I do not know what sort of affection that honest man feels for you, or how far he can rely upon the control he may have over himself, but I know that if he can grant you what you have asked from him, his friendship must be of a nature very different from mine, for I am bound to tell you it is not only impossible for me to afford you willingly the strange gratification of abandoning you in your position, but even that, if I go to Parma, you could not possibly carry out your wishes, because I love you so passionately that you must promise to be mine, or I must remain here. In that case you must go to Parma alone with the captain, for I feel that, if I accompanied you any further, I should soon be the most wretched of men. I could not bear to see you with another lover, with a husband, not even in the midst of your family; in fact, I would fain see you and live with you forever. Let me tell you, lovely Henriette, that if it is possible for a Frenchman to forget, an Italian cannot do it, at least if I judge from my own feelings. I have made up my mind, you must be good enough to decide now, and to tell me whether I am to accompany you or to remain here. Answer yes or no; if I remain here it is all over. I shall leave for Naples to-morrow, and I know I shall be cured in time of the mad passion I feel for you, but if you tell me that I can accompany you to Parma, you must promise me that your heart will forever belong to me alone. I must be the only one to possess you, but I am ready to accept as a condition, if you like, that you shall not crown my happiness until you have judged me worthy of it by my attentions and by my loving care. Now, be kind enough to decide before the return of the too happy captain. He knows all, for I have told him what I feel.


And what did he answer?


That he would be happy to see you under my protection. But what is the meaning of that smile playing on your lips?


Pray, allow me to laugh, for I have never in my life realized the idea of a furious declaration of love. Do you understand what it is to say to a woman in a declaration which ought to be passionate, but at the same time tender and gentle, the following terrible words: 'Madam, make your choice, either one or the other, and decide instanter!' Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!


Yes, I understand perfectly. It is neither gentle, nor gallant, nor pathetic, but it is passionate. Remember that this is a serious matter, and that I have never yet found myself so much pressed by time. Can you, on your side, realize the painful position of a man, who, being deeply in love, finds himself compelled to take a decision which may perhaps decide issues of life and death? Be good enough to remark that, in spite of the passion raging in me, I do not fail in the respect I owe you; that the resolution I intend to take, if you should persist in your original decision, is not a threat, but an effort worthy of a hero, which ought to call for your esteem. I beg of you to consider that we cannot afford to lose time. The word choose must not sound harshly in your ears, since it leaves my fate as well as yours entirely in your hands. To feel certain of my love, do you want to see me kneeling before you like a simpleton, crying and entreating you to take pity on me? No, madam, that would certainly displease you, and it would not help me. I am conscious of being worthy of your love, I therefore ask for that feeling and not for pity. Leave me, if I displease you, but let me go away; for if you are humane enough to wish that I should forget you, allow me to go far away from you so as to make my sorrow less immense. Should I follow you to Parma, I would not answer for myself, for I might give way to my despair. Consider everything well, I beseech you; you would indeed be guilty of great cruelty, were you to answer now: ‘Come to Parma, although I must beg of you not to see me in that city.’ Confess that you cannot, in all fairness, give me such an answer; am I not right?


Certainly, if you truly love me.


Good God! if I love you? Oh, yes! believe me, my love is immense, sincere! Now, decide my fate.


What! always the same song?


Yes.


But are you aware that you look very angry?


No, for it is not so. I am only in a state of uncontrollable excitement, in one of the decisive hours of my life, a prey to the most fearful anxiety. I ought to curse my whimsical destiny and the ‘sbirri’ of Cesena (may God curse them, too!), for, without them, I should never have known you.


Are you, then, so very sorry to have made my acquaintance?


Have I not some reason to be so?


No, for I have not given you my decision yet.


Now I breathe more freely, for I am sure you will tell me to accompany you to Parma.


Yes, come to Parma.


I am sure that you love me, and be quite certain that I shall leave nothing undone to secure the constancy of your feelings.


Madam, I wish to make some purchases.


Sir, shall I send for someone speaking French?


You need not do so, I am an Italian.


God be praised! Italians are scarce in these days.


Why scarce?


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


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


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


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


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


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


And dresses?


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


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


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


Ah! may God bless you! Any children?


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


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


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


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


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


Neither. Here are your day’s wages. Be off at once.


What country does he belong to?


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


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


Yes, dearest, it will amuse you.


You shall have one this very day, sir, if I took him I should be certain to have neither a thief nor a spy about me, and that he spoke French pretty well.


It would be a curious coincidence, if that dressmaker should be my aunt, and my valet my cousin! I entreat you, my darling, never, for the future, to ask my consent in such trifling matters. Be quite certain, my beloved, that I shall always approve everything you may do. Take these fifty sequins, dearest, to pay for all your small expenses, and to buy the many trifles which I should be sure to forget.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Are any such persons likely to be here at present?


I think not.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


What does your husband do?


He is steward to the Marquis of Sissa.


Is your father still alive?


No, sir, he is dead.


What was his family name?


Scotti.


Are your husband’s parents still alive?


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


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


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


Have all the clocks been destroyed?


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


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


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


Why, do you not say Monsieur et madame?


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


But from whom do we wish to receive that honour?


From gentlemen, of course.


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


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


No, I am satisfied to be as I am.


Am I not then always the same?


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


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


I am glad that you think me worth more than ten sequins. Oh! tell him that I do not doubt it. But is it not strange that a poor little female dress should command more respect than the garb of an officer?


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


Yes, as I owe mine to the sbirri of Cesena.


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


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


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


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


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


How kind you are!


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


Sir. I have taken the liberty of bringing the medals you wished to have; here they are.


The workmanship is beyond all price, but the gold can be bartered for other gold.


Madam, the medals weigh sixteen sequins. Your taste, madam, is sure to be mine.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


What do they mean, darling--those crazy fools--by saying that happiness is not lasting, and how do they understand that word? If they mean everlasting, immortal, unintermitting, of course they are right, but the life of man not being such, happiness, as a natural consequence, cannot be such either. Otherwise, every happiness is lasting for the very reason that it does exist, and to be lasting it requires only to exist. But if by complete felicity they understand a series of varied and never-interrupted pleasures, they are wrong, because, by allowing after each pleasure the calm which ought to follow the enjoyment of it, we have time to realize happiness in its reality. In other words those necessary periods of repose are a source of true enjoyment, because, thanks to them, we enjoy the delight of recollection which increases twofold the reality of happiness. Man can be happy only when in his own mind he realizes his happiness, and calm is necessary to give full play to his mind; therefore without calm man would truly never be completely happy, and pleasure, in order to be felt, must cease to be active. Then what do they mean by that word lasting? Every day we reach a moment when we long for sleep, and, although it be the very likeness of non-existence, can anyone deny that sleep is a pleasure? No, at least it seems to me that it cannot be denied with consistency, for, the moment it comes to us, we give it the preference over all other pleasures, and we are grateful to it only after it has left us. Those who say that no one can be happy throughout life speak likewise frivolously. Philosophy teaches the secret of securing that happiness, provided one is free from bodily sufferings. A felicity which would thus last throughout life could be compared to a nosegay formed of a thousand flowers so beautifully, so skillfully blended together, that it would look one single flower. Why should it be impossible for us to spend here the whole of our life as we have spent the last month, always in good health, always loving one another, without ever feeling any other want or any weariness? Then, to crown that happiness, which would certainly be immense, all that would be wanted would be to die together, in an advanced age, speaking to the last moment of our pleasant recollections. Surely that felicity would have been lasting. Death would not interrupt it, for death would end it. We could not, even then, suppose ourselves unhappy unless we dreaded unhappiness after death, and such an idea strikes me as absurd, for it is a contradiction of the idea of an almighty and fatherly tenderness.


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


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


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


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


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


Will there be many guests?


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


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


Who is she, this Henriette? what is this treasure I have in my possession?


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


What can I say about the Italians. I know only one? If I am to judge them all from that one my judgment must certainly be most favourable to them, but one single example is not sufficient to establish the rule. No. I never felt any inclination for any other. I learned the violoncello at the convent to please my mother, who can play it pretty well, and without an order from my father, sanctioned by the bishop, the abbess would never have given me permission to practise it.


What objection could the abbess make?


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


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


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


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


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


On madam or on me?


On both.


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


Yes, but they are so near each other!


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


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


I am certain, madam, that he does not.


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


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


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


In that state of doubt, and wishing to clear it, he introduced himself, but now he must see that he was mistaken.


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


Perhaps he may know you?


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


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


I confess it has disturbed my mind.


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


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


This letter, troubles me.


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


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


I think I must see him, but where?


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


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


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


Sir, on my honour I will do it.


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


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


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


Alas! you compel me to perform a painful task.


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


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


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


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


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


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


Shall we go away to-morrow, dearest?


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


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


Here! Oh, fatal illusion!


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


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


Yes.


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


As you please.


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


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


Adieu!


You will forget Henriette.


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


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


I do not want to sell it.


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


Yes, I wish to be left alone.


What is the matter with you? What did you eat yesterday?


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


Yet. I wish you would make the attempt, and tell me the result candidly.


I offer only one ducat,


to those who are not respectable.


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


Creation being granted,


such a question is childish, for the seasons are relative, and differ in the different quarters of the globe.


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


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


by following the precepts of the Gospel so well, I should certainly win the kingdom of heaven.


It is God’s will, that you employ all your influence in Venice to find an honourable position for M. de la Haye, and to promote the interests of young M. Bavois in his profession.


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


By George, sir!


know you! Why, did we not fight side by side at the battle of Arbela?


Well, gentlemen, I do not see anything so very laughable in that. I was at that battle, and therefore this gentleman might very well have remarked me; in fact, I think I can recollect him. M. d’Arbela, I have something of importance to tell you; make haste and follow me. If you are afraid, you may take anyone you please with you. I am good for half a dozen men.


No one,


has the right to come and disturb me in my room; be off this minute, or I blow your brains out.


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


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


Commander,


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


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


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


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


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


Well, I may have made a mistake.


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


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


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


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


God forbid! I would rather consider the affair ended.


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


I trust, that we shall enjoy ourselves in an agreeable way, for I have no doubt that our inclinations are the same.


unless we hurried, we would not have time to hear mass,


whether it was a festival.


negatively,


How have you contrived, such as you are, to deceive De la Haye?


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


God knows where!


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


What is it, my dear friend?


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


You are wrong in taking my innocent jests seriously.


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


An abbé jealous?


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


I was told, that my mother was waiting for me in the gondola, but I did not expect to find you, and I never suspected that you were at the bottom of the whole affair.


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


Then people say that I am married? It is said everywhere and by everybody. The members of the Council themselves believe it, and they have good reason to believe that they are right.


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


But, you spent the night with the person who is represented as your wife?


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


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


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


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


That is a very long speech,


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Ah, here he is!


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


Well, I told you he would arrive to-day? My dear cousin, you must be hungry; Here is my intended husband whom I beg to introduce to you, as well as my father and mother-in-law. The other guests round the table are friends of the family. But, my dear cousin, tell me why my mother has not come with you?


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


What is the matter with your hand, sir?


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


I am glad to find it a laughing matter, cousin. I laugh, because it reminds me of a sprained ankle which I once feigned to have in order not to dance.


most likely my cousin wanted to talk with me on family matters, and that we ought to be left alone.


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


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


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


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


What folly! Well, wait until this evening.


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


Do you love me?


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


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


Has the prince paid her expenses?


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


What does your father say of her departure?


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


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


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


Precisely; I call that a good argument.


I am a priestess to bless and not to curse!


He is a scoundrel. We knew that before!


Gentlemen, you are all wrong, for my stomach is excellent, and I have not had any supper.


Is it not the same thing? I beg your pardon, sir, one way of speaking is polite, the other is not. I suppose you are an Italian?


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


Oh! I guessed it from the attention with which you have listened to my long prattle. What is it? You must abandon, and, if I may say so, forget, the particle ‘non’, which you use frequently at random. ‘Non’ is not a French word; instead of that unpleasant monosyllable, say, ‘Pardon’. ‘Non’ is equal to giving the lie: never say it, or prepare yourself to give and to receive sword-stabs every moment.


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


Sir, pardon me yourself.


No, yourself.


Yourself!


Well, sir, let us pardon and embrace one another!


Ah, sir! look at that mansion!


I see it; what of it?


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


I find nothing particular; and you?


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


You are quite right.


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


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


It remains to be seen which of us is wrong.


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


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


Any name you please.


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


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


But you must have a family name.


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


Well! I shall call you Esprit.


You do me a great honour.


Here, go and get me change for a Louis.


I have it, sir.


I see you are rich.


At your service, sir.


Where can I enquire about you?


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


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


Excellent, I made it myself yesterday.


Yesterday! I do not want it.


The milk is very good.


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


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


Yes, give me the orgeat.


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


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


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


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


Is there not a meridian everywhere?


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


Why do you laugh?


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


What is the matter here?


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


Is there no other dealer in snuff?


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


Is it better than anywhere else?


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


But how did she manage to render it so fashionable?


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


How so?


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


Who is that fat sow?


She is the wife of this fat pig.


Ah! I beg your pardon a thousand times!


Sir! Sir!


I could not go away without being guilty of impoliteness, and I went up to their box. Then, with a serious countenance and with great affability, he begged my pardon for having laughed so much, and very graciously invited me to come to his house and sup with them that same evening. I thanked him politely, saying that I had a previous engagement. But he renewed his entreaties, and his wife pressing me in the most engaging manner I told them, in order to prove that I was not trying to elude their invitation, that I was expected to sup at Silvia’s house.


In that case I am certain, of obtaining your release if you do not object. Allow me to go myself to Silvia.


It is singular, that we cannot have a ‘De profundis’ for a man who makes us sing the ‘Te Deum’ so often.


I adore them,


They deserve adoration for their beauty, although they have all a different cast of countenance.


No wonder! The eldest is the son of the Duke d’Anneci, the second of Count d’Egmont, and the youngest is the offspring of Maison-Rouge, who has just married the Romainville.


Ah! pray excuse me, I thought you were the mother of the three.


You were not mistaken, I am their mother.


Very likely you did not sleep well last night.


Oh! it is not that. I think I am in the family-way.


I should never have supposed that you were married, madam.


They express the same ideas as the panegyric of the Marechal de Saxe, but I confess that your prose pleases me a great deal more.


My prose would not have pleased you so much, if it had not been at first composed in blank verse.


Then you take very great trouble for nothing.


No trouble at all, for I have not the slightest difficulty in writing that sort of poetry. I write it as easily as prose.


Do you think that your prose is better when you compose it from your own poetry?


No doubt of it, it is much better, and I also secure the advantage that my prose is not full of half verses which flow from the pen of the writer without his being aware of it.


Is that a fault?


A great one and not to be forgiven. Prose intermixed with occasional verses is worse than prosaic poetry.


Is it true that the verses which, like parasites, steal into a funeral oration, must be sadly out of place?


Certainly. Take the example of Tacitus, who begins his history of Rome by these words: ‘Urbem Romam a principio reges habuere’. They form a very poor Latin hexameter, which the great historian certainly never made on purpose, and which he never remarked when he revised his work, for there is no doubt that, if he had observed it, he would have altered that sentence. Are not such verses considered a blemish in Italian prose?


Decidedly. But I must say that a great many poor writers have purposely inserted such verses into their prose, believing that they would make it more euphonious. Hence the tawdriness which is justly alleged against much Italian literature. But I suppose you are the only writer who takes so much pains.


The only one? Certainly not. All the authors who can compose blank verses very easily, as I can, employ them when they intend to make a fair copy of their prose. Ask Crebillon, the Abby de Voisenon, La Harpe, anyone you like, and they will all tell you the same thing. Voltaire was the first to have recourse to that art in the small pieces in which his prose is truly charming. For instance, the epistle to Madame du Chatelet, which is magnificent. Read it, and if you find a single hemistich in it I will confess myself in the wrong.


Fatu was right, but he added that he had never practised that art himself.


It is the inimitable Dupres.


We applaud the grace of Dupres and, the divine harmony of his movements. He is now sixty years of age, and those who saw him forty years ago say that he is always the same.


What! Has he never danced in a different style?


He could not have danced in a better one, for his style is perfect, and what can you want above perfection?


Nothing, unless it be a relative perfection.


But here it is absolute. Dupres always does the same thing, and everyday we fancy we see it for the first time. Such is the power of the good and beautiful, of the true and sublime, which speak to the soul. His dance is true harmony, the real dance, of which you have no idea in Italy.


Look! look! he is developing himself!


This is, the famous Camargo. I congratulate you, my friend, upon having arrived in Paris in time to see her, for she has accomplished her twelfth lustre. She is the first artist, who has dared to spring and jump on a French stage. None ventured upon doing it before her, and, what is more extraordinary, she does not wear any drawers.


I beg your pardon, but I saw....


What? Nothing but her skin which, to speak the truth, is not made of lilies and roses.


The Camargo, does not please me. I like Dupres much better. But if you never saw her thighs, how do you know that she does not wear silk tights?


Oh! that is one of those things which can easily be ascertained. I see you are a foreigner, sir.


You are right.


How pretty she is!


Yes, charming. She is the daughter of the actor who plays the confidant. She is very pleasant in company, and is an actress of good promise.


I should be very happy to make her acquaintance.


Oh! well; that is not difficult. Her father and mother are very worthy people, and they will be delighted if you ask them to invite you to supper. They will not disturb you; they will go to bed early, and will let you talk with their daughter as long as you please. You are in France, sir; here we know the value of life, and try to make the best of it. We love pleasure, and esteem ourselves fortunate when we can find the opportunity of enjoying life.


That is truly charming, madam; but how could I be so bold as to invite myself to supper with worthy persons whom I do not know, and who have not the slightest knowledge of me?


Oh, dear me! What are you saying? We know everybody. You see how I treat you myself. After the performance, I shall be happy to introduce you, and the acquaintance will be made at once.


I certainly must ask you to do me that honour, but another time.


Whenever you like.


They are M. Carlin’s children.


That may be, sir, but you take care of them, and as they go by your name, of course they will acknowledge you as their father.


Yes, I should be so legally; but M. Carlin is too honest a man not to assume the care of his children whenever I may wish to get rid of them. He is well aware that they belong to him, and my wife would be the first to complain if he ever denied it.


Ah! I am very glad to see you, for I have promised the Duchess of Rufe to present you to her, and we can go to her immediately.


Ah! this is a good-looking man! Prince, it is very amiable on your part to bring him to me. Come and sit near me, my fine fellow!


Let me see, my fine cock, if you have a fine . . . Well, well! What a baby you are! are you such a novice?


No, madam; but....


But what?


I have....


Oh, the villain! what was I going to expose myself to!


To-morrow, the prince goes to Versailles, and he will not return until the day after; we will go together to the warren to hunt ferrets, and have no doubt we shall come back to Paris pleased with one another.


That is right.


Stop! Stop!


I have some important business with this prince; go to the warren alone, my dear friend, enjoy the hunt, and come to me to-morrow.


I wish with all my heart that the same thing might happen to me; for you are certain of possessing our beautiful Coraline the very first time you are with her.


I would not have her, for now I despise her heartily.


Your contempt ought to have come sooner. But, now that is too late to discuss the matter, I offer you, as a compensation, a dinner at the Hotel du Roule.


Most decidedly yes; it is an excellent idea. Let us go.


To Chaillot.


I understand, your honour.


Go, gentlemen, enjoy the fresh air with perfect security in every way; my house is the temple of peace and of good health.


We will have a double dose, and of course pay double.


You are quite welcome, gentlemen.


Indeed! this is too much of a good thing, madam. Let us go up for the third time, make a third choice, and pass the whole night here.


A delightful idea which I accept with all my heart.


Does Madame Paris approve our plan?


I could not have devised a better one, gentlemen; it is a masterpiece.


From Venice.


I have been there, and have laughed heartily at the recitative in your operas.


I believe you, sir, and I feel certain that no one ever thought of objecting to your laughing.


What do you mean by down there?


I mean Venice. Venice, madam, is not down there, but up there.


That one, sir.


But she has ugly legs.


They are not seen, sir; besides, whenever I examine the beauty of a woman, la premiere chose que j’ecarte, ce sont les jambes


She is,


Madame de Brionne, more remarkable by her virtue even than by her beauty. Not only is there no scandalous story told about her, but she has never given any opportunity to scandal-mongers of inventing any adventure of which she was the heroine.


Perhaps her adventures are not known.


Ah, monsieur! at the court everything is known.


They are coming from the apartment of the queen who is going to dine, and the reason why they walk so badly is that their shoes have heels six inches high, which compel them to walk on their toes and with bent knees in order to avoid falling on their faces.


But why do they not wear lower heels?


It is the fashion.


What a stupid fashion!


For whom is this table?


For the queen. Her majesty is now coming in.


Monsieur de Lowendal!


Your majesty?


I believe this is a fricassee of chickens.


I am of the same opinion, madam.


Madame Querini in Fontainebleau?


You here? It reminds me of Queen Elizabeth saying, 'Pauper ubique facet.'


An excellent comparison, madam.


I am only joking, my dear friend; I am here to see the king, who does not know me; but to-morrow the ambassador will present me to his majesty.


We have handsomer women here.


I was not aware of your marriage.


Yet it took place more than two years since,


I know it for a fact,


for, two years ago, the lady was introduced as Madame Querini and with the title of excellency by General Spada to all the nobility in Cesena, where I was at that time.


I have no doubt of it, for Querini has himself written to me on the subject.


Nobody knows it, and it is even rumoured that the heir of the house of Querini is on the point of marrying a daughter of the Grimani family; but I shall certainly send the news to Venice.


What news?


That Juliette is truly Madame Querini, since your excellency will present her as such to Louis XV.


Who told you so?


She did.


Perhaps she has altered her mind. Then I can guess, why Juliette does not wish to be presented to the king.


Sir, what a question! You are unbearable. Never utter that dreadful word.


You are wrong in getting angry; it is the proper word.


A very dirty word, sir, but enough about it. Will you have some breakfast?


No, I thank you. I have taken a 'cafe' and two 'Savoyards'.


Dear me! What a ferocious breakfast! Pray, explain yourself.


I say that I have drunk a cafe and eaten two Savoyards soaked in it, and that is what I do every morning.


You are stupid, my good friend. A cafe is the establishment in which coffee is sold, and you ought to say that you have drunk 'use tasse de cafe'


Good indeed! Do you drink the cup? In Italy we say a 'caffs', and we are not foolish enough to suppose that it means the coffee-house.


He will have the best of it! And the two 'Savoyards', how did you swallow them?


Soaked in my coffee, for they were not larger than these on your table.


And you call these 'Savoyards'? Say biscuits.


In Italy, we call them 'Savoyards' because they were first invented in Savoy; and it is not my fault if you imagined that I had swallowed two of the porters to be found at the corner of the streets--big fellows whom you call in Paris Savoyards, although very often they have never been in Savoy.


‘Signore, sono in cantata di vi Vader in bona salute’.


I thank you, mademoiselle; but to translate 'I am enchanted', you must say 'ho pacer', and for to see you, you must say 'di vedervi'.


I thought, sir, that the 'vi' was to be placed before.


No, mademoiselle, we always put it behind.


Sir,


how is your wife?


You do her great honour, sir.


Pray tell me, sir, what her honour has to do with her health?


Did you hurt yourself, sir?


Oh, many thanks, sir, au contraire.


Why au contraire! The deuce! It has done you good? Then begin again, sir.


Indeed, sir, you are Italian? Upon my word, you present yourself so gracefully that I would have betted you were French.


Sir, when I saw you, I was near making the same mistake; I would have betted you were Italian.


It is truly an antique?


The stone, madam, undoubtedly.


Let us go and see it!


Are you the rhinoceros, sir?


Go in, madam, go in.


During the last month, the Place de Greve has seen the hanging of seven men, among whom there were five Italians. An extraordinary circumstance.


Nothing extraordinary in that, honest men generally contrive to be hung far away from their native country; and as a proof of it, sixty Frenchmen have been hung in the course of last year between Naples, Rome, and Venice. Five times twelve are sixty; so you see that it is only a fair exchange.


Ah! the nasty hussies!


What is the matter, madam?


The riddle is clear enough, sir; these sheets are spoiled.


I am very sorry, my dear madam, but change them, and the evil will be remedied at once.


Let them come again, and see if I don’t take care of them!


I am very sorry, but I cannot help it.


We ought to think of something.


Well, do so.


What can I think of? Well, come what will; the best thing I can do is not to think of it.


Then why did you come here and get my daughter with child?


I can assure you that I did not mean to do so. Besides, how do you know that I am the father of the child?


Mimi says so, and she is certain of it.


I congratulate her; but I warn you, madam, that I am ready to swear that I have not any certainty about it.


What then?


Then nothing. If she is pregnant, she will be confined. Monsieur le Commissaire, I beg of you to write word by word the answer which I am going to give you.


Very well.


I have caused no injury whatever to Mimi, the plaintiff’s daughter, and I refer you to the girl herself, who has always had as much friendship for me as I have had for her.


But she declares that she is pregnant from your doings.


That may be, but it is not certain.


She says it is certain, and she swears that she has never known any other man.


If it is so, she is unfortunate; for in such a question a man cannot trust any woman but his own wife.


What did you give her in order to seduce her?


Nothing; for very far from having seduced her, she has seduced me, and we agreed perfectly in one moment; a pretty woman does not find it very hard to seduce me.


Was she a virgin?


I never felt any curiosity about it either before or after; therefore, sir, I do not know.


Her mother claims reparation, and the law is against you.


I can give no reparation to the mother; and as for the law I will obey it when it has been explained to me, and when I am convinced that I have been guilty against it.


You are already convinced. Do you imagine that a man who gets an honest girl with child in a house of which he is an inmate does not transgress the laws of society?


I admit that to be the case when the mother is deceived; but when that same mother sends her daughter to the room of a young man, are we not right in supposing that she is disposed to accept peacefully all the accidents which may result from such conduct?


She sent her daughter to your room only to wait on you.


And she has waited on me as I have waited on her if she sends her to my room this evening, and if it is agreeable to Mimi, I will certainly serve her as well as I can; but I will have nothing to do with her against her will or out of my room, the rent of which I have always paid punctually.


You may say what you like, but you must pay the fine.


I will say what I believe to be just, and I will pay nothing; for there can be no fine where there is no law transgressed. If I am sentenced to pay I shall appeal even to the last jurisdiction and until I obtain justice, for believe me, sir, I know that I am not such an awkward and cowardly fellow as to refuse my caresses to a pretty woman who pleases me, and comes to provoke them in my own room, especially when I feel myself certain of the mother’s agreement.


I did not know, that you were a musician.


I am a musician about as much as all my companions, not one of whom knows a note of music. The girls at the opera are not much more clever, and in spite of that, with a good voice and some taste, one can sing delightfully.


The king is yawning, because he must come to the parliament to-morrow to hold a bed of justice.


Why is it called a bed of justice?


I do not know, unless it is because justice is asleep during the proceedings.


Confess, sir, that you have kept me waiting a very long time.


I was at the Theatre Francais last night, and saw Athalie.


It is the masterpiece of Racine; Voltaire, has been wrong in accusing me of having criticized that tragedy, and in attributing to me an epigram, the author of which has never been known, and which ends with two very poor lines: Pour avoir fait pis qu’Esther. Comment diable as-to pu faire


I beg you to excuse me, sir, if I receive you in such a state.


I have to ask your pardon myself. I only come to offer you my services, as a countryman and as a neighbour. I am going to my room, mademoiselle, and I will come back when you send for me; my room is next door to your own.


I must in the course of the day find a less expensive lodging, for I only possess six francs.


Yes. I intend to call with my brother upon the secretary of war, and I hope he will take pity on me.


Not one person, sir; you are the first man in France to whom I have exposed my situation.


Ah, sir! how grateful I would be!


Do not mention it. Give me your papers, I will see what is to be done with them. Do not relate your history to anyone, and do not say one word about your position. You had better remain at this hotel. Here are two Louis which I will lend you until you are in a position to return them to me.


You are now in a city,


M. de Narbonne, whom I thought an honest man, because I wanted him to be such, came to sit by me where you had left me at the theatre; he told me that my face had interested him, and he asked me who I was. I told him what I had told you. You had promised to think of me, but Narbonne told me that he did not want your assistance, as he could act by himself. I believed him, and I have been the dupe of my confidence in him; he has deceived me; he is a villain.


Tell me all, my dear Vesian, unburden your heart freely, and do not think yourself guilty towards me; in reality I have been wrong more than you. Your heart would not now be a prey to sorrow if I had not been so imprudent as to leave you alone at the theatre.


Alas, sir! do not say so; ought I to reproach you because you thought me so virtuous? Well, in a few words, the monster promised to shew me every care, every attention, on condition of my giving him an undeniable, proof of my affection and confidence--namely, to take a lodging without my brother in the house of a woman whom he represented as respectable. He insisted upon my brother not living with me, saying that evil-minded persons might suppose him to be my lover. I allowed myself to be persuaded. Unhappy creature! How could I give way without consulting you? He told me that the respectable woman to whom he would take me would accompany me to Versailles, and that he would send my brother there so that we should be both presented to the war secretary. After our first supper he told me that he would come and fetch me in a hackney coach the next morning. He presented me with two louis and a gold watch, and I thought I could accept those presents from a young nobleman who shewed so much interest in me. The woman to whom he introduced me did not seem to me as respectable as he had represented her to be. I have passed one week with her without his doing anything to benefit my position. He would come, go out, return as he pleased, telling me every day that it would be the morrow, and when the morrow came there was always some impediment. At last, at seven o’clock this morning, the woman told me that the count was obliged to go into the country, that a hackney coach would bring me back to his hotel, and that he would come and see me on his return. Then, affecting an air of sadness, she told me that I must give her back the watch because the count had forgotten to pay the watchmaker for it. I handed it to her immediately without saying a word, and wrapping the little I possessed in my handkerchief I came back here, where I arrived half an hour since.


Do you hope to see him on his return from the country?


To see him again! Oh, Lord! why have I ever seen him?


Well, my dear young friend, what you must do now is not only to forget the unworthy count and his criminal conduct towards you, but also the fault of which you have been guilty. What is done cannot be undone, and the past is beyond remedy; but compose yourself, and recall the air of cheerfulness which shone on your countenance a week ago. Then I could read on your face honesty, candour, good faith, and the noble assurance which arouses sentiment in those who can appreciate its charm. You must let all those feelings shine again on your features; for they alone can interest honest people, and you require the general sympathy more than ever. My friendship is of little importance to you, but you may rely upon it all the more because I fancy that you have now a claim upon it which you had not a week ago: Be quite certain, I beg, that I will not abandon you until your position is properly settled. I cannot at present tell you more; but be sure that I will think of you.


Ah, my friend! if you promise to think of me, I ask for no more. Oh! unhappy creature that I am; there is not a soul in the world who thinks of me.


Are, you particularly engaged in any way to-day?


No, my dear.


Well, then, be good enough to take me somewhere out of Paris; to some place where I can breathe the fresh air freely; I shall then recover that appearance which you think I must have to interest in my favour those who will see me; and if I can enjoy a quiet sleep throughout the next night I feel I shall be happy again.


I am grateful to you for your confidence in me. We will go out as soon as I am dressed. Your brother will return in the mean time.


Oh, never mind my brother!


His presence is, on the contrary, of great importance. Recollect, my dear Vesian, you must make Narbonne ashamed of his own conduct. You must consider that if he should happen to hear that, on the very day he abandoned you, you went into the country alone with me, he would triumph, and would certainly say that he has only treated you as you deserved. But if you go with your brother and me your countryman, you give no occasion for slander.


I blush not to have made that remark myself. We will wait for my brother’s return.


I will get Lani to take you for the ballet at the opera.


Then, you must begin your lessons tomorrow. Mdlle. Vesian stops at my hotel.


But can an opera dancer be extemporized like a minister of state? I can dance the minuet, and my ear is good enough to enable me to go through a quadrille; but with the exception of that I cannot dance one step.


Most of the ballet girls know no more than you do.


And how much must I ask from M. Lani? I do not think I can expect much.


Nothing. The ballet girls are not paid.


Then where is the advantage for me? how shall I live?


Do not think of that. Such as you are, you will soon find ten wealthy noblemen who will dispute amongst themselves for the honour of making up for the absence of salary. You have only to make a good choice, and I am certain that it will not be long before we see you covered with diamonds.


Now I understand you. You suppose some great lord will keep me?


Precisely; and that will be much better than a pension of four hundred francs, which you would, perhaps, not obtain without making the same sacrifice.


I would not be the ‘femme de chambre’ even of the queen.


And ‘figurante’ at the opera?


Much rather.


You are smiling?


Yes, for it is enough to make me laugh. I the mistress of a rich nobleman, who will cover me with diamonds! Well, I mean to choose the oldest.


Quite right, my dear; only do not make him jealous.


I promise you to be faithful to him. But shall he find a situation for my brother? However, until I am at the opera, until I have met with my elderly lover, who will give me the means to support myself?


I, my dear girl, my friend Baletti, and all my friends, without other interest than the pleasure of serving you, but with the hope that you will live quietly, and that we shall contribute to your happiness. Are you satisfied?


Quite so; I have promised myself to be guided entirely by your advice, and I entreat you to remain always my best friend.


Let me get up, for I want to speak to you.


Do not disturb yourself; we can talk all the same, and I think you much prettier as you are.


I am very glad of it.


What have you got to tell me?


Nothing, except to speak of the profession I am going to adopt. I am going to practice virtue in order to find a man who loves it only to destroy it.


Quite true; but almost everything is like that in this life. Man always refers everything to himself, and everyone is a tyrant in his own way. I am pleased to see you becoming a philosopher.


How can one become a philosopher?


By thinking.


Must one think a long while?


Throughout life.


Then it is never over?


Never; but one improves as much as possible, and obtains the sum of happiness which one is susceptible of enjoying.


And how can that happiness be felt?


By all the pleasure which the philosopher can procure when he is conscious of having obtained them by his own exertions, and especially by getting rid of the many prejudices which make of the majority of men a troop of grown-up children.


What is pleasure? What is meant by prejudices?


Pleasure is the actual enjoyment of our senses; it is a complete satisfaction given to all our natural and sensual appetites; and, when our worn-out senses want repose, either to have breathing time, or to recover strength, pleasure comes from the imagination, which finds enjoyment in thinking of the happiness afforded by rest. The philosopher is a person who refuses no pleasures which do not produce greater sorrows, and who knows how to create new ones.


And you say that it is done by getting rid of prejudices? Then tell me what prejudices are, and what must be done to get rid of them.


Your question, my dear girl, is not an easy one to answer, for moral philosophy does not know a more important one, or a more difficult one to decide; it is a lesson which lasts throughout life. I will tell you in a few words that we call prejudice every so-called duty for the existence of which we find no reason in nature.


Then nature must be the philosopher’s principal study?


Indeed it is; the most learned of philosophers is the one who commits the fewest errors.


What philosopher, in your opinion, has committed the smallest quantity of errors?


Socrates.


Yet he was in error sometimes?


Yes, in metaphysics.


Oh! never mind that, for I think he could very well manage without that study.


You are mistaken; morals are only the metaphysics of physics; nature is everything, and I give you leave to consider as a madman whoever tells you that he has made a new discovery in metaphysics. But if I went on, my dear, I might appear rather obscure to you. Proceed slowly, think; let your maxims be the consequence of just reasoning, and keep your happiness in view; in the end you must be happy.


I prefer the lesson you have just taught me to the one which M. Baletti will give me to-morrow; for I have an idea that it will weary me, and now I am much interested.


How do you know that you are interested?


Because I wish you not to leave me.


Truly, my dear Vesian, never has a philosopher described sympathy better than you have just done. How happy I feel! How is it that I wish to prove it by kissing you?


No doubt because, to be happy, the soul must agree with the senses.


Indeed, my divine Vesian? Your intelligence is charming.


It is your work, dear friend; and I am so grateful to you that I share your desires.


What is there to prevent us from satisfying such natural desires? Let us embrace one another tenderly.


Do you call this a bed, my child?


I have no other, sir.


Then I do not want it, and you shall not have the crown.


Did you intend undressing yourself?


Of course.


What an idea! There are no sheets.


Do you sleep with your clothes on?


Oh, no!


Well, then, go to bed as usual, and you shall have the crown.


Why?


I want to see you undressed.


But you won’t do anything to me?


Not the slightest thing.


I have never seen a better likeness. What are you laughing at?


I laugh because you and a crown of six francs are as like as two peas. That depends upon my sister,


Miserable wretch! who taught you to address me that question?


That painter,


has already painted more than one hundred portraits, and they are all perfect likenesses.


But the portraits are all admirable likenesses.


I do not believe it, or if they are then there must be cheating somewhere.


Sir, could you paint the likeness of my daughter without seeing her?


Yes, madam, if you are certain of giving me an exact description of the expression of her features.


Sir, I have had the honour of meeting you at the supper-table of M. Samson, the painter.


Ah! yes; I beg you to excuse me, sir, I did not at first recollect you.


It is natural, for your eyes are always on Mdlle. Samson.


Very likely, but you must admit that she is a charming creature.


I have no difficulty whatever in agreeing with you; to my misery, I know it but too well.


You are in love with her?


Alas, yes! and I say, again, to my misery.


To your misery? But why, do not you gain her love?


That is the very thing I have been striving for since last year, and I was beginning to have some hope when your arrival has reduced me to despair.


I have reduced you to despair?


Yes, sir.


I am very sorry, but I cannot help it.


You could easily help it; and, if you would allow me, I could suggest to you the way in which you could greatly oblige me.


Speak candidly.


You might never put your foot in the house again.


That is a rather singular proposal, but I agree that it is truly the only thing I can do if I have a real wish to oblige you. Do you think, however, that in that case you would succeed in gaining her affection?


Then it will be my business to succeed. Do not go there again, and I will take care of the rest.


I might render you that very great service; but you must confess that you must have a singular opinion of me to suppose that I am a man to do such a thing.


Yes, sir, I admit that it may appear singular; but I take you for a man of great sense and sound intellect, and after considering the subject deeply I have thought that you would put yourself in my place; that you would not wish to make me miserable, or to expose your own life for a young girl who can have inspired you with but a passing fancy, whilst my only wish is to secure the happiness or the misery of my life, whichever it may prove, by uniting her existence with mine.


But suppose that I should intend, like you, to ask her in marriage?


Then we should both be worthy of pity, and one of us would have ceased to exist before the other obtained her, for as long as I shall live Mdlle. Samson shall not be the wife of another.


What would you think of me, sir,


if I consented to give up my visits to Mdlle. Samson?


I would think that you had pity on a miserable man, and I say that in that case you will ever find me ready to shed the last drop of my blood to prove my deep gratitude.


Who are you?