When she finished she shut herself up to write, and wished me good evening with much politeness.


What is she going to take in the morning?


I asked her, and she said she would only take a little bread.


Then you had better tell her that it is the custom of the house for the cook to serve everybody with coffee, chocolate, or tea, according to taste, in the morning, and that I shall be pained if she refuses to fare like the rest of us. But don’t tell her I said so. Here’s a crown for you, and you shall have one every week if you will wait upon and care for her properly.


Mamma hasn’t allowed me to come. I have tried to do so a score of times without her leave. Read this letter, and you will find something which will surprise you.


Yesterday a bailiff waited for my door to be opened and slipped in and arrested me. I was obliged to go with him, and I am now in the sponging-house, and if I can’t get bail by to-day he will take me to Kings Bench Prison. The bail I require is to the amount of two hundred pounds, to pay a bill which has fallen due. Dear friend, come and succour me or else my other creditors will get wind of my imprisonment and I shall be ruined. You surely will not allow that to happen, if not for my sake at least for the sake of my innocent children. You cannot bail me yourself, but you can easily get a householder to do so. If you have the time come and call on me, and I will shew you that I could not help doing the bill, otherwise I could not have given my last ball, as the whole of my plate and china was pledged.


I am immensely obliged, for all your goodness to me.


Say nothing of that, madam; it is I who have need of your goodness.


What can I do to shew my gratitude?


Could you trouble yourself to take your meals with me? When I am alone I eat like an ogre, and my health suffers. If you do not feel inclined to grant me that favour, do not hesitate to refuse, and I assure you you shall fare just as well as if you had acceded to my request.


I shall be delighted to dine and sup with you; sir, whenever you are alone and you like to send for me. Nevertheless, I am not sure that my society will amuse you.


Very good, I am grateful to you, and I promise you you shall never repent of your kindness. I will do my best to amuse you, and I hope I shall succeed, for you have inspired me with the liveliest interest. We will dine at one to-day.


Nature, has favoured me with such a good constitution that I have never had the least sickness in my life, except on the sea.


You have made a voyage, then.


I must have done so to come to England.


You might be an Englishwoman.


Yes, for the English language has been familiar to me from my childhood. Yes, and pretty well too from what they tell me.


Then we will have a game together; my blunders will amuse you.


I think you may conquer me,


What happiness for me!


Interruptions are often extremely inconvenient,


Tell them that I am at dinner, and that I shall not be disengaged till three o’clock.


Dine with us, dear Sophie,


I shall be the more likely to do what you wish.


It shall be so if you please, but only for your sake, for that woman Rancour deserves that I should leave her standing at the door to punish her for her impertinence to me when I came to London.


I would wager that you don’t love her much.


I respect, but I cannot love her, for I am always afraid. I never see her without fearing her.


Why do you weep, then, at her fate?


I pity her, and her family still more, and the expressions she used in sending me to you were very affecting.


What were these expressions?


Go, said she, ‘kneel before him, for you and you alone can soften his heart.’


Then you knelt before me because your mother told you to do so.


Yes, for if I had followed my own inclination I should have rushed to your arms.


You answer well. But are you sure of persuading me?


No, for one can never be sure of anything; but I have good hopes of success, remembering what you told me at the Hague. My mother told me that I was only three then, but I know I was five. She it was who told me not to look at you when I spoke to you, but fortunately you made her remove her prohibition. Everybody says that you are my father, and at the Hague she told me so herself; but here she is always dinning it into my ears that I am the daughter of M. de Monpernis.


But, Sophie dear, your mother does wrong in making you a bastard when you are the legitimate daughter of the dancer Pompeati, who killed himself at Vienna.


Then I am not your daughter?


Clearly, for you cannot have two fathers, can you?


But how is it that I am your image?


It’s a mere chance.


You deprive me of a dream which has made me happy. dear mamma,


If you give her the money,


she will be able to sleep to-night in the fine house where she gave me such a poor reception.


It makes me unhappy to think of it, but you must forgive her.


Yes, Sophie; but out of love for you.


Write to her to the effect that it is to me you give the money, not to her; I dare not tell her so myself.


I could not do that, my dear; it would be insulting her in her affliction. Do you understand that?


Yes, quite well.


You may tell her that whenever she sends you to dine or sup with me, she will please me very much.


But you can write that down without wounding her, can you not? Do so, I entreat you. Dear mamma, ask papa to do so, and then I will come and dine with you sometimes.


It’s a long time since I have laughed so much, and I don’t think I have ever had such an agreeable meal. That child is a perfect treasure. She is unhappy, poor little girl, but she would not be so if I were her mother. I wonder what she will say when Sophie tells her that she found you at table with your wife. She won’t believe it, as she knows my horror for the sacrament of matrimony. How is that? I hate it because it is the grave of love. Not always.


Nine or ten months,


I really can’t say, my return to my country depends on my getting a letter.


May I ask you what country you come from?


I see I shall soon have no secrets from you, but let me have a little time. I have only made your acquaintance to-day, and in a manner which makes me have a very high opinion of you.


I shall try my best to deserve the good opinions you have conceived of my character.


You have shewn yourself to me in a thoroughly estimable light.


Give me your esteem, I desire it earnestly, but don’t say anything of respect, for that seems to shut out friendship; I aspire to yours, and I warn you that I shall do my best to gain it.


I have no doubt you are very clever in that way, but you are generous too, and I hope you will spare me. If the friendship between us became too ardent, a parting would be dreadful, and we may be parted at any moment, indeed I ought to be looking forward to it.


He is a detestable fellow, he would like to have a fresh wife every day! What do you think of such conduct?


I envy him his happiness.


He enjoys it because all women are such fools. He caught me through meeting me at your house; he would never have done so otherwise. What are you laughing at?


Because if he has caught you, you have also caught him; you are therefore quits.


You don’t know what you are talking about.


I should very much like to see your boarder,


I daresay, my lord, but I can’t gratify your curiosity just now, for the lady likes to be alone, and only puts up with my company because she can’t help it.


No, my lord, not to-day.


I understand. Well, it’s very natural; bring the affair to a happy conclusion.


I will do my best.


Then she is not your wife?


No; such happiness is not for me. It was a joke of mine, and the lady amused herself at the expense of your credulity.


Well, I should like to sleep with her.


Really? When?


Whenever mamma will let me. We must first ascertain, what the lady thinks of the arrangement.


She needn’t fear a refusal, giving the child a kiss.


Then you shall have her with pleasure, madam. I will get her governess to fetch her away to-morrow.


At three o’clock,


for she must dine with us.


In prudence. I cannot go out unless I am alone.


Then shall we stay here?


We could not do better.


Are you married, Pauline? Yes. Do you know what it is to be a mother? No, but I can partly imagine what happiness it must be. Are you separated from your husband? Yes, by circumstances and against our will. We were separated before we had cohabited together. Is he at London? No, he is far away, but please don’t say anything more about it. Only tell me whether my loss will be his gain. Yes, and I promise not to leave you till I have to leave England--that is, unless you dismiss me--and I shall leave this happy island to be happy with the husband of my choice. But I, dear Pauline, will be left unhappy, for I love you with all my heart, and am afraid to give you any proof of my love. Be generous and spare me, for I am not my own mistress, and have no right to give myself to you; and perhaps, if you were so ungenerous as to attack me, I should not have the strength to resist. I will obey, but I shall still languish. I cannot be unhappy unless I forfeit your favour. I have duties to perform, my dear friend, and I cannot neglect them without becoming contemptible in my own eyes and yours too. I should deem myself the most miserable of men if I despised a woman for making me happy. Well, I like you too well to think you capable of such conduct, but let us be moderate, for we may have to part to-morrow. You must confess that if we yielded to desire, this parting would be all the more bitter. If you are of another opinion, that only shews that your ideas of love and mine are different. Then tell me of what sort of love is that with which I am happy enough to have inspired you? It is of such a kind that enjoyment would only increase it, and yet enjoyment seems to me a mere accident. Then what is its essence? To live together in perfect unity. That’s a blessing we can enjoy from morning to eve, but why should we not add the harmless accident which would take so short a time, and give us such peace and tranquillity. You must confess, Pauline, that the essence cannot exist long without the accident. Yes, but you in your turn, you will agree that the food often proves in time to be deadly. No, not when one loves truly, as I do. Do you think that you will not love me so well after having possessed me? No, it’s because I think quite otherwise, that I dread to make the moment of parting so bitter. I see I must yield to your logic. I should like to see the food on which you feed your brain, otherwise your books. Will you let me come upstairs? Certainly, but you will be caught. How? Come and see. Your selection gives me a high idea of your mental qualities, but tell me, why do you give such a preference to Camoens and all these Portuguese authors? For a very good reason, I am Portuguese myself. You Portuguese? I thought you were Italian. And so you already know five languages, for you doubtless know Spanish. Yes, although Spanish is not absolutely necessary. What an education you have had! I am twenty-two now, but I knew all these languages at eighteen. Tell me who you are, tell me all about yourself. I am worthy of your confidence. I think so too, and to give you a proof of my trust in you I am going to tell you my history, for since you love me you can only wish to do me good. What are all these manuscripts? My history, which I have written down myself. Let us sit down.


My mother had me brought up in a convent where her sister was abbess. I had all kinds of masters, especially an Italian from Leghorn, who in six years taught me all that he thought proper for me to know. He would answer any questions I chose to put him, save on religious matters, but I must confess that his reserve made me all the fonder of him, for in leaving me to reflect on certain subjects by myself he did a great deal to form my judgment. I was eighteen when my grandfather removed me from the convent, although I protested that I would gladly stay there till I got married. I was fondly attached to my aunt, who did all in her power after my mother’s death to make me forget the double loss I had sustained. My leaving the convent altered the whole course of my existence, and as it was not a voluntary action I have nothing to repent of. My grandfather placed me with his sister-in-law, the Marchioness X----o, who gave me up half her house. I had a governess, a companion, maids, pages, and footmen, all of whom, though in my service, were under the orders of my governess, a well-born lady, who was happily honest and trustworthy. A year after I had left the convent my grandfather came and told me in the presence of my governess that Count Fl---- had asked my hand for his son, who was coming from Madrid end would arrive that day. What answer did you give him, dear grandfather?


That the marriage would be acceptable to the whole of the nobility, and also to the king and royal family.


But are you quite sure that the young count will like me and that I shall like the count?


That, my dear daughter, is a matter of course, and there need be no discussion on the subject.


But it is a question in which I am strongly interested, and I should like to consider it very carefully. We shall see how matters arrange themselves.


You can see each other before deciding, but you must decide all the same.


I hope so, but let us not be too certain. We shall see. As soon as my grandfather had gone I told my governess that I had made up my mind never to give my hand save where I had given my heart, and that I should only marry a man whose character and tastes I had carefully studied. My governess gave me no answer, and on my pressing her to give me her opinion, she replied that she thought her best course would be to keep silence on such a delicate question. This was as much as to tell me that she thought I was right; at least I persuaded myself that it was so. The next day I went to the convent, and told the story to my aunt, the abbess, who listened to me kindly and said it was to be hoped that I should fall in love with him and he with me, but that even if it were otherwise she was of opinion that the marriage would take place, as she had reasons for believing that the scheme came from the Princess of Brazil, who favoured Count Fl----. Though this information grieved me, I was still glad to hear it, and my resolution never to marry save for love was all the more strongly confirmed. In the course of a fortnight the count arrived, and my grandfather presented him to me, several ladies being in the company. Nothing was said about marrying, but there was a deal of talk about the strange lands and peoples the new arrival had seen. I listened with the greatest attention, not opening my mouth the whole time. I had very little knowledge of the world, so I could not make any comparisons between my suitor and other men, but my conclusion was that he could never hope to please any woman, and that he would certainly never be mine. He had an unpleasant sneering manner, joked in bad taste, was stupid, and a devotee, or rather a fanatic. Furthermore he was ugly and ill-shapen, and so great a fop that he was not ashamed to relate the story of his conquests in France and Italy. I went home hoping with all my heart that he had taken a dislike to me, and a week which passed away without my hearing anything on the subject confirmed me in this belief, but I was doomed to be disappointed. My great-aunt asked me to dinner, and when I went I found the foolish young man and his father present, together with my grandfather, who formally introduced him to me as my future husband, and begged me to fix the wedding day. I made up my mind that I would rather die than marry him, and answered politely but coldly that I would name the day when I had decided on marrying, but I should require time to think it over. The dinner went off silently, and I only opened my mouth to utter monosyllables in reply to questions which I could not avoid. After the coffee had been served I left the house, taking no notice of anyone besides my aunt and my grandfather. Some time elapsed; and I again began to hope that I had effectually disgusted my suitor, but one morning my governess told me that Father Freire was waiting to speak to me in the ante-chamber. I ordered him to be sent in. He was the confessor of the Princess of Brazil, and after some desultory conversation he said the princess had sent him to congratulate me on my approaching marriage with Count Fl----. I did not evince any surprise, merely replying that I was sensible of her highness’s kindness, but that nothing had been decided so far, as I was not thinking of getting married.


that I was at that happy age when I had no need to think of anything, as my kind friends and relations did all my thinking for me.


I only answered by an incredulous smile, which, for all his monastic subtlety, struck him as the expression of a young girl’s coyness. Foreseeing the persecution to which I should be subjected, I went the next day to my aunt the abbess, who could not refuse me her advice. I began by stating my firm resolve to die rather than wed a being I detested.


that the count had been introduced to her, and that to tell the truth she thought him insufferable; all the same, she said she was afraid I should be made to marry him.


These words were such a shock to me that I turned the conversation, and spoke of other subjects for the remainder of my visit. But when I got back to my house I pursued an extraordinary course. I shut myself up in my closet and wrote a letter to the executioner of my unhappy father, the pitiless Oeiras, telling him the whole story, and imploring him to protect me and to speak to the king in my favour; for, as you have made me an orphan it is your duty before God to care for me. I begged him to shelter me from the anger of the Princess of Brazil, and to leave me at liberty to dispose of my hand according to my pleasure. Though I did not imagine Oeiras to be a humane man, yet I thought he must have some sort of a heart; besides, by this extraordinary step and the firmness of my language, I hoped to appeal to his pride and to interest him in my favour. I felt sure that he would do me justice, if only to prove that he had not been unjust to my father. I was right, as will be seen, and although I was but an inexperienced girl my instinct served me well. Two days elapsed before I was waited on by a messenger from Oeiras, who begged the honour of a private interview with me. The messenger told me that the minister wished me to reply to all who pressed me to marry that I should not decide until I was assured that the princess desired the match. The minister begged me to excuse his not answering my letter, but he had good reasons for not doing so. The messenger assured me that I could count on his master’s support. His message delivered, the gentleman took leave with a profound bow, and went back without waiting for an answer. I must confess that the young man’s looks had made a great impression on me. I cannot describe my feelings, but they have exerted great influence on my conduct, and will no doubt continue to do so for the rest of my life. This message put me quite at ease, for he would never have given me the instructions he did without being perfectly sure that the princess would not interfere any farther with my marriage; and so I gave myself up entirely to the new sentiments which possessed my heart. Though strong, the flame would no doubt soon have died down if it had not received fresh fuel every day, for when I saw the young messenger a week later in church I scarcely recognized him. From that moment, however, I met him everywhere; out walking, in the theatre, in the houses where I called, and especially when I was getting in or out of my carriage he was ever beside me, ready to offer his hand; and I got so used to his presence that when I missed his face I felt a void at my heart that made me unhappy. Almost every day I saw the two Counts Fl---- at my great-aunt’s, but as there was no longer any engagement between us their presence neither joyed me nor grieved me. I had forgiven them but I was not happy. The image of the young messenger, of whom I knew nothing, was ever before me, and I blushed at my thoughts though I would not ask myself the reasons. Such was my state of mind, when one day I heard a voice, which was unknown to me, in my maid’s room. I saw a quantity of lace on a table and proceeded to examine it without paying any attention to a girl who was standing near the table and curtsying to me. I did not like any of the lace, so the girl said that she would bring me some more to choose from the next day, and as I raised my eyes I was astonished to see that she had the face of the young man who was always in my thoughts. My only resource was to doubt their identity and to make myself believe that I had been deceived by a mere chance likeness. I was reassured on second thoughts; the girl seemed to me to be taller than the young man, whom I hesitated to believe capable of such a piece of daring. The girl gathered up her lace and went her way without raising her eyes to mine, and this made me feel suspicious again. Do you know that girl?


that she had never seen her before.


I went away without another word, not knowing what to think. I thought it over and resolved to examine the girl when she came on the following day, and to unmask her if my suspicions proved to be well founded. I told myself that she might be the young man’s sister, and that if it were otherwise it would be all the more easy to cure myself of my passion. A young girl who reasons on love falls into love, especially if she have no one in whom to confide. The pretended lace-seller duly came the next day with a box of lace. I told her to come into my room, and then speaking to her to force her to raise her eyes I saw before me the being who exerted such a powerful influence over me. It was such a shock that I had no strength to ask her any of the questions I had premeditated. Besides, my maid was in the room, and the fear of exposing myself operated, I think, almost as strongly as emotion. I set about choosing some pieces of lace in a mechanical way, and told my maid to go and fetch my purse. No sooner had she left the room than the lace-seller fell at my feet and exclaimed passionately,


Give me life or death, madam, for I see you know who I am.


Yes, I do know you, and I think you must have gone mad.


Yes, that may be; but I am mad with love. I adore you.


Rise, for my maid will come back directly.


She is in my secret.


What! you have dared-- He got up, and the maid came in and gave him his money with the utmost coolness. He picked up his lace, made me a profound bow, and departed. It would have been natural for me to speak to my maid, and still more natural if I had dismissed her on the spot. I had no courage to do so, and my weakness will only astonish those rigorous moralists who know nothing of a young girl’s heart, and do not consider my painful position, passionately in love and with no one but myself to rely on. I did not follow at once the severe dictates of duty; afterwards it was too late, and I easily consoled myself with the thought that I could pretend not to be aware that the maid was in the secret. I determined to dissemble, hoping that I should never see the adventurous lover again, and that thus all would be as if it had never happened.


What has become of the girl who sold me this kerchief?


to be sure he had not dared to come again, fearing that I had found out his disguise.


Certainly. I found it out directly, but I was astonished to hear that you knew this lace-seller was a young man.


I did not think I should offend you, madam, I know him well.


Who is he?


Count d’Al----; you ought to know him, for he paid you a visit about four months ago.


True, and it is possible that I did not know him, but why did you tell a lie when I asked you, “Do you know that girl?”


I lied to spare your feelings, madam, and I was afraid you would be angry at the part I had taken.


You would have honoured me more by supposing the contrary. When you went out, and I told him he was mad, and that you would find him on his knees when you returned, he told me you were in the secret.


If it be a secret, but it seems to me a mere joke.


I wished to think so too, but nevertheless it seemed of such weight to me, that I resolved to be silent that I might not be obliged to send you away.


My idea was that you would have been amused, but as you take it seriously I am sorry that I have failed in my strict duty.


If, the count is offended with me for calling him a madman, he can have no delicacy and no discretion; he is unworthy of my love.


Shall I shew her in?


Are you crazy?


Shall I send her away?


No, I will go and speak to him myself.


It is enough for me, that you will incur no danger, my visits will be set down to the account of your maid.


But I am afraid for you, your disguise is a crime in itself; your reputation will suffer, and that will not tend to bring the wish of your heart nearer.


As soon as we get to England,


we will get married, and can resume our several dresses. This marriage will efface whatever shame may be attached to our flight; they will say, perhaps, that the count carried me off; but a girl is not carried off against her will, and Oeiras surely will not persecute me for having made the fortune of his favourite. As to our means of subsistence, till I get my rents, I can sell my diamonds, and they will realize an ample sum.


'Tis I.


This letter comes from Count Oeiras, and enjoins me, on my life, not to let any Portuguese young lady land, unless she be known to me. I am to take her back to Lisbon after having executed my various commissions. There is neither wife nor maid on my frigate, except the countess your wife. If you can prove that she is really your wife she may land with you; otherwise, you see, I cannot disobey the minister’s orders.


She is my wife, but as I could not foresee this accident I have no papers to prove the fact.


I am sorry to hear it, as in that case she must go back to Lisbon. You may be sure I will treat her with all possible respect.


But a wife may not be parted from her husband.


Quite so, but I cannot disobey orders. If you like you can return to Lisbon in the corvette; you will be there before us.


Why cannot I return in this frigate?


Because I have distinct orders to put you on land. And now I come to think of it, how was it that there was not a word about your wife in the letter you gave me when we started? If the lady is not the person meant by the minister, you may be sure she will be sent back to join you in London.


You will allow me to go and speak to her?


Certainly, but in my presence.


we must needs submit, and that we should see each other again in a couple of months.


Trust in all things to the worthy captain, and let us not fear at all.


Who are the people, who desire a companion? You shall sup with them if you like,


The next day I was clothed like a poor girl who desires to escape notice. I spoke English well enough to seem a native of the country, and I knew how I must behave if I wished to be let alone. Although the landlady was a worthy woman, her house was not exactly suitable for me; my stay in England might be protracted, and if I came to destitution I should be wretched indeed; so I resolved to leave the house. I received no visitors, but I could not prevent the inquisitive from hovering round my door, and the more it became known that I saw no one, the more their curiosity increased. The house was not quiet enough. It was near the Exchange, and the neighborhood swarmed with young men who came to dine on the first floor of the house, and did their best to cure me of my sadness, as they called it, though I had not shewn any signs of wishing to be cured.


I made up my mind not to spend more than a guinea a week, and resolved to sell my ring if I could have the money paid to me at intervals. An old jeweler who lodged next door, and for whose honesty my landlady answered, told me it was worth a hundred and fifty guineas, and asked me to let him have it if I had no better offer. I had not thought it to be so valuable, and I sold it to him on condition that he would pay me four guineas a month, and that I should be at liberty to buy it back if I could do so before all the payments had been made.


I wanted to keep my ready money, which I still have by me, so as to be able to go back to Lisbon by land when I can do so in safety, for I could not face the horrors of a sea voyage a second time.


I told my case to my worthy landlady who still befriends me, and she helped me to get another lodging, but I had to procure a servant to fetch me my food; I could not summon up courage to have my meals in a coffee-house. However, all my servants turned out ill; they robbed me continually, and levied a tax on all their purchases.


The temperance I observed--for I almost lived on bread and water--made me get thinner every day, still I saw no way of mending my existence till chance made me see your singular announcement. I laughed at it; and then drawn by some irresistible power, or perhaps by the curiosity that falls to the lot of most of us women, I could not resist going in and speaking to you. Instinct thus pointed out the way to improve my lot without increasing my expenditure.


When I got back I found a copy of the Advertiser on my landlady’s table; it contained some editorial fun on the notice I had just read. The writer said that the master of the house was an Italian, and had therefore nothing to fear from feminine violence. On my side I determined to hazard everything, but I feel I have been too hasty, and that there are certain attacks which it is pleasant not to resist. I was brought up by an Italian, a clever and good man, and I have always had a great respect for your fellow-countrymen.


Really, your history has amused me very much; it has all the air of a romance.


Quite so,


but it is a strictly historical romance. But the most amusing thing to me is that you have listened to it without weariness.


That is your modesty, madam; not only, has your tale interested me, but now that I know you are a Portuguese I am at peace with the nation.


Were you at war with us, then?


I have never forgiven you for letting your Portuguese Virgil die miserably two hundred years ago.


You mean Camoens. But the Greeks treated Homer in the same way.


Yes, but the faults of others are no excuse for our own.


You are right; but how can you like Camoens so much if you do not know Portuguese?


I have read a translation in Latin hexameters so well done that I fancied I was reading Virgil.


Is that truly so?


I would never lie to you.


Then I make a vow to learn Latin.


That is worthy of you, but it is of me that you must learn the language. I will go to Portugal and live and die there, if you will give me your heart.’


My heart! I have only one, and that is given already. Since I have known you I have despised myself, for I am afraid I have an inconstant nature.


It will be enough for me if you will love me as your father, provided I may sometimes take my daughter to my arms. But go on with your story, the chief part is yet untold. What became of your lover, and what did your relations do when they found out your flight?


Three days after I arrived in this vast city I wrote to the abbess, my aunt, and told her the whole story, begging her to protect my lover, and to confirm me in my resolution never to return to Lisbon till I could do so in security, and have no obstacles placed in the way of my marriage. I also begged her to write and inform me of all that happened, addressing her letters to ‘Miss Pauline,’ under cover of my landlady.


I sent my letter by Paris and Madrid, and I had to wait three months before I got an answer. My aunt told me that the frigate had only returned a short time, and that the captain immediately on his arrival wrote to the minister informing him that the only lady who was in his ship when he sailed was still on board, for he had brought her back with him, despite the opposition of Count Al----, who declared she was his wife. The captain ended by asking his excellency for further orders with respect to the lady aforesaid.


Oeiras, feeling sure that the lady was myself, told the captain to take her to the convent of which my aunt was abbess, with a letter he had written. In this letter he told my aunt that he sent her her niece, and begged her to keep the girl securely till further orders. My aunt was extremely surprised, but she would have been still more surprised if she had not got my letter a few days before. She thanked the captain for his care, and took the false niece to a room and locked her up. She then wrote to Oeiras, telling him that she had received into her convent a person supposed to be his niece, but as this person was really a man in woman’s dress she begged his excellency to remove him as soon as possible.


When the abbess had written this curious letter she paid a visit to the count, who fell on his knees before her. My good aunt raised him, and shewed him my letter. She said that she had been obliged to write to the minister, and that she had no doubt he would be removed from the convent in the course of a few hours. The count burst into tears, and begging the abbess to protect us both gave her my jewel-casket, which the worthy woman received with great pleasure. She left him, promising to write to me of all that happened.


The minister was at one of his country estates, and did not receive the abbess’s letter till the next day, but hastened to reply in person. My aunt easily convinced his excellency of the need for keeping the matter secret, for a man had been sent into the convent, which would be to her dishonour. She shewed the proud minister the letter she had had from me, and told him how the honest young man had given her my jewel-casket. He thanked her for her open dealing, and begged her pardon with a smile for sending a fine young man to her nunnery.


The secret,


is of the greatest importance; we must see that it goes no farther. I will relieve you of your false niece, and take her away in my carriage.


My aunt took him at his word and brought out the young recluse, who drove away with the minister. The abbess tells me that from that day she has heard nothing about him, but that all Lisbon is talking over the affair, but in a wholly distorted manner. They say that the minister first of all put me under the care of my aunt, but soon after took me away, and has kept me in some secret place ever since. Count Al---- is supposed to be in London, and I in the minister’s power, and probably we are supposed to have entered into a tender relationship. No doubt his excellency is perfectly well informed of my doings here, for he knows my address and has spies everywhere.


On the advice of my aunt I wrote to Oeiras a couple of months ago, telling him that I am ready to return to Lisbon, if I may marry Count Al---- and live in perfect liberty. Otherwise, I declared, I would stay in London, where the laws guaranteed my freedom. I am waiting for his answer every day, and I expect it will be a favourable one, for no one can deprive me of my estates, and Oeiras will probably be only too glad to protect me to lessen the odium which attaches to his name as the murderer of my father.


If my sufferings serve to increase your charms,


you ought not to let me die, for a dead man has no suffering.


Do you think that your sufferings are due to your love for me?


Certainly.


There may be something in it, but, believe me, the tender passion does not destroy the appetite nor take away the power of sleep. Your indisposition is undoubtedly due to the sedentary life you have been leading of late. If you love me, give me a proof of it; go out for a ride.


I cannot refuse you anything, dearest Pauline, but what then?


Then you shall find me grateful to you, you will have a good appetite, and will sleep well.


A horse, a horse! Quick! My boots!


I’ll wager it is nothing more than a sprain. I only wish it was put out that I might have some chance of shewing my skill.


I am delighted,


not to be in a position to call for that amount of talent, but I shall have a high opinion of you if you set me up in a short time.


Unhappy wretch that I am!


’tis I that have brought you to this.


Divine being!


it is nothing; only a sprain.


What pain that foolish old woman has given me!


God be praised that it is no worse! Feel my heart.


Oh, yes! I felt it with delight. It was a happy fall for me.


What are you laughing at, sweetheart?


At the craft of love, which always triumphs at last.


Where have you been?


I went to my old jeweler’s to redeem my ring, that you might have a souvenir of me; here it is.


Pauline! Pauline! a little love would have been much more precious to me than this beautiful ring.


You shall have both. Till the time of my departure, which will come only too soon, we will live together like man and wife; and to-night shall be our wedding night, and the bed the table for the feast.


What sweet news you give me, Pauline! I cannot believe it till my happiness is actually accomplished.


You may doubt, if you like; but let it be a slight doubt, or else you will do me wrong. I am tired of living with you as a lover and only making you wretched, and the moment I saw you on horseback I determined to belong to you. Consequently I went to redeem the ring directly you left, and I do not intend to leave you until I receive the fatal message from Lisbon. I have dreaded its arrival every day for the last week.


May the messenger that brings it be robbed on the way.


No such luck, I am afraid.


No, dearest, one can love and yet be wise; the door is open.


Dearest, you might make yourself worse; let us wait till your sprain is cured.


Are we to wait till I am cured for the consummation of our marriage?


I suppose so, for if I am not mistaken the thing can’t be done without a certain movement.


You are wrong, dear Pauline, but it would make no difference to me even if it were so. You may be sure I would not put it off till to-morrow, even if it cost me my leg. Besides, you shall see that there are ways and means of satisfying our passions without doing me any harm. Is that enough for you?


Well, well, as it is written that a wife should obey her husband, you will find me docile.


When?


After supper.


Then we will have no supper. We shall dine with all the better appetite to-morrow. Let us begin now.


No, for the suspicions of the servants might be aroused. Love has its rules of decency like everything else.


You talk as wisely as Cato, and I am obliged to confess that you are right in all you say.


But, sweetheart, you dressed and undressed for a fortnight before your betrothed.


Yes, but he was always lying in his hammock with his back towards me at night, and in the morning he never turned round and wished me good day till he knew I was dressed.


What, he never turned?


I never let him take any liberties.


Such virtue is incomprehensible to me.


You see the count was to be my husband, and I was to be his wife, and in such cases a young woman is careful. Besides, I believe that if one will but refrain from taking the first step, continence is easy. Then the count was naturally timid, and would never have taken any liberties without my encouraging him, which I took care not to do. For this once, you will allow me to sleep with you in my clothes.


Certainly, if you wish me to be dressed also, otherwise it would be unbearable for both of us.


You are very cruel.


But, dearest, are you not ashamed of these foolish scruples?


Well, well, put out the candles, and in a minute I will be beside you.


Very good; though the want of light will deprive me of a great pleasure. Quick, out with them!


What are you thinking of, dearest?


I am trying to convince myself that my happiness is not a dream, and if it be real I want it to last for ever. I am the happy mortal to whom you have given up your great treasure, of which I am unworthy, though I love you tenderly.


Sweetheart, you are worthy of all my devotion and affection, if you have not ceased to respect me.


Can you doubt it, Pauline?


No, dearest, I think you love me, and that I shall never repent having trusted in you. If the loss of shame is the result of knowledge, how was it that our first parents were not ashamed till they had acquired knowledge?


I don’t know, dearest, but tell me, did you ever ask your learned Italian master that same question?


Yes, I did.


What did he say?


That their shame arose not from their enjoyment, but from disobedience; and that in covering the parts which had seduced them, they discovered, as it were, the sin they had committed. Whatever may be said on the subject, I shall always think that Adam was much more to blame than Eve.


How is that?


Because Adam had received the prohibition from God, while Eve had only received it from Adam.


I thought that both of them received the prohibition directly from God.


You have not read Genesis, then.


You are laughing at me.


Then you have read it carelessly, because it is distinctly stated that God made Eve after he had forbidden Adam to eat of the fruit.


I wonder that point has not been remarked by our commentators; it seems a very important one to me.


They are a pack of knaves, all sworn enemies of women.


No, no, they give proofs of quite another feeling only too often.


We won’t say anything more about it. My teacher was an honest man.


Was he a Jesuit?


Yes, but of the short robe.


What do you mean?


We will discuss the question another time.


Very good; I should like to have it proved to me that a man can be a Jesuit and honest at the same time.


There are exceptions to all rules.


I have found out too late, that chance alone can make a marriage, contracted for such physical reasons, happy.


We must part, dear friend, and try to forget one another, for my honour obliges me to become the wife of the count as soon as I arrive in Lisbon. The first fancy of my heart, which you have almost effaced, will regain all its old force when I see you no longer, and I am sure I shall love my husband, for he is a goodhearted, honest, and pleasant young man; that much I know from the few days we lived together. Now I have a favour to ask of you, which I am sure you will grant. Promise me never to come to Lisbon without my permission. I hope you will not seek to know my reasons; you would not, I am sure, come to trouble my peace, for if I sinned I should be unhappy, and you would not desire that for me. I have dreamed we have lived together as man and wife, and now we are parted I shall fancy myself a widow about to undertake another marriage.


Sir, the old woman wants to know whether she is to put up the notice again.


The old hag! Does she want me to choke her?


Good heavens-no, sir! She is very fond of you, seeing you seemed so sad, she thought . . . .


Go and tell her never to think such things again, and as for you . . . .


I will do as you wish, sir.


Then leave me.


Tommy has committed suicide, and he was wise, for he was in such a state that he could only expect unhappiness for the rest of his life.


You are quite mistaken. I was one of his creditors myself, and on making an inventory of his effects I feel satisfied that he has done a very foolish and a very childish thing; he might have lived on comfortably, and not killed himself for fully six months.


He’s worth a hundred thousand,


And who is that other man over there?


He’s not worth a ten-pound note.


But I don’t want to hear what they are worth; it’s their names I want.


I really don’t know.


How can you tell how much they are worth, not knowing their names?


Names don’t go for anything here. What we want to know about a man is how much he has got? Besides; what’s in a name? Ask me for a thousand pounds and give me a proper receipt, and you can do it under the name of Socrates or Attila, for all I care. You will pay me back my money as Socrates or Attila, and not as Seingalt; that is all. But how about signing bills of exchange? That’s another thing; I must use the name which the drawer gives me. I don’t understand that. Well, you see, you are not English, nor are you a business man.


Come again in an hour. I have no money by me just now. Take back your note; you shall give it to me when I hand you the money. Don’t be so foolish. If you left me the note I should certainly decline to hand over the money, if only for the sake of giving you a lesson. I don’t believe you are capable of such dishonesty. Nor am I, but when it comes to such a simple thing as putting a bank note in your pocket, the most honest man in the world would never dream of having such a thing in his possession without having paid the money for it, and the least slip of memory might lead to a dispute in which you would infallibly come off second best. I feel the force of your arguments, especially in a town where so much business is carried on. My Lord Pembroke has seen her, and thought her charming. What? Where could he have seen her? In a carriage with you driving fast along the Rochester road. It is three or four days ago. Then I may tell you that I was taking her to Calais; I shall never see her face again. Will you let the room again in the same way? No, never again, though the god of love has been propitious to me. I shall be glad to see you at my house whenever you like to come. Shall I send you a note to warn you? Not at all. Not at all, for then they might be recognized; whereas in exposing their posteriors they run no such risk; besides the sight makes squeamish persons turn away. You are right, but you will confess that the whole thing strikes a stranger as very revolting. Yes, there is nothing so ineradicable as national prejudice. You may have noticed that when an Englishman wants to ease his sluices in the street, he doesn’t run up an alley or turn to the wall like we do. Yes, I have noticed them turning towards the middle of the street, but if they thus escape the notice of the people in the shops and on the pavement they are seen by everybody who is driving in a carriage, and that is as bad. The people in the carriages need not look. That is true. I feel rather curious about it, and perhaps I may come and keep you company to-day. That’s a curious sight for you; you can enter it amidst your remarks on English manners. What is it? A man at the point of death from a blow he has received in boxing with another sturdy fellow. Cannot anything be done? There is a surgeon there who would bleed him, if he were allowed. Who could prevent him? That’s the curious part of it. Two men have betted on his death or recovery. One says, ‘I’ll bet twenty guineas he dies,’ and the other says, ‘Done.’ Number one will not allow the surgeon to bleed him, for if the man recovered his twenty guineas would be gone. Poor man! what pitiless betters! The English are very strange in their betting proclivities; they bet about everything. There is a Betting Club to which I will introduce you, if you like. Do they speak French there? Most certainly, for it is composed of men of wit and mark. What do they do? They talk and argue, and if one man brings forward a proposition which another denies, and one backs his opinion, the other has to bet too, on pain of a fine which goes to the common fund. Introduce me to this delightful club, by all means; it will make my fortune, for I shall always take care to be on the right side. You had better be careful; they are wary birds. But to return to the dying man; what will be done to his antagonist? His hand will be examined, and if it is found to be just the same as yours or mine it will be marked, and he will be let go. I don’t understand that, so kindly explain. How do they recognize a dangerous hand? If it is found to be marked already, it is a proof that he has killed his man before and has been marked for it, with the warning, ‘Take care not to kill anyone else, for if you do you will be hanged.’ But supposing such a man is attacked? He ought to shew his hand, and then his adversary would let him alone. But if not? Then he is defending himself; and if he kills his man he is acquitted, provided he can bring witnesses to swear that he was obliged to fight. Since fighting with the fist may cause death, I wonder it is allowed. It is only allowed for a wager. If the combatants do not put one or more pieces of money on the ground before the fight, and there is a death, the man is hanged. What laws! What manners!


But supposing they ask me a question? Evade it. Certainly not. They are noblemen, philosophers, and epicures; but they are pitiless where a bet is concerned. Far from it; they are all ashamed to pay a fine, and prefer to bet. Who will introduce you? Quite so; through Lord Spencer, who is a member. I would not become one. Because I don’t like argument. My taste runs the other way, so I shall try to get in. By the way, M. de Seingalt, do you know that you are a very extraordinary man? For what reason, my lord? You shut yourself up for a whole month with a woman who spent fourteen months in London without anybody making her acquaintance or even discovering her nationality. All the amateurs have taken a lively interest in the affair. Because several persons saw her in the house of a worthy widow where she spent the first month. She would never have anything to say to any advances, but the bill in your window worked wonders. Yes, and all the worse for me, for I feel as if I could never love another woman. Oh, that’s childish indeed! You will love another woman in a week--nay, perhaps to-morrow, if you will come and dine with me at my country house. A perfect French beauty has asked me to dine with her. I have told some of my friends who are fond of gaming. Does the charming Frenchwoman like gaming? No, but her husband does. What’s his name? He calls himself Count de Castelbajac. Ah! Castelbajac? Yes. He is a Gascon? Yes. Tall, thin, and dark, and marked with the smallpox? Exactly! I am delighted to find you know him. You will agree with me that his wife is very pretty? I really can’t say. I knew Castelbajac, as he calls himself, six years ago, and I never heard he was married. I shall be delighted to join you, however. I must warn you not to say anything if he seems not to know me; he may possibly have good reasons for acting in that manner. Before long I will tell you a story which does not represent him in a very advantageous manner. I did not know he played. I shall take care to be on my guard at the Betting Club, and I advise you, my lord, to be on your guard in the society of Castelbajac. I will not forget the warning.


No, no! papa dear; In spite of your affection, you treat her with insufferable tyranny. Send her to a boarding-school for a couple of years, and let her associate with girls of good family. Tell her this evening that she is to go to school, and see if she does not get better. Yes, but a good boarding-school costs a hundred guineas a year, including masters. If I approve of the school you select I will pay a year in advance. Come and tell the news to your daughter now. I should like to watch her face when she hears it. Certainly. My dear Sophie, your mother agrees with me that if you had a change of air you would get better, and if you would like to spend a year or two in a good school I will pay the first year in advance. Of course, I will obey my dear mother. There is no question of obedience. Would you like to go to school? Tell me truly. But would my mother like me to go? Yes, my child, if it would please you. Then, mamma, I should like to go very much. No, but it is only ten o’clock. Yes, but we have twenty miles to go. Twenty miles? Certainly, the house is at St. Albans. It’s very strange Pembroke never told me; how did you find out the address? He left it when he went away. Just like an Englishman.


What have we here, my lord? A cock. I see it is, but why do you chain it? Because it is savage. It is very amorous, and if it were loose it would go after the hens, and kill all the cocks on the country-side. But why do you condemn him to celibacy? To make him fiercer. Here, this is the list of his conquests.


The bird cost me a hundred guineas, but I would not sell him for a thousand. Has he any offspring? He tries his best, but there are difficulties.


My uncle wore it on the day of his death, and the King of Prussia allowed me to keep it as a noble memorial of my kinsman. Yes, but the coat-pocket is not the place for a thing like that.


You will bring me ill-luck,


I know nothing about business,


I am the backer, and that ought to be enough, I think.


For, if that Gascon were to be half as insolent to me as he was to you, I should shew him out by the window.


Do you think, that those four notes of theirs can be forgeries?


It’s very possible.


What would you advise my doing to clear the matter up?


I would send them to the bank.


And if they should be forgeries?


I would have patience, or I would arrest the rascals.


These notes are bad, sir.


Be kind enough to examine them closely.


It’s no good, they are evident forgeries. Return them to the person from whom you got them, and he will be only too glad to cash them.


I haven’t got any money, and what you say astonishes me very much. I can only return them to the persons who gave them to me, if the are really the same notes that we gave you yesterday.


I know that my wife lives here, and that she is rich. I shall easily find out where she lives, and you know that as I am her husband all that is hers is mine.


I was not aware of that.


Then you don’t know the laws of this country?


Not at all.


I am sorry to hear it, but such is the case. I am going to her house, and I shall turn her out of doors with nothing else than the dress on her back, for the furniture, clothes, jewels, linen--in fact, all her possessions, belong to me. May I ask you to be with me when I perform this exploit?


You are the first person to whom I have disclosed my intentions.


She has only robbed me of my honour, sir, and she left me, taking her talents with her. She must have made a great fortune here, and have I not a right to take it from her, were it only for vengeance sake?


That may be, but I ask you what you would think of me if I agreed to join you in an undertaking which seems a cruel one to me, however good your reasons may be. Besides I may know your wife, she may even be a friend of mine.


I will tell you her name.


No, I beg of you not to do so, although I do not know any Madame Constantini.


She has changed her name to Calori, and she sings at the ‘Haymarket.’


I know who she is now. I am sorry you have told me.


I have no doubt you will keep my secret, and I am now going to find out where she lives; for that is the principal thing.


Where does she come from?


From Vicenza.


Is she married?


I don’t think so.


They have arrested me for my wife’s debts,


and they tell me I must pay them because I am her husband.


It’s a trick your wife has played on you; she must have found out you were in London.


She saw me through the window.


Why did you delay putting your project into execution?


I meant to carry it out this morning, but how was I to know that she had debts?


Nor has she any debts; these bills are shams. They must have been ante-dated, for they were really executed yesterday. It’s a bad business, and she may have to pay dearly for it.


But in the meanwhile I am in prison.


Never mind, trust to me, I will see you again tomorrow.


That’s enough,


don’t trouble yourself any more about it.


Impossible!


Not at all. The lover of his wife, foreseeing the storm that was about to burst over their heads, got round the fellow, and made him leave the country by means of a sum more or less large.


My name was Anspergher when I saw you, but now it is Charpillon; and considering that we only met once, and that I was only thirteen at the time, I do not wonder at your not recollecting me. I have been in London with my mother and aunts for the last four years.


But where had I the pleasure of speaking to you?


At Paris.


In what part of Paris?


In the Bazaar. You were with a charming lady, and you gave me these buckles and you also did me the honour to kiss me.


Now I remember you, but I do not recognize your aunt.


This is the sister of the one you saw, but if you will take tea with us you will see her.


Where do you live?


In Denmark Street, Soho. What! a letter from the dear ambassador Morosini. How delighted I am to have it! And you have actually been all these months in London without giving it me?


I confess I am to blame, but, as you see, the note has no address on it. I am grateful for the chance which has enabled me to discharge my commission to-day.


Come and dine with us to-morrow.


I cannot do so, as I am expecting Lord Pembroke to dinner.


Will you be alone?


I expect so.


I am glad to hear it; you will see my aunt and myself appearing on the scene.


Here is my address; and I shall be delighted if you will come and see me.


Then you are the Italian, who put up that notice that amused all the town?


I am.


They say the joke cost you dear.


Quite the reverse; it resulted in the greatest happiness.


But now that the beloved object has left you, I suppose you are unhappy?


I am; but there are sorrows so sweet that they are almost joys.


Nobody knows who she was, but I suppose you do?


Yes.


Do you make a mystery of it?


Surely, and I would rather die than reveal it.


Ask my aunt if I may take some rooms in your house; but I am afraid my mother would not let me.


Why do you want to lodge cheaply?


I don’t want to lodge cheaply, but I should like to punish the audacious author of that notice.


How would you punish me?


By making you fall in love with me, and then tormenting you. It would have amused me immensely.


Then you think that you can inspire me with love, and at the same time form the dreadful plan of tyrannising over the victim of your charms. Such a project is monstrous, and unhappily for us poor men, you do not look a monster. Nevertheless, I am obliged to you for your frankness, and I shall be on my guard.


Then you must take care never to see me, or else all your efforts will be in vain.


She will have no charm, when I have once possessed her, and that will not be long in coming.


I once took a violent fancy for the little hussy. It was one evening when I was at Vauxhall, and I offered her twenty guineas if she would come and take a little walk with me in a dark alley. She said she would come if I gave her the money in advance, which I was fool enough to do. She went with me, but as soon as we were alone she ran away, and I could not catch her again, though I looked for her all the evening.


You ought to have boxed her ears before everybody.


I should have got into trouble, and people would have laughed at me besides. I preferred to despise her and the money too. Are you in love with her?


No; but I am curious, as you were.


Take care! she will do all in her power to entrap you.


Another time. I shall not escape you.


Perhaps not, my dear, for another time I shall take care not to pay in advance.


Oh, fie! you degrade yourself by talking about paying.


I suppose I honour you.


We never talk of such things.


I am delighted to see you again,


I recollect you, sir; that rascal Bolome . . . .


We will discuss that subject another time. I see you are ill.


I have been at death’s door, but I am better now. My daughter did not tell me your proper name.


Yes, she did. My name is Seingalt as well as Casanova. I was known by the latter name at Paris when I made your daughter’s acquaintance, though I did not know then that she was your daughter.


I have come to breakfast with you, and to discuss a certain question,


Will you tell me your business now, or after breakfast?


After breakfast; for we must be alone.


What would she do with the money?


She would make the Balm of Life, of which she possesses the secret, and no doubt she would make her fortune, too.


I will give you a decided answer after supper.


Farewell, till this evening.


At least, let us have a game of whist,


It seems to me, that you don’t feel very anxious to hear my reply.


You have made up your mind, I suppose?


I have, follow me.


Then please to give the money to my aunt, otherwise these gentlemen might think I got it from you by some improper means.


I will do so.


You will get nothing from me either by money or violence; but you can hope for all when I find you really nice and quiet.


As documents have to be executed, it will take some time; we will talk of it again.


Won’t you fix the time?


The time depends entirely on you.


Certainly; I would have given you the hundred guineas if your niece had treated me as a friend, but she refused me favours a vestal might have granted, and you must be aware that she is by no means a vestal.


Don’t mind my laughing. My niece is an innocent, giddy girl; she loves you, but she is afraid you have only a passing whim for her. She is in bed now with a bad cold, and if you will come and see her I am sure you will be satisfied.


Come now, and give one knock.


Very good, then you may expect me shortly.


Come back in a quarter of an hour; she has been ordered a bath, and is just going to take it.


This is another imposture. You’re as bad a liar as she is.


You are cruel and unjust, and if you will promise to be discreet, I will take you up to the third floor where she is bathing.


Very good; take me.


Give me the towels, aunt. Begone!


You needn’t exert your voice, for I am not going to be duped.


Begone!


Not so, give me a little time to collect myself.


I tell you, go!


Calm yourself, and don’t be afraid of my shewing you any violence; that would suit your game too well.


My aunt shall pay dearly for this.


She will find me her friend. I won’t touch you, so shew me a little more of your charms.


More of my charms?


Yes; put yourself as you were when I came in.


Certainly not. Leave the room.


I have told you I am not going, and that you need not fear for your . . . . well, for your virginity, we will say.


Please, leave me; I will not fail to shew my gratitude.


Yes,


I am perfectly satisfied to know you and your niece. Here is the reward.


No, thank you,


I prefer supper.


Then I will take some too, and you will give it me, won’t you, just to shew that you bear no malice?


I will do so, but first give me one little proof of your love.


Most certainly not.


for, the girl would have made you more and more in love with her, and in the end she would have seduced you to beggary.


You must think me a great fool. If I had found her kind I should have been grateful, but without squandering all my money; and if she had been cruel, instead of ridiculous, I might have given her what I have already given her every day, without reducing myself to beggary.


I congratulate you; it shews that you are well off. But have you made up your mind not to see her again?


Certainly.


Then you are not in love with her?


I have been in love, but I am so no longer; and in a few days she will have passed completely out of my memory. I had almost forgotten her when I met her with you at Vauxhall.


You are not cured. The way to be cured of an amour does not lie in flight, when the two parties live in the same town. Meetings will happen, and all the trouble has to be taken over again.


Then do you know a better way?


Certainly; you should satiate yourself. It is quite possible that the creature is not in love with you, but you are rich and she has nothing. You might have had her for so much, and you could have left her when you found her to be unworthy of your constancy. You must know what kind of a woman she is.


I should have tried this method gladly, but I found her out.


You could have got the best of her, though, if you had gone to work in the proper way. You should never have paid in advance. I know everything.


What do you mean?


I know she has cost you a hundred guineas, and that you have not won so much as a kiss from her. Why, my dear sir, you might have had her comfortably in your own bed for as much! She boasts that she took you in, though you pride yourself on your craft.


It was an act of charity towards her aunt.


Yes, to make her Balm of Life; but you know if it had not been for the niece the aunt would never have had the money.


Perhaps not, but how come you who are of their party to be talking to me in this fashion?


I swear to you I only speak out of friendship for you, and I will tell you how I came to make the acquaintance of the girl, her mother, her grandmother and her two aunts, and then you will no longer consider me as of their party. Sixteen months ago I saw M. Morosini walking about Vauxhall by himself. He had just come to England to congratulate the king on his accession to the throne, on behalf of the Republic of Venice. I saw how enchanted he was with the London beauties, and I went up to him and told him that all these beauties were at his service. This made him laugh, and on my repeating that it was not a jest he pointed out one of the girls, and asked if she would be at his service. I did not know her, so I asked him to wait awhile, and I would bring him the information he required. There was no time to be lost, and I could see that the girl was not a vestal virgin, so I went up to her and told her that the Venetian ambassador was amorous of her, and that I would take her to him if she would receive his visits. The aunt said that a nobleman of such an exalted rank could only bring honour to her niece. I took their address, and on my way back to the ambassador I met a friend of mine who is learned in such commodities, and after I had shewed him the address he told me it was the Charpillon.


And it was she?


It was. My friend told me she was a young Swiss girl who was not yet in the general market, but who would soon be there, as she was not rich, and had a numerous train to support. I rejoined the Venetian, and told him that his business was done, and asked him at what time I should introduce him the next day, warning him that as she had a mother and aunts she would not be alone.


I am glad to hear it, and also that she is not a common woman.


I told the ladies at what hour I should have the pleasure of introducing the great man to them, and after warning them that they must appear not to know him I went home.


When the ambassador had gone, the Charpillon, finding herself at liberty once more, had Lord Baltimore, Lord Grosvenor, and M. de Saa, the Portuguese ambassador, in turn, but no titular lover. I insisted on having my night with her according to agreement, but both mother and daughter laughed at me when I spoke of it. I cannot arrest her, because she is a minor, but I will have the mother imprisoned on the first opportunity, and you will see how the town will laugh. Now you know why I go to their house; and I assure you you are wrong if you think I have any part in their councils. Nevertheless, I know they are discussing how they may catch you, and they will do so if you do not take care.


Tell the mother that I have another hundred guineas at her service if she will let me have her daughter for a single night.


Do you mean that?


Assuredly, but I am not going to pay in advance.


That’s the only way not to be duped. I shall be glad to execute your commission.


I don’t want you to give me any breakfast, I want an explanation, and to introduce Miss Lorenzi to you.


What explanation do you require?


Sir, is it a fact that you charged the Chevalier Goudar to tell my mother that you would give a hundred guineas to spend the night with me?


No, not to spend a night with you, but after I had passed it. Isn’t the price enough?


No jesting, sir, if you please. There is no question of bargaining; all I want to know is whether you think you have a right to insult me, and that I am going to bear it?


If you think yourself insulted, I may, perhaps, confess I was wrong; but I confess I did not think I should have to listen to any reproaches from you. Goudar is one of your intimate friends, and this is not the first proposal he has taken to you. I could not address you directly, as I know your arts only too well.


I shall not pay any attention to your abuse of my self; I will only remind you of what I said ‘that neither money nor violence were of any use,’ and that your only way was to make me in love with you by gentle means. Shew me where I have broken my word! It is you that have foresworn yourself in coming into my bath-room, and in sending such a brutal message to my mother. No one but a rascal like Goudar would have dared to take such a message.


Goudar a rascal, is he? Well, he is your best friend. You know he is in love with you, and that he only got you for the ambassador in the hope of enjoying you himself. The document in his possession proves that you have behaved badly towards him. You are in his debt, discharge it, and then call him a rascal if you have the conscience to do so. You need not trouble to weep, for I knew the source of those tears; it is defiled.


You know nothing of it. I love you, and it is hard to have you treat me so.


You love me? You have not taken the best way to prove it!


As good a way as yours. You have behaved to me as if I were the vilest of prostitutes, and yesterday you seemed to think I was a brute beast, the slave of my mother. You should have written to me in person, and without the intervention of so vile an agent; I should have replied in the same way, and you need not have been afraid that you would be deceived.


Supposing I had written, what would your answer have been?


I should have put all money matters out of question. I should have promised to content you on the condition that you would come and court me for a fortnight without demanding the slightest favour. We should have lived a pleasant life; we should have gone to the theatre and to the parks. I should have become madly in love with you. Then I should have given myself up to you for love, and nothing but love. I am ashamed to say that hitherto I have only given myself out of mere complaisance. Unhappy woman that I am! but I think nature meant me to love, and I thought when I saw you that my happy star had sent you to England that I might know the bliss of true affection. Instead of this you have only made me unhappy. You are the first man that has seen me weep; you have troubled my peace at home, for my mother shall never have the sum you promised her were it for nothing but a kiss. I am sorry to have injured you, though I did not intend to do so; but I really don’t know what I can do. Come and see us, and keep your money, which I despise. If you love me, come and conquer me like a reasonable and not a brutal lover; and I will help you, for now you cannot doubt that I love you.


Oh, fie!


The Charpillon, has not got a fever, but is covered with bruises. What grieves the old woman most is that she has not got the hundred guineas. has not got a fever, but is covered with bruises. What grieves the old woman most is that she has not got the hundred guineas. She would have had them the next morning, if her daughter had been tractable. Her mother had made her swear that she would not be tractable, and you need not hope to possess her without the mother’s consent. Why won’t she consent? Because she thinks that you will abandon the girl as soon as you have enjoyed her. Possibly, but she would have received many valuable presents, and now she is abandoned and has nothing. Have you made up your mind not to have anything more to do with her? Quite. That’s your wisest plan, and I advise you to keep to it, nevertheless I want to shew you something which will surprise you. I will be back in a moment. What should I do with it? It is not a very attractive piece of furniture. Nevertheless, the price of it is a hundred guineas. I would not give three. Get the fair Charpillon to sit in this chair, and your business is done. I won’t buy it, but I shall be obliged if you will leave it here till to-morrow. I can’t leave it here an hour unless you will buy it; the owner is waiting close by to hear your answer. Then take it away and come back to dinner.


I suppose the marks of the blows you gave me make my face so repulsive? You lie; I never struck you. No, but your tiger-like claws have left bruises all over me. Look here. No, you needn’t be afraid that what you see may prove too seductive; besides, it will have no novelty for you.


I know it is, for if I had been tractable as I ought to have been, you would have been loving instead of cruel. But repentance effaces sin, and I am come to beg pardon. May I hope to obtain it? Certainly; I am angry with you no longer, but I cannot forgive myself. Now go, and trouble me no more. I will if you like, but there is something you have not heard, and I beg you will listen to me a moment. As I have nothing to do you can say what you have got to say, I will listen to you. She might have relieved herself of what she had to say in a quarter of an hour, but by dint of tears, sighs, groans, digressions, and so forth, she took two hours to tell me that her mother had made her swear to pass the night as she had done. She ended by saying that she would like to be mine as she had been M. Morosini’s, to live with me, and only to go out under my escort, while I might allow her a monthly sum which she would hand over to her mother, who would, in that case, leave her alone.


Your daughter will have a house at Chelsea,


where I can go and see her whenever I like, and also fifty guineas a month to do what she likes with.


I don’t care what you give her a month, but before I let her leave my house she must give me the hundred guineas she was to have had when she slept with you.


It is your fault that she didn’t have them; however, to cut the matter short, she shall give them to you.


And in the meanwhile, till you have found the house, I hope you will come and see me.


Yes.


Tell her to begone as fast as she likes,


and to keep out of my sight for ever.


The mother has engaged me to mediate, and if you will leave her alone, she will do you no harm. I will carry your message, but I pity you; for you are going into their nets again, and will end in utter ruin.


What!


are you not going to spend the night with me?


No.


But we shall see each other to-morrow?


I hope so. Good night.


Tell her that I can’t see her.


I haven’t got them about me; but why do you want me to return them to you?


I hope you will come and see me again when you are once more yourself.


I have just been at the Charpillons, they were all in high spirits. I tried in vain to turn the conversation on you, but not a word would they utter.


I despise them entirely,


I don’t want to have anything more to do with them.


I should not have come to beg you to give me a dinner if I had known that you would have so many guests, and if I am at all in the way I will go.


Two carriages,


holding four each, shall be ready at eight o’clock, and we shall be exactly eight.


No, nine, for I am coming, and I hope you will not drive me away.


No, that would be impolite, I will ride in front on horseback.


Oh, not at all! Emilie shall sit on my lap.


You can begin your vengeance,


by returning my bills of exchange.


You shall have them to-morrow, but you had better try and make me forget the insult you have put on me.


What! you would deceive me again.


No, no but we have done enough now. I promise to spend the night in your arms in your own house. Do as you like. I only ask you to leave me my life, but after you have satisfied yourself I will not leave the spot; I will not enter your carriage unless you carry me by force, and everybody shall know the reason.


Sir,--I am exceedingly surprised at your addressing yourself to me about the bills you handed to my daughter. She tells me she will give you them back in person when you shew more discretion, and have learnt to respect her.


Go away,


I have not got them; my daughter keeps them.


Call her.


My poor daughter alone in the streets of London at midnight! My dear niece, alas! alas! she is lost. Cursed be the hour when you came to England to make us all unhappy!


Go and look for her at the neighbours’ houses,


no doubt you will find her. When you tell me she is safe, you shall have a guinea apiece.


We have looked for her everywhere, but we can’t find her.


I made haste to come and tell you, not for the sake of your two guineas, but because I saw you were so unhappy.


I know that,


but where did she pass the night?


At a shop which she found open, and where she was known from having bought various articles there. She is in bed with a fever, and I am afraid it may have serious consequences as she is in her monthly period.


That’s impossible, for I caught her in the act with her hairdresser.


Oh, that proves nothing! the poor young man does not look into things very closely.


But she is in love with him.


I don’t think so, though she has spent several hours in his company.


And you say that she loves me!


Oh, that has nothing to do with it! It is only a whim of hers with the hairdresser.


Tell her that I am coming to pass the day beside her bed, and bring me her reply.


I will send the other girl if you like.


No, she only speaks English.


There’s Seingalt, there’s Seingalt! He’s going to kill me. Help! help! For God’s sake, sir, go away!


The fright you gave her has arrested her periods; she is in a terrible state.


O, fatal hairdresser!


That was a mere youthful folly; you should have pretended not to have seen anything.


You think that possible, you old witch, do you? Do not let her lack for anything; take that.


Did you see her? No, they said she could see no one. Do you think it is all true? I don’t know what to think; but one of the maids, who tells me the truth as a rule, assured me that she had become mad through her courses being stopped, while she has also a fever and violent convulsions. It is all credible enough, for these are the usual results of a shock when a woman is in such a situation. The girl told me it was all your fault. if I did not take care I should lose my reason or my life.


we must resign ourselves to the will of God.


The doctor is no good now, he is a minister of the Gospel, and there is another of them upstairs. My poor daughter! In another hour she will be no more.


It is true that my hand dealt the blow, but her death lies at your door.


Where are you going? Come with me, unless you are going to deliver some captive. Come along, we shall have a pleasant party.


I can’t come, my dear fellow, let me go.


What’s the matter? I hardly recognized you, you looked so solemn.


Nothing is the matter.


Nothing? You should look at your face in the glass. Now I feel quite sure that you are going to commit a foolish action.


Not at all.


It’s no good denying it.


I tell you there’s nothing the matter with me. Good bye, I shall see you again.


It’s no good, I won’t leave you. Come along, we will walk together. You are going to fight a duel; I should like to see it. I won’t interfere with the affair, but neither will I leave you.


Very good, then I hope my society is as pleasant to you as yours is to me; I won’t leave you. After we have taken a walk we will go and dine at the ‘Canon.’ I will get two girls to come and join us, and we shall have a gay little party of four.


My dear friend, you must excuse me; I am in a melancholy mood, and I want to be alone to get over it.


You can be alone to-morrow, if you like, but I am sure you will be all right in the next three hours, and if not, why I will share your madness. Where did you think of dining?


Nowhere; I have no appetite. I have been fasting for the last three days, and I can only drink.


Ah! I begin to see daylight. Something has crossed you, and you are going to let it kill you as it killed one of my brothers. I must see what can be done.


A day longer will not matter, I can do the deed when he leaves me, and I shall only have to bear with life a few hours longer.


I reckoned on your keeping your word,


You did not think that I would break my word of honour.


That’s all right; I see you are on the way to recovery.


She can’t be the Charpillon, she is some other girl like her, and my enfeebled senses have led me astray.


This young man, is my good genius, my guardian angel, my familiar spirit, who has taken the form of Edgar to restore me to my senses again.


Why, you are laughing! your sadness has departed, then?


Yes, good genius, but I am hungry, and I want you to do me a favour, if you have no other pressing engagements.


I am free till the day after to-morrow, and till then you can do what you like with me.


I owe my life to you, but to make your gift complete I want you to spend this night and the whole of the next day with me.


Done.


Then let us go home.


With all my heart; come along.


I am quite sure that the girl you know of is very far from dying, as she has gone to Ranelagh with Lord Grosvenor.


I have just come from Denmark Street, and I only saw the grandmother, who was weeping bitterly, and an attorney, whom no doubt she was consulting.


Then you have heard what has happened?


Yes, I came up a minute after you had gone and I stayed till the three old sluts made up their minds to go with the constable. They resisted and said he ought to leave them till the next day, when they would be able to find someone to bail them. The two bravos drew their swords to resist the law, but the other constable disarmed them one after the other, and the three women were led off. The Charpillon wanted to accompany them, but it was judged best that she should remain at liberty, in order to try and set them free.


Where have you been hiding all this time? I have been looking for you everywhere.


Love has been keeping me a prisoner. I have got some money for you.


For me? From what quarter?


On behalf of the Ansperghers. Give me a receipt and the necessary declaration, for I am going to restore them myself to the poor Charpillon, who has been weeping for the last fortnight.


I daresay she has, I have seen her weep myself; but I like the way in which she has chosen the being who delivered me from her chains as a protector. Does she know that I owe my life to you?


She only knew that I was with you at Ranelagh when you saw her dancing instead of dying, but I have told her the whole story since.


No doubt she wants you to plead with me in her favour.


By no means. She has just been telling me that you are a monster of ingratitude, for she loved you and gave you several proofs of her affection, but now she hates you.


Thank Heaven for that! The wretched woman! It’s curious she should have selected you as her lover by way of taking vengeance on me, but take care! she will punish you.


It may be so, but at all events it’s a pleasant kind of punishment.


I hope you may be happy, but look to yourself; she is a mistress in all sorts of deceit.


Good night, Seingalt.


In the king’s name!


To take him to Newgate, for Sunday makes no difference to criminals.


And what crime have I committed?


You will hear that in prison.


My master has a right to know his crime before he goes to prison,


Yes, but the magistrate’s abed.


Then drive to that city, and have done with it.


Be of good courage, Mr. Fielding is a just and equitable magistrate.


Signor Casanova, be kind enough to step forward. I wish to speak to you.


Eccomi, Signore.


Signor de Casanova, of Venice, you are condemned to perpetual confinement in the prisons of His Majesty the King of Great Britain.


I should like to know, sir, for what crime I am condemned. Would you be kind enough to inform me as to its nature?


Your demand is a reasonable one, for with us no one is condemned without knowing the cause of his condemnation. You must know, then, that the accusation (which is supported by two witnesses) charges you with intending to do grievous bodily harm to the person of a pretty girl; and as this pretty girl aforesaid goes in dread of you, the law decrees that you must be kept in prison for the rest of your days.


Sir, this accusation is a groundless calumny; to that I will take my oath! It is very possible indeed that the girl may fear my vengeance when she comes to consider her own conduct, but I can assure you that I have had no such designs hitherto, and I don’t think I ever shall.


She has two witnesses.


Then they are false ones. But may I ask your worship the name of my accuser?


Miss Charpillon.


I thought as much; but I have never given her aught but proofs of my affection.


Then you have no wish to do her any bodily harm?


Certainly not.


Then I congratulate you. You can dine at home; but you must find two sureties. I must have an assurance from the mouths of two householders that you will never commit such a crime.


Whom shall I find to do so?


Two well-known Englishmen, whose friendship you have gained, and who know that you are incapable of such an action. Send for them, and if they arrive before I go to dinner I will set you at liberty.


How much will he want?


Then say that I should like to see Newgate.


Do you know me, sir?


No, sir, I do not.


I am Casanova, against whom you bore false witness; whom you tried to cast into Newgate.


I am very sorry, but look around you and say what choice have I? I have no bread to give my children. I will do as much in your favour another time for nothing.


Are you not afraid of the gallows?


No, for perjury is not punished with death; besides it is very difficult to prove.


I have heard you are a poet.


Yes. I have lengthened the Didone and abridged the Demetrio.


You are a great poet, indeed!


The Charpillon is a bigger wh--e than her mother.


The teacher of the parrot has no doubt made the bird an instrument of his vengeance, and has displayed his wit in doing so; he ought to be an Englishman.


Because it delights all who know anything about the object of the slander,


Indeed. I remember two other daughters of yours robbing me of a snuff-box and two watches at Stuttgart.


You lie!


Tell him to come out, and do you escort him to the Green Park, and I shall have the pleasure of giving him a caning in your presence, unless you would like to fight for him; if so, you must let me go home and get my sword. But do you know this man whom you call your friend?


No, but he is an officer, and it is I that brought him here.


Very good, I will fight to the last drop of my blood; but I warn you your friend is a thief. But go; I will await you.


Scoundrel, draw your sword, unless you want me to give you a thrashing!


I will never draw upon a defenceless man.


Come along, sir, I see you know the gentleman.


Unfortunately. I am in love with one of his daughters.


How did you come to know these ladies?


Their father the captain, has sold me jewels; he introduced me to them.


Where did you leave our father?


In Hyde Park, after giving him a caning.


You served him quite right.


I have just been to Pocchini’s, but the landlord tells me he has not been in since yesterday. The girl he has gone with is a pretty one, from what the man tells me, and they have taken ship from London. I am sorry he went away before I could pay him for the watch; I am dreading every moment to meet the individual from whom it was stolen.


Sir, no one can give a positive answer to that question, for every week some sect dies and some new one is brought into being. All that is necessary is for a man of good faith, or some rogue desirous of money or notoriety, to stand in some frequented place and begin preaching. He explains some texts of the Bible in his own fashion, and if he pleases the gapers around him they invite him to expound next Sunday, often in a tavern. He keeps the appointment and explains his new doctrines in a spirited manner. Then people begin to talk of him; he disputes with ministers of other sects; he and his followers give themselves a name, and the thing is done. Thus, or almost thus, are all the numerous English sects produced.


Madam is not English, then?


No, sir, I am a Swiss, and a friend of yours.


Charming Sara,


you have so enchanted me that I cannot help asking you a couple of questions, which if you value my peace of mind you will answer. Do you remember what happened at Berne?


Yes.


And do you repent of what you did?


No.


I accept your kind offer, on the condition that you allow me to occupy the chair.


We wanted to go on the day after next, and to-morrow we shall have to leave our present rooms to their new occupants. A matter of business which my husband was not able to conclude will oblige us to stay for another week, and to-morrow we shall have the double task of moving and finding new apartments.


Then you have not yet got new rooms?


No, but my husband says he is certain to find some to-morrow morning.


Furnished, I suppose, for as you intend to leave you will be selling your furniture.


Yes, and we shall have to pay the expenses of carriage to the buyer.


I am going to try and get a couple of rooms,


They are already found,


My house is at your service, and you must give me the preference. Let us come upstairs.


Everybody is in bed.


Never mind,


I’ll wager, now, that this is the work of some fierce creditor.


You are right, but I am sure of discharging the debt in five or six days, and that’s why I put off my departure.


Then you were arrested after you had sent on your trunks.


Just after.


And what have you done?


I have sent for bail.


Why did you not send to me?


Thank you, I am grateful for your kindness, but you are a foreigner, and sureties have to be householders.


But you ought to have told me what had happened, for I have got you an excellent supper, and I am dying of hunger.


Certainly,


You shall pay me the money before you leave England.


You are right, but, nevertheless, there is no pleasure so great as the consciousness of having paid one’s debts.


You must not sell anything, for as I am going to Switzerland with you I can pay your debts, and you shall repay me when you can.


I did not think you were speaking seriously,


Perfectly seriously, and here is the object of my vows.


If he had been by himself, he could have lived here comfortably enough with only one servant, but with a family to provide for the two thousand crowns per annum provided by the Government are quite insufficient. My old father has succeeded in persuading the State to discharge my husband’s debts, but to make up the extra expense they will not employ a Charge d’affaires; a banker with the title of agent will collect the interest on their English securities.


My wife, has told me of your intentions, and I take it as a great honour, I assure you; but I cannot give you my Sara, as she is promised to M. de W----, and family reasons prevent me from going back from my word. Besides my old father, a strict Calvinist, would object to the difference in religion. He would never believe that his dear little grandchild would be happy with a Roman Catholic.


marriage


Why, divine Sara, do you oppose my loving ecstasy?


Dearest, I entreat of you not to ask for any more than I am willing to give.


Then you no longer love me?


Cruel man, I adore you!


Then why do you treat me to a refusal, after having once surrendered unreservedly?


I have given myself to you, and we have both been happy, and I think that should be enough for us.


There must be some reason for this change. If you love me, dearest Sara, this renunciation must be hard for you to bear.


I confess it, but nevertheless I feel it is my duty. I have made up my mind to subdue my passion from no weak motive, but from a sense of what I owe to myself. I am under obligations to you, and if I were to repay the debt I have contracted with my body I should be degraded in my own eyes. When we enjoyed each other before only love was between us--there was no question of debit and credit. My heart is now the thrall of what I owe you, and to these debts it will not give what it gave so readily to love.


This is a strange philosophy, Sara; believe me it is fallacious, and the enemy of your happiness as well as mine. These sophisms lead you astray and wound me to the heart. Give me some credit for delicacy of feeling, and believe me you owe me nothing.


You must confess that if you had not loved me you would have done nothing for my father.


Certainly I will confess nothing of the kind; I would readily do as much, and maybe more, out of regard for your worthy mother. It is quite possible, indeed, that in doing this small service for your father I had no thoughts of you at all.


It might be so; but I do not believe it was so. Forgive me, dearest, but I cannot make up my mind to pay my debts in the way you wish.


It seems to me that if you are grateful to me your love ought to be still more ardent.


It cannot be more ardent than it is already.


Do you know how grievously you make me suffer?


Alas! I suffer too; but do not reproach me; let us love each other still.


Your mother, has promised me that hers shall not be wanting.


I have shewn you how well I love you, and I am sure I should be very happy as your wife. You may be sure that your wishes will be mine, and that, however far you lead me, Switzerland shall claim no thought of mine.


You will drive me to despair! Have you reflected that this resistance may cost me my life? Can you love, and yet entertain this fatal prejudice? And yet I am sure you love me, and pleasure too.


Yes, dearest one, I do love you, and amorous pleasure with you; but you must respect my delicacy. You have just given a true proof of the sincerity of your affection.


Did you think, sweetheart, that I was vile enough to abuse your weakness? Could I enjoy a pleasure in which you had no share?


I did not think you would do such a thing, but I should not have resisted, though it is possible that I should not have loved you afterwards.


Sara, though you do not know, you charm my soul out of my body.


After a silence of twenty-one years . . .


A Hanoverian lady, a widow and the mother of five daughters, came to England two months ago with her whole family. She lives close by, and is occupied in soliciting compensation from the Government for any injury that was done her by the passage of the Duke of Cumberland’s army. The mother herself is sick and and never leaves her bed; she sends her two eldest daughters to petition the Government, and they are the two young ladies you have just seen. They have not met with any success. The eldest daughter is twenty-two, and the youngest fourteen; they are all pretty and can speak English, French, and German equally well, and are always glad to see visitors. I had been to visit them myself, but as I gave them nothing I do not care to go there alone a second time. If you like, however, I can introduce you.


You irritate my curiosity. Come along, but if the one that pleases me is not complaisant she shall have nothing.


They will not even allow one to take them by the hand.


They are Charpillons, I suppose.


It looks like it. But you won’t see any men there.


We have come at a sad time. That man is a bailiff who has come to take the mother to prison if she can’t pay her landlord the twenty guineas’ rent she owes him, and they haven’t got a farthing. When the mother has been sent to prison the landlord will no doubt turn the girls out of doors.


They can live with their mother for nothing.


Not at all. If they have got the money they can have their meals in prison, but no one is allowed to live in a prison except the prisoners.


They have gone out, to look for money, for the landlord won’t accept any surety, and we have nothing to sell.


All this is very sad; what does your mother say?


She only weeps, and yet, though she is ill and cannot leave her bed, they are going to take her to prison. By way of consolation the landlord says he will have her carried.


It is very hard. But your looks please me, mademoiselle, and if you will be kind I may be able to extricate you from the difficulty.


I do not know what you mean by ‘kind.’


Your mother will understand; go and ask her.


Sir, you do not know us; we are honest girls, and ladies of position besides.


It is M. the Chevalier de Seingalt.


Himself, mademoiselle, and sorely grieved at your misfortune.


Be kind enough to come in again for a moment.


I am sorry to say that I have an important engagement.


I will not keep you for longer than a quarter of an hour. We have nothing to sell, and all our resources consist of two shillings, which we shall have to spend on bread, on which we live.


Who are your friends? How can they abandon you at such a time?


I can’t believe it,


for I know the two last noblemen to be both rich and generous. There must be some good reason for their conduct, since you are beautiful; and for these gentlemen beauty is a bill to be honoured on sight.


Yes, there is a reason. These rich noblemen abandon us with contempt. They refuse to take pity on us because we refuse to yield to their guilty passion.


That is to say, they have taken a fancy to you, and as you will not have pity on them they refuse to have pity on you. Is it not so?


That is exactly the situation.


Then I think they are in the right.


In the right?


Yes, I am quite of their opinion. We leave you to enjoy your sense of virtue, and we spend our money in procuring those favours which you refuse us. Your misfortune really is your prettiness, if you were ugly you would get twenty guineas fast enough. I would give you the money myself, and the action would be put down to benevolence; whereas, as the case stands, if I were to give you anything it would be thought that I was actuated by the hope of favours to come, and I should be laughed at, and deservedly, as a dupe.


I saw you at Richmond with the Charpillon.


She cost me two thousand guineas, and I got nothing for my money; but I have profited by the lesson, and in future I shall never pay in advance.


Madam,


what can I do for you?


Sir. I have heard the whole of your conversations with my daughters, and you must confess that you have not talked to them in a very fatherly manner.


Quite so, but the only part which I desire to play with them is that of lover, and a fatherly style would not have been suitable to the part. If I had the happiness of being their father, the case would be altered. What I have said to your daughters is what I feel, and what I think most likely to bring about the end I have in view. I have not the slightest pretence to virtue, but I adore the fair sex, and now you and they know the road to my purse. If they wish to preserve their virtue, why let them; nobody will trouble them, and they, on their side, must not expect anything from men. Good-bye, madam; you may reckon on my never addressing your daughters again.