To London, Casanova, v22
by
Jacques Casanova de Seingalt
Part 1 out of 3
This etext was produced by David Widger
MEMOIRS OF JACQUES CASANOVA de SEINGALT 1725-1798
IN LONDON AND MOSCOW, Volume 5b--TO LONDON
THE MEMOIRS OF JACQUES CASANOVA DE SEINGALT
THE RARE UNABRIDGED LONDON EDITION OF 1894 TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR
MACHEN TO WHICH HAS BEEN ADDED THE CHAPTERS DISCOVERED BY ARTHUR
SYMONS.
TO LONDON
CHAPTER V
I Meet the Venetian Ambassadors at Lyons, and also Marcoline's Uncle
--I Part from Marcoline and Set Out for Paris--An Amorous Journey
Thus freed from the cares which the dreadful slanders of Possano had
caused me, I gave myself up to the enjoyment of my fair Venetian,
doing all in my power to increase her happiness, as if I had had a
premonition that we should soon be separated from one another.
The day after the supper I gave to Madame Pernon and M. Bono, we went
to the theatre together, and in the box opposite to us I saw M.
Querini, the procurator, Morosini, M. Memmo, and Count Stratico, a
Professor of the University of Padua. I knew all these gentlemen;
they had been in London, and were passing through Lyons on their
return to Venice.
"Farewell, fair Marcoline!" I said to myself, feeling quite broken-
hearted, but I remained calm, and said nothing to her. She did not
notice them as she was absorbed in her conversation with M. Bono, and
besides, she did not know them by sight. I saw that M. Memmo had
seen me and was telling the procurator of my presence, and as I knew
the latter very well I felt bound to pay them my respects then and
there.
Querini received me very politely for a devotee, as also did
Morosini, while Memmo seemed moved; but no doubt he remembered that
it was chiefly due to his mother that I had been imprisoned eight
years ago. I congratulated the gentlemen on their embassy to
England, on their return to their native land, and for form's sake
commended myself to their good offices to enable me to return also.
M. Morosini, noticing the richness of my dress and my general
appearance of prosperity, said that while I had to stay away he had
to return, and that he considered me the luckier man.
"Your excellency is well aware," said I, "that nothing is sweeter
than forbidden fruit."
He smiled, and asked me whither I went and whence I came.
"I come from Rome," I answered, "where I had some converse with the
Holy Father, whom I knew before, and I am going through Paris on my
way to London.
"Call on me here, if you have time, I have a little commission to
give you."
"I shall always have time to serve your excellency in. Are you
stopping here for long?"
"Three or four days."
When I 'got back to my box Marcoline asked me who were the gentlemen
to whom I had been speaking. I answered coolly and indifferently,
but watching her as I spoke, that they were the Venetian ambassadors
on their way from London. The flush of her cheek died away and was
replaced by pallor; she raised her eyes to heaven, lowered them, and
said not a word. My heart was broken. A few minutes afterwards she
asked me which was M. Querini, and after I had pointed him out to her
she watched him furtively for the rest of the evening.
The curtain fell, we left our box, and at the door of the theatre we
found the ambassadors waiting for their carriage. Mine was in the
same line as theirs. The ambassador Querini said,--
"You have a very pretty young lady with you."
Marcoline stepped forward, seized his hand, and kissed it before I
could answer.
Querini, who was greatly astonished, thanked her and said,--
"What have I done to deserve this honour?"
"Because," said Marcoline, speaking in the Venetian dialect, "I have
the honour of knowing his excellency M. Querini."
"What are you doing with M. Casanova?"
"He is my uncle."
My carriage came up. I made a profound bow to the ambassadors, and
called out to the coachman, "To the 'Hotel du Parc'." It was the
best hotel in Lyons, and I was not sorry for the Venetians to hear
where I was staying.
Marcoline was in despair, for she saw that the time for parting was
near at hand.
"We have three or four days before us," said I, "in which we can
contrive how to communicate with your uncle Mattio. I must commend
you highly for kissing M. Querini's hand. That was a masterstroke
indeed. All will go off well; but I hope you will be merry, for
sadness I abhor."
We were still at table when I heard the voice of M. Memmo in the
ante-chamber; he was a young man, intelligent and good-natured. I
warned Marcoline not to say a word about our private affairs, but to
display a moderate gaiety. The servant announced the young nobleman,
and we rose to welcome him; but he made us sit down again, and sat
beside us, and drank a glass of wine with the utmost cordiality. He
told me how he had been supping with the old devotee Querini, who had
had his hand kissed by a young and fair Venetian. The ambassadors
were much amused at the circumstance, and Querini himself, in spite
of his scrupulous conscience, was greatly flattered.
"May I ask you, mademoiselle," he added, "how you came to know M.
Querini?"
"It's a mystery, sir."
"A mystery, is it? What fun we shall have tomorrow! I have come,"
he said, addressing himself to me, "to ask you to dine with us to-
morrow, and you must bring your charming niece."
"Would you like to go, Marcoline?"
"'Con grandissimo piacere'! We shall speak Venetian, shall we not?"
"Certainly."
"'E viva'! I cannot learn French."
"M. Querini is in the same position," said M. Memmo.
After half an hour's agreeable conversation he left us, and Marcoline
embraced me with delight at having made such a good impression on
these gentlemen.
"Put on your best dress to-morrow," said I, "and do not forget your
jewels. Be agreeable to everybody, but pretend not to see your Uncle
Mattio, who will be sure to wait at table."
"You may be sure I shall follow your advice to the letter."
"And I mean to make the recognition a scene worthy of the drama. I
intend that you shall be taken back to Venice by M. Querini himself,
while your uncle will take care of you by his special orders."
"I shall be delighted with this arrangement, provided it succeeds."
"You may trust to me for that."
At nine o'clock the next day I called on Morosini concerning the
commissions he had for me. He gave me a little box and a letter for
Lady Harrington, and another letter with the words,--
"The Procurator Morosini is very sorry not to have been able to take
a last leave of Mdlle. Charpillon."
"Where shall I find her?"
"I really don't know. If you find her, give her the letter; if not,
it doesn't matter. That's a dazzling beauty you have with you,
Casanova."
"Well, she has dazzled me."
"But how did she know Querini?"
"She has seen him at Venice, but she has never spoken to him."
"I thought so; we have been laughing over it, but Querini is hugely
pleased. But how did you get hold of her? She must be very young,
as Memmo says she cannot speak French."
"It would be a long story to tell, and after all we met through a
mere chance."
"She is not your niece."
"Nay, she is more--she is my queen."
"You will have to teach her French, as when you get to London."
"I am not going to take her there; she wants to return to Venice."
"I pity you if you are in love with her! I hope she will dine with
us?"
"Oh, yes! she is delighted with the honour."
"And we are delighted to have our poor repast animated by such a
charming person."
"You will find her worthy of your company; she is full of wit."
When I got back to the inn I told Marcoline that if anything was said
at dinner about her return to Venice, she was to reply that no one
could make her return except M. Querini, but that if she could have
his protection she would gladly go back with him.
"I will draw you out of the difficulty," said I; and she promised to
carry out my instructions.
Marcoline followed my advice with regard to her toilette, and looked
brilliant in all respects; and I, wishing to shine in the eyes of the
proud Venetian nobles, had dressed myself with the utmost richness.
I wore a suit of grey velvet, trimmed with gold and silver lace; my
point lace shirt was worth at least fifty louis; and my diamonds, my
watches, my chains, my sword of the finest English steel, my snuff-
box set with brilliants, my cross set with diamonds, my buckles set
with the same stones, were altogether worth more than fifty thousand
crowns. This ostentation, though puerile in itself, yet had a
purpose, for I wished M. de Bragadin to know that I did not cut a bad
figure in the world; and I wished the proud magistrates who had made
me quit my native land to learn that I had lost nothing, and could
laugh at their severity.
In this gorgeous style we drove to the ambassador's dinner at half-
past one.
All present were Venetians, and they welcomed Marcoline
enthusiastically. She who was born with the instinct of good manners
behaved with the grace of a nymph and the dignity of a French
princess; and as soon as she was seated between two grave and
reverend signors, she began by saying that she was delighted to find
herself the only representative of her sex in this distinguished
company, and also that there were no Frenchmen present.
"Then you don't like the French," said M. Memmo.
"I like them well enough so far as I know them, but I am only
acquainted with their exterior, as I don't speak or understand the
language."
After this everybody knew how to take her, and the gaiety became
general.
She answered all questions to the point, and entertained the company
with her remarks on French manners, so different to Venetian customs.
In the course of dinner M. Querini asked how she had known him, and
she replied that she had often seen him at Divine service, whereat
the devotee seemed greatly flattered. M. Morosini, pretending not to
know that she was to return to Venice, told her that unless she made
haste to acquire French, the universal language, she would find
London very tedious, as the Italian language was very little known
there.
"I hope," she replied, "that M. de Seingalt will not bring me into
the society of people with whom I cannot exchange ideas. I know I
shall never be able to learn French."
When we had left the table the ambassadors begged me to tell the
story of my escape from The Leads, and I was glad to oblige them.
My story lasted for two whole hours; and as it was noticed that
Marcoline's eyes became wet with tears when I came to speak of my
great danger. She was rallied upon the circumstance, and told that
nieces were not usually so emotional.
"That may be, gentlemen," she replied, "though I do not see why a
niece should not love her uncle. But I have never loved anyone else
but the hero of the tale, and I cannot see what difference there can
be between one kind of love and another."
"There are five kinds of love known to man," said M. Querini. "The
love of one's neighbour, the love of God, which is beyond compare,
the highest of all, love matrimonial, the love of house and home, and
the love of self, which ought to come last of all, though many place
it in the first rank."
The nobleman commented briefly on these diverse kinds of love, but
when he came to the love of God he began to soar, and I was greatly
astonished to see Marcoline shedding tears, which she wiped away
hastily as if to hide them from the sight of the worthy old man whom
wine had made more theological than usual. Feigning to be
enthusiastic, Marcoline took his hand and kissed it, while he in his
vain exaltation drew her towards him and kissed her on the brow,
saying, "Poveretta, you are an angel!"
At this incident, in which there was more love of our neighbour than
love of God, we all bit our lips to prevent ourselves bursting out
laughing, and the sly little puss pretended to be extremely moved.
I never knew Marcoline's capacities till then, for she confessed that
her emotion was wholly fictitious, and designed to win the old man's
good graces; and that if she had followed her own inclinations she
would have laughed heartily. She was designed to act a part either
upon the stage or on a throne. Chance had ordained that she should
be born of the people, and her education had been neglected; but if
she had been properly tutored she would have been fit for anything.
Before returning home we were warmly invited to dinner the next day.
As we wanted to be together, we did not go to the theatre that day
and when we got home I did not wait for Marcoline to undress to cover
her with kisses.
"Dear heart," said I, "you have not shewn me all your perfections
till now, when we are about to part; you make me regret you are going
back to Venice. Today you won all hearts."
"Keep me then, with you, and I will ever be as I have been to-day.
By the way, did you see my uncle?"
"I think so. Was it not he who was in continual attendance?"
"Yes. I recognized him by his ring. Did he look, at me?"
"All the time, and with an air of the greatest astonishment. I
avoided catching his eye, which roved from you to me continually."
"I should like to know what the good man thinks! You will see him
again to-morrow. I am sure he will have told M. Querini that, I am
his niece, and consequently not yours.
"I expect so, too."
"And if M. Querini says as much to me to-morrow, I, expect I shall
have to, admit the fact. What do you think?"
"You must undoubtedly tell him the truth, but frankly and openly, and
so as not to let him think that you have need of him to return to
Venice. He is not your father, and has no right over your liberty."
"Certainly not."
"Very good. You must also agree that I am not your uncle, and that
the bond between us is, of the most tender description. Will, there
be any difficulty is that?"
"How can you ask me such a question? The link between us makes me
feel proud, and will ever do so."
"Well, well, I say no more. I trust entirely in your tact. Remember
that Querini and no other must take you back to Venice; he must treat
you as if you were his daughter. If he will not consent, you shall
not return at all."
"Would to God it were so!"
Early the next morning I got a note from M. Querini requesting me to
call on him, as he wanted to speak to me on a matter of importance.
"We are getting on," said Marcoline. "I am very glad that things
have taken this turn, for when you come back you can tell me the
whole story, and I can regulate my conduct accordingly."
I found Querini and Morosini together. They gave me their hands when
I came in, and Querini asked me to sit down, saying that there would
be nothing in our discussion which M. Morosini might not hear.
"I have a confidence to make to you, M. Casanova," he began; "but
first I want you to do me the same favor."
"I can have no secrets from your excellency."
"I am obliged to you, and will try to deserve your good opinion.
I beg that you will tell me sincerely whether you know the young
person who is with you, for no one believes that she is your niece."
"It is true that she is--not my niece, but not being acquainted with
her relations or family I cannot be said to know her in the sense
which your excellency gives to the word. Nevertheless, I am proud to
confess that I love her with an affection which will not end save
with my life."
"I am delighted to hear you say so. How long have you had her?"
"Nearly two months."
"Very good! How did she fall into your hands?"
"That is a point which only concerns her, and you will allow me not
to answer that question."
"Good! we will go on. Though you are in love with her, it is very
possible that you have never made any enquiries respecting her
family."
"She has told me that she has a father and a mother, poor but honest,
but I confess I have never been curious enough to enquire her name.
I only know her baptismal name, which is possibly not her true one,
but it does quite well for me."
"She has given you her true name."
"Your excellency surprises me! You know her, then?"
"Yes; I did not know her yesterday, but I do now. Two months . . .
Marcoline . . . yes, it must be she. I am now certain that my man
is not mad."
"Your man?"
"Yes, she is his niece. When we were at London he heard that she had
left the paternal roof about the middle of Lent. Marcoline's mother,
who is his sister, wrote to him. He was afraid to speak to her
yesterday, because she looked so grand. He even thought he must be
mistaken, and he would have been afraid of offending me by speaking
to a grand lady at my table. She must have seen him, too."
"I don't think so, she has said nothing about it to me."
"It is true that he was standing behind her all the time. But let us
come to the point. Is Marcoline your wife, or have you any intention
of marrying her?"
"I love her as tenderly as any man can love a woman, but I cannot
make her a wife; the reasons are known only to herself and me."
"I respect your secret; but tell me if you would object to my begging
her to return to Venice with her uncle?"
"I think Marcoline is happy, but if she has succeeded in gaining the
favour of your excellency, she is happier still; and I feel sure that
if she were to go back to Venice under the exalted patronage of your
excellency, she would efface all stains on her reputation. As to
permitting her to go, I can put no stumblingblock in the way, for I
am not her master. As her lover I would defend her to the last drop
of my blood, but if she wants to leave me I can only assent, though
with sorrow."
"You speak with much sense, and I hope you will not be displeased at
my undertaking this good work. Of course I shall do nothing without
your consent."
"I respect the decrees of fate when they are promulgated by such a
man as you. If your excellency can induce Marcoline to leave me, I
will make no objection; but I warn you that she must be won mildly.
She is intelligent, she loves me, and she knows that she is
independent; besides she reckons on me, and she has cause to do so.
Speak to her to-day by herself; my presence would only be in your
way. Wait till dinner is over; the interview might last some time."
"My dear Casanova, you are an honest man. I am delighted to have
made your acquaintance."
"You do me too much honour. I may say that Marcoline will hear
nothing of all this."
When I got back to the inn, I gave Marcoline an exact account of the
whole conversation, warning her that she would be supposed to know
nothing about it.
"You must execute a masterly stroke, dearest," said I, "to persuade
M. Querini that I did not lie in saying that you had not seen your
uncle. As soon as you see him, you must give a shout of surprise,
exclaim, 'My dear uncle!' and rush to his arms. This would be a
splendid and dramatic situation, which would do you honour in the
eyes of all the company."
"You may be sure that I shall play the part very well, although my
heart be sad."
At the time appointed we waited on the ambassadors, and found that
all the other guests had assembled. Marcoline, as blithe and smiling
as before, first accosted M. Querini, and then did the polite to all
the company. A few minutes before dinner Mattio brought in his
master's spectacles on a silver tray. Marcoline, who was sitting
next to M. Querini, stopped short in something she was saying, and
staring at the man, exclaimed in a questioning voice,--
"My uncle?"
"Yes, my dear niece."
Marcoline flung herself into his arms, and there was a moving scene,
which excited the admiration of all.
"I knew you had left Venice, dear uncle, but I did not know you were
in his excellency's service. I am so glad to see you again! You
will tell my father and mother about me? You see I am happy. Where
were you yesterday?"
"Here."
"And you didn't see me?"
"Yes; but your uncle there . . ."
"Well," said I, laughing, "let us know each other, cousin, and be
good friends. Marcoline, I congratulate you on having such an honest
man for an uncle."
"That is really very fine," said M. Querini; and everybody
exclaimed, "Very affecting, very affecting indeed!"
The newly-found uncle departed, and we sat down to dinner, but in
spirits which differed from those of yesterday. Marcoline bore
traces of those mingled emotions of happiness and regret which move
loyal hearts when they call to mind ther native land. M. Querini
looked at her admiringly, and seemed to have all the confidence of
success which a good action gives to the mind. M. Morosini sat a
pleased spectator. The others were attentive and curious as to what
would come next. They listened to what was said, and hung on
Marcoline's lips.
After the first course there was greater unison in the company, and
M. Morosini told Marcoline that if she would return to Venice she
would be sure of finding a husband worthy of her.
"I must be the judge of that," said she.
"Yes, but it is a good thing to have recourse to the advice of
discreet persons who are interested in the happiness of both
parties."
"Excuse me, but I do not think so. If I ever marry, my husband will
have to please me first."
"Who has taught you this maxim?" said Querini.
"My uncle, Casanova, who has, I verily believe, taught me everything
that can be learnt in the two months I have been happy enough to live
with him."
"I congratulate the master and the pupil, but you are both too young
to have learnt all the range of science. Moral science cannot be
learnt in two months."
"What his excellency has just said," said I, turning to Marcoline,
"is perfectly correct. In affairs of marriage both parties should
rely to a great extent on the advice of friends, for mere marriages
of inclination are often unhappy."
"That is a really philosophical remark, my dear Marcoline," said
Querini; "but tell me the qualities which in your opinion are
desirable in a husband."
"I should be puzzled to name them, but they would all become manifest
in the man that pleased me."
"And supposing he were a worthless fellow?"
"He would certainly not please me, and that's the reason why I have
made up my mind never to marry a man whom I have not studied."
"Supposing you made a mistake?"
"Then I would weep in secret."
"How if you were poor?"
"She need never fear poverty, my lord," said I. "She has an income
of fifty crowns a month for the remainder of her life."
"Oh, that's a different matter. If that is so, sweetheart, you are
privileged. You will be able to live at Venice in perfect
independence."
"I think that to live honourably there I only need the protection of
a lord like your excellency."
"As to that, Marcoline, I give you my word that I will do all in my
power for you if you come to Venice. But let me ask you one
question, how are you sure of your income of fifty crowns a month?
You are laughing."
"I laugh because I am such a silly little thing. I don't have any
heed for my own business. My friend there will tell you all about
it."
"You have not been joking, have you?" said the worthy old man to me.
"Marcoline," said I, "has not only capital which will produce a
larger sum than that which I have named, but she has also valuable
possessions. Your excellency will note her wisdom in saying that she
would need your lordship's protection at Venice, for she will require
someone to look after the investment of her capital. The whole
amount is in my hands, and if she likes Marcoline can have it all in
less than two hours."
"Very good; then you must start for Venice the day after to-morrow.
Mattio is quite ready to receive you."
"I have the greatest respect and love for my uncle, but it is not to
his care that your excellency must commend me if I resolve to go."
"Then to whom?"
"To your own care, my lord. Your excellency has called me dear
daughter two or three times, lead me, then, to Venice, like a good
father, and I will come willingly; otherwise I protest I will not
leave the man to whom I owe all I have. I will start for London with
him the day after to-morrow."
At these words which delighted me silence fell on all. They waited
for M. Querini to speak, and the general opinion seemed to be that he
had gone too far to be able to draw back. Nevertheless, the old man
kept silence; perhaps in his character of devotee he was afraid of
being led into temptation, or of giving occasion to scandal, and the
other guests were silent like him, and ate to keep each other in
countenance. Mattio's hand trembled as he waited; Marcoline alone
was calm and collected. Dessert was served, and still no one dared
to say a word. All at once this wonderful girl said, in an inspired
voice, as if speaking to herself,--
"We must adore the decrees of Divine Providence, but after the issue,
since mortals are not able to discern the future, whether it be good
or whether it be evil."
"What does that reflection relate to, my dear daughter?" said M.
Querini, "and why do you kiss my hand now?"
"I kiss your hand because you have called me your dear daughter for
the fourth time."
This judicious remark elicited a smile of approval from all, and
restored the general gaiety; but M. Querini asked Marcoline to
explain her observation on Providence.
"It was an inspiration, and the result of self-examination. I am
well; I have learned something of life; I am only seventeen, and in
the course of two months I have become rich by honest means. I am
all happy, and yet I owe my happiness to the greatest error a maiden
can commit. Thus I humble myself before the decrees, of Providence
and adore its wisdom."
"You are right, but, none the less you ought to repent of what you
have done."
"That's where I am puzzled; for before I can repent; I must think of
it, and when I think of it I find nothing for which to repent. I
suppose I shall have to consult some great theologian on the point."
"That will not be necessary; you are, intelligent, and your heart is
good, and I will give you the necessary instruction on the way. When
one repents there is no need to think of the pleasure which our sins
have given us."
In his character of apostle the good M. Querini was becoming piously
amorous of his fair proselyte. He left the table for a few moments,
and when he returned he, told Marcoline that if he had a young lady
to take to, Venice he should be obliged to leave her in the care of
his housekeeper, Dame Veneranda, in whom he had every confidence.
"I have just been speaking to her; and if you would like to come, all
is arranged. You shall sleep with her, and dine with us till we get
to Venice, and then I will deliver, you into your mother's keeping,
in the presence of your uncle. What do you say?"
"I will come with pleasure:"
"Come and see Dame Veneranda."
"Willingly."
"Come with us, Casanova."
Dame Veneranda looked a perfect cannoness, and I did not think that
Marcoline would fall, in love with her, but she seemed sensible and
trustworthy. M. Querini told her in our presence what he had just
told Marcoline, and the duenna assured him that she would take, the
utmost care of the young lady. Marcoline kissed her and called her
mother, thus gaining the old lady's, good graces. We rejoined, the
company, who expressed to Marcoline their intense pleasure at having
her for a companion on their journey.
"I shall have to put my steward in another carriage," said
M. Querini, "as the calash only holds two."
"That will not be necessary," I remarked, "for Marcoline has her
carriage, and Mistress Veneranda will find it a very comfortable one.
It will hold her luggage as well."
"You, want to give me your carriage," said Marcoline. "You are too
good to me"
I could made no reply, my emotion was so great. I turned aside and
wiped, away my tears. Returning to the company, I found that
Marcoline had vanished and M. Morosini, who, was also much affected
told me she had gome, to speak to Mistress Veneranda. Everybody was
melancholy, and seeing that I was the cause I began to talk about
England, where I hoped to make my fortune with a project of mine, the
success of which only depended on Lord Egremont. M. de Morosini said
he would give me a letter for Lord Egremont and another for
M. Zuccata, the Venetian ambassador.
"Are you not afraid," said M. Querini, "of getting into, trouble with
the State Inquisitors for recommending M. Casanova?"
Morosini replied coldly that as the Inquisitors had, not told him for
what crime I was condemned, he did not feel himself bound to share
their judgment. Old Querini, who was extremely particular, shook his
head and said nothing.
Just then Marcoline came back to the room, and everybody could see
that she had been weeping. I confess that this mark of her affection
was as pleasing to my vanity as to my love; but such is man, and
such, doubtless, is the reader who may be censuring my conduct.
This charming girl, who still, after all these years, dwells in my
old heart, asked me to take her back to the inn, as she wanted to
pack up her trunks. We left directly, after having promised to come
to dinner on the following day.
I wept bitterly when I got to my room. I told Clairmont to see that
the carriage was in good order, and then, hastily undressing, I flung
myself on the bed in my dressing-gown, and wept as if some blessing
was being taken from me against my will. Marcoline, who was much
more sensible, did what she could to console me, but I liked to
torment myself, and her words did but increase my despair.
"Reflect," said she, "that it is not I who am leaving you, but you
who are sending me away; that I long to spend the rest of my days
with you, and that you have only got to say a word to keep me."
I knew that she was right; but still a fatal fear which has always
swayed me, the fear of being bound to anyone, and the hypocrisy of a
libertine ever longing for change, both these feelings made me
persist in my resolution and my sadness.
About six o'clock MM. Morosini and Querini came into the courtyard
and looked at the carriage, which was being inspected by the
wheelwright. They spoke to Clairmont, and then came to see us.
"Good heavens!" said M. Querini, seeing the numerous boxes which she
was going to place on her carriage; and when he had heard that her
carriage was the one he had just looked at, he seemed surprised; it
was indeed a very good vehicle.
M. Morosini told Marcoline that if she liked to sell it when she got
to Venice he would give her a thousand Venetian ducats, or three
thousand francs for it.
"You might give her double that amount," said I, "for it is worth
three thousand ducats."
"We will arrange all that," said he; and Querini added,--
"It will be a considerable addition to the capital she proposes to
invest."
After some agreeable conversation I told M. Querini that I would give
him a bill of exchange for five thousand ducats, which, with the
three or four thousand ducats the sale of her jewellery would
realize, and the thousand for the carriage, would give her a capital
of nine or ten thousand ducats, the interest of which would bring her
in a handsome income.
Next morning I got M. Bono to give me a bill of exchange on M.
Querini's order, and at dinner-time Marcoline handed it over to her
new protector, who wrote her a formal receipt. M. Morosini gave me
the letters he had promised, and their departure was fixed for eleven
o'clock the next day. The reader may imagine that our dinner-party
was not over gay. Marcoline was depressed, I as gloomy as a
splenetic Englishman, and between us we made the feast more like a
funeral than a meeting of friends.
I will not attempt to describe the night I passed with my charmer.
She asked me again and again how I could be my own executioner; but I
could not answer, for I did not know. But how often have I done
things which caused me pain, but to which I was impelled by some
occult force it was my whim not to resist.
In the morning, when I had put on my boots and spurs, and told
Clairmont not to be uneasy if I did not return that night, Marcoline
and I drove to the ambassadors' residence. We breakfasted together,
silently enough, for Marcoline had tears in her eyes, and everyone
knowing my noble conduct towards her respected her natural grief.
After breakfast we set out, I sitting in the forepart of the
carriage, facing Marcoline and Dame Veneranda, who would have made me
laugh under any other circumstances, her astonishment at finding
herself in a more gorgeous carriage than the ambassador's was so
great. She expatiated on the elegance and comfort of the equipage,
and amused us by saying that her master was quite right in saying
that the people would take her for the ambassadress. But in spite of
this piece of comedy, Marcoline and I were sad all the way. M.
Querini, who did not like night travelling, made us stop at Pont-
Boivoisin, at nine o'clock, and after a bad supper everyone went to
bed to be ready to start at daybreak. Marcoline was to sleep with
Veneranda, so I accompanied her, and the worthy old woman went to bed
without any ceremony, lying so close to the wall that there was room
for two more; but after Marcoline had got into bed I sat down on a
chair, and placing my head beside hers on the pillow we mingled our
sobs and tears all night.
When Veneranda, who had slept soundly, awoke, she was much astonished
to see me still in the same position. She was a great devotee, but
women's piety easily gives place to pity, and she had moved to the
furthest extremity of the bed with the intention of giving me another
night of love. But my melancholy prevented my profiting by her
kindness.
I had ordered a saddle horse to be ready for me in the morning. We
took a hasty cup of coffee and bade each other mutual farewells. I
placed Marcoline in the carriage, gave her a last embrace, and waited
for the crack of the postillion's whip to gallop back to Lyons. I
tore along like a madman, for I felt as if I should like to send the
horse to the ground and kill myself. But death never comes to him
that desires it, save in the fable of the worthy Lafontaine. In six
hours I had accomplished the eighteen leagues between Pont-Boivoisin
and Lyons, only stopping to change horses. I tore off my clothes and
threw myself on the bed, where thirty hours before I had enjoyed all
the delights of love. I hoped that the bliss I had lost would return
to me in my dreams. However, I slept profoundly, and did not wake
till eight o'clock. I had been asleep about nineteen hours.
I rang for Clairmont, and told him to bring up my breakfast, which I
devoured eagerly. When my stomach was restored in this manner I fell
asleep again, and did not get up till the next morning, feeling quite
well, and as if I could support life a little longer.
Three days after Marcoline's departure I bought a comfortable two-
wheeled carriage with patent springs, and sent my trunks to Paris by
the diligence. I kept a portmanteau containing the merest
necessaries, for I meant to travel in a dressing-gown and night-cap,
and keep to myself all the way to Paris. I intended this as a sort
of homage to Marcoline, but I reckoned without my host.
I was putting my jewellery together in a casket when Clairmont
announced a tradesman and his daughter, a pretty girl whom I had
remarked at dinner, for since the departure of my fair Venetian I had
dined at the table-d'hote by way of distraction.
I shut up my jewels and asked them to come in, and the father
addressed me politely, saying,--
"Sir, I have come to ask you to do me a favour which will cost you
but little, while it will be of immense service to my daughter and
myself."
"What can I do for you? I am leaving Lyons at day-break to-morrow."
"I know it, for you said so at dinner; but we shall be ready at any
hour. Be kind enough to give my daughter a seat in your carriage. I
will, of course, pay for a third horse, and will ride post."
"You cannot have seen the carriage."
"Excuse me, I have done so. It is, I know, only meant for one, but
she could easily squeeze into it. I know I am troubling you, but if
you were aware of the convenience it would be to me I am sure you
would not refuse. All the places in the diligence are taken up to
next week, and if I don't get to Paris in six days I might as well
stay away altogether. If I were a rich man I would post, but that
would cost four hundred francs, and I cannot afford to spend so much.
The only course open to me is to leave by the diligence tomorrow, and
to have myself and my daughter bound to the roof. You see, sir, the
idea makes her weep, and I don't like it much better myself."
I looked attentively at the girl, and found her too pretty for me to
keep within bounds if I travelled alone with her. I was sad, and the
torment I had endured in parting from Marcoline had made me resolve
to avoid all occasions which might have similar results. I thought
this resolve necessary for my peace of mind.
"This girl," I said to myself, "may be so charming that I should fall
in love with her if I yield to the father's request, and I do not
wish for any such result."
I turned to the father and said,--
"I sympathize with you sincerely; but I really don't see what I can
do for you without causing myself the greatest inconvenience."
"Perhaps you think that I shall not be able to ride so many posts in
succession, but you needn't be afraid on that score:"
"The horse might give in; you might have a fall, and I know that I
should feel obliged to stop, and I am in a hurry. If that reason
does not strike you as a cogent one, I am sorry, for to me it appears
unanswerable."
"Let us run the risk, sir, at all events."
"There is a still greater risk of which I can tell you nothing. In
brief, sir, you ask what is impossible."
"In Heaven's name, sir," said the girl, with a voice and a look that
would have pierced a heart of stone, "rescue me from that dreadful
journey on the roof of the diligence! The very idea makes me
shudder; I should be afraid of falling off all the way; besides,
there is something mean in travelling that way. Do but grant me this
favour, and I will sit at your feet so as not to discomfort you."
"This is too much! You do not know me, mademoiselle. I am neither
cruel nor impolite, especially where your sex is concerned, though my
refusal must make you feel otherwise. If I give way you may regret
it afterwards, and I do not wish that to happen." Then, turning to
the father, I said,--
"A post-chaise costs six Louis. Here they are; take them. I will
put off my departure for a few hours, if necessary, to answer for the
chaise, supposing you are not known here, and an extra horse will
cost four Louis take them. As to the rest, you would have spent as
much in taking two places in the diligence."
"You are very kind, sir, but I cannot accept your gift. I am not
worthy of it, and I should be still less worthy if I accepted the
money. Adele, let us go. Forgive us, sir, if we have wasted half an
hour of your time. Come, my poor child."
"Wait a moment, father."
Adele begged him to wait, as her sobs almost choked her. I was
furious with everything, but having received one look from her
beautiful eyes I could not withstand her sorrow any longer, and said,
"Calm yourself, mademoiselle. It shall never be said that I remained
unmoved while beauty wept. I yield to your request, for if I did not
I should not be able to sleep all night. But I accede on one
condition," I added, turning to her father, "and that is that you sit
at the back of the carriage."
"Certainly; but what is to become of your servant?"
"He will ride on in front. Everything is settled. Go to bed now,
and be ready to start at six o'clock."
"Certainly, but you will allow me to pay for the extra horse?"
"You shall pay nothing at all; it would be a shame if I received any
money from you. You have told me you are poor, and poverty is no
dishonour; well, I may tell you that I am rich, and riches are no
honour save when they are used in doing good. Therefore, as I said,
I will pay for all."
"Very good, but I will pay for the extra horse in the carriage."
"Certainly not, and let us have no bargaining, please; it is time to
go to bed. I will put you down at Paris without the journey costing
you a farthing, and then if you like you may thank me; these are the
only conditions on which I will take you. Look! Mdlle. Adele is
laughing, that's reward enough for me."
"I am laughing for joy at having escaped that dreadful diligence
roof."
"I see, but I hope you will not weep in my carriage, for all sadness
is an abomination to me."
I went, to bed, resolved to struggle against my fate no longer. I
saw that I could not withstand the tempting charms of this new
beauty, and I determined that everything should be over in a couple
of days. Adele had beautiful blue eyes, a complexion wherein were
mingled the lily and the rose, a small mouth, excellent teeth, a
figure still slender but full of promise; here, surely, were enough
motives for a fresh fall. I fell asleep, thanking my good genius for
thus providing me with amusement on the journey.
Just before we started the father came and asked if it was all the
same to me whether we went by Burgundy or the Bourbonnais.
"Certainly. Do you prefer any particular route?"
"If I went through Nevers I might be able to collect a small
account."
"Then we will go by the Bourbonnais."
Directly after Adele, simply but neatly dressed, came down and wished
me good day, telling me that her father was going to put a small
trunk containing their belongings at the back of the carriage.
Seeing me busy, she asked if she could help me in any way.
"No," I replied, "you had better take a seat,"
She did so, but in a timid manner, which annoyed me, because it
seemed to express that she was a dependent of mine. I told her so
gently, and made her take some coffee with me, and her shyness soon
wore off.
We were just stepping into the carriage when a man came and told me
that the lamps were out of repair and would come off if something
were not done to them. He offered to put them into good repair in
the course of an hour. I was in a terrible rage, and called
Clairmont and began to scold him, but he said that the lamps were all
right a short while ago, and that the man must have put them out of
order that he might have the task of repairing them.
He had hit it off exactly. I had heard of the trick before, and I
called out to the man; and on his answering me rather impudently, I
began to kick him, with my pistol in my hand. He ran off swearing,
and the noise brought up the landlord and five or six of his people.
Everybody said I was in the right, but all the same I had to waste
two hours as it would not have been prudent to travel without lamps.
Another lamp-maker was summoned; he looked at the damage, and laughed
at the rascally trick his fellow-tradesman had played me.
"Can I imprison the rascal?" I said to the landlord. "I should like
to have the satisfaction of doing so, were it to cost me two Louis."
"Two Louis! Your honour shall be attended to in a moment."
I was in a dreadful rage, and did not notice Adele, who was quite
afraid of me. A police official came up to take my information, and
examine witnesses, and to draw up the case.
"How much is your time worth, sir?" he asked me.
"Five louis."
With these words I slid two louis into his hand, and he immediately
wrote down a fine of twenty louis against the lamp-maker, and then
went his way, saying,--
"Your man will be in prison in the next ten minutes." I breathed
again at the prospect of vengeance. I then begged Mdlle. Adele's
pardon, who asked mine in her turn, not knowing how I had offended
her. This might have led to some affectionate passages, but her
father came in saying that the rascal was in prison, and that
everyone said I was right.
"I am perfectly ready to swear that he did the damage," said he.
"You saw him, did you?"
"No, but that's of no consequence, as everybody is sure he did it."
This piece of simplicity restored my good temper completely, and I
began to ask Moreau, as he called himself, several questions. He
told me he was a widower, that Adele was his only child, that he was
going to set up in business at Louviers, and so on.
In the course of an hour the farce turned into a tragedy, in the
following manner. Two women, one of them with a baby at her breast,
and followed by four brats, all of whom might have been put under a
bushel measure, came before me, and falling on their knees made me
guess the reason of this pitiful sight. They were the wife, the
mother, and the children of the delinquent.
My heart was soon moved with pity for them, for my vengeance had been
complete, and I did not harbour resentment; but the wife almost put
me in a fury again by saying that her husband was an innocent man,
and that they who had accused him were rascals.
The mother, seeing the storm ready to burst, attacked me more
adroitly, admitting that her son might be guilty, but that he must
have been driven to it by misery, as he had got no bread wherewith to
feed his children. She added:
"My good sir, take pity on us, for he is our only support. Do a good
deed and set him free, for he would stay in prison all his days
unless we sold our beds to pay you."
"My worthy woman, I forgive him completely. Hand this document to
the police magistrate and all will be well."
At the same time I gave her a louis and told her to go, not wishing
to be troubled with her thanks. A few moments after, the official
came to get my signature for the man's release, and I had to pay him
the legal costs. My lamps cost twelve francs to mend, and at nine
o'clock I started, having spent four or five louis for nothing.
Adele was obliged to sit between my legs, but she was ill at ease.
I told her to sit further back, but as she would have had to lean on
me, I did not urge her; it would have been rather a dangerous
situation to begin with. Moreau sat at the back of the carriage,
Clairmont went on in front, and we were thus neck and neck, or rather
neck and back, the whole way.
We got down to change horses, and as we were getting into the
carriage again Adele had to lift her leg, and shewed me a pair of
black breeches. I have always had a horror of women with breeches,
but above all of black breeches.
"Sir," said I to her father, "your daughter has shewn me her black
breeches."
"It's uncommonly lucky for her that she didn't shew you something
else."
I liked the reply, but the cursed breeches had so offended me that I
became quite sulky. It seemed to me that such clothes were a kind of
rampart or outwork, very natural, no doubt, but I thought a young
girl should know nothing of the danger, or, at all events, pretend
ignorance if she did not possess it. As I could neither scold her
nor overcome my bad temper, I contented myself with being polite, but
I did not speak again till we got to St. Simphorien, unless it was to
ask her to sit more comfortably.
When we got to St. Simphorien I told Clairmont to go on in front and
order us a good supper at Roanne, and to sleep there. When we were
about half-way Adele told me that she must be a trouble to me, as I
was not so gay as I had been. I assured her that it was not so, and
that I only kept silence that she might be able to rest.
"You are very kind," she answered, "but it is quite a mistake for you
to think that you would disturb me by talking. Allow me to tell you
that you are concealing the real cause of your silence."
"Do you know the real cause?"
"Yes, I think I do."
"Well, what is it?"
"You have changed since you saw my breeches."
"You are right, this black attire has clothed my soul with gloom."
"I am very sorry, but you must allow that in the first place I was
not to suppose that you were going to see my breeches, and in the
second place that I could not be aware that the colour would be
distasteful to you."
"True again, but as I chanced to see the articles you must forgive my
disgust. This black has filled my soul with funereal images, just as
white would have cheered me. Do you always wear those dreadful
breeches?"
"I am wearing them for the first time to-day."
"Then you must allow that you have committed an unbecoming action."
"Unbecoming?"
"Yes, what would you have said if I had come down in petticoats this
morning? You would have pronounced them unbecoming. You are
laughing."
"Forgive me, but I never heard anything so amusing. But your
comparison will not stand; everyone would have seen your petticoats,
whereas no one has any business to see my breeches."
I assented to her logic, delighted to find her capable of tearing my
sophism to pieces, but I still preserved silence.
At Roanne we had a good enough supper, and Moreau, who knew very well
that if it had not been for his daughter there would have been no
free journey and free supper for him, was delighted when I told him
that she kept me good company. I told him about our discussion on
breeches, and he pronounced his daughter to be in the wrong, laughing
pleasantly. After supper I told him that he and his daughter were to
sleep in the room in which we were sitting, while I would pass the
night in a neighbouring closet.
Just as we were starting the next morning, Clairmont told me that he
would go on in front, to see that our beds were ready, adding that as
we had lost one night it would not do much harm if we were to lose
another.
This speech let me know that my faithful Clairmont began to feel the
need of rest, and his health was dear to me. I told him to stop at
St. Pierre le Mortier, and to take care that a good supper was ready
for us. When we were in the carriage again, Adele thanked me.
"Then you don't like night travelling?" I said.
"I shouldn't mind it if I were not afraid of going to sleep and
falling on you."
"Why, I should like it. A pretty girl like you is an agreeable
burden."
She made no reply, but I saw that she understood; my declaration was
made, but something more was wanted before I could rely on her
docility. I relapsed into silence again till we got to Varennes, and
then I said,--
"If I thought you could eat a roast fowl with as good an appetite as
mine, I would dine here."
"Try me, I will endeavour to match you."
We ate well and drank better, and by the time we started again we
were a little drunk. Adele, who was only accustomed to drink wine
two or three times a year, laughed at not being able to stand
upright, but seemed to be afraid that something would happen. I
comforted her by saying that the fumes of champagne soon evaporated;
but though she strove with all her might to keep awake, nature
conquered, and letting her pretty head fall on my breast she fell
asleep, and did not rouse herself for two hours. I treated her with
the greatest respect, though I could not resist ascertaining that the
article of clothing which had displeased me so much had entirely
disappeared.
While she slept I enjoyed the pleasure of gazing on the swelling
curves of her budding breast, but I restrained my ardour, as the
disappearance of the black breeches assured me that I should find her
perfectly submissive whenever I chose to make the assault. I wished,
however, that she should give herself up to me of her own free will,
or at any rate come half-way to meet me, and I knew that I had only
to smooth the path to make her do so.
When she awoke and found that she had been sleeping in my arms, her
astonishment was extreme. She apologized and begged me to forgive
her, while I thought the best way to put her at ease would be to give
her an affectionate kiss. The result was satisfactory; who does not
know the effect of a kiss given at the proper time?
As her dress was in some disorder she tried to adjust it, but we were
rather pushed for space, and by an awkward movement she uncovered her
knee. I burst out laughing and she joined me, and had the presence
of mind to say:
"I hope the black colour has given you no funereal thoughts this
time."
"The hue of the rose, dear Adele, can only inspire me with delicious
fancies."
I saw that she lowered her eyes, but in a manner that shewed she was
pleased.
With this talk--and, so to speak, casting oil on the flames--we
reached Moulin, and got down for a few moments. A crowd of women
assailed us with knives and edged tools of all sorts, and I bought
the father and daughter whatever they fancied. We went on our way,
leaving the women quarrelling and fighting because some had sold
their wares and others had not.
In the evening we reached St. Pierre; but during the four hours that
had elapsed since we left Moulin we had made way, and Adele had
become quite familiar with me.
Thanks to Clairmont, who had arrived two hours before, an excellent
supper awaited us. We supped in a large room, where two great white
beds stood ready to receive us.
I told Moreau that he and his daughter should sleep in one bed, and I
in the other; but he replied that I and Adele could each have a bed
to ourselves, as he wanted to start for Nevers directly after supper,
so as to be able to catch-his debtor at daybreak, and to rejoin us
when we got there the following day.
"If you had told me before, we would have gone on to Nevers and slept
there."
"You are too kind. I mean to ride the three and a half stages. The
riding will do me good, and I like it. I leave my daughter in your
care. She will not be so near you as in the carriage."
"Oh, we will be very discreet, you may be sure!"
After his departure I told Adele to go to bed in her clothes, if she
were afraid of me.
"I shan't be offended," I added.
"It would be very wrong of me," she answered, "to give you such a
proof of my want of confidence."
She rose, went out a moment, and when she came back she locked the
door, and as soon as she was ready to slip off her last article of
clothing came and kissed me. I happened to be writing at the time,
and as she had come up on tiptoe I was surprised, though in a very
agreeable manner. She fled to her bed, saying saucily,
"You are frightened of me, I think?"
"You are wrong, but you surprised me. Come back, I want to see you
fall asleep in my arms."
"Come and see me sleep."
"Will you sleep all the time?"
"Of course I shall."
"We will see about that."
I flung the pen down, and in a moment I held her in my arms, smiling,
ardent, submissive to my desires, and only entreating me to spare
her. I did my best, and though she helped me to the best of her
ability, the first assault was a labour of Hercules. The others were
pleasanter, for it is only the first step that is painful, and when
the field had been stained with the blood of three successive
battles, we abandoned ourselves to repose. At five o'clock in the
morning Clairmont knocked, and I told him to get us some coffee. I
was obliged to get up without giving fair Adele good day, but I
promised that she should have it on the way.
When she was dressed she looked at the altar where she had offered
her first sacrifice to love, and viewed the signs of her defeat with
a sigh. She was pensive for some time, but when we were in the
carriage again her gaiety returned, and in our mutual transports we
forgot to grieve over our approaching parting.
We found Moreau at Nevers; he was in a great state because he could
not get his money before noon. He dared not ask me to wait for him,
but I said that we would have a good dinner and start when the money
was paid.
While dinner was being prepared we shut ourselves up in a room to
avoid the crowd of women who pestered us to buy a thousand trifles,
and at two o'clock we started, Moreau having got his money. We got
to Cosne at twilight, and though Clairmont was waiting for us at
Briane, I decided on stopping where I was, and this night proved
superior to the first. The next day we made a breakfast of the meal
which had been prepared for our supper, and we slept at
Fontainebleau, where I enjoyed Adele for the last time. In the
morning I promised to come and see her at Louviers, when I returned
from England, but I could not keep my word.
We took four hours to get from Fontainebleau to Paris, but how
quickly the time passed. I stopped the carriage near the Pont St.
Michel, opposite to a clockmaker's shop, and after looking at several
watches I gave one to Adele, and then dropped her and her father at
the corner of the Rue aux Ours. I got down at the "Hotel de
Montmorenci," not wanting to stop with Madame d'Urfe, but after
dressing I went to dine with her.
CHAPTER VI
I Drive My Brother The Abbe From Paris--Madame du Rumain Recovers Her
Voice Through My Cabala--A Bad Joke--The Corticelli--I Take d'Aranda
to London My Arrival At Calais
As usual, Madame d'Urfe received me with open arms, but I was
surprised at hearing her tell Aranda to fetch the sealed letter she
had given him in the morning. I opened it, found it was dated the
same day, and contained the following:
"My genius told me at day-break that Galtinardus was starting from
Fontainebleau, and that he will come and dine with me to-day."
She chanced to be right, but I have had many similar experiences in
the course of my life-experiences which would have turned any other
man's head. I confess they have surprised me, but they have never
made me lose my reasoning powers. Men make a guess which turns out
to be correct, and they immediately claim prophetic power; but they
forgot all about the many cases in which they have been mistaken.
Six months ago I was silly enough to bet that a bitch would have a
litter of five bitch pups on a certain day, and I won. Everyone
thought it a marvel except myself, for if I had chanced to lose I
should have been the first to laugh.
I naturally expressed my admiration for Madame d'Urfe's genius, and
shared her joy in finding herself so well during her pregnancy. The
worthy lunatic had given orders that she was not at home to her usual
callers, in expectation of my arrival, and so we spent the rest of
the day together, consulting how we could make Aranda go to London of
his own free will; and as I did not in the least know how it was to
be done, the replies of the oracle were very obscure. Madame d'Urfe
had such a strong dislike to bidding him go, that I could not presume
on her obedience to that extent, and I had to rack my brains to find
out some way of making the little man ask to be taken to London as a
favour.
I went to the Comedie Italienne, where I found Madame du Rumain, who
seemed glad to see me back in Paris again.
"I want to consult the oracle on a matter of the greatest
importance," said she, "and I hope you will come and see me
tomorrow."
I, of course, promised to do so.
I did not care for the performance, and should have left the theatre
if I had not wanted to see the ballet, though I could not guess the
peculiar interest it would have for me. What was my surprise to see
the Corticelli amongst the dancers. I thought I would like to speak
to her, not for any amorous reasons, but because I felt curious to
hear her adventures. As I came out I met the worthy Baletti, who
told me he had left the stage and was living on an annuity. I asked
him about the Corticelli, and he gave me her address, telling me that
she was in a poor way.
I went to sup with my brother and his wife, who were delighted to see
me, and told me that I had come just in time to use a little gentle
persuasion on our friend the abbe, of whom they had got tired.
"Where is he?"
"You will see him before long, for it is near supper-time; and as
eating and drinking are the chief concerns of his life, he will not
fail to put in an appearance."
"What has he done?"
"Everything that a good-for-nothing can do; but I hear him coming,
and I will tell you all about it in his presence."
The abbe was astonished to see me, and began a polite speech,
although I did not favour him with so much as a look. Then he asked
me what I had against him.
"All that an honest man can have against a monster. I have read the
letter you wrote to Possano, in which I am styled a cheat, a spy, a
coiner, and a poisoner. What does the abbe think of that?"
He sat down to table without a word, and my brother began as follows:
"When this fine gentleman first came here, my wife and I gave him a
most cordial welcome. I allowed him a nice room, and told him to
look upon my house as his own. Possibly with the idea of interesting
us in his favour, he began by saying that you were the greatest
rascal in the world. To prove it he told us how he had carried off a
girl from Venice with the idea of marrying her, and went to you at
Genoa as he was in great necessity. He confesses that you rescued
him from his misery, but he says that you traitorously took
possession of the girl, associating her with two other mistresses you
had at that time. In fine, he says that you lay with her before his
eyes, and that you drove him from Marseilles that you might be able
to enjoy her with greater freedom.
"He finished his story by saying that as he could not go back to
Venice, he needed our help till he could find some means of living on
his talents or through his profession as a priest. I asked him what
his talents were, and he said he could teach Italian; but as he
speaks it vilely, and doesn't know a word of French, we laughed at
him. We were therefore reduced to seeing what we could do for him in
his character of priest, and the very next day my wife spoke to M. de
Sauci, the ecclesiastical commissioner, begging him to give my
brother an introduction to the Archbishop of Paris, who might give
him something that might lead to his obtaining a good benefice. He
would have to go to our parish church, and I spoke to the rector of
St. Sauveur, who promised to let him say mass, for which he would
receive the usual sum of twelve sols. This was a very good
beginning, and might have led to something worth having; but when we
told the worthy abbe of our success, he got into a rage, saying that
he was not the man to say mass for twelve sols, nor to toady the
archbishop in the hope of being taken into his service. No, he was
not going to be in anyone's service. We concealed our indignation,
but for the three weeks he has been here he has turned everything
upside down. My wife's maid left us yesterday, to our great
annoyance, because of him; and the cook says she will go if he
remains, as he is always bothering her in the kitchen. We are
therefore resolved that he shall go, for his society is intolerable
to us. I am delighted to have you here, as I think we ought to be
able to drive him away between us, and the sooner the better."
"Nothing easier," said I; "if he likes to stay in Paris, let him do
so. You can send off his rags to some furnished apartments, and
serve him with a police order not to put foot in your house again.
On the other hand if he wants to go away, let him say where, and I
will pay his journey-money this evening."
"Nothing could be more generous. What do you say, abbe?"
"I say that this is the way in which he drove me from Marseilles.
What intolerable violence!"
"Give God thanks, monster, that instead of thrashing you within an
inch of your life as you deserve, I am going to give you some money!
You thought you would get me hanged at Lyons, did you?"
"Where is Marcoline ?"
"What is that to you? Make haste and choose between Rome and Paris,
and remember that if you choose Paris you will have nothing to live
on."
"Then I will go to Rome."
"Good! The journey only costs twenty louis, but I will give you
twenty-five."
"Hand them over."
"Patience. Give me pens, ink and paper."
"What are you going to write?"
"Bills of exchange on Lyons, Turin, Genoa, Florence, and Rome. Your
place will be paid as far as Lyons, and there you will be able to get
five louis, and the same sum in the other towns, but as long as you
stay in Paris not one single farthing will I give you. I am staying
at the 'Hotel Montmorenci;' that's all you need know about me."
I then bade farewell to my brother and his wife, telling them that we
should meet again. Checco, as we called my brother, told me he would
send on the abbe's trunk the day following, and I bade him do so by
all means.
The next day trunk and abbe came together. I did not even look at
him, but after I had seen that a room had been assigned to him, I
called out to the landlord that I would be answerable for the abbe's
board and lodging for three days, and not a moment more. The abbe
tried to speak to me, but I sternly declined to have anything to say
to him, strictly forbidding Clairmont to admit him to my apartments.
When I went to Madame du Rumain's, the porter said,--
"Sir, everybody is still asleep, but who are you? I have
instructions."
"I am the Chevalier de Seingalt."
"Kindly come into my lodge, and amuse yourself with my niece. I will
soon be with you."
I went in, and found a neatly-dressed and charming girl.
"Mademoiselle," said I, "your uncle has told me to come and amuse
myself with you."
"He is a rascal, for he consulted neither of us."
"Yes, but he knew well enough that there could be no doubt about my
opinion after I had seen you."
"You are very flattering, sir, but I know the value of compliments."
"Yes, I suppose that you often get them, and you well deserve them
all."
The conversation, as well as the pretty eyes of the niece, began to
interest me, but fortunately the uncle put an end to it by begging me
to follow him. He took me to the maid's room, and I found her
putting on a petticoat, and grumbling the while.
"What is the matter, my pretty maid? You don't seem to be in a good
humour."
"You would have done better to come at noon; it is not nine o'clock
yet, and madame did not come home till three o'clock this morning. I
am just going to wake her, and I am sorry for her."
I was taken into the room directly, and though her eyes were half
closed she thanked me for awaking her, while I apologized for having
disturbed her sleep.
"Raton," said she, "give us the writing materials, and go away.
Don't come till I call you, and if anyone asks for me, I am asleep."
"Very good, madam, and I will go to sleep also."
"My dear M. Casanova, how is it that the oracle has deceived us?
M. du Rumain is still alive, and he ought to have died six months
ago. It is true that he is not well, but we will not go into all
that again. The really important question is this: You know that
music is my favourite pursuit, and that my voice is famous for its
strength and compass; well, I have comrletely lost it. I have not
sung a note for three months. The doctors have stuffed me with
remedies which have had no effect: It makes me very unhappy, for
singing was the one thing that made me cling to life. I entreat you
to ask the oracle how I can recover my voice. How delighted I should
be if I could sing by to-morrow. I have a great many people coming
here, and I should enjoy the general astonishment. If the oracle
wills it I am sure that it might be so, for I have a very strong
chest. That is my question; it is a long one, but so much the
better; the answer will be long too, and I like long answers."
I was of the same opinion, for when the question was a long one, I
had time to think over the answer as I made the pyramid. Madame
Rumain's complaint was evidently something trifling, but I was no
physician, and knew nothing about medicine. Besides, for the honour
of the cabala, the oracle must have nothing to do with mere empiric
remedies. I soon made up my mind that a little care in her way of
living would soon restore the throat to its normal condition, and any
doctor with brains in his head could have told her as much. In the
position I was in, I had to make use of the language of a charlatan,
so I resolved on prescribing a ceremonial worship to the sun, at an
hour which would insure some regularity in her mode of life.
The oracle declared that she would recover her voice in twenty-one
days, reckoning from the new moon, if she worshipped the rising sun
every morning, in a room which had at least one window looking to the
east.
A second reply bade her sleep seven hours in succession before she
sacrificed to the sun, each hour symbolizing one of the seven
planets; and before she went to sleep she was to take a bath in
honour of the moon, placing her legs in lukewarm water up to the
knees. I then pointed out the psalms which she was to recite to the
moon, and those which she was to say in the face of the rising sun,
at a closed window.
This last direction filled her with admiration, "for," said she, "the
oracle knew that I should catch cold if the window were open. I will
do everything the oracle bids me," added the credulous lady, "but I
hope you will get me everything necessary for the ceremonies"
"I will not only take care that you have all the requisites, but as a
proof of my zeal for you, I will come and do the suffumigations
myself that you may learn how it is done."
She seemed deeply moved by this offer, but I expected as much. I
knew how the most trifling services are assessed at the highest
rates; and herein lies the great secret of success in the world,
above all, where ladies of fashion are concerned.
As we had to begin the next day, being the new moon, I called on her
at nine o'clock. As she had to sleep for seven successive hours
before performing the ceremonies to the rising sun, she would have to
go to bed before ten; and the observance of all these trifles was of
importance, as anyone can understand.
I was sure that if anything could restore this lady's voice a careful
regimen would do it. I proved to be right, and at London I received
a grateful letter announcing the success of my method.
Madame du Rumain, whose daughter married the Prince de Polignac, was
a lover of pleasure, and haunted grand supper-parties. She could not
expect to enjoy perfect health, and she had lost her voice by the way
in which she had abused it. When she had recovered her voice, as she
thought, by the influence of the genii, she laughed at anyone who
told her that there was no such thing as magic.
I found a letter from Therese at Madame d'Urfe's, in which she
informed me that she would come to Paris and take her son back by
force if I did not bring him to London, adding that she wanted a
positive reply. I did not ask for anything more, but I thought
Therese very insolent.
I told Aranda that his mother would be waiting for us at Abbeville in
a week's time, and that she wanted to see him.
"We will both give her the pleasure of seeing us."
"Certainly," said he; "but as you are going on to London, how shall I
come back?"
"By yourself," said Madame d'Urfe, "dressed as a postillion."
"What shall I ride post? How delightfull"
"You must only cover eight or ten posts a day, for you have no need
to risk your life by riding all night."
"Yes, yes; but I am to dress like a postillion, am I not?"
"Yes; I will have a handsome jacket and a pair of leather breeches
made for you, and you shall have a flag with the arms of France on
it."
"They will take me for a courier going to London."
With the idea that to throw difficulties in the way would confirm him
in his desire to go, I said roughly that I could not hear of it, as
the horse might fall and break his neck. I had to be begged and
entreated for three days before I would give in, and I did so on the
condition that he should only ride on his way back.
As he was certain of returning to Paris, he only took linen
sufficient for a very short absence; but as I knew that once at
Abbeville he could not escape me, I sent his trunk on to Calais,
where we found it on our arrival. However, the worthy Madame d'Urfe
got him a magnificent postillion's suit, not forgetting the top-boots.
This business which offered a good many difficulties was happily
arranged by the action of pure chance; and I am glad to confess that
often in my life has chance turned the scale in my favour.
I called on a banker and got him to give me heavy credits on several
of the most important houses in London, where I wished to make
numerous acquaintances.
While I was crossing the Place des Victoires, I passed by the house
where the Corticelli lived, and my curiosity made me enter. She was
astonished to see me, and after a long silence she burst into tears,
and said,--
"I should never have been unhappy if I had never known you."
"Yes, you would, only in some other way; your misfortunes are the
result of your bad conduct. But tell me what are your misfortunes."
"As I could not stay in Turin after you had dishonoured me . . ."
"You came to dishonour yourself here, I suppose. Drop that tone, or
else I will leave you."
She began her wretched tale, which struck me with consternation, for
I could not help feeling that I was the first and final cause of this
long list of woes. Hence I felt it was my duty to succour her,
however ill she had treated me in the past.
"Then," said I, "you are at present the victim of a fearful disease,
heavily in debt, likely to be turned out of doors and imprisoned by
your creditors. What do you propose to do?"
"Do! Why, throw myself in the Seine, to be sure; that's all that is
left for me to do. I have not a farthing left."
"And what would you do if you had some money?"
"I would put myself under the doctor's hands, in the first place, and
then if any money was left I would go to Bologna and try to get a
living somehow. Perhaps I should have learnt a little wisdom by
experience."
"Poor girl, I pity you! and in spite of your bad treatment of me,
which has brought you to this pass, I will not abandon you. Here are
four louis for your present wants, and to-morrow I will tell you
where you are to go for your cure. When you have got well again, I
will give you enough money for the journey. Dry your tears, repent,
amend your ways, and may God have mercy on you!"
The poor girl threw herself on the ground before me, and covered one
of my hands with kisses, begging me to forgive her for the ill she
had done me. I comforted her and went my way, feeling very sad. I
took a coach and drove to the Rue de Seine, where I called on an old
surgeon I knew, told him the story, and what I wanted him to do. He
told me he could cure her in six weeks without anybody hearing about
it, but that he must be paid in advance.
"Certainly; but the girl is poor, and I am doing it out of charity."
The worthy man took a piece of paper and gave me a note addressed to
a house in the Faubourg St. Antoine, which ran as follows:
"You will take in the person who brings you this note and three
hundred francs, and in six weeks you will send her back cured, if it
please God. The person has reasons for not wishing to be known."
I was delighted to have managed the matter so speedily and at such a
cheap rate, and I went to bed in a calmer state of mind, deferring my
interview with my brother till the next day.
He came at eight o'clock, and, constant to his folly, told me he had
a plan to which he was sure I could have no objection.
"I don't want to hear anything about it; make your choice, Paris or
Rome."
"Give me the journey-money, I will remain at Paris; but I will give a
written engagement not to trouble you or your brother again. That
should be sufficient."
"It is not for you to judge of that. Begone! I have neither the
time nor the wish to listen to you. Remember, Paris without a
farthing, or Rome with twenty-five louis."
Thereupon I called Clairmont, and told him to put the abbe out.
I was in a hurry to have done with the Corticelli affair, and went to
the house in the Faubourg St. Antoine, where I found a kindly and
intelligent-looking man and woman, and all the arrangements of the
house satisfactory and appropriate to the performance of secret
cures. I saw the room and the bath destined for the new boarder,
everything was clean and neat, and I gave them a hundred crowns, for
which they handed me a receipt. I told them that the lady would
either come in the course of the day, or on the day following.
I went to dine with Madame d'Urfe and the young Count d'Aranda.
After dinner the worthy marchioness talked to me for a long time of
her pregnancy, dwelling on her symptoms, and on the happiness that
would be hers when the babe stirred within her. I had put to a
strong restrain upon myself to avoid bursting out laughing. When I
had finished with her I went to the Corticelli, who called me her
saviour and her guardian angel. I gave her two louis to get some
linen out of pawn, and promised to come and see her before I left
Paris, to give her a hundred crowns, which would take her back to
Bologna. Then I waited on Madame du Rumain who had said farewell to
society for three weeks.
This lady had an excellent heart, and was pretty as well, but she had
so curious a society-manner that she often made me laugh most
heartily. She talked of the sun and moon as if they were two Exalted
Personages, to whom she was about to be presented. She was once
discussing with me the state of the elect in heaven, and said that
their greatest happiness was, no doubt, to love God to distraction,
for she had no idea of calm and peaceful bliss.
I gave her the incense for the fumigation, and told her what psalms
to recite, and then we had a delicious supper. She told her chamber-
maid to escort me at ten o'clock to a room on the second floor which
she had furnished for me with the utmost luxury, adding,--
"Take care that the Chevalier de Seingalt is able to come into my
room at five o'clock to-morrow."
At nine o'clock I placed her legs in a bath of lukewarm water, and
taught her how to suffumigate. Her legs were moulded by the hand of
the Graces and I wiped them amorously, laughing within myself at her
expression of gratitude, and I then laid her in bed, contenting
myself with a solemn kiss on her pretty forehead. When it was over I
went up to my room where I was waited on by the pretty maid, who
performed her duties with that grace peculiar to the French
soubrette, and told me that as I had become her mistress's
chambermaid it was only right that she should be my valet. Her mirth
was infectious, and I tried to make her sit down on my knee; but she
fled away like a deer, telling me that I ought to take care of myself
if I wanted to cut a good figure at five o'clock the next day. She
was wrong, but appearances were certainly against us, and it is well
known that servants do not give their masters and mistresses the
benefit of the doubt.
At five o'clock in the morning I found Madame du Rumain nearly
dressed when I went into her room, and we immediately went into
another, from which the rising sun might have been see if the "Hotel
de Bouillon" had not been in the way, but that, of course, was a
matter of no consequence. Madame du Rumain performed the ceremonies
with all the dignity of an ancient priestess of Baal. She then sat
down to her piano, telling me that to find some occupation for the
long morning of nine hours would prove the hardest of all the rules,
for she did not dine till two, which was then the fashionable hour.
We had a meat breakfast without coffee, which I had proscribed, and I
left her, promising to call again before I left Paris.
When I got back to my inn, I found my brother there looking very
uneasy at my absence at such an early hour. When I saw him
I cried,--
"Rome or Paris, which is it to be?"
"Rome," he replied, cringingly.
"Wait in the antechamber. I will do your business for you."
When I had finished I called him in, and found my other brother and
his wife, who said they had come to ask me to give them a dinner.
"Welcome!" said I. "You are come just in time to see me deal with
the abbe, who has resolved at last to go to Rome and to follow my
directions."
I sent Clairmont to the diligence office, and told him to book a
place for Lyons; and then I wrote out five bills of exchange, of five
louis each, on Lyons, Turin, Genoa, Florence, and Rome.
"Who is to assure me that these bills will be honoured?"
"I assure you, blockhead. If you don't like them you can leave
them."
Clairmont brought the ticket for the diligence and I gave it to the
abbe, telling him roughly to be gone.
"But I may dine with you, surely?" said he.
"No, I have done with you. Go and dine with Possano, as you are his
accomplice in the horrible attempt he made to murder me. Clairmont,
shew this man out, and never let him set foot here again."
No doubt more than one of my readers will pronounce my treatment of
the abbe to have been barbarous; but putting aside the fact that I
owe no man an account of my thoughts, deeds, and words, nature had
implanted in me a strong dislike to this brother of mine, and his
conduct as a man and a priest, and, above all, his connivance with
Possano, had made him so hateful to me that I should have watched him
being hanged with the utmost indifference, not to say with the
greatest pleasure. Let everyone have his own principles and his own
passions, and my favourite passion has always been vengeance.
"What did you do with the girl he eloped with?" said my sister-in-
raw.
"I sent her back to Venice with the ambassadors the better by thirty
thousand francs, some fine jewels, and a perfect outfit of clothes.
She travelled in a carriage I gave her which was worth more than two
hundred louis."
"That's all very fine, but you must make some allowance for the
abbe's grief and rage at seeing you sleep with her."
"Fools, my dear sister, are made to suffer such grief, and many
others besides. Did he tell you that she would not let him have
anything to do with her, and that she used to box his ears?"
"On the the contrary, he was always talking of her love for him."
"He made himself a fine fellow, I have no doubt, but the truth is, it
was a very ugly business."
After several hours of pleasant conversation my brother left, and I
took my sister-in-law to the opera. As soon as we were alone this
poor sister of mine began to make the most bitter complaints of my
brother.
"I am no more his wife now," said she, "than I was the night before
our marriage."
"What! Still a maid?"
"As much a maid as at the moment I was born. They tell me I could
easily obtain a dissolution of the marriage, but besides the scandal
that would arise, I unhappily love him, and I should not like to do
anything that would give him pain."
"You are a wonderful woman, but why do you not provide a substitute
for him?"
"I know I might do so, without having to endure much remorse, but I
prefer to bear it."
"You are very praiseworthy, but in the other ways you are happy?"
"He is overwhelmed with debt, and if I liked to call upon him to give
me back my dowry he would not have a shirt to his back. Why did he
marry me? He must have known his impotence. It was a dreadful thing
to do."
"Yes, but you must forgive him for it."
She had cause for complaint, for marriage without enjoyment is a
thorn without roses. She was passionate, but her principles were
stronger than her passions, or else she would have sought for what
she wanted elsewhere. My impotent brother excused himself by saying
that he loved her so well that he thought cohabitation with her would
restore the missing faculty; he deceived himself and her at the same
time. In time she died, and he married another woman with the same
idea, but this time passion was stronger than virtue, and his new
wife drove him away from Paris. I shall say more of him in twenty
years time.
At six o'clock the next morning the abbe went off in the diligence,
and I did not see him for six years. I spent the day with Madame
d'Urfe, and I agreed, outwardly, that young d'Aranda should return to
Paris as a postillion. I fixed our departure for the day after next.
The following day, after dining with Madame d'Urfe who continued to
revel in the joys of her regeneration, I paid a visit to the
Corticelli in her asylum. I found her sad and suffering, but
content, and well pleased with the gentleness of the surgeon and his
wife, who told me they would effect a radical cure. I gave her
twelve louis, promising to send her twelve more as soon as I had
received a letter from her written at Bologna. She promised she
would write to me, but the poor unfortunate was never able to keep
her word, for she succumbed to the treatment, as the old surgeon
wrote to me, when I was at London. He asked what he should do with
the twelve louis which she had left to one Madame Laura, who was
perhaps known to me. I sent him her address, and the honest surgeon
hastened to fulfil the last wishes of the deceased.
All the persons who helped me in my magical operations with Madame
d'Urfe betrayed me, Marcoline excepted, and all save the fair
Venetian died miserably. Later on the reader will hear more of
Possano and Costa.
The day before I left for London I supped with Madame du Rumain, who
told me that her voice was already beginning to return. She added a
sage reflection which pleased me highly.
"I should think," she observed, "that the careful living prescribed
by the cabala must have a good effect on my health."
"Most certainly," said I, "and if you continue to observe the rules
you will keep both your health and your voice."
I knew that it is often necessary to deceive before one can instruct;
the shadows must come before the dawn.
I took leave of my worthy Madame d'Urfe with an emotion which I had
never experienced before; it must have been a warning that I should
never see her again. I assured her that I would faithfully observe
all my promises, and she replied that her happiness was complete, and
that she knew she owed it all to me. In fine, I took d'Aranda and
his top-boots, which he was continually admiring, to my inn, whence
we started in the evening, as he had begged me to travel by night.
He was ashamed to be seen in a carriage dressed as a courier.
When we reached Abbeville he asked me where his mother was.
"We will see about it after dinner."
"But you can find out in a moment whether she is here or not?"
"Yes, but there is no hurry."
"And what will you do if she is not here?"
"We will go on till we meet her on the way. In the meanwhile let us
go and see the famous manufactory of M. Varobes before dinner."
"Go by yourself. I am tired, and I will sleep till you come back."
"Very good."
I spent two hours in going over the magnificent establishment, the
owner himself shewing it me, and then I went back to dinner and
called for my young gentleman.
"He started for Paris riding post," replied the innkeeper, who was
also the post-master, "five minutes after you left. He said he was
going after some dispatches you had left at Paris."
"If you don't get him back I will ruin you with law-suits; you had no
business to let him have a horse without my orders."
"I will capture the little rascal, sir, before he has got to Amiens."
He called a smart-looking postillion, who laughed when he heard what
was wanted.
"I would catch him up," said he, "even if he had four hours start.
You shall have him here at six o'clock."
"I will give you two louis."
"I would catch him for that, though he were a very lark."
He was in the saddle in five minutes, and by the rate at which he
started I did not doubt his success. Nevertheless I could not enjoy
my dinner. I felt so ashamed to have been taken in by a lad without
any knowledge of the world. I lay down on a bed and slept till the
postillion aroused me by coming in with the runaway, who looked half
dead. I said nothing to him, but gave orders that he should be
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