to take into account the thieves who had kept their theft and thieves who had spent it, we should have to make two sets of laws, and make all manner of allowances; the end of it would be inextricable confusion. It seems to us Englishmen that it would not be just to ordain two punishments for theft. The robber becomes the owner of what he has stolen; true, he got it by violence, but it is none the less his, for he can do what he likes with it. That being the case, everyone should be careful to keep what he has, since he knows that once stolen he will never see it again. I have taken Havana from Spain: this was robbery on a large scale.


No, sir, my lord has not deceived you, and you can have as many as you like.


That’s what I came for. Sir, I don’t like the looks of this girl.


Give her a shilling and send her away. We don’t trouble ourselves about ceremonies in London.


I’ll see no more girls, let me have a good dinner. I think the procurer must have been making game of me for the sake of the shillings.


It’s very likely; indeed it often happens so when a gentleman does not give the name and address of the wench he wants.


I was not in London. I returned from Bath to-day.


We shall see each other again; we must be careful.


I have told you my name, madam. Do you not remember me?


I remember you perfectly, but a piece of folly is not a title of acquaintance.


I am surprised, my dear elder, to see you in London.


Nor did I know that you were here. I came to town after the close of the opera. How is it that you are not living with your husband?


Because he games, loses, and despoils me of all I possess. Besides, a woman of my condition, if she be married, cannot hope that a rich lover will come and see her, while if she be alone she can receive visits without any constraint.


I shouldn’t have thought they would be afraid of Binetti; he used to be far from jealous.


Nor is he jealous now; but you must know that there is an English law which allows the husband to arrest his wife and her lover if he finds them in ‘flagrante delicto’. He only wants two witnesses, and it is enough that they are sitting together on a bed. The lover is forced to pay to the husband the half of all he possesses. Several rich Englishmen have been caught in this way, and now they are very shy of visiting married women, especially Italians.


So you have much to be thankful for. You enjoy perfect liberty, can receive any visitors you like, and are in a fair way to make a fortune.


Alas! my dear friend, you do not know all. When he has information from his spies that I have had a visitor, he comes to me in a sedan-chair at night, and threatens to turn me out into the street if I do not give him all the money I have. He is a terrible rascal!


You can’t live here, without a pretty girl, and those who know that you keep bachelor’s hall are of opinion that you are very wise, and will save a great deal of useless expense.


Do you keep a girl, my lord?


No, for I am unfortunate enough to be disgusted with a woman after I have had her for a day.


Then you require a fresh one every day?


Yes, and without being as comfortable as you I spend four times as much. You must know that I live in London like a stranger. I never dine at my own house. I wonder at your dining alone.


I can’t speak English. I like soup and good wine, and that is enough to keep me from your taverns.


I expect so, with your French tastes.


You will confess that they are not bad tastes.


You are right, for, good Englishman as I am, I get on very well in Paris. I did not tell you what names to send for, and I was wrong.


Yes, you ought to have told me.


But even if I did they wouldn’t have come, for they are not at the orders of the procurers. If you will promise to pay them as I do, I will give you some tickets which will make them come.


Can I have them here?


Just as you like.


That will be most convenient for me. Write out the tickets and let them know French if you can.


That’s the difficulty; the prettiest only speak English.


Never mind, we shall understand each other well enough for the purpose I dare say. She is doubly pretty, is she?


Not exactly, but she has cuckolded a duke of Great Britain who keeps her, and only uses her once or twice a month.


Would you do me the honour of testing the skill of my cook?


Certainly, but I can’t make an appointment.


And supposing I am out.


I’ll go to the tavern.


How much will you give me at dessert?


Three guineas.


Come along.


But, there’s not a trace of beard on your face.


There never is. I get myself shaved three times a day.


Three times?


Yes, when I change my shirt I wash my hands; when I wash my hands I have to wash my face, and the proper way to wash a man’s face is with a razor.


When do you make these three ablutions?


When I get up, when I dress for dinner, and when I go to bed, for I should not like the woman who is sleeping with me to feel my beard.


if she were not in the way, she would be glad to dine with me. I was really doing her a great service, as her husband would suffer the torments of hell in trying to find out with whom she had dined.


I never would have anything to do with him, because he is the greatest profligate in all England; and it’s a pity, because he is a kindhearted nobleman.


I am sorry for you, when I think of you being alone every day.


What are you laughing at, my worthy woman?


Because this notice is a laughing matter.


I suppose you think I shall have no applications?


Not at all, the doorstep will be crowded from morn to night, but I shall leave it all to Fanny. Only tell me how much to ask.


I will arrange about the rent in my interview with the young lady. I don’t think I shall have so many enquiries, for the young lady is to speak French and English, and also to be respectable. She must not receive any visits, not even from her father and mother, if she has them.


But there will be a mob in front of the house reading the notice.


All the better. Nothing is the worse for being a little odd.


The landlord of the second and third floors probably occupies the first floor himself. He must be a man of the world and of good taste, for he wants a young and pretty lodger; and as he forbids her to receive visits, he will have to keep her company himself. The landlord should take care lest he become his own dupe, for it is very likely that the pretty lodger would only take the room to sleep in, and possibly only to sleep in now and then; and if she chose she would have a perfect right to refuse to receive the proprietor’s visits.


for, there are plenty of women in London who would come and lodge with you to be your ruin.


In that case, it would be a case of Greek meeting Greek; however, we shall see. If I am taken in, people will have the fullest right to laugh at me, for I have been warned.


I hoped I would let her have a room on the third floor, and that she would gladly submit to all my conditions.


You may only make use of one room if you like, but all the floor will belong to you.


Although the notice says the rooms will be let cheaply, I shall not be able to afford more than one room. Two shillings a week is all I can spend.


That’s exactly what I want for the whole suite of rooms; so you see you can use them all. My maid will wait on you, get you whatever food you may require, and wash your linen as well. You can also employ her to do your commissions, so that you need not go out for trifles.


Then I will dismiss my maid, she robs me of little, it is true, but still too much for my small means. I will tell your maid what food to buy for me every day, and she shall have six sols a week for her pains.


That will be ample. I should advise you to apply to my cook’s wife, who will get your dinner and supper for you as cheaply as you could buy it.


I hardly think so, for I am ashamed to tell you how little I spend.


Even if you only spend two sols a day, she will give you two sols’ worth. All the same I advise you to be content with what you get from the kitchen, without troubling about the price, for I usually have provision made for four, though I dine alone, and the rest is the cook’s perquisite. I merely advise you to the best of my ability, and I hope you will not be offended at my interest in your welfare.


Really, sir, you are too generous.


Wait a moment, and you will see how everything will be settled comfortably. For how much could you provide dinner and supper for this young lady who is not rich, and only wants to eat to live?


I can do it very cheaply; for you usually eat alone, and have enough for four.


Very good; then I hope you will treat her very well for the sum she gives you.


I can only afford five sols a day.


That will do nicely. You can go out when you like, and without rendering an account to anybody of your movements.


Against what? If I fall in love with her, so much the better; that is just what I want. What name did she give you?


Mistress Pauline. She was quite pale when she came, and she went away covered with blushes.