PARIS - Chapter II
I Engage a Box at the Opera, in Spite of Henriette's Reluctance--
M. Dubois Pays Us a Visit and Dines with Us; My Darling Plays Him a
Trick--Henriette Argues on Happiness--We Call on Dubois, and My Wife
Displays Her Marvellous Talent--M. Dutillot The Court gives a
Splendid Entertainment in the Ducal Gardens--A Fatal Meeting--I Have
an Interview with M. D'Antoine, the Favourite of the Infante of Spain
The happiness I was enjoying was too complete to last long. I was
fated to lose it, but I must not anticipate events. Madame de
France, wife of the Infante Don Philip, having arrived in Parma, the
opera house was opened, and I engaged a private box, telling
Henriette that I intended to take her to the theatre every night.
She had several times confessed that she had a great passion for
music, and I had no doubt that she would be pleased with my proposal.
She had never yet seen an Italian opera, and I felt certain that she
wished to ascertain whether the Italian music deserved its universal
fame. But I was indeed surprised when she exclaimed,
"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!"
The box I had engaged was in the second tier, but the theatre being
small it was difficult for a pretty woman to escape observation.
I told her so.
"I do not think there is any danger," she answered; "for I have not
seen the name of any person of my acquaintance in the list of
foreigners which you gave me to read."
Thus did Henriette go to the opera. I had taken care that our box
should not be lighted up. It was an opera-buffa, the music of
Burellano was excellent, and the singers were very good.
Henriette made no use of her opera-glass except to look on the stage,
and nobody paid any attention to us. As she had been greatly pleased
with the finale of the second act, I promised to get it for her, and
I asked Dubois to procure it for me. Thinking that she could play
the harpsichord, I offered to get one, but she told me that she had
never touched that instrument.
On the night of the fourth or fifth performance M. Dubois came to our
box, and as I did not wish to introduce him to my friend, I only
asked what I could do for him. He then handed me the music I had
begged him to purchase for me, and I paid him what it had cost,
offering him my best thanks. As we were just opposite the ducal box,
I asked him, for the sake of saying something, whether he had
engraved the portraits of their highnesses. He answered that he had
already engraved two medals, and I gave him an order for both, in
gold. He promised to let me have them, and left the box. Henriette
had not even looked at him, and that was according to all established
rules, as I had not introduced him, but the next morning he was
announced as we were at dinner. M. de la Haye, who was dining with
us, complimented us upon having made the acquaintance of Dubois, and
introduced him to his pupil the moment he came into the room. It was
then right for Henriette to welcome him, which she did most
gracefully.
After she had thanked him for the 'partizione', she begged he would
get her some other music, and the artist accepted her request as a
favour granted to him.
"Sir," said Dubois to me, "I have taken the liberty of bringing the
medals you wished to have; here they are."
On one were the portraits of the Infante and his wife, on the other
was engraved only the head of Don Philip. They were both beautifully
engraved, and we expressed our just admiration. "The workmanship is
beyond all price," said Henriette, "but the gold can be bartered for
other gold." "Madam," answered the modest artist, "the medals weight
sixteen sequins." She gave him the amount immediately, and invited
him to call again at dinner-time. Coffee was just brought in at that
moment, and she asked him to take it with us. Before sweetening his
cup, she enquired whether he liked his coffee very sweet.
"Your taste, madam," answered the hunchback, gallantly, "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."
And she gracefully offered him the cup of coffee without sugar. She
then helped De la Haye and me, not forgetting to put plenty of sugar
in our cups, and she poured out one for herself exactly like the one
she handed to Dubois. It was much ado for me not to laugh, for my
mischievous French-woman, who liked her coffee in the Parisian
fashion, that is to say very sweet, was sipping the bitter beverage
with an air of delight which compelled the director of the Mint to
smile under the infliction. But the cunning hunchback was even with
her; accepting the penalty of his foolish compliment, and praising
the good quality of the coffee, he boldly declared that it was the
only way to taste the delicious aroma of the precious berry.
When Dubois and De la Haye had left us, we both laughed at the trick.
"But," said I to Henriette, "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."
At the end of one month, Henriette could speak Italian fluently, and
it was owing more to the constant practice she had every day with my
cousin Jeanneton, who acted as her maid, than to the lessons of
Professor de la Haye. The lessons only taught her the rules, and
practice is necessary to acquire a language. I have experienced it
myself. I learned more French during the too short period that I
spent so happily with my charming Henriette than in all the lessons I
had taken from Dalacqua.
We had attended the opera twenty times without making any
acquaintance, and our life was indeed supremely happy. I never went
out without Henriette, and always in a carriage; we never received
anyone, and nobody knew us. Dubois was the only person, since the
departure of the good Hungarian, who sometimes dined with us; I do
not reckon De la Haye, who was a daily guest at our table. Dubois
felt great curiosity about us, but he was cunning and did not shew
his curiosity; we were reserved without affectation, and his
inquisitiveness was at fault. One day he mentioned to us that the
court of the Infante of Parma was very brilliant since the arrival of
Madame de France, and that there were many foreigners of both sexes
in the city. Then, turning towards Henriette, he said to her;
"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."
The last words, on which Henriette had laid a little more stress than
upon the first part of her answer, struck our little hunchback dumb,
and my friend, improving her opportunity, changed the subject of
conversation.
When he had gone we enjoyed the check she had thus given to the
inquisitiveness of our guest, but I told Henriette that, in good
conscience, she ought to forgive all those whom she rendered curious,
because.... she cut my words short by covering me with loving
kisses.
Thus supremely happy, and finding in one another constant
satisfaction, we would laugh at those morose philosophers who deny
that complete happiness can be found on earth.
"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."
It was thus that my beloved Henriette would often make me spend
delightful hours, talking philosophic sentiment. Her logic was
better than that of Cicero in his Tusculan Disputations, but she
admitted that such lasting felicity could exist only between two
beings who lived together, and loved each other with constant
affection, healthy in mind and in body, enlightened, sufficiently
rich, similar in tastes, in disposition, and in temperament. Happy
are those lovers who, when their senses require rest, can fall back
upon the intellectual enjoyments afforded by the mind! Sweet sleep
then comes, and lasts until the body has recovered its general
harmony. On awaking, the senses are again active and always ready to
resume their action.
The conditions of existence are exactly the same for man as for the
universe, I might almost say that between them there is perfect
identity, for if we take the universe away, mankind no longer exists,
and if we take mankind away, there is no longer an universe; who
could realize the idea of the existence of inorganic matter? Now,
without that idea, 'nihil est', since the idea is the essence of
everything, and since man alone has ideas. Besides, if we abstract
the species, we can no longer imagine the existence of matter, and
vice versa.
I derived from Henriette as great happiness as that charming woman
derived from me. We loved one another with all the strength of our
faculties, and we were everything to each other. She would often
repeat those pretty lines of the good La, Fontaine:
'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.'
And we did not fail to put the advice into practice, for never did a
minute of ennui or of weariness, never did the slightest trouble,
disturb our bliss.
The day after the close of the opera, Dubois, who was dining with us,
said that on the following day he was entertaining the two first
artists, 'primo cantatore' and 'prima cantatrice', and added that, if
we liked to come, we would hear some of their best pieces, which they
were to sing in a lofty hall of his country-house particularly
adapted to the display of the human voice. Henriette thanked him
warmly, but she said that, her health being very delicate, she could
not engage herself beforehand, and she spoke of other things.
When we were alone, I asked her why she had refused the pleasure
offered by Dubois.
"I should accept his invitation," she answered, "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."
Her reasons were a mixture of prudence and of love, two feelings
which are seldom blended together. My answer was to kiss her with as
much admiration as tenderness, and the next day at four o'clock in
the afternoon we paid our visit to M. Dubois. We were much
surprised, for we found him alone with a very pretty girl, whom he
presented to us as his niece.
"I am delighted to see you," he said, "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."
We were compelled to accept his invitation.
"Will there be many guests?" I enquired.
"You will find yourselves in the midst of people worthy of you," he
answered, triumphantly. "I am only sorry that I have not invited any
ladies."
This polite remark, which was intended for Henriette, made her drop
him a curtsy, which she accompanied with a smile. I was pleased to
read contentment on her countenance, but, alas! she was concealing
the painful anxiety which she felt acutely. Her noble mind refused
to shew any uneasiness, and I could not guess her inmost thoughts
because I had no idea that she had anything to fear.
I should have thought and acted differently if I had known all her
history. Instead of remaining in Parma I should have gone with her
to London, and I know now that she would have been delighted to go
there.
The two artists arrived soon afterwards; they were the 'primo
cantatore' Laschi, and the 'prima donna' Baglioni, then a very pretty
woman. The other guests soon followed; all of them were Frenchmen
and Spaniards of a certain age. No introductions took place, and I
read the tact of the witty hunchback in the omission, but as all the
guests were men used to the manners of the court, that neglect of
etiquette did not prevent them from paying every honour to my lovely
friend, who received their compliments with that ease and good
breeding which are known only in France, and even there only in the
highest society, with the exception, however, of a few French
provinces in which the nobility, wrongly called good society, shew
rather too openly the haughtiness which is characteristic of that
class.
The concert began by a magnificent symphony, after which Laschi and
Baglioni sang a duet with great talent and much taste. They were
followed by a pupil of the celebrated Vandini, who played a concerto
on the violoncello, and was warmly applauded.
The applause had not yet ceased when Henriette, leaving her seat,
went up to the young artist, and told him, with modest confidence, as
she took the violoncello from him, that she could bring out the
beautiful tone of the instrument still better. I was struck with
amazement. She took the young man's seat, placed the violoncello
between her knees, and begged the leader of the orchestra to begin
the concerto again. The deepest silence prevailed. I was trembling
all over, and almost fainting. Fortunately every look was fixed upon
Henriette, and nobody thought of me. Nor was she looking towards me,
she would not have then ventured even one glance, for she would have
lost courage, if she had raised her beautiful eyes to my face.
However, not seeing her disposing herself to play, I was beginning to
imagine that she had only been indulging in a jest, when she suddenly
made the strings resound. My heart was beating with such force that
I thought I should drop down dead.
But let the reader imagine my situation when, the concerto being
over, well-merited applause burst from every part of the room! The
rapid change from extreme fear to excessive pleasure brought on an
excitement which was like a violent fever. The applause did not seem
to have any effect upon Henriette, who, without raising her eyes from
the notes which she saw for the first time, played six pieces with
the greatest perfection. As she rose from her seat, she did not
thank the guests for their applause, but, addressing the young artist
with affability, she told him, with a sweet smile, that she had never
played on a finer instrument. Then, curtsying to the audience, she
said,
"I entreat your forgiveness for a movement of vanity which has made
me encroach on your patience for half an hour."
The nobility and grace of this remark completely upset me, and I ran
out to weep like a child, in the garden where no one could see me.
"Who is she, this Henriette?" I said to myself, my heart beating, and
my eyes swimming with tears of emotion, "what is this treasure I have
in my possession?"
My happiness was so immense that I felt myself unworthy of it.
Lost in these thoughts which enhanced the pleasure of any tears, I
should have stayed for a long tune in the garden if Dubois had not
come out to look for me. He felt anxious about me, owing to my
sudden disappearance, and I quieted him by saying that a slight
giddiness had compelled me to come out to breathe the fresh air.
Before re-entering the room, I had time to dry my tears, but my
eyelids were still red. Henriette, however, was the only one to take
notice of it, and she said to me,
"I know, my darling, why you went into the garden"
She knew me so well that she could easily guess the impression made
on my heart by the evening's occurrence.
Dubois had invited the most amiable noblemen of the court, and his
supper was dainty and well arranged. I was seated opposite Henriette
who was, as a matter of course, monopolizing the general attention,
but she would have met with the same success if she had been
surrounded by a circle of ladies whom she would certainly have thrown
into the shade by her beauty, her wit, and the distinction of her
manners. She was the charm of that supper by the animation she
imparted to the conversation. M. Dubois said nothing, but he was
proud to have such a lovely guest in his house. She contrived to say
a few gracious words to everyone, and was shrewd enough never to
utter something witty without making me take a share in it. On my
side, I openly shewed my submissiveness, my deference, and my respect
for that divinity, but it was all in vain. She wanted everybody to
know that I was her lord and master. She might have been taken for
my wife, but my behaviour to her rendered such a supposition
improbable.
The conversation having fallen on the respective merits of the French
and Spanish nations, Dubois was foolish enough to ask Henriette to
which she gave preference.
It would have been difficult to ask a more indiscreet question,
considering that the company was composed almost entirely of
Frenchmen and Spaniards in about equal proportion. Yet my Henriette
turned the difficulty so cleverly that the Frenchmen would have liked
to be Spaniards, and 'vice versa'. Dubois, nothing daunted, begged
her to say what she thought of the Italians. The question made me
tremble. A certain M. de la Combe, who was seated near me, shook his
head in token of disapprobation, but Henriette did not try to elude
the question.
"What can I say about the Italians," she answered, "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."
It was impossible to give a better answer, but as my readers may well
imagine, I did not appear to have heard it, and being anxious to
prevent any more indiscreet questions from Dubois I turned the
conversation into a different channel.
The subject of music was discussed, and a Spaniard asked Henriette
whether she could play any other instrument besides the violoncello.
"No," she answered, "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."
At this the Spanish guests bit their lips, but the Frenchmen laughed
heartily, and did not spare their epigrams against the over-
particular abbess.
After a short silence, Henriette rose, and we all followed her
example. It was the signal for breaking up the party, and we soon
took our leave.
I longed to find myself alone with the idol of my soul. I asked her
a hundred questions without waiting for the answers.
"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."
The very next morning she had an excellent violoncello, and, far from
wearying me, each time she played she caused me a new and greater
pleasure. I believe that it would be impossible even to a man
disliking music not to become passionately fond of it, if that art
were practised to perfection by the woman he adores.
The 'vox humana' of the violoncello; the king of instruments, went to
my heart every time that my beloved Henriette performed upon it. She
knew I loved to hear her play, and every day she afforded me that
pleasure. Her talent delighted me so much that I proposed to her to
give some concerts, but she was prudent enough to refuse my proposal.
But in spite of all her prudence we had no power to hinder the
decrees of fate.
The fatal hunchback came the day after his fine supper to thank us
and to receive our well-merited praises of his concert, his supper,
and the distinction of his guests.
"I foresee, madam," he said to Henriette, "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."
Dubois did not again venture upon speaking of introducing any friend.
On the same day I received a letter from young Capitani, in which he
informed me that, being the owner of St. Peter's knife and sheath, he
had called on Franzia with two learned magicians who had promised to
raise the treasure out of the earth, and that to his great surprise
Franzia had refused to receive him: He entreated me to write to the
worthy fellow, and to go to him myself if I wanted to have my share
of the treasure. I need not say that I did not comply with his
wishes, but I can vouch for the real pleasure I felt in finding that
I had succeeded in saving that honest and simple farmer from the
impostors who would have ruined him.
One month was gone since the great supper given by Dubois. We had
passed it in all the enjoyment which can be derived both from the
senses and the mind, and never had one single instant of weariness
caused either of us to be guilty of that sad symptom of misery which
is called a yawn. The only pleasure we took out of doors was a drive
outside of the city when the weather was fine. As we never walked in
the streets, and never frequented any public place, no one had sought
to make our acquaintance, or at least no one had found an opportunity
of doing so, in spite of all the curiosity excited by Henriette
amongst the persons whom we had chanced to meet, particularly at the
house of Dubois. Henriette had become more courageous, and I more
confident, when we found that she had not been recognized by any one
either at that supper or at the theatre. She only dreaded persons
belonging to the high nobility.
One day as we were driving outside the Gate of Colorno, we met the
duke and duchess who were returning to Parma. Immediately after
their carriage another vehicle drove along, in which was Dubois with
a nobleman unknown to us. Our carriage had only gone a few yards
from theirs when one of our horses broke down. The companion of
Dubois immediately ordered his coachman to stop in order to send to
our assistance. Whilst the horse was raised again, he came politely
to our carriage, and paid some civil compliment to Henriette.
M. Dubois, always a shrewd courtier and anxious to shew off at the
expense of others, lost no time in introducing him as M. Dutillot,
the French ambassador. My sweetheart gave the conventional bow. The
horse being all right again, we proceeded on our road after thanking
the gentlemen for their courtesy. Such an every-day occurrence could
not be expected to have any serious consequences, but alas! the most
important events are often the result of very trifling circumstances!
The next day, Dubois breakfasted with us. He told us frankly that
M. Dutillot had been delighted at the fortunate chance which had
afforded him an opportunity of making our acquaintance, and that he
had entreated him to ask our permission to call on us.
"On madam or on me?" I asked at once.
"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."
Henriette assumed an air of cheerful politeness, and said to him,
"Sir, I beg you will offer my thanks to M. Dutillot, and enquire from
him whether he knows me."
"I am certain, madam," said the hunchback, "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."
Dubois felt that he had taken a false step, and remained silent. We
never asked him how the ambassador had received our refusal.
Three weeks after the last occurrence, the ducal court residing then
at Colorno, a great entertainment was given in the gardens which were
to be illuminated all night. Everybody had permission to walk about
the gardens. Dubois, the fatal hunchback appointed by destiny, spoke
so much of that festival, that we took a fancy to see it. Always the
same story of Adam's apple. Dubois accompanied us. We went to
Colorno the day before the entertainment, and put up at an inn.
In the evening we walked through the gardens, in which we happened to
meet the ducal family and suite. According to the etiquette of the
French court, Madame de France was the first to curtsy to Henriette,
without stopping. My eyes fell upon a gentleman walking by the side
of Don Louis, who was looking at my friend very attentively. A few
minutes after, as we were retracing our steps, we came across the
same gentleman who, after bowing respectfully to us, took Dubois
aside. They conversed together for a quarter of an hour, following
us all the time, and we were passing out of the gardens, when the
gentleman, coming forward, and politely apologizing to me, asked
Henriette whether he had the honour to be known to her.
"I do not recollect having ever had the honour of seeing you before."
"That is enough, madam, and I entreat you to forgive me."
Dubois informed us that the gentleman was the intimate friend of the
Infante Don Louis, and that, believing he knew madam, he had begged
to be introduced. Dubois had answered that her name was D'Arci, and
that, if he was known to the lady, he required no introduction.
M. d'Antoine said that the name of D'Arci was unknown to him, and
that he was afraid of making a mistake. "In that state of doubt,"
added Dubois, "and wishing to clear it, he introduced himself, but
now he must see that he was mistaken."
After supper, Henriette appeared anxious. I asked her whether she
had only pretended not to know M. d'Antoine.
"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."
We returned to Parma, and two days afterwards my servant handed me a
letter, saying that the footman who had brought it was waiting in the
ante-room.
"This letter," I said to Henriette, "troubles me."
She took it, and after she had read it--she gave it back to me,
saying,
"I think M. d'Antoine is a man of honour, and I hope that we may have
nothing to fear."
The letter ran as, follows:
"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."
It was addressed M. Farusi.
"I think I must see him," I said, "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 wrote to M. d'Antoine that I would see him at half-past eleven in
the ducal gardens, only requesting him to appoint another hour in
case mine was not convenient to him.
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."
We bowed respectfully to each other, and parted company. I hurried
back to the hotel.
